Page 40 of Summoned
“The Prisoner,” Gaetano says. “I’m only allowed to ask you a question if I first accept the card’s condition.”
“What does that mean?”
He lifts his hands and presses his palms together in a mock prayer. “Until the end of the game, I’m your prisoner. I’m forbidden from using magic, except to sustain the game.”
A gold chain appears around his wrists, binding them like cuffs.
I gasp in surprise. “I’m starting to very much enjoy this game!”
My enthusiasm lasts for two seconds—right until theBlack Joker cuts in with his question, “Why were there tear tracks on your cheeks?”
I brush my fingers under one eye and inspect it. There’s smudged makeup on the tip. I really had been crying, damn it. With all the chaos of the Joker’s appearance, I’d forgotten about what had happened with my father.
“I watched one of those disgustingly sentimental dog videos,” I mutter with a shrug. “YouTube caught me in a weak moment. I’m not made of stone, after all.”
As the words leave my mouth, the cards on the table tremble.
Gaetano leans forward, and the gold chains clink together. “Baroness,” he says, with a touch of triumph, “I thought we were playing fair.”
I swallow hard, forcing myself to stay composed. “I am playing fair.”
“Then why did the cards catch a lie?”
“No idea.” I reach for a new card…And then yelp, snatching my hand back. “Ow! That burned!” I shake my fingers, frowning at the faint tingle.
“I told you,” he says. “The cards are lie detectors. Either tell the truth or forfeit the game.”
Damn it. Ihatelosing.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I lift my chin. “I cried because my father was mean to me. Becauseyoushowed up at the ball.”
My stomach knots at the admission. Every time I think there’s nothing left to affect me, my father proves me wrong.
Gaetano doesn’t move, watching me. “What triggered the tears? Sadness? Insult? Perhaps…anger?”
I part my lips to answer—but then I remember the rules of the game. Just as I’m allowed a question per turn, so is he. “My turn.”
He doesn’tprotest.
I reach for the next card with caution. This time, it doesn’t burn. Two intertwined snakes coiled around a dagger. Below the image, it reads:Il Tradimento.
“The Betrayal,” Gaetano translates in a velvet tone, and the way he shifts in his seat tells me this card intrigues him more than the others.
My fingers tighten around the card as I try to interpret its meaning. The rest of the deck begins to quiver, releasing a dark mist that spills across the table.
“What’s the condition?” I whisper.
“To ask your question, you must first confess your greatest betrayal.”
My lungs contract. I don’t know what unsettles me more—that this damn game is probing the darkest corners of my mind, or that Gaetano is watching me with such unwavering focus. His pupils dilate slightly, like a predator mid-hunt.
“What is it, Baroness? Did the cards strike a nerve?”
I swallow hard and square my shoulders, forcing myself to appear unbothered. “I have no betrayals weighing on my conscience.”
Gaetano merely arches an eyebrow. The card in my hand begins to heat up. It doesn’t burn, but it makes me clench my jaw. That sinuous mist swirls from its center.
“You can always forfeit the game,” the Black Joker says, as smooth as ever.
