Bram raised his tankard. “Lads, I propose a toast.” When Whit and Leo also picked up their tankards, Bram went on. “To our esteemed mutual friend, Mr. Holliday. We may have liberated him from his prison, but it was he who liberated us from the prison of ordinary life.”
“And unleashed us upon an unsuspecting world,” added Leo.
“And gave us the means to gain our every desire,” Whit said. Leo and Bram had what they wanted most, and now it was Whit’s turn.
“I speak on behalf of our fellow Hellraisers who are not here.” Bram hefted his tankard higher. “To Mr. Holliday.”
“To Mr. Holliday,” said Whit and Leo.
They loudly brought their cups together, and to Whit’s ears the sound of the metal clashing was the sound of the gates of Hell opening. He smiled.
The hour was late. London’s good, industrious, and honest citizens had taken to their beds long ago to rest before the day’s hard work. Most of the city was covered in darkness only slightly mitigated by sputtering, weak lamps that threw off more smoke than light. In these shadows dwelled bawds, thieves, and ruffians eager for the unwary or foolish. A world entire lived in this darkness.
Yet the world in which Whit and his friends existed was one of artificial light, artificial everything. The best gambling did not begin until two in the morning, which left Whit, Bram, and Leo several hours that needed filling. First, the Theater Royal in Drury Lane, its stage, performers, and patrons lit by greasy candles. A simulated moon shone down upon pretend lovers shouting out their devotion over the crowd’s chatter. No one came to the theater to watch the performances, not truly. Whit spent his time there placing bets from his box as to whether or not a fight would break out amongst the strutting, swaggering young bucks in the pit over perceived or manufactured insults. He reserved his power over controlling the odds for later in the evening, cradling it close like a coveted gem. He wanted to feel its power for the first time when sitting down to cards, not thrown around idly on bumptious society pups.
After that, Whit and his friends debated whether to make the journey to the Ranelagh pleasure garden—Vauxhall being too far that night—before Edmund and John finally joined their company, asking them to attend a supper and ball on St. James’s. The five of them went, finding another brightly lit room populated by actors of a different sort. Girls barely out of their leading strings were paraded before gouty old men. There were flirtations and transactions. Betrayals and confidences. And all those in attendance pretending that they weren’t bored out of their skulls, seeing the same people at the same places year after year until it took on a glossy, glassy monotony. Whit did not bother to join the men gambling in a salon off the ballroom. No one at these social events played deep enough for him.
Finally—
finally
—Whit broke away, with only Leo for company. They went to London’s most exclusive club, also on St. James’s, a place so new, so sought after that the waiting list of petitioners was rumored to rival
Paradise Lost
for length and breadth.
He stood now at the hazard table. Lights blazed here, too, for shadows hid the possibility of cheating. The room was roasting hot. Men were everywhere, drinking, sweating, eating. But most of all, they were there to gamble, Whit amongst their number.
His heart pounded thickly in his chest as he waited his turn at the dice. Excitement flooded him, stronger than any spirit. He had played hazard more times than he knew, and the club’s ivory dice were his own bones, yet this night was vastly different. Just beneath the surface of his skin, he seethed with new power. A wonder he didn’t burn as bright as the chandeliers suspended over the tables.
“Do you even care?” asked Leo, standing beside him. When Whit raised a brow, Leo explained quietly, “When I was down at Exchange Alley, knowing what kind of capability I had, it was all I could do to keep from combusting. Had to drink two glasses of wine to calm me down, but even that barely sufficed. But you ...” He shook his head. “Cool and indifferent as a winter sun.”
Whit allowed himself a small smile. “A gamester’s old habit. Show nothing on the outside. I assure you that in here”—he tapped the center of his chest—“I’m as chaotic as Bedlam.”
“You could apply that same sangfroid and gambling spirit to the Exchange. Investing is merely a variation on this.” Leo gazed at the room, the tables where men huddled over games of chance, winning and losing fortunes with dice and cards. Across the chamber, a young lord fresh from his Grand Tour gave a shout of dismay before lowering his head into his hands. A year’s allowance gone, and the morrow would find him called before an angry father. The creditors would go unpaid, along with dozens of tailors and wine merchants and horse breeders, arrears in the hundreds if not thousands of pounds.
Tomorrow night, the young lord would be back, begging for credit, hoping for one big win. And the men who ran the club would grant him credit, knowing that he would only dig himself in deeper.
It was not unknown for a man to leave the club completely, utterly ruined. More rare, but not impossible, a fortune made in the very same room.
Which would it be for Whit? The death and rebirth of each night gave movement to his blood, blood that might have stagnated had he not discovered the thrill of gambling.
“The element of risk is there, I grant you,” he said to Leo. “But unless the wheel of the ship transporting cinnamon from Ceylon is under my hand, your form of gambling is too removed. I need to be elbows deep in chance. That is how I prefer it. These fellows have the same preference.”
Leo rolled his eyes. “You gentry are daft, preferring to shore up your fortunes through utter luck rather than hard work.”
“Work?” Whit pretended to shudder. “With such a stance, you won’t make it very far in society.”
“Perhaps I won’t.” Leo’s gaze turned far away, his mind preoccupied and brooding. A man at war with himself, desiring acceptance by people he did not esteem.
Were Leo anyone but himself, he would find his life no great hardship. Young and hale, possessing of a sizeable financial estate, and Whit saw how women stared after Leo, sighing into their fans.
But Leo wanted more than the things within his grasp. In that, he was no different from any of the other Hellraisers, Whit included.
At this moment, Whit wanted two things very badly. To gamble. To have Zora. Of the two, one was a certainty. For now. The other would take time, but, though he burned, he did not begrudge the wait. It would make possessing her all the more exquisite.
“My lord,” said the man running the table. “It is your turn.” He held the dice out for Whit.
With the cool disinterest of a veteran, Whit took the pieces of carved ivory. A satisfying weight in his hand, sending a visceral charge up his arm and through his body. The dice still carried the warmth of the last man to hold them, so they felt alive, almost sentient. Smug little buggers, believing that they alone controlled chance.
Whit resisted the urge to smirk. He would prove them wrong. He placed his bet, setting the gaming tokens upon the table, and a red-faced man nearby cursed softly at the amount. Even Leo, well used to Whit’s habits, gave a low whistle. Whit did nothing by half measures, especially this night.
“What is your main, my lord?”
“Six,” Whit answered.
Beside him, Leo snorted. “Pity there aren’t three dice, that you might cast three sixes.”
“I’d hate to be obvious.”
The man running the table did not understand the meaning of Whit and Leo’s exchange. “Cast, my lord.”
Whit held the dice a moment longer. Then cast.
Everything remained the same: the room, the gamesters, the servants moving between the tables to bring glasses of wine. The change came from within Whit, spiraling out. The room now contained probability, an infinite number of probabilities spiraling out from all persons, all things, until the gaming room became an endless sea of chance. The servant could trip upon the raised surface of the carpet, spilling wine and distracting the sallow man playing vingt-et-un, who would lose this hand and, in a foul temper, return home early to catch his wife with her lover. Or the servant could move on without trouble, the sallow man would win and continue playing for three more hours, giving his wife ample time with her paramour.
But these probabilities were nothing compared to the potential that radiated from the gaming tables themselves. The dozens, hundreds of ways a game of piquet could turn, depending on which cards were dealt. Same with the tables dedicated to hazard. A kaleidoscope of odds, dazzling and dizzying.
Power filled him, intoxicating him. He had only to wish it, give one of the spirals of chance the slightest mental nudge, and the outcome would change to suit him. So much possibility. So much potential. Where to begin?
His own odds, of course. As the dice rolled across the baize-covered table, Whit took the helixes of chance and altered them, aligning them. He did not move. To anyone observing him, he stood at the table, hands lightly braced at the edge, and calmly watched the dice tumble. He controlled an invisible force using his will alone. The helix spun and shifted at his command, until—
“Six. The caster has thrown a six. It is a nicks, my lord.”
One die had two spots turned up, the other four. He had won the cast.
A few gentlemen close by murmured, “Nicely done,” or “Good cast.”
Leo said nothing, though he proffered a slightly ironic bow. “And?” he then asked lowly.
Whit felt expansive, larger than time and infinitely more powerful. Capable of anything. He almost wished he could tell the men in the club what he had done, what he
could
do. Level the whole of London through his mastery of chance. Depose kings. Reshape the surface of the world. He would give Zora the shining globe for her plaything.
His appetite for more had always been sizeable. Now, a ravenous hunger consumed him. He wanted everything. He could have everything.
“Ah,” said Leo, in the silence. “Now you know how I felt this morning at the Exchange.”
“A wonder you didn’t tear the city down,” breathed Whit.
“Nearly did, but only the ruthless application of restraint kept me in check. Between the five of us Hellraisers, I doubt anything can stop us.”
A wild laugh nearly escaped Whit. However, like Leo, he wrestled himself under control so that, instead of laughing, he merely smiled. “Nothing shall,” he said.
A night of immeasurable, dark joy. Whit had never experienced its like, not during his school years, nor the time he’d spent on the Continent, nor even during the wild and riotous nights here in London with his fellow Hellraisers. No, this night had been different.
The exercise of his will, his power, given strength and form by that iniquitous benefactor, Mr. Holliday. How had Whit existed without this gift? Only a few days earlier, he had moved through his life in what now appeared a shadowed half existence, content with mere trifles. On this night, and for all the nights to come, he controlled the outcome of a hundred, a thousand futures.
He played at hazard again. This time, he wanted to test the capability of his magic. He called six as his main again but changed the outcome so that he cast a seven. Neither a win nor a loss, it permitted him to cast again but with seven as his new main. He rolled the dice and plucked the strands of probability so that seven came up on this cast. Another win. Bright, hard pleasure knifed him. Beside him, Leo chuckled. Whit knew Leo well enough to understand that anything subverting the dominant order pleased the younger man.
As a game of chance, hazard offered many possibilities of success and even more of failure. He once had enjoyed the game’s complex structure, its almost arbitrary rules about what numbers one should and should not cast, depending on the chosen main. Before, it had been about navigating the treacherous waters of probability and luck. Now it became a dance, with figures and patterns over which he held sway—turning, shaping outcomes to suit his needs.
Losing, as well. Whit sensed the man running the hazard table growing restive as Whit continued on his roll. He had been winning for too long. The manager of the club circled the room’s perimeter, feigning indifference but his attention was actually fixed on Whit. Whit thought of Zora—how she read the subtle shifts within people as attentively as a scholar read a book.
“Have a care,” Leo said in an undertone.
“Already attended to,” Whit answered.
On his next cast, he called nine as his main. As the dice tumbled across the table, Whit delved into the swirl of chance, altering its course.
The dice came up with eleven.
“A throw-out,” said the table runner with obvious relief. “I am sorry, my lord,” he added unconvincingly.
Whit made a small show of frowning and muttering a curse. Within, however, he wildly celebrated. He could win or lose as he desired. Truly, anything was possible.
It was the same at the card tables. For hours, Whit played piquet, loo, and vingt-et-un. Instead of shifting the movement of the dice, he delved into the turn of the cards, and this he enjoyed for its infinite possibilities and combinations. Which number or suit or face card he needed. When to have a strategic loss. A learning process, yet here was the thrill he had never experienced at university, educating himself on the most judicious and profitable uses for his magical gift. He created an alchemical process, combining his own knowledge of gambling with the new gift. Zora’s knowledge was an additional ingredient. The end result was not lead into gold, but a stake of a few hundred pounds into tens of thousands of pounds.