The Spell Realm (The Sorcery Code #2)(72)

Besides, I love my life, crazy and all.

My shrink thinks the Quiet is an inventive way I describe ‘the inner workings of my genius.’ Now that sounds crazy to me. She also might want me, but that’s beside the point. Suffice it to say, she is as far as it gets from my datable age range. In any case, her explanation would not work, as it doesn’t account for the way I know things even a genius wouldn’t know—like the exact value and suit of the other players’ cards.

I watch as the dealer begins a new round. Besides me, there are three players at the table. The Cowboy, the Grandma, and the Professional, as I mentally call them. I feel that now-almost-imperceptible fear that accompanies the phasing—that’s what I call the process: phasing into the Quiet. Worrying about my sanity has always facilitated phasing; fear seems to be helpful in this process.

I phase in, and everything gets quiet. Hence the name for this state.

It is eerie to me even now. This casino is usually very loud. Drunk people talking, slot machines, ringing of wins, music—the only place louder is a club or a concert. And yet, right at this moment, I could probably hear a pin drop. It’s as though I’ve gone deaf to the chaos that surrounds me.

Having so many frozen people around adds to the strangeness of it. Here is a waitress stopped mid-step, carrying a tray with drinks. There is a woman about to pull a slot machine lever. At my own table, the dealer’s hand is raised, and the last card he dealt is hanging unnaturally in the air. I walk up to it from the side of the table and reach for it. It’s a king, meant for The Professional. Once I let the card go, it falls on the table rather than continuing to float as before—but I know full well that it will be back in the air, in the exact position it was when I grabbed it, when I phase out.

The Professional has the look I always pictured for people who make money by playing poker. Scruffy, shades on, and a bit odd-looking. He has been doing an excellent job with the ‘poker face’—basically not twitching a single muscle throughout the game. His face is so expressionless that I wonder if he might’ve gotten some Botox to aid in maintaining such a stony countenance. His hand is on the table, protectively covering the cards dealt to him.

I move his limp hand away. It feels normal. Well, in a manner of speaking. The hand is sweaty and hairy, so moving it aside is unpleasant and is an abnormal thing to do. The normal part is that the hand is warm, rather than cold. When I was a kid, I expected people to feel cold in the Quiet, like stone statues.

With the Professional’s hand moved away, I pick up his cards. Combined with the king that was hanging in the air, he has a nice high pair. Good to know.

I walk over to the Grandma. She’s already holding her cards, and she has fanned them nicely for me. I am able to avoid touching her wrinkled, spotted hands. This is a relief, as I have recently become conflicted about touching people—or, more specifically, women—in the Quiet. If I had to, I would rationalize touching the Grandma’s hand as harmless—or at least, not creepy—but it’s better to avoid it if possible.

In any case, she has a low pair. I feel bad for her. She’s been losing quite a bit tonight. Her chips are dwindling. Perhaps her losses are due, at least partially, to the fact that she’s not good at keeping a poker face. Even before looking at her cards, I knew they wouldn’t be good because I could tell she was disappointed with her hand as soon as it was dealt. I also caught a gleeful gleam in her eyes a few rounds ago when she had a winning three of a kind.

This whole game of poker is, to a large degree, an exercise in reading people—something I really want to get better at. I have been told I am great at reading people at my job. But I am not. I am just good at using the Quiet to make it seem like I am. I do want to learn how to do it for real, though.

What I don’t care that much about in this poker game is money. I do well enough financially to not have to depend on hitting it big gambling. I don’t care if I win or lose, though quintupling my money back at the blackjack table had been fun. This whole trip has been more about going gambling because I finally can, being twenty-one and all. I was never into fake IDs, so this is an actual milestone for me.

Leaving the Grandma alone, I move on to the next player—the Cowboy. I can’t resist taking off his straw hat and trying it on. I wonder if it’s possible for me to get lice this way. Since I have never been able to bring back any inanimate objects from the Quiet, nor otherwise affect the world in any lasting way, I figure I wouldn’t be able to get any living critters to come back with me either. Dropping the hat, I look at his cards. He has a pair of aces—a better hand than the Professional. The Cowboy may be a professional as well. He has a good poker face, as far as I can tell. It will be interesting to watch those two in this round.

Next, I walk up to the deck and look at the top cards, memorizing them. I’m not leaving anything to chance.

With my task in the Quiet complete, I walk back to myself. Oh, yes, did I mention that I see myself sitting there, frozen like the rest of them? That’s the weirdest part. It’s like having an out-of-body experience.

Approaching my frozen self, I look at him. I usually avoid doing this, as it’s too unsettling. No amount of looking in the mirror or seeing videos of yourself on YouTube can prepare you for viewing your own body in 3D. It’s not something anyone is meant to experience. Aside from identical twins, I guess.

It’s hard to believe that this person is me. He looks more like just some guy. Well, maybe a bit more than that. I do find this guy very interesting. Usually, I don’t consider other guys capable of looking interesting, but I am curious about how my frozen self looks. Or, more accurately, I like the way my frozen self looks. He looks cool. He looks smart.