Endless Knight(85)

He placed a glass of vodka in front of me. “Pardon?”


“It’s gone.” I ran my hand over my nape. It felt like all his other books were glaring at me accusingly.

“How did this come to pass?” he asked, returning to his seat. His expression was impassive. I couldn’t gauge his anger level.

“I’m so sorry, but it’s never going to be returned.”


He steepled his fingers. Before I’d seen that as an arrogant gesture, but now it struck me as a more thoughtful one. “Strange that you do not wish to implicate anyone else.”


“You already know what happened, don’t you?”


“You could have blamed the wolf—or Fauna, for that matter.”


“Both of them are kind of growing on me, okay?” I couldn’t believe I’d made this connection, but at times Lark’s attitude reminded me a little of . . . Mel’s. “If it makes you feel better, I was sick with guilt over this.”


“Why?”


I frowned. “Because I took responsibility for something that belongs to you, that you treasure, and it was destroyed in my care.” When I thought of all his efforts to safeguard these books, my face heated. “And it was”—I squirmed—“your favorite one of all.”


“I would gladly have forfeited the book to see this.”


Huh? “My discomfort?”


“The evidence of your empathy. And your honesty.” He tilted his head at me, like he was seeing something new.

“You’re not mad?”


“Fortunately for you, the Italian edition is my favorite.”


Was he teasing me? I found myself smiling again, relaxing. “So, what are we going to play?”


“Tarocchi.” From his drawer, he took out a deck of cards, old-fashioned looking ones that were longer than regular playing cards.

He handed the deck to me. They were . . . Tarot cards. “What’s this? Are you going to read my future? That wouldn’t be very fair, since it’s already in your hands.”


He arched his brows. “The cards have been used for fortune-telling—and for play. Tarocchi is a trick-taking game.”


“Like bridge?”


“A little more cutthroat.”


“Figures.”


As I familiarized myself with the deck, he explained the rules. The twenty-two Major Arcana were numbered trump cards that overruled all of the fifty-six Minor Arcana. Those cards were divided into four suits: wands, swords, pentacles, and cups.

“Do Minor Arcana exist in real life? Like we do?” Several of the images on the minor cards were as frightful as the major ones. The ten of swords depicted a bloody corpse stabbed through with ten blades.

“Some games I see evidence of them everywhere; others I see nothing.”


Interesting. “Wait, my card has less trump value than yours does?”


“In this, the game makers were wise.” He continued recounting the rules—describing bids, kitties, discards—concluding with, “If you are my wild card in real life, il Matto, the Fool, is the one for this game.”


Matto. Matthew. Wouldn’t think about him.

“Until you get the hang of this, I’ll assist you with your bids.”


Though there were a lot of rules to remember, I tried to boil it down. “Lead low, follow suit, and play trump cards only when necessary.” I handed him back the deck.

“That’ll do for now.” Death expertly shuffled the cards with those refined and deadly hands. He dealt, then motioned for me to lead.

I played a two of cups, he a four. We went on from there. I won the first trick, stacking the cards into my new pile. “Beginner’s luck?”


“Indeed.”


When I grew more comfortable with the rules, enough to play and talk at the same time, I asked, “So what do you do in your off seasons? The centuries between these contests?”


He cast me a suspicious look. “Why do you want to know that?”


“Because I’m curious. You act like no one has ever asked you about yourself.”


He downed his vodka, motioning me to join him. And always with the refills. “Of course they’ve asked. When probing for weaknesses.”


“Weaknesses? I’d be happy just to know your name. Or even where you were originally from. Let me guess: Russia?”


“Are you finished?”


“How could me knowing these things hurt your game?” I asked, though I couldn’t blame him for his evasiveness. From what I’d heard—and seen in visions of the past—the Empress hadn’t been one to trust.

Was she now?

“We’ll speak of something else,” he said shortly, “or nothing at all.”


“Fine. Let’s talk about your place. How long have you lived here? And what made you choose such an isolated spot in . . . Virginia?” Okay, maybe I was probing a bit.

“Are we in Virginia? Regardless, I’ve lived here for thirty years. I chose the property because it met all my strategic requirements: altitude above sea level, stone exterior, remote, defensible.” With a pointed look at me, he added, “Little vegetation.” The polar opposite of Haven.