By Abigail Meacham
“I fold.” The words echoed in the gentlemen’s hall. Although it was nearly midnight, the chandeliers were still glowing, the windows shut against the rainstorm outside. It was empty save for the four men seated at a table near the back, all clad in costly suits. One was smirking, one was frowning, one was stacking his chips, and one held no expression at all.
The smirker was Charlie Harte. He was a well-kept man of about thirty years, with bright eyes and a smooth, pointed face. He sat in the largest chair as if it was a throne, spine curved into the velvet, cashmere-clad legs bent at perfect right angles. “Had enough, Laruna?”
The frowner who had folded, Alecsander Laruna, slapped his cards down and sat back in his chair with a sigh. He glanced at his watch, a look of defeat in his angled brown eyes, and rubbed his beard. “It’s late. I know when I’m beat, Harte.”
“Perhaps you weren’t beat.” Charlie laid his cards down, revealing a measly pair of sixes.
“I would’ve had you!” The chip stacker, a stocky man by the name of Ross Monson, slammed his fist on the table.
Laruna groaned. “You’ve robbed me blind, you bastard.”
“On the contrary, I robbed you with your eyes wide open.” Charlie reached for the stack of chips, scooping them into the already massive pile in front of him. “Bad luck to you.”
“Spades are my lucky suit,” Monson muttered.
He passed his cards to the one with no expression at all, the dealer. He was a spindly man in an argyle waistcoat, his eyes empty and black. “Calamity Jane,” he said in a papery rasp. He clicked his tongue. “Quite an unlucky lady, my Lord.” He flipped over a card from Monson’s hand. Sure enough, the Queen of Spades skidded across the velvet green tabletop. She was youthful, with wide blue eyes and a head full of ginger curls that shimmered like fresh flame. Her longing gaze was fixed upon the golden flower in her hand.
“How lovely,” Laruna commented. He picked up the card, studying it. “She reminds me of someone. Wherever did you find these cards, Harte? The linework is exquisite.”
Charlie’s gaze flicked upward as the chandelier above them swayed, the tiny crystals clinking against each other. “They’re a … collector’s item.”
“Care to show us your hand, Laruna?” Monson teased. “You know, for the artistry.”
Laruna raised a brow. “Since my coffers are empty, I don’t see why not.” He flipped his own cards over with his free hand. “Highest I had was one pair. Pocket jacks.”
Jack of Diamonds, Jack of Clubs, along with three number cards. The dealer smiled a long, lipless smile. “Roland and Lancelot,” he said. “Handsome cards.”
Roland in particular was a work of art. He clutched the diamonds in his pale painted hands, blond curls pinned to his forehead by an intricate gold circlet. He smiled widely, his head thrown back in laughter, cheeks flushed. Lancelot held his own as well, though his looks were softer. Locks of auburn hair flowed down to his broad shoulders, and he had a delicately drawn nose. Both men were dressed in well-crafted robes of black and vermillion, woven through with goldenrod stripes. They were indeed handsome cards.
“There’s real gold in them,” Charlie said.
Monson’s jaw dropped. “Surely you can’t afford these, Harte. Queen Victoria herself couldn’t afford these cards!”
Charlie forced a dismissive shrug. “We have this whole hall to ourselves on a Saturday evening. What can’t I afford?”
Monson scoffed and glanced sideways at the dealer. “What about him? Can you afford him too?”
The dealer looked not at Monson, but at Charlie. “He can,” he said simply. “In his own way.”
Laruna set the Queen of Spades down delicately, as if it were made of glass. “May I see the deck?”
He thumbed through the cards, plucking a few from the deck. Jack of Spades, Queen of Diamonds, King of Diamonds. Auguyer. Rachel. Julius. All good finds. Then he froze. “This one is empty,” he said flatly.
Monson looked at him dubiously. “Empty?”
He flipped it around, and the King of Clubs trembled between Laruna’s two fingers. Indeed, there were black robes, a shiny crown, but the man himself was gone. “I had this card during our first round,” he said. He looked at Charlie with narrow eyes. “This card has a king. Where is he?”
Charlie opened his mouth, but the dealer answered for him. “I’m looking at him.”
Laruna jolted back as if he’d been struck, his expression darkening. Thunder rumbled through the walls. “I think I’ll be going now.” He pushed his chair back and stood. Then he blinked hard, shaking his head. “Pardon me, I … I …” He seemed to sway on his feet. Laruna’s eyes darkened, and at first it appeared to be a trick of the shadows. Then the darkness spilled over and ran down his cheeks, and the sharp smell of ink filled the room.
“You alright, fellow?” Monson placed his hands on the table as if to stand, but then was struck with a fit of coughing as black bile splattered his lips.
Laruna fell to his knees, gasping. Black liquid soaked the collar of his white shirt as it poured out of his nose and crawled beneath his skin like a spreading vine. “Harte!”
Charlie said nothing, and watched helplessly as the two men choked and twitched on the ink, until at last no more choking or twitching remained to be done, and they went still—Laruna on the floor, Monson in his chair. Charlie’s heart hammered against his ribcage.
The chandelier bulbs flickered and dimmed as the dealer’s shadow morphed on the wall. “Which man for the King of Clubs?” He held up the empty card.
Charlie swallowed hard. “Lauruna.”
“Why won’t you look at me, Charlemagne?” the dealer asked.
“Don’t call me that!” Charlie’s head snapped up. He tried to duck away, but the dealer grabbed his chin, forcing him to look. The man’s bony face dripped with black ink. It bled into the whites of his eyes, painted his lips, stained his skinny teeth. It even soaked into his suit, forming blotchy frills at the collar. There was so much black, and the scent was dizzying. No longer human. Only harlequin.
Charlie struggled, but the jester only laughed, as dainty as bellsong. In a single movement, he released Charlie and pulled a curved knife from his waistcoat. “Carve.”
Charlie’s hands trembled, but he took the knife and knelt next to Laruna, digging the blade into his jaw, right where it met his ear. Blood and ink welled to the surface of the man’s skin, dyeing his beard burgundy. Charlie cut recklessly, sawing through the skin, then moved to the man’s eye sockets. He kept going, carving out the nose and mouth, and with each new feature, the jester’s painted lips stretched until his whole face was a terrible grin. By the time Charlie finally put the knife down, Laruna’s face was outlined in red, nothing but a peeling mask of skin flaps.
The jester picked up the King of Clubs, examining its new face. “Beautiful,” he said in a lilting voice. “Beautiful, beautiful. Worth more than jewels, more than a beating heart. Eleven beautiful faces. And yet …” He lowered the card and peered down at Charlie. “There are twelve cards in the deck.” Charlie shuddered. He looked over at Monson, whose face was puffed and black like a festering boil. But the jester shook his head. “Not him. The ink didn’t take.”
Charlie’s mouth was dry. “W-well, I’ll find someone else. I’ll set up another game. I-I can afford it—”
“You have yet to embrace death.”
“I didn’t ask for death!” Charlie rose to his feet, knife in hand. “I asked for—”
“Endless luck,” the jester whispered. “And in return, you would give me a full deck. That was our deal.”
The smell came again, but this time, it condensed in the air, an inky cloud that grew steadily more opaque. “You can use Monson!” Charlie tried again.
“But you,” the jester crooned, tracing Charlie’s jaw with his nail. “Are far prettier than him.” Charlie coughed, spitting blood and ink onto the floor.
“You— you’ll break the deal,” he sputtered. “This isn’t … good luck—” But it was no use. The ink consumed him, and he watched as his arteries, loyal to a fault, pumped the poison through his skin.
“You only asked for luck. Bad luck is still luck.” The jester laughed and laughed, and as Charlie’s vision went dark, he saw the glint of the knife. “Luck is what I make it, pretty King.”
When the last remnants of life left Charlie’s body, the jester smiled a long, lipless smile. With a flick of his fingers, the King of Hearts landed on the table. Much like the King of Clubs, it was empty but for the crown and the crimson robes.
The jester pressed the knife into Charlie’s jaw. His mouth was open, and his emerald eyes stared at the ceiling, the whites stained as black as his hair.
Indeed, he would be a very handsome card.