The High Priestess’ Game – Chapter 11
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Chapter 11
I spread the evidence across my bed for the hundredth time, each piece worn from my handling. The photographs with their frayed edges, torn documents with half-truths, and that old poker chip. My fingers moved with practiced precision as I arranged them in the dim light of my apartment. Grandpa and Mister B. hovered by the window, their spectral forms casting no shadows, watching me with ancient eyes that had seen a thousand mysteries like this one—though I doubted they’d tell me that.
My apartment squeezed around me like a fist, water stains mapping continents across the ceiling, and the radiator hissing secrets in a language I’d long given up trying to decipher. The walls had been white once, before time had soured them to the color of old bones. A fitting place for a woman who spoke with the dead.
“You’re obsessing again,” Mister B. said, his voice crackling like static on an old radio.
“I’m investigating,” I corrected him, not looking up as my fingers traced the edge of a photograph.
“Same difference with you,” he muttered.
I reached for my tarot deck, worn and soft at the edges from years of handling. I shuffled with practiced hands, the cards whispering against each other.
“You did this reading yesterday,” Grandpa observed, his form shifting closer, a shimmer of moonlight through curtains. Unlike Mister B.’s impatience, Grandpa carried centuries of patience in his spectral being. “And the day before.”
“I need to understand what I’m missing,” I said, laying out the first card. The Hanged Man—suspension, sacrifice, perspective. Its meaning hadn’t changed since I’d first asked about Mark’s fate.
“Perhaps what hasn’t changed is your interpretation,” Grandpa suggested gently.
The second card: The Page of Pentacles, reversed. I’d connected this to Mark’s gambling problems, his inability to stop despite the consequences.
“Cards don’t change their meaning just because you want them to,” Mister B. snapped, his form flickering like a candle flame in his agitation.
“But my understanding can,” I countered, placing down the third card. The Moon—illusion, fear, subconscious. What lies beneath the surface, what we cannot see clearly in the dark.
Silence fell as I placed the fourth and final card. The Devil—bondage, addiction, materialism. The chains we forge ourselves, the prisons we willingly enter.
“The same spread,” I whispered, staring at the four cards positioned with deliberate care on the stained tablecloth that covered my makeshift investigation table. “Exactly the same.”
“Perhaps the message hasn’t changed because you haven’t listened to it yet,” Grandpa said, his voice like distant wind through autumn leaves.
“This points to family,” I said quietly, the realization crystallizing as I spoke. “Not the casino owners. Not strangers. Family.”
“Finally,” Mister B. sighed, his spectral form shimmering with what might have been relief. “Three days of the same reading to get to what was obvious.”
“It wasn’t obvious,” I argued, though a part of me wondered if I’d been willfully blind. I’d been so certain that Mark’s disappearance was connected to the underground casino. It fit so neatly—a man wins too much, the owners take notice, the man vanishes. Clean. Simple. The kind of story I understood. But The Page of Pentacles in reverse in combination with The Devil … Pentacles stand for family as well, and The Devil might point to the fact how Mark couldn’t escape–or didn’t want to, because it was his family. The reversed Pentacle-card, a dysfunctional family … I finally started being more creative with my interpretation.
“You prefer strangers as villains,” Grandpa observed, his ancient eyes seeing through my defenses as they always did. “Strangers are safer than family.”
I looked away from his knowing gaze. “The cards never mentioned the casino specifically.”
“No,” Mister B. agreed, a rare concession. “That was your interpretation. But the gambling might as well have been part of what happened. You see the reversed Page of Pentacles here, not the reversed 10 of Cups, right?”
The Devil card seemed to darken as my attention returned to it. Bondage, addiction—but also family ties, blood bonds that could strangle as easily as support. The casino was still part of this, I was certain, but perhaps not in the way I’d assumed.
I gathered the scattered pieces, arranging them meticulously for further study. The photographs went back into their envelope, the documents into their folder. The poker chip I placed in a small cloth bag, separate from the rest.
“I need someone who knows more about Marks family,” I said, my mind already sorting through possibilities.
“The old man at Lucky’s,” Grandpa said softly. “The one with eyes like broken glass. He watches everyone who comes and goes.”
I nodded, although I didn’t recognize any old men when I was at Lucky’s. But I was sure my spirit guides would lead me to the right guy, once I was at the bar.
“He’ll talk to you,” Mister B. said, and there was something in his tone that made me look up.
“Why are you so sure?”
Mister B.’s form flickered. “Because he’s seen us. Not clearly, not like you do, but he’s sensitive. He knows what you are.”
A shiver traced its way down my spine. Most people saw only a strange woman asking questions they didn’t want to answer. Few recognized the gift that defined my existence.
“Then I’ll visit Lucky’s again,” I decided, standing and gathering my notes. The tarot cards I left arranged on the tablecloth, a reminder of what I’d missed in my earlier readings.
As I prepared to leave, Grandpa drifted closer, his presence like a cool breeze against my skin. “Be careful, Rahel. Family secrets have sharper teeth than most.”
I nodded, slipping my notebook into my pocket. The investigation was shifting, transforming into something more complex than a simple case of gambling gone wrong. Something darker waited beneath the surface, something I hadn’t yet unraveled.
And as always, the dead would help me see what the living tried to hide.
I pushed open the door to Lucky’s Bar and let the stale air wash over me like a baptism of old cigarettes and cheaper regrets. The neon beer signs buzzed and flickered, casting sickly blue and red shadows across faces that had seen better days—though I doubted anyone here remembered when those days might have been. My spirit guides had stayed behind this time; Mister B. claimed the desperation in places like this gave him indigestion.
Lucky’s Bar hunched at the edge of the city like a predator gone to seed, its windows filmed with grime that turned daylight into dusk and dusk into something darker still. The floor stuck to my boots with each step, years of spilled beer and whiskey creating a map of poor decisions I followed deeper inside. Music whined from a jukebox that had gone out of style when Nixon was still president, and the overhead lights swung gently, disturbed by some draft I couldn’t feel.
Behind the bar, a man with forearms like knotted rope and eyes that had forgotten how to trust wiped down the sticky counter with a rag that might once have been white. He clocked me immediately—the stranger, the woman alone, the one who’d been asking questions. His gaze slid over me, then away, dismissive yet watchful. A dangerous combination.
I didn’t approach him. My intuition lead me to the man who sat in the corner booth, hands curved around a pint glass gone empty enough that he’d need another soon. An old man with a face that had weathered storms both literal and metaphorical, wrapped in a leather jacket stained with stories I couldn’t read. Our eyes met briefly across the dim room, and something passed between us—recognition, perhaps, or resignation. He knew why I was here. He had a strong intuition, too.
I threaded my way through the tables, ignoring the glances that followed—some curious, some hungry, some simply empty. The scarred vinyl seats squeaked as I slid into the booth across from him, my back to the wall where I could watch the room. A habit I’d developed young and never outgrown.
“You’re finally here,” he said, his voice like tires on gravel.
“I need answers,” I replied, keeping my voice low. “About Mark Stevens.”
He took a sip of beer, buying time. Behind him, fractured mirrors lined the wall, splitting our reflections into jagged pieces that never quite aligned properly. I wondered if that’s how he saw the world—fragmented, distorted, impossible to make whole.
“You see them,” he said finally, his eyes lifting to a spot just above my left shoulder. Where Grandpa would have been, had he accompanied me. “The dead ones. The watchers.”
My breath caught in my throat. Mister B. had been right; this man had the sight, or at least a version of it. Not many could sense my companions, even fewer would acknowledge them aloud.
“Sometimes,” I admitted, neither confirming nor denying. “But I’m here about the living.”
“Mark Stevens isn’t living,” he said flatly, his eyes dropping back to mine. “Not anymore.”
A chill crawled up my spine, but I kept my face neutral. “You seem certain.”
“I have a strong intuition on things like that.” He raised a hand, signaling the bartender for another beer. The gesture was casual, practiced, but I caught the slight tremor in his fingers. Fear, disguised as alcoholic need.
The bartender approached, his steps deliberate as he placed a fresh pint on the table. His eyes slid over me again, lingering on my gloved hands. “Anything for you?” he asked, the question carrying more weight than it should.
“Just conversation,” I answered, meeting his gaze steadily.
He nodded once, then retreated, wiping his hands on his apron as if removing a stain.
“He doesn’t like questions being asked in his place,” the old man murmured, taking a long pull from his fresh beer. “Bad for business.”
“I’m not interested in his business,” I said. “Just in what happened to Mark Stevens.”
“You should be interested in both. They’re connected.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping further. “This guy … he knows what happened. He knows the guy who killed Mark. But he won’t talk to the police.”
I tapped my gloved fingers on the table, absorbing this. My notebook felt heavy in my pocket, but I didn’t reach for it yet. Too obvious. Instead, I memorized his words, storing them to record later.
“And you know, too,” I said.
The old man’s eyes drifted to the fractured mirror behind him, watching the bar’s reflection rather than turning his back on the room. “I wished I wouldn’t.”
I thought of the tarot cards laid out on my tablecloth. The Devil. Bondage, addiction, but also family ties gone toxic. “Do you know something about Marks family?”
The old man took another sip, his eyes never leaving the mirror’s reflection. “He got a brother. His name is John. They used to go to the casino together. But one day, John came no more.”
“Is he dead, too?”
“No.” His gaze cut back to me, sharp suddenly, assessing. “But they both had something going on. Unnatural business. The whispering to forces that shouldn’t be disturbed.”
My throat went dry. He was talking about magic. “Gambling spells,” I said, the words falling between us like stones in still water.
He nodded, relief flickering across his face at not having to say it aloud. “Mark and John were casting gambling spells,” he confirmed, pausing as if the words themselves might summon something unwelcome.
“What happened?,” I asked when he fell silent.
He glanced nervously at the bartender, who had moved closer under the pretense of wiping down a nearby table. “Ask John. Or ask your spirits. I’m not exposing anyone here, and if I didn’t know that you know, I wouldn’t have said a single word.”
The old man reached inside his jacket and withdrew a neatly folded piece of paper. He slid it across the table with fingers that had gone steady now, purpose overriding fear.
“Take it,” he muttered. “Don’t open it here.”
I slipped the paper into my pocket without looking at it, aware of the bartender’s eyes on us, his subtle movements bringing him ever closer to our conversation.
“How do you know all this?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
A smile twisted his lips, humorless and brief. “I’ve been invisible in this town for thirty years. Sit in enough bars, people forget you have ears.” He tapped the side of his head. “And I’ve got the sight, like you. Not as strong, but enough to see shadows where others see nothing.”
“The spells,” I pressed, needing to understand. “How exactly—”
“Don’t say that word again,” he interrupted, a flash of genuine fear crossing his face. “Not here. They’re listening.” His eyes darted to the bartender, then back to me. “The paper explains enough. The rest, you’ll have to find out yourself.”
I nodded slowly, respecting his fear even as frustration rose in me. So close to answers, yet still grasping at fragments.
The bartender had completed his circuit of the room and now stood behind the counter again, watching us with undisguised suspicion. I knew my time was up. Any longer and I risked drawing too much attention—to myself, and to my reluctant informant.
“Thank you,” I said, sliding out of the booth. “You’ve been more helpful than you know.”
“I won’t be here next time you come looking,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I’ve said too much already. Got family of my own to think about.”
I understood. Information had its price. “Stay safe,” I told him, meaning it.
As I turned to leave, he called after me softly, “Be careful—some doors, once opened, can’t be closed again.”
I nodded without looking back, feeling the weight of the folded paper in my pocket as I made my way through the sparse crowd toward the exit. The bartender’s eyes followed me, assessing, calculating. I kept my pace unhurried, my expression neutral. Just another customer leaving after a quick drink, nothing worth remembering.
Outside, the evening air hit me like a slap, clean and cold after the bar’s claustrophobic atmosphere. I breathed deeply, letting the chill clear my head as I processed what I’d learned. John Stevens, the brother. Gambling spells. A hidden room in the casino. Family secrets written in blood.
My fingers brushed against the folded paper in my pocket. Whatever information it contained, I wouldn’t examine it here on the street, exposed and vulnerable. I needed the safety of my apartment, the comfort of my spirit guides, and the protection of my wards before I unfolded this new piece of the puzzle.
Mark’s disappearance was transforming before my eyes, shifting from a case of gambling gone wrong to something darker, something woven with magic and family betrayal. As I walked away from Lucky’s Bar, I felt the weight of unseen eyes on my back—whether living or dead, I couldn’t tell. In this case, perhaps the distinction didn’t matter much anyway.
Both kinds could be equally dangerous.
I returned to my apartment with my mind churning like disturbed water, the folded paper from the old man burning a hole in my pocket. The hallway lights flickered as I approached my door, as if responding to my agitation—though more likely it was just the building’s ancient wiring giving up another small piece of itself to time. My fingers trembled slightly as I worked the key into the stubborn lock, a tremor born not of fear but anticipation. I was close to something now, some truth that had been hiding in plain sight. The door swung open with its familiar creak, and I stepped into the darkness that waited for me, reaching for the light switch with practiced precision.
The overhead bulb sputtered to life, casting weak yellow light across my cramped space. The tarot cards remained where I’d left them, their arrangement undisturbed. I shrugged off my coat and draped it over the back of my single chair, then pulled the folded paper from my pocket, placing it carefully on the bed beside the other evidence.
“You’re getting closer to understanding,” came Grandpa’s voice from near the window, his spectral form materializing like mist condensing from invisible water..
“What did you learn?” Mister B. appeared next to him, his form sharper, more defined in the artificial light. Where Grandpa was ancient mist, Mister B. was etched glass—harder, clearer, more present in our world.
“John Stevens is the key,” I said, spreading out my newly acquired clues across the bed.
“Gambling spells,” Mister B. said, his tone laced with disdain. “Crude manipulations. Parlor tricks.”
I reached for the folded paper the old man had given me, opening it carefully. The aged paper unveiled a meticulous account of arcane gambling incantations meticulously transcribed by John and Mark. Each entry detailed obscure titles of mystical tomes and precise page references, coupled with dates and negative figures symbolizing losses. Yet, as the entries neared Mark’s tragic end, a sinister shift occurred – triumphs emerged on a spell they had never tried before.
What sent shivers down my spine was the alteration in handwriting evident in the final entries. The once-familiar script morphed into an unfamiliar scrawl as the ink documented wins instead of losses, marking a stark departure from their history of failed attempts at harnessing otherworldly luck.
“A dangerous game,” Grandpa whispered. “The spell is stealing luck from unwitting souls.”
I felt cold despite the apartment’s stuffiness. What the old man at the bar had described wasn’t just cheating—it was something darker, a perversion of natural forces. If Mark Stevens was redirecting luck, channeling it from designated losers to ensure his own winnings, he was playing with forces that inevitably demanded balance. And seemingly, he had paid the price already.
I reached for the tarot cards, still arranged from my earlier reading. The Hanged Man. The Page of Pentacles, reversed. The Moon. The Devil. My fingers hovered over the Page of Pentacles, seeing it with new eyes.
“The Page of Pentacles reversed,” I murmured. “I thought it represented Mark’s gambling addiction, his failure to manifest stability.” I shook my head slowly. “But it’s not Mark. It’s John. The other brother, the message undelivered, the failed manifestation of potential.”
“Your interpretation shifts with your knowledge,” Grandpa observed. “The cards remain constant; it is your vision that changes.”
I rearranged the cards slightly, placing the Page of Pentacles beside The Devil rather than before it. The narrative transformed before my eyes—not a story of a man destroyed by his addiction, but of two brothers bound by blood and divided by power.
“But this still doesn’t answer the question of who killed Mark,” I said. “Even if it’s linked to the gambling spells, and even if his death was the cost Mark had to pay, there was still a person who had to get their hands dirty, whether influenced by supernatural forces or not.”
“John is still with us, correct?” Mister B. remarked softly and deliberately. His ghostly figure drifted to the window, gazing at the city lights with eyes that perceived more than the tangible. “Why not learn more about him? The handwriting, Rahel. The alteration in the handwriting holds the secret. That’s all I’m going to reveal for the moment.”
