The High Priestess’ Game – Chapter 5
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Chapter 5
The Grand Golden Casino Palace swallowed me whole the moment I stepped through its gilded doors. A symphony of slot machines sang their siren songs while chandeliers cast fractured light across desperate faces. My heart hammered against my ribs like a prisoner begging release.
*You can do this, Rahel. You need this.*
I smoothed down my dress—black, tasteful enough to blend in but not so elegant as to draw attention. The fabric felt foreign against my skin, much like this entire plan felt foreign to my nature. Yet necessity makes criminals of us all, doesn’t it?
“First time?” A cocktail waitress appeared at my elbow, tray balanced effortlessly on her fingertips.
“Is it that obvious?” I attempted a smile but felt it twist into something closer to a grimace.
“Only to the trained eye, honey.” She winked. “Drink? On the house for newcomers.”
“No, thank you.” My mouth had already dried to sandpaper. “I need to keep my wits.”
After she floated away, I whispered to myself, “One night. Just one night of luck, that’s all I need.”
*You’re not a thief,* my conscience protested. *This isn’t stealing. It’s… redistributing fortune to those who truly need it.*
The casino floor stretched before me like a vast, carpeted ocean. I navigated through the crowd, past the blackjack tables where fortunes dissolved under expressionless dealers’ hands, beyond the roulette wheels where hope spun in dizzying circles.
My destination called to me—the craps tables, where chaos reigned and where ancient magic worked best. I felt the mojo bag nestled between my breasts grow inexplicably warmer with each step in that direction.
“Praise the Lord, you his servants,” I murmured, reciting Psalm 113 as I wove through the crowd. “Let the name of the Lord be praised, both now and forevermore.”
The bag pulsed against my skin like something alive. Its heat intensified as I approached the craps area, confirming I was on the right path. There were three tables, all surrounded by players. I hesitated, uncertain.
“Which one?” I breathed.
As if in answer, the mojo bag suddenly burned hot against my chest—not painfully, but with unmistakable urgency. My eyes were drawn to the center table where fewer players gathered. The dealer looked bored, mechanically pushing chips across the felt.
“The Lord is exalted over all the nations, his glory above the heavens,” I whispered, still praying Psalm 113, which brings luck to gamblers like me, as I approached the table. My fingertips tingled with a strange electricity. “Who is like the Lord our God, the One who sits enthroned on high …”
I took my place at the table, nodding politely to my fellow gamblers. A heavyset man in an ill-fitting suit glanced at me with mild interest before returning his attention to the game. An elderly woman clutching her purse eyed me suspiciously. None of them knew what I carried, what I intended.
“Final bets,” the dealer announced.
I slipped a hand to my chest, pressing the mojo bag through my dress. It throbbed like a second heart.
“He raises the poor from the dust,” I murmured, so softly that no one could hear. “and lifts the needy from the ash heap.”
The bag grew hotter still, almost searing my skin through the fabric. This was the sign—this was the table. I placed my modest stack of bills on the felt.
“Changing two hundred,” the dealer announced, pushing chips my way.
*Just one good night,* I reminded myself. *One night of luck, and everything changes.*
I fingered the chips, feeling their smooth edges. The final words of the Psalm waited on my tongue, ready to be unleashed when the dice came my way. Ready to bend probability, to cheat fate itself.
And if I failed? Well, then I’d lose it all.
The dealer pushed the dice toward me.
“Your roll.”
A cool breath stirred the hair by my right ear, though no vents blew air from above.
“Don’t be nervous, my child,” came Grandpa’s gentle whisper, barely audible above the casino din. “Remember what I taught you. Breathe into it.”
I didn’t turn my head—couldn’t—but I felt him there, a familiar pressure against reality, the way air shifts before a storm. My peripheral vision caught only a hazy outline, translucent edges shimmering like heat rising from summer asphalt. His spectral hand hovered near my shoulder, not quite touching, yet I felt the ghost of comfort all the same.
“For God’s sake, stop hesitating,” came a sharper voice from my left—Mister B., his patience already wearing thin. “You’ve got one shot. Don’t waste it mooning about.”
Where Grandpa manifested as gentle mist, Mister B. was all sharp angles and cold spots. A faint smell of cigar smoke and whiskey emanated from his direction, though no one else seemed to notice. His spectral form flickered like a faulty light bulb, all agitated energy and restless movement.
“I know what I’m doing,” I murmured, disguising my words with a cough.
“She knows,” Grandpa assured Mister B., his voice like wind through autumn leaves. “Let her focus.”
The dice felt unnaturally warm in my palm. I curled my fingers around them, holding them tight against the mojo bag at my chest for one final moment. The Psalm completed itself on my lips, words so ancient they seemed to dissolve on my tongue like sugar.
“Come on, shooter!” someone called from across the table.
I cast the dice.
Time stretched like taffy. The ivory cubes tumbled through the air, and I swear they caught the light differently than they should have—a faint blue luminescence trailing their trajectory. They bounced against the far wall of the table, spinning wildly.
“Seven,” Mister B. commanded under his breath.
“Let them fall as they may,” Grandpa countered softly.
My heart arrested mid-beat. The world narrowed to those two small squares of fate. One dice settled first—a four. The second continued to spin on its corner, impossibly balanced, before finally dropping.
Three.
“Seven!” the dealer called. “Winner!”
A rush of euphoria flooded through me, hot and sweet. Chips slid my way. Around me, the spirits of Grandpa and Mister B. seemed to pulse with renewed vigor, their forms growing momentarily more solid before fading back to their ethereal state.
“Well done,” Grandpa murmured, his voice warm with pride. “But remember, it’s never about the winning. It’s about knowing when to stop.”
“Nonsense,” Mister B. snapped. “It’s exactly about the winning. And she’s just getting started.”
I closed my eyes briefly, savoring the moment. The contradicting voices of my spectral mentors were both comfort and curse—much like the gift they’d helped me cultivate.
“Again,” I whispered, as the dice returned to my waiting hand.
The dice responded to my touch like trained pets. With each roll, my confidence swelled—seven, eleven, matching pairs. I no longer hesitated before casting, the rhythm becoming mine to control. The mojo bag burned hot against my skin, no longer a reminder but an extension of my power.
“Look at that stack grow,” I whispered to myself, arranging my mounting pile of chips with trembling fingers.
“Steady now,” Grandpa cautioned, his translucent hand hovering above mine. “Too much too fast draws unwanted attention.”
I nodded imperceptibly, but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. Five hundred had become a thousand, then three. The colored discs represented more than money—they were proof that the magic worked.
“You’re feeling it now, aren’t you?” Mister B. leaned close, his phantom tobacco scent somehow reaching my nostrils. “The current flowing through your veins. The dice know your name, child.”
I swallowed hard, trying to dampen my excitement. “It’s working better than I thought it would.”
“Another round, miss?” the dealer asked, his professional smile unable to hide his surprise at my streak.
“Absolutely,” I replied, the word emerging with more conviction than I’d felt about anything in months.
The older gentleman to my right whistled softly. “Honey, you’ve got the touch tonight.”
“Beginner’s luck,” I demurred, despite the confidence I now felt in every fiber of my being.
My next roll produced another win. And another. And another after that.
“My God, are you seeing this?” A woman in a sequined dress nudged her companion. “She’s hit five passes in a row.”
The table grew crowded, curious onlookers pressing in from all sides. A well-dressed businessman shifted his chips to stand behind me. “Mind if I ride your luck, sweetheart?”
I glimpsed other patrons abandoning neighboring tables, drawn to the electricity of my streak like moths to flame. Whispers ricocheted around me like stray bullets.
“Who is she?”
“Must be counting somehow.”
“Never seen anything like it.”
“Is she a pro?”
A circle formed around the table, three-deep in places. Cocktail waitresses hovered nearby, trays held aloft. The chatter around me rose to a fever pitch—a symphony of speculation, excitement, and envy.
“Place your bets,” the dealer called, his voice carrying a new edge of tension.
I rolled the dice between my palms, now slick with sweat despite the air conditioning. The weight of so many eyes pressed against me like a physical force.
“They’re watching too closely,” Grandpa warned, his form flickering anxiously.
“Let them watch,” Mister B. countered. “What can they prove?”
An elderly woman squeezed in beside me, her rings catching the light. “Whatever you’re doing, honey, don’t stop now.” She placed a substantial bet behind mine.
The dealer’s unblinking stare followed my every movement. The growing crowd hummed with collective anticipation.
“Everyone wants a piece of your magic,” Mister B. murmured, “but remember—it belongs only to you.”
I tossed the dice again, watching them dance across the green felt like they carried fragments of my soul.
From across the casino floor, a man in a tailored suit emerged from the shadows. His movements were deliberate, precise—a shark gliding through murky waters. His eyes, cold and calculating, fixed upon me with unsettling intensity. The floor manager whispered something in his ear, and he nodded once, his jaw tightening.
“Careful now,” Grandpa’s voice wavered beside me. “That’s Mike Sarducci, pit boss. Bad news when he starts paying attention.”
Mike’s presence seemed to drop the temperature around our table by several degrees. His face remained impassive, but his eyes—those predatory eyes—missed nothing. He stationed himself at a nearby pillar, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me through the crowd.
“Don’t look at him,” Mister B. hissed. “He’s counting your wins, timing your rolls. Looking for patterns.”
I kept my gaze down, pretending not to notice as I collected my latest winnings. “What’s his deal?” I whispered, lips barely moving.
“Twenty years catching cheats,” Grandpa sighed. “Man can spot marked cards from across the room. They say he broke a card counter’s fingers back in ’97.”
“That’s just casino legend,” Mister B. scoffed, though his voice held an edge of unease. “But he’s dangerous all the same.”
The mojo bag against my chest burned suddenly, like a brand against my skin. I flinched, drawing Mike’s attention more fully.
“Something wrong with your chips, miss?” the dealer asked loudly.
“No, everything’s fine,” I said, forcing a smile while sweat beaded along my hairline.
Mike pushed away from his pillar, moving closer. With each step, I felt the energy around our table shift—laughter died, conversation hushed, excitement curdled into unease.
“The bag,” Mister B. urged. “It’s warning you. Time to move.”
I glanced at my substantial pile of chips, torn between greed and self-preservation. The mojo bag pulsed against my skin again, more insistent this time.
“Now, Rahel,” Grandpa’s voice was soft but firm. “Too much attention on this table. We need to be strategic.”
“But—” I began.
“Listen to him,” Mister B. cut in. “Mike’s got three security guards on standby. You’re too hot here.”
I casually gathered my chips, stacking them with trembling fingers. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think I’ll try my luck elsewhere,” I announced with false confidence.
Mike’s eyes narrowed, tracking my every movement as I stepped away from the table.
“Not the slots,” Grandpa instructed. “Follow the warmth in the bag. It’ll guide you.”
The mojo bag tugged subtly beneath my blouse, drawing me toward the far side of the casino floor. I wove through the labyrinth of tables and machines, feeling Mike’s gaze boring into my back.
“Don’t rush,” Mister B. cautioned. “Natural movements. You’re just another player seeking better fortune.”
“He’s still watching,” I murmured, panic rising in my throat.
“Let him,” Grandpa said. “We’re not doing anything illegal.”
“Technically,” Mister B. added with a dry chuckle.
The mojo bag grew warmer as I approached a quieter blackjack table with a young dealer and only two other players. “Here,” I whispered. “This table feels right.”
“Perfect,” Grandpa agreed. “Different game, different pattern. Mike can’t track what he can’t predict.”
I settled into the empty chair, arranging my chips with deliberate casualness. From the corner of my eye, I could see Mike still watching, his brow furrowed in suspicion.
“Remember,” Mister B. said, leaning close to my ear, “we’re playing a longer game now. Small wins. Stay under the radar.”
I nodded imperceptibly, drawing strength from their guidance and the warm magic pulsing against my skin. Whatever happened next, I wouldn’t face it alone.
The cards slid across the felt like whispers against skin, each one carrying a subtle glow visible only to me. The mojo bag grew hotter with each hand, a secret heartbeat against my chest.
“Twenty-one,” the dealer announced, sliding more chips my way.
I fought to keep my face neutral as my winnings multiplied. The mountain of chips before me cast shadows under the hanging lamps.
“You’re drawing eyes,” Mister B. warned, his spectral form flickering at my periphery.
I nodded imperceptibly, pretending to sip my complimentary whiskey. The casino floor had grown quieter around me, or perhaps I’d simply fallen into the rhythm of the game so deeply that everything else had faded away.
“Hit me,” I said to the dealer, my voice steadier than I’d expected.
The man beside me leaned in. “Quite a streak you’ve got going. Mind if I follow your lead?”
“I don’t mind,” I replied, though Grandpa hissed in disapproval.
“Don’t let him mirror you,” he warned. “They’ll think you’re counting or working together.”
I nodded and deliberately made a poor play on the next hand, losing a modest stack.
“Guess the magic’s wearing off,” I told my neighbor with a forced laugh.
Two men in suits appeared at the edge of my vision, whispering into their wrist microphones. Their eyes never left my hands.
“Security’s taken notice,” Grandpa said. “Three cameras aimed at you now.”
“I can feel them,” I whispered into my drink. My chest tightened, breath coming short and fast. “Should I leave?”
“Not yet,” Mister B. cautioned. “Too abrupt looks suspicious. Win. Lose. Win again, smaller. Then cash out.”
I followed his directions precisely, my fingers trembling slightly as I placed my bets. The cards seemed to respond to my anxiety, their edges glowing brighter as if offering reassurance.
After twenty more minutes, I gathered my chips. “I think that’s enough excitement for tonight,” I announced to no one in particular.
“Now walk, don’t run,” Grandpa instructed. “Head for the cashier by the west exit.”
The distance to the cashier seemed to stretch impossibly long. My heels clicked against the marble floor, each step echoing in my ears like thunder. The weight of my winnings felt suddenly dangerous in my hands.
“What if they stop me?” I murmured, heart hammering. “Maybe this was too much. I should have played it safer.” Self-doubt crawled up my spine like a line of ants.
“You’ve done nothing provable,” Mister B. reassured me, though his voice held a razor’s edge of concern.
At the cashier’s window, I slid my chips forward with a forced smile. As the attendant counted, I felt a cold wave of unease wash over me. The mojo bag, once warm against my skin, now felt like ice.
“Something’s wrong,” I whispered.
“Don’t look over your shoulder,” Grandpa warned sharply. “Act natural.”
The cashier handed me a thick envelope. “Congratulations on your winnings, ma’am. Would you like a security escort to your vehicle?”
My mouth went dry. Was this a trap?
“No thank you,” I managed, tucking the envelope into my purse. “I’m meeting someone at the bar first.”
I turned, willing my legs not to shake, and headed toward the lounge. The bar was never my destination, but I needed a believable path that wouldn’t take me directly to an exit.
“They’re watching the doors,” Mister B. confirmed, his spectral form flickering nervously. “Mike’s called in reinforcements.”
“I’ve pushed too far,” I thought, panic rising like floodwater. “All this money… what was I thinking?”
“You needed it,” Grandpa reminded me gently. “Remember why we’re here.”
The memory of overdue bills, of Mom’s medication costs, of the threatened eviction notice, steadied me. I hadn’t come for greed. I’d come for survival.
“When you reach the bar,” Mister B. instructed, “order a drink, then casually head for the restrooms. There’s a service corridor beyond that leads to the side parking lot.”
I nodded, clutching my purse tighter. The weight of consequences settled heavily on my shoulders, but I moved forward, one deliberate step after another.
“Whatever happens,” I promised myself, “I’m not going home empty-handed.”
The crowd parted suddenly, and they were there—two security guards materializing like manifested dread, moving with the silent purpose of sharks through water. One broad-shouldered with a military-cropped haircut, the other taller with hands like shovels. Their faces wore identical expressions of grim determination.
My heart stuttered, then slammed against my ribs.
“Miss.” The broad one spoke my title like an accusation. “We need you to come with us.”
I clutched my purse tighter, feeling the outline of the envelope through the leather. “Is something wrong, gentlemen?” My voice emerged higher than intended, a reed-thin sound betraying my fear.
The taller one’s eyes flickered to my purse. “Just a routine conversation with management. Casino policy.”
“They’re lying,” Mister B. hissed in my ear. “This isn’t routine.”
“I was just heading out, actually.” I gestured vaguely toward the exit, calculating distances, possibilities. “Perhaps another time?”
The broad one stepped closer. “I’m afraid it needs to be now, ma’am.”
People were beginning to stare. A woman at a nearby slot machine whispered to her companion. My cheeks burned.
“Of course,” I conceded, mind racing. “Lead the way.”
Grandpa’s voice came soft but urgent. “Don’t let them take you to a back room, child. Nothing good happens in casino back rooms.”
I followed, maintaining a careful distance between us, scanning for escape routes. The weight of the mojo bag felt suddenly cold against my skin, its earlier warmth vanished like a broken promise.
“We’ve been watching you this evening,” the taller guard said casually as we walked. “Quite the lucky streak.”
“Beginner’s luck,” I offered with a forced smile. “First time here, actually.”
“Is that so?” The broad one’s tone suggested he believed otherwise.
We approached a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” My pulse hammered in my throat.
“Just through here,” the taller one said, reaching for the door handle.
“Actually—” I stepped backward, bumping into a cocktail waitress who yelped as her tray of drinks wobbled precariously. “I’m sorry, I need to use the restroom first.”
The guards exchanged glances.
“Now, listen here—” the broad one began, his hand moving toward my arm.
“RUN!” screamed Mister B.
I pivoted, ducking beneath the waitress’s tray, and bolted. The crash of falling glasses behind me, the startled cries of patrons, and the heavy footfalls of pursuit became a chaotic symphony as I wove through the crowded casino floor.
“STOP HER!” a voice bellowed.
The exit sign glowed in the distance, a neon-red beacon of possibility. Could I make it? Would freedom await, or handcuffs? The envelope of money pressed against me like a secret too dangerous to keep, yet too valuable to surrender.
I crashed through a cluster of slot machines, heart pounding in my ears, the guards’ footsteps growing louder behind me.
The exit was twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.
A hand closed around my wrist.
