“I’m only being friendly.”

“I don’t need friends. What I need you to do is place your bet.”

He sucked at his teeth, fingers still idling over chips.

Finally, the woman in blue spoke, her voice a soft, sibilant hiss. “Place your bet or make room for someone who will. You’re holding up the game.”

The Fallen man grumbled in agreement, so with a put-upon sigh, Mustache dropped half a dozen chips on the eight card.

Satisfied, Celeste drew the soda card and placed it to the side. Next, she drew the loser—an eight. Mustache groaned. He’d lost the round.

“Not your night, is it?” the Fallen man next to him observed lightly.

Celeste drew the winner, and the veiled player yawped a muted cry of joy before raking her winnings close. Celeste gave her a congratulatory nod and had begun to reset for the next round when she felt it. She thought for a moment maybe that wind had come on back, but the cards were as still as a spooked-up church mouse. Yet there was something at the back of her neck. A breath, a touch. She couldn’t describe it except to say it was a wrongness.

She glanced behind her, but there was only the wall. She told herself it was just the ten-cent man at her table getting under her skin, but even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie.

“We playin’?” the man in question asked, voice turned mean with losing.

She almost said yes, but her eyes cut to the empty stage, and the word stuck in her craw. Where was Mariel? Maybe that was the bad feeling that had caught hold of her neck. Mariel should have been up there singing, keeping the crowd cooled.

Celeste waved, trying to get Hypatia’s attention, but the woman was holding court at the corner of the bar, telling one of her infamous tall tales, and couldn’t spare a glance her way.

She scratched at her neck, unable to shake that bad notion, like someone was throwing a hell of a hex, and promptly said, “Table’s closed.”

A groan circled the table.

“The game’s not done!” Mustache’s outrage turned up a notch.

“It’s done when I say it’s done,” Celeste said. “There are other tables. Find yourself another if you don’t like it.”

“But I’ve got money invested in this one.” His voice was practically a shout, and people paused over their drinks or in the middle of their stories, noticing. His hand strayed down toward his belt, and Celeste saw the butt of a revolver there. She calculated the odds of the man drawing down on her on account of feeling cheated and decided she didn’t like them.

Her eyes flickered back to Hypatia. This time, the woman was watching.

“That’s money the house won fair and square,” Celeste said carefully.