Read Online Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel by James Hunter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Hunter
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Genre Fiction, dark fantasy, Paranormal & Urban, Metaphysical & Visionary, mage, warlock, paranormal and urban fantasy, s Adventure Fiction, Fantasy Action and Adventure, Thrillers and Suspense Supernatural Witches and Wizards, Mystery Supernatural Witches and Wizards, Men&apos
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too old for my complexion. Most folks unconsciously avoided my stare on instinct, the strangeness lurking there makes most folks uncomfortable.
“Look,” I continued, “someone’s obviously gone to a whole lot of trouble to put us at each other’s throats. We can work together here.”
“We’re both gamblers,” he said, arching an eyebrow, “why don’t we play for it? You win, you live. Help me out. You lose, my boys shoot you dead.”
Not exactly what I was hoping for. But better than nothing. I’d take that action, with my luck.
“Deal the cards,” I said, gathering in energy, constructing a concussive wave of force for when things went bad, which I was sure they would.
He dealt, quick, methodical, face up.
He ended up with a pair of pocket aces. I got a 7 – 2 suited, almost the worst hand in poker. It’s endearingly called The Hammer , because getting this hand is the poker equivalent of getting slammed in the groin with a hammer. It sucks. A lot. The 7 – 2 split are the two lowest cards you can have which won’t make a straight—there’s four cards needed between 2 and 7. Even though my cards were suited spades, the chance of getting a flush was low, and even if I did, it would be the lowest possible flush. He, by contrast, had a pair of bullets looking at him, which is the best starting hand in hold ‘em. Statistically, pocket aces will win more than any other starting hand.
Awesome. Good thing there wasn’t a lot riding on this.
The grin on Morse’s face was about a mile wide. I wanted to punch him right in his overly confident and heavily bearded face. I restrained myself, if only barely.
Stupid beard face.
I was fairly sure I wasn’t walking out of here regardless of how the cards played out, but still. Morse was a good card player and a good liar, but I could read this play like a book. Even if I won, the outcome would be the same: me dead. Period. I kept playing though, building up the power for my working, using the time to run through possible exit scenarios in my mind.
The Flop—the first three cards dealt face up—sure didn’t boost my confidence a whole helluva lot: A ♥, 10 ♠, K ♣. The extra ace gave him three of a kind, which is a tough hand to beat under ideal circumstances. Technically, I could still get a flush—the 10 ♠ was the only thing keeping me in the game and my brains inside my skull—but it was unlikely. If this were a regular hand, I would’ve folded before ever seeing the Flop and I sure wouldn’t have stayed in for the Turn. I needed the next two cards to come up spades or I was dead, and if another Ace or King put in an appearance I’d be up a River—poker pun intended.
Morse flipped the Turn card.
Deep breath …
J ♠
His smile faltered a bit, pulling back in at the edges.
“Any last words before we see the River,” he asked, appearing to savor the flavor of his impending victory.
“Flip the card, Tiny. Games not over yet—chickens before they hatch and all that jazz.”
His smile vanished, turning into an ugly grimace, as the river card landed face up:
9 ♠
How about that. A flush on the River, and with a 7 – 2.
Ha, take that universe! I won.
Something sharp stabbed into the side of my neck. Damn … and here I’d been accusing Morse of counting his chickens before they’re hatched.
NINE:
Run
The first thing I noticed after being shot was that my head was still attached to my torso. The sharp pain in my neck, though uncomfortable, was not crippling. When I put a hand up to check the wound, I felt a set of tranquilizer darts sprouting from my carotid artery, like some kind of macabre jungle flower.
Still, tranquilizer darts were a good alternative to .45 or 9 mil rounds. Tranquilizer darts meant they wanted me alive. Maybe they intended to torture me. Probably intended to kill me … eventually. Still, that meant I had a little while longer to breathe and a little while longer to try and
“Look,” I continued, “someone’s obviously gone to a whole lot of trouble to put us at each other’s throats. We can work together here.”
“We’re both gamblers,” he said, arching an eyebrow, “why don’t we play for it? You win, you live. Help me out. You lose, my boys shoot you dead.”
Not exactly what I was hoping for. But better than nothing. I’d take that action, with my luck.
“Deal the cards,” I said, gathering in energy, constructing a concussive wave of force for when things went bad, which I was sure they would.
He dealt, quick, methodical, face up.
He ended up with a pair of pocket aces. I got a 7 – 2 suited, almost the worst hand in poker. It’s endearingly called The Hammer , because getting this hand is the poker equivalent of getting slammed in the groin with a hammer. It sucks. A lot. The 7 – 2 split are the two lowest cards you can have which won’t make a straight—there’s four cards needed between 2 and 7. Even though my cards were suited spades, the chance of getting a flush was low, and even if I did, it would be the lowest possible flush. He, by contrast, had a pair of bullets looking at him, which is the best starting hand in hold ‘em. Statistically, pocket aces will win more than any other starting hand.
Awesome. Good thing there wasn’t a lot riding on this.
The grin on Morse’s face was about a mile wide. I wanted to punch him right in his overly confident and heavily bearded face. I restrained myself, if only barely.
Stupid beard face.
I was fairly sure I wasn’t walking out of here regardless of how the cards played out, but still. Morse was a good card player and a good liar, but I could read this play like a book. Even if I won, the outcome would be the same: me dead. Period. I kept playing though, building up the power for my working, using the time to run through possible exit scenarios in my mind.
The Flop—the first three cards dealt face up—sure didn’t boost my confidence a whole helluva lot: A ♥, 10 ♠, K ♣. The extra ace gave him three of a kind, which is a tough hand to beat under ideal circumstances. Technically, I could still get a flush—the 10 ♠ was the only thing keeping me in the game and my brains inside my skull—but it was unlikely. If this were a regular hand, I would’ve folded before ever seeing the Flop and I sure wouldn’t have stayed in for the Turn. I needed the next two cards to come up spades or I was dead, and if another Ace or King put in an appearance I’d be up a River—poker pun intended.
Morse flipped the Turn card.
Deep breath …
J ♠
His smile faltered a bit, pulling back in at the edges.
“Any last words before we see the River,” he asked, appearing to savor the flavor of his impending victory.
“Flip the card, Tiny. Games not over yet—chickens before they hatch and all that jazz.”
His smile vanished, turning into an ugly grimace, as the river card landed face up:
9 ♠
How about that. A flush on the River, and with a 7 – 2.
Ha, take that universe! I won.
Something sharp stabbed into the side of my neck. Damn … and here I’d been accusing Morse of counting his chickens before they’re hatched.
NINE:
Run
The first thing I noticed after being shot was that my head was still attached to my torso. The sharp pain in my neck, though uncomfortable, was not crippling. When I put a hand up to check the wound, I felt a set of tranquilizer darts sprouting from my carotid artery, like some kind of macabre jungle flower.
Still, tranquilizer darts were a good alternative to .45 or 9 mil rounds. Tranquilizer darts meant they wanted me alive. Maybe they intended to torture me. Probably intended to kill me … eventually. Still, that meant I had a little while longer to breathe and a little while longer to try and
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