Chapter Thirty Samuel

Chapter Thirty

Samuel

"B lood and fucking steel ."

Samuel came to a sudden stop, sliding on the damp cobblestones as he narrowly avoided colliding with Anton, who had barreled around the corner like a man possessed. He carried his jacket slung across his shoulders, frowning and exasperated all at once as he looked at Samuel in disgust. "Not you, too."

He blinked at Anton, his words fading on his lips as Anton rolled his eyes up to the sky, as if begging the universe to grant him patience.

"You're too late, Aberforth," Anton spat. "If you're looking for the comforting arms of my sister, de la Cruz beat you to it."

Samuel swallowed hard, ignoring the sudden stab of longing that struck through him. Of course Isaac had turned to Shan; he should have realized that himself. If only he had been a little quicker—perhaps met Isaac at the same time, upon the doorstep, then maybe—

But no. He had come here, to the LeClaires', with blood on his hands. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he so much as blinked, he saw the girl again. The way she had struggled, the blood pouring from her neck as she tried in vain to stop the flow. He hadn't held the blade, but he had done nothing to stop it, and Samuel knew that it would haunt him for all his days.

It didn't matter that she had been a traitor, not when her brother was dying. Not when Aeravin could have saved him but chose not to.

And even coming here—even thinking that he could turn to Shan, or to Isaac—was the worst kind of selfishness. They were both better than him and he didn't want to drag them down into his darkness.

No, this was his burden to bear.

But that was not something he could think about now, not with Anton glaring up at him in anger, defying him to speak.

"I see she is popular tonight" was what he managed, pushing past the tension that had crept up and tightened his throat, and Anton's face twisted into an ugly grimace. "What of you, Anton? Are you all right?"

"I am fine," Anton replied, though that was a lie if he had ever heard one. "But I'm sorry that I cannot say the same for you. You'll have to find someone else's shoulder to cry on. Shan's is occupied."

Samuel tried to temper his expression—though he was glad they had each other, he was still so, so lonely—but he must not have been very successful, for Anton sighed, rubbing at his temples. "I'm going to regret this, but have you ever been to a gambling hell, Aberforth?"

"Uh, no?"

"Consider this an education then," Anton said, stepping up beside him. "Give it a couple of hours and you'll forget whatever ails you." He led him across the street, calling for a hack.

"This isn't necessary," Samuel began, but fell quiet when Anton shot him a look so harsh that he was reminded, uncomfortably, of Shan.

"Something is," Anton said, "and this is the best I've got. You coming or not?"

Samuel considered saying no, turning away and continuing down the street, passing right on by the LeClaire townhouse and heading towards his own home, to his cold and lonely bed to stew in the darkness that plagued him.

It certainly wouldn't do. He already felt like he was drowning.

He looked up at Anton with a false smile on his face, saying, "I'd be a very poor student if I left my teacher, wouldn't I?"

Anton beamed, suddenly looking so much more alive. "To the Fox Den," he said to the driver, then slung himself into the carriage. He held out his hand, pulling Samuel in after him. "To adventure."

Samuel grinned, for real this time, and let Anton LeClaire sweep him away into the night.

The Fox Den was so much more than Samuel anticipated—not simply a gambling hell, but an experience that cultivated a sense of danger and delight. The gambling hell was built into the basement of a hotel, one of the few in Dameral, and they had entered through a staircase cut into the ground itself. Anton smiled at him as they arrived at the thick wooden door and rapped a distinct pattern against it.

A panel in the door opened, revealing the harsh face of a doorman who glared at Samuel with suspicion, but when Anton vouched for him let them pass. He opened the door, ushering them into a shockingly small room. There was a bar along one wall, stocking everything. But it was the counter along the other wall that had Anton's attention—the one that turned money into small wooden chips used for gambling and back again.

"It's not the most exclusive club, but still," Anton said, leading him to the money changers. "One does not simply join the Fox Den. You either need an invitation or a referral."

"If it's so exclusive, how did you get in?"

Anton bared a laugh and dropped a handful of coins in front of the teller. She swiftly swiped them away, replacing them with a stack of differently colored chips. "I may be Unblooded, Aberforth, but my coin spends as well as any other."

Samuel nodded, glancing over at the conversion chart. It was an easy enough transaction, and he pulled the money from his coin purse. He placed it on the counter, and the teller shot him a coy smile as she made the trade. "Welcome, Lord Aberforth," she purred. "May luck be on your side."

He grabbed the stack of coins, but she caught his wrist, placing a velvet bag in his hand. It was embroidered with a fox's face, the creature looking strangely fey and wild. "On the house," the teller said. "For every new patron."

Samuel nodded, slipping the chips into his pouch. Anton already has his tucked away, slipped back into his pocket where he wouldn't lose them. Samuel held onto his, feeling the weight of it in his hand. It was a small sum to many Blood Workers, but what he held in his hand in this moment would have fed him for months in his old life. Strange to think that such a small thing was the ruin of so many people. It was, in a way, harder to even think of it as money in this form. They were just chips—bits of colored wood—signifying something far more valuable than themselves.

"What's your poison?" Anton asked, turning away from the teller. He walked to the edge of a small balcony, staring down into the pit where the games were run. Samuel followed wordlessly, taking in the sights. There was roulette and hazard, vingt-et-un and piquet. All around the room were dozens of people, men and women, laughing and betting and flinging their coins against the tables like they meant nothing.

And they probably didn't—they probably had so much more where that came from.

That bitter old hate rose in him, and he clenched his bag of coins hard enough that it hurt. But all he said was "I am not overly familiar with gambling."

Anton nodded at him, neither surprised nor impressed. "Let's start simple. Vingt-et-un is easy enough."

"I know the principles. Don't go over twenty-one."

"Good." Anton led him down the stairs, giving him a quick rundown of the rest of the rules as he went.

Here it was easy to slip into the crowd, just another one of the dozens who came to drink and gamble the night away. If he got a few looks of recognition, well, they were quickly pulled back to their games of chance, too busy losing money to ponder the appearance of the Lost Aberforth.

It was freeing, and Samuel hated how much he enjoyed it.

Anton found them seats at an open table and they settled in to play. The dealer winked at Anton, smiling like he was an old friend, and Samuel supposed he might be. A reputation like his didn't come out of nowhere.

"Go easy on my friend, Sarah," Anton said. "It's his first time."

The girl—Sarah—smiled at him, though the effect was chilled by the fact that her lips were painted the color of blood. She was a pretty girl, clearly Unblooded, given that she worked here, but there was something about her that seemed almost ethereal. "I'll be gentle," she promised, laying down the cards, and Samuel smiled.

Until he lost his first hand.

The night went quickly after that, Samuel learning the game—winning some, losing more. He had a feeling that Anton was folding more often than he normally would to give him a chance, but he found he didn't mind. He was fun to play with, and Samuel thought he would really enjoy these card games if they were played for fun and not for money.

But that was not the case, and with each successive hand Samuel grew more bitter. It didn't matter that the money he was losing was, relative to his accounts, negligible. Nor did it matter that he was one of the cheapest gamblers.

It was the principle of the thing.

Here both Blood Workers and Unblooded came together, money slipping carelessly through their fingers, money that could be better spent throughout Dameral, helping those who needed it.

Perhaps he slapped his cards down too hard, perhaps his frown was too severe. But Anton swept up his chips and gestured for Samuel to do the same. "Thanks, darling," he said to the dealer, flashing her a wink.

She gave him a smile and a wave, then turned to Samuel. "Come back any time, my lord." She fanned her cards in front of her, too over the top to be taken seriously, and Samuel had to laugh.

Anton gestured towards a door, nearly hidden away against the design of the wallpaper. If it hadn't been pointed out to him, Samuel wasn't sure he'd have ever noticed it. But Anton was already there, and Samuel had no choice but to follow or be left alone in a gambling hell full of strangers.

He hurried after him.

Anton had already passed through the door, which hid a staircase. It wound up and up, curling around itself as they rose above where the gambling floor had been. "Where are we going?"

"To the High-Rollers' Lounge," Anton said, over his shoulder. "You looked like you could use a break, and I could always use another drink."

"Oh." It made sense now that he thought about it, that the Fox Den would have one of these, but he didn't think that Anton would be one of the members. For one, he was Unblooded, and for another, given the rumors about the LeClaire fortune, it didn't seem wise for them to spend their money so frivolously.

"I can feel your judgement, you know," Anton said, as they emerged into what looked to be the lushest parlor he had ever seen. Into a wide room, filled with low couches and chairs in deep colors. The glow of witch light shimmered down from above, casting the room in low light.

It was much less crowded than the gaming floor downstairs, small groups of people gathered around tables as they spoke in quiet voices. It was still so rich that Samuel felt like he was a bit of an impostor for being there at all, but some of the tension still ebbed away.

"What do you want to drink?" Anton asked, already shifting towards the bar.

"Tea, if they have it."

Anton, to his credit, didn't argue. "They do. Sit where you like, I'll be right back."

Samuel chose a collection of chairs away from any other groups of people—and also by an open window. He crashed into the chair, turning towards the soft breeze that came in off the sea, the early summer breeze feeling cool on his skin. He was considering if it would be too rude to tear off his cravat when Anton came back, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto his chair.

Well, if Anton was stripping his jacket, then surely he could loosen his cravat.

"So, do you want to talk about it?"

Samuel froze. "Talk about what?"

"Whatever is on your mind, Aberforth," Anton said, though he paused as a waitress brought them their drinks. A fresh pot of tea for Samuel, and a glass of dark amber for Anton, served quickly, and she was gone. Anton didn't even reach for his drink; he just rested his elbows on his knees as he stared at Samuel. "I'm not that much of a fool to see that something is bothering you, and it doesn't seem like the tables are helping."

"Am I that easy to read?" Samuel quipped, and Anton chuckled in spite of himself. "Also, just Samuel, please."

"Fine, fine," Anton shrugged. "I suppose we are friends now, aren't we? You came to my house, depressed and dejected, and I took you out gambling. What greater display of masculine bonding is there?" His tone dripped with sarcasm, but his eyes were kind. "I'm just sorry it didn't work out like I had hoped."

Samuel stared at him in surprise—given their past encounters, he was surprised to see this sort of kindness from Anton. Not that he had ever been cruel, or crueler than anyone else who had been born to a Blood Worker family, but he had clearly been pursuing his own agenda. Tonight, he just seemed tired, caught up in his own cares and worries, and yet here he was, trying to cheer Samuel up.

He appreciated it more than he thought he would.

"It's still strange to me," Samuel said. "Spending—wasting—money. I know it's ridiculous, that I have more than enough of it now. But old habits are hard to break."

Anton nodded, sympathetic. "It's ridiculous, isn't it? Tossing so much money for the chance—the thrill—of winning more." Samuel looked at him in surprise, and Anton smiled wryly. "What?"

"I just thought you would enjoy the game more," Samuel muttered. "I mean, you have a—"

"Reputation," Anton said in a low voice. "Yes. People see me as a dissolute gambler, as no threat, and they don't mind their words as much around me." He gestured at his face. "And my beauty doesn't hurt things either. We all have our parts to play."

Samuel just stared at him, taking in the carefully constructed persona that made up Sir Antonin LeClaire the Second. The tailored clothes, well-made and fashionable. The carefully cut and styled hair. He had designed himself to be a rake, frivolous and dissolute, and Samuel had fallen for it.

He remembered Shan's words, back when she had first found him and started transforming him into Lord Aberforth. How he needed to come up with a version of himself that wasn't entirely true, a mask he could wear before the other nobles of Aeravin.

It looked like he wasn't the only one who had gotten that advice.

"Are you happy with it?" Samuel asked.

Anton's brows drew together in thought, and Samuel wondered if anyone had ever bothered to ask him that. Happiness didn't seem to be the lot of the LeClaires, after all, but duty and power.

"I am good at it," Anton said, his voice surprisingly bitter. "And it's not like I have a lot of options, anyway. I'm not the eldest, so I have no seat in the House of Lords. Not that they'd allow an Unblooded in there anyway."

"You know much about the House, then?"

"A bit," Anton hedged. "I was fascinated by politics when I was young, but that was before I learned it wasn't my place." His hand clenched at his side, reflexively, as if he recalled an old pain. "But that was a long time ago."

"Well, perhaps you can help me out," Samuel said, an idea sparking. "They already have me sitting in on meetings, but I'll be damned if I can figure any of it out."

Anton shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, but it would be better if we didn't. Trust me on that, Samuel." Before he could ask what that meant, Anton stood and grabbed his jacket. "Anyway, I do have a reputation to keep."

Samuel just looked away, knowing a rebuff when he saw one. "I understand."

"Care to rejoin me downstairs? I think it's time for roulette."

Samuel shook his head. "I need to head home."

"Ah, I tried. Just speak to Mary-Ann at the front, and she'll call a hack for you." He turned to walk away but stopped at the last second. "Oh, and Samuel? You're not that bad."

He laughed, because it was so patently untrue. The King had seen to that. "Thanks, you too."

Anton only shrugged. "We'll see how long you think that."