Technomancer (Unspeakable Things: Book One)

fate. Maybe it had been within her power to instantly kill me. If she could have sent me anywhere, she could have popped me ten floors up into the air and dropped me onto the concrete. Or, maybe she could have put me into a sewage tank full of bubbling liquid far below the earth to drown. Instant death had been facing me, and I had been blissfully clueless. I guessed shehad given me the sunglasses and let me go so I could use them to gather information. So far, they had been a significant help.
    After encountering two of these powers, I had to wonder what else was out there. I’d seen evidence of more strange effects. That lava slug that had burned my house had come from somewhere. And Tony had been filled with sand while driving along the street—that could have been Meng, but the street was nowhere near the sanatorium. What about the bum in the painless flames? What about the rest of the dead?
    Vegas casinos never close—at least they don’t these days. In the middle of the night, you can walk in and throw your money down. When red-eyed wanderers stagger in and gamble their credit cards over the limit, they always find a smiling dealer to take their money. Even at 3:00 a.m. on a Tuesday morning. Coincidentally, it was six minutes after the third hour of Tuesday when I reached the Lucky Seven.
    The casino was huge, but it was mostly deserted. Only a few of the massive salons full of gaming tables and one-armed bandits were still lit and operational. The others were sectioned off with green velvet ropes. Vacuums with headlights worked the carpets in those quiet zones, where the lights were turned down to a dim, flickering blue-gray.
    I eyed the tables and the patrons. They were unremarkable for the most part. The gamblers looked liked they’d been in their clothes too long. The dealers and security looked like they were bored and waiting for the night to be over. The only spot with any real life to it was a high-stakes blackjack table at the far end. I saw the little sign that listed the minimum bet at a hundred dollars. I winced at the thought, but walked in that direction anyway.
    The most interesting person at the table was a young bride, still in her white wedding dress. Even if McKesson hadn’t given me a hint about who I was looking for, she would have stood out like a lighthouse on a dark shore. She looked about thirty and held herself with perfect posture. Her medium-length blonde hair flipped up where it touched her shoulders. I looked for the ring and the groom, in that order. The ring was there, but the groom wasn’t. Strange, and intriguing.
    I bought some chips with Tony’s money, then sat at the table one seat down from the bride. We played six hands, with me betting the minimum each time. I lost each round until the fourth, by which time I was sweating. When I finally won a hand, I let out a deep sigh. The bride glanced at me, and I smiled back at her. She stared for a moment, expressionlessly. Her fingers had those classic French nails—white crescents of polish on every tip.
    I proceeded to lose two more hands. It was about then I noticed the bride had never lost. She had a mound of chips in front of her—mostly hundreds and five hundreds. I tried not to stare, but it was hard. I rubbed my eyes, calculating that with my terrible luck, I was going to have to make another trip back to Tony’s soon.
    The guy between the bride and me folded up his tent on the next hand. He’d been losing hard too. He threw his cards in disgust, swilled a drink, and slammed down the glass with a thump. Muttering something about “bullshit” and “freaks,” he left the casino and stepped out into the dark streets. I looked after him. Two hands later, everyone at the table was gone except for me, the bride, and the dealer, a Hispanic-looking fellow who was frowning. His mustache seemed to droop farther with every hand he dealt the bride.
    She was unbeatable. I knew that couldn’t last long, and I was right. About hand number fifteen, a short guy in an expensive suit and an embarrassing comb-over came to the table and quietly spoke with the dealer. He was a pit boss, I knew. It occurred to me that as much as I’d forgotten the personal details of my past, I still knew the casinos well. Pit bosses were floor managers who watched the games for cheats and made decisions on whether to take outlandish bets. For the most part, they were there to make sure the casino didn’t lose too much money. I knew, for