Page 8 of Pride: Kneel Before None

Without any pleasantries, she thrust it into my hands. “Fill this out,” she demanded as if this whole interaction was nothing but a waste of her time.

Bossy and rude for someone who wants me to participate in this shindig.

Scanning the page, it was most of your typical mundane shit that participatory forms asked for. Name, address, supernatural breed, etc. Quickly, I scribbled my information in each allotted space. When I got to the bottom of the page, I hesitated at the fine print.

A skeptical brow lifted. “What’s this?” I looked up at the woman who was hovering uncomfortably close.

“Standard boilerplate language. Sevenfold Casino is not responsible for any losses, financial or otherwise. You are agreeing to partake in this tournament of your own free will,” she explained. The roll of her eyes suggested I had asked such a burdensome question.

Bitch.

When my pen hesitated above the signature line, she dragged in a deep breath and exhaled it sharply before she finished her summary of what I was about to agree to.

“Should you be the last remaining player at the end of the tournament, you will have the option to double your winnings in one final hand. That shall take place in our Specialty Wager Room.”

Something told me this woman didn’t expect me to make it past the first round. Boy, was she going to be disappointed.

“Specialty Wager Room, huh?” I signed my name in one sweeping movement of my hand below all the legal mumbo-jumbo embedded on the form.

Her response was as dry as the center of the desert. “Yes.”

The curt response didn’t tell me jack shit about this mysterious room I expected to be scoping out later tonight.

I handed the clipboard—and potentially my life for all I knew—over to her.

After a brief inspection, she must have found my responses acceptable and returned the clipboard to its home in the box it came from.

She lifted a single finger. “One more thing, Miss Bechette.” A loaded pause as her eyes raked over me with something just shy of disdain. “Wait here.”

I crossed my arms in front of me, impatiently waiting to see what else signing up for this tournament was going to involve. She disappeared around the corner, and when she returned, she had a garment bag hanging from her hand.

The confusion on my face must have said it all because she felt compelled to add snark to her explanation. “It’s a dress and shoes.”

“A dress?” I hesitantly slid the curved metal hook of the hanger off her fingers. Did all invitees get a wardrobe upgrade?

Relinquishing her hold, she spoke very matter-of-factly. “It is complimentary. Given the short notice of your invitation, Mr. Reynard wanted to ensure you had suitable attire.”

Why was it that I found myself asking more questions the longer I stayed here in Sevenfold? Before I could ask who Mr. Reynard was, I felt that odd trickle along my skin from earlier.

I visibly shivered despite initial attempts to ignore the haunting force. When it didn’t cease, I opted for another approach.

Opening my mind’s eye, I attempted to get a glimpse into the future. The hope was that the connection to whatever this unsettling sensation was would guide the vision. No sooner had I summoned my ability than I felt a burst of green light in my head. It metaphysically hit me with such force that I gasped out loud. My free hand shot out to latch onto the nearest solid structure to steady myself.

My precognition scampered away temporarily, and the sensation that had been pestering me moments ago also retreated. My sapphire eyes wildly searched my surroundings. Looking for what? I didn’t even fucking know.

The erratic behavior earned me an unprecedented look of concern or perhaps a touch of fear from the woman who had less personality than a paperclip. I doubted the way my hand clamped onto her shoulders—fingers digging into the padding of her oversized shoulder pads—had little to do with it.

My pulse jumped chaotically in my throat, my brain remained perplexed about what the hell just happened, and my power recoiled like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

With obvious reservations about my mental stability, the woman peeled each of my fingers from her shoulder one by one. Then, she slowly extended a glossy card to me.

“All the information you’ll need to get into the tournament is here.” Her words were less authoritative now and more guarded.

Swallowing past the lingering unease, I took the postcard-sized piece of cardstock and looked it over just long enough to note that the tournament began in two hours.

“Thanks. I’ll be back here by six,” I murmured.

I had been prepared to make a hasty retreat, but then I heard the loudest squeal of excitement as a man rushed toward me. He was a portly chap, but everything about him was pristinely styled. Not a single grey-blond hair on his head was out of place, and the bright color choices of his shirt and pants stuck out amongst the more subdued color scheme of the casino.