Chapter One: The Devil’s Ante
Marseilles, 1928. The humid breeze off the Mediterranean did little to chase the stench of sweat and cheap perfume from the back room of Le Serpent Doré. Inside, shadows clung to the stained walls, punctuated only by the dull glow of a single green-shaded lamp hanging over a scarred poker table. Cigarette smoke curled like ghostly fingers toward the ceiling, and somewhere in the gloom, a clock ticked with sinister patience.
I sat at the table’s edge, my spine straight, fingers drumming lightly against my chipped ivory chips. I am Pierre de Crecy, a Frenchman of unremarkable birth but considerable pride. My tailored suit felt tight beneath the lamp’s heat, yet I wore it like armor—proof that, in this city of fog and filth, appearance could cut sharper than any blade.
Across from me, six men nursed drinks and glowered behind thick veils of smoke. Each wore the practiced mask of the professional gambler—lean faces, wary eyes, pale fingers flexing along the felt edge. They called themselves brothers of chance, but tonight, I would remind them that luck has a cunning mind of its own.
The first hand was all but over before it began. I peeked at my cards—ace of spades, queen of hearts. The world slowed as I tossed in my raise: five hundred francs. By the time the flop turned over, revealing a sneaky queen and a jack, half the table had folded. I took their stakes with a graceful nod, pockets already swelling with their desperation.
Round by round, I extended my breadcrumbs of cruelty. A bluff here—a man’s cautious glance giving me the opening to bet everything. A check-raise there—catching a lad with dreams bigger than his purse. They gasped as their fortunes vanished. One by one, they slid away: the Corsican with a furtive sigh, the Spaniard spitting curses, the Englishman who’d flown in from London’s underbelly, tears of frustration pooling in his tired eyes. Each exit thinned the air of its familiar tension, replaced by something darker: dread.
When only two remained—Henri “Le Loup” Durand, his sharp cheekbones ghostly in the lamp’s halflight, and me—the room felt smaller. I swept the last of the others’ chips into my growing tower and met Henri’s gaze. He exhaled a plume of smoke, long enough to fill half the space between us, then folded with a curt salute. “Tonight,” he muttered, “fortune favors you, Pierre.”
I smiled, enjoying the spark of something cruel in his eyes. “Match me again,” I said, gathering my winnings. “We’ll see when luck tires of me.”
But Henri shook his head, slick with sweat. “I’ve danced long enough.” He slipped his wad of bills toward me and slipped away into the haze. The room’s remaining patrons shuffled closer, peering between shoulders, hungry for the next spectacle.
That was when he entered.
He moved with deliberate calm—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a dark frock coat that seemed to swallow the lamp’s glow. His hat was tipped low, hiding half his face, but I caught the cold gleam in his eyes as he approached the table. A hush fell. Even the moths circling the lamp seemed to hold their breath.
“Pierre de Crecy,” he said in a voice as smooth as polished marble. “I’ve heard of your exploits. May I test your luck?” He laid before me a heavy leather sack, the clang of gold ringing faintly as he set it down.
The room stirred, a collective intake of eagerness and fear. Word—true or not—had spread of my unbeaten streak. Now this stranger, Luc Ferrol by his self-introduction, threw a gauntlet that gleamed with promise: six thousand gold coins, at least. Enough to buy a small fortune, or pay for a thousand regrets.
I straightened my collar, feeling that familiar rush in my veins—the fine thread between confidence and recklessness. “Monsieur Ferrol,” I replied, voice steady. “If your gold is true, I accept.”
He nodded, lifting his hat to reveal a hawk-like nose and eyes the color of storm clouds. No smile. Only the solemn air of a man who trusted neither chance nor man. “Then deal,” he said.
The dealer, a gaunt specter in a bow tie, slid a fresh deck across the felt. The shuffle was crisp, each snap of the cards echoing like distant gunfire. Around us, the spectators formed a tight circle—booted feet tapping, whiskey glasses raised, tobacco embers trembling with each inhalation.
I watched those around the table carefully: two trench-coated figures whose faces the lamp barely illuminated, a pair of beautiful but dangerous-looking women with rouge-stained lips, and a lanky kid who might have been too young for this room’s sins. Their eyes were fixed on Ferrol’s bag of gold, on my face, on the deck as it slid into the dealer’s hands.
The dealer burned the top card, dealt three on the table—flop—turn, river, all in disciplined silence. Whilst I Pierre de Crecy, ruthless, confident, and sure as Death’s own shadow, that tonight, my luck would still hold.
I leaned forward, fingers poised to push my first bet. In that instant, a faint tremor passed through the table—an almost imperceptible shudder, like something awakening beneath the felt. My back stiffened. The air tasted metallic. I met Luc Ferrol’s eyes, and for a heartbeat, I saw something flicker behind his calm mask: curiosity, or perhaps a challenge too terrible to name.
The other players watched, breath caught in their throats. Outside, the Marseille night pressed against barred windows, as if waiting for blood to be spilled. I wrapped my hand around a chip—a single piece of bone-white ivory, carved with a snarling wolf. I pushed it forward. “One hundred gold,” I said.
Luc Ferrol’s eyes narrowed. Slowly, with the grace of a predator, he placed a matching chip atop mine. The room exhaled.
And so began our duel: two men bound by cards, by gold, by the inexorable pull of chance. Around us, the world narrowed to that tormented green circle where every turn of the deck whispered fate’s cruelest options. The stakes were set. The die was cast. And as the first card slid into my palm, I sensed the breeze outside stir once more, carrying the distant toll of a church bell—an omen, or merely time marking another hour of Marseilles’ restless soul.
Tonight, the devil would ante up. And I intended to call him.
Chapter Two: Whispers in the Smoke
The lamp’s sickly glow felt colder now, as if it sensed the unease rippling through me. Luc Ferrol sat opposite, his storm-cloud eyes fixed on mine, the leather sack of gold coins between us an unspoken promise and threat. Around the table, the spectators pressed closer, but their murmurs and clinks of glasses receded into a dull buzz. All I heard was Ferrol’s measured voice.
I glanced at my hole cards—a modest pair of tens—and forced a smile as I called his small blind. The flop came down: 3♠, 8♣, K♦. Not promising, but I meant to bluff. I pushed a stack of ivory chips forward.
Ferrol’s lips curved almost imperceptibly. “You played an elegant hand last night, Monsieur de Crecy. A full house on the river, was it not?”
My throat went dry. I’d never once crossed paths with this man, and yet he spoke as if he’d sat in every smoke-filled room where my luck had turned. I tightened my grip on the chips. “I don’t recall,” I said lightly.
He leaned in, voice low. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten Bordeaux, where you left your wife with a debt you never repaid.”
A jolt ran through me. My pulse thundered. I’d fled Bordeaux years ago, leaving Margaux and our daughter behind so I could chase easy money in shadowed clubs. I had never spoken of that night to another soul. Why did he know?
Around us, a few raised eyebrows, but no one spoke. I felt the room shrink. My confidence wavered.
Ferrol tapped the stack of chips I’d just called with a slender finger. “Or the night in Casablanca, when you claimed you killed for profit—two men, I believe. You called it business.”
My chest tightened. A cold sweat trickled down my back. I forced a chuckle. “Rumors.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps.” He flipped over his cards—Q♦, J♦. A straight. The table exhaled. My bluff lay in ashes. I nudged my chips toward him, unable to speak.
I sank back in my chair, breath coming in short bursts. The dealer raked in the pot. Another slice of my fortune gone. The brass rim of my glass cut into my palm as I tightened my grip.
I tried to focus on the next hand, though my mind was reeling. Gambling had always been my refuge; here, at least, the cards obeyed the same rules every time. Yet this man bypassed luck altogether—he wielded knowledge like a weapon.
The dealer shuffled, and I caught my reflection in the ash-streaked mirror behind Ferrol. My slicked-back hair was damp with sweat; my tie was loosened; my eyes looked too wide, too haunted. I forced myself to sit up straight and match his gaze.
He dealt. I peeped at 9♠, 7♠. Marginal. My pulse demanded a fold, but debts pressed in on me: the leather-gloved thugs Jacques Riva had sent, the ledger of IOUs scribbled in my pocket. I could almost feel their ratchets of impatience tightening around my neck.
The flop was J♠, 5♠, 2♥—a flush draw. I pushed in half my stack.
Ferrol paused, then raised me. Slowly, inexorably. I matched him, swallowing bile.
“Impressive,” he said. “You still trust in cards.” His tone was gentle, mocking. “Yet I wonder if you trust yourself as much.”
Those words cut deeper than any knife. Without thinking, I dropped an extra fifty—a foolish jam. The room held its breath. He stared at me, then glanced at the coins.
Finally, he called. The turn was 4♣, the river K♠—my flush. My heart jumped; for a fraction of a second, I felt invincible again. I slid forward my final chips. “All in.”
Luc Ferrol studied me as if weighing a life’s worth of sins. “Very well.” He revealed A♠, 3♠—a higher flush. My victory crumbled.
Stunned, I watched him rake in the gold. My knuckles whitened as I gripped the table’s edge. The proverbial clatter of falling coins rang like a death knell. I tried to rise, but the room spun, and I sank back down.
The spectators exhaled, eager to glimpse my ruin. I could see the younger players edging forward, smelling desperation.
Ferrol leaned back, hat tipped just enough to shadow his face. “You owe more than chips, Pierre de Crecy.”
His words left me breathless. The finality in his tone was worse than any insult. I had dug myself into this pit; now he stood at the rim, tossing in gold and salt.
I rallied, sliding the last of my ivory chips to the center. “One more,” I croaked. “One last chance.”
A spectator hissed. Jacques Riva’s name had been whispered, and I trembled. If I lost this, I’d face a debt I couldn’t settle with cards alone.
Luc Ferrol’s eyes gleamed. “As you wish, as you wish.”
The dealer spread a fresh deck. I watched each card fall, each chip clack, as sweat and tobacco smoke hugged every corner. My polished veneer of control lay smashed on the floor, replaced by a raw, desperate need.
The storm outside rattled the windows; thunder grumbled beneath the roar of my heartbeat. I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing Margaux’s tear-streaked face, the memory of her small hand in mine. I pictured Berniece, our daughter, waiting for a father who had never come home.
I opened my eyes and faced Luc Ferrol, his expression unreadable. The night had grown darker, and the gold in his bag seemed less like opportunity and more like a noose.
“Deal,” I whispered.
And as the first cards slipped into my palm, I realized that in this game, my enemy held not only the cards—but my past, my debts, and the key to my ruin. The unease tightened its grip, and I knew there would be no turning back.
My voice rattled as I pushed my remaining cards and gold forward. “One chance. IOU for all of it—or nothing—on the turn of one card.”
Luc Ferrol’s lips quirked. He paused, then smiled, ice in his eyes. “You’ve already mortgaged your life to every thug in Marseilles. Do you dare wager your soul?”
I laughed, heart pounding. “My soul’s been in debt longer than my coin.”
His eyes flickered red for a heartbeat—then, horror of horrors, I saw the truth. Ferrol. Lucifer. The Devil, come to collect. I swallowed. “I know who you are,” I whispered. “And yet…”
I flipped my card: the ace of hearts. My pulse thundered. “Call me reckless.”
He laid his card down slowly—ten of clubs. My flush held. Victory roared through me. The room exploded in cheers.
Ferrol rose, visage now pallid. “Foolish mortal.” He swept the cards into a swirling vortex of smoke, the gold coins rattling back into my hands. “The debt…unpaid.”
He pointed a skeletal finger at me. The world blurred, and for a moment—just a flicker—I felt the cold grave yawning at my feet. Then he was gone, leaving behind only the echo of wings beating against the night.
I staggered back, gold heavy in my palms. Outside, dawn broke over Marseilles, and with it, a sigh of relief. I had beaten the Devil at his own game—this once. But I knew his promise: in Hell or high water, he would come for his due. Tonight I lived; tomorrow, the debt collectors would return.
Alternate Ending: The Bargain Sealed in Blood
My voice trembled as I swept every gold coin, every chip, forward. “One final card. IOU for all…or—” I faltered. “—or nothing.”
Luc Ferrol watched me with merciless calm. “You owe more than coin, Monsieur de Crecy. Your soul is already mortgaged.”
A cold dread shredded my confidence. I swallowed and laughed, more bitter than brave. “Then gamble my soul, too—for everything on the table.”
His eyes glowed faintly red as he leaned in. “So be it.” He slid an ornate card from the deck—a black-backed ace.
“Your wager: body, mind, and soul.”
I nodded, mouth dry. The dealer burned a card. My heart stopped on the flop. I forced a breath. “Turn.”
He tapped the table. The turn card flipped: 7♦. No help. I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing Margaux and our child, the debts waiting like hounds at my door.
I opened my eyes, watching Ferrol reveal his card: J♠—a higher card. The gold slid toward him. My world tilted.
The crowd fell silent. I tried to rise, shame and terror coiling tight in my chest. “Wait—there must be another way—”
Ferrol’s smile was velvet death. “Your contract is signed in the silence between your heartbeat and your prayer.” He flicked his hand, and the bag of gold vanished. In their place lay a single black feather.
A void opened at my feet. Terror clawed my throat as I felt unseen chains wrapping my soul. The windows rattled; the lamp guttered. Then the room went cold, and he was gone—leaving only that feather and the echo of his laughter.
I slumped forward, the poker table’s edge cutting into my wrists. The debts I owed in coin were small compared to the price I’d just paid. Outside, Marseilles slept on, ignorant of the damned sitting in its shadows.
