Chapter 21 Chapter 21: These Gentlemen
Rebel stood abruptly, flipping the table.
“Now, keep that mutant on a leash,” the Brit warned, “or we’ll fill ye with lead.” Every gun swung toward me.
“It’s alright, Rebel,” I said, forcing calm. “These gentlemen just want a chat.”
They laughed again. “That’s right, just a chat. Now, if ye two’d be so kind as to come with us…”
Max had already slipped away, sneaky bastard. For a one-legged man, he had a talent for vanishing. Good luck to him. And good luck to us, we’d need it.
The Brits marched us through their turf, laughing, singing, trading jokes. If I weren’t their prisoner, I might’ve enjoyed their company. Only one, Benjamin, spoke to me directly, witty, calm, and infuriatingly charming.
“Fancy a drink?” He handed me a hip flask. I took a swig, dry gin with a hint of something sweet.
“Our own brew. Good, innit?” He smirked. “We grow everythin’ ourselves.”
For a moment, I almost felt safe among these well-dressed thugs.
“Boss says ye’re whorin’ for the Irish,” Benjamin remarked casually.
I stopped dead. “I’m no whore. And I’ll kill the next man who calls me one. I work security.”
Benjamin shoved me forward, grinning. “Security, whore, same difference. Either way, ye’re still gettin’ fucked.” The others roared with laughter.
The walk was short, though it felt longer with their banter. Oddly, despite knowing this wouldn’t end well, their energy was almost… infectious.
We stopped outside a high-end casino. “Ye can park yer mutant there,” Benjamin said, almost kindly. “They’re not allowed in.”
Then he pushed me through the doors into a plush reception area.
“Tim, this is Tilly. Tilly, this is Tim. He’ll be takin’ yer gun, and anythin’ else ye’ve got on ye.”
I handed over my weapons, but Tim still shoved me against the wall, patting me down with rough hands. He lingered painfully on my chest.
“Enough, Timmy,” Benjamin drawled. “Boss wants her whole.”
Chuckling, he led me down another corridor to a final set of doors.
Even this early, the casino was packed, gamblers, drunks, and addicts everywhere. Waiters stood in corners with silver trays, lines of white powder gleaming under the lights.
Benjamin called out, “Lock it up, Fred,” to the barman before addressing the casino at large. “Casino’s closed, ladies and gentlemen! Private party, come back another day.” Most people had already left; only a few remained, young, well-dressed hard lads and a couple of exotic, gypsy-like women.
“Where’s the boss?” Benjamin demanded.
“Right here,” came a deep voice. It belonged to a taller, more polished version of Benjamin himself. The man moved behind the bar, poured himself a drink, and studied me as he downed it. The room fell eerily silent.
“Right,” he said to the crowd. “Let’s start with the formalities.” He gestured toward me. “Say hello to Tilly, the Irish whore who wandered uninvited into our side of town.”
Then, from behind the bar, he lunged at me, driving a fist into my gut. The air rushed out of me as I doubled over. The bar erupted in laughter and cheers as the others closed in, kicks, punches, boots, over fifteen of them beat me. I never stood a chance.
At some point, the beating stopped. Gentle hands, mockingly kind, lifted me onto a barstool.
“I’m John. John Smith,” the man said, sliding a large beer glass full of gin toward me. “This is my family, and you’re in our house. Welcome, Tilly.” He clinked his glass against mine. “Cheers.”
I knocked back half of it, the bar roaring in approval. When I set the glass down, blood from my split lip had swirled into the gin, turning it a faint pink.
“First things first,” John said. “You tell Seamus we’re sorry about his boy. We’ll come under a flag of truce tonight, pay our debt to the family. You tell him that.”
“I will,” I managed through gritted teeth.
“Cheers to the boy,” John said, tapping my glass again. The room echoed, “Cheers!” as I drained the rest.
John refilled it to the brim. “Drink your medicine. Our gin’s healing water, fixes wounds and problems between friends.”
I muttered “Cheers” and tried to drown the pain.
“Now,” John continued, “if you’re gonna stay in my town, our Mary’s gotta vet you. No vetting, no town. Understood?”
I took another burning sip. My head spun; my body ached. “Fine. Vet me.”
John waved over one of the women. “Mary, come talk to our new friend. Find out who she really is and what she wants in our town.”
Mary sauntered behind the bar, kissing John as she passed, her fingers trailing over him. She settled onto a stool across from me and locked onto my eyes.
“Show me your hands, lovey.”
I turned my palms up, the three missing fingers plain as day. She took my left hand, her grip firm, and studied it for a long moment. “Been through the wars, this one,” she murmured.
I smirked. “Wow, you can see all, that from my mutualised hands?”
In a flash, she wrenched a steel hairpin from her curls and slammed it into the bar. It quivered between us, embedded a full centimetre deep. “Watch your tongue, young lady. We’re not friends yet.” Her gaze flicked to the rest of the bar. “Everyone out. And someone bring us two teas.”
They left without protest, even John, though he snatched the gin bottle on his way.
From the depths of her dress pockets, she produced a cloth-wrapped bundle. Unfolded, it revealed a deck of tarot cards, each a hand-painted masterpiece. “Shuffle them.”
I eyed the deck, then my mangled hands. “Won’t be easy.”
“Do your best. And don’t drop any.”
My fingers fumbled, the gin and the beating doing me no favours. Five agonizing minutes later, she extended her palm. “Place them here.”
The first card landed facedown. “Your present.” She flipped it the Star: radiant under the dim light. “A violent past, yet you cling to hope. Healing. Seeking purpose. You’re on a mission that tests everything you know.”
The next card: Seven of Swords, reversed. “What challenges you: Betrayal. Deception. Your own past tactics coming back to haunt you. You don’t trust others, or yourself.”
I almost laughed.
“Your past.” The Devil leered up at me. “Bound by darkness: chains, crime, your own vices. Addiction. Manipulation. A life where control wasn’t yours to have.”
The Sisters flashed in my mind. The drink. The drugs. The endless forgetting.
“Your future.” The Knight of Cups emerged. “An emotional reckoning: love, found family, a cause that stirs your heart. Or perhaps… you finally embracing who you truly are.”
“You fortune-tellers always preach love. Easy ploy, isn’t it?” I scoffed. “Quit it. I’m no circus mark.”
A woman entered with a tea tray. “Thank you, Julie. Now leave.” She poured, took a sip, then arched a brow. “Shall we continue? Or are you scared?”
I sipped my tea. Nodded.
She laid the next cards in a cross. “Your goals: Justice: You crave balance. To right wrongs. To atone. Or to tear corruption apart.”
The sixth card sealed the cross. “Subconscious influences: the High Priestess. Secrets within secrets. You know far more than you let on. And that hidden knowledge? It will shape the world.”
The seventh card flew to the right. “Your energy: Eight of Wands. Motion. Speed. No time to hesitate.”
The eighth: “External forces: Five of Pentacles, reversed. Hardship ending. Or realizing you don’t have to suffer alone. Someone in need has crossed your path.”
Nate?
The ninth card crowned the spread. “Hopes and fears.”
Death.
My heart stalled.
“Not the end,” she said softly. “Transformation. You long to shed your old skin… but fear what’s underneath.”
The final card settled atop the rest. “Your outcome: the World. The spirits favour you.” Her voice warmed. “Fulfilment. Wholeness. Despite the darkness, you’ll find your true self. Your mission. Peace.”
Her eyes held mine, kind, almost tender. “I like you, child. A bruised soul singing for a brighter future. But deception haunts you. Many will help… but one will betray.” She squeezed my hand. “Call me friend, Tillyanna. Friend of Mary Smith. And in doing so, the Smiths are yours, no matter which side of the fight we’re on.” A pause. “No matter what you or others think you are… I’ll call you sister.”
The lump in my throat burned. I could only smile, hoping it said what words couldn’t.