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markers at the door. Luckily, Ridley had avoided that sucker move.
    The game was simple. Two players per table. The dealer dealt all the cards in the deck, then drew a name. He pulled Floyd’s name, which meant the bassist had to go first and discard an ace. The next player had to discard a two or a king—the card above or below the ace—and any cards that followed, if they were lucky enough to have any of them in their hand. The object of the game was to be the first player to get rid of all your cards.
    But there was a catch. The cards were discarded facedown, so players could bluff and toss whatever they wanted—at least until someone called them on it.
    Rid handily won her first game without even flexing her powers. She sauntered over to watch Floyd play a Caster wearing a dog chain around his neck. Bike Chain Boy threw in a card that he claimed was a nine.
    Floyd took a swig from the beer in front of her. “Liar.”
    Now Bike Chain Boy had to show his card. If he’d discarded a nine, then Floyd would have to pick up the entire pile. But if Bike Chain Boy had lied and thrown a different card, he’d have to take the pile.
    You didn’t need to be a Sybil to read the Caster’s face. He stood up and grabbed the bottom of his chair, flipping it over.
    “Cool your jets.” Floyd leaned back, clearly enjoying herself. “You must’ve wagered a serious TFP.”
    “Shut your mouth,” Bike Chain Boy snapped. “Everyone here did.”
    Except Ridley.
    She played Floyd next, who was her only real competition. Everyone else sucked, even without Ridley’s influence. Rid waited until it was Floyd’s turn before she made her move.
    As Floyd studied her cards, Ridley gave her a nudge with her powers.
You want to bluff on this hand and dump as many cards as you can.
    Floyd hesitated for a moment, then dropped three cards onto the pile. “Jack. Queen. King.”
    Rid stretched her arms over her head, as if she’d just woken up from a long nap. Then she gave Floyd a big smile. “Liar.”
    Floyd seemed dazed, and she blinked a few times before responding. “Damn. Guess I won’t be turning myself into Roger Waters again anytime soon.”
    Floyd was obviously an Illusionist, like Ridley’s idiot brother, Larkin. Her brother used his powers for ridiculous things like picking up girls. The fact that Floyd used hers to fool people into thinking she was the lead singer of Pink Floyd was even more pathetic. Ridley had never met an Illusionist who actually created illusions worth seeing—unless Lena’s mother, Sarafine, was breathing down their neck.
    After another round, Ridley didn’t have a single card left in her hand. Ridley kept tabs on how games were progressing around the room. Grown men were reduced to sobbing babies in her presence as they lost everything from the temporary use of their powers to the permanent loss of talents. She kept a mental record of every loss: a Necromancer who’d be spending a lot more time with the living; a Shifter who wouldn’t be able to change water into ice for at least six months; a Caster poet who was going to need help finding a rhyme in a Dr. Seuss book; and a handful of entirely forgettable losers.
    Three players were left: Ridley, Sampson, and the band’s crappy drummer. She hadn’t even bothered to learn his name.
    As Ridley approached the table designated for the final games, Sampson pulled out Ridley’s chair. He was playing the winner of the game between Ridley and the drummer, which meant he’d be losing to her next.
    Up close, Sampson was even taller than she’d thought, close to seven feet, if Rid had to guess. He had the physically menacing posture of an Incubus without the reflective black eyes, a feature that all Incubuses shared. His eyes weren’t Caster green or gold, either. They were steel gray, ringed in smudged black liner that made him look even more dangerous, as if he hadn’t slept in days and didn’t care. He was obviously wearing colored contacts, which was