Page 10 of The October Trials

I promise I’m not evil.

The man two seats down looks like he just escaped from prison last night, tattoos littering every inch of his skin, thick forearms that could crush me. There’s a haunted look in his eye that I’m not even sure he knows he has.

I do notice one thing, though—he’s nervous. Hell, we’re all nervous. Sloane is picking at the skin around her thumbnail, a nerdy guy with glasses beside her taps his feet.

“This is your warning, and the only warning you will get tonight,” Archon announces. “After we begin, there is no stopping or backing out. No quitting. So, last chance, little lambs. If you want to leave, do it now, no questions asked. Walk out those doors and keep your worthless little life the way it is. But you forfeit every cent. The prize dies with your cowardice.”

My breath catches.

This is it. My exit from this creepy place. The final off-ramp before whatever fresh hell they have planned really begins.

But…

I feel the money like a hook behind my ribs, yanking. Mom’s sunken cheeks. The stack of bills that keep growing while she keeps shrinking.

I could leave. I could still walk away.

But something keeps me glued to my chair. My legs don’t move.

It seems to be that way for everyone. The room stays deathly still. Not even a peep. It seems we all have too much riding on tonight to throw it all away now.

Archon tilts his head slowly, studying us like insects pinned under glass. Then a low, sinister cackle rolls out of him, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The sound is pure malice wrapped in velvet.

“Well then,” he murmurs. “You’ve all chosen to stay and play. Good luck.”

The dining room falls into a suffocating hush.

The walls start to speak, voice distorted, until I realize it’s an old intercom system mounted high in the corner, hissing to life. An angelic woman’s voice comes through:

“The October Trials commence now. Only one claim takes the prize.”

I’m doing this. I’m really fucking doing this.

A guard glides into the room from the side entrance. In his gloved hands, he carries a single deck of cards, black as midnight, edges glinting with a hint of gold. Just like the invitation. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say these people are in a well-organized cult.

He moves around the table, placing one card face down in front of each of us.

The tattooed prison escapee laughs. “Are we playing fucking poker?”

Archon chuckles right along with him, except his is darker, rolling through the room like distant thunder. “Not quite. The first round is simple. Get everyone settled into the game. Draw a card. Whatever you pick is your fate.”

I glance across the table at Sloane. Her eyebrows are pulled tight, blue eyes wide with the same question burning in my chest. Cards? This can’t be it.

“Let’s make this interesting, not in order. So number… two,” Archon calls. “State your name and age, then flip your card.”

“Christian Cohen, twenty-one.” Upon flipping his card, he lets out a short, disbelieving breath and turns it around so everyone can see.

There’s a little picture of a cup.

A guard steps forward and sets a heavy glass in front of him. Dark liquid swirls inside, too thick and congealed to be wine.

“Drink.”

Christian hesitates only a second before lifting it to his lips and draining it in three hard swallows. After a beat, coughs explode out of his chest and tiny droplets of blackened red fling onto the wood table.

“What the fuck is that? That’s… fucking…” He pats his chest. “Ew.”

Did…