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When Thursday afternoon rolled around, Caleb realized he was actually nervous. It had been so long since he’d experienced such a feeling that he had to let himself sit with the emotion for a moment, analyzing the anxious flutters in his stomach and their probable cause.

Well, he supposed it wasn’t so strange to be a bit on edge, considering he’d never played in a poker tournament before. A small, friendly one, according to Hank Bowers, but still, a few butterflies should be considered perfectly normal.

Especially since Caleb had vowed to himself that he wouldn’t use any of his demonic gifts to win. Either he would do this with his own brain power, or he’d fail miserably and realize he wasn’t the world-class card shark that he thought he was. If someone had asked him to articulate precisely why this was so important to him, he wasn’t sure whether he would have been able to answer accurately. He just knew that, while having powers that arose from possessing demon blood could come in handy, he didn’t want them to define him.

Anyway, ever since he’d decided to play in the competition, he’d been watching poker tournaments on ESPN, finding older replays on YouTube, whatever he could track down to help him analyze the moves the players were making…and, with any luck, decipher the why of what they were doing as much as the how.

But nothing beat real-life experience, which was why he was determined to do this, no matter how many butterflies might have been flapping around in his gut right now.

The drive over to the casino helped, the top down on the Porsche Cabriolet, warm wind ruffling his hair. No sign of anyone following him, although the convertible got a few head turns as he rolled down Fremont Street. It seemed like even in a town that had its fair share of luxury vehicles, his latest acquisition was flashy enough to attract attention.

Maybe he should have bought the graphite gray model, rather than the metallic sage.

Too late now, though. As far as he could tell, people were looking at the car and not at him, which he supposed was a decent enough form of diversion, sort of like a magician distracting his audience with some sort of showy move with one hand while he performed the real trick with the other.

The parking lot was much more crowded today than it had been when he came here on Sunday to register for the tournament. He supposed that made sense; while Hank had made it sound as if there weren’t a huge number of competitors, Caleb guessed that a lot of those vehicles belonged to people who’d come to watch.

No problem there. It had been a while since his quarterback days, but he still didn’t have a problem with being the center of attention…as long as those watching had no idea that he was anything more than a regular guy.

Just like on Sunday, there were signs just inside the doors instructing players where they needed to go to check in. Dutifully, he stood in line and then handed over his ID so the woman working at the check-in table — not Lauren, the dark-haired woman who’d been there on the weekend, but an older blonde so deeply tanned that her skin looked like it could be used for a pair of saddlebags or maybe the saddle itself — could get him logged in.

The process went smoothly enough, though, and in less than five minutes, he had a lanyard around his neck with a badge that identified him as a participant in the competition and was walking down the corridor to the casino floor. Rather than being shunted off to a ballroom, the players would be gathered in a roped-off area on one side of the casino, allowing them to be part of the regular hustle and bustle.

He hadn’t been playing much lately, since most of his energy had been directed toward finishing the remodel — and with his investments performing nicely, it wasn’t as if he needed the money — and his pulse quickened a little at the familiar sights and sounds and smells around him, the clinking of the slot machines, the murmur of voices, the faint acrid haze of cigarette smoke. All casinos had designated areas where smoking was allowed, but it wasn’t as if he had to walk through a cloud of the stuff to get where he was going, and it didn’t look as if anyone was smoking in the roped-off area.

Good. While his time in Hell had gotten him somewhat used to bad smells, he still didn’t want to be inhaling that crap while he was trying to concentrate.

Another woman, this one dark and pretty, maybe Native American, waved him into the players’ area and guided him to a table set up with four chairs.

“You’ll play the first round here,” she told him. “As the rounds go on, we’ll take out tables as players are eliminated. The final four in your group will play over there.”

She pointed to a table set somewhat apart from the others. It had its chairs tipped in against it, telling him the tournament organizers didn’t intend to use it for the preliminary rounds and were saving it for the time when the four survivors of his subgroup would play against one another.

Caleb had read about most of this in the brochure Hank Bowers had given him, but still, it was entirely different to see the setup in person. Once again, his stomach tightened, although he told it to get its act together, or he’d never get past the first round.

“Thanks,” he told the woman with a smile, and she smiled back, her expression showing a certain warmth that told him she wouldn’t mind if he slipped her his phone number at some point during the day.

The Caleb he’d been up until a few months ago probably would have done that very thing. Now, though…now that Delia Dunne was a part of his life, even if not in exactly the way he would have liked…he found himself singularly uninterested.

Which he thought was all kinds of messed up. Just because he was friends with the woman didn’t mean he had to turn into a monk.

But something in his expression must have been off-putting enough that the gal who’d shown him to the table where he’d be playing got the message, since now her face turned almost cool.

“There’s a complimentary water and tea and coffee station over there,” she said crisply, pointing to a rectangular table set off to one side that was furnished with multiple pitchers and lots of glasses in neat stacks. “No booze during the competition.”

That made sense, although Caleb thought the alcohol prohibition was in place just as much for cost reasons as it was to ensure the players remained sharp during the tournament.

“Got it,” he replied.

She seemed to understand that he didn’t need any more guidance, because she gave him a brisk nod and headed off toward the next player who’d wandered into the roped-off area, a nervous-looking guy with a prematurely bald head and a Hawaiian shirt that wasn’t doing him any favors.

Caleb couldn’t help being glad he wasn’t the only rank amateur here. Good thing he knew he didn’t look anywhere that uncomfortable.

It turned out that the bald guy in the Hawaiian shirt was one of the four designated for his table.

“Jeff Kosky,” the man said as he extended a hand before taking a seat. “First tournament?”

“Caleb Lowe,” he returned, even as he wondered whether it would be better to admit that he was a complete noob and then surprise everyone with his acumen, or to try intimidating them from the start with hints of tons of experience.