Page 17 of A Charming Touch of Tarot (The Gin & Tarot Club #2)

17

Five of Wands

The sun beats down on the pickleball court, causing sweat to drip from places it should not. My boobs are smashed into one of Nina’s sports bras that’s a size, maybe two, too small, because the last thing I anticipated while packing for a getaway to Florida was an intense game of pickleball and thus the need for a boulder holder for sports.

Nina and Jill were dubbed captains, not that it was necessary. In no way was I potentially playing with a stranger who, within minutes of meeting her, made it clear that this was her sport.

Jill and her friend Sandra came in matching outfits: neon pink skorts with white racerback tanks, and matching white sneakers with pink swishes. They swore total domination, and honestly, I believed them. I was ready to fake an ankle sprain and bail before the game even started. But then I saw Nina’s eyes light up with that competitive fire—she was in it to win it, and there was no turning back.

Her determination is evident in every swift movement, every lethal swing of her paddle. She plays like she’s been at this for decades, which leaves me sputtering profanities every time Sandra nails the ball right at my face.

“Shit!” I shriek as the yellow missile rockets toward me. I barely avoid it, but I don’t miss Nina’s exasperated groan, which is quickly smothered by cheers.

“Nice call, Ally,” she shouts.

She doesn’t bother to explain, so I’m left assuming the ball must have gone out of bounds. I’d do about anything to make my own exit at this point.

“You’re up,” she says, handing the ball over to me, apparently my turn to serve.

I’ve been watching the three women, who seem to know the game like the back of their hand, and think I have the method figured out. The key is to get it in the big rectangle, but over the part called the kitchen.

I make my move, and the ball is in motion, flying back toward me. I allow it to bounce, then hit it back over the net. My feet move me instantly up toward the net, next to Nina.

The pickleball court crackles with energy as the intense match continues. The ball pings back and forth, creating a noise that is beginning to grate on my nerves. From the sidelines, an outsider might mistake me for a pickleball prodigy, but let’s be real. It’s my sheer terror of losing the game for Nina that fuels my surprisingly competent performance.

I have to admit, Jill and Sandra make for a dynamic duo, playing with seamless coordination, anticipating each other’s every move. Meanwhile, Nina and I are faking it until we make it. Or at least I am. I’m clinging on to the idea of beginner’s luck carrying me through this shit show.

We’re in the middle of a long rally that stretches on as both sides refuse to yield an inch.

I’m simply trying to not let Nina down.

Sweat glistens on Jill and Sandra’s brows as they dart across the court, their focus unwavering amidst the intensity of the game. With every volley, the tension mounts, the stakes growing higher with each passing moment.

As the game progresses, it becomes apparent that Jill and Sandra aren’t just playing to win; they’re aiming their shots directly at Nina with the precision of vengeful sharpshooters. Each time they hit their mark, it feels like the court is about to turn into a full-blown war zone.

Nina stops mid-play, throwing her hands up in the air, apparently done ignoring the deliberate targeting. “What’s with all the aggressive shots?” she calls out, frustration lacing her voice.

Jill smirks, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Just having a bit of fun. Aren’t we, Sandra?”

It’s clear by Nina’s stance that she isn’t having it. “Well, it’s not fun. It’s bullshit and I’m done,” she snaps, turning on her heels and walking toward the exit.

I immediately see red for my friend. If I’d known Jill would still be a jealous drama queen all these years later, I would’ve steered clear of this athletic torture—and the unnecessary emotional damage for Nina.

“Seriously?” I say, lifting my hands. “You invited us here, and this is how you’re going to act?” I shake my head. “It’s a bit disappointing to see that some things never change, Jill.”

Jill’s expression softens as she glances toward Nina. “You’re right. Nina,” she calls out. “Come back. We’re sorry.” There’s a hint of sheepishness in her tone, and Nina must recognize it because she stops and turns around, stalking back toward us.

“I’m sorry, Nina, I didn’t mean to upset you. Can we—”

“Save it, Kincaid,” she cuts in, shooting me a look that could freeze lava as she storms by.

“Let’s finish this,” she says to me, not addressing the other two at all.

They shrug, getting into position, the game starting back up on game point.

Sandra hits the ball toward Nina, appearing to use every ounce of strength to catapult it toward her, putting a spin on it that I fear will be hard to return, but Nina manages without effort, sending it directly to the back line, making it difficult to tell if it will be in or out.

Sandra looks and makes the decision it’ll be out, but she’s incorrect. The ball hits the line and game, set, match.

“Ahh. We won,” Nina says, acting like it’s no big deal, when I can tell she wants to break out into a full-on dance. “Looks like your plan didn’t work. Never does, but you don’t seem to learn, do you, Jillian?”

Jill’s face flushes, and I wait for shit to hit the fan. She hates to be called Jillian. Loathes it. And Nina has always wielded it as a weapon. Instead, Jill tips her head back and starts laughing, and soon, Nina joins her.

Sandra looks on, horrified and confused, but I just shrug.

This is how Jill and Nina were in college. They had a love-hate relationship that often ended in explosive arguments after a night at the bar. Too many drinks were typically to blame, but maybe it was their personalities all along, the alcohol only exacerbating things.

Jill places her arm around Nina’s shoulder, walking her off toward the benches in the shade.

“Might as well join them,” I say, motioning toward the exit.

We sit for over an hour, catching our breaths and talking the paths our lives have taken.

Jill’s gaze drifts to the ground, her expression pensive. With a heavy sigh, she finally looks up, her voice tinged with a hint of melancholy.

“You know, I had the biggest crush on Richard back in college,” she admits, her words laced with a mixture of nostalgia and regret. “I thought he was the one, you know? I wanted to marry him, but in the end, you won his heart.”

Nina and I exchange a knowing glance, sensing the weight behind Jill’s confession. Nina reaches out a comforting hand, offering silent support to Jill, knowing the bombshell she’s about to drop.

“I remember that early on, you liked him. But I thought you changed your mind,” Nina replies softly, her tone gentle. “You dodged a bullet. Richard is a horrible man.”

Jill’s eyes widen in surprise at Nina’s blunt assessment. “What do you mean?” she asks, seeming caught off guard by Nina’s declaration.

Nina takes a deep breath, her words measured yet firm. “He was the worst husband, Jill. He cheated on me. He lied.” She shakes her head, chuckling darkly. “He made my life miserable,” she admits.

A flicker of concern crosses over Jill’s face as she absorbs Nina’s words.

“He’s in jail for murder.”

Jill’s head snaps up, her eyes blinking rapidly. “What? Are you serious?”

Nina fills Jill in on all the details, and she sits quietly through it all. A moment of understanding passes between them, the tension from earlier on the court dissipating as the weight of Nina’s revelation settles in.

Eventually, the sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows across the court as we sit together in silent solidarity.

“We should meet up again sometime,” I suggest, breaking the silence. “But let’s plan something less…physical.”

Jill and Nina exchange a glance, nodding in agreement. “For sure,” Jill says, a genuine smile playing on her lips. “Tonight, and I know the perfect place.”

“I swear to god, if we end up at an orgy, I’m going to kill you,” I say to Nina as she finishes applying her lipstick.

“You really don’t think…” Her words trail off as her eyes get larger. “I’m texting her to ensure that’s not the plan.”

I can’t help but chuckle at Nina’s obvious discomfort at the mere mention of sexual debauchery. The thought of her reaction to being dragged into something like that is quite amusing. But I’m not concerned. Jill knows that sort of thing isn’t our scene.

She dabbled in some questionable activities in college, and we made it clear back then that we weren’t interested. She never pushed. We’ll likely be enjoying a lively night out on the square, as Jill suggested.

As I finish applying the last layer of mascara, I step back and appreciate my reflection in the mirror. A smile spreads across my lips as I notice the results of my new nightly skin care routine. The fine lines around my eyes seem less pronounced, a testament to the effectiveness of the absurdly priced products I’ve been using.

I’ve been contemplating Botox, but only for my forehead. The lines there are too deep for any cream to make a significant difference. It’s not a necessity, but it’s something I want for me, and I have the means to afford it. There shouldn’t be shame for a woman investing in herself. I refuse to let anyone’s opinions on it dictate my choices. Often, others’ views are a reflection of their envy. Nothing more. If they had the money, they’d likely do it too.

Twenty minutes later, we’re out the door and in the square where we agreed to meet Jill.

The Communes sprawl before us like a utopian oasis for retirees. It’s reminiscent of other retirement communities in Florida, but with an air of exclusivity that sets it apart.

Jill, ever the social butterfly, is surrounded by a group of people, chatting animatedly while sipping an amber cocktail. I catch her eye, and her face lights up, hands flying into the air, alcohol spilling over the side of her plastic cup.

“You made it,” she cheers, pulling Nina into a side hug. “I was afraid you two would pull your typical shenanigans and ditch.”

Her lips smash together, and Nina laughs.

“We were looking forward to it.”

Jill smirks, leaning in close to us. “As long as the dicks and chicks remain clothed.”

Nina splutters, and I smother a grin.

“You were always up for testing boundaries,” I say, my shoulders shaking with laughter.

She offers a toothy smile, waggling her eyebrows before grabbing Nina by the elbow and pulling her toward a group of people.

Jill had a knack for attracting the attention of wealthy men, and tonight appears to be no exception. They swarm to her like bees on honey, each vying for her attention in ways I find a bit pathetic.

“Let’s dance,” I suggest to Nina, and she nods, appearing eager to get away from Jill and her harem.

A cover band is playing nineties hits, which seems to please the diverse crowd. It’s definitely what Nina and I would’ve chosen. We dance and sing along to the songs, having a great time.

“Here,” Jill says, reaching between us to place plastic cups full of liquor in each of our hands. “Drink up. We got the invite of the year.”

Nina and I share a glance, and Jill rolls her eyes.

“Don’t clutch your pearls just yet, Nina Joy,” Jill says, a Cheshire-cat grin lighting up her face. “We’ve been invited to an underground poker tournament. A very exclusive invite.”

Her eyes travel over to a group of regal men who reek of too much money. A salt-and-pepper-haired man with piercing blue eyes smiles at Jill, lifting his chin slightly.

“Who is that?” I ask, not immune to the charm he emanates, even from a distance.

“That’s Harlan Abbott. He’s part of the investment group that built The Communes.” She turns toward us. “And our ticket to fun.”

Within five minutes, Nina, Jill, and I are escorted into a decked-out golf cart with the most comfortable seats I’ve ever sat upon.

“Help yourself to anything in the cooler, ladies.” Harlan’s deep brogue curls around me, and I shiver in response.

Not because it’s sensual and manly, which it is, but for a reason I can’t quite pinpoint. He has me a bit on edge, especially considering we know nothing about this guy, and Jill hasn’t always been the best judge of character.

He drives down the golf-cart path for a good forty-five minutes, steering us toward the far end of The Communes, where the nature reserves begin. He pulls the cart onto a small hiking trail, just wide enough for the cart to traverse. Branches scratch against the pristine metallic finish, and I grimace at the horrific sound. Harlan doesn’t seem bothered that his fancy cart is being scratched to hell.

The ride is bumpy, and I’m just about to ask how much farther it is when the trees open up and a set of massive iron gates with a giant M in the middle greets us. Beyond the gates sits an old, abandoned house, straight from a horror movie.

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. I lean into Nina, whispering, “I did not come here with you to get axed.”

She grits her teeth, looking about as comfortable with our current situation as I am.

“Welcome to the old Montgomery Estate,” Harlan says, as the gates creak open by some unseen force.

I peer up to the dark manor ahead, not a light to be seen.

Jill squeals, clapping her hands in excitement. I turn toward her, face screwed up in a mix of emotional distress and confusion.

Harlan turns back toward Nina and me and takes a breath. “I don’t think I need to say this considering Jill is your friend, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ensure that you understand that you are never to speak of this place. Not to anyone.” He looks at Nina and then at me. “Can I trust that anything you see tonight will never be shared outside of these gates?”

I nod, and so does Nina.

“Of course,” I say, because what is the alternative?

He smiles. “Very well.”

I’m pulled from the safety of the golf cart and dragged by Nina toward the dark house that looms over us. The front door squeaks open and we enter, not a sound to be heard.

My concern is growing, the hairs on my neck prickling to attention.

We’re led to the back of the house, stopping in front of a large fireplace surrounded by a bloodred wall.

“Are we waiting for everyone?” Jill asks, no hint of apprehension evident in her tone.

Harlan smiles, and it does nothing to ease my racing heart. He steps forward and touches the side of the fireplace, over a stone that’s a shade darker than the others. The fireplace wall springs out, opening to a set of stairs. The fireplace had been an illusion, hiding a secret passage to god only knows where.

“After you,” Harlan says, sweeping his hand out, gesturing for us to move down the steps into the dark abyss.

This whole scene brings to mind my first encounter with Natalia. That ended fine. This will too.

Jill is already halfway down the steep flight of stairs before my foot has hit the first step down. The only thing visible is the light shining from Jill’s phone.

We walk down a long tunnel that’s nothing but brick and mortar.

“What is this place?” I whisper, but Harlan hears me.

“Montgomery Estate was built in the late 1800s. During prohibition, the owners, Francis and Alta Montgomery, hosted many underground events here,” he says.

“They surely didn’t build tunnels in that time,” Nina says, looking around.

Harlan chuckles. “No. The tunnels were constructed during the original build. The home was built by Francis Montgomery’s grandfather August Montgomery. He was…rather eccentric, from what I’ve been told. As a child, he lived through the Civil War, and that experience led to the tunnels.”

“Safety,” I say, mostly to myself.

“Exactly,” Harlan answers. “He wanted a way to hide his family in the event that war was to ever take place on American soil again.”

We finally reach a set of double iron doors, a keypad fixed to the wall next to the entrance. Harlan quickly taps in a code, and the doors open to a room bursting with activity.

We enter the clandestine venue, where anticipation crackles in the air. The rich aroma of cigars mingles with the sound of chips against the felt-covered tables. Men and women, dressed in their finest, gathered around poker tables, their faces masked with confidence.

I watch in awe as the games unfold around me, the stakes high. The tension in the room is palpable as the players inspect their hands. Each card dealt has the ability to make or break the person’s bank.

The entire place is glamorous and exciting, and highly illegal. Whoever is behind these games is certainly turning a profit. I can’t shake the feeling of unease that gnaws at the back of my mind, knowing that we shouldn’t be here. This could put Nina and me in a very bad position if we’re caught.

“Ladies,” Harlon coos, placing his hand at the base of Jill’s back. “Grab yourselves a drink from the bar and join a game. If poker doesn’t pique your interest, there are billiards in the next room. Or you can always join the ladies in the parlor that’s through the curtains beyond the billiards room.”

Jill leans up on her toes, whispering something into Harlan’s ear, and his eyes darken, his tongue swiping slowly across his bottom lip.

“Yes, I think you’re right, Jill.” He smiles down at her. “Can I offer you two any…party favors?”

“No, thank you,” Nina says, sounding calm and sure. “I have a big day tomorrow. Need to keep my head about me.”

Harlan bows his head, turning toward me.

“Unfortunately, I’m with her tomorrow, and will also need to refrain from party favors. But thank you for the hospitality.” The words are acrid leaving my mouth.

I wasn’t born yesterday. Jill the idiot suggested that he offer us drugs, and she finds herself far too funny, if the expression she’s attempting to hide is any indication.

“Billiards?” Jill asks, eyebrows lifted and face pinched with unmasked humor.

I roll my eyes, grabbing Nina by the elbow and steering us in the direction of the curtain separating the billiards from the poker tables.

We spend the next hour playing darts and watching as Jill takes on other women from The Communes in various card games that I’m not familiar with. This room has remained free of the men, our own little female sanctuary, and I have to admit, I’ve had fun.

“Let’s go get a drink,” Nina suggests, and I nod.

“Grab me one too, would ya?” Jill calls out, never taking her eyes off her cards.

We head back into the mayhem, the place more packed than it was when we first arrived. I have to wonder how many people know about this place, and how it remains a secret from the police. When this many people are privy to something, it’s only a matter of time before the news is slipped.

My eyes scan the area, landing on Harlan. He’s speaking to the bartender when a mysterious figure approaches him. The guy looks like a corpse, devoid of any hint of color in his pallid complexion. His jet-black hair accentuates the starkness of his appearance even further. Nina moves us closer until we’re standing at the bar, right next to them.

They’re speaking in a low murmur while surreptitiously glancing in our direction. Is it to shield their discussion from eavesdroppers, or does it pertain to us directly? I can’t help but feel a smidgen of curiosity, wondering what secretive conversation is taking place.

Harlan’s demeanor shifts subtly as he listens, his expression growing more serious with each passing moment. Whatever the stranger is saying seems to carry weight, and I find myself straining to catch even a snippet of their conversation.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Harlan mutters in response, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency that sends a ripple of unease through me. The stranger nods curtly before slipping away into the shadows.

Turning toward us, Harlan offers a strained smile. “Are you enjoying your night, ladies?” he asks, though his words seem streaked with distraction as he glances around the room keenly.

“Yes, thank you,” Nina says. “It’s been a lovely night.”

He nods, not bothering to look at Nina as he rolls up his shirt sleeve, uncovering a tattoo on his forearm. I’m fascinated by the symbol etched into his skin. My eyes narrow as I take in every detail, a wave of recognition washing over me. It’s the exact symbol from my dream: a labyrinth of interconnected triangles, a vigilant eye dead center. A chill tumbles down my spine as the significance dawns on me.

“What’s that tattoo?” I ask, before I’ve thought better of it.

He turns toward me, chewing on his cheek, seeming to contemplate my question.

“Just something I did as a stupid teenager.” He brushes me off with a dismissive wave of his hand, but I’m not buying the fabricated nonchalance.

He took too much time to consider me before I witnessed the mask drop into place.

“It’s quite detailed,” I say, deciding to double down and see if I can get him to talk about it.

“The ideas of a drunk teenager.” He shrugs. “Nothing special.”

Lies.

It’s not hard to detect when he refuses to meet my eyes, and the moment I made mention of it, he lowered his sleeve, covering the marking, making it feel even more mysterious. A brand of secrecy he’s uncomfortable discussing.

“Please excuse me. I have some business to attend to,” he says, voice low and menacing.

Nina slides in closer to me. “Why do I get the feeling like this business might include roughing someone up in a back room?”

I turn toward her, eyebrow lifted. “Or worse.”

Her mouth drops open into an O.

“What can I get you?” the middle-aged bartender asks, sliding two bar napkins across the lacquered top.

“Two gin and tonics,” I say, and Nina makes a face.

I shrug. “I’m going to need it, and Jill is getting the same thing.”

Nina smirks. “Make that three. I guess it’s that kind of night.”

We grab our drinks and head back toward the parlor, finding Jill still in the same seat we left her in, sweeping the table of what appears to be well over one hundred dollars.

“I’m on a roll, bitches. Please tell me you brought me a…” She looks over her shoulder, smiling wide when she sees the drink in my hand. “That’s my girl.”

She reaches out her hands, waggling her fingers, signaling she wants the drink. I hand it over, rolling my eyes at Jill, who goes right back to the next hand of whatever they’re playing.

Nina and I find a seat, sipping quietly as we watch the game. My mind lingers on the tattoo. It’s a puzzle waiting to be solved, and I’m itching to get started.

I pull out my phone and start a search for tattoos with triangles and an eye. I get a bunch of hits, but nothing close to what I saw. Grabbing a pen from my purse, I make quick work of sketching out the symbol on my napkin, staring at it for far too long.

My glass is empty, and the girls have started yet another game. This time, Nina joined, and they’re working to explain the rules to her. I take the opportunity to head for another drink and see if I can find out any information on Harlan.

“Another gin and tonic?” the bartender asks, and I nod. “Tad’s the name,” he says. “And yours?”

“Alyssa.” I greet him with a smile, settling into the seat beside a woman bedizened in diamonds. Her left arm boasts a bracelet outshining even my engagement ring, gleaming under the golden lights. She glances my way, a forced smile spreading over her lips before she dismisses me, flipping her bleached blond hair over her shoulder. However, I can’t ignore the symbol that currently haunts my thoughts—it’s right there, tattooed behind her ear.

What in the world is happening?

Leaning in slightly, I lock eyes with Tad. His gaze flickers open just a fraction, his head subtly shaking as if warning me not to start up a conversation with the rude woman.

My curiosity is beyond piqued. My head is screaming at me to pay attention. There’s no such thing as coincidences these days. I saw that symbol in a dream, and here it is, right in front of my face, and more than once. It means something, and I have to uncover what.

I scan the room, searching for more clues, but I don’t find any. I’m not sure what I was expecting. A roomful of people sporting triangle tattoos?

Exhaling a frustrated sigh, I let my head slump back against my shoulder. The woman glances in my direction, her nose wrinkled in disdain. She then pivots toward her companion, uttering something that prompts him to cast a similarly disdainful glance my way before they stand, vacating their seats without so much as a backward glance.

“Good riddance to you too, assholes.”

“You know, you really should be more careful,” he says, wiping the bar down with a white towel. “You don’t want to make enemies of that woman.” He motions toward the blonde, who’s now across the room, with a slight tip of his head. “She has a lot of pull around these parts.”

I take a sip of my drink, sighing heavily. “Lucky for me, I’m not from these parts, and I don’t care who she is.”

He smashes his lips together, leaning closer to me. “She has pull in many places.” He stresses the word many , lifting both eyebrows as if he’s imparting something very important to me.

“Who is she?” I ask, voice equally low.

“A socialite from New York. Moved here about two years ago. She frequents this place often.”

I clear my throat. “What’s with the tattoo behind her ear? It’s the same one that Harlan had on his forearm,” I say, recognizing a little too late that I’m walking a very dangerous path.

Tad freezes in place, arm suspended in midair. He blinks several times, and I know that bringing up the tattoo here was not in my best interest.

He gets right in my space, placing his hand over mine. “Why are you here?” he asks, glancing around as if to see if anyone is paying attention. “Who are you?”

I pull my hand out from under his, eyebrows tilted inward. “I told you, I’m Alyssa, and I’m not from here.”

“Are you with the police?” The words are just above a whisper.

I make a face. “No. I’m not.”

His face appears to relax, and he nods, signaling he believes me for some reason. He goes about making my drink, sliding it toward me when it’s ready.

“They’re part of a secret society,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with fear.

“Like the Illuminati?” I ask, completely baffled by this.

“I guess. They have their hands in everything, but nobody knows who they really are,” he explains, continuing to search the area, likely ensuring we’re not caught gossiping about things we have no business discussing.

“You do not want to cross them, Alyssa. Be very careful with the questions you ask. Poking your nose around here will not end well for you or your friends,” he warns, casting a glance toward the back room where Nina and Jill are.

I nod my understanding.

My heart races as I realize the gravity of what I have stumbled upon. This is no ordinary illegal poker tournament—it’s a gathering of the elite, the powerful, the secretive.

People who could’ve been involved in the murder of Chelsea Grayson.

But how?

We’re in Florida. She was killed in Massachusetts, and the woman with the tattoo is from New York.

Could this society have roots in the New England area?

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” Tad cautions. “Enjoy your drink, and when you leave, put this place as far out of your mind as possible.”

I ponder everything that he’s said, knowing that I won’t turn my back on what I’ve learned here. I was shown that tattoo in order to help solve Chelsea’s murder, and I will use whatever knowledge I have to do just that. While it’s unlikely these individuals were directly involved in her death, the presence of that tattoo strongly suggests someone within their circle might be.

I take a sip of my drink as Tad busies himself pouring more drinks and occasionally wiping down the bar, shooting me cautious glances in between. I’m about to order one more and head back to the girls when I feel a presence beside me. I look up and my breath hitches.

Harlan leans over the bar, but beside him, a spectral figure flickers in and out of existence, glaring menacingly at the side of his head. The apparition appears to be that of an elderly gentleman, the signs of age evident even in his ghostly form. I estimate he’s in his mid- to late seventies.

My spine straightens as the ghost turns to me, a sinister smile spread across his wickedly cold face. Except I don’t know who he is.

“Tad, could I get my usual?” Harlan requests, completely oblivious to the ghost that seems to wish him harm.

“Of course, sir,” Tad replies promptly, springing into action.

A bead of sweat collects at Harlan’s temple, and he swipes away at it.

“Are you all right?” I ask, unable to peel my eyes from Harlan or the ghost, just beyond him.

He tilts his head. “Fine. Just need that drink,” he says, chuckling.

I smile, forcing a small laugh. “You and me both.” I lift my now-empty glass into the air, and Harlan smirks.

“And another for the lady, Tad.”

Tad bows his head slightly, not looking up from the drink he’s pouring.

The ghostly figure remains fixed on Harlan’s profile, his gaze unwavering even as he flickers in and out of existence. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve stumbled into something far more dangerous than a simple game of poker. It’s clear that the secrets of The Communes run deep and that uncovering them could come at a price.

A price that this spirit might have paid personally.