hearts. Brannigan instantly raised the ante to fifty dollars, which made two of the other players fold. Lawson saw the raise and raised another fifty. Brannigan saw the raise and studied his cards with a blank expression. The other two loggers at the table folded. Brannigan took one card, Lawson discarded his clubs cards and took two. He wound up with a queen of spades, an ace of diamonds, an ace of hearts, a ten of hearts and a seven of spades. Not very good, he thought…but good enough.
“Fifty dollars,” said Brannigan.
“Fifty, and raise fifty,” replied the vampire from New Orleans.
“ Really ?” Brannigan smiled across the table, but his eyes were cold. “Well…it’s getting a little hot in here, gents.” He laid his cards down face-up, took his handkerchief from his breast pocket and started to take his hat off to wipe his forehead.
“Mr. Brannigan?” said Lawson, in a voice that commanded the cardsharp’s attention. When that happened, Lawson threw his Eye.
Lawson wasn’t sure how he did this, only that when he wanted to—and the need was there—it was simply a matter of a little mental concentration. In fact, it was getting easier. He envisioned a flaming eyeball pushing itself out of his forehead, and travelling across the distance of a few feet to the forehead of another man, where it winnowed itself in and disappeared, still burning. And there in the man’s brain it threw a light, as it moved through the corridors of memory. These corridors might have been the hallways of a haunted house, for Lawson had learned that all men carried their ghosts. Many of these spirits were sad, many were hideous to look upon. The flaming Eye moved within Neville Brannigan’s head, and Brannigan wore a crooked smile and his own eyes had glazed over. The cardsharp’s hand was still reaching for his hat. Lawson saw quick images of Texas prairie and ramshackle farmhouses surrounded by tumbleweeds and blowing dust. He thought this was more Lubbock than Houston, and maybe Brannigan had reason to lie about his hometown. He saw a farmhouse on fire and a woman holding a child to her breast as she fled through the dust. He saw a shadowy figure advancing across a room that had a picture of Jesus hanging on the wall, and in the shadowy figure’s hand was a knife. He saw a man on his knees, bleeding from the mouth and nose, and a knife going into the back of the man’s neck. He saw a black horse rearing up, and a whip swinging out, and he heard a woman’s scream that chilled the dying marrow of his bones. He saw cards by the hundreds, and faces around the tables, and he saw a young boy with curly blonde hair being beaten by the butt of a pistol in a small dank room where light itself seemed a stranger.
It was not Lawson’s intent to interpret these ghosts. They just existed here, in this man’s mind. By trial and error, Lawson had also learned that the Eye served the purpose of searing with its flames his victim’s strength of will. With the Eye roaming free in a man’s memory, that individual was reduced to a mass of flesh whose mind belonged to the vampire.
“Show us your hidden cards,” said Lawson.
Brannigan was still smiling crookedly, his eyes beginning to twitch and water. He was yet strong, and he was trying to resist.
“Show us,” Lawson repeated, “your hidden cards.” His gaze was impassive, his voice slow and deliberate. “Show us now .”
Brannigan trembled. His mouth opened as if to protest, and the gold tooth sparked light. But he did not speak, for his senses had abandoned him.
He reached into his left sleeve and brought out an ace of spades, which fell from his fingers onto the table. Reaching into his right sleeve brought a deuce of clubs fluttering down.
“I’ll be damned!” growled one of the lumberjacks. “Lookit! Bastard’s been cheatin’ us!”
“ Silence ,” Lawson said, a quiet but firm command that was best obeyed. “Mr. Brannigan, show us your hand.”
It seemed
“Fifty dollars,” said Brannigan.
“Fifty, and raise fifty,” replied the vampire from New Orleans.
“ Really ?” Brannigan smiled across the table, but his eyes were cold. “Well…it’s getting a little hot in here, gents.” He laid his cards down face-up, took his handkerchief from his breast pocket and started to take his hat off to wipe his forehead.
“Mr. Brannigan?” said Lawson, in a voice that commanded the cardsharp’s attention. When that happened, Lawson threw his Eye.
Lawson wasn’t sure how he did this, only that when he wanted to—and the need was there—it was simply a matter of a little mental concentration. In fact, it was getting easier. He envisioned a flaming eyeball pushing itself out of his forehead, and travelling across the distance of a few feet to the forehead of another man, where it winnowed itself in and disappeared, still burning. And there in the man’s brain it threw a light, as it moved through the corridors of memory. These corridors might have been the hallways of a haunted house, for Lawson had learned that all men carried their ghosts. Many of these spirits were sad, many were hideous to look upon. The flaming Eye moved within Neville Brannigan’s head, and Brannigan wore a crooked smile and his own eyes had glazed over. The cardsharp’s hand was still reaching for his hat. Lawson saw quick images of Texas prairie and ramshackle farmhouses surrounded by tumbleweeds and blowing dust. He thought this was more Lubbock than Houston, and maybe Brannigan had reason to lie about his hometown. He saw a farmhouse on fire and a woman holding a child to her breast as she fled through the dust. He saw a shadowy figure advancing across a room that had a picture of Jesus hanging on the wall, and in the shadowy figure’s hand was a knife. He saw a man on his knees, bleeding from the mouth and nose, and a knife going into the back of the man’s neck. He saw a black horse rearing up, and a whip swinging out, and he heard a woman’s scream that chilled the dying marrow of his bones. He saw cards by the hundreds, and faces around the tables, and he saw a young boy with curly blonde hair being beaten by the butt of a pistol in a small dank room where light itself seemed a stranger.
It was not Lawson’s intent to interpret these ghosts. They just existed here, in this man’s mind. By trial and error, Lawson had also learned that the Eye served the purpose of searing with its flames his victim’s strength of will. With the Eye roaming free in a man’s memory, that individual was reduced to a mass of flesh whose mind belonged to the vampire.
“Show us your hidden cards,” said Lawson.
Brannigan was still smiling crookedly, his eyes beginning to twitch and water. He was yet strong, and he was trying to resist.
“Show us,” Lawson repeated, “your hidden cards.” His gaze was impassive, his voice slow and deliberate. “Show us now .”
Brannigan trembled. His mouth opened as if to protest, and the gold tooth sparked light. But he did not speak, for his senses had abandoned him.
He reached into his left sleeve and brought out an ace of spades, which fell from his fingers onto the table. Reaching into his right sleeve brought a deuce of clubs fluttering down.
“I’ll be damned!” growled one of the lumberjacks. “Lookit! Bastard’s been cheatin’ us!”
“ Silence ,” Lawson said, a quiet but firm command that was best obeyed. “Mr. Brannigan, show us your hand.”
It seemed
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