#rene1

Poker, of course. He is briefly lured by the sweet simplicity of blackjack and wastes a little time at the polished handles of the bandits, but his talents lie in folds and flushes. He gambles his takings back into the game with no pause for thought, playing with an air of apologetic self-deprecation, as though he can hardly believe his own good fortune. He eases the sting of the losses and eschews his own wins with incredulity, vouching for himself as a poor player, really, the cards are just honouring him tonight, and it is in this manner that René Chevalier steady lines his temporary bank account.

He bids yet another player goodnight and thank you as they leave (empty hands, empty wallet), offering a last, effusive apology for his uncanny beginner’s luck, and the black Aces that line his pockets go unnoticed. It is a risky game to play – cheaters are vilified nowhere moreso than Las Vegas – but his singular situation means he has nothing to fear. What danger do large bouncers in black suits signify for a man in his position?

Four hundred years ago, he turned a hunting tactic into a gambling ruse, and he has enjoyed a comfortable life ever since. Foresight is terribly useful on the heels of panicked prey – predicting a left turn or a right could be the difference between blood and hunger – but as it happens, it’s also extremely handy when sitting opposite a croupier. He watches his opponents make their moves seconds before the thought has even occurred in their minds, and he manipulates his own (with the help of the cards in his pocket) to out-manoeuvre them.

Is it cheating?

René, as he slips an Ace into his royal flush with effortless sleight-of-hand, would posit it as strategy.

And really, he doesn’t feel any guilt. These people – draped in jewels and Rolexes and mulberry silks – can afford to lose a couple grand each to a handsome stranger who will take it from them with charming apologies, and besides, it’s not as though he keeps it all to himself. Some he gambles back in, and then the rest of it is spent on booze and snow and expensive accommodation, so it all ends up back in the economy one way or another anyway.

A Kitten sashays past the table, placing her hands on his shoulders as she goes and kissing his cheek; he plucks a cat-eared band off her head and slips it over his own dark, tousled curls, winking as she slaps his arm playfully and leaves him to it – if there’s one thing René does not need, its encouragement to spend more money.

So he wiles away the next few hours – the sun sets outside and the sky turns the dull, hazy yellow of an eternal Vegas twilight, lifting an arcing dome of light pollution above the city’s head. By the time he is finished, extracting himself from the game and walking away from the table in the wake of handshakes and good-natured ‘I’ll-get-you-next-time’ threats, he is almost fifty grand richer.

It won’t last for long, but perhaps he’ll hold onto it tonight.

He moves through the grand hall with graceful fluidity, wending his way through diamonds and furs, gently steering around patrons with a hand to their shoulder, their elbow, the small of their back. Many of them know him, and the ones that don’t assume he is worth knowing; the very same phenomenon that warns others of his ilk away from him lures humans close to his side, and it is more than just a wealth of charisma.

Yet another modified hunting technique, of course – pheromones drawing flesh and blood and beating hearts to him like moths to flames. It’s simpler to stalk a prey animal when it thinks it has nothing to fear, and even simpler when they come flocking like doves, but he is not hunting tonight. Hunger curls in his chest like a gaping wound, the sharp ache of starvation never far away, but he can forgo for a little while yet.

He only has three more marks left on his license, after all, and it is barely even July. He is expecting a busy summer.

So he leaves the crowds behind and steps into an elevator, manned by a silent, slick-haired man who glances at the sleek black card René produces between two fingers and nods his admittance; classic in build, lined with gilded mirrors and red flocking on the wall inside, but entirely modern in its silence and fluidity as it glides him a floor up and brings him to berth in an élite upstairs bar.

His name is on the VIP list at the Seven Cats – all seven of them, in fact, and that little black card in his pocket vouches silently for his worth. His own booth, free booze, a suite if he requires it, and any number of pleasant little perks that he need only ask for. The staff know him. The girls trust him. There are things he can get away with – the odd line here and there on a sleek black bar, for example, or a croupier who chooses to look the other way for one brief moment – that VIP allows for, and for that reason he is quite willing to spend enough to keep it.

So he sits now in gilded exclusivity – a mezzanine balcony lavishly decorated in a drench of red and gold and deep mahogany, providing a lofted view of the casino below, serviced with its own bar and sequestered from the noise of rabble by a vast glass window; the lights are soft and low, little haloes of amber around the heads of Edison bulbs fashionably scattered around the bar. He is nursing an exquisitely-made martini and pondering whether to top up the next with espresso; his Saint Laurent suit is carefully rumpled, the collar of his shirt open at his throat in an effective display of somnolent contentment. The Cats have the feel of the early 20th century with all the mod-cons of the 21st, and René submerges himself in it – of all the years and decades and centuries he has lived, he holds a special fondness for only a few, and he harks back to the 1920s with wistfulness.

By God, he misses jazz.

It is whilst he is dwelling on this swell of nostalgia that a ripple of blue silk and white furs cascades elegantly into the barstool beside him, settling itself into the icy milk-and-honey façade of a familiar face – Sylvia Rothschilde, socialite of unspecified age and (she insists each time he sees her) newfound debutante, draped in form-clinging charmeuse of a pale periwinkle.

René lights up a devastating smile.

“Mme. Rothschilde! My heart, my soul, my favourite.” He kisses the back of her silk glove; she tuts and bats him away.

“Don’t be a rogue,” she scolds. Her faux anger is belied by a vulpine, rouge-lipped smile. “And where have you been, René Chevalier? There you were last summer, promising to make an honest woman of me, and then right back to New Orleans you went! You made quite the little Daisy Buchanan out of me.” She waves a delicate hand at the bartender, who brings her a margarita without a word; she takes it and hides her smile in its salt-crusted rim. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Ah, Sylvie, you know me,” cajoles René, covering her hand with his. “I’ll say anything in the spotlight of a pretty face.”

“Oh, do shut up, you wastrel,” she scoffs. “Well, fortunately for you, it never would have worked anyway – alas, a girl just can’t get hold of two marriage certificates these days, and I’m afraid you did come in second place.” The frosted diamond on her ring finger glitters golden in the lamplight.

“Not to sound like a tourist, darling, but we are in Vegas.”

“Don’t remind me.” She rolls her blue eyes to the ceiling. “I was promised the Maldives this July, and yet here we are again. If we don’t go in September, I shall scream.”

“Say the word, Sylvie. You, me, a private jet -”

“And at least four other men, none of whom have an interest in me.” She licks a grain of salt from her lip. “I know you, sweetheart. A few more of those martinis and I pity that poor bartender.”

The bartender, polishing glasses behind them, allows himself a smile. The atmosphere is light and pleasant – for now, they are the only two patrons up here, and it is easy to imagine they are privately ensconced. René allows himself to lapse into a comfortable silence, and for a little while at least, he can try to forget the gnawing, aching, crushing hunger that roils ceaselessly in the pit of his stomach. Drowning it in alcohol does not work and never has, but it does help the time pass – it is whilst the bartender is filling his glass for the third time that Sylvia breaks the lull.

“Now then, René,” she says, nestling close to his side with a hand held to her diamond-studded neck and a teasing smile curling across her lips. “To business. Rumour tells me you quite cleared the tables down there tonight. I must say, you’ve been at the whim of ‘beginner’s luck’ for quite some time now. I’ve seen you up and down the strip since I started visiting, and when was that – three years ago now?” She tips him the shadow of a wink. “At what point are you going to confess?”

“Sylvie, mon cherie, a confession suggests I must have something terrible to confess, and it wounds me that you could think I’d hide things from you, my darling.” He swivels on the bar stool to face her, lifting his martini to touch the rim to her glass. “But alright, I admit – perhaps I should finally promote myself from beginner to amateur.”

Her laugh is like champagne on ice.

“You’re a wonderful liar, René,” she says, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “I have a little theory. You’re Louisiana’s household name in the professional game. Their secret weapon at the tables. You have a whole double life playing out in New Orleans, and you come here at the end of each season to make fools of the rabble with falsehoods about ‘beginner’s luck’. Tell me I’m wrong.”

René puts a hand to his heart, reeling back on his seat.

“Large fishes, small ponds, mademoiselle.” His wounded expression gives way to a dazzling smile. “You know I’m a terrible exhibitionist, and besides, the proprietor hasn’t had me thrown out yet.”

They chime glasses once again and sip in momentary silence, watching the casino roll beneath them; the singing of slot machines and the muffled roars of losses and wins batters at the far side of the glass. The bartender returns, a crisp white towelette slung over his starched shoulder, and he refills René’s glass yet again without question or comment. René mouths a thank you, and slips a $50 into his waistcoat pocket. It pays to keep people sweet.

“He’s floating around tonight, you know,” Sylvia says suddenly, gazing out at the crowd neatly partitioned from them. “Mr. Fairfax.” She says the name with a faux shiver, her voice skipping down an octave. The stem of the margarita glass rolls between her fingers. “You’ve met him, I assume?”

“Seen him,” says René, listening with new interest now. He has been trying to get on some sort of terms with the patron of the Cats for several months, without a great deal of success outside a brief glimpse or two. How much money must a man spend? “Haven’t had the pleasure of speaking yet. I assume pleasure is the right word?” He claps a hand to his chest again, as though struck by sudden horror. “Tell me he’s not another Trump, Sylvie, my heart couldn’t bear it.”

Sylvia smiles primly around the rim of her glass, suddenly coquettish. She tilts her slim wrist to regard the gilded face of a Tiffany watch, and pats René on the arm.

“Must go, sweetheart, Forrest arranged reservations for us at nine at Robuchon and I’m already ten minutes late.” She leans in once again, brushing Givenchy-painted lips against his cheek. “But I promise you, he’s certainly no Trump. Tata, darling.”

“Bonne nuit, chérie.” He watches her walk away, because to be fair she does it very deliberately, and then he returns his gaze to the grand hall below the curve of the window. It is a sea of black tuxedos, studded here and there with glittering jewel-toned dresses – this is not the common-or-garden Vegas of the tourist traps. Admittance to the Cats requires the level of financial security that renders carrying cash obsolete – here, the elite gamble directly out of offshore banks, and when they run dry there they wager assets and equity. René has neither – paper trails, you know – but for now until the end of summer he is a loyal customer of the Bank of Nevada; when the season is over, the account will close without comment, employees will forget his name and he will return to the bright swarm of Louisiana for the winter. In a way, it’s the same life he’s lived since his conception (when was that? He can’t remember now) – the world has updated around him, technology has taken leaps and bounds he could never had predicted, but he and his habits have remained greatly unchanged.

But he eats less now, though.

The hunger curls vice-like in his stomach, writhing and twisting like something living and dying all at once.

There is no sense, it has been said, in acquiring vast amounts of wealth without also acquiring the means to enjoy it.

The Château d'Emeraude stands as testament to this pledge. Nestled neatly in too many acres to count, it sparkles jewel-like in the embrace of its sculptured gardens, its windows glowing amber in the soft blue twilight. Across the rolling lawns and through the twisting maze of roses and peonies, the echoes of chamber music layers itself softly under the purr of water-fountains and the quiet rumble of voices and laughter; bodies drift across the lawn, walking, dancing, embracing in the dark, wandering in and out of the open veranda doors.

Open doors are a policy here. Even when closed, it’s always worth a knock.

Champagne flows freely in the ballroom, filling outstretched crystal glasses like water, slicking the Venetian tiles like oil. Decorum has very little place at Emeraude – one does not come here to stand on ceremony. One does not come here to be witnessed. The discretion of the host is well-known and well-trusted, if only for the simple reason that he behaves just as badly himself. Daggers at each other’s back nevertheless maintains a sense of ill-gotten trust, one way or another.

He can be found, as he can always be found, in the centre of the room – centre of the room, centre of attention, centre of the world, holding court as though he belongs there (which of course, he does), his smile bright, his voice loud. Marquis René Chevalier, with his dark, dishevelled curls and disarming good looks, has a knack for drawing the eye – he swans through the ballroom as though on a cloud, pouring wine, pouring compliments, stroking arms and hair and egos in equal measure. He laughs with one group, commiserates with another; denounces the royal family and then turns around to exalt them, ever charming, ever smiling. He kisses the hand of a handsome newblood noble, and shakes the hand of his pretty wife – they are enamoured by his eccentricity, and he holds them both to him as he circles the room, one in each arm. He will not sleep with them tonight, but he will allow them to think that he might, and when his name next shows up on the commendations list at the palace they will remember his charm, his efficacy.

He has been climbing the social ladder since the day he realised there was one to climb, and he is so close now – so close to the top. Emeraude is his reward, certainly, and he is devoted to it – it is a glittering testament to his success – but at the same time it is a tantalising reminder of his proximity to the palace.

He is limitless. He will stop at nothing to taste it.

***

“Ambassador! I ask you.”

Downstairs, the festivities roll on into the night. They are still in their youth – the clock struck two only a little while ago – and it will be many hours yet until they begin to die down. René has excused himself, spilling self-depreciating apologies, pleading forgiveness against the mock-anger of his current companions who saw him off with affection. They will discuss him for the next hour, at least – that he has made quite sure of. Now he lounges in an upstairs parlour, settled in a well-padded wingback. He sits sideways, his legs slung over the leather arm, his cravat loose around his throat; his maroon waistcoat has been dropped in front of the carved hearth, where the firelight catches on the skeins of gold threading through the silk like veins. He may go back down; he may not. Either way, he doesn’t intend to button himself back up again tonight. Visitors to Emeraude have all seen him far more debauched than this.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” He goes on, waving a glass of port that threatens to spill down his shirt if he flourishes it any more vigorously. “It wasn’t just me?”

“I w-wasn’t there.” The man in the room with him is doing a very good job of pretending to rearrange the bookshelves. He watches René warily, like one might watch an unfamiliar dog who has been introduced as ‘very friendly, most of the time’.

“Oh, that’s right. Of course you weren’t.” He brings the glass to his lips, draining the last of it, and immediately fills it up again from the decanter on the sidetable beside him. It flows into the glass as thick and sweet as mulberry syrup. “Although, Quill, you know you’re perfectly welcome to hang off my arm whenever you like.”

The man, Quill, doesn’t reply, because he can’t really think of anything worse. Not because it’s René – there is very little he wouldn’t do if René smiled at him and asked – but because the party downstairs is a singular example of his idea of Hell. A small, quiet man with nerves as frail as Iberian glass, he can envisage no more terrible fate than being thrown to the wolves that are the Gaullian nobility. Particularly when none of them understand a word he says.

“Y-you were sss-saying?” He says quietly, hoping to move swiftly on from his lacking presence at René’s frequent revelries. “S-ss-something ab-b-bout an am…amm-mbass-s-sador?”

He dearly hopes the word will not come up in conversation again. It would take him as long to say it as it would for himself to become it.

“Oh, yes, of course.” René stands up smoothly. There is no evidence in his behaviour that he is quite spectacularly drunk. “No, I was talking politics with Raphael Dejardins earlier – you know he’s a vicomte? You never would have guessed, not from the state he’s in downstairs – that’s certainly not his wife’s skirt he’s got his hand inside. Anyway, the rumour-mill is hard at work on the grist – there’s an ambassadorial role at stake at the next soirée, and it would appear I’ve been put forward. It would appear, in fact, that I’m the only name on the list.”

“Oh,” says Quill, rather pointlessly. “Is … is that g-g-good?”

“Mon cher, of course it’s not good.” He swallows the rest of his second glass and abruptly opens his hand, dropping it onto the hearth. It explodes into dust, scattering microscopic shards across the flagstones. Quill takes a hasty step towards the door. “It’s the last thing I need. What I need is to be here – to remain here, where I can assure that my face and presence is going to be remembered.”

Quill is holding a book tight to his chest; he relaxes his arms slightly and glances at the title. Les Liaisons Dangereuses. He wonders if someone up there is playing a trick on him.

“I-it’s a step up, though, is-sn’t it?” He asks, as if he knows what that entails. Realistically, he understands approximately only 60% of what René is talking about at any given time, but it’s easier to pretend otherwise. “It’s t-t-trustworthy. They t-take you suh-s-ssseriously.”

René doesn’t seem to hear him which, again, is not uncommon.

“And Albion, of all places,” the marquis continues with a curl to his lip (as though the word itself sits bitter and heavy on his tongue), glaring into the flames; it sparks some colour into his eyes, which are among the darkest Quill has ever seen, dark enough to be almost black. In the firelight, they flicker a disconcerting gold. “Not that I have an innate dislike for the people, of course, but one can only guess how awful -”

And then, all at once, a smile steals it way slowly onto his face. He turns away from the fireplace and looks at Quill, and Quill is not sure he likes the look of that smile at all.