The Clockwork Scarab (Stoker & Holmes 1)

I took care not to meet his eyes, pretending to flex my fingers in preparation for the contest. I knew my hands were too small and slender to be a man's, but I hoped I'd be mistaken for a boy. A foolish boy.

"Why ye want t'give us yer brass, there, lad?" asked a stout man behind me. He was standing so close, he bumped up against my chair. The others had also crowded in so much I found it hard to breathe. "Ain't no one 'ere ever beat Pix. Wha' makes ye think ye can?"

Uhm . . . right. I hadn't really thought that part through, had I? And drat . . . the last thing I wanted was to be recognized by my opponent before I slammed his wrist onto the table. Blast. "I-er-"

"The lad's got t'be sodding drunk," someone shouted before I could answer. "But he's got flim, so I'm after havin' a piece of it! The pansy wants t'give up 'is money and ye're gettin' soft about it?" A coin clanged onto the table, and all at once, others began to rain onto the scarred, dark wood. Someone began to collect the bets and separate them into two piles: mine, with only two small coins-and everyone else's.

Pix lounged in his chair, jesting with the crowd. My opponent seemed to know everyone. He had a small glass of some amber-colored liquid, which he brought to his lips more than once.

"Well, then, shall we, boyo?" he said when the bets stopped coming. He placed his elbow on the table and opened his hand.

Looking at that long-fingered, masculine hand and sleek, muscular arm, I felt a flock of butterflies release in my belly. "Aye, let's get to it." I hoped it sounded like something a man would say.

I rested my elbow on the table and reached for Pix's hand, hoping he wouldn't notice that my palm was slightly damp. Strong, warm fingers closed over mine, grasping firmly as his thumb settled on the back of my hand. A shock of awareness flashed through me as our palms touched intimately.

Gentlemen wore gloves at all times, and I couldn't remember a time I'd touched a man's bare hand, except that of my brother. There was heat and texture. His skin was rough at the tips of his fingers, smooth on the inside of his palm. I felt the coarseness of a smattering of hair where my fingers curved near his wrist. And strength.

"Ready . . . set . . . go!" someone bellowed, and I immediately felt the pressure against me.

It was nothing. Pix was testing me. He expected to be able to slam my hand to the table whenever he was ready, and I decided to allow him to think so.

I kept my attention on the sight of our two hands entwined, one square and brown, and one slender and pale, and I made my expression appear tense. I allowed him to ease my hand backward a bit. He was hardly putting any effort into it.

Neither was I.

Pix turned away from the table, still pressuring my hand. "I'll 'ave another one, Bilbo," he called, lifting his glass. There was only a small portion left, and he slammed it back with an enthusiastic gulp.

"Come on there, Pix! We ain't got all night. Finish it up so's we get our glim!"

"Nay," called another. "Two pence on the lad iffen he 'olds off Pix another two minutes. Put sumpin' into it, laddie!"

I hid the excitement in my eyes, staring down at the table as a whole new round of bets rained onto the surface. How long could "the laddie" keep him off? they asked.

And that was when I started to put more pressure back.

Slowly, slowly . . . just a bit, until our hands were upright again.

And then I pushed a little more, waiting for Pix to pressure me back. I knew he was playing with me, but he had no idea how the tables were soon going to turn.

Easy, easy . . . I tried to appear as if I were struggling.

I pushed, easing him ever so slightly backward as he talked and joked with the others. Then all at once, while he was in the middle of a sentence, it was as if a mechanism switched on: his muscles tensed, his fingers flexed against mine. And he stopped me cold. Just stopped, didn't push me back.

I fought back a smile. And I put a little more pressure against him.

His muscles tensed more as our palms ground against each other. He continued shouting out jests and even took a drink from his replenished glass as he held steady against my pressure . . . and shifted me back just a little.

And then I stopped him.

Smooth and steady, I increased the pressure. My muscles tensed as I eased his hand back toward the table . . . down . . . down . . . down . . .

The spectators noticed, and they were shouting now. Encouragement to me and jests to Pix. Pennies and other offerings tumbled into my betting pile, charging me to hold him off a little longer. No one expected me to win. They believed Pix was playing with me.

As if to confirm this, he increased his pressure again. His fingers tightened, and I could feel the tendons in his wrist moving against mine. He inched my hand up a little until our clasped ones were vertical again. I even let him tip mine over, backward.

He pressured me all the way down, down . . . until my knuckles hovered above the table. The spectators were hardly paying attention, talking among themselves, slopping their ale and whiskey about. They knew the outcome, and some were already beginning to gather up their winnings.

Wrong.

Deliberately, I began to ease Pix's hand back up. He increased his pressure, but I kept mine steady, and I was stronger. I advanced: solid, smoothly, effortless.

I could feel shock running through him when he realized I was pushing him back up-and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

His conviviality faded, and he turned from his conversations with the spectators. For the first time, he placed his other arm as an anchor on the table in front of him, where mine had been all along. Despite the fact that he continued to throw out an occasional jest or insult, he was now concentrating on the match.

By now, the audience had noticed the change. Whether they thought it was another ploy by Pix to draw it out wasn't clear. But he'd almost won just a moment earlier, and now I had his hand back up and over . . . and easing downward.

I could tell he was now employing all his considerable strength; it wasn't effortless for me to keep his hand from rising. I was having to work at it. But, inch by inevitable inch, I forced him backward. Down . . . down . . .

He'd gone silent and dark with concentration. His muscles trembled with effort, but he couldn't fight it. The crowd was quiet now too, and then all at once, there was a flurry of new bets flung onto the table. I hoped someone was keeping track of them, especially since my pile was swelling.

It was time to end it, and I eased his hand down . . . down . . . and then stopped. Just a breath above the table. Just enough that he knew he'd lost, but before the match was over.

For the first time, I raised my face. When our eyes met beneath the brims of our caps, I saw the shocked recognition in his . . . and then chagrin, followed by a flash of reluctant humor.