Sweat rolled down his back, icy beads sending a shiver through his form. It contradicted the temperature of the afternoon, the stifling heat that hung in the air pressing against him. His fingers grasped the cards in his hand, paper wet from the sweat of his palms, as he chanced a glance at the other occupants. Three men sat at the card table, their clothes dusty from the barren dirt filled street outside, edges of their jackets and shirts frayed. The only part of their face he could see was the curve of their jaw. Sunburns and scars littered them like the bumps and nicks on old worn leather, the wide brim of their hats shadowing their eyes. He gets the distinct feeling that they are looking at him.

Why did he have to open his big mouth?

He knows that every time he does he always ends up on the wrong side of the gun.

The slight scruff of boots against the wooden floor draw his attention to the fourth man in the room. He walked the walls, fine leather shoes glinting in the candle light. The man was dressed like he should be walking in the streets of a city, not the streets of this backwater mining town. The man's eyes flashed under the shadow of his hat, seeming to glow in the half light. They draw him in, reminding him of dark wells, holes that seemed to go on forever but never far enough. He quickly adverts his gaze, sweat pooling at the base of his spine as he tosses the last of his chips into the pile.

Each man answers, some tapping the table, others matching his bet.

He glances again at the cards in his hand, paper bent and damp. He hopes what he has trumps the other hands. He hopes that he can talk his way out if it doesn't.

All the while the suited man watches as he crosses back and forth against the wall like a tiger in a cage.

One by one the men lay their cards against the table. Symbols and numbers fanning out against the dark stained wood. They wait for him to reveal his hand, heads raised towards him, eyes flashing in time with the fire of the candles.

The contents of his stomach curdled, the alcohol that got him into this mess long gone. He lays the cards slowly against the wood.

Two aces.

Two eights.

One Jack of diamonds.

The men sit in silence, hands stilled on the top of the table until one by one they turn their heads to the man against the wall. The man approached the table, long legs crossing the distance easily. But to him it felt like an eternity. The man surveys the cards, eyes now hidden as he looks at each hand. He chuckles before he speaks in a deep voice, accent mixed and unknown.

"A Dead Man's hand… How fitting."

The other men move reaching for their guns but a glance from the man stills their hands.

"Well played, Sean Macguire. Well played indeed."

In a flash of smoke, each man disappeared from the table leaving only Sean and the man behind.

For once, Sean was silent watching the man as he trailed his finger against the wood. His steps measured and heavy as he walks around the table. One by one the candles die with each step, slowly bathing the room in darkness.

"A fitting hand for a man who cheats death-"

Step

"-but it seems your time is almost up."

Step

The man stops in front of Sean, his eyes glowing in the darkness and Sean falls into their gaze trapped.

"You best do well to keep your wits about you, Mr. Macguire. Don't want to lose your head now, do we?"

Sean swallows, his throat dry, skin clammy and cold.

"What are you…?"

The man tips his hat, the light of his eyes glowing brighter as the candles light flickers, spluttering against the thick darkness that chokes him, smothering him.

"Surely you should know…," he says, the darkness swallowing him. He leans in closer, face next to Sean's as voices whisper, call from the black.

"But just this once I'll tell you. You won't remember in the morning."

The voices scream.

Sean shoots up, dread pooling in his stomach as he struggles to remember the nightmare that turned to vapor in the mornings grey light.

"Get up, Macguire! We got ourselves a ferry to catch!"

"Yeah, yeah," Sean grumbles, tossing the threadbare blanket back from his sleeping bag. He walks away, stretching, towards the fire. But unnoticed, tucked away in the folds of his bag, was the Ace of spades. Its edges were stained with sweat, paper bent from being held in a tight grasp. The design on the back showing a portrait of a man wearing a top hat, mustache swirled up at the corners, eyes glowing in the early morning sun.