‘Come now, Kyan. You asked to meet. Why shouldn’t I indulge our best hunter after so many years of unflinching loyalty?’
A part of him flinched now.
‘Don’t worry about your target. She is happily off on her first mission. Alexander is supervising.’
Kyan fought every iota of his protective nature. That sadistic bastard had nearly killed her. ‘He’s much more powerful than I remember. It was quite the surprise to see him.’
‘Ah, well, Empyreals adapt, do they not?’
‘They don’t resurrect. I killed him in 1902. For you.’
It was risky to ask questions, but it would look equally bizarre if he asked none.
The man smiled, an action that was little more than a tweak of the mouth. ‘Come. Play a game with me. We should talk. You must have lots of questions.’ He fanned his hand out to a small table with what Kyan had initially thought was a chess board.
He did a double take.
Fidchell. The ancient Irish game his people used to play was similar in some aspects to chess. It was said the god Lug invented it. The God of Oaths. He was momentarily reminded of playing it with his uncle the king, and his mother, who prized herfidchellset and said she had played many a game with his father on it.
Was this some kind of test if they knew Kyan had been searching for the God of Oaths?
The board was silver and gold, the pieces bone. He didn’t want to know what kind – creature? Human? But he acquiesced. He was here to glean as much information as he could, and then he was getting the fuck out and taking Nicole with him.
‘I haven’t played in many years,’ Kyan said. ‘I fear you have me at a disadvantage.’
The being smiled. ‘I’ll refresh your memory.’ He swept into a seat on one side of the board, caped coat fanning out like a spill of metallic blood. ‘Please.’
Kyan gritted his teeth and sank into the delicate chair opposite that he was surprised could take his weight. Its flimsiness was no doubt a distraction technique to stop one’s opponent being comfortable during a long game.
‘Who are you?’ Kyan asked.
‘My name is Elatha.’
So, it was true.
The Fomóir, the Demon God, met Kyan’s gaze. Kyan tried to recall more of their fabled powers, where they had come from.
‘You know your history, Kyan. You can ask.’
‘Elatha is the name of one of the Fomóiri kings. But they are supposed to be dead. They were killed by the Túatha Dé.’
The smallest change morphed behind the god’s eyes.
Disgust, and amusement.
‘That’s what the mythology says, doesn’t it? But we both know how unreliable human stories can be.’ He tutted. ‘No, dear boy. We lived on.’ Elatha moved the first counter and waited expectantly.
So this was to be a game of questions, and Kyan had to pretend he didn’t know most of the answers.
Fine.
He took in the board, echoes of the rules ghosting through his mind.
‘What happened?’ Kyan asked.
‘My son Bres, who’d managed to become king of the Túatha Dé after a while of harmony, was defeated. He was … small-minded. He could have had the world, could have overtaken the Old Gods and ruled Ireland, but he was not just. He did notleadproperly.’
‘And you have?’
