Page 25 of Immortal Game

Shea found no sign of Ciara anywhere on the trail, which meant she must’ve wandered off into the heath.

“Perfect,” Shea muttered. “Just perfect.”

Off the beaten path, pools of standing water flashed white beneath the dim sunlight like shards of broken glass. The air smelled of resin, damp wool, and peat. Mist leached the world of color, but here and there, bright purple heather and golden bog asphodel shone through the gloom. As much as Shea hated to admit it, Bri Leith was beautiful—and treacherous. With every step, the earth rippled beneath her. And then, at last, it gave way. Her foot sank ankle-deep into cold, sludgy water. It seeped slowly into her shoe, until her sock was completely drenched.

Shea was beyond finished with this terrible day.

She lifted her foot, or at least she tried, but the pool held fast. She yanked again, but this time, she knocked herself off- balance. She stumbled forward, her arms flying out to steady herself, and her free leg sank to the knee. The water’s frigid hands ensnared her, and every shift of her muscles only tightened its hold.

Panic forked through her like lightning. Her only thought wasescape. She flailed toward the moss that carpeted the edge of the pool. It floated atop the surface of the water, useless and unanchored. Her frantic clawing only dragged her deeper, until she was entombed to the waist. At last, Shea understood.

She’d walked directly into a peat bog.

A staticky feeling of denial washed over her. She refused to believe this was happening. That soon, unless someone found her, she might very well drown. She pushed away the horrible image of mud pouring into her mouth and nose, weighing down her lungs. What a stupid way to go.

Distantly, she remembered that if you stayed still, you wouldn’t sink. Shea drew in a steadying breath and tried her best to relax. It was difficult, when all she could smell was the sour stench of the bog. Her toes had already begun to lose sensation.

“Hello?” she called. “Is anyone there?”

Each second passed like an hour. Finally, from behind her, Shea heard the sound of footsteps and the soft rustling of heather.

“Has any creature suffered more than I?” Ciara asked wearily. “Has no one told you that wandering through a peat bog is dangerous?”

“I can’t say it’s come up before now,” Shea groused. Relief warred valiantly with her humiliation. She’d hoped to find Ciara with her dignity still somewhat intact. So much for that. “A little help?”

Ciara strolled unhurriedly into her field of vision. She set down her basket, which was already half full of bilberries, and sat at the edge of the bog. Against the muted browns and pastelsof the heath, she was almost painfully bright. “I must hand it to you, Shea. I’m impressed. How did you manage this?”

“I was looking for you.”

At first, this seemed to gratify Ciara. Then, her expression turned hard and wary. “What, did you get kicked out of your little mortal club?”

“No,” she said defensively. There wasn’t a club, and she resented the implication. Clearly, Ciara had witnessed at least one of her rejections. “I removed myself.”

As understanding dawned on her, Ciara practically twinkled with glee. “Well, well, well,well. It seems you’re in something of a predicament, then, aren’t you? Just this morning, you spat upon my kindness and goodwill. And now, you’ve come crawling back to me.”

Shea said nothing. If she held out long enough, maybe Ciara would spare Shea the humiliation of asking herself. It was too much to hope for. Both of them had too much pride.

A stalemate, then, she thought.

But no. That would mean neither of them could win. This was far worse. There was a concept in chess called a zugzwang, which in German meant something to the effect of “the compulsion to move.” It happened most often in late endgames, when your opponent wore you down, boxed you in, and stripped your king of nearly all his defenses—when you had no legal moves but bad moves. No matter what you did, it would put you in a worse position. And so, you must orchestrate your own undoing.

Shea felt her own demise near at hand as the silence stretched on. Would it really be so terrible to surrender? Ciara was, objectively, one of the best players in the world. Cracking now wouldmean losing whatever little battle they’d been waging over the last few years. And God, Shea hated losing. But just this once, she would have to endure it.

Shea gritted out, “If your offer is still on the table, I’m amenable now.”

“Is that so?” Hurt flashed in Ciara’s eyes. “After your little outburst this morning, I assumed that I was the very last person you could be prevailed upon to work with. Unless accusing people of sabotage and selfishness is your idea of small talk.”

“You asked for my honest opinion. I’m not going to apologize for describing your own behavior to you.”

“You could have lied,” Ciara muttered. “You’re mortal.”

Her frustration sparkled anew. “Do you want me to beg or something?”

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt.”

Of course Ciara wouldn’t make this easy. As tension coiled within Shea, the bog closed around her tightly again. Her body slipped deeper into the muck. The cold stole away her breath. “Please?”

Ciara watched her sink, her expression caught somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You are hopeless, aren’t you?”