Page 3 of Immortal Game

Somewhere along the way, the burbling of the creek and the trilling of birdsong had been swallowed by an oppressive,unnatural silence. In the stillness, she heard only her own labored breathing and water dripping onto the pavement—and in the distance, the faintest strains of mournful music, carried like petals on the breeze.

Shea swore under her breath. The Veil between worlds wasn’t as solid as she would’ve liked. There were places its seams had worn thin over time, like an abandoned house or the occasional corridor in an old, unloved hotel. Others, like the shade beneath a lone rowan tree or a ring of bone-white mushrooms, were natural portals to the Otherworld. And then, of course, there were occasions when the veil was ripped open from the other side. Those were a rarity these days, considering the Agreement of Tara strictly regulated the crossing between realms, but here she was. Clearly, whoever—or whatever—was following her had found some sort of loophole. That, or it didn’t care about the consequences.

Just perfect, Shea thought. At this rate, she’d be late to her tournament.

She curled her fingers around the handlebars in a white-knuckled grip. “Let’s get this over with. I know you’re there. What do you want?”

There came the sound of laughter, as delicate and sinister as winter’s first breath. A chill skittered down Shea’s spine.

“Come away with me,” a melodic voice said from above, “to a land where old age, sickness, decay, and falsehood are unknown.”

Shea knew that voice. In an instant, irritation doused all her fear. When she looked up, she spotted a girl perched on a high branch of a stately oak, with one leg crossed lazily over the other. It was Ciara of Bri Leith: a fellow chess grandmaster, a princess of the Irish Otherworld, and Midir’s younger sister.

“Ah, I’ve always wanted to deliver that line.” Ciara preened. “Did it work? Have I ensorcelled you?”

“You.” Shea glowered. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Ciara said, clearly a little put out. “Is that really all you have to say to me? It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough,” she muttered. It had been exactly six months since Ciara had last appeared in the mortal realm.

“Come again? I cannot hear you from so high.”

“I didn’t say—” Shea cut herself off. “Forget it. Just come down.”

Ciara stood, then stepped off the branch. She floated in the air for one breathless moment before drifting toward the ground like a leaf borne on a gentle current. Her cloak billowed weightlessly upward, revealing the insides of its split sleeves; they were embroidered in spectacular colors in the pattern of a butterfly’s wings. Ciara landed in front of Shea without a sound. Ciara towered over her, an effect made more pronounced by the heels of her alarmingly pointed boots.

Ciara rested a hand on her hip. “Is that better?”

“Sure. But you didn’t answer my question.” Whatwasshe doing here? A select few faerie grandmasters received special dispensation to cross the Veil—but only to participate in official tournaments. “You’re not competing today. Are you even allowed to be here?”

“Of course I am. I’m here on official business. At least, my brother’s courier was. I’ve relieved him of his duties for today.”

“Courier,” Shea repeated incredulously. “Don’t you have better things to do than run errands?”

When Ciara waved her hand, the gold bangles around herwrist clanked merrily together. “Almost certainly. But I couldn’t resist being the one to break the good news to you.”

“And what news is that?” Shea checked her phone impatiently, only to see that the clock had frozen.

“You’ve been invited to Midir’s tournament.”

The air escaped Shea’s lungs in a rush. Her ears rang painfully. “What?”

“You’ve been invited to Midir’s tournament,” Ciara repeated.

Shea nearly collapsed beneath the weight of those words—from the sudden torrent of relief and terror and vindication. It had been six years since Midir had taken Aideen from her. Ever since then, qualifying for his tournament had been her sole purpose in life. Once every hundred years in the mortal realm, Midir invited a selection of elite chess players—both faerie and mortal—to the Otherworld, where they would compete for the honor of playing one game against him. Whoever defeated him would be granted one wish that was within his power to fulfill.

It was a tradition that he’d maintained for hundreds of years—even now, when most other faerie kingdoms had cut contact with the mortal realm. But the Irish fae adored chess almost as much as they did poetry. And to the fae, there was nothing more poetically tragic than someone having their heart’s desire within reach—only to watch it slip through their fingers. Nobody had ever defeated Midir, after all. Shea knew that better than anyone.

“Thatisgood news,” Shea said hoarsely.

“Shall I ask again, then? Will you come away to Tír nAill?”

Ciara withdrew an apple from her cloak. It was pure goldand shone like a lantern against the gloom. Shea had dropped out of school to pursue chess professionally, but she’d read enough faerie ballads in her English classes to know this portended ill. That apple was a poisoned pawn: too dangerous to take, too tempting not to. Shea took a cautious step forward. Ciara smelled of hyacinth and honey, rain and the loam of shadowed woods. Here in autumn, it was as though she’d stepped right out of spring.

Shea had never understood those poems about hapless mortals addled by faerie fruit and the beauty of faerie women. But when she lifted her gaze to Ciara’s, she felt as Keats or Hogg might have when they first glimpsed the wonder and terror of the Otherworld. The radiance of the apple illuminated Ciara’s face from below. Her skin was dusted with freckles and gold powder. Her eyes glittered, as wild and dark as night. Her hair was a brilliant copper, blazing bright against the green damask of her cloak.

Shea’s heart gave a hard thud. She was in danger, she knew. Somehow, she didn’t care. “Yes.”