Page 31 of Immortal Game

“Who’s to say what he’s supposed to be?” Ciara asked, sounding a little offended. Relenting, she sighed. “I will not appeal to your emotions, for I know it will be pointless. But I would appreciate you keeping his presence here between us. I will bargain for your silence, of course. Name your price.”

Shea couldn’t keep the surprise from her face. She’d never heard of a fae offering a bargain under such circumstances. This obviously mattered a great deal to Ciara. Under normal circumstances, she might’ve exploited it. But Ciarahadsaved her life today. “I won’t say anything.”

Ciara’s lips parted. “Really?”

Shea shrugged. “Who would I tell?”

Ciara wrapped her arms around Beann’s neck, who tolerated it with only minimal squirming. He licked her face, which finally made her relent. With more genuineness than Shea thought her capable of, she said, “Thank you.”

“Sure.”

They lapsed into silence. Ciara, clearly unable or unwilling to tolerate it, sprang to her feet. “I am being inhospitable. You must be tired. Where do you want to sleep? There’s a daybed somewhere in here, but it might be occupied.”

Shea scanned the room and spied the aforementioned daybed, half buried beneath a pile of cloaks and chess textbooks. She spied Dvoretsky’sAnalytical Manual, as well as Aagaard’sMatter of Endgame Technique. Shea bit down on a snide comment. Ciara had made fun of her for reading inscrutable theory, but she was no better.

“No problem. I can share with Dvoretsky.”

“You could share with me, if you’d prefer.” She gestured to the bed, which could probably fit at least five people in it. “My bed is big enough, anyway.”

Shea wanted to argue. Really, she did. But she was exhausted, and Ciara’s bed, covered as it was in clothes and notebooks and old candy wrappers, looked a hell of a lot more comfortable than the daybed. “Okay.”

Ciara nodded once, suddenly businesslike. She fussed over the bed, shoving all her clutter onto the floor and fluffing out all her absurd, tasseled pillows. Once she was satisfied, Ciara perched on the edge of the mattress. With a snap of her fingers, all the candles in the room winked out, plunging them into darkness.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

Haltingly, Shea slipped underneath the floral-patterned duvet. Through the window, Shea could see a scattering of stars and the black expanse of the lake far below them. She could hear the slide of skin against silk as Ciara settled in beside her. They lay an arm’s breadth away from each other, not speaking,but Shea could not shake the awareness of her presence. They’d been close before, but this felt different: too casual, too intimate. When she breathed in, she could focus only on the now-familiar scent of Ciara’s skin: honey and flowers and rain.

“I don’t know if I can sleep.”

Ciara turned onto her side. Her eyes were luminous and black, like slivers of the night sky. Shea was grateful for the heavy darkness of the room. Otherwise, Ciara would read every humiliating thought written plainly on her face.

“Shall we play through the Opera Game?” she asked.

Shea huffed out a laugh. “Seriously?”

“e4.”

Shea smiled in spite of herself. “e5.”

“Knight f3.”

They didn’t make it to Paul Morphy’s infamous queen sacrifice before her eyes grew too heavy to keep open. She dreamt of sleek, long dogs and cows with horns that cradled the sun. She dreamt of a world where strange, terrible things were possible: one where women might become hounds and hounds might become women, bleeding out in a thicket of briars.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

By the time Shea finished getting ready, Ciara still hadn’t woken up. She lay in bed, her hair arranged across the pillow like veins of bright fire. She looked so peaceful like this—almost innocent, with the long sweep of her lashes, her softly parted lips, the freckles across her faintly shimmering skin. Shea considered leaving her to her dreams. But with four more days until the next round, they had no time to waste.

“Hey,” Shea said tentatively.

Ciara did not stir.

“Hey.” Shea ripped the duvet off the bed.

Ciara shot awake, her eyes wild and affronted. She seized a pillow and held it in front of herself like a shield. “What is the meaning of this?”

Shea dropped the duvet onto the floor. “Where’s your chess set?”

Ciara pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and groaned. “This is a nightmare, surely. It is too early for this.”