Page 37 of Immortal Game

“Because you were ensorcelled.” Was it the same fae that targeted Shea or another one entirely? A group working together? As much as she hated to admit it, maybe Ciara was right. There were too many threats on the board. “The fae are playing dirty. Last night, someone threatened me using sorcery.”

“Of course they are. They know there’s no equal to me.” Hatred blazed in his eyes, and his fist clenched at his side. “If they don’t have the skill to beat me, they might as well accept their defeat with some honor. As soon as I find who did this, I will make them suffer for daring to—”

“Yeah. Good luck with that.” Well, at least he wasn’t too rattled by his brush with death. Shea could respect thededication, if not the dramatics. “In the meantime, no more chasing music after dark.”

Daniil deflated only a little. “Any other sage advice?”

Shea resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I didn’t realize you liked ballet that much.”

“I’m Russian,” he said, his tone landing somewhere between wry and condescending. “We take pride in our ballerinas, the same as we do our chess players. Both are instruments of perfection. I don’t care much for it otherwise, but my sister is a dancer. She danced the ‘Esméralda Variation’ a few years ago, so that song is burned into my memory. Hearing it again here…” A note of horrible, pained yearning crept into his voice. He caught himself, and the cold, annoyed mask snapped back into place. “Why am I talking to you again?”

Shea reeled back at his sudden about-face. After all the trouble she’d gone through, his hostility hurt more than she expected. “All right, I’m sick of this. What is your problem with me? You’ve been a dick to me since way before this tournament started.”

Instantly, she regretted asking. Daniil stared down at her, stunned, as though he couldn’t believe he’d been given this opportunity to read the essay he’d written about her shortcomings. Shea knew the feeling all too well. Maybe she ought to apologize to Ciara again for subjecting her to this same humiliation.

“Because you’re a mess,” he said. “You’re late to half your games. In your online tournaments, you always look hungover or like you’ve just rolled out of bed. Everyone can see the piles of laundry on your floor on your webcam, by the way. You’re aware of that?”

Shea could hardly process it. She could feel his eyes roving over her old sweatshirt like it was damning evidence, just as she was examining the wool jacket she waswellaware cost two thousand dollars. So this was the root of it. She might’ve preferred something in the normal variety of petty, like “You didn’t shake my hand after I won that game we played when we were eleven years old.” But this was so… personal. There had been real bitterness in his voice, and maybe something like envy.

“Wow” was all she could think to say. “Okay.”

Apparently, he wasn’t finished. “I just don’t get it. I was trained by some of the best Soviet grandmasters. They taught us discipline, composure, determination, how to fight to the very last pawn. And you… You’re gutter trash. How can someone like you outplay me?”

“You think you’re better than me,” she said, stunned. Not as a player but as a person, because, what? She grew up poor? She didn’t have the education of a Russian schoolboy? Disgust chased away all her shame.

“IknowI’m better than you. I’m the one who deserves to face Midir, not some grasping nobody who’s in it for the money. No one has ever defeated him in an over-the-board game. Ever. Let that sink in. It’s not going to be someone like you, who can’t even—”

“I hate to break it to you, Little Lord Fauntleroy, but you’re not going to beat Midir with the power of a Loro Piana crewneck.” She curled her lip. “I’ve played him before.”

She didn’t know what compelled her to say it. It wasn’t exactly information she liked to offer up. Her confession drewDaniil up short. The spark of his anger faded from his eyes. “You lost.”

“I drew, technically. But, yeah. I would’ve lost if he hadn’t been feeling generous.”

“So you know very well how ridiculous it is to try.”

“Yeah, I do. Of course I do.” Somehow, genuine emotion had snuck into her tone. Her voice cracked, and her eyes burned with unshed tears, which was stupid and humiliating. Daniil Tsoi would never let her live it down. “Which means I know how ridiculous it is for you, too. I promise you’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not like playing against an engine.”

Every time she thought about Midir, she thought about the infamous sixth game of the 1972 World Championship match. Fischer had played so beautifully, a bewildered, crushed Spassky joined the audience in applauding him. That was the kind of game Midir had played against her: the kind of artistic mastery that came from a hundred lifetimes. The kind of game she wished she’d played. The kind of game she might never play.

“He played like a human,” she said. “And he was brilliant. That’s what’s so scary about it.”

She could tell she’d rattled him. Still, all he said was “I can’t lose.”

Maybe he meant it literally. Daniil Tsoiwouldthink it impossible that he should fail to achieve anything he’d set his mind to. But there was real vulnerability behind those words, too. What he meant wasI can’t afford to lose.

She held his gaze. “Me neither.”

They stared at one another as though truly seeing each otherfor the first time. Here was someone else with far more to lose than their life.

“Why?” she dared to ask.

“Mind your business, Fury.”

Just like that, their moment was over. But there was no real venom in his words this time. Shea couldn’t help smiling. “Got it.”

He ran a hand up the back of his neck, ruffling his already tousled hair. He hesitated, scowled, muttered something under his breath. As though spitting out a tooth, he said, “I misjudged you.”

Did Daniil Tsoi just admit he was wrong? It was dark, and exhaustion clouded her mind enough that the world felt hazy, where anything might be a dream.