Page 38 of Immortal Game

“I appreciate it,” she said gruffly. “Just… be careful. Stay on your guard and win your games. Anyone trying to sabotage us will be knocked out soon enough.”

“I have no problem with that. You, on the other hand…”

“You’ve got a problem against the fantasy variation of the Caro-Kann,” she cut in. “I’ve spent way too long looking at your games.”

“And you should get a better answer to the Berlin.”

He knocked his shoulder into hers as he passed. Shea glared after him. Bastard. He always had to have the last word, didn’t he?

Something on the ground caught the faint light of the moon. It was the necklace Daniil had been wearing. Shea bent down to retrieve it. The pearls moved through her hands like a serpent, and the moonlight made rainbows swim across its surface. She let one end of the necklace drop. It unraveled like a gallows rope, swinging from her fist. What an unexpected gift.Next time they met, she could make him win it back from her. The prospect didn’t sound as appealing as it once might have. This tournament was getting far more complicated than she liked.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ciara had, indeed, been furious.

By the time Shea and Beann returned, she was already waiting with a goblet in hand and a dangerous look on her face. She took one look at the mud-spattered dog and despaired. “I do so much for others. And here I stand, disrespected by my chess partner and betrayed by my own dog! My burdens weigh on me, Shea. You have made them all the heavier.”

Shea endured Ciara’s rant with as much patience as she could muster. Fortunately, admitting her own wrongdoing did wonders to improve Ciara’s mood. It was agreed, then. Shea would remain here under Ciara’s protection until the team round concluded, and no further schemes, spectacles, hijinks, rebellions, heists, or heroics would be attempted. Their lives would be chess and chess alone. It suited Shea just fine.

In the morning, Shea finished getting ready in the bathroom. Steam swirled languidly through the air, carrying the faint aroma of honeysuckle. She tried to focus on imagining chess positions in the fogged mirror, but today, her mind was cluttered. Her thoughts circled around Daniil’s begrudgingrespect and Ciara picking at old wounds—and how it had felt to drift through the night on enchanted fabric wings. Distractions, all of them.

Distantly, Shea heard a knock. She cracked open the bathroom door and peered into the sunlit room beyond. The sound had come from the corridor outside, and Ciara had already risen to greet their visitor. Who could possibly be here at this hour? When Ciara answered the door, an imposing figure stood on the other side.

Midir.

Shea’s hatred was a physical thing, as sudden and devastating as a blow to the gut. The very sight of him made her dizzy with loathing. His cold green eye locked on to Ciara like a hunter setting a deer in the sight of his rifle.

Ciara did not flinch. “His Royal Majesty Midir of the Mighty Deeds. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I thought to pay a visit to my sister.”

“Ah. Of course.” Ciara seemed neither honored nor reassured. “Come in.”

As Midir passed into the room, Shea receded farther into the shadows. She kept the bathroom door open just wide enough to see through. She couldn’t stomach the thought of facing him again. Already, her hands had begun to tremble.

The tails of his brocade cloak swept the floor with every long stride. “You have been dedicated to tournament preparation, I trust.”

“Indeed.” Ciara trailed after him a half step. “I’m eager to face you again.”

“I’m eager to see if you can achieve a different result this time.”

Her expression soured. “Shall I send for something, brother? Ale, perhaps? Wine?”

He sank onto a chaise longue. “Why not?”

Ciara sent for refreshments. While they waited, silence reigned. Ciara moved about, kicking piles of clothes under her bed and reshelving her books. Her nervous energy pummeled Shea, even from here, but Midir lounged with a casualness that struck Shea as sadistic. When the ale arrived, Ciara poured Midir a glass from a great height. The liquid flowed in a graceful arc, and not a drop spilled. She performed it as though it were an art—or an act of worship.

He accepted it and took a long sip. “Do you enjoy your career?”

Ciara placed the pitcher of ale on a side table. “Of course.”

“And of course, you enjoy your time in the mortal realm.”

Her eyes flashed warily. “It is a pleasant part of my role, yes.”

He hummed, peering into his cup. “I am pleased to hear you enjoy the liberties I have afforded you. The resentment of the other grandmasters does not trouble you?”

There was no pity in his voice, no real interest. Ciara smiled thinly. “How good of you, to worry for me. No, brother. It does not.”