Page 4 of Immortal Game

“Very well, then.” With a twirl of her wrist, a branch of pure silver appeared in Ciara’s other hand. “These are your tickets to Tír nAill. Now listen carefully. On the eve of Samhain, bite into the apple. And when the Féth Fíada descends upon you, you must cut through it with the silver bough. Only then will you know where to go.”

Shea only understood about half of that explanation, but the particulars of faerie magic didn’t interest her much. As she reached toward the apple, Ciara snatched her hand away. Just like that, the spell shattered. Gone was the dreamy haze. Gone was the heady temptation of magic. Standing before her wasnot a beguiling faerie princess but the insufferable brat she had the misfortune of calling her colleague.

“Give it to me,” Shea snapped.

Ciara inspected her own reflection in its glossy surface. “For your insolence, no.”

Shea ground her teeth together. “I’m serious.”

“Oh, likewise. I am gravely serious. I think I’d like you to bargain for it.”

“And why would I do that?”

Ciara’s eyes glittered maliciously. “Because I have something you want.”

At that moment, Shea hated herself as much as she did Ciara. She’d been too careless, too impatient. Somehow, she’d forgotten fae were like this. They scented desperation like blood in the water. If Ciara hadn’t known before, it was obvious now: Shea would doanythingto make it to the Otherworld.

“If it’s an invitation,” Shea countered, “then it’s already mine.”

Ciara’s cheek dimpled. “It could always get lost. Make this easy for me, Shea. I do hate conflict.”

“Fine,” Shea gritted out. “What do you want?”

Ciara tossed the apple in the air and caught it. “All I want is for you to take me somewhere. I have heard there is a place that never slumbers, where you can acquire all manner of potions. I believe it is named after a mathematical construction. Seven minus eleven, was it?”

“You mean the convenience store?” Shea could do nothing but stare at her. Why would a faerie princess want to…? No, she couldn’t entertain this nonsense. “Name another price. I have a game to get to.”

“Pity. There’s nothing else I want. Of course, if you agree to my terms, I can always collect later, at any time of my choosing.”

Leaving any faerie bargain open-ended was an objectively terrible idea. But with the game clock ticking, she couldn’t bring herself to begrudge Ciara something so small. “Deal. Now hand it over.”

Ciara’s night-dark eyes shone. “Deal.”

Magic shimmered in the air and tightened like a noose around Shea’s throat. At least Ciara held out the apple to her. When Shea took it, Ciara seized hold of her wrist. Her rings bit into Shea’s skin with cold.

“Before I forget,” said Ciara, “I wanted to give you some parting advice.”

Shea wrenched her arm away. “Oh, yeah?”

“I would advise you to decline this invitation.”

Shea barked out a laugh. “Yeah. That’s not going to happen.”

Ciara made a soft, frustrated sound. “I know you do not trust me, which is probably wise. But trust me in this. Tír nAill is no place for you.”

Shea scoffed. As if Ciara cared a whit for her safety. Nothing the fae did was selfless, and Ciara’s real motives were painfully obvious: She wanted to win the tournament herself. No doubt she’d been invited, too. As much as Shea hated to admit it, Ciara was one of the very best players in the world—and apparently, the best thing to happen to chess in decades.

For the better part of a century, the Otherworld had sent a contingent to compete in mortal tournaments. Those faerie grandmasters were emissaries from a hostile, alien world: silent and unknowable and terrifying, with no interest in mortals. And then one day, a teenage faerie princess arrived on the scene.She was mercurial, dramatic, vain, and talented: the enfant terrible of chess. Fans couldn’t get enough of her.

When she was twelve, she glamoured her opponent so that he fell asleep at the board before he could deliver a very pretty checkmate. At thirteen, she’d hurled a rook at a player at a neighboring board for coughing too loudly. At sixteen, she destroyed multiple hotel rooms (several in fits of rage when she lost, most of them during revelries after she trounced her opponents). At seventeen, she cursed an Estonian grandmaster to laugh uncontrollably any time he attempted to play his favorite opening—because during an interview, he’d implied that she wasn’t as talented as Midir.

Of course, no one ever punished her for any of it. What mortal tournament director would dare sanction a faerie royal? Who would bar the most popular player in the world from competing? Shea wouldn’t fold so easily. This was nothing but another stunt in Ciara’s long line of stunts, all of them designed to annoy and intimidate and get her own way.

Shea smiled mirthlessly. “I get it. You’re scared you’re going to lose to me.”

Ciara reeled back. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am not afraid of you.”

“What are you even playing for?” Shea asked. “You’re a princess. I’m sure your brother would give you whatever you asked for.”