Page 5 of Immortal Game

“I suppose you believe we faerie grandmasters live such charmed lives.”

“That’s right.” Shea met her eyes, hoping that every ounce of her disdain shone through. “Thanks for the generous warning, but I’m going. And if we play, I’ll destroy you.”

The air crackled with tension, and Shea’s blood quickened in anticipation. In anticipation of what, she couldn’t be certain. Something within her, long dormant, stirred reluctantly to life. She and Ciara had played many times over the years, each one more ridiculous than the last. But they’d played exactly oneseriousgame. Shea still remembered every move. What she remembered even more clearly was the way she felt sitting across the board from Ciara. Like all her old wounds were aching. Like winning was as urgent and necessary as breathing. She felt the same now.

Until she could face Midir again, she would settle for annihilating his sister.

“Well, then.” Ciara injected false cheer into her voice. “Never let it be said that I did not try to be charitable to you.”

When Shea blinked, Ciara was gone—and so was the rain.

Shea stood in the middle of the bike path, drenched in sunshine and dripping from the ends of her hair. The only indication any of it had been real was the fact that she was still clutching the golden apple and the silver branch. She pulled her phone from her pocket to check the time. Her game had begun five minutes ago. Somehow, panic felt very far away.

Shea pressed the home button and stared at her own reflection in the darkened screen. Her blond hair was limp and darkened to the color of dishwater. But her eyes were green and bright and clear, alive and hungry in a way they rarely were anymore. Everything she’d worked for was here in her hands. Finally, she could keep the promise she had made to her sister all those years ago. Finally, she’d get a chance to punish Midir of Bri Leith for what he’d done.

CHAPTER TWO

When Shea returned from her tournament a few days later, she found downtown Wayfolk transformed. Black-and-white checkered flags hung from the streetlamps. The lone bar in town had put up flyers for tournament viewing parties and chess-themed cocktail specials. Ads with chess slogans leered out at her from the shop windows. (The most ominous and inexplicable of them—a poster of a man flashing a luxury watch at the camera—read simplyYOUR MOVE.) Then, of course, there was the enormous banner with her unsmiling face on it, stretched across the main street.

WELCOME TO WAYFOLK, it proclaimed.HOME OF THE AMERICAN CHALLENGER, SHEA FURY.

She stood frowning up at it, only half conscious of the rain pelting her. She didn’t have an umbrella or a car, and she hadn’t checked the weather forecast before leaving the house. She’d been too busy reviewing a sharp, offbeat line of the Ruy López.

“Excuse me. Are you Shea Fury?”

Shea startled. A girl no older than twelve had sidled up to her. “Yeah?”

Her face lit up. “I thought so! Will you sign…” She pausedto open her bag and rummage through it. Eventually, she produced a ballpoint pen and a crumpled receipt. “… this?”

Bewildered, Shea agreed. The ink smeared as she finished her signature. From the corner of her eye, she could see a few curious heads turning in their direction. For years, she’d existed unbothered in this nowhere town. The average person couldn’t name a single chess grandmaster, which was how Shea preferred it. Clearly, the news of Midir’s tournament had broken.

“Good luck in the tournament!” The girl beamed at her. “We’re all rooting for you. It’ll be sweet when you beat them at their own game.”

“Thanks.”

Shea watched the girl scurry back to her parents with a strange sense of unreality settling over her. No one had cared about her chess career before. To see their enthusiasm now… It made her feel almost nauseated.

Beat them at their own game.

Shea wasn’t the only one in Wayfolk who wanted revenge against the fae. When Aideen was born, everyone in town had immediately known her for what she was. With each passing year, they all waited with bated breath to see what sort of monster she’d become. They got their answer soon enough, when she turned thirteen and a boy had quite literally wasted away from unrequited love. Most of them believed Aideen had enchanted him on purpose. Shea had a feeling the town’s support would wane if they knew what she intended to do now.

Shea hurried to her destination: Maud’s Diner, where her mother had invited her to brunch. She kept her head down as she slid into her usual spot in the corner booth. One of the waiters dropped off a cup of coffee for her. Then, a second, asthe minutes crawled by. Somehow, Shea had forgotten that in her mother’s language, “I’m parking” translated to “I just left my house.”

Maud’s, at least, was a charming enough place to kill time. It was an old-school Wayfolk establishment: laminated menus, vinyl seats, family photos cluttered on the wall, the same people filling the same tables every week. The word “mascarpone” in the description of their French toast had been misspelled for as long as she’d been alive.

Someone turned up the volume on the television mounted above the bar, until the news drowned out the dull roar of chatter. Shea couldn’t make out what the newscasters were saying, but it didn’t take a brilliant mind to piece it together. A headline scrolled along the bottom of the screen.

THE IRON VEIL LIFTS AGAIN

Sometime in the last few decades, the media had begun calling the intangible barrier between the mortal and faerie realms the Iron Veil, a riff on the Cold War–era metaphor. It suited their isolationist faerie neighbors well enough. Once, the mortal and faerie worlds had coexisted, but the evils of modernity had driven the fae away. As far as Shea was concerned, their departure was no great loss.

The screen shifted from the exuberant hosts to a grid of the competitors’ headshots. She’d already seen the list of invitees. Chess social media had been abuzz with the news over the past few days, and her coach had already begun compiling dossiers on Shea’s biggest threats. She just hadn’t expected the craze to bleed past the borders of the chess community and into the mainstream.

The last time there had been national media coverage ofchess was the World Championship in 1972, when the American challenger, Bobby Fischer, played against the Soviet champion, Boris Spassky. As it had been then, the excitement was less about chess and more about what it represented. A tournament like this was a stage on which each realm could flex its intellectual and cultural superiority. Beyond that, it presented a novelty. The last time mortals had been admitted to the Otherworld was for a ballet performance two years ago.

One of the dancers never came back. By choice or by force, no one knew. Tensions had run high ever since.

“Shea. Hi.”