Page 65 of Immortal Game

The uncomfortable silence had grown impossibly loud. She could focus on little else but the clink of glasses, the scrape of silverware against plates.

“If you require something different,” he said, “you need only ask.”

Shea gathered her nerve. “It isn’t food I want, Midir. I want justice. I know what you did.”

His pleasant expression faltered as understanding dawned. “You dare to fast against me?”

Shea only stared back at him impassively. His green eye bored into her with disbelief. Then, it slid over to Ciara, who sank deeper into her chair as though she could disappear.

“Your treachery again,” he hissed. “I should have known.”

Across the table, Daniil and Lily had stopped eating. The faerie servants in the wings whispered among themselves. It was that which seemed to break through to him. His fair complexion darkened to a shade of scarlet. Was it judgment and shame that he feared? Or was it that she had figured out his tricks?

Midir set down his knife with a violentclackand let out a low, humorless laugh. “Very well, Shea Fury. What will you ask of me?”

“I want free passage throughout the castle,” she said. “All of it. For me and my allies.”

“I might have guessed.” Almost sulkily, he speared a slice of lamb with his fork. “You are welcome anywhere in my home. Now, will you please have something to drink?”

“Thank you.” She took the carafe of wine at her elbow and poured herself a glass. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute.”

She rose from her seat. Every eye in the room followed her as she strode toward the door, but no one stopped her. Through one set of doors, then another, and she found herself on the parapet walk. A narrow stretch of stone connected this tower to Midir and Aideen’s private quarters. She made her way down the path.

At this height, the wind gusted violently around her. Thick skeins of mist poured off the crenelated walls and collected in knee-high whorls around her. It was as though she waded through a sea of wraiths. Shea drew her jacket tighter aroundherself—and froze. At the far end of the walk, three figures loomed. They stood side by side, tall and uncannily slender. Although she could not see their eyes, she could feel their gazes locked onto her.

As she approached, they came more clearly into view: the stripe of bloody red cut across their eyes, the thick-jointed knees, the dappled gray feathers. These had to be the Cranes of Churlishness and Denial. There was something insubstantial about them, as though they had one foot on each side of the Veil. They were creepy as hell. Each of them stood completely still, balanced on one leg. Then, in unison, they flung their wings wide.

“Do not come, do not come,” said the first crane.

“Get away, away,” said the second.

“Turn around, around,” said the third.

Their voices reverberated violently through her skull. Her fighting instinct bled out of her like life from a mortal wound. It was very tempting to comply. With great effort, she gritted out, “Your master gave me permission to enter.”

This gave them pause. Their feathers ruffled, and their imposing wings drooped. They twisted their long necks and exchanged sidelong glances. Somehow, the truth of her words seemed absolute and unquestionable. Maybe they were accustomed to beings who couldn’t lie, or maybe Midir’s promise had wrapped around her like a mantle. Either way, they conferred and made their decision in an instant. With the air of a shrug, they stepped aside.

Shea passed beneath the vaulted door they guarded and into a circular antechamber. The sound of her footsteps bounced off the stone, growing louder and louder. As she drank in the doorssurrounding her on all sides, the enormity of her task struck her. How was she supposed to find Aideen in this maze?

Shea tried the first door. The lock held fast against her for only a moment. Then, it yielded. She stepped through, into what looked to be a portrait hall. Paintings leered out at her from all sides. Some of them were of Midir, ageless and beautiful. Most of them were of Aideen.

Theoretically, it was possible these could’ve all been painted in the last six years. But the volume of them and the style of them—and the expression she wore, so different from her sister’s… No, these had existed for decades, maybe centuries.

Shea had always assumed Midir was mistaken—that maybe Aideen simply resembled the wife he claimed to have lost. Maybe they shared the same, admittedly uncommon name. Stranger coincidences existed. But the woman in these portraits and her sister were undeniably the same person, even if this Aideen was different fromherAideen. It seemed Ciara’s story was true, after all. Aideen really had been reborn.

At the end of the gallery, there was another door. Its frame seemed faded, as though it was hiding sheepishly from view. The longer she stared at it, the more solid it became. When Shea twisted the knob, it opened too eagerly, practically ushering her inside.

It was… a storage closet? Shea couldn’t tell, considering all of the furniture had been covered with tarps. She grabbed one and pulled it off. The chaise longue underneath coughed up a cloud of dust. Shea sneezed. Clearly, no one had been here in a long time. Shea pulled off the tarps one by one, revealing a writing desk, a wingback chair, a vanity, and shelves full of books. Only one covered piece remained, tucked into thefar corner of the room. Something about it unsettled her. It radiated an air of forlorn malice. Slowly, she approached it and eased off its cover.

It was a portrait of a woman. The oil paints gleamed in the moonlight, the colors faded with age. Cracks spread through the subject’s face and warped her features. She was fae, judging by the delicate points of her ears. She had black hair and a serious face, but her eyes…

They looked almost scheming, sparkling with cleverness and wry humor—and they were bright yellow, like a wolf’s. Shea staggered backward in alarm, half expecting it to smile or speak. This was the woman who had attacked her and Daniil.

Fuamnach.

She exhaled sharply, feeling foolish. It was just a painting. It wasn’t going to hurt her. She drew closer, running her fingers over the fissures and pressing the canvas flat. She was so absorbed that she did not notice when a shadow darkened the doorway.

“Shea.”