Page 73 of Immortal Game

She’d delayed her own queenside development. She’d given Ciara a beautiful Catalan bishop and the other stared down the board like a sniper, unobstructed by its own center pawns. This position was like a wild horse. If she handled it too slowly or uncertainly, it would run away with her. And she was playing Ciara, one of the most precise players in the world.

Shea had too many problems to solve. The one bothering her the most was that this game was too quiet for her liking. When she’d imagined this confrontation, she’d pictured a ruthless, exciting game. She wanted fire on the board. She wanted her foot on Ciara’s throat.

Shea studied the position carefully. There were many logical options here, but one in particular called out to her: pawn to b5. It was not a safe move. But it was the move Ciara would have played, were they side by side.

With her heart in her throat, Shea played her pawn to b5.

And Ciara looked… perplexed. She stared down at the pawn as though it had suddenly appeared from the void. The sand in her hourglass slipped away. She did not move for twenty minutes. Then, with a shake of her head, she took the offending pawn with her own.

Just like that, Shea saw the board opening up before her.

By taking that pawn, Ciara had destabilized her center and opened the a-file for Shea’s rook. Shea coordinated her pieces to ruthlessly apply pressure—to dog her queen, crowd her king, beat back her knights. Move by move, she chipped away at Ciara’s unshakable composure. Ciara slumped lower in her seat, pressing her fists into her cheeks—and then she marched her pawn forward to its death on an underdefended square.

Shea’s gaze slid from that doomed pawn up to Ciara’s face. Still, she wore no expression. If she’d blundered it on purpose, she’d be gleeful—mocking, even. If she really thoughtthatwas her best move, had Shea missed something? She studied the board for five minutes, ten, and nothing revealed itself to her.

No, Ciara had simply made a mistake.

Shea took the free pawn. For the first time since the game began, Ciara reacted viscerally. She flinched as though she’d truly been struck, then raked her hair out of her face. Shea delighted at that glimpse of weakness, like a hound sighting an injured hare. It had knocked her off-balance, but it was not yet a winning blow.

The game wore on. Pieces fell off the board, one after the other, until they were stripped to the bare bones: a pair of rooks, a single bishop, and the most stalwart of their pawns. Their bishops danced around one another. Their rooks confrontedeach other on the open files. Their pawns crawled forward. The haze of bloodlust had long since faded, replaced instead with a miserable frustration. Shea should’ve known better than to believe she could best Ciara so easily. At this rate, the game would fizzle out into a draw, and all of this effort would be for nothing.

Ciara played rook f2: a trade offer. It was all but a request to officially draw. Shea considered it. It’d be a mercy to get them out of this miserable game. But then, something about the move struck her as odd. She sat up straighter, then leaned closer, because… no, she couldn’t be seeing this right.

This wasn’t possible.

Just to make sure, she closed her eyes and envisioned the position. They’d trade the rooks, which would then force a trade of bishops. Their kings would be stripped of everything but their pawns. In many positions, king-and-pawn endgames were draws. But in this one… Shea could escort one of her pawns to the other side of the board and make a new queen. It was a red carpet, rolled out directly to her victory.

In chess, it was often not the first mistake that killed you—but the second.

And Ciara’s second mistake would quite literally kill her.

Shea realized, dimly, that her hands had begun to tremble. Across the board, Ciara looked too pale. She dragged a hand down her chin fretfully. She’d realized what she’d done. How had this happened? How many times had Ciara collapsed completely under pressure? Shea did not think she’d ever seen it before. She could practically hear the commentators now:a heartbreaking loss for Ciara.But it wasn’t just heartbreaking. Itwould be a fucking tragedy, because she’d gambled away her life like an idiot.

Ciara laid her cheek on her forearm. In one hand, she twirled one of Shea’s captured knights around and around her fingers. She watched Shea expectantly through her eyelashes.

Shea couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She’d won, and it felt more terrible than anything she’d ever known. If she accepted a draw, neither of their stakes would be claimed. They’d adjourn for today and play a tiebreaker tomorrow. In the interim, Shea could talk some sense into her.

Shea thrust her hand into the space between them. “Draw.”

Ciara jolted, as though the very suggestion shocked her. Some in the audience gasped. Ciara’s eyes flickered down to the board and drank in her ravaged defenses, the sheer hopelessness of her situation. Shea could see she was tired. There was a bone-deep exhaustion written on her face, in the slump of her shoulders. Still, Ciara said nothing.

“You’d be a fool not to take it,” Shea pressed.

“No draw,” said Ciara.

Shea could not compose herself. She slammed her palm flat onto the board. The pieces quaked. “It’sover, Ciara. You’re lost.”

“Am I?”

Understanding slowly dawned on Shea. Ciara was pressing the one advantage she had: Shea’s flimsy mortal conscience. Worse, her affection.

“Fuck you,” Shea whispered. They weren’t supposed to talk, and they really weren’t supposed to swear. But it wasn’t like FIDE was here to nail her with a fine. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m willing to risk everything to get what I want.” Ciaraheld her gaze. Her black eyes were a dark mirror, reflecting nothing but Shea’s own agonized expression.

She had to be bluffing. Surely, she wouldn’t let Shea play it out.

Shea’s hand wouldn’t stop shaking. She knocked over her rook in her haste to pick it up. They traded rooks, then bishops. It would be almost painfully easy to win at this point. “Draw. I won’t offer again.”