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“I said stuff it!” I roar, cutting him off. I brutally push my queen to safety, then turn my thoughts away from the board in the middle and focus on the three on which I still stand a slim chance of winning.
Lord Loss doesn't finish me off on the center board, but chooses instead to flirt with me on the others, toying with me, threatening my major pieces, letting me escape, then slowly moving back in for the kill.
I'm playing through tears, fingers shaking, breath rasping in my throat. It's not losing that I despise, but doing so in such a humiliating fashion. I ignored Lord Loss when he spoke of losing with dignity, but now I understand what he meant. To crumble at the moment of truth, to allow your opponent to psyche you out, to defeat yourself by playing dreadfully — that's a million times more sickening than coming, competing, and being beaten fairly.
“I could chase you forever, Grubitsch,” Lord Loss murmurs, once again sliding a queen backwards on the board to my left, when he could have pressed on with her and ensnared my king. “Perhaps I will.” He smiles with evil pleasure. “Time can barely touch us here. I could make this game last an eternity.”
I respond by moving a pawn sideways on the far left board. A blind move, born of exhaustion and resignation.
“I'm afraid that's an illegal move,” Lord Loss says, putting the pawn back on its original spot. “But I'll overlook it this time. Try again.”
“Why don't you just finish it?” I scream, picking the pawn up and throwing it straight at the demon's face. The pawn sticks in the flesh of Lord Loss's left cheek. He leaves it there a moment, while blood pools around it, then pries it free and places it back on the board.
“You should be grateful that I procrastinate,” he chuckles, pressing a finger to the fresh cut on his cheek, then licking it clean of blood with his long grey tongue. “This is your final ever game as one of the living. It's only fitting that it should last a lifetime.”
Hitting brick walls. Every time I advance, Lord Loss drives me back. Every time I go after one of his pieces, he smoothly evades capture. Every time I fall back and group my pieces around my kings — inviting him on, in the hope he'll get arrogant and make a mistake — he circles like a vulture, patient, cold, mocking.
My temper rises and drops from minute to minute. I scream at him, turn my back, and refuse to play, then give in and beg him to end the torment.
Through it all he observes me with a slight, cutting smile, which spreads during my darkest moments, as he feeds on my sorrow with relish.
Since my cause is hopeless, I spend more and more time watching Dervish battle the familiars. He seems to have the upper hand — the pair are wounded in many places — but Vein and Artery are still active, tracking him, probing for weak spots.
“A nasty nick,” Lord Loss notes as Artery makes a pass and catches Dervish's left hip. Blood sprays into the air in slow motion, each drop vividly visible from where I sit. Dervish's lips press tightly together into a pained wince.
“I think your uncle might succumb before you do,” Lord Loss says, reluctantly taking one of my pawns. “As brave and resourceful as he is, he cannot continue forever.”
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” I snarl. “To see him fail. To be able to pin the blame on him and make him feel guilty. I bet you'd tell him I was enjoying great success on the boards — torment him before you let your slaves finish him off.”
Lord Loss beams ghoulishly. “You see through me, young Grubitsch,” he purrs.
“I'm starting to,” I mutter, and return to the game. I'm reaching forward to move a knight when I pause, thinking about what I've just said. I am starting to understand how Lord Loss operates. He isn't a difficult creature to make sense of — as Dervish told me already, the demon master feeds on pain. He thrives on the misery of others.
“Continue,” Lord Loss encourages me, nodding at the knight. “That's one of your finer moves. You'll threaten both my rook and queen. I'll have to do some quick thinking to wriggle out of this one!” He laughs, as though my cunning delights him.
But it's not my cunning he craves.
It's my suffering.
I withdraw my hand and jam it under the table, thinking furiously. My wits and chess skills are no match for Lord Loss's. I've tried all I can to upset his game plan and disturb his style of play. But what if the answer doesn't lie in the game? What if I can compete with him on an emotional level and undermine him that way?
Thinking —
He's a parasite.
He feeds off the misery of others.
He takes delight in my failings.
Observing —
His smile, how it grows as my mood dips.
The glow in his eyes when I run out of ideas and break down in tears.
The eagerness with which he attacks, then withdraws.
Wondering —
