Chapter Ten
“Well,” said Ciara. “This is quite a predicament you’ve landed yourself in.”
Shea suppressed a violent flash of annoyance.
She hardly saw how this was her fault. As far as she knew, the only people she’d provoked since her arrival were Ciara herself, Lily, and Daniil.
He’d already submitted his humble request that Shea—what was it again?
—take what remained of her dignity and go home.
And while threats weren’t above him, dark magic seemed beyond the scope of even his malice.
At any rate, she had more pressing concerns than bickering with Ciara about this.
Someone had been in her room. Someone had taken the time to do this.
It was violating. She pinched the bridge of her nose to ward off the headache throbbing in her temples.
She needed to think. She needed time—and better yet, space.
But right now, Ciara’s hand bound to hers felt almost like an anchor.
“You called that sorcery.” Shea waved a hand at the chessboard. “How is that different from any other faerie magic?”
“All fae can perform enchantments. Most of us also possess innate, unique abilities—say, the ability to cure illness. Sorcery draws on a different source entirely. It is dangerous and volatile and far more powerful than the average spell. That is why it’s typically only used in warfare or vengeance. ”
“Or intimidation tactics, apparently.” Shea crossed her arms. “I’d say the competition considers me a threat, but I only won last night on a technicality.”
“I very much doubt it was one of the competitors. There are few sorcerers in Tír nAill. It’s something of a lost art among our people.
I have not heard of a new one since…” Ciara shook her head.
“Well, never mind. She is dead now. Needless to say, none of our colleagues has mastered the art of sorcery.”
“But if they’re not competing, why target me at all?”
Ciara looked troubled. “I suppose a competitor could have solicited the help of a sorcerer…”
“If that’s the case, whoever it is isn’t confident in their skill. It’s a little pathetic.”
Ciara arched a brow. “You are remarkably calm about all this. You’re not frightened?”
“Not really.” Even if she was, what did it matter?
Dropping out wasn’t an option, and saboteurs changed nothing about her plan.
No matter what they tried to do to her, no matter what violence they threatened, she would play.
“If ruining a chess set is the worst they can do to me, it doesn’t seem that bad. ”
Ciara gave her a look that said, You’re too stupid to live. “If you were wise, you would not stay here tonight.”
“And where am I supposed to go?”
Ciara considered it. Sounding very martyred, she replied, “I suppose you could stay with me.”
“I’d rather not.”
Ciara’s hair flew upward, like a flame suddenly stoked to life, and her face flushed pink. For a moment, Shea thought she’d lose her temper again. But Ciara rearranged her face into a pleasant, if forced, smile. It twitched at one corner.
“We do need to prepare for the next round together.” Ciara paused, then held up their joined hands. “And until I find a way around this, we are quite literally stuck together.”
Shea glowered. “When did you get so gallant?”
“I have always been gallant. And,” she added, jabbing a finger at Shea, “I will have you know that I possess something called decency. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
“Right.” Suspicion pricked at Shea again.
Maybe Ciara didn’t hate her, but she didn’t like her, either.
And yet, she’d gone out of her way to help Shea several times now with no clear or immediate personal gain.
Until now, anyway. Presumably, Ciara needed Shea alive to play in the team round.
Throwing up one last, feeble defense, she said, “Didn’t you say we’re under Midir’s protection?
Would this sorcerer really risk his retaliation? ”
“He would have to catch them first. Besides, there are worse things someone can do than kill you.”
The truth of that chilled her enough to comply. “Fine. One night. In the morning, we’ll make a training plan and move on with our lives.”
Ciara brightened. “There. Now was that so difficult?”
Shea did not dignify that with a response.
Whatever Shea expected a faerie princess’s bedroom to look like, it was not this.
Ciara’s things were everywhere. Books were piled on her desk and stacked into precarious towers throughout the room; others were splayed open on her bed.
Her closet seemed to have vomited its contents across the floor.
How many white blouses and ridiculously patterned cloaks did one faerie princess need?
Strangest of all was Ciara’s collection of mortal knickknacks: band T-shirts, collectible plastic figurines, a keyboard.
There was even a pretty electric guitar propped up in the corner.
The logo on the headstock said GRETSCH in shimmery gold letters.
“Admiring the White Falcon, are you?” In a tone that suggested Shea should be very impressed, she added, “It is the Cadillac of electric guitars.”
“Do you even know what a Cadillac is?”
With some uncertainty, Ciara replied, “Something expensive. In any case, welcome!”
Ciara kicked a pile of clothes out of the way as she led them inside.
Something that resembled a magnetic chip clip went sailing through the air and crashed against a wall.
Shea stumbled after Ciara as she rummaged one-handed through the wreckage of her things, muttering to herself all the while.
At last, she seemed to find what she was looking for: a letter opener with a jeweled handle. She brandished it triumphantly.
“That’s your solution?” asked Shea.
“What did you expect?” Ciara asked crossly.
“I don’t know. Some kind of magic spell?”
Ciara, clearly, did not see fit to acknowledge this level of ignorance. “Hold very still. I will try not to flay you.”
Ciara slipped the blade beneath the vines binding them.
Shea flinched at the slide of cold metal against her wrist. Ciara shot her a reproachful look before resuming her work, sawing at the thicker branches and neatly slicing through the thinner tendrils.
As soon as Ciara freed them, Shea snatched her hand back and rubbed feeling back into her fingers.
“Now that that’s done…” Ciara wrinkled her nose. “You reek of peat. The servants should have already drawn a bath for me. You should take it.”
Shea did not need to be told twice.
The bathroom looked no better than the bedroom. As she drank in the open cosmetics littering the vanity and the spattered mirror, she laid aside any guilt about tracking dirt on the floors.
Shea peeled off her mud-stained clothes, then climbed into the tub.
The luxuriant heat of the water drew a contented sigh from her lips.
Golden apple blossoms floated atop the surface, casting their faint, dreamy glow onto her face.
For the first time in days, she felt almost at peace. She let her eyes flutter closed.
A low growl emanated from the shadows.
Shea went rigid with fear. Tentatively, Shea called, “Ciara?”
No response came. Shea sank deeper into the tub. The water sloshed too loudly around her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so vulnerable and exposed. When she peered through the veil of steam, a set of eyes blinked open and shone sulfurically in the darkness.
Shea screamed. In an instant, the door flew open. Ciara burst through it in a flurry of red curls and the white silk of her nightgown. “What? What is it? What’s happening?”
Her modesty forgotten, Shea pointed into the shadows. “There’s something there. Some kind of—”
Ciara began to laugh.
Shea’s fear melted into outrage. “What the hell is so funny?”
“Oh, I apologize.” Ciara dabbed at her eyes with a delicate sleeve. Mirth still danced in her eyes. “You gave me a fright. But that’s only Beann. I forgot he’d be in here by now. He likes to sleep on the tiles.”
“Beann?”
The biggest dog Shea had ever seen trotted jauntily into the circle of candlelight. He paused to shake out his shaggy, white fur. With his lithe frame and long, long face, she assumed he was some kind of sighthound.
“This,” Ciara said, “is my cousin.”
“Your what?” Shea gawped. “How is that possible?”
“Evidently, one of my aunts or great-aunts, or what have you, ran afoul of a sorceress and was transformed into a hound while she was pregnant.” Shea must’ve looked horrified, because Ciara said, “Don’t look so scandalized.
It’s quite common, actually. There are many stories about warriors who go out hunting for hare or deer, only to find their quarry is a woman wearing the face of an animal. ”
Nothing about his bearing suggested this information pained him, or that he’d understood what Ciara had said at all.
Beann only regarded Ciara neutrally as she spoke, his ears pricked attentively toward her.
His eyes were liquid dark and mysterious, and they rested on Ciara like she was his entire world. She smiled softly back at him.
With the threat defused, it occurred to Shea that she was concealed by nothing but water clouded with her own filth. She cleared her throat pointedly.
“Oh!” Even in the flickering light of the candles, Shea could see the flush creeping up Ciara’s face. “Well, now that I’ve confirmed that you’re not being murdered, I shall leave you in peace.”
Ciara took Beann by the collar and all but dragged him out of the room.
Once the door snicked shut behind her, Shea climbed out of the water and dressed in the pajamas she’d brought from her room.
She emerged to find Ciara sitting beside Beann on the floor.
He was sprawled out on his side while she absently stroked his ears.
Ciara did not glance up. “Better?”
“Yeah.” Shea watched the two of them. She didn’t know if there was a sensitive way to ask what troubled her. “Does he know?”
“Know what?”
Shea gave her a you know what I mean sort of look, but Ciara remained nonplussed. “That he’s not supposed to be a dog?”
“Who’s to say what he’s supposed to be?” Ciara asked, sounding a little offended.
Relenting, she sighed. “I will not appeal to your emotions, for I know it will be pointless. But I would appreciate you keeping his presence here between us. I will bargain for your silence, of course. Name your price.”
Shea couldn’t keep the surprise from her face. She’d never heard of a fae offering a bargain under such circumstances. This obviously mattered a great deal to Ciara. Under normal circumstances, she might’ve exploited it. But Ciara had saved her life today. “I won’t say anything.”
Ciara’s lips parted. “Really?”
Shea shrugged. “Who would I tell?”
Ciara wrapped her arms around Beann’s neck, who tolerated it with only minimal squirming. He licked her face, which finally made her relent. With more genuineness than Shea thought her capable of, she said, “Thank you.”
“Sure.”
They lapsed into silence. Ciara, clearly unable or unwilling to tolerate it, sprang to her feet. “I am being inhospitable. You must be tired. Where do you want to sleep? There’s a daybed somewhere in here, but it might be occupied.”
Shea scanned the room and spied the aforementioned daybed, half buried beneath a pile of cloaks and chess textbooks.
She spied Dvoretsky’s Analytical Manual, as well as Aagaard’s Matter of Endgame Technique.
Shea bit down on a snide comment. Ciara had made fun of her for reading inscrutable theory, but she was no better.
“No problem. I can share with Dvoretsky.”
“You could share with me, if you’d prefer.” She gestured to the bed, which could probably fit at least five people in it. “My bed is big enough, anyway.”
Shea wanted to argue. Really, she did. But she was exhausted, and Ciara’s bed, covered as it was in clothes and notebooks and old candy wrappers, looked a hell of a lot more comfortable than the daybed. “Okay.”
Ciara nodded once, suddenly businesslike.
She fussed over the bed, shoving all her clutter onto the floor and fluffing out all her absurd, tasseled pillows.
Once she was satisfied, Ciara perched on the edge of the mattress.
With a snap of her fingers, all the candles in the room winked out, plunging them into darkness.
“Make yourself comfortable.”
Haltingly, Shea slipped underneath the floral-patterned duvet.
Through the window, Shea could see a scattering of stars and the black expanse of the lake far below them.
She could hear the slide of skin against silk as Ciara settled in beside her.
They lay an arm’s breadth away from each other, not speaking, but Shea could not shake the awareness of her presence.
They’d been close before, but this felt different: too casual, too intimate.
When she breathed in, she could focus only on the now-familiar scent of Ciara’s skin: honey and flowers and rain.
“I don’t know if I can sleep.”
Ciara turned onto her side. Her eyes were luminous and black, like slivers of the night sky. Shea was grateful for the heavy darkness of the room. Otherwise, Ciara would read every humiliating thought written plainly on her face.
“Shall we play through the Opera Game?” she asked.
Shea huffed out a laugh. “Seriously?”
“e4.”
Shea smiled in spite of herself. “e5.”
“Knight f3.”
They didn’t make it to Paul Morphy’s infamous queen sacrifice before her eyes grew too heavy to keep open.
She dreamt of sleek, long dogs and cows with horns that cradled the sun.
She dreamt of a world where strange, terrible things were possible: one where women might become hounds and hounds might become women, bleeding out in a thicket of briars.