Chapter
One
The man who stood in front of me was tall and thickset, with long silver hair, eyes that swirled with clouds of gray, and an aura that resonated with the power of storms. His face was lean, and his skin almost translucent. He was certainly a handsome man—not elven perfect, perhaps, but damn close to it.
Except he wasn’t a man.
He was a god of thunder and lightning.
One who had been bound to Earth in the form of a curmudgeon—the male version of a hag. Unlike their female counterparts, however, curmudgeons were able to shift into a more pleasing countenance, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the form he’d used when he’d seduced my mother and begat me.
For several minutes, neither of us moved. He simply studied me, his gaze scanning my length, as if searching for something. When his eyes finally rose to mine again, a flicker of... not so much disappointment, though that was definitely there, but rather annoyance, ran through them.
“You know,” I said, never one to keep quiet even when that was probably the best option, “if you’re disappointed in how I turned out, you’ve only yourself to blame.”
Amusement lurked briefly in his expression then fell away. “And how do you come to that conclusion?”
His voice was filled with gravitas and warmth and resonated through every inch of my being, oddly connecting with something deep within. What that something was, I couldn’t say, but I wasn’t sure I liked the sensation.
“Well,” I said evenly, despite the belated stirring of trepidation, “aside from the initial few minutes of involvement at my conception, you’ve basically had nothing to do with me in my sixty-odd years of existence.”
A dark silver eyebrow rose at that, and once again the amusement flared. I wasn’t sure what reaction I’d expected from my godly parent, but this definitely wasn’t it.
“Is not sixty-two considered to be little more than a sapling in terms of pixie development?”
“Well, yes, but if you were expecting me to be something other than what I am, then you should have come forward earlier and had a little fatherly input in how I was raised.” I paused. “Which leads to the question, why appear now? And why here? Liadon’s realm is considered neutral ground by those who play this bout of godly games, and this meeting jeopardizes that neutrality, does it not?”
Liadon was the guardian of what Deva’s Fae Council—who I now rather reluctantly worked for—called the Cavern of the Gods. It was basically a world between worlds—an access point, if you will, for gods and who knew what else to enter or leave our world. But it was also a library that not only held all council records from their inception, but also the records of all earthly races and their histories.Thatwas what I was after. Somewherein those records might be the name of the man—or woman—who had killed my mother.
As for the fucking games... the old gods considered testing humanity in various cataclysmic ways a sport and, in the past, had chosen their players and thrown chaos their way just to see what eventuated. According to Liadon, what the gods found so fascinating was the fact not eventheycould predict how those within any active game would react to the stimuli provided.
Unfortunately, after a few pleasant centuries without such input on their part, a new game was afoot—one that was, by all accounts, started by my father, with me the “Queen” on his side of the playing board. Which meant, of course, I had a counterpart running about somewhere. I had no idea who that person might be, though if this game involved the rat god’s—or Ninkil, to give him his proper moniker—rising into our world, then it might well be Carla Wilson, a multi-shifter who could take on any human form she wished, and who we believed had her claws in multiple council members. And I knew—because I’d seen in a vision—that she was sexually involved with the man who was the Ninkilim’s current leader. A man whose name we didn’ t yet know.
“Did you not bid Liadon to fetch me less than a week ago?” he asked. “In fact, did you not say you were unimpressed with my efforts so far?”
Despite the flares of amusement, the clouds in his eyes were darkening, and a chill that was part trepidation, part recognition stirred. Because those same shadows moved within me, and I had a bad feeling that was what he intended, what he wanted to draw out.
“Well, yes, but it wasn’t like either of us actually expected you to hear me say that, let alone respond.”
“There are no secrets in this place, other than the scriptures and memories Liadon guards. These”—he waved a hand towardthe small chamber’s brown-streaked black walls, which held none of the smooth luminosity that was a feature in the other tunnels and chambers—“are here to protect you from sights and sound beyond your ken.”
“And no doubt also protect me from those who would destroy your queen in the current godly game.”
His expression remained pleasant, but the storm around his form was intensifying, matching the intensity gathering in his eyes. “You are not my queen. You are more... a knight.”
My gaze was drawn to the briefest movement beyond the chamber’s thin walls, and I clenched my fingers against the desire to grab my knives. Liadon would not have allowed this meeting to take place without it being safe for both of us, but I couldn’t escape the notion that what lurked beyond the oddly streaked walls was no friend to either of us.
Which might well be the whole point of this meeting. Maybe in being here, talking to me, he was announcing to the opposition that he was stepping fully into the fray.
If hewas, then that could only be bad news for me.
“Why is that?” I said, somehow dragging my gaze away from the movement. “Isn’t a queen the most powerful piece on any chess board?”
“Situationally yes, but the knight is the only piece on the board that moves completely different to every other piece. And that, I believe, is an apt description of yourself.”
As summations went, I couldn’t argue that it wasn’t on point. “Then was Beira wrong when she said you were not one to play these games?”
“No.”
