Lord Loss (The Demonata 1)

“No show.” I smile, switching play to the board on my far left, shoving a rook deep into enemy territory, barely thinking about it, not pausing afterwards to check my opponent's response.

“This is ridiculous, Grubitsch,” Lord Loss says. He fakes an encouraging smile. “If you throw the game away, you throw your life away too. You are already two games down. You cannot afford to lose again. You must concentrate. If not, you and your uncle —”

“Chess is dumb,” I interrupt. “Like all games, it's silly and pointless. People who take it seriously are fools. I'm sorry, but I can't pretend to respect your foolishness any longer, regardless of what's at stake.”

The demon master's lips peel back from his sharp grey teeth. “I could reach across and crush you into a million pieces!” he hisses.

“But that won't silence my laughter,” I giggle. “Have you moved?” I lean forward to advance a pawn on the board to my left.

“Leave that alone!” he shouts. “I haven't had my turn yet!”

“Well, hurry up,” I tut. “I've wasted enough time on this garbage. Let's get it over and done with.”

Lord Loss trembles. Starts to say something. Catches himself. Mutters darkly and takes one of my pawns on the far left board. Before he's placed it on the desk, I push forward the pawn on the board to my near left, and once again fall back to studying my thumbs, twirling them mindlessly, thinking about summer, TV, music — anything except Lord Loss, his familiars, and chess.

Lord Loss isn't smiling any longer. His features are contorted with hatred. He takes long, agonized pauses before each move — not to drag the torment out, but because he's unsure of himself.

I think about cracking jokes or singing songs, but I don't want to go overboard. Indifference is infuriating enough. He's unaccustomed to opponents showing no interest in the match or their fate. He's had long, delicious decades of pressure contests, feeding off the anxiety of those he faces, growing strong on it. He doesn't know how to cope with a vacant, yawning teenager.

I don't play blindly, but I play recklessly, pushing forward on all three boards, taking wild chances, surrendering myself to the random mechanics of chess. I'm presenting Lord Loss with more chances to finish me off than he could have ever dreamed of — but he fails to capitalize on them. He's too agitated to press for the kill. He fumblingly takes a few of my pieces but doesn't follow up on the captures.

And then I start taking his pieces.

I capture pawns first, a few on each board. I line them up in neat little rows, toying with them while he contemplates his moves. Then one of his knights falls prey to my queen on the board to my right. On the far left board I take a rook and bishop in quick succession. While he struggles to shore up his defenses on that board, I push my queen ahead on the board next to it — straight into the path of a black bishop.

Lord Loss gasps, his face lighting up. He sweeps the bishop forward, giggling intensely, eyes shining evilly.

I snort at the demon master's pleasure and slip a knight in behind his bishop. “Check.”

He freezes. Stares at the knight, then his king, then the captured queen in the mangled palm of his hand. His jaw quivers, then firms. “A clever strategy,” he commends me with icy politeness.

“Actually, I only saw the opening as you were removing my queen,” I answer honestly. “Lucky, I guess — though luck always plays a part in childish games like these.”

Lord Loss turns his face away in disgust. “You are a disgrace to the game,” he growls.

“So punish me,” I goad him. “Make me pay. Put me in my place.” I adopt a very young child's challenging tone. “Dare ya!”

He hisses. Fixes his gaze on the boards. Studies them feverishly.

I pick at the nail of my left index finger and wonder if I should start using clippers instead of scissors.

The balance of power lurches wildly between us. Lord Loss works hard to take three of my pawns. I respond by idly chasing his king with my knight on the board to my left, the one on which I lost my queen. He blocks my path, attacks my knight, and does all he can to repulse me, but I hang in there, amused by his failure to capture my knight. After a while I start thinking how lonely he looks, a single white knight stranded amidst a sea of black, and to provide him with company, I press forward with a bishop and a rook.

Lord Loss throws everything into smashing the three white irritants. He abandons attack completely and chases my knight, bishop, and rook as though they were responsible for some personal insult. After several frenzied twists and cutbacks, he traps my bishop and chuckles fiercely. “Next move — it's mine!”

“I reckon you're right,” I sigh, then grin impishly and push a pawn forward. I'm not quite sure how it got there, but it's now only one space away from the end of the board, where I can exchange it for any piece I like. “But on the move after that, my pawn becomes a queen — much preferable to a bishop, don't you think?”

Lord Loss stares at the pawn, then the knight, then back at the pawn.

Two of his spare arms unfold around him. He covers his eyes. And moans.

“Checkmate.”

I mutter the word emotionlessly and scratch my left elbow. “Can I make your king melt?” I ask curiously.

Lord Loss doesn't respond. His eyes are fixed on the trapped king on the board to my left, as though he can spot a way out if he looks at it long enough.

“I asked if I could make your —”