American Gods by Neil Gaiman Page A

Shadow.
    â€œClose?” asked Czernobog. “No. How could we be? We cared about such different things.”
    There was a clatter from the end of the hall, and Zorya Vechernyaya came in. “Supper in one hour,” she said. Then she went out.
    Czernobog sighed. “She thinks she is a good cook,” he said. “She was brought up, there were servants to cook. Now, there are no servants. There is nothing.”
    â€œNot nothing,” said Wednesday. “Never nothing.”
    â€œYou,” said Czernobog. “I shall not listen to you.” He turned to Shadow. “Do you play checkers?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” said Shadow.
    â€œGood. You shall play checkers with me,” he said, taking a wooden box of pieces from the mantlepiece and shaking them out onto the table. “I shall play black.”
    Wednesday touched Shadow’s arm. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said.
    â€œNot a problem. I want to,” said Shadow. Wednesday shrugged, and picked up an old copy of Reader’s Digest from a small pile of yellowing magazines on the windowsill.
    Czernobog’s brown fingers finished arranging the pieces on the squares, and the game began.
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    In the days that were to come, Shadow often found himself remembering that game. Some nights he dreamed of it. His flat, round pieces were the color of old, dirty wood, nominally white. Czernobog’s were a dull, faded black. Shadow was the first to move. In his dreams, there was no conversation as they played, just the loud click as the pieces were put down, or the hiss of wood against wood as they were slid from square to adjoining square.
    For the first half dozen moves each of the men slipped pieces out onto the board, into the center, leaving the back rows untouched. There were pauses between the moves, long, chesslike pauses, while each man watched, and thought.
    Shadow had played checkers in prison: it passed the time. He had played chess, too, but he was not temperamentally suited to planning ahead. He preferred picking the perfect move for the moment. You could win in checkers like that, sometimes.
    There was a click as Czernobog picked up a black piece and jumped it over one of Shadow’s white pieces. The old man picked up Shadow’s white piece and put it on the table at the side of the board.
    â€œFirst blood. You have lost,” said Czernobog. “The game is done.”
    â€œNo,” said Shadow. “Game’s got a long way to go yet.”
    â€œThen would you care for a wager? A little side bet, to make it more interesting?”
    â€œNo,” said Wednesday, without looking up from a “Humor in Uniform” column. “He wouldn’t.”
    â€œI am not playing with you, old man. I play with him. So, you want to bet on the game, Mister Shadow?”
    â€œWhat were you two arguing about, before?” asked Shadow.
    Czernobog raised a craggy eyebrow. “Your master wants me to come with him. To help him with his nonsense. I would rather die.”
    â€œYou want to bet? Okay. If I win, you come with us.”
    The old man pursed his lips. “Perhaps,” he said. “But only if you take my forfeit, when you lose.”
    â€œAnd that would be?”
    There was no change in Czernobog’s expression. “If I win, I get to knock your brains out. With the sledgehammer. First you go down on your knees. Then I hit you a blow with it, so you don’t get up again.” Shadow looked at the man’s old face, trying to read him. He was not joking, Shadow was certain of that: there was a hunger there for something, for pain, or death, or retribution.
    Wednesday closed the Reader’s Digest. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I was wrong to come here. Shadow, we’re leaving.” The gray cat, disturbed, got to its feet and stepped onto the table beside the checkers game. It stared at the pieces, then leapt down onto the