Chapter 26 - One Good (Elf) Knight

that is

A Short Tale of Dinner (or Breakfast), More Than One Kind of Poison, an Exchange of Gifts, the Coming of Dawn, a Request, and Interference

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The East Village was quiet, though not silent, at one-thirty in the morning. Most of the bars had closed early due to the day, so only the twenty-four-hour establishments still kept their windows lit. Glamor kept the Elf prince and the human woman hidden from the rest of the city as they slid between the shadows of the world. Nuada kept a firm grip on Dylan's uninjured hand to keep the faerie illusion in place. It was a simple "don't-look-at-me" spell, but glamor tended to shy away from humans unless kept firmly in place by sheer will.

A dragon's cave, he'd told her. She looked around at the familiar streets as they passed Alphabet City, which consisted of Avenues A-D. She and John had lived in a tiny two-bedroom apartment on Avenue C while she'd been in college. Expensive as all get-out, but the government (on John's behalf) and the Fair Folk (on hers) had been more than generous to the siblings. Where, Dylan wondered, are we gonna find a dragon's cave in the East Village?

They stopped in front of a hole-in-the-wall place on the corner of an intersection. The crumbling brickwork and layers of garish graffiti slithered and shifted in front of Dylan's eyes. When she blinked hard, the decay disappeared for a brief instant. In its place stood an old-fashioned looking building with a sign in glittering gold over the faintly-rounded door that read Fafner's Cave. A gold dragon coiled beneath the words. Another sign on the door read Closed. Then the cracked bricks, boarded-shut door, and spray-painted obscenities returned. Nuada rapped sharply on the door. After a few minutes, a light flicked on in the grimy window. The door jerked open to reveal a beautiful - and rather irritated-looking - faerie woman.

The first thing Dylan noticed was her eyes: even glazed with sleepiness and hard with annoyance, the golden eyes were still striking. And they really were golden - the exact same color as the bracelets that jingled on the woman's slender wrists and the delicate chains hanging from her swan-like neck. She had a waterfall of coal-dark hair that fell well past her waist, and the fairest skin Dylan had ever seen. Gold sea shells glinted from her delicately-pointed ears in the light of the street lamps. More chains hung from the belt-loops on her blue jeans. Her dark t-shirt was flecked with drops of golden fabric paint.

Eyes cold as dragon's gold, Dylan thought with a twinge of what might have been precognition. Skin white as new snow, lips red as fresh-spilled blood, hair black as darkest sin...

The woman demanded something in what sounded to Dylan like German, though all she managed to catch was the snarled, "Was willst du?" Then she blinked and took a good look at Nuada. "Oh! Eure Hoheit! Was kann ich für Euch tun?"

Since he still held her hand (though, Dylan noticed, out of sight of the beautiful faerie woman), Dylan asked, Who's your friend and what is she saying?

First, she wanted to know if we had any idea what time it was, and then demanded to know what we wanted. The second time she asked a bit more politely. She is... an old friend from my exile. A rhinemaiden. Aloud, the Elf prince added, "Milady, this is Lorelei, the owner of Fafner's Cave. Lorelei, may I present my lady, Dylan of Central Park?" It was growing easier to refer to the human as his lady in public, Nuada realized. He knew that should have bothered him, but for some reason it did not.

"Your lady?" Taking her cue from the prince, Lorelei switched to English. "Finally settled down, Eure Hoheit?"

Nuada scoffed. "Not quite." Lorelei's sharp eyes noticed both the faerie prince's disdain for the idea, and the very subtle wince from the human woman at his side. Interesting, she thought, but said nothing, only made way for the Elven warrior and his lady.

As the faerie woman stepped back, Nuada swept inside, pulling Dylan with him. They moved swiftly through the front room, which looked to her almost like the main room at a sanctioned rave. Then the faerie led Dylan and the prince down a short flight of stairs into what looked like the main room of an old-style tavern, dimly lit. At a word from Lorelei, twinkling faerie lights flickered into brilliance. A few bieresal looked up and blinked at their mistress, then quickly left when she gestured them from the room. Somewhere, a radio was playing. Dylan vaguely recognized "Love" by the German band Oomph.

"...You make me feel like I'm losing my breath.
Don't take me higher, don't light my fire,
'Cause I'm afraid it could burn me to death."

"Your normal table is obviously empty," Lorelei said, gesturing to a far corner. "The usual?" Nuada inclined his head. "And... your lady?"

The prince glanced at Dylan, who pushed at a lock of hair tickling her face and said, "Whatever's he's getting, I guess. Thank you." Nuada added something in an undertone in German before leading Dylan to the far-off table. "What did you tell her?"

He didn't smile, but his golden eyes were softer than normal when he said, "As you object to alcohol, I told her to get you schorle instead. I thought you would prefer that over wheat beer."

"Ew. Wow," she mumbled, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "I am tired if I didn't think of that. What's schorle?"

"Try it." He nodded to the bieresal that approached with a tray holding a fizzy amber drink in a classic Cola glass and a foaming tankard. "It's safe, I promise you. No alcohol, no enchantments." Dylan, eyeing the prince, hesitantly tasted the golden drink. Her surprised expression made the corners of his mouth quirk up. "Do you like it?"

Nuada sipped from his tankard while Dylan nodded and took another taste. He could see she was tired - there were circles under her eyes like dark bruises - but they needed to get back to Findias. More importantly, Dylan needed to eat (and he did not wish to suffer his father's wrath while he and the mortal woman tried to enjoy a late dinner - or early breakfast, as it were - in the palace kitchens; after every other means of humiliation Balor had employed, chastising his heir like an unruly child in front of the servants did not seem that far-fetched). Nuada did not even wish to consider the implications of his current paternal tribulations at the moment. He came to Fafner's Cave to relax; at least as much as he ever did. Bringing her here was a way to make up for his sharpness earlier.

The prince studied the human across from him over the rim of his mug. Studied her, and thought of her so-called family. A cowardly brother who seemed incapable of protecting her; parents who imprisoned her for doing what was right; and sisters who should have respected and cherished her, yet shunned and abused her instead. As often as he and Nuala fought, as children and adults, he had never called his twin a brat, or a bi-

If I think more on this, I'll grow angry again, and upset her, Nuada thought, forcing his teeth to unclench. Seeing as the human can somehow always read my moods. The food comes; I will focus on that. After all, he was hungry, too.

"Oooh!" Dylan chirped, sitting up a bit straighter. "Persipan apples!" With a quick look at Nuada for permission, she plucked up one of the faux-fruits made of peach paste and popped it in her mouth. "I like persipan. Way better than marzipan. Sweeter, but not so sweet your teeth will fall out."

Nuada was inclined to agree, but suddenly noticed Lorelei's curious aurulent eyes on him. What did she want? He shot her a look, and the rhinemaiden laid her head on her arms on the bar and closed her eyes as if about to take a nap. Doubtless the river faerie was still listening. Nuada said nothing, to either the mortal or the river maid. Only reached for his favorite dish - if one could call the simple peasant food a "dish."

"Wow, that's a lot of..." Dylan trailed off when Nuada, Prince Prissy-Pants himself, dipped a small piece of fresh white bread in a little pot of honey and took a huge bite of the golden-slathered mess. Her teeth ached at just the thought of all that super-sweetness. "Oh, yech. Your Highness, how can you eat that? Especially when there's real food right there! What are you, five?"

"Humans have horrendous taste when it comes to food," the prince replied, and took another bite of the sticky-sweet honey and bread. He smiled slightly at her disgusted expression. "You find the sweetness revolting, then proceed to consume that foul concoction that's sold everywhere - soda."

"I don't drink soda, thank you," she replied with a smile. "I'm fine with juice and Gatorade when it's hot. I have no sweet tooth at all, really. I don't even like chocolate except in very small quantities... oh, my gosh, that's rote grütze." Dylan gasped, sitting up straight. The exhaustion was not gone from her eyes, but it had eased, and her usual joy had returned, at least in part. "I love that stuff!" She scanned the tray, which had some of the Elf prince's favorite breakfast foods, and she grinned as one of the little serving faeries placed a bowl of the berry dessert in front of her, drowning in fresh cream and sprinkled with vanilla sugar. "Oh, my gosh! My mom used to make this for us when I was little." Nuada opened his mouth to say something, but she held up a finger and murmured, "Just a sec. This is a private moment." She took a bite and her eyes slid dreamily closed. "Mmmm. Yay. I love you."

Nuada choked on his bread. "What?"

Dylan blinked and realized what she'd just said. "Oh." Softly, so the faerie woman who may or may not have been snoozing at the bar didn't overhear, she whispered, "Sorry. I didn't mean... it's just something humans say sometimes when someone does something really nice for them."

"Simple thanks would suffice," he said a bit coolly. Someone I love... I love you. The words hummed in his brain as a distinctly bizarre feeling coiled in his belly.

"Well, it's more than just 'thank you.' It's thanks when the thing done is really important," Dylan replied. Why had she said that, though? What was wrong with her? She blamed it on exhaustion, hunger, and the stupid weepy feeling that suddenly swamped her when she'd tasted her favorite childhood dessert. It had brought back memories of before being institutionalized. Back when things had been so much easier, simpler. Happier. Still, that was no excuse to freak Nuada out like that.

"And this is, as you say, 'really important' to you?"

"My mother was German-American. And when I was little, before my parents realized I wasn't pretending about the faeries, my mom used to make us breakfast every Sunday. Things from where her mother had grown up. My favorite was rote grütze. I haven't had it since college, but whenever I taste it, I remember my mother smiling at me. Hugging me, ruffling my hair." Dylan laughed softly, and even she could hear the melancholy in it. "I had a real mop then. My mom loved to mess with it." Brushing at the hair tickling her face, she added, "That was before I messed everything up."

"It was not you," Nuada said, distracted from his own discomfiture by her words. He had brought her to this place - his favorite place to eat - to ease her weariness, not add to it. "The Sight is a gift, and those who possess it should be cherished, not abused."

"My parents didn't abuse me," she protested gently. "At least, not on purpose. They just didn't understand. Couldn't. They didn't see what I Saw, so how were they to know? They had no idea what to do with me, and they had eight other children to worry about. I think... I know they were scared that I might do something to one of my siblings. Everyone kept telling them I needed help, so..." Now she shrugged. "If I'd told them I was making it up, maybe things would've been different."

"They gave a little girl the choice between truth and lies and punished her for tru-"

"It's not a big deal, Nuada," Dylan murmured softly. Did he realize, she wondered, that he was jumping to the defense of a human? Somehow, she doubted it. "Really. It was a long time ago."

And though it had taken her years to reconcile with her parents, she'd finally managed it a couple years before they'd died. She was grateful - beyond grateful - that her heart had softened in time to have some kind of relationship with her parents before their deaths. Dylan knew that without the influence of her faith (and the wise, gentle counsel of her bishop) that she'd never have become close to them again. As for her sisters...

She could understand. She could. They resented her more than a little because of her time in the institution. They'd had no part in putting her there and she couldn't blame them for being upset, for remembering all the times they'd wanted to go to Coney Island or the zoo or the theatre or any other place they should've been able to go because New York City had everything a girl could ever want... and then they hadn't been able to. Their parents hadn't been able to afford it, because of how much it cost to keep Dylan at Saint Vincent's. Never mind the cost to put her siblings into sports, or fine arts classes, or after-school clubs. The Myers family couldn't afford that either, because mental hospitals were expensive. And then there were the school bullies.

Dylan took a bite of rote grütze as she recalled John's letters: about Francesca coming home covered in mud and other, grosser things because someone had called her little sister a "pixie freak" and she'd taken offense; Petra, who never lost her temper to the point that fighting was involved, getting suspended (and grounded) for punching another girl in the face over the same thing; Simone and Gardenia's lockers covered in graffiti and cruel taunts about how craziness ran in their family. So many things that Dylan was glad she'd never had to deal with... and all because she was trapped at Saint Vincent's and her brother and sisters had to deal with the outcome. That, and the conditions of her faith, helped her not to resent the sisters who still resented her... usually.

"Don't worry about it," she added softly to the Elf prince who watched her gaze turn inward and far-away. "It's okay." Then she shook herself and returned to the present. "But," Dylan added more cheerfully, taking another bite of the breakfast-dessert, "the point is, this is one of those 'I-love-you-thank-you' moments. So thank you, my prince."

After a moment of scowling into his tankard, he muttered, "You're welcome."

"So," Dylan said after they'd eaten in silence for several minutes. The rote grütze had already been devoured. Now she was nibbling on a pastry dusted with powdered sugar that the prince said was called auszogne. Tiredness made her feel loose and languid, as if everything floated around her in a haze. Her sisters had sometimes described being drunk as feeling about the same way. Feeling daring, she said to the Elf, "So." Nuada only arched an inquiring eyebrow. Hiding her smile, Dylan asked, "So... is this like... I dunno... a date?"

He frowned. "A what?"

"You know," she said, giving that oh-so-casual half-shrug that was strangely graceful. Dylan cocked her head, and her hair spilled across her face, curling darkly against her pale throat. "A date." Her lips curved into a slow smile. "A human courtship event. An amorous experience, a romantic rendezvous, a tryst that doesn't (usually) end in carnal oblivion. A step on the seduction ladder. You know - a date." Seeing the Elven warrior's expression, she grinned and added, "Better be careful, Your Highness, or your face will get stuck like that. But I'll take that as a 'no.' Just checking." And she laughed and took a sip of the gently fizzing schorle.

Nuada was silent for a long time, only speaking to ask for a refill on his drink. Dylan wondered if her sleepiness-prompted teasing had made him angry. Why do I always get punch-drunk stupid when I'm tired? Or cranky. It's always ticked-off, or drunk-stupid. Why? Maybe that old saying is true about the Holy Ghost going to bed at eleven. She was starting to regret the question about dates when Nuada smirked and raised an eyebrow at her.

"Do you know why this is not a 'date,' as you call it?" The Elf prince asked softly, and stretched his hand across the table, palm up. Instinctively, Dylan laid her uninjured hand on his so he could speak directly into her mind. Like butterflies in her skull, Nuada whispered, Because if my goal was to seduce you, I could do so without such extraneous ploys.

Dylan frowned. Are you saying I'm easy?

Never that. I am saying, the prince replied, with that familiar smirk of smug, male satisfaction, that I have thousands of years' experience... and considerable skill. And he chuckled when she blushed and pulled her hand back so she could hide behind her drink. He knew he should not bait Dylan this way, but she was still so innocent in some ways, and her blushes were rather amusing.

As if reading his mind, she kicked him lightly under the table, and he laughed louder. He was gratified when she smiled, although it was a bit shyly, in response.

Once breakfast had been eaten (or devoured, in Dylan's case), they left Fafner's Cave with only a brief goodbye to the beautiful Lorelei. As she escorted the prince and the mortal woman to the door, Nuada turned to the rhinemaiden and commanded, "Sag das niemand."

Tell no one? Lorelei wondered, and studied the prince's face. She had known Nuada since she was a child in Bavaria. He and Wink, his vassal, had often visited her mother's tavern there. The rhinemaiden had grown up hearing stories of the mighty Silverlance. She imagined that as long as the feral-eyed warrior wasn't trying to hide anything from her, she could read him fairly well. She was an empath, after all.

But Lorelei couldn't separate the different threads of emotion she was picking up from the Elf prince right then and make a coherent picture of them all. Mild gladness at seeing her again was easy to pick up on, and so was the seething darkness of rage and hate that always smoldered deep within him. But there was also fond amusement; a wealth of deep affection carefully tucked away behind a defensiveness that was new to him, which made it hard for her to gauge the exact depth of that affection; a strange sense of peace that cooled some of the heat of his fury and loathing; and underneath everything, she found a faint shimmer of lust and a shadow of dread.

But the rhinemaiden didn't say anything about what she'd sensed from her prince. Only bowed slightly and replied, "Of course, Eure Hoheit. As you wish."

Nuada took Lorelei's hand and laid a brief, polite kiss to the back of it. The water faerie noticed the brief flicker of resigned sadness in the mortal woman's eyes and wondered at it, but said nothing about that, either. Just watched the prince take the human's hand in his again and draw her out into the dark, between the shadows, where they disappeared.

She's desperately in love with him, the faerie woman thought. Poor girl; I wonder if she even knows how deeply she's fallen. Somehow, the golden-eyed water faerie doubted it. But she was pretty sure the human would figure it out fairly soon.

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Winter nights are long and hard, and time goes by but slowly. Still, eventually the reception for the envoy from Cíocal wound down as the night wore on. Courtiers and sovereign all sought their beds as the moon began to sink beneath the shadow of the mountains. All except one, however.

Dierdre, glamored to look like a simple hob-maid, slunk through the dark on cat-quiet feet. The dimly lit halls of Findias were icy, and the gancanaugh couldn't wait to return to her room. Or perhaps Prince Bres' room, which would likely be even more lush and lavish than her own. Yet before she could do that, she had two tasks to complete this night. One was simple, the other not quite so. Ciaran had already fulfilled his part of the plan for the night - he had slipped into Princess Nuala's room before the Elf maiden retired, and let fall but three drops of Branwen's Tears upon her pillow.

Now it was Dierdre's turn. The shifting iciness around her neck hurried her on.

Silent as a poisonous snake, she found the prince's suite and slithered inside. The door shut with a barely audible click of the latch. Then Dierdre glided over to Nuada's weapons rack. Closing her eyes, she let images of violence and blood slide like poison through her mind. When she opened her eyes again, the moon shone on the slickness of gancanaugh venom on her bare hands.

The gancanaugh lifted the sword of Elven silver from its place of honor and ran one hand along the leather grip, soaking it with the poison on her skin until the leather itself was slick and shining in the glow of the moon. Every time Prince Nuada touched his sword, more of the Tears would seep into his flesh and he wouldn't even know. And she had more things to infect.

Dierdre made sure to touch everything the prince might touch; made sure to coat it all with even just a trace of Branwen's Tears: bedposts, weapons, the chair near the fireplace, the mantel, clothes' presses, everything. But especially the sword. Dierdre soaked the grip in the gancanaugh poison three times before she was satisfied with the amount of saturation in the leather. It wasn't enough to turn the prince into a ravishment-minded brute by any stretch. But that wasn't the point - yet. What Bres wanted was for Nuada to be... open to anything Dierdre might suggest to him. Of course she'd have to work her way up to turning him against the human and his own honor, but in the meantime, they could drive a wedge between the crown prince and his precious, oh-so-loyal lady love.

By the time Bres sets him on the little witch, the Lady Dylan will have turned against Nuada anyway, the gancanaugh thought, and smiled. How long can he stand against my power, anyway? Not long, I'd wager. And neither, she was sure, could King Balor, though that was a power of a different sort altogether.

She slipped into the shadows of the corridor as easily as she'd snaked her way into Nuada's room, and slowly Dierdre made her way towards Balor's suite. Of course getting into the king's bedchamber would have been impossible. Luckily, she didn't have to. Instead, she stopped just shy of the end of the hall leading to the king's chambers and lifted the ice-cold thing coiled around her slender neck. Kissing the tiny naga on the head, she whispered, "You know where to go, Kadru. Find the king, and sink your little fangs into him where no one will see the marks. Then come back to my room, and your warm little basket. I promise to reward your success."

"The king will not die from only one bite, Love-Talker, but many," the naga hissed, flicking out a tiny forked tongue the color of rotting flesh. "Must we do this every night? This place is cold, and makes my blood sluggish."

"You are a creature of shadow, Kadru. I trust you can do something so simple as sneak into a room and bite a man. The king's blood is warm - it will quicken your heart and battle the cold in your bones. And always think of your basket by my fire."

"As you wish, Love-Talker."

Dierdre knelt amidst the cloaking shadows and let the tiny, ash-gray faerie cobra slither down her arm and glide away into the darkness. A knife-edged smile curved the gancanaugh's lips as she watched the little serpent fade into the gloaming. Yes, it would take a long time for the naga's poison to work on the One-Armed King of Elfland. Yet every day he would grow weak, and weaker, and Bres would have the chances he needed to make his moves, and eventually take the Golden Crown for himself.

And the little princess will never know that it is not virgin's blood, but her heart's blood that her future husband means to spill on the sheets of their bridal bed, Dierdre thought, and her smile widened until her teeth gleamed like moonlight on a knife blade.

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Though it felt like sand scoured her eyes and her vision blurred with tiredness, Dylan found her mind oddly awake and alert as Nuada led her to one of the small neighborhoods that had once made up New York City's Japantown (back when there had been a Japantown for the City to have). In an alley between two towering apartment buildings the Elf prince pulled down a fire escape and gestured. "After you, milady."

There was that "milady/my lady" thing again. Nuada's voice had just the right touch of tenderness to make her feel the way she had that night at court - unsettled and shivery. Only this time, there was no one for the Elf prince to be putting on a show for. So why...

Oh, just enjoy it, Dylan ordered herself. How often do chivalrous Elf princes call me 'milady,' anyway? Rarely, if ever. And maybe he's just practicing. Trying to follow her own advice, she ascended the fire escape with Nuada behind her. When they reached the roof of the apartment building, she looked around and saw nothing but some scattered trash and leaves. She glanced at the amber-eyed warrior.

"Come with me," he said and led her to the edge of the roof. A ledge about a foot-and-a-half wide ran the length of the building near the top. Nuada said something in Gaelic, too low for Dylan to catch, and the air above the roof's raised edge began to shimmer. When she reached out to touch the shimmer, it actually resisted, as if it were an inflatable cushion instead of stagnant air. Nuada helped her step onto the ledge so she could then sit on the air cushion. His firm grip on her hand was a promise that she wouldn't fall.

And suddenly the City - most of it, anyway - was spread out before her, glittering jeweled lights twinkling against the darkness. The wind sang icily through her hair, loose and tumbling down her back. Dylan caught her breath. She hadn't seen New York like this since she was a young woman in college. Almost ten years ago, she realized. It had been so long since she'd stopped and taken the time to see such beauty in the shadowed city. Even the frigid bite of early November night - a bite that threatened to bring sleet at best, and heavy snow at worst by morning - couldn't detract from it.

"It's beautiful, Nuada," Dylan whispered.

"It was, once," Nuada replied softly, seating himself next to her. The cushion of air he had created with a bit of magic was far more comfortable than sitting on the icy stone. The mortal must have been colder than he thought, because as soon as he settled, she leaned against his shoulder. Even the Elf was a bit chilled by the cold, so he let her stay pressed to him, warming him a little. "This place, when it was forests and rivers, lakes and hills... the world was a beautiful place once upon a time, Dylan. But every century, every decade - every year - the humans destroyed more and more of that beauty."

He felt her stir, as if she meant to speak, but he added, "That is not why I brought you here, however. This autumn has been unseasonably warm, almost like summer. Because of that, Hyakki Yakō will be in the city for one more night before they depart for warmer places. Do you know what Hyakki Yakō is?"

"The Night Parade of One Hundred Yōkai," Dylan said, shifting to look up at him with wide, moonlit eyes. "The summer faerie procession from Japan. They'll come here tonight?"

He could hear the excitement and wonder in her voice, and let a smile curve his mouth. How many humans would have reacted with fear or greedy interest or hate, instead of this childlike awe? She was so different from others of her kind. Sometimes - often - it frustrated him. But tonight, I will merely allow myself to enjoy her company, and forget for a time that she is mortal. She has had a hard day, and I was one of the causes. This will erase that debt, and besides... I am in no hurry to return to court this night. If my father's chains did not drag me back, somehow I doubt I would ever return.

Aloud he said, "Would you like to see them?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then look over there," Nuada said softly, and pointed.

Dylan turned to see several white horses walking through the night air, prancing in elegant parade gear. Moonlight shone through the horses, and their armored riders. Around them, tiny balls of blue spook-fire bobbed and danced. Behind them came so many different types of faeries that Dylan only recognized a handful.

There was a pair of great owls, one with feathers of burnished gold and the other of sparkling silver. She saw kirin, the so-called Japanese "unicorns;" fox maidens in beautiful silk brocade kimonos; and herons with luminescent feathers. There were women made of crystal-clear ice, riding giant white wolves; bird-people juggling balls of blue flame; what looked like dogs made of lightning bolts; and one-horned, blue- and green-skinned ogres clad only in leopard hides. There were ghostly shapes and half-beast people and animated wheels with faces and giant tea kettles with racoon-eyes and so many other things she couldn't keep track of them all. Sinuous Japanese dragons in jewel-colors danced and twisted into intricate shapes above the procession. The air echoed with the song of bamboo flutes and mandolins.

"This is amazing," she breathed. Her hand slid into his without conscious thought as she said silently, I've never seen so many different kinds of faeries in my entire life. They're all so... so magical. I love it, Nuada. Thank you for bringing me here. I love it so much. Oh... what's that? She nodded toward what looked like a shuffling mid-sized tower of seaweed and red kelp that was slowly slogging its way over to them from the procession. Should I be worried?

No, Nuada replied. I know her; she is a shōjō, a sea sprite of the Kingdom of Onibi. She is a flower seller from this area; she sometimes takes part in the procession. Aloud, he said, "Yang. A pleasure, as always. Have you new wares tonight?"

The pile of seaweed shifted until Dylan realized that the green ocean weed was woven into dark auburn hair that hung nearly to the creature's knees. She had skin the color of ripe tomatoes and eyes like the bluest ocean water. The blues and greens of her kimono shifted and shimmered like the surface of the sea. The sharp tang of brine mingled with the sweet scent of rice-wine as the faerie came close and bowed low to the prince.

When she straightened, she said, "I am here for my own amusement, and not for business. But a gift I have, Denka, for your lovely companion." Yang held out both hands. Cupped in her left palm was a jeweled flower on a golden chain that Dylan thought might have been orange honeysuckle. In her other hand was a simple, pale pink peony blossom, freshly picked. "A choice I give you, my lady. A honeysuckle of carnelian and jade for yourself, or this peony for the prince. I warn you - the honeysuckle cannot be given away, and the peony cannot be taken for yourself, or given to you by the prince."

Without hesitation, Dylan took the peony and handed it to Nuada. Brow furrowed, he asked, "Why did you..."

Dylan shrugged, feeling a little self-conscious. "In Japan, the peony are called 'the King of Flowers,' and stand for honor and bravery. I thought it fit. Besides, what do I need jewels for? I have this." She tapped the golden medallion around her neck. Silently, she added, Maybe it's just me, but it seems like not a lot of people give you stuff just as a simple gift. So I wanted to give you something.

Before Nuada could even come up with a reply to that, Yang added, "And a gift for you also, Watashina Purinsu." She held out her hands again. This time she held a gold-cast chrysanthemum in her left hand, and a freshly plucked crimson tulip in her other. "Another gift, another choice. The golden chrystanthemum for you, Denka, or the red tulip for your companion."

Nuada hesitated. Dylan had chosen the flower that represented what she thought of him. Honor and bravery. I thought it fit. In Japan, the chrysanthemum was a symbol of royalty, of ruling bloodlines and pride in nobility. As for the tulip... did it fit how he felt about the human woman at his side? Honor and bravery. I wanted to give you a gift. Coming to a decision, he reached out and took the scarlet tulip from Yang, then carefully tucked it behind Dylan's ear. The last time he had seen her with flowers in her hair, they had been small and pink. Somehow, the crimson bloom fit her just as well.

Tulips, Nuada said to Dylan through their link, for trust. The surprise and happiness on her face made him smile more openly than he had for days. Do you like it? He asked, though he knew he did not need to. In answer, she wrapped her arms around his arm and hugged it tightly. Such a childish - or perhaps childlike? - gesture. No one had hugged him like that in thousands of years. Not since he and Nuala were children. But Dylan did. And he recalled her words: I consider you my best friend... I love you...

"My thanks, Yang," the Elf prince said softly to the shōjō.

"It is my greatest honor, Denka," the sea sprite replied, bowed, and went back the way she had come as Hyakki Yakō continued.

.

As the very last of the yōkai faded away toward the east, where the faintest kiss of dawn brushed the cloudy sky, Nuada turned to the human woman that had fallen asleep on his shoulder almost an hour ago. Her dark hair slid against his skin like silk as she shifted a little and made a small, contented sound. He should not have allowed her to sleep - should have probably taken her back to Faerie after receiving the flowers - but she had been so delighted by the faerie procession. He hadn't wanted to bring an end to that. Dylan's joy had been the first simple, easy thing he'd experienced in a while.

As he'd been doing for the last hour while she slept, he once again studied the peony she had given him. There had been no hesitation in the gesture. No flicker of indecision. No glint of greed for the jeweled honeysuckle blossom that Yang had freely offered to the mortal woman. As soon as the sea sprite had told Dylan she could only give Nuada the peony, it had almost been as if the other flower didn't exist. The children of men were born with holes in their hearts that could never be filled... but this human didn't act like it at all.

Honor and bravery. She had chosen this gift for him because she found him honorable and brave. Nuada stared at the many-petaled bloom for another long moment and tried to reconcile everything this king of flowers implied about the human at his side with what he knew of the breed.

In the end, he found he couldn't. Dylan made no sense. She was one-hundred percent human, yet behaved very much like one of the Hidden Folk. She actually accepted the truth of the empty hole in her heart, in her soul, and strove to constantly fight against it. Despite the inherent cruelty and hatred in men, this mortal was kind to human and fae alike. Gentle. Honorable where no honor should have been able to reside. Very much against his will, Nuada found the distant proprietary affection he'd thought he felt for the mortal was actually... fondness. True fondness. He actually liked her.

Ah, well. The Elf prince supposed he could do worse in his allies. At least she was loyal. And she cared for him. I consider you my best friend... someone I love very much... I love you. Somehow he couldn't find it in himself to doubt her sincerity. Even with that last, he believed her.

But now was not the time for rumination. The crown prince tucked the bloom away inside a pocket, unconcerned about it being bruised or crushed. Yang's flowers, even the natural ones, had something special about them. Instead, very gently, Nuada touched the human's wrist and murmured, "Dylan. Wake up, now."

"Mmmm-mmm." She nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder. One arm slid around his neck to half-hug him to her. Nuada knew he should have been disgusted - or at least irritated - but the barely-awake mortal made the corner of his mouth quirk into a brief smile. Usually she was alert, almost on edge but without being defensive. Now she was as soft and boneless as a sleeping kitten. He had never seen her so before. And her fingers were twining in his hair, her fingertips brushing against the pulse beating at the base of his throat, a warm and completely unconscious caress that Nuada was suddenly very aware of. Human or not, she was still a woman. "Morning off," she added in a sleepy mumble. "Go far, far away." Belying her words, she cuddled closer to him.

"Come on," he said, and carefully pulled her to her feet and back onto the solid safety of the roof. "It is nearly dawn. We need to head back..."

The Elven warrior trailed off as realization hit him. Nearly dawn. How had he allowed himself to become so distracted by a simple flower (and the smile - and the rat's nest of problems - that came with it)? The Chariot would vanish, returned automatically to Annwn the moment the sun peeked over the horizon. He and Dylan had walked to Fafner's Cave and the apartment building. Even his Elven speed would not take them back to her cottage in time.

Which means that we will have to find another way back to Bethmoora.

At that moment, Dylan tripped and almost fell. The mortal yawned and muttered something about having two left feet and needing a nap.

Yet she is so tired. She needs to sleep. And she mentioned having to go to work today as well. Nuada sighed inwardly and thought, I suppose we can go back tonight. Father will be just as angry then as he is now.

"I can walk," Dylan mumbled, trudging toward the fire escape. "Maybe not in a straight line, but I can... walk... No more talking... Need to concentrate." Rubbing at her face with a loose fist, she started down the wrought-iron stairs. Nuada, grinning when the mortal had to actually stop walking so she would not trip while yawning, followed after her.

The City was beginning to wake up as the night moved steadily toward dawn. More buses choked the streets. More pedestrians shuffled like cattle to their stalls and pastures. The rare bird, slowly awakening, began to cheep from stunted, iron-fenced trees. Aware of the humans spilling like poison into the streets, Nuada took Dylan's hand before they reached the alleyway below and cloaked them both in the simple "don't-look-at-me" glamor.

The tired woman simply blinked at him sleepily and smiled before shifting her grip to lace her fingers with his. He knew he ought to pull away, but as exhausted as she was, if he did anything but simply walk beside her, she would probably trip again. And there was something loose and comfortable in the way she held his hand. It did not feel constricting or discomfitting, as he had expected. It was so casual, as if she did this all the time. Her nonchalance served to ease the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm really... really tired," Dylan murmured after they'd reached Central Park. The rising sun painted streaks of palest coral across a sea of pearl gray clouds. There was a stillness and a heaviness in the frigid air that promised snow. Dylan pushed her hair out of her face and added, "I'm cold, but I'm not cold. I mean... I'm cold, but I don't... feel cold? Yeah. Does that make sense?" She asked the Elf prince. Nuada could see that despite the fact that she could speak, the mortal was nearly asleep on her feet. "I don't think that makes sense, but that's how I feel. Jeez, I need to just crawl into bed and sleep for a decade."

"I am keeping us warm with a bit of magic," Nuada replied with a shrug. It was an indulgence, true, but tonight was supposed to be a sort of vacation - another kind of indulgence he rarely allowed himself. He could afford to waste a little magic. Besides, it was bitterly cold behind the bubble of warmth he had created, and the magic would help with the ache in her bad leg and the one beginning in his arm. "Your body knows it is cold, but it is not really affecting you. If it gets much colder, however, it will not work."

"Huh. Very convenient. Is that 'cause we're holding hands?" Dylan asked. The prince inclined his head. "Cool. Ya know, I like holding hands with you. You have nice hands. I like them."

After a long moment, he replied, "Thank you." I suppose, he added silently, but kept his puzzlement hidden from her. No one had ever said that about him before... except, of course, a woman or two. Yet comments like those had been in a completely different sort of situation. Still... a sudden impulse seized him, and he asked, "So... you like my hands?"

"Actually," Dylan said, with the air of someone coming upon a point of supreme enlightenment, "I like everything about you. The whole deal. You are the most amazing person I've ever met in my entire life. I love being around you." She glanced at him. There was a softness in her eyes that he had never seen before. "There's this song I love, called The Best Thing I Never Knew I Needed. You're like that." She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and her fingertips brushed the scarlet tulip tucked into her hair. Her smile then was tired, but bright and sweet. Almost dazzling. "I'm so glad I know you."

Nuada was reminded that Dylan sounded drunk when she was tired. Still, he knew her sentiment was a true one. Which surprised him, since no one but Wink had ever felt that way about him, at least as far as he knew. She was certainly the only one to ever say such a thing to him. And there was also... I love you. A jest, true, but...

Before the Elven warrior could think better of it, tiredness and the lateness (or earliness, as it were) of the hour found him replying, "I am... glad to know you as well."

I shouldn't have said that, he thought with some exasperation as the mortal hugged his arm with her free one. Then she tripped again.

"Ow. Move, feet. Hey-" Nuada swept her into his arms, since he could see the cottage nestled amidst the green not even fifty feet away. It would be faster to carry Dylan than have her tripping over everything and nothing. "Know what?" The human asked, her voice slurred by tiredness. "I don't even care. I'm just gonna... enjoy not having to walk. My foot and my knee hurt." Instead, she hunkered down in his hold and laid her head against his shoulder. "Do you enjoy... carrying me or something? You do it all the time."

"Would it surprise you to learn that I do?" The ache in his right arm sharpened, centering just above the elbow joint. He knew then that it was going to snow soon. Nuada remembered telling Dylan, that first night in her cottage, about how he had taken a barbed arrow through his arm as a young warrior, and how snowstorms made the old injury flare with phantom pain. The passing centuries had only made the storm-induced ache worse.

"Cheater. That's not... an answer," she mumbled. Somehow, her injured hand found itself curled against his chest, right over his heart. She could feel his steady heartbeat against her hand, feel the heat of his body against her cheek. She cuddled closer. "Mmmm. You're warm."

Dylan, on the other hand, was shivering a little, and almost completely asleep now. Nuada tightened his grip, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling simmering in his chest just where her hand lay curled against him. A tiny white snowflake drifted down to alight on her cheek before melting into a water droplet that rolled down her cheek like a tear. Dylan made a small sound of distress and turned further into him. Another snowflake fell, and another. When they reached the door to Dylan's cottage, snow had begun swirling in miniscule icy flurries around them both. It was a testament to Dylan's sheer exhaustion that she did not awaken.

The door swung open and Becan stood in the entryway with wide eyes. "Your Highness, is she hurt?"

"No," he said shortly, and strode inside. The brownie hastily shut the heavy granite door and bolted it while the Elf prince went to the open door of Dylan's room. Nuada found her black cat - Bat, wasn't it? - curled up on one of the pillows of the large bed in the center of the room. At a glance from Nuada, Becan used his magic to draw the blankets back so that the Elf prince could lay the shivering mortal woman upon the bed. The brownie pulled off his mistress's tennis shoes before tucking her blankets around her again. The amber-eyed warrior plucked the tulip from her hair and laid it on the bedside drawers.

After a few moments, Dylan's shivering began to subside. Nuada was about to step back from the bed when suddenly Dylan caught his hand.

"Ná téigh," she said softly, dreamily. Don't go. Her eyes were still closed; her lashes made dark crescents against her scarred cheeks. Was she truly even awake? Or did she already walk some Morphean road? "Nuada," she added, and this time her sleep-dulled silvery blue eyes flickered open and met his. "I don't want to dream again. Not like... before. Tabhair fan liom. Tabhair." Please stay with me. Please.

Exasperated, Nuada grumbled, "Dylan-"

"Tá mé scanraithe," she whispered in a voice like that of a lost child. I'm scared. Her grip on his hand tightened a little. Suddenly he could feel her dread swirling just beneath the surface of her thoughts. "Tabhair ná téigh, tá mé scanraithe." Please don't go, I'm scared. And like the ghost of a whisper he heard an echo of an afterthought through the link of their clasped hands: I wish he would call me 'mo duinne' again. It makes me feel safe for some reason...

There was the scrape of wood against wood, and Nuada glanced behind him to see Becan pulling a chair into the room. The brownie scooted the chair over to where Nuada stood. The prince fought not to growl at the little faerie. Now that he had a place to sit, the Elven warrior could not refuse the mortal who clung to his hand like a forlorn little waif. Instead, he turned back to Dylan, who gazed up at him with sleep-clouded and beseeching eyes. Against his will his resolve softened. Oh, very well, he growsed silently, sinking into the chair. Surprisingly, Dylan scooted closer to the edge of the bed, so that he could feel her soft, warm breath on the hand she clasped so tightly. She sighed and loosened her hold. Her fingertips just lightly grazed his palm.

On impulse, Nuada reached out and brushed his knuckles along the thick scar slicing down her cheek. Marveled anew at the softness and the warmth of her skin. "Ná bíodh scanraithe," he said softly, the words don't be afraid spilling out against his will. "I'm here. Sleep now, mo duinne."

A sleepy smile curved her mouth and her eyes slid closed as the human woman fell asleep with her hand in his.

.

"I want her file," Westenra said coldly. Eyes the color of graveyard dirt zeroed in on the young secretary behind the desk and he leaned in until the old doctor and the young college girl were almost nose to nose. He'd come into work early to get this information. Some stupid little teenager wasn't going to stand in his way. "Now."

"But, Doctor Westenra, there's a note here that says you're not-"

"Do you like your job, Miss..." He flicked his eyes to the badge pinned to her breast. "Cottingley?"

"Y-yes, Doctor, but-"

"Then give me the damn file, or you'll lose that job." Westenra snatched the manila file from the girl's trembling hand and flipped it open. Scanned it. Ah. The Ramirez girl had her first therapy session at two o'clock this afternoon. He glanced at the clock. That gave him about six hours to prepare. As soon as Doctor Myers got wind that he'd been the one to handle the little gangster's session, she'd blow into Saint Vincent's like a whirlwind. He had to make sure everything was ready before then. And this was only the first step.

Never had the little witch actually barred him from handling one of the patients here. The only way she'd managed it was because the girl had committed a crime and Myers had some unholy pull with the police lieutenant in charge of the blasted case. Well, she'd pushed him too far this time. And she'd pay for it.

First thing on the list was the file, Westenra thought as he walked to his office. What's next? Ah, yes. Syringes. Everything has to be ready before the little witch shows up.

And it would be.