Chapter 27 - Chessboard

that is

A Short Tale of an Emperor, a Lieutenant, a Command, a Soldier, a Healer, and a King

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In far-away Dilong, on the other side of the world, night had fallen. The Jade Emperor sat upon his porcelain throne, eyeing the messenger with an icy green gaze that promised a thousand horrible deaths if the courier did not repeat this particular message in vastly different words. Unfortunately for the royal courier, the oral message attached to the letter had been memorized properly. Emperor Huizong glared at the Elf who cowered upon the floor.

"Do you mean to tell me that the King of Bethmoora has dishonored my daughter by allowing his heir to plight troth with a mortal?"

The courier pressed himself as close to the floor as possible. "Forgive this unworthy one, Your Imperial Majesty. This humble servant of the Jade Emperor seeks only to convey accurate news of the other kingdoms to imperial ears. Your spy among the court of Bethmoora sent this letter and swears to its truthfulness. There are rumors flying among the courtiers that Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance has taken a mortal to his bed, that he has gotten her with child, that he means to wed her. That is so far rumor only. Yet it is no rumor, but truth, Your Imperial Majesty, that the Silver Lance has presented this human woman to Bethmoora as his truelove."

A fist slamming down on porcelain made the courier, Li Po, jump in fright. A swift glance upward showed Li Po that the Jade Emperor was on his feet, pacing back and forth with his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his dark green yuanlingshan. The courier immediately looked down again.

"We will not stand for this!" Huizong snarled, jade-green eyes blazing like dragon fire. "Qing Long, bring Us the letter."

Prince Qing Long, the youngest of the Jade Emperor's sons, got to his feet and obeyed his Emperor. When the Jade Emperor broke the green wax seal and scanned the words hastily written by his spy, rage bloomed hotter than the fires of the Celestial Dragon. The lines were few, but they were enough to infuriate the Elf known as the Dragon of Dilong.

There are rumors of a war brewing between Bethmoora, Cíocal, and Zwezda.
Crown Prince Nuada's heart belongs to a mortal woman of common birth.
The One-Armed King of Elfland supports his choice.
The Royal Family of Bethmoora give no thought to a union with Dilong.

No thought to a union with Dilong? After thousands of years of waiting - Prince Nuada had been a youth of merely eleven or twelve centuries at the time Huizong had spoken to Balor - Bethmoora would throw away the good will of Dilong for the sake of a base-born mortal slut?

To the court assembled in the Great Hall of the Porcelain Palace, the Jade Emperor said, "Make ready to go to Bethmoora. We will find out the truthfulness of this report, and if the mighty Silverlance has betrayed his promises, We will not let it stand. The Dragon of Dilong has spoken."

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Lieutenant Charlotte Peabody of the NYPD scowled at the official document on her desk, wishing she had the guts to shred it to little pieces. She glanced up once at her sergeant. He glared over her head out the office window. So. Donovan didn't like what was on that frustrating bit of paper. Well, neither did she.

We get these stupid complaints every time one of our shrinks has to deal with a stand-off, Peabody thought, raking a hand through her short red hair. There's always something one of them did wrong. We break procedure as a matter of course because that's how the job works. Being a stickler for the rules when instinct is pulling you in the opposite direction can sometimes get people killed. Sometimes the rules have to be ignored. Which was what Dylan had done. Dylan had been on the job, in one capacity or another, since college. She had the experience - a lifetime of experiences - to do the job right. And after years working with Peabody, the psychiatrist knew when to chuck the rule book.

"So, what's Matlock's real problem, do you think?" The police lieutenant asked her sergeant. It wasn't the paper she hated, actually. Her top five favorite shrinks to work with had files of them. Professional hazard. Dylan was in the middle, between Dr. Colfer and Dr. Zendaya. The worst of them for getting these little complaints was Hollis, who was the best in the field and the best the NYPD had (and thus able to ignore such petty inconveniences).

No, the problem was the signature at the bottom. The one next to Sergeant Matlock's. The captain's signature.

"Matlock needs to take out that stick he's always sitting on, is the problem," Donovan growled in a voice like poisoned honey. "Can't be too comfortable. Sir," he addd belatedly.

Peabody laughed, though there was sharpness in it. The edge of that sharpness wasn't meant to cut Donovan. Wasn't meant to cut any of her people, including Dylan. Crap, this is really going to wreck her day. She knew how much Dylan valued the job. How important it was to her. They'd basically been on this part of the beat together since they were so wet behind the ears Peabody's superiors had been able to smell the greenness. If anyone on the NYPD really knew the shrink, Peabody was pretty sure it was her. And she knew this was going to make the other woman very unhappy.

"Does... does the captain have anything to say?" Donovan asked his LT when she didn't speak for a long moment.

She flipped over the complaint and studied the post-it stuck to the back. The sharp handwriting, tight and controlled. The hastily scribbled initials. And Peabody was suddenly very, very glad she didn't ride a desk.

"He says that it's a trade. Matlock has some powerful people behind him, apparently. Friends-in-high-places kind of deal. So does Westenra." Peabody saw Donovan stiffen. Nodded in acknowledgment. "Yeah, there's probably a connection. Anyway, the captain says that Dylan has to take the suspension and testing, as per procedure, if we want to keep Doctor Westenra out of the loop, since he's pretty high up in the foodchain over at Saint Vin's."

"Sir, the Doc's gonna hate that," Donovan muttered. Not to mention, it wasn't fair. Dylan had done exactly what Peabody would've told her to do, if the LT had been there. That's why they had Dylan on their team - her, Hollis, Colfer, Zendaya, and Viguie. They weren't the top five shrinks in New York, but they were the top five who could work with cops like Lt. Charlotte Peabody and her unit. And Matlock, who went after any cop who didn't stick to the rules to the absolute letter, had finally hit where Dylan was weakest - with Westenra. "This ain't right, Sir," Donovan added. "And she's gonna hate it."

"We all hate it. Westenra's a pig and should have his license revoked," Peabody said with sweet venom. "Unfortunately, timing is everything. And timing sucks right now. So Dylan will deal. She'll whine for a bit, but she'll deal. But call PA Shirelle, give her a head's up. She can help keep Dylan informed if this goes on too long."

"Can't you do that, LT?"

"Unfortunately, no." Now the police lieutenant glared at the post-it. "Because if the captain finds out, it could mean suspension for me too. He's being careful with this. I don't know if Matlock's friends and Westenra's friends are one and the same. It doesn't matter, though. They both have some serious pull. Remember the Blackwood incident back before you went into the Academy. So if either of them get so much as a whiff of me playing favorites or whatever, I could be the one up for suspension."

The police sergeant sighed. Eyed his commanding officer for a long, tense moment. Then he rolled his shoulders and said, "In that case, Sir, I request permission to call Doctor Myers and inform her."

"Granted."

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The shrill ring of a cell phone ripped Dylan from sleep. Nuada, half-dozing in the chair, jerked awake at the harsh, strident sound. A swift glance at the window told the prince that snow continued to blanket the world in icy whiteness, and that perhaps two or three hours had passed since Dylan had fallen asleep clinging to his hand.

"Ugh," the human grumbled, flailing around like a landed trout. "Too early! Where's my phone?" Becan scrambled up onto the bed, dragging the blasted contraption behind him. Dylan picked it up, pressed a button, and held it to her ear.

In a forcedly cheerful voice she said, "Hey, Donovan. Don't tell me there's a problem with Lisa already? She just got to Saint Vincent's yesterday." A burst of static. Dylan's brow furrowed. "What? What do you mean, there's been a complaint? From who?" More static, so garbled Nuada could not make it out. All he could read was the sudden spark of fury in fey-blue eyes. "The SWAT-liason? Why?" The mortal chewed her tongue for a long minute before growling, "I told you I would do that. You can't really... what d'you mean, an indicator of job-related stress? My job is stressful by definition! Of course I... what?" Irritation melted away into hurt, shock. "But... but Donovan, I... I know it's procedure for a week of... testing? Yes, I know, but we never followed that procedure before! Well, who cares if that bozo Sergeant Matlock says... no, I'm not gonna... that's not fair! I got her off the roof without anyone getting hurt, didn't I?

"This is bogus, Donovan. I'm not taking a week off work just because some idiot says... well, what does Peabody say? What d'you mean, both your hands are tied? What kind of pull does this Matlock goon have that... how much money? Don't tell me that. Please, please don't tell me that. Is this personal or... oh. He's a stickler. Great. That's worse than if it was personal. I'd rather he hated my ever-living guts than have it be that he has a problem with us breaking procedure, seeing as how we always manage to do that. If it was personal, we could take him down. Great. So..." Dylan's bottom lip trembled for a moment. She sank her teeth into it until it stopped. "So I'm suspended for seven days? After I cleared this week to catch up on the juvie kids and the... I don't want a week of paid vacation! I want to do my job!

"Yeah, I know it's seven business days and the weekend doesn't count... actually, I can handle snow; I've got a secretary who grew up in Montana. No, the winter Ren-Faire doesn't start till December so I'm not filling my so-called 'vacation' with 'fun medieval stuff,' as you put it. I'm sorry I'm so snarly," Dylan added, her voice softening as she ran a hand through her hair. "I know it's not your fault. You're not in trouble, are you? Oh, good. I'd have to file my own complaint if you got in trouble for something so ridonculous. What about Peabody? Okay, yes, that is a relief. But now I'm basically stuck until Wednesday and there are people counting on me... I know, I know, I'm only human. Yeah.

"Please make sure Doctor Hollis or Doctor Colfer are handling my current cases, okay? Hollis doesn't normally deal with kids Lisa's age, but he's the best at Saint Vincent's. Colfer can deal with my juvie kids. And keep Doctor Westenra away from Lisa. You know exactly why. Thanks. Yeah, thanks for the head's up. I appreciate it. Yeah, yeah. I'll file my report sometime tomorrow, then. Be careful out there. Bye."

Dylan hung up and stared for a long moment at her phone before throwing it onto the bed and flinging herself back onto the pillows. "Great. I'm on paid suspension thanks to some pompous little beaurocrat filing a complaint because I got between Lisa and the sniper. Ugh," she growled into her hands, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. "I hate beaurocracy. I hate procedure. I hate 'vacation.' I don't want to think of it as 'vacation.' I want to do my job." Dropping her arms to her sides, the human blew a few stray wisps of hair out of her face. "Whatever. Going back to sleep now."

"What happened, milady?" Becan asked timidly. Dylan sighed.

"Nothing major. I'm on 'vacation' until Wednesday because someone complained about my 'conduct." I broke the rules by deliberately putting myself between Lisa and the SWAT sniper. Donovan just has to smooth things over, it's okay. I'm not actually in trouble. It's not like I could get fired or anything. They just have to give me a little time off and set me up with an Eval so they know I'm not suicidal or overworked or anything. Don't worry about it, Becan."

"Are you upset?" Nuada asked. He had been unwillingly fascinated by the speed with which Dylan had come out of sleep to wakefulness and begun negotiating - or trying to negotiate - with her policeman friend on the phone. The prince suddenly realized with a little irritation that Dylan had forgotten his presence in the face of her phone call. The mortal rubbed at one bleary eye with a loose fist before shaking her head.

"Not really." Dylan yawned. "Donovan's an old friend, and a good cop. He'll take care of things for me. And as long as Peabody doesn't get into trouble because that would so tick me off. She's a good cop, too. Sleepy now. Bedtime. Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention - make yourself at home... Your Highness. Just please don't go into the... room at the end of... the hall..."

And the human drifted off to sleep again, leaving Nuada to ponder what he had heard.

Donovan. Peabody. Friends of her? Doubtful they knew of her second life amongst the denizens of twilight, but still. She spoke of them with warmth and affection. Unlike that other. Doctor Westenra. He had never heard Dylan speak of anyone, even Eamonn, with such venom. Who was he?

Well, he would ask when she was awake and more lucid. The Elf prince turned to the little brownie, who patted his mistress lightly on the head before picking up the disgusting cellular contraption. Becan slid down the blanket to the floor and scrambled over to a dresser covered in snowglobes. He climbed up the dresser using the drawer handles and laid the phone between a snowglobe with a forest scene within the glass and a waterglobe of a glittering undersea city. Both were nestled on silver bases engraved with the words I Do Believe in Faeries. All the globes bore those same words.

A reminder, Nuada thought. He counted twelve snow- and waterglobes on the dressertop. All but one bore fantasy scenes. The twelfth was a tiny, snow-dusted graveyard and the words read instead We Do Believe in Faeries. And the year. Nuada calculated and knew Dylan would have been twelve that year. The year she'd thought she lost her twin. Yes, he thought. To remind her, and for remembrance.

Nuada studied the other glass globes for a moment - centaurs, wood nymphs, mermaids and dragons inside crystal balls full of sparkling water - before catching the brownie's eye. Make yourself at home, she had said. Well, then. He certainly would. He had much to think about. And he'd ask about the mysterious room at the end of the hall when she woke up.

"Becan, I require the largest room in this cottage."

"Of course, Your Highness."

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John opened the door to walk out of his apartment and froze. Petra, hunched against the swirling snow in her thick red peacoat, stood on the front stoop. One hand was extended, as if she'd been about to push the doorbell. John blinked and swallowed hard when his oldest sister fixed him with her hazel eyes.

"Um... hi."

"Is Dylan okay?" Petra demanded. When her little brother stepped aside and gestured her in, the forty-something woman swept into the apartment and began to pace the length of the entryway. "I haven't heard from her. None of us have but Francesca, and she said Dylan hung up on her."

Thinking of his exuberant (and highly sexualized) sister, John wasn't surprised to hear that. 'Cesca and Dylan specifically had always rubbed each other the wrong way because Dylan was not one for high levels of sexuality in her every-day, casual contact with other people. Meanwhile, Francesca lived for that sort of thing. Back when the youngest Myers sister had been trying to save sick, helpless faeries, Francesca had been chasing the neighbor boys and trying to kiss them with her bright pink or dark red lipstick that she'd snagged from their mother. They got along better than Dylan did with the rest of their sisters, but eventually 'Cesca's sex-capades got on even Dylan's last nerve.

"Dylan is fine," the government agent replied. "Why didn't you just call her?"

"I did, and left a message." Petra stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, still shivering from the November ice. "She hasn't called back. Francesca said she's got some hot new boyfriend - yeah, right - who's staying at her place and they're screwing like rabbits in March. Does that sound like Dylan to you?"

Thinking of the tall, lethally graceful Other Kin that his twin had brought with her to the situation yesterday, he replied slowly, "Noooo. But that does sound like one of those random and absolutely ridiculous conclusions 'Cesca often jumps to when a man is in any way involved with any of you girls." John absently rubbed the light bruises shackling his wrist. Would that Faerie prince of hers harm her? He wasn't sure.

"I'm worried about her, John." Petra's words snapped him back to the present conversation. "Gawd, she worries all of us. She's always wandering off and disappearing for a weekend or something. Camping with those friends of hers or just being... somewhere. What if she gets into trouble?" Like last time? Like in December? The words remained unspoken but the twenty-one-year-old could taste them shuddering through his big sister. They all remembered what Dylan had looked like in the hospital after vanishing for more than two months. Only John knew the whole of it, because of his (rather weak) Second Sight. Only he knew about the faerie prince that had saved their sister's life and, most likely, her sanity. But even that unearthly warrior hadn't been enough to prevent the vicious damage to Dylan's body... or her brutalized, mutilated face.

The first stirrings of anger (at the men who'd hurt his twin) and sympathy (for his sisters who never knew what to do with the youngest of them, the wildest of them, who rarely made any sense and had always been such a "difficult" child) whispered in John's chest.

"I worry, too," he replied, going to his sister and putting an arm around her. "But I don't worry as much... now." When Petra glanced up at him, puzzled, he knew he had to pick his next words very carefully. "There's someone... looking out for her. Taking care of her. I don't mean spiritually or metaphorically or whatever," John added hastily when Petra frowned at him. "I mean a real, flesh-and-blood person. He won't let anything happen to her."

"A boyfriend?"

"A friend," John said. "But he's a..." He thought of how to finish that sentence. He's a good guy didn't work. John didn't know the Elf - Nuada, that was his name - enough to be able to vouch that way. He cares about her. Didn't work either. Finally he settled for, "He's not someone to tangle with. He'll look out for her."

After a few more words, mostly on inconsequential things like Petra's kids or John's "job hunting," the siblings parted ways. John slid into the icy chill of his Mustang, ready to head towards the Warehouse posing as an IRS building, while his sister headed for the subway.

She worries all of us.

Of course Dylan worried them. She worried him. Having the Sight made her a huge target. It basically stuck a neon sign to her that read Fresh Meat Here to any faerie with an interest in a bite of human flesh - or something more. And life in New York City was not safe, no matter who you were. People died in the streets every day. What was to keep Dylan from becoming one of those unnamed, unknown corpes? And her profession just made it all the more likely. No wonder his sisters were always so snarly. He knew it exasperated them (and frightened them) when Dylan acted like nothing could hurt her; when she refused to let common sense and self-preservation stop her from doing whatever it was she'd set her sights on. Most of the time she ended up okay but sometimes... sometimes she didn't.

Like last December, he thought with a shudder. What could keep his twin from becoming just another crime statistic?

An image of tawny eyes, the phantom memory of otherworldly strength grinding his wrist bones together, eased the sudden stab of worry. That one wouldn't let anything happen to Dylan. He was too proud, too arrogant to let her get hurt. He'd consider it an insult.

Smiling a little now, John eased into the slower-than-molasses-in-January traffic.

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Westenra slammed his fist down on his desk and glared through his office window at his trembling secretary. He snarled into the phone, "What do you mean, she isn't coming?"

"She's on suspension, Doctor," Helena murmured, wondering if she was still going to have her job at the end of this conversation. But strangely, the old psychiatrist began to chuckle, then to laugh. "Doctor?"

"Helena, my dear. You've made me a happy man. Thank you for the information." With those cryptic words, he hung up on the startled woman. So. Doctor Myers was on suspension. He hadn't had a hand in it, but it worked for his plans. It worked much better than what he'd intended, at any rate. Now Myers wouldn't be back on the job until next Wednesday at the earliest. And she had to go in for psychological testing, just to make sure she'd scraped through the rooftop ordeal with no unfortunate side effects. That gave him over a week to poke at the Ramirez girl before Dylan found out.

And I'll put in to be the one who puts her through testing, the psychiatrist though, smiling. She'll have to answer my questions. She'll choke on that bone and rebel, which will get her in more trouble and keep her out of my hair, or she'll submit and I'll finally get another whack at her. Excellent.

With that in mind, Westenra sat back and studied his own patient files. He had a session in fifteen minutes. Just enough time to make another phone call. Pull another string. And make sure that when Doctor Myers had to go in for a psychological evaluation, she would be at his absolute (and non-existent) mercy.

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"Where is your brother?" King Balor demanded of his pacing daughter. Nuala's skirts rustled over the stone floor as she strode back and forth in front of her father's desk. The king glanced at the window, where the sun was slowly sinking towards the horizon. His son and the mortal under his protection had been gone from court for more than a full day. What could they be doing?

"I do not know, Father," Nuala replied, pausing also to glance at the sunset. Stretching out her consciousness towards her twin, she tried to read him. There was very little for her to pick up on at all. Several nearly-fruitless moments passed. "I only feel that he is unharmed," the princess finally replied. "And that he is... very content, wherever he is."

"I shall send the Butchers to every whorehouse in the city, then," Balor groused.

Nuala gasped in shock. "Father!" At the One-Armed King's raised eyebrow, the princess added, "I know that Nuada has often been... a disappointment to us. Still, to assume that he has left us for simple carnal pleasure is unjust of you, Father. Wink told me - as I told you - what my brother said of why they left: Dylan had an emergency in the mortal realm and Nuada did not wish to leave her."

"You can imagine, Princess, that I am reluctant to abide by your brother's word. Especially regarding a human woman. He seeks to destroy our most sacred truce, and shatter our honor - the only thing we have left in this world of mortal metal and machines." Balor sighed and pressed a hand to his temple. "There are times I think this human woman may be a good influence on Nuada - the way he defended her and fought for her, endured for her. And what you told me of the night before last... that he held her, sang to her to give her solace. Surely she has some effect on him, and yet it is too much to hope that he may change after so long. I have mourned Nuada as one dead for so long, for I believed him lost to us. I find it... difficult to believe he could be salvaged at the eleventh hour."

"As long as they remain together, we will be fine either way, Father. Either she will change him, or she will be the means of removing his support. Either way..."

"And if Our designs put her in danger, Your Highness?" Balor sat back and studied his daughter. Her connection to her twin brother - and his connection to her - made her an unsuitable candidate to be queen. Yet Nuada could not be king, either. Not so long as his hatred for humanity burned like hellfire in his heart.

Did his daughter have the stomach for putting an innocent mortal in danger to protect thousands? Unrest simmered beneath the silken surface of the Court of Bethmoora in the wake of the prince's return and the revelation of his mortal "lady." The king's spies had whispered much into his ears - courtiers pulling their support, both financial and political, from the crown prince. Even more dangerous, there was talk that the Silver Lance had somehow been bewitched by human magic, and that the prince would probably reward any woman who freed him of the spell. Yet Balor would not - could not - free his only son and the mortal from the trap of court politics that had been set around them. Would Nuala side with her king, or her twin in this?

"If your plans put Lady Dylan in danger, Majesty..." The Elf princess trailed off, gazing out at the oncoming dark. Nuada was out there somewhere. With Dylan, if Wink was to be believed. Safe. For the moment. She remembered her brother's eyes whenever the human woman came into the room: fierce, protective, every instinct on alert to danger. "If what we must do places Dylan in danger, Nuada will protect her. Of that I am sure."

Just as she protects him. Nuala did not know how she knew it, or even what the words meant. Only that they were true.