Chapter 29 - The House in the Wood

that is

A Short Tale of Questions, Rumors and Messages, Silken Traps, Teasing and Tangles, a Rescue, Laughter, and the Threads of Sanity

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It was then that her bedroom door swung slowly open. Dylan glanced up and met unfathomable golden eyes. Her heart, only recently returned to its normal rhythm, sped up again. She swallowed and waited for him to come into the room, but he didn't. He merely stood in the doorway, as pale and ethereal as moonlight in winter. Only his eyes were alive. They blazed like amber fire as they studied her face. Dylan had the uncomfortable feeling that the Elf warrior saw a lot more than she guessed at, or wanted him to see.

"I want to ask you a question," Nuada said into the silence. "Do not lie. Do not prevaricate. Speak the plain truth. Understand?"

She nodded.

For a long moment, he watched her. When the question finally came, Dylan saw that each word weighed on him like a stone. "If I were... some other, would you agree to this? Would you have agreed to any of this?"

Meaning the courtship, yes, and the marriage thing. But also the sacrifice, nearly dying, always trying to save him no matter the cost. All of it. And darn it, Nuada had asked for the truth. She couldn't lie to him.

"Probably not. Well... if it was someone I didn't know as well as I know you, someone I didn't..."

Love, her heart whispered.

Shut the heck up, her brain snarled. I can't afford to fall in love. Not with how screwed up everything is; me, my life. I can't do this!

"If it was someone I wasn't as loyal to, someone I didn't care for as deeply as I do for... for you, then probably not." Dylan looked away then, to study the intricate patterns of flowers and trees on the bedroom carpet. The interminable silence between her and the Elf Prince seemed heavy as winter snow. Finally she asked, "Does that make you think less of me?"

More silence. She couldn't meet his eyes. Why couldn't she meet his eyes? Because it would hurt for him to tell me he's fond of me and then have that sentiment snatched away because I've been revealed to be a coward in his eyes, Dylan thought bitterly. And he thinks I'm a coward now. Or something. He thinks less of me for this. Or else why doesn't he say anything?

"Another question. And Dylan," the Elven warrior added, each word slow and deliberate. "I will know if you lie." He waited until she glanced up at him and nodded tentatively. "What are you giving up by agreeing to this?" Nuada frowned when, instead of answering, Dylan dropped her head into her hands and groaned. "What is it?"

"Why do you have to ask such inconvenient questions?" She demanded, tangling her fingers in her hair. "Why do you even care what I'm giving up?"

A good question, and one for which he possessed no answer. He only knew that it was important. So instead Nuada said, "I demand an answer."

"Well, good for you, but I'm not your dog and I don't have to give into your stupid demands," Dylan snapped, then clapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry. Your Highness, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That was so rude. I'm sorry." She groaned, then sighed. She didn't want to tell him... well, any of it. It wasn't his problem. It wasn't something she had the right to burden him with, especially considering what was going on at Court. And really, he would probably think it was stupid. It kind of was, in the grand scheme of things. Yet he wanted to know. Maybe... maybe if she explained, he could do something.

Do what, exactly? She growled at herself. Nothing. What do I think is going to happen? That he'll what? If it comes down to the wire, he'll marry me for real and we'll have cute little kids like I've always wanted to have and I'll be his little human princess and we'll live happily ever after? Oh, yeah. Like that'll ever happen. And then she blinked as the bitterness suddenly penetrated her brain. Whoa. Where did all that come from? Maybe she was more upset by this than she'd realized.

"I..." Dylan dropped her gaze back to the floor. Bat, who'd slunk into the room between Nuada's ankles, scrambled up onto the bed and butted his head against her elbow. She absently rubbed behind his ears. "If I do what you ask... if we have to get married... I'll never... never have a child."

The sudden, sharp pain was like the stab of a needle in her chest. She imagined that for just a moment - never having a baby. She'd known that the Sight would interfere with her plans for marriage and family. Probably even make it impossible. So would the damage she'd incurred to her body throughout her life. That didn't mean she was okay with just losing every possible chance of being a mother in one fell swoop. At Balor's whim! Or the whim of this other Elf king, the one Nuada called the Dragon of Dilong. Dylan knew it would take a long time for her to be all right with losing that dearest dream of hers: carrying life inside her; bearing the child of a man she loved more than anything; and having a family, a real family, which so many had said she could never have.

And that was the hardest part of it, she realized. Dylan wanted the kind of family she'd missed out on as a kid. Two dreams, two hopes, sacrificed because of her loyalties.

This is what it means to serve a royal, though, she told herself. To be loyal to a prince. It means that I have to put what is best for him first. Nobody else will.

Letting that thought sink in, knowing she had to stand by him unless the Spirit told her otherwise, Dylan swallowed hard, closed her eyes, and said, "I'll never have a real family."

Except my brother, and you, she wanted to add, but didn't. Instead she bit down hard on her tongue to keep any other stupid words that wouldn't help the situation locked behind her teeth.

Nuada studied her for a long moment. Did she know that he could see the grief in her face? Doubtful. Dylan despised crying, or showing any kind of weakness. Seeing her pain was a testament to the strength of it. She would not thank him for commenting on it. And yet... Never have a child. Her voice had been brittle, the look in her eyes even moreso. Never have a real family. From somewhere far away, he remembered Becan's words about Dylan's love for her sisters: family means much to my lady.

And he thought of Dylan: the softness in her voice when she spoke of her "kids;" the way she had cradled the halfling child to her breast as if it were her own. For a split second Nuada saw an image in his mind of the mortal woman, belly gently rounded with child, the quiet joy found in that tiny growing life shining within the depths of her fey-like eyes. And whose child would it be? Not his - never mine, he thought, bewildered the idea had even occurred to him - so why did it even matter? Yet for some reason it all did... and for every reason he could think of, he could not let it. Nuada was sorry for that, though it took him a moment to recognize the sentiment as such.

Father, if it comes to this, the Elf prince thought, if it comes down to hurting her so deeply to save my people, because of this foolish scheme of yours... I will never forgive you. She has been more loyal to me than any other, save Wink. She deserves better than this. But if he had to choose between a mortal of whom he was inexplicably fond, or his kingdom and people, the choice was clear. He was a prince. The crown prince. He would sacrifice, and so would she, if the Emperor of Dilong - or someone, anyone else - became a threat to Bethmoora.

After another moment of silence where she could not seem to bring herself to look at him, Nuada asked softly, "Do you wish me to leave your home?"

Dylan's eyes flew wide and she straightened.

"No!" Instantly, vehemently. Surprised he would even ask, she put the cat aside, slid off her bed and marched over to him. Mind-numbing personal revelations or not, there was no possible way she was going to let him walk out into a blizzard simply because she'd just realized she had a crush on him and that her life had to be shuffled to one side. Having him in the cottage for however long would probably suck (No probably about it, she thought) but no way in Hades was she kicking him out just because of that. "No! Besides, it's freezing outside," she reminded him. "And it's snowing! You'll catch pneumonia or-"

"I am an Elf, Dylan. My body is stronger than-"

"Then you'll catch Elf-pneumonia," she growled in exasperation, crossing her arms. A lift of her chin dared him to contradict her. "Haven't you heard of it? It's very catching and extremely fatal. Don't you dare leave this house when it's storming outside, Your Highness." She thought of Nuada disappearing into the blinding snow swirling outside. Never coming back. She had to fight the sudden stab of panic and sorrow. What if something happened to him? Softly now, Dylan added, "You'll freeze out there. You... you don't even have a coat or anything. And," as a sudden afterthought, "begging Your Highness's pardon, but I'll hunt you down and kick you in the shins if you leave me in the middle of a blizzard." She'd been saying all this to Nuada's chest. Now she took a moment to steel herself before glancing up into his face. The easy half-smile curving his mouth took her by surprise. "What?"

Dylan had to fight the instinctive flinch when Nuada brushed back a stray lock of her hair. The gentle rasp of warm, callused fingers against her temple made her stomach flutter and her already thumping heart speed up. Oh, for crying out loud. I feel like I'm twelve, she mentally grumbled. Get a freaking grip.

"It is... nice, to be wanted somewhere," the Elf Prince said softly. "That is all."

"You're always welcome here, Nuada." They locked eyes and she forced herself to smile. "Always. And sorry for running away or whatever. I needed a..."

"A female moment."

She blinked. "Pardon?"

His shrug was easy as he turned to walk back down the hall. "It is what my sister calls them, when a woman needs to be alone for a time. I understand, Dylan." His grin, when the Elf warrior glanced over his shoulder at her, was wicked. "Of course any female offered potential access to such a fine example of male pulchritude would need a moment to compose herself."

She rolled her eyes, laughing, and followed after him. "Oh, yeah. That's it, that's exactly it." One hand to her heart and the other cast to her forehead, she affected a mock-swoon. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but just the idea of even being in the same room as your incomparable self makes me feel faint."

Nuada's wry chuckle made her grin. He needed to laugh more often. And just like that, Dylan thought, still laughing, I have a grip on myself again. Thank goodness; maybe it was just a momentary lapse in judgment. Or maybe I was having a flashback or something and it was making me over-sensitive. Here's hoping.

Dylan didn't feel like being honest with herself just then.

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Jenny Hob, head housekeeper of the palace of Findias, gestured for the servant girl to rise from her curtsy. Then she glanced at the hastily scribbled message in her hand. The hob woman would have paced, but the girl would've taken that as a sign that her superior was worried. Jenny could not give the lower servants an inkling that she was in any way concerned about the halfling babe below stairs. Things were not bad... yet. At least, she hoped they weren't.

"How long has the child been ill?" Jenny asked the girl - Lilé was her name, wasn't it? Yes, Lilé.

Lilé bowed her head and murmured, "Since Sunday morning, ma'am." The hob girl twisted her fingers together as she added, "Mistress Siobhan said at first it was only the babe cutting teeth, that sometimes bairns suffer little fevers when a new tooth is ready to come. But the fever has slowly gotten worse. It would not be so bad, Mistress Siobhan says, except that it has been three days now and every time she manages to get it to break, it comes back the next day even hotter."

Jenny stared at the note again. Siobhan was one of the midwives and nurses for orphaned servant children. She knew her business, and if she could not break a simple child's fever and keep it broken... Jenny did not know what to think, about that or the missive.

Find Mister Wink and tell him the child is terribly sick. The crown prince will want to know.

Find Wink, the one-eyed troll who served the king's son. As if such a thing was as easy as soothing a frightened child, or cleaning the palace windows. Find the silver troll and give him a message for Prince Nuada, who would not be found if he didn't wish to be (and from all accounts, he did not wish to be).

And if one of the servants did find Wink or even the prince, what then? What did Siobhan expect His Highness, who had no useful healing gifts, to do about a sick halfling child? Unless the rumors were true, and the bairn was in fact the get of Lady Dylan, the prince's truelove. The Silver Lance had given the babe an unusual amount of attention in the few days he had been in Findias. Especially unusual, as all knew His Highness was uncomfortable around small children. Yet the mortal woman had not been to see the child even once. Surely she was not its mother. Surely... and yet humans were a cruel race. Would it have surprised Jenny to find a human who cared nothing for her own brood? Not in the least. Such heartless beings existed everywhere in the mortal world. But for the prince to give his heart to such a one...

Unless she has bewitched him somehow, Jenny mused, staring into the fire. There are rumors flying about that she is a witch. Humans are cunning, and ruthless. Cruel, too. Perhaps somehow she has snared His Highness against his will. After all, how else had a mortal woman won the heart of Nuada Silverlance, who loathed mankind with his whole self?

"Pardon me, ma'am, but... what are we going to do?" Lilé murmured, jerking the older woman's attention back to reality. "About the child? Should we send one of the stable lads to find His Highness's valet?"

"Yes," Jenny replied, coming to a swift decision. "Fetch Colum McCleod and bring him to me. He should have just finished supper. He knows the township better than the rest of the lads; he will find Wink, if anyone can."

Lilé bobbed another curtsy and hurried to obey. As the door swung shut behind the hob maiden, Jenny crumpled up Siobhan's note and tossed it into the flames. As the paper curled and began to brown in the heat of the hearth, she sighed. The servants loved their prince - as did she. Jenny could still easily recall the impetuous, but almost always courteous boy from millennia ago. Caspar used to sneak him currant buns before dinner when His Highness was just a wee thing, she remembered. And the prince was always willing to open a door for a maid, or carry something heavy. When he'd gone into exile, the palace servants had mourned. Now he was returned, but under a dark and heavy cloud. If he was under the human woman's wicked spell, were those who loved His Highness best not obligated to break it?

And how are we to break it? Jenny wondered. Legends say to kill a witch is to break her spell. Do we kill the human, then? The prince can have no inkling of such a plan or he will try to stop us. And what if their love is a true one? The Lady Dylan was kind to all the servants and never had a cross word to say to any. Is that the sign of a witch? How can any of us be certain of her?

Jenny didn't know, but if more proof came forth that the human woman was not what she seemed, if the Lady Dylan was a danger to His Highness... she had no doubt that if no other would, she would bring an end to the mortal who had stolen Prince Nuada's heart.

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Bres smiled as Dierdre finished tying a knot and laid the strange braid she'd been fiddling with on the vanity before the large mirror in her room. Ciaran leaned over his sister's shoulder to study the piece. The female gancanaugh glared at her older brother. Ciaran merely ignored her and took in the intricate braidwork of the spell his sister had put such time and effort into. Finally, he leaned back.

"You forgot the blue."

"You're joking," Dierdre snapped, startled, but groaned when she studied the thread-spell and realized that, amidst the scarlet, black, burgundy, silver, and blood-red threads, there was not even a hint of blue silk cord. "I cannot believe I did that. Ugh!"

"Stand aside, Sister," Ciaran said, and gently pushed her out of the way with a rustle of her voluminous skirts. Dierdre hissed at him.

Folding her arms, she leaned back against Bres and pouted. "If I hadn't been so distracted, I wouldn't have forgotten. I know how to do dream spells," she insisted. "Scarlet for anger, black for madness, burgundy for sex, silver for memory, and blood-red for violence. Thirteen knots for a dark purpose. Silken cord, for a silken trap. I know how to weave a dream spell!"

"Easy, my sweet," Prince Bres murmured, watching Ciaran deftly unknot and unweave the braid. Unlike Dierdre, her brother wore gloves to keep his tactile poison from infecting the threads. "No one is doubting you." When she continued to pout, the Fomorian prince pressed his lips to her temple. "But you forgot that blue is for nightmares... and we want Nuada to have nightmares, don't we, beloved?"

Silken cord for a silken trap. How many sides did a trap have? How many hidden pitfalls full of deadly spikes and spears? Bres had made sure that, before setting out for Bethmoora, everything was taken care of regarding those traps. There were snares for the princess, snares for the One-Armed King and the Silver Lance. Snares for a mortal woman who'd given her heart to the scarred warrior prince who (it was said, at least) had given her his own immortal heart in turn. And then there were the traps meant not to snare, but to attack. To slip in under the guard, to weaken that guard, the walls that any warrior kept around them, until those walls crumbled. Traps to patiently scrape away at a king or prince's strength. A king or prince's grip on reality. Traps to shatter the tenuous hold any magical being had on the tangible world, and the thin veneer of civilization that all fae hid behind, no matter who they were.

Even Nuada Silverlance hid behind that civilized mask. At least when he wasn't on the battlefield. Even he was close to the wildness of the magic that flowed in Elven blood, royalty or no. In fact, his royal blood probably held him just a bit closer to that wildness than other Fayre. Then there was his exile, and the effects of dwelling so long amongst the humans and the poisons of their world.

All of which meant that his grip on the wild magic in him and the vicious, violent rage that mingled with it (not to mention the grip on his sanity), was tenuous at best. It meant that, with enough of that pricking and scraping, the Elf's grip would loosen. Stretch.

Eventually, it would snap.

The problem - the very complicated, delicate, must-be-carefully-handled problem - was that Bres wanted that control to snap at a very specific point: when Nuada was alone with his human lady. Out of reach of any who might help either one of them. Even out of reach of the silver cave troll that wouldn't hesitate to throw his life away in defense of the prince of Bethmoora. And that meant that the Fomorian prince's faithful companions would have to be very, very careful about the effects of the dream spells they were weaving now. If the leash the prince kept on his feyness snapped before they were ready, things could go very badly for Prince Bres. They had to time this absolutely right.

Luckily, Dierdre and Ciaran were very good at timing. And both gancanaugh were very good at weaving Birog's well-timed illusion spells into the dream spells Dierdre had prepared. Once the spells were finished, they could be delivered to Iolo, who was still keeping an eye on the human's cottage when he could. And if he could not unleash the spells... well, there was always Eamonn.

"Which do you think Nuada will dream of, my love?" Bres murmured in Dierdre's delicately pointed ear. She shivered, and her pout melted into a smile. Ciaran continued to braid the silken threads together into a thirteen-knotted braid. An unfinished noose of silk and magic and poison. "Which do you think will haunt him when we unleash the first spell? Remembrance and regret, or brutality and rage? Violence, or vice?"

She turned to slip her arms around his neck. Her fingers twisted in his golden hair. "Maybe we'll get lucky and it will be all of them." Bres grinned and kissed her. Tasted the poisonous Tears on her lips. Kissed her harder.

Maybe it would be all of them. He hoped so. After all, there were more spells where this one came from.

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At first Nuada, reluctant to venture too far from Dylan's side in case of another vile memory-dream, slept on the sofa in the den. Dylan tried to protest that he could sleep in her bed and that she would take the sofa - for one thing, she actually fit on the two-seater without her lower legs dangling off one end or getting a crick in her neck; for another, Nuada was a prince and she was a commoner; he was also, Dylan pointed out, a guest. But for the first four nights he spent in the cottage, he wouldn't hear of it. So she slept in her room, Becan slept curled up on a cushion in front of her door (acting as a sort of faerie guard dog/chaperone, the prince supposed), and Nuada occupied the sofa in the den (which had now become his make-shift training room).

Her only condition had been to forbid him from wearing his boots while he slept. Unfortunately, Bat had a fierce affection for exposed toes. After the first night of insistent pouncing on unprotected feet with razor-sharp kitten claws (and being awoken by very inventive Gaelic profanity being snarled by an irate Elf prince), Dylan kept the little beast in her room with her.

Their only contact with the outside world in those four days of snow-bound confinement had been two things. The first had been when Dylan emailed Peabody her report on the rooftop-incident Monday night, using her smart-phone (since she didn't have a computer and couldn't get through the snow to the library without outside assistance).

The second was when Wink had arrived on the edge of dawn Tuesday morning, bearing a large leather satchel and Nuada's sword in its black leather sheath. The Elf prince and the silver troll had exchanged a few words in the Troll tongue before Wink turned to Dylan and grumbled something. Dylan glanced at the amber-eyed warrior with raised brows.

"He says you are too skinny and need to eat more," the fae prince translated, and grinned when Dylan folded her arms across her chest and mock-scowled at the troll. Wink had offered her a casual salute - which she'd returned with a smile - and trudged off into the swirling snow.

Nuada watched his oldest and dearest friend disappear into the storm, his heart heavy. He had suggested Wink stay with them, phrasing it as a casual thought instead of a royal command because the silver troll despised being cooped up in cramped quarters. He barely fit through Dylan's front door, which had been crafted with large fey in mind. Wink had cautiously suggested that he would better serve his prince gathering more information about the third Golden Crown piece.

"After all," the burly troll had rumbled to the Elf prince with a carefully straight face, "eventually you'll have to leave your fair lady's side, my prince, though it must pain you. Even her charms cannot compete with finding the final piece and completing our mission." Nuada had glanced at Wink's too-innocent expression, rolled his eyes and reminded the troll that while he was larger, the prince was faster, and in the practice ring the Elf warrior could - and would - make him pay for such mockery. Wink had only laughed. The Elf knew his friend thought it good to hear Nuada jesting again. It seemed to be happening with more and more frequency the longer he was around the human he had inexplicably grown fond of.

"You don't have to stay here if you don't want to, Nuada," Dylan said suddenly, breaking him from his thoughts. He shut the door and turned to where the mortal stood in her pajamas - a thin, long-sleeved blue shirt and black pants. Blue and white striped socks poked out from beneath the hems of her pants. She was scrunching her toes again. "I won't be mad or have hysterics if you go back to your lair or whatever it is."

"Oh?"

"I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself," she said, smiling. When he just looked at her, faintly incredulous, she scowled in mock-outrage and flexed one bicep. "I can! Look at that. Almost as big as yours." She rolled her eyes at herself and giggled, a surprisingly non-irritating sound.

He scoffed and shook his head, mouth twitching. "Hardly."

"Because of course, being an Elven warrior, you've got Herculean biceps of steel."

Actually, come to think of it, he probably did, she realized. Well, whatever. She could see a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. That's what she'd been aiming for anyway. He'd gotten that same wistful look on his face watching Wink walk away as that day in his work room. It had hurt her heart to see such an unguarded, lost expression on his face. Hence the teasing and the silliness.

Nuada arched a brow. That had sounded an awful lot like a challenge. His pride as an Elven warrior and a prince kept him from letting such a challenge go unpunished. With an imperious gesture, he brought her to stand beside him.

"Wrap your hand there."

She laid one hand on his upper arm, her fingers curling around his bicep. Her touch was surprisingly warm through the silk of his black shirt. Almost distractingly so. Dylan glanced up at him from beneath her raised brows, a challenge clear in her eyes. The Elf warrior tensed his arm, just a little, and grinned when Dylan's mouth dropped open as her fingers were prised apart by the flexing muscle.

"You were saying, milady?"

"I was saying 'holy crow, you've got some serious muscle.' John used to be able to do that when he was in weight-training in high school," Dylan replied, laughing a little. "Men and their muscles; jeez. Though I should warn you, Francesca would have a heart attack if she ever saw you training with your lance. She's got a thing for really ripped guys and their macho muscles," the mortal added, rolling her eyes again. "I'm never showing her your picture or she'd drown in her own drool. Anyway, what's in the pack that Wink brought you?"

The satchel held spare clothes for the Elf prince. He immediately hopped into Dylan's shower, desperate for a chance to finally bathe. Wearing the same clothes from Sunday to Tuesday had been bearable, but the Elf did not particularly enjoy doing so. The hot water sluicing over his body had also eased the residual weather-ache in his arm (and the pain in his back; what was that sofa made of? Stone?) and Nuada luxuriated in the first hot shower he'd been able to enjoy in a while. The best part was that once he stepped out, he would not have to deal with sycophantic courtiers or his father's disdain or even the ever-present stink of humanity that pervaded the subway tunnels. Dylan's cottage still smelled of lilies and roses - just like the healing sanctuary. And her shower smelled of the sweet pea and violet soap, and the various floral- and fruit-perfumed shampoos she often used; a bouquet of scents that reminded him of the Prince's Garden at Findias, one of his rare sanctuaries at the palace.

Only one thing marred the joy of a blisteringly hot shower in winter. When his hair was wet, it tended to kink up a bit. An unavoidable disadvantage to having hair that hung past his shoulders. Luckily Wink had thought to provide him a comb to untangle the snarls. As Nuada sat in front of the den's fireplace, combing the knots from his still-damp hair, Dylan walked in with a mug of steaming cider, took one look at him and started giggling.

"And just what is so amusing?"

"You. Doing your hair." The mortal curled up on a chair beside her cat, wearing another baggy sweater - silvery-blue this time, a tone that matched her eyes and (surprisingly) the tunic Nuada had laid out for himself for after his hair dried - sipping the hot cider. Bat shifted and rolled around, trying to stretch before he slipped off the arm of the chair and landed on the floor with a plop. He immediately began to wash as if he'd meant to fall and why were the silly two-leggers looking at him anyway? He mewed at his female two-legger, an imperious command. She nuzzled under his chin with her foot. This was deemed an acceptable offering of devotion and the kitten began to purr.

Sipping the steaming drink, Dylan studied the shirtless Elf prince seated in front of her fireplace as he combed his hair and she drove Bat to dazzling new heights of feline pleasure with her foot. Nuada looked tired, she thought. Worn down. Even moreso than when she'd first met him. Which should not have been true, because when she'd first met him he'd been sick with iron-fatigue, lead poisoning, and the venom from a magical snake that had bitten him only a few months before that December night; now, he should have been healthier, and for some reason wasn't. The shadows around his eyes were darker than they'd been that first night in the subway so long ago. And the weariness in those firegold eyes... It all worried her.

What also worried her was the fluttery feeling that bubbled in her stomach whenever the light from the hearth danced over Nuada's shoulders and back. She couldn't help the way her eyes lingered on the parallel scars that ridged his right shoulder, or the fading silvery-white lines that were the only evidence of the flogging he had so recently endured. Her doctor's instinct made her look at those marks to double-check the healing. But it was the part of her that was purely woman that kept her eyes on the scarred expanse of well-muscled bare back while Nuada ran the comb through his damp hair.

I shouldn't be thinking about him like this, Dylan snarled when she caught herself imagining for the fifth time what those twin ridged scars would feel like under her fingertips. She took a nearly-scalding sip of cider. That's just... wrong. Very, very wrong. So wrong. I am a bad person for thinking these things. Besides, if I keep this up, he'll know! She wasn't sure how Nuada would find out, but Dylan had no doubt that he would. He was canny that way. And he had the nicest shoulders... Jeez! No. No, no, no. Crud.

She'd already embarrassed herself by confessing to liking Nuada's hands. What other various humiliations did she want to heap on herself? He did have nice shoulders, though. And a very nice back. Dylan had read about "rippling muscles" in romance novels before, and thought it was a hack-phrase to show how manly a novel's hero was supposed to be. She'd never thought the day would come when she could actually say she knew someone who had rippling muscles.

But he does. Her eyes drifted over the well-toned muscles that she knew came from hours of relentless training. Dylan absently took a sip of cider. It wasn't fair. It would've been quite a bit easier to force herself not to think about him this way, and what she'd realized about herself, if he wasn't so... so...

Handsome. The word came unbidden, and settled into her mind like a block of concrete to pester her, along with one other. Perfect.

Shut up! She snarled at herself. Aloud she asked, "After this, are you going to train some more?"

"That would defeat the purpose of bathing and putting on dry clothes, would it not? As I have limited clothing, in order not to dirty the clothes I wear now I would have to strip and train naked."

Nuada frowned when Dylan choked and sputtered. Relaxed when she winced and muttered, "Ow. Sorry. Burned my tongue." After a moment, she added, "You know, I can wash your clothes if you need me to."

The Elf rolled his eyes at the face she made while she stuck out her burnt tongue to cool it and ignored the offer. "You should be more careful," he said instead. His mouth quirked when Dylan made a small "hmmn" sound of irritation. He glanced back at her. The mortal crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out further in retaliation. "Better be careful, mo duinne, or your face might get stuck that way," Nuada said casually, and was rewarded by Dylan's laughter.

Suddenly she said in a very small voice, "Have I ever mentioned, Your Highness... that I love it when you call me 'mo duinne?' Because I really do." The prince raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the odd feeling her words gave him. He hadn't meant to call her my brown one just then. It had merely slipped out. She made it so easy to relax around her. So she liked the name, did she? Nuada suddenly remembered the way she had grinned when he'd called her "mo duinne" before the court. Recalled the sleepy words from the morning before about how the name made her feel safe.

The prince opened his mouth to say something - he was unsure what it would have been, but something - but then Dylan hid behind her mug of cider. He waited, but the mortal said nothing else. After an interminable silence, Nuada went back to combing his hair.

I love it when you call me 'mo duinne.' Why had he called her that? They were not at court; there was no one to put on that sort of show for. He knew he needed to get into the habit of calling Dylan milady because his father would be keeping an eye out for such things. But the Gaelic endearment was not required. He needed to more carefully guard his tongue around the human. Keep such saccharine sentiments to a minimum. Getting into those kinds of habits would expose him to ridicule he was not in the mood for.

Once again he thought of Lord Finbar and Lord Galen; old friends, and at one time, comrades-in-arms. And yet they'd publicly snubbed him. All for the sake of a single lowly mortal woman. Just one of the first pebbles in the avalanche his father had set in motion with the courtship charade. Did the king even care that an innocent woman and the king's own son were put in danger through this scheme? And what about Nuala? What sort of dangers would this stupid, cruel trap of his father's inflict on his innocent sister? Not for the first time since Balor had tightened this silken noose, Nuada had to suppress the feeling of being stalked and hunted like an animal.

You're always welcome here, Nuada. Always. Words, softly spoken, in the dimness. I go when you go. Do with me what you will. Words of welcome and words of loyalty. Words spoken in jest and seriousness. Words of total surrender. I love you. Mortal words that eased that edgy sensation of some monster breathing down the back of his neck. Mortal words from mortal lips, words that should not ring with the utter convinction he heard in them.

Suddenly he thought once more of a pale pink flower. Honor and bravery. I thought it fit. And I know you. What kind of person you are. I trust you with my life. Only one other trusted him to such an extent. Wink. Nuala should have trusted him thus. So should his father. But there was only a silver cave troll and a mortal woman.

"Begging your pardon, my prince, but you are such a girl," Dylan said some time later, breaking into his thoughts. "You know you've been doing your hair for almost an hour?"

He scowled at her. The memory of her old words was still circling in his mind like a shark. "And how long does your hair take you?"

Now she grinned. He could see it even though most of her mouth was hidden by her mug. "Less than an hour." For some reason, the look he gave her then made her lower the mug of cider so he could see her smile. "Although maybe it's not that you're being girly." The prince scowled anew at the term. "Maybe it's me. At the institution, you had to be quick in the showers unless you wanted to deal with stepping on cockroaches with wet, bare feet. I washed my hair super-fast, rinsed, and shook it out to keep it from tangling too bad. Didn't take more than fifteen minutes. Wasn't allowed to comb it - combs were considered dangerous weapons - and the other kids kept stealing my brushes."

"Did no adults try to stop them?" He demanded.

She scoffed. Nuada noticed her toes, now in silly pink socks with white hearts, curling and uncurling where they peeked out from beneath the hems of her pants. He knew from the last two days that Dylan only did that when she was agitated. "The banes of my existence had better - and worse - things to do than prevent the loss of my hairbrush, Your Highness. And it wasn't just me. Everyone stole from each other. It was a way for us to feel somewhat in control. Anyway, super-fast hair-washing is a good skill to have when I'm running late for work," the mortal added cheerfully.

"You? Be anything but punctual? I would never believe it," Nuada said with a completely straight face.

Dylan laughed as she sipped her cider. "You think you're so funny."

"When I choose, I am the epitome of humor. I have managed to steal a laugh or two from your mouth, have I not?" He allowed himself a brief smile when she laughed again. Surprisingly, the Elf warrior realized he enjoyed making Dylan laugh. She did not do so nearly often enough. Somberness did not fit with her, at least in his mind.

I will let myself enjoy being here, the prince decided, for as long as I can, without worrying about politics or war. This place is... outside of all the world's sorrows. Time enough to worry about my burdens after I am forced to leave. And no one will know if I soften towards her a little in private. Perhaps it will help our performance during the courtship charade. It can't hurt, at any rate.

When Nuada finished with his hair, he withdrew from the satchel two of the three things he had specifically asked for: his carving knife, and the half-finished ebony handle meant for Dylan's dirk. The finished blade was wrapped in cloth in the satchel as well. While Dylan nursed her mug of cider and stared into the fire, the Elf set to work finishing the dirk's hilt. Two days, tops, and it would be finished. Once it was finished, he would teach her to use it. Hopefully she had no objection to learning how to gut a man. If she did...

Oh, well, the golden-eyed warrior thought grimly. She will learn it anyway, and much more.

Sitting down to dinner that night, Dylan said softly, "I really hope you don't feel obligated to stay here to guard me or anything, Your Highness."

Nuada gave her a look that expressed nothing and started to eat. She nodded as if the Elf had spoken and decided that, at the rate the prince was devouring the four-cheese lasagna she'd made, he probably liked it. Two dinners, two successes. Hopefully I can keep up my glowing track record.

.

Since she couldn't go to work, Dylan used Tuesday and Wednesday to catch up on her records and review her patient files. And, though the hand that didn't hold her cell phone was shaking, she made the arrangements for Rafael's funeral. It would be simple: pine-wood coffin, flat concrete headstone instead of raised marble. No frills or extra stuff. But at least it was something. The date was set for next Wednesday; the day after her psychological evaluation, the day the psychiatrist would return to work. That way there would be no hissy-fits or any other trouble when she escorted Lisa to the cemetery. Dylan also called Cilfa'lir, her favorite flower shop, and found out the price for two roses, red and white, without thorns.

Nuada found Dylan seated at the kitchen table Wednesday evening, her head cradled in her arms. Her phone lay on the table beside a notepad and pen. Scribbled on the notepad were numbers that looked like prices, a date and time, an address, and the names of several people with phone numbers beside them. The ink on the page was smeared in places, as if from drops of water. The prince studied the mortal from the doorway. Was she asleep?

Just then that obnoxious little contraption shrieked. Dylan groaned and lifted her head. Nuada saw tear tracks staining her too-pale cheeks. But she merely swiped at them with one hand and checked her phone.

"Uh-oh. Well, maybe she's in a good mood today." She clicked TALK. In a cheerful voice that hid any sign of distress, she said, "Hello, Petra, darling. What can I do for you?"

Hatred and fury knotted together in Nuada's belly the instant he realized Dylan's oldest sister was on the line. Seething, he rapped his knuckles against the kitchen doorframe, alerting Dylan to his presence. The moment her eyes fell on him, the tension and weariness in her face eased and she smiled. A real smile. So despite the rage churning within him, he strode in and sank into a chair beside her. Her smile widened.

She held up a finger and mouthed, "Just a sec." She listened to whatever her shrew of a sister said, nodding. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry you were worried... I haven't called because I've been busy with work and stuff. No, I'm not going to tell you what stuff. Doctor-patient confidentiality, remember?" There was a blast of shrill static-filled chatter that made Dylan wince. Nuada's fingers itched for his lance. "Please don't call me that. It's not an excuse, it's the law. And no, whatever you heard from Francesca, she's exaggerating. I'm not dating anyone, I promise. I'm not sleeping with anyone, either... I'm sorry I missed Gardenia's Halloween party. I had an emergency. A friend of mine was in trouble and I had to go out of town for a few days." More crackling static. The Elf prince picked out several rude words among the electronic chatter. "No, honey, that's not it. I'm not doing drugs aga-"

Nuada reached over and plucked the phone from Dylan's grasp. He had seen her work the vile thing before. Without a word, or a glance in the mortal's direction, he clicked END and dropped the phone on the table with a thunk.

"I can't believe you did that," she said incredulously. He did look at her then. Did she see the rage burning molten bronze in his eyes?

"Are you angry?"

"No," Dylan said slowly. Nuada actually looked like he was bracing for something, but at her response, his body slowly began to relax. "Actually, I sort of feel like you just rescued me from a slow death being disolved in verbal acid. If you were anyone else, Your Highness, I'd kiss you, but I don't want you to throw up on me so I'll restrain myself."

The bronze-eyed warrior did not want to think about Dylan kissing him (fondness only stretched so far), so instead he demanded, "Why do you allow her to speak to you that way? Why do you let any of them speak to you in such a hateful-"

"Because she's my sister," Dylan said with one of those half-shrugs. A stretchy, black shape climbed into Dylan's lap and she scratched Bat between his too-large ears. "Because I love her. Don't I, Mr. Bats? I love my sisters, huh?"

The kitten purred and rolled over onto his back so that his person could scratch his furry belly and maintain the order of the universe.

"And," the mortal added, "because they love me. It's just that their perception of love is skewed. That and I've... done some things in the past that they still haven't forgotten. And because Petra has every right to yell at me about this specifically. I should have called, and I didn't. She was worried, but I didn't feel like talking to her. Kept pushing it off and pushing it off because I just didn't want to deal with it. Shouldn't have done that. Even a text would've worked but I just didn't feel like bothering, so.... After my disappearance back in December, my sisters made me promise not to go disappearing on them again unless I was honestly in trouble and couldn't call in. That's why I left John the note. That's also why they were so angry, because I'd scared them before and this time I wasn't in trouble. John shouldn't have bothered them, but he tends to panic where I'm concerned. I would've actually called him, but everything happened so fast..."

She shrugged.

"Anyway, when I'm the one who messed up, they get to yell. Just like if you got mad at me, I would take the scolding because I probably deserve it. Though the cussing could be dropped. I'm not fond of profanity. But my sisters are the type who swear even when there's nothing actually wrong. That's nothing personal."

"Is this a Christian concept? This acceptance idea?"

"No," Dylan replied as the blue cellular phone began to buzz and chime. "It's a me-concept. Well, actually it's more of a responsible-adult concept. You mess up, you take your licks. You break the law, or the rules, you pay the price. I broke my promise. Hang on, she sent me a text." Silver-swept eyes scanned the cell phone's little screen. "Ouch. Apparently I'm an ungrateful... I'm gonna pretend she meant to write 'twit.' And I've been uninvited to Thanksgiving by her, too. I don't know why they even bother with that. I never eat Thanksgiving dinner with them, anyway, even if they do invite me, because they don't like it. I eat with John, unless he's got a thing. It makes Petra uncomfortable for me to be around her children." At his look, she added, "The fairy thing. Makes Petra nervous."

The irritating little machine chimed again.

"Oh, new text... from Simone. Wow. Random. I've apparently been brainwashed and my soul is eternally damned to Hell for being a Mormon concubine. I don't think she's ever going to get over that one." Glancing at the irate prince beside her, she added with a smile, "Simone wanted me to be Bhuddist. Said I was hallucinating because my chi was out of balance. Although I didn't know Bhuddists believed in Hell. Um... oh. That's why. She says Francesca just told her I'd sold my body to a polygamist cult leader. Why would she..."

Dylan trailed off, frowning. Then, remarkably, her face split into a wide grin and she started to giggle, then to laugh. Finally she was laughing so hard she could scarcely draw breath to say, "Oh, gosh! Wow, oh, wow. I think she's talking about you. Because 'Cesca thinks you're my boyfriend and that's something Simone's been worried about forever - me being sucked in by a cult. Oh, my gosh, wow. You've gone from being my boyfriend to Charles Manson." She erased both texts and let her forehead thunk against the table, still laughing. "That's just freaking hysterical. Ugh, I love my sisters. Wow."

"Firstly," Nuada said with some chilliness, "I am not your-"

"I know," Dylan gasped, wiping at a tear of mirth trickling from the corner of one eye. "I know you're not but you have no idea how these things get warped in my family. Seriously. I tell Francesca there's a guy friend at my place, just a friend, and she assumes you're my boy-toy and we're playing bedsheet bingo, with extra prizes."

Nuada choked. Bedsheet bingo? He thought about asking where she'd picked up that phrase, but decided against it. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Despite the heat flooding her cheeks, Dylan chuckled again. "Then 'Cesca calls Petra and tells her I've got some delicious piece of eye candy staying at my house, and Petra thinks I'm either putting up a homeless man in my front room or a young junkie or male prostitute with no place to stay. Something like that. 'Cesca tells Victoria or Gardenia, they think the same thing.

"Simone and Pauline hear there's a guy on my couch and assume Francesca got it wrong and I'm shacking up with some whacked-out Mormon cultist who's managed to suck in my unwary 'virginal' self. The only person who wouldn't care is Mary - she'd just assume you're either my boyfriend, or a..." Dylan cleared her throat. "Male escort. Which is all so far from the truth it just makes me laugh."

"You find this amusing? Not insulting?" Humans were so strange sometimes.

"Right now, everything's amusing," Dylan replied, pushing hair out of her face. "I'm really tired. And they're just so wrong about... everything. This always happens. My family suck at playing Telephone. Come on, don't be snarly, Your Highness. I'm really not insulted and you shouldn't be, either. Although I'm sad that Simone thinks I should be Bhuddist just because my chi is messed up or whatever."

"You are fine as you are," Nuada growsed, looking pointedly away from her.

"Really?" She asked, propping her chin on her fist. She quirked an eyebrow. Bat mewed plaintively because the petting and scratching had stopped and not been resumed within a reasonable amount of time. Dylan rubbed under his pointy little chin. The world began rotating on its axis once more. "Iron-laced blood, hack-and-slash face, mortal stench, and all?"

"I have never said anything about a stench." The Elf prince had certainly thought it, but she did not need to know that. Besides, with the sweet scent of lily-of-the-valley and pear blossoms clinging to her dark curls, he could hardly smell her mortality. "As for your blood... one gets used to the iron in it after a time. And there is nothing wrong with your face."

Dylan smiled at him. Her eyes were as soft as moonglow. "Thank you. You're sweet. Don't glower at me; you are! Okay, choices for dinner are chicken florentine or French toast. Which one do you prefer?"

He made his choice, and she went to fix dinner.

.

The fourth night Nuada spent on the sofa, Dylan woke in her room (dimly lit by her half-dozen nightlights) to an odd sound. At first she couldn't place it - it wasn't Bat, purring and nuzzling his furry little face against her neck. Nor was it the sound of someone knocking on the front door, or someone sneaking down the hallway. She was sure if it had been Nuada training late into the night (as he'd done Tuesday night), she'd have been able to tell that, too. What was that weird, far-off sound?

Get out of bed.

Dylan felt the prompting like an ember smoldering in her chest. She pushed Bat's warm, purring bulk off of her chest and slid out of bed. Becan had worked some kind of brownie magic to heat the cottage (since she hadn't had a chance to have the gas company turn on her heat yet; magic was more effective, anyway). Thanks to the new warmth, she didn't need to sleep in a sweater or long pants. Instead, she wore a pair of her fun Christmas pajamas that Francesca had given her: a pink-printed black tank and shorts patterned with silver and pink present-boxes. Since she was going to walk out into where Nuada might be, however, she slipped on one of John's old black flannel shirts overtop and stepped into the hallway. Winced when her bare feet touched the cold wooden flooring of the corridor.

Becan was not on his pillow-bed. Even glamored to invisibility, she'd be able to sense him with her Sight. Glancing down the corridor, she saw the door to the den was cracked. A tiny spill of umber firelight lined the floor. The brownie stood peeking in. Something in the way he held himself told Dylan something was wrong.

Be silent, and walk softly. The ember was catching fire, smoldering now. Dylan crept down the corridor toward the door to the den. Becan glanced over his shoulder at her. She pressed a finger to her lips and made it to the door. Looked inside. Realized, when she heard Nuada moan, that the strange sound that had woken her up was the Elf prince crying out in his sleep.

The Spirit whispered, Go to him.

She motioned Becan to go into her room and stay there. Then she slipped into the den. The slumbering warrior was stretched out on the floor in front of the hearth, shivering despite the heat of the fire. When Dylan was halfway across the room, Nuada whispered, "Máthair... ná, Máthair... Máthair!" Mother. A tear rolled from the corner of his eye to drop to the floor. Another. A strangled sob escaped Elven lips.

Dylan's heart leapt into her throat. What was she supposed to do? Wake him? Becan had told her that when he'd tried to waken Nuada that night in Findias, the warrior had attacked first and asked questions later. The brownie was small, and good at dodging. She, on the other hand, was neither of those things. But to leave him trapped in a nightmare, crying for his mother...

"Dylan." She froze when he breathed her name like a prayer. Clutched at the edges of her flannel shirt defensively when Nuada groaned. "Eamonn, tabhair... tabhair, impigh mé leat... spártha di. Ná. Ná!"

Oh, Heavenly Father, did you hear what he said? Slowly, ever so slowly, she stepped a bit closer. He'd said, Please... please, I beg you... spare her. No. No! The childlike pleading in his voice hurt to hear. What is he dreaming about? I have to wake him up. Dylan knelt. Reached out one trembling hand toward the shuddering prince. She said gently, "Nuada, wake up. Wake up, you're dreaming."

"Dylan," he groaned. His head tossed from side to side as every muscle in his body tensed so tightly her own body ached in sympathy. Elf or not, he would be hurting tomorrow from the strain. His breathing was harsh and shallow. "Dylan, forgive me, I cannot... Eamonn, I beg you, please! Don't make me... not this. Not to her. Please." More tears now, silent down his moon-pale cheeks. Everything in Dylan rebelled. This was her Elf prince, her brave warrior, reduced to tears by the demons in his nightmares. Impossible, and yet... and yet.

And suddenly, though she wasn't touching his hand, wasn't linked with him, somehow she heard the softest breath of his nightmare. Echoes of old fears and even older demons. Just a voice, barely a thread of sound. But it was enough to freeze her heart and choke her with her own silent screams as the nightmare swelled and filled the room.

Do you feel the burning, Silverlance? Eamonn's voice. Ice-cold and taunting. Dylan covered her mouth with a shaking hand and sank to the cold wooden floor. Hatred and mind-numbing terror shivered deep in her bones. The gancanaugh's poison burns like acid against your skin. You know what will ease the pain, though... don't you?

"No," Nuada moaned. Shuddered. His fists clenched. "I won't..."

She couldn't move. Couldn't even breathe. Could only tremble, trapped on the edge of Nuada's nightmare, held in thrall by the vicious voice that snarled at him, You know you want to. Do it. It's what the little whore's good for, isn't it? Do it. Take her. Spill her blood. End your suffering. Do it. She knew exactly what dreams haunted Nuada now. Knew it, and shivered in the dimness, too terrified to move as long as that voice urged the Elf prince to attack, to destroy her. There would only be two outcomes to the nightmare because, with the Fae, it was always about sex... or blood.

Images flickered like ghosts behind her eyes; there for a split-second, gone the next. She shuddered. Fought not to be sick as Eamonn's voice slid over her skin, a vicious and violating caress. Urging Nuada to hurt her. It didn't have to be sex. Bloodletting eased the pain of the poison, too. Violence soothed the burning as well as, if not better than, sex. But sex, like this... that would hurt him the most.

Get up, the frantic part of Dylan shrieked. Get up, get away, before he wakes up, run, get away! Get away from him! He'll hurt me, he'll kill me, he'll... help me, he's going to...

No! She gasped for air as everything began to swim before her eyes. Shook her head hard to clear it. She tasted copper on the back of her tongue. Realized distantly that in her panic she'd bitten it hard enough to draw some serious blood. Struggling against the choking, sickening fear, she thought, No, he won't, he won't, he would never! He won't, he won't, I...

Get away from him! Run, run! Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrun!

Can't, she moaned silently as the darkness of the dream swirled around her. Wrapped icy claws around her throat, around her heart. Couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything. Couldn't even move. The room was suddenly dim, dark. Darkening. Darkening, darkening, until there was only the sullen hellish glow of the fire and the choking dark, and the dark had teeth and claws and was so very, very hungry. And the dark had a voice, silky and familiar and full of vicious promise.

Come, now, Nuada. Resisting is pointless. Do it. Just give in and do it. Spill that hot, scarlet mortal blood. The blood will make it all better.

Now Dylan could see the dream, see the brutal nightmare that held Nuada trapped. Feel the fear that wasn't just hers anymore. She'd never known him to be afraid. Not of anything. Not ever. But he was afraid now. And that terrified her more than Eamonn ever could. Because she could see him weakening. See the pain in his eyes. There was no escaping that pain. While it was still quiet and cool and barely there, it seeped into the skin, into the blood, until it reached bone. Then, when it had its claws hooked deep, it erupted in fire and agony. Even his strength couldn't hold out forever. And when that strength finally crumbled... what would happen to him? To her?

Have to run, her fear begged her. Get up, get up! Run. And for a long moment she tried. She tried to get up and leave him struggling against that hellish nightmare. Only the trembling in her legs kept her from abandoning him, kept her from being able to get to her feet and run from that voice penetrating her mind. Instead she wept and struggled not to lose herself in the nightmare.

I'm scared, I'm scared, I can't... John... John, help me... Nuada...

Eamonn's voice in her mind, in Nuada's mind, black as darkest sin. Do it, Silverlance. Take her. Take her. Do it! Spill. Her. Blood.

You are not alone. The words whispered inside her heart, warmed the ice frosting her blood. Do not fear. I am with you. You must wake him. Chilled terror warred with the ember of warmth inside her. Slowly, though, the presence of the Spirit pushed back a little of the fear so that she could heed His voice. You must wake him now. He needs you.

"Dylan." Her name on Nuada's lips, like the final prayer of the dying. It, and the warmth of the Holy Ghost, pierced the fear enough for her to take a shallow, ragged breath. That first kiss of air pushed at the gray fog across her eyes. Sliced through the panic until she could breathe deeper, until she could think a little. Until she could force herself to focus on the comforting heat in her heart, on the Elf prince who shivered and strained against invisible demons. Focus on the way he fought savagely against the nightmare and the cruel voice whispering, whispering...

"Dylan." A single tear rolled down his cheek. She choked on a sob. "Dylan..." Then he groaned as if someone had driven a knife into his chest before savagely twisting the blade. He whispered bitterly, brokenly, "Forgive me." And she saw what Nuada did then in the dream. Saw it, and grieved for him, knowing he would hate himself when he woke.

Help me, Heavenly Father, Dylan prayed, trembling. I'm scared, I'm still scared and I can't... this will break his heart. I have to help him but I can't move, help me. Please, help me.

It took her minutes - or maybe it was hours - to work up the courage to speak. And even then, she had to wet her lips and swallow hard before she could croak, "Nuada." She cleared her throat. She had to wake him up. Phantom echoes of his nightmare crawled at the edges of her vision. If they didn't stop, if the nightmare didn't end, she had no idea what would happen to him. To either of them. But it would be terrible. Hoarsely, she whispered, "Nuada, it's okay, wake up. Come on, wake up." Another groan as his hands clenched so hard that his nails drew golden blood. On instinct, she added desperately, "Nuada, love, please wake up. Please, please, you're scaring me." Gathering her courage, she reached out with a trembling hand. Whispered, "Please. I need you."

Her fingertips lightly grazed his wrist. Eyes like fresh blood, eyes burning with hatred and rage, snapped open, and he lunged for her.

.

A woman's scream ripped the night.

"Did it work?" Iolo turned away from the cottage to glance at Eamonn, who strode through the trees toward the Welshman. The Elf of Zwezda demanded, in the excited voice of a child at Christmas, "Did the dream spell work?"

"You are supposed to be in Ciocal," the huntsman informed the dark Elf.

Ignoring the other Fayre, Eamonn closed his eyes and sent his psychic senses casting toward the mortal abode. He easily detected the deliciousness of a woman's fear. The little human. Crimson pain shuddered through the cottage, mingling with the fear. Had the Silver Lance hurt the little wench? All the better if he had. The Elf of Zwezda had worked long and hard with Birog and Ciaran on the series of dream spells they planned on using against the Elf prince while he skulked in the little mortal's house. If the dreams could drive him to attack the mortal, well and good. A bonus, as the humans were fond of saying.

The dark-haired Elf very, very lightly brushed the prince's mind. Grinned as the nightmare replayed over and over again in Nuada's head: the death of his mother, every gory detail amplified and extended while the Elf warrior was held captive by unseen enemies; being doused with the Love Talkers' poison until his flesh burned at the lightest touch of wind or water and he was nearly mad with the pain and the lust; and then bringing in the fragile little mortal, her own body wet with Branwen's Tears. Resistance to the sorcerous aphrodisiac was pointless. Yet still Nuada had tried to fight it. Until his Morphean captors had gotten fed up and thrown the mortal against him. The touch of her skin against his, slick with the poison, was too much even for the prince's self-control.

His begging was the perfect touch to the nightmare. Begging Eamonn to let Dylan go; begging her to forgive him as he surrendered to the brutality the poison forced to the surface. Blood and sex; amongst the Fayre, it always came down to blood or sex.

And her screams... The dark Elf had to admit, he enjoyed the little human's screams very much.

One knife-thin brow arched as, just when Eamonn thought the nightmare would finally shatter Nuada's sanity, it abruptly ended, only to replay again. "Did you watch the dream?" He demanded, pulling himself from the replay going on in the other Elf's mind. "Did it finish out?"

"Unfortunately," Iolo replied with an indifferent shrug, "no. The human woke him before things managed to get truly interesting. She has a very bad habit of interfering, doesn't she?" The Welshman added as Eamonn snarled, low and vicious as a rabid dog. "Though before you throw a tantrum, Eamonn, may I remind you of the side-effects of the dream spells. Ciaran said the prince will be... incredibly fragile for a long while after the dream ends. Perhaps, with the right prompting, he could be convinced to..."

"No," the dark Elf snarled. "Damn him, anyway. Awake, all he has to do is seduce the little whore and she'll take care of him. Unless he hurt her. Even then, though, unless we're lucky and his knife found her heart, it won't work. There's nothing left to do until he sleeps again. His sanity is at its weakest then. Until then, all the spells can do is keep him on edge. Keep his hold on his sanity weak, so that he suspects nothing of what we plan in Findias. Perhaps it will even drive a wedge between them. If he is off-balance when we strike, so much the better.

"For now, though, I'm going back to Faerie," he added, muttering about irritating mortals and how sweet it would be when the Elf of Zwezda could enjoy the symphony of her breaking bones. Iolo just shook his head and faded back into the forest, away from the smell of mortal blood and woman's fear.