Chapter 31 - One Cold Winter's Night

that is

A Short Tale of Touches, Antics, a Spilled Secret, a Token, Monsters, Winter Joys, Hanging by a Moment, and a Phone Call

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Despite the fact that Becan had stripped the bed and replaced the linens with fresh, the scent of the mortal still clung to the bed. The pillows smelled like her hair, like night-blooming jasmine and chamomile. The moment Nuada realized that, he tossed both pillows onto the chair beside the bed, where he wouldn't have to smell them. He did not want to fall asleep breathing in one of the sweet scents that always clung to Dylan's curls after she'd gotten out of the shower. He just wanted to sleep. And for some bizarre reason, the blankets smelled like her, as well. He thrust them aside and stretched out on the now-empty bed, grateful for finally being able to do so. The Elven warrior hadn't realized until then how cramped that little sofa had been.

I love dreaming about you. What exactly did she dream about? He tried to focus on that, and not the biting teeth of his nightmare, which had managed to resurface once he left Dylan's presence. Eamonn's voice hissed and snarled inside Nuada's skull. Urging. Always urging. Take her. Use her. Spill her blood. And he had. In that vicious dream he'd given in and let her pain and that mortal blood soothe the awful burning.

Stars curse you, Eamonn, the prince thought, rolling onto his stomach.

Struggling to capture elusive sleep, with the same memories and thoughts circling and circling in his mind like hungry sharks, Nuada closed his eyes. Tried to relax his body enough that he could at least meditate, if not actually sleep.

Breathe in, hold, breathe out. He tried to think of something - anything - that would push aside the Morphean echoes. Finally settled on the way Dylan's arms had twined eagerly around his neck when he'd tried to shift her. The way her warm breath had tickled his skin. He remembered her fingers twining in his hair. Brushing against his throat, where the pulse beat strongly. Breathe in, hold, breathe out.

It was working. Slowly but surely, it was working. Nuada deliberately recalled the feel of her fingertips gently tracing the royal scar across his cheeks. Her touch like a butterfly wing at his temple. A soft voice crooning gentle comforts. Smooth skin under his stroking finger. The nightmare faded a little more as the tension began to ease out of him. For now, he wouldn't worry about why memories of a mortal's caresses and companionship soothed him. Time enough to think on that in the morning.

Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Small mortal hands on his shoulders. His own hands circling her waist, only the thin material of the tank top between his cold hands and the warmth of her skin. Her fingers lacing with his while the air threatened snow. The silk of her hair against his knuckles as he tucked a tulip behind her ear. Silky petals of the flower she'd gifted him with for honor and bravery, soft as her breath on his skin. Her arms flung around him in embrace that night in the subway.

Breathe in... and hold... breathe...

And he fell into sleep, deep and dreamless. When the not-quite-latched door pushed open, and the warm body crept inside the room and slipped into bed beside him, Nuada was so exhausted that the slumbering prince didn't even stir.

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Dylan woke around noon, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she sat up and looked around. Her bedmate was gone. Typical, she thought. That's gratitude for you. I keep him warm at night and what does he do? He ditches me. She got to her feet and went to the door and down the corridor, searching for the one she'd fallen asleep beside at dawn. She stopped at the door at the end of the hall and smiled when she caught sight of Nuada, shirtless and sprawling.

Wow, Dylan thought, struggling not to giggle and possibly wake the sleeping prince. Bat, curled up on top of the Elf's head with his swishy tail draped across the black-lipped mouth, opened one amber eye and winked at her. Then the kitten stretched languidly and began to purr, gently kneading the Elf's scalp with his tiny paws. Since Nuada didn't wake up swearing (in fact, he surprisingly didn't wake up at all), Dylan figured her sneaky cat wasn't using his claws.

The bedclothes had been cast aside at some point. His moonbeam skin was pale against the black fitted-sheet. The silvery blond hair spread out across a single pillow, and Nuada clutched another black-covered pillow to his chest with a loose arm.

"You're supposed to sleep with me, you traitor," she whispered, grinning. The cat yawned hugely. Flicked the tip of his tail against Nuada's mouth. The prince snorted in his sleep. "Get off him and let him rest."

Instead of obeying such a disrespectful order from a lowly two-legger, Bat climbed laboriously off Nuada's head, trotted halfway across the mattress, and parked his magnificent self on the prince's lap. Stretched out, the kitten covered from Nuada's thigh to the middle of his well-defined stomach muscles. Bat yawned and began to knead Nuada's belly. The Elf prince grunted and shifted, but still didn't wake up. Dylan clenched her teeth to hold back her laughter. Then she was struck by the sudden question of whether Elves drooled in their sleep and had to bite her tongue.

Bat continued to purr as he began rolling and wriggling between Nuada's sprawled legs. The prince still didn't wake. Only pulled the pillow closer until his face was buried in the smooth pillowcase. If she hadn't been able to see the steady rise and fall of his chest, Dylan might've been worried. How did someone as tense as Nuada usually was manage to sleep through Bat's antics?

Then Dylan realized that Nuada wasn't tense. At least, not right then. He was actually cuddling into the pillow, almost completely at ease despite the energetic kitten who had no concept of personal boundaries and seemed to be on a mission to molest the prince in his sleep. Unlike every other time Dylan had caught him sleeping, there was no frown on his face, no furrowed brow. No tense shoulders or clenched fists. Just a peaceful expression and loose limbs. And the occasional snore.

Good, she thought. Bat continued to wriggle and twist until he was in a very comfortable donut shape. Now his tail was swishing against Nuada's belly while his front paws kneaded the exposed skin. He actually got a decent bit of sleep. Good. Oh, my gosh, what is my cat doing to that poor man?

"Bat, stop that," she hissed, and he mewed softly before nuzzling his face into Nuada's thigh. "Bat!" If she smiled any wider, her face would crack. But the cat ignored her. "Oh, whatever. Just make sure you can look him in the eye when he wakes up." And she went to down the hall to the room she'd told Nuada to stay out of. The door was thicker than all others but the front door, to hold in sound. This room held her piano.

After she'd spent nearly two hours at the keys practicing (after six months she'd finally learned how to play a song that had one sharp or flat), she went out to the kitchen to start making breakfast, giggling at her kitten's antics and her memory of the comical picture of the furry black beast curled up on an Elven prince's head.

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Nuada drifted on the edges of wakefulness. He'd been dreaming about... something. Something simple. Easy. Happy. The word was so foreign to him when it came to dreaming, but it had been a happy dream. Warmth and the scent of... strawberries? Night-blooming jasmine? He couldn't remember.

A soft, smooth something caressed his cheek. The Elf prince shifted, began to stir. Again, that soft caress came, a gentle stroking. Dylan? Why would she...

Five tiny pricks of sharp pain hit him just above his jaw, and he bolted upright, fully awake now. Bat tumbled from his perch on Nuada's chest, scoring more thin scratches along the Elf's belly before plopping into the prince's lap. The Elf warrior glared at the indignant beast and swore. Bat hissed and leapt off the bed, scrambling for the doorway. Nuada swung his legs over the side of the bed, half-prepared to hunt the little monster down and teach him some manners. A low laugh stopped him.

"I warned you," Dylan scolded the kitten, who was hunched up by her feet, tail swishing back and forth in fury. The cat glared balefully at the Elf before giving a fierce, albeit tiny, growl. "Didn't I? 'Get off him,' I said. 'Let him sleep,' I said. You were perfectly comfortable. Why would you go and scratch him?" Flicking her eyes to Nuada, she flashed him a sardonic grin and said, "Good morning, starshine. Breakfast is ready if you want it. Well, lunch, seeing as how it's afternoon."

Starshine? He arched a brow. Dylan grinned wider.

"Strawberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon and ham. The strawberries are fresh, too. Sound good to you?"

The Elf blinked in surprise. It sounded wonderful, actually, but... "Where do you find fresh strawberries this late in the year?"

Dylan's grin softened to an affectionate smile as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. The muted light filtering through the window made the silvery words on her white shirt glisten. "I am one of those blessed to be allowed to pick strawberries in December's frost."

"It is November."

She laughed. "I know that, and you know that, but don't tell the Months of Manhattan. They'll get all confused again."

The Elf prince blinked. She knew the twelve local tempus fae? She would never cease to surprise him.

Brushing at an imaginary curl, Dylan scooted Bat out of the room with a gentle nudge of her foot before coming fully into the room and shutting the door behind her. All mirth faded from her eyes as she leaned against the door. "Are you all right?"

He wanted to laugh, despite the fact that there was nothing amusing about the question. He'd had no more dark dreams. Did not need to. The memory of that nightmare still hissed and coiled in the back of his mind, waiting to spring at him like some ravening canker worm. Nuada met Dylan's eyes. Saw nothing but concern and affection in their depths. No condemnation. None.

He looked away.

"Nuada?"

"Do you still trust me as you did Sunday night?" The Elf prince asked softly.

"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

He stood up and walked toward her. She didn't flinch from him. Didn't press herself more firmly against the door to get away from him. Just watched the feral-eyed Elf warrior come until he was mere inches away. Nuada looked down at her for a long moment. There was nothing but concern, trust and affection in that so-blue gaze. His fingers itched to brush against the thick scar slicing down her cheek. He kept his hand at his side. After last night, touching her had the potential to become a very large mistake. Instead, he demanded gruffly, "Are you certain of that?"

Dylan laid her hand against his bare chest before he could think to stop her. Their eyes locked as his heart beat hard against her palm. There was something in her eyes that he couldn't fathom. A promise, or... something. He did not know.

Then she said, "I know you, Nuada." The corner of her scarred mouth quirked. "Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora. Prince, warrior, protector, lord and friend. Paragon of honor, courage, and all those other impressive, princely virtues. I know who you are. So yes, I'm certain. And," the mortal added a bit tartly, "if you ask me this question one more time I'm going to knock you flat on your butt with your own lance and then beat you over the head with it. Understand?"

Nuada compromised on the no-touching by taking Dylan's hand (a perfectly acceptable courtly gesture, and one that politeness dictated reasonable; it meant nothing) and raising it to his lips. The warrior noticed the mortal's blush when his mouth brushed lightly over her knuckles. Still so innocent.

"Then," he murmured against her hand, and the heat of his breath made her shiver, "I will join you for breakfast once I am properly dressed... my lady."

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Lisa pulled her feet up onto the oversized armchair, huddling behind her drawn-up knees. She made a smaller target that way. The little throw-pillow that had been on the too-comfortable sofa was clutched in her arms. She used it to hide her expression as the gray-haired psychiatrist came into the room. The fourteen-year-old watched him sit down across from her and pull out a legal pad and a pen. The click of the pen was like a gunshot. The ink was red as fresh blood. The point of the pen glinted like the point of a prison shiv. Lisa couldn't quite suppress her shiver of fear.

The date, day, and time was slashed onto the page: November, Friday, 6:45 PM. She'd been here for six days. When would they let her out? When would Dylan come?

"Now, Lisa," the old psychiatrist said, smiling gently. That smile held all the bite of deep winter. "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

She pressed her lips together and shook her head behind the small throw-pillow. He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be here. Did Dylan know Westenra was conducting her sessions? Did Dylan know Doctor Hollis kept getting waylaid by someone or something every time he and Lisa were supposed to have a session?

The air conditioner blasted frigid air down on her. The institution-issue scrubs were no protection against the raging cold. Goosebumps ripped through her skin. Only her clenched jaw kept her teeth from chattering in the cold. Westenra looked like he was all warm and cozy in his sweater and white lab coat.

"Well, I know it's about Rafael." Westenra's predatory gaze caught the girl's flinch. "Tell me about Rafael, Lisa." Another flinch. Every time he mentioned the hooligan's name. "Were you on that roof because of Rafael?" He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper and leaned in a little until he caught the scent of unwashed teenager and salt tears. "Did Rafael tell you to go up on that roof?" Flinch. A look of mute misery flashed behind those dark eyes. Was that the gleam of a tear? The whisper dropped to a hissing croon. "Did Rafael tell you to hurt those people?"

"I w-wasn't gonna h-h-hurt anyone," Lisa protested, then clamped her mouth shut. Don't talk to him, she ordered herself. Don't say anything. Don't say a word. Shut up. He's the enemy.

"No? Well, that's good to know, Lisa. That's very good to know." The knife-sharp edge of an icicle held more warmth than Westenra's eyes when he studied the shivering girl. "I know Rafael wasn't exactly the best kind of person and-"

"You shut your mouth," she snapped. Rage simmered in her veins, thawing the cold a little. Cracking the icy shell of grief. "Don't you talk about him."

"I'm only telling you the truth, Lisa," the psychiatrist murmured gently. Noted with satisfaction as another piece of the girl's frozen armor cracked, shattered, and fell away. "A thug and a gangster? Not the kind of boy I'd be comfortable letting my daughter go on a date with."

"He wasn't a thug!"

"Rafael was a known member of the Lobos. That makes Rafael a thug. A thug, a gangster, and a petty criminal. His rapsheet was very extensive. Breaking and entering, robbery, assault, sexual assault, attempted rape, rape-"

Lisa hurled the pillow at him. "Liar! He never hurt nobody! Nobody who wasn't..." Wasn't Rojos, she thought. Wasn't one of the Reds. And even then, it had always been straight-out fists or knives. She knew her Big Bad had never shot anyone. Never raped anyone, either. Rapsheet? Rafael had never even been arrested before. Stupid old white guy. "You don't know nothin'. Nothin'. Don't you talk about Rafael!"

Westenra caught the pillow with ease and tossed it over his shoulder. Now he was getting past the grief. Past the carefully prepared shields Myers had taught the girl to put around herself. Now he could start pricking at her until she did exactly what he wanted her to do. Luckily the audio portion of the sessions wasn't recorded on the security cams. He'd been counting on that.

"We have to talk about Rafael, Lisa. He's the reason you're here. In a way... it's Rafael's fault you were arrested."

"No," she snapped. Hunched down further. "No."

"Yes. Lisa, it's not normal for a young lady like yourself to contemplate suicide just because her boyfriend died. Besides, you're too young to have a boyfriend." Oh, and there it was - that flash of outrage. That smolder of black hate. Westenra knew better, of course. Knew not to tell a gang-kid (even one who was only attached to the gangs through a sibling) that they were too young for anything. Their lives were a constant and bloody war. But he wanted her to get mad. He wanted her furious. "Did Rafael tell you to kill yourself if he died? That you two could be together then? Always together; no more violence, no more being afraid, no more gangs bothering you... is that what he told you?"

She was crying now, but she didn't know it. He kept his smile easy and gentle, a kindly grandfather talking to a grandchild. Never let her see the frisson of excitement in him at the sight of those slow-leaking tears.

"No," she protested weakly. "No, that's not it. That's not what happened. You're twisting it."

A pack of hyenas coming in on a wounded gazelle had more compassion than Doctor Lucian Westenra. "How am I twisting it, Lisa? Rafael's dead, and you wanted to join him. Of course you did. Rafael made you think you were nothing without him. Made you think that you could never be happy without him. Isn't that right?" The girl was frantically shaking her head. Sobbing now. "Made you think there was nothing special about you. No reason you could live a good life without Rafael in it. Isn't that what you told Doctor Myers? And she confirmed it, didn't she?"

"No! Dylan's nice, I didn't-"

"Then why is she paying for Rafael's funeral, Lisa? Why is she making the arrangements, unless they had a special relationship?" Westenra paused, as if considering a new possibility. "Did they have a special relationship, Lisa?"

"What... waddya mean?" Lisa sniffled, scrubbing at her face with furious fists. Never cry in front of them, never! But she couldn't stop and her heart was slamming hard against her breastbone like a breath-stealing drum and she couldn't wrap her mind around what was happening. Every time Westenra said Rafael's name it was like a fist in the gut. "They didn't really know each other. They met like... like twice or something."

No, she remembered. More than that. But she couldn't tell Westenra about that because the reason they'd met so often was because Rafael had the Sight, too. Rafael wasn't one of Dylan's Sight kids, but he went to the group sessions at her cottage every two weeks. But Dylan had warned all of those kids with the Sight not to talk about the gift with anyone who didn't also have it. Especially not a psychiatrist, and especially not Doctor Lucian Westenra.

"Maybe they saw each other more than that," he suggested gently. Saw the flinch again. "Maybe they had a special relationship. I know Doctor Myers is on fairly good terms with the leader of the Lobos; perhaps-"

"No," Lisa said. Swiped at her tears. "I don't wanna talk to you anymore. You're not listening. No. I want out of here."

"Doctor Myers said not to talk to me, didn't she?"

Yes, Lisa thought, and felt the first shiver of true fear. "No," she said. "No, she didn't. She didn't say nothin' 'bout you."

Gotcha.

"You're lying to me, Lisa." Now Westenra leaned even further forward. Lisa could feel his hot, fetid breath on her drawn-up knees. "I know what that little witch says about me to her patients. Now you've made a big, big mistake because you're lying to me. And do you know what happens to little girls who lie to their therapists in this place?" Wide-eyed, she shook her head. "We lock them up and don't let them out until they tell the truth. Doctor Myers told you not to talk to me, didn't she?"

"N-no, she d-d-didn't-"

"Tell me the truth, Lisa." There was something moving behind Westenra's eyes. Something awful. Fear was a fanged, clawing knot in her stomach. Help, Dylan, help, help me, help! "Tell me the truth!"

"I am!" Fear, fear, fear; it shrieked at her, clamored at her to get up, to get away from this man with that horrible, awful something shivering behind eyes the color of graveyard dirt. Couldn't tell him the truth! Couldn't let him know! But he wanted the truth. Demanded it with an unholy promise in his gaze. Sobbing now, she pleaded, "I am! I'm telling the truth! I am!"

"Tell me," he ground out from between clenched teeth, "what she said."

"Nothing! She didn't say nothing!" Help, help, help. Lisa's fingers bit into her folded arms hard enough the flesh turned white. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, terrified. Tears ran down her cheeks like spilling blood. Her breath hiccuped in her chest.

"What did she say?" And he grabbed her wrist.

In everyone, there is the instinct of fight or flight. There is the primal trigger that can turn a human being into a mindless machine intent on escape, or a savage fighter intent on destruction. Lisa Ramirez had been born and raised in Spanish Harlem. All her life she'd lived in a world of gunshots, knife fights, and blood. Her brother had been arrested for the first time when she was five and he was only eight, for attacking a kid with a baseball bat. Her dad had done time for armed robbery. Her best friend Anita had become a prostitute at age eleven. Been beaten to death by a john at thirteen.

Lisa's world had always been a war. When fear became a living, breathing monster in her stomach and panic screamed in her head, it triggered her instincts. And her instincts had never been to fly. Honed by a life on the fringes of the gang world, her instinct was to fight.

She sprang from the chair, tackling the older man and knocking him to the floor. Bring the enemy down and make sure they stay there. Then run. Dylan's words. Dylan when she'd taught Lisa how to get away from someone who wanted what the fourteen-year-old would never willingly give to anyone she didn't love with her whole heart. She used that trick now. Slammed both knees between Westenra's legs. He yelled a vicious obscenity and shuddered as Lisa scrambled to get off of him, to get away from the monster in human skin.

Lisa smacked right into the white-uniformed orderlies who busted through the door. Beefy arms wrapped around her, pinned her to the icy floor. No! No, no, no! She screamed and thrashed, desperate to get away. Desperate to run. Distantly she felt the chilling stab of a needle in her arm. No! No, not that! Not... not that... Dylan... help me... they can't know... can't talk about it... any of... Dylan...

As the tranquilizer spread through Lisa's blood, she shuddered once. Whispered three words. Then she slipped into the drugged-out haze and knew no more.

Using the desk for support, Westenra climbed to his feet. The pain radiated through him from where the teenager had struck. His knees were still weak from the blow that had briefly turned his vision red. He hadn't expected her to lash out so soon. Glaring at the glazed-eyed girl sprawled on the floor, he turned to one of the orderlies. "Five-point lock-up for the girl. Isolated. Inform Doctor Hollis that his patient attacked me." A trickle of wetness on his face had the old shrink touching his cheek with ginger fingers. "And inform him that she drew blood," he added, feeling the sting of the scratches.

The orderlies moved to obey. While he watched them pick up the sedated girl and drop her onto a gurney, he thought of the three words Lisa Ramirez had mumbled before succumbing to the drugs in her system.

Don't... say... fairies. Or maybe it had been faeries.

"Well, well, well, Doctor Myers. Looks like you've tipped your hand yet again. And the move is still mine."

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Thursday went by without incident for Dylan and the prince. She insisted he sleep in her bed that night as well. Considering he felt more rested that first morning than he had in a long while, Nuada acquiesced. Bat continued to cuddle the Elf as soon as golden eyes had closed in deep and exhausted slumber. Dylan didn't tattle on the kitten. After all, one of her favorite sights in the morning was to find Bat curled up on Nuada's head, or leisurely stretched out on the scarred expanse of bare back (when Elf unconsciously obliged cat by sleeping on his stomach).

They didn't talk about the nightmare. Didn't talk about that night at all, after the initial question of trust Thursday morning. Dylan's professional opinion was that Nuada needed to talk about it, but that he also couldn't talk about it yet. Not just yet. Not even to her.

Friday rolled around on the edge of memory. Dylan's own nightmares were fairly standard - simple memories of the institution. Needles and unbreakable straps, darkness and a straitjacket. Screaming herself hoarse in the dark of a padded room. Miraculously, she always woke before the dream shifted to memories of Xander and Patrick. Before the real-life screaming began. That was good, because Nuada needed undisturbed sleep. And she was certain that if she somehow woke from those dreams (even without screaming) with Nuada so close by, she'd do the forbidden and sneak into the bedroom to cuddle against him for comfort (which would no doubt infuriate him, or give him the completely wrong idea). Which was why she'd asked Becan to move his pillow-bed in front of the den door - just in case.

Friday night, Nuada put most of the finishing touches on the ebony hilt of what would be Dylan's dirk. Scian suirí; courtship knife. Hilt finished, blade finished, everything put together and completed, except for the cairngorm stone in the hilt. He would have to go to the Troll Market and purchase one. Until then, it couldn't be used because the weight wouldn't sit properly. But Dylan was happy with the blade even without the stone.

"Wow," the mortal murmured, running her fingers lightly over the jimping on the unsharpened backedge of the blade. The firelight cast dancing shadows across her skin. She studied the leather-wrapped ebony hilt, the single-edged blade of Elven silver with the symbol etched into the metal near the crossguard. "What's that?"

"My personal crest," Nuada replied softly. It had been a last-minute decision, but a good one, he thought. "My spear bears the same mark."

Blue eyes flicked up to his own amber gaze. "Thank you." She carefully laid her hand on his, curling her fingers around it. Her fingertips brushed the inside of his wrist. "Thank you for putting so much work into it. It's beautiful."

He shrugged, uncomfortable with how aware he was of that gentle grasp on his hand. He put the nearly-finished dirk and his carving knife away and got to his feet. "Are you hungry? Perhaps you would like to go out for dinner tonight." Nuada held out his hand and waited for her to take it.

After a moment's hesitation - a hesitation that piqued his curiosity - Dylan laid her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her feet. Through their clasped hands, he felt the sharp twinge in her bad leg. She made no complaint, however. Only said, "Fafner's Cave again?"

And Lorelei, Dylan thought, but didn't say. Was she jealous of the beautiful rhinemaiden? I hope not. That would be stupid, and petty. Not to mention shallow. But... she's a lot prettier than I am, since her face doesn't look like... well, like mine. She's gorgeous. Well, actually, almost any fae woman is gorgeous, especially compared to... Realizing she'd been about to say "me," she mentally rolled her eyes. Ugh, when did I become so insecure? This is ridiculous. Especially since I have nothing to be insecure about. He's about as out of reach as the moon to me. Though there's the courtship thing. That just makes it all worse. Good grief, I feel like a teenage girl.

Noticing an odd undercurrent to her voice, but oblivious to her thoughts, Nuada asked, "Do you not wish to go?"

"Um, well... I dunno," she mumbled, shrugging. "It's nice here, just you and me, but I guess we could go out if you're sick of being stuck inside all day. Which is fine if you are, because I know you're a really physical and, you know, go-get-em kind of guy and you don't stay indoors when you could be outside. So we could go out if you want to, but aren't you worried about your dad finding us and dragging us back to Findias 'cause I think that would embarrass you a lot and annoy me on your behalf and then we'd get in bigger trouble because I'd rip your dad's antlers off and just curious, I know I'm rambling but I have to ask, why does your dad have antlers and you don't?"

Nuada blinked. Took a moment to process the rapid stream of chatter. Then he slowly replied, "The antlers are actually my father's crown. A sign of his kingship."

"Oh. Interesting. So when you become king, you get an antler-crown too?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Thought for a moment. "You are trying to distract me. Why don't you want to go out?"

Dropping her gaze to the floor, Dylan asked softly, "Can this be one of those rare times when I ask you for something and you give it to me without me having to tell you why I want it in the first place?"

His silence spoke volumes.

"Okay, then, that would be a humongous, resounding no. Well... okay. The courtship thing. It bothers you. I know it does. And every time we leave the cottage we have to slip back into the charade again. It's a strain for you. Everyone's watching to see how 'in love' we are and I know it's stressful. When we went out last time, I had a blast but you were always just a little on edge. The way I figure it, you've got enough to worry about. So... I figured... we could hide out in here and not deal with the whole thing until we absolutely have to."

Nuada studied her. She had not once looked up, but kept her eyes locked on the fireplace. "I promise, Dylan, that if you actually look at me I will not pounce on you like a cat with a timid mouse."

She finally looked up to scowl at him. "You shush. I am not timid. And if I said something to make you mad, you would totally pounce on me." Though the image that produced in her mind made her smile a little. "Anyway... I just... it's aggravating. I mean, you probably want to go out, but where could we go where people aren't going to be staring at us and whispering and gossiping?" Sighing now, she added, "I'd never really thought about it, but jeez. It must suck to be royalty. Oh! Lightbulb!"

He frowned.

"You know, 'lightbulb.' Like, 'ding, idea.' Um... never mind. Anyway, we could go to the Park, then come back here and eat. That way we can get some fresh air and not have to deal with anyone. Like, I mean actually in the Park. Because of the snow there won't be a whole lot of people and in the deeper parts of the woods there probably won't be any. We could... go for a walk. Or something. It's not howling outside anymore. What do you think?"

He surprised himself by liking the idea. However... "It will be cold," the Elf warned.

"Pffft. Oh, my gosh, the cold. Such a hardship. I've got hiking boots somewhere, and super-fuzzy socks. And I'm pretty sure I have a coat. At least I think I have a coat. I think. Maybe I just borrowed Gardenia's. Let me go look real quick."

Dylan dashed to her bedroom. Checked her closet. Sure enough, there was the thick black leather coat John had bought her a few months ago - to replace the one she'd lost in December but she wasn't going to think about how she lost her coat, she wasn't going to think about a blade slicing across her vulnerable face or being stabbed in the back by shards of ice-cold concrete or...

She choked. Hollow weakness flooded her bad leg and she sank to the floor. For a moment things began swirling and twisting, thorns of memory braiding together before slicing at her. Cutting her. One trembling hand crept to the scar over her hammering heart. Blood, blood in her eyes and on her tongue, streaking down her thighs and something hot and then cold mingling with the blood and she couldn't breathe or see or think or...

Everything's okay, she told herself. Focused on the soft carpet under her legs. The leather clutched in her hands. I'm fine. I'm fine. Everything is all right. I'm safe. Nuada's just in the other room. I'm safe. Dylan thought of golden eyes, a black-lipped mouth curving into a wry smile, and a gentle voice singing a lullaby to her in the dark. Felt the sudden panic begin to slowly fade. She was all right. It had been almost a year since the attack and she was alive and she was with Nuada who would never ever ever let anything happen to her and everything was just fine.

When Dylan came back into the den carrying a heavy leather coat, a pair of very fuzzy socks the electric color of blue frosting patterned with little yellow sheep, and a pair of black boots, she looked paler than before she'd gone to her room. Concern nipped at him. Nuada studied Dylan carefully for a long moment. Relaxed when she flashed him a smile and held up the jacket.

"See? Found it."

.

Francesca Elizabeth Dorothy Myers, who'd been a waitress at Yvaine's Diner for seven years, dropped her tray. Dirty plates and glasses shattered on the kitchen floor. Silverware clattered. Francesca's boss, Samantha, whirled around to yell at the thirty-one-year-old waitress and froze. Beneath her thick mane of black hair, the waitress was white as a sheet. Her throat worked convulsively, as if she were about to be sick. Her hands shook and her blue eyes were glassy.

"'Cesca?" Samantha Black-Crow asked hesitantly. "Francesca? What is it?"

"Them," Dylan's sister croaked. She pointed with a violently trembling hand at two men who'd walked into Yvaine's and were currently being led to a booth. Francesca shuddered and backed away, further into the kitchen. Farther from those vicious, evil men. She knew them. Oh, she knew them. The minute her little sister had gotten out of Saint Vincent's at eighteen, all eight of the Myers girls had made sure they memorized every detail of those faces. "Them."

"What is it? Who are they?" When the younger woman began to list to the side, Samantha grabbed her and dragged her towards the break room. Once inside, she shoved Francesca into a chair. "Sit down. Put your head between your knees and take a deep breath. Now what? Are they bank robbers? On America's Most Wanted? What?"

"They... they... they hurt my little sister... a long time ago." Now that the shock was fading, fury was taking its place. Francesca flushed. Paled. Clenched her jaw until her hands stopped shaking. No way were those monsters coming into the diner where she worked and ordering dinner like they had a right to be there. She'd throw 'em out in a split-second, see if she didn't. "I'll kick their fuc-"

"Calm down," Samantha snapped. Everyone knew Francesca had a foul mouth. Everyone also knew profanity wasn't allowed at Yvaine's. The dark-haired woman glared at her manager, but didn't fire back a retort. "You said it was a long time ago. How long?"

"Sixteen years ago." Francesca almost shivered. Throttled it back. Dylan had been just a kid... "Almost seventeen."

"That's a long time to hold a grudge, 'Cesca. If you can't handle being their waitress tonight - yeah, they're in your section - then maybe you should go home. Your shift ends in an hour, anyway."

Blue eyes flashed and Francesca glowered at her boss. Leave early? Just because those two... those two... pigs had come into her place? She'd rather drop dead. Or worse, be celibate for the rest of her life. It was their fault Dylan was still messed up. They should've paid for it, paid in blood, and they never had. Not ever. And now she was being sent home because they'd had the balls to walk into her place of employment? Screw that, she growled silently, and shoved to her feet.

"Thanks for your support, Sam," she bit off, sarcasm turning the words acidic. "I can handle it just fine."

And she did. Throughout the hour that was left on her shift, she was all icy politeness as she took their orders, ignored the way they tried to flirt with her to get free apple pie (everyone did that to the waitresses, even the ones with gray hair and wrinkles; Yvaine made some great pie), and brought them their food. She didn't expect a tip. Didn't want one. Not from those dickheads. When they left a rather generous one, she told Samantha to divvy it up between the other waitresses. When they left, she heaved a sigh of relief and hung up her apron. Finally she could go home.

Outside, the winter air was bitter and biting. Francesca huddled inside her quilted coat, a gift from Dylan for Christmas the year before. The psychiatrist said she'd bought it at the Midwinter Faire the city hosted every year in Central Park. The older woman smiled. It was definitely warmer than her old coat.

She blew on her hands to keep her fingers from going numb and hurried toward the subway. Alley cats meowed at her, demanding tuna. The waitress made sure to hurry past the dark alleys. Why were there so many on the way to the subway? After her baby sister's attack, none of the Myers women had wanted to take the subway anywhere for awhile. Unfortunately, Francesca didn't have a car. She didn't have a current man-hunk, either, or she'd have had him pick her up. So the underground train it had to be.

Although thoughts of man-hunks in general and Dylan in particular made Francesca smile at the last phone conversation they'd had. So. Dylan finally had a guy. Good. Not that Francesca would let her get away with being so stingy about details and pictures. If Miss Old-Fashioned was actually letting some hottie stay at her cottage and they were practicing the horizontal monster mash, he had to be something stellar.

Which was just fine in her book. Dylan deserved a stellar man. And contrary to the opinions of their older sisters - namely Simone, who sure Dylan couldn't catch even a semi-decent guy with a billion dollars and hunk-trap - Francesca could tell from the way Dylan had been talking that this new guy was something really special. That was just fantastic.

Francesca never saw it coming.

Rough hands grabbed her arm and her purse strap, bruising through the thick sleeve of her coat. Francesca opened her mouth to scream and a fist smashed into the side of her face. She staggered. Slipped on a patch of frozen sidewalk. Fell into the arms of whoever was trying to drag her into the alley. Tried feebly to scream again. A second blow to the face jerked her head to the side. She went limp, moaning. Her purse (and her pepper spray) slipped from nerveless fingers.

After Dylan's attack in December, Francesca had been so careful. Her baby sister's face would never be the same. And everything else that had been done to her had given Francesca nightmares for weeks. So her first thought, as cruel fingers wrapped around her throat and slammed her bodily against a greasy brick wall, was that her attacker planned to rape her. Just like what had happened to her little sister.

Instead, a fist drove deep into her stomach. She gasped. Retched. An open-handed slap rocked her head to one side. A second slap jerked her head the other way. Blow after blow after blow left her reeling. She tasted the copper-fear tang of blood. Something hot trickled from her forehead into her eye. Couldn't see! Couldn't see anything. Only the blood and the shadows. Only the silhouettes of the two men who beat her mercilessly into the brickwork.

She managed to scream when they broke her wrist. No one came.

Finally, when she was almost unconscious from the pain burning through her, they let her slide to the trash-cluttered pavement. The impact jarred her glass-fragile bones. Her head lolled on her neck as she struggled to breathe. Not enough strength to hold it up. Then one of her attackers crouched down beside her. She cringed away from him and he laughed.

"Tell your sister that she needs to mind her own business. And tell her Patrick and Xander say. 'hi.' Okay, cupcake?" When she didn't answer, he slapped her hard across the face. Her head smacked against the brick wall. Her split lip leaked fresh blood. "Okay?"

"Okay," Francesca whimpered. "Okay... please... please don't..."

They left her in the alley, shivering and bruised and bloody. After what seemed like a long time, the brutal cold roused her enough that she tried to reach for her purse. Her fractured wrist screamed at her. She used her other hand to drag her purse towards her by one broken strap. Pulled out her phone. Hit a single button for speed dial, then pressed TALK.

As the phone rang, icy tears rolled down her cheeks and froze to her face. When the surprised voice came on the other line, Francesca began to sob.

"Hello? 'Cesca? What's the matter? What is it? Francesca!"

"Tori," Francesca whispered her twin's nickname through her tears. "Tori, help..."

"Where are you?" Victoria demanded frantically. "Tell me where you are and I'll come get you, okay? Just tell me where you are."

Francesca told her. Her sister didn't hang up as she scrambled for keys and purse, but stayed on the line as she slid into her car and put it in gear. Only when the beat-up green Caddie pulled up alongside the alley's opening did the line disconnect. Victoria vaulted out of the Caddie and ran to her shivering twin. With Victoria's help, Francesca limped into the car. Tori pulled back into post-midnight traffic, murmuring that everything would be okay, that they'd get her to a hospital.

"No hospital," she cried, shaking her head. Those two had connections at hospitals. Their father... "No. No hospital!"

"Okay, honey," Victoria murmured, reaching out to stroke her twin's hair. 'Cesca's panic began to slowly subside as her sister soothed her. "Okay. No hospital. I'll take care of you, okay? I'll take care of you."

Francesca closed her eyes and wondered if she was going to give that message to her little sister. And she wondered what Dylan would do, if she did. Then she let herself drift on the waves of pain and tried not to wonder or think about anything at all.

.

Despite having to cloak himself in glamor that sat ill against his skin, Nuada thought that perhaps it had been worth it. Of course there was the stink of the city; it never faded completely. Smog and poison and burning iron. The hideous glare of electric lights turning the sky from beautiful velvet black to a dirty brown color. Trash littered the more common paths through the park. Snow, once pristine and white, was black with human refuse and filth. The paths were crunchy with rock salt.

But once Dylan led him to where she often walked - the deepest parts of the woods in Central Park - these things faded. The stench of the city, the contamination of nearby humans: it was all gone. The moon, silver against the dark sky, shone down on the fresh, diamond-sparkling snow. Nuada even glimpsed a few pale stars.

The clearing held a small playground, but one that looked like it hadn't been used in years. Most of the paint had peeled away from the swing set and merry-go-round. If the slide had ever been painted, there was no sign of it now. Snow covered the balance-bar off to one side. Nuada paused on the edge of the clearing. There was something... different about this place. About the metal here.

"It's not steel," Dylan said softly in the crisp silence. Her breath steamed on the icy air. "It's faerie metal."

The prince frowned. "How did-"

"I have no clue," she replied, shrugging. "The only reason I even know about this place is because when I was in college, I had a job as a cashier at this coffee shop called Persephone's, right? And my boss, Kaye, used to take her little sister here. Kaye's a pixie. Kate isn't - changeling, complicated story, I'll tell you sometime - but Kaye would always bring her here specifically because it was the only playground that wasn't made out of steel. When she asked her boyfriend, he said it was probably made of faerie metal."

Dylan crunched her way across the snow to the swing set and wiped the snow off the seat before parking herself on one of the swings. With a soft grunt of effort, she pushed herself backwards. The swing began to move back and forth. Nuada watched, unaware he was smiling, as the mortal swung her legs back and forth to add momentum. Moonlight shone down on her, turning her hair to shadow and the scars on her face to soft pearl. When she'd managed to swing as high as Nuada was tall, she laughed and let the swing slow down again.

"Enjoying yourself?" He called, approaching slowly.

"Yes, actually," she replied, tilting her head so her hair spilled across her face. "You should try it."

He snorted. "I think not."

"Spoil-sport. Why? Is it beneath your princely dignity? Didn't you play when you were little?" The swing was stationary now. Dylan's fingers were very pale where they wrapped around the thick chains that held the swing suspended. "I mean... swings are really old. At least a few hundred years. You've never played on a swing before?" He shook his head as he circled around behind her. "What about pushing a pretty girl on the swing? Guys do that all the time in movies."

In answer, Nuada grasped where the chains connected to the seat of the swing and pulled it back a ways. When he let go, it creaked a little as it swung forward, then backwards once more. He caught the chains and held the swing still. When Dylan glanced up at him questioningly, the words spilled out before he could clamp his teeth shut. "I have now." He ground his teeth. He hadn't meant to say that. Why had he said that? Ignoring her wide eyes, the prince added, "Not that I consider you a girl."

The mortal's voice was dry as the desert when she asked, "So I'm what? A boy?"

"Hardly."

"Then what?"

"A woman," he said softly, then gritted his teeth and stepped back a little.

She didn't want to analyze why the way he said that made her stomach do a backflip. I'm pathetic, that's why, Dylan thought disparagingly. So instead, she twisted the swing around, back and forth like she and John had done when they were little. The chains creaked a bit louder at the abuse. Then she asked, "Have you thought of your other four questions yet?"

"I have a few to choose from. You're a woman of mystery in some ways," Nuada murmured, giving the swing another little push. "I'm hesitant to waste them, however. There are many things I wish to learn about you, but I know if I ask, you will not wish to give me the answers."

"Like what?"

"How you escaped the fear-darrig without harm, and with its blessing." He kept his face carefully expressionless when she glanced over her shoulder at him. "You told me, that very first night in your cottage, that you would tell me another night. It has been more than four months. Will you tell me now?"

He wanted to know because he could not, for the life of him, figure out the answer. The fear-darrig were cruel little things. They would invite the unwary to sit beside their fires, fae and human alike. If they were refused, they would kill the refuser. If the invitation was accepted, the fear-darrig would demand a story or some other form of entertainment. Any refusal was met with death. If the entertainment was considered unsatisfactory, death. And Dylan had only been nineteen at the time of the encounter, a mere girl. How had a mortal girl managed to escape such a fate?

Her answer, when it came, surprised him... and saddened him. "I let him watch my life. They can read memories, you know. So I let him. And I agreed to re-experience any of the memories he chose. He said that... that I was one of the most entertaining humans he'd ever met." Her tone would've left a lesser man bleeding.

"Forgive me," he murmured.

A cold but gentle hand curled around his where it still gripped the swing's chain. Her eyes were lit by the moon when they sought out his face. "No need. And since I promised to answer that one ages ago, it doesn't count towards your four remaining questions. I'll give you a freebie. Any other questions that I may or may not want to answer?"

"Have you ever been in love?" Nuada frowned. Now why had he asked that?

"No," she replied, surprising him. "I've had crushes on people. I've thought I was in love but... you can't be in love with someone you don't know, who doesn't know you. And unless I can tell my boyfriend or whoever about your people, we'd never really know each other. So no. I've never been in love."

Until now, she thought, but didn't say. It wasn't a lie. Or if it was, it was a faerie lie and Nuada ought to appreciate that. He'd asked if she'd ever been in love. The answer was, as she'd said, no. "Been" was past tense. Semantics, but she wasn't about to confess just how much she cared about the incredible, sometimes infuriating Elf prince at her side. At least, not to him.

"Have you?" She asked, then regretted it when sharp, biting pain flashed behind his eyes. "Never mind. I don't know why I asked; I already know."

"You do?"

"Yes." Choosing her words carefully, she added, "I was informed by your sister that you loved someone... someone that you shouldn't. She told me who."

"And this doesn't bother you?" Nuada demanded, his voice suddenly sharp as a jagged icicle. "You, who follow the Star Kindler? You who are human, mortal, when mortals have always believed-"

"Of course it bothers me, you idiot," Dylan snapped, twisting around to glare up at him. "Stop snarling at me. It bothers me because it makes you miserable - anybody with eyes can see that - and as long as you love this person it's never going to stop making you miserable no matter how long you live. And the one thing I hate more than anything else is seeing you unhappy. You deserve all the joy you could ever possibly hope to have. So yes, it bothers me. It drives me flipping crazy. It makes me wanna scream because whenever you see her, you look like you're bleeding to death and it kills me. All right? Jeez."

The one thing I hate more than anything else is seeing you unhappy. By the stars, did she have any idea how those words made him feel? No one but Wink had ever expressed a sentiment even close to that. And now she was scowling at the snow, reminding him once more of a kitten with its fur puffed. He laid a hand on her shoulder.

"I have loved others." Did he say this simply to tell her, or to console her? He did not know. Though perhaps "love" was not the proper term. Infatuation was more like it. But if it eased her, then what was the harm? "Before... before her."

"Wanna tell me about them?"

He pulled his hand away. Gave the swing another gentle push. "Another time."

"Can I ask you a question now, Your Highness?"

"Hmm?" The moonlight filtering through the metal bars and chains made interesting patterns against her hair. Silver and shadow and darkness.

"What is your best memory ever?"

Nuada frowned at her. Why did she wish to know such a thing? Well, it was a simple question. He had to think about the answer, though, for several moments before he knew for certain. "The day I received this." When she glanced back at him, he touched the royal scar. "It marked me as a man grown, and a warrior. It meant that I was old enough to be considered an equal - or almost an equal - in my father's eyes. I became the heir to the throne, instead of merely the heir presumptive. And it meant that I could now take up the Silver Lance as my weapon." Pleasure from the memory was a golden warmth in his chest. "What is yours?"

She was silent for so long that he was unsure she would answer him. But finally, in a very small voice that even his Elven ears strained to catch, Dylan murmured softly, "I have three. You calling me 'mo duinne,' you singing to me that night in Findias and comforting me, and..." She glanced over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were bright in the moonlight. "And when we watched the Night Parade from the roof and you gave me the tulip."

"And... and your worst?" She flinched, and he cursed silently. What was the matter with him? Why did he ask these things? Yet part of him desperately wanted to know, for reasons he could not define.

"The night I ran into your father's hall and saw you chained to the whipping posts," she whispered. Her fingers, wrapped around the swing-chains, were white-knuckled. "I thought... I thought you were dead. Or dying. It felt like... like someone had reached into me and ripped my heart out of my chest. Like part of me just... shattered. And I told Heavenly Father I'd do anything, endure anything, as long as He saved you. And He did. I... I couldn't imagine my life without you in it anymore, Nuada. You mean too much to me."

Slowly, the Elf prince moved from behind her to stand at her side. He studied her face. Caught the glint of a tear on her cheek before she wiped it away. Without thinking why he shouldn't, why it was foolish, he reached out. He meant to caress her cheek, to comfort her. It had somehow become so easy to do so.

Instead, his fingertips brushed ever so lightly against her mouth. She drew a sharp breath, but didn't pull away from him. Only closed her eyes. Her lashes made midnight crescents against her cheeks. As if mesmerized, the Elf lightly traced that scarred mouth. Noted, as if in a dream, the softness of her lips and the warmth of her misting breath. Even the scars that slashed across those lips did not mar the incredible softness of her mouth.

This is unwise, part of him snapped. Stop. But he couldn't. Her breath against his skin warmed him despite the sharply cold air. And she held so still. As if she were afraid to move. As if she were giving him permission to touch as long as he wanted. To touch... her lips are so soft...

The direction his thoughts had taken suddenly penetrated whatever fog had wrapped around his brain. He jerked his hand back.

Dylan glanced up quickly. Even in the moonlight, she could see that Nuada's eyes were that pale, gold-brushed ivory. She hopped off the swing, stuffing her cold hands into her coat pockets, and wandered over to the merry-go-round. The Elf behind her muttered something angrily in Old Gaelic. Dylan turned back to him. "C'mere." At his look, she huffed. "Please, Your Highness?" He came to stand beside her. "Okay. We need to hash some things out real quick."

"Oh?" What he needed was to get control of himself again. How did this keep happening?

"Yeah. First thing is... I know the fae are really touch-oriented." She flinched when he glared at her, but kept going. "I know it doesn't mean anything. I'm not gonna go all stupid on you and get some weird idea that you've suddenly fallen head over heels for me, okay?" Dylan waited until the glare softened and the prince nodded before letting out the breath she'd been holding. "Okay, second thing. You know I think you're handsome, and you can be really charming when you want to be. Sometimes I'm okay with that. It's cute. Other times, it makes me a little nervous. When you look at me and your eyes go that weird gold-kissed ivory color, I get nervous. Don't know why, but I do. Okay?"

The Elf's ego was still reeling from the application of the word "cute." His common sense was ranting about the way he'd touched her. Well, if it meant nothing to her (and why would it?), then of course it meant absolutely nothing to him. But the mortal's description of his eyes left him speechless. Gold-kissed ivory color. But that meant... no. No, not right now. Why would his eyes be that color now? Nuada knew better. It simply made no sense for his eyes to be that pale when he was with Dylan, of all people. The dimness of the night was playing tricks on her eyes. But all he said was, "All right. My apologies."

"No, don't apologize! I meant... I just meant, if I suddenly get tense or something, it's not you. It's me. Okay?"

He smiled. "All right. Do you want to head back?"

"You kidding? We just got out here. I haven't even made a snow angel yet."

"A snow angel?"

Her look was one-hundred percent incredulous. "For real? Okay, a snow angel is... well, watch." To his surprise, she moved to a snow drift with a somewhat steep slope and let herself fall back against the icy, white powder. "It's like a picture in the snow. You make the wings," and she swept the top layer of snow aside with her arms. "Then you make the robe-part. And yes, I know I look ridiculous, but I haven't done this in over two years and I like playing in snow like a child, so you'll have to bear with me," she said with a smile. "Okay, now I need you to help me up or I'll ruin it."

When he'd hauled her to her feet, Nuada had to admit that the imprint left behind did look rather like a human child's drawing of an angel.

"Dylan. What do humans do when it snows? Make snow angels and what else?" He surprised himself by asking, but then realized this might give him a glimpse into the less-painful part of her childhood. Help the Elf warrior understand the human woman who continued to surprise him.

"Well, there's ice skating, though I don't do that anymore. It's too hard on my leg. And skating was always hard for me anyway because I had trouble stopping before I hit the snowbanks." She smiled at the memory and brushed back her hair. "Um... making a snowman. Building a fort. Snowball fights, though you have to be careful with those. Pack the snow too hard, it turns to ice, and you can hurt someone. That's how I got this." She pointed to a white mark just under her ear. "John's fault. We were maybe five at the time. Six? He had hysterics because it bled a lot. My response was just, 'Ow.' He still has issues with throwing snowballs at me now."

Her eyes suddenly went wide and she turned to study Nuada thoughtfully. He wanted to take a step back, but refused to allow himself to indulge in such weakness. Still... a look from a female like the one Dylan was giving him just now was a good reason for a man to edge away.

"Wanna have a snowball fight?"

"No," he said shortly.

The human huffed at him. "Why are we even out here? So you can freeze your cute little Elf ears off? Tar ar! Beo beagán."

Come on! Live a little. An invitation to play. To let go of the burden of responsibility, if only for a little while.

"I will not engage in such childish antics." And his ears were not "cute." Now the haughty prince turned to walk back the way the two of them had first come. "If foolish games are the only reason you wanted to come outside-" A loosely-packed snowball splatting against the back of his head cut him off.

Very slowly, he turned around to see her with her arms folded, shivering a little, watching him warily. He could hear her suddenly pounding heart. Not so sure of yourself now, are you, mo duinne? Nuada thought. He took a single step forward. Noticed the way Dylan shifted back a little. The predatory part of him stirred. Stretched lazily. Focused on her.

"Are you angry?" Maybe that hadn't been her best idea, Dylan reflected. His face could've been carved from marble.

Nuada did not answer for a long moment. He had a very important, very hard decision to make. Such insolence could not go unpunished any longer. Briefly, he cast out with all of his senses, searching for anyone who might be nearby. It would not do to have witnesses to this.

"Allow me to put it this way," the prince said too softly. Then he moved with Elven speed, so fast she would never see his strike coming.

Dylan shrieked with laughter when a snowball hit her square in the chest. "Hey!" She scooped up snow and packed it into a ball, but Nuada was a shadowy blur against the whiteness of the snow-blanketed night. There was no way she could get him at that speed. Another snowball hit her in the shoulder. The ribs. Her thigh. The last one got her in the back of the head and she yelped, laughing. "No fair! Hold still so I can hit you! Cheater!"

He came to a stop not even a foot away, smirking. He wasn't even winded. "You should never challenge an Elf, my lady."

Shifting from delight to coy in a single fluid moment, she sidled up to him. Smiled coquettishly. Their eyes locked when she laid her hand against his chest, her fingertips brushing the exposed flesh just below his throat. Did she feel the way his pulse jumped just a little at the unexpected contact? "Perhaps you're right, Your Highness. I was... foolish to think I could ever best you in fair combat. A warrior as swift... and strong... and skilled as you..." Her eyes were almost dreamy. She cocked her head to one side and studied him through the curtain of her hair.

Nuada opened his mouth to say something. He had no idea what.

Moving like a lightning strike, she got the Elf prince right in the face with the snowball she'd been holding before scampering backwards out of his immediate reach, giggling like a child. "Gotcha! Haha! Sucker."

Nuada spat snow and narrowed his eyes at her. Little imp. "You'll pay for that."

"Actually, my prince, I don't think I will," Dylan replied, grinning. "You don't know any of my weaknesses. So there." When he took a single, mock-menacing step toward her, she darted to the side. Well, if she wanted to outrun him, she was out of luck. If she wanted to dodge him, same thing. The amber-eyed Elf warrior caught her around the waist with one arm when Dylan tried to evade him. Trapped her against his chest while she laughed until she was breathless. "Okay, okay. Just don't tickle me, okay? John used to do that all the time and I'm really ticklish. I yield. I surrender." Then she looked up into his face. "You know, you look different when you smile. You should do it more often."

"I am not smiling," he replied, trying to swallow his laughter. "Your child-like antics do not amuse me." And now I know one of your weaknesses.

"I'm pretty sure it's called smiling when the corners of your mouth turn up," the aggravating mortal replied primly, touching the very corner of his upturned mouth with cold fingers. "But you can live in denial if it makes you feel better, Your Highness. Oh, watch what I can do." She slipped his grip, climbed onto the merry-go-round, clomped across it, hopped off, then hopped onto the balance beam. Arms held out on either side of her body, she slowly traversed the snow-dusted balance-bar. "Haven't done this in a couple years, but I still got it." Dylan came back along the bar. Once she'd reached the end, she hopped off again. "Ta-da!" Nuada chuckled at her childlike delight. "You do it."

"I don't think so."

"Please?" She took his hand in both of hers. Lightly tugged him toward the balance beam. "Come on. No one's here to see us. You can be silly and nobody will ever know."

Nuala, Nuada thought, but didn't say. His sister had no place here, in this diamond-studded crystalline wonderland that Dylan found so much delight in.

"I will know," he replied instead with deliberate patience. Throwing retaliatory snowballs was one thing. This was another.

Dylan scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Well, who cares if you know?" She cocked her head, hitting him with a considering look. "What's the matter - worried you'll fall?" He opened his mouth to protest. She ruthlessly cut him off with a wicked gleam in her eye and a wicked curve to her scarred mouth. "I can go up with you if it'll make you feel better, Your Highness. No need to be scared."

The warrior prince scowled at the mortal who dared to challenge him. "Insolent chit." He stepped up onto the balance-bar, traversed it in a few quick steps, then came back and stepped onto the snow again. "Child's play."

She actually clapped her hands, grinning. "Bravo. You did two childish things, actually had fun, and the universe did not implode. Amazing. My turn again. Backwards this time."

"Why?" He demanded, exasperated. "Why do you act like such a child sometimes?"

"Making up for lost time, for one thing. It also helps me stay young-minded, which helps me at work. It's also a good reminder that the world isn't the dark, horrible place I sometimes think it is, and that there's always something to enjoy. And finally, just for fun," Dylan replied, hopping back up. She turned around and began to walk backwards along the beam. She was a bit more careful this time. "You know what fun is, don't you, Your Highness?"

She grinned. Her grin faltered when she slipped. Nuada caught her around the waist easily. "Whoa." Her arms automatically slipped around his neck as she murmured, "Thank you."

He gently set her on the ground. "You're welcome."

His eyes had been amber, but now they lightened to that beautiful and too-intense ivory again. A shiver traipsed down Dylan's spine as their eyes locked. The Elf prince was very warm, despite the frigid bite to the night air. Her arms tightened fractionally around his neck. His pale gold hair slid over her hands like spidersilk or starlight. Dylan licked suddenly dry lips. Nuada's eyes slid from hers down to her mouth. She saw him swallow hard.

Oh, my. She tried to say something. Anything. Couldn't, for some reason. Her knees suddenly felt weak.

"Are... are you hurt?" The feral-eyed warrior asked softly. Her hands were cool against the back of his neck. Moonlight gilded her skin and turned the tangle of dark hair to silk and shadows that smelled of sweet summer flowers. When she murmured "no," her voice was softer than a falling snowflake. "Are you certain?" The arm that he'd caught her with tightened around her waist without conscious thought. Her breath caught and she made a soft, intriguing little sound in her throat. He suddenly remembered how soft her lips had felt beneath his fingertips.

"Yes," Dylan whispered after a moment. "I'm sure." And then she did something she'd never have thought herself reckless enough to try. She took one of the hands clasped behind the Elf warrior's neck and laid it gently against his cheek. The tremor that went through him at her touch was slight... but they both felt it. It was suddenly very hard to breathe. His free hand came up to brush back her hair. The path left by his caressing fingertips tingled. "Nuada... Nuada, I... we should... I..."

Tell him, a little voice in her head urged. Say it out loud. Tell him the truth. Say "I love you." Tell him.

"Dylan."

Nuada's voice was soft as the wind gently rustling the trees. His gaze flickered between her eyes and her mouth. Was he... would he... was he going to... He leaned in and everything in her went still. The wild scent of the forest, that feral scent that always clung to him, flooded her senses. His grip on her tightened until she was pressed hard against the solid wall of his chest. She felt his heartbeat pounding through her body and oh, he was so very warm. Dylan could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips.

Oh, my gosh. Don't be stupid, don't be stupid. This is not what I think it is. But... oh... please, please, please... She closed her eyes. Tried not to hope. Tried not to imagine where this would, just maybe possibly hopefully, end: with his mouth pressed against hers.

A shrill ringing sound shattered the moment. Nuada blinked as Dylan's eyes snapped open. He stepped back, forcing his arms to his sides. Dylan shoved absently at her hair with one hand while fishing in her pocket for the source of the irritating noise. When she pulled out her cellphone, Nuada scowled. That stupid human contraption. And what had he been doing a moment ago? What had he been thinking? Where did he think such an intimate embrace would lead to? Blast it, he thought viciously as Dylan studied the cell's readout. Blast it! What, by the Fates, is wrong with me? The prince fought the urge to scrub at his mouth, which still tingled faintly from the feel of Dylan's warm breath against his lips. Only a twist of fate had saved him from... from what? He couldn't even think the words.

Dylan clicked TALK and put the phone to her ear. "H-hello? Anya?" Why was Anya calling her? She hadn't talked to the folklorist who was one of her closest "mundane" friends in a couple months. "What's up?"

"Hey, I need a huge favor. I'm at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and there's been... look, I can't really explain it very well. It's a thing with my job. But there was an accident at work and there's this kid here and we need to get her to talk to us but she's too freaked out and I talked to my boss and asked him if I could call you because you're really good with kids and he said I could so could you-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down," Dylan replied, shifting almost seamlessly into professional mode. That made it a little bit easier to ignore Nuada's unfathomable stare. "Where are you? Have you called the police?"

"It's... complicated. The authorities are involved but my boss wants you because I talk about you sometimes at work and I asked for you so could you please come, Dylan? This kid's real upset and she won't come out and-"

"Okay, okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. I'm leaving right now. Okay?" As soon as she disconnected from Anya, she turned to the Elf prince who'd been staring at her for the entire phone call with an expression she couldn't read on his face and a strange something behind his feral, golden eyes. "Nuada, I have to go. I'm sorry, but there's a little kid and..." Dylan swallowed hard when his expression didn't flicker. It took all her courage to say, "I need you to stay at the cottage until I get back. Please?"

"Stay here," he said tonelessly. "Wait for you."

The psychiatrist nodded.

The prince inclined his head and replied, "Very well. I shall escort you back to your cottage, at least."

"You don't have to do that."

"My honor does not agree with you," he said coolly, and he turned on his heel and strode back toward the cottage, and away from her, clearly expecting her to follow after him.