Chapter 32 - The Hands of a Healer

that is

A Short Tale of a Test, a Child in the Dark, Silver Eyes Watching, Nain Rouge, and a Message Delivered

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Unfortunately, Dylan couldn't actually leave right away. First she had to call John for a ride. Emergency or not, the New York Underground was not on her agenda. Never would be again. And it was faster to just wait for a ride. Secondly, she redialed Anya while she and Nuada trudged through the frigid snow back to the cottage. The Elf remained unnervingly silent as the mortal psychiatrist asked for a few basic details on the girl - her age, was she injured, what was she wearing, was she asking for anything, etc. The answers were, "About five; we don't know, that's the problem; a t-shirt with a dark-skinned princess in a sparkling green dress; and for us to go away." Dylan mentally sketched a plan of attack based on that information.

In her cottage, she hastily changed into a hideous pink shirt with Disney princesses on the front and grabbed her cane. The Metropolitan Museum of Art had some very inconvenient stairs and she didn't want to be dragging her leg behind her like a lame dog by the end of the night. Dylan dropped her pepper spray into her purse, packed a miniature flashlight, slipped her cell in its corresponding pocket, then went into her closet and grabbed the cardboard box full of stuffed toys that she kept on the shelf in there for her younger patients. The second-to-last thing she put in her purse was a green stuffed frog. Then she hooked her kubotan keychain to one of the belt loops on her jeans.

"I'll try to be back as soon as possible," she called to Nuada as she rushed into the kitchen and grabbed an apple and a granola bar. Ever since almost fainting from hunger on Sunday, she made sure to grab snack food to take with her. Dylan shrugged back into her coat. "Don't wait up for me, okay?"

Nuada didn't reply. Finished with her preparations, Dylan walked back into the living room. The prince sat watching the crackling fireplace. Pale fingers absently scratched under Bat's chin. The kitten purred like a motorboat. Nuada didn't seem to notice.

"Your Highness... are you angry with me? For... for anything?" Dylan asked from the entryway to the kitchen. Feral, firegold eyes sliced to her face. There was no anger, but there was something there, all right. Something that made the hair on the nape of her neck prickle. It wasn't dangerous. Dylan knew that much. But it was frightening, though she couldn't have explained why. "Your Highness?" Silence. "Nuada?"

He studied the pale scarred face with its ravaged mouth and slightly crooked nose, the fey-like blue eyes brushed with moonlit silver. Out in the snow she'd looked like a woman enjoying the sharp cold of a clear winter night. Now she looked more like a frightened child in that too-large leather coat and the black boots, her fingers fidgeting with the straps of her purse. He had to say something or she would leave with that sudden bruised look in her eyes. But - the prince couldn't push this aside - the mortal had ordered him to stay behind again. Like an irritating dog. Nuada didn't grind his teeth, but it was a close thing.

"If I ordered you to stay," the prince said softly, musingly, and noticed the way Dylan stiffened, "would you? Would you obey such an order from the prince you have pledged yourself to?"

Do with me what you will. She couldn't have meant those words. Even she could not trust him that much. And yet...

"Are you ordering me?" Dylan asked just as softly. A tiny shiver of dread coiled in her stomach. He wasn't angry with her... exactly. But there was something wrong. He was upset about something. Because I tried to... to kiss him? How could I have been so stupid? Or is it something else? But aloud all she said was, "Is that the act of service you demand of me, Your Highness?"

"If it is?" He asked silkily.

"Then..." The words were like clay in her mouth - thick, cold, bitter. "Then I will obey. I keep my word. Is that what you would have me do?"

Please, no, she prayed silently. Please, Nuada, don't. Because if he did... something would break in her. Break between them. And once broken, she didn't know if it could ever be repaired. But Nuada would never do something so dishonorable, Dylan reminded herself. I'm overreacting. This is... a test or something. I don't know. Something.

After a long silence, the prince replied, "No. I would not give you such an order." He didn't miss the way the tension drained out of her.

There had been total conviction in her voice, stars curse it. If he asked it, she would call her friend back and tell the woman she couldn't come. Couldn't help the human child. Because she is loyal to me, Nuada thought. Does my father know how deep that loyalty runs? If he did, would Balor use that loyalty as the sweetly poisoned bait in the trap he'd laid for his only son?

"John's going to be here in a few minutes," the mortal murmured, shifting her weight. "Did you... do you want to talk about..."

About what happened outside, Nuada thought. What almost happened. What he'd been trying not to think about since they'd started back for the cottage through the snow and biting cold. "No," he muttered tersely, and went back to watching the dancing flames. There was silence. A few minutes later, Dylan's phone chimed in her purse. She whispered goodbye. The feral-eyed Elf did not speak. Did not look away from the fire. Only closed his eyes briefly when the front door opened and closed behind the mortal who had managed to throw him off-balance yet again.

What am I even doing here? He wondered, not for the first time. And the stars help him, the only answer he could find in himself was the memory of her arms around his neck and the way that mortal heart had drummed against his own chest, even through her coat, when he'd leaned in to...

Cursing under his breath, Nuada lunged to his feet and strode to the bedroom. Don't wait up, she'd said. Well, he would not. Clearly he needed more sleep. It was the only explanation for his bizarre behavior. That was what the prince kept telling himself as he stripped off boots, shirt, and tunic and laid down on Dylan's bed. Nuada hadn't completely thawed out from their time outside, so he actually used the blankets for once. This is ridiculous, he thought as the sudden warmth began lulling him into drowsiness. The faint scent of Dylan's night-blooming jasmine soap and shampoo still clung to the blanket and pillow, a whisper of scent lightly teasing his senses. Surprisingly, it soothed the Elven warrior, which only served to irritate him more. She is a human, he reminded himself. Mortal. Not fae. I should not be tempted to... to...

What if her aggravating phone had not gone off at that moment? What would have happened? What would he have done? Touched those remarkably soft lips not with his fingers, but with-

Enough, Nuada snarled silently. He closed his eyes, seeking escape from questions that had no answers. It was a moment of insanity, nothing more.

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Talking a five-year-old girl into evacuating her hiding place was easier said than done. Anya was waiting for her at the entrance to the Met. It was the only way Dylan got through the blockade of personel and... well, she thought they were policemen, but she didn't recognize a single one of the uniforms and suits crowding around the art museum.

Anya looked particularly harassed as she swept down the museum steps, grabbed the psychiatrist's arm, and began leading her up the stairs.

"Slow down, please," Dylan pleaded when they'd traversed about twenty steps. The unyielding, ice-slicked concrete was not playing nice with her bad leg. Neither was the heaviness in the air, which promised fresh snow - or, if the temperature rose a bit, sleet - before morning. Dylan's grip on her cane left her knuckles mottled white as she limped up the steps. "Kinda hurts here."

"Why don't you take Vicodin or something for that?" Anya asked, but kindly slowed her pace. "Wouldn't it help?"

"Probably would, but Vicodin's addicting," she replied. "You know I'm leery about that kind of thing after... after what happened back in college."

Anya didn't say anything to that. Just nodded and kept an eye on Dylan to make sure the limping woman didn't slip on the ice.

In the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Celtic Room were three men. One was in his mid-forties, with thinning black hair and a nice suit. Dylan pegged him, and the older, balding gentleman with the cigar as Feds the minute she saw them. The younger man was still on the beat - she could tell by the self-assured way he carried himself, and the fact that he made sure that no matter where he or anyone else stood, he could draw the gun from the holster at his side without any problems. The older man, who had a bit of a droopy hound-dog face, probably rode a desk. There was another man with shocks of gray, absentminded-professor hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, who was studying a glass case full of odd bits of golden artifacts. When this third man noticed Anya leading Dylan into the room, he smiled warmly.

"I take it this is the inestimable Doctor Myers you've told us about, Anya?"

"Yes, sir, Professor Broom," Anya said, and gestured to the woman at her side. "Everybody, this is Doctor Dylan Myers. Dylan, this is Professor Trevor Bruttenholm, Mr. Clay, and Mr. Manning." Each man reached out and shook the new woman's hand. "Okay, I can't give you too many details - the authorities would get ticked and even I don't know all of what's going on - but someone broke into the museum and stole some stuff. We don't know what yet, or why; that's why I'm here.

"But while our guys and the authorities were scouring the place, we heard crying and found this little kid hiding in one of the ventilation shafts. She's far back enough we can't reach in and get her out without some kind of rescue equipment, and she won't come out on her own. We don't know if she's hurt or what. She won't talk to us except to tell us to leave her alone."

Anya led her friend to the air vent in question. Someone had already pried the vent itself off the shaft. Using her cane and the wall, Dylan carefully levered herself to the floor. The vent was maybe a foot square. A very small child, then. Four or five at the most; Anya had been right. Dylan leaned over until she could peek inside the darkened shaft. Since the room was well-lit, she could just make out the pale face and huddled form that stared back at her from the other end. Caught a glimpse of the Princess and the Frog t-shirt. She gauged the distance. At least seven or eight feet between the room and the kid. No way were they dragging her out without traumatizing her further, maybe even hurting her.

"Why's she on the floor?" Manning whispered to Broom. The professor arched one grizzled eyebrow at the BPRD director. Anya sighed.

"She knows what she's doing," the young researcher replied. "She's really good with kids."

"Hi," Dylan called softly to the huddled figure in the air shaft. The little girl's eyes gleamed in the dimness. "Hi, there. My name's Dylan. What's yours?" Little fists scrubbed at pale cheeks, but the child didn't say anything. Just sniffled. Unperturbed, Dylan added, "Can you tell me what letter your name starts with?" Silence. "Does it start with A? Or maybe B?" Dylan got all the way to T before the little girl sat up a little straighter. Grasping at the first names that came to mind, the psychiatrist asked, "Is your name Taylor? Tabitha? Tiana?"

Ever so slowly, the little girl nodded. Dylan smiled at her and shifted so she could lay on her stomach where it would be easier to see the child. Though it took the strain off her leg, she could already feel the strain in her back. "Tiana. That's a beautiful name. Just like the princess, huh?" Dylan said gently. Tiana nodded. "It's awful dark in there, Tiana. Do you want a flashlight?"

Dylan waited until the girl nodded before pulling the little flashlight out of her purse and sliding it to her. The beam flicked on and Dylan could see the too-pale face, smudged with grime from the ventilation shaft, as well as the golden-brown eyes and flaxen hair that hung past her shoulders in messy pigtails.

For just a moment Dylan's heart siezed in her chest. She looks like... like... It hurt too much to finish the thought: that this little girl looked a lot like what Dylan's own daughter might look like... if she ever had a child with Nuada.

Focus, the psychiatrist snapped at herself. She needs my whole attention right now.

Dylan talked to Tiana about inane things, like the princesses on Dylan's Disney shirt and the stories they came from. Tiana didn't talk back, but after an hour of the older woman speaking softly and calmly about mundane things, the little girl began to scootch a bit closer. When she'd halved the distance between herself and the Celtic Room, Dylan said, "Tiana, I have something for you, since you've been brave enough to talk to me. Someone I want you to meet. He's very special. Would you like to meet him?" The little girl nodded and the youth psychiatrist pulled the stuffed frog out of her purse.

"Is... is his name Naveen?" Tiana whispered, and Dylan allowed herself to relax just a little bit. She'd spoken. Finally.

"That's right," Dylan murmured. "Would you like him to stay in there with you for a while?"

"Yes, please." Tiana cuddled the stuffed frog while keeping a strangling grip on the flashlight with her free hand. After a few minutes, she sniffled. "A monster hurt my mommy and daddy. I saw it!"

Dylan sensed more than saw the three other adults in the room stiffen. Ignored them. "What did the monster look like, Tiana?"

"It had pony legs and no skin, and one eye! And its eye was glowing and there were yellow things all over it, and it hurt my mommy and daddy! Then it took the gold thing from the case." Tiana paused, sniffling and scrubbing at her grimy, tearstained face with Naveen's synthetic fuzz. Behind the psychiatrist, Clay and Anya went over to study the shattered glass cases that lined the walls of the Celtic Room. Tiana added, "I know you don't believe me."

"Yes, I do," Dylan said softly. Had it been a faerie? That sounded a lot like a nuckelavee. But why would one of the Kindly Ones steal something from a museum? "I believe you, Tiana." Tiana shook her head until her hair flew around her face.

"No you don't! You're a grownup and grownups never believe in monsters."

"I'm not a grownup," the older woman said, propping her chin on her fists. "I just look like one. And I've seen monsters, too. I know how scary they can be. I've seen lots of monsters. You did a good job hiding in here away from the monsters, Tiana."

"No, I didn't," Tiana whimpered. In the beam of the flashlight, Dylan caught the glitter of fresh tears. "Mommy needed help and I didn't help her. I got scared and ran away! I was bad."

"Tiana, I want you to listen to me, okay?" Dylan waited until the little girl met her eyes. "You know what rules are, right? Like not hitting and not calling names?" The child nodded. "Do you know the rule for monsters? If you see a monster you're supposed to run away. That's the rule. You did exactly right by running like you did. I bet your daddy told you to run, too, didn't he?" She nodded again. Dylan said gently, "You did exactly what you're supposed to. You did a very good job by hiding and not coming out until good guys came to help. You weren't bad. Okay?"

"Okay," Tiana mumbled, scrubbing at one eye. "Did you run away from the monsters, too?"

Remembering a pack of wolves in human skin loping through underground tunnels, Dylan said softly, "I tried to. I'm not as good of a hider as you are."

Tiana pondered this for a while. "Did they catch you? Is that what happened to your face?"

"Uh-huh."

Weight crushing her against rough, ice-cold cement. Hands covered in coarse fur pinning her while hot breath choked her. Silver pain bright of a knife blade like claws raking across her unprotected face. Something tearing inside her as she screamed and the wolves howled and her face burned...

Warmth like a strand of sunlight slid through the icy chill burning cold in her stomach, dispelling the fear just beginning to take root there.

"How did you get away?"

Anya's ears pricked at the question. She had the feeling that Dylan was talking about the attack back in December, when she'd gone missing for nearly three months, but talking about it in a way to comfort a little girl who blamed herself for whatever she'd seen of her parents' deaths. And here was something Anya had always wondered - how had Dylan gotten away from the men who'd attacked her?

How did you get away? Dylan closed her eyes and thought of him. Golden eyes melting to sun-kissed ivory. Moonbeam skin with hints of blue under subway fluorescents. The scent of leather and forests. A rumbling laugh and a seldom-seen smile. Lullabies in the darkness. The reassuring pressure of his arms around her as he leaned in to... "A handsome prince came and saved me."

"Did you get married and live happy ever after?" The little girl scooted a bit closer.

Dylan laughed, and was so glad when Tiana's mouth curved into a wobbly smile. "Well, not quite. We're just good friends." Remembering a conversation over dinner a few days ago, she added, "I don't think he really wants to marry anyone."

Tiana scootched even closer. "Maybe he's shy."

Trying to put her concept of Nuada together with the word shy made Dylan's brain hurt. She half-shrugged, which was made awkward by being sprawled out on the cold tile floor. "Maybe."

"I think he's shy," Tiana said with all the confidence of a little girl who knows how happily-ever-after is supposed to work.

Closer.

Fighting her grin at the thought of Nuada being shy, Dylan asked, "Hey, Tiana, are you hungry?" She pulled out the apple and the granola bar. "I bet you're a little hungry. You've been in there for a while. Do you want some?"

"Do I have to come out?"

"Not if you don't want to," Dylan said. "Which do you want - the apple or the granola?" Tiana made her choice, and both she and the older woman set to munching. Dylan knew she had to keep the situation light and easy now that Tiana had decided to start coming close. While they ate and talked about whether or not the handsome prince was shy or just not interested, Manning and Bruttenholm whispered with Anya.

"What is taking so long?" Manning demanded.

"She's trying to get the kid to trust her so that when she finally comes out of there, she doesn't panic when we try to check her out and make sure she's not injured or anything," Anya replied, studying the broken labels in the glass cases. She noticed the word Crown on a fragment of black placard. "Jeez, Manning, don't you have any kids?"

"I don't know how to deal with children. That's why I joined the Bureau."

"That woman," the professor replied in a whisper, using tweezers to pluck a shred of black... something from the jagged edge of a piece of glass, "has been here for only a couple hours, and that child has responded more openly to her in that time than she has to any of our agents. We now know what attacked this place - sounds like a nuckelavee, one of the Irish fae. Let Doctor Myers do her job. I trust Anya's judgment. You should as well, Special Agent Manning."

"I do," Manning mumbled. "I just want to get out of here before Armageddon, is all. This place doesn't even have any decent coffee."

"Tiana," Dylan was saying as the little girl scootched another couple inches forward. "Why don't you want to come out of there?"

"What if the monster comes back? The big red man said it wouldn't, but-"

"Well if the big red man said it wouldn't, then it won't," Dylan said as an ember of warmth flared to life in her chest. Trying not to question the words coming out of her mouth, she added, "Is the big red man a good guy?"

"I think so."

"Then you should trust him. So will you come out, Tiana?" Because my back's starting to really hurt, Dylan wanted to say, but didn't. Instead, she added, "We need to make sure you're not hurt or anything, okay?"

"I... I guess." After several long moments, the little girl crawled out of the ventilation shaft and stood up, eyeing the adults in the room warily. Dylan had to shove herself upright. Her bad leg spasmed viciously in protest but she ignored it. Leaning heavily on her cane, she got to her feet and shifted so that she stood slightly between Tiana and the other adults. Tiana looked up at Dylan. Those tawny brown eyes, framed by golden lashes, made the older woman's heart skip a beat. Then the little girl said, "You're bigger than I thought."

"Really? So are you. You must eat your vegetables."

"Blech! I only like broccoli, and only with cheese."

"Only with cheese, huh? You are very wise in the ways of veggies." Dylan held out her hand, waited until Tiana curled her fingers around it. Tried to ignore the pang that shot through her. She could've just taken the little girl's hand, true, but it wasn't the same. Most people didn't know there were degrees to hand-holding, especially with children. A hand hanging limp meant one level of trust. Fingers curled trustingly around a grownup's hand meant another.

Catching Anya's eye, Dylan gently led the little girl towards the other woman. Every step was agony, but she didn't show it to the child at her side. "Tiana, this is my friend Anya. She's going to take really good care of you, okay? I have to go right now, but I'm going to call Anya so I can talk to you... tomorrow?" She glanced at Anya, who nodded. That would work. "I'll call tomorrow and make sure you're okay. Maybe set it up so we can do something. Hang out, have girl-time. Now, Naveen," Dylan added to the stuffed frog. "Your job is to watch out for Tiana and keep her company, understand? And don't eat any chocolate or you'll turn purple again."

Tiana, who'd been looking more and more like she was seriously thinking about dashing back into the ventilation shaft, suddenly relaxed, giggling. As Anya led her away, Dylan turned to Manning and Broom. Clay was busy studying the broken glass case. Several golden chains, amulets, and other antiques were scattered across the red velvet lining of the case. Dylan's sharp eyes caught the word Bethmoora in neat Copperplate handwriting on one of the labels on the case. Another said Eirc, and yet another read Ciocal. A nuckelavee, stealing a golden artifact from an exhibit about the three Irish faerie kingdoms?

Ignoring the prickles of unease tingling along her arms, she addressed the professor, trying to keep the pain out of her voice.

"She'll be okay. She's young enough that she doesn't really understand what's happened. She knows her parents are dead, but to her that's the same as them being on a long trip. She might ask you when they're coming back. Since she doesn't know you, don't try to give her the 'dead people don't come back' speech. Just say you don't know. Leave something like that to a grief counselor. And don't tell her monsters aren't real. That's just going to make her more scared because she'll think you won't be there if she needs you. Can you track down her family?"

"That shouldn't be too difficult," Professor Broom replied, intrigued by the way this woman automatically assumed they'd follow her orders. She didn't ask about the "monsters" the little girl claimed to have seen. Didn't even ask about "the big red man," whom Bruttenholm knew to be his son. Hellboy was very good with children, and he'd tried with the child too, before Anya had suggested her friend. Did the woman just assume it was the child's way of coping with whatever had happened at the museum?

He noticed the grip on her cane turned her knuckles white as bones. Anya had told him the doctor had a crippled leg. Clearly she needed to get off her feet. "Thank you for coming, Doctor Myers."

"My pleasure." She had to bite out the words between clenched teeth as her leg threatened to buckle. How was she going to get down those stairs? "Can you tell Anya goodbye for me? I really have to go." There was another round of handshakes and then Dylan limped toward the front doors.

Once back in her brother's Mustang, she slammed her fist against the passenger-side dashboard. John, who'd been asleep, jolted awake. "What? What?"

Dylan clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. Squeezed her eyes shut. The coming snowstorm was what was doing it, she knew. Barometric pressure was sending wave upon wave of red-hot pain through her bad leg. And the more-than-a-hundred steps leading up to and inside the Met hadn't helped, either. She punched the dashboard one more time and then tried to relax. If she fought the pain (which her instincts were screaming at her to do) then it would just hurt worse. If she let herself slide into the pain, it wouldn't hurt anywhere near as badly.

But it still hurt. Almost as much as the memory of Tiana's tawny eyes and silvery-blond hair, and that little hand clutching hers. Never have a real family. No. No, darn it, she wasn't going to cry. Not because of the pain ripping through her knee, or because of that sweet little girl.

"I just... want... to go home," Dylan mumbled, dropping her forehead to the ice-cold window. She had to clench her fists against the blistering heat burning from mid-calf to hip. "Get in the shower. Take some ibuprofen. Conk out. That would be heaven right now. Please make that happen, John."

"You got it, D."

They had just pulled into traffic and Dylan had just begun to relax when her phone rang. When she saw the readout, she almost shrieked in frustration. Instead she clicked TALK. "What, Victoria?" She demanded waspishly. "I didn't do anything."

"Francesca's hurt." A brief pause. The deep breath before the plunge into deadly waters. "The Blackwoods did it."

"What?" Pain-spawned irritation melted away, to be replaced by sick fear churning in her stomach. Blackwoods. Patrick and Xander Blackwood. Touching Francesca. Hurting her sister. The way they'd hurt her? No, no, no. "When? How bad?"

"I just picked her up," Victoria replied. Gone was the usual snarl of annoyance and condescension the older woman employed when talking to her younger, "wayward" sister. Now there was only panic, and a dark fury that seethed deep inside. "We're on the way back to her place. Those bastards attacked her after she got off-shift. Broke her wrist. She won't go to a hospital and I thought... thought that maybe..."

That maybe I could do something, Dylan realized as another wave of pain left her feeling slightly nauseated. Aloud, she said, "Okay. We'll be right there. I'm with John right now. I just have to stop by the store and pick up a few first-aid things. She's going to have to go to a hospital, though, Tori, if her wrist is broken. I can splint it, but she's going to need a cast. Are you sure it's broken?"

"Yeah," Tori replied, and Dylan caught the undercurrent of queasiness in her older sister's voice. Victoria had always been rather squeamish. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Okay," Dylan said. "I'll be there." She hung up and said to her twin, "'Cesca's been hurt. We need to go to..."

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Silver cat eyes watched from a high window as Prince Bres bowed low to the pale, amber-eyed princess in the Royal Gardens and offered her his arm. So, the Fomorian prince had already begun attempting to woo the Tuathan princess. If it worked out the way Bres intended (at least publicly intended), the union produced between Ciocal and Bethmoora would be a strong one. But somehow I doubt that's actually what he intends.

The Zwezda Elf currently spying on the princess and her would-be suitor brushed back a strand of midnight-black hair and allowed her lips to quirk into a satisfied smile. She knew, of course, about the Fomorian plot to poison the king. Had seen Lady Dierdre with the naga slipping down the palace corridors only last night. If the dark Elf had been the proprietary type, she'd have been miffed at the Fomorians for stealing the beginning threads of her master's idea. But since it didn't actually interfere with her master's plans, the Elf of Zwezda would let the Fomorian plot continue unmolested... for now. After all, her goal was not the king, or even the princess. Her goal was her master's goal: punishment for the crown prince for betraying his people.

For thousands of years the prince had battled for the freedom and livelihoods of the Fair Folk, not just of Bethmoora, but of all the thirteen Elf clans and the countless kingdoms ruled other than by Elf-kind. And now he'd betrayed all that for a moment's aberrant carnal pleasure.

Master's plan originally was to drive the prince back from exile to better turn the king against the humans, the spy thought, remembering how her male counterpart had, at the behest of their noble master, unleashed a dipsa serpent upon the prince a little more than a year ago. The dipsa were incredibly venomous. One bite could bring a fully grown cave troll to Death's door, though usually not beyond. And those tiny, poisonous fangs had pierced the prince's skin before the Silver Lance had managed to hack off the creature's head. Her master had thought Prince Nuada would be forced to return to Findias to heal from the attack. Once returned to Faerie, the Elf prince would see what the One-Armed King had reduced the Court of Bethmoora to, and take action.

Instead, the stubborn fool had weathered the three months of venom-induced illness alone in one of his lairs scattered throughout the mortal realm. Then an even more convenient (and far more infuriating) situation had dropped into her master's lap: the human woman.

And now my master wants to use his original plan on the mortal instead of the prince - the venom of the dipsa serpent. No human has ever survived its bite. When the prince brings his little toy back to Findias, my master will sic the faerie snake on her. However... And that was the annoying thing: there was that "however." If we kill the woman, what if the prince decides to take vengeance on her killers?

The Elf of Zwezda had mentioned just such a possibility to her master. He had laughed and said, "Vengeance for a human strumpet? It is not as if we slay the prince's wife, or even someone he truly cares for. I merely seek to rid him of his distracting little plaything. Once she is dead, he will thank us. If he doesn't, we'll know he truly is the traitor we suspect and he will have to be suitably punished for betraying his people yet again. As for this so-called great love of theirs... there is nothing to it. She is nothing but a pleasant distraction. Kill her, and the prince will be himself again."

She knew her master feared and respected the prince. Anyone with any sense of self-preservation feared making an enemy of Prince Nuada Silverlance, especially if that person was no warrior to begin with (and her master certainly was not a warrior, or even a common soldier). Yet he still plotted against the king's only son. Was it foolishness... or cunning? Perhaps her master only played the coward and the fool at court to throw others off his scent. She had no notion. It didn't matter anyway. She was loyal without question.

Woo your princess, Bres, the silver-eyed Elf thought as the Fomorian walked arm-in-arm with Princess Nuala. Follow your plots and plans if you so wish, but don't get in my master's way. He'll put an end to you just as surely as he'll put an end to the prince's dalliance. She reached out behind her and found the head of the magical snake-creature that sat at her feet, coiled and waiting for her orders. She looked down into the reptilian eyes, so like her own slit-silver gaze, and smiled at the scaled faerie. One hand gently stroked those tiny, iridescent scales. Serpentine death walks Findias on two legs, like an Elf, she thought as the forked, black tongue flicked out to taste the air. As soon as the human returns to Bethmoora.

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Becan tried to be quiet as he slipped out of the cottage to speak to the nain rouge on the doorstep. He didn't want to wake the sleeping prince. The city fae waiting outside was diminutive, but was still twice the brownie's height - about the size of a young child. He stamped his black fur boots to keep his feet warm in the deep snow. In his hands he held today's newspaper.

"Found it jus' zis evening," the nain rouge murmured in the mixed French-American accent of his kind. Rotten teeth gleamed blackly between the pale lips. "One of ze aswangs from ze meatpacking district, she was laughing 'bout some dead 'uman youth in ze paper. Said 'e looked très delicious. I checks it, and found ze boy's picture in ze obits." Suddenly the blazing, hellish light in the faerie's eyes dimmed. More softly now, he added, "Mademoiselle Dylan, I remember, she was kind to my wife when our child was to be born. She 'elped us. I 'eard she was fond of zis boy. Iz zat true?"

The brownie studied Rafael's picture in the newspaper. Now that she had a picture, Dylan would put the boy in her black book. It would be hard. "Yes. She was."

"Zen, I am sorry for 'er loss." The nain rouge turned to trudge back to the city. Paused. "I 'ave 'eard rumors... of ze Silver Lance paying court to 'er. Iz zat true?"

"I do not discuss my mistress's business with others," Becan replied stiffly, every inch the indignant servant. His lady would not be fodder for common gossip. Not if he had anything to say about it.

The nain rouge laughed and bowed, half-mocking, to the house faerie that barely came up to his waist. Then he walked away, red as a splash of blood against the pure white snow.

Back inside the cottage, Becan had just laid the slightly damp newspaper on the kitchen table, Rafael's obituary face-up, when the only phone in the house rang. Remembering the last time the phone had rung, the brownie shivered. Then the answering machine clicked over, and Dylan's voice came on the line. "Hey, Becan..."

Becan listened to the message his mistress left, trying not to worry. Miss Francesca attacked? Lady Dylan out amongst the dangers of the city, alone, without the prince to protect her? The brownie couldn't shake the strange feeling that something was out there, stalking close and closer, hunting all of them: his mistress, the prince, and Dylan's family. Maybe even more than one something. Becan wasn't sure what could harm them so long as the prince remained in residence at the cottage. Didn't really want to think of what could defeat the mighty Silverlance in battle. But even with the reassurance that His Highness still slept on Lady Dylan's bed, his lance within easy reach, the brownie still couldn't shake the lingering dread.

As far as he knew, none of Dylan's family had any enemies that would resort to the kind of violence his mistress had mentioned in her message. Which meant whoever had hurt his lady's sister was not Francesca's enemy, but Dylan's.

And that name. Blackwood. It sounded familiar, but Becan couldn't place it. Whoever these Blackwoods were, his mistress knew them. Knew them, and feared them. Not that she would ever admit to such a thing. But that fear... was that why she had not asked the prince to handle this enemy? Because she feared them so much?

Well, once his mistress took care of Miss Francesca, she would return. As long as she was within the walls of the cottage, he and the prince could take care of her. Everything would be fine once she returned. It would all be fine.

.

Walking up to Francesca's fifth-story apartment (in a building with an elevator currently out of service) left Dylan almost in tears by the time she and John made it to their sister's door. Her arm ached from using it to haul herself up the stairs in an effort to spare her leg. Even John supporting her (he didn't possess the strength to carry her) wasn't a strong enough buffer between her and the pain. Only strength of will, desperation, and the gentle warmth of the Holy Ghost kept her from throwing up from the pain. If this were anyone but her sister, she'd have said screw it and gone home to soak in the tub. Instead, she limped inside the minute Tori opened the door and went straight to where 'Cesca hunched on the ratty sofa, her broken wrist cradled to her chest.

"Hey," Dylan murmured, and her injured sister looked up.

Francesca's smile wobbled, but at least it was there. "Hey, D." Slow tears coursed down the cheeks covered in purple and blue bruises.

When Dylan tried to lever herself to the floor, she ended up falling and hit the floor with a thump. "Ow. Grace, my name is not. Give me your wrist," she replied, in a voice as gentle as the one she'd used with Tiana. Francesca, usually so foul-mouthed and loud and abrasive, meekly and quietly obeyed. That just made Dylan want to find the Blackwood brothers and run them over with John's car. Twice.

While she set the bones in her older sister's wrist and splinted it, took care of the lacerations on that beautiful face and strapped her sister's cracked ribs, Dylan talked about how she and 'Cesca would file a police report as soon as this was over. If the older woman didn't want to go to the cop shop, then Dylan would call Peabody and the LT would come up to the apartment. When Francesca protested, Dylan said only, "It's against the law not to file a report on a crime."

"What if I don't want to press charges? Ow," 'Cesca added when Dylan touched the multi-colored shiner surrounding her left eye.

"Doesn't matter. Obvious signs of physical violence means you don't have a choice," the psychiatrist replied, and put a butterfly bandage on the gash bisecting her sister's left eyebrow. Don't think about who did this, Dylan ordered herself. Don't think about them. Fingers biting, bruising. Impossible strength pinning her hips. Blows against her face because, at age twelve, when someone bit her, she bit back. Hard. Focus. "Your two options are to go down to the police station or let me call Peabody (or someone on her squad) and have them come here."

Francesca didn't say anything for a long time. Finally, she said, "I'll talk to Peabody - tomorrow, by myself - on one condition."

Dylan paused in cleaning grit from a scrape on her sister's forearm. "What condition?"

"I want to see a picture of your boyfriend without his shirt on."

Two pairs of nearly-identical blue eyes locked. After a minute, Dylan rolled hers in exasperation. That was the Francesca she knew and loved. Part of Dylan that had been clenched cold and tight gave a lurch and loosened. "I don't have a picture of him, much less one of him shirtless." Not that she hadn't seen Nuada without a shirt on lots of times, but... "And he's not my boyfriend," she added belatedly.

"Riiiiight. He was at your house at two in the morning because you guys were doing calculus homework." At Dylan's look, Francesca added defensively, "Hey, Mom and Dad always bought that excuse when I used it. Anyway, you never have guys over. You never have anyone over - ow!" The antibiotic gel Dylan was currently spreading over the scraped arm stung like peroxide. "So obviously this guy's really special. I wanna see his picture. Ouch."

"If I promise to try, will you go down and file a report?"

"Yes. Pinkie swear." She offered the pinkie of her free hand. When her little sister hooked her own finger around the proffered pinkie, Francesca smiled again. It didn't wobble as much. For a minute, they were kids again - six and eight years old. No shadows. "Okay, then." Then the shadows returned. "I gotta tell you something."

"Uh-oh." Dylan went back to putting a bandage on the scrape. Don't think about them. Cruel hands wrenching at her hair. Knuckles splitting her lip. The taste of blood was like a poison in her mouth. Couldn't breathe around the hand clamped tight over her face. And then the awful, horrible ripping pain when-

I am not going to think about this. I'm not going to remember it. Not right now. Not ever, if she had anything to say about it. At least, not with Nuada waiting for her at the cottage. She couldn't afford to break down - about this, of all things - with the prince nearby. If he got to her in a moment of weakness, she might ask him the unthinkable - to find the Blackwood brothers and their father and put an end to that nightmare for good. If Nuada did that, the king would find out. If the king found out, Nuada would get hurt. The king might even decide to finish the job begun with the flogging and kill him. She couldn't let that happen.

"The dickheads wanted me to give you a message." Francesca saw her sister's eyes go glassy. Almost didn't go on. But those two had serious connections. If they found out she hadn't told, then... And Dylan needed to know that someone was unhappy with whatever she was doing. "They said, 'Tell your sister to mind her own business.'"

Her hands jerked violently and Dylan fumbled the cap to the bottle of antibiotic gel. She paused. Took a ragged breath. Then she screwed the plastic cap back on the bottle and stowed it in her purse. She turned back to her sister and looked her over with a critical (albeit professional) doctor's eye. The bruises would start to fade in a week or so. Nothing could be done for the ribs at a hospital that she hadn't been able to do herself. The cuts from the blows were mostly too shallow to be a real problem. Those that weren't had been disinfected and covered.

She pulled out a container of over-the-counter painkillers. "Take four of these every six hours and keep that splint on your wrist. It'll limit your mobility and keep the swelling down until you can get to a clinic." Which should be tomorrow at the latest, she thought, but didn't add. Francesca would do what Francesca wanted to do - always had, always would. Nagging her sister about it now would only upset her further.

Dylan began putting her things back into her purse. Her scissors fell out as she tried to stuff everything into its proper place. She paused with the scissors in her hand. The living room light flashed off the edge, like fluorescents gleaming on the edge of a knife. "Was there anything else?" Dylan asked softly.

"They... they said... they said to tell you, 'Hi.'"

The sharp scissor blade bit deep into her palm. She didn't even feel it through the sudden grasp of icy coldness squeezing the breath from her lungs. Didn't even acknowledge the blood welling up and seeping between her fingers until her phone chimed and vibrated.

Shaking herself, Dylan reached with her mostly-uninjured hand (the cut at the base of her thumb had almost healed) and grabbed the royal blue cell. Checked the readout. A text from Doctor Hollis, who never went home before midnight.

"Lisa in Iso 4 attacking Westenra. Your psych-eval - Tue 8AM. Westenra conducting. Nothing can do. - Dr. H"

The cold gripped her tighter. Westenra conducting? Westenra, that sick vicious sadist, conducting her psych-eval? The psych eval where they had to shoot her up full of sodium pentothal and a "mild sedative" (and she hated needles with an unholy passion rivaled only by her hatred for soulless monsters like Eamonn and the Blackwood brothers). Where she would be at the other psychiatrist's mercy. How had that happened? What strings had Westenra pulled to set this up? And what would he do to her once he had her helpless and drugged, unable to control her own tongue without resorting to drawing copious amounts of blood? Would he ask about the Blackwoods? Ask about her "mysterious" attack in December? Worse, bring up Allison and Gunter's deaths?

A brief flash burned the back of her eyelids: thirteen-year-old Gunter, his throat cut with a shattered piece of one of the nurses' coffee mugs. Blood spattering the floor, the walls, the desk. All the girls screaming and crying. The blood was on her hands because she tried to stop the bleeding. Tried to give him CPR, she remembered. Tried to help. But he'd already bled out by then. Westenra would remind her of that. Would make her remember that and much, much more...

With her bad leg, Dylan barely made it to the bathroom before she was thoroughly and violently sick.