that is
A Short Tale of Shooting, Speed, Sacrifice, Slaughter, and Sin
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John shook his head once, trying to dislodge whatever was pushing against the inside of his skull. Flickering specks like Technicolor midges swarmed in front of his eyes, but he tried to ignore them. He was in the middle of taking a test. If he didn't pass, he wasn't going to get this job, either. After everything he'd been through, after everything that had happened in his life, if he didn't get this job, John Myers thought he might just give up and resign himself to a life as a hermit. Working for the Feds, knowing there was more to the job than the pitiful security details he was getting, sucked.
Six years of my life lost to a freaking dimensional black hole, he thought, and I pop out with my twin sister eighteen years old and fresh out of the Nut-House from Hades while I'm still twelve and scrawny and pasty as a dead fish, half-chewed up by the monsters twiddling their thumbs in the hell dimension. Then I spend two years in Shambala after graduating from high school, which is a fantastic place to chill after the rigors of academic torment, and I don't age a day. But I miss my sister's graduation from medical school. And the whole time, both times, it feels like something's trying to drill its way into my skull and I can't concentrate on breathing, much less anything else. Just when I think the problem's gone, it comes back when I'm trying to test into the MIB.
What was it Dylan was always saying? God will test you to the breaking point; He expects you to keep your promise to deal with it and pull through. Well, the twenty-one-year-old government-trained psychic genius knew this was going to be his breaking point. If his sister's... whatever... was messing with his head again, he was going to have some words with her.
Not that it's her fault, he reminded himself as he scribbled an answer to a quantum calculus problem on the paper. He felt eyes on him and glanced up. The other men, all of them older and in various military uniforms, were staring at him. They all had the allowed calculators and scratch paper out. John realized he'd been zipping through the doctorate-level math problems despite the cobwebby feeling in his brain and the sparkles around the edges of his vision. He ignored the others and went back to the test.
It's totally not her fault that the shields are down between us, he continued silently as he penciled in another answer. After what happened to her – and she still won't tell me much of anything, other than she was saved by one of Them – we've been keeping the connection blown wide in case she needs help again. Those gangsters aren't going to quit just because their buddies got killed. They're still going to be pissed at her for what she did. Even if their leader says to back off, they might not. I know it's been almost a year, but still.
And wasn't that the crapshoot of the world in a nutshell? A gang of thugs wanted his sister raped, beaten, or dead for helping a Hispanic girl get off suicide watch and get the help she needed.
Why don't they go after the kid's teachers or guidance counselor? They're the ones who sent the kid to Dylan. Why not go after them? John wondered, feeling the hot bubble of anger in his chest whenever he thought about his sister's slashed and bleeding face, the broken ribs and cracked skull, not to mention the worst of it all... but he wasn't going to think about the worst of it. Couldn't, remembering what had happened to her in the institution, too. Otherwise he'd never grow calm enough to keep working. Instead, he was going to focus on his math test.
The mental midges flickering around his head kept buzzing and sparking as he bulldozed through the rest of the questions. His chest was beginning to feel tight as the single door pushed open and a tall, dark-skinned man in a black suit and tie walked in and eyed them all emotionlessly.
"All finished?" There were some mumbled negatives from a few of the assembled testers. "Too bad. Everyone who finished, follow me. Everyone who didn't, nice knowin' ya. See ya around."
John followed the suit, intensely aware that some of the Marines and Navy guys who hadn't made it through the entire test were shooting jagged-edged looks at his back and muttering. He ignored them – he'd had a lot of practice in high school at ignoring people, since everyone knew his sister had been "a complete lunatic who believed in fairies" and they'd made sure he knew it. Ignoring the tightening in his chest, too (was Dylan having a heart attack? Nah – she was healthier than he was), he followed the black man into a well-lit room with cardboard cutouts of buildings and tracks on the floor for pop-up targets to zip around. The black man handed the six men each a police-issue 9 mil.
"Nine bullets," the suit said. "Don't waste them." The lights dimmed. Faux street lamps bloomed brightly in the shadows. And then thick, white smoke filled the room and noise exploded around them.
Sirens screeched. Women screamed and babies wailed in panic. Dogs barked frantically as monsters zipped around and roared. Strobe lights flashed like exploding stars, adding to the eye-searing confusion. Gunshots boomed. Bullets whizzed past John's ear. Heart hammering, he struggled to keep his hands steady as he searched for a target. He hadn't been prepared for this! The quiet shadowed hunting grounds of that alternate dimension he'd been trapped in were nothing like the chaotic, riotous hell all around him.
A sudden flash of gold across his vision. The bellow of a furious and angry king stag. Pain burned a path across his upper thigh, near his hip. A hollow weakness flooded his right leg. His knee buckled and he nearly fell. As a dark, tawny shape hurtled toward him, the bell-like roar of fury ringing in his ears, he brought up the gun and fired once before everything went black.
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A flash of fury in golden eyes like liquid sunlight. The bellow of a furious and angry king stag. Dylan tried to throw herself backward as those wicked antlers lowered and thrust toward her. A hollow weakness flooded her bad leg when she put her full weight on it. The damaged knee buckled and she nearly fell. Something heavy and muscular lunged past her. Pain burned a path across her upper thigh, near her hip. She turned to yell at the brownies to run, to get away so the Hunter would only hurt her. The saliva dried in her mouth and her voice faded to a croak as a dark, tawny shape hurtled toward her. A bell-like roar of fury rang in her ears.
Stinging pain scraped the insides of her thighs. Something huge shoved between her legs and for a moment fear blanked her mind, turned her eyes glassy and throttled the scream in her throat. Her mind shrieked. Not again, not again! It couldn't happen to her again! Never, never, never!
Then she was suddenly weightless, being flung through the air. The silvery moon burned down into her eyes and her hair whipped around her face. And in that breathless moment of fear and floating, before terror could force breath into her lungs or a scream out of them, she was seated on a broad, velvet-smooth back flexing with powerful, ridged muscles. The sharp prongs of a stag's antlers cut black swathes out of the pregnant, white moon as the Hunter, in deer shape, galloped through the thick trees of Central Park toward Bethmoora.
Dylan knew she was supposed to thank the faerie stag, but she couldn't get enough air into her terror-restricted lungs. Everything was swimming. She thought she caught sight of a red-haired troll the size of a small dog, holding a purple thing full of glowing flowers, sitting under a bridge talking to a blond teenage girl, but she didn't get a good look at either of them as the stag galloped by. Sparkles burned against the edges of her vision as she shook her head and tried to come back to herself.
Nuada, she thought desperately, and the fear eased a little, to be replaced with determination. I have to get to Nuada. I have to help him before something awful happens to him. Heavenly Father, please let me get there in time. I don't know what's going to happen, but please let me get there in enough time to prevent it.
Heat suffused her chest, and she felt the softest pressure on her back and shoulders and against her ribs, as if she were being embraced. Comfort stole into her heart. Dylan closed her eyes and nodded once. No matter what happened, God's hand was in it. It would all go as it was meant to, as long as she tried everything in her power to do what was right.
And that means getting to Nuada as fast as I can, she reminded herself, but all she said aloud was, "Thank you, Sir Hunter!"
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"Bare your back, Crown Prince," King Balor commanded. Not Nuada. Not even Prince Nuada. Merely "Crown Prince." Nuada fought to kill the stab of grief biting deep into his belly. There was no emotion in the king's voice, in his ancient gaze, on his withered face. And Nuala still refused to look at her twin. Her usually moon-pale face was tinged a sickly gray in anticipation of the flogging, and her eyes were shadowed. She gave no other sign that she was even aware of what was happening.
Nuada refused to look away from his father's golden eyes as he withdrew a leather thong from his pocket and tied back the thick mane of his silvery blond hair in a horsetail. Then he carefully pulled off his black leather vest without breaking eye contact. Nuada would not give Eamonn the satisfaction of looking at the dark Elf to gauge the triumph and smug satisfaction on his face, or give Nuada's father the reprieve of conscience by not gazing indifferently at the old king. In his own eyes Nuada held reproach for what his father did to him, and for what his father was allowing to happen to Nuala. Balor could not keep meeting his son's eyes, and looked away.
He handed his vest to the court page who stood ready to take it. The young woodman had the green-streaked bronze and golden curls of a Hunter, and thrice-forked antlers peeping above his hair. Only seven years old, Nuada realized, and forced to watch a man being flogged. The child was pale, unusual for the sun-kissed forest faeries. The crown prince gave him a smile and a short, courteous bow. The boy's resin-colored eyes widened, but his color began to return a little.
If I behave as if this is nothing to me, Nuada thought as he pulled off and carefully folded his black tunic and shirt and laid them in the boy's arms, he will be spared for a little longer. He laid his silver-etched black leather vambraces atop the pile of clothing with that same casual air. The Elf knew there was nothing he could do to mediate the effect of seeing anyone stripped to rib bones and muscle by an iron-tipped whip, but the child had looked as if he might faint at any moment.
The prince drew a breath through his nose, blew it out slowly through his barely-parted black lips. Breathed carefully to keep his heart from stuttering at the thought of the whip slicing through flesh to find bone. He had been struck with a whip before, as a child and as a youth. Less often as an adult, but it had happened. Few other weapons of the Old World had ever hurt him so badly, and the healers had usually seen to him fairly soon afterward to mend those wounds. He still bore some of the scars to this day. But there would be no healers rushing to his aid this night. Only two thousand iron-tipped lashes, and the warm blood soaking his trews and running down his legs like water to pool at his feet. A delirium dream of pain and betrayal. A waking nightmare.
And there were the whipping posts. Such beauty in the silvery beams as thick as an Elf's calf and inlaid with gold-washed script in Old Gaelic. But Nuada knew the silvery sheen came from the burning iron, and the elegantly scripted Gaelic words were curses on those having their backs laid open by the whip. Iron chains reinforced with magic so that even he, the legendary Silverlance, could not break them, hung from the tops of the posts. It would burn when those shackles were clamped around his wrists.
He strode past the whispering courtiers, every step slow and measured. He never took his eyes from his father's empty countenance. He wanted to find Nuala's gaze – in the past, when he'd suffered a well-deserved strapping for disobedience, his sister's eyes had been all the comfort needed to make the pain and humiliation bearable. But he could not look away from Balor, and even if he had, Nuala would not have returned his gaze. There was no emotion from her now. Only a vast and nearly unbearable void, empty and cold, where warmth and love and peace should have been.
Nuada did not flinch when the shackles clicked shut around his wrists. Did not so much as bat an eyelash as the iron against his skin began to tingle, then itch, then burn. Even as the pain radiated up his forearms and he smelled the sickly meat stink of burning flesh, he showed nothing. He only stared at the One-Armed King of Elfland.
It was Eamonn – Eamonn, who had raised the charges against Nuada – who took up the whip with its thin, spiked iron tip. As accuser, it was Eamonn's right to determine who inflicted the prince's sentence. The Elven warrior knew that the dark Elf would never pass up the opportunity to do it himself.
Metal scraped across the inlaid marble floor as the dark-haired Elf moved into position. Nuada wanted to close his eyes, wanted to let his mind seek sanctuary in memories, but where would it go? Thoughts of his father, of Nuala, made his heart bleed as if from a wound. Thinking of Wink would only make him long for his friend and servant, long for the one who knew he had honor, knew he would never sully that honor with base acts of cruelty and evil. And he could not afford to long for anyone in this moment. He had to stand alone, or fall for all to see.
I wish I had heard that story, he surprised himself by thinking. Already his body was bracing for the brutal crack of the whip. The one Dylan wanted to read to me. "Once Upon a Winter's Night." Father will not allow me to go back to her. He thought of silver-washed blue eyes scanning pages yellowed with age, and the scarred mouth forming the words as she read aloud before the fire. I wish I could have heard just one more tale. I wish I could've had just one more night of peace.
Then the whip came down across his back. Nuala screamed.
And the whip came down again.
Again.
And again...
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Keep going. You must hurry.
Dylan heard the voice of the Spirit, calm but earnest, in her ear as clearly as the clip-clop of the faerie stag's cloven hooves on the flagstone courtyard. The Hunter slid to a halt and dumped her unceremoniously on the hard, icy stones. The impact jarred her bones, and she barely saved her head from cracking on the hard ground. When the mortal tried to stagger to her feet, her bad knee buckled and she fell to the ground again. Frustration buzzed under her skin and the sick taste of fear clogged her throat as she struggled to push herself up. She had to hurry! She had to get to Nuada!
She heard the clanking of metal and the shuffling of very large feet, and a familiar boar-like voice grunted, "Dylan!"
The human looked up and met the dark, shocked eyes of the silver troll that had been in Nuada's chambers the night she'd met the dark-haired Elf known as Eamonn. Some of the panic eased back a fraction. Finally getting to her feet, she rushed forward. "Mr. Wink! Thank goodness. Where's Nu– I mean, the prince? I have to find him! Where is he?"
"What are you doing here?" Wink grunted in the Troll tongue. Dylan, unversed, blinked and whispered, "Um... what?" Oh, crud, she thought. Now would be a great time to randomly receive the gift of interpreting tongues. But no such luck. She couldn't suppress the brief flash of disappointment.
Grumbling under his breath – if Nuada found the mortal here, the Elf prince would be furious – the troll gestured to the Hunter, who was moments away from bounding back out of the courtyard and returning to the Park. "Stag-man," he commanded. "I am the valet of Prince Nuada Silverlance, the Crown Prince of Bethmoora. In his name and for his sake, I demand you translate my words to this mortal, for the woodmen are gifted with the language of forest and mountain Fayre."
The faerie stag pranced toward them and bowed low, his nose scraping the flagstones. Then he was in the form of a leather-clad man with towering antlers once more. "As you wish, Troll."
Dylan had to step back when the burly troll swung back to her. The fury on his face couldn't entirely mask his concern, but he still presented a frightening visage. His concern was strong enough, however, to nearly overpower her natural caution. "What are you doing here, woman?" Wink demanded.
When the stag had translated the gruff words, she replied, "I know about the prince's trial. A brownie told me. Those charges are absolutely ridiculous. He needs an advocate, someone who can stand up for him. I can do that."
"Do not be ridiculous, yourself. Coming before King Balor without summons is a death sentence. They will draw and quarter you, and that is if you're lucky. Besides, you are nothing but a human – what do you expect to accomplish?"
Dylan paled at the thought of being ripped apart limb from limb by four wild horses. Her gorge rose, but she forced it back down with sheer determination. Think of Esther, she thought. Esther didn't let the fear of death keep her from doing what's right. Neither did Mordecai, or Rack, Shack, and Benny. I can do this. I have to do this – I owe him my life.
But Eamonn... She trailed off as a sudden urge to be sick grabbed hold of her. Heavenly Father, Eamonn is here! He's here, I can't, he's going to... I can't do this, I can't. Help me, God, please. I can't do this.
Wink was saying something to her, but he was rumbling and grumbling so quickly the Hunter hadn't had a chance to translate yet. Suddenly the words to one of her favorite hymns played through her mind: The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose, I will not, I cannot, desert to his foes; That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake, I'll never, no never, I'll never, no never, I'll never, no never, no never forsake. And she remembered something John had told her once, as well. Superman isn't brave. He's indestructible. Batman's the brave one, because there's no guarantee he'll make it.
Okay, Dylan thought - to herself, to a Higher Power, she didn't know. Okay. I can do this. I can do this. Aloud, she said, "At least someone will be there for him." She felt a moment of half-hysterical amusement when Wink's bristly troll eyebrows rose up nearly to the top of his forehead and he stared at her as if she were mad. "Everyone deserves an advocate. I was told he won't defend himself. If he won't, I will. I owe him at least that much."
Hurry, the voice insisted. Dylan fought against a grimace. Battled against the fear trying to throttle her. The Spirit was telling her to move it, now, but the troll was standing in her way. He was too large to push past, and even if she could have, she couldn't outrun him with her bad leg. She could only reason with him. And all the while she stood there chattering away, time was passing and her urgency increased. She needed to go right now.
"Nothing you say will help him. They'll think you beguiled, glamored. You should go home, human. It is dangerous for mortals to wander the paths of Elfland unattended."
You must go now.
"I'm not unattended," she replied airily, and stepped around him, heart in her mouth and her belly doing back-flips. "You're with me." Dropping into a more serious tone, she added, "And I will never just go home and abandon him. Let's go."
"You'll only make things worse for him!" Wink cried, but the stag didn't bother to translate. The mortal was obviously beyond listening. If she hadn't been so infuriatingly stubborn, the troll might have admired her for her persistence in trying to save his prince. They're both mule-headed as dwarves, he thought, growling to himself and following after the woman. T'is a shame she's mortal; she's just like him. Although he is going to murder me for this.
You must run, the Spirit insisted. Hurry.
With a sigh, a spike in her blood pressure, and a mental, Yes, Sir, she started sprinting, ignoring the bolts of fiery pain shooting up her bad leg with every step. Wink shambled along beside her, haranguing her in the language of the trolls. With a watery, lopsided smile, she waved an apology and struggled onward.
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Was that sweat or blood trickling down his face? Or maybe the phantom echoes of Nuala's tears? As fire burned through his back and straining shoulders, Nuada realized he could not tell. He'd bitten through his lip to keep from crying out after the hundredth stroke. Nuala was a sobbing heap in their father's arms at the top of the dais where the king's throne rested. Healers surrounded her and the king, who would not be parted from her. Balor had eyes only for the princess. It was as if the Elf tied to the whipping posts were no kin of the king's at all, much less his only son. For a fleeting moment, the Elf prince wished his father would hold him the way he cradled Nuala, just one more time. How long had it been since his father had embraced him? More than two thousand years.
When was the last time anyone had held him that way? Since Nuala had clung to him over two millennia ago and wept, begging him not to go into exile. His father had refused to embrace him then. Refused to speak to him at all, not even to bid him farewell.
But no, he realized, barely noticing the way his body shuddered from another crack of the whip. Six hundred strokes had left his body numb with shock, unable to truly process the pain. No, someone else had embraced him once, since that day centuries ago. Recently. Weeks ago. A warm arm around him and a tear-stained face pressed against his chest. Sobs against the silk of his tunic. Dark brown curls tickling his neck and chin. Joy and relief pouring out of the woman clinging so desperately to him as she trembled and wept into his chest.
Dylan, he remembered. Dylan embraced me then. So glad to see me. Always so glad to see me...
Always so glad. Whenever he came to her door those fey-like blue eyes lit up with true happiness and she would smile at him in a way no one ever had, as if he had somehow made the stars shine brighter simply with his presence. She would smile whenever he spoke during their conversations about faith and faerie tales, loss and life. Even when she was obviously tired from her work, obviously worn or sorrowing, Dylan always had that quiet joy when he was with her. She always welcomed him. Only Dylan.
The seven-hundredth stroke would have driven him to his knees, but the chains at his wrists held him – barely – upright. Now he hung from iron chains that yanked his arms high over his head until he could scarcely breathe from the pressure on his chest and the pain in his back. He had seen a man crucified once, long ago, in the Middle East. More than two thousand years ago. Such a long time. As the iron shackles wrenched at his arms and shoulders, Nuada imagined the weight of that man's body dragging at his arms had felt much like this.
A whisper of cowardice urged him to confess, to tell what had been done to Dylan. If he told his father, the pain would stop. Nuala would not look at him as if he were a stranger. As if he were some sort of monster. She might even freely link with him once more, as they had as children. His father would embrace him again, weep for the agony inflicted on him. Would perhaps even look at him with pride and joy again, not despair and melancholic love. Eamonn would look like a fool for his accusations. Nuada's supporters would be dissatisfied, but even they would understand that the prince would only stand for so much towards humanity. He would still be in exile, but the agony would end. He would be allowed to hear Once Upon a Winter's Night. He could have the haven that Dylan had tried to create for his people. Everything would be all right.
But he might shame one to whom he owed a debt. He would be surrendering to an enemy, playing Eamonn's vicious game. His father's opinion of him might actually plummet even further in the face of such a revelation. And he would lose the one thing he had left. He would lose his honor.
No, he thought as his shoulders screamed from the strain and his blood flowed. I will not sacrifice my honor thus.
Will you not, Silverlance? Eamonn's voice hissed through his mind. Will you not? Such a hypocrite. Such a self-righteous, pious, martyred hypocrite! You have already eschewed your honor by bedding that filthy mortal whore.
Nuada's fists clenched around the iron chains. The metal seared his palms and fingers, but he welcomed this new pain. Welcomed the distraction and the way the metal shifted under his furious grip. How dare Eamonn speak to him of eschewing honor? Of whores and hypocrisy? The midnight-haired Elf would die for this. One day, not soon but one day, the dark Elf would die.
Tell me, Silverlance... what was she like, the little human slut? In bed, I mean. Oh, and now Eamonn chuckled. But why should I ask you? I can simply pay her a visit and find out for myself. In fact, I think that is exactly what I shall do.
The bleeding Elf's grip on the chains tightened until the metal cut his hands. The whip bit deep into his back. Black fury flooded beneath Nuada's skin as Eamonn shoved vile images of himself with Dylan into the prince's mind. Images of the helpless mortal weeping and struggling as Eamonn took his sick pleasure with her in the subway tunnels, in the king's hall, in Eamonn's sithen, in Dylan's idyllic little cottage at the edge of the park. In Nuada's sanctuary, in Nuada's own bed, atop the golden quilt his mother had made for him before her death. And always there was blood and pain, Dylan's tears and the stink of musk, a mortal's terrified and agonized screams.
Monster! He raged while the phantom mirage of the human woman pleaded for Nuada to save her. A fháil amach óna! Get away from her! Touch her, touch any woman that way, and I will gut you like the cur you are! You're no better than a human! Feicfidh mé tú a mharú mé tá tú i dteagmháil lei!
Oh, you'll kill me if I touch her, will you? Mocking laughter raked at Nuada's belly. You can do nothing to me, Silverlance, Eamonn said coldly. I will enjoy her, as you have. Then, when I have tired of bedroom games, I will dispose of her and find a better toy. And now there was another image: Eamonn spattered with Dylan's blood as he hurt her with blows and blades, and after he was finished, his hands tightened around her violet-bruised throat and she could not fight him. The sight of her pushing feebly at the murdering fae sent a lance through Nuada's heart. In the dark Elf's twisted fantasy, the mortal died underneath him, still weeping, still crying silently for Nuada to help her.
The prince thought of Dylan: those tense three months in the sanctuary as she struggled to recover and to aid him; being shocked at the way she'd recovered in the nearly four months since her attack, when he saw her at the summer faire; watching her slowly let go of the ghost of the trauma and the vicious fear in the short months that she'd read him her favorite tales. He thought of his mother, dead from the vile pleasure of mortal men. And when a single tear, a tear of sickness and shame – he owed her a debt! He was supposed to protect her from harm! Protect her from Eamonn! He owed her! – a sparkling, diamond-sharp tear of impotent fury and agony from the whip dropped from golden lashes to roll down Nuada's cheek and mix with his sweat, Eamonn laughed.
Weep for your plaything, Highness. I will take her, use her, and kill her, because you sullied your supposedly-spotless honor with her. She will die cursing your name. Think on that as I flay the flesh from your bones, Silverlance. Beidh mé ag a ghearradh amach do chroà thar.
The words, spat in the Old Tongue, were like a knife in the chest. I will tear out your very heart. Eamonn thought he loved Dylan. He would rape her again and again and torture her in every possible way until she died of it... because he thought Nuada loved her.
The thought of an Elf bedding a human would have been enough to sicken the prince, but to see any Elf, any faery other than an ogre or goblin or other such nightmare-bogle committing rape... beneath everything, under the rage and the disgust, Nuada grieved for the infection humans had spread into his people. The sickness and evil. And he grieved for the pure evil in Eamonn's soul that drove him to attempt to destroy someone merely because the dark Elf thought they were loved by his enemies.
Eight hundred strokes brought the haze of oblivion to him, but it was no reprieve. Even in those brief moment of half-unconsciousness as he hovered near fainting from the pain and shock, he saw Eamonn with his hand tangled cruelly in Dylan's dark curls, the back of his other hand striking that fragile human face. The black bruises against her pale scarred skin struck Nuada's heart like blows.
And there was more, always more to Eamonn's cruelty. He proved then that he was not ignorant in the ways of sadism and torture. Wooden leg presses to crush delicate human bones; a scold's bridle, that hideous human device of pain that ruined a woman's mouth with iron spikes and forced her to choke on her own blood and screams; the dark Elf even resorted to pressing bare mortal flesh against shards of molten glass and red-hot metal. There was no end to what Eamonn could think to do to Dylan; no end to the pain and torment he had in mind. Nuada could hear the mortal's wrenching sobs; tasted the desperation of her tears on his tongue. Or was that his own tears he tasted on his lips? No. Blood and sweat, but no tears. He would not cry for Eamonn. That single tear had been for his mother, for the reminder of what she had endured before her death. He would shed no others.
But when the glassy fog of shock faded from him, nine hundred lashes from the iron spike of the whip brought the tears of pure pain streaming unwillingly down his cheeks as blood dripped from his bitten lip. Nuala no longer screamed. Elven healers surrounded her, pouring their magic into her body not to heal, but to prevent as much of the damage from inflicting on her as possible. When had that happened? When Balor realized Nuala could not last against the lash? But because of the iron whipping posts, the iron chains, the iron spike of the whip, Nuada would not be healed by his connection to his twin. Once he was unchained, perhaps then. But not before. His blood would continue to run.
A thousand strokes and he was limp in his chains, barely conscious, head lolling. Blood from his bitten lip mingled with the sweat and tears. His back was a sheet of dark golden blood ribbed by white bone. Everything hazed before his glassy eyes and all he could think was, I might have been wrong, Wink. They might just kill me for this. Eamonn just might manage it. And then Eamonn would... then Dylan...
- Broken bones and blood
A woman's terrified screaming
The thud of blows against bruising flesh
Mother? No, Mother!
Someone else sobbing, calling his name
Nuala? Dylan? Who...
No one would come, no one would end it
Hollow snap of breaking bone
Muffled screams
And then nothing
His mother dead; Nuala! Dylan!
Empty silence, echoing in his skull-
A woman's terrified screaming
The thud of blows against bruising flesh
Mother? No, Mother!
Someone else sobbing, calling his name
Nuala? Dylan? Who...
No one would come, no one would end it
Hollow snap of breaking bone
Muffled screams
And then nothing
His mother dead; Nuala! Dylan!
Empty silence, echoing in his skull-
A colossal boom reverberated through the Hall, shattering the flashback. People gasped and cried out in surprise. The prince tried to turn his head. Could not. Everything hurt. Could it not simply end now? If nothing else, let him die with his honor intact. Let there be no more pain.
"Nuada!"
That voice... so familiar. Special. Why so special? Not Wink's voice. Not Nuala's. Mortal. A mortal voice. A woman. Was it... Dylan? No, not Dylan. She could not be here. Could not get here. Did not know of this bloody and heartbreaking night. She was home, safe. Far away from Eamonn. Far from his perverse, too-human lust for blood and women's flesh. Far away. Where she should be. Bethmoora was no place for a defenseless human woman.
"No! Nuada!"
And then large, strong, familiar hands were lifting him, holding him upright, careful of his ruined back and shoulders, uncaring of the blood soaking his trousers and hair. Something wet and cool dripped onto his upturned face, washing away some of the blood. When he blinked, managed to focus, he realized he recognized the woman looking down at him with terrified and heartbroken eyes. Recognized as silver-washed blue eyes like an autumn lake shed tears of grief over him. Tears that should have been shed by his father and sister. Mortal tears.
He could not speak as her tears washed the blood from his skin. Could not tell her that the touch of her trembling hand against his cheek was like cool soothing snow against the fiery pain burning through his wounds. He could not even whisper, Do not cry. Please, do not cry. But he could hear the way her voice shook and nearly broke when she whispered his name, pleading, "I'm sorry. I came as fast as I could. I'm sorry, Nuada, I'm so sorry. Nuada, please don't die. Please be okay. Please."
Mortal. Human. Rescuer. One whom he owed. One who tried to be more than she ever could for his people. The one Eamonn wanted, because he believed her to be Nuada's lover. But he would never let the dark Elf hurt her. Not that way. Never. He would protect her from the vile, silver-eyed Elf if it cost him his life. His honor demanded he protect her.
Dylan.
.
She'd nearly been too late, she thought again as she struggled with the heavy iron chains shackling the prince's wrists. As she fumbled at them, she snarled at the white-skinned man crowned by a rack of antlers and wearing a golden torc, "How dare you! He didn't do any of those horrible things you said. How could you do this to him? If you've killed him, you'll pay. I swear you will. You monster, let him go! Unchain him now!"
The Butcher Guards – who'd been knocked aside by an irate stag-man who'd been strong-armed into helping an even more irate troll – surged forward, but the pale, golden-eyed man on the dais held up both hands. The hooded warriors stilled, intrigued to hear what their king would say.
"Who are you?" The pale man demanded. "How did you come here? Wink, what is the meaning of this?"
"She is the poor, beguiled human Nuada has been manipulating, Your Majesty," an icy voice, dripping with false compassion, explained. Dylan froze, anger and terror thrumming through her. She turned her head very slowly to see Eamonn holding the whip wet with Nuada's blood. Eamonn's white tunic was speckled with dark gold – the blood of a Bethmoora Elf. "His influence over her has forced her to come here to save him despite how he abuses her. If it were not so," Eamonn added, and his eerie cat's eyes fixed on Dylan's face, "she would have to be put to death for entering the King's hall without Your Majesty's summons. But mercifully, she is under the prince's vile spell."
I'm not stupid, she thought, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. Her panic screamed at her like a fire-alarm, but she focused on the Elf bearing down on her with his gaze, and the other Elf in Wink's arms. If I tell the truth, I'll be killed. That explains why I wasn't invited, and why Wink was out there instead of in here. The mortal woman glanced at the troll, who only had eyes for his liege lord. Nuada was barely conscious. His back was a sheet of dark golden blood, and blood pooled at his feet. Smears of gold so dark it almost looked red marred the white skin of his arms, streaking downward from the glittering shackles around his wrists. Dylan had the feeling that if they didn't free him soon, things were going to get very bad for the Elf prince. But first, to clear up a little misunderstanding.
They will kill you, a voice hissed in her mind. Her eyes widened and she stared at Eamonn. His silver gaze bore into hers like a spike. If you speak the truth to them, they will most certainly kill you slowly, horribly, and painfully, you stupid human tart. And if they do not, I will. I will shatter every bone in your-
Ever read the Book of Esther? She thought back at him. She would not show him her fear. Would not show him how much she wanted to run and hide and never come out again. He blinked, and she fought the bleak, vicious smile tingling behind her lips. Go kiss a pig, fairy boy.
"I am not beguiled or under glamor. I can't be glamored," she added, shooting a look of pure loathing at the dark Elf. "I was licked by a fear-darrig when I was nineteen." Tilting her head back, she indicated a spot under her chin – a tiny, silvery circle, like a scar, where her Adam's apple would be. "Prince Nuada's not my lover, either. I am a child and servant of the Star Kindler, a follower of the High King of the World. Someone here ought to know what that means. Now get him out of these stupid chains and fix him before he goes into shock and dies!"
"The sentence has been given," a tall, box-headed faerie with strange eyes and long fingers protested. Dylan fought against the urge to dislike him on sight. She didn't know him, and besides, the Lord expected her to love everyone, since He did. Even people who argued with her. That didn't mean she didn't want to punch the guy in the face, though. "He must receive the other thousand lashes."
"Which one of you guys is King Balor?" Dylan demanded. "I'm assuming it's you." She nodded to the pale man on the dais. "Since you're the king, you can retract the sentence and pardon His Highness. Especially since the charges laid against him are false."
"They are not!" Eamonn shouted. "Do you deny that the prince killed several humans in the subway tunnels a little more than eleven moons ago? You were there, were you not?"
Crud, Dylan thought. Aloud, all she said was, "I was there and yes, he did, but–"
"Did he not claim it was in your defense?" The gray-eyed Elf continued over the mortal woman's protests. "That he supposedly killed these humans to protect you from their attack? Is that not what he told you?"
"No, that's what he did. Any idiot standing there could've–"
"You see, Your Majesty! If not beguiled by glamor, than her simple human brain merely cannot conceive that a beautiful creature like one of our kind could possess such deceit and evil as to lie to her. The crown prince would never rescue a human unless he had a more dire purpose in mind for her. He used this poor mortal's situation as an excuse to butcher other helpless humans–"
"They were not helpless; they had guns!"
"And then forced himself on her in deception using his power and beauty, stealing her virtue and honor–"
"Excuse me?" She looked at Wink, wondering if she were the only one in the room to catch the foul stench of the dark-haired Elf's mendacity. Steal her virtue and honor? Was he still trying to say Nuada had raped her? Or tricked her into sleeping with him, anyway? Didn't these idiots remember what it meant when a human said they followed the Star Kindler? It had probably been a long time since they'd dealt with a Latter-Day Saint, but still! The Fair Ones were supposed to have long memories! "I follow the Star Kindler! I don't sleep around with people!"
"But he is not 'people,' but the crown prince of Bethmoora, possessing the perfection of form of the Royal House–"
"Oh, good grief!" For the first time, Dylan wondered if they were going to lose not because of Eamonn, but because of the stupidity of the Fayre who were nodding in agreement to the garbage he spewed.
"And he did all this with plans to further abuse her, and eventually to kill her, all because of her human blood–"
"Is that why you killed the woodman and his wife?" Dylan shouted over Eamonn's loud voice. The dark Elf fell silent. The venom in his quicksilver gaze had the mortal woman stepping closer to Wink, pulse racing, fear screaming through her veins. The stag-man they had come into the hall with them stepped between Dylan and Eamonn, velvet-furred head lowering so the lethal tips of his antlers pointed at the gray-eyed Elf. "Because you wanted to 'expose' Prince Nuada as a bad guy?"
Eamonn took a step toward her. She must have made some sound because Nuada stirred in Wink's arms. The faerie stag spread his four powerful legs and snorted contemptuously at the infuriated Elf.
"I would not say such things if I were you, human," Eamonn growled.
"It's true, though." The mortal turned to the King of Elfland. "Your Majesty, Prince Nuada saved my life. The men he killed were..." A shudder raced up her spine, and for a moment she couldn't seem to force herself to go on. There was the phantom pain of something tearing inside, the burn of fluorescents against her eyes, and she nearly screamed. Help me! Then she thought of the Elf prince lying in a fog of pain in Wink's arms, thought of mercurial golden eyes that shifted with the Elf's mood. She squared her shoulders. "Those men were rapists and murderers, criminals and nothing more." The court gasped, but Dylan went on. "Nuada didn't torture them or play with them. He dispatched them as quickly as possible, then got me to safety. He allowed me to stay in his healing sanctuary until I had completely recovered. Then, when it was time to leave, he escorted me to the nearest mortal hospital."
"Majesty, if she was completely recovered, why take her to a mortal hospital?" Eamonn demanded. Dylan began to open her mouth, and the Elf shouted, "Because she is lying, Sire! Or because the prince hurt her, and she is covering for him out of some sense that she owes him, a twisted idea the crown prince has obviously planted in her feeble human mind–"
"Will you shut up and let me talk?" Dylan shouted, incensed and terrified. She was barely glancing at Eamonn now, but at Nuada, his silvery horsetail dripping the blood that had soaked into it onto the floor. Stunned, Eamonn's mouth actually snapped shut. "Cheese and crackers, I can't say the sky is blue without you screaming Elvish conspiracy. Shut up already. Look," she added to the king. Her voice took on a pleading note. "Your Majesty, can't we settle this after we unchain Nuada? Please. If I'm wrong, or I'm lying, or whatever Eamonn pulls out of his butt next, then..." She trailed off, then whitened as a thought – an awful, terrible, horrifying thought, one that just might convince them – popped into her head. "If what I say isn't true, then I will take the rest of Prince Nuada's punishment."
Eyes like blood-tinged molten bronze snapped open.
"N-no!" Weakened by blood loss, hoarse from holding in his cries of pain, Nuada's voice still rang with authority. "No... Father. Please. Ten hundred lashes... a hundred lashes... would kill..."
"You shut up, too," the human woman snapped, but the look on her heavily scarred face as she gazed on the Elf prince arrested Balor's attention: desperation, horror, worry, fear, and all the protective instincts of a mother lioness. And as for the prince... there was a fierce, almost desperate stubbornness in the sharp feral features as he struggled to get out of Wink's hold, to attain his feet. "And don't you dare try to stand up! You're dying," Dylan added, folding her arms beneath her breasts. "You're not the only one allowed to save people. Besides, if he wants to, the One-Armed King could have me executed for popping in here uninvited anyway. So, you've heard my offer, Your Majesty. What do you say?"
"No, Father-"
"Be quiet! Or I'll dump you on your butt in front of everybody. Now shush!"
King Balor stared at the scarred woman who spoke the Old Tongue so fluently and met his gaze levelly, never flinching from the alien eyes of antique gold. He would have sworn she was completely unafraid. This mortal would risk her life... to save his son? His son, the Elf who despised humans and would see them all slaughtered in their beds? Why? And yet, Nuada had just pleaded for the punishment to be given to him and not the human, for fear it would kill her. What had happened between his son and this woman? What if... what if she was, in fact, his lover? Was it possible Nuada was in love with the human?
Nuada stared at the human who stood so brazenly before his father, offering her life – yet again – for his. He had thought himself beyond surprise when it came to Dylan, but she had managed to shock him one more time. Somehow she had found out about the so-called trial – one of the Wee Folk must have told her, he thought – and made her way here, risking her life to come before the king to plead for him. And now she offered her life once again, merely so that he might be unchained. She would risk coming before Eamonn, as well – surely she had known that, after their last encounter with the dark Elf. The prince remembered her terror at the thought of the human wolves returning, and marveled that a creature who possessed no understanding of courage could yet be so brave. Or perhaps foolhardy? For the mortal had come to the so-called trial anyway.
If his head had not been swimming and his body screaming in agony, he might have grabbed her by those narrow shoulders and shaken some sense into her. But in Eamonn's presence he could not afford to waste his strength. Not after the sick tortures he had seen in the dark-Elf's mind.
Eamonn seethed, his blood-speckled, white-gloved hand still holding the iron-spiked whip. Dylan watched him from the corner of her eye, in case he got any ideas, but she kept her main focus on the king who would decide if she lived or died – and if Nuada lived or died.
Please, Heavenly Father, she prayed. There was a sick, acrid taste on the back of her tongue - fear, or the rising urge to throw up? Please don't let this all have been for nothing.
"Unchain him," a softer, sweeter voice commanded. A woman nearly identical to Nuada, though lacking the darkness to lips and eyes and with softer features and a slight kiss of healthy peach to her flesh, glided forward, only slightly hampered by the tall green-shrouded Elf helping her to stay upright. "I will test the truth of her words, Father."
She said "Father," Dylan thought. So this is Nuala. Nuada had mentioned his twin once or twice, but the entire time she'd stayed in his sanctuary he'd kept the painting of her veiled. The human woman had only glimpsed it a couple of times when Nuada had gazed up at it with some deep and tortured emotion etched across his face, thinking the mortal asleep.
I don't like her, she realized, blinking once in surprise as the Elf princess swanned down the steps of the dais toward her. A clanking sound told her they'd unchained the battered and bleeding Elf prince from the whipping posts, but Dylan didn't look away from the approaching princess. She and Nuala watched each other with measuring eyes that missed nothing. I don't like her because she stood there while they whipped the flesh from Nuada's back and she didn't try to help him. Did she even speak for him at the trial? Brighid said Nuada had said she wouldn't. That no one would, not even his father. What kind of king does that to his only son?
Then she remembered the story of Absolem, from the Old Testament. She couldn't remember whose son he had been specifically, but he'd been the rebellious son of a king of Israel, a son who had tried to take his father's throne and started a civil war in the process. The king's armies had fought against his, and defeated them. Absolem had been killed in the battle. But instead of rejoicing over his victory against an usurper, upon hearing the news the Israelite king had wept and lamented, "O, Absolem, my son. My son, Absolem. Absolem."
Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she would not let them fall. She'd cried enough on the way to Bethmoora. All right. Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing. I'm sorry, Heavenly Father, she prayed silently. I will do my best to give them both a chance. I'm very... fond of Nuada, but that is no excuse. I will try to be less judgmental if You bless me thus. And, she added as Nuala stopped in front of her, pale yellow eyes piercing, if You'll bless me that she won't rip my brain into itty bitty pieces, please.
"Give me your hand." The princess's voice had a strained quality to it, as if she had been screaming recently. Dylan obeyed, placing her palm against the Elf woman's outstretched one. She thought she heard Nuada make a sound – such a sad sound – but he couldn't have. He'd never shown that kind of emotion in front of her before. Injured and half-dead or not, Dylan doubted he was about to start doing it now, either.
"They raped you," Nuala whispered, her voice soft with horror. Dylan jerked, echoes and memories burning her thoughts, but didn't draw her hand back. Couldn't. Because Nuada needed her to do this. King Balor could hear his daughter's words. The mortal was pretty sure all the Gentry in the Hall, with their preternatural senses, could hear. "Over and over again. Pain. Blood. Fear. So much violence. They cut your face. Struck your flesh and tried to break your bones. Ripped you apart with blades of flesh and steel. You thought you would die. You prayed you would die, if only it would end and there would be no more pain. Then... a savior. A silver angel like an avenging star. The white beast of a faery tale."
Nuala fought back the tears clinging to her long golden lashes. Shame and misery were like acid in her belly. This was why Nuada had saved the mortal – to spare her the atrocities committed upon their mother. Even with humans, her brother shunned rape. Slaughter, he embraced. Violence and hate and vicious cruelty were as nothing to him in the face of his hatred for the children of Adam. But never, ever rape. The very thought of it hurt him like a soul-wound. She, his twin, the other half of his soul, should have known that.
And then...
"So much pain in both of you. Such terrible wounds. You are a doctor. A healer of mind and soul, of the heart. You know medicine. You helped each other because both would die otherwise. He took you to his sanctuary. You doctored his wounds. Fought the metal sicknesses and the poison in his body with leaf and herb. He owed you a debt. A debt of honor. That is why..."
But why, Nuala thought bitterly, why hadn't her brother said anything? Explained?
He thought you wouldn't have believed him, Dylan said softly. Because you wouldn't have.
Nuala's eyes widened. You speak to me with your thoughts?
Well, you are kind of reading them, Your Highness, the mortal replied, and showed her the conversation with Brighid and Becan. Showed Nuala that her twin brother knew her as well as, if not better, than she knew herself. Made certain, without malice or rancor, that Nuala knew she had been very, very wrong to doubt the crown prince's sense of honor and justice. I know no mortal as honorable as Prince Nuada. Except the Prophet and the Son of the High King, but I don't actually know the Prophet, just of him. And the Son of the High King is not mortal.
You don't understand, Nuala protested. He hates humans. He wants your people dead.
No, Dylan replied gently but firmly. He wants your people free, and humans being dead is the only way he can see it happening right now. He hates us for what we have done, and maybe we deserve it. I know humans have done some pretty crummy stuff. But he does not seek to kill us out of hate. He's desperate. He clings to his honor and tries to help a race who will not help itself. That's probably how God feels often enough, come to think of it. You all have accepted the end of your people. He hasn't. He won't. He can't. And neither will I.
In Nuala's mind flashed a thousand images and sensations – the burning pain of electricity coursing through a young body; delight as nixies and asrai frolicked in a moon-washed river; pulling filth and debris out of that same river time and time again, aided by a little boy with the same face and hair as the child-version of the woman whose mind Nuala now wandered; the burning cold, enchanted kiss of a grateful gancanagh under a golden Samhain moon, while his morgen sweetheart swam through the clean-again waters; nursing a kobold covered in burns from scalding water back to health, carefully spoon-feeding it grits drizzled with honey and sprinkled with cinnamon from a wooden bowl and spoon; poisonous chemical lies stinging as a needle pierces a child's vein and she screams that she does believe in faeries, she does...
A final image, one that stole the very air from Nuala's lungs: her brother, seated in a comfortable brown leather armchair before a crackling fire, his boots on a low wooden stool and a black kitten in his lap. The creature purred contentedly as nimble Elven fingers scratched behind one ear. And across from him, the golden glow of the firelight illuminating her scarred face, sat the woman whose mind Nuala now scanned, reading aloud from a beautiful book bound in green leather with a silver shape stamped on the cover, with Spindle's End glittering on the spine in silver leaf.
How is this possible? He would never... he cannot...
And now Nuada's mind in hers, his touch as light as a sylph balancing on the surface of a pond, mingling his memory with the woman's – Dylan, Nuala thought. Her name is Dylan – until she knew every detail of those nearly two moons' time of reading: apple slices drizzled with melted cheese on thick pieces of fresh bread; watching the human lay out fresh milk and bread – or other victuals – for the Wee Folk; the comforting and musty scent of old books; a sparkle to the air whenever the resident brownie went to work cleaning in the living room. Over it all was the warm, mellow hum of the mortal woman reading aloud by the stone fireplace.
Sanctuary, Nuala realized. Nuada's thoughts instantly cried, No, a barely pleasant obligation, but his twin sister felt the echo of affirmation beneath his denial. The crown prince of Bethmoora enjoyed the human woman's company. He felt... not secure. That was not the flavor of emotion the princess was getting from him. Not safe, but... welcome. He felt welcome in the lowly human cottage amidst the green. And he made the mortal feel safe. Ten, nearly eleven moons' in each others' lives and this was what had come of it.
He has given me a chance, Dylan murmured as Nuada, exhausted and distracted by the burning in his body and the near-humiliation of a troll – of anyone – cradling him like an infant, withdrew from the bond. He gave me a chance, and he might learn to give that chance to others. You should not shun him as you do, Your Highness. He's lonely. He misses you. It hurts him.
There came into the Elf woman's mind an image of an underground sanctuary, Spartan at best. But she recognized the quilt in various shades of gold on the narrow bed and the portrait on the wall above the hearth. She knew it was her portrait, though heavy velvet curtains covered the painting. Knew it, because in this memory Nuada stared up
You do not understand, Nuala replied. You are only human. His love for me is... dangerous. Most fae love dangerously, especially royals. He is in love with... someone he should not be. That love is dangerous as well.
It's obsessive, you mean. There was sorrow and sympathy in the words. Understanding. But oddly, no anger or disgust or any of the other emotions Nuala expected from a human discussing a love that, with only a little more provocation, could border on madness. I'm a psychiatrist. I have experience with obsessive love. When the mind is whole, such a thing only comes when all other affection is redacted. And believe me, the prince is quite sane. I simply think... I think he is tired of fighting himself, and the rest of the world. So out of exhaustion and loneliness and grief, he chooses not to fight himself and what those emotions bring out in him anymore. Give him time.
I have given him more than two thousand years. I can no longer bear to wander his thoughts. They are full of violence, hate, death. Recently it has been less, but it still poisons him. I cannot...
When the two of you came to this world from before mortality, Dylan said, you didn't come to be brother and sister for a thousand years, or even two thousand. You came to be brother and sister until the end of everything. The end hasn't happened yet, Your Highness. It's not going to be here for a very, very long time. Don't give up on him. Everyone has trials they must face, some until death. He is one of yours, and you are one of his. It will work out eventually.
Nuala pulled away from the somewhat disturbing mental contact and dropped her hand, which ached fiercely. How long had she been in the woman's mind? Everything hurt from the phantom flogging she'd received, and the healing had taken more out of her yet. She was dizzy and her fingers were numb when she came to herself and saw the entire court staring at her and the human. Everyone, in fact, but the human herself, Nuada, and the troll who held him. The troll and the mortal had eyes only for the prince now. And the prince was deathly pale and unconscious.
That woman... Nuala had never touched a mind like hers. Serene, yet determined. Kind, yet not naïve. A mind that should have been chained 'round by the bleak, hopeless fear that came in the aftermath of rape – and the fear was there. It was, but nowhere near as sharp as Nuala had expected. And wherever the princess found the fear, there was always memories of Nuada to push it back. Memories of Nuada, who should have terrified the mortal.
This human struggled to always speak and think kindly of those around her, struggled desperately to be humble, yet strove to convince herself she was capable of the things which the Star Kindler had called her to do. And she was deeply devoted to her Christian God, and to obeying the two greatest commandments He had ever supposedly given to humans: to love her God with all of her heart, might, and mind, and to love everyone else the way she believed her God loved them – totally and unconditionally.
"She..." Nuala croaked. Choked on her shame. The wet-eyed Elf princess cleared her throat and tried again. "The human speaks the truth. Eamonn is a liar and a murderer, Father!"
Dylan realized something was wrong the moment Eamonn grinned, his smile like a knife in the dark. The Elf's bright grin widened when understanding filled Dylan's mind and she opened her mouth to shout a warning. Before she could get the words out, he lifted the whip and yelled, "Attack!"
Dylan jerked her head around to see what had to be at least a hundred black-haired silver-eyed Elves draw blades and follow the vicious Elf's order. As the hooded Butcher Guards lunged into battle, the mortal turned away from the fight and focused on Nuada and Wink. "We need to go," she said tersely to the looming troll. "He is in absolutely no shape to fight!"
"Come with me," Nuala commanded, and grabbing Dylan by the arm, hauled her toward the dais and her father, who was drawing a fabulously gargantuan sword that the human dimly recognized as a claymore. Nuala led the human and the troll behind the dais to a small, inconspicuous door set far back along the wall. She pulled her sleeve back and waved one hand. The golden bracelet on her wrist glowed and the etchings on the metal twisted sinuously. The door clicked open and Nuala pulled Dylan through. Wink kicked it shut after he'd wiggled through as well, careful not to jostle the injured prince.
Nuada stirred, and Dylan paused to glance at him. Color – if one could call that moony, amber-tinged whiteness a color – was slowly returning to his face. Even as she watched, the flesh began to regrow along the Elf warrior's shoulders and back.
Any minute now, she thought a little frantically. She wanted to touch the prince, reassure herself that he was actually breathing, but was afraid of hurting him. Any minute, he's going to pop up and start kicking butt. I'm okay. We're okay. Everything's okay.
"Come," the princess hissed. She drew a slim Elvish sword and continued down the long corridor. "You will wait in my chambers until he is conscious. Let him decide then what to do." They hurried down a series of twisting hallways until they came to a rowan-wood door etched with silver Elvish script. Nuala used her bracelet again to bring down the wards around the door, flung it open, and shoved Dylan inside. Turning to Wink, she ordered, "No matter what malice you bear against me for this night, protect them both with your life. I know you would do it for my brother, but do it for the human as well. She is very special, that one. Her soul is like unto us, though she is so very human. In her my brother has found some solace. Guard her well."
Wink didn't reply. This so-called princess did not understand the concept of loyalty, of love, of service. Let her give her orders. He would guard his prince with his last drop of blood, and the human girl too, for what she had done to save Nuada.
The troll went into the chamber and shut the door in the princess's face. He heard his prince's sister hurry off down the hallway again, back toward the fight. Wink looked at Dylan, who understood the silent admittance that she was now in charge.
"Lay him on the bed," the human ordered in a voice that barely quavered. "On his stomach, please." Wink complied, impressed that the mortal had yet to fall to pieces. But then, if she were one to panic, she wouldn't have been able to heal the prince's wounds that long ago winter night. Dylan scanned the damage to the Elf, still horrific even with the healing that had already taken place. "How is he healing so fast when the whip was tipped with iron?" She'd seen the thing: a horrible, metal spike glinting a sickening crimson-tinged gold with the Elf blood on its vicious tips. It actually reminded her of the spear hanging above Nuala's bed – a long, golden-wood shaft tipped with a wicked-sharp point that looked like iron... but it couldn't be. Could it? She shook her head and told herself not to be stupid. Of course it wasn't iron. Iron killed faeries.
But the Spear of Light was made of iron, she remembered suddenly. Iron from the heart of a star, forged by the Tuatha dé called Brighid and–
Wink made wiggling motions with his fingers and clapped his hands, jolting her from her thoughts. Then the troll pointed at the door and made a crude female shape in the air. The human had to think for a minute before remembering what she'd asked him.
"Nuala... was healed by magic?" Dylan hazarded. The troll nodded and pointed at Nuada, miming ripping off the iron shackles. "And because Nuada isn't chained by iron, the healing is affecting him too?" He nodded. "Because they're twins?" Another nod. "Huh. Good to know. Ugh," she grumbled, focusing once more on the brutal damage in front of her. Strangely, it helped to combat the fear that was a living, breathing, choking thing inside her. "I don't have my medicine bag. There's nothing I can do for him except..." The mortal trailed off and glanced at Wink. "Go... guard the door or something, please. I can't have you looking at me while I'm doing this – it's weird." The troll cocked his head and Dylan sighed. "I'm going to pray." Her throat tight and her hands shaking, she added, "It's all I can do."
Puzzled, the troll shrugged and thumped over to the door. Let the human pray, then. She was a follower of the High King of the World. Strange that humans believed in the Highest of the gods, but didn't believe in the lesser ones. Perhaps because the lesser gods were more like very powerful faeries than gods, and humans needed powerful deities to protect them. Or the humans had simply forgotten. Or there was another reason. Many humans did not believe in the Star Kindler, either, come to think of it. Not truly. But Dylan claimed to be His servant and child, so obviously she did.
The human knelt at the foot of the bed. It was almost as if she could feel every trickle of blood oozing down Nuada's ribs and soaking the velvet coverlet on the princess's bed. She shuddered and shoved the thought from her mind. When she couldn't concentrate and she needed to pray, she tried to remember the first twenty or so seconds from a hymn – purely the instrumental part. If she thought about the words, the song would get stuck in her head until Doom's Day. Now she heard the beautiful, haunting strains of "Be Still, My Soul." Immediately her shoulders relaxed and most of the tension drained out of her. She bowed her head.
"Heavenly Father," she whispered softly.
She knew Wink could probably hear her, which made her uncomfortable since this was a private prayer and you weren't supposed to make those public. But she also knew that Nuada needed to hear a voice speaking, to help him wake up, and Wink couldn't be the speaker since he had to stand by the door and make sure nothing got in and tried to kill them. The odds of anything even finding them were slim, but Dylan felt loads better with the troll standing guard.
"Heavenly Father," she repeated. "Help me. I know I'm supposed to tell you what I'm grateful for first and thank You for my blessings – like, I'm grateful we got there in time and I'm grateful we're not dead – but I'm really, really scared right now. I'm scared for Nuada. He's hurt so badly. He's healing, but I..." Panic and dread made her voice break. Her fingers tightened on her arms until it hurt as she fought to keep back the sob clawing at her chest. "And Eamonn," Dylan murmured when her voice no longer quaked, "is launching a full-scale assault out there in the Throne Room or whatever that place was. Please don't let anyone die if it's possible. If not, please don't let their deaths be horrendously painful. Let them be quick.
"And please let Nuada wake up soon. I always feel better when he's nearby. He's very strong and very brave, and he's a skilled warrior. Please protect him if he goes into the battle. And please protect Wink. I like him and I don't want him hurt, either, if it's possible. Please protect Princess Nuala and King Balor as well. I know Nuada loves them and his heart would be broken if anything happened to them. And..." She steeled herself to ask what she knew she must. "Please, if there's a way to end this without Eamonn being hurt, I hope it happens. If not... please let it be quick. He is my enemy," and oh, was he her enemy. She remembered the sight of Nuada, bleeding and barely conscious, chained by iron, and had to swallow the salt of grief and unshed tears before she could go on. "He is my enemy," she repeated through clenched teeth. Anger pulsed through her almost like pain. "But what I want is not the point. The Lord said to pray for our enemies. So I ask for You to have mercy on Eamonn. And please, please help Nuada to wake up soon." Now her eyes stung and her throat ached from holding back tears. Dylan had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling. "I just want him to tell me he's all right. And I say this in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen."
"I am all right," a hoarse voice croaked, and Dylan's eyes shot open. They locked with eyes the color of weak lemonade. Her heart leapt. She drew a ragged breath and failed to fight the sting of tears.
"Nuada?" She glanced at Wink, who had turned to watch the prince. "He's awake!" She turned back to the Elf warrior. His harsh, pained breath ruffled tiny mounds of velvet coverlet in front of his shockingly white face. "How much pain are you in, Your Highness?" She asked, trying to pull on her professionalism like armor. Despite herself, her hand shook as she laid the back of it against the Elf's clammy skin. Still slightly in shock. "On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst."
He arched one knife-thin eyebrow. "Fifty." Why was she touching him? Why were there tears rolling down her cheeks? He'd heard her praying for him – praying! – and was unsure how the whispered words made him feel. She had pleaded with her God to protect him and Wink, and his sister and father. But she had also prayed for the High King of the World to show mercy to Eamonn. Compassion? Or stupidity?
Mercy or idiocy? Bravery or foolishness? How is this even a question, when she is human? He wondered. She should not understand mercy or bravery. Yet everything she did spoke otherwise.
"Fifty? Ouch," she mumbled. "Increasing, decreasing, or staying the same?"
"Decreasing," the prince mumbled, and shifted onto his elbows. His breath hissed through gritted teeth. "Increasing. Much." He allowed himself to fall back to the bed. "I must wait a bit longer to rise. You..." Those pale eyes darkened almost to bronze. "You should not be here, human. How dare you come here? Why did you come?"
"To save your lily-white arse," Wink grunted in Troll, but Dylan didn't understand that.
"You shouldn't have come here alone, Your Highness," she said.
"You should not have come here at all."
"You may be a prince," she said, sitting back. Why couldn't she keep the stupid grin off her face? And her tears wouldn't stop either, no matter how many times she swiped at them with the back of her hand. Why was she so happy the stubborn jerk was awake, anyway? Especially since the first thing he did upon waking was complain, and the second thing was verbally abuse her. "But you are not the boss of me. When the Lord commands, I obey, remember?"
"Your Christian God told you to crash a private engagement?" When she just looked at him with a cocked eyebrow, he sighed. "It is dangerous for you here, human. You should not have come... but it was well meant." And that, Dylan knew, was as close as the Elf prince was ever going to get to telling her "thank you" for rescuing him. She wondered absently if the words were even in his vocabulary. He never said "please," either, come to think of it.
"I know it's dangerous," she informed him, getting to her feet. As always after praying, the tips of her toes were numb. "Eamonn's currently attempting to stage a coup out there. Your father and sister are kicking his butt along with the Royal Guards, if said butt hasn't been kicked already."
"What?" Nuada shoved himself upright and tried to slide off the bed. Dylan lunged for him and, after a moment's hesitation – where to grab without hurting him? – grabbed his scarred bicep to stop him from getting up. She nearly lost her grip when he flexed the muscles in his upper arm and prised her fingers apart. "Release me at once, mortal."
"Don't you dare pull this high and mighty stuff with me, Elf boy," she snarled. Out of one potentially lethal situation and into another one, she thought giddily. What if he decided honor could go hang and he stabbed her or something? Actually, stab her with what? He was unarmed and half-dead. And even if he hadn't been, threat of death or dismemberment had never stopped her when it came to Nuada before. "Can you at least wait to get up until I can't see your ribs through your gore? It's kind of gross. Not to mention you're still weakened from the iron and lead sicknesses from before! And the poison! Your immune system is a little tired, still. Your Highness, please!"
"There is no honor or valor in hiding in my sister's chambers while she and my aged father battle my enemies!"
Dylan wanted to put her hands on her hips, but they were busy hanging onto the Elf's biceps. "Ever heard the phrase 'discretion is the better part of valor?' Hmm? And Eamonn's my enemy, too." She thought of Aldonza, who'd said the same thing to Don Quixote, and ended up getting gang raped by those enemies after the half-mad, aging knight had defeated them. A frisson of fear slithered down her spine. "Wink!" She yelped at the troll. "Help me! Make him stop! Your Highness, you are too badly hurt to even think about fighting yet!"
"Do you intend to henpeck me like some shrewish dwarf wife?" Why was she so pale? Surely after stitching his gunshot wounds all those moons ago, the sight of his flayed back had not turned her into a coward? Yet she was a human – perhaps it had.
"Will you stop asking me that when I'm making you behave? What do you have against dwarf wives, anyway?" She demanded. He twitched out of her grip and managed to get to his feet, only to stagger and fall back onto the bed. The world swam around him and his vision went white for a moment. Blood roared in his ears. "Oh, okay! No, you don't." Dylan laid her hands gingerly on his shoulders, carefuly of the lashes, to keep him from trying to rise again. "You can't even walk, Nuada. Please! Stay still, just for a few minutes... the healing stopped." The mortal blinked, gaping as the healing lash marks began to unknit. Fresh blood came, soaking the blankets. "What? What's happening?"
Nuada didn't respond. She glanced into his gray-tinged face and saw his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. A wash of suddenly ice-cold air frosted down her spine. Fear froze her breath. Oh, no.
"Nuada?" She touched the hollow of his shoulder where it met his neck, feeling for his pulse. It was slow and thready, but there. His eyes flickered open. They were back to being as pale as lemon water, and his color was fading again. "What's wrong? What is it?"
"Dark magic... and something... something in the blood..." His fists clenched. He struggled to catch his breath using lungs suddenly gone tight, as if his chest were being gripped by a massive fist. The rowan-wood door rattled. Dylan, Nuada, and Wink turned toward it. The troll met the prince's golden gaze and nodded. Nuada groaned as he shifted position. "Hold them... off, Wink. I... cannot fight. Slow-acting... poison on the iron," he managed to grind out from between gritted teeth. "Eamonn..." Nuada tried to stand, and slid bonelessly to the floor when his legs buckled. Dylan shot to the ground beside him.
"What do I do?" She demanded, shoving at her hair. The door shuddered when someone banged against it. As ice filled Dylan's chest, she knew it wasn't anyone good. There was a flash, and the human tasted the starlit sweetness of magic on the air. At least the door was warded. "Do you know what kind of poison it is? Does it have an antidote?"
"He's going to die, little whore," a familiar, taunting voice called through the door. Wink growled. Nuada closed his eyes as a fresh wave of pain tore the breath from his lungs. Dylan began to tremble. Eamonn continued, "Give up and open the door."
Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin, Dylan thought with no little hysteria. "Nuada... tell me what to do. Nuada? Please."
"Submit to me," the vicious Elf continued, "and I just might save him. I have the antidote with me. One drop will save his pathetic, worthless life. Otherwise, Bethmoora will have no sovereign ever again."
Nuada jerked and his eyes flew open. His mind reached out, seeking his sister's thoughts. When he touched only blank emptiness, the first shards of fear pierced his heart. Was Nuala... dead? And his father... dead as well? Or merely unconscious? Maybe sealed behind a warding circle. There were so many things that could explain the void. But... had Eamonn killed them? If so, how was he still among the living?
"Let me in, you stupid tart," the dark Elf snarled. "Now! Or he dies, and his blood is on your hands!"
When Dylan shifted as if to go to the door, Nuada grabbed her arm. Even the small movement sent waves of nausea churning in his belly. Pain spiked his temples. "Do not trust him," he gasped out. He coughed hard enough his entire body shook. He tasted blood. "Eamonn lies."
"I know that," she said softly. "But he also tells the truth, when it suits him. I'm only going to talk to him, Your Highness. I'm not opening the door. It's just..." She cleared her throat and gave him a self-deprecating smile. "I'm so scared right now I can barely croak. He won't be able to hear me from here."
She stood behind Wink – she wasn't stupid – and thought, Heavenly Father, right now I feel like Moses. Please help me to be a little more like Aaron. I'd feel way, way better about that. You made my tongue, so You can do whatever You want with it. If You want me to sound like a spineless, gutless moron in front of Eamonn, then I guess I'll just have to live with it. But I really hope that's not the plan, because I'm scared to death. In the Lord's name, amen.
"Eamonn," Dylan called. "What did you do to the prince?"
"Concerned about your lover, human?" The Elf was sneering at her, she could hear it even through the door.
"Yeah, sure, whatever. Just answer my question." She glanced at the Elf slumped against his sister's bed. Sweat had dampened the loose strands of his silvery blond hair to his forehead and neck. The blood still seeped from the now open lashes on his back. And was that a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of Nuada's mouth? Struggling to keep her voice even, she added, "What did you do to him, Eamonn?"
"A little powdered hemlock, a little oil of mistletoe, some essence of belladonna, a little ground mandrake root. Nothing too dangerous. Oh, and human pesticides from an aluminum aerosol can. I believe your kind call it... Raid?"
Dylan couldn't stop herself from clapping a hand to her mouth. She staggered back a step. Poisonous plants and Raid? Maybe if Nuada had been human and she could have taken him to a hospital, they could have done something. But not here. Not cut off from everyone who might be able to help except a burly troll and a mortal psychiatrist. Oh, Heavenly Father, what do I do? What do I do? He's going to die. That will kill him. This can't have all been for nothing, it can't have.
"What... what do you want in exchange for the antidote?" Dylan hated that she could hear tears in her voice. If she could, so could the silver-eyed Elf intent on Nuada's inhumation. And she knew Eamonn didn't have the antidote – or, on the off-chance that he did, would never give it to them. If Nuada somehow survived this night, the first thing on his agenda once he was back up to scratch would be to hunt Eamonn down and kill him in a very painful manner. But if... if there was a chance she could lure Eamonn into such a position that someone – Wink, maybe, or the faerie stag, if he still lived – could threaten his life, he might give up the antidote or the recipe for making it in exchange for his life. She was reaching (that was a big if, huge even – colossal) but she couldn't just stand there and watch Nuada die.
"Well, besides the head of that disgusting troll on a spike, the crown of Bethmoora, and the death of your precious lily-white prince... I want to hear you scream and feel you dying under me as I take my pleasure in you."
Something slick and chilling slid through her stomach at the thought. She felt sick, bile rising in her throat, and she was certain she would've thrown up if not for Nuada's grunt of effort as he struggled to get to his feet again. He made it to his knees, leaning heavily on the bed, then was taken by a shuddering, hacking cough that seemed to rip out of him. Blood, thick and far too dark, seeped between his fingers when he covered his mouth with one hand.
What am I supposed to do? She wailed silently. I don't know what to do! I don't have the priesthood, I'm not married to a priesthood holder – I can't give him a blessing of healing! What am I supposed to do?
Nuada collapsed against the bed again. Fresh blood spattered his chin, neck, and chest as he coughed. Through hazy eyes, he saw Dylan cover her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook. And somehow, strangely, distantly, he heard the fragile, desperate prayer, Heavenly Father, I'm really scared. Help me, please. Please. I'm scared. I have to save him. How do I save him?
"Let me in, human," Eamonn called. "Let me enjoy you, and let Nuada watch. Then I will give him the antidote."
"Why is it always Mormon girls who have to put up with this crud?" She wondered bitterly, trying for a bit of levity to combat her rising hysteria. "If I were Lady Gaga, for example, I'd have no problem sleeping with ten Elves intent on screwing me blind! The killing, not so much, but still."
Don't think 'why me,' though, she reminded herself, fighting the fear so she could think at least semi-clearly. Because I already know the answer. The answer is, you can handle it, you agreed to it, and for whatever reason, it's needful. Someone might learn something. It might even be me. And don't say 'I hate my life,' either, she added, because I don't and that would be a lie.
"I just hate this part," she said aloud.
She glanced at Nuada. His entire body was shuddering violently. Sweat slicked his skin. Pain twisted his features. Fresh blood continued to seep from between his dark lips, staining the deathly pale skin with dark gold. A sob caught in her throat as she realized she really didn't have a choice. Not unless she wanted to watch the Elf prince die right in front of her.
Dylan stepped past Wink. When he reached to grab her, she froze him with a look. "This will buy us a little time, hopefully. I will make him swear an oath, and I will swear an oath, and maybe Nuada will be okay. Your job is to protect him, not me. Do your job." She heard Nuada struggling to get to his feet, or his knees even. When she looked at him, she saw him trying to drag himself toward her along the edge of the bed. Fury and desperation burned in his bronze eyes. Her heart hurt to see the proud Elf forced to practically crawl, and she almost backed down. But when Nuada had to stop to cough up more blood, she knew she couldn't.
Dear Heavenly Father, she prayed silently as she approached the door. I'm about to do something I know is a sin – willingly give myself up to be used sexually. But I'm doing it to save Nuada's life. He has saved me so many times, and I owe him. And I promise You, I'm almost definitely not going to enjoy this - unless Eamonn is part gancanagh, in which case I make no promises. I'm sorry, but I can't see another way out of this. Please protect Nuada and Wink. Please let this work. Please forgive me for what I'm about to let happen. And please... when I die... when Eamonn kills me... please don't let it hurt too much. But whatever happens, I know Your hand is in it. Your will be done, in Christ's name, amen.
"Dylan!" Nuada's voice was choked by blood and pain. "Dylan, no!" Against every instinct, she ignored him.
"Eamonn! Swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that you will give Nuada the antidote and spare his and Wink's lives if I come out to you. In return, I swear, on that same Darkness, that you will not be punished for what you will do to me."
"Very well, human," Eamonn replied after only a moment. "I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, that if you come out to me, and give yourself to me, I will spare the lives of the troll called Wink and the crown prince, and the mighty Silverlance will receive my antidote."
Something zinged in her chest – the Spirit, warning her that all was not right with that promise. But she didn't know what was wrong, couldn't see where there might be a loophole for the evil Elf to hurt the prince or the troll. And they didn't have much time. She laid her hand on the door handle.
"Wink!" Nuada gasped. He'd heard every word of that silent prayer. She knew Eamonn meant to rape, torture and kill her! Yet she was going out there anyway, to buy them time, to save his life. His honor demanded he stop her. The debt he owed her could never be repaid, not now, and yet the stupid human continued to throw herself between him and harm, him and death. He was a warrior, he thought as pain racked his body. He accepted harm and death. And apparently, so did the human woman about to sacrifice herself for him yet again. "Wink! Do... do not let–"
Before he could give the order, she had the door open. Dylan shot him one final look - a look of fear and regret both, mingled with melancholy and farewell. He felt that look down to the marrow of his bones. And then she'd stepped out into the hall, and the door clicked shut behind her.
Wink groaned. She was gone. That human, the healer who had saved his prince five times now, was gone.
Nuada stared at the door as agony burned in his belly and blood dripped onto the carpet with every hacking cough. He had failed. She was gone. Dylan was gone. Eamonn would hurt her - viciously, violently, until his twisted appetites were finally sated - and then he would butcher her. And he, Nuada Silverlance, had failed to protect her. His honor hung in tatters. He had failed. Eamonn had succeeded in shaming him. And Dylan... Dylan would...
Dylan....
Suddenly, from the other side of the door, she began to scream.
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