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A Very, Very Short Tale of Much Blood, Some Passive Magic, Someone Like Scheherazade, and a Debt of Honor
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Nuada ignored the screams. The golem he had set as the protector of this sanctuary had waited for the train before crossing the tracks and dealing with his enemies. Now he heard the wet sounds of tearing flesh, the cries of terror, and found no pleasure or pain in them. The Elf simply ignored them. His wounds burned as iron contamination spread like a disease through the flesh, coloring it the sickly blue of a drowned corpse. Exhaustion beat at him. His muscles ached from the human metals and from the sickness still ravaging his body. A wave of dizziness washed through him, and he groaned. When it passed, he glanced at the mortal sprawled upon the ground by the entrance.
Never before had he brought a human to one of his sanctuaries. He had never had a reason to. But now, because of his thrice-cursed honor, he was forced to keep this mortal from dying because she had risked her life more than once to save him. No human had ever done anything for him, much less something like that. He owed her a terrible debt.
May all the gods beyond the stars curse her.
Nuada looked around the Spartan room. There was a stone fireplace, above which hung a small painting of his sister, one of only two luxuries in the place. His eyes took in the table with two chairs, and several cabinets and trunks which held clothing, weapons, medical supplies, and non-perishable food items. The bed, with a thin mattress and one pillow, stood near one of those trunks. The blanket, a quilt from his old bedroom at the summer palace of Renvyle, was his second luxury. When a wave of melancholy threatened to drown him at the thought of the quilt and his childhood palace suite, he ruthlessly dismissed it. There were two doors on either side of the fireplace, one that led to a bathing room, and one to a privy. The floor of the main chamber was of cold, clean-swept stone. So he could have access to water, there was a tiny well in a corner, out of the way but within comfortable reach. A young crinaeae, with very little power but a unique and quirky talent, kept the water clean, cold, and sweet.
In the center of the room was a woven mat. It was this that was his aim. He fought another wave of dizziness as he dragged the human towards the mat. With every movement, blood flowed thick and heavy from his wounds. His heart labored to pump in his chest. Sheer determination fueled by rage and self-loathing (A human! A human saved his life! Pah!) gave him the strength to do this. Panting with exertion and pain, he thought frantically about how he could tend her wounds when his own were so severe. After all, if he passed out from loss of blood, they would both die. On the other hand, he could not treat his own wounds by himself.
The human solved his problem for him by waking up as he set her down upon the mat. She slowly opened bleary eyes, then blinked as shock and fear spread across her bleeding face. A thin, weak cry of terror ripped out of her mouth as she scrambled away from him in a crab-scuttle until she had half-crawled atop his bed. Wonderful. Now the stench of humanity and iron-laced blood would saturate all of his bedding. Fantastic.
"For Danu's sake, human, I mean you no harm. Be still."
Under more normal circumstances, Dylan would've made some sharp retort at the biting censure in his voice, but even if she'd felt up to it, just then her arms – which had been holding her up - buckled beneath her, and she slid to the floor. She immediately curled in on herself like a snail, holding tight to herself. Nuada looked her over with keen scrutiny, and the human woman shuddered. Her bruised, bloody, and battered face was positively bloodless. Frightened blue eyes were set within deep, dark circles in her face. Nuada could tell by the bruising that her left cheekbone was cracked. The brunette didn't seem to notice that, nor the blood seeping from the cuts and slashes across her face.
Dylan's gaze found him. Panic stole through her eyes. He could hear the thunder of her heart in her breast.
Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn.... The words came unbidden to her mind. She remembered the story, had read it so many times she had it memorized. And what better time to use those guidelines than now? Dylan felt like she'd walked into a fairy tale... or a faerie tale. Preternatural warriors, magical sanctuaries, war axes like shooting stars... yeah. A fairy story. Complete with blood and slaughter. Closing her eyes against the sight of that white-skinned warrior with the bleeding wounds, she remembered, Favors will be returned, debts be repaid.
On the trail of that thought came another, different, one of her own instead of something read once in a book: he won't hurt me unless I provoke him. With that realization, the paralyzing fear seemed to ease.
A little.
"Where are we? Are we dead?" She asked softly. It never occurred to her to ask who he was. Once she'd made it away from the overpowering male presence of him and put some distance between them, the memories had surfaced fairly quickly. He was an Elf, a prince, one of the Kindly Ones. One of them.
One trembling hand wiped at a trickle of blood from a cut right beneath her eye. Remarkably, Dylan felt better. She had complete feeling back in her fingers and toes, and the throbbing, red-hot pain from her pubic bone and pelvis were gone, replaced by a dull ache. The ragged slashes across her face no longer screamed at her. Her vision wasn't sparkling like white stars against grayness, and the ability to focus at least a little had returned. The floaty sensations from blood loss felt more like she'd had a few bad cuts that required stitches rather than being gang-raped by a pack of human predators. Remarkably, the battered woman had enough attention span left after the pain to really want a shower.
"Are we dead?" Dylan repeated, then added, "Um, Your Highness."
The air was icy against her skin, which looked gray, even to her eyes. She was trying not to give anything away to the man in front of her, but her mind raced, and she couldn't hide the panic in her eyes. Body trembling visibly with the urge to get up and run, somehow she knew a mere mortal in her condition couldn't move fast enough to outrun the unearthly man in front of her, even in the bloody state he was in. But she had to run. She had to get up and run, but her legs shook uncontrollably. Where were they? The scent of roses and lilies clung to the stones around her, but the stench of blood burned her nostrils and tried to swamp the perfume of flowers. Heart pounding, she bit her tongue to hold herself still. If she bolted, she knew instinctively he would be on her in seconds, and then... and then he... he would...
Run, her brain screamed. Run, run, runrunrun!
Can't, the other part of her moaned. Can't, hurts too much, can'tc.
"No," he grunted. He didn't add, "Not yet," but she heard the implied threat under his words.
Dylan swallowed hard. Her brain was working overtime, now that they were no longer being chased, her mind considering some rather sinister possibilities. What ifc what if this person had only tried to help her so that he could hurt her himself? It was a viable concern. How many of the Bright Ones had told her that humans gave especially good sport? Even as she thought it, she stuck her tongue between her teeth and bit down again, trying to calm her suddenly racing heart. Salt-blood flooded her mouth and pain flooded her face like a riptide, dragging at her fear.
Focus on the pain, she told herself, struggling for calm. Taste the blood. Feel the sting. Focus on that. Relax. Just a little-
RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN-
Relax! She screamed at herself. I can't even hear myself think when I'm having a freak out. Drawing a shuddering breath, her side flared with pain. That helped her to focus as well. Carefully, Dylan examined the idea that this tall, muscular, blond, bullet-riddled man had intervened on her behalf just so he, too, could have his turn with her. Would he do that? Could he do it? Or would he do something else to her? Something worse?
He's too badly hurt, the logical part of her mind murmured, while the screaming, terrified part of her mind kept reminding her of all the teens she knew who'd been suckered by a man feigning injury; kept reminding herself of Strands of Starlight, where a girl was raped by a man she healed after a bear had severed his arm. All these things that told her she was being stupid, being too trusting. But she was a doctor. It was her duty to ease pain, heal hurts. Never mind that she was supposed to do that for people's minds, for their souls. She knew enough about the human body that she could make a passable attempt at healing it here. The Hippocratic Oath and all that.
Screw the Oath, she shrieked at herself as the man in front of her shifted position. She pulled her body back as far as she could. Pain smashed down on her like a tidal wave. Forget about the Oath! He's going to rape me!
Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn.c Her brain seemed to trip over the words as they resurged into her mind. Favors will be returned, debts be repaid.
Heavenly Father, what do I do? I'm freaking out, help me. I need help, I need a hospital, and so does he, and I don't know if it's safe to be around him. Tell me what to do, pleasec.
In church, she'd often been told to wait ten or fifteen minutes for an answer to prayers. Generally, that was the minimum time between the end of a prayer and the receipt of an answer. But this time, the answer was practically immediate, and so strong that she felt it in her teeth:
Help him, or you will both die.
Her heart skipped a beat. Slammed. Hammered in her chest. Dylan swallowed several times, trying not to gasp for air, feeling as if she'd just been sucker punched. She had to help him. She could feel it in her bones, but... but going near him made her want to cry. To scream. What if he hurt her?
Now, the feeling insisted, pushing at her. Already, he fades. You must begin now.
Fades?
She noticed he was sitting on the floor, his chin on his chest, his face hidden behind the curtain of his hair. His pale skin was slicked with sweat, and he shuddered continually. At the sight of him, Dylan started in surprise. The blond man looked half-dead already. Shoving her long hair out of her face, she leaned in and peered at him, ignoring the way her skin prickled and her panic screamed. Her eyes found the holes that bled sluggishly. Adrenaline surged through her veins at the sight. He was still hurt, way worse than she was! How could she not have remembered?
"Whoa! Lie down!" She ordered. He looked questioningly at her, and opened his mouth to speak. "Do it!" Dylan yelped, voice laced with panic. Don't argue, she begged silently, motioning for him to make himself horizontal. Please, just do what I say before I have hysterics. "We have to get those bullets out right away! Or the human metals will infect your blood." What was the old saying about fighting the Other Kin with metals? Holy silver, burning iron, cold lead, blessed electrum. Iron and lead could kill a faerie creature if they managed to infect the blood. And didn't gunpowder have salt in it?
"I suppose you know how," he replied sarcastically. "Because as you can see, there are no others here."
Dylan gasped shallowly as panic threatened to overwhelm her, trying to fight it back. She couldn't afford to be intimidated or frightened by her rescuer and his harsh words. Even as she was thinking this, she made the abrupt mental switch she'd learned at the institutions, going from panic-stricken fear and hurt to deep, deep rage. Glaring at her rescuer with something akin to venom, despite the fear coiling like worms in her belly, she crawled to her purse lying several feet away and dragged it back. She glanced at him. Blue lines were bright against his pursed lips. Her rescuer was in pain. Both irritated and admiring of his stalwart stoicism, she unzipped the thing which looked more like a medium-sized leather messenger bag than a purse and dumped its contents on the floor.
The mortal woman was muttering something under her breath. It sounded to Nuada like, "If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain."
Rifling through the contents of her bag, the blue-eyed mortal pulled out a lighter, scissors, a pair of long tweezers, hand sanitizer, and a plastic spool of white sewing thread with an old-fashioned, four-inch tapestry needle stuck through the top. She found these items amongst so many other things that Nuada was surprised they all fit inside the bag. The sheer number of items made his head spin.
"Interesting collection." His sarcasm could've cut through bone. Something dark pulsed through Dylan as she shivered and thought desperately, Don't get afraid. Get angry.
"Well, Your Highness, you never know what might come in handy," she wheezed. Her head suddenly began to throb, but she ignored it, focusing on the metal tweezers as she flicked open the lighter and called forth the flame after sanitizing her hands. Holding the tips over the dancing tongue of fire, her eyes watched the metal begin to glow as it heat up. "This will hurt."
"You are actually going to attempt this," he gasped. His vision was starting to phase in and out. He gritted his teeth against the poison-induced nausea. "Are you ac healer?"
"Sort of," she whispered, and bade him lie down. Too exhausted to argue, Nuada tried to obey, and ended up collapsing upon his back, seemingly unconscious. She'd been right in thinking he was worse off than she. Right in guessing what the metal would do to him. The iron from the blade and the lead from the bullets, gestalted by the iron-sickness and the last traces of dipsa venom in his system, were already beginning to poison him. The pale-skinned man was as weak as a kitten now. Luckily, he was also out cold.
Dylan's fear began to recede just a little more, and she leaned over him. Shivered, knowing she was on the edges of control. Tried to ignore the burning that began in her knee and raged through her body all the way to her bruised, lacerated, and probably cracked cheek. Feeling nearly done in, the brunette forced her hands to remain steady as she carefully pushed the now sterile tweezers into the wound at his belly.
The human woman had been wrong about one thing – Nuada was not unconscious. He was barely conscious. He did not even have the strength to open his eyes. He could only lay there, trying to conserve his strength. Then the human moved, began working on his injuries. Fire ripped through him, and the Elf found himself paralyzed by iron. The metal in the instrument scorched his skin, but she unerringly found the bullet lodged in his body and plucked it out. Fresh blood flowed, and Nuada sank into blissful oblivion.
"Gotcha," she hissed. "Tricky little sucker."
She grabbed needle and thread and hastily stitched up the wound.
"Four years of med school really paid off," she muttered to herself as she repeated the performance on both of his arms. Only two bullets left. She'd even removed the fragments of concrete and ceramic that had ricocheted off the walls.
She was grateful that he was unconscious. What pain would he probably be suffering if he'd been awake? His eyes had gleamed as if with a fever. Maybe he was sick. Maybe the metal was poisoning him worse than she knew. She only knew stories, nothing solid. What did she really know about doctoring an Elf? For Dylan wholeheartedly believed that that was exactly what this pale, blond man was. His grace, his power, the whiteness of his skin and the oddly familiar, deep gold of his eyes – all of it was so blatantly fey, blatantly Elven.
Dylan could tell up close that her patient wore no makeup, no contact lenses. This creature was something right out of a storybook, something right out of her greatest and oldest dreams. She'd seen his kind before. Was known to his kind. And there was something so oddly familiar about him.
Dylan had suffered eleven years in nut house lock-up because she believed in people like him. Claimed to have seen them. Had dedicated her life to helping them survive in a world of concrete, steel, and poisons. And now she had the chance to help one of the Shining Ones again.
Excitement, however, was dull and tasteless when compared to the overwhelming fear of the large man on the ground in front of her knees. Every time he so much as twitched, her heart jumped into her throat, and she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming. The impromptu doctor had tried reciting poetry in her head, something to focus her conscious mind on to reduce her fear, but Dylan had quickly realized that in order for the Elf to survive this surgery, she had to pay total attention to him.
How am I going to turn him over? She thought suddenly. How am I supposed to roll him over? I have to get him on his stomach so I can deal with those other wounds. I don't think I can turn him, not as weak as I am.
He solved her problem easily – he woke up.
Bronze eyes rimmed with crimson snapped open. She would've screamed, but the only sound that managed to escape her mouth was a breathless squeak of fear. She jerked away from him.
Black lips pulled back in a snarl. Her eyes went wide. A pale hand shot out, wrapped around her throat, and began to squeeze.
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His cell phone rang, making him jump a mile high. He glanced at it and saw it was his uncle calling. He flipped the cell open and said, "Hey, Uncle Thad."
"John, Dylan's in some kind of trouble."
Well, that would explain the nervous tension. For the last few hours, he'd been pacing back and forth in his office, ice cold and unable to get warm, with a strange, restless tension building in his joints and a wicked headache brewing at the base of his skull. And now his uncle had called to tell him that his older twin sister was in some kind of trouble.
"What's up, Uncle Thad?"
"I was expecting her hours ago to give her her birthday present, thought maybe she'd forgotten about me. But after a few hours, I fell asleep and had one of my dreams. There was a pack of wolves chasing a little girl in a red dress, and something else, a huge white lion prowling after the wolves. I don't know what that means, but I'm worried about Dylan. John, you're in New York. Can you find her?"
"Uncle Thaddeus, I'm on the job." Technically. They'd stuck him outside on security detail, pushing the curious civilians past when they tried to stop and gawk at the federal agents swarming around the skyscraper where witnesses claimed to have seen aliens.
"She could be in danger, John!"
John Myers sighed, and checked his watch. It was three in the morning. He didn't feel like scouring the New York subway system looking for his sister just because his uncle had a bad feeling after waking up from a weird nightmare. But... there was the restlessness. The itchiness beneath the skin, and the odd headache, that meant he ought to be at least a little concerned about Dylan.
"John, please-"
"Okay. I'll look as soon as I get off shift. And I'll call you when I find her."
"Hurry, Johnny. I don't know what's wrong, but she's going to be in the middle of something big if you don't find her soon."
"Okay," he said. "Okay. Don't worry."
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