Chapter 35 - Going Under

that is

A Short Tale of Fuzz-Balls, Interrogations, Panic, a Connection, and Uncomfortable Truths

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Dylan blinked and found herself staring into the eyes of a corpse.

Or at least, that's what her reflection looked like to her: pale, sickly looking, bleary-eyed, haggard. Her hair was a great, big riotous tangle that was half tumbling curl and half nappy frizz. Splashing ice-cold water on her face didn't really help with much, either. Still, the water was bracingly cold and helped wake her up a little. When she'd managed to wake up a bit more, she tried to decide if brushing her teeth was more effort than it was worth. Bat hopped on the counter, glared at her, then whacked the handle of her toothbrush with an irate paw.

Like that's not crystal clear. What time is it? She wondered, still rubbing sluggishly at one eye. A glance out the window showed her it was still pitch black outside. Before seven, then. When was her evaluation? Right, eight in the morning. As if she could forget. She peered at the clock on the bathroom wall. Blinked to bring it into focus. Not even five yet. Why was she awake?

"Mreow," Bat said imperiously. He peered up at her with brilliant golden eyes. "Mrt."

She gave him a dirty look. "Do you have any idea what time it is? It's too early for ear-scratches."

Bat gave her a supremely offended look and meowed. When she went back to contemplating her toothbrush, the cat gave a yowl and hopped in the sink, splashing water in his human's face. The kitten then promptly screeched and jumped back out of the sink again. Bat glared at the two-legger when she giggled. When he shook out his wet paws, he made sure to splash her again. "Mreow!"

"It's your own fault," Dylan informed her indignant cat. But just to take the sting from her words, she lightly rubbed under his chin. He glared at her, but submitted to being petted and caressed (as was his due). After a few minutes he graced her with a purr. Then the caresses stopped. Bat growled. "I need to brush my teeth."

"Meow," Bat said with obvious disdain for the concept of tooth-brushing. He turned up his nose at the sharp scent of cinnamon.

"Yeah, well, that's why your breath smells like rotting tuna and mine doesn't."

The cat jerked his head back and gave her a wide-eyed stare. His breath most certainly did not smell like rotting tuna! And at least his side of the bed didn't smell like touchy human-shaped-but-not-human male. The scent of the grumpy male two-legger still hadn't faded from his human's bed. If she wanted to talk about smells...

"I can read your mind, you know," Dylan told her cat, who was giving her a narrow-eyed look. "Whatever evil plots you have cooking in your fuzzy little cat head, you can forget them, or no more cream in your cat food." She smiled, her first real smile in a few days, when Bat laid his ears flat to his head and slumped down against the counter. She laughed when he rolled onto his back and offered his tubby little belly for scratching. "That's what I thought. Now stop molesting my toothbrush."

"Mew," he squeaked. She poked him in the stomach with the handle of her toothbrush. He grabbed her hand between his paws and dragged his little raspy tongue over her knuckles. Dylan was pretty sure they could hear Bat purring in the Bronx.

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbled tiredly, but her smile was widening. "I love you too."

"Milady?" Becan's gentle inquiry made her jump.

"Hmmm?" She absently rubbed Bat's stomach and fought to wake up completely. "What?" Her voice cracked suddenly. She winced. More nightmares, she thought tiredly. Dylan always remembered every moment of her night terrors, but could never be sure if she had actually screamed aloud or not. At least until the last four days, when she'd woken up with a sore throat every morning. It was a miracle her voice wasn't completely shot. Dylan chalked it up to daily doses of hot water, honey, and lemon.

"My lady, forgive me for disturbing you, but... but there is a... a troll here to see you."

Dylan had been attempting to put a strip of cinnamon toothpaste on her toothbrush. Her hand spasmed on the word "troll" and translucent red gel smeared across the countertop. With trembling hands she wiped the toothpaste away with a tissue. "A troll?"

"It is the prince's valet, my lady."

Wink. The silver cave troll with one feral eye, a magical bronze arm, and all the strength of a semi-truck. Wink was here. There were only three reasons that she could think of for Wink to be at her cottage when Nuada was not there. Either Nuada was hurt and needed her (though Dylan had enough sense to know that after what had happened between them, the odds of him calling her to his side were slim to none, and slim was packing a bag to leave town); Wink himself were hurt and couldn't get medical attention for whatever reason; or third (and the worst), Nuada had sent Wink to kill her for her betrayal.

"Ask him... ask him if I might have a few minutes to make myself presentable," she murmured. When the request was given, and granted, the brownie went back out into the front room (presumably to entertain their guest) while Dylan hastily brushed her teeth, attacked her hair with a wet hairbrush, and washed her face one more time. Then, just in case she survived this and managed to get to her psych-eval, she hurried to don black jeans and a black sweater. A black scrunchie pulled her hair back from her face. Dylan rarely let her hair do anything but hang loose, but having it loose during the evaluation meant stray wisps of hair could attack her face and make her panic. Panicking in front of Westenra was on her Big Bad List.

Dylan studied herself in the mirror. She looked more like a corpse than ever. The black only served to emphasize her pallor. Still, the color seemed appropriate - both in case of her death, and because of the hell she was going to have to walk through in case of survival.

"Bat," she heard Becan yelp. "No! Stop that! Bad kitty!"

Oh, brother, Dylan grumbled to herself, and went out into her bedroom to see what her kitten was doing. When she realized what he was up to, she let out a yelp of her own. "No, Bat! Give me that!"

The little furball had somehow pulled one of her bras out of the hamper of dirty clothes and was now dragging it purposefully toward the door to her room. When he caught sight of his human striding toward him, he arched his back playfully and scampered off down the hall toward the den. The blue lace bra with the pink-polka-dotted straps was still clamped between his sharp little teeth.

"Bat! Get back here!" She set off after him at a limping trot. The cold had seeped into her leg during the night, making it stiff and awkward. If she'd been limber, she could have caught the little fluff-ball easily. Unfortunately the kitten made it into the den ahead of her. Dylan tripped over the threshold and only managed to keep from falling by grabbing onto the doorframe with both hands. "Bat, you little..." Her voice trailed away as her eyes registered who else was in the room.

Wink was sitting on a wooden bench that normally sat against one wall of the kitchen but had been moved at some point to the den. One of the chairs and sofa were still shoved against the wall, so there was room in the middle of the floor for the sturdy bench. The other den chair was situated so she could sit and talk to Wink. Becan had placed a three-legged kitchen stool midway between and off to one side. The brownie would be translating, since Dylan didn't speak Troll. The silver troll currently held the loudly protesting Bat easily in one hand and in the other held her bra aloft by one satiny, pink-polka-dotted strap.

Well, not only am I going to die, Dylan thought with mortification, but I'm going to die at the hand of someone who's seen my underwear. Great. I'm going to throttle that cat. Aloud she said, "Becan can take my... um... that." She gestured vaguely to the metal hand that didn't hold her little monster. The brownie quickly took the blue lace garment and scuttled off down the hall with it. Just breathe, Dylan ordered herself. Just breathe. It's really not that embarrassing.

Was that a twinkle in the troll's good eye? She flushed and ducked her head. When Bat tried to twine around her ankles in apology, she toed him out the door. He hissed at Becan when the brownie scootched into the room. Dylan closed the door in the kitten's face. He promptly stuck his paws under the door and waved them around, yowling as if she'd cut out his heart.

"You honor me with your presence, Mr. Wink," she said softly, and sat down when Wink nodded to her. "What can I do for you?"

The troll rumbled something. Becan, perched on the stool, fidgeted. "Wink wants to know if it's true that you betrayed His Highness."

Dylan closed her eyes. "It is."

"He wishes to know how, and why you have done this."

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. Why had she chosen to walk out and meet her potential death without kicking up a screaming ruckus first? Because part of her did not, could not believe Nuada wanted her dead. No matter how angry he was, he couldn't want her to die. Because maybe - just maybe - Wink could help Dylan get the prince to see that she hadn't meant to betray him. And because if Nuada really did want her dead, there was nowhere she could go to escape him.

"I realized," Dylan began in a trembling voice, "that my responsibilities as a mind-healer made it impossible for me to stay at Findias all the time and still fulfill those responsibilities. I should have told Nuada sooner, but... but for the first time since I've known him, he finally seemed to relax. I just wanted him to have some peace from all the court intrigue and stuff. Just for a while. I wanted to just enjoy being with him here, away from the world. And I was..."

She didn't want to say this. She didn't really know Wink at all. Had no reason to trust him, much less divulge this secret to him. But, she reminded herself, these were the consequences of screwing up. Sometimes you had to face the music in front of people you didn't even know, because it had affected them. At least she knew the silver cave troll a little bit.

"I was afraid of what he would do," Dylan whispered. "I knew he wouldn't hurt me, but... I was afraid he'd... as pathetic as it sounds, I was afraid he wouldn't like me anymore. Wouldn't tolerate me anymore. He's magic, Wink." Despite the use of his name, she wasn't speaking to the troll now. She'd half-forgotten he was there. "Pure magic. He's the most extraordinary man in the world." She remembered the song that had played on the radio more than a week ago, the song that had made her wonder if she could reconcile life in mortality with life in Faerie. I dream of rain. I dream of gardens in the desert sand. I wake in vain... "He's like... the single flower blooming in an endless desert. And I hurt him, I think. I didn't even know I could do that. Didn't know my presence mattered enough to him. But yes, I betrayed him. When I told him I couldn't stay with him, after promising him my loyalty, I betrayed him."

Dylan finally opened her eyes. The silver troll was gazing down at her with a curious, almost puzzled expression on his craggy face. He reached out with his hand of flesh. Lightly touched a fingertip to her cheek. When he pulled his hand away, a single tear glittered at the tip of his finger. Wink grumble-rumbled something else.

"Wink says... that you love the prince very much."

She nodded. She couldn't speak around her heart thumping its way into her throat.

"He asks if you know why he has come here."

"To... to kill me, I think," Dylan said softly, looking now at the fire that Becan had stoked to life. Shadows danced across her scarred face. Flickered in her eyes. She felt oddly distant from her body, from the situation. She couldn't seem to force herself to be afraid of the troll in the room with her. "To punish me for my treason. Or just because Nuada would feel better with my head detached from my shoulders."

Wink made a series of wheeze-growling sounds. It took her a moment to realize the silver troll was laughing. He rumbled something that was translated as, "I knew there was a reason I liked you." He clapped his fleshy hand on her shoulder. It was like being hit by an avalanche. "Now listen to me, lassling. I'm not going to kill you. His Highness has precious few true allies in this world; I can't go around lopping their heads off. You made a mistake. Well, you're still young. So is the prince. Older than you, but still young compared to a lot of the Lords and Ladies in the world. Your heart was in the right place."

Dylan shook her head. "It doesn't matter. He hates me now." When Wink started to shake his own head, she insisted, "Yes, he does. You weren't there. He called me... I... he just... he'll never forgive me for this, Wink."

The troll had noticed the brownie glowering at empty air when the mortal said he called me... Wink growsed at the wee fae, "What did he call her?" In sharp, rapid Old Gaelic, Becan told him exactly what Nuada had called the human. Wink frowned. That did not sound like the prince he knew. Maybe when he'd been young and rash (see stupid) and prone to giving way to his temper, but not now. There was more here than the troll knew or understood. "What else did he say?" Wink demanded of Becan. "Tell me everything."

Once the brownie had finished his recitation, Wink looked at the mortal who was staring miserably into the crackling fire. He lightly tapped her cheek with a finger until she looked at him. He wasn't surprised to see the sorrow in her eyes. Lady Dylan didn't just love the prince as those who served him did. It was more than the love of a vassal for their liege lord. She was in love with him. He's magic. He's the most extraordinary man in the world. Did Nuada know it? No, he couldn't know it. The Elf prince would never have spoken to her the way he had if he'd known that the human woman loved him.

"I'll speak to him, lassling," Wink rumbled at her. He felt an odd sense of... protectiveness towards this slender, scarred woman who had given so much of herself for the prince they both loved. It had shocked and disturbed him when Nuada said she'd betrayed the prince. But this wasn't betrayal. It was only an accident. A simple mistake. "I make no promises, of course, but I will speak to him on your behalf."

She nodded, and Wink could see she was near tears. The human didn't believe anything the troll said would affect Nuada's opinion. Well, they would just see about that. After all, the prince was proud. Proud, and not used to dealing with... well, with humans. Or young females. Not for more than a night's tumble, anyway. This mortal was older in some ways than she looked, but in other ways, she was much younger than she seemed. Almost innocent, though not quite naive. It was most likely one of the things that had drawn Nuada to her in the first place.

Yes, proud the prince was, but Nuada was not a fool. Well... most of the time. He would see sense.

"Mreeeoow!" The screech raised the bristle-spines on the troll's back as he peered around the human to see the little black beast wiggling his way beneath the door. Lady Dylan's mouth actually dropped open.

"Bat! Stop that! You're going to get stuck!" She got to her feet just as the kitten, who had been stuck beneath the rowan-wood door, suddenly popped free like a cork from a wine bottle. Looking inordinately pleased with himself, the little creature shot up a hind leg and began to wash. "You are so nosy," the human informed her pet with folded arms. "Can't I have a conversation that doesn't involve my cat?"

In answer, the kitten swiped his paw beneath the door. Something shiny, something the color of fresh limes, slid under the door, hooked on the black beast's claws. Two somethings, actually. Two somethings trimmed with pale green lace and covered with honey-colored angelfish.

Dylan dropped her face into her hands and groaned when she recognized more of her underwear. "You... pervert! I'm going to chop you up into dog meat."

Wink only laughed.

After a few more minutes of casual talk (during which Becan took the undergarments and the cat into Dylan's room and left them there), the troll left the little cottage to go back to the subway tunnels. Nuada would not have returned from the Troll Market yet - Wink had heard from Culhwch, one of the prince's piskeys, that the Elf had supposedly taken to sporting with a lovely Elf-lady of Eirc with beautiful blue eyes. Not the prince's usual choice in his women. Wink thought of mortal eyes like rainswept lakes in autumn and rethought the identity of the woman the prince was trying to forget.

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"You're sure you're gonna be okay?" John demanded as he pulled into the parking lot at Saint Vincent's Hospital near the Psychiatrics Building a few hours later. He'd spent too much of his life waiting outside this place - or worse, inside it in the visitors' lobby. He hated the pristine, white three-story building with the bars on the windows and the carefully trimmed shrubs kept low enough that no one could hide behind them. Why have shrubs anyway, if they weren't allowed to grow more than ten inches high?

"I'll be fine," Dylan mumbled. Her shadowed eyes were fixed on the entrance to Psychiatrics. "Stop panicking."

"I'm not panicking," her twin said, fumbling to pull the key from the ignition with a shaking hand. "I just think this sucks and I wish you'd let me go in with you."

"If I bring you in with me," she reminded him, "it'll be like slapping a giant post-it on my forehead that says, 'I'm vulnerable - kill me.' Not on my agenda where Westenra is concerned, okay? Relax, John-boy," Dylan added as they got out of the car. "We're in a public forum with state-of-the-art security and cameras. What could he possibly do to me that's that bad? I mean, really."

Bold words, spoken by a sister whose job has always been to care for her brother. But they weren't true, and Dylan knew it. John knew she knew it. Loved her for trying to reassure him. That didn't mean his heart didn't beat just a little bit harder when they stepped through the automatic doors. Didn't mean his mouth didn't go dry when he had to stop at the visitors' waiting area while his twin went up to the front desk and got buzzed through the second set of doors.

Just as the door separating the waiting area from the rest of the building swung closed, Dylan turned to look at him. The fear screaming in her eyes had him taking a step toward her before he knew what he was doing. Then the door clicked shut and she was cut off from him.

It'll be okay, D, John thought desperately. She didn't even have her phone. She'd left it with him, he recalled with a fresh stab of panic. You'll be okay. Please be okay.

On the other side of the door, Dylan took a steadying breath. Shrugged out of her coat. Then she walked down the hall towards the office where Westenra was waiting for her. She didn't fiddle with her purse straps, though her fingers trembled. She didn't glance around. Just kept her eyes straight ahead. When she came to the door, she stopped. Closed her eyes.

Nuada, I really need you right now, Dylan thought, then flinched. No, she didn't. No. She. Did. Not. She did not. She could do this. She did not need anyone to get through this stupid evaluation. She was okay. She was fine. She was just fine.

She stepped into the room.

Westenra was as cold and emotionless as a snake as he greeted her politely (she gave him a short nod) and gestured her to a reclining chair. His touch didn't linger as he hooked her up to the monitor - not that she'd expected it to. He had never been dangerous to her in that way, and he remembered just how sharp her teeth were. The blood-red scar on his wrist would never let him forget.

"Heart rate, normal. BP, normal. Breathing, normal. All set, Doctor Myers? Feeling all right?" Westenra only smiled blandly when she gave him an equally bland look that spoke volumes.

The older psychiatrist hid his wolfish grin. Now he could pull out the one thing that would really unnerve the little witch. Westenra withdrew from its case the hypodermic needle filled with diazepam and prepped it. He didn't turn around when he sensed Myers' sudden stillness. Oh, she hated needles. Always had. Poor little baby. And she really hated sedatives, too. It wasn't easy to find the vein through all that scar tissue. Luckily that gave him an excuse to stab her more than once. Feeling her flinch instinctively from the needle made it difficult to keep his smile on the inside. Finally he managed to depress the plunger on the syringe and shoot the sedative into her bloodstream.

Don't let go of the fear, Dylan ordered herself silently. The steady, triple-toned beep-beep-beep of the monitors gave her something to focus on other than the feel of the needle piercing her skin. Don't relax. Stay tense. Stay focused. The burning-white fluorescents glinted off the needle biting deep into her arm. Her breathing hitched. She forced it to resume even though it felt like she was choking on a building scream.

"Nearly done, there's a good girl," Westenra murmured.

Dylan didn't reply. Just flicked him a glance that said succinctly, Bite me. Already she could feel the strange displacement that always grabbed her when she had to take an intravenous sedative. Scrabbled to keep hold of the healthy fear of the man who loomed over her. Her head felt like it had been stuffed with cobwebs. The weight of her eyelashes seemed to drag at her eyelids. Don't give in. Don't relax.

The bite of the second needle made her whimper. Nothing she did could hold back that tiny, petrified sound. Westenra chuckled and gently patted her hand. She wanted to scratch him, slap his hand away... but her arm felt suddenly incredibly heavy.

I hate this stuff, she thought groggily, then almost gagged at the sudden rotting-onion taste that flooded the back of her throat. Three milligrams of sodium pentothal. Street name, veritaserum. Truth juice. Dylan hated that stuff too.

Westenra glanced at the little witch's vitals. Blood pressure a little low. Heart rate a bit slow, too. Breathing a bit shallow. Oxygen levels in the blood, still in the safety zone. Good. She didn't do well on diazepam if she became agitated. He'd have to time this very carefully.

"Doctor Myers? Dylan? Can you hear me?"

She felt like she was floating in clammy fog. Her body felt oddly disconnected from her head. The fear that was a constant, gnawing darkness inside her seemed very far away. Come back, she wanted to call, but her tongue was thick and dry in her mouth. She could still taste the vileness of rotting onion. When the gravelly, cultured voice asked again if she could hear him, she mumbled, "Yes. Yes, I can... can..."

Wake up, the cognizant part of her screamed silently. Wake up, wake up! Wake up! Don't fall asleep, don't give into it. It's not safe, wake up! But she was suddenly so tired. Even the simple act of breathing seemed so hard all of a sudden.

"Do you remember me, Doctor Myers?"

"Yes."

"Who am I?"

"Westenra, Doctor Lucian." Oddly, her mouth twitched in an almost-smile. "Neutered douche cookie. John said..." She giggled when he scowled at her. "That's what he said. Neutered douche cookie. Haha." Then she bit her lip. No laughing. Shouldn't be laughing right now. Dangerous to laugh. Enemies. But his irate expression was just so funny suddenly...

He established her coherency with simple questions - Name, rank, and serial number, Dylan thought a bit wildly, and couldn't stop the tired giggle that escaped her quickly-failing control. The giggle died a swift and brutal death when Westenra asked in a carefully neutral voice, "Do you trust me, Doctor Myers?"

"No." Never. Could never trust one of them. Not the people at Saint Vincent's. Could never really trust anyone except John and...

"Why don't you trust me?"

"You're evil."

Westenra didn't bother hiding the raised eyebrows her reply induced, but he was careful to hide his grin. Strike one, you little witch. Aloud, all the good doctor asked of his colleague was, "Have you told other people not to trust me?"

"Yes."

"Who?" And that is strike two.

"I don't..."

"Tell me who."

She blinked blearily at him and then grinned suddenly. "Your mom." She laughed, a drunken-sounding giggle. The loose-lipped effect of the pentothal was starting to hit her. "That's what the kids say, right? Your mom? I think I'm supposed to say 'in a box' at the end, but I don't remember. Is that how it goes? 'Your mom in a box?'"

"Doctor Myers, answer the question. Now."

Myers' face creased into a frown. Her glassy eyes began to look just a little more focused now. Just for a moment. There. Some small trace of lucidity. She shook her head slowly from side to side. Closed her eyes. Snapped them open again. Dark lashes fluttered as she struggled against the drowsiness lulling her into complacency. But, the older psychiatrist noted, she didn't answer him.

It was the thorazine. There were still traces of thorazine in Myers' system from her years in the institution. Constant, consistent usage of a typical antipsychotic drug with a chlorpromazine base (such as thorazine) built up deposits of the drug in the body, especially if the dosage was high. It gave her, among other things, a bit of a natural resistance to certain barbiturates - such as diazepam and sodium pentothal. Which was why she could resist answering his questions.

He prepped another three milligrams of pentothal. Allowed his mouth to twitch when Dylan whimpered while he depressed the plunger. Technically, the rules for a police-related psychiatric evaluation called for no more than seven milligrams of the truth-inducing drug, and only if there were no sedatives involved. But he was one of the best shrinks at Saint Vin's. If he said the test required a high dose of the drug, no one would question him. Nor would they question why he added another hundred milligrams of diazepam.

Westenra glanced at the monitor. Blood pressure dropping a little. Pulse slowing a bit - about fifty beats per minute. A bit low, but not dangerously so. Not yet. Breathing slow and even through slack lips. Her eyelashes fluttered. She made a small sound. Shivered.

Dylan could feel the needle both times Westenra shoved it into her arm. Could only blink up at him with bleary eyes as she mumbled, "No. Too much." His eyes were so cold. Reptilian. Dragon eyes. Eyes cold as dragon's cold. Monster eyes, just like that day... just like when she tried to tell him, tell someone about that night on the stairs leading to the basement...

"Who have you told not to trust me, Doctor Myers?"

She closed her eyes because the lids were too heavy to hold up anymore. "Everyone."

"Including your patients?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Don't remember. Tired..."

"Did you tell your patients I was evil?"

"No." Didn't have to, though, she realized with the slowness of a thought being pulled from a tar pit. Didn't need to tell everyone she knew that Westenra only cared about money. About his stupid hospital and his place on the administrative board. About keeping his secrets. Everything swimming. Cobwebs wrapped around her brain and strangled her every time she tried to think about anything except the disembodied voice asking her questions. "Didn't tell. Don't have to. They know. Everyone knows about you. Everyone because you're evil and they can see it, they know.

"These are some really primo drugs, by the way," Dylan slurred. "I feel like I'm flying." She peered at Westenra suspiciously. "Are you trying to get me to jump off a roof to see if I can fly? 'Cause it's not gonna work. I learned about gravity ages ago."

"If you're concerned, we could always restrain you."

"Or you could accept my humble invitation to bite me and die. I like that plan way better. Or you could jump off the roof and try to fly." She paused. Frowned. "Have I made a rhyme?"

"You said your patients know I'm evil. How do they know that, Doctor Myers?"

"Your eyes," she mumbled. "Like a lizard's. Cold. And," Dylan added with a weary smirk, "because... you're a monumental... jerk."

"Am I?" Damn her. She'd always been like this, even as a kid. Never giving respect where it was due. Never showing the proper deference for her superiors. She'd called him worse things as a child. She'd had a real mouth on her then. Now her so-called faith kept her tongue bound, but not her disrespect. "A jerk? Anything else?"

Maybe it was the drugs. They lowered inhibitions, after all. But the phrase that came out of her mouth, although she sounded exhausted, was pithy and to the point. Then she added, "You'd make a killing playing one of those dastardly villains in a silent movie. Maybe you should do that. Or you could just do us all a favor and walk in front of a bus. That would be nice. It could be like an early birthday present to me. My birthday's in like, a month and a half, you know. You should definitely go-"

"Did you tell anyone that I have more than a professional connection with Ivan Blackwood?"

A spike in the heart rate. Blood pressure suddenly shooting up. Breathing rapid and shallow but oxygen levels lowering. Myers shook her head and whispered, "No. No, I didn't, I didn't. Didn't tell. No one... no one believed us."

"Did you tell Lisa Ramirez not to talk to me?"

"Why? Is she not talking to you? Poor Doctor Westenra. Your charms don't affect the young and beautiful. Perhaps it is because you're... what's that Ke$ha song? Oh, yeah - a dinosaur. You're what, seventy? How come you're not married and bothering whatever decrepit hag would want to be your wife? Find someone who thinks it's hot that you've got liver spots and you're going bald and hooked up to an oxygen tank. Don't be depressed. That's what happens when you're old-"

"Answer me, Doctor," Westenra growled. "Did you tell Lisa Ramirez not to talk to me?"

Painful seconds as Dylan tried to remember why this was important, why she mustn't tell the truth. Supposed to tell the truth. Always tell the truth. Thou shalt not bear false witness. Thou shalt not. Thou... A familiar voice whispering in her mind. You lied to me. Nuada's voice. You lied to me. She shook her head and tried to flex her hands. They were numb and cold. You lied to me.

"No, I... no, I didn't," she whispered to the Elf prince who had walked into her life. Walked in, destroyed it, rebuilt it, and destroyed it again. Faerie tale beast, handsome prince to the rescue. Gone now. Gone. You lied to me. Gone. "Didn't."

Westenra frowned. While she could've been lying, even with the drugs in her system, the odds of her actually doing so were slim. Blast. No hope for career-related revenge, then. But he could still make her pay for her interference. Make her suffer for all the trouble she delighted in causing. He glanced at the monitor again. Heart rate still up. Blood pressure still low. "Do you believe in faeries, Doctor Myers?"

Memory coming back now. Electric agony ripping through her when she was so small, too small to fight back. Drugs in her system then, too. Couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't do anything but wait for it to be over. Grande mal seizure. Neurons scrambling from the high-watt voltage. John, memories of John. Not how it happened. Trapped in the dark. Whispering over and over again that she believed, she did. A glimpse of someone from a dream. A good dream. A prince. Golden eyes. Like a fairy tale, or a faerie tale. Draw the dream. Always have it after the pain, after the dark. Dream of the prince. Draw the dream but they take the pictures and the pain doesn't stop it keeps coming back and she does believe in faeries she does she does...

"I do believe in faeries," Dylan mumbled. Her ribcage felt unbelievably tight, like someone had dropped a heavy stone on top of her. She couldn't quite catch her breath. Her heart beat hard against the ice-white scar on her chest. "I do, I do. I do, I promise I do. I do believe in faeries, I-"

"Were you attacked in December of this year?"

"Yes." Wolves, wolves howling in the dark. Wolves howling, loping after her, hunting, slavering, bringing her down and-

"Were you raped?"

"Yes." Crushing weight, crushing on her chest, pinning her, so cold, couldn't fight, can never fight. Help, someone, help, please; her own thoughts circling and circling in her head like the wolves and she could feel the hot blood smearing across her skin. Pain, it never stopped. Choking on a predator's lust and screaming through the blood. Blinding white light burning her eyes. Pain, tearing pain and she can't stop screaming and where is Nuada where is he? Nuada, help me, please. Please...

"Who saved you?"

Feral amber gaze and a waterfall of star-blond hair. Twin war axes gleaming silver like pain, wet with mortal blood. Fairy tales before a fire. Brief kiss at her knuckles. Strong arms holding her close. Elven heartbeat under her palm. Hot chocolate late at night. Being pushed gently on a swing. Snowballs. Caress across her mouth like a kiss.

Home. Safety. Safe. Always safe, always. Nuada...

"Who saved you, Doctor Myers?"

"Not s'posed to... tell," she whispered. Cried out when something pricked the bruised vein at the scarred bend of her elbow. Rose thorns coated in sleeping poison. Something icy slid through her veins, under her skin. Burning cold. "No..."

After a moment, Westenra demanded again, "Who saved you? Who brought you to the hospital?"

"Him," she mumbled, thinking of lullabies in the dark and eyes like sun-kissed ivory or glittering topaz or warm, rich amber. Thinking of faerie tales and legends and myths. "Him. The one. Angel. Beast. Him. White lion in my dreams. The Hound of Ulster. My..." And in her mind, beneath the stifling blanket of tranquilizers, she thought, Other... half of my... heart.

"Give me a name."

"Bite me," she mumbled half-heartedly. "Jerkoff. Go... kiss a pig."

"Give me a name." Little brat.

"No. Not telling, not telling. Never. Mmm-mmm. I won't. My lips are zipped and locked and you don't have the key because I swallowed it so just go fly a kite, please. Go be a lecherous dinosaur somewhere else, you asylum-bred maniac." The words were spilling out and she couldn't seem to stop them. Didn't really want to. She was more focused on the way the world blurred and turned pretty colors when she tried to move her head. "Hmmm. Rainbows. I like rainbows. Do you like rainbows? Oh, of course not. You're a minion of Satan. What am I thinking?"

A hundred milligrams more of diazepam and another two milligrams of pentothal made her whimper. Her fingers twitched and she slowly shook her head back and forth as the added dosage slipped into her bloodstream. A muscle in her jaw jumped. Her throat worked convulsively, as if she fought not to be sick.

"A name, Doctor."

Now she shook her head frantically. "No." Such exhaustion in that one word. Westenra could see the strain she was under to deny him just that one thing. Well, he'd change tacts, then. See if she could handle the far-past as well as she could handle the near-past.

"Do you remember Gunter Maxwell?"

"Yes." Blood, blood on her hands, blood soaking the knees of her jeans. Blood pumping from his torn throat and blood soaking his shirt. So much blood, a red river of it, and her hands slipped in it, slipped and she couldn't keep one hand over the vicious wound while forcing him to breathe. Couldn't, messed up, too slippery.

"What happened to Gunter?"

"He... died."

"How?"

"Killed himself." Girls screaming, boys crying, broken glass everywhere, everyone screaming and crying...

"What about Allison Ryder?"

"Dead. She died. Bus accident," Dylan mumbled. Cold, emotionless eyes flicked to the monitor. Blood pressure slowly dropping, dropping. Heart rate rising again. Ninety. Ninety-three. Ninety-seven. "No. No, you... you killed her. You killed her, you anaclitic, sadistic, bureaucracy-minded, pencil-pushing pin-di-"

"How did I kill her?" He interrupted. Ninety-nine. One-hundred-two.

"Made us wait too long." Dylan was wheezing now. Her lungs wouldn't expand all the way. Couldn't seem to breathe. Couldn't get quite enough air. Couldn't stop speaking to catch her breath. "Statute of limitations. You're fault, you let them do it. You left us in the dark. You left us. Your fault. You're evil. You killed her. Killed Gunter. You, you did it, your fault." Her eyes flicked open and locked on his face. "He's going to kill you. Someday. Drop you off a building and you'll go splat," she added dreamily. "Just like a pumpkin. Then we can make you into a pie." She paused and thought about that for a moment. "Ew."

"Who will?"

Those bizarre eyes drifted closed again and she smiled. "The beast. The angel."

"Who is the beast?"

Catching her when she slipped. The strength of arms around her waist. Never let her fall. Never. Honey-gold eyes and a seldom-seen smile that made her heart flutter. He always made her so fluttery when he smiled at her. "He's hot stuff. Smokin' hot stuff. Warm. I love him. He's just... perfect. He stopped the wolves. He'll stop you. All of you. And the Blackwoods."

"The Blackwoods?"

"Yes. Your little hobgoblins. Remember? Bad hair, breath like dead rats. Cheap suits, tacky neckties." She giggled again. Didn't bother trying to stop the shifting of emotions in her head. Fear was quicksilver swift, slipping away as she heard Westenra grinding his teeth. Dylan laughed. Everything was suddenly hilarious. "Like something out of a bad mobster movie. So lame. Seriously. Stupid hobgoblins. You... don't even have... decent evil minions. Pathetic. And you know it. You're just a sad old man and do you know, I absolutely hate your living guts so can we stop playing Twenty Questions now? 'Cause I kinda wanna go home. Go do your freaky experiments on your hobgoblins, Frankenstein."

"Did Patrick and Xander Blackwood really rape you, Dylan?" He adopted the tone he used with his patients - gentle, patronizing. The tone she hated. Had always hated since she was seven years old and recognized him for what he truly was. "Or did you make it up so you could go home that much sooner?"

Mercurial fear poisoning her now. Threads of memory wrapping around her throat, choking her. "No! No, I... they..." Hand over her mouth. Can't breathe then, can't breathe now. Screaming, screaming, and the laughing, the hissing words in her ear. Xander, Patrick, the wolves, Eamonn. All the same. All the same monster. Monsters, monsters everywhere. Couldn't escape. Couldn't fight them. Too young and too weak and too small and they like it, they like to be fought, like to see the fear and the pain. Like to hear the screams. Screaming for help, someone, anyone, and no one comes. "They left me on the stairs," she whispered. "Couldn't get up. Couldn't call out. They left me in the dark on the stairs, I..."

Nuada, Dylan moaned silently. She could barely force the words through her brain. Didn't know if she were whispering or screaming or just thinking them. Nuada, help me, please. Please don't leave me here. Please. I'm sorry, please come back, I'm sorry, please, help me...

Westenra kept one eye on the monitor. Heart rate one-twenty. One-twenty-five. Oxygen levels down to seventy percent. Breathing too shallow. Her seizure threshold was approaching fast. He had to get her to panic before then. The psychiatrist glanced at the woman's too-pale face. Tears were streaming silently from the corners of those tightly-closed eyes. Her chest heaved and hitched with silent sobs. The corner of his mouth curved into a grin.

"Can't rape the willing, Doctor Myers," Westenra said in a friendly voice. Couldn't suppress the elation when she cringed as if he'd hit her. "You invited both boys down those stairs into the basement, didn't you?"

"No, no, I didn't," the laughter, their laughter, they'd laughed at her as she tried to crawl up the stairs, away from the other kids lying hurt and dazed in the basement, they'd laughed and dragged her back down, pain exploding in her ankle as they jerked her down the concrete steps, and her chin had smacked against the cement and she'd bitten her tongue, "they followed me, I didn't invite them," blood in her mouth, rough hands bruising her wrists, holding them high above her head so her shoulders screamed and it was worse, worse than afterwards, would always be worse than any other time because it was the first time and they were too big to fight, too strong and they laughed at her when they... "I just wanted-"

"You wanted someone to make you feel better after your brother's death." Clinical eyes noted the way she was trembling. Heart rate at one-thirty-nine. Blood oozed from her lip where she'd sunk her teeth deep. He kept talking. "That's understandable. You were just teasing. Just playing around. But then it turned into something else, didn't it? Maybe the boys wanted a little more than you were willing to-"

"No!" Clawing through the fog, clawing through the exhaustion to try and think, try and remember how to make her body work. Couldn't think about that. Wolves were dead. Eamonn gone. Xander and Patrick were still there. Still hunting. Still growling in the dark. Don't think about it, can't think about it. Forget, forget. Don't remember. Not now, can't do it now. Can't do it ever. No prince to protect her now. No warrior to safeguard her in the dark. Never safe again. Can't think about anything. No...

"Mr. Blackwood found out. Maybe he just wanted to understand what-"

"NO!" Complete and total panic screamed in that single negation. Dylan struggled against the iron bands of drug-induced exhaustion and dizziness, the heaviness of the sedative holding her limbs loose and unresponsive. Shoved at the memories made all the sharper by the pentothal in her system. Couldn't think about it, couldn't, could never think about that! Not here, not under the lights with the monster right there, right there, trying to get her, trying to hurt her, kill her. No, no, no!

But when she tried to sit up, stand up, tried to get away, her legs wouldn't work. Too much, she'd said. Too much diazepam, too much pentothal. She hit the floor hard and lay there, stunned and dizzy. Fluorescents burned her eyes. Just like that night, just like the night the wolves came and they ripped her sanity apart again. The wolves, the wolves were coming she had to run had to run get away run but she couldn't get up couldn't move. A horrible numbness deep in her chest choked her, gripped her heart and squeezed until everything blurred and sparkled and began to white out. Underneath the numbness was a terrifyingly dull pain that seemed to come at her from far, far away. Can't breathe, can't breathe, help me, help, Nuada, John, Nuada please help me please please please help me help help help help!

When Westenra's hands clamped down over her wrists, she shrieked like the dying and began to struggle. Called for help with a throat raw from nights of screaming. Somewhere far away, a door slammed open. More hands, rough and coarse, held her down against the icy, unforgiving linoleum. She heard the words "panic attack" and fought harder. So weak. So tired. Had to fight. She rocked her head from side to side when fingers tried to pry her mouth open. Clamped her teeth together. No pills, no drugs, no, no, no! Had to get out, had to get away, had to escape, help, help help help!

John! John! Nuada, please please I'm sorry please just help me I'm sorry I'm sorry help me please... But no one was coming. Not her brother. Not the man who'd stolen a piece of her heart. No one. She was alone. She was alone, just like before. Despair and terror were ice in her numb chest. John, help me. Please, someone, anyone. Heavenly Father! Please. Please...

Sting. Needle stabbing deep into the swell of her hip. Opium whispers shivered through her blood and she screamed, screamed because it was happening again. It was happening again and she couldn't stop them, stop, stop, no, no, no, screaming and crying and she couldn't breathe couldn't call out couldn't do anything!

Blackness smashed into her and she hurtled into oblivion.

Westenra slowly got to his feet, massaging his jaw. Even doped up, she'd managed to land a tooth-loosening blow with her elbow. Scratched him, too, the little witch. Reptilian eyes studied the limp form on the floor. Blood leaked from her busted lip, from a split eyebrow. That cut would scar. Well, what was one more scar? She had enough already that one more probably wouldn't matter.

"What happened, Doctor?" One of the orderlies asked, checking Myers' vitals.

"She had a panic attack. Natural side-effect of the diazepam. When she tried to get up, the effects of the sedative caused her to collapse. When I tried to help her to her feet, the panic attack worsened. She'll need to be restrained before she wakes up. Seven-point lockdown. Don't want her to hurt herself."

"Yes, Doctor."

.

John hunched in his chair, shaking. Fear, fear like a tidal wave, kept smashing down on him. It felt muted and distance, but it was still strong enough to keep him glued to his seat. No way did he have the strength to get out of this chair. Not with that vicious fear throttling him.

Dylan. Dylan's fear. What were they doing to her? What was happening to her in there? It had been more than two hours.

With shaking hands, he pulled out her cell phone. She'd left it with him because they weren't allowed back there. His hands trembled so hard that he fumbled it the first few times he tried to pull up the right contact listing. Doctor Julian Hollis. Head of Psychiatrics at Saint Vincent's. John slid out the little keyboard attached to his twin sister's phone and began to type. "Dylan in Eval. Been hours. She done yet? Worried. - John."

Hollis texted back almost immediately, but his reply made John's heart race. "Dylan sedated. Panic attack. Wake-up in 5 hours. - Dr. H."

Oh, no. No, no, no. Sedated? Panic attack? He had to get to her. When she woke up, she'd freak. Panic more. If he wasn't there to calm her down, who knew what the head shrinkers at this place would do to her?

Another slice of terror cut him. He flinched. Wrote back quickly, "Want to see her. NOW. Get me back there." Hollis replied in the affirmative, and John got to his feet. His knees threatened to buckle, but the twenty-one-year-old refused to allow it. His sister needed him.

.

Nuada paused in midstrike and frowned, glancing over his shoulder. He half-expected to see something, though he wasn't sure what. Suddenly, though, there was just the slightest shimmer of panic bubbling inside him. Not his own emotions. He knew enough about thought-sensing and mind-touch to know that. And it wasn't projective. Not someone trying to use mind-magic against him in some way. Not someone trying to manipulate him. No, this was another mind drowning in fear. A mind that had somehow reached out and touched him.

"Your Highness?" Wink queried, also frowning. There was a far-away look in the prince's glacial topaz eyes that made the troll uneasy. "What is it?"

"I... am not sure," the Elf replied. "Fear, but... but whose fear?" Not Nuala's. No, the warrior prince would've recognized his sister's mental touch the moment he felt it. If he were suddenly struck blind and deaf and even dumb, he would still know his sister's touch. "The mind-touch feels vaguely familiar, but I do not recognize it."

Then the contact slipped away, and there was only void. Nuada cast out with his senses, to try and regain the contact, but there was nothing. No one. He couldn't shake the unease, though. Couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere, someone needed... something.

Wink broke his concentration with a softly spoken, "We must speak, my prince."

The Elf prince cocked his head. His friend seemed... oddly discomfitted. Nuada retracted the shaft of the Silver Lance until it was once again the typical half-spear he always carried. Twirling it idly, the prince took a seat at the table where Wink also sat. "About what, my friend?"

"Lady Dylan."

Razor sharp hurt and fury mingled in Nuada's blood like dipsa venom for a moment before fading, leaving wariness behind. "What about her?"

Wink sighed and scratched absently at his broken tusk. Broaching the subject was easy, but the silver troll knew he would have to tread carefully or risk angering the prince further. If the rage Nuada felt towards the mortal increased much more, reconciliation between the two would probably be nothing but a pipe dream. But Wink could not forget the sight of that single heartbroken tear falling from a mortal's eye. Nor could he forget those softly spoken words of absolute love and adoration: he's magic, Wink. Pure magic.

"I went to see her this morning, before you had returned from the Troll Market."

Flash of bronze that swiftly faded to glacial amber. "Did you?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Why?" So much bitterness and suspicion in that one word. Wink frowned. What did the prince think, that he'd gone to the little cottage to plot some sort of scheme with the human female?

Well, actually, the troll thought, that is precisely what I have done. But he is not himself when it comes to this human. She brings out odd things in him. Perhaps the love is not completely one-sided. Not that the cave troll thought the prince capable of falling in love with a human (though he could certainly do worse than the devoted mortal healer). But there was some affection there. Friendship, perhaps? It certainly couldn't hurt the Elf prince to have another friend.

"To kill her," Wink said, and noted with some satisfaction the swift look of shock on the prince's face, quickly smoothed away. "If she had truly betrayed you, my prince, it would have been my responsibility and privilege to ensure she faced justice."

Nuada surged to his feet and walked several paces away. Wink waited in patient silence, observing the Elf. Did the pale shoulders shake a little? Did the normally erect head bow somewhat? Even his voice was soft and almost tentative, when Nuada said, "Kill her. Did you... do it quickly? Did she suffer?"

The troll frowned. Was that a plea shivering beneath the usually strong voice? Surely not. What did it matter to the prince if a human died swiftly or slowly? And yet Wink was sure that if he'd told the Elf that Lady Dylan had died slowly and painfully, it would hurt Nuada in a way Wink wasn't sure he understood. Yet.

"I did not do it, Your Highness."

"What?" Now Nuada turned, frowning at the troll, his confusion obvious. And was that relief on his face? "What do you mean, Wink? You said-"

Interrupting the prince was usually something the silver troll considered anathema, but he did so now. "I said if she had betrayed you, I would have killed her. She knew that, too. I asked her if she knew why I was there, and she said either to kill her as a punishment for her treason, or because you simply wanted her dead. She did not flinch from such a fate. But if anyone has committed a betrayal, Sire," Wink added, and now, though he spoke with the words of a vassal, he used the fatherly tone that, for the most part, had been put aside when the prince came of age, "the human is not the one to have done."

Topaz eyes narrowed in puzzled thought as the Elf returned to the seat so recently vacated. After a long moment, Nuada said, "I think... your meaning is clear, old friend. You think it is not she who has committed the treachery... but myself."

"Forgive me, my prince, but... yes, I do."

"Explain."

"The human explained to me-"

"If," the prince said, every word coated with frost, "you believe the inconstant witness of human words, I fear you have gone senile in your old age, Mr. Wink."

Wink frowned at Nuada. "I heard the story itself from the brownie," the troll said with deliberate blandness in his words. He didn't add the word idiot, but the Elf had known him long enough that he didn't have to. Nuada clenched his jaw, but said nothing more. "The explanation I received from your lady. She did not betray you, my prince. If she were a faerie lady, with ties of loyalty to her estate, would you expect her to abandon her lands and her people so that she could be at your beck and call? Even if the situation was in all other respects the same?"

"Of course not, but-"

"You have told me more than once that I have been father, brother, and friend to you, as well as a trusted servant, Sire. I speak to you now not as my prince, nor even as my friend and brother, but as the father you have often named me. You cannot expect her to abandon her entire life just because you command it of her, Nuada. She is not your servant. She is your lady. She has every right to her life, as you do. She is bound by oaths older than the ones she has made to you. If you had kept your temper leashed and talked with her of this, an arrangement could have been made. You were raised to be a diplomat, my prince. You know that few agreements can be reached without compromise."

"Compromise?" Nuada echoed incredulously. "With a human? I will not."

Wink growled something under his breath. It sounded a lot like "pigheaded jackass," but Nuada wasn't sure. Then the troll rumbled, "Forget her breeding. Forget the iron in her blood. Forget, for a moment, your pride. I have seen you these last days, Nuada. I know that you miss her company. Yes, a human's company. You could do far worse in your allies and friends, methinks, than that lady who has given her loyalty and love to you."

The Elf prince looked away. Wink saw his fingers curl into a fist that tightened until the already-pale knuckles shone white. "Loyalty? Love? What do humans know of either?" Oh, love. Love, which could be the downfall of the proudest warrior. I love you. Dylan's words. Someone I love very much... Even simple professions of Platonic love, it seemed, could turn a man into a fool. Make him place his trust in dreams and something as unreliable and intangible as a mortal's promise. I go when you go. He could not afford to believe that anymore.

"Forgive my bluntness, Nuada, but you are being a complete idiot."

The prince gaped at his vassal. "What?"

"An idiot," Wink repeated. "A dunce. A moron. A fool. A blockhead and an ass. You're letting your pride trick you into making a foolish mistake. If you'd done this when you were a boy, I'd have trounced you. For once in your life, forget your blasted pride. She didn't betray you. Her decision was not about you, or even about the two of you. Go to see her," Wink insisted. "She misses you as you miss her. See for yourself the sorrow your absence has wrought with her."

"It makes no difference, Wink," Nuada said, suddenly too tired to care that his oldest friend had just called him an imbecile in several different ways. Too tired, even, to care that his vassal was taking the part of a mortal woman. "She is a human. I should have known better than to allow myself to..." To what? To hope. To yearn. To believe in a dream and a promise. To attempt to find solace and heart's ease with a human. "It does not matter."

The troll fought against saying something else disparaging. "You owe her an apology, at least," Wink rumbled instead, and fury iced Nuada's golden gaze.

"I most certainly do not."

"Don't you?" Wink said too softly. Now there was a quiet anger underneath the words that matched Nuada's cold fury. "'Disgusting human whore,' you said," the troll added, and did not miss the way that frosted gaze flinched at the words. "The brownie told me as much, when your lady would not. You have knifed her in the back with your words, yet still she tried to shield you. If Lady Dylan betrayed you, it was by accident. Your betrayal, Nuada, was deliberate. You owe her recompense."

"I will see for myself if what you say is true," Nuada said after a long moment. "Even you can be deceived, my friend. If you're right, though... then I will apologize."

But he did not expect Wink to be right.