Chapter 22 - For the Dead, They Travel Fast

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A Short Tale of Disrespect and Authority, a Tidbit About Nuada, Twrch Trwyth, the Chariot of Annwn, and How John Meets His Sister's Suitor

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Dylan shoved her feet into blue jeans (where Becan had gotten blue jeans in an Elven palace in the middle of a faerie city in five minutes, she had no idea) and yanked them up and on. A dress would have been a very bad idea - speed being her goal - so instead of a dress, she grabbed one of Nuada's shirts from one of the various clothes presses lining the walls. Her hands trembled as she yanked on the cream-colored tunic. On her slight frame, the V-neck tunic hung like a loose mini-dress. I'm wearing pants, it's fine, Dylan told herself, shoving her feet into black boots. If Nuala doesn't like me wearing one of her brother's shirts, tough tiddly-winks. Besides, the princess would have her hands full with Wink, who had gone both to inform Nuala of what was happening and to somehow stand in the Elf woman's way so she couldn't stop them.

And Becan is waiting for us... wherever Nuada sent him, Dylan thought, rushing out the door immediately after tying the boot laces. Nuada, in black and red and carrying his lance unsheathed, waited for her at the head of the stairs. She eyed the razor-edge of the spear. "What's that for?"

"In case the guards refuse to let us pass," he said tersely. "How is your leg?"

Irritation was like wasps buzzing inside her skull. The guards would do that? As for you... you may leave whenever you wish... King Balor has not given me leave to go as yet. Was that what Nuada had meant about not having leave to go? But he was a prince! Why would the king set him up and openly disrespect him this way? For the exact same reason, she realized, that he is trying to force Nuada to marry me. Whatever that is. I'm not going to let them treat him like some kind of dirty family secret. He's the prince of Bethmoora. Those jerks.

"Leg's fine," she replied, hitting the stairs running. Her knee flared, protesting mildly, but she ignored it. "I can keep up, I think. Where are we going?"

"Stables," the Elf prince said as they reached the bottom step. He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and dragged her down the left-hand corridor. Servants and guards watched the pair speculatively as Dylan jogged to keep up with Nuada's incredibly long stride.

This will get back to Father, the prince knew, and that made him want to run faster. If by some miracle they reached the royal stables before word of the crown prince hauling his mortal lady down the hall like a recalcitrant child reached the king, they could be gone before anyone attempted to stop them. Yet Dylan, slow as only a mortal could be slow, would never have been able to keep up with him if he ran. And leaving without her would be fruitless. Perhaps if he took her through the servants' way...

Nuada knew there would be trouble the moment he caught sight of twelve of the Butcher Guards, the best of the royal guard, standing in front of the doors to the servants' area of the castle. All twelve wore the long-beaked metal helmets that gave the king's elite their nickname - the Corbies. They hefted their massive broadswords and stood at attention, ready to fight the prince.

"I serve as escort to the Lady Dylan of Central Park," Nuada called to them, slowing as he approached the armored warriors. "She has requested she be returned to the mortal realm. I can do no other than oblige her." He stopped about twenty feet from them, watching. The Elf prince could feel the sudden tension in Dylan as she freed herself from his grasp and studied the soldiers standing between her and freedom. "She is not a prisoner in this castle. I demand that you allow us to pass."

"She may pass," said one of the guards. His voice echoed hollowly from inside his helmet. "You may not. We are under orders from His Majesty to keep the Royal Exile from leaving Findias without permission."

"You dare!" Fury and hurt pulsed through him like a shock. His father had literally ordered the guards to keep him in the castle? His hand tightened on the lance shaft. He could feel panic and anger from the mortal beside him, she stood so close. If he did not act now, the mortal might very well try to get through on her own. While the Butchers would not harm her, something else might. Even if he gave her explicit instructions on what to do once she made it past the doors, something could happen to Dylan without Nuada there to protect her.

But you can't protect her, Silverlance. Eamonn's voice slithered through the Elven warrior's mind. Nuada's grip tightened until his bones ached under the tension. Even at her side every moment of every day, you'll never be able to keep her safe. Just as you can't keep the princess safe. Just as you couldn't keep your mother safe. One by one, they'll all be taken from you. Mother, lover, sister. Nothing you can do, Silverlance.

Gritting his teeth, Nuada pushed Dylan behind him and lengthened the blade of his shortened lance until it had shifted almost into a longsword. To the human, he said, "Stand against that wall, there." He pointed with the sword. "Do not move. I will clear the way."

"But, Nuada-"

"Do as I say," he snapped. She flinched and took a step back. Did she wish to get hurt in the coming fight? The Butchers would not use her as a hostage - such would have been the act of cowards - but in the heat of a fight, anything could happen. "I will not stand for-"

"We don't have time for anyone's ego right now!" She snapped, though she stepped back just a little more. There was rage in every line of the Elven warrior's body, in the sanguine bronze of his eyes, in the harsh growl of his voice. Dylan saw for just a moment the faerie tale beast with the golden eyes. The lion with teeth bared and claws unsheathed, ready to rip through whatever stood in his way. And she saw the faint blue lines around his mouth that meant he was in pain. Was he still not fully recovered from Eamonn's poison? Well, if she mentioned that, he'd probably eat her. Dylan tried a different tact. "Look, if you do this, your dad is going to be furious. Can't we just talk to them?"

The look he gave her could have frozen even an agloolik's chilled blood. "I am Prince Nuada, Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora. I do not negotiate with common army dogs." And that, the warrior thought, was exactly what these men were. How far his father had fallen, turning what had once been an elite fighting force into royal nursemaids. Nuada had no doubt this was a result of his so-called trial. Flogged before the entire court, never receiving a formal apology or pardon, then forced to stand at a mortal's side and claiming her as his truelove... now the chamberlain and the Butchers seemed to be following his father's example of disdain and backstabbing courtesy, only much more openly. Clearly they thought they had the king's blessing. With narrowed eyes, rage burning in his blood, he growled at the Butchers, "Get out of my way."

"The yapping insults of royal whelps are of no concern to the King's Elite," the leader of the Butchers taunted. Dylan felt Nuada tense. She couldn't believe this: stuck fighting a moron just because he seemed to think it was okay to insult the prince. I'm going to have words with Balor when this is over, Dylan grumbled, as the captain of the guard added, "We obey the king's orders, not the howling of an undisciplined pup."

"How dare you-"

Stop them, the Spirit commanded, as heat exploded in her chest. Now.

Oh, crud, I'm gonna get killed, Dylan muttered silently, as she took a strangle-hold on her self-preservation instinct and lunged between the guard captain and the infuriated Elf prince. "Whoa! Whoa!"

She held up both hands. Nuada jerked to a halt, promises of retribution shining darkly in his bronze gaze. His hold on his lance bleached his knuckles to bone-whiteness. The faerie guard made a hissing noise inside his helmet, but stepped back a ways from the insane mortal who dared come between the two warriors.

"Hang on a second!" Dylan yelled. "I don't have time for you two to whip out a ruler and compare notes on your manliness." Silently, she prayed, Okay, I'm standing between two really ticked-off faerie warriors. Heavenly Father, please bless me than I don't get made into human-kabob today. Please. Aloud she added, "Now, before anyone says or does another stupid thing, what exactly did the king say about His Highness?" Dylan fixed the captain with what she hoped was the gimlet eye. Nuada, she saw from the corner of her eye, was staring at her as if she'd run mad. Well, I know exactly how he feels.

"Nuada is not to set foot beyond Findias without leave," the guard captain snarled. The Elf prince stiffened and took a menacing step forward.

Fighting the ball of panic trying to make her throw up, Dylan gestured for him to be still. His eyes shifted from infuriated bronze to glacial topaz when he fixed her with a grim look. She widened her eyes, silently pleading, Trust me. Come on. Then she turned back to the guard captain.

With deliberate coldness, Dylan said, "Prince Nuada is not to do so without whose leave?" Her emphasis of Nuada's title was not lost on the royal soldier. Even if Balor was okay with the rest of the court of Bethmoora disrespecting Nuada, she wasn't. And it's probably not even something His Majesty did on purpose, she thought. Just fall-out from the whole... thing. But still, she and the king needed to talk, and soon. "Are you gonna answer my question?"

"We obey whom the king has commanded us to obey," the Butcher replied, lowering his broadsword. Dylan wondered if he was actually looking at her. Did the faerie soldier even have eyes? Not all of the Tylwyth Teg had eyes - or even faces. It was unnerving to be looked at by someone when you couldn't see their face, she realized. "If one of them gives Nu-" He broke off when she slapped him with a scathing look. "Gives His Highness permission to leave the castle, we will allow him to pass unmolested."

"That's nice," Dylan replied, injecting deliberate scorn into her voice. Was it her imagination, or did the faerie guard flinch? That's... weird. Um... gotta focus. "And who would they be?"

"His Majesty and the Princess Nuala; the Chamberlain..." The guard's reluctance was obvious, but Nuada let him squirm under the mortal's scrutiny. How had she done this: cowed one of the Butcher Guards with a few choice words and some purely-mortal sarcasm? Somehow, his father was in this. The Elf prince could not quite see where, but that did not matter. Balor had had a hand in the strange deference the Butcher captain seemed to feel toward the human woman. And she knows it, he realized. She is not a fool. She knows something odd is going on here.

He's hiding something from me, Dylan realized, oblivious to Nuada's thoughts. She folded her arms. From the corner of her eye she saw Nuada shorten his lance back to the half-spear he'd been carrying earlier. This guy doesn't want me to ask these questions. Man, I hate political intrigue junk.

"And? Who else? I can tell from your oh-so-eager tone that you haven't given me all the names yet."

"The king has ordered us," the Butcher captain added reluctantly, "to obey the Lady Dylan of Central Park."

Dylan's jaw dropped. Nuada's would have, but centuries of self-discipline kept his mouth firmly shut. His father had told the king's guard to obey a human? Why? What possible reason could Balor have had for giving Dylan that kind of power? The Butcher Guards were some of the best fighters in Bethmoora, if not the world. Although the hundred warriors could not wipe out the entire Bethmoora army, they could certainly decimate their ranks. Only Prince Nuada, the king, and the Golden Army were better fighters than the Butchers (and the Golden Army owed that status to their indestructibility). Yet the One-Armed King of Elfland had given a mortal some control over the warriors.

"Okay," Dylan said slowly. Nuada could see that the human was struggling to process this new information. She was not the only one having difficulty. But then her face smoothed out, all confusion gone, and she glared at the Butcher captain with something that might have been actual anger. In a tight, sharp voice, Dylan snapped, "Get out of our way, you bucolic nonentities. His Highness has my leave. Now move it."

Reluctance obvious in every movement, the royal guards stepped out of the way. The Butcher captain bowed his head and muttered, "By your command, Lady."

"Yeah, whatever," Dylan snapped, and strode past them, fury in every line of her body. She yanked the door open and gestured for Nuada to proceed her. The amber-eyed warrior gave her a look promising retribution, which she acknowledged with a sharp jerk of her head in what might have been a nod. Then the mortal slammed the door after them. "Well, that was strange," she quipped. "And scary as heck. Not to mention an annoying waste of time." Whirling on the Elf prince, she poked him in the chest. He blinked at her. "I am going to have a talk with your dad when we get back about these stupid rules. I am sick of people being jerks to you. You deserve better than this. Gah!" And she turned on her heel and started walking.

Oddly touched by the sentiment (why should she care about such things?), and annoyed that the mortal had once again managed to give him such an uncomfortable feeling, Nuada demanded, "Do you even know where you are going?"

Dylan stopped. "Oh. Actually, no." With a sigh, she turned back to him. "Crud. Could you..."

"This way." They would speak of the fact that she had ignored his orders later, when she did not look as if she would relish cutting the next irritant into little pieces with the sharp edge of her tongue.

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Becan was waiting for them outside the stables. The brownie raced up to them with excitement glittering in his sloe-black eyes and cried, "Highness, I did just as you asked. His Majesty King Arawn was most willingly to lend the Chariot to you. He asks only that it be returned before dawn tomorrow. It waits at the other entrance to the Royal Stables."

"Wait a minute. Arawn?" Dylan asked, surprised enough that she stopped. With wide eyes she demanded, "As in, Arawn Death-Lord? The immortal King of Annwn? Master of the Fell Crochan? That Arawn? The guy with the huge black antlers and the undead army and the otherworldly hounds that chase down demons? You know him?"

The look Nuada gave her was one-hundred percent male pride and satisfaction. "We often hunted together before my exile. I saved him from one of the Twrch Trwyth once." When her jaw dropped, he grinned. "I am over four thousand years old, Dylan. That is a long time to become a proud warrior. A single venomous wild boar is no great thing for one such as I... though I will never make the mistake of fighting an otherworldly boar with only a dirk again. But Arawn was grateful."

"You're making that up," she said. He had to be.

"Am I?" He arched a brow, irritation glittering in the depths of his eyes, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he wasn't. Then the Elf prince took her by the wrist to lead her to the Chariot of Annwn. "Come; Nuala has managed to get past Wink. If she reaches the Butcher Guards before we are gone from this place, she has the power to order them to detain us. Then we will have a fight on our hands."

Numbly, Dylan followed him, trying to reorient her world. She'd known Nuada was a skilled fighter. He'd managed to take down nine armed men (almost) single-handedly. Fought his way through Eamonn and the other treasonous Elves, despite having the skin whipped from his back and being pumped full of poison. Still... to have fought any wild animal armed only with a twelve-inch knife and survived was amazing, unless you were talking about an angry Chihuahua or something. But the Twrch Trwyth, descended from the original cursed boar Troynt of Wales, were incredibly dangerous. They were the size and weight of very large horses, as angry as demons and as bloodthirsty as starving vampires. Twrch Trwyth would attack and kill people just to taste the hot, fresh blood. One of the Hunters she knew had brought her a gift of otherworldly boar tusks once, in exchange for saving his wood wife's tree (through the useful human practice of "adopting" it). Naturally sharpened to a razor's edge, the tusks had been longer than her arm. Just the thought of Nuada facing off against something that savage made her breath catch in her throat.

"What happened when you fought it?" She asked suddenly as they turned the corner of the stables. "Did it... hurt you?"

Nuada paused and turned back to study her face. Why did she look so worried? It had been over two millennia ago. He had been but a youth then. Yet it was just like her to be concerned, even after the fact. He said, "I will tell you of it another time. For now, focus on the girl, your Lisa. Oh, excellent, Becan." Nuada stopped and gestured to the hulking dark thing in front of them. "The Chariot of Annwn."

Dylan stared at the sleek, black stretch-limo with dark-tinted windows and sparkling rims. Confused, she glanced at the prince at her side. "You guys have a limo? Not very environment friendly, Your Highness. Those things suck gas like no tomorrow."

He scoffed. "I thought you could not be glamored. Look with your Sight, not your eyes. And do not scream," he added, when she jerked back with a gasp. Where the beautiful limousine had stood, now sat an enormous black carriage drawn by four very, very, very large Twrch Trwyth. Their eyes glowed a strange, otherworldly green that made Dylan think of the ocean-phenomenon, St. Elmo's Fire. Their tusks were stained dark with what she knew to be blood, fae and human. The silver bristles glistened with drops of translucent poison. Between the rough bristles she could see the wicked edges of the razors that were said to nestle amongst the rough swine fur. Up close, the beasts were huge and terrifying. Nuada had fought one of those?

"You are insane," she said breathlessly, trying not to stare at the grunting swine. Her pounding heart was trying to punch her in the throat. "Like, for real. And," she added with a bit of tartness, "for your information, Your Highness, I wasn't going to scream. I've seen these things before. What kind of girl do you think I am?"

"A human one. Are you going to faint?"

She shot him a look. "Do I look like it?"

With a perfectly straight face, he replied, "A bit." She did look somewhat pale. And Nuada could tell she was half-tempted to kick him in the ankle for that comment. Instead she focused again on the magical carriage, which bore the bone-gray crest of Annwn - a skull topped by a crown and antlers - on the door.

Dylan asked, "So... we just get in?"

"Aye, fy Arglwyddes," a gruff voice assented. Dylan looked up and blinked at a pig-faced goblin woman in black velvet and leather livery seated on the driver's bench, grinning. Dylan was actually surprised she could tell the goblin was in fact pig-faced, since her head was actually a skull. But the delicate tusks and pig snout were still present, even in a skeletal form. A goblin of Anwnn, from the Welsh honorific for "my lady."

Another goblin of the same kind, this one male, clambered down and got the carriage door. "The wee one says ye need a ride to the mortal realms. Brennin Arawn's chariots can go anywhere in the world, fast as anything. Get in. The coarsers don' bite. They remember eich Huchelder - His Highness, there."

It was then that Dylan saw one of the Twrch Trwyth bore several jagged, bone-white scars slashing across its hide. One ran around its thick neck like a silver chain. She glanced with wide eyes at Nuada, who only inclined his head. Speechless, she allowed the skeletal goblin footman to help her into the coach. Nuada climbed in after. The door shut behind him.

"Black velvet cushion seats," the human observed with forced lightness, glancing around at the carriage interior. The Elven warrior could tell she was a bit shaken, probably by what she had learned and seen in the last few minutes. "I'm sensing a theme with all the black and antlers. And of course it looks like a limo to mortals. Way to blend in. Seriously." The carriage jerked as it started to move. When a muffled whipcrack snapped through the sudden silence, Dylan flinched. Frowned at herself. "Jeez. I need to calm down. Gotta focus."

Nuada frowned when the human pressed her hands to her eyes. The only times he had seen her do that were under severe emotional distress. Sitting beside her, he demanded, "What is wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Dylan echoed, her voice half disbelief, half nervous laughter. "What isn't wrong, rather.

"What's wrong is that because of what's going on with the two of us, I wasn't there when one of my kids needed my help. What's wrong is that Becan tells me that one of my kids is camped out on the roof of the Hudson Mall with a gun she got from who knows where, ready to shoot people, which I don't believe for a second."

Dylan suddenly stood, which was only possible because the magical coach did not bump and rock like a normal carriage would. The human started to pace.

"I know exactly what she's doing - suicide by cop. Making sure that she dies quick and painless. The minute I get there, she's going to tell me something horrible happened and that it's not my fault that she can't take it anymore. And then she's going to aim at the crowd of sickos who'll be out there because people seem to find a teenage girl's soul-pain highly entertaining. Since the cops are already there, when she does that I have no doubt they will shoot her. And they will kill her, and it's because I was here with you instead of at home where she could reach me."

At that, Dylan sank to the opposite seat and buried her face in her hands. "This is all my fault," she mumbled through her fingers. "How could I have been so irresponsible?"

"I fail to see how it is your fault. Humans are always doing stupid things for stupid reasons-"

"Don't you dare say another word," Dylan said, in the coldest voice the Elf prince had ever heard her use. When she raised her face from her hands to look at him, her eyes were like ice. "How dare you? You have no idea what her life is like. You don't know her. How dare you speak that way about anyone, prince or not, when you don't know them?"

He opened his mouth, to protest, to speak, to rebuke her, but she continued before he could form the words.

"I am all she has, besides her boyfriend. She's fourteen. Do you know what it's like to be a fourteen-year-old girl in New York City with only two people in the world who care about what happens to you? Especially when your mom is a prostitute and doesn't care; your dad thinks you're a screw-up and doesn't care; your brother's a drug-dealing gangster trying to set you up with his gang leader and as long as you keep turning him down thinks you're barely half a step up from a moron; your boyfriend is from a rival gang and almost nobody can know or really bad things will happen to you and everyone who knows you; and you have the Sight. The only reason she has me is because thank everything holy, her teachers had the sense to call me and not someone else when she showed up to school with cuts all over her arms."

Nuada watched Dylan for several long moments as she pressed her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes. He wanted to be angry; how dare she speak to him that way? He did not have to know humans to know that they were pitiful, hollow creatures without feelings or souls. The prince fought back the undignified urge to shake her like a recalcitrant child. How dare she speak to him with such disrespect? After all that he had done for her?

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," the human whispered suddenly. Nuada, about to put the mortal in her place, blinked in surprise. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. You didn't deserve that at all. I'm so sorry. I'm just... really protective of my kids." She scrubbed at her face with her hands for a moment before looking at him with tired eyes. "Don't be mad at me, okay? I'm sorry. I just hate it when people put labels on my kids. That's a big part of the problem with them, normally. Please don't be mad. I'm so sorry."

He had not been; merely irritated, and suddenly he was no longer even that. Merely troubled. She looked so tired suddenly. So exhausted. Her shoulders were slumped and there were circles under her eyes that he had not noticed before. Where had the brilliant light in her eyes gone since this afternoon? Where was the joy he had seen in her? Nuada had never seen the human look so worn before. And never had she snapped at him out of anger before.

"I... am not angry." He paused. Added, "You are frightened for the girl... and you love her."

"Yeah," she said, and gave a mirthless laugh. "Me, and a fifteen-year-old gang banger who wants out of the life and can't get away. Rafael is a good kid, too. I've met him a few times. He's as clean as you can get and be in a gang. The two of them are saving money so that when Lisa turns eighteen, they can move to Canada together. Get away from the gangs. Be safe somewhere." With a sigh, she flung herself down and stretched full-out on the bench seat. "I've been helping them out, but it can't be anything big or her parents might find out, and Lisa could get reassigned to someone else." She closed her eyes. Nuada saw her composure crack just a little. Her voice shook when she asked, "Nuada, what am I going to do?"

"You told me once that you could face any trial as long as you prayed," the prince said, feeling foolish. He knew praying to be a waste of time; an impotent plea to indifferent gods. But Dylan professed faith in the idea, he reminded himself. Aloud, he asked, "Did you mean what you said? Do you still mean it?"

After a long silence, she said softly, "Yes."

"Then that is what you will do for now," he said, and turned to gaze out the carriage window, feeling idiotic. What was one woman's faith in the face of humanity's evil? Just a single drop of soothing water in a barren desert.

Sahara. Harsh sand and blistering white sun, a land empty of nearly anything fresh and green. A desert plain of treacherously shifting dunes and scouring wind, like the world the humans had created - were still creating - out of the once-fertile earth. What kind of name was Sahara - even if it was only her middle name - for a woman who tried so hard to bring life back to the barrenness of human hearts? And how could he justify encouraging such misguided hope?

Better to shatter her forlorn hope now, before it gains the power to make her bitter and evil like the rest of the humans. And yet, doing so seemed almost like murder.

Several moments passed in tense silence. Then he heard Dylan sit up. Felt more than saw the mortal bow her head. And heard in his mind the faintest whisper of her mental voice as she murmured, Dear Heavenly Father, I need Your help...

The Elf prince kept his gaze trained on the world rushing past the window, ignoring the praying mortal. He had much he needed to think about while she was occupied. Why had the One-Armed King ordered the Butchers to obey Dylan? That little maneuver stank of politics to the fair-haired warrior. But what had been the intended purpose?

And why had Nuada allowed Dylan to disobey him and speak so sharply to him without protest? Very well, her disobedience during the stand-off with the royal guards had resulted in no need for any fighting. Not that Captain Oisín would get away with his insults. "Royal whelp," Nuada recalled as fury flared in the pit of his belly. He will pay for that.

But what of the way she had spoken to him just now in the carriage? As if she were his equal, and not a commoner addressing a prince. As if he were a mere boy for her to chastise. As if she were my mother, he thought, and shot her an annoyed look.

The brief flicker of irritation melted away when he saw a tear roll down her cheek. He didn't need to chastize her. She had recognized her error immediately and apologized already. Well enough. He wasn't a bully, to snarl at a weeping woman for a brief flash of temper. Instead he watched Dylan sniff and wipe the tear away before opening her eyes and lying back down on the bench. He wanted to say something to her. Ask about the tear. Where was the strength she so often presented? But the vacant look in her eyes, as if she wandered some inner road, made him hesitate.

"Do you mind if I sing?" Dylan asked suddenly, her voice barely a whisper. "It makes me feel better when I'm worried about something."

Ugh. Her singing. Why did she do it so often, if she could not keep in tune? But if he said no, she might cry more. He would be forced to deal with her tears. So Nuada said softly, "As you wish."

Her song, when it came, was softer than a breath, and so very sad. But he could see the way the words seemed to fill her, strengthen her, even as she relaxed and let the song soothe her. And he remembered yet again what Ariel had said about the way Dylan sang.

It is as if she is praying with music, Nuada realized. As if her song were a prayer.

"I'll close my eyes. I'll feel my way,
Trusting the whisperings of my faith.
I'm clinging to You... Father.
With every step until this life is through,
I'm hold onto You."

Dylan fought against the fear and the dread that threatened to choke her as the words soothed away the sharp edges of panic. And in the stillness inside her created by the song, she suddenly remembered a verse from Alma. Whosoever shall put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials, and their troubles, and their afflictions.

Okay, she thought, as a soothing warmth unfurled in her chest. Okay. Thank You. I think I can do this now. Thank You. And she found familiar amber eyes (did he know she could see his concern in their depths?) and smiled at Nuada. "I'm okay," she said softly, and managed a smile. It felt hollow and fake, even to her. But she repeated, "I'm okay now."

After a long moment, the corner of his mouth quirked and the Elf prince replied, "Good."

.

The moment Dylan was out of the limo, she ran smack into John. Nuada, cloaked in glamor that sat ill against his skin, stepped out of the Chariot in time to see a young man with blazing eyes grab the mortal woman by the shoulders, shake her, and shout, "What the heck is wrong with you? You have responsibilities! Where have you been, D?" He shook her again. Dylan's teeth snapped together with an audible click. "Why did you leave your phone-"

A firm hand closed around John's wrist. Squeezed until bones ground together. The government agent winced and tried to jerk away from the tall, blond man whose tawny brown eyes glinted with murder in their depths. John knew this man was calculating all the reasons why it would be a good idea to kill him. From the grim light in those strange eyes, the twenty-one-year-old knew that the reasons this guy considered valid were legion.

"Release her," the man growled. Hate burned darkly beneath the icy voice. John's insides turned to water. "Now. Or I break your wrist."

"No, Nuada, it's okay, this is my brother," Dylan said sharply, and then did a double-take. The voice was the same, but she had to blink and stare at the man with the golden-blond horsetail wearing the crisp, black business suit and tie. Familiar golden eyes were gone, blanketed by a glamor of tawny, mortal brown. She stared at what seemed to be a human man, though with an odd, feral quality to those eyes and a bit more height than was considered common. Only the slashing scar across the bridge of his nose remained. "Whoa. Wait... hang on."

Dylan twitched out of John's grasp and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. The glamour around the prince shimmered, wavered. Reasserted itself. Nuada could glamor himself to look human?

But of course he would know how, she realized. He's probably used this shape to spy on humans before and stuff.

"Okay, then. That's..." Dylan trailed off. The prince looked like one of those high-powered, big-shot business moguls who made a game of seducing pretty waitresses and flight attendants on weekends, actually, but she wasn't going to say that. "A new look for you."

"Who the heck is this guy?" John demanded, snagging her attention. Dylan could feel the anger and relief sizzling inside him like a low-volt electric charge. It made her skin itch. "You're gone for almost five days and then show up with some big-shot blond dou-"

"Dude, seriously." If her brother finished that statement, Nuada would probably put him through a wall without a qualm. "We'll talk about this later. Take me to Donovan. I have to talk to Lisa."

"Dylan," her twin snapped, throttling the urge to shake her again. He didn't want to deal with that strange man who watched him with suspicious and disdainful eyes. That guy gave him the creeps. "She's on the roof with a gun. The news' stations are all over the place. What do you think you could do here? They've got SWAT here. She's not getting out of this in one piece."

"First, shut up. Don't be such a pessimist. Secondly, I'm what she wants," Dylan replied. "I know what she needs. Donovan will let me up. I've worked with him before, we've been friends for years."

"It's not safe!"

"Neither is living," his sister replied, flashing him the smile that always got them in trouble. "Everyone who does it ends up dead. So get out of my way. Donovan!" Dylan strode off toward the cluster of police cars where a redheaded uniformed cop was waving her over. The strange, blond man moved to follow her. John reached out as if to grab him. The tall man froze him with a glare of vicious and absolute loathing.

"Do not touch me."

"She's not going to want you with her," John said, then jerked back when the brown eyes flashed crimson-tinged bronze for a split second. Great; one of the Other Kin. Why did she bring him? Why does she do things like this? The fae are dangerous but she keeps helping them. She's crazy. Aloud, he added defensively, "Well, she won't! She does this kind of thing better alone. And since Lisa can actually See you, you'd just scare the crud out of her."

Dylan brought me here, to stand by her, Nuada thought, ignoring the idiot human male who had manhandled the prince's ally. He scanned the crowd of milling humans. Mortals with cameras and microphones in flashy, trashy business suits; ineffectual human police in their dark uniforms; and a group of teenaged and adolescent humans all huddled together beside an old yellow vehicle. They were looking between the top of the loathsome mall building and Dylan arguing with a policeman. A set of brunette twin boys was actually staring at Nuada himself with surprised looks on their freckled faces. And older girl stood with them, eyeing the Elf prince inquisitively. They looked to be siblings. Could the three children See him? Perhaps this group of children, too, were some of Dylan's "kids." Were they also here to help her if she needed it? This will be hard for her. I should go with her, as honor demands, though it pains me to come to any mortal's aid. How do I keep getting into these situations with her? Irritating woman. Yet at least if I do this, Father will be less likely to become angry.

John watched his sister and a cop he recognized as James Donovan arguing animatedly with the head of SWAT before turning back to the tawny-eyed man. "So who exactly are you?"

.

Donovan, red-faced and annoyed that she'd taken so long - "You ain't allowed a personal life when you work with yahoos and thugs, Doc." - escorted Dylan personally up the stairs leading to the roof of the Hudson Mall. Even through the warm tunic, the icy air conditioning blasted down on her.

Why is there AC on in November? Jeez. The psychiatrist already had a plan of attack. Rather, a backup plan. Even thinking about it made the thick scars at the bends of her elbows tingle. Lisa had asked about them before. Dylan had said she preferred not to talk about the ridged, pale scars. Now she would. If Lisa thought her therapist didn't know where she was coming from, the older woman could definitely prove her wrong.

It's gotta be Rafael, Dylan thought as she struggled up the steps. Something happened to him. I'm such an idiot. I can't stay in Faerie, she realized, ignoring the chatter of the police on the staircase. I have to get back home after this. This can't happen again.

"So, what's the plan, Doc?" The sergeant asked, breaking her concentration.

"Same as always. I don't care what you hear, or see," Dylan said, struggling to ignore the throbbing in her bad leg. Mall stairs of icy concrete and unforgiving tile were murder on a good day. Rushing as she was, the pain flared like fire. "Do not open fire on that girl. Even if she points her freaking gun at me. She's not going to hurt me. You have to let me handle this. Understand?"

"She points that gun at the crowd," Donovan replied, frowning, "we take her out. We're not letting innocent civilians get hurt." The psychiatrist opened her mouth, concern flashing in her eyes, and the cop held up a silencing finger. "Them's the breaks. Don't get in the way." They came to the final door. "Okay. Show time, Doc. Good luck. Don't get shot, okay?"

Heavenly Father, don't let me mess this up. Please. She glanced over her shoulder as a shiver ran up her spine and the hair on the nape of her neck prickled in warning. It suddenly felt as if someone were standing right behind her. Not Donovan - he was off to the right a ways. But there was a presence behind her, warm and comforting despite the fact that it was hidden from her sight and her Sight.

Then something callused and warm slid against her palm, a familiar touch after the evening and night before. Nuada's voice murmured in her mind, I am here. I will walk beside you in this.

Dylan frowned, surprised. Why? I thought you'd wait by the Chariot.

My honor demands I keep you safe, the Elf prince replied in a lofty yet oddly matter-of-fact tone. She fought not to roll her eyes at the return of Prince Prissy-Pants yet again. Did he have to sound so stuffy all the time? Unless he was doing it on purpose, to make her smile. I must protect you, both from my people, and from the incompetence of your own. And this way, Nuada added with no little ire, my father cannot argue that I did not have an excuse to leave Findias.

Okay. Just don't get shot, Dylan said silently, laying her free hand on the push-bar of the door. The ice-cold metal practically burned. If you do, I'll be so mad. I can't even tell you how much that will ruin my day, Your Highness..

As you shall most certainly henpeck me if I am injured, the Elf prince, invisible at her back, said, I shall endeavor to remain unharmed. If I am forced to allow you to act the shrew with me again, I may eschew my honor and commit murder, just so that I may have some peace from your sharp tongue.

Uh-huh. But she could feel the tension in her shoulders easing just a bit. Drawing a deep breath, she pushed on the bar. The click of the mechanism hit her like a gunshot. She heard Donovan and some of the SWAT team on the stairs conferring softly behind her, but Dylan ignored them. Donovan she trusted; she'd worked with him several times before. He had a good head on his shoulders. Usually trusted her judgment. Thought she was a little too involved with her kids, but acknowledged that that seemed to work for her.

But Dylan wished Lieutenant Peabody, her standard partner in this sort of situation and one of her oldest friends, was available instead of the gruff seargent. Peabody always trusted her judgment. Trusted that Dylan had a connection to her kids that could usually be counted on to help. If not, why was she considered one of the top youth psychiatrists in the city (at least when it came to kids like Lisa)?

Just before she stepped out into the biting November cold again, Dylan let her breath out slowly. Fought against the dread threatening to make her sick. Felt the heat and shimmer of magic from behind her and knew that dealing with Lisa and worrying about Nuada at the same time was going to be very difficult, though she prayed not impossible. But at least she didn't feel quite so alone against such high stakes.

Dylan said silently, Thank you for being here, Nuada. Thank you. And please, no matter what you think is going to happen... you can't interfere. No matter what happens, stay hidden and don't get involved. Lives depend on it.

Then the psychiatrist pushed open the door to the roof and walked onto a very familiar battlefield once again.