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A Short Tale of Harsh Words, Defiance, the Love of a Sister, Ghosts of the Past, Blood Spilled, and a Confession of Affection
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"You are late," Nuada snapped as irritation - and relief, loath as he was to admit it - flooded through him. The human looked as if she had been trampled by wild horses: rumpled, face tight with pain and weariness. The twinge of concern made his voice sharp enough to cut the wind when he demanded, "Was I unclear when I said to be quick?"
What had she been doing out there? I hate my life. What had happened?
But he did not want to know. Did not want to feel the relief washing over him like crashing surf, unstoppable. Being relieved meant he had been worried, and he did not want to worry over the infuriating human who slumped against the door looking so forlorn.
Surprised at the sharpness in his voice, Dylan lifted her face from her hands and studied the Elf prince silhouetted by the sullen glow of the dying fire. His face was in shadow, so she couldn't read his expression. But listening to his voice was like walking through nettles: prickling, stabbing, biting. Exhaustion and hunger were making her slow. Dylan knew that was why she didn't understand why Nuada was upset.
When was the last time I ate? She wondered. Realized it had been before the court appearance the night before. And she'd barely had any real, non-magic-induced sleep in days. So that's why I feel so out of it. Okay. Um... time to focus.
"I am waiting," the prince said, every word chiseled from ice. Do not soften, he commanded himself. Do not soften towards her. We should have left hours ago, yet here we still are. Father is going to be furious. Do not soften.
Dylan blinked, tired confusion fueling the headache burning behind her eyes. Blinked again. "For what?"
"For an explanation as to why you find it impossible to obey even the simplest order."
That was anger in his voice, she realized. Her stomach began to churn as the pain in her head expanded. Real anger, not just annoyance or exasperation. Anger of the kind she hadn't seen from him in months. What had she done to make him so upset? Or what haven't I done? Dylan added with some disparity. She couldn't deal with this yet. She needed to change, maybe take a quick shower, eat. Then she'd deal with whatever Nuada was angry about. Although if I don't answer his question, Dylan thought, he's going to bite my face off.
"You said 'try to be quick,'" she reminded him. Using the door as leverage, she managed to get to her aching feet. Her bad leg wobbled, but she leaned on the door until she could stand. Bat trotted toward her, mewing plaintively. Dylan nudged him with her foot until he flopped over and wriggled. "I did try. I really did. I had to let a pissed-off gang-father scream at me for an hour before I got what I wanted. Then I had two furious parents ranting at me for even longer about how their fourteen-year-old daughter was turning into a hooligan and what was I going to do about that? Well, that's to be expected; most parents don't react well to official involvement like, ever. But then I had to deal with the SWAT-liason, and the leader of the Lobos, and the head of Saint Vincent's teenage psych ward - although I'm very fond of Doctor Hollis - and a whole bunch of other people I'd rather see get eaten by dingoes just so they'll stop giving me paperwork to sign-"
"You speak as if I could possibly care about these things," Nuada said.
Dylan felt her blood begin to frost. What was going on here? Why was he being so mean? He's not just angry and taking it out on me, she realized as a hollow emptiness took root in the pit of her stomach. It pulsed in time with her heart, and with the pain in her feet, leg, and skull. He's actually angry at me. And before she could stop herself, the day's events smashed into her like a tsunami and she let the bronze-eyed Elf prince know exactly how she felt about that.
"Great," she muttered. Raked her fingers through her hair. Dylan ignored the fact that her hand was shaking. "That's just great. You're mad at me. So now, my sisters are probably furious with me; my so-called 'boss' is irritated at me and some of the cops are mad at me because, let's face it, every time this whole stand-off thing happens we all get mountains of obnoxious paperwork and we hate that. Ugh, those little forms are so evil. My sort-of-partner is semi-ticked at me for the same reason; four parents are probably plotting my imminent demise; John is mad at me for disappearing but won't admit it, and now you're angry too. So the two most important people in my life - and everyone else in the world - are mad at me. Fan-freaking-tastic."
Okay, not the time for a pity party, Dylan reminded herself as tears threatened. She quickly beat them back before she embarrassed herself. Don't be a whiny baby. People get mad at people. It happens. Suck it up; I'll survive if Nuada doesn't feel all warm and fuzzy toward me every second of every day. Or ever at all.
"You know what, never mind. Out of everyone, I probably actually deserve you being mad at me. You don't get mad for no reason. Whatever it is, Your Highness, I'm sincerely sorry, but can we talk about it in fifteen minutes?" She pushed off the door and began limping toward her bedroom. A hot shower, a change of clothes, and she was pretty sure a pluot or four were waiting for her in there. "Just fifteen minutes; I need fifteen minutes before I let you rip my head off. Okay?"
"No, it is not-" Nuada began, but Dylan trudged past him, holding up both hands as if to ward off his fury.
"Fifteen minutes," she said sharply, and walked into what he assumed was her room. The door creaked shut behind her. Locked with an audible click. Nuada glared glacial topaz knives at the closed door, feeling murderous. How dare she walk away from him? How dare she ignore him and attempt to command him when he was the royal, not she? He had been too lenient with the human. This showed what came of being soft with mortals. Disrespect. He, the Silver Lance, son of King Balor, would not be overruled and humbled by a mortal woman.
And what was she doing in there, anyway? Gritting his teeth, he stalked toward the door, determined to find out, but stopped when a timid voice murmured, "Your Highness... I would not go in there if I were you."
Nuada glared at the door. "Indeed?"
"She is listening to the messages left on her phone."
Of course. That idiotic piece of human machinery was more important to the mortal woman than anything he, Nuada Silverlance, could possibly have to say to her. Never mind that they both currently sat in the middle of a political tangle that could cost him nearly everything. And she needed fifteen minutes to deal with the blasted thing? He despised telephones - and computers, televisions, video games, and all the other imbecilic inventions humans had created over the centuries to waste the precious moments they were unfairly blessed with in life. Perhaps she was, in fact, like every other human he had ever met: obsessed with the material, wrapped up in her own life.
He knew he was being grossly unjust, but anger bordering perilously close to rage simmered in his veins. She needed fifteen minutes to check her phone messages? They were already in a vast load of trouble, they were hours past when he had hoped to return (and thus avoid most of the king's fury) and she needed fifteen minutes for that?
Father is not going to accept that as an excuse.
Aloud, he replied coolly, "And I am to be concerned by this for what reason? I care not for the trivial, petty concerns of mortal lives-"
"Highness, if I may be so bold..." Becan swallowed hard when the prince turned a lethally frosted gaze on him. "Please... I beg you to wait for her. This night has been hard for her. It will be harder yet - her sisters have left messages for her, and she feels honor-bound to hear them." The brownie took a bit more courage when the crown prince's eyes softened from bronze to deep amber. "She relies very much on your favor, Your Highness, your... consideration. Your continued kindness gives her strength and peace. I beg that you not take it from her tonight."
"Why would her sisters' words make..." Nuada trailed off as an odd sound came from the other side of the door. Not weeping. A strained, almost strangled sound. The golden-eyed prince focused on any sounds that might come from beyond the door, curious despite his only-slowly-fading irritation. What was the human doing in there?
"Why did you call all of them, John?" Dylan's voice, a mere thread of sound through the door. Exasperation and... was that hurt? "Or any of them? You know it just makes them angry. Why did you call them? Well... better face the music now. Who knows? They might not be that bad. Shouldn't make assumptions, right? And at least I have my pluots." There was a series of electronic beeps, some static-filled mumbling that was probably Dylan's phone, and another beep. The sound of someone biting into fresh fruit. The voice that spoke next was loud, strident, and clearly infuriated.
"Dylan, this is Victoria - what the hell? Why is John calling me about you? What did you do, get picked up by a serial killer? Fall in the river and drown on one of your stupid walks? That would be so like you. You better call the little whiner-baby back before he calls me again. I've got a date tonight; I don't have time to be worrying about your sorry ass. And answer your stupid phone next time." There was the sharp click of disconnect.
"Well," Dylan mumbled. "One down; only six to go. Dare I hold out hope?"
There was another beep. Another message (from a woman named Gardenia) demanding Dylan's whereabouts, complaining about her absence. "And thanks for ditching my Halloween party, by the way, Sis. Why did I even invite you, anyway? You said you wanted to go, then didn't even call to say you weren't showing up. Forget coming over for Thanksgiving, if that's how you wanna be. But seriously... stop getting into trouble or whatever. You're freaking John out."
A third voicemail: "Okay, Brat, why are Victoria and Gardenia bothering me about you being a complete and total spaz? I told them not to be surprised - it's you, after all - but they flipped out anyway. And John's freaking too. Have some consideration for other people, would you please? And call me back so I know what the hell's going on. You know you freak us out when you disappear like this."
"Knew I'd forgotten something. Sorry to be an inconvenience, Pauline," the human said on a sigh. "Jeez, John. Seriously? I really hope you didn't call Petra. She's going to eat my face off. With tobasco sauce and a tropical-flavored wine cooler. You know they all get crabby when they're freaked."
In a low voice, Nuada demanded of the brownie, "They call her 'brat?' Her sisters speak to her this way?"
Becan only shrugged helplessly. His mistress did not get on well with her seven sisters. Never had, really, as far as he could recollect. In fact, none of the Myers children got along with each other apart from their respective twins.
The Elf prince frowned and glared at the door, soaking up this new information as a fourth message, this one containing several vile expletives and insults to Dylan's virtue and breeding, as well as intimations of a lascivious nature, snarled through the door from Dylan's phone. The brownie explained that this was most likely the second-youngest of the eight women, Francesca, who had a particularly foul mouth (even when in a good mood, which Becan insisted she was in) and a filthy mind. A fifth - Gardenia's twin, Simone - was a bit more sedate, layering on guilt instead of attacking with profanity and anger. The next, from Dylan's sister Mary, was merely a reminder that it wasn't her job to keep track of Dylan's whereabouts, and wherever she happened to be, the psychiatrist needed to keep John appraised so he wouldn't interrupt Mary's yoga class, thank-you-very-much.
The last was from the dreaded Petra ("Milady's oldest sister," Becan explained softly), who informed her youngest sister that disappearing at a moment's notice was immature, rude, and stupid, and that Dylan was old enough to know better. "Next time John calls me asking about you, I'm coming over there and kicking your ass. In case you haven't noticed, I've got better things to do with my life than worry about my stupid baby sister and whatever dumbass thing you're involved in this week. Be a freaking grownup for once in your life. Jeez." Softer now, Petra added, "And call me back, you brat. The last time you disappeared, we didn't see you for three months. You'd better call me back, do you hear me?" What followed was a phrase of human profanity that Nuada was unfamiliar with, that ripped a small sound of shock from Dylan's mouth. Then the line went dead.
"Why is she listening to these?"The prince snapped at the brownie. "Can she not simply... erase them? Ignore them?" She does not deserve this...
"I believe..." Becan trailed off, unsure how to explain. Marshaling his thoughts, he murmured, "I believe my lady holds out hope that one day her sisters will not speak so to her. They do not always, you know, Your Highness. Sometimes the eight of them get along very well... for a little while. She tries to give them new chances every day to renew their broken relationships. So does Master John. I sometimes try to encourage her to break ties with them, but family means much to my lady. And she believes it is not her sisters' fault, but her own - for possessing the Sight. Always she insists that they do not understand, and that if they did, things would be very different between them. And they do not hate her, Sire. I know that her sisters love her. They... just have an hard time showing it because of the past. But when she needs them, they are always there for my lady... when she is willing to ask them to come."
"Having the Sight... that secret between me and them... it's pretty much ruined my relationship with my sisters because they don't see what I See. They think I'm crazy." Dylan's words from last night. Was this why she valued Nuada's presence in her life so highly? Who else did she truly have in her life, who could she be completely honest with, besides one idiotic and ineffectual human brother, a brownie, and a Prince of the Hidden Folk? Apparently no one.
Her words from earlier suddenly shimmered into the forefront of his mind: I saw someone I... someone I love very much die in front of me in the most brutal ways, over and over again. Him. She meant him. Someone I love very much. But how could she possibly mean him? And what kind of love did she mean? He would have to think on that, and what he had learned just now about Dylan's so-called family. And he knew that he owed her an apology (the thought made him grind his teeth) for snarling at her, as well.
Nuada heard the mortal woman sigh before she finished off the fruit she kept in her room. There was a thunk of something small hitting the floor, then another. The sound of suddenly-bare feet on soft, lush carpet. The hum of electric lights flickering on, and then the creaking-rattling hiss of water flooding copper pipes in the walls.
"It has only been five or six minutes, Your Highness," the brownie murmured. "I believe my lady plans on taking a quick shower." Becan hesitated before adding, "If that is unacceptable to you, Sire, I can speak to Lady Dylan-"
"No," Nuada said. He was frowning at the door, thinking. Black tendrils of anger swirled and coiled inside him, but they were no longer directed at the human woman. "No. Simply make sure she is out in the allotted time."
"Highness," the brownie replied, bowing, as Nuada strode back to his chair and sank down into it to stare into the glowing coals of the dying fire.
Dylan stumbled out of the shower, knowing she had at least two minutes to spare. The hot water had done a bit for the pain throbbing like an abscessed tooth in her knee, but not as much as she'd hoped. Thankfully, Becan had made her life a lot easier by laying out clothes for her: underthings, a pair of black jeans and a large, black sweater her twin had bought for her ages ago, worn over a red shirt. Bat curled up on the bed beside the clothes, the black cat purring in his sleep.
Still with the matching, Dylan thought when she saw the clothes, but couldn't fight her tired smile. Would the fact that she wore red and black like the prince appease Nuada's anger, or make it worse? Whatever, it's cold outside and this is my favorite sweater. It was one John had bought for her when he'd been in college. Half a size too big, it hung like a micro-mini dress on Dylan now. But that's why I'm wearing pants. Slipping on a pair of black socks, she started toward the door when her cell phone rang.
Ugh, what now? It's almost one in the morning! Then she saw the readout for caller ID. Oh, no. Why is Francesca calling me now? Actually, I know the answer to that - she probably just got off shift. Be nice, she reminded herself. Be nice. And if I can't be nice, I'll tell her I can't talk and hang up. Dylan clicked TALK. Forcing cheer into her tired voice, she cried, "Hey, hon!" Pushing open her bedroom door, she added, "What's up?"
"You are such a-" Dylan pulled the phone away before her sister could finish that statement. Brought the phone back after the string of shrill curses tapered off. "Where the hell have you been? I've been worried sick!"
"I was helping a friend in trouble," she replied, glancing at the prince who sat brooding in her living room. He glanced her way, and she held up a few fingers, mouthing, "Five minutes. Sorry." Moving into the kitchen, she added to her sister, "I left John a note. I'm sorry he called you. I didn't mean for you to worry."
"Eh, whatevs, it's all good. So, a friend, huh? A guy friend? Like, one of those Harry Hard-Lucks you're always wasting your time on? Or a smexy friends-with-bennies friend? 'Cause if it's Harry Hard-Luck, then there's this bodacious guy at Olivia's you've gotta meet. He's got muscles like-"
Slightly annoyed, Dylan said, "No thanks, and neither one. He's just a friend." Why was her big sister always trying to set her up with someone? It was one of the few things that Dylan and her other six sisters were united about: Francesca always dated losers, and always tried to hook up those of her sisters who were single with similar losers. And, even more annoying, if she found out one of her siblings had even just an acquaintance of the opposite gender, Francesca assumed they were having sex. I really want to smack her sometimes.
"Yeah, sure, whatever. So that's where you were for the last week or whatever. Finally got laid. About freaking time. You lucky duck - a romantic get-away for two, I bet. Did you have fun?"
The headache screaming behind her eyes slowly began scraping across the top of her skull towards the nape of her neck. Once it got there, no amount of ibuprofen or Tylenol would knock it out again. She'd have to crawl under a rock and die. Dylan almost felt nauseous from the pain and lack of food. Four pieces of fruit weren't gonna cut it. "I'm not gonna argue with you because you never listen anyway when it comes to me and men."
"Ha! So you admit it! Yay! Dylan got laid!"
Oh, for pity's sake. Why is she like this? Aloud, all the younger woman said was, "Look, he's just a friend. There was no laying! Okay?" Could Nuada hear this conversation? Heat flared in Dylan's cheeks at the thought. Oh, please, please no. That would just be... no. I beg anyone listening. In the mood he's in, he'd probably rip off my head and play kickball with it. "He's just a friend," she insisted. "And he's here right now, so can you-"
Big mistake. Big, big mistake. Huge.
"Oh-my-effing-gawd, you guys were doing it, weren't you? You were having sex! I'm so proud of you! Come on, give me the details! Gimme!"
"No!" Mortified, Dylan poked her head out to see Nuada, looking slightly scandalized, glaring daggers at the kitchen doorway. Dylan flushed. Oh, yeah. He'd heard that. Oh, my gosh. Why? Why is my sister so perverted? Seriously, why? She grimaced and mouthed, "Sorry!"
The Elf prince demanded, "What sort of filthy mind does your sister possess?"
"A really, really salacious one. Just ignore her. She's... yeah." There was a burst of rapid chatter from the cell phone. "Hang on just a sec." To Francesca, Dylan snapped, "What?"
"Is that him? I wanna talk to him! Can I talk to him?"
"No, you can't talk to him! He's busy!"
"Oh, wow, he's naked, isn't he? Is he hot? Please take a picture of his shirtless glory and send it my way! It's been so long since I've had any decent eye candy and I'm starving!"
"Will you grow up?" Dylan growled, knuckling her eyes to try and push back her searing headache. It had taken up residence right behind her left eye now. "You're thirty-one, not twenty-one! I'm not sending you a picture of my shirtless boyfriend!"
"So you admit he's shirtless and your boyfriend!"
Oh, crud. Why don't I think before I talk? With my luck, she's going to spread this around to the others and I'm gonna be so screwed. Reminding herself that throwing her phone against the wall wouldn't even put a dent in her older sister's thick skull, she drew a deep breath and said, "Okay, know what?" Dylan let just a small bit of bite enter her voice. She could feel Nuada's eyes boring holes into her. He was going to be furious when she got off the phone. "Good night, honey. I'll talk to you later."
"Dylan! Don't be such a frigid fish! Just tell me! I want to talk to the stud muffin!"
Frigid fish. Wow. How many people had said that about her? Ex-almost-boyfriends, their friends, catty girls in college. Even her last (actually, first and only) real boyfriend in med school. And of course, her sisters, who thought it was due to some defect in her wiring that she wasn't shacking up with Joe (or Joanna) Schmuckitelli every weekend. Why she never had a date. No amount of protesting on her part made a dent in their suspicions.
The practical cons of having the Sight; that and random ghoulies wanting to rip your eyeballs out of your head.
Throttling back the hurt and irritation simmering in her stomach, Dylan replied a bit too brightly, "Bye, 'Cesca!"
"Wait! Wait, wait, wait! Talk to meeeeeee-"
She clicked END. Went back into the kitchen and laid her phone on the counter before dropping her face into her hands and groaning with embarrassment. Less than a full minute later, her tinkling "New TXT Message" ringtone chimed. She glanced at the readout and saw that Francesca had written "Ur a greedy b!tch. Luv ya."
Dylan sighed and tried to ignore herself when she thought, Sometimes I kinda hate my family. Well, that hadn't taken five minutes. She still had some time. And she didn't want to deal with Nuada's anger. Not yet. Not when everyone else, including John, is ticked off at me in some capacity. And especially not after the prince overheard Francesca's comments. Oh, my gosh. I'm going to kill her so dead. After he kills me dead. So she'd get a drink first. Maybe an apple or something to ease back the hunger-nausea in her stomach.
Dylan grabbed a bottle of cider from the fridge and pulled down a mug. Thought for a second. Well, it's hand-pressed cider from the Amish market. Glass bottle. No contaminants or preservatives or anything. Maybe he'd like it. And I kinda owe him for today and last night. And I never really feed him. Maybe I should start. And maybe he won't be so mad if I give him something to drink - food-bribery usually works on men.
So she grabbed her favorite mug (white porcelain, painted with poinsettias and big-eyed cartoon penguins; the last real gift from her mother before her death four years ago) and started to pull it down.
Tired and in pain, she fumbled it. The mug slipped from her fingers.
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Doctor Lucian Westenra sat behind his desk and fumed, staring at the memo his secretary had put on his desk along with his coffee. The coffee, once steaming hot, had gone ice cold in the time the older doctor had spent staring at the hastily scribbled message. The words bled crimson against the pale ivory paper like the slices of a razor against flesh.
Dr. Myers had you barred from the Ramirez case. Dr. Hollis is primary.
Oh, she had, had she? That upstart little slut had had the gall to make her snotty little phone calls and have him barred from the Ramirez girl. He was one of Saint Vincent's top psychiatrists. Who did Doctor Dylan Myers think she was, trying to bar him from anything? It was petty vengeance, he knew that. Revenge for her time at Saint Vincent's, for what had happened during those first six years. Especially bringing in Hollis. Hollis was a good doctor. One of the best. And Myers trusted the young, handsome shrink. Still... she was sticking her nose into Westenra's hospital. Again. Territory meant nothing to her. Jurisdiction meant nothing. She didn't want him near her precious patients because of their shared bit of history.
Well, he knew secrets about the little witch that would shock the police department, shock the boards of the schools she slaved for, shock everyone of any standing that she sought to impress. How many people really knew the true stories behind those five vicious scars the female therapist bore on her body? Not to mention the other scars she carried.
But to expose her risks exposing myself. I got a second chance from the adminstrative board. They won't give me a third. Not after last time. Westenra rubbed at the thick, livid scar that marred his left wrist. Dark as blood, it spread over the cuff of his shirt sleeve like a stain. He'd gotten that scar from Myers. Years ago. Almost two decades ago, but he remembered the most minute details from that day.
The succinylcholine should have kept her docile. Should have kept her from thrashing around like a wild animal desperate to escape. Lithium should have left her dazed and glassy-eyed. And they'd been sure it had. The nurses had spoken gentle encouragement to the then-twelve-year-old girl. It's all right. We only want to help you get better, Dylan. She'd been quiet, sleepy-eyed almost. Tractable.
Then he'd tried to put the depressor in her mouth to keep her from biting her tongue during the shock therapy.
She'd flailed then. Thrashed. Whipped her head back and forth to avoid the oral violation. Screamed like she was dying. And when he tried to grab her, her vicious little teeth had sunk deep into his wrist. Deep into the vein there. And she'd wrenched her head back, ripping flesh and muscle. Tearing open the blood vessels. Only the combined efforts of all the nurses in the room had kept the little brat still long enough for them to sedate her. Heavily.
Westenra remembered the things she'd screamed at him while his blood had pumped from the wound. The nurses had ignored it, dismissed it as the insane rantings of a paranoid-schizophrenic child. They knew the kid was disturbed. But the words - her accusations - still rang in his head, even now: You let them do it! You let them do it to us! Them and that man! I'll tell everyone! When I get out of here, I'll tell everyone. They won't be able to save you, you bastard! We'll bring you down and you'll pay for letting them do it!
And she had. She'd told anyone who would listen for five seconds what Doctor Westenra had let "them" do to Dylan and the other kids at Saint Vincent's. Luckily for him, there had been three problems with her story: one, most people wouldn't believe a mentally disturbed eighteen-year-old girl who refused to take her medication (even if she was backed up by two others), and that included the trustees on the hospital's adminstrative board; two, the "them" were very, very influential people; and three (the one that had filled those bizarre blue eyes with hatred), the statute of limitations on what Westenra had allowed to happen was five years. The little witch had been forced to wait a year too long.
Now she just makes hell for me in my own hospital, he snarled, and that Lt. Peabody lets her because they're old friends. Damn them both. The old psychiatrist stared with fresh hate at the memo and tapped it with a pen. Almost stabbing with the red tip. He wouldn't stand for this. He'd been a top player in his medical field longer than Myers had been alive. Like hell would he let some psychotic nutcase who believed in fairies dictate how he ran his hospital. And just to make sure she knew exactly who was in charge at Saint Vincent's, Westenra had to make a phone call.
Picking up his office phone, he pressed the button to page his secretary. Gripped the pen in his opposite hand until his knuckles were white. Imagined it was Doctor Myers' throat.
"Helena," Westenra murmured into the phone. The pen creaked in his grip. "I know it's late. After this, you can go home, but I need you to make a call for me. Yes, dear." The plastic grip on the pen was beginning to crack, just slightly. "Please call Mr. Ivan Blackwood. Tell him it's about his sons, Patrick and Xander. Yes, and our mutual little friend. Tell him she's starting to cause some problems for me again. For all of us. Yes, Helena. Thank you."
The pen shattered in his grip. Crimson oozed between his fingers to drip onto the white paper.
.
Nuada's head whipped around when he heard dual crashes like shattering glass, followed by a sharp cry of pain and then a muffled yelp. In an instant he was in the kitchen. He blinked in surprise when he found Dylan standing on one foot, leaning one arm on the cluttered kitchen counter for balance while she cradled her other hand to her chest. She met his eyes and the prince was surprised to see the shine of tears in her gaze. Her face was paler than before; exhaustion? Or pain?
But all she said was, "Don't come in here, Your Highness; there's broken glass everywhere. You might step on it."
As she had. He could see tiny drops of iron-laced blood dripping from her elevated foot to the floor. A sliver of porcelain jutted through her sock and had embedded itself in her heel. She was balancing on her bad leg, Nuada realized, which trembled under the strain of supporting most of her weight. Another piece of broken glass thrust deep into the mound at the base of her thumb. Crimson blood flowed freely from the cut onto the counter. The rest of the glass lay in jagged pieces all around her, trapping her there.
"Tonight," Dylan said with a strained laugh, "is just not my night, is it?" More softly, she added, "Great. That was my favorite mug. My mother gave that to me before she... well, whatever. Tonight is really not my night." The human began to look around, as if searching for a safe path through the razor-edged slivers. Nuada knew there wasn't one, since she would have to hop on her weak leg. The odds of her injuring herself further were incredibly high.
Ignoring the crunch of porcelain under his boots, the amber-eyed prince went to the mortal and scooped her up in his arms.
"Hey! Whoa!" Her voice was a breathless squeak laced with pain. "I can walk, really, you don't have to-"
"Be quiet," he muttered, shifting her weight a little. Her damp hair, which tickled his face, smelled of sweet pea blossoms, violets, and the fresh scent of clean water. "Becan," he added sharply, knowing the little faerie could hear him. "Hot water, soap, washcloths, and Dylan's medical supplies." Then he carried her to the front room, where he deposited her in his chair. The Elf prince crouched down in front of her.
"Hold out your foot," Nuada commanded. Despite the confusion and tiredness in her eyes, and the banked fury he knew smoldered in his, she obeyed him. Deftly he plucked out the glass sliver. Noted with approval when she did not cry out in pain. Then he carefully peeled off the blood-soaked sock so he could get a better look at the wound. With a brief thought he eased what he knew from experience to be biting hot pain with a bit of cool, soothing magic. "Give me your hand." She obediently held it out, and he repeated the process on the cut at the base of her thumb. Then he went back to her foot.
"Um... you don't have to do that," Dylan murmured, trying not to fidget. The magic under her skin was like a cool breeze in spring, easing the burn of pain. His fingers holding her ankle still were warm and gentle despite the rough calluses. Hadn't he been mad at her twenty minutes ago? Now suddenly he was being so sweet. Well, sort of. "I can do it." She started to pull her foot back.
"Be still," he commanded. Studied the cut on her heel. It was not deep; would not need stitches. A flash of red light on silver caught his eye as a basin of soapy water floated past him to settle on the coffee table. Two washcloths and the rest of the supplies requested quickly followed. Nuada wet one of the cloths and, taking Dylan's foot gently in one hand again, began to wash away the blood.
I saw someone I... someone I love very much die in front of me... She loved him. Dylan loved him? How did she love him, that was the question? Nuada remembered her professions of friendship. Recalled the affection always shining in her eyes when she saw him. Platonic love, then? That was acceptable. Preferable, in fact, to her disdain or contempt. The cold knot that tightened in his belly at the memory of her flashback the night before told him that much. Platonic love was perfectly acceptable. It fit with the loyalty she had already professed more than once. Someone I love very much... And if it was... more than Platonic? More than the love of a friend? Would he know if it was? What would he do in that event?
"Nuada," Dylan said, breaking his thoughts to pieces and scattering them on the wind. "It's okay, you don't have to-"
The Elf prince wrenched his thoughts away from the words running circles through his mind and focused on the task at hand - and the reason why she might be trying to stop him from aiding her.
"Do not seek to command me, woman." How did the human always manage to do this? He always set out to teach her her place, to show her that he would be obeyed in all things, whether she willed it or no. And almost always, something happened to divert him from his purpose. She is more frustrating than Nuala ever was. "Since you finally have time to converse with me, perhaps you might explain how this happened. And leave your hand there, on your knee," the prince added when Dylan started to move her blood-smeared hand to cradle it against her chest. "Now, explain."
"I was going to get a drink - I don't know about you, but I'm really thirsty. And I figured if you were going to yell at me, you didn't want the effect ruined by your voice cracking from dehydration. But I guess I wasn't paying attention... anyway, I dropped one of the cups and it broke. Some of the glass got on the counter and some got on the floor. I stepped on a piece. Lost my balance, planted my hand on the counter, cut myself again like an idiot," she said, slumping back into the cushy chair.
Her head was swimming. Blood loss? No, she thought. Not enough blood. Then why... oh, wait. She'd slept for only three hours in the last nearly-forty hours, had barely eaten anything in more than twenty-four hours except a couple pieces of fruit, and was now bleeding and in pain, with a headache slashing its way to becoming a migraine. No wonder she was woozy.
"Ugh, today's just been... crazy. And hectic. Oh, and I have to go to work tomorrow." She rubbed her throbbing temple with her good hand. "Not till, like, noon, but still. Work. I hate going to work after crummy days and it's one o'clock in the morning already. Someone kill me, please. Oh, put that green gel stuff on the cut before you bandage it. It's aloe sap, makes it heal faster, kills infection, blah-blah."
"You have a headache," Nuada said softly as he began to spread the cool, translucent green gel over the wound. Dylan's breath hissed through her clenched teeth, but she made no complaint. "Are you unwell?"
"Huh? No."
Something warm fizzed in her stomach. Was he actually worried about her? Maybe that's why he was so mad when I got home late - because he was worried something had happened. Worrying against his will, too, probably, which just made him madder, knowing him. And she remembered what she'd said to Nuala that morning: psychology one-oh-one. That is probably exactly it. And he's under a lot of stress anyway and it's so late. No wonder he was so angry. And has he had any sleep since putting me to bed last night?
"No, I'm fine," Dylan repeated. "Thank you. I just haven't really eaten since..." She had to think about it for a minute. "Since Caspar fed me yesterday afternoon."
His grip on her ankle tightened fractionally, but Nuada said nothing. After a moment of tense stillness, he relaxed and continued his ministrations.
"I would've had breakfast," Dylan added, a bit defensively. "But it's Fast Sunday, so I was fasting for the first two meals of the day. I planned on getting something after church but then I got the idea for us to escape for a while and thought maybe you and I could eat together or something while we were out. Then Wink and Becan showed up and everything went kaplooey. I had a snack in my room, though."
"'Kaplooey.'" He arched a brow as he began bandaging the wide cut on the bottom of her foot. "This is a technical term?"
Dylan grinned, despite the burning in her foot from the healing gel. "Yep; one of my favorites." Was it her imagination, or was the corner of his mouth quirking up just a little? Well, he doesn't look ready to chew my face off anymore. Maybe now's a good time to... "Nuada," she said. He glanced up at her as he finished tying off the little bandage. "May I ask..." He raised both brows in question. "Why were you so angry before? Did I do something wrong?" When the Elf prince frowned at her, she hastened to add, "I'm sorry I was so late. I know you need to get back. Things just took a lot longer than I thought they would-"
"It does not matter," he said, rinsing the cloth. Traces of pink swirled in the soapy water. In his mind's eye he continued to see scarlet drops of blood stark against white tile; and like an echo of nightmares, he remembered crimson blood soaking white linen. "I am not angry with you now."
In fact, it is your kin who have earned my anger. Your kin, and all the others who kept you so long, but especially your "sisters." How dare they - they, her sisters who should have treasured her, should have held her in high esteem for her Sight - treat her so harshly? They call her brat, whore. Bitch. That last made hatred sing through his veins like blood over a knife blade. I remember what she told me of them; they were the ones to fill the creek and the woods near their home with human trash. Only the ties of their blood to hers prevent me from ending their pitiful existences.
Someone I love very much... He needed to cease thinking about that. Now. This very instant.
"But you were mad at me, though." Swallowing hard, Dylan reached out and laid very light fingertips on his shoulder. Nuada went absolutely still beneath her touch. She thought about pulling her hand back, but then he met her eyes and she saw no anger in them. "What's up? You can tell me. I can't fix it if you don't tell me."
What to say to her? That the worry at her continued absence and the relief inside him at her return should not exist? That he despised the fact that seeing her smile at him nearly always made him smile back at her? That her too-fey eyes, shining with joy whenever she saw him, had the power to make him forget (albeit briefly) that she was human? That her happiness in his presence always served to remind him that she was the only one who rejoiced in his company? And then there was his father, his sister, Eamonn, the hidden blades of court intrigue. All of it infuriated him. Almost all of it possessed the power to hurt him, in so many ways.
In the end, Nuada settled for, "For one thing, I am frustrated by your inability to follow my orders. Your hand."
Dylan offered him her injured hand. The cut still oozed. The Elf warrior's frustration was belied by how very gentle he was when he took her hand in his and began to clean away the blood with the damp cloth. His touch was cool and soothing as he pushed a bit more magic into the wound.
She said softly, "I do listen to your orders. The only time I didn't was when you were going to fight the guard captain. Your dad would've been furious, and you would've gotten in trouble, and then I would've gotten killed because I'd have yelled at your dad about him being a jerk to you - which I still have to do, by the way, so maybe you should see about picking out a burial plot for me - and then where would we be? Well," she added when he shot her a look, "there was the thing with Eamonn, but you already said you'd kill me if I did that again and I kinda like living, so that's not a problem anymore. But I needed to stop you from fighting that guard so your dad didn't rip your head off because I'd have had to protest really, really loudly."
"You would have yelled at my father for rebuking me over my fight with Oisin?"
"I plan on yelling at your dad for a lot of things," the mortal woman informed him sharply. Paused to think while he began to spread aloe sap on her palm. "Well... maybe not yelling. Speaking to. Sternly. With some grown-up maturity for good measure."
The thought of the human chastising a faery king on his behalf made him smile. Though it should not, Nuada reminded himself. She could get herself killed doing such a thing. But aloud all he said, in a deceptively mild voice, was, "And if I ordered you not to do so?"
"You'd order me not to defend you?" There was a hint of steel in her voice now.
"I am a prince and a warrior, Dylan," he reminded her with some steel of his own. From the periphery of his vision, he caught the scowl on her face. Like an angry kitten with its fur puffed up. Nuada fought the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. It is not amusing, the Elf warrior told himself, though he could not rid himself of the image of the human woman as a hissing kitten with a bottle-brush tail, which made him sharp when he added, "I do not need you to defend me."
"But you deserve someone defending you, Nuada," she murmured. He paused in bandaging the cut on her palm, but did not look at her again. His fingers curled around her wrist to hold her hand still. Her heartbeat drummed steadily against his fingertips. No quickening pulse to show she lied. No scent of deceit about her. Just utmost sincerity as she said, "You should have someone in your corner besides yourself." In a voice barely audible over the crackling fire and the strange, bittersweet feeling humming in Nuada's blood, she added, "It isn't right that you're so alone all the time. Someone should stand by you."
Her words swirled around him like delicate mist as he finished with her hand. Nuada did not release her, though. Only held her wrist in a loose but implacable grip. When he finally met her gaze, the prince was surprised to see a flicker of sorrow there. "I have Wink." He was unsure if he was simply telling her, or trying to console her. Why did she look so sad? Someone I love...
"Well," Dylan replied firmly, "you have me, too, my prince."
Still truth in her voice. Still that same sorrow in her eyes. It gave him a distinctly uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. To push the feeling away, he smirked and replied, "Then do as I command you, woman. And my first command, as of this moment, is to take better care yourself. You place yourself at risk if you become ill. You need to eat more."
"I'll eat as soon as we get back to Findias, I promise."
Wait, she thought, a flash of panic sparking in her skull. I can't go back to Findias, I have to be available if something happens. I... but he's worried about me. And he's going to be in trouble when he gets back and it wouldn't be fair if I didn't go to defend him. Ugh, this is so complicated. Well... one more night won't hurt, I guess. I have to go to work tomorrow anyway, so I'll just go back with him tonight, explain everything, and then come home tomorrow... erm, this morning, I mean, so I can go to work. I'll leave my phone with Becan so he can come get me if someone calls between now and eight-thirty. It's not even eight hours - what could happen? And who needs sleep, anyway?
Her self-preservation instincts whimpered. She ignored them. She had a scheduled visit to Saint Vincent's at noon, but she would get home early, at around four or five. She could take a power nap on the way to and from Findias, and then sleep for real when she got off work. Besides, if she was exhausted when she got to Saint Vincent's, dealing with Doctor Westenra would be a lot easier because she'd be cranky and less likely to throw up from nerves.
"I have a better idea," Nuada said, releasing her at last. Her wrist tingled faintly where his fingers had been wrapped around it. Residue of faerie magic? Or something else? "There is a place I wish you to see. We will eat there. And then I will show you something else that you might be interested in." He owed her a debt for speaking so sharply. For making her the target of his anger. Perhaps this would erase that debt.
"A place to eat?" Her stomach chose that moment to growl at her, and she laughed. "You're making me hungry. Where is it?"
The prince's smile was brief, but held just a touch of little-boy mischief. She'd never seen him smile like that before. "A dragon's cave."
"Oh." Considering who she was talking to, Dylan tried to decide if that was supposed to be taken literally or not. When she couldn't figure it out, she just shrugged and said, "Okay, cool."
Nuada eyed her as he rose to his feet. "Just like that? I tell you I wish to take you to a dragon's cave and you acquiesce without hesitation."
Dylan shrugged again. "Well, if you're planning on taking me there, obviously it's safe. Either the dragon's dead, or in an ensorcelled sleep, or friendly or really, really old and decrepit or something. So why not? If you tell me we're going somewhere, I know it's either safe, or someplace we have to go anyway. Either way, I know you won't let anything happen to me."
Taken aback, the feral-eyed prince studied the human woman for a long moment. Nuala had once had such faith in him... but they had been children then. Such sentiment had faded as the two of them had gotten older, more wise to the world. Yet now this mortal woman looked at him with such trust...
"Why do you have such faith in me?"
She blinked. "Because... because I know you. I know who you are, what you are. What kind of person you are. And I know that you'd never hurt me, unless I went totally crazy and turned against you, which would never ever happen. I would never betray you, and you'd never hurt me or let me be hurt. I trust you with my life. Besides, you make me..." She struggled for words, gesturing helplessly with her uninjured hand. "Happy? Content? I guess. I like being around you. It makes me feel safe, and unless you're upset with me, I feel happy. Some of my fondest memories are of reading to you in front of my fireplace. I..." Why was this so hard? Was she blushing? Dylan fervently hoped not. And she hoped Nuada wasn't going to get mad at her over this next part. "I like you. As a person. I generally tend to dislike untrustworthy people, but I like you, so obviously you're trustworthy, right?"
Nuada tried to wrap his mind around this newest train of bizarre, female logic (he knew it to be feminine in nature, and not human, because his sister - and a few past lovers - had sometimes said such circumlocutious things before). Because she disliked untrustworthy people, and yet liked him, he was automatically trustworthy? There was a hole in that. Somewhere. And he knew, from her own lips, that it was more than a matter of "liking."
Instead of worrying about the complexities of the feminine mind (and the laws of those minds, which somehow passed for logical thought), or brooding over the nature of human love, Nuada held out his hand and helped Dylan to her feet. After making sure she was steady on her bad leg and injured foot, the prince carefully laid his fingertips against her temples and let a little more magic ease the pain reflected in her gaze. Immediately the strain in her eyes and the pinched look of her face faded away.
Dylan's eyes slid blissfully closed as the headache that had been gnawing at her for the last seven or so hours finally vanished, leaving behind blessed peace. "Oh," she breathed and laid her hands against his wrists, holding his fingers in place. "Oh, that. Do that. Thank you, Nuada." Her lips curved into a slow, dreamy smile. In a breathless voice she moaned, "That is absolutely perfect."
"Better, then?" Judging by her reaction, it certainly was, but he wanted to be sure so he would not have to repeat the process. Her fingertips on his wrists were feather-light, but hot as desert sun against his skin. An odd feeling bloomed in the pit of his belly as she made a small, purring sound of pleasure.
"Yes," she whispered. She hadn't realized how vicious the pounding in her skull had been until it was gone. Her new cuts still hurt, and her leg throbbed, but Dylan could handle that. It was the jackhammers in her brain that had been the problem. She let her forehead fall against his chest. Felt him stiffen. She'd get up in a moment; right now, she just wanted to enjoy the fact that her skull wasn't about to explode. "Oh, yes, thank you. Please... please don't stop."
Please don't stop. Did she know how she sounded just now? A slow, lazy smile of one-hundred-percent male satisfaction curved the corners of Nuada's mouth as Dylan sighed and melted against him. The Elven warrior knew she could feel the steady beat of his heart against one of the hands she pressed to his chest, though her touch was soft as falling shadows. He should have been offended by the familiarity with which she touched him, but perhaps he would let it pass for a few moments more. She was making this intriguing little humming sound low in her throat that made that strange warmth in his belly flare hotter.
"Thank you, Nuada," Dylan murmured after a minute. "For everything."
Why did her words sound like more than simple thanks? Someone I love...
Enough, Nuada commanded himself. I will not think on that any longer. But the Elf prince had to swallow once before he managed to say, "You are welcome."
They stood that way for a moment longer, her head and hands against his chest and his fingertips lightly pressed to her temples. Nuada could just barely feel her pulse, slow as a drum. Humans were so fragile, he realized. So easily damaged. He had fought humans before, but never had to oversee the care of one. Never realized how many things could hurt them. With that thought in mind, he carefully disengaged from her and stepped back. Her eyes were soft and dreamy when they met his. "Go get ready," he said. "And," with some asperity, "walk carefully."
"Yes, Mom," she said, rolling her eyes and grinning as she went to find her shoes. Inexplicably, Nuada found himself smiling after her and shaking his head in exasperation.
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