Chapter 37 - When You're Gone (Part 1)

that is

A Short Tale of Rosemary and Rue, the Last Vestiges of Sorrow Suppressed, More Troll Beer, Ice Cream, Hotness and Plans for Tomorrow

.

.

When Nuada awoke, he was only slightly perturbed at finding himself half-curled against Dylan's warm body, fingers threaded tightly through hers. He could feel her heartbeat, slow and steady through her palm. The perfume of moonflower and honeysuckle clung to her hair and the shoulder where his cheek rested. It should have sickened him, to be so close to his betrayer, but in that moment, he could not find the revulsion that he had clung to like the very last part of himself. Perhaps it was the easy rise and fall of Dylan's chest or the peace that smoothed away the lines of terror from her face that pushed away his disgust.

"Well?" A voice demanded from the doorway. "What happened? Why is she still asleep?"

Nuada glanced at John, who stood with all the wrath of the gods in his eyes and the worry of a brother in his heart. What had happened? Nuada searched for memory and instead found ephemeral snatches of blood and screams, contrasted oddly with pink and white wildflowers, a little river, and the taste of sunrise.

"She will sleep peacefully now," Nuada said brusquely, brushing past his mortal's twin as John rushed to the bed. He had to get out of here, had to be alone. He could not fumble for memories that flickered maddeningly out of reach when he knew she was in there, just a few footsteps away, at last soothed and sleeping and where was the anger that had so furiously clawed at his stomach for the past few days whenever he thought of her?

"Your Highness!" Nuada paused in his steps, his fingers hovering over the doorknob. Becan scrambled before him and bowed low. "Thank you, Your Highness," the brownie mumbled into the floor. "For her sake, and for mine, I thank you, Sire, for your interference."

Nuada held himself rigid and aloof, but in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to name the aching in his heart. Where did this sudden pain come from?

"For your sake?" he repeated. "Why?"

The brownie raised his head from the floor and looked the prince evenly in the eyes.

"Lady Dylan is my mistress," Becan said without hesitation. "She has been so kind to me, Sire. She has given me refuge and care; she has given me a home here. I love my mistress, Your Highness. She deserves a great many things, I should think, but above all else, she deserves to be at peace in slumber. I thank you, then, Sire, and if I may..." The brownie chose his next words carefully. "Milady has lived her whole life in service to others. No sooner had you revealed my residence here to her than she began to leave me porridge with cream every morning. She would do anything for those she loves. And she has loved every living creature that has ever entered this cottage, Your Highness, but she holds none more beloved than you."

My heart's beloved. The shock of the words crashing against that very heart kept him from berating the brownie for his impertinence. A ghrá mo chroí. Sweet words, intended to soothe, flitting across a dream like hope; an impossible truth, but truth nonetheless.

"Highness?" Becan ventured timidly. "Are you well? Forgive me my impudence, Sire, if I have troubled you."

Nuada shook his head and finally met the wee faerie's gaze.

"No, Becan," he murmured. "It is not that which troubles me." He turned back to the door. The air was too close in here; it was saturated with the scent of her. "I must go." And with that, the crown prince of Bethmoora fled a mortal's cottage.

Damn her. It was becoming a recurring thought. Why was it so impossible to be near her, and yet so torturous to be far? His mortal, his betrayer, his... beloved. Damn her. Why did he stay so long? Why did he let himself be so foolish?

Because you were happy. 

He slammed his fist into a nearby tree, splintering the wood in some places. He concentrated on the sparks of pain that traveled up his arm, trying in vain to force the maddening half-thoughts and shades of memory from his mind. Happy. He could not admit it to Nuala in his dreams, and he could not admit it to himself now. What joy could he claim? What would soothe the raw ache of betrayal in his heart?

Tá brón orm, Nuada. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Nuada halted in his steps. It was a dream. It had only been a dream. He had walked across the surface of her mind, as he had that first night, and brought her peace. But like the first night, the memories wafted in and out of his reach like smoke, slipping through his fingers when he grasped at them. It had been a dream, though, he could remember that much.

I'm so sorry. There were no lies in dreams. Perhaps she was truly sorry, then. All very well and good for her, but what was one truth in the light of so much deceit? Her regret did not mean anything. She was still a human, still a liar, still... my heart's beloved. Nuada ground his teeth and resolutely resumed his march back to his lair. Damn her. His thoughts were getting far too repetitive as of late.

Nuada struggled to push the confusion away, forcing it down to a place out of sight. He tried to focus on the crisp winter morning that had dawned bright and beautiful, a rare sight these days. The fallen snow sparkled here, not yet touched by the filth of the city. The sky was big, blue, and cloudless, just like...

Like the vast expanse of sky that stretched above a rolling green field, streaked with rivers that cut across its breadth like scars. The snow crunched beneath his feet as softly as whispered promises and tears.

Beloved... tá brón orm... I'm sorry... so sorry. Nuada shook his head, cursing the maddening phantoms of memory. Those words were important, so important, but there were others. Other words that mattered far more than simple apologies and half-remembered oaths. I swear on the Darkness... I'll stay. That was important. An oath he could not decide if he would invoke. To have her always by his side, loyal and unyielding as a mountain; it was a comforting thought. And yet... to have her always there and yet so broken. She would not hate him for it, he knew that much, but... she would be so sad. I probably would've cried my eyes out, but I would have followed you because I will always follow you. So she would. He knew that. How cruel would he have to be to break her that way?

Damn her. Nuala used to be the only one who could make him feel like a monster. He had begun to think that Dylan never would... He'd been a fool. It is not her fault if you behave so monstrously... Nuada flinched away from his own thoughts. Disgusting human whore... Gods, gods, why had he said that? Retribution and betrayal oft walked hand in hand.

I'm getting too old for this, he thought bitterly to himself, too old to be so bewildered by a human, too old to care so much. And care he did, there was no denying that now. Those moments, short as they were, had lasted an eternity. Kill her. Did you... do it quickly? A man would have to be on the edge of death to feel such pain. A mortal man would not survive it. It was one thing to walk away, quite another to have her so irrevocably placed beyond his reach.

I go when you go, he had thought. You promised, Dylan. You were not supposed to go until I did. She was so small, so weak, all Wink would have had to do was reach out a hand and...

No. It didn't happen. She was alive. Nuada drew a shuddering breath and forced the memory away. There were other things that merited far more attention – things said and done in the freedom of dreams that were important.

I'm sorry... I swear... Because you were happy. 

There was something else, he knew. Something he could not remember. A truth he couldn't bear, not yet. A truth that would burn right through him if he looked too long. The same truth that drilled a hole through his world, the hole he now felt himself tumbling down.

Damn her, he thought once more, only there was no real bitterness to sustain the sentiment anymore. Nuada sighed and paused at the entrance to the subway. He was suddenly loathe to go back down there, back to darkness and shadow and... his life. Why return to cold, damp concrete when there was warmth, comfort, and hot chocolate in a cottage not so far away? I am a fool, he thought. He had so many places hidden beneath the city he could go to, but there was only one true sanctuary he had, and once more he had thrust himself into exile. For a long moment, Nuada found himself drowning in the simple truth that he had nowhere to go.

Well, not nowhere. A ghost of a smile flickered across Nuada's lips as he came to a decision. Shrouding himself in just enough glamour to escape mortal notice, he spun on his heels and marched straight back towards Central Park.

Nuada skirted the edges of the Park, entering far from Dylan's cottage. He would not allow himself near that temptation. Instead, he strode straight on through the trees to a small clearing of crystalline snow, untouched and unmarred save for the derelict playground of faerie metal, and the faint imprint of an angel.

What is your best memory ever? She had asked him. Nuada sighed somewhat wistfully as he traced a line down the snow-dusted surface of the balance beam. He would have to add this memory to that list – when he pushed a pretty girl on a swing and almost... almost...

Kissed her. He forced himself to think the words. Something inside him bristled against his fear to acknowledge the truth. He had been about to kiss her. In that moment, not of weakness, but desire, he had been going to kiss her. Nuada searched himself for some regret, some shame, and when he found it, the regret was not for what he almost did, but for what he did not do.

My heart's beloved. The words pounded in his head again and again, demanding he remember what he could not. The nightmare, the dream... You're not real. I always dream about you. Always. Nuada squeezed his eyes shut and sat down on the balance beam, dropping his head into his hands. There was so much to remember. Crimson walls and blood-soaked screams, shadows and the sobs of a bruised and broken little girl. Rage and hatred that boiled to the very depths of him... It was worse before. How could one so small, so weak, so human endure so much pain? He had lived thousands of years and still could not fathom it. So much suffering should have made her cruel. And yet it had only made her merciful, only made her gentle, only made her kind. Compassionate towards those who did not deserve it, with a love he had never expected to find in a mortal. Because you were happy. Because you'd finally smiled – really smiled. 

Perhaps that was why his heart had led them to that meadow. It was such a secret place, the world of memory, and he had taken her into one of his most precious. Why? He had been reluctant to share it with even Nuala and she had been there at the memory's birth. So why had he brought Dylan there? Bruises traded for scars, innocence traded for love, and haunting memory traded for peace. Nuala had taken that glen, with its endless sky and ocean of grass ringed by towering trees, and turned it into a prison. A prison of what was lost, and yet in the eyes of a mortal, Nuada saw what yet could be found.

My heart's beloved. That memory was precious, and so was she. That was why he had taken her there.

Nuada lifted his eyes to the pale blue sky above and felt like he was falling. He lurched to his feet and stumbled forward, hands stretched out in front of him like a blind man. His fingers met the cold metal of the swing set and he found himself clinging to it like the very last tether to the earth. Mo duinne, a ghrá mo chroí, forgive me. Would she? Probably. She always did, but things would never be the same between them. Fool. 

Beloved, beloved... You couldn't lie to yourself in dreams and he would not lie to himself now. My heart's beloved. I am fond of you. This was the secret truth he had so long feared, the truth of why he could not hate her, the truth of why he would take her into his most sacred memories, the truth that drew his fingertips to her face, and his eyes to her lips. He wondered if this truth would undo him.

Love. He loved the human, the... Dylan. He loved Dylan, his impossible mortal. Simple affection or fondness was no longer sufficient. She had carved a place for herself in his heart – and there she was. In his heart and in his head, with moonlit eyes and a maddening refusal to be what he had always expected.

It was a truth more significant in its implications than in its existence. Nuada took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, as if he could expel the struggle in his heart or the heat that bloomed in his stomach when his thoughts wandered to her. Eyes sparkling with mirth, laughter curling from her lips like the steam of her breath in the chill of a winter night, fun. You know what fun is, don't you, Your Highness? It had been strange, the pang in his heart when he realized he was not quite sure. He had spent so many years in loneliness and exile, there was too much he hadn't done.

You've never played on a swing before? Nuada glanced speculatively at the play structure before him. Then, with a quick look around to ascertain he was alone, the crown prince of Bethmoora took the suspended seat and as he began to slowly swing back and forth, he pondered love.

What did he know of love? He knew of infatuation, of desire and obsession. He knew of lust and desperate need. But none of those things really described the feeling at the very core of him. Instead of the fire of passion or the coolness of friendship, there was a smoldering burn tempered by uncertainty and sustained by comfort, by understanding, by unwavering compassion in eyes the color of stardust. Was that love?

Love was wide green fields, rich brown earth, and a cloudless blue sky. Love was emerald eyes sparkling with his mother's laughter and crimson hair tucked behind moon-pale ears. Love was the feeling of Nuala's fingers threaded through his, the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder, and the unquestioning loyalty of a silver cave troll. Love was not, had never been, soft pink lips, the smell of wildflowers, or scars rippling down a face that never failed to smile. And yet, and yet...

Flickering firelight, apples and cheese, dreams soaked in fairy tales and lullabies, unbreakable oaths, and promises that perhaps everything would be all right. Sentiments he had always longed for. The one thing I hate more than anything else is seeing you unhappy. How impossible it was that she managed to be everything his family never was, everything his family refused to be. Nuada scowled at the snow. Love was disappointing. Heartbreak was love's cruel companion and loneliness was its master. If he dared to love Dylan, and that seemed to be exactly his foolish heart's intent, what new pain might now await him?

Nuada stopped the swing and stood up, gluing his eyes to the sky, away from snow angels and memories of a night that seemed so far away. Love was a distraction, a danger. A betrayal to all he had so long held dear. He had a duty to fulfill. If he dared love her, what would become of him? Mortal, fragile as she was... she would only die and then where would he be?

Nuada turned his back on the playground and started towards the subway tunnels. Love. He scoffed. Love was for the free.

.

When Dylan woke an hour after dawn, she blinked and sat up, surprised to see John slumped in the chair by her bed. She vaguely remembered yesterday, and the eval - what a fiasco, she thought - but couldn't recall the details. She remembered a dream, a nightmare. Blood and screams and pain. Then... strong arms. Gentle hands. Soft words in murmuring Gaelic, although she couldn't remember what the words were. A dream of Nuada, and sunrise. The world in a grain of sand and Heaven in a wildflower. Only a dream though, she knew. If it wasn't a dream, then where was he? Why wasn't he at her bedside? Unless...

Dylan got up, careful not to wake her twin, and crept through the other rooms of the cottage. Finally, in the living room, she sank into the armchair Nuada usually used. Pressed her face to the cool, aromatic leather. Thought she caught the faintest whiff of wild forests.

She'd been right. It was only a dream. He hadn't come back.

He never would.

She dropped her face into her hands, but didn't cry. Not this time. Just let Bat, who mewed plaintively, hop into her lap. Little paws gently kneaded her thighs. Dylan looked down into slit-pupiled golden eyes and tried to smile.

When the black kitten rolled onto his back and offered his tubby little belly to his two-legger to scratch, she didn't even have to try that hard. The kitten purred enthusiastically. Somehow, despite the drug-induced tiredness that still held her loosely in its grip and the sorrow at finding Nuada still gone, Dylan actually felt a bit better. As if a thorn had been pulled from the bottom of her foot, or poison drawn from a wound.

She rubbed the proffered cat belly until the kitten's eyes nearly rolled up into his head in pleasure. His hind legs actually kicked like a dog's. She smiled. "You're a good boy, you know that?" Yes, Dylan was definitely starting to feel a bit better.

Bat yawned and nibbled ever so gently on her fingers. Licked her palm before nuzzling her stomach with his fuzzy head.

Make that a lot better.

.

Four good things happened in the next two days, and it was about time, John thought. The first was a phone call from Doctor Hollis, which John took because his twin sister, still a bit dopey from the diazepam, was currently snoozing in an armchair in the living room with her attention-hog of a cat.

"Yo, Doctor Myers' phone, this is her brother John speaking," the twenty-one-year-old said.

"John, it's Doctor Hollis. What time is Rafael Gonzales' funeral today? Dylan's email from a few days ago said one in the afternoon, but I wanted to make sure that was still on." When John didn't say anything, Saint Vincent's head psychiatrist added, "Hello? John? Is the funeral still scheduled for one o'clock this afternoon?"

He glanced at his twin. Dylan was floating somewhere between sleeping and waking, held just under the surface of coherency by the half-life of the drug in her system. She was nuzzling her face into the arm of the cushy leather chair, one hand absently stroking Bat's head. Becan had propped her feet up on a footstool at some point earlier this morning. John didn't want to wake her to ask about the funeral. She wasn't going to go anyway, so why torture her?

"It's still at one, Master John," the brownie murmured at his elbow. "At the Chandler Cemetery."

John relayed the information to the psychiatrist on the phone. Hollis said, "Good. We'll meet up with you and Doctor Myers at a quarter till, then?"

"Who's we?"

"I'm bringing Lisa Ramirez. She got out of Iso on good behavior." Hollis's sarcasm was impossible to miss. Clearly he'd gone Westenra's route and pulled some strings. The doctor may have been young, but he had connections. You had to be well-connected in the medical community anyway, but he was also one of the youngest psychiatrists to be so advanced in his field. He didn't have all of Westenra's goons on tap, no. But he had some tricks. "Although," Hollis added, "she's in a bit more of a good mood than usual. Happy pills haven't worn off yet. But she's okay to travel."

John's jaw dropped for a moment when he realized the implications of what the doctor was saying. The one thing his sister had been so incredibly upset about yesterday was no longer a problem. Should he wake Dylan now? Or give her a chance to rest a little more? She will sleep peacefully now. A promise at dawn that had held true (for the most part) for the last few hours.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost ten. She'd need some time to wake up completely and get ready. Maybe eat something.

"Yeah," John replied. "Yeah, we'll be there." The government agent had gotten a call saying he had to be at work early (his call-time had been eight AM), but he didn't have to be in until midnight tonight. Yeah, he needed sleep before then, but... no way was he sending his twin out to a kid's funeral by herself. Not after yesterday.

"Good, see you then." There was the sharp click of disconnect.

The twenty-one-year-old went to his sister and shook her gently. "D. Hey, D. Wake up."

"Mmmm. Tired. Go away."

"Wake up," he insisted.

"I was having such a good dream. I dreamt I was an only child. Go away."

"Hey, you're gonna miss Lisa and Doctor Hollis at Rafael's funeral if you don't get up."

Blue eyes snapped open and she sat up.

.

The pale winter sun turned the snow to glittering diamond all around them, even through the thin cloud cover. The sky had been clear and blue that morning, but an incoming cold front had brought in the clouds. Bitter wind knifed through even Dylan's thick leather jacket. White flakes, barely the size of a pinhead, dropped daintily from the wisps of gray cloud overhead. Breath fogged the wintry air as the priest spoke the standard words for a Catholic funeral. His parents had basically disowned him, but Rafael had grown up in Spanish Harlem and the Gonzales' only condition for allowing the psychiatrist to make the arrangements was that a Catholic priest had to conduct their son's funeral.

John had his arm linked with hers. He'd let her borrow his gloves because she didn't have any of her own. They were a little big, but it was better than freezing her fingers off. Lisa stood on her other side in a black dress and tennis shoes held to her feet with rubber bands. They didn't allow shoelaces in psychiatric hospitals. Too easy to make them into weapons. She also wore the red and white windbreaker Rafael had bought for her two years ago. The fourteen-year-old kept one hand linked with Dylan's. In her other hand were the two thornless roses Dylan had ordered from Cilfa'lir. Doctor Hollis stood on Lisa's other side, somber in a black wool coat over his typical sweater and slacks. Further back, some of the Lobos gathered, decked out in black for mourning and white for their gang colors. Ceśar, the leader of the Lobos, stood with his hands in his jean pockets and his eyes on Lisa and Dylan. The psychiatrist could feel those dark eyes studying her. Lisa didn't seem to notice.

When the service was over and they'd lowered the casket into the ground, Lisa stepped up to the grave marker. Knelt and caressed the words engraved there with trembling fingers.

Rafael Bernardo Gonzales

The Big Bad Wolf will always wait for his Little Red

There was a little stone vase beside the flat, concrete gravestone. Lisa gently put the two short-stemmed roses in the vase. One was actually whiter than the less-than-pristine snow all around, its petals faintly tinged with palest green. The other was as red as the blood that had stained Rafael's shirt the night he was shot. Red and white. Rojos and Lobos. Little Red and the Big Bad Wolf. True love and love eternal. Red and white together, for unity. Thornless, for love at first sight. Tied with a black ribbon, for mourning.

She whispered, "Té adoré, Rafael." Closed her eyes, feeling as some of the poisonous hurt in her chest began to ease. Dylan had been right. Funerals weren't for the dead; they were for the living left behind. They helped the living find peace.

Lisa got to her feet and went back to stand next to Dylan. The doctor's arm slid around Lisa's shoulders and squeezed gently. Of course. Doctor Myers knew. Of course Dylan knew. She'd walked this road. She'd lost people she loved before. Patients, mostly. A lot of the fae she'd tried to help over the years. Every so often someone with the Sight would die at the hands of the Shining Ones, too.

And the person she loved that she'd talked about on the rooftop. The one she'd seen murdered in front of her. Faerie glamor or not, that didn't take the pain away. The fourteen-year-old wondered how the older woman could stand it.

The younger girl didn't know, but the only reason Dylan could stand it - could continue to stand it as years passed and the pain of loss didn't appreciably diminish - was that she didn't let herself think about it. Didn't let herself feel it most of the time. The twenty-nine-year-old woman just shoved it down where she wouldn't have to deal with the grief of lost friends, lost patients, or lost loves. Instead she forced herself to focus on what she had now - her friends, her patients, her Sight kids, and John. John, who had always kept her sane. John, her beloved twin, the other half of her soul.

Dylan tightened her grip on her brother's arm. Her twin glanced down at her and offered her a tentative smile. She smiled back and laid her head on his shoulder. If she closed her eyes, Dylan imagined that they could be five again, standing at the edge of the woods behind their house as winter wind shivered through skeletal leaves and the snow crunched under their shoes. Before they were separated by white institution walls and tenebrous, abyssal distance. Back to before, when they were small and things were simple. The thought of "before" made her smile. Reminded her of the weak winter sun shining on her face, the sharp scent of ice that always crackled on the air during the cold months, and the warmth of her brother's gloves on her hands. All good things. All good.

Eyes like warm honey and a dark-lipped mouth quirking at the corners as she blushed; the creak of faerie-metal chains as an Elf prince gently pushed the swing she sat on; talking of everything and nothing over sparkling cider and warm, gooey four-cheese lasagna. These things were good too. They hurt, but they were still good. She had to remember the goodness, even if she could never forget the hurt.

"What now?" Lisa asked tonelessly, breaking Dylan's thoughts to pieces and scattering them on the wind. "Back to Saint Vincent's?"

Doctor Hollis opened his mouth, but Dylan got there first. "I was thinking Coldstone unless you wanted to go somewhere else instead." The older woman locked eyes with the other shrink. Silver-washed blue clashed with a blue so dark it was nearly black. Dylan arched one eyebrow. Hollis sucked his lips between his teeth. Nodded.

"Coldstone Creamery?" Lisa asked, just in case there was another Coldstone that she didn't know about. "The ice cream parlor?"

"I am a firm believer of ice cream in winter," Dylan replied, glancing down at the younger girl. "I am also a firm believer that brownies, cake, and ice cream with sprinkles are sometimes the best emotional anasthetic after a really really crappy day. Even if you're a stuffy old man," she added, looking at Hollis. One knife-thin black brow winged upward. Doctor Hollis was younger than Dylan by more than a few years. Dylan just smiled. "So what d'you say? Wanna have one last fling before they send me back to rot at my house and you go back to Saint Vin's?"

"Hey, Doc," a gruff voice called, and Dylan's smile froze on her face. She pulled her arm from Lisa's shoulders and pushed the girl behind her before giving Ceśar Martinez her full attention.

"Good afternoon, Ceśar," she said softly. "Thank you for letting Lisa come today."

Ceśar pinned Lisa, who was peering over Dylan's shoulder at the nineteen-year-old gangster, with his night-dark stare. This big bad wolf studied the younger girl for several long moments before he nodded, as if coming to some kind of decision. Then he turned his attention back to Dylan. Shrugged. "Whatever. I found dis in Rafe's locker yesterday." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim, red-jewel CD case. The pearlescent disk inside looked like the full moon. Scarlet marker spelled out "Red's Remix" in familiar handwriting. "Think it's hers." He gave it to Dylan.

"Thank you, Ceśar," Dylan said again. Pinned him with her eyes so that he had to acknowledge that this meant a lot to her. All of it. That he'd done something kind for her. For Lisa. For Rafael. "Thank you."

Dark eyes, hard eyes, wolf's eyes; they softened a little. "No problem," he said quietly. Shrugged again. "See ya 'round, Doc. And take better care of your face."

"Yeah, yeah," the psychiatrist replied, grinning and waving the teenager off. The cuts on her eyebrow and lip looked worse than they were because of bruising. So did the other bruises on her face. "You know you think I'm beautiful."

Ceśar jestingly wolf-whistled as he walked back to his guys. Hollis looked decidedly uncomfortable, but Dylan just laughed. When she was around the nineteen-year-old, it was easy to forget that he had done a lot of bad things and planned on doing worse ones. He could be kind when he wanted. He also knew how to make her laugh. The psychiatrist knew she was lucky that the leader of the Lobos liked her so much. Knew also that it had only a little to do with her, and a lot to do with his little brother.

I'm supposed to see Mickey Thanksgiving weekend, she suddenly remembered. Good. It'll be nice to see someone who doesn't have to deal with horomones yet. She always enjoyed sessions with Ceśar's eight-year-old brother Miguel. He was one of her youngest patients, but she enjoyed working with younger children. If he'd made progress on their anger management techniques, they'd go out to McDonald's with his mother. Always a fun thing. Unless he tried to 'board down the slide on one of the brightly-colored plastic food trays. Not quite as much of a fun thing then.

"So," Dylan said once the Lobos had cleared out. "Coldstone Creamery. Heard they got some new flavors. Who's up for all the yummy goodness of cake batter without the threat of salmonella poisoning?"

Lisa smiled tiredly and put her hand in the air. "Me."

.

Silver cave trolls were nothing close to inconspicuous, but... this one had someplace he desperately wanted to be. So despite the fact that the city above grumbled with traffic both automotive and pedestrian, Wink knew that he had to go above and walk the streets of New York. Well, one street. Luckily he had glamor, and there was a lot of construction going on in the East Village near where the troll would be coming out of the abandoned subway tunnels.

With his destination in mind, he studied himself in the reflection of a puddle of water. Fingered the broken tusk and fleshy scar where his left eye once was. He flexed the fingers of his metal hand. The Elven bronze had been burnished and oiled less than an hour before. Now it gleamed to perfection. He'd polished his tusks, too.

Wink peered at his reflection again.

"What are you doing?"

The troll jerked and glanced over his shoulder at his prince, who had been training in one of the other chambers. Sweat slicked Nuada's bare chest and dampened his hair. He'd been at it since an hour after dawn, when he'd returned from seeing Dylan. Wink had taken a single look at his prince's thunderous expression and asked if there was aught the troll could do for his liege. Nuada had waved him off and gone into the other room. Moments later had come the sounds of exertion as the Elven warrior began to train with his lance. The prince hadn't come out until now.

Now, golden eyes studied the troll curiously as the Elf prince strolled further into the room. Narrowed when Wink mumbled something inarticulate and innocently scratched at the broken tusk with a shovel-like claw.

"Wink."

One word. A prince's implacable command. Wink grimaced. Why did he have to be so loyal to his prince? Even when Nuada asked uncomfortable questions, as the prince's vassal, he was obligated to answer them.

"I was... going to go above for awhile," the silver troll mumbled. One feathery golden brow arched.

"In the middle of the day?"

Unspoken were all the subtle reminders of why they never went above before dark fell: humans, mostly. They infested the narrow streets, fouled the already disgusting air with their toxic exhalations and their mortal stench, shattered the natural dark beauty of the winter night with their electric lights. But that was nothing to what they did during the day when they were most active. Like roaches. Scuttling to and fro between their pointless "jobs" and their stinking hovels. Filling the air with the pollution of traffic noise, what trash the humans called "music" these days, the concrete jungle of the city ringing with their profanity and their shrill or gutteral voices.

Not like Dylan's little cottage amidst the green, Nuada thought. Didn't even bother trying to push the thought away. Her cottage had always been so quiet and peaceful, even when she played music on the little radio she kept in the kitchen. When the Elf prince had been there the mortal woman had tried to make sure the "music" she played was less objectionable than most.

A sudden flash of memory: Dylan singing in the kitchen as she made dinner. It seemed the human could only keep in tune if there was music playing while she sang. And the words... they had struck him, though he couldn't have said why. Though they were mortal words. Perhaps it had been the way Dylan sang them. "I have climbed highest mountains. I have run through the fields, only to be with you. Only to be with you."

Only to be with you. Such a seductive little "only." As if it were so simple, so easy. As if it wasn't a betrayal of everything he believed in, everything he stood for. To be with her. To have her at his side. And it was what his father wanted. Such a tempting thing. What if...

It didn't matter. He couldn't afford to think about... about that just yet. Or at all.

My heart's beloved. Nuada wouldn't think about that just yet, either. Could not. First he had to make a decision about Dylan's loyalty. About what to do regarding the oaths she had sworn and resworn in vows as indelible as blood. The prince had intended to speak to Wink about the vow - though not about the words that had inadvertently spilled from his own lips, nor the traitorous revelations of his foolish heart - once the Elf had regained a bit more control over himself. Now, though, his intent had been waylaid by Wink's odd behavior.

"Erm," Wink replied. "Yes. In the middle of the day."

Nuada eyed his friend dubiously. "Why? Where could you possibly wish to go?"

Why? Unconsciously, the troll echoed the silent sentiment - if not the exact words - of his prince's human lady upon her first and thus far only meeting with a certain rhinemaiden residing in the East Village of Manhattan. Eyes as bright as dragon's gold, skin white as purest alabaster, hair dark as obsidian, and lips red as the richest Elven wine, red as fresh-spilled blood.

Reluctantly, Wink mumbled, "Fafner's Cave." At the prince's incredulous expression, the troll added (a bit defensively, Nuada thought), "To pick up more troll beer. You polished off my last bottle!"

A series of thoughts flashed across Nuada's mind. Then a sudden click of realization. That last bottle of troll beer had been from Fafner's Cave. Troll beer. When had Wink gone to get troll beer from the rhinemaiden's establishment? Sometime during the almost-sennight Nuada had spent in Dylan's cottage. Why didn't Wink buy his beer at the Troll Market? It was easier, safer. Fafner's Cave was on a human streetfront. Open to the public eye. Why go there? Unless...

"You are going to see Lorelei." It wasn't a question.

Embarrassed, Wink scoffed. "My prince, while the rhinemaiden is..." Breathtaking. "Comely enough, I would hardly venture above ground in the middle of the day just so that I might..." The troll trailed off when Nuada held up a hand. The amber-eyed prince idly twirled his lance in the other. Almost managed to smile to himself.

"As you say. Have a care above, my friend." The Elf didn't say anything else until the troll was about to cross the lair's threshold into the tunnels. Deliberately shading his voice with innocence (and therefore allowing the tiniest glint of wicked humor to show through to this friend who knew him better than nearly anyone), Nuada added, "And give the lovely Lorelei my regards."

"I will," Wink replied, indulging in a bit of petty revenge. "Give mine to your mortal lady."

The troll warrior left the Elf prince muttering savagely in the lair.

It took only a few short minutes tromping through the abandoned tunnels to reach where he needed to go. Cloaking himself in simple "don't look at me" glamor, the troll took a deep breath before ascending to the city streets above. Luckily, the place he was coming up was situated in a dirty alley beside the decrepit-looking building that was actually Fafner's Cave. There were several little establishments owned by Other Kin along this particular street: Persephone's, Fafner's Cave, the Paper Latern, Ecstasia, Cilfa'lir, the Pandemonium Club.

Wink noticed a very large human vehicle, with the words Squeaky Clean Wast Management Services emblazoned on the side, idling in front of the Pandemonium Club. The troll paused to study the balding human in a badly-fitted gray suit speaking to two teenagers - a girl with a waterfall of fire-red hair flowing down her back, and a boy with a tangled mop of gold curl lounging against the back of the vehicle. Even as Wink watched, the balding human flapped his hands at the youth, clearly ordering him to get off.

The silver cave troll caught a glimpse of black, scrolling marks on the boy's forearms when he pulled his hands from jean pockets and made some retort that set the girl giggling. The girl had the same marks along her arms.

Ahhh, he thought as he ducked inside the side-door to the Bavarian tavern that was meant for larger fae and let it swing shut behind him. Shadow hunters. Then he put it out of his mind as something that might have passed for music in Hell made the floor, the bronze pieces of his metal fist, his bones, and even his tusks rattle.

He ignored the window-rattling noise that young fae were calling music these days. Most of that music was actually human in origin. For some reason neither Wink nor Nuada could fathom, many of the younger fayre - those less than two millennia old, born long after the wars - enjoyed mingling with mortals and copied their modes of speech, dress, and even dancing.

Instead of pondering the follies of Gentry youth, Wink moved through the crowded main room to the stairs that led downward. Below the packed rave-room was Lorelei's tavern, where older Kindly Ones could put their feet up and enjoy a pint. Maybe even get some decent food. Nuada loved this place. Lorelei was one of the few fae women who had no interest in flirting with or bedding the prince at all, whether for his position or his looks (which, while many court Elves thought marred by the darkness around his eyes and mouth, were still appreciated by common women). Perhaps because the rhinemaiden had known the prince and princess even as a small child.

Or perhaps because her tastes run a bit more toward the exotic, Wink thought with a smattering of pique as he took a seat at the bar. The rhinemaiden was currently behind the bar, chatting amiably with a copper-eyed fenris. The flesh-eating wolf shifter sipped from a shot glass full of a dark red liquid. Wink was almost certain it was human blood. There was also an ekek devouring a plate of raw meat a few seats away. The other fae in the tavern-space - an iron-shod redcap; a few butterfly-winged psychai; a handful of swarthy dwarves; a pig-nosed hobgoblin with a monocle; and a green-skinned pixie woman with obviously-dyed blond hair and a young human changeling child devouring white lilies at her side - gave the ekek and his hawk-like dun wings a wide berth.

Then golden eyes like freshly-minted coins alighted on the troll and a look of genuine pleasure filled the rhinemaiden's face. She excused herself from the fenris and approached Wink. Directly across from him, she propped her elbows on the bar and leaned in a bit. Wink caught her scent, just the faintest hint of water. The fresh, clean scent that hung over a deep river. Rhinemaiden. Daughter of the River Rhine. A strand of midnight hair escaped the loose ponytale in which Lorelei kept her locks confined, to brush against her wine-red mouth. Wink tried not to let his eyes hungrily follow that delicate lock of gleaming jet. He'd forgotten how the more siren-like fae women could affect a male, even unconsciously. Had somehow forgotten how this faerie maiden affected him.

"What can I get for you, Wink?"

The fenris was glaring at him as a bieresal plunked another shot glass full of that crimson liquid in front of him. Too bad for you, boyo, the troll thought, sparing the wolf-shifter a brief and dismissive glance. No self-respecting female would pair up with a flesh-eater who preys on women, even if you don't partake of faerie flesh. Aloud, Wink only said, "A mug of troll beer, lovely Lorelei, and some simple conversation... if it pleases you."

"I'm on shift," the rhinemaiden reminded the troll. Her full lips curved into a smile as she propped her chin in the cup made by her hands. "Hence the uniform and all."

"You own the dragon's cave, do you not?" Wink accepted the mug when a little bieresal filled and floated it to him. Took a sip. Grinned at the delicious taste of sulfur. "Surely if anyone is deserving of a moment's rest, fairest river maiden, it is you. Or shall you make another Alberich the Dwarf of me, and cruelly spurn my heartfelt advances?"

Lorelei grinned. Her slightly pointed teeth were very white against the carmine of her full lips. "And break your troll heart? I could never be so wicked. Give me a minute." She moved to get out from behind the bar.

Wink noted the fenris's baleful glare and wondered idly if he was the one to have sent Lorelei the rose the other night. The troll slanted the wolf-shifter a mocking grin and saluted him with the mug of troll beer. Tough luck, boyo.

.

"So," Lisa demanded around a mouthful of gourmet ice cream, "you called Westenra a neutered douche cookie?" The fourteen-year-old spooned up another bite of cake-batter-flavored-mixed-with-brownie-bites-and-pieces-of-yellow-cake-and-covered-with-sprinkles ice cream. "For real?"

Dylan shrugged and took a bite of her own ice cream. Hollis was still studying the various flavors, trying to pick one. John had settled for apple-pie flavored, which didn't really make sense to his twin - if he wanted apple pie, why didn't he just wait until they got back to the cottage and she could make one? - but it was his choice. "Yeah, I guess. I don't remember a lot of the eval. He doped me up on a lot of diazepam. But that's one of his big complaints about 'my umprofessional behavior during the procedure,' apparently." A self-satisfied smirk curved Dylan's mouth. "Well, ya know what they say - the truth hurts."

"Hollis said Westenra's on suspension," Lisa said, shoveling more of the sweet desert. "For abusing his position or something. Is it because he shot you up with too much crap?"

"I dunno, but he can freaking rot for all I care." Dylan made a moaning sound when she was lucky enough to catch a bite of ice cream with a chunk of maraschino cherry in it. "Oh, my gosh, I love this place. So, the old snake's on suspension? Goody. Cheers to that." She raised her ice cream cup. Lisa raised hers, and tapped it against Dylan's. "Since they're not glass, I'll make the sound effects - clink."

"Shouldn't you be all, 'I forgive him' and stuff?" John reminded his sister. Dylan arched an eyebrow. Lisa, floating on a cloud of sugary goodness and the residue of happy pills, rolled her eyes and snickered.

"I did forgive him," Dylan said with a totally straight face. "I'm just a vicious sadist and happen to find unholy glee in his pain. It's not personal."

"Uh-huh." John said nothing else. Just ate more ice cream. Westenra was one of his sister's major weaknesses when it came to applying the forgiveness portion of her faith. Not that John was going to insist she adopt him and turn him into a pet poodle. The guy gave the young federal agent the creeps.

"I miss you," Lisa muttered, propping her chin on her fist. She began to slowly stir her frozen treat into half-melted soup. "I can't wait to get out."

"Peabody's keeping an eye on your court date," Dylan replied. Took a sip of her fruit punch. Didn't taste the same after a big bite of super-sweet frozen goodness, but she couldn't have everything in the world, she supposed. "When she finds out when it is, she'll talk to the PA. If we're lucky, they'll let you off with the severe mental strain excuse and you won't actually have to stand trial for anything."

"After they cut you loose," John slurped around his ice cream, "if you need a place to stay, D says you can camp out at the cottage. We can turn the den into a guest room. Er, that is, if..." The twenty-one-year-old trailed off as he remembered that Prince Douche Bag had been staying in his sister's den.

"If what?" The teenager asked when neither adult spoke. "Do you have to kick out your boyfriend first or something?"

Dylan laughed. "Oh, yes, dear. You know me - I keep my boyfriend chained up in my house so I can demand carnal favors at random intervals." She stuck the spoon in her mouth and nearly choked when she thought about what Francesca would make of that statement in regards to the "boyfriend" Dylan supposedly possessed. "Don't worry about anything like that. If I had a boyfriend, which I don't, he would be the kind of guy who wouldn't mind giving up my sofa for a good cause."

"There's a guy," Lisa stated.

Dylan blinked. "Um... no there's not?" The teenager just looked at her. The psychiatrist sighed. Kids with the Sight were sometimes annoyingly perceptive. Very aware of John scowling into his apple-pie ice cream, Dylan added, "There's a guy. But he's not a boyfriend. He's just a friend. And he's not there right now. He... won't be there for a while."

"You've got the hots for him," the fourteen-year-old said, as if commenting on the weather. John almost choked on his ice cream.

Dylan managed only a stammered, "Um..."

"You wanna kiss him. You wanna date him. You wanna have his babies," Lisa said in a gently taunting sing-song voice. John made a revolted gagging sound. Dylan might have been a bit irritated at Lisa mentioning such a thing in front of her twin brother, but it was the first time she'd heard the younger girl sound like an actual kid that she was just glad her patient felt up to teasing her about this. "Is he hot?" Lisa demanded.

John made a sound like someone electrocuting a cat. His twin grinned and sighed melodramatically. Somehow it was easy to talk to the fourteen-year-old about Nuada, even though thinking about him still made her eyes sting. But she was enjoying the noises her brother was making, so she said, "Oh, yeah."

"I think I'm gonna puke," John muttered. Dylan kicked him under the table. "Ow."

"How hot? Like, hotter-than-spicy-mustard-on-egg-rolls, hot? I-need-to-be-hosed-down-because-I'm-on-fire, hot? Or I've-gotta-rip-this-guy's-clothes-off-before-my-eyeballs-melt-out-of-their-sockets, hot? Oooh, oooh, or I-just-ate-a-spicy-meatball-doused-in-ghost-chili-extract-because-I'm-a-moron-and-now-I'm-gonna-die-but-at-least-I-can-die-happy-because-this-guy-is-just-so-outrageously-smokin'-sexy-that-my-eyeballs-and-my-brain-are-in-heaven hot?"

This time John actually did choke on his ice cream. Dylan pounded him on the back. When the young government agent could breathe again with only a little bit of wheezing, he demanded, "Where do teenagers come up with stuff like that? That's just... ew. The guy's a total dick. And don't you kick me under the table again," he growled at his twin sister, who proceeded to do just that. "Ow. He is, Dylan. He's a complete and total jerk and you're lucky he's not some kind of..." John trailed off. Glanced around. Lowering his voice, he added, "You're lucky he's an Elf or whatever and not some kind of flesh-eating reanimated corpse or something. I've seen those faerie guys with the freaky hollow ribcages before, ya know. Why is it the first guy you seriously fall for is a homicidal faerie?"

"Firstly," Dylan hissed under her breath, "he's not homicidal. Secondly, since he's not one of the Boys of Bones Hill-"

"Wait, wait, wait," Lisa interrupted. "This guy's a faerie? Oh, man, Doctor D."

She sighed. "Yes he's a faerie and he is not a... what you said, John. You know I don't like that kind of language."

"Fine." Glaring at nothing, stabbing at the melting ice cream in his cup with a plastic spoon that bent pathetically under the violent abuse, Dylan's twin brother amended his statement with, "He's not a dick, he's a pasty-faced, pointy-eared, piss-eyed sadistic son of a bit-"

"John!" The look Dylan gave him made him wonder if a man had ever been beaten to death with a plastic ice cream spoon. He fell silent.

Maybe he shouldn't have been angry - the bronze-eyed Elf had done... whatever he'd done to ensure that Dylan had escaped the brutal nightmare that had held her trapped, and even blessed her with several hours of restful sleep - but that didn't erase what the Other Kin had done to John. Knocking him out and leaving him with a vicious headache in the middle of the abandoned subway tunnels was just not cool. Especially since a couple of rats had been nibbling on his fingers when he'd woken up. John had caught his twin eyeing the dark bruise at his jaw speculatively - when she was lucid enough. Eventually he'd have to 'fess up about how he'd gotten it.

And eventually he'd have to 'fess up about the prince coming to Dylan's rescue the way he had. His sister didn't know Nuada had been at her cottage last night. John didn't want to tell her. If he did, it would give her hope. Hope that would only be quashed when the ruthless, heartless Elf broke Dylan's heart again. And John had no doubt whatsoever that the faerie prince would break his sister's heart again. The only question was when.

"Wow." The fourteen-year-old let out a low whistle of equal parts admiration and surprise. "At least someone besides me's got some issues. So, Doctor D... you and this faerie boy. You guys done it yet?"

"Lisa!" John cried. She gave him a wide-eyed look, as if to say, Hello! Hot faerie boy on the menu. What are you thinking?

"Not that it's any of either of your guys' business but no," Dylan said into the tense silence where the twenty-one-year-old federal agent futilely attempted to stare down the fourteen-year-old girl. "I don't sleep around with people. I'm not sleeping with anyone I'm not married to. Latter-Day Saint, remember? And John, stop that. She's not gonna apologize." When Lisa smirked, Dylan poked her ankle under the table with a sharply prodding toe. "Not that it's any of your business," the psychiatrist added in very deliberately spaced words. Lisa's smug expression faded. "Now, children - let's try to get along. Hollis finally picked a flavor."

"What flavor did you get, Doctor Hollis?" Lisa asked when the other psychiatrist sat down at their table.

Dishing up a spoonful as if the ice cream before him were the sweetest, divinest ambrosia, Doctor Julian Hollis took his sweet time savoring the bite of frozen desert before answering the young girl's question on what flavor-choice had taken him the last thirty minutes to make.

"Vanilla."

.

Dylan called Anya when she got home. Tiana, it turned out, had no family other than her now-deceased parents. For now, she was staying with Anya because the social worker involved in the whole deal thought it best. After all, the little girl trusted the folklorist and had formed a strong bond with her.

"Although," Anya added, "she keeps asking about you."

"That's why I'm calling, actually," the psychiatrist replied. She was studying movie times in the newspaper that Becan had brought her. Bat chewed on the corner of the funnies-section with studious intensity (he was not fond of Baby Blues, though his human noticed the kitten left the Dilbert comics alone). Shredded bits of newspaper soaked in cat spit littered the area around him. "There's a movie that just came out... something about a Scottish princess. Disney did it. Anyway, I was wondering if you and Miss Tiana might not want to go see it with me tomorrow? I'm still on suspension at work and I don't have any appointments until late in the afternoon Friday. We could go to the morning-matinée. It's way cheaper than regular times. We'd actually be able to afford candy."

Not that Dylan ever got candy at the movies. Too expensive. Not to mention bad for teeth. Her preferred movie treats were a white cherry/Coke-a-Cola Icee and a black cherry waffle cone. It added about seven dollars to the price of the tickets, but she rarely went to the theatre, so why not?

"Sure," Anya replied. "Sounds like fun, huh, Miss Tiana? Hey, she wants to talk to you."

There was some scrabbling sounds as the phone changed hands, and then a familiar, high little voice said, "Dylan?"

"Hey, Tiana!" Dylan talked with the five-year-old for about twenty minutes; mostly just listening to the little girl talk about all the neat places Anya had taken her to (though when museums had become "neat" to someone that young, the psychiatrist couldn't recall) and the movies she'd gotten to watch. A friendly debate ensued over who was sillier, Bob the Tomato or Larry the Cucumber. Dylan won by reminding the child that Larry was the one who claimed that anything with a tail was a monkey (including cows, which even Tiana had to admit were not monkeys).

There was a moment when Tiana mentioned "the big red man" and how he had a lot of cats. A tiny ember sparked in Dylan's chest. She could hear Anya trying to divert the little girl from talking about her new imaginary friend. Dylan managed to redirect the conversation to the upcoming movie, and the ember cooled. Finally the conversation ended, and Dylan hung up the phone.

She thought about going down the hall, to the room that held her piano. The room that she'd told Nuada not to go into, that first night of his stay in the cottage. But just the thought of letting her fingers touch the ivory and ebony keys of the piano her parents had bought for her years ago, of letting her heart move her fingers to play such a sorrowful melody... she didn't want that. She didn't want to play today. She didn't think she'd ever want to play again. So instead, she started working on the blue quilt again.

Whirrr-whirrr, click. Whirrr-whirrr, click. The needle, threaded with metallic gold, flashed silver and gold as it shot up and thrust downward over and over into the deep, glimmering blue of the current square she was working on. She hadn't meant to use these colors - various shades of blue, a little black, and vibrant gold glinting against the cobalt and sable. It had just been that she happened to have a whole lot of scraps of blue in her scrap bags and not a lot of other colors. Although she had chosen the gold silk thread once she'd realized that the blue and black reminded her of Nuada. Gold for Bethmoora. Gold for the throne to which he was heir. Gold for unfathomable, mercurial eyes that shifted from gold-dusted ivory to molten bronze and all the different shades in between. If she saw him again after it was finished (if that happened around Christmas time) she would ask him if he wanted it. The answer would probably be no, but maybe not.

It was easier to think about Nuada now. Before she'd woken up this morning, half-convinced he was somewhere in the cottage, just the smallest reminder of him hurt: the feral scent of forest; a flash of gold from the corner of her eye; the shimmer of magic that was actually Becan cleaning up around the cottage, which had made her think that she was catching a glimpse of royal faerie glamor. But now it was almost all right for some reason.

Maybe it was the funeral. Funerals were all about learning to let go, learning to say goodbye. Although the ceremony had been for Lisa and not for her, maybe it had helped Dylan let go of the hurt of Nuada leaving her. Well, some of the hurt. Most of it still seethed, locked up in her chest. But it didn't constantly rake at her now. She was calm enough - strong enough - to deal with the things she needed to do in her life.

After all, the Elf prince wasn't her boyfriend or her husband. He was a friend (or had been) but that was all. Friends came and went. She knew that. So did lovers, family, spouses. Nobody stayed forever. Freaking out about it wasn't going to help anyone. She would be calm. She would be fine. It would all be just fine. She could let go. She had let go. Yes. Yes she had. She could even picture Nuada's face down to the whorls above his temples and the scar carved deep across his cheekbones without more than a stabbing lance of sorrow and a twinge of worry for him. She was fine.

Maybe it was the ice cream, Dylan thought as she attached another square - this one of black that glinted with hints of blue shimmer when it shifted under the light attached to the sewing machine. Anything that tastes like cake batter has the power to change the world.

She missed him, though. She could be honest with herself and admit that it was hard to lose herself in whatever she was doing, then think about talking to the prince, only to remember that he'd left. Remember that he wasn't coming back. She missed him, and it hurt to miss him. Hurt in a way she didn't quite understand to think that one of the two constants in her life was suddenly gone. As if part of her world was broken now.

It's okay, though, Dylan reminded herself again as the needle flashed silver and the thread flashed gold. I'm okay. It's fine. I don't need anyone to hold my life together but my Heavenly Father. I'm fine. I'm just fine. I'm just really tired. Maybe she'd take a nap. Yeah. Nap is good. Sleepy now; bedtime. After dreaming last night of the prince, somehow she knew that she could enjoy a few hours' sleep without having to worry about the brutal nightmares for once.

Dylan crawled onto her bed and dropped down amongst the pillows. Bat squeaked in abject loneliness and pounced onto the mattress. There he promptly crawled onto his human's butt and began to massage the small of her back with all the feline enthusiasm he could muster, purring like a motorboat that had lost its muffler. The kitten was very careful not to use his claws; he wasn't a barbarian, after all.

Dylan wasn't cold, so she didn't bother with the blankets. Didn't mind the cat, either. Just let him knead her back until he was content with the job and stretched out against his human's ribcage, paws massaging the air. She rubbed his belly and he kicked his hind legs like a dog again. Wriggled like an energetic, fuzzy black caterpillar in the throes of housecat ecstasy. Dylan laughed and buried her face in the pillow that still, somehow, smelled of faerie glens and the rich scent of ancient forests, even though Becan had already stripped the bed. She closed her eyes. In a few minutes, she was asleep.