Chapter 43 - Fever

that is

A Short Tale of Battlefields, a Kiss, a Scent, Pajamas, Awkwardness, Illness, Half the Contents of a Closet, Fevered Words, and Wisps of Memory

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Seduction comes in many forms. A woman's touch, a lover's arms. The brush of soft lips against skin. An embrace that offers everything, and demands nothing in return. Out of all of seduction's enticing forms, that last is the one Nuada yearned for the most. Dylan's embrace. Her arms folding gently around him and offering everything he could ever honorably ask of her. But that gift was not the one the amber-eyed Elf prince ended up succumbing to. It was the seduction of sleeping beside her, that innocent and quiet intimacy of sharing sleep with her, that ended up pulling Nuada in. He did not mean to fall asleep, but lulled by the soft sound of Dylan's breathing, Nuada drifted into slumber...

And opened his eyes to Hell.

Battle raged around him. The clash of steel against Elven silver, the roar of trolls and the screams of humans. Diminutive forest goblins launched themselves at human cavalry. Their vicious little teeth drew steaming blood from horseflesh and human flesh alike. Elves slashed and stabbed at their enemies. Blood, red as mortality, soaked into the earth. Ran in rivers to mingle with the amber and silver blood of Elves, the blue blood of goblins and trolls, the bright green and glistening black of other dying fae. The stench of it choked him.

So long since he'd been in battle. Centuries. Yet he was not in this battle now. He stood apart from it, trapped immobile upon a hill overlooking the killing field. The surrounding forest burned. Smoke blacked out the sun. Thickened the air until it was nothing but a poisonous fume. Ash rained down like snow from above. And below, fae were slaughtered by the thousands. His people. His people who needed him. Why was he just standing there? He should have been fighting! But Nuada couldn't move. Could only watch in horror as his people died at the hands of the humans. Where was the Golden Army? How had Nuada even come here?

He'd been in Dylan's cottage, hadn't he? In the haven of her bed. Holding her in his arms. No. No, he would not have done that. She would not have let him. Her faith didn't allow it. This was a dream. Just a dream. A memory long past. Travesties from centuries ago. So many killing fields. So many bloody battles. So much death. Only a memory now.

But the blood continued to soak into the screaming earth. His people continued to fall. The ash rained down and the fields ran wet with the blood of Elf-kind and others. And the Silver Lance fell to his knees and bore horrified witness to the holocaust before him.

After an eternity, the dream faded and sleep fell away, leaving him staring up at the low-beamed ceiling of Dylan's bedroom. It took him several long moments before he even realized he was awake. Dylan's fingers lightly stroking one shoulder pulled him from the soul-sucking echoes of the nightmare. Brushed the dark dream away like brushing aside cobwebs. She was still cuddled against him. Finally warm. Still sleeping peacefully. At least, Nuada thought so, but when he tried to shift out from beneath her soft weight, Dylan made a small sound and hugged him close to her.

Topaz eyes took a long moment to drink in the sight of the mortal clinging so tightly to Prince Nuada Silverlance. He wanted to reach over and brush his fingertips the length of the slashing scar down Dylan's cheek. But his hand was trembling (though only a little). He would wake her if he tried. Instead, for the first time, he allowed himself to fully analyze everything he'd felt since arriving at the cottage to find the door ajar and Dylan missing.

Panic. Fear. Real fear, as he had not experienced in a long time. Nuada had tried to pass it off as mere unease while tracking Eamonn and Dylan through the woods of the Park, but now he could acknowledge that he had been absolutely terrified that he wouldn't get there before the silver-eyed Elf raped and killed her. Even now the remnant of that fear left a sour-copper coating in his mouth.

And there was more. Guilt. His fault that she'd been in danger, his fault that Eamonn had been able to trick her using Nuada's own shape. If he'd been here... if he'd been with her instead of off sulking like a callow youth...

And then there was the pain. He'd said the words that were a death sentence and a prayer. I love you. Knew she hadn't believed him, and thank the gods for that, really, because if she knew how his foolish heart was trying to make him feel, what would become of them? But part of him wanted her to believe him. Wanted to see her reaction to those words. Wanted to know if it were possible for a mortal woman to love him when even those dearest to him could not accept him as he was.

I am a fool, he thought, not for the first time, as he gazed at the peacefully slumbering face he saw every time he closed his eyes. He loved her. He could not love her, but he did. And there was no way for him to stop. No witch's spell, no troll potion. Death would cure him, or nothing would. He knew that because still, in the depths of his heart, the love he bore another still smoldered. Still festered. And not even two thousand years in exile had cured him of that.

This time when he attempted to disentangle himself from his lady, he managed to escape her embrace without waking her or prompting her to tighten her grip. Immediately upon his leaving the warmth of her bed, she snuggled her face into the spot where he had lain. His heart stuttered. A hard swallow helped it to resume its proper rhythm.

And because she slept, because he could do this and no one but the gods would know, he leaned over and brushed the lightest, most chaste of kisses across her bruised cheek. Her skin was like silk under his lips. "Sleep, mo duinne, and dream sweetly."

Then Nuada went to wash the scent of her from his body. Scarcely could he bear it. It only sharpened the yearning to return to that soft, warm bed and fall back asleep in her arms, dark dreams or no.

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Dylan woke sprawled across her bed, her face snuggled not into a pillow, but the level plain of her dark blue sheet. So warm, still radiating that delicious warmth she'd fallen asleep against. The sheet smelled of feral woods and the wild green, of dark forests and moonlight and warrior. Nuada's scent. She recognized it easily. Cuddled her face against it. Sighed dreamily and thought sincerely about going back to sleep. She hurt. Didn't want to hurt. Hurting bad. Sleep instead. Sleep, wrapped up in that delicious smell permeating her sheets...

Then she blinked when recognition recalled memory and she remembered everything that had happened since Sunday morning. The letter (oh what a beautiful letter), and the wonderful gift from Nuada. Sleeping off being sick most of the day, John bringing home the futon, getting ready. Then the knock at the door, and Nuada but not Nuada, Eamonn that monster. Bat hurt and she and Eamonn fighting in the snow. Nearly dying with vindictive hands wrapped around her throat. Nuada, the real Nuada, coming for her, coming and saying... saying...

I love you. Oh, brutal lie. Soft, brutal lie. Dylan closed her eyes and bit her lip. Winced when teeth against the cut stung like an angry wasp. But that stinging pain helped her to stop focusing on the words Eamonn had forced out of the Elven prince. The fae couldn't lie - usually. But there were shades and subtleties to the truth that any fae worth its magic could use to their advantage. Eamonn had done so that first night in Findias, promising a cure for the poison he'd slipped into Nuada's system. She'd thought he meant an actual cure for the poison. The silver-eyed Elf had meant death.

In that same way, Nuada had lied. Love? There were many flavors of that particular emotion. She was a psychiatrist - she knew that. For Nuada... the love of a brother, the love of a son, the love of a father. Ally, friend, liege lord, shield-brother, lover, husband. Almost any of those could hypothetically apply to what the prince had said. Dylan knew that most likely it was the "love" of friendship, of affection and fondness. It wasn't like Nuada hadn't already told her that he was fond of her. They were friends - of a sort. Allies, most certainly.

But... but... I love you.

Well, that was even assuming it applied at all. Nuada was royal. Royal fae could lie if they wanted to. So it might have been entirely untrue and she was just grasping at straws now. Whatever. Not a big deal.

What had been the big deal for her was telling him she loved him back. And because she was human, because she could lie to her heart's content if she chose, Dylan knew there was no way Nuada would guess the truth. She'd finally gotten a chance to tell him the truth and it hadn't made her feel any better.

Not that it mattered. He was back. At least he'd come back. At least he wasn't angry anymore. She remembered that much. Remembered, though there were blank spots, getting Eamonn with the rock salt and Nuada going for him and words. Words in Old Gaelic. Dylan hadn't been lucid enough to recognize any of them. She'd been slipping into sleep at that point, feeling strangely, dangerously warm and drowsy.

Vaguely she recalled Nuada's worried expression. Pain as Bat scratched her. Bat okay, Bat awake, Bat alive. Her good boy. Searing heat when they'd come into the cottage, Brighid helping her get undressed. Nuada had tried to help, Dylan remembered suddenly. She hadn't wanted him to do that. It would have hurt him to see. Hadn't wanted him to see the raw scrapes that had begun burning across her hips, or see the fact that Eamonn had ripped away her underwear and nearly-

Dylan pressed her face harder into the smooth sheet when a sudden sob of panic and fury welled up in her throat. It didn't matter. She wouldn't let it matter. It did not matter because Eamonn was dead. Dead. Nuada had killed him. She knew she ought to feel sorry about that, knew she ought to pray for mercy on the dark-haired Elf's soul. But right now all she could manage was breathing in the wild scent and basking in the warmth left behind from where Nuada had slept beside her.

Now I know why sleeping next to someone of the opposite gender is prohibited by the Law of Chastity, Dylan thought as the churning emotions began to dissipate. Left in their wake was an odd, distant sense of loss. It has this odd intimacy about it. Humans crave intimacy. They like to feel close to other people. Sleeping beside someone does that. It leaves you at your most vulnerable, and in front of another person. It creates a bond between you. And that intimacy can be addictive. She knew that she'd have a really hard time falling asleep for the next few days without Nuada beside her. But that was against the rules (not to mention, the very idea probably disgusted him; being snuggled by a mortal while trying to sleep). Before, she'd been in danger of freezing to death. But just because she wanted a giant Elven teddy bear? I don't think so.

Where was Nuada, anyway? Dylan sat up in bed and looked around. A leather pack slouched beside the half-cracked bedroom door; Nuada's bag, probably. But where was...

Her ears caught the sound of the shower.

Like I thought - washing off my human germs. Well, while he was in there, she needed to get on something besides undergarments. Like some pants. A sweater. And maybe those amazing socks with the fuzzy rainbow toes that the Elf prince had bought for her.

When Dylan stood up, the room tilted one way, then the other. She staggered a couple steps. Whoa. Dizzy. Her skull felt like someone had stuffed it with really hot cobwebs and cotton balls. She'd noticed earlier, but hadn't really processed what that meant until just then. Oh, crud. My fever's back. Of course it is. Well, whatever. Gotta get dressed.

Once outfitted in black and pink plaid pajama pants covered in Christmas presents and a black long-sleeve shirt (with the blush-inducing words On the Naughty List across the bust in hot pink), courtesy of Francesca a couple years back, Dylan slumped back into bed and crawled under the covers. She would've grabbed a different set of PJs, but these had been the first pair on hand and she didn't have the energy. Being sick as a dog for two days, nearly getting the life throttled out of you, nearly dying of hypothermia, and getting sick again kind of took it out of a girl.

Well this bites, she grumbled silently to herself, huddling beneath the blanket. Sick while Nuada's here. I hate being sick. I wonder if my sore throat's gonna come back too. She'd been a little croaky before falling asleep but the rasping tickle in her throat seemed to have faded while she slept. But she'd had the worst sore throat Saturday and Sunday morning. I hope it doesn't come back; I hate that nasty cough syrup and I'm out of my homemade stuff. Dylan wrapped the thick blankets more tightly around herself. Mmmm. The blanket smelled like Nuada, too. That was nice.

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Nuada felt like a fool, but he flicked open the glass bottle, bent his head, and inhaled the sweet fragrance of Dylan's soap. The smell of home. He flipped the bottle closed again and stashed it back on its little shelf. Stars curse it, he'd washed away that scent almost an hour ago, along with the fear-sweat and the last remnants of that nightmare. But unlike the sweat and the nightmare, Nuada could (reluctantly) admit that he liked Dylan's scent weaving around him and ghosting along his skin. Did his own scent embrace the slender woman lying on the bed?

He did not want to leave the shower. Did not want to face what awaited him in that bedroom. What if she was still asleep? Could he resist sliding back into bed with her, slipping his arms around her, and lying beside her? Probably not, which was just pathetic. He was the Silver Lance, not some lovesick boy pining for a lock of his sweetheart's hair or some other sentimental token.

And what if Dylan wasn't asleep? What if she was awake, and waiting for him so they could talk?

I have to pretend she means nothing to me, Nuada reminded himself. Frowned. As if that were possible. It was obvious even to the dimmest village idiot that Dylan meant something to him. I will pretend that she is... a friend. A good friend. That is easy enough.

As long as she didn't touch him. As long as he didn't touch her. Or would that avoidance give him away to her? To others? Curse it, there was no way Nuada could tell Dylan not to touch him without hurting her feelings and hadn't he hurt his mortal lady enough? And may the Fates help him, he loved to touch her. Loved to stroke her cheek with the very tips of his fingers. Brush his thumb over her knuckles when he took her hand. Never mind the temptation of touching those soft, pink lips.

If the crown prince of Bethmoora had been a lesser man, he'd have slammed his head against the shower wall in his frustration. Instead he rinsed away the last vestiges of soap and shampoo (his own, thank the stars, packed before leaving the lair) and turned off the deliciously hot water.

Dried off and dressed in his standard black and red, he padded barefoot into Dylan's bedroom and frowned. She shivered beneath the blankets. Her breathing sounded strange. Not harsh, but slightly pained. When Nuada sank down onto the bed beside her, the mortal opened tired eyes and offered him a wan smile. Dark lips quirked up of their own accord. Still so easy to smile at her.

"Hi," she said softly. Winced and laid a hand against her bruised throat. "Ow."

"Good morning," Nuada murmured. Keep the tenderness out of your voice, he admonished himself. "How do you feel?"

He wasn't sure offhand if he had ever seen someone shrug lying down, but Dylan managed it. "Cold. Fever's back." She winced again and rubbed her throat. "Sore throat's back. Crud. I hate that." She tensed her jaw and made a low sound before relaxing again. "Trying not to cough," Dylan added with a grimace. "Hurts like blue fire. Knew this would happen. Stupid Eamonn. Is Bat okay?"

"He is just fine," Nuada replied, thinking back to the pudgy kitten being stroked by Brighid while Becan fed him some of his mistress's best cream. Well, after everything that had happened, the little warrior deserved a treat. "A little scraped, but that's all. Mostly just had the wind knocked out of him. Becan had a healer look at him, though, and he is well. Now, be still," he added, and laid his fingers against her bruised throat. The amber-eyed warrior knew the moment Dylan relaxed and smiled that soothing magic eased some of the hurt. Still, just to make sure, Nuada asked, "Better?"

"Much," she said. "Thank you." When Nuada would have pulled his hand back, she caught it and pressed it briefly against her cheek. Nuada blinked at the heat trapped beneath her skin. Fever indeed. But her words distracted him. "I'm so glad you're back. I really... I've been worried about you. Are you all right?"

She was the one who had nearly died and she wanted to know if he was all right? "I am well enough."

Dylan released his hand, but only to reach up and lightly touch gentle fingertips to the edge of Nuada's jaw. "Every time you say that, I worry. When you say you're all right, I know everything's okay. But well enough?" The tender stroke of her finger against his jaw seemed almost unconscious. Perhaps he should command her not to touch him anymore. That butterfly-touch whispered over his skin, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to wrench her hand away or press it closer to his face. She added, "Those words mean that for some reason you won't let yourself be anything but okay, and that worries me because it means there's a problem. Something you won't let yourself deal with the way you want to deal with it. What is it?"

He looked so tired. There were shadows in his eyes, weariness in his face and across his shoulders. Dylan wanted to hold him. Wanted to cleanse those shadows from him. Out of everyone she knew, Nuada deserved peace from shadows. But things were tenuous between them still. The fact that the tired-eyed Elven warrior was even letting Dylan touch him at all, she attributed to the fact that she was sick and he was being nice.

A touch, she could get away with. But to embrace him? The only times she'd ever done so had been rare - out of relief when he'd found her the night she met Eamonn; as a thank-you for taking her to church that Sunday in Findias; and after he'd pulled her away from Eamonn only hours before when she'd been so cold and so tired and his arms had come around her to hold her upright. But she didn't dare risk trying to hug Nuada right now. For one, she was sick, and moving more than a few inches hurt. For another, he'd probably get angry.

So Dylan only asked again, "What's wrong, Nuada?"

For a long time he was silent, as if he did not mean to answer her. Then there was a flicker. A brief flicker in the depths of topaz eyes. Just a moment of indecision and... was that a plea in those perfect eyes? But then it was gone so fast she wondered if she'd imagined it. Eventually, Nuada murmured, "Many things in life that neither you nor I can mend, milady." When she opened her mouth, he added, "Dylan, let it be."

"Okay." If that was what he wanted. She'd let it go... for now. But whatever was plaguing him, she knew as a psychiatrist that he needed to talk about it with someone. If not her, then Wink maybe. But someone.

"Rest now," Nuada said, pulling away from her as he rose to his feet. "The best cure for being ill is to sleep."

"You sound like John," Dylan mumbled, but obliged him by falling asleep again.

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Balor, the One-Armed King of Elfland, would have paced if he'd had the energy. Instead he sat at his desk and studied the reports from the borders of Bethmoora. Most of the envoys coming to the Golden Kingdom for the Winter Solstice festivities would not arrive until the second or third week of December. The envoy from Cíocal had come early to ensure that the One-Armed King knew they'd had nothing to do with the attempted coup and assassination attempt against Bethmoora's royal family (they were one of Bethmoora's closest neighbors, and were thus under suspicion by virtue of geography as much as politics). The envoys from Eirc, their other neighbor, and Zwezda, Eamonn's kingdom of birth, would swiftly arrive ahead of schedule, as well.

And Dilong was also on its way.

Balor sighed and dropped his head into his hands. Dilong was coming, and the stars only knew what tangles would crop up when the Jade Emperor's emissaries arrived in Findias. Emperor Huizong would no doubt take offense at the courtship between Nuada and the human woman. Ming Xian was too young to challenge Dylan for the right to the crown prince, but her brothers were old enough to fight Nuada themselves in a proxy challenge. Balor knew his son would win any such contest, of course. Nuada was one of the greatest warriors the Hidden Realms had ever seen. But that wasn't the point. The point was the political headache. And, the king thought sourly, the point was that the crown prince of Bethmoora hadn't been seen in Findias in more than two weeks, in flagrant disregard of his king's commands.

True, the mortal woman had given her permission for the prince to leave the castle (and he, Balor, had given her the power to grant that permission in the first place, hoping that the enticement of such power would help woo her to the idea of becoming the prince's bride). And if Wink could be believed - and the silver cave troll would not dare lie to his king, no matter what his loyalty to the Elven prince - then Nuada had gone because the human that had sworn her loyalty to the prince had a need of him. I was called away by duty, Nuada had told his sister. And later, When duty no longer calls me away, then will I return.

The Elf king pursed his lips and pondered this. For so long his son had hated the humans. Balor remembered well the prince's fury when the truce was called between the humans and the fae. Remembered also Nuada's chilling approval of the bloodshed and destruction wrought by the Golden Army. How could the king reconcile the hate-filled, vengeful young man that had left that battlefield almost two thousand years ago with the honorable warrior prince that Nuala had told her father the human woman believed in and swore fealty to? And could that vindictive warrior truly care for a member of the despised race of Man, even in the distant way of a lord for his lowliest servant? If not even that cold consideration, then how could Nuada ever possibly grow to love the girl?

His daughter's reports were, at best, baffling. So many conflicting things. Called away by duty, Nuada had told his sister, and Balor knew neither twin could lie to the other. What duty? To the human? Absurd. And yet... what else could the prince have meant? What other reason not saturated with Nuada's hate could his son have for disobeying a direct order from his father and king?

And then there was the strange feelings the princess had reported to her father. About a week ago, there had been a strange and intense exhilaration mingled with dread and regret and a piercingly sweet ache Nuala could not explain. She had been positive the emotions came from her twin. And earlier tonight, there had been a swift and brutal stab of pure terror. But what, in either the mortal realm or in Faerie, could possibly terrify the crown prince of Bethmoora? Even in the midst of battle Nuada had not felt such fear as that.

Balor pulled off the half-moon glasses he used when reading the often cramped, crabbed handwriting specific to a king's incredibly boring paperwork. Passed a weary hand over his lined face. When had being a father and being a king become so complicatedly intertwined? Before Nuada's return, Balor had mourned for his son and waited patiently for his enemy to strike at the truce between the humans and the fae. Now... now he had to wonder about every little maneuver his heir made. Every gesture, every word spoken, every facet of every thrice-cursed thing Nuada did because the king knew that he had to be careful.

Nuada was clever. Nuada was determined. Nuada was bold when it suited him, but could be diplomatic and even deceptive when necessary. Balor hadn't had to worry in so long about such things. He was old and out of practice. And now the One-Armed King also had to worry about that woman, that human girl - and she was little more than a girl, really - that his son had somehow managed to woo to his side. Balor had no doubt the girl loved Nuada. That was the problem. The king wanted Lady Dylan of Central Park on the king's side, not the prince's. Wanted her biddable and willing to be used by the king of Bethmoora, not unfailingly loyal to the crown prince of the Golden Kingdom. But the only sure way to turn her against Nuada - revealing his plans regarding the Golden Army - would just as surely make her unusable for Balor's current plans regarding his son's courtship to the mortal.

The king rubbed his aching temple with his good hand and sighed. So many complications. Almost all of them Nuada's fault. Life would have been so much easier if he was like Elatha, the king of Cíocal. Everyone knew he didn't care which of his children ascended the Fomorian Throne. As long as all the others were dead by the time the winner took the crown. If Balor could have disassociated himself with his son, could have felt nothing for him as Elatha felt nothing for any of his children but Bres - the last man standing, and thus deemed worthy of his father's regard - all of this would have been so much simpler.

But Balor couldn't just forget that day over four thousand and ninety years ago, when he had held his newborn son in his arms for the very first time. Could not forget how it felt to see a piece of his heart toddling and then running around as Nuada grew older and stronger (and recklessly bold, in the way of little boys). It was impossible not to remember singing to that young boy, playing with him, teaching him to ride and swim, to fight and to dance. Of course Nuada had had various tutors (what child of nobility didn't?) but it had been his father's joy to be the cornerstone of his life. It had been one of the greatest days of the king's life when his son had first held the Silver Lance, the weapon of the crown prince of Bethmoora. His heart had swelled nearly to bursting with pride in his son.

And then Cethlenn... for a time after the queen's death, Balor knew, the people had whispered that the king had run mad with grief. He had withdrawn from everyone and everything. Even Nuada and Nuala, who had most likely needed him most in those months and years after. Nuala had found solace in two of her handmaidens - a wakį́yą girl and a young Elven noblewoman from Zwezda. Nuada had found his solace with the troll warrior that had avenged his mother's death. Eventually the king had come back to himself, but by then, the reckless, always-laughing boy Balor remembered was gone. Left in his place was a somber, wary youth who rarely shared more than he needed to with anyone - especially his father.

Balor had loved his son. Still loved him. Was proud of the warrior he had become. If only the girl's estimation of Nuada was true - he could be proud of not just the warrior, but the man. But as the humans often said, if wishes were horses than beggars would ride. The king had to look at the situation objectively. His son hadn't changed in all these centuries. Not really. If anything, Nuada had only grown worse. Now he defied his father and king as if it were nothing of consequence. The Silver Lance had the potential to become a very large problem if not made to heel.

We are going to have to have a serious discussion when Nuada returns, the king growsed silently, replacing his half-moon glasses. And he had better return before the Midwinter festivities begin. He has obligations to fulfill. If he does not come back swiftly, he will face my displeasure. And so will the woman who encourages him to disobey me.

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Dylan woke shivering from a half-remembered dream of darkness and blood. Groping around for her cell phone, she found it on her nightstand and checked the time. Barely five-thirty. Not even dawn yet. There was no way she was going into work today. Moving even an inch filled her half-raw skin with aching prickles.

Fever, she realized. Big time. Dylan slowly dialed her office number and left a brief message explaining that she had the flu and wouldn't be coming in. Since her throat sounded croaky as a dying frog, she was pretty sure the message sounded sincere. Then she dropped her phone on the pillow next to her head and tried to keep her breathing steady. Every breath dragged and rasped inside her chest. Closing her eyes, Dylan tried to fall back asleep. Couldn't manage it. Her throat hurt too much.

Oh, whatever, I know I've got cough syrup in the kitchen, Dylan thought, and threw back the covers. As soon as the cool air of the cottage hit her, she shivered. Holy crow, it's freezing! Getting to her feet took all of her energy. For a long moment she just hugged one of the bedposts and tried to remain upright as the world pulsed and shifted around her. Normally she wouldn't even have tried getting out of bed but her throat was killing her, she wanted some cough medicine, and she didn't have enough voice left to call out for help.

Once everything stopped moving in bizarre ways and the aches had mostly subsided (though her bad knee was still very unhappy with her), Dylan trudged into the hall and went to the kitchen where Becan kept the fever-reducers and the cough syrup. By the time she made it down the short hallway to the kitchen entryway her skull felt like it was splintering. So she leaned against the cool marble counter. Let the cold stone cool her face and ease some of the hot throbbing in her head.

I haven't been this sick in a couple years, Dylan thought with distant surprise. Must be all the stress.

"Milady!" Becan's distressed cry made her wince when it scraped across her brain. The brownie scrambled up onto the counter and raced to her side to lay tiny hands on the back of her neck. She flinched. He quickly jerked them back from the scorching heat trapped beneath her skin. "Milady, you are very sick."

"I know," she whispered, closing her eyes. "I came to get something for the fever. And for my throat."

Becan's sprite magic drew up one of the dining room chairs and Dylan sank into it gratefully. Then she pillowed her head on the cool counter. Her entire body felt like it had been plunged into ice water except her face, which felt like it was burning. The cold stone helped a lot. Becan continued to mumble to himself, though his comments seemed to be directed at his mistress ("Oh, my poor mistress, I'll fix you right up, don't you worry about anything, milady.") as the brownie set out a cup of apple cider just on this side of too hot, three Tylenol, and a dose of the orange dextromethorphan syrup.

Dylan took the Tylenol and downed the cider, which made her feel a lot better. A glassy blue gaze eyed the cough syrup warily. She hated that stuff. Now that she was faced with her old enemy, Dylan was reconsidering the syrup route. Maybe a cough drop?

Her brownie folded his arms and pinned her with a stern look. "Lady Dylan. It is for your own good."

"Oh, jeez, now you sound like John, too. Blech. Okay, okay," she mumbled, and hastily knocked back the stingingly noxious cough suppressant. Her fist slammed the counter as Dylan struggled to keep the foul stuff down instead of gagging it back up. Same struggle every time she took this medicine. Pain flashed up her arm. She'd forgotten about the bruises, darn it. "There has to be better-tasting stuff out there," she choked out, grimacing. "Seriously."

Her epic struggle with the fiendish concoction from Hades now over, Dylan realized someone was missing. Against her will a sizzle of panic buzzed under her skin. "Where's Nuada?" Had he left again?

"The den, milady." Becan refilled the mug with cider, watching with approval as his mistress drank it. "Training, I believe."

Dylan pulled herself out of the chair using the countertop and then paused, realizing she wasn't quite sure where she was going. Well, she needed to lay down. But she wanted to see Nuada. Wanted to talk to him. There was so much they needed to talk about. What had happened. What they were going to do now. And there was a futon in the den. John had just gotten it the day before. She could lay on that.

Walking took considerable effort. Not tripping over her own feet was apparently an incredibly impressive achievement just then. But in the nearly-fifteen minutes it took for her to get to the door of the den, the Tylenol had started to kick in, pushing back some of the pulsing headache and cooling the hellish fever a little.

At the door she paused and leaned against the doorframe, content to simply watch the crown prince of Bethmoora moving through what Dylan vaguely recognized as a taolu - a Chinese martial art form. She sank to the floor when her legs threatened to give out. Stretched out her aching leg. She could still see. And it was so much easier just to sit against the doorframe and watch than try to move at all. She was so tired.

Nuada slowly became aware of eyes on him as he moved sharply and swiftly through the martial art form. Wŭ Xíng was not difficult for one of his experience, but he often forgot to keep his palms open instead of closed when he tried to deliver a punch. He appreciated the speed of this martial art style, however. The Elf prince was moving faster than any but an Elven eye could track. Yet when the topaz-eyed Elven warrior felt the eyes on him, he slowed so that those eyes could watch and appreciate the swift, lethal motions.

Nuada wound down to the end of the taolu. Stopped. Turned to study the mortal woman who sat in the entryway with her good knee drawn up to her chest, her head resting against the doorframe. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Can't sleep," she replied with that familiar, casual lift of one shoulder. "Thought I'd keep you company." When he didn't speak, she ducked her head and said to the floor, "If... if you don't mind, I mean."

Behave as if nothing has changed, Nuada reminded himself. Aloud he replied as tonelessly as possible, "If you like." He did not miss the way Dylan's eyes dimmed a little. He fought not to curse. Always when someone was ordered to "act natural," what inevitably resulted was anything but. Trying to gentle his tone, he added, "Do you need help up?"

"No," she said quickly. Too quickly. "It's fine, I'm good." Using the doorframe, Dylan levered herself up and leaned against the door, trying to keep her breathing steady. The world tilted one way and then another and then back again so fast she had to squeeze her eyes shut or lose her balance.

Nuada took a step forward. "Dylan?" She'd suddenly gone hideously pale.

"Gimme a minute," she mumbled. "Just a bit dizzy, I'm okay." Things stopped swirling and she made her way to the new futon, which she flopped down on with all the grace of a troll dancing ballet. Nuada, Dylan noticed, did not sit next to her, but took a chair positioned so that he could see her face whenever she happened to speak but wasn't forced to look at her directly if he didn't want to. Dylan blinked back the stinging in her eyes and decided to stretch out on the futon-couch, since she had it all to herself. Her feet made the arm of the futon their new home. Fuzzy, rainbow toes flicked back and forth in the flickering firelight. An awkward silence stretched between them.

Is this awkward because of the fight? Dylan wondered. Or because of the apology? Or because he was cuddled up to me while I was mostly naked? Or because I asked him what was wrong before?

Oddly, if she'd been the sort to gamble with something other than dum-dum suckers, her money would've been on the apology. She still remembered every word of that beautiful letter. You are precious, Dylan. He couldn't have meant that. Or at least, the prince hadn't meant that she was precious to him, specifically. But she'd known that as soon as she read it. It was still a beautiful letter.

But again, Dylan thought with just the faintest trace of bitterness, I am reminded of the nature of a faerie lie. As for the rest, that too had lanced her heart and brought tears to her eyes. Kind, gentle, honorable. Of course Nuada had meant that. She'd never doubted he meant what he said. It had been more than she'd ever thought capable of receiving - his thoughts towards her were much higher than she'd ever expected. And friendship. He considered her his friend. Considering Dylan had never held out hope that he would see her as anything but a necessary evil, to be called his friend... that had made her cry even harder than the "precious" thing.

But is he embarrassed now? She wondered, watching her toes curl and uncurl because she couldn't bear to watch Nuada pointedly not looking at her. Does he regret being so candid with me in the letter?

As a kid, she and John had often gone swimming. Dylan had been one of those children who stuck their toe in the water to test the temperature, then slowly made her way down the pool steps, trying to acclimate to the inevitable chill. John had been the type of kid who told his twin that toe-dipping was for sissies and just jumped in with a cannon ball or a belly-flop (usually soaking her in the process).

In the very awkward and silent present, Dylan swallowed hard and decided that for once, she was going to take her twin brother's advice and stop being a sissy. Time to just jump on in. Preferably with a cannon ball; bellyflops hurt.

"Nuada," she said softly. Feral eyes leapt to her face. "The letter you wrote... it was beautiful."

He looked back to the fire. "I am... glad you approve." There was no expression on his face or in his voice. His eyes were like a pair of glacial topaz jewels, glittering and distant. For one of the incredibly rare times since she'd met him, Dylan had no idea what he was thinking.

No cannon ball. Bellyflop. Definitely a bellyflop, judging from the stinging. Lots of stinging. Thanks a lot for nothing, brother. Then she got an idea. A swift one, probably an insane one, but it would probably do what she wanted. Almost definitely, knowing him. So Dylan shoved herself upright and propped her elbows on her knees. She said in a very casual voice, "I did have one problem with it, though."

Those feral eyes sliced back to her. One knife-thin brow arched. "Oh?"

Cocking her head, she replied, "Since I have a hard time walking right now, how about you come over here so I can explain without having to strain my throat?" Nuada gave her a considering look. Got up from his chair and came to sit beside her on the couch. The nearness of him was really distracting. So was the coolly expectant look on his face. "Okay," Dylan said. "It's just this one teeny tiny little thing." Then she balled up her fist and thwacked him on the shoulder. Pain lanced through her fist. She'd forgotten about the bruises and scrapes there.

"What," Nuada demanded, his eyebrow winging a bit higher, "was that for?"

She folded her arms beneath her breasts and glared, all casualness gone. "For that whole thing about 'the darkest, most monstrous part of you.' How many times do I have to tell you, Your Highness? There is nothing monstrous about you. At all. Never has been, never will be. Everything about that letter was absolutely perfect except that and the coward thing. You're not a coward. You're the bravest man I know. And you're not a monster, either." She thwacked him again. Winced. "Don't talk about my best friend like that."

Surprisingly, gratifyingly, Nuada huffed a laugh. Shaking his head, a rueful smile playing about his lips, the Elven warrior groused, "Woman, you are exasperating."

"I try," she quipped. Shrugged. Swallowed hard when pale hands grasped her shoulders and gave her the tiniest shake.

"I know," Nuada replied. "Believe me." He let her go, even though his fingers wanted to stay curled around those narrow shoulders a bit longer. As a point of pride he didn't brush his fingertips over the thick line of silver-white that scarred her cheek or tuck that one always-rebellious curl behind her ear. Instead he leaned back against the couch, arms folded, and fixed his gaze on the fireplace again. That first punch had actually hurt a bit. For some unfathomable reason, the thought made Nuada's mouth twitch. So he smoothed his features to blankness and said, "No more hitting me."

"Your letter said we were friends; that means I get to hit you when you're being an idiot. And before you say you weren't being anything even close to an idiot," Dylan added sharply, also refolding her arms, "yes you were. There is nothing wrong with you, Nuada. I like you just the way you are." Now she shot him one wild-shy glance before dropping her gaze to her knees. "So... um... now that that's out of the way, I'm feeling kind of awkward. Are you feeling kind of awkward?"

His look was pure male pride. "I am an Elf. I am never awkward."

Gee, I've heard that before, Dylan thought, relaxing a little. "Well, I feel awkward. So... what have you been doing while... while you were... not here?" She fought the urge to groan and drop her face in her hands. If that didn't make her sound like some kind of babbling teenager, she didn't know what would. "Meet any interesting... people? Try new foods? Read any good books lately? All that stuff."

Against his will, Nuada suddenly thought of the sparring sessions with Wink. Being thrown into walls, the floor, various hard surfaces. Thought about shopping at the Troll Market and having to answer everyone's far-too-inquisitive questions about the remarkable human that had somehow "won the Silver Lance's heart." His pointless nightly walks through the back-streets and alleys of the festering human City and the steamy dank "streets" of the New York faerie markets, trying to escape thoughts of the woman now at his side. The Elven warrior tried not to scowl. He did not want to scare her. "Nothing of consequence. You?"

It was hard to feel like a stranger with him. To talk to him like a stranger chattering politely about nothing of any import instead of sharing with him all the things she wanted to tell: about Tiana and how much she looked like... like... And about painting John's nails. She knew almost instinctively that Nuada would get a kick out of her brother's embarrassment.

She wanted to tell him about the psych-eval with Westenra, but that felt too much like whining and did she have the right to possibly get that evil snake killed? Not that he didn't most likely deserve it. But if the Elf prince took offense and killed him, so many things could happen as a result. The Blackwoods might think she'd done something. Couldn't risk that. Who knew what they would do then? What might happen to her? And if she made it onto the suspect list, she'd be put on suspension again. And if the king somehow found out Nuada'd had a hand in the psychiatrist's death, the Balor would flog him again. And just maybe the old king wouldn't stop before Nuada died of shock. So talking about that was not an option.

Most importantly, she wanted to tell Nuada about the dreams. Every night she'd dreamt of him. Dreams of the roaring sea and fresh green fields and so many beautiful places. Dreams of him holding her, telling her things she almost never remembered upon waking but she knew they'd been absolutely wonderful. Had he dreamt of her at all?

"Um... I beat the stuffing out of John," Dylan said with sudden inspiration. Nuada turned his head slightly to study her. "For what he said to you. He told me everything. I'm so... I'm so sorry about what he said to you, Nuada. You know I don't believe a word of it, right?" She asked, suddenly earnest. Dylan took his hand without thinking. The Elven warrior did not pull away. "I know you would never hurt me, or let someone else hurt me. I know that, and I made sure John knew it by the time I got done with him. You have to know I never thought that you-"

"Yes, I know," he said softly, tasting the burning iron of falsehood on his tongue. Unfortunately, it made no sense for her to have such complete faith in him when his father and sister did not. Of course Dylan sometimes doubted him. Her brother believed him some kind of demon; though she did not, she certainly did not believe him to be an angel as she often professed. He could not blame her or be angry with her for that. "So you... beat the stuffing out of him, was it?"

"Yeah, I hit him. A lot." Now she shrugged. "Would've hit him more - and harder - but he's really muscle-ly and it hurt. I whacked him till my hands ached, though. Just to make sure he got the message."

"Defending my honor?"

She tried not to flinch at the subtle bite of sarcasm in the words. "Um... sure. Whatever you say. Not that you need it. More like I was so angry that if I didn't hit John a bunch of times, I'd wring his scrawny neck." Was it her imagination, or had Nuada's mouth twitched? "I'm not one for violence usually, but after he told me what he'd said to you, part of me was kind of sad I stopped you from breaking his arm. Although part of me is glad because he's my brother and I love him. And because I don't want to have to put up with his whining about how my boyfriend broke his arm in two places."

Then Dylan winced because she'd said boyfriend. Sighing, she dropped her face in her hands. "I don't know how to act around you."

"What do you mean?" Nuada frowned, studying the slumped shoulders and tired face. Even when she pulled her hands away from her face, Dylan didn't look up. Just kept her gaze on the floor. Why did she suddenly look so defeated? "Behave as you always have."

Dylan just shook her head and didn't say anything. As if things could really be that easy. She knew better.

The silence that now stretched between the Elf prince and the mortal woman had none of the warmth and companionship of their old silences. Nuada turned away from studying Dylan when he realized his gaze was lingering on the slim muscles of her bruised neck and the slope of her near shoulder. Dylan just gazed down at the floor and listened to the fire crackle. Things hadn't been this tense when he'd been warming her, darn it. Or when she'd woken up and he'd soothed her sore throat. Why was there this tension now? This strange tautness between them?

Dylan groped for any explanation that might fit and found one. Had to bite down hard on her bottom lip, ignoring the stab of pain from the scabbed cut on her mouth.

He didn't trust her anymore. She had no doubt he liked her - why tell her they were friends if he didn't mean it? Why lie about something like that? And she had no doubt that he'd forgiven her because why lie about that, either?

But trust? His trust in her was gone.

She bit harder when her bottom lip began to tremble. Blinked rapidly when her eyes began to sting. She was not going to cry over this like some preteen after a bad breakup. Actions had consequences, darn it. She'd learned that in Saint Vincent's when she'd been learning about the Church. God had given everything on the earth the divine gift of agency, the ability and the right to choose your own actions. What He hadn't given them was the ability to always choose the consequences of those actions. She wasn't going to cry. She was going to accept the consequences of her actions like a grown-up, build herself a bridge, and get over it.

A tear trembled at the corner of her eye. Dylan squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, the tear was gone, broken into tiny invisible water droplets that now spiked her lashes. But she knew if she stayed in this room she'd end up bawling like a baby.

"If you'll excuse me, Your Highness," the mortal said suddenly, lurching to her feet and shuffling quickly out of the room. The topaz-eyed fae warrior watched her go, knowing that somehow he had misstepped. He just wasn't sure how. So Nuada stood and followed slowly after her.

He didn't have far to go. Dylan leaned against the corridor wall near her bedroom door, breathing heavily, shaking. At first Nuada thought perhaps she wept, but then the mortal slid down the wall to the floor and he saw she was out of breath. Her head dropped back against the stone wall. Her eyes squeezed shut. Nuada cleared his throat to make sure she knew he was there as he swiftly approached and knelt beside her. The look she gave him when he crouched next to her was almost pitiable.

"Dylan?"

"I don't feel good," she mumbled, closing her eyes again. "Like, at all." She brushed ineffectually at the wisps of dark curl hanging in her face with an almost-limp hand. "Everything's dancing. Got up too fast. I think... I think I need to go back to bed."

Nuada lightly laid the back of his hand against her forehead. Jerked back at the vicious heat. "That would be wise," he muttered, scooping her up before she could protest. "Back to bed with you, mo duinne." Maneuvering the bedroom door open with his foot was easy. Dylan shivered in his arms. When Nuada laid her back on her bed, she winced and made a small sound of distress. "What hurts?"

"Everything," Dylan whispered. "Fever aches, I think. I already took medicine. Just need to sleep."

"Then sleep," he said, smoothing back her hair from her face. She'd already taken something for the fever, yet she still burned so hotly? The feral-eyed prince tried to ignore the surge of worry that tried to take him. "I will be back in a few minutes."

"You don't... have to..." Then the fight seemed to go out of her. She closed her eyes and fell silent. Nuada strode swiftly from the room and went to the kitchen, where Becan was stirring a pot of something over the stove. Brighid had gone back to her own nest a few hours ago.

"Your Highness!" The brownie glanced nervously between the prince and the steaming pot.

The prince gestured for the wee fae to continue with what he was doing. Nuada only asked, "Does Dylan keep paper anywhere? Just half a page will do." Under Becan's direction, the Elf found a pen and a small notepad filled with some of the most ridiculous stationary he'd ever seen, even by human standards. Tiny pieces of candy decorated the paper along with the words There's nothing in life that can't be fixed by prayers and chocolate. The prince did not agree. Nuada hastily scribbbled a short message to Wink, tore off the page, and folded it in half. To Becan, he added, "How soon can you leave that? I have a message for you to deliver."

"This soup is for milady-" Becan began a little reproachfully.

"I'm afraid she's too ill to eat at the moment," Nuada said softly, thinking back to the weakness he'd felt in her body as he carried her back into her room. The brownie's sloe black eyes widened. "Can it wait until this is delivered?"

Becan assured him it could. After banking the fire in the stove and covering the soup ("To keep out the cat," Becan informed him with a fond, if worried, smile), the little house sprite took the missive, shrugged into fur-lined winter gear, and scurried out the door.

Satisfied, Nuada went back to Dylan's room and found her shivering beneath the blankets, drifting through that dazed and mercurial semi-sleep of fever. When he knelt at the side of her bed the mortal jolted awake. Whispered, "Cold. Can I have another blanket, please?"

He knew from his previous stay that Dylan kept her extra winter blankets in her bedroom closet. Nuada pulled one down from the shelf, checked it for spiders (it had been up there since the winter prior, after all), and laid it over her. The shivers eased a bit. She closed her eyes once more and seemed to sleep.

Of course Nuada knew humans got sick. So did the fae. He'd had his share of illnesses over the years. And he knew, intellectually at least, that humans often died of their illnesses. But that hadn't really prepared him for the way being sick had turned Dylan from the strong woman he knew into this exhausted girl who probably could not have fought her way out of a wet paper bag if she had help. No matter how little sleep she got or how badly her leg pained her, it never really seemed to affect her that much. Not so now with this illness.

To distract himself from worrying, from hovering over the barely-lucid mortal like some sort of faerie nursemaid, he went back into the closet to investigate something that had piqued his curiosity. In Dylan's closet were (obviously) many of her clothes - jeans, shirts, skirts, even dresses. What struck him as odd was that none of the shirts were anything other than long-sleeved. Except for the tank tops she wore as pajamas when it was warm, he'd almost never seen her in anything but a long-sleeve shirt before. And except for the slinky, glittering black dress she'd worn last night (Nuada hadn't really let himself think about the fact that Dylan had opted to wear such a lovely garment the night he had been scheduled to come back to her) and one of the olde-style gowns, he'd never seen her in any of these dresses, either.

She didn't have a lot of clothes, unlike most idiot mortals who seemed to need to buy clothes the way most rational creatures needed to breathe. But she had a lot of dresses. Blue velvet, red silk, black and white satin. Several in the styles worn centuries ago. He found the one she'd been wearing that summer day at the faire, cream-colored and primrose velvet. The old-fashioned gowns had been worn but not the newer-style dresses. None of these were new, but none of them were extremely old, either. Why have them if she never wore them?

There was a dresser in the closet as well. On top were a few books for keeping pictures. Curious - they were out in the open, but not out in the same room with the book he'd seen the night they had... fought - Nuada picked up the topmost book and flipped it open. Froze. There, staring back at him from that first page, was Dylan. Dylan, but not as he'd ever seen her.

His lady was perhaps seventeen in this picture. Her hair hung in her face, limp and lifeless instead of thick and curly as it was now. Her cheekbones were sharp beneath the too-pale skin of her face. Those fey-like blue eyes were haunted and bruised. The smile that curved her lips was empty. She was painfully thin. Her hipbones looked thin enough and sharp enough to cut if someone held her too close. She wore a thin black shirt that made her look like a corpse. The only thing that hadn't changed was her nose; it was still flat at the bridge, crooked from being broken twice. So that had happened before she'd escaped the institution?

Beneath the picture was a label that read Dylan home for Christmas - '93.

Nuada flipped through the rest of the book. Dylan at seventeen looked like a prisoner of war, like a girl who'd been tortured almost beyond breaking. Bruises. A few scars, though nowhere near as many as she bore now. What had her parents thought was happening to her in that place, that she'd come home looking that way? He had to close his eyes for a moment and throttle back the rage. When he had himself under control, he went back to flipping through the pictures.

Dylan at seventeen almost made him ill. But Dylan at eighteen... the change was almost like night and day. Still thin, but not starved looking. Tired, but in the healthy way of someone who'd put in a hard day's work, not someone being flogged into exhaustion. Her eyes weren't so haunted. Her color was much better; sun-kissed instead of that sickly gray. And her smile was the one he knew.

There were lots of pictures of eighteen-year-old and nineteen-year-old Dylan with a youth who would one day grow up to be the man Nuada knew to be her brother. Women who looked enough like her that he figured they must be her sisters, and a few other older humans Nuada didn't recognize. Pictures of Dylan with a blond woman just a few years older than the blue-eyed mortal, in front of a coffee shop. The sign read Persephone's. A few of her working in the Pandemonium Club, of all places. There were dozens of Dylan at various old-style faires and festivals.

A few of the photos were just silly and made dark lips curve into a smile: Dylan balancing a stack of books on top of her head; lying in a chair with her head hanging upside down over the edge; touching the tip of her nose with the tip of her tongue, eyes crossed; blowing bubbles with a straw in a large cup of chocolate milk, the bubbles overflowing the sides of the cup; Dylan covered in various colors of paint and laughing as she tried to attack her brother with a paintbrush.

Nuada's personal favorite was one of Dylan curled up asleep on the floor, actually underneath a table, using what looked like an open textbook on human anatomy as a pillow. He wasn't sure why he liked that one so much. Perhaps because she looked so peaceful. Or perhaps because there was a yellow post-it note stuck to her cheek.

Mixed in with the photos were letters Dylan had written to John while trapped in that horrible place. Nuada didn't read past the salutation of the first one. They were private. That thought prompted him to close the photo album and put it back on her dresser. What was the matter with him? He hadn't asked her if he could look at those pictures. She clearly kept them back here for a reason. But his curiosity had been piqued.

The sound of his name softly spoken brought him back to Dylan's bedside in an instant. He knelt beside the bed and gently brushed back the sweat-dampened curls from her forehead. "What is it?"

"I'm... I'm so... sorry, Nuada."

Her chest hitched with every breath, and he remembered what she'd said about how coughing hurt like blue fire. Probably trying not to cough, he thought, but aloud he only asked, "Sorry about what?"

"Everything," she mumbled, shifting restlessly. He could see she was struggling to stay awake. Did she fear fever-dreams? By the stars, her skin was far too hot for his peace of mind. How sick had she been before fleeing into the icy winter night? "I'm sorry. Sorry I'm not... not good enough." She made a small sound. Closed her eyes. They fluttered open a few moments later. "I'll never be... never be... enough. M'sorry."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You don't want me," she whispered, eyes drifting closed again. "Not good enough for you. And you don't trust me anymore. I miss you. And everything would be... so easy... so much better... if you'd never... met..." But then she fell asleep again, and Nuada could only gaze at her as she shifted in sleep, desperate even in slumber to escape the brutal heat locked inside her body.

The Elf prince rose to his feet after a long moment. Stared down at the sleeping mortal. You don't want me. What had she meant by that? You don't trust me anymore. He fought against grinding his teeth. He'd been trying to act as if everything was all right between them (because as far as Dylan was concerned, it was; it was not her fault that he was suffering from some unknown malady of the brain that made a sensible man into a complete and utter fool). Clearly, though, he had failed. Misconceptions. Mislaid blame. Why did she always take the blame onto herself?

Because of what her so-called family has done to her, was the first thought to pop into his head. The answering rush of simmering anger was fueled by the memory of those photographs. What would the photographs of Dylan at age twelve or thirteen look like? How much worse would they be? They always blame her for everything....

But that wasn't it. Or not entirely, anyway. So what was it?

Because she knows I hate humans, Nuada thought slowly. There was something niggling at the back of his mind, as tickling as the whiskers of a trout and as darting and slippery as a minnow. If he tried to just grab onto whatever odd thought was forming in the recesses of his skull, he'd lose it. Possibly never get it back again. Knows I hate humans and so... what? Accepts what she thinks is my opinion on the matter as fact? Why?

There was something he was missing. Something, perhaps, that he'd forgotten. Something about the night he'd left. But what?

Suddenly he remembered sitting with her on the sofa that night. Her fingers stroking one of the scars on the back of his shoulder. The caress of her breath on his neck. The heat of desire simmering in his blood, his every sense narrowing until his whole world revolved around those softly stroking fingers. He'd brushed the pad of his thumb across her mouth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Fingertips resting against her fluttering pulse.

But that wasn't it, either. There was something else. Something Dylan had said to him. Something she'd done. Words. Something she'd asked him. And then she'd... He almost had it.

The front door opening and closing shattered his concentration. Snarling under his breath, Nuada strode down the hall to the front entryway, where Becan stood shrugging out of his little winter coat. Wink, massive as a mountain, shrugged off the cold the way the brownie shrugged off his coat. Pushing the question of memory from his mind, Nuada clapped the troll on one meaty shoulder.

"Thank you for coming, my friend. Did you bring what I requested?"

Wink gave his prince a fond, if exasperated look. "I'm not quite as senile as all that, to forget what you only asked for tonight." Reaching into the bag the troll had slung across his back, he brought out a stoppered bottle of clear liquid. To the average observer it would've looked like water. And actually it was. "Didn't take long. Bought this off a selkie by the name of James Connelly, down by the Hudson Bridge. Wouldn't take coin for it, though."

Nuada frowned. "What did you give him?"

Now the burly troll shrugged. "A fuath was giving his sister trouble. You know the fuath - the worst of them are almost as bad as humans. Master Connelly asked me to speak to this fuath about proper treatment of a lady. That was all."

Nuada fixed Wink with a look. Wink merely arched the brow over his good eye. That was all translated as unless you want the gory details of how I eviscerated a very angry malevolent water fae who couldn't keep his hands to himself, you should probably stop asking now. The prince stopped asking. He had other things to worry about at the current moment. So instead, Nuada asked, "Will you brew the stuff yourself, or do you trust me to do it?"

The troll looked positively scandalized. "Trust you to do it? Not likely. I still remember the last time."

The Elf scowled. "That was over forty years ago."

"I have a long memory."