Ever Been Cut

Author's Note (March 28, 2012): I'm posting this because this was one of my more popular (and less violent, which means still usable, now that I've become a good Mormon) pieces on Inkpop (which is now Figment.com). It's also a good showcase piece, I feel. And it's always good to have a backup of pieces you want to keep.

Author's Note (August 1, 2010): I am partial to the scenes from Pretty Maids where Kate chills in the shower and has nervous breakdowns. Those are always fun.

And here we have three very unique individuals: Jack Hollis, who is not the villain of Pretty Maids All in a Row despite being a homicidal mass murdering psychopath; Kate Madison, an assistant district attorney whose heart thunders in her breast for said psychopath despite the fact that she is a pillar of the judicial system; and Maggie, who is unique in that she doesn’t actually exist... and yet somehow, she does.

This scene is for fans of Invitation in the Bag, which won the WWC WK9.

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The water sluiced over her like a thousand sleeping fingers, the infinite touches of a thousand whispering, hissing non-entities that were determined to make her remember. She slammed her forehead into the cold tile walls, and flashes of blinding white light exploded in her head, the same brilliant shade as the tiles of the shower stall. The white, that bright white of snow and milk and the paleness of his wrists….

“Stop it,” Kate hissed, and smashed her head into the wall again, trying to beat the images out of her mind. “Stop it, don’t think about him.”

She’d taken her medicine. Why couldn’t she get these thoughts out of her mind? They caressed the inside of her aching skull like drunken, intoxicating velvet drenched with absinthe and laced with morphine. Her head ached whenever she tried to force the thoughts of her now-gone savior from her mind.

She’d never told David about him, never. She knew he’d never understand how she could run into the arms of a madman, but it didn’t matter to her. As long as she refused to think about him, about any of them, she could pretend that they didn’t exist, that they had never existed, that there was nothing wrong with her.

But the memories, like insidious whispers that screamed softly to be noticed, to be gloried in, to be relived, they burned and kissed and fluttered inside her. Her wrists clenched as her hands tightened into fists.

Kate glanced down, ignoring the pounding spray hitting her hair, dripping water down her face. She shivered as the whispers and shadows teased at the corners of her eyes, kissing at her consciousness. Her wrists were pale, so pale, and she remembered how they had been so white, all of her had been so white and bloodless when her mother had drunk herself to death.

She remembered how it had seemed as if all of her blood had seeped out of her in the night, leaving her dry and empty, her veins filled with tiny shards of glass no bigger than dust, ground up into poisoned powder and cutting through her veins and arteries in place of crimson blood. She remembered that day at school, so long ago, when she’d been only ten years old, and the broken piece of plastic had sliced so deftly into the fleshy pads of her fingers and swept through the flesh of her palm and the back of her hand…

So much blood, all of it so dark and so bright, such redness, such a rich color in her voided nothingness, all the colors leached from the world except for that shocking scarlet blood. It ran down her arm, soaked the sleeve of her shirt, crimson edging to the pristine, snow-white linen. It dripped off of her elbow, pattering tiny droplets like small lakes to the white, tiled floor. It pulsed and flowed, etching scarlet lines in her skin. Her skirt soaked up the blood, the cracks of the skin on her knees drank it up like parched earth. Her hair was tacky with it. All of it so red. She was translucent, evanescent, empty, as the crimson blood flowed and flowed, running in sweet, scarlet streams down her flesh.

Sneakers. Violet Vans, with lime-green laces.

They came into her field of vision, dull and muted but still arresting in the world of sparkling white and blisteringly bright burgundy blood. The lime-green laces glittered. Black flames danced along their edges.

She looked up, up the dark blue pants and the white button-down shirt that sucked life out of them all with its unlife-whiteness. Her eyes found the Sum 41 sweatshirt, saw the blazing red logo on the black cotton. Her eyes watered, thirsting for life and color. She continued to drink him in with her eyes.

Her blood was gone, a lake of red on white tile. The dark flames dancing along this boy’s body filled her veins with ebony light. She shuddered as her eyes found his neck, whiter than the tile, bloodless. Blue and red kissed his throat where the translucent flesh showed his blood vessels. Her eyes slid over his pointed, fox-like chin, his smooth cheeks and candy-pink lips. They were bloodless pink, like they should’ve been red and only his undead state made his mouth so cotton-candy pink. His nose was straight, with a spray of gray freckles.

His eyes burned her, seared away the numbness in her marrow, filled her bones with light and fire the color of the void. Her blood was like frost cutting her veins. Lightning flashed behind his eyeballs.

“Show me,” he demanded.

She didn't have to ask what he meant—she knew what he wanted to see. Blood, so bright that it shattered the walls and burned away the ceiling. His eyes sparkled with electric lights and the pale green tints of Easter lilies.

Kate held out her hand, with its slash across the palm. With its numerous, tiny red mouths on the back; with the long cut across her wrist, weeping scarlet.

Her own eyes, blue-green as a poisonous plant, pale as a dead fish, gleamed like a neon sign. Booze, blood, brilliance—all found there, in the hate and acid of her gaze. She could feel the sign etching itself into her forehead—If Empty, Come Here.

Her soul ached as he reached down and took the shard of broken plastic, translucent as her skin and as pretty as diamond knives, out of her hand. The razor-sharp edge sank into his fingertips, and blood welled up and flowed. A drop of it fell onto her wrist, brilliant against the white. Kate felt her eyes bleeding in sympathy.

“Have you ever been cut?” Kate whispered, but her voice was different, frosted over with ice and white sugar. Her eyes were washed out, pale, lit from within by a pearly sheen. Her face was blank, and only her eyes were alive in their bruised sockets. Her hands shook. Blood made pretty patterns, crimson against ivory. Her eyes bled where his eyes cut at her.

"Cut?"

"By a knife?" She asked.

"Sharper." His voice was a husky growl. She imagined a dog on a chain, gaunt and angry, baring teeth at the ones who starved it.

The voice didn't fit with the golden curls that framed his pale face, didn't seem right to be coming from that mouth the color of bubble gum. His tongue was red, his lips pink. His voice was black as pitch, ready to ignite in the heat of some unknowable knowledge, something Kate's intuition told her would be delicious and delirious.

Nervously, she licked the corner of her mouth, tasting the sting and the blood from where the plastic had kissed her like a boy. The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of orange-mint Tic-Tacs. He popped a couple in his mouth. His bleeding fingers left tiny smears of red across his mouth. She wondered what blood, mint, and orange tasted like. Was it tangy and delicious? Was it like absinthe and salt, or arsenic and lace?

"Sharper?" She asked him. She felt stupid. She ought to know what he meant. There was something in his eyes that made her mind ripple and her head sing. Her blood was cold and thin as it poured out of her. Everything was a dream. "Sharper?"

"Like ice. Ever been cut by ice?"

He didn't mean the kind of ice that was frozen water. She knew that by the way he said ice. "Aye-suh." It wasn't ice, but ice. The kind of ice that was everywhere. She saw it, and she realized he could too. It was the ice that had covered her mother's eyes when she died, covered her mother's grave and her father's face and her friends' mouths so that the cold was everywhere, all around, numbing her.

Blood warmed her, the cool sweet blood that was still warmer than the ice, so it steamed in the air.

"Yes…"

"Yes...shut up!"

Kate screamed, and threw herself against the wall away from the faucet. She threw her weight against the wall. Her breasts and her belly hit the tiles with wet slaps that stung like a palm to her face. She sank to the floor of the shower, hair hanging around her in a curtain of dark, dripping wet threads. She didn’t want to remember. She couldn’t let herself remember!

The water beat at her, belts and hands and fists of clear, diamond-hard water pounding into her flesh, bruising her fair skin. She was a princess, but she didn't have those hundred mattresses between herself and the bruising strikes. Only the air, only the thin, cold air to buffer the blows.

And Jack...she had had Jack, once, a long time ago. Jackie-boy, John-Jack, Captain Jack...

"He's here, Kate."

It was the soft, ice cold voice of Maggie murmuring in her ears. The shivering brunette shook her head, clapping her hands over her ears to block out the damning words. No, no, no. There was nothing, no one. Never, ever, not ever. There was no Jack, never had been a Jack. Middle school and high school and college had passed by without so much as a mention of Jack Hollis, the man who had plunged his switchblade into Matthew Madison's bloated beer-belly for daring to touch his daughter...there was no Jack Hollis.

No Jack Hollis, no. No Jack. No Jack. No Jack.

There was David, and Harold. There was Ian. There was Matthew Madison, the man whose semen had forged her DNA but who would never be considered her father. There was Maggie, and all the thousands of hellish voices that the ice-eyed figment kept at bay. There were all these.

But there was no Jack Hollis.

Kate repeated this to herself over and over again, trying to drown Maggie out as the other woman crooned in a sing-song voice, "Don't lie to yourself, Kate. What about the card? Do you remember the card on your dash board? It was a Joker card. You've seen the videos. You've seen what Jack's done. You recognize the neon eyes like poison.

"There is no cure for that poison, Kate. You and I both know that. We can never be cured of wanting to be cut by the emerald knives dipped in absinthian venom. We will always be sick for it, Kate. We will always need it. Always crave it. Always dream of it.

"We recognize those eyes. We remember them. Eyes that have been cut. Eyes that cut. Don't deny it, Kate. You know we're sick."

"I'm not sick," Kate hissed, scrunching up in on herself. The water pounded the crown of her head. Water ran in streams down her face, dripping off the raised flesh beneath her eyebrows and the point of her nose. "I'm not sick. I'm getting better. Leave me alone! I'm on medication. Leave me alone!"

She screamed this last, kicking out at the faucet in an attempt to turn it off. She managed it, but not before the sharp metal sliced through the thin flesh of her foot. Blood welled up and ran like a river.

Kate stood up on shaky legs, her knees doing their best to knock together, and got out of the shower. The blood was bright against the whiteness of the bathtub, stark as reality against the creamy bathroom tile on the floor, sickeningly scarlet as it rolled in rivulets over her pale skin. The pain sliced through her, throbbed and kicked at her to demand her attention. She ignored it and grabbed a black towel off the wrack, anxious to scrub away the tainted residue of memory.

"Kate..." Maggie whispered her name, a sinful invitation. "Kate? Kate, Kate..."

"Shut up," she hissed.

"Have you ever been cut, Kate?" Maggie demanded. Other voices chimed in.

"Kate's been cut..."

"Cut, cut, cut..."

"Bleed, cut and bleed, cut and..."

Voices, so many voices; they shrieked in whispers, screaming like a spring breeze across soundless chimes. All of them demanding she remember, she think, she ponder, she reminisce.

She didn't want to think about him. If she did, her need would rise, sharp as a knife blade and hungry as a starving cobra. Don't think about it.

Don't think about the curls against her cheek as he leaned over her, moving her to suit him, as they played with the glittering sharpness of razorblades and pain and fear.

Don't think about those candy-pink lips the color of unlife moving over her mouth as kids screamed because the park trees were burning all around them, because fiery claws were reaching out to snag their Halloween costumes as Kate tasted blood and mint-orange TicTacs and anarchy.

Don't think about Paulie Talcov screaming that he'd never try to goose Kate again if only Jack would stop hitting him with his own lacrosse stick and don't think about how Jack didn't stop until the stick was broken and Paulie was bleeding and whimpering.

Don't think about Jack. Don't think about Jack Hollis. Don't think about Jack.

Don't think about him.

Kate shuddered with the phantom memory of that first blazing, tangy, bloody kiss, and wrapped herself in her thick purple bathrobe so she could go out and put her clothes on.

Harold would be by to pick her up for dinner soon. She had to be ready. She couldn't let him know how she felt. Couldn't let Harold, New York City's knight in shining armor, see her, and see that Maggie wasn't keeping the voices at bay.

Why had she agreed to take that medication, anyway? It wasn't working. She was still seeing everyone. She was still seeing Maggie. But at least when she could see Maggie, she could count on her other half to beat the other pieces of herself back into the abyss of her psyche. Maggie was better than any medication. She wasn't going to take it anymore. It was a waste of time and money.

Pushing open the door to her bathroom, she came out into her master bedroom and froze. On the bed was a beautiful dress, all burgundy silk and chiffon and satin, with a plush velvet coat draped over her bed beside the dress. There was even a burgundy velvet purse and pumps the color of burgundy wine. Even makeup—lipstick, blush, eye shadow, nail polish—was set up on the white wicker nightstand beside her bed. The dress and accessories were like spilled arterial blood against the pale creaminess of her sheets.

On the dress, pinned to a blood red rose, was one of those old-fashioned Joker cards, the ones that had the jester-demons in faded black ink.

Typed on the glossy surface of the card were the words, "Have you ever been cut?" 

 

Chapter 54 - A Father's Love

that is

A Short Tale of Ravens, Idiots, Scarecrows, Stewards, a Brief Sanctuary, Comfort, Promises, War Talk, Bad News, and a Blade Held in Trust

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She didn't want to leave Nuada. Not for a moment. Not after seeing him swarmed by lethal white vipers that could kill with a single bite. Not after the attack that had nearly killed them both. Not after finding out that the children, their children, had been attacked. And especially not after the Elven warrior prince had agreed to track down her twin brother, who was slowly dying somewhere in the snow-shrouded blackness of the Park.

But Dylan had to go with Lena to the Night Court of King Roiben Darktithe, had to bring 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di and Tsu's'di - Tsu's'di, whose golden blood had soaked Lena's now-discarded hoodie and who had fallen and not gotten back up - home again. So she watched Nuada disappear like a shadow against the black bones of the wintry trees and the cold whiteness of the snowy woods before she and the hamadryad known as Lena got into the ensorcelled carriage and it took off for New Jersey and Roiben's Unseelie court.

The mortal psychiatrist prayed, the whisper of her lips moving nearly soundlessly the only thing to break the tense silence. She prayed for her young bodyguard, who might have died once separated from the dryad who seemed sweet on him. She prayed for Tsu's'di's little brother and sister, who must have been so scared. For Kaye and Kate, Peri and Bean, for the Grace twins who had been visiting the sidhe woman's apartment when it had been attacked by whoever and whatever had decided to attempt killing innocent fae and human children.

Yet her most fervent prayers were for her twin. She could sense John against the back of her skull, like light and warmth. The light was dimming slowly, like a candleflame when the wax had nearly burnt down to nothing but a spreading puddle. His warmth had already begun to fade, leaving his sister shivering with a cold that nothing could dispel. The comforting heat of the Holy Ghost alone managed to stave off her panic as the chill increased. And the feel of John, that sense that he was there at the very back of her mind, once as strong as the thundering beat of her heart after running through the New Jersey woods as children... it had been reduced to the faintest flutter against Dylan's brain, like butterfly wings.

Lena prayed, too. Star Kindler, many of the Elves called the High King of the World. Rain Bringer, the wood sprites called Him. Known by many names, He was the one the mortal woman and the fae girl turned to now as icy fear threatened to snuff out even a glimmer of hope.

"What were those things, Dylan?" Lena asked softly as the carriage rolled through the winter night, fleet as a shadow. "The things that attacked us?"

"I'm not sure," the older woman murmured. "Do you remember anything else about them?'

Slender, dark brows drew down as the dryad tried to think past the paralyzing fear of the attack. "Bean... Bean threw a book at one of them. They'd grabbed Kate, I don't know what they were going to do to her. Mumbling stuff about humans and iron and how the iron in her blood would taste sweet, which didn't make any sense. And Bean went nuts, started throwing stuff. Books and dishes and just whatever he could grab. Knocked one of their heads off."

Dylan jerked upright. "He's still a little boy, even if he is sidhe. He shouldn't have the strength to do that!"

"Well, he did," Lena mumbled. "But there wasn't any blood. It was like the thing's head had already been cut off and was just sitting on its neck and Bean just knocked it down. It had this huge, freaky smile. They all did, bigger than a noc's in human form-"

"Dullahan," the mortal muttered, fists clenching. "Irish bogles. They usually carry their severed heads under their arms except in battle, they have huge grins like corpse-drinkers, they wear all black, they bleed black, and they're not allergic to iron. And," she added with a snarl that had Lena staring at her wide-eyed, "most importantly," and now she was so cold, the fury was like shards of ice in her stomach, ice water down her back, "they can only be commanded by a fae royal."

Viridian eyes nearly popped out of the dryad's head. "A fae royal? But who? All the fae kingdoms are in alliance since the final war with the humans-"

The carriage jerking to a bone-jarring halt cut off Lena's words. Ice spilled down Dylan's spine and she and Lena locked eyes. The girl's held a question. Dylan nodded slowly and laid a hand to the dirk at her waist. A slender bronze knife appeared in the dryad's grip as they peered out the window in the carriage's right-hand door.

In the time they'd been praying and talking, the carriage had made it into the woods of Jersey. Now a ring of dark shapes held the Chariot from moving forward any further. One of the dark shapes stepped forward. Dylan saw porcelain-fine skin lit to death-whiteness by the nearly-full moon, webbed with tiny cracks. Dark eyes lacking discernible sclera stared at the carriage. Spiked hair gleaming midnight-purple jutted up from the narrow skull. The creature was missing an arm. When it smiled, moonlight glinted off of its jagged teeth.

"Nocs," Dylan whispered, frowning. "Purple. Never seen purple nocs before. That's not Pinfeathers," she added, referring to one of the princes of the nocs' "murders," as a group of the raven-like fae were called. "Or Scrimshaw. I don't know any of the other noc princes, but I know them. They wouldn't attack me. Pinfeathers can't and Scrimshaw's too old to want to."

"Why are so many Unseelie fae coming after you today? Dipsa, dullahan, whatever got your brother. Now nocs. Don't nocs normally go after poets and artists and stuff? Like the leanashe do. Or they go after dead people for food."

The mortal lifted a shoulder. "Normally. Don't know what they want, but I can guess. Three attacks in one day - that's no coincidence. They're probably here to finish the job. Although I'm surprised any of the nocs would dare." At Lena's look, Dylan added, "Their queen, Ligeia, is married to Moundshroud. They don't like each other much, but she should know better than to provoke him by coming after me. She knows he and I are friends. Unless they're enemies of Arawn Death-Lord and don't know I'm the one in here, but Ligeia wouldn't be stupid enough to tick him off, either. Not the Master of the Fell Crochan. Her kingdom, what she controls separate from Moundshroud, is too small to have a hope of taking anyone on, unless she's got an alliance with someone else. Moundshroud's so powerful, and Arawn's no pushover. Ligeia's ally would have to be a fae monarch of some kind."

They're keeping me from Tsu's'di, Dylan thought, and was almost startled by the sudden surge of dark anger twining around her heart like thorns. From 'Sa'ti and A'du. I am not happy about that. Not one. Little. Bit. So far today, her date had been ruined by poisonous snakes, she'd ended up bruised, sliced by rocks and her own knife, she and Nuada had had a fight for the first time since that winter night when he'd left her, her friends and her children had been attacked, someone had tried to kill the man she loved more than her own life, and her twin brother was out there in the killingly cold night, possibly - probably - dying. And now her carriage was being held up by carrion-eating bird fae who had no business bothering her, of all people, today of all days.

Dylan twisted in her seat and banged on the dark carriage wall. A sliding panel opened up, letting in biting winter air from the cool shadows outside. A skeletal, pig-snouted face peeked down through the panel. "Eh? Fy arglwyddes? What is it?"

"Keep going," she ordered, feeling a whisper of reassuring warmth piercing the cold of warning and the icy anger. Lena jerked and stared at her. This was not the Dylan who sought to heal, sought to protect. This was Dylan with cobalt ice in her eyes and a grim set to her scarred mouth, a Dylan more angry than the dryad had ever seen her in the nearly six years mortal and fae had been acquainted. Dylan added, "If you hit them, they'll scatter like pigeons."

The panel slid closed again as the skeletal Welsh goblin grunted in satisfaction. The carriage lurched into motion once more. Something smashed hard against the door window. For a moment, Dylan thought she saw a raven, one black-marble eye fixed on her face, before the purple-gleaming feathery mess slid away. From outside came the sound of cracking porcelain.

"Do you feel bad at all about running them over?" Lena asked.

Dylan studied Lena, who still clutched her bronze knife. "No. They don't feel pain, for one. And they can put themselves back together again. Dismember one, cut off his head, and his brothers will put the pieces back together and he'll get up, walk around, and act like it never happened. I've seen them do that; it's how I met Scrimshaw. What happened to your gladius?" The human added.

A sheepish look crossed the dryad's face. "I left it at home."

The human's smile was wan, but it lightened both their hearts. The dryad wasn't used to that regal and more than a little ruthless woman where her usually warm, caring mortal friend had once been. Rubbing her left temple, Dylan teased tiredly, "Where it will do you much good, I'm sure."

Lena stuck out her tongue at the older woman, ignoring the crunching of what sounded like shattering china beneath carriage wheels.

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Beyond the wards of Dylan's idyllic little cottage garden, beyond the clusters of oak and fir and other evergreens that Lena, daughter of Balanos, called her territory, Prince Nuada Silverlance followed the tiny dribbles of darkly frozen crimson so stark against the moonwashed snow. Human blood was one of the easiest means of tracking mortals; the coppery stench of it practically smeared the air, burning the Elven warrior's nostrils and stinging the back of his throat with the iron of it. And along with the blood, he followed a mind whose lightest touch enraged him. To track his lady's brother in order to rescue the feckless cur sickened him. To offer rescue to one who had accused him of... of....

You just let it happen. You just watched them hurt her. Mortal words that still, for some unfathomable reason, possessed the power to claw at him like dipsa talons, to gnaw at him like rabid wolves in the dark. As if he would ever, ever allow Dylan to come to harm if he still retained a single breath in his chest or a drop of blood in his veins. He would never just stand by while their enemies hurt her, tormented her. Raped her. He hadn't stood by, by the Fates, he hadn't! But that wretched boy had had the gall to accuse him of worse things. You enjoy twisting her up and breaking her heart. You enjoy hurting her.

He'd hurt Dylan, yes. Put more than one crack in her already-broken heart. But he hadn't enjoyed it. Had hated it. Hated seeing the pain in her eyes whenever he rebuffed her, when he'd said those damning words that had left a scar on Dylan's heart. And now Nuada would do anything - anything - to erase those words forever.

Which was why he was doing this. For her. Because she'd asked him to. Begged him to, pleaded with him. Because he could deny her almost nothing when tears glimmered in those fey-like blue eyes like jewels and he could taste the anguish and desperation in her, the heartache looming like a thunderstorm. Stars curse the whelp for wrapping Dylan around his little finger that way.

Nuada smelled death before he saw the black shape slumped into the snow against the trunk of a dogwood. The sickly sweet carrion stench of rotting meat, the muggy stink of moldering wood, and the crackling dry scent of old straw warned him even as the prince sprinted toward John Myers, clinging to consciousness despite the shivers that wracked his body and the thin streams of crimson staining the crystalline snow.

Pale blue-gray eyes flickered as Nuada crouched beside the mortal and pressed his hand to the whelp's face. His skin was cool to the touch, slick with pain-sweat despite the frigid temperature. Those eyes - so similar, the Elf realized with a sudden lancing behind his breastbone, to Dylan's lovely eyes that saw so very much - blinked once before focusing on the moon-pale face above them.

"Oh, crap," John muttered when he recognized the corpse-faced ghoul his twin had fallen head over heels for. "D's gonna kill me. I'm dead. I'm dead and I'm in hell; that's why you're here. Crap."

"Shut up, mangy ingrate," Nuada growled, studying the wound above the human's left ear. The brown hair was dark and tacky with freezing blood. Licks of frozen scarlet held fast to John's cheek and jaw from his ear. Concussion, quite probably, then. Scrapes across the cheek and jaw as well. Bruises. Split left eyebrow. The Elven warrior turned his attention to the vicious wound in the human's side. "Believe me, I have better things to do than haunt your afterlife."

The mortal's eyes lost focus for a moment. The prince noticed one pupil had dilated wider than the other. Definitely a concussion. John blinked rapidly before peering at the Elf. "They wrecked my Mustang. Those freaking scarecrows wrecked my Mustang."

"And all the world laments your terrible misfortune," the prince muttered, speaking more to give the concussed and bleeding human something to focus on than out of any true need to respond to such complaints.

"I hate you. You know that, right?"

"The feeling is quite mutual," the Elven warrior snarled. He probed the injury with the brisk efficiency of one trained in dealing with battle-wounds. A deep thrust with a rough spike. Wood, perhaps. A few splinters had caught on John's blood-soaked shirt. Missed any major blood vessels, but belly wounds always bled profusely. And he couldn't gauge the trauma to the mortal's internal organs, not in the dark. "Now shut up so I can concentrate on keeping you from bleeding to death." Much as he would have liked to watch the irritating little pest bleed out on the snow.

John almost laughed - a chuckle got caught in his throat - but the tiny spasm of hilarity sent agony knifing through his side and deep into his stomach and chest. His breath hissed through his teeth. His hands spasmed at the sudden knifing pain. "Does that get you anywhere with Miss Stubborn? Telling her to shut up?"

Against Nuada's will, dark lips quirked a minute fraction at the corners. "I have never tried it. I'm not a fool." There was no help for it; he would have to sacrifice yet another tunic to preserving mortal blood. Quickly stripping it off, leaving only his shirt to protect him from the frigid winter cold, Nuada ripped the tunic into adequate pieces. Folding one into a cloth pad, he pressed it to the ragged wound in John's side before tying it in place.

The stench of the shandymen - straw and rotting flesh and moldy wood, it had to be the scarecrow-like corpse-drinkers - grew stronger with every passing second. Nuada couldn't hear them, couldn't detect them, even with sharp Elven senses, but that didn't mean a thing. They were as silent as ghosts when hunting, and adept at hiding almost in plain sight.

"Can't breathe," John gasped as Nuada tied the makeshift bandage tight. "Seriously...."

"Good," the prince muttered, reaching for the chain around his neck. It snapped with a sharp jerk. Nuada slid the golden ring onto the heart-finger of his right hand, slipping the broken chain into his trouser pocket. He could repair that later. Moonlight glinted off the blood-dark ruby of the golden ring. "Your breath is foul enough as is. I do not wish to smell it more than I have to."

Once the Elven warrior had hoisted the mortal to his feet, moving beneath John's arm to take most of the human's weight, John demanded in a mumbling wheeze, "What does she see in you, anyway? It's not your looks. You look like you're dead."

Firegold eyes scanned the surrounding woods. No shambling darkness against the white to tell him the shandymen were anywhere nearby. But the smell was getting stronger, strong enough now to choke on, and he could hear the crunch-shuffle-rustle of their movements as they came closer and closer, hunting for fresh mortal blood and life-spark.

"You got her with chocolate, didn't you?" John mumbled. "Or was it flowers? She loved those flowers you gave her. And the socks... she's a sucker for silly socks. Gotta admit, I was surprised. Thought that would be beneath your princely dignity, Your Royal Assness. Where the heck are we going?" John tried to shift and something grated in his chest. Darkness flickered across his vision for a moment. "Oh, jeez, lets get out of here. Please. If you're gonna kill me, just do it so I can die already. I think my ribs are broken."

Every warrior's instinct prickled as the sound of shambling steps over ice-crusted snow suddenly stopped. A whisper of battle-lust threaded through Nuada's blood. Shandymen. They could not be slain with blades or arrows, with killing blows or poisonous iron. Only fire would destroy them. And they fed on the blood and lifeforce of humans and, if provoked, other fey creatures. "Broken ribs are the least of your problems, whelp."

The whelp in question spat a mouthful of crimson and grunted, "Shut up, douche bag."

Though not distracted by the human's crude language, Nuada slanted one topaz eye in his lady's twin's direction. The mortal was hideously pale. Fresh blood from his split eyebrow dripped onto his cheek beneath his half-focused eye. "I could leave you to die here, you stupid human boy."

John snorted, then winced at the way this made his temples throb and his chest scream. He didn't dare attempt shaking his head. "No you couldn't. She sent you out here, didn't she? Sent you to find me." When the prince said nothing, John's mouth stretched in a humorless smile. "Play fetch, like a good dog. For once," he added darkly. The fingers of Nuada's free hand twitched with the sudden longing to be wrapped around the mortal's scrawny neck. "You're just trying to get on her good side for some reason. Which means you can't just ditch me. I'm not an idiot."

Nuada shifted the infuriating human who was somehow inexplicably kin to the woman who'd become the light of the his heart and twisted the golden ring sinistral once. "That is a point I am sorely tempted to debate," he growled at the idiot in question. "Be quiet, I need to listen." He turned the ring a second time.

"Dude, can we just-"

"Be quiet or I will break your jaw." If he returned the brat to Dylan a little more damaged than when he'd found him, at least the prince would have a valid excuse - reason, he grumbled to himself, a warrior does not give excuses - to give her. But, somewhat to Nuada's disappointment, the imbecile took the threat seriously and finally grew quiet. Nuada turned the ring a third time just as the shandymen staggered into view.

Scarecrows of rough burlap given life looked nearly the same, except for the eyes and mouth. The mouths of shandymen looked like midnight without stars stitched into the cottage-cheese vileness of corpse flesh. Their eyes burned blue as hot aether, as if some mazarine hellfire smoldered there. That fire only flared to an inferno when those stitched mouths touched the lips of a victim and tasted pure life flowing hot as blood and freely as wine. He had never fought one before - never seen one so close - but the warrior in him pushed to fight now.

"Thhhe kiiing's seeervaaant waaas riiight aaabout thiiis ooone," the lead shandyman groaned, shambling forward. "Frieeends iiin hiiigh plaaaces, yeees."

Nuada froze. His breath stilled in his chest. His heart hammered so loudly he could scarcely hear his own thoughts. The king's servant. The king. The king? Surely not... surely not his father. Not Balor. His father would not have sent such beings after a human, knowing what the corpse-drinkers did to humans. But then... what king?

Could Dylan have been right? Could his father be responsible?

John moaned and slumped against the prince as the last of his strength failed, and Nuada fought against the urge to blister the air with vicious invectives. Instead, the Elven warrior glanced at the ring and, in soft Gaelic, murmured, "So that we might always find each other." He closed his eyes as the shandymen screamed in fury and the spell laid into the rings dragged at him, dragged at the mortal touching him, and wrenched them both through the darkness of the between places toward the small, bright object that held the spell firmly anchored.

.

"Get out of my way, Ruddles," Dylan snapped at the fang-toothed sprite blocking the entryway to the sithen that belonged to Roiben's Night Court. The way itself was open, yawning like a golden gate leading beneath the earth, but the king's diminutive majordomo refused her and the dryad at her side admittance. The Chariot of Annwn was parked at the edge of the park housing the faerie mounds, so the Welsh goblins would be of no help. Besides, they were from another kingdom entirely, and were only coachmen besides. Nothing compared to a king's chamberlain.

But she was a prince's lady. Surely that was something to stand up to the authority wielded by the king's highest ranking servant. Especially when this prince's lady was the particular friend of the Unseelie king's consort.

"Humans have no business in the court of King Roiben Darktithe," the faerie hissed, baring his wicked little teeth in a mocking smile.

Dylan wasn't fooled. She knew that Ruddles didn't particularly care for his king, even after everything Roiben had done to protect the Unseelie fae from their enemies. In fact, the former Elf knight would have probably said his steward hated him. He certainly hated Roiben "slumming," as Kaye put it, since Kaye was one of the solitary common-born fae (and a changeling raised by humans at that), one who held employment as a shopkeeper, whereas Roiben was a former Elf knight from a noble Seelie family who'd won both the faerie crowns of New Jersey. And since Ruddles didn't like Roiben and detested Kaye, he loathed Kaye's human friends as well.

"If Prince Nuada Silverlance arrives to find his lady left out on the doorstep," Lena began, her hands stuffed in her jacket pockets to protect them from the nocturnal bite of winter, "he's going to be royally pissed, if you'll pardon the pun."

"The Exiled One is not welcome in this court," Ruddles hissed. Dylan stiffened.

"Since when?" The mortal demanded. "I spoke to Kaye not even a week ago and was reminded that the Night Court of King Roiben is open to any who can get the stupid gate open. We opened the gate. Sithen's open. I'm here at the invitation of the Unseelie king's consort. Now get out of my way before I whack you with something. Or need I remind you I outweigh you by more than a hundred pounds and I'm three times your size?"

Glittering black eyes narrowed almost to slits. "You would threaten a member of the king's household in his own court, human?"

Oh, crud, she thought, fighting against the throbbing that had been building against her left temple for the last hour while they'd been driving to Jersey. I really don't have the capacity to concentrate on this without killing someone. Or giving Ruddle's tail a good hard yank. The Unseelie chamberlain's tufted, lion-like tail was a wicked temptation just then.

Instead, sucking in a deep breath, letting her exhaustion and fury and fear swell into a scream building in her throat, she yelled at the top of her lungs, "Kaye! Your guard dog won't let me in!"

The wee fae acting as majordomo stared at the mortal for several long seconds as if she had completely lost her mind. When Dylan yelled for Kaye again, loudly enough that the woods echoed with her shout, the steward yelped, "How dare you-"

"Ruddles!" A green-skinned pixie with eyes as black as insect shells and dirty-blond hair limped up the slanted path leading inside the faerie mound. Gossamer wings caught and reflected the light of the winter stars. Dylan didn't have to see the dark green fishnets or black biker jacket with the silver spikes to recognize her former employer and good friend. A second woman, mortal this time, with a short cap of dark auburn hair and dark eyes, a glass sword sheathed at her hip and a staff at her side, stood guard on the pixie's left. "I told you to let these two in when they got here!"

Grumbling savagely under his breath, the wee fae stepped aside for the dryad and the human. Dylan forced herself not to limp as the four women made their way down the sloping earthen path beneath the earth. Only when they'd turned the corner, leaving Ruddles behind, did she lean on Lena a bit. Normally the pain wouldn't have been so bad, with Nuada's soothing magic and her painkillers. Not even after all the abuse her knee had taken today. But a snowstorm was coming - not tonight, but by sunset the next day the world would be shrouded by whirling white flakes. The barometric pressure was playing havoc with her already-exhausted leg.

"Here, Doc," the girl with the sword said, handing Dylan the staff. "Brought this with me in case you needed it."

"Thanks, Val." Dylan leaned her weight on the thick stick of oiled mistletoe wood. "Gift from Ravus?" The other woman nodded. "Cool. Okay, gimme the damage report. How are the children? How's everyone? You look like crap, Kaye."

"Thanks much, girlfriend," the pixie replied sarcastically, but her smile was quick, although it held a faint edge of pain. Kaye certainly looked bad. A welt bruised her cheek nearly midnight green. One large, pointed ear was torn and bloodied at the tip. Scrapes and bruises covered her arms and hands. The little finger of her left hand was in a splint. Part of one wing sported a thin tear crusted with blood the color of palest jade. "I'm mostly fine. Peri's mostly fine. Bean got a knock upside the head that rattled his little brains, and Kate got the crap scared out of her and broke her arm when someone kicked her, but that's all. Jared and Simon are fine; Ravus took them home a little bit ago. Thimbletack will look after them. It's your kids that got the worst of it."

Lena leapt forward to grab Kaye's sleeve. "Tsu's'di! Is he okay?"

"He's the worst off," Val said before Kaye could even attempt to soften the blow. Lena made a sound that was almost a whimper. Dylan took her hand and squeezed it gently. "The healers aren't sure if he'll make it," the other human woman added. Dylan focused on putting one foot in front of the other and not letting go of Lena, who fairly vibrated with the need to rush down the corridor to wherever the healers were keeping the ewah youth that had fallen saving her life. "He's got more than a dozen broken ribs. Fractured skull. His arm's broken in more than four places. Some of the bones in his tail are cracked, too. Got a collapsed lung or something. There's internal bleeding, Roiben's healers said. They're still with him.

"Your little ones are hurt, too. The girl's got a few broken fingers and a busted lip. She's cut up a bit from the dullahans' whips. The little boy's got some bruises, a broken arm, and some cracked ribs. Peri said the things that attacked seemed to be focused mostly on your three kids. They're both asking for you and His Highness, Prince Nuada."

Dylan had to fight down the urge to take off running. For one thing, she didn't know where the children were. She'd never actually been inside Roiben's sithen before. And for another, her leg wasn't up to much in the way of racing off in whatever direction at the moment.

But in that moment every nerve sparked to life and she became increasingly aware of every little thing in the corridor - the drip of water from the roots in the earthen walls, the soft thud of everyone's feet and her walking stick, the barely perceptible swirl of air against her skin. As if every part of her had come alive, searching in its own way to discover where her children could be.

"I need to see them, Kaye," Dylan said softly, though her voice held the quiet unyielding strength of mountains. "Immediately."

.

The human was growing heavy.

Nuada muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath as he half-dragged John into the underground sanctuary. He had not been back here, save twice, since the cold winter night nearly a year ago when he'd laid Dylan on a gurney in front of a mortal hospital. Now the Elf prince laid the human male on the narrow bed for a brief moment to deal with what needed to happen next.

The three rings he had made held transportation spells, old magic that took serious concentration to instill in any object, though metal and stone were far easier than something more changeable, like wood or water or flame. These particular spells were often anchored to a central object - in this case, one of Nuada's most prized possessions, which he had stored in the healing sanctuary because it, unlike his many havens and lairs, couldn't be accessed except through this spell or through the golem-guarded entryway.

"Am I dead yet?" John mumbled.

If only, Nuada grumbled silently as he checked the human's condition once more. Pupils still unevenly dilated; skin clammy from loss of blood; breathing labored, though lacking the glottal rasp of a punctured lung. Although the wretch did seem to be more alert. The Elven warrior supposed, since he was trying to keep the mortal alive, that this was a good thing.

"Not yet," the Elf muttered, going to the table where the spell-anchor nestled in its little ebony box. "I could fix that for you if you wish."

Gently pressing the catch on the box, Nuada flipped up the lid and looked down at the small object resting on blue velvet. Magic hummed against the ensorcelled wards placed around the box. Glittered faintly in translucent golden smears along the item's edges.

A perfect and perfectly preserved roseate Japanese peony. A symbol, in Japan and Onibi, of honor and bravery. Dylan's first gift to him.

"I know how you got her," the mortal wheezed. Firegold eyes slanted toward John's recumbent form. The human's mouth twitched into a pained but mocking half-smile. "It was your sense of humor, wasn't it? A woman needs a man who can make her laugh."

"Why," the Elven warrior demanded with a flash of fire, "do you harangue me, human?"

John studied the pointy-eared hobgoblin that had somehow won his sister's heart. Through the slipping sliding haze of blood loss and concussion, the federal agent wondered why the prince was asking. It wasn't like he actually cared about John's opinion of him. Still, if he was going to die tonight, the mortal decided he better remind the fae royal that he, at least, knew exactly what Nuada was capable of when provoked.

"You ripped out my sister's heart," he mumbled, struggling to stay afloat above the sticky sleepiness that beckoned him. "She's done everything for you and you ripped out her heart and left her bleeding to death that night. So you got her some nifty stuff to make her happy again. So what? You expect me to be okay with it just because you tried to buy her off?"

Nuada said nothing to this. Only activated the spell with a simple word in the Old Tongue - in simple English, "find" - and redirected the glittering threads of magic so that when he used the ring to find Dylan, it would take him not to her directly, but close. He had no idea where exactly she might be: still in the racing Chariot, asleep in a guest room in Roiben's sithen, dealing with hysterical children. If the carriage, aiming directly for her could kill him and John both. And if she were safe within the sithen, Nuada did not wish to cause a scene, especially since he would have John with him. Dylan did not need to see her twin, bruised and battered and nearly white from the loss of blood. Not after everything else that had happened.

"Why do you keep bothering her?" John demanded. "Just tell me that, Your Royal Assness. Why are you still playing games with her?"

The Elf prince refused to let Dylan's brother's words penetrate beyond the shield of his honor and determination to get this finished with as quickly as possible so he could get back to his lady and not have to deal with the slandering idiot again.

The brother in question didn't press the prince again. He was busy focusing on something else. He found the pain in his side... not fading, exactly. Easing a bit. He felt less likely to slip off into dark sleep that would then drown him. Felt stronger, and breathing didn't send darts of red-hot pain lancing deep into his chest and side. Focusing became a little easier, too. And this bed was really comfortable....

Which was why he groaned, "Cripes, I hate you," when Nuada pulled him none-too-gently upright and slid under his arm again, forcing him to attain his feet. "Why are you doing this to me? You're just going to kill me anyway." John mumbled, words still slurring a bit. "I know you want me dead."

"I do not wish you dead," the prince growled, twisting the ring on his finger again. A soft warmth shivered across his palm and along each finger before settling around the golden band. "Much as your continued breathing-status irks me." He turned it round a second time.

"What can I say? I'm irksome," John replied. "And you so want me dead. Don't be shy - admit it."

Nuada turned the ring the final time. Then he looked at John for a moment before saying softly, "If you die, it will break her heart. I have broken her heart before, though I did not wish to do it. I will make amends to her as long as I must. But if I let you die, you who are her world, she would never forgive me your life. And I would never forgive myself her heartbreak. So no, you stupid, worthless, spineless, heartless human fool, I do not wish you dead." And then, in Old Gaelic, he spoke the words that would bring him to wherever Dylan happened to be.

.

It took everything she had not to burst into tears when A'du'ladi, bruised and tired and with his poor little arm in a sling tight to his narrow chest, looked up from watching his little sister sleep and met her eyes with his own wide, hopeful gaze. Without a word the ewah child got up from the chair in the waiting chamber outside the healing rooms and ran to Dylan, throwing his good arm around her waist and pressing his face against her stomach.

"A'ge'lv," he whispered. His hand fisted in the skirt of her dress. He pressed closer, voice trembling as he whispered over and over, "A'ge'lv, A'ge'lv."

"I'm here," she crooned, sliding her free arm around his narrow shoulders. Those shoulders shook as he began to cry quietly into her skirt. "I'm here now, it's all right, everything will be all right." She stroked her fingers through the wild tufty mane that served the boy for hair. "My brave boy, it's all right now."

They sat together in the chair that had been too big for one little cougar boy all alone, but was just the right size for a human woman and a little boy. Despite the servants of Roiben's sithen giving her sidewise glances, she let A'du curl up on her lap and lay his head on her shoulder, his head tucked beneath her chin as she lightly rubbed his back in soothing circles and studied 'Sa'ti, who was asleep on a chaise lounge beside the chair. A'du's tears were silent as they dampened his fur. Only his arm wrapped tightly around her neck told Dylan exactly how frightened he'd been without her and Nuada there. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and held him to her, careful of his bruises and only half-healed ribs.

After a long while and a lot of exhausted weeping, the boy seemed to drift off, and the mortal did too, floating in that exhausted haze between sleeping and waking. Lena fell asleep in the chair opposite and a few feet away from theirs. Her green-streaked dark hair tumbled around her face, hiding the tear-stains on her cheeks and her tear-spiked lashes. Every so often, she would whisper Tsu's'di's name in her sleep. Somehow, Dylan was certain the dryad was reliving the attack in her dreams.

Dylan woke at the lightest touch against her shoulder. Bright turquoise eyes found hers, and 'Sa'ti climbed into Dylan's lap as well and laid her head against her mistress's other shoulder. Dylan kissed 'Sa'ti's forehead and asked her quietly if she was okay.

"I guess so," she mumbled, scrubbing at her tear-spiked facial fur. Dylan saw that three of the fingers on the hand she didn't use had been splinted. A sizzle of anger simmered beneath her skin. She forced it down when 'Sa'ti's whiskers drooped and the cougar cub asked timidly, "Where's the prince?"

"He'll be here soon," Dylan murmured, rubbing the child's back. "Don't worry."

"What's going to happen to Tsu's'di?" The little girl's eyes were saucer-wide when she asked in a tremulous voice, "Is he going to die?"

Dylan opened her mouth as her heart constricted in her chest. Closed her mouth again. What to say? How did one comfort a scared little girl without lying to her? Saying the youth would definitely be fine, when last she'd heard he'd been in critical condition, was out of the question. Because what if Tsu's'di did die? After Dylan had told his baby sister that he would be all right?

Finally the mortal said in a voice as gentle as a lullaby, "The healers are with him now. They'll do everything they can to make sure he survives."

"Tsu's'di can't die," 'Sa'ti whispered. She sniffled back a few tears. "We just had his birthday last month. And Lena really likes him. If he dies, she'll be sad. And A'du'la'di will be sad. You and the prince will be sad. And I'll be sad...."

Then the cougar cub began to cry in earnest, the soft heartwrenching tears of a despairing child. Dylan wrapped her arms around the girl and did her best to comfort her, wishing all the time for her prince.

.

In another healing room, Nuada helped the Unseelie fae lay Dylan's brother on a bed to get a better look at the injured mortal. Just as Nuada was moving away, John grabbed his sleeve and tugged. The Elf prince shot the human a withering look. "What?"

"If... I... if...." John swallowed hard as one of the healers probed his more-than-likely broken ribs. When he could speak, he gasped out, "Tell her I love her. Please."

Nuada was tempted to refuse. Tempted, in fact, to twitch out of the whelp's grasp and walk away without a word so he could find a place to scrub off the caked-on human blood making the Elf's skin itch. But the mortal was gazing up at him beseechingly with slightly cloudy eyes. The fae warrior narrowed his own eyes and half-snarled, "I will tell her. But if you die, you feckless idiot, I will find someone to raise your corpse from the dead so I may thrash you."

John snorted, winced. "Awww. Didn't know you cared."

If the prince ground his teeth any harder, he was certain to crack a molar. "Shut up."

The Elven warrior left the human to Roiben's healers and stepped back out into the waiting room attached to this particular healing chamber. A tall, broad-shouldered, silver-haired Elf in fine gray silks and black leather looked up from where he'd been sitting near the door. Mercurial eyes found Nuada's. Both men inclined their heads to each other. Since they were old acquaintances, and since this was not yet a formal meeting, certain formalities could be ignored. The gray-eyed Elf rose to his feet and approached the prince.

"Silverlance," he said with warmth, extending an arm.

Nuada clasped it and allowed his mouth to quirk in a bit of a smile as he replied, "Darktithe."

Roiben had not changed much at all since becoming king. He was still taller than the prince by a good two inches. He still retained what Bethmooran coloring he'd possessed during the war, even after centuries in the Scottish Seelie and Unseelie courts, where the magic of the courts could often change a fae. His eyes were still as silver as the blade of Nuada's lance; he and his sister Ethine both got their eyes from their father, a Seelie sidhe. Their mother, a noblewoman of Bethmoora, had been a friend and lady-in-waiting to Cethlenn. Roiben, however, had been born after Cethlenn's death. He and Nuada had not known each other except by name until the wars against the humans.

No, Roiben had not changed much at all, save in his court status. Only two things struck the prince as different about the former Elf knight: the faint, shallow lines at the corners of his eyes, a signature of the burden of kingship; and a bracelet around his left wrist, a thin green braid wrapped and cradled by elegant silver wire. The craftsmanship was not poor, but clearly amateurish. Why would a king wear such an object?

The Unseelie Elf noticed the direction of Nuada's gaze and glanced down at his wrist. His expression softened for a moment. "Ah. A token from my lady for my coronation some winters ago. My most prized possession. Kaye made it herself." Then the king's expression hardened and he found Nuada's eyes again. "Speaking of my consort, you and I need have words, Silverlance. Come with me."

In a guest chamber, Nuada stripped off his blood-soaked shirt and weapons to scrub the drying crimson from his skin. Roiben gazed impassively out a window that showcased an ensorcelled view of the park above the sithen. After a long silence the king finally spoke.

"An attack was made by four dullahan on Our consort and her kinswoman this night." Every word could have been carved from ice. The prince continued to clean off the human blood, but each and every nerve was on full alert. Roiben would not attack him... at the moment. His honor - and the driving need to act a better sovereign than Nicnevin, the previous Unseelie monarch - would prevent it. But the Elf prince knew that the king's continued goodwill hinged on this conversation. "Included in the attack was a sidhe noblewoman of Our court and her young son, as well as the young kinsmen of one of Our royal guards. We are curious as to your thoughts on the subject."

Nuada did not speak until the last of the bloodstains had been cleaned away. Then, as he reached for the ice-blue silk shirt one of the servants had laid out for him, the prince said in a carefully measured tone, "We believe the attack was meant for the ewah children in service to Us specifically, and that any others harmed were merely collateral damage."

Cool silver eyes locked with feral gold. "Why do you believe this?"

The Elven warrior blew out an exasperated breath and dragged on a silvery-gray tunic before tying the blue sash. "You'll hear about this soon enough anyway, I suppose. Earlier this afternoon, a band of dipsa serpents attempted to assassinate my lady and I. We returned home to find that our servants had been attacked as well. The mortal I arrived with is my lady's twin brother; he, too, was attacked by fae. I find it highly unlikely that all three attacks are merely coincidence."

"A sound presumption, and one I would agree with," Roiben muttered, turning back to the glamored view out the window. His fingers pressed into his folded arms hard enough to whiten his knuckles. "But I would ask you this, Silverlance, if your vows of honor and loyalty do not prevent you from answering - is Bethmoora planning on making a move against either of my courts?"

"Absolutely not," Nuada replied without hesitation. He began rearming himself. "My father has no reason to attack one of our allies, especially one ruled by a friend of mine and a kinsman of one of my mother's dearest friends." When Roiben turned to speak, the prince added, "I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that if any in Bethmoora plan to move against the Night or Bright courts of New Jersey, I do not know of it. If I did, I would tell you."

Roiben's eyes narrowed to icy slits. "Would you?"

"We fought in the wars together. We were friends and brothers-in-arms once. You have saved my life in battle many times, as I have saved yours. I once paid court to Ethine, your sister. I am not like those traitors from the Bright Court, who turned against you when you took the Unseelie crown. I know what it is to be betrayed by some of your oldest friends. So I say again, if I knew of any such plotting from my kingdom, I would tell you, Roiben."

"And if King Balor One-Arm ordered you not to speak of such a thing?"

"Then I would refrain from speaking of it. I would not lie to you." Nuada pulled back his hair in a horsetail and folded his arms. "Do you think this was a two-pronged attack? An attempt on both your lady and mine? To perhaps set our kingdoms against each other?"

"Perhaps," the king muttered. "We'll have to look into it. Until then, I would assume you wish to see your lady. I know I want to see mine again. And the children have been asking for you."

So Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance and King Roiben Darktithe went to find their ladies.

.

Roiben found Kaye sitting in a chair, young Kate curled up in her lap fast asleep. The pixie's black eyes lifted to the king's. Roiben went to her and knelt, taking one of her slender, green hands in his. His other hand came to rest upon the sleeping child's head.

Nuada ignored the king and his consort in exchange for finding Dylan leaning back against a chaise lounge, 'Sa'ti and A'du'la'di in her lap. The cougar boy slept fitfully, his fingers clenching and unclenching around the collar of the mortal's dress. 'Sa'ti sniffled and kept her face against Dylan's shoulder. Some of the blistering anger and unease since discovering the children were missing began to dissipate as Nuada looked them over. They were both alive. Exhausted, to be sure, and the worse for wear, but alive.

Dylan, the Elf prince realized with weary surprise, looked exhausted as well. Her face was pale, dark circled shadowed beneath her eyes, and her eyes were dull with fatigue. A'du'la'di looked as if he had ended up on the crueler end of a beating. 'Sa'ti looked little better. Nuada's hands clenched as fury pounded through his veins in time with his heart. Two children hurt and emotionally fragile, another practically knocking on death's door, and his lady so tired and worn from it all....

If his father was responsible, then Balor would pay for this. For all of it. He loved his father. Respected what he had once been. Was loyal and would remain loyal to him until death. Would obey any command the king gave him. But not if the cost was the lives of his lady and the innocent children who had sworn their loyalty to him and Dylan.

He forced the rage away. Now was not the time for anger. Now was the time for comfort and gentility. His truelove and the children who had become so dear to her didn't need to feel the bite of his fury. So Nuada forced himself to be calm, then went and knelt in front of Dylan's chair.

How he wanted to draw her to her feet and hold her close, to offer her comfort when she needed it so much. How he wanted to take her and the children far away from the danger that had sprung up around them in the last day. If he'd had the courage to be a coward, he'd have done it. Taken her and her little family and run. Instead, he laid his hands on Dylan's knees. Let the weight and warmth of his touch rouse her to his presence.

Nuada's chest tightened until it ached when her weary eyes slowly focused on him and then so many emotions flashed across her face - relief and love, flickering hope, a silent plea for help, and sudden terror when she managed to drag out the memory of what she'd asked the Elven warrior to do. Her lips formed the single syllable of her brother's name. Her eyes pled with him for something other than news that would shatter her completely. She wanted to reach for him, throw her arms around him, and yet in that instant was afraid that if she did, somehow the truth about her brother would fly from his mind to hers with a touch and she would break.

'Sa'ti had no such conflicts. She merely sniffled, stared at him for a moment, then threw her arms around his neck and began to cry in earnest. Nuada stiffened, then forced himself to relax and gently patted her back. The little girl's grip tightened to the point of almost strangling him. He managed to loosen her hold a little, so that his breath came in more than a wheeze.

The Elf prince glanced at Dylan. The mortal blinked slowly, clearly struggling to focus, and then her gaze dropped to the sobbing little girl before meeting Nuada's eyes. Can you handle her? His lady seemed to ask. The answer was, most assuredly, No. What did he know to do with a crying girl-child? But Dylan looked so tired....

'Sa'ti's sobs soon woke A'du and Lena. The ewah boy looked at Nuada and his lower lip began to quiver ominously. Nuada bit back a sigh and simply extended the arm not currently enfolding 'Sa'ti toward the other cougar child. A'du scootched across Dylan's lap until he could lay his head on the Elf prince's shoulder and slide his unbroken arm around Nuada's neck. Dylan reached out and grasped Nuada's hand, gripping his fingers as the last vestiges of tension drained from her exhausted body. That simple touch was enough to soothe away the last of the Elven warrior's unease, and enough to rekindle his anger.

They - these attackers, these pawns of his unknown enemies - had dared to hurt his lady's little girl. Dared to frighten her. Had hurt the boy that had sworn himself to Nuada's lady, as well, and shattered what sense of safety the two children had possessed. Terrified Dylan, who had feared for the children. And as for Tsu's'di, so close to death that the healers were still with him, Nuada did not want to think what that loss would do to his lady.

But everything was all right now. Or would be. He had to believe that; had to hold onto that. Both the younger cubs would heal swiftly. He must focus on that, and not the fact that Tsu's'di fought for his life in the healing chamber. Nuada closed his eyes and let the children hug him tightly as 'Sa'ti's sobs dwindled away. If they had been seriously hurt like their brother... or worse, if their attackers had succeeded and they'd been killed... they were only children....

For the briefest instant, memory rose up like a ravenous monster out of the dark, and Nuada remembered -

- ransacked villages and decimated towns,
corpses strewn about
like so much garbage
the stench of slaughter choking the air
a haze of ash drifting down like black snow
survivors lamenting the dead
tears and blood soaking the earth
too late, always a moment too late
and some of the dead were so small
infants, children.... -

A press of fingers against his ripped him from the brutal memories of long-ago war. Nuada opened his eyes to see Dylan, see the tired concern on her face and something in her eyes that smoothed down the jagged edges of his flashback. He gripped her hand and fought to ground himself in the present. Fought to focus on the matter at hand, and the problem it represented.

How could it possibly be his father? It made no sense; his father would never harm children! Yet the shandymen had said "the king's servant." And it would be too much of a coincidence that the corpse-drinkers had attacked John, at someone else's bidding, the same day the children had been attacked and someone had tried to kill him and Dylan. Odds dictated all three of the attacks were orchestrated by the same person. Which meant odds dictated the king who'd sent the shandymen had also sent the dipsa after the Elf prince and his lady in the royal forest of Bethmoora. What king, other than Balor, had known they would be there?

He couldn't be certain that his father was behind this, but he could not be certain the One-Armed King was not the orchestrator, either. Though Roiben suspected that Lady Kaye was a possible motive for the attack, the Elf prince doubted it. And he had to take Dylan and her household into this dark tangle of politics and danger? They were already weak, already hurt, already off-balance from the attacks. And 'Sa'ti and A'du were only children. Tsu's'di was a boy, yet. And Dylan... how to keep her safe?

A second guard dog for my lady, Nuada thought tiredly. His exhaustion faded a bit when he caught a glimpse of the soft look on Dylan's face, one that sent warmth caressing his heart and slipping whispers of golden heat down his spine. And a hound each for the children. Another pair of bodyguards to work with Tsu's'di when he recovers. And thank the stars Wink will be with us when we return to Faerie. I do not know what I would do otherwise.

Apprehension shivered through him at the thought. He banished both feeling and thought ruthlessly and focused on the woman and children holding to him. A'du was still shaking, though his tears had turned to quiet sniffles. It was easier, as well, now that 'Sa'ti no longer wept. Dylan held herself as if braced for a killing blow, but did not withdraw from him. In fact, she finally leaned forward and extricated Nuada's tunic and shirt from the cubs' tenacious grips.

Nuada looked first into teary turquoise eyes, then into a sleepy and scared gray gaze. "Better, then?" He asked softly. Both children nodded slowly, then more surely when dark lips curved into an encouraging smile. "Good." Lastly, the Elf prince looked into Dylan's haggard, frightened eyes. "John is with the healers."

Dylan nodded, then braced herself. "How bad was it?"

He hesitated for a fraction of a second and saw the flash of heartbreaking terror in her eyes. Nuada hastened to say, "He was still alive when I left him. He even spoke to me a little. The healers will know better than I how he fares." An answer that neatly sidestepped the question. "Now," the Elf prince said to the two children as footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, "Ravus and his lady are here to take you two to get something to eat. I want you both to go with them. You will be safe with them, but do not leave their sides, do you understand? I need to speak with Lady Dylan alone."

"No!" A'du cried, clutching spasmodically at Nuada's shirt again. The tremors wracking his small frame intensified. "No, don't send us away! Please!"

Nuada opened his mouth to say something to comfort the suddenly frantic boy, but the cougar girl grabbed him next and shoved her face into his chest, shaking her head and whimpering, "We don't wanna go, we don't wanna go. Don't make us."

With Dylan's help, he managed to pry their hands open so he could put a bit of distance between himself and the hysterical children. Their little claws had left snags in the silk of his shirt. His mortal lady managed to calm the children from terrified whimpering to exhausted sniffling again. Firegold eyes met weary blue. Dylan's scarred mouth quirked into a half-exasperated smile. The prince wasn't quite sure how to reassure the cubs, but his lady seemed to know what she was doing. It was one thing to deal with A'du'la'di as a young warrior. Firm footing, there. But Nuada was fairly certain that approach wouldn't work this time.

"Nothing is going to happen," Dylan murmured to the children. She cast a glance toward the entryway as Val and a young ice troll with shaggy black hair stepped into the waiting room with a familiar red-haired sidhe boy at their heels. "Ravus and Val are warriors, too. They'll protect you. No one can hurt you in Roiben's sithen; we have his protection, and you're friends with Kate. It's okay, you guys. And Bean's here, look." At the mention of the sidhe child's name, both 'Sa'ti and Kate, who'd been dozing until that point, perked up. "Why don't you three and Kate go get something to eat, okay?"

"A'ge'lv," A'du protested, snagging his claws in her sleeve. His fur bristled in agitation. "What if the monsters come back and you can't find us?"

"Relax, midgets," the mortal at Ravus's side called to the cubs. She held a tray heaped with sandwiches balanced on one upraised hand and the mistletoe staff she'd loaned to Dylan in the other. "We brought the snacks to you. Now go sit in a corner with your buddies and stuff your adorable faces so Mommy and Daddy can talk."

The Elf prince arched a brow at the human girl's callous insolence. Mommy and Daddy?

"Val," Dylan muttered, not bothering to hide her tired smile as she shoved at her hair with one hand. "Shut up."

"Shut up's a bad word," 'Sa'ti mumbled, scrubbed at her eyes with a loose fist. Bean, A'du'la'di, and Kate all nodded in earnest agreement. The human, Val, smirked and added, "Yeah, Dylan, shut up's a bad word."

"Shut up, Val," the other human retorted defiantly. The human girl laughed, and the mortal woman smiled again. Then, to the ewah children, Dylan said, "His Highness and I will be right here, but we have some grownup stuff to talk about right now, okay? So you guys go over to the chairs with Kate and Bean where Lena and Val are and eat something. You need to eat, since you've had a healing."

Nuada settled beside Dylan on the chaise lounge so recently vacated by the cubs. He simply needed to be near her, after everything. To recapture, even just in some small part, the closeness of their time in the faerie glen. Yearned for it to erase the memories that had resurfaced as the children wept against his shirt.

Instead of dwelling on that, the Elven warrior thought of the kiss they had shared - the many kisses. Sweet and treacherously tempting and full of fire. Thought of her touch at the back of his neck like its own soft kiss and her small hand in his, she had such small hands compared to his own, and the way she had whispered his name in the darkness. Life was not made entirely or even mostly of moments such as those, but when they came only a fool would have been foolish enough not to hold onto them with all his might.

Dylan didn't expect her prince to enfold her in his arms and lay his cheek against her hair. Didn't expect his breath to shudder just a little when he breathed against the dark curls that she could never seem to completely tame. The room was big enough that Val and Ravus the troll could sit with the children and with Lena and still believably offer the prince and his lady some privacy by keeping their backs turned. Dylan was just surprised to think they would need it. She hadn't expected Nuada to seem so... fragile. He was worried, she knew, and angry. So angry. She could somehow feel that rage pulsing like the pain of a wound just under his skin.

Nuada's fingers played idly with the ends of her hair, as if he didn't quite realize or care what he was doing. As if his only aim were to touch her. His other arm was wrapped snug around her waist. His hand was warm against her hip, a gentle and reassuring weight. His pulse beat strong at the base of his throat and she just wanted to sit here in his arms, she was so tired, and so was he, they were both so tired already, and Tsu's'di... Tsu's'di....

"He will be all right, mo duinne," Nuada breathed against her ear, so softly only his lady and the sithen itself might hear. "Your young guard is strong and stubborn. He will not leave his brother and sister, nor the lady he has sworn himself to, without a fight." His lips brushed her temple, a touch of velvet heat against the residual chill in her body. "Both Tsu's'di and John will be well."

"It's bad, Nuada." Her words were so soft as to almost not be there at all. The ache of her fear left her voice raw. "They're both hurt so badly, I... I don't think... I can feel John slipping still and Tsu's'di...."

"Shhhh," he crooned, stroking a hand slowly along her back. Soothing, so soothing. His arm tightened fractionally about her waist. "Do not give up hope, mo mhuire." He pressed his face against the silk of her hair and murmured, "Have you prayed for them?"

He had never heard her sound so defeated as when she whispered, "Yes. It's all I can do."

"That is more than most are willing to do," the prince replied, and kissed the top of her head. "If the gods deem it their time, no amount of self-recrimination or worry will ease that grief or put it off. We can only pray that the Star Kindler will not take your boy - or your brother - from us yet."

And if He does? That was the unspoken question beneath Dylan's shakily indrawn breath. Nuada held her tighter, closer. Wished they were alone, so that he might comfort her properly. Instead, he grasped her fingers and breathed into her mind, sweet as spring breezes and soft as spring sunshine, And if He does, I will comfort you. I will do all in my power to ease your sorrows, mo cridh, my heart. This pain you feel now is my doing already. I can only beg your forgiveness.

You've done nothing that needs forgiveness. Don't be silly. You're upset; unsettled. What's wrong? She asked, brushing her fingertips against Nuada's palm as soft as the flicker of butterfly wings. Is it Tsu's'di, the children... or something else? Was there more trouble? What happened?

He replayed for her what he'd heard from the shandymen. She in turn showed the prince the failed noc attack. Something icy went through the prince, something so cold she literally felt it, frosty enough to give her just a touch of chill where her other hand was laid against his broad chest.

There is too much here that points at my father. He alone knew we would be in the royal forest today. It is too unlikely that all of us would be attacked on the same day by different enemies. Whoever is responsible for the dipsa attack is more than likely responsible for the others. And are there any kings with cause to move against you who know of your brother and know of your connection to me?

No, Dylan murmured silently. Only Roiben knows I have a twin. He'd never hurt me, unless I went absolutely crazy and hurt Kaye or Kate. He'd probably have lots of fun killing me then. But it can't be him; he'd never put either of them in danger. Kaye said the dullahan were focused on our kids, but dullahan hate mortals. Kate's mortal. That's too much of a risk, even if Roiben were desperate. And he would never hurt children. Not after what Nicnevin and Silariel did to him.

Of course, it wouldn't be too hard to find out I have siblings, or about John specifically... but I don't know any king who would feel the need to bother. And dullahan can only be controlled by a fae royal, and I don't know any who are after me. None who would be willing to risk war not only against Bethmoora, but Roiben's two courts as well.

All four attacks point in some way, no matter how round-about, to my father, Nuada muttered. Dylan could feel the tension humming through him as he allowed her to cuddle against him. It makes no sense. If my father were to try and have me killed, he would not do it this way.

Unless he's not trying to have you killed, his lady suggested after a long moment of silence. Unless he's trying to do something else.

Nuada went very, very still. Such as?

Such as break your heart, she said, laying her fingertips along his cheek. A tremor went through him - in reaction to her touch or her words, she wasn't sure. Break you of your defiance. Kill the children, kill me. Kill John just for good measure, I guess. Rip your heart out and leave you weak, maybe. Shatter you.

Nuada shook his head, though her words resonated with something within him. An old fear and a new one. A pain he only felt in her presence when he thought of Balor. If he wanted to cripple me that way, he wouldn't have gone after your brother. You and the children, yes. That would be the most effective method. But he would have attacked Wink, as well, though. Why has Wink not been attacked if this is my father's plan? Or Lorelei? I've known her since she was but a small child. Or Aso? She has been a friend since I was a youth. And Erik? Even Laigdech or Yang.

Are you.... Dylan trailed off, not wanting to voice the sudden worry in her head. But Nuada's eyes latched onto hers and she knew she had to speak. Are you so certain Wink hasn't been attacked? Have you seen him since we got back? Talked to him? Are you sure he's okay?

The stricken look he gave her pierced her to the quick. No, she realized. No, he hadn't seen or spoken to the silver cave troll since returning from the royal forest. Nuada hadn't really entertained the idea that someone could have attacked Wink, because if such a thing had occurred, wouldn't Wink be here now to tell him of it? Unless Wink couldn't get to his prince for some reason. And there were only two reasons Dylan could think of: either he was too badly hurt to come, or he was dead.

My father, Nuada began, but had to stop for a moment as some emotion - horror? hope? fear? - choked him and stuttered his thoughts. My father would never kill Wink. Hurt him, maybe. Imprison him, certainly. But for this plan you're imagining to work, Wink would have to be slain and my father would never do that to the warrior that avenged my mother's death. For that matter, my father would never harm children, or humans. Those closest to me are the ones safest from him. It could not have been him. He would never....

I trust your judgment, his lady said softly. She brushed her fingers along the line of his jaw, the underside of his chin. Her touch was like silk against his skin, soothing the rawness that had plagued him most of the night. If you doubt the truth of my suggestion, then I'm wrong. Becan was right - I trust you, Nuada. I will always trust you. Now, she said, smoothly changing tack, can you tell me a little more about John? About what happened?

And he did, telling her what he'd gleaned of the feckless boy's injuries from the brief moments with her brother. But he knew, though she tried to hide it, that his lady still feared that Balor had been the one behind all of this.

If she was wrong, then who could it have been? He had no enemies that he knew of with this kind of reach and power.

And if she was right... what would become of them when they returned to Findias?

"Kaye!" At the sound of the pixie's name, Dylan's head whipped around and her eyes widened. Rushing through the entryway, Ruddles at their heels, came a youth and a mortal man who might have been a few years older than John. The youth had shaggy brown hair that fell into his bespectacled eyes and the most startlingly pale skin Nuada had ever seen on a mortal. A strange mark, hidden by his hair, marred his brow. He looked to be about sixteen years old. At his side, the mortal adult scanned the assembled fae and focused on the pixie woman sitting with Roiben. "Kaye, I gotta talk to you."

"Humans are not allowed in-" Ruddles began, but was interrupted by Kaye.

"Neil!" The pixie got to her feet and moved to greet the older human. "What are you doing here? It's the middle of the night."

Nuada paid no attention to the man speaking with the pixie, however. His attention was diverted to the youth, who fidgeted and shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants to avoid meeting anyone's eye. There was something about him... a scent that was off. An odor that should not cling to mortals. The Elf focused on trying to pick it out. Something coppery, hot and metallic, with a touch of salt tang. And that pale skin seemed off as well. The thin veins were a little too dark against all that paleness....

Feral eyes widened. Not a human at all. A vampire. A vampire? In a faerie sithen?

"Simon! Neil!" Dylan pushed to her feet and went to the vampire. Nuada was at her side in an instant. Did she not know the boy wasn't human? But no, perhaps she did know. For instead of embracing the youth as Nuada had expected - as she moved to do - Dylan pulled back almost at the last moment and studied him. "You haven't been eating, have you?"

The boy shrugged. "Don't worry about it, Doc. Look, Neil and I came to tell you something. Well, to tell Kaye, because we knew she was here, but we weren't sure when you'd get here or not. You're hooked up with some Elf prince, right?"

Dylan jerked a thumb at Nuada. "Aforesaid Elf prince. Prince Nuada, this is Simon Lewis. Simon, this is my esteemed lord, His Highness Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance."

The vampire's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the Elf prince at Dylan's side. "Oh. Um... nice to meet you, Your Highness." He started to stretch out his hand, as if to offer it for the fae to shake, but seemed to think better of it and merely tucked it back into his pocket. Instead he offered a short bow from the waist.

"And that gentleman over there," Dylan added, pointing, "is one of Kaye's particular friends and one of Roiben's closest allies, as well as a friend of my brother's and Ravus the Apothecary, Master Cornelius Stone. Neil," she called, and the mortal broke off in his rapid whispered dialogue with the green-skinned faerie woman. "What's going on? What's the trouble?"

"Not to sound like a high school sitcom or anything," the human male replied, "but Simon said that Clary said that Luis said that there was an attack in the East Village at this thing called Midnight Fest, and that the faerie rumor mill said that the target of this attack was a silver cave troll with a bronze arm. Luis said that he'd heard from Ravus that the Elf prince that you were hooked up with had a friend by that description and that someone needed to get word to you. I figured the best way to do that quickly was to get word to Kaye and then Ruddles said you were here but he wouldn't let us in so Simon said that if he didn't get out of the way, our little vampire would sink some fang into him."

Dylan had taken in everything the other human had said, but Nuada had only focused on one thing. The target of this attack was a silver cave troll with a bronze arm. Wink. Shades of Annwn, Wink. Why had the troll not come to report the attack himself? Unless....

"Was the attack successful? What did the attackers look like?" Nuada bit out from between clenched teeth. The mortal, Cornelius, shrugged his shoulders and gestured helplessly. Idiot human. Thrice-cursed empty-hearted idiot mortal vermin. These were the only vital pieces of information the Elf prince lacked, and the human did not have them? What sort of ally could this creature have possibly made for Roiben?

Curse it, curse it, curse it! First Dylan, then the children, and now Wink. Unbidden, his own words and Dylan's came back to him. If he wanted to cripple me that way... he would have attacked Wink, as well.

Are you so certain Wink hasn't been attacked? Are you sure he's okay?

"Luis also said there was a girl with the troll," Simon added, watching Dylan watch her prince. Something like puzzlement flickered across the Elf's face before being replaced by realization. "A pale faerie woman with long black hair. She was attacked too."

"Lorelei," Nuada murmured absently. His fingers curled into a fist. "Shades...."

Lorelei. Why would someone attack Lorelei to get to Nuada? She was only... an old friend, he'd said. From his exile. A former lover? A current lover (or rather, one he had only recently parted ways with, once he realized he loved a human woman instead)? Dylan pushed away the twinge that pricked her at the thought and focused on the sudden burning fury in Nuada's eyes.

"I think," the mortal woman murmured, and firegold eyes slashed to her, "that we should send messages to whomever you think could be a target. Aso, you mentioned, and Erik. Laigdech. Yang. Anyone else?"

"Only one off the top of my head," he replied, flicking a glance at Roiben. "Lady Polunochnaya iz Lysaya Gora. She is lady-in-waiting to my sister, and an old friend. Can you handle it, mo duinne? I am certain His Majesty would be so kind as to provide us messengers. I must go and see what exactly has happened at Midnight Fest. If Wink is hurt, he may need my help."

"I will send two of my knights with you," Roiben said. "Wink Ironfist is known to me, even beyond his service to you, Prince Nuada. The world would be poorer for the loss of such an honorable and savage fighter."

"I'll come," the vampire offered, surprising Nuada. "I need to hit the East Village anyway. I might as well go be useful to somebody." Nuada opened his mouth to protest - the boy was a vampire, yes, but all vampires had once been human - and Simon added, "And this way I can scout it for the local shadowhunter enclave." The Elf prince inclined his head the slightest fraction. A vampire with connections, then, if he dared claim to represent the supernatural demon hunters that Dylan herself knew so well.

After Roiben sent for his pair of knights and the Elf prince gave Dylan instructions on what to do with their messages, 'Sa'ti and A'du slowly approached their lady's prince. "Your Highness," the cougar boy murmured. Nuada glanced over and canted his head. A'du swallowed and came a step nearer. "Are you leaving?" The Elven warrior nodded. The boy's mouth trembled for a moment. Then he flattened his ears and took a swipe at his face with one hand. His tail fluffed out to twice its size. "Okay. We were talking, and um...."

"We?" Nuada echoed, arching a brow. "Who is 'we?'"

"Um... Bean, 'Sa'ti, Kate and me. And we were thinking, sir, that maybe... um... maybe we could come with you."

The Elf prince remembered a moment later to close his mouth. "I... appreciate the offer, A'du'la'di. It is very brave of you. But that would not be a wise idea."

"But you can't go out there by yourself!" The boy burst out. 'Sa'ti shook her head emphatically. "What if those monsters come after you? Something bad might happen! You might get hurt! You might get killed dead! You might get kidnapped and held for ransom!"

A muffled snort had Nuada's gaze slanting toward Dylan and the other women. Lady Kaye's mouth twitched. Dylan was biting down hard on her lip to hold back any laughter. The mortal girl with the glass sword grinned openly. She said, "Kid, you have clearly never seen the legendary Silverlance in action, or you would so not be worried."

"But what if-"

"Come with me, A'du'la'di," Nuada ordered, and moved to the corridor outside the waiting room. The boy followed at the Elven warrior's heels. The Elf prince took a moment to study the boy, who gazed back at him with equal parts beligerence and worry. Every so often the boy would swipe at the wild tufts of fur that stuck up all over his head - that always stuck up that way, like porcupine quills, no matter how often Dylan attacked them with a wet comb. The Elf recognized the act as what Dylan called composure grooming. A sure sign the child was agitated. How to keep the boy from being so concerned? And how to ensure that he didn't attempt to follow the warriors to the East Village?

An idea blossomed in Nuada's brain. He raked his gaze over the child. Someone, Nuada saw, had given the cub some clean clothes. Firegold eyes took note of a black leather belt with an empty notch to hold a knife-sheath. Rarely did fae children in Roiben's court go unarmed. Good.

Kneeling to put himself at eye-level with the boy, Nuada drew out his sheathed twin-dagger from its spot inside the blue sash at his waist. He offered it to the boy hilt-first. Ears and whiskers pricked forward, A'du took hold of the slender knife. In Nuada's hand, the six-inch blade was relatively small. In A'du'la'di's grip it looked much larger. The Elven warrior grasped the boy by the shoulders and spoke softly but firmly.

"You have experienced a battle today, so I am going to speak to you not as a boy, but as a young warrior. Do you understand?" The child nodded solemnly. "Good. It is better, A'du'la'di, to break your own heart than to break your honor. I want to stay here with Lady Dylan and you and 'Sa'ti and Tsu's'di. I want it very much. But I cannot. Wink is my vassal, sworn to me as you are sworn to my lady. I owe it to him to discover if he needs my help. My honor demands this. Fear for my personal safety cannot stand in the way of the debt I owe to him. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I... I guess so. But why can't I come with you? I won't be in the way! I promise. I'll be really, really good, I swear."

Nuada fought against the smile that wanted to overtake him. Had he been so single-minded as a child? "Because I need you here, to look after your sister and my lady. They're both still very upset about what happened, and worried for your brother. Just as your friend, Bean, cannot come with us because he must look after your friend Kate, you cannot follow because I need you to look after Lady Dylan and 'Sa'ti until I return. I do not dare leave my lady undefended. I need someone I can trust to protect and watch over her. Can I trust you with this?"

"Ooooohhhhh." The cougar boy nodded emphatically, grinning. "Yeah. I mean," he added, sobering, "yes, Your Highness. You can trust me." He looked down at the twin-dagger clutched in his good hand. "But what's this for?"

"It is a symbol of my trust," the prince replied. Extricating it from the child's grip, he fixed it in place at the notch on the boy's belt. "Do not lose it. Do not draw it from the sheath unless you absolutely must, and be careful if you do, for it has no crossguard and you might cut yourself. It is not to be flashed about and shown off to your friends. When I return, I will reclaim it. Now, I am trusting you to be brave and honorable in my absence, and to follow my orders. Do you swear to do so?"

"Yes, Your Highness. I swear."

Nuada gripped one of Adu's shoulders and favored him with a smile. "Good lad." Just at the threshold of the room, the prince looked down at the servant boy. "And A'du'la'di?" Bright gray eyes flicked up to him. "When a warrior disobeys orders, do you know what happens?" The ewah shook his head. "They're strapped for disobedience. Do you understand?"

Eyes wide, the boy nodded solemnly. "Yes, Your Highness. I won't disobey. I promise."

"Good. Now see to your sister."

Dylan looked up from talking to Kaye, who'd been helping her figure out who to send with what message, seeking Nuada's eyes as Simon and Roiben's two knights - one in armor that reminded her of tree bark; him she knew as Meliorn, a distant acquaintance of Clary's. She did not know the other, with his long waterfall of wine-red hair and cold gaze, so dismissive when it flicked over the mortal and the pixie - gathered at the entryway.

She managed to catch Nuada's eye. He inclined his head almost imperceptibly. Dylan nodded to him. It was one thing for him to hold her while only children were there to bear witness, when Val and Ravus kept their backs turned and Roiben was so caught up with his own truelove. It was another for him to act anything but the cold and deadly Silverlance in the presence of other mortals and strange fae who may or may not have been true allies. Roiben rarely trusted those of either of his courts; Nuada certainly did not. Yet he had to leave Dylan here....

Well, Roiben would be within the sithen walls. Lady Kaye and Ravus, young but deadly strong as all trolls were, would be with Dylan. She bore Darktithe's protection. She would be safe enough while Nuada sought out news of Wink's whereabouts.

The Elven warrior strode out of the healing room's antechamber, followed by Roiben's two knights and the vampire boy. The simple exchange of nods would be all the farewell he could take from his lady. So he kept his eyes straight ahead and did not speak as Ruddles guided the quartet to the sithen's entryway once more. Yet somehow Nuada could feel Dylan's eyes on his back long after he'd turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.