Chapter 93 - Song of the Caged Bird

Chapter Ninety-Three

Song of the Caged Bird

that is

A Short Tale of a Nightmare, Doubt, Belief, Irish, Music, an Unexpected Guest, a Promise of Clemency, a Duel of Words, Francesca, and a Stumbling Block

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That night, Dylan dreamed. And in her dreams, she could taste Nuada's pain, feel it, just as easily as she could hear it. Hear him, screaming in agony while Bres tortured him…

And Dylan came awake screaming for the first time since coming to Findias. Jolting upright, screams tearing her throat, she felt the mattress dip and found herself wrapped tightly in gentle, comforting arms. Familiar embrace chasing back the nightmares. The rich, masculine scent of wildwoods cleansed the bitter stink of blood from her nose. Shaking, Dylan turned her face into Nuada's shirt and clung to him as sobs ripped out of her. Her prince rocked her, stroking her hair, whispering that she was safe, that everything was all right. Only when she'd cried until her voice had dwindled to almost nothing did she finally lie spent in his arms.

"What happened, sweetheart?" Nuada asked softly, still petting her hair. He sounded shaken. Well, no wonder; she hadn't woken from a nightmare so violently in a long time. "Everything is well. You're safe. Can you tell me what happened?"

"Bres," she whispered. Nuada stiffened. "He was torturing you, he hurt you so badly. I couldn't stop him. He…it was horrible, he c-cut out y-your eyes…there was so much blood. You were screaming. And then he...he poisoned me with Branwen's Tears and raped me in your blood. He wouldn't stop, I was screaming and you were screaming and I couldn't help you…"

Nuada shushed her gently, rocking her still. His lips brushed kisses across her forehead, against her hair. He murmured, "It was a nightmare, beloved. It wasn't real. I am safe, and so are you. We're safe. Shhh, hush now. You're safe."

"The sleeping potion was supposed to keep me from dreaming," she whispered. "Why didn't it work? Why did I have a nightmare?"

"I don't know; we will speak to Lóegaire and Táebfada about it in the morning after we deal with the assassin. But it is all right now, mo crídh. It's all right."

She let out a ragged sigh. "I don't want to go back to sleep. I don't want to sleep alone in the dark. Please, can I stay with you?" When he hesitated, unsure just what she was asking, she cuddled closer and begged, "Please? I don't want to be alone in the dark."

Carefully the prince scooped her into his arms and hefted her, holding her against his chest. He'd managed to snatch a handful of hours of sleep before waking to her screams. He doubted he'd be able to find slumber after this. Instead, he carried Dylan out of her bedroom, through his own, and into his study. One of his guards dragged in a sofa; as soon as the guard left, shutting the door behind him, Nuada laid Dylan on the loveseat and covered her with a blanket. He knelt before her and took her hands in his. Cold as ice, they trembled in his grasp.

Before he could speak, Dylan tensed and murmured, "The children! They must've heard me screaming, they must be terrified. I should go—"

"The hounds are with them. Sétanta fetched me when you started to moan in your sleep. I sent him and Eimh to the children just ere you awoke. They've no doubt told them you merely had a nightmare. Tsu's'di and the dogs will take care of them."

She nodded tiredly and shoved tangles of hair from her face. "Thank you."

"It was my privilege. Dylan…you truly fear Bres?" Nuada asked. "You truly fear he might attempt to hurt me? Or you, now that you're under my father's protection and we are betrothed?"

Dylan nodded. She rasped, "He hates me. More than my humanity, he hates me. Personally. Because I've corrupted you or something. He said things…" Nuada made a questioning noise. "He mentioned how, instead of trying to do right by your people, you kept yourself occupied by lifting my skirts and going riding. His words. He called me a filthy whore."

Nuada felt his eyes shift to hot copper. His fingers flexed briefly around Dylan's, but then he forced himself to relax. Giving into rage would help nothing. Instead, he kissed her knuckles. "You are not a whore."

"Why does it bother you so much?" Dylan asked softly; she'd seen the bronze fire of his eyes. "People calling me that?"

He turned his gaze to the fire and didn't answer for a time. Finally, he said, "When you first allied yourself to me…that was the insult my enemies flung at you. Silverlance's whore. You were my ally, my friend, unfailingly loyal to me. I loved you, though I knew it not. I knew you loved me. Shades, I was so angry when you said you couldn't remain at my side. Furious, because the first emotion I felt at your confession was fear, uncertainty—what would I do without you beside me?—followed by a pain that sliced deep and swift as a sword."

"I never meant to hurt you," she protested in a whisper. He kissed the backs of her fingers.

"I know that, a ghrá. I should have known it then. But in my rage I flung words at you like knives, and they broke your heart. I should never have spoken so. I saw what it did to you, though I didn't wish to admit that I could be so cruel as to break your heart that way. Once we reconciled, I decided to put it behind me…but then your brother showed me the truth depth of what I'd done to you with my savage words. He showed me his memories of you after I left. I hurt you more deeply than I'd realized. You were so shattered. I understood then why your brother despised me. I would've killed any man who'd done such to you."

Dylan shook her head. "John shouldn't have shown you that."

Shadowed topaz eyes met hers. "I asked him to. I wanted to understand. And so I saw what such words did to your spirit. I'll let no other hurt you that way. You are not my whore. I love you more than my own life, and I'll not have you or my love for you disdained so." With a gentle hand he smoothed back her hair. "May I confess something?"

She nodded.

"Bres is my friend and ally—or was. We've loved each other as brothers for many centuries. He shares my distrust and hatred for humanity. I understand why he hates you for your race, mo crídh, though I know if I…if I merely showed him, as I showed Zhenjin, he would understand. He would realize you're different from most of the children of Adam."

Most, she thought. Not "the rest of the children of Adam," but "most" of them. Does he realize he's stopped assuming I'm the only good one to be found among humans? But Dylan didn't ask. She merely let Nuada continue.

"But I cannot. It was so difficult on Zhenjin, and the consequences have been more far-reaching than either of us anticipated." Dylan frowned, but didn't interrupt. "So I can only try to convince Bres. Yet you say it is more than just your humanity? That his loathing is personal?" Nuada shook his head. "I know not how to go about attempting to salvage his good opinion. I must, for Nuala's sake, but I know not how."

"Nuada," she whispered, almost pleading, "he's evil. I felt it."

The prince passed a hand over his face. "Dylan…Bres is a good man. Blinded by his hatred, perhaps, but he would never attempt to actually hurt me. Us. If nothing else, it is bad politics. He was merely trying to scare you. Nothing more."

Dylan slid her hands over her eyes and focused on drawing breath after shaky breath. He didn't believe her. There was a monster lurking on the outskirts of her life, waiting to pounce, and Nuada...

"You don't believe me," she whispered. Nuada made a sound, as if he meant to speak, and she half-turned her face into the pillow. "You're supposed to believe me."

Nuada didn't speak for a moment. Finally, he asked, "Your sixth sense tells you this? The…the Spirit, as you say?" Dylan nodded miserably. He sighed. "You must let me look into things. I cannot condemn a friend, a brother, the betrothed of my sister, even with your testimony." Seeing her drawn expression, Nuada squeezed her hands. "Is it not that I don't trust you, Dylan. I do. You must believe that. Please do not be angry."

"Once you stop believing me, no one at court will listen. You're my voice among the fae right now, Nuada. Besides you, only the king will listen if I have a grievance, and we can't afford to trust him right now. I'm not angry; I'm scared."

"I would never let anyone hurt you, mo duinne. I would protect you even from Bres."

It cut him, like a razor's edge slicing across his heart, when Dylan shook her head. A tear rolled down her cheek. "No," she whispered. "You wouldn't, because you won't. You won't listen."

With almost violent swiftness, Nuada surged to his feet and paced to the fireplace. Dylan watched him, wide-eyed, as he savagely stirred the fire. He stared at the flames, his back to her, for several minutes. His shoulders were stiff with some hard emotion, his spine rigid. His fingers drummed on the mantel. Just when Dylan thought she might go crazy from waiting, he turned back to her. The firelight limned him in crimson and orange, turned him to a shadowy silhouette whose expression she couldn't read.

"You doubt me?" Nuada asked tonelessly. Before she could say anything, he half-turned, gripped the mantel, and snarled, "To the thirteen hells with it, then." His head snapped toward her. Amber light made his hair shine like spidersilk. "You have said it, and so it is—Bres is now our enemy. He'll not touch you without facing my sword. Which I will tell him as soon as possible."

"But…but you just said—"

"If I ever give you cause to doubt me," Nuada interrupted, "then I must change whatever it is I've done. So I shall. You say Bres is our enemy; thus he is. I will accept the burden of that truth and bear it. I will look into whether he currently means to move against us over the next few weeks, and I shall speak to my father about quietly breaking his betrothal with my sister. I trust your judgment. What?" He added, alarmed, when Dylan began to cry silently. He moved to her side, asking, "What have I done now? I thought…why do you weep?"

She shook her head, letting it drop to his shoulder when he embraced her. "Nothing," she mumbled through the tears. "It's nothing. Just…I love you. Thank you."

He hadn't realized, he thought, how much Bres had frightened her. He'd seen her terror on the balcony, seen the sick horror her nightmare had left behind, but it hadn't penetrated until now just how truly frightened she was of the Fomorian prince. Why? What had Bres said or done that would leave her like this?

Nuada didn't know, but he intended to find out. And the most expedient way was…

"Dylan…will you show me what happened tonight?" He held out his hand, palm up, a silent invitation to trust, to let him shoulder the fear for a moment. "Will you show me what you felt when Bres spoke to you?"

A hesitation, then Dylan laid her hand in his and opened her mind to him, giving up the unadulterated memory of the confrontation.

The Elven warrior sucked in a breath at the savage cold that clamped down on him. This was what Dylan had felt while speaking to Bres. The same brutal chill she felt around such vile creatures as Westenra and Eamonn. But it couldn't be. Bres couldn't possibly instill such a vicious sensation of pure evil in his truelove as those…animals. And yet…

Nuada had known early on that the warnings Dylan received didn't come from within Dylan herself. The comforting warmth, the shining Presence he'd sensed that dwelt within yet apart from her that very first time he'd walked through her mind—this Presence was what gave Dylan those spot-on warnings of danger and deception. And she trusted this Presence, what the Star Kindler's followers called the Holy Ghost, with her entire heart…as did Nuada, for he felt the truth of it, and it had never yet led them wrong.

And now it revealed a vicious truth—that Bres, one of his oldest friends, was utterly soulless. Revealed him to be an abomination as monstrous as Westenra ever had been. That hard and bitter truth threatened momentarily to steal the strength from Nuada's body. Dylan had been right. Bres…a man he'd loved as a brother…was truly a monster.

The prince gritted his teeth and shored up his resolve. Bres had been his friend, but no longer. Nuada had promised Dylan he would treat Bres as an enemy, and he would. If he faltered, he needed only to remember this terrible icy feeling clutching at his chest, recall the darkness festering beneath Bres's mask.

Besides, the prince of Cíocal had made his persuasion perfectly clear during his conversation with Nuada's truelove. Bres was his ally, his friend, no longer.

What would the prince do about Nuala?

He would deal with that later, after speaking to his father on the subject. Nuala would be…furious? Heartbroken? Nuada didn't know, but it was for the best. Tomorrow he would speak to the king.

In the meantime, Nuada would comfort his betrothed. He enfolded her in his arms, holding her close until finally she stopped trembling. Her head was a warm weight on his shoulder. Idly stroking her back, the prince nuzzled her temple. "It's all right, Dylan," he murmured. "I swear, my love, I won't let him hurt you." Nuada whispered to her in Gaelic for a time, knowing how much she liked it, how much it soothed her. He only paused when she lifted her head from his shoulder.

"I have a question," she mumbled.

"Hmmm?"

"Why don't you have an accent?" She dropped her head back to his shoulder with a sigh. "I mean, you sort-of do. You sound…not quite American. But you don't actually sound Irish. What's up with that?"

Nuada smiled a little. "I learned to mask my accent while in exile. I suppose it's habit, now. Are you curious about how I would sound?"

Dylan straightened, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. He could see she felt a little silly, but she nodded and smiled sheepishly. Nuada grinned.

"Are ye, now?" He asked, making sure his accent came through. Dylan's mouth fell open for a moment, then she giggled, delighted. "An' what might ye be laughin' at, then, lass? Have ye never heard an Irishman a'fore?"

She snuggled up to him, her cheek pressed to his chest, over his heart. Curling her fingers in the collar of his sleep-tunic, she murmured, "Oh, do more. Please? I like it."

"Anythin' fer you, darlin'." He lightly traced the scar that ran from the corner of her eye to beneath her ear, raising goose-flesh on her skin. "D'ye ken just how much I love you, mo duinne? Mah own heart's blood…mah own dear soul…"

Dylan cocked her head. "'D'ye ken.' What's that mean?"

"It means, 'do you know?' D'ye ken how verra much I love you?"

Solemnly, she replied in an attempt at an Irish lilt, "Aye…I ken." Then she couldn't keep a straight face anymore and she laughed. "It sounds silly when I do it."

"Well, ye're no an Elf, ye ken."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? Is that why?"

"Oh, aye," he replied with a smile. "More's the pity of it, ye're just a mortal sassénach wench…but ye're my sassénach wench."

"Sassénach?" Then she remembered that "outlander" was a term used to describe foreigners in Ireland and Scotland. She smiled. "Wench, am I?"

"Darling," he murmured in his normal voice, taking her hand, grinning mischievously. "I meant it as only the highest compliment."

He kissed the back of her hand, then rose to his feet and went to one of the bookshelves lining the walls of his study. Not all the shelves played host to books. Some of his most cherished possessions decorated these shelves. One lay quiet in a golden-wood case on the shelf just behind his desk. On this shelf he also kept a miniature portrait of his mother, a wooden warhorse his father had carved himself for his young son, and several other treasures. It was the golden-wood case he sought, however.

Pulling down the case, he undid the gold latches and lifted the lid. He felt Dylan's eyes on him; felt her curiosity and surprise, when he withdrew from the case a gleaming, well-polished violin. Without looking at her, he turned the pegs, tightened the strings, and drew the bow lightly across the silver strings. The violin sang a hollow, mournful note, perfectly in tune. It had been awhile since he'd played, but surely it was like picking up a sword—muscle-memory would win out.

Now he glanced at Dylan as he set the violin against his shoulder, tucking his chin into the soft cup of the chin-rest, and set the bow ever so softly to the strings.

"Shall I play for you until you fall asleep?"

"I didn't know you played the violin," she murmured.

Nuada offered a negligent shrug. "In my country, in order to be considered a warrior, along with fighting and dancing, riding and hunting, as well as surviving in the wild, a man must also be able to sing, to be at least a passable poet, and to make music. Shall I?"

At her nod, Nuada caressed the silver strings of the violin with the bow and a slow, sweet song crooned into the fire-lit study. The golden glow of the fire turned Nuada's hair to a curtain of amber silk, morphed his strong frame into a swaying shadow. Dylan settled down on the sofa, curled beneath the blanket, and watched her prince play. The song wasn't quite slow enough to lull her to sleep, but it soothed her. She didn't know much about violins, but Nuada played wonderfully—at least, she thought so.

And when that song ended with a final shimmering note, Nuada didn't stop. This time, the slow lullaby did lull Dylan, blanketing her in warmth and a sense of safety. Her eyelids drooped, her entire body went limp, and slowly she drifted toward sleep on the strains of the tender song.

The last thing she said, as the song morphed into a darker, richer, but just as soothing melody, was, "Okay…I admit it. This is better than cake."

As if from far away, she heard Nuada chuckle.

He played until he could be sure she slept, and deeply, then he set the violin back in its case and returned the case to the shelf. Slumping into his desk-chair, Nuada sighed.

He would have to think of something to tell the king…but what to say? He doubted his father would trust in Dylan's sixth sense without more proof than they possessed. And it was a valuable arrow to keep stowed in their quiver; once the king learned of Dylan's gift, the Spirit's warnings and promptings, he would surely guard against it, and they would lose that edge over him. What to tell the king, then?

Dawn found Nuada slumped back in his chair, having fallen asleep some hours before while lost in thought. No nightmares disturbed him; perhaps the mere presence of his truelove kept them away.

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After waking around nine and partaking of a light breakfast—and Nuada reassuring himself that his lady suffered no ill effects from the previous night (though the prince had a crick in his neck)—Dylan and Nuada and their retinue of guards went to the castle dungeons. They met John and Sétanta (acting as escort) at the entrance. An elderly Elven herald waited for them as well, with a scroll written in the king's hand. That was as they'd planned. What neither the prince nor his lady had planned on was Francesca's presence.

"What are you doing here?" Dylan yelped when her sister strode up alongside John.

Francesca folded her arms and gave Dylan a stubborn look. Francesca wore, to Dylan's bafflement, a pair of black jeans, a tight black t-shirt, a black leather jacket, and black knee-boots. Her face was bare of makeup, and her hair had been severely swept back from her face in a tight braid. Holstered on her belt was a canister of Mace, as well as a Taser.

Dylan's eyes widened as she took in her sister's getup. John just wore his typical black slacks, white shirt, black tie, and black suit-jacket, since he needed to look every inch the FBI-guy.

Dylan sputtered, "What…why…John! Why is she here? Why did you bring her?"

John heaved a longsuffering sigh. "She wanted to know where I was going, since today was my day off. I didn't want to tell her, but she weaseled it outta me. She wants in. She made some good points about why she should get to help, so I said she could come."

"You…just…you…what?" Dylan ripped out her scrunchie and raked her hands through her hair. "No, she can't come! You can't be here," she snapped at Francesca. "You're going home right now!"

"No, I'm not," Francesca snapped back. "Not a chance. This jerk tried to kill you? Some freaking psycho tries to kill my baby sister, no way I'm staying home. I wanna piece of the creep. John already deputized me; right now I work for the FBI, so it doesn't screw up this stupid truce or whatever. Deal with it. His Highness will back me up."

Nuada arched an eyebrow. Clad in his standard sable and scarlet, sword at his side, he looked every inch the cold, fae warrior-prince. "Will I?"

"Dylan's my sister. This guy tried to kill her. By right of kinship, I'm owed a part of this."

Dylan's eyes nearly bugged out of her head. "How do you even know about that?"

"The internet," Cesca said brightly. "Once I found out you were gonna be a fairy princess I did some research."

It took a great deal of effort to refrain from smashing her head against the wall repeatedly, but somehow Dylan managed it. Because he was the crown prince, Nuada could have Francesca rousted from the castle and sent back to the mortal realm, but it wouldn't be honorable of him, because the mortal waitress was right. According to fae law, her relationship to Dylan entitled her to be a part of whatever punishment was to be doled out to the human assassin.

Dylan wanted to swear, but instead, she just glanced at Nuada, who looked like he wanted to throttle Francesca himself. He didn't attempt it; only glared at John before jerking his chin toward the door leading to the dungeons.

"Let's go," the prince said coldly.

The dungeons were pretty much what Dylan expected—cold, a bit damp, bare of any amenities. It stank of mold. Flickering torches gave off oily smoke and cast the entire place into sullen orange light and dancing shadows. The only difference between what she'd expected and what she saw was the doors; they weren't iron-lattice that hapless prisoners could reach through to grasp at passersby. Instead, the doors were heavy iron stamped with Gaelic script, with only one small window near the top—uncomfortably similar to the doors of the high-security ward of St. Vincent's Psychiatric Hospital.

At first, the cells they passed were empty. She heard no moans or grumbling, no scuttling of prisoners behind locked doors. There was only the clunk-clunk of the guards' hobnail boots, the soft tread of Nuada and Dylan's leather soles, and the hard click of Francesca's stiletto boots echoing in the long corridors.

They found only two cells occupied, further on in the maze-like warren. Dylan had forgotten that Guardsman Siothrún had been arrested for treason; rather, she hadn't thought about the fact that his arrest meant he'd be down here. His helmet was missing. Francesca barely stifled a scream when she saw him glaring through the small window in the cell door.

Dylan didn't care about Siothrún when she realized who the occupant of the cell beside his must've been. With a gasp, she rushed to the door, peering through the window-like opening at young Guardsman Loén, Siothrún's junior partner and Guardswoman Fionnlagh's younger brother. The young guardsman's four green eyes widened upon seeing the prince's lady. Fionnlagh, who'd accompanied her mortal charge along with the rest of Dylan's retinue of guards, took a single step toward her younger brother's cell.

"Loén!" Dylan cried when she saw him. Loén wore only linen trousers; his grayish skin was streaked with grime and sweat. Dylan saw bruises scattered across his chest. She'd known Loén was suspected of treason because of his ties to Siothrún, but that didn't mean they were allowed to beat the poor thing! He was just a boy, barely older than Tsu's'di and Ailbho, at least physically. Even though it made her leg twinge, Dylan forced herself up onto tiptoe to reach her hand a little further into the cell. "Are you okay?"

"My lady!" Loén gasped. The Butcher Guard who'd been so kind to A'du and 'Sa'ti looked very young and very frightened when he squeezed Dylan's hand. "Have you and His Highness come to release me? Is Fionnlagh with you?"

Behind Dylan, her guardswoman made a strangled sound and curled her hands into fists at her sides. Her partner, Gráinne, laid a gentle hand on her arm.

Nuada's lips thinned and he stepped up to the door. Seeing him, Loén released Dylan and bowed to the prince. Pain flashed across his face when some injury prevented him from bowing as low as courtesy dictated. He hissed in pain. Nuada's eyes narrowed. The Butcher lad hadn't been injured the last time the prince had seen him, and Wink had said Loén hadn't resisted arrest.

Nuada turned to the Butchers guarding Loén's cell. Voice like an arctic wind, he demanded, "What has been done to determine Guardsman Loén's innocence?"

The Butcher pressed his fist to his chest. "Sire, Loén McTadhg has been questioned about Siothrún mac Suibhne's duplicity."

"And has he been found innocent of Siothrún's crimes?"

"The investigation is ongoing, Your Highness, and King Balor has not seen fit to have him released."

Eyes like glittering topaz knives cut to Dylan's face, pale with fury, before focusing once more on Loén. Calculation entered the prince's eyes.

"Leave us," he snapped to the Butchers guarding the door. Exchanging an uneasy look, they obeyed by moving off several paces. Nuada leaned in and murmured, "Have I your loyalty, Loén McTadhg?" The young guard met Nuada's eyes, then bowed his head. Nuada glanced at Dylan. Was he telling the truth? Dylan nodded. The prince turned back to Loen. "Are you loyal to the king? To my royal sister and to my lady?" Loén nodded. Dylan confirmed with a brief nod the young guard couldn't see. "Can you bear to remain in this place for three more days? If you will bear it, I can assure your release by sunset of the third day. Will you do it?"

"Nuada," Dylan hissed, then remembered herself. "Your Highness," she amended. "Why can't we let him out now? We'll go to the king. Our other task can wait."

"No, it can't. What I do now, I do as a prince," he said softly to Dylan. "For your sake, Lady Dylan, to consolidate your power. To protect you. Trust me." To Loén, he added, "Will you do it, Guardsman Loén?"

"To protect Her Ladyship? I will do it," the young guardsman said firmly. "I will do it, and gladly. I can bear it, Sire, if…may I see my sister?"

Before Nuada could say yay or nay, Dylan said, "Absolutely." Turning, she gestured to her guard. "Fionnlagh, you can stay with Loén for a bit if you want. I'll be all right."

"May I?" The usually-stalwart and often sarcastic guardswoman's voice trembled slightly. Dylan felt a sharp stab of sympathy, and had to swallow her anger at the king for leaving Fionnlagh's brother in this pit. "May I stay with him, milady?" Fionnlagh asked. "I've been so worried…may I truly?"

"Of course," Dylan murmured. "We'll pick you up on our way out, all right? And Fionnlagh," Dylan added softly, "we're getting him out of here, I promise."

"Thank you, milady," Fionnlagh whispered. "Thank you."

Dylan didn't want to leave Loén, even though he'd been part of Nuada's retinue and not hers; he was just a kid. But his sister was with him, and she and Nuada had things to do. So she allowed Nuada to lead their group further down the dungeon corridors. Ignoring Francesca's shrill inquiry, "Who the heck was that? What was that?" and John's muttering about disorganization, Dylan drew close to her prince.

"Why are we leaving him there?" She demanded softly. "Why don't we get him out today?"

"Your first official act as a noblewoman will be to beg pardon for Loén of any suspicion of crimes against the Crown," Nuada replied just as softly. "Because there is no hard evidence against him, you can do this—it is a right of any noble to beg clemency for a vassal or a fortunate favorite. The king won't deny you."

"How do you know?"

Nuada sighed. "Because he has no reason to. The only reason Loén is still down here is because my father no doubt forgot about him."

Dylan sputtered, "Forgot about him?"

"Much has happened since and surrounding Loén's arrest, Dylan. My father does have an entire country to govern."

Nuada ignored the derisive noise his lady made and outlined his reasons for having her be the one to beg pardon for the young guard: to show that she had the king's backing; to show the anti-human factions of the court that Dylan cared about the fae, even ones who had no direct ties to her; to make the common folk, who would surely hear about her act of mercy, realize their prince hadn't chosen a heartless shrew scrabbling for rank and power as his bride; and to win Dylan more support at court and among the people.

"Which," the prince added, "was why Loén agreed; he has grown fond of you as he's grown acquainted with you, and this would help you."

She had to admit it was a savvy political move. That didn't mean she liked it. But she could handle it, if Loén could. She just hoped no one hurt the young man any further.

At last the group arrived at the assassin's cell. Four Butchers Dylan didn't recognize guarded the doors. When they saw Nuada, they unsheathed their massive iron claymores. Nuada halted a few paces away, seemingly completely at ease despite the guards' threatening posture. He lifted his hand and gestured the Elven herald forward.

The skinny, bespectacled Elf was at least sixty-thousand years old. His voluminous burgundy robe and golden tabard hung from his bony frame. Dylan had noticed pages and squires wore baggy clothes, too; maybe that was the style. Settling his gold-rimmed spectacles more firmly on the bridge of his narrow nose, the herald cleared his throat and unfolded the scroll.

"Ahem. 'His Royal Majesty, Balor One-Arm of Bethmoora, King of the Golden Hall, Sovereign Lord of all Its provinces, and Master of the Órga Na Corónach, by the authority invested in him as monarch, gives leave for His Royal Highness Prince Nuada Silverlance to remand the human known as Ian Malcolm to mortal custody in the form of the human guardsman, Special Agent John Thaddeus Myers, to thenceforth be dealt with in the manner most fitting his crimes according to mortal laws and customs, in keeping with the laws laid down by the honorable truce between our two peoples. Thus he swears, avows, and affirms. Signed, etc.'"

When the guards seemed unwilling to move out the way, the herald scowled. Dylan bit back a smile. Herald Murtagh had a funny, squeaky voice, and he was so skinny and short that the sight of him glaring at the guards was pretty hilarious. In his mousy voice, the herald snapped, "Well, really. His Majesty signed it and marked it with His Royal Seal, you incompetent ninnies. See for yourselves."

The herald brandished the scroll at the guards, who finally stepped aside. One withdrew a key from around his neck and stabbed it into the lock. With a harsh click and screech of hinges in desperate need of oiling, the heavy door swung open. Nuada stepped in, followed by the three Myers siblings. Uaithne and Ailís followed after; the room wasn't large enough to fit any more people, so the other guards and Herald Murtagh remained in the hall.

John grabbed the door handle and held out his hand for the key. After a moment's hesitation, the guard handed it over. Face stony, John said, "I intend to question him here for now. I would appreciate it if there were no interruptions."

Before the guards could respond, he slammed the door shut. The Butchers guarding the cell glared at the shut door. Humans were so arrogant. Well, if the king had decreed this mortal be allowed to have the assassin, then it would be so. What did they care?

.

The assassin sat on the floor chained to the far wall of the cell. He simply stared at the three humans, two Butchers, and Elven prince as they strode into the room, his dirty face expressionless. Uaithne and Ailís took up positions on either side of the door. Francesca folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the wall, glaring hatefully at the assassin.

Nuada scanned the room. Besides the prisoner, there was a low cot against one wall and two three-legged stools. The prince lounged casually against the wall, as if the meeting were of no import to him. Inside, he was livid. How dare that human wretch look at Dylan as if she were nothing after he'd tried to kill her? Nuada wished he could have a few days with the mortal vermin to teach him better manners, but his father's blasted treaty prevented him.

"Do you have my things?" Dylan asked her brother in a voice as casual and steady as she could make it.

John nodded and handed her the briefcase he'd brought with him from the mortal world. His twin sister opened it to reveal two slender black plastic cases, as well as two clips for John's gun. John also handled Dylan something she rarely used: her surgical kit, a collection of sharpened blades and instruments in a black leather satchel. To use them as an intimidation tool, she pulled out the sterilized white cloth she kept in the bag, and began laying out the half-dozen blades in a neat row across the top of one of the stools. They gleamed like metal teeth against the pristine whiteness of the cloth.

"Torture?" The human assassin murmured, eyeing the blades. "Truly? Where is the so-called honor of the Golden Court and the royal family of Bethmoora? Torturing me is prohibited by the truce."

Those assembled ignored him. While his older sister pulled extra battery-packs for her Taser out of her jacket pocket, and his twin set up her things, John checked his gun to make sure it was loaded before slipping it back into his shoulder-holster. Shrugging out of his suit-jacket, he thanked the female guard with the braid—Ailís, he remembered—when she took it. Loosening his tie, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves.

When Dylan was finished, John came to stand in front of the assassin. He studied the chained human in silence for a long time. The prisoner began to fidget. John glanced at his sister.

"D, I need the other stool," he said. The assassin eyed the other man warily, and Dylan realized their quarry didn't understand English. Interesting. She handed the stool to her brother, who slammed it down in front of him. The prisoner jumped. "D, translate for me."

To the assassin, John said, "Ian Malcolm, you've been remanded to human custody and are under arrest for the assault and attempted first-degree murders of His Royal Highness Prince Nuada Silverlance of Bethmoora, His Imperial Highness Prince Zhenjin Azurefire of Dilong, and Lady Dylan of Central Park, as well as numerous charges of assault and the attempted second-degree murders of…" John rattled off the names of everyone who'd been injured subduing the assassins. "Because you're not a US citizen, but have committed crimes against a citizen of the Unite States, as an officer of the federal government I have the right to do whatever I want with you. But I'm willing to cut a deal. Have a seat."

The assassin scoffed. "Deal," he muttered. Dylan translated for her twin. "What deal could you offer me, boy? Will you bargain with the Silverlance for my release? His agents will hunt me down and kill me before I make it past the township." He took the offered seat, however, though it stretched his chains as far as they could go.

John rolled his eyes. "Kill you? Listen, moron, I don't think you understand me. I'll kill you if you don't tell me what I wanna know, and it'll be a lot worse than anything His Highness will do to you." Nuada snorted. John shot him a look. "I'll give you a little taste," the FBI agent added. "Cesca, give him a jolt."

"Wait a second!" Dylan said, wide-eyed. "What are you going to do?"

Francesca smiled sweetly. "Taser him."

"No!"

"Yes," her sister snapped, still smiling. "Creep deserves it. Besides, you technically don't have a say anymore because he's in FBI custody. So there."

Without another word, the waitress unholstered her Taser, strode up to the assassin, and jabbed him with the prongs between the legs. There was a series of tiny pops. The assassin jolted, screamed, and fell to the floor, clutching himself protectively. Dylan's jaw went slack.

"Oooh," Francesca murmured. "Bet that hurt."

"Ohmigawd you Tasered the guy in the balls," John mumbled, looking a bit sick. "I…that's…well played. But…seriously…how could you do that? I couldn't do that." He swallowed. "Jeez. What are you gonna do next, Mace the guy?"

Francesca perked up. "Oooh, good idea. Should I?"

"No," John said before Dylan could. "No, we've given him a taste of how much being Tasered hurts. Let's see what he has to say now."

Ian lay on the ground moaning. Together, John and Ailís yanked him to his feet and dropped him back on the stool. Ian hunched and glared at John from between hanks of dark hair hanging in his face.

"Didn't like that, did you?" John murmured. Dylan wondered if anyone else saw the tightness in his eyes, the lines around his mouth. John didn't want to do this anymore than she did. But he was doing it for her; they'd always looked out for each other. "Wanna deal now?"

Ian spat on the floor at John's feet. John surged forward, but his twin put a restraining hand on his shoulder. Keeping her voice and eyes cool as frozen sapphires, she said, "Allow me, John." She and her brother traded places.

Switching to Gaelic—she hoped Nuada would translate for her brother and sister—Dylan said, "You know the rest of your group is dead."

"It would've been worth it," the assassin hissed, "if we managed to put an end to you. Silverlance is a cold-blooded killer. How do you sleep at night, knowing you're being mounted by a monster?"

Nuada stirred, every movement predatory with menace, but Dylan shot him a look, and he subsided. She cocked her head and just looked at the assassin. Her face remained expressionless.

"Is he really that skilled?" The bound man demanded, voice dripping disgust. "Does he make you forget the hands that caress you are stained with innocent blood? Or does the guilt creep in along with the pleasure, the knowledge of just what you're letting inside you? Does it keep you up at night, twisting in your belly like an assassin's knife?"

Still she didn't speak, though she knew Nuada silently seethed behind her.

Finally Ian exploded, "Why are you just standing there? How dare you stand there looking so smug and condescending, you filthy whoring bitch! Do you think I'm the last one? There are others just waiting to take my place! They'll find you, they'll catch you in one trap or another, and they'll cut your throat! Then the knife that ended you will find his black, pitiless heart!"

So there are more assassins working for the same people this guy's working for, Dylan thought, keeping her satisfaction inside. Gotcha, you loud-mouthed moron. Aloud, she said, "Obviously whoever hired you isn't the best at selecting assassins, since the entire group of you failed. Whoever you're working for, I'm not worried."

"You should be," the prisoner hissed. "Our master has more power than you could ever dream. Enough power that he and his allies could hide you from the soulless prince and his cohorts long enough to track you down and put an end to you."

"Except I'm still here," she murmured, allowing a smirk to curve her mouth. "He's very impressive, your master."

And it's a man, she thought. Was Nuada picking these things up from the assassin's furious words? A man…and we were right, I think, that they combined powers to glamour Zhenjin and me invisible to Nuada and the others.

"My master has great power and influence, do not doubt it. He can even tame those once thought untamable, convince them to lend us their power, even from a great distance."

Shaohao, Dylan realized. Still trapped in the Yue Mountains, but somehow someone got into contact with him for this little party.

"Great power and influence, yet I'm still alive." Dylan's smile turned pitying. "Gee. It must be so sad to realize the great man you work for can be thwarted by a common-born human slut who spreads her legs for any fae royal who pays her price."

Behind her, Nuada made a sharp, snarling sound, but she ignored him in favor of the crimson flushing Ian's cheeks. The assassin lunged for her. Was brought up short by the manacles around his wrists. Dylan didn't even flinch as he jerked to a halt less than six inches from her face.

"Whore," he spat. "Spreading your legs for a craven murderer—"

Feeling no remorse, Dylan gave Ian a swift kick in the side of the knee. He fell with a guttural cry. Only when he'd scrambled to his feet, swearing, did Dylan speak.

"Never insult Prince Nuada to me," she said coolly.

"Do you know what your precious prince means to do? He'll see your race wiped out. Once he's bored with you, he'll go sniffing after some other bitch in heat and leave you for the wolves. Or he'll kill you himself. My master knows! He's seen what the prince has done to the humans, and he knows what Silverlance will do to you when he tires of you!"

Dylan made a derisive noise. "No, he doesn't. Your master knows nothing about me or the prince."

"Oh, nothing, is it?" Ian snarled. "Nothing? He's seen you, you filthy slut. Knows you whore for the Silverlance, seen you whoring for the Dragon Prince in the gardens. Seen you disrespecting the king, an honorable ruler. You're the one who knows nothing, you bitch."

Seen me, Dylan thought, chilled to the bone, with Nuada and Zhenjin. Seen me at least one of the times I've snarled at the king. It's someone in the Bethmooran court. A member of the court teamed up with Shaohao and others. She knew it was others, not just Shaohao, because the assassin had mentioned "allies," plural.

"Did he just call you a bitch?" Francesca demanded. Dylan glanced at her sister, who glared silver-blue knives at the prisoner. "I don't speak Gaelic, but that's like, the gazillionth time he's used that word. Or was it the c-word?"

Dylan blinked. "I don't even know what the c-word would be in Gaelic." Francesca glanced at Nuada, who looked blank. "Never mind," Dylan said before the waitress could clarify for the Elven prince. "Yes, he called me…the first one."

"Uh-huh," Francesca said. And before her sister knew what she was doing, the older woman lunged forward and shot a stream of Mace into the assassin's face. He fell to the floor, writhing and howling, and Dylan dropped her face into her hands.

"Will you cut that out?" John demanded of his older sister, but his mouth twitched. Dylan kicked him in the shin. John winced. "D, you know it's kinda funny." She just glared at him. "Jeez, you're such a soft touch. Okay, okay. Sorry. Francesca, stop tormenting the guy."

"I don't want to," the waitress sniffed. "He tried to murder my baby sister. He deserves blood and torment for eternity. Or being forced to watch Barney non-stop for a week."

John shuddered. "You are vicious."

A knock sounded at the door, and Dylan had to resist the childish urge to point at Francesca and cry, "She did it!" John opened the door. Then his mouth dropped open and he stepped back to allow King Balor into the room. Nuada immediately straightened from his lounge against the wall. The two Butchers saluted their king. Dylan dropped a curtsy. Francesca didn't move, only glared. She didn't move even when Dylan whacked her hard in the arm in an attempt to make her curtsy or bow.

"King Balor?" Francesca asked in a deceptively mild voice. The king raised an eyebrow.

"I am," he said in English. "And you are?"

"Francesca Myers, Dylan's sister. You seriously suck."

Nuada's eyes blazed. The king's eyebrows shot up. John winced.

Dylan grabbed her sister's arm. "Will you shut up?"

"No! He's a jerk. First he flogs your smokin' hot boyfriend for protecting you, which is just douchey, then he makes it so I gotta put on this hideous black outfit in order to look intimidating so we can get info outta the guy who tried to kill you instead of like, torturing him or something, and he can't even keep you safe at your own engagement party, and he makes you live in this drafty stupid castle, and he's got antlers. That's just lame. Besides, you don't like him. I can tell—every time you mention him or look at him, you make your duck-face."

"I do not make a duck-face! What is a duck-face?"

"This." Francesca clenched her jaw, pursed her lips in a sort of sullen pout, squinted her eyes, and folded her arms. "You so do that every time he's brought up."

"No I don't!"

"Um," John began, but clamped his mouth shut when Dylan glared at him.

Francesca continued blithely on, "Besides, he sucks. Like, mondo suckage. He should go play in traffic. And he has antlers. Seriously, hon—antlers? Lame-sauce."

Speechless, Dylan looked helplessly at the king. "She's crazy, Your Majesty. Please ignore her."

Balor's lips twitched. "Mad, is she? A family trait, my dear?"

Surprised at his humor, Dylan found her own lips curving into a reluctant smile. "Touché." She whacked her sister again. Ignoring Francesca's indignant "Ow!" Dylan snapped, "Now apologize to the king."

"No!"

"Yes," Dylan snapped.

"No-effing-way."

"Yes, way."

"Are you nuts?"

"Are you?" Dylan demanded, exasperated. "Apologize, or…or…"

"Or what?" Her sister asked.

"I'll…I'll put a frog in your bed," Dylan snapped, knowing it was a lame threat.

Francesca snorted. "It's winter in New York. Where are you gonna get a slimy little frog?"

Dylan glared. "It's not slime, it's mucus. You should know that, you've seen the freaking movie enough times. And I'll buy one at the pet store."

Two pairs of identical silvery-blue eyes locked in challenge. Narrowing her eyes, Francesca hissed, "Bring it."

The only reason Balor hasn't thrown her in prison, Dylan thought, is because he's busy laughing. On the inside, but still laughing. Thinking frantically, finally Dylan muttered, "Ugh, for crying out loud. If you apologize I will make sure to get a picture of my…hunk…without a shirt on for you. Okay?"

Francesca's eyes widened as her gaze shot to the once-livid, now-horrified prince. She raked him in a quick, appraising once-over that took in the muscles beneath his shirt and tunic. Then she glared at her sister. "And I get to Taser the creep again."

"No."

Her sister didn't bat an eye. "Take it or leave it."

"Oh, my freaking…fine."

"Fine." To the king, Francesca mumbled, "I apologize, Your Majesty. I love my sister very much and sometimes I go a little crazy and say things without thinking when I'm worried about her."

Balor's eyebrows rose further. "Accepted, Lady Francesca. Now, Prince Nuada." Immediately the prince snapped to sharp military attention. "What are you doing to this mortal?" The king gestured to Ian, who'd stopped writhing and now hunched against the wall, breathing heavily, eyes streaming from the defensive spray.

"He's not doing anything, Your Majesty." It was John who stepped into the conversation, withdrawing his FBI badge as he approached diffidently but with an air of authority. "Special Agent John Myers, at your service. His Highness is merely here in case things get out of hand—to protect my sisters. I and my sister Francesca are questioning the prisoner. Lady Dylan is here as both a psychiatric evaluator and a medical professional, in case of unexpected injury or accident."

The king regarded John with a cool expression. "Indeed? And what have you learned?"

"He and his group are working for a member of the Golden Court," Dylan said softly. That sharpened both Nuada and Balor's attention. "Someone of notable rank. A man. This nobleman has other assassins in his employ to pick up where this group failed. He's also working with at least two other nobles or royals—I'm not sure which at this time. My suspicion is Prince Shaohao, but he isn't the only ally the employer has."

Uaithne asked, "How did you discern all of that, milady?"

Dylan smiled without humor. "I've had practice with this. I've worked with human law enforcement several times in my career. And the person he's working for, whoever it is, is pro-human, not anti-human."

Balor frowned. "He tried to have you assassinated, my dear."

Dylan shook her head. "They view me as a traitor to my race because I'm in love with His Highness. They're fanatical. Well, the employer may not be, but the assassins who came after us this round certainly were: fanatical in their hatred of me and Nuada, fanatical in their need to eliminate what they see as a viable threat to the truce. This is about honor to them, and protecting humans. They view Nuada and me as evil. I might be able to get more information out of him if I have more time."

The king sighed. "Unfortunately, Lady Dylan, some of the pro-human council members have argued that holding the prisoner here breaks the truce in and of itself. I came to inform you that he is to be taken to the mortal realm and given over to the authorities there, or released."