Chapter 94 - Whatever You Imagine

Chapter Ninety-Four

Whatever You Imagine

that is

A Short Tale of Truth Serum, Interrogation, Fact and Fiction, a Request, a Thief, a Toy Store, a Case of Mistaken Identity, and the Big Book

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The king sighed. "Unfortunately, Lady Dylan, some of the pro-human faction has 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."

"What, now?" Francesca demanded. "No way! Dylan's making serious headway. We can't let him go now!"

Aged amber eyes narrowed. "Perhaps your sister has not explained this to you, Lady Francesca. I am the king. My word is law. I have made my decision; you will abide by it."

The waitress opened her mouth to inform the king what she thought of that, when Dylan laid a hand on her shoulder. Francesca took one look at her younger sister's pale face and shut her mouth. Nuada had been leveling a smoldering glare on the king, but now he, too, noticed Dylan's pallor. Concern sharpened his gaze.

"May I have twenty minutes, Your Majesty?" Dylan asked softly. "Just twenty minutes."

He eyed her. "What can be done in twenty minutes?"

Dylan swallowed hard. John, seeming to read his sister's mind, yelped, "No! No, Dylan, no. Not after last time. I only agreed to bring this stuff because you asked, but I didn't think you'd need it. No." Seeing her carefully blank expression, the FBI agent snapped, "It's too hard on you. No way. Your Highness, tell her she can't do it!"

Nuada realized what the whelp was referring to—the truth serum. It would be hard on his truelove, emotionally as well as physically. She'd outlined the side-effects the day before: severe headache, nausea, lethargy or dizziness. She'd foregone taking her medications this morning because the truth-drug in conjunction with the other poisonous chemicals could, in an extreme case, kill her. And somehow Dylan would have to remain cognizant enough to question the assassin while drugged.

But this new time constraint made it all the more necessary. So Nuada merely closed his eyes and nodded to his lady, giving acquiescence, if not his actual blessing. John made a strangled sound and glared with all of his once-abandoned hate at the prince. Nuada ignored him.

Balor studied the mortal woman his son loved so dearly. Her face was pale and her hands trembled, but her shadowed gaze was steady when she met his eyes and explained what she meant to do to the prisoner. Balor's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"How do I know this…truth serum isn't some sort of poison?" The king demanded. "Perhaps my son arranged this to execute the man who attempted to kill you, Lady Dylan."

Francesca made a sound like a cat hawking up a hairball. Dylan ignored her and said, "I thought you would ask that, Majesty. So I brought two syringes of the truth serum—one for the prisoner, and one for me. Why would I take poison that would incapacitate or kill me? I wouldn't, as you well know. And if Nuada had somehow arranged to fill the syringes with poison, surely he wouldn't let me be injected with it. You may even choose which syringe is used on which subject."

The king raised an eyebrow. "A pretty offer. I accept."

Dylan offered the king the twin cases holding the syringes, and he made his choice. From her black satchel she withdrew antiseptic wipes and a length of black material. John tightened the cord around her arm, forming a tourniquet to make the vein stand out. Dylan tore one of the foil packets open and cleaned a spot on the underside of her forearm above the big blue vein running the length of her arm. Withdrawing the chosen syringe from the case, she tapped it with a flick of her finger to send any air-bubbles shooting away from the plunger toward the needle. Depressing the plunger just a touch eliminated any remaining air-bubbles in the syringe.

"Why do doctors always do that?" John asked. His voice was strained; he was only asking to help hide his own nerves. How could Dylan be so calm, move so smoothly, when she was getting ready to shoot that crap into her own body? "Tap the syringe and then shoot out just a little of whatever's in there?"

"Gets rid of air-bubbles," Dylan muttered as she set the point of the needle against her arm. The blue vein stood out faintly against her skin. Ever since she was twelve years old, she'd had to take IVs either in the back of her hand or the underside of her arm; the thick scar-tissue at the bends of her elbows made finding the veins there practically impossible. "You get an air-bubble in your vein, it makes its way into your chest, and you have a heart attack and die, whoop-bam. The end. Game over."

"Where'd you get the idea for this, anyway?" John asked. "Letting the king choose which syringe and all?"

Dylan smiled tightly as she gripped John's hand to make the vein stand out better. "The Princess Bride. That scene with Vezinni and the iocaine powder in the goblets of wine."

Fighting the urge to close her eyes, she slid the needle into the vein and depressed the plunger. Withdrawing the needle, she let John wrap the tiny wound. Less than thirty seconds later, Dylan clapped a hand to her mouth and dragged in a deep breath through her nose as the taste of rancid onions and garlic flooded the back of her throat—a side-effect of sodium pentothal. Nuada made a move as if to go to her, but she caught his eye and shook her head. A momentary look of anguish flashed across his face before his expression smoothed out. He could've been carved from marble.

An airy floating feeling swept over Dylan. No, she snapped at herself as the corner of her mouth lifted. She bit her tongue, hard enough to taste blood. Don't give into it. Not here. Not now. I've got a job to do. She looked at the king. "Still alive, Your Majesty. If I may continue?" The king nodded. Dylan called to Uaithne, Nuada, and John, "Restrain him, please. I doubt he's gonna hold still."

It took some wrestling, but with the three men holding him down and Francesca sitting on Ian's chest, they managed to get him still enough that Dylan could safely administer the second syringe of the drug. She was practically chewing on her tongue to keep from laughing; it just seemed so funny to her. But she knew that was the sodium pentothal in her system making her hysterical. It would pass in about ten minutes, leaving her with a debilitating headache. She just hoped she didn't throw up.

Once the drug was in the assassin's system, Dylan could monitor its progress as Ian gagged and covered his mouth, then tried to stand up, only to fall back down, hard. He stared at her with dilated eyes.

"What have you done to me? Is this poison?"

"Truth serum," she said, allowing herself to smile. "Who are you working for?"

"My master," he replied, then bit his lip. "What? Why did I say that? What have you done to me? Is this magic? What have you done?"

Dylan swallowed a giggle. "Made you a puppet," she mumbled, feeling slightly drunk. "Feel me pulling your strings? What's your master's name?"

Panicked, the prisoner shook his head. "No, no! I won't tell you! I won't tell you! You cannot force me to speak. I won't speak."

Knees trembling, Dylan sat on the stool the prisoner had fallen from. Keeping her voice cheerful, she said, "Oh, you wanna talk to me. I know you do. You might as well. So what's his name? Lord Whatchamacallit?" John came up behind her; she knew it was more to keep her from falling off the stool than anything else. "Who's he working with? Is it Shaohao? The Mad Prince? Or someone else?"

"Bandits," the prisoner gasped, then covered his mouth with both hands as a hysterical laugh bubbled out of him. "He's working with the bandits. Robin Hood in reverse, a lure, a way to show the world what Silverlance is made of. My master will win in the end. He has a foothold in the household, you know." Another hysterical giggle, then Ian covered his face with his hands. "Oh, gods, what have you done to me?"

Her knuckles were white as she gripped the edges of the stool. "Whose household?" Copper-salt blood filled her mouth so that she constantly had to swallow in order to speak, but the taste masked the rancidity of onions and garlic. "What bandits?"

"To the north," he giggled. Panicked eyes wheeled in his head. "To the north. Famine. My Lord Dearth. He will end you. Filthy slut. You've poisoned me. Whoring bitch. We know; my master told us. You carry the heir, but that can't happen. You'll poison the bloodline. Mortality and madness, one from each. You have to die. Both of you have to die, and then he has to die. She'll weep when he dies." Ian nodded, looking suddenly lost. "Why does she love him still? She is so good. Silverlance is evil. Why does she love him? But she is honorable, too. She won't fail. Our master will make sure."

"Who won't fail?" It was getting hard to breathe. The air in the room was too close, too stuffy. It felt like she was choking. Just another side-effect, she told herself. She could handle it. "Who says I'm carrying the heir?"

"The healer," he mumbled. "Heard it at the healer's. Not feeling well, are we, Lady Dylan?" Laughing now, the assassin nodded knowingly. "We'll fix that for you soon enough. No need to fret. Carve out that abomination growing in your womb."

Dylan's hand instinctively lifted to cover her stomach. Balor's gaze sharpened as it slashed between Nuada and Dylan. Uaithne and Ailís, well aware the prince and his lady weren't bedfellows, exchanged puzzled looks. But Dylan didn't acknowledge anyone in the room except the assassin in her sights. She murmured, "I thought you wanted to protect the humans from the Silverlance."

Ian shook his head. "Protect the humans, but have to keep the blood clean. You're mortal, and evil, to bed him. To let him seed you with his darkness. Your evil, your mortality, mixed with his madness…protect your race by eliminating that monstrosity. Kill you. Kill the creature in your belly. Kill your bastard girl, as well. Kill the prince. Leave the kingdom to Balor and Princess Nuala. Weed out the rot of the royal line. Carve up your little bitch-whelp and the one unborn, cut you into pieces, never to be raised again. Then eliminate the prince before he can whelp another bastard. The truce can't hold while any of his direct line remain alive." Ian grabbed his head in his hands, smacked his palms against his temples. "Stop it, stop it, stop it."

Sharp pain lanced Dylan's left temple, behind her eye. She brought her hand to her forehead, cringing. John squeezed her shoulders, a silent demand to know she was okay. She straightened. The drug's loose-tongued effect was wearing off on her, which meant she was almost at the end of her king-given twenty minutes, and she was going to have to get out of here before the after-effects knocked her on her butt.

"What's your master's name? Who is he?" Dylan demanded through gritted teeth. "Tell me his name."

"He is hunger," the assassin hissed, eyes blazing at her between his fingers. "He is thirst. He can drink the blood of a thousand enemies and not burst. He can lie a thousand nights on the ice and not die. He is famine. He is drought. He is death and life. He protects the innocent and feasts on them. He will end your dark influence, Silverlance." Ian's gaze fixed on the prince. "He will end you, and he will kill her and your little bastards. Think on that when you lie with her."

She sensed savage intent without having to turn, sensed Nuada's rage, and decided now was a good time to bite the bullet and be a wimp. Dylan turned suddenly as Nuada made to stride past her and gripped his sleeve. In English she gasped, "I need to get out of here."

Nuada shot her a look sharp with concern and anger. He wavered between the fierce desire to unleash his rage on the assassin and the need to care for his lady. Finally, he nodded. Somehow he managed to hustle her out of the too-tiny cell despite the king's presence. The only thing Dylan was really aware of besides Nuada's hand on her back was the snap-crackle-pop of Francesca's Taser, a shrill cry of pain from the assassin, and John crying in exasperation, "Francesca!" Ignoring everyone else, Nuada scooped his truelove into his arms once they were in the hall and carried her quickly out of the dungeons, collecting Fionnlagh on the way.

Once back in the castle proper, Nuada set Dylan on her feet. She clung to him, swaying, her face tight with pain and nearly bloodless. Immediately he pressed his fingers to her temples and sent soothing magic into her skull. The tension in her features eased and she dropped her head to his chest.

"Thank you," she mumbled. "Thank you." She began to shudder. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Nuada thought he did, but he decided he would let Dylan explain her thoughts to him before he made his own known to her. "Tell me," the prince murmured. "Quickly, before my father arrives."

"There's a traitor among the healers," Dylan whispered. "And among the courtiers. At least two—a man and a woman. The courtier is a man. There might be a noblewoman working with him, or it might be a female healer. I don't know. But whoever they are, they think I'm pregnant and that Niamh is our child. They're going to try for her, too. We have to put guards on her. Our enemies are connected, but not so well-connected that rumor doesn't get in their way. Which eliminates certain people in our immediate circle."

"The traitor is working with Shaohao, is he not?" Nuada asked softly.

Dylan sighed. "I'm not sure. I think so. With the whole thing about 'taming the untamable, even from a distance.' Unless there are any other crazy royals or nobles you know of?"

Even more softly the prince said, "A few, but this follows what my agents have learned. One of my agents warned me that Shaohao might have an agent in the palace, but he wasn't certain of their identity. He wasn't even sure they were from Dilong." Nuada's gaze turned inward, eyes glittering topaz as he calculated and considered. "Yes…my instincts say that Shaohao is a part of, and not separate from, all of this."

"Which means we've got to worry about him, but it also means Zhenjin's got our backs, right?" Dylan asked. Nuada nodded. "I wonder if Siothrún is a part of this or not. Loén isn't, though. He's loyal to us. Back to the stuff the assassin was saying…from what I gathered from everything he said, the bandits are attacking the northern villages at the behest of this traitor in the court, whoever they are."

Voice a low snarl, the prince muttered, "That makes sense, actually. It must be someone wealthy, then; only a few possess enough wealth to bribe bandits to raid in winter. This would explain why the raiding hasn't stopped with the coming of the late-autumn snows. I've wondered." Through clenched teeth, he added, "Our plan for escorting the caravans to the northern villages must be abandoned. The aid will still be sent," Nuada said before Dylan could protest, "but you cannot accompany them. This whole thing reeks of a trap."

Dylan shook her head. "I have to go. No, Nuada, listen. I have to go, and John and Francesca have to come too. The anti-human factions of your kingdom—not just your court, but your kingdom—have to see that I'm different from the humans they've known before. They have to see me doing my part, not just hear about it. If I go through with this despite the danger to myself, that will just hammer the truth home even better."

"If it is a trap—"

"Then at least we know it," Dylan replied softly. "Or suspect it. I know it's dangerous, Nuada. I know. But I can't be a princess and just take the cushy, easy jobs without accepting the risks, too. If I do that, your people will have a real reason to hate my guts. You have to let me do this. Our people need us to do this."

His hands convulsed around her shoulders. Anyone looking at him would've seen a warrior, calm and composed, but those who truly knew him would've noticed the whiteness of his knuckles, the feral glitter of topaz in his gaze, and the war raging behind his eyes. In a voice so low Dylan could barely hear it, Nuada rasped, "If we do this…if we go to my people's aid, and you're harmed in any way because you're set upon doing your duty by them, a duty I saddled you with…shades of Annwn, I would lose my mind, Dylan."

She covered his hands with hers. "I knew the risks when I swore myself to you, Nuada. I knew them when I agreed to marry you. I'm willing to take those risks to be with you, and to protect our people."

She's gone, Nuada thought suddenly, with a sudden lightening of his heart. Gone was the innocent mortal girl whose shadows and miseries had weighed her down like chains. Dylan's grief and heartbreak were still there—Nuada could sense them, knew they would never vanish completely, and that those soul-wounds still required healing—but in the last few days, something, somehow, had helped her to make a transition between that battered woman-child and the strong princess who stood before him now, ready to shoulder the burdens inherent to the Crown. Perhaps it was nearly losing him to the assassin. Perhaps it was her visits to Healer Lóegaire and her own mortal mind-healer. Whatever had caused this change, the Elven warrior was glad of it.

She can handle this, he realized. She's ready for the crown. She has much still to learn, but she is ready to be the princess Bethmoora needs.

"I am in awe of you, mo crídh," Nuada murmured, brushing a kiss across her forehead. "For our people, then—we shall see it through to the end." He would've said more, but at that moment the doors to the dungeon-levels opened and the king strode out, gaze sharp and scrutinizing. Nuada bowed to his father. Dylan had to lean on her prince in order to make the proper curtsy; her knees still wobbled from the after-effects of the pentothal.

"Not poison," the king said coolly, almost icily, eyeing the human woman. "Yet you seem to be falling ill, Lady Dylan. Is it the truth-serum…or perhaps a touch of morning sickness?"

Dylan frowned. "Morning…" Then she started to laugh, even though it made her head throb. Finally she managed to say, "Oh, wow. Oh, my gosh, Your Majesty, not you, too. Jeez. I'm not pregnant. There is no way I could possibly be pregnant. Wow. Even kings listen to gossip, I guess. Oh, wow." She rubbed the back of her neck, still chuckling. "We knew there were probably rumors going around that I was pregnant—especially considering how quickly we're getting married—but I didn't think you'd believe them."

The king's frown deepened. "I do not see how this is a laughing matter, Lady Dylan. If you are carrying the heir to the Bethmooran throne-"

"There'd be no way in Hades I'd shoot myself up with anything like truth-serum," she interrupted. "Not a chance. There's no way of knowing what it would do to a fully-grown Elf, much less an unborn one."

Balor's furrowed brows knotted. "The assassin seemed so certain."

Dylan shrugged. "No doubt he got it from castle gossip. Once Nuada and I are married, whenever I do get pregnant, all anyone has to do is count the months. Not a big deal."

Nuada took his lady's hand. It might become one, he murmured silently. If the assassin's venom about any heir of mine is anything to go by, the danger to you will multiply if I get you with child, Dylan. Our enemies will not stand for an heir with a mortal mother.

I don't care, she said briskly. I want a family. I want a baby—your baby. When we're married. I'm not giving up my dreams of having a family with you just because of some crazy human guy stupid enough to think he can get past you and all my guards. I have faith in you, Nuada. In us. We're going to make it through this, and every other crisis.

"How can you be so certain you're not with child, Lady Dylan?" The king asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Because I'm not sleeping with anyone." She didn't tack on the word duh, but the sentiment was still felt. "As for relevant information from Mr. Malcolm, there's a traitor among the healers, or at least someone passing information to the traitorous noble, whoever he is. The healer might not know this person is a bad guy. They've got other assassins waiting to finish us off, they've got a hand in the bandit raids in the north, and they're working with others, including—most likely—Prince Shaohao."

Balor looked reluctantly impressed. "Your skills as a mind-healer told you this?"

"Yes, sir. You can let him go anytime, by the way."

Dylan felt Nuada's stiffening through their linked hands. She squeezed his hand lightly and said, Look, the FBI isn't going to take him? They may know about Faerie, but what John did isn't technically legal, since he didn't get his superior's permission to be here. Ian could go free simply for that reason. We can't risk that.

We cannot risk him going free in Faerie, either, Nuada protested.

Relax. Think about it. His master will learn soon enough that he talked to us. The good thing is, the assassin didn't tell us anything that isn't set in stone. The traitor can't change his identity, or his status as a noble, so that information is solid. He can't change the fact that he's worked with certain individuals—also solid information. The only thing he can do is kill off the assassin, which saves us the trouble. And due to the nature of the drug, the assassin's not going to remember what he told us. Even a mind-scan, like what you can do, wouldn't help because he's been drugged. He's too weak and disoriented to try for us again in the next couple of days, especially if we have him dropped off at the edges of the township and tell the Provost's Guards to keep an eye out for him. If they see him, they'll just pick him up and dump him back at the outskirts until he's summoned by or makes his way to his master—who will kill him. If we hand him over to the FBI, they'll let him go as some crazy homeless guy. There's no reason to hold onto him.

You've thought this all through, Nuada murmured, voice tinged with admiration, how to work around and with the truce, as well as around and with our enemies.

I got tired of watching you get hurt because I wasn't paying attention or thinking things through, or using my mental skills the way I should, Dylan said somberly. I'm not doing that anymore.

Nuada realized she blamed herself for the assassination attempt on Midwinter Eve. Realized it, and knew nothing he said would change her mind. Was this what had helped her make that mental shift? But he didn't ask. Only gave her hand one quick pulse of affection before focusing on his father.

"If it pleases Your Majesty," Dylan added, brushing a lock of hair from her face, "I'd like to take Prince Nuada and our servants to the mortal realm today, for an overnight visit."

Balor noted his son's brows raise a fraction before a look of realization passed over Nuada's face. The king merely said, "For what?"

"It's Christmas Eve, Your Majesty," Dylan murmured. "I'd like to spend it with my family in my home."

"And are we, Princess Nuala and I, not also your family, Lady Dylan? You are marrying my son, after all. Nuala has asked you to call her 'sister,' and refers to you as such. I have bequeathed a gift on you as my future daughter. Are we not also your family? Is Findias not your home?"

Before Dylan could respond, John—who'd had to pack up Dylan's stuff before coming through the tunnels—emerged from the door and said, "I think she meant with her blood-kin, sir."

"Then the prince has no reason to accompany her."

"They probably want to play the Horizontal Monster-Mash," Francesca said, drawing abreast of her brother. Eyeing the prince appreciatively, she added, "I know I would."

Dylan barely managed to keep from strangling her older sister. John rubbed the bridge of his nose. Nuada looked momentarily torn between horror, disgust, and outrage before smoothing his features to blankness. The king glanced between the four of them before focusing on Dylan.

"And what is this…Horizontal Monster-Mash?"

I will murder you, Dylan thought at her sister with a sharp, exasperated look. Aloud she said, "Um…it's human slang, Sire. For…carnal activities."

"I see." He deliberately quirked one brow. "I thought you were not—how did you put it?—sleeping with anyone."

"She's not," Francesca groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I don't get it. Dylan, seriously—why won't you just sleep with the dude already? He's so hot!"

Again before Dylan could say anything, someone spoke—the king, this time. "Hot?"

Nuada spoke up. "It is another term of human slang. It means I am considered attractive by human women." He favored Dylan with a slow, smug—and also forced—smile. "Obviously."

Dylan rolled her eyes. "Elven Casanova. Anyway, so may we go, Your Majesty? We'll be back Christmas Day, sometime in the afternoon, but my family has many traditions for Christmas Eve-"

"Can you not practice them here?"

Dylan frowned. Behind her, she sensed Nuada scowling—although in court-style, which was more an expression of "would be scowling, but can't, because people are watching, so I look mildly irate and bored."

"I…suppose," Dylan said at last. "I would prefer not to, though-"

"I would like to spend at least some part of the holiday with my son, Lady Dylan," Balor said softly. Immediately the tension drained from Nuada's body. Dylan smiled.

"For pity's sake, Your Majesty, why didn't you say so?" She murmured, shaking her head a little. "We can stay here, then, can't we?" A nod from the prince made her smile more brightly. "It would be our pleasure. Although," she added, biting her lip lightly, "we do need to go to the mortal realm for one thing. We have to go somewhere, but it shouldn't take more than a couple hours."

Intrigued by the secretive smile playing about her mouth, Balor asked, "And where are you going, my dear?"

She grinned. "I've been planning on taking the children to a very special toy store for Christmas. And also to pay A'du'la'di back for saving my life. You two gave him boons or what-have-you, and I know he appreciated them, but he's a kid. He deserves some nice kid-thing, too. And while we're there," she added, glancing at Nuada, "there's someone I really want you to meet." Affecting a bit of little-girl-bounce, Dylan added to the king, "So please, can we go? Please, Your Majesty?"

To everyone's surprise, Francesca wiggled in next to Dylan, clasped her hands together, stuck out her bottom lip, and begged, "Yeah, can she go, Your Majesty? Can she, can she, can she? Please?"

The king scoffed, but without rancor. Sometimes, the mortal girl forcibly reminded him of Nuala as a child when she'd begged for some treat or other. The two mortal women working in tandem reminded him of Nuala and Polunochnaya as children. Balor inclined his head. "As long as you return in time for banquet tonight, you may go."

"Yay!" Francesca bounced up and down like a child, then grabbed her sister and bounced with her. "Awesome! Your boyfriend finally gets to meet—"

"Shut up!" Dylan yelped. "It's a secret, remember?"

Francesca stopped bouncing, looking dejected. "Oh, yeah."

.

Before they went anywhere, however, they needed to speak to Healers Táebfada and Lóegaire. Both women met with the prince and his lady in Táebfada's office and explained what had happened the night before with Dylan's nightmare. The young healer and the old mind-healer exchanged troubled golden glances.

"The potion should have kept you from dreaming, milady," Táebfada murmured while pressing her slim, white hand to Dylan's abdomen. Since they were there, the healer had decided she would take this opportunity to initiate the first treatment for Dylan's internal scarring—the first step to making it possible for the prince's lady to bear him a child. "That was its purpose," Táebfada continued as magic spread through Dylan's body. "Have you been under any new strain lately?"

"Nothing new that happened last night," Dylan murmured. "I mean…" She thought of Bres's threats. "I had a run-in with another noble last night, and they made some threatening remarks about His Highness and I, but that's not enough to break through medicated sleep, is it?"

Lóegaire shook her head. "Not so vividly, at any rate." Dylan hadn't told them what the dream was about, but Nuada had mentioned that she'd woken up screaming. "My professional recommendation is to add another half-dose to what you're currently taking. You'll sleep more deeply than you are now, and it should block your dreams completely. If it doesn't work, let us know immediately."

"Thank you," Nuada said softly as Dylan hopped off Táebfada's examination table. She went to him, fitting herself against his side as if she were made to be there. Nuada laid his hand against the small of her back. "Both of you. Shall we, mo mhuire?"

.

Though it felt like crawling through raw sewage to be forced to travel amongst the humans, Nuada walked along the snow-laden New York City streets, navigating Manhattan with Dylan. She kept a firm grip on A'du and 'Sa'ti's hands, and the Elven prince, Tsu's'di, and John walked almost in formation around the mortal and the children. Nuada kept the fey members of the party glamoured.

Francesca had been escorted through the subway by Becan after they'd all left Faerie and informed her sister she'd join up with Dylan and her party at this "very special toy store" in order to say hello to "you-know-who."

To John and Dylan's surprise, passersby on the street gave Nuada a wide berth. Usually navigating the streets of Manhattan in December involved a lot of: squirming, dodging, slipping on ice, avoiding slush-piles, and saying, "Excuse me." But something about the savage glower on Nuada's face made everyone avoid him and the other members of his group.

Except two people.

A rapier-thin, sallow-faced man raced up behind the group, somehow managed to duck between John and Nuada, shove A'du out of his way, and snatch Dylan's purse in about two seconds. Just as the Elven prince grabbed the thief's hand, the thief tossed the mortal woman's purse. Another man snatched it out of the air and took off through the crowd.

"I got him," John growled, but Nuada shoved him back.

"No," the prince hissed. When the human thief he held tried to twist away, Nuada jerked him closer. The Elf indicated the escaping thief with a nod of his head. "One of mine has him."

Dylan, furious that A'du had been shoved around, gathered the little boy close and watched as a slender, copper-skinned man on a ten-speed mountain-bike jumped over the dirty slush, mounted the curb, and braked hard right in front of the thief. The man grabbed the human thief and sent him flying into the street crowd, but Dylan saw that he'd managed to retrieve her purse. The cyclist walked his bike toward the group.

Rubbing her eyes, Dylan thought she saw tiny lines—like a fox's whiskers—dark against the cyclist's cheeks. As the guy came closer, Dylan heard a low murmuring behind her and realized Nuada was speaking softly to the human who'd made the initial snatch.

"…and if you ever touch this woman or lay your hands on another child or innocent again, I will know, and I will hunt you down and gut you like the miserable cur you are. The only reason I don't kill you now is that the woman I love is very tenderhearted, and there are children present. Try my patience, however, and you are a dead man," Nuada hissed.

With a savage jerk, Nuada shoved the captured thief into the icy street, where he narrowly avoided being rundown by a taxi. The driver swore colorfully at the thief as the prince's former captive staggered away, clutching his arm to his chest.

Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Did you break his wrist?"

Nuada's expression remained carefully blank. "Perhaps." Then he focused on the cyclist, who'd stopped a respectful distance away and bowed over the handlebars of his bike. "You have my thanks, Ren Fei, for retrieving my lady's valuables and punishing the thief."

"It was my honor, Wángyé." He bowed to Dylan. "It is my great privilege to meet my honorable master's most noble lady. I am Ren Fei of the Húli Jing, and your servant."

"The pleasure's mine," Dylan replied, smiling. "Thanks for rescuing my purse. You're a fox, right?" She asked hesitantly. Ren tapped the bend of the earpiece on his sunglasses, dropping them down a fraction of an inch to reveal the vibrant tawny eyes of a dog-fox. "Wow. That is so cool!"

He grinned, revealing very white, very even, and very sharp teeth. "Thank you, my lady." Once the final pleasantries were exchanged, the húli fae rode off down the street.

Nuada leaned in to whisper in Dylan's ear, "He is the agent I spoke of, the one who warned me of Shaohao's spy. Many viable rumors pass through China Town; Ren hears all of them. He has the ears of a fox, after all." He smiled when Dylan laughed. Taking the children once more by the hand, Dylan and her group again set off toward their destination.

.

It was a small shop, squashed between a beige stone building and a glass skyscraper, both of which towered over the toy store. It looked, as a matter of fact, more like a house or cottage than a store. Its roof had been painted a lovely pale green—somehow free of the snow that had fallen the night before—and sported both a tiny, round tower and a small, peaked secondary roof with a little circular window. Above a wooden awning painted the same pale celadon as the roof, the sunlight glinted off a stained-glass window decorated with a bronze circle in its center framing a large glass M. The glass storefront displayed hundreds of toys: bouncing balls, stuffed animals, miniature hot-air balloons, wooden models. To Nuada's astonishment, one of the stuffed toys—a small monkey that appeared to be made of socks—waved at them as they approached. What startled him even more was when Dylan waved back.

"Hi, Oscar," she said, grinning. The sock-monkey squirmed out of the pile of stuffed animals smashed up against the window and disappeared. Dylan caught a glimpse of Nuada's expression and laughed. "All the wonders of Faerie and you're surprised by a toy coming to life?"

Nuada blinked at the storefront window. "This is a mortal toy store?" He demanded when a regular human woman and her two children nipped past the prince to enter. "This place is owned by a human?"

"Ummm…I wouldn't call him a human, exactly. I'm not sure what he is, to be honest, but his apprentice is human. She's an old friend of mine from college. She taught me to play the piano. Anyway, I think A'du and 'Sa'ti want to go in."

"Ooooh, can we?" A'du asked breathlessly, while 'Sa'ti pressed her face against the glass in a desperate attempt to see inside. "There are other fae kids in there! Can we go in?"

The prince glanced at Dylan. She smiled. "We can absolutely go in." Dylan laid her hands on the brass plaque on the door, which read Push in stylized, geometric letters. "Come on."

The bell jingled pleasantly when Dylan pushed the door open. A'du and 'Sa'ti gasped, delighted, and once their mistress gave them permission, rushed off to explore. Nuada stared around him, stunned. He'd never seen so many toys. Then again, when he'd been a child, he hadn't needed to go to a toy store. The Royal Toymaker had simply been commissioned to make whatever he or Nuala desired. He turned to Dylan.

"What is this place?"

Her grin was absolutely delighted, and completely unshadowed for the first time in weeks. She spread her arms and twirled slowly in a circle, saying, "This is Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium." She dropped her arms, sighing with happiness. "I used to work here when I was in college during rush seasons—Christmas and Black Friday. Sometimes I still help out, but lately I've been…busy. You know." She laughed softly, eyes glowing with love and happiness. "I've missed this place."

"Can you still work The Big Book?" John asked, smiling affectionately at his sister. "I mean, it's been…what, more than a year since you worked here? Do you think it still works for you?"

"I dunno," Dylan replied. "I guess we'll have to check with Mahoney."

"The Big Book?" Nuada asked.

Dylan tugged his hand. "Come and see. And be nice to Mahoney. She's human, but she's my friend, and she's okay."

His truelove led him through the store. Despite the fact that the place was crawling with children, somehow he never seemed to be in danger of stepping on them. What surprised him even more was that mingling with the human children were countless fae children.

A young ekek, her wings clamped to her back to keep them out of the way, happily smeared paint on a rainbow-splotched canvas with her taloned fingers. Beside her stood a mortal boy in jeans and a t-shirt, crimson and green sprinkled across his cheeks, offering the ekek girl a cup of blue paint to dip her fingers into. In another corner, three people—a red-haired flower troll in a purple hat, a blond girl in overalls, and a slim sapling of a dryad—played jump-rope. At a long table near the back of the store, a mixed group of human and fae children built a model of what looked like a castle out of miniature varnished wooden logs. As Nuada watched them while Dylan led him toward the check-out counter, he realized the children were actually getting along.

"Do you see them?" Nuada asked his truelove. She paused and scanned the store before looking back at him. "The children?" Dylan frowned, doing another slow scan, then smiled brightly.

"You mean that they can see each other, know each other, and aren't afraid?" Dylan asked softly. "This is one of the places fae can come without glamour—or much glamour. Some of the scarier-looking fae need to tone it down a bit, for all the kids. But the humans think it's just part of the store. Part of the 'magic.' The human adults, that is."

"But the children know?" Nuada murmured. "They know…and they don't…"

"Don't reject," she replied. "Don't hate. Don't push away. They accept. That's part of the magic of the store. It's one of the reasons I love being here so much. I don't know too many other places you'll find something like this. And it's safe. I don't know why, I don't know how he does it, but somehow Mr. Magorium keeps evil out of this place. And…oh!"

Dylan's eyes lit up as she spotted someone over Nuada's shoulder. The prince turned to see an elderly man with bushy gray hair and brows in a neat, berry-red suit with holly-green pinstripes, a cream-colored shirt, and a holly-and-gold striped tie. The old man came toward Dylan, arms outstretched, a benevolent smile creasing his wrinkled face.

"Dylan Roberta Sahara Niamh Myers," he said warmly. "Merry Christmas, my darling girl."

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Magorium!" Dylan went to the old man and embraced him. He kissed her cheeks the way a grandfather might and then lightly grasped her shoulders, holding her at arms' length and studying her face. To Nuada's surprise, Dylan's cheeks flushed pink. "What?"

"My dearest piece of apple pie, you look happier than I've ever seen you." He patted her cheek. "Always I have seen a shadow, a deep loneliness in your heart. When I've seen it, I've been filled with dysphoria. Yet now…that shadow, that loneliness…is gone. And in your eyes I see a light I've longed to catch a glimpse of." The old man, Mr. Magorium, turned to Nuada. "I trust this gentleman is the reason for that light."

A brilliant smile bloomed on Dylan's face. She took Nuada's hand and gave a happy little bounce. "Mr. Edward Magorium, may I introduce His Royal Highness, Prince Nuada Silverlance…the best man I've ever known, and my fiancé."

Nuada met the dark eyes set in the wrinkled face and felt it—the heavy, rich sense of vast power. Toymaker this man might've been, and kindly grandfather-figure to lost girls whose families had cruelly abandoned them, but that wasn't all he was. This man, this Edward Magorium, was something Nuada had only seen a few times before. Here was a being of the same caliber as Moundshroud. That understanding filled Nuada's eyes, and acknowledgment filled Mr. Magorium's. He knew the prince understood just what the toymaker truly was, even if Dylan didn't.

"I'm very happy for you, my honeycomb," Magorium said to Dylan, and patted her cheek again. "And Thad will be, too." At that point, Dylan shot Nuada a look and bit her lip. The prince arched a brow. Who was this "Thad," that his truelove was nervous about the Elf meeting him? The toymaker added, "He's with Eric and Mahoney at the cash register."

"Thank you, Mr. Magorium," she said. A flicker of movement over Dylan's shoulder caught Nuada's eye. Seeing his look, Dylan stuck out her hand in time to catch a bouncing rubber ball splashed with all the colors of the rainbow. She grinned at the bouncy-ball. "Really? Like I'm not used to you guys doing this stuff all the time. Bounce off." Dylan didn't move a muscle, but the ball leapt out of her hand and bounced off toward a group of youngsters. Smiling with all the joy of a small child, Dylan took Nuada's hand. "Come on."

Weaving through the aisles and dodging around toys, Dylan finally managed to get to the check-out counter, her prince in tow. The first person Nuada saw was a slender, compact human woman with short brown hair in a striped skirt and a white t-shirt covered in multi-colored handprints. Perched on the counter chatting amiably with her was a human boy in a ridiculous jester's hat who might've been perhaps nine years old. But beside them stood a man who was well into his sixties. An oval face, thin lips, and familiar blue-gray eyes…the old man looked familiar. Where had Nuada seen him before?

Then it struck him, a fist in the belly that left him seething with black hatred. The old man looked like what John might, once the whelp reached that age. This man could've been John's father. Dylan's father. It had to be. The physical similarities were too distinct. This was Dylan's father. The heartless bastard who'd abandoned his daughter to imprisonment, torture, starvation, rape…

Fury pounded through Nuada's temples, boiled in his blood. He took a single step forward. Crimson hazed across his vision. He might've leapt across the polished wooden counter and gone for the filthy wretch's throat if Dylan hadn't suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked on it, hard, digging in her heels to make sure her prince went nowhere. Nuada whirled on her, rage pulsing through him. His eyes flashed vibrant crimson.

"What's wrong?" Dylan whispered. "What is it?"

"I'll kill him," Nuada snarled, so low she could barely hear him. "I'll rip him apart. He left you. He left you in that hell. You were a little girl, dammit. You're his daughter, he should've protected you from—"

"That's not who you think it is," Dylan hissed, eyes wide. "It's not my father. That's my uncle. The one who helped me. That's my Uncle Thaddeus. Okay? I told you, my parents are dead. Remember?"

Nuada clenched his teeth and fought for calm. Of course. Of course, the monsters who'd abandoned her were dead. A bus accident, she'd told him. Of course. Her uncle, then. The one who'd helped her and John after she'd escaped the institution. Yes. The Elven warrior shuddered, reminding Dylan of an enraged stallion edging back from battle-fury. She lightly stroked his arm until the tension eased out of him.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't think you'd want to meet anymore of my family, so I didn't tell you who it was I wanted you to meet, because I really want you to like my aunt and uncle. They're good people. It never occurred to me you'd think he was my dad. I know, I know, he looks so much like John; he and our mom were twins. I'm sorry."

The Elven warrior let out a breath. "I don't wish to meet anymore of your family," he muttered. "They're not as wretched as I first thought—some of them, at any rate—but that doesn't mean they deserve you."

"My uncle helped me a lot, Nuada. You know that. He did the best he could."

Nuada shook his head. "He didn't get you out of that place—"

"He tried," Dylan whispered. "He tried to talk to my parents, tried to convince them there was no reason to lock me up, but they wouldn't listen. He sued for custody of me multiple times. He tried to take me from my parents, to protect me, but the courts decided against him every time. When…when Patrick and Xander…my sisters told my cousin Renee, and she told my uncle. He tried to have it taken care of, he tried to get me out, but…"

"But he failed," Nuada snarled bitterly.

"I expected him to," Dylan replied, her voice soft as a shadow. Nuada frowned. "You still don't understand—no one could touch Patrick and Xander or Westenra. My uncle went to the police; he went to the hospital board. He told my parents; they didn't believe him. He hired a private detective at one point to get evidence. He even tried to break into Patrick and Xander's house, Westenra's house, even Westenra's office, to try and find evidence on his own about what was happening. The security at both places put him in the hospital every time, they beat him so badly.

"Renee told me they'd get me out, but I knew it wouldn't work. Not as well connected as Patrick and Xander and their father were. Are. But Uncle Thaddeus did everything he could, Nuada. Eventually my parents told the doctors to call the police if he showed up at St. Vincent's or tried to get in contact with me. Westenra told them he was 'encouraging my delusions.' Uncle Thad wasn't my father, or my legal guardian. He didn't have any options. Don't you see?"

After a long moment, the prince murmured, "You never told me this."

"I didn't think I needed to," she replied, exasperated. "I thought if I told you he was a good man, you'd believe me."

"You can be blind when it comes to dealing with your family, mo crídh."

There was a hitch in Nuada's voice that had Dylan narrowing her eyes at him. Can be blind…

"Can be blind," she repeated aloud, "but not this time?"

Nuada's eyes were no longer crimson with fury and hate when he looked at the man working industriously behind the counter. Now they were simply gold. "No," he murmured. "Not this time."

He didn't resist when she led him up to the counter. He even inclined his head politely to the mortal woman who said, "Good morning, sir," before her eyes fixed on Dylan. With a delighted squeal, the woman rushed around the counter and flung her arms around Dylan's neck. Dylan hugged her back just as tightly.

"Oh, my gosh, Dylan!"

"Hi, Mahoney!" The psychiatrist pulled back a little to smile at the boy drumming his heels against the counter. "Good morning, Eric. What a marvelous hat."

"Thanks, Doctor D." The boy, Eric, reached over and tapped Dylan's uncle on the shoulder. "Thad. Thad, hey. Pay attention." The man was poring over a ledger, and brushed off Eric's insistent tapping. "Thaddeus, Doctor D's here. Hey."

Dylan smiled. "Ugh, he's just like Simone!" Leaning across the counter, Dylan stretched out her hand and waved it between the ledger and the man's face. He looked up, irritated, but a welcoming smile spread across his face when he saw who'd interrupted him. "Hey, Uncle Thaddeus."

He shut the ledger. "Well," he said, his voice a rich rolling baritone. "There's my girl. Merry Christmas, cute stuff. How are you? Haven't seen you in a while."

"I'm sorry. I've been busy with…stuff."

Mahoney arched an eyebrow. Grinning smugly, she jerked her chin at Dylan's left hand. "Would that 'stuff' have anything to do with that gorgeous ring on your finger?" Dylan blushed and Mahoney's grin widened. "Oh, my gosh! Don't tell me—you're getting married!"

Dylan nodded. "Yes." A grin to match Mahoney's flashed across her face. "I am! Oh, my gosh, I'm so happy, Mahoney! You have no idea, it's just…it's so wonderful."

The mortal woman nodded to Nuada. "Is this the guy?"

"Yep." Slipping both arms around one of Nuada's, Dylan introduced the prince, then introduced the boy—"This is Eric, he's one of my patients. He works here sometimes, unofficially."—and her friend—"This is Molly Mahoney, but we just call her Mahoney; she's Mr. Magorium's apprentice and the store manager."—and her uncle. To Nuada's surprise, Mahoney actually bobbed a small curtsy. Eric and Dylan's uncle offered truncated bows. Then Thaddeus held out his hand to the prince.

"Dylan hasn't told me much about you, but what she has told me…well, if I'm guessing right, we owe you a lot for what you've done for her. Thank you. Thaddeus Bardson."

To Dylan's astonishment, her prince took the proffered hand with no sign of distaste. Nuada murmured, "Nuada Silverlance. It is an honor to meet you, sir." Dylan's mouth fell open. Nuada continued, "If what my lady tells me of you is truth—and I have no reason to doubt her—then it is I who owe you thanks for seeking to protect her from…her enemies."

Thaddeus gave Nuada an appraising look. "I think we're going to get along, Your Highness."

Nuada inclined his head. "Surprisingly, I believe so."

Before things could get weirder—Nuada had said it was an honor to meet her uncle. Her human uncle!—Dylan was distracted by Eric tugging on her sleeve. "Dr. D, where's John?" Just at that moment, John ambled over, trailing a half-dozen multicolored plastic and metal Slinkies wrapped around his lower legs.

"Got held up by the Slinkies," John said, waving at Eric and shaking off the clinging toys. "Hey, Uncle Thad. Eric. Lookin' good, Mahoney. So, D, can you still work The Big Book?"

Once it was explained to Mahoney just why Dylan had come over, Mahoney went and pulled a large, relatively thin book down from the shelf behind the register. It was easily more than half as tall as Mahoney herself. It's dusty, forest-green binding sported gold-leaf stamped to form the title The Big Book. Dylan caressed the leather cover with the tips of her fingers.

"This book contains the inventory for the entire store," Dylan explained softly to Nuada, still dancing her fingers over the leather. "Anything you want, if the store carries it, you can find it in here." Turning a little, she called for the children. Within a minute, they'd squirmed out of whatever gaggle of playmates they'd collected and made their way to the counter, giggling and grinning, purring like mad. Dylan grinned down at them.

"A'du, you remember when you saved me in the orchard?" The cub nodded. "Well, His Highness and the king both rewarded you, but I haven't yet. What would you like from this store? Anything at all."

The cub's eyes widened. "Anything?"

"Anything," Dylan replied. "Name it, and if it's in the store, it's yours."

A'du'la'di raked his claws through his wild, tufty mane and tried to think. Dylan watched with a smile as his whiskers quivered, his fur bristled and flattened and bristled again, and his tail lashed slowly back and forth for a moment before subsiding. He peeked up at his mistress and asked, "What about 'Sa'ti? Can she get something, too? I want her to have a toy, too. I mean, I know Christmas is tomorrow, but…well, when our mama and daddy was still alive, and we had birthdays, we each got a little present, too, even if it wasn't our birthday. Would that be okay?"

Dylan exchanged a glance with Nuada. The prince inclined his head; better to reward the child's generosity, and encourage such a trait. So Dylan nodded. "Sure."

"Oh! Oh!" 'Sa'ti cried, bouncing up and down. "Paper dolls! Paper dolls! Please? I saw them over there," she added, pointing back toward the crowded aisles. "They had pretty dresses! Please?"

"And I want a Transformer!" A'du cried. "Please."

Clearly startled, Dylan stared at the little boy with furrowed brows. "How do you even know what a Transformer is?"

"They got lots of TVs at the Troll Market," A'du explained, smiling. "I used to watch it sometimes. I kinda wish you had a TV at the cottage, A'ge'lv."

John snorted. "Yeah, that'll never happen."

"Television rots your brain," Dylan replied. "But okay, a Transformer it is." She grinned in anticipation when Mahoney spun the massive book around so that it faced right-way-up when Dylan pulled it toward her. Her fingers danced along the tabs sticking out of the book the way Nuada had seen them dance across the keys of her piano. "Mahoney does this so much better," the mortal psychiatrist added to her prince under her breath. Louder, she said, "T for Transformer."

Catching the proper tab, Dylan hauled open the massive leather-bound toy catalogue. To Nuada's bafflement, the page was completely blank. Dylan caressed the heavy, thick parchment and murmured, "A Transformer, please, for this young man here."

In a puff of golden smoke a clockwork warrior appeared. His parts gleamed silver, metallic crimson and sapphire, and when Dylan touched him, the clockwork soldier transformed into…a motor vehicle. Nuada thought the humans called such vehicles "semi-trucks." The toy was made of Elven silver and faerie metal. Nuada raised both brows, mildly impressed.

When Dylan showed the toy to A'du'la'di, the boy gasped and hugged the toy much as 'Sa'ti had hugged the doll Nuada had given her.

"Whoa! Optimus Prime!" A'du cried. "Wow!"

"Oh, dude!" John said, leaning down to get a better look. "That is wicked sweet."

"John, your nerd is showing," Dylan said with a laugh.

The whelp rolled his eyes. "D, be quiet. Oh, man, he's got the new paint job and everything. Does he light up or talk?" John asked A'du'la'di.

"I dunno," A'du murmured, inspecting the Transformer for buttons. Finding them, the boy began pressing them at random.

"I am Optimus Prime," the toy said in a surprisingly deep voice. Its eyes lit up and glowed yellow as a cat's. "Leader of the Autobots."

"Whoa!" A'du'la'di exclaimed. He held the toy up to Nuada. "Look, Your Highness!"

Nuada shot Dylan a look—one that clearly said the toy would end up melted down in his forge if he heard it proclaiming its name and title too often—before saying to the boy, "I am glad you're pleased with your gift, A'du'la'di."

"And P for paper dolls," Dylan added, flipping to the proper place in The Big Book. "With pretty dresses for the young lady, if you please." The book obliged. Dylan smiled. "Ha. I haven't lost my touch after all."

"Nope," Thaddeus murmured, reaching out to pat Dylan's shoulder. "You're still amazing."

Nuada's fingers brushed Dylan's wrist before sliding down to touch her palm. Voice like a velvet caress in her skull, the prince whispered, Yes, you are.