Chapter One-Hundred-Four
Thicker than Blood
that is
A Short Tale of Two Young Lovers, a Conversation with a Prince, Permission, Panic ere a Phone Call, Comfort and Kisses, Three Shrews for the Price of One, a Danger Two Months in the Waiting, Disbelief, Anguish, a Prince's Rage, Revealing All the Cards, Remorse, and Blood
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Tsu's'di sat up in bed, feeling the dull throb in his shoulder and side from his wounds, which were only slowly knitting together. He touched his face, where the pain was considerably less. That crazy Dilong Elf had given him a good one across the face, but that had been easier to heal. The stab wounds still weren’t completely mended.
But it was better than being dead. Tsu's'di Kata Ewah was very much okay with not being dead.
A hesitant knock sounded at the door to his healing chamber. Still a little groggy from this latest bout of healing sleep, he scrubbed a hand over his face and mumbled, "Yeah?" Chief-Healer Somhairle poked his head in and beamed.
"Good. You're awake again. One more check-up and we'll no doubt be sending you back to the prince and Her Ladyship. But before I do that, there's a young lady who has been waiting most patiently all morning to be let in." Somhairle shifted to the side and opened the door a bit wider to reveal Isibéal ingen Cabhán, looking gorgeous in a burgundy wool dress, standing in the doorway.
Tsu's'di grinned. "I think I died and went to Heaven." Isibéal rushed into the room and threw her arms around him. The wound in his shoulder yelped a silent but very physical protest. The ewah guardsman gave it voice. "Ow, ow, ow!"
"I'm sorry," she cried, pulling back. "I'm sorry. Tsu's'di…you could have been killed! First you challenge Lord Galen and them and then…Is it true you fought the Red Dragon?" Prince Nuada had told him that "the Red Dragon" was another name for that whacked out Dilong prince he'd squared off against, so the cougar youth nodded. Horror stole into Isibéal's amber eyes. "He could have killed you. And there were shoggoths in the gardens and the prince and Lady Dylan were nearly killed and…"
She trailed off when he cupped her cheek. Smiling, purring softly so that she could feel the soothing rumble, Tsu's'di murmured, "Hey. I'm okay. Isibéal," he added when she looked away. "Look at me. I'm okay. Kinda sore, but I'm alive. It's okay. Don't worry." Isibéal bit her lip, but offered him a tremulous smile. Smiling wider, Tsu's'di said, "Hey, once I'm out of this bed, let's get out of here. Let's go somewhere. Do something crazy."
Her smile brightened. Some of the worry left her eyes. "I'd like that. There's a place in the township that sells winter treats—peppermint sticks and hot cocoa and the like. We could go there."
"You bet." Tsu's'di's thumb drifted lightly over Isibéal's cheek, brushing back and forth. Her lips parted slightly as Tsu's'di straightened a little, so that he and the shorter Isibéal were now eye to eye. She had such beautiful eyes…"Anything you want."
Her tongue darted out to nervously wet her lips. Her smile had taken on a soft, dreamy cast. "Tsu's'di…"
Swallowing, he mumbled, "Yeah?" His eyes dropped to her mouth when she licked her lips again.
Someone behind Isibéal cleared his throat, the sound cracking through the room like a boom of thunder. Isibéal squeaked and spun around while Tsu's'di bit back a sound halfway between a growl and groan. Then Isibéal gasped and Tsu's'di's gaze shot toward the intruder in the doorway. Smoky gray eyes widened and his fur bristled with humiliation.
"Your Highness!" He tried to shift his weight and get out of bed, but Prince Nuada held up a staying hand.
"Peace, Tsu's'di Kata. Be still. Had I known you had company, I would have come to speak with you earlier." The prince's tone was mild, but the reproof was obvious. The guardsman didn’t have leave from his liege lord to pursue courtship with Isibéal, and His Highness had caught them about to kiss.
There were reasons why permission had to be gotten. One very good one was to protect Isibéal's good name. If it appeared Tsu's'di was merely playing with her, it would reflect poorly on both of them, and on Dylan and Nuada as well. Tsu's'di knew that, and knew what was expected of him now. So he cleared his throat and took Isibéal's hand in his.
"Your Highness, may I present my dear friend, Mistress Isibéal ingen Cabhán from the palace kitchens." Because he didn’t have permission yet to make her his official girlfriend, the proper term for introduction was "dear friend." Kinda stuffy and old-fashioned, but he could deal with it.
Isibéal lowered her gaze and sank into a deep curtsy, the deep burgundy skirts of her kitchen dress rustling around her. "Your Highness," she whispered, dipping her head to look at the floor. "Please excuse my intrusion. I only wished to ensure Tsu's'di was unharmed and—"
"Peace, young mistress," Nuada said gently. "I do not take exception to your presence here. Tsu's'di has told me a little of you. And I know your father." Isibéal's head shot up, her eyes wide. The prince canted his head. "Cabhán mac Gowan is a brave and honorable warrior of the Fianna. I am proud to say I have fought beside him on more than one occasion."
Isibéal drew a deep breath. "It is kind of Your Highness to remember my father. He has often written to me of your courage and honor, Sire."
Nuada glanced at Tsu's'di, a look full of approval, and a ghost of a smile flitted across dark lips before he turned his attention back to the kitchen maid. Speaking to her with the same respect he would have offered a noblewoman, he murmured, "Mistress Isibéal, I would not part such dear friends willingly, but I must speak to Tsu's'di of a private matter. If you will excuse us?"
She nodded. "Of course, Your Highness." With another curtsy and a lingering glance at the bedbound ewah, she hurried from the room.
Nuada nodded after her. "You couldn't do much better than that young lady," he said. Then he pinned Tsu's'di with a gaze like topaz daggers. "You will treat her with respect and courtesy, will you not? Kitchen maid or no, she is a lady, and deserves a gentleman's regard."
Tsu's'di looked his prince in the eye. "I care about her. I would never do anything to hurt her."
"About that." Nuada grabbed a chair and pulled it up to Tsu's'di's bedside, sinking into it without taking his eyes from the young guard. "Lord Galen the Elder came to me this morning about you. Ah," he added when the guardsman bristled and an involuntary growl rumbled in his throat. Cool amusement glinted in Nuada's eyes. "I thought you might be expecting something of the sort. He claims you attacked his eldest son unprovoked—"
"Oh, bull—" He swallowed the curse word before it could escape. "I mean…that's bogus, Your Highness."
The prince inclined his head. "I expected as much. But the healers told me that Lord Galen the Younger had a very deep wound in his shoulder that looked as if it had been made by the claws of a large hunting cat. Would you know anything about that, Tsu's'di Kata?"
He gritted his teeth, then sighed. "Yes, sir. He tried to hurt Isibéal." When Nuada raised an eyebrow, he added, "He wouldn’t leave her alone! She said he's been bothering her for a while, and she's reported him to her superiors in the kitchens, but he won't stop messing with her. We were walking back to the castle last night from the gardens, she was telling me about him, and then he showed up—drunk, too—and made it pretty clear he wanted stuff she wasn’t willing to give him. He wouldn’t back off, he even had two friends with him!"
"Yes," the prince said softly. "Lord Dougall of Cromm Crúaich and his brother, Lord Finbarr. They came to see me as well. Demanded I have you flogged for attacking three noblemen without justification." He caught Tsu's'di's gaze, looking straight into the youth's eyes. "You realize it's your word against three members of my father's court."
"I'll swear by the Darkness, then," Tsu's'di said. "In front of the king. I know the laws, Your Highness, and I know what you taught me. Isibéal was scared, and Lord Galen was going to hurt her. I couldn’t just let him. And he attacked me first, anyway. I warned him, too. He was too drunk to care."
Nuada nodded again. "I believe you, Tsu's'di. As it happens, Caspar Kabouter came to me this morning, telling me that Mistress Isibéal had gone to him last night in tears about the whole thing and insisted he speak to me to save you from getting into any trouble. Lord Galen will be dealt with and Mistress Isibéal will be protected. I am proud of you," he added softly, "for holding to your honor against a foe that outranked and outnumbered you. That is what a true warrior does. Well done."
The very tip of Tsu's'di's tail twitched, the only outward sign of the pride and pleasure that His Highness's compliment had given him. He ducked his head and nodded. "Thank you, Sire. Um…about Isibéal."
A small smile curved dark lips. "Yes?"
"I really like her," Tsu's'di murmured. He risked a glance at the prince's face but couldn’t gauge his reaction. "I mean, I really like her."
"Why is that?"
Tsu's'di shrugged. "I don't know. She's…she's smart and she's nice, she's funny, she's—"
"Pretty?" Nuada suggested.
But Tsu's'di shook his head. "She's beautiful! And she has this amazing laugh that makes her eyes light up and…and she's just…she's just so fun. She's…she's amazing." Then he remembered he was talking to Prince Nuada Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, and heat flooded his face. "Uh…I mean…um…"
Prince Nuada grinned and clapped Tsu's'di on his uninjured shoulder. "I understand, my lad. I suspected it was more than her beauty that drew you, but I needed to be sure. Caspar has told me that if you cause Isibéal even a moment of distress, he will hang you by your heels and bleed you like a pig—and I should warn you that if you dishonor that young lady in any way, I will be right behind him to deal with your carcass—so I wanted to be certain of your intentions. But I know you, Tsu's'di. You have honor. You will do right by her."
"So…I can date her?"
The grin widened. "Yes, yes."
"Yes!" Tsu's'di actually did a small fist-pump before remembering the proper response. "I mean, thank you, Your Highness." Elation fizzed in his veins, but it simmered down when the smile slid from Nuada's face. "Is something wrong, Your Highness?"
He sighed. "Do you recall the trip we'd planned to go to the villages in the northern provinces? The ones in need of assistance with bandits?" Tsu's'di nodded. His Highness had explained how the people the prince himself was responsible for were being hit crazy-hard by human bandits and nothing had been done yet because of the treaty between mortals and fae, but that A'ge'lv Dylan had figured out a way around that. Nuada continued, "Things have gotten much worse and our timetable has moved up. We must leave tomorrow at dawn."
Disappointment and anger twisted together like brambles in Tsu's'di's chest: disappointment because that meant he'd have to leave practically right after getting permission to date Isibéal; and anger at the human bandits who'd stepped up their attacks to the point that even the Midwinter festivities that the prince and the a'ge'lv were supposed to take part in were being put aside, despite how it might offend certain courtiers who'd issued invitations.
But he didn’t vent either of those emotions. He was, first and foremost, a guardsman for A'ge'lv Dylan. The only thing more important to him than the human who'd taken him and his siblings into her heart and home was his siblings themselves. The a'ge'lv knew that and didn’t hold it against him. If she needed him to drop everything and go on this trip right now, he'd do it.
He just hoped Isibéal understood. He really liked her.
"I'm fit to go, Your Highness," Tsu's'di said, straightening a little. "I'm still mending, but Somhairle said I could go back to my duties by tonight, so that means I should be able to go with you guys to the villages." He hesitated, then added, "You do want me with you…right?" After all, the prince had bought him a horse for the trip.
Nuada inclined his head. "We do. You must be packed by tonight. There will be a list for you in your room. I suggest you turn in before midnight—that will give you at least seven hours of sleep. However…" Tawny eyes scanned the cougar youth. "I'm relieving you of your guardsman's duties for tonight. For tonight only. Take advantage." Getting to his feet, the crown prince strode toward the door. He paused in the doorway and glanced over his shoulder. "A little demi-fae told me that the Master of the Kitchens has given one of his kitchen maids the day off unexpectedly, as her sweetheart is scheduled to leave on a distant journey tomorrow. One might wonder what she's doing this afternoon." And with that, the prince left the healing chamber.
When Isibéal came back into the room, Tsu's'di was grinning.
.
Perhaps an hour after his talk with Tsu's'di, Nuada watched from the comfortable, brown leather armchair as Dylan paced in the living room of her cottage. Her cellular phone sat on the fireplace mantel, a rectangle of ominous black and blue plastic. The mortal shoved her fingers through loose, brown curls so hard Nuada wanted to wince when her fingers snagged on a few knots. Dylan ignored any glimmer of pain and kept pacing. Misery pinched her face, drained the color from her cheeks.
"You needn't do this, Dylan," the crown prince said gently. Her panic-edged unhappiness ate at him like drops of acid. He knew why she was so uneasy, so afraid of taking the next step. A step that, in his opinion, didn’t necessarily need to be taken. "We can manage on our own."
She shook her head without looking away from the carpet being eaten up by her footsteps. "No, Nuada. I have to give our people my best. This is my best. I have to do what's right for them. Even if it scares me to death."
Nuada considered her words. Dylan had done a lot in the last thirteen months that had scared her. She'd faced off against so many enemies: Eamonn, the dipsa in the royal forest, the Téngshé assassins in the orchard, the group of murderers that had attacked her and Zhenjin at Midwinter, the eldritch shoggoths, the mad Prince Shaohao, and even King Balor.
She'd undergone so many things, faced so many trials for the prince's sake: that first bloody night walking through the subway, defending him at his so-called trial, appearing before the court posing as his truelove, the soul-purging of her memories in the wake of Westenra's cruel phone call, returning to Findias and to the knowledge of certain punishment, all the court functions, the sexual near-violence in the Queen's Garden, agreeing to marry Nuada because of the king's edict, becoming a noblewoman of Bethmoora. For all of those things, she'd been frightened, but she'd acted with courage and honor. Yet this had the power to scare her even more.
The thought made him despise his truelove's sister. If Dylan could face such dangers as she had over the last year and a moon, yet still be cowed by Petra Ariadne Myers, her own sister…If he hadn’t hated Petra already—and he did; oh, how he hated her, as well as Pauline, Mary, and the other two he hadn’t met yet who hadn’t yet made any attempts at making amends with their youngest sister—he would've hated her just for this.
"Dylan," Nuada said, his voice still gentle but also firm. "We haven’t much time as it is."
They needed to leave by dawn tomorrow. It would actually still be a bit dark when they mounted their horses and set out with the supply trains, if Nuada had his way. Both of them still needed to pack, and while it was only mid-afternoon, the prince knew that telling Dylan's eldest sister the truth about Faerie and recruiting her help was going to take some time if they actually did it instead of giving it up as a lost cause.
His lady nodded, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the fireplace. A strange flutter took up residence in Nuada's belly; it took him a moment to realize he could actually feel Dylan's nervousness through their slowly-growing empathic link. All the time they'd spent in each other's minds was slowly forging a link between them similar to—though a bit stronger than—the one between Dylan and her twin brother—though it wasn’t as strong as the connection between Nuada and his twin sister.
"Okay," Dylan said. Her voice quavered, but her face became calm. "Sink or swim time, I guess." She sucked in a breath, ran her hands through her hair again, then snatched up her phone and pressed a series of buttons. She held the phone to her ear. Distantly, Nuada heard the tinny buzzing that constituted the phone "ringing." It rang three times before someone picked up on the other end.
"What, Dylan?" Petra's voice. Hearing it, even muffled by the phone, Dylan's ear, and the cascade of Dylan's hair made the Elven prince grind his teeth. He wanted to snatch the odious device out of Dylan's hand and hurl it into the fire…but he knew she needed it. And she wanted Petra to be at their wedding. Northern villages aside, this had to happen.
"Hey, Petra, um…" Dylan licked her lips. Closed her eyes. Nuada saw the pulse fluttering like a frantic, trapped butterfly against the thin skin of her throat. The fingers of Dylan's free hand twitched spasmodically—a sign of her growing unease. "Listen," she said. "Are you busy right now?"
"Maybe. What do you want?"
Dylan swallowed. "Can you come over? I need to talk to you." When there was only silence, Dylan added, "It's important. Please?" Petra said nothing. A muscle in Nuada's jaw spasmed as he gritted his teeth harder. Finally Dylan said, in the subdued voice of a child, "I need your help."
There was more silence, but finally Petra asked in a far gentler voice, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. I just…I really need to talk to you, and it's better if we don't do it over the phone." Rainswept blue eyes flicked to Nuada's face. He forced his features to relax enough that he could give Dylan an encouraging nod. "Please, Petra. Please come." Silence descended once more. Every muscle in Dylan's body went taut as a bowstring ready to snap. Her eyes locked with Nuada's, her gaze sheened with panic. She swallowed again, hard.
"Fine. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Don't go anywhere."
"I won't. Thank yo—" But her sister had already hung up. Dylan stared at the phone in her shaking hand as if she didn’t understand what it was or why it was there before she set it back on the mantel. Her hand shook so hard the plastic device rattled against the stone surface. Breathing in shallow little gasps, Dylan raised her spasming hands to her face and covered her eyes. Unease stole through the Tuathan prince at the gesture; it was the move she always made when things were becoming too difficult for her to process, just before a flashback hit. But Dylan lowered her hands and just looked at him. In a voice that was merely a thread of a whisper, she said, "Nuada…I'm scared."
He was at her side in an instant, drawing her into his arms, stroking her hair. He pressed his lips to her temple as he cradled her against his chest. "Do not be afraid," he murmured. "I am here. It doesn't matter what Petra does, Dylan. It doesn’t matter. If she rejects you, forget her. It is her loss, not yours. It is no fault of yours if she reacts badly. You do not need her. You have me. Do not be afraid."
Dylan pressed her face into his chest. Her breath was soft and warm through the silk of his champagne-colored shirt. Her hands settled at his back, cupping the ridges of his shoulder blades. The shallow indentation of his breastbone made a small nook where her forehead fit perfectly if she bent her head.
"What if she doesn’t help? What if she doesn’t believe me?"
"Then she is a fool, to turn her back on the wonders you intend to show her," he murmured. "She is only harming herself with her refusal to believe. If she cannot open her heart, you are better off. Look at me," he added when she sniffled quietly. Crooking his finger, he touched his knuckle under her chin and lifted her head so he could look into her eyes. Firegold eyes scanned her face before he said softly, "Kiss me, Dylan."
She rose up on tiptoe to do it, tilting her chin up to offer him her mouth. His lips came down on hers, sliding over velvet warmth, lightly tasting as she let out a pent-up breath. Her mouth was so soft, was so warm. Nuada brushed his own mouth against the fullness of hers, tracing along her lush bottom lip, finding the hidden phantom kisses at the corners of her mouth, which curved upward when he kissed her there. His arms encircled her, protective, and she melted into him with absolute trust.
Because of that trust, he shoved away everything he wanted at that moment—the soft sigh as he parted her lips, the warm stroke of her tongue against his, a deep drugging kiss that would lead to another and another and another. This wasn’t about him. It was about her. About comforting her. About reminding Dylan that no matter what happened, he would always love her, always believe in her. Always.
He kissed her as if that were all he could ever want, all he could ever need. Kissed her as if touching his mouth to hers was like coming home, because in a way it was. She was home to him. Her heart, her embrace. He kissed her for long, gentle minutes, always keeping it chaste even though his blood burned in his veins and desire licked like flames along his spine. In between kisses, he whispered to her in Gaelic, deliberately allowing his accent to come through, making her smile, easing the tension in her body with simple, sweet nothings. His fingers brushed tenderly over her cheeks, tracing her scars.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered without meaning to, but the words were so right, so true, and he could see that she never quite fully believed him, so he had to say it again. "You're so beautiful, Dylan."
Her smile mirrored his—soft and a little dreamy. "I love you."
"I adore you beyond words," he murmured, brushing a kiss across her lips again. "You are the miracle I never thought I would find. You can do this. You can do anything. I believe in your strength."
She opened her mouth to say something when a sharp knock sounded at the front door. Dylan stiffened. Nuada bit back a curse. Forcing his body into an ease and relaxation he didn’t feel, the Elven warrior raised Dylan's trembling hands to his lips and kissed them. Then he nodded toward the front door. Dylan sighed and nodded.
"I will make sure Becan has told Wink that Petra is here," Nuada said, stepping back from her. "Be brave, mo crídh." Dylan nodded again and went to answer the door, while the crown prince headed for the back room where Dylan kept her piano—and where the diminutive house sprite and the massive cave troll waited for the prince's order to come out and unglamour themselves.
.
Cold sweat dampened Dylan's palms and trickled between her shoulder blades down her spine as she braced her hands against the peephole and peered through it. Her heart jerked to a halt, then vaulted into a gallop at the sight of her three sisters on the other side of the door. She gasped, but the breath strangled in her throat. She stumbled back from the door.
Nuada was suddenly at her back, one arm slipping around her while his free hand went to the twin knife sheathed at his hip. "What is it?" He demanded, voice low. "Are you all right?" He angled his body between the mortal and the door, leaning forward to look through the spy-hole.
"It's Petra," Dylan gasped before Nuada had a chance to look. "She brought Pauline and Mary."
The prince whirled on her. "She what?"
Numbness had spread through Dylan's cheeks as the blood seeped out of her head. It felt like it was all puddling at her feet, leaving her a little dizzy. This was worse than just talking to Petra. Pauline and Mary didn’t have tongues in their mouths; they had knives. Dylan had always planned on telling them one at a time, with Petra to back her up so they wouldn’t get nasty. And now…now what? It wasn’t as if she could tell Petra she'd changed her mind. Her sister wouldn’t leave without some kind of explanation. And even if she would have, the burning warmth of the Spirit in Dylan's chest told her that having Petra along on the trip to the northern villages was the best choice…for whatever reason.
But Dylan couldn’t breathe. She could barely hear, past the roaring in her ears, Nuada swearing viciously under his breath. She leaned against the wall, trying to fight panic. Why was she so upset? These were her sisters. This was her family. They wouldn’t hurt her. They wouldn't…
And then Dylan realized that the worst possible thing to happen when she needed a clear head to talk to her sisters had happened. She'd forgotten, for the last two days, to take her medication. She and Nuada had both been so rushed because of the elevation ceremony and exhausted after everything with the shoggoths and Shaohao that it had slipped both their minds. She'd taken her pain pills because her leg had been killing her, but everything else? Out the window. And she hadn’t done her relaxation meditation that Healer Lóegaire had recommended, either.
Time to be a princess, she told herself even as slivers of panic lodged in her throat. As Francesca would say, time to put on some Big-Girl Undies. I can do this. I can do this. Nuada's here with me. Wink and Becan are here to back us up. I'll be fine. Everything will be fine.
With that mantra repeating in her head, making sure Nuada was glamoured for the moment, she slid back the seven dead bolts and unlocked her door to reveal her three sisters stamping their feet on the snowy stone step, huddled inside their pea-coats, looking miserable from the cold.
"Hey, guys!" Dylan forced her lips into a stiff smile that felt like it would crack her face in half as she ushered the triplets into the cottage. They hung up their coats, hats, scarves, gloves, and purses by the front door as Dylan added in what she hoped was a sunny voice, "Pauline, Mary. What are you guys doing here?"
Mary huffed and muttered, "Apparently you're in some kind of trouble. Again. Why am I not surprised? And…oh. It's you. The fiancé."
At her back, Dylan felt Nuada draw himself up to his full, regal, princely height…but he didn’t say anything to Mary, only nodded in cold acknowledgement of her presence. Considering she could feel the dislike rolling off her prince in waves, Dylan let her gratitude for Nuada's restraint show on her face and in the way she reached back to grip his hand for a too-fleeting moment before turning back to her sisters.
"Well, I'm not in trouble…per se. But since all three of you are here, I guess you should, uh…hear this from me now instead of…of later. Um," she tucked a lock of hair behind her hear and saw her fingers twitching as if they'd been electrified with a live wire. "Uh, since there's four of us, why don't we go in the den? More chairs."
Petra nodded, her eyes stormy blue with concern as they scanned her youngest sister. Pauline made a disdainful sound and brushed past Dylan and Nuada. Mary, about to follow, paused to raise an eyebrow at Dylan's hands.
"Calm down, Ferret. What'd you do, kill somebody? Don't be so twitchy. You look like you're jonesing for something." Mary frowned then. "You're not on anything, are you? I mean, nothing you shouldn’t be taking—"
"No," Dylan said, then winced when she realized how sharp she'd sounded. "No, I don't need a fix. I'm just nervous."
Mary patted her shoulder as she walked by. "Eh, relax, Ferret. It's not the end of the world, whatever it is. You'll be back to screwing up your life again by next week, I promise."
Dylan waited until her three sisters were out of earshot before she covered her face with her hands. Nuada's hands came down on her shoulders and kneaded the tense muscles there. "It is all right," he murmured. "It is all right."
"I hate it when she calls me 'Ferret,'" Dylan growled. "Just because of my stupid muscle tics." Biting her lip, she shoved down the hurt and irritation, focusing instead on the warm pressure of Nuada's hands massaging her shoulders. "Thank you…that's lovely."
"Are you ready?" He asked as if they had all the time in the world. She knew they didn’t, but she loved him for acting like they did. Brushing wisps of hair out of her face, she took a deep, steadying breath. Held it. Let it out. Then she nodded and smiled at him. She knew Nuada could tell it was forced, but he smiled back. Cupping her cheek with one large hand, he said, "Let's do this."
She grinned and nodded. "Yeah. Let's do it."
.
Upon entering the den with Dylan, Nuada paused for just a moment to lift Dylan's hand to his lips and press a fervent kiss to the back of it. She looked back at him, and he let a brief flare of warmth into his eyes before focusing his once-more chilly gaze on the three harpy-shrews.
Mary sat in the armchair, with Petra and Pauline seated side by side on the folded futon. Nuada leaned back against the wall beside the door while Dylan, shoulders curved defensively and head slightly ducked, walked further into the room, toward the fireplace. Nuada saw that Becan had started a fire for her. Dylan stopped by the hearth, gazing into the flames for a moment before focusing on her supposed kin.
"So…so thank you guys for coming here," Dylan murmured. Nuada could see she struggled not to bite her lip in her nervousness. She tucked that one rebellious curl behind her ear with twitching fingers. "This is…this is going to be hard for me to say, so…so I'm asking for your patience. Okay?"
"Did you kill someone?" Pauline asked, echoing Mary's question from earlier.
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Dylan's mouth, self-deprecating. Nuada realized she was thinking of the dipsa serpents in the royal forest, the Téngshé in the orchard, the assassins from Midwinter's Eve. Dylan had done her fair share of killing since she'd become his lady. But Dylan only shook her head.
"I need to talk to you three about something. Um…I guess the best way to do it is to just…just come out and say it." Dylan took a breath that seemed to hurt her. "Do you remember when we were kids? And I used to tell those stories about fair—"
Pauline lunged to her feet. "No! No, we don't talk about that. We do not talk about your stupid stories from when you were a stupid kid! How dare you bring that up? I can't believe—"
"Pauline," Petra said sharply. The other woman twisted around to stare at Petra. "Sit down." When Pauline didn’t move, Petra said, "Now." After a long moment of tense stillness, where Dylan's knees trembled and fury coiled like icy, black snakes in the pit of Nuada's belly, the foul-tongued harpy eventually sat down. The eldest Myers sister focused on Dylan. "Keep going, hon." At that, Pauline and Mary shot Petra baffled looks. Petra ignored them.
Dylan swallowed hard. Pressing her lips tight together until they were white and bloodless, she shot one glance at Nuada before the silver in her eyes hardened to steel and she nodded, as if she'd drawn strength from that single look. She turned back to her sisters.
"You guys used to think I was lying, making things up. I wasn't. I—"
"Oh, come on," Pauline growled. Petra thumped her on the shoulder and she fell silent. Good; if the hag had gone on speaking, Nuada might have done more than give her a quick thump on the shoulder.
In a voice that was surprisingly gentle, Petra said, "Dylan. Honey. We know you weren’t lying. We know that now. It's okay. You were sick," Dylan flinched, but Petra didn’t notice, "it wasn’t your fault. You were sick. It's okay. We know you wouldn’t lie to us…about that."
Nuada narrowed his eyes. And what did they think Dylan would lie about? Her addictions, perhaps? Somehow, he doubted the shrews had even had the presence of mind—or the wherewithal—to ask any questions Dylan might've had to answer with lies in the first place. And she would never have become an addict if her family hadn’t forced her to remain locked up in that hellish cesspit all those years.
But before he could say a word, Dylan whispered in a voice that quavered with defiance and a touch of fear, "I wasn’t sick."
All three of her sisters stiffened. Exchanged a loaded glance. Then Petra studied Dylan for a long moment, taking in the shadows under her eyes and the exhaustion in her face, the weight she'd lost, and the barest hints of bruising on her skin from the night before. Her eyes drifted down to Dylan's arms, bare from the elbows down due to her silky, blue, mortal top. Lingered on the pale blue and green shadows there that were only slowly healing because Dylan had refused a full healing with Tsu's'di so badly hurt and everything in such an uproar.
Petra cleared her throat. She carefully laced her long fingers together, fingers that held only a ghost of Dylan's natural elegance, and set her clasped hands on her knees. Slate-gray eyes moved back to Dylan's face. Petra asked, "Dylan…are you using?"
Dylan's body jerked slightly, as if it had tried to step back and she'd refused to let it. She shook her head. "I'm not. I swear, Petra."
Her sister nodded, exchanging another of those looks with Pauline and Mary. Then Petra said, "There are bruises on your arms."
"They're not from a needle, okay? I swear. I was attacked," Dylan said.
Petra jolted. "What? When? Are you okay? What happened?"
She swallowed again, ran her fingers through her hair. "Um…well…I was…look, put that aside for right now. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. That's not why I asked you to co—"
"Did he do this to you?" Mary demanded sharply, glaring sapphire knives at Nuada. Dylan's mouth fell open and she stared at Mary as if that had been the very last thing she'd expected the older woman to say. Mary ignored her and focused on the Elven prince. "Because if you hurt my sister, you sick freak, I will rip you to pieces with my bare hands, do you hear me?"
Drawing himself up to his full height, voice as cutting as a murderous northern wind, Nuada said, "Hurt her? I? How dare you? I am not the one carving her up piece by piece, breaking her spirit, by refusing to listen. She has something she wishes to tell you. I suggest you heed her words."
Mary opened her mouth to snap something, but Pauline intervened this time. "I want to hear this. Spill it, Dylan. Whatever it is just spit it out."
"I'm not sick," Dylan gasped out. Nuada shot her a look razored with concern as he realized she hadn’t been breathing since Mary had interrupted her. Her face had gone sickly gray. Her hands were clenched tight at her sides. Nuada's gaze dropped to her fingers, half-expecting to see blood seeping between them from her nails digging into her palms, but there was none. Dylan managed to add, "I'm not sick. I wasn’t sick. The fae are real. They really exist. I can prove it. They exist and Petra, they need your help. I need your help."
Glacial topaz eyes zeroed in on the eldest sister as her eyes drifted closed and her clasped hands tightened until the knuckles turned white. A muscle in Petra's jaw flexed. She drew a breath through flared nostrils. Shock rippled through the prince as a look of abject sadness flashed across Petra's face before vanishing again. Then she opened her eyes. Smiled gently at Dylan.
"Okay," Petra said. Dylan frowned, tense, wary. Petra nodded. "Okay. It's okay, honey. Don't worry." She rose slowly to her feet and held out a hand to her younger sister. "It's okay, Dylan. Come here. It's all right. I'll help you."
Dylan blinked, startled. "You will?"
"You will?" Pauline echoed, obviously flabbergasted. Mary appeared speechless. "Pet, what are you talking about?"
"I'll help you, Dylan," Petra said. "Come here."
Hesitantly, the mortal approached her elder sister, allowed Petra to enfold her in a hug. Nuada's brows rose as Petra stroked Dylan's hair with almost maternal tenderness. Instinct prickled warily at the sight. This didn’t seem right. Mary and Pauline were just as baffled as the prince. This wasn’t right.
"Thank you," Dylan whispered, laying her head against Petra's shoulder. She began to relax bit by bit. "Thank you, Petra."
"It's okay, honey," Petra murmured. "It's okay. I'll help you. I'll get you some help, okay?"
Dylan froze. Every muscle in her body stiffened. Her eyes snapped wide. A wealth of anguish spilled into her fey-like blue gaze. Her lips trembled and her chin quavered as tears welled up and began to spill over.
"Don't worry, Dylan. We'll get you some help. It's all right. Everything's going to be just fine—"
Dylan wrenched back from her sister, stumbling until she fetched up against the wall near the fireplace. A sob caught in her throat, the muffled sound like a fist striking in the pit of Nuada's belly. He took a step toward Dylan. Stopped himself when something—instinct? His connection to Dylan?—told him interfering now would do irreparable harm. But everything in him screamed to go to Dylan, to hold her, to rage at the harpy-shrews until they fled the cottage, never to return. Each tear spilling down Dylan's cheeks was like a knife in his heart. Long, pale fingers convulsed into fists.
Petra took a step toward Dylan, too, but stopped when Dylan flinched back. She held up her hands in a gesture of no-harm. Her voice remained gentle, loving, when she said, "Dylan, it's okay. I'm not mad. You're sick, honey. We need to get you some help so you can get better. That's all. Have you been taking your meds? You might just be a little confused; did you take them today?"
A shattered look crossed Dylan's face. She whispered, "I…I forgot this morning, but…but I'm not sick. I'm not confused." And then she turned her gaze on Nuada and it nearly broke him, her fear, her desperation, her pain. "Nuada, tell them!"
"Dylan is not sick, nor is she mad," he snarled. He didn’t move. If he moved toward Dylan, he knew he would veer off course and head for the hags that claimed kinship with her, and then nothing would satisfy him—or the debt they owed her—but the snap of breaking bone. "She is gifted. Blessed with the Sight. She has seen things you could scarcely conceive of in your wildest dreams."
Fury flashed across Pauline's face as she lurched to her feet again. "I knew it. I knew it. You sick mother…You're twisting her up, screwing with her head. She has problems, you freak, don't you see that? You're making her even more nuts, feeding her delusions like thi—"
"I'm not delusional!" Dylan yelled. "I'm not sick, I'm not crazy! Why wouldn’t any of you ever listen?" Tears streamed down her cheeks as she sobbed, "I tried to prove it to you, tried to show you so many times, and none of you would listen!" She pointed to Pauline. "And you! Leave Nuada alone! Okay? He's been there for me all this time, every time I needed him! When you guys weren’t there, he was! So leave him alone!" Scrubbing at her face, she added, "In fact, you want proof that I'm not crazy? Nuada's one of them. One of the Fair Folk. He—"
"Dylan, I think you need to lie down for a bit," Petra interrupted, the forced calm in her tone making her voice come out strained. "It's okay. No one's going to hurt Nuada. No one's going to hurt you. I think you just maybe need to lie down for a little while, get some rest. You're tired—"
"I'm not tired!"
"And I know you've been under a lot of stress lately, but you just need a break, it's okay—"
"I don't need a bre—"
"There's a place you can go, it'll relax you, just to take a break. They can help you. It's a nice place…" Petra trailed off at the look of utter terror on Dylan's face. "Dylan?"
Nuada had been about to drop his glamour and shut Petra up, but even he was arrested by the abject fear on his truelove's face, blazing like hellfire in her eyes. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor. Nuada was at her side in an instant, arms around her, petting her hair, shielding her with his body from Petra's sight as gasping breaths hitched in Dylan's chest.
"They're going to send me away," Dylan whispered, the words short and staccato, wheezing in her throat as she struggled to breathe. Yet despite her terror, he could practically feel her begging him not to drop his glamour yet. Why? Why not end it now? Why?
But the Elven warrior only shook his head. "No. No, they will not. I won't let them. Shhh. It's all right. I won't let them."
"I can't go back—"
"You won't," he soothed. "You won't. Shhh, mo crídh, it's all right. Do not be afraid. I will protect you always. Do not be afraid."
"I can't go back, I can't breathe, I…" Dylan pushed at his chest. Startled, he actually loosened his grip on her. She choked on a sob, tried to get to her feet. "I have to get out of here, they can't send me back, I have to get out of here—"
"They will not send you anywhere," Nuada growled, flashing a murderous look at the three shrews, who watched with pained expressions as Dylan managed to struggle to her feet. "I will not let them."
"Look, douche bag, she needs professional help," Mary snapped. "She's out of her ever-loving mind. She thinks you're a fairy, for crying out loud. She's crazy, okay? She's sick, and as much as it sucks, obviously she needs to be…" Mary's voice broke. Clearing her throat, she continued, "She needs to be institutionalized again. She's obviously a danger to herself, since she's covered in bruises and won't explain why. And those scars on her arm, those are new; where did they come from? She needs to go…somewhere."
Pauline and Petra were both nodding, looking saddened but resolute. Pauline said, "Dylan, you need some help. It's okay. We'll make sure they take care of you, no one will hurt you there—"
"How long?" Dylan demanded quietly.
Nuada ground his teeth at the question. She couldn’t possibly be asking what he thought she was asking. She knew she wasn’t mad, she knew the Hidden Ones were real, so why was she asking how long they intended to keep her in that place, as if she actually intended to go—
"How long have you been planning to lock me up?" Dylan added when her sisters didn’t speak. They didn’t answer this question, either. Dylan stared at them, betrayal and grief on her face. "Why?" She demanded, hugging herself. "What did I do, that you would even—"
"You've been acting strange since October," Petra said softly. "Even stranger than normal. Not returning anyone's calls, even John's. Missing work. Disappearing for days. Being so sick. Getting hurt but not explaining anything. We were worried—"
"I was in Faerie," Dylan said, then squeezed her eyes shut as if she wanted to snatch the words back. Nuada thought back to his so-called trial in October, when Wink had told him that all he needed to do was tell the truth. And he had told Wink that the truth would avail him nothing.
Pauline said, "That! That, right there. Dylan, that's what we're talking about. You weren’t in Faerie. Fairies aren't real. You're sick—"
"I'm not sick!" Dylan shouted. She covered her face, allowed herself a few muffled sobs, then dropped her hands and stared at her sisters as if she didn’t know them anymore. She looked to Nuada. There was a disturbing calm beneath the sheen of her tears that had knots tightening in his belly.
"I'm going in the kitchen to call John. Can you…can you do this?"
He took her hand. Kissed it. "Of course, mo mhuire." He scanned her features, looking for signs of wear, of too much pressure coming to bear. If this was too difficult for her…if the three harpies reacted badly even after Nuada dropped his glamour, made Wink and Becan drop theirs…what would it do to her?
Dylan walked out, spine stiff, head held high. The den door closed behind her. Her footsteps slowly faded as she moved to the kitchen. Nuada ignored the three human women in the room, keeping his gaze on that shut door, until he felt Dylan's control slip. He waited until she felt safe enough to cry, safe enough to deal with her own pain, before he focused on her supposed kin.
The three women glared at him with naked fury and dislike so intense it nearly bordered on hatred. Well enough. He didn’t care; he loathed them all with every last fiber of his being, especially after this. He should have dropped his glamour before this, the prince growled to himself. Should have shucked aside Dylan's silent protests and simply revealed himself in all his fey otherness. But Dylan hadn’t wanted him to, not then. He'd felt that. But why? Why had she resisted him unglamouring then? What had she been waiting for? What had she been afraid would happen?
Nuada lifted his chin enough to look down his nose at the three shrews. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to loosen his grip on the threads of his glamour. Slowly, his eyes—glamoured so as to appear a more mundane, tawny brown to any human without Dylan's strength of Sight—began to morph back to their natural firegold. He let his blood turn to ice water, his heart to stone. He would take no chances that her so-called sisters would underestimate how dangerous, how deadly, how very alien Prince Nuada Silverlance—son of King Balor One-Arm, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, lord of the Children of the Earth, and crown prince of the Tuatha dé Danaan—really was.
"If you have something you wish to say to me—" He began, voice frigid.
Petra's eyes sparked like blue stars, sharp as shards of cold iron. "Actually, I do, Mr. Áirgetlámh. What the hell do you think you're doing, encouraging Dylan like that? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What kind of sick thrills do you get from manipulating—"
"Enough," Nuada snarled. Thank the stars, Petra actually fell silent. Pauline opened her mouth as if she would speak, and Nuada briefly entertained the idea of threatening to shatter her jaw. But this was Dylan's sister, and a woman. Violence against a woman in anger was dishonorable. So he merely lashed her with that same scathing look that had silenced her on Christmas Eve. It worked just as well this time.
"As I was saying, if you have something you wish to say to me, save your breath. I will not hear you. I will not heed your words. It is time you listened to the truth. Time you understood it has been staring you in the face for at least twenty-five of your years and you have failed to take heed all this time. No more. No more will I allow you to misuse your claim of kinship, the right of your blood, to abuse the woman I love. She vouched for you; you betrayed her trust. Never again will I let that happen."
Mary swallowed, then cleared her throat. "You're crazy if you think we're just going to let you screw with our baby sister. She needs help, not…not whatever you've been doing to her."
"What I have been doing?" Nuada echoed, voice as cold and dark as the depths of far-flung, starless space. "I have loved her—as you should have, as you claim to, as you continuously fail to. I have walked by her side and defended her from the dark things of this world as far as I am able. You claim she is mad? Because she believes in what you do not? I will show you what she believes in. What she knows. What she has sacrificed for so many years to protect. And when I have shown you, you too will believe."
Without another word, he let the glamour fall away. Petra blinked, her mouth falling open. Pauline actually jumped. Her eyes darted all over Nuada, who stood in Bethmooran colors, star-blond hair in warrior braids, topaz eyes glittering dangerously at them. He knew the darkness around his eyes and mouth had become especially deep. He looked, he imagined, like some sort of nightmare to them.
Petra and Pauline both sank down onto the futon again as their legs folded beneath them. Mary clutched the arms of the chair, staring with wide eyes. At last, Petra whispered, "How did you do that? What…where did that makeup come from? The contacts? Where…"
Nuada rolled his eyes. "You are more of a simpleton than I first thought." Knowing a demonstration was in order—and knowing that it would upset Dylan if he scared these three—he held out a hand and pointed at the futon where Petra and Pauline sat.
"Move," he ordered in Gaelic, flexing his magic just enough that the futon slide forward three inches. The two women clutched each other, shrieking. Nuada ignored them and held out a hand to the flames on the hearth.
"Dance," he commanded in the Old Tongue, and the flames leapt up, twisting, twining, taking the shapes of a man and a woman performing the ballroom dance known as Twilight's Dawn. He and Dylan had danced it at the Midwinter Ball. For a long moment, Nuada gazed into the flames. He still remembered the slick silk of Dylan's gown under his hand, her soft palm against his callused one, the way the dancing torch- and faerie light had caressed her face.
Then he looked at the three mortals. Petra had gathered Mary and Pauline to her, standing a little ways in front of them, as if shielding them from him. The Elven prince barely bit back a sneer. As if she could ever hope to stop him if he chose to hurt them (pain they richly deserved). As if he would ever attack unarmed women.
"What are you?" Petra demanded. "Who are you?"
Dark lips twisted into a smirk. "I? I am fae. I am an Elf of the Earth, one of the Tuatha dé Danaan, to be entirely accurate. As for who I am…" His expression hardened, turned cold as winter bones. His eyes chilled to molten bronze hatred.
"I am Nuada. Prince Nuada, Silverlance, the son of King Balor, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, War Chieftain of the Tuatha dé Danaan, and the betrothed of Lady Dylan Myers of Central Park, Fionntrá, Éas Ruaíd, Inber Scene, Macha Chroí, and Luácha Hanráhan. And this," he added, not even attempting to quash the sadistic pleasure coursing through his veins, "is my vassal and valet, Wink Ironfist."
With those words, Wink—who'd come in glamoured, so no one but Nuada had noticed him—dropped his own magical shielding to reveal the ten-foot-tall silver cave troll with the broken tusk, Cyclopean eye, and forged arm of goblin bronze. Wink rumbled at them in greeting. Nuada grinned when they screamed again and scrambled backward. Perhaps it was cruel of him to delight in their panic, but remembering the shattered look on Dylan's face—a look they had put there—he couldn’t find it in himself to feel even a shred of remorse. Instead, in a conversational tone he said, "Wink is a friend of your sister's."
Somehow Petra heard him, because she shushed the other two and stared at the prince and his vassal from where they huddled against the far wall of the den. Keeping her wide, petrified gaze on the troll, she cleared her throat. "W-what is that?"
"My valet," Nuada said coldly.
"But…" Pauline clung to her sisters, trembling. "But what is it?"
"He is a silver cave troll," Nuada said. "A fae. And as I said, he is a friend of Dylan's." He turned enough to see Becan perched on Wink's shoulder, glamoured to invisibility. At a gesture to the brownie from the prince, Becan scampered off the massive shoulder to stand on the mantel where, with a flourish and a bow, he popped into mortal sight. Mary squeaked. "And this," Nuada added, "is Dylan's house sprite, Becan. He takes good care of her…unlike some."
"You hypnotized us," Pauline accused. "That's what happened. This isn't real. This isn't—"
"This," Nuada snapped, "is what your sister has lived with for her entire life. Lived with the knowledge of the Fair Folk, and not only endured it, but instead of carrying it as a burden, used that knowledge to help people. You have been sheltered from this truth your entire lives, but because my lady loves you—though I have no idea why—she wants you in her life, and so you must know all of this."
Petra shook her head. "That doesn’t make any sense. Why would that matter? Why do we need to know in order to be in her life?"
Nuada sneered. "We are to be wed, my lady and I. I am a prince. Dylan claims you are quite intelligent—put the pieces of the puzzle together." He pinned Mary with a vicious look. "What was it you said before? Princes do not grow on trees? Dylan isn't Cinderella?"
It gave him immense pleasure when their mouths dropped open in unison. Mary and Pauline sputtered, unable to form words. Their pathetic human brains simply couldn’t keep up, it seemed. Petra stared at Nuada with new eyes as it finally penetrated that her baby sister, the one they all deemed such a failure, was to marry the crown prince of a magical kingdom and become not only his bride, but a princess, and perhaps a queen. The eldest Myers sister's eyes widened further as the full import of this revelation struck her in the empty pit where her heart should have been: every time (or nearly every time) her sisters had been cruel to her, nasty to her, hurling insults and jibes, hurting her with their anger and exasperation for being such a "screw up," she had been out in a world even more dangerous than they had ever dreamed, helping those who couldn’t help themselves, doing good, and all the while she hadn’t told them because they wouldn’t believe her.
And that meant something else, too. Tears filled Petra's eyes as she sank to her knees. Her hands shook as she covered her mouth to hold in a sob. Nuada frowned; he hadn’t expected this reaction. Neither, it seemed, had Pauline or Mary. They dropped beside Petra, voices shrill with concern as they demanded to know if she was all right.
"Ohmigawd," Petra gasped as the tears spilled down her cheeks. "Ohmigawd, what did they do to her? What did they do to her? Dylan…" Sobs ripped through her chest as she wept. "She wasn’t crazy, ohmigawd, they put her in that place, they said she was nuts, but she wasn’t, she wasn’t crazy! What did we do to her? Gawd, oh Gawd, what did we do to her? We thought we were helping her, we didn't know…"
The other two had gone pale. Tears came to Pauline's eyes now as she stared at Nuada in horror. She shook her head. "We didn’t know. We thought…I mean, it was crazy, what she kept saying. We didn't…we never wanted to…we didn't know. She…she should have explained differently—"
Nuada opened his mouth to roar at her, but to his utter shock, Mary beat him to it.
"Don't you dare blame Dylan for this!" Mary snapped, her voice thick with suppressed emotion. "Gawd…she tried to explain…tried to tell us…but we never listened, we thought she…No wonder she ended up doing drugs and drinking. She needed our help and we never…Mom and Dad kept saying she was sick. That's what all the doctors said, that she was sick. We just wanted her to be better. To get her life right. We wanted her to—"
"To be like you," Nuada snarled. The three teary-eyed women gazed at him, trembling. "You wanted her to be 'normal,' to be like every other human in the world. But she isn't. She is goodness and kindness and compassion. She is courage and wonder and joy. You owe her a lifetime of apologies, a lifetime of love and gentleness for all of the pain you've put her through—and you can start by hearing her request to you, Petra Myers, after I go and make sure you haven’t broken her spirit yet again. Stay here. Wink and Becan will ensure you don't forget this newfound understanding of your sister's world."
Turning on his heel, he strode out of the den, slamming the door behind him. The sharp crack of wooden door against wooden doorframe echoed in the corridor as he marched toward the kitchen. Just before rounding the corner, he stopped. Took a breath. Dragged princely calm around him like a cloak. Dylan didn’t need his anger. She needed his comfort. She needed to know he'd succeeded in convincing her wretched kin.
Calmer now, Nuada took the turn in the corridor that led to the kitchen…and froze at the sight of the scarlet blood splashed onto the counter and dripping down the cupboards. Dylan stood hunched over the counter, crimson smeared on her palm and wrist, silent tears pouring down her pale cheeks.
"Dylan," he whispered, managing a jerky step. "Dylan, what…?"
"I…I didn't…" She mumbled, and then fell to the floor.
