Garnet 3 - White Queen in the Looking Glass

Lily watched Alyssa leave the room for the second time, the silvered glass like a barrier between the White Queen and Black. The young witch stared hard at her reflection for an excruciating moment, examining every flawed detail of her face—too wide nose, too thin lips that no amount of lip plumper could fix, eyes set too far apart, cheekbones too prominent, forehead too big, eyebrows too thick, ears sticking too far out, hair too thick with not enough wave to make it at least look the littlest bit stylish.

At first glance, Lilith Whitmoor was beautiful, a knockout. With a closer look, she was positive that anyone with eyes and a brain would see what she and her parents always saw—faults, imperfections. Where there should have been a glittering diamond, there was only a cracked and flawed cubic zirconia. Just as pretty to the uneducated observer, but worthless on the inside, her mother had always said. And Gia Whitmoor would know; the woman was an expert on fashion and jewels. Lily hated to admit it, but Gia knew quality when she saw it. Which was probably why her mother had wanted to get rid of her when the witch Queen had discovered she was pregnant a second time. Lewis Whitmoor, Lily's father, had had to talk (and threaten) her out of it—in case Gavin, Lily's older brother, "hadn't worked out."

That appreciation for quality was also probably why Gia had homed in on Jack. One of the few things Lily and the flesh-eating Faerie boy had always agreed on—Gia Whitmoor was a depraved cougar with no life who needed to keep her hands off her daughter's Knave. Lily had approved wholeheartedly when Jack had nearly ripped her mother to pieces when the disgusting ho-bag had tried to seduce the dearg.

Yes, Gia and Lewis Whitmoor both knew quality when they saw it…which was why they'd always despaired of their second child and put all of their hopes behind Gavin.

Lily thought of Alyssa Carde, the Black Queen, with her compact body and elfin face; her silky cap of auburn hair, chopped short so no one could grab it in a fight; the spark in her fierce, feral eyes...the same gold as the White Queen's, but a totally different shape and look. She dressed like a homeless bag lady, acted like a total barbarian, and didn't have the sense God gave a rock.

But Jack loved Alyssa, and hated Lily.

She'd seen it in his eyes when he'd come into the bedroom: hate. Pure and unadulterated, sharp as razor wire, toxic as any poison. It had been like every slap her father had ever delivered with the hand that bore his coven ring, times a thousand. The one person who was supposed to stay with her, the one person who had to love her—because what else was he there for?—hated her. Thought she was worthless, just like her parents.

Lily wanted to hate the Black Queen for that, and couldn't. Because unlike Jack, unlike the Black Court she was unwillingly now a part of, unlike her brother Gavin, and unlike her parents, the Black Queen didn't want her dead and didn't treat her like she was worthless. She'd let Lily move in, given the former White Queen her own room, defended her to the rest of the Black Court…it was like Alyssa was actually on Lily's side in a way.

Which didn't make any sense.

That's how she stole the Queen of Spades from you, Lilith, her father's voice hissed in her ear. By pretending to be on her side. Don't let her fool you. She's manipulating you.

A sharp pain lanced through Lily's temples and she turned away from the mirror to glance out Alyssa's bedroom window. A cap of bronze hair bobbed along next to a halo of golden curls. Alyssa and Jack. The Black Queen and the Knave of Hearts.

No…wait…

An ache settled deep in Lily's chest when she remembered that no, he wasn't her Knave anymore, her Knave who would rip out any number of Red Court hearts to make her happy. He was Alyssa's Black Jack now, the Black King to her Queen.

"I hate her," Lily whispered, but she knew it wasn't true. She hated a lot of people—Geneva, the Red Queen; her own brother, Gavin, their father's favorite; their mother, busy sleeping her way through the starving artists of Paris to solve her midlife crisis; their father, who played favorites and never seemed satisfied with her. She disliked Alyssa, firmly believed she had the IQ of a lamp post, and needed to be put in her place. But the fire behind hate wouldn't come, because if she hated Alyssa, the only person who didn't want her dead, the only person standing up for her, then she would have no one.

She'd never had no one before. There had always been Jack. Jack, who fixed her snacks in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep; who would let her camp out in his tree house when they were kids and she'd had nightmares about Gavin trying to kill her; who beat up anyone who made her cry, even Gavin, even though attacking the White Knight would earn the dearg a beating; who took her shopping and always made her feel good about herself when she tried something on, instead of telling her she looked cheap or trashy, like her mother would.

But Jack hated her now. Wanted her dead, just like her family. She had to get used to that. Alyssa was the only one who didn't hate her quite that much, and wasn't that just pathetic?

Oh, she hates you, her father's voice muttered, silky as sin. How can you not see it? How can you be so blind to her contempt for you? A witch who can be fooled by a human doesn't deserve to call herself a witch.

"Shut up," Lily snarled, dropping her face in her hands. She rubbed her throbbing temples. "I don't care what you say. I'm not coming back just so you can punish me again. At least no one hits me here."

And that was just bizarre. Except for that single fistfight at the Heart of the Maze of Mist at Homecoming, no one had physically attacked her since she'd moved into the Black Queen's house. She knew Jack and the others wanted to—they wanted to kill her in a million slow, horrible ways—but Alyssa had told them point-blank that anyone who attacked her would be kicked out of the Court. Kicked out for good. For her sake.

"I'm physically safe here," Lily added. "I'm not leaving."

You're not safe, though. This voice was her own, the niggling voice of doubt. If Alyssa ever changes her mind, Jack will have a lot of fun tying you down, slicing you into bits, and baking you into pies. He's always had a fondness for witch flesh. And he'd make sure it hurt. He doesn't love you anymore. Maybe he never did. He won't protect you. He'll hurt you just because he can.

"I'm not listening to either of you," the former White Queen whispered. She would've put her hands over her ears, but if she let go of her head she thought it might explode. Tears of pain and panic stung her eyes. Her brain pulsed and throbbed in her skull. She needed to get up and get some ibuprofen from the bathroom…but she couldn’t even seem to force herself to her feet. She just curled up on the vanity stool, clutching her head.

You don't really think the Black Queen actually cares about what happens to you. Even you aren't that stupid. Not my daughter.

Her father again. She could almost feel the burning in her face where he would backhand her if he were there, lecturing her like he used to. The thin, raised scar on her cheek throbbed in time with her head and her heartbeat.

That's how she stole Jack, you know, the voice continued, gently chastising. Why wouldn't it just shut up? Why wouldn't he leave her alone? She didn't belong with him, with the rest of her family, anymore. She was bonded to the Black Queen, and she wasn't welcome there, with them, with her so-called family, anymore.

But she wasn’t welcome here, either. Not really.

She tricks them into thinking she loves them, that she cares, just like she's tricking you. I thought you were too good to be tricked. That's what you kept telling me. 'Nobody can fool me, Daddy, I'm the best witch at Pillar Prep.' Were you lying? Looks like it, because she's pulled the wool over your eyes. Oh, Princess, what happened to my girl who could see through all of their tricks?

Lily's head shot up and she found her face in the mirror, pinched and white with rage, tinged with gray. The pain in her head eased back until it was just a slight pressure against her temples.

"You're wrong," she whispered, reaching out and tracing the reflection of her pale face. How long had it been since she'd been outside? Seen the sun? Spoken more than a handful of words to anyone other than Alyssa? Since the night of Homecoming, she realized. Since she'd lost everything because the Black Queen had shattered her Coven and her Court. "She hasn't tricked me."

Oh? That derisive voice mocked her, made her want to scream. But if she screamed, the Black Court would come running because they had to, because Alyssa had ordered them to protect her. Lily didn't want them in here. She didn't want to see them, any of them. Especially not Jack and Alyssa, who were so in love that it turned Lily's blood to shards of razor-sharp ice in her veins because Jack had never looked at her the way he looked at Alyssa. And if she screamed, the throbbing in her head might come back. Hasn't she?

"She hasn't tricked me," Lily snarled at the mirror. Her teeth were a feral gleam between corpse-gray lips. Her eyes gleamed feverishly. "She can't trick me. I can see right through her."

Good girl. Her father's praise, imaginary though it was, filled her with warmth—the first shred of warmth she'd felt since before Homecoming. That's my Lily. Good girl.

Lily leaned back, shoving a hand through her hair. No, she wouldn't fall for Alyssa's tricks. She wouldn't. The Black Queen couldn't toy with the White Queen. And she was the White Queen. She'd get her Coven back. She'd get her Court back…and she'd show her parents that she was worthy of being the Queen, of becoming the High Priestess of the Coven of White, of wearing the Alabaster Crown of Faerie.

And most importantly, she would get her Knave back…even if she had to kill Alyssa to do it.

Garnet 3 - The Red Queen's Invitation

"I'm concerned," I told Jack as we threaded through the packed hallway toward the cafeteria. The kids who obviously belonged to the Red Court gave me a wide berth. Half the White Court—the half that belonged to Gavin—did, too. But what gave me a funny little glow in my chest was when a few kids sporting black and white outfits gave me tentative smiles and waved at me. I grinned at them and waved back or nodded, depending on how bad the crush around me was.

So far today, I'd been pretty much left alone. Probably because Gavin was still busy licking his wounds and Lily's people were wondering what I was going to do about them. I was still trying to figure that one out myself. And Geneva's goons weren’t going to possibly tip the outcome of our whacked out Wonderland tea party before it even happened. The Red Queen would kill them. Possibly literally.

"Concerned?" Jack echoed as we made it to the cafeteria door. He held it open for me, which always made me feel weird. I still wasn't used to the whole chivalry thing. It didn't make me feel all weak and wimpy, or like the boys thought I was too pathetic to get my own doors. It actually felt nice. And I'd get the door for them, sometimes, too, and they gave me weird looks, so we were pretty much even.

"Yeah."

"About what?" He asked as we slid into the lunch line.

I drew a deep breath. He was going to like this about as much as a cat liked getting a bath. Exhaling slowly, gathering my courage, I finally said, "About Lily."

To my surprise, he actually smiled. "Thank you," he said, sounding relieved. Um.... "Thank you! Finally you've seen sense. So," my dearg added, suddenly full of good cheer and fun. "When do we kick her out?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Pause. Rewind. Now, what? Kick her out?" I could tell from his expression he fully expected me to do just that. "What crack-acid are you smoking?"

"I... isn't that what you meant?" He asked, frowning. Dark eyes watched me as if I'd transformed into some kind of dangerous, venomous snake. "That wasn't what you meant," he said slowly. "All right. What are you talking about, then?"

"I'm concerned about Lily the person. She seems... depressed."

He blinked. "I'm sorry, but what did you say?"

Oh, brother. "She. Seems. Depressed."

"And I am supposed to, as you say, give a flying rat's buttered carcass because why?"

Oooh, he'd stolen my phrase. Sneaky, smexy phrase-thief. I'd get him back for that—after we addressed the Lily situation. "Look, I know you guys hate each other but—"

"I don't hate her," Jack replied, as if commenting on the weather. A double-take was necessary because at first glance he seemed perfectly serene. Only the sizzle of black fury through our bondline—the magical doohickey that connected my soul and emotions to his, and vice-versa—told me differently.

"You don't?" Why did I not believe him? Hmmm…gee, I wonder.

Jack gave a shrug, a liquid motion as if his limbs weren't attached the way normal people's were. "Of course not. Don't be absurd."

He'd just called me "absurd." Part of me wanted to make sure his limbs were no longer attached the way a normal person's were…but I loved him too much. Dang it.

"I just want her ripped into a million painful and incredibly bloody pieces so I can sprinkle her on my porridge most mornings." He said it the way most people said they liked milk with their cereal.

Sometimes Jack would make a comment, or smile in such a way that I was forcibly reminded that he wasn't human. It was easy to forget sometimes that he was Fayre, an old and almost completely alien race. Did that scare me? I'd say it made me a tad nervous, but scared? Me? Of Jack? Please. Besides, after everything he'd been through—being forced to do all kinds of horrible things because of the former soul-contract between him and Lily, serving as one of the main punching bags for Lily's entire family, and almost being molested by Gia Whitmoor, Lily's psychotic b-with-an-itch of a so-called mother—he had a right to the creep-edge that sometimes showed up in his behavior.

"Jack, as long as she lives at my house, I don't want her suicidal or depressed or anything like that." I snagged a couple bags of chips and dropped them onto my tray. I'd been informed by Fiver, my favorite flesh-eating Bunny Wabbit, that bringing my own lunch to this meeting would be considered incredibly rude, so I was stuck with cafeteria food on a day lacking pizza or tatertots. Which meant I was stuck with chips and maybe a chicken burger. All for the cause, though. Rah-rah and Team Spirit and all that stuff.

"I don't see why you worry about someone like her. She's not a threat anymore."

"What if she decides to blow us up or put anthrax in our morning orange juice?" I paused, considered. "Does anthrax even work that way? What does anthrax even do?"

"I'm sure I don't know anything about anthrax," Jack said in the slightly condescending tone boys used when they thought girls were talking nonsense. "And if you're that concerned about her, why don't you throw her out?"

I glared at him as I grabbed the chocolate milk. Maybe I was just a touch on the paranoid side, but it seemed really strange that there wasn't any regular milk out. Just chocolate and strawberry. Black and red. Well, brown and pink, but still…was that weird?

I knew what was weird—me, defending the White Queen to Jack. Except with the Julie thing, he'd never actively opposed me on anything important. And it turned out he'd been right to be suspicious of Julie Frost, the Queen of Spades. She'd been a spy sent by Lily to get close to me so she could seriously injure and/or kill me. But we'd become best friends instead, and Julie had died saving me from Doreen when the Red Court witch—basically acting on Lily's orders—had tried to throw me down two flights of stairs.

David Jacobson, Julie's former Knave of Spades, was not invited to this meeting. Captain of the swim team, topping off at almost seven feet tall and weighing in at more than two-hundred-fifty pounds, the wereotter wanted Doreen's head on a plate. He'd known and loved Julie almost his entire life. Of course, he also wanted Lily dead for forcing Jack to kill David's little brother.

But David was willing to abide my new rules…for now. Having to tack on for-now at the end of that made me just a little bit nervous. Okay, more like a lot nervous.

It was giving me a headache that Jack, who normally backed me up, chose to argue with me about this, especially right now. "Where is she supposed to go?"

He slashed me with an obsidian look. "Try 'I don't care.'"

He wasn't getting it. He might not care, but I did. Wasn't his job as my King supposed to be helping me run my Court? I certainly didn't want him for hired muscle. Patching him up always made it difficult to breathe, seeing how he was both bleeding and usually shirtless.

"It's my fault she can't go home—" I began.

"No, Alyssa, it isn't."

Jack stopped suddenly and whirled on me. His eyes began to bleach to white and his teeth started darkening. People behind us hissed insults or snapped for us to hurry it up, stop holding up the line. Jack flicked his inhuman eyes at them, and they fell silent. Only someone suicidal tried to tangle with a dearg when his teeth came out.

My very ticked off dearg growled, "It's not your fault. It's Lily's fault. Lily is the one who tortured the people who should have been able to trust her. Lily is the one who attacked you, repeatedly, in an attempt to make you give up and either bow down to her or kill yourself. Lily is the one who sent a spy into our midst. Lily is the one who ordered the hit on you and Julie, and Lily is the one who's responsible for her own actions."

None of which I could argue with. But Lily was caught in the system, too, just like the rest of them. It seemed I was the only who had a problem with the actual system, not just the people in it. Then there was her dad. I'd never tangled with an adult before, but I wanted to tangle with Lily's dad, who thought it was okay to beat Jack and Lily whenever either of them made him mad. And there was something I didn't think Jack had thought of yet.

"If you thought you were going to lose me—if you thought I was going to leave you—what would you do?" I asked softly.

"I...." He blinked, paused. His eyes were slowly darkening to onyx again. His teeth gleamed pearly white and had gone back to being nice and straight and even, instead of needle-thin and pointy. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Just answer the question." Although I was positive I already knew the answer.

He frowned. "I don't know."

"Would you let it happen?" I demanded. This part was important, and I couldn't afford to give an inch. I'd had theories about Lily and Geneva—a lot of theories—and this past week or so of having the White Queen sleeping on my floor and getting on my nerves had solidified some of them. "Would you just let me traipse off into the sunset with Darren? Or even—blech—with Fiver?"

At Darren's name, Jack's eyes flashed and he jerked away from me, went back to sliding through the lunch line. I winced. Darren was a big button for Jack that I didn't like pushing, since Darren had made it very obvious he wanted to replace Jack as both my King and my boyfriend (not happening), but it was a valid question.

"No," he growled as the lunch lady rang up the stuff on our trays posing as food. "What does that have to do with this?"

"Would you attack Darren or Fiver to get me to stay with you? To get them out of the way? Would you do anything to me? Would you hurt me? Hurt them? Hurt anyone?"

Indecision warred on his face, in his eyes, arced along our bondline like electricity. He stepped out of line, away from me, to give himself time to compose, to think. But he couldn't decide. I could feel that. He couldn't decide whether he'd attack or hurt someone just to keep me around.

With most guys, especially all the human ones, that would normally be the behavior of a stalker. But this was different. Jack loved me, but that was only part of his motivation. He needed me, just as much as he loved me. His parents didn’t care about him. They'd let Lily's family rip him to pieces again and again. There was special niche in Parent Hell for Jack's mom and dad. He didn’t have any siblings. Except for Lily, until we'd bonded he hadn't had anybody. So I got why he'd hurt someone to be with me, to keep me with him.

Plus, without me, he would probably die. He'd be tortured by the White Court or the Red, they would break him, and then they'd kill him. There would be nothing to stand between him and the pain if I left him, because I was the one who was supposed to protect him. The only one who could. The only one who would even try. And the only person who would bust down doors, knock out teeth, and put people in the hospital if I had to in order to keep him safe.

It had taken me a while to realize that Jack had been the only one who could or would willingly protect Lily from anyone. She had needed him just as much as he needed me. Now she didn't have him. She was alone.

I remembered the voice screaming, Please! Don't leave me! Please, don't leave me alone! The day I'd shattered the soul-contract—and the soulbond—between Jack and Lily, I'd heard that frantic, desperate scream echoing through the Void.

Lily's voice, Lily's fear, Lily's need.

Obsession? No. Necessity. And a bond there, too—she loved him. I was the only one who could see it, because I was the only one who didn't think of Lily as the Big Bad Whatever, the Head Honcho of the Evil Department. In her own messed up way, the White Queen had loved—still loved—Jack. It was why she had held onto him, with chains of magic and chains of sparkly enchanted witch-iron or whatever. Punished him for, in her eyes, straying.

Would Jack do the same for me? To me? No, but that was because he knew I wouldn't leave. He trusted me. He wouldn't have bonded with me, thrown in his support to me, if he didn't trust me. After everything that had happened to him, he was too cautious to gamble with his life. I'd had to earn his trust first. That was the only reason he wouldn't hurt me.

But the others?

I hadn't looked away from his eyes, twin pools of obsidian fire, while he struggled for an answer. He opened his mouth as decision suddenly hummed across the bondline.

"I—"

"It's show time, you guys," Harriet Marshal interrupted. Another Faerie, Harriet was something called a Sluagh—basically a type of Faerie vampire, but instead of fangs, she had teeth like shards of broken glass, and her eyes glowed aquamarine when she got ticked off. She'd glided silently up to us and neither of us had noticed, because she was just that epic. The moment she spoke I jumped. "Hattie and Doreen are waiting...nice shirt, Alyssa."

Grateful for the interruption, I glanced down at myself and smiled. I'd borrowed one of Jack's only black shirts—nine-thousand thread-count Egyptian cotton or something like that; whatever, it was expensive and pretty—and wore it like a jacket over a white silk shirt with a black fractal pattern spattered across it like dark blood. Nobody had had a chance to get a good look at it yet except Jack, who'd winced when he saw I wore white. I thought it was nice and symbolic and stuff—black over white, and of course black comes out on top, just like it did at Homecoming.

And they all thought I sucked at diplomatically sending a message. Silly, silly Faerie people.

"Darren's waiting by the table, to show good faith," Harriet added, shooting a nervous look at Jack. His jaw muscle twitched. Oh, brother. Harriet was bonded to Darren, and I was pretty sure she loved him. Maybe not in love with him, but I could tell she adored the guy. Considering how he treated her—as opposed to how he always hit on me like a sex-crazed schmucky horn-dog—I understood why. And she liked Jack a lot. Jack liked her. But Jack hated Darren (for obvious reasons) and still didn’t fully trust him not to hurt me.

Considering Darren was one of only three people I knew who knew the big bad secret of me being not just a demon, but the Alice from Lewis Carroll's coded prophecies—the other two being Jack, of course, and Fiver, who could read minds—and Darren hadn’t ratted me out yet, I had to admit I trusted him. And I liked him…when he wasn’t being a douche.

Ignoring the silent byplay between Jack and Harriet, I headed for the lunch table where the Lady Dormouse—aka Doreen Moss, Darren's twin sister—and Geneva's Mad Hattie waited for me. Talk about a mad tea party. What was next, croquet at the Queen's?

Cold, dark eyes slid up from the table to stare at me as I sank onto the bench, flanked by Harriet and Jack. Darren, with a weird smile, sat next to Harriet. Doreen, the owner of those chilling eyes, glared at her twin brother before turning to Hattie Marshal.

Hattie Marshal looked better than she had after the Homecoming battle in the school parking lot, but that wasn't saying much. The giant gaping chunk that Jack had bitten out of her that night still hadn't grown back completely, and the lopsided way her shirt and jacket hung on her told me just how much bandage she wore on her shoulder. Bruises painted a violent watercolor across her face. Still, I didn’t feel too bad. She'd been trying to kill Jack.

"Greetings, Black Queen," Doreen said after a long pause. She glanced at Hattie again, but the look on the Sluagh girl's face made even a whacko like Doreen nervous enough not to push for her to be chatty-chatty and polite. Hattie was the kind of person who would ask in normal conversation if you wanted to know what your spleen looked like in the light of day, and be completely serious.

"Greetings to the emissaries of the Red Court," Darren said in his smoothest, silkiest voice. Hattie flushed and Doreen glowered. Considering that, in their eyes, he'd stolen Hattie's twin sister to be his brainwashed slave—Love slave? Ew, don't think like that, Alyssa, yech!—and was a traitor to the Red Court, their reactions were understandable. But if it came down to a fight against Geneva's Mad Hattie, I wanted someone physically stronger than her who was also immune to magic and could take Doreen in a one-on-one fight, leaving Jack and Harriet free to deal with Hattie. The only person I knew who fit the bill was Darren.

"Looks like we're all here," said bill-fitter continued, "the Hatter, the Hare, both Dormice, and Alyssa."

"And the Black Jack," Hattie growled through peeled-back, black-painted lips, showing serrated teeth like shards of silvered glass. Her eyes glinted like ancient gold coins, but they weren’t glowing yet. Hunger burned in their depths.

Hattie was Sluagh, too, descended from the Faerie Wild Hunt—those magical creatures who randomly chased after anyone in their path. If the person ran, they were torn to bloody bits by Faerie hounds. If the person didn't run—and who wouldn't run from an army of sweaty, hairy, toothy Faerie guys on horseback with crossbows and swords and ravening, salivating, man-flesh-desiring demon-poodles?—then they were made part of the Hunt, and cursed for their courage (see suicidal tendencies) to ride through the skies forever or until they chose to hop down off the Faerie Ponies of Doom and die. Sounded kind of like a Johnny Cash song, actually, except without the awesome, croony cowboy voice.

Because Hattie was one of them, she craved blood the way crack addicts craved their drugs. It wasn't like actual nosferatu vampires (which didn't exist, apparently), where they fed on the blood of the living to survive. If the Sluagh didn't eat regular food and drink regular water or whatever, they'd die even if they had blood. But that didn't stop Hattie Marshal from craving Jack's blood like a meth-head craved crystal crack. They'd always been rivals. I didn't get that, but I wasn't a blood junkie or a psycho, so obviously I didn’t get to join the club. Not that I wanted to.

"And the King is here, too, of course," Darren said, as if he didn't see the glint of raw bloodlust and hatred in Hattie's eyes or, if he did, didn't care. Harriet kept a wary eye on her sister, but Darren merely shot Jack a look before saying, "So—down to business."

§

"So now that we're all here, what do you want, exactly?" My Queen demanded, propping her elbows on the table. A casual observer would think she didn't take this meeting seriously, but the fact that she was dressed up told me otherwise. I wondered what she might get from this conversation that the rest of us would miss. She had such a unique way of looking at things.

I wasn't worried about how she'd handle herself. What worried me was Darren, and the fact that she'd brought him along with us in the first place. I understood her reasoning, I did. But Darren could not be trusted. He'd already made it clear he was after something other than Alyssa's wellbeing. Whatever it was—and I doubted it was just her body, though the fact that he wanted that as well made me want to rip his appendix out—I wouldn't let him have it.

However, I could appreciate the spit-in-the-eye symbolism of bringing Darren to a meeting with Doreen. The only two people Doreen had ever lost a fight to were her twin brother and Alyssa. A narcissist to the core, no doubt that rankled her quite a bit.

"How about we eat first?" Doreen replied to Alyssa's prompting, with all the manners of a society hostess. A muscle in her cheek twitched when she began almost spastically rearranging the plastic-ware around her lunch tray. No doubt she was imagining carving Alyssa up with the shards of her plastic knife and fork. Doreen liked cutting things up.

"I can never eat when I'm excited," my Queen replied with chilly politeness. "Let's cut to the chase. Why did you set up this meeting with us?"

"We're here to offer an invitation, nothing more," Doreen said. Hattie said nothing, just watched me with half-mad eyes.

"An invitation to what, pray tell?" Darren asked his sister.

"Geneva is hosting a tea social two weeks from now. Until that time, we propose a ceasefire between the Black and Red Courts. We can't make promises for Gavin Whitmoor and his people, obviously, but for our part, no violence. In exchange, you agree to come to the aforementioned tea social."

"I don't even know what a tea social is," Alyssa replied.

Hattie finally tore her gaze away from my face to stare at Alyssa with a WTF expression on her face. "It's a fancy word for tea party, all right? Humans are so stupid."

"Geneva wants me to come to her tea party?"

Doreen nodded. "Precisely."

"Not to be rude or anything, but uh…why?"

"She doesn't want bloodshed. She doesn't want a battle like the one you had with Lily. She certainly doesn't want a war."

"Meaning she doesn't want to get her ass kicked and lose the right to try for the Garnet Crown," Darren interjected.

"Wait, what?" Alyssa stared from Darren to Doreen, who glared at her twin as if she would cheerfully claw his eyes out with her bare hands. Darren just offered his sister that bland "oops" smile that made most of the guys in the senior class want to deck him. I could actually appreciate it, though, since it made Doreen grind her teeth.

"Can't you ever keep your mouth shut, warlock?" Hattie snarled. She started to lunge to her feet, but Harriet and I both stood up before she'd finished moving. Alyssa propped her chin on her hand and looked bored, but I felt her fury sizzle along our bondline, hot enough to burn. She wouldn’t go out of her way to attack Hattie or Doreen, but if they attacked someone she cared about—including Darren, unfortunately—she would come down on them like an avalanche. Considering she'd nearly beaten Lily to death in a fit of rage at Homecoming, neither Doreen nor Hattie wanted to deal with enraging the Black Queen that much.

"It's not my problem if the Red Queen is a coward," Darren replied airily.

Doreen leapt to her feet this time, eyes blazing, reaching with one hand for Darren. "How dare you—"

"Okay, everyone shut up!" Alyssa suddenly yelled, and the cafeteria fell silent. She eyed the rest of the room, baffled, before turning back to Doreen and Darren. "Jeez! What is this, kindergarten? Do I have to make the quiet sign? Now no more name calling or someone's gonna end up in time-out."

"Don't you dare mock me, human," Doreen snarled.

Alyssa folded her arms. "I'll mock you if I want to, if you decide it's socially acceptable to act like the last fourteen years of your life never happened and you don't know how to behave. What are you, two? Act like a teenager and I'll treat you like one."

"How do you put up with her, Darren?" The warlock's sister demanded. Indignation spread across her face like a disease. "I know you have sick tastes, but seriously!"

Alyssa stiffened. I tasted rot on the back of my tongue and knew I was in danger of going dearg in the middle of lunch if someone didn’t do something to make Doreen stop talking. Rumors like that, of the Black Queen bypassing her King for the Black Knight—especially when that Knight was Darren Moss, demon-possessed warlock—were dangerous on a good day.

"Well, it's so nice to see the children can behave themselves without adult supervision," a familiar voice said behind me. I turned to see Fiver Rairah approach the table and take a seat next to me, sandwiching me between the ash-blond dearg and my queen. "Doreen, I had no idea you had such a twisted, depraved mind."

Alyssa smiled. "Yes, you did."

"Hmmm, you're right, my Queen. I did. Now, Doreen, you asked how we put up with Lady Alyssa? I will admit, she may be a bit eccentric, but at least she's not…what do you call them, my Queen? Homicide Barbie?"

Alyssa shot him a look that plainly ordered him to behave. To my surprise, he subsided, smiling. Then I realized—we were in public. Of course he was going to act as if he obeyed her every whim. In reality, he drove her crazy. Strangely, she seemed to find that comforting.

Darren grinned. Alyssa suddenly stiffened again beside me.

§

Something touched my thigh, and I froze. I glanced under the table and realized it was Darren's hand, stretched across Harriet's petite figure. The scheming warlock replied, "The benefits of being bonded to the Black Queen far outweigh the negative aspects."

"You better get your hand off my thigh or I'll demonstrate some negative aspects," I growled, and jabbed his forearm with the prongs of my plastic fork. He barely stifled a yelp and jerked back from me. Turning to Hattie and Doreen as if nothing weird had happened—and considering this was Darren we were talking about, nothing weird really had—I said, "Tell Geneva she'll have my answer in a few days. I have to talk it over with my Court."

"The sign of a weak Queen," Hattie muttered. Oh, well now she was hurting my widdle-bitty feelings. Boo. "Why not simply order them to obey you?"

"Because they might have valid reasons why I shouldn't go, like the fact that you're all certifiably crazy. Or that this might be some kind of trap. In which case I'd have to go all gung-ho on your butts and beat you into turkey stuffing before sashaying off into the sunset like the epic ninja I am."

"A Queen should have absolute control over her Court," Hattie spat.

I snorted. "Yeah, we saw how well that worked with Lily."

"Lily Whitmoor is weak."

I couldn't help it—I smirked. Maybe it wasn’t politically savvy, but I couldn't help myself. "I didn't see your Queen stepping up to the plate at Homecoming. She just stood there with her cutesy-wootsy widdle crown on her head, doing the Beauty Queen wave. We were all very impressed." I nodded with a mock-amazed expression on my face. Of course Doreen leaned forward, eyes blazing, teeth bared. Honestly, she looked like a rabid spider monkey.

"I ought to rip your face off," she hissed.

Jerking my chin at the crimson blouse she had on—normally she didn’t wear ruffles; must've been the occasion—I said, "You'd get blood on that nice, silk shirt. If you're anything like Darren, that would make you really unhappy."

For a second I saw something flicker in her eyes. She glanced at her brother, then looked back at me. Her expression turned mean again. "I'm nothing like Darren."

Darren glanced at me. I raised my eyebrows. He smiled politely and said to the Red Court girls, "I take it this means we're done, then?"

Hattie and Doreen rose to their feet, matching looks of disdain on their faces. That was the problem with mean girls—they would've been knockouts if they didn’t insist on twisting up their faces like angsty pretzels all the time. Hattie said coldly, "Four days, Black Queen. Geneva will have your answer after school, this Friday."

"Fine." I waved at them. "Now go away. I'm hungry."

They left. I looked at Harriet, at Darren the Schmoozer, at my favorite albino Bunny Wabbit, then at Jack. They all looked relieved more than anything. I felt great. I'd gotten through my first political meeting and nobody had died. Go, me.

Now if only I had some tatertots…

Darkness There, and Nothing - CH.3 - What Was She to You

Chapter Three

What Was She to You?

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Thor stared at his younger foster brother, unsure if he'd heard correctly. Loki gazed back at him impassively. Not a flicker betrayed him. But then, his brother had always been a good liar. He'd had centuries upon centuries of practice. After all, hadn't Loki fooled Thor—fooled them all—for however long he'd been plotting to usurp the crown prince and take the Asgardian throne? Why should Thor be surprised that his little brother could lie convincingly?

But the words the crown prince had spoken only the day before slipped into Thor's mind, taunting him with the echoes of a promise made to the younger foster brother who might just be going mad.

Loki, I don't understand. Please, explain it to me…Why should I bother? Loki had asked. You won't listen…I will, Thor had said. He'd promised to listen. And when Loki had predicted, You won't believe, Thor had promised to try. Perhaps such an oath had been rash, because how could he believe that Loki had gone from the Chitauri's unwilling prisoner to their general and the leader of their invading force? It was preposterous.

"The cell next to yours?" Thor echoed, not even bothering to hide his disbelief. "Did you take it and feign imprisonment in an attempt to woo the girl's confidences? Gain her trust? What did she have that the Chitauri could want so badly?" Was this Thea that Loki spoke of even really dead? Did she even exist?

The green-eyed prince shook his head wearily. For a moment there was something in the disguised Frost Giant's face that caught Thor's eye, an almost-feral desperation—there one instant, gone the very next, pulling at the concern always hanging over Thor like a threatening cloudburst. But then, replacing that whisper of bestial phobos, was Loki's familiar disdain. Rolling his eyes, he sneered, "Of course that was my design. After all, of course the Chitauri would seek to harness the power to destroy entire worlds in an eye-blink, with just the wave of a hand."

Thor's eyes widened. Horror shivered through him. Could his enemies truly possess such power? Midgardians were advancing at a frightening pace. Some of them, like Banner and Steven, possessed powers beyond the norm for their species. Could there be a Midgardian as powerful as Loki claimed? Then if the Chitauri ever returned to Midgard in full force, they could wipe out the mortals in seconds. Blue eyes stared at Loki in dismay as the pseudo-Æsir's thin lips curved into a smirk.

"Such power, and all in the hands of a single Midgardian. Truly a powerful weapon. Of course the Chitauri wanted her abilities under their control. Once the girl fell under my power, it was a simple enough matter, wooing her to our side."

Thor stepped back from the ensorcelled glass. The buzz of the seiðr dissipated as he put distance between himself and the containment spells. Sick disappointment churned in his stomach, mingling with the ever-present simmer of anger. Silence descended, broken only by the snap and crackle of the torches in the corridor. Shadows danced along the walls while coldly enraged blue eyes locked with taunting emerald.

"You almost had me fooled, Brother," Thor muttered, no little bitterness tingeing the words. He'd thought they were making progress. He had truly thought he was getting through to Loki a little. But it had all been a cruel little game to his brother. What was the crown prince supposed to tell Frigga? "I should have known better than to trust anything you said," he added softly. "A soldier for the Chitauri to the end, I suppose? You tricked the girl into using her powers for your twisted master and then killed her yourself, did you? And here you had me feeling sorry for you."

A flash of vicious hatred and something that might have been betrayal in Loki's eyes should've sliced Thor to the bone; he tried to shove the feel down, where he could ignore it. Surging to his feet, Loki stalked forward. The smirk was gone; all traces of amusement had vanished. In a voice smoldering with abyssal fire, Loki snarled, "Sorry for me. You felt sorry for me. Let me be the first to tell you how very much I appreciate your pathetic and so-sincere sentiment, Brother."

Pale hands slammed against the glass. Under Loki's strength, normal glass would have buckled, cracks spiderwebbing across the smooth panes before shattering under the blow. The enchanted window merely shuddered in its frame. Sparks of blue magic shot across the pane in incandescent waves. Loki pressed his forehead against the sparking, crackling glass, despite the fact that the seiðr had to be pushing at him, vainly attempting to shove him back with little needle-pricks of pain against his skin.

From between clenched teeth Loki spat, "Are you stupid? Are you blind?" Thor bristled, but before he could snap a reply, Loki jerked his hands back from the glass and brought them crashing forward again. The glass rattled harder under this second blow. The magic in it blazed with cobalt fire that reflected like dancing flames in Loki's eyes. The younger prince added with savage heat, "You sanctimonious idiot! You really are a fool. Will you believe anything I spoon-feed you? You've not changed at all."

Squaring his shoulders, Thor said coolly, "I'll not be toyed with, Loki."

Loki sneered at him. Thor's fist ached to knock that sneer off his brother's face. His fingers convulsed into a fist so tight his knuckles ached with the strain. Loki's voice dripped contempt when he hissed, "But you make it so disgustingly easy, Brother."

With a roar like an enraged lion, the crown prince took two furious strides forward and brought his fist down on the glass. It shuddered under the impact of his fist. Both princes seemed surprised by this flash of temper from Thor, but Loki's surprise quickly morphed into disdainful amusement. Thor narrowed his eyes as thin, pale lips curled into a cat-like smile. His heart hammered like Mjölnir in his chest as fresh anger flooded his veins like molten iron.

"Fates rot your soul, Loki," Thor thundered. A knife-thin black brow winged upward in mocking inquiry. Every word picked up more volume as Thor bellowed, "For once in your life, abandon your webs of falsehood and tell me the truth!"

The words echoed in the corridor. Thor's chest heaved as he fought to control his breathing, fought to cool his not-inconsiderable temper, fed by hurt, and bring it to heel. Loki merely regarded him with unfathomable emerald eyes. The contempt and condescension faded from his expression, leaving it blank as a brand new sheet of paper. Something impossible to read glittered in the depths of that jewel-gaze as the two brothers regarded each other. At last Loki's mouth curved into a smile with just a trace of mockery in it—mockery aimed at Loki himself, Thor thought with some surprise, not at the crown prince. Loki nodded slowly, as if coming to a decision.

"The truth?" Loki murmured conversationally. He shook his head as if in disbelief and pulled away from the glass, turning his back on Thor to amble over to the table and chair that he so often occupied during these visits. As if too weary to stand any longer, Loki slumped into the chair and stretched out his long legs. Long fingers trembled as they reached for a single sheet of paper on the table.

From his semi-distant vantage point, Thor could see the cramped, spidery handwriting that filled the entire page. The top-most line was the only part of the thing discernible from that distance. The Asgardian thought he saw a word beginning with "A"…but couldn't quite make it out. That small detail seemed important, though he couldn't have explained why.

Loki's eyes roved over the paper for a long moment of silence before he dropped it to the table again. Then he lifted his gaze to Thor's. "You want the truth? Truly?"

His anger finally under control once more, Thor nodded. "It is all I have ever wanted from you, Loki." Silently he pleaded with his brother. Work with me, Loki, he tried to say with his gaze. Will you not help me to help yourself, Brother? Tell me the truth.

Loki sighed and leaned back. Propping his elbow the arm of the chair, he brought his hand to his mouth and draped two fingers across his lips as Thor had seen him do when considering a difficult problem. After a time, Loki nodded again and fixed his brother with a look that was almost pitying. 

"I shall give you the truth, then, since you want it so much."

He straightened, dropping his arms so they draped across his thighs. He leaned forward, jade eyes piercing, and stared at Thor like a serpent watching a mouse. A strange unease shivered through the Asgardian under the full weight of that gaze.

Loki swallowed audibly and a shudder rippled through his tall, lean frame. "Tell me, Brother…do you have any idea what it is to be locked away in a dank, dark pit for days, weeks, months on end?" Loki's brow arched upward as Thor's brows furrowed. "Do you know what it's like, Thor, to be trapped in a box so small you can't take three paces, nor even stand without stooping, but are forced to crawl like a worm?"

Thor opened his mouth to reply…and found he had no words. He couldn't imagine Loki crawling. He couldn't imagine anyone having the audacity to try and make him do so. Even when he'd stood before Odin to receive the judgment of the All-Father for his crimes against both Midgard and Asgard, Loki had stood tall, refusing to kneel before a man he named "a treacherous liar." And Loki hadn't seemed to be crawling under the cruel weight of the Chitauri's torments when he'd murdered Coulson or overseen the attack on the mortal city of Manhattan. When he'd stabbed Thor after the Asgardian had pleaded with him one last time to surrender and come home. What fetters had bound him then?

The fetters that bind me are stronger than any that Father could devise…The words echoed in Thor's brain, a whisper of doubt that he ruthlessly shoved away. Let Loki spin his lies like a slender, black spider biding time in the center of his web intent on ensnaring the crown prince as his prey. Let him try to spin his web of falsehoods. Thor would have none of it.

But there was the memory of his anguish when he'd called up the vision of the little girl. Sophie. If the child didn't exist, if she were merely a tool for Loki's latest scheme, then where had he even heard such a name? And what if she did exist? If she and Thea were in fact real…what had wrung such grief from Thor's brother? Why had he needed to swear to protect young Sophie, and from what? And what had caused him to fail?

What was Thor supposed to believe?

He focused once more on Loki as the steady voice suddenly wavered and trailed away. Wrinkles furled between Loki's brows and he bit his lip hard enough that a white spot stood out against the flesh. The pseudo-Æsir pressed his palms flat to the table, bowing his head so that strands of inky hair spilled across his face, hiding his features. Breathing ragged with some unknown strain filled the otherwise quiet chamber and the corridor beyond.

Finally Loki rasped, "Have you ever been shut up in pitch blackness for so long that you cannot remember the feel of the wind, the song of the Asgardian Sea roaring over the edge of the abyss, the sight of sunlight or moonlight or even the faint glimmer of the stars? Have you any idea what it's like, to be wrapped in silence so absolute that you only have the sound of your heart roaring in your ears and your own screams to listen to?" Loki's hands knotted into fists so tight they shook. "Do you know what it is to be clawed at so savagely by thirst that you'd drink the blood of the rats scuttling around in your cell in order to quench it, only to choke on the poisonous salt of it? Have you ever known hunger so savage it tears at your guts like rabid wolves until you think you must eat something—slop or sawdust or glass, anything—or you'll go mad with the pain tearing at your belly?"

Dark lashes drifted down to make black crescents against Loki's pale cheeks as he turned his head away, as if unable to look at his brother any longer. He drew a sharp, shuddering breath. "Tell me that, Thor. Tell me if you've ever known the degradation of being treated worse than the lowliest cur, with no hope of ever escaping captivity unless you give in and do the unthinkable—and yet you still refused. Even when you thought insanity loomed on the horizon, even when your nails were torn and bloodied from clawing at the walls for hours in a futile attempt at escape…even when you sought to take your own life in order to escape, only to be thwarted by your torturers...have you ever experienced such, Brother?"

"Mother and Father never put you in such a place," Thor snapped, masking his horror and unease with irritation. It hurt, like a knife through his heart, to think of his little brother in such a place. But Loki had looked fine when Thor had found him on the mortal aircraft. There was no proof of such torments.

In an utterly dead, emotionless voice the other prince replied, "I am not talking about the prison cells of Asgard."

"Then what are you talking about?"

"I am talking about the Chitauri dungeons."

And despite the wall of doubts assailing him, Thor was suddenly reminded of that first visit and reconnaissance mission to Loki's cell on his mother's behalf. Loki had knelt before the fire as one of the infamous and unknown drawings crackled amidst the searing flames. In an almost-tortured rasp, Loki had demanded, "What do they know of darkness? What do they know of the choking blackness of the void? What do they know of isolation? Nothing. Nothing at all." Had this been what he meant?

Bile seared the back of Thor's throat. No. No, he couldn't believe his little brother had been subjected to such tortures after falling from the Bifröst. Thor wouldn't—couldn't—believe it. Loki was lying. That was all there was to it. For if he was telling the truth, how had he become the Chitauri's commander on the invasion field? But of course, if the prince asked the disguised Frost Giant such a question, of course Loki would have an answer ready; a perfectly good answer, which would come tripping sweetly off his forked tongue, the deceitful snake.

In a lifetime of lies, it was nearly impossible to discern the truth. And Loki could never seem to hold onto sincerity for long, even during these conversations. Not without being poisoned by the mad rage or disdain so prevalent in his dealings with Thor.

Loki at last opened his eyes and stared unseeingly into the slowly-dying hearth flames. Shadows cast by the fire flickered in Loki's empty gaze. His elder brother could only stare in baffled silence. Loki's voice rang with sincerity…but then, it had done so the day of Thor's almost-coronation, when he'd professed his fraternal love for his brother.

For a long moment, Thor continued to stare at Loki and try to fathom what his brother was telling him. Which was the truth? Every word vibrated with such rage and desperation when Loki spoke of what the Chitauri had supposedly done to him…but then, there was the question of Thea. Her identity. Whether she had been intended as a tool for the Chitauri's invasion force, or whether she even existed. And the child, Sophie—what if she, too, were a lie? Was Loki simply attempting to manipulate him? The pseudo-Asgardian had done so many times before: before the ill-fated trip to Jötunheim over two years ago, on the Bifröst during their climactic battle that had resulted in the shattering of the rainbow bridge, atop the cliffs above the winter-sere woods outside of Stuttgart on Midgard, on the SHIELD Helicarrier, at the summit of Stark Tower…What if this was just another such attempt?

"I told you that you wouldn't listen," Loki murmured, leaning his forearms atop the table. He stared at the paper filled with his careful but miniscule handwriting as if his gaze could devour the words like a starving man at a banquet. A tired green-gray gaze flicked to Thor's face, then back to the paper. Loki sighed. "You never listen. It seems I'm not the only one who's never sincere."

Wondering vaguely if ruthlessness or true curiosity prompted the question, Thor demanded, "And did she listen? Your precious Thea? Did she drink up all your sweetly poisoned lies?" But Loki said nothing. Merely closed his eyes and laced his fingers together so that he could rest his chin atop his hands. "Answer me!" Thor shouted. The blood pounded hot through his body once more as fresh anger lanced him. Did Loki have to be mysterious about everything?

A swift transformation overtook the green-eyed prince. The smooth white brow furrowed, wrinkles snarling betwixt his thin black eyebrows. Thin lips pulled back slightly as Loki bared his teeth in something to savage to be called a smile but too pained to be snarl. That new and all-too-familiar arctic loathing filled eyes like emerald knives that threatened to cut Thor open to the bone.

"Yes," Loki hissed. "She did. She always listened to me, as I did to her, because she feared the silence, as I did; because she feared to be alone in the darkness with only the harshness of her own breathing and the thunder of her terrified heart; because I knew what it was to fear the dark, the unending blackness of a coffin, of being buried alive in darkness. I knew how it felt to be crushed into insignificance and nothingness in the depths of the void."

Thor wavered then. He couldn't shake the timbre of sincerity in his brother's voice, echoing in his brother's words. Beneath the smoldering embers of hatred waiting for a single breath to fan them to blazing life, there was a shadow of something else. Thor couldn't quite put a name to it. Grief? Remorse? Self-loathing? Agony? Whatever it was, it was enough to catch on the Asgardian warrior's instincts. Enough to coax the crown prince to pull his fist back from the ensorcelled glass; enough to soothe his rage enough that he could take a breath without feeling as if he might choke on it. He drew in one breath, let it out slowly, then drew another. When the blood no longer roared like a waterfall through his skull, he met Loki's eyes dead on.

"What are you writing?" Thor asked softly. "Another letter?" After a long moment, Loki gave him a curt nod. "To Thea?" He couldn't be certain, because what looked like the salutation had begun with the letter A, not T. But Loki nodded again. "What do you say to her?"

"I apologize for failing to fulfill my oath to protect her," the pseudo-Æsir replied coldly. His lip curled. "For failing in my attempt to conquer Midgard." Then he bit his lip and frowned, sighed. An expression that might have been a look of defeat flitted across Loki's pale face. "I apologize for the attempt; it was not what she wanted, but it was necessary for the sake of all involved. She didn't see that. And in every letter I…" He trailed off. His expression twisted, as if the words were far too painful to utter.

Gently, forgetting umbrage and acting on instinct, Thor asked, "You what?"

A sigh shuddered out of his younger brother. "In every letter I beg her forgiveness, though it is a futile thing to wish for. She is…she's dead, and in no position to forgive anyone." A malevolent spark flared to bitter life in the depths of the glacial emerald eyes. "I was told her death was a hard one, that she died cursing my name with her last breath."

"I'm sorry, Loki," Thor murmured. And he was. This one thing, at least, he believed. Loki could not fake such grief. After struggling with the idea that it might not be the best question under the circumstances, Thor finally asked his brother, "Did you love her?"

Loki closed his eyes wearily and scoffed. The sound was heavy with incredulity. Irritation sizzled beneath Thor's skin, pulsed once through his blood before subsiding just enough that the golden-haired Asgardian could ignore it. Loki's lips curled into that mocking smile again and he asked, "I? Love a mortal? A mere child? You really are a blithering idiot, Thor."

And yet…the words didn't quite ring so sincerely this time, which kept them from stinging so acutely. Or was that lack of sincerity just another ploy of Loki's to manipulate his foster brother?

"Tell me what happened," Thor said softly. He didn't know what was truth and what was lies...but he had to know what his brother would say. "What happened when you fell from the Bifröst, Loki?"

Blankness descended over the other man's face, erasing hatred and its underpinnings of grief or loss or regret or manipulation. Thor expected Loki to take his sweet time answering the question—or offering a scathing refusal to answer—so he was taken by surprise when his younger foster brother murmured, "I tumbled through the void of space, through its deathly cold and its star-spangled blackness until at last I plummeted through noxious silver-gray clouds of some poisonous miasma. At last I hit solid earth. The impact jarred my skull, shattered several bones."

Thor's eyes widened, but Loki seemed not to notice.

"For what felt like an eternity I could do nothing but lie there with my body racked by the pain of my injuries," he continued tonelessly. "What your monstrous green friend did to me was nothing compared to that time. My blood soaked the sand and stones beneath my body and the moon burned white against my eyelids until I saw it always, sleeping and waking. I see it still when I close my eyes. And then they found me."

"Thea and Sophie?"

Loki shook his head. "No. I did not meet Thea for sometime after that and as for…as for Sophie…" Though his face remained empty of expression, though his tone was as hollow as that of a dead man speaking in a dream, a terrible agony filled his eyes. For Thor, it was as if looking into his brother's gaze was like being raked with poisoned jade talons that burned like acid. "As for Sophie," Loki somehow managed to continue, though his voice shook and his eyes gleamed as if wet. "I did not…I never…I was never allowed…never truly…"

The pale lips quivered and Loki covered his mouth with one shaking hand, looking away. Thor wondered what could possibly crack Loki's composure so. He recalled Loki's anguish when he'd spoken to the illusion of Sophie. Who was Sophie, that she affected the green-eyed prince so dramatically?

At last, his younger brother spoke again, his voice somewhat steadier. "No, it was not Thea who found me, but the Chitauri. They brought me to their fortress and healed my wounds. Throughout the weeks it took for my bones to knit and my injuries to mend, the second-in-command of the Chitauri armies came to me often with an offer—a command couched in pretty words. I was to join their ranks, for they knew of my powers. They wanted the Nine Realms, and they wanted my help in conquering them. If I agreed, I would become king of my own realm, and win glory for myself and the mighty Chitauri Empire. If I refused…well, one does not refuse Lord Thanos for long."

But Thor knew his younger brother, and knew that receiving an order like that would have been tantamount to a slap in the face to Loki. As proud as Odin had raised his foster son to be and as proud as Asgardians naturally were—as proud as Loki had always been—there was no chance the green-eyed prince had accepted such an offer, threats or no.

"So they imprisoned you."

A regal cant of the head acknowledged Thor's words. "And though I was left to die if I did not give in, though it was as if I'd been sealed away inside a death-casket and left to rot in the wet dark earth like a moldering corpse, I did not give into their demands. I refused to take part in their invasion of Asgard and Midgard."

Thor jolted. "Asgard?" He echoed sharply. "They wanted Asgard?"

Loki smirked. "Thanos, Lord of the Chitauri, fancies himself in love with Death's fairest Avatar, my brother. He slaughters trillions in an attempt to win her favor, in his mad lust to woo her. Of course the Chitauri want Asgard. Don't you understand, Brother? The Chitauri want the universe."

A chill settled in the pit of Thor's stomach. He knew the Chitauri hadn't been killed during their invasion of Midgard, merely thwarted. He knew they could return at any time…or turn their sights somewhere else, like the realm of Asgard. The All-Father would have to be told of this soon, in order to prepare for the potential threat of the Chitauri. Heimdall would have to be enlisted to spy upon the battle-crazed invaders as well, to monitor their movements should they choose to aim for the home of the Æsir. If it came to war, the soldiers of Asgard would—

"They locked me away in the darkness," Loki whispered. Thor's attention snapped back to his brother, who stared unblinking and unseeing into the hearth fire. His throat worked convulsively for a moment. Then he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself, "The darkness has eyes and teeth, claws to rake and fangs to bite. It presses against your eyes until there is only blackness slithering into your skull to devour your mind. Silence deafens, darkness blinds. Hunger gnaws and thirst burns. They gave me just enough to keep me alive, just enough to keep the pain sharp in my throat and in my belly. I thought I would go mad in the dark. I thought I would shatter under the silence. And then…"

Those sightless eyes suddenly focused again, coming to rest on Thor's frozen countenance. Some of the hollow sickness festering in that gaze faded, to be replaced with a dull sort of agony. Somehow Thor knew just what his brother would say next.

"Then I heard music through a crack in the wall of my cell, and knew I must have lost my mind…but I hadn't. I had simply heard a sound at last—her voice."

Chapter 3 - First Night

that is

A Short Tale of Pain, Terror, Healing, and Insight

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Red-washed molten bronze eyes snapped open. Dylan would've screamed, but the only sound that managed to escape her mouth was a breathless squeak of fear. She jerked away from him. Black lips pulled back in a snarl. Her eyes went wide. A pale hand shot out, wrapped around her throat, and began to squeeze.

The air exploded from her in a wheezing choking sort of gurgle. Desperately trying to suck in air, she gasped, but nothing would come. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Breathlessly, she managed to choke out, "Wait... wait. I'm trying to help you. Remember?"

"You are human," he snarled. His voice wavered. She could see exhaustion and fever clouding his eyes. See the pain in him. "Why would... would... you help me?"

She could only make a gurgling sound in her throat as his fingers bit into her neck. Nuada watched the human through somewhat blurry eyes as her mouth gawped like a fish, as her hands scrabbled weakly at his own wrapped around the slender mortal throat. Her lips slowly began to turn blue.

"Answer me," he demanded. She made a choked noise, and the Elf relaxed his grip by a fraction, to allow her to speak.

"I helped... you escape... remember? I'm not the enemy," the human wheezed.

"Why help me?" Nuada growled, and tried to shake her. It did not work, but she closed her eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks. Sharp Elven ears could hear the pounding of her empty black heart. The blond fey could practically taste her nauseating fear. "Tell me!" He growled, and she flinched. Filthy human coward.

"You saved me from the wolves," Dylan gasped. Opened her mouth to say more, snapped it shut.

"And?"

"It's... it's the decent... thing to do... please... please let go..."

The Elf prince suddenly released her as dizziness washed over him and the strength left his limbs. A strange burning was spreading across the back of his thigh and through his right side. Nausea rose up sharp and swift in his belly - a reminder of the poison and iron-sickness in his body.

The terrified human scuttled backwards like lightning, gasping for breath as she huddled as far away from him as possible. Her eyes were glassy with terror. Even with his vision blurred and her hands cradling her throat, he could see the brilliant scarlet marks his grip had left against her skin. He had not meant to do quite so much damage. Illness and pain had stolen a measure of his control.

"Very well," he muttered, looking away from the blood-red fingerprints at her throat. "See to my wounds, then."

A soft whimper came to him from the corner in which she cowered, but that was all. She did not move, or speak, but only stared at him, eyes wide, unblinking, panting with fear. He loathed the stench of woman's fear. The Elf tried to gentle his tone.

"I thought you were my enemy," he said by way of explanation. It galled him to have to explain to a disgusting human, but it was the only way. He could feel the blood seeping from his body with every beat of his heart. Ignoring the vile taste the words left in his mouth, he added, "I mean you no harm, human, if you mean none to me." Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth. "Now continue with what you were doing."

Trembling, Dylan shook her head.

"You were... quite... keen on aiding me a few moments ago," he replied to her silent negation. He tried to keep his voice calm. Frightening the wretched girl further would not aid him in any way.

If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain, a voice in Dylan's mind whispered, a breath of memory. She could only blink once, the lone reaction to her brain's promptings, and continue to struggle to breathe. The brunette shuddered, feeling like a wild animal caught in a trap. Her body refused to stop shaking, and her teeth chattered as if she were cold. Doubtless, if she'd attempted to speak, she'd have bitten her tongue.

"Can you not speak, human?" Nuada was losing patience now. His voice, usually cold as arctic winds, took on a searing bite that lashed his unwilling companion to her bones. Body aching, wounds burning, feverish, muscles cramping mercilessly, head pounding, and limbs weak, he snarled at her, "Speak!"

Ease its pain... holy crap. Someone, help me... someone. Anyone.

"You just tried to strangle me," Dylan reminded him in a quivering voice. At least she hadn't stuttered.

"Ah. It speaks." The ice-cold voice was laced with venomous sarcasm.

One trembling hand swiped at the tears on Dylan's face, while the other gently explored the flesh of her throat, which was already beginning to swell. She had to get control, had to pull herself together. Biting her lip, she acknowledged that she couldn't afford to lose it here. Not right now. Fighting for calm, blue eyes fought to meet a glacial bronze gaze as she drew in a ragged breath and said, "You can't move anymore."

"What?" That one word was suffused with such hatred.

"Not like that," she whispered, voice trying to fail. Swallowing, she went on, "One more move like that, and I'm outta here, okay?"

"Cowardly human wretch."

"Look, Your Highness, you scare me to death, okay? That doesn't make me a coward, that just proves I know you could kill me with your pinkie toe if you wanted to." She was babbling, but somehow, she couldn't force herself to stop. "And I don't want to die trying to help someone who's just going to kill me for no reason other than I don't have pointy ears, green skin, or butterfly wings. Sorry. I'm trying to help you. But you can't go choking the life out of me and dismembering my dead carcass just because I poke you where it hurts. Now, promise me you won't do stuff like that anymore, okay?"

"I will make no promise."

Dylan almost screamed in frustration, but clamped it back behind her teeth. She couldn't force herself to go near him while he looked at her with such glittering menace. What if he did something awful to her? What if he tried to rape her? Rape wasn't always about control. Sometimes, it was merely about breaking someone in the worst way possible because you hated them more than anything else in the world. That was how the Elf was looking at her now. Even as she realized this, a minute trembling began in her body, and she shivered again.

"Please?" She whispered desperately, staring at him with fearful eyes. "I... I can't... Your Highness, please?"

"Very well!" Nuada tried to shout, but it came out as more of a hoarse croak. His head felt thick and throbbed mercilessly. "I vow that I shall not attack you so long as you are attempting to heal the damage done to my body. I will offer no harm to your person while you do this. Satisfied?"

"Swear it on the Darkness That Eats All Things," she commanded. The oath of an Elf was enough for her... under normal circumstances. Most fae couldn't lie, unless they were royal. But these were not normal circumstances.

"I swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things, that I shall not attack you so long as you are attempting to heal the damage done to my body. I will offer no harm to your person while you do this. Now are you satisfied, human?"

Yeah. Yeah, she could be satisfied with that. She hadn't been sure that the Darkness was actually a real thing, since so many things were distorted in myth, but Dylan knew what it was supposed to be, and no fey creature would swear by it and lie. Never, ever, in a million years, for to swear such an oath and be lying about it was to condemn yourself to death. A really bloody, horrible death being consumed by eternal and everlasting, living darkness.

The thought terrified her. She closed her eyes, and prayed silently, Heavenly Father, I don't think I can do this. I'm freaking out here. Help me. Just... anything. Anything you can give me would be good. Help me be calm. Help me be strong. Please. I can't do this on my own.

Where you see only a single set of footprints, a voice whispered in her mind, it is then that I carried you.

I will carry you...

Dylan swallowed a half-sob as a strange, sweet pain hit her chest. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel comforted, almost safe. Then, turning back to the supernatural warrior that had saved her life, the doctor's professionalism settled over her like a well-worn, favorite coat or child's security blanket.

"Um... hey," she murmured, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of one wrist, attempting to avoid getting blood in her eyes. It sort of worked. Instead, it smeared across her eyebrows and down one cheek. Darn it, she was tired, but she had to do this. He needed help. If he died... she couldn't let him die. So many of them had already died...

If it cries to you that it hurts, if you can, ease its pain...

He was ignoring her now. Slowly, she crawled back to his side. "Hey." Dylan touched his shoulder lightly to bring his attention to her. His copper eyes slashed to her face, and she jumped, trembling anew. "Your Highness, I-I need you to roll over, really slow. I gotta get the bullet in your thi-"

"It went through," he mumbled, and grabbed her hand, brought her fingertips to the bloody, ragged hole a few inches above his knee. He hissed when her fingers made contact. She gasped and jerked her hand away. "It will heal," he added, and sat up slowly. She swallowed hard when his eyes fell on her again. "You are injured."

"Just... let me stitch you up." Please, she added silently. You're freaking me out. "I'm worried about you." When you're not, you know, trying to strangle me or tear gaping, bloody chunks out of my body with your eyes.

"You... are worried for me?" He repeated woodenly. He blinked, confused. Growled, "Why?"

"You have a bunch of gaping holes and some bullets in you, not to mention a stab wound and a slashed ankle - possibly a nicked Achilles tendon - that are both still bleeding, and you want to know why I'm worried? Look, Highness, I can't wait for you to pass out from blood loss before I treat you because I don't know how long I can stay conscious, and you might forget your promise and try to kill me again, so please just let me do this and I'm babbling again. Ignore the babbling and do what I say, okay? Please?"

He stared at her for a long moment, puzzled by the earnestness in her mutilated face, which conflicted with the fear in her eyes. Then the Elf prince had to take a moment to process her long, rapid stream of words and make sure he actually understood what she wanted before he carefully rolled over onto his stomach, stifling the groan of pain that wanted to escape from behind his clenched teeth. She heated the tweezers over her lighter again, wishing she had the means or even the strength to do this properly. When the metal was starting to singe her fingers, she sucked in a breath between clenched teeth and plunged the instrument into the wound, where she saw the gleam of the bullet. He grunted in pain, and she felt tears pricking her eyes.

She hated this. She hated it.

Dylan got the bullet out of his arm, as well as the one in his side. She had to fight not to be ill. This only worked because she didn't have enough energy to vomit. It didn't help that she also pulled a sliver of bone out of the wound, too. Apparently the bullet had chipped a rib.

"Okay... um... got it!" She cried, and dropped that bullet beside the others lying in a small splash of residual blood on the floor. "Okay, lemme just stitch you up. Hang on." Reheating the needle, she bit her tongue as the silvery needle bit into his flesh and went through. When the sight of the open wound and the threaded needle grew blurry, she would pause for a moment, blinking to clear her vision. Her head was nearly nodding over her work, and everything burned and ached, but luckily she never jabbed him, only herself, jolting herself back to full wakefulness every time. She had to sew up all three holes in the back, as well as the stab wound.

"How are we doing, Your Highness?" Dylan murmured softly as she wiped some of the blood from his skin.

Nuada turned his head to regard the mortal woman over his shoulder. He had been sliced, stabbed, and shot. Iron and lead oozed added toxicity into his blood with every beat of his heart. Instead of being taken to an Elven healer like his sister undoubtedly had been, he had to make do with this stupid, inane human who babbled like a half-wit and resorted to primitive surgery to heal wounds inflicted on her behalf. And she wanted to know how he was doing? While she stabbed, poked, and prodded him with metal implements and burned his wounds with fire?

"Are you mad?" He demanded. And what was this "we" business?

"I gotta get your ankle," the mortal whispered, voice gentle, ignoring his question of her sanity. Her hands were trembling. She didn't know how she was going to do this when she was on the edge of exhaustion, but it needed to be done, and it was going to hurt him more than anything else had so far. The idea made her shake. She didn't want to hurt him. Dylan hated hurting people.

What if he hurt her?

Oh God, I can't... oh God, help me, please, I can't, oh God, oh God, I can't...

Footprints in the sand...

"I would rather reserve my strength at the present moment, so if you would be so obliging as to move towards my feet..." She could have seen his sarcasm if she'd been blind. Her hands began to shake.

Dylan obligingly crawled to his foot and lifted it carefully, ignoring the muttering noises her patient was making under his breath, though she heard the words "mad" and "lunatic" a couple times. His foot jerked out of her hold when she touched near the wound. The Elf clenched his fists and sucked air through his teeth with a hiss, forcing his limb to stillness. Dylan bit her lip as she lifted his foot and positioned it between her legs, her bruised thighs tensing to hold the foot in place as she carefully pulled back the skin on either side of the slash wound to reveal the tendon. His toes curled and clenched tightly, and she knew she was hurting him. When her searching gaze saw that the tendon was not severed, or even scratched, she gave a shuddering sigh of relief. For a moment, she forgot her mind-numbing terror as the full implications of the wound set in her brain. Their situation could have been so much worse, but his ankle was fine, which meant nothing here wasn't fixable by primitive field medicine.

Thank You, Heavenly Father, thank You, she breathed silently in prayer, head bowed, before she hastily checked the muscles for any serious damage and then began to stitch the wound closed. As she worked, she told him, more to keep herself calm than to inform him of anything, "I was scared that they'd damaged your Achilles tendon. I wouldn't have known how to repair that kind of damage," she added. "Not with what I have on me. But they didn't. It's just the position of the wound that's making it hard to walk."

"That is well, then," her patient said faintly. He sounded exhausted. The fear began to melt away again, just a little.

Finally, she was finished stitching. She cut the thread, shoved her tools aside, and flopped down on the floor as far away from him as her tired body could manage, sighing. Her entire body ached. Dylan only wanted to lie down and sleep for a year, or maybe forever. But more than that, she wanted a shower. How she was going to manage that in a mystical hideaway beneath the subway, she had no idea. How she was even going to get up to move, she didn't know either.

Dylan noticed the Elf looking at her scrutinizingly. She would've flushed, but didn't think she could, what with the blood loss she'd suffered. Her head and face hurt, and her heart began to pound. "What?"

"You are injured," he reminded her as he slowly sat up. Did the human not feel her own pain? Did she not feel her body crying out to her for peace, for numbness? "The wounds on your face need to be tended and-"

"I'm fine, Sire," she muttered, looking away. Don't remind him of weakness, she moaned to herself. Fake being fine. Lie. Do something! Don't give him a reason to attack! "You needed more help than I do."

"You are still bleeding."

"So are you," she whispered, aching to her bones. Her flesh itched, desperate for soap and hot water. Her eyes itched, desperate for sleep. But he promised, she reminded herself tiredly. He swore...

He glanced at the infuriating mortal as he got to his feet. His body throbbed, but already the wounds were healing. This place, saturated with healing magic, accelerated his already sped-up healing abilities. Far off and away amidst the hills of Bethmoora, in the hidden city of Findias, he could feel the palace healers working on his sister's wounds. Now that the bullets had been removed, they would both heal quickly. He could limp. The flesh of his shoulder wound was slowly knitting back together, though he knew the stitching had been necessary. His ankle... well, he was not one-hundred-percent certain about how much damage there would be.

So he walked very carefully to one of his trunks and pulled out several articles of clothing. He tossed her three, which she barely caught. One of them landed on top of her face. His mouth twitched at how absurd she looked. Idiot humans; it was as if they were made to be mocked.

She pulled the garment - a pale blue silk shift that he kept for the occasional leman to wear - off her head and looked at him.

Finally, Dylan couldn't take it anymore. "I need to wash. You probably don't have running water in this place, but I..." She trailed off and looked at her hands. They were caked with drying blood the color of antique gold. "I have to get this off, I gotta-"

"Very well," he said only.

His muscles burned with fatigue and his wounds throbbed. The magic in the room, passive rather than active, did not numb the pain. But he knew from the accounts of some of the fae he knew that women and men who had been ravished were always desperate to cleanse themselves of their attackers. In this, it seemed, humans were no different than Elf-kind (though the idea of mortals and fae sharing any similarities beyond the need to breathe and consume sustenance disgusted him).

So he found a pitcher, filled it with water from the bucket by the well, and found a basin and a wash cloth. "I have no women's soap," he said coldly. "Nothing perfumed or soft."

The Elf despised the fact that he felt he ought to make excuses for the Spartan way in which he lived. He was a warrior, a soldier, and had no need for luxuries. The two he allowed himself were for homesickness's sake. The portrait of his sister, his other half, and the quilt from his dead mother's own hands, were the only pieces of home he had brought with him into exile besides his weapons. He need not apologize to her! She was nothing but a filthy human!

Nuada brought the basin down with an audible thunk, and the human jumped with a startled gasp. Her reaction made him feel like a monster terrorizing a little girl, but he shoved the feeling down and away, ignoring it with all his strength. He poured the water into the pewter basin and tossed in a wash cloth. For a moment, he just looked at the water. Then muttering something under his breath, he glanced at the well, and steam began wafting upwards from the surface of the water in the basin.

Dylan blinked in surprise. How did he do that?

"I will turn my back. Wash yourself and dress in fresh garments. I promise," he added, every word coated with killing frost, "that I will not look." His words dripped with scorn. And so saying, the blond fae lord turned his back on her and began to slowly peel off the black silk trousers that were now slick with his blood. She saw he had his own basin full of water, a pitcher, and a cloth. Even as she watched, he peeled off the thin, black linen half-trousers that she realized belatedly were his underthings. Suddenly, there he stood, an Elf prince, naked in front of her, covered in drying blood.

This night is stranger than any dream I've ever had, she thought vaguely as her mouth dropped open and her heart began to pound. The part of her that generated sheer terror squealed, He's naked, he's naked, he's naked, he's naked-

I know! Dylan yelled at herself, rage at her own pathetic weakness surging through her with every slamming beat of her heart against her sternum. I know he's naked! I got the concept, okay? Jeez. Shut up, brain.

Oblivious to Dylan's inner arguments, Nuada wrung the cloth out and began scrubbing almost viciously at his thigh, which was crusted with dark golden blood.

"Stop! You'll reopen your wounds!" She cried. The doctor in her was pushing into the foreground.

"Do not dare even think to command me, human," the Elf growled.

Dylan could feel the blood draining rapidly from her face, leaving her dizzy. She protested softly, "But... Highness, your wounds-"

"See to your own needs." His voice was like ice, and her heartbeat thundered like the drums of war. She heard the blood suddenly come rushing back through her head, and struggled to her feet. Fear or no, he was going to undo everything she'd just done if she didn't stop him.

"Sit down," she snapped, and grabbed the cloth out of his hand. "Let me." He growled at her and moved to grab the wash cloth, but she snatched it back from him and snarled, "Let me, you jerk. You could undo everything I spent the last several hours trying to repair. So hold still!" Her eyes were fear-bright, but she held onto her rage with all her strength, using it as a shield.

In that moment, this human reminded him so strongly of Nuala as a child, when they had both suffered injury and his twin had been insistent on seeing to him before herself. He surprised himself by barking a hoarse laugh and sinking into a chair, muttering, "Very well. As you wish, little human healer."

"And don't move, please, Highness," Dylan added, and draped her cloth over his lap as best she could without touching him. The terrified woman simply could not see to him with his... his... with that staring her right in the face. Huffing in irritation, she allowed her thoughts to sink back into numbness induced by routine. How many times had she sponged and wiped blood off of someone who could not be taken to the hospital for various reasons? Gang kids, young street walkers, runaways - and those were just the humans. Then there were the ekeks, the fauns, the Wee Winks, and all the other fae that came to her for healing. The familiar motions almost made her calm. Never mind that this all-too-male Elf was eyeing her with a cold gaze like copper shards of ice. Dipping the cloth into the water, she began gently wiping off the blood from his leg wound. Her hands shook a little, but she was still careful. He hissed when she touched the stitched bullet hole.

"Sorry," Dylan murmured. Her hair hung in her face, tacky strings greased by sweat and blood and things she didn't want to think about. "I'm trying not to hurt you, I promise you I am. Just hold still. I'm nearly done." She was breathing shallowly when she moved between his blood-streaked thighs to clean the still-oozing wound in his belly, and he could hear every time she swallowed.

"I can do this myself," he informed her caustically. He noticed her face paling, her lips taking on a grayish-blue tinge. She seemed to be holding her breath. He wished he could do the same - the stench of her blood and mortality made the iron-induced nausea in the pit of his stomach almost vicious.

"Begging Your Highness's pardon, but I don't trust you not to hurt yourself," she informed him with no little acid. Rage, she thought. I am rage. Just rage. Oh, God, please help me... "I can't tell if you're doing what you're doing to piss me off and make me act like the humans you seem to know, or if you just want to die, or what. I don't care. I'm a healer; my duty here is quite clear, my lord. Until you either kill me or I'm able to walk out of here on my own, or until you're healed enough that you can carry me to the nearest hospital, I will not let you do yourself harm. You're already too thin," she added, glancing at the whipcord muscle clinging to his frame. "You're what, zero percent body fat? I don't think you eat right." She was babbling again, she knew it, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. It was like word vomit or something.

"You do not even know me," he said incredulously.

"I went to med school. Technically, I'm a doctor. Trust me, I know some stuff," Dylan replied, focusing intently on the wound in his shoulder and the one on his arm. She saw the powder-whiteness of his skin; the faint amber lines of infection leading from the wounds; the tracery of blue veins beneath the flesh. She wondered how he had managed to avoid bruising, especially around his wounds.

As for Dylan, her entire right side, cracked ribs and all, was a mass of black and purple, and so was her face beneath the slashing cuts. "You are not healthy," she informed him in a clear, firm voice. Her doctor voice. It only quavered a little, which was great, because she needed it to hide behind. "I bet you don't sleep enough, either."

"I am a strong warrior-"

"Begging your pardon again, but even an Elf's body must wear out eventually. You're speeding up the clock. You should rest more, Highness. You're working yourself too hard."

"You know nothing of what you speak," he snapped. How dare she imply that she, a mere mortal, could possibly understand the need for constant vigilance, agonizing preparation? What did she know of the fae and their struggle to survive in the world of the disgusting, vile humans? The unofficial war between the fae and mankind made no allowances for personal weaknesses such as sickness or exhaustion, and neither could he.

She looked up at him for a moment, then said, "Back, please." When he was in position, she said softly, "I know a lot more than most people give me credit for." She began to clean the wounds on his back and the back of his thigh. "I know that the thirteen Elven royal families have princesses who are often powerful sorceresses. Their princes and noblemen are great warriors... like you," she added, intent on her work. Her voice was slurring, but she did not seem to notice. "Valorous, courageous, strong, swift. Great tacticians and all that. And I know that the fae fear a war with humans."

"How do you know this?" He demanded. How could she possibly?

"I hear things."

"But how do you hear them?"

"I know how to listen, Sire. I also know that the greatest warriors of the fae will prepare for war because they fear it draws all too close. Remind you of anyone? All these things, I know. I also know that even the bravest, strongest, best warriors need time to rest. Constant vigilance, Your Highness," she added softly, "can lay you low more effectively sometimes than all of the enemies' tricks." And she put the cloth back in the bloody water and went back to where the garments he had thrown at her lay upon the cold stone floor. "If you'd be so kind as to turn your back?"

He did, thinking hard.

Dylan watched him warily the entire time as she pulled off her once-new red dress, now ruined, and her stockings, her ripped camisole, her bra. Her panties had been lost by the train tracks what seemed like eons ago. She washed the scarlet and gold from her hands as best she could, then scrubbed the dried blood from the rest of her skin. She was only careful patting at the scabbing cuts on her face. Her flesh was raw and painful by the time she was finished, but she was clean, blessedly clean. Using the rest of the water, she rinsed the slime of cruelty and savage lust from her hair.

Still eyeing the Elf's back doubtfully, she pulled on the pale blue shift and black kirtle he had provided for her, and tied it loosely with the white sash-like girdle before sinking to the floor, hunched against the leg of the wooden table. It was a good hiding place; in the light, still, but shadowed enough that if she remained still, he might forget about her. And it had the added benefit of also being several feet away from the Elf himself.

She watched him dress, nothing else on hand to do. Even sick and wounded, shot full of holes and stitched up, he was still powerful enough, strong enough, inhuman enough to move with savage, primal grace. He was also stupid enough that he was probably bleeding again. He wasn't acting hurt, when he should have been favoring his injured bits. He was acting as if he were in the peak of health.

Elves make no sense, she thought, irritated. Pure tiredness was beginning to drown the icy ball of fear in her chest. Fae lord or not, he's being stupid.

The Elf pulled on loose black trousers and a loose, blood red tunic, and sank heavily into the chair by the table. He sighed and allowed his head to fall back. For a long time, there was silence. Dylan could hear the rushing of midnight subway trains, the velvet buzz of fluorescent lights flickering, the thumping drum of her own heart against her ribs. She also heard the musical softness of his breathing, steady and even for the most part, but hitching every few moments, as if pain was sneaking up on him and attacking him from behind. The mortal woman watched him, drinking in the sight of him.

Proof, here was proof. She'd known, she'd always known, but ever since she'd come back from the institutions, the greater fae had mostly avoided her. Only the lesser of the faeries had sought her out. She'd been eighteen. An adult. And she no longer lived in the still half-wild woods of Jersey, but in New York City. Even moving to the edge of Central Park hadn't been quite the same. There was no reason she ought to have been able to See them any longer.

But she did. Dylan had always been able to See. She Saw now, especially. There was an Elven warrior - probably a lord or maybe even a prince - sitting in front of her. And there was something strangely familiar about him...

"We seem to find ourselves at an impasse," he said suddenly. She jumped, startled from her reverie. The act hurt. "You, a human, have saved my life more than once. I owe you a debt of honor. And at the same time, mortals are my sworn enemies and I loathe them and their depraved ways. Add to that that you have discovered one of my sanctuaries. Any other human, I would dispatch without a qualm. But you... I cannot."

Cannot? She thought, surprised. Why not?

It wasn't as if she could stop him. With the way he had handled those brilliantly silver war axes, she knew he could kill her in seconds, even in his current condition. Even as she watched, the wound at his ankle was slowly scabbing over, as if hours of healing were only taking moments. She wondered if it was him, or something else. Since she felt better with every second - though nowhere close to a stone's throw away from halfway to semi-okay - she had to figure it was the room, or maybe the air. Something that affected them both.

"It pains me to say these things," he continued, almost as if talking to himself. "Mortals are prideful, greedy, hollow creatures and yet I owe my life to one, a terrible thought. And yet you are no ordinary mortal, are you? I know of no other who would risk life and limb for someone you do not even know, much less one of my people; someone who looks as I do is obviously fae. You knew me for a faerie, yet you still sought to aid me. I cannot kill you. The mystery of it would drive me mad. What kind of human saves a faery?"

"I do," she mumbled bitterly. He didn't hear her words, only her voice's soft whisper.

"Silence. I'm not finished. Yes, it's certain that I cannot kill you. Yet you are a mortal. It is what you call a conundrum. I ought to kill you. My duty as a prince of my people requires it." He saw her eyes becoming bigger and bigger in her face. She looked like a frightened cat. If she'd had fur, it would have been standing on end. The terror in her eyes should have gratified him. Instead, it sent a shaft of discomfort through the Elf prince. The human had saved him. More than once. "Yet my own honor requires I do not. What would you do in my situation?" He asked too-casually.

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Her? He was asking her?

"Me?" She squeaked, then added belatedly, "Sire." Her head hurt. Her brain was squealing like a frightened pig that this was a trap, that she was going to die, that he was setting her up. She remembered suddenly that his promise not to harm her had only extended until she was done tending his injuries.

"Yes," the Elf said too softly. "I wish to hear your thoughts."

Nuada had to admit, he was baiting her. But... he hurt. His body ached, his wounds burned, his head throbbed, and he stank of human blood, both human-wolf and "innocent" blood. It sickened him, angered him. And, even though it was indirectly, it was still her fault. He was taking it out on her unfairly, but he did not care. And another part of him wanted to see how tricky she could be. What kind of viper had he invited into his little nest, he wondered? How cleverly could she twist her words, and his? He did not trust her. He could not. She was human.

"Um..." Dylan sucked in her cheek, biting it in thought, trying to quell her panic. Pain lanced through her face at the action. Her face betrayed her pain. "Ow. Um..." She suddenly felt like the storyteller from the Arabian Nights, walking on eggshells with her words. "Well... a king - or a prince or a lord," she amended hastily, "without personal honor... cannot hope to be an honorable... um... ruler to his people... and a dishonorable one..." Blue eyes watched him warily, looking for a reaction. He was only watching her, his chin on his fist. Where was I? She wondered, and remembered, Oh, yeah! A dishonorable ruler "brings shame to his kingdom."

His mouth twitched with somewhat wry amusement. It was a very diplomatic answer. Where had she learned such... skill?

Nuada suddenly narrowed his eyes in suspicion. When she shrank away from him, he felt like a monster again. Cursing silently, he tried to put a gentler expression on his face - or at least a more neutral one. He was treating her like a prisoner, when she had done nothing to deserve his enmity and everything to earn his gratitude. She made him feel as if he were torturing a fae child, instead of manipulating an adult human.

The blond Elf shook his head to clear it and wished he had not when his skull began to pound. He put a hand to his forehead, trying to make sure all the pieces of his skull were still in their proper places. The nausea worsened until he was almost sure he'd be violently sick. Fortunately he managed to suppress the urge to retch. Showing weakness to a mortal would have been insupportable.

Dylan felt the tension drain out of her. The situation still had her scared, no doubt about that. But blood loss, trauma, and the late hour were finally taking a toll. She looked at him, and saw his intense scrutiny was no longer fixed on her.

"Begging Your Highness's pardon, but... now what?" She whispered, letting her head fall backward. Her voice was a worn thread of sound, on the verge of emotional and physical exhaustion. He glanced at her sharply, saw her head lolling on her neck. She was tired. So was he - so very tired.

Gently, though he did not know where such gentility came from, he said, "We will discuss it in the morning. You should sleep."

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same, Sire," she said simply. Nuada might have snarled at her - how dare she argue with him? - but he heard something behind her voice that made him nod once to her. She was like no other human he had ever met. What human would not relish the chance to sleep, to indulge in sloth?

Apparently, this one. Perhaps she feared dreams.

Or perhaps she feared him.