Why Does Dylan Hate Balor So Much?

Because the man’s a grade-A douche nozzle. :)

Okay, but in seriousness, how many times has Balor done something hecka-decka abusive to Nuada? I mean, I realize Nuada is like, 40. But Balor is still his dad and still his king and the man has some serious power over our prince. Also the whole Nuada-almost-dying in chapter 11 and Balor not-really caring for all intents and purposes (he still hasn’t apologized!!!) are not far from our girl’s mind, you know. And the bed thing. And the marriage thing. And the constant accusations of Nuada being a rapacious psychopath. Etc, etc, etc.

A Coat of Arms!

Someone actually put a coat of arms together for Dylan based on my explanation! I cannot believe this!! How neato is this, you guys?!?!

Chapter 105 - The Road Goes Ever On

Author's Note: I tried to keep this under 10,000 words...but I failed. But not horribly! It's 11,000. Which is a lot, I know. =( Me sorry. I couldn't figure out how to cut it down. I wanted to end it with them leaving for the villages, so...yeah.

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Chapter One-Hundred-Five

The Road Goes Ever On

that is

A Short Tale of Blood, Forgetting, Regrets, Promises of Aid, Words of Faerie, the Silverlance, Extortion, New Boots, Readiness, and Farewells

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Nuada caught Dylan's head before it could hit the hard, wooden floor. The stink of iron-laced blood hung heavy on the air as he slid an arm beneath her, shifting her against his chest. Crimson blood seeped onto the floor. Dylan's breath came in wheezing gasps as Nuada slowly lifted her from the floor. She clutched at him; her blood soaked into his sleeve before she hissed in pain and yanked her hand away.

"What happened, mo crídh?" The Elf asked as he set her on the counter not smeared with blood. He gently grasped her bloody hand and held it up to inspect it. To his surprise, the cut wasn’t on her wrist or forearm. A deep wound slashed across her palm, barely missing the large blood vessel at the mound of her thumb. Blood oozed, slow but steady. He glanced at the counter and saw more blood staining the edge of a kitchen knife. Looking back at Dylan, he brought her hand beneath the faucet of the kitchen sink and turned on the water. A small bottle of what looked like soap—but what he knew to be a wound-cleansing potion—glittered beside the sink on the counter. Nuada waited until the water ran mostly clear before adding a few drops of the potion. Dylan flinched and hissed at the burn before relaxing. Nuada repeated, "What happened?"

Dylan gave a shaky sigh. "I forgot to eat lunch," she mumbled, brushing at her hair with her clean hand. Pain from the water scoring over the wound in her palm made her sit stiffly on the counter. "So I was feeling a little woozy anyway, and I was freaking out about everything…I couldn’t stop crying after I called John. I was just…just a mess. I was so angry. I smacked the counter. There was a knife, I didn’t notice it, I didn’t even feel it at first…I'm sorry." She hesitated. "You thought I did it to myself, didn’t you?"

Topaz eyes flicked to her face, then away. "I remember what you told me of scars and razorblades, my love. I remember that physical pain doesn’t frighten you, but that your family possesses the power to wound your heart deeply. It was…a concern." He touched her cheek with gentle fingers. "I do not wish to lose you."

She shook her head. "I wouldn’t do that to you, Nuada. Ever." Then she looked down at her hand and sighed. "That's going to scar. Great. As if Petra and them don't think I'm crazy enough."

"They are on their way to believing and accepting, I think," he said softly. "I revealed myself to them. Wink and Becan did as well." Nuada paused to turn and pluck an apple from the basket on the opposite counter. He thrust it into her free hand. "Eat."

Obediently, she bit into the shiny, red fruit. Swallowed. Nuada examined the cut across her palm.

"It's deeper than I would like, but not wide. A clean cut. It will not require stitches. I can speed up the healing a little, as well," he added, raising her hand to his mouth. Summoning his magic, he breathed a warm breath across her palm. Magic rippled across the deep slice. The bleeding slowed, stopped. The wound shrank ever so slightly, beginning to seal at the edges. Nuada set her hand down on her lap. "It will require dressing, however. Where—"

"I can do it," she murmured, setting the apple down. "I—"

He laid a hand on her shoulder. "May I not take care of you this time? As I should have done earlier?"

Dylan frowned, obviously baffled, but eventually nodded and pointed to the cupboard where she kept one of the various first-aid kits secreted throughout her cottage. Nuada knew she kept more than one in case circumstances prevented her from grabbing the big one Becan normally brought her.

"Eat," he said over his shoulder, and didn’t move until he heard Dylan take another bite of the apple.

He pulled the smaller first-aid kit from the cupboard and popped it open on the opposite counter. Gauze, bandages, and surgical tape nestled in their containers; Nuada removed them and brought them over to Dylan. A small but long bubble of blood had welled up from the wound again, despite the small healing spell that was all Nuada knew. Deftly folding a piece of gauze, he pressed it to the wound.

Dylan tensed. Said nothing. Only when Nuada had begun to bandage the wound did she speak.

"What did you mean, as you should have?" Her voice came soft, a little slurred. "Why did you say that?"

Nuada didn’t speak for a long moment, but at last muttered, "I should have just revealed myself at the beginning. Silenced their haranguing before it had a chance to hurt you as it did. Forgive me for that."

"I didn’t want you to—"

"And sometimes it is better for me to put aside what you want and instead give what is needed," he growled, silencing her. "As you do! How often in our time together have I tried to banish you from my side, or spurn what comfort or advice you offer me, and you persist until I see my own folly? I should have done that for you!" Realizing he'd raised his voice, he clenched his teeth, shook his head, and reached for the surgical tape. "I am not worthy of you," he muttered.

"Oh, shut up," Dylan said with the barest hint of a laugh. His firegold gaze flashed to her, to the gentle smile that curled fingers of warmth around his heart. At the sight of that smile, his lips quirked the barest fraction. "You're right that I should've let you drop the glamour sooner," she admitted.

"Why didn't you?" He ripped off a piece of the thick, ivory tape and pressed it to the edge of the bandage so it wouldn’t unwind.

His lady shrugged, then stared at the white flesh of the apple. "I wanted to believe I could make them understand," she confessed sadly. "Just with words. I…I wanted them to believe me. For once, just believe me when I talked about…when I explained…" She shook her head. "Stupid, I know."

He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. "No. Not stupid. Never regret being true to someone, believing in them, just because they betray your trust. Regret what they do, perhaps; regret the consequences of their unkindness, their betrayal. But never regret being as you are—compassionate, hopeful, forgiving. It is one of the things I love most about you. If you forgave less, I would not have the privilege of wedding you in six weeks."

Dylan grinned. "Six weeks. I can't believe it. I'm so excited."

Dark lips curved into a bright smile. "As am I, love…for a variety of reasons." He grinned when some color came back into her pale cheeks. Then he tapped a finger under her chin and admonished, "Eat."

It was while Nuada was cleaning up the rest of the spilled blood and Dylan was beginning a second apple that Becan entered the kitchen. Clearing his tiny throat, he said, "Milady, Your Highness, Mistress Pet…my lady!" Becan scrambled up onto the counter and rushed to Dylan. His small hands stretched out toward her bandaged one, hovering as if unsure where to put them. He cried, "Oh, my lady, your poor hand. Why did you not send for me? My poor mistress…"

A light laugh arrested the brownie's fretting. "It's okay, Becan. I just had a little accident. I'm all right, the prince took care of me." She wiggled her fingers at him in a childlike little wave. "See? Everything's fine. What's up? What did you need?"

Becan hesitated. "It is your sisters, milady. They wish to speak to you."

Immediate tension ratcheted through Dylan's body. Nuada felt it, and laid a gentle hand on her knee in silent support. Dylan swallowed. Glanced at the prince. He inclined his head. Whatever she wished, they would do. If she wanted him to roust her sisters out of the cottage, never to allow them to return, he would do that. If she wanted to speak to them, he would remain at her side.

Dylan cleared her throat. Nodded. "Go ahead and send them in, Becan."

The wee fae bowed low to his mistress and the prince, then vanished from sight. The fingers of Dylan's uninjured hand curled around the lip of the counter, tightening until her knuckles blazed white against her skin. Wide eyes fixed on the far counter. She bit her lip hard enough to draw a single drop of blood.

"Dylan," Nuada murmured. She immediately stopped. "Dylan…my honor dictates I must tell you something."

Her eyes jumped from the opposite counter to his face. "What?"

"Petra and Mary exhibited true remorse when I revealed the truth in its entirety," the prince murmured. Dylan's brows rose in startlement. He nodded. "Petra wept. I think we may be able to rely on her for aid regarding the northern villages. Mary defended you to Pauline; I think she, too, may be coaxed into showing less venom toward you."

"I told you," Dylan replied with a small smile. "My sisters love me. They really do. It's just hard for them to deal with how I live my life because they don't understand why I live the way I do. But they love me."

Nuada hesitated. He…didn’t know how to answer that. To his way of thinking, if they truly loved her, they should have trusted her to know what she was doing. To have good reasons for all the things she did that they didn’t understand. And then there was the fact that they were human. Humans didn’t understand love, kindness, honor, loyalty. Dylan did…but she was more than human. Of course, there was also her uncle…and her aunt, who'd tried to help as well. Her two cousins with the Sight. Francesca and Victoria. And John, who was unfailingly loyal to Dylan.

The prince bit back an oath. Dylan's family, instead of proving everything he'd always believed about humans, was beginning to countermand everything he'd learned in his forty centuries. One mortal—his Dylan, his lady, incomparable—behaving this way was acceptable, but the others…confused him.

Pushing that aside for the time being, Nuada added, "I am uncertain about Pauline. She tried to cast the blame for her ignorance…elsewhere."

"On me, you mean," Dylan replied. The prince canted his head. She sighed. "It doesn't matter. I can work with her, I think. And the others. Petra will help me, too. And Pauline really does love me. She wasn’t always like this, you know," she added. Nuada raised an eyebrow. Dylan shook her head. "I don't know what happened. I mean, she was always…stern. Like the others. But in the last few years…well, her husband left her. He was a creep. And then she just got…bitter, I guess. Maybe this will help. You know? One less thing for her to worry about, now that she knows I'm not crazy."

Her prince cupped her cheek, smoothing his thumb across the delicate arch of her cheekbone, back and forth in a velvet caress. Dylan smiled more warmly at him. Her breath shushed warm against the edge of his palm. He murmured, "You forgive so easily. It awes me."

Dylan laughed. "Not that easily, if you recall. But I try. I…" She trailed off, tensing a little again. "Hey, guys."

Petra, Pauline, and Mary stood in the kitchen entryway, hesitation in every line of their bodies. But then Pauline saw the bandage on Dylan's hand and rushed forward, grasping it gently. Petra and Mary came forward, too, but stopped when Nuada shot them a withering glance. The message was clear: one at a time.

"What happened?" Pauline asked her little sister, cradling the injured hand. "Are you okay?"

Dylan merely shrugged. "I cut myself on a kitchen knife by accident. What about you?" Dylan added. "Are you okay?"

Pauline stared at Dylan for a long moment. She swallowed. A muscle twitched in her jaw. Her chin quivered, and her lips trembled. She squeezed her eyes shut, and Dylan laid a hand on her shoulder. Pauline burst into tears. Dylan hugged her, drawing her sister's head down onto her shoulder.

"It's okay," Dylan whispered. Nuada had to practically chew on his tongue to swallow what he wanted to say; it was not okay. Dylan needed to stop saying that. But he remained silent as Dylan continued to soothe her sister and stroke her hair like a child. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry," Pauline sobbed into Dylan's shirt. "Oh, Gawd, Dylan, we're all so sorry."

"I know," she said. "I know. It's okay. It's going to be okay now. Shhh, it's all right." She held out her free arm to Petra and Mary. The other two women shot fearful looks at the too-alien prince before rushing forward and enveloping their sisters in a massive hug.

Feeling more than a little out of place and wondering if this outpouring of regret and love was all too good to be true, Nuada leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. Eventually Dylan and her sisters let the embrace drop. Pauline opened her mouth, glanced at Nuada. Closed it. Petra shot him an uneasy glance. Irritation skittered through his veins like insect legs. This was the mildest form of prejudice he'd experienced at the hands of humans in his long centuries, the fearful stares and suspicion simply because he was alien, other. Perhaps Dylan's sisters were no different in that regard from any other children of Adam.

Petra cleared her throat. "You said you needed my help," she murmured. "Whatever you need, hon, if I can do it…I will. What do you need?"

Leaning forward, arms draped across her knees, Dylan said, "First, a little history lesson so you understand what's going on and why I need you. So back in the dawn of whatever, before recorded history, humans and Fair Folk lived together, no real problems, everything working fine between them. Didn’t last long. The humans and the fae ended up going to war again and again, and a lot of people got killed."

"That sounds familiar," Petra muttered. Nuada remembered suddenly that she'd been a member of the human military. Had she ever been in a warzone? Dylan had never said one way or the other.

Dylan nodded. "Yeah. Eventually the loss of life was so great that the sovereigns of Faerie and the mortal rulers they'd been warring with forged a truce that forbade a lot of stuff. This is important because in Bethmoora, the king interprets the treaty pretty strictly. No matter what a human does to a fae, the fae does not have the right to fight back. Right now, the provinces Nuada is responsible for are being hit really hard by human bandits, and things are bad. We're going out there tomorrow to try and help, but the fae aren't supposed to fight them, right? So we need humans to do it. So—"

"I'm in," Mary said. Dylan blinked. Stared at her. "What?" Mary demanded. "I may not have combat training, but I'm a born-and-bred city girl, and I know Tae Kwan Do. Maybe I can teach some fairy girls some basic self-defense or whatever. Keep these bandit jerks from doing…stuff. Like what happened to you."

Pauline swallowed hard, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. I may not know much about fighting, but I can help you with whatever you need." When Dylan just stared at her, too, her sister shrugged. "Your guy just told us that you've spent most of your life fighting for other people. It's a pretty thankless job, and we've made it so much harder for you, but you've never complained. I want to do something that worthwhile with my life; if I help you, maybe that'll do it."

Nuada noticed Dylan eyeing her sister with a look of puzzled concern, but she didn’t press it, so neither did he. Why was Dylan worried? Did she not trust Pauline? Because Nuada did not; he didn’t trust any of them. His lady was generous with her forgiveness, though. She wouldn’t look for a knife in the back, which meant the Silverlance would have to be the one to keep an eye out for her. But then, what had Dylan looking so concerned for her sister? The mortal said nothing, however—simply looked at Petra.

Petra nodded. "I'm in. I'll have to get a sitter—"

"Oh, crap—me, too," Pauline chimed in.

Mary said, "Simone and Gardenia can watch the midgets. Not like they're doing anything, really. Simone's got her dance studio and Gardenia's got her job at the library, but they're between boyfriends at the moment and they love the kids."

"What are we going to tell them, though?" Petra asked. "They're going to want to know what we're doing, why we're leaving. What are we supposed to say? That we're running off into Fairyland?" Then Petra seemed to realize what she'd said, and looked at Dylan. Nuada frowned. Then comprehension dawned: Petra had just hit on one of the problems Dylan had always faced when dealing with her sisters. Sadness flashed in Petra's eyes. "We've got to come up with something."

Dylan said, "Tell them you'll owe them an explanation—and a favor—and you'll give it to them when you get back. They trust you three; they'll do it for you. And when we come back, that'll be when I tell them about the fae. They're the last of the family who don’t know, so then you'll all be in on it in time for the wedding."

Petra raised an eyebrow. "Cesca and Tori already know?"

"Cesca's dating a guy who makes Nuada look quote-unquote 'normal,'" Dylan said dryly.

Mary asked with equal dryness, "Why does that not surprise me?" The sisters all laughed. With Francesca, anything was possible. "So, when do we leave?"

At that, Dylan hesitated before murmuring, "Tomorrow at dawn." It came out almost as a question. The three shrews glanced at Nuada, who offered them a tight nod. Petra pursed her lips. Considered. Dylan added, "We got a report this morning that things are getting worse. The villages need our help. The king is willing to send non-military aid as a gift to me as his future daughter-in-law, but they need it ASAP."

"What do we need to bring?" Petra asked.

"Your weapons," Dylan replied. "None of you should go anywhere unarmed. I never do. And you're probably going to have to shoot someone."

The three exchanged a glance. The Elven warrior knew they were surprised at how calmly Dylan discussed killing. Pauline ventured, "Dylan…honey…killing someone is a big deal. I mean, are you sure you can handle this? Because if you're going into a situation this dangerous, you might have to kill someone. Are you sure you can do that?"

Dylan's smile was soft and humorless. "I've killed at least seven people in the last forty days," she whispered. Her sisters stared at her. Keeping her voice even, she added, "The day before Nuada and I went to Findias to stay, back in November, we were attacked by assassins. I killed three of them. We were attacked again a couple weeks later; I took out two. On Midwinter's Eve, during our engagement ball, we were attacked again. I dealt with a pair of assassins attempting to hurt me, Nuada, and a friend of ours." She gazed at her sisters with a carefully blank expression. "I know what killing does to a person. I can handle it."

Silence reigned for a long stretch of minutes. Dylan waited for condemnation, for horror, for whatever inane judgments her sisters might make. Nuada waited for them to stab her in the heart again. But they didn't.

"You love him a lot, don't you?" Pauline asked in a subdued voice. Dylan nodded. "Figures. Why else would you put up with…with assassins and having people staring at you—I know you hate that—and going places at oh-dark-thirty? You love him." She smiled wistfully. "I'm happy for you."

"I'm…" Petra trailed off, bit her lip. Sighed. "I'm a little concerned, to be honest. No offense, Your Honor or whatever you are," she added, eyeing the prince, "but it seems like you're getting my sister into big trouble. I get to worry about that."

Dylan laughed mirthlessly. "Actually, if it wasn’t for me, most of these people wouldn’t be after Nuada. It's because he's with me that this one group is coming after him now." She shrugged when her sisters frowned. "A lot of the fae don't really like humans. They think we suck. Since, you know, we do. You're actually going to need to be prepared for that. And there'll be a lot of hate and mistrust in the villages when we get there, especially because of the bandits, but also because of that ingrained prejudice. See, back when Nuada and I were just friends, people already thought we were sleeping together, and Nuada got a lot of chuff from the anti-human supporters. I've earned him a lot of enemies."

Nuada's casual shrug caught their attention. "You are worth it, mo duinne."

Mary cocked her head. "What does that mean? 'Mo duinne?'"

Another quick, light laugh from Dylan. "It literally means 'my brown one.' It's a pet name in Gaelic for a girl with brown hair." She smiled at her prince. "Mo airgeadach."

A grin tugged at Nuada's dark mouth as he rumbled in a voice that was almost a purr, "Mo crídh."

"Mo phrionsa."

"Mo ghrá," he replied.

Dylan grinned when Pauline made a gagging sound. "Seriously," Pauline said with a teasing grin of her own. "I have no idea what you guys are saying, but I can tell whatever it is would make me nauseous if you translated it into English."

"We can be pretty sappy sometimes," Dylan admitted with a fond smile for her prince. "But that's neither here nor there. We need to figure out what we're gonna do about the kids."

Petra nodded. "I'll call Simone."

"I'll call Gardenia," Pauline added.

Mary said, "I'll go order a pizza. This might take a while. I'm buying," she added. "You need to eat. These old-fashioned guys like women with meat on their bones, not those heroin-chic supermodel types." Dylan just smiled and shook her head; Nuada knew she would give her sister her way. His lady was simply happy to have the secret of the fae off her shoulders at last.

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Hours later, in Findias, Nuada sat behind his desk in his study and considered.

Dylan's sisters—Petra, Pauline, Mary, Victoria, and Francesca—as well as John were all settled into their guest rooms for the night. Petra and Pauline's children were in the care of the ignorant middle sisters, Simone and Gardenia. All five women had packed for the journey to Dylan and Nuada's specifications. The only extra things any of them carried were weapons.

Petra and Victoria both carried guns: Victoria a single, personal hand-weapon known as a Browning Hi-Power; and Petra with a small arsenal (Dylan's only explanation had been that Petra liked guns)—two hunting rifles, a shotgun, two handguns, and something Dylan said was basically a sniper-rifle. To Nuada, it had looked like the other two, except the grip was different, the barrel was a touch longer, and Petra had mounted what Dylan called a "hunting scope" on it to help her aim at things from a distance. She'd bought the scope and mounted it that night before coming to Findias.

While the sisters had made plans at Dylan's cottage—Francesca and Victoria had come at Dylan's behest, brought from Findias by Becan—most of them had devoured an entire disgusting, greasy, human thing known as a pizza. The stink had been distinctly unappetizing. Dylan and Mary, though, had settled for something called an "organic pizza." That had been a bit more tolerable. Nuada had eaten apart from the women, merely maintaining a presence to prevent them from reverting to their harpy-shrewish ways and hurting his lady in some way or other.

Dylan had finally been able to unburden herself of everything to her sisters. The years she'd worked to help the fae. How she'd met Nuada, and they'd saved each other (though she kept quiet about the location and exact nature of the underground sanctuary; that was no one's business, and the new noblewoman understood that), and then how they'd been brought together again and again by oaths, loyalty, debts, and fate. He still remembered how it had surprised him to hear Dylan speak of him this way…

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"He sounds dreamy," Mary said with a swift glance at the taciturn prince, sitting as far away from the women as possible while still remaining within earshot. "Is he really like that?"

Dylan nodded, sighed. "He's wonderful."

"Tell us about him," Petra requested softly. "What's he like when it's just you two? 'Cause obviously he hates our guts—and now we know with good reason—so this isn't how he is normally, right? All quiet and grouchy? He takes care of you, right? Looks after you out there in Faerie?"

Nuada shifted once. The five sisters all glanced at him, though Francesca and Victoria didn’t look as worried as the other three. But he said nothing. Merely waited to hear what Dylan would say.

"He does. Always. He makes me feel…safe," Dylan whispered, her voice distant with a thousand memories. Nuada frowned. That hadn’t been what he'd expected her to say. Safe? After all the danger he'd put her in thus far, he made her feel safe? Her sisters all leaned in to hear better as a small, dreamy smile curved Dylan's mouth. "He's honorable. Gentle." Her smile widened a little. "He's so gentle. So strong, but so careful of me. Brave." She shook her head slowly, and a strange sort of sadness filled her face. She looked over at him. "He is so very brave."

"Nowhere near as brave as my lady is," Nuada murmured. Dylan blushed and dropped her gaze to the fire. Nuada smiled ever so slightly.

"So…" Francesca broke in, grinning—though the prince had no idea why. "What kind of fairy are you, exactly, Your Royal Hotness?" At the nickname, Petra dropped her face into her hands and sighed.

"I am an Elf."

"Like in The Lord of the Rings?" Victoria piped up.

Nuada's gaze could have been carved from stone. "No." Not that he knew anything about whatever that was. It was some form of mortal entertainment, a movie, from a little less than a decade ago, that was all he knew—he'd seen the millions of advertisements plastered on everything. "I am one of the Tuatha dé Danaan, an Elf of Bethmoora—a Son of the Earth."

The five blinked at him. Francesca said, "Okaaay. And what's that in English?"

At that moment, Dylan stepped in. "There are a lot of different kinds of Elves. Depending on where they're from, they look different. Nuada's one of the three Irish-type Elves. The Faerie counterpart of Ireland is broken up into three different kingdoms—Cíocal on the southern coast, Eìrc on the northern coast, and Bethmoora in the middle. The Elves of Cíocal are the Fomori, and they're called the Children of the Sea. They tend to have golden skin, brown or golden-blond hair, and green or blue eyes. The Elves of Eìrc are called the Fir Bholg, or the Children of the Hills. They tend to have ruddy skin, red or brown hair, and brown eyes. Oh, and disproportionate limbs. And then there are the Bethmooran Elves, the Tuatha dé Danaan, who look like Nuada."

Dylan went on to tell them about the Elves from around the world—the ebony-skinned Children of the Spider from Nyame; the silver-eyed Children of the Stars from Zwezda; the Children of the Silver Forests from Eathesbury; the scaled, reptilian-eyed Children of the Dragon from Dilong; the oddly-colored Children of the Phoenix from Onibi; the long-haired warrior tribe from Hyborea, the Children of the Sword; the ljósálfar and dökkálfar of Álfheim, called the Children of the Hammer and the Children of the Wolf, respectively; the cat-like Children of the Jaguar in Iara; the Children of the Waves from Menehune, the Pacific Islands kingdom. Then there were the Children of the Lioness in Ubasti, the Egyptian-like kingdom; the Children of the Sands in Shahbaz; and the constantly-warring Children of Thorn and Children of Mist in the bisected realm of Kithkin, whom Dylan had never seen. She'd seen a few half-human children with an Elven parent from one of the two provinces, but never a "pureblood."

"Jeez, it's a whole new geography and culture and…jeez," Pauline muttered. "How do you keep it all straight?"

"Necessity," Dylan replied with a shrug. "And that's not counting the non-Elven kingdoms, like Mytikas, Orang, Annwn, Alaka, Saami, Gevaudan, Weir—"

"Ahhh!" Francesca moaned, flopping onto her back. "My brain! My brain! It's leaking out of my ears!"

Dylan and her other sisters laughed, but Nuada noticed the five all began to look at Dylan a little differently after that. As if their respect for her had gone up a little. And no wonder—keeping all of that information straight was a task that took royal children a couple of centuries to master.

Then again, they were children, and it wasn’t a matter of life or death for them.

The talk went on for a time, and Nuada rose and left the room, prowling the hall and the kitchen for a moment's peace from the humans. Yet the absence of Dylan by his side hung over him like a shadow, pressing on him almost like an ache. Tomorrow would be the beginning of a dark time. He wanted to spend the few remaining hours beforehand with his lady. Once their journey to the north began, there would be no more precious moments alone. No more late-night conversations, kisses stolen from smiling lips. Not until they arrived in the nearest of his provinces and took lodging there. And even then, things were so dangerous, so desperate…did he have the right to spend any time not consumed with sleep or eating on anything so frivolous as romance when his people needed him?

And there was so much else that required attention besides the northern villages. He had yet to convince his father to break Nuala's engagement to Bres. There would be little time to do it before their departure tomorrow. While he and Dylan were gone, Bres would have time to ingratiate himself both to Nuala and the king. Then there was also the question of Dylan's mortality, their journey first to Avalon to retrieve the silver apples—if those were in fact the ones King Tethra and King Mannanan of the island of Mag Mell actually wanted, and not the poisonous black apples—and then to Mag Mell itself to petition the two cruel kings to make Dylan immortal. And of course the wedding…

A prickle at the nape of his neck and the soft shush of footsteps alerted Nuada to the presence of another—another not his esteemed lady—approaching his kitchen refuge. A polite knock against the wall served only to prick his temper even further. He turned to see Petra waiting in the kitchen entryway. Did Dylan know the shrew had followed him out of the living room? What did the harpy want now?

"Excuse me, Your Highness," Petra murmured, rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if to ward off a chill. Nervousness seeped from her every pore. Nuada stood like a statue carved from ice, eyes like shards of frozen topaz, disdain etched across his features. He said nothing; merely waited. "I need to speak with you about something."

A knife-thin blond brow slowly inched upward.

Petra sucked in a breath. Let it out slowly. Her gaze dropped to the clean, wooden floor as she said, "I understand now why you hate us so much but…but we honestly didn't know, okay? We didn't realize Dylan wasn’t—"

"You should have known," Nuada snarled. Petra flinched as if he'd slapped her. "You should have trusted your sister instead of locking her away in the dark and refusing to believe her when she spoke of needing your help. I only tolerate your presence in this house because my lady believes you can be of use to us in our endeavor over the coming weeks, and because she has asked me for my patience. She claims you love her. Perhaps you do, though I doubt you are capable of it. Do not make excuses to me. I will not hear them."

"That's not why I came over here," Petra snapped. "Jeez. I want to talk to you because of Dylan! I want to make sure you…that you know what you're getting into. So you don't…you know, spook her."

Incredulous ire rippled through the Elven prince, followed swiftly by a wash of ice-cold rage that frosted his blood and seared him to the bone.

"What?" The word could have been carved from a jagged piece of ice.

Petra swallowed, obviously sensing impending danger. But still she said, "Look, Dylan's been through a lot. I mean a lot. And you seem like…like a really physical guy. From what she's said, anyway. And I'm no psychiatrist, but Dylan always tries to please the people she cares about. She always tries to do what she thinks will make people happy, even at the expense of herself. She really loves you…but as her sister, I'm just warning you that maybe getting married isn't the best thing right now."

Nuada's head tilted slightly to the left, giving him that alien aura that never failed to unnerve even other Fair Folk. Only Dylan was immune to it, and it had taken months for her to be able to simply brush off the effect. Petra shrank back a little as Nuada's eyes began shifting toward that savage bronze that signaled a spike in his already smoldering temper.

"How dare you? How—dare—you? What my lady and I do is no concern of yours," Nuada hissed. He wanted to sling a sharp word for a she-hound at the woman like a stone, but he would not. He'd promised Dylan he would be civil. So he simply glared at her.

Petra folded her arms across her chest. "Uh, it's my concern if my baby sister spends her wedding night sobbing hysterically because she tried to be what she thought you wanted and couldn’t do it." The steely gray eyes challenged him to refute the possibility of Dylan's memories forming a barrier between them in such a way. A dull ache throbbed through Nuada's jaw and he realized he was grinding his teeth.

"You think I would force myself on her?" He demanded too softly. From far away, the memory of that old battle with John scraped at Nuada's mind. John had thought Nuada capable of hurting Dylan for sick enjoyment, too…once. But no longer. "You think I would ever ask her to give more than she can or is willing to give?"

The odious human lifted her chin. "I think she'll offer because she thinks it's what you want, and you might not realize she can't handle it until you've pushed her too hard, and she's already cracked."

"I—would—never," he growled. No, never. Not to her. He would be careful. He knew he had to take care with his betrothed's memories. He'd seen that for himself before. But when their wedding night finally came, he would be gentle and patient. If she wasn’t ready on that night, he would wait until she was. Simple as that.

And if she was never ready? If her nightmarish past couldn’t be overcome? Then he would be satisfied with what she could give. He loved her. Always. Eternally.

Strangely, Petra gave a satisfied nod. "Good. Because I want you guys together. You make her happy. I want that for her." Biting her lip—a gesture like a ghost of what Dylan always did when she was nervous—Petra added, "We owe her. We know that. Maybe we can never make it up to her. Maybe we can. I don't know. But tomorrow's the start of something big. Something dangerous. If anything happens to us, it'll be nice knowing you're there to take care of her. To give her the happiness we never thought she'd have. You understand her; she needs that. Thank you for giving it to her. That's all. Excuse me." And she walked away, leaving him staring after his lady's eldest sister, baffled by humans all over again.

.

Pulling himself back to the present, Nuada got up and checked his own packs one more time. He had learned in the army that one could never be too careful about the things needed for a journey. Lifting one satchel, he made to grab a second when a soft knock sounded at the door to his study. A brief flick of his power told him it was Dylan…with his father. Unable to separate the happiness and unease twining in his chest at the thought that his father had come to see him, he set the bag back on the floor and called, "Enter."

Balor preceded Dylan into the room, a tired smile on his face. He wore a simple shirt and breeches instead of more kingly garb; he must have been relaxing in his own suite when the mortal noblewoman suddenly pounced on him for something. But since both king and mortal were smiling, Nuada doubted the outcome had been unpleasant.

In fact, in Dylan's hands she held…

Nuada's gaze shot from the impossible prize Dylan carried, only its outline visible against the gold-embroidered scarlet cloth that wrapped around it, to his father's weathered face. His father smiled. Nodded.

"Your lady informed me that, as you will not have the full contingency of every Butcher Guard in the palace to call on if more fae assassins attack you, and since you will have some of her mortal kin with you, it would…behoove me to give you back the Silverlance." He shot an amused glance at Dylan. "I agreed." With careful, deliberate movements, Balor drew back the folds of the crimson silk to reveal the ensorcelled spear of Elven silver in Dylan's hands. Fire- and candlelight caught on the smooth lines of the long, silver blade etched with Nuada's personal crest. The gold embossing on the ebony hilt reflected the auburn glow of the flames in the hearth. Balor gripped the haft of the spear and lifted it from Dylan's hands. "Kneel."

His heart swelled in his chest as the prince knelt before his father and king, bowing his head so that his hair spilled in a curtain that began as palest starry silver before fading to antique gold around his face. His hands shook, so he pressed one against his left thigh and the other rested atop his right knee. The breath hitched in his chest as he felt the blade lightly touch first his left shoulder, then his right. He swallowed hard. Prayed he wouldn’t shame himself.

King Balor said, "Crown Prince Nuada, you have been found worthy to wield the weapon of the Bethmoora heir, the Silverlance. Bear it well as you seek to serve your kingdom and your people."

Hoping he'd quelled the shaking in his hands, Nuada reached out and took the lance from his father. The weight was at once familiar and strange; he hadn’t carried it in over a month. So little time, and yet so long. The sense of being incomplete, of being almost naked amidst a roomful of vipers and wolves, slowly faded as the prince rose to his feet, sheathed the spear, and bowed to his father.

"You have my thanks, Your Majesty," he murmured. "I will make you proud."

To his utter shock, his father replied, "I know. Good night, my son. I shall see you in the morning before you set off on your journey." Before Nuada could do more than stammer a goodnight in reply, the king left the study. Dylan clasped her hands in front of her and smiled. Nuada's heart thumped hard against his breastbone.

"You are brilliant," he said, and before either of them really knew what he was doing, he had her in his arms. She slipped her arms around his neck and cuddled against him, grinning wide enough to match his own broad smile. He touched his forehead to hers. "You wondrous woman," he added. "How did you ever convince him to give me a weapon, much less the Silverlance, before heading into what will most likely be a battle against humans?"

Dylan's eyes sparkled. "Just what he said: I reminded him that you were responsible for protecting not just me, but John and the girls." Then her smile slipped away. "And I reminded him of what he told me Christmas Day—that it would have broken him to lose you the day your mother died."

Nuada gazed down at her, so many emotions twisting and tangling in his chest he could scarcely sort through them all. He cupped her face between his hands. His thumbs brushed over the delicate curves of her cheekbones, feeling the warmth in her skin as she blushed. "I adore you," he whispered. "So much." He kissed her, a kiss that tasted of the sparkling grape juice she and her sisters had shared before returning to Findias, but with a faint but pleasant crispness of mint. Toothpaste. She was going to bed after this, he realized. She needed to. She seemed tired.

"Did you take your medicine?" He asked softly when the kiss broke. She nodded and laid her head against his shoulder. "When?"

"Right after I talked to your dad, just before he arrived. A few minutes ago, five at most. I think." She yawned.

"How long before you succumb?"

"Ten minutes," she mumbled. "Maybe. I took half the dose for my sleeping medicine so I could get up when we needed to." She smiled up at him. It was only then that he saw how her pupils were dilated, the black nearly swallowing up the stardust-silver and celestial blue of her irises. He wondered if missing her medicines for two straight days would have any strange effect on her. Dylan added, "Can I have ten minutes of goodnight kissing?"

Dark lips twitched, but he answered back gravely, "My lady, I hesitate to make accusations, but…could it possibly be that you arranged for the return of my spear so that you might extort carnal favors from me?"

She laughed. "Do kisses count as carnal favors?"

A slim, blond brow quirked. "When one does it right," he replied in a black velvet voice, "then yes."

Fresh color flooded Dylan's cheeks and she dropped her gaze, pressing her forehead into his collarbone. "Oh, boy. Um…" Then the faintest ghost of a wicked grin tugged at her mouth. "Actually, you know what? I don't believe you."

"I beg your pardon?"

The ghost of a grin began to appear in full. "You heard me. I don’t believe you. I don't think kisses done right count as carnal favors. I wouldn’t count the kiss you just gave me as one. That had about as much heat as a glacier."

He blinked once. Twice. "I believe I was just insulted." Dylan made a noncommittal noise and shrugged. "As much heat as a glacier, was it?"

A sleepy blink. "Yeah. Nothing carnal about that." She giggled tiredly, nuzzling his shoulder. "You think you're so big and bad—prove it. I don't think you can." She yawned. The fingers of one hand smoothed over his shirt before curling around his collar the way she often did when half-falling asleep.

"Challenge accepted, my love," he said softly. Setting a curled finger beneath her chin, he tilted her head up and fastened his mouth to hers.

Something about this kiss made it…more. Almost as if he'd never kissed Dylan before. As if he'd never known the pleasure—or the peace—kissing her could bring. He closed his eyes, the better to taste the fire of her. The better to drown in her taste, the feel of her mouth, her scent. She'd had a shower; he could smell the fragrance of spring lilies and summer roses that nearly always clung to her hair, and underneath that, the crispness of her soap. Her skin smelled clean. Sweet. He wanted suddenly to bury his face in the warm hollow of her shoulder the way he did whenever she would comfort him.

The coming dawn, hours away yet, still pressed on him with the knowledge of what they had to do when it came. They would be leaving Findias and its relative safety to venture across the kingdom into darkness and pain and desolation. Into death. So many of his people had died…The shadow of such thoughts hung heavy on him. Nuada shoved them away and focused instead on Dylan's mouth, lips like silken fire and the delicate touch of her breath against his mouth when her lips parted.

It would be so easy to coax a deeper kiss from her, he thought. So temptingly easy. Those soft lips parted as she struggled to breathe evenly, but he could part them further with skilled caresses, gentle nips. And she wouldn’t be able to remain awake for long, so taking things too far wouldn’t be a problem. Just one kiss to drown out the looming shadow of the morning. One kiss to sweep away thoughts of all the horrors he knew awaited them on this journey. One kiss…

Somehow he restrained himself. He would be satisfied with the heat of her throat and the satin curve of her cheek as he laid a hand against them. Satisfied with the contented sigh that brushed his lips as he slowly broke the kiss. And when Dylan's head dropped trustingly to his shoulder and she curved her arms around his neck again, pliant as a sleepy kitten, his heart jerked in his chest. She trusted him. Despite all that had happened between them, she still trusted him. Much as he desired her, much as he yearned for her in the depths of the night, no ardor could make him betray that trust.

Nuada scooped Dylan up in his arms, her slight weight no issue for an Elven warrior. She still wasn’t as well-fed as he wanted, but she was getting there. Dylan smiled and cuddled closer. He kissed her forehead. His lips brushed her skin when he murmured, "You're tired, a ghrá."

She nodded. "Mmm-hmmm."

"To bed with you, then," he added, kissing her forehead again. Reveling in the way she sprawled against him, her fingertips caressing where his pulse beat hard at the base of his throat, Nuada carried Dylan to her room and tucked her into bed. One last fleeting brush of his lips against hers served to somehow both assuage and stoke his longing. He touched her cheek. Whispered, "Goodnight, my princess."

At the door that joined his bedchamber to hers, he stopped for a moment when she mumbled, "Goodnight, Prince Charming."

He smiled. Things didn’t look quite so dark just then.

.

The ghostly gray of false dawn came too soon. Nuada was up, dressed in black leathers and crimson wool in place of his usual silks and velvets, lacing up his black riding boots when a hesitant knock sounded at the door adjoining his bedchamber to Dylan's. He didn’t look up as he called, "Enter."

Yawning, rubbing her eyes, Dylan came in. She was already dressed in one of the riding outfits he'd given her for Christmas—ensorcelled wine-dark silks, sparsely embroidered with golden thread, worn beneath charcoal traveling leathers to prevent discomfort. Her boots were of rich burgundy leather and reached her knees, the same style as his own. Nuada stared at the fitted leather molding to her calves. His bootlaces hung limp in his suddenly loose fingers. He blinked. Noticed the way Dylan's dark leather trousers skimmed down her legs to tuck neatly into the turned-down tops of her boots. Why had it never occurred to him how devastatingly lovely she would look wearing riding leathers?

"G'morning," she mumbled. Absently brushing at that one rebellious curl always hanging in her face, Dylan held up her arms and spun in a slow circle. "Well? What do you think?" She asked, her smile an invitation to go ahead and laugh if he thought she looked silly. Nuada took a moment to look her over from top to bottom and back up again.

The traveling clothes had included a long, silk tunic and trews to be worn beneath a leather jerkin and riding trousers. The jerkin was embossed in gold with the Eildon Tree, the crest of Bethmoora in peacetime. Over the jerkin, Dylan wore a knee-length vest of burgundy-dyed lamb's wool that matched the color of her boots. When she rode out with him in less than an hour, she would wear over all of this a pair of charcoal leather gloves to protect her hands and a fur-lined gray cloak of thick, but incredibly light, enchanted velvet, to protect her from the bitter Bethmooran cold. Around her neck hung her medallion on its simple golden chain, as well as the chain that bore the gold-and-ruby traveling ring he'd made for her. On her finger glittered the betrothal ring that had once belonged to Queen Cethlenn. Her hair had been braided tightly but deftly by Francesca; the thick braid hung over one shoulder. She wore no makeup. She needed none.

She looked, he thought, every inch the future Bethmooran princess. Every inch a woman worthy and able to be his wife. She looked…

"You look beautiful," he murmured. Quickly tying his bootlaces, he got to his feet and went to her. "You look like a princess," he added, taking her hands in his, "ready to visit her people and help them in whatever ways they stand in need of. You cannot know how proud I am of you, Dylan. For being willing to do this. For protecting and helping my people."

Dylan shook her head. "Our people. You're the one who always tells me," she said with a smile, pressing a hand to her chest. "Human blood; fae heart."

A small smile tugged at his mouth. He canted his head. "Indeed, my lady. Human blood, perhaps…but most assuredly a fae heart. Now." He stepped back from her a pace so he would be less tempted to kiss her. He could fill every minute between now and the dawn with the softness of her lips and the warmth of her breath if he allowed himself to do it. But he was a prince, and he had responsibilities. Even if he wanted to stay hidden away in this chamber with her until the end of his days—and oh, how he wanted that—they had places to go. So he cleared his throat and said, "You are packed?"

"Yes. Clothes, meds, weapons, everything. Fionnlagh and Gráinne helped me pack. And I remembered to take my meds," she added with a sheepish smile. "So I just need to eat breakfast and then we'll go. Or are we eating in the saddle?" Dylan made a face when Nuada arched an eyebrow. "Well, we're on a schedule."

He couldn’t help it—he had to kiss her again. Just once, swift and sweet. Dylan blinked at him, baffled.

"What was that for?"

"For being nothing but yourself," he replied. "And yes, we're eating in the saddle. For one thing, hot food will help fight off the cold for a bit. I've already arranged matters with Caspar. Are the children ready?"

She nodded. "All packed, dressed, and ready to go. And I checked with John—he and the girls are ready to go, too. Everything's packed."

Nuada pursed his lips, considering. He glanced out his bedroom window, noted the stars in their courses, and decided they had a few minutes before leaving the haven of his room. With a wolfish smile, he snagged Dylan's wrist and drew her into his arms, pressing her to his chest. She smiled, laughing softly and shaking her head at him.

"You're such a man," she murmured, still laughing.

"Well," he replied, lowering his head. He brushed his knuckles down the length of slashing scar gracing her cheek. "For your sake, I hope so."

Dylan simply rolled her eyes and laughed until he silenced her with a kiss.

.

Bitter wintry wind cut through Dylan's wool vest and leathers as she and Nuada stepped into the main palace courtyard. The supply-wagons were already laden and had begun the slow process of heading out of the Elven stronghold. Now the prince and his retinue, and his lady and her retinue, approached the horses the stable-hands held in readiness. While the Butcher Guards mounted the tall, shaggy, coal-black phookas that looked like Clydesdales, Wink helped Lorelei mount a horse with a sleek, ivory coat…and two horns protruding from its disproportionately wide head—horns as black as ebony, as long Dylan's arm, and as sharp as spears. Dylan's jaw went slack when she saw the rhinemaiden's mount. Her mouth fell open even wider when she saw the huge thing Wink was going to ride.

It looked like a bull, its hide shifting in shades of black, crimson, and amber like coals. Its horns and the fangs it bared seemed to glow like molten bronze. It stood taller than Dylan at the shoulder, with a body wider than the breadth of Nuada's shoulders, and a cow-tail that ended in a small, sullen flame. It bore a saddle of soot-stained leather and a bronze-chain bridle. Wink hoisted himself atop its back with ease. The creature pawed the steaming slush under its bronze hoof and snorted a blast of steam that made the air shimmer with impossible heat.

"Lorelei rides an indrik," Nuada said in Dylan's ear. His breath warmed her cold ears. "Why aren't you wearing your cloak?"

"I didn't think I could get on my horse with it on," she replied with a shrug. "I figured I'd put it on after I got in the saddle. What's an indrik?"

Nuada shook his head in exasperation. "Put it on," he ordered, smiling despite the vicious cold. "You'll freeze out here without it, my love." As she shrugged into her fur-lined cloak, Nuada added, "An indrik is a beast from Zwezda, a sort of horse-bull hybrid in human terms. Notice the hooves." He pointed at the cloven ebony hooves of Lorelei's steed. "They're razor sharp. You do not want an indrik to kick you."

"What's that?" Dylan pointed to Wink's beast. Even at a dozen paces away, it gave off an odd sort of heat. The snow around it had melted to slush, but the grooms in charge of the creature seemed to be able to touch it without harm.

"A bonnacon," Nuada replied. "From the wild forests of Eathesbury. Another horse-bull hybrid. They're wonderfully warm—pleasant mounts in cold weather. They can be a bit wild, but I hand-raised that stallion from a foal. He's as gentle as a lamb with those he's fond of. He'll like you, never fear. Bonnacons have the intelligence of small children, and they understand speech, though they cannot speak themselves. I've already told him who you are. And this," he added with a wealth of pride in his voice, "is Maeve."

A white mare stepped away from the group of fae horses and approached Dylan and Nuada shyly. Her eyes gleamed like emeralds, and the firelight caught in the silky banners of her pearlescent celadon mane and tail. Lòman, Nuada's black stallion, came to stand beside the mare. The stallion nuzzled her shoulder before bowing his head. Maeve bowed her own head.

*My lady, I am Maeve,* the mare said in the voice of a woman close to Dylan's age. *I am an arion mare, and I am honored to bear you on this journey.*

Dylan's mouth started to fall open again, but then she remembered that arions—fae horses with green manes and tails, native to Mytikas and Shahbaz—could speak the same way Nuada's wolfhounds could. She smiled at the mare. "It's nice to meet you. I'm not a great rider, but I'll try to sit up straight and pretend I know what I'm doing."

Maeve whickered, the horse-version of a laugh. *Thank you, milady.* The mare gently touched her nose to Dylan's shoulder. *We will be friends, I think.*

"I'd like that."

"A'ge'lv! A'ge'lv! Look at my pony!" The enraptured shout dragged Dylan's gaze over to 'Sa'ti perched on a black-haired pony, its mane and tail such a dark black they carried blue and green tints, like dark water. The ends of both mane and tail dripped water on the snow. Jet-black eyes gleamed and the pony tossed its head. A'du sat on the back of an identical pony next to his sister. Tsu's'di rode a horse with the same coloring.

Glashtyn, Dylan thought. Eathesburian water-horses malevolent to humans but friendly to the Fair Folk. She knew Nuada had dozens upon dozens in his stables. He loved horses of any kind. And she knew Nuada would've made certain everyone's mounts were safe before arranging for them to carry any of their party on this trip. Dylan waved to her servants before turning back to Maeve. Time to get on the horse's back wearing a very long cloak.

Somehow she managed it without any help from Nuada. Maeve stood still, only shifting her weight to help Dylan settle in the saddle. When she was set, she smiled at her prince. Maeve blew against Lòman's neck, and he whickered. Nuada patted the white mare's neck in silent thanks before turning to scan the group. Dylan's siblings all rode arions, because the horses could speak and understand human language—perfect mounts for inexperienced riders. Erik Ashkeson, who would be accompanying them as part of Nuada's guard—just as Lorelei had agreed to come in order to watch out for Dylan and, to a lesser degree, Francesca, since the rhinemaiden and the mortal waitress had a friend in common—Erik rode a wülfsvað, a shaggy black wolf-horse creature from Álfheim with sharp, stone hooves and impossible strength. The children and Tsu's'di had mounted their glashtyn, Wink was mounted, the guards were in the saddle. Packs and saddlebags had been packed and stowed where they belonged. Everyone was ready.

Nuada turned to see his father, bundled up in velvets and furs against the bitter cold and the dark, standing with Nuala…and Bres. The Fomorian prince held Nuala's hand and gazed at her with obvious tenderness. Another pang sliced through Nuada's heart when he saw his sister gaze back with equal adoration. Nuala would never forgive him for breaking her engagement.

But he put that out of his mind as his father and sister approached. Bres strode beside them, and when they reached the crown prince, Balor nodded to the Fomorian. Nuada frowned, tension singing through his shoulders, but said nothing. Bres cleared his throat.

"Luck be with you on your journey, my friend," he said, and he sounded as if he meant it. But then, Bres loved his people. Loved the Fair Folk. He was loyal to them and no doubt considered what Nuada intended to do to be a less shameful thing than what Bres assumed Nuada currently occupied his time with—enjoying the dubious pleasure of a mortal in his bed. Nuada inclined his head in taciturn acknowledgment. Bres added, "I would like to speak with your lady for a moment, if I may."

The Tuathan prince opened his mouth to snap no when Dylan's voice broke through the cold night. "I would like to speak to Prince Bres, if it pleases you, Your Highness."

He shot her a sharp look. She met it with cool equanimity, a silent plea to please trust her. After a moment, he inclined his head to her, then looked back at Bres. He felt his eyes shift to icy topaz tinged with the faintest hint of copper fury. "As my lady wishes."

Bres nodded to him and moved past, toward Dylan. Immediately everything in Nuada's body tightened in protest. Unease churned in his belly, but he forced it down. Dylan wouldn’t have asked to speak to Bres if it wasn’t safe. And what could he do, with her guards so close? In front of Balor, whom the Fomorian heir wished to impress? Nuada tried to force himself to relax as he turned back to his father and sister.

Nuala threw her arms around him. He stiffened in surprise, then relaxed into the embrace. She kissed his cheek. Whispered through their link, May the gods watch over you, Brother. Be careful. Come home to us.

Have no fear, little sister. I will be all right, and I will make our father proud.

Áthair is already proud of you, Nuada.

It seemed, as the prince turned to his father, that his sister was right. Balor set both hands on Nuada's shoulders and smiled. His father yet looked tired. Nuada pushed aside the worry slithering through his skull. Balor seemed to grow wearier and wearier as time went on. He looked almost ill. The Elven warrior wished he could stay to look after the king, but his people needed him. He simply couldn't. So he forced a smile to his lips for his father's sake and nodded to him. "Áthair."

"My son, be well on your journey." A wry twist came into Balor's smile. "I trust I needn't tell you to look after your lady; I know that you will. And she is one who can take care of herself…for the most part. When you return, we will speak further about many things. You will of course be back in time for the Frost Moon."

Nuada grinned. "Of course, Father. It would be poor form indeed for me to miss my own wedding. We should be back well before then. And if not, Arawn has promised to send the Chariot of Annwn to fetch us home again in time for everything."

Balor nodded and clapped his son on the shoulder. "Good. It will do the people good to see and hear of your lady before your wedding. You have my blessing to travel through the royal forest, using the army roads."

The prince blinked. The army roads were enchanted, and could only be walked with the king's permission. It would take a day, perhaps two, to get nearly anywhere in the kingdom, even if the trip would've normally taken a week or more. The spells laid into the royal forest and the army roads had saturated trees and earth, brush and stone since before Balor's grandfather's grandfather's time. None knew who had laid them; the unicorns, perhaps—dozens of unicorn glories had made their homes in the royal forest since time out of mind, and gave aid to the kings of Bethmoora in exchange for royal protection from hunters, human and fae. It was a crime worthy of execution-by-slow-torture to kill a unicorn in any fae kingdom. Travel through the royal forest was permitted rarely, and usually only in times of crisis. If the king was giving it to him now…

"Thank you, Áthair," Nuada murmured.

The sound of a door opening briefly distracted him, and he turned to see a few of the kitchen staff coming out with food wrapped in cloths to keep the heat in. They moved toward the mounted group, dispersing breakfast. Nuada noticed a kitchen maid with a gaze reflecting the moonlight like eyeshine and hair as thick as deer hide go directly to a grinning Tsu's'di—Isibéal. Tsu's'di leaned down and began murmuring to her. Nuada smiled and turned back to his father.

"We must go now."

"Fare thee well, Prince of Bethmoora," Balor said softly, squeezing his son's shoulder one last time.

"Fare thee well, Majesty," Nuada murmured, bowing his head. He hesitated for the briefest instant, then embraced his father. Balor hugged him tightly, as he had only done once in the last twenty centuries, two days past on Christmas morning.

His father's voice sounded old and worn when he whispered, "Please be careful, my son. Stay safe."

"I shall do my best."

And then it was time for him to step away, to go to Lòman and mount up. Bres had already stepped back from Dylan and was now eyeing her as if he couldn’t quite understand what he was looking at. To his surprise, Dylan offered the Fomorian prince a tight smile and inclined her head. What surprised Nuada even more was when Bres canted his head back before returning to Nuala's side. Nuada shot Dylan a look that plainly asked, What was that about?

Dylan smiled and shook her head, as if to say, I'll tell you later.

Urging Lòman up to Dylan, once side by side the two arions walked to the head of the group. The last of the wagons had just left the castle grounds. Now it was their turn. Once they cleared the outer walls of the palace, they'd ride up to the front of the supply-train. Nuada caught Dylan's eye and nodded his head, asking silently if she was ready. She nodded.

"Look for us in the week ere the Frost Moon," Nuada called over his shoulder.

A click of his tongue urged Lòman into a slow trot. Maeve, with Dylan on her back, followed suit. The others fell in line behind them: Dylan's siblings behind the prince and his lady; Tsu's'di and the cubs with Dylan's family, Tsu's'di as close to Dylan as possible; Wink, Lorelei, and Erik behind them; and the Butcher Guards, minus young Guardsman Loén, behind them. Loén rode next to Tsu's'di; having lost his partner Siothrún to the dungeons because of Siothrún's treason, Loén was now partnered with Tsu's'di at Dylan's request, as the two were relatively close in age.

The prince glanced back only once, to ensure everyone was in place. He noticed Tsu's'di, A'du', and 'Sa'ti looking back as well. He frowned, then noticed a sleepy-looking kitchen boy waving and calling goodbye to the children. The ewah cubs waved, calling, "Bye, Rórdán! Bye!"

And Tsu's'di looked back at Isibéal, who stood with her arms folded beside Rordan, one loose fist held to her heart. Tsu's'di raised a hand in a wave of farewell. Taking a single step, Isibéal blew him a kiss. The cougar youth pretended to catch it, holding it to his chest. Nuada bit back a grin and faced forward again. Dylan caught his eye and winked. Nuada let the grin show through.

"After the township, we make for the royal forest," he commanded. They were on their way at last. 


"Unicorns," Dylan murmured, smiling in fond memory of their single night in the forest when he had brought her to see the glory. Nuada winked. She bit her lip and grinned.

Yes. If he could manage it, if the unicorns would come near with her kin with them, he would take her to see the unicorns again.

Chapter 104 - Thicker than Blood

Chapter One-Hundred-Four

Thicker than Blood

that is

A Short Tale of Two Young Lovers, a Conversation with a Prince, Permission, Panic ere a Phone Call, Comfort and Kisses, Three Shrews for the Price of One, a Danger Two Months in the Waiting, Disbelief, Anguish, a Prince's Rage, Revealing All the Cards, Remorse, and Blood

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Tsu's'di sat up in bed, feeling the dull throb in his shoulder and side from his wounds, which were only slowly knitting together. He touched his face, where the pain was considerably less. That crazy Dilong Elf had given him a good one across the face, but that had been easier to heal. The stab wounds still weren’t completely mended.

But it was better than being dead. Tsu's'di Kata Ewah was very much okay with not being dead.

A hesitant knock sounded at the door to his healing chamber. Still a little groggy from this latest bout of healing sleep, he scrubbed a hand over his face and mumbled, "Yeah?" Chief-Healer Somhairle poked his head in and beamed.

"Good. You're awake again. One more check-up and we'll no doubt be sending you back to the prince and Her Ladyship. But before I do that, there's a young lady who has been waiting most patiently all morning to be let in." Somhairle shifted to the side and opened the door a bit wider to reveal Isibéal ingen Cabhán, looking gorgeous in a burgundy wool dress, standing in the doorway.

Tsu's'di grinned. "I think I died and went to Heaven." Isibéal rushed into the room and threw her arms around him. The wound in his shoulder yelped a silent but very physical protest. The ewah guardsman gave it voice. "Ow, ow, ow!"

"I'm sorry," she cried, pulling back. "I'm sorry. Tsu's'di…you could have been killed! First you challenge Lord Galen and them and then…Is it true you fought the Red Dragon?" Prince Nuada had told him that "the Red Dragon" was another name for that whacked out Dilong prince he'd squared off against, so the cougar youth nodded. Horror stole into Isibéal's amber eyes. "He could have killed you. And there were shoggoths in the gardens and the prince and Lady Dylan were nearly killed and…"

She trailed off when he cupped her cheek. Smiling, purring softly so that she could feel the soothing rumble, Tsu's'di murmured, "Hey. I'm okay. Isibéal," he added when she looked away. "Look at me. I'm okay. Kinda sore, but I'm alive. It's okay. Don't worry." Isibéal bit her lip, but offered him a tremulous smile. Smiling wider, Tsu's'di said, "Hey, once I'm out of this bed, let's get out of here. Let's go somewhere. Do something crazy."

Her smile brightened. Some of the worry left her eyes. "I'd like that. There's a place in the township that sells winter treats—peppermint sticks and hot cocoa and the like. We could go there."



"You bet." Tsu's'di's thumb drifted lightly over Isibéal's cheek, brushing back and forth. Her lips parted slightly as Tsu's'di straightened a little, so that he and the shorter Isibéal were now eye to eye. She had such beautiful eyes…"Anything you want."

Her tongue darted out to nervously wet her lips. Her smile had taken on a soft, dreamy cast. "Tsu's'di…"

Swallowing, he mumbled, "Yeah?" His eyes dropped to her mouth when she licked her lips again.

Someone behind Isibéal cleared his throat, the sound cracking through the room like a boom of thunder. Isibéal squeaked and spun around while Tsu's'di bit back a sound halfway between a growl and groan. Then Isibéal gasped and Tsu's'di's gaze shot toward the intruder in the doorway. Smoky gray eyes widened and his fur bristled with humiliation.

"Your Highness!" He tried to shift his weight and get out of bed, but Prince Nuada held up a staying hand.

"Peace, Tsu's'di Kata. Be still. Had I known you had company, I would have come to speak with you earlier." The prince's tone was mild, but the reproof was obvious. The guardsman didn’t have leave from his liege lord to pursue courtship with Isibéal, and His Highness had caught them about to kiss.

There were reasons why permission had to be gotten. One very good one was to protect Isibéal's good name. If it appeared Tsu's'di was merely playing with her, it would reflect poorly on both of them, and on Dylan and Nuada as well. Tsu's'di knew that, and knew what was expected of him now. So he cleared his throat and took Isibéal's hand in his.

"Your Highness, may I present my dear friend, Mistress Isibéal ingen Cabhán from the palace kitchens." Because he didn’t have permission yet to make her his official girlfriend, the proper term for introduction was "dear friend." Kinda stuffy and old-fashioned, but he could deal with it.

Isibéal lowered her gaze and sank into a deep curtsy, the deep burgundy skirts of her kitchen dress rustling around her. "Your Highness," she whispered, dipping her head to look at the floor. "Please excuse my intrusion. I only wished to ensure Tsu's'di was unharmed and—"


"Peace, young mistress," Nuada said gently. "I do not take exception to your presence here. Tsu's'di has told me a little of you. And I know your father." Isibéal's head shot up, her eyes wide. The prince canted his head. "Cabhán mac Gowan is a brave and honorable warrior of the Fianna. I am proud to say I have fought beside him on more than one occasion."

Isibéal drew a deep breath. "It is kind of Your Highness to remember my father. He has often written to me of your courage and honor, Sire."

Nuada glanced at Tsu's'di, a look full of approval, and a ghost of a smile flitted across dark lips before he turned his attention back to the kitchen maid. Speaking to her with the same respect he would have offered a noblewoman, he murmured, "Mistress Isibéal, I would not part such dear friends willingly, but I must speak to Tsu's'di of a private matter. If you will excuse us?"

She nodded. "Of course, Your Highness." With another curtsy and a lingering glance at the bedbound ewah, she hurried from the room.

Nuada nodded after her. "You couldn't do much better than that young lady," he said. Then he pinned Tsu's'di with a gaze like topaz daggers. "You will treat her with respect and courtesy, will you not? Kitchen maid or no, she is a lady, and deserves a gentleman's regard."

Tsu's'di looked his prince in the eye. "I care about her. I would never do anything to hurt her."

"About that." Nuada grabbed a chair and pulled it up to Tsu's'di's bedside, sinking into it without taking his eyes from the young guard. "Lord Galen the Elder came to me this morning about you. Ah," he added when the guardsman bristled and an involuntary growl rumbled in his throat. Cool amusement glinted in Nuada's eyes. "I thought you might be expecting something of the sort. He claims you attacked his eldest son unprovoked—"

"Oh, bull—" He swallowed the curse word before it could escape. "I mean…that's bogus, Your Highness."


The prince inclined his head. "I expected as much. But the healers told me that Lord Galen the Younger had a very deep wound in his shoulder that looked as if it had been made by the claws of a large hunting cat. Would you know anything about that, Tsu's'di Kata?"
He gritted his teeth, then sighed. "Yes, sir. He tried to hurt Isibéal." When Nuada raised an eyebrow, he added, "He wouldn’t leave her alone! She said he's been bothering her for a while, and she's reported him to her superiors in the kitchens, but he won't stop messing with her. We were walking back to the castle last night from the gardens, she was telling me about him, and then he showed up—drunk, too—and made it pretty clear he wanted stuff she wasn’t willing to give him. He wouldn’t back off, he even had two friends with him!"


"Yes," the prince said softly. "Lord Dougall of Cromm Crúaich and his brother, Lord Finbarr. They came to see me as well. Demanded I have you flogged for attacking three noblemen without justification." He caught Tsu's'di's gaze, looking straight into the youth's eyes. "You realize it's your word against three members of my father's court."

"I'll swear by the Darkness, then," Tsu's'di said. "In front of the king. I know the laws, Your Highness, and I know what you taught me. Isibéal was scared, and Lord Galen was going to hurt her. I couldn’t just let him. And he attacked me first, anyway. I warned him, too. He was too drunk to care."

Nuada nodded again. "I believe you, Tsu's'di. As it happens, Caspar Kabouter came to me this morning, telling me that Mistress Isibéal had gone to him last night in tears about the whole thing and insisted he speak to me to save you from getting into any trouble. Lord Galen will be dealt with and Mistress Isibéal will be protected. I am proud of you," he added softly, "for holding to your honor against a foe that outranked and outnumbered you. That is what a true warrior does. Well done."

The very tip of Tsu's'di's tail twitched, the only outward sign of the pride and pleasure that His Highness's compliment had given him. He ducked his head and nodded. "Thank you, Sire. Um…about Isibéal."

A small smile curved dark lips. "Yes?"

"I really like her," Tsu's'di murmured. He risked a glance at the prince's face but couldn’t gauge his reaction. "I mean, I really like her."

"Why is that?"

Tsu's'di shrugged. "I don't know. She's…she's smart and she's nice, she's funny, she's—"


"Pretty?" Nuada suggested.

But Tsu's'di shook his head. "She's beautiful! And she has this amazing laugh that makes her eyes light up and…and she's just…she's just so fun. She's…she's amazing." Then he remembered he was talking to Prince Nuada Silverlance, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, and heat flooded his face. "Uh…I mean…um…"

Prince Nuada grinned and clapped Tsu's'di on his uninjured shoulder. "I understand, my lad. I suspected it was more than her beauty that drew you, but I needed to be sure. Caspar has told me that if you cause Isibéal even a moment of distress, he will hang you by your heels and bleed you like a pig—and I should warn you that if you dishonor that young lady in any way, I will be right behind him to deal with your carcass—so I wanted to be certain of your intentions. But I know you, Tsu's'di. You have honor. You will do right by her."


"So…I can date her?"

The grin widened. "Yes, yes."

"Yes!" Tsu's'di actually did a small fist-pump before remembering the proper response. "I mean, thank you, Your Highness." Elation fizzed in his veins, but it simmered down when the smile slid from Nuada's face. "Is something wrong, Your Highness?"

He sighed. "Do you recall the trip we'd planned to go to the villages in the northern provinces? The ones in need of assistance with bandits?" Tsu's'di nodded. His Highness had explained how the people the prince himself was responsible for were being hit crazy-hard by human bandits and nothing had been done yet because of the treaty between mortals and fae, but that A'ge'lv Dylan had figured out a way around that. Nuada continued, "Things have gotten much worse and our timetable has moved up. We must leave tomorrow at dawn."

Disappointment and anger twisted together like brambles in Tsu's'di's chest: disappointment because that meant he'd have to leave practically right after getting permission to date Isibéal; and anger at the human bandits who'd stepped up their attacks to the point that even the Midwinter festivities that the prince and the a'ge'lv were supposed to take part in were being put aside, despite how it might offend certain courtiers who'd issued invitations.

But he didn’t vent either of those emotions. He was, first and foremost, a guardsman for A'ge'lv Dylan. The only thing more important to him than the human who'd taken him and his siblings into her heart and home was his siblings themselves. The a'ge'lv knew that and didn’t hold it against him. If she needed him to drop everything and go on this trip right now, he'd do it.

He just hoped Isibéal understood. He really liked her.

"I'm fit to go, Your Highness," Tsu's'di said, straightening a little. "I'm still mending, but Somhairle said I could go back to my duties by tonight, so that means I should be able to go with you guys to the villages." He hesitated, then added, "You do want me with you…right?" After all, the prince had bought him a horse for the trip.

Nuada inclined his head. "We do. You must be packed by tonight. There will be a list for you in your room. I suggest you turn in before midnight—that will give you at least seven hours of sleep. However…" Tawny eyes scanned the cougar youth. "I'm relieving you of your guardsman's duties for tonight. For tonight only. Take advantage." Getting to his feet, the crown prince strode toward the door. He paused in the doorway and glanced over his shoulder. "A little demi-fae told me that the Master of the Kitchens has given one of his kitchen maids the day off unexpectedly, as her sweetheart is scheduled to leave on a distant journey tomorrow. One might wonder what she's doing this afternoon." And with that, the prince left the healing chamber.


When Isibéal came back into the room, Tsu's'di was grinning.

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Perhaps an hour after his talk with Tsu's'di, Nuada watched from the comfortable, brown leather armchair as Dylan paced in the living room of her cottage. Her cellular phone sat on the fireplace mantel, a rectangle of ominous black and blue plastic. The mortal shoved her fingers through loose, brown curls so hard Nuada wanted to wince when her fingers snagged on a few knots. Dylan ignored any glimmer of pain and kept pacing. Misery pinched her face, drained the color from her cheeks.

"You needn't do this, Dylan," the crown prince said gently. Her panic-edged unhappiness ate at him like drops of acid. He knew why she was so uneasy, so afraid of taking the next step. A step that, in his opinion, didn’t necessarily need to be taken. "We can manage on our own."

She shook her head without looking away from the carpet being eaten up by her footsteps. "No, Nuada. I have to give our people my best. This is my best. I have to do what's right for them. Even if it scares me to death."

Nuada considered her words. Dylan had done a lot in the last thirteen months that had scared her. She'd faced off against so many enemies: Eamonn, the dipsa in the royal forest, the Téngshé assassins in the orchard, the group of murderers that had attacked her and Zhenjin at Midwinter, the eldritch shoggoths, the mad Prince Shaohao, and even King Balor.

She'd undergone so many things, faced so many trials for the prince's sake: that first bloody night walking through the subway, defending him at his so-called trial, appearing before the court posing as his truelove, the soul-purging of her memories in the wake of Westenra's cruel phone call, returning to Findias and to the knowledge of certain punishment, all the court functions, the sexual near-violence in the Queen's Garden, agreeing to marry Nuada because of the king's edict, becoming a noblewoman of Bethmoora. For all of those things, she'd been frightened, but she'd acted with courage and honor. Yet this had the power to scare her even more.

The thought made him despise his truelove's sister. If Dylan could face such dangers as she had over the last year and a moon, yet still be cowed by Petra Ariadne Myers, her own sister…If he hadn’t hated Petra already—and he did; oh, how he hated her, as well as Pauline, Mary, and the other two he hadn’t met yet who hadn’t yet made any attempts at making amends with their youngest sister—he would've hated her just for this.

"Dylan," Nuada said, his voice still gentle but also firm. "We haven’t much time as it is."

They needed to leave by dawn tomorrow. It would actually still be a bit dark when they mounted their horses and set out with the supply trains, if Nuada had his way. Both of them still needed to pack, and while it was only mid-afternoon, the prince knew that telling Dylan's eldest sister the truth about Faerie and recruiting her help was going to take some time if they actually did it instead of giving it up as a lost cause.

His lady nodded, coming to an abrupt halt in front of the fireplace. A strange flutter took up residence in Nuada's belly; it took him a moment to realize he could actually feel Dylan's nervousness through their slowly-growing empathic link. All the time they'd spent in each other's minds was slowly forging a link between them similar to—though a bit stronger than—the one between Dylan and her twin brother—though it wasn’t as strong as the connection between Nuada and his twin sister.

"Okay," Dylan said. Her voice quavered, but her face became calm. "Sink or swim time, I guess." She sucked in a breath, ran her hands through her hair again, then snatched up her phone and pressed a series of buttons. She held the phone to her ear. Distantly, Nuada heard the tinny buzzing that constituted the phone "ringing." It rang three times before someone picked up on the other end.

"What, Dylan?" Petra's voice. Hearing it, even muffled by the phone, Dylan's ear, and the cascade of Dylan's hair made the Elven prince grind his teeth. He wanted to snatch the odious device out of Dylan's hand and hurl it into the fire…but he knew she needed it. And she wanted Petra to be at their wedding. Northern villages aside, this had to happen.

"Hey, Petra, um…" Dylan licked her lips. Closed her eyes. Nuada saw the pulse fluttering like a frantic, trapped butterfly against the thin skin of her throat. The fingers of Dylan's free hand twitched spasmodically—a sign of her growing unease. "Listen," she said. "Are you busy right now?"

"Maybe. What do you want?"

Dylan swallowed. "Can you come over? I need to talk to you." When there was only silence, Dylan added, "It's important. Please?" Petra said nothing. A muscle in Nuada's jaw spasmed as he gritted his teeth harder. Finally Dylan said, in the subdued voice of a child, "I need your help."

There was more silence, but finally Petra asked in a far gentler voice, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. I just…I really need to talk to you, and it's better if we don't do it over the phone." Rainswept blue eyes flicked to Nuada's face. He forced his features to relax enough that he could give Dylan an encouraging nod. "Please, Petra. Please come." Silence descended once more. Every muscle in Dylan's body went taut as a bowstring ready to snap. Her eyes locked with Nuada's, her gaze sheened with panic. She swallowed again, hard.

"Fine. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Don't go anywhere."

"I won't. Thank yo—" But her sister had already hung up. Dylan stared at the phone in her shaking hand as if she didn’t understand what it was or why it was there before she set it back on the mantel. Her hand shook so hard the plastic device rattled against the stone surface. Breathing in shallow little gasps, Dylan raised her spasming hands to her face and covered her eyes. Unease stole through the Tuathan prince at the gesture; it was the move she always made when things were becoming too difficult for her to process, just before a flashback hit. But Dylan lowered her hands and just looked at him. In a voice that was merely a thread of a whisper, she said, "Nuada…I'm scared."

He was at her side in an instant, drawing her into his arms, stroking her hair. He pressed his lips to her temple as he cradled her against his chest. "Do not be afraid," he murmured. "I am here. It doesn't matter what Petra does, Dylan. It doesn’t matter. If she rejects you, forget her. It is her loss, not yours. It is no fault of yours if she reacts badly. You do not need her. You have me. Do not be afraid."

Dylan pressed her face into his chest. Her breath was soft and warm through the silk of his champagne-colored shirt. Her hands settled at his back, cupping the ridges of his shoulder blades. The shallow indentation of his breastbone made a small nook where her forehead fit perfectly if she bent her head.

"What if she doesn’t help? What if she doesn’t believe me?"

"Then she is a fool, to turn her back on the wonders you intend to show her," he murmured. "She is only harming herself with her refusal to believe. If she cannot open her heart, you are better off. Look at me," he added when she sniffled quietly. Crooking his finger, he touched his knuckle under her chin and lifted her head so he could look into her eyes. Firegold eyes scanned her face before he said softly, "Kiss me, Dylan."

She rose up on tiptoe to do it, tilting her chin up to offer him her mouth. His lips came down on hers, sliding over velvet warmth, lightly tasting as she let out a pent-up breath. Her mouth was so soft, was so warm. Nuada brushed his own mouth against the fullness of hers, tracing along her lush bottom lip, finding the hidden phantom kisses at the corners of her mouth, which curved upward when he kissed her there. His arms encircled her, protective, and she melted into him with absolute trust.

Because of that trust, he shoved away everything he wanted at that moment—the soft sigh as he parted her lips, the warm stroke of her tongue against his, a deep drugging kiss that would lead to another and another and another. This wasn’t about him. It was about her. About comforting her. About reminding Dylan that no matter what happened, he would always love her, always believe in her. Always.

He kissed her as if that were all he could ever want, all he could ever need. Kissed her as if touching his mouth to hers was like coming home, because in a way it was. She was home to him. Her heart, her embrace. He kissed her for long, gentle minutes, always keeping it chaste even though his blood burned in his veins and desire licked like flames along his spine. In between kisses, he whispered to her in Gaelic, deliberately allowing his accent to come through, making her smile, easing the tension in her body with simple, sweet nothings. His fingers brushed tenderly over her cheeks, tracing her scars.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered without meaning to, but the words were so right, so true, and he could see that she never quite fully believed him, so he had to say it again. "You're so beautiful, Dylan."

Her smile mirrored his—soft and a little dreamy. "I love you."

"I adore you beyond words," he murmured, brushing a kiss across her lips again. "You are the miracle I never thought I would find. You can do this. You can do anything. I believe in your strength."

She opened her mouth to say something when a sharp knock sounded at the front door. Dylan stiffened. Nuada bit back a curse. Forcing his body into an ease and relaxation he didn’t feel, the Elven warrior raised Dylan's trembling hands to his lips and kissed them. Then he nodded toward the front door. Dylan sighed and nodded.

"I will make sure Becan has told Wink that Petra is here," Nuada said, stepping back from her. "Be brave, mo crídh." Dylan nodded again and went to answer the door, while the crown prince headed for the back room where Dylan kept her piano—and where the diminutive house sprite and the massive cave troll waited for the prince's order to come out and unglamour themselves.

.

Cold sweat dampened Dylan's palms and trickled between her shoulder blades down her spine as she braced her hands against the peephole and peered through it. Her heart jerked to a halt, then vaulted into a gallop at the sight of her three sisters on the other side of the door. She gasped, but the breath strangled in her throat. She stumbled back from the door.

Nuada was suddenly at her back, one arm slipping around her while his free hand went to the twin knife sheathed at his hip. "What is it?" He demanded, voice low. "Are you all right?" He angled his body between the mortal and the door, leaning forward to look through the spy-hole.

"It's Petra," Dylan gasped before Nuada had a chance to look. "She brought Pauline and Mary."

The prince whirled on her. "She what?"

Numbness had spread through Dylan's cheeks as the blood seeped out of her head. It felt like it was all puddling at her feet, leaving her a little dizzy. This was worse than just talking to Petra. Pauline and Mary didn’t have tongues in their mouths; they had knives. Dylan had always planned on telling them one at a time, with Petra to back her up so they wouldn’t get nasty. And now…now what? It wasn’t as if she could tell Petra she'd changed her mind. Her sister wouldn’t leave without some kind of explanation. And even if she would have, the burning warmth of the Spirit in Dylan's chest told her that having Petra along on the trip to the northern villages was the best choice…for whatever reason.

But Dylan couldn’t breathe. She could barely hear, past the roaring in her ears, Nuada swearing viciously under his breath. She leaned against the wall, trying to fight panic. Why was she so upset? These were her sisters. This was her family. They wouldn’t hurt her. They wouldn't…

And then Dylan realized that the worst possible thing to happen when she needed a clear head to talk to her sisters had happened. She'd forgotten, for the last two days, to take her medication. She and Nuada had both been so rushed because of the elevation ceremony and exhausted after everything with the shoggoths and Shaohao that it had slipped both their minds. She'd taken her pain pills because her leg had been killing her, but everything else? Out the window. And she hadn’t done her relaxation meditation that Healer Lóegaire had recommended, either.

Time to be a princess, she told herself even as slivers of panic lodged in her throat. As Francesca would say, time to put on some Big-Girl Undies. I can do this. I can do this. Nuada's here with me. Wink and Becan are here to back us up. I'll be fine. Everything will be fine.

With that mantra repeating in her head, making sure Nuada was glamoured for the moment, she slid back the seven dead bolts and unlocked her door to reveal her three sisters stamping their feet on the snowy stone step, huddled inside their pea-coats, looking miserable from the cold.

"Hey, guys!" Dylan forced her lips into a stiff smile that felt like it would crack her face in half as she ushered the triplets into the cottage. They hung up their coats, hats, scarves, gloves, and purses by the front door as Dylan added in what she hoped was a sunny voice, "Pauline, Mary. What are you guys doing here?"

Mary huffed and muttered, "Apparently you're in some kind of trouble. Again. Why am I not surprised? And…oh. It's you. The fiancé."

At her back, Dylan felt Nuada draw himself up to his full, regal, princely height…but he didn’t say anything to Mary, only nodded in cold acknowledgement of her presence. Considering she could feel the dislike rolling off her prince in waves, Dylan let her gratitude for Nuada's restraint show on her face and in the way she reached back to grip his hand for a too-fleeting moment before turning back to her sisters.

"Well, I'm not in trouble…per se. But since all three of you are here, I guess you should, uh…hear this from me now instead of…of later. Um," she tucked a lock of hair behind her hear and saw her fingers twitching as if they'd been electrified with a live wire. "Uh, since there's four of us, why don't we go in the den? More chairs."

Petra nodded, her eyes stormy blue with concern as they scanned her youngest sister. Pauline made a disdainful sound and brushed past Dylan and Nuada. Mary, about to follow, paused to raise an eyebrow at Dylan's hands.

"Calm down, Ferret. What'd you do, kill somebody? Don't be so twitchy. You look like you're jonesing for something." Mary frowned then. "You're not on anything, are you? I mean, nothing you shouldn’t be taking—"

"No," Dylan said, then winced when she realized how sharp she'd sounded. "No, I don't need a fix. I'm just nervous."

Mary patted her shoulder as she walked by. "Eh, relax, Ferret. It's not the end of the world, whatever it is. You'll be back to screwing up your life again by next week, I promise."

Dylan waited until her three sisters were out of earshot before she covered her face with her hands. Nuada's hands came down on her shoulders and kneaded the tense muscles there. "It is all right," he murmured. "It is all right."

"I hate it when she calls me 'Ferret,'" Dylan growled. "Just because of my stupid muscle tics." Biting her lip, she shoved down the hurt and irritation, focusing instead on the warm pressure of Nuada's hands massaging her shoulders. "Thank you…that's lovely."

"Are you ready?" He asked as if they had all the time in the world. She knew they didn’t, but she loved him for acting like they did. Brushing wisps of hair out of her face, she took a deep, steadying breath. Held it. Let it out. Then she nodded and smiled at him. She knew Nuada could tell it was forced, but he smiled back. Cupping her cheek with one large hand, he said, "Let's do this."

She grinned and nodded. "Yeah. Let's do it."

.

Upon entering the den with Dylan, Nuada paused for just a moment to lift Dylan's hand to his lips and press a fervent kiss to the back of it. She looked back at him, and he let a brief flare of warmth into his eyes before focusing his once-more chilly gaze on the three harpy-shrews.

Mary sat in the armchair, with Petra and Pauline seated side by side on the folded futon. Nuada leaned back against the wall beside the door while Dylan, shoulders curved defensively and head slightly ducked, walked further into the room, toward the fireplace. Nuada saw that Becan had started a fire for her. Dylan stopped by the hearth, gazing into the flames for a moment before focusing on her supposed kin.

"So…so thank you guys for coming here," Dylan murmured. Nuada could see she struggled not to bite her lip in her nervousness. She tucked that one rebellious curl behind her ear with twitching fingers. "This is…this is going to be hard for me to say, so…so I'm asking for your patience. Okay?"

"Did you kill someone?" Pauline asked, echoing Mary's question from earlier.

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Dylan's mouth, self-deprecating. Nuada realized she was thinking of the dipsa serpents in the royal forest, the Téngshé in the orchard, the assassins from Midwinter's Eve. Dylan had done her fair share of killing since she'd become his lady. But Dylan only shook her head.

"I need to talk to you three about something. Um…I guess the best way to do it is to just…just come out and say it." Dylan took a breath that seemed to hurt her. "Do you remember when we were kids? And I used to tell those stories about fair—"

Pauline lunged to her feet. "No! No, we don't talk about that. We do not talk about your stupid stories from when you were a stupid kid! How dare you bring that up? I can't believe—"

"Pauline," Petra said sharply. The other woman twisted around to stare at Petra. "Sit down." When Pauline didn’t move, Petra said, "Now." After a long moment of tense stillness, where Dylan's knees trembled and fury coiled like icy, black snakes in the pit of Nuada's belly, the foul-tongued harpy eventually sat down. The eldest Myers sister focused on Dylan. "Keep going, hon." At that, Pauline and Mary shot Petra baffled looks. Petra ignored them.

Dylan swallowed hard. Pressing her lips tight together until they were white and bloodless, she shot one glance at Nuada before the silver in her eyes hardened to steel and she nodded, as if she'd drawn strength from that single look. She turned back to her sisters.
"You guys used to think I was lying, making things up. I wasn't. I—"

"Oh, come on," Pauline growled. Petra thumped her on the shoulder and she fell silent. Good; if the hag had gone on speaking, Nuada might have done more than give her a quick thump on the shoulder.

In a voice that was surprisingly gentle, Petra said, "Dylan. Honey. We know you weren’t lying. We know that now. It's okay. You were sick," Dylan flinched, but Petra didn’t notice, "it wasn’t your fault. You were sick. It's okay. We know you wouldn’t lie to us…about that."

Nuada narrowed his eyes. And what did they think Dylan would lie about? Her addictions, perhaps? Somehow, he doubted the shrews had even had the presence of mind—or the wherewithal—to ask any questions Dylan might've had to answer with lies in the first place. And she would never have become an addict if her family hadn’t forced her to remain locked up in that hellish cesspit all those years.
But before he could say a word, Dylan whispered in a voice that quavered with defiance and a touch of fear, "I wasn’t sick."

All three of her sisters stiffened. Exchanged a loaded glance. Then Petra studied Dylan for a long moment, taking in the shadows under her eyes and the exhaustion in her face, the weight she'd lost, and the barest hints of bruising on her skin from the night before. Her eyes drifted down to Dylan's arms, bare from the elbows down due to her silky, blue, mortal top. Lingered on the pale blue and green shadows there that were only slowly healing because Dylan had refused a full healing with Tsu's'di so badly hurt and everything in such an uproar.

Petra cleared her throat. She carefully laced her long fingers together, fingers that held only a ghost of Dylan's natural elegance, and set her clasped hands on her knees. Slate-gray eyes moved back to Dylan's face. Petra asked, "Dylan…are you using?"

Dylan's body jerked slightly, as if it had tried to step back and she'd refused to let it. She shook her head. "I'm not. I swear, Petra."

Her sister nodded, exchanging another of those looks with Pauline and Mary. Then Petra said, "There are bruises on your arms."

"They're not from a needle, okay? I swear. I was attacked," Dylan said.

Petra jolted. "What? When? Are you okay? What happened?"
She swallowed again, ran her fingers through her hair. "Um…well…I was…look, put that aside for right now. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. That's not why I asked you to co—"

"Did he do this to you?" Mary demanded sharply, glaring sapphire knives at Nuada. Dylan's mouth fell open and she stared at Mary as if that had been the very last thing she'd expected the older woman to say. Mary ignored her and focused on the Elven prince. "Because if you hurt my sister, you sick freak, I will rip you to pieces with my bare hands, do you hear me?"

Drawing himself up to his full height, voice as cutting as a murderous northern wind, Nuada said, "Hurt her? I? How dare you? I am not the one carving her up piece by piece, breaking her spirit, by refusing to listen. She has something she wishes to tell you. I suggest you heed her words."

Mary opened her mouth to snap something, but Pauline intervened this time. "I want to hear this. Spill it, Dylan. Whatever it is just spit it out."

"I'm not sick," Dylan gasped out. Nuada shot her a look razored with concern as he realized she hadn’t been breathing since Mary had interrupted her. Her face had gone sickly gray. Her hands were clenched tight at her sides. Nuada's gaze dropped to her fingers, half-expecting to see blood seeping between them from her nails digging into her palms, but there was none. Dylan managed to add, "I'm not sick. I wasn’t sick. The fae are real. They really exist. I can prove it. They exist and Petra, they need your help. I need your help."

Glacial topaz eyes zeroed in on the eldest sister as her eyes drifted closed and her clasped hands tightened until the knuckles turned white. A muscle in Petra's jaw flexed. She drew a breath through flared nostrils. Shock rippled through the prince as a look of abject sadness flashed across Petra's face before vanishing again. Then she opened her eyes. Smiled gently at Dylan.

"Okay," Petra said. Dylan frowned, tense, wary. Petra nodded. "Okay. It's okay, honey. Don't worry." She rose slowly to her feet and held out a hand to her younger sister. "It's okay, Dylan. Come here. It's all right. I'll help you."

Dylan blinked, startled. "You will?"

"You will?" Pauline echoed, obviously flabbergasted. Mary appeared speechless. "Pet, what are you talking about?"

"I'll help you, Dylan," Petra said. "Come here."

Hesitantly, the mortal approached her elder sister, allowed Petra to enfold her in a hug. Nuada's brows rose as Petra stroked Dylan's hair with almost maternal tenderness. Instinct prickled warily at the sight. This didn’t seem right. Mary and Pauline were just as baffled as the prince. This wasn’t right.

"Thank you," Dylan whispered, laying her head against Petra's shoulder. She began to relax bit by bit. "Thank you, Petra."

"It's okay, honey," Petra murmured. "It's okay. I'll help you. I'll get you some help, okay?"

Dylan froze. Every muscle in her body stiffened. Her eyes snapped wide. A wealth of anguish spilled into her fey-like blue gaze. Her lips trembled and her chin quavered as tears welled up and began to spill over.

"Don't worry, Dylan. We'll get you some help. It's all right. Everything's going to be just fine—"
Dylan wrenched back from her sister, stumbling until she fetched up against the wall near the fireplace. A sob caught in her throat, the muffled sound like a fist striking in the pit of Nuada's belly. He took a step toward Dylan. Stopped himself when something—instinct? His connection to Dylan?—told him interfering now would do irreparable harm. But everything in him screamed to go to Dylan, to hold her, to rage at the harpy-shrews until they fled the cottage, never to return. Each tear spilling down Dylan's cheeks was like a knife in his heart. Long, pale fingers convulsed into fists.

Petra took a step toward Dylan, too, but stopped when Dylan flinched back. She held up her hands in a gesture of no-harm. Her voice remained gentle, loving, when she said, "Dylan, it's okay. I'm not mad. You're sick, honey. We need to get you some help so you can get better. That's all. Have you been taking your meds? You might just be a little confused; did you take them today?"

A shattered look crossed Dylan's face. She whispered, "I…I forgot this morning, but…but I'm not sick. I'm not confused." And then she turned her gaze on Nuada and it nearly broke him, her fear, her desperation, her pain. "Nuada, tell them!"

"Dylan is not sick, nor is she mad," he snarled. He didn’t move. If he moved toward Dylan, he knew he would veer off course and head for the hags that claimed kinship with her, and then nothing would satisfy him—or the debt they owed her—but the snap of breaking bone. "She is gifted. Blessed with the Sight. She has seen things you could scarcely conceive of in your wildest dreams."
Fury flashed across Pauline's face as she lurched to her feet again. "I knew it. I knew it. You sick mother…You're twisting her up, screwing with her head. She has problems, you freak, don't you see that? You're making her even more nuts, feeding her delusions like thi—"

"I'm not delusional!" Dylan yelled. "I'm not sick, I'm not crazy! Why wouldn’t any of you ever listen?" Tears streamed down her cheeks as she sobbed, "I tried to prove it to you, tried to show you so many times, and none of you would listen!" She pointed to Pauline. "And you! Leave Nuada alone! Okay? He's been there for me all this time, every time I needed him! When you guys weren’t there, he was! So leave him alone!" Scrubbing at her face, she added, "In fact, you want proof that I'm not crazy? Nuada's one of them. One of the Fair Folk. He—"

"Dylan, I think you need to lie down for a bit," Petra interrupted, the forced calm in her tone making her voice come out strained. "It's okay. No one's going to hurt Nuada. No one's going to hurt you. I think you just maybe need to lie down for a little while, get some rest. You're tired—"

"I'm not tired!"

"And I know you've been under a lot of stress lately, but you just need a break, it's okay—"

"I don't need a bre—"

"There's a place you can go, it'll relax you, just to take a break. They can help you. It's a nice place…" Petra trailed off at the look of utter terror on Dylan's face. "Dylan?"

Nuada had been about to drop his glamour and shut Petra up, but even he was arrested by the abject fear on his truelove's face, blazing like hellfire in her eyes. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor. Nuada was at her side in an instant, arms around her, petting her hair, shielding her with his body from Petra's sight as gasping breaths hitched in Dylan's chest.

"They're going to send me away," Dylan whispered, the words short and staccato, wheezing in her throat as she struggled to breathe. Yet despite her terror, he could practically feel her begging him not to drop his glamour yet. Why? Why not end it now? Why?

But the Elven warrior only shook his head. "No. No, they will not. I won't let them. Shhh. It's all right. I won't let them."

"I can't go back—"
"You won't," he soothed. "You won't. Shhh, mo crídh, it's all right. Do not be afraid. I will protect you always. Do not be afraid."
"I can't go back, I can't breathe, I…" Dylan pushed at his chest. Startled, he actually loosened his grip on her. She choked on a sob, tried to get to her feet. "I have to get out of here, they can't send me back, I have to get out of here—"

"They will not send you anywhere," Nuada growled, flashing a murderous look at the three shrews, who watched with pained expressions as Dylan managed to struggle to her feet. "I will not let them."

"Look, douche bag, she needs professional help," Mary snapped. "She's out of her ever-loving mind. She thinks you're a fairy, for crying out loud. She's crazy, okay? She's sick, and as much as it sucks, obviously she needs to be…" Mary's voice broke. Clearing her throat, she continued, "She needs to be institutionalized again. She's obviously a danger to herself, since she's covered in bruises and won't explain why. And those scars on her arm, those are new; where did they come from? She needs to go…somewhere."

Pauline and Petra were both nodding, looking saddened but resolute. Pauline said, "Dylan, you need some help. It's okay. We'll make sure they take care of you, no one will hurt you there—"
"How long?" Dylan demanded quietly.

Nuada ground his teeth at the question. She couldn’t possibly be asking what he thought she was asking. She knew she wasn’t mad, she knew the Hidden Ones were real, so why was she asking how long they intended to keep her in that place, as if she actually intended to go—
"How long have you been planning to lock me up?" Dylan added when her sisters didn’t speak. They didn’t answer this question, either. Dylan stared at them, betrayal and grief on her face. "Why?" She demanded, hugging herself. "What did I do, that you would even—"

"You've been acting strange since October," Petra said softly. "Even stranger than normal. Not returning anyone's calls, even John's. Missing work. Disappearing for days. Being so sick. Getting hurt but not explaining anything. We were worried—"

"I was in Faerie," Dylan said, then squeezed her eyes shut as if she wanted to snatch the words back. Nuada thought back to his so-called trial in October, when Wink had told him that all he needed to do was tell the truth. And he had told Wink that the truth would avail him nothing.

Pauline said, "That! That, right there. Dylan, that's what we're talking about. You weren’t in Faerie. Fairies aren't real. You're sick—"
"I'm not sick!" Dylan shouted. She covered her face, allowed herself a few muffled sobs, then dropped her hands and stared at her sisters as if she didn’t know them anymore. She looked to Nuada. There was a disturbing calm beneath the sheen of her tears that had knots tightening in his belly.

"I'm going in the kitchen to call John. Can you…can you do this?"

He took her hand. Kissed it. "Of course, mo mhuire." He scanned her features, looking for signs of wear, of too much pressure coming to bear. If this was too difficult for her…if the three harpies reacted badly even after Nuada dropped his glamour, made Wink and Becan drop theirs…what would it do to her?

Dylan walked out, spine stiff, head held high. The den door closed behind her. Her footsteps slowly faded as she moved to the kitchen. Nuada ignored the three human women in the room, keeping his gaze on that shut door, until he felt Dylan's control slip. He waited until she felt safe enough to cry, safe enough to deal with her own pain, before he focused on her supposed kin.

The three women glared at him with naked fury and dislike so intense it nearly bordered on hatred. Well enough. He didn’t care; he loathed them all with every last fiber of his being, especially after this. He should have dropped his glamour before this, the prince growled to himself. Should have shucked aside Dylan's silent protests and simply revealed himself in all his fey otherness. But Dylan hadn’t wanted him to, not then. He'd felt that. But why? Why had she resisted him unglamouring then? What had she been waiting for? What had she been afraid would happen?

Nuada lifted his chin enough to look down his nose at the three shrews. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to loosen his grip on the threads of his glamour. Slowly, his eyes—glamoured so as to appear a more mundane, tawny brown to any human without Dylan's strength of Sight—began to morph back to their natural firegold. He let his blood turn to ice water, his heart to stone. He would take no chances that her so-called sisters would underestimate how dangerous, how deadly, how very alien Prince Nuada Silverlance—son of King Balor One-Arm, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, lord of the Children of the Earth, and crown prince of the Tuatha dé Danaan—really was.
"If you have something you wish to say to me—" He began, voice frigid.

Petra's eyes sparked like blue stars, sharp as shards of cold iron. "Actually, I do, Mr. Áirgetlámh. What the hell do you think you're doing, encouraging Dylan like that? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What kind of sick thrills do you get from manipulating—"

"Enough," Nuada snarled. Thank the stars, Petra actually fell silent. Pauline opened her mouth as if she would speak, and Nuada briefly entertained the idea of threatening to shatter her jaw. But this was Dylan's sister, and a woman. Violence against a woman in anger was dishonorable. So he merely lashed her with that same scathing look that had silenced her on Christmas Eve. It worked just as well this time.

"As I was saying, if you have something you wish to say to me, save your breath. I will not hear you. I will not heed your words. It is time you listened to the truth. Time you understood it has been staring you in the face for at least twenty-five of your years and you have failed to take heed all this time. No more. No more will I allow you to misuse your claim of kinship, the right of your blood, to abuse the woman I love. She vouched for you; you betrayed her trust. Never again will I let that happen."

Mary swallowed, then cleared her throat. "You're crazy if you think we're just going to let you screw with our baby sister. She needs help, not…not whatever you've been doing to her."

"What I have been doing?" Nuada echoed, voice as cold and dark as the depths of far-flung, starless space. "I have loved her—as you should have, as you claim to, as you continuously fail to. I have walked by her side and defended her from the dark things of this world as far as I am able. You claim she is mad? Because she believes in what you do not? I will show you what she believes in. What she knows. What she has sacrificed for so many years to protect. And when I have shown you, you too will believe."
Without another word, he let the glamour fall away. Petra blinked, her mouth falling open. Pauline actually jumped. Her eyes darted all over Nuada, who stood in Bethmooran colors, star-blond hair in warrior braids, topaz eyes glittering dangerously at them. He knew the darkness around his eyes and mouth had become especially deep. He looked, he imagined, like some sort of nightmare to them.

Petra and Pauline both sank down onto the futon again as their legs folded beneath them. Mary clutched the arms of the chair, staring with wide eyes. At last, Petra whispered, "How did you do that? What…where did that makeup come from? The contacts? Where…"

Nuada rolled his eyes. "You are more of a simpleton than I first thought." Knowing a demonstration was in order—and knowing that it would upset Dylan if he scared these three—he held out a hand and pointed at the futon where Petra and Pauline sat.
"Move," he ordered in Gaelic, flexing his magic just enough that the futon slide forward three inches. The two women clutched each other, shrieking. Nuada ignored them and held out a hand to the flames on the hearth.

"Dance," he commanded in the Old Tongue, and the flames leapt up, twisting, twining, taking the shapes of a man and a woman performing the ballroom dance known as Twilight's Dawn. He and Dylan had danced it at the Midwinter Ball. For a long moment, Nuada gazed into the flames. He still remembered the slick silk of Dylan's gown under his hand, her soft palm against his callused one, the way the dancing torch- and faerie light had caressed her face.

Then he looked at the three mortals. Petra had gathered Mary and Pauline to her, standing a little ways in front of them, as if shielding them from him. The Elven prince barely bit back a sneer. As if she could ever hope to stop him if he chose to hurt them (pain they richly deserved). As if he would ever attack unarmed women.

"What are you?" Petra demanded. "Who are you?"

Dark lips twisted into a smirk. "I? I am fae. I am an Elf of the Earth, one of the Tuatha dé Danaan, to be entirely accurate. As for who I am…" His expression hardened, turned cold as winter bones. His eyes chilled to molten bronze hatred.

"I am Nuada. Prince Nuada, Silverlance, the son of King Balor, heir to the Golden Throne of Bethmoora, War Chieftain of the Tuatha dé Danaan, and the betrothed of Lady Dylan Myers of Central Park, Fionntrá, Éas Ruaíd, Inber Scene, Macha Chroí, and Luácha Hanráhan. And this," he added, not even attempting to quash the sadistic pleasure coursing through his veins, "is my vassal and valet, Wink Ironfist."

With those words, Wink—who'd come in glamoured, so no one but Nuada had noticed him—dropped his own magical shielding to reveal the ten-foot-tall silver cave troll with the broken tusk, Cyclopean eye, and forged arm of goblin bronze. Wink rumbled at them in greeting. Nuada grinned when they screamed again and scrambled backward. Perhaps it was cruel of him to delight in their panic, but remembering the shattered look on Dylan's face—a look they had put there—he couldn’t find it in himself to feel even a shred of remorse. Instead, in a conversational tone he said, "Wink is a friend of your sister's."
Somehow Petra heard him, because she shushed the other two and stared at the prince and his vassal from where they huddled against the far wall of the den. Keeping her wide, petrified gaze on the troll, she cleared her throat. "W-what is that?"

"My valet," Nuada said coldly.

"But…" Pauline clung to her sisters, trembling. "But what is it?"

"He is a silver cave troll," Nuada said. "A fae. And as I said, he is a friend of Dylan's." He turned enough to see Becan perched on Wink's shoulder, glamoured to invisibility. At a gesture to the brownie from the prince, Becan scampered off the massive shoulder to stand on the mantel where, with a flourish and a bow, he popped into mortal sight. Mary squeaked. "And this," Nuada added, "is Dylan's house sprite, Becan. He takes good care of her…unlike some."

"You hypnotized us," Pauline accused. "That's what happened. This isn't real. This isn't—"
"This," Nuada snapped, "is what your sister has lived with for her entire life. Lived with the knowledge of the Fair Folk, and not only endured it, but instead of carrying it as a burden, used that knowledge to help people. You have been sheltered from this truth your entire lives, but because my lady loves you—though I have no idea why—she wants you in her life, and so you must know all of this."

Petra shook her head. "That doesn’t make any sense. Why would that matter? Why do we need to know in order to be in her life?"

Nuada sneered. "We are to be wed, my lady and I. I am a prince. Dylan claims you are quite intelligent—put the pieces of the puzzle together." He pinned Mary with a vicious look. "What was it you said before? Princes do not grow on trees? Dylan isn't Cinderella?"

It gave him immense pleasure when their mouths dropped open in unison. Mary and Pauline sputtered, unable to form words. Their pathetic human brains simply couldn’t keep up, it seemed. Petra stared at Nuada with new eyes as it finally penetrated that her baby sister, the one they all deemed such a failure, was to marry the crown prince of a magical kingdom and become not only his bride, but a princess, and perhaps a queen. The eldest Myers sister's eyes widened further as the full import of this revelation struck her in the empty pit where her heart should have been: every time (or nearly every time) her sisters had been cruel to her, nasty to her, hurling insults and jibes, hurting her with their anger and exasperation for being such a "screw up," she had been out in a world even more dangerous than they had ever dreamed, helping those who couldn’t help themselves, doing good, and all the while she hadn’t told them because they wouldn’t believe her.

And that meant something else, too. Tears filled Petra's eyes as she sank to her knees. Her hands shook as she covered her mouth to hold in a sob. Nuada frowned; he hadn’t expected this reaction. Neither, it seemed, had Pauline or Mary. They dropped beside Petra, voices shrill with concern as they demanded to know if she was all right.

"Ohmigawd," Petra gasped as the tears spilled down her cheeks. "Ohmigawd, what did they do to her? What did they do to her? Dylan…" Sobs ripped through her chest as she wept. "She wasn’t crazy, ohmigawd, they put her in that place, they said she was nuts, but she wasn’t, she wasn’t crazy! What did we do to her? Gawd, oh Gawd, what did we do to her? We thought we were helping her, we didn't know…"

The other two had gone pale. Tears came to Pauline's eyes now as she stared at Nuada in horror. She shook her head. "We didn’t know. We thought…I mean, it was crazy, what she kept saying. We didn't…we never wanted to…we didn't know. She…she should have explained differently—"
Nuada opened his mouth to roar at her, but to his utter shock, Mary beat him to it.

"Don't you dare blame Dylan for this!" Mary snapped, her voice thick with suppressed emotion. "Gawd…she tried to explain…tried to tell us…but we never listened, we thought she…No wonder she ended up doing drugs and drinking. She needed our help and we never…Mom and Dad kept saying she was sick. That's what all the doctors said, that she was sick. We just wanted her to be better. To get her life right. We wanted her to—"
"To be like you," Nuada snarled. The three teary-eyed women gazed at him, trembling. "You wanted her to be 'normal,' to be like every other human in the world. But she isn't. She is goodness and kindness and compassion. She is courage and wonder and joy. You owe her a lifetime of apologies, a lifetime of love and gentleness for all of the pain you've put her through—and you can start by hearing her request to you, Petra Myers, after I go and make sure you haven’t broken her spirit yet again. Stay here. Wink and Becan will ensure you don't forget this newfound understanding of your sister's world."

Turning on his heel, he strode out of the den, slamming the door behind him. The sharp crack of wooden door against wooden doorframe echoed in the corridor as he marched toward the kitchen. Just before rounding the corner, he stopped. Took a breath. Dragged princely calm around him like a cloak. Dylan didn’t need his anger. She needed his comfort. She needed to know he'd succeeded in convincing her wretched kin.

Calmer now, Nuada took the turn in the corridor that led to the kitchen…and froze at the sight of the scarlet blood splashed onto the counter and dripping down the cupboards. Dylan stood hunched over the counter, crimson smeared on her palm and wrist, silent tears pouring down her pale cheeks.

"Dylan," he whispered, managing a jerky step. "Dylan, what…?"

"I…I didn't…" She mumbled, and then fell to the floor.