that is
A Short Tale of Escape, Advice, Blueness, Invitations and Accusations, the So-Called Champion, and the Challenge
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Becan crept from his mistress's bedroom, knowing the infuriated prince had already left the property. The brownie didn't need to search the cottage to find his human mistress. As the house sprite, he knew everything about the cottage. If words were spoken there, he would know and understand them. If someone were trying to hide within the stone walls, he would know and be able to find them. So Becan only walked slowly from the bedroom to the front entryway.
His lady sat with her back to the wall, legs stretched out in front of the door. Though the door was closed, none of the bolts were in place. Lady Dylan always locked the front door. Especially at night. Frowning, the brownie came closer.
Her hands were fisted in her lap, clenched so tightly that tiny drops of blood seeped from between her fingers to smear across the bone-white knuckles. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath. There was something moving in her eyes, something awful that made him want to retreat back to the safety of the bedroom. Terror, despair. The confusion sometimes seen in the eyes of a wounded animal, as if she didn't understand where the pain was coming from. Underneath it all, the embers of self-loathing because she understood that this was actually her fault and how could he react any other way?
But there were no tears. Not on her cheeks, not in her eyes. And that frightened him.
"Lady-"
"He's gone," Dylan whispered. "He hates me. He would never say that to me if he didn't hate me. He's gone." She knew it, and wondered what she'd been thinking. What had she been thinking, letting herself fall in love with someone so out of reach? What had she expected him to do? Of course he didn't care about her patients, her job. He was a faerie prince. His father either wanted his head on a spike, or was making a good show of pretending to want it. His sister was just waiting for the perfect moment to drive a knife into his heart. His people were dying out. People were trying to shame him, hurt him. Kill him. Of course he hadn't cared about something so insignificant as her job.
She should've told him sooner. This was her fault. She'd waited too long, let things progress too far. But she'd let herself forget, just for a while, that anything waited for them beyond the stone walls of the little cottage at the edge of the woods. Let herself just enjoy being with him. She should've known better than to let herself think that way. Should've known he would be furious at such a betrayal because she was human and it was so hard for him to trust. Now that trust was broken. He would never forgive her. Never.
And the wolves... the wolves would come howling after her in the dark and they would chase her down and pin her to the icy, white snow and then... then there would be hot scarlet against the cold white ground. She wasn't safe without him. Would never be safe. Only safe with him. With the beast out of her personal faerie tale.
"Milady, I can go after him," Becan said quickly. She'd been pale when he arrived, and the color was still draining rapidly from her face. "I can explain to him..."
He trailed off when the mortal shook her head slowly. "It doesn't matter," she said. The words were almost like fists striking her. It hurt Becan to see how she flinched from them. "It doesn't matter," she repeated. "It's... it, uh... it's fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. I... I'm going to... to go take a shower. It's late. I need to go to bed. I'm fine."
Watching his human drag herself painfully to her feet had tiny brown hands curling into fists. Becan had to force himself not to go to Dylan, not to use magic to help her walk back down the hallway toward her room. She wouldn't want that. Instead, the brownie waved a trembling hand and slid the seven bolts on the door home. Then he spent the next hour scrubbing the dishes in the sink, sweeping the wooden entryway of the snow that had managed to come in, and putting his lady's photo book away where she wouldn't have to see it. He made dinner, though it was more than an hour past midnight, hoping she would eat when she got out of the shower.
He waited, but she never came out of her bedroom.
Concerned, he finally went into her room. Becan found her curled up on her bed, her face pressed to the pillow, shivering in her slightly-damp black sweater and pajama bottoms. She wore no socks. Her bare feet were nearly white with the cold that seeped into the room.
She seemed to be asleep. With another wave of his hand, the brownie pulled the blankets over Dylan and tucked them round her with magic. Then he went and put the chicken parmesan and penne that he had made for her - Lady Dylan's favorite - in a container and tucked it into the fridge. She could eat it later, perhaps.
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The dreams that night were worse than they'd ever been. Becan had been nodding off over drying a plate when a shrill, bloodcurdling shriek wrenched him back to wakefulness. The plate shattered on the kitchen floor. The brownie scrambled off the counter and raced for his mistress's room, heart pounding, mouth gone suddenly dry. Dylan screamed again.
She was bound by sheet ropes and Morphean shackles, thrashing in sleep. The darkness in the room seemed almost abyssal despite the feebly burning nightlights. The mortal on the bed sobbed and struggled feebly against the binding blankets. Becan knew she struggled to push away some imagined attacker. Knew also that he could do nothing about this dream. He could never do anything about his lady's brutal nightmares. Even brownie magic couldn't fix everything. In the four years he'd lived in the little cottage, even before Dylan had discovered his presence, he'd never been able to wake her.
He trudged back to the kitchen, leaving her to her horrors. Magic and nimble fingers picked up the shattered bits of sharp porcelain and dropped them into the trash can. He flinched every time Dylan cried out. Blinked back the sting of tears. Her nightmares had never lasted this long before. By the time the screams began, there were only a few moments left to the torment. Why was she still trapped?
Near dawn, he crept back to the bedroom, and his pillow-bed. Wrapped himself in the thick woollen baby blanket his mistress had bought for him a few months back. The brownie hunkered down to wait for the end of the dreams. When would they end? When would the screaming stop? Her voice had gone hoarse nearly an hour ago.
In the end, the nightmare finished not with a bang, but a whimper. An hour passed after the final tortured cry before Dylan whispered softly, "Nuada... help... I'm sorry... please...." Then the quiet sobs subsided, and there was silence. At last Becan drifted off into restless sleep.
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Nuada rested his hands against the marble wall of the shower, letting the steaming water sluice over his body and try to burn away the fatigue. Dawn was moments away. He could feel it. That had been the goal, after all - to push himself until sunrise, so he could find sleep not in the darkness that bred memories and regrets, but in the brightness of the day. Even if he could not feel the sun's warmth on his skin or the sweet crispness of a late autumn breeze. He knew it was there. Just as he knew that somewhere above, in that putrescent city that hung over him like a death sentence, she was there.
Maybe, after some time spent in the shower, he could finally relax. Finally sleep. Finally forget the way Dylan had gone so hideously pale at his vicious words. Shame coiled in his belly, but he shoved it aside. Why should he be ashamed? She had lied to him. Broken her promises. Told him that he would have to face his father's wrath alone. After the conversation he'd had with Nuala, the prospect of answering to the no doubt enraged king filled Nuada with sick dread. It hadn't seemed like such a dismal prospect when he'd thought Dylan would be at his side through it all. Did that make him a coward? To rely so heavily on a woman. On a human. What had he been thinking?
I was a fool to trust her, he snarled at himself. A fool to have faith in the promises of a human, any human. Even one like her.
The Elf ducked back beneath the water and ran his hands through his long, star-blond hair. Let the pounding spray rinse the last vestiges of shampoo from the wet locks. Let it rinse the last bit of soap from his body. If only memories could be washed away so easily.
When he'd come to this lair, one of several he kept in the subway tunnels, Wink had been surprised to see him, but one look at the prince's stormy countenance and molten bronze eyes, and the silver cave troll had kept his questions to himself. Nuada would explain when - and if - he chose. Wink understood that.
As Dylan understands, Nuada thought, then snarled at the pang that lanced him. Understand, the human might. But she used that understanding to insinuate herself into his life like a poisonous little snake, until she was close enough that she could... could what?
Hurt him.
Stars curse her, she'd hurt him. Somehow the mortal had gotten close enough that her abandonment hurt. That was pathetic. He was a proud Elven warrior, the crown prince of an esteemed and noble fayre nation. Not some lonely, lovesick little boy. A mortal's change in sentiment should have no effect on him at all. Unless, of course, it was to further prove that humans were disgusting vermin that should be wiped out.
Disgusting human whore. Words spoken with cool precision to draw intangible blood. Words that burned like acid in his belly. Tasted like rot on his tongue. A well-aimed verbal knife. And at least he'd had the satisfaction of hurting her in return. That shocked gasp, the draining of color, the way she'd fallen against the door as if he'd struck her - if that was not a true reaction, then she was the best actress he had ever seen.
Whore. Disgusting human whore. That's what he'd called her. Words meant to hurt, meant to drive deep into the place where her heart should have been. He'd left her bleeding to death from those words. Retribution. And betrayal. There was no satisfaction to be had in her pain now.
I shouldn't have said such things to her, he surprised himself by thinking. Should never have. Gods, but her eyes... so broken... Infuriated by the turn his thoughts had taken, he slammed his fist into the water-slicked wall with a harsh growl that Nuada was certain Wink could hear in the other room. Didn't matter. By the Fates... curse her, curse her, curse her! Curse her to the blackest pit of Annwn! Am I to have no peace?
Once out of the shower and dressed, he strode back into the lair and dropped himself into a chair. It was late enough (or early enough) that he should have been hungry, but he wasn't. Wink dropped a bottle onto the table where the prince sat. Nuada glanced disinterestedly at the label. Elven wine. Why not? Maybe then his thoughts would be his own again, and no longer in the possession of that blasted mortal.
The bottle was nearly empty - Wink drank far more than any Elf, due to his massive size. Nuada didn't bother to ask why the troll had been imbibing in the first place, or where the alcohol had come from. Merely sipped his wine. Finally the troll said softly, "My prince, what troubles you?"
Nuada toyed idly with his half-empty glass. Found himself wishing for the taste of sparkling grape juice or cider.
"A woman." He frowned. He hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't meant to say anything. It wasn't a woman that troubled him, but an infuriating mortal woman who had lied to him, deceived him. He'd risked nearly everything for her, gods curse it, and she had flung it all back in his face at the first sign of opposition.
Not the first sign, part of the Elf prince murmured silently. Memories of Dylan struggling to support him in the subway; of her deft hands cleansing his wounds; the fear and determination on her face when she told the One-Armed King of Elfland that she would take a thousand lashes if only the king would unchain him (not even spare him, but simply unchain him); the mortal, lying so broken and battered on his bed from what Eamonn had done to her when she'd given herself to save the Elf prince - they flitted through his mind like irritating butterflies. Those things didn't matter. The stakes were higher now. He'd risked just as much for the human - loss of life and limb, his father's fury, his precious sister's anger - as she'd risked for him. More, even.
"A woman? Lady Dylan?" Wink said casually, as if he didn't care about the answer particularly. Nuada's amber eyes flashed bronze.
"That is revolting, my friend. She is a human." A human whose gentle hands had soothed the pain of his wounds. A human with the softest lips he had ever touched... He took another swallow of the sweet sparkling wine, hoping the alcohol would drown his thoughts.
"Then it's another female. Obviously you can't openly pursue her since you are tied to your lady by politics. My suggestion?" Wink quaffed the rest of the alcohol and then brought out another bottle. Not Elven wine this time. Troll beer. Bronze eyes met Wink's, then the prince shrugged and finished his own glass before raising it for the troll to fill. Troll beer could melt teeth (while burning a hole through your belly), but why not? It was one of Wink's favorites. After the beer had been set to, the silver troll added, "Find this lady's likeness at a brothel and get it out of your system."
Nuada glared at his oldest friend. Wink shrugged.
"You've done it before, my prince," the troll reminded him, just managing to skirt the line of patronizing. Nuada didn't bristle at the tone. Only sipped the beer that held the faintest aftertaste of sulfur. Centuries in exile had acclimated him to the taste. "With other women. So have other nobles. Even royals do such things."
Nuada winced. He had done such a thing before, with other women. Certain... connections between a prince and particular ladies, be they of noble birth or not, were sometimes ill-advised and such a plan was the only recourse to drive away such distractions.
But that had been when he was young and stupid. Before he'd perfected his self-control. And he would not be driven to a whorehouse over Dylan, a human, of all people. That was ridiculous, not to mention disgusting. So all the prince said was, "There are more important things in life than women, Wink."
"Precious little," the troll said mournfully.
Nuada's lips twitched. Wink was well-known among the fae both as an honorable warrior... and as an accomplished lover. It had always astonished the prince to see the more petite faerie women - dryads, fox maidens, deer women, even the voracious empusa - practically swooning at the troll's feet. He'd often wondered how Wink had become so renowned.
"What about honor, my friend? Valor. Courage. A warrior's skill. A prince's duty."
"A warrior is not a warrior unless he can seduce a beautiful woman, my prince. I taught you that when you were a youth. And one of the duties of a prince is to be a strong and skillful warrior." Wink finished off the bottle of troll beer. "I have said - and your human lady has said - that you push yourself too hard. A life without pleasures is no life at all. You must find some joys in life, or what is the point?"
Memories came again, against his will: A flurry of snowballs and Dylan's delighted laughter; fey-like blue eyes shining with admiration as he trained with his spear; a low, haunting voice reading tales before the firelight while a ball of black fluff butted the prince's hand with his head, demanding an ear-scratch; talk of easy nothings over dinner and sparkling grape juice. And...
And soft curls against his cheek when he rested it against the top of her head. Soft lips beneath his fingers. Dark lashes curling against scarred cheeks when she closed her eyes, as he leaned in to...
"Perhaps you're right, Wink," Nuada said in a deceptively mild voice, ruthlessly suppressing the twinge of guilt in his belly. Why should he feel guilty? It was as good a remedy as Elven wine. A far better one than troll beer, he thought with an inward grimace at the sulfuric sourness on his tongue and the whiff of brimstone assaulting his nose. Though he would not find his "lady's" likeness. No, he could shove away inconvenient memory and pathetic sentiment with a beautiful Elven woman. One with lovely eyes like molten gold and long, ivory tresses. Not dark, riotous curls and eyes like the moon over Bethmoora...
Men so often forgot the horrors of battle, the plethora of griefs found in immortality, and the pain of broken hearts when spending a night or even an hour in a bought woman's arms. He could forget something as insignificant as the shocked, hollow hurt in Dylan's eyes.
Maybe.
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Becan woke sometime in the evening to a vaguely familiar electronic whirring sound. He slid off his pillow-bed in the hall and peeked into his mistress's room. How long had she been awake? Long enough, apparently, to have started something at the sewing machine she rarely pulled from the shelf in her closet.
"Milady?"
"It's almost the second week of November," Dylan mumbled, and the whirring stopped. "I usually get started on these things way before now, but I forgot." She cleared her throat. Sipped from the waterbottle on the floor beside her. "I haven't had time, anyway," the mortal added, her voice clearer now. "But I do now. I just... need something to do. I don't go back to work until Wednesday, so..."
The brownie stepped into the room and approached the pile of scraps on the low coffee table. How had he slept through her dragging in the coffee table and unfolding the card table she used for her sewing machine? The scraps were all cut into patches, each one a foot square, blue or black, and all of different materials. Becan recognized a piece of one of Dylan's old velvet winter cocktail dresses that she often wore to charity functions once it got cold; a piece of blue suede from one of Master John's old jackets; even a sheer blue chiffon hair-scarf that had belonged to Miss Petra's oldest daughter, Ari.
"What are you making, milady?"
"A quilt," she said softly, adjusting the bit currently clamped in place on the sewing machine. "It's the only thing I'm any good at. Everything else, you have to worry about clothing sizes or uneven hemlines or whatever. But simple square-patch quilts are easy and... fun." The word sounded foreign on her tongue. "Just something to do... while I rot here." Her foot pressed the pedal and the whirring began again.
Rot here, he thought. Uneasiness churned in his stomach. She didn't sound like herself. Not at all. "Christmas is coming," Becan said helplessly. It seemed of paramount importance that he keep her talking for some reason.
"I know." Whirrr-click-whirrr, swish. Whirrr-click-whirrr. Swish, whirrr...
"Will it be a gift for someone, then?"
Dylan had been managing to stay completely focused on her task, ignoring everything: the ache in her lower back and leg from sitting hunched over for who knew how many hours, the passage of time, the cold that had seeped into the room and made her hands achy and stiff. But not anymore. A shard of memory sliced deep into her chest. She remembered a golden quilt on a narrow bed in a magical sanctuary. Outside of time, beyond the edge of the world.
"If I... finish it and... see the prince again," Dylan mumbled, "then maybe. Or I'll give it to John or... or someone. I don't know."
Uneasy still, he replied, "Perhaps... perhaps instead you might go down the hall and play-"
"No." Sharp, swift negation. End of discussion on that.
Someone knocked on the front door. A glance in the general direction of the front entryway told Becan who it was. "Master John, milady."
"Let him in, please," she said. The brownie moved to obey.
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It wasn't working.
Nuada strode into the lair he currently kept, irritation smoldering beneath his skin, mingling with a sourness in his stomach that the prince vaguely acknowledged as (misplaced) guilt. Three long nights spent away from the mortal cottage, taking his pleasure amongst some of the most beautiful Elven women the Troll Market had to offer, and spending his days burning through hours of combat training - alone and with Wink - and still he struggled to find a moment's peace from nagging thoughts and glimpses of memory. Dylan's words circled through his mind, over and over again, with no respect for what he was doing or where he was.
I go when you go. You have me, too. Do with me what you will. Someone I love very much... Lies. Lies, all of it. Why did the words contantly assault him? Why did he continue to see that hurt in her eyes when he'd called her... what he'd called her?
Nothing in life is simple anymore, Nuada thought bitterly as Wink looked up from the stack of papers on the table. "What is that?"
"Your correspondence. I took the liberty of having that little brownie maid - Brighid, I think her name was - fetch them for you from your room in Findias. There are several incredibly dull-sounding invitations to balls, banquets, hunts, and various other things you absolutely loathe."
"I happen to enjoy hunting," the warrior informed the troll. Maybe that would prove distraction enough.
"I doubt you want to go..." Wink lifted one invitation, which had come on citrus-scented paper, and studied it with his good eye. "Fox hunting with Lord Dougal of Cromm Crúaich and his three lovely - and elligible - daughters." The troll tossed the missive into the fire. "It came with a pressed lime blossom, by the way."
Nuada rolled his eyes. A not-so-subtle invitation for hunting of a different sort, then. An invitation that, as Wink had surmised, the Elf prince was not in the mood to accept. Being pawed at by sex-starved faerie women was not his idea of a visit well-spent. Perhaps if he'd been able to take Dylan with him, to ward off the lust-minded harpies-
Enough of the human! He growled at himself. Enough. She has betrayed me. She cannot be trusted. I must accept it and move on.
"There are, however, several invitations to fetes and a few midwinter masques that are addressed to you and Lady Dylan. Quite a few from Lady Jocasta of Reedus."
Gritting his teeth, Nuada asked in a carefully neutral voice, "The human sympathizer?" Wink nodded. "Splendid." The prince's sarcasm was plain as a splotch of black ink on white paper. "I always enjoy visiting her estate." The Elf knew he would most likely accept those invitations. His father would insist. And he would bring Dylan along because, blast it, the courtship charade was not over just because he'd discovered her perfidy. And what better place to bring his so-called mortal lady to show her off (as most noblemen did with their women) than to Reedus, the home of a known human sympathizer?
Wink rumbled almost that exact sentiment in the Troll Tongue. Nuada ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He still had not told his friend about Dylan's treachery. Did not wish to admit, even to such a close confidante, how he'd been taken in by her deceit. Somehow a mortal had fooled him at every turn. Even fooled his thought-sensing abilities. Somehow.
Unless she has not. Unless I have made a mistake...
If he ground his teeth any harder, he'd crack a molar. Instead, coming to a swift decision, Nuada said, "I must tell you something, my friend." When Wink looked up from the next paper, the prince said, "The human has proven false. I thought her loyal to me - or as loyal as a human can ever be - but I was mistaken."
Saying it aloud seemed to make it more real. There was that swift stab of vicious hurt somewhere behind his breastbone. The tension across his shoulders wound just a bit tighter. An odd hollowness filled his belly. I was mistaken. You promised, Dylan....
The troll was silent for a long moment. Then, "She has betrayed you in some way."
Nuada jerked a sharp nod.
"I understand, my prince," was all Wink said, and went back to sorting the mail. There seemed nothing more to say after that, so Nuada went to take a bath and wash away the cheap Elven perfume that still clung to him.
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John Thaddeus Myers stalked through the New York Underground with worry in his heart and bloodshed on his mind. Tomorrow was Tuesday. Dylan had to go in for her Psych-Eval with that psychotic sadist, Doctor Westenra. It would be tough. If she managed to escape Saint Vincent's Hospital without fainting or having hysterics, it would be a bleeding miracle. And just when his twin needed that pasty, pointy-eared douche bag, the Other Kin had gone and ditched her.
He didn't know what the fae had said to the twenty-nine-year-old to make her eyes look the way they had - bruised, with tiny pieces missing from her heart that left her jagged and edgy. One look in her eyes had rocketed him back almost twenty-three years. Back to when his parents had chucked her into that horrible place without a second thought. She was there two weeks before he'd been allowed to see her. The whole time, he'd been restless. Nervous. He'd known something was wrong, even though he didn't know what, exactly. His parents, who knew about his connection to his twin, had finally allowed him to visit her.
It was the same look, he thought as he moved deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels. The same look then as now. Haunted, achingly lonely. Broken. As if some integral piece of her were missing. Back then it had been him. They'd never been apart for more than an hour before. As little children, before starting kindergarten, they'd slept in the same room. In the same bed, usually, back when he had been the one plagued by nightmares. When she'd been locked up in that place without him there, that missing piece had been him.
Now? It had to be that corpse-faced ghoul she'd shown up with that first Sunday outside the Hudson Mall. Prince Nuada Silverlance. Her so-called "esteemed lord." It was the only thing John could think of to explain the grief in her eyes. The self-loathing. The despair. And it hadn't gone away. He'd been to see Dylan Saturday and Sunday and today, and though the grief hadn't gotten any worse, it hadn't gone away, either.
I'm not going to let him do this to her, John vowed as he finally moved into abandoned tunnels. Now that no one was around - no people, anyway - he began calling for Nuada. If he was a prince, one of his people would alert him to this human that dared to try and summon him. I'm not going to let him hurt her like this. She's been hurt enough. She was finally healing, really healing, and now this. I'm not just gonna sit by. She... she needs him, for some reason. Just like she needs me.
When he'd been twelve, a dark chasm had opened up under his feet on the way home from football practice and he'd fallen, fallen, fallen. That chasm had dropped him into the Soul-Sucking Hell Dimension. He hadn't known how long he spent there before catching a few brief glimpses of his twin. To this day he remembered the sick horror churning in his gut at the sight of two boys - two monsters - pinning her down and raping her while she screamed for help in the dimness. He'd tried to get to her, tried to help her, but the darkness around him had kept him bound. He'd had to watch while his twin's blood stained the concrete stairs and a pair of twisted monsters hurt her over and over again. When he dreamed of the Hell Dimension, he could still hear her screaming. Still smell the blood. Still taste his own tears.
The second glimpse of her had nearly shattered him. She'd still had all the bruises from the rapes, though they were healing. John could still remember the sight of all that blood pouring down her stomach and arms, soaking her clothes. All of that sick scarlet from where she hacked at her chest with a pencil in a ruthless attempt to end it all. He'd seen the memories of monsters in human skin ripping her apart deep inside. He still remembered his desperate plea for her to stop. He'd felt her life slipping away. If she'd died then... he still didn't like to think about what that would've done to him.
After that, John had made a concerted effort to reach out to her. To make contact with her the only way he knew how - through their link. Over what had turned out to be years, he'd succeeded, until finally he'd fallen through another chasm - one filled with blinding light. And he'd dropped right into his parents' front yard as his twin, now eighteen and finally home for good, stepped out the front door.
She'd taken care of him. When his parents had refused to accept he was who he was, when his sisters couldn't comfortably afford to take him in, Dylan had taken care of him. The government had helped, sure. He was their prize golden boy now. He'd gone into an alternate hell dimension and survived, and he'd only been twelve. So they'd helped. But Dylan had had to work two jobs and go to college (luckily on scholarship) in order to keep them both fed and tucked up safe in a tiny studio apartment so small she could sneeze in the shower and he'd feel the breeze while still lying in bed. She'd even made him take the single fold-out closet bed. She'd slept on a dinky little sofa they'd salvaged from the city dump. What money that wasn't being funnelled into rent and utilities and, every so often, her textbooks went into keeping him clothed and fed and making sure they could afford for him to play football. She'd even put money aside to pay for his college tuition. Luckily he, too, had gotten a partial scholarship. He'd driven her into a nervous breakdown at nineteen - him and work and college and her health - and she'd still done everything in her power to look after him.
Dylan had always taken care of him. She'd always taken care of everyone but herself. Now he would do whatever he could to make sure she was the one being taken care of. Even if that meant a practically suicidal trip into the subway to punch Prince Douche Bag in the face so John could drag his sorry Elven butt back to Dylan's little cottage and make him apologize.
"I know you're here somewhere, Silverlance! Where are you? Come out!"
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Sleep still eluded the Elf prince, though Wink snored on in the bronze chair where he'd fallen asleep. Nuada stared at the high ceiling of the current lair. This place, with its vaulting ceilings and spacious rooms - all three of them - never failed to bring home the difference between the lair and Dylan's bedroom. Her room had lush carpet, a very large bed (what did she need a bed that big for, anyway?) and a low-beamed ceiling that made the room seem cozy instead of cramped. The floor of this place was cold stone, and his bed was narrow. His bed did not smell of jasmine, either. There was no hominess here, nor that sense of quiet calm joy that pervaded Dylan's house.
Nuada was a warrior and a prince. He could be honest with himself, even when it pained him.
He missed her. Missed the closed-in hominess of her cottage, the intimacy of knowing that she was right down the hall if he wished to speak to her, the simplicity of the days he'd spent in her home, the comfort of her presence. He'd thought she wanted nothing from him. Expected nothing from him. There was a freedom in that that he hadn't realized he craved until it was taken away. The prince was certain he would not find such a thing again.
I just want.... He sighed, groping for sleep that remained ever elusive. I just miss... by the Fates, this is pathetic, but I only want-
A chittering sound drew his attention from the ceiling - and thoughts of Dylan - to the entryway to his current chambers. Pale brows drew down as a fat little tanuki skittered into the chamber. The raccoon-dog faerie (another creature from the eastern fae Kingdom of Onibi that resided in the mortal city) squeaked, "Denka! Denka!" The racoon-dog stretched out before the Elf prince in the prostrate bow favored in Dilong and Onibi, his face parallel to the stone floor.
Wink, roused by the shrill sounds, lumbered over to where the tanuki bowed and scraped, rolling his good eye and muttering about "irritating pipsqueaks."
Does no one sleep in these blasted tunnels? Nuada wondered as he sat up. Aloud he only said, "Yes? What is it?"
"There is a mortal, Sire! In the abandoned tunnels!"
A frisson of awareness sizzled down Nuada's spine. She would not come here... would she? She feared the subway tunnels more than almost anything. And why shouldn't she? Memories of the pack of human wolves would keep any sane creature away from this, their old hunting grounds, even though they were long dead. Unless... unless she was in danger. Mortal dread had driven her back to this place once before. Was Dylan in trouble?
"Male or female?" Nuada demanded, blood humming with sudden adrenaline and unease.
"Male, Denka."
The stab of cruel disappointment made him sharp. "Let the creature rot in the dark, then. He will find nothing of any importance here except, perhaps, a bloody death." Wink was not the only troll that dwelt in the subway tunnels. Ravus the Apothecary lived somewhere in the darkness as well. So did others.
"He is calling out for you by name, Sire," the tanuki murmured. It kept its snout pressed to the ground as it shivered in the cold air of the chamber. "He calls you coward and demands you come out to meet him."
Rage, often kept banked, flared to life. A human male came to the tunnels that belonged to the crown prince of Bethmoora and challenged him. Called him coward. Had the gall to attempt to summon him forth. Well, this was nothing new. If the mortal wanted to challenge him, to fight him, then the foolish creature could have what he wanted. He could have a chance to fight the legendary Silverlance. Fight... and die.
Nuada was on his feet before he'd finished the thought. He tugged on a clean shirt and tunic - black on black, to prevent bloodstains. Human blood had ruined several of his garments in the past few centuries. Then the bronze-eyed warrior took up sword and spear and moved toward the tunnels. He didn't need a guide, or directions. If the human was stupid enough to be calling for him, Nuada would find the hollow, soulless cretin easily.
The prince began to jog through the tunnels towards the discordant sound of a human voice.
.
John wasn't sure how he knew when the Other Kin was there, but he did. The twenty-one-year-old whirled to the left and his eyes met a gaze of disgruntled molten bronze. Glaring, John shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. Every instinct told him that this was Nuada. So that's what the pointy-eared jerk looked like without glamor. Feral. Other. Properly alien. What had ever made him think this guy was one of the good guys? That he would protect Dylan? If anything, he'd hurt her worse than anyone else ever had before.
It was my fault. Dylan had said that, whispered it more than once as she worked on whatever she had going at her sewing machine. John had sat on her bed and just let her do whatever. It had been all he could do, with that horrible sorrow in her eyes. I messed up. I made a mistake and it's my fault, just like always. No tears. Only that quiver to her voice that meant she'd cried herself out long ago and couldn't cry anymore.
"You dick," John said tonelessly. Lack of inflection gave the words a razor's edge. "You gutless, spineless, complete and absolute dick."
"You," the Elf growled. Her brother. Dylan's brother was here. Curse it, he couldn't kill the foul-mouthed wretch. Who knew what kind of damage it would do to the mortal woman? Not that he cared, precisely. It was just that, traitor or not, he stilled owed her enough that killing her - or driving her mad with the death of her twin - would've been dishonorable. "Firstly, watch your tongue or lose it. Secondly, what are you doing here?"
"What did you do to my sister?" John snarled, fisting his hands in his pockets. He'd come here intending to pound the stuffing out of the guy. Hadn't expected him to be armed. Moron, he silently berated himself. He'd been thinking about Nuada the way Dylan had - still did. As an ally. A friend. You could sock a friend in the jaw and still be able to count to ten on all your fingers the next morning. John was fairly certain if he socked the Elf prince, he'd be lucky if he ended up being able to finger-count to five. "What did you do to her?" He demanded instead.
Eyes like shards of copper ice narrowed. "I did nothing to her."
Disgusting human whore. Silver-washed blue eyes gone glassy with shock and spearing hurt. A scarred face gone white as death. Nuada shoved the image away, down and down where he would not have to see it.
"I thought the Kindly Ones couldn't lie outright," the mortal said coldly, dragging the prince's attention back to him. "Looks like that little bit of lore was wrong."
Nuada unsheathed his sword. Let it spin casually in his loose grip as he eyed the human male. The fluorescent beams overhead, flickering and dim with age, glinted off the notched blade. "Clearly you do not share all traits with your sister. At least she possesses some level of intelligence. It's a very foolish thing you do here, human - challenging me. What do you want?"
"I want to know what the hell you did to my sister! When I dropped her off at the cottage Friday, she was tired and in pain but she was okay. I go back to see her Saturday and she looks like someone punched through her ribs and ripped her heart out. I've seen zombies with more life! What did you do?"
The prince frowned. This human didn't fear him. Even with the naked Elven blade in his hand, the mortal did not fear him. Which meant the desperation and fear shivering just beneath his words came from a source other than fear of imminent death. Fear for Dylan?
Unbidden came the memory of Dylan's shocked, glassy eyes. Her death-pale face as she stumbled back from the prince she trusted more than any other. The tear that dropped from her chin to splash hotly on Nuada's wrist. He could still feel the burn of it. The Elf prince fought against the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. Never take your eyes off the enemy - it had been drilled into his head for centuries. But he couldn't forget the hurt in Dylan's gaze.
Nuada leveled his sword at the mortal man. The blade gleamed like promises of pain. "Be gone from this place. For her wretched sake, I spare you tonight. Do not look for such mercy the next time."
"Do you understand what it means to love someone with your whole heart?" John demanded in a choked voice. "She's my twin sister. The other half of me. When I met you I was pissed about it because I knew you were dangerous, but she trusted you. And I thought, 'At least she's happy.' I knew she was. I could see it. I could feel it. But Saturday night I walked into that place and almost ran back out again because of the look in her eyes. A look that you put there. Now please..." John's voice broke. It took him a moment to regain enough composure to say, "Please, what did you say to her? What happened?"
Unspoken was the demand, What did she do to deserve being hurt like that? Nuada could hear it. Feel the confusion and anger and fear swirling on the air currents in the tunnel. This mortal had a rather strong psychic gift. Perhaps that was why the Elf couldn't shove the image of Dylan's face from his mind - because the human woman was in the forefront of her brother's thoughts.
"Your sister betrayed me," Nuada snapped. She trusted you... she was happy. Trusted him. Had she indeed? Well, he had trusted her. He had been... but Dylan had betrayed him. "Whatever consequences there are for such treason, she deserves them. Now be gone."
"One more thing, and then I'll go if you're so bound and determined to do the stupidest thing you've ever done in your life. My sister is the most loyal person I know. If she betrayed you - or you think she did - then she had a good reason, or it was an accident." John yanked his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms across his chest. "My sister would rather cut her own throat than betray you. I don't know why she's so loyal to you. I don't know what she sees in you. But I know that much, because we're connected - she would never purposely do anything that would hurt you in any way. You're lucky she cares for you as much as she does. Hell, she loves you, you jerk. You're like her best friend or something. So how about you pull your head out of your royal ass and go ask her what's going on yourself? Or are you scared to face one little mortal woman? Coward."
The blade was at John's throat before he could blink. Eyes the color of blood-washed bronze smoldered with a dark and vicious hatred as they bored into John's own. A little pressure and then there was a tiny spill of hot wetness down John's neck. He didn't wince or flinch even though it burned. Just kept his eyes locked with Nuada's.
"I should cut you into little pieces and leave you as a 'gift' on your precious sister's doorstep," Nuada growled, and pressed just a bit harder with the sword. A thicker spill of scarlet rolled down the human neck. Stained the collar of his white shirt. Nuada could smell the burning stink of iron. "Call me 'coward' again, and I will."
After only a few more seconds - where John could see the threat of his imminent death in sanguine eyes of molten copper - the blade was taken away. Wiped clean on black trousers before being sheathed once more. Nuada stepped back a ways from him and glowered.
"Please..." John tried again, tried to suppress the anger and show only the concern, the love for his twin. "Please, my sister doesn't deserve this. Please."
"Be grateful for your life, human," the prince said icily. "Not for your sake do I grant it. I expect you gone from these tunnels before nightfall." Nuada shifted suddenly. John blinked. Then something smashed hard into the side of John's face, right where his jaw met the rest of his skull. The human's eyes rolled up in his head and his legs folded beneath him. He tumbled to the concrete in a boneless heap of unconscious mortal.
The Elf warrior resheathed his spear; he'd used the butt of it to knock out the human. Dylan's brother would wake in a few minutes. That was not enough time for anything residing in the abandoned tunnels to eat him... probably.
Well, maybe a nibble or two.
Turning on his heel, Nuada walked back down the tunnel. Three thoughts whirled through his mind.
She looks like someone punched through her ribs and ripped her heart out... she would never purposely do anything that would hurt you in any way... she loves you.
Maybe... just maybe... he had made a mistake. Let his temper get the best of him. It had hurt - gods, it had hurt, in a way he had not felt in centuries - when she'd said she couldn't stay with him. And the hurt had shaken and infuriated him because why in the name of all the gods would a human's rejection lance so deep? But it had. He had been relying on her more than he'd realized. Perhaps that hurt and that swift stab of surprise had stoked his not-inconsiderable temper more than he had thought. Maybe he should do what that idiotic human suggested and demand Dylan explain to him. He'd given her precious little chance to explain before. Maybe he would ask her now.
No. Not now. Later. Tomorrow night. Who knew what Dylan was doing now? Or if she was even home? He would see her tomorrow night. He would give her another day to calm down. Give his own temper another day to cool. Then he would be better equipped to handle the hurt that still simmered in his chest. Tomorrow he would demand an explanation of her. If the explanation was satisfactory, then perhaps he would forgive her the betrayal.
She would never purposely do anything that would hurt you in any way.
Maybe she wouldn't. But then again, she was human, and humans were often false. Their tongues were often forked, and their lips often birthed lies. He would have to see for himself whether she could again be trusted. But somehow, Nuada doubted it. He would never make the mistake of confusing an enemy for a friend again.
