Author's Note: at last I have updated! Sorry to take so long. So the real world will have to intrude on our lovebirds. Dun-dun-DUN! And happy fourth of July, everybody. Love you all!

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Chapter Four

Running Scared

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He carried her back to the cottage; the bitter cold had made her leg seize up after standing for so long without moving. But to Dylan, it had been worth it. Worth it, to slip like gossamer into Nuada's mind and be enveloped by his very self, to find herself wrapped up in his thoughts. It was the most intimate thing she'd ever experienced. Shadows and golden light, by turns cool as a spring breeze and warm as summer sunlight, had caressed her mind. She'd felt each whispering touch all the way down to her soul.

She could still feel the lingering echo of his presence in her mind as he cradled her to his chest and strode through the thickly falling snow toward her cottage. Her fingers curled in the collar of his tunic and she pressed her face to his chest, reveling in the gentle thud of his heartbeat against her cheek. Only two shadows loomed over her, threatening to snuff out the warm afterglow of what had happened in the woods.

Nuada loved her, but despised her humanity…and she had agreed to marry him.

It had been a sudden decision, almost spur of the moment. She'd been so wrapped up in his love for her, his need, that she hadn't been able to say no as she should have. To deny him this—to say she loved him only to pull back at the last minute and say that she didn't love him enough—would've been too cruel.

But it was still wrong of her to agree…wasn't it?

Just as it had been wrong of her to let him kiss her so passionately. Not because passion was wrong, but because she knew that without the armor of sexual or romantic experience, if he really kissed her and she allowed it, she would be lost completely. She would be swept up in the new powerful sensations her prince could evoke, and she knew exactly where they'd end up—rolling around in bed together. That couldn't happen. She was in enough trouble already.

Once inside the cottage, Nuada carried her to the living room. To Dylan's surprise, he helped her with her coat, expertly sliding it over her shoulders and down her arms, then went to hang it up as she kicked off her boots and sank onto the couch with a weary sigh. What was she going to do? She'd agreed to marry him, confessed her love…all of which had been a very bad idea when looked at objectively. What had she been thinking? Now she was even more entangled with Nuada than before. Now she had no hope of ever escaping with her heart intact. The realization made her eyes sting. She scrunched them shut tight and covered her face with her cold hands.

A new weight made the sofa cushions dip, and she looked up to see Nuada seated beside her. Concern showed plain in his eyes and on his face. Velvet-rough calloused hands came up to cup her face. His thumbs swept across her cheeks and she realized a few stray tears had escaped her control. They were hot against her cold face. She swallowed and tried to speak, but found she had no words.

"Can you ever forgive me?" Nuada asked softly, earnestly. Seeing the emotion in his gaze struck her a second blow. How could she turn away from him? She knew what it was to be rejected. Could she really break them both that way? Helplessly, she dropped her head against his shoulder. A gentle hand stroked her hair. "Dylan, I promise you, I will never hurt you so again. Please believe me."

"I do," she whispered brokenly. "It's not that. I…Nuada, I don't…" But she couldn't continue. Couldn't tell him that she couldn't marry him. Instead she twined her arms around him and held on tightly, as if afraid he would disappear at any moment. She felt him shudder before he buried his face against her hair.

"It's all right, mo crídh," he murmured. "It will be all right. I promise."

Dylan opened her mouth again in another attempt to explain when her phone rang. Nuada pulled back enough that she could get to her phone. When she saw the readout, her eyes widened. She clicked TALK. "Victoria?" She asked, confused. "Hey, hon, what's up?"

"Francesca's hurt."A brief pause. The deep breath before the plunge into deadly waters. "The Blackwoods did it."

"What?" Confusion and emotional turmoil over the situation with Nuada melted away, to be replaced by sick fear churning in her stomach. Blackwoods. Patrick and Xander Blackwood. Touching Francesca. Hurting her sister. The way they'd hurt her? No, no, no. "When? How bad?"

"I just picked her up," Victoria replied. Gone was the usual snarl of irritation and condescension the older woman employed when talking to her younger, "wayward" sister. Now there was only panic, and a dark fury that seethed deep inside. "We're on the way back to her place. Those bastards attacked her after she got off-shift. Broke her wrist. She won't go to a hospital and I thought... thought that maybe..."

That maybe I could do something,Dylan realized as another wave of fear left her feeling slightly nauseated. Aloud, she said, "Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. I just have to call John to give me a ride, then stop by the store and pick up a few first-aid things. Cesca's going to have to go to a hospital, though, Tori, if her wrist is broken. I can splint it, but she's going to need a cast. Are you sure it's broken?"

"Yeah,"Tori replied, and Dylan caught the undercurrent of queasiness in her older sister's voice. Victoria had always been rather squeamish. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Okay," Dylan said. "I'll be there." She hung up and stared at the phone for so long in silence that she started to space out as fear began squirming like maggots in the pit of her stomach. When Nuada touched her wrist, she jumped. Met worried golden eyes.

"What's wrong, my love?"

My love. The words formed like liquid gold in her chest and melted into waves of warmth that helped combat the panic slithering up and down her spine. She took a deep, steadying breath and let it out.

"My sister, Francesca…she's been hurt. She needs my help. I have to call my brother so I can get to her." Seeing the flash of annoyance on Nuada's face, Dylan stiffened slightly. "Nuada?"

"I will take you where you need to go, my lady," the prince said coolly. "I will send a servant for the medical supplies you need. Make a list."

Dylan raised an eyebrow, taken by surprise both by his terseness and his willingness to help in something so…well, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. She knew Nuada had more important things to do than worry about her human sisters, but he was offering his aid anyway. Because…perhaps because he loved her.

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Silver cat-eyes watched from a high window as Crown Prince Bres of the neighboring Irish-Elven kingdom of Cíocal bowed low to the fair-skinned, amber-eyed princess in the Royal Gardens and offered her his arm. So, the Fomorian prince had already begun attempting to woo the Tuathan princess. If it worked out the way Bres intended (at least publicly intended), the union produced between Cíocal and Bethmoora would be a strong one.

But somehow I doubt that's actually what he intends, the dark Elf thought. If he intends harm to Nuala, I will have to put an end to him.

The Zwezda Elf currently spying on the princess and her would-be suitor brushed back a strand of midnight-black hair and allowed her lips to quirk into a satisfied smile. She knew, of course, about the Fomorian plot to poison the king. Had seen Lady Dierdre with the naga slipping down the palace corridors only last night. If the dark Elf had been the proprietary type, she'd have been miffed at the Fomorians for stealing the beginning threads of one of her master's ideas. But since it didn't actually interfere with her master's plans, the Elf of Zwezda would let the Fomorian plot continue unmolested…for now. After all, her goal was not the king. Her goal was her master's goal: punishment for the crown prince for betraying his people.

For thousands of years the prince had battled for the freedom and livelihoods of the Fair Folk, not just of Bethmoora, but of all the Elven nations and the countless kingdoms ruled other than by Elf-kind. And now he'd supposedly betrayed all that for a moment's aberrant carnal pleasure. If that were true, did Nuada still mean to raise the Golden Army or no?

Master's plan originally was to drive the prince back from exile to better turn the king against him, the spy thought, remembering how her male counterpart had, at the behest of their noble master, unleashed a dipsa serpent upon the prince a little more than a year ago. The dipsa were incredibly venomous. One bite could bring a fully grown cave troll to Death's door, though usually not beyond. And those tiny, poisonous fangs had pierced the prince's skin before the Silverlance had managed to hack off the creature's head. Her master had thought Prince Nuada would be forced to return to Findias to heal from the attack. Once returned to Faerie, the Elf prince would see what the One-Armed King had reduced the Court of Bethmoora to, and take action, thus forcing the king's hand.

Instead, the stubborn prince had weathered the three months of venom-induced illness alone in one of his lairs scattered throughout the mortal realm. Then an even more convenient (and far more infuriating) situation had dropped into her master's lap: the human woman.

And now my master wants to use his original plan on the mortal instead of the prince—the venom of the dipsa serpent. No human has ever survived its bite. When the prince brings his little toy back to Findias, my master will sic the faerie snake on her. However...And that was the annoying thing: there was that "however." If we kill the woman, what if the prince decides to take vengeance on her killers?

The Elf of Zwezda had mentioned just such a possibility to her master. He had laughed and said, "Vengeance for a human strumpet? It is not as if we slay the prince's wife,or even someone he truly cares for. I merely seek to rid him of his distracting little plaything. Once she is dead, he will return to his original path. If he doesn't, we'll know he truly is the traitor the anti-human factions suspect and he will have to be suitably punished for betraying his people yet again. As for this so-called great love of theirs…there is nothing to it. She is nothing but a pleasant distraction. Kill her, and the prince will be himself again. Then we turn the king wholly against him."

She knew her master feared and respected the prince. Anyone with any sense of self-preservation feared making an enemy of Prince Nuada Silverlance, especially if that person was no warrior to begin with (and her master certainly was not a warrior, nor even a common soldier). Yet he still plotted against the king's only surviving son. Was it foolishness…or cunning? Perhaps her master only played the coward and the fool at court to throw others off his scent. She had no notion. It didn't matter anyway. She was loyal without question, and had been since her youth. She cared for Nuada and Nuala…but the honor of the fae and her loyalty to her master came first.

Woo your princess, Bres, the silver-eyed Elf thought as the Fomorian walked arm-in-arm with Princess Nuala. Follow your plots and plans if you so wish, but do not harm Nuala and do not get in my master's way. He'll put an end to you just as surely as he'll put an end to the prince's dalliance. And if you hurt my princess, I'll kill you myself.

She reached out behind her and found the head of the magical snake-creature that sat at her feet, coiled and waiting for her orders. She looked down into the reptilian eyes, so like her own slit-silver gaze, and smiled wearily at the scaled faerie. One hand gently stroked those tiny, iridescent scales. Serpentine death walks Findias on two legs, like an Elf, she thought as the forked, black tongue flicked out to taste the air. As soon as the human returns to Bethmoora.

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On the trip to Francesca's fifth-story apartment, Dylan learned something new about Nuada—he could run. Bearing a leather satchel with the necessary supplies for her sister, Nuada had woven his long hair into a silvery braid and then bent slightly backward, instructing Dylan to wrap her arms tightly around his neck and shoulders. Once she'd complied, he'd ordered her to give a small hop. Feeling foolish, she'd done so. At the same time, Nuada had twisted just a little so that she'd settled onto his back like a child about to get a "pony ride" from her father. Though it had been over two decades since she'd gotten anything of the kind from her father, the position was still familiar and it had been easier to settle into place.

After getting the address from her and making sure she was ready, Nuada had glamoured them and taken off like a shot toward the gates of Central Park. The running had been exhilarating—the wind whipping through her hair, the snowflakes drifting so slowly that at her incredible speed it had seemed as if they were standing still, the crisp winter air in her lungs.

Then they hit traffic.

Dylan scrunched her eyes shut and pressed her face against Nuada's neck as he gave a sharp jump. She squeaked as they went airborne. There was the sound of his boots hitting metal, then he catapulted off the taxi-cab's roof, bounded across three lanes of traffic, and easily found the sidewalk. Dylan was practically hyperventilating at this point, but the same excitement she felt on a rollercoaster had taken up residence in her stomach and she had to fight the urge to giggle slightly hysterically.

Nuada kept running—free-running, she'd heard it called—dodging cars and launching himself over delivery trucks, scaling the brick sides of buildings and then dashing across the roofs to leap to other buildings. When he took the longest jump yet, a gap that spanned at least twenty feet, Dylan actually got enough breath to scream…but it wasn't in fear. They landed and Nuada glanced at her over his shoulder.

"All right, love?" He asked warmly. He hadn't broken a sweat from his exertions; he wasn't even winded. She nodded, giggling somewhat breathlessly as exhilaration swept through her.

"I'm fine. This is…amazing." She shook her head in open admiration. "You're amazing."

A little-boy grin edged with smug, male satisfaction lit up his face. "Well, thank you, milady. We're almost there. Let us continue, shall we?"

Once they arrived at Francesca's apartment, her prince carried her up the five flights of stairs (none of the building's elevators were currently in service) on his back. It almost made Dylan laugh; she hadn't been carried around like this since her high school years in the institution, when the rare male friend had managed to sneak a piggy-back ride when the adults weren't looking. Nuada set her down on the landing in front of her sister's door. She raised her hand to knock, then turned to look at her prince.

"Thank you," she murmured. "You didn't have to do this. Thank you, Nuada."

To her surprise, he caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips. His breath was warm and soft against her skin just before he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Her heart lurched in her chest. It nearly somersaulted when he carefully nipped her knuckles, a gentle scrape of teeth, while holding her pinned with the sudden intense amber of his gaze. Dylan swallowed hard.

"For you, a ghrá," Nuada whispered. "Always and only for you."

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The moment the door opened to reveal a slender woman who favored Dylan in looks—her black hair was darker, longer, but it was just as curly, and they had the same silvery-blue eyes, though this new woman's eyes were flat and empty as any human's, lacking Dylan's fey quality to her gaze—Nuada's lady limped inside. After a moment's hesitation, the woman who'd answered the door made way for Nuada as well, who glamoured himself to look grotesquely human.

Dylan went straight to where another woman hunched on the ratty sofa. She would've been identical to the first woman if not for the bruises shadowing her beating-swollen face. Her broken wrist was cradled to her chest. Rage and revulsion pulsed through Nuada's blood. Human or no, violence against women disgusted him.

"Hey, 'Cesca," Dylan murmured gently, and her injured sister looked up.

Francesca's smile wobbled. "Hey, D." Slow tears coursed down the cheeks covered in purple and blue bruises.

When Dylan tried to lever herself to the floor, she ended up falling and hit the floor with a thump. Nuada moved to help her, but she waved him away with a tight smile. "Ow. Grace, my name is not. Give me your wrist," she said to her sister. Francesca, usually so foul-mouthed and loud and abrasive, meekly and quietly obeyed. Nuada quietly thanked the gods for small mercies.

While Dylan set the bones in her older sister's wrist and splinted it, took care of the lacerations on that beautiful face and strapped her sister's cracked ribs, she talked about how she and her battered sister would file a police report as soon as this was over. If the older woman didn't want to go to the "cop shop," then Dylan would call someone named Peabody and the LT would come up to the apartment. When Francesca protested, Dylan said only, "It's against the law not to file a report on a crime."

"What if I don't want to press charges? Ow," Francesca added when Dylan touched the multi-colored shiner surrounding her left eye.

"Doesn't matter. Obvious signs of physical violence means you don't have a choice," the psychiatrist replied, and put a butterfly bandage on the gash bisecting her sister's left eyebrow.

Don't think about who did this, a female voice whispered in Nuada's mind.

Only centuries of self-control kept him from jumping in shock. He recognized that voice. Dylan's voice. He was hearing her thoughts, sensing…sensing some darkness in her mind. A result of their mind-merge earlier? He stiffened his spine, determined not to touch anything in this foul hovel he didn't have to, and listened to his lady's thoughts.

Don't think about them, Dylan commanded herself, and in his mind's eye, Nuada saw and almost seemed to feel fingers biting, bruising. Impossible strength pinning narrow hips. Blows against a small young face because, at age twelve, when someone bit Dylan, she bit back. Hard. Focus.

What is this? Nuada asked as something sick and savage churned in his stomach. What am I seeing? Dylan's memories. Memories of who? Of what?

"Your two options are to go down to the police station or let me call Peabody (or someone on her squad) and have them come here."

Francesca didn't say anything for a long time. Finally, she said, "I'll talk to Peabody—tomorrow, by myself—on one condition."

Dylan paused in cleaning grit from a scrape on her sister's forearm. "What condition?"

A nod in Nuada's direction had the prince stiffening automatically. "I want to see a picture of your boyfriend without his shirt on."

Two pairs of nearly-identical blue eyes locked. Revulsion rose up in Nuada's stomach, bile seared his throat. She wanted what? The little harpy wanted what? After a minute, Dylan rolled her eyes in what might have been exasperation.

"I don't have a picture of him, much less one of him shirtless. And he's not my boyfriend," she added belatedly.

Nuada barely refrained from raising an eyebrow. Why didn't she tell her sisters that he was her betrothed? To protect him from her family? Or because she was having doubts? Instinct told him it was most likely the second one…but that was ridiculous. And how was she even having such an innocuous conversation when he could feel the sick horror threatening to make her ill? There was something going on here, something more than he knew…but he would discover it soon enough.

"Riiiiight," Francesca replied, with a look that was disgustingly lewd. "He was at your house at two in the morning because you guys were doing calculus homework." At Dylan's look, Francesca added defensively, "Hey, Mom and Dad always bought that excuse when I used it. Anyway, you never have guys over. You never have anyone over—ow!" The transparent green gel Dylan was currently spreading over the scraped arm seemed to sting; the little witch deserved it for making such salacious comments. Unfortunately it wasn't enough to deter the revolting mortal. "So obviously this guy's really special. I wanna see him without a shirt. Ouch."

"If I promise to try, will you go down and file a report?" Dylan looked over in time to catch Nuada's glare, but the expression on her face begged for patience. With a reluctant nod, he forced his face to blankness.

"Pinkie swear." The mortal offered the pinkie of her free hand. When her younger sister hooked her own finger around the proffered pinkie, Francesca smiled again. It didn't wobble as much. "Okay, so…I gotta tell you something."

"Uh-oh." Dylan went back to putting a bandage on the scrape. Don't think about them. The words reverberated through Nuada's skull as Dylan tried to focus on what she was doing. Hell's teeth, he could feel the phantom memories slithering through her brain: cruel hands wrenching at her hair, knuckles splitting her lip, the taste of mortal blood like poison in her mouth, couldn't breathe around the hand clamped tight over her face…and then the awful, horrible ripping pain when—

Rage, black and vicious and burning icy-hot, flooded his veins. Who? Who was she remembering? But he could hear her shoving the memories down, forcing herself to forget what could never be forgotten. I am not going to think about this. I'm not going to remember it. Not right now.

"The dickheads wanted me to give you a message." Francesca said, and Dylan's eyes went glassy. "They said, 'Tell your sister to mind her own business.'"

Dylan's hands jerked violently and she fumbled the cap to the bottle of green gel. She paused. Took a ragged breath. Then she screwed the plastic cap back on the bottle and stowed it in the bag of medical supplies she'd brought. She turned back to her sister and looked her over with a critical (albeit professional) doctor's eye. She pulled out a container of mortal painkillers.

"Take four of these every six hours, with food, and keep that splint on your wrist. It'll limit your mobility and keep the swelling down until you can get to a clinic."

She began putting all of her things back in the bag. Her scissors fell out as she tried to stuff everything into its proper place. She paused with the scissors in her hand. The living room light flashed off the edge, like fluorescents gleaming on the edge of a knife.

"Was there anything else?" Dylan asked softly. Nuada tensed, though he didn't know why.

"They... they said... they said to tell you, 'Hi.'"

The sharp scissor blade bit deep into her palm. Crimson blood welled up and seeped between her fingers. Nuada was at her side in an instant, cupping her hand in both of his, sending soothing magic into the wound to dull the pain. But she didn't seem to feel the burn of the wound at all. Didn't even acknowledge the blood welling up and seeping between her fingers until her phone chimed and vibrated.

Shaking herself, Dylan reached with her mostly-uninjured hand (the cut at the base of her thumb had almost healed) and grabbed the royal blue device. Checked the screen. Nuada scanned the readout as well; a typed message from someone called Dr. Hollis. The words made no sense to him, but they seemed to fill Dylan with icy terror.

"Lisa in Iso 4 attacking Westenra. Your psych-eval—Tue 8AM. Westenra conducting. Nothing can do. —Dr. H"

Westenra. Westenra? He knew that name, but how? And what did that mean, Westenra conducting? Nuada remembered Dylan needed to be "evaluated" in order to return full-time to her job, but why did this Westenra need to be there?

Dylan made a small sound, one Nuada hoped never to hear from her again. His eyes widened as the color drained from her face. He reached for her, but before he could touch her, she struggled to her feet and raced down the hall, barely making it to the bathroom before she was thoroughly and violently sick.

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Author's Note: hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and I'd love to hear what you think of how things are going thus far. Huggles?