Author's Note: so here we are with the next chapter of Moonless. Because this chapter is really dark and depressing, I'm also posting the next chapter, which is a lot…erm…less depressing, I think. Less torturous, at any rate. So I hope you guys enjoy this chap and let me know what you think, yeah?

Loves to you all!

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Chapter Seven

Blood in the Water

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It went on seemingly for days. Nuada tried to keep track as dawn broke, then night fell, then sunrise came again, before dusk descended upon them. But the hours blurred together, smeared by the fog of Branwen's Tears and carnal pleasure, agonizing pain and long hours of unconsciousness after he'd spent himself with Eamonn's mortal prisoner. Had he been trapped in this cottage—in this room—for five days? Six? A week? Longer?

It felt like longer. He thought it was longer. How long could Dylan survive what he and Eamonn were doing to her? She was so terribly thin; he could see the bluish bruise-like shadows of her ribcage against her pale skin. She'd become so white, from lack of sunshine and loss of blood. That terrible paleness showed between the splotches of dark bruises scattered across her slender body. She scarcely had the strength to move at times. How long could she survive the onslaught of the venomous Tears?

Rousing himself from another bout of unconsciousness, Nuada peered at Dylan through bleary eyes as Eamonn lifted her up and carried her toward the bathing room. Her thin, pale arms were around his neck and she was kissing him almost desperately even as tears spilled like liquid crystal down her thin cheeks. Had the dark Elf even let her eat anything before dosing her this time?

Sometimes he did. He would feed her enough to keep her alive after forcing her—without the numbing effect of the gancanaugh poison—to do…things according to his whims. Service him with her mouth, her body. Service Nuada, who was never allowed to fully throw off the poison. It was worse, though, when the Tears held him only partially in thrall, because then he could see the frantic horror in her gaze, the tears cutting her eyes like cold diamonds, the way she had to steel herself to touch him while her entire body trembled with revulsion and fear. And if the Elven prince rejected her touch, as he'd managed to do once…

Eamonn had reached new heights of brutality to punish the mortal for "failing to rouse" the prince. Nuada had been sick with fear that his pitiless enemy would actually kill Dylan before Nuada's very eyes, and he would be unable to do anything but watch, bound and helpless to save her. He hadn't killed her, but only because Nuada had begged him…

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"Please," the crown prince had pled, straining against his bonds. "Dean trócaire! Eamonn, trócaire—mercy! For Danu's sake, show some mercy! Stop! Stop, you'll kill her! Stop, I beg you!"

The silver-eyed Elf, breathing heavily, had glanced over at the prince. He'd held Dylan by the throat, limp as a ragdoll. Blood had smeared her face and thighs. She had gasped for air, a terrified panting that had seemed to exhaust what energy she'd had left after this latest in a long string of brutal rapes and beatings. A sneer had twisted Eamonn's features. He'd dropped Dylan to the floor; she'd lain there in a heap without moving. The dark Elf had turned, still panting for breath, and stalked toward Nuada with mad hatred blazing in his eyes.

"You beg me? Beg me for her? You pathetic wretch," he'd snarled, backhanding Nuada savagely across the face. The prince had tasted the fey sweetness of his own blood. "She's a human! She's the enemy! Damn you, Silverlance, why did you betray us? Why do you care for her? You should have snapped her neck the night you met her!" Half-insane with fury, Eamonn had turned on his heel. "I'll do it, seeing as you're too weak. I'll break her neck right now." He'd taken a single step toward Dylan, vibrating with rage. "It will be so easy…like snapping a twig. Or better yet…"

"No! Eamonn, you cannot! Please! Eamonn, for the gods' pity, please! Ná, impigh mé leat—don't, I beg you! Don't, please! Don't! Eamonn!"

But all his frantic pleas had seemed to be for naught. Eamonn had straddled Dylan's prone body and curled his long fingers around her neck. His breathing had quickened, his arousal at the thought of killing her plain enough. With a low snarl, those long fingers had tightened around the vulnerable neck. Dylan had tried to gasp, tried to struggle, but she'd been too weak. Her feeble attempts to push Eamonn away had wrung Nuada's heart.

That cruel grip had tightened, Dylan's breath had gurgled in her throat, and slowly—so terribly slowly—the blood had suffused her pale face, her heels had drummed helplessly against the floor, and her hands had fluttered like dying birds to the carpet. Those beautiful blue eyes had bulged from her skull as Eamonn had slowly, viciously begun to throttle the life from her.

"No! No! Eamonn, no!" Nuada had found himself sobbing, hot tears streaming down his face as he'd strained to reach for Dylan, struggled vainly to save her. "Gods, please, don't! Please, please…Eamonn, please…please…" Nuada had wept. "Stop it…please…"

And miraculously, Eamonn had stopped. He'd stared at Nuada with disgusted fascination before getting to his feet, spitting on Dylan's prone body, and stalking into the bathroom to take a shower. Dylan had lain on the carpet, gasping for air, while Nuada shuddered and the tears continued to scald his cheeks.

Then…a small sound of pain. The prince of Bethmoora had watched, jerking on his bonds in a futile attempt to draw closer, as Dylan somehow found the strength to drag herself to him. She fell at last to the floor before him, panting and weeping silently, and Nuada had finagled around the ropes enough to lift her into his arms and hold her against his chest, his cheek against her hair. Dylan's hand had touched his chest, light as the flutter of butterfly wings, before falling back to her belly.

"It's all right now," he'd whispered inanely. He couldn't stop the tears stinging his eyes; they fell onto her face, into her mouth, mingled with her own cold tears. "It's all right, mo bheag amháin—my little one. I have you. It's all right, I have you now. Tá brón orm, Dylan. Oh, gods, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Dammit, Dylan, I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry, little one."

A touch on his cheek from trembling fingers. He'd squeezed his eyes shut, wondering suddenly if he'd died at some point and the gods had sent him to Hell for his past sins. Was this Hell—watching an innocent woman being raped and tortured by his enemy, unable to put a stop to it? Dylan had stroked his cheek. Whispered something. Nuada had lifted his head to peer down at her, at her poor bloodied face.

"What?"

"It's okay," she'd rasped. "It's…okay. We'll get out. 'Kay?"

Pressing his cheek to her hair again, he'd gritted his teeth and swore to her, "Yes. Yes, we will. I swear it."

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Nuada came back to himself as Dylan made a soft sound of protest. Sometimes, more often over the last few days, she and Nuada had found moments of weakness in the merciless grip of the poison, and they'd managed to hold onto themselves for a few brief moments. It never lasted long enough to resist the siren call of carnal joining, however. It only heightened the strain on both of them. The Tuathan prince wondered how long it would be before his sanity broke.

Eamonn didn't even bother to hit her. He merely grabbed her chin in his fist, making it very clear that he could crush her jaw if he pressed hard enough, and forced her to accept another violating kiss. Whatever moment of clarity and freedom Dylan had found from the Tears disappeared under his onslaught. He slammed her against the doorframe, his hands clutching greedily at her bare breasts. Nuada knew Eamonn's grip would leave more bruises. Dylan's skin was already covered in dark fingerprints.

Of course the prince knew that Eamonn didn't care how badly Dylan was hurt, so long as she was still useable for his pleasure. In fact, the sadistic Elf seemed to derive as much if not more pleasure from beating her as he did from raping her. Sometimes he would flog her with a length of knotted rope, forcing her to count the strokes aloud; if she lost count or missed a stroke, the torture would start again. Her humiliating submission always served to excite him. If she protested any of his demands when attempting to barter, he used that hand-fashioned whip on her.

She'd refused to give into him at first, refused to barter her body for food, until Eamonn had told her that if she didn't eat, neither did Nuada or Becan. Everything they needed—the sparse food and water he allowed them, bathroom necessities—had to be paid for with Dylan's body, with her humiliation and pain.

And Eamonn was doing it all to punish him.

Just as he was pinning Dylan against the doorframe to force himself on her again, to punish Nuada for something he hadn't even done. He hadn't fallen in love with a human, hadn't bedded one—at the time—and hadn't betrayed his people. Would never betray his people.

Damn you, Eamonn, Nuada thought while the edge of the metal doorjamb sliced a crimson line in Dylan's hip that dripped blood onto the floor. Damn you. I'll kill you. I'll kill you for this if it is the last thing I ever do on this earth.

Nuada indulged in the litany whenever he was clearheaded enough to think of something besides the innocent woman he'd used like a whore-doll for the last however many days; he focused on his rage, his hate, to drown out the rhythm of Eamonn's violation, Dylan's cries of pleasure/pain, her weeping. The sounds of it all nearly drove him mad if he let it. He owed her a debt, damn his own soul, and yet he was one of the twin sources of her suffering. Eamonn had chosen his so-called revenge very well.

The Tuathan prince heard Eamonn's breathing speed up, grow ragged. The vicious thudding from across the room increased in tempo. Dylan sobbed—whether with pain or with need, even Nuada couldn't tell. The prince didn't dare close his eyes. If Eamonn caught him not watching what he did to Dylan…it would be a thousand times worse for them both. He'd already learned that. The dark Elf had demonstrated the contrivance he'd come up with for dislocating Dylan's shoulders as the initial punishment when Nuada had sought some peace by shutting his eyes against the sight of Eamonn sodomizing the innocent, inexperienced girl. Then Eamonn had given Nuada a beating of his own, focusing on his lash-raw back. The prince could've endured the beating…but not Dylan's agonized screams.

Impotent rage and despair twined together in Nuada before tightening in his throat, almost like a noose, as the rape in the bathroom doorway ended with a satisfied groan from Eamonn. The Elf of Zwezda leaned in and kissed the mortal. Growled, "Oh, good girl" when she didn't try to shove him away, but merely endured it with her eyes squeezed shut. He shoved her into the bathroom. Leaving the door open so Nuada could watch, he lifted her onto the counter. Moved between her legs. He wasn't finished with her by any stretch.

Agonized eyes, a thin ring of glazed blue circling impossibly-wide pupil—an effect of the Tears—met Nuada's over Eamonn's shoulder. Her drug-influenced body met the dark Elf's every violating thrust, but Nuada's gut churned and twisted at the revulsion and desperation in Dylan's eyes. She was trapped in that enslaved shell, unable even to deny Eamonn with vain struggles. Nuada could see that her sanity teetered on the brink of shattering, perhaps at any moment. He tried to convey his rage in his eyes, his disgust with Eamonn, his hatred; tried to communicate to her that he would get her out of this place or die trying. Crystal tears spilled from her eyes and Dylan dropped her head to Eamonn's shoulder.

Bestial grunts, growls of pleasure, and another groan signaled the end of Eamonn's diversion. He kissed Dylan hard enough to draw a few tiny rivulets of blood from her bruised, swollen lips. Then he gave her a rough push further into the bathing room. Moments later, the shower came on.

Nuada knew what would happen next. Eamonn would shove Dylan beneath the water, shut the shower door, and seal it with magic to keep her from leaving. Then he would hit Nuada with enough Branwen's Tears to leave him insensible to anything but woman's flesh, force a few mouthfuls of the stuff down his throat so the shower wouldn't alleviate the effects, and watch him crawl toward the bathing room—and Dylan—in order to ease his craving. The dark Elf had done it twice before this. Nuada supposed it was the only way for Eamonn to keep either the prince or the mortal clean enough to suit him.

I'm going to kill him for you, Dylan, Nuada thought as Eamonn proceeded to do just as Nuada had anticipated. Even as the dark Elf forced several swallows of Branwen's Tears into his mouth, the rage burned through him, and he swore silently, I'll kill him for you, little one. I swear it on my mother's memoryI'll kill him for you. And then you may carve out my heart if you require the satisfaction for what I've done to you…what I'm about to do to you.

Except that this time, there was that difference again. He could feel it, somehow…just a slight shift. And it didn't slip away from him after a few seconds, either.

Had Eamonn miscalculated? Given him less of the Tears than usual? Or was Nuada becoming slightly immune from the constant exposure? For it was almost—almost—possible to keep his mind clear. Real thoughts swam through the haze of fury and hatred and fierce lust, quick as minnows in a stream.

And when the deliciously hot water from the shower pounded down on his body, sending needles of searing pain through his raw back and washing the poison from his skin, for the first time Nuada found himself able to actually think somewhat rationally while Dylan came into his arms, slippery as a mermaid. And when she kissed him, grasping for him as if he would disappear at any moment, he felt the difference in her, too. They were both a little more themselves than they'd ever been since the start of their captivity. Perhaps it was the pain. Perhaps it was immunity after all. And perhaps they could…no…could they? Could they possibly…

There was a small, pink plastic disposable razor on one of the shower shelves. Nuada pinned Dylan to the slick white-tiled wall, holding her in place with his body, struggling to focus on what he was trying to do…but it was so hard, she was so warm, so lovely. Her body was so eager. Her skin were slick with water; the dark, ragged, glossy silk of Dylan's hair hung in damp tendrils around her slender neck and against her pale cheeks.

Shades of Annwn, he wanted her. When she twined her leg around his hip and pressed to him, showing him how very ready she was, he nearly came undone. He gripped her hip with his right hand, shoving his other hand against the slick shower wall. Unable to help himself, he slid his right hand down over her hip, smoothing it along the thigh pressed against him. The thick white scar on her inner thigh caressed his skin, stoked the fire in his belly.

Poisonous Tears blazed through him, dragging his head down to kiss her desperately—oh, gods, sweet Fates, he ached to have her, she was pressed so close—but instead of claiming her, he kissed her. Kissed her slowly, longingly, as if there was nothing else he could ever want, even as he ground his hips against her, making Dylan cry out against his mouth. And as he shifted her with one hand, his other hand seemed to flail blindly at the wall beside her opposite hip, swiping bottles of shampoo and soaps to the floor…and allowing him to catch hold of the seven-inch piece of plastic.

He reached between them, hiding the hopeful weapon with his body from Eamonn. In a moment, the dark Elf would insist on having Dylan between himself and Nuada, insist on "sharing" her. When that moment came, Nuada would be able to kill him. It would have to be quick—stars curse it—but Eamonn would still be dead. But only if he could make this small implement into a weapon. How could he do that without his captor hearing the sharp crack of him snapping off one end to make a jagged point?

Dylan's hand found the base of his throat, slid down over the wall of his chest, tracing the contours of muscle. Her mouth followed, lips catching droplets of water along the thin scars on his chest. He shuddered, groaned. He couldn't think when she did that, not with the poison urging him to take her amidst the heat and water and steam. The slow undulation of her hips didn't help anything, either. He couldn't—

She grasped the razor and twisted slightly. The inch-long plastic razor-end popped off, leaving a thin, rather poky piece at the end. Eyes of molten bronze met a gaze of fey-like blue and abyssal black. Dylan's pupils were so wide they nearly swallowed the blue, but Nuada could see that she'd had the same thought as he. Eamonn would die. He would die now, today, in but a few moments, and the two of them would be free at last.

"My turn, Silverlance," Eamonn growled softly. Nuada could just see the cruel smirk on his face, even without looking. Rage pumped hot through the prince's veins. His turn? His turn?

Nuada buried his face against Dylan's neck, licking droplets of water from her skin, as if he were too entranced to notice anything else. She moaned his name and dropped her head back against the wall. He loved Dylan's neck, loved the long smooth column of it, the way she arched into him when he nibbled and sucked the flesh over her fluttering pulse.

But he had to focus, stars curse it. His large hand nearly swallowed the pink razor handle. His eyes met Dylan's again. Wait for it, he commanded while his blood burned in his veins, urging him to forget this silly ploy and go about the business of spilling his seed in her body. He bit his tongue so that blood spilled into his mouth, allowing him to think a bit more clearly. Wait for it, little one, Nuada reassured her silently, and he's ours.

Finally, when Eamonn stepped right up to him, laying a revolting hand on an undamaged portion of his shoulder to turn him from Dylan, Nuada finally lashed out.

With a lightning-strike motion that sent agony through his back, Nuada twisted around and plunged the sharp end of the razor handle into Eamonn's silver cat-eye. The Elf of Zwezda shrieked and threw himself backward, staggering out of the shower into the bathroom. Nuada stumbled after him, blood sheeting down his back.

Dylan darted out and around the prince, quick as a pouncing cat, and she slammed into Eamonn with all her strength. The Elf struck his head on the corner of the bathroom counter, falling to his hands and knees. Blood dripped from a gash in his forehead. He scrabbled madly at the counter, finding both bottles of Tears, and managed to throw them at the Elf prince and the mortal. The contents splashed over their skin before the bottles dropping to the floor, where the poison gushed from the bottles over their feet. Both Dylan and Nuada recoiled as if from acid.

It was a quick and clever ploy to buy Eamonn some time, but even as the effects were beginning to sink in, searing and scalding with knives of ice, Dylan launched herself after Eamonn as he tried to crawl out of the bathroom, clutching at his ruined eye. She knocked him to the carpet and raked him with her nails, pounded at him with her fists, before grabbing the protruding piece of plastic and ramming it deeper into his skull. Incoherent curses gurgled in her throat, mingling with crazed screams. He had to die; he had to die!

Before the piece of pink plastic could go deep enough to kill him, however, Eamonn struck out at her, sending her to the floor. Snarling, he lurched toward her, reaching for her throat. Grasping it, he squeezed, shoving the mortal woman down onto the carpet, slamming her head against the floor as he throttled her. He could feel the fragile windpipe beginning to give slightly under the pressure of his grip. Good. He'd kill the little bitch. He'd had his fun, made Silverlance suffer. Now he'd kill her and—

Something massive slammed into Eamonn, sending him tumbling to the floor. Dylan coughed and choked, gasping for breath, as Nuada tried to get to his feet after tackling his foe. Amber blood was sheeting down his back and his entire body shuddered with the agony of his reopened wounds and the Tears boiling in his veins. He managed to get to his feet, only to fall to his knees again, and Eamonn lunged for him.

He was brought up short by Dylan, who'd found the torn fragments of yet another nightgown. She brought it, twisted into a rope, down to wrap around Eamonn's throat. She put all of her weight behind it, hauling on the makeshift garrote while Eamonn gurgled and choked. He clawed at the nightgown-rope. Dylan gritted her teeth, biting down on her bottom lip until she tasted blood. She wouldn't let go; she wouldn't. She'd kill him. She would kill him!

Then Nuada was there, his long-ago discarded knife retrieved and in his hand, and he drove the silver blade into Eamonn's chest and belly over and over again. Hot silver blood spurted from the wounds, splashing Nuada's hands, his arms, his face and torso. Eamonn choked on a scream as Nuada effectively gutted him with the twin-knife and Dylan strangled him with the silky nightgown.

The prince and the mortal only eased up when Eamonn had finally ceased to stop twitching for nearly fifteen minutes. Dylan's hands practically creaked as she pried her fingers from the satin-like rope. Nuada hunched on his hands and knees over the corpse, panting for breath, covered in silver, gold, and a bit of scarlet blood. Dylan tried to crawl away from the corpse, but she found herself scuttling toward the Elven warrior who'd helped slay her nightmarish tormentor. She cuddled against Nuada, shaking violently in reaction to the killing, and Nuada wrapped his arms around her, hissing at the pain in his back and the ache in his arms and shoulders.

"It's all right," he wheezed, rocking her back and forth. "It's over. It's all right now, little one, shhh." He shushed her gently even though she made no sound, only trembled. "He's dead. It's all right. Shhh…he's dead, Dylan, he's dead. It's over now. Shhh…" Then Nuada gasped as the ebbing adrenaline and battle-fire made way for the scalding lust. He tried to shove it down, shove it away, but it dug its talons into him, deep enough to draw intangible blood, and would not let him go.

He looked down at Dylan; saw that she felt it as well. Nuada shoved her away and lurched to his feet. Stumbled. No. No! He wouldn't take her again, he wouldn't. He would die first before succumbing, before raping her again. Eamonn was dead; the nightmare was over, dammit!

Somehow he staggered out into the corridor, but the world was swimming, tilting and whirling, he couldn't remember how to get to the front door. What little sanity he had left mocked him for thinking he could survive walking out naked into a New York night in November, with snow freezing the ground and falling thickly outside. Nuada had no mind for such details.

He tripped and half-fell into a little room he'd never been in before, a den of some sort. Vainly he struggled to navigate around chairs and a sofa while the world twisted and spun around him, but he stumbled over a little stool and landed on the plush woven rug in front of the fireplace, gasping for air. He ground his teeth as every muscle in his body tightened until he thought he'd scream with the pain of it. The touch of the rug was agony against his over-sensitized skin. The heat of the fire in the den hearth threatened to burn him alive.

"Nuada!" Dylan cried from behind him. He jerked around, causing a wave of white-hot shards to scrape over his back, and saw her try to come toward him, only to falter and sink to the ground. She was too weak from the attack on Eamonn—on top of more than a week in captivity—to come to him on her own two feet after rushing after him. But she managed to crawl toward him, mumbling, "You're hurt. You can't go, you're hurt, you…"

"Stay away," he gasped out, even as he reached for her. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe past the lust rising in him. The haze was descending, blocking everything out. Mingling with the lust and the poison was the instinct of life over death; they had nearly been killed, but despite their enemy they had survived. His body wanted hers, wanted to claim her as its rightful spoils for winning the battle and destroying the enemy; her body wanted to be claimed by him…even though he knew she would despise him when the poison wore off. "No…no, Dylan…don't…"

Then her fingers touched his, tangled with his, and apocalyptic fire crashed down on them both. Nuada yanked her toward him, twisted to get her beneath him. She was still naked, still wet from the shower. Wet, warm, so soft, Hell's teeth, he couldn't help himself, couldn't think. His mouth came down on hers, needing, devouring. Her lips were so soft. Tongues tangled, breath mingled. Slender fingers tunneled into Nuada's hair. Dylan's frantic heartbeat pounded against his chest through their slick skin. His hand slid greedily up her lean thigh. Her hands roamed over his body, uncaring of the blood. And oh, gods, he could smell her, her hair and her skin, clean water and desire and…

Nuada pulled that long lean leg over his hip, nudged her other leg aside to leave her open to him, and with his mouth hot and hungry on hers to swallow her cries of pleasure, he took her over and over, drowning them both in the ecstasy of their joining once more, as he'd sworn he would never do again.

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Author's Note: this ending was why I decided to post the next chapter, which has a lot less violence and no sex (though still some angst, obviously). We're getting to one of my favorite parts in the story, though. I promise. So I hope you guys liked this chapter and please let me know what you think! =D Reviews are love!

And the chapter title actually comes from a song in Legally Blonde: The Musical. Little fun fact. It's actually about being a lawyer, but I thought it fit this chapter.