"You'll never escape now," the Dark Knight says to Marie from his thorny throne. "Those boys you're with, they'll soon leave you for dead. Time passes differently here, you know." She smiles at him, and it is more than a snarl than anything. She's heard much about this Dark Knight and the way he came to power – protecting a woman, or a pixie, or something. Stories differ in the telling, but all involve lies, murder, and the eerily tall, eerily beautiful blond king. His returning smile is silky, sultry, like a cat with the cream and the canary too. Grudgingly, she admits she likes him, despite being his captive.
"It doesn't pass oddly for me," she retorts. "I'm different." The Dark Knight laughs softly, the sound echoing up Marie's spine.
"Oh, Ciadhrenne. Everyone says that, and everyone is wrong." He looks at her deeply, softly, terribly. "That's what we make them believe, my pet." The magic infusing the air is making it easier to hear thoughts, and so instead of letting him read her mind and learn her secret prematurely, she slowly channels her energy into her bonds, making them over-dried and brittle – even more so than the branches from which they are constructed.
"Why do you call me Ciadhrenne, my lord? The word means runner, and I have not run." The Dark Knight smiles, shows his dove-white teeth with a perverse sort of pride. He is lovely.
"Not yet, my pet, but you will. And when you do?" He dismounts the throne and walks to the birch trunk to which she is tethered. "I shall catch you." Marie grins evilly as he presses up against her, raw and sexual in all the right places. The Dark Knight is well known for his love of human women and his prowess in human beds, and she pretends to watch him hungrily as he ghosts over her lips. "You're mine," he affirms softly, long fingers at her jaw. She closes her eyes and offers her lips up to him, intentionally vulnerable. As his lips come relentlessly down on hers, she breaks the branches holding her wrists and wraps her arms around his neck – sliding a thin iron file down his spine. He roars with the burning pain.
With the pressing problem of a witch where he thought he had a human woman, it doesn't take the Dark Knight long to free her with enough apology that she heals the burns on his neck and back.
"I'd stay for a while," she says good-naturedly to him before they leave, still relishing what of the kiss she'd managed to enjoy, "but I have two relatively important gentlemen at the surface waiting for me." The Dark Knight merely inclines his head and offers her a lock of his hair, potent for scrying and for calling him to her aid. In outwitting an enemy, Marie makes an ally.
By the time they reach the surface of the lake, spinning through labyrinthine tunnels and over delicate crystalline bridges, Marie is comfortable enough to jab at him with an elbow before she leaves.
"By the way, I told you time wouldn't pass differently for me." He merely smiles enigmatically and beckons to the still-bridled kelpie who is waiting, docile, in the reeds next to the edge.
"The best of luck in your quest," he says softly. "The Courts are with you." She nods, kisses his pale, cool cheek, and mounts the silent kelpie. He takes her to the side of the boat without any trouble, and Sam watches her alight with a sort of reverent awe for both her and the fey from which she has come.
"You made it," Dean says gruffly – as if he is disappointed to see her alive. She nods and slips the bridle off of the kelpie, watching closely as the water horse slinks back to the Dark Knight.
"He's on our side when we need him," she says calmly as the Dark Knight fades back into the shadowy underbrush. "And the Fainean is headed back to a natural lake. She and the kelpie won't be able to harm anyone unless they're called by blood." Dean makes a mildly accepting face and Marie uses a Spongebob Squarepants towel to dry her hair before turning to check on Sam. "Dean, will you take us home?" He nods coarsely and Marie takes Sam's pulse, smiling at him reassuringly.
"Hey," he croaks out. "You're wet." She grins and shifts him so his head is resting on her lap, pillowed softly on her crossed legs.
"News flash, big dubya – you're wet too." He smiles, more at the nickname than the response, and closes his eyes.
"Thank you for saving me," he says softly, almost unheard over the roar of the motors. She smiles and strokes his wet hair.
"Thank you for trusting me," she responds, and looks out over the horizon as Dean steers the boat back home.
Sam is tucked warmly into a big bed with a cup of hot chicken broth down his throat before Marie even thinks of taking off her own wet clothes. When she finally gets out of her shower and into dry, warm, comfortable clothing, a tracksuit and tank top, Dean is asleep on the sofa, drooling on the leather. She smiles gently, covers him with a faux fur blanket, tucks a pillow under his head, and debates for a moment whether or not to kiss his cheek. She laughs silently at her own folly, flicks on the radio next to the arm chair, and picks up a book.
But the kelpie isn't through with the Winchesters or Marie. He's slinking onto the deck, shifted into a young man naked from the waist up. It takes him no time to jimmy open the door without a sound. By the time she notices him, his knife is already at Dean's throat.
"Move and I'll kill him where he stands," the dark-eyed kelpie says, deep velvet voice washing over Marie. There is magic in the voice, compulsory magic that makes her arms twitch still. But this kelpie doesn't know about Marie, or he wouldn't be here.
"Why take him?" she asks softly. "Why not me? I'm the one you want, the one you lost. Why don't you have me?" The dark eyes smile evilly.
"One life is as good as another." Her eyes locked on the kelpie, heart pounding in her throat for Dean, who is staring at her balefully, the gunshot takes all three of them by surprise.
"Then let it be yours," Sam whispers from the balcony as the kelpie falls to the floor. "Let it be yours."