A/N: A thousand apologies for the delay to post the final chapters. I could easily hold them back for another few weeks, but I won't. I'm letting them go and hoping for the best. I sure hope that I didn't miss anything. These chapters were not reviewed by a beta.

To everyone following this story and to those who have reviewed, Thank you. I hope you enjoy the conclusion of Unwrapped.

RECAP: War was declared in Faery. Preston has been called to the frontline as a fairy solider. Niall has won the war, however, they are still hunting for Breandan and his dozen or so fairies who have escaped through the Nysa Path. Meantime, Lochlan and Neave have attempted to kidnap Sookie as a last ditch effort to get Niall to give up his victory. The crazy fairies failed to capture Sookie and were killed by Dermott and Bill. The story now resumes in Faery at the mouth of the Nysa Path.

Part Four

Nysa Path

In Faery, the cliffs flanking the Nysa Path casted long dark shadows across the plain. Preston watched the approaching water sprites. Behind them, the light of the moon revealed a trail of mist. The banners of the Lady of the Mists, the queen of Faery's underwater realm, flapped in the wind

She was part of the 'loose ends'; the sooner a truce was reached with the water sprites, the sooner they could transverse the Nysa Path, the sooner Breandan could be captured, and the sooner Sookie would be safe. Knowing that Breandan's assassins were on the loose made Preston anxious. The only comfort, if it could even be considered that, was that Mor was in Bon Temps guarding her. Preston was willing to deal with any whiplash of emotion it would generate from Sookie, if it meant that she had someone capable near her; someone Preston trusted with his own life.

He didn't know yet that Breandan's assassins were already dead. But he did know that as long as Breandan lived, Sookie's life would be in danger. Breandan had to die.

"She'll be fine," Marcán touched Preston's shoulder. Preston's expression was tense. Marcán needed him to focus. Having Preston distracted could get them killed. He didn't trust the water sprites. They were disloyal and opportunistic. If they thought there was an advantage to betraying them, they would.

"Let's end this tonight." Preston gave his friend a quick glance.

Marcán nodded in agreement. That was his sentiment exactly. He squeezed Preston's shoulder before releasing it.

The faces of the water sprites came into view. Every fairy in the encampment lowered their gaze. Water sprites no matter their form; mermaid, undine, or nymph, were dangerous. It took only one look to get caught in the power of their gaze. Any creature: fae, human, even vampire, would welcome death as long as it meant dying in the embrace of the water sprite.

The Lady of the Mists' procession stopped. Niall stepped forward, Dillon, Preston and Marcán on either side of him.

"Avital," Niall greeted the Lady of the Mists. His eyes focused on her mouth; never her eyes.

"Niall." Her lovely voice was intoxicating. It promised pleasures unimaginable.

There were parts of Niall's body that responded involuntarily. He resisted the pull of her voice; the tugging at his core to look into her eyes. Silently, he chastised himself.

"It is no time for games," Niall sharply said.

"There was a time when you loved my games." Avital filled every syllable with innuendo. Many centuries ago, when Niall had been a young fairy, he had fallen under her power. They had spent a marvelous summer exploring each other until Niall's father the Prince, rescued him from her bed.

Avital took a step closer to Niall. In a blink Preston transformed and Marcán with his sword in hand stepped forward in a defensive posture. A smile ghosted Niall's features. The young, he thought. He was proud at how quickly they responded to the threat.

"My." Avital drew in a sultry breath. The delicate gills on the sides of her neck moved in sync with her lips. "You never were much fun." She pouted, but cautiously she took a few steps back, putting some distance between her and the tawny wolf. In his animal form, Preston and the other wolves were immune to the water sprite's magic.

"We are at war Avital." Niall's tone was steel. "State your terms or leave, and prepare for battle." Breandan and his remaining forces were hiding in her territory.

"Suit yourself," Avital conceded. Her voice lost its seductive quality. "I come to negotiate peace." The Lady of the Mists did not want war with Niall. Water sprites were not warriors. Their only defenses were their powers of seduction and in war it put her people at a disadvantage.

"My terms are simple," Niall said. "Give me Breandan and his fairies, and I will not lay seize to your waters."

"I want amnesty for all of my people," Avital requested. "Not all my subjects played a role in Breandan's coup."

"Give me the sprites that played a hand in the deaths of those that were mine, and I will give you the amnesty you desire."

"You may have every traitor to do as you wish," Avital agreed. Her hand came up out from the mist that surrounded her where her legs should have been. She flicked her wrist. "Gavran." One of the water sprites behind her came to stand next to her. "He will give you what you seek. He can show you to Breandan and his fairies."

"Then let there be peace between us," Niall declared.

"Let there be peace," Avital confirmed. She titled her chin in a small nod. Her and her entourage disappeared; all except for Gavran.

Niall hesitated.

It was only a flash, but he saw the smile on Avital's face before she vanished. Niall had reason to be cautious. Though he didn't know it, Avital had given him one of the water sprites he had been searching for. She knew Gavran was one of the rebels who had sided with Breandan and who had killed for him. She had left this traitor to lead Niall's fairies through her territory.

Marcán, Fintan's only fairy son, stepped forward. Niall grabbed his grandson's arm. "Caution," Niall instructed him. "Not all is what it seems."

"I understand," he assured him.

"Oberon's speed." Niall released Marcán's arm. The young fairy did not hesitate. Following Gavran, Marcán and his fairies along with Preston and his kin, in wolf form, disappeared into the mist.

Fairies and wolves marched across the plains, making their way between the cliffs. Preston kept a close eye on Gavran. Under the moonlight, Gavran's form glistened; a mirage in the shape of a man. Eyes set narrow and eyes that hid the truth of things just below the surface. There was something about the water sprite that Preston didn't trust. Anyone who could seduce someone not only into forgetting who he is but into not feeling the passage of time was dangerous. Preston didn't want to forget Sookie. He couldn't afford to lose time. Sookie was short lived. A fact Niall made sure he wouldn't forget.

Preston glanced back. Marcán and his fairies were close behind. He turned around. His eyes darted back to Gavran. They had been marching for several miles, traveling deeper into the Lady of the Mists' territory. Rivers and streams like ribbons of mercury languidly weaved through the Nysa Path, filling the ravine with a sweet aroma. The sensual fragrance masked the scent of whatever was hidden behind the mist. The fur along Preston's spine rose. His skin crawled. A growl rumbled in his chest.

Gavran stopped. "This is as far as I can bring you." He turned and ran his fingers through Preston's tawny colored fur. "So lovely," he purred.

Preston growled. His canines were sharp and long. He mistrusted Gavran.

A wide smile pulled at Gavran's beautiful features. "Behave little wolf," he said.

"That is enough." Marcán ordered. He averted his eyes. "For your own good, this better not be a deception," he cautioned, finding it hard to be threatening when he couldn't look the water sprite in the eyes.

"Why changeling," Gavran seductively said. A chill slithered down Marcán's back. "For a quarter human, you are not as dumb; I'm impressed." He caressed the side of Marcán's face. Marcán jerked away. "If you only knew how long my master has longed to have you."

His words confirmed Marcán's bad feeling. He unsheathed his sword. The point grazed the water sprite's chest. Surprise flashed across Gavran's eyes so quickly it was unnoticeable. He stood still; not flinching.

Marcán's fairies studied the confrontation; all took notice that his free hand had dipped into his leather pouch. They followed his lead. Stealthily, they reached for the contents of their own satchels.

Preston guarded Marcán's back. His own arched. Fur standing. Eyes glared into the fog. The mist moved ever so slightly. Preston wasn't sure of what he saw. He snarled instinctively. His wolves took a defensive posture. The fur between their shoulders stood on edge. Their intelligent glassy eyes peered into the mist.

"Oh, you can fight," Gavran leered, "But it won't do you, any of you, any good."

Breandan and his fairies along with the rebel water sprites stepped out of the mist. They were surrounded.

Marcán flung a handful of powder at the water sprite. Gavran glanced at his chest. His body instantly absorbed the purple residue. He blinked up at Marcán. He was confused.

A sword plunged into Gavran's chest. Wide glossy eyed; he stared up at Marcán. Shock filled his expression.

The powder, a potion, turned Gavran into a solid form; mortal. Marcán pulled his sword out. It made a wet suctioning sound. Gavran fell. Dead.

Marcan's fairies scattered the purple powder from their pouches. The breeze caught it. Powder spattered onto the charging water sprites.

Preston lunged. Guarding Marcan's back, his powerful jaws tore at his attacker. The fairy screamed. His arm dangled by a thread of flesh.

The sounds of combat echoed off the walls of the cliffs. The ravine filled with death. Under the moonlight, the mercury ribbons, streams and river, turned black with blood.

This was no longer a mission to capture Naill's enemy. It was life and death.

A water sprite tackled Preston. The wolf yelped, drawing Marcán's attention. The fairy changeling turned; raised his sword.

In his peripheral vision, Preston spotted Breandan stalking toward Marcán. Preston growled. Marcán didn't understand. He moved to slay Preston's attacker.

The hilt of Breandan's sword slammed into the back of Marcán's head. He dropped to his knees. Stars filled his vision. With one hand, Marcán desperately pushed himself forward; half crawling along the ground. The world swirled. Preston blurred.

Preston desperately tore his claws into the water sprite on top of him. He had to help his friend.

Marcán leaned heavily on his right hand. Footsteps whispered at his side. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet. He flinched from the sharp pain piercing the back of his head. His eyes met his attacker. "Breandan."

"Cousin," Breandan snarled. He swung his powerful sword.

Marcán angled his blade. He blocked. The momentum pushed him back. Preston roared a few feet next to him.

"It was you dear cousin," Breandan sneered, "Who I had intended to kill, not your father." His sword clashed with Marcan's.

Marcán rocked in place. His blade felt heavy in his hand. "It's over." Marcán panted heavily. "Your. Reign. Ends. Tonight." Breandan's campaign had been allowed to go on for far too long. The terror of changeling children had to die.

"Such a romantic," Breandan bitterly replied. He stepped forward. His broad shoulders shielded the moonlight. "Just like Niall." He rushed forward.

Marcán raised his sword; reflected the blow, but lost his balance. He shuffled his feet. Corrected. Swirled. Breandan ducked. He felt the rush of air as the sword glided over his head. Breandan stood. Swung his sword low. Iron sliced Marcán's flesh. The blade made a clean cut across the back of his thighs.

Marcán screamed. He fell forward. His knees popped on contact with the ground. His sword flew out of his hand, landing out of his reach. He laid face down. The scent of grass wafted around him. His muscles convulsed; quick, short jerky movements.

Preston saw his friend fall. He tightened his powerful jaws around the water sprite's neck. Bones cracked. The water sprite went limp. He flung the lifeless body off of him. Instantly Preston transformed. He grabbed Marcán's sword. His chest heaved. Blood stained his mouth and his bare torso.

He launched himself. A bloody bullet streaking across the air. He collided with Breandan. They plummeted. Swords spiraled, landing on the ground.

Lightening fast they scrambled to their feet. Preston rushed toward the sword. He gripped it firmly. His heart pounded like a wild angry animal rattling its cage. Breandan had reached his sword.

They stalked; circling each other. Feral eyes fixed on their prey. Breandan expertly wielded his two-handed sword, cutting through the air. It was impressive. He shrieked. His blade wildly made for Preston's neck.

Preston jerked his head back. Breandan's sword missed, scouring his bare chest instead. It was like fire. A line of flames streaked across his upper body. Iron. With a pained rush of air, Preston backed up. His chest burned. He had never been touched by iron before. Preston's jaw tightened. Sweat beaded across his forehead. He trembled. The pain was sharp, a bone deep burning.

A smile flirted with the corners of Breandan's mouth. "So you are the one who has defiled himself with Niall's bastard."

"Fuck you," growled Preston. Breandan let out a low rumbling guffaw.

"Lochlan and Neave will have their fun with her." A sadistic pleasure rippled across his features. He circled Preston. Slowly. Confidently. A vulture, waiting to finish off the dying.

Preston's upper body was a blaze. Acid from his gut filled his mouth. He swallowed. It was bitter. There was suddenly three Breandans. Preston blinked. His vision snapped into focus.

"Niall's bastard will beg for me to kill her." Breandan cackled.

"Shut the fuck up." Preston steadied his legs and arms.

Seeing Preston's angry and pained expression, Breandan grinned. It was more than killing that thrilled him; it was the foreplay before death that excited him. He charged. His long heavy sword cut through the air. It came crashing down. Preston blocked it. Their swords screeched; filling the night with white blue sparks.

Their swords locked. The fairies stood chest to chest, face to face.

Breandan smiled. He released one hand. Fisted it, and with one sharp thrust, he smashed his fist in to Preston's face. Bone and cartilage snapped. A flash of pain threatened to drown Preston. His vision blurred. The world went pure white. He stumbled back; drunk with pain.

A vision of Sookie flashed across his eyes. 'I love you,' she said, blowing him a kiss. She smiled. 'I'll see you soon.' Blonde curls blew across her cheek. For a fraction, he could smell the fragrance of her skin; sunshine.

"Sookie," Preston whispered. He loved her. From the first moment he laid eyes on her, he belonged to her. He reached out to touch her.

Breandan lunged.

Preston cried out. Blood splattered across his face. He fell to his knees. His hand burned with iron. His other hand went slack around the handle of his sword. It laid on the ground next to him; harmless. Sookie vanished. He was back in the middle of the Nysa Path. His breaths were loud and short. Preston swayed onto the heels of his feet. His spark was drifting away.

His eyes followed Breandan's stalking movements. This was it. He knew he would never see Sookie again. He would miss her. The way she danced; her body swaying rhythmically. With her clothes on or off he enjoyed watching her dance. A gentle melancholy smile ghosted his face. Tears streaked down his bloody face. He had promised to keep her safe. He had always kept his word.

Breandan's cruel laughter filled the ravine. He leapt into the air. His blade came barreling down.

Everything happened instantaneously.

In a blink Preston decided. If he was to die, so would Breandan. Conviction solidified his will. Rage energized him. Preston lifted his sword. He pushed up with his thighs meeting Breandan's sword.

"Die," Preston growled. His sword plunged up and into Breandan's gut. He drove his sword to the hilt, as Breandan's blade dug into his shoulder. Preston's arms quivered. Hot blood poured over his hand, running down his arm; mixing with his own.

He didn't let go. Breandan's momentum jerked him. His sword tore Breandan from gut to pelvis. The large fairy crashed, taking Preston.

Blood pooled beneath them as the fighting continued around them.

Preston breaths were short, strained. The weight of Breandan's body was oppressive. Time lost meaning; lost substance. Over the fire that was consuming him, Preston felt it. Breandan was turning to dust. There was peace in that knowledge.

Sookie was safe.

Breathing became easier, but not less painful. Moments later, Preston slipped into the darkness.

. . .