Once Upon a Time

by LA Knight

Wolves in human skin. A Beast and a lost maiden. A sanctuary in a storm. A prince of Elven blood. Sacrifices, debts, honor, & oaths. Ten long, beautiful years, and all the stories that fall within. A collected fic series; currently on book 13. Updates when I can because hey it's a pandemic. Early access available on Patreon.

112. A Night of Breaking

Author's Note: hello, everybody! Look at yourself. Now look at me. Now back to yourself. Now back to me! Sadly, you are not a fanfic. But you can enjoy many fanfics by browsing this website at three in the morning! Now look around. Where are we? We are on the internet, a vortex that has this bad habit of sucking up our attention even if we have homework or other random but very important crap to do. But don't worry because the internet has two tickets to that thing you love.

And if you guys think I'm on drugs, you need to check out the Old Spice commercial that was spoofed by Sesame Street. Anywho, hope you guys enjoy the chapter, sorry I'm late, and let me know what you think. Bye!

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Chapter One-Hundred-Eleven

A Night of Breaking

that is

A Short Tale of Faith, a Favor for a Lady, Romeo, a Battalion of Beasts, Sniper, What the Dragon Fears, a Test of Loyalty, a Midnight Confession, Incriminating Evidence, Bloodlust, Both of Them, Losses, a Remedy, Tsu's'di's Crime, and a Spell

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"I can't do this," Iúile gasped as Dylan glanced at the window. Crimson light glowed sullen through the shutters and even with the growls of vicious men muffled by the night outside, she knew the battle had begun. "I can't do this, Lady Dylan!"

Dylan crouched next to her, one knee on the bed, and laid her hand on Iúile's stomach. The contraction tightened the muscles until they felt as solid as concrete. Dylan bit her lip. Iúile had been practically starved for the majority of her pregnancy. She didn't have a lot of reserve strength. If she wore herself out now, she wouldn't be able to deliver the baby.

The mortal healer blew out a short breath that ruffled the hair hanging in her face and then made her move. Grabbing the Elven girl, she hauled with all her strength to pull the girl closer to the headboard. Iúile gave a strangled yelp but then relaxed when her back touched the headboard.

"Raise your knees," Dylan ordered, moving back toward the foot of the bed. Iúile obeyed as sweat dripped down her face. Closing her eyes, Dylan prayed, Heavenly Father, I think I might need some serious help here. Please let this be one of those times when I get a miracle. I know Thou hast given me so many already—the cubs, my sisters believing me, Nuada—but I need another one for Iúile. Okay? Please let me have this one. She loves this baby so much already. I really need Thy help to make sure it gets all the way into this world safely.

Closing the prayer, Dylan opened her eyes and laid her hand on Iúile's stomach. "This is really going to hurt," Dylan told her. Amber eyes widened. Iúile turned a shade grayer. "It'll help though." Feeling the muscles beginning to contract under her hand, the mortal set both hands at the top of Iúile's stomach and pressed down hard. The girl screamed, tears rolling down her cheeks. "You're doing good," Dylan said when the pain eased. She stroked back Iúile's damp hair. "It's all right. You're doing fine."

And so far, she was. They just needed this baby to make an appearance a little sooner than Dylan had originally anticipated before its mother wore herself out completely.

"I can't do this," Iúile whispered again. "I can't do this alone."

"Hey," Dylan said, forcing herself into a position where she could help the Elf push again. The small of her back pulled sharply, informing her that doing this too many more times would be bad juju. "You are not alone. Liam is right outside that door waiting to meet your baby! I'm here to help you. I'm not leaving you. I'm not giving up on you. We're not alone in this, all right?"

Warmth flared in Dylan's chest at the words and she realized she ought to have remembered them sooner. No, they weren't alone. They would be all right because whatever happened, they were being watched over—by Liam, by Nuada somewhere in the tavern, and by Heavenly Father. Iúile knew that. The golden medallion around her neck said as much.

Suddenly Dylan remembered a conversation she'd had with Nuada in the first months after she'd left the underground sanctuary when he'd first come visiting her cottage. They'd often talked of her faith because he simply couldn't comprehend how she could accept the curse of the hole in her heart so easily, even though her faith told her the fae legend was in fact true. They'd talked of God that night, and prayer, and angels, and faith and miracles. He'd asked her if she'd ever heard God speak or answer her prayers.

"He sent you to save me, didn't He?" She'd countered, and the Elven prince—usually so surly—had actually smiled before asking if she'd ever seen an angel. She'd wanted to say that she was looking at one now, because he'd been her savior, her protector, for those months in the sanctuary. Exactly what she'd needed. But she hadn't because she hadn't been sure how he would take it. But in the end his questions had all boiled down to one thing: why did she believe the Star Kindler cared for her?

"Because I know," she'd said, and she thought it now. Because I know He cares about me, and Iúile, and what happens to this baby. So we're going to be okay. We just have to keep it together.

She flashed Iúile an encouraging smile. The girl smiled back and nodded once, biting her lip. Together, they could get through this.

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Squeezing his eyes shut, Finbar mac Gawain pressed his back against the ice-cold tavern roof and reached deep inside himself for the burning cold flame of his magic. He flexed the fingers on his good hand. Moving the fingers on his left hand sent spasms of pain shooting up his arm. The bones hadn't knitted back together properly, leaving the fingers stiff and crooked. He still remembered the way the humans had laughed in the fire-stained dark while the bone-mallet his father kept in the small slaughterhouse on their farm had come crashing down on his fingers, splintering the fragile bones, while he screamed and wept and begged…

He wondered if his father would ever forgive him for begging like a coward. If he'd ever forgive him for letting those beasts get to his mother and sisters, for not protecting little Declan when the bandits put their farm to the torch. His father had barely spoken a word to him in the eight months since the attack that had shattered Finbar's world. Gawain still couldn't forgive him. But maybe if he proved himself tonight, proved he wasn't a coward, his father would smile at him again.

A warm weight curled against his side and Finbar put his arm around his littlest sister, Fiona. Knowing what she wanted, he plucked her head from her neck and set it on his belly so she could enjoy cuddling him while still being able to see his face. Unlike his father, Fiona didn't care that he'd dishonored himself by crying like a maiden while the bandits shattered his leg with the bone-mallet. She followed him everywhere. Eight months ago, it might have driven him halfway mad, but now…now he found solace in her familiar shadowing.

If only Amaryllis were here, too. He prayed she was all right. What had she been thinking, running off into the woods like that? He'd tried to chase after her, but limping with his crutch, he'd been no match for his little sister's speed. Yet another sin on his head.

Pushing away thoughts of Amaryllis and their father—he needed to concentrate, push past the pain of his mangled-stiff hand and leg—he scooped up the corpsely glow of his innate magic and clutched it tight, compressing it. All around him, the more able-bodied children of Lallybroch crawled along the roof, bringing Lady Francesca her artillery. Already rows of bottles full of sugar dust had been stacked all around the human, stuffed with rags. Lady Francesca tossed a small, metal rectangle back and forth between her hands, a magical human device known as a lighter, a thing that could conjure flame. Behind her, other children poured the sugar dust into the bottles and stuffed the rags soaked in corn-whiskey into the necks. A bag of small, glass globes sat in Lady Francesca's lap.

All around, the young people whose job would be to glamour the human lobbing flaming missiles at the bandits settled into position. Finbar had a harder job. While glamouring Lady Francesca from sight, he had to give her enough light via corpse-candles to allow her to see her targets without giving away her position to the bandits. The rule was that anything moving on the streets below was an enemy, but she'd asked him especially to help with this just to be certain and no one had asked him for extra help in eight months.

He could admit it—he was in love with Lady Francesca. She wasn't really a lady, but he didn't care. She was Lady Francesca to him. He would've done anything for her. She might've been human, but she couldn't help that. And being human hadn't stopped her from being beautiful and brave. She didn't have to help them. Her sister, Lady Dylan, had asked her to, and she'd courageously agreed. And she didn't look at Finbar with pity or contempt. No one had looked at him as Lady Francesca did in months.

She didn't know he was a coward. He would die before letting her find out. He knew he had no chance of ever winning her love—and by the time he was old enough to marry, she would be gone, lost to time and mortality—but he could still try to earn her admiration. So he would do whatever she asked of him.

If they survived, maybe she might even kiss his cheek. He'd seen her do that to Ewan, the Elf who'd brought her the extra casks of corn-whiskey. Finbar could've cheerfully punched Ewan for getting that kiss.

"Finbar?" Lady Francesca murmured. She'd stopped tossing the lighter. Now she looked over at him, the moonlight barely illuminating her dove-gray eyes like winter clouds. He could see their color because dullahan had excellent night vision. Lady Francesca asked him something in Eathesburian, which he didn't speak, but he knew what she wanted to know. He raised his right hand, thumb extended upward as she'd taught him, and she graced him with a smile.

Closing his eyes again, taking the memory of that smile deep inside him, he let the magic he held compressed explode outward, a blanket of shadow and mist that obscured everything. A compulsion to any human beyond its sheltering dome to look away, nothing to see, only emptiness, look away. And then he lit the corpse-candles that were just as much a part of a dullahan as their wight-horse. The flesh-toned candles shimmered into view on either side of Lady Francesca, their flames as dim as will-o-the-wisps and blue as drowned things.

He saw her lean forward, impossibly beautiful in the moonlight, the lighter in one hand and a glass globe full of sugar dust in the other. She wouldn't use his corpse-fire to light the whiskey-soaked rags. Flicking the lighter with her slender fingers, she brought forth the flame and lit the rag. With a cold look on her beautiful face, she lifted the glass ball of sugar dust and hurled it over the edge of the roof.

Finbar had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

There was a muffled whumph and a sound like a whiskey bottle shattering on stone. Then a split-second of silence where Finbar and all the others on the roof held their breath. Fiona burrowed closer to him.

Then the screaming began.

Gotcha, he thought, tightening his grip on his sister. Not as defenseless as you thought, are we?

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Liam's heart knifed sideways in his chest as Iúile's scream reached a crescendo, battering through the door. The blood drained from his face. His sweaty grip on the hilt of the prince's sword slipped as he glanced at the door. Iúile. She needed him. He should have been in there with her. But Prince Nuada had ordered him to guard the corridor…

Iúile screamed again and Liam lunged for the door. Shoving his head in, he cried, "Iúile!"

"Get in or get out, Romeo," Lady Dylan growled where she knelt over his truelove, eyeing him. "To be honest, I don't think she wants to see anyone with the equipment you're carrying right now. And aren't you on guard duty?"

It took him a moment to process everything she was saying. He was distracted by the desperate effort suffusing Iúile's face with bright color. At last he shook himself and said, "Yes. Yes, of course. Forgive me, I…" He glanced once more at Iúile, helplessly. "You're all right, a ghrá?"

That had been the wrong question.

"Do I look all right?" Iúile actually snarled at him.

"Liam," Lady Dylan interjected with a gentle smile. He latched onto that kind expression like a lifeline.

"Yes?"

"Go back outside. She's fine. If she wants you, I promise I'll call you. Stay within earshot. What am I saying?" Her smile widened briefly. "You're guarding us. Of course you'll be within earshot. Now shoo."

He was halfway through the door when Iúile called plaintively, "Liam?"

The gancanaugh turned back. Yes, a ghrá?"

Sounding now as if she might burst into tears at any moment, Iúile murmured, "I love you."

He smiled for her. "I love you too." Always. Eternally.

"Get out, Romeo," Lady Dylan called as Iúile's face tightened with fresh pain. He got out, wondering as he shut the door just who, by the shades of Annwn, was Romeo?

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'Sa'ti curled up tighter against Shimmer as someone battered at the stable doors. Eimh and Sétanta peeled back their lips and growled, hackles raised as they focused on the shuddering doors, waiting for the enemy. Sergei lowered his gleaming ebony horns and pawed the straw with one razor-sharp hoof. Lòman and Maeve shifted their weight and swished their green tails in agitation as the door buckled under the weight ramming into it again and again.

*Let them try to grab us,* LadyFair said, tossing her sopping wet mane the color of waterweed. The glashtyn pony, a smaller cousin to the kelpie, would've been grinning if she'd had a human face. *There's a river nearby, the stable-lads said.* She nudged her brother, Blackjack.

Blackjack whickered. *Should be fun,* he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the splintering door.

*It would serve them right, too, comrades,* Sergei added. Beside him, the ginormous Ifrit snorted a billow of steam and stamped one bovine hoof, sending up sparks. Freki tossed his wolf-like head and shook himself; the massive wolf-horse hybrid bared teeth the size of kitchen knives and licked his chops. Neither Ifrit nor Freki could speak, but they understood the situation.

Behind 'Sa'ti, Duskshine and Fluttershy lifted their heads and stepped forward. The other mounts glanced their way. Eimh and Sétanta moved aside to allow the unicorn colt to step between them and place himself firmly between the door and the two little girls in the stall. Fluttershy took up a defensive post over 'Sa'ti.

*Young lord—* Lòman began, but Duskshine swung his head in the arion stallion's direction and Lòman fell silent. Duskshine fixed his gaze on the stable doors as yet another crash reverberated through the stable's support beams. 'Sa'ti's fur bristled and she arched her back, trying to fluff out bigger, her tail a lashing bottle-brush. Shimmer pressed her face into 'Sa'ti's side and trembled. 'Sa'ti bared her own sharp cougar teeth.

The door burst inward with a bang. Splinters exploded into the air as hinges cracked and broke and a group of men—both fae and human—rushed into the stables, leering, expecting to find innocent villagers holed up behind the door.

Instead Lòman's front hooves caved in the first bandit's skull. A second took Maeve's back hooves in the chest, shattering sternum and ribs. Freki lunged forward and sank his teeth into a human shoulder. Blood spattered the straw as the human screamed. Duskshine swooped in and pierced the human heart with his horn. Ripping his head back from the corpse and spraying an arc of crimson, the colt reared back and screamed a challenge before lunging for another bandit. Ifrit and Sergei guarded his flank, crushing feet and breaking the legs of anyone foolish enough to get too close to their sharp hooves. Anyone who managed to get past those hooves found their flesh seared by the indescribable heat of bonnacon hide.

Two bandits screamed as Blackjack and LadyFair bucked them onto their backs and lunged through the doors, faster than an eye-blink, aiming for the nearest body of water in which to drown their victims. Eimh and Sétanta darted in and out of the fray, nipping carefully at human heels to drive them into the others' paths, tearing at vulnerable fae legs with their sharp teeth.

And all the while, 'Sa'ti stood guard, fur puffed out to nearly twice her normal size, snarling and hissing in challenge, with Fluttershy at her back, while Shimmer hid her face in the straw and quaked at the sounds of battle.

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From her spot on the top floor of the tavern, rifle settled against her shoulder and her eye to the scope, Petra watched the human bandits surging through the streets. Her eyes slid away from the roofs where she knew her sisters would be attacking. She saw the first streak of ethanol-flame light the darkness before the tinkle of shattering glass touched her ears.

Francesca, she thought.

Her finger curled loosely around the trigger. She hadn't picked up a rifle to shoot at another person in several years. After Rowan's murder five years ago, she hadn't had the stomach for it anymore. She'd taken a desk job. But because the Blackwood brothers and their father hadn't stopped dogging her baby sister's footsteps, the eldest Myers sister had kept in fighting form.

Despite the importance of what was happening out there, Petra felt like a weight had been abruptly yanked off her shoulders. Even though she couldn't quite reconcile everything she'd learned about her sister with everything she'd always thought and dreaded, she knew now that a lot of the things she'd worried about weren't actual problems. Her sister wasn't crazy. There was nothing wrong with Dylan's mind.

Well, she thought as more glass shattered and more fire smeared the night, as agonized screams flooded the air along with the burning sweetness of melted sugar and the sting of melting glass, maybe there were a few things. Her sister had severe PTSD and because of her past, it wasn't being taken care of properly. How could they force Dylan to see a psychiatrist more than once or twice a year when more than one psychiatrist had been the enemy for so long?

Anger whispered along Petra's spine and inside her skull. Spiked like a migraine at her temples as her pulse kicked up. Her baby sister. Those monsters had conspired for over a decade to make Petra turn against her baby sister. To make everyone turn against Dylan and refuse to believe her—about anything. She should've been there for Dylan, and she hadn't been.

She would make up for it now, she told herself as a shadow leapt from the mass of attackers and headed for John. No one was hurting her baby brother, either. Forcing herself to be numb, she sighted through the scope and pulled the trigger. The recoil hit harder than she remembered but it didn't shake her aim.

The bandit hit the ground and didn't get up again.

Petra leaned back out of habit. She should've been invisible in the darkness, but just in case she wasn't, she pulled back to make herself less of a target. Her pulse fluttered in her throat and her heart battered her sternum.

She'd shot someone. A human being. A living person. She'd done it again. She hadn't taken a life since her tour in Iraq and now she'd done it again because…

Because the people here, unable to defend themselves, needed her to. She could freak out later. Or get drunk. Or sleep. Or cry her eyes out to Pauline and Mary, and then go home and hug her children.

For a moment she pictured their faces: Arianna, getting so grown up; Kevin, her oldest boy, who still played with Legos; Russell, who loved dogs and chess. She thought of Rowan, with her cute baby cheeks and her impossibly long lashes, small hands that would never grow as large and elegant as her sister's, and the big eyes…eyes the same silvery-blue as Dylan's, of all the impossible things. Maybe Rowan would've had the Sight. Maybe Rowan…

Petra swallowed a sob that rose hot and salty in her throat, then forced herself to put the memories away. She would see her babies when she got home. Even Rowan. She'd visit Rowan's grave. But for now, she had a job to do.

Moving back into position took mere seconds. Narrowing her eyes, she sighted through the scope and pulled the trigger just as another flaming bottle hurtled off the roof and shattered among the mass of darkness. Bits of luminous gold limned in sullen fire erupted in a small poof and splashed the darkness. Men screamed and staggered back as more bottles and light bulbs smashed into them. She hardly had anything to do, really…but she wasn't taking chances. If any of the monsters made it more than half a dozen feet beyond their straggling mass, they would die.

Squeeze the trigger. Feel the rifle kick in her grip and the butt slam her shoulder. After the first three shots, her shoulder started going numb from the impact. Sweat trickled down her temples despite the frigid air frosting against her face through the open window. Her breath came in ragged clouds of silver vapor.

Glass shattered on impact, shards peppering exposed legs or arms, sometimes even faces. Molten droplets scored to the bone. The men continued to scream. The firelight streaking through the dark lit upon metal, swords and axes and knives. The slim, dark-haired woman with the pointy ears that Dylan had said was named Lorelei flowed among the shadows of the bandits, two blades flashing like silver stars tinged with blood. The muscular guy with the red eyes, Erik—Petra remembered him as Erik the Elf—swung a heavy hammer big enough to shatter bone. A bandit got too close and fell, leg crushed by the hammer.

Things were going all right. So far, as far as she knew, no one on their side had died. All the screaming came from the attackers. They were winning. Maybe they'd make it through all of this without anyone important getting hurt. And if the tactics worked, maybe all the bandits would be dead and they could go home even sooner than they'd planned.

But Petra still had this nagging sensation that she'd forgotten about something, and no matter what she did, she couldn't shake it.

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In the night-shrouded midnight woods, a quiet sniffle snagged Prince Shaohao's attention, followed by a hiccupping sort of sob. It sounded familiar. But it couldn't be…and yet…

"Zhenjin?" Moving cautiously through the Stygian blackness all around him, he headed toward the sound of weeping. Where was his little brother? What were they even doing out here? This wasn't a Dilong forest. Had their father taken them with him for some diplomatic brouhaha? The prince couldn't remember. Only that little Zhen-Zhen was out there, somewhere, lost in the darkness. "Zhenjin?"

The sobs grew louder, terror edged with bites of pain. Fury sizzled in Shaohao's veins like black poison as the crying grew louder and louder. No one hurt his little brother. No one. Whoever was making Zhenjin cry, he would make sure they died. Slowly. And before they died he would teach them all sorts of interesting things, like what their liver tasted like.

Light blossomed out of the darkness, a pale radiance that washed over the cold snow like moonlight. Beneath the otherworldly glow, Shaohao saw a familiar hunched figure pressed against a tree trunk, knees drawn up to his skinny chest, crying, hiding behind the curtain of his hair. Sickly moonlight painted the skin a strange corpsely color and reflected off the glittering, green scales.

"Zhenjin." He went to his little brother and laid his hand on the frail shoulder. "Di-di, it's all right." Kneeling, he gently drew the boy to him. Zhenjin was barely into his sixth century, what was he doing in the forest alone? His little brother pressed his face against Shaohao's chest and sobbed into his bronze silk shirt. "Shhh, hush now. It's all right. Do not be afraid. I am here now, Zhen-Zhen, it's all right." Rubbing soothing circles along the skinny back, he managed to calm the tears, but Zhenjin would not draw his face away from Shaohao's chest. No matter. Let him hide from the darkness and whatever else had frightened him for a little while longer. "It will be all right, Zhenjin. I am here."

"There's a monster," Zhenjin whispered. "Out there." He gestured with one trembling hand. "It's going to eat us."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Shaohao snarled, baring his fangs. Venom dripped onto the snow.

He scanned in the dimly-lit shadows for potential enemies and briefly considered whether he could risk making them suffer by disemboweling them first or if Zhenjin's presence meant he had to kill them quickly. There was just something so satisfying about ripping open one's enemy and pulling out their soft parts…but Zhenjin was so young to see something so intense and intimate. Perhaps quick kills would be best. Feral, reptilian eyes scanned the tenebrous depths of the woods while Shaohao continued to stroke Zhenjin's back.

His shirt was damp. Almost slick, and somewhat sticky. Distracted, he turned up his palm to the faint moonlight. His eyes widened when he saw dark slickness on his skin and smelled the reek of dragon blood. Something hot and wet landed on his shoulder. Tiny droplets splashed his cheek. The Elven warrior swiped at his cheek with the back of his hand and saw that his skin came away streaked with amber. He could taste the fiery sweetness of his brother's blood on the back of his tongue.

Blood. Dilong blood. Too much blood, he was almost choking on it. Where was it coming from? Why hadn't Zhenjin noticed it yet?

"You said you would protect me, Shao," Zhen whispered against his chest. "You promised you'd keep me safe."

"I will," he said as little fingers twisted in the silk of his shirt, biting into his shoulders. An odd sound, low and taunting, seemed to breathe from the darkness. Shaohao could almost place it. It sent a sizzle of rage smoldering beneath his skin. "Don't worry, di-di. As long as I draw breath, I will protect you. I swear it. No one will hurt you while I'm here."

"Can you protect me from yourself?"

Yes, Shaohao. Red Dragon. Can you? Can you protect your precious little brother when the beast inside you hungers for blood? He knew that voice, eldritch and sere as wind through an abandoned burial yard. Hastur. The fear darrig minion of Lord Famine. Can you protect him from her? I think not.

Shaohao shuddered as that she-demon's face filtered into his mind. Mïng Xiân. She was only a little thing now, but already she'd polluted the kingdom. Twisted and dulled the emperor's mind. He'd seen what she would do to Zhenjin when she grew up, oh yes, seen it in his dreams constantly, nightmares of finding his little Zhen-Zhen twitching and choking on his own blood while the pestilent little weed drove her hands into his flesh and feasted.

She'd eat him alive. He'd seen it, the blood smeared golden across her teeth and running down her chin in amber streams. In his nightmares she'd chewed through Zhenjin, Hôu Junjï, even Emperor Huizong and Empress Yeh-Shen, Shaohao's own mother. She had to be stopped. Zhenjin didn't see, but she had to be stopped…

"Zhen-Zhen," Shaohao said softly, fervently, laying his cheek atop his brother's hair. "I would never hurt you. You must believe that. I would never harm you, not really. Only in fun sometimes. I'd never hurt you for true."

It hurt more than he would have thought possible when Zhenjin whispered, "Wouldn't you?"

"Zhenjin," Shaohao whispered. "I didn't mean…I didn't mean it. It was an accident that time, I swear." The time Zhenjin had sighed wistfully and said wouldn't it be nice if they had a sister? Wouldn't it be nice to have a little girl to play games with and dote on the way their father doted on Aunt Yin-Mei? And all Shaohao had been able to see was those sharp, little teeth tearing into his brothers' and father's flesh, the blood pooling. All he'd been able to hear was Zhenjin screaming as the faceless, fanged sister tore him to bits.

The rage then…the all-consuming rage twisting sickeningly with fear because he couldn't lose Zhenjin or Hôu Junjï, they were two of the rare few who loved him, who would never betray him…When he'd surfaced from the rage, he'd been in shackles and Zhenjin had been in the Healers' Wing struggling to survive what his brother had done to him.

That was one of the rare times he'd felt true regret.

"I would never hurt you like that on purpose, little dragon. I got angry. I'm sorry. Truly, little dragon, I'm sorry."

"Father said you would kill me," Zhenjin whispered against his chest. "He said you wanted my head on a spike. And Gaôzu said you enjoy hurting me. Is that true?"

"What? No, di-di, no. You cannot believe that. I'll tear out Gaôzu's tongue for such lies!" The light flickered for a moment, shadows clawing at the snow and striping across Zhenjin's face as he pulled back from his older brother. And his face…the once-familiar face, now it was…

Shaohao jerked back and staggered to his feet, squeezing his eyes shut to block out what he'd seen, flesh like so much raw meat, pits of darkness for eyes…The shrouded figure he'd thought to be his little brother dissolved into blackness. Laughter echoed off the twisted, wraith-like tree trunks and inside his skull. The fear darrig's laughter. Memory returned, and the Red Dragon recalled where he was and why.

"Damn you, Hastur. I'll find you, and when I've found you, I'll cut you into pieces and string you on bronze wire!" Blood burning, relishing the thought, he added, "I'll make necklaces for my wives."

Such gory threats are unbecoming, Your Imperial Highness. And it is childish to blame me for a punishment you brought down on yourself. You betrayed us, not the other way around. Accept your punishment like a good boy and it will be over soon. But if you dare take issue with me, O Prince, you risk stepping off the brink into a world as close to Hell as the living can ever come.

"You wish to speak to me of Hell? I've seen things you've only seen in your nightmares, Hastur. But you'll see them all once I find my brother. Where is he?"

But there was only Hastur's laughter until from far away Shaohao heard Zhenjin screaming.

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Winter's chill hung heavy in the castle corridors but Cíaran ignored it. Dressed in loose, charcoal shirt and trews, he blended easily enough into the shadows as he made his way to the servants' quarters. He wanted to test something. He prayed he was wrong, but…but he doubted it. The question was, what would he do once he'd proven it to himself?

His fingertips brushed against the slender hilt of the knife tucked into his belt. The silver hilt stung his fingers with cold. There was no poison on his twin-knife, because death wasn't the object tonight. Only a testing of himself, his resolve.

His loyalty.

A few hours of pleasure with his two hob maids had chased these thoughts from his mind, but eventually he'd had to allow the darlings some sleep. Oh, he'd miss them once the Cíocal envoy went home again. He doubted he could talk them into coming with him solely for the privilege of sharing his bed for the brief but deliriously pleasant future. Then again, there were hob maids aplenty back in Mágh Ithé, the castle in Léthderg, the capital city of Cíocal. He could replace his lovely ones if he absolutely had to.

But thoughts of their sweet charms didn't push away the dread crawling through him like maggots as he made his way into the servants' nursery. Of course there was a guard, but what did Lord Cíaran mac Aengus care for the so-called King's Elite? With Bres' magic—and the magic of King Elatha Redtongue—bolstering his own, he could glamour himself even in the presence of their ensorcelled iron armor and helms.

Stepping between the comfortable sleeping pallets laid out on the floor of the first part of the children's quarters, he moved to the door that led to the nursery. He'd had it from Kadru, his sister's little serpentine spy, that there were only three babes amongst the servants just now. Only one had human blood.

The door opened without a sound and he slithered inside, gaze fixed on the cradle holding the halfling babe that Nuada's whore had birthed. Whore was the right word, Cíaran thought. A young child of perhaps six years between her and Nuada, still allowing the prince to rut with her all this time, spreading her legs for Zhenjin now—as if Nuada's loss were not loss enough—and a third fae lover, whoever had sired this child…

Did Silverlance have no pride? How could he allow himself to be cuckolded again and again? Everyone knew the Bethmooran prince did not believe in sharing his women, so there was no chance he'd offered the slut to whoever she'd rutted with. How could he bear to lie with her knowing she'd given herself to other men? And then to be so hypocritical as to be jealous of a kiss between Silverlance and Dierdre…

But then, humans were selfish creatures. Of course she would believe she could flaunt herself and her conquests in front of the prince yet expect faithfulness from him in return for her betrayals. A part of Cíaran pitied Nuada for losing his heart to such a witch.

The baby was awake when he reached the cradle and peered down at it. She blinked up at him and kicked her chubby legs with excitement at the sight of this new person. Then a tiny wrinkle appeared between her brows and she frowned. Did he frighten her? Likely as not, she was simply confused by his sudden appearance in the moonlit darkness. He was not one of her usual caretakers. She didn't recognize him. But his gancanaugh charms were enough to prevent her from fussing or crying and waking her slumbering nursemaid.

"Come here, peata," he murmured without thinking, reaching into the cradle and lifting her up. He settled her against his chest. The warmth of her little body gave him a more accurate sense of her proportions. She was so small. Cíaran brushed at the wispy, brown curls she'd inherited from her human mother. The curls moved aside to reveal the very dullest of points at the tips of her ears. Human blood tainting her fey-ness. "Poor thing," he whispered, cradling the babe. "You did not ask for your whore mother, did you? You did not ask to grow up to be a monster. Perhaps Bres is right. Perhaps it is best to end your life now. It would be a mercy, leaving your innocence untainted."

She didn't speak. Of course she didn't. But she babbled softly at him and patted his cheek with her tiny hand. Cíaran closed his eyes, leaning back against the cool stone wall as the baby petted his face.

Spawn of the human whore. Token of all Nuada had done to hurt his kingdom. Pestilence.

A child. A baby.

Cíaran shifted the babe in his arms so he could pull out his twin-knife. The baby reached for the blade when it caught the moonlight, but Cíaran pulled it from her reach. His hand shook as he studied the blade. Sharp enough to split a hair. Sharp enough to cut a child's throat. Swallowing hard, he held the edge closer to the soft, fragile skin.

The baby watched him with her wide eyes, dark in the moonlight. Such long lashes. He'd always noticed that when his friends and comrades showed off their children. Babies everywhere had lashes as long as a gancanaugh beauty's. She blinked and gurgled at him.

Just a child. Just a baby.

But half human and tainted by the whore's blood. Had to make Nuada suffer, make the whore pay for all she'd done, had to expose what Nuada had become…

But she was just a baby.

She patted his cheek again as the blade lay cool a mere breath from her throat. She poked the flat of the blade with tiny fingers. Cíaran's hand trembled at the sight of such innocent curiosity. No idea, she had no idea that this meant death, that he meant death, but now she frowned, screwed up her little face. Opened her small mouth and made that squeaking, protesting little grunt babies made when they first voiced unhappiness.

All he needed to do was press. All he had to do was draw the blade across her throat and that would be the end of it. He wasn't going to actually do it, of course. That would defeat Bres's plan. But he had to at least be able to do it.

He couldn't. His muscles locked as he tried to draw a single drop of tainted blood from that vulnerable baby's flesh.

The baby protested again, squirming. The nursemaid snorted in her sleep and shifted.

Cíaran pulled his knife away and set the baby back in her cradle. He smoothed his fingers over the soft cap of curls and wondered how he was supposed to live with himself now that he'd proven faithless to his prince, to his best friend. Just as faithless as Silverlance. As faithless as Zhenjin Azurefire. They were all of them betrayers, Cíaran included.

Hiccupping little sobs twisted out of the baby's mouth. Dragging at his glamour, cloaking himself in it as the nursemaid jolted awake, the disguised gancanaugh turned and swept out of the room. He didn't even notice that he'd gripped his knife in both hands, one hand curled around the blade. Blood welled up between his fingers and dripped on the floor as he strode down the corridor, contemplating the fluidity of honor, the chains of fealty, and the nature of treachery.

.

Tears had left tracks in her makeup when Polunochnaya went to knock timidly on Princess Nuala's bedroom door. Na'ko'ma slept peacefully in her own small room, oblivious to the grief clawing inside her foster-sister. Naya's hand shook so hard she scraped her knuckles on the door before managing to make the smallest rap-tap sound. No sound came from within the royal chamber.

"Nuala?" Polunochnaya whispered, lifting the latch and peeking into the room. The fire was banked to glowing coals and ash. The Zwezdan noblewoman could see a lump on the bed beneath the velvet covers. "Nuala?"

"Mmph," the princess muttered into her pillow, tossing and turning on the bed in a vain attempt to escape back into sleep. "Brother, go away…"

Brother. Nuada. Just thinking the name sent a savage bolt of pain ripping through Naya's chest. She nearly choked on shame. She was going to betray her master for a prince who might still commit the ultimate act of evil. She loved her master, owed him her loyalty…but she loved Nuada, too. And now that his savagery had been tempered by his mortal love, she couldn't allow her master to kill an innocent woman in order to drive the crown prince mad.

And it would drive him mad. Somehow Naya had no doubt of that. If humans ever succeeded in killing the mortal Nuada loved, the human race would cease to have any hope of survival. Lady Dylan had to be protected.

Which meant Polunochnaya had to betray the man she loved as a father.

"Nuala, it's me," the other Elf whispered. "Please wake up, I…" Tears thickened her voice. Suddenly she felt seventeen years old again, as lost and hopeless as when she'd been in danger of losing everything that mattered. Her hands shook and called Nuala something she hadn't called her in centuries upon centuries. "La-La, please wake up, I need you."

The princess sat up, brows furrowed as she scrubbed at her face with one wrist. "Naya?" She threw back the bedclothes and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. "Naya, dear, what are you doing awake? What…what's the matter?"

Her mouth trembled and her chin quivered as tears welled up as she stumbled into the room and threw herself down on her knees next to Nuala's bed. "I'm sorry," she wept, instinctively taking Nuala's hand. "Oh, gods, I'm so sorry, forgive me, I didn't want to but I had no choice, honor demanded he be stopped, we had to stop him, Nuala please forgive me."

"Mo crídh," Nuala murmured as she slid of the bed. She wrapped her arms around her lady-in-waiting and pulled her close. "Sister. Shhh, it's all right. Whatever it is, it's all right. Of course I forgive you—"

"You don't understand," she gasped between sobs. "You don't know what I've done. Nuada…Nuada's in danger."

She felt Nuala turn still as stone. The slim hand ceased stroking Naya's hair. "What do you mean?"

Struggling for enough composure to make herself coherent, Polunochnaya rasped, "Nuada, he's in danger. The bandits to the north, it's a trap, it's all a trap. They want Dylan, she's carrying Nuada's child. They're going to kill her in order to set him back on the path of the Golden Army. He'll try to raise it to get revenge and the king will kill him for it."

The weight of Nuala's gaze was like a millstone. She pulled away from Naya and rose to her feet, pacing to the window. Naya dared to raise her head. The princess set her hands on the window ledge and braced herself, bowing her head. She didn't speak for several moments. The silence clogged Naya's throat, strangling any words of explanation or pleas for understanding. Nuala kept her back turned.

"You talked me into lending my voice to my brother's petition in order to send him and his truelove to their deaths," the princess whispered. Naya flinched and squeezed her eyes shut. "Didn't you? That's why you argued his part to me—so I would help him go north."

"Nuala—"

"Silence!" The princess whirled around, eyes flashing molten copper with rage. "You conspired against my family. Against this kingdom—"

"We're doing it for the kingdom," Naya protested. "For your family! You and your father! To show the king he was right! Nuada was mad, Nuala, lost in his thirst for blood! He would not stop until he'd slaughtered the entire human race, down to the last child! We had to stop him! Your father—"

"Would never sink so low as to murder his own son!" Nuala shouted. "The kingdom doesn't need more innocent blood spilled for nothing!"

Naya ran her hands through her thick hair, wincing as her fingers snagged on tangles. "We were trying to stop genocide and civil war! We didn't want to do it! I love Nuada! I've always loved him! But he had to be stopped!" Wondering at her own daring, she rose to her feet and reached for her friend. "Nuala, please…I came to tell you because it is no longer necessary. Nuada is a changed man, we have both seen it. He's renounced his claim on the Golden Army. I told my master but he refused to listen! He'll try to kill Nuada anyway! That's why I had to warn you—"

Nuala sneered. "How noble, Sister. If you're sincere, tell me the name of your master, the mind behind this foul scheme. Who can command your loyalty and convince you to betray us, your family? Who has broken your honor?" There was silence, and then Nuala yelled, "Tell me!"

"I cannot." She'd tried while she'd rehearsed the words to her confession. Her master's name would not leave her lips, nor would any hints as to his identity. He'd done something to her, she'd realized. Cast some spell. Stripped her of the ability to speak his name or reveal to anyone who he might be. Fresh tears coursed down her cheeks as she whispered, "I cannot. I—"

The princess's eyes flashed between copper fury and glacial topaz disdain. "Very well, Ledi Polunochnaya iz Lysaya Gora." For a moment Naya thought she saw tears in Nuala's eyes. The princess's mouth trembled before she pressed her lips together. Turning away from her foster-sister, she called, "Guards!"

Naya bowed her head and tried to force back her tears as the Butchers rushed into the room. She'd expected this. She'd known Nuala would do this. Of course she would—Naya had betrayed her. Committed treason.

But…she'd hoped that maybe…just maybe, her sister wouldn't hate her. She'd been a fool to hope for such a thing.

"Tell Nuada I am sorry," Naya whispered as the guards grabbed her arms.

Nuala said nothing as they took her away.

.

His legs were starting to burn from constantly leaping over trees and boulders and drifts of snow that would sink his cougar body in frigid white stuff, but Tsu's'di kept up a steady pace as he led his dumb little brother and his brother's new friend back toward Lallybroch. The need for speed burned in the cougar's belly as he raced through the woods. Couldn't rush. Couldn't afford to sprint too quickly, he'd live the kids behind. Not to mention they had to avoid the enemy.

The enemy's stench mixed with the cold sharpness of winter and all the scents of the forest. Didn't matter. He could smell the enemy, which meant he could pace them. They were headed for Lallybroch. They'd lead him right to the village as long as he didn't alert them to the presence of two large cats and a little girl on a horse. It would just take longer than he wanted.

That horse was freaky. Its hooves made no sound as it cantered over the snow. When Tsu's'di glanced back over his shoulder, he saw Amaryllis leaning against the colt's neck, pressing her face into the warm muscle to block out the icy night wind. A'du stayed at her side, mouth hanging open to scent the air better. He had to admit, the kid had a fantastic sense of smell. If someone got past Tsu's'di somehow, A'du would know.

*Tsu's'di,* A'du ventured in the night-quiet surrounding them. The sounds of the bandits came distant and muffled by snow and trees. The air was thick, heavy. It would snow in a few hours. Probably by midnight. Shaking the thought away, Tsu's'di flicked his ears back to show his brother he'd heard him. *The bad guys are going to do something awful to the a'ge'lv.*

*You said that already,* the ewah muttered. *Tell me something I don't know.*

*They think she's gonna have a baby.*

He lost his stride, tripped over his paws, and face-planted in the snow. Amaryllis reined in a few feet away and A'du trotted over, nudging his brother with his nose. Tsu's'di leapt to his feet and shook the snow off his face. Then he whirled on A'du. *What?!*

The cub ducked, fur bristling against the cold and the agitation in his brother's tone. His ears flattened out on either side of his head as he cringed back from the larger cat. With a sigh, Tsu's'di leaned over and licked his brother between the ears. Nudged his head with the tip of his muzzle. A'du peered up at him and swallowed.

*They think she's gonna have a baby and they want to kill it. To make the prince mad.*

Flexing his claws helped him process what the cub was saying. Kill A'ge'lv Dylan's mythical baby to tick off the prince? They'd probably kill her, but they were killing her in order to do that? Why? Tsu's'di licked his lips and growled, turning his head to glare toward the bandits.

Suddenly the wind shifted and he smelled death. Fear. Most people who weren't shapeshifters didn't know fear had its own scent, but it did—acrid ammonia, dryness like shed snakeskin, crackling cold like ice, the stink of sweat, and a balmy darkness that threatened to choke you in your sleep. It slithered up the nostrils before sliding into the brain like blades. When shapeshifters smelled fear like this, they ran.

A'du gasped and scrambled backwards, paws kicking up poofs of snow as he backed up between Tsu's'di's forelegs and huddled near Tsu's'di's back knee, crouched beneath the larger cougar's belly. Amaryllis's horse snorted softly. Tsu's'di caught the scent of animal-fear as the horse's eyes rolled wildly, showing the whites.

*What…what is that?* A'du whispered, cringing against his brother. *What is that?*

"Fear darrig," Amaryllis whispered. "You were up in the tree and the wind wasn't right for you to smell it before. That's a fear darrig."

A'du'la'di's sides heaved as he panted for breath, trembling like a leaf in a gale. Tsu's'di tried nudging him with a paw, but the ball of shaking cub wouldn't budge. Now what? The kid was too scared to move. Amaryllis didn't look much better. They had to get back to A'ge'lv Dylan and the prince with their information. They didn't have a lot of time but they were at least an hour away still. The battle may have already started because he'd passed the first group of bandits on his way through the woods looking for A'du and they'd been a lot closer to the village and that had been over four hours ago. He'd shot off a quick warning to Sétanta since he'd been in cougar form and could speak with the dog mind-to-mind, but still. They needed to go.

Ah, screw it, Tsu's'di grumbled. Leaping nimbly away from A'du, he twisted around and sank his teeth carefully into the loose skin at the nape of his brother's neck. A quick heave picked the cub straight off the snow. Tsu's'di glanced at Amaryllis.

*Let's go—* He began as the wind shifted again, just a breath.

He smelled the enemy even before Amaryllis's eyes widened and she opened her mouth to scream. Tsu's'di flung A'du a few feet away onto the snow even as he reared up on hind legs and pivoted to bring his claws ripping down toward the human bandit swinging a club studded with iron nails at his head.

The cougar growled. Claws punctured flesh and raked muscle. The human dropped the club from twitching arms that flopped uselessly at his side. With only a second's hesitation, Tsu's'di tore out his throat with a hard swipe of one paw before crushing the spine with his powerful jaws, nearly swallowing the small metal disc on a leather cord around the bandit's neck that tasted absolutely disgusting. Then he spat blood and ate a few mouthfuls of snow.

He wondered if he'd ever get the taste of human blood out of his mouth after this.

After a few minutes of shuddering, trying to force his stomach to stop trying to heave, he shook himself and grabbed A'du—who stood nearby, looking worried and purring uncertainly—by the scruff of the neck again.

Amaryllis stopped just long enough to pick up the metal disk lying in a growing pool of steaming blood. She hesitated for just a moment before skimming her fingers over the puddle and scooping up the necklace. She stared at it for a second. Held it out to Tsu's'di.

"Look," she whispered, turning pale.

Tsu's'di stared at it and saw what had made her go gray. Etched into the metal was a symbol, partially obscured by blood, that resembled the gold-wrought Bethmooran crest Prince Nuada usually wore to formal events on his sashes. There were subtle differences but they didn't have time to clean off the blood thoroughly enough to check them out. The prince could do it when they got back to Lallybroch.

He knew what that little metal disk meant, though. It was a token to show that the bandit was in service to someone. If the crest of Bethmoora—the Aiglin Tree, the crest Bethmoorans carried to war—was etched into that disk, or anything close to the royal symbol, that meant the liege lord of this human was a high-ranking noble, someone very close to or inside the king's household. Which meant whoever was paying these bandits to do this fell into one of those categories. If they could show the prince the crest, they'd find out who it was.

*Okay,* Tsu's'di said to Amaryllis. *Hold onto that. Don't drop it. Okay?*

She nodded quickly, closing her fist around it.

*Now let's go.*

.

He had a split second of warning before the axe swung. Liam dodged aside, nearly tripped over his own two feet, and brought up Prince Nuada's sword—Chlaíomh Sólais, the Sword of Light, one of the four sacred treasures of Bethmoora—as the axe blade clashed against the engraved, silver blade. The shock reverberated through his hands and up his arms. Burning flashed across his palms. When his grip slipped a little on the hilt, he saw his hands were bleeding.

Then he didn't have time to see anything at all. Lunging upright, he darted to the left as an Elf with matted, auburn hair swung the axe again. Liam had known there were fae among the human bandit. He'd hoped that if he met any of them, they would be fae. It would be easier to protect Iúile and the baby. He wouldn't have to hold back.

He'd killed once before, but only once, for the one who meant more to him than his own life. Human blood stained his hands. If the king ever found out…well, he doubted that even the indomitable Prince Nuada would be able to protect him from the Crown's so-called justice.

But Liam Uí Niall would never hesitate to do what was necessary to protect Iúile and her child.

So he lashed out with the sword, an inexpert swing that still managed to swipe past the gleaming axe. His blade sliced across the Elf's arm and the enemy yelped, fumbling his grip on the axe-handle. Liam kicked at the Elf's knee. The impact jarred his ankle and he wondered what in the thirteen hells this lout was made of—iron? But the Elf jerked back. Liam swung the sword again.

How had they gotten in? He'd heard nothing from downstairs except the weeping of women and children, the murmur of fervent prayers from those not engaged in tending the sick and wounded. A few young people had rushed downstairs from the tavern roof to have arrow wounds—mostly grazes—seen to, though one young glaistig girl had had one of her soft, fragile goat ears nearly severed by a lucky blind-shot from a bandit. There had been no screams from downstairs, no sounds of combat. Where had this bandit come from?

Down the hall, the shutters of a window hung open, framing a silvery sliver of moon. Small flurries of snow drift in through the window to melt on the floor. Liam's eyes widened. So that was how.

He ducked, dodged, wove. He was good at playing keep-away, he'd been doing it all his life. It was a skill gancanaugh had to acquire to avoid stray kicks and cuffs from those who believed the legends about them. Gancanaugh were often shunned beyond the borders of Eìrc to the north of Bethmoora. Even in Cíocal, which accepted the dregs of fae kind, a gancanaugh could expect abuse unless a title or wealth protected him. So Liam was used to dashing about like a hyperactive cat pouncing on an angry spider. In this case, the spider happened to be wielding an axe. Hopefully he didn't lose any fingers.

From behind the closed door of the makeshift birthing room, Iúile screamed; a long cry of desperation.

Liam stumbled. The axe whipped toward him. He threw himself to one side to avoid certain death and hit the floor on his knees. A heavy foot collided with his ribs; fire exploded through his side and nausea twisted in his belly.

Shadows on the floor caught his eye. He could barely distinguish the real shadows from the blurs of darkness smearing across his vision as he struggled not to vomit.

Iúile screamed again, loud and long. A shadow slid across the floor toward him. An electrified moment of clarity sent him rolling across the floor as the axe thunked into the dirty wood where he'd been hunched mere seconds before. He forced himself to his feet, scrabbling with his free hand at the wall, Iúile's screams echoing in his ears.

Not again. He wouldn't let her get hurt again. He would protect her this time. Someone had to. He couldn't let these beasts hurt her again.

And the baby…her baby…theirs, they'd decided. So his, too. A daughter, or maybe a son. His child. He had to protect it no matter the cost. Dashing the sweat out of his eyes, tasting anger like blood on the back of his tongue, he bared his teeth in something too savage to ever be mistaken for a smile. He wouldn't let these monsters hurt his child.

"Come at me if you want to die tonight," he snarled, and for a moment the Elf hesitated. There was very little to compete with a gancanaugh for sheer demonic ferocity. Razored teeth clenched, scarlet-slitted eyes blazing with defiance and hate, Liam lifted his chin.

Then two more fae climbed through the window, both armed. One was a kelpie in human form, all slick black hair and dripping clothes, obsidian eyes twinkling with pleasure at the thought of hurting someone. The other was a Hunter, looming tall and roped with muscle, a rack of sharpened antlers jutting through his curly, brown hair. The kelpie carried twin knives. The Hunter carried a club.

Three against one, Liam thought as he hefted the sword. Long odds. But I'm not dying tonight. I have someone I'm looking forward to meeting very soon, and I'll be damned if these wretches will stop me.

The Elf and the kelpie leapt for him. Rage boiled up from his stomach, pouring like hot acid into his chest and throat. Liam snarled something savage—he couldn't think what it was, couldn't think at all past the fury pounding through his blood—and rushed to meet them. A distant voice told him he would die here but the beast clawing for freedom in his heart snarled no, snarled I will not, and the gancanaugh ducked and slashed with his sword, the magical Sword of Light the prince had given him.

And he spilled blood, the icy black of the kelpie and the hot amber of the Elf and the warm green of the Hunter. His own blood sprayed the wall, dripping off knife-points as he stabbed at the lithe kelpie who sought to disembowel him with his knives. Lines of fire seared across one shoulder, his side, pulsing in tandem with his pounding heart. The axe swung but never touched him, deflected by Elven silver and the royal magic woven through the sword. Chlaíomh Sólais was light as moonbeams in his hand, supple as a silken thread as the kelpie fell, as the Elf fell.

Ivory prongs stained with old gore stabbed at him, caught him in the shoulder. He roared and raised the sword, thrust up as he'd done once before with a hunting knife. Human blood had burned his hand like scalding water when the salt and iron had touched his skin. Now the warm heart's blood of a Hunter spilled over his hand as the stag-prongs bit deep into his shoulder, as the sword thrust through the Hunter's chest to end his life.

Both fae fell to the ground, but Liam managed to crawl out from under the heavy body. The blood roared in his ears. His pulse hammered like war-drums in his skull, in his throat. He tasted blood when he licked his lips. His hands shook.

He dragged himself to his feet and staggered into the wall. Iúile wasn't screaming anymore. He didn't hear anything from the birthing room.

The hot blood pounding through him suddenly turned to ice.

He didn't hear anything.

Anything…

He'd taken two steps toward the door—it felt like slogging through quicksand—when something whisked by the short hairs on the side of his face. He dodged aside as a sword sliced the air beside his cheek and clattered to the floor.

A pale-faced Banquet Keeper reached for him yet, the eyeless face slack in death, the rolling black eyes blinking stupidly at him from the outstretched palms, the taloned fingers still twitching. What looked like a silver leaf longer than Liam's hand thrust through the flabby chest. Black blood stained the tattered shirt. Then the leaf yanked back through the gaping chest wound and the fear gortach fell to the floor.

Prince Nuada stood panting for breath. A bruise darkened his jaw; another bloomed at the corner of his bleeding mouth. Gashes oozed blood all over his face, and his left ear was torn. His knuckles were bleeding. A rip in the sleeve of his shirt showed a seeping cut on his right arm. He limped just a little as he stepped toward Liam.

"Never take your eyes off where the enemy is coming through," he muttered. He spat a mouthful of blood on the kelpie corpse. "Young idiot." He swiped at a trickle of blood from the split in his eyebrow. "There's a lull in the fighting. The wretches have retreated—for now."

Liam turned back to the door. "I don't hear anything," he whispered, afraid to say the words in case they meant something, an unbearable something, but suddenly too sick with fear not to say anything in case…in case Iúile had…or the babe…

The prince made a low, sharp noise and strode past him. He banged once on the door with his fist. "Dylan?"

"Let me work," she snapped through the door. Liam heard the panic in her voice and something turned to ice inside him. No. Oh, no. No, it couldn't be…no, not…not this, no…

"Dylan—" The prince said, sounding torn between concern and budding anger.

"Let me work!"

Liam staggered toward the door, gasping as the walls began to smudge like a child's drawing in the rain. He couldn't get enough air. Every breath sent his ribs screaming. He couldn't breathe. He'd fought for her. He'd killed for her. He'd done everything he was supposed to. Why couldn't he hear her? If the child had…then he would hear Iúile crying. And if Iúile was…but then the baby would be crying…wouldn't she?

"Please," Liam breathed as his knees buckled. The prince grabbed him before he could fall to the floor. Liam's bleeding palm slammed against the door, leaving a smear of blood the purplish color of mulberries. "Please, no. Please, no."

The prince tightened his grip on him. "Liam…"

He shook his head, desperate, struggling to avoid the sympathy and pain in the prince's voice. "No," he moaned. The word threatened to choke him. "No. Not both of them. Please, not both of them—"

The desperate plea was cut off by the shrill, startled cry of a newborn baby. Liam barely felt Nuada jump at the sound. He clawed at the door-latch, yanked it up. Tore the door open. Stumbling, dizzy from blood loss and panic and hope and reaction to the battle, he caught himself on the low table Lady Dylan had had brought into the room earlier and simply stared. Iúile was sitting up, propped up by the pillows and headboard. Her damp hair clung to her flushed cheeks and neck. She looked tired but serene, triumphant. She looked absolutely beautiful. Her eyes were fixed on Lady Dylan, who bent over a table, her back to the room, cooing at something.

No, not something. Someone. Shades of Annwn, it had to be…

Prince Nuada lifted a towel from the table beside them and held it out to him. Liam tore his eyes away from what Lady Dylan was doing and stared at the towel as if he didn't know what it was or what to do with it. He glanced back at Lady Dylan, who was wrapping something—he couldn't quite yet wrap his mind around what—in linens.

He wanted to go over there. He wanted to see…Then he looked down and realized his hands were slick with blood. The blood seemed wrong somehow. Violence had no place in this room, not now. Not when there was something so precious to drive it all away. For a few small eternities he'd thought he'd lost everything, but no, he hadn't. Everything was fine.

Liam's hands shook when he accepted the towel from the prince. It was damp; he washed the blood from his hands and wrists but could do nothing about the droplets dappling the hems of his sleeves. He tried to hand the towel back and pain ripped through his shoulder. He hissed, winced.

"You're hurt!" Iúile's voice penetrating the numb fog seeping into his brain. He glanced back at her, met her eyes like golden coins. Would the baby have gold eyes too? The thought pushed the fog away a little. He shook his head.

"I'll be all right, I think." He pressed a hand to his shoulder and felt the blood seeping slowly from the puncture-wounds left by the Hunter. Growling something uncomplimentary under his breath, he managed with a little help from the Silverlance to slip out of his shirt.

By the time the prince had tied a tight, temporary bandage across the punctures to stop the bleeding, Lady Dylan had gone over to Iúile lying in bed. The mortal healer settled something in the Elven girl's waiting arms. Liam took a step closer, subconsciously holding his breath. Lady Dylan set the baby along Iúile's arm so that her palm cradled the baby's swaddled head. Her other arm curved protectively around the small form. A stack of pillows propping her up and a pair of pillows stacked beneath her arms allowed Iúile to hold the baby without fear of dropping it out of exhaustion. Liam's heart knifed sideways in his chest at the sight of the mother and child.

A tiny hand, so impossibly small, stretched little fingers as it flopped above a bundle of soft linen. Low, little baby-noises drifted up into the room. Iúile gazed down at the wrapped bundle with a look of absolute adoration. Tears welled up and ran unchecked down her face.

Lady Dylan was looking at the baby, too. Smiling. Then she glanced over at Liam. She looked ready to fall over but her smile widened. She folded her arms and jerked her chin at Iúile and the baby.

"You look beat half to death, Romeo. Come say hello if you can manage it."

If he could manage it? He was at Iúile's side in mere moments, sitting gingerly at the edge of the bed, staring at a tiny face the color of fresh cream and peaches. A few wisps of hair like rosy gold peeked out from beneath the blanket swathing the top of the baby's head. But the eyes were sleepy gold like new coins. Just like Iúile's. The Elven girl looked down at the baby, then up at him, and gave a watery laugh when he met her eyes.

"It's a girl," she whispered almost reverently.

"Oh," he murmured dumbly, eyes on the baby again. Iúile's baby. His baby. "A girl." A daughter. He had a daughter. She was so…"She's so small." He swallowed back the lump in his throat and touched the little nose very carefully with the pad of his finger. The baby blinked at him, trying to focus on his face. She sneezed, the little face scrunching up with effort. He had never seen anything so precious in his life. This was what he'd fought for. This was what had made the months without Iúile worth enduring. "She's so beautiful."

Iúile smiled even more brightly. "Do you want to hold her?"

His eyes blasted wide as he stared down at the baby. Their baby. "I…but I…but she's so tiny. What if I hurt her?" He didn't think he could bear that.

Her smile turned tender. "You won't. You would never. Here. Lady Dylan showed me how to do it. Look." Carefully, his truelove helped position his arms to make a cradle for their daughter, still resting on the pillows because of Liam's bad shoulder. The baby fussed for a moment at being shifted and a flash of panic had Liam breaking out into a cold sweat. But when he moved closer to Iúile, bending down close enough that their foreheads touched, the babe settled down.

"There now, peata," Iúile crooned at the baby. "It's just Áta. He won't hurt you. Shhh, mo crídh. It's all right now. Everything will be all right now that Áta's here."

He didn't hear whatever it was that Lady Dylan was whispering to Prince Nuada. At the moment he didn't care. He kissed Iúile's temple, oblivious to the sweat-damp hair. Sighed. It hurt to sigh, or even to breathe deeply, or to really do anything now that his bruises were making themselves known, but he could ignore it all for a few moments to look at the woman he loved more than anything and their child.

"Hello, little one," he whispered. "I'm your Áta. It's so nice to finally meet you."

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Dylan had moved to the other side of the room when Liam sat down, anxious to look at Nuada once she got a good look at him. She didn't mean to just blurt it out, but she couldn't stop herself. "You look half-dead, too."

Dark lips curled into a smile. Nuada winced when his swollen, bleeding mouth stung. "As always, you flatter me, mo mhuire." She opened her mouth to say something else when the prince's smile dropped away. Softly, he said, "You scared that boy nearly half to death. Me as well, for that matter. Why wouldn't you bid us enter? What was happening?"

She sobered. "The baby wasn't breathing." Nuada's eyes widened and Dylan held up her hands. "She's fine now. She's fine. I got her to breathe in time. But I needed to concentrate and I couldn't have you two in here. Iúile was freaking out, poor girl."

"I didn't hear her at all," Nuada replied with a frown.

"She was holding her breath," Dylan said. "Crying, but silently, you know? Just watching me work on the baby, waiting for her to breathe. I can tell you, you guys weren't the only ones scared half to death. I wasn't sure I could save her, but…well, with some divine intervention, it turned out okay, thank goodness. But you, Your Highness," she added, poking him in the chest. He winced, which just confirmed what she'd suspected—he needed help. "You are coming with me. We'll leave the proud parents with the cutie pie for a bit. Iúile will be fine, and the baby's fine too, so I can take some time to check you out before I check Liam out."

Suddenly the infant in question squalled. Nuada backed up a step, eyeing the bundle of baby as if it might explode. Dylan raised one eyebrow in gentle mockery. He scowled at her. "Why is she crying?"

Dylan smiled. "She's probably hungry. Being born is hard work on babies. They tend to eat like piggies and then go to sleep afterward. Or vice-versa. What's the matter, Your Highness?"

As if she didn't know. His discomfiture was obvious, so she took pity on her prince and sent him out of the room so she could show Iúile how to feed her new daughter.

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In another room, Nuada sank into a chair, tipped his head back so that the wall held it halfway up, and closed his eyes. Tried to force the tension out of his body.

It was a reprieve, this sudden lull in the oncoming fight. Victoria's "Molotov cocktails" had chased most of the bandits back. Petra, John, Lorelei, and Erik had taken care of most of the rest. And those fae bandits who'd made it past because John and Petra had hesitated to kill the fae had been dispatched by the Silverlance himself.

But it had been hard, and it had hurt. He'd torn something beneath the spot on his ribcage where he'd first broken his ribs at Midwinter and then dislocated them again during the battle against the shoggoths in the gardens. He'd wrenched his right knee; a lesser man might've had to walk on crutches, but a few minutes to numb the pain and strengthen the joint with magic and he would be all right. His hands ached from gripping his lance so tight. His jaw ached where a bandit, a massive forest troll, had hit him. So long as he didn't try to smile or laugh, the pain from his mouth remained a dull throb. The bruise around his eye would darken to nearly black by morning.

His own people…the knowledge burned like the slice across his upper arm. Mingling with the human bandits were fae. He could scarcely believe it, even after seeing it with his own eyes. He didn't want to think about it if he didn't have to. Didn't want to deal with the knowledge that his people were slowly being corrupted. Perhaps not so slowly.

It felt like a block of ice had crystallized in his chest, as if winter shards carved their way through his guts. Everything was so much worse than he thought he could bear. So many lives depended on him and he was trapped by the damn treaty. Trapped by his vows to his king, his love for his father. A hostage to oaths and fealty. The thought left him so cold he thought he'd never be warm again. Not after the blood he'd spilled this night. Not with the fae blood mixing with in rainbow hues on the white snow in the streets. It was almost as if he'd cut open his wrists and spilled his own blood into the winter night.

Soft footfalls touched his ears. It was difficult not to smile just a little. A warm, damp cloth touched the split on his lip and he couldn't hold the small smile back any longer, even though the waterlogged cloth and the smile both hurt. He opened his eyes as Dylan gently dabbed at the cut.

"Are you okay?"

He sighed. "I will be, I suppose. I have to be." He closed his eyes again as the words wiped away that phantom-smile. "Gods, Dylan, this should be over by now. It should be so simple as to take a handful of Butchers, Wink and Erik, and go into the woods and eradicate these…vermin. And instead…"

Instead he'd had to watch others defend his people while he was forced into the shadows, killing his own people to protect innocent lives. So much blood spilled tonight…very little of it the blood of Lallybroch, but…but even that little bit was too much, far too much. Strangling on the words, he said, "Not all of the villagers made it safely inside the tavern."

She said nothing. Only waited for him to spit out the poison churning like acid in his belly and freezing him to the marrow.

The prince clenched his teeth, ignoring the throbbing in his jaw. "Six villagers. An elderly Elven couple. A bean sídhe girl I spoke to earlier today. A fachen and his two fledglings." Nuada shoved away the sight of the butchered Elves. And the girl, Leana…she'd been so shy, so sweet when he'd spoken to her, and now…Most desperately, he tried to forget the sight of the dark-feathered fachen lying slaughtered while his twin fledglings had been tied to poles and hoisted over a fire near the very edge of the village. Nuada had cut the little ones down, but it had been too late. In halting whispers, he told Dylan what he'd found. She laid her free hand on his knee.

"You're doing what you can," she said. He took the cloth from her and held it to his mouth. A bit of magic chilled the water so that the cloth was pleasantly cold when he pressed it to his swollen lip. Dylan sank into a chair. "You can't blame yourself for what the treaty is forcing you to do—or not do."

"The treaty should go hang," he snarled under his breath. "What sort of a prince am I, that I let it chain me 'round with its petty politics and knife-edged words? I should be out there…what are you doing?"

Dylan took his hand and touched a second damp cloth to his lacerated knuckles, mopping up the blood seeping from the raw skin. The soapy water stung in the open wounds. He didn't say anything. Just watched her inspect his hand for any cuts or scrapes she'd missed. Once she'd wiped away the blood and cleansed the scrapes, she raised his hand and set his palm against her cheek. Her skin was impossibly soft even now. His thumb brushed her cheekbone absently and she turned her face into his palm. Her lashes curved in dark crescents against her scarred cheeks when she closed her eyes and simply breathed a soft sigh.

"Do you remember," she asked so softly, her breath a caress against his palm, "when you asked if I'd ever seen an angel?" She didn't look at him. Didn't open her eyes. Just sat, so close suddenly he could feel her warmth. Feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she took each breath. "Do you remember that, a ghrá mo anam?"

He jolted at the words. A ghrá mo chroí, he'd often called her. In Gaelic, my heart's beloved, a tender name for his lady. But she'd never called him a ghrá mo anam, beloved of my soul. Nuada closed his eyes as the words lodged in his heart like an arrow. Beloved of my soul.

"I remember." Suddenly it seemed impossible to breathe. "You never answered me."

She moved closer, still cupping his hand to her face. Her hair brushed like silk against the back of his hand when he curled his fingers slightly to fit his palm to her cheek. "The truth is, I've seen angels before. I'm looking at one right now." She opened her eyes and trapped his gaze in hers, a silken prison of moonlight and exquisite blue he could not look away from. "You are my angel, Nuada."

Nuada swallowed, throat suddenly desert dry. The breath hitched in his chest. "No, Dylan," he whispered. "No, my lady. I am no angel. I have committed a thousand unpardonable sins—"

Her finger against his lips silenced him. "I know," she whispered back. "You think I don't know you? You think I don't see your shadows? But you've been my guardian angel for a long time. Just as you are to these people. Sometimes you'll stumble. Sometimes you'll fall. But I know you. You'll never stay down. That's what's important. Don't sell yourself short." Straightening in her chair, Dylan released his hand and laced her fingers together. "You'll believe what you want. You always do. But you've done so much just in the day we've been here—"

"That was thanks only to your wits, Dylan—"

"Which wouldn't have been applied to the problem if you hadn't thought of asking me for help," she replied. "Or at least letting me coax the problem out of you." She studied him in silence for several moments. At last she pushed to her feet. "You know what your problem is?"

Bitterly, he said, "No. Enlighten me, O Wise One."

She held out her hands. "You don't get enough kissing. That's your problem."

Would it be such a bad thing to let go of the night for a few sweet moments and lose himself in kissing her? She would taste so good, so sweet, she always did. Just a few precious moments to forget, to push the dark away…

Taking her hands, he let her pull him carefully to his feet. He didn't even bother suppressing the smile now. "I see. A dreadful affliction, that," he replied with mock-gravity. "Or so I've been told."

"You've been told right," she said. "It can cause all sorts of side effects."

"Such as?"

"Grumpiness," she said promptly and primly. He quirked an eyebrow. She was trying to make him smile. It was…sort of working. "Melancholy," she added. His other eyebrow rose to join the first. Dylan lowered her lashes, peeking up through them at him. "Oral preoccupation."

"My, my." He laid his hands on her waist. She didn't resist, coming to him as easily as drawing a breath. The scented water from the pitcher on the table, which now dampened straggles of dark curl, laid a mist of lavender and rose over the other scents clinging to Dylan. Her hands curled around his biceps, fingers brushing lightly against the lamb's wool sleeves. "That does indeed sound serious." He touched his forehead to hers. His hair swung forward over his shoulders to surround them like a pale curtain, blocking out the world. Dylan's tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. "What does my lady recommend for such a malady?"

Her voice came low and inviting when she said, "Stay here with me for a bit." She grasped the loose fabric of his sleeves. "Forget the world for a few minutes. Forget the dark. Forget tonight. Forget everything. Just be here with me."

"And kiss you?"

"That, too," she whispered as his mouth found hers. His fingers flexed against her sides as she made a soft sound and pressed close, warming the chill inside him. The knot of ice in his chest and belly cracked, fragmented. When Dylan slid her arms around his neck, it shattered.

With a low oath, he dragged her tight against him, taking her mouth in a kiss that seared. She gasped into his mouth. His hands came up to cradle her face, holding her still as he pressed in. Silk and fire burned away memory, turned the night to soft ash that blew away on the wind. He tangled his fingers in her hair as he simply let himself drift on a wash of desire and tenderness and instinct. She whispered his name, the syllables sliding over him so he shuddered once.

Don't let this end, he thought, tasting, yearning. Just let it be us. Just us in this room, alone, away from bloodshed and fear and grief. Just let me have this moment. Let it last for eternity. I just…I simply need a moment.

His pulse raced as he fought with himself, forcing back the beast rising up to fuel the desire in him. He'd killed men tonight. Nearly been killed at least twice. That fury and the fire still smoldered inside him and with it, centuries of habit and instinct. He wanted her. Needed her the way he needed to breathe. Without her, the ice would find him again. Freeze his heart again. He couldn't bear that.

But somehow he found the strength to pull back from the kiss threatening to drive him mad. Panting for breath, tasting her on his lips, he gazed down into her flushed face and glazed eyes. Swallowed back the plea to let him take this further. If he kissed her again, he wasn't certain he would be able to stop until he'd purged the grief inside him. Instead he whispered, "I love you."

The backs of her fingers caressed his cheek. "I know. I'm amazing. You can't help yourself."

"No," he said with a low, rueful laugh. "No, I cannot. And I wouldn't want to if I could. Do you think me selfish?"

"Do you think I'm selfish?"

He shook his head. "Of course not."

"Then you're not selfish either because I don't plan on giving you up anytime soon." She licked her lips and he had to bite back a groan. It didn't help when she added, "Especially since boy, you know how to kiss."

Did she sound breathless or was he fooling himself? He opened his mouth to say something—he had no idea what—when someone banged on the door. They jerked apart. Nuada bit back a snarl. How often were they destined to be interrupted by someone trying to beat the door down? He strode across the room and yanked the door open. Francesca stood on the other side.

For a moment the prince was tempted to slam the door in her face. The bandits hadn't returned; he knew that because there had been no alarm, no rumble of the decimated mob returning, and because Francesca would've been on the roof instead of inside. So what did she want?

His ire washed away in the face of the words, "The kids are back."

Dylan was out the door nearly as fast as he was. They hit the first step of the staircase practically running. At the bottom of the stairs they found the front door of the tavern open. Master Gawain's wight-stallion let out a welcoming cry as three shapes raced into the light pouring through the doorway. Dylan let out a whoop and rushed out into the night as what looked like a cat the size of large dog shifted into a little boy. A'du rammed into Dylan, crying, "A'ge'lv! You're okay!" Dylan started to bend down to the boy but then caught sight of Tsu's'di shifting back into his humanoid form. In an eye-blink she'd grabbed the youth by one shoulder and pulled him into her arms as well.

Nuada walked out into the cold and the snow as young Amaryllis leapt off her colt, sank up to her knees in a snow-bank streaked with crimson—she didn't seem to notice—and slogged toward her father, crying, "Áta!" Master Gawain fell to his knees and crushed his daughter against his chest.

"Amaryllis," the dullahan whispered, stroking her hair. "Amaryllis, my little one, my sweetheart."

"Áta?" Amaryllis pulled back to stare at her father. She touched his cheek, which sported a black streak from the corner of his eye to his jaw. She frowned. "Why are you crying?"

Gawain grabbed her thin shoulders and gave her a shake that made her gasp. "What were you thinking, Amaryllis?" He demanded hoarsely. "How could you run off like that? What were you thinking? Didn't you think of the danger? What possessed you?"

From Dylan's embrace, A'du squirmed loose. He took a few steps toward Gawain. "That was my fault, sir. Master Steward, sir."

The dullahan frowned in bemusement at the ewah boy. "Your fault?"

A'du'la'di nodded. "I was mean to her. I…I made her cry. She was really upset and people don't think about stuff when they're upset. They forget stuff. But it wasn't her fault. I made her upset because I was being callow. So don't be mad at her, please."

Nuada raised his eyebrows. Impressive. Although it was rubbish—the girl could have chosen to hide somewhere other than the woods to get away from A'du'la'di—the prince knew he'd have to praise the boy for standing up for Amaryllis and admitting how cruel he'd been to her.

"I'm sorry, Áthair," Amaryllis murmured, hanging her head. "I…I forgot. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Well," Gawain rumbled, "you did." Amaryllis said nothing for a long moment. She didn't lift her head. It wasn't until she sniffled and a sparkling black tear hit the snow that Nuada realized she was struggling desperately not to cry. Gawain sighed and embraced her again. "I am simply glad you're safe, sweetheart. I couldn't have borne it if anything happened to my little flower."

The young girl began to cry in earnest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please don't be mad, Áta."

Gawain shushed her gently. "There, now. It's all right. You're forgiven. Of course you are." He kissed the top of her head. "But do not ever scare me like that again, do you hear me, young lady? You're going to make me old before my time. I'm so glad you are safe, little one."

"A'du'la'di protected me," Amaryllis said. "From the bandits."

"What?" Nuada yelped, startled out of his consideration of what to do with the boy by this news. "What do you mean, protected you?"

"A bandit was going to get me," the little girl explained, scrubbing at her face. "But A'du and Tsu's'di stopped him."

And the cold came flooding back into the Elven prince, sickening, poisonous in his belly. He stared at the little boy and the cougar youth as shock and dawning horror tried to steal his voice. "Did you kill the bandit?" He finally managed to demand hoarsely.

A'du shook his head but Tsu's'di said, "Yeah. I killed a couple of them. They tried to kill us."

Dylan must have seen something in his face that no one else did because she pulled A'du close to her. "What?" She whispered, staring at her prince. When he said nothing, her grip on A'du tightened. "Nuada, what? What is it? What's wrong?"

"Did anyone see you?"

Tsu's'di shrugged. "I…I don't know. The kids." He gestured to Amaryllis and A'du. "Oh, we found something—"

Nuada held up a hand in a command for silence as his mind raced, struggling to figure out a way to contain this, prevent it from blowing up into something terrible. Tsu's'di had killed a human. It had never occurred to the Elven prince to tell the youth he was bound now by the Bethmooran treaty with the humans, thanks to his servitude to Dylan—a noble of Bethmoora. Tsu's'di had broken the law. He'd committed a capital crime. In ignorance, true, and to save two children, but the king wouldn't care.

He couldn't look at the youth. Couldn't look at any of the children, or Gawain. He raised his eyes from the bloodstained snow to Dylan's pale face. Knew the instant she understood what had happened as she went dead white. She shook her head mutely. Her lips formed protests but her voice was strangled by the knowledge of what her young guardsman had done. She could only plead silently with Nuada to do something.

But there was nothing he could do. The door to the tavern was open. Anyone and everyone had probably heard what the three young ones had said—including the Butcher Guards and any extremist pro-human fae inside. There was no hiding what Tsu's'di had done from the king.

"Your Highness?" Tsu's'di ventured. Nuada could hear the uncertainty in the lad's voice. "What is it?"

A'du's gaze whipped back and forth between his older brother and his hero. He wrenched out of Dylan's hold and ran to Nuada, grabbing his hand. "What's wrong? What did Tsu's'di do? Why do you smell scared? What's wrong?" When Nuada said nothing—what could he possibly say to the boy? To his brother?—A'du yanked on his arm. "Hey!"

Nuada pulled away. "That's enough, A'du'la'di," he said absently, still trying to think, trying to find a way…

"Is Tsu's'di in trouble?" Amaryllis demanded, looking at her father. "Why? He saved us! And he's not from Bethmoora! Who cares if he killed the bandits? He saved us!"

"Hush, Amaryllis," Gawain said sharply. "Do not say such things so loudly."

Tsu's'di moved to stand next to Nuada. Oblivious to the cold, to the snow beginning to fall, he met the prince's eyes. "Is that it?" He asked softly, confusion twisting his features. "I'm in trouble for killing the bandits?" Nuada nodded. Tsu's'di shook his head. "But that's not fair! I had to protect A'du and Amaryllis! Those bandits were going to kill them."

"It doesn't matter," the prince muttered bitterly. "Not in the eyes of the law."

The ewah youth raked a hand through his hair and snarled under his breath. "Well…well, fine then. What's going to happen to me? I mean, it's not like I'm going to be executed, right?" Nuada winced when Dylan made a soft sound of pain and covered her mouth with shaking hands. Tsu's'di stared at the prince. "What?" He jerked as if he'd been slapped. Suddenly he looked very young. "But…but I didn't…no. No, you…you won't…Your Highness?"

Nuada's eyes slashed to the door. "Gawain, take your daughter inside. Shut the door." He didn't want to risk going inside just yet. Not if the Butchers had heard. They might arrest the boy on the spot. He'd have no chance at all then.

But Tsu's'di snagged Amaryllis by the shoulder before she could head for the tavern. "Do you still have that necklace?"

The child nodded, digging into her dress pocket and pulling out a leather cord. From the cord hung a metal disk caked in dark, dried blood. Nuada recognized it as the bonds-collar of a serf in service to a Bethmooran noble. Where had they found that? She started to hand it to Tsu's'di when Dylan suddenly stiffened and cried, "No! Tsu's'di, don't touch it—"

Char, salt, and mercury vapor; the stench of dark magic. The prince smelled it a second too late. Barely a brush of fingers, but it was enough. Kept cool in Amaryllis's pocket, kept cool still in her death-chilled hand, no magic had reacted to her corpsely touch. But at the whisper of warm flesh and blood against the bloody metal, the spell inscribed in the lead disk erupted with half the force of a small bomb. Sorcery ripped through the night.

It slammed into Gawain, Dylan, Nuada, and Tsu's'di, sending them sprawling. Gawain's wight-stallion staggered and fell to the snow with a scream of pain. Amaryllis and A'du went flying. Only a thick cushion of snow kept either from breaking any bones. Amaryllis's colt hit the snow and didn't get up. Both children blacked out from the impact.

Tsu's'di roared in pain as the burns seared across his palm began to blister. He shoved his hand into the snow instinctively, desperate for iciness to numb the burning. Nuada surged to his feet. He shook his head in a vain attempt to stop the ringing in his ears. Blood dripped into his eye from the new gash in his skull where he'd hit his head on a stack of lumber set out in front of the blacksmith's for repairs. He'd been blown all the way across the courtyard. Gawain was on his hands and knees, flailing around for the head that had flown several feet away.

But where, Nuada wondered, peering around blearily, was Dylan? Human, mortal, nowhere near as hardy as fae stock…where was she? Was she all right?

He didn't see her.

He saw the corpses of the fallen enemy. He saw the children, Gawain, Tsu's'di. He saw Wink and Lorelei rushing out of the tavern down the steps, followed swiftly by Petra, John, and Erik. But he didn't see Dylan. At all.

Dylan? He yelled through their growing mental link. He felt her, fuzzy and distant, but she was there. He felt her respond weakly to the touch of his mind to hers. Dylan? Where are you?

Front of…blacksmith's…She groaned in his head. I think…think I have…concussion…bleeding…

In front of the blacksmith's? But he was in front of the blacksmith's. She was nowhere to be found. He didn't see anything marring the expanse of white snow except the corpses of the enemy, lit up by the light still coming from the tavern. Nuada ignored the concerned words of the others as he scanned the village square. Dylan, I don't see y—

A pulse of panic, glass-sharp in its clarity, slicing into his brain. Pain exploding in his skull. A scream echoing in his mind and his name, a desperate plea for help that needled straight to the center of his brain as she screamed, Nuada, help, he's trying to take me, he's right h—

Vicious burst of pain like an explosion beneath the thin bone of his temple. Nuada staggered as Dylan's pain jolted through their link. Someone…someone had hit her. Then nothing. Silence and unconsciousness. The prince whipped around, eyes wide, panic thudding in his blood as he roared, "Dylan? Dylan?!"

But there was only the falling snow and the night.

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