Author's Note: hey, everyone! I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to update! My goal was no later than Jan 1 but obviously that didn't work out. I'm so sorry! I've been really distracted with writing a new book (my NaNoWriMo project, which I still haven't finished), working full time, and the holidays. We've also been remodeling our apartment a bit so our animals can go outside without being eaten by coyotes or owls. So I'm so sorry! And since I can really only write at work, I not only have to juggle this and my other fics (Once variations, my other Hellboy, my Pokemon, my Captain America, and my Thor fics) as well as my current novel. And my Once chaps are always kinda big so it took awhile.

But it's finally written, revised, revised again, checked over by my beta, and ready to post! So happy belated wintry holidays and fun, I love you all, and again, I am so sorry for being so heinously late. The next chapter should pop up on Valentine's Day. Which is ironic, because...oh, wait, that would be a spoiler. Never mind...

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Chapter One-Hundred-Thirteen

Blood Out of the Past

that is

A Short Tale of an Explosion, Panic, Fear, Lamentation, Resentment, Illusion, a Hint from a Prince, Narrowing the List, Waking in Enemy Territory, Human Blood, a Score to Settle, an Innocent, and the Power of the Heir

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Pauline nearly dropped the clay mug of water she'd just brought to her lips when an explosion slammed open the tavern door. Slamming the mug down, checking to make sure the little girl in the blue cap hadn't woken up from the noise—the poor thing had finally gotten to sleep after coughing up crud for the last however many hours—she rushed to the door. It took her eyes a moment to register the two kids lying unconscious sprawled a few feet away, that teenage cat-guy snarling as he plunged his hand into the snow, and the people who'd been outside talking to Dylan and her fiancé all struggling slowly to their feet. Petra and the dark-haired Elf guy with the red eyes had come rushing out ahead of Pauline.

Wait. Dylan and her fiancé…Where was Dylan?

"Dylan?" The few times Pauline had met the prince her little sister was engaged to, she'd never heard him sound like that—vulnerable, lost, with a thread of panic twining with his voice. The panic exploded into rage fueled by sudden fear when Nuada roared, "Dylan?!"

"Where is she?" The kid with his hand in the snow whipped his head around. "Where did she go? Your Highness?"

Pauline stepped out into the sharp, bitter night. "What happened?"

Petra shook her head and scanned the night. "Where…?" She staggered, and Pauline ran to her sister. Petra grasped at Pauline, wheezing, "Dylan, where is she? Where…?"

The massive, craggy boulder that everyone kept saying was a troll—yeah, it had roared at them at Dylan's cottage but seriously? A troll? After the unicorn and the leprechaun, that was…a lot to take in—thundered across the snow, bellowing at the top of his lungs. He arrowed for the prince, who looked slightly dazed. Blood trickled from a gash in his forehead. The troll reached for Dylan's fiancé, but the prince slashed his hand through the air.

"Forget me!" He yelled. His freaky yellow eyes raked across the snow. "Find her! I sensed her for a moment! She's in danger! Find her! Now!"

For just a split second, Pauline locked eyes with the prince as he scanned for Dylan. The sheer terror there, so at odds with the cold ruthlessness she'd always seen in his gaze, struck her like a knife in the chest. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Dylan's fiancé hated her family's guts. After it had been revealed that Dylan had been telling the truth about faeries her whole life and Pauline and the rest of the Myers sisters hadn't believed her, Pauline figured she could even understand why he might be a bit pissy about that. Bad things had happened to Dylan because no one had believed her about the faeries.

But that didn't mean Pauline had to like His Royal Doucheness. She really didn't. And she still hadn't been sure if Dylan being with the guy was a good thing or a bad thing. How could you know if something like the prince could actually feel real love? The kind of love Dylan actually needed? And why would someone as buff and smexy (if you didn't take into account his bizarre coloring) as the prince be in love with someone as messed up physically as Dylan? The only reason Pauline had agreed to come to this place was because innocent people needed help, and she owed her little sister—big time. Not for the prince. He was a major douche-bag who probably didn't really care about Dylan as much as Dylan thought.

That's what Pauline had thought until just this moment. But the terror in Nuada's eyes—the horrified realization that Dylan wasn't where she was supposed to be and was, in fact, probably in a whole lot of trouble—made Pauline realize just what was at stake here for the guy. He did love Dylan. He might not show it the way Pauline would expect, and he might be a jerk to Pauline and her sisters, and hold himself aloof from them, and refuse to show any emotion or whatever except near-homicidal rage in front of the Myers family…but if he didn't love Dylan, he was the best actor she'd ever seen.

The next several minutes passed in a blur. Pauline and Victoria, who'd been called down from the rooftops, took charge of Petra, the two cat-boys who worked for Dylan, and the little girl whose head popped off. The two younger kids were just dazed from clonking their heads, but Tsu's'di had second-degree burns all over one palm and up to just past his wrist. The sisters focused on dealing with that because the prince made it very clear that they would only get in the way of him trying to figure out just what had happened to Dylan.

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Nuada prowled the streets of Lallybroch, sweat running down the back of his neck to chill and then freeze against his skin. He didn't care about that, or about the blood seeping from his forehead, or the way his vision sometimes shifted abruptly into blurs and shadows. None of it mattered. He had to find Dylan.

Where are you? The words echoed in his skull like the plaintive cry of a lonely child. He'd tried using spells to locate her while he searched every street, every alley, every abandoned house and building. Tried using the gold-and-ruby ring on the chain around his neck to teleport himself to her location, only to find the ring that matched his—the first piece of jewelry he'd ever given her, the ring that he'd lied to himself and claimed could ease the desire to put a wedding band on her finger—glittering on the snow in the dying light of a burning bandit corpse. Beside the charred remains and the familiar gold ring had been Dylan's dirk, stained with blood, and another bandit, shirt soaked in blood from the heart-wound she'd managed to inflict.

He stared at the two corpses. She'd killed one of the bandits. After Tsu's'di revealing he'd done the same in defense of A'du and little Amaryllis, after Nuada telling them that the king would seek to punish the cougar youth even though it was clearly self-defense, Dylan had killed one. The only reason she would do that was in a life-and-death situation.

Whatever was happening, she was in danger. Life-threatening danger. And with the gift of the Spirit and His warning, she would know that to be the case. She was in danger and he wasn't there. Even now she could be…could be…

No. No, he would have felt it. He would have known if she were dead. He held to that as the minutes ticked by, bleeding into half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half of vain seeking.

"Dylan?" Nuada couldn't help himself. Her name tore from his throat with savage force fueled by desperation. What would they do to her? Could she possibly escape them? If not, what would they do? Oh, gods, what would they do? He thought of Acting-Steward Gawain's wife and children. Thought of two young bird fae roasted alive, women and maidens and young lads brutalized by twisted lust, the elderly and little children locked inside burning buildings or used as target practice by bandit archers. He thought of all the death and vicious hatred inflicted on his people and felt the first crack in his hard-won control. "Dylan!"

A low whine broke through the night. The Elven prince spun to find Sétanta, tail tucked between his legs and shoulders hunched, peering up at him with anguished eyes like blue ice.

*She is nowhere, Master!* The hound pup wailed. He sank to his belly on the snow, a puddle of midnight fur against the white. *I tracked her smell, but they took her through the dead and the burning and the broken places! I cannot find her! She is not in the village anymore!*

Not in the village. She was gone. Somewhere in the woods. Sétanta hadn't been able to track her beyond that, it seemed. Damn dog, why couldn't he handle a simple task like finding his own mistress? That was the beast was for, was it not? What good was he if he couldn't even manage to—

That same heartbroken whine pierced Nuada's mounting temper. He looked down at Sétanta. Saw the grief in those ice-blue eyes. He was so young. As young as A'du'la'di. Sétanta was only a pup. Dylan would not have allowed the Elven prince to punish the pup for his failure. The stench of death and burnt flesh would easily mask her scent from a hound so young. Reining in his temper, Nuada held out a hand to the hound. Sétanta whimpered and bellied over. Licked Nuada's fingers. Nuada smoothed a hand over the dog's silky head.

"It is alright. We will find her," the prince murmured.

His heart beat a hard rhythm against his breastbone as he spoke. Find her. He had to find her. But he had a choice to make now. He could speak to the adult fae from Lallybroch as their prince and demand they help him track down the bandits and rescue his lady…but then what? They couldn't fight the human bandits. It would be a slaughter. Either the fae wouldn't fight and they would die, or they would fight and then the king would execute any who dared lift a weapon. But if he took Dylan's family to help him instead, there was no telling whether they would ever find her. They didn't know the land, and he doubted city-bred mortals could navigate the forest in the dark in winter with any sort of skill. And by taking them, he left Lallybroch defenseless. The bandits could return and attack and the fae would have to choose yet again—fight and risk execution, or stand back and be butchered in their beds.

Who could he bring with him who could fight and kill with impunity? Who could he risk taking away from Lallybroch without leaving his people defenseless in the face of a potential attack? No one. There was no one, save Wink and perhaps Lorelei and Erik. But the rhinemaiden and the dökkálfar were two of the few trained fae warriors who could fight the human bandits, because they were not Bethmooran. And Wink…Wink had to remain behind as well, because only Nuada could risk going after the enemy and the prince would need Wink to cover for him. Nuada would have to go alone.

"Nuada!"

He spun, hope a treacherous poison flooding his veins as John sprinted toward him. Before the human could even come to a complete stop, the Elven prince grabbed him by the forearms. "You found her?" Please, gods, let her kin have found her. Let the prince be wrong about what he was almost certain was the cold, bitter truth.

The dread and apology in the whelp's eyes almost made the warrior strike the human. He hadn't found her. Yet again, when Dylan needed help, her kin were of absolutely no use whatsoever. Baring his teeth in a snarl, Nuada wrenched his hands away.

"What do you want?"

"I was thinking if we moved now, we could gather up some of the villagers and search the woods, track those guys down. It's only been about ninety or so minutes, they couldn't have gotten super far. The villagers know the lay of the land, so—"

"No." The word hung heavy in the night, cold as stone. Nuada felt icy talons punch through his chest and curl around his heart as he realized what he had to do. Gods…gods, this was his fault. He'd known this was a trap, that the bandits plaguing the northern villages had been paid to lure him and Dylan away from Findias. Dylan herself had discovered it during the interrogation of the human assassin, Ian Malcolm. And yet they'd walked blithely into that trap anyway because of duty, because of honor, responsibility, but it wasn't Nuada who would pay, oh no. Not the Silverlance. It was her. Dylan. She would pay because he'd listened to her when she'd said they had to go, that she had to go. He should have left her in Findias. He should have forced her back to the mortal world until this was done.

The whelp stared at him, confusion blanketing the fear for a moment. He didn't understand—yet. When he did, understanding would shatter the confusion and leave only rage and hate behind. John couldn't understand. He didn't know what loyalty and fealty meant. He didn't understand the obligations of a lord, a prince.

Would any of Dylan's kin understand? Would they stay once the Elven prince made his choice clear? Or would they break faith and abandon his people because of their fury and hate? Damn them. And damn John for forcing Nuada to speak some of the hardest words he'd ever had to say.

John opened his mouth. Closed it again. Opened it. Finally he demanded, "What?"

"No. We will not…" The words stuck in Nuada's throat. He couldn't breathe around the sharp, jagged edges of them. They left a taste like blood and betrayal on the back of his tongue. "We will not be going after Dylan right now."

He would not—could not—leave her without at least attempting to rescue…but he had to ensure the safety of the village first, and that would take time. Time Dylan most likely didn't have. Precious time while the bandits could be doing anything to her. Could even be killing her. But Nuada couldn't sacrifice his people for one person. Not even…not even for her.

"You…you're just…going to leave her?" The mortal's voice grated against Nuada's ears. The prince's fingers knotted into fists so tight his knuckles ached. "You're going to abandon Dylan to these…monsters? Again?"

Nuada's eyes snapped open. He felt them shift from anguished, xanthous gray to hot bronze. His fist nearly swung out to connect with the insufferable whelp's accusing face, but somehow the prince managed to hold himself back. Of course the mortal didn't understand. He was human. He couldn't comprehend what this cost.

"Arrangements must be made. My people come first," the prince hissed. He loathed the mortal for the rage smoldering in eyes so like Dylan's. Loathed the sudden urge to defend himself, as if he were doing something wrong. "Dylan understands that." The words tasted like iron. Like lies.

John shook his head, disgust etching across his features. Every muscle in Nuada's body tightened. He'd seen that look, that disgust, on other faces before. Old friends who'd turned against him after the last war with the humans and the use of the Golden Army. His sister's face. His father's face. It didn't matter. Nuada would not allow that look to pierce him like an arrow, to chill him like poison. He was a prince, and he would show a prince's restraint. He would focus on the preparations necessary for finding his lady.

The mortal stepped back from the Elven prince. "Dude…do you even love her at all?"

To the thirteen hells with restraint. Nuada's sword was out and flashing silver and crimson from the firelight, the keen edge against the small scar he'd left almost two months ago at John's throat. The mortal froze. Nuada spoke through clenched teeth. He couldn't seem to stop the odd quaver underneath his words, no matter how he tried.

"How dare you?" The words lashed out with tight fury. "How dare you even ask? You know nothing, do you hear? Nothing. Do you have any idea what it is like to know that no matter how much you care for someone, you must always put other people first? My people, my kingdom—this village—come before everything else that is precious to me. That is my curse, you arrogant wretch." A crimson haze clouded the prince's vision as he fought with the sick fear coiling in his belly and the rage surging hot through his blood. He swallowed hard. Managed to get a grip on the frayed leash around his temper. "Dylan has always understood that. That is one of the reasons why I love her. She knows what it means to be royal. She knows what responsibility is. That is why I love her, and why the people of Lallybroch have begun to respect and care for her, despite her humanity. If I ask my people to help me save her, they will do it, and they will die."

"You don't know that—"

"Yes, I do!" Nuada roared, shocking the human in silence. "Do you not understand why we needed you here? It doesn't matter what is at stake; if the fae of Bethmoora harm or kill a human for any reason, they will be put to death! Dylan would hate me to the end of her days, and you as well, if we asked them to sacrifice their lives for her! And I cannot ask you and your sisters to come; my people need you here in case the bandits return! Do you understand?"

John stared at him, and Nuada realized that perhaps this idiot whelp hadn't quite understood just what the consequences would have been had Nuada done as his heart demanded and ask his people to help rescue his lady. The mortal swallowed. "And what about you? Can't you go? You've saved her before. Can't you do it again? Please…if you love her…"

Nuada whipped the sword away from John's throat before he gave into the hate seething in his veins. "Use that word again, 'if,' and I will make sure you have ample opportunity to memorize the taste of your own blood sliding down your throat, you soulless vermin. I will go after her. I would never abandon her. Never! But I must make arrangements for that, as well. You and my few confidantes—Wink, Erik, Lorelei—will need to hide my absence from the Butcher Guards so that my father does not hear of it upon our return to the capital."

Blink. Blink. Another blink. "Why?"

The Elven warrior rolled his eyes, the hate fading into exasperation thinly layered over that all-too-familiar fear and rage. Was the human really that stupid? "Because if he finds out that I went after her, if he finds out I killed humans to protect her, he will most likely have me executed."

There was nothing but silence for a long moment. John slowly shook his head. "What kind of kingdom is this? What is wrong with you people? Why would he do that?"

"Because my father believes in a treaty bought and signed with innocent blood," Nuada snarled, hating John for making him say such things, hating the fact that they were true, hating the fact that honor threatened to destroy his chance at real happiness once again. "Because he believes that the fae should die out, with the shreds of our so-called honor intact, rather than force your kind to pay for your myriad sins against us. Because the gods or the Fates or whatever damned entity is pulling the strings of the universe rejoices in my suffering. That is why! Now, we need to return to the tavern so I might begin doing what I can." He stalked past John, their shoulders bumping as Nuada shoved him out of the way. A petty maneuver, but it helped smooth the sharpest edges of darkness cutting at his insides.

He stopped when John laid a hand on his shoulder. "Do not touch me."

"Look…I didn't get it. Before. I'm sorry."

Nuada swallowed savage words and glanced at his lady's twin over his shoulder. If he was to be forced to leave John behind to protect his people when Nuada could not, then they needed to clear up whatever misunderstanding the human persisted in holding onto. Baring his soul to a human stuck like a bone in his throat, but the prince knew it was necessary.

"Listen to me, whelp, and listen well. Never ever doubt that I love your sister…with everything I am. But I must be a prince before I can be simply a man. My people always come first. That is what it means to be royal. Never forget that. Now get your hands off me and let's go."

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Zhenjin tasted blood like quicksilver sweetness at the back of his throat as he cradled the broken corpse of his sister in his arms. Nearby, sprawled across the snow, lay more bodies: Qing, his youngest brother, barely into his seventh century; Hôu Junjï and Gaôzu, who'd come with him on his hunt for Shaohao; the Emperor himself, Zhenjin's own father, a broken man with limbs snapped like matchsticks; Zhenjin's mother with her head at a sick angle. His family—parents, his two aunts, his dozens of brothers, his little sister…even Shaohao, lying with a disgruntled expression on his face, limbs akimbo on the snow, as if he couldn't believe anyone would dare strike him down.

Beyond them, his friends, Dylan and Nuada and Princess Kamaria of Nyame and Bres of Cíocal and so many others, and beyond that…his people. Dilong fae cut down without mercy, bodies piled atop each other to make mountains of corpses, amber and orange and green blood frozen into spikes of ice all around them. His people. He'd failed them. Here was the nightmare, the horrifying reality. Here was the thing he had dreaded since the last war with the humans, when Nuada had warned the rest of the fae heirs that the humans could not be trusted; that if the Hidden Folk weren't careful, the mortals would wipe them all out. And here lay Zhenjin's people, slaughtered like beasts.

But it was Ming, sweet little Mïng Xiàn, who ripped open his chest to crush the broken pieces of his heart. Ming's head lolled on her neck and cuts and bruises marred her sweet face. Her blood soaked his shirt, smeared his skin. She'd been dead long enough that steam no longer drifted up from the little pools of amber blood like silver smoke on the air.

"I'm sorry," Zhenjin whispered, cradling her close. "Oh, gods, little orchid, I'm so sorry."

Shaohao's voice, a whisper like smoke, barely there at the edges of Zhenjin's consciousness. "Zhen-Zhen…" But Zhenjin couldn't think about Shaohao now. He couldn't tear his eyes away from his sister, from his family. "Zhen-Zhen…"

"Father," Zhenjin mumbled, staring into the emperor's glassy eyes. A tear slipped down the Dilong prince's cheek. "Father, forgive me. Forgive me, I—"

"Zhenjin, wake up!"

Flash of moonlight on metal, splintering the night with silvery glow. Zhenjin jerked back instinctively as the sword swinging toward him was blocked in a clash of Dilong bronze and cold steel. Shaohao, alive and whole and with an insane light flashing in his coppery snake eyes, bore down on the human that had tried to sever Zhenjin's head. Zhenjin's gaze darted around even as he drew his chokutō. No corpses. No dead mother or father, brothers or sister. No Dylan. No dead friends. No Dilong fae. All of it gone.

Illusion. It had to have been illusion. A very powerful glamour, to fool the heir to a throne. Fury sparking in his blood, he lunged forward. He and Shaohao had fought for and against each other countless times over the centuries. Now, with a single charged glance between bronze and emerald eyes, the brothers bare their fangs and moved in on the human that dared to attack a royal of Dilong. This was Bethmoora, King Balor's kingdom, but the old Irish fae king could not touch them.

Shaohao's blade lashed out. Plunged into the mortal's chest. Blood ran in crimson trickles down the bronze blade as the attacking human choked, gurgled. Zhenjin's chokutō sliced in a silver line across the human's throat. The severed head toppled to the snow. Shaohao allowed the body to fall as well. Then the mad prince turned and smacked his brother across the back of the head.

"Gah! Why did you—"

"You idiot!" Shaohao snarled. "You could have been killed!"

Zhenjin's eyes flashed fire as he snapped, "That creature, Hastur, he glamoured me! The fear darrig!"

Shaohao rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. Next time I see him, I'll be sure to gut him like a fish and save you his liver. Now," those mad eyes flaring with rage again, "answer me quickly: are. You. All. Right?"

Surprised by the savagery underscoring the words, Zhenjin wiped his blade clean while nodding. "Of course."

"You're certain?"

He eyed his older brother. He'd never understood why or how Shaohao could exhibit such mindless hatred for Mïng Xiàn and nearly everyone else in their family—the eldest Dilong prince had murdered several of his brothers, a handful of his own wives and concubines, and even some of his own children—but he showed such love and concern for Zhenjin. Zhenjin, who'd usurped Shaohao's place as the heir to the Jade Dragon Throne.

Zhenjin nodded. "I'm fine. I was…a bit shaken, that's all. I thought…" He swallowed. "The fear darrig prey on our worst nightmares. Apparently mine were more easily manipulated than I imagined." At that, Shaohao's rage dimmed. The mask of sanity settled over his features. "And you?" Zhenjin added. "Are you all right?"

Fangs flashed in something too savage to be called a smile. "Why, Zhen-Zhen! Is that concern I hear? I do believe my shriveled heart might melt right out of my chest."

"Shut up."

They stepped around the corpse and started walking back the way they had originally come, arrowing for the village of Broch Toruch—that the locals called Lallybroch. Shaohao had told Zhenjin before their run-in with Hastur that the men Shaohao had originally been willing to help murder Nuada meant to lay siege to that village since both the Bethmooran prince and his mortal lady were there. Only Zhenjin's confession as he lay concussed and dying in Shaohao's arms that he loved "Silverlance's mortal" had changed the mad prince's mind. A skilled healing from Shaohao and the two brothers had been on their way.

A stab of guilt twinged in Zhenjin's chest. He had come to the northern part of Bethmoora to track his mad brother, accompanied by Téngshé guards from Dilong and a few other royals: Prince Günther Wolfjarl of Álfheim, a highly skilled tracker; Prince Taran of Annwn, one of Zhenjin's close friends; Prince Dastan of Shahbaz, another very close friend and ally; Princess Kamaria of Nyame, a formidable warrior with enough power to handle Shaohao in a fight; and the two brothers just under Zhenjin, Hôu Junjï and Gaôzu. Now he was leaving to go and save Dylan and Nuada, in the company of the same brother that had nearly killed both of them not even a sennight past. But Shaohao had broken ties with whatever treacherous dogs sought to murder Nuada and his mortal lady. The Red Dragon Prince was mad, but Zhenjin knew that once Shaohao gave his word to his younger brother, he would keep it.

That was the reason Shaohao refused to lie to Zhenjin about his intentions toward Mïng Xiàn. He would not hide his desire for the little princess's death, even to spare his favorite brother.

Zhenjin and his guards had been separated from the others when a mixed group of humans and fae had attacked them; no doubt, they were some of the bandits Nuada had gone north to deal with. Shaohao had drawn Zhenjin further from the group. Now the Dilong heir wondered what had happened to his friends and kinsmen. Were they yet looking for him?

He'd considered whether it would be wrong to leave them in order to warn Nuada and Dylan, and decided that it wouldn't be. He wasn't haring off simply because the woman he loved was in danger. Nuada was his friend and ally, and Shaohao had made it clear that he possessed information integral to ferreting out whatever treasonous wretch had organized this little scheme (and the fact that this had even been organized in the first place was news to the Dilong heir). Nuada needed to know. Not only the village of Broch Toruch, but also the entire kingdom of Bethmoora, could be put in danger because of this betrayal. And Zhenjin didn't trust Shaohao to deliver the information on his own.

Ruthless practicality said that Zhenjin could, if he chose, get the information from his brother and then kill him. He would be ensuring Mïng Xiàn's safety. Ridding the world of a homicidal madman.

But he couldn't push the memory from his mind of Shaohao cradling Zhenjin's head and crooning his favorite childhood lullaby, "Sao Tau Hay," while Shaohao healed him. He couldn't forget that his brother had thrown away years and perhaps decades of planning because Zhenjin had confessed to being in love with one of the conspiracy's targets.

"I cannot tell you the name of the one who orchestrated all of this," Shaohao interjected into the snowy silence as they jogged through the woods. Zhenjin's head snapped around and he stared at his brother. "There is a curse and a binding on that name, one even I cannot break. It cannot be written or spoken by any who serve him and know his name. Even the bandits in service to him are bound by ensorcelled spell-disks. Remove the disk in order to force an answer from one of them, and their blood literally boils in their veins. It's quite painful."

Zhenjin swore. "How am I to help Nuada discover the identity of this traitor, then? Can you not simply point him out?"

Shaohao's laugh held an edge of bitterness. "You may love me, di-di, but Old One-Arm has no love for a ruthless man like myself. If I set foot in Findias, especially after that little incident with my beautiful shoggoths—"

"The incident where Nuada was nearly killed, you mean?"

"What is that human phrase?" Shaohao asked, smiling beatifically. "Potato, po-tah-to? Anyway, I'll not be able to get close enough to expose the wretch. I cannot draw his face, write his name. I cannot even spell it for you. Besides, I don't actually know it."

The crown prince stumbled to a halt. "You don't know his name? You? With your spies and your—"

"I grew weary of receiving boxes with splinters of bone and little chunks of gristle that used to be my best spies, all laid out on silver plates," Shaohao growled low in his throat. He didn't slow his stride, so Zhenjin began jogging again. "I eventually stopped sending them," the Red Dragon Prince added. "A fear gortach, a Banquet Keeper, that wretch Lord Famine…even I am not so cruel a master as to send my best intelligence agents to be eaten, the leftovers sent back to me as pretend-gifts."

Acid churned in Zhenjin's belly as he understood anew what sort of monster they were dealing with. "Can't you simply…kill him?" If Shaohao could personally sneak into the Jade Palace in Dilong and cut the throats of various princes and princesses under protective guard, he could kill one fear gortach, couldn't he?

"I've tried once or twice. But I'll say this for Old One-Arm—he guards those closest to him very carefully. I can tell you that the fae you're looking for is one of the Banquet Keepers in direct service to the king."

"So our suspect list has been narrowed down to twelve very clever men. That's not that helpful."

Shaohao canted his head, looking equal parts amused and annoyed. "True. But you've always been clever, my brother. You'll figure it out. Perhaps Hôu Junjï can help you. He's a bright one. I've always admired that lad's brains."

Zhenjin's thoughts went back to his brothers and friends, out there in the forest. Bandits roamed this part of Bethmoora, and hostile fae, and wild beasts. And apparently an angry fear darrig in service to the Bethmooran lord that commanded the bandits. Would his friends and his brothers be safe from Lord Hastur? Shaohao had broken through whatever glamour the fear darrig had laid on him, but Zhenjin hadn't been able to. Would Gaôzu? Would Hôu Junjï?"

"How did you break through Hastur's glamour?" Zhenjin asked suddenly. "Was it simply that you had nothing to fear, and so he had no hold on you?"

Shadows darkened Shaohao's gaze as he glanced at his brother. The raw agony that flashed across his face startled the other prince. What had Shaohao seen, that he would look like that? But all the older prince said was, "I learned long ago to shatter the dark illusions my enemies used to torment me. Thanks to our father, it merely took a couple centuries of practice."

.

Viciously cold water slammed into Dylan like a wave of needles, driving spikes of icy fire into her flesh. She jerked awake with a half-strangled scream and nearly blacked out again when agony smashed into her shoulders, rolling down—no, up—her arms in waves. Dull agony pounded through her skull from her temple. She sucked in air that seared her lungs. Bands of steel threatened to crush her chest. The world swam in front of her water-blurred eyes as she tried to whip her head around, tried to see. Her hands, she realized distantly, were numb. Lumps of useless flesh at the ends of her wrists, hoisted above her head.

Someone had tied her up. The thought brought a surge of panic. She swallowed it back as she forced herself to breathe. That was why her chest hurt—her hands had been yanked over her head by ropes that bit into her raw wrists. Her shoulders strained to pop out of joint, but she could just touch the ground if she stood on tiptoe. Fire pulsed low and wicked in her bad knee as she strained to support her own weight.

Blinking the water from her eyes, Dylan tried to figure out where she was.

A tent. Canvas, but draped in fur to keep out the cold. A large tent, big enough for herself, a big bed, an old-fashioned folding table covered in maps and little figurines. Spartan, though. The only real luxuries were the fur hangings on the tent walls and the heaps of furs piled on the bed. Weapons sat in a wooden rack near the bed. A few whips, blades both short and long, axes. A warrior's tent. Sturdy enough to support whatever was holding her up. A commander's tent, maybe?

She remembered the concussive blast that slammed her into the snow, an explosion of white blinding her as she hit the ground. Snow in her eyes, a ringing in her ears. The children…A'du and Amaryllis…She'd tried to get up, tried to rise on legs quivering like jelly. The world swimming, head throbbing mercilessly, Dylan watched Nuada surge to his feet as well. He was alright, but the children…They lay on the snow, far too still. A'du'la'di…A'du'la'di… Then a blur of movement from the corner of her eye. She spun, ducked instinctively. Cried out in her mind for Nuada because her tongue was slow and clumsy from the blow to her head.

A fist caught her in the temple. Lights exploded across her vision. She fell as the world went black. The last thing she remembered after that was cold snow…and the scent of blood. Hot, red, coppery. Blood slicking her hands…She'd killed someone. She'd come to and killed one of her attackers, lost her dirk. And whoever had been dragging her away had hit her again. Only darkness. Oblivion.

No more oblivion. Her enemy now circled around her, smiling when she met his eyes.

He was human. She could tell that at once, but there was something wrong with him. He gave off that air of weariness that old fae possessed, the ones who'd reached their adulthood and were already tired of the world. Though his slate gray eyes gleamed with a twisted anticipation that made her stomach twist, she was a psychiatrist. She recognized the things people tried to hide. This man, whoever he was, was very, very tired of living. Whatever he was holding onto in order to keep going wasn't enough. He existed, survived, but he wasn't really alive. And the icy feeling he gave off reminded her far too strongly of Bres and Cíaran. This man, whoever he was, tired or not, was a soulless monster.

His scarred face split into a wide grin when she didn't look away from his malicious gaze. He was a big man. Big enough that, had he been fae, Nuada might have had difficulty with him simply due to his sheer size. He had enough ripped muscle rival a bodybuilder and very little fat; someone who pushed himself far too hard physically. Like Nuada, Dylan realized, feeling odd. Her prince wasn't quite so bulky, but both men flogged their bodies, pushing desperately for physical perfection. The similarity sent a prickle down the back of her neck. Somehow, though she wasn't quite sure where the thought came from, she didn't think that similarity was merely coincidence.

The question was, should she make the first move? Challenge him too soon, and he had the power in the conversation; wait too long for him to speak, and he still retained that power. Every moment, every split-second decision in the next however many minutes, would be part of a power struggle.

"Are you in pain?" His voice was oddly pleasant in counterpoint to his malevolent appearance. She didn't answer. She would give him nothing. She had a theory about where she was, now that her brain only throbbed like an abscessed tooth instead of swimming in drunken carnival circles. He was the bandit leader—or one of them. A monster, just as she'd thought. "Have you nothing to say?"

Play this right, she ordered herself silently. I can't mess this up.

"You've made a mistake," she said softly but coolly, "taking me prisoner. You realize that, don't you?"

His grin widened, showing surprisingly clean teeth. "Not really. I am merely doing my job."

"Kidnapping the betrothed of Bethmoora's crown prince?" She forced her lips to curve into a smile. Numbness had begun spreading down her palms to her wrists. "Your employer must be paying you quite a bit of money to risk the prince's wrath."

The bandit leader reached up. She barely suppressed a flinch when he patted her cheek with one rough hand. "It is a…how do you modern humans say it? A win-win situation. When I'm finished with you, both the love of the prince's life and his unborn brat will be dead, and either the prince will kill me or I'll kill him. If I kill him, then I have finally avenged my family. If he kills me…the king will kill him, and I will still have avenged my family."

Dylan frowned, hating the way the metaphorical ground had suddenly turned so slippery. "Your family?"

He smiled with no little bitterness. "Your precious prince helped murder my family. I must say, you've stirred up quite the gossip around Bethmoora. A mortal bedding and wedding the murderous Silverlance?" He chuckled. "Either he's a pleasure god or you're some sort of goddess, for either of you to be putting up with the other for the sake of the rutting."

She blinked once. "Ew."

A casual shrug. "It matters little enough to me. Although I must say, you're not as ugly as I expected. I'd heard the rumors about your face." He flicked her cheek. The sting helped clear her head a little more. "You're actually quite pretty under all those scars. I'll have to fix that before I'm done with you." He ran a finger down the long, slashing scar carving the length of her cheek. The one Nuada liked so much to caress. "Did he do this to you? The price you had to pay for climbing into his bed and carrying his spawn?"

"Monsters like you did this to me," she said coldly. It had taken maybe forty seconds for her to realize that the only thing standing between her and death was how much pain he would inflict on her first. He was going to kill her. The only questions were, when and how? Antagonizing him would tell her. It would also result in her bleeding, but that was going to happen anyway. She had to accept it and move on. Push him enough, he might give her something useful. "I don't know what it is with you morons and trying to demonize His Highness. He's a better man than you could ever hope to be."

A look of such hideous rage flashed across the bandit leader's face that Dylan's eyes widened and she flinched back. Forcing a smile that did nothing to hide his fury, he said, "I've forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Sréng. Your prince owes me a debt. I intend to collect on it. You've rutted with him, so you might have noticed a scar on the right side of his chest, just here." Sréng indicated a two-inch line just under his right pectoral with his thumb. "I gave him that. And he gave me this." He traced the long, fleshy scar that crossed his face from scalp to cheek across one eye with a finger. "He helped butcher my family, blinded me in one eye. Cut off these." Sréng held up the hand missing two fingers. "He stole everything from me when I was but a wee lad."

Dylan jerked back from him, the sheer wrongness of that statement smacking aside her common sense. "Oh, whatever! You're either lying or delusional. I'd bank on lying. Nuada would never hurt a child!"

Sréng's hand was around her throat so quickly it was nothing but a blur. His fingers bit into her neck and suddenly there was no air, nothing but pressure bearing down on her larynx, and the blood thudding trapped in her head, and her pulse pounding in time with the black spots filling her vision. Dylan jerked on her bonds, choking. Air, no air, couldn't breathe. Her mouth worked soundlessly as thick, meaty fingers dug deep into her neck.

"He cut my father's throat right in front of me when I was nine years old." Each word punched through the roaring haze as blackness began creeping in at the edges of her vision. Sréng's breath stank of rancid meat and old blood. "His troll ripped off my oldest brother's arm and left him to bleed to death in the mud. His whore of a sister castrated another of my brothers. He took my uncle in the back like a coward. And then he did this to me." Wrenching away from her, he muttered something obscene under his breath. Turned back to her and spat. A glob of something disgusting hit her cheek. She was too busy gasping for air to care much. "He looked like a boy, looked just like me…but he was no boy. He was a hell demon."

He looked like a boy…Bile seared the back of Dylan's raw throat and she had to fight not to retch while sucking in frigid air. He looked like a boy, looked just like me…Two boys. Two little boys, nine years old and nine centuries old, locked in combat, trying to hurt each other. Trying to kill each other. Just thinking about it sickened her. When had this happened? Why? Why would Nuada have ever been in a situation like…?

Nine centuries, give or take. He'd looked like a human boy in his ninth year. There had been no war in Nuada's ninth century, he'd told her so. Realization crystallized inside her like a knife of ice. "You…your family. You're the ones who attacked the queen."

That explained the look of unutterable weariness in Sréng's eyes. Somehow he had become immortal, living for all these centuries…but he was still human, mortal in all the ways that counted. He wasn't meant to live for so long. It was wearing him down, destroying him piece by piece. Was that what would happen to her if she ever became immortal? Would she eventually go mad with the weariness of it?

But she wasn't going to live long enough to become immortal, Dylan reminded herself. Sréng was going to kill her tonight.

"The queen," Sréng scoffed, oblivious to her thoughts. "She was nothing but a jumped up trull in a fancy dress. She needed to learn her place. A faerie slut has no business pretending to be a queen, lording herself over human men. I still remember how she looked in those first moments…" His smile made her stomach churn. "Thought she could fight us off. Stupid slut. But my father made it very clear to her quick enough what a woman's place is—under a man."

An image of Nuada's expression whenever he spoke of his mother flashed in front of Dylan's eyes. His gaze, forlorn as a little boy's. The sorrow in it. The anguish. She remembered tears in the midnight dark on Christmas Eve, the deep gulf flooded with grief that yawned between Balor and his only son. And all of it because monsters posing as men had butchered Nuada's mother.

A jumped up trull in a fancy dress…

Dylan let herself sag a little, sudden hate boiling black in her veins, her stomach churning. The hate didn't blur her thoughts, though. It crystallized everything, giving it a sharp clarity that let her assess the situation with surprising calm.

She probably wasn't making it out of this alive. That was one reason Nuada hadn't wanted to bring her to the villages in the first place. They'd known it was a trap. Dylan had insisted they had to risk it. She'd known the potential consequences. Now here they were.

Nuada couldn't come to save her; there was too much at stake. The Butchers would never allow him to track her down, and he wouldn't risk his father's wrath falling on Lallybroch if he killed the Butchers to get to her. It was too great a risk to attack the Butchers on his own because of the situation in the village. The villagers would see Nuada rebelling against the royal guards, the king's elite, and months of resentment could push them into attacking as well. They loved Nuada, and Dylan was beginning to suspect that many Bethmoorans actually hated the king.

And Nuada would never abandon the village, anyway. He couldn't take her siblings from their posts. They were needed. The bandits could come back at any time. No, Dylan was on her own. She couldn't make it out of this place alive. Not out of the middle of the bandit camp—which she had every reason to believe was where they were. No, her only goal at this point was one thing: hurting Sréng as much as he intended to hurt her. If he was going to kill her, he'd have to work for it. And when she died, she'd die with a smile in her heart.

Sréng frowned and took a step toward her as she sank a little lower. Strain burned through her shoulders, but Dylan ignored it. Closer…just a little closer.

He stepped nearer. She had to bite back a triumphant smirk. Too close.

Dylan twisted suddenly and lashed out with one foot, catching him in the groin with the side-kick Nuada had taught her that day in the royal forest what felt like forever ago. Sréng yelped, coughed. Doubled over. Staggered back. Agony flared in her knee but she managed to kick out and catch him in the face with her heel. She relished the flash of triumph as blood spurted from the bandit's nose.

"Gah!" He fell to his knees, clutching his groin with one hand and his face with the other. "You bitch! You bitch, you broke my nose!"

"Suck it up," Dylan snapped. Unfortunately she hadn't had quite enough force behind the kick to actually break his nose. Crap. And she knew she would pay for this. She knew payment would hurt. But she would be damned before she let someone speak that way about Nuada's mother. Not when her loss ripped at him every day. Not when this pig and his relatives had been the ones to take Cethlenn from her family. "Come back over here and let's see if I can give you a broken jaw, you monster."

Gray eyes turned to cold steel as Sréng stared at her, blood still gushing from his nose. His breathing rasped wetly in the sudden silence of the tent. Oh so slowly, he rose to his feet. Pulled out a knife with a very sharp point. "You shouldn't have done that," he wheezed. "Little slut. You want to know what happens to little sluts who don't know their place?"

Fighting to maintain her rage, images of the villagers she'd treated for rape-related injuries haunting the forefront of her mind, she bared her teeth in a smile as feral as any angry fae's. "Why don't you show me? If you still have enough…" She flicked her eyes to his groin, then back to his face. "Guts."

She was going to die. She was going to die. And he was probably going to rape her first. Dylan stared into his eyes and knew that the child that had lost his family all those centuries ago was dead, replaced by this…thing. Sympathy for that child couldn't interfere with how she handled this now. Sréng thought she carried Nuada's child. The least he would do was beat her. She didn't know what would happen after that, but he would beat her first, and then move onto worse and worse things.

Sréng smiled, his teeth red with his own blood. "Oh, you are a feisty one. I'm going to enjoy breaking you."

I'm sorry, Nuada, she thought as Sréng turned and limped toward the tent entrance. I'm going to die, and this is going to hurt you so much…but you'll do what's right in the end. I believe in your honor. You won't come for me, and that's okay. Our people come first. I love you. I wish I could've told you one more time. I love you.

Dylan frowned when Sréng dragged an Elf into the tent—a young Elf, maybe thirteen or fourteen centuries, a young man with tangled blond hair and wild eyes the color of molten bronze. A rainbow of bruises mottled one side of his face, his throat, and the skinny chest bared by the open homespun shirt. Wide eyes darted all over the tent, desperately seeking escape. Before Dylan could say a word, the Elven boy lunged back toward the tent opening. Sréng struck him a resounding blow across the back of the neck that dropped the youth to the ground in a limp, shuddering heap.

"Stop it!" Dylan yelled. "He's just a boy, leave him be!"

Sréng's smile took on an edge that made Dylan's stomach churn. "Oh? Matters to you, does it? Not just a whore, but a traitor to your own kind even in your heart. Even without Silverlance being in love with you, I'd still enjoy this. Dealing with human traitors is something I enjoy.

"Now, this boy," the bandit delivered a vicious kick to the Elf's ribs. The Elf yelped and cringed away. "He's one of my…pets. I call him Whelp." Another kick, and the Elven boy curled into a ball to shield himself from Sréng's blows. "I took him from a village a few days' ride from here. He gives excellent sport, but he's such a bother." Reaching down, he hauled the Elf up by the hair. Forced him to stare into Dylan's eyes, Sréng's knife at his throat and the bandit's hand fisted in his hair. The bronze eyes settled on her face. Something like recognition kindled in his gaze. "Handsome lad, though, isn't he?" Sréng asked.

Dylan swallowed with a mouth gone desert dry. She hadn't expected this. Hadn't thought Sréng would be able to use anyone against her. Nuada was safe, her family well-guarded in the village, and the people of Lallybroch made it seem as if the bandits took no prisoners. She hadn't thought…

Wait. The bandits had taken her after that explosion, that dark spell, but she hadn't been the only person caught in it. Nuada…Tsu's'di and the children…little Amaryllis…Oh, no. What if Sréng had members of her family? Was that the point of bringing in this boy? To show her that the bandit leader had no qualms about hurting a young innocent? If he would hurt this boy, he would hurt Amaryllis or Tsu's'di, A'du or 'Sa'ti.

"You have two little servant children, don't you? Cat people." Sréng's mockingly gentle question sent shards of ice carving deep into Dylan's heart. She fought not to react. She couldn't show him what it would do to her, for him to hurt A'du and 'Sa'ti. "It would be a pity if I had to go back to the village and find them. You wouldn't like that, I assume."

He didn't have them. Oh, thank goodness, she thought, fighting to keep her face impassive. "The prince will see you dead if you try to touch them," Dylan said. "My family will kill you for this."

Sréng chuckled. "Your family?"

"My human family," she snapped. "Even Balor won't be able to stop them. My sister will put a bullet in your head. You know what a bullet is?"

"Yes. I do. Oh, so spirited. You still think I'm going to pay for this. You think death would deter me…but I grow weary of living. My only diversions are thoughts of Silverlance's face when he sees what I've done to you, punishing the humans who betray their blood and the fae they whore themselves to…and my pets." He prodded the Elven boy's throat. A thin trickle of amber blood spilled down the dirt-and-bruise-smudged throat. "But this one…now he's seen you. He knows who you are."

After a moment's hesitation, Dylan flicked her gaze to the young Elf. "What's your name?"

The boy glanced at Sréng and didn't speak for a long time. He looked back at Dylan. Whatever he saw in her face seemed to give him courage, because finally he croaked, "Eoghan."

"Tell her how old you are, Whelp," Sréng snarled.

"F-F-Fourteen-hundred and e-eighty-f-four," Eoghan stammered.

Dylan's heart twisted her chest. Not even fifteen if he'd been human. He was a kid. She glared at Sréng, who smiled blandly and prodded the boy with his knife again. "And tell her what good pets do for me."

"Leave him alone," Dylan hissed, rage thudding through her blood as the bandit leered at the Elf and a mix of sick misery and hate flooded Eoghan's xanthous gray eyes. "Leave him alone! I'll kill you myself, you leave him be!"

Sréng laughed. "Oh, you'll kill me? You stupid bitch, you think you have any power over me? Over this boy? Over anything that's about to happen?"

He didn't even wait for her to answer. Without any hesitation whatsoever, he raked the knife across Eoghan's throat. The hot spray of blood hit Dylan's face as Eoghan dropped to the ground. Her scream of denial clogged in her throat as the Elf twitched and thrashed on the ground while the blood pumped from the ragged wound to soak the earth. Only when he'd gone still did she realize tears had made tracks through the spray of blood on her cheeks. She raised her eyes to Sréng's blank face.

"He was only a boy," she choked out. "He was just…Why did you…why? Why him and not me? You want to hurt me, I can see it in your face, you son of a…" The tears were coming faster now; she could hardly breathe. "Why him?"

And he smiled. "To teach you that you have no power here. You're in my world now, whore. The only way you'll leave it is when I finally kill you." He pointed the knife at her midsection and smiled wider. "Which I will do after I cut that abomination out of your womb and send it to its pathetic sire in a box. But before all of that…let's play, you and I." He sheathed his knife, kicked Eoghan's body aside, and stepped right up to her. "They say you carry Silverlance's spawn. His first sired offspring. The heir to the Golden Throne," he added with a sneer. Dylan squeezed her eyes shut. Because of a stupid rumor, she'd been kidnapped and a young man had been murdered. Because of a stupid rumor. "Do you know what happens when a fae monarch's firstborn dies?"

Her eyes snapped open. Sréng watched her with simple curiosity in his face. The cold curiosity of a predator studying potential prey. She tried to keep her face blank, but whatever he saw made him smile.

"A monarch's fertility ties in very closely with the magic of the land in Faerie. If a king is sterile or a queen barren, they have to step down or risk poisoning their kingdom. If they don't step down, the magic of their lands and their people begins to die. Did you know that?"

She didn't speak for a long moment, but there was nothing to gain by silence. "Yes." It was the reason she hadn't socked Balor in the face when he'd demanded to know if she was barren; the fate of the kingdom had depended on her answer.

"When a queen carries life in her womb, that life binds with the magic of the kingdom. You've seen how the very land itself can react in your prince's presence because he is the heir?" Sréng didn't wait for a response. "The little worm in your belly has the same connection to the land, to the people and the magic. Imagine what would happen if it died. With Bethmoora already so sick," Dylan's eyes widened, "and the very land itself poisoned by Old One-Arm and his apathy, his despair…imagine how the kingdom will suffer."

Without warning, his backhand cracked across her face. Stars burst across her vision as fire seared her cheek. She staggered, nearly went down. Sréng's fist shot out with no warning and sank into the pit of her stomach. A shockwave ripped through her torso. Black spots exploded across her eyes. A high-pitched ringing hummed in her ears. Her knees buckled and she sank until fire burned through her shoulders, until the only thing keeping her conscious was a fiery tether of pain radiating through her distended arms. She gasped for breath as the spots faded from her vision. She barely managed not to retch.

Sréng leaned in until the reek of his breath stung her nose. He grinned, mouth still bloody from his leaking nose, as if he didn't even feel the pain. Gripping her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he snarled, "You deserve this. You're a traitor to your own kind and everything that happens here is because you betrayed humanity. Now say goodbye to your brat."

And he hit her again.