Author's Note: happy St. Patrick's Day, everybody! Hope you enjoy this chapter! Setting things up for dealing with Sréng (that rat), as well as other stuff that will tie into both dealing with the resolution of the Northern Villages arc (in like 10+ chapters) as well as stuff from the movie. Let me know what you think, okay? Especially because I've been sick AND I just got back from the dentist. Blurgh. Reviews are Novocain, and Novocain is love.
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Chapter One-Hundred-Sixteen
The Knife of Memory
that is
A Short Tale of Plans Temporarily Thwarted, the Rising Storm, Royal Blood, the Becan Connection, Dylan's Back-Up Plan, the Corridor, Red Dragon Rage, Troll Beer, Manly Men Buddy Bonding, the Color of His Truelove's Hair, the Shimmer on the Air, and Dealing with Dragons
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Sréng crawled through the snow, hot breath steaming between his gritted teeth. Winter had clamped an icy vise around his wounded thigh, the bitter cold helping to staunch the blood the traitorous bitch had drawn with the knife he'd foolishly given her. He'd wanted Silverlance to suffer; that was why he'd taken so long to kill the whore. More than that, he'd ached to make her suffer.
Silverlance had helped to kill Sréng's family. The bandit leader would always loathe the Elf for that. But Silverlance was fae. Evil. A demon. The woman, on the other hand…She was a traitor to her own species. She'd sold her race to Silverlance for the pleasures of the bed. More than Silverlance, Sréng hated that woman. Lady Dylan. Bah. No lady, she. A whore, a traitor. Not a lady.
And he wished she still lived, so that she could die again, slowly, brutally, for her betrayal. After he butchered that dog, Silverlance, in front of her eyes. After he broke the bitch's heart by cutting out the prince's. After he killed everything she loved—the human sisters she claimed would put a bullet in his eyes, the prince she whored herself to, the little servant children she adored, her faerie hounds, even that damn fey horse she'd rode into the village. He'd have killed them all, if she'd still lived, and only then would he have killed Lady Dylan.
Well, life was full of disappointments. If she hadn't died from blood loss and his punishments, if she hadn't died from his knife in her back, after all of that she'd have died in the raging storm of dragonfire that had destroyed the main bandit camp.
Dragging himself away from the ash and burnt ruins of his main camp, he pulled himself to his feet with the branches of an evergreen tree. Blood oozed from the burns covering his bad leg and one arm even as the flesh slowly began to repair itself. He had to get away. Find the secondary camp. It wasn't far, and he knew the way. He wasn't so badly hurt that his healing factor wouldn't allow him to walk in but a few moments. Already the twisted magic that had kept him alive all these years was suffusing the double knife-wounds in his thigh. His broken nose grated, a sharp ache piercing his sinuses, as the cartilage mended. When the burst of magic faded back into his bones, Sréng rolled his shoulders. Cracked his neck to work out the kinks. Smoothed his fingers over the unblemished skin that had once crackled and bled from burns. Then he turned back to survey the ruined camp.
Two Elves knelt on the far side of the camp. They hadn't noticed him, so wrapped up in slaughtering his men and burning down their tents, freeing the slaves the bandits had captured from the fae villages. Sréng had managed to escape under cover of the smoke to the thickets. The branches served as camouflage now as he watched the two Elves.
Not Bethmooran, these two. Dilong men. Royals, if he was any judge, considering they'd summoned fire to destroy the place. What were they kneeling in the snow for? What were they looking at?
A light breeze puffed its frigid breath across the ash-strewn campground. The smoke cleared enough that Sréng could see the thing one of the Elves clutched in its arms. The air squeezed from his lungs and rage hit him low in the belly like a blow. It couldn't be. It couldn't be, curse it all to the deepest pits in Hell!
The whore was in the Elf's arms. She should've been dead. She should've turned to charred bones and ash in the flames that had devoured Sréng's forces. How dare she escape the inferno?
He took a step back the way he'd come, vibrating with rage. He'd kill her now. Make a sure job of it. But wait…She wasn't moving. Was she breathing? He couldn't tell; the distance was too great. But a sound like a sob escaped the Elf holding the human slut in his arms. Who was he? What was she to him?
Crouching down, making certain the two Elves wouldn't be able to see him, he watched the unfolding drama. He saw the flare of fiery magic so bright it left spots of color dancing across his eyes; heard the screams of the Elf that had held the human in his arms like something precious; and nearly leapt across the snow to gut him like a fish when the Elf cried, "You did it!" There was no need to ask what "it" was. Sréng could tell simply from the jubilation in the Elf's voice.
Somehow, despite all of Sréng's efforts to make it not so, the bitch was alive.
Well…perhaps life wasn't so full of disappointments as he'd first thought. He'd have the chance to butcher her family in front of her, after all. He'd start with the sisters, and maybe that Elf who'd cried over her, and finish with Silverlance and those little cat-children.
But first he had to rally what was left of his men. Turning on his heel, he disappeared into the forest, leaving the Elves to take the mortal where they would.
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Nuada drew a breath that ached in his chest as he checked the blade of his sword—retrieved from the gancanaugh Liam's possession—once more before sheathing it. Time to venture out into the bitter winter night in search of the bandit camp. Those who'd agreed to accompany him would help raze it to the ground, but Nuada…Nuada would scour the camp for Dylan's body. He didn't know what he would do when he found her. What had the bandits done to her? The pain had been terrible enough to touch him, so many miles away. The thought of her in such pain sent a hideous coldness slithering through his belly.
She hadn't deserved this. No one deserved such an end, but especially not Dylan. How could he have let this happen to her?
Gritting his teeth, he forced the thoughts away. Selfish to wallow in self-pity. Selfish and pathetic to keep weeping like a broken child. He was a warrior. He was the Silverlance. He would put an end to her murderers; force them to drink the poison of his hate and his agony to the dregs, and then he would give Dylan justice and execute the beasts.
He stepped out of the room with its shattered crockery and splintered furniture. The clinical, detached sliver of his mind that didn't throb like a rotten tooth noted that he would have to pay for what he'd broken. No matter. He could afford it. And he would apologize to the tavern owners…when he no longer had to lock away the agonized howls of grief and rage pulsing in his throat behind gritted teeth. Making his way with slow, exhausted steps to the common room filled with the sick and injured, he scanned those assembled.
Tsu's'di would be coming with him. It was the boy's right—he had lost the woman he considered a second mother, he'd been blooded in battle, and he was old enough to handle himself. Wink had to come, too; Nuada did not try to fool himself for even an instant that he could do this without his friend and brother-in-soul at his side.
Wink stood speaking near the communal fireplace to a massive beast of a fae. Thick, gray-streaked brown hair covered the entirety of his muscular body and a great bush of dark beard hung to his knees in rope-like braids tied off with engraved copper rings. Nuada could just see the faerie's eyes, the rich color of good whiskey, from behind the forest of shaggy hair and wild brows. It was a basajaun, a shepherd-fae, carrying a golden-wood crook in one hand and shaking the snow from his shaggy hair. The silver cave troll caught Nuada's eye. The prince's brows furrowed as he strode over to them.
"There is a blizzard coming," Wink rumbled softly the moment Nuada stood within earshot. "Ten, fifteen minutes out. It will last for several days. Four, at least. We cannot venture out in it, my prince."
The words rammed into Nuada's gut like a merciless fist. A blizzard. A gods' cursed blizzard was keeping him from being able to save his lady.
Not that he could truly save her. He could only retrieve what was left before those monsters defiled…desecrated…The thought of what those beasts could possibly be doing to her now left a sick taste souring in his mouth. And he couldn't even save her from that. He couldn't even take care of her in death.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't stand the thought of it any longer. At least four days of blizzard. Four days without threats to the village. Four days in this cage, separated from her, unable to go to her, unable to do anything. He'd go mad. He had to be out there, searching. He would go alone if he had to. He couldn't stay here while somewhere out there she was waiting, alone, surrounded by enemies.
A gust of wind rattled the tavern's main door. Lamentations screamed on the suddenly blasting wind as the storm rolled closer. Nuada turned toward the door. Took two steps. Wink's bronze hand closed tight around his arm, a grip just shy of painful. The massive troll angled his body to hide the fact that he'd laid hands on the royal personage. The Elven prince's eyes flashed molten bronze tinged with blood-red as rage flared hot and vicious in his blood. How dare Wink even dream of trying to stop him? Didn't he understand?
"No, Brother," Wink growled in the Troll tongue, a language few—if any—here could understand. "You cannot go alone. I understand what is in your heart, Nuada, but it is folly. The storm comes. There can be no journey until it ends. You must wait."
A muscle clenched in Nuada's jaw. Through gritted teeth he whispered, "Do you have any idea what they could be doing to her right now? Those animals…those beasts…"
Something terrible in its sadness, too close to sympathy for the prince to allow, filled Wink's single amber-green eye. His grip on the prince gentled. "Nuada…she is beyond pain now. I understand your urgency, but we cannot go out in the storm. She would not wish you to come to harm."
"She wouldn't want…" He had to force the words out, barely managing to wrap his tongue around the Troll language, and the words cut him like iron knives as they fell from his lips. "She wouldn't want them to touch her with their filthy hands. Wink, she wouldn't want that." He glanced at the door as a blast of wind had it shuddering in its frame. "I cannot let them do that."
The troll let him go, laying his bronze hand on Nuada's shoulder. "Like as not, they're holed up against the storm, as well. Come back into the room with me, my prince. We'll have a drink. You need it."
He allowed himself to be led as the storm's fury grew in force. He barely noticed the tavern workers bolting the shutters against the wind and swirling snow. Wink led him into a back room. Was it the same room he'd left? Where was the wreckage of tables and chairs? The shards of pottery? The furniture in this room was whole, and a large pitcher of troll beer had been left out, still chilled enough that slivers of ice floated on the sulfurous-yellow surface. This couldn't be the same room…
But no, there was a single sliver someone had missed. How quick the tavern servants were, he thought with dazed disinterest. Outside, the wind howled. Inside, Wink shut the door and sank into a great oaken chair made for such large fae. He gestured to another chair but Nuada shook his head and made his way to the shuttered window. Through the slats he glimpsed the snow glowing white in the muted light from all the tavern windows as the flakes hurled themselves against the tavern's stone walls.
"Nuada-"
"She's dead," he said flatly. "That's what you're going to say, isn't it? She's dead, and I should not worry over such…trivialities." He swallowed. Pressed his forehead against the shutter ridges. "I let her die, Wink. I couldn't save her. And now…now I am trapped here by this stars-cursed storm while she is out there alone…I should be with her."
"Nuada," Wink said firmly, though his voice held gentleness. "She is with the Star-Kindler now. She is safe and happy, free from pain. There is nothing those wretches can do to her now."
The Elven warrior didn't reply. He simply unsheathed the twin-knife tucked into his sash, watching the dim light of candles from inside and torchlight on snow from outside caress the silver blade. Wink's chair scraped harsh and shrill against the floor as he lunged to his feet. Nuada ignored him, staring instead at the blade in his hand. Carefully, he touched the tip of the knife to his palm.
"Nuada—"Wink cried as the needle-sharp point scored a shallow line across the prince's skin. Nuada barely felt the burn of the blade slicing across his flesh. Amber blood welled up. The prince drew a breath that threatened to choke him.
"Tá tú fuil mo chuid fola," Nuada whispered. Wink hesitated, watching him warily. The prince merely stared at the small pool of golden blood in his hand. His voice trembled on the verge of breaking as he breathed, "Cnámh de mo chnámha, anáil de mo anáil."
You are blood of my blood, bone of my bone, breath of my breath. The first line of the Bethmooran wedding vow. He would never speak those words to her. And now he was trapped here, imprisoned by the storm. He deserved the dull ache spreading through his hand now. He deserved worse than that. And he would let Dylan's ghost haunt him until every drop of pain had been wrung from his soul…later. Not now, he thought tiredly as he wrapped his hand in a handkerchief he pulled from within the burgundy sash. He couldn't bear it now. For now, he had at least four days without enemies to concern himself with, and he could do little enough for the sick or injured. Repairs to the village could not be made during the storm. He could keep to himself. Grieve.
Which meant he was going to take this opportunity to do something he'd only done twice in the last two-thousand years: he was going to get very, very, very drunk.
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Something wasn't right.
Becan Brownie paced the length of the cottage living room, twisting the tiny golden ring on his middle finger—a ring nearly identical to the two worn on chains around the necks of Prince Nuada Silverlance and Becan's human mistress, Lady Dylan. A traveling ring the prince had crafted for the brownie so that if ever he had need of the prince—or if Lady Dylan had need of her loyal brownie—Becan could find them.
As a brownie, Becan was bound to this cottage. He had been homeless for more than a few centuries, wandering across the country, wishing to find a cottage like the one he'd cared for so long ago. He'd found it when the local sprites of the City had told him there was a place he might seek refuge for a time, a cottage nestled against the boundaries of a wooded area known as Central Park. He'd found the little house with its sweet-scented gardens and its slim, young elder trees guarding the little wooden gate. Astonishment had nearly set him stumbling when he caught sight of the bowls of good, fresh milk left out on the granite stoop along with small loaves of fresh bread—the perfect size of the Wee Folk.
He hadn't had milk that fresh, milk frothy with cream at the top, in many months. Nor bread so soft and buttery. Sharing in the meal with others who'd come to enjoy the offerings that so few mortals left for the fae anymore, Becan had learned a good deal about the Sight-blessed, troubled young woman with the easy smile who lived in the little cottage.
The cottage had called to him. He'd felt the newness of the place, so bright and fresh and young. A house like that needed a caretaker, someone to keep it vital and healthy, someone to make sure it grew up the way it should. That was a brownie secret—many houses were as alive as beasts, and even more so once a brownie or other house sprite took up residence in its walls. The moment Becan had touched the stone wall, he'd felt the house give an almost imperceptible shiver and start to purr like a sleepy, contented cat. The cottage liked him. And he liked the cottage. The human girl, Becan could tolerate.
It grew into more than tolerance as the weeks and months passed and he learned more about the owner of the house. She was young, less than a quarter of a century old, studying hard to learn medicine and the ways of the heart and mind; the money for school and the house, he learned from overheard phone calls, came from her parents and a favorite uncle as well as her own jobs. She fed stray cats and dogs, always left scatters of crumbs near bridges for the birds. The milk and bread she left for the fae came without fail every night, with extra on full moons and ancient feast days. Sometimes she forgot to put the milk away, or accidentally tipped a dish toward the dangers of the counter's edge. Whenever that happened, Becan was always there to prevent minor household disasters. He didn't mind.
She slept poorly. Nightmares plagued her, terrible horrors that woke her screaming and sobbing. But come dawn she always had a smile as she walked out the door. He watched her grow older, bit by bit. Finish school. Become a healer of the mind. Always she strove to suppress her shadows and ignore her demons so that she could help those who needed her. And so tolerance changed to fondness and affection, and finally to love and loyalty.
Dylan was his mistress, the ward of this house. As such, Becan Brownie had a special connection to her as well. And he knew something wasn't right. His mistress was in some sort of trouble. He had to go to her.
But if there was such trouble that even the prince couldn't handle it on his own…then whatever the trouble was, it was more than a match for one of the Wee Folk like Becan. He would need help. And whatever danger there was might have had something to do with that foolish treaty from centuries ago, the one the prince and Mistress Dylan disliked so much. Which meant royals might be involved, and if royals were involved, Becan couldn't go to Lady Peri, his mistress's friend. She was a noble of the courts of Elphame. Involving nobles or even King Roiben Darktithe and Queen Kaye would be…unwise.
So Becan would have to go to someone else. But who?
"Becan?" A soft voice called from the living room window. He glanced up to see Brighid just poking her head inside, the brownie he'd grown so fond of since that night in October when she had come to warn Dylan that Prince Nuada was in danger. She could come and go from the cottage as she pleased now with Lady Dylan's invitation. The plump brownie woman shut the window behind her and came to him with concern in her sloe-black eyes. Laid a tiny hand on his arm. "Becan, what is it?"
The brownie took Brighid's hands in his and squeezed gently. "My lady is in danger and I must find someone to accompany me when I go to her. But it must be someone she trusts, someone His Highness can trust in absolutely. Someone with great power or strength, but they cannot be a noble or a royal. I dare not risk attempting to contact…" Becan glanced around, just to be certain, before lowering his voice and whispering, "Moundshroud."
Brighid shuddered at the sound of the fae king's name. Becan didn't blame her; he'd nearly fainted dead away the first time Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud had come to his mistress's cottage in an intangible fog of sepulchral power. That his mistress could name that one a friend and ally…it defied logic. But Becan couldn't seek out the Samhain Keeper for aid in this. Moundshroud did not interfere in the affairs of lesser kings and other blue-blooded fae. To do so would invite the monarchs of the Twilight Realm to unite against him and try to bring him down. No, Moundshroud would deny him. And that was assuming a brownie could even make it through the perils of Moundshroud's eldritch kingdom. But there had to be someone…
He snapped his fingers. "My mistress left instructions for this," he told a startled Brighid. "Well…sort of. She said if I ever needed to find her and could not, if I thought she might be in danger, then I must do something specific and someone would come who would be able to help. I hadn't thought about it since His Highness made the three rings," he murmured to himself, twisting the ring on his finger again. "It was before you and I met that she told me of it," he added to Brighid. "Just after milady learned of me. She asked me to please follow her into the bedroom—she always says please—but said I didn't have to become visible if I didn't wish to, so I stayed hidden. And she told me what to do."
Taking Brighid's hand, he led her first to the kitchen, where he pulled a container made of frosted glass with a wax-sealed top out of the refrigerator. Then he brought Brighid into Mistress Dylan's bedroom. He set the container on the plush carpet beside the large four-poster bed and broke the wax seal.
"Brace yourself," he muttered to Brighid. "She warned me that whatever is in here is going to be quite…ripe." Wrinkling his nose, Becan drew on a thread of magic and flipped the lid off the container. A second later he frantically summoned a tiny handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth as he fought the urge to gag. Whatever abomination had birthed the rank stench emanating from the container, he didn't want to know what it was. He backed away a few steps.
"Ugh," Brighid moaned, covering the lower half of her face with her arm. She backed up, too. "What in the name of the Grand Bean Sídhe is that hideous smell?"
"I do not even wish to…" Becan trailed off as something caught his gaze. With a flick of magic he summoned a knife, sharp as a needle and the size of a broken toothpick, but perfect for his small hand. He backed up another step, cloaking himself in a brownie's natural invisibility. Brighid needed no other clue than that, and hastily shielded herself, as well.
"That won't work, you know," a cheerful voice with an Eathesburian accent trilled from behind the brownies. They spun toward the speaker and Becan nearly dropped his knife. The speaker smiled, reptilian eyes glinting with amusement, as she applied a coat of vivid red color to her sculpted lips. "Our kind can see through your glamour. Now do be a dear and hold still so I can eat you. It's a very long trip from home to Central Park and my chum and I are famished."
A snarl emanated from beneath the bed-curtain. Becan shifted his weight, trying to keep his gaze on the serpentine creature still smiling brightly at him, and saw again the reason he'd turned invisible—a pair of yellow eyes gleaming like an animal's from under the bed. As the snarl rumbled louder, the eyes slowly morphed to blood-red.
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Pain was a vague, distant buzz at the furthest edges of her awareness. It fuzzed her thoughts. Dulled her senses. Her head felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton batting. But none of it was enough to keep her from realizing there was something weird going on.
Dylan blinked, trying to bring the world into focus. Something hard and smooth pressed against her back and the back of her head. Strange, coppery light flickered at the edges of her vision. The world was comprised of smears of shadow and blurs of that copper light. Everything echoed with heavy silence. As if nothing had stirred in this place—wherever it was—for centuries upon centuries.
Well, she didn't hear anything at all. Time to risk sitting up. Gritting her teeth against the stiffness in her spine, she pushed against the floor and levered herself into a sitting position. Her vision began to clear.
She was in a corridor. Slabs of black marble veined in some sort of ethereal, cerulean mineral comprised the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Ebony torches stuck out of copper brackets clamped to the walls. That odd light came from bronze fire edged in threads of flame the same blue-green as the minerals veining the floor. The corridor went on long enough on either side of where she sat that eventually it disappeared into vague blurs and fuzzy shapes again, thanks to the distance. She was entirely alone.
It took her a few moments to push to her feet. Her bad knee was stiff, crackling like a cement mixer as she straightened it out. She wasn't dead, at least. She wouldn't have felt that odd, distant pain, or the ache and stiffness in her knee, or the bizarre muffled feeling of her skull being stuffed with cotton. When you died, there was no more pain. There was no body with which to feel pain. So somehow she was alive.
She just wasn't sure why that was strange. Something in the back of her mind told her that she really should've been dead, but she couldn't remember why. Whatever. She could figure that out later. For now, she needed to figure out where she was and how to get to Nuada.
Nuada…Her hand flew to the chain that usually hung around her neck. But there was no chain, which meant no gold-and-ruby ring that, with a few twists and the murmured words of a transportation spell, would teleport her to wherever Nuada was. Her Young Women's medallion was missing, too. Dylan had to stop and let the sting of loss hurt for a moment so she could push past it and focus. She'd lost her medallion, and the ring that had been one of Nuada's first gifts to her.
Wait, had she lost anything else? Her dirk? Her hands dropped to her belt…but she didn't have a belt, or her dirk. She wore a simple leine, black as the marble underfoot. No shoes, no socks. The marble was strangely temperate against the soles of her feet. How had she not noticed her clothes? Last she remembered, she'd been in tunic and trousers and boots because…because…
Lallybroch. The northern villages. They'd gone to help, she and Nuada and her brother and sisters and the Butchers and…And they'd fought off the bandits. Dylan had helped a young Elven girl deliver her baby and reunite her with the gancanaugh youth that wanted to marry her. She'd punched the girl's detestable father for the vicious words he'd flung at his own child and at Nuada. Dylan had worked with the sick and injured, tending to those who were well enough not to need magical healing. She'd comforted her prince when they'd lost villagers. And then…then she'd been taken. By Sréng.
Fear coiled like icy wire in her stomach. Dylan hugged herself, pressing back against the slick wall. Sréng. The last survivor of the group that had murdered Nuada's mother and nearly killed Nuada and his sister. Nuada had had a hand in killing the twisted human's equally twisted family. Sréng had had a grudge burning through him so hot and strong that somehow it had either kept him alive all these centuries or driven him to find a magical way to remain immortal long enough to avenge himself on Nuada. And that was why he'd taken her. He'd wanted to make her prince suffer. He'd recorded every second of torturing her so that Nuada would see it. So he would see her die.
Had she actually died, then? No, because this wasn't right. This wasn't the afterlife. Dylan sank down to the floor, legs too unsteady to keep her standing anymore. So…so what was this? Was she maybe dying? And this was an illusion created by her mind to help her deal with it?
Then why didn't she have her gold ring? Or her medallion or her dirk? Or…Dylan looked down at her left hand and bit her lip. She didn't have her engagement ring, either. The queen's ring. She'd lost it. Somehow. Somewhen. She didn't remember losing it, but…but it was gone. Covering her face with both hands, she focused on breathing as panic clawed at her chest. She couldn't panic. She couldn't lose her composure. Not now. Not right now.
She had to think. Think. Where could she be? Had someone saved her? Well, if so, she would've either been in a dungeon or a bed. If she'd been saved by an enemy, they'd have locked her up. Never mind that she couldn't think of why an enemy would save her to begin with. Ransom, maybe, but…Didn't matter. And if it was a friend or ally, they wouldn't have left her lying around in the corridor.
Ice-water slid down her spine at a new thought. Was this, maybe, a new mind game from Sréng? Had he survived the knife wounds to the leg she'd inflicted on him? The bandit leader enjoyed mind games. He'd murdered innocent people in front of her to break her spirit. He'd pretended for a time as if at any moment he might rape her, just to keep her frightened. He'd recorded himself flogging her because Nuada had been flogged twice in her defense. He loved mind games.
Dylan clenched her teeth. She wouldn't let him toy with her. She wouldn't show him that the idea of being at his mercy again left her nearly sick to her stomach. Grasping desperately at bravado, Dylan pushed to her feet. Scanned the corridor.
"I know you're there!" The strength of her voice surprised her. Last time she'd been conscious, she'd screamed herself so hoarse that swallowing hurt like blue fire and she'd constantly tasted blood on the back of her tongue. Putting that aside, she folded her arms across her chest. "Come out!"
"Olly-olly, all's in free and all that?"
Fear sliced through her and she spun toward the familiar, lilting voice. Scrambled backwards when she recognized the bronze eyes, the messy black hair, the toothy grin. Shaohao. The Red Dragon of Dilong. Zhenjin's brother. A nightmare in copper-embroidered black silk. Where had come from? How had he found her?
The last time she'd squared off against Prince Shaohao, he'd held her off the ground by the throat while chatting amiably with her about how he would enjoy watching her scream and writhe in agony from his poisonous bite, since he'd been hired to kill her. He'd called her clever, referred to her as Zhenjin's pet human. And when Zhenjin had begged for Shaohao to let her go, the other Dilong prince had dropped her right into Zhenjin's arms. Some of the screaming fear eased at the recollection. The Chinese Elf was dangerous, no doubt about that…but he loved Zhenjin, and Zhenjin loved her. Shaohao wouldn't kill her as long she kept reminding him that Zhenjin wouldn't like it.
She remembered the few truly insane people she'd known in the institution as a girl, teens with dangerous or fantastical delusions that they were Santa Claus or the goddess of death reincarnated or Shakespeare. She'd gotten along with most of them, for the most part. She'd learned how to recognize the warning signs of dangerous psychotic episodes looming on the horizon. So Dylan was fairly confident that she could handle Shaohao—right now, anyway.
Swallowing to wet her fear-dry mouth, she pressed her palms together in front of her and bowed at the waist, careful to keep her head up just enough that Shaohao didn't see the back of her neck. She'd learned from Zhenjin that dragons considered it a sign of weakness to show the back of your neck; she kept her eyes fixed on Shaohao's face instead. "Your Imperial Highness."
A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Well, well. It has manners. Who's a clever little human? Zhenjin might not be so blind after all."
Dylan frowned and straightened from her bow. "Zhen…Zhenjin? Is he here?"
"That would depend on where here is, and whether I'm right about where here is, or whether you are. I'll give you a hint, I'm always right. Zhen-Zhen will try to tell you differently, but we both know that as adorable as he is, sometimes he's not the sharpest poisoned knife under the pillow."
Well, she'd never heard that analogy before. She cleared her throat. "Where are we?"
The smile widened back into that grin bristling with sharp, venomous teeth. "Where do you think we are? Make it interesting, I need some excitement. The thrill of setting that bandit camp on fire and watching it burn to the ground can only last so long. Healing is such boring work. Come on, come on. Indulge me." But Dylan could only stare at him, trying to process everything he was saying. Shaohao sighed and folded his arms. "I told Zhenjin I should've just gotten him a cat."
"What do you mean, healing?" Dylan eyed him, trying to figure out if she was lucid enough to discern the promptings of the Spirit. This whole experience felt surreal. Her chest felt cool, but it wasn't the burning cold that struck her when she'd run into Shaohao before. He was dangerous, but not in any immediate way…which made no sense at all.
Black brows winged upward. "Hmmm? Oh, I'm putting you back together. You look a bit like a human jigsaw puzzle right now. I don't usually have the patience for anything with more than a few hundred pieces, but Zhen-Zhen was so insistent, I had to take pity on the poor thing. Your internal organs are rather dull, though. They'd be so much more interesting if I could look at them under the light."
Dylan shook her head. "Wait…you're healing me?"
"Well, it was that, or watch my poor little Zhen-Zhen sob like a baby over your mutilated corpse. Anyone else, I would've sat down with some fried fish and enjoyed the show, but he is my favorite brother. So I switched sides. However," and the smile vanished, replaced by a look of flat, cold intent. "I do nothing for free, not even for him. You and he both must pay my price for healing you, or I let you die."
A chill whispered down her spine. He wasn't lying. She cleared her throat. "What price?"
Shaohao canted his head. "I asked my little brother for a head start. I know my father wants my head on a spike for trying to uproot the little pestilence. As for you…" He narrowed his bronze eyes, studying her. "I'm not sure yet. Rather, I know the endgame, but I'm still a bit fuzzy on the play-by-play. So I'll have to ask you for carte blanche and fill it in later. All right?"
Irritation spiked in her blood. "I am not agreeing to something if I don't even know what it is!"
"Not even to save your precious prince?"
She went still, forcing her expression to careful blankness. She took a small breath to calm the sudden hammering of her heart. "What do you mean? Save him from what?" Did Nuada already know what Sréng had done to her? She didn't think the Tuathan prince would let the Dilong prince near her, even to heal her. He wouldn't trust Shaohao enough. And how close to dead was she, exactly? She felt fine. She was obviously still alive, so…
"Himself. You can't sense him, not in this place, but I can sense him through you. He's ready to fall on his own knife."
Dylan lunged forward before her brain could process the suicidal recklessness of her legs. Her hands flashed out and she grabbed Shaohao by the front of his silk shirt. He didn't budge under the pathetic force of her yanking. Only grinned.
"What are you talking about? He would never do that! His kingdom needs him, he would never kill himself. What are you talking about?"
"He felt you die," Shaohao hissed. Dylan's cheeks tingled as the blood drained from her face. "He felt the echoes of your agony while that human tortured you, and when you finally succumbed, he felt your life-force rip away from his like someone tearing out his heart. And in this place, he can't feel the flicker of your life struggling to hold on. He thinks you're still dead. Only duty is keeping him from turning his blades on himself, and it's a thin defense indeed." He patted her cheek. "Isn't it nice to have someone so devoted?" Shaohao paused. "Actually, it's a bit revolting. Ugh. Twu wuv."
She jerked away from him. "Shut up," she muttered, turning away. Suicide? Nuada would never do that. Too many people were counting on him. His people needed him; he would never leave them to Balor's mercy. The king had none—basically. At least wherever that stupid treaty loomed. Nuada knew his people stood no chance of surviving without him. He would never…And fae royals could lie…
But her prince was suffering. Had been suffering. She'd known he would when Sréng killed her but she'd thought there was no chance of saving herself then. Now she had that chance. And without her, Nuada lost important allies in the fight to protect Bethmoora and the rest of the Twilight Realm. Human allies. The fae needed human allies if they were going to survive much longer. She couldn't give up without a fight.
Dylan turned back to Shaohao. "Please. You have to bring me back all the way. What could you possibly want from me? I can't grant you amnesty or sanctuary or anything like that. I'm a noble, but I've sworn oaths to Balor."
One dark brow winged upward. Shaohao shook his head. "I overestimated your cleverness. Maybe I should get Zhen-Zhen a cat." When Dylan made a sound like a wet cat tied up in a bag, he sighed. "Well, really. If you have to ask, you're really not as bright as I thought. Pardon me while I weep bitter tears of disappointment." He chuckled, and Dylan had to forcibly restrain herself from trying to knock his teeth down his throat. A fight-bite from him could be hazardous to her health. "It's not what I want, human. It's what my brother wants. My problem is how to get it for him in such a way that it doesn't stick like a bone in his throat."
She frowned. Stared at him. Shook her head. What did Zhenjin have to do with what Shaohao wanted from her? Unless…Her eyes widened. She shook her head again.
"You can't do that to him," she said softly. "You can't force me to him, it would break his heart. I thought you loved him—"
Shaohao's eyes flashed and he bared his teeth. The affable but homicidal madman was gone, replaced by a stone-cold killer just managing to keep the monstrous beast of his rage leashed. "I do love him, you human bitch. And that's why I am here, piecing you back together, when I would love to reach inside you and rip you apart bit by bloody bit for what you've done to my brother. I would love to see your blood gleam under the moonlight. I ache to hear the screams gurgle in your throat. You amuse me sometimes, but even that wouldn't be enough to spare you. It is only because I love my little dragon that I haven't killed you a thousand times over already for what you've done."
The icy marble wall smacking into her back made Dylan realize she'd backed away from him. She'd never seen this side of Shaohao in her rare dealings with him—cold, vicious, filled with poisonous hate. She shook her head, scrambling for words to deter his rage.
"I…I don't know what you me-"
"He's in love with you!" Shaohao roared. Dylan jumped, half-choking on a scream. Panic sizzled under her skin, skittered up and down her spine. She pressed herself against the wall. If she was right—if she was where she thought she was—running would do nothing but possibly enrage him further. Her heart rammed against her sternum hard enough to bruise. Shaohao's raised hands curled into claws. "He loves you and you are breaking him!"
The Red Dragon turned away, shoulders rising and falling with every heaving breath as he fought to get his temper under control. Dylan swallowed the rising panic, squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't freak out. She had to think. She had to stay calm. She had to play this right.
Clearing her throat, she opened her eyes. Straightened. Shaohao was still and quiet now. He gave no evidence that less than a breath of time had passed since he'd considered ripping her throat out. She kept her eyes locked on the back of his head. She couldn't look away from him, no matter how much she might want to.
"Your Imperial Highness…" She flinched when his head whipped around. The eerie torchlight turned his face into a nightmare mask. Swallowing back the fear, she continued, "Your Imperial Highness…I care for Zhenjin very much. He knows that. I-"
"But you don't love him," Shaohao growled. "Even though he can give you everything Silverlance cannot. A life of safety, anonymity, yet still a comfortable life. You would not need to submit to the scrutiny of nobles who despise you and wish you dead. You would not have to bear the burden of ruling a kingdom; Zhenjin would give up his place in the line of succession for you. You would not have to suffer the humiliation and pain of growing old and dying while your husband remains unchanged by time; he would sacrifice his immortality and age and die with you. You could wed in the Star Kindler's Temple—Zhenjin would give you that, but Silverlance never would." Shaohao shook his head. "All this, yet you choose him over my brother."
Dylan let her head thunk against the wall and she sighed softly. Warmth soothed some of the fear freezing her bones. She needed to be honest here. That was the impression she was getting from the Spirit. She had to be careful, respectful, but also honest. Shaohao would respect that.
"I love Prince Nuada, Your Highness. I met him…long before Zhenjin or I even knew of each other. I have loved him for a long time. Since before I knew your brother. It's just…" She bit her lip, trying to think of the right way to phrase this. "It's just a matter of timing. If I had met Zhenjin first, I might have fallen in love with him. It's not his fault. I don't consider him less than Prince Nuada. I adore Zhenjin. He's my friend. One of my dearest. I would never hurt him if I could help it."
The prince shook his head. "My brother is a good man. One of the few sane men in our family. He'd make a good emperor. He is a good prince. Brave. Honorable. He is a better man than Silverlance. It makes no sense you do not love him. If you could but see…if you could understand…"
"You can't force someone to be in love with someone else. Zhenjin wouldn't want you to do that even if it were possible. You know that."
He smiled without humor. "And that, O Clever Mortal, is why I don't know what it is I would ask of you. If I command you to his bed, to his side…He would hate me for that. More than he hates me already, and well, my shriveled husk of a heart simply cannot bear that. Drug you with Branwen's Tears or any other potion, and no doubt di-di would teach me what my own liver tastes like." The smile took on a sardonic edge and Shaohao gestured with wide sweeps of his arms. "So you see my conundrum: you torment my brother, therefore I should kill you; my brother loves you desperately, therefore I cannot." He dropped his arms to his sides. "You can see why being me is so exhausting."
Her leg ached abominably; she couldn't keep on her feet anymore. Slowly, trying not to fall over and smack into the marble, Dylan sank to the floor. She stretched her legs out in front of her. Several soft pops announced the relief of pressure that had been building behind her kneecap.
"So," she murmured. "What do we do, then?"
Shaohao tucked his hands into his wide sleeves and cocked his head so he was staring at the ceiling from the corner of his eye. He reminded Dylan suddenly of an owl.
"Kill you and have Zhenjin hate me…bargain with you and make him happy…kill you if you refuse and have him hate me…let you die and listen to him mope about it for the next several hundred years…do something completely uncharacteristic and actually make a passable attempt at altruism…" He cocked his head in the opposite direction as he considered that last option. He grimaced, shuddering. "Ugh. Bad idea. Terrible. Shan't be doing that." He frowned. Shook his head. "You're giving me a crick in my neck from all this head-shaking, by the way. My, my. You are a puzzle." He sighed. Grumbled, "I'll be back shortly." And he strode off, leaving her alone in the torch-lit corridor. Dylan watched him go, wondering what she was supposed to do now.
Let's see if I am where I think I am, she decided. If she was right, no matter where she went, Shaohao would be able to find her.
.
"'Brown is the color,'" Nuada slurred, head pillowed on his arms, "'of my truelove's hair.'" He stared listlessly at the empty beer mug on the table beside his elbow. "'Her lips are like some roses fair…'"
Deep in his cups, the prince had been alternating between singing off-key, whispering soft things about his lady, and swearing swift death for all involved in her demise. Lady Dylan's brother had joined him about an hour ago. He also wanted to get very, very drunk. Judging from the state of his half-garbled speech and the idiotic look on his face, Nuada was fairly certain the mortal had succeeded. Wink had left them to it.
Nuada suddenly lifted his head. "Where is your sister?"
John swallowed the last of his mug of ale and mumbled, "Which sister?"
"The loud, funny one," Nuada said. "Who's lain with the crocodilian. I like her." He slanted a bleary glance at John. "If you ever tell her that, I'll rip your tongue out and tie it around your neck with a bell." He pointed a sharp finger at John's chest. "I don't want to do that. I'm starting to like you, Danu help me. She said I would. Dylan." The fuzzy look on Nuada's face faded, replaced by an expression of vicious misery. "Dylan…Oh, mo duinne, my love…'Brown is the color of my truelove's hair. Her lips are like some roses fair…'"
John cleared his throat, propped his elbows on the table, and picked up the next line. "'She has the sweetest smile, the gentlest hands.'"
Nuada pointed at John again. "Stop that. Don't sing about her."
"You're doing it," John protested. "You're not even in the right key. Isn't it supposed to be E sharp or something?"
The prince shot him a look of utter drunken disdain. "G flat, you fool. Not that you'd know music if it…" He paused. Screwed up his face and tried to think. "If it…ah. Hit you in the face. Like a…what is that thing? The ball you played as a little bratling?"
"Baseball, genius," John grumbled. "Now stop singing; it's ruining the beer."
"Your company's ruining the beer," Nuada muttered back, refilling his mug. "Your mortal stench. Your lack of taste." The edge in his voice dulled when he added, "Your eyes."
John sighed and propped his chin in one hand. "I know. M'sorry. They look like…like hers." John noticed Nuada's almost imperceptible flinch and sighed again. "Half of me's gone. Half of you's gone. We're like…like Hobbits."
Nuada frowned. "Hobbits? What in the name of Danu is a Hobbit?"
"It's some kinda fairy or something. Can't remember the other word. Halfer…half-pint…Doesn't matter. We're like Hobbits in a Shakespeare play. Rocks fall, everybody dies. Like Game of Thrones. Or Julius Caesar." The mortal perked up. "Dude, when we kill those bastards, can we drop rocks on 'em? Can we, huh?"
For a moment there was only the sound of Nuada gulping beer. Then he slammed his mug down on the table. "Some of them; why not? We can listen to the symphony of their bones cracking under stone."
John just looked at him for a long space of silence. Finally he said, "You gonna be okay?"
"Are you?"
John shook his head. "Doubt it. Want some more liquid bread?"
"What?"
"You know." John gestured with his mug. "'Drink with your family! Drink it with your friends! Drink 'til your fat stomach distends! Beeeeer is liquid bread; it's good for yooouuu—'" He fell silent when Nuada leveled his xanthous gray gaze at him.
In a voice as sere as autumn wind, the prince grumbled, "We are not friends, and I am not fat. Dylan said so."
"That reminds me," chimed in a soft voice, and the two men glanced over to see Victoria leaning against the doorframe with a bittersweet smile on her face. "Dude—Your Royal Pasty-ness. Do you ever eat?"
"We are too friends," John muttered. "You like me."
At the same time, Nuada grumbled, "I eat. What do you want?"
"Came to get drunk with you guys!" Victoria snagged John's ale out of his hand, downed it, and refilled the mug before he could do more than sputter in outrage. "Except not actually drunk-drunk because they need me out there in a bit. More like baby-drunk."
Nuada blinked at her very slowly. "Why would you get a baby drunk?"
"Kicks and giggles," John slurred. "Beat it, Tori. This is manly men bonding buddy time. We're buddies now." John slung his arm across Nuada's slumped shoulders. Hiccupped. "That means he won't break my arm if I touch him. We're making progress."
Weary golden eyes took on a touch of bronze. "Are you actually touching me?"
"I miss her," Victoria interrupted. Both men froze. The mortal woman's silver-blue eyes—so similar to Dylan's—shone wetly. "Can't I stay with you guys for a bit? I don't care if we drink or whatever. I just want to be somewhere where people are thinking about her. Aren't you guys thinking about her? I heard you singing."
John sighed and took his arm off Nuada. Nuada said nothing; only stared at his mug until Victoria pulled it out of his field of vision. A tired snarl rumbled in his throat, but it died away when she refilled his mug and handed it back to him. The prince accepted it silently. Drank deeply of the troll beer Wink had left for him. It burned the inside of his mouth and seared his throat when he swallowed. He welcomed the sharp slide of pain.
Didn't he think of her? He always thought of her. Constantly now. She was a ghost haunting his every waking moment, and he feared she would be waiting for him in dreams. He opened his mouth. Found no words coming to his tongue; he was too tired for words just now. He cared not whether Victoria stayed or went. She was Francesca's kin, her twin sister, and Francesca was one whom, Nuada realized with a dazed sort of shock, he would've trusted with this drink-dulled grief.
He cleared his throat. Focused on what he'd been doing before the whelp tried to play friendly-fingers. Another sip of troll beer, and he picked up the song again.
"She has the sweetest smile, the gentlest hands,
And I love the ground whereon she stands.
"I love my love, and well she knows.
I love the ground whereon she goes.
I wish the day soon would come
When she and I will be as one.
"And black is the color of my true love's hair;
Her lips are like some roses fair.
She has the sweetest smile, the gentlest hands,
And I love the ground whereon she stands."
Beyond the tavern, the wind howled. The storm raged on. She was out there…somewhere. And he was trapped in here, unable to go to her. Unable to shield her from the storm, from her enemies. From anything. His voice thickened and the halting tune turned more to a rasping sort of croon as he added,
"I go to the Clyde and mourn and weep,
But satisfied I never shall be.
I'll write her a letter with a few short lines,
And suffer death a thousand times
To find my truelove again…"
.
Dylan's feet padded soundlessly down the black marble corridor. Her shadow hovered, gray as mist, against the floor in the dim light of the strange torches. Every time she glanced up, the vaulted ceiling loomed so high she could barely breathe past a sudden attack of vertigo.
On either side of her, spaced every few feet, were doors. Each door was different. One squatted within the wall, a slab of immovable gray concrete banded with cold steel and a small window of bullet-proof glass near the top—a door identical to the doors of the isolation rooms at St. Vincent's when she'd been there. Another door several feet beyond was more a layered curtain, glittering garnets and rubies strung on gold wire and swathed in folds of champagne- and rose-colored silks. She couldn't see through it no matter how she tried, and something told her not to step inside. There were doors of different types of wood, some plain and some banded by metals and some carved with symbols; doors of thick parchment and doors of boiled leather embossed with crest-like images or tooled in various metals; doors like thick slabs of engraved gold, silver, bronze, iron, stone, or concrete. One was a cement door shaped like a hopscotch board, colored almost completely with vivid scribbles of chalk.
What is this place? Dylan didn't speak aloud. The doors seemed to hold impossible weight, squeezing any breath of sound from the air and leaving it vacuous, empty. Finally she stopped in the middle of the corridor and just scanned the doors. I need to know what this is. It's driving me crazy. I'll just…I'll just pick one at random and see where it goes.
A few quick steps brought her to a door of packed earth covered in grass that somehow held together without sprinkling any dirt on the floor. An odd-shaped mound of bare ground in the center, split with a white stripe, made her frown. There was something familiar about it…
At her touch, the door swung open and Dylan's mouth fell open at what lay beyond it.
"Swing, batter-batter! Suh-wing, batter! C'moooon, batter!" A seven-year-old girl with curly hair in a long braid thumped her fist against the palm of her catcher's mitt as she cheered on the six-year-old up to bat. Freckles and a turned-up nose matched the freckles and nose of another girl, also seven, guarding the beat-up burlap sack of rags serving as first base. Francesca and Victoria.
A taller girl, nearly sixteen, grinned on the pitcher's mound. Petra. Four other girls—Pauline, Mary, Simone, and Gardenia—ranged along the baseball's infield. A little boy stood on second base, vibrating with the urge to race toward third. A few random children held places in the outfield.
"Pitch it, Pet!" A sixteen-year-old guarding third called, pirouetting gracefully around the base out of sheer boredom. Mary? "Strike her out!"
"You can do it, D!" The little boy—John, it was John, it had to be John—called from second base. "Swing, batter!"
Petra wound up. Swayed like a dancer on the pitcher's mound as her body twisted and she threw the ball. Dylan, six years old and already a seasoned player, tightened her grip on the bat. Swung.
The incredible thwock! of the bat smacking the ball echoed in Dylan's head as the grass-covered door swung shut…
Leaving her in the black marble corridor again. She stared at the door, stunned. A memory. She'd hit a homer that day. Nearly lost the ball in the duck pond on the other side of the baseball diamond. Petra had been so impressed, she hadn't cared; just hoisted Dylan up and ran around the park with her, whooping like a lunatic while the others ran after them.
Suddenly hit with a question and a hope, she raced down the never ending hallway, skidding to a halt after a few moments of running that left her knee aching. A new set of doors confronted her. At random, she chose a set of curtains made from diaphanous violet and burgundy cloth, sparkling with silver and copper embroidery. Tiny sapphires and rubies hung from the embroidery like miniature teardrops. At her touch, the curtains parted and hot color flooded Dylan's face…
…as Nuada kissed her. Dylan gasped as his mouth slanted over hers, her lips parting, and Nuada's tongue swept into her mouth, suddenly bringing a thousand heady dream-memories to life. How often had he kissed her like this? How often had he taken her mouth, somehow pouring fire and golden light into her body with just his kiss?
Something stirred in her veins, a ghost of flame, and she couldn't think. Couldn't remember what she was afraid of, what she was supposed to do or not do. Couldn't do anything but collapse into Nuada's arms as he cradled her against him, tunneling his fingers into her hair, as he continued to kiss her, to drink from her like a man dying of thirst. Pressing in, groaning, taking but gently, gently, tenderly. She couldn't stop him. She didn't want to stop him because this…because this…
He cupped her shoulders, fingers biting but not quite hurting, exploring her mouth as she moaned into the kiss. His hands slid down from her shoulders, fisted in the sides of the black tunic she wore, fisted so tight she felt him shaking. He groaned into her mouth again. Her fingers tangled in his tunic, dragging him closer. Her heart hammered in her chest, bruising her bones.
The world swirled and tilted as strong hands smoothed over her hips, as strong arms lifted her up. Nuada tilted his head back a little, preventing their mouths from parting as he picked her up. Then the cold stone of the wall was against her back…
And Dylan spun away from the door, covering her burning face with her hands. Another memory, of a sort. She remembered that dream. She'd dreamed of Nuada often after she'd slept in his bed that night in Findias when the king intended to flog him. Ever since then, she'd had dreams and nightmares. Nuada forcing himself on her when she rebuffed his advances; or the two of them throwing aside caution and duty in exchange for desire. It would never happen in the waking world, but anything was possible in dreams.
Oh, my, she thought dazedly, trying to cool the blush burning her cheeks. Nuada had never kissed her like that in the real world. Not even under the effects of Branwen's Tears in the Queen's Garden. And that dream hadn't stopped at kisses. Oh, my goodness.
Dylan knew now where she was. She was inside her own head. This place was her mind, her memories. Every sweet thing, every terrible thing, every experience in her life was stored here. How had Shaohao brought her to this place? Actually, it didn't matter. Only one thing did.
She had to get out of here and get back to Nuada before something terrible happened.
"I see you've found your memory palace."
Dylan yelped and spun toward Shaohao, who leaned against the wall beside the violet and crimson curtain. He grinned, flashing fang.
"Wow. That little shriek's better than a dog whistle. Silverlance should use you to train his hounds. So, now you know where you are. We, I should say. Half of me is here too. The rest of me," he waggled his eyebrows, "is deep inside you."
"I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit," Dylan replied flatly.
Shaohao giggled. "Don't flatter yourself. I didn't mean it like that. My consciousness is inside your body, directing my magic towards healing you. And for the record, which one of us has a reputation for butchering disobedient wives and yet still has hundreds of luscious women throwing themselves at his feet? Not you? That's what I thought. Now, I've had some time to think while poking and prodding your squishy innards, and I know how to solve my problem!" The prince smiled, bright and cheerful as a young boy. Held up a triumphant finger. "You just need the chance to fall in love with my brother."
Dylan bit back a sigh. "That isn't how that works—"
"Be quiet or you can rot here until your body wears out and you die, I'm ruminating on my own brilliance," Shaohao snapped. "Shush! Ignorant child. My little brother can woo any woman. This I have seen myself. Any woman—even one as dense as you. So I shall make you a deal."
"I'm not sleeping with your brother," Dylan said coldly.
Shaohao chuckled. "You're not clever; stop acting like it. Don't try to anticipate my genius. I would never make that the price of saving you. My brother would do his damnedest to cut me into little pieces and I quite like all my bits where they are, thank you. And I'd hate to have to break his neck. Paralyzing him for a few years would be the only way to make him stop and think about how fortunate he would be but that seems a little extreme. Don't you agree?"
She blinked. Had to close her mouth for a moment in order to swallow. Finally she nodded. "I think so."
"Besides, he's already told me you're practically a nun anyway. He'd never believe bedding him was your idea. No intimacy before marriage." Shaohao snorted. "Your sort are about as fun as a drunken orgy with the dead."
"Ugh." She had to swallow a couple times when her stomach tried to crawl up her throat again.
"Exactly. No life at all. Boring, boring, boring. Zombies can't hold their liquor. They always fall unconscious before any real fun begins. No, no, I have a better idea."
He told her what it was, and her eyes widened. Her fingers twisted in her black skirt. He would do that. To his own brother. His favorite, he claimed. Force her to do it. It was a small thing and yet…and yet it wasn't. What would Zhenjin do if she did this? She wasn't going to hide the fact that it was part of Shaohao's deal; that wasn't fair to her friend. How would he react? How would Nuada react?
"You're only hurting him," Dylan protested, crushing the dark wool in her shaking grip. "This won't help him. It won't give him what you think it will; it will only hurt him."
"No, my Lady Coquette," he said with a smile. "It will work. You need only agree, and swear on the Darkness to see it through. So…" His smile showed sharp, venom-slick fangs. "Have we a bargain?"
Dylan swallowed hard. Closed her eyes and asked a silent question. The warmth inside her intensified. She sighed and opened her eyes. Met Shaohao's glittering gaze.
"Deal."
.
Wink studied Nuada where he lay slumped in a chair, head listing to one side, eyes closed. The mug in front of him sat empty. So did the pitcher of troll beer—the seventh one brought into the room that night. And the two pitchers of ale that had been brought for John, who also lay passed out in his chair. Victoria had come to Wink and informed him both men were asleep now, insensate to their pain.
Judging by the amount of alcohol that had been consumed tonight, the mortal and prince would have wicked headaches in the morning. But that sort of pain was the least of the troll's worries at the moment. Wrinkles creased Nuada's forehead and his teeth dug into his lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. It had been a long time since Wink had seen the Elf look that way. Nuada made a low sound deep in his throat; thrashed his head to one side. Wink's shovel-like fingers convulsed into fists. Whatever the prince dreamt, it hurt.
To the thirteen hells with this, the troll snarled silently, reaching for his liege. But all of a sudden, Nuada's expression smoothed out and the tension eased from his body. He made another sound, soft and questioning. The expression that spread across his face then was one of disbelief and hope. Wink sighed as his heart clenched. He knew what his prince dreamed of now. He wouldn't wake Nuada from this dream. Time enough for heartbreak in the morning.
He got up to take the pitcher back to the kitchen when an odd sensation whispered down his spine and curled in his chest. Hand outstretched toward the table, Wink glanced at the sleeping prince. Frowned. Odd. For just a moment, he thought he'd seen a sort of shimmer, like hot air rising from stones in summer. But there was nothing now.
Must have imagined it, the troll thought, and left the room.