Author's Note: I am so so so sooooooo sorry I haven't been here! I planned to go on a brief 2-month hiatus because of the upcoming family reunion but then some stuff happened with my new novel (I'm submitting it to literary agents and they seem to really like it!) so I'm a month late, I'm sorry! BUT! In honor of July 4th, cuz I'm American and all the good food is on sale, here's the latest chapter! And I will do all in my power to keep from ever getting behind like this again. I love you guys and I will update again on August 1st (unless it's a Sunday). Let me know what you think, okay? Reviews are love!

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Chapter One-Hundred-Eighteen
With You I Am Home
that is
A Short Tale of Family, Grief, Speaking of Hard Things, the Bandit King Returns, the Bargain with Shaohao, and the Beginning of the Next Journey

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John pulled Dylan into his arms the moment they'd found some privacy in one of the smaller caves. He was careful of her half-raw back, but she could feel him trembling a little as he pressed his face into her shoulder. There was something elemental in the way Dylan felt herself, her consciousness, suddenly reconnect and click into place, intertwining with her twin. As if part of her that had been restless and shaky suddenly smoothed out, steadied, and fell quiet, soothed at last.

"Oh, D. D, I thought...I felt it when you..."

"Shhh." Dylan hugged him hard. They fit together like two puzzle pieces, and the hug was so excruciatingly familiar that Dylan felt tears burn her eyes. "I'm okay. It's okay now, Johnny. I'm okay." She was about to say more when Petra hugged her, too, squeezing hard enough that Dylan squeaked as pain flashed across her back. "Ow, ow, ow!"

"Sorry!" Petra and John immediately released her. Petra gripped her shoulders. After the flash of pain faded, Dylan realized her sister's cheeks were wet. "Ohmigawd," Petra whispered. "Ohmigawd, we all thought...ohmigawd, honey, don't do that, you scared me to death, what happened? Are you okay? What happened?" She hugged Dylan again, gently this time. "Are you okay? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, are you okay?"

Dylan smiled wanly. "Don't cry, Petra. I'll be okay. It's okay."

But Petra just shook her head. "Your face, your poor face, what did those monsters do to you? Oh, honey—"

"Petra." Dylan's voice came soft but firm, and Petra gulped back more tears. "I'm hurt, but I will be okay. Everything is okay. I'm safe now. All right? You don't need to worry. My face will be okay."

From the corner of her eye, Dylan saw Nuada frown for a brief instant and knew why. She wasn't okay. Things weren't okay. But as far as her brother and sister were concerned, they had to be. Because there was someone else who needed to be consoled, even before her prince. Forcing back the prickle of tears, Dylan turned to Tsu's'di where he stood with the prince in front of a small, needle-thin waterfall sheeting over the rock walls to a clear pool below. The soft splashing of the falls would help muffle their conversation, which was one reason Dylan had chosen this cave.

Tsu's'di watched Dylan with wet eyes and drooping ears and an expression that mixed triumph, pain, and relief, and the mortal felt something then—a sharp pain in her chest that made her heart skip just once. She felt it, and knew it for what it was. Milady-mother, Tsu's'di sometimes called her. It made sense, she thought, for the little ones to think of her that way, but she'd never expected the honor of Tsu's'di feeling so, though the love she felt for all three ewah defied description.

Dylan held out her arms to the ewah youth and he went to her, hugging her with almost impossible gentleness. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. Dylan shushed him, but he shook his head. "I'm your guard, I'm supposed to—"

"You were hurt, Tsu's'di," she said.

"I know, but if I hadn't—"

She pulled back and laid a finger against his lips. The cougar youth swallowed. Closed his eyes and waited for her to say something. Dylan touched her hand to his cheek.

"Listen to me, Tsu's'di Kata. You are as brave as anyone could wish in a guard. You have done no wrong. You have a duty—"

"To protect you—" He protested, but fell silent under the maternal condemnation on her face.

"You have a duty to obey me and the prince first and foremost. You were hurt in the line of duty. There is no shame in that. And there is no shame in having to take a leave of absence or not being in the thick of the fighting because you were hurt. You did nothing wrong. Look at me," she insisted when he tried to look away. "I will be all right. Okay? Everything worked out fine. It's all right. And you? How's you arm?"

Tsu's'di shrugged, relief and uncertainty putting up a mask of indifference. "It's not bad. The healers took care of it and gave me some poppy syrup before we left."

Dylan smiled, a real smile bright with fondness. She didn't buy his nonchalance for a second. Especially since any poppy syrup he might have taken for the pain, in a dose that still allowed him to ride, would've worn off some time ago. But she only nodded and hugged him again.

He hugged her back, murmuring, "I'm glad you're okay, Mo- milady." He pulled back and cleared his throat, glancing at the prince. Nuada's face remained impassive. Tsu's'di shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Should we...go and check on things with the others, Your Highness? Milady?"

She nodded, knowing instinctively Nuada didn't trust himself to speak. There was something brittle in him, something so fragile that he doubted himself, his restraint, his strength. He had felt her die. The bond they shared was deeper in its way even then the bond between Dylan and John, and she remembered the sick, twisting agony of feeling John slip away from her those few times he'd come close to death. What had it been like for Nuada to feel her slip away from him?

The others left, though John looked back over his shoulder as they turned the corner, and Dylan gave him her best, brightest smile to reassure him that yes, she was still there and yes, she would be back with him soon. She waited until everyone's footsteps faded around the bend in the stone before turning to her prince.

Nuada stood at the edge of the crystalline pool, steam drifting up from the sizzling water in swirls of soft silver. His face could have been carved from white marble. Motionless, he looked almost like a shadow in his black clothes. He hardly even seemed to breathe as Dylan approached him with almost excruciating slowness. Even his eyes were carefully blank, hooded against the dim torchlight so she couldn't catch a glimpse of the color that would tell her his state of mind.

She stretched out a hand. When she laid it against his arm, a shiver ran through him. The veneer of eerie calm splintered. He sucked in a breath that hissed between his clenched teeth. Dylan moved to stand directly in front of him and laid her other hand on his other arm. After a long, long moment, he lifted his gaze to hers. She forgot how to breathe as the shattering relief in his eyes swept over her. She knew now why he held so very still—any movement too sharp or sudden, and he might fragment into a million pieces.

"Are you okay?" she whispered.

He shook his head. "No." The word came short and sharp, and she flinched. Nuada's hands slowly settled at her waist as he shook his head again. His touch almost burned. "No. I am not. And you...you are not. You..."

The words thickened in his throat until he couldn't speak. He swallowed. Sucked in a ragged breath. Then without warning he pulled her to him, burying his face against her throat as he'd done in the other cavern chamber. Dylan felt shudders run through him continuously as he simply struggled to breathe evenly.

"Oh, gods," he whispered. His breath was hot against her skin. "Oh, gods, Dylan. Mo duinne, mo crídh."

"Hey." She cuddled close, kissed his shoulder. The solid strength of him helped her push away the shakiness trembling through her own body. "It's okay. It's okay now. I'm safe, it's all okay. We're okay. I'm safe." She had to repeat it to herself, to hammer it home. "I'm safe. We're safe, I'm safe."

"You're safe," he breathed. "Shades of Annwn, you're safe. You're safe. You're alive. Oh, gods, Dylan, I missed you…terribly." Nuada lifted his head to stare down at her with wet eyes. Dylan's stomach twisted and she touched the single tear that spilled down his cheek. He caught her hand and pressed it to his face, turning to kiss her palm. "You're alive. I felt you die. It was as if someone had reached inside me and...I missed you much, mo duinne."

And he kissed her, desperately, his mouth hot enough to sear away shadows and even sorrows. Dylan sighed into the kiss. She'd missed this. The feeling of being safe, wanted. The absolute knowing that Nuada would never hurt her, would never allow anyone else to hurt her so long as he was on his feet and conscious enough to fight. Even though it made her back twinge, she slid her arms around his neck and pressed close, kissing him back. The velvet slide of his lips over hers sent warmth and happiness flooding like golden light through her veins. Things were bad, but not impossible. Not right now. Nothing could ever be impossible if this existed between them.

"I love you," he whispered against her mouth. His breath was a warm caress. He tunneled his fingers into the short, ragged locks of brown hair and pressed in to kiss her again. Her mouth was so impossibly soft save where a single knife-wound marred her lips; Nuada was careful of that small wound, never pressing too hard, always waiting for Dylan to tense or make some sound. She never did. Instead she moved closer, needing his nearness, needing him. "I love you," he breathed into the kiss. "I love you, mo duinne, a thaisce, mo crídh, a chumann. I love you."

"Don't let me go," she begged. The words echoed in her head—my brown one, my treasure, my heart, my darling. She pressed closer, desperate to crawl inside safety and strength so she could finally stop shaking and let the last bit of icy fear thaw. "I love you, too. Don't let me go, Nuada."

"Oh, never," he murmured. They kissed with all the gossamer gentleness of a butterfly wing and the trembling need of someone clinging to an ember of hope. They broke away from each other for the space of a lightning flash before coming back together again, breathless words and kisses like phantom fire. "Never," Nuada promised. "Never, never. You're safe now."

But at last they had to stop. Nuada rested his forehead against hers and her breath was warm against his skin as she struggled to remember how to breathe evenly. He kept one arm around her and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, barely grazing her skin. Dylan sighed.

"I missed you so much. I've been so worried…and you felt me…you felt it when I...when I..." Her voice broke when Nuada squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. A muscle clenched in his jaw. "Are you okay? It's okay now. You'll be okay."

Nuada's fingers twisted into white-knuckled fists, crushing handfuls of Dylan's golden tunic. "I? I? Have you looked at yourself?" He stared down at her slashed and bruised face, the half-healed nose so recently broken, the haunted eyes. "Do you think me blind? Do you think I don't know what they did to you? My love...Dylan...Will you be all right? Did..." He trailed off, gritting his teeth. His gaze dropped away from hers. He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to know. But if what he suspected was true—and why wouldn't it be, after what he'd learned of the bandits?—then it would change things. He would have to take greater care, be gentler than ever. He couldn't bear the thought of hurting her or frightening her. "Did they…Did they hurt you?"

"He," she said softly. Nuada's brows furrowed. Dylan swallowed back what tasted like the first edges of fresh tears and said, "It was just one person. The leader. He knew who I was so he kept me to himself. And no, he didn't...he didn't rape me." She knew that was what Nuada wanted to know but was so afraid to ask. She pushed her hair back from her face. Forced a weak chuckle edged with bitter exhaustion. "Not his type, he said. He prefers Elves. But he..." The words clogged her throat and she thought for a moment she might choke on them, or an ear-splitting scream, or the sudden urge to be sick. "He tortured me—"

His arms came around her as the tears filled her eyes. "Hold tight to me, a ghrá mo chroí—my heart's beloved. Lean on my strength. I am here now." Dylan shook her head. She didn't want to lean on him, not yet, because if she did, if she no longer had to be strong, she would break down, she would start crying, and she didn't know if she would ever stop. Not after what she'd seen and felt. Not after what she'd done. But Nuada's kiss against her temple stripped her of the last vestiges of resistance. "I can bear your burdens for a while, Dylan. Let them go. Let them go now. It will be all right."

Her fingers twisted in the velvet of his shirt as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. A muscle flexed in Dylan's jaw as a sob escaped from between her gritted teeth. She sucked in a breath that sounded as if it hurt. Then she buried her face in Nuada's chest and wept. Nuada lifted her, cradling her to him while sobs tore from her throat and her body shook, and carried her to the flattened, smooth-topped rocks ringing the little pool nearby.

"Shhh," he soothed. He settled her beside him, though he wanted her closer. She had to invite him, he would not force himself into her space. Not when he didn't know just what had happened. Could only guess at the horrors she'd experienced. "Shhh. Just cry, sweetheart. Just cry. I'm here. It will be all right. Oh, mo duinne, shhh. It's all right now. I'm here. We're together, I'm here."

She would need to speak of what she'd been through; this he knew well. Either to Lóegaire or himself, or perhaps even her sister or Lorelei, but she would have to spill the poisonous memories still circling in her heart. Nuada could see in Dylan's eyes that she'd experienced terrible things. She'd died, for the stars' sake. Only magic had kept her from passing beyond those first steps into the hereafter. Just the thought left him trembling.

He, too, wished for comfort. He wanted Dylan to soothe and hold him, to whisper softly in his ear that all was well and that she would never leave him again. But he could wait. He had lost her for a time, yes…but that was nothing compared to what she'd experienced, even if it did not feel so. She needed him now. So he held her, rocking her gently. He was almost clinging to her, his face pressed into her hair, as he continued to whisper, "I'm here now. You're safe. It will be all right, my love. Shhh...I'm so proud of you, a ghra. You've shown such courage. Such strength..." He trailed off when she turned her face away from him. "Dylan?"

"No," she whispered. "I...no."

"What do you mean?" Nuada asked gently, laying his fingertips against her cheek. She shook her head, but said nothing. "What is it, my love? What is troubling you?" Dylan hiccupped on a sob and pressed her forehead against Nuada's shoulder. "It is more than what's been done to you," the prince said, and she flinched. "I know you, Dylan. I know your heart. You would never refuse to meet my gaze for nothing. You would never deny my praise without cause. Something weighs on your heart."

Dylan had to close her eyes to keep from meeting his gaze when he leaned down to catch her eye. She wouldn't have the courage to tell him any of it—either about her bargain with Shaohao or what she'd done in Sréng's tent or the bandit leader's identity—if she met those golden eyes so full of love and tenderness. But she couldn't lie to him, either. So she only nodded.

"My lady…I swear to you, you can tell me anything. What is it that troubles you?" When she still said nothing, he murmured, "Please tell me. Trust in me."

It seemed to take several small eternities before she could muster enough courage to whisper, "Níl mé ag iarraidh leat náire dom Do Mhórgacht a bhraitheann."

I do not want you to feel ashamed of me, Your Highness.

Nuada stared at her. "Ashamed?" He took her hands; they trembled in his grasp, icy cold. "Mo mhuire, my lady, what could ever make you fear such a thing? You are so strong, so brave—"

But Dylan shook her head as fresh tears welled up and fell. "No! Uimh! Uimh—no. No, Nuada, mé…Ní raibh mé cróga. I wasn't brave, I wasn't strong. Ní raibh mé…" She wiped at her cheeks. Sobbed, "I begged him not to kill me. I tried to be brave, I tried to keep quiet, but I couldn't, I couldn't. I begged him to stop hurting me and he wouldn't stop and I tried to bargain with him," she was gasping for breath now, tears choking her, burning her face, and she could only keep crying and spilling words like blood. "I begged him to stop, I begged like a coward, and I didn't tell him anything but I kept crying and begging and you're going to be so angry, so ashamed of me—"

"Stop it!" He grabbed her face between his hands, careful of the half-healed wounds. Forced her to look at him. "Stop it. Dylan…my love…oh, a mhuirnín, a ghrá mo chroí…Dylan, he tortured you. He tortured you. Of course you begged. You are not cold iron, unbendable. You are not diamonds, unable to be broken. My love, you are living flesh and bones and blood. He hurt you, this bandit leader. He tortured you. Of course you broke. You had every right to break."

She blinked, stunned. "Wh-what? But…but you never break. I…"

A soft, sad look came into his eyes and he tucked her against him, laying his cheek against her hair once more. "I have broken in many ways, my lady. I have kept back secrets that needed keeping, as you did. But I have been tortured before. And I…" She felt a muscle flex in his jaw before he whispered, "I broke. Every time. I wept like a child as my blood ran down my face to mingle with my tears. I begged, as you say, like a coward. I pleaded with my tormentors to set me free or kill me, if only the pain would stop. There is no shame in that. I would never be angry or ashamed of you because of that. Never."

He wiped away her tears, his touch gentle, and then leaned in and kissed her mouth—soft, careful, with excruciating tenderness. Nuada felt her tremble, felt her fingers brush against his jaw. She yearned toward him with a low sound. But then abruptly she pulled away. Dropped her gaze. Shook her head. Zhenjin was another shadow in her mind. Zhenjin was her friend, and a problem now. She cared for him, loved him with a strange intensity that she knew was equal parts Nuada's own fraternal love and deep gratitude for how kind Zhenjin had been to her when she'd needed a friend. She loved him like a brother. But there was nothing brotherly about his feelings for her. And she had made a bargain with the Red Dragon because of it.

"I can't," she whispered. Oh, but she wanted to, so much. Yet it would be wrong to give in now that the initial rush of relief and joy had ebbed. Wrong to kiss her prince as if there was no shadow hanging over her, no bargain waiting to strike them both.

Nuada frowned. "Forgive me. I did not mean to press you."

Dylan shoved her hands through her shorn hair and scrunched her eyes closed. "It's not you. Not that. I just…I need to talk to you about some things still. Geez. There's just so much…Do you want the bad news first or the worse news first?"

He laid a hand on her shoulder and she opened her eyes. He squeezed her shoulder in a gesture of comfort, but carefully, as he could feel the thickness of bandages beneath her shirt. "Bad first." Nuada's thumb smoothed over her cheek, wiping away the last traces of tears. Oh, to feel him touch her so gently. It was such an uncomplicated thing, and so tender. There was no pain in it, either of the heart as there was with Zhenjin, or of the body as there had been both with Shaohao and Sréng. She was so tired of hurting. "Perhaps," he said, "it is not so bad as all that."

"It's about Zhenjin." She risked a wild-shy glance at him from beneath her lashes. "We both had to make a bargain with Shaohao in order for him to agree to heal me. Zhenjin agreed to give him a head start when he takes off, but he doesn't know yet that Shaohao made me promise something, too. I haven't told him."

Cold tingles prickled along Nuada's cheeks and down his neck as he considered all the things Shaohao could have made Dylan promise to do. She'd pulled away from his kiss. Was that why? Something icy knifed through his belly. The Elven warrior cleared his throat. "Whatever you had to promise, it was to save your life. You are not to blame for…for whatever it is." When she didn't speak, he added, "What did you promise?"

Her eyes drifted closed, as if she could block out what she had to say next. She sighed. "Shaohao thinks that if I just 'give myself a chance,' as he put it, I could fall in love with Zhenjin. So he made me agree to put off the wedding for two months, until the full moon near Beltane."

Nuada's brows furrowed. "Is that all?"

Dylan shook her head. Gave a bitter laugh. "Oh, if only. No, that's just the first part. The second part is…" She should just say it. Dragging it out wasn't fair to either of them. But after all the grief she'd given Nuada about Dierdre…He was going to hate her for this. But there was no help for it. She'd made the bargain. She couldn't unmake it. The fae didn't work like that.

"I have to kiss Zhenjin."

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Sreng mac Umhor didn't look to the left or right as he strode into the secondary bandit camp, despite the way his men fell silent at his approach. They watched him pass, none of them daring even to breathe too loudly. They could see by the savage light smoldering in his one good eye and the livid scarlet of his scar that anyone who drew his attention would probably die very quickly. The bandits breathed relieved sighs only after he disappeared into his lieutenant's tent.

Why was their captain alone? They wondered, and feared the answer. Where were their comrades? What had happened to the plan of kidnapping Silverlance's harlot and killing her and her unborn devil-spawn? But there had been blood smeared across Sreng's face and hatred in his gaze. The bandits asked no questions. They only made a point to quickly hide themselves in their own tents.

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"Captain!" The commander of the second half of the bandits surged to his feet, shoving the slave-girl out of his lap. She crashed to the floor with a yelp and scrabbled to cover herself with the shreds of her dirty shift. "We weren't expecting you, we...Sir." Padraig, the commander, took an involuntary step back. "Sir...what has happened?"

Sréng didn't answer. He stared at the slave-girl trembling behind Padraig's legs. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her face covered by straggles of tangled brown hair. She clung to the commander's boots with scabbed hands.

"Have you a name, girl?"

The slave-girl flinched and clutched her rags tighter. "D-D-Diervla, my lord. Please..." Soft sobs drowned out the rest of whatever Diervla might have wanted to say. Sréng crouched down at Padraig's feet and held out his hand to the girl.

"Why are you crying, Diervla?"

To Padraig, Sréng's voice was terrible in its gentleness. He'd have to find himself another girl before the end of the night. His captain had claimed this one. Odd. Sreng didn't normally care to sport with humans. He left the few they picked up as toys for his men. But no one was stupid enough to contend with the immortal for a paltry toy.

"Please, my lord," Diervla sobbed. "Please," and she shook her head in mute denial as the tears poured down her face. The only thing she seemed to be able to say was please.

The bandit leader reached out and laid his hand against the tangled mass of dark hair. "Shhh. Shhh, shhh, shhh."

When all he did was shush her softly and stroke her hair, slowly Diervla's weeping quieted. At last, with some gentle coaxing from Sreng and a sharp toe in the ribs from Padraig, she lifted her head. Sréng's single eye took in the long scar slashing down Diervla's cheek, still new enough to have some pink to it. Her eyes, Padraig lamented silently, were such a lovely blue. Shame to give this one up, really. But Sréng would have what he would have.

"Don't cry," Sréng soothed. His voice was still oddly gentle. "Come here. Stand up. That's a girl. Stand up." He helped her to her feet. Snapped his fingers—Diervla jumped and squeaked in panic—at Padraig. "A handkerchief for the lady, Padraig."

Padraig stared at him. "Sir?"

"You heard me." Sréng didn't spare a glance for his subordinate. Merely accepted the offered handkerchief and tenderly patted Diervla's cheeks dry of tears. "Now, now. No need for weeping, sweetness."

The slave-girl swallowed hard. Bowed her head. "I...I could serve you, my lord. I'm no trouble. Master Padraig says I'm not, honest, he's says I'm sw-sweet—"

"Shhh." Sréng patted her scarred cheek. "You seem very sweet. I like my pets sweet. Now, I've had a hard day. A very hard day. So be a good girl and show me how sweet you are."

Padraig could see the girl trembling harder as she crept close enough to Sréng to lay her small, bony hand on his chest. She kept her other hand pressed tight to her body, holding her shift together. She shot Padraig a single petrified look before pushing up on tiptoe and pressing her mouth against Sréng's. The bandit groaned appreciatively and gripped her arm with one hand, fingers biting deep enough to bruise.

Sréng sighed when he pulled back from the kiss. "You are sweet," he murmured. Some of Diervla's trembling eased. "Sweet as summer apples. And so well-trained. Well done, Padraig. Now, Diervla...another kiss."

The bandit's mouth was astonishingly gentle when he touched her mouth with his. His grip loosened a little and the girl thought perhaps she could bear to be given over to him, if he stayed so gentle. If he didn't beat her for fun the way the last bandit wretch had, or if he didn't hurt her in the bedding like Padraig. Maybe the things the other slaves said of this one weren't true. Maybe he wasn't cruel. Maybe he was just like every other lord and expected commoners to give him whatever he asked for. He couldn't be as vicious as they all said if he could be so gentle-

It hit like a blow to the belly, low and hard. Diervla choked. Gasped. Sréng's hand on her arm kept her upright as the pain speared through her guts, wicked hot. It sliced in a fiery line burning deep through muscle and bone from the pit of her stomach to just beneath her breastbone. There was a sharp, jarring chock sound from somewhere below her line of sight. She opened her mouth and something warm and wet spilled over her lips.

Sréng kissed her. As he twisted the knife in her chest, driving it into her heart, he opened his mouth to taste the blood on her lips. Relished the salt and copper of mortal blood. And he sighed when the corpse fell into his arms. Crimson soaked the torn shift and Sreng's clothes. He dropped the body on the ground.

"Ohhh," he groaned. "That was good. Little bint actually bought all that tenderness and love. So sorry about the mess, Padraig." He toed the corpse sharply. Glassy blue eyes stared unseeing up at the tent ceiling. "I'm sure we've more somewhere, but stay away from the brown-haired lasses for awhile. I want the rest of them for myself. They remind me of someone. Hai!"

At the harsh call, one of the men hurried inside. It took him a long moment to tear his gaze from the slave-girl's corpse. Finally he croaked, "C-Captain?"

"Do something about this trash," Sréng ordered, kicking the slave-girl's limp fingers away from his boots. "And find me two slaves and bring them to my tent. A Bethmooran Elf. A boy. Give him a cut across his face like so," Sréng indicated the mark he wanted with a thumb across his own face. "And a mortal, brown hair, blue eyes. Cut her face a little. Send along some supper, too. I'll be hungry as a wolf before I'm through. And find Padraig a pretty Elf girl. I broke his toy."

"A-At once, Captain."

The moment the low-ranked bandit scuttled out of the tent, Padraig poured Sréng a goblet of wine from his own wine service and offered it. The bandit leader drained the goblet in a few swallows. Thrust it back at his lackey.

"More."

"What happened, Captain? Where are the rest of your men?" Padraig asked, handing back the refilled goblet.

Sreng's ruined mouth twisted into a sneer. "Dead. Fae fire. Let me tell you about the last few days I've had, Padraig. You see, I had the mortal whore in my grasp, half-dead from all I'd done to her, when..."

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"I have to kiss Zhenjin."

Dylan risked a peek at her prince. His eyes were empty topaz. His face held no expression. He nodded for her to continue.

"Three times. Not three kisses, but we have to kiss three times. Shaohao was very clear on that point. Kisses as…" This was the humiliating, horrible part. Without this, she could just give her friend a few friendly pecks on the cheek and be done with all of it. But there was this. "Each time we kiss, it has to be at least as intimate as the most intimate kisses you and I have shared."

There was a long moment of silence while Dylan counted each of her heartbeats and tried not to flush bright red at the thought of kissing someone other than Nuada. She hated Shaohao. He loved Zhenjin, and she was glad; he'd saved her life, and she was grateful; he was tormented by madness and tragedy, and she pitied him. But right now she also wanted to bash him in the face with a very large rock.

"We have not been very intimate," Nuada replied at length. "All of our kisses have been fairly chaste, have they not? I know you're no doubt discomfited by the idea but at least…" He trailed off when she shook her head.

"You're forgetting about our first kiss," she mumbled. "When you kissed my neck and…and touched me." Chastely enough by most people's standards, probably—his fingers had roamed no higher than her bottom ribs and no lower than the waistband of her jeans—but not by her standards. The thought of having to allow Zhenjin to touch her that way sent something odd and uncomfortable rolling through her stomach. And then there was…"And you're forgetting about what happened in your mother's garden."

Nuada's teeth snapped shut with an audible click. In truth, he had. Or rather, he hadn't considered it pertinent to Shaohao's blasted deal because what had occurred in the Queen's Garden wasn't truly between them. It wasn't part of them. It had been the work of spells and magical poison. Neither of them had been themselves then. He considered the aftermath to be part of their life together, because it had been the two of them, fully cognizant and mostly free of outside influence. But Nuada never allowed himself to think long about those ravenous kisses in the private gardens, the hungry touching, or the sight of Dylan with her gown half-undone. He had no right. Dylan had forgiven him, they'd dealt with the fallout, and that had been that.

But now…now Shaohao would bring it all back because he would know if Dylan didn't fulfill their bargain to the letter. Somehow he would know. Nuada had no doubt of that. His magic was powerful enough.

The Elven prince rested his hands on his knees and leaned his head back a little, trying to master his expression. Now was not the time for fury at the Red Dragon for doing this to Dylan. To Zhenjin. Dylan was furious enough, shaking with the force of her anger and upset. Nuada blew out a long breath and said the only thing he could think of.

"Damn."

Dylan nodded. "Yeah. Basically." She scrubbed at her face with one hand. Nuada's eyes drifted to the bandage wrapping her wrist. "I don't know how Zhenjin's going to react to this. I don't know how I'm going to react. I mean…" She dropped her face into her hands with a groan. "He's attractive; you can't deny that. And probably skilled like you. If I close my eyes and think of England, that might negate the deal."

One silver-blond brow winged upward. "England?"

She flapped a hand in dismissal. "You know, like when you're in an arranged marriage. Lie back and think of your duty to England? That sort of thing. Ugh! This is so stupid but there was no reasoning with Shaohao. I tried to explain this wouldn't help anyone but he just insisted I didn't know what I was talking about."

"He is mad, beloved. Not even you can reason with madness." Nuada rubbed his chin, trying to push aside the rage boiling in his blood. It would not be Zhenjin's fault that he had to kiss Dylan. Touch her. It wasn't Dylan's fault, either. And spewing his fury at the mad Dragon Prince would help nothing. So he pushed it away and focused on something his truelove had said earlier.

"May I ask you something, Dylan?" Nuada's voice was carefully neutral. After a moment, she nodded. "You said your back was hurt in some way, when I embraced you before." It wasn't a question, but he seemed to be waiting for an answer. She nodded again. "May I…ask what happened? Or," he added when she bit her lip and twisted the hem of her shirt between her hands, "if it is too painful to speak of…may I look?"

Dylan had to fight the urge to chew her lip as she considered. He would need to know, and she didn't think she could force the words out. But she wasn't wearing anything under this tunic. Her bra had been destroyed by the lash.

Clearing her throat, she said, "Please close your eyes for a minute." Nuada obeyed instantly without question. Dylan quickly slipped the jade tunic buttons loose and pulled her arms out of the sleeves. Turning the tunic around backwards, she slipped her arms through the sleeves again. Now the tunic covered her chest and stomach while leaving her wounded back open to Nuada's inspection. Dylan turned a little, clutching the tunic to her chest. She cleared her throat. "Okay. You can look."

She heard the swift hiss of his indrawn breath and knew she'd needed to show him what Sréng had done to her. She'd managed to get Golden Sparrow to tell her the full extent of the damage. Her back was going to end up a scarred ruin, even worse than what it had been before. The lashes would heal in thick, crisscrossing lines mounded across the scars she already carried.

A rough velvet touch smoothed over a small, rare space of unmarked skin, gentle as a lover's good morning kiss. Nuada's fingertips moved over her skin with utmost care. He traced around the deeply-carved, half-healed pathways of pain and memory, sending soothing magic into her body. Dylan didn't bother trying to blink back the tears that trickled down her cheeks. Her prince took care, each touch a soothing balm, each passing moment a reminder that now she was safe, that now she was with a man who would never hurt her like this. Slowly the dull ache in her back and the fire in her lash-wounds faded to almost nothing. When he was finished, Nuada laid his palm against her back, barely touching. Even so, her heart beat hard against his palm.

"I never wanted you to know pain like this, beloved."

Dylan shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "It's not a big deal. Just...I'm going to look pretty bad once I've healed up," she murmured, trying to force joviality into her voice.

Nuada's hand slid up her back to rest against her shoulder. His touch was warm and reassuring. "You will always bear scars," he said softly. His voice was thick with suppressed emotion. "But they are a testament to your strength and your courage, my love. You needn't ever be ashamed of them."

"I'm not," Dylan whispered. Because she wasn't. Not these. Not after this. She'd been afraid the scars would change how Nuada felt about her in some way. Diminish his attraction to her, maybe, or make him treat her as fragile, breakable. Less than she was. But he'd shown her how ridiculous that was. And she would not be ashamed of the pain she'd suffered for their people. "I'm not."

He nodded. Swallowed the self-recriminations and apologies he knew she didn't want to hear because she would never blame him for this. All he said was, "Good." He closed his eyes at her behest so she could rearrange her clothes, only opening them when she gave him permission. He cleared his throat. "So, the bargain regarding Zhenjin was the bad news; we will make some sort of arrangement with Zhenjin later to expedite this bargain. Does that suit you?" She nodded wearily. "What was the worse news?"

Dylan stiffened at that and shot him a wide-eyed look. She pressed her lips together until they were nearly bloodless. Folded her hands in her lap. Her fingers bit into her skin hard enough to leave white spots.

"The leader of the bandits is an immortal human," she said. Beside her, Nuada jolted. Stared. "The kind of immortal that doesn't age and probably can't be killed unless you, like…I don't know, dismember him or something. And…he's about three-thousand years old."

Nuada leaned back, blew out a breath in a low whistle. "Three-thousand years old…never aging…he must be almost completely mad by now." He shook his head. "No creature is meant to stagnate that way, to remain unchanged throughout the long centuries until the end of eternity. Such immortality is considered a curse among my people, to be used against only our most hated enemies, and even then it is used but rarely. But why should this be worse than your deal with Prince Shaohao?"

Dylan cleared her throat. "The bandit leader…he knows you. Personally. Do you remember a man named Sréng mac Úmhór? You both would've been young when you knew him."

She didn't want to tell him this. She didn't want to think about the fact that the man whose family had murdered Nuada's mother had also nearly murdered her—technically had murdered her, since she'd legitimately stopped breathing and her heart had stopped beating for more than a minute—and was still alive. Zhenjin had told her that he and his brother had set fire to the bandit camp, but Dylan didn't believe for a second that Sréng was dead. He was immortal, the sort of immortal that didn't just end because you cut someone's throat or decapitated them or shot them in the heart or set them on fire. Sréng was still out there; she had no doubt, and the Holy Ghost's warmth in her heart told her she wasn't wrong.

Her prince shook his head. "How young?" He would've learned the name of any immortal of that sort if they'd met. So the human had to have been mortal yet when the prince had met him. Three thousand years…Nuada would've been merely a boy at that point. Three-thousand years ago, give or take a few centuries, his mother had been killed and he hadn't had the stomach to meet any humans for a long time after. The king hadn't pressed the issue. So…

Dylan's voice was soft when she said, "You would've been about nine centuries. He would've been close to you in age—physically, anyway. Not in years."

Topaz eyes blasted wide and Nuada lunged to his feet. "What?" The words danced in his skull, tickling at memory. Unease made his skin itch. Nine centuries. A human boy who knew him, who bore him a grudge no doubt if he'd become leader of these thrice-cursed bandits. One who carried the curse of true unending immortality. Someone Dylan was afraid to speak of and not because of what the monster had done to her. Sréng mac Úmhór…that name…mac Úmhór…

His gorge rose and Nuada had to cover his mouth as the jeering voices of human beasts echoed in his mind, a nightmare memory from more than thirty centuries ago.

Hurry up your brat, mac Úmhór, I want my turn! She's going to black out, come on, finish already!

Rushing a man in the middle of these things is bad for his health, mac Murtagh. You can wait your turn, my boy's not finished with this slut yet. It's high time Sréng became a man.

Nuada remembered that day. The dust and blood burning in his eyes while two men ground his face into the dirt to keep him from getting free. Nuala sobbing, screaming around the hand clapped over her mouth. He could still taste blood—his own, and human blood burning his young mouth with salt and iron, and Butcher blood because his mother's guards lay dead in the dirt—and the sweetness of his own tears. He could still hear the throat-tearing screams from his mother. And he'd gotten loose, struggling like a hellcat. Drawn the twin-knife his father had gifted to him on his birthday not two weeks past.

He'd never cut a man's throat before. It had been a long time before he'd understood just what he'd done after getting loose. It was still only a haze of rage and fear in his mind; he'd been too focused on his mother and sister, in too much pain, and simply too young to realize what it meant when you slashed at an enemy's throat and their blood sprayed across your face. The iron and salt had half-blinded him.

And he hadn't stopped, even though the human blood had left burns on his skin from the iron, even though he'd never heard anyone scream the way the men hurting his mother did when he used his knife on them. And Nuala hadn't stopped, either. The two of them had fought their way through, iron burning them and fists bruising them, steel blades catching across their skin and feet kicking hard enough to crack bones. But they hadn't been enough. There had been too many. And Nuada had fought and fought and fought, pain screaming in his bones and in his skull and across every inch of his body. Nuala had fought, her pain echoing in his own body. And there had been the roar of an angry troll and then more screaming, worse than anything Nuada had ever heard before.

Then the boy. Dark hair, dirty face. Still hovering over the queen, who lay too still and silent now, already fading. She might have been dead already, though the agony of the idea of a world without his mother made what little part of Nuada remaining sane jerk back like a wounded animal. Cethlenn's eyes, glassy emerald, stared up at the sky overhead, unseeing. Her rucked up, torn dress was stained with blood and earth. Her blood turned the dirt to reeking mud. The boy was touching the ripped edges of her gown. Touching her. And there had been a cold, cruel curiosity and a strange, inhuman excitement in his expression as he dragged his hands over Cethlenn's bared, bruised skin and shuddered over her.

Nuada remembered what had happened then: the enraged scream, half-mad with hurting and an animal fear, that had torn from his throat at the sight of someone else hurting Cethlenn, at the sight of another child doing it, and why were they doing this, why? And then Nuada had tackled the half-naked boy and they'd wrestled in the mud beside the queen's body. Nuada had sobbed and screamed every obscene thing he could think of while he'd hacked at this horrible, horrible demon-boy with his knife and the demon-boy had hacked at him, driving his own knife deep into Nuada's side once, twice.

The boy was bigger than Nuada. Had more muscle. Older? Eleven or twelve, maybe even thirteen. Fiendishly strong, even for a human. Nuada had driven his knife into the boy's shoulder and the boy had screamed, and then he'd slashed across the mortal boy's sneering face and there had been blood in the boy's eyes. Too much blood. The boy had screamed and screamed and then another human, a man, was grabbing at the prince, pulling him away from the boy, yelling, "Fae devil, get off my boy! Run, boy! Run!" Nuada had twisted and stabbed at the human, catching him in the ribs. The man had thrown him down, and he'd cracked his head against a stone.

The next thing he could remember was his father cradling him and Nuala in his arms, tears dripping down his father's face as he called their names and begged them both to wake.

And now Dylan was telling him that her assailant, the leader of the bandit plague, was that boy. That boy, all grown up. That hellspawn that had dared to put his hands on Cethlenn, dared to desecrate her body. Somehow he'd become immortal and now he was back, he'd escaped that day when his father had told him to run—the man whose spine Wink had snapped in half like a twig, according to the silver cave troll—and now he was back. He was back. He was in Bethmoora and he was back.

"Shades of Annwn," he breathed, feeling his legs tremble beneath him. He slowly sank down onto a stone outcropping. Stared at nothing as he tried to process the awful unfair truth of it. His hand crept without conscious thought to cover the knife-scar marring the right side of his torso. "That beast is back…"

That beast, Nuada realized, who'd had his hands on Dylan for the Fates only knew how long. His gaze focused on his truelove watching him with uncertain eyes. He held out a hand to her and she came to him, sliding her arms around his neck and pressing close, her cheek against his shoulder. Nuada held her tightly.

"He had you," Nuada whispered. "Shades, Dylan, that monster had you. Are you all right?" She nodded without speaking. Scrunched closer. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I'd know who he was, I would've come, duty be damned. I would've come for you, I didn't know, I—"

"It's okay," she said. "You didn't know. You couldn't have. It's okay."

"No. No, I know better," Nuada said, voice still soft. "I see it in you. Your eyes hold new shadows, and I am sorry for it. It must have been terrible for you. You can speak of it to me if you need, mo crídh, I promise you. You needn't fear that I cannot bear it."

But she shook her head again. "Not right now. Just hold me, please."

So he held her, as she held him, and they took comfort from each other. And neither noticed Prince Zhenjin watching; he stood in the distant shadows near the cavern entrance where the opening in the rocks twisted back toward the main cave, where the other royals and warriors waited. Zhenjin watched, and refused to hate his friend for the way Dylan clung to him, and considered whether hating his older brother for what he had made her promise would accomplish anything.

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Things were more than awkward when Dylan brought Nuada back into the main cavern. The royals that had been in Zhenjin's fractured hunting party—Prince Günther, Prince Dastan, Princess Kamaria, and Prince Taran, as well as Zhenjin's two younger brothers Gaôzu and Hôu Junjï—smiled when they saw the Tuathan prince and his lady, but they eyed Dylan with more than a little wariness. She didn't understand why until Shaohao opened his mouth.

"There she is, my friends—the mortal who came back from the dead and who's managed to snare not one, but two Elven princes. Congratulations are in order for the little succubus, I think. Quite the conquest."

Zhenjin had been seated a few paces away from his brother, slouched against the wall, but when Shaohao spoke, Zhenjin jerked upright and a look of fury flashed across his face.

Dylan beat him to the punch. "I will dump that stew out on the floor and throw that pot at you, you obnoxious brat!"

The guards tensed, waiting for an explosion from the mad prince. Everyone else slowly began reaching for their weapons. Nuada and Zhenjin merely watched the mortal and the half-insane Dilong Elf glare at each other for a long moment before Shaohao threw back his head and laughed. Dylan kept glaring. She couldn't believe he'd just blurted out Zhenjin's secret like that. What did he hope to accomplish?

"You're absolutely right, Lady Moonbeam—I am a brat. But I always get what I want; you'd best remember that. Now, the storm has died down and everyone is up to speed on the situation. You'd best be going. I will of course look in on my favorite brother and the tramp—I mean, the lady—to ensure all is well. What's that they say in Eathesbury? Ah, yes. Toodle-pip!"

"We're not going anywhere yet, Brother," Zhenjin snarled. "You and I need to have words."

Shaohao's smile took on an edge sharp enough to make air bleed. "In private, then. You know I so enjoy our alone time, di-di."

Those assembled watched the two Dilong princes walk down a stone corridor before Dylan found everyone's attention suddenly focused on her. Before she could do more than turn bright pink under the scrutiny, Guardsman Uaithne broke away from the rest of the Butcher Guards, strode over to her, and hugged her hard.

"Glk!" Dylan almost swallowed her tongue in surprise. "Uaithne…can't breathe…you're hurting me…"

He immediately released her. His gray eyes were warm through the slits in his helmet. "My apologies, milady. It is simply that it is so good to see you alive. We all feared the worst when Prince Nuada told us…"

"We're glad you're safe, milady," Uaithne's partner, young Ailbho, chimed in. "We're awfully fond of you."

Dylan grinned. "I'm fond of you guys, too. But…Your Highness," she had to force herself not to call Nuada by name since they were in the presence of other royals, "where's your retinue?"

Guardswoman Fionnlagh snickered. "They weren't invited to our little party, milady."

Nuada's smile held a razor's edge. "My guards and yours have made their loyalty quite clear, mo mhuire. Now, loath as I am to admit it, Prince Shaohao made a good point. We'd best be getting back to Lallybroch. Lòman can carry us both easily enough, but silks—even jatai silks—aren't enough to protect you from the cold. And you've no shoes." He frowned, but a small smile broke through when Dylan wiggled her toes at him.

In the end, it was decided that Dylan could wear Nuada's leather greatcoat and borrow a pair of the lion-leather boots Kamaria had packed for the hunt for Shaohao, to be returned once they made it back to the village. Dylan would ride on Lòman with Nuada, for her prince was loath to let her travel beyond his embrace after all that had happened.

Everyone ate from the stew the two absent Dilong princes had made. Dylan didn't recognize the spices or the meat and winter vegetables floating in the savory brother, but whatever it was warmed her down to the tips of her fingers and toes. Everyone was ready to leave by the time a smirking Shaohao and a scowling Zhenjin returned. Zhenjin shot Dylan a look of apology before finishing getting his things together. The eldest Dilong prince just lounged by the fire and watched the group finish their preparations and move toward the cave's main entrance.

At the last minute, Dylan turned back.

Shaohao raised his eyebrows at her. "What do you want, little star-bubble?"

She considered carefully before speaking. "I don't like you much, Your Imperial Highness. But you knew that." Shaohao smiled and shrugged, making a casual hmmm-perhaps motion with his hands. "However, I am grateful to you for saving my life and for looking out for His Highness Prince Zhenjin when you…when you can. So thank you."

The Red Dragon's smile turned rueful. "I suppose I, too, must be grateful to you, little mortal. You have saved my brother's life. For that, you have my thanks. Now get out before I roast you; I grow weary of humans and their complicated lives. I have things to be doing."

Like Golden Sparrow, Dylan couldn't stop herself from thinking as they left the cave.

Behind them, Shaohao waved and cooed, "Goodbye, di-di! Do be careful and try not to get yourself killed. Farewell, Hou Junji! Gaozu, please do your honored elder brother a favor and trip over something, maybe put out your eye with that nice new sword, hmmm? Give my regards to your lovely sister and your very lovely wife, Prince Günther! And take care with my brother's toys, Silverlance!"

Nuada gritted his teeth, tense enough to snap like a bowstring. Dylan paused in walking away only long enough to scoop up some snow, pack it into a ball, and throw it back the way she'd come. There was a muffled "oof" noise and then the sound of Shaohao swearing. Beside her, Nuada relaxed a little.

Beyond the rocky entrance, the forest lay sleeping beneath a blanket of glittering white lit by the faintest silvery moonlight from overhead. Lòman stamped his hoof when he saw Nuada escorting Dylan toward him. Maeve whickered at the mortal, who smiled. The black stallion and the white mare both nuzzled Dylan's shoulders.

*You're looking a bit worse for wear, milady,* Maeve murmured. *It's good to see you.*

*Yes,* Lòman added. *Now the prince will stop moping.*

"I do not mope." Nuada laid his hands on either side of Dylan's waist. "Ready?" She nodded, and he helped her up into the saddle. Once she was settled, he vaulted up behind her. Fitted himself very carefully against her back. His arm slid around her and Dylan felt some of the tension she'd been carrying around suddenly drain away. She leaned back against Nuada's chest. Covered his arms with her. He took the reins in one hand, pressing his jaw to her temple.

"I love you," he breathed so softly she could barely hear him.

"Ditto. Let's get out of here."

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