Author's Note: I'm so sorry I've been on hiatus for so long! I promise I'm not abandoning Once. Not till it's over. I've just been really busy with life. But I'm back now and I'm back on schedule, and our next update should be on Halloween! Anywho, here's the next chapter. Because the last few chaps were so intense and opened up so many avenues of possibly problematic stuff, we've got a lot to cover and I have a 10,000 word chapter limit. So let's see how I did. Let me know what you think!
Aidan's Queen, remember your promise. *wink wink*
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Chapter One-Hundred-Nineteen
The Olde Village Lanterns
(Calling Me Onward)
that is
A Short Tale of Tongue Twisters, Talk Between Two Princes, a Mixed Welcome, the Namesake, Sisters, Francesca Being Her Glorious Self, and What's Under the Bed
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They made camp in the woods, in a small grove of tightly-clustered pines that grew so close together, no snow had touched the ground. Nuada made up Dylan's bedroll himself, cushioning the wool and furs with the golden pine needles beneath. A moss-covered stone made a comfortable seat nearby. With so many royals in the group, they had enough magic to waste in warming the grove. Eventually Dylan could shrug out of her prince's ensorcelled leather greatcoat.
Prince Günther set to preparing supper while the others settled around the fire that Petra started with impressive ease. John and Nuada stayed right by Dylan's side, with Petra and Zhenjin close by. Tsu's'di stood at attention behind his mistress until Dylan ordered him to sit down and eat something.
"Yes, milady-mother," the ewah youth said, and Dylan smiled. Some of the tension still riding Nuada eased a fraction.
No one spoke of what the Red Dragon had revealed in the mountain caves concerning the mortal and the Dilong heir. Dylan couldn't sense Nuada's disquiet through their new and suddenly muted link, but she knew the thought of her kissing Zhenjin niggled at the back of his mind, scraping like a thorn. What could she say to him?
For that matter, what was she supposed to say to Zhenjin? "By the way, I know you have feelings for me and I know this will rip out your heart, but in order to get your insane brother to save me, I had to promise to make out with you three times?"
Ugh. Yeah, because that's going to go over well, she grumbled. The urge to kick Shaohao in the face rose up sharp and hot. Unfortunately they'd left him behind in the caves (where he was no doubt occupying his time seducing the pretty, plump Princess Golden Sparrow).
And Zhenjin was watching her. She felt it while she and her twin and sister oh so carefully talked about everything while talking about nothing, feigning that all was well. The other royals—Zhenjin's two brothers, Prince Günther, Prince Dastan, and Princess Kamaria—shot her the occasional questioning look. Understandable, since she'd come back from the dead after being tortured for more than a day; no doubt morbid curiosity had them wondering just what had been done to her. Had they heard the rumors of her carrying Nuada's child? Even an Elven baby wouldn't have survived Sréng's methods.
Dylan instinctively hunched her shoulders, curling her arms over her stomach at the memory of the bandit hitting her in the belly over and over again. The breath hitched in her throat. Without conscious thought she reached mentally for Nuada…and found nothing. Emptiness. He was right there but for some reason, she couldn't touch his thoughts the way she had before that moment in the bandit camp when her heart had stopped.
She tried to push aside the loss slicing through her, icy in her stomach. They'd gone months—a full year, in fact—without being able to touch each other's thoughts. The short days of such warmth and gentle, chaste intimacy had been a blessing, but considering that was all she'd lost because of the last few days' events, Dylan knew she ought to feel lucky she wasn't dead. If Sréng had had his way, she would've been.
So she focused on the carefully bland conversation and tried to ignore the cold knot of loss inside her and Zhenjin's heavy gaze falling on her like a touch. He was careful, too—careful to talk and laugh with his comrades, careful to say nothing to her and very little to Nuada. If the others noticed the strain in emerald and topaz eyes whenever they locked for the briefest instant, no one said anything.
Dylan didn't pay attention to supper—where it came from or who provided it or even what it was. She just nibbled on the drumstick from whatever animal that evening's breadwinner had managed to catch and stayed quiet, letting the low murmur of conversation and the occasional jangle of Butcher Guard armor sooth some of her nerves. She wanted to sleep but, even more than that, she wanted to go back to the sanctuary and hide. Unfortunately she had the feeling either option would lead to bad juju. Either she would end up with nightmares, or she'd hide in the sanctuary and never come out again. She'd almost done that before, when she'd first met Nuada. Only his insistence had forced her out of the underground haven.
"Hey, D?" John's soft call snagged her attention. She raised an eyebrow and offered him a tired smile. "Do you remember that tongue twister you showed me a few months ago? I've been trying to remember it, but I can't remember what goes after 'rabble.'"
Nuada, who'd been surreptitiously eyeing Zhenjin, turned to his lady and her brother. "Tongue twister?"
"A phrase that's really hard to say, and you have to say it really fast, even though it's something that's designed to make you trip over your words," Dylan explained. Her smile became a little less shadowed. "Which tongue twister, John?"
"The one with all the R-words and W-words in it."
Dylan's smile morphed into a grin. "You mean…'Rescind your wretched rabble-rousing! Roger was wrongfully renounced for I watched him riding rearward in his wobbly red wheelbarrow whilst whistling warbles to his woeful warthog!'" Nuada blinked twice. Princess Kamaria and Prince Dastan started smiling. "'Thus the wobbly red wagon wheels which Roger robbed were really his warped wheelbarrow wheels! So,'" now Zhenjin and Günther were watching, fascinated, while John and Petra tried to smother their laughter and Tsu's'di stared at his mistress in something that might have been awe, as she'd yet to take a breath and was starting to turn pink, "to wrap up, the roguish rascal Roger robbed the really weird rear wheels of the wobbly red wagon but the wicked witch Winifred rectified the report, redeeming Roger of his woeful wrongdoing. Release him.' Gah." Dylan sucked in a huge breath and fanned herself with one hand. "Oh, man. I haven't done it that fast in months. Ho, boy."
Zhenjin asked, "What was that?"
She squared her shoulders, knowing she looked quite pleased with herself. "It's a tongue twister. 'Robbing Roger.' I learned it a couple years ago. I've always liked tongue twisters but that's the hardest one I know. At least," she added, scrupulously honest, "the hardest one I know that I can actually say properly."
"That was most impressive, mo mhuire," Nuada said. "I don't think I could do that."
John snorted. "Francesca would say that's a shame."
The Elven prince quirked an eyebrow. "Oh? And why is that?"
"Something about oral dexterity and being able to wrap your ton— ow!" John yelped when Petra hit him on the arm. "What? I was going to keep it G-rated, Petra, jeez. And you know Francesca would totally say that. You know she would."
"John-boy, there are so many things Cesca would say that no one ever should," Dylan reminded him. "It's part of her irrepressible and slightly irritating charm. Her adorable-ness is the only reason nobody's killed her yet. You, on the other hand, can't pull off the kitten face."
"Yes, I can." Silence. "I can totally make kitten faces."
Petra and Dylan exchanged a glance and shook their heads. The conversation was absolutely ridiculous, but Dylan found a smile curving her mouth, and it didn't feel like her face was about to crack in half. All things considered, the evening had turned out fairly good. Dylan found herself drifting in exhaustion, her head drooping onto Nuada's shoulder. She wanted to pick it up—it felt wrong and unfair to cuddle against her prince in front of Zhenjin—but she was so very tired.
But even as she drifted off to sleep with her prince's arm draped around her, she noticed Nuada didn't lay his cheek against her hair. Perhaps he felt the weight of Zhenjin's brittle, anguished gaze too.
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Dylan lay sleeping tucked in her bedroll, loosely surrounded by her fiercely protective guards and flanked by her brother and sister. Nuada stood watch and all but one of the other fae royals slept, waiting for their turn to guard the little camp. Wink sat at his back atop a comfortable, mossy boulder. The rhinemaiden, Lorelei, slumbered with her back against one of the troll's thick-as-a-tree-trunk legs. Neither prince nor troll spoke, and the quiet stillness of the winter night was broken only by the crackling of the flames, the occasional clink of Butcher Guard armor, and the sleep-noises of exhausted mortals.
Zhenjin sat across from Nuada on his own stone seat. The flames cast dancing shadows across his face and his eyes glowed unearthly green in the dimness. He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting on his hands. His gaze never left the Tuathan Elf's moon-pale face.
The campsite did not stir as magic spilled into the night, filling up every empty space. The air grew a touch warmer as Nuada's power fed into the heating spells the others had set in place. The fire danced faster, harder, higher—but only a little. This was a slow, carefully-contained unleashing of royal magic for one purpose only.
Reptilian emerald eyes locked with eyes like topaz knives. Zhenjin's mind connected with Nuada's, locking in place. Only the centuries of friendship, the years of camaraderie forged on countless battlefields, and that disastrous mental link made back when Dylan had first arrived in Findias made the connection possible—barely. Pain settled in a dull knot at the base of the Dilong heir's skull. Neither prince could keep this up for long, but wandering away from the group to talk about what they needed to would've been stupidly reckless. Besides, neither man intended to leave Dylan unguarded.
You know, Nuada said, the voice faint and echoing as he called to Zhenjin from a great distance. It wasn't a question, but Zhenjin nodded. A muscle flexed in the Bethmooran heir's jaw. How did you find out?
Zhenjin gritted his teeth. He had nothing to be ashamed over, and yet…
I overheard her explaining it to you, he replied. Since it involved Shaohao, I deemed it prudent to listen.
Nuada nodded. I can find no fault with your logic…but forgive me if I want to ram my dirk into your elder brother's eye for this.
Just at the moment, so do I. Zhenjin's gaze drifted back to Dylan asleep near Nuada's feet. The firelight deepened the shadows on her ruined face. The bandit leader had traced over each healed scar Dylan had earned the night she'd met the Silverlance, ripping open wounds both physical and mental in his attempts to break her completely. But these wounds were deeper than the originals. More ragged. A carefully controlled viciousness was evident in each cut. And knowing Dylan, she wouldn't allow a healer to tend to her face. Not when the healers were needed in the villages under attack. Zhenjin looked back at Nuada. I can try to force him to release her from this—
But we both know he will not, the other prince said. He is mad. We both know it. There is no reasoning with him in this. Dylan has accepted that.
The Dilong prince bit back a rude noise. She would. But I would not have her play the martyr for me. Seeing Nuada's expression, Zhenjin sighed. I do confess, my friend, that a dark part of my heart has greatly desired to know what it might be like to…to kiss her. Not as she is with you, but how she might be with me. But it is not what she would wish. I know this. I would never presume to force—
If Dylan ever chooses you, I will not stop her. The words came slow and cold and hollow, and Nuada looked sick as they fell into Zhenjin's brain. All the air seemed to seep from the Dilong prince's lungs as the full import of what his friend was saying registered. If you are who she chooses, then I wish you all happiness. Your brother seems to think all she needs is to see what she's missing by choosing me. If her eyes are opened, if she goes to you, you needn't fear losing my friendship, and I will always care for and respect her.
Zhenjin gaped at him. She wouldn't…Dylan would never…Silverlance, what are you saying? My brother is mad. Dylan doesn't want me.
And that hurt. Would no doubt always hurt. The fae lived longer than mortals, and their emotions ran deeper the longer their species lived. They had to, in order to sustain the weight of decades and centuries. For an Elf…love could be the greatest gift imaginable. And heartache could be a curse one never escaped. Anyone who didn't believe that needed only to look at King Balor—or, if Zhenjin's theory were correct, at Nuada. Zhenjin's love for Dylan wouldn't wreck him as Balor's destroyed love had done to the old king, but the pain might always be there, poisoning him as Silverlance had been poisoned once upon a time.
She doesn't want me, he repeated.
When she realizes what you offer, she might. Nuada gripped the edges of the boulder so tightly his fingertips and knuckles turned white. I've considered this ever since…ever since our quarrel a sennight ago. I know she sought comfort from you then, he added and Zhenjin had to forcibly suppress a stab of completely irrational guilt. When I broke her heart. I saw the two of you in the gardens. She'd left me in tears but you made her laugh even then. You always can. The Tuathan prince looked away. Sighed. You can give her what I cannot. All that I cannot. When she realizes this…why wouldn't she wish to be with you instead?
He shook his head. Silverlance, she loves you.
She loves you, as well.
But not in the same way! I—
Do not carry the sins of countless innocent deaths on your conscience, Nuada growled, glaring at him. A hint of bronze shone amidst the empty topaz of his eyes. You are not forced to choose against living a mortal life free of danger with the human you love because that choice will bring about the end of all your people. You are not so twisted and bitter…The prince groped for words but found none. He sighed and the tension seemed to seep out of him. I cannot be for her what you can. What she wants most. She is willing to settle for less, but I believe with you she wouldn't have to. And I believe what Shaohao wants will come to pass—that she will learn the truth of this for herself. But you are my friend. More than that, you are my brother, as Wink is. As Bres…was. It may wound me, but if Dylan chooses you, I will not stand in your way or hers. It is her choice and I will respect it.
Zhenjin shook his head again, but all he said was, As I will respect her choice—you. Because he knew Dylan's love for the other man was unshakeable. Nothing would ever be able to turn her heart toward Zhenjin short of Nuada's death. So the prince would not allow his friend's words to kindle even an ember of treacherous hope in his breast that he might win Dylan's love. Dylan had made herself very clear about her feelings for Zhenjin. It would be wrong to even try to woo her now.
Nuada said nothing to Zhenjin's assertion.
You realize you're being a complete idiot? The Dilong prince asked. She seems to have that effect on you.
You're the one who provoked her into suggesting the mind-meld, Nuada replied, shaking his head. And you insulted me. You should've known by the fact that I loved her that she'd come after you like one of the Morrigan's flesh-eating Ravens for that. Did I not tell you she was different than most mortals? Kind. Gentle. And so brave.
Hmmm. Creative, too. Have you ever heard her use the word "hinky?"
Now a smile tugged at Nuada's dark mouth and he nodded. Have you ever heard her use the word "icky-ful?"
I can't say I have. What was she talking about?
Her hair.
She has lovely hair, Zhenjin protested. It's so soft, and such a sweet scent...He trailed off, realizing he'd let himself slip into memories that weren't his. Dylan barely clothed, sleeping in his arms. The sting of blood was in the air from scrapes marring her arms and legs, but so was the heady perfume of lilies and summer roses and his face was buried in the thick wealth of those dark curls and her skin was so smooth and soft and warm under his hands, and he wanted so much to forget propriety, forget honor and duty...Forget it all, slip the thin black strap down her arm, and kiss the hollow where her neck met her shoulder , wake her slowly with more kisses—
Zhenjin wrenched himself out of the memory—Nuada's memory of a night when Dylan had nearly frozen to death—and swore savagely, obscene words ricocheting through his skull as he forced the recollection away. It wasn't his memory, and even if it had been, he had no business thinking about such things. No business crafting fantasies that burned through his mind. She wouldn't want that. She'd hate him for doing that. He would not offer such dishonor to any woman, least of all her.
Her hair is not "icky-ful," he said tonelessly. You and I both know it. Do you know...if I'd known I would love her because of sharing our minds and your memories of her...I probably would have done so anyway. Nuada frowned and Zhenjin laughed softly, bitterly. I was so arrogant. I would never have believed I could feel like this. I suppose I deserve this pain—for doubting you and misjudging her.
I wouldn't wish what you feel on anyone, my brother, Nuada said. Living without the one you love can poison a heart. It sickens the soul. Believe me, I have seen this. I have...felt this. He looked away, toward the moon barely shining in a sliver through the canopy. Wrong you were, to doubt me or Dylan...but you don't deserve such pain.
Silence descended, and the forced link was allowed to fade. Zhenjin watched Nuada brush back a lock of Dylan's shorn hair that had fallen across her face. Her ruined mouth curved into a small, serene smile. Nuada sighed and turned his gaze to the forest. Wink rumbled something to the prince, but Zhenjin didn't speak cave troll and didn't understand. Nuada muttered something back in the same tongue.
The Dilong prince allowed himself one last glance at his sleeping love before resuming his study of the surrounding forest. They were supposed to be keeping watch until Kamaria and Petra woke to take their turn, not brooding over agonizing deals and tenuous bonds of friendship and sleeping mortals. Rubbing the back of his neck to ease the knot of tension threatening him with a headache, Zhenjin straightened from his slouch. There might still be straggling bandits out there. The same group of bandits that would've succeeded in murdering Dylan if not for Shaohao. He would let none of those wretches near.
And he would not let himself fantasize for more than a breath of a moment what it would feel like to have Dylan in his arms, her lips against his. When whispers of longing beckoned him to indulge, he drew his honor about him like a shield and pushed temptation away.
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The group made it back to Lallybroch late the next afternoon as twilight began to descend. Dylan saw that more repairs had gotten underway in her absence and it sent a shaft of warmth through her chest. Things were getting better. The village was recovering and hadn't been attacked again since the night she'd been taken. Good. Her people were safe for the moment.
It felt strange riding into the village on Maeve's back, though. The white arion mare offered silent, reassuring commentary but Dylan knew she didn't understand the true reason for Dylan's unease. The last time the mortal had ridden into Lallybroch, she'd sat straight and regal and reassuring on her horse, dressed to impress, looking every inch the prince's lady. Now she slumped because sitting up straight made the half-healed lashes on her back ache, and she'd traded Nuada's greatcoat for a hooded cloak borrowed from Princess Kamaria to hide Dylan's shorn hair. Nuada had gently suggested about a mile outside the village that it might be best if he glamoured Dylan's face so it appeared normal—for A'du and 'Sa'ti's sake. Dylan had been forced to agree, but the glamour sat strangely against her skin. She didn't like hiding the slashes; it felt counterintuitive to the way she'd handled the assault that had scarred her in the first place.
Fae children spotted the party first and a young dullahan child—Dylan recognized Amaryllis, the acting-steward's daughter and A'du's friend—raced off toward the tavern, hands clasping her head to her neck to keep it from falling off, crying, "The prince is here! The prince is here!" Her wight-colt galloped after, a coal-black shadow racing across the snow. Where he passed, the village lanterns still intact burst to life with eerie green flame like St. Elmo's fire.
Dylan had to fight the instinctive urge to duck when people spilled out of the tavern and surrounding buildings. Instead she scanned the people assembling in the road, looking for her sisters. A high-pitched shriek an electrocuted cat would envy jerked Dylan's attention to a ruckus in the midst of the crowd. A woman with dark hair shoved between a leprechaun and a shaggy-haired wolf fae, ignoring snarls and gasps of surprise. The snarls quieted when a massive, incredibly muscled man covered in dark green scales glared at the wolf. When the dark-haired woman made it to the forefront of the crowd, Dylan smiled. She should've known that shriek.
"Hi, Cesca."
"You're alive! Get down here!" Francesca yelled. Murmurs swept through the crowd as Nuada dismounted and then, once Maeve knelt in the snow, helped Dylan off the arion mare's back. "You scared me to death! If I wasn't so glad to see you, I'd totally k-word you right now!"
Dylan laughed a little as her sister hugged her. Despite the impressive volume and obvious outrage, Francesca hugged Dylan carefully, as if fully aware how badly hurt she was. Dylan laid her cheek on Cesca's shoulder, closed her eyes, and let herself just stand there while Nuada spoke with Acting-Steward Gawain. But something nagged at her.
"K-word me? You mean 'kill' me?"
"Yeah," Cesca grumbled. "If I didn't love you so much and I wasn't so happy to see you, I'd totally un-alive you right now."
"You need to stop watching Spider-Man," Dylan said as three familiar shapes pushed through the crowd. Dylan smiled wider and held out her arms to Pauline, Mary, and Victoria. "I'm sorry I scared you guys—"
"Shut up," Mary snapped, dropping her face to Dylan's shoulder. Her fingers twisted in the back of Dylan's cloak until her hands shook. Sobs roughed her voice when she muttered, "Just shut up, you brat. We thought you were dead. Ohmigawd, I'm so glad you're okay. We thought you were dead. We thought you were dead."
Pauline actually kissed Dylan's temple and Victoria had tears running down her face. Dylan gently brushed them away before they could freeze in the winter air.
"You're safe," Pauline whispered. "We thought…oh, sweetie…"
Acting-Steward Gawain, twisting his hat between his pale hands, cleared his throat. "Your Highness…" When the prince focused his attention on the dullahan, Gawain cleared his throat again. "Your Highness, we're overjoyed for your happiness and for Her Ladyship's safe return, but…"
Nuada's voice held the first touch of killing frost. "But what, Master Gawain?"
Dylan frowned at him, at the deepening darkness around his eyes and mouth and the bronze bleeding into his golden eyes.
"Well, we were told…that is, it was said that…" The steward shot Dylan an uneasy glance. The mortal's brow furrowed. She realized suddenly that the villagers kept eyeing her with a mix of suspicion and wariness. It wasn't the resentment and hate she'd first seen when they'd arrived in Lallybroch, but it wasn't the cautious friendliness she'd begun noticing after setting to work treating the sick and wounded, either. Gawain tried again. "We are of course overjoyed by Lady Dylan's rescue from the bandit vermin, but…the people wondered, Highness, how she managed to sur—"
"I think it best if we discuss whatever is on your mind at another time," the crown prince said. Gawain's expression tightened almost imperceptibly at the whip-crack command in the Elven prince's voice. "After my lady has been seen to, and we've gotten out of this bitter cold. What say you, Master Gawain?"
Why is he hesitating to agree? Dylan wondered as Gawain finally nodded and started to disperse the crowd. What's going on here? Why are they looking at me like that?
She wanted to ask Nuada, but she couldn't risk verbal communication in front of all these people. Not when he'd clearly just sent the message that this needed to be handled in a private conversation. But every time she tried to touch his thoughts, she ran into a wall. A blockade of coldness where once had been warmth and gentleness and welcome. Was Nuada blocking her? He'd felt her die, felt her mind and self ripped out of his when her heart stopped beating. Maybe he was instinctively blocking her attempts to link with him to avoid that kind of pain again. Or maybe he was even doing it deliberately. She hadn't had a chance to talk to him about it.
But if he was, Dylan couldn't blame him. She still remembered the three times in her life where John had come close to death, where she'd felt him slipping away from her. She'd never wish something like that on her prince.
The deep baritone sound burst through the village square and a galloping shadow rocketed across the snow. Dylan glimpsed a lolling pink tongue and bright blue eyes like new stars, and braced for what was bound to be a brutally painful impact. Something milk-white raced after the shadow. Nuada drew abreast of Dylan, put his fingers to his lips, and whistled sharply. Sétanta and Eimh skidded to a halt, kicking up a spray of snow as the hound pups stumbled and fell over themselves in a heap of puppy limbs, fur, and happiness.
*Mistress!* Sétanta bounced up on his hind legs. His tail swept rapid-fire across the snow as he danced in place, tongue lolling. His bark echoed through the village square. *Oh, Mistress! We are so happy!*
*Yes!* Eimh romped around Dylan, trying to lick her hands. *We love you! We're so glad you are back! Now Master will be happy again!*
"Whoa," Petra laughed. "Calm down there, doggies. Stop wiggling so much."
*Can't calm down,* Sétanta insisted. He whuffed at Dylan and dropped down to all fours to lick her fingers. *Too happy.*
*If we stop wiggling we might go pop,* Eimh said.
Dylan laughed and rubbed the two hound pups between the ears. Their tails beat a steady percussion of canine bliss. "Oh, my good dogs. Good puppies."
*Yes,* Sétanta sighed. *We are good puppies and we love you more than everything except Mother and Father and Master.*
Eimh heaved her own sigh of doggy contentment. *We love you more than squeaky balls or meaty bones—*
*Or tug-ropes or bath time or chasing rabbits —*
*Or comfy chairs!*
Remembering just how much Eimh loved her comfy chair, Dylan grinned. "More than comfy chairs? Awww. I love you guys, too. Even more than comfy chairs."
*Mistress loves us more than comfy chairs!* Eimh's entire body wriggled with excitement. *We are good dogs!*
Still grinning, Dylan focused on her sisters."Can we go inside?" Usually standing out in the cold made her bad knee ache abominably, but now it was merely a dull throb. Still, it would be better to explain what had happened to her family away from all these prying eyes. And she wanted to tend to the cuts on her face. "It's kind of cold out here. And I really need to find—"
"Mama!"
Her attention snapped to the stone steps leading up to the tavern as A'du'la'di and 'Sa'ti tumbled over each other in their haste to reach her. The mortal tore herself from her sisters' embraces, took two short strides toward the children, and dropped to her knees as they threw themselves into her outstretched arms. Pain flared through her body, fire twisting under skin and through half-healed broken bones, and Dylan flinched, wincing against the hurt. But she didn't let go of her kids, and they didn't let go of her for a long time. As they sniffled and hugged her, all she did was whisper, "I'm here now. It's okay, I'm here. I'm here." She didn't even care about the way the dispersing villagers were whispering about her miraculous return.
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The first thing Dylan did after getting inside was go looking for Iúile ingen Barinthus and her newborn baby. She found the young Elven girl, her half-human daughter, and her gancanaugh betrothed in the room Nuada had set aside for them the night the child had been born. Iúile gasped and straightened where she lay reclining on a mound of pillows. Liam O'Neil, the gancanaugh youth, leapt to his feet.
"Milady! You've returned!" Liam cried. Iúile beamed and the baby snuffled, grunting in irritation. Nuada came in behind Dylan, a discomfited look on his face, and Liam snapped to almost military attention. "Your Highness!"
Nuada waved a hand. "As you were, Master O'Neil. This is an informal meeting. You two," he added, pointing at A'du and 'Sa'ti hovering outside the door in the corridor, "stay put and be quiet. This is adult business and Lady Dylan needs to concentrate."
Dylan smiled at the Elven girl on the bed. She found it easier to do than expected, all things considered. Nuada was a reassuring presence, leaning against the wall beside the door, and he kept her face and hair glamoured. Dylan heard the children whispering innocent things in the hall. The presence of the baby helped, too, as did seeing Iúile with some healthy color in her cheeks and her hair actually brushed, cut, and styled. When she'd found the Elven maid very pregnant, half-starved, locked in a room by her abusive father in an attempt to murder the then-unborn halfling baby she carried, Iúile had been a wreck—and no wonder. Now, though still too thin for Dylan's peace of mind, the shadows had faded from beneath her eyes and there was a sparkle of happiness in her gaze, almost a glow around her. Motherhood suited her.
"Love the haircut," Dylan said in Gaelic, coming to sit at the edge of Iúile's bed.
Iúile smiled and blushed a little. "Your sister, milady…Lady Francesca? She offered to tend it for me. I was most grateful. But you, are you well? We heard you were taken by the bandits and then rumors spread that you'd been—"
"I'll be fine," Dylan said firmly. The baby made angry little grunts and started waving tiny fists. "Oops. Somebody's awake. Hey, there." She leaned over to scan the halfling infant.
It would've been obvious to an idiot that Liam wasn't the baby's father. The infant's cream-and-peaches complexion certainly didn't come from her moon-pale mother, and neither did the wispy, coppery-gold curls poking out from under the baby blanket. The delicately pointed ears and eyes like glittering topaz spoke of Elven ancestry, but there was nothing of the gancanaugh in the child. The corpsely pallor, razor-sharp teeth, and scarlet-slitted eyes as black as a moonless night almost always showed through, even in halfling children.
The baby's biological father was dead, killed by Iúile in the aftermath of his assault. The Elven maid didn't know that she'd killed her rapist; she thought Liam had done it to protect her, but the fatal wound had been struck in Iúile's desperation. It was a secret the gancanaugh, the Elven prince, Wink, and Dylan carried, never to be shared with anyone. If anyone ever found out what Iúile and Liam had done, the king would have them put to death. And if that happened, after Nuada had given Liam and Iúile his protection…
To some it might seem ridiculous to risk civil war for two teenagers—if they'd been human, Iúile and Liam would've only been seventeen and sixteen, respectively—but Nuada would do it. Not just for them, not just because he'd sworn to protect them and his honor would demand it, but because if the king ordered them put to death, Balor would be guilty of murder. Nuada would have to depose him.
Dylan knew the moment the king executed any fae for attacking a human in self-defense, Nuada would strike. Take the crown and the throne, and break his heart in the taking. They hadn't spoken of it in great detail except right before the bandit attack that had led to Dylan's kidnapping, but she knew her prince, and she knew what duty demanded of him. Right now, honor and duty bound him in so many unfair ways but if Balor pushed him, especially after seeing the slaughtered unicorns and the devastation wrought by the bandits on the helpless villagers…Nuada wouldn't be able to let it stand. Not after this. Not after feeling her die at the bandits' hand.
She thought of Tsu's'di, who'd killed some bandits in defense of A'du'la'di and little Amaryllis ingen Gawain. Too many people knew that secret. Before her kidnapping, Dylan would've been afraid of the Butcher Guards reporting it to the king but after her retinue had allowed Nuada to ride into the forest to find what they thought would be her corpse, knowing the prince would've butchered any bandits he came across along the way, gave her a little more hope that Tsu's'di could be kept safe from the king's twisted justice.
"I wanted to see how you two were doing," the mortal healer added, giving none of her thoughts away. The baby subsided into snuffling sleepiness, peering up at everything with bleary, yellow eyes. "And you, Romeo, since you went and got yourself impaled through the shoulder by a Hunter. Have any of the healers checked on either you since I've been gone?" Iúile nodded. "And everything is all right?"
"Oh, yes, milady. With me and Liam and with…" The Elf bit her lip and shot her betrothed an uncertain glance. Liam glanced at the prince and cleared his throat. Fidgeted. Iúile finished, "With the bairn."
She nodded. "Good. Glad you guys are all right." She eyed Liam. "Nice shirt." It was. She wondered how a gancanaugh commoner had managed to get his hands on a black shirt of silk-embroidered lambs' wool.
Liam cleared his throat. "His Highness's valet gave it to me when mine was...damaged, milady."
Dylan studied the youth for a few seconds of silence, noting the palest shading of color—pale lilac, a typical gancanaugh blush—in his cheeks. She grinned. "Lemme guess—the baby peed on you when you weren't paying attention."
He scowled at his daughter. "Yes."
She swallowed a laugh. "Forgot to warn you they do that sometimes." Nuada made a choked noise. Dylan shot him an amused glance from the corner of one eye before asking Liam, "White shirt?"
"Yes."
"You poor thing. Just wait until she learns to walk. She'll be running around, yelling at the top of her lungs, getting into everything, probably naked; they do that at bathtime..." She noticed both Liam and Nuada staring at her in something akin to horror. She laughed. "Don't worry about it. You'll figure it out as you go along. That's how parenting works. So have you picked out a name yet?"
Liam fidgeted some more. "We had, milady. But…we thought perhaps we ought to ask first if…if you would mind."
Dylan blinked. Her brain suddenly felt strangely slow. "Uh…if I would mind what?"
"We thought…" Iúile murmured and then bit her lip again. Liam came to stand beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder. She smiled up at him. "We thought perhaps…no. We know for a surety that without you and His Highness, none of this would've been possible. Being free from that room, from Áthair," she didn't seem to notice the quick flash of rage in Dylan's eyes at the mention of Iúile's father, "being together after all this time…without the two of you, it couldn't have happened. And without you, milady…" Iúile's lips trembled and she cradled her daughter close.
Liam cleared his throat again. "Without you, milady, our little one wouldn't have survived. Iúile might not have, either. You saved them both. And so we thought, if you would allow us…if you would do us the honor…we thought we might name her after you."
Dylan's mouth fell open. She blinked. Stared at them. "M-me?" A small burst of warmth fizzed in her chest. Not the Spirit this time, but something else. Surprise, but happiness too. Gratitude. Dylan smiled and looked down at the baby. Look back up at Iúile and Liam. "I would be honored if you named her after me." She lightly booped the kid on the nose. "What do you think about that, peata?"
Baby Dylan sneezed.
.
Petra, Pauline, Mary, Victoria, Francesca, and John were all waiting for her when Dylan finally made it to the room that had been set aside for her when the envoy had arrived in Lallybroch almost a week ago. From the looks on their faces, Dylan knew Petra and John had told the other girls what had been done to Dylan's face. She stopped in the doorway. Nuada, who'd been walking in front of her, turned to study her face. Dylan glanced down at A'du and 'Sa'ti, who'd been tugging on her hands, leading her down the corridor. She didn't want them to see what Sréng had done to her.
"Hey," she said, kneeling down to them. Her knee twinged, but only a little. "Why don't you guys go hang out in the stables with Duskshine, Fluttershy, and Shimmer for a bit, okay? I have some grown-up stuff to talk about with my sisters."
A'du's bright gray eyes blasted wide and he shook his head so hard Dylan thought it might pop off his neck. "No way! What if somebody kidnaps you again? We've gotta protect you!"
"They might hurt you," 'Sa'ti whispered. Her fingers tangled in Dylan's shirt. "What if they…what if they hurt you and you never come back?"
Dylan ran her fingers through A'du's wild, tufty mane and smoothed back the strands of fur hanging in 'Sa'ti's face. "No one is going to kidnap me, okay? Everyone is out here," she gestured to her retinue of guards and Nuada's seething "royal babysitters," as well as Tsu's'di, Wink, Lorelei, and Erik the Elven blacksmith Nuada had brought on the trip as Wink's backup. "And the prince and my family will be with me." 'Sa'ti opened her mouth, tears gleaming in her turquoise eyes, and Dylan laid her hands on their shoulders. "Listen. I know me being gone was scary. I know. And I'm so, so sorry I scared you guys like that. If you want, you can wait out in the hall with your brother, but you might get bored."
'Sa'ti shook her head. "We won't get bored! We'll stay out here!"
A'du nodded. "Yeah. We'll be good, we promise. And we can help protect you!"
"Sure," Dylan said. She'd have to talk to Nuada about this whole "protection" thing later on. It spoke of an underlying problem—that A'du and 'Sa'ti somehow felt responsible for Dylan being kidnapped in the first place. That sort of thing could fester in a child.
Children had a habit of blaming themselves for the things that happened in the lives of the adults they cared about—divorce, severe illnesses such as cancer, traumatic injuries, even the loss of a job. Something like this, with A'du and 'Sa'ti's idea that despite their age they ought to be considered warriors? Nuada would be the best person to help combat the idea that they were at fault, but they had no time now.
So she just kissed the cubs on their foreheads and offered them a bright smile. "You guys be good for everyone. I'll be just in the other room."
Her sisters waited until the door closed before looking at Petra, who had the grace to look sheepish. "Ahem. So, I uh…I didn't want anyone to be shocked or anything when they saw…" She gestured vaguely at Dylan. "What happened. So I told them."
"We want to see," Francesca said firmly. Dylan opened her mouth to protest and her sister added, "We don't care what you look like, but…but I know you do care. So maybe we can help if we see…you know, what we've got to work with. We can figure something out. Surgery or—"
"Cesca!" Pauline cried.
"What? I mean, I don't think she needs it—clearly, since His Royal Hot-Pecs over there is stupid-goofy in love with her—but obviously she's worried about how she looks—"
"Ohmigawd, Francesca, shut up!" Mary groaned.
"Don't tell Cesca to shut up, Mary!" Victoria snapped.
"Look, I'm not trying to hurt Dylan's feelings or anything, I just want to help. John, back me up!"
John's head shot back as he tried to plaster himself to the wall. He shot Nuada a glance but Dylan knew her twin would find no help from that corner. If anything, Nuada would probably just toss everyone out so he wouldn't have to deal with the squabbling.
John focused on Francesca, then paled when he noticed his other sisters were all watching. He cleared his throat. "How much trouble would I get in if I said I was Switzerland right now?"
"Switzerland fights wars, John-boy," Dylan said. "Nice try, though. Just say you're not in this. It's okay."
"No they don't! They're always neutral! Like me. Pacifists. I'm Switzerland."
Dylan leaned back on her hands, smiling when her twin eyed her like some kind of dangerous, two-headed cobra. "War of the Second Coalition again Great Britain, French royalists, and anyone else fighting against Napoleon. Eighteen-oh-eight. Napoleonic Wars. Just off the top of my head."
"I hate you."
"Ha!" Francesca crowed. "No Switzerland for you."
"I hate you, too. And I'm not a part of this. I have no opinions. My brain is literally having no thoughts about this at all."
"Uh-huh," Cesca said, ignoring John's fake hate, "but don't you think we should support Dylan in what she wants?"
Dylan cleared her throat, focusing most of the attention back on her. Crossing her knees, she leaned forward again. "Guys? I don't care what my face looks like. All right? Okay?" After a quick round-robin glance between the sisters, they all nodded. "I just didn't want to deal with everyone freaking out. It looks worse than it is. Okay? I'll tell you what happened, and you guys can see my face, but nobody freak out. This is a totally Zen state. Got it?"
"Zen as an airbending monastery," Pauline said, raising her hand like she was swearing an oath.
"I have no idea what means," Dylan said, "but okay."
John eyed her. "Uh-huh. Are you absolutely sure we're twins?" Dylan reached up and tugged a lock of her hair hard enough to make her scalp sting. John flinched and rubbed his head. "Ow. Really? Evil wench."
Of course her family freaked out after Dylan nodded to Nuada and he reluctantly dropped the glamour shielding her lacerated, half-healed face. Francesca and Mary's eyes brimmed with tears, Victoria gasped, Pauline went pale. The only person who didn't flinch when Dylan showed her face was Petra, but the hands she clasped in her lap tightened until the knuckles turned white. John had to look away, even though he'd had the entire trip back from the mountain caves to get used to the sight. The only reaction Dylan couldn't gauge was Nuada's. If he sucked in a sharp breath, she didn't hear it over the noise her sisters made. He stood at her back so she couldn't see his face or check the color of his eyes. And because their link was cut off, she couldn't feel any emotion from him.
Then Francesca made a crack about Dylan landing a roll in a horror film. Victoria looked ready to strangle her, and Nuada's eyes were slowly melting towards crimson-tingued bronze, but Dylan only stared at Francesca for almost a full thirty seconds before a tickle started in her throat. She hiccupped, her face twitched, and then suddenly she was laughing. She giggled until her face started to hurt—this time from grinning. Cesca grinned back. She stood up, threw herself down next to Dylan on the side of Dylan's bed, and flung an arm around her shoulders.
"Yup. That's me. Last comic standing. Besides, femme fatales always get away with murder."
Dylan dropped her head onto Francesca's shoulder, still giggling. "I don't think that's a priority for me."
"Of course not. You're engaged to Homicidal McHotness over there. You could probably set fire to an orphanage and he'd still give you that look like his heart is slowly melting into pink mush. Look, he's got 'em now—the googoo eyes."
"I do not have googoo eyes," Nuada said coolly.
"Psht! Sure you do. Eyes chock full of sweet, squishy looove."
"Oh, my gosh," Dylan mumbled. "Cesca. Stop tormenting the love of my life, would you please?"
"But he makes funny faces. It's so cute."
Dylan tried. She really, really tried. But she only managed a single glance at the half-horrified, half-amused expression on her prince's face before she busted up laughing again, this time so hard she fell against Francesca. It made her bruises twinge, but she couldn't seem to stop. This was one of the reasons she loved hanging out with her sister—when her sister wasn't trying to weasel her into bed with the Man-Slut of the Week: because Francesca made her laugh. Because if she was sad, Francesca would spend as much time as needed to cheer her up once she'd had a chance to cry something out.
Nuada's expression changed when Dylan laughed. The tension eased from his features, and a soft smile tugged at his mouth. Dylan met his eyes and smiled back. Her heart did a little flip and for the first time since being taken, the world felt right. Maybe it would only be for a few minutes, maybe only for this single moment in time while her prince caressed her face with his gaze and love shone like starlight in his eyes, but that was enough. A small, happy sigh escaped her.
"Ohmigawd," John groaned, shattering the moment. He pretended to gag. "Ugh. Stop. Stop staring at each other. I'm gonna be sick, stop it."
Nuada's expression went back to his familiar scowl. "Whelp, just because I allowed you the privilege of drinking with me—"
"Wait," Dylan said. "You guys drank together? What? When did this happen?"
"A few days ago," John said before Nuada could speak. "Except for the whole...you know, thinking you were dead part, it was pretty awesome. Real bonding time. We drank, we sang, talked some smack about each other, punched each other a few times, drank some more, fell asleep on each other—"
Dylan laughed. "Seriously? How drunk were you?"
The legendary Elven warrior suddenly found the ceiling very interesting. John smiled. "He was hammered. He passed out after hugging me like, twenty times."
Nuada's gaze snapped back to his lady's twin and he bared his teeth in something too dangerous to be called a smile. "That is a filthy lie. I merely pretended to be unconscious to avoid ripping off your arms and beating you to death with them when you had the audacity to touch me. I figured it was the least I could do, since you were grieving and highly intoxicated."
"Yeah, whatever, you know we're besties now."
A thin, blond brow quirked in cool disdain. "I do not know what 'besties' are, but I assure you, you are not my 'besties.' I would rather swim through raw sewage that label myself anyone's 'besties.' What is so funny, Dylan?"
"You said 'besties,'" she wheezed. Beside her, Francesca had covered her mouth to keep from snorting. "Oh, this is better than 'emo bear.' This is better than 'evil twin goatee.' This is better than 'icky-ful' or 'cooties.'"
"I am so very glad you're amused...?"
John asked, "Why were you guys talking about cooties?"
Finally attaining some semblance of calm, Dylan said, "Never mind, John-boy."
Just then the door opened and A'du'la'di poked his head inside. A mischievous grin lit his face. "What's so funny?" Then he caught sight of Dylan and the grin slipped away. Dylan realized abruptly that her face was no longer hidden behind Nuada's glamour. She met her prince's eyes and saw the moment he realized the problem.
"A'du'la'di—" The prince began, reaching for him.
The ewah cub scampered further into the room and further out of reach. "A'ge'lv," he whispered. "A'ge'lv, what happened to your face? It's all hurt."
She had to be calm about this. She had to handle this. He needed words of wisdom just now, something kind and sensitive that would help him cope. But for the life of her, Dylan couldn't think of a single thing to say. Judging from the thinly-veiled panic on Nuada's face, neither could he.
"Pirates." Everyone frowned and turned to Mary, who sat wide-eyed on a chair looking like she'd have sold her soul to be able to sink through the floor and disappear. She cleared her throat. Ran a hand through her short-cropped hair. "Dylan had to fight some pirates?" The words came out as a question. She cleared her throat again. "It was pretty awful, but she ended up kicking their butts."
"Oh," A'du said. He considered this for a moment. "But we're not by the ocean."
"Land pirates. There was lots of...fighting. With swords and...stuff. Much buckling of swashes and swabbing decks and cut-throating."
Dylan mouthed, Cut-throating? Mary gave her a half-panicked shrug and a look of mute pleading. The younger woman sighed and got A'du'la'di's attention. "I'm okay," she said. "It doesn't hurt much anymore. And Mary's right, I totally kicked pirate butt."
A'du'la'di eyed her, plainly suspicious. "Really?"
"Yeah. I broke a bad guy's nose and kicked him in the nuts."
"Cool!"
A'du's enthusiastic praise was mirrored in Nuada's incredulous smile and the pride in his golden eyes. She realized she'd forgotten to tell him that. She'd told him how she'd caved into the pain, the fear, the despair. But not how she'd fought it until the end. How she'd fought him. Breaking his nose. Dislocating his knee. Playing dead and then stabbing him.
Dylan remembered how she'd told her prince, I do not want you to be ashamed of me, Your Highness. But now that she thought about it, now that she was calmer, steadier...she realized he had every reason to be proud of her. She had every reason to be proud of herself. She'd fought, and she'd survived, and now she was here, with her family—her love, her sisters, her twin...and her boy.
She held out her arms to A'du'la'di. "Come here for a second." He didn't protest when she gave him a squeeze and kissed his forehead. He puffed out his chest a little when she said, "You are one of my favorite ewah. And thank you for thinking I'm cool."
"You fought pirates and broke a bad guy's nose. And you kicked him in the..." He glanced at the other adults and lowered his voice a little. "You know. That is so totally cool. I'm gonna go tell 'Sa'ti!"
When he'd scurried out of the room again, Dylan slanted Mary a look. "Land-pirates?"
"Bandits are basically pirates on land."
Dylan just looked at her, trying not to laugh again.
"You know what? Shut up. Punk."
Dylan only smiled.
.
She let Francesca tend to the facial lacerations. Francesca was no healer, but she said she knew ways to reduce the scarring and the starkness of the cuts, and Dylan believed her. So after making some requests from the fae working in the tavern—herbs, hot lavender water, and soft cloths—Cesca bathed Dylan's face with a tincture of wormwood, balm of Gilead, and chamomile.
The other Myers siblings talked about everything and nothing. They made excuses to sit near Dylan, to pat her shoulder or offer a hug. But honestly, the best person besides John—John with his easy silence, his acceptance of how Dylan wanted to handle the whole ordeal, and the lack of any sort of hostility directed at Nuada, which Dylan had been afraid of—was Francesca. All Cesca talked about was the healing qualities of the infusions she was using. Dylan had known most of the uses for the herbs her sister had steeped in the water, but not these.
"This is okay?" Francesca asked. She gently brushed a soft cloth over the cuts nearest Dylan's eye. "Any pain?"
"No. That feels really nice, actually. Sort of tingly, but in a nice way. Thank you."
Her sister shrugged. "I looked into stuff like this after I found out you're practically a fairy princess. I figure eventually I might be able to do some beautician work for some of your non-human friends. You know I hate being a waitress."
Dylan smiled. The only reason Francesca bothered with waitressing was that Yvaine's diner let her swear at unruly customers or anyone who wanted to play grabby hands. "Yeah, I know."
Eventually Francesca set aside the damp cloth and tilted Dylan's chin up to study her face in the lamplight. She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing her handiwork. Finally, she smiled brightly and kissed Dylan on the nose.
"Let me do this every day, the scars won't be too bad. You'll look about the same as you did before—if that's what you want."
"Thanks, Cesca. You're awesome."
"Yes, yes, I know. Worship me in my infinite amazing-ness. I bask in your adulation."
Dylan grinned, pleased to find it didn't hurt to change expression anymore. "Shut up, you tramp."
"You say that like it's a bad thing. I'm just very comfortable with my body…and Davio's."
"Oh, dude!" John interrupted, making a face. "Tee-em-aye, thank you. I think I'll carry those psychological scars forever."
"Consider them a token of my undying love."
It was so nice to be able to laugh without having to force it even a little, Dylan thought. For a moment, with the pain in her face almost completely gone and the ache in her body dulled by the healing spells still at work knitting her back together, it was almost as if her kidnapping had never happened.
But then Francesca caught Dylan's eye, tapping very gently on Dylan's shoulder blade and raising slim, black brows in a silent question that made Dylan realize several things: Petra hadn't told her siblings everything, but Francesca knew that Dylan had been flogged. The others didn't, or why not just ask her outright? And a quick glance between her sister and her prince told Dylan who had given Cesca that information—Prince Nuada. Which meant so many things Dylan couldn't even process them all. But she understood all of this the moment she realized what Cesca wanted to know: did Dylan want her to tend her back with the same treatment she'd used on her face?
She didn't think she could show anyone her back. Not yet. It had been bad enough the few times anyone had ever seen her exposed back before her flogging, when she'd borne a multitude of scars accrued through years of carelessness and close calls. Showing Nuada her half-healed stripes had almost killed her. She couldn't do it again. But if she didn't…how bad would her back look when it healed?
Dylan opened her mouth. Closed it again. Opened it, trying to find words, but no sound emerged. If it was only Francesca in the room, then maybe she could handle it, but with John…her sisters…She didn't want them to see. She didn't want Nuada to see it again.
"I…" The words strangled in her throat. "I…uh…I…"
"Get out," the crown prince of Bethmoora commanded suddenly. "All of you…Mistress Francesca, you may remain. The rest of you, out."
Pauline's nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. Dylan opened her mouth, desperate to prevent her sister from restarting the miniature war between the Myers family and the prince, but couldn't seem to force the words out. Pauline began, "Now wait just a minute, you pointy-eared, lipstick-wearing hob—"
Francesca shocked everyone by interjecting, "Just do it, Pauline, and don't argue for once. I've got this." She waited until everyone had filed out before focusing on Dylan. "Are you breathing? Or are you about to be rendered subconscious?"
It didn't feel like it—her chest burned and her tongue felt thick and dry in her mouth—but Dylan nodded. Forced a small breath of air into her lungs. Nodded again, more firmly this time. "I'm fine," she wheezed. "I'm good. And that's 'unconscious.'"
"Close enough, Grammar Nazi. So...your back?" Francesca asked gently. Dylan nodded. Swallowed. Francesca smoothed back the frizzy locks of Dylan's hair. "Okay. And do you want me to fix your hair?"
"I doubt you can fix it."
Francesca fixed her with a haughty look. "I beg your pardon, heathen infidel? Doth mine ears deceive me? Did those words really just pop out of your mouth?" A smile tugged at Dylan's lips. Her sister folded her arms. "Child, what blasphemy are you speaking? You've insulted my pride, girly. That means pseudo-death. Probably by chicken nuggets."
"Bring it," Dylan murmured. The burning in her chest had eased enough for her to stop feeling like the walls were slowly creeping up on her.
"We can grow your hair out with magic, mo mhuire," Nuada said, startling the two mortal women. The Elven warrior had taken up his position in front of the door after everyone had left. "The fae use such tools often. I'm sure someone in the village has an enchanted comb that will make your hair grow—"
"I have one," Francesca said. She poked Dylan. "O ye of little faith. Should I get it now or later?"
She stared at Cesca. "How did you get one? Where did you get it?"
"I also happen to have a fairy Prince Charming of a boy-toy, thank you very much. Minus the actual royal blood but still. You're not the only one with a smexy, magical stud. I just happen to use mine for practical things...like carnal pleasure." She smiled slyly and winked. "Davio knows what I like."
Dylan rolled her eyes. "Nuada knows what I like, too." She paused. Smacked herself in the forehead. "That...did not come out right. At all."
"Yeah, but I knew what you meant. Speaking of carnal pleasure, though, why are his hands always all the way over there? Tsk, tsk, tsk." Francesca shook her head, then fixed the prince with a predatory stare. "You said once an Elf would outlast a nymph in the sack. What exactly is your staying power?"
Nuada raised an affronted eyebrow.
"Francesca!" Dylan yelped. "Oh, my gosh, shut up!"
"I'm just trying to look out for you," the older woman soothed. "I don't want you to end up fumbling through the best night of your life because of...of...St. Virgin-Boy over there."
The prince sputtered, but Dylan just snorted. "Oh, please. Does that look like a virgin to you?"
"I wouldn't know," Francesca said pointedly. "I haven't seen him with his shirt off. Someone didn't keep their promise—"
"Now?" Dylan demanded. "You're bringing this up now?"
"Well, I was trying to keep it innocuous—"
"How is talking about...about...my fiancé's stamina supposed to be innocuous?" Great; now her face was on fire.
"It's just a question," Francesca said with a shrug. "No need to panic. And it's a valid question because, okay, he's got stamina. He mentioned it that one time I was doing your makeup. But stamina only does so much. Okay, he can take more than a single shot at it, but you have to factor in—"
Dylan dropped her face into her hands. "I hate you..." Why wasn't Nuada telling her to shut up? Why wasn't he being all scary? Where was Prince Prissy-Pants? Granted, she hadn't glimpsed him outside of the presence of her sisters in a while, but he should've been there now. She risked a glance between her fingers and saw the most incredible thing she'd seen in a good, long while.
Nuada leaned against the wall beside the closed door, arms folded across his chest, one hand covering his mouth. But Dylan noticed the smile twitching under his palm. He was enjoying this. Well, actually, considering the insidious skank-comments she knew he often got from fae women at court, Francesca's lack of self-centered-ness and her upfrontness about what she wanted to know probably made questions like these bother him a lot less than they would otherwise.
She remembered when he'd made the claim that Elves had more sexual stamina than nymphs. Francesca had been delighted; Dylan had been mortified. But she remembered the amusement in Nuada's eyes. The masculine pride in his expression and his tone when he'd basically said he could outdo anyone physically.
He was enjoying this. The rat.
"Like I was saying, you have to factor in time. It's like swimming laps at the pool. If I go to the pool five times in one day but I only swim one lap, nobody's having any fun. Except the guys checking out my new bikini. All I get is frustration and messed up hair. Which is what you'll get if he doesn't know what he's doing, because that whole 'lie back and think of Bethmoora' thing is garbage."
"Oh geez," Dylan muttered. "I...have no words right. Can we talk about this later?"
"Why? He doesn't mind. Do you mind, Your Princely-ness?" Francesca offered Nuada a beaming smile, oblivious to the slightly scandalized expression on his face. Cesca flicked a hand at him. "You know I love you both. I just want my favorite baby sister to be happy. Also I'm a very nosy person."
"I would never have guessed," Nuada muttered, half-rolling his eyes.
Opting to use the top of Dylan's head as an arm-rest, Francesca asked, "So, hair—now or later?"
"How about later? I need to deal with my back now anyway. Clean the wounds and all that. It's been most of the day."
Francesca pressed her lips together. "Oookay. Icky. But I can help with that because I'm the super-duper chill one in the family and this will win me brownie points to use while ferreting out the secrets of your practically non-existent sex life, which is awesome because I'm secretly a lonely old cat lady in a hot chick's body and I'm bored with my life. So, what do you need for your back?"
.
.
"Well, it seems our girl has gotten herself into a giant spot of bother, hasn't she?"
Becan Brownie eyed the snake-liked striped thing as it padded along on two impossibly small feet, circling Dylan's bed. Occasionally it peeked under the bed-skirt or knocked on a post to the beat of an elaborate "shave and a haircut." The burgundy, football-headed creature with the pointy feet and rabbit ears watched its skinny, black-and-white companion and kept munching clawfuls of spoiled, moldy cheese—the bait Becan's mistress had set aside to tempt the creatures out from…wherever they'd come from.
"What are you doing?" Becan demanded as the striped thing kept peeking and knocking.
Freakishly full lips as red as blood curved into a smile that revealed elegant, yellowed fangs. "You see, old chum—and I do mean chum; you'd be delicious if we chopped you up, sautéed you in some garlic butter and sewage, and sprinkled you with dried slug powder—"
"Stop," the rabbit-thing cried in a nasally voice. Becan was fairly certain it was male. "No more! You're making me hungry."
"I'm sorry, darling. I was expecting something more along the lines of dinner and a show, not a rescue attempt. We've got to get to Faerie. And the only way to do that is to get a hold of…oh! There you are! Took you long enough, you delinquent."
The delinquent in question was a pair of hands the color of robin's eggs that flashed out from beneath the bed-skirt. The talons dug into the hardwood floor, gouging chunks of polished rowan. The stick-snake creature lifted the dark blue fabric to show a pair of denim-clad arms and the boiling darkness under the bed. Toxic-yellow talons, something dark that the brownie couldn't identify staining the nail-beds, pierced deeper.
Blood rushed into Becan's face. "My floor!"
A raspy, delighted chuckle echoed from under the bed as the shadows heaved and shifted. The denim-clad arms flexed, pulling something from inside the darkness. Becan glimpsed a jagged gray horn sharp enough to gut a man. Bone-white teeth ending in razor points flashed in a bright grin.
Darkness pulsed, heaved, and spat out a rolling ball-blur in various shades of blue. The blur leapt to its feet as Becan flailed backward, landing on his butt.
"Ta-da! Where's the birthday girl? I know I'm a bit late but she doesn't mind, do ya, Doctor Doom? Get it, Doctor Doom? Doctor D? D for Doom? Yeah, I'm a riot, I'm…wait a minute…"
The brownie stared, starting from the combat boots barely held together by rubber bands and duct-tape and moving up the patched-but-still-holey blue jeans to the studded biker jacket and finally the face of a young man who might have possibly been dreaming of his fifteenth birthday. Except the young man was the blue of robin eggs, splotched with navy and mold-blue warts and liver spots…and a pair of slate-blue horns jutted from his temples like a rabid zombie sheep. He had a three-inch hangman dummy hanging from his left ear; an ear with a pointed tip that folded down like a dog's. His hair stuck up in a shock of powder-blue fake Mohawk. His dark blue lips framed very sharp, white teeth.
He cleared his throat and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Uh…not who I was expecting. Obviously. Is this a party? Where's the Doc?"
"Maurice, darling," the stick-thing said. "Dylan's gotten herself into some trouble and we know how good you are at navigating through the underland without getting caught, so we thought you could get us through to Bethmoora. That's where her…house morsel says she is. In some village called Lallybroch. Have you ever scared anyone there?"
Maurice scratched his left horn. "Lallybroch…uh…I think that's where my girl Amaryllis lives. Haha! The snake trick works on her every time, you could put in some on-the-clock time while you're there, Lina."
The stick-snake-thing—Lina?—folded her toothpick-thin arms. "I'm retired, you ruffian. And so is my darling Icky. Now be a good little monster and open us a portal to the underland, would you? I think the little chum-bucket is anxious to get to our girl. So am I. There might be food wherever she is."
Rolling back the sleeves of his jean jacket, Maurice cracked his knuckles, then his neck. "I thought you said she was in trouble."
"She is. Maybe I'll get a chance to take a few bites out of that trouble. Do you know what it's called when you take a bite out of something and it dies?"
"Poisonous?" Maurice hazarded.
Lina's "darling Icky" slurped up the last crumbs of cheese and burped. A ripe stench seared Becan's nostrils. "Nope. That's if you bite it and you die."
"Venomous?" Becan asked, wondering a bit dazedly just what sort of people his mistress had associated with in her youth before the brownie had come to care for her and her cottage.
"That's if it bites you and you die," Icky said. "If you take a bite out of something and it dies, that's called 'badass.' That's Oblina's middle name."
Lina giggled and flapped a hand at the demon-rabbit creature. "Oh, Ickis, you charmer you. All right, let's go. Do try to keep up, little pastry-pip. Wouldn't want anything to eat you before we get to Lallybroch, would we? Maurice, if you'd get the door."
Maurice grinned, flashing those sharp teeth, and lifted his hands like a teacher telling his class to stand up. The massive four-poster bed rattled, shuddered, and slowly lifted into the air. Instead of dust-bunnies or cat fur, instead of a polished wooden floor that could make a brownie's heart swell with pride in a job well done and a house well-cleaned, a pit gaped wide and black and fathomless. Maurice sat with his legs dangling over the edge, kicking his feet. He winked at Becan.
"Catch ya later!" The horned youth pushed off the floor, throwing himself over the open space. He flung out his arms and plummeted into the pit with a whoop of exhilaration, yelling, "Cannonball!"
Icky—if that was his name—hopped into the pit. Oblina slithered to the edge, smirked at Becan with those bizarre lips, and slipped over the edge as elegant and smooth as a satin ribbon. Heart thudding in his throat hard enough to choke him, one hand on the tiny dirk he carried everywhere after his mistress had been attacked in her own home, Becan followed them into the pit.
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