Author's Note: hey, everybody. So here's chapter 121, with the moment you've all been waiting for…maybe. Muahahaha. But don't worry, I love you all, so I won't be too mean about this whole Zhenjin/Dylan situation. Hope you guys enjoy and I will try to get chapter 122 up in time for the winter solstice (that's Dec 21 for me) but I may not be able to because I'm having hand surgery today on my dominant hand, and I've been diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome (who didn't see that coming?), so when I've been writing recently, I've had to do it wearing wrist braces. Blegh. So I'll do my best but I'm not sure if I can get the Christmas/Yule/Midwinter/Whatever chap up on time. I'll definitely have an update by Jan 1, though.
Last Time on Once Upon a Time: Francesca gives Dylan some good advice about trusting Nuada and Zhenjin to handle the tense, complicated bargain with Shaohao like grownups. Dylan realizes she has the ability to fall in love with Zhenjin if she isn't careful. While Francesca invites Zhenjin to get drunk with her and her boyfriend Davio, Dylan talks to Nuada and Nuada reveals to Dylan that he saw a vision of their hoped-for future life and family while he believed she was dead. Balor and the chamberlain discuss Balor's impending journey to the village of Lallybroch to pass judgment on Nuada, whom Nuala has said has fallen into mad despair upon the "death" of Dylan (for some reason Nuala hasn't received any impressions from her twin after Nuada's breakdown a few chapters ago). The chapter ended with Nuada sending Zhenjin upstairs to initiate the first of the three mandatory romantic encounters for the bargain with Shaohao, at Dylan's request.
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Chapter One-Hundred-Twenty-One
Been a Good Friend of Mine
that is
A Short Tale of Spies in the Woods, a Murderous Maiden, an Angry and Baffled Prince, a Knock at the Front Door, Awkwardness, Channeling Francesca, What Shaohao Did, the Bandit Scout and His Captain, a Mother's Suspicions, Francesca Does What Francesca Does Best, Dylan's Offer, a Faerie Lie, the Boy with Murder in His Blood, and Common Purpose
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Armored horses clanked and clattered as led a procession of soldiers, servants, and guards down one of the two the enchanted roads that led through the Royal Forest of Bethmoora. Astride a massive warhorse whose silver-gray hide glittered as if with frost, King Balor slumped in his saddle, weary to his bones. Time was different on the magical road. A few short hours could bring a small army from Findias to anywhere in Bethmoora…and there was little enough time to reach the village of Broch Toruch.
Thoughts of Nuada, of what he could possibly be planning—the possibilities ranged from suicide to slaughter, and blood plagued the king's mind—kept Balor on the move despite how the cold settled into his bones and his left shoulder ached with the weight of his wood-and-silver arm. As the company rode on, Balor prayed to any gods or God that might hear him and take pity.
Please…do not take my son from me. I feared this day would come one day but please, do not let it be this day. Not yet. Not my boy. Please.
Despite the watchfulness of the Butcher Guards, army scouts, and those assembled who'd sworn to protect the king, the company remained oblivious to five sets of eyes watching them from high up in the trees. A half-human youth hefted the barely conscious fae maiden he carried and watched the horses clank on.
"Awful noisy lot, aren't they?"
The half-mortal eyed the half-gancanaugh, half-epimeliad girl he considered his second. Nodded with a roll of his eyes. "Clank, clank, clank," he whispered, voice barely a breath of sound. "They'll call every human within twenty leagues, they will. Fools."
A faint moan from the fae maiden in his arms. A tree nymph, sick and weak, pale as death. He shifted his grip on her again.
"Come on," he commanded the half-gancanaugh and his other two followers. "If we want this 'un to last, we'll have to find shelter. We can hide out for a wee bit in Lallybroch. With your help, Sorcha, we'll be there a'fore midnight. Well ahead of this lot."
"Someone ought to put the wretch out of our misery," Sorcha muttered.
Behind them, a golden-skinned youth unsheathed amber tiger-claws and grinned. Toxic yellow goat eyes glittered with anticipation. "I could do it," he said. "I volunteer! Slit his gizzard."
The half-mortal rolled his eyes. "What is it with you and slittin' folks' gizzards? You need a hobby. Have you tried knittin'?"
"I could stab him with a knitting needle," the tiger-goat boy offered.
"I'll be thankin' ye to keep your murderous knittin' needles away from folks, Mabri."
"We should start him gardening," Sorcha told her captain.
"He'd kill all the plants."
"You take the fun out of everything, McBás," the clawed boy grumbled.
The youth the goat-tiger boy called McBás jerked his chin down the road. "We'd best be goin', a'fore it gets too blasted cold and we lose this 'un."
Both the young goat-tiger boy and the oddly silent girl with him followed their captain's orders. Sorcha cast a disdainful glance down at the king amidst his fancy, prancing soldiers. Bared teeth like needles and glared with almost reptilian eyes the green of poisoned apples. That disgusting piece of filth. If she hadn't promised her captain she'd behave, she'd have killed Balor herself. Set the forest after him or died trying. It was the least the monster deserved.
The only reason she didn't attack was that Sorcha Mílo kept her promises. Balor would live…for now. But give her a chance and she would end the man responsible for so much pain and suffering.
For now, she followed the others as they made their way through the trees toward Lallybroch.
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Nuada idly studied the foaming contents of his beer mug and tried desperately not to think about what was happening in his lady's chambers at that moment. It would do no one any good to dwell on Zhenjin upstairs in Dylan's bedchamber, or on Zhenjin at all. No doubt at this very moment he had Dylan in his arms. Had she changed out of that low-backed tunic? Would Zhenjin remember to have a care with her still-healing wounds?
Would he be gentle with her? Dylan needed gentleness.
Zhenjin was a gentler man than Nuada. Would that cause Dylan to turn from the Bethmooran heir?
They'd been up there together for more than an hour. How far had things gone?
I need to stop tormenting myself, the Tuathan prince snarled silently. His mug thumped against the wooden table. He glared out the window of his private room at the snow falling soft and thick beyond the glass. The black hound pup Sétanta was his only companion at the moment, and Sétanta lounged on the floor, belly up, tongue out, asleep.
The prince had things to do. He knew that. Granted, most of the people he needed to do them with were either preoccupied—there was absolutely no chance of getting a coherent report out of Wink at the moment, who was upstairs dining with the rhinemaiden Lorelei—or they were all asleep—as people tended to be at nearly midnight. Which was why he was more than a little surprised when Acting-Steward Gawain knocked on the door to the tavern room. When Nuada bade him enter, the dullahan pressed a hand to his severed head to keep it on his neck and bowed low to the prince.
"Your Highness, I mean to retire for the night. Is there aught else you would have of me?"
Nuada almost said no. It was late, and the dullahan obviously wished for his bed, lonely thought it likely was with his wife so newly murdered by human bandits. The prince could sympathize. Only hefty doses of alcohol had allowed him to sleep at all while Dylan was…gone.
But a niggling thought caught the Elf's attention and he suddenly remembered something he'd been meaning to do.
"Where is the boy your predecessor mentioned in his letters? The one who gathered up the refugee children and brought them to Lallybroch. Liam, wasn't it?"
Gawain shifted uneasily. "Uilliam O'Chláir, yes. He…isn't here at the moment, Sire."
It took too many seconds for the words to process in the prince's brain. Nuada blinked. Stared at the Acting-Steward. "What?"
"He left less than a sennight past, Your Highness."
The first bloom of anger smoldered in the pit of Nuada's belly as he slowly rose to his feet. Glacial topaz eyes rooted Gawain in place. Anyone who knew aught of the legendary Silverlance would've recognized the warning signs—the ice in his gaze and the menacing timbre of his voice when he growled, "You let a young man, barely into his fourteenth century —practically a child—leave the safety of the village to journey through bandit-infested woods? Are you mad?"
Sétanta, startled out of sleep, scrambled up from the floor, hackles raised, ready for trouble. A sharp hand motion from his master settled him. The pup still asked, using private mind-touch between himself and the prince, *Should I bite him, Master? My teeth are sharp and pointy. It will hurt. He has angered you and lost a faerie-puppy. Perhaps he is stupid. I can bite him.*
Gawain, oblivious to Sétanta's offer—and how tempted Nuada was to take him up on it—nearly tumbled to the floor in his haste to drop to one knee before the furious prince. His head nearly slipped from his shoulders, but he managed to catch it in time.
"Forgive me, Highness. We forbade the boy from leaving, truly, and he seemed to accept our decision. But the night after he requested to be gone and we denied him, when we woke he and three of his cohort had vanished with a note saying they were needed elsewhere, and to look for their coming in a few days' time!"
Only iron self-control reinforced by centuries of training kept Nuada from throwing his mug against the wall. He needed to speak to the boy. The only person who could give him anything close to an accurate report of what the bandits had done beyond Lallybroch was Uilliam O'Chláir. And somehow he'd managed to walk out of the village with three other children in the middle of the night? Where were the village watchmen? The adults in charge of minding the disenfranchised young ones stuck here at the tavern?
A note saying they were needed elsewhere, Gawain had said. Needed where? Another village under attack? More young refugees in need of protection? How had the boy even known such a thing? Or was it simply that he'd been afraid others were out there, in need of aid?
The prince ignored the odd pain pricking like a needle behind his breastbone. He could sympathize with the desire—nay, the need—to aid his people, the sense that one needed to be out and doing things, fighting enemies and righting wrongs and protecting the innocent, but how could Gawain and the other adults have been so careless?
From beyond the swirling, wailing wind and snow outside, beyond the crackle of the hearth fire and Gawain's nervous breathing, a hollow knocking echoed from the tavern door down the hall. Sétanta's ears pricked forward and he took a step toward the corridor. Silver-blond brows drew sharply together and the prince moved around the table and headed for the door. His hand settled instinctively on the hilt of his sword; a faster draw than going for his lance, and better for close combat if an enemy tried to force through the front door of the tavern.
Nuada motioned the glaistig warrior-woman acting as door-warden away from the slab of rough-hewn oak. If it was a bandit—mad enough to simply knock and expect entry—better Nuada incur any punishment from the king for potentially killing a human. He reached for the latch. Lifted it. Flung the door open as his sword slid from its sheath with a menacing whisper.
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Dylan forced herself to keep still as Zhenjin, whose eyes remained riveted on the floor, stepped into her bedroom and shut the door quietly behind him. His gaze drifted over the polished wood and soft carpets to fix on a spot near the window. Dylan had to wonder if she was even in his field of vision. A small spark of irritation mixed with a dash of sympathy fizzed in her stomach. She understood this was excruciatingly awkward…but he was being dumb and making it worse.
"Zhenjin?" Maybe they could just clear the air, break the tension. They were friends. Good friends. This didn't have to be agony. If they could both just relax, it might even be—kind of—fun. As long as the ghost of Prince Nuada didn't prod any of them with a spectral Silverlance.
"Good evening, milady," he murmured.
She huffed a short, sharp sigh. "Don't do that." His eyes jerked toward her, surprised. Confusion creased his brow. "Don't call me that. Not right now. There's no reason this has to be bizarre or…hinky."
A black brow winged upward. "Hinky?" He almost smiled. "These human words are so…interesting."
"Hinky. You know…" She shrugged. "Weird. Underhanded. We're not doing anything wrong. We're not. You're not."
He didn't speak for a long moment. At last he only asked, "Am I not?"
"Well," she grumbled, "right now you're getting on my nerves, if that's the kind of thing you mean." She rubbed her hands over her arms to ward off the chill in the room creeping through the shuttered window, and suddenly Zhenjin was beside her, moving with impossible Elven speed. Dylan yelped, but relaxed when the Dilong prince shrugged out of his dark jade beizi—a voluminous, jatai silk coat—and draped it around her. Wonderful heat enveloped her in a golden cloud. "Thanks," Dylan murmured. She had to force herself to keep her gaze on his face. "But if you don't relax I still might lose my temper—"
"You have a temper?" He teased. "The woman who threatened to beat my brother to death with a stewpot? I had no notion."
"Keep that in mind," she warned him jokingly. His chest felt like a brick slab when she poked him with her finger. "Tick me off and I'll make paste out of you."
White teeth flashed in a lightning-quick grin, there and gone, but she still heard the humor in his voice when he drawled, "Oh, please. Don't. Mercy, I beg of you, O Jewel Among Mortals. I cannot withstand such agony. Please, not paste. The horror."
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Are you mocking me?"
"Would I do such a thing?"
"Yes."
He shrugged. "Well, then."
She laughed, and something tense and brittle inside her relaxed and smoothed away. This was Zhenjin. Her friend who always made her laugh. They would be okay.
But then the humor faded from his expression and he turned away from her, withdrew. Retreated from her as if…if he were running away, almost. Maybe Francesca had been wrong. Maybe he wasn't willing to risk shattering his heart just for a few stolen moments with her.
Zhenjin sank onto the wide window seat in one easy motion. He moved with the same unconscious, otherworldly grace Nuada did. Elven grace. But Dylan wasn't supposed to be thinking about her prince right now. Her fiancé. Her truelove. She had to pretend there was no Nuada. No love burning in her heart like a star. No prince like the one who was no doubt fretting himself half to death downstairs over what was happening right now.
Which would be exactly nothing, Dylan thought sourly. What would Francesca do? Not that she would necessarily have the guts or the insanity to follow through on whatever choice of action her half-crazy, Master-of-Seduction sister might've decided on, but it would give her a place to start.
Francesca would try to make him feel comfortable, she thought, studying her friend on the seat. The faintest moonlight spilled through the shutters. She'd snuffed out the candles, leaving only the fire on the hearth, in the hopes it would help set the mood—ick—and keep things from being even more awkward by being able to see each other looking awkwardly around like a pair of twelve-year-olds on a blind date. Dylan tilted her head as her gaze took in the way the pearly glow turned the traces of emerald scales on the edges of Zhenjin's eye sockets, along his temples and jaw, and down his neck to tiny silver coins. The reptilian eyes almost seemed to glow like serpentine stars in the shadows. How do I do that? I tried being funny…He didn't go for it. So how…?
Nuada came into her thoughts again, but this time for a purpose. When Nuada had been startled out of a horrible nightmare once upon a winter's night in Dylan's cottage, he'd lashed out with his twin-knife and in an eye-blink, the blade had been pressed to Dylan's throat. She still bore a tiny, white scar where he'd drawn the smallest trickle of blood. Afterward, she'd tried to comfort Nuada. Get him to relax. And she'd done it by making him touch her, by showing him nothing terrible or drastic would happen if he did.
Zhenjin was a dragon Elf. He was probably warm. Warmer than the silk coat he'd draped around her shoulders. Dylan thought of what she'd done with Nuada, what Francesca would've done in this situation, and the fact that the window seat was big enough for two…and made her decision. She shrugged out of the beizi and hung it from the bedpost.
The movement caught Zhenjin's attention and the dragon Elf frowned. Shifted as if he meant to get off the wide, padded seat. "Dylan?"
"I am really cold," she said as she settled on the seat beside him. He tensed until she thought he might snap in half like an over-wound bowstring the moment her hip touched him. Pretending she hadn't noticed, Dylan snuggled against the Elf. She swore she heard Zhenjin swallow. All or nothing, she told herself, and pulled Zhenjin's arm around her shoulders so that he—sort of—held her against him.
He didn't fight her. After several excruciating seconds where the blood roared in Dylan's ears and her heart thudded against her ribs hard enough to bruise, his arm curled carefully around her. His hand lay on her shoulder. She'd been right; he was deliciously warm. A few more seconds, and she decided to lay her head on his shoulder.
The prince cleared his throat. "You are warmer now?"
Her shrug probably seemed too casual but his nerves had coaxed her own back to life and now jitters trembled up her arms.
"A little," she said. What should she do with her hands? She couldn't decide. Finally she clasped them in her lap like a schoolgirl, although it made her feel like an idiot. After what felt like an eternity, his cheek touched her hair. He took a deep breath that seemed to fill him to his toes. Dylan realized he was breathing in her scent.
They sat that way for what felt like hours. Dylan had a vicious, nagging suspicion it was probably only a few minutes, though. She'd never been this close to Zhenjin before. At least not when imminent death and faerie mayhem didn't loom on the horizon, ready to squash her into people-pulp. The smell of cedar smoke and patchouli washed over her. She'd always liked patchouli.
She wasn't sure if that made Zhenjin more physically appealing or if it just made everything weirder.
Clouds must have covered what little bit of the moon had been shining down on them, because the room was plunged into almost complete blackness. Only the dim, amber-fire glow of the hearth gave any light. Instinctively, she pressed closer to him. She'd never liked the dark.
"Dylan." His voice came low and soft in the shadows. She went still. "What would you have me do here, my lady? I would not disgrace myself. Nor would I harm or trouble you. Whatever it is you wish of me, I will do it."
Words danced on the tip of her tongue, a confused jumble. Go away. Please don't put up walls between us. Kiss me so we can get it over with. Give me a hug so I know we're still friends. Kick your brother in the face. She swallowed them all. She needed to think. She needed to make sure this would be okay. That he was all right with this.
She needed to be sure that he wasn't so busy dancing around her feelings that she hurt his.
"Be honest with me," she said. She sensed more than saw his puzzlement. "No holding back. You don't need to hide your feelings about this from me, Zhen…" She bit off the last syllable of his name and the tension in his body ratcheted tighter. Zhen. His sister, Ming Xian, called him that. Zhen. It was less formal than Zhenjin. Something she could give him, to make this easier, better. Maybe. "Don't hide yourself from me, Zhen."
"Dylan," he said. The way he said her name, it seemed to breathe into the darkness like smoke and embers. Warm. Rich. Like a whisper of fire. He sighed. "You do nothing by halves, do you? Honesty is perhaps the one thing most dangerous to offer you."
Which wouldn't have made any sense to her if not for the fact that she'd spent nearly her entire life around the Kindly Ones. She knew very well what a potent weapon the truth could be. It had nearly gotten her killed a dozen or more times and saved her life just as often. The same with Nuada. So she understood very well what she was asking, and Zhenjin knew it.
Dylan shifted to look up at him, even though she could barely make out the edges of his features limned by firelight. Maybe she could…But maybe he would be angry. The last time she'd tried to touch him, just brush back his hair from his eyes, it had upset him. But now they were supposed to…
Her fingertips grazed the edge of his jaw. Zhenjin's teeth snapped together with a sharp click. This time Dylan was sure she heard him swallow hard.
"You can tell me anything," she said. "Just like I can tell you anything. Isn't that what you said before?" She traced a scar, thin and ridged, that sliced down over his jaw. Wondered where it came from. "What are you thinking right now?"
"I…am thinking…" He sighed. Shifted backward. "It doesn't matter."
"Zhenjin. Come on. Tell me."
"No," he muttered. "Do not press me. It shames me."
At that, she turned his face toward her. She had no idea if he could see in the dark; she certainly couldn't. But there was a faint, viridian luminosity in the general vicinity where the prince's eyes should've been. She focused on that.
"Listen. There is nothing wrong or shameful about being attracted to me, okay? Physical attraction is natural. It's part of being in love. I mean, it's not like your mind has become one of those degrading, XXX-rated porn flicks, right?"
"I do not know what that means."
"Oh." Duh. Her face went hot. "Right. You don't watch television."
Zhenjin sounded positively scandalized when he replied, "That metal box with the talking pictures with all the slaughter and fornication and profanity? Of course not. You don't poison your mind with that trash, do you?"
She shrugged. "Not so much, though I am a fan of this show called Numbers. It's pretty PG, nothing graphic or terrible. It's about solving crimes using applied advanced mathematics."
Silence. And then, "That…sounds absolutely…riveting, I'm sure."
"Don't spare my feelings, Zhen," she said, grinning. "Go ahead. Tell me how you really feel."
"That sounds like the sort of thing Shao would enjoy," he said after a moment. "Or my aunt Yin-Mei. They both love mathematics. I despise it, for the most part. Useful for tactics and strategy, but beyond that, I have no need for it. As for…XXX-rated…porn flicks, was it? I do not know what a 'porn flicks' is, but if it debases you, I would imagine it's nothing like what I sometimes…I swear to you," he said, shifting. Warmth breathed against her cheek just before Zhenjin's palm pressed to her skin. His touch was too much like Nuada's, roughened velvet, the hand of a warrior and a soldier. "I swear, liàn rén, I have never wanted anything more for myself than I have wanted your happiness. I would never degrade you. I—"
"No, I know," she said. "That was my point…Okay. Hold up. Time out." She made the time-out motion with her hands. Be Francesca, she told herself. What would Francesca do? She'd take charge. Grab the bull by the horns. Yank on the tiger's tail. Punch an alligator. Dylan considered that for a moment. Francesca had actually wrestled an alligator before—once and only once, claiming it was too dangerous even for her—so that wasn't actually too far off. Be Francesca. Channel Francesca. Francesca when she's sober, she added belatedly, not I'm-gonna-dance-on-the-bar-because-I'm-wasted Francesca. "Okay, listen up. Stop doing that. Stop assuming that I think this is your fault, that I'm mad at you, or I suspect you of nefarious evil things. You have Nuada's memories, you should know it drives me crazy when he does it. It's just as irritating when you do it."
Zhenjin made a noise as if he meant to protest and Dylan waved her hands and made a shooshing-sound. "Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Listen. I know what kind of person you are. Okay? You have shown me again and again and again how amazing you are. I know you're not trying to be a jerk. Okay? So stop apologizing. Seriously. You're making me feel bad because it feels like I'm making you feel bad. Am I?"
"Of course not. You have done no wrong."
"Okay, then." She folded her arms, wondering absently why she still felt more than a teensy bit irritated. Probably just the whole situation. She felt guilty, and unsure, and worried about whether this would hurt Zhenjin. Even though she kept dealing with the emotions logically, they didn't fade at all. They'd only gotten worse when she sat next to Zhenjin. And he was so tense, so unsure of himself, which was so different for him. He'd always been so confident, and now she'd gotten under his skin in the worst possible way and…
Wait a minute. Dylan blinked. Followed her train of thought. That hadn't sounded like her. Not really. It had sounded more like Zhenjin himself, only couched in human terms. The last time she'd had weird thoughts running through her head, ideas that weren't hers exactly, had been when the empathic bond between herself and Nuada had first formed. The magical bond that had somehow broken several days ago.
Give yourself a chance to fall in love with my brother…
Before her near-death experience, she'd have known exactly how Nuada felt and exactly what he was doing downstairs. Now there was an empty space where his consciousness had once been. But on the other side, in a place she'd never even noticed before, Dylan suddenly realized where the strange thoughts and at least half of the guilt and uncertainty came from.
She was feeling Zhenjin.
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Sréng mac Umhor shifted on his horse and glanced behind him. Lifted an eyebrow in delighted surprise. Impressive—both the human girl and the Elven youth he'd had brought to his tent were still alive. Good. They wouldn't scream like banshees and bring out the Silverlance if they were dead when the bandits arrived in Lallybroch again.
The bandit captain cast an eye toward the moon and a few stars just peeping out from behind the thick clouds waiting to dump snow on them all. It was late—perhaps an hour ere mid-of-the-night. Only fools and powerful fae traveled through the forests so late on a winter's night; even just at sunset was dangerous enough, as they'd learned during the raid on Lallybroch. Far too easy to get lost or freeze to death on a wintry night when the cold crept in to gnaw your bones. Already they'd lost one of his men, a moron who'd nodded off astride his horse. They'd only realized he was dead when one of his comrades noticed the frost glittering on his lashes and in his hair. But the incongruity of their night-jaunt was what gave Sréng's men their advantage. It would get them to Lallybroch just in time, according to his scouts.
He signaled to one of the youngsters trotting along on the edges of his group. The centuries-old youth, a half-fae whelp with enough mortal in him that Sréng could ignore his mixed blood, spurred his mount over to the bandit captain.
"You're certain you saw the king, my lad?" Sréng asked softly. "A few hours' ride from that wretched village?"
"Aye, sir. That I did."
A cold, cruel smile curved the immortal human's mouth. "Splendid. We'll plan our attack then. Let's see that bitch and her horde of demon-whelps try to fight us with old One-Arm watching. He'll execute them all in a trice."
His young scout cleared his throat. "Beggin' your pardon, Captain, but…weren't ya wantin' the bint for yourself?"
Sréng didn't bother holding in his laughter. They were far enough away from any fae settlements, and the sheer anticipation coursing hot through his veins brought a surge of impossible joy bursting through him. He couldn't help but laugh.
"Aye," he chuckled. "Balor won't be able to get his hands on the prince's whore. The silver devil will see to that. After what we did to him…he'll slaughter the king like a pig for butchering before he allows old One-Arm to lay hands on his precious slut. We did it," Sréng added, voice ripe with dark pleasure. "For a few minutes. Gave the wretch a taste of what it would be like to live without her. Even if it was only for a time…he knew true agony. And we'll do it again."
King Balor would be in Lallybroch before dawn. And it would be in the hour of false dawn, the hour of the wolf, when the sky was dull and dead and blanketed by bone-gray clouds, when the winter wind howled and screamed lamentations, that Sréng would launch another attack on the village of Broch Toruch, called Lallybroch.
If they were very, very lucky, he'd even be able to get his hands on the king. Luckier still, and he'd have Silverlance and his lady, too. Silverlance would suffer…and so would the whore who'd nearly managed to kill Sréng mac Umhor and thwart his vengeance. He'd never forget the day Silverlance and his sister and his wretched troll had butchered Sréng's family, but that was nothing compared to that woman's monumental betrayal of their entire race. He'd intended to kill her in front of his old enemy but now he was almost certain he'd kill her last, after he'd slaughtered everyone and everything she loved.
"Dismissed," Sréng added.
The scout turned and trotted back to his spot among his comrades as Lieutenant Oonagh—one of the few women who fought among the bandits—spurred her horse toward Sréng. Oonagh was a fierce, hawk-faced woman in her mid-twenties. The same cold light burning in Sréng's single functioning eye shone in hers. A scar, almost identical to the one that had taken half of Sréng's sight, cut down over her face; it represented her proudest moment, when she'd been accepted into the bandit troop by her captain.
"Oonagh," Sréng murmured, nodding to her. He graced her with a small smile. "Any word on our traitor?"
She made a face, thin lips twisting into a sneer. Icy anger frosted her hazel green eyes. "Not yet, but I've not given up, Captain. When I find him, if we're right, he'll be dealt with. I won't go easy on the brat."
He nodded approvingly. "I've given word to the men that he's to be captured and brought to you for questioning."
"Thank you, Captain. I'm sorry he's brought shame to you."
A lazy shrug. "He wouldn't be the first I've allowed close to my heart who turned out to be a treasonous little wretch. Your sister, for example."
Oonagh canted her head. "She was a fool, Captain. But I swear to you, if we find Uilliam and he refuses to return to us, if he is truly the traitor you think him, then he will be punished. I'll wield the lash and the blade myself, as I did to his father."
"I know how difficult that was for you," Sréng replied softly. "You trusted the Moor-fae from Chláir; a mistake on your part. But you've learned from it since. I trust you when you say you'll deal with Uilliam appropriately…if he is a traitor as I believe? Why do you say 'if?'"
"I suspect him of playing spy for us, Captain. I find it hard to believe he would betray me of all people."
"You did kill his father," Sréng reminded her.
She bit her lip. Her long, gloved fingers tightened on the reins of her horse and she tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. "Aye, so I did. But anyone knows that if it comes down to the wire, a child will choose their mother over their father."
Sréng didn't remind her that she'd made a different choice over fifteen years ago. She'd only tell him that the woman who'd given birth to her hadn't really been her mother. Only a half-fae slut with enough beauty to make it past the initial slaughter of her village. To Oonagh, her only family was her comrades among the troop.
The company approached a fork in the well-worn forest path they'd claimed, the snow-bogged path leading to Lallybroch. Sréng lifted his head, pitching his voice so that all his lieutenants could hear him.
"All right," he commanded. "Split off! Half of you men to the northeast, to the village of Nechtan! Kill anything that moves! Kill anything that breathes! We take no slaves! Put the village and their fields to the torch! Destroy everything!" A bit softer, more to himself, he added, "I want my dear Prince Nuada to see what happens when I'm riled. The other half," he called, "follow Lieutenant Oonagh! We'll fall on that cowardly demon, Balor One-Arm, and the village of Broch Toruch, and raze it to the ground! We'll have Balor's head on a spike and that demon prince in chains before the bloody red dawn! Hai!"
Lusty yells and raucous cheers, muffled by the snow and the trees and the heavy clouds, still swelled Sréng's heart as the company picked up speed. Those dragon Elves had butchered his men at the primary camp but he had scores upon scores of followers: men loyal to him, to their cause, or simply loyal to the money in their pockets thanks to the fae traitor right under Balor's nose. Either way, he had more power behind him than Silverlance could ever guess.
And that was why his quarry would fall before him like wheat before a scythe. Silverlance would kneel before him. Grovel on all fours like a dog. Even lick his boots before it was over. So would the so-called king before he died a brutal, bloody death at the hands of his own creation.
But he'd kill the human traitor last.
.
Francesca Myers took her various missions in life very, very seriously. Which was sort of an oxymoron, since her main mission in life was to teach people how to lie back and enjoy themselves. Parties were her thing—which was why her youngest nephew kept buying her Pinkie Pie plushies with his allowance, even though she'd seen maybe three episodes of My Little Ponies ever (there were like, almost no boys on that show. Where did the little ponies go for dates? Were they all lesbians? Asexual? Weren't they all teenagers or something? Where were their parents? This was why she didn't watch the show; it somehow managed to hook its claws into her brain and give her weird thoughts and feels for a cartoon about talking ponies).
Apparently Pinkie Pie was the "party pony." Like this strange, poofy-haired talking horse, Francesca's goal in almost any situation unless dead people were involved was to help people have a good time. And this was why she'd requisitioned the smallest cups she could find from the tavern owner—bluecap mugs, barely three inches tall, one inch in diameter, made out of tin; close enough for what she wanted—and set up this little party in a private room.
She cast a jaundiced eye over those she'd assembled. Lorelei, who looked just like Snow White…if Snow White had eyes like brand-new gold coins, had pointy ears, and flashed fangs every time she smiled; Davio, Francesca's own Sexy McScales; Dylan's young guard, Tsu's'di—mostly because she'd felt bad about the way the kid looked so morose and lonely, his arm in a sling and sighing over the girl he'd left back at the castle. The massive, gray, rocky-looking dude with one eye and a metal arm rumbled softly and gently touched Lorelei's cheek. That was a weird combination, a giant…troll thing…and tiny Lorelei. Well, not really tiny. Just tiny compared to the troll, whose name (Francesca could hardly believe this) was Mr. Wink, of all things. And he had one eye. And his name was Wink.
Who'd come up with that? How was that any different from calling him…Blinky? He was like the missing PacMan ghost. Pinky, Inky, Blinky, Winky, and Clyde. Of course she'd mentioned that and nobody had known what she was talking about. Awkward.
And then there were the two smexy Chinese princes, younger brothers of Dylan's friend Zhenjin; the charming Prince Dastan, who flashed very white teeth and two of the cutest dimples Francesca had ever seen, and who spoke nicely accented English; an older Elf with a grizzled beard whose arm was also in a sling, going by the name McEssit; that adorable dullahan kid who walked with a crutch who looked about seventeen but was something like two-thousand years old (Cesca figured that made him old enough to drink, especially since she'd seen kids who looked fourteen knocking back mugs of ale in the tavern's main room); and the super-giant furry guy who could predict the weather, the guy with the shepherd's crook who said his name was Bob.
Bob was interesting. He braided his beard and his mustache, both of which hung down ridiculously far. He looked like what you'd get if the dwarves in the Hobbit had a baby with Cousin Itt from the Addams family and then pumped it full of steroids. Bob could predict the weather; he'd been the one to warn them of the four-day blizzard when Dylan was missing. He also sang like Caruso—he'd already demonstrated—and had promised Francesca a lesson in playing "Chopsticks" on wineglasses.
Francesca was already half in love with Bob.
The other half couldn't get past all that body hair. It had to be at least six inches long. He looked like a yeti. An adorable, bronze yeti sheep-dude.
And of course Petra and Victoria were there, too—Petra because she couldn't sleep (and to keep her sisters out of trouble), and Victoria because she was always up for her twin's crazy shenanigans. What else were sisters for?
"All right, children," Francesca said with a grin that just screamed trouble. She hefted the clay pitcher on the table and poured shots of blue…stuff into each of the glasses except one. "Time to get drinking." She pointed at Tsu's'di. "Except you, you're too young and Dylan would rip my hair out."
Tsu's'di smiled and accepted his small cup, which had spiced cider in it. "You're afraid of her ripping out your hair?"
"My hair is my greatest glory," she said, fluffing her dark curls. "That and my sass. And my rapier wit. And my smile. And my eyes. My brain. My language skills. My charm. My creativity. My butt…Okay, I'm just perfect. Sorry. No one be jealous. Now, except for Garfield the Cat over there, here's the rules. One round, one shot. No spills, no spitting—"
Wink rumbled something. His voice was like boulders crashing together. Francesca raised an eyebrow.
"And no regurgitation," Lorelei translated.
Cesca grinned wider. "Not even a problem for me."
"So this is a drinking game?" The dullahan kid, Finbar, asked. Francesca would've had no idea what he said, but Lorelei was nice enough to translate that, too. Francesca smiled and the kid's corpse-gray cheeks flushed a dull mauve. Being dead, that was probably the closest he could get to a blush. Or sort of dead. His head came off, so technically that made him dead, right? But he blushed, he'd gotten hurt by the bandits, he even bled when he'd cut himself on a piece of glass during the last battle. So was he undead? Maybe? His head came off on its own, she was labeling that undead.
Francesca nodded. "Anyone who doesn't like drinking can have cider; I got it for just that reason. Okay, after every shot, one person gets to ask someone in the group one question, or challenge them to do something. Let's keep it respectful, people. I don't do lap dances."
Victoria snorted. "Since when?"
"Shut up," she laughed. "You want one? No? Okay, then. Okay, me first." She tossed back her shot glass of blue stuff—she prayed it wasn't something icky like liquidated Smurf—and burped politely behind her hand. "Wow…That stuff tastes like…" Like starlight and mountain wind and quicksilver, she thought, but she wasn't going to say that. "Okay, first question. Why the frack is this stuff blue? Did somebody exsanguinate a Smurf?"
"What is..." Dastan's face twisted as he tried out the strange word. "A sinurf?"
"Smurf," Petra corrected.
"Simurf."
The eldest Myers sister found herself smiling. "Smuh-urf-uh."
"Simuh-urf-uhf. Simahurfuh."
"No, ess-em-you-arr-eff. Smurf," Petra said.
Dastan groaned and slumped in his seat. "Easthesburian is so difficult!"
Lorelei smiled. "To answer your question, Francesca, it is blue because it's Cornish mountain ale, distilled from granite, limestone, sky-iron, and tin, with a chaser of molten silver mixed with the faintest pinch of birdsong and open sky and echoes."
Francesca blinked. Blinked again. Tried to process that. "That…is kind of cool."
"How would you even do that?" Petra demanded.
"Dude," Cesca said. "Pet. It's magic. Duh. How do you think they did it? Alright, next!"
And so they went around the table, mostly with questions—for example Wink asked Victoria if she shared her sister's open-mindedness, since he had a brother still looking for a wife; the answer was, "the language barrier might be a problem"—but occasionally with challenges. Francesca's favorite part of round one was when Petra challenged Tsu's'di to sing the strangest, silliest song he knew. Blushing, fur bristling with agitation, the kid had still belted out a couple verses of Tom Lehrer's "The Masochism Tango."
"Let our love be a flame, not an ember!
Say it's me that you want to dismember.
Blacken my eye, set fire to my tie,
As we dance to the Masochism Tango.
"Your heart is hard as stone or mahogany.
That's why I'm in such exquisite agony.
My soul is on fire; it's aflame with desire,
Which is why I perspire when we tango."
"Ohmigawd," Francesca wheezed. "Ohmigawd, that is…Where did you even learn that? What the fuuhhh…frack? Does Dylan know you know that song?" Tsu's'di shook his head. "Wow. Okay. Good job, Petra. Scar the kid for life. All right, Wink, I have a question for you. Why does Prince Nuada wear lipstick all the time?"
Wink nearly spat out his drink.
.
It all made sense now. The emotions Dylan was sensing were Zhenjin's. Somehow, somewhen, a magical bond had formed between them similar to the one she'd shared with her prince. But the bond between her and Nuada had taken months and constant telepathic communication. Did Zhenjin even have the gift of mind-touch?
Only one person could've done this. The Red Dragon of Dilong had opened this link between them. What would be the side effects of having her mind laid open by a madman? A shiver traipsed down her spine. A homicidal dragon Elf had somehow cracked open a hole in her mind. She was connected now to Zhenjin, albeit lightly. How was she supposed to deal with that?
"You're angry," Zhenjin murmured. An odd note simmered beneath the words. "And afraid." Silence filled the dark before he whispered, "You have said nothing…your scent is almost entirely the same…but I know that you're angry and frightened. How do I know that?"
"Shaohao," Dylan said. She shifted away from her friend. She needed to think. To breathe. To stop being angry so she could focus. "He's connected us somehow."
"That's impossible," Zhenjin said. "I do not possess either the gift of mind-touch, to read others' thoughts, or soul-touch, to feel what is in their hearts. I have no talent for such things. Neither do you. How could he—"
"He's strong," she muttered. "You and Nuada both said that. His magic is powerful. He brought me back from the dead, practically. Healed me from what should've been fatal injuries. He's strong enough, ruthless enough, to do this. It's just one more thing to give you an edge in his mind. One more thing to make me fall for you." Dylan only became aware of the acidic bitterness, the absolute scorn in her voice when Zhenjin's teeth snapped together. Her fingers crept over the seat cushion to rest against the back of his hand. "I don't blame you, Zhenjin."
Firelight glinted off a brief flash of teeth. Even in the dimness, Dylan could tell the smile was fake.
"Don't fret yourself, Dylan. I'm simply annoyed with my meddlesome elder brother. Of course he'd stir up more mischief doing something like this. The wretch. I think it'll be easier than I anticipated, killing him when I find him again."
"You're not killing him just over this," she protested.
He shrugged. His casualness was more than a little chilling. "Just for this? No. For my sister. For the sake of Dilong. But this makes me feel just a touch less guilty about bringing our mother back his head."
She drew back from him, stunned by his venom. "Zhenjin…He's your brother and he loves you. I know he's dangerous, but you shouldn't hate him."
"He tried to kill my sister. Tried to kill you."
"He also saved my life," she reminded him. "And Ming Xian…" She trailed off. For Dilong, Zhenjin would kill his brother. For Dilong, Shaohao had claimed it necessary to kill his sister. Of course Zhenjin was a grown man and a warrior, and Ming Xian was barely more than a baby, but…Strange, she thought, how both brothers would kill family members to protect the same thing, and strange how that made them enemies. "He thinks he's saving your kingdom."
Zhenjin shook his head. "You don't understand."
"I do understand. I'm a psychiatrist, it's my job to understand. I understand how insanity works and how love and hate work and how family can be incredibly, hideously complicated at the best of times—"
The dragon Elf growled, "Dylan, let it b—"
"And I understand justice and revenge and mercy," she continued. "I understand that this is hard for you, even if I could never fathom how hard. I get it—"
"He tried to eat her," Zhenjin snapped. Dylan's mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. She swallowed, leaning back a little from the dark shadow suddenly pulsing with rage and disgust and horror. "I caught him eating her. My brother, the one who always claimed to love me best…" He made a noise as if he might be sick, but swallowed. Pain thrummed through his voice when he rasped, "His face was smeared with her blood. It was everywhere. She has a scar from what he did to her. Nothing the healers can do will erase it. If I hadn't come then…It was my turn to accompany her on her walk with her nursemaids into the gardens. All three of them lay at his feet. He'd snapped their necks like twigs."
Under Dylan's hand, Zhenjin's trembled. The hand of a warrior shook in the grasp of a healer. He drew a shuddering breath. Whispered, "Please never think I do not love him. He is my brother; of course I do. He taught me to ride a horse. To shoot a bow. To speak to dragons. To ride the winds and taste the stars and drink down fire so that it cannot hurt me. And I will always be grateful that he took pity on me and saved your life. If you had died…I do not know how I would have ever been able to live with myself in the years to come, knowing if I had been there I could have protected you—"
"Don't do that," Dylan ordered. "If it was my time to go, nothing you or anyone else could've done would've saved me. If I wasn't killed by the bandits, I would've died of hypothermia or getting hit by a rock or a tree branch could've fallen on my head. And okay, you love Shaohao. Okay. I'm sorry you're in this position, Zhen. I'm sorry you have to deal with things like this. I wish I could help you."
He shook his head as if he could scarcely bear the weight of it. Surged to his feet and paced toward the fireplace. He was barely visible in the flickering firelight. "It doesn't matter, Dylan. It is the price of being royal in Dilong. Madness runs in the blood. Just look at me," he added bitterly. "In love with the soulmate of one of my dearest friends. My brother-in-arms. Constantly torn between wishing I could hate you both and loving both of you. Perhaps I am cursed." His laugh came low and dark, edged with a sharp pain Dylan had often heard echoed in Nuada's voice.
Maybe she should stay by the window, but Dylan didn't think so. It twisted up something inside her to see Zhenjin, normally so strong and confident, sounding so dejected. Part of it was the healer in her. Part of it was that he was Nuada's friend. And of course he was her friend, too, and she hated to see him in pain.
On her feet, she reached for him, but hesitated when he turned slightly toward her. A faint mist of murky moonlight shone through the shutters; it left him looking like a possessed statue or a wraith, something ethereal and dangerous.
"Zhenjin…"
"I've always wondered that, you know," he said. "If I was cursed. There was so much death in my family despite my father's decrees against in-fighting. My brother's madness. My father's obsession with having a daughter. The constant wars. My friends' broken hearts. The plight of my people. You wanted the truth," Zhenjin added, and his voice was a snarl now, not of anger, but something more. A deep pain. Embers of grief and rage and hurt buried under years of fear and determination and dread and despair. There was fire in his voice now, an ancient heat. The same sort of oldness, tiredness, she sometimes heard in Nuada's voice, and Moundshroud's, and even Mr. Magorium's and King Balor's.
"The truth?" He growled. "Well, enough. Here it is. I never wanted to be Emperor. I am not firstborn and until three centuries ago, I was glad of it. As second-born, with Hou Junji as fourth, the two of us could keep Dilong safe when Shaohao took the Jade Dragon Throne. We could control him, because he loved us. Everything would have been well enough off…but then he tried to kill Ming Xian. That was a line he should never have crossed. And so all of this—all of it—is his fault. Because if he had simply let her alone, if he had stayed in the line of succession, than perhaps I could have gone into exile, as Silverlance did, when my wretched father agreed to that accursed treaty with the humans. And then maybe I would have been with Nuada that night, and I would have come to save you and not he, and then…"
Silence descended. Magic crackled on the air, the faintest traces hot with dragonfire. Dylan sensed something in Zhenjin pulled taut as razor-wire, ready to snap and lash back, slice her open to the bone. Slice him open to the heart. When she'd asked for honestly, she hadn't expected this. Zhenjin was usually so cheerful, so full of smiles and laughter, even when things seemed dark. Yet now he stood, clenching and unclenching his fists, the breath rasping harsh in his throat.
Dylan swallowed. Wet her lips. Sometimes, even now, she still forgot that being fae wasn't the same as being human. The fae were not human. Which meant they didn't always react the ways humans would. The Fair Folk felt everything so deeply. It affected everything about them, including their magic. She could practically taste Zhenjin's power on the air, wet and green like bamboo but with the faint metallic taste of black powder. She opened her mouth to try and say something when suddenly the sparks and crackles faded.
"Forgive me," he muttered. Sighed. His shoulders slumped. "I have no right to…Forgive me if I frightened you."
"I wouldn't say frightened," she said, scrupulously honest. Dangerous he might be, but he would never harm her. "A little nervous, maybe. Zhenjin…what do you think would've happened if you'd been with Nuada that night? Do you think…Do you think things would be different?"
A low laugh, still so bitter and lonely. "I know they would be. I have seen through his eyes and so I know you both as intimately as my own heart. If he could have, he'd have given you over to anyone else in those first days when you filled his thoughts and his senses, when the iron in your blood so repelled him and the mystery of you confounded him at every turn." His eyes glittered like dark jewels when he fixed his gaze on her. She froze, the breath catching in her throat. Dark jade burned in the shadows. He took a step toward her. "I hate your kind, but not with his fire. His rage. Only his honor bound him to you. I would have seen in you early on what it took so long for him to realize." Another step, and another. Dylan wondered if she ought to start backing up. She wasn't afraid, but…but this was a side of Zhenjin she'd never seen. Raw. Unchecked. She wondered if Nuada had ever seen it. "That you were different."
She shook her head. "I'm not," she protested. "Not really. Zhenjin, there are humans like me all over the place. Just like there are evil fae, there are good humans. Humans who want to help—or would want to, if they knew about you. I'm not that unique—"
"I had never met a human like you," he said. He was close now. Very close. She smelled patchouli and cedar again. "I have now, but when he first found you…I would have fallen, so fast and so hard. A moon or two, and I would've been yours. None of this torment for months on end." Zhenjin filled her space now, looming without crowding. He practically radiated volcanic heat and she was reminded once again that he supposedly carried dragon blood. Dylan didn't realize she'd backed up a step until her shoulders touched the wall.
"You wanted honesty," he whispered. "You shall have it. I love you, Dylan. I love you the way the night loves the stars and the sea loves the moon. It burns in me. It is burning the heart out of me, and yet…And yet I welcome the fire, though I may turn to ash in the end. I welcome the knife in my heart every time you look at me. Every time you smile at me, laugh for me. I tried to run from it before, tried to cut it out of me, but it has taken root and now I would not be rid of it for all the treasures of this world. And if my brother were still the heir, if I was not next in line for my father's throne, if I had been the one to find you that night, I could have earned your love before Silverlance was even a whisper of wanting in your heart. We could have long been wed, if that was your wish. I would have tried…tried to follow the Star Kindler for yo—"
Without thinking she grabbed his hand. "No," she said. "No, no, never do that. Never ever lie to yourself for my sake. Never force yourself to be someone you're not for me. If you actually believed, then that's beyond wonderful. But I would never ask anyone to live a lie just to make me happy."
"I would try for you—"
"I don't want you to do that," she insisted. "Maybe…Maybe, in time, Nuada could have persuaded me to marry him without the king's order. Maybe you could have, if I'd loved you first. I don't know. But if you didn't believe in your heart in the truth of my faith, I would never want you to force yourself into it. That would be wrong—of both of us. Zhenjin, you don't have to give me things, especially things like that, to make me care about you. I care about you. If I didn't, do you think I'd put up with your nicknames?"
"I know it," he said. A ghost of a smile played about the corner of his mouth. "As I said, through Silverlance's eyes I have learned much of you. I know that you care, and I count myself honored to be one you call 'friend.' But I know this as well: he makes you happy because you love him, and he makes you unhappy because of that which he cannot give you. He knows of these things; thus, so do I. I would give them to you, if you would accept them. If I could make you happy. There is a dark part of me, Dylan, that wishes I could hate you both for this, but he is my brother and there is too much in you that I adore. And so I am broken, a hound brought to heel, waiting for…for any scraps of affection you might show me to ease my heartache."
Words clogged in her throat. She stared up at him, into those dark eyes full of unfathomable things she'd never seen in him before, and without thinking put her arms around him. He stiffened, drew a breath that shuddered through him. His arms crept around her.
How did this even happen? She wondered. My life has become a giant faerie soap opera. I'm going to slap Shaohao so hard the next time I see him, his grandkids will be born dizzy. I should sic Francesca on him. She'd mess him up something awful. Ohmigawsh, how did this even happen? I have been out of high school for thirteen years! I am too old for this kind of angst. Also I hate soap operas.
But there was a difference between a soap opera and what was happening now: this was all too real.
Dylan cleared her throat. "Zhenjin…do you want me to lie to you?"
His chin rested atop her head. She could feel the heat of his breath as his sigh ruffled her hair. Dylan listened to the soft, rhythmic thud of his heart under her ear. He didn't answer for a long time, but finally said, "You hate falsehoods."
Which wasn't, she reflected, an answer one way or the other.
She didn't speak. Only waited.
"You must think me the worst sort of coward," he murmured at last.
"No, Zhenjin. There's nothing cowardly about wanting some kind of happiness. Misguided, yes. Sometimes we turn to things we shouldn't because we think they'll make us happy. And sometimes they do make us happy for a time, but not forever. But you have Nuada's memories of me. Of us. Don't you?" She waited for him to nod. "Then you know I once asked him to lie to me. To pretend that he could give me a happily ever after even though we both knew the odds were against it. Is that what you want from me? I can do that, if you want me to. I can pretend for you. Right here, right now. Do you want to risk how much it might hurt later?"
This time when he laughed, he sounded as if he were in pain. His hands trembled where they lay ever so lightly against her half-healed back. "A few chaste kisses and then I'm to give you up again. To watch you live your life with the brother of my heart. Would you despise me if I accepted even that much in my desperation?"
She pulled back from him in sudden realization. He only knew what had happened between her and her prince from the time they'd first met until that first meeting with Zhenjin in the corridor the day after they'd arrived in Findias. He had no idea what had occurred after. The events in the Queen's Gardens. The moments of desire after Nuada's confession about his plans to exterminate the humans. Those nights of forced bed-sharing due to Balor's decree. The desperate kisses that had nudged them closer and closer to danger every time Dylan sought to comfort Nuada or he sought to comfort her.
And there were things that perhaps neither Nuada nor Zhenjin had considered, but she had. Nuada had seen her naked before. Only once, briefly, but Shaohao was a snake who deserved a fork in his eye and he'd say it counted. Nuada had slept beside her wearing only trousers, and she'd only been in a bra and panties. Only once, because she'd been hypothermic, close to freezing to death. But Shaohao would use it against them, because he was apparently unconcerned about the chances of Nuada punching him in the throat or force-feeding him his own kneecaps. And there was the chance that at some point or other while sharing a bed, Nuada had touched her in slumber in ways he never would have while awake. They wouldn't know about that…but she had no doubt Shaohao knew ways of finding out.
But Dylan had thought of all of these things when she'd made the bargain. If not for Nuada being close to suicide, she might have simply told Shaohao to let her die. It wasn't as if Heaven wasn't the best place ever to be. How often had she wished she could get the cruddy part of life over with and be with God in Paradise again?
Maybe I'll do Shaohao a favor and send him ahead of me, she grumbled silently. Let the creep cut in line, so to speak.
Her hands came up to frame Zhenjin's face. The breath hitched in his throat. She'd never done this with him before; the small traces of emerald scales were smooth as glass under her hands, hard as jewels. A muscle flexed in his jaw and she felt it against her palm. His pulse thudded against her little fingers where it lay against his throat.
"Not just a few chaste kisses," she said softly. He drew a sharp breath. Made a low sound somewhere between hurt and confusion. "Some things have happened," she confessed, hating Shaohao for humiliating her this way. Bad enough those things happened at all, much less that she had to talk about it. "Nothing…nothing as serious as what you're probably thinking, but…The bargain I made was to give you what I've given him, and only that. Will you accept that?"
He hesitated. "I…I know you do not wish to…"
"If it had to be anyone," she interrupted, "I'm glad it's you. And I'll pretend—for you. If that's what you want. I'll lie—for you. Because you're my friend and I want you to be happy, even if it's only for a little bit. And maybe that's wrong of me, but…do you want me to?"
Dylan waited, patient as a predator. She'd done exactly what Francesca would've done—take charge of the situation. It felt weird to be the one in control when Zhenjin was such a strong personality and both of them were so unsure of themselves. But if this was going to work, if things were going to end up okay between them, she'd have to be the one to make the first move. The first several moves. Otherwise he would always fear that he'd forced himself on her. Pressured her to submit to him. And this way she could control the tone and pace of the situation.
So she waited. There was a power in deliberate silence so many people failed to grasp. A power she'd learned to use in the institution. A weapon or a tool, it was almost always effective. She'd rarely ever been waited out. Despite being older than dirt, Zhenjin didn't manage to wait her out, either.
"You have broken me," he whispered, "as you have broken Silverlance. You must be a witch…but I can't bring myself to care. I should be ashamed of myself for finding any happiness in this when you are made so unhappy by it but even just to hold you this way…Forgive me, Dylan, I…It is only that I long for you and…What would you have me do, liàn rén—beloved? Whatever you wish, bid me and I shall obey."
Hoping she looked confident instead of ready to pass out, hoping her hand didn't tremble because accidentally poking Zhenjin in the ear would be the absolute antithesis of seductive, she slid her hand around to cup the back of his neck. He swallowed and a fine tremor shivered through him.
Be Francesca, she reminded herself. Except I have to keep my clothes on. And don't ask him if he wants to get drunk. Be Francesca. I'm smart, pretty, sassy, confident. I can do this. Be Francesca.
She licked her lips. Tried to steady her breathing. Dropped her gaze from his eyes to what she could see of his lips.
"Kiss me, Zhenjin," she whispered.
The breath escaped him in a long, slow sigh that was almost a groan. And then he tightened his hold on her and allowed her to guide his head down to her. He hesitated for an instant, gaze frantically searching her face for some hint of what to do, of what she wished of him.
Give yourself up to it, Francesca had suggested. Try to enjoy yourself. Wasn't that what she'd promised to do anyway? So she forced some of the tension from her body. Forced herself to pay attention to every little thing. How his breath nearly scalded her, how his hands scorched through the thin velvet of her tunic. The way he enveloped her in warmth and magic; not the sweet green grasses, wildflowers, and spring breezes of Nuada's magic. This was sharp, green bamboo and thunderstorms, smoking embers and the soft song of the ocean for the moon.
Heat spilled through her chest. Crept in golden waves across her skin, radiating from every burning point where Zhenjin touched her. Struggling to keep breathing, wondering at the strange dizziness sweeping through her, Dylan closed her eyes. Zhenjin drew close and closer.
"My lady…" The words came hoarse and ragged. "Dylan…I love…I love…"
She'd offered to lie to him. To pretend sweet things and give him some solace. The very essence of a faerie lie. She gave him that lie now as her fingers twisted in his shirt and she sighed against his mouth.
"I love you, too." Because she did. Just not the way he wanted her to.
He trembled then, and she knew he hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said she'd broken him. She held in her hands the power to bring an entire country to its knees, if she were ruthless and cruel enough. Bring not one, but two future kings under her thrall. But she could never become someone capable of that. That was why they both loved her.
Zhenjin's lips at last touched hers, the inferno of dragonfire and the gentle warmth of candle flames, and Dylan allowed herself to melt into his arms.
.
The youth on the other side of the door didn't seem much concerned with the glittering, razor-edged Elven silver once his gaze—something about those eyes struck the prince as incredibly strange—fell on Nuada's face. Recognition filled the lad's expression. He tossed his head, shifting a black braid out of his face, and readjusted his grip on the young child in his arms.
"Uilliam!" Gawain cried from behind the prince.
"Found this 'un in the forest two days' out, Your Highness," Uilliam O'Chláir said. "Just outside a burned-out unicorn grove. A meliae. Just a sapling. She needs someplace warm. She's just 'bout frozen."
Nuada quickly took the shivering child from him. Her silver-white hair, the same color as Nuada's own, was tinged black at the tips. Soot smeared her gold-kissed, bruised face. An ash nymph, barely a few years old from the look of her. Uilliam had wrapped her in a thick blanket and beneath that, a wool coat. Instead of coming into the tavern, Uilliam turned away and gestured to three figures hiding in the shadows.
"Careful, now, lads," he ordered as the trio—a goat-footed, goat-eyed youth with tiger claws; a half-gancanaugh, half-dryad girl with needle-teeth and vertical pupils in eyes the color of poisoned apples; and a half-djinn, half-cobra girl who moved with eerie silence—carried something slender between them, ending at the top in an odd branching shape and ending at the bottom in a fat, shadowy blob.
Only when the lamplight from the tavern's entryway fell on them did Nuada realize they carried an ash sapling in a chipped, burlap-wrapped bit of crockery, Dribbles of earth sprinkled from folds in the rough cloth. The singed branches had been swathed in strips of wool. What few leaves were visible beyond the wrapped were charred at the edges. Uilliam moved to help lift some of the load.
"Careful, McBás," the half-gancanaugh girl told Uilliam. Nuada jolted at the name. It meant "son of Death." Why would she call him that? "We're losing the earth."
"Got the wee one's tree, Your Highness," the boy added. "Got to get it near the fire. It's beginnin' to frost over. Sorcha's half apple nymph; she knows what's what when it comes to tree-maids. 'Scuse us."
The prince didn't call the boy out on giving pseudo-orders to a royal. He recognized in the lad the bearing and presence of mind found in any great commander, even one so young. Instead of reprimanding him, Nuada ordered the four youngsters to follow him into the great room. Over the last week, many of the wounded who'd been tended to had been shifted to other rooms, leaving only those who required supervision or constant attention. That made it a good deal easier for the four rescuers to shuffle over near the fireplace with the sapling.
Mary and Pauline, who'd been quietly tending the young bluecap child with Cornish croup, looked up when the prince walked in carrying the little ash nymph. The sisters exchanged a look and Mary jumped to her feet and quickly made her way over to the Elf.
"Is she okay?"
"She'll need to be examined," Nuada said and thought of Dylan. Dare he interrupt? She would want him to, but what if that had a negative impact of some sort on Shaohao's thrice-cursed bargain? "Are any of the healers fit to work?"
"Dylan is," Mary replied as she led Nuada to a clear space on an empty cot. "The rest were dead on their feet so we told them to sleep. I can check her over, though. I know first-aid."
Laying a thick blanket atop the cot, she gestured for him to set the child down. She took the little one's hands and began inspecting her fingers for frostbite. The nymph's toes were dark purple. Of course; tree sprites didn't wear shoes. Their magic protected them from the elements unless some form of dark enchantment or sickness had infected their tree…except for saplings. Their mother's magic protected them. Where was the little one's mother?
"Found this 'un's grove burned," Uilliam said, drawing near the dryad child. He smoothed back a damp lock of silvery hair. His fingers stood out dark as ebony against the whiteness of her hair the color of ash trees. "No survivors but her. Her tree was all tangled in some old thorn bushes. Found the husk of a thrush's nest in the boughs of another tree; figure her mam had an alliance with some of the winged folk. Kept her hidden when the bandits came for the dryads. There now, peata," he murmured when the little girl whimpered softly. "All's well enough now. Don' be frightened anymore. Shhh. You just rest yourself an' get strong again."
The child blinked glazed, silver eyes at the youth. "Don't go, McBás."
"Hey, now," he said soothingly. "Don' ye fret yourself none. I'll be around for a wee bit yet. Sorcha, she'll stay with ye, aye?" After a minute, the child nodded weakly. "There's a lass. I'm just goin' to report to His Highness an' then I'll be back to finish that story I was tellin' ye." Uilliam glanced at the half-dryad maiden, Sorcha, who sat at the edge of the child's cot and began murmuring soft, gentle things to her in the language of trees. The sound was like wind through branches and the rustle of leaves.
Uilliam turned to the prince with a question in his eyes. Nuada realized why they seemed so odd: he had tri-colored irises. A mark of mixed blood. The boy was half-human. That explained the name McBás; a nickname to indicate he carried mortality in his veins. It would've been impossible to judge his heritage by his ears alone, however; whatever points had once been there were now mounded by hideous scar tissue that bore the mark of past infection. Had the young man done that to himself?
Keeping his questions to himself for the moment, Nuada flicked a gaze like glacial topaz knives toward the entryway and the corridor beyond, which led to the private room where he'd been drinking alone and worrying about his lady upstairs. Did he need to fetch Dylan? Mary shook her head and smiled when he glanced her way. Good. The little sapling-girl would be well enough off for the moment. Nuada could speak to Uilliam alone.
The prince didn't speak at once when he and the boy went into the private room. First he ordered food and drink; hearty winter stew and hot, spiced cider to warm the youth. Uilliam murmured his thanks when the food came. Nuada waited until he'd tucked in before speaking.
"How many humans did you kill on your rescue mission?"
Stew broth splashed the wooden table when Uilliam dropped his spoon. His dark skin turned ashen and he stared at Nuada with wide, wary eyes. He seemed to be chewing over his possible answers.
Finally he spat, "Ain't murder when they're tryin' to kill ye. When they're slaughterin' little 'uns in front of your eyes. It ain't murder when a girl—just a mite of a girl—cuts a demon's throat when he tries to kill her brothers an' sisters. And sure as sunrise, ain't murder to protect your best friend when he's 'bout to be stuck like a pig by your own—" Uilliam broke off. Swallowed. Looked away. "I ain't no part of Bethmoora, Highness. Your laws, mad as they are, have no hold on the likes o' me."
Nuada sank into a chair. Inclined his head. "I thought you weren't Bethmooran, but I couldn't be certain. Where is your family from, then? Your mother and father?"
Uilliam scoffed. "My father's dead at my wretched mam's hand, m'lord, but a'fore that he came from the Moorlands o' Catalandon. He had kin in the Valley Chláir, an' was visitin' when the bandits took him captive. And my mother…no mother is she. A curse, more like. I swore I'd put an end to her and her own demon-sire a'fore I died, or help you end them instead. We've both a stake in their deaths, aye? Common reason to want revenge."
Intrigued, Nuada raised an eyebrow. Leaned forward and braced his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together. "Common reason?" He echoed. He set his chin on his hands. "Enlighten me."
The youth took a bite of stew. Smiled coolly. "I s'pose there's no harm. You'd have found out anyhow, sooner or later, an' wondered why I didn' tell ye. Here's the truth then. My mam and her demon-sire is the reason my father is dead. Killed him herself, Mam did. But what you may not know is...my mam's father, my grandsire? He had a hand in killing your mam, too."
Something cold and poisonous crept through Nuada's veins as the boy's meaning crystallized like a blade of ice in the Elf's brain. He drew a slow breath, feeling it burn in his lungs, and studied Uilliam O'Chláir.
Tri-colored eyes. The mark of mixed blood and powerful magic. Magic, Nuada realized, from his mortal mother. Not his late fae father.
Nuada cleared his throat. His gaze never wavered from Uilliam's.
"What is your mother's name?"
"Oonagh," he said softly.
"And your grandfather's?"
Uilliam's smile held no mirth. "Sréng mac Umhor."
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Author's Note: so there you go, mah peeps! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and definitely let me know what you think. Also wish me luck on my hand. I'm hoping everything turns out okay but I've never had surgery on anything but my teeth before so I'm kind of freaking out a bit. Especially since I use my hands so much…well, anyway, I'll see you guys around. Happy December, happy Christmas, happy Hanukkah, happy Kwanza, happy Decemberween, happy Yule, happy Winsol, happy EVERYTHING! I just want you guys to be happy. So huggles for everyone. Laters!
Concerning the Chapter Title: it's a line from the song "Jessie's Girl," which sort of describes the position Zhenjin is in right now.