Author's Note: hey, everyone, I'm finally back! And since you've all be sooo nice and patient, I decided to post earlier than the 22nd. But from now on, the 21st/22nd is going to be update-day, so we're back to the once a month schedule. Due to various random junk, this chapter has been delayed, but no longer! And I'm sooo sorry to have kept you guys waiting. I love you all and I'm so grateful you were so patient.
Good News: 4 of my short stories have been/will be published in anthologies! Yay!
Last Time on Once Upon a Time: a quartet of young mixed-blood Fae spy Balor on the Forest Road heading for Lallybroch; they arrive carrying a sick tree nymph child and their leader, a half-blood boy named Uilliam O'Chláir, has a meeting with Nuada, where it is revealed that Uilliam is responsible for safely seeing refugee children from other decimated villages to Lallybroch, and that he is the grandson of Sréng mac Umhor, leader of the bandits.
Meanwhile, Dylan and Zhenjin begin their first romantic encounter demanded of them by the bargain Dylan made with Shaohao. But Zhenjin is very reluctant, and during the conversation to help put him at ease, Dylan realizes that Shaohao has blocked or broken her empathic connection with Nuada and magically forged a new one between her and Zhenjin. Sreng splits up his company, sending half his bandits toward Lallybroch to destroy it (knowing that King Balor is also on his way there and hoping to intercept him), and sending the other half to destroy the village of Nechtan; this group is led by Captain Oonagh, Sréng's half-fae daughter and Uilliam's mother.
And in the tavern, Francesca throws a drinking party consisting of several royal friends of Nuada and some of the villagers (and Francesca's crocadilian boyfriend, Davio), in the hopes of getting everyone to loosen up and have some fun. At the party, Dylan's sister Petra seems to be hitting it off with the Persian fae prince, Dastan of Shahbaz, a friend of Nuada's.
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Chapter One-Hundred-Twenty-Two
Take Your Time
that is
A Short Tale of Goodnight Kisses, Perilous Errors, Shaohao's Soft Side, a Second Chance, Francesca the Love Guru (Take One), How I Met My Scaly Hunk-a-Smexy-Ness, Bargaining with Children, and How to Properly Utilize Skunks
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There was a difference, Dylan realized, between desire and lust. Desire was that flood of golden warmth through her body, morphing slowly or swiftly into heat that left her dizzy and breathless, whenever Nuada kissed her or touched her. Lust was part of that, but so was love. So was that mutual yearning to be close, to please. But lust on its own was a greedy, lonely thing that left you focused more on yourself than on the pair of you. Desire was about giving and receiving; lust on its own was about taking.
She knew the difference now, as Zhenjin leaned in to kiss her one last time. His mouth moved over hers, soft and wanting. There was desire in him. With her, there was only lust. It was an uncomfortable feeling, heavy under her skin. She cared for Zhenjin but...there wasn't that yearning to show him what she felt, make him feel it too, that there was when she was with Nuada.
Zhenjin's fingertips skimmed down her cheek. His eyes glowed ever so faintly with emerald magic. Words shifted and shimmered behind his gaze, a thousand things she knew he desperately wanted to say to her, but he didn't speak. Only kissed her forehead, lips almost burning against her skin. His hands cupped her shoulders and he drew a deep breath, and she knew from their new and strange link that he was trying to memorize every little thing about this moment: the scent of her hair, the way she stood so close, the taste of her mouth, the feel of her skin. He would have only memories when all was said and done.
He looked at her one more time in silence, then his lips moved, but the moment had stolen his voice. His lips shaped the words good night, barely visible in the glow of the dying fire. Even though it hurt just a little, she smiled for him. He bowed to her and walked out of the room.
Dylan heaved a sigh and sank onto the bed. Her lips tingled a little. Had some of Zhenjin's dragon venom gotten on her mouth? One bite from a royal Dilong's fangs was supposed to be lethal, but she didn't feel sick. Just...odd.
They'd kissed. She'd kissed another man. She'd expected guilt; was grateful there was none. She hoped Zhenjin didn't feel guilty for kissing her. But she still felt strange. Maybe because she didn't feel the way she'd thought she would. Instead she felt...okay. Zhenjin hadn't seemed tragically, emotionally shattered. She felt nothing from him now through the mystical link that rat Shaohao had forged between them.
Nothing...At all.
Zhenjin had sworn he didn't possess the gift of mind-touch, but she knew a bit about Dilong Elves. By culture, they were often reserved. Zhenjin was pretty open, but he had to choose to be that way. She'd seen him when he was angry; he kept a tight rein on his expressions. How far did that extend to his emotions, to what he allowed himself to feel?
It's too late at night to be thinking about this kind of thing, Dylan mumbled silently. Too late, and her eyes burned with weariness, but the thoughts circled and circled like hungry sharks, refusing to be ignored. The shadows deepened as the fire died away. Dylan turned to flop on her stomach on the bed and sighed as her back twinged. Nearly all of her injuries from the bandit leader Sréng had healed almost completely...except her back. The lash marks still ached a little.
So did her head. This whole situation felt...off. She couldn't put her finger on why, other than the fact that she was being blackmailed by a deranged dragon Elf. Maybe it was this strange calm she was feeling. Tracing the patterns embroidered in soft threads—they felt like silk, but Lallybroch was such a small village. Could it be?—she considered. Kissing Zhenjin hadn't frightened her at all. Just like with Nuada. The only times she'd ever been afraid with Nuada had been when he'd given her a love bite, provoking an old memory, and when they'd been under a spell in the Queen's Garden. But Zhenjin, Nuada, and that one boy who'd given Dylan her first real, consensual kiss as a teenager in the institution had all had that in common—she hadn't been afraid (despite the fact that kissing the boy had been like kissing a drunk dog).
But only Nuada really made her want. Zhenjin's mouth on hers, his lips whispering down her neck, his breath warm on her skin...it had all be nice, physically. Arousing, if she was being clinical. But that was only her body. There hadn't been that desperation to make Zhenjin feel anything. That need always seethed under her skin when Nuada kissed her, touched her. Why didn't she feel that with Zhenjin?
She'd never wanted that with anyone except Nuada, come to think of it. Was there something physically wrong with her? Or was it just that she didn't love Zhenjin? That didn't quite feel right. It wasn't just that she didn't love him, because she did, although not romantically. But she could. Francesca had pointed that out and Dylan had been forced to admit her sister was right. What was the difference between her two princes? What made her respond to Nuada but not Zhenjin?
She stared into the deepening gloom, shadows shifting and writhing as the fire popped and shrunk in the hearth. Maybe...maybe he hadn't done enough tonight. Maybe it took more than those kisses to break through her physical reservations. It wasn't his skills. Nuada had said Zhenjin knew what he was doing and from what she'd experienced tonight, Dylan had to agree. But maybe, because the love wasn't there, it took more than those kisses to make her want Zhenjin even close to how much she wanted Nuada.
A breath of cold sighed through the room, prickling along her exposed back. At the same time, the slash of icy warning from the Spirit had her jerking upright on the bed before hunching against the spasm of pain blazing across her back.
What...?
Bad form, little star-bubble. Shaohao's voice slithered through her skull. Ice crawled down her spine. I thought we had a deal.
Dylan tried to twist around, scan the room for the mad Dragon Prince. Opened her mouth to scream for help. Her hound, Eimh, and her retinue of guards were right on the other side of the door. But the sound caught in her throat. Escaped as a soft, breathless squeak. Magic drifted through the room like smoke. A wet, green, fetid smell flooded the room and Dylan's eyes stung when fear burned.
They'd left Shaohao in the mountains with his wife, Golden Sparrow. Why had he followed them?
I didn't, he murmured. You think I've nothing better to do than stalk my brother's pet? I'm married. My wife is at this moment gloriously naked in a bathing pool not twelve feet away. After I watch you die—it's amazing what royals can do, isn't it?—I'm going to go and make her very, very happy. But in all seriousness, he added, and disappointment dripped from his words like poison, I'm surprised at you. I truly thought you cared about Zhenjin—
What did I do wrong? Dylan demanded. Her heart slammed into her throat, choking her. Talons of brutal cold dragged over her bare skin and she shuddered. Please, Your Imperial Highness, I don't understand. What did I do wrong? I have no intention of breaking my word to you...
The world slowed down to split-second eternities. In a vague, distant way she heard the time-marking candles crackle and hiss as it reached its midnight mark. Dylan pushed up onto her hands and started to slide off the bed. Frowned when she noticed the silvery mist clouding in front of her mouth. The fire had died down but it couldn't have gotten that cold that fast! But her breath continued to cloud the air.
What's happening? Dylan slid off the bed and tried to peer through the gloom. Only darkness looked back. Even though her bad knee hadn't plagued her since waking up from Shaohao's magical coma, now her knees shook to the point they threatened to buckle beneath her. Hugging herself, she sank down onto the bed again, huddled against the bedpost. What's happening here?
She tried to call out for her guards, for Eímh. The hound should hear her, even if the only thing that popped out was a petrified squeak. But the darkness clamped hard around her throat and strangled her into silence.
You tried to lie to me. Shockingly, impossibly, his voice held only sadness. No rage. You broke your word to me, after swearing on the Black Dragon of Diyu, the Darkness. How could you do that to Zhenjin?
I didn't! Her fingers twisted in the folds of her velvet tunic until her knuckles creaked. What are you talking about? What's happening?
The spell we forged set the terms, he murmured. Confusion whispered in his voice now. You don't keep your word, everything I did for you is undone and the Darkness will take you. Didn't you know that?
But I didn't break my word...What's happening? Why is it so cold?
Shaohao said nothing for a long moment. At last he only murmured, The Darkness is coming for you. I hope my brother isn't the one to find your corpse.
Wait...The darkness pressed in on her, clammy and chill. Frost crackled as it spread over the window panes, silver claws creeping across the glass. The sudden, vicious cold made it almost impossible to think. Dylan tried to pry her fingers from the bedpost. Found herself frozen. So...the spell...it's not satisfied? Then we'll do it again! We'll do it right the next time! I swear!
She felt it then—the shadows. Breathing. Thinking. They whispered around her, chattering quietly in the hiss and flicker of candlelight, the pop and sizzle of dying embers, the soft shush of snowflakes beyond the window. Shadows. Living Darkness. It had seeped into the room when Zhenjin had come in, knowing that an oath once made was now to be fulfilled. Except she'd done something wrong. They had done something wrong, her and Zhenjin. But what? What?
Dylan felt the Darkness crouched behind her, tracing talons of crystallized midnight ever so lightly along the lash wounds on her back. Tears stung her eyes and a few spilled down her cheeks. Tear tracks stung her skin with cold and salt. She tried to pull away, tried to spin around and confront the shadows breathing against the nape of her neck and pawing at her back. Instead she sat frozen, the breath coming in short, sharp gasps burning in her throat. Her lips tingled with numbness.
Heavenly Father, she prayed, trembling. Heavenly Father, help me. Help me, please.
You swear to keep the oath?
Not Shaohao this time, and no chance of mistaking this sepulchral voice for the Spirit. A different voice. Cold. Remote. As distant as stars, as implacable as the slow grind of time. The Darkness. It rustled and chittered and hissed, serpents and ravens and wolf song and sweet lies in the night and the shiver down a spine when death kissed the living. Its breath left a glitter of frost on her skin when it whispered in her ear, Swear it, in a voice that was never meant to speak words. A voice of ancient things.
"I..." The words cracked in her throat, broken by pain. "I swear...we'll try again. Please...what did we do wrong? I thought..."
You thought wrong. Shaohao's voice whispered through her mind, bizarrely subdued. Whatever you did was not enough. You'll have to be more careful. The Darkness does not usually tolerate mistakes or excuses. It does not understand pleas. Don't you realize what it is you swore on?
No. No, she hadn't. She'd known it was the most binding oath the fae had. She knew the Darkness would come for an oathbreaker and devour them if the vow wasn't kept. But she hadn't realized the Darkness was this roiling, seething miasma of...of...sheer hunger. The thought brought icy fear-sweat beading along her skin. The Darkness didn't hate her, or want to hurt her for spite. It didn't understand good or evil the way humans and most fae did, or fear, or fair and unfair. It didn't...didn't seem to think the way most humans and fae did. Somehow it formed words, but...but as it pressed in on her, streamers of blackness slipping up and down her arms and whispering over her fingers, sending shards of cold biting to her bones, it didn't feel like an actual living being. It felt...it felt like...
It is hunger given voice, Shaohao whispered. Pure hunger, held in check only by the magic that bound it long ago when humans still huddled in caves when the night reigned, clinging to the foolish hope that their pitiful fires would protect them from the dark. We bound it once, the fae. Our ancient kings shed their royal blood to bind the things that made the darkness so terrible, caging them with vows until they were safe to wander the world, morphed into one vast and mindless being. Until only those the Fair Folk deemed to be the worst of us, the forsworn, the oathbreakers, needed to fear.
So it's...an animal? It took everything she had not to scream when what felt like a long, thin tongue slurped up the back of her neck. How do I make it leave? It's licking me.
It's testing you.
What? The thing licked her neck again. It was like being licked by a snake—quick, surprisingly dry. But it left a burning cold streak behind, like being touched with an ice cube. What do you mean?
The Darkness can taste untruth. You said you would try again. It's deciding whether to believe you. If it believes, the spells that give it some semblance of thought will force it to leave you be. But if it does not...my brother's heart will break.
After a long moment where she flinched every time one of those midnight tongues flicked against her wrist or cheek or neck, she murmured, Your Imperial Highness...if it kills me...will you still keep your promise not to fight against Nuada? Will you still let him live? And will you try to patch things up with Zhenjin? At least explain to him why...Why he believed Ming Xian needed to die. Zhenjin thought it was some sort of jealousy or hatred, because the Jade Orchid was the favorite child of the Dilong Emperor. But Dylan knew the truth, and been forced to swear not to say a word.
You have my word, Lady Dylan, he replied quietly after a long silence. Then, in the chipper voice she normally associated with Shaohao when he wasn't contemplating ripping out her spleen, he added, Now hold still and stop fidgeting. If we're lucky, the Darkness will only take a bite and then spit you out because you taste terrible.
What? I certainly do not. For some reason, the idea that Shaohao thought that irritated her just a little.
Have you licked yourself recently?
She blinked, momentarily distracted. I'm not exactly in the habit of licking myself.
Well, has that lily-white princeling licked you recently?
Not that it's any of your business, but no!
Despite the conversation being purely telepathic, Dylan could've sworn that Shaohao wrinkled his nose at her. He gave a disdainful sniff. Of course. I forgot. You're practically a virgin priestess. No wonder my brother loves you so much. Neither of you have any idea what fun is.
I don't need to get laid to have fun.
Laid? Is that the human term now? She could feel Shaohao turning the word over in his mind. Laid. Interesting. I wonder what the future-tense of that is. And darling, that sort of statement is the kind said by someone who's never actually been laid properly. Silverlance isn't doing right by you. Poor thing.
You realize how strange you are? And how bizarre this conversation is?
Hmmm. I've heard tales of that boy that would set your face on fire. What's the Darkness doing now?
Dylan jerked, realizing she'd actually been distracted by the effort of communicating with the Dilong prince. He'd kept her mind firmly anchored to his, picking up the slack...and blocking out what was happening, so subtly that she hadn't noticed. Why would he do that?
But now she was all too aware of the seething, breathing shadows swirling around her. She swallowed. Tried to force air into her lungs. The Darkness hadn't killed her yet. That was good. She just had to keep calm. She blinked back fresh tears and forced herself to breathe evenly. The air shuddered in her throat, but she managed to keep breathing.
We will give you another chance, mortal.
Those midnight claws scraped lightly over her back, catching on the half-healed lashes. Dylan jerked at the sparks of pain. Ordered herself silently to keep breathing. The talons dug deep, piercing the skin, and held there. Dylan bit back a scream. Tiny trickles of blood welled up and spilled down her back to stain her tunic.
Keep breathing, she ordered herself. It didn't burn. It didn't sear. It didn't feel like the flesh was about the be flayed from her bones. She could handle this. It was a small thing, really. Like kitten claws piercing her skin. Being clawed up by rougarou at the Troll Market had hurt worse. I'm okay. I'm okay. Geez...this hurts...
Don't try to run, Shaohao cautioned. Just hold still. Don't run. Don't go anywhere.
It's got its claws in my back, where would I go?
The mad prince sniffed at her. Well, no need to get snippy with me, little moonbeam. Remember I'm older than you.
Literally everyone in this building except the newborn baby down the hall and my brother are older than me. I'm not that impressed with your age, Your Highness. Most of my friends are practically fossils.
I beg your pardon? The words dripped hauteur. I am not a fossil. I'm a red-blooded Dilong Elf in my prime. Ask anybody.
Dylan's mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. There is no way I'm asking anyone whether you are a prime example of Elven virility, thanks. Enough people think there's something not quite right with my brain. Is this thing ever going to stop?
It wants you to remember this moment. You might try making it happy.
What am I supposed to do? Dance the hula? Kind of difficult with someone's talons inches away from crushing my spine.
Well, aren't we a pessimist?
Bite me. Out loud, Dylan tried to open her mouth and make a noise, but she choked on spit and ended up coughing instead. She got the strangest impression that the darkness was patiently waiting for her to relearn how to breathe. Somehow Eímh didn't hear the coughing, or at least didn't start pawing at the bedroom door. Dylan cleared her throat. "I swear on your name that whatever mistake I made, I will do all in my power to rectify it."
Very good. And then it was suddenly gone.
Something touched her back and she jerked, fresh throbbing erupting through her skin as her muscles spasmed.
Be still, little moonbeam, Shaohao whispered in her mind. His voice was impossibly gentle, and the next touch on her skin even more so. For a moment she understood with perfect clarity why Zhenjin still loved this man. Why Golden Sparrow loved him. Why the emperor had been so reluctant to pull him from the line of succession. When the madness didn't burn through him like dragon's fire...Shaohao could be kind. If he wasn't mad, what kind of man would he have been? Let me tend these. I would never have made this bargain with you if I'd know you didn't understand. I would've explained it to you first. I am sorry, Lady Dylan. Lay down and I will see these are healed to the best of my ability.
Thank you. Carefully, she set herself on her stomach and laid her cheek against the soft blanket. Her tunic clung uncomfortably to her skin, sticky with blood. Warmth flashed through the room and Dylan pressed her face into the blankets as shudders wracked her body. Soft, slow washes of magic whispered over her back, sealing the fresh wounds. Shaohao worked with exquisite care, mending everything and erasing her pain. He was far more gentle here than he'd been bringing her back from near-death.
As the pain faded, leaving only the ghost of living nightmares in her head, Dylan dropped her face into her folded arms and let the reality of what had almost happened penetrate completely.
She'd nearly died. Here, in the tavern, her guards just on the other side of the door, with Nuada downstairs and Zhenjin making his way down the hall, she'd almost been killed by sentient night. What if she hadn't understood why it had come for her? What if she hadn't been able to stay its strike?
Who would have found her body? What would've been left to find?
More than once, she'd sworn on the Darkness. She'd known it was an oath any fae would believe. But until now, she hadn't understood why. Now that she did, she wondered, shaking with reaction and the dissipating cold, whether she could bring herself to ever make such an oath again.
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"Are you seeing this?" Francesca asked while sipping her drink. She flicked her eyes at her eldest sister across the table, then looked back at her two companions—the smexaholic crocadilian, Davio, and the fairytale beauty, Lorelei. Both glanced toward Petra Myers across the large dining table.
The group of them that Francesca had gathered together for an impromptu fae drinking party had dispersed a bit. Tsu's'di snored gently in a corner, worn out by the late hour and the pain-managing potion he'd been forced to take for the healing second-degree burns on his right arm. Tori, who spoke fluent Chinese, chattered away with the two Chinese Elf princes Francesca vaguely remembered were the younger brothers of Prince Tall-Dark-and-Scaly, the one Dylan was probably rolling around in bed with—although with clothes on. Well, Cesca assumed they both still had their clothes on because Dylan actually cared about things like self-restraint. Francesca didn't care. She'd known Davio less than a week before she'd gotten his shirt off (and it had only taken that long because he'd been really shy).
Francesca had no idea what the Chinese princes and her twin sister were talking about, but hey, at least people were having a good time. The giant gray troll-dude that was Nuada's Tinkerbell bestie was busy making calf-eyes—calf-eye? Francesca wondered. He only had the one—at Lorelei and rubbing his shovel-like thumb back and forth over her elegant hand. The dead kid who walked with a crutch because of his bum leg, Finbar, was being a total sweetheart and entertaining the old Elven guy whose arm was strapped to his chest. Cesca still hadn't figured out what his first name was; everyone called the old guy McEssit. Maybe he just had the one name, like Cher or Madonna.
And then there was Bob. Bob spoke Spanish, which was nice, because Cesca spoke pretty good Spanish, too. Bob was also letting Francesca, between sips of her drink, braid the impossibly long, impossibly soft locks of bronze, yeti-like hair covering his entire body and tie off the braids with little bows she'd borrowed from the tavern owner's cute little daughter. Bob had sisters and nieces and a couple nephews. Bob understood Francesca's unholy desire to stroke his impossibly soft fur-hair and her passionate love affair with satin hair ribbons. Francesca was desperately, platonically in love with Bob. And his hair bows.
But at the moment she was distracted from yeti-hair and pretty bows by the sight of Petra Myers, usually so straight-laced and narrow to the point of abso-boring...smiling. Over a drink. At a dude.
Prince—Prince! Francesca thought with unholy sibling glee—Dastan of Shahbaz murmured something low to Petra in Farsi. Cesca wasn't the only Myers sister to know the language; Petra had had to learn it for her tours in Iraq. Whatever it was the guy said, Petra's grin widened. If Cesca's love-vision was working, Petra was actually blushing just a little. It was hard to tell sometimes with her tan.
Cesca jabbed Davio with her elbow again. Her elbow slid smoothly along his scaly side. That was the nice thing about dating a guy like Davio when you had super jabby elbows like Francesca—it didn't hurt him. He had enough muscle and smexy scales to protect him from her sharp, stabby parts. Sex could be a little weird, but she had absolute zero complaints in that department. Davio was a really creative guy. And so sweet. She'd finally found a good guy, one who stuck around after finding out her family drama. To show her appreciation and absolute adoration, Francesca poked him with her elbow again.
"I'm looking," Davio rumbled softly.
"I think she likes him. You know, likes him, likes him."
"What are you, twelve?"
"In my deepest, darkest, secret soul? Try ten. But no, seriously! I think Lady Stick-in-the-Mud really likes this guy!"
"And I think he can hear you," Davio replied.
Only decades of training as a love guru kept her from clapping a hand over her mouth in pure drama queen fashion. Instead she bit her lip and focused her eyes on Davio, pretending like she hadn't been staring with sisterly intent at the Persian Elf prince across the table.
Holy crap, Davio was pretty, even if he didn't have any hair. His scales were like soft, cool leather—the polished kind they made stripper boots out of. He had the most incredible eyes, a mix between human and crocodile, the vibrant green of python scales. And his mouth...Boy, could she tell some stories.
She realized she was staring at him in a dreamy way when Davio grinned, showing very sharp teeth. Francesca lifted her chin. "Stop that."
Carefully, very aware of the sharpness of his claws, he brushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead. She shivered at the strangely pleasant brush of cool, glass-smooth claw against her skin.
"Just enjoying the attention, baby."
A grin sprawled across her face. She still remembered the Davio she'd met two months ago when she'd almost been mugged in Bronx Park; he'd been a lot shyer back then. Breaking him of that shyness had been an adventure. Their story was a lot like Dylan and the prince's, in a way, Francesca thought. A girl out after dark, a mysterious stranger fending off attackers. Just, she reflected, so much less drama. Also nobody had died. Just been very badly injured...
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Oh, man, Francesca moaned silently as the pair of creeps in their university hoodies—couple of morons, she thought with a hearty shot of contempt—yanked her purse out of her hands. That's my favorite every-day purse. Little jerks. She thought they'd take off like smart losers but instead, the one with the Brooklyn accent gave her a long, slow look up and down. She'd just gotten off work and realized she didn't have bus fare to get home. Tori was at work, Petra was in Texas, John and Dylan were who knew where—plus her baby sister didn't have a car for some reason—and who knew where the other girls were? Nobody was answering their phones. So she'd had to walk. Through the park. At night.
Looking back, Cesca realized she'd probably miscalculated at that point. And come to find out she'd left her pepper gel cannister in her other purse and her very illegal switchblade was still in its slip-sheath in her favorite pair of hook-up boots instead of in her pocket where it belonged. Crap. And now the punks were eyeballing her in her leggings, blue waitressing t-shirt, and black skirt. Great. Maybe it was the cute little denim jacket Dylan had made for her...
"Nice," Brooklyn Boy drawled. He reached for her skirt. Francesca stepped back; he'd screw up her flounces. Simone had sewn those in for her to give the uniform some cuteness. The boy smirked. "Whatsa matter?"
"You touch my skirt, I'll break your little punk face." After Dylan getting attacked in the subway, Petra had insisted the rest of the Myers girls knew some basic self-defense. If these creeps got rough with her, she'd mess them up. Break a few noses or something.
The other boy, wearing an NYU hoodie, sneered. "That's not nice. You need to be more friendly."
"You got my stuff, now leave me alone."
"That's not friendly," NYU Kid said. He grabbed her skirt and yanked. The band slid down to reveal the edge of the butterfly tat on her hip. "Come here."
Francesca jerked away, lashing out with her foot. Brooklyn Boy lunged for her and grabbed her by the back of her jacket, twisting her around. She tried to slip out but he twisted the denim, trapping her arms long enough to wrap his free arm around her waist. He was a lot bigger than she was. But she'd worn nice shoes, real clackers, and she stomped on the kid's instep with the thick, clunky heel. He grunted, wheezed, and squeezed her hard enough to make spots dance in front of her eyes.
"Bitch," he snarled. His breath steamed moist and nasty against her ear. "Can't take a compliment?"
NYU Kid laughed.
If I had a dime for every time I heard that, Francesca snarled silently, grunting as she brought her foot down on his instep again. This time something crunched. The kid screamed and let her go. NYU Kid swore and took off running with her purse. Francesca slammed her head back before Brooklyn Boy could get away and his nose crunched, too. Cesca whipped around. Blood gushed from the kid's broken nose as he stumbled back and limped away. She turned back to where NYU had taken off with her purse.
"Not today," she growled, and took off running after him. She'd bulldoze him into the pavement if she had to. She'd given the creeps her purse and then they'd stuck their hands where they didn't belong. And Brooklyn Boy had gotten blood on her nice denim jacket; Francesca felt it seeping into the jacket shoulder, unpleasantly lukewarm. "Ew. Get back here, you punk! You're dead! I will rip your face off!"
A hulking shadow plowed into the mugger when Francesca was maybe ten feet away. The kid went flying into the grass, dropping her purse. She snatched it up and was about to thank the shadow when the kid—showing an astonishing lack of brains—tackled her. Her back smacked the pavement, her head lightly tapping the sidewalk. White flashed across her vision. Dazed, she blinked up at the toxic sewage sky overhead. Nearby, one of the lions from the Bronx Zoo roared so loudly she absently wondered if one of them had gotten out; she felt the primal rage rattling through her teeth.
She groaned and rolled onto her side. The kid yelped. Pushing to hands and knees, Cesca assessed the damage the way Dylan had taught her. Her toes and fingers all worked. She wasn't paralyzed. She turned her head; that worked. When she drew a breath, nothing spasmed or flared with pain; no broken ribs. Blood seeped into the sleeves of her brand new jacket, though, and stained her work shirt. Something burned on her collarbone. Francesca had a vague recollection of teeth colliding with her skin.
Gonna need to pour some alcohol on that, she thought numbly. Do I have any peroxide? She didn't think so, since she'd forgotten to restock her first-aid kit, but she had a bottle of cheap scotch at home. Or maybe it was vodka. Gin? Probably gin. That would work.
She pushed to her feet. Bit back some very bad words when she realized the heel of her shoe was broken, a wedge missing from it. Now she was stuck walking like a brain-damaged duck. Great. The flickering light illuminating the sidewalk gave birth to two twisty, wiggly clones of itself and Francesca closed her eyes. Oh, hell, no. Am I gonna need a hospital? She opened them again, and the lamp-post clones were gone. Maybe not. Ouch...She touched two fingertips to the back of her head. They came away wet with blood. What a jerk.
Then she realized the jerk was curled up in a ball on the ground, crying. The shadow stood over him. Francesca blinked to bring him into focus. It was easier than with the lamp.
He stood about a foot taller than she did—not hard, she was barely five-six. Wow. Built like a brick house. The muscles under that—coat?—he wore were probably deliciously impressive. But she couldn't see the face shadowed by his hood. He wore black gloves. So either he was extremely cold-blooded, a serial killer afraid of leaving fingerprints and she was going to die, or a really snazzy dresser.
She wasn't feeling the snazzy. Sharp-dressed men didn't wear shapeless sack hoodies with sexy leather gloves.
Francesca shot a look at the crying jerk. Clenching her teeth, she marched up to the guy and gave him a solid kick right in the butt. He yelped and scrambled away, whimpering. She smiled and pretended to dust her hands off.
"Little creep. Keep running, loser!" She roared after him. The kid yelped again and put on a burst of speed. Oh, yeah—she was awesome.
Turning to her rescuer again, she said, "Hi." She touched the back of her head again. Still seeping. Great. Her jacket was probably a lost cause at this point. Dylan was going to kill her flatter than dead. Actually, Dylan would look mildly disappointed and then smile and say it was okay because that's what she did, but Francesca would've preferred being stabbed repeatedly by a rabid child with a rusty spork to making her baby sister look like that. "Thanks."
He didn't say anything for a long moment. "Are you okay?"
His voice reminded her of slow, smoky jazz in a Bohemian club, a mix of Frank Sinatra crooning and Louis Armstrong raspiness. The skin along her spine prickled pleasantly and she swallowed; Francesca had a thing about men's voices. Of course, she had a thing about lots of things when it came to men. She was a connoisseur.
But he'd asked her if she was okay. Cesca considered this very carefully. The double-vision was gone—yay—and her head burned, but it didn't throb. The pain was from the bad scrape on the back, not from a headache. Good. The odds of serious concussion were slim enough she probably didn't need to go to a hospital tonight. Also good, because she couldn't afford it. She didn't get paid until next week. And if Victoria found out she'd lost her stash of emergency cash after getting stiffed by a blind date at a restaurant, Tori would feel obligated to help even though she couldn't afford it and just...blegh. Francesca made an internal "ugh" face.
"Mostly. Thanks, Mister...uh..." She waited. He didn't say anything, just stood there with his hands fisted at his sides. "This is the part where you tell me your name. Or you could make something up if you're feeling a little shy. James Bond. Sean Connery. Elvendork."
The guy laughed. It sounded like it hurt a little. "Davio. Are you always this chummy after getting mugged?"
She hefted the handbag. "You saved my favorite purse and beat that kid to a pulp." She tossed her hair over one shoulder in disdain for the kid racing away, dripping blood from a broken nose and crying for his mommy. "Also he tried to feel me up. Now he's bleeding. It's like Christmas came two months early. Yay." Fresh pain stung the back of her scalp and she winced, hissed when she touched the scrape again. How big was it? "Owie."
The purse rescuer stopped laughing. "You're bleeding." The concern in his voice was a surprise. He sounded like he legitimately cared. "You should go to a hospital."
"My sister's a doctor. I'll have her take a look in a couple days. It's just a scrape." She was not about to admit she was broke. How pathetic would that sound? "Thanks for all the things. You be careful."
Oh, man, she was dying to get a look under his hood. Was this Benedict Cumberbatch? He didn't sound British, but actors could do voices, right? And that would explain why he wouldn't show her his face. He didn't have to be Cumberbatch to make her happy, either. She'd take any hot actor. Richard Armitage was pretty studly.
But life was full of disappointments. She'd deal with her lack of hot Brit and not being able to get a good look at her rescuer. She turned to walk off and had taken maybe four steps when the guy spoke again.
"You shouldn't walk alone."
Cesca turned back to him. "Why not? I do it every night practically."
"You're walking strangely. Are you sure you're all right?"
Holding out her arms for balance, she stuck her right foot in the air. "Broke my shoe," she said brightly. Her arms waggled when she almost lost her balance. "That always happens," she informed him when she had both feet back on the ground. "The wobbling, I mean. I got bad grades when we did gymnastics in PE. But yeah, douche nozzle broke my nice work shoes."
"That rat bastard."
"I know, right?" Francesca hefted the purse strap higher up her shoulder. "Thanks again. I'll make it. See you around...Are you okay?" He'd started to turn away and stumbled. "Hey, wait. Did you get hurt?"
He tried to wave her off but she ducked under his arm and poked him in the chest. Up close, he smelled interesting. Like dried sage. Which Francesca only knew because Dylan kept dried sage at her house for making homeopathic thingies and their older sister, Simone, used sage incense when she was doing yoga. She risked a glance up under his hood, but the guy was like a ninja or a bank robber or something. He managed to keep his face hidden enough that she only glimpsed the gleam of his eyes in the shadows. She poked him again, in the stomach this time, right above where his arm pressed against his side. The fabric of his coat-thing was rough, layered. Knit on top of wool on top of something else. Bohemian or something.
It was also wet. The scent of copper drifted up to Francesca's nose. Without thinking, she smacked him on the shoulder farthest from her. "Moron. You're hurt. Here, we need to get you to a hospital—"
"No!" He jerked back from her. She froze, staring at him. His eyes shone dark and frightened in the recesses of his hood. "Please. No hospitals."
After several excruciating seconds where a thousand possibilities ran through her head—he was a spy, he was terrified of doctors, he'd sold his soul to Satan in a wager and couldn't be seen by normal humans, he was James Bond, he was an illegal alien, he was on the run from the Mob, he had no health insurance, he was wanted by the cops for killing a man in Reno just to watch him die—Francesca nodded.
"Okay. You should come back to my place. I can patch you up a little."
If he was a serial killer, she could take him on. She didn't know jujitsu like Petra or kung fu like Simone, but she knew where all the sharp stabbity objects in her kitchen were. Also she had an anti-rape whistle—that she'd foolishly left on the table where she dropped off her mail by the front door—and her pepper gel.
But he was hurt and needed help. Had ended up that way because he'd helped her out. She couldn't just leave him out here. Also he had a sexy voice.
I am so full of bad reasons for everything that ever was ever, Francesca chided herself, but didn't say anything out loud. Just waited for Davio to say something.
At last, he mumbled, "Okay. Sure. Thanks."
"Awesome." And anyway, it wasn't the first time she'd brought a strange guy back to her apartment. So far that had turned out okay. Mostly. Still..."But if you try anything, I'll kick you so hard the only job you'll be able to get is as one of Michael Jackson's backup singers. Got it?"
"Michael Jackson's dead."
"Don't pester me with details," she commanded as they headed for her apartment. "So you'll be a dead soprano. Win-win for me."
Davio didn't say anything. Just followed after her, obedient as a puppy.
Maybe he'll be super hot under that hoodie, Francesca thought. The idea made her smile. She'd just ditched her loser ex only a few weeks ago and she was on the lookout for a hottie with a sweet heart. Maybe this guy would do. He seemed nice enough.
Unless he's gay, she thought, biting thoughtfully on her lower lip. Oh, please, don't let him be gay. They're always gay! She shot a surreptitious glance his way and sent up a fake-prayer to the pseudo-gods of stud muffins and hookups. Please, please, don't be gay. Or an axe-murdering mutant. Please.
The ironic thing about the whole event was that she'd only been about fifteen minutes from her apartment when she'd gotten mugged. It didn't take long to get to her little single-room with its crappy bathroom—being a professional mooch, Cesca rotated between her sisters' places to shower, since John lived in a freaking closet—and get up the stairs. The hall light was out again because her landlord was a lazy slob.
"Oh, well," Francesca muttered, kicking aside a glass bottle with the side of her foot. "Time for my handy-dandy flashlight app." The thin, ultra-bright light sliced through the dark hall all the way to the right turn at the end that led out of sight. As the beam wavered, the light catching on dust particles and bits of broken glass, a soft tune, piano and drums, filtered from the phone's speaker.
"When tomorrow comes, I'll be on my own," Francesca sang softly under her breath, "feeling frightened ofthe things that I don't know…When tomorrow comes, tomorrow comes, tomorrow comes…"
"What is that?" Davio asked. "That song?"
"'Flashlight' by Jessie J," she said. "That's why it plays when I use my flashlight app. Get it? 'Flashlight,' flashlight? Yeah, you know I'm funny." A rough sound, like velvet gravel, echoed in the hall. She realized he was laughing. She grinned. Nudged him very gently in the arm with her elbow. "Yeah, that's it. Laughing is good for you. Just don't snort Pepsi out your nose; that happened to me at my sister Pauline's wedding." She made a face. "It got on her husband. He deserved it, though. He was a douche nozzle."
"I take it you didn't like him."
"Mother Teresa would've hated that Oedipal louse."
"…Oedipal louse?"
"You know, 'cause Oedipus had a thing for his mom and married her? And they had sex? So he was…you know?"
"Ah."
They came to a door with peeling, dark green paint and tarnished metal numbers just under the peephole. Francesca fished her keys out of her purse and, with some spit and some wiggling of her keys, managed to get the door open, after kicking it twice at the bottom left corner to loosen up the hinges and bumping it with her shoulder to unstuck it from the frame. The trouble of it all was why she never worried about getting robbed.
She flicked the switch by the door and her favorite lamp—a stained-glass thing, a gift from her technologically-minded niece, Ari, that she'd made in shop class—bathed the room in warm shades of green, red, blue, violet, and gold. Davio let out a low whistle of appreciation.
"Make yourself at home. Just don't mess with that pillow," she pointed at a plush velour rectangle on one arm of her cheap couch, the arm nearest the window. "It belongs to the super-shady femme fatal cat that likes to burgle my apartment. And don't look her in the eyes, she'll steal your soul."
"You have a cat?"
"Not so much on the having. The cat owns my soul," Francesca replied, dumping her purse and keys and body-slamming the door shut. The five safety chains jingled like jewelry as she slipped them into place and dead-bolted the door. She sashayed over to the window and unlocked it before prying it open. "Kitty, kitty, kitty! You want treats? I got treats!"
A slinky length of starry whiteness slipped through the window and pressed its head against Cesca's hip. Francesca shut the window and stroked the cat's head.
"Hey, Starbright. Hey, my beautiful poof-poof. I love my poofy-girl so much. Pretty poof." Sliding her hand down along the cat's spine, she gave her lower back a rub just at the base of her tail. Starbright purred and stretched. When the cat looked up, Francesca marveled—not for the first time—at the galaxy-bright beauty of the cat's sapphire star eyes. "Good girl. Look, I got a friend."
Starbright was an excellent judge of character. She'd hated the last nineteen pencil-dicks Francesca had dated and really liked the sweet one that got arrested for tax evasion and the suave Don Juan who'd unfortunately ended up becoming a Catholic priest. So if the cat hissed at Davio, she was just gonna shove the first-aid kit at him and kick him out into the hall.
The cat, a lynx-agile and elegant queen about five years old, with cinnamon and gold and midnight mixed in with her star-bright fur, padded along the couch to where Davio had sunk down in a tired slump. She sniffed the large, gloved hands resting on his knees and the black denim covering his legs. Then she licked his glove. Butted her head against his wrist. Staring up at him with her big eyes, she said, "Mrewt." And she flopped down on the couch and patted his wrist with one dainty paw.
Yay! He's not a dick! Francesca crowed silently. That means he won't chop me into little pieces. Awesome.
"Okay, the cat approves. Let's check you out. Time to ditch that hoodie." She frowned when Davio hunched in on himself. "I can't check out whatever happened unless you give me a look at you. I've seen plenty of naked dudes before, I know what parts you've got. Hoodie off. Come on."
He glanced at her, still keeping his head in the shadows of his deep hood. He sighed. "I just…don't want you to freak out. Okay? I won't hurt you."
"Dude, I'm a freaking ninja," she lied smoothly. "I'm not scared of you. I'll kung fu your smokin' fine butt if you try to do something freaky to me. Now strip. Do it right and I'll even tip you."
Davio huffed a laugh, then sighed. "Okay…okay." He grabbed the hem of his hoodie and in one smooth motion Francesca envied down to her toes, pulled it off.
She deserved like, a ribbon or something, because she only screamed once.
.
In a private room in the tavern, the door and hall guarded by Butchers but the room itself shielded with magic from dropping eaves and prying eyes, Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance stared across a table at a young boy who could—almost—pass for human as the youth slurped the last of the hot vegetable broth. It took Nuada long moment to find his tongue, stunned as he was by the young man's revelation.
"Sréng mac Umhor is your grandfather?" Nuada asked the boy softly. Uilliam, the half-human youth with the tri-colored eyes, offered a grin sharp enough to slice open a vein; he looked as if he was in pain. Something vicious slithered behind his gaze for just a moment. "And yet you're here, helping my people."
"I'm half-Fae, as well, m'lord," the boy said. "I don' acknowledge that monster as my kin, nor his witch-daughter, even though she birthed me. I'm here ta help what Fae need it, since the wretched king'll do nothing for no one but himself."
Nuada straightened abruptly in his chair. The youth—he looked maybe fourteen, though barely—had arrived about half an hour ago in the middle of the night, accompanied by three other children of mixed races carrying a small, unearthed sapling in a pot and a young tree maiden wrapped in a wool blanket; the tree maiden had been sick with cold and weak from smoke-inhalation. Without her young rescuers, the child no doubt would've died.
The Elven prince had heard reports from the previous steward of Lallybroch and Acting-Steward Gawain that a young man named Uilliam had escaped a ravaged village and gathered up all the surviving children from different townships in the area who'd managed to escape the bandit raids, bringing them here to Lallybroch. How much horror had the child witnessed? Too much, Nuada thought. Far too much. Yet the boy couldn't be allowed to get away with insulting the king in the crown prince's presence.
Clearing his throat, Nuada said coolly, "Remember, boy, that you speak of my father–"
Uilliam scoffed. "I wouldn't go shouting that about if'n I was you, m'lord. Not that folk 'round here don't already know the truth, but I'd be 'shamed ta say it out loud."
"How dare you–"
"I dare," the boy snapped, pounding a fist on the table, "because nothin' you could or would do ta me is worse than what's already happened. What 'good' King Balor allowed to happen. My friends lost their families, their homes, everythin' they had, an' no one at Court cares a whit about it...save you an' your lady. Don' pretend to me that you're proud to be his son. I know what a son's shame looks like. I carry it every day, with every breath, Prince. I'm choking on it. And so are you. I see it in your face. You hate what he's done. What he lets my grandsire and my mam and them do. Butcherin' our people like they are. Do what ya want with me, Highness, but you know I speak true."
He wanted to hate the boy. Wanted to loathe him for speaking the words Nuada had whispered to himself deep in his own soul in the darkest part of the night, the hour of the wolf, when fear and doubt and hopelessness gnawed at him. But he couldn't. There was too much of the prince in this boy torn between mortality and other, between magic and mundane. This boy was himself, his own rage, his own despair, all those centuries ago. What was the difference between a dead mother and negligent father...and a dead father and negligent mother?
This boy, this half-mortal youth with fire in his heart and a challenge in his so strange eyes, was the boy Nuada had been once, when there had still been room to believe someone else, some adult somewhere, could fix the world and make it better. Could change the way the worlds and the realms trampled on the dreams of the innocent, the hope of the lost, the wishes of the young.
Uilliam still had hope in him. Nuada saw it there in the young man's shadowed gaze. He challenged Nuada, spitting on the king's name, because he knew the truth—that even Nuada, even the king's son, saw the festering sickness of the kingship and refused to lie back and let the humans grind the Fae into the dust.
"I will make a bargain with you, Sir Uilliam." Nuada didn't miss the way the youth's brows shot up at the title. "I will offer you my protection and my patronage, and help you in your mission to aid the Fair Folk, on the condition that you will guard your tongue regarding the king." If the guards heard the way the boy spoke, they'd thrash him in a trice. He didn't need to be beaten; he needed help.
Scratching one badly scarred ear, Uilliam studied the prince without speaking. Nuada allowed him time to think. There was no reason to suppose the crown prince would've made such an offer to him. It had to take him by surprise. But the boy was a leader, and brave. He wouldn't stay shocked for long.
"In public," the youth said at last. "I'll mind me words in public, if'n it pleases ye, Highness. An' I shall speak ta me lieutenants about the same thing."
Nuada arched a knife-thin, blond brow. "You have lieutenants?"
"Aye. The three that came in with me a'fore—Mabri, an' me lasses Sorcha an' Breanna. Sorcha won't like it, but...she knows what's best for the Fae, for the ones we're sworn to. I'll speak with her." Uilliam leaned forward, propping his elbows on either side of the half-full soup bowl. "Now, onto somethin' that presses harder. The king is on his way here."
Only centuries of iron-willed control kept Nuada from doing anything but blinking at the news. The king? Coming here? Why? And more importantly...
"How do you know that?"
Uilliam shrugged. "Saw him me own self, Sire. Me an' my lieutenants, when we brought the wee sapling. The great and noble king in all his rusted, pockmarked glory." Ignoring Nuada's baleful look, he ran a finger through the greasy film lining the soup bowl. Licked it. "Bringin' a fat lot of soldiers with him, too. Headed for Lallybroch, should be here soon if..." He trailed off. Eyed the prince.
The boy was playing a bit of a power game here. Trying to get the prince—the adult; very likely, he viewed all adults as the enemy until they proved otherwise—to rise to the bait and ask him questions. Cocksure boys always did that. It was a skill that seemed to latch onto them without any necessary practice when they hit the age of lusty dreams and wishing for more than a few patches of peach fuzz on their cheeks. Personally, Nuada had never understood the appeal of a beard.
The prince leaned back. Beneath the table, he crossed his legs at the ankle. Even if the boy couldn't see that particular bit, it helped convey the attitude of absolute uncaring. Uilliam had to learn how to, as Dylan would say, "fake it" at some point. So Nuada simply arched an eyebrow at the boy and waited. A silent declaration of, "You have my attention, but I'm in control."
Uilliam canted his head. "If nothing stops them, the king an' his party will be here at dawn."
"And if something did stop them?" What was the boy hinting at?
He shrugged. "Mid-morning. Possibly even evening or even the next day or more...if the right person did the right things at the right time. What's brewin' here in Lallybroch, with you an' the rest o' them nobles..." Another shrug. Forced casualness belying the boy's tension. "M'not a noble; what's it matter ta me an' mine? But we've got a bargain, aye? You an' me. An' you don' want the king here. Not yet. For some reason." Nuada shifted minutely and the youth held up both hands. "I ain't askin' what it is. Don' care. I'm just sayin', is all. But me an' my lot, we can slow him down...if you wish, m'lord."
"The bandits–"
"They're nothing to us, m'lord," Uilliam spat. "I know their ways. Know how they move, where they prowl an' crawl. How do you think we got the wee ones from the other villages to safety? We were ghosts among the trees, Highness. I was born in the forest, an' I've crawled all through it all my life. I know ways an' by-ways. No need to worry about that."
Nuada believed him. It was ridiculous—Dylan might even say insane—to trust this child as if he were a man grown...but he'd proven himself more than man enough, hadn't he? Saving dozens of children, keeping them together, leading through winter woods to safety with no adult help... And he'd managed to survive mostly on his own for the last few months at least, even with the dangerous task he'd set himself.
Yes, he would deal with Uilliam as a man.
Still...to an outsider, it would seem like a bargain with a man-child. How the mighty have fallen, Nuada thought ruefully, hiding his smile. The boy was a clever little devil. And he'd seen the king, gauged the distance between him and the village easily, and all without being seen. So then...could he slow the king down?
A better question, more important: could the boy be trusted to slow the king and his retinue down without hurting him? Or at least trying to...The king had a legion of soldiers at his beck and call, and in order for them to be so near the village, they had to be on the Forest Road, which was protected in and of itself. With king's magic added to the defenses, and the soldiers...the king would be safe enough on the Forest Road for an extra day. Safer than in Lallybroch. But only if Uilliam swore...
"I swear on me father's memory an' the Darkness that neither me nor mine will harm the wretched king," Uilliam murmured, snagging Nuada's attention again. "Slow him down, buy you time—aye, all that. But harm him or his soldiers or any that serve him? Nay, that we swear; we'll harm them not at all. In exchange, you'll help us? Protect us an' ours?"
Nuada nodded. "You have my word as the crown prince of Bethmoora."
Uilliam's grin flashed, bright and boyish. For a moment Nuada was reminded of himself again, the mask he would put on as a youth for his sister to reassure her. Nuala hadn't been able to see through that mask for a very long time.
But Nuada could see through it. The smile didn't reach Uilliam's eyes. There was a lot of pain in this youth. A lot of rage. But hope, too. There was still hope.
"Then I'll gather up those I want an' be off. We'll be back a'fore dawn."
"If you see a single bandit–" Nuada began.
"We won't."
"If you do," the prince insisted, because warrior or not, leader or not, with the courage and skill of a man or not, Uilliam was still a youth, "then–"
"We'll watch ourselves," the boy said. He stared at Nuada, bafflement evident on his face. For the first time, it occurred to the prince that this young man wasn't used to someone worrying over his safety. Once again, he was forcibly reminded of himself, though now it was with Dylan in those first months when she'd shown such concern for him, and it had confused him to no end. "So...goin' now."
Nuada inclined his head. "Go on. And watch yourselves."
"Yes, m'lord."
Sending children out into the forest, Nuada thought as the door closed behind the boy. He'd raged at Acting-Steward Gawain for doing just that. But there was something about Uilliam...he was clever and charming, brash and brave. It gave one confidence in him for some reason. It was a knack Nuada himself had always had.
The boy would be a good servant, and a good leader under the Elven prince one day.
If they both lived that long.
.
"What are we doing, McBás?" Sorcha, the half-dryad girl Uilliam considered his second-in-command, crept behind him through the thick tree canopy alongside the Forest Road leading to and from the village. "Playing tricks? We're not spriggans."
"Still say we should slit crummy old Balor's gizzard," snarled Mabri, the tiger-clawed youth with the golden skin. He followed his captain and best friend through the trees. "No one would know."
"There's an idea," Uilliam said. The other two nearly fell off their respective branches at the words. "Kill the king. Old King Balor. Make him pay for all he's done. Except for two things." He waited until they both had gotten their balance back before he snapped, "We'd all die if'n we tried. Suicide's no help ta anyone, aye? An' I swore an oath on me father's memory ta the prince. Will you make a liar o' me?"
Ashamed, Mabri and Sorcha looked away. Shook their heads. But then, glancing at Uilliam from beneath his oddly thick lashes, Mabri asked, "I could throw something at him, though...maybe?"
Uilliam chuckled as they started moving through the canopy again. "An' what would you throw?"
"Rotting mushrooms," Sorcha volunteered.
"Horse biscuits," Mabri added.
Sorcha wrinkled her nose. "Oh, ugh! You'd touch that? Disgusting."
He rolled his eyes. "'Course not! That's what magic's for!"
"We could throw stones at his horse," Sorcha said.
"What d'ya have against the man's horse, then?" Uilliam asked with mock-severity. He leapt a gap between trees, landing on a thick tree limb with a grunt. "Chuckin' stones at a poor dumb beast."
Sorcha scoffed. "The wretch rides a phooka, McBás. Dumb beasts, they're not. Some idiot actually consented to bear him."
"Oh," Uilliam said. "That's different, then. Chuck as many stones at the treacherous heathen thing as you want. Maybe we'll get lucky an' the testy little pony will run the king right into a creek. Get his popinjay feathers wet. But remember—we can offer no true harm ta the king or his men."
Sorcha's reptilian eyes, the vivid green of fresh apples, slashed to Uilliam's back. "You ruin all my fun, McBás."
"Well, we're about to have a little bit, so smile, aye?" He held up his hand to halt their progress, then pointed to something a few paces beyond. "Look who we've found." Just beyond the tree line, the king and his men had stopped to stretch their legs and let their beasts lip at the frosted grass on the side of the road. "Time for some sport."
"Time to make a mess of that wretch's morning," Mabri growled with relish.
But Sorcha kept her eyes on Uilliam, the boy she called McBás—the son of death. Watched as he squeezed his eyes shut, digging his fingers into the bark of the oak tree he'd hidden himself in, and struggled to drag air into his lungs. She'd taught him this trick six months ago, when they'd escaped the bandit camp together. After Sréng mac Umhor had made the mistake of killing Uilliam's best friend and Sorcha's brother. Sorcha had succeeded in almost killing him them, ripping through the bandit king's body with the sharp roots of nearby fruit trees...but she hadn't been able to stick around and make sure the monster was dead.
Uilliam said he couldn't die. That someone—he wouldn't say who exactly, but someone very powerful—had ensured that Sréng could never be killed. Whoever that was, Sorcha would see them dead. Them, whoever they were, and Sréng, and Uilliam's mother, and King Balor.
Uilliam McBás was her dearest friend, with Mabri at his side. She loved them both. They'd kept each other alive for the last ten months. He made her smile, and she kept him from sticking his head too far up his arse. So she'd taught him a few tricks to help rein in the wild magic burning through his veins, the magic he'd inherited from his immortal grandfather. Now, unlike Sréng and Captain Oonagh and the rest of that monster's spawn, Uilliam could actually harness that magic.
And it was strong. As strong as a noble's. Almost as strong as a monarch's. And against Balor's pathetic power, poisoned as he was by what he'd done to his people and his kingdom, McBás would always win.
So it didn't take long before the magical defenses around the cavalry gear splintered and girth straps came unbuckled, reins snapped like rotting leather, wagon axles buckled and snapped in half, and a very large pile of snow slipped off a thick fir branch and landed—SPLAT!—on King Balor's head.
Sorcha grinned and pressed her forehead against the trunk of her own tree. Cousin, she murmured. Great cousin, will you grant me a boon?
I will offer no harm to the king. The words rustled and shivered like leaves on the wind. Sorcha felt them like the brush of leaves on her skin, like the warmth of sunlight on her face. The song of the trees eased some of the anger always pulsing in her blood. But I will do as you ask. I am bored here with little to see. The king rarely allows travelers along the Forest Road. So I will stir up mischief for you, little cousin.
Thank you, great cousin.
She felt the tree shudder, felt the roots heave against their bed of frozen earth and ice-crusted snow. Beneath the carefully maintained dirt road, enchanted by the king, the tree's roots crawled through the earth. Her great cousin called to the rest of the trees lining the road. More roots surged through the icy ground. Weakening the earth. When the trees knew they'd done enough, they pulled their roots back to their proper place. As they withdrew, the road sagged in spots, sinking into a multitude of shallow holes that sucked down wagon wheels. The trees had been careful of the horses, however.
"It'll take them at least a day to repair those axles," Mabri mumbled, clambering onto Sorcha's tree to crouch beside her. McBás carefully moved to hover near them on another branch. "Thanks for the magic, McBás."
"It's like getting smacked betwixt the eyes," Uilliam complained. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his forehead. "Me head's splittin' like an egg."
"One more thing," Sorcha said. She nudged Mabri and pointed to a horse—a normal, mortal horse from the lack of magic surrounding it—that had lifted its tail away from its rump. "Were you serious before?"
Mabri's tiger-eyes gleamed. "Oh, yes."
Uilliam snorted. "How old are you anyway, Mabri?"
Mabri grinned. "Old enough to like things like this," he said. With an arch of one dark brow and a flexing of his magic, fresh horse dung launched itself from the road and smacked into King Balor's velvet back. The king sputtered in outrage and his guards demanded of the other men who had dared to do such a thing to their king. A grinning Sorcha, after a nudge from Mabri, whispered a request to the tree above Balor, which graciously agreed to dump a load of snow and cardinal droppings on the furious old Elf.
Shaking the snow and such from his hair, crown, and shoulders, the old Elf scanned the assembled soldiers. One poor, unfortunate soul had the misfortune of getting caught in the act of snickering. The king leveled an icy topaz stare at the young Fae warrior. Said something. The soldier dropped to one knee and pressed his fist to his heart, apologizing profusely.
"Sorcha," Uilliam whispered. "Mabri. Look." He pointed back into the forest, which was caught between winter and spring, at something dark trundling through the underbrush. Sorcha glimpsed a streak of paleness against shadow.
"Is...is that...?"
Mabri nearly choked on suppressed laughter. "Oh...oh, this is too perfect. I'll be right back."
"Mabri!" Sorcha and Uilliam hissed, but the half-goat, half-tiger boy had already scuttled down the trunk of the tree and landed without a sound in the brush. He darted away from the road, into the brush, toward the dark thing. It gave a little growling squeal and scuttled away from Mabri. The tiger-boy herded it toward the road, driving it into a rushing panic with his lunges and soft snarls.
When the creature raced for the road, squeaking and chittering, Mabri rushed back to the tree and clawed his way up the trunk to the branch where Sorcha and Uilliam waited. As soon as he settled himself, Sorcha punched him in the arm.
"Ow," Mabri grunted.
"You could've been caught," Uilliam muttered.
Mabri shook his head. "I couldn't pass up the chance, McBás. Come on...It was perfect."
And at that exact moment, the men of King Balor's legion started yelling as a white-striped black animal let loose an odiferous stream straight at the king and the Butcher woman standing beside him. And then the Faerie skunk attacked everyone that came rushing at it in their attempt to save their king from its stink. By the time they'd managed to chase it off, the three young Fae in the trees were breathless from laughing.
"You know what we need to do?" Sorcha asked when she'd at last gotten her breath back. "We need to talk to that one girl we found who was born in Elphame."
"The one from...Flow-rider?" Mabri asked.
"Florida," Sorcha said. "The myakka girl. What was her name...?"
"Marcélie," Uilliam said. "Her name is Marcélie. What do you want her for? She's only a wee thing."
"A wee thing with a very useful skill we've never thought to use before. Stupid, really." Sorcha grinned wider, showing off the sharp, needle-thin, vividly ivory teeth she'd inherited from her gancanaugh father. "I have a plan for this lot if they recover before the prince is ready, but we'll need Marcélie's help."
With one eye on the king and other Fae from Findias stripping off their skunk-sprayed clothes, Uilliam nodded. They'd done enough for now. And the members of Uilliam's group, the young ones he'd rescued from the ravaged villages, would laugh themselves sick when they heard about this.
"All right," he said. "Let's get back to the village."
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