Author's Note: hey, guys, sorry I'm so late! My beta got sick and only was able to read and edit the chap tonight. As soon as I got home from job hunting and stuff, I put it up. I hope you like it! Let me know what you think! I love you all!
Important Thing: can't remember if I mentioned this before but good news! Once Upon a Time is being made into an audio…book? I don't think it's a book, per se, but it's going to be available for audio download starting in a couple weeks. Message me if you'd like to know more about that. It will have some music to it AND it will be playable on anything that can play MP3s – cell phones, iPods, tablets, MP3 players, Nintendo DS's, all that good stuff. I'll be posting one chapter every other week until we're caught up with the current chapter on this site.
Also Important Thing: I originally said I was going to take a huge part of Once down and put it on my Pat. Re. On. I changed my mind. I didn't think that would be fair to you guys. But! Becoming my Patron means sneak peaks of upcoming chapters, access to the audio book, fan art, story-related polls, patron-only Q&As about the story, original music, bonus content, deleted scenes, playlists, and downloadable wallpapers. The tiers for these things go from $1-$5, no higher. You can pledge more if you want to, but most of this stuff is available for just $1. And you guys don't have to pledge. I don't want to blackmail you into it by taking away the chapters currently available. Everything on Pat. Re. On. is just...extra stuff I hope you'll enjoy.
Also the first chapter of the Once audiobook is available for download now. :)
Last Time on Once Upon a Time: while the village of Lallybroch celebrates the rousting and seeming-destruction of the bandits that have been plaguing them so long, the king makes his way to them along the King's Road, fearing Nuada has broken the treaty. The revelry goes on into the night, revealing unforeseen talents from Dylan's family, forging new bonds of friendship and perhaps more between the Myers family and the faeries they've come to help. After Nuada sings a love song in tribute to his lady, the king arrives and the prince and his father leave the festivities to discuss why Balor has come. Although antagonistic at first, once Balor learns the truth of Dylan's time in captivity with the bandits and how Nuada upheld the treaty anyway, the father and son share a tender moment. But the bandits aren't gone. They're on their way…if they haven't already arrived…
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Chapter One-Hundred-Twenty-Six
Through the Fire and the Flame
that is
A Short Tale of an Angry Sister and a Cute Undead Kid, an Angry Tree Maiden and Her Captain, a Lonely Dragon, Screaming, Coming to Blows for the Sake of Love, an Angry Elven Prince, Dragonfire, the Killing Blow of Winter, Elven Biology, and a Word of Warning
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Francesca tried to keep from scorching a hole in the tavern room door with her non-existent laser vision while Finbarr-the-absolute-darling refilled her cup. She had a fan-freaking-tastic buzz going. Davio had drunk way less than she had, which meant oodles of fun and games later on when the faeries finally went to bed and the party officially ended. The tavern owner, a lady with the silkiest gray goat ears Francesca had ever fantasized about stroking, had just set three plates of winter apple cake in front of her, Davio, and Finbarr the Sweetheart. Life should've been dandy.
But the king of douches was here. Hence the lasering of holes in innocent tavern room doors with justified, rage-fueled, non-existent mutant eyeball powers.
Why was that jerk even here? The whole reason Dylan had needed Cesca and the other girls (and John) to come to Faerie in the first place was because King Dickless wouldn't help his own people, even though it was clear they were in deep dog crap. Why couldn't he just go crawl into a moldy hole in the ground and die like a decent tyrant? Make His Royal Hot Pecs the new king.
"Someone should dump a bucket of raw sewage on his head," Cesca grumbled, and knocked back more of that blue Cornish mountain ale. After two cups of the stuff—cups the size of thumb-thimbles—she'd been told she could only have the special sort for Cornish knocker youths because the molten tin in the ale would kill a human if drunk in large quantities. Francesca had made a comment about living dangerously, but at Davio's look, she'd tried the tin-less ale. Still pretty tasty, and blue as a Smurf.
Finbarr gave her a funny look. Finbarr was…an odd kid. For one thing, he could pop off his own head. When he did, it didn't leave a gross, bloody stump behind; just a smooth, skinned-over neck the color of a freshly dead person. When they'd arrived in the village, Cesca had seen a little girl she'd later learned was Finbarr's sister literally lose her head for a bit, and her neck had looked the same way. Dylan had said they were something called dullahan and unlike most faeries, had no problems with human blood or iron.
Finbarr could conjure floating candles—also the color of dead people—that burned with this eerie blue fire, and never burned down. He'd used them to light the night for her during the skirmish with the bandits when she'd been tossing her glass-and-sugar bombs. This black horse with glowing green eyes followed him practically everywhere. And, weirdest of all (at least to her), he was older than literally every guy she'd ever had sex with. In fact, he was older than every really old thing she could think of. Like Lutherans. But he looked barely fifteen.
Fifteen, and brutalized. He walked with a crutch and a very pronounced limp and one arm was strung up in a sling. Francesca had figured out over the course of the last few days that the kid couldn't use his arm at all; something had happened to it and now his fingers had healed into a twisted claw and the elbow joint was lumpy and misshapen. She didn't press him about it for two reasons: she didn't want to embarrass him, and she didn't speak Gaelic.
The kid was sad and lonely. She could see it in him; it was a talent of hers. Yeah, she didn't know his language, and he didn't speak English, but she could just tell. The kid wasn't just crippled from whatever had happened to his arm and his leg; he was hurt deep inside. That was why she'd spent the evening of the faire hanging with him and Davio, inviting the kid to her table and laughing with him, smiling at him, and trying to communicate with him through what few handfuls of words she knew in Gaelic from her sister and pantomime.
She could tell the kid had a thing for her. She had a radar for that, too. Giving him a little attention, some smiles and some laughs, could do wonders for someone feeling isolated and cut off from other people.
The language barrier was a pain in the patootie. She knew Finbarr hated His Majesty King Asshat, though. He'd have enjoyed any jokes she made at the old codger's expense.
"He needs to eat a bag of dicks," she muttered into her cup. At Davio's look, she added, "Not the actual fleshy bits. The bag the dicks were shipped in. I'm thinking burlap. Scratchy."
"Careful, babe," Davio growled softly. He wasn't mad—his voice always carried a bit of a growl under the words. Part of him being whatever made him so tall, so beefy, so scaly, and possibly a little bit magical. He claimed he wasn't a faerie, but he had something going on. "Those gray faeries that came with the king?" He added. "They know English."
Cesca scowled. She hated the king's guards, too. They weren't cool like her baby sister's retinue of guards, or at least willing to stop being jerks like the prince's posse of royal babysitters (Cesca wasn't stupid; she knew the Elf prince didn't want those guys around). And knowing their luck, the crappy king's crappy guards would give Francesca more reasons to hate their guts before they all parted ways.
Her scowl only lightened when Finbarr poured her another drink. Smiling, she blew him a kiss. His corpse-colored cheeks flushed an odd bluish-purple color, like a pale bruise.
Eh, she could get behind it. It was cute in its way.
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Uilliam McBás watched the crown prince follow the thrice-cursed king into a private room and bit back an oath. Old One-Arm's magic was stronger than they'd thought, for him to get here so soon. The skunk and the persuaded trees that recognized the king's betrayal and the root-damaged road should've slowed the nasty old goat down by at least a brace of days. Stars curse him, anyway.
Making his way through the large room housing the few remaining sick and injured fae who lacked the strength to move about much or who were still under the Lady Dylan's healing care, Uilliam found his right-hand fae, Sorcha. The half-nymph held the limp hand of the recently thawed ash-tree child in Sorcha's long, acid-green claws and patted the tiny hand absently. The daughter of an apple tree lord and a gancanaugh woman, Sorcha had the look of the fabled nocturnal tree demons that often prowled the forests in the darkest part of the night. Her touch could sicken anyone who knew the lust for a woman's flesh, or ripen the bounty of an orchard of fruit trees. Her long, needle-thin white teeth gleamed when she bared them at her captain in something too vicious to be considered a smile.
"Ye alright, Sorcha?" Uilliam asked, sotto voce.
She shook her head sharply. "That…that filth has no shame. What's he doing here? He'll ruin everything!"
With an eye to a few of the Butcher Guards knocking back mugs of ale at the bar, he hissed, "Easy now, Sorcha."
"He'll slaughter every villager within twenty acres—"
"He'll try, mayhap," Uilliam said with a snort, still keeping his voice low. "And the prince will become the villages' shield if he does." Uilliam knew the Silverlance would fight the king over a single simple village. Make war on the king for a single simple village. The Silverlance obviously valued his people. When pressed, he'd make the right choice—as Uilliam had when he'd cut one brother's throat and snapped the other brother's neck to save the young slaves imprisoned in his grandfather's camp.
That vicious crack-crunch of bones breaking echoed in his head as he met the half-gancanaugh's venomous-green snake eyes.
"No one in this village will end up under the king's boot unless old One-Arm kills the Silverlance first," Uilliam added. "And I'd just like to see him try."
It sounded like a challenge, as if Balor couldn't possibly be so foolhardy or have enough soldiers to do the deed. But Uilliam meant it literally—he wanted Balor to play the fool and provoke the prince because the thirteen-year-old wanted the king very dead as soon as possible, and that seemed the most straight forward way to get it done.
Sometimes the mixed-blood boy couldn't decide who he hated more: his mother, his grandfather, or the king. Maybe they were equal…but the king was the only one just on the other side of a door.
What to do about that?
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Zhenjin knew he should have stayed away. Nuada hadn't asked him to come this time, hadn't invited him up to Dylan's chambers. But he wasn't on this floor for any illicit purpose! Hadn't ambled down Dylan's corridor, cloaked in royal glamour so no one would bother him while his foul mood deepened, because he had any intention of betraying his brother-in-soul or the mortal woman who could lay claim to both of their hearts. The Dilong crown prince wasn't standing outside his beloved moonlight's door now in the middle of the night because he sought some sort of tryst.
The problem was…he didn't know why he was there, other than his distracted wandering had led him here. To her door. To all that he'd tasted oh so briefly, all that was forbidden him by honor and trust.
He shouldn't have been there. There was no reason to visit her now, except that some small, flickering feeling in his chest drew him treacherously on.
Zhenjin rapped on the door once, sharply
He hadn't missed any of his old friend's interactions with the mortal truelove once Dylan and Nuada had returned from wherever they'd been all day. The happy smiles full of love, the dancing full of tenderness and joy, even Nuada's well-sung tribute to his lady. Zhenjin tried not to resent his friend for being allowed to publicly serenade Dylan. For being able to dance with her without having to fear any dangerous rumors of infidelity.
He did, he realized as he heard Dylan moving around on the other side of the door, resent one thing—that Dylan hadn't told him how they'd somehow incurred the temporary wrath of the Black Dragon That Devours, what the people of Bethmoora called the Darkness That Eats All Things. Shaohao had been the one to tell him. Unasked, unsought, the Red Dragon had contacted his already-furious little brother mind-to-mind earlier that afternoon. He'd sounded…almost apologetic. Which was laughable, because His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Shaohao Ti-Lung apologized to no one.
When he'd told Zhenjin about the night's events, the information had come crashing down on the other prince in icy waves: Dylan, alone and unprotected as the eternally ravenous, eldritch being slipped into her room and dug its claws into her flesh, hungry for her…only to be persuaded at the last minute to grant them an extension, leaving Dylan shaking with fear as the shadows seeped from the room and the blood seeped from her torn skin.
And it was Shaohao—Shaohao!—who'd healed the tears in her mortal flesh and comforted her a little in the icy darkness while she trembled and wept.
Dylan hadn't told him. Hadn't called for him through their new and unwanted but still useful empathic connection forged by his brother's invasive magic when she'd been in danger, though fear might account for that…if she hadn't then left the village with Nuada with nary a word to him about the fact that those moments of blissful torture, of agonizing paradise in her room while he lied to himself that she loved him had done nothing. That somehow, he'd failed her and she was in danger of being ripped apart by the Black Dragon That Devours.
She hadn't told him. Nuada hadn't told him. He'd had to find out the bonds of that damned oath were strangling them all from Shaohao, of all people. His brother, yes, but also his enemy. Why had no one told him about the oath-beast coming for Dylan? He had a right to know. The oath involved him, too.
The mortal currently occupying Zhenjin's thoughts opened the door and he found himself swallowing the recriminations dancing on the tip of his tongue.
She looked tired. He hadn't seen her so pale since before he'd left Findias after confessing himself to her. The cuts slashing dark and painful across her still-healing face made his chest ache with sympathy. A shadow darkened her gaze, and he wondered if he'd been the one to put it there. Fear hovered at the edges of her mind—he saw it in her expression, but also felt it pulsing like a dull ache through their new bond. Was it the Black Dragon she feared? Or the arrival of the wretched Tuathan king?
Because the Dilong prince hadn't missed that happy little event earlier, either. Too many enemies had come calling in recent days, and no one had even warned him of the possibility.
"Lady Dylan?" One of the mortal's assembled Butcher Guards asked, concerned. "Milady, is anything amiss? It's late; we thought you abed."
Dylan squinted, shielding her eyes with one hand as if she looked into the sun. At her side, the milk-white and shadow-black hound pups Nuada had given her pushed forward and sneezed when their noses came close to him.
"Holy crow, Zhen, kill the glamour," Dylan mumbled. "You're giving me a headache."
His glamour. He'd forgotten. Thanks to the blessing of the fear darrig Dylan had earned as a young woman, she could see through all but a monarch's glamour. Even a royal heir's glamour was penetrable, but it hurt her. Zhenjin dropped the spell and the Butcher Guards, already bristling, surged to attention, hands on the hilts of their massive, magically-bound iron claymores. The hounds yipped in startlement and bared their teeth.
"Prince Zhenjin!" That same guard snapped, but Dylan held up a tired but regal hand and the guard fell silent again. The Dragon Prince felt those snake-like eyes glaring at him through the slits in the Butcher Guard's helmet. It was bad form to use glamour this way, he thought. What was wrong with him? If Dylan's betrothed had been anyone but Nuada, that betrothed might have challenged him for the impropriety of it all.
Folding her arms across her chest, Dylan leaned against the doorframe and hugged herself as if chilled.
"Hey." Her eyes and voice, gentle. An echo of exhaustion and nerves in the single word she offered him. A weary smile curved her scarred lips.
He remembered those lips from the night before. The feel of them, like the silk of an Onibi fan with the thinnest of ribbing because of the cuts on her mouth. The taste of her like warm apple cider. The phantom brush of her mouth burned through his thoughts, but he ruthlessly shoved that all away. Did his best to focus. She didn't want anyone fantasizing about her in such a way—him or Nuada included. Honor demanded he heed her wishes.
So…what would he say to her casual, friendly, tired greeting? Perhaps he might demand to know why she hadn't told him about being attacked by the Black Dragon. Why he hadn't been warned that King Balor was coming to the village that sat at the heart of so much he wouldn't have approved of. Nuada had spies aplenty, surely he'd known his father traveled to them.
Dylan shifted and pain tightened her features. Her bad leg? Shaohao had claimed he'd healed it almost completely and only an unholy amount of abuse would cause her pain now, but Dylan had a habit of pushing herself too far. Or her back? That monster had carved her nearly to the bone.
There were so many things to say. A thousand words crammed into his throat: recriminations and confessions, apologies and comforts. Zhenjin opened his mouth as he unconsciously reached for her.
"Zhenjin? What's the matter?"
"Dylan…Dylan, I—"
From far off, beyond the windows in Dylan's bedroom, there came a muffled whumph! An explosion of tinkling glass followed by a short, sharp sigh of half-scalding air like a bannacon's steamy breath. A blaze of light flared through the window Zhenjin could see over Dylan's shoulder, flickering orange and yellow and scarlet like blood.
Then the screaming began.
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Petra Myers was almost entirely positive this was a huge mistake. Not only was this guy an Elf or something else with pointy ears, he was a prince. The crown prince, like Prince Nuada was for his kingdom. And yeah, okay, she'd more than earned a night off after everything that had happened since finding out her sister wasn't crazy and faeries really did exist, but…there were so many reasons why hooking up with anybody on this trip was a bad idea. So she tried to ignore the open admiration in Prince Dastan's midnight dark eyes as they chatted in Farsi about knife-throwing techniques. He had good tips, so she pretended she didn't notice how the tall man angled his body and lowered his head whenever she spoke, to give her his full attention while avoiding crowding her (something Warren, her ex-husband, had never done).
Tried to do all that, but she failed. Dastan didn't just appreciate her looks – although she knew he certainly appreciated those, too – he listened to her. This was even more surprising than it would've been with someone else because Dastan was a freaking crown prince. He had no reason to even give her the time of day. And he wasn't being nice to impress Nuada; the pasty prince detested Petra and she had a feeling Dastan knew Nuada well enough to figure that out.
Why was Dastan being so nice to her? Just because he liked her?
He'd asked her to dance more than seven times during the fae festival; was that an old-fashioned way of asking a girl out? If he'd been anything other than a prince, she probably wouldn't have been so hesitant. He seemed nice enough, and he was…so ripped, holy hell. Maybe that was a faerie prince thing. But…still…
"Lady Petra?" When Dastan brushed two fingers against the back of her hand, she jumped. He immediately withdrew. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to startle you."
"No problem," she said automatically. "Sorry, did you ask me a question?"
"I asked how long you intended to travel with your honorable sister and His Highness, Prince Nuada."
Petra swallowed. Dylan hadn't said if the super-sneaky part of her plan to help the northern villages was supposed to be a secret from literally everyone – including Nuada's friends – but the King Who Couldn't Be Bothered was here, and Dylan had warned all her siblings that had come with her not to trust the old man with the bizarre rack of antlers growing out of his skull. Ever. But you also weren't supposed to lie to faeries ever, either. She remembered that much from Dylan's stories when they were kids.
"As long as Dylan wants me, I guess." That should be a safe enough answer, she decided.
"Do not most humans have careers to attend to?"
She shrugged, silently grateful they'd shifted to somewhat safer territory now. "I manage a security firm now that I'm not in the military. They can spare me for a bit. And my…" She hesitated. "A colleague of mine can be trusted to keep our company in the black for a bit and running smoothly, even without me there."
"A colleague?"
He'd heard that slight hitch in her speech; crap. Was that, like, an Elf thing? She cleared her throat. Nodded. "He's a rat-faced weasel, but he's good with money and thinks I'm not worth cheating, so…" She shrugged and tried not to think too much about Warren.
Warren was cold. Aloof. Condescending. He had the heart and conscience of a shark. He hated Dylan, had for a while. Actually hated her. His loathing for Petra's baby sister had been the bone of contention that had, according to him at least, destroyed his and Petra's marriage. He'd demanded she cut all ties with Dylan after Rowan's murder, even before the trial that had allowed the Blackwood brothers to go free. Division between the Myers siblings had been the last thing any of them had needed right then, but Warren hadn't agreed.
Divorcing him hadn't saved her from having to work with him, but his icy demeanor at the firm made it surprisingly easy. It didn't hurt to see that disgust and hate in his eyes anymore. She didn't feel anything when she saw him anymore except annoyance and the constant stabbing reminder that her daughter was dead – and that reminder would've been there even if she and Warren had stayed married.
The ice didn't surprise her, though. He blamed Dylan for Rowan's death. Because Petra didn't blame Dylan, Warren blamed Petra, too.
"Lady Petra?"
She shook her head to clear it, dragged herself back to the present. "Sorry. Just thinking about…stuff."
"Your colleague?"
She didn't know what made her admit it, but she said, "Yeah." Did he look disappointed? "I'm sorry," she found herself adding. "It's not…what you think." Ohmigawd, shut up, shut up, what was she doing? "I actually kind of hate the guy. He's a rotten bastard. Unfortunately, I'm stuck with him. He's my ex."
Why had she said that?
"Your…ex?" Dastan echoed, brow furrowed. "Ex-lover, you mean?" His dark eyes widened and he straightened. "Forgive me, Lady Petra! I should not have asked that. I know humans are often reticent about such things, forgive me for prying. I mean no offense-"
"Ex-husband," she interrupted. His eyebrows rose a little higher. "Do faeries not do divorce or something?" Dylan had said something about the fae being all about vows and promises and keeping their word. Oath-breaking was nearly always punishable by torture or death. Did they consider divorce a form of oath-breaking?
Heat prickled across Petra's neck – nerves or embarrassment or something else entirely, she had no idea. But to her surprise, Dastan simply canted his head to her without directly answering her question.
"I see," he said instead. "Forgive me for questioning you about something so private. I would never purposely cause you pain, my lady. But…" He hesitated, and she propped her chin on her fist, wondering what he was going to say. "Divorce is…rare among the fae, but it happens. It depends on the race, the culture, the kingdom, and of course the reason. Has your sister told you of the Gaelic fae called maighdeann ròin?" Petra shook her head. "Roan maidens. Seal-women. You find them all over the coasts of Bethmoora and Eírc and Cíocal, up into Álfheim and scattered through the islands of Annwn. They're said to be the daughters and granddaughters of Dylan ail Don, the Wave-Prince of Annwn. That's why I thought your sister might have told you the story."
Petra opened her mouth. Closed it again. How to explain that Petra had refused to let Dylan tell her any stories for more than two decades now? That none of their sisters had believed the things their youngest sister had said about the creatures living in the woods and the creek and the neighboring farmers' fields? He'd hate her if she told him what she and her sisters had put Dylan through as children, as teens. As adults. She still hated herself more than a little for it.
But Dastan rescued her before the ensuing silence turned too awkward. "I mention the roan maidens because you asked about divorce. Nuada and some other friends from those kingdoms explained to me once that roan blood tends to thin out over the centuries, and when fae were more plentiful in your realm, roan maidens and seal-lads would come on shore and take human form to marry mortal husbands and wives. To help thicken the blood again."
Petra cocked her head. "Thicken?"
"Sea-folk are different from most fae born to western kingdoms. Lady Dylan no doubt mentioned before you arrived that most of the fae of Bethmoora can't abide iron, salt, lead, steel, or rowan wood?" Dastan asked. She nodded. "The sea-folk are different. They need the salt in their blood to keep them anchored to the salt of the sea. All sea-folk that aren't made of water themselves walk a thinner line between flesh and fey than the rest of us; the sea itself is a seething cauldron of mundane and magic. Legend says the salt of the sea struck a bargain with the ocean's heart in eons past and so the seas are the only thing in both realms that are equal parts mortal and immortal, mundane and magic.
"The sea-folk aren't quite the same; the balance isn't as well kept without outside influence and care. The salt in their blood, which came from the Wave-Prince Dylan ail Don – he was mortal once, you know – is broken down by the magic in their veins over time. But if the balance between their mundane and magic sides is broken, they'll lose much of their power. For the selkies, the roan maidens and their seal-lads, it's even worse. If they lose the salt of the sea from their blood, they lose the ability to shed their seal skins and take human form. When the salt-sea fades from their blood, they call it thinning. And then they go to mortal villages and wed a young man or woman to bring new salt to the blood. To thicken it again, restoring the balance.
"We fae take our vows very seriously; I'm sure you know that. But there is a balancing of vows when marriage is bargain. When a pair wed – man with woman or man with man or woman with woman or neither with neither, it matters not – there's a promise to care for each other, to never abandon the other. But woe to anyone, mortal or fae, that mistreats a fae spouse. Selkies divorce quite often because the humans they wed mistreat them."
"Are they the only ones?"
"No," he said, and took a sip of his drink. "It's also a bit different among royals and the nobility than commoners. Marriages are forged for politics as often as not, without affection in the match. Taking a lover beyond the marriage bed isn't uncommon in those instances, especially because divorce can't be pursued when alliances are on the line. But with commoners, it depends on the reason and the culture and the race, as I said. Some fae races don't believe in marriage at all. Some believe in polyamory and so divorce is rarer because if there's a reason for divorce – beyond abuse, such as growing tired of one's spouse or wanting another – they simply take another spouse and spend more time with the new one than the old."
"What about where you're from?" She didn't know why she cared. Didn't know why it was important that he didn't think badly of her for ditching Warren when he'd demanded she choose between him and the rest of her family.
"Shahbaz?" Dastan shrugged. "Some take one spouse, some take many. Some divorce where politics allow, some believe it to be a sin against the gods. Shahbaz is peopled with many races from across the continents. Our culture has adapted and shifted to accommodate them over the millennia."
She nodded. Stared into her cup of spiced perry – Dylan had said it was like cider, except made with pears. It was sweeter than cider. Silkier, smoother. She really liked it, but she blamed the drink for her next question.
"What do you think?"
Dastan studied her for a long moment. "I think that I have not the gift of mind-touch possessed by many royals who count themselves my friends, such as Nuada. I think that it is easy to make judgments of others without knowing all that one should know before making such judgments – if the right to judge is even there at all. And I think that you are a woman who does not foolishly malign others simply because you've a whim to do so. If you say this man is a…rotten bastard, then he did not deserve someone like you, and you are better off without him."
"I…you don't even know me, though."
He shrugged. "I know Nuada. I see how he looks at your sister. How he asks for her opinion, listens to her, respects her wisdom. He would not do so if she wasn't worthy of his respect and regard. And because I know and trust Nuada Silverlance, I trust your sister. And because I trust your sister, and because I love Nuada as a brother, I pay attention to what he and your sister do. So I have seen you, Petra Myers. Seen you fight for these people who are not your own. Seen how they have come to accept you, despite your human blood. Seen you work like a slave to help them in any way you can. I may not know you as the Silverlance knows the Lady Dylan, or even as Zhenjin Azurefire knows her, but I have seen you. And I very much admire what I have seen."
No one, she thought, had ever spoken to her this way before. Men had given her compliments, and not just on her looks. Some women, too, when she'd dated women, though it had been harder to find girlfriends than boyfriends back when she'd been in the dating game. But it wasn't…quite the same. Part of it, she decided, was that people didn't really think or talk the way Dastan and the other fae did. Not in the human world. Well, maybe the fae in the human world did, but she'd never met any until Nuada and that big, boulder-like guy Dylan insisted was a troll. Oh, and that tiny brown man who lived in her house and did her dishes. But she hadn't talked to either of them. She couldn't understand the troll's gravelly speech and the brown guy had vanished from the room before she could say anything and she hadn't seen him since.
Dastan had…evaluated her, but not in a way that made her feel gross. It wasn't an evaluation of her worth based on superficial crap like the size of her tits or her butt. He'd really paid attention to her, but not in a creepy stalker way. It was…odd. She didn't know how to feel about it.
It was hard to make decisions when she was tired and a little drunk and he sat there looking more than a little delicious in that loose, white linen shirt and black pants like something out of Prince of Persia (which she only knew because it was her daughter's favorite video game series and Ari had watched the movie a good six-hundred times). Maybe she should just say "screw it" and ask if he wanted to go up to her room.
No. No, she was drunk and he was a prince and it would be so weird in the morning. No. Not doing that.
But maybe…
"Your former husband," Dastan said, interrupting the rambling of her inebriated thoughts. "He has offered you no harm, of course."
It was phrased like a statement, but it didn't feel like one. More like a question. Was he asking if Warren had hit her? She thought of the two times, the only times her ex-husband had struck her. The first time, before the divorce, he'd said such horrible things about Dylan and she'd fired back a few nasty things about him and suddenly his palm had cracked across her face and pain had burst like blood through her cheek and jaw. The second time had been after the divorce, on the anniversary of Rowan's death, at her grave. He'd tried to order to leave, claimed she had no right to be there. He'd said horrible things about her that time and she'd told him to shut up and stop disgracing their daughter's memory.
He hadn't slapped her that time. Luckily, she'd been with Simone of all people, the sister right smack in the middle of them all, and Simone had broken Warren's nose and dislocated his shoulder before he could hit Petra more than twice. She'd had to go to Dylan to have her face patched up but Warren had never spoken another word to her that wasn't related to his desire to take custody of their three remaining children or their work at the firm.
Never lie to the fae. Dylan had drilled this into her siblings' heads as kids as if their lives depended on it – they had, but only Dylan and John had known that. Never, ever lie outright. Prevaricate, dodge, outmaneuver, trick. Apparently the Hidden People enjoyed word games like that. But never lie.
Petra studied Dastan. Why ask? Well, it was obvious he liked her. Nuada and that Chinese guy with the green scales on his face and neck were so protective of Dylan. Did liking someone make fae super-protective? She'd have to talk to Francesca, the closest thing Petra had to an expert on the subject of magical romance (Dylan had never had a boyfriend before this). She also couldn't ask Dylan in case Warren came up, because Dylan believed Warren was right to hate her – and oddly, their sister Simone agreed; that would change once everything was revealed to the last two Myers sisters – and she didn't know it was Warren who'd struck Petra. How would it make her feel to find out, since Warren's hate for them both stemmed from Dylan's involvement with the Blackwoods?
"My sister doesn't know," Petra said at last. Dastan's light copper skin flushed dark and black ice frosted his midnight eyes. His hands clenched around his mug, knuckles white, and a muscle flexed in his taut jaw. "And I would appreciate it if you didn't tell her. Okay?"
"Are you in any danger from this man, my lady?" He asked far too softly. Petra shivered.
But Warren's last strike had come more than three years ago. "No."
Finally, after what felt like several small eternities, Dastan nodded. "As you wish, my lady." He hesitated, then went on, "Lady Petra…I hope we might be able to consider one another to be friends?"
She smiled. "I'd like that—"
Both of them were on their feet, Dastan's akinaka unsheathed and her ceramic Bowie knife in her hand, and they were halfway to the front door of the tavern before conscious thought overrode base instinct and Petra realized they'd both reacted to the sounds of agonized screaming and someone bellowing, "Fire! Fire in the west field! Fire!"
The west field. That was where the little unicorn, Fluttershy, had worked her magic to mend the poisoned soil and bring the crops back to life. Fire? Now? Oh, no…
Petra only stopped her headlong dash to the front door when Pauline grabbed her and shoved a leather coat at her and another one at Mary, who'd also come running at the screams. When Petra tried to jerk away from the woman who shared her face, Pauline grabbed her again.
"It's like, twenty below freezing out there, practically! You'll get sick!"
"Pauline's right," Dylan yelped as she half-scrambled, half-stumbled down the stairs. That Chinese Elf with the green eyes and the scales was right beside her. What had he been doing upstairs with Dylan? "You step out there like that without a coat, you'll become hypothermic in less than ten minutes and we'll have to have someone carry you back inside. Ailbho, I'm going to need you to carry me to the field."
Everyone froze at that. Nuada, who'd come into the main room with the king from wherever they'd been sequestered, cleared his throat in the sudden silence.
"Are you well, Dylan? Perhaps you should—"
"You might need me for triage if too many people are hurt," she said. Shoving on her own coat and grabbing a russet-red cloak lined with gray fur, she said, "My leg is killing me, I need to run, and it's snowing. Ailbho is the strongest of my guards, I can't run, and he can. Ailbho, can you carry me?"
The shortest of the male guards who always followed Dylan shook himself and then nodded. "Of course, my lady. Pick-up-back?"
Cloak on, Dylan tied back her tumbling curls with a scrunchie. "Yep. Let's go."
"Dylan," Nuada began, "I can—"
"People are screaming," she said briskly. "You need to run without worrying about me. Elven speed. I'll be right behind you. Zhen, go with him." The Chinese Elf nodded without meeting her gaze and went to the other prince, who led him outside. "Eimh, Setanta, you're with Nuada for this, too. I'll be all right."
The two hounds ducked their heads, pressed their noses into Dylan's palm for an instant, then followed the princes out the door.
"Petra, you're fast, too. Run," Dylan said.
Petra didn't bother nodding. She just bolted out the door into the snow, Dastan pulling ahead of her. Silver-gray eyes fixed on the angry orange glow ahead, the horrific screams echoing in her ears, she did as her sister ordered.
She ran.
And when she reached the site of the fire, what she saw made her stumble and she tripped and crashed into a snowdrift. She floundered, flailing in the snow, trying to stand. Prince Dastan caught her by the arm and hauled her to her feet.
"What…" Petra croaked, throat stinging from smoke and cold. "What is that?"
The fire roared, crunching through the newly-regrown crops like demonic teeth, licking at the snow, soil, and midnight sky. But the fire raged white-hot, the heart of it the blue-violet of a newborn star. Everyone gathered to fight it hesitated several dozen yards away, unable to get any closer to the volcanic heat boiling the night air. And in the midst of the of the flames, like smears of writhing darkness behind an odd shimmer that made her dizzy to look at it, were twin silhouettes. The source of the vicious, terrible, crushing screaming.
"What…we have to…" Petra looked around, shielding her face from the eye-searing blaze with one upraised arm. "Why isn't anyone doing anything?" She yelled over the screams. "We have to—"
"We can't," Dastan shouted back, pitching his voice to carry over the roar of the flames. "We have Zhenjin, but we need his brothers! This is dragonfire. We can't put it out! It has to be smothered with magic."
"But what about those people—"
"They're already dead," Dastan replied. "They just don't know it. There's nothing we can do for them."
The inferno surged skyward and the screaming rose in pitch. Petra flinched from the sound. Gasping, threads of sulfurous-smelling smoke wisping up her nose and slithering down her throat, she lunged forward. She had to do something! Two pairs of strong arms like bands of steel closed around her. She yelled, "No!" Tried to lunge out of their grip. The heat sucked the moisture from the air, from her skin, from her mouth. The screaming clawed at her ears. "No!"
"Petra!" Not Dastan. Another man. Familiar, but not…"Petra, stop!"
"No! Let me go! I have to help—"
"Stop, Petra!" Not John, but familiar, but she couldn't listen, couldn't think about it. "There's nothing you can do!"
"Mistress Myers?" Another voice, a woman, this one she recognized but she couldn't listen to it, either. "Child, you can't possibly go into that inferno!" But she had to, she had to-
"Let me go!" She had to make the screaming stop, had to help whoever was trapped in the fire. Why were they stopping her? "Let me go!"
Firm but gentle hands closed around her wrists. Someone shook her, hard, just once. It sent a crack fissuring through her panic, her desperation, her need to run into the flames and stop that screaming. Eyes like dust-grimed topazes in twin pits of darkness caught her gaze. Held it.
"There is nothing you can do, Petra," Nuada said softly. Somehow she heard him over the roar of the dragonfire. "Going in there will be your death. You must stop now."
"No, please," she didn't know why she begged, what she could do, but there had to be something! "No…"
There were diamond chips in Nuada's eyes, frost glittering on his moon-white, blue-tinged cheeks. Petra stared at the frost-glitter as tears slipped down her cheeks and froze to her skin. Her mouth trembled and she shook her head, desperate, pleading.
"No, something—"
"No, Petra," Nuada said. The fire was dying now, the heat choking and sputtering. Behind Nuada, three men stood with their hands stretched toward the flames, heads bent. The white and blue-violet began to leech from the fire, yellow and orange and pale blue taking their place. "There is nothing. Come away."
"I…I can't…they…but they…"
"No, Petra. No. Come away." It wasn't frost on his cheeks, she realized, wasn't diamonds in his eyes. He gripped her shoulders and whispered, "There is nothing. Come along now."
She swallowed. Gasped out a choked sob. How did he do this? How did he stand this? The screaming hadn't stopped yet, somehow. It echoed through the winter air. How often had he heard screams like this? How often had he been forced to do nothing while people died?
"Those people—"
"They are already dead," Nuada said softly. His gaze shifted a fraction. "Dastan, Mistress Stooree, can you help her?"
"Of course, Your Highness!" That woman's voice. Mistress Stooree. Whuppity. She'd told Petra she could call her by her given name, Whuppity. The leprechaun woman. Her plump arms came around Petra's shoulders and the leprechaun woman said, "Come along now, Mistress Myers. Petra, dear, you must come away now. It's all right, there's a lamb." And Dastan was there on her other side, drawing her back from the charred crops and the screaming while Nuada turned away from her.
She watched him as he bowed his head, then raised it and lifted one hand, palm out. His fingers shook and he twisted them into a fist. Sweat stood out against his forehead and his arm trembled. He shifted his stance, planting his feet in the snow. Hunched his shoulders. Lowered his head like a bull about to charge and tightened his clenched fist.
A slow rumble filled the air. Petra hugged herself and brushed at the tears frozen to her skin. Mistress Stooree whispered something in Gaelic that sounded like a prayer. Dastan swore.
"What's he doing?" Petra whispered.
"Calling the winter," Mistress Stooree whispered. "He's got no gift for fire, but the winter of this land will answer him. And it will kill for him if he gives it a target and he's given enough time to bring it to bay. He's putting those poor souls out of their misery."
"It's all he can do," Dastan said.
Snow spewed up into the air from the heart of the flames, geysers of white that turned to glistening water and then to silver vapor before escaping the grip of the dying fire. In the air, hovering like clouds above the churning smoke and flames, the mist turned to knife-sharp shards of jagged ice as winter froze it again. Nuada set his shoulders, flexed his fingers open, straining. And he brought his arm down in a sharp swing with a growled word in Gaelic that seemed to tear from his throat.
In the instant the fire died completely and the three men with their arms outstretched toward it collapsed to their knees, the shards of killing winter slammed down on the writhing shadows at the heart of the carnage.
The screaming stopped.
Petra sank into Mistress Stooree's arms as silence fell, a silence that thundered in her ears. Nuada staggered back and nearly fell, and both women leapt forward and grabbed him before he could hit the snow. Dastan came up and offered his own support to help keep the other prince on his feet.
"T'was a good thing ye've done, Sire," Mistress Stooree whispered. "Never let anyone tell ye otherwise."
Nuada hung his head and drew a breath that shuddered, letting it out in a wisp of steam. Shivers wracked his body and Petra wondered how much power it had taken to "call the winter."
Just then, Dylan's guards arrived with their lady in their midst. Dylan slid from the broad, gray back of her youngest guard, boots crunching through the ice-crust on the snow. She went to Nuada with only a brief glance at the smoke and ruin. A single long look between Petra and her baby sister told the youngest Myers girl everything she needed to know about Petra's current state and the prince's condition. She nodded to Petra and focused on Nuada.
.
Dylan slid off Ailbho's back and took in the sight of the burnt and blackened crops, the weary trio of royal Dilong Elves, Nuada being held up by Petra and a leprechaun woman and Prince Dastan, and the two charred silhouettes bound to scarecrow platforms dozens of yards away. What was going on here?
A glance at Petra told Dylan her sister was shaken and heartsick, but she'd hold for now. Nuada was so gray his skin was almost blue, shaking with reaction and effort. She'd felt the magic of the heir being brought to bear as they'd approached the clearing. Ailbho had explained that was the incredible pressure that made her bones ache and teeth itch. Prince Dastan's callused fingers brushed over Nuada's shoulders and up along his neck and where the other prince touched him, color and life seemed to flow into Nuada. Dylan wondered absently if that was some sort of magical gift the other prince possessed. She filed the question away for later perusal and went to her own prince.
"Nuada?" As she approached, he straightened and pulled away from Dastan, Petra, and the other woman, focusing with a little difficulty on Dylan's face. "What happened?"
It was Zhenjin, still on his knees in the snow that had turned now to dirty, soot-streaked slush, who answered. "Dragonfire."
A chill shivered through Dylan. "What?"
"Magically harnessed dragonfire," Zhenjin croaked. He trembled too, and Dylan realized abruptly that the reason the heir-magic had been so heavy, so impossibly heavy on her skin, was that it hadn't just been Nuada's power in the air, but Zhenjin's. If it had been dragonfire raging through the crops, they'd have needed the heir of Dilong and at least two other dragon Elves to harness the flames. "I don't know how," he added hoarsely, "but it was harnessed elsewhere and unleashed here. My brothers and I put it out, but…oh. Tā mā de." And he dropped to all fours and threw up into the mud.
"Zhenjin!" Dylan cried, but he waved her off, still throwing up.
Nuada snagged her sleeve before she could rush over to him. "The strain was too much; it taxed his magical immunity to the smoke. He'll be fine after he's had some time to recover. Your sister—"
"I'm fine," Petra said. She wiped at her face and winced when ice chips peeled off her cheeks. "How did this happen? Was this an attack? What happened exactly?" Dylan noticed she took care not to look at the heart of the carnage.
"Bandits," Nuada growled. "Somehow…I don't know how." Dylan's eyes widened; had he really just expressed ignorance to Petra of all people? "The question is why. No one is attacking in the disruption and chaos. So why…" He trailed off and turned toward the smoke and char. Before Dylan could say anything or ask any questions, Nuada stalked toward the blackened scarecrows at the center of the burn-field. Dylan rushed after him, limping as her leg throbbed.
She'd catapulted down the stairs from her room on the tavern's third floor at the sound of the screaming and she'd felt something shift in her bad knee. But it hadn't been the agony she'd expected, so she'd silently thanked Heavenly Father for that blessing and kept moving. Though it wasn't excruciating, it still hurt to walk, to follow her prince. The smoke still drifting up from the ruined crops stung her nose and eyes until she had to cover the lower half of her face with one arm. Even then, the smoke tickled in her throat.
Nuada pressed on until he reached the scarecrows and Dylan realized they were not, in fact, scarecrows. Her heart tripped in her chest and she stared at the skeletal, charred corpses hung from the crossbeams that shimmered with potent magic. Magic that warped and twisted the air until it sickened her to see it, curdling in her stomach and throbbing like a migraine behind her eyes. Some form of glamour – not illusion, something else – at least as strong as Nuada's own power.
"They were crucified," Nuada rasped. She stared at him, stricken. "Without the crurifragium, but still…and then they were left to burn, the beams guarded by magic. And so were they – guarded by magic and left to burn, but oh so slowly. Left to scream so that we might hear them and know their suffering."
Dylan swallowed. Closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. She had a job to do now. She would be princess of Bethmoora soon. She was Nuada's betrothed. These were her people who'd been tortured and left to die. She had a job to do for them. She had her task. She would do it.
"What was the reason here?" Nuada demanded. She heard the tears thickening his voice along with the smoke. "Why do this?"
Dylan opened her eyes and forced herself to look at the burnt forms.
"A message," she said. Nuada turned to her. With a trembling hand, she pointed to the victims. "Two people – one human, presumably female, and one Elf, presumably male."
"How do you know that?"
She gestured, trying to keep her movements brisk. "Hyper-developed ear bones. The Elf's own magic helped preserve them. Humans have two-hundred-six bones in their bodies, but the ears are mostly cartilage and would've burned away. Elves have two-hundred-thirty-nine bones. There are an extra twenty-two in the ears, and a lot less cartilage.
"Humans only have thirty-two teeth – not counting wisdom teeth. Elves have forty-two, with extra teeth near the front – an extra set of bicuspids, two extra sets of incisors, and the front teeth and eye-teeth are narrower to fit more teeth in the front. They're also denser and a little thicker than human teeth, a little sharper, but Elven dentition is the closest to human in what types of teeth are where. Only some Welsh fae come close, but the ones that do have rounded ears."
This was just a lesson. Like all the lessons she'd learned in medical school and in the field trying to learn faerie medicine. Focus on the medicine, on biology. Just like in med school. Just like at the Floating Night Market when she'd attended demonstrations and tutoring sessions. These weren't corpses they were discussing. They were cadavers, just like the ones she'd studied in school. This was a lesson. A medical lecture.
"How do you know the sex?"
She made another gesture. Forced her voice to remain toneless when she said, "The girl's bones. Her hips and pelvis are rounder than a male's. Also the thickness of her femurs and humeri. I could be wrong, but there are subtle markers you're taught to look for in a skeleton to help determine biological sex. As a psychiatrist, I had to memorize this stuff when any of my patients presented with gender dysphoria so we could explore…you know what? That's not important. The point is, I notice. And Elven skeletons have more sex-specific features. The Elf's shins, look. The bone spurs, do you see them?"
After a moment, he nodded.
"Elves that are assigned male at birth have spurs off-shooting from the tibia and fibia. The lower leg bones," she explained at his blank look. It was just a biology lesson. Focus on the data. "Elves have more blood vessels in their lower legs than most so-called 'humanoid' fae. Those assigned male at birth have about twenty-percent more of those extra blood vessels than those assigned female at birth. They've developed the bone spurs to protect the blood vessels, I think.
"So, a biologically male Elf, a biologically female human. My instincts as a psychiatrist are saying I shouldn't be surprised if we were to learn the girl was a blue-eyed brunette and the boy was Tuathan."
Nuada nearly choked. He stepped back from the bodies, hands convulsing into fists so tight they shook.
"A message, he snarled low in his throat, "from Sréng mac Umhor."
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Author's Note: for the record, I finished this back at the end of November! But my beta got really, really sick. Like, couldn't sit up or get out of bed sick. So sorry again that this took so long! I'm going to try to get her the next chapter before Christmas so she can have it edited in time for New Year's! I hope you guys enjoyed it. Let me know what you think, any favorite parts, etc. Love you guys! Happy Decemberween!