Once Upon a Time

by LA Knight

Wolves in human skin. A Beast and a lost maiden. A sanctuary in a storm. A prince of Elven blood. Sacrifices, debts, honor, & oaths. Ten long, beautiful years, and all the stories that fall within. A collected fic series; currently on book 13. Updates when I can because hey it's a pandemic. Early access available on Patreon.

140. Feel It Coming in the Air Tonight

Author's Note: I'm back. Sorry for the long wait. A lot of stuff happened. Stuff is still happening. I hope everyone reading this is safe, and that your loved ones are safe. The world is dark and full of terrors right now. Hopefully we'll all be able to find something good to bring us a little joy in the days to come.

Dedication:

To Animeguard, j . sciyye . schmidt, Dreamgirl, Dreamlady, BreeB23, and Ravyn Moon 1313 for the encouragement I needed while the world was going to Hell.

To my Patrons, who show me all the love.

And to my friend Xan West, aka Corey Alexander. I'll miss you. May your memory be a blessing.

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Last Time on Once Upon a Time: Dylan and Nuada were in the middle of getting married, about to kiss and seal the binding marriage spell, when bandits returned to attack Lallybroch. Nuada and 'Sa'ti were captured, and now Dylan and the others have to figure out a way to rescue them without breaking the treaty or bringing down the wrath of the king. Running out of options, Dylan might just have to do the unthinkable...

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Once Upon a Time Book 13: The Princess of Autumn and Shadow

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Chapter One-Hundred-Forty

Feel It Coming in the Air Tonight

that is

A Short Tale of Concussion, Going Back In, a Sister's Worry, Drinking with the Girls, Nuada's History with Brownies, Brothers, a Royal Husband and His Lovely Wife, Something Wrong in the Woods, a Lovely Estate, Open Eyes, Nothing for Pleasure, a Daughter for a Daughter, Begging, an Oath for an Oath, the First Command, Oonagh & Briogh, the Keeper's Heir, a Glimpse of Halloween Towers, the Necessity of Pants, Getting to the Point, Indignity, a Possibility of Liver or Tongue, a Heap of Noodles and Jelly, Weeping, Her Majesty, Reading Aloud, Two Ds at Once, an Accident with a Pig Pen and a Vulture, a Dream of the King, a Desperate Plan, and Phone Calls

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Greasy, twisting nausea shuddered through Nuada's stomach as dull sounds drifted to his ears: the clank of horse tack, the crunch of snow, the muttering of people all around him. He lay face down upon something pleasantly warm that refused to hold still while his head swam. His gorge rose as the warm thing plodded through the snow; somehow, perhaps through sheer force of will, he managed to keep from being ill.

'Sa'ti. Where was 'Sa'ti? He didn't dare move his head, for fear of retching. Pain screamed through his skull in tandem with the churning in his belly. That meant something, though he couldn't remember what. All he could think of was 'Sa'ti. He could not recall why, but she was in danger. He knew it.

His gift of mind-touch, always weaker than Nuala's, felt hobbled and dull. Trying to cast out with his magical sense felt like shoving his brains through an iron tube studded with spikes of jagged glass. Warmth trickled from his nose, only to freeze when it dripped off his face. Still, Nuada pushed with his power.

There she was. 'Sa'ti. Her vow to him and Dylan as vassal created a small ember of magical recognition when he reached out to her. He couldn't see her with his physical eyes, but the prince got a full sense of the child as they continued to move through the forest.

She'd been crying, but she wasn't crying now. She wasn't hurt. In fact, she wasn't even cold. Someone had wrapped her in a warm, soft fur to drive away the bite of winter. That surprised him - she'd been in danger, hadn't she?

An adult was with her. The fact that she hadn't started flailing like a wet hellcat and run off meant something bound her. Shackles? No. Eyes closed, ears pricked, he heard only the metal clanking of tack. Ropes, then. But 'Sa'ti could chew through ropes with her sharp little teeth, and soaking the cords in rowan oil wouldn't hurt an ewah the way it would many Bethmooran fae.

She must...be tied to the adult, he thought blearily. The...the bandit.

Bandits. They'd been taken by bandits, he recalled suddenly, and ground his teeth against the abrupt stab of pain through his skull. He'd thought...someone was in danger. Not 'Sa'ti. But it had been an illusion and then they'd had his little girl and before he could react, figure out a way to snatch her away, there'd been movement and sound at his back, he'd turned on instinct, and then…

Pain, then blackness. Now, when he dared flick his eyes open for a brief moment, the world was a gray blur. He couldn't focus his eyes.

Concussion, Nuada thought grimly. 'Sa'ti is not hurt, thank the stars, but I am. It was so cursed hard to keep his wits together. Words and fragments of memory wisped through his broken skull. Warmth seeped from one ear; he knew that was bad.

Would he die this way? Concussed and bleeding, draped like a prisoner over the back of a pack-horse? What about his people? What about 'Sa'ti? What about Dylan?

I cannot die here, he thought, half a prayer. My people need me, I cannot...cannot die...here…

Darkness swirled around him again, dragging him back toward oblivion. Nuada's magic curled back toward him and the awareness of 'Sa'ti slipped away. Just before he fell back unconscious, a large shadow rode up beside him and a surprisingly gentle, callused hand laid softly against the back of his exposed neck. An odd, almost familiar heat spilled into his skull.

"You're not dying on me yet, Silverlance," a distant, muffled voice growled. "No, not yet."

Nuada knew that voice. Despised that voice. But the darkness in his skull dragged him down before he could remember why.

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Petra stumbled into her old, familiar room in The Drunken Dwarf, shucked off her gloves, sank onto the bed, and dropped her aching head in her cold-numbed hands.

Four days. Four days since Prince Nuada had been kidnapped by bandits. The same bandits that had once tortured her baby sister. Killed her, only for Dylan to be magically resuscitated by the disinherited eldest prince of Faerie China. Four days of desperate searching, of Dylan pale and frighteningly silent as they all combed the forest for some trace of Nuada and 'Sa'ti. Four days of her youngest sister refusing to speak to anyone but the massive, gray faerie everyone kept insisting was a troll. Dylan hadn't even spoken to John. And all John would say was, "She's going back in."

What was that supposed to mean? Into what? Into the woods? Into the unknown? Into the wild blue yonder? What?

But John wouldn't - couldn't? - explain further than that.

A soft knock sounded at her door. Petra picked up her head and heaved a sigh.

"Come in?"

She'd expected either Pauline or Mary, so the appearance of Whuppity, her leprechaun friend, and the beautiful Princess Kamaria at the door made her blink.

"We brought alcohol," Whuppity said with a gentle smile. She held up a stoppered clay jug. "Hot mulled cider. You look half-frozen."

Noticing the icy bars of her fingers, so cold they burned against the warmer skin of her face, she sighed again. "I sure as hell feel like it."

Kamaria and Whuppity sat down on her bed. The leprechaun poured the hot cider into the three cups one by one; every time she poured, she'd give the cup a little jiggle and after she finished, it would float over to the other women. Petra's brows shot up.

"My grandmother was a brownie," Whuppity said. She tapped her snub nose and then flicked one of the loose, auburn curls escaping her no-nonsense bun. "It's why I'm so short, and why my nose turns up so, and why my hair won't keep a leprechaun's curl."

Petra blinked. "Dylan's brownie has curly hair, though." She'd only seen the little man once or twice, but she remembered the nut-brown riot of curls poofing gently around his tangerine-sized head.

Speaking of sizes...Whuppity was taller than Petra, who wasn't short. She was short for a leprechaun? The leprechaun who'd helped make the horseshoes in the village barely came up to Petra's sternum. Was it some form of sexual dimorphism? Regional differences? Dylan probably would've known, but Dylan was in no place to answer questions.

But Becan, Dylan's brownie, was the size of a Barbie doll. How had someone that small had kids with someone that big? The logistics of sex and childbirth in that situation baffled her.

"One of my cousins decided to marry a brownie," Kamaria murmured.

Petra couldn't help it - her mouth popped open in shock. "I...but…" She tried to think of something tactful other than but they're so tiny. "Isn't your cousin royalty like you?"

"Brownies have royalty of a sort," Whuppity said. "Royal brownies are the only ones of their kind who don't serve households, as a rule." A note of derision entered her voice. "The king once held the brownie queen in contempt. Treated her no better than a servant, though her bloodline ran farther back even than the ruling family of Bethmoora. It was Prince Nuada who demanded that change."

Petra blew a cooling breath on her steaming cup, then took a sip. The cider was extremely good. No wonder the prince liked this place so much.

"How did he pull that off?" She asked.

Whuppity frowned. "You know, I don't know. We were all quite surprised when it happened, His Highness being so young at the time. It was around his five-hundredth birthday, I remember that. My younger sister was just old enough to dance the Beltane pole."

Petra did the math. "Five-hundred for Elves is only...he was only a little boy. How did a kid that young change a law? Change the king's mind? Oh," she made a face. "You said you didn't know."

"I do," Kamaria said. "My oldest brother was a little older than Nuada at the time, he's told me this story often enough. No one knows why he did it, but in the five years before his fifth-century birthday, Prince Nuada invited every noble child in Bethmoora anywhere near his physical age to those five birthdays. When a royal invites you to a celebration, it is only expected that even if you couldn't attend due to illness or something, you invite them to a similar celebration at the earliest possible opportunity, or risk giving offense.

"So the noble children and their families did so. And Nuada accepted, and was hosted by those noble families for a few weeks each. And in those few weeks at every estate, he made friends with the servants, head servants and under-servants and all, the way he'd done in the palace of Renvyle.

"And on the fateful birthday, he and Princess Nuala went before the king and queen during the birthday court session and asked, as their royal gifting for that year, for a seat on the royal council for the highest leaders not only of the brownies, but the hobs, the tomtes, the puckles, the borrowers, the gremlins, all the domestic fae in Bethmoora, no matter how small their numbers.

"The king thought it a sweet, charming request. The queen was far wiser, recognizing it with the gravity it deserved. But the nobles of the council were not pleased. And while the monarchs of Bethmoora have absolute authority in the end, Balor has always given due gravity to the council. So against the queen's wishes, he told Nuada and Nuala that if the council objected so strongly, it was best to request something else."

Wide-eyed, Petra leaned forward. She didn't know why she bothered whispering - it simply felt like she ought to. "So what did Nuada do?"

Kamaria's grin reminded Petra suddenly of a hyena.

"Back then, Nuada and Nuala acted as one mind, one heart. It is said the royal twins looked at each other, then looked to where the councilors stood in the throne room. And it was Nuada, all politeness, who asked that they reconsider. Of course they refused. Then it was Nuala who said, 'Very well, my lords, my ladies. We can do nothing but ask that you think on your decision. It may prove unwise.' And any domestic fae in service to a noble who refused to allow them a seat on the council found themselves suddenly without servants for six entire moons. That's how long it took for them all to realize the power brownies and other such wielded when they chose, and finally gave their leaders the requested council seats. Nuala and Nuada were both very gracious. Thanked the council for 'being so kind as to grant them a late birthing day gift, one so generous and well thought out, that would benefit the entire kingdom.'" Kamaria laughed again.

Petra blinked. "They had to have practiced that."

Kamaria laughed. "Of course they did. Even royal children are just children. We get training in that sort of thing, but we need the practice and adult help when we're that young."

"It wouldn't have surprised me to learn Queen Cethlenn helped them with it," Whuppity said. "She had to practice too, you know, when she first arrived."

Petra wondered how her friend knew that, but another thought popped into her head and pushed the question away. She thought back to some of the Harry Potter books, which Dylan and John had always hated but the rest of the Myers siblings loved. She thought of Hermione, the witch who hadn't known she was a witch until she'd been contacted by Hogwarts - and how had her parents explained all the magic the kid was doing? - and how Hermione had argued for more autonomy and respect for the house elves that seemed to function in the same role as brownies did in real life, taking care of the domestic needs of magical people.

Unlike Dylan's Becan, though - who'd once overheard Mary referring to him as "Dylan's slave, just like in Harry Potter, it's disgusting" and thrown several pots at her before explaining in a dangerous voice that he was "a proper-paid and unionized brownie in service to the cottage and its mistress" - the house elves had been slaves. Had the brownies been the same before Prince Nuada's demands?

When she asked Whuppity, the leprechaun choked on a laugh.

"Not a bit of it! A master of a slave can buy and sell them, beat them, abuse them. I've heard in the human world, slaves could even be killed, and their children were the property of their masters. You just try to enslave a brownie. If they didn't simply turn boggart and destroy your home, if you truly offended one, they might very well slit your throat in your sleep with your own kitchen knives. Aye, and if you had children young enough, take them away to be raised up properly into decent folk. And try to enslave a hob? They'd boil you in your own stewpot. Tomtes have been known to crush bad masters beneath bales of hay kicked down from the stable loft.

"No, brownies and hobs and others of our sort have always been paid for our work, in the proper way. Food and board, always, and free use of our tenants' belongings, including coin for wages."

Our tenants, Petra thought. Not 'our employers,' she said 'tenants.' That was...an interesting distinction. It implied the domestic fae owned the places they worked and the other people there were simply renting. Was that how Becan viewed Dylan? But he called her his mistress...and he'd left his cottage to follow her here, to Bethmoora, and Dylan had said he'd done that more than once...

"Freedom to leave if we choose," Whuppity continued, "freedom to stay if we choose. No fae in Bethmoora would've been fool enough to deny us otherwise, though some humans in your world have tried in the past, and woe be unto them."

"From what my mother told me the first time my eldest brother told me about this," Kamaria added, "the brownies and others weren't being ill-treated as such...but they had no say in the court, and their leaders were not respected as equal to other nobles. There are royal lines that, for reasons of their own, yielded their royal power to Nuada's family - and not because they were conquered, at least not since before old One-Arm's father's time. But those families were made nobility of Bethmoora. The domestic fae rulers were not."

"Until Nuada," Petra said.

Whuppity nodded and sipped her cider. "He's the best of his family, our prince. His mother's doing, I expect. She was only a very minor noble before the king married her. Folk in Bethmoora aren't really supposed to speak of the queen, but...well, my great-aunt was shoemaker to Queen Cethlenn the Wise, and our family has always been proud that we had a chance to serve her while she lived."

So that was how she'd known the queen had had to practice royal speeches. Petra perked up. "Nuada's mother? Nobody will talk about her; why? What happened to her?"

"Murdered by humans," Kamaria growled. "Nuada and Nuala nearly died, too. I remember that - my mother was an old friend of Balor's, and when she heard what had happened, she packed up the Small Court, including my twin brother and me, and brought us to Bethmoora.

"Kagiso, my twin, he fussed over Nuala like she was his prize cobra taken sick. All of us young ones who visited flocked to her. She was so frail, so sick, so hurt. We were protective of her. And Nuada frightened us in a way he hadn't before." Kamaria shook her head. "We did him a disservice then. We should have seen...well, we saw in the end. We all made friends with him again, but he was different. He used to be a jokester, did you know?"

Kamaria grinned when Petra stared at her, but Whuppity nodded sadly. "Aye, he was a very different little boy. The whole kingdom knows it. We loved him when he was a child, but after Cethlenn's death, he changed, and we adored him even more. And the king…" Whuppity's gentle expression hardened. "He was a great fool, neglecting the prince. Blaming him, some said, for the queen's death, though I don't see how anyone could blame a little boy for something like that."

Kamaria's grin slipped away. "Blamed him? I hadn't heard that."

"Rumor only, Your Highness," Whuppity said, seeming suddenly to remember she shared company with the heir to the throne of Nyame. Kamaria didn't act like any princess Petra had ever met or seen. She acted like a normal person. Like anyone Petra might have served with in the Army. But occasionally there was just a glimpse of what she truly was - an Elven royal.

Now Kamaria sighed and stared into her cup. "I don't know what will happen to Balor if Nuada isn't found. They fight often enough, it's true," seeing Whuppity and Petra's looks, "but the king loves him. Not more than that blasted treaty, but he does love him. I just...don't know what will happen if Nuada isn't found. To him, to the princess, to Bethmoora."

Petra didn't know any of those things either. But most importantly, she had no idea what would happen to her sister if Nuada died. And she was terrified they were eventually going to find out.

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Tsu's'di and A'du huddled together in the room they'd shared with their little sister. A'du curled up in cub form, encircled by his older brother's arms, and purred. Not a purr of contentment. A soft, plaintive rumble of fear and distress. Tsu's'di simply held his brother and rubbed his lightly-furred cheek against the top of A'du's head.

*What if we don't find them?*

Tsu's'di gritted his teeth at the teary question that drifted into his head, but kissed his brother between his ears and said, "We will. Dylan won't give up. She'd never give up on us. Not any of us. You know that."

*But...but what if the prince is dead? What if 'Sa'ti…* A'du's mental voice disintegrated into a low keening and he shoved his face against Tsu's'di's chest.

The older boy closed his eyes. Tried to think, pushing down the clutching terror rising in his throat. Finally, he managed to whisper, "If the prince was dead, A'ge'lv Dylan would definitely know, just like the prince knew when she…" When she'd been killed. Tsu's'di hadn't wanted to believe it then, and she'd ended up coming back anyway, but Prince Nuada had known. "She would know," he repeated. "And as long as the prince is alive, 'Sa'ti is going to be okay. He would never let anything happen to her."

A'du'la'di didn't say anything. He just curled up tighter and pressed against his brother. Tsu's'di bowed his head and held him tight.

Prince Nuada would never let anyone hurt 'Sa'ti. Whatever Nuada had to do to keep her safe, the ewah youth knew he would do it. They'd all sworn oaths to each other, and the prince would never break his word.

Not if he could help it.

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Prince Shaohao Ti-Lung was happily enjoying the charms of his favorite wife beneath the softly rustling boughs of a weeping willow tree, a cushion of hot and magically hardened air between his back and the chilly snow, when something black, slimy, and viscous dripped onto his forehead.

Golden Sparrow looked up at the tree limbs while Shaohao swiped the drop of muck off his forehead. The firebird's swiftly indrawn breath snagged his attention from the slime to her suddenly gray face.

"Beloved?" His bronze-brown eyes slid from her and up to the top of the willow's leafy, green dome, which he'd dragged out of winter hibernation so they might have a pleasant frolic under the leaves.

Black slime oozed from several branches, beading along the whippy green willow boughs, dripping from the small leaves. An obsidian drop slipped from the bough right overhead and plummeted toward Golden Sparrow.

Without a thought to his body parts, Shaohao twisted beneath her, scooped her up, and threw up a shield of hardened air before the drop could touch her. She squeaked as he settled her against his bare chest.

"Honored husband-"

"Are you hurt? Did it touch you?" When she shook her head, he nodded. "Good." Tossing out a hooked line of magic to grab their clothes, he set off back to the mountain cave they'd been staying in for the last few moons. It had seemed like a good idea at the time - he could stay close to keep an eye on Zhenjin, but his brothers and his brothers' friends wouldn't dream he'd dare stay in Bethmoora, in the very same mountains where he'd last been found, when they were all hunting for his head.

Shows what they know, he thought. As if he'd ever willingly give up this secluded little honeymoon spot before he had to.

"Honored husband?"

"Yes, Jewel of Firebirds, Empress of My Nights?" He nuzzled the wisps of ember-tinged golden feathers peeking out from beneath her jet black hair, a sign of her uneasiness.

"We are going back to the cave?"

"Yes," he muttered, tossing a glare back at the seeping willow. "I'd rather take my pleasure without a dying tree spitting slime in my face."

"But, my lord…" Her copper-gold cheeks colored.

"Yes?" He knew what she was going to say, but he wanted to hear her say it. For someone as ancient as a firebird, sometimes she could be so...innocent.

"You are still naked."

Shaohao grinned. "Yes. You're welcome." Who wouldn't want to see such a magnificent specimen striding through the woods?

Golden Sparrow blinked at him, blushed harder, and then laughed, dropping her face to his bare chest.

As they stepped past the edge of trees near the entrance to the cave, a huge red elk-stag lifted his head from the bush he'd been gnawing and gazed at Shaohao with great, limpid brown eyes. The beast's wrack easily stood five feet high, and the stag himself was taller at the shoulder than Shaohao.

The prince smirked at the stag. "I don't need to compensate with a rack of antlers, my friend. My doe likes me very well."

With a snort that sounded almost derisive, the elk turned and loped away.

Shaohao scowled. "Well, to the deepest dungeons of Diyu to you too, then."

Golden Sparrow giggled. He eyed her.

"I am far better endowed than that...buck."

"Yes, honored husband."

"I don't need a rack of antlers to impress you."

"Of course not, honored husband."

They entered the dimness of the cave, the stealth spells and alarm cantrips activating as they stepped across the threshold. Shaohao continued to pout.

"I am as virile and handsome as any king-stag," he said.

"Yes, honored husband."

"Everyone, uh...what is that mortal phrase?"

"Wants a piece of you?"

"Yes!" He set her down near their banked fire. A casual wave of his hand brought the campfire to life again. "Everyone wants a piece of me. Have you seen me? I'm gorgeous, and a master of the bedroom."

"Yes, honored husband."

He paused. Frowned. One eyebrow slowly crept toward his hairline. "Are you patronizing me?"

She bowed to him; it was a very alluring bow, as she was stark naked. "No, honored husband." She lifted her head and offered him an arch look. "Shall I prove my truthfulness to my lord?"

A slow, catlike smile curled his mouth. "Ohhh...by all means."

Afterward, though, he knew he'd have to find out what had happened to the willow. He was fairly sure he knew, but he needed to be sure. If he was right - when wasn't he? - then he'd have to find Silverlance, curse it all. Because if he was right, there was something very, very wrong with the king of Bethmoora, and Nuada needed to be told. For all their sakes.

But that could wait. In a choice between saving Balor's life or making delirious, passionate love to a firebird until their bedrolls caught fire...well, the decision practically made itself.

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Nuada came to with a wave of nauseating pain washing through his aching head. This time, though, his thoughts didn't squirm like drunk leeches through the cracks he was positive radiated through his skull. He didn't open his eyes. Warm red glow shone through his closed eyelids; he needed to let his eyes adjust to the light before he tried to get a look at his surroundings.

There was someone in the room. And it was a room, not a tent. But wherever he was, he was still a prisoner. As full awareness came to him, he noticed - beyond his throbbing head - an ache pulsing through his shoulders and a cramp threatening in the arch of one foot. It took him long, woozy moment and the subtlest flexing of various muscles to figure out why he hurt so.

He had been strung up by his wrists. How long? Long enough that his hands had gone entirely numb. The cramp beginning to twist through his foot was caused by the instinctive, unconscious stretching of his toes toward the floor a bare half-inch below - just far enough away that he couldn't reach the stone radiating iciness up into his unshod feet.

Wait. His unshod feet? He wore no boots, nor his woolen winter stockings. Chilly air raised gooseflesh on his calves and thighs, his prickling arms, even his chest and back…

Lugh's spear, he thought. He was naked. And the prickling itch crawling down his arms from his bound wrists told him he had been chained up, nude as a newborn babe, in ensorcelled iron infused with enough magic to make it burn. He was most assuredly a prisoner.

And one of his jailers was watching him.

Nuada kept his eyes shut. He did not want this enemy knowing he was conscious until he could figure out what was happening.

'Sa'ti. Bandits had captured him because first they had taken 'Sa'ti. Where was 'Sa'ti? Only centuries of honing his implacable will and self-control kept him from grinding his teeth, snapping his eyes open, snarling a demand to be reunited with the ewah child.

Control, Nuada told himself. Calm. If they had been captured by bandits, how was he in a stone room now? This was no cottage taken over by the scum. A cave? It didn't sound like a cave. He had slept often enough in them, he knew the way air felt and sounded in caves. No, it was a room. A room too big to be a mill or a laundry, too fresh and airy to be any sort of cellar, and too frigid to be the common room of an inn or a tavern. So where could he…

"You're in my...humble home, in case you were wondering."

That. Voice.

Nuada refused to react to Sreng's words or his low chuckle. Refused to open his eyes. Perhaps the bandit leader only guessed the prince had roused. How could he possibly know?

And where was 'Sa'ti?

"It's a lovely estate," the bandit continued unprompted. "I borrowed it from one of your wretched nobles."

Don't react, Nuada cautioned himself. Calm. Control. I am in control. Do not react to that monster. Continue feigning unconsciousness.

"You're in one of the upstairs parlors or something, I don't actually know. Oonagh likes this room to play in."

Nuada had no idea who Oonagh was. The name sounded oddly familiar, though. And to play in? He had no impressions, psychic or tangible, of a child having spent any real time in this room recently. The misery, disgust, loathing, and pain saturating the walls told him what sort of "play" the bandit meant.

Did Sreng think he couldn't break these bonds? If he'd been in a dungeon cell or a torture chamber, perhaps things might have been a bit trickier. But a parlor? After escaping his bonds, which might take a little time due to the enchanted iron, getting out and killing this demon would be a simple enough matter.

Well, perhaps not simple. Dylan had told him Sreng was a true immortal - unaging and unkillable. The king had confirmed it. So perhaps his only option would be to find a blade, hack off the brute's head, and take it with him. Even still magically alive, Sreng could do nothing without limbs and his body would be just useless meat with no brain attached.

It took everything he had not to bite or vomit when a callused hand cupped his cheek. There was nothing violent or painful in the touch, but he felt those fingers as if they had reached into his belly and ripped out his guts. Nuada bit down slowly on his tongue until his mouth flooded with the fey sweetness of his own blood. The bastard was touching him. He came so close to the prince, Nuada smelled the iron stink of mortal blood on his breath. For one horrifying moment, he thought Sreng meant to kiss him. The beast could not. It could not be endured.

Danu's mercy, where in the thirteen hells is 'Sa'ti?

Sreng did not kiss him, thank the Fates. But he drew so close that every word he spoke sent a puff of blood-stench against Nuada's mouth and nose.

"I know you're awake, Silverlance. I timed my healing spell to the second." Those fingertips drew a violating line along the edge of his jaw. "So, won't you open your eyes? I have heard your eyes turn scarlet when you're confronted by an enemy you would simply love to disembowel with your own two hands. I want to see them."

Well. Feigning unconsciousness was apparently a fruitless exercise. And yet…

"I do nothing for your pleasure," Nuada said flatly.

"Well, well. How stingy. What if I say please?"

"If you want to see my eyes, you will have to cut them out of my skull."

It was a bluff. It was quite unlikely that someone who'd gone to the trouble of healing his concussion meant to maim him this early in the game.

Sreng's chuckle grated against Nuada's ears, but told him he'd been right about the bandit being unwilling to blind him just yet.

"But there's so very much I want you to see."

When Nuada said nothing, the bandit sighed. The prince ignored the sigh. The truth was, if he opened his eyes and saw that despised face, nothing short of a miracle or a curse would likely be able to stop him from trying to tear out that mortal throat in the half-mad hope that Elvin teeth would somehow destroy the royal magic making Sreng immortal. It wouldn't, of course. Rationally, Nuada knew that. It would just make it that much harder for him to eventually escape. And he hadn't had time to get free of his bonds. He needed that time. And he needed to be alone in order to slip his shackles.

"Fine. Be a stubborn little pet."

Nuada ground his teeth at the term pet, but did his best to ignore the sound of a door swinging slowly open and the quiet shuffle of footsteps. He kept his features schooled to blankness until…

"Your Highness!"

Blood-red eyes snapped open. Nuada's stomach lurched into his throat. His heart went still, then hammered viciously against his breastbone.

A woman - the same woman who'd distracted him in the village - held a struggling 'Sa'ti by the arms in a bruising grip. The cougar child strained to reach him, twisting and trying to kick, but the woman held her far enough away that she couldn't strike the adult holding her captive.

"Thought that might get your attention," Sreng said breezily. "Oonagh, my darling, slit the brat's throat."

The woman pulled out a long, serrated blade from the sheath at her waist.

"No!" Nuada twisted in his shackles but couldn't get loose, couldn't get enough purchase on the floor to move. When he managed to grab the iron chains in nerveless fingers, hauling himself up, twisting to try and escape, to get to 'Sa'ti, Sreng rolled his eyes, moved around behind him, and before the prince could do anything, drove a gauntleted fist into Nuada's liver - twice.

Blackness swept across his eyes and he went limp, pain roaring through his body. When the darkness receded, fire seared his shoulders and wrists from being cruelly yanked by the shackles. He lifted his head and saw 'Sa'ti clutched against the woman's torso, struggling futilely to get loose. Tears rolled down her lightly-furred cheeks. The knife moved toward that vulnerable throat.

"No! Please, stop! Please!" The words flew out of Nuada's mouth, laced with sheer panic. "Please! She's a child, she's only a child! Please, don't hurt her! Please! I...I'll…"

Sreng held up a hand. The woman, Oonagh, pouted and lowered the knife.

"You will what, Silverlance?" The bandit demanded. "Kill me if I lay a finger on her?" Sneering, he walked over to 'Sa'ti and very deliberately poked her in the cheek. The ewah snapped at his fingers, baring sharp leonine teeth. Sreng merely pulled his hand back without blinking, then slapped the little girl hard enough to leave her stunned. "What were you going to say, Nuada?"

I'll do anything. That's what he'd been about to say to this ancient enemy. Anything to protect the child who was as dear to him as family. Nuada closed his eyes. Steeled himself.

"I beg you," he had to force the words out, "please do not harm her. Please. She's just a child. I beg you."

Sreng cocked his head. "You love this little furball, don't you?" When Nuada only glared at him, the bandit rolled his eyes. "Oonagh-"

"Yes!" Nuada shouted. 'Sa'ti was sobbing now, so terrified she barely made a sound as the tears poured down her face, mixing with snot and saliva as she tried feebly to escape Oonagh's grip. He'd expected hysterical wails after she recovered from the vicious slap, but she only made tiny breathless squeaks. "Yes, I...I love her. She is...like my family."

"Like a daughter to you?"

The prince looked at the sobbing little girl, remembering giggles and the impulsive little hugs and the warmth of her fingers curling around his with absolute trust as they walked the castle halls toward the chapel or the stables.

"Yes," he whispered.

Sreng grinned. "As I thought. And a father would do anything for his little girl, would he not? I certainly would." He turned a quick, fond look on Oonagh before focusing once more on the prince. "My little girl wants to slit your little girl's throat. Is there any reason I shouldn't let her?"

This man had tortured Dylan. Mutilated and murdered her. Killed countless others, including children. Nuada had no doubt that if he didn't go along with whatever twisted game the bandit wanted to play, Sreng would butcher 'Sa'ti.

He needed time - time to plan, to prepare. So he would feign defeat for now. Buy time to get his little girl out of this place.

Nuada dropped his head and let a shudder of revulsion, of pain, of gut-churning sickness move through him. In a low voice he demanded, "What would you have of me?"

"I would have your suffering, Nuada." At the cold words, Nuada lifted his head. Stared at Sreng. "I would see you writhe like a worm in the dirt. And I could get that by murdering your little pet right in front of you…"

Ice slid through Nuada's belly. Sliced across his heart.

"...but I do like to take my time with my little projects. So I will strike you a deal. Swear on the Darkness That Eats All Things that you will obey my every command, that you will submit to me and will not try to escape, and I will swear to you that no harm will befall this child at my hand or the hand of any that serve me. I will treat her with the same love and care as I do my own children and grandchildren, so long as you swear to be mine."

Nuada swallowed hard. "Yours?"

"Yes. Mine to torment. Mine to abuse. I need a new favorite plaything; I killed the last one to punish your slut for mouthing off."

Nuada swallowed bile. Dylan had told him of the Elven youth this monster had murdered in front of her, the innocent young man Sreng had called his pet. He'd slit the youth's throat right in front of Dylan, but not before making it clear just how many ways he'd brutalized the Elven lad. And Sreng would do that to him now, in exchange for 'Sa'ti's safety.

There was no question, of course.

The legendary Elven warrior's eyes had turned vivid scarlet, the violent red of human blood, laced with traceries of black like thin threads of lightning, when he lifted his gaze from 'Sa'ti's terrified face and met the bandit captain's eyes. He did not stutter, or flinch, or show a hint of fear or despair when he spoke in a voice as cold and empty as the darkness between the stars.

"I, Prince Nuada Silverlance, do swear by the Darkness That Eats All Things that I will submit to you, Sreng mac Umhor, in all that you bid me, so long as it concerns only myself and no other - I will not harm any of my people or those under my protection for your pleasure - and I swear this only if you swear and uphold your oath to spare the life of that child, U'de'ho'sa'ti of the Ewah, my vassal, and guard and cherish her as if she were your own kin, and protect her as I would, and see to her safety and comfort as I would, and allow no harm to come to her. If she is harmed, neglected, or tormented by you or any of your kin, my oath is void and I will cut out your heart and feed it to you. If you or yours spill even a drop of her blood, I will kill your daughter in front of you. All this I swear by the Darkness That Eats All Things, Sreng mac Umhor."

The bandit captain raised an eyebrow, a grin slowly oozing across his face.

"You," he said warmly, "are the cleverest little princeling, aren't you? Kill my Oonagh? A daughter for a daughter is fair, I suppose. But I intend to keep my word, Nuada. So I swear, by the Darkness That Eats All Things, that I will from this moment spare the life of this child, U'de'ho'sa'ti of the Ewah, your vassal, and guard and cherish her as if she were my own daughter, and protect her as you would, and see to her safety and comfort as you would - or to the best of my ability, at any rate - and I will allow no harm to come to her, so long as you obey all my commands that concern your person. If she is harmed, neglected, or tormented, by me or mine, if I or my kin shed even a drop of her blood purposely, I will hold your oath of submission to me void." A cold, horrible delight glinted in the single iron-gray eye. "We have ourselves a bargain, don't we? Yes. Oonagh, put your blade away."

With obvious reluctance, the knife returned to its sheath. Sreng sighed with pleasure, then clapped his hands.

"All right, your first command - and do not forget, you must obey me or the child will die and so will you, eaten by the Darkness. Your first command, Nuada my pet princeling, is this: you are to stay in this chamber until I give you permission to leave it, and you are to deliberately harm no one who comes into this room. Do you understand?"

Nuada swallowed. "Yes."

"Good. Oonagh, let your brother in."

The prince blinked, and the woman seemed surprised, but obeyed, yanking open the doors to a corridor beyond. A tall man - taller than Sreng, taller than Nuada, even taller than Wink, with the disproportionate arms of the Fir Bholg but the rounded points to his ears of a half-human - stepped into the room. His eyes, like Sreng's, were a chilly iron gray.

"Ah, Briogh, my boy. Help your old father. Cut down the prisoner. He will not fight you."

Nuada tensed. Cut down? Was Sreng going to have his son strike him down while he hung helpless as a gutted fish from a drying hook? After all that talk of suffering and-

Briogh drew a long, wicked-looking knife and came at Nuada. The prince's fingers twitched as he forced them to half-curl around the chains. His legs twitched, his toes trying to scrape the floor, but he had made an oath to the Darkness. He couldn't fight back.

The knife flashed above his head. Nuada blinked as the tension on his arms suddenly slackened and he dropped, chains clanking against each other and the stone floor. His shoulder popped out of its socket when he hit the floor and he choked on a scream caught behind his teeth. Had to bite back another scream as cramps tore through his numb hands and forearms and the blood came rushing back down to his fingers.

"Give him a moment," Sreng said genially as Nuada slammed his shoulder against the floor, popping it back into place with a sick, hollow sound. He began massaging his cramped and twitching hands, muttering every vile curse he knew in every language except Gaelic and English, since Sreng knew those. The bandit didn't seem to mind. The son, Briogh, stepped back from the prince and picked up the length of knotted rope that had suspended him by the chains of his shackles from a hook in the ceiling originally meant for a chandelier. He still wore the ensorcelled chains; their magic slowly chewed into his flesh, but he could ignore it for awhile yet.

When the cramps had eased and his hands no longer looked like mangled harpy claws, Briogh pulled something from a smallish sack tied to his belt and threw it at Nuada, who caught it.

It was an undyed long tunic, one meant to fall to his knees. The sort of clothing worn by slaves in Ciocal and other kingdoms where slavery was practiced. Nuada's violently crimson gaze slashed to Sreng's face.

"Cover yourself, you're not a barbarian," the bandit captain said with a sneer. "You plan to parade around naked in front of a child? How uncivilized."

Nuada's eyes snapped to 'Sa'ti, still held by Oonagh and still crying. The crimson flickered to xanthous gray for the briefest blink before going back to scarlet. Suddenly conscious of his nudity, he donned the tunic, then climbed to his feet.

Sreng licked his lips. "Very handsome. But, pet, I didn't give you permission to stand. Get down. Bad dog."

Nuada glanced at 'Sa'ti, who sagged in Oonagh's arms, making that soft frightened keening sound that cut him to the heart.

Prince Nuada sank to his knees.

Sreng gave him a pitying look. "Oh, pet, surely you don't think it will be that easy. Lower."

Damn you, Nuada thought, and went to all fours.

"Lower."

Think of 'Sa'ti, he thought as he lowered himself until his forehead touched cold stone. It hurt after the...hours? spent hanging by his hands. Cramps threatened in his thighs and his back screamed. But he stayed with his forehead to the floor.

"Very good, pet. You may sit up now. All right, Oonagh, release the child."

Nuada had just enough time to straighten before a sobbing 'Sa'ti had launched herself at him, arms around his neck, crying into his tunic. He hugged her tightly. Hate surged through him when he felt her trembling violently. Poor child. She was so frightened. His poor girl.

"It's all right," he whispered, even though he knew it wasn't. That didn't matter now. He had to calm her. Sreng delighted in her terror; Nuada could see it plainly. "It is all right now. You're safe with me now. It is all right."

He watched Oonagh and Briogh leave the room. Sreng headed for the door, but stopped at the threshold.

"You have a few hours to yourself before Oonagh and Briogh will return with suitable things for you. In a few moments, I'll send a slave with food and water for you and the child, and to remove your chains. Remember your oath, Nuada, and no harm will come to her."

Then he, too, was gone.

A few hours? Good. Time to think. Time to figure out some way to get 'Sa'ti out of this place. Once she was gone, free from Sreng, then he could think of a way to escape himself that wouldn't break his oath and get him killed.

For now, he would hold onto 'Sa'ti. Take comfort in the fact that, except for a scare that would leave her with nightmares, she was unhurt.

"It is all right now, little one," he murmured as she clutched at him. He stroked her soft mane of tawny fur to comfort her and found it eased him a little, too. "I shall keep you safe. I swear it."

.

In the Twilight Realm of Faerie, there lived thousands of billions of fae across seven continents, in five oceans, within the borders of countless kingdoms and nations. In the shadow of them all, unseen, like blood beneath the skin, lay the kingdom called by many Samhain. The dead lands. The graveyard kingdom. The October country. Ruled by the sepulchral Keeper, that land was home to bogles, carrion eaters, death bringers, entropic fiends, and all the otherworldly beings who found purpose and pleasure in bones, blood, death, and decay. It was the home of Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud; his wife, the fell Queen Ligeia; their five terrible sons: Azhrarn, Uhlume, Chuz, Kheshmet, and Tamberlane; the leopard-eyed queen, Nerrasen, called by Azhrarn "the blue-skinned bitch"; Dunizel, Azrharn's wife, and his daughter Azrhiaz; and the Keeper's Heir, a young man with freckles and a gap between his front teeth and hair like shocks of fire.

His name was Joseph Pipkin, and once, ten years ago, he had been a human child. Before Moundshroud, and that fateful Halloween birthday when he'd nearly died. Before Dylan and her bargain of life and bone.

Pipkin didn't much look like a faerie most of the time. He kept his too-large ears round and his shoulders slumped and his grin crooked. When he stood next to his five adopted brothers in a casual setting, he looked like a scraggly stork among feral, impossibly beautiful peacocks. Most of the time - like now, for instance - he slouched through the October Palace in black jeans with rips in the knees, rumpled black sweaters with holes worn through the elbows, and mundane black sneakers with broken aglets.

Unlike other kingdoms, no one cared about appearances in Samhain. They only cared about power.

Now, looking like any normal mortal youth, Pipkin paced the length of his private library in the October Palace's highest tower, the Carnelian Tower. From the single, ravenglass-paned window, he saw lights in the other ten towers of the palace: Azrharn's Obsidian Tower, Uhlume's Ivory Tower, Kheshmet's Golden Tower, the Tower of Night Opal that belonged to Chuz, Tamberlane's Amethyst Tower; Nerrasen's Tower of Bones; Ligeia's Onyx Tower; Moundshroud's Garden Tower, where the Samhain Tree grew in a room with a ravenglass ceiling that could open to the moonlight and the night sky; Dunizel's Diamond Tower, the only one that seemed to glow with mortal sunlight when the kingdom's nights faded to the misty twilight that was as close as they ever came to true day; and Azrhiaz's Tower of Moonstone, where even Azhrarn, her father, did not go.

What were they doing there? Pipkin had to wonder. Pacing, the way he was? Trying to make sense of the prickles tickling like spider legs along his knobbly spine? His six consorts, the members of the Small Court of Samhain, were not with him now; when the scritch-itch clawed at him this way, he was better off left on his own to think.

Something was coming. It hung on the night air, faint as woodsmoke on a night when a jack-o-lantern moon rose fat and orange against the black velvet sky. Not an enemy they needed to fear - the people of Samhain were in no danger. But something was building out there in the dark. Had been for nearly three days now. Something that entangled him, not as Joe Pipkin, but as the heir to the throne. And Moundshroud had to feel it as well if Pip did. Did his brothers? Maybe Azrhiaz, his niece? Did Ligeia?

If that witch had sensed anything that disturbed her, surely she'd have sent out her winged basilisks to eliminate the problem. No, Ligeia sensed nothing. And if Azrhiaz sensed something, she hadn't told her parents, or they would have done something.

It didn't matter what the others did, though. Whatever was coming, he was Moundshroud's heir. He could deal with whatever came.

"You should put real pants on, first, though," a gentle voice said.

Pipkin jerked to a halt, staring at the young woman with the long black hair and the golden-tan face, her violet eyes dancing. She wore a formal gown of black silk embroidered in glittering diamonds, and diamonds as sharp and cold as eternity hung from her delicately pointed ears.

"These are real pants," he told Azrhiaz.

She grinned, flashing brilliant white teeth as sharp as knives. "No they're not. Those are human pants. You might as well be naked."

"Who was it who was running around wearing only her hair last week?"

Granted, when left unbound her hair fell all the way to the floor, but he'd still had to clap a hand over his eyes and yell for Moundshroud to make her put on a robe. Azrhiaz was not his blood, and she was thousands of years older than he was, but it was still traumatizing.

She only stuck out her tongue, pitiless as an annoying little sister, and threw a pair of formal trousers at his head.

.

On the fifth day since Nuada and 'Sa'ti had been taken, a herald arrived from the palace with a message from the king. Lorelei, after a quick whispered conference with Wink, had the silver cave troll escort the messenger upstairs to Prince Nuada's room, where Dylan sat in the window, staring at nothing and nibbling on a thumbnail.

As far as Wink knew, the lassling hadn't moved from that spot except to use the privy and to participate in the searching. Every night, when the winter cold and the darkness drove the searchers back to the village, she would sit at that window and stare out into the velvet night. She didn't speak. She didn't acknowledge him. She only chewed her nails and occasionally twisted the moonstone wedding ring Nuada had given her around and around on her heart-finger.

He actually didn't expect her to react when he introduced the king's messenger, and had to forcibly stop his jaw from dropping when she turned their way.

The pale, doughy young fear gortach actually quailed when Dylan, pulled from her thoughts by Wink's gravelly introduction, fixed her glacial sapphire gaze upon him and waited for him to speak. The troll wondered if he'd ever seen the crown prince's betrothed before. She was certainly...unexpected, with her ravaged face and that odd quality to her eyes the Sighted always had.

The herald coughed and said, "His Most Gracious Royal Majesty, King Balor One-Arm, Sovereign of-"

"Skip," Dylan hissed in a voice none of her siblings would've recognized, "the titles and get to the point."

Wink didn't bat an eye at her tone. One look at her face had told him she had no patience for this sort of courtly nonsense. And he'd seen her these last handful of days. The lassling was nothing close to all right. He wasn't certain yet if he ought to be truly concerned for her, but…

"Erm, yes, of course, my lady." The herald cleared his throat. "K-King Balor wishes to express his condolences, of course, and to assure you that he and the princess grieve the loss of the prince with you-"

"Is he," Dylan's eyes looked odd now, curiously blank, "going to send us help to find and rescue Prince Nuada or not?"

"My...my lady?"

Dylan's voice had an eerie, hollow quality to it. "That is why I allowed him to be notified of the situation."

Allowed him, Wink noted. As if she were in authority over Balor, not the other way around. When it came to Nuada, perhaps she was.

"I...well, my lady, I…"

"Answer me or get out."

Wink's brows furrowed. He didn't care that she had no patience for the herald - the puling coward was so clearly a court toady, the troll wondered when he'd start croaking - but her expression...and even with people who infuriated her, he'd rarely seen her behave so coldly. So...abrupt.

"I…" The herald cleared his throat twice. "N-no, my lady. Humans have done this. The human, Sreng Mac Umhor, has done this. Therefore the treaty expressly prohibits His Royal Majesty from intervening-"

"Get out."

Wink shifted his weight, readying himself. At last, after five days, the first and tiniest of fissures in her cold mask.

"B-but my lady," the fear gortach protested. "His Majesty summons you back to the capital...there are land negotiations, now that your marriage into the royal family is imposs-"

Dylan flinched. Her scarred lips peeled back from her teeth and she lunged to her feet. Her gait was stiff, uneven. Wink knew her bad leg had to be in agony after a full day in the saddle, subject to the brutal cold. Her slightly crooked fingers curled into claws as she limped toward the herald.

"I said," she scooped up the inkwell from the table with a snake-swift swipe and hurled it at the herald. He ducked and scrabbled backward. "Get! Out!"

Wink grabbed the herald's stiff, scarlet collar and dragged him to the door. Ignoring the shards of broken glass and pool of ink, he hoisted the herald off the floor and tossed him into the air. The herald squealed in terror. In the seconds it took him to come down again, Wink got the door open.

The goblin bronze of his clockwork hand didn't allow for careful maneuvers like opening doors built for smaller fae; when Nuada had offered to build him another now that he had more skill with such things, a hand with less strength but more dexterity, the troll had politely refused. He had a dexterous hand and a hand good for crushing annoyances into goo. It was enough. But the bronze hand needed oiling; Wink wasn't certain he wouldn't accidentally pulp the herald if he tried to grab the quivering little grub with it.

He caught the herald in his hand of flesh as the unlatched door swung open. With another squeal, the fear gortach sailed into the corridor, landing in a heap on the floor.

"You beast!" The herald roared, trying to scramble to his feet. "How dare you! I am a king's messenger, let me back in that room! I demand-"

He fell silent went Guardsman Uaithne and Guardswoman Fionnlagh laid a hand on each of his shoulders. Wink hadn't thought it was possible, but the fear gortach went even paler.

It was young Guardsman Loen, the guard Dylan had rescued from torture in Balor's dungeons, who stepped up to the herald, one hand on his Butcher claymore's hilt.

"If you try to pester Her Ladyship again," Loen growled, "we'll take you to the kitchens and have the cook bake us a liver and kidney pie, eh? And after that, there's a few young ones of the Unseelie persuasion who'd love some fried fear gortach tongue, or eyes, or heart. Do you understand, herald?"

The herald fainted, falling in a heap of noodly limbs and quivering jelly.

Wink rolled his good eye and slammed the bedroom door. Then he turned to regard the lassling.

She slumped on the floor, legs twisted in a way he knew had to pain her. She hugged herself, shoulders hunched, head bent low. Shudders wracked her body and a thin, low whimpering sound escaped her.

Lorelei had been the one to explain that if there was any hope of aid from Balor, he had to be told what had happened. At first, Dylan hadn't believed the king would do anything, or even care. But all of them - Wink, Prince Zhenjin, Prince Dastan, Princess Kamaria, Erik Ashkeson, Lorelei, even her brother and Mistress Francesca - had insisted Balor would of course care. He did love the prince, for all he could be cruel. And Wink knew the lengths Balor had gone in past wars to save his son and heir's life. They had convinced the mortal to believe. To hope for aid.

They had done her no good thereby. That hope was shattered now and he could see her battling with her own exhaustion and terror so she wouldn't start to weep.

Even as Wink watched, two tears rolled down her cheeks and her breath hitched in a suppressed sob.

The mortal his prince loved, clever as she was, still couldn't speak more than a few phrases in the tongue of the silver cave trolls of Bethmoora. Wink couldn't communicate with her very well; his thick, pebbly tongue wasn't built for English or Gaelic of any dialect.

But when he knelt beside her and rumbled, "You need rest, lassling," the human seemed to understand. She slumped against his chest, still keening, more tears spilling slowly down her pale, scarred cheeks.

Suddenly a memory flashed across his mind - a similar keening, coming from the throat of a little boy with star-blond hair and dark bruises across his face, huddled against Wink before a fire, the forest night so distant and quiet all around them. The troll's great heart jerked sideways in his thick chest at the recollection. He put his arms around the mortal, holding her close as if she were a heartsick child.

She slowly pulled herself back under control. She wiped her tears away. Forced her breathing to even out almost completely. But that seemed to take all her strength, and Dylan closed her eyes and didn't straighten up from her slump in the troll's arms.

They sat that way for a few minutes. Tremors shivered through her occasionally. Finally Wink murmured, "We will find him, Your Majesty."

The honorific simply slipped out - in his mind, he often thought of Nuada as his king, his true king, rather than that spineless coward squatting on the Golden Throne. Dylan was the choice of Nuada's heart, his wife - or near enough as to make no difference. If Nuada was king, she was queen. But he'd kept those thoughts to himself always, for fear of word reaching Balor.

But the title was out, and there was no rescinding it. And the girl didn't understand him well enough to even realize what he'd said. All she knew was that her heart was breaking, and so was his, and he was trying to comfort her. She looked up at him and he could not help but think how frightfully young she was. He was centuries older than Nuada, and she was centuries younger than that. This mortal, this...woman-child of Adam's blood...she was so very young for all of this, no matter that she was a woman of her people, and often seemed so very wise.

Dylan didn't cry again, save for a single tear that managed to escape the newfound grip on her self-control. Wink didn't like that, didn't like how she yanked her grief back inside her so quickly, but he didn't know what he could ever do about it. Perhaps Nuada could have done something, or even Prince Zhenjin, but not him.

Instead of fretting over things he couldn't change, he scooped the girl up and set her gently on the large bed with its furs and quilts. He removed her boots, as he had done for Nuada sometimes in his role as valet.

Dylan sat in a daze, barely reacting. She was gray with exhaustion now. Her face was tight with pain and betrayal and fear. Something would have to be done. She needed food, something warm and comforting to drink, medicine for her pain, and rest. She would do no one any good if she flogged herself into exhaustion or illness.

Just alike, the pair of them, he thought with no little melancholy. You would be proud of her, my brother. Proud...and worried, as I am. But I'll take care of her until we find you again.

And they would find him again, by the Mountain King and the Mothers of Darkness and the daughter-goddesses of mining, smithing, crafting, ore, and jewels.

Wink poked his head out of the door long enough to tell Guardsman Ailbho to bring Her Ladyship's bags (he was careful this time to address her "properly") as well as the large, green-gray leather bag from his own room. He'd brewed her a healing tonic once before when she'd been ill; he could perhaps give her something for her pain that wouldn't interact with her healing potions and mortal medicines.

Guardsman Ailbho brought his things, and Wink brewed the lassling some chamomile tea with silvermist flowers to soothe her heart, a few drops from a rhinemaiden's river added in to ease her pain. It was a testament to her exhaustion that she didn't protest or ask what was in it. Instead, she drained the cup and curled up on the bed, staring at nothing.

Wink built up the fire with rosewood and some thin lavender boughs; the scents would soothe her too. Brewed another cup of the soothing herbal tea. Dylan drank it without a word. She only lay there as he covered her with several blankets, then picked up the thick, leatherbound book Ailbho had also brought. A blue satin ribbon had been sewn to the binding as a bookmark.

The troll opened the book. Closed it again, thinking. She wouldn't be able to understand him if he read it aloud to her. While he could read mortal English, could translate the words into the silver cave dialect of Trollish, he couldn't speak English well. His mouth and vocal cords weren't built for it. But perhaps she might gain some comfort from it anyway?

So he sat beside her, opened the book to the place marked by the ribbon, and began to read aloud, slowly, mentally translating the words.

"The ends of the earth shall inquire after thy name, and fools shall have thee in derision, and hell shall rage against thee; While the pure in heart, and the wise, and the noble, and the virtuous, shall seek counsel, and authority, and blessings constantly from under thy hand.

"And thy people shall never be turned against thee by the testimony of traitors. And although their influence shall cast thee into trouble, and into bars and walls, thou shalt be had in honor; and but for a small moment and thy voice shall be more terrible in the midst of thine enemies than the fierce lion…"

He didn't know how long he read. Long enough for his voice to roughen, as he refused to pause to get himself a drink. But eventually, thinking her asleep, he stopped reading. Started to rise.

Then Dylan spoke.

"Doctrine and Covenants, one-twenty-two," she murmured. "It's one of my favorite passages. I liked the rest, but I love that section. Thank you."

She had known what he was reading? Had she been able to understand so much?

And then Dylan said, "Balor won't help us."

Wink swallowed fresh rage, fresh hatred, and even despair. Gently he touched one thick, shovel-like finger to her pale, tear-stained cheek.

"Then we will rescue our king on our own...Your Majesty."

He didn't know if she understood the gravelly words spoken in Troll, but Wink knew she understood he was attempting to comfort her. She laid her small, mortal hand against his rough troll-hide. Patted his arm.

"Good night, Wink. And thank you."

"You're most welcome. Good night, lassling."

When he was certain that this time she slept truly, Wink Ironfist joined the rest of the queen's guard in the corridor.

.

Davio rolled onto his side and studied Francesca, who lay upside down in a velvet armchair, staring at her phone.

"How are you getting service out here?" The crocodilian asked. He didn't actually care - he had very little use for cell phones, since he couldn't make them work in his home in the New York sewers - but he didn't like how quiet Francesca had been the last few days. Francesca wasn't quiet unless trouble was brewing inside her cunning, brilliant little mind. But he wasn't sure how she could be conniving or scheming when watching something on her phone about X-Men and whale penises.

"I don't have any service," she mumbled, tapping the screen. The sounds paused. She flicked a glance at him. "I downloaded some videos to my phone before we left New York in case I needed a pick-me-up."

Ah. He didn't ask why she needed one. Prince Nuada was missing, so was the little cat-girl Cesca's sister had adopted, and Dylan was out of options. They had no way to track down the bandits or rescue either prince or child.

"What are you watching?" He asked instead.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Blooper reel." She tapped the screen and the audio resumed.

"I love being given two Ds at once!...two Ds at once...two Ds at once. I went out of breath there. I love being given two Ds at once!"

"Okay, hold on, pause," he cried. She tapped her phone and paused again. "Is that a blooper reel for like, a porn film? Triple-X Men or something?"

Francesca dropped her phone as a laugh burst out of her. She started to roll to one side, like she meant to sit up, but then she slipped and tumbled out of the chair onto the rug, her feet sticking up over her head like a discombobulated stork's legs.

"Oh, shi-"

"I'm fine," she cried, holding up both hands and laughing still. Twisting around like a caterpillar, she managed to roll onto her side. "Ohmigawd, I cannot believe you think I'm so tacky that I'd watch Triple-X Men, that franchise is freaking awful. Not to mention old as crap."

Davio blinked. "There's really a porn franchise called Triple-X Men?"

"Yeah, it's so bad. Ohmigawd." Her giggles trailing off, she leaned back against the chair and stretched out her legs over the plush rug she'd landed on. "I'm not going to watch porn on a diplomatic mission for my sister, dude, come on. I'm watching Sanders' Sides. It's a web show."

"But they were talking about…" He was an adult. He was a grown man. And he and Francesca banged like screen doors in a gale. So why was it so hard to say the words whale penis?

I am a grown ass man, what the heck?

"Hold on," she said with a laugh, and swiped her finger over the screen to back up the video. "Actually listen."

"Did you know that dork means 'whale penis?' I d- I...I called Logan a, a dork."

Oh, Logan. That's why he'd thought X-Men.

"This is a blooper reel?"

"Yeah, it's hilarious. Hang on." Pushing to her feet, she climbed into bed and burrowed under the covers. She didn't bother sticking her cold feet against his cool, scaly hide. It wouldn't warm her up. Instead she tapped her screen and opened a different video on her phone.

"Dealing with Intrusive Thoughts?" The thumbnail for the video was a grinning face, a pair of tentacles holding a sign, and four men with the same face but in different colors. "This is what you do for fun?"

Francesca gave him a wicked smile. "Baby, you're what I do for fun. This is what I watch for a pick-me-up."

Crocodilians didn't blush easily, but Cesca always managed to make his face flush and his head swim. He put his arm around her when she snuggled against him and hit the play button.

.

Centuries had taught Nuada the difference between screams of terror, of pain, of despair, and of outrage. That was why the howling going on beyond the door to his prison didn't worry him at all. He'd been trapped in this room for two days, and so far nothing too terrible had happened but an incident with Oonagh, the bandit's despised daughter, and that 'Sa'ti had been taken from Nuada's presence to be fed and minded with Sreng's children who were physically similar in age. Only the bandit captain's vow to keep the ewah girl safe had kept Nuada from going for the throat of the kelpie who'd taken 'Sa'ti away. But the child had been allowed to dine with him for supper and sleep in this chamber with him for the last two nights, which made Nuada believe the wretch meant to keep his oath.

And now, since Nuada didn't hear Sreng's loathesome voice among those shrilling in anger and disgust, and since the gaggle of honking bandits weren't coming any nearer, what did it matter to the prince what was happening?

Then footsteps in the corridor drawing near. Stopping outside the door. Nuada straightened from his exhausted sprawl on the sleeping pallet in the corner of his large prison cell as the heavy door swung open.

Six days, now. Nearly a sennight, he'd been a prisoner, though he'd been unconscious for four of those days. He hadn't been beyond the confines of this room since waking in chains. His pallet and his meals had been brought by Briogh, Sreng's half-Fir Bholg son, and the dishes taken away by that she-demon Oonagh. 'Sa'ti had been brought to him each time by an Elven youth who'd refused to meet Nuada's eyes. A son? A slave? The prince didn't know.

The bandit captain himself had not returned since striking his bargain with the prince, not even to remove the ensorcelled iron chains that had left blistered burns on Nuada's wrists. That, too, had been Oonagh, and it had been Oonagh who'd brought the stack of clean slave tunics and underthings, and forced him to strip and bathe in front of her vulturous, violating gaze. To his surprise, she had only watched him, nothing more. Orders from Sreng? He didn't know.

But now Sreng, his most hated enemy, entered the room, his single iron-gray eye icy as he dragged someone small and stumbling and weeping into the room behind him.

'Sa'ti.

"I have offered her no harm," Sreng snapped as he yanked the child further into the room. "Your little cat-brat will stay here for the afternoon," he added with a growl and shoved 'Sa'ti toward Nuada. With a yowling screech, the ewah shifted from child to cougar form and ran behind the prince's legs. The bandit added, "Any of my children guilty of such mischief would be whipped bloody, Silverlance, but I hold to my oaths. Once I have sorted out my camp and soothed my daughter's temper, I will return, and we will talk, you and I, Prince Nuada." With a last vicious glare at the trembling 'Sa'ti, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Immediately, the little cub turned back into a little girl and wrapped her arms around Nuada's knees.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, it was an accident, I didn't mean for Lieutenant Oonagh to fall in the pig pen!"

Swallowing confusion and temper, Nuada shook his leg and the child released him, allowing him to sit down on the floor beside her. He held up his arm. 'Sa'ti crept under it to lean against him. The child had seemed to draw comfort from such contact over the last couple days. In truth, the prince found the slight weight and warmth of her reassuring. It told him she was at least safe enough for now. His only goal for the foreseeable future was to keep his young vassal alive and safe for as long as possible.

"Pig pen?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

'Sa'ti nodded. "It was an accident! I mean, before that was an accident."

He tried to follow her words. "Before...the pig pen...was an accident?" The child nodded. "All right." He tried to keep his voice free of any unease and exhaustion. "Then what was before the pig pen?"

The little ewah child hung her head. "The skunk."

Nuada stared at her. Swallowed something that felt, impossibly, like a laugh.

"The…skunk."

'Sa'ti nodded. "I saw it and tried to make friends with it."

Something was definitely clogging his throat. "Make…friends. With…the skunk?"

The cougar child nodded emphatically. "Marcie taught us how."

Nuada had to think. Marcie. Marcelina? There was a child with a name like that among the refugees brought to the villages by Uilliam McBas. She'd been a plump little thing with skin so light brown it had almost been tawny, big black eyes, and twin white stripes zipping through her thick, black hair. Not from Bethmoora, she'd been from Elphame, visiting family. She'd had the power to speak to certain vicious little creatures like weasels, wolverines…and skunks.

The child had taught the other refugee children to speak to such creatures? Nuada didn't want to think of the amount of mischief such a talent could be put to in the village, but…

"And so? What happened?" He asked, striving to keep the odd thing – not a laugh, no; more of a half-hysterical giggle – locked behind his teeth.

"I was talking to it and a bad guy saw me and started yelling and it scared me and the skunk got mad and sprayed him, and he tripped and fell down and another skunk came out of the bushes and sprayed him too. In the face."

Oh. Oh, no. Nuada bit his lip and stared up at the ceiling. Being sprayed by a skunk was one thing. Being sprayed in the face was another. And…

"Did it spray him in the eyes?"

'Sa'ti hung her head. "Yep."

The prince pressed a fist against his lips. Cleared his throat. "And then what happened?"

"The guard started yelling and the skunks got scared so they ran into a tent. And then Oonagh screamed and ran out and she was naked and rubbing her eyes so I think the skunks sprayed her in the face too."

Good, Nuada thought with vicious glee. The bitch deserved worse.

"And then another bad guy ran into her tent and ran out all stinky and waving his sword like a dummy and he cut through a tent pole and the tent fell down right when some more bad guys ran in and then I heard hissing noises and they started screaming so I think they got sprayed, too. And then the skunks ran out of the pile of tent and I turned cougar and scooped them up and took them away so they could escape. And when I came back I found out Oonagh ran into a donkey and it kicked her and she fell in the pig pen-"

Oh. Oh, gods. How long could he hold it in?

"-and got pig poop in her hair and they stepped on her! And when she was trying to climb out, a bird swooped down and threw up on her."

Nuada burst out laughing. It hurt, sore as he was yet from his injuries, but he couldn't help himself. He slumped over, laughing helplessly at the thought of that heartless, soulless bitch smeared with filth and stinking of skunk.

'Sa'ti poked him lightly in the shoulder. "I think she's cursed," the child confided.

Still chuckling to himself, Nuada nodded. That would make sense. It sounded like the sort of thing that happened to a person with serious magical protection who got hit with a curse.

"I'm sorry," the ewah girl said again.

The Elf prince shook his head and looped an arm around her.

"Do not be," he said, grinning. "Never be sorry for this. You did nothing wrong, and you made me laugh. Well done. But keep this to yourself, aye? Don't tell anyone I laughed."

'Sa'ti made an X-sign over her chest. "I won't. I promise." She hesitated, then asked, "Should…should I do it again?"

The prince closed his eyes, still fighting the urge to break into laughter again. Should she? By his vow, Sreng couldn't hurt her or punish her in any way that Nuada would not punish her, if she were caught at it. She was in no danger if she made a little mischief. So why not? Why ever not?

Leaning down, the Silverlance whispered in her ear, "The next time you see a chance to make some trouble, take it, 'Sa'ti. Wreak havoc on them all."

She grinned up at him. "Okay!"

Unfortunately, she stopped grinning when Sreng came back. In one hand he held a coiled whip. In another, he held a very long, sharp knife.

"Get out," he snarled at the little girl.

She shot a petrified glance at Nuada, who gave her a quick hug and a gentle push toward the door. She gave him one last frightened look before leaving the room. The bandit captain kicked the door shut.

"Now," he said softly, "we will talk, you and I. I have...a very pleasant feeling about this conversation, Silverlance. I think it's going to last a very, very long time, and that I'm going to enjoy it very, very much."

No doubt he would, Nuada thought grimly, and slowly rose to his feet.

.

The night after the herald's departure, Dylan woke just as the clock struck midnight and glanced out the window. The shutters had fallen open, but Nuada's room, unlike most of the tavern rooms here, had windows with real glass in them. So Dylan could see the absolute darkness beyond the window.

The moon, Dylan realized in a slow, vague, dreamy way, was new tonight. It would be dark tonight and for two nights after. And it was midnight exactly. What had woken her from a drug-induced, exhausted sleep?

Something tapped oh, so very softly at the window glass. She was on the third floor - what could be tapping? Part of her thought absently that she ought to be worried, but she couldn't seem to muster up any concern. She simply threw back the covers and swung her feet over the side of the bed.

A warm carpet of fiery autumn colors had been laid beside the bed; the floor beyond it should've been cold, but when Dylan's bare foot touched the wood, it was just as warm as the rug. She walked toward the window. Slipping her fingers under the casement, she heaved, and it opened.

Nuada sat on the sill. He wore no shirt, despite the vicious cold of the winter night. Only brown leather trews and black hunting boots. Even though it was pitch black outside, the moon dark, his skin seemed lit with the ripe golden glow of a harvest moon. A glorious rack of dark brown antlers thrust up through his star-blond hair to cast shadows against the diamond-studded, moonless sky. And around the base of those antlers, crowning the waterfall of his hair, was a wreath. Carefully, he pulled the wreath off and handed it to her.

"Nuada," she began, and a sliver of pain poked through the odd, dreamy feeling blanketing her. "Nuada, where have you-"

He kissed her. Softly, gently. His hands came up to frame her face and they were so warm, as warm as the aura of heat from a fire. His kiss was almost hot, and when she tangled her fingers in his hair, the silken strands brushing against her felt like they'd been warmed by afternoon sunlight. Every place their skin touched, it burned. He whispered her name against her lips, then pressed in again. Hungry. Desperate. She clung to him, she'd missed him so much, she'd been so scared for him...

He smelled different, she realized distantly. Instead of that wildwood scent and that sweetness like bells-of-Ireland, she smelled...woodsmoke. Burning leaves. Roasting chestnuts and baking pumpkin. Somehow she knew this smell, even though it wasn't normally his. It was the scent of autumn magic from a certain kind of forest fae king. A...a fae king.

The antlers. The way he could sit on that small, jutting bit of window sill without falling, without trying. The autumn scent of him, even in winter. The heat radiating from him. This was Nuada as king.

But he wasn't king, not yet. Was this a dream, then? And yet...yet it was him. Or part of him. His magic? Reaching for her?

"I love you," he breathed against her mouth. She smelled cinnamon now, too. Cloves? Nutmeg, maybe. Autumn spice and apples. But under it, she smelled blood. The sweet scent of fae blood. "My love, I've missed you so," he murmured, and a shudder passed through him. His arms tightened around her. "My wife. My princess."

Pain sliced through her. "No," Dylan mumbled, pulling back, turning her face away. Dream, this was only a dream. Some cruel Morphean fantasy. And yet... "We...no, we didn't-"

"The spell waits," he said. He pulled her back to him; falling into his hard, scarred arms was as quick and easy as blinking. "Dylan, the spell is waiting for us to finish it. You are mine, and I am yours. The kingdom knows it. The land itself knows it. The very magic in my blood knows it. How do you think I'm here now?"

His magic, she thought, reaching out to her.

"Then...are you safe from…" She trailed off when he shook his head. Her heart gave three sharp, painful beats. A single tear burned like hot acid down her cheek. "Where are you? We've been looking, we can't find you. Either of you. Is 'Sa'ti with y-"

"Yes," he said quickly. There was something in his eyes. A fierce, defiant pain. "I have her. We're together."

"Where? Where are you, Nuada? Where are they keeping the two of you? Please..."

"In this world of dreams, for some reason I cannot remember...much of anything about where I am. I know that I know at least some of it. I have seen my prison, I know at least somewhat where it is, but I cannot grasp those memories while I'm here with you. But I know our girl is safe for now. I promise you. And I have wanted...ached to see you. To know you were all right. Finally I must have fractured whatever spells kept my dreams from touching yours. It will not last long, beloved. I am sorry. But I had to see you, after...I had to hold you, if only for a few mom-"

He broke off when she flung her arms around him, pressing her face hard against his chest. He buried his face against her hair and simply held on. Dylan felt him trembling. And the scent of blood and pain was stronger now.

What were they doing to him out there? He swore 'Sa'ti was safe, and Dylan believed him. But he wasn't safe. How long did she have before the bandits killed him? He was the crown prince of Bethmoora. Did that give her more time to save him, or less?

"I don't know what to do," she confessed. "I'm freaking out, I don't know how to find you, how to save either of you. I don't know what to do and I'm scared, I'm so scared."

"I know." A hesitation, then, "I am afraid, as well. But I love you," he breathed against her ear. "My love. My heart. My princess. I love you more than my own life. Believe it. I will endure, I swear to you, until our girl is safe and I can see your face once more. We will see each other again, beloved."

And he kissed her one more time, even as the dream started to splinter...

.

When she woke from the dream, Dylan stared up at the ceiling for a long time, tears trickling down her cheeks. Odd, sharp little sounds escaped her trembling lips, but she muffled them enough that neither Wink nor her guards came in to ask her what was wrong. Only Setanta and Eimh crept into the room, and they didn't reach out and speak to her with their minds. They only jumped up onto the bed and bellied over to lie on either side of her. She hugged each of them loosely around the neck and kept staring into the dark.

After perhaps an hour or two - she couldn't be sure, floating in misery and rage without a clock to mark time - she wiped her face, patted the dogs and scootched them off the bed. Then she threw back the covers and got up. She needed a plan.

No, she had a plan. She just wasn't sure she was brave enough to see it through. But there was one way to make herself brave enough - furious enough - to do what had to be done. It would hurt, and it would do damage she wasn't sure how to handle in the aftermath of her plan. But it would fill her with enough rage and hate to risk everything to save Nuada and 'Sa'ti.

First she needed to make two, possibly four phone calls. One was to her cousin Renee, asking for some information about aspirating bone marrow.

"It hurts like hell if you don't have anesthesia," Renee said once Dylan got her on the phone. She sounded sleepy and baffled, but not annoyed. "I mean, would you want a giant-gauge needle stabbing you in the hip and sucking out your bone juice while you were awake?"

She chuckled, clearly meaning it as a joke. When Dylan didn't laugh, Renee got quiet.

"Babe...are you in trouble out there?" She asked finally.

Dylan swallowed the strangest urge to laugh. It tasted a little like hysteria. Her throat felt strangely dry as she swallowed again. At last she answered, "Not me, no." It was basically the truth. She was trying to save Nuada and 'Sa'ti, not herself.

"Do I want to know why you're asking me about having bone marrow taken? And why me? You're the doctor."

Easy answer there. "You're the only person I know who's had bone marrow taken-"

"What about when Moundsh-"

"-without magic or anything supernatural getting involved," Dylan finished. "Anyway, no, you probably don't want to know. Thanks for the information. It was actually really helpful." If nothing else, it told her she'd have to place that third phone call. "Love you."

"Okay...take care of yourself. Love you, too."

Off the phone with her favorite cousin, Dylan took a deep breath, then let it out with deliberate slowness as pieces of the plan began settling into their proper places. Setanta slunk toward her and set his chin on her good knee, whining softly. She stroked his warm, soft, furry head and considered her options.

So...doing this on her own wasn't possible. No one here, not even the healers, had the proper training to aspirate bone marrow from a mortal except Dylan herself, and she couldn't be the one to do it. Especially not without anesthesia. It wasn't a lack of willingness; to save Nuada and especially to save 'Sa'ti, she would endure far worse. But there was no possible way to keep her hands steady with that kind of pain blazing through her.

And she would need bone marrow, fresh from a living sapient body, in order for her plan to be worth anything.

So she made the second call, the one she hadn't been sure about.

"Hey, Peri." Dylan swallowed hard when the forcibly cheery words wobbled. It felt like she hadn't spoken to Peri, the closest thing she had to a neighbor, in months or years rather than the few weeks since they'd arranged for Peri to take care of Russell, Dylan's nephew. The scarlet-haired sidhe woman lived in an apartment across the street from Central Park with her young son, Bean. Peri had been the one to watch the ewah cubs for that first week after they'd sworn service to Dylan while the mortal was at work. The still-unexplained dullahan attack that had nearly killed Tsu's'di had occurred at Peri's home. And Peri had been the one to get the cubs to Roiben Darktithe's sithen to keep them safe from more enemies.

Dylan had met Peri - a single mother with delicately pointed ears and a child who'd only physically aged two years in the last two decades - years ago when she'd still been in med school. They'd both worked as waitresses at Persephone's, the changeling-owned and royally sponsored cafe in Jersey run by Roiben's pixie-changeling queen, Kaye Fierch.

The mortal woman knew a lot of different fae. As a healer, she'd accumulated favors and dispensation from a variety of otherworldly beings. But her humanity meant that before meeting Nuada and becoming his truelove, she hadn't been close friends with many of them. Peri, on the other hand, was a friend to anyone who didn't piss her off too much.

"Dylan! Hey!" Peri sounded bright and cheerful despite it being oh-dark-thirty. Being the mother of a changeling child, she kept odd hours. "You okay? Do you need something? Do you need to talk to Russell?"

Running her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair, Dylan squeezed her eyes shut.

"Are you still in touch with Rin, Peri?"

A long silence. Dylan counted her heartbeats. What if she said no? But at last, Peri said, "Yes. I am. Why?"

How to explain why she needed to talk to one of Peri's old friends? Someone who owed Dylan a favor, and soon would owe her another one if everything went according to plan.

"I need to talk to her. I need her help."

More silence. Then, "You need Rin's help." When Dylan confirmed in a flat voice, the sidhe woman sputtered, "Her help. You need her help? I...you...but she...what...why? Is Prince Nuada cheating on you? Because I know she owes you but even for you, she's not going to try to eat a fae prince's testic-"

"What?" Dylan blinked and shoved the heel of her palm against one eye. She hadn't thought Peri would think that. "No! No, he's not…" Darn it, she would not cry over the phone. She shoved harder against her stinging eyes. "I'm not killing anyone." Yet. Maybe Rin could help her with Sreng by eating some of the bandit's internal organs. Or would they just grow back? "I need her help with a summoning. I have to have everything ready by sunset tonight."

Eimh pressed against Dylan's legs but said nothing. Dylan felt a shiver trembling through the hound pup, and wondered if she somehow knew what her human was planning.

Dylan heard Peri suck in a sharp breath. "But the only two people she could help you summon, at least that you'd risk summoning, would be…" She trailed off. Dylan said nothing. "Dylan...are you positive you want to do this? This isn't like all the other times you've talked to them. This is a summoning. What if it backfires?"

"It won't." She looked down at her scarred arms, nearly bone-white in the moonlight that had been absent from her beautiful, brutal dream. Stared at one scar in particular in the shape of a thin crescent moon very near the bend of her elbow. "It won't backfire."

She wouldn't let it.

After getting Rin's phone number from Peri, Dylan wished her good night and hung up. Taking another deep, steadying breath, she dialed Rin's number.

The rough voice that came on the line wasn't ragged from sleep, but transformation. The hello was glottal and thick.

"Rin? This is Dylan Myers. I need you to come to Bethmoora in the Twilight Realm."

Their phone call was short and to the point. Dylan needed the Filipino otherworldly being to come to Bethmoora to help her with a summoning - unless she was still on a diet and helping would kick her off the wagon. Rin, whose voice smoothed out the longer they spoke, told her she could handle a single summoning of this nature, that it would basically be the same thing as a cheat day where humans had a piece of cake before going back to the drudgery of calorie-watching and salad-munching.

Dylan hadn't been worried Rin would be angry at the request, just worried that getting from New York City to Lallybroch in Bethmoora would be impossible for her. But the woman had promised she would be there. So now there was just the fourth and final phone call. Dylan needed to contact a former patient.

The phone rang thirteen times before a young woman's voice answered. "Nightshade and Smith, Jenny speaking."

"Jenny, this is Dr. Myers. I need two favors if you can help."

Jenny's voice immediately brightened. "Doctor Dylan! It's good to hear from you! How are you?"

"I'm…" She'd always promised her Sight kids absolute honesty. "Not doing so hot. I need to do a summoning tonight and I need a perfect autumn pumpkin."

The other woman didn't say anything for a second. "It's January."

"I know. But I also know that you, Jenny Smith, grow perfect autumn pumpkins year-round in your back garden. I know most of them are tithed to your prince, but I also know you keep a few for magical purposes. I need one. Please."

"...you're summoning them, aren't you?"

Dylan nodded, then remembered Jenny couldn't see her. "Yes. Only one of them might answer, but I need them both. I need their help. I can't get help, real help, from anyone else."

"Dylan…" Jenny sounded absolutely miserable. Dylan suddenly remembered Jenny was barely twenty. "He can't help you. His Majesty isn't supposed to interfere with-"

"I know. But he can give permission for other kinds of interference. And that's what I need. Please, Jenny. It's important." She couldn't tell her the full reason. She couldn't spread it around that the crown prince of Bethmoora had been kidnapped by bandits and the Tuathan king wasn't going to do anything. The news would spread, and their enemies would hear of it, but hopefully by then Dylan would be on her way to saving Nuada. "Please, Jenny. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate."

She wouldn't tell Jenny that the girl owed Dylan for saving her life. Dylan had saved her life years ago, but it had been an accident, so it didn't really count. She also didn't mention she'd saved Jenny's boyfriend's life, because Dylan wasn't asking Jim Nightshade for a favor. She was asking Jenny.

Finally, Jenny sighed. "You said you needed two favors. What's the other one?"

"I need you to get the pumpkin to my house as soon as possible. There will be a woman waiting to take it to me when you get there. Short; long black hair; chubby; sapphire labret through her bottom lip; black bat wings; a vine tattoo around her left arm. Will you get it to her?"

"You bet." A hesitation, and then Jenny said, "You know you'll see me later tonight if the summoning works."

"You, Jim, Willow, Raleigh, and Tomasa, hopefully. Because I want it to work. So I hope I see you all."

Jenny sighed. "I'll get you your pumpkin. Good luck with all this."

Luck would have nothing to do with this. But Dylan didn't say that. She only thanked Jenny and hung up the phone again.

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Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed. I'm going to do my best to get the next chapter up on time next month. Fingers crossed.

References in This Chapter:

- the characters Tomasa, Raleigh, Willow, Pipkin, Jim Nightshade, and Jenny Smith are from The Halloween Tree and Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury

- Azrharn, Uhlume, Chuz, Kheshmet, Azrhiaz, Dunizel, and Nerrasen are from Tanith Lee's Tales of the Flat Earth series

- Ligeia and Tamberlane are borrowed/inspired by Edgar Allen Poe

- The video Francesca is watching is the blooper reel for the 3rd latest episode of Thomas Sanders' web show, Sanders' Sides. You can find Thomas, his show, and the bloopers on Youtube. I highly recommend, he's adorable and funny. You might recognize him from the now-gone Vine. He was the "Storytime!" guy.

- The title is from the Phil Collins song, which I recently heard for the first time in a long while right when I was struggling for a title

- If I missed anything, please let me. I try to credit all my references but I'm also really doped up on meds like...all the time.