"If you'll stop strangling him, maybe we can figure it out."
He looked down at Doyle's limp body, still hanging from the tentacles, and said, "Oh," as if he'd forgotten he was still squeezing the life from the other man. Technically, you couldn't strangle a sidhe to death, but I'd never been comfortable testing the limits of immortality. You never knew when you'd find a chink in the armor big enough to die through.
Sholto uncurled his limbs from Doyle, and the other man fell into my arms, his weight driving me to my knees. I wasn't losing enough blood for this much weakness. It was either shock or something to do with using a hand of power for the first time. Whatever was causing it, I wanted to close my eyes and rest, and that just wasn't going to be happening.
I sat on the floor, cradling Doyle's head in my lap. The pulse in his neck was strong, steady, but he did not wake. He took two quick breaths, then his head threw back, eyes wide, and he took a great gasp of air. He sat up coughing. I saw him tense, and Sholto must have, too, because the sword was suddenly pointed at Doyle's face.
Doyle froze, staring up at the other man. "Finish it."
"No one is finishing anything," I said.
Neither man looked at me. I couldn't see Doyle's expression, but I could see Sholto's, and I did not like what I saw. Anger, satisfaction-he wanted to kill Doyle, it was there on his face plain to see.
"Doyle saved me, Sholto. He saved me from your sluagh."
"If you had not warded the door, I would have been here in time," Sholto said.
"If I had not warded the door, you would have been in time to mourn over my dead body, but not in time to save me."
Sholto still wouldn't take his gaze from Doyle. "How did he get inside when I could not?"
"I am sidhe," Doyle said.
"So am I," Sholto said. The anger in his face hardened just a bit.
I slapped Doyle's shoulder, hard enough to sting. He didn't turn, but he winced. "Don't bait him, Doyle."
"I was not baiting, merely stating a fact."
This entire fight was beginning to feel very personal, as if there was business between the two of them that had nothing to do with me. "Look, I don't know what you have against each other, but call me selfish, I don't care. I want out of this damn bathroom alive, and that takes priority over whatever personal vendetta the two of you have. So stop acting like little boys and start behaving like members of the royal bodyguards. Get me out of here in one piece. "
"She's right," Doyle said, softly.
"The great Darkness, bowing out of a fight? Inconceivable. Or is it that I'm the one with the sword now?" Sholto moved the sword a fraction forward, touching the tip to the indentation in Doyle's upper lip. "A sword that can kill any fey, even a sidhe nobleman. Oh, I forget, you're not afraid of anything." There was a bitterness, a mockery, to Sholto's voice that said without doubt that I'd stepped into an old grudge.
"I fear many things," Doyle said, his voice calm, neutral. "Death is not one of them. But the ring on your finger is something that I am wary of. How did you get Beathalachd? I have not seen it used in centuries."
Sholto raised his hand so the dark bronze of the ring glimmered dully in the lights. It was a heavy piece of jewelry, and I would have noticed it on his hand if it had been there earlier. "It was the queen's gift to show her blessing on this hunt."
"The queen did not give you Beathalachd, not personally." Doyle sounded very sure of that.
"What is Beathalachd?" I asked.
"Vitality," Doyle said. "It steals the very life and skill of your opponent, which is the only way that he bested me in a fight."
Sholto flushed. It was considered a sign of weakness to need more magic than you had in your own body to defeat another sidhe. Basically, Doyle had said that Sholto couldn't win a fair fight, and had had to cheat. But it wasn't cheating-just less than chivalrous. Fuck chivalry, come back alive. It was what I'd told any man I'd ever loved, including my father, before every duel.
"The ring proves that I have the queen's favor," Sholto said, his face still colored by his anger.
"The ring did not come from the queen's own hand to yours," Doyle said, "any more than your order to kill the princess came from her mouth."
"I know who speaks for the queen and who does not," Sholto said, and it was his turn to sound certain.
"Really," Doyle said. "And if I had come to you and given you the queen's orders, would you have believed me?"
Sholto frowned, but nodded. "You are the queen's Darkness. When your mouth moves, her words come out of it."
"Then hear these words: The queen wants Princess Meredith alive, and back home."
I couldn't read all the thoughts moving across Sholto's face, but there were a lot of them. I tried to ask the question he would not answer for Doyle. "Did the queen herself tell you to come to Los Angeles and kill me?"
Sholto looked at me. It was a long, considering look, but finally he shook his head. "No," he said.
"Who told you to come to Los Angeles and slay the princess?" Doyle asked.
Sholto opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. The tension flowed out of him, and he stepped back from Doyle, lowering the sword to his side. "No, I will keep the name of the traitor to myself for now."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because Doyle's presence here can mean only one thing. The queen wants you to return to court." He looked at Doyle. "I'm right, aren't I?"
"Yes," Doyle said.
"She wants me to return to court?"