Author's notes:

Much of this story will be from Sian's perspective, hence the name truncation.

It started with Callan's perspective, chase-plane style. When he uses his Power on Sian, it's plainly stated. No, I don't have a mental catalogue of Powers. I've played enough tabletop role-playing games to know those sorts of lists can sometimes turn into strictures rather than guides.

The past few chapters, Marc's been using Power on Sian. I tried not to say it, but to evoke it. I imagined how it would feel to have someone pummel me with that sort of subtle psychic manipulation. Again, without a pick-list of powers, I was more asking myself, "Were I him, armed such, how would I want to keep some poor waif off-kilter? How would I make her fall in love with me?"

Even when Callan comes back, the story will focus on Sian. She's the MacGuffin, as Hitchcock calls it. Unlike some definitions which state the MacGuffin has no bearing on the story, I refuse to guarantee that. If anything, I am sure Sian will change.

A person I had the honour and fortune to meet in my online travels is John Ravenscroft. Here is a slice of time, one of his articles on the art of the short story in which he states, "Something must change."

(Say, does anyone read these things and find them useful?)

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



He withheld his offering the whole of the trip back, frustrating Sian's every effort, every remembered success. Lips, tongue, teeth, and even throat, she gave her all, amazed at his control.

They turned off the expressway and into the city itself. It was the knowing, the awareness that soon they'd be in the concrete canyons of downtown, where everyone could look down and see her in such an indescreet position, that chill down her spine gave her energies to redouble her efforts, to hungrily draw into her the whole of his pride.

To no avail. She gave a small sob, then could only offer a lame, "I'm sorry."

"Fear not, little one. You did well."

Oh, those words, they thundered in her. So soft he said them, so low. Had the car been moving any faster, the engine's drone would have drowned them out. Had it gone any slower, that same engine would have matched his in tone, in rumble. But, as is, she heard them. She heard them and felt them. Her heart warmed. Her smile grew so large her eyes nearly squinted shut, so large she felt the stretch in her cheeks. Those words. Those wonderful, blessed words.

They pulled in front of her building, her heart still afloat with pride and her own fire stated by those words alone.

As she luxuriated in his praise, he appeared beside her door. With a bow, he opened it, hand outstretched to assist her. She turned, balanced the rose on one hand while taking his hand in the other. And caught on the seatbelt. A giggle, a quick break of the clasp of fingers, a click of the buckle, and again she bonded hands with him, rising and floating.

"Do you want to come up, Marc?" She stared at the flower, as if it were not just a talisman echoing his words, but a way to speak to him.

"No, little one. 'Fraid not. I've people to see, things to do. The world doesn't rest, no matter whichever circle we may walk."

===

A sigh floated through the air, a happy sigh. The rose she plucked from her hair, deposited in a bow of water, willing it to stay vibrant. As if will were enough. He had pinned it there, producing a safety pin from a sewing kit in his glovebox. Better it be fresh than stay in her hair until the evening, when he promised another night's adventure.

It was early, too early to vacuum without disturbing the neighbors, especially Mrs. Weatherspoon. She shook her head, bemused. 'How did he win her over with just a hello? She's usually so picky, so bitter!' As she set about picking up the large shards of the vase, the image of Marc, his gleaming smile and strong eyes placating the short, stocky lady and her snow-white yappy dog kept her smiling in spite of the fatigue in her cheeks.

Her body ached, she realized. Legs from being clenched, then dancing. Back from arching. She groaned as she stretched and twisted, the amazing memories of how she earned such soreness washing over the protests of the muscles themselves. And her neck, she lolled her head, describing a circle with her chin to work the tension out. So long, craned in that same place, same angle. She breathed out softly, either memory or reality offering her the hint of his aftertaste. Of him.

While she was loading the dishwasher, the afterglow of energy finally tapered out. Too much of body complained too loudly, too frequently. She nudged the door shut with her hip, fumbled the switch, and, after the beast chugged on, she shrugged out of her little black sheath. The bathtub beckoned.

The hot soak was perfect. Her back, her legs, her arms, even what part of her neck she could submerge all sang in relief. Oh, to just spend the rest of the day in here. Mentally, she ticked through the tasks awaiting her. 'Laundry, groceries, gym, and, oh yeah! Meet Evander at the mall. Oh well, some things are better done sooner than later. Too bad never isn't a choice.'

And with that, she was asleep.

===

The tepid water awoke her. It wasn't cold, just no longer the soothing cocoon baking relief into her muscles. Her neck still ached, but that was from it being outside the healing waters. Right? It had a different ache, though. Not so much muscle, but tendon, the sort that threaded up to the base of her skull. She usually suffered it after a night of tossing and turning, disquieting dreams that sublimated with the first light. They lasted most of the day, or until she took some Midol. She swallowed, anticipating the relief already. To reward her, the soreness at the back of the throat and a taste memory snuck into her mind.

She shook her head slowly, trying to work it out. No good. She sighed and gave up on the possibility of draining some of the lukewarm water and refilling it with the hot. Grabbing the sides, she willed her legs under her. They still protested, but not nearly as loudly. At that, she smiled, but it felt wrong, off-balance somehow.

The steam had condensed into tears on the medicine chest. They distorted shape, but not colour. She gasped, then wiped the glass as best she could. In the dew-pebbled reflection, her cheek screamed at her in it's angry purple hue. Just as suddenly, its presence derailed her thoughts in throbbing agony. She touched it gingerly. Very un-gingerly, the bruise made known its displeasure at even the slightest graze.

"How.." She had to let the sentence trail off; even opening her mouth to form the phoneme was too much. Memories from the past night have been dancing before her eyes, filling her mind, crowding out other thoughts. However, with every aching pulse on her face, one image loomed closer and closer. Like all the others, it was Marc. Unlike them, in this, his face was sharp, eyes blazing. His mouth was full of anger, the thunder of a roar deafening her. She had just cut him, he was in mid turn. And he had just backhanded her.

Her mouth dried. The back of her mouth burned, and bile filled her throat.