Author's notes:

The old writer's adage goes, "Write what you know." This can be taken as, "Write what you like." After all, you know what you like, so write like it.

Actually, that's sometimes harder said than done. To start with, writing is not about what you like, but why. Some things you simply like: food, colours. There's no why.

Some are a little more abstract. Why do you like the fall? "Oh, I love it when the leaves turn." Why do you like this car? "It looks big and imposing." (Hey, I'm saying there's a good reason, just one that isn't universal.)

Some might be a little more subtle. Why do you like this book? Why did you like that film? It could be as simple as, "I'll drop money on anything by F'nu L'nu." Or, "It's got huge explosions."

Yes, that's some. Most are more cerebral, less on the surface. Is it this theme, or that plot twist? Is it the way they made the action part of the story? Or the way the story never let up, but never seemed predictable, just plausible? These are questions the average person doesn't often consider. "I liked it!" is as far as they go.

But, for us to write what we know (that we like,) we first have to know what we like. Then we have to try. And fail. And try again. And fail again, but not as spectacularly. Lather, rinse, repeat.

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



"Just for the record, I never, and I mean never, became your thrall. You even said so back at the hotel before I ran out. You never called me 'little one' after you told me what it means. And I sure as hell didn't answer to it."

"I know, Sian. That was subterfuge. I had to act as if I had completed the Claim, else you would belong to Marcarius."

Evander sat upright. "Hey! Slavery doesn't exist anymore! What do you mean, 'she belongs to Marc-whateverHisNameIs'?"

Callan passed a truck, then focused on threading between two SUVs to get to the carpool lane. Traffic was heavy, and he wanted to put many miles between them and Marc. "Sian? Can you explain it?"

"Hey, don't do that mind-control stuff--"

"Sorry, I'm a bit busy playing Interstate Pac-Man here, okay?"

Sian's said, "It's all right, Evander, really. I'm me. I'm the same girl from grade school."

"How would you know? Back at the IHOP, I knew, I mean I felt like I really knew to my bones, that Marc and Callan were just talking about old times. That everything was fine. Like you said, scary slick."

"Just trust me, okay? I'm me. And I'm probably the better one to explain being owned, anyhow. Not that it's easy. It's like ... I can't get Marc out of my head. Yes, even now. And every time I think of him, part of me wants him. A big part, nearly all of me."

She shuddered, gripping her upper arms. "Right now, away from him and that damned rose, thinking back over it makes me ill. Part of me. Part of me still can't get enough of him."

Evander nodded, unaware his jaw had long since dropped.

"Just saying his name makes me want to please him. I want pleasure from him, still. It's like he's my only source. You see? His voice, his touch, his smell. The way he looks at me, the way he talks to me." She took a deep breath. "His smile makes me so happy I can cry. When he praises me, everything seems right in the world. I want to make him proud. I almost live for it. That's ownership."

Evander nodded. His mouth slowly closed. He rubbed his eyes, then shook his head. "Wow. Like, wow. I never thought I'd hear you say anything a million miles close to that."

"Uh, 'Vander? I never thought I'd say anything a million miles close to that. And it's not like Marc is here, forcing me to say it, or even fooling me into saying it. This is how I truly feel. Cal, how long before I stop feeling this way?"

"I'm sorry, Sian. To him, in time. The want, never. It's not a malady, it's an awakening. You have been shown the forces all around you. You will never again be blind to them, for good or ill."

From the back seat came, "Blind? Blind to what?"

"Blind to an innate need, to trust the whole of her existence to another."

"Bullshit." She glared at Callan.

"If Marcarius were here, would you feel the same?"

"That's different! It's a mindjob!"

"Yeah, until he left, and I remembered the real me. Then I'd probably puke."

"Would he leave you?"

"He has to, sometime."

"Let's take this another way. If you have three saplings, tender and supple, and you were to weave them into a braid, how would they grow?"

"They'd choke each other and die."

"No, assume a competent nurseryman. Enough water, enough nutrients, enough light, enough of everything, but the three saplings are braided into one. What happens then?"

"Okay, they'll grow up bent and braided, so?"

"Now, imagine if you could somehow separate one tree out, even if it would mean death for the other two?"

"And?"

"What shape would it take? Would it straighten out?"


"You mean I'd..."

"Yes. You'd grow into the contorted shape forced upon you. In time, he won't need to expend Power at all. In time, you will accept this as your natural state. And you will be glad in it. It will be all you know, and all you want to know."

"That's 'if' right? If he can mind-control me. That's why you're here."

"Yes, I rode in, and saved you. Barely. If you hadn't followed my cues, it would be a far different conversation, with different participants, I'm sure."

"So I'm safe. Yippee for the good guys."

"No, not yet."

"What do you mean?"

"Forever will your need be there. Awakened, remember? You'll seek him out, or someone like him. No matter who owns you, you will always feel that emptiness."

"No matter? It like I love Marc with my all. Like I'm starving for him, only him. I don't want to, I know I don't want to, but I am." She wipe away a tear. "I can't believe I'm feeling this way toward a bastard like him."

"Marcarius? He's worse than a bastard, he's a murderer."

"You mean he's going to kill me? I thought he wanted me!"

"He does want you, but you will most likely end up dead. Sometimes, thralls outlive their owners. Very rarely."

"Then what happens?" Evander's words were tight, hushed.

"She'd hunger, but have no other source to nourish her. If she is not Claimed again, she would probably die of misery by her own hand."

"Can it be you? Who owns me?"

"Sian! What the hell?"

She turned in the seat as much as the belt allowed, then clenched her eyes.

"You okay? You hurt?"

"Bad memory, that's all. Marc crap."

"Okay, but what's this ownership bull?"

"'Vander, you don't know how it is. How hard it is to fight it. I feel like there's a huge hole in me, a huge Marc-shaped hole. I know, I really, really, know he's going to mind-control me again, and it's going to stick, eventually. I don't want to be happy with Marc, a mindless little puppet. I'd rather have Cal."

"Let me get this straight. You don't want to be Marc's mindless little puppet, you want to be Cal's mindless little puppet."

"At least I trust him. I don't feel like I want to hurl when I think about him."

She turn forward again. Her eyes wavered, blinked. Not turning her head, she reached out a trembling hand to Callan. He grasped it, palm to palm. His thumb glided over the back of her hand.

"And you want to feel the same hunger with Cal?" Evander leaned between the seats.

"Yes. If it's a choice between the two, I want Cal to own me." She turned to face him. "Please, say the words. Make it complete."