Author's notes:

The author plays a game with the reader. No matter the genre, no matter the ages of reader or writer. No story is completely predictable and still enjoyable for its own sake. (Parables, fables, and morality, etc. are an exception.)

Even if you're listening to an old friend tell the same story one more time at a party, the unpredictable factor is the audience's reaction (at least to you.)

Every story is a game. Some games play well only with new participants, else you know how it's going to turn out. Some games, that is the point. You want the comfort of knowing that Fred will bet high, that Amjad will bluff most of the time, Chang will fold if you push him, etc.

The same with some stories -- sometimes, the point of reading that author is you know it will end up. Heck, sometimes you end up re-re-re-reading a favourite book or series just because you like how it curves and wends its way to its satisfying conclusion.

Other times, you just want something different. You play a game with someone who you don't know anything about, or you've heard is a crazy player. You try a new author, or one that your friends rave about how every book is different. A game. Just a new one each time.

This one? I'm not sure. I'm playing a game here like I would were I to play chess against someone far above my ken: I know that going the classic openings will be folly, so I try something crazy. Each move, I try something different, something unpredictable.

Even if I lose, I try to have fun.

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



With dark merriment in his eyes and a matching smile, Marcarius stood. He extended his hand. "To me, my little one."

Sian swallowed and surveyed the three elders. She slid her hand out from under Callan's, laid it atop his. She gave his a squeeze and took a step away. "Good-bye, Sire."

In an instant he was out of his chair and gripping her by the shoulders. "What are you doing?"

"Callan, don't." Melatova stood as well and drew in a heavy breath.

"Oh, I don't mind. If this is how he wants her to remember him, I can wait." With his other hand, Marcarius brushed back his black silk jacket and looked at the patined pocketwatch clipped to his belt.

Melatova nodded, sat and continued rolling her pen between her fingers.

Callan held her and shook her. "What are you doing?"

She wrapped her arms around him, bent him slightly to lay her head on his shoulder, his on hers. "Don't give him a reason." Her words were more breath than whisper.

"Marcarius? I can take it. You're worth it, remember?" His words, equally soft but clear, pained her.

She buried her chin into his flesh. "No, the fat man. He's waiting for you to do something stupid."

"Dilligaff? He wouldn't dare, not here. What would he do, sit on me?"

"You don't see it, do you?"

"See what?"

"He's all set to take you down. Can't you feel it?"

"What?" He nearly broke the embrace. Only her hands around him reminded him of the time, the place.

"He's waiting for you to give him a reason. Don't give him one. Let me go."

"Geravances is here, we'll be safe."

She shook her head, nuzzling his neck and ear. "No, Sire. No. Can you feel the difference?"

"No. Feel what?"

"Dilligaff is so much stronger than Gara... Whatever his name is. The old man," she said in sotto voce.

"She's right, Callan. Let her go, lad." From his chair Geravances beckoned. "Help this old bag of bones out to his car, will you?" The cane sank into the carpet as he rose, his hand outstretched to Callan as much as Marcarius' was to Sian.

Callan and Sian kissed quickly, then released one another and turned away, before the tears slipped free.

===

"How could you hear us? Even I could only barely hear her." By the valet stand, Callan surveyed the rear of The Mephistopheles Society.

"Who taught you to Sense, boy?" He bounced his cane tip on the concrete.

Callan straightened, memory and reflex coming to the fore. "Did the others?"

"Doubt it. Didn't teach many people. Not them, anyway. Not many people have that knack. Without it, I can't do much. Now, her, on the other hand..."

"What was she talking about, Dilligaff being ready to attack?"

"The truth, and nothing but. He had his Power readied. She was right, lad."

"What about the part where you weren't ready?"

He gave Callan a smile. "Well, that part, she missed. Then again, I was Obscuring my own reserves, too. Better to let them think me weak and surprise them. Dilligaff didn't believe that, so I let him take most of the hurting when we took on the Grynjeri." He chuckled.

"So you told me. Many times. I did that with Marcar--"

"He's a blind ox. Big, stupid and blind. They both are." The hand not holding the cane swatted at something. Insect, memory, something.

"Yes, but he still has her."

"I'll trade you one statement of the obvious for another: there's my car. Now, state something inobvious."

"She can Sense Power."

He walked around the vehicle. "That's still pretty damned obvious to me."

"How did she know?"

He opened the door. "Better, but still obvious. A question, but still obvious. Think, lad. Think."

"She reminds me of Chella."

The old man got in, started the car, powered down the passenger window and leaned over. "That, my boy, has long been obvious to me. But it wasn't to you, and that's the important part."

He drove off, leaving Callan staring at his shoes.

===

"I'm glad we came to an agreement, little one." Marcarius stalked through the maze of tunnels and stairs.

"That's one of us." Bravado on the surface, but Sian tensed at the burst of warmth those two words brought to her belly.

"Yet you're still here, with me."

"Only because that big, fat slob was ready to fry my Sire."

He stopped and reared around. "Have a care how you talk about him. He may look fat but he..." A pause, then a blink. "How did you know?"

"I have to go with you. I don't have to tell you." She smiled, mocking him. Goading him.

His words took a hard edge. "I could make you."

"You could try." She felt that reassuring roar of rage building, drowning out the soft, unwanted hum around her heart at hearing his voice.

"But I won't. Get in." They exited the club, into the midnight air. Ahead of them sat his convertible.

Wind out of her sails, Sian got in.

They drove off.

===

"Why didn't you go with the plan? Ressa and I were right there!" Locke dropped his Facade as he walked up.

Callan shook his head, still studying some spot on the ground between them. "Geravances saw you. He told me to call it off."

"Damn that old dog. Why?"

"I don't know. I never know with him." Callan took a deep breath, then looked finally at his old friend. "After all these years, I still don't know what he's playing at."

"Well, he didn't look very well." Ressa gave Locke's hand a squeeze. "Was that an act, too?"

"I don't know. Where are Brank and Ceili?" He gave Ressa a hug.

"Probably still by the back way." She patted him on the back. "We had better get them. Knowing Brank, he'll wait all night if we don't."

The three turned and walked into the shadows.

"Callan?"

"Yes, Ressa?"

"Will she be all right?"

"I don't know."

===

The door they sought had no keyhole, no handle facing outward. Callan looked at Locke, who nodded. Ressa flatted herself against the side of the building, right at the corner and kept watch. Locke placed his palm on the metal door, then gave Callan the thumbs-up with his other hand. Callan concentrated on his finger and flowed it into the groove behind the plate covering where the latch sank into the jamb. The resulting soft click led to three smiles. Locked pulled back slightly, his palm fused to the door. Ressa ran in, followed by Callan. He held the door open, eyes on the corner that was Ressa's station. The metal shuddered, and Locke ran around him.

Once the door closed, Locke and Ressa grinned at one another in the yellowish light. Locke gave Callan a wink. "They never found out about this, did they?"

The memory of past incursions buoyed his spirits. "Good to see you still have the Touch." He returned their grins.

Locke studied his palm, his splayed fingers. "Will you ever tire of that horrible pun?"

"Shouldn't we be quiet? Or, at least quieter?"

"No need, Ressa. These tunnels are from the old Society foundation. Stone and iron. Lots of turns, lots of stairwells. So long as we aren't too loud, it'll just get lost in with the noise from all the vents and pipes they put in here."

"Still remember how to get to the library, Callan?"

"This way." He took a few strides down the hall, then stopped. He inhaled, mouth closed. "Yes, they were here. Marcarius, Sian and..." He pursed his lips and breathed deeply once more. Then he took off at a run down the tunnel.

At the second-to-last turn, he slid to a stop, then crept along the wall. Nearing the corner, he Listened, then stepped around.

Brank laid on the ground, not breathing. His neck wore a livid contusion. His trousers laid torn at the waist, showing a darker, angrier bruise.

"Oh, gods." Locke panted. Footsteps echoed as Ressa hurried to keep up.

"Where's Ceili?"