Author's notes:

If you're following the TaerTime posts, I had some help packing up stuff yesterday. Help came in the form of my best friend's son and two of his friends. Yeah, I know I'm old when...

Anyhow, they're great geeks. Music geeks, sci.fi geeks, gamer geeks. One was frequently the game-master. I warned him of my experience, how I find much of the fiction out there to be predictable, or, if unpredictable, otherwise short-sighted.

Case in point: Heroes. (Many, many times.) Trying not to make it a spoiler, but one of the characters with the sole defining descriptor of "ditz" suddenly turns out to be very competent, that the ditziness was all a facade.

No, it wasn't predictable. However, in my eyes, it didn't work. I've seen it before, the whole "hero hiding as the fool" plot twist. Rarely does it work well, especially if the character is an extreme fool.

He said that others warned him of the same, and that he was starting to notice it already. And he's only sixteen.

All of a sudden, I have hope for the next generation.

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



Ready as she was, Sian still lost ground. Each time Marcarius called her "Little one," she felt part of her walls erode away. Each time he gifted her with a smoldering glance, she felt the beam across her gate crack again. The engine droned on, lulling her to sleep. The road was a grey ribbon in the black, framed only by blurred glimpses of passing estates.

"You are so lovely, my pet." He crooked his index finger and tipped her chin with it.

She batted his hand away, preferring to try to make out the lights of the far manors flickering through the bars, blinking through the pillars.

"I am not a monster. I'm sure Callan has made me out to be someone who devours babies. Hm?"

Sian grunted, wishing she could turn further away from him.

"My bond with you is still strong, little one. You've seen the care I took of you. Do you remember the other woman there? Melatova?"

Between those accursed words and her own reflexive curiosity, Sian nodded to the ghost of her reflection in the passenger-side window.

"Melatova's sister, Lamintine, consumes her prey whole. I've seen it. Not a pretty sight. Even worse a sound." He ended his thought with a low hiss, meaning kept from her.

She found herself staring at the rear-view mirror, admiring the dash of the intermittent lamp along the roadster's side. "How bad is it? Was it?" The night air suddenly pierced her.

"Bad enough that there are many other topics under the stars to discuss. Such as if you realize how special you are."

Sian braced for the warm touch of his hand. She dreaded it, but with the peternatural chill that swept her throughout at mention of that death, some part of her welcomed it. Her belly grew hollow waiting for it. She sighed and let her body collapse back into the seat's soft contours. She stared straight ahead, feeling that void grow in her. Finally, she turned to look at him.

Marcarius seemed lost in his own thoughts. He directed the car mechanically, his manner neither indicating anticipation for her response, or any inclination to open another query.

"No, I want to know. How bad can it be?"

He came out of his trance, regarded her for a heartbeat. "All right. How bad? Like a brand. Especially when I fell asleep, I'd hear them. Why? Looking for a weakness, pet?" He forced a smile. Sian saw the motion, but also saw the lack of a spark in it.

"Maybe." She matched his smile, equally forced. "But that's all past, right? Nothing I can use now."

"Quite a prize you are. Yes, that's all done with. No good to you. Now, can we talk about something else?"

"Not quite. One last question."

This warmed his smile. "Your word, little one?"

"I'm here, ain't I?"

"That's only because you know I'll find you, and will likely not be as forgiving next time."

"Probably. You and that fat man."

His smile grew. "Trying to rile me. Very good. Very good, indeed. But, I digress. What's your question?"

"How do you make it stop?"

"What? What do you mean?" He couldn't hide the surprise on his face.

She shivered. "How do you get the screams out of your head?"

===

Callan eyed the door between the library and Brank's station.

Locke looked up from his crouch, eyes saying everything.

"Where's Ceili? What happened to her?" Ressa repeated.

"I don't know. Damn, I'm getting tired of saying that. I don't know." He turned to Locke. "What now, old friend?"

"Damned if I know. I was going to ask you the same thing."

Callan turned and banged on the door. "Hey! Need some help here!"

Dilligaff's glowering face appeared in the growing gap. "What do you want, boy? Oh!" His eyes grew large as he took in Brank's injuries, top and bottom. "Lamintine."

Melatova shouldered her way past his bulk. "What? Where is she? Oh, Brank." She knelt and laid her traveler's cloak across him, covering the most indelicate of his wounds. "What happened? She couldn't have done this. Not Lamintine."

Dilligaff joined Locke and Melatova on one knee by the fallen man. "See? She broke his throat first. No death scream." He laid his forehead against the dead man's. "May you find peace and rest, lad," he said as he rose to his feet. "Why was he here, though?"

Melatova came to her feet as well. "I think Callan can answer that."

===

They parked by the water. To the right, Sian saw the busy hive of lights marking the airport. She looked the other way, trying to pick out the Aberdeen's tower among the other spires of light anchoring the other end of the bay.

Marcarius extinguished the lights, the engine. The sound of waves softly lapping against the dock, the boats lulled them. He exited, walked around and held her door open, hand extended. "Little one?"

Again, that spill of warmth, doubly welcome with her being so chilled by the brisk night and the memory of Jarls and Wilhelm's death. Limbs tensed from intermittent shivers found solace. Her body unbent, reveling in his sobriquet, in spite of her inclination to refuse the comfort. A blush bloomed when her bosom found that glow, especially its ends, already firm in the cold. Suddenly, they ached for touch. For his touch.

With all willpower she had, she merely accepted his hand and stepped out of the convertible. They proceeded down to the quays, then approached a yacht already impressive by the struggling lighting around them. She bit her lip, trying to tamp her hunger, her need. He didn't speak, still processing her recent confidences shared.

Once aboard, once inside, he fixed himself a tumbler from the wet bar. "What will you have, my pet?"

She arrested her lurch. "Cognac? Please?"

"Will Moyet do?"

She nodded, never mind her blank at the name. "Thank you."

They placed themselves at right angles to each other on the burgundy leather seating that encompassed three of the four sides to this cabin. Marcarius reached over and flipped down the back to one portion of the corner piece between them, revealing a teak surface, level and edged. "So you met ... what did you say she calls herself now?"

"Lavender."

"Indeed. You probably don't know how fortunate you are. Lavender could have taken a liking to you."

Sian shuddered, sipped the tulip-shaped glass, perhaps a little more than she ought. The warmth spread through her, much like when he said his name for her. She nodded, trying to imagine that scream ripping through her throat. "I think she did."

"Now, about that scream. Those screams." His set down his glass, then joined her hand with his, guiding and supporting the stem. "There is a way to drive them from your ears, little one. Do you want to know?"

She mourned the collapse of the last of her fortifications. Her mind, her core, laid bare before him. She nodded, eyes unable to escape from his.

"It's simple, really. Another scream must drive deeper into your memory. Yours."