Author's notes:

I'll confess what's become readily apparent: I awarded Sian to Marcarius as a challenge to myself, to see if I could paint myself into a corner and somehow write a way out of there.

Flow is very important to a story. Up until that point, the story had a madcap flow, a frenzied pace. Right at that point, it inflected (again.) This disrupted flow.

Yes, again. The story changed timbre at least once before, when Sian's encounters with tall, dark and handsome strangers changed from a blur of blindly pleasing liaisons into a darker tone. When it changed from basically soft-core erotica to something with a semblance of a plot.

This one is somewhat different. Before, the changes were from one fun course to another fun course. When I sat down to write, I had a general idea where I wanted to go next, what I wanted to happen that chapter.

I'd end the chapter without any idea what next, but during the subsequent day, I'd mull it over in my spare moments (few, non-contiguous) so, by the time I was ready to write, I had a general idea.

After Chapter 35, I floundered. I was challenged by the "okay, WTF next?" question in plot. I was challenged by the new characters I added. I was challenged in real life as well, with job stresses and elusive sleep.

So, flow sputtered. You can tell with the 'jump-cuts' from one perspective to another's. Previous chapters used jump-cuts, but never switched characters in a chapter (or, at least, none that I remember, nor that I wished to happened.)

Fun also sputtered a bit, as I wasn't sure what to do with the new characters, new plot direction. I think I've recovered the fun, but we'll have to see. In the meanwhile, thank you for still following this tale.

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



A pounding against her forehead awoke Sian from her swim in the abstract clouds of her thoughts. She stared at the powder blue ceiling, trying to focus on the field but finding no anchor. Her head lolled on the black taffeta sea. Glowing redwood paneling spilled into her vision, and she tried to make lines of the blurred whorls. The echoing ache behind her eyes opposed her. It spread to other points, making the whole of her head throb.

A waft of air cooled her dew-coated body, what parts showed out from the silken sheets. She rolled onto one elbow, but the room continued to roll. A trunk of white-and-red lumbered at her. Up close, she saw dragons, red dragons rippling on white cotton. One cylinder extended to her, crystal at its end. Another wound behind her, steadied her. Through the mind-numbing fog, she heard a sound, a voice. A man's voice. "... one. Drink this. It will help you feel better."

Worn and spent muscles spasmed in her, them suddenly firming at the sound of his voice, the power in his words. Not clenching, not twitching. Firming, readying themselves. Her legs, her loins, her belly. Ready, in spite of the deep and weary soreness. The reflex caused her lean forward, guided by the hand behind her. Carefully, the glass found her lips, tipped and offered slightly-bitter, effervescence. It flowed like lotion across her parched mouth, her knotted throat.

The bubbles tickled her. She coughed, and spilled. The glass glided away, and a warm washcloth replaced it, dabbing at her mouth, ignoring the cooling patch of fluid clinging to her lap. Soft loops abraded her lips, cheeks. The steaming touch stung her at first, then comforted. Around and around, it glided around her, erasing the ache that threatened to consume her. It cooled, faded, and she leaned into it, into his hand.

"Thank you," she said, or tried to. The words coughed out, a barely-formed whisper.

"Don't try to speak, little one. Drink, instead."

The tumbler again cooled her lips. This time, she managed to sip, to let it trickle into her. She expected the bubbles' bite, braced for it. With a gulp, it soothed her. Bittersweet moisture nourished the desert in her neck. "What... where..." she looked up at the handsome, broad face with dark brown, nearly black eyes and silvering temples. "Who are you?"

"I'm Marc, little one. You're my thrall."

Again, her torso tensed, readied itself. She blushed as that ache blossomed with the unexpected, unwanted exertion. That was a small blush. Then, she felt a most female response come unbidden. That was a larger blush. The pounding headache abated enough she could think again, but not well. Thrall. Thrall. She knew she knew what that word meant. She knew she knew it, but she couldn't define it right then.

He must have seen the confusion on her face. He leaned in, whispered in her ear.

Then she, with her all, she blushed.

===

At the boat launch, the roadster sat cooling. It shifted slightly, then the trunk release worked. The lid didn't open more than a few millimeters. It held station for a minute, then two. Silently, it opened just far enough for Ceili to slip out. She lowered it, latched it. She straightened, then walked toward the only other car in the lot, nonchalantly. She approached, flashed metal in the yellowed pool of light, and opened the car door as if she had the key. Once inside, she produced her cell phone and dialed.

She looked puzzled at it, dialed again, waited, then thumbed through the address book.

"Ressa?"

She talked, she listened. The cycle repeated itself a few times, then she rang off. She stared at the small clamshell, put it back in her purse, then took it out again. She dialed, waited, hung up and returned it. Then she started the car and turned on the heat. And waited.

Locke's hulking, ancient Chevy Suburban rumbled to a fitful silence next to Marcarius' sports car, blocking her view of it. Ressa and Callan climbed down the passenger side, front and back doors. They walked around the massive vehicle.

Ceili shut off her temporary shelter, exited and approached them, making sure her feet announced her approach.

Ressa flew to her, hugged her. "Oh, we were so worried for you!"

"I'm just glad Marcarius doesn't have much in his trunk."

Locke nodded. "This has a trunk? I thought ragtops didn't, cuz of the you know..." He gesticulated over a panel behind the passenger space.

Ceili smiled. "Just lucky, I guess. It's small, but it's there. Sian was with him. What happened? I thought you were going to..." She blinked, then looked back at Ressa's eyes. "Where's Brank?"

Ressa never fully unwrapped her arms around the older woman, but squeezed so tight. She said the words.

Ceili cried, first from disbelief. Then, seeing the same lament on the other two men, she sagged in Ressa's arms.

Locke and Callan embraced each other, embraced Ressa. Together, they formed a wall around Ceili.