Author's notes:

Let's talk length. (No, not that sort.) I forgot which wit said it, but the quote goes something like this: "A story should be long enough to tell its tale, and not a word more."

Last chapter was pretty short. We had a bit of Sian, a bit of Ceili, and ... TBC, those love-to-hate-them letters.

It just felt right. After Ceili finding out about Brank, I couldn't think of anything else that seemed fitting. That scene was too strong.

And the first half of it; Sian recovering from Marc's ministrations, so strong she lost half her memories. The look of shock on her face when it all fell back into place was too tempting.

Anything else would just be filler. It seemed a good place to end that chapter. Just like this seems a good place to end this preface.

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



"... you remember now, little one?" Kind eyes, kind tone, kind words. Sian appreciated them all. She appreciated him all, in spite of the sudden spasms those special words, set off in her. Or perhaps 'especially.'

She remembered. She remembered his warm, patient hands, visiting her body amidst a spill of perfect black, perfect gloss. She remembered his cold, greedy hands, taking her very much against her will in the chaos of her home. She remembered his eyes, at times tender, at times mischief-filled in the here, in the now. She remembered his eyes, at times hard, at times voracious back there, back then. But his mouth, his tongue... she remembered his tongue unchanged. Deft, adept, and possessed of forbidden knowledge -- knowledge of how, knowledge of where, knowlege of when.

She remembered it all. She remembered herself launching like a ship's flare. She remembered herself bursting in glorious colour, spray and sound. She remembered falling back to earth as that brightness waned, flickered, darkened. But, unlike a flare, she remembered being lovingly caught, carefully replenished, and tightly loaded. Again. And again.

And she remembered screaming. She remembered it searing her inner ear, deafening herself, her own scream. She remembered it stealing her very breath, that want, that need to say, to yell out her passion, her pleasure, her moment. Her perfect moment.

She forgot who coined that phrase. She knew her own idiom for it was 'get there.' She knew she got there, left, revisited over and over like a puppy chasing its tail. She forgot why she wanted so badly to scream, though she knew it was for reasons other than the genetic memory driven into her from prehistoric ancestors. She forgot names, blurred faces. Kind faces, welcoming faces. She forgot all but who she was, though her memory was slowly filtering through that red haze of ecstasy. She welcomed each memory, but and yet regretted them.

"Your thrall." Her voice returned in part. No longer rasp-on-wood, it was still soft, still low. A part of her wished to keep this husky voice.

"Yes pet. Mine. My girl. My prize. My joy. Mine. My thrall, my pleasure slave, my little one."

Again, that unbidden alertness. Again, that unwanted hollowness. Again, that undesired readiness. She blushed. "What do I call you?" A smile warmed her lips in anticipation.

His own met and matched hers. He thought about it, eyes looking somewhere over Sian, to the left, and focused on something not in this cabin. "How about Sire. Yes I--"

"No fucking way!" Those words burned away the pleasing fog. Memories of names, of places, of times, of faces all crushed onto her. She scrambled away from him, trying to take the sheet with her. He laid on it, he kept it. She scrambled nonetheless exposing her all before grabbing a pillow to regain some modesty.

"Now pet. It was only a suggestion. I didn't know it was a sore spot."

"It's not a sore spot! It's not, and you know it!" That magic word offered warmth, warmth in exchange for welcome. The tension at her neck out-shouted the tension in her midriff.

"I didn't know it was special to you. I will respect that from now on. To that, I pledge."

"You raped me! You fucking raped me! What's the pledge of a rapist worth these days?"

"I did no such thing. When we first took each other, your hands tore my shirt long before mine undid yours."

"Trying to stab your heart out don't count!"

"No, after. After that, after the fight, cherished girl. When your mouth sought mine. When your hands ripped at my collar."

"I did what?" That memory spilled forth, cracking her wall of fiery wrath. It affirmed his words, her hunger. Her shame.

"I'll bet, when we return to your place, we'll find buttons matching those on a shirt I have in that closet."

She swallowed. "I did? I... I mean, I did." Her eyes flared again. "But you made me!"

"How, how could I have made you?"

"Don't play that stupid game with me. You and your ... mind trick. You made me do that! You made me do everything. You made me want you."

"Oh, you're aware of it. True, I had a hand. However, my hand only showed a part of you already inside. I can't make you want me any more than I can order you to swan dive off the end of this boat, little one."

"You-- what?" Her finger froze in mid-jab.

"You heard me. I can't make you love me, pet." His expression softened. "Ah, you see? That's not something I added to you."

"What?" She lowered her hand and hugged the pillow tightly with both.

"Little one. Pet. Good girl. I'm proud of you. You make me very happy." He stopped and welcomed her with his eyes, his mouth, his arms. "The response to those words. That has always been in you, my little one. Do you feel it? That need to be recognized for what you are."

"What am i?" Her words she muffled by burying her stinging face into the pillow. Only her eyes showed, screened by forelocks, and they held Marc unblinking.

"A flower, a star, a song. You lacked someone to drink of your scent, dance in your light, sway to your melody. You lacked someone to see your potential."

In ungainly contrast to his silken words, he crawled across the bed. "You can see it, yes?"

The pillow lowered. Wariness with it. "Yes. Yes, I think."

He came to rest beside her, against the bulkhead. Their faces floated mere inches apart. Each's breath warmed the other's lips. "What are you, girl?"

"Your ... pet?" No sooner had those words spilled out that regret filled her mouth. "No, no. That's not right."

His bright expression never faded. "It isn't?"

"No, it can't be." Her eyes narrowed, cutting through the mist. Power washed over her, had been all this time. It dazzled her, had been all this time. No more. She didn't see it with her eyes. No color, no waves. But, a sense numbed since she left The Society shook off the sand.

"You're good. Damn, you're good. I didn't see it." She slid along the wall away from him.

"See what, pet?"

"You. Your Power. All over me. That's what it is."

Marcarius blinked. "I'm afraid that's who I am. What I am. I am Awakened, I sense Power, I absorb it. You, little one, are a source of Power. It's like seeing. Seeing you, beautiful and strong. What would you want me to do? Blind myself?"

"Would you? Please?" She smiled as a wolf.

He inhaled, closed his eyes. "Very well." Six deep, slow breaths later, he nodded. "Is this what you wanted?"

Sian blinked. "Yes." She concentrated, tensed her neck until a roar grew in her ears. "Yes, it is. You're not doing it. I can feel it. You've stopped."

With a minute shudder, he nodded. "It's possible. It's like not allowing myself to see sunlight. The moon would just be a mocking reminder of what I'm missing. Sight. Vision. Loveliness."

"How difficult is it?"

"Very. It takes almost all of my concentration. Does it please you?"

"Yes. I can think straight again. You don't know how good it feels."

"Don't I?" He pantomined groping, but away from her.

She sighed. "I guess you do."

"So, you're free of my control, right?"

She nodded, then realized his eyes were shut. "Uh-huh."

"You've all your facilities, right?"

Already wary, she tensed. "Yes. What's your point?"

"Just one word: pet."

The near-silence revealed a motor's soft, deep thrum. They both listened to it, let it calm them. Sian tried to fill that internal chasm with the reverberations. He let it time his breathing, one cycle for inhalation, one for release.

He broke the trance. "Did you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"You know what. That."

"Yes, dammit. You know I did."

"So, what does that mean?"

"You're not doing this to me."

"No, I'm not."

"So now what?"

"It's up to you. Now what?"

"You're not saying it."

"Saying what?"

"You're not saying those words."

"Yes, that takes effort, too. I didn't want you to have grounds to say I was even using those words against you."

"Oh." She hugged her pillow, then set it down, let it join the pool of sheer inky bedclothes. What use was it to cover herself with him like this?

Again, the song of the engine embraced them. It lulled him. It oppressed her. It echoed in that cave within her. Each hum felt to her like an empty stomach's growl. Never mind what her ears reported, she felt it grow louder and louder.

This time, she disturbed the stillness. "Can you say it? Please?"

"Say what, Sian?"

She winced. "Dammit! You know what! Say it, will you? You proved your point, now say it!"

"Are you sure? Last chance."

"No. Yes." She gasped. "Yes, please. Before I change my mind. Say it!"

His eyes flashed open. The Power swept her away. She closed her eyes and let it cover her.

"Pet."