Cassie sees her attempt foiled yet again as she stands at the edge the pit despite exercising her will to enter her mother's mind instead. Her hands clench into fists and shake at her sides in silent defiance. She does not want to Project tonight. She is sorry she ever learned the ability in the first place.

Despite the initial thrill -- and, in a way, because of it -- she wants nothing more to do with it, yet such blatant rejection generates a wave of guilt that she is insulting Stephanie's memory. She tries to tell herself that Stephanie is not gone but lives on in the shared psyche of Gina, but it is little comfort.

"What do you want of me?" Cassie calls out, for she is sure someone or something is guiding her. She thought at first her hesitation was born from her terrible encounter with the Darkness' minion. The incident of the night before made her realize what she fears is lack of control of her destiny.

"I want to know why I am being forced to do this!" Cassie cries.

She stares into the deep blue expanse of the pit and receives no reply.

"I will not do this any further until I get some answers," Cassie declares.

Again, she hears nothing, but something touches the very edge of her perception, like someone tapping on a door from across an empty and silent house. She closes her eyes and strains to discern it. She senses curiosity then ... amusement?

But above all else, she feels something which makes her shiver: familiarity.

"Is that you?" Cassie says in a soft voice, as if she does not really want a reply. "A-are you the one I've been encountering in my memories?"

The perception fades as if retreating. She tries to determine to where it went, only to find herself standing at the very edge of the pit, one foot twitching as if eager to step inside.

"You can't be down there," Cassie says. "I-I don't ... I don't communicate with the dead. I never did and I never will."

Her only response is swirling pastel blue light from within the pit, beckoning her to enter. She pauses and shakes her head, drawing a foot back in retreat ... and the presence again just barely impinges her senses before withdrawing.

Her mind hurtles back to the most recent memory she had harvested from her past. She had controlled her mother and the one responsible for it wants to lead her on a quest whose purpose she cannot fathom.

"It was wrong no matter how much you want to convince me it wasn't bad," Cassie says in a lower voice. "I'm glad she made me get rid of you."

She waits, but nothing happens.

Did she scare it off? Did she insult it enough such that it would leave her alone? Yet it may be her only link to a forgotten past.

"I meant back then!" Cassie cries. "Please, I want to know what happened, even if you have to resort to planting things in my head like you did last night. Yes, you had to have planted it. I couldn't have moved about in my own memory like that, seeing things that I did not see, going places where--"

Your perceptions were always stronger than you ever realized.

Cassie staggers back from the pit. She whirls around but sees nothing but the pseudo-infinite dreamscape. She lets out a ragged sigh. The words had come from nowhere, appearing in her head from nothing, as if something had shaped her neural pathways by hand to make the words appear.

She steps up to the pit. She realizes it could be a taunt, a way to dare her into doing something she does not want, yet she cannot risk losing her only link to her childhood.

Cassie takes a deep breath and steps into the pit.

She floats down the ethereal shaft through the mesa, and the shapes which spin around her seem more like faces than ever. She hears murmuring all around her, as if several people are vying for her attention.

"Are you in here?" Cassie calls out, and is startled by the clarity of her own voice. The shapes spin around her faster, the murmuring growing more insistent. "Is this where you ... where you live?"

She receives no answer, and the shapes retreat. She is again plunged into the wondrous blue-white corridor. She raises her weightless arms and utters a far more calm sigh as she floats inside an energy stream which both soothes and invigorates her.

Cassie turns her head, brushing hair from her face, as if she expects someone has followed her into the corridor. The presence has returned, urging her onward.

"If you lead me to the node, I am turning back," Cassie declares. "You do not control me. You never did." Cassie's eyes widen. She has no idea why she uttered those last comments, yet it feels important.

Cassie lets herself be carried along, extending her arms like a bird stretching its wings. Ahead, the odd, discolored ring looms. Perhaps the presence would tell her what it is were she to ask nicely. As she is about to pass through, she feels a mental tug as the presence shifts to a point above her.

"Wait, are you going back? What ..." Cassie trails off and turns in place, looking up. "What is up there? We're not even past the ... whatever that thing is."

No answer is forthcoming. She narrows her eyes and sees a ledge near the top of an old and rocky trail, somewhere below the summit. Much of it remains covered in snow, save for a spot where she can discern a sparkling light.

Does it want her to Project there? The new moon had been only two days before. If it were still full night, it would be pitch dark. A single step the wrong way and she would tumble off ...

Cassie shakes her head. No, she wouldn't fall to her death. Her tether would simply pull her back inside the line. Projection is not teleportation; she does not have an actual physical presence, she can only give the appearance of one.

Cassie braces herself and wills herself into reality.

She utters a gasp as evergreens rustle in the breeze, bringing the wonderful smell of pine. She takes in another breath just to enjoy it and gazes over the twinkling lights of Haven under a crisp and icy night sky. She is so enthralled she nearly takes a step towards it, and a shiver passes through her as she realizes how high up she is, her ethereal state notwithstanding.

Cassie backs up a step and fetches up against a sheer cliff. She tries to remind herself of her intangibility, though the pounding of her heart feels very real. Her hand touches something yielding and soft, and she snatches it away to look at it ... and realizes she can see her own hand despite the inky, moonless night.

Only then does she become cognizant of a crackling noise and a flickering light. Where the end of the ledge meets the top of a winding trail, a small fire crackles and spits. It burns from a tiny collection of twigs, weather-cut branches, and dead leaves. It has been burning for some time, the snow around it melted in a neat circle, the rest pristine and untouched.

Cassie's head snaps up. She wills herself into something more appropriate, and at once is wearing a dress and fur coat. "Is someone here? Please, I don't mean to intrude, I just--"

Her foot strikes something along the ground, and she hears a metallic scrape against rock. She picks up a small screwdriver, the shaft rusted, the handle pocked and weathered. The end of the handle is scratchy, and the blade is split.

Cassie raises her eyes and sweeps them across the cliff side, and something forms oddly straight shadows across the surface of the otherwise smooth rock. She traces her fingers along a crude carving, lines made from repeated gouges, like from a hammer and chisel.

She looks down at the screwdriver, and then at the lines again. They form several crude letters: SF WAS HE

It makes no sense until she sees a single vertical gouge to the right of the last "E". "SF WAS HERE" is the likely message. Who is SF?

She was the first to receive, but it sadly did not work out.

"Where are you?!" Cassie cries, tromping through the featureless snow. "What do you mean by that? Received what? Who received it? What does all this ..."

Cassie trails off when her eyes fall on the fire, and she realizes something she had not noticed: no footsteps appear anywhere in the snow. It remains pristine and untouched, save for what is melted by the fire.

Before she can either ponder the implications or be frightened by them, she is wrenched back into the blue-white tunnel. She wants to scream her frustration, as she is sure she is nowhere near her limit of Projection time. She is deliberately pulled back, as if the intent is to give her only a taste of the truth, providing she can even understand it.

When she rises through the mesa, she senses comfort and sympathy. She wants to demand from them what she has just seen really means when she emerges from the pit and is hurtled from the dreamscape itself.

Cassie's eyes snapped open, and she sat up. She looked around the bed, as if expecting to have carried the screwdriver with her.

She sighed and dropped her face into her hands. Of course she knew who SF was. It had to be Stephanie Fowler. She had climbed up there, probably on a dare, intending to leave proof of her visit. In the middle of carving her message, something happened.

Cassie raised her head. "Is that what you're trying to tell me? That Stephanie had visited that place?"

She received no response, and nothing touched her empathic sense. She continued anyway, if for no other reason than to get it straight in her head.

"Did she receive something? Her Projection power? She got it from you, and then I got ..." She trailed off, paused, and shook her head. "No, you couldn't," she said in a shaky voice. "Not my Dream Gift. I didn't ..."

Emotions spun in a tumult. She did not know what to think. For the longest time she had wondered from where her powers came. She had thought it had something to do with being born atop the mesa, but she had never expected a link like this.

Above all else was the question she did not know how to answer: did it matter from where her power came?

Richie bounded down the stairs, slapping his hands against the pockets of his jacket to verify the presence of his baseball and the cell phone. He jumped the last three steps, landing with a thud which rattled the vase sitting on the little table near the entry hall, motes of dust covering its plastic flowers fluttering in the morning sunlight.

Sandra emerged from the kitchen, a tight dress painted to her voluptuous body. "About fucking time you came downstairs after missing ..."

She trailed off as Richie ignored her and barreled on towards the door to the garage.

"What the fuck, Richie?" Sandra cried as Cathy stepped out from behind her, looking uncomfortable in her dress. "Where the hell are your Sunday clothes?"

"Still upstairs, I figure," Richie muttered, still heading towards the door.

Sandra followed. "You are not going to church dressed in those ratty jeans!"

"Who the fuck says I'm going to church?"

He reached for the doorknob, but his mother raced up behind him and slammed her hand against the door. Richie looked up and gave the door a vicious yank. It opened an inch, then slammed with enough force to rattle the nearby light fixtures and make Cathy flinch.

Richie spun around and glared as his mother. "I have better things to do today."

"Like hell you do," Sandra growled.

"Why the fuck do I need to be there? Not like I'm listening to anything the reverend is saying. It's all bullshit anyway, just like everything else in this armpit of a town."

"I want to know what the fuck you're up to."

"Why? So you can go tell the fucking Big Bitch of Haven?"

"So help me, Richie, if you--"

"Will you just stop it?!" Richie shouted. "Stop doing this! Stop trying to draw me into these fake arguments!"

Sandra paused, her face uncertain. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said in a lower voice.

"Stop lying! This is just a fucking joke. Something to pretend everything is normal. Either you or that Dark bitch don't understand what normal is around here anymore."

"And you think I would let you get out of going to church if things were normal?" Sandra roared. "Then you have another thing coming to you."

Richie was about to retort when he realized that his mother had finally, if indirectly, acknowledged that things were not normal. He let out a ragged sigh, the feeling of relief almost alien to him. He had given up on her; or more accurately, he had wanted to give up on her to have one less thing to distract him, but that had been based on cultivating a relationship with his father through the link he supposedly shared with him.

Richie frowned. Supposedly? Where did that come from? Of course he shared a link. His father was practically taking up residence in his head.

Yes, his real mother would not let him abandon his Sunday morning responsibilities, which is precisely why he resisted. She was still not his real mother, and he did not want either himself or her to forget that. "You can't hold that door closed forever," Richie said in an even voice. "Soon as you let it go, I'm outta here."

"And if I go into the garage and smash that fucking bike of yours?" Sandra said in a deadly voice.

Richie's eyes widened, but he quelled the reaction by his next breath. He returned a gaze as determined as her voice. "Fine. I'll steal another bike like I did before. Or I'll get one from a friend. You can't fucking stop me if I want to leave."

Sandra paused, still glaring at him, but her eyes darted as if searching for a new angle or vulnerability. Cathy stepped out from behind her and gave Richie a forlorn look. "Richie, you're not going to be out all day like you were yesterday, are you?" she asked in a miserable voice.

Sandra's eyebrows rose. "Wait, he did what?"

Cathy turned to her. "It's true, he went out early in the morning and wasn't back until mid-afternoon. And then it was like ... like he didn't really want me."

"Oh, come off it!" Richie cried. "I fucked you yesterday afternoon, and then again at night before going to bed."

"But it just wasn't enough. I--"

"Stop whining all the time, for chrissakes!"

"Don't talk to her like that!" Sandra yelled. "She's your fucking cousin."

Richie slapped his forehead. "You're doing it again! Look, what's the big freaking deal about me being out?"

"You know Cathy has needs, and you have a responsibility to--"

"I don't have squat. I didn't decide to do this shit, you did. Or the Dark bitch did. Why is this my problem?"

Sandra uttered an exasperated sigh. "Cathy, go back into the kitchen."

Cathy looked stricken. "Why? I didn't do anything wrong, I just--"

"Go into the fucking kitchen!" Sandra screamed.

Cathy gasped and fled.

"Way to go, Mom," Richie muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Shut up," Sandra hissed through clenched teeth. She shook a finger in his face, her eyes blazing. "Listen up, you little fuckwit."

Richie flinched as if struck. He swallowed, his hands clenching and unclenching. It had been months since he had heard that epithet, and it still felt like being gouged with a butcher knife. His eyes flicked to her Aura, which churned like boiling black ink. He had never seen it so agitated, and he tried to convince himself that it was the source and not her.

His belief that this woman was no longer his real mother had been his anchor, and it had taken a single word for the chain to snap.

"We've been through this shit before," Sandra growled. "I've explained to you what could happen to Cathy if you don't give her what she needs."

"C'mon, Mom, this is stupid," Richie declared, though his voice quavered and had lost some of its conviction, though none of its hostility. "It's like you're saying she has a rare disease and I have to cure her even though I'm not a goddamn doctor."

"You are going to keep your word to me, you understand?!"

"I'm trying! But I have other things I need to do, I--"

Richie was yanked away from the door with surprising force. He did not realize his mother had done it until he rubbed the sore spot on his arm. He stared at her, watching her Aura writhe like angry serpents.

He narrowed his eyes to burning points. His anchor was back. His mother would never, ever use violence. Even their worst shouting matches had never degraded to that point. It was a line neither side would ever dare to cross.

Sandra shoved him hard in the chest. "You get the fuck up to your room, and you change into your Sunday clothes. Then you come back down here and we'll go to church. Then your ass is going to be parked right here in this house for the rest of the day. Do I make myself clear?!"

Richie ground his teeth. "Like crystal."

Sandra swept her arm towards the stairs. "Now go."

Richie glared at her as cover for looking into her eyes. He saw no hint of a shimmer, no trace of regret or sadness. Her Aura was a thick mass of black chaos, tendrils slithering around one another without any apparent direction or purpose. Jason was the one who was supposed to see the patterns and Cassie the one to sense emotion, but he swore he could literally see frustration in her Aura.

He was close enough to her that the Darkness could communicate with him if it so chose. He dared it to speak, to tout its perfect control over the puppet that was his mother. For a moment, he thought it had, but all he got was more frustration and a sense of measured triumph.

Richie was not going to hand it a victory. The fact that it had resorted to browbeating and violence meant it was scraping the bottom of the barrel. Somehow Richie had bested it. Just as Nyssa had resorted to fear with Cassie when lust had not worked, so it was the same with the Darkness.

An idea came to him, but he had no idea from where. It had simply sprung into his head. Did the Harbingers somehow manage to penetrate the interference? No way could he have thought of such a plan himself.

"After I use the bathroom," Richie said in an even voice as he turned down the hall.

"Wait, where the hell do you think you're going?"

"I just told you! The fucking bathroom!"

"Why don't you use the one upstairs?"

Richie rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you caught me. I secretly built a transporter from fucking Star Trek in the bathroom and now I will make my escape. Insert evil laughter here. Get over yourself, 'Mom.'"

Before Sandra could protest, he barreled past her and into the downstairs half-bath, slamming the door behind him.

His heart pounded as he wondered if he could pull this off. He threw the seat down with a bang and made a fanfare of lowering his pants, then sat down with a thump.

He paused and listened until he was sure he heard no footsteps approaching. He stood up very slowly and slid his briefs and pants back up his legs, moving with excruciating care. He held the buckle of his belt so it would not rattle as he redid it.

Richie took a deep breath and let it out as a slow sigh. He turned towards the window, which sat above and behind the toilet. He couldn't believe he was doing this, or that he had even thought of it.

He lowered the seat cover, careful not to make a sound, and climbed atop it. The first of the two latches holding the window locked squeaked, and he froze until he heard nothing from the hallway except an impatient, windy sigh from his mother.

Richie opened the window, his heart hammering in growing excitement. He peered down towards the narrow alley which ran from the back of the garage to the back yard. It looked very far away.

He threaded his torso through the open window, then turned around so he was sitting on the sill, his legs still inside. He took another deep breath and held it as he pulled himself up, until he was standing on the sill with his heels hanging in mid-air.

Richie looked over his shoulder and decided against jumping to the ground from here. He looked to each side and spotted the decorative hook his mother once used to hang plants in the spring. He reached down and grabbed it, giving it a sharp tug. It held.

He held on to the hook for leverage as he lowered himself to his knees upon the sill. Then in what seemed to be one smooth movement, he let go of the hook and grabbed the sill just as his knees slipped out from under him. His grip on the sill was enough to stop his initial fall for a split second before he tumbled to the ground.

Richie scrambled to his feet. Pain spiked through one ankle and his knees hurt where they had scraped the edge of the sill. He trotted to the back door of the garage, limping slightly on his damaged ankle. He tried the knob and cursed under his breath when it was locked.

He headed around the side of the garage. The pain in his ankle settled to a dull ache and did not feel weakened. He raced across the driveway and stood by the security keypad.

Richie paused to think out the rest of the plan. He had considered hoofing it and finding a bike somewhere else, but this was a matter of principle. He went over the plan once more, nodded, and thumbed in the code.

He crossed the driveway as the door rumbled upward, and he crawled under it as soon as he was on the other side. He sprinted towards his bike as the door to the house was thrown open. "What the fuck is--?!"

His mother was so surprised that, for a few more crucial seconds, all she could do was stare. As Richie grabbed his bike and was about to run it towards the door, Sandra thumped the door control with her fist. The door reversed, having risen only three feet, and started downward.

Richie grabbed his bike and took a single step before he realized he would never get there in time. He turned around intending to let out a vehement curse towards his mother when his foot struck something. He looked down and saw the can of grease.

Richie kicked the can towards the door. It rolled under with a few inches to spare. The door shuddered to a stop as the safety beam was broken, and retreated upwards.

He ran his bike towards the door. He heard the thump of his mother's fist against the button over and over, but the safety mechanism of the door forced it to continue upward, lest it accidentally crush some kid's skull that its simple programming was convinced now lay in the path of the door.

Richie ducked his head as he ran into the driveway and mounted his bike halfway to the street. He barely discerned his mother's shouts of rage as he sped away, and it was all he could do not to shake a fist in the air in triumph.

He knew following Jason would accomplish little. It didn't matter. What mattered was that it was something the Darkness did not want him to do, or it would not have tried so hard to stop him. That alone had made it worthwhile.

Mike dragged himself out of a restless slumber, blinking as the dreamscape was loathe to yield to the influx of reality. He shook his head violently and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, the sheet falling away from his bare chest as he slowly sat up. He still saw the snowy streets of Haven when a figure entered his realm of limited perception. Still groggy and disoriented, all he could do was to demand of it, "Did he get away?"

The figure paused before saying in a voice of both amusement and concern, "Good thing for you I like my coffee as strong as you do."

"What?!" Mike blinked rapidly and stared until the lingering sleepiness burned off like mist in sunlight by sheer force of will. His shoulders slumped, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "Shit, not again."

Betty gave him a sympathetic smile and stepped into the bedroom, her robe swishing around her bare feet. She balanced a tray in her hands, and upon it was a plate holding a steaming mountain of scrambled eggs and hash browns, next to a mug filled with black coffee. "Another dream?"

Mike uttered a bark of humorless laughter. "I wish I could call these fucking things dreams."

Mike pulled the sheet away and started to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Betty balanced the tray on one hand and crouched, slapping her free hand against his nearest leg. "No, you don't, you get back into bed."

Mike sighed. "Betty, I don't think I'm up to ..." He trailed off as she straightened up, still balancing the tray on one hand. He sniffed the air, and his eyes widened.

Betty smiled and took the tray in two hands again. She lowered its legs and placed it across his lap.

"Oh, fuck, you didn't have to do this for me," Mike said, even as his hands reached for the knife and fork.

Betty sat on the edge of the bed and lay her hand on his thigh. "From the way you were tossing and turning towards morning, I had a feeling you'd need some fortitude."

Mike paused to shovel a few forkfuls of breakfast into his mouth before he replied. "Shit, I hope I didn't wake you. Surprised I didn't wake myself up."

Betty smiled. "It helps when you don't have to sleep in a place where you bump your head on a steering wheel or gearshift every time you turn over."

Mike had wanted to fill his stomach a bit more, but both the enticing aroma of the coffee and his fear that somehow his not-quite-a-dream would envelope him again drove him to pick up the mug and take a long sip. "Fuck, that's good. How the hell is it you're not someone's wife?"

"Marriage just wasn't for me, hon."

"Yeah, maybe it wasn't for me, either," Mike grumbled. He took another sip and felt anchored in reality again. He put down the mug and smirked. "And how did you balance that thing so well on one hand?"

"Used to be a waitress a long time ago, back when guys would still grope my ass when I walked away."

"Another mug of this stuff and I might be alert enough to do the same and maybe a bit more."

Betty smiled, but not in the way which suggested horizontal action, much to Mike's chagrin. He knew he was risking another flame-out, but he needed something to distract him from what he had just witnessed while he slept. Instead, her smile looked motherly, and he could not decide whether or not he cared for that. He hated the idea of finding any reason to dislike this woman, as much of a breath of fresh air her simple manner and candor had been for the past six months.

Mike at least gave her credit for waiting until he had dug more into his meal before she finally sprang the question he knew had been on her lips since she first sat down: "Care to talk about it?"

For once, he might want to. Having her not call him crazy the day before and then not dropping any hints that he should find someplace else to crash helped loosen his tongue. Yet he had to play his expected role. "Talk about what?" he grunted before swallowing more of the black elixir which kept the demons at bay.

Betty smirked and gave him a look.

"Yeah, okay, fine," Mike said. "Like you can't already guess what it was about."

"Your son Richie?"

Mike picked up his knife and fork, but stared at his half-finished breakfast and set them down again, his appetite having waned in the wake of the horrible imagery of his ex-wife skirting a line he would never have allowed her to cross. "I think I just helped my son escape from his mother."

"Escape?" Betty said in a confused voice.

"Yeah, escape, 'cause that's exactly what it felt like. He was trying to get out of going to church and--"

Betty chuckled. "If your son is half as non-religious as you are, I can understand why you'd think of it in those terms."

Mike frowned and shook his head. "No, you don't get it. I can't really convey to you in words what I was feeling. It was like he thought something really bad would happen if he stayed with Sandra."

"And you said you helped him?"

"He wanted to get into the garage so he could get to his bike." Mike snorted. "Kid thought he was fucking invulnerable on that thing, like he was greased lightning and no one could catch him. But Sandra was blocking access to the door from the house. I had this fucking insane idea he could climb out through the downstairs bathroom window and come around the front."

"You were there?" Betty asked in a curious tone of voice. "I mean, in the dream, telling him this."

Mike sighed and ate a few more mouthfuls before he responded. "It wasn't a ... I mean, it didn't feel like a dream. And no, that was the weird part of it. I was seeing everything happen, but I wasn't there, but I still somehow gave my son the idea." Mike frowned. "Yeah, I know what you're thinking."

Betty grinned. "Do you?"

"Yeah. You're thinking that all I'm describing is the act of having a dream, that not everyone appears in their own dreams. I've had dreams like that. This wasn't one of them."

Betty shook her head. "No, that's not what I was thinking."

Mike stared and set down the fork. He took the mug in hand. "Okay, then, lay it on me, Madam Freud. What are you thinking?"

Betty's smile was bittersweet this time. She stroked his thigh and slid her hand along his hip. "I'm thinking that you're not going to rest until you see him again."

"But I can't, even if I wanted to!"

"You want to, all right."

"So that's what you're saying all this shit is, just a way to express some obsession with--"

Betty rolled her eyes and sighed. "Mike, stop it. Stop seeing persecution when there is none to be had."

Mike's eyes widened as a thought illuminated his brain like a sudden, burning spotlight. "Fuck," he said softly. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"What is it?"

"This is working both ways!" Mike cried. "Every time I think I'm in his head, he's whaling on himself like he's the worst asshole in the world, and using my voice to do it!" He curled his hand into a fist, but let it fall to his side in unvented frustration when he realized anything he could hit would likely dump his breakfast into bed. "No wonder I've felt like I haven't done a goddamn thing right since I got here."

"I think you have to go see him," Betty said in a soft, sad voice.

"But I--"

"Whether you can or can't is irrelevant with you when you have your mind set to it. You'll see him if you really want to."

Mike could not forget the moment when he saw Sandra wrench Richie by the arm, either the action itself or the utter, revolting black which enveloped her. He didn't know what to think. Had the thing which possessed his ex-wife pushed her too far into doing something she would not normally do? Or had it made her into a mere puppet of its will and had considered committing violence upon his son?

Mike closed his eyes and lowered his head. He hated decisions like this. He still harbored doubts as to the reality of what he had seen. Why had nothing like this happened for years after he had left?

Mike opened his eyes and looked up. "What's the matter? Why are you looking so sad?"

Betty let out a long, heartfelt sigh, her lips twitching into a smile. "Just me being selfish."

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Here I want to tell you that maybe it's a bad idea after all. I just have this feeling that if you ever did go back to see your son, I'll likely never see you again."

Mike set the tray aside. Betty slid over to him, but seemed reluctant when he pulled her into a hug. "Look, Betty, I--"

"No," Betty said as she finally returned the hug. "Don't make any promises to me."

"I wasn't ... well ... fuck, I don't know what to say."

Betty broke off the hug and gave him a faint smile. "I went into this knowing this would be temporary. Regardless of your son, you can't deny that."

Mike could not respond. He had been living for the present only. The past was not his to change, and the future not his to determine. He decided to concentrate on what he knew and could control. "But I'm still here right now, and that's what matters. So how about we get dressed and, I don't know, just go for a walk or something?"

For a moment, Mike thought he was not going to get through to her, that she would be like every other woman and insist on talking about what their relationship meant. Instead, she leaned over and gave him a kiss. Her robe brushed his chest where her breast dangled against it. She paused, gave him a sly smile, and tugged the sash of her robe loose. She kissed him again, lingering, her bare breasts settling against his chest.

Mike let out his breath as a slow sigh of anticipation through his nose as he returned the kiss and cupped her breast. "Maybe after the walk we can, ah ..." Mike said with a small smirk.

Betty returned it with a mischievous one of her own. "We'll see." She winked and headed over to the closet.

Mike smiled, but he thought he had seen a hint of melancholy in her eyes.

Heather thought her struggle was over when she awakened that morning and managed to quell the urge to slip the special panties onto her still-sleeping sister. Melinda would be too engaged with the rest of the family -- even if not necessarily in a good way -- for any other opportunity to arise.

While they dressed for church, however, Heather remembered what Melinda had told her had happened the Sunday before, and Melinda again lamented over how horrible it would be to have an orgasm in church. Heather was not exactly sure why, since Melinda was not particularly religious, but she assumed it had something to do with the fact that it was a public place intended for anything but that.

Melinda did not say it in so many words, but Heather saw the silent plea in her eyes: Melinda wanted Heather to protect her from that fate. Heather was not sure she was up to it, as she had very little energy left from what she had gained from her tryst with Richie. The energy would be turned against her the closer she came to returning to her Mistress that evening.

Heather sat in the back seat of the car, wondering what to do. She had hoped to sit in the middle as a buffer between Melinda and Aunt Jo, but Jo would have none of that. Instead, Melinda sat between them.

She gave the back of her father's head a forlorn look. She had hoped his presence would deter Jo, but it had done nothing of the sort. She heard a quavering, husky sigh and felt Melinda squirm. She felt a bump against her leg as Melinda spread her knees, skirt falling between her thighs, barely hiding her lack of underwear.

"Getting a little wet down there, isn't it?" Jo purred in a soft voice.

"Uhng ..." Melinda moaned, her hands curling into trembling fists.

"Hmm?" David hummed in an absent voice as he cocked his head to the side.

From the passenger seat, Penny placed her hand gently on his thigh. "Nothing, dear, just the children talking to Jo."

"Ah."

Heather clenched her teeth until she heard them grind. Her eyes darted around her father's head. No Aura, yet somehow her mother was controlling him. How else would his gaze slide off everything which didn't agree with his idyllic view of home life? She wasn't buying her mother's simplistic explanation.

"So nice and warm and tingly." Jo tugged Melinda's skirt up her thighs. "I'll bet you could even smell how--"

Heather's hand shot out. She yanked the skirt back down and nudged Melinda's knees closed. "Let's not."

Melinda let out a sigh, first of relief, then of writhing lust, her legs falling open again.

"Oh yes, it's so hot you just have to touch it, don't you?" Jo murmured. She slid a hand up Melinda's thigh, nudging it further back.

"Ungh ... n-no ..." Melinda whimpered.

"Touching it would be the slutty thing to do. And you know how much of a slutty little girl you are."

Melinda let out a long, tremulous sigh. Her hand drifted south, slowly gathering the pleats of her skirt and pulling them back until light glistened from her bare and swollen mound.

Heather guessed that Aunt Jo was hoping to have Melinda masturbate enough so that pushing her over the edge in church would be easy. Heather could not hoard her energy now; she could never live with herself if Melinda fell when Heather could have stopped it.

She glanced outside the window and wished she remembered exactly where the lines ran. She was pretty sure they were no longer over the one which had been moved. She sought Melinda over the link and was relieved to find an unencumbered path. She let some of her precious remaining energy trickle towards her sister, leaving her with an uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability.

Melinda uttered a sigh and let go of her skirt, her hand retreating. Suddenly she moaned and tilted her head back, her hips sliding forward as much as the seatbelt would allow. She pulled the skirt back and thrust her pussy forward, where it oozed a trail along the seat.

Heather let more of her remaining energy seep into her sister's psyche, and she silently cursed herself for being so stingy. Perhaps she was already drifting back towards unquestioned obedience to her Mistress.

Melinda's legs closed but still trembled, and she did not pull her skirt down. When Heather tried to do it, Jo batted her hands away. "Really, Heather, you should stop treating your sister as a little doll you can dress up. She can handle her own attire."

"Not with you messing with her, she can't," Heather said in loud voice.

"Is something wrong back there?" David asked.

"Just a bit of a debate, that's all," Penny said. "I'm keeping an eye on it."

"Ah, okay."

Heather wanted to scream at him to open his eyes and look at what's really going on, but her mother likely had this down to a science. No matter what she said, he would likely hear it only as a temper tantrum.

She stared at her mother, but Penny refused to meet her gaze. She tried to tell herself that there had been no glee in her mother's voice when she quelled her father's attention. If anything, Penny had sounded like someone performing an unwanted duty.

Heather felt a hand brush her hip, and when she turned her head, Melinda had grasped the edge of the seat and scooted her hips back. She let out a sigh of both desire and frustration, hanging her head as her thighs quivered around a pussy which remained wet and needy. Heather wondered if her burst of anger had somehow given her sister more energy.

"Heather," Jo called out in a silky voice.

Heather turned her head, and Aunt Jo gave her a sultry look which she found repulsive. "I'm sure you're looking forward to going back to Laura Bendon this evening."

Heather frowned, but little conviction stood behind it. She shivered as she struggled to hold back thoughts already straining to be released. By all rights it should be her who was the wet, squirming mess anticipating her Mistress' commands; only her worries over Melinda, Jason, and Diane had sustained her this long.

"Another week of warm, wet, blissful obedience to your Mistress," Jo said.

Heather shuddered and looked towards her father. He had not even so much as turned his head. What was he thinking they were talking about? The weather, perhaps?

"Wonder if she'll think you've been a good girl or a bad girl. Because you want to be a good girl for her, don't you?"

Heather swallowed and squeezed her legs together. Her next breath came out as a husky sigh. She tried to tap into her remaining energy to stave off the encroaching pall of submissive lust, but it was no longer hers to command.

Her body was cocooned in warmth, and her pussy oozed. She forced herself to take a deep breath, but let it out as a soft moan. Come on, I'm stronger than this, dammit, she thought. I can't fall apart all at once!

Melinda shuddered and splayed her knees. One hand pulled her skirt up while the other slid between her thighs, fingers teasing wet folds. Her eyes slid closed as her fingertips swirled around her clit.

I'm sorry, Melinda, I tried. Her despair turned to anger, and she managed to push back the forced desire, but not enough to help Melinda.

"What do you think her first command will be?" Jo asked with a wicked grin. "Perhaps she'll have you--"

"Stop it, Jo," Penny suddenly snapped.

Jo gave her sister a withering look, but Penny would not meet her gaze. She remained staring straight ahead. "And just what--?"

"You have no need to harass Heather. You ... you have Melinda, be satisfied with that."

Heather didn't know whether she wanted to thank her mother or slap her across the face.

She realized she was not going to be able to wait another week before she had a chance to get her mother's pendant. She had to do it that day. She had to have something she could use as ammunition against whatever new poison her Mistress would inject into her thoughts about her mother.

Heather shuddered and shook her head, reflecting on how much of a bad girl she was for thinking such vile things about her Mistress. Her pussy simmered with the thought of what she would be made to do in penance.

Debby leaned back on the sofa, experiencing something she had not felt in a week: relief. "Cassie, that's wonderful news," she said into her cell phone. "Absolutely wonderful."

"Mrs. Radson, Ned did caution that he still doesn't know how to translate the numbers," Cassie said.

In the dining room, Bill shoved parts of the Sunday newspaper around and picked out the sports section before strolling into the room. Debby glanced at Bill as he walked in. "Yes, but I'm sure with all of us looking at it, we'll decipher it fairly quickly."

"I really hope so. I can't help thinking that we're so close. We really should try to meet today, but I won't be freed up until at least two."

"Who is that?" Bill asked in a soft voice.

Debby turned the phone to one side. "Cassie, one of the Harbingers."

"Did you tell them yet about what we--"

Debby sighed and returned the phone to her ear long enough to say, "Hang on a moment, Cassie, would you?" before thumbing the mute button. "Bill, this is the first time I've spoken with any of them after you made the decision."

Bill sat down at the other end of the sofa and put his feet on the coffee table. "Me? No we made the decision, and they ought to know soon before--"

"I'm going to tell them the next time I see them." She paused. "Which I will be this afternoon."

Bill let his paper fall into his lap with a loud report of crumpled newsprint. "Dammit, Debby, does it have to be today?"

"I don't have a lot of opportunity, Bill, and if you're ... if we're not going to let them come here any longer after two weeks, we have to use what little time we have left to resolve the current crisis."

"What about during the week when I'm working anyway?"

Debby paused to collect her thoughts. "Haven High has their exams the week after next. They need the time to study for that. Please, Bill, I'm not asking for all that much if you consider--"

Bill threw up his hands. "All right!" He sighed and snapped out his paper, but when he spoke again his voice was more contrite. "I apologize for sounding hostile. It's not like I hate them, I just--"

Debby placed a hand on his thigh and smiled. "You want things to go back to normal. I'm trying my best to see to that."

Bill gave her a weak smile and squeezed her hand. He gestured to the phone. "Better get on that before Cassie thinks I kidnapped you or something."

Debby smiled softly and unmuted the phone. "I'm sorry about that, Cassie."

"Is everything all right?" Cassie asked in a cautious voice.

Debby had no idea how much of her emotions leaked out over the link, or if Cassie could pinpoint them that easily. Regardless, she had the feeling that any lie she gave would be easily exposed. "Just a friendly disagreement about the Harbingers meeting here," she said in as casual a voice as she could muster.

Cassie uttered a despondent sigh. "I knew this would happen. We've worn out our welcome with your husband, haven't we?"

"It's not quite like that. It's too much to go into on the phone. Could you be here by ..." She looked at Bill inquisitively. "Three?"

Bill nodded. "Yeah, I can be gone by then. As long as they're done by five."

"Three o'clock," Debby said.

"Okay, three it is," said Cassie. "Mrs. Radson, can you get hold of the others for me? I have to get ready for another one of these dreadful Sunday gala luncheons."

Debby glanced at Bill, a pained look on her face. She turned away before Bill could notice. "That's not a good idea right now. Perhaps Ned could look into that instead."

"All right, I think I have time to squeeze in one more call. Oh, and one more thing. I ... I'm really going to need time to talk to you alone. I've been seeing things in the dreamscape that are starting to frighten me. Not to mention my Projecting is turning into something else."

Debby draped a hand over her forehead and closed her eyes. She hated having to choose between the Harbingers and her family. Sunday was the one night that Debby took the time to make a large meal, and she doubted either Bill or Susan would tolerate a change to those plans. "We'll do our best to find the time, Cassie."

"Thank you. I should have come to you before this, but with everything that's happening lately--"

"I understand. We'll just have to make the best of it. I'll see you later."

"All right. Bye."

Debby sighed as she closed her cell phone. She wondered if she had heard a tone of disappointment in Cassie's voice or if it were her own guilt talking.

She heard a crumple of newspaper. "Debby, I'm not really trying to be the bad guy."

Debby lifted her head and turned to him. "I know you're not, dear. I'm just trying to make do with the limited time I have. That would be true regardless of whether we had had our little discussion yesterday."

Debby realized as soon as it had come out of her mouth that she should not have used the term "little" in this context, as it was like a neon sign saying that she was upset with him -- which she was, but she had not wanted to admit it.

"We made the only decision that we could have given the circumstances," said Bill.

"I know. It's just that I am also dealing with a girl who is having disturbing dreams which may be of some import."

"Who, Cassie? Isn't she supposed to be wealthy or something? You'd think her parents could afford a shrink."

Now Debby questioned the wisdom of bringing it up in the first place. She had to pick her words carefully again, which she loathed. She dared not say anything which suggested Cassie did not want her parents to know about it, as that would likely have Bill make Debby "agree" to stop counseling her.

"The problem is something beyond traditional psychiatry," Debby said. "This is nothing like depression, behavioral problems, or suicidal thoughts. For those I would indeed refer her to someone far more competent than I."

Bill raised an eyebrow. "This is about the supernatural again, isn't it?"

"If it helps any, Bill, it will not involve sex. But yes, it is potentially supernatural."

"In that case, I'll leave it to you."

"But I'll need time with her today after the meeting with the other Harbingers, and if I have to stop at five to ..." Debby trailed off. Her eyes widened, and her lips curled into a bright smile. "Let's invite her to dinner!"

Bill stared. "Say what?"

"Let's invite Cassie to dinner!"

"Are you serious? Cassie Kendall? Whose father has more money than God?"

Debby shook her head. "Cassie is nothing like that. We won't have to put on airs. In fact, she spends most of her time trying to distance herself from her money. She's a very sweet girl. And anything supernatural will be off the table with regards to dinner conversation."

Debby was not sure what part of Cassie's presence disturbed him more, her rich family or the reminder that he could not get away from the supernatural world no matter how far he ran. She suspected the latter was more likely. She hoped this would serve a double purpose; she would have time to talk to Cassie after dinner, and Bill would get to know one of the Harbingers as a person rather than a title.

Maybe even enough to soften his stance a bit.

"All right," Bill said. "And only because you've never failed to be an excellent judge of character."

Debby scooted over to him. He set the paper aside, and they exchanged a hug. "Thank you for being understanding," Debby said in a soft voice.

"I try my best," Bill said with a windy sigh. "I know I don't always succeed."

You do, Debby thought. You always come around to the right answer. Sometimes you just need a little time to get there.

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