Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

By

E. S. Young

Chapter Thirty-Six: Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

Has anybody ever seen this movie? (gestures to the chapter title) It's pretty good. It's based on a 'true story' about the man who used to be the host of this game show called The Gong Show that was on in the 70s. Supposedly, the guy was an CIA agent and being a game show host was just a cover up. The government, of course, denies all of this but that is what they do best, right? I've always thought that Johnny Depp would have fit the role of Chuck Barris (ie, the undercover CIA agent/TV host) wonderfully, even though the part went to Sam Rockwell. Funny thing, though. I recently read somewhere that Mr. Depp originally was the director's and writer's first candidate for the role. And now I am thinking of taking back my claim of not being psychic. Ah well. In any case, in this chapter, confessions will be made, and believe you me, they will most definitely be from a dangerous mind. ;)

Liam sighed, his head in his hands. He had sold Lynné out and he had sold her out to the worst kind of people. The CIA was not pleased when they heard of how Poisson's party had gone awry, and they were absolutely livid when they learned that their inside woman and one of their top agents was missing. And mobsters were not – make that never – the nicest people to deal with.

But he had sold his partner out. To both parities.

Cat and her fiancé Harrington had turned into rouge agents, turning their backs on the CIA and joining the Poisson Mafia in order to bring Lynné and Sands down once and for all. And for money and power, of course. Liam was in charge of handing Lynné and her brother over to them.

Set 'em up and watch 'em fall, right? he asked himself dryly.

A second harsh sigh passing through his lips, Liam rubbed his temple in exhaustion.

"Don't worry, Monsieur Fusco," Édouard Poisson assured him, gazing across his desk at the sorry form of a man in remorse. "Mademoiselle Sands is in no danger as long as she cooperates."

"Then she's as good as dead," Liam replied dully.

Without another word, he rose and strode silently out of the room.

Sands pulled her even closer towards him, feeling the warmth of her body seeping into his own frigid form.

"Are you okay?" Zebbidy asked quietly, her hand still embracing his. Deftly, she turned around in the arm encircling her hips so she could face him. Instantly she was taken aback at the sight that met her eyes. Sands' once hansom face was sickly pale and etched with pain. Ever inch of his body was nearly white save for his cheeks, which were flushed pink. His dark hair hung, lank and damp, around his face, plastered to the back of his neck. Sweat on his forehead glistened in the morning sunlight that escaped through the gap in the curtains. These were the after effects of the torture he had been forced to endure.

"Oh my gods . . ." she breathed, her green eyes large. "You poor dear . . ."

Sands gave her a questioning look. "What? What is it?" He tried to sit up.

At once Zebbidy's hands flew to push him back down, her hands pressing gently on his shoulders.

"No," she ordered, hushing his confused protests. "Lay down."

"But –"

"Shh . . . you're still very sick," she told him.

"What?" Sands asked, his voice hollow with disbelief.

"Just rest for a while," Zebbidy said quietly. "You'll be all right. And you don't have to tell me anything now if you're too tired. Are you in any pain?"

He nodded, swallowing the blockage in this throat. "A little, yeah . . ."

"Okay," she whispered, smoothing back a piece of his sweat-laden hair. "Let me get you something for that."

Instantly, there was paranoia.

"Not a needle," Sands insisted, his voice cracking as it rose in panic. "Just . . . not a . . ." He closed his eyes, too drained to continue. "No . . ."

Zebbidy shook her head vigorously, so surprised at his sudden plea that she forgot that the agent could not see the action.

"I never use needles," she assured him sternly. "Never."

"Monsieur Poisson," Catherine sang as she sailed through the double oak doors of his office.

Normally Édouard Poisson would not have permitted his own sons to enter his sanctuary uninvited, let alone a complete stranger, and especially Mademoiselle Johnson who worked for one of his enemies: the Central Intelligence Agency of America. The woman could turn him in at any given moment, an action that would most certainly result in her death. So far, however, she had made a wise decision not to turn him in. He could say that she could be (nearly) trusted, she had proven her worth after all. She had given him Lynné Sands! And returned his little granddaughter Joséphine to him and he hadn't even commanded that. Such offerings did not, however, give her the right to barge into his private domains.

"Mademoiselle Johnson, I believe I gave you specific instructions not to interrupt me when I am in my study," Édouard said coolly, not looking up from his desk.

Cat stopped halfway through the room. Forcing a weak smile she apologized, "Of course, monsieur. I'm terribly sorry. But I thought you ought to know, we've found your car."

Édouard's head snapped up, his steely silver eyes slanted in a menacing glare.

"Mademoiselle Johnson, I have more cars than you will ever see." His eyebrows arched pointedly. "What makes you think I would care if one went missing?"

Catherine flashed him a smirk of triumph, positively giddy at the thought of knowing something he didn't. It was, she noticed, the same smirk she had adorned when she had given her stepfather the delightful news that both of his children were alive and, she added, that she knew their exact whereabouts.

"It's the car Zebbidy Samhain was last seen driving." Her grin broadened when she saw the intrigued look in Poisson's eyes. "And," she added, practically drowning in her own mirth, "it is reported that that a man was accompanying her." Her piercing voice lowered seriously. "A man in black."

"Here," Zebbidy said quietly, placing a warm mug securely in the agent's hand. "Lemon verbena – tea. It acts as a mild sedative, although it's distinctly lemon flavored so it might be a bit –"

"Shit," Sands swore, sputtering at the liquid's tart taste and Zebbidy couldn't help but smile.

"I warned you," she chided still wearing her soft smile. "But you should drink that anyway. Even if you don't like it, it'll make you feel better. And the taste will keep your mind busy while I'm checking your stitches. The one in your arm may be infected."

"Whoop-dee-doo, this just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?" the agent shot sarcastically, but Zebbidy could hear the wearied pain behind his sharp words. Sure enough, when she removed the line of catgut from his arm, Sands could not suppress the tremor of anguish that rippled through his limbs. Taking Zebbidy's advice, he slowly raised the tea to his lips.

His stomach still howled with unending hunger, clawing at him and insisting that he needed food or else he would surely suffer from malnutrition. Sands ignored its pleas and warnings. He didn't want to risk another episode like the one he had had to endure the morning after Poisson's shindig. Accepting or not, he hated the thought of Zebbidy seeing him in that weakened state. He hated it.

And yet, you don't want her to leave your side. Not for a moment.

I didn't say that, he insisted though by the sound of his supine tone, he knew he was fighting a losing battle. The voice, for once, said nothing. It didn't need to present the truth to him. Like it had said earlier, he knew it, as did it, but the voice wasn't going to admit to anything until he did.

Christ, I'll be old and senile to know what's going on, and you'll be too hopped up on meds to be heard by the time that happens.

If the voice had anything to say at all, it was drowned out as Zebbidy's relieved sigh filled his ears and he heard the springs of the overly comfortable bed creak, indicating that she had leaned back, perhaps surveying her handiwork.

"You don't have an infection," she pronounced, unable to sustain the happiness that mingled with her immense satisfaction towards a job well done.

"Great," Sands cheered flatly, staying perfectly still as she stitched him back together.

"I am going to put this on it, though," she informed him, lifting a small jar full of what looked to be an odd sort of paste. "It's an herbal remedy," Zebbidy explained. "Lammint, eucalyptus, gardenia . . ." She trailed off, lost in the stitches she had made, ones that surrounded the wound on Sands' arm. A bright pink ring ran around its edge. But it did not pus or swell, she reminded herself. A good sign.

"You're not one of those . . . old-fashioned, hippie/stoner people who believes that everything can be cured with a plant, are you?" Sands inquired meekly.

"In a sense, I suppose I am," she told him truthfully, not wanting to risk a lie. His trust in her was only beginning. "But I know when to call on doctors for help and when it isn't necessary."

Sands nodded slowly, considering this, and asked her the time. Zebbidy glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand.

"Just past six," she answered, lifting a hand to feel his forehead. It was still warm, but the agent was not burning from within like the night before.

"Why . . . are you still . . . awake?" Sands wondered, not having the strength to hide his exhaustion.

"Because I worry," Zebbidy replied as if it were obvious, "and I care."

Sands shook his head against the pillows.

"You shouldn't."

"Why not?" she asked, a defiant note in her silky voice. "I'm a grown woman; I can do as I wish, I can speak my mind, and I can care for whoever I want to."

Sands waved a hand in a 'it's-your-funeral' kind of manner, but said, "You shouldn't stay awake at least."

Zebbidy's nose twitched in curiosity. The words were lazy – bored, even . . . but was that actual concern for her well being he was expressing?

"What happens if I do get an infection and you're to disoriented from lack of sleep to see straight, and wind up sticking pot in my tea instead of the usual stuff?"

No. Of course not.

Shaking her head, Zebbidy replied, "That's a possibility, yes . . . except I don't have any pot on me. Not at the moment."

A rough sigh escaped Sands' mouth, letting her know that he was sick and tired – literally and metaphorically – of tossing retorts back and forth. So much for being straight with him.

"Get into bed, Zeb," he commanded with a roll of his blank eyes.

Cautiously, wondering if it was a trap of some sort, Zebbidy lifted the blankets and slid underneath them. In an instant, the agent had turned to face her, recreating the scene they had both woken up to that night when they had both consumed a decent amount of wine. Only this time, Zebbidy realized, neither had their arms around each other.

"Tell me," she began softly, listening to his relaxed breathing. "I don't care if you never tell me anything else, but . . . what's your name? Full, birth, given, Christian – whatever you want to call it . . . what is it?"

Sands hesitated. Should he tell her? It couldn't hurt, he measured after thinking it through. How much harm could come from telling her his real name? Not counting predictable ridicule, of course. He didn't think it would be the end of the world if he let her in on one single shred of truth about himself. Besides, if he told her he preferred 'Sands' to his other titles, Zebbidy would obey him.

"Sands?"

"Sheldon," he interrupted heavily. "Sheldon Jeffery Sands."

He waited in dreaded apprehension for her to make a response. He waited for her to stop lying there, staring at him as she undoubtedly was, and start making some kind of remark. She was stunned, a little put off, perhaps. And she wasn't going to believe him. She was going to scoff. Or smirk knowingly. Or get pissed off and demand that he stop avoiding the subject with stupid jokes. Or worse, she would laugh, just as Ajedrez had done. Heaving a mental sigh, he waited for Zebbidy to answer him. He waited for her to laugh.

Except she did no such thing. Sands heard the sound of sheets rustling, and the next thing he knew, Zebbidy had leaned in and given him a quick, yet affectionate kiss on the tip of his nose.

"I like it," she declared simply. "It fits you."

"Really?" he asked, puzzled and more than slightly taken aback. Zebbidy's answer was unlike any he had ever received. It certainly hadn't passed through his mind when he was ticking off each possible response.

"Mmmhmm," Zebbidy murmured sleepily, halfway to dreamland already. "It isn't predictable; completely unexpected." She yawned, her head pillowed against his uninjured shoulder. "Like you."

Even though he was still a little dazed from her odd reaction to hearing his true name, Sands felt the corners of his mouth twitching into a cool grin. Slowly, he slid his arm around her waist, mirroring the first time they had woken up together perfectly and completing the picture at last.

Like seeing the deadly teeth of a shark just before it struck, Sands watched in unfathomable terror as the drill came closer, it's blades gyrating violently. The light from the halogen bulb above him reflected off of the whirling instrument, making its twisted edge shine and gleam down at him. It winked menacingly. Sands almost expected the Jaws theme song to start playing.

At once his heart was racing. Beads of perspiration trickled down his face and into his eyes, burning them horribly. He wanted to shut his eyes . . . the desire was strong, beyond tempting . . . but he refused. If he closed his eyes, he couldn't see what was going on. He would only be able to hear, smell, and feel the things around him. He couldn't rely on those senses alone.

The drill inched closer, climactic tension mounting with every second.

But he would have to if he wanted to make it out alive. He knew what was going to happen – how many times had he gone through this? – and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He only wished that he didn't have to relive it again . . . and again . . . and again . . .

"You don't have to," someone whispered desperately. "Not this time."

Sands' head snapped to the left so quickly he heard his bones crack. Ignoring the pain brought on by whiplash, he stared, eyes wide with fear and confusion, at who had spoken. The drugs he had been injected with made everything difficult to make out, but he would recognize that hair and those eyes anywhere.

Half bathed in shadow with only her vibrant green eyes clearly visible, Zebbidy Samhain stood at his side, fingering the straps that bound his wrists as Dr. Guevera's drill came even closer to its target. One glance at the nightmarish machine was enough to turn back to Zebbidy.

Forget asking about what the hell she's doing here – she said you don't have to do this!

Sands nodded to himself as he gazed up at her.

"What?"

"Listen!" Zebbidy hissed urgently. "You can stop this, you can stop all of it – just tell me what's going on."

He gave her a bewildered stare.

"Can't you tell –"

"Yes," she replied, worry prominent in her voice, "but what caused it? All of this? I don't know that. If you only tell me, then I can end it all."

Now more confused than ever, Sands felt his eyes trailing from her face to his bonds. Zebbidy's hand was still resting on them. He looked back up at her, sending a mental plea with his eyes: Unstrap me. If Zebbidy received a message of any kind, she didn't show it.

"Who are they?" she asked in a hushed voice. "Who's the man in the bandages? The man with the drill? Who is she?"

They both looked to Ajedrez sitting atop the table in the corner of the bare, dismally-lit room. She seemed not to notice Zebbidy as she watched him, her maliciously seductive smile in place as it always was whenever he dreamed of her.

The drill buzzed in the distance, but its threatening sound had been diluted by the time it reached Sands' ears. Now, it was nothing more than a dull hum. With his attention devoted to Ajedrez, everything seemed more muffled and not nearly as important as before.

Asshole! She's doing it again! You don't love her anymore, now get over it!! If I recall correctly, Miss Samhain said this could be stopped. So would it kill you to tear your eyes away from That Bitch before she tears them out

"Tell me what happened," Zebbidy was whispering when he finally tuned back in. All around him everything rolling sharply into focus, stunning him momentarily as millions of sounds hit him with full force. Zebbidy was suddenly louder – had she been trying to drag information out of him the entire time? – the drill was buzzing again, Ajedrez was laughing wickedly, and Barillo now towered directly over him, making sure that his crudely mummified face was burned in Sands' memory along with a few choice words.

"Fortunately for you, you have only . . . seen . . . too much."

Sands looked at the drill as it loomed mere inches above him. He forced his head in the other direction just in time to see Zebbidy grasp his hand, pressing it tightly to her heart. She bit her lip, emotion welling in her eyes, threatening to overflow.

"Sands," she murmured softly, her voice close to breaking, "please . . ."

Tell her, the voice urged desperately. Tell her!

The voice was right. Zebbidy was right. This was the only chance he had, and Sands knew that he would have to take it. Watch your step while going off on a limb. I can't afford to fall. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter one single word the drill at last completed its dilatory journey, hitting its target dead on. The tool of horror was gone. Barillo disappeared, as did Guevera. And as Zebbidy vanished from sight, Sands found himself surrounded by darkness. Her pleading eyes were the last things he saw.

Broken, haggard panting broke through the quiet morning like a gunshot. Instantly, pain erupted in Sands' chest and side but everything ailment that clung to him had been forgotten in the moment of terror. Breathing hard, he looked around in all directions, but everything was the same: Black, blacker than night, darker than death, and just as impenetrable. Sands had entered reality in the same condition he had left the dream: Shaking, gasping, feverishly sweaty, and terrified. It was so similar to what had happened mere seconds ago . . . how could he be certain he was awake?

Sands shook his head vigorously, commanding his overactive imagination to stop before it was carried off by its own creativity.

His head fell into his hands like a heavy weight being lifted off his shoulders, but no relief came with the action. He only felt anger, fear, confusion, and beneath all of that grief. He was grieving and he couldn't believe it. He never grieved, not for anyone or anything.

Distractedly, he wiped the sweat from his brow.

What had brought this on? Rosa had been the real cause of it, yes, but had he done anything to deserve being thrown into darkness again? For a moment Sands sorted through his memory, trying to dig up anything that could provide an answer to his urgent questions. Nothing. He had done his job. There weren't any schemes this time, no money was involved, love had been pushed aside along with trust . . . Poisson had known about them, that was true, but they had known before things got out of hand, and the good thing was that Poisson didn't know about that. The only people who had died at his hands had deserved it.

'Thou shalt not kill' my ass, Sands snorted with disdain. If someone's trying to blow me away, I'm gonna do what I can to defend myself. If that involves killing them, fine. Bite me, you all knowing deities, you too, karma.

Fuck! he swore loudly. Why do I have to do this again!?

History does tend to repeat itself, kiddo, the voice murmured thoughtfully.

Yeah, he agreed grudgingly. But how do you reverse the effect?

Zeb seemed to have a good idea, it reminded him, but then, you're afraid of what the consequences of trusting her might be –

What??

You heard me. Personally, I can't say I blame you after what That Bitch did to you, but there is – I repeat – there is nothing wrong with telling Zebbidy about her.

And you're the one who kept insisting I was getting too close. Now you're telling be to 'pour my heart out,' so to speak, when neither of us know a damn thing about her.

You have everything on her. The CIA has her profile – YOU have her profile.

It could be faked.

Doubt it. The Company actually worked to dig up info on this chick. If I recall correctly, you were the only one who bothered to find out about Ajedrez.

Sands was quiet as he cast a glance in what he assumed to be Zebbidy's direction. She was still asleep; her breathing told him that. Closing his eyes, he let out a heavy sigh, thinking that he was going to regret his next move but knowing that he wasn't.

Anything on my mind, huh? This shit better work, that's all I can say.

The voice was silent. Sands knew he was in this alone. Slowly, he reached out and placed a light hand on Zebbidy's shoulder.

"Wake up, chére," he murmured, shaking her arm carefully.

He heard her tired yawn but detected a lazy smile in her voice when she asked him what he wanted.

"You wanted to talk? Then let's get this shit over with. I've had enough of being blind, so it's time for a change and I'm ready for it, only question is, are you willing to participate?"

The shuffling of sheets told him that she had sat up, more than likely with a sincerely worried expression on her face. Sands shook his head. No time for concern; he needed out of the hole he had fallen into, and Zebbidy was the one with the ladder.

"Of course," Zebbidy breathed, letting her bewilderment show. "Did you wanna start or –"

"How 'bout we play a little game of question and answer, Zeb?" Sands proposed dryly. "I don't normally give people what they want unless I'm getting something in return. I'm sure you understand this. You ask a question, I answer, then I get a turn, and you answer."

He pictured a nod.

"Okay."

"Good," Sands agreed. Laying back down he raised a hand and waved it carelessly. "Fire away."

Zebbidy was quiet while she sat there, her legs folded underneath her, her eyebrows narrowed in thought. She needed to approach him carefully. After all, he hadn't exactly come out and said that he had been blind before. She couldn't start with that question. She wanted to; it was the first one that came to mind, but Zebbidy knew that asking such a thing would only lead to suspicion. Yes, she decided, she needed to be very cautious and chose her questions wisely.

"Have you ever been this badly injured before?"

Sands nodded his head gingerly against the pillow.

"Worse, actually. Last time I was in this country, I was shot seven times. Most of 'em just grazed me, though, so the wounds weren't as bad. My turn. Why didn't the CIA tell me about those little seizures you tend to lapse into every so often?"

"I didn't feel the need to tell your agency about them," Zebbidy replied loftily. "They'd only put me on medication and, believe me, that wouldn't stop them in the least. Next question: When were you hurt like this?" she asked, touching his chest gently.

Sands sighed, his eyes closed, hiding the glazed look his irises held.

"Nearly a year ago," he answered finally. His voice was so low Zebbidy could barely make out what he was saying, yet she heard the bitter spite within in no matter how soft his words were.

"Where does a name like 'Samhain' come from, anyway?" Sands asked now.

"It can be either the last day of October or the first day of November," she informed him. "It's a day of celebration for pagans; also called November Eve, Hallowe'en, Feast of Souls, and Feast of the Dead. It marks the beginning of winter and a new year for ancient Celts."

"Where were you the last time you were hurt like this?" she pressed onward, taking up right where she had left off, her nose going haywire the entire time.

"Mexico. How do you know so much about herbs?"

"My mother was very big on herbal remedies." Zebbidy shrugged. "She just passed her knowledge onto me before she died. What were you doing down in Mexico?"

"Trying to bring down a drug cartel, get a president killed, start a revolution, and help my sister flee the country. And working my ass off, I might add. Now," he continued conversationally, "how old are you, really?"

"Thirty-four."

Sands smirked. "I knew it."

Zebbidy fought back a scowl but didn't hold back an eye-roll. "Where were you injured when you were in Mexico?"

"Shot in the arm, the legs, the side . . ." the agent tallied off, sounding bored.

"And?" Zebbidy prodded.

"And what?"

"You didn't sound like you were finished," she replied idly.

"That's because I wasn't," he sneered angrily. "While I was in El Meh-hee-co, I was virtually running the country with my cell phone. I rounded all the necessary people together using blackmail, threats, bribes, the usual . . . I set them up, and was eagerly anticipating the date when I would get to watch them fall, which just so happened to be November the second, the Day of the Dead."

He trailed off and the room was once again filled with silence. Zebbidy swallowed hard.

"And then . . ." Sands sighed at the memory. "Everything backfired. That whole day was just . . . downhill." He rubbed his eyes tiredly then jerked his hand back when memories suddenly washed over him like a tidal wave of misery. "Apparently, the Barillo cartel knew about me and my operations all along. They caught up with me, nabbed me, had some . . . fun . . . and then they let me go. I didn't let them get away with it, though, rest assured. I'm sure I pissed Barillo off just a bit when I killed one of his more important people."

"What did you mean when you said 'fun?'" Zebbidy asked quietly. Sands seemed to have forgotten their agreement of a question for a question, because he answered her . . . eventually.

Slowly, he eased himself into a sitting position. Then, using each second to his will, he leaned towards her. With incredible accuracy, he breathed into her ear: "They . . . took my . . . eyes."

Zebbidy leaned back onto her elbows. She couldn't believe it. She could not believe it. She wouldn't have if it hadn't been for her visions. They were all she had to hold onto as proof of what had happened to the agent. No one else would have believed him, Zebbidy knew now. She wasn't certain if she would have, but . . . she had seen him. She had seen him without his eyes . . . and she believed him.

A shaky hand flew to her mouth as a shuddering sigh escaped her. She closed her eyes. Her teeth became buried deep within her lower lip.

"How?" she asked wondering why on Earth such a horrible question had to be voiced, wondering what evil entity had possessed and forced her to ask him such a thing, wondering why she hadn't kept her mouth shut. But she hadn't remained silent. She had spoken, she had asked her question, and now she was awaiting an answer she was afraid to receive.

"How?" Sands repeated blandly. He snorted in disgust that was not meant for her. "They strapped me to a table, injected me with Christ only knows what, took this electronic cork screw . . . and ripped 'em out." He sighed, laying back down once more. "They ripped 'em right out . . ."

As the words entered her ears Zebbidy's eyes grew wide. And she saw it. She saw it all. There was Sands being held down on a metal table like the Frankenstein monster. A man with a face swathed in bloody bandages stood in the corner examining what was left of his mutilated face. There were several men standing near by, each with bulging muscles and three or more guns. She saw a beautiful woman sitting on the edge of a second table, her legs swinging lazily while she twirled a gun in her hand and flashed a smile in Sands' direction.

Then, a new face stepped out of the darkness. In his hand he held the source of Sands' nightmares, the evil device Zebbidy knew must have been the thing that had haunted him all this time. The twisted, silver instrument instantly sprung to life, whirling and winding and spinning around and around in one endless fashion. Its handler loomed menacingly over Sands – towered over him, bearing his terrible, monstrous torture device and then . . .

Zebbidy shut her eyes, but the screams still filled her ears. It was a sound that would stay with her for as long as she lived. They were cries of pain, or agony, or unimaginable torment, and they would stay with her until her time had run out.

She could remember yelling, she could remember shouting, she could remember clenching her fists so tightly that the palms of her hands bore marks from her fingernails for weeks. When she was a child she would sometimes scream and turn red with rage, but she never cried. Only for her parents would she cry. Only for someone she was so deeply devoted to . . . only for someone she felt incomprehensible emotion for . . . only for them would she allow the tears to be shed.

And now, as she sat on the bed with her legs tucked neatly underneath her, did she let the hot, heavy droplets of water part company with her eyes. Her voice gave no indication that she was crying, not even the smallest hint.

She turned to Sands, the tears still falling freely down her face and still she did nothing to stop them.

"I know this won't matter to you . . ." Zebbidy whispered, her voice still smooth and steady as always. Without warning, she reached up. Cupping his face in her hands, she planted two soft, gentle kisses over each of his eyes. Only then did Sands realize she was crying.

Curse you, Fanfiction! They wouldn't let me post last night! -.-;; But anyway, back to the point. Was it worth the wait? And did Sands seem a little off in that last scene? Honestly, that was the hardest part to write. Took me two days just to do that last bit. Oy vey . . . 9.6; And I've come to a decision. I realized that the next few chapters are going to be long ones. Too long to complete in three days. So, I'm gonna post new chapters of SGiYE on Friday nights but I'm going to make sure I have new chapters for Autobiography of a Troubled Soul up every Monday. How's that, everybody?

Author's Thanks and Review Responses

Dawnie-7: Unfortunately, Liam most definitely sold Lyn out.But I resolve my statement of 'all will work out in the end' if that's any consolation. :) lol, those names fit them perfectly. It's what they are, after all. Especially Cat. Blah, I'll be glad to get rid of her if I ever do e.e;;;

fanfiction fanatic: lol, I don't know how that saying goes either. Don't think I've ever gotten anything like that right, actually. But I usually never have a chance to check and edit my stories for grammar and spelling and stuff like that. It's really annoying to go back and suddenly see that I've all this (probably unnoticeable but really aggravating) mistakes. XP

Lynx Ryder: Yeah, Cat isn't incredibly dense. She isn't smart but she isn't stupid either. I mean, she took Lynné down, didn't she? Ooo, and you liked the description! I was hoping somebody would mention that. :D Discovery Channel . . . I have no idea where that came from, but I liked it. Glad to hear you got a kick out of it, too. Yes, Josey can definitely be scary when she wants to be, which, in a way, I think is a good thing cuz at least nobody underestimates her anymore just because she's a six-year-old blind girl. Although fooling the enemy may be a good thing because then they aren't expecting her to get as angry as she does. Working romance into Sands is not an easy task – I don't know how you did it! o.o – but I'm hoping that Zeb can get him to warm up to her a bit. And, yes, he's definitely gonna tell her about his 'former lady love.' In the next installment, actually. :) I totally agree as far as Mr. Depp is concerned. All of his characters – they each seem to have a story to them, don't they? Whether it's mentioned in the movie or not, they all seem like they have one. I know I love hearing his comments about characterization. It's so interesting and for someone like me who's main purpose in acting, writing, or even watching a movie is character, it's really cool to know that he does his homework while reseaching and developing his roles. Just one of the reasons I admire him, I suppose. Probably The reason, actually. And, no, unfortunately Sands does not enjoy Chicago in the least. :( I think at some point he did, but after my sister, her friends, my friends, Lyn, and I all played it constantly (and contiue to just not as much) he kinda lost his liking for it. Speaking of Chicago, I've always thought that the song Funny Honey sounded a lot like Liam and Lyn's relationship. Especially now. Y'know, him ratting her out and everything. Just wanted to mention that cuz I'd like to fit it in the story somewhere but I don't know where I would. Zeb's the one who thinks in song, not Lyn.

morph: No, things are definitely not looking up for Lynné at the moment. But she gets to have some fun dialouge and mess with people's heads in the next chaper, so that should be fun. For the readers, anyway. u.u

DragonHunter200: Thank you! And don't mind Cat (loathe her! she's evil!), she's just being like that cuz she hates Lynné. Plus she's finally gonna get her revenge and Lyn's acting like she could care less and that's ticking Cat off just a bit. And, I'm sorry to report, Liam sold her out. :( Just remember though, everything happens for a reason! And it'll all make sense in the end. I hope. o.o;;

I just wanna thank everybody for being so understanding about the lack of updates last week. Oh, and for reviewing my new Mexico fic, too. Thanks a bunch, guys! I appreciate it! :D

o