Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial and Reminder Re Rosie

OKAY, go read Rosie Hughes at Jackie Kessler's blog. It's hysterical. Then, when you're ready for something more serious, get your bowl and milk and read your Saturday Morning Breakfast Serial:

Chapter 3 - Old Friends/Old Enemies (continued).

I parked my butt under the heater vent as the bus lurched forward. Fate being as it was, I had a ton of money in my backpack, but had been forced to scrabble for enough change for the fare. I was so not putting a twenty in the slot. I mean, dream on.

I only took the bus a few blocks before exiting at one of the better hotels. There was a line of taxis out front, and taking a taxi would be quicker, warmer, and would drop me off right at the door to the store. Once there, I grabbed one of the blue plastic carts and went on my squeaky-wheeled way through the aisles. First stop, juniors where I was picking up the warmest coat I could find. Then accessories, for hat, gloves, scarf, etc. I was beginning to feel as if I'd never be warm again. There are folks out there who love the cold.

I'm not one of them.

I was in the toiletries section, stocking up on some of the things I'd left behind, like oh, you know, a toothbrush, hairbrush, that sort of thing, when I heard a familiar voice.

"Sahara, wait up!" I turned to find Tracker loping down the main aisle, headed in my direction.

My first thought was Oh hell. NOW what? Don't get me wrong, Tracker is my cousin. He's also my best bud. We'd worked together back when I'd had a job for the new age crystal manufacturing company my mentor's family owned. But he shouldn't know I was here. And he'd always promised not to use his best skill (you guessed it -- tracking) to hunt me down unless it was an emergency. So instead of staring at his studly form with lust (which was the reaction of 3 cashiers and two female stock clerks) I probably wore an expression of flat out horror.

"We need to talk." He said it sotto voice. Of course that didn't matter when half the folks in the store are staring and listening as avidly as they can. They couldn't really help themselves. He's just so stareworthy. He's big, around 6'8" or so, built lean but muscular, with the smooth grace of a hunting cat. His eyes are jade green, his hair tousled and naturally blonde. If I wasn't related to him I'd probably be a drooling idiot like everyone else. He'd had the sense to come here dressed for the weather, and was wearing jeans, work boots, a heavy plaid flannel shirt and distressed leather bomber jacket.

"Oh hell." I looked around, hoping for somewhere with at least a semblance of privacy amongst all the wide aisles and bright lighting, and finally found it when I caught sight of the sliding doors leading out to the garden center. Nobody in their right mind would be out there right now: which should make it just the perfect place for the two of us.

We'd barely made it through the doors when he started talking. "You have to turn yourself in."

"Hunh?" Clever, I know. But I'd had a rough day. Repartee was beyond me at the moment. Besides, I didn't have a freaking clue what he was talking about. I hadn't done anything turn in worthy. Then again, I hadn't done anything worth having people hunt me down and kill me either. So maybe I shouldn't have been so surprised.

"I know you. It had to be an accident. If you just come in and explain." He was so damned earnest. I just wished I knew what he was talking about.

"Explain what?"

"Sahara." He used that tone. You know the one. Sad, a little condescending. The 'don't bullshit me.' tone.

"I haven't done anything."

"Exactly!" He smiled. "Which is why you need to come back with me and turn yourself in. My dad can help you."

I wasn't sure how to answer that, but I didn't get the chance. I felt the shift of energies, saw the air a few feet away blur, just as a seam split reality. I caught a glimpse of Helena Troy (yeah, that really is her name), Evan's apprentice.

Oh crap. This was going to be bad.