Yes, Virginia, this is a trilogy
Oct. 19th, 2007 09:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffeI'll have a chance to catch up on individual comments shortly, I hope, but really quick here: Thank you so much to everyone who's taken the time to comment, thank you so much to everyone who's been so wonderfully encouraging about my writing, I'm so glad people enjoyed the ending, sorry it came unexpectedly (I can't write more than about 15 chapters per plot without the plot getting entirely too complicated to wrap up EVER), and yes, I'm already working on a third story in the Slave Breakers series. :) I'm not making any promises about when it'll start going up regularly-- I haven't written the last chapter yet, and I like to have done that, just as a failsafe-- but here is a bit of the very beginning as a teaser, 800 words or so. Everything subject to change until the first chapter officially goes up.
"Bran, dear," said Alix, "do me a favor and put your arms around your master's neck."
Bran, raising his eyebrows slightly, wound his arms obediently around Holden's neck and buried his face against his shoulder. The warm confiding weight of him still made Holden's heart skip a beat after nearly five years; he held his boy close against him, wondering for the millionth time how the hell a man got this lucky.
His eyes flicked to Yves, who was still absorbed in some new incomprehensible mathematical treatise, and then to Jer, who was watching him. Holden smiled at him, and Jer leaned back, returning his attention to the novel he was reading. Learning to keep three slaves all feeling loved and safe was a little like learning to drive a car, Holden had decided: the overwhelming number of things you had to pay attention to, in order to avoid killing yourself or someone else, gradually, with sufficient practice, became a set of reflexes. You still had to pay attention, and you could still get blindsided, but your eyes learned good habits. Mirror, signal, blind spot. Bran, Yves, Jer.
"Yves, Jer, Bran," Yves had corrected him, when he shared this analogy in bed one night.
"You know you come first, love," Holden had said, surprised; Yves had never shown signs of competitiveness with Jer or Bran.
"No," said Yves, laughing. "I mean-- mirror, signal, blind spot. Bran's definitely your blind spot."
"What?" Holden asked his wife now over Bran's shoulder, eyeing the letter she held in her hand and had read with pursed lips just before making her odd request of Bran.
"Just a precaution," said Alix. "You won't jump up and start breaking things with Bran wrapped around you."
Holden smiled a little, still cradling Bran close. "That sounds ominous. Go on, tell me. I can take it. Did Valor get arrested again?"
"Probably," said Alix dryly, "but she hasn't written to tell us so."
"Ignorance is bliss," said Holden with a quick grin at Greta, whose attempt at a disapproving look was belied by her dimples. "Who's the letter from, then?"
"Dunaev," said Alix.
Holden felt every muscle in his body tense. He hadn't encountered Dunaev once since the day of Bran's purchase, which was lucky, since Yves was dead right about blind spot-- Holden's usually well-maintained pretense at professional detachment went all to hell where Bran was concerned. He probably would have ended up stabbing Dunaev in the gut with some poor host's good steak knife, which would have been a considerably more embarrassing arrest than his daughter's civil disobedience charges. The fact that he wouldn't be caught dead socializing in the home of anyone who'd also socialize with Dunaev accounted for the safety of the bastard's rotten entrails so far, and also meant that the letter probably didn't just contain a polite inquiry into everybody's health.
"Business?" he asked, and Alix held out the letter. Bran hadn't moved at the name of his former master, but as Holden took the letter, the young man sat up slightly, and Holden held the letter so that they could both read.
The prose style alone-- a thin scum of oily flattery overlaying a series of crude personal insinuations-- was enough to infuriate Holden, bringing back the man's ugly, honeyed voice as he and Alix haggled over the lovely boy who lay trussed and gagged on the floor, blinking slowly at nothing. But the content--
"Master," said Bran softly, and Holden realized his arm had grown tight enough around his youngest slave to be painful. He relaxed his grip immediately. "Sorry, sweetheart. Fucking hell. Fucking hell, I--" He wanted to stand up, pace, shout, knock things over, but Bran was still curled against him, and the tension in his frame reminded Holden that Bran would be just as disturbed by the letter as he was. "You okay?"
"I've never heard 'irreparable' before," said Bran quietly.
"It could just mean he's– a little scarred," Holden said, trying to keep his voice even. "It doesn't matter, Bran. Whatever it is, we'll buy this--" he glanced back at the letter-- "Lee, and he'll be fine."
"You don't know that, master," said Bran in the same quiet, matter-of-fact voice. "I almost wasn't fine. You said yourself. If you hadn't–" He trailed off, swallowing.
Holden's arm tightened around Bran again. The boy was right, of course, and there was really no positive spin to be put on some aspects of his current condition may be irreparable. "How soon can we–?"
"I'll call him first thing in the morning," Alix said firmly.
Holden looked back at Bran, whose eyes, always so full of shifting light and shadow, were oddly luminous now in a set face. Holden studied him, trying to read his expression.
"When you go to get him, master," he said, "could I come with you?"
"Bran, dear," said Alix, "do me a favor and put your arms around your master's neck."
Bran, raising his eyebrows slightly, wound his arms obediently around Holden's neck and buried his face against his shoulder. The warm confiding weight of him still made Holden's heart skip a beat after nearly five years; he held his boy close against him, wondering for the millionth time how the hell a man got this lucky.
His eyes flicked to Yves, who was still absorbed in some new incomprehensible mathematical treatise, and then to Jer, who was watching him. Holden smiled at him, and Jer leaned back, returning his attention to the novel he was reading. Learning to keep three slaves all feeling loved and safe was a little like learning to drive a car, Holden had decided: the overwhelming number of things you had to pay attention to, in order to avoid killing yourself or someone else, gradually, with sufficient practice, became a set of reflexes. You still had to pay attention, and you could still get blindsided, but your eyes learned good habits. Mirror, signal, blind spot. Bran, Yves, Jer.
"Yves, Jer, Bran," Yves had corrected him, when he shared this analogy in bed one night.
"You know you come first, love," Holden had said, surprised; Yves had never shown signs of competitiveness with Jer or Bran.
"No," said Yves, laughing. "I mean-- mirror, signal, blind spot. Bran's definitely your blind spot."
"What?" Holden asked his wife now over Bran's shoulder, eyeing the letter she held in her hand and had read with pursed lips just before making her odd request of Bran.
"Just a precaution," said Alix. "You won't jump up and start breaking things with Bran wrapped around you."
Holden smiled a little, still cradling Bran close. "That sounds ominous. Go on, tell me. I can take it. Did Valor get arrested again?"
"Probably," said Alix dryly, "but she hasn't written to tell us so."
"Ignorance is bliss," said Holden with a quick grin at Greta, whose attempt at a disapproving look was belied by her dimples. "Who's the letter from, then?"
"Dunaev," said Alix.
Holden felt every muscle in his body tense. He hadn't encountered Dunaev once since the day of Bran's purchase, which was lucky, since Yves was dead right about blind spot-- Holden's usually well-maintained pretense at professional detachment went all to hell where Bran was concerned. He probably would have ended up stabbing Dunaev in the gut with some poor host's good steak knife, which would have been a considerably more embarrassing arrest than his daughter's civil disobedience charges. The fact that he wouldn't be caught dead socializing in the home of anyone who'd also socialize with Dunaev accounted for the safety of the bastard's rotten entrails so far, and also meant that the letter probably didn't just contain a polite inquiry into everybody's health.
"Business?" he asked, and Alix held out the letter. Bran hadn't moved at the name of his former master, but as Holden took the letter, the young man sat up slightly, and Holden held the letter so that they could both read.
The prose style alone-- a thin scum of oily flattery overlaying a series of crude personal insinuations-- was enough to infuriate Holden, bringing back the man's ugly, honeyed voice as he and Alix haggled over the lovely boy who lay trussed and gagged on the floor, blinking slowly at nothing. But the content--
"Master," said Bran softly, and Holden realized his arm had grown tight enough around his youngest slave to be painful. He relaxed his grip immediately. "Sorry, sweetheart. Fucking hell. Fucking hell, I--" He wanted to stand up, pace, shout, knock things over, but Bran was still curled against him, and the tension in his frame reminded Holden that Bran would be just as disturbed by the letter as he was. "You okay?"
"I've never heard 'irreparable' before," said Bran quietly.
"It could just mean he's– a little scarred," Holden said, trying to keep his voice even. "It doesn't matter, Bran. Whatever it is, we'll buy this--" he glanced back at the letter-- "Lee, and he'll be fine."
"You don't know that, master," said Bran in the same quiet, matter-of-fact voice. "I almost wasn't fine. You said yourself. If you hadn't–" He trailed off, swallowing.
Holden's arm tightened around Bran again. The boy was right, of course, and there was really no positive spin to be put on some aspects of his current condition may be irreparable. "How soon can we–?"
"I'll call him first thing in the morning," Alix said firmly.
Holden looked back at Bran, whose eyes, always so full of shifting light and shadow, were oddly luminous now in a set face. Holden studied him, trying to read his expression.
"When you go to get him, master," he said, "could I come with you?"
