“You need a serial.”

Harried Writer flipped through a stack of papers in search of that plot thread that kept disappearing. “Do I have to pick just one? I’m equally fond of Reese’s Puffs and that cinnamon-pecan Special K.”

Zara tied her hair back with a ratty old string she’d found on the floor. “Not cereal. SERIAL. Note the spelling. Everybody’s doing it.”

“If everybody was jumping off a bridge—”

“You’re such a mom.”

“Thanks. By the way, for Mother’s Day, if you hook me up with some djinn housecleaning action, you’ll be my favorite.”

“No I won’t. Angelic Daughter’s your favorite, and then you’re too soft on Gabe and Xain and Keran. And Rinc. And that vampire thief. And…”

“Okay, you’ll be my favorite six-year-old.”

“Hmph. I haven’t forgotten the subject, by the way.”

A nerve in Harried Writer’s eyelid twitched. “Those who do serials have a story. I don’t have anything short enough or finished enough to offer.”

“Make something up. I’ll help. It can be all about…” Zara tapped her chin while contemplating riveting subjects. After 0.03 seconds of deep contemplation, she announced the winning idea with a flourish. “Me!”

“Here’s the thing, kiddo. I write grownup stories. With violence and bad language and, uh, kissing. And stuff. Not kid stories. The Amazing Adventures of Zara and Her Bratz might give people the wrong idea.”

“Gabe’s old, and he likes Bratz.”

Harried Writer muttered something involving perv and prostitots and some degree of not surprised.

“Besides, I’m cute.”

“Uh-huh, but a lot of readers don’t want to see a kid in a romance novel, ever, no matter how cute she is. And precocious is another coffin nail. I’m trying to hide you as much as possible, actually.”

“But I’m important! I’m crucial to the story. I’m the main bone of contention. I’m the… the… impediment to happiness!” Zara’s eyes widened. “Omigosh, I’m the impediment to happiness? THE IMPEDIMENT TO HAPPINESS!” She began to cry—loudly, but not with sufficient volume to account for the shaking of the house.

Harried Writer crawled under the desk, pulling the chair in after her, and covered her head with her arms. “I didn’t do it. Not my fault. And I’m 90 percent sure she’s faking.”

The shaking stopped. “Oh, she’s with the writer.”

Male grumbling was vaguely audible through Zara’s wailing.

“Yeah, she’s made me cry a couple times too. Remember when she threatened to kill me and give my woman to a vampire? I can handle this.” There was a brief atmospheric disturbance, and then the protection of the chair was withdrawn from Harried Writer. “The cavalry’s been called off. You can come out now.”

“I’m perfectly happy right where I am, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Ryder straddled the chair and directed his attention toward Zara. “What’s the problem, Z?”

“I’m the IMPEDIMENT TO HAPPINESS!”

He nodded. “I can see how that might be upsetting.”

Harried Writer choked on the buildup of melodrama at low altitude. “She just wants more attention.”

“Would it kill you to give her some?”

Harried Writer scowled at Ryder. He always took Zara’s side. “It might kill you.”

“We’ve been through this before. You’re not going to kill me. You’re intrigued. There’s too much about me you don’t know.”

“I know one thing you don’t know.”

“Is finding out going to make me cry?”

As currently outlined, no, but outlines could change. “Like a little girl with a dead bunny.”

“Wow. You are seriously morbid.”

Zara sniffled, momentarily distracted from her own woes. “Is it about his sugar bowl*?”

Actually, the history of the Big Bad Sugar Bowl was one of those things Harried Writer didn’t know yet, and she suspected it was one of those things she would regret introducing round about the time explaining it became necessary. “No comment.”

Ryder, familiar with Harried Writer’s sadistic tendencies but not yet the victim of same, began to look a little queasy. “I can hardly wait.”

Zara sniffled again, but it was kind of a dry sniffle. Crocodile tears were a snap, but crocodile snot was trickier to master. “Yeah, that’s great and all, but we haven’t resolved my problem.”

Harried Writer banged her head against the desk in time with the twitching of her eyelid. “How about you finish that interview where you torture the reporter with cute and precocious, and I slap it up somewhere?”

“That’ll do!”

Zara did her happy dance. On her third twirl around the room, Ryder reached out and pulled the string from her hair, offering it to Harried Writer with an I’m too adorable to torture smile.

Harried Writer tucked the thread back into Chapter Eight and remained steadfastly heartless. “I don’t care how helpful you are. I have to torture you. It wouldn’t be fair to everyone else if I let you off easy.”

“I know. All I ask is that the sugar bowl turns out to be something badass to compensate for all the flak I have to put up with because of it.”

An ill-formed idea flickered deep within a dark cavern of Harried Writer’s mind, too weak to be viable but providing a hint that might revive it at some point in the future. She scanned the bookshelves for The Complete Noob’s Guide to Freaky Old Pottery. “Oh, it’ll be badass. It’ll be so badass, djinn from here to Rigas will be jealous.”

“You don’t have a frickin’ clue, do you?”

“Shut up before I change it to a chamber pot.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* It’s not really a sugar bowl, it just looks kind of like a sugar bowl. It’s actually Ryder’s “lamp,” and there’s some terribly dark reason** his soul got stuck in such a weird container.

** Pantserspeak for “I haven’t got a frickin’ clue, but it’ll be awesome when I figure it out.”