The Apothecary - Ch 26: Law of Attraction (Feb 24)

[Tara the Phoenix]

~24~
Jar of Fire
(they’re not my hands)

In the physical world, Tara’s body was tucked underneath a thin coverlet in her tiny bedchamber, the shades drawn against the coming of the dawn, casting her room in wreaths of grey. That would have been the perception of physical reality had anyone with conscious thought been there to observe it and give it form.

Tara was unconscious. The tether between her mind and body was thin and fiery. The great chasm of mortality between her soul and her silence was being bridged with tendrils of fever and pain. The house of her soul was burning; soon she would be riven from her body completely to join her uncollared sisters in the mansion of her pure mother.

Death had been denied her for so long that the idea of it was miraculous. To loose herself from her prison of flesh, to hide from her Master in the one place where he could never discover her, to sit out and watch the final act of his hideous play instead of being one of his actors; these were also thoughts miraculous.

False thoughts, foolish imaginings. Her part had been written and cast long ago, in another world.

Tara was unconscious, and while armies of blood raced through her capillaries to combat infection and pain in the physical world, her mind and soul basked in the glory of her pure mother.

Naked, suspended in time and space, bathed by molten fire, she was aware of nothing in the physical world. Her soul floated along the bright edges of this crimson expanse until she made mental contact with the one who had birthed her.

Here there was joy and bliss, at least for this sliver of unseen time. Tara opened her non-existent eyes and peered through orange vapours and red flames, seeking the manifestation of her mother. She found nothing, and felt a small shudder of fear before hearing her mother’s words.

(I am not here, child)

“You have taken mortal form again?” Tara asked, casting her eyes about as if she could behold the form that should accompany the words.

(this mortal coil was thrust upon me

but the choice was still mine)

Tara looked down at her hands, the skin fresh and revitalized by the murmurings of molten stone. “I have watched the evolution of humankind for more than thirty three thousand years,” she mused. “Does choice even matter when the great cycle of ages only repeats itself?”

(you speak as if you actually exist)

Tara looked up and frowned. “Um, I’m right here. I’m communicating with you. I exist.”

(I see only the puppet of the snake

not my most gracious daughter)

A spark of understanding lit Tara’s breast. She glanced at her hands again. Her mother was right; they weren’t her hands. She had given them away when she slid into abject servitude, had donated them almost willingly to her Master.

The clockwork goddess.

“He’ll hurt me,” Tara whispered. “He’ll hurt the people I love.”

(what is pain of the body when death and reincarnation are near?

what loved one upon their own demise would not be drawn back to you, to reincarnate as you are reborn?

the law of attraction is absolute

and it is that law the snake wishes to break)

“How can you be so certain that the people cherished in my thoughts will return to me? How long must I wait to be reunited with those I loved most?” In her mind Tara could see them, the women she had loved and lost throughout the ages. If Drusilla was to be heeded, even Willow was now dead, her truth parcelled out between those who loved her. Soon her precious Laura would also lose her physical form and exist only in the snapping of Tara’s neurons, the ganglia of memory.

How could they ever be returned to her?

(daughter, the waiting is over

she has already appeared)

A spasm shook Tara’s non-corporeal body. She cried aloud with an open mouth. The bath of fire began to diminish. “How will I know her?” she gasped when she had regained her breath. “Who is she, tell me who she is!”

(tokens she will show you

let Faith provide the rest)

A line of swollen pinkness suddenly cut across her belly, appearing along with an inflamed slit in her side. When she swallowed, she could feel an echo of cold steel across her neck. “I don’t want to leave yet,” Tara cried. “There is nothing for me out there. Let me stay, please!”

(great deeds await on the other side

you must be strong now

you must bar the gate

deny the snake his nether-passage

reclaim the property of your body as your own

the destruction of self brings everlasting life to humanity

remember Samarkand)

The pull was irresistible now, the tether strengthened, no longer a fiery red. It was a near translucent green and even in the midst of the fire Tara began to feel cool.

Tara had no time for last words, as if upon a deathbed, no reflection of past deeds and quashed dreams of future glory.

Yet her mother had one last thing to share.

(seek the princess)

Consciousness clawed at her with poisonous talons, every breath an agony now, and she burst through the last veil of oblivion with a choked whimper on her lips. An angry mob of pain and hurt burst through her defences, plying her body with wrack and ruin. With tortured breath that sliced the air she opened her eyes to behold the ceiling of her bedchamber.

The fiery bliss of her mother’s womb was gone and more than gone, as if it never had existed.

(they’re not my hands)

Another wretched breath, another whimpering cry, and in the periphery of her vision she could sense others coming into her chamber. She identified them by scent alone, for to move her head would be disastrous.

Poppy smoke clung to every piece of clothing that Anya wore. Her presence was easily explained.

Less easy was the frightened cologne of Wilkins’ echo, the Deputy Allan Finch, who could not even make a simple choice such as fragrance without fear of penalty or reprisal.

Tara swallowed and felt the cords of her throat quiver over the thin cut on her neck. Her body clamoured for attention, fierce pressures in her side, through her calf, across her belly, each neatly punctuated by the slim line across her throat. Her muscles were dipped in acid then drawn across her razor-sharp bones.

When another gaping cry escaped her lips, she felt Anya’s cool hand take her own. Tara swivelled her head and through watery shields of agony she beheld the purveyor of the poppy den.

The ageless blonde woman had taken a seat at Tara’s side and upon her dressing table was a bowl of clear water. With her free hand she dipped and squeezed a soft cloth, then placed the cool dampness above Tara’s brow. From what Tara could see of her face she was tired and worn. Silence had never been part of her repertoire, yet now Anya was silent, perhaps even frightened by the wounded apparition beneath the coverlet.

When she rallied strength to do so, Tara turned to the other side and looked into the pale cheeks of the Deputy. His presence here meant something important, but the truth of it eluded her, lost behind the vapours and steams of her pain.

Tears eked a hot and cruel passage down her cheeks only to fall and be absorbed by her pillow as if they never existed at all. The memory of their passage left a streak of damp along her face. Her inner muscles contracted with the effort of holding the majority of the pain at bay, which only made the deep sutures in her belly gnaw at her in unimaginable ways. She opened her mouth to breathe and screamed instead, and somewhere through the roaring of her ears she could hear nearby pigeons on the windowsill take startled flight at the noise.

Tara looked up, way up, and saw naught but the grey world tinged with crimson madness. Her voice crackled as she spoke, “Anya, help me, please.”

When no answer was forthcoming, she rallied courage enough to tilt her head and look upon her long-time ally and friend. The woman’s face was exceedingly pale, her eyes red-rimmed with devastation. “I can’t, Tara,” she whispered, a fearful glance to the Deputy and an unspoken admonishment that Tara would even consider asking such a thing.

“You must, Anya, please,” Tara began before another scream uncurled itself from her breast, leaping out of her mouth like a fell serpent. Every inch of her wanted to writhe in agony, and every inch of her fought that impulse for the sake of her belly and her punctured side.

If only she could recall the blessed oblivion, and return to the fire-bliss of her mother!

With every fibre of her being that still lay under her command, Tara willed the dragon holocaust to return, to swallow her and release her from this agony, from this world even, free from pain, free of her collar, free of the injunctions from her mother she had just received, for she wanted no part in the saving of the world, she wanted no downfall nor glory, she wanted nothing save freedom for herself and for her sisters.

What a velvet sweetness would death become now, like the melting of marzipan on the tongue, so very sweet compared to this acid rain of cord and sinew, this life and enslavement that stretched onward and onward five hundred years or more with nary a moment for true rest or true love.

And still Anya did not speak, not even under the pressure of Tara’s tortured eyes, the sight of her writhing body. Five seconds of her time, or perhaps ten, and Tara would be restored to full health and vitality. Why did the woman stay her hand?

Tara would not know, for Anya abruptly released her hand, got up and left the room in a flurry of discarded universes and futures. Tara understood a part of the woman’s reluctance, but the tears would not stay inside as they ought. No, her tears fought for their freedom and they won it, coursing down her cheeks to die suddenly without mercy on her pillow with the others of their kind.

Allan Finch remained. He did not speak yet, neither in condolence nor in hope. His hand strayed near hers, but did not quite touch. With her eyes closed she could hear him softly exhale, in the manner of one who has finally made a decision.

Tara opened her eyes when she felt the first cooling relief of some balm being applied to her throat. The deputy was applying some thin green salve along her wound, some ointment she had never before seen, and the effects were near miraculous. Pain eased, blood ceased to pound there, and when he hesitated she begged him to continue, pulling down the coverlet to reveal gauze that was already stained pink with blood and effluent.

“I’ll try not to hurt you,” he said, his voice trembling like that of a boy suddenly forced to become a man.

“You cannot hurt me,” Tara breathed, and he carefully pried away the tape from her swollen skin, lifting the used gauze up and away. She stared at the ceiling now, at the wraiths and shadows in the corners and grit her teeth as he applied more of the cooling gel. The relief was near instantaneous.

He drew the blanket back over her body when he finished administering to her leg.

“Is it magic?” Tara whispered, feeling strength kindle along the tissues of her body.

“It’s technology, which is practically the same thing, isn’t it?” Allan said quietly. He got up to leave the room, and she could hear him washing his hands in the kitchen basin. Soon he returned with a briefcase in his hands. “The President wishes to speak to you when you are well enough for the connection. Can we do it now or do we have to wait?”

“Let’s do it now, and get it over with,” Tara growled.

(though you come bearing gifts like a magi of old

I still want you out of my house)

With minimal tugging, Allan helped her shuffle upwards on her bed, propping her up with pillows and then he placed a tablet in her lap, folding open the screen. With the push of one button she could see a vid feed of her Master’s private chambers within the White House of Los Angeles. She could hear a dim conversation of ink and echoes; a conversation abruptly stopped when Allan cleared his throat and loudly declared that they were ready.

It smacked of overkill, and Tara had a sudden premonition regarding the now-dubiously loyal Deputy that she swiftly tucked away for further reflection later on. She had to keep her wits now, especially injured and vulnerable.

After all, her Master was a predator.

His face came into the view screen, and she saw him adjust the monitor. “Tara, my girl. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” Tara replied. “I must say that this green stuff is very nice.”

“It is, isn’t it? It’s also hideously expensive, that little jar Allan is using cost us more than $100,000. I don’t care about the money, as long as it does the job it’s supposed to.”

(a happy worker is a productive worker)

Tara cleared her throat of pain-debris, but said nothing else. Soon President Wilkins continued, “That was quite a mess last night, wasn’t it, and I don’t mean the mess of your apartment. Apparently it’s already been cleaned and set in order again.”

This time he waited for a response and Tara finally said, “The fight.”

“Your identity has not been breached for a really long time,” Wilkins said. “Even your once-lover Laura never truly discovered your identity, and you were with her for several years. How did Willow Rosenberg find you out?”

Thank goodness her cheeks were already pale with blood loss. “I don’t know, Master. I was very surprised to find her here. What day is it?”

“Only the morning after. You were not unconscious overly long. And my physician tells me that I should not tax you unnecessarily this morning as you need rest to recover. I just wanted to see you and be sure that you are now safe.”

“I suppose I am. She’s dead, isn’t she? She won’t threaten your property again.”

His genial face creased into thoughtfulness. “You’ve gotten a bit scrambled there, kiddo. You didn’t kill her. She actually deactivated you, which is another thing I can scarcely believe she has discovered.”

“Willow is alive?” Tara asked, trying to stay calm.

“Yes, apparently she is a far worthier opponent than any of us could imagine. Here I thought she was just some techno-geek with extremely lucrative patents. I must find out how she came to know of you.”

Panic seized Tara’s tongue. With some effort, she said, “How might you do that, sir? As you said, she is a worthy opponent. It will not be easy to get near her.”

“No, it won’t be easy for me. But it will be easy for you.”

A vast purple swoon flooded Tara’s eyes, and with some effort she kept the darkness at bay. Her heart was agitated and she could not hide it from him.

“What would you have me do, sir?” she asked.

“You shall be my Trojan Horse,” he replied. “And when she takes the bait, and it’s pretty clear to me that she will take any bait that has you in it, you will be close enough to question her and then kill her. Then you can take care of the rest of the household, each of them sharing her fate. Thus your secret will stay safe and your injuries be avenged. The whole two birds, one stone idea.”

There was commotion somewhere beyond him and the screen, perhaps a general or an aide with a burning question that only the President could answer.

“If I couldn’t kill her when I was whole and healthy, how am I to kill her now?” Tara asked. “Send Anya to me and I will fulfill all your desires.”

President Wilkins shook his head. “She is needed elsewhere. Great deeds await us now; we each have a part to play. Perhaps I shall even give you the death that you seek should you finish this task for me. Willow and all her household must die. You must see to it. You will see to it.”

As he spoke these fell words, she saw him writing down this command upon a piece of parchment, made from the skin of a gazelle. Soon he would place it in her jar of fire, the jar that connected his commands to the collar under her skin. Extra powers might be granted her for the fulfillment of this wish, as they had been granted for her to pursue the work of an Apothecary.

She would be a puppet again. Her hands were not her own.

And he hid the words away, folding the parchment before placing his command in her jar of fire, kept in a locked cabinet in his private chambers, and as the fire licked and digested the wish she felt the weight of it enter her neck and throat.

“It shall be even as you command,” she whispered, as whisper she must, for she was just a djinn and he was her Master.

And she would be his slave until the end of the world, until he released her or until he would himself be cut down and his token of power taken.

No mortal weapon could kill him; he had made a deal with a devil. Thus was her doom defined: slavery undying until he achieved his ultimate goal and only then would he release her and her sisters back to the place where they came from.

This time a wash of faint did overcome her, and she lay back in a swoon upon her bedewed pillow. Allan made comforting noises that only irritated her, and he closed the connection with her Master. Then he hovered nearby like some unwelcome poltergeist, finally handing her a small item in a brown paper envelope. “You’ll need this to gain entry to her house,” he explained. “The address is on the note inside.”

Feeling obstinate now, using whatever small power she had against this powerless man, Tara did not open the envelope, nor evince any interest in it. She placed it on her bedside table and lay back on her bed.

He hesitated, and once again Tara felt a strange emanation of feeling from him, the tiniest suggestion that he would also throw off the shackles of slavery if he only knew how. That he would help her, if he only had the requisite courage.

But what else does a tamed monkey do but lure wild monkeys into its enclosure, to be sealed inside and share its fate?

Her heart hardened to him and his meekness, and after painful moments of silence he left her bedchamber, taking the briefcase with him yet leaving the jar of precious ointment behind.

Her fingers then went to her throat and traced the unseen collar. She imagined she felt the weight of Willow’s death upon it, and the corresponding weight of Willow’s entire household. Already she felt the stirrings of destiny upon her, the fulfillment of her master’s wishes.

And should some magical weapon somehow alight upon the world, some immortal weapon worthy of reaving him from his life, her ownership would only be passed on to the one who wielded the death-blade and took his token. From her bondage there was no end in sight.

Her gaze stole over to the little paper envelope and with a quick decision she carefully ripped it open.

A cracker jack ring spilled into the hollow of her hand. The band was smooth, the face worn down as if longingly touched by a fingertip for more than a dozen years. She could practically see the universe inside.

Not any ring. Willow’s ring. How on earth did it come into Allan Finch’s possession?

She thought on that question and a thousand others, until her head ached with supposition and guesswork. She slept fitfully, dreamed shallow dreams that eluded her upon waking.

And all that long day of tears and worry the plan to assassinate Willow became clearer and clearer. Soon she could perceive it with the same clarity of all dreams she created, and in her perception the reality of it came closer and closer.

The cracker jack ring was the key.

One day more.

~

To be continued with Chapter 25: The Master's Hands (let it begin)

Jen
aka Tara the Phoenix

[leos_pride]

Dibs? aha! Dibs!

Dibs and delurking all in one. Hi!

I believed I commented on the previous incarnation of this story. This new incarnation is just as amazing. Your writing is just....beyond words. I don't know how to describe it but it is truly amazing. I am thoroughly enjoying this story and can't wait to see what is next. It's late and my brain has lost what else I wanted to say, so keep up the fabulous work!

~Leo

[zampsa19752001]

Yay for excellent update-y goodness... I hope that what Giles did to Tara is able to help Tara resist Mr. Big Snake's commands or that they know that Tara's mission is to kill Willow and all of them...

[Paint the Sky]

Lets start with some wordage I liked a lot:

the ganglia of memory

angry mob of pain

Her muscles were dipped in acid then drawn across her razor-sharp bones.

velvet sweetness ... melting of marzipan ... acid rain of cord and sinew

wraiths and shadows

I love the poetry in your writing - tight phrasing that expands in the imagination and makes everything so much more vivid, tangible, it's just ... wow!!!


Ok, now the meat of the matter - Wilkens and his damn 'wish' - this is gonna be fun, isn't it???!!!

We all knew you were gonna change it up, but never did I imagine this. It would be too easy for Tara to be just able to say, "Oh, by the by, I've been instructed by my master to kill you, Willow ... " so, I'm gonna take a mad leap here and say she can't communicate anything her Master compels her to do, which makes it kinda tricky I would think. I can't wait to see how you get her out of this one.

The next bit I'm gonna put in spoiler space cos I don't want my comment/question to give anything away

Spoiler:

Faith - where does she figure in now? The first draft had our luscious chauffer etc as a double agent type, have we given her a reprieve from type-casting, or will she still be a little shady? Actually don't answer that, it's just me wondering, no doubt I'll find out in time

I'm still so happy you returned to the board to share your talent with us, and I'm on tenterhooks as I type awaiting the next update.

[Tara the Phoenix]

I'm enjoying the very wintry delights of Boston at the moment, complete with wind, snow, slush, and still a beautiful city of lights, music, and enjoyment. (Boston is my very favourite American city and I highly recommend it to anyone who loves history and loves to travel... be sure to check out the fantastic cemeteries...)

~25~
The Master’s Hands
(let it begin)

Curfew, and a night that fell hard and fast, shattering twilight. Splinters of street-light were all that remained in this city by the ocean. The breeze was aggressive while it whispered of September and the ending of all summer things; a seasonal transmutation of gold into brass.

A most malignant alchemy.

Curfew, and Tara emerged on the fire escape at the back of the poppy den, garbed in her Hunter clothing. She wore the cracker jack ring openly on the pinkie of her left hand. She had to move cautiously and slowly; more of that miraculous green salve had been applied and her wounds dressed with bandages. She was healing faster than mortals, but not faster than certain immortals.

Tara could feel the power of yesterday’s wish in her muscles, in her joints. She wondered if she were knocked unconscious whether her body would still move of its own accord, following the direction of her Master. Best to stay in control, however loosely.

She mounted her enchanted bike carefully amid paroxysms of pain, taking a few long shallow breaths before starting the engine and moving down the halfway lit streets. She had investigated the route to Willow’s house and now followed the mental map she had created in her mind. Residential streets gave way to the refining and industrial district, which gave way to the tracts and forests of Miller’s Woods.

Here she cut her headlights and navigated by instinct, memory and the light of a quicksilver moon. Her bike brought her to the gate and guardhouse on the edge of the estate. The bars of the gate were imposing, and she could see the nimbus of both electrical and magical energy glowing along the rods.

She left her bike hidden in a patch of foliage and returned to the gate, wearing a slight backpack and a frown. She put a hand to the patch of dressings over her stomach and side; her breath was turbulent again with exertion, but even as she doubted the completion of her mission, she felt the command burn within her neck.

Compelled, she stepped up to the gate. The guard in the watch house was alert, but he could not see her. There were security cameras pointed at the gate. They did not track her movement as she pulled the glove from her left hand and placed it near enough the gate to feel more of the energies writhing within.

This was a powerful spell. Expensive to purchase, to maintain. The spellcaster's signature was unknown to her.

She let her left hand touch the metal first, the hand with the cracker jack ring. She could sense the awareness of the lock, that she was an intruder, but then she activated the latent energy of the ring, convincing the lock that she was friendly, she would bring no harm.

The gate lock clicked open, and then it warned her of pressure points in the roadway leading up to the house where she would have to watch her step. Pressure activated rounds, necessary to avoid even in her Hunter clothing. Apparently there were lasers linked to the alarms.

Tara breathed her thanks and the gate, eager now under her hands, slid open without sound, just enough for her to slip through. She did so without looking at the guard, knowing that he could see the gates open even if he could not see her, trusting that he kept his eyes fixed on the threat of the empty road.

Tara peered into the cloying darkness ahead of her. By sheer dint of concentration she began to perceive the red-line lasers that criss-crossed at odd angles across the road, desperately random in their distribution. Instead of coaxing her injured body through various contortions yoga-like in their intensity, Tara moved to one of the tiny outlets that produced the laser and touched it with her finger.

Another murmured thought, another gesture of welcome, and the lasers halted in their destiny just long enough to let her pass. She slowly walked through them and they parted from her like the waters of the Red Sea.

The driveway was long, and afforded much time for introspection. Time and again, Tara willed her body to stop moving, to halt the advance that would lead to so much bloodshed. She carried the implements of doom in her pack: knife, pistol, dart and poison. The compulsion was strong, as strong as her boundary, and as she continually failed to intervene in her own bloody design, she began to imagine another outcome, where she tried to kill Willow but Willow killed her instead. It could be over, so fast, so soon.

Suddenly irritated by the sheer marathon-like effort to simply walk down Willow’s driveway, Tara wondered why on earth Willow had to live in such a house, on such an estate, with such protections and fortifications. What on earth did Willow do to earn her money and her livelihood? Could it be only the lucrative patents that Tara’s Master had mentioned?

No answers were forthcoming, to be caught and reeled in from the air like thought-fishes, so she continued on.

She rounded the last soft bend and between the trunks of the trees she could see the grandeur and opulence of the front entryway to Willow’s house. Soft lights bathed the exterior in a monied glow, casting gleaming ripples on the marble stairs that led up to the front doors, all oak and heavy and imposing. Tara wasted no precious time in gawking at the beautiful sight, though gawk she would if she were anything but a twice-caged genie on a murderous errand.

She climbed the steps very slowly, her body aching and burning with her every move. It was not wise to overexert herself so soon, but the compulsion had been crystal clear. It had to be this night, at a certain hour that was only a short time away. Tara opened her pack and considered one of the pills of morpha that Anya had provided to her, but then she decided against it, knowing she needed to keep her wits if she was going to have any chance in keeping Willow alive.

It took longer at the front door and more use of the cracker jack ring to convince the matter therein that she was an ally. Eventually it succumbed to her will and let her inside.

Gawk she must at this point, the entry rotunda of the house. The place was draped in shadow, save where light from outside eked its pale way through thin curtains. The immensity and beauty of the place seemed stolen from some fairy tale.

A twinge in her neck and elbow, and she closed her eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea and despair.

Then she kept her eyes closed and sent forth her intuition, waiting some moments before wearily opening them again. She crossed the hardwood floor of the foyer and began to climb the broad staircase before her, closing her mind to the curiosity that was awakened within, her own personal wish to look at the statues and gaze at the art and marvel at the works of the hands of man.

Her true purpose could not be diverted so easily. Not now, when Willow’s life and the lives of her household trembled in the balance.

At the crest of the staircase Tara turned right. Not far down the hallway she discovered a dressing room and then the master bedchamber. The door was already slightly open, so Tara slid inside.

The room was empty.

That did not matter. Tara was eternal. She could wait. All night, all day, and a million more if need be.

On the far wall near to a window was a luxurious looking divan. Quicksilver moonlight filtered through the fortified glass of the window. Tara arrayed herself on the divan, her pack close by her upswept ankles, and she waited, her mind tuned and focused.

(I see only the puppet of the snake)

Her mother’s words were poison to her now, finding chinks in her concentration, making her doubt. Words to magnify the pain already slashed across her physical wounds.

What would happen should she attempt to break the Master’s hold, if she should choose not to bow to his will? Would he merely take over her as he had already done, the day of the broken book, the cranberry drops and the sword?

Wouldn’t she rather kill Willow with some mercy, rather than leave the redhead to an uncertain duel of fate?

(reclaim the property of your body as your own)

Easier said than done. Indeed she had thought of nothing else for the last five hundred years. Her early attempts at escape and emancipation had been disastrous and near crippling. Her body already wept with agony, how much more could she endure?

Inwardly the argument raged, but outwardly she was stone, a medieval gargoyle perhaps. Her senses aware, acute.

(remember Samarkand)

That Tara certainly could not allow. To remember Samarkand she would have to open the black book of memory that Drusilla once touched, the black book of self-hatred and recrimination, the book of Lilith’s horrifying death. Why her mother would ask her to consciously open that book Tara could not understand.

Perhaps a leap of faith was required, if such a leap were possible in her body’s broken state.

She could not open it. She would not open it. Not now. Hopefully not ever.

She merely waited, and three hours later she heard a silken commotion in the hallway, the heavy tread of a man, the softer tread of a woman, their whispered quarrelling voices. Drawing ever deeper into the magic of her clothing, Tara shrunk against her seat and watched as a man came through the doorway.

The first thing she noticed was his face. How could she not? A deeply puckered shadow was upon one cheek, and then she remembered Eva mentioning him the first day Willow came to her. It could have spoiled his face, leaving it a mockery of its former beauty, but it did not. It was a beloved face, cherished for its scar and the stories engraved therein.

And as she watched him enter the room with a limp Willow in his arms, she instantly understood the commotion in his hands and heart, the depth of allegiances past and present that dictated his movements. His hands were a Steward’s hands, dedicated to service, to dirty work, the kind of work that his employer should never even know existed. His hands were the hands of a Spy, lifting veils of conspiracy, piercing through lies and evil intentions. His hands were a Surgeon’s hands, hands of comfort and hope and o’erwhelming competence, and she recognized them as the hands that had sewn up her insides when her insides were out.

Yet none of these were the hands that were bearing Willow into the room. These particular hands were ancient hands indeed, that had strummed a guitar in a barista shop, that had fenced for pure enjoyment, and that loved the texture of books. These were a father’s hands, and in a broken-hearted flash Tara understood that his love for Willow was deeper than the roots of this world, his concern for her as vast as spiralling galaxies, and his betrayal of her a wound in his heart that he would never allow to close.

For it was a Willow betrayed he carried in his arms, and Tara’s attention was now upon her, noticing that her hair was stringy and wet and she was clothed in some plain smock. With the clarity that comes only of intense scrutiny Tara noticed that Willow’s skin seemed different somehow, more deeply textured yet pliant.

Like a washerwoman’s hands.

Then Tara focused her attention on the woman who followed in his wake. She had dark brown hair and eyes, olive coloured skin and was radiating the evil mark of a witch’s brand through her breast. Tara recognized her at once as being the woman who arrived at the last minute in Tara’s house, who tried to stop the dragon holocaust.

(the cauldron and the crown)

The brine of hatred and bitterness was suddenly upon Tara’s tongue as she remembered her first capture, four thousand years ago. The Queen of the Kalderash had taken Tara for her own, inked her envy into Tara’s skin and yoked them together.

If her Master hadn’t collared her five hundred years ago, Tara would have remained a slave to this woman’s clan. Kept as some magical pet with no more dignity than any favoured hound.

There was something amiss, though, some part of the woman’s existence that didn’t make sense. For some reason there was a story printed on the witch’s skin, held there by an oath of protection.

(her name is Jenny

she is no longer new to this house

and she and the man are in love

wait

Jenny

Jann--)

Jenny had pulled down the thin coverlet, and the man was arraying Willow’s body within it, when Tara’s thought came lightly upon the witch’s name.

It was as if a short burst of static somehow erupted between them, the djinn and the mortals. Tara sat back against the wall again, her thought about the woman’s name, which had seemed so important, now gone completely. It didn’t even worry her.

There was no pause to their activity. The man placed Willow’s arms atop the coverlet and then he smoothed some errant strands of hair away from Willow’s face.

Like a father would for any child, no matter how reckless, how mistaken.

“Let her wake on her own,” he said, resuming the muted argument. “She’s done it before.”

“Are you sure you’re not being selfish, Rupert? Maybe you just don’t want to be here when she wakes up. That’s copping out, you know.”

“Yes, to be brutally honest. I would rather she wake on her own and gain some control of her temper before she seeks us out. I am not a masochist, and do not like putting myself in the path of a raging hurricane if it can be avoided.”

“The hurricane is still going to come. All the running or waiting in the world won’t change that. Let’s show her the respect she deserves by choosing to be here when she wakes and thus prove our loyalty. She might even give us a moment to explain.”

Tara listened to the woman’s insistence with a professional ear and wondered what Rupert would say next.

He stalled a moment, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with a clean pocket handkerchief before putting them back on and peering at her. “Truce. She won’t wake up on her own until dawn. Give me that time to make a decision.”

“Did Xander have anything to say about it when you briefed him earlier?”

“He said it was our call. We’ll certainly have to use the information you took from Drusilla.”

A wave of gooseflesh swept Tara’s body. Drusilla had finished the incantation for a prophecy of entrails, and now her knowledge was theirs. Her secrets revealed.

(do they know of Wilkins?

do they know my desires?)

The woman shivered for a moment before she curtly nodded. She left the bedchamber first and the man was on her heels when he suddenly stopped just inside the doorframe.

He turned his body to face the bedchamber and looked right at where Tara was sitting.

“What is it?” Jenny asked.

“Something feels wrong,” he said quietly, fully stepping back into the room.

(oh god

he is a shaman!)

Tara placed the flat of her hand on the wall and quickly sent her thoughts into the house, into the floor, across the whorls of carpet, asking for their help in hiding her.

There was some resistance yet. This was an abnormally loyal house. Maybe even blessed.

(why on earth does Willow employ a shaman?

or does Willow not even know? what is this betrayal they speak of?)

Tara was stronger than blessings. She cracked through the veneer of loyalty and felt the house accept her touch, enveloping her as if part of its own skin and bones.

A most perfect adoption.

Rupert stopped and rubbed his eyes.

Jenny strode up behind him, her face all gentle now, all sense of recrimination gone so only love remained. She gently tugged on his arm and said, “It’s so late, Rupert, and you are tired. Come, let’s get some rest.”

And just as if he were exactly like the house, he resisted for a moment before caving to her will. They turned together, linked arm in arm now, and she had her hand on his wrist. It was a motion so automatic yet so tender that Tara felt a dizzying squeeze through her heart.

They left Willow in her bedchamber once more, this time closing the door behind them and turning off all the lights.

The walls seemed to breathe in quiet relief at the cease of mental hostilities. Tara was left alone with Willow, the cascading silver-light of the moon illuminating the figure in the bed, the pale face shining with otherworldly light, her hair damp and dark, the subtle rise and fall of her breath. Tara slowly rose, her hand upon her sundered belly, her breath vicious and quick.

Then she shuffled across the floor to the door.

The lock and frame were easier to convince now. With a murmur and a prayer, Tara encouraged the doorframe and the lock to bind together tight and fast, to protect their mistress, to protect this house and all the souls therein.

She could sense the newfound determination of these molecules, their joy in accepting this challenge, as she put her hand to the bedchamber door and pulled with all her strength.

It did not budge.

A small smile gracing her face, Tara placed her cheek and the tips of her fingers against the cool paint of the wall and sang to the wood within, a song of transmutation and alchemy, a song of glory and steel. She sang of impenetrability and vigour beyond anything the wall could have dreamed of when it was just a sapling in some far-off forest, dreaming of its own eventual destiny. It must have dreamed of abilities far and beyond those of its root-siblings, of a purpose and fate coming together here and now at the song of the djinn.

The song of the pure mother.

With her eyes open, Tara could see a swirl of gold within the atoms of the wall and the atoms of the door and frame.

If only mankind were so easy to convince of their own grand design, of their own awe-inspiring destiny.

She padded softly away from the now steel-reinforced and securely fastened door and went on halting feet near Willow’s bedside, keeping some distance for fear of suddenly activating whatever kill switch Wilkins had placed inside her. She turned on the bedside lamp and looked upon the woman who had discovered her, had fought her, nearly killed her and deactivated her, setting in course this undreamed-of series of events.

She remembered the sharp crack of Willow’s nose, the bright crimson streams of blood.

There was no mark of it upon her smooth face. Her freckles were immensely endearing.

The deep cut Tara dealt to her arm was also gone, as if it had never been dealt. Tara wanted to peel back the coverlet and inspect the rest of the wounds, but she dared not get too close. It appeared that the physical evidence of Tara’s betrayal was gone.

There were very few magical wonders in the world that could produce such healing so quickly. Anya possessed one of them, but she was the only one of her kind in the entire world. It could not have been her.

Then Tara caught a faint whiff of scent that reminded her of the green salve that had been left for her.

Technology perhaps, which only appears as magic to those who don’t understand it.

Tara was grateful that she had not killed Willow, even though that initial failure had led her to this moment now, where Willow’s life was wholly in Tara’s control.

She had an experiment to conduct, an opportunity, perhaps, to bend the command of her Master. She would flirt with the crumbling edge of disaster and see if there was any way to reclaim her body as her own.

The attempt would have to be made.

The consequences accepted.

Let it begin.

Tara wasted no time setting her experiment in order. The light of the quicksilver moon would not provide enough illumination for this charade, so she kept Willow’s bedside lamp on, trusting in the steel-reinforced door. She had a sudden thought for the window, touched it and discovered it was already impact-proof glass, yet she spared a moment for another song of strength, of titanium and adamant.

She left the window and walked over to a chair that was placed in front of a small dressing table. This furniture looked more ornamental than utilitarian, and this entire room held barely a hint of Willow in it at all, for all it was her sleeping chamber. There was no life or love here, just expensive décor and eager walls. She picked up the chair and put it at the foot of Willow’s bed, where she could sit and execute her plan.

Step one involved pain and apprehension as she carefully tugged Willow into a sitting position, propping her up with pillows, pain in her gut from the movement and a clenched jaw from ensuring she did not suddenly place her hands about Willow’s throat.

Step two included going back to her pack, her blood and breath as quicksilver as the moon. She placed her pack on the chair that faced the slumping Willow and opened it. Near the top of her supplies was a pistol, wrapped in frayed felt. She pulled it from its cloth covering and placed it on the bed. The next was the dagger she had taken from her small arms chest back at the den. It was over two hundred years old, was made of mithral and had perfect balance and precision.

She drew it from its sheath, and the edge severed and fractured the moonlight. She placed it next to the pistol on the bed.

A flask of water, which she sipped from, and two ordinary pills to combat the pain.

The last item she kept in the bottom of her pack. Her possession of it had been one of her most closely guarded secrets for the last five hundred years. It had been hidden under the subfloor of the poppy den in a stone box, entombed with the clay of earth.

That man Rupert had said that Willow would wake at dawn, perhaps part of whatever ritual had enabled such rapid healing.

Tara had a different time schedule in mind.

Step three. She turned to shield her body from the unconscious woman in the bed and drew off her Hunter clothes. Willow had to be able to see her for her experiment to work. She pulled on soft trousers with a drawstring waist, gentle against the gauze taped over her belly, and an equally soft peasant-style shirt. She clipped much of her blonde hair away from her face, tucking some of the strands behind her ears.

Now dressed and ready, Tara looked at the woman in the bed. Under the influence of the cheery electric light, Willow looked nothing like the grim angel of death she had been in the den two nights ago. This Willow held more of the adolescent girl at the fair, and Tara nearly touched her translucent face with her cracker-jack ring bearing hand.

Not yet.

Her hand tamed, her eyes kept roving, drawn down the curving slide of Willow’s shoulders, over the firm muscles of her biceps, inside the crook of her elbows and finally to Willow’s wrists. All her skin seemed new, unblemished, and Tara stood to wonder if this was even her Willow at all, or was this some copy, a robot, a golem, a Cylon even, somehow capable of advanced healing and regeneration.

In the end it didn’t matter. Willow’s spirit burned behind the tabernacle of flesh, and it was that spirit that called to Tara now. The spirit that hovered just beyond the thin skin of her wrists, the passion that slumbered in the cage of her ribs, the rapture that flung open the wings of destiny.

A million possible worlds danced on this single needle-point of time, all to the tune of her Master through the collar; slave worlds forced to dance to his cruel music, dance forever to keep fit and trim and ready for work.

Pressure in her neck, and Tara took one of Willow’s hands and then she closed her eyes. Darkness boiled behind her eyelids and she was immediately aware of Willow’s spirit, passion and rapture, just beneath the flesh and skin.

(time to wake up, Willow)

Tara called to the fire within her and sent channels of it smoking through their joined hands, not enough to injure. No, just enough to cause discomfort, to bring Willow back from blissful sleeping shores, to ground her firmly in the here and now where no dreams were allowed.

After the wave of heat Tara sent a sensation of prickling nettles, little itching barbs to burrow into the surface of Willow’s skin.

She opened her eyes when she heard Willow’s breath change. She let go of her hand and hobbled back to the chair she had placed at the foot of the bed. She carefully sat in it, wheezing slightly, and picked up the pistol. She put her right leg on the bed and crooked her knee; a resting place for her arm. She peered down the sight of the gun and adjusted her arm and knee until Willow’s forehead was in the crosshairs.

Now she was ready. She could hold this position forever.

~~

To be continued with Chapter 26: Law of Attraction (this is madness!)

Jen
aka Tara the Phoenix

[leos_pride]

Dibs!

[zampsa19752001]

Yay for excellent update-y goodness... Can't wait for Willow to wake up...

[Wills redemption]

Oh my god, the suspense is killing me! What on earth Tara is planning here, how will she attempt to break her masters command? Can it be tricked by some "ritual killing" like Wilow did to Tara? If so, how do you "ritually kill" with a pistol? Poor Willow, waking up betrayed and facing Tara aiming a pistol at her! At least she doesn't have to worry about physical pain like Tara. If Tara really manages to break or trick the command maybe Tara can spend some time in the tank so they can finally have some smoochies afterwards? Because I really hope you will somehow go there again like you did in the first version. Actually I feel you owe it to us, after all you promised us the missing "dreamberry" chapter and to go there you'll have to give us some smooching before!
Okay, this probably sounded too demanding...so let me say PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE give those two some nice, light moments with hand holding and kissing (maybe even some wrist kissing or licking to make Tara's day).

[Tara the Phoenix]

~26~
Law of Attraction
(this is madness)

Awareness and perception began with a sensation of heat, crouched along the borders of the inner blackness like wildfires creeping ever closer to a beleaguered city. As soon as Willow became aware of the heat, she was aware that she was aware, and that was that. Training took over.

Touch. Satin sheets, a smock, her skin feeling both moist and dry, like elephant skin under water.

Sound. The ticking of a clock on her bedroom wall, a hint of wind against the window. She was in her room, then, and it was quiet enough to be night.

What then of the unfamiliar scent in the room, and the lamp that shone on her eyelids?

She had been taught to enter wakefulness slowly, stealthily, to gain as much information as possible without relying on eyesight. So Willow opened them, slowly, imperceptibly, through the feathering of her eyelashes, and what she thought she saw was so strange that her eyes flew open, betraying her.

There was the peculiar and starstruck madness of a pistol pointed right in her face. Her eyes found the barrel and then focused on the face beyond.

It was Tara.

Tara was pointing a pistol at her.

It was no incarnation of Tara that Willow had yet encountered, and in her short experience she had encountered many: the enigma, the seductress, the waif, the mongrel and the titan. While the sword-bearing titan of Tara had been all movement and bloodshed, this Tara held just as much gravity in her rigid posture, in the hand that yet needed to balance the gun on her knee.

Willow saw everything in those heartbeat moments, the familiar walls of her bedchamber, her furnishings and trappings and foolish excesses. She saw everything at once just as she had been taught; gauging the pressure that Tara was placing on the trigger, witnessing the long band of sinew along Tara’s throat that would warn of decision, evaluating the firm and cold gaze of the Apothecary.

Willow found she could not gauge the depth of Tara’s murderous intent, but the simple fact that she continued to draw breath led her to believe that some wordplay would commence before the slaughter.

So Willow allowed herself some long and deep breaths, trying to form iron in her flaccid muscles. She hated how it felt coming out of the tank

(Giles betrayed me)

with her skin all poached and her muscles like loose flax, the only thing holding her together was skin and skeleton.

Yet she had a blessing in her heart for the tank and the nanotechnology within, for as the moments passed it was obvious that she alone witnessed the miracle, for she could see the graze across Tara’s throat, she could behold the short hitches of painful breath, the stiffness of holding her body in careful array, avoiding spots of terror like her skewered side and her ripped leg.

Willow had a perverse desire to know what day it was, but she dare not look away from this black hole of a woman who held her in the cross-hairs of a pistol, not even to glance at her watch with its alarms and time zones and indiglo light. She only knew it was very late, or very early.

There was no space to evaluate how Tara had come to be here, if Tara had entered her house by stealth or by force.

No words spoken yet. The silence belonged to Tara alone, smothering this room by her power.

Willow licked her lips, kept her hands motionless on the coverlet. When she deemed herself ready to speak, words flew into the open cavern of her mouth as if preordained. “Have you come to kill me?”

Only her adversary’s mouth moved as Tara replied, “Do you deserve to be killed?”

It was as if their encounter above the poppy den had been mere moments ago, these words caught and reflected in a great and terrible looking glass. Willow chewed the rank memory of the encounter with her brass teeth.

The graze over Tara’s throat.

Buffy’s body in the morgue.

Xander’s eye. Giles’ cheek. Jenny’s back.

(oh god!)

“Yes,” Willow replied.

Something flickered in Tara’s eyes, and her jaw tightened. The point of the barrel moved slightly, and Tara brought it back in to bear with a jerky motion. A sudden gleam, and Willow saw a cracker jack ring on the pinkie finger of Tara’s left hand.

Breath flew from Willow’s lungs as the alignment of her world tilted. She had not seen her ring since she tossed it against the wall however long ago, yet there was no doubt that this was her ring, the ring Buffy gave her, upon Tara’s hand. A rift opened between her lungs and heart.

(how is this possible?)

“Would you have me be your executioner?” Tara asked.

“I would have none other.”

Death and silence crowded every available inch of this room. Willow looked into the dark and unflinching eyes of the Apothecary

(the beloved eyes, beheld in a dream, and my sword through her side, her hand on my face

her words struck in my heart)

and remembered the weight of Tara’s body on her crushed chest as they sped away from the den, the shiny stink of blood and battle in the enchanted sedan.

Arrogant Willow, whose choices continued to devastate those she loved most.

(desired most)

“And do you have nothing to say in your defence?” Tara was asking.

Tears finally sparked behind Willow’s eyes, but she forced them away by willpower alone.

(they have my oath

but the choices have always been mine)

“No,” Willow whispered.

Another chasm between them; Willow played back the memory as it had been cast, and hoped that Tara would continue to follow the script, would respond as Willow had done.

(by all the gods, Willow

what has this world done to you?)

Willow waited, her heart burning in anticipation of Tara’s surrender, the pistol to be pulled from her face, and by so doing forgive Willow for her arrogance, her flawed designs that had led to so much blood in Narnia.

Willow waited for Tara to speak, for words that would become an absolution, words to caress and shape a future that was built solely on the bones of the past. Known quantities, predictable, comfortable.

Willow waited, and for every moment that passed with the pistol still pointed at her head Willow realized that Tara was forging a new path, and it was by Tara’s whim alone that Willow would live or die.

A mongrel dog taking vengeance on all those who had caused injury.

“Give me one reason why you deserve to die, Willow Rosenberg.”

Willow licked her lips again, thirst assailing her, and dared to shift her position to sit up further against the headboard of her bed. The pistol tracked the movement, coming to rest once again between Willow’s eyes.

Sudden anger.

(this is madness)

“Is this charade really necessary?” Willow asked, clipping her words short in her contained fury. “I don’t really appreciate a pistol to my face.”

“And I don’t appreciate a knife across my belly,” Tara hissed, finally putting the gun aside so she could pull up her peasant blouse. Willow saw an expanse of gauze that she did not equate with any injury dealt in the den.

And remembered the fetish in Giles’ hand.

Cold anger finally supplied the iron to her bones. What other consequences would Willow bear for Giles’ betrayal?

“She smelled of rosewater,” Tara said slowly. “She barged into the house of my spirit, rummaged through my memories and then called a prophecy of entrails. How did you care for my body, Willow, once you defeated me? How did you ward me?”

An earlier Willow would have been in tears, but this was not that Willow. “Show me,” Willow said.

Tara glared at her, and then carefully plucked away the tape that held the bandage to her belly. She exposed a long cut with what were unmistakably Giles’ stiches, and Willow’s all-seeing eyes beheld the green hue of the salve upon the bandage along with the swollen length of wound. Nano-salve, which would grant accelerated healing, but it was not as powerful as the tank.

As Tara gingerly pressed the bandage back over her skin, her cheeks suddenly pale, her breath suddenly taut, Willow felt a pressure of anguish build in her throat. The tears returned to hover behind her eyes.

“I brought you to this house,” Willow said quietly. “You were unconscious. Giles, that’s my Steward, he operated on you first, and then he tended to me. I made him promise not to put me in the tank,” and at the question in Tara’s eyes, she elaborated, “it’s nanotechnology, to speed healing of the entire body. Very little like it in the world. He promised not to, but then he, he,” and the words caught in her throat as she thought of her dear Steward, the man she regarded as a father, the sole foundation of truth and goodness left in her pitiful life, and he betrayed her, he broke his promise to her, and by what word did he do all these things?

(I have my orders, Willow)

What orders had he, save his oath of service in this household? Why did he hide his talents from her? She had not known he was a shaman until he took that fetish in his hand and called the sparrow falling invocation. How much did she actually know about the man to whom she entrusted every possession of body and heart?

Tara seemed to be watching the gyrations of her face with a keen, near sympathetic eye.

For her part, Willow swallowed back the heavy lump of Giles and his distrust of her, and said, “He had summoned some woman I didn’t know, some witch. Once he cast me into an enchanted sleep, I knew nothing else until waking just now.”

Tara appeared to take in these words with scarcely a ripple on her composed face. She sat uneasily, her hands on her thighs as if helping to prop up her injured body. No technological healing for her, if it would even work on a non-human body.

“What happened to you, Tara?” Willow asked, as softly as she dared. She did not want the titan to regain the pistol.

“Her name is Drusilla,” Tara began. “She was looking for something in my mind and memories, I’m not sure exactly what. Then she called a prophecy of entrails on me. I couldn’t break the connection, so I have to assume she found what she was looking for. The pain grew too much to bear so I retreated deep inside myself, as deep as I could go. Not deep enough to resist waking yesterday, the day after our fight. I assume that your staff had taken me back to my house; they had repaired the den entirely as if nothing had ever happened, and I woke bleeding and screaming.”

Willow could only look upon Tara, her heart cleaving with every word.

Tara took several breaths, and then continued in a soft and ironic tone. “Have you any idea what you’ve started, Willow?” Before Willow could attempt to answer, Tara said, “I am here to kill you. My Master does not suffer discovery of any kind. And after I kill you, I will kill the rest of your household, including Rupert Giles, including the woman he loves, and anyone else you harbour here. Dawn is coming, but by then you will be dead. That is the consequence of your knowledge. That is what you started when you came back to the den.”

Willow was not even surprised, though she continued to gauge the distance between Tara’s hand and the discarded pistol, and the other knife that lay on her coverlet.

“You do not hold the pistol now,” Willow ventured after some moments. “Perhaps your wish and that of your Master are in some opposition?”

A wan smile, quickly erased. “I do not appreciate being his mule, but his wishes are absolute.”

“We’re still talking. Not shooting.”

“Do you think I want to shoot you?”

“I honestly don’t know, Tara. You come bearing a gun and injuries and a horrific tale. Why else would you be here other than to fulfill your Master’s will? Why are you here?”

“I don’t want to kill you, Willow, I have not wanted any death, especially not yours!”

“Do you want an apology then, for me to say I’m sorry? Because I am, believe it or not. I wish that Giles and Jenny could have trusted me like they used to. I wish that they hadn’t betrayed me, hadn’t cast you aside without help.”

“Then why did you come back, Willow?” Tara blurted out, and there was a clear note of agony in her voice. “Why did you come back to the den? Why couldn’t you just let me be? I was just learning to live again without the thought of you, why did you come back?”

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you!” Willow said as she scrambled out of her bed. Tara rose and stumbled by her chair, and her hands did not go to the pistol, they merely gripped the back of the chair as if to try and shield herself from Willow’s hot and furious eyes.

Willow kept stalking her as she continued, “I can’t stop thinking about the kiss we shared, even though I know it’s false, I know you kiss everyone the same way, but it meant something to me, Tara, it meant something then and it still means something now and don’t you dare pick up that pistol because I’m not going to hurt you and you are not going to shoot me.”

Tara’s hand had been reaching for the gun until Willow’s words struck her with actual force; she leaned back and put her hands upon the chair again to steady herself. There was an incredulous look on her face. “You think…” and then she stopped and swallowed hard, shaking her head slightly. “Willow, I’ve never kissed a client on the mouth before. You were the first. The only.”

In the quiet that followed this titanic statement Willow was aware of her heart beating, the trembling of her muscles, her ragged breath. She was aware that she was alone with the djinn in her room, within her house, on this luxurious estate she never deserved. Nothing yet everything had changed with the vibration of those words, words she replayed in her mind

(you were the first

the only)

and the vibration was the rumbling in the depths of her soul, like it was the core of the earth, the movement of a single atom magnified and accelerated until it exploded out of the mantle of her skin with the power of earthquakes and tsunamis, rearranging the entire face of the world.

All of Willow’s training, all her lessons, everything pummelled and etched and drawn into her skin like acid left her at that point. There were only three steps between her and the Apothecary, and she crossed them hard and fast.

This was nothing like their first kiss. No soft exploration, no tentative caress. This was hot and rough and messy. Willow heard Tara’s tiny yelp of surprise when Willow yanked her into her arms; Tara retaliated by nipping at Willow’s lower lip with her teeth. They kissed each other, again and again; the pressure of lips was bruising, intense, with gasps for air between tongues that lurched and quaked against each other. The djinn’s neck was in her hands, her skin argent; Willow twisted that neck so she could suck and bite along Tara’s jawline, down the canal of her artery. A gasp escaped her own lips as Tara’s nails raked down her back, lifting the hem of Willow’s tunic to place heated fingers on her skin.

Caught by surprise, Willow felt Tara pivot, and then Willow was slammed against the wall. Some insanely priced piece of art fell from the wall with the splintering crack of broken glass. Slightly winded by the impact, she opened her mouth to gasp for air, feeling Tara’s lips on her mouth, then her neck, nipping her way down to Willow’s collarbone where she sucked and laved and worshipped Willow’s skin. Willow thrust her hands into the gold expanse of Tara’s hair and pulled her back up; as Tara rose, she parted Willow’s legs with her own and ground their hips together.

“Oh, God!” Willow breathed, and saw the Apothecary grimace with pain before capturing her mouth for another kiss. Their lips ground together, tongues furious, and in the middle of this cataclysm Willow felt Tara grind their hips together once more. Willow ached for it, wanted it, needed it so bad she lifted her leg to feel more of that hard contact, wrapping her knee around Tara’s leg, bearing down just slightly, just enough for more friction, more hardness, more heat.

With her hands she held Tara’s face, their lips slightly parted now with exertion, and with the next upward grind Willow tilted her head back, breath escaping her lips, her eyes closed, her body more alive than it had ever been, this was the only connection that mattered, and with that thought she brought her head back down to capture Tara’s gaze.

And saw beyond the aroused blue eyes, beyond this physical dimension, drawn straight into the universe that lay filtered between this one, and there she saw the first spark of recognition.

(Samarkand)

And Tara halted her frantic gyrations, her eyes widening now with surprise and wonder; she put a hand upon Willow’s cheek and it was hot.

The chasm, though only inches, was too much to bear, and Willow drew Tara’s lips to her own once more, and as she kissed the soft and pliable lips she forgot whatever it was she thought she remembered.

Tara finally broke the kiss to breathe; yet she held Willow close, slowly drawing her leg back down to the floor.

Exultation was wild in Willow’s breast. She closed her eyes and put her arms about Tara, her lips to Tara’s ear. Words came unbidden into her mouth, and she opened her lips to speak them.

There came a pounding on the bedroom door, followed by Giles’ frantic voice, “Willow? Are you all right in there? Willow, answer me!” A rattling of the door-handle ensued.

Tara drew back her face, her cheeks high and bright with emotion, and then it filled with a measure of resignation. She abruptly let Willow go and took several staggered paces back, her hand to her belly and pain on her face.

“That man has no sense of timing,” Tara muttered. She looked up into Willow’s anxious face and said, “I did break into your house, Willow. You better say something before he hurts himself.” Then the Apothecary wilted onto Willow’s bed, placing her entire arm over her belly and leaning over it.

Willow took two quick steps and picked up Tara’s pistol, hating that her training took over in such a fashion. Tara only blinked her eyes. Willow glared at her and then glared at the door rattling in its frame from the force of Giles’ concern. She stormed to the door, calling, “Giles, I’m all right. Everything is fine. Calm down.”

The infernal banging stopped, but Willow knew that Giles was anything but calm. “Willow, get out of there. Get to a safe place. You’re in danger.”

Willow glanced back at Tara, who was still holding herself together with her arm. The knife was by Tara’s hand. “Am I in danger?” Willow asked.

“You’ll have to decide that for yourself,” Tara replied. “Take the knife, too, if it will help you feel better.”

Willow didn’t want to take the knife, but neither would she turn her back on a potentially armed enemy, so she did take it as well, inwardly marvelling at the beautiful workmanship of the sheath. Shaking her head, she took the door-handle, but it wouldn’t even budge.

She heard a sigh, and then the Apothecary slowly got up and walked with a halting step to the wall near the door. She put her long fingers on the wall and closed her eyes.

The door flew open quite suddenly and Willow took a hard step back, barely keeping control of the knife and pistol. Giles and one of the night security staff stormed into her bedchamber, taking in the fallen artwork, the rumpled bedsheets, and the djinn by the wall that Willow was now shielding with her body.

Willow wondered if Tara had left marks on her skin, and blushed slightly at the thought.

The guard lifted his weapon, pointing his gun at the Apothecary.

“Move away, Willow,” Giles said.

“Not going to happen, Giles. Stand down, both of you.”

Giles opened his mouth but did not get the opportunity to speak. It was Tara who spoke next, after snatching the gun from Willow’s grip and pointing it at the redhead’s shocked face.

“Rupert Giles,” Tara said, her voice dry and cold as arctic ice. “Stand down, or all your nightmares start coming true. Starting with her. You know what I am.”

There was never a sound so short and cold as the safety on a pistol being disengaged, which Willow heard right next to her roaring ears.

~

To be continued...

Jen
aka Tara the Phoenix

[zampsa19752001]

Yay for excellent update-y goodness... Damn Giles for ruining time...

[Willow_Friendly]

Noooooo Tara don't point the gun at Willow you should be pointing it at Giles he's the one that hurt you and betrayed Willow.

Can't wait for the next Update!!

[Missocki]

Just caught up. Eh Gads man!
I am freaking out a bit. I hope Tara is able to resist the President desire and save herself and Willow. Maybe even finally break her bonds.
And I'm so happy Willow finally knows the truth of the kiss, and that there was another, damn!
More please?

[Wills redemption]

Yay for the kissing, although it wasn't the smooching I was hoping for, but raw, carnal and felt even desperate somehow. It seemed as if both wanted to make the most of these seconds because they were somehow aware that Tara might still kill Willow before dawn... I'm glad that Tara told Willow that she never kissed any client like her. "Samarkand", I hope Tara realized how she can override her masters command here... but how on earth could Willow know that Tara was thinking about Samarkand? Giles ruining the moment and turning Tara into the gun pointing menace again, grrrr! I guess Willow's muscles are still weak from the tank, or otherwise Tara couldn't have just taken the gun from her grip, could she (quite embarassing for Willow)?

I really expected another update...I hope you are allright, no sickness or even writers' block? If you are sick, get well soon!

[youremyalways]

I started reading this story a month or so ago and found it a bit hard to follow cause I didn't give it the attention it deserved and knowing that I put reading this on hold to finish other stories and come back and give this story my full attention. Once I did I was hooked! Its such an interesting piece of work. Very different.

I can't wait to see how it plays out. Will Willow be Tara's warrior hero that saves her from her slavery? Is Tara the damsel that Willow will risk it all to save? So many unanswered questions. I hope for an update soon! The waiting is torture.


-Leah

[Wills redemption]

Oh no, you still haven't updated, now I'm seriously worried...maybe you can give us just a little message that you're okay, just on vacation or something...

[Grimm]

This. IS. FRICKING. AWESOME!!!!!!

You take me to the edge of my seat. Then, you distract me with a little kissing. Now, you have me dangling off the edge, short of breath now that Tara has taken the gun and aimed it right in Willow's face.......and no updates in a month ?!?!

Why ?

I loved the first version of this story. But, you have REALLY stepped your game up here with this incarnation.

Puhleeeeeeeeeeze, update again soon .

[Wills redemption]

Oh god, I return to the board after weeks and there is still no update or even sign of life from you!!!! I really hope you haven't gone upstairs to Eve and we'll never hear from you again! Come on, at least tell us you're okay, please!

[Paint the Sky]

Need an update, please

I'll leave feedback if you update, honest!