Unsaid Warning

by E.A. Week

Is part of Glory still in Tara's mind, or is it something far more sinister?

Title: Unsaid Warning

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: eaweek at gmail dot com

Summary: It's the summer after "The Gift," and Willow is still reeling from the shock of Buffy's death. Tara has a frightening encounter while out in the woods, and begins to exhibit bizarre personality changes. Is part of Glory still inside her mind, or is it something far more sinister?

Category: Willow-Tara, angst.

Warning: EXTREME! This is a very dark, tragic story, in which several characters die.

Distribution: Feel free to link to this story, but please drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Reviews are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Post a review, shoot me an email or a PM, and let me know why!

Disclaimer: All the BtVS characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and 20th Century Fox. I'm just borrowing them, honest! : )

Disclaimer 2: This story is rated R for strong language and adult sexual content. If you are under 18 and reading this, shame on you!

Possible spoilers: This story takes place during the summer after "The Gift" (end of season five), and is therefore now non-canonical.

Prologue

The site was extraordinarily attractive. She wondered why she had never thought to come up this way before. True, she'd never had a reason before now, but this summer, biking around seemed like the only thing she really could do, the only thing that would take her mind off—well, everything.

An uneven circle of pine trees ringed the clearing, the fallen needles slippery underfoot, their warm, sweet fragrance released by the sun's rays shining down on them. She would have expected litter: bottles, cigarette butts, food wrappings, perhaps the remnants of an illicit fire. The clearing didn't lay all that far from the main trail, but evidently, none of the hikers or bikers or courting couples who frequented the scrubby foothills had found it.

She sat cross-legged in the center of the clearing, and went through a brief breathing exercise. The tranquility of the place seemed to flow right into her. Perhaps she and Willow could perform one of their rituals here. The site was lovely, and Willow might find some peace of mind, however transient.

At last, Tara got up, and retrieved her bike. Many of her days had been filled with just aimlessly riding around Sunnydale. So often this summer, Willow had wanted—needed—to be by herself. Tara really didn't blame her; she just waited for time to do its healing work. But it did leave her with a lot of time on her hands.

Pleased at having found this pretty, secluded place, Tara pointed her bicycle in the direction of town.

(ii)

Willow had been putting off the trip home for weeks, but at last she made the journey back to the room on the second floor of her parents' house.

How small the place seemed now, after two years away at college… if going to the local branch of the state university system, right across town from where she'd grown up, could really be considered "away." She opened the blinds to let in some daylight.

Beneath her bed, she had stashed a plastic storage box, filled with mementos from high school. Carefully, Willow drew this out, and placed it on top of her quilt. She'd last looked at the box's contents a year earlier. Bracing herself for the inevitable rush of pain and memories, she pried off the snap-on lid.

She had kept some of her papers and exams, awards she'd won, and the half-burned diploma that Giles had salvaged from the wreck of the high school. There was a framed five-by-seven photo of her and Oz at the prom, and the witch Pez dispenser he'd given her. And her yearbook.

Willow opened the cover, and looked at the message Buffy had written. She only made it past one sentence before the tears started. Angrily, Willow tossed the book down. Why had she done that? Why had she risked such certain pain? Wiping her face, she placed a few new items into the box of memories: photos of her and Buffy together, a scarf Buffy had loaned her (I always meant to give it back to her… now, I never will), and a card from Willow's last birthday ("To my wonderful, witchy Willow—happy 20th birthday. Love, Buffy").

Still sniffing, she picked up the prom photo. Odd, how the things that had given her such pain a year ago could be a source of comfort now: at least she could take solace in the knowledge that Oz was still alive. But was he? Willow felt a pang when she realized that he could be anywhere: cold, hungry, miserable… was he okay? she fretted. Was he even alive, or had he met some ghastly accident on the road? God, he could be dead, and I wouldn't even know about it.

She flung the picture aside, and curled up on her bed, crying for everything she'd lost: Oz, Joyce, Buffy, her childhood and innocence. I even miss the stupid high school, she thought wretchedly.

So engrossed was she in her own misery that she failed to hear the quiet footsteps in the carpeted hallway.

"Willow… are you okay?"

She looked up. "Tara?"

Awkwardly, Tara came into the room. She knew where the Rosenberg house was, although she hadn't been there yet; Willow wondered why Tara had come looking for her now. "I knocked but… nobody heard me. Are you okay, honey?" She sat on the bed, putting a hand on Willow's shoulders. Then she saw the contents of the box. And the photo.

The look on her face said everything. She stared at Willow with big, wounded eyes.

"No! Tara—no!" Willow grabbed her girlfriend's hand. "I was putting some stuff away—some Buffy stuff—and I just… got wrapped up… you know, all those memories…"

"You're n-n-not—"

"No, I'm not pining away for Oz, or wishing he'd come back." Willow pushed the plastic box onto the floor, where it landed with a heavy thud, and drew Tara into her arms. "You're the only one in my life right now... I need you so much—more than anything!"

Tara's expression dissolved into one of gratitude. They started kissing—gently and tentatively at first, but with a growing passion created by their need for mutual solace. They undressed, discarding clothes on the floor, caressing each other, and murmuring words of love. Willow couldn't hear a thing over the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her veins—certainly, she didn't hear the footsteps in the hallway. She only came back to awareness with a painful jolt at the sound of a loud gasp, and her mother's voice saying, "Willow Rosenberg!"

Chapter 1

"So… you're gay now?"

If anyone else had asked that question, Willow would have said yes immediately—and defiantly. But under her mother's scrutiny, she waffled.

"I'm… uh…"

They stood awkwardly in the kitchen. After getting dressed, Willow had seen her mortified lover out the back door. Now she kept shifting from foot to foot, while Sheila rummaged through the contents of her briefcase.

"Or is this some kind of reaction to your friend getting killed?" Sheila's expression, though kind, betrayed an essential lack of comprehension.

"No… this has been going on a while… like a year."

"What about that boy you were seeing? What happened to him?"

"We split up a long time ago, Mom. He's left town."

"Oh." Sheila pretended to sort through some mail. "So, you split up with him when you came out?"

"No… it was kinda… the other way around."

"You split with your boyfriend, and started seeing another woman on the rebound?" Sheila glanced up sharply at her daughter. "Honey, I don't think that's very wise."

"It's not a rebound affair!" Willow said angrily. "I love her, Mom!"

Sheila would not be so easily swayed. "How much time did you give yourself between splitting with your boyfriend and taking up with this girl?"

"It was like… a few months."

"A few?"

"I split with Oz the November we started college," Willow finally admitted. "I met Tara in December… we started hanging out in January… it sorta grew from that."

"Willow, that's less than two months! Did you give yourself enough time to really, properly come to terms with your breakup?" Willow could see her mother shifting into Psychologist Mode.

"More than enough time," she responded heavily. "Mom, it was really tough, and I just… I needed someone…" She faltered. Willow had found it difficult enough to explain the situation with Tara to her closest friends; her mother would never understand, never get it. She always wanted to put everything in tidy little packages with labels on them. And there were times when Willow herself barely understood why or how she had fallen in love with another woman.

Sheila filled a kettle with water and put it on to boil. When she finally spoke again, it was after a long silence.

"I had a good friend in college who broke up with her boyfriend," she recounted. "We were sophomores; it'd been her first serious romance. He left her for another girl. Celeste was devastated. Less than a month later, she was dating another woman, going to all the Lesbian Alliance meetings…" Sheila rummaged for a mug. "Tea?"

"No, thanks."

"…and completely absorbing herself in gay culture. She said she didn't know what she'd been missing; that she'd really had her eyes opened; that she knew she'd been gay all along and was just denying it. We stopped talking to each other for a while because she got so self-righteous. She convinced herself that she'd not only found a new lover, she'd shifted to a completely higher plane of consciousness. Well, the inevitable happened: she got over being dumped, she got tired of her girlfriend, tired of trying to be something she wasn't … when we were seniors, she met another guy, and ended up married to him."

"That's not gonna happen to me," Willow maintained stubbornly.

Pushing her hair behind her ears, Sheila asked, "So, do you really think you're going to stay with this girl forever? Have a… commitment ceremony, settle down, adopt kids? Honey, you're barely twenty-one. You have no idea what life's going to bring you, even a few months from now."

"I know that, Mom!" God, how I know that!

"Honey…" Sheila shifted out of Psychologist Mode, and suddenly her face was creased up with maternal worry and concern. "I don't want to see you getting hurt. If you think it was bad when you and your boyfriend broke up, how do you think you'll feel if this romance ends? Being with another woman doesn't make you immune from the same relationship problems and dynamics that heterosexual couples have. Your… girlfriend could meet another woman. Or you could meet another man. Or another woman. The two of you could drift apart… anything could happen."

"Mom… I don't wanna think about the future. I can't. But I know I wanna be with Tara now. That's what's important to me. I… I'll let the future worry about itself."

Sheila poured hot water into her mug, frowning slightly. "Just be careful, honey." And she sat down to read her mail, signaling that the discussion had ended.

Be careful of what? Willow wondered, but she left the kitchen in relief, glad to have the conversation over.

(ii)

"Wh-wh-what'd she say?"

"It's all right," Willow responded automatically. She put down her book bag, and regarded Tara, who sat on the sofa, her face a study in misery.

"Wh-what—?"

"I told her about you… she seemed surprised, but otherwise she took it pretty well. Or at least, you know… she seemed to take it well."

"I just d-don't want you to get in trouble… w-with your mother…"

"It's okay," Willow repeated mechanically, sitting beside her partner. "Mom's too liberal not to deal with it… at least she'll make a show of acceptance."

Tara looked slightly relieved. She ducked her head so that her hair swung into her face. "Never been so em-embarrassed," she muttered.

"It's not exactly right up there on my 'most memorable moments in life' list, either."

Tara smiled wanly. Their fingers interlaced, and they sat quietly for a few moments. Willow gazed about the spacious, airy living room. They were house-sitting a music professor's elegant home for the summer. Rays of afternoon sunlight glinted on the polished wood of the baby grand piano. The two of them had been staying in a pleasant guestroom upstairs.

Giles was on holiday in England, and Willow had a depressing feeling that with Buffy gone, the Watcher would want to return permanently to his home country. In his absence, Anya was running the Magic Box; Willow and Tara were helping her out, covering some evening hours. In addition, Willow had taken a part-time job, assisting a history professor with his research. The work kept her busy, kept her hands, if not her mind, occupied. Tara had to make up the schoolwork she had missed when she'd been incapacitated by Glory. Inspired by the music professor's house, she was also taking an introductory course in piano, which she said she'd played sporadically as a child. Her doctor had said it would be good therapy for her mending right hand.

Willow had given up expecting to be happy. She didn't even expect to be content. She would have given a couple of teeth merely to have one day free of the gut-wrenching emotional pain that had followed Buffy's death. Even her mother's discovering the tryst with Tara—which once might have been an unspeakable humiliation—paled in comparison to that irrevocable loss.

"Maybe—maybe tonight we could, you know, do some spells?" Tara offered awkwardly.

"We can try… something simple," Willow allowed. Since Buffy's death, her magical abilities had gone haywire; she couldn't even lift small objects without having them shoot all over the room. Giles had warned her before he left for England that she should give herself a few weeks—months, even—before resuming practice. And he had issued a dire threat against her trying anything "complex," by which she knew he meant trying to restore Buffy to life.

"Come on," she said, getting to her feet. She hated sitting still, even for short periods of time, afraid that if she stopped moving she would be struck with a grief so overwhelming that it would annihilate her. "Let's get some supper."

(iii)

"Blessed Aradia, daughter of the moon, hear my prayer."

A curl of incense smoke drifted up into the evening air. Tara inhaled deeply, turning her focus inward, concentrating on the classic centering exercise. On the ground before the incense burner lay a few crystals and a small bag of dried herbs, the fabric decorated with runes.

After a few moments, Tara spoke again. "Fill us with your healing power. Let us grow strong in your soothing light. Let us feel the strength of your love, and be one in your wisdom and peace." She felt awkward using "I," knowing full well that Willow needed healing, too, and so Tara used the more inclusive "we." "Blessed Aradia, hear my prayer." Tara picked up the pouch of herbs and held it between her palms, imagining its healing energy pouring out and into her. "As my will, so mote it be."

She set down the cloth pouch, and continued with the meditation, focusing on her breathing. Technically, the ritual was over—or would be, when she grounded the energy and broke the circle—but she felt the need for further centering, for emotional cleansing and peace.

Without realizing it, Tara slipped more and more deeply into a trance state. The quiet sounds of the woodlands faded around her. When at last she came to, she started, frightened that she'd lost track of time. She realized how alone she was out here—and how vulnerable. Swiftly, Tara broke the circle, and doused the burning incense with some sand.

As she gathered her things together, she heard the unexpected sound of a woman singing. Tara dropped her bag. The voice had an eerie, hauntingly familiar quality to it, a low, pleasing alto. Only one person she had ever known sang like that.

"Mom?" she called hesitantly.

The voice fell silent. Hoping against hope, Tara slowly walked in the direction she thought it had come from. When she heard it again, it seemed to emanate from slightly over to the left. Unthinking, Tara veered toward the clump of trees, and crashed heedlessly through the undergrowth, following the voice, which floated ahead of her, maddeningly just out of reach.

"Mom!" Fearful that the voice would fade completely, Tara broke into a run. She thought she glimpsed the shape of a woman ahead of her, in the distance.

"Mom, wait! It's me! Come back!" Unaccustomed to vigorous physical activity, Tara gasped, clutching a cramp in her side. She tried to keep running. "Mom!"

Without warning, the ground gave way beneath her feet. Tara screamed as she slid down, tumbling painfully head over heels, hitting rocks and tree roots as she fell, brambles whipping her in the face and arms. As she reached the bottom of the incline, her head struck a tree trunk, and bright stars of pain exploded behind her eyes. Sickening blackness engulfed her.

Chapter 2

She returned to a world of pain and nausea, and more frightening, a creeping sense of menace, a sense of something evil lurking just out of reach. And there was something worse, a horrible smell of decay, lingering over the ground like a cloud of poisonous gas.

Tara got to her feet, afraid that her wobbling legs would give out on her at any moment. She gazed about the area where she had fallen. It seemed like a ravine. Turning around and looking up, she could see the steep embankment down which she had slid; Tara didn't think she would be able to climb back up it. Worse, night was rapidly filling the woods with darkness, like a tide of ink, rushing into the dips and hollows. In another ten minutes, the gully would be in complete darkness.

Frantically, Tara searched about for a way back up to the path. This place gave her the unholy creeps, as if someone were watching her, someone cruel and ruthless. At last she found what looked like a path, weaving up a gentle slope. With a sense of having escaped a nameless terror, Tara scrabbled out of the ravine. Ahead of her, the trees began to thin, and after ten feet, she found herself back on the blessedly familiar path. Up here, daylight had not yet faded. Tara worked her way back to the clearing where she'd performed her ritual, located her bag and her bike, and headed down toward the main road. When she finally emerged onto the asphalt, she began to tremble so violently that she almost fell off the bike. Vowing never, ever to return to these woods again, Tara made her unsteady way home.

(ii)

Dear Willow,

I'm not having a good time, and I wish you were here. It's very lonely and boring, and there's nobody my age around. I wish I could've stayed in Sunnydale with you and Tara. I miss you all so much! Dad says maybe we can stop by and visit before we go back to LA. I'm going to Hemery in the fall—how's that for irony? Maybe I'll have a gym-burning in Buffy's honor.

XOXO

Dawn

Willow smiled sadly as she re-read the postcard. Dawn was spending the summer in Europe with her father, and would be moving to LA when they returned. I miss you too, Dawnie, she thought.

Miss Kitty Fantastico was minking about the kitchen, looking for dinner, so Willow emptied a can of cat food into a dish, and set it on the floor. In the living room, the elegant grandfather clock began to strike the hour. Unconsciously, Willow counted the chimes, and her heart jumped when she realized it was nine o'clock. Where was Tara? As far as Willow knew, this wasn't her late night at the magic shop.

Thinking that perhaps Anya had asked her to work at the last minute, Willow called the store. To her surprise, Xander answered the phone.

"Magic Box, how can I help you?"

"Xander? Is Tara there?"

"Uh, no. Why, should she be?"

"She hasn't come home," Willow fretted.

"Maybe she's at the library?" Xander suggested.

"She handed in her last assignments today."

"I dunno. Maybe she's out celebrating?"

Tara's idea of a celebration is a night at home with me, Willow thought peevishly. "Let me know if she shows up, okay?"

"Okay," Xander promised.

After they rang off, Willow paced the house. She switched on some lamps, then went out to the porch. Tara's bike was gone. Willow's overactive imagination ran through all sorts of grim scenarios: Tara accosted by vampires, demons, or just plain old human creeps—

She heard a strange noise, a horrible choking sound, and then she saw Tara coming down the sidewalk on her bike, crying and shaking so badly that she could barely pedal.

"Tara!" Willow jumped down off the porch and ran to her lover's side. Tara all but collapsed in her arms; cuts and scratches seemed to cover every inch of her. One side of her head was badly swollen, with a trickle of dried blood running down to her shoulder. Her clothes were dirty and torn, covered with dried leaves and pine needles.

"What happened?" Frantically, Willow got her girlfriend up the porch and into the house, leaving the bicycle outside. Tara, weeping and incoherent, couldn't answer, and Willow feared the worst. "C'mon, let's get you upstairs."

The tears and the shaking didn't stop. Tara stood like a frightened child as Willow got her out of the torn up clothes. Her fair skin had been quite scratched and bruised, but mercifully, Tara wasn't bleeding from anywhere. Willow didn't think she'd been assaulted, at least not sexually, anyway. She wrapped Tara in a warm robe, and went to fill the tub.

By the time Tara slid into the warm water, her crying had stopped, but still she wouldn't say what had happened. Willow washed her up, helped her dry off, and then put bandages on the worst of the scratches. She worried that the head injury might be a concussion, so she put Tara in bed, propping her upper body on a stack of pillows.

"Want some tea?" she offered.

"P-please." It was the first word Tara had spoken.

Willow hastened down to the first floor, where she filled the tea kettle. When the water had boiled, she made a large mug of chamomile tea, liberally dosed with lemon and honey. She brought it back up the stairs, finding Tara lying motionless with her eyes closed.

"Here… it's not too hot."

"Thanks."

Willow watched her drink, then asked tentatively, "Tara… what happened?"

Hoarsely, Tara responded, "I fell o-off my bike."

The answer was so mundane that Willow felt almost nonplussed. "Did someone—did anyone—you know... hurt you?"

Tara shook her head. "No. It w-was stupid. I fell off my bike, and w-went flying… landed in some brambles, and hit my h-head pretty bad."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sh-sure." But Tara's gaze shifted, unable to hold Willow's. Why is she lying? "I just n-need some rest."

"You seemed pretty… scared," Willow ventured.

"I was." Tara shuddered. "I m-must've passed out, and when I came to, I didn't know wh-where I was—I w-was all cut up." She put a hand to her throat, a stricken expression on her face.

"Trouble breathing?" Willow demanded anxiously.

"No… it's just sore. Maybe I'm coming down w-with something." Tara finished her tea, and handed the mug to Willow. "Thanks. I think I n-need to sleep now."

"Let me know if you need anything," Willow ordered.

"I will." Tara's eyes closed. Willow switched out the lamp, and took the mug back down to the kitchen. On an impulse, she went outside and checked Tara's bike. She expected to find the paint scratched, maybe some brambles or twigs caught in the wheels. But she saw nothing—nothing at all. The bike was fine.

Puzzled and worried, Willow went back inside and up the stairs, where she found Tara already deeply asleep.

(iii)

Willow awoke gradually the next morning, drawn toward the surface the way she usually was, at the small sounds that Tara—the early riser—made washing up and dressing. Something nagged at the corner of her mind, and when conscious thought penetrated the muzzy layer of sleep surrounding her brain, Willow jolted into full wakefulness, sitting straight up in bed.

The light in the bathroom was out; Tara was nowhere to be seen. But Willow heard faint noises from downstairs, and became aware of the pleasant smell of something cooking.

She threw on her robe and hurried down the stairs. "Tara?"

Her partner stood at the stove, scrambling eggs in a pan. A warm scent of toast wafted toward Willow. Tara turned around. "Morning," she said cheerfully. "Hungry?"

Willow's mouth worked, but nothing came out. "Are you okay?" she blurted.

"I'm fine!" Tara laughed. "Sit down… as long as I'm being domestic, I might as well feed both of us."

Numbly, Willow sat, staring. Tara had removed most of the bandages, and although a few of the scratches looked a bit raw, most of them were already mending. She wore a simple, dark blue summer dress that Willow had never seen before: it had a lovely cut that flattered Tara's figure and a skirt that fell to mid-calf. Tara had plaited her hair up in a coronet of braids, giving her an unexpectedly Scandinavian look. She had even put on a light touch of makeup. The contrast with how she'd looked just a few hours earlier unnerved Willow.

"Here." Tara plunked a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of Willow, poured both of them a glass of juice, and sat. She started to eat, then looked up, frowning. "What's wrong?"

"I… you just… look really… nice."

Tara beamed. "Thank you!"

"Tara… are you sure you're okay?"

"I've never been better." Tara ate hungrily, then said, "Don't worry about last night, honey. I just had a bad spill and a bad scare."

"Your bike is fine," Willow said quietly.

Tara waved a wedge of toast in the air. "I hit a rock. The bike stayed put. I kept moving." Then she laughed gaily, and kept eating.

Finally, Willow started to eat too, before her food went cold. She couldn't believe Tara had this much appetite; normally, all she wanted for breakfast was half a bagel.

"What're you up to today?" Willow asked, unable to shake off a weird feeling of disorientation.

"Music lesson," said Tara, glancing at the clock. She got up and went swiftly to the sink, where she rinsed her dishes, then loaded them into the dishwasher. She wore nice sandals on her feet, and they tapped pleasingly on the Pergo flooring, the full skirt swinging gracefully about her legs as she moved. "You all set?"

"Yeah." Willow pushed away the plate of half-eaten food. "I'm not that hungry."

Tara clicked her tongue. "You're not sick, are you?"

"I—no. I'm fine."

"Good." Tara gave Willow a swift kiss on the forehead. She then picked up a booklet with the UC-Sunnydale logo printed on it. "There's a jazz class that starts on Thursday. I was thinking maybe we could sign up for it?" She gave Willow a hopeful expression.

"Dance?" said Willow. Tara was a bona fide klutz, and very self-conscious about it.

"It's intro level," Tara told her. "I think it'd be fun."

If it makes her happy. "Sure," Willow smiled.

"Great!" Tara gathered her music things together, then headed for the door. "Later!" And out she went, leaving a very confused Willow behind her.

(iv)

The house had a "for rent" sign posted out in front. Tara had passed by this house every day for nearly the entire summer, but for some reason, today it brought her feet to a lurching halt.

She stood on the sidewalk, almost swaying back and forth. For some inexplicable reason, the building evoked a powerful emotional response in her. Tara stared at the place. It was a perfectly ordinary dwelling—once it had been a fine house, but now it seemed a little run down—part of the University rental market, like most of the houses on the street.

Slowly, she made her way up the walk to the front door. As she did, the door opened, disgorging a pair of young male students and a middle-aged woman.

"Hi," Tara called as the young men brushed past her. "Is it still available?"

"Sure, have a look. I'm the realtor." The agent beckoned Tara inside. As she went up the porch and into the dim foyer, the emotional response magnified, filling Tara with a mixture of sadness, longing, and dread. "There's five rooms. Do you have any friends who'd be moving in with you?"

"Uh… there's me and… I'm sure we could find some other…"

"We can worry about that later," the agent assured her. Oblivious to Tara's distress, she gave the student a brief tour of the downstairs: kitchen, bathroom, a dining room that had been turned into a den. "It's a little shabby, but otherwise in good condition. We're going to paint, paper, and re-carpet when the current occupants clear out in August. The rooms are upstairs."

Once on the second floor, Tara's feet seemed to turn of their own volition and lead her down the hallway. The agent looked surprised.

"This room here." Tara pushed the door open.

"There's nobody living in it now… the kids who're renting the place kept this one empty. I guess they had a friend they thought might be back."

The beautiful corner room had tall windows facing west and south. The room's occupant would not be woken up by the morning sun, but would have light all afternoon. Only the best, Tara thought. Whoever had lived in this room had wanted—no, expected—to have the best digs in the house. A look out the windows confirmed that this room also had the most pleasing view.

They must have been good friends, to keep it empty like this, Tara thought. Most kids would've found another housemate to share the rent. But she could sense why. All rooms gave off an aura, almost an emotional smell, and Tara had a special gift: she was sensitive to that peculiar energy. Slowly, she walked around the room, looking—and feeling.

The bed would have been right here, under the windows, and the desk against the wall opposite. A square imprint on the dusty floor suggested the location of a bureau. Tara spotted bits of gummy duct tape, which some kids used to secure stereo wires or computer cables. Tacks in the walls must have once held up posters. And yet, the empty space literally vibrated with the presence of its former occupant. Tara closed her eyes, sensing a dark, pungent restlessness, a powerful presence, domineering and maybe even ruthless. It was not consideration that had caused the other kids to keep this room empty, Tara realized. It was fear.

She opened her eyes, and went curiously to the closet, a large walk-in. Empty hangers swung from the rail, lifeless and forlorn. Several were from a dry cleaners, the paper embossed with a classy logo and the words, "Spellman Cleaners, Santa Luna."

Tara noticed that one hanger had a small piece of curled paper attached to it with a safety pin. Curiously, she unfastened the pin, and opened out the tag. The paper had once been white, but time had faded it to yellow. It read:

M.E. Johanssen

157 Miles Mason Crescent

Santa Luna, CA

With the tag clutched in her hand, Tara reluctantly turned to leave the room. The realtor was getting impatient and probably rather suspicious. But Tara noticed one more thing.

At the base of the wall near the closet was a phone jack; a set of screws about four feet above it suggested someone had installed a wall-mounted phone. Scratched into the dingy paint near the screws was a phone number, written over and over, like an obsession. Tara recognized the exchange as another University-area neighborhood. The number seemed to burn itself into her brain cells.

To mollify the irritated realtor, Tara took a perfunctory look at two of the other rooms, which were also unoccupied. At last, they headed down the stairs. Tara's footsteps fell heavy and deliberate; her tread sounded strange, even to her own ears.

At the bottom of the stairs stood a young couple, staring up at her as if she were a ghost. Tara had another creepy sense of déjà vu. She didn't know these kids—and yet, somehow, she did.

"God!" the girl whispered fervently. She was very pale. "For a second, we thought…" she trailed off.

"Who are you?" the boy asked, his confusion giving way to anger, as if Tara had played an unkind joke on him.

"I'm just… looking," Tara said weakly. The couple regarded her with barely veiled hostility. Both kids looked like victims of a recent vampire attack—or like drug addicts. The boy was very tall, very thin, with mousy hair and pale eyes. The girl was slightly shorter, but just as skinny, with tangled black curls, beautiful features, and blue eyes. She might have been a model if she hadn't been so gaunt and so completely devoid of color.

"Excuse me," Tara blurted, and hurried out of the house and down the sidewalk. She practically ran the rest of the way to the University music building. Once inside, she sat on a bench in the lobby, gasping. Only when she looked down did she realize she still clutched the dry cleaning tag in her hand. Tara fumbled for a pen, and on the back of the tag, she wrote the number that had been scrawled over and over on the wall of that eerily familiar bedroom.

Chapter 3

"Where's Santa Luna?"

"In Italy," Willow said. "There's three shrines—Santa Luna, Santa Hecate, and—" she frowned. "I can't remember the third one. But they were all goddess shrines that got made over into shrines for Christian saints—" She broke off. Tara was smiling.

"Isn't there a town near here called Santa Luna?"

Willow grinned. "Why didn't you say so, before I got all academic?"

Tara responded, "Because it's cute when you do that," and they sat smiling at each other.

"Santa Luna's north of Sunnydale," Willow explained. "It's beyond North Downs, and even more tony—a ten minute drive and several tax brackets away."

"Oh."

"Why'd you ask?"

"Nothing. I mean, I just saw the name, and thought it was kind of interesting."

"Uh-huh." Willow evidently accepted the explanation, and as they cleaned up their dinner dishes, she went on about the three Italian holy sites. Tara only half-listened, her mind on the distance to Santa Luna, and wondering how long it would take to bike there.

"I'll change the cat's box," she volunteered.

"Oh, thank you, sweetie!" Willow exclaimed.

They kept Miss Kitty's box in the cellar, a furnished basement with comfortable chairs, a TV set, and a few bookshelves. After changing the cat's litter, Tara poked about the shelves. She had seen a stack of road maps down here, and located them again now. The collection included a map of Sunnydale and its surrounding communities.

Miles Mason Crescent in Santa Luna was about twenty miles, as the crow flew, from the house Willow and Tara were staying in. Tara studied the map, deciding on the best route to take. When she finished, she folded the map and took it upstairs with her, hiding it under a newspaper. She recognized that her behavior was bizarre to say the least, but she could not ignore the overwhelming compulsion to see the house in Santa Luna. Somehow, it just felt important.

Willow was in the shower. Tara hesitated, then grabbed the phone, and punched in the number she had written on the dry cleaning tag.

A woman's voice answered. "Hello?" she sang out cheerfully.

"Oh!" said Tara, feigning surprise. "Who's this?"

"This is Casey—who're you looking for? Josh, Tina?"

"Uh… I think I have the wrong number. Sorry!" Tara hung up quickly. What had she been expecting? Who the hell did she think was going to be at that number? She had an odd sensation of losing control, of acting not entirely of her own volition. Feeling inexplicably bereft, Tara put the slip of paper back in her purse.

The day was perfect for a long bike ride: sunny, breezy, not a cloud in the southern California sky. Tara took the trip at a leisurely pace, winding her way along the secondary roads that meandered through the North Downs.

Willow hadn't been kidding about Santa Luna. Through leafy screens of trees, Tara glimpsed sprawling homes faced in pastel stucco and roofed in red Spanish tile. Nearly every house seemed to have a pool. Tara spotted terraced verandas, expensive cars, and beautifully manicured gardens. These homes were as far outside her own life as Buckingham Palace and the Taj Majal.

She came to the center of town, a posh district of elegant little shops and restaurants. Even the library, city hall, and the police and fire stations were housed in aesthetically handsome buildings. Tara re-consulted her map, and took a road leading east, into the foothills. She passed yet more exclusive homes, a stretch of undeveloped scrubland, and then hit a more modest residential area.

By now she barely needed to check the directions: her body seemed to know—indeed, almost to remember—the way. At exactly 11:30, she reached Miles Mason Crescent.

It wasn't as fabulous as some of the other neighborhoods in Santa Luna, but it could easily have been a street in the North Downs section of Sunnydale: a curving half-circle shaded by large trees, each house sitting on a generous piece of land. The pristine emerald grass spoke of luxury: these people could afford to water their lawns frequently. The houses sat back from the road, surrounded by landscaped gardens, neatly trimmed shrubs, and painted fences.

She saw nobody about. On a weekday, everyone would be working. Only the calls of birds broke the drowsy late-morning silence.

Number 157 sat at the end of the road in a sweeping cul-de-sac. Without doubt the prettiest dwelling on the crescent, it also boasted the most land and the best maintained garden. The house of wealth and privilege intimidated Tara; yet, she pedaled her bike into the spacious driveway as if she had every right to be there. A discreet plaque on the mailbox read "Johanssen." So they still live here. She tried the door: locked, of course.

Tara's feet carried her around the side yard to the back. A tiled path led to an in-ground swimming pool, the water lying as clear and still as glass. Suddenly Tara stopped, hunkered down, and lifted one of the paving stones. In the dirt beneath it lay a silver house key.

How did I know that? she wondered, heading back to the front of the house. The key fit the lock. She opened the door, and slipped inside. Déjà vu hit her like a physical shock. Home, she thought. I'm home. The feeling was ridiculous—and yet she knew on some profound level that it was genuine. She belonged to this house, and this house belonged to her.

The rooms held a deeply sad feeling. Tara extended her senses, touching a quiet echo, a signature of the despair that comes from profound loss. This was not a happy home.

It was, however, a home of some prosperity. She found elegantly furnished dining and living rooms, a fully equipped kitchen, and a casual sunroom overlooking the pool. Why did she feel like she could remember parties here? Scenes flickered across the backs of her eyes like grainy old home movies, blurry and indistinct.

Mournful shadows filled the living room. Tara pulled back one drape, and looked around. A beautiful Steinway grand piano occupied one end of the room, but she knew nobody had played it for a while. Tara turned back the cover and tried a few chords. Nice tone, she admired. Inside the piano bench, she found several books of music. The battered condition of a Tori Amos songbook suggested that this one had been a particular favorite. Inside the front cover, Tara found a name written in slashing black script: Mary Ellen Johanssen.

Clutching the book, she went to look at the photos tastefully arrayed on the shelves and walls. A handsome blonde couple and their two lovely daughters. The younger one held Tara's attention with her eerie, compelling eyes. Her gaze seemed to follow one about the room. A series of pictures showed her growing from a pretty, tow-haired girl into a striking, unusual adolescent, then a voluptuous young woman. She had a fierce, pagan look to her, almost feral, despite her often bored and petulant expressions.

Several photos showed her playing a piano, and in those she was the most animated. Tara knew without doubt that this must be Mary Ellen. Somehow, she felt that the older girl's name must be Christine.

Tara went up to the second floor. She looked around the hallway, then went and opened the second door on the right. Another shock went through her: this was Mary Ellen's room. It showed every sign of having been closed up for some time—it wasn't the dust or the musty smell, but something elusive, a forlorn sense of emptiness, as if the room knew its owner wasn't coming back.

Here, then, was the counterpart to that mysterious empty room in Sunnydale. The familiar dark presence painted the atmosphere, and Tara had no doubt the same girl had occupied both rooms. But why do I feel like it was me?

The corner room was large, spacious, made airy by four windows. A feminine comforter and shams made up the double bed, the pattern chosen to coordinate with the white furniture, the curtains, and the floral design of the wallpaper. The blonde oak floor bore not even a scratch.

In stark contrast to the pink and white innocence of the décor were posters featuring musicians Tara had never heard of. She found even the names repugnant: Thin Lizzy, the Violent Femmes, the Pogues, the Slits. The only artist she recognized was Tori Amos.

In one corner sat a dust-covered pile of boxes and luggage. Tara went and looked at one of the luggage labels. It read, "Mary Ellen Johanssen."

She opened a box at random, and found it stuffed haphazardly with clothes. Tara would never have worn these styles: clingy pants, low-cut sweaters, provocative crop-tops. Another box held shoes, another bedding and towels, all of it thrown messily into the moving cartons, as if someone had packed in a hurry. Pervading everything was the stale but distinctive scent of an expensive perfume. Mary Ellen had not wanted for money.

Tara uncovered scores—maybe even hundreds—of CDs and an expensive Japanese stereo system. There were not many books, but lots of magazines, including independently published 'zines with titles like Bitch and Riot Grrls. The more conventional titles included fashion and entertainment periodicals, mostly from the summer and fall of 1999.

Tara finally found evidence of academics: textbooks that looked like they'd never been opened, legal pads, mostly blank, save for odd notes made in that bold, slanting hand, pens, and a box of computer diskettes still in its shrink-wrap. A lump rose to her throat when she realized the Johanssens hadn't unpacked their daughter's belongings. They knew she wouldn't come back, Tara thought. And I guess she never did.

In a large, plastic tool box, she found enough cosmetics to make up an entire cast of La Cage Aux Folles. Tara glanced around the vast pile of stuff. Whatever Mary Ellen Johanssen had been doing at college, it certainly wasn't schoolwork. Tara picked up a folder printed with the UC-Sunnydale logo, the inner pockets full of orientation materials from September, 1999. That's when I started, she thought. I wonder if I ever met her?

In a half-dreamy state, she located a canvas shoulder bag, and filled it with a random selection of CDs. She added the Tori Amos songbook. The clothes were too small, the makeup cracked in its containers; no point in taking any of those. Tara looked over the tubes and bottles and compacts. The brands were mostly oddities like Streetwear and Color FX, lipsticks in shades called Harlot and Hussy, eyeshadows with names like Shameless and Vixen. Too old, she thought. Those need to be replaced. Ditto the magazines. I'll get new issues, she decided.

In order to do that, she'd need money. Money. Knowledge seemed to descend on Tara. Just as she knew where to find the house key, she knew where to find cash. She got up and went out into the hallway. There were four bedrooms on the floor, and one of them had been converted to an office. Behind an innocuous painting was a safe. Tara stared at the lock, trying to remember the combination. Mrs. Johanssen's birthday. Blindly, she tried 3-27-54, turning the dial by pure instinct. To her amazement, the door swung out silently on well-oiled hinges.

She skipped the jewelry, knowing she could never sell it without arousing suspicion, and settled for a few bundles of cash, tens and twenties, used bills. Tara closed the safe and re-hung the painting. A quick inventory of the bills revealed she had taken several hundred dollars, more money than she'd ever had cumulatively in her entire life.

She put the money in the tote bag, and returned down the stairs. She wondered what the house's occupants would think when they saw Mary Ellen's room disturbed, and how long it would take them to realize the money was missing. She giggled as she locked the door. It would be like the Three Bears coming home to find Goldilocks had been sleeping in their beds. Tara hid the key under its paving stone, got on her bike, and headed back toward Sunnydale.

By one, she was ravenous, and stopped at a diner for lunch. B&E and petty theft really make you work up an appetite. Tara felt scared, ashamed, shocked, and triumphant, all at the same time. She had spent so much of her life trying to be good, trying to remain unnoticed. Now she experienced exhilaration, the giddy taste of danger and freedom.

Keeping the tote protectively at her side, Tara sat at the counter, and when the waitress came by, she ordered two grilled Reubens, a large fries, and a chocolate milkshake. Her insides felt like a bottomless pit.

Five minutes later, a pimple-faced boy in a greasy cook's uniform came out with her meal. He looked around. Tara waved him over.

"Right here." She pointed at the Formica counter top in front of her.

He stared at her with the same expression that the pale couple had given her the previous day.

"Wow… for a minute, I thought…"

"You thought what?" Tara took the plate.

Awkwardly, he said, "Just thought you were someone else. I knew someone who used to order that same lunch."

"Yeah?"

"But she hasn't been here for a while… more'n a year," he said sadly.

Tara bit into one of the sandwiches. "It must've been someone who made an impression on you."

With a shaky laugh, the boy said, "She sure as hell did!" He hesitated. "You're like her," he said finally. "Not exactly, but… wow."

"Tony!" a voice bellowed from out back.

"Gotta run," he said.

"Yeah. Later… Tony." He flushed under his acne, and retreated.

Tara kept eating, her thoughts straying complacently to the young cook. Suddenly she had the unnerving sensation that she had once slept with him.

She had almost finished the second Reuben when she choked, staring down at her plate in horror. What was she doing? Tara had been a vegetarian since the age of twelve. She hadn't touched meat in eight years.

With an incoherent cry, Tara bolted up from her stool, and ran out the door, where she was violently sick in the shrubbery.

(ii)

"Isn't this fun? Isn't this so much fun?"

Willow could barely believe the alacrity and ease with which Tara had taken to the jazz class. As it was a summer course, they didn't have to worry about being sneered at by nubile dance majors; the other students consisted of graceless teenagers and a few middle-aged women looking to shape up physically. Willow and Tara fit right in.

Tara had been clumsy at first, but after three classes, she had picked up the jazz idiom, and now performed the exercises as if she'd been born dancing. She had shed her usual diffidence and awkwardness like an old coat, and would leap across the studio floor, completely at home and comfortable in her own flesh. The lack of inhibition startled Willow. As a rule, Tara was modest, bordering on prudish, even in the bedroom.

The pleasure she took in the dance class seemed to spill over into the rest of her life. For a few days after the bicycle accident, Tara had been withdrawn and pensive, but now that demeanor of worry had fallen away, and she seemed infected with an almost gleeful happiness. She was standing up straighter, walking with more assurance, looking people directly in the face when she spoke to them, and stuttering less. The speed of this transformation unsettled Willow, although she knew she should rejoice in it.

A few of the younger women were discussing the merits of weight training. Spontaneously, Tara went up to them.

"Hi, I'm sorry—can I butt in? I've always wanted to try lifting weights." With a self-deprecating smile, she added, "I have no upper body strength. So, where do you work out? Here, in the fitness center?"

Willow stared in shock. Tara never talked openly to strangers like that. Never.

Tickled by the enthusiasm of a novice, the other girls welcomed her into the conversation. Willow stood off to one side, fidgeting, while Tara got the 411 on beginning a strength program.

"Wow," said Willow when Tara finished. "You're really turning into Fitness Girl this summer, huh?"

Tara made an expression almost like eye-rolling. "Yeah, well, it's time I did something about this big pile of mush I'm walking around in." She added plaintively, "Come with me? Just to get started? I'll feel like less of a dork that way."

"Right now?"

"Sure! Please come?"

"Okay!" Willow had never been able to refuse Tara anything, so they went from the dance studio down the hall to the University's state-of-the-art Nautilus room. Willow felt intimidated by all the complicated-looking machines and the sleek, toned people who used them, but Tara found an attendant on duty, and charmingly asked him about using the equipment.

Awkwardly, Willow pretended she was up for the same thing, and so the trainer walked the two of them around a basic circuit of the machines, assessing their "baseline" conditions and making notes on pink cards. Willow followed along, her clipboard in hand, feeling vaguely foolish and also rather sad. This was more Buffy's thing than mine.

She drifted off into her own thoughts, and only came back to the present when the young attendant showed them where to file their cards. He smiled one last time at Tara, his gaze lingering on her breasts, then went off to help some other people.

"I wanna stay here and try these," Tara declared. "Plus, maybe the Stairmaster. What about you?"

The weight room had a sound system that blared out music as loud as the Bronze. Willow felt a headache coming on.

"Not now," she smiled ruefully. "I'm ready for some quiet."

"Okay!" said Tara brightly. "I'll be about an hour. Keep supper warm for me!"

After a thorough session with the weight machines, Tara retreated to the locker room. She showered, and when she was done, stood before one of the full-length mirrors, something she usually avoided. Still a lot of work to be done, but the biking had really slimmed down her hips and thighs. Her abs had no definition, her belly a round little pot, and she had almost no upper-body musculature. But that would change.

Without getting on a scale, she knew she'd lost weight. Her clothes were all too loose. And yet, she was eating so much these days—she always felt ravenous. Intense protein cravings had led her to start eating meat and fish again after years of abstinence. Suddenly, the philosophical tenets of vegetarianism didn't seem nearly as important as satisfying that monstrous appetite.

Tara dressed, donning her stylish khaki shorts and snug cotton top. She had acquired a lot of new clothes recently, slipping them home when Willow wasn't in, and discarding an equal number of old things. Her days of dressing like a bag lady were over. Another luxury had been nice underwear. And it pays off, too, she thought, smiling at the memory of the gym attendant checking out her tits.

She dried her hair, pinned it up, and put on makeup. In the past, Tara had rarely bothered with cosmetics, viewing them as anti-feminist, emblematic of women wasting their time trying to lure men. Willow had been coaxing her into wearing makeup for her own pleasure. Tara had tried, but some of her experiments had produced such alarming results that she quickly abandoned the idea. With an expert hand, she now applied eyeliner, mascara, lipstick, and blush. Along with the clothes, she had picked up a lot of cosmetics recently. But all the shopping was eating into her illicitly-gotten funds, leaving her with about $200.

Casually, she strolled through the rows of lockers. She had observed that some women used padlocks, others didn't. One had to be on a UCS sports team to merit a combination locker. Everyone else had to provide her own lock. Large signs everywhere proclaimed that the University would not be held responsible for stolen property.

One by one, Tara opened the narrow metal doors, keeping an ear alert for women coming in. This was a lull time of day, between the afternoon and evening crowds.

At last she found an unlocked door, a pocketbook in plain sight. Over the past two weeks, Tara had come to accept certain truths about the world that had never been evident to her before. People were fundamentally weak and stupid. Like this woman. They all but asked to be screwed.

So, screw them.

Tara helped herself to all the cash in the woman's wallet, fifty dollars. She cased locker after locker, moving with complete stealth, lifting twenty dollars here, forty there. She got lucky with one in particular: the woman must have stopped at an ATM before hitting the gym. Tara slipped $150 in crisp tens and twenties into her pocket. By the time she strolled out of the locker room, she had acquired nearly $400.

On her way to the gym door, she ran into the handsome fitness trainer.

"Hi," he grinned. "Had it for one night?"

"For now," she responded, lightly brushing her hand over his arm. "Thanks for showing me the ropes."

"Any time." He paused. "I'm sorry—what's your name? Sarah?"

"Tara." She rolled her head slightly, gazing up at him through her eyelashes. "Just Tara."

He gave her that peculiar look, frowning with the concentration of trying to conjure up a half-forgotten memory.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked slowly. It wasn't a come-on; this was genuine bewilderment.

Tara smiled enigmatically. "You do now."

Chapter 4

"No—those go over there."

Tara sighed loudly. "What difference does it make?"

"Because people can see them." Anya grabbed the new line of Tarot cards and displayed them prominently on another table. "People won't buy things they can't see."

"That's right, money's your big deal these days, isn't it?" Tara sauntered over to the corner with the beanbag chairs, flopped down on one, and opened the autumn preview edition of Vogue.

Anya glared over at the top of Tara's blonde head, and resumed putting out new display items. It was noon on Sunday, and Tara was supposed to be helping her, but not only was she not doing anything useful, she was getting in the way and acting generally like a petulant brat.

The first customers of the day came in. "Are you looking for anything special?" Anya asked brightly.

As it turned out, they wanted lapis lazuli goddess jewelry. Anya showed them to the glass case. While she was helping them, a trio of teenage girls came in. Busy with the first pair, Anya couldn't do more than call out, "Let me know if you need anything!" The three wandered around, looking, then walked out again.

Irritated, Anya glanced over in Tara's direction once again. The big lump hadn't budged. The young couple made their selection, and left. For the next hour, Anya dealt with customers on the floor, helped people find things, and rang up their orders. During that whole time, Tara barely looked up from her magazine.

While Anya was helping a middle-aged woman pick out some incense, a tall, nice-looking man of about thirty came in. As if it had never existed, Tara's indolence evaporated, and she hopped up, strolling over to greet the new arrival.

"Hi, looking for something?"

"Sure," he grinned. "I'm picking out my girlfriend's birthday present. She's into New Age stuff, so a magic shop seemed like a good bet."

In other words, Anya thought, 'I wouldn't normally be caught dead in a place like this.'

"You bet right on the money." Anya watched as Tara smiled up at him. Today, she wore a strapless black sundress with a sweetheart neckline, generous décolletage on display. Her hair was up, her tanned face glowing beneath a layer of artfully applied cosmetics.

I wonder if his girlfriend knows he flirts with other women? Anya thought, remembering wistfully how she had punished such men in the past. Then, I wonder if Willow knows Tara's flirting with men?

"What's her thing?" Tara was asking him. "Spells, crystals, herbs, aromatherapy?" Her tone became slightly contemptuous. "Believe me, if it's weird, we've got it."

"Maybe just some jewelry," he laughed.

Tara went around behind the jewelry case. "Earrings?"

"Those necklaces are nice."

"Pendants," she corrected him.

"That one, there."

Tara took the one he indicated out of the case, and handed it to him. He looked it over. "I don't know if it's really her…"

"Here." She took the pendant back, then hung it around her own neck. "Pretend I'm your girlfriend. Does that help?"

Anya couldn't believe her ears. She stepped behind the counter to ring out the herb lady's purchase, watching from the corner of her eye as Tara openly came on to the male customer. She kept leaning forward, treating him to a bird's eye view of her cleavage. When he finally made his choice, Tara had talked him into one of the most expensive items in the case.

"Could you possibly get any more 'come hither?'" Anya snapped after he had departed. "And what's with the Mae West routine, anyway? You're not supposed to like men."

Tara shrugged, an unpleasant look on her face. "I sold something, right?"

"You could've sold a lot more if you hadn't been sitting on your butt for an hour. And if you decide you're into men now, remember that Xander's mine." Anya pointed to her engagement ring.

Tara rolled her eyes. "You don't exactly let people forget about it. But it's not like you're loaded with options."

Anya folded her arms. "Translation, please?"

Shutting the jewelry case, Tara said pointedly, "You used to kill men for a living—"

"Cursed them," Anya corrected.

"Whatever. You think any guy's gonna go for a woman with that kind of past?"

As if on cue, Xander walked in, carrying two large pizza boxes.

"Lunch guy's here."

He set down the pizzas; one vegetable, one Hawaiian. To Anya's annoyance, Tara took a slice of Hawaiian.

"That's for us. Here, this one's yours." She pushed the second box at Tara. "You're supposed to be a vegetarian. This one has ham on it."

"I've had a conversion experience," Tara responded. "I like meat now." She stared meaningfully at Xander as she spoke.

"Well, why didn't you say something?" Anya demanded peevishly. "We ordered the garden pizza just for you."

"Oh." Tara shrugged again, indicating supreme indifference. She finished her first slice with alacrity, and reached for a second.

"Xander, make her stop that!"

Xander laughed. "It's okay. I can eat some of the veggie stuff. I'm putting the omni back in omnivore."

"That's not the point!" Anya could hear herself getting shrill. "The point is—"

"Oh, get over yourself," Tara laughed, one degree shy of a sneer. She looked Xander up and down with too speculative an expression for Anya's liking. "No ice cream?"

"What?" he asked.

"You know." Tara's gaze seemed to bore right into Xander's. "I thought you might've flagged down an ice cream truck and got us some dessert."

"I, ah, didn't know you wanted any." Was it Anya's imagination, or had Xander's voice gotten higher? He also seemed to be turning red under his tan.

"I dunno what it is about ice cream trucks, but their stuff's always so much better. That crap in the grocery store just doesn't get it done for me." Tara continued to eat, very slowly and deliberately, her lips glistening with olive oil. "Willow likes ice cream trucks, too."

Now Xander turned purple. "Oh," he squeaked. "Right."

Impatiently, Anya said, "He's not driving an ice cream truck any more. He has a real job, now."

With a satisfied little smile, Tara finished her second slice, and licked her fingers suggestively.

To Anya's vast relief, a couple of teenage girls came in, giggling. "Hi, can we have our cards read?"

"Sure!" Anya said immediately. She pointed at Tara. "That's the card woman, right there."

Looking disappointed, Tara wiped her hands, and retrieved her deck from under the counter. Then she led the customers out back to Buffy's old gym, where she and Willow had set up their Tarot and palm reading table.

"What has gotten into her?" Anya hissed. "She's grown a 'tude the size of LA."

"I, uh, I dunno," Xander said, still slightly pink around the edges.

"What are you blushing about?" she harped. "She shouldn't even be interested in you! She's—she's gay—and she's supposed to be so in love with Willow, right?"

Xander was saved the embarrassment of a reply by the jangling of the shop bells signaling the arrival of a new customer.

(ii)

A freak rainstorm took Willow by surprise as she came home after a long day of digging articles out of the University library. She had to run, and by the time she got to the house, she was soaked. Evidently, Tara had been caught in the downpour, too: a pair of muddy hiking boots sat on the porch.

Willow kicked off her sneakers, peeled off her socks, and padded into the foyer. She could hear Tara singing and playing the piano, making remarkably good work of a Tori Amos number:

"And if I die today, I'll be the happy phantom

And I'll go chasing the nuns out in the yard

And I'll run naked through the street without my mask on

And I will never need umbrellas in the rain

I'll wake up in strawberry fields every day

And the atrocities of school I can forgive

The happy phantom has no right to bitch…"

"Hi," Willow laughed. "You're getting really good."

"Yeah." Tara smiled, secret and pleased. She glanced at Willow with an amused expression.

"Caught in the rain… I should go dry off."

"That's okay… I like it when you're wet."

"Oooh! Meow!" Willow giggled. "But the hardwood floors don't appreciate my finer qualities."

She headed up the stairs, listening to Tara play. After just a few weeks of lessons, she was quite fluent with the instrument, playing with the kind of skill that Willow imagined would take years to acquire. Latent talent, she thought, toweling dry. She only needed to get away from that idiot family of hers.

Willow changed clothes, reflecting that this summer, Tara seemed to have undergone a metamorphosis. She was getting in shape physically, developing a dormant skill, and growing in confidence. And I can barely float pencils, Willow thought. She focused on one of Tara's eyeliners. It floated six inches off the dresser top, then suddenly whipped across the room, and hit the wall. Sighing, she went to retrieve it.

As she did, Willow took in the messy accumulation of clothes, makeup, magazines, and CDs strewn about the room. Tara, normally such a neatnik, had gotten sloppy. Willow picked up a few CDs and magazines. Her partner had developed an unexpected interest in fashion, and her tastes in music had changed radically. So much of what she listened to now was loud, angry, and dark. This bothered Willow, but she shrugged it off. Maybe it's just a delayed adolescence.

But there were other changes, too. Tara could be… well, flippant sometimes. She'd developed a sarcastic streak and an unexpected cynicism. Her behavior sometimes bordered on mean. For example, she had taken to referring to Miss Kitty Fantastico as Ms. GoodPussy. When Willow protested, Tara laughed. "Well, that's what we meant when we named her, isn't it?"

She seemed to have lost interest in magic. When she wasn't working at the shop, she was either in the gym or playing the piano. And she would crash in front of the TV for hours at a stretch, flipping stations with the remote control like a bored teenager.

The sexual changes bothered Willow most, although she tried not to dwell on them. Tara turned to her less frequently in bed. Often, she stayed up late on the pretext of watching TV, and didn't come upstairs until after Willow had fallen asleep. And when they did make love, there were shadows between them. Sometimes, Tara got rough—too rough—and Willow had to protest to make her go a little easier. And when she did, Tara would grow petulant, punishing Willow with silence.

Tara had grown lazy and inconsiderate. She never cleaned up behind herself in the shower; she left Willow to do the dishes, empty the trash, and change the cat's box. Giles had returned from England, and she sometimes treated him like a foolish old man. She was impatient with customers in the shop, and she jeered and mimicked Anya behind her back. The only person she seemed to like was Xander, and Willow sometimes got the uncomfortable impression she liked him too much.

Still, Willow rationalized all this as aftershocks of Buffy's death. She was sure that once Tara had worked her adolescent rebellion out of her system, everything would be fine again.

(iii)

"You think these are okay?"

"They're great," Willow encouraged.

"Huh." Tara pranced before the three-way mirror, admiring how the jeans fit. They were the new, low-rider kind, and showed off her taut belly. Perhaps because she'd done so much work to sculpt her body, Tara wanted to get clothes that would show off her hard work.

As she tried on yet another outfit, Willow sat against the wall in the changing room. These styles were so far outside what Tara normally wore that they made her seem like a different person altogether. She ordinarily got her clothes at consignment shops and other second-hand places. She was on scholarship, and rarely had much spending money. And she'd had no sense of fashion, no idea what would look good, and her aim when she picked out clothes seemed to be making herself as inconspicuous as possible.

Now, however, she had an unmistakable flair for style—maybe from reading all those magazines, Willow thought—and she was picking out the kind of eye-catching garments that would be sure to attract attention.

Tara emerged in a white string bikini. "Thought we could hit the beach this weekend."

"Wow." Willow made a playfully leering expression. "I don't know if I wanna let you out in public like that, you luscious babe, you."

Another woman, trying on a pantsuit, shot them an irritated look. Willow serenely ignored her, and kept right on admiring her lover.

But her pleasure was short-lived. Tara had really changed physically—her shoulders and arms were filled out with muscle, her hips and legs much slimmer, her belly lean and flat. The well-developed pectoral muscles gave her breasts new lift, which Tara emphasized with push-up bras. She'd spent quite a bit of time sunning herself in the back yard, and her golden brown tan contrasted strikingly with her blonde hair. Now, in the white bikini, she looked like a million bucks. Willow experienced a completely unexpected flare of jealousy.

After Tara changed, she rang out her order, paying for everything with cash. Where's she getting all this money? Willow wondered. Certainly not working at the Magic Box.

"I wanna do something with my hair," announced Tara. "C'mon."

The salon she chose wasn't busy, and the two students were taken immediately. Willow indulged in a wash and trim (she was trying to let her hair grow back out again), and in the spirit of the occasion, had her eyebrows waxed and her nails manicured.

When she finished, she saw to her shock that Tara had had her hair cut short. The stylist had blown it dry into a striking bob. From the careful way Tara was holding out her hands, she'd had her nails done. Willow had to wait while she finished having a pedicure.

"Wow!" she said. "Honey, that looks so nice on you!"

"I think so." Tara touched the curving sweep of hair at the nape of her neck. "I got tired of looking like a washed up '70s reject."

They went to lunch. On their way down the mall, an adolescent boy walked by, saw them holding hands, and shouted, "Hey, are you lezzies, or something?"

Without missing a beat, Tara yelled back, "What's wrong—jealous?" And she planted a big, wet kiss on Willow's mouth, just in case the kid had any doubts.

"Did you take an assertiveness training course somewhere?" Willow asked lightly as they got in line at the food court.

"What an asshole," Tara pronounced. "Guys are all the same… they see two girls together, and they wanna get in on the action."

Willow ordered a salad and some pasta. Tara ordered a large burger, a large fries, and a shake.

"Hungry?" Willow smiled.

"Yeah, well, I'm not one of those girls who lives on birdseed."

That was another paradox: Tara ate and ate and ate… and yet, she'd shed at least twenty pounds in the past month. True, she was exercising a lot. But much of what she ate was pure garbage, and now she was almost as lean as Buffy had been.

The complete rejection of vegetarianism bothered Willow, too: it seemed so unlike her girlfriend. She knew it was Tara's choice, but still, something about it didn't add up.

"C'mon," said Tara, standing. "I wanna catch some rays before we go out tonight."

Willow started to gather up her trash, but Tara made an impatient gesture. "Don't bother—isn't that what they hire grunts for?"

(iv)

Music blared over the Bronze's sound system, the place packed with an energetic Friday crowd. No band tonight: a DJ was taking requests.

Willow nearly had to run to keep up with Tara's long, assured strides. She wondered sourly how anyone could move so quickly in those mules with the thick-wedged heels. Tara seemed to have chosen them to show off her painted nails and toe rings. In fact, her whole aim in dressing tonight was clearly exhibitionism: a tight black crop top, low-rider jeans, black mules. Beneath the artfully tousled bob, she'd painted her eyes in smoky, dark rims, and amplified her full mouth to a sultry, blood-red pout.

Willow had chosen ordinary jeans and a t-shirt, and now, next to Tara—who was turning heads already—she felt like a nun.

They danced together for a couple of numbers, Willow feeling clumsy and dorky beside Tara's hyper-sexual hip swinging, her arms twisting up overhead like a flamenco dancer's.

Without warning, a gaggle of four girls accosted them, all heavily made up, clad in daring short dresses, clingy tops, and miniskirts.

"Tara?" one of them said. "We thought that was you—look at this haircut!"

They all admired Tara's bob. Willow felt very small and left out. She tried to insinuate her way into the group, but with a few contemptuous expressions, they made it abundantly clear she was unwanted. She tried to catch Tara's eye, but Tara studiously avoided her gaze.

The newcomers turned out to be girls Tara had met in the gym, and with a vague wave, she introduced them to Willow. She didn't identify Willow as her girlfriend, and Willow lacked the courage to do so. Tara's new friends had hard, calculating eyes, long nails, and they smelled of money. Willow knew she was out of her depth.

They all danced together. Willow tried to relax and be casual, but she could feel the smirking gaze of the other girls on her. She tried to stay close to Tara, but they kept getting in the way. Willow scanned the crowds desperately for any sign of Xander or Anya. Suddenly, she had never missed Buffy so much.

The arrival of a few young men made the situation even worse, and to Willow's horror, Tara began to flirt openly with them, draping arms around one, encouraging another to dance provocatively with her. Their gyrations forced Willow to the edge of the group completely.

Without trying to catch Tara's eye, she headed for the ladies' room, feeling hideously sick. What sort of game was Tara playing? Flirting with men? Tara, who had come out at fourteen?

Willow locked herself in a stall, and sat numbly on the toilet seat. She kept expecting tears, but none came; maybe she had cried herself dry over the past few months. While she didn't resent Tara's desire to make new friends and develop a social circle of her own, why did it have to be with people like that, those snotty, superficial types who dismissed Willow as a stupid little twit?

I need to talk to her about this, she thought wretchedly. This is really getting out of hand.

She took a few deep breaths, then left the bathroom stall. Back out on the dance floor, she gazed wistfully about the club, thinking back to Tara's twentieth birthday party the previous November. Had it really only been ten months ago?

(v)

Spike sat glumly at the bar, staring morosely into his beer, as he'd done practically every night since Buffy's death. It felt like the center had gone right out of his existence, even more so than when Dru had left him. He had no interest any more in anything: he only yearned for the oblivion of alcohol.

He smelled perfume and a musky female scent—familiar, and yet unfamiliar. A hand pressed a crumpled bill into his.

"Buy for me," she murmured.

"What?" He stared in amazement at Red's ladylove, the blonde witch, Tara.

"Bacardi and Coke," she said, slipping back into the crowd.

His curiosity piqued, Spike did as she asked. When the bartender turned to the other customers, Spike hopped off the stool, and gave the drink to Tara.

"You've grown up a bit, Peaches," he said casually.

She snorted, taking a long swallow of the cocktail. Her gaze never left his.

"Any special reason?"

"Let's say I'm turning over a new leaf," she answered, her eyes narrow.

"Does Red approve of all… this?" The wave of his hand encompassed her clothes, demeanor, and the illegal beverage in her hand.

"Her approval isn't something I worry about."

Spike chuckled genuinely for the first time in weeks. This should be bloody well interesting, he mused. Red gets dumped again. She just can't hang on to a lover, can she? Boy or girl, sooner or later, they all start wanting something a little less vanilla.

Tara touched his chest. "Don't put your lights out."

"What?"

"Later. I might be up for some company." And she melted back into the crowd.

(vi)

"So dear to me

Always keep me company

Who needs to go outside?

I will be your silent bride

I can't take my eyes off you…"

The song fell on Willow's ears like a balm, a blessing. It was Melanie Doane, the ballad she and Tara had claimed as their own on the night of Tara's birthday party.

And there was Tara herself, alone, without any of her spurious new "friends." Their eyes met and held. Willow felt a rush of affection and relief. They would slow dance and murmur words of love in each other's ears. After a romantic evening together, they'd talk things over in the morning. And everything would be all right between them again.

"Nothing ever needs to be said

You send your message right into my head

You fill me up when I'm alone

So soothing is your monotone

I can't take my eyes off you…"

Willow walked toward her lover, holding out one hand. "I think this is our dance," she smiled.

Tara smiled back, walking toward her…

…and kept right on walking.

"Hey, Tara," said a male voice behind Willow.

"Hey, Mitch," Tara responded.

Willow spun around, feeling like her heart had been ripped right open. It was the guy from the gym, the good-looking trainer who had gotten Tara started lifting weights.

"Wanna shoot some pool?" he invited, pointedly ignoring Willow.

"Sure… if you have a stick I can use."

"I think we can find one." He put a hand on the small of her back, and they sauntered off together to the pool tables.

Tara didn't look back.

"So maybe you're not as real as the others

But I choose you over all my past lovers

They've come and they've gone

But I can always turn you on

I can't take my eyes off you

I can't take my eyes off you…"

Blindly, Willow fled from the Bronze, almost colliding with a couple coming in. She couldn't bear the thought of returning to the empty bed in the empty house, so she ran back to her parents' house. There, she climbed into her old bed, and cried herself to sleep.

(vii)

"No! For the bloody last time, I'm not going!"

"Why?" Harmony wailed. "Spike, there is nothing left for you here—the Slayer's dead, so why don't you just get over it already! Move somewhere else, get a real un-life again!"

"Let's get something straight," Spike said slowly and carefully through his teeth. "I do not want to go anywhere with you. You are the single most annoying bitch on the face of this earth—"

Tears spilled out of Harmony's cerulean eyes. "Spike," she bawled, "that is so mean—and so unfair—I'm the only woman who ever loved you—more than Druscilla—more than stupid old Buffy—and—"

Harmony broke off, her eyes wide. Her mouth moved comically, but no words emerged. Then she skeletonized in mid-air, and an instant later, her dust landed on the floor of Spike's crypt, along with the wooden stake that had slain her.

"Aren't you gonna say 'thank you?'"

Spike stared as Tara came down the stairs, her footfalls slow and deliberate. She gazed about the crypt with scornful eyes. "What is it with the underground digs? Seems like every guy in Sunnydale isn't happy 'till he's buried himself underground."

The vampire folded his arms. "Well, where do you suggest I hang my hat, Peaches? I can't exactly live above the bloody ground, now, can I? You know, vampires and sunlight aren't really a happening thing."

"You could if you wanted to. All it takes is willpower." She stood before him, her cool eyes a challenge.

"Why'd you stake Harmony?"

"Like there was a reason not to?"

He grinned slowly. "You've got a point there." Then he reached out, grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her toward him, and kissed her roughly. To his shock and pleasure, she snaked her arms around him with an amazingly strong grip, took hold of his backside, and pulled his pelvis into hers. She kissed him back hard, their tongues wrestling wildly.

Spike broke off the contact abruptly, and stared deep into Tara's eyes. Then he threw back his head, roaring with laughter. Tapping her on the nose, he said, "Something tells me that Witchy-poo is not at home."

Tara put her hands on his chest, and shoved. Spike went flying backward, landing in his bed. She took a long, springing jump, and landed on top of him, straddling his hips with her legs.

"You got that right, dude."

Chapter 5

After an hour, the silence got to Xander. The shop was empty, so he strolled over to the beanbag chairs, and dropped down opposite Willow.

"Penny for your thoughts, or has inflation caused a price hike?"

She looked up at him through bleary eyes, her face dull with misery. Even the glow of her hair seemed diminished.

"They aren't worth a wooden nickel," she responded.

"Tara problems?" Xander ventured softly.

In a lifeless voice, Willow said, "I think she wants guys, now."

Xander had had that impression for a couple of weeks, but he knew that a wise man takes no part in lovers' quarrels. If Willow patched things up with Tara, his opinions would only be held against him.

"Yeah," he said neutrally.

"Why?" Willow's eyes were so full of pain it made him wince. "Xander—she's never liked men—not—you know, not that way."

Xander pointed out, "You never liked women 'that way' until you met her."

"That was different," Willow protested.

"How?" Xander argued.

"She told me—she said she always knew…"

"Will—up until, oh, about a year and change ago, you'd have said you always knew." At her expression, Xander added, "Look, for most of her life, Tara wasn't exactly up to her eyeballs in positive male role models. Maybe since then she's seen we're not all the creepoids she thought we were."

"She's gay, I know she is," Willow maintained stubbornly.

"Until you met her, we thought we 'knew' you were straight." Xander gave her a slightly comical expression. "And I'm speakin' from firsthand experience, here."

"Because I was!" Willow burst out. "I didn't 'turn gay,' Xander! I fell in love with her. It's her! I wouldn't have fallen for just any woman!"

Xander folded his arms. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, "So, it's okay for you to maybe try something new, but it's not okay for her?"

Willow opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked down at her hands.

"It's not just what she's doing—it's how she's doing it."

"Ah," said Xander. "Which is a whole 'nother kettle of fish."

"It's like she's going out of her way to be as… as hurtful as possible."

"Yeah, I've noticed she's not exactly a paragon of niceness lately."

"She's flirting with guys in a—a 'rub it in your face' kind of way."

"Oh, you noticed?"

Anya had come into the shop with their lunches. She handed the paper bags around, kindly advising Willow, "Eat… it won't make you feel better, but it'll make you feel full."

Willow tried nibbling on a sandwich. Anya continued, "I'd curse her if I still had my powers. I didn't usually punish women, but sometimes a lesbian couple would—"

"Stop it!" Willow flared. "It's not like she's—she's cheated on me, or something—"

"Don't be too sure of that," Anya retorted bluntly.

"I—" Willow faltered.

"You should ditch her," Anya went on. "Find someone else."

"You mean a male someone else?" Willow burst out. "Oh, wouldn't that be so easy for everyone—no more putting up with Willow the fag! While I'm at it, why don't I stop being Jewish, too?"

"Will!" said Xander angrily. "Can we keep the PC soapboxing out of this, please?" He shot a warning look at Anya.

The three sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. Then Anya ventured, "She's been stealing money."

"No, she hasn't!" Willow shot back.

"We cash out fifty or a hundred dollars short every time she works here," Anya said. "By the way, she's skipped her last three shifts, and we cashed out fine. I don't think it's a coincidence." She bit into a pickle. "And she's giving bogus Tarot readings."

"She wouldn't do that! Tara keeps the strictest ethical codes—"

"I overheard her, and she was making up the meanings of the cards as she went along," Anya interrupted. "It's mostly girls, and she tells them all the same things: your friends secretly hate you; your boyfriend's cheating on you; you're gonna wake up tomorrow with a raging case of zits. But once it was a guy, and she went on and on about how he was gonna meet a beautiful, mysterious blonde woman, and how it would change his life forever."

"Tara would not do that!"

Xander put in soberly, "I wouldn'tve believed it if I hadn't overheard it, too."

Willow swallowed hard. The poor thing looked like her world was collapsing around her. First Oz, now this. Xander didn't know what to make of the changes in Tara—they seemed so unlikely. But, he reflected, they really didn't know much about her to begin with. Frankly, Xander thought that anyone who grew up in a family of religious nutcases must be at least a little unstable.

"What… what should I do?" Willow's lower lip quavered.

Xander exhaled. "You need to talk to her, Will."

"Giver her an ultimatum," Anya suggested. "Tell her to quit the Shannen Doherty crap, or you'll walk."

Trying to be more kind, Xander added, "Look, just be straight with her." He caught himself. "I mean, not straight straight… just… straight."

Willow looked miserable. Softly, she said, "Yeah."

(ii)

Daylight filtered in around the edges of the crypt's grates, telling Spike that dawn had broken. He rolled over onto his side, and disconcertingly came face to face with Tara, who lay propped on one arm. Clearly, she had been awake and watching him for a while.

"Morning, Peaches," he said, yawning and stretching. This was an entertaining turn of events, to say the least. She'd been his bedmate for four nights now, and he had to admit, she gave even Druscilla a run for her money. More amazingly, Tara had been able to take his mind off Summers for a spell. He didn't see this as anything long-term, but in the meantime, it amused him. He couldn't quite figure out what Witchy-poo wanted, but he got the feeling she was waiting for something.

"Morning, lover," she responded in that curiously uninflected voice of hers. She pushed him onto his back, and Spike grunted with pleasure. Peaches had a decided flair for kink, and she liked being on top. He kept his eyes half-open as she rode him, so that he could watch her tits jiggle up and down. She was so strong, he could almost imagine it was Summers, especially when she raked her long fingernails down his chest. He squinted, and she became more blurry; as Spike approached orgasm, he closed his eyes completely to heighten the fantasy that it was really the Slayer on top of him. Peaches was moaning loudly, so he failed to hear the stealthy noise of her hand slipping under the pillow. He thrashed and groaned as he climaxed, completely oblivious to the sharp wooden stake that plunged down into his heart.

Ten minutes later, Tara left the crypt, Spike's leather duster tossed casually about her shoulders.

(iii)

Willow stared at the house as twilight thickened, reluctantly dragging her feet up the front steps. After the heart-to-heart with Xander, she had put off this confrontation all day, but now the hour of truth had come.

She tried to steel herself for the worst. Intellectually, she knew there was little point in clinging to a lover who had already begun searching elsewhere. Emotionally, she knew how gut-ripping it would be to lose yet another part of herself, and she wanted to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

The front door was unlocked. A sweet stench hit Willow's nose, and she hurried into the kitchen. Aghast, she stared at the heaps of dirty dishes, the food-encrusted pots and pans, the greasy take-out containers, all of it spoiled and rancid.

Angrily, Willow stormed into the living room, expecting to find Tara. Instead, she found a litter of paper surrounding the grand piano. Tara had started to convert the room into a small recording studio: pieces of electronic equipment covered the floor, connected by yards of tangled wires. A jumble of magazines and pulp romance novels rendered the couches and chairs almost invisible.

Swallowing back a rising swell of dread, Willow went to the piano and picked up a random sheet of paper. The top read "Unsaid Warning." Musical notations covered it, as well as lyrics written in a strong, slashing script, completely unlike Tara's small, cramped handwriting.

And now you say there's a devil flying through your head

And it looks like me

But you took my hand, you took my heart, bound my life, and bled my dream

So sure I'll be that devil flying through your head

I'll gladly be that devil ripping through your head…

Disturbed, Willow tossed the paper aside, and picked up another piece, this one titled "Girlflesh."

If I were you, I wouldn't take my time

If I were you, I wouldn't close my eyes

If I were you, I'd listen to her words

If I were you, I wouldn't sit content, well-fucked, and warm

Girlflesh…

Disgusted, she dropped the paper onto the floor. Vile! Is that how Tara thinks of me? she wondered in despair. 'Content, well-fucked, and warm?' Anger carried her up the stairs. Time to put an end to this gamesmanship.

Outside the guestroom, she paused. The door stood slightly ajar, and she heard the quiet sounds of Tara moaning—low, sexual moans. Who was she with? Tears scalded Willow's eyes. Then she realized she didn't hear any other voices. Tara was alone.

Silently, she pushed open the door, confronting a sight somehow worse than Tara with someone else. She lay sprawled on her back in the double bed, legs spread wide apart, masturbating with an enormous, lifelike dildo.

Willow watched for a long moment of revulsion, then said, "Tara, what are you doing?"

The eyes opened to cold blue slits, regarding Willow with a vulture-like gaze. In a voice bloated with lust, Tara said, "Come and join me."

"No!" Willow strode over to the bedside. "Tara, this—this is obscene! Give me that! It's—you're disgusting!"

She started to grab the dildo, but Tara's hand locked around her wrist like a manacle. She yanked Willow down on top of her, then flipped over, pinning her to the mattress.

"Isn't this what you want?" Tara's sweaty face leered into Willow's. "Some nice, pretty, safe, vanilla girl-fucking?" Willow tried to break away, but Tara was shockingly strong. She held both Willow's wrists in one hand and the dildo in the other, and she forced Willow's thighs apart with her knees. "Can't take a cock any more, huh?"

With a tremendous flexing of both mind and muscle, Willow threw Tara off her. The dildo went flying. Tara looked shocked. An instant later, Willow slapped her straight across the face, harder than she'd ever struck anything in her life. The noise sounded like a leather whip snapping.

Tara's mouth worked. Then her face broke, and she began to wail horribly, like a wounded animal.

"W-W-W-Willow!" she sobbed, shaking so violently that she seemed on the verge of shattering into a thousand pieces. "H-h-h-h-help me! Sh-sh-she's always in m-m-my h-head—w-w-wants to k-kill you!"

"Who?" said Willow frantically. "Here—I'll help you—oh, God, Tara!" She pulled the sheet off the mattress, and wrapped it around Tara's shoulders.

"H-h-h-help m-m-me!"

"Will! What's going on?"

"Xander! What are you doing here?" Willow became aware then that she was crying, tears pouring down her face. She had to yell over the sound of her girlfriend's incoherent moans.

"Just a hunch," he said, scrabbling around to find some of Tara's clothes. With a startled expression, he held up Spike's leather duster. "What's this doing here?"

Tara just cried harder.

Her voice shaking, Willow said, "Let's get her to the shop."

(iv)

"What'd you give her?" she asked anxiously.

Giles set aside the empty syringe. "Just a little Valium, enough to make her relax, but not put her to sleep."

They were out back in the gym. Anya watched the front of the store. Xander paced, quietly observing as Willow prepared to read her lover.

"You up for this, Will?"

"I have to. It's the only way we're gonna find out what's wrong with her."

"What exactly did she say?" asked Giles. "Could you get anything out of her?"

"That someone was in her head, someone who wants to… kill me."

"Xander, what made you think something… out of the ordinary might be wrong?"

Xander held up one finger. "Anya said she hadn't seen such a personality change since Faith took over Buffy's body. That got me thinking." He held up a second finger. "Tara mentioned something—something I, uh, dreamed once, and never told anyone about. It was like she read my mind." A third finger. "This is Sunnydale."

"It's Glory," Willow said in a low voice. "I know it is. There's still part of her left in Tara."

Sitting in a large, comfortable chair, Tara looked wretched. "I-I-I-I d-d-d-didn't—" she attempted.

"Shh," Willow admonished. "Don't try to talk. We'll figure out what's wrong."

Tara lapsed into silence. The situation had her so rattled that she could barely speak one word without stuttering.

Giles checked the condition of her pupils, then said to Willow, "She's ready."

Willow took a seat opposite her girlfriend. "Here goes nothing," she said. Xander and Giles drew back. Willow took several deep breaths to steady herself, then looked straight into Tara's eyes. In her drugged state, Tara didn't resist, and Willow fell immediately into the swirling vortex—

—and emerged on the other side, in Tara's consciousness. She looked around in astonishment. She had fully expected to confront Glory, or some similarly horrible apparition. Instead, she found herself back in Tara's old dormitory.

"Here again?" The curtains were drawn. Nothing in the room had changed. Miss Kitty was a kitten once more, scampering about on the carpet. Tara was her old self, her hair long, her body round and plump. Willow was painting her back again, this time with musical notes instead of Greek love poetry.

"Why here?" Willow murmured, dabbing her brush in the black ink.

"Why do you think?" asked Tara.

"I don't—I don't really know," Willow faltered.

"I think you do."

"Maybe—maybe because I always felt safe here." She gazed yearningly at the comfortable, familiar things: Tara's bed and belongings, her magical tools, Miss Kitty playing with a ball of yarn.

"Safe from what?"

"I—just safe."

Tara looked back over her shoulder at Willow, eyes solemn. "I think you know." She nodded toward the window.

"No."

"I think you should."

"I don't want to," Willow protested desperately. "Can't it just be the two of us, together?"

"You won't be able to help me unless you can face what's out there," observed Tara sagely.

Reluctantly, Willow set aside the paint brush and ink bottle. She went to the window, dread welling up inside her. Cautiously, she drew back the curtain. Instead of the usual view from Tara's window, she saw a residential street, lit by the flinty light of a November morning. She heard an engine rumble, and watched as the back of Oz's van disappeared down the street.

The pain was as intense as it had been when he first left. Willow let the curtain drop, and turned back to Tara, sobbing.

"Why? Why'd you make me do that?"

"You had to see."

"See what? That I'm afraid of losing the people I love?" Willow took up her paintbrush again. "What's the next therapy, Doctor Freud? Buffy's funeral?" Her tears splashed down onto Tara's back.

"You had to see that this is why you feel safe with me. That's what I am to you, Willow. A refuge. A safe haven."

"You are not! I love you!"

"I had no friends when we met. Nobody. I was completely isolated, hanging out with those ridiculous bake sale Wiccans for company. You loved me because I was so grateful for a friend—let alone a lover—that you knew I'd never betray you, never reject you, never abandon you."

"That's not true, Tara!"

"You loved me because I was weak. You need me to be weak in order for you to be strong."

"Stop it!" Willow cried out, painting fast and furious, the notes flying from her brush. "I love you! You're—you're special, you—"

"You love me, but you love what I represent more: someone who needs you, someone who depends on you completely for everything: love, companionship, acceptance, friends. Poor stammering, stuttering, socially inept Tara. Without Willow, she'd be nothing. My universe revolves around you."

"That's a lie!" Willow sobbed. "Tara, stop it—I love you, I need you—why are you doing this?"

"Because you have to see."

"I can see—I can—" Willow looked down at her handiwork. "What is this, anyway?"

"Press 'play,'" Tara suggested, and Willow placed her hand over the G clef on Tara's left shoulder blade. Slow, steady piano chords, propelled forward by a solemn bass, filled Willow's ears. Tori Amos, again.

"Yellow bird flying gets shot in the wing

Good year for hunters, and Christmas parties

And I hate, and I hate, and I hate:

Elevator music, the way we fight,

The way I left here, silent…"

Tara got up off the bed, and began walking toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Willow asked.

Tara didn't look back.

"Wait—Tara!"

As Willow watched, her girlfriend disappeared through the door like a ghost. Willow ran after her, crying out for her to stop. She tried the handle, but the door refused to open. Then she saw a weird symbol painted in red on the wood. She touched the mark, and her hand came away sticky with blood.

Chapter 6

With a gasp, Willow returned to her body. "Paper," she said urgently, wiping tears from her face. Xander hastened out front. She went and kissed Tara's head. "I'll help you," she promised. "I'll get you back. I did it before. I'll do it again."

"Could you see what the trouble is?" Giles asked.

"Not really—it was mostly her talking about me—about us." She flushed with shame.

"I'm sorry, Willow. I know this is difficult…"

Xander returned with paper and a pen. Quickly, Willow sketched the symbol she'd seen.

"Hmm. Well, we have some research ahead of us, don't we? Xander—why don't you take Tara back to your apartment? Let her sleep. You stay there, and keep an eye on her." The two men gently hoisted up Tara, and got her out to the front of the shop, Giles carrying a black medical bag in his free hand. He followed Xander and Tara out to Xander's car, returning a few minutes later. Willow was already up in the loft, digging through books.

"Come down," Giles called. Surprised, Willow descended the ladder. He was giving instructions to Anya, rattling off a list of items for her to collect. "Take care with the shark's teeth—grind them to a very fine powder."

"Why?" asked Willow. "Why shark's teeth?"

Giles peered out the front window. "I wanted to make sure Xander got her away, so that she won't hear this. I gave her more Valium, enough to make her sleep, and Xander will give her sedatives if she needs them." He started to rummage through one of the bookshelves.

Willow watched as Anya hurried about, gathering herbs, a grim look on her face. She jolted when Giles handed his assistant three strands of fine, blonde hair. "Don't forget these."

"Giles, what's wrong?" said Willow. "Why do you need Tara's hair?"

He began to clean his glasses. "She's under the control of a Q'Reschi demon."

"A what?"

"This mark." He waved the paper. "It's the sigil of the Q'Reschi. They're—they're like the deal-makers of the demon world." He muttered, "Now, where is that book…?"

"They deal with the dead," Anya provided, grinding something with a mortar and pestle.

"People who died by violence," Giles explained. "Often, their spirits can't pass to the next world, and they're trapped, neither here nor there. The Q'Reschi make bargains with these spirits, offering them a chance to return to this world."

"In someone else's body," Anya clarified.

"Yes, the demon allows vengeful spirits to enter the bodies of living people, so that the spirits can seek retribution against whoever killed them. Gradually, the host body comes to take on the traits of the possessing spirit—"

"Which explains Tara's personality change," Willow murmured.

"Exactly. It takes thirty-five days—or more precisely, five sets of seven days; those are powerful magical numbers—for the ghost to completely take possession of the host body. On the thirty-fifth day, the ghost must kill someone—a sacrifice for the Q'Reschi demon—in order for the transformation to be complete."

"Complete?" Willow asked fearfully.

"Yes—the soul of the host body departs, and the new consciousness takes over fully." Giles climbed up into the loft. "Until the sacrifice is made, the invading ghost can be exorcised through a fairly simple ritual. Aah—got it!" He tossed a book down to Willow and descended the ladder. "Anya, did you remember to add St. John's Wort to those shark's teeth?"

"Of course!" She looked mildly insulted.

"Right now, we're going to charge a crystal that will lead us to the resting place of the person's body." Giles hesitated. "In order for the Q'Reschi to do its work, Tara would have needed to get fairly close to the… to the corpse. Has she been… hanging around cemeteries in the past month?"

"I don't know," Willow answered in a small voice.

"She also would have needed to be unconscious for the transference to take place. Did she have an accident or a fainting spell, something like that, where she was knocked out?"

Willow's eyes went wide. "She fell off her bike a few weeks ago." Something occurred to her. "Oh, God—that's when she started acting so weird—"

"Can you remember exactly when this happened? It would help us a lot."

Willow had already gone over to the wall calendar. She flipped back from August into July. "Our dance class started here… so it was right here. Monday night."

Swiftly, Giles counted days. As he did, sweat popped out on his forehead. "Tomorrow's the thirty-fifth day," he said quietly. "She'll need to make the sacrifice between sunup and sundown tomorrow."

Suddenly Willow asked, "Why do we need to find the body?"

"We need part of it." Anya wrinkled her nose.

"Only a small piece," Giles assured Willow. "Xander and I can… handle that part. We only need some hair, or…"

Anya looked at the clock. "The crystal won't be ready for twelve hours. It'll be nine tomorrow morning. Not the best time to go digging up cemeteries."

"The body might not be buried in a graveyard," Giles pointed out.

"Like Xander said, 'this is Sunnydale,'" Willow sighed.

"We'll keep Tara sedated so she won't be able to hurt anyone," said Giles. "We'll take the things for the exorcism to Xander's apartment, and perform the ritual there." He handed the book to Anya. "Take what we need home with you tonight, and get everything ready." She nodded. "We'll do the ritual as soon as we locate the body. Willow, you've done all you can. Why don't you get some rest? I'll drive you home."

"Thanks, Giles," Willow responded. Something must have shown in her face, because the Watcher gave her a quick, reassuring hug before gently steering her out to his car.

(ii)

Twelve hours to kill. She knew she'd never be able to sleep, so Willow decided to clean the house. God knew, the place needed it.

She started in the bedroom, cleaning up after Tara. She stripped and made the bed, straightened the clutter, sorted laundry, and put things in order. As she worked, Willow became fully aware of just how much new stuff her partner had acquired over the past weeks.

On an impulse, she looked in Tara's chic little handbag. There, she found one answer: several hundred dollars in cash. Disturbed, Willow set the bag aside, and kept cleaning. She didn't want to think of how Tara might have come by that money, which might give credence to Anya's accusation. With an embarrassed blush, she threw away the dildo. Finally, she scrubbed out the bathroom.

It took her the better part of two hours to clean the filthy kitchen, and another hour to straighten out the living room. Exhausted, she took a break at two AM for a snack. Determined to keep going after that, she gathered up the dirty linens and went down to the basement to wash the laundry.

The basement reeked, so Willow dumped out the cat's litter box, thinking that must be the culprit. Suddenly, she wondered about the animal, which had shown neither hide nor hair of herself all evening.

"Kitty," Willow called, clicking her tongue. "Where are you, honey?" She hoped that Tara hadn't tossed the poor thing outside and left her there. Willow searched the basement, calling for the cat, her heart beating uneasily.

She'd almost given up, when she thought of the storage closet, where Miss Kitty sometimes liked to prowl around, or curl up and sleep in a cardboard box on the floor. "Kitty!" The closet door stood ajar, and Willow pulled it open.

She screamed. Miss Kitty Fantastico hung by a noose from the metal rail. From the smell, Willow knew the animal had probably been dead for two or three days. She ran for the half-bathroom, where she was violently sick to her stomach.

(iii)

When she finally got the vomiting and her tears and her trembling under control, Willow forced herself to cut down the small corpse, and slip it into a plastic trash bag. She found a shovel, and outside, she buried the cat beneath a rhododendron bush in the garden, light from the nearly-full moon illuminating her work.

Afterwards, she went back inside to shower and clean up. It was almost five, and the sky had started to turn gray over the eastern foothills. Willow felt full of a leaden depression on one hand, and an unspeakable rage on the other. She worried horribly about poor Tara, and she burned with anger against the demon that had taken possession of her lover.

Not the demon, she realized, but whoever's ugly spirit the demon had allowed to re-enter the world through Tara's body. For the first time, Willow wondered who it might be; she had assumed it was Glory, but now she wasn't so sure. Given the rate of violent death in Sunnydale, there was no shortage of candidates. But Willow felt no sympathy for this particular victim. If this is how you were when you were alive, she thought, no wonder someone bumped you off.

She felt miserable, too, knowing how grief-stricken Tara would be when she came back to her senses, and realized that her beloved pet had died by her own hands.

(iv)

At eight, having eaten and showered, Willow decided to get some clean clothes and toiletries together for Tara to use after the exorcism ritual. She chose the least slutty-looking garments she could find: ordinary jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Uncomfortable about bringing Tara the purse with all that money, Willow located her girlfriend's old cloth shoulder bag on the closet floor. She dumped out the contents on the bed, and began to sort through things methodically, discarding the trash.

She almost tossed out a small, yellowish curl of paper, but a phone number written on it made her pause. When Willow got a better look, she sat down on the bed, stumped. She hadn't seen this number in nearly two years, but she recognized it immediately: the number at the house Oz had shared with the other Dingoes.

Why on earth would Tara have Oz's old phone number? He'd left town weeks before she and Willow even met—certainly, she would never have had occasion to call him. The other guys weren't living there now: Devon had flunked out after a year at UCS, and the Dingoes had disbanded. Puzzled, Willow turned over the curl of paper, and read the words printed there:

M.E. Johanssen

157 Miles Mason Crescent

Santa Luna, CA

Another mystery—who the hell was M.E. Johanssen? Then Willow remembered Tara's brief curiosity about Santa Luna. And when she looked down, she saw a map of Sunnydale and its surrounding communities lying among the detritus from Tara's handbag.

(v)

"How's she doing?" Willow asked Xander as soon as he walked in the door.

"Okay. She's asleep. Anya's staying with her." Xander held a shovel, which he rested against the counter.

"All right, the crystal's ready to go." Giles emerged from out back, a small crystal ball in his hand. It pulsed slowly with a deep blue light. He explained to Willow and Xander, "The closer we get to the body, the more yellow will appear in the light, and we'll know we've found it when the light turns green and the pulse is steady."

"How exactly do we do this—drive around in circles?" Xander queried, picking up his shovel again.

"More or less," Giles replied. He gestured Willow and Xander out of the shop, then locked the door behind them, making sure the "closed" sign faced out. They got into his convertible. Giles drove; Willow rode in front, holding the crystal. Xander took the back seat.

Giles drove slowly around the block at first. Willow watched the crystal. As they turned northeast, the steady blue pulse quickened slightly, and tiny streaks of yellow appeared.

"This way."

They headed east. Willow kept an eye open for graveyards or other obvious burial sites.

The road ended. "Left or right?" Giles inquired.

"Oh, try right," she suggested.

She knew immediately that was a mistake: the pulse slowed, and the yellow faded back to blue.

"Other way. Sorry!"

Giles found a parking lot, turned around, and headed back in the opposite direction. The yellow streaks again mixed in with the blue light.

"Okay." Willow stared tensely at the ball. When the road forked, she suggested, "Left?"

That seemed to be a good choice: more yellow streaks appeared, and the speed of the light's pulse increased again.

"East," Giles mused. "The body's somewhere to the east."

"We're heading out of town," Xander observed, and sure enough, the road took them past the Sunnydale town limits. They drove through residential areas, which eventually gave way to an industrial park. Beyond that lay the undeveloped scrubland, reaching into the foothills of the mountains.

Behind Willow, Xander swore softly.

"What is it?" Giles asked.

"Just an unpleasant thought crossing my mind," he said grimly.

"We're doing good," Willow said, trying to take one thing at a time and not get her hopes too high. The yellow streaks had begun bleeding together, turning the indigo light a sort of blue-green. "We're still going the right way."

A fork in the road lay ahead. Xander pointed. "Giles, go right."

The Englishman took the right fork. Immediately, the green cast intensified in the crystal ball.

Xander groaned. "Oh, God. Tell me this isn't happening."

"What?" said Willow frantically, a knot of fear clenching in her stomach. "Xander, do you know…?"

"I'm hopin' I'm wrong," he responded.

"I must admit to some surprise," Giles remarked. "I really thought it would turn out to be Ben." Guilt and relief mingled in his voice.

"That way," said Xander, pointing right again.

"Into the foothills?" Giles asked.

"Yeah."

The small car followed the road as it wound up into the hills. Soon, they were riding beneath a canopy of oak and pine trees. Signs denoted hiking and biking trails.

"Left," said Xander. The convertible rattled onto a dirt road that led uphill. "About a mile ahead—up there."

Willow stared at the crystal ball. The blue light had become completely infused with yellow, and the pulse was so quick that it almost could not be discerned. When Xander told Giles to stop, the light had resolved to a perfectly steady green radiance.

Xander had already leaped from the car, shovel in hand, and was plunging into the trees. Exchanging a worried glance, Willow and Giles followed. Suddenly, the Watcher started, whispering, "Oh, God!" as if realizing something. He took off at a faster clip, Willow on his heels.

"What, what? What are you oh-Goding about?"

From up ahead, they heard Xander's voice. "Dammit all!"

A narrow, winding path took Giles and Willow down into a ravine. Xander stood at one end of it, sweating and cursing.

"It's gone?" asked Giles. Xander pointed to a dark patch of overturned earth.

"Nothing! Not even a fingernail! How'd she ever get that thing out of here?" Xander turned to Willow, his eyes full of pain. "Will—I'm so sorry. I should've known—I should've—" He threw the shovel to the ground in futility.

"What?" said Willow. "Xander—Giles—?"

The Englishman paced the burial site, hunkering down for a look. "Damn her," he whispered.

Xander said quietly, "Will, I'm sorry. It's—this is where I buried Veruca."

Chapter 7

"What—what?" The ground felt suddenly unstable beneath Willow's feet. "Giles—how could she—her body's gone?"

The Watcher was already heading back out of the ravine. "The crystal would only track the body to its location where the contact with Tara was made. The Q'Reschi demon must've anticipated this, and told Tara—Veruca—to move it."

"We can't exorcise her if we can't find the body?" Willow asked desperately.

"All we'd need is a—a single tooth or claw, a tuft of fur," Giles explained. "But she got in there and dug out the whole burial site. There's not a trace left."

"About two weeks ago, I got home and found her boots on the porch," Willow recalled. "They were all muddy. Giles—is it really her? It's Veruca?" She shuddered. "She's—she's in Tara?"

"You probably don't remember much about that night," Giles said as they jumped back into his car. "I kept Oz locked up in my basement until the dart wore off the next morning. Buffy was with you; you were distraught."

"Yeah," she whispered. "I know."

"I was on body-dumping detail," Xander said. "Buffy asked me to. So this is where I brought it." He glanced at Willow. "She was still in werewolf form. We couldn't exactly drop her at the town morgue. "

"It's my fault," said Giles, distracted. Gravel flew under the car's wheels as he steered the car back toward the main road. "We should have buried her with silver—then her spirit wouldn't have been able to…" he trailed off. "Willow, I'm so sorry."

"Don't," she said. "How could you know?"

"Whadda we do now?" Xander asked, his face taut.

"We'll have to use a truth spell on Tara, get her to tell us where she hid the body," said Giles. They rolled out of the foothills, and he accelerated toward Sunnydale. "We need to perform that exorcism before she kills someone."

"What happens if she doesn't?" Willow asked fearfully. "You said she has 'till sundown. Will Veruca's ghost… leave her then?"

"Yes," Giles said tersely. "But unfortunately, the Q'Reschi demon will take Tara's life as a compensation if Veruca doesn't find it a sacrifice."

"No!" Willow was aghast.

"Floor it, Giles," said Xander, and the convertible shot down the road.

(ii)

She woke up abruptly, the familiar presence in her mind prodding her toward awareness. It wasn't a voice, just a nameless impulse that told her without words what she needed to do.

The room spun around her. Xander and Giles—miserable pricks, the pair of them—had stuffed her full of enough drugs to tranquilize an elephant. She knew she had been foolish to provoke Willow, especially with victory so close at hand, but she had never dreamed that the spineless little pussy could overpower her, nor that Tara's spirit would chose that moment to re-assert itself. But the formless thing that had allowed her access to Tara's body would not be so easily thwarted.

Immediately, she knew they were coming for her. She knew she had to kill, or else be thrust back into that shadowy netherworld, where even now, Tara lurked. She thought of the immeasurable span she'd spent there—eighteen months in real-world time—alone with her anger and lust and frustration. She had never feared anything in her life, but now she dreaded even the possibility of returning to that place. The demon would not, she felt certain, give her a second chance if she failed. The price it asked in exchange for returning her fully to life was trivial. It wasn't as though Veruca had never killed before.

She stood up, and walked on unsteady legs from the living room to the kitchen, where she found a knife. Anya, that good-for-nothing bitch, was in the shower. Slicing her up in there would be cool—straight out of Psycho. But Anya had locked the bathroom door.

Find someone else. A spell of dizziness nearly caused Veruca to fall over. A carafe of tepid coffee sat in a Krupps coffeemaker on the counter; she swallowed the brew straight down, black. It was bitter and stale, but it helped clear the fog in her mind.

She found Tara's sneakers, and wedged her feet into them. Anya's keys lay on the table. Veruca stuck them in the pocket of her sweatpants, and made her unsteady way out of the apartment.

As she walked toward the Magic Box, her head stopped spinning, and she took deep breaths to get more oxygen into her bloodstream. She rejected one potential victim after another: this one too strong, that one moving too quickly, others in plain view of witnesses. By the time she reached the shop, Veruca felt alert and strong. She'd only need to hang out the "open" sign, and wait—

A slight, dark-haired figure stood in front of the building, her posture listless. Then she turned her head and smiled at Veruca, her blue eyes wide with pleasure and surprise.

"Tara!" she called, and sprang over to hug the blonde woman. "I love your hair! I missed you guys so much! Are you okay? You look… spaceshot."

As gently as she could manage, Veruca disentangled herself from the adolescent. "Hey, Dawn. I'm getting over a bug. Everyone else is down with it. Anya asked me to open the shop."

"Oh! I was wondering what's up. I made Dad drop me off, then I saw nobody was here…" The girl prattled on as Veruca unlocked the door. "He went to the house… you know, he has to, like, clean the place out. We have to sell everything."

"Uh-huh." Veruca closed the shop door, and locked it. Oblivious, Dawn gazed around. "D'you think it'll hurt more to… keep some of Buffy's stuff, or… give it away?" she faltered.

Veruca put an arm around Dawn's shoulders. "You loved Buffy."

"Yeah… I did." Dawn's eyes welled up.

"You miss her?"

"God—every second!" the girl sobbed.

"So, join her!" Veruca whipped out the knife, and plunged it into Dawn's neck.

The teenager stared with a pathetically shocked expression as her life's blood gushed out, then she slowly crumpled to the floor, a great, red pool spreading around her.

A surge of strength coursed through Veruca's body. She heard the echo of an anguished wail as Tara's spirit hurtled toward the hereafter. Die, you pathetic cow! Veruca thought triumphantly. And to think, she almost got the better of me.

An instant later, she felt a glorious epiphany in her mind, better than Ecstasy, better than coke, better than speed—even better than the full moon singing in her lycanthropic blood. The formless demon was rejoicing.

—The Key—you have given me the Key!

—That's good? Veruca wondered.

—I shall be the ruler of all the dimensions of Hell! With the Key, I will reign supreme!

—Hey, that's great for you.

—Name your reward.

—I get more than a new body? Veruca thought, but she named her price immediately.

—I want my voice back.

—Done.

She felt a cool tingle at her throat, and knew her true voice had been restored. Figuring the meek inherit nothing, she added, And show me where he is.

A window opened in her mind, and she saw the object of her desire. At first, Veruca couldn't tell where he was, then she saw the logo on his t-shirt.

The window closed, but she knew immediately where to find him. She would go to him, and they would be together again. He was hers—he belonged to her—and this time, she wouldn't make any mistakes.

Outside, a car stopped. She heard the sound of voices and the shop door being unlocked. Swiftly, Veruca ascended the ladder into the loft, the bloodied knife still in her hand.

(iii)

"How'd she wake up?" Anya complained, running fingers through her tangled, wet curls. "We had her drugged, didn't we? And could we put the roof up? The wind's turning my hair into a giant frizz-ball. I don't usually go outside until—"

"Shut up!" Willow screamed at her. "Just shut up!"

"Anya, given the circumstances, we would appreciate it if you could, for once, think about someone besides yourself." Giles drove across Sunnydale as fast as the speed limit would allow.

Xander, wedged into the back seat beside Anya, tightened his arm around her shoulders. "A little appreciation at still being alive might also be in order."

Anya muttered, "Hmph!" The others had gotten back to Xander's apartment to find Tara gone, an empty coffee carafe on the counter, a knife and Anya's keys missing. Xander felt guilty for his relief that his fiancée was still alive, knowing what Willow must be thinking right now. If Veruca killed someone, Tara was dead, and the she-wolf bitch would have possession of her body.

Giles screeched to a halt in front of the Magic Box.

"Still says 'closed,'" Xander said, hopping out. Anya followed on his heels. Giles hurried to unlock the door, and they all piled into the shop.

Anya shrieked. Simultaneously, Xander swore, Giles gasped, and Willow cried out, "No!"

"Oh, Christ!" Trying not to step in the blood, Giles hunkered down beside Dawn's body. After a moment of stunned shock, Xander felt a vile, black rage course through him.

"That does it!" He stormed over to the weapons cabinet. Anya scrabbled for the phone, and called the police in a high-pitched, panicky voice. Willow just stood beside Dawn's body, weeping.

"This means—Tara's—"

"Willow, please. I know this is terrible, but we have to be calm," Giles admonished. "Veruca could still be in the area."

Xander handed the Englishman a wicked-looking axe. "Let's check out back," he said grimly.

They had taken two steps when they heard a soft thud, and the sound of Willow gasping.

"Don't move," said a hateful female voice, "or the bitch gets her throat slit."

Willow stood frozen, not daring to move. One of Tara's arms pinned hers, the other hand held a knife to her throat. Tara's arms, Veruca's hideously familiar voice, laced with gloating. The other three remained motionless in a tableaux: Xander and Giles with their weapons, Anya with one hand on the phone.

"Move." Veruca began dragging Willow back toward the open door.

"The police are coming," Anya said in a shrill voice. "They'll never let you get away!"

Veruca snorted with contempt, and pressed the knife into Willow's skin. A trickle of blood ran down. "Not with my little insurance policy they won't."

Willow focused every ounce of her energy and concentration. If Veruca succeeded in pulling her through that door, she was dead. The others couldn't help her. Only she could save herself.

She cleared everything from her mind, and brought into focus Tara's arms. Keeping her concentration absolutely steady, she thought, release.

Veruca made an inarticulate noise of rage as her arms opened out. The knife clattered to the floor. Instantly, Willow leaped away from her, kicking the weapon across the floor of the shop.

"Immobilus," she intoned, and Veruca froze, her face contorted into an infuriated expression. Swiftly, Giles and Xander came to stand at Willow's side.

"I told you before you don't know anything about me," she said to her nemesis, her calm voice at complete odds with the turmoil that roiled inside her.

With an ugly snort, the she-wolf said, "You're really gonna let poor, p-pathetic T-Tara take the rap? It's her prints on the knife, not mine."

Willow blanched. She hadn't thought of that.

"And it's too late for hocus-pocus. Xander's cocksucker already called the fuzz."

"Hey!" Anya shouted.

Willow didn't know what to do, and in that instant of confusion, her focus faltered. Veruca started to move, but Willow quickly stopped her.

"Keep your concentration," Giles breathed.

"What're we gonna do?" Xander asked desperately. Willow knew they didn't have many options or much time: she could hear faintly the sound of sirens.

Veruca began to laugh. "It's been a trip," she told Willow. "You know, you're the most boring fuck I've ever had? God, no wonder Oz walked out on you."

"Don't listen to her," said Giles. "Xander, find something to gag her."

"You're pathetic," Veruca went on, clearly relishing this moment of comeuppance. "A guy dumps you, and you're such a weakling, the first thing you do is hook up with a lame-ass loser like Tara. The two of you are so sticky-sweet it makes me puke!" Viciously, Veruca mimicked Willow's voice. "'Tara, let's hold hands! Let's "make magic!" Let's play with our pussy!'"

"Shut up!" Willow said through her clenched teeth. Xander had found a piece of cloth, and loped back across the floor. Willow had all she could do to maintain her control.

"You're not a woman," Veruca jeered. "Even if you got laid a million times, you'd still be a spineless little girl." Xander was a foot away; outside, the police sirens grew louder as the first cruisers approached. "You're nothing, Willow! Just a boring, useless, Jewish cunt!"

Something in Willow's mind popped, like a bright light. She heard a horrible screech as Veruca flew backwards through the open doorway, propelled by Willow's burst of uncontrollable telekinetic energy. The werewolf landed hard in the street. The next instant, the four in the shop heard an even more horrible noise as the first Sunnydale police cruiser came roaring around the corner at full speed. When the cop behind the wheel saw Veruca lying in the street, he tried to slam on the brakes and swerve, but he was too late.

(iv)

"Who's there?"

Patiently, Xander answered the suspicious voice. "It's me, Mrs. R."

"Oh." The door opened. "We've had a real problem with reporters. They won't leave us alone." She let him inside.

"Yeah, Sunnydale's finest."

Sheila confided, "I told Willow months ago that I didn't think it was a smart idea for her to be... going out with another girl. I didn't think anything would come of it but disappointment. And now, look what's happened."

Gently, Xander said, "Look, I knew Tara. What she did—it wasn't her. She wasn't in her right mind."

Sheila didn't look like she believed it. She said, "Willow's awake. I just brought her some lunch. Let me go see if she's up for company."

While she was gone, Xander examined the latest copy of the Sunnydale paper. As if everything that had happened wasn't bad enough, Tara had taken all the blame, posthumously, for Veruca's crimes. She had gone to her grave branded a murderer and a thief; her fingerprints had been found all over Veruca's parents' house. The police suspected Tara had stolen nearly $800 from the Johanssens' safe.

Once the newspapers learned that Tara had been a lesbian, a practicing Wiccan, and disowned by her family, they'd had a field day. Her mental state had become the object of endless scrutiny by amateur psychologists all over California. Op/ed pieces about the case had appeared in papers as far away as San Francisco. People seemed especially fascinated by Tara's apparent obsession with Veruca, to the point of completely co-opting the missing girl's identity.

One intrepid reporter had dug up Veruca's background, exposing her weird double life: an accomplished classical pianist by day—a prodigy, according to her parents (but kept out of selective colleges by her mediocre grades)—and a sexually promiscuous would-be technopunk tart after sunset. The Johanssens weren't even aware that their daughter had formed her own band. The six-song CD that Veruca (aka Mary Ellen) had recorded with Shy had garnered an overnight cult following, their music played endlessly on Sunnydale radio stations.

Two of her former bandmates told the reporter that Tara had been looking around their house ("casing the joint"), and a realtor who'd been showing the place confirmed that Tara had lingered in Veruca's bedroom. Veruca's bandmates believed she had run off with Oz, since they'd both vanished at the same time, so the reporter had tried to air the Osbornes' dirty laundry as well—unsuccessfully, and now Xander knew where Oz had come by his quiet integrity. But the two kids from Shy assumed Oz had dumped Willow for Veruca, making Tara's obsession with their absent lead singer all the more intriguing. Xander had a hard time mustering much anger toward the press: from their perspective, it made one hell of a story.

No, the saddest thing was that not only had Tara been murdered, her public memory would be forever tainted by Veruca's evil. Nothing could be done to clear her name.

Xander also grieved for Dawn, his last emotional link to Buffy—even if most of his memories of the girl were artificially constructed. Dawn and Tara weren't Veruca's only victims. Curious about why Tara had had Spike's coat in her possession, Xander had gone to the vampire's crypt, and had found the place empty. A stale scent of sex and sweat hung in the air; in a tangle of sheets on the bed, Xander discovered a wooden stake and a pile of ashes—the last earthly remnants of William the Bloody. He lacked the heart to tell Willow about this.

Just like before, Xander mused, Veruca had done an appalling amount of damage in a remarkably short period of time. And again, tragically, her actions had profoundly wounded Willow: first she'd stolen Oz, then she'd stolen Tara. The blackest dimension of Hell would be too kind for her.

Sheila returned to the kitchen. "You can go upstairs." Anxiously, she added, "See if you can get her to eat, all right?"

He could see why Sheila was worrying. Willow lay numbly on her bed, unmoving, expressionless, her face gaunt. He remembered her like this after Oz left and after Buffy died, but when those tragedies struck, Willow had gone through a spell of long crying jags before she got to the numb stage. Xander understood all too well that some grief was so intense it went beyond tears, but he worried that Willow had not allowed herself any catharsis or release.

"Will," he said gently. "Maybe you wanna eat some lunch? Your soup'll get cold."

"I'm not hungry."

"C'mon, your mother made this. She's worried about you."

Her gaze searched Xander's face, her eyes like those of a wounded animal.

"Why?"

"Well, you know, they say chicken soup—"

"Why does everyone I love leave me?"

Shocked, Xander sat with his mouth open.

"Oz left me. Buffy left me. Tara left me."

"Will… I'm still here. Xand the Man… your best bud, remember?"

Dully, she said, "You left me a long time ago, Xander."

Feeling helpless, he took her hand in his. Her fingers were terribly cold. Xander experienced a spasm of chagrin, and he wondered if he ought to rethink his policy of not interfering with his friends' romances. How differently might things have transpired if he'd had the courage to ask Oz, "Why are you staring at that girl?" Or if he'd told Buffy, "Riley doesn't think you love him." Or if he'd asked Willow, "What the hell's wrong with Tara?" How guilty was he?

"Will—I love you. We all do. Your mom's down there, worried sick about you. Giles has been dealin' with the cops and reporters and Mr. Summers and Tara's crazy-ass kinfolk; I know he's gonna get over here as soon as he can."

"He'll go back to England," she responded. "What's left for him here? He won't stay in Sunnydale because of me. I'm not a Slayer."

"Will—"

"Is what she said true?" Willow asked, her voice so small and broken that Xander wished he could bring Veruca back to life for the pleasure of killing her himself. "Am I really… boring and useless?"

"If you believe one word that craven, murdering bitch had to say, Will, I'm ashamed of you."

"Then why doesn't anyone love me? Why does everyone leave me?"

"Oz loved you. Wherever he is, I'll bet he still does. He just can't be with you now, 'cuz he wants you to be safe. Tara loved you, probably more than anything else in her sad little life. She was just… in the wrong place at the wrong time."

That seemed to offer Willow no comfort. So Xander continued, "Will, if you really want love—something that's gonna last—get out of Sunnydale. You should've left here after high school, anyway. Go to one of those colleges that were knocking themselves over tryin' to recruit you. You have more brains than the rest of us put together, and the biggest heart on this planet. You deserve better than spending your life around some stinking Hellmouth. Do it while you can, before all the crap here drags you down permanently."

"You really mean that, Xander?"

"You're way too good for this place, Will."

A ghost of a smile crossed her face, fleeting but reassuringly real, like the first glimpse of sunlight after a typhoon.

"C'mon, sit up," he coaxed, picking up the bowl and spoon on her nightstand. "Doctor Harris insists."

Epilogue

August, 2006

When the bells began ringing, Willow assumed the war was over. Heart in her mouth, she went to peer over the balcony railing down into the street. Disappointment scudded through her when she saw the rows of cars and the horse-drawn buggy in front of the church opposite the café. It was only a wedding.

She had been eating lunch and answering e-mail at her laptop—one of the new, ultra-thin variety, a gift from her parents for her last birthday. Rob had sent a message, and as Willow read it, her pulse quickened.

My dearest Willow,

I don't have much time to write, so I'll make this quick. A few months ago, I applied for a fellowship at Cornell for the year. The competition was keen, and they sent me a 'sorry' letter. I didn't tell you, because I hadn't wanted to get your hopes up. Well, yesterday afternoon, they called me back—their first pick bailed, and I'm their next choice. I've been running round since then to make arrangements, and I'll be in Ithaca when you get there.

Words can't express how thrilled I am, as I'd resigned myself to a year or more of email, phone calls, and maybe two weeks at the holidays. Of course, I haven't had a chance to find housing, so perhaps you wouldn't mind sharing quarters with a nonsmoking Limey post-doc?

Counting the minutes! I LOVE YOU!

Yours ever,

Rob

She had to re-read the message three times before it all sank in. Rob was coming to the States. They were going to be together.

It had been a long five years—years of struggling with personal loss and grief on one hand, and with the anxiety of living in a world at war on the other. All around, Willow could see the ubiquitous flags and yellow ribbons. A sign in a store window read, "Support our troops." Others said, "God bless America," and "We still stand united."

Xander had been right about getting out of Sunnydale. Willow had transferred to UC-Berkeley, where she had finished her undergraduate degree. From there, she had gone to Oxford, fulfilling a lifelong dream. Three absorbing years of graduate work in European history had followed. Far from the battlefields of the Middle East, Willow had lost herself in the past, reveling in the life of the mind and her communion with other scholars.

A period of sexual confusion had followed after Tara's death. Willow didn't know whether she wanted to pursue romance with other women, or go back to dating men. At Berkeley, she'd taken the middle ground, having a few casual dates, some with women, others with men, but nobody she met had lifted her heart and made it sing.

Going to England had been a healing experience: it got her out of not only Sunnydale and California, but out of the States completely. Immersed in a different culture, a different place, a different life, Willow could more easily forget the agonies of the past. Giles was there, too, doing research for the Watchers' Council, and through him, Willow had met Robert Huntingdon.

At first, she tried not to warm up to him, not wanting a repeat of her youthful romantic disasters. But once he made it clear that he liked her, her defenses had crumbled. Rob stood around 5'10", broad-shouldered from years of swimming and crew. He had thick, wheat-blond hair, blue-gray eyes, and a handsome, intelligent face. He was usually quiet and serious, but dry humor lurked close beneath the surface. He reminded Willow a lot of Giles.

They had started dating—casually at first; Rob hadn't pushed, perhaps sensing the pain deep inside her. But his steadfast affection and loyalty made her willing to trust again—not only in him, but in fate, in the belief that things would work out between them. They'd been lovers for four months now.

Willow had finished her coursework, and would spend a year at Cornell on a fellowship, teaching and beginning her dissertation research. She'd hated the thought of separation from Rob, just as their relationship had taken such a pleasant turn, but the opportunity was too good to refuse, and Willow was homesick for the States. Rob had promised fervently to stay in close touch. This surprise of his was a completely unexpected boon. Almost too good to be true, Willow mused, knocking the wooden table so that the Fates wouldn't hear the thought, and curse her.

International travel was still risky for Americans, especially American Jews, so to be on the safe side, Willow had flown into Montreal, where she rented a car. She was driving south through New England to Ithaca. The trip also gave her some much-needed down time before the hurly-burly of the academic year began. She had stopped in Burlington, Vermont for an early lunch. The café had a pleasant second floor balcony overlooking the street, and Willow had taken her food outside to enjoy the late summer air. She fancied she could smell the first crisp tang of autumn, although the temperatures were warm. She had just closed out of her email when the bells started ringing.

She waited for the bridal party to emerge, drawn by more than the usual curiosity. For the first time, she allowed herself to imagine what her wedding—hers and Rob's—might look like.

The Catholic church opposite the café was built in a striking Norman style. Willow admired the architecture, mentally comparing it to churches she had seen in England. Then, as she watched, the heavy doors swung open, and the bride stepped onto the porch.

Her breath caught. Willow, who hadn't experienced real desire for a woman since Tara's death, found herself mesmerized. The young bride was heartbreakingly lovely. Like a rainbow or a waterfall, hers was a beauty that evoked an emotional response, a leaping to a new plane of awareness. Willow noticed people in the street pausing to take a look, some staring in unabashed admiration.

The girl was small—no taller than Willow—and very slender; she seemed taller because she carried herself like a queen, benevolently surveying her loyal subjects. She had resisted the temptation to drape herself in opulent yards of fabric, probably knowing that with her looks, a gown of exquisite simplicity would have a greater effect. Her thick, dark brown hair was pinned up in two elaborate medieval ramshorns and dressed with a delicate gold filigree. Willow wondered if the bride had chosen that style deliberately with the architecture of the church in mind.

You couldn't, she thought, describe the mysterious harmony of her beauty without resorting to poetry. Oh, the basics were there, all right—the clear, heart-shaped face, dominated by large, exotic, dark eyes and a wide, full mouth—but this girl had something more, as if a nimbus of potent femininity surrounded her. She lacked the porcelain doll quality of fashion models; her face had that touch of peculiarity without which mere beauty is empty. Her expression was intelligent and animated, and she glowed with such joy that she seemed lit from within.

For a moment, the bride stood alone, smiling at the people gazing up at her. From her assured posture, Willow knew she must have been getting such attention her entire life. With a quick, bird-like movement, the girl glanced back over her shoulder, her smallest gestures a marvel of grace. Her smile widened into a dazzling grin. An instant later, her new husband stepped out onto the porch beside her. Willow's heart almost stopped beating.

It was Oz.

She gaped. She hadn't seen him in over six years, and while she hadn't forgotten him entirely, he had more or less slipped to the back of her mind. It had been a long time since the sight of animal crackers or the full moon or a dented-up van caused pangs in her heart. Willow had not expected to see him again; he was part of the past. But here he was—and now, a married man.

She wondered what those last six years had held for him, and how he had settled in Vermont. He looked healthy, well, prosperous. He wore a tuxedo with a swallow-tailed jacket, which showed off his narrow waist. A white rose pinned in his lapel complimented the flowers in the bride's bouquet. His hair had grown very long, and when he turned his head to smile at someone on the sidewalk, Willow could see a thick, neat pigtail hanging down to his shoulders. The color was its natural, fiery red.

He showed signs of maturity—not lines, but a quiet, thoughtful, intelligence. Willow knew he would now be twenty-seven. He seemed at ease, comfortable in his own skin. And he looked so happy—when he gazed at his bride, an expression of wordless joy suffused his face, mingled with faint disbelief, as if he couldn't quite believe his good fortune.

The couple descended the steps, arm in arm, accepting the tributes of the growing crowd. Willow caught a glimpse of his parents, who seemed thrilled, and a red-haired teenage boy in a tux, who looked startlingly like Oz. She guessed this might be his cousin, Jordy. She spotted a couple who must be the bride's parents, the mother weeping with happiness.

While the bride chatted with a gaggle of young women, Oz hurried over to the waiting buggy, giving the chestnut horse an affectionate, proprietary scratch. Willow wondered suddenly if he owned the animal.

He spoke briefly to the driver, a young woman in a smart riding habit, then came around the side of the rig. In the full sunlight, Willow could make out individual filaments of his blazing hair, his abundance of freckles like forgotten landmarks on a long-lost map of a once-familiar country. She ached to call out to him—he was so close!—but mortification kept her mouth glued shut, her body frozen and rigid against the balcony railing.

His nostrils flared, and his head jerked up, sniffing the air curiously. Willow realized then that he could smell her. He glanced around, searching, visibly perplexed; she half-hoped he wouldn't see her. But finally, he looked up, and his gray-green eyes went wide with astonishment.

For a brief but endless moment, their gazes locked. In his expression, Willow saw sadness and regret, then acceptance, and finally, peace. She knew then that that Oz had come to terms with the loss of her—just as she had once come to terms with losing him—and that he had moved on. Now, his heart belonged to that small, dark flame of a woman. Willow would be a bittersweet memory for him, consigned to the dusty archives of his past, eclipsed by the glories of the present and the untold promises of the future.

Unbidden, some lyrics of Tori Amos came to her mind.

"Or will I see you, dear, and wish I could come back?

You found a girl that you could truly love again

Will you still call for me when she falls asleep?

Or do we soon forget the things we cannot see?"

All this passed in a twinkling. The sound of the church bell striking the noon hour broke the moment of stillness between them. The dark-haired girl came around the carriage, her bridesmaids holding up her train. She and Oz smiled widely at each other. Oz gave her a kiss—affectionate, but not passionate, perhaps mindful of Willow's presence—and with consummate tenderness, helped his bride into the buggy. Once she was settled, he climbed up beside her. The driver snapped the reins, and amidst the cheers of everyone in the street, the carriage pulled away.

Oz didn't look back.

Willow stood on the balcony, watching her former love ride into the distance. Her eyes followed the bright red of his hair until the carriage turned a corner, and was lost from sight completely.

~The End~

Music Credits

Much of this story was inspired by music. In particular, I'd like to acknowledge the musicians who helped fuel my creativity, and whose lyrics I quoted.

Tori Amos, Little Earthquakes, 1991 (Atlantic). The ultimate angst CD. Contains "Happy Phantom" and "Little Earthquakes," both quoted here, as well as great tracks like "Crucify" and "Precious Things."

Melanie Doane, Adam's Rib, 1999 (Columbia). A funny, infectious collection of songs by an up-and-coming singer/songwriter. "I Can't Take My Eyes off You," which was used on the show and quoted here, is typical of Doane's irony. Other tunes include the title track, "Happy Homemaker," "There is no Beautiful," "Waiting for the Tide," "Mel's Rock Pile," and "Good Gifts."

THC, Adagio, 1999 (Brain Surgery Music). The "real" band behind Veruca's Shy. George Sarah's synth and string arrangements are melded to Sarah Folkman's haunting voice and lyrics, with amazing results. The CD includes "Unsaid Warning" and "Girlflesh" (quoted here), as well as "Overfire," "Dip," and "Need to Destroy," which were used on the series.