Warning: Squick ahoy! Torture and humiliation. More sensitive readers should avoid the first scene.
10.
A Multitude of Sins
Morning was closing in. The waning moon now shone, a mere sliver in the eastern sky. Time was running out. Every abandoned house, warehouse, sewer tunnel and crypt had been searched, even the underside of a bridge. Anywhere within a half mile of the hospital that would provide shelter from the sun had been looked at, and still no luck.
It's nearly over.
Heavy foliage choked the narrow alley. Wooden fences held it back here and there. Still it crept in, overhanging any manmade boundaries. The unnatural glow of city lights illuminated the alley's end, creating a tunnel-like impression. Only the occasional porch light shining through the leaves spoiled the effect.
Yet I feel like I need to wake up.
Though thin and dry, the air seemed heavy, laden with the sweet fragrances of evening primrose and musk sage. Other odors—city smells like garbage, car exhaust, chlorine and freshly mown lawn—blended with the flowers, resulting in a pungent bouquet.
I'm still not convinced this isn't a nightmare.
In the distance, the electric motor of a hybrid car whined. The chatter of cicadas in the tree limbs overhead nearly drowned the car out. Water rained from sprinklers in several neighboring yards, producing a symphony of discordant percussion.
This began the way all nightmares do, with unconsciousness.
Memories of a dying vision surfaced. First the raven-haired woman appeared, Willow Rosenberg, only daughter of Ira and Sheila Rosenberg. The Rosenbergs had tragically perished in a house fire many years earlier. Only Willow survived.
I woke up floating face down in my parent's pool. How can that be real?
The identity of Willow's dishwater blonde companion remained a mystery. However, Faith Lehane was immediately recognizable from her picture. Her expression had been relaxed then, perhaps even happy. The vision was different. A range of emotions from fear to rage reflected in the slayer's features as she fought for her life.
What's more reasonable? That I was vamped without a mark? That no one noticed?
The final player was the one that most often came to mind: Buffy Summers. The snide little Barbie doll wannabe with her shit-eating grin. She'd become a cautionary tale long before any of this'd happened. Her story was required reading for all Council initiates now.
I could be in a coma. I could be lying in some hospital bed. Or maybe I really did die and this is—
Intense heat met Kennedy's face as she emerged from the alley. She turned and ran, but the heat stuck to her. Beneath her chin the skin seared. As the heat drew down, following the curve of her throat, she tried to block it with her hands. Along with the intended target, her hands were scorched, both back and palm.
Her feet caught on something unseen. Momentum sent her sprawling face-first onto the pavement.
The hollow below her throat charred. She flipped onto her back. The hot coal being drawn over her skin showed no signs of stopping. What the heat would do when it reached her shirt distressed her, so she tore the garment open. Through the anguish, her mind snatched at answers and found Becky. She was going down on me when this happened before.
A message branded in her flesh: 'One in your charge has strayed. You have until dawn to put your house in order.'
Her Watcher was gorgeous in a way only older women could be. Poised, elegant…regal even. Even with her mouth full of pussy. That conquest had been the one high point. Kennedy's torment was eased by a sense of prideful arrogance. Especially when it was my pussy. Fruit, once forbidden, had not just been sampled. Its sweet, succulent meat had been savored.
All of the frenzied fondling, fucking and sucking had dulled Kennedy's senses. She'd been slow to react to the sudden pain.
When the stench reached her nose, she'd gone scrambling. The same acrid smell made her nose run now. Her eyes burned. Tears poured. A scream tore through her. The heat traced an unwavering line between her breasts as she writhed in the street. In her mind, flames ignited her flesh, engulfing her, consuming her.
At the lower tip of her sternum the heat lifted. She flipped onto her back and it touched her again on the left side of her stomach.
The heat had severed her bra. One breast, still cupped in lace, spilled out when she raised up on her elbows to see. She tweaked her nipple to dull the pain. The thin scorch mark twisted and scrolled, forming words in the same neat, curvaceous script as before. 'I have something of yours.'
The message sent Kennedy to her feet. It could only mean one thing. The witch had taken Becky. I'm to blame for all of this.
As Kennedy spun around to make a break for home, the metal bar in her tongue rolled in her mouth. It remained stationary when she leapt forward. She doubled over choking as it hit the back of her throat. Her other piercing had done the same thing. She'd never been happier that her fascination with body modification had ended with one nipple.
I located the vineyard. Inside the book they'd left behind was a spell handwritten on a scrap of paper. We needed a witch.
She turned. Her jewelry twisted and pulled, drawn in one direction. The stud on the top of her tongue clicked her front teeth. She could live with that, but the way her nipple stretched was upsetting. She reached for the ring, intent on releasing it, but her injured hands wouldn't cooperate.
What we ended up with was one sick fuck. That's my fault. I was thinking with my twat. Figures she was pretty too.
She fumbled and pried. The ring should've bent. The captive bead should've gone sailing toward whatever strange magnetic force was at work. Instead the metal grew hotter. Her fingertips singed. Blisters bubbled in her flesh. The bar in her tongue was doing the same thing. All she could think to do was run. The smell of searing meat filled her sinuses.
Her instincts took over. She reached for the stud in her tongue. A moment too late, she realized it was cold.
Blood trickled down her throat. The heat teased her midriff. Her knees buckled when it passed between her legs. She stumbled, but didn't fall. Every ounce of strength she had went into fleeing. She felt the heat shadowing her. When she slowed to avoid a car at an intersection, hot claws raked her back.
Again she lost track. The cool breeze felt good as she ran, but she zipped her jacket to protect her skin.
The hospital emergency entrance was ahead, just past the final cross street. The setback of sidestepping another car cost her a scorch mark that ran the length of her back. The slash laid her clothes open. Her jeans felt loose across her hips. Holding them up was the best she could do, but she couldn't shake the feeling that her clothes were on fire.
No. None of this is my fault. It's Buffy's. All I did was pick up the pieces. Organize the survivors.
Behind the hospital, there was a parking lot and a smaller building that looked like a clinic. Kennedy didn't have the first clue where to go, so she headed for the clinic. About halfway down the driveway something struck her shins.
The heat enveloped her. Flames licked her skin. She fell, flailing, and tore at her clothes.
She picked herself up. A few shreds of tattered cloth still hung from her limbs. The rest littered the ground around her. She blinked. None of the scraps were burned. Fucking bitch! A lash cracked across her ass. She was thrown forward. A pathetic, squeaky yelp escaped her lips.
She curled up on her knees, with her cheek against the street and her ass in the air.
She'd been determined to stand, but every move she made resulted in something else. Her body was locked now. She couldn't go anywhere. Another swat came and she bit down. Her thighs spread themselves. The third swat was focused on her pussy. She shut her eyes as tears welled up.
Footfalls sounded all around her. The heel of a boot crushed against her cheek.
She opened her eyes, praying it wasn't real. The toe of his other boot was only inches from her nose. A crowd jeered and laughed around her. Without warning a boot connected with her ribs. Another, her crotch. And another. And another. They stomped and kicked and clawed. Her hair was ripped out in clumps.
She lost track, broke down, wept like a child. Mostly she pleaded for death.
When the man lifted his boot and unzipped his fly, she feared the worst. The blood, pooled below her mouth, mixed with the stream of piss that struck her face. She shut her eyes. As she fought to move, more streams hit her shoulders, back and ass. They finished and zipped their flies.
Voices sounded both near and far, "You stupid cunt, she's right there."
Boots scrapped. Heels tapped. Sneakers squeaked. They were leaving. The urine stung. She wiped her eyes with a piece of cloth. Her face couldn't possibly be hot, but it was. Actually, her whole body felt like the fingers she'd slammed in a car door once. Painfully, she lifted herself up to look around. To her left, blood smudged the trunk of a blue Toyota sedan.
Emblazoned on the asphalt a message burned, 'Bring her to me.'
Kennedy obeyed.
Willow waited for the elevator doors to open. She'd just removed her coat and folded it neatly. It hung doubled in front of her over her laced hands. Feeling hot after being so cold such a short time ago was strange. She wondered if her entire unlife would be one long menopausal moment spent playing with the thermostat. My mother was like that. It was annoying then, and no better now.
Add to that: Buffy. She's a horse of a different color, with spots in different spots.
The thought brought a warm smile to Willow's face. I've often thought of her that way. The relationshipy stuff, such as it was. 'Getting to know you' with her is like trying to tame a wild animal. Horsies fit because—well, pretty…and there's just something about cantering down the fairway, with the straddling and the bouncing. Her mind wandered, taking a quick detour to the naughty place before revisiting similar musings from earlier in the evening. But so do big cats.
Mixing metaphors never goes well. And 'big' still doesn't fit at all. Buffy isn't big. She's tiny. Dainty even, with soft, tiny little hands and feet. There's nothing hard or sharp or pokey about them. When she touches me, it's…
A shiver ran down Willow's spine as her thoughts drifted. She tensed and twitched to make it stop, but her needy body wasn't cooperating at all and her mind was practically a quarantine zone. And full, pouty, kissable lips. All soft and yummy. When she smiles, I feel all gooshy inside. And beautiful eyes. The sort of eyes that inspire purple prose. 'Eyes you could fall into and drown.' Like pieces of stormy sky got trapped there.
She's just powerful like that. Mysterious. Dangerous. Temperamental.
Oh, I don't know. I'm being silly. Maybe I'm still afraid she's—
She's not. Dammit. I have to believe things have changed—that we can change. But even tonight, for all of her openness, she got skittish toward the end. We just can't find our way past the same old games.
And yeah, I'll admit I'm curious. Willow sighed. But I can't help thinking that she handed me the damned car keys so I'd remember to put away the blood. Gripes me to no end.
Nah, she's not that planny. Not with the small stuff.
The elevator bobbled and stopped. Whatever. The doors opened. I was a good little minion. A good, cranky little bear-type minion who really just wants to get some sleep.
As Willow went to the place where the hidden door had been, she shifted her coat around to reach in the pocket. It brushed the wall making a faint scraping sound. She nearly missed the other sound—the sound of steel sliding inside the wall. She faltered and turned around as the door swung in. It was centered on the wall across from the elevator. Umm…that's not the same door. She hung her head, shaking it. And stating the obvious—not exactly a mark of brilliance.
I shouldn't care. I don't have time for this. I need to know that Buffy's alright. More importantly, I need to be there in case she isn't. But Willow couldn't just walk away either. Not when another clue had just landed in her lap. She doubled back. The room wasn't much larger than the entry hall, about the size of a generous closet. A huge flat panel display stretched nearly the entire width of the wall to her left. It was dark, asleep or off. There was a desk in front of it with a keyboard and mouse. A computer?
Well, I don't see a tower, but that doesn't mean much.
Since when does Buffy like computers? Since when does Buffy even know what a computer is?
It looks like it could be one hell of a game machine. When did she start playing games? And why in such a tiny, stuffy little room?
Oh! It could be an A.V. rig. But what would she want with one of those? Somehow I can't see Buffy cobbling together videos to share with her friends. I'm not sure Buffy even has friends.
No. Buffy has ambition, not friends. She's barely old enough to drink in human years and a master vampire. Winning friends and influencing others—the non-violent way—really isn't her thing.
Okay. I have to go. I can come back to this.
When Willow moved away, the door sealed shut. She walked to the middle of the back wall and the door to Buffy's room opened. It bugged her that there was another room. Is there a third?
No, the back of the elevator shaft's against the outside wall of the house. There's nothing there but a wall. Or if there is, it's a doorway leading to one dilly of a drop.
She hung her coat next to Buffy's. The window was open again. Willow crossed the room and sat on the window seat to watch.
The vampires were so far away they looked really tiny. It gave Willow the impression she was watching a game from the nosebleed seats. At least this is comfier.
She took a quick inventory. Uh, jeez I was wrong…twenty-three…no, twenty-four-on-one. Well, this should be fun. I hope she's okay.
She will be. I can't move like her. And I'm strong, lots stronger than I was, but not nearly as strong.
Buffy must be there 'cause they all just turned. The balcony's in the way. I can't see her.
A voice carried through the dank morning air. "Guys, I get that it's a bitch…" It was faint, but decidedly feminine.
Yeah, that'd be Buffy. Unless one of the 'boys' started hormone therapy. Or Candy Gorch decided to take her 'no account' husband back.
Doubtful.
Willow missed the next little bit of the speech. It doesn't matter. Knowing Buffy, it was all snark, no substance.
"The hours are lousy. There's no real pension plan, no major medical, no unemployment and you don't so much get to retire."
Well, she has their attention, sort of. I think a few of them went to sleep.
"I have a plan to improve this."
Willow could just see the top of Buffy's head when she stepped forward.
"You're all fired." Before the word 'fired' even left Buffy's mouth, the poolside erupted in a furball.
It didn't take Willow long to feel foolish for worrying. Maybe two seconds. That's about when the first dust cloud appeared. But it was impossible to tell with all the chaos. Vamps splashed into the pool. Others charged or fled.
When more clouds of ash scattered over the pool, Willow caught a detail she'd missed. A head went bouncing off to the side like a fumbled ball. Its black hair waved as it rolled, turned to cinder and broke apart. Oh, that's just disgusting.
Well, what'd I expect? She's never used a stake before. She doesn't like 'em. Too slayery for her.
But that begs the question 'how is she doing it?' Without something sharp and pointy.
Considering the decapitation methods available when using a length of chain made Willow queasy. She decided pretty quickly that she was happy not knowing. Not being able to tell what was going on really was better. I'll just sit here and be perfectly content knowing that she's fine. But in no way is this—
Three steps and Buffy leapt.
Willow gasped. Wrong way.
Time seemed to hang.
And so did the little blonde who'd just vaulted over the pool…like an idiot! Willow thought for sure she was going to have to intervene. Ending that spell would be—
The tip of Buffy's boot touched down. It looked from Willow's angle like it just met the lip of the pool. She expected Buffy to slip, splat and splash.
Well, I don't even want to think about it.
Pushing off, Buffy sprung forward and rolled. After turning one neat summersault, she was on her feet running. She disappeared down the hill behind the pool.
Why'd you have to do that? It was going so well and you just had to show off. Giving your witch a heart attack is bad! Especially, when she's dead and a vamp and…
And.
And.
Well, not really so much—
Whatever!
Brat!
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Evil, rotten, nasty little brat! I should turn you over my knee!
The cussing had just about petered out when one of the Gorch brother's hats popped up over the rise. His hands were raised. He was backing toward the pool, away from an unseen, no doubt Buffy-shaped menace.
Though Willow couldn't recall when it had happened, she sat on her knees with her back to the room. Her body was inclined forward. She was almost hanging out of the window. The bench was hard and the cushion thin. Her knees were beginning to ache. She turned and sat sideways on the bench, letting go a deep, grumpy sigh.
No idea what happened to the other one. There's probably not enough left of him to fill an ashtray. No loss. Hell, I can't even keep them straight. Which one's the fat one, Lyle or Tector? I barely remember the cute ones. Vamps just aren't my thing.
Except one…and boy, does she look pissed.
Buffy herded the fat one, whoever he was, straight into the pool. Willow snickered when he did that funny cartoon thing. His arms twirled for a ridiculous, exaggerated time before he wobbled and splooshed. Buffy was back in the fray before his hat bobbed on the surface of the pool. The other vamps had clustered on the far end of the pool. It's funny that they just let Lyle or Tector or whoever back right in. They stood out of the way and watched it happen. No love lost there.
No real surprise either. The Gorch brothers were major dorks. The big surprise was that they lasted as long as they did.
Now that that was over, things changed. The other vamps were trying to work together. They circled Buffy, attempting to drive her into the pool. Their leader had found a shovel and was brandishing it. How does someone just find a shovel? We don't leave shovels just lying around, do we? I really need to have a talk with the groundskeeper, 'cause that's just dangerous. I tripped over a shovel once and skinned my knee. It hurt.
Buffy has a chain. He has a shovel. Oops. Now she has a chain and a shovel. Uh-oh…
The vamp flashed and poofed. See, I knew that was dangerous!
Course, we are talking about Buffy. She could probably make a feather dangerous.
Buffy chucked the shovel into the pool. She must not like them either. I don't blame her. They're either dangerous or just plain work. Neither one is fun.
It didn't matter that Buffy was still woefully outnumbered. Willow gave up trying to watch. She decided that as long as there was movement, it was fine. If things settle down again, I'll worry.
The others were just mad and acting stupid anyway. They made the mistake of coming to her. That put them on the deep end of the pool. All she has to do is knock them off balance and 'plop.' Once they're fully submerged, the game's over. On the shallow end, they might've stood a chance.
Not so much now.
The shallow end of the pool was just plain weird looking. The surface bowed like a rubber sheet, forming impossible curves as the vampires struggled to break free. It looked a lot like that slimy stuff the kids all played with when she was little. That stuff was icky. It left this nasty, slippery residue on your hands. Then it'd get sticky. Xander used to throw pieces of it at me 'cause he knew I hated it.
Willow took her cheek in hand. She tried to refrain from humming the Alka-Seltzer song. Just like the boys, she lost the battle. But there's no fizz. That's no fun. I should've made it fizz.
Thankfully, none of this lasted long or she might've fallen asleep.
The last body hit the water and Buffy caught Willow's attention. She smiled and dipped into a low graceful bow. Willow returned the smile.
It was getting really light outside. She was glad when Buffy disappeared in a blink.
I've got about five minutes. That should be enough time.
Willow grabbed her card and ran to solve the mystery of the new room. It didn't take that long for her to regret the decision. The application she found running on the PC was a security program. She clicked on the arrow and a combo box menu dropped down. Every room in the house was listed, except for Buffy's and the two attic rooms.
She selected her room and it came into view. A new combo box labeled 'Camera' appeared, which had six options. Not even her bathroom was sacred.
Boy, she really didn't trust me.
Willow clamped her mouth shut. Her teeth gritted. She minimized the application. There was a shortcut on the desktop to a folder called 'The Latest.' She needed to see what was in it. As she suspected, it was full of video files, labeled by room and date. She browsed through them until one caught her eye. When she double clicked, her stomach turned flip-flops.
On the big screen, she stood facing the room in full color and everything. Tara's back was to the camera. She was clothed for the moment, but if the date was any indication, that wasn't going to last. This was the night before the ritual.
Just moments into the show, Willow's pixely counterpart took care of Tara's clothing as she declared, "You've been a very naughty girl." Hearing her voice amplified and pumped through in stereo made Willow cringe. Sound too? Ugh…
But Tara had been naughty. Extremely naughty. We were under explicit instructions to keep it low key. Buffy didn't want anything to spoil her fun.
So what did Tara do? She went out and granted a wish to some college student, turned his girl into a fyarl demon and set her lose. I was all day cleaning up that mess.
The image quality was amazing for a hidden camera. Tara stood naked now, all but her collar, with her back in full view of the camera. The contract written on her skin was perfectly legible. Willow wondered if Buffy had taken the time to translate the ancient Sanskrit. Just how much does she actually know?
Watching herself was more than a little disturbing. That didn't keep her body from acting stupid. This was way better than any amateur porno she'd ever seen. Most people who do that are ugly. There was nothing ugly about Tara. The nagging thrum between her legs and associated sogginess was exactly what Willow didn't need.
She grabbed Tara by the collar and yanked her over to the desk, shoving her forward. Tara caught the edge of the desk in her hands and pushed her bottom out. Her full breasts jiggled. She looked like she was having fun. Her excitement ended when she saw the objects in front of her. Her knees bent. She tried to tuck her bottom in. I was pissed. I picked everything she really hated.
Which is funny, 'cause Tara was a masochist. And not one of those 'I have daddy issues so I like to be spanked' impostors, but a full-blown backlog of behavioral issues, 'brain in backwards,' 'whip me, beat me, make me bleed' masochist. It didn't help that she healed like nothing I've ever seen. So really what she didn't like was being ignored. Everything else was negotiable.
Willow was in full 'la la la' mode, because on the big screen she'd just seized Tara by the hips and lifted her ass, kicked her feet apart and grabbed something off the desk. Enough. Her naughty, evil other self was reaching between Tara's legs as the actual Willow went for the mouse. Too much. While she was clicking around, trying to close the video without watching, Tara groaned. Enough! My life's complicated enough! The last thing I need is to watch myself punish my now-dead slave while my undead Mistress waits for me in the next room.
No one needs that. It's bad enough I'm gonna wonder what she thought. I'll wonder if she even got what half that stuff was. But I guess she figured it out by the end of the video. And there are others too, I'm sure. Odds are, Buffy knows as much about kink as I do.
Willow realized that she was breathing hard. Well, that's just stupid. She made herself stop. I am stupid. I'm stupid and dumb. And my luck, she's probably wondering what happened to me by now.
Can't I just have a few more minutes to sit in mortified peace?
Not really. Besides would a few minutes help?
Not really. I should delete this.
No. I really, really, really want to, but I shouldn't. It's not mine.
My guess, Buffy and I are gonna have a long talk really soon. Like probably now.
Boy, won't that be fun?
Willow put everything back exactly the way she'd found it before she left the room. When she entered the other room, Buffy had her feet up on the coffee table and a Cosmo in her lap. Leafing through it, seemingly apathetic, she grumbled, "Don't even think you're gonna do that shit to me."
If there had been a small, dark hole to climb into, Willow would've been there, folding herself into a tight little ball. But there wasn't. The only retreat was the window seat and she took it. The problem was that it was really getting light now. So, she leaned against the wall, clinging to the shadows.
The pool churned, venting through the grates in the stone walkway beside it. Part of her wanted to enjoy the show, but Buffy's words still hung in the air. Willow had to explain. How do I even begin?
At the beginning. It's tradition. And it's only fair. She's shared a lot of stuff with me. I've asked questions and she's answered them all. What have I given her?
"Do you remember when Amy got mixed up with Rack?" Willow asked.
Willow jumped when Buffy replied, "Uh-huh," from right behind her. Buffy wrapped her arms around Willow's waist.
Willow looked down at the hands on her tummy. Buffy's chin rested on her shoulder. It was almost nice in a really weird, 'way too intrusive for the moment' sort of way. But she didn't have anywhere to go. Trapped between Buffy and the light, she whispered, "Let the spell be ended."
As the magical barrier shimmered and vanished, a massive cloud of steam billowed from the pool. Underneath the steam, silver water boiled.
Even with the intrusion, Willow couldn't help appreciating the beauty. "Pretty," she whispered. Mist wafted from the pool's surface. Caught in the gentle air current, it drifted away.
Buffy echoed, "Pretty much a mess." She turned her head, nuzzling Willow's neck as she snickered. "But, yeah…very cool." She reached over to flip the switch. As the steel barrier slid closed, she turned Willow to face her. "Now what were you going to tell me?" Buffy whispered.
Willow couldn't bring herself to meet Buffy's eyes. "It's just…"
Taking Willow's chin, Buffy tried to force the point, but Willow shied away. Buffy gave up and said, "Look, Will, I don't care who you fuck or how, so long as you don't expect that from me."
That was enough. Willow twisted free, stomped to the door. "That's not how it is!" She doesn't understand at all. She thinks I want that!
Well, I did. But I didn't. It was fun. Tara made a great puppy. But it wasn't—
There wasn't—
Willow let out a harrumph and folded her arms. Torn between storming out of the room and spinning around to yell, she stared at the fake wooden door. It'd serve her right. But would she really care?
Probably not.
Thing is, neither thing's useful. She may care if I can make her understand.
Buffy passed behind her, but didn't stop. The chain rattled when she lifted it from the coffee table.
It didn't really matter what Buffy was doing. Willow spoke her mind. "You never answered me."
"What? You mean that shit with Amy?" Buffy replied.
The chain clattered against the glass shelf. Willow understood she was putting it away. Huh, it's over. "Guess we've got the house to ourselves now," she mumbled. Woo and hoo.
Why'd I even say that?
"Yeah, all except for the rodent in the basement," Buffy replied as she closed the cabinet doors.
"What rodent?" Willow asked, cursing herself for playing into the distraction.
"I kept one employee. The only useful one of the whole bunch."
As Buffy filled in the news, Willow walked over to the desk and took a seat. She doesn't care. Why should I? When she looked up, Buffy was seated on the couch with her feet on the coffee table. Curious, she asked, "Dalton?" Because I do. And why shouldn't I?
Buffy nodded, intoning, "Um-huh."
Willow turned her attention to her hands. "That 'shit with Amy' as you put it wasn't fun," she mumbled. She doesn't get to slough this off. I need her to understand. It's important that she does. She may not get that, but that doesn't make it any less true.
It didn't surprise Willow at all that Buffy simply ticked off the facts, dry and cold, "It was necessary. Amy was getting too powerful. And there's no guarantee she wouldn't have gone rogue. If she'd come over to our side, it would've thrown everything off balance. I didn't need another witch."
You were having trouble controlling the one you had. You won't say it, but we both know how it was.
It would've been fine if Rack had just listened. Go figure, the misogynist prick didn't hear a word I said. He was too busy trying to get in my pants. When Amy returned, it was business as usual. So, Rack became a non-issue.
"I agree," Willow replied. "I agreed with you then. But you need to see that it complicated things for me." She combed her fingers through her hair. "Vengeance demons spend their entire lives, sometimes thousands of years, in subservience to humanity. It's only natural that some of them would take that role literally. Like the genie in the bottle, only with more—"
Buffy chimed in, "Really? You mean like Aladdin?"
The comment was cute and innocent. Willow grinned. Really, it was a total mindfuck. She snapped to the image from the video, mentally replacing herself and Tara. The big blue guy with the heavy chin bent over the desk while the little guy with the funny hat spanked him. Robin Williams' voice rang out, begging for mercy in a thick, silly accent. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or shudder in horror.
Recovering from the minor meltdown, she looked up. Buffy was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Okay, that's just about enough Disney for one psychotic break. I'm cutting you off, Missy.
Willow started, "You did catch the—?" deciding it was pointless. Y'know what? Have it your way. "Yeah, sorta like that," she placated. "Those legends come from somewhere."
Buffy arched an eyebrow. Vixen knows exactly what she's doing. I'm not buying the innocent act for an instant.
Umm…
Whatever. Back to my point. I had a point, didn't I?
Rolling her eyes, hanging her head and shaking it, Willow soldiered on. "Anyway, vengeance demons sometimes bind themselves to other evil beings. To do that, they have to serve two masters, but the wish always takes precedence." And that's what happened. That's why it all fell apart. Tara was doing her job. I was doing mine. The timing was just awful. We were both serving different masters.
"Tara belonged to Rack," Willow explained. "When I killed him, I became her Mistress. I didn't have a choice. She was magically bound to me." She sniffed and blew her bangs out of her eyes. "Well, I could've broken the spell, but there's no telling what she might've done. The smart thing—" Instead, I made it stronger. It was the right thing to do.
Buffy interjected, "So, you killed her because…?"
"I didn't have a choice."
Understanding in her eyes, Buffy cast Willow a glance and stood up, making her way to the window. As she shut the drapes, Willow went on, "Vengeance demons start off human. People with really crappy pasts. They have to do something big to get D'Hoffryn's attention."
Time was running out. Buffy was preparing to leave.
"Did you know that he was interested in me?" Willow asked. That struck a nerve. Buffy turned. Willow had her full attention now. "I declined. Unlike Tara, I couldn't serve two masters." She paused to let that sink in. "I could no more—"
Buffy said, "I get it," sounding annoyed.
But it didn't matter. Willow kept going. "Talk about setting myself up to play some nasty games."
"Will, I get it." Buffy's voice sounded over Willow's. The discussion was over. She walked out the door, calling back, "I'm gonna grab a shower."