Chapter 13

Tara felt her legs stretching like rubber bands. They snapped, and her torso caught up, and she landed on Spike, her bones cracking against his. He rolled her off, and pulled her to a standing position, with one smooth motion.

They were underground. The cidery scent immediately took her back to her grandmother's root cellar. She could make out shapes-- barrels and sacks--felt cold pebbly stone against her back, and a narrow door slanted above her head. It hung ajar; a sunbeam cut into the dark like a bright blade.

"This is like one of those computer games, isn't it? We complete one level and move on the next challenge." Tara strained to see. "I don't suppose the sword is here."

"Too Easy. Stay here. Let me scope things out." Spike left her side.

Something moved, shuffling across the dirt floor to her left. It wasn't Spike making the noise. She could see his outline on the other side of the room. "Who's there?" She felt silly as soon as she asked. It could be a bear or something.

"I'm so pleased to meet you at last, my dear. I almost feel we're related. But, of course, you don't know me. Heinrich Nest, at your service."

She replied politely, straining to see. "Your name seems familiar."

"It's the Master, pet. My doddering old fart of a great grand-dad. More or less." Spike snorted. "Love the new look, Gramps."

A shadow appeared, only just darker than the others. She made out flat paddly shapes like flippers. A turtle? The image took on detail, bit by bit, as her eyes adapted; she was looking at a turtle. One standing upright like a human, its head almost human. Sharp pointed teeth gleamed dimly in its maggoty-white face. Of course, it had teeth. It was a vampire turtle.

"You hurt me, dear boy. Didn't Darla teach you more respect for your elders?" The Master shambled closer, moving with startling grace. "Her line has disappointed, by and large, but I always thought you had potential. Such passion. Why not just turn the girl? You know she'll thank you afterwards. And I'm not like Angelus. I believe in giving my subjects their due. She'd be all yours."

"Wouldn't be her, then."

"Tut. Humans like to think vampires kill them, inhabit their empty shells, and nothing of them remains. But I'm surprised that you believe anything of the kind. The human doesn't die at all; it's simply set free. Your little girl has such potential. You'd be giving her a great gift. Normally, I'd keep her for myself. But for you…"

"But for The First, more like." Spike snorted.

"Well, yes." The Master sighed. "I had hoped you'd prove reasonable. I used to relish a good fight, but then…" He blurred out of Tara's sight. "…you'll hardly provide that."

She spun to see what was happening; the Master's bulk loomed over Spike, who grunted in surprise.

Tara stared desperately into the flurry of shadows: scuffling feet, an ominous thwack, and Spike slammed past her. Crimson drops of blood swung in chains from his face, and fell splattering against his skin, and limp form.

"Spike!"

The Master chuckled. "Don't worry, my dear. I am old. Past the point of enjoying torture for the sake of torture. I'll just break him until he agrees to join with The First. Or you could do that. Save him from all that pain and suffering. Only one of you has to give in. It doesn't really matter which of you it is." The Master ambled around her, showing no sign of his supernatural speed. "I envy you really. I'll occupy a high position in The First's army, but you'll reign by his side. I'll have to hope you don't hold a grudge, won't I."

Tara worked her way along the wall. She had a hunch about the workings of the game. This place reminded her mightily of Grandma's root cellar, so maybe it was Grandma's root cellar. And Grandma kept … Her hand encountered a long, thin and wooden something. A rake.She looked up at the monster. He was prodding at Spike with one of his heavy flippers. He paid no attention to Tara at all.

"I would have thought living with Darla and Angelus would have produced a thicker skull. Must be the soul."

Picking up the rake, Tara considered what she thought she knew. The environment should be even ground--as potentially dangerous to the bad guys as to Spike and Tara. Perhaps the advantage lay in knowing the environment. She looked at the object in her hands and wondered if it could possibly be this easy. There were a dozen ways she could be wrong but really what choice did she have?

Spike groaned. The Master clouted him with brutal force. Tara cranked her arm back, throwing her torso into the movement, and shoved the handle with every atom of strength she had—up into the cellar door, praying it wasn't chained shut, praying it wasn't too heavy, praying she hadn't guessed wrong about the nature of vampire turtles in Wonderland.

Worried about Tara at last, the Master swung around. "What are you doing?"

The door screeched open, a chorus to herald the arrival of the sun. Light blasted through with all the glory of midsummer, and the Master's words echoed: He was sudden ash dancing in the sun. His turtle shell hung empty, suspended for long moments. It thudded to the ground, and rocked wildly.

"How'd you guess?" Spike slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, propped up on one hand, and examined the other in the sunlight. "Didn't think the sun affected vampires here."

"I don't think it has to do with vampirism. The shell is beautiful; he wasn't; you are. Beauty is something other than skin deep here." She ghosted her hand over his cheek. He pulled back and her brow folded in concern. "How bad is it?"

Spike caught her hand and pushed it away. "It's nothing I don't deserve."

Tara was shocked at the bitterness in his tone. "How were you supposed to know how fast he was? He seemed so…so…turtle."

"I let him get the drop on me! Knew he was old and powerful, and I still wasn't on guard. Just like when Buffy…I screwed up and she died. Same as you could have. I'm supposed to be the hero, not the damsel in distress."

"Well, that was totally sexist." She smiled, hoping for one in return.

He glared at her.

"You've already saved the damsel. It was my turn." She sobered. "I think The First is deliberately using our past traumas. My craziness. Your…mistake. Get over it, Spike, or you give It an advantage." She kissed the top of his head, softening the impact of her words.

Spike nodded.

She stood the shell on its end. "We're meant to have this. Like treasure we've won."

He examined the scutes. "Looks like Hawksbill--real tortoiseshell. Be awkward to carry, though."

"I think it's for you. Maybe you'll need it as a shield."

"Doubt it's strong enough. Anyway, it was you that won it."

"Doubt winning's the issue." She mocked his accent, tilted the shell toward him. He placed his hands on hers, leaning over to kiss her.

Tara felt the tingle through her lips. Magic!

She jerked her hands out from under his, and tottered back. Spike stood frozen.

The shell lost its shape, its solidity, becoming fluid, forming shoots. They wove around his hands, skimmed along his arms in lace work patterns, glided over his shoulders, crept down his back; they wrapped around his waist, and traveled down his thighs, reached his feet and flattened. Round discs formed, firmed, solidified in his shape.

Released from whatever held him, he shuddered and crashed to his knees, sucking in great breaths.

Tara threw her arms around him then pulled back to examine him. His eyes were a stunned blue, the pupils the merest of pinpoints.

"Not exactly the thrill I was hoping for but…damn. Was that our magic, or the shell's?"

"I didn't feel the power coming through me. This is part of the game." She put a hand on her hip, and propped her chin in the other, tapping her lips with a thoughtful finger. "Your suit of armor suits you, sir."

He studied his arms. The discs were small, woven together like intricate chain mail. It clung to him in a single form-fitting piece except for gloves and boots. "Have no idea how I'll get this off…what are you looking at."

Tara jumped. "What. Nothing."

Spike made a sound of disbelief, head cocked. "You were checking out my crotch, Miss MacClay."

"No! Okay … yes. I was just wondering. Padding like superhero costumes: Or chain links like armor?"

His eyes widened, and his gaze shot downward. The tortoiseshell followed each curve, and every bend and fold of his body. "Son of a bitch."

She giggled and touched the armor. "Feels more like leather than mail. You'll be able to walk, but I don't think there's much give. Heroes are expected to be pure of thought and deed, I guess."

"So, this isn't armor. It's some kind of bloody chastity belt!"

"It's your punishment for mocking Andrew."

Spike made a face at her.

"We should go. This," Tara ran her fingers down his arm, "is going to be needed for something. And I don't think it's a chastity belt. The sooner we find out."

"The sooner I'll get this thing off." He bowed toward the stairs. "After you."

"Oh no. After you." She stepped aside.

"You want to check out my bum, don't you?" Spike looked at Tara as though wondering who she was.
"One of us might as well have fun."

"I remember you surprising me on occasion; Willow's shy girlfriend tossing out a zinger. Didn't think much about it at the time. But you're going to be surprising me a lot aren't you?" Spike's eyes narrowed.

"Yep. You are now dealing with fully adult, non-mind-controlled Tara McClay. Who is only a prig when it comes to dealing with other's pain."

"You're causing me pain."

"Yeah, but you like it." Tara sniggered. "Up those stairs, Mister."

He jumped the stairs as one, pausing at the entrance to waggle his rear, before moving through the door.

Tara saw his silhouette against the sunlight, and then he disappeared.

She scrambled upward; hustling to join him and the disorientation of hyperspace stretched at her brain.

Black particles invaded her nose, and she sneezed. And sneezed and sneezed. Her nose clotted up, and tears poured down her chin. Faintly over the sound of her own expulsions, she heard Spike sneezing and cursing, as well.

Pepper? They were being attacked with pepper?