Chapter Thirty Four
Sunday Afternoon
Faith had a devil of a time learning how to pronounce the name of the town she was currently living in. Irina, the Romanian healer, had impeccable English, yet she could never quite explain the peculiar roll of the a in the name. Irina had more patience than Faith thought was possible in a human, yet she finally told Faith to pronounce the name, "like taco, but with a 'b' in front."
Bacau.
During the day, the streets teemed with people going about their business, the wide sidewalks patterned in tiled mosaics, the street vendors constantly slinging water on the ground to keep down the dust, and Faith grew enamored of their easy-going grace, their musical language, and their fantastic bread. She was fascinated by the roosters; cagey animals that decided to crow whenever the hell they felt like it, whether midmorning or midnight.
During the night, however, when the rats crept from the sewers to nibble at the garbage heaps and the street dogs ran in packs, Faith found herself creeping from apartment block to apartment block, on the hunt.
It may be Sunday afternoon elsewhere, but in Romania it was past midnight and the streets were dark and empty. Faith stalked through an alley, unconsciously holding her nose closed against the smell of decaying garbage. Now she appreciated Spike, now that she had five Slayerettes following her that had no idea of how to hunt, how to fight, how to slay... she could have used a tame demon on a leash.
There. Her prey, a lanky dark-skinned newly turned vampire, leaped from the ground floor to a second floor balcony and hung there. Faith drew her stake and licked her full and luscious lips. The moon hung nearly a week from full, bright and luminous, and it illuminated the alley far more than the sickly street lamps.
Then there was a loud clatter from behind her, a quickly hushed Romanian epithet, and the hissing of several other girls as they told each other to shut up and be quiet. Faith rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the balcony. The vampire was gone.
She whirled back to the girls, all five of whom were far younger than Faith had ever allowed herself to be. One, Mihaela, had fairly decent English, and she translated for the rest. Faith swallowed her anger at the raw and untrained girls and said instead, "Okay, we've lost him. How do we find him again?"
Mihaela quickly translated, and the others looked at her with a measure of fear and bright anticipation in their eyes. They babbled a bit, and Mihaela translated a little, but Faith quickly grew tired of their inane chatter. Her Potentials in Sunnydale were never like this, were they? Small, frightened, clueless?
Don't kid yourself.
Faith drew her gaggle of girls toward the river, always looking up at the balconies above for her missing prey. She caught sight of him once, but didn't say anything, hoping that at least one of the others had seen him too. Happily, it was Mihaela who hissed and pointed. The girls started jogging quietly, closing the distance between them and the vampire, who was now trapped between them and the flowing banks of the sewage-clotted river.
And from the corner of her eye Faith saw another shape running towards the vampire. "What the f...?" she cried out, and took off over the grass-tussocked ground, easily keeping her balance in the dark. Faith's cry had startled the vampire, and he didn't see the other dark shape coming straight for him. In seconds, the unknown woman had jumped the vamp, staked him in the heart, and fell through the shattering cloud of dust on to the ground.
Faith was angry. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hissed, in English no less.
The woman straightened, and glared with haughty pride at Faith, who was instantly torn in emotion. On the one hand, she was indignant that anyone else would presume to do her job, especially as she was feeling no Slayer vibes at all from this enigmatic woman. On the other hand, the girl was beautiful in the sultry dark way Faith ascribed to being European. The moonlight drenched her face, making her lips appear dark. "You do not hunt alone, Slayer," the woman said softly in perfect English. "Jude of the Order of the Crescent hunts with you."
Faith smiled at her. The vamp was dead, the night was young.
And Faith was hot.
...
It was Sunday afternoon, and infernally hot outdoors. Rack the warlock didn't notice, as he was inside the air-conditioned confines of some abandoned restaurant just outside imploded Sunnydale. He stared at the body before him, laid on the cool stainless steel of the restaurant's kitchen counter and found himself trembling with fatigue. He had boasted to his clientèle that his spells lasted for days, and he had always had enough magic. Until now.
He was nearly completely drained. The task he had been at for the past three weeks, it had taken his every reserve. Now he lifted his pale and scarred face from the monotonous view of the clammy and naked body before him and saw the ranks of Bringers that were his constant companions. And jailers.
He thought of escape.
Instantly The First appeared before him as Caleb, dressed immaculately in his black clothes, his shoes actually shining as if they'd just been spit polished by the devil. Rack stifled a laugh. Caleb lifted his eyebrow and said, "Do you have a problem seeing me like this?"
"Just a little disconcerting," Rack rumbled, waving his hand at the dead body on the counter. He wished he had a bowl of strawberries and a cold beer. He hadn't eaten in days. And now that his magic was nearly gone, all spent in the herculean task The First had lain upon him, a little part of him knew that he wouldn't leave this restaurant alive.
Caleb looked down at the body, splayed out like a cold dead fish. The body that had been neatly reaved in two pieces just three weeks earlier by the blonde Slayer displayed no sign of the incipient decay that usually beset human bodies, thanks to Rack and his magic. Also thanks to Rack the warlock, who had lived near a hundred years and corrupted a thousand lives and fed on the life force of others, the body was neatly joined together again, every artery reattached, every organ realigned, done with a deftness of skill that left no mark on the fair skin. Caleb's body lay in repose, just waiting for the spark of resurrection.
"You did a fine job," Caleb complimented, looking down at his body. "Now we just have to wait for the girl."
Rack wondered if he could gather enough magic to teleport away, or to blast holes through the ranks of Bringers that kept constant watch on him with their blinded eyes. "Now, now," Caleb chided, and he morphed instantly into the hulking form of a Tawarick demon – the terrifying spawn of the last full-blooded demon, the same sort of demon that had once made mince-meat out of Rack's face.
Rack shivered in the cold and stared at the eyes of the demon. "I need you yet, warlock," the demon rumbled. "Do you not believe in your reward?"
Visions of scantily clad witches and legions of power passed through Rack's mind. "Keep the body ready, and you shall have your greatest wish," the demon said, morphing back into the long preacher.
Right now, that would be strawberries. And enough time to enjoy them.
...
Time. There was just not enough time. Althanea felt the depth of her task weigh on her, even as she meditated in a cool hotel room in Los Angeles. It was Sunday afternoon, and Cassandra, the coven's seer, still had not contacted her with the information she sought. Perhaps there were some veils the seer's eye could not penetrate, some mysteries that were altogether too deep.
She had not anticipated her involvement with this fight. She thought she was just going to America to deliver a message to Tara. The tattered remnants of the Watcher's Council had contacted her soon after she had left the hospice that great day Tara had brought Willow out of her coma. Robson had been gracious yet adamant that Althanea help Angel retrieve the scythe. Her single task of being messenger had turned into a nightmare succession of nearly impossible tasks involving demon hunting and healing and everything in between.
But she'd do it. To the ends of the earth, she'd do it. For Tara, she'd do it. She'd failed once, long ago, and she wouldn't again.
Althanea sighed. Her meditation was nearly fruitless. She opened her eyes and scooped up the focusing crystal, tucked it back into her pants pocket. Between one breath and the next, a figure, a beloved and much-missed figure, appeared sitting on the floor next to her.
Althanea blinked.
"Hey, mom," the figure said softly. "You look tired. You're working too hard, you know? The Council can't expect you to save the world by yourself."
"You're not her," Althanea breathed, and her heart thud heavily in her chest, tears prickled behind her eyes.
"I'm not her?" the teenage girl softly mocked, her pearly white teeth shining, and Althanea remembered when Maggie had fallen once roller-blading and chipped her upper tooth. "That's a fine thing to say. You didn't used to be so doubting. Remember when I persuaded you that the waterslide was really small and easy and I forgot to tell you about the twelve foot drop to the pool underneath?"
Althanea began to weep. It wasn't fair. With her daughter sitting near her, Althanea could remember hundreds of other Sunday afternoons, bright and fair, sparkling with the energy of her teenager experiencing all the throes of life.
"The look on your face!" Maggie chuckled. "Then the lifeguard just stood there, you were half-drowning, and all he could say was, 'get out of the pool, lady!'."
"You're not her," Althanea repeated, wiping her eyes angrily. "You're The First."
"First daughter, maybe," the girl responded. "How about first to die? I beat all of you to that one, didn't I?"
"I'm so sorry," Althanea whispered. She had hoped not to remember this, had hoped that helping Tara would help ease her conscience. She had failed, once. She wasn't about to fail again.
"I shouldn't have, though," Maggie continued, relentless. "I was nineteen, mom! My life was just beginning!"
Althanea couldn't take anymore. She closed her eyes and with a slim pop, she vanished from the room.
Her daughter swung her brown hair around her face, smiling, then she, too, disappeared. Her message wasn't quite complete, but there was still time. Just a little time.
...
Ethan had a condo. Ethan had a new truck with a stereo system that could startle the next solar system. Ethan had a prestigious job and lots of money.
What Ethan didn't have was a girlfriend.
It was an interesting state for him to be in. He nearly always had one girlfriend or another. He enjoyed falling in love, every time it happened it was warm and special and new. He remembered when he first met Tara, felt the heady and welcome sensation in his gut, and knew he was falling in love with her.
Ethan was a determined courter. And when Tara had finally told him that he was barking up the wrong tree, he had immediately shunted all that love into the 'sister' category and it never bothered him again.
When did it all change?
That day. That infernal day when he first saw the picture of grossly-beaten Willow Rosenberg. He had looked upon the white-haired comatose girl and something in him knew that his dedicated and golden nurse was going to fall for her. It was almost enough to keep him from accepting the girl.
Almost.
Why did it come down to the money? If Ethan had known, truly known, what was going to happen, would he have taken her? No, not for all the money in the world.
That fateful day, Ethan had looked at Tara, and seen her as if for the first time. Her soft brown hair falling to her shoulders. Her blinking and inquisitive blue eyes. Her shy smile. He knew it was useless, he knew it was wrong, he knew it would only lead to heartache, but as Tara looked at Willow's photograph, the 'sister' category was obliterated. He was a man in love.
Ethan sat on the balcony of his condo, the bright sunshine of the gorgeously hot Sunday afternoon baking into his skin. He drank a tall glass of lemonade, generously spiked with vodka, and thought about it.
It was all Willow's fault. Tara's demon carved chest. The unwelcome houseguest in her mind. The way she was constantly in pain, fainting dead away. And now, Ethan had the distinctly unpleasant honour of subjecting his favourite nurse to a battery of tests to discover exactly what had gone wrong.
Even as he began to get a pleasant buzz on, Ethan did understand. The vodka made a nice buffer for the truth, a precious fictional wall. It wasn't really Willow's fault. And as blissfully melancholy as self-flagellation would be for a man so foiled in love, he knew it wasn't his fault either, even though he could have stopped it all.
Apparently it really was Tara's duty to save the world. If she could survive long enough to do it. The real enemy? An elusive power, centered in a preacher named Caleb, the same Caleb burrowing a hidey-hole for himself in Tara's brain.
Ethan knew there wasn't enough alcohol in the world to dull the pain that the morrow would bring, when it would be Tara laying on the cold CT table, subjecting herself to invisible rays. There, in the impossible sunlight of a Sunday afternoon, Ethan shivered. Time for the wall, Ethan. You're a doctor tomorrow.
...
Donny sat on the porch, a warm beer in his hands. It had started cold, when he had first taken it from the clanking and ancient fridge in the basement, where they always kept extra soda. He had brought it outdoors, away from the disapproving eyes of his father, to sit on the porch and enjoy what was left of a purely beautiful Sunday afternoon. His father was sleeping, as was his habit on a Sunday afternoon. A working man deserves a nap, he would always say.
Donny got out of the house before the shrieking began.
The beer was open, but remained untasted. He should have gotten farther away. Maybe as far as the willow tree by the dugout, where an ancient wagon wheel lay quietly mouldering in the dusty farmyard. He shook his head. He never went there anymore. Not since his golden-haired mother sat there and spilled out an entire world he never realized existed.
"He was different, Donny," she had explained to him, as he wondered whatever had brought his father and his mother together.
"Then why do we stay?" he pleaded. She must have known, even in her exile for the demon within her, she must have known about his fists, his words. She must have known that he himself would eventually turn tormentor, absorb the terrifying lessons of his father, become a sadist, an evil-doer, just like him.
It was hot. He should have enjoyed the beer while it was cold. And another, and another, until this day, like so many others, was merely a blur.
The first shriek came from the house, and Donny flinched, spilling some of the warm amber liquid on his thigh. Looking at the wet spot brought back horrifying memories
(of boys that were so terrified of their father that warm piss dribbled down their legs, the warmth a presage to the madness to come, for that involuntary act would provoke yet another)
that he swiftly locked away. There were millions of boxes of them, all tucked away in his mind. Tara used the boxes for pain. Donny used them for memories.
His father's dreams were bad. What horrors could he possibly be reliving? What strange indoctrination could be occurring in the old farmhouse on a Sunday afternoon? Donny thought about the blood he saw on his father's clothes, the rumours he heard in town about the missing girl, and he wondered, just how fast could he run to get away?
And where would he go? Was there anyone in the world who cared about him?
Just one. Tara. And she would have nothing to do with him, not after how he treated her the last time he saw her.
How he wished he could take it all back. How he wished he could get out from under his father's thumb. How he wished it could all be different. Was there anything he could do to get his sister back?
He listened to his father yell, and an idea dawned on him. Thinking carefully, he downed the rest of his warm beer.
He could do it. For Tara.
...
It was Sunday afternoon, and deliciously hot. Tara was exhausted, but deliriously happy. She and Willow had just returned from yet another shopping spree, and her kitchen and living room were festooned with bags of clothing, groceries, and computer equipment. Willow had just changed into a new outfit: short black shorts and a white tank top with a lopsided pink flower on it. Tara couldn't keep her eyes off her.
Willow shone. She was radiant. She was glowing. And Tara knew it wasn't because she had been gifted of the gods. It was because she was Willow. She wasn't just some mega-witch with the powers of the universe at her fingertips, she was the quirky girl who went into transports over seeing a Durian at the farmers market.
"It's so spiky," she had said, fingering the unusual fruit that was nearly the size of a basketball. "And stinky!"
"It's supposed to be a delicacy," Tara responded. "Apparently primates are very fond of them."
The girl behind the stall was a pleasantly plump girl of about sixteen, and she had laughed at the both of them. "It'd make a terrific weapon," Willow said, touching the spines again. Tara laughed out loud. Trust Willow to think of using a Durian against the forces of darkness. "I'm serious, Tara," Willow said, her eyes sparkling. "Just put it on a stick and you'd have a mace!"
"I thought a mace hung at the end of a chain," Tara said.
"Nope, that's a morningstar," replied Willow, all Scooby-ish. "People often mix up the two."
And even though they had been in the midst of the busy market, and it was hot, and she was probably sweating and icky, Tara leaned over and kissed Willow, amazed that such a bright star had landed in her dull life.
"What'cha thinking about, baby?" Willow asked, bringing Tara out of her recollection. She sat Tara down on one of the stools and busied herself with putting away the groceries, shooshing Tara down again when she tried to get up to help.
"You can't see what I'm thinking?" Tara replied softly. She almost wished she hadn't said it, she didn't mean to bring up how much more powerful a witch Willow was. A desperate, mean part of her voiced that she should have been gifted, too. Hadn't she proved herself?
Willow came right up to her, her red hair gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. She touched her softly on the hand. "I'd never look without asking," Willow said softly. "Tara, I never would."
"I was thinking about the Durian," Tara replied, squashing that mean little voice. Willow winked at her and went back to work, occasionally holding something up for Tara to point at a specific cupboard.
"The girl was a Slayer," Willow said as she put away a box of Corn Flakes. She didn't look at Tara.
"What?" Tara spluttered. "A Slayer?"
"I could feel her," Willow said, her back to Tara, and her hand paused in the act of closing the cupboard door. Tara could hear something in Willow's voice, a slight breaking. Tara stood up and walked over to Willow, and put her arm over Willow's shoulder. Willow instantly burrowed into Tara, nestling her head in the hollow of Tara's shoulder. Tara put her arms around her, and felt as much as heard Willow say, "That's what I did, Tara. That's what Buffy and the others died to do. Make Slayers."
Tara didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything. She merely held her girl to her. Willow finally spoke again, lifting her head to look at Tara, her green eyes suddenly smouldering. "I couldn't imagine going through this without you," she said softly. Willow licked her lips and stared hard at Tara's mouth, her eyes flinty. Tara had a sudden desire to pin her against the wall and ravage her.
Instead, the whole world spun crazily around her, and she staggered in Willow's grip, closing her eyes against the funhouse dizziness. "Tara?" she heard from far away.
(Don't faint, don't faint, don't faint, please, god, don't let me faint!)
"I need to sit," she said, her voice muzzy, her knees already buckling underneath her. Instead of falling with a crash on to the ground, she noticed herself hovering mere inches above the ground, still held tightly in Willow's embrace. "Are we floating?" she asked, her lips barely moving.
"Yes," said Willow, but then she said no more, as they slowly flew to the kitten-abraded couch, skimming over the laminate floor, and Tara felt safe and protected in Willow's arms. The world began to come into focus once more, and the great white wall of faint began to dissipate. For nearly an hour Willow cradled her on the couch, and Tara felt all the exhaustion and all the dizziness begin to fade.
She was lying on top of Willow; she half-turned to face her lover. Willow looked worried, and Tara hated to see that expression on her beloved face. Looking at her girl, their sweaty legs entwined on the couch, the red hair tucked behind Willow's ears, Tara felt her heart would burst.
With a low cry, Tara captured Willow's mouth, and plundered it. She felt Willow's hands moving; one hesitantly cupped her buttock as the other sank into her hair. Willow's mouth eagerly opened to her questing tongue, and Tara felt her whole soul slide into her.
All in all, it was an amazing Sunday afternoon.
