I'm enjoying the very wintry delights of Boston at the moment, complete with wind, snow, slush, and still a beautiful city of lights, music, and enjoyment. (Boston is my very favourite American city and I highly recommend it to anyone who loves history and loves to travel... be sure to check out the fantastic cemeteries...)
~25~
The Master’s Hands
(let it begin)
Curfew, and a night that fell hard and fast, shattering twilight. Splinters of street-light were all that remained in this city by the ocean. The breeze was aggressive while it whispered of September and the ending of all summer things; a seasonal transmutation of gold into brass.
A most malignant alchemy.
Curfew, and Tara emerged on the fire escape at the back of the poppy den, garbed in her Hunter clothing. She wore the cracker jack ring openly on the pinkie of her left hand. She had to move cautiously and slowly; more of that miraculous green salve had been applied and her wounds dressed with bandages. She was healing faster than mortals, but not faster than certain immortals.
Tara could feel the power of yesterday’s wish in her muscles, in her joints. She wondered if she were knocked unconscious whether her body would still move of its own accord, following the direction of her Master. Best to stay in control, however loosely.
She mounted her enchanted bike carefully amid paroxysms of pain, taking a few long shallow breaths before starting the engine and moving down the halfway lit streets. She had investigated the route to Willow’s house and now followed the mental map she had created in her mind. Residential streets gave way to the refining and industrial district, which gave way to the tracts and forests of Miller’s Woods.
Here she cut her headlights and navigated by instinct, memory and the light of a quicksilver moon. Her bike brought her to the gate and guardhouse on the edge of the estate. The bars of the gate were imposing, and she could see the nimbus of both electrical and magical energy glowing along the rods.
She left her bike hidden in a patch of foliage and returned to the gate, wearing a slight backpack and a frown. She put a hand to the patch of dressings over her stomach and side; her breath was turbulent again with exertion, but even as she doubted the completion of her mission, she felt the command burn within her neck.
Compelled, she stepped up to the gate. The guard in the watch house was alert, but he could not see her. There were security cameras pointed at the gate. They did not track her movement as she pulled the glove from her left hand and placed it near enough the gate to feel more of the energies writhing within.
This was a powerful spell. Expensive to purchase, to maintain. The spellcaster's signature was unknown to her.
She let her left hand touch the metal first, the hand with the cracker jack ring. She could sense the awareness of the lock, that she was an intruder, but then she activated the latent energy of the ring, convincing the lock that she was friendly, she would bring no harm.
The gate lock clicked open, and then it warned her of pressure points in the roadway leading up to the house where she would have to watch her step. Pressure activated rounds, necessary to avoid even in her Hunter clothing. Apparently there were lasers linked to the alarms.
Tara breathed her thanks and the gate, eager now under her hands, slid open without sound, just enough for her to slip through. She did so without looking at the guard, knowing that he could see the gates open even if he could not see her, trusting that he kept his eyes fixed on the threat of the empty road.
Tara peered into the cloying darkness ahead of her. By sheer dint of concentration she began to perceive the red-line lasers that criss-crossed at odd angles across the road, desperately random in their distribution. Instead of coaxing her injured body through various contortions yoga-like in their intensity, Tara moved to one of the tiny outlets that produced the laser and touched it with her finger.
Another murmured thought, another gesture of welcome, and the lasers halted in their destiny just long enough to let her pass. She slowly walked through them and they parted from her like the waters of the Red Sea.
The driveway was long, and afforded much time for introspection. Time and again, Tara willed her body to stop moving, to halt the advance that would lead to so much bloodshed. She carried the implements of doom in her pack: knife, pistol, dart and poison. The compulsion was strong, as strong as her boundary, and as she continually failed to intervene in her own bloody design, she began to imagine another outcome, where she tried to kill Willow but Willow killed her instead. It could be over, so fast, so soon.
Suddenly irritated by the sheer marathon-like effort to simply walk down Willow’s driveway, Tara wondered why on earth Willow had to live in such a house, on such an estate, with such protections and fortifications. What on earth did Willow do to earn her money and her livelihood? Could it be only the lucrative patents that Tara’s Master had mentioned?
No answers were forthcoming, to be caught and reeled in from the air like thought-fishes, so she continued on.
She rounded the last soft bend and between the trunks of the trees she could see the grandeur and opulence of the front entryway to Willow’s house. Soft lights bathed the exterior in a monied glow, casting gleaming ripples on the marble stairs that led up to the front doors, all oak and heavy and imposing. Tara wasted no precious time in gawking at the beautiful sight, though gawk she would if she were anything but a twice-caged genie on a murderous errand.
She climbed the steps very slowly, her body aching and burning with her every move. It was not wise to overexert herself so soon, but the compulsion had been crystal clear. It had to be this night, at a certain hour that was only a short time away. Tara opened her pack and considered one of the pills of morpha that Anya had provided to her, but then she decided against it, knowing she needed to keep her wits if she was going to have any chance in keeping Willow alive.
It took longer at the front door and more use of the cracker jack ring to convince the matter therein that she was an ally. Eventually it succumbed to her will and let her inside.
Gawk she must at this point, the entry rotunda of the house. The place was draped in shadow, save where light from outside eked its pale way through thin curtains. The immensity and beauty of the place seemed stolen from some fairy tale.
A twinge in her neck and elbow, and she closed her eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea and despair.
Then she kept her eyes closed and sent forth her intuition, waiting some moments before wearily opening them again. She crossed the hardwood floor of the foyer and began to climb the broad staircase before her, closing her mind to the curiosity that was awakened within, her own personal wish to look at the statues and gaze at the art and marvel at the works of the hands of man.
Her true purpose could not be diverted so easily. Not now, when Willow’s life and the lives of her household trembled in the balance.
At the crest of the staircase Tara turned right. Not far down the hallway she discovered a dressing room and then the master bedchamber. The door was already slightly open, so Tara slid inside.
The room was empty.
That did not matter. Tara was eternal. She could wait. All night, all day, and a million more if need be.
On the far wall near to a window was a luxurious looking divan. Quicksilver moonlight filtered through the fortified glass of the window. Tara arrayed herself on the divan, her pack close by her upswept ankles, and she waited, her mind tuned and focused.
(I see only the puppet of the snake)Her mother’s words were poison to her now, finding chinks in her concentration, making her doubt. Words to magnify the pain already slashed across her physical wounds.
What would happen should she attempt to break the Master’s hold, if she should choose not to bow to his will? Would he merely take over her as he had already done, the day of the broken book, the cranberry drops and the sword?
Wouldn’t she rather kill Willow with some mercy, rather than leave the redhead to an uncertain duel of fate?
(reclaim the property of your body as your own)Easier said than done. Indeed she had thought of nothing else for the last five hundred years. Her early attempts at escape and emancipation had been disastrous and near crippling. Her body already wept with agony, how much more could she endure?
Inwardly the argument raged, but outwardly she was stone, a medieval gargoyle perhaps. Her senses aware, acute.
(remember Samarkand)That Tara certainly could not allow. To remember Samarkand she would have to open the black book of memory that Drusilla once touched, the black book of self-hatred and recrimination, the book of Lilith’s horrifying death. Why her mother would ask her to consciously open that book Tara could not understand.
Perhaps a leap of faith was required, if such a leap were possible in her body’s broken state.
She could not open it. She would not open it. Not now. Hopefully not ever.
She merely waited, and three hours later she heard a silken commotion in the hallway, the heavy tread of a man, the softer tread of a woman, their whispered quarrelling voices. Drawing ever deeper into the magic of her clothing, Tara shrunk against her seat and watched as a man came through the doorway.
The first thing she noticed was his face. How could she not? A deeply puckered shadow was upon one cheek, and then she remembered Eva mentioning him the first day Willow came to her. It could have spoiled his face, leaving it a mockery of its former beauty, but it did not. It was a beloved face, cherished for its scar and the stories engraved therein.
And as she watched him enter the room with a limp Willow in his arms, she instantly understood the commotion in his hands and heart, the depth of allegiances past and present that dictated his movements. His hands were a Steward’s hands, dedicated to service, to dirty work, the kind of work that his employer should never even know existed. His hands were the hands of a Spy, lifting veils of conspiracy, piercing through lies and evil intentions. His hands were a Surgeon’s hands, hands of comfort and hope and o’erwhelming competence, and she recognized them as the hands that had sewn up her insides when her insides were out.
Yet none of these were the hands that were bearing Willow into the room. These particular hands were ancient hands indeed, that had strummed a guitar in a barista shop, that had fenced for pure enjoyment, and that loved the texture of books. These were a father’s hands, and in a broken-hearted flash Tara understood that his love for Willow was deeper than the roots of this world, his concern for her as vast as spiralling galaxies, and his betrayal of her a wound in his heart that he would never allow to close.
For it was a Willow betrayed he carried in his arms, and Tara’s attention was now upon her, noticing that her hair was stringy and wet and she was clothed in some plain smock. With the clarity that comes only of intense scrutiny Tara noticed that Willow’s skin seemed different somehow, more deeply textured yet pliant.
Like a washerwoman’s hands.
Then Tara focused her attention on the woman who followed in his wake. She had dark brown hair and eyes, olive coloured skin and was radiating the evil mark of a witch’s brand through her breast. Tara recognized her at once as being the woman who arrived at the last minute in Tara’s house, who tried to stop the dragon holocaust.
(the cauldron and the crown)The brine of hatred and bitterness was suddenly upon Tara’s tongue as she remembered her first capture, four thousand years ago. The Queen of the Kalderash had taken Tara for her own, inked her envy into Tara’s skin and yoked them together.
If her Master hadn’t collared her five hundred years ago, Tara would have remained a slave to this woman’s clan. Kept as some magical pet with no more dignity than any favoured hound.
There was something amiss, though, some part of the woman’s existence that didn’t make sense. For some reason there was a story printed on the witch’s skin, held there by an oath of protection.
(her name is Jenny
she is no longer new to this house
and she and the man are in love
wait
Jenny
Jann--)Jenny had pulled down the thin coverlet, and the man was arraying Willow’s body within it, when Tara’s thought came lightly upon the witch’s name.
It was as if a short burst of static somehow erupted between them, the djinn and the mortals. Tara sat back against the wall again, her thought about the woman’s name, which had seemed so important, now gone completely. It didn’t even worry her.
There was no pause to their activity. The man placed Willow’s arms atop the coverlet and then he smoothed some errant strands of hair away from Willow’s face.
Like a father would for any child, no matter how reckless, how mistaken.
“Let her wake on her own,” he said, resuming the muted argument. “She’s done it before.”
“Are you sure you’re not being selfish, Rupert? Maybe you just don’t want to be here when she wakes up. That’s copping out, you know.”
“Yes, to be brutally honest. I would rather she wake on her own and gain some control of her temper before she seeks us out. I am not a masochist, and do not like putting myself in the path of a raging hurricane if it can be avoided.”
“The hurricane is still going to come. All the running or waiting in the world won’t change that. Let’s show her the respect she deserves by choosing to be here when she wakes and thus prove our loyalty. She might even give us a moment to explain.”
Tara listened to the woman’s insistence with a professional ear and wondered what Rupert would say next.
He stalled a moment, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with a clean pocket handkerchief before putting them back on and peering at her. “Truce. She won’t wake up on her own until dawn. Give me that time to make a decision.”
“Did Xander have anything to say about it when you briefed him earlier?”
“He said it was our call. We’ll certainly have to use the information you took from Drusilla.”
A wave of gooseflesh swept Tara’s body. Drusilla had finished the incantation for a prophecy of entrails, and now her knowledge was theirs. Her secrets revealed.
(do they know of Wilkins?
do they know my desires?)The woman shivered for a moment before she curtly nodded. She left the bedchamber first and the man was on her heels when he suddenly stopped just inside the doorframe.
He turned his body to face the bedchamber and looked right at where Tara was sitting.
“What is it?” Jenny asked.
“Something feels wrong,” he said quietly, fully stepping back into the room.
(oh god
he is a shaman!)Tara placed the flat of her hand on the wall and quickly sent her thoughts into the house, into the floor, across the whorls of carpet, asking for their help in hiding her.
There was some resistance yet. This was an abnormally loyal house. Maybe even blessed.
(why on earth does Willow employ a shaman?
or does Willow not even know? what is this betrayal they speak of?)Tara was stronger than blessings. She cracked through the veneer of loyalty and felt the house accept her touch, enveloping her as if part of its own skin and bones.
A most perfect adoption.
Rupert stopped and rubbed his eyes.
Jenny strode up behind him, her face all gentle now, all sense of recrimination gone so only love remained. She gently tugged on his arm and said, “It’s so late, Rupert, and you are tired. Come, let’s get some rest.”
And just as if he were exactly like the house, he resisted for a moment before caving to her will. They turned together, linked arm in arm now, and she had her hand on his wrist. It was a motion so automatic yet so tender that Tara felt a dizzying squeeze through her heart.
They left Willow in her bedchamber once more, this time closing the door behind them and turning off all the lights.
The walls seemed to breathe in quiet relief at the cease of mental hostilities. Tara was left alone with Willow, the cascading silver-light of the moon illuminating the figure in the bed, the pale face shining with otherworldly light, her hair damp and dark, the subtle rise and fall of her breath. Tara slowly rose, her hand upon her sundered belly, her breath vicious and quick.
Then she shuffled across the floor to the door.
The lock and frame were easier to convince now. With a murmur and a prayer, Tara encouraged the doorframe and the lock to bind together tight and fast, to protect their mistress, to protect this house and all the souls therein.
She could sense the newfound determination of these molecules, their joy in accepting this challenge, as she put her hand to the bedchamber door and pulled with all her strength.
It did not budge.
A small smile gracing her face, Tara placed her cheek and the tips of her fingers against the cool paint of the wall and sang to the wood within, a song of transmutation and alchemy, a song of glory and steel. She sang of impenetrability and vigour beyond anything the wall could have dreamed of when it was just a sapling in some far-off forest, dreaming of its own eventual destiny. It must have dreamed of abilities far and beyond those of its root-siblings, of a purpose and fate coming together here and now at the song of the djinn.
The song of the pure mother.
With her eyes open, Tara could see a swirl of gold within the atoms of the wall and the atoms of the door and frame.
If only mankind were so easy to convince of their own grand design, of their own awe-inspiring destiny.
She padded softly away from the now steel-reinforced and securely fastened door and went on halting feet near Willow’s bedside, keeping some distance for fear of suddenly activating whatever kill switch Wilkins had placed inside her. She turned on the bedside lamp and looked upon the woman who had discovered her, had fought her, nearly killed her and deactivated her, setting in course this undreamed-of series of events.
She remembered the sharp crack of Willow’s nose, the bright crimson streams of blood.
There was no mark of it upon her smooth face. Her freckles were immensely endearing.
The deep cut Tara dealt to her arm was also gone, as if it had never been dealt. Tara wanted to peel back the coverlet and inspect the rest of the wounds, but she dared not get too close. It appeared that the physical evidence of Tara’s betrayal was gone.
There were very few magical wonders in the world that could produce such healing so quickly. Anya possessed one of them, but she was the only one of her kind in the entire world. It could not have been her.
Then Tara caught a faint whiff of scent that reminded her of the green salve that had been left for her.
Technology perhaps, which only appears as magic to those who don’t understand it.
Tara was grateful that she had not killed Willow, even though that initial failure had led her to this moment now, where Willow’s life was wholly in Tara’s control.
She had an experiment to conduct, an opportunity, perhaps, to bend the command of her Master. She would flirt with the crumbling edge of disaster and see if there was any way to reclaim her body as her own.
The attempt would have to be made.
The consequences accepted.
Let it begin.
Tara wasted no time setting her experiment in order. The light of the quicksilver moon would not provide enough illumination for this charade, so she kept Willow’s bedside lamp on, trusting in the steel-reinforced door. She had a sudden thought for the window, touched it and discovered it was already impact-proof glass, yet she spared a moment for another song of strength, of titanium and adamant.
She left the window and walked over to a chair that was placed in front of a small dressing table. This furniture looked more ornamental than utilitarian, and this entire room held barely a hint of Willow in it at all, for all it was her sleeping chamber. There was no life or love here, just expensive décor and eager walls. She picked up the chair and put it at the foot of Willow’s bed, where she could sit and execute her plan.
Step one involved pain and apprehension as she carefully tugged Willow into a sitting position, propping her up with pillows, pain in her gut from the movement and a clenched jaw from ensuring she did not suddenly place her hands about Willow’s throat.
Step two included going back to her pack, her blood and breath as quicksilver as the moon. She placed her pack on the chair that faced the slumping Willow and opened it. Near the top of her supplies was a pistol, wrapped in frayed felt. She pulled it from its cloth covering and placed it on the bed. The next was the dagger she had taken from her small arms chest back at the den. It was over two hundred years old, was made of mithral and had perfect balance and precision.
She drew it from its sheath, and the edge severed and fractured the moonlight. She placed it next to the pistol on the bed.
A flask of water, which she sipped from, and two ordinary pills to combat the pain.
The last item she kept in the bottom of her pack. Her possession of it had been one of her most closely guarded secrets for the last five hundred years. It had been hidden under the subfloor of the poppy den in a stone box, entombed with the clay of earth.
That man Rupert had said that Willow would wake at dawn, perhaps part of whatever ritual had enabled such rapid healing.
Tara had a different time schedule in mind.
Step three. She turned to shield her body from the unconscious woman in the bed and drew off her Hunter clothes. Willow had to be able to see her for her experiment to work. She pulled on soft trousers with a drawstring waist, gentle against the gauze taped over her belly, and an equally soft peasant-style shirt. She clipped much of her blonde hair away from her face, tucking some of the strands behind her ears.
Now dressed and ready, Tara looked at the woman in the bed. Under the influence of the cheery electric light, Willow looked nothing like the grim angel of death she had been in the den two nights ago. This Willow held more of the adolescent girl at the fair, and Tara nearly touched her translucent face with her cracker-jack ring bearing hand.
Not yet.
Her hand tamed, her eyes kept roving, drawn down the curving slide of Willow’s shoulders, over the firm muscles of her biceps, inside the crook of her elbows and finally to Willow’s wrists. All her skin seemed new, unblemished, and Tara stood to wonder if this was even her Willow at all, or was this some copy, a robot, a golem, a Cylon even, somehow capable of advanced healing and regeneration.
In the end it didn’t matter. Willow’s spirit burned behind the tabernacle of flesh, and it was that spirit that called to Tara now. The spirit that hovered just beyond the thin skin of her wrists, the passion that slumbered in the cage of her ribs, the rapture that flung open the wings of destiny.
A million possible worlds danced on this single needle-point of time, all to the tune of her Master through the collar; slave worlds forced to dance to his cruel music, dance forever to keep fit and trim and ready for work.
Pressure in her neck, and Tara took one of Willow’s hands and then she closed her eyes. Darkness boiled behind her eyelids and she was immediately aware of Willow’s spirit, passion and rapture, just beneath the flesh and skin.
(time to wake up, Willow)Tara called to the fire within her and sent channels of it smoking through their joined hands, not enough to injure. No, just enough to cause discomfort, to bring Willow back from blissful sleeping shores, to ground her firmly in the here and now where no dreams were allowed.
After the wave of heat Tara sent a sensation of prickling nettles, little itching barbs to burrow into the surface of Willow’s skin.
She opened her eyes when she heard Willow’s breath change. She let go of her hand and hobbled back to the chair she had placed at the foot of the bed. She carefully sat in it, wheezing slightly, and picked up the pistol. She put her right leg on the bed and crooked her knee; a resting place for her arm. She peered down the sight of the gun and adjusted her arm and knee until Willow’s forehead was in the crosshairs.
Now she was ready. She could hold this position forever.
~~
To be continued with Chapter 26: Law of Attraction
(this is madness!)Jen
aka Tara the Phoenix
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