Zampsa1975: I'm sure Willow would be very happy to "take care of him" actually.
Red Sparrow: Thanks! You guys should start a "eat Tara's dad" club. There are a lot of supporters.
JustSkipIt: Thank you! I used the model of S4 Tara for my portrayal of high school Tara but I may have overdone it. Stay tuned though!
taralicious: Wow, I really liked the way you put that. It's exactly what I was trying to portray.
Raineh: Thanks! There's a lot of stuff going on in the story but it's all about Willow and Tara, so plenty of interaction.
Little Bit: Thanks! Willow's perspective is coming right up.
sadie: Thanks a lot, it's a tough theme to portray--vampires (even in love) don't tend to be very nice. But I'm giving it my best.
~~~
Chapter 3 "The Birth of Venus"
More of Xander’s bad driving had led the two vampires into town. The dark-haired boy stopped the car just short of hitting a church of all places.
For a time they stared blankly at the modest, though large edifice, until the moment that Willow’s head tilted curiously and she stepped out of the car. Xander followed not albeit dumbly.
“You’re kidding, right?” she asked him.
The boy could only shake his head, “this is supposed to be the place, this is where the Master said to go.”
“Can we even,” she placed her booted foot so it hovered playfully above the church steps, “can we even step on it?”
Xander looked away sheepishly, “No clue.”
“Well, no hypothesis should go untested,” and with that Willow the Wicked shoved her partner directly onto the porch steps, “subject appears to have suffered mild trauma during the course of experimentation but…he’ll live to kill another day,” and she smiled at his wide-eyed expression as if she hadn’t just treated his existence with all the care and respect afforded to lab rats.
“Not funny,” he told her.
She rolled her eyes fondly at him, “Drusilla and Angelus once met in a church, in a confessional booth,” she said simply, and it was clear that the statement was both the end of the explanation and the conversation.
Willow’s Sire, Drusilla, was far more involved in her Childe’s unlife than Xander’s was to his, and the boy flinched almost undetectably at the reminder.
Silently, he reached to knock on the looming double-doors but was stopped short by a large gust that smelled of dust and old age.
The door had been opened abruptly by a rather annoyed looking man in a long black robe. It was a priest’s robe. “Come in, come in,” he said, “it’s almost daylight for Christ’s sake, Jesus, what an hour to be arriving.”
Lucien Tilly was once an old man, as it stands now he’s an old vampire. He was sired on a Sunday; 1697 had been the year, and he had been a 57-year-old priest strongly revered for his kindness. As a vampire he had been revered for his cruelty.
In 1852, the day he celebrated 155 years of unlife a feeling took over him to settle. Weeks before this feeling overtook him his Sire—a beautiful young nun with eyes like a river who, as a human, had fallen in love with Lucien—had been dusted by a young, quixotic Slayer whom Lucien later seduced and killed.
For months he had roamed, lost and purposeless. He had lost his zeal for mayhem, lost his taste for blood, lost his will to deal out truculent destruction—his vampire followers quickly noticed and left him abandoned on a desert road. He arrived in California just as the state was beginning to bloom and, on a whim, founded Holy Oak.
This would be the place in which he would convalesce, he decided. For 155 years he had subsisted on discord, he had lived an aberration for a century and a half with years to spare! No more, he decided, and declared the land sacred. The first thing built in the newly consecrated town had been the church.
The old priest sired three men to help him, David who had come looking for gold, Adam who had come looking for adventure and Paul who had come looking for love. Together they built the town, together they watched it prosper, though its destiny rested always in the hands of its owner, Lucien. Lucien would always have control over Holy Oak.
Every aspect of the town was one that he controlled—the mayor, the police, all school officials, all officials period. Questions were not forbidden, but it was common knowledge what your fate would be should you ask too many of them.
So no one blinked an eye when they only held Mass at night, no one blinked when the odd death would go uninvestigated, no one cared to note that their town was run as a theocracy—Holy Oak was a still picture in a sepia tone, with some irksome quality that could not be pinpointed.
The citizens were kept silent and oblivious through a mixture of spells and Lucien’s own mesmeric harangue—for 147 years that had been enough.
Such had been the priest’s diatribe to Willow and Xander as the three sat around a private and elegant room away from the pews.
Willow studied the man before her whose eyes peered past her into a time in which she did not exist, he looked, she thought, like some magnificent flamingo.
He had long, lanky limbs and a big nose that protruded toward the sky, then dipped lower, towards the ground at the very tip. His hairline receded back towards his ears, but still he kept his grey hair long and tied into a pony tail. Beneath his bushy brows lie his only beautiful feature—his eyes which were a grey so light they bordered on silver. But grey, they were.
Finally the clouds within his eyes cleared and he again focused his attention on his guests, “but what terrible manners! You must be famished after such a long drive. Adam! Paul! Three drinks please!” He called out into the air and from the silent church two figures emerged behind whom three nuns marched silently, heads bowed.
Lucien stood and made his way to one of the nuns. The girl was unnaturally skinny, a fact which made her look very ugly, except for her eyes which moved like a river. He held her chin with the tips of his thumb and index finger and gently pulled to bare her neck, sinking his teeth into the already badly scarred skin.
Xander looked to Willow whose blank face mirrored his, the boy shrugged and stood, callously grabbing at one of the sisters.
Willow stared deeply into the eyes of the remaining girl; they were brown and sunk into the sallow skin of her face so that they looked like two pools of mud. They were wide but still and unafraid. She stood slowly and gently placed her hands at the girl’s waist; the only response was a baring of her neck.
Willow had always prided herself on the size of her fangs. They were longer than Xander’s, longer than Spike’s, almost as long as the Master’s. And she knew that when they punctured human skin it was very painful and always accompanied by a shrill, cacophonous plea into the night air where no one was listening but her. How she looked forward to and savored that dizzying moment!
This girl, however, made no move to scream or get away. She stood there lifelessly, and Willow felt like she was sucking at cadaver. She lost all appetite and pulled away, leaving the wound still dripping the spicy scarlet all along the girl’s black robe.
“Don’t kill them,” Lucien spoke, in a voice meant for afterthoughts.
“I think someone already has,” Willow spoke up, but so softly that the sounds of feeding easily stifled the words.
The girls left immediately after the vampires’ feeding, again following Adam and Paul, none bothered to wipe at their necks.
“Now,” Lucien spoke, “let us return to the urgent matter at hand. I’ve been prepared for this for a while. I lost all ties to the Master shortly after leaving England for America, but I knew of this prophecy, and I was aware of its protagonist residing in my own small corner of the universe. I was unaware he knew I lived in California, I was unaware he knew I lived at all—but he has kept a close eye on me, it seems,” here the man walked towards an expansive bookshelf and ran his index finger along the spines until it rested on a large brown text, seemingly no different than the others, “the prophecy is found only in Sabina Smith’s Book of Shadows. Sabina Smith was a decent witch, and an exceptional prophet. She was a part of the coven of which the original witch from whence the six generations spawned belonged, they met and the vision came upon her suddenly. Now six generations later, we shall see whether or not it shall come to pass.”
“It won’t,” Xander spoke suddenly, his face still ridged and beastly.
“Not in your capable hands, I’m sure,” Lucien spoke dryly, though he had a sneaking suspicion that only the diminutive redhead had understood the sarcastic reply, and he smirked at the girl’s small snort, “the young witch lives on a farm not far from here—“
“We’ve visited her,” Willow interjected softly and at Lucien’s startled look she continued languidly, “The Watcher knew the witch’s mother—or grandmother—we found out the name, the address. So we surveyed the area, did a little recon. We’re pretty crafty.”
“No contact?”
“Not yet,” Willow smiled at him.
“They’re the Maclay’s, that’s the family name. As witches they’re known as the Orwell’s. The line began with Nina Orwell in 1499 and is currently upheld by the two remaining Orwell witches: Deirdre Maclay and her daughter Tara Maclay--the sixth generation of the Orwell witches. And our prophesized witch.”
“Tara Maclay,” Willow rolled the name over and around her tongue, memorizing it.
“I’ve already formulated a plan—it’s already in effect, I had the foresight to start planting all the seeds early. I won’t let you in on the specifics just yet, but leave it up to me to get the witch. You need only be transporters.”
Xander’s arms glided leisurely to the back of his gelled up hair, “sounds good to me, just be speedy about it, will ya?”
“Anything for you, Darling,” Lucien’s cheeks broke into sardonic wrinkles. They were like a curtain pulled back to reveal his smile, Willow mused tiredly.
“This is boring,” Willow slumped low into her chair and let her body go limp like a rag doll’s, “I want to kill something.”
“None of that here, I’m afraid,” Lucien told her pointedly, “that actually brings me to my next topic. There are a few precepts you’re going to have to adhere to while you’re here, in my town, in my home. You don’t kill my citizens, understand? There’s enough right here so you’ll never be hungry. Don’t go around leering, or causing mischief, I’ve owned this place for 147 years without incident, and I won’t have two reckless fledglings ruining it for me. Understand?” One bushy brow flew up into his receding hairline.
“Yeah, yeah,” Xander spoke for them. For her part Willow pouted her lips at the steeped ceiling.
That morning Willow had dreamt she was chasing a shadow, a pretty silhouette, all across a sunny glade. The sun shone brightly and they laughed, she was not chasing for the kill of it, she simply wanted to catch the alluring figure and hold it in her arms, inspect it curiously. That was the first time since becoming a vampire that Willow’s dream was set in daylight, though the vampire failed to note this right away.
When night came Willow watched Xander chase nuns for an hour before growing bored. Paul, David and Adam said they sometimes killed cows for the fun of it but Willow grew bored after the first kill. She didn’t find it funny when they tipped over like the other three did. But she figured over a hundred years living in this town and anyone would go goofy.
She left them there to kill all the cows; she hoped they killed every cow in the world and that their stupid laughter would ring in the night air eternally. She decided to take a lackadaisical walk through the town. It appeared endlessly lonely, people just seemed sparse. They would walk in little groups and stare oddly as she passed. She missed throngs of people.
Feeling suddenly despondent she entered the little park where there was not one child swinging or running about, or shrieking. The swings stirred in the wind and Willow decided it was some ghost keeping her company; she sat across the ghost, on the Merry-Go-Round, and watched it swing rhythmically backwards and forwards.
~~~
Willow sensed the girl precisely two blocks before she apparently decided to turn away from the path and into the more scenic route through the park. Temptress. And here she was a neutered kitten, Willow pouted into the dark.
The girl was a pretty yellow blur, and then with a pop and a hiss she became a solid object.
“Oh, darn it! You unreliable thing!” She kicked tires.
“Wasn’t the tire’s fault,” Willow whispered, ginning amusedly.
The girl turned her head left and right before her eyes finally fell on Willow’s in the dark. Willow had never seen eyes glow like that at night before; they radiated their own light like stars do.
“W-what?” The little blonde thing stuttered at her.
“That’s your culprit there,” Willow glared at the small rock which had left a long white scar across the black cement in the accident.
“Oh,” The girl’s hands started to wind themselves around, “w-well it’s not the rock’s fault it was there. T-tires are supposed to go through ‘em.”
Willow shrugged because she no longer cared about the rock or tire. Oh what providence this was, a gorgeous young girl in a school girl’s outfit, and with a broken bike to boot. No other means of escape, no houses for at least a mile, no one to hear her scream. Except Willow. The diminutive vamp was playing with the idea that perhaps this girl was fate’s way of telling her this ‘no killing’ thing just wasn’t for her. If Lucien had a problem she’d kill him too, she could turn the girl, the girl would help her…she would have to because Xander would probably just stand there like an id—
She almost didn’t hear the girl through her mental circumlocution.
“H-hey, um, where was the first ever writing discovered?” She asked her.
“Where?”
“A rock!” The girl’s smile reminded Willow of the moon the night Drusilla had turned her—an innocent curve in the darkness.
She understood the joke right away, she’d never miss an academic reference “that’s pretty funny.”
The girl blushed and Willow quietly longed after the blood beneath those pale cheeks, “Th-thank you. Are you, um, new around here? I’ve never s-seen you. Or anyone like you.”
“I’m Willow. I just got here, and I hate it.” Willow patted the space next to her, she wanted the girl close in case she decided to give in and take a bite. Each second it started to feel more and more worth the trouble it would cost her.
The girl abandoned the old powder blue bicycle and Willow felt as if she were reeling in a pretty salmon with her eyes, “I-I’m Tara, Tara Maclay,” she spoke as she sat.
The witch!
“Are you staying here with f-family?” Tara finally spoke up.
After a very brief bout of speechlessness Willow responded with the lie Lucien had settled on for her and Xander’s presence in the church and town “Yes. Lucien Tilly’s my uncle.”
“Father Lucien?”
“He can’t be your father. He’s a priest,” Willow whispered wryly, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction at the melodious sound of Tara’s laughter.
“S-so, you’re on vacation from school?” Tara asked her, smiling widely so that a small dimple graced her left cheek.
“I don’t go to school.”
“Oh?” One fair, blonde eyebrow rose in question, “you seem very young.”
Willow leaned in conspiratorially, breathing in the girl’s ambrosial
scent “I’m only one year old, that’s why,” she whispered near the blonde’s warm ear.
She could feel Tara tremble at her closeness.
“Um, I-I should go. I have to be home by dinner,” the blonde stood slowly, turning to the pale girl with her trademark asymmetrical smirk, “m-my father gets angry if I’m late.”
“I’ll just kill him,” Willow vowed sweetly.
Tara was obviously startled at the seriousness with which Willow had said the words, but soon her gaping mouth closed with a barely audible pop and she laughed albeit nervously “It was nice m-meeting you, Willow.”
“We have to meet again,” the vampire demanded, “Soon.”
The blonde bit her lip before nodding, “I live a mile that way,” she pointed toward the moon, “you can come over any time, my dad and your uncle are good friends.”
The girl started to walk away, dragging her bike along, and Willow followed her until the very edge of the park. She stood and watched as the girl looked back at her twice, the second time waving awkwardly and calling out a “goodbye, Willow.”
She stood until she could no longer smell the girl’s scent, or feel the faint echo of her pulse.
~~~
It had been a long night—something which never happened in the city. She spent the whole of it by a tall window on the side of Lucien’s church, musing. She thought about the witch. Something in the girl’s eyes begged Willow to think of her. Something in the girl’s eyes left her spellbound; there was a depth there, dark and inviting like the ocean at night. There was an inherent womanliness in that gaze that belied the girl’s outer meekness.
A thick velvet curtain was unfurled in front of the window, Willow turned to Adam or Paul or whichever one of them it was and the vampire shrugged by way of explanation, “daylight,” he said simply.
Willow stretched her limbs which had grown stiff in the hours she’d spent sitting and thinking and walked to her room to sleep. She dreamt she drowned in the deep blue sea.
~~~
Xander’s big booted feet clunking on the small room’s floor woke her. They were sharing the small simple room which consisted of two small simple beds and nothing else. She kept her eyes closed and wished him away.
“Where were you last night?”
Shit.
“Here mostly, I went to the park for a little,” she turned to him, her pale naked body entangled in plain white sheets, “Where were you?”
“With Kay,” he smiled widely.
Kay had been one of the three lifeless nuns; the one Xander had fed from.
“I’m sure that was a real barrel of laughs,” Willow spoke, one eyebrow rising to mock him.
There was a long moment’s silence where Willow simply looked at him as the boy ran gel across his hair. Sometimes she thought he was trying to imitate James Dean, sometimes she thought he was trying to imitate Spike…most times she thought they were both trying to imitate James Dean. She stared for another moment before deciding, “I met the witch.”
“What?” He turned around abruptly mid-hair stroke.
“In the park,” Willow continued past his impassioned glare, “she’s delightful.”
The boy-vampire threw his head back in exasperation. The things that caught Willow’s interest were an infinite mystery to him. It all seemed so random, the things that caught her eye, her attention. Some small idiosyncrasy or flaw, some small thing they did or didn’t say. It figures she’d get all hot and bothered over the enemy.
“Willow stop, all right? Let Lucien handle it like he said he would.”
“Why?” She challenged him, “wouldn’t it be better to at least establish trust with the girl? It’ll make it easier.”
“This was supposed to be easy already,” Xander practically whined at her, “you don’t want to end up dusted for making a mistake. And I don’t want to end up dusted for you making a mistake.”
“Our lives aren’t the ones at stake here—the Master’s is.”
“Even more reason to be wary,” he hissed.
Willow stood up in a huff, reaching for her suitcase which was slumped next to Xander’s in the right corner of the square little room, “you really need to grow a pair of fangs, sissy boy.”
“Don’t call me that!” His face changed with his rage, unbeknownst to him.
Willow smirked calmly as she dressed “Why? Is it some beautiful secret between Spike and you? Daddy’s little pet name for his sissy boy?”
Xander seethed silently and, unable to formulate a witty enough comeback, merely called out a “just don’t do anything stupid!” to Willow’s retreating back.
~~~
Plick. Plick. Plick. One by one she threw them at her window. She threw small, jagged rocks at Tara’s window for heavy seconds, until the image of light blonde hair and an open face graced the glass, like a painting, like the Birth of Venus.
“Willow?” The vampire saw her mouth the words, eyes wide with surprise and not just a bit of excitement-- she slid the window open, “Willow, w-what are you doing here?”
“You are the sun.”
Tara watched her with an expression caught between amazement and fondness; she didn’t know passion could sound listless.
“Come out tonight,” the vampire said, admiring the girl’s white skin which her nightgown did not hide.
Tara bit her lip, vacillating.
“Are you scared?” Willow teased breathily, “I can make it fun.”
The blonde pulled at her bottom lip irresolutely, turning back to look inside the house.
Willow didn’t have to strain to hear the arguing voices, the girl’s mother and father probably. She smiled, knowing that eventually the girl would nod, or breath a soft ‘yes’ and then come down to her.
“Yes.”
_________________ I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, --Allen Ginsberg
Last edited by madwriter on Thu Dec 11, 2008 12:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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