Chapter 44
even the powerful die
Althanea had been seventeen when she realized the gods touched her. Until that point she had been more concerned with who was winning the Eurovision Song Contest, with watching the Beatles on her tiny black and white television. The goddess Hecate blithely danced into her life and gave her meaning and purpose beyond that of most mortals.
Teleportation was a gift that Hecate offered to her freely when she asked, and often. Yet Althanea could count on a single hand the number of times she had been given the opportunity to see the world as a God would see it, all the banality of the physical plane with an overlay of the divine.
It was so even now.
She lay on the gritty ground and watched Tawarick approach, the silence deafening after the concussion of sound that tumbled Bringers back like so many leaves. Disoriented, confused, her very soul shuddering with fear, Althanea struggled to rise even as her sight became narrow, focused. She looked upon Tara, and felt awe akin to her worship of her goddess.
There within the laboured beating of Tara’s heart lay a corona of divinity, a sunspot of celestial glory, which grew and expanded until it pulsed from the nurse like a halo about her whole body. It was a white light, pure as new-driven snow, sacred as the sun.
Althanea blinked, and the vision expanded. Wings sprung from Tara’s shoulders, feathers soft as rose petals, gleaming white and dipped in gold. A gown appeared, woven of shooting star wishes and penny dreams. The goddess stood, robed in truth, and she held the terrible knife in her hands.
Why was the world not bowing at her feet? Kissing her toes, worshipping her?
Tearing her eyes from the angelic vision in front of her, Althanea looked at Tawarick. With only her physical eyes, he was frightening. With her god-touched vision, he was terrifying.
Balefire streamed from his horns, and he stood within a pool of the blackest energy, agitated and hungry. A black hole ready to feast upon the divine.
Tara and Tawarick stared at each other, and Althanea expected the world to tear apart in the silent maelstrom.
A rumbling out in the desert, yet Althanea would not tear her eyes away.
“I will destroy you, witch,” the demon snarled. His voice was the crunching of bones between teeth, the gnawing of hyenas over their kill. “You cannot stand against me.”
“You can try,” Tara replied. “But I don’t recommend it. In fact, if you are still around by the time my girlfriend gets here, you’re going to regret it.”
Tawarick lunged for her and Althanea opened her mouth to scream even as she wove magic in her fingers, yet Tara easily sidestepped the massive demon. As he stumbled past her, she raised her hands and placed them on his pebbly skin.
“Goddess forgive me,” Althanea heard Tara say.
No earthly ear could have heard the thunderous detonation as Tara touched the demon’s skin. For one moment longer, Hecate blessed Althanea with her otherworldly sight, and Althanea saw the white glow surrounding the nurse pulse with light and beauty. She could almost see the ripples of energy pass through the demon’s skin and into Tara, and Althanea silently prayed for this most desperate gamble to work.
Not even a minute had yet passed.
Then her vision vanished, and it was just Tara, in her jeans and black sweater, her hands still on Tawarick’s back, the great demon falling to his knees as his skin began to smoke and blister. Was Tara healing herself, or was it simply her blessed touch alone he could not stand?
Althanea had no time for such rumination. From the corner of her eye she saw Rack through her thin barrier, and his eyes had turned into midnight pools of the darkest power. Black magic sparked about his spider-thin hands and Althanea panicked, recognizing the power within his grasp. Althanea tried desperately to sever her spell
(release! release!)yet the warlock lifted his hands and the field shattered as invisible glass, piercing her magical soul.
It wasn’t a particularly strong forcefield spell, yet the pain of its destruction knifed her already pained side. Althanea had been trying to rise from the floor, yet now she tumbled back, her head striking the ground. Pain cracked behind her eyes and spots flickered about her vision.
The faint was maddening, almost close enough to touch, but Althanea strained for consciousness, her eyes watering, fear a lump in her throat. Dizzy with pain and fear, Althanea watched Rack approach her even as she looked for Tara.
And saw what Tara could not see, saw the rippling of determination in the great demon’s jaw, the flexing of his muscles as he prepared to strike.
“Tara!” two voices shouted, Willow’s and Althanea’s blended together. Both Tara and Althanea stared out into the desert at the sound of Willow’s voice. Tara’s face brightened momentarily as she recognized the voice of her love; it was only a single moment she took to look out toward that ruined line in the desert, to see Willow flying like a comet toward her.
One moment to distract her.
Tawarick was no fool.
Althanea had no power.
Her spell shattered, her head spinning with pain, a vision of Maggie floating behind her eyes, Althanea tried to weave the magic, whispered spell after spell that evaporated in the heated mouth of the desert. Anything to save Tara. Anything. She could not, would not fail again.
The magic was elusive quarry.
Tawarick, his eyes bleeding, his back smoking where Tara was touching him, draining him, he twisted to face the distracted nurse. Lifting a massive arm, he swiftly clawed Tara in the chest, a horrific four-pronged wound that started near her shoulder and ran halfway down her chest. It wasn’t until Tara staggered and gripped his other shoulder, her face blanched, that Althanea saw the amulet fall from her, its chain broken.
Time had no meaning.
Flying Willow caught the amulet a hairsbreadth from the ground, even as Tara’s head lifted, her eyes shining dead black. Implacable Willow sent a pulse globe to Rack as the warlock raised a deadly blow to Althanea’s blind side, even while Tara glared at and tightened her grip on the great demon. Terrified Willow tried to press the amulet into Tara’s exposed and blood sodden skin; even as the nurse levelled her midnight gaze upon the red-haired witch.
“Hello, dirty girl.”
No amount of heat could melt the lump of ice that had formed, clot like, in Althanea’s soul. It wasn’t Tara’s voice that erupted from her throat, yet it didn’t belong to another. It was a throaty growl that caused Althanea to quake to her very toes.
The knife flashed in her hand and would have destroyed Willow if it had landed. The red-haired witch propelled herself back just in time to avoid the killing blow. Tara smoothly redirected the pass of the knife, held its gleaming edge against the demon’s throat.
It was no mere trick of the light. The demon was screaming in concert with her, a monstrous duet. Tara was sucking the life force of the demon, and Althanea saw the most recent and awful injury heal itself with lightning speed. And then Tara’s mouth shut as her practiced hand drew the knife with laser precision through Tawarick’s throat with no more emotion than killing a pig or a chicken.
Willow was getting up off the ground once more, the amulet draped in her fingers.
Rack’s body was only now skidding to a stop, bowling against Bringers.
Tawarick’s dead body was a misshapen lump on the ground.
The silence was threatening, hungry.
And the nurse screamed again, dropping the knife with a tinny clatter on the ground, holding her head in her hands. Under the flickering glare of the streetlamp, Althanea could see her eyes flickering. Black. Blue. Black. Blue.
Blue.
Willow at her side, pressing the amulet into her skin. Tara weeping, weeping as she embraced Willow, as Willow held her head to her chest, stroked her hair. Althanea’s side aching as if Willow had not healed her of her wound, her head pounding from its terrific blow.
Althanea realized she had been holding her breath, and let it out explosively.
The Bringers advanced, drones of the hive.
Tawarick lay dead on the grimy gas station floor.
In the distance, Angel was waiting.
Willow and Tara were in their own universe; Althanea saw Willow fix the amulet with a single word, then place it reverently around Tara’s neck, looking deeply into Tara’s eyes. In their haste, in their worry, their words washed over each other and over Althanea as well.
“Will, I thought you were…”
“Tara, are you…?”
“I thought I had lost…”
“However did you…?”
“Did you hear me call?”
“Baby, your shoulder…”
“The amulet, Will…”
“Tara, you did it…”
“We need to hurry…”
“Tara, is it really you…?”
“We have to get Angel…”
“What should I do…?”
“God, Willow, I love you.”
“Tara…”
“We have to go…we can talk later. Althanea needs a doctor.”
“I don’t want to leave you…”
“We need Angel. We need the scythe.”
“I need you.”
Althanea scrambled to her feet, pain still a knife in her side, yet she could feel the magic returning. She stood, trembling and swaying, watching Willow and Tara, and tears climbed into her eyes, ran down her throat, thickening it. Loss was a hammerstroke to her breast.
Willow bent to kiss Tara, just as Tara turned to look at Althanea.
Willow’s lips on Tara’s cheek.
“Althanea, are you all right?” the nurse asked.
There had been blood in Maggie’s hair. It had not been washed out by the time Althanea had arrived at the morgue.
Tara’s hair was sticky with blood; it clumped by the newly-healed grooves in her chest. The amulet lay as a millstone about her neck. There was only a single street lamp illuminating them all – Tara’s blood was tar in the darkness.
Rhythmic shuffling, a soft shushing of sound as Bringer robes brushed the gravel, crunching sounds as Bringer boots strode closer, a sibilant murmuring from their lips, their star-crossed eyes somehow leading them to their quarry, straight as an arrow. With a whispered spell, Willow once again enclosed them in a forcefield.
Tawarick smelled like demon barbecue, a tasty dish from hell’s kitchen.
Even the powerful die.
Tara’s eyes were flat.
“I’m all right,” Althanea breathed. “We’ve got to get out of here.” Tearing her eyes away from Tara and Willow, Althanea looked down at Tara’s foot. The knife was there, singing its murderous song. Tara followed her gaze, bent easily and picked up the knife. It looked unnatural in her hand.
Tara’s eyes were blue.
Althanea could not suppress a shiver down her spine. She had come too close to dying here. Too close to Maggie.
“Willow, let me take Tara home,” Althanea said softly, touching the nurse’s other hand. It was warm and soft, but Tara didn’t smile at the touch. She looked nervous, scared.
Willow looked uncertain.
“Will, we need to stick together,” Tara said, squeezing Althanea’s hand before releasing it. “I need to be with you.”
Althanea could see the war in Willow’s expression. Commanders pick their battles, and deep inside, Althanea knew what Willow would choose. Tara was in control again, and they desperately needed the scythe.
They could both see the decision on Willow’s face. “Go home,” Willow whispered, pulling Tara into her arms. “I’ll be there soon. Two shakes of a dog’s tail.”
Willow looked over Tara’s silken head at Althanea.
*Protect her, please? She is my life.*Althanea nodded.
*Release the field and we’ll go. Be careful. We’ll see you soon.*Althanea was close enough to Tara to smell the dirt and blood, a faint streamer of sandalwood and rose. Her legs were leaden. It was as if she hadn’t slept in days. Magic filled her, and she allowed it to coruscate throughout her body, washing the ache away, wishing she could heal herself completely, suddenly shy of asking Willow to take the pain of her old and weary body away.
For it was such a little thing, really.
Willow kissed Tara’s forehead, and the nurse turned away with a final squeeze of Willow’s hand. Two steps took her to Althanea’s side, and the Bringers, like mindless cockroaches, continued to swarm at the edges of the field. Althanea looked out into the desert, and imagined Angel kneeling on the ground, the scythe pointed at his heart.
Willow could save him, when no one else could. Without Tara to worry about, Willow could do it faster.
“Let’s go,” Althanea breathed, taking Tara’s hand. It was cooler than it was moments ago. The nurse gulped.
“Back to my house?” the nurse asked.
“Yes.”
Althanea had to resist an impulse to ask Tara to give her the knife. The memory of Tara’s blackened eyes haunted her, but they had run out of time.
(Hecate, teleport me. Please.) In a heartbeat, they vanished from the gas station and reappeared in Tara’s kitchen. Althanea could smell the sharp tang of Korean cooking. The dirty dishes were still on the table.
Her stomach growled.
“Tara, I…”
When Rack had attacked her earlier, Althanea had never felt anything so painful as the first time the knife slid across her ribs. Some black magic, like venom, had caused the wound to sting and bite ferociously.
Was it the because of the bearer’s hand?
Tara’s hand was wet. The knife slid into Althanea’s chest with the eager slickness of a lover. Pain was sharp and distant at the same time.
The number of the pizza place was still circled by the phone.
Althanea slumped to the ground, blood dribbling from her lip. Tara hunkered down with her, crouched easily on her heels and looked at the dying witch with a clinical interest.
The knife made a sucking sound as it exited her lung; Tara pulled it out only to thrust it in again, lower, deeper.
Blood erupted in her throat, and Althanea spat it out even as a cloak of dimness settled over her eyes. “Why?” she choked.
One drop of her crimson blood struck Tara on the cheek. It was a dark beauty mark on the pale perfection of her skin.
“Twasn’t anything personal,” Tara said amiably, leaving the knife to shudder inside Althanea’s vital organs. “I just needed your power. Got some mighty important folk waiting to come to town and I need to prepare a proper welcome.
“They want to use me, see?” Tara continued, drawing the amulet over her head, pooling the chain in her hand. “All sorts of sacrificing to be done. Someone needs to stand over the seal, and it won’t be me.”
Tara dropped the amulet in the expanding pool of blood.
Was this how it felt for Maggie? This coldness, this numbing anaesthesia that crawled up her legs and hibernated in her chest?
*Willow!* she tried to call.
Tara’s full palm slap rocked Althanea’s head against the wall, sending another spatter of blood across the wallpaper and floor. “Now, now,” Tara admonished. “You don’t seem to remember, you filthy whore.” The knife slid from her again and Tara held it by her face. “This is p’achi. The blood it spills is consecrated to the oldest evil. It opens the mouth, and takes the power.”
One final thrust and Althanea knew no more.
“You have no more magic, witch. It is all mine, and soon I will be free.”
Caleb got up and stretched his legs, looking disdainfully at the witch at his feet, feeling the stickiness of the blood on his hands. Tara was sobbing somewhere in his head. Using her body felt corrupt, unholy. It had taken everything in his power to let Willow embrace him, those moments after the amulet broke and he won his freedom. He played the part, though. Anything to get Althanea far enough away from Willow, to perform this most important murder.
He strode to the sink and washed his hands, looking at his reflection in the window. The sweater was ruined – he’d need to wear another. He wished he had a little time to explore the luscious body that he was suddenly master of, but he had a timetable to keep.
Cassandra. The coven’s seer would tell him where the others were. She could be… persuaded.
The witch was dead, but he looked at her one more time. “Even the powerful die,” he said softly. “And the meek shall inherit the earth.”
To be continued with Chapter 45: Weight of the World
Phoenix
) then just as all seems lost Tara shrugs off the mantle of her little ole down trodden self to reveal the blazing glory of her true self ready to kick some Tawarick ass. It was like she unfurled into this larger than life being (in my mind with wings, I liked the wings a lot), which she is of course being the descendent of a god and all.
