Past Tense
Part 6
Summary: Her name is Willow Rosenberg, and she has great potential; not, however, if she’s shut away in a Western Samoan hellhole ...
Her name is Larcinda. She was born over 1,500 years ago, and she is out, quite literally, for Marcus’s blood ...
Her name is Larcinda. She was born over 1,500 years ago, and she is out, quite literally, for Marcus’s blood ...
“Teen services International?” Marcus enquired laconically.
“Yes sir,” came the cheery response, “how may I direct your call?”
“Put me through to Mr …” Marcus paused, and glanced over to Willow.
“Harrington,” she mouthed.
“Mr Harrington,” he repeated. “Tell him its in connection to Willow Rosenberg.
An intensely annoying crescendo of pipe music began, eliciting an exasperated groan from Marcus’s lips. He remained waiting for another ten minutes before he was transferred.
“Charles Augustus Harrington,” spoke the voice. It was aloof, superior. “And you are?”
“Marcus Richardson, temporary guardian to Willow Rosenberg.”
“Temporary guardian?” enquired Harrington. “By which you mean?”
“The guy currently looking after the kid,” Marcus responded bluntly. “She doesn’t want to go to your little establishment, so I’m calling to have her name annulled from your list.”
There was a brief pause before the man responded. “I have the file here, and both her parents have given their full consent.”
“Well, Willow doesn’t give hers,” Marcus informed him. “Quite the opposite, she says she does not, under any circumstances, wish to attend your institute.”
“Sir,” stated Harrington dispassionately, “the wishes of the minor do not come into the equation. Her legal guardians have provided us with all the authority we require for her incarceration. And unless we hear otherwise from her mother, our escort agency will be collecting her from California within the month.”
“Sir,” Marcus said acerbically, “I don’t give squat about your legal bollocks. The kid clearly knows what she wants, so you guys aren’t laying a hand on her; got me?”
“Bollocks?” came the reply; the camp director was obviously not acquainted with the profane Anglicism.
The things you quite obviously lack, thought Marcus. “Would supercilious crap be more comprehensible to you?
It was.
“Look here,” came the indignant reply, “what makes you think you can phone here and insult me in this way?”
“And what gives you the right to think you can stick this girl in the hell-hole you call a school?” Marcus reciprocated.
“The legal system of the United States of America,” stated Harrington confidently. “Kindly take your liberalistic objections to the Supreme Court.”
“And kindly go screw your mother,” Marcus said, placing the phone back on its receiver.
He looked over to Willow, and smiled.
“You were right kid, the guys a total jerk.”
She moved over to lean against Giles’s desk beside him. “Should we do it now?”
“Why not,” Marcus agreed. “Come on, let’s have a look at Mr Harrington’s personal records.”
It took the two Americans a good half hour to set Giles’s computer up to the Internet, for the Watcher rarely used the machine. Marcus then began the task of hacking into the criminal databases of the USA’s various police forces.
“How do you know he’ll have a record?” Willow asked.
“Dip-shits like him always have a record,” Marcus replied confidently. “If not, why’d the guy be out running some dump in the middle of nowhere?” He came to the Idaho Police Department’s home screen, and began searching. He was almost immediately locked out. He tried to circumvent the encryption algorithms, but to no avail.
He cursed, and banged his hand against the keyboard. “Dammit, these guys had the most promising search results.”
“C-could I have a go,” Willow whispered.
“What?” Marcus was surprised. “Kid, I don’t think …”
Before he could continue, Willow had begun to type. The young hackers hands moved dexterously over the keys, instigating a sudden message of confirmation to appear on the screen.
“Jesus,” Marcus gasped. “Kid, where the hell’d you learn to do that?”
“Nowhere,” muttered Willow self-consciously.
Marcus shook his head at her skills, and began to probe into the confidential records. He soon found what he was looking for.
“Charles Augustus Harrington,” he read aloud, amazed at the man’s varied peculations. “Convicted of tax evasion in 1992, forgery and larceny in ’94, more tax evasion in ’95.” He clicked on the “outstanding convictions” icon.
He swore, and laughed, “This guy’s got more outstanding than Al Capone.”
Harrington was wanted on all manner of fraud charges, ranging from grand larceny to involvement in a forgery racket. The final nail in his coffin was delivered when Willow managed, after much effort, to break in to the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s mainframe, and download his FBI file.
Marcus was looking forward to his next phone call.
* * *
‘Paradise Bay Institute’, Western Samoa.
Charles Harrington fanned himself vigorously, trying in vain to ward off the smothering heat. His phone’s ringing distracted him from his uncomfortable reverie, and he reached with a sweat-drenched palm to lift the receiver.
“Hello, Charles Aug –”
“Charlie boy,” came the mocking tone.
“Look, what the hell are you doing ringing me,” he rapped tersely. “I’ve already told you that the girl is coming here, and that’s an end to it.”
“Shame,” came the reply. “’Cos if you don’t rectify that situation, FBI record number 456-87-B will be mailed to every single parent who currently pays you to abuse their offspring.”
Harrington screamed in horror, lurching forward violently against his desk.
“How in Christ’s name did you find that?” came the petrified gasp.
“Not important Charlie,” voiced his tormentor. “What is important is that unless I can hear Willow Rosenberg’s file shredding within the next 30 seconds, you are going to be screwed in ways you cannot even imagine.”
Harrington grabbed the phone in one hand, Willow’s files in the other, and began a panicked waddle across to the paper-shredder.
“Here, listen,” he practically sobbed down the phone, “can you hear them?”
“That’s good,” Marcus casually replied. “Okay asswipe, here’s the deal. I’ll look on your computer database in ten minutes, and unless all evidence of Ms Rosenberg’s association with your establishment is gone, your clientele will be receiving an early monthly newsletter.” The line then cut out.
Harrington ran down the corridor outside his office, a horrible stitch contracting his vast belly as he moved.
He burst into the room that housed the records, and screamed at the poor man operating the computer bank to delete all references to the name Rosenberg, liberally spicing his words with a stream of colourful expletives as he went.
* * *
Marcus had not heard Willow’s laugh before. Brief, reticent giggles yes, but not her laugh. He could hear it in abundance now, a high, vivacious sound. It was wonderful to hear.
She was practically skipping beside him, nothing but happiness showing in her small green eyes.
“That was so cool,” she said zealously. “I mean, we just busted the bad guy!”
“Yep, sure as hell did,” Marcus replied, and grinned. “Come on kid, let’s try that lunch thing again.”
Willow’s face clouded, the memory of his anger returning.
“Hey, kid, I was a jackass,” Marcus turned to face her, an apologetic sincerity spread across his features. “We’ll have something to eat, and then work out what to do next. No rush.”
She seemed reassured by this, and the smile returned.
“Can we go somewhere Englishey,” she asked. “I mean, somewhere different to hamburger and chips land.”
Marcus grinned, a paternal fondness for Willow gradually growing on him.
“Sure,” he said warmly. “How does the Savoy sound to you?”
She stopped, suddenly wracked with insecurity. She explained about her previous experience, and the fact that her mother would in all likelihood be located there.
“Kid,” Marcus knelt down beside her, “you’ll have to face her again soon.”
Willow nodded in resigned acceptance. “But I was hoping … I m-mean,” she stuttered, “I j-just need some time.”
“How about we have lunch, then I’ll smooth things over,” Marcus offered. “We know Mr Harrington won’t be troubling you anytime soon, so you’ll have time to work something out.”
Willow giggled at the memory of Marcus’s side of the conversation. “Okay,” she said nervously.
“Hey,” he grinned again, “it’ll be okay kid.”
* * *
Marcus walked confidently into the Savoy’s foyer, with Willow walking nervously in his stead. He noticed the curious, often derisory glances aimed in his direction, and adroitly ignored them. He moved casually to the restaurant’s booking desk, and requested a table for two.
“Sir,” the waist coated man said, “you do realise we have a strict dress code in this establishment.”
“And you realise,” Marcus replied sarcastically, “that my credit card is good for a shit-load of money.”
“Please,” the austere man whispered, “moderate your language.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Marcus said dismissively. “Now, we’ve had a long, hard day. We just want to eat at this well reputed establishment, no trouble.”
His politic tone was gradually wearing down the waiter’s aegis.
“Couldn’t you at least smarten the girl up a bit,” he asked despairingly
.
Marcus turned to Willow, and suddenly realised that she was indeed a mess.
Her cardigan was torn and covered in marks, her skirt was scuffed and similarly adorned, and her tights were covered in grime. One of her laces had broken, resulting in her right shoe flapping loose on her foot as she walked.
Basically, a mess.
“She’s been through worse then me,” he said sadly. “Please, just give us a table. I doubt anyone’ll notice much, it’s 3 in the afternoon.” The waiter finally relented.
“Very well,” the man acquiesced, “take a seat in the foyer, I’ll call when we’ve sorted it out.”
“Thanks,” Marcus acknowledged, and gestured for Willow to take a seat.
The meal was indeed excellent. They ate Yorkshire puddings, stake, and all the “quintessentially English” things Willow craved. She sat back contently, sipping a small glass of wine, obtained by Marcus’s assurances that she was in fact sixteen.
He rose, and looked down at her.
“You ready?” he asked simply, and Willow nodded.
It was time to find Shelia.
* * *
She danced.
The woman had danced in King Henry’s court, had taken the had of Louis XIV, jigged the Charleston with the bright young things in the 20’s, and rocked to Queen in New York city.
Now, she gyrated wildly to the strains of the Prodigy.
She moved lithely between the masses of humanity in the club, a feral power surging throughout her body. “Twenty-Four Hour Rave” the sign had stated, and it was more than living up to its promises.
She crashed against the bar, ordered vodka, and slid an ecstasy tablet from her bag. The drug slipped easily down her throat, hastened on its way by the spirit.
She shuddered as the kick resonated throughout her body, and lurched back to the floor.
I need this, she thought fervently. After what that bastard did to me, by God do I need this.
Her body moved to the rhythm, and suddenly a man was by her side. His moved salaciously against her body, rubbing his hands against her abdomen. The newly regenerated flesh was still tender, but she ignored the pain.
She would first screw him, and then drain him, she decided.
“Name babe,” the man asked, as she rubbed her breasts against him.
“Larcinda,” she answered. Even through the cacophony of the music, the voice cut like a dagger. It was ethereal, seductive. Something that should be avoided, but would inexorably draw men in all the closer.
She would enjoy the man, and then find her attacker. She ruminated on the various methods of torture she knew, ruminating on exactly where to place his testicles before disembowelling him.
The clubber rubbed against her, and she let out a small groan of pleasure.
She certainly knew what she was going to do with his accoutrements.
* * *
Willow’s world was now in disarray.
Her mother had been reported missing by the person who’d found her passport and luggage outside Cockfosters station, the Savoy had never had any reservation placed by someone with either the name of Rosenberg, or someone utilising her bank details.
And to cap it all, it had started to rain.
Not fleeting, light rain like California had to offer, but huge, swathing clouds of water pouring from the heavens. She was currently huddled inside Marcus’s coat as they rushed together down Oxford Street; periodically stopping while Willow retrieved her right shoe.
“Goddamn weather,” Marcus cursed ruefully. “Goddamned awful British weather.”
Willow just nodded her approval, and huddled further within the folds of Marcus’s coat. She was in serious, serious trouble. Her father was away God knew where in India, trying to “discover himself”. And now her mother had vanished from the face of the earth.
The shoe slipped from her foot again. She retrieved it, and instead of putting it on, yanked the other shoe off, and bolted barefoot down Oxford Street. Marcus was close behind her, the rain making his poloneck shirt stick to his skin.
They were both immeasurably relieved to come to the entrance of Tottenham Court Road station.
The two drenched figures piled down the stairs, the rain following in a multitude of rivulets behind them. Marcus purchased tickets, and they made their way down to the platform.
“Move it punk,” Marcus snarled, shoving the businessman off the seat set against the platforms wall. He wisely heeded the advice, and Marcus let Willow sit, removing his coat from her shoulders as he did so.
“What do I do now?” she asked hesitantly.
“You can sleep in my place tonight,” Marcus offered. “I’ll bunk up in Giles’s office. I’ve a feeling he won’t be coming back for a while,” he smiled knowingly.
Willow was secretly relieved at not having to spend the night in a house with a man she’d only met that day. She was sure she trusted Marcus, but was still on edge from the previous night’s experience. With his usual perceptiveness, he had picked up on this fact.
“Tomorrow,” Marcus began, “tomorrow – I’ll do what I can.” As always, he offered a frank opinion.
Willow nodded; relieved that at least her present tense problems had abated. She tipped the water from her sodden tennis shoes, and slipped them on. She felt the dirt on her feet rub against their lining, and decided she was in desperate need of a bath.
Marcus reclined against the station’s wall, and breathed a heavy sigh.
Now, he truly was her guardian.
© Byron, 2000
“Yes sir,” came the cheery response, “how may I direct your call?”
“Put me through to Mr …” Marcus paused, and glanced over to Willow.
“Harrington,” she mouthed.
“Mr Harrington,” he repeated. “Tell him its in connection to Willow Rosenberg.
An intensely annoying crescendo of pipe music began, eliciting an exasperated groan from Marcus’s lips. He remained waiting for another ten minutes before he was transferred.
“Charles Augustus Harrington,” spoke the voice. It was aloof, superior. “And you are?”
“Marcus Richardson, temporary guardian to Willow Rosenberg.”
“Temporary guardian?” enquired Harrington. “By which you mean?”
“The guy currently looking after the kid,” Marcus responded bluntly. “She doesn’t want to go to your little establishment, so I’m calling to have her name annulled from your list.”
There was a brief pause before the man responded. “I have the file here, and both her parents have given their full consent.”
“Well, Willow doesn’t give hers,” Marcus informed him. “Quite the opposite, she says she does not, under any circumstances, wish to attend your institute.”
“Sir,” stated Harrington dispassionately, “the wishes of the minor do not come into the equation. Her legal guardians have provided us with all the authority we require for her incarceration. And unless we hear otherwise from her mother, our escort agency will be collecting her from California within the month.”
“Sir,” Marcus said acerbically, “I don’t give squat about your legal bollocks. The kid clearly knows what she wants, so you guys aren’t laying a hand on her; got me?”
“Bollocks?” came the reply; the camp director was obviously not acquainted with the profane Anglicism.
The things you quite obviously lack, thought Marcus. “Would supercilious crap be more comprehensible to you?
It was.
“Look here,” came the indignant reply, “what makes you think you can phone here and insult me in this way?”
“And what gives you the right to think you can stick this girl in the hell-hole you call a school?” Marcus reciprocated.
“The legal system of the United States of America,” stated Harrington confidently. “Kindly take your liberalistic objections to the Supreme Court.”
“And kindly go screw your mother,” Marcus said, placing the phone back on its receiver.
He looked over to Willow, and smiled.
“You were right kid, the guys a total jerk.”
She moved over to lean against Giles’s desk beside him. “Should we do it now?”
“Why not,” Marcus agreed. “Come on, let’s have a look at Mr Harrington’s personal records.”
It took the two Americans a good half hour to set Giles’s computer up to the Internet, for the Watcher rarely used the machine. Marcus then began the task of hacking into the criminal databases of the USA’s various police forces.
“How do you know he’ll have a record?” Willow asked.
“Dip-shits like him always have a record,” Marcus replied confidently. “If not, why’d the guy be out running some dump in the middle of nowhere?” He came to the Idaho Police Department’s home screen, and began searching. He was almost immediately locked out. He tried to circumvent the encryption algorithms, but to no avail.
He cursed, and banged his hand against the keyboard. “Dammit, these guys had the most promising search results.”
“C-could I have a go,” Willow whispered.
“What?” Marcus was surprised. “Kid, I don’t think …”
Before he could continue, Willow had begun to type. The young hackers hands moved dexterously over the keys, instigating a sudden message of confirmation to appear on the screen.
“Jesus,” Marcus gasped. “Kid, where the hell’d you learn to do that?”
“Nowhere,” muttered Willow self-consciously.
Marcus shook his head at her skills, and began to probe into the confidential records. He soon found what he was looking for.
“Charles Augustus Harrington,” he read aloud, amazed at the man’s varied peculations. “Convicted of tax evasion in 1992, forgery and larceny in ’94, more tax evasion in ’95.” He clicked on the “outstanding convictions” icon.
He swore, and laughed, “This guy’s got more outstanding than Al Capone.”
Harrington was wanted on all manner of fraud charges, ranging from grand larceny to involvement in a forgery racket. The final nail in his coffin was delivered when Willow managed, after much effort, to break in to the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s mainframe, and download his FBI file.
Marcus was looking forward to his next phone call.
* * *
‘Paradise Bay Institute’, Western Samoa.
Charles Harrington fanned himself vigorously, trying in vain to ward off the smothering heat. His phone’s ringing distracted him from his uncomfortable reverie, and he reached with a sweat-drenched palm to lift the receiver.
“Hello, Charles Aug –”
“Charlie boy,” came the mocking tone.
“Look, what the hell are you doing ringing me,” he rapped tersely. “I’ve already told you that the girl is coming here, and that’s an end to it.”
“Shame,” came the reply. “’Cos if you don’t rectify that situation, FBI record number 456-87-B will be mailed to every single parent who currently pays you to abuse their offspring.”
Harrington screamed in horror, lurching forward violently against his desk.
“How in Christ’s name did you find that?” came the petrified gasp.
“Not important Charlie,” voiced his tormentor. “What is important is that unless I can hear Willow Rosenberg’s file shredding within the next 30 seconds, you are going to be screwed in ways you cannot even imagine.”
Harrington grabbed the phone in one hand, Willow’s files in the other, and began a panicked waddle across to the paper-shredder.
“Here, listen,” he practically sobbed down the phone, “can you hear them?”
“That’s good,” Marcus casually replied. “Okay asswipe, here’s the deal. I’ll look on your computer database in ten minutes, and unless all evidence of Ms Rosenberg’s association with your establishment is gone, your clientele will be receiving an early monthly newsletter.” The line then cut out.
Harrington ran down the corridor outside his office, a horrible stitch contracting his vast belly as he moved.
He burst into the room that housed the records, and screamed at the poor man operating the computer bank to delete all references to the name Rosenberg, liberally spicing his words with a stream of colourful expletives as he went.
* * *
Marcus had not heard Willow’s laugh before. Brief, reticent giggles yes, but not her laugh. He could hear it in abundance now, a high, vivacious sound. It was wonderful to hear.
She was practically skipping beside him, nothing but happiness showing in her small green eyes.
“That was so cool,” she said zealously. “I mean, we just busted the bad guy!”
“Yep, sure as hell did,” Marcus replied, and grinned. “Come on kid, let’s try that lunch thing again.”
Willow’s face clouded, the memory of his anger returning.
“Hey, kid, I was a jackass,” Marcus turned to face her, an apologetic sincerity spread across his features. “We’ll have something to eat, and then work out what to do next. No rush.”
She seemed reassured by this, and the smile returned.
“Can we go somewhere Englishey,” she asked. “I mean, somewhere different to hamburger and chips land.”
Marcus grinned, a paternal fondness for Willow gradually growing on him.
“Sure,” he said warmly. “How does the Savoy sound to you?”
She stopped, suddenly wracked with insecurity. She explained about her previous experience, and the fact that her mother would in all likelihood be located there.
“Kid,” Marcus knelt down beside her, “you’ll have to face her again soon.”
Willow nodded in resigned acceptance. “But I was hoping … I m-mean,” she stuttered, “I j-just need some time.”
“How about we have lunch, then I’ll smooth things over,” Marcus offered. “We know Mr Harrington won’t be troubling you anytime soon, so you’ll have time to work something out.”
Willow giggled at the memory of Marcus’s side of the conversation. “Okay,” she said nervously.
“Hey,” he grinned again, “it’ll be okay kid.”
* * *
Marcus walked confidently into the Savoy’s foyer, with Willow walking nervously in his stead. He noticed the curious, often derisory glances aimed in his direction, and adroitly ignored them. He moved casually to the restaurant’s booking desk, and requested a table for two.
“Sir,” the waist coated man said, “you do realise we have a strict dress code in this establishment.”
“And you realise,” Marcus replied sarcastically, “that my credit card is good for a shit-load of money.”
“Please,” the austere man whispered, “moderate your language.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Marcus said dismissively. “Now, we’ve had a long, hard day. We just want to eat at this well reputed establishment, no trouble.”
His politic tone was gradually wearing down the waiter’s aegis.
“Couldn’t you at least smarten the girl up a bit,” he asked despairingly
.
Marcus turned to Willow, and suddenly realised that she was indeed a mess.
Her cardigan was torn and covered in marks, her skirt was scuffed and similarly adorned, and her tights were covered in grime. One of her laces had broken, resulting in her right shoe flapping loose on her foot as she walked.
Basically, a mess.
“She’s been through worse then me,” he said sadly. “Please, just give us a table. I doubt anyone’ll notice much, it’s 3 in the afternoon.” The waiter finally relented.
“Very well,” the man acquiesced, “take a seat in the foyer, I’ll call when we’ve sorted it out.”
“Thanks,” Marcus acknowledged, and gestured for Willow to take a seat.
The meal was indeed excellent. They ate Yorkshire puddings, stake, and all the “quintessentially English” things Willow craved. She sat back contently, sipping a small glass of wine, obtained by Marcus’s assurances that she was in fact sixteen.
He rose, and looked down at her.
“You ready?” he asked simply, and Willow nodded.
It was time to find Shelia.
* * *
She danced.
The woman had danced in King Henry’s court, had taken the had of Louis XIV, jigged the Charleston with the bright young things in the 20’s, and rocked to Queen in New York city.
Now, she gyrated wildly to the strains of the Prodigy.
She moved lithely between the masses of humanity in the club, a feral power surging throughout her body. “Twenty-Four Hour Rave” the sign had stated, and it was more than living up to its promises.
She crashed against the bar, ordered vodka, and slid an ecstasy tablet from her bag. The drug slipped easily down her throat, hastened on its way by the spirit.
She shuddered as the kick resonated throughout her body, and lurched back to the floor.
I need this, she thought fervently. After what that bastard did to me, by God do I need this.
Her body moved to the rhythm, and suddenly a man was by her side. His moved salaciously against her body, rubbing his hands against her abdomen. The newly regenerated flesh was still tender, but she ignored the pain.
She would first screw him, and then drain him, she decided.
“Name babe,” the man asked, as she rubbed her breasts against him.
“Larcinda,” she answered. Even through the cacophony of the music, the voice cut like a dagger. It was ethereal, seductive. Something that should be avoided, but would inexorably draw men in all the closer.
She would enjoy the man, and then find her attacker. She ruminated on the various methods of torture she knew, ruminating on exactly where to place his testicles before disembowelling him.
The clubber rubbed against her, and she let out a small groan of pleasure.
She certainly knew what she was going to do with his accoutrements.
* * *
Willow’s world was now in disarray.
Her mother had been reported missing by the person who’d found her passport and luggage outside Cockfosters station, the Savoy had never had any reservation placed by someone with either the name of Rosenberg, or someone utilising her bank details.
And to cap it all, it had started to rain.
Not fleeting, light rain like California had to offer, but huge, swathing clouds of water pouring from the heavens. She was currently huddled inside Marcus’s coat as they rushed together down Oxford Street; periodically stopping while Willow retrieved her right shoe.
“Goddamn weather,” Marcus cursed ruefully. “Goddamned awful British weather.”
Willow just nodded her approval, and huddled further within the folds of Marcus’s coat. She was in serious, serious trouble. Her father was away God knew where in India, trying to “discover himself”. And now her mother had vanished from the face of the earth.
The shoe slipped from her foot again. She retrieved it, and instead of putting it on, yanked the other shoe off, and bolted barefoot down Oxford Street. Marcus was close behind her, the rain making his poloneck shirt stick to his skin.
They were both immeasurably relieved to come to the entrance of Tottenham Court Road station.
The two drenched figures piled down the stairs, the rain following in a multitude of rivulets behind them. Marcus purchased tickets, and they made their way down to the platform.
“Move it punk,” Marcus snarled, shoving the businessman off the seat set against the platforms wall. He wisely heeded the advice, and Marcus let Willow sit, removing his coat from her shoulders as he did so.
“What do I do now?” she asked hesitantly.
“You can sleep in my place tonight,” Marcus offered. “I’ll bunk up in Giles’s office. I’ve a feeling he won’t be coming back for a while,” he smiled knowingly.
Willow was secretly relieved at not having to spend the night in a house with a man she’d only met that day. She was sure she trusted Marcus, but was still on edge from the previous night’s experience. With his usual perceptiveness, he had picked up on this fact.
“Tomorrow,” Marcus began, “tomorrow – I’ll do what I can.” As always, he offered a frank opinion.
Willow nodded; relieved that at least her present tense problems had abated. She tipped the water from her sodden tennis shoes, and slipped them on. She felt the dirt on her feet rub against their lining, and decided she was in desperate need of a bath.
Marcus reclined against the station’s wall, and breathed a heavy sigh.
Now, he truly was her guardian.
© Byron, 2000
This fanfic has subparts:
- Past Tense
- 2 - Part 2 Willow is approaching our fair land - where there are vampires to be dealt with, and a loan warrior by the name of Marcus is just the man for the job ...
- 3 - Part 3 Shelia discovers some more of our cultural idiosyncrasies, and her daughter is becoming exasperated by her reactions. Marcus has a real job on his hands explaining his actions to Giles. And a certain cockney vampire is seriously brassed off ...
- 4 - Part 4 After her sudden, brutal attack, Willow is extremely shaken, as is Marcus ...
- 5 - Part 5 Giles discovers Azarael’s identity. Willow and Marcus get better acquainted, but things do not go smoothly ...
- 6 - Part 6 Her name is Willow Rosenberg, and she has great potential; not, however, if she’s shut away in a Western Samoan hellhole ... Her name is Larcinda. She was born over 1,500 years ago, and she is out, quite literally, for Marcus’s blood ...
- 7 - Part 7 Larcinda sets about re-establishing her authority. Willow finally makes a decision of her own, and Marcus’s past dictates his actions in the present …
- 8 - Part 8 Willow has now spent a month in England, and is loving every minute of it. Marcus is still facing the quandary of what to do with her. Larcinda’s forces have grown considerably, and she is baying for blood ...
- 9 - Part 9 Willow has to face a tough choice concerning her future. The Order of Turaca is closing in on Marcus, much to Larcinda’s satisfaction ...
- 10 - Part 10 Giles finds the answers he has been seeking, and promptly wishes he had not. Azrael is ready, Larcinda is ready, Shelia is, well, present, and one thousand vampiric minions are ready. Willow has become the stuff of Azrael’s dreams, and humanities nightmares ...
- 11 - Part 11 Phoenix, rising ...
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