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AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place before the episodes Archangel
& Avatar*. Any error in historical reference, language, culture, or
characterization is strictly the authors.
Disclaimer: All characters who happen to belong to the
recognizable Highlander universe are borrowed, not mine. No money was made in this
endeavor. I am grateful for the opportunity to play in the Highlander universe.
Warning: Only partially betad
Lethes
Story
By RonneeM
This means war-and the battle's still raging
War-and though both sides are waging
The Victor is sure and the victory secure.
Petra 'This means war'
That's why I fight fire with fire
Oh I'm burning inside and my heart is a cryin'
Fire with fire
'Cause I'm, never gonna lose this flamin' desire.
Kansas "Fight Fire with
Fire"
Lethe
reread the missive silently. The
fine-grained paper was soft in her hands, teasing her senses with
memories. Thick heavy paper, it
reminded her of old vellum, costly and beautiful, fit for important documents,
its contents burned into her mind and heart.
Her callused fingers delicately traced the imprinted symbols on the
letterhead. She frowned, gathering her
thoughts. One hand reluctantly left the
paper to dive into her pocket and withdraw a folded bill. Without looking at the denomination, she
handed it to the messenger.
"Thank
you." she murmured, her voice low and husky.
"But,
this is too. . ." the young man froze,
his words unspoken as he saw the stark desolation clouding her eyes. Instincts far older than the teenager's
meager years made him back away from her.
His face was pale as he turned, stuffing the one hundred dollar bill in
his pocket and hurried out the door.
Her fingers
stroked the paper, feeling the silky texture, trying to grip the meaning of the
words that had just changed her life so drastically. The date on the paper was from several years ago, it had taken
too long to catch up with her. She
carefully lifted the second sheaf of papers.
Wrapped in oilcloth and sealed with an ancient crest it sang to her,
ancient songs of war and love and loyalty.
Her eyes closed, she raised the packet to her nose, inhaling the scent
of linseed oil. Her fingers told her
that no one had broken the seals, the wax was old but unmarred. A tear ran down her pale cheek as she
carefully inserted a fine bladed knife under the seals and broke them. The scent of incense wafted to her nostrils
and from her memory old Latin chants rose and crossed her mind. She knew she didn't want to read the old
vellum sheets. She knew only one person
who would write her in this manner and she knew what he would say. Mentally bracing herself, she opened her
eyes to read his letter, knowing it would destroy her world.
The
handmade vellum was covered with fine ink, delicately etched in the form of
words. The language, long dead, stirred
long hidden memories. The sheets filled
with the last decade of the writer's life and friendships, brought a smile of
joy and a choked laugh to her lips.
Then the writer announced his own impending end and advised her to be
wary. She gasped as she read and bowed
her head, eyes closed as she took in the words.
Eyes
staring vacantly at the pages, she no longer saw the beribboned vellum she
held. The multi-colored silk ribbons
spilled like colored streams across her wrist.
The heavy vellum was as pale as her skin, making the rich, red wax of
the seals stand out like bloody wounds.
Her eyes tried to focus on the handwritten message, but the ink words
danced in front of her eyes. Part of
her wanted to scream and rage at message.
Part of her wanted to sink to floor in tears. Her body quivered as she held herself still, re-reading yet again
the cover letter, trying to make sense of the French words. She never noticed the quiet murmur of denial
that poured from her lips in a language few people remembered had ever existed.
She dropped
the letter and the vellum, placing both hands on her desk for stability. Her entire body shook with the force of the
sobs she was denying, her eyes frozen as they stared into the past, searching
for the face of the man who'd written her.
Tears tracked her cheeks, streaking them with salt. A low-pitched keen rose from her lips as she
tried to deny what had happened. With
all of her will she reached out, trying to control her breathing. From there she began weaving her emotions into
a semblance of order, gathering them and storing them for another time. Once she had regained control of the
emotions that she didn't dare release, she dashed the tears from her face. When she had finally the tremors under
control, she lifted the phone.
"Dori,
cancel everything for the next 30 days.
Apologize to my colleagues and advise them that I will be completely
unavailable." She waited for a
moment and continued. "Of
course. Tell payroll that I am going on
emergency leave. . . the emergency? My
husband just died."
Without
glancing up from her lap-top, she dialed the next number from memory. While waiting for it to be answered she
began typing away at her pc, rapidly making her plans and changing previous
schedules. The sound of the voice mail
startled her back to the phone. Rapidly
she regathered her self-control, and began speaking.
"He's
dead." Her voice was barely a
whisper, husky with the unshed tears and the caged fury. "Someone broke the rules and took him
on Holy Ground. I need you
now." She hung up the phone and
waited patiently for it to ring. Death
would ride in the answer when it came, until then she could make plans and
issue instructions from here.
Rain fell
quietly, pit-pattering musically on the cobblestones. The gray stones of the courtyard reflected the low gray
clouds. Misty wisps of fog drifted
slowly about the cold street, dimming the streetlights and muting the colors of
the city. The wind's mournful sigh
echoed eerily through the dusk, bringing chills to the few passers-by.
A pair of
ancient motorcycles pulled up to the even old churchyard. Two gray clad figures stood, parking their
machines. As one, they straightened,
dismounted and removed their helmets.
Like a pair of well-choreographed ballet dancers, they turned, shrugged
their coats into place and crossed the street.
They moved across the courtyard toward the church doors, their boots
silent on the flagstone path. The mist
made them seem to vanish like specters.
Inside the
church, wooden chairs stood in rows, leaving them barely enough room to walk
along side each other to the altar.
Vaulted ceilings made the soft sound of water dripping from their coats
echo and resound loudly. The flickering
light from the many candles their shadows change and shift with each step they
took. Both figures glanced around the
quiet room before kneeling gracefully and bowing their heads to pray. No sound escaped their silently moving lips
as the hands gripping the railing paled from the pressure of their exertions.
The soft
sound of footsteps sent the two figures spinning apart. Hand darting under their coats, they stopped
in the shadows as they scanned the church for the intruder. The monk froze, allowing them time to locate
him and decide their next course of action.
As one their hand came up, empty, and were folded behind their backs as
they regained their composure.
"Can I
help you, my children?" The monk
was young, his face relatively unlined.
The contrast of his youth and the age of the stone about them made the
two glance at each other. "I am
Brother Anselm."
"We
have an appointment with you, sir. The
bishop wrote to us that something happened to our uncle, Brother
Darius." The voice was soft and
cool, almost toneless. It reached its
destination and faded into nothing. One
figure stepped forward slightly and bowed to him in greeting.
"How
much information has the bishop given you?" The monk kept his voice even, trying not to startle the two
figures. If he went too quickly, he
feared they would flee. He'd been
advised that Brother Darius' only living relatives would be arriving this
afternoon. The bishop had warned him
that they were barely past childhood, newly orphaned and now, with the news of
Darius' death, seemed poised on the edge of flight when they'd met him.
"We
were advised that he disappeared and has now been missing so long that the
police have declared him. . ." the second voice wavered and broke. Her figure stepped forward into the light,
revealing tears running down pale, bloodless cheeks. The first figure reached out and grabbed her arm. She shuddered and silently stepped back into
the shadow of a stone column.
"Please,
come with me to my office."
Anselm's voice was firm but gentle, coaxing. He was confident he could deal with his shy visitors, maybe even
set them at ease. "I have chairs
there and we could talk this over."
The silence
of the two following him was disturbing.
He glanced back at them, just to confirm they were still there. Side-by-side, like two gray wraiths, their
every move was graceful as they padded after him. Inwardly he wondered at their precision. Somehow the light from the high windows
continually missed their faces, leaving them in constant shadow. If he were superstitious, he'd be praying
right now, wondering if they could actually be ghosts. He shivered as a chill ran up his spine and
led them into the office.
"It
has changed." One of the voices
sounded quietly behind him, as its owner looked around. "Darius had it set up differently. His books are gone."
"Yes,
his things have been distributed throughout the monastery. A few of his things, manuscripts and
monologues have been sent to the university medieval collection. Would you like some tea?"
Both
figures turned to him and he felt his jaw drop. The two young women were very young, far younger than he had
earlier estimated, barely out of their teens.
Red-rimmed eyes stared from pale cream faces. Warm golden hair was pulled tightly back and tucked into their
gray dusters. As they stepped forward
and unbuttoned their coats, he realized that the dusters were split and tied to
their legs, which had contributed to the odd shadows he'd seen in the
hall. The perfection of their faces was
marred by the emotions he saw in their eyes.
One pair of blue eyes was filled with so much pain and desolation that
he felt the chill of it in his own bones.
The leaping fury and rage in the other pair made him glad for the
coolness of the fall air.
"Do
you share Darius' fondness for lichen and moss teas?" The furious eyes met
his and caught his instinctive recoil.
Her voice continued coolly, calmly, "My apologies, it has been a
hard week."
"No,
my tea is ordinary black tea and there is no need to apologize." His voice was calm, much calmer than his
thoughts.
"No,
thank you." The other woman spoke softly, trying to soothe him. "The room shocked us, we were half
hoping that when we arrived here we would find it to be an error. Until we took in the changes, it did not
seem real. If you will excuse us for a
moment."
"Of
course." Anselm stepped over to
his desk and glanced briefly at the Bible sitting there. He needed more help than he had
thought. He watched as the two stepped
close to each other, leaning on each other briefly. The murmured whispers that came to his ears were unrecognizable,
the pattern of the speech unknown to him.
Brother Darius had been a noted scholar, speaking many languages, and it
seemed his nieces had learned well from him.
"Forgive
us, Brother Anselm." Both women
were firmly in control of themselves, their eyes flat and emotionless, their voices
low and measured. "We neglected to
introduce ourselves, I am Diana Fontaine-Montrose."
"And I
am Abigail Fontaine-Montrose."
They silently sat in the chairs he offered them. "Could you please explain what happened
to our uncle? The papers our lawyer
forwarded to us, did not say."
~~~~~~~~~~~~One Year Later.~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Joe Dawson
stared at the paper printout before him.
Something did not add up. First
a break-in at the main headquarters of the Watchers in Paris. All the information on Darius and Methos had
been stolen. Priceless chronicles and
artifacts were gone. Irreplaceable data
was missing, perhaps never to be recovered. Other items had been moved,
inspected, and shifted. It would take
months to list everything that was missing due to the deliberate disarray that
had been left. To the thieves' credit
nothing was broken or destroyed, just mislaid or shuffled.
The job had
been professional. No evidence had been
left behind. All the objects so far
examined were clean, no finger or palm prints left on their surfaces. None of the surveillance cameras had gotten
a single picture. All of the security
videos were blank. Not a single alarm
had gone off, not a single lock had stood in their path or slowed them down,
not a single item seemed to have been damaged.
Only the computers had not been tampered with, their codes and defenses
having apparently stopped the thieves cold.
The only serious thief among the Immortals, Amanda, had been on another
continent that night. That left him
with no idea at all as to who pulled off this job, or why.
Starting
the next day, every single computer system used by the Watchers had begun
receiving hits. Someone wanted their
information badly and was rich enough to hire the best of hackers to get
it. The cost of hiring that many code
crackers was prohibitive.
When the
Watcher who had watched Darius had vanished Joe had really begun to worry. The man's wife had reported that he had been
snatched by a van as he left his home for work. That had been yesterday.
He checked
his files, everything centered around Darius.
The old Immortal had been a monk for centuries, protected by the sacred
ground of his monastery. He tried
cross-referencing among the immortals to see he could match the pattern. Only a few had been in Paris the past week,
and all had known that Darius died shortly after his murder. He doubted if any of them knew the true
story and would therefore have no reason to go after the Watchers. He checked for immortals who had just
arrived in France and still found no connection.
He pulled
up Methos' name. The files about him
were largely incomplete. The oldest
living immortal, he was a myth among his own kind. Only a handful knew of his existence, most disbelieved or thought
he had died long ago. Joe smiled to
himself, knowing the real Methos had changed his viewpoints about Immortals as
much as knowing Duncan MacLeod. Not
being able to write about him hurt his historian's ethics, but it was the only
way to protect both his friendship and keep the oldest Immortal alive. He wondered briefly if there was any
connection.
A fast
query to Paris answered him. All
physical files relating to the older immortals had been removed. Not a single complete chronicle remained of
any Immortal over 700 years old. The
younger ones had been taken fairly randomly.
At this point they could only say for certain that all chronicles and
artifacts dealing with Darius or Methos were missing. Other things were gone too, but at this point there was no
established pattern to the thefts. Joe
stared at the computer screen thoughtfully.
The phone
rang.
"He's
been found." The line was full of
static, buzzing and crackling madly, but the voice was recognizable. "He's alive and being checked over in
the hospital now."
"Who
had him?"
"He
said he never saw their faces." The man on the other end paused before
continuing. "Dawson, they asked
about Darius, the Methos Myth, Horton, the Hunters, and you."
"Me?" Joe's pulse sped up as he considered this
new tidbit of information.
"Yes. They knew there was a connection between you
and Horton." For a moment the
static covered the man's words.
"...be very careful, we don't know if they were Immortal or
not. We're sending someone there to
keep an eye on you. You should be safe
until they arrive, there are no connecting flights right now."
Joe hung up
the phone and stared at it. He'd
thought that MacLeod had closed that chapter of history when he'd killed
Horton. He closed his eyes wearily and
slumped in his chair. He probably
should call MacLeod and warn him that someone was hunting people who had known
Darius. Without looking around, he
reached for the bottle of scotch.
"Let
me help you with that." The voice
was soft and cool. Fingers gently but
firmly gripped his shoulders. "No,
do not turn around. I just want to ask
you some questions. My friend will not
hurt you if you answer nicely."
The lights
in the house went out. He was hauled
from his seat and taken into the living room.
There he was seated in his recliner, straps firmly being wrapped around
him, pinning him in place. A bright
light flared in his face, blinding him.
He heard the sound of scotch being poured into a glass. The glass was lifted to his lips.
"It's
safe, no drugs." The voice
paused, "Here, let me taste it for
you." A silhouette appeared, cast
in shadows by the light behind it. The
hands on his shoulders tightened their grip as the hand with the glass
retreated slightly. The glass was
placed in his hand and one arm was released.
The gloved hand lifted his hand and the shot glass to the full lips of
the silhouette. His hand was forced to
tilt the glass as the mouth delicately sipped the scotch. Then his hand was turned and the scotch
brought to his lips. He felt the warmth
on the glass from the other's mouth as he sipped.
"It's
much better for your health to drink with a friend." The voice was conversational. "Will you talk to us now?"
Joe didn't
move. He stared at the figure. Before he could carry out his thought and
toss the scotch at its eyes, he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. The person had pinched a nerve. The gloved hand reached out and removed his
glass, carefully placing it on the table.
His arm was forced to the arm of the chair and taped in place.
"It
would be easier if you cooperate with us."
Silence.
"Who
killed Darius?"
Silence.
"You
know who killed him. You are a
Watcher. Not only that, but you a
highly placed Watcher." The voice
hissed, menacingly at him. The figure
turned away and then turned back, something in its hand. "Talk to me. You don't really want me upset with you."
Behind him
fingers dug firmly into his trapezius muscles.
They stopped at the edge of pain.
Whoever it was holding him down, wanted to control him, not to harm
him. At least not yet. He swallowed convulsively, and remained
silent. He wondered how long he could
last if they decided to break him.
"Do
you have any drug allergies, Mr. Dawson?"
The voice was gentle, the threat was ugly. "Unfortunately, if you will not cooperate, we will have to
use force."
"Penicillin." Joe did not want to die anytime soon. Shock was not too painful a way to go, but
he did not want to take the chance.
"You
have a voice, good. Where can we find
Methos?"
He licked
his lips. The light was hot, drying his
skin. The figure stepped back and
picked up a tall glass of water, sipped and swallowed letting the light define
its movements. The bulky clothes hid
its build, conveying only a sense of guarded strength. The glass was held near him.
"Do
you want some water, Mr. Dawson? Answer
the question and I'll give you water."
Joe shook
his head. He wasn't going to betray his
oath or his friends. He braced himself
for a blow and felt a needle prick instead.
~~~~~
Methos
struggled awake. The phone rang
shrilly. Cursing his caller in a
language dead for millennia, he crawled out from under the comforter. His pale body shone in the moonlight, finely
honed muscles stretching and pulling as he moved. Finally he reached his objective.
"Hullo?" his voice was rough from his interrupted
sleep.
"Adam! Wake up!
Dawson's in trouble." His
friend was shrill with panic. Brian's
voice close to tears. "You have to get to him fast."
He shook
himself, shrugging away his exhaustion, forcing himself awake. "Slow down and tell me what's going
on."
"Listen
to me. Someone is hunting
Watchers. His phone is out of
order. You have to help him."
"Brian,
slow down. Who is hunting
Watchers? There are thousands of
reasons for Dawson's phone to be out of order." Even as he tried to calm the panicked young man, Methos was
grabbing for his pants. Pulling them on
with one hand, he listened intently to the other man. His sweater was harder, forcing him to switch the phone from one
hand to the other.
"No. I talked to him a few minutes ago, about the
people who raided the Paris office.
When we realized there was a way for them to reach him tonight I called
back. The operator says the line is out
of order, Adam. I think they have
him." Brian's voice was rushed. "You have to hurry."
"I'm
on my way." Methos shoved his feet into loafers, mentally straining to
make sense of the problem. He was going
to need help if what he heard was right.
"Brian, who else is in town?"
"The
only Immortal is MacLeod. You and
Dawson are the only Watchers in Seacouver." he paused and spoke to someone
else. "We have other people on the
way, but they can't get there for another eight to ten hours at the
earliest."
"Okay." Methos hung up and began dialing MacLeod's
home number.
"What?"
a very tired voice answered. MacLeod
did not always wake in a good mood.
"Dawson's
in trouble."
"Adam?"
the voice was rapidly gaining coherency.
"What's going on?"
"Meet
me at his place. I'll explain
there."
Joe rested
his head on the back of the chair.
Being questioned was exhausting.
The drugs they had given him were just kicking in and he was having
trouble resisting. These people were
relentless in their questioning, but they still seemed reluctant to hurt
him. The questions were random,
patternless. For some reason that
reminded him of something. A gentle
caress on his arm jerked him awake.
"Mr.
Dawson, please tell me where Methos is."
the voice was still calm and cool.
He licked
his lips. They were cracked from the
questions and from the harsh lights. He
squinted at them as the voice held the water glass to his lips. He sipped gratefully.
"Answer
the question."
"I
don't know." It was the truth,
Methos had a tendency to wander off on his own. He could be anywhere.
"Do
you believe in Methos?"
"Yes."
"Who
killed Darius?"
"Horton,
but James is dead now."
"Why
did he kill Darius?"
"Thought
he was an abomination, he lost it.
Decided to kill all Immortals."
"Do
any other Watchers feel that way?"
"Not
sure."
"Who
killed Horton?"
"Mac."
"Who
is Mac?" the voice was still so calm.
He
resisted. Mac was his friend. He didn't want to betray him, who knew what
they would ... "Duncan MacLeod."
"Where
did they bury Darius?"
"I
don't know." There was a soft
murmur. He felt a thin hand reach for
his throat and take his pulse. It
retreated after a moment.
"Who
took the body?"
"MacLeod
and Fitzhugh and Tessa and Ritchie."
his head drooped.
"Who
are Tessa and Ritchie?"
"Tessa . . ."
He felt awful, he had to stop himself from talking. The drugs moved through him, taking away his
will. "Noel. Ritchie Ryan."
"According
to the files MacLeod is your assignment.
Where can we find him?"
Joe fought
the answer. He did not want to betray
MacLeod. Once was enough. He would not accept it again and he did not
want to lose him. The thought of
incurring MacLeod's disdain. . .
"Stop. His heartbeat's become irregular."
Instantly
the light was dimmed and someone new was at his side. A very faint perfume touched his nostrils. Cool fingers found the pulse at the base of
his throat and measured it. Another
needle pricked his arm. Fingers tapped
his cheeks, with not quite enough force to call it a slap.
"Come
on, Joseph. You can do it. Rally for me. We won't be bothering you anymore." The soft voice was familiar. He had spoken to her before, if he could
just remember her name.
"We
won't?" the other voice was sharply edged.
"He is
very loyal to his friends. Any
questions about them cause him to resist the drugs." The silhouette turned to the dimmer shadow. "Every question about MacLeod and
Methos will stress his heart as he tries to fight the drugs. You. Will. Not. Hurt. Him." The voice acquired a hard, demanding edge as
it spoke, and the silhouette straightened, became a shield between him and the
men in the shadows.
"Harasho,
menina."
A glass of
water was lifted to his lips and he drank greedily. It was withdrawn rapidly.
He was entreated to slow down for his own good. The voices argued softly, segueing from one
language to another as they debated their next step. After several minutes he began to drift into sleep.
"Joseph,"
The voice was soft, gentler than before.
He heard an exasperated sigh from the other. A hand raised his head. A
mouth was gently pressed to his.
Against his drugged but still struggling will, he responded. The mouth withdrew slightly, its tongue
teased, tracing his lips. "Sleep
well, my friend."
He felt the
tape and straps being removed. Then his
arms were gripped tightly and he was pulled up and draped across two pairs of
shoulders. They hoisted him to his
bedroom and set him on his bed. The
gentle hands removed his clothes, pressed him down on his stomach, and began
massaging his neck. The woman's voice
urged him to sleep off the rest of the drug.
A sudden gasp sounded loud in the room and the fingers withdrew. The sound of swords being drawn shook his
sense of pleasant well-being.
"I am
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
The voice cut through the shadows.
Mac sounded annoyed, if not actually furious. He wondered idly what had angered him so much.
"We
are not here for you, Highlander. Leave
us in peace." It was the voice
that had questioned him.
"When
you attack me friends, you ha' best be prepared to fight." A burr had crept into his voice. Joe knew from experience that this meant Mac
was on the edge of losing his temper.
He wondered if they knew that.
The utter darkness hid the Immortal as he scanned the room trying to
locate him.
Joe could
hear the quiet sounds of movement. His
blurry eyes caught sight of a shoulder and he reached out, pulling himself
up. He grunted as he lost his balance
and fell towards the person. A sword
glittered momentarily as it was shifted away from him. Strong arms caught him. Wiry forearms tensed and pulled him to
safety. He landed roughly against the
woman's chest. With one hand she
covered his mouth, trying to silence him.
Her other hand gripped his wrists.
She peered past him trying to see through the darkness. Joe slammed his head into her. A sword swung toward the sound.
"NO!" The woman threw Joe to the floor, placing
her body between the blade and her captive.
With a thick wet noise it sank deep in her side, cutting through and
continuing. She whimpered, trying to
shove Joe farther away. Joe grunted in
pain as his side was grazed by the blade protruding from her side.
Steel
loudly rang upon steel on the other side of the room. The fury of both weapons echoing in the heavy breathing of the
two fighting shadows. A voice was
raised in a harsh series of syllables.
One shadow danced backwards in shock.
A sudden flurry of shots froze the combatants. Someone shouted, cursing as the shadows melted back against the
walls.
"Find
and kill the Immortal!" came a
loud voice in the darkness.
Instantly,
a shadow tore the curtain from the window and dove through it, shattering the
glass. In the instant that it fled, the
pair of long curved swords in its hands glittered in the moonlight. A second swordsman raced after the fleeing
figure. They were rapidly followed by a
pair of men holding guns. Moonlight
flooded the room, turning the dim shadowy forms into gray furniture and
bodies. Only one man still stood.
Silvery
gray in the moonlight, the woman's side was rapidly turning black from blood
loss. Joe rolled her off his body and
struggled to sit up. She shuddered from
the pain, her face pale and lined, before reaching out and grabbing his arm.
"Are
you all right, Joseph?" Her voice
was a soft whisper. Joe pulled her into
his arms as Duncan leaned over them.
"No one was supposed to get hurt, especially not you."
Duncan
crouched at their side. The rapidly
diminishing buzz at the edge of his senses told him that both Methos and the
other Immortal were out of reach. He
looked at the wound in her side. It was
very ragged and bled freely. It was a
mortal wound and she was a mortal. He
saw her acceptance of her death in the sad eyes.
"I'm
fine." Joe assured her in a
daze. The drugs were still confusing
him. She had helped them question him,
but she had been so gentle with him.
She had protected him with her own life. He knew he should know her but he could not find her name in his
memories of her face.
"Good." She smiled and turned her attention to the
Highlander's unsmiling face. "Oh,
you must be Duncan ... MacLeod... of the Clan MacLeod... I'm. . ." Her voice faltered suddenly and her eyes began to glaze. She whimpered in pain, her hand vainly
trying to stem the flow of blood from the wound. "...sorry. I tried to help,. . .didn't want him . .
.hurt . . ." A slow trickle of
blood crept down from her mouth as her eyes froze in place.
"Damn." he muttered savagely before leaning forward
to close the staring eyes. The sound of
Joe sagging to the floor made him turn.
His dark eyes widened as he noticed the dark stain on the older man's
shirt. "Yer bleedin' man!"
"She
didn't even have a sword Mac." His
eyes were unfocused from the drugs still coursing through his blood as he
turned his pale face to look up at the other man. "She was trying to protect me and she's such a little
thing."
Duncan's
face tensed as he took in the other man's words. He lifted Joe from the floor and placed on the bed, tearing his
shirt from his side. A slash marked his
ribs, bleeding freely. Wadding up the
shirt, he pressed it firmly to the wound.
As he held it in place, he watched the bleeding slow, the stain slowing
in its spread. He quickly tied the pad
of cloth to the wound and began looking closely at his friend. Although covered in blood, most of it seemed
to be the woman's, which both relieved him and grieved him. He had never struck down an unarmed innocent
before.
"Joe,
are you hurt anywhere else?" He tried getting the other man's eyes to
focus on him. "Answer me."
"No,
she only pinched me once." Joe's
words slurred as the drugs claimed him and he began to snore.
Duncan
turned back to the body. He crouched
beside her, staring at the fine features.
A quick search of the area confirmed that she had been unarmed when his
sword had cut her down. He traced her
cheek with one thick finger, noting the growing pallor of her skin as her body
cooled. He gently pulled her shirt
closed over the gaping wound. When he
went to straighten her arm he noted absently the Watcher tattoo on her
wrist. Then the mark made an impression
on him and his eyes returned to it. His
thumb stroked the wrist, rubbing the tattoo before he carefully straightened
her arms and crossed them on her chest.
Part of him winced as he thought of the reaction her death at his hands
would cause among that community.
He sighed
and looked at his sleeping friend. He
wondered how close the girl had been to him.
He gritted his teeth as he noted again her youth. He muttered darkly in Gaelic, the girl
couldn't be much more than twenty, too young for Joe's tastes. She was probably just a friend of his, a new
trainee in the Watchers. She was too
young and pretty to have died trying to protect a friend from an attack. She should have been able live longer, fall
in love and get married, have children, grow old. He had killed her, thinking he was protecting Joe from an
immortal. He'd thrust through her,
thinking to separate his friend from his captor, and instead thrust into his
side. He was very lucky he hadn't
killed both mortals, instead of killing one and wounding the other.
He went to
broken window and stared out. He
mentally measured the area before pulling the curtain shut. It was too big a project for tonight. He'd have to get it replaced in the
morning. He checked Joe again, drawing
a blanket over his sleeping form. Then
he went to the closet and found a sheet.
Carefully, for all that she could no longer feel anything, he lifted her
onto it and wrapped it tightly around her, saying a brief prayer as did so. When he lowered her back onto the floor he
didn't notice that the tattooed arm had escaped to lay in the shadow of the
dresser.
The buzz of
an approaching Immortal jerked him to his feet, sword slipping from the dresser
into his hand and at ready. He quietly
stepped over the body and slipped out the door. As he slowly walked down the hall, lights came on throughout the
apartment. He stepped into the living
room to find Methos poised and waiting, sword in hand.
"It's
just me," Methos' eyes measured Duncan warily. "I lost the one who went through the back. He outran me. The other men took off in a waiting car when I tried to get to
them." He watched him as he
spoke. The Highlander's lack of
reaction raised his hackles. Then
comprehension dawned in his eyes, "Joe?"
"No,
there was another Watcher in the room.
She must have gotten here about the same time as we did. She was trying to get Joe out. She gave her life protecting him." His voice was hoarse, filled with pain. "I attacked an unarmed mortal. She died."
Methos
bowed his head, eyes closed as he lowered his sword to his side. Pain creased his face as he calculated the
reaction in the organization to this news.
"That's not good. How's
Joe?"
"He
has a scrape across his ribs. It's not
too bad, but could stand some stitches to hold it together." His eyes were bleak as he looked at his old
friend. "She was child, Methos. I
don't think she was old enough for her first glass of wine."
"It
was dark in there, MacLeod. You heard
Joe cry out and tried to rescue him."
Methos's voice was calm as crossed the room. One hand reach out and gripped the other man's shoulder. "It was an accident. She should not have been there, confronting
an Immortal. You cannot blame yourself
for it."
"Can I
no?" Duncan shrugged, refusing to
relinquish his guilt for killing an unarmed mortal. He turned, changing the subject.
"We need to get Joe out of here, those shots are going to bring the
police."
"Your
place or mine?"
"Mine."
The two
Immortals went back into the bedroom.
There, Duncan lifted the sleeping man into his arms like a sleeping
child and carried him out to his car.
Methos paused as he gathered things the man would need to turn to the
body. Although the face was covered,
one arm was stretched out, as if she been reaching for Joe even in death. Tattooed lightly on one wrist was the curved
"V" inscribed in a circle, mark of the Watchers. He thrust the arm under the sheet and noted
that the skin, while cool, was warmer than he expected. She must have been a longer time dying than
he would have estimated from the size of the pool of blood she lay in. In the distance he heard sirens. Time to leave.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pain shot
through her body and she gasped as her lungs filled with air. She sat up pushing the sheet away from her
as she did so. Frantically her mind
raced, trying to remember everything from the last few minutes before her
death. MacLeod had arrived, challenging
them for Dawson. A sword
...Joseph. Where was he? In the distance, but rapidly, approaching
she heard sirens. The lights in the
room revealed that someone had hastily gone through the room.
Had it been
searched or had someone hastily packed for the mortal? MacLeod must have grabbed Dawson and gotten
him out of here. If he would challenge
for him, then Joseph must mean something to him. Therefore he'd be protected.
She wondered were she had left her bag.
She thought it was in the main room.
She staggered there and began searching for it, finally finding it
behind a chair.
She didn't
have much time. She heard the arrival
of the police cars on the street. She
went back to Joseph's room. Rapidly she
stripped, hissing as the movements pulled her healing side. From the looks of it, this wound would be a
while before it was gone. She really
had to talk to this Highlander about his first mentality. Then again, if he was always that touchy
she did not want to meet up with him again.
She rolled
up the ruined rug, sheet and clothes, stuffing them firmly in the back of the
closet. She grabbed another throw rug
and covered the stain on the floorboards.
Well, that would have to do for now. It was unfortunate, but she did not
have time to work on the rest of the mess right now.
The
doorbell rang. She firmly closed the
door behind her before slipping into the bathroom. There, she turned on the bathwater, tossing in some bath salts
from her duffel. The bag was tossed
into the spare room, landing on the bed.
Loosening
her hair, she grabbed Dawson's bathrobe and hurriedly pulled it on. Her hair fell free of its braid to her waist
as she raced down the hallway. A heavy
fist pounded on the door. The sound of
police radios crackled ominously.
"Hold
on, I'm coming." she called.
She peered
out the window beside the door. Three
police cars were pulled up to the yard.
Several uniformed men were on the porch, hands on their weapons. She flipped on the porch light and pulled
the door cautiously open. Behind her,
the soft strains of classical music poured from the tape deck she'd turned on
as she'd passed.
"Umm, is there a problem?" she bit her lower lip with worry. Her fingers curled around the chain as she
looked up and up at the man at the door.
His hand raised to knock again, he paused and looked down at her.
"Ma'am,
I'm officer Jenkins. May we come
in?" The man spoke quietly, trying
not to startle her.
"Why? I haven't done anything." she let her lip tremble. "At least I don't think I did."
"Miss,
if you would please let us come in.
There was a report of gunfire from this house."
"You
mean, someone is in here with me?"
her voice cracked and she fumbled for the chain. As soon as it was unlatched she scampered
out the door and into the chest of one of the policemen. The officer reflexively grabbed and kept her
from falling.
"I . . . I .
.."
"Davis,
you stay here with her while we check out the house." The big police officer spoke into his radio
for a moment and they carefully entered the house.
"It'll
be all right, ma'am." his voice
was soft and soothing as the gently patted her back. Brown eyes peered down at her before looking around
watchfully.
It was
several minutes before the officers came back out to where they waited. She looked up anxiously, forcing her lips to
quiver. Thankfully, she would still be
pale from bloodloss, and it would be a while before she had time to recover
completely.
Officer
Davis released her as the other man stared at him with a frown. She tightened the belt of the robe and
wrapped her arms around herself as she watched them converse softly. The big officer walked over to her. He leaned forward, so she did not have to
tilt her head back to look at him.
"Miss,
do you live here?" his voice was
deep, bearlike in its resonance. His
eyes watched her, looking for something.
"No. It's my godfather's house. He said I could stay here for a couple of
nights while I was in town." she
licked her lips. "What's
wrong?"
"Where
is he?"
"I
don't know. He left the key under the
mat so I could get in. I knocked on his
door, but the lights were off and no one answered so I let myself in the
house." she shivered from the cold
and reaction to her death. The bathrobe
was not much protection from the wind.
"He might be at his bar, but I don't know exactly where it is. He said he'd take me there this year since
I'm finally old enough."
He ushered
her into the house. The other
policemen followed. In the living room they stopped.
"Someone
broke into the house, it looks like they probably left when you knocked. Would you know if anything was
missing?"
"Nnno. Are you ssure they left?" she shuddered delicately. "Is it safe for me to sstay?"
"Miss,
I think you need to stay at a hotel tonight.
The entire back window is gone.
Until it's fixed you can't keep a mouse out."
Tears began
to run down her cheeks. "Joe's
gonna be ffurious with me. My first
night here, and this hhappens."
she stuttered helplessly.
"Wwill you stay while I get dressed?"
"Yes
ma'am." The officer's eyes had
softened when he took in her distress.
He spoke to Officer Davis, who followed her down the hall to the spare
room. There, the young officer leaned
against the wall and waited patiently for the distraught looking young woman.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once he was
certain that Methos could care for Joe without any help, Duncan went to the bar and poured himself a
stiff glass of scotch. He tossed it
back swiftly, using the rich taste of the expensive scotch to force memories of
another day and time. It did not last
long enough. He set the glass down,
went to the couch and sat wearily.
Running his hands through his short hair, as he thought of all the
things he had taken from the girl at Joe's house. He sighed wondering if he'd ever know her name. He glanced up at a movement to see Methos
settling into a chair.
He'd have
to remind himself to ask Joe when he woke up.
The girl needed to be remembered and he'd make certain she was. He thought back to that smooth cheek, so
pale and cool against his fingers.
Damn, maybe if she hadn't been be in the Watchers she would have lived
long enough to have a real life. He
wondered what the Watchers would tell her family, her friends. He wondered briefly if she had left any
children behind. If she had, young as
she had been, they'd be small, maybe even babies. He'd have to get that information from Joe too. If she had, he'd have to make arrangements
to provide for them. He sighed,
remembering her eyes clouding over with pain and regret. He was going to remember this for a very
long time.
"So
are you going to be guilt-stricken for the rest of the night?" The wry comment grated on his nerves as it
broke into his reverie.
"Maybe."
"It
wasn't your fault."
"I
know the dangers of fighting blind. It
was my mistake, I'll pay for it in my own way."
"Even
a boy scout is allowed to make mistakes."
"Not
if they kill someone." he
answered.
"Duncan.
. ." his words trailed off as they heard
the arrival of someone.
A small light began blinking, warning them
that someone was trying to force the lock of dojo. The two men stood, each reaching for a sword. Duncan pointed towards the stairs and at
Methos' nod of understanding went to the elevator.
The
elevator stopped and he quietly opened the gate. He heard the doors to the dojo open, they must have picked the
lock. He paused, hearing voices arguing
loudly. Whoever it was, the argument
was furious and getting hotter by the moment.
"No! I will not do it." the voice was female, firm in its
refusal. "I will not go after a
good Immortal. My father was
right. We observe, we do not try to get
involved."
The man's
voice was far less clear, almost blurred.
"MacLeod is dangerous to us.
He has killed our people. He
probably killed Dawson."
"I
don't believe that." The woman's
voice was accented slightly. She moved
closer to him. In the darkness, all he
could see was her silhouette. A bulky
jacket reached to her thighs, not quite long enough to hide her shape. She paused and turned to the man. "I don't think anyone would have been
hurt if you hadn't started shooting.
You could have hit Dawson or me."
"He's
an oathbreaker."
"I
don't care. You do not hurt
Watchers. The oath is that we support
each other." Her voice cracked at
his movements. "What are you
doing?"
"If
you won't join us, you must be an enemy."
The male silhouette had pulled out a silenced gun. "This time there won't be any noise to
attract the police. They'll find you
dead here and MacLeod and Dawson upstairs.
How awful that you killed them and yourself."
"Simon,
please, I won't get in the way. .
." she staggered backwards as the quiet gun spat fire.
Duncan
charged out of the elevator and Methos came racing out of the stairwell. The man fired on them, then noting the
swords at ready, turned and ran. They
heard a yell and then the squeal of tires.
The two Immortals stood in the door, watching the van disappear.
"Did
you get the tag number?" he asked
his old friend.
"No." Methos shook his head and walked to the body
laying on the floor. He checked for a
pulse and shook his head. Then he
turned her over and stiffened. Leaning
close he examined the face and then straightened. "Duncan... we've got big problems."
"What?" He went to join him and was waved off.
"Go
check on Joe. Make sure they didn't
send someone down from the roof."
Methos rarely used that tone to his friend. Usually he just seemed to drift through life, not bothering to
interact. Duncan paused before slipping
up the stairs quietly.
Once he was
gone, the oldest Immortal lifted the body into his arms, cradling it
gently. Dropping a kiss onto its
forehead, he stood. A soft whisper
filled the dojo. "Oh, sweetheart,
what are you mixed up in this time?"
The sound
of the elevator arriving made him turn around.
There stood Methos, the body in his arms. He opened the gate to let him in and froze. The lights caught on a long braid, the hair
a burnished golden brown, neither truly blond nor truly brown. The pale face was young, but without the
youth of childhood. Fine skin stretched
gently over high cheekbones, fetching without being too fine boned for
beauty. The face was the same one he
had looked down on in Joe's room.
"Move,
Highlander." Methos' voice was harsh.
He carried her over to the couch and laid her down checking again for a
pulse. "Pour a couple of glasses
of whiskey, she's going to need one when she wakes up. I need one now."
He held
himself in check, waiting for an explanation, but the old Immortal seemed to
have forgotten where he was and who was there.
Duncan watched him curiously as he poured the drinks. The other Immortal glared down at the young
woman, unfamiliar words pouring from his lips.
Then he gently smoothed her hair, tracing her forehead. After a moment he looked up and smiled
wryly.
"She's
an Immortal, Duncan." He looked
down at her again. "The only
question is which one this is."
"I
guessed that. Who is she?" He handed the two glasses over and watched
as Methos swiftly downed one whiskey.
The other he placed on the table.
"It's
been a very long time since I've seen her, I thought she'd died."
"Who
is she?"
"You
really don't want to know the answer to your question."
"Actually,
I think I do. Who is she? What is she doing here?"
"She's
an old friend of mine, a good friend. She's one of the ones who don't believe
in the game. I don't know why she's
here, but I know that whenever she comes out of hiding it's because someone is
in trouble. She's as loyal as you are,
maybe more." Hazel eyes looked up
at him, begging for understanding.
"I trust her with my life."
"She's
out of here as soon as she's awake."
Duncan glared back. He was angry
that the older Immortal hadn't told him that she was immortal at Dawson's. He clenched his jaw tightly. He did not want to vent his fury on Methos,
just on the woman in his arms. He
watched the light dawn in his friend's eyes.
"Is
she the woman you cut down at Joe's house?" The other man didn't even wait for an answer. He swiftly unbuttoned her cardigan and
pushed her blouse up. There against the
pale skin was a bandage. He gently
peeled the adhesive from her side and examined the wound. Barely half healed, it was red and slightly
swollen. Mac frowned, on an ancient immortal that should already be healed.
Methos
grimaced and replaced the bandage.
"MacLeod, you didn't tell me you'd cut her in half! No wonder you were upset. Even for one of us that's a bad wound."
"What
is her name, Methos?" He growled
menacingly. "You owe me that much
at least."
"I
don't know what she's going by these days, she used to be Lethe. At least, I hope this is Lethe. I can deal with her, even if she's angry.
The other one might just take our heads before we get a word in
edgewise." Worried eyes met his.
"She should be up soon."
As he
spoke, she stirred, her lungs gulping for air, her heart beating again. Instantly a loud, insistent presence
announced itself in their buzz zone, then it disappeared, leaving the muted
sense of a preimmortal.
"Methos! What is going on?" Duncan's voice was strained by the
shock. She was obviously an Immortal
but did not register to his senses like a normal Immortal. "What is she?"
"Not
now, Highlander!" Methos was
watching the woman on the couch, waiting for her to regain consciousness. His tense attitude warned of the
possibility for trouble. Duncan placed
his hand on his sword's hilt and waited.
She opened
her eyes and lunged up, into Methos' restraining arms. Her hands strained, trying to reach for
something hidden in her coat.
The old
immortal had his hands full keeping her from getting loose while trying to
break into and capture her panicked attention.
His voice was rough, whispering close to her ear as he spoke rapidly in
another language. Even with his ear for
languages, Duncan could not place it.
Blue eyes
the same dark shade as a sapphire gazed blankly about the room. Finally they focused on him and stopped,
trying to place him as she listened to Methos' words. He heard his name mentioned as the other man tried to calm her
and advise her of where she was. Her
eyes narrowed as she placed him and her memory of the recent past returned. She stopped trying to escape Methos' grasp.
"Methos-rai." She spoke quietly, without taking her eyes
from him. At the return of coherence,
Methos sat back slightly but he didn't quite relax. The quiet syllables that
rolled off her tongue made him sigh in relief and loosen his tight grip on her
forarms.
Methos
reached out with one hand and picked up the whiskey, bringing it into her
view. She looked at it and turned to
him for the first time. He grinned and
raised an eloquent eyebrow, mischief lighting his face, daring her to take it
from him. She reached out and folded her
fingers around the offered hand as he lifted the glass to her lips. At its smell her nostrils quivered, but
before she could pull away, the long fingers tilted it at her lips. She swallowed and then gasped for breath as
it burned its way down her throat.
"Hello,
Lethe. How are my ladies?" Methos kept his voice low as he spoke to
her. She smiled slightly, one arm
hugging him tightly. He kissed her
cheek. When she released him, Methos
sat her up and released her.
"Duncan MacLeod, I would like you to meet Lethe. Lethe, this is my friend, Duncan MacLeod of
the Clan MacLeod."
Lethe
inclined her head at him, relaxing back against the couch. Her free arm cradled her side as the nearly
healed wounds from earlier that evening announced their presence painfully. Her jaw locked, holding in a hiss of
displeasure, she did not need to be weak right now. "Joseph?"
"Sleeping
off the drugs." Methos spoke
quietly, watching her as warily as mouse watching a cat. "Where is she?"
The young
looking immortal frowned at him and glanced over at the other man. Methos glared at her and tapped her
forhead. With a sigh she closed her
eyes and focused outward, feeling the presence of the two immortals with her
mind. Carefully assigning them places
in her subconscious, she searched, reaching and finding nothing. Her eyes flew open and she sat up. Struggling to regain her balance, she
allowed Methos to support her.
"Phone." Her voice was tense with pain.
"Here."
Duncan's voice made her look up. He
held out a small cellular phone. She
just looked at him. "I'm
safe."
Nodding
slightly, she took it in her free hand.
With one slim finger, she dialed.
"Pick it up." she murmured.
The phone beeped annoyingly.
"Diana! Lethe! Nyet, eto
nyelzya!" She hung up and dialed
another number. When it was also
answered by a machine she began crooning a low pitched, odd song to it. Methos turned to her, his eyes wide as she
hung up the line.
She waited
impatiently, pushing Methos away. He
moved to sit on the table and she slowly sat back. She smiled weakly at him and held her side in pain. After several minutes she frowned. With a soft sigh she picked up the phone
again and dialed. This time the message
on the machine was different. Her face,
which had been pale before, lost all of its color. She hung up after leaving a
brief message.
"My
message missed her. She's gone
hunting." She slowly stood,
leaning heavily on Methos.
The words
that poured from Methos' mouth caused her eyebrow to rise. She slowly shook her
head, declining his offer.
"That's
all we need, she wouldn't believe it if you did."
"Where
will she go?" Duncan's voice was
cool.
"After
someone to get vengeance for me."
Lethe looked up at the man supporting her with a sad smile. She turned to Duncan, "Do you have
anyone she can get to easily? Anyone in town?"
His dark
eyes flared. Stiffening he stalked to
her and drew himself up to stare down at her.
His face was forbidding.
"No. Does she intend to
start a feud?"
"I am
of her clan. She knows you took me
down. She probably thinks you've taken
my head by now." She firmly pushed
Methos away and forced herself to stand without assistance. Staring back into the Highlander's brown
eyes, she stood still under his perusal.
"If you can get me to the airport before she goes after the only
other MacLeod we know of, Conor MacLeod, maybe we can stop her."
"I'll
nae have her harming my kinsman."
"An
I'll nae ha' ye afightin' my sister."
The woman hissed at him. Her
stance shifted, balancing out as she instinctively readied for battle. She glanced at the door behind him. "Let me pass."
"I'll
coom with ye." He grabbed her arm
as she walked past him.
"Fine,
can you ride?" With a shrug she tried to get free of the big man's
grip. It tightened like a vice.
"I'll
drive." Even with all his anger at
her, he didn't want her pushing too hard.
The weary look in her eyes and the pale skin bothered him far more than
he wanted to admit. In her current
state, she was more likely to have an accident than to get to the airport
safely.
"I'll
stay here and keep an eye on Joe." Methos' voice was soft. He wanted to go with them but he couldn't
let his mortal friend down. With all the people wandering around lately, he
needed someone to watch out for him while he recovered.
The two
immortals glared at each other, realizing that he was the only one either would
trust to care for the mortal. With a
sigh, Methos motioned for them to leave.
Both nodded to him, almost in sync. As they headed for the elevator, a shrill
ringing came from her a coat.
Both Methos
and the woman grinned at each other
like giddy children. Without a word the
woman reached for and pulled out a small phone. She spoke into it softly, still smiling at Methos as he flinched
at the terse Sumerian words she spoke.
Several times she stopped abruptly.
The names "Joseph" and "MacLeod" were repeated
several times. Finally all the softness
left her voice. A firm series of
commands rang out, the force of them
startling the two men. She listened for
a moment before turning off the phone.
"She'll
be here soon. She's happy she doesn't
have to hunt you or Conor."
"She
should be." Duncan's voice was
harsh. "Why did she leave you at
the house alone and unarmed?"
Lethe
shrugged. "I tossed her my sword
when the fighting got too close to Joseph.
I couldn't hold it and drag him to safety at the same time. She didn't know I was hurt until it was too
late. Her job was trying to find out
who wanted Joseph dead. We owe him too
much to leave a loose end like that."
"And
just what do you call what you did to Joe?" MacLeod's voice was furious.
"You could have killed him."
She ignored
him and turned to Methos, speaking softly.
The old Immortal turned her to face the angry Highlander. He spoke softly to her in the language they
had spoken before. She listened
silently before nodding shortly to his comment.
"We
never were a threat to him." Her
voice was calm and soft again, but there was a slight ring of steel in it. She swayed slightly and her voice
faltered. "He would have been fine
if neither you nor the extra men had arrived.
We knew there was a chance that the one man would come and were prepared
for it. You two were the
surprise."
"Lethe,
what's going on?" Methos
interrupted them, his arms going around her protectively.
"The
Hunters are active again." she
leaned against him with a sigh.
"What?" Methos stared in shock. "Is that why you're back in the
Watchers?"
"It
gets worse." Her voice was toneless and cold.
"How?" Duncan stood leaning above her. The young woman was dwarfed between the two
men. She leaned heavily back on Methos
to watch the Highlander.
"This
time, anyone who disagrees with them or
gets in their way dies. Watcher, Immortal or innocent civilian, it doesn't
matter to them." She looked up at
Methos. Her eyes were sad and filled
with pain. "They killed Diana's
husband, Henry, because he would not join their crusade."
"That
makes it personal." Methos cursed
to himself. "How long ago?"
"Two
months." She did not resist as
Methos lead them back to the couch and settled on it with her.
"Why
question Joe?" MacLeod cut in.
"He
must have heard the rumors that the Hunters were back. Or maybe he just didn't trust his fellow
Watchers. He had not entered all of
MacLeod's information into the Chronicles.
He made it look like you no longer lived above the dojo. He went back and erased some entries that
could be used to track you. He refused
to put any information in that could be used to Hunt you or your
friends." She watched the man as
spoke. "It seems his friendship to
this Highlander means more to him than anything else. When I was approached about monitoring the questioning of an
oathbreaker, I had no idea who or what they meant. I did everything I could to protect him without getting them
suspicious of me."
"Oh,
and where did that leave Joe?"
"As
safe as I could make him."
"And
when they tried to kill him so they couldn't be identified, would you have
allowed him to die to protect your identity then?." MacLeod grabbed her arm and turned her to
face him as he roared.
"As
long as I am alive I protect my own."
"He
didn't look protected from where I was."
In her
fury, she pushed herself out of Methos' arms and faced the angry Immortal. "Really? And I take it that being nearly cut in half by an impulsive,
undisciplined Scot rather than risk Joe is nothing? If you hadn't shown up in a dark room, waving a sword, everything
would have worked out. I had convinced
them to let Joe alone at that point."
"And
that was supposed to protect him?"
"I may
look like a baby-faced teenager, but I've been around long enough to be able to
protect Joe." Her voice was flinty
in anger, but still soft and quiet.
Standing toe to toe with the taller man, she glared into the burning
eyes that raged at her. "They need
me. At this point I'm a valuable
asset. To keep me happy, they are
willing to pretend that they don't kill their own, not even one who has betrayed the Watcher oath. Joe was safe from them. They were trying to get you not him."
"And
what do you get out of this?"
"I
want their leader."
"They
think you're dead."
"That's
easily remedied." She smiled very
grimly. "I will show up, none the
worse for wear with a bullet proof vest and a very bad attitude at the main
office tomorrow morning. Between my
story and the rumors already beginning to circulate through South America, the
Hunters will soon become the hunted. Or
I can go to the hunters and scream and rage about their one undisciplined man,
hiding my true feelings until I know each and every one of their names. Then I can destroy the whole group."
"And
what makes you so important?"
"My
wonderful personality."
The sound
of the dojo door slamming loudly, followed by footsteps racing up his stairs
stopped their argument. MacLeod reached
for his sword as a piercing whistle attacked his ears. The woman before him grinned at his reaction
and trilled out a matching whistle. He
grimly held onto his sword.
Behind the
woman, the elevator slowly began rising.
The sudden presence of a very strong Immortal resounded through their
senses, causing MacLeod to reel a step backwards. Another woman entered, a pair of swords in her hands. Honey colored hair was plastered to her
head, held in place by a thin leather band.
A second pair of sapphire blue eyes took in the current setting before
settling steadily on him.
The woman
stared at him as she stalked over to the group. Her face perfectly impassive, she reached one sword out toward
Lethe. Without looking away from him,
she reached unerringly for the hilt.
One woman kept her sword en garde and the other rested hers, point down.
"MacLeod,
would you rather meet my sister or fight her?" Lethe asked silkily.
"Sister? Since when do Immortals have close
relatives?" Macleod stared at
them, his shock blatant. The two women
looked identical, only their clothing and hairstyles of any real difference. "Methos, what in God's name is going on
here?"
"He
does not sound happy to meet me."
The woman's voice was throaty and cool.
"Why
should I be upset at uninvited guests bearing swords?" He growled as he laid the katana on
the table. He spread out his hands and
shrugged. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of
the Clan MacLeod. I'd say it was a
pleasure to meet you, but it isn't."
The woman
laughed, her voice slightly deeper than her sister's. Each woman sheathed her sword with the same economical move,
tucking them away in their coats.
"At least you're truthful.
I like that. Nowadays I go by
Diana. How's Joseph doing?"
"He's
sleeping."
She shot a
quick glance to Lethe, keeping her attention on the Highlander. "Give, whatever happened hurt."
"Simon
shot me. I died. I came back a little while ago." As the other woman spun to face her, Lethe
reached out and grabbed her arm.
"Easy, he didn't see me die.
MacLeod and Methos chased him off.
Now, we have reason to raise a stink in Central."
"That
was not what I mean and you know it."
"Drop
it, it's not worth the trouble."
"Not
likely." The two women squared
away, glaring at each other. Blue eyes
blazed at each other. Suddenly they
grinned and hugged each other fiercely.
"Would
you believe that these two have been behaving like this for a couple of
millennia?" Methos asked
rhetorically. He looked at the confused
Highlander. "Never been able
understand why they haven't torn each other apart or taken each other's
head."
The shorter
haired woman turned to Methos, noticing him for the first time. Her eyes widened, and with a happy laugh she
threw herself on the old Immortal. Even
braced for her assault, he flew backwards, flattening on the couch. She crouched over him, linking her hands
about his neck.
"You
live! Do you know how long we've been
searching for you? The last we heard
from you was back in the 1800's. Then
there was that impostor, but he just didn't measure up." With a smile she leaned down and kissed him
thoroughly. Methos' hands went from
fending her off to encircling her shoulder in less than a minute. As they forgot their audience, Lethe sighed
quietly and moved to an armchair.
"May
as well sit, Highlander." Her
words were soft, barely reaching his ears.
"This may take a while."
He stared
at them as the two on the couch began whispering quietly to each other. "I take it you've known him for a long
time?"
"You
could say that." Pain flickered
briefly in her eyes. "Our oldest
memories are of Methos."
"I've
never met an Immortal with real family."
His words were bitter.
She
snorted. "As far as we've ever
been able to find out we're the only ones.
It has its price, though."
she faced him. "Want to
start over?"
"My
name is Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.
It is my pleasure to meet you."
His voice was thick with his old brogue.
"I'm
Lethe, lately called Abigail Fontaine-Montrose." She smiled, but he noticed that it did not reach her eyes. "I'm very glad to meet you. I have heard much about you."
"Good
or bad?" One dark eyebrow arched
inquisitively.
"I've
read wonderful things about you and your prospects." her voice was flat, having lost all
emotion. A bitter smile crossed her
face and was gone. He almost missed it,
it was so brief. "I think you may
actually live up to our expectations."
"Methos
wrote you about me?" Duncan was
mystified by both her vague reference and the sudden pain he saw in her eyes.
"No. Someone else wrote often about the great
MacLeod Clansmen."
"Who
else do we know in common?" He was
genuinely curious.
She shook
her head, refusing to answer. To break
the conversation off, she reached out one foot to kick her sister. "Hey, break it up. Methos, you should be ashamed of
yourself."
The couple
disengaged rapidly and Methos blushed as he caught the amused look Duncan sent
him. The woman grinned and settled
herself more comfortably next to the ancient Immortal. One hand clasped hers, their fingers still
intertwined, as Methos wrapped an arm around her familiarly.
"Why
should I be ashamed?" He asked
with a smile.
"Behaving
like a satyr at your age!" Lethe
shot at him.
"You're
calling me old?"
The two
sisters looked at each other and began laughing. In unison they chanted pompously at him. Methos closed his eyes and held his
breath. At Duncan's look of
incomprehension, they switched languages and continued their words, "and
since I am the eldest Immortal, I naturally get the title of leader. The fact that you are my students also
places you under my leadership... Should we continue, oh Lord and Master
Methos?"
Duncan
watched as the blush crept back up Methos' neck and covered his face. The older man was thoroughly embarrassed by
the two women who chided him mercilessly.
The thought of them treating him like this for millennia brought out a
chuckle. As Methos' eyes flashed open,
he caught the guarded laughter there and completely lost his composure. In moments, the entire group was laughing.
"Lethe,
I thought you were the nice one."
Methos finally managed to get the words past his laughter.
Pain
crossed her face fleetingly. "That
was then, old friend. I've missed
you."
Methos
looked at her, focusing on the changes in the woman sitting before him. His eyebrow quirked up as the other woman
lifted a finger to his lips and silenced the words forming there. He turned to catch her eye and she shook her
head briefly. These two women had
always been open with him, he did not know what to make of the hidden silence
and the not so well hidden pain. The
look in her eyes promised an explanation later. He was very good at waiting patiently.
Uncaring of
the scrutiny from her sister and their old friend, Lethe stood carefully
wrapping her arm around the still healing wound. She paced the floor, taking in all the things in sight. Her gaze was rapid, fleeting and
measuring. MacLeod frowned as she
passed him deep in thought.
"Can I
get you something?" He asked
quietly, watching her movements. He
wondered if he should lock up the silver until he caught the worry in the other
woman's eyes.
"No,
thank you." The reply was soft at
his ear as she paced past him again.
"Lethe
. . ." Methos began to speak, only to be silenced at her gesture.
"This
might just work after all." She mused, thinking furiously. She turned to the owner of the loft. "How would you like to become an
hero?"
"I. .
." the delighted grin on her face
froze his words. A sad light danced in
her eyes. Her hair sliding from its
tight braid, it coiled about her face, framing it in golden highlights. For a moment he was speechless as he took in
the transformation from pale, tense girl to sensuous woman.
"Great." She took his hesitation as permission to
include him in her plans. "May I
have the use some paper? I have plans
to make."
"MacLeod,
you might . . ." Methos tried to speak but a hand covered his mouth and
soft lips began whispering into his ear.
He shuddered at the sensation and forgot what he was going to say.
"Don't
worry. We promise to take care of
MacLeod." The woman at his side
spoke louder.
"I
don't need to be taken care of!"
"Around
these two you do." Methos gripped
Diana's hands tightly. "Lethe is
someone who gets the most unlikely things to work."
"Thank
you." Both women spoke in
concert. They grinned, a harsh cast to
their features. "We have to stop
the latest group of Hunters. Otherwise,
the Watchers will be completely destroyed."
"What
do you mean?" The voice made them
all turn to see Joe Dawson leaning heavily against a wall. He turned pale as he recognized the women. "Abigail, but I saw you die."
"Uncle
Joe." The voice Lethe used was
soft, younger than her normal voice.
"I think you need to sit down."
"I
think you need to explain." The
mortal's voice was harsh, biting.
"After
you sit down and I check you out."
Though soft, the commanding edge in her voice stung.
"She's
right, Joe." Duncan stood and went
to his Watcher. "This might be
better if you were sitting down. You've
have a very rough night."
"Please,
Joseph." Lethe stood at his
side. "I promise to explain."
Leaning
heavily on Duncan the distraut man walked slowly to the couch. Methos and Diana rapidly moved, allowing the
pale mortal to sit. The men watched as
the women worked in concert, unspeaking.
Diana
quickly unbuttoned Joe's shirt while Lethe pulled a miniature medical kit from
her bulky purse. One sister took Joe's
vital signs and the other uncovered his wound.
One pair of hands cleaned and
disinfected the area while the other prepared butterfly bandages to hold the
wound closed. A tiny vial of a topical
anesthesia was applied and then the wound was rapidly but expertly closed and
covered. In mere minutes the wound had
been evaluated, treated and covered, without a single word being said.
Diana knelt
at his side, watching his eyes, one hand still holding an unused medical
vial. Lethe stood behind her and after
a moment, took the vial and returned it to her med-kit. With a smile both women sat down near him.
"This
will be the short version," Diana
began.
Lethe
continued her words, "you need to rest and finish recovering from
everything."
"I'm
fine."
"They
are right, Joe." Duncan spoke
up. "You lost a lot of blood and
you've been heavily drugged. You don't
recover as fast or as well as we do."
"Please,
Joseph."
Methos
watched quietly as the two women rapidly gained control. Joe disappeared momentarily as one tucked
the blanket Duncan handed her around his pale form. The other propped a pillow under his head. Once they were certain he was comfortable,
they sat at his feet, ready to talk. He
hid a grin as both women instinctively took up the positions of
storytellers. He listened to their
quiet murmurs, the show was about to begin.
Catching Duncan's eye, he slid a long finger to his lips, eyes alight
with memories.
"The
Watchers organization has split, Uncle Joe," Lethe's voice was full and gently melodic, The words were cadenced, following another
language's pattern. "No longer is
it just a group mortals, trying to observe and record the movements of those
Immortals it knows about. It has become
far more and at the same time it has become less."
"Now,
it encompasses those mortals who would never break their vows of passive
observance, as well as those who want to participate in the Immortals'
lives." Diana's voice was slightly
warmer than her sister's, more passionate, more alive. "These people believe that their place
is that of the Hunter. They wish to
Hunt those Immortals who they feel they can kill without being killed
themselves. These Hunters kill only
those Immortals they do not fear. Among
those they kill are the young, the newly become Immortal, the untrained, those
too honorable to fear mortals."
"To
become a Hunter, you must be a Watcher and be invited by a Hunter of more than
three kills," Lethe's voice took
over at Diana's pause. It's cool fury
and soft tones made the men wince.
"It is an invitation you cannot refuse. To do so is to die. All
those Watchers who have refused or have spoken against the Hunters have
died. But it is very hard to prove that
they are killing their own. They make
it look like the work of Immortals whenever possible."
"They
approached Henry Fontaine-Montrose about four months ago. They told him that they wanted to speak to
him about new developments within the Watcher hierarchy in South America. His family was to be trained in a new field,
after all very few families had as many members in the organization." Diana's voice was bitter. "He was a field agent. His wife and daughters were researchers. He came back from the meeting very pale and
agitated. He tried to hide his
feelings, but the family asked anyway."
"His
family was unsettled by his refusal to tell them what the problem was. They asked but he refused to tell them,
trying to protect his family."
Lethe took over when Diana's voice began to shake with fury. "He knew he could not accept the
bargain the Hunters offered. When the
Hunters heard his reponse, a month later, they spoke to his wife. The two worked as fast as they could,
trying to get out, but were too late.
Two months ago, Henry Fontaine-Montrose and his wife were killed. Before they could be beheaded, his daughter
Abigail came home. She shot and killed
one of the Hunters, but could not rescue her parents. The two daughters have been sent to live in Seacouver with their
godfather, Joseph Dawson. They were scheduled to arrive next week, but the Hunters changed that and brought
them in this afternoon, trying to force them into the group.."
Diana
picked up the recitation, her voice now as low pitched as her sister's, husky
with emotion. "The Hunters made a
few very bad mistakes. The first was
not knowing that Henry's wife was an Immortal, so she lives. The second was not knowing that his
"daughter" in research was his wife's Immortal twin. The two are working together to find out who
runs the Hunters and root the entire group out of existence."
"There
you have the short version of the story, Joe.
I'm sorry that we didn't tell you, but we didn't know if we could trust
you." Lethe spoke directly to him,
sitting upright and unmoving, waiting for his reaction.
"Did
Henry know about Diana and you being Immortal?" Joe asked, his voice husky from the realization that they were
speaking about his friend.
"Of
course, he did. With him working for
the Watchers, there was no way to hide what we were. He helped make all the arrangements so I could be his 'daughter'
when the time was right. He was my
friend and my sister's husband."
Her voice was tinged with regret.
Beside her Diana had laid her head on her knees. "It would have been too hard to hide
from him."
"But
he never. . ."
"So? There are things that you probably never
wrote in the chronicles either. Like
the fact that you've befriended your Immortal assignment." Her voice went flat and emotionless as she
spoke. "There are things that it
would be best that never got added to the chronicles."
"Easy,
Lethe." Duncan soothed, catching
the tension in her words. "Joe
wouldn't endanger you."
She nodded
warily and stretched. "It's very
late and we need to get back to our hotel."
"No."
Diana raised her head wearily.
"Already checked us out.
Too much trouble. Besides, they
might be looking for me since they think you're dead."
"My
place has enough room, if you don't mind the mess. I wasn't expecting you this soon." Joe spoke softly.
"No. The police are watching it and they told me
to stay away until morning and the window gets fixed." Lethe spoke wearily, jet-lag, pain and
exhaustion catching up to her.
"Window? Police?"
"I'll
explain later, Uncle Joe."
"Joe
can stay here." Duncan's words
were wry. "But I don't think there's
quite enough room for everyone."
Methos
stood. He grabbed Diana's hand and
pulled her to her feet. Lethe stood and
wavered slightly. Her sister grabbed
her arm and held her steady. He smiled
and picked the tired woman up, cradling her in his arms. "They can stay at my place. We'll talk in the morning, Mac."
"I'll
be over there early." His voice
was sarcastic. The look he gave Methos
promised retribution for the long sleepless night. He grinned. "I'll
make the coffee so you can wake up."
Methos
groaned. Diana's eyebrow rose, but she
smiled at the wink she received.
The sun was
barely up, causing the frost on the autumn grass to sparkle. The chill was shocking, far colder than one
would normally expect for October.
Duncan paused, looking up at the window of Methos' apartment. He thought
he'd seen movement in the window. He
knew from experience that Methos would not be up yet, but maybe one of the
women was awake.
A shadow
drifted across the window curtain, dancing back and forth to an unheard
song. As he watched, it bowed and
dipped, flowing like a leaf in a gentle spring breeze. It swayed and glided, bending and dipping
gracefully. The form stretched up,
beyond the view of the curtain and returned.
Joe looked up and grinned, shaking his head as he saw the shadow. Leaning on his cane, he joined the Scot,
enjoying the display. For a moment a
slim, graceful figure was perfectly outlined.
Then it danced away with soft, gentle movements.
"What
do you make of that?" Duncan asked the quiet mortal.
"Not a
bad view of the apartment." He
quiped, still mulling over the fact that his "god-daughters" were
Immortals.
"Well,
at least one of them is an early riser."
"Which
one?"
"If
Methos has trouble identifying them, do you expect me to know one of their
shadows from the other?"
"You
have a point there." Duncan responded, continuing towards the apartment
building.
"It's
hard to believe that I've known them for nearly twenty years and never knew
that they were...Damnit Mac! I was best
man at Diana's wedding!" He
growled as he manipulated the cracked sidewalk. The dim early morning light contributed to his troubles by
distorting the shadows. He paused
momentarily to watch the graceful movements of the shadow on the curtain
enviously. "I'm her children's
godfather! I wonder if I still am, or
if she even has children."
"Don't
take it personally, Joe." The
immortal commented softly as they watched the dancing shadow above them. "My guess is that they're old enough
that caution is endemic to them."
"Yeah,
right."
"Joe,
very few Immortals tell their friends about their Immortality. Some never even tell tell their
lovers." He frowned thoughtfully. "If you hadn't been my Watcher, I would
never have told you about my Immortality."
"I do
understand, Mac, but it's hard to comprehend the distrust that goes hand in
hand with being an Immortal."
The two men
turned their faces toward the sun and headed for the building. As they drew close to the apartment, the
window flew open, curtain billowing out.
A head popped out, followed by pale shoulders. As she shook her head, long hair tumbled loosely from her
shoulders, catching on the brickwork.
She glared, strong enough to be seen and recognised from a distance,
staring at them. Then a sudden, brief,
smile bloomed rapidly as she recognized them.
"Good
morning! You're bright and early. Are you going to stay there, gawking? Or are you coming up for
breakfast?" Her quiet voice,
pitched to reach their ears and no farther, drifted down to them.
"That
depends." Duncan smiled up at the
pale face. "Did Methos cook?"
"Good
God! No!" Horror flickered over
her features and the head retreated momentarily. She smiled regretfully.
"I think he'll never quite learn to make a decent breakfast. Why do you think he sleeps 'til noon if you
let him? It's so he can start with
lunch!"
"We're
eating here." Duncan's voice was
merry, bringing another fleeting grin to her face. The two men smiled at the sight. "We'll be up in a
minute."
"Have
coffee and breakfast ready for the starving hordes." Joe teased her softly.
"Runny
eggs and hard coffee! Yes,
sir!" She smiled again and
disappeared into the window.
"Oh,
great! She remembers." Joe muttered to himself. At Duncan's odd look, he paused. "It's an old joke."
"Maybe
you need a watcher to record your life, Joe.
It seems far more active and intriguing than mine." Duncan smiled at the embarrassment that
flashed across his friend's face.
The door to
the apartment swung open as they approached. Instantly, the smell of coffee reached them. It was followed by the scent of something
baking and the rich, heavy scent of cooking meat. Spices, cardamon and cloves, tingled their noses. Tantalized they quickly entered and were met
by a small table set in the entranceway.
It held a silver turkish coffee pot and a pair of tiny porcelin coffee
cups. Cream and sugar were in matching
silver decanters.
"Come
in, serve yourselves coffee. The food
will be ready shortly." The soft
voice called.
Duncan
closed the door and looked at Joe.
Raising an eyebrow he poured the coffee and handed one to him. They cautiously sipped the coffee and were
pleasantly surprised by its taste. It
was hot and strong with a delicate tracery of spices.
"Good
coffee." Joe commented as he
savoured the unusual blend of flavors. "If she cooks as well as she makes
coffee, we'll be in heaven, Mac."
The two men
looked up as she turned the corner.
Duncan began to speak and froze, staring. She was wearing a pale blue, silk cutaway shirt. It left her midrift bare, exposing the red
line of the nearly healed wound on her side.
A matching silk skirt wrapped about her hips, flaring out at her thighs and
forming a flowing bell at her ankles.
Her hair was loose, flowing down her sides, curling and rippling to her
hips. The total effect was
stunning. For the first time, neither
man looked at her as if she was the teen-ager she appeared to be.
"You
liked the coffee?" Mirth edged her
voice. Another fleeting smile chased
its way across her face. "Is
something wrong?"
"Nothing,
nothing at all." Joe's voice was choked.
"I have a question for you, though."
"Ask
away, Joseph." Her voice rippled
as she spoke. Her blue eyes met his
with asking to share his bemusement.
"Exactly
how old are you?"
Laughter
rang out, floating into their senses.
The men looked at each other.
Duncan shoved his free hand into his jeans' pocket as he sipped at his
coffee. Joe bowed his head, looking
into his cup.
"I was
about eighteen when I died, Joseph." The sound of his name spoke with her
accent tilted his head up. "But
that was a very long time ago."
"About?
You don't know?" Duncan's voice
was amazed. How could another Immortal
not know when she first died? Even now,
nearly four hundred years later, he could remember his first death. He wondered how old she was. If she had known Methos for a long time, she
could be very old indeed.
"No
one kept real good track of age back then, Duncan." she turned away and headed back into the
kitchen. "Breakfast should be
ready."
"Where
are Methos and Diana?"
At that
moment, the bathroom door opened and Diana stepped out. Duncan took a step back as the heavy, loud
feel of their joint presence struck his senses. Dressed in only a towel, she held a sword at ready, peering
around warily.
"Lethe!"
Lethe cried out rapidly. The words
pouring from her lips were harsh gutterals but somehow sounded musical from
her. The only words they understood
were their names. At the words she
spoke, her sister lowered the sword and smiled sheepishly.
"Sorry. I didn't expect you this early." she
grinned and bowed. "If you'll excuse me a moment?"
"Well,
that answers part of the question."
Joe's voice was amused. He
grinned at Duncan as they watched her walk away, the bath towel hiding and
teasing them with her figure.
"Methos
is sleeping." Her voice at his
side made Duncan turn around. She
looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.
"Problems?"
"You
called her Lethe?" He made himself
think quickly. For some reason he
didn't want this cool, collected Immortal to catch his thoughts. He saw the glitter in her eyes and wondered
if she was laughing at them.
"When
we were young, all twins shared everything, names, clothes, spouses, life. After all, they are halves of the same
person." Her voice was calm,
accepting, not a hint of bitterness.
"Therefore, both of us are Lethe."
"Oh." He watched as she turned away and re-entered
the kitchen. She quickly pulled a
fragrant pan from the oven. He wondered
what it must be like to have someone else share everything. Someone to share Immortality and life with
from the beginning to the end.
"Interesting." Joe murmurred. "You know that there are no hints of any Immortal twins in
the chronicles. I want to research them,
but I'm afraid that if I do, someone will catch on to their identities."
"Why
don't you just ask them. All they can
do is refuse to answer." Duncan
chuckled at the frustrated look on his friend's face.
Lethe
stepped up to them and handed him a large mug.
"Please, fill this."
she requested. She turned to
Joe, saying, "You never know, we might just answer if you want to know
from simple personal curiousity. We
like you, Joseph. We always have."
Before the
gray haired man could respond, she retrieved the full mug from Duncan's hand
and walked toward the far end of the apartment. They silently watched the smooth sway of her hips as she walked
through the door to Methos' bedroom.
Through the
open door, they saw her kneel gracefully beside the bed and wave the mug gently
over the rumpled covers. A low groan
came faintly to them and the lump in the bed moved slightly. Her lips were quirked in a smile as she
continued to wave the coffee above the bed.
After a
moment, a slim, pale arm reached up and caught her wrist. As her hand was gently pulled down, Methos
levered himself out of the covers. His
eyes closed, he smiled as he inhaled the scent of the spiced coffee. Once she was certain he was awake, Lethe
transferred the mug into his hands.
With another graceful move, she stood and returned to main room.
"I
think that they like watching us."
Diana's throaty laugh caught them unawares. Duncan turned to see her leaning against the doorframe of the
bathroom. No longer dressed in a towel, she wore a pale green outfit that
matched her sister's. He swallowed at
the sight of the two of them standing side by side. They looked too young for their obvious enjoyment of their
sensuality.
"So
I've noticed." Lethe's voice was
as still as deep water. Shall we go sit
down?" A series of evil
sounding comments came from the bed.
"Rai, really? No, thank
you."
Diana burst
out laughing at his terse comment as she preceeded them to the table. She quickly snatched a muffin from the table
and lobbed it to her sister. The other
woman caught it and turned abruptly, causing her skirt to swirl up to her
thighs. She threw it into to the
bedroom, causing a muffled roar. With a
smile she bowed, turning back to the men.
She bowed to them, the light of her smile reaching her eyes for the
first time since Duncan had met her.
That light was abruptly quenched and the quiet sadness returned.
Behind her,
Methos came out of the bedroom, barely awake. His bare feet made little sound
as he stopped just behind the woman. His hands full with his coffee and muffin, he brought his arms
around her and kissed her head. She leaned back against his bare chest, giving
them the impression that she was supporting him as he took a sip of the coffee.
"Good
morning, little one. Joe, Macleod. I take it breakfast is ready?" He looked at them, still more asleep than
awake.
"Come
on, slow poke. You're wasting
daylight." Lethe's words had no
bite.
"It's
not morning yet, this is only a delusion." He grumbled, letting her go.
"How
she puts up with you is beyond me!"
Lethe grumbled back, smiling as she stepped away from him.
"With
more patience than you obviously have."
He bowed her ahead of him.
Duncan
shook his head in wonder as the two squabbled quietly. He caught Joe's eye and they both
chuckled.
"That
was great." Duncan sat back,
looking over the remains of their food.
Little remained except crumbs.
Both women were looking slightly amused at the sight. With an evil grin, Diana threw a dagger at
her sister, causing the three men the jerk in shock. Lethe reached out and snagged it in midair as Duncan shoved her
sideways, away from its path.
The moment
he touched her, her free hand came up, grabbing his arm and pulling him with
her as she toppled from her chair.
Blurring in his sight, the dagger rapidly reversed its position, coming
to rest, lightly kissing his throat.
Large blue eyes stared at him, startled and apologetic. The dagger disappeared even as she blushed.
"She
was paying me for a bet I just won, Highlander." Lethe's voice was soft, echoing slightly in the room's silence.
"Well,
I think we're all awake now."
Methos' voice was mocking.
"The two of you can get up off the floor. I think it's safe."
Duncan
rolled off the slim Immortal and stood.
Mischief danced in his eyes and he smiled at her. The wary look in her eyes only increased his
smile. In a sudden move, he bowed
deeply to her, offering her his left hand.
She studied
it as if it would attack before lightly placing her palm on his. He wrapped his fingers around her hand and
gently pulled her to her feet. With a
flourish, he bowed again, bringing her trapped hand to his lips. Her blush deepened and her eyes lit up in
amusement at his antics. Behind him, he
could hear the chuckles from Methos and Joe.
"I
think you may be worse than Methos." She commented coolly.
He grinned,
eyebrow raised. "Would you like to
find out?"
Her eyes
flickered briefly and then clouded.
"I believe I must pass."
She turned
to the table and picked up a bowl, closing the conversation. Diana gently bullied Joseph into allowing
her to check his wound while the others rapidly cleared the table. The essentials taken care of, they scattered
about Methos' main room, each seeking out a perch or chair.
"So,
what is your plan?" Duncan broke
the ice. Lethe lifted her chin,
pointing to Diana.
"Joseph
and Adam escort us to HQ at 10. There we confront the Director with Simon's
perfidy, his attacks of both Joseph and Abigail. We can get him without endangering our investigation into the
Hunters."
"Why
only target Simon?" Dawson leaned
forward.
"At
this point he's the only one who's threatened us or one of ours directly. He's also the only one we've met here and as
far as your goddaughters are conserned, he's an isolated nut." Lethe answered for her. They glanced at each other grimly as she
continued, "Even if *we* know better."
"Do
you think you can pull it off? Ben's
good at spotting fakes."
Lethe's
face softened, her eyes widening. Her
voice trembled and became years younger.
Even though they knew she was older, she became a young teenager before
their very eyes. "Uncle
Joseph! Please, I want to go back into
research. I'm just not cut out for
fieldwork. My first venture into it and
Simon suckers me right in. You could
have been hurt and I fell for it! When
he met me at the airport, I. . . "
her voice broke off abruptly as tears began forming in her eyes. She straightened, blinked and became
herself. Although she was smiling
mischieviously, they noted that her eyes were hard. "Good enough?"
Joe's
stunned face was proof of her artistry.
Methos began chuckling at the mortal's dazed look. Duncan watched her speculatively and then
nodded in agreement. She nodded to her
sister.
Diana, her eyes dancing, stood and
stretched. Instantly, their eyes went
to her, watching the material of her blouse as it tightened across her
breasts. All three men, mortal and
immortal, responded to the supple, senuous movements. With a studied
nonchalance, she shook her hair foreward until it hung messily about her face.
Then she changed before their eyes.
Her upper
lip disappeared as she began worrying it.
Her eyes became huge and frightened as she placed large lensed glasses
on her nose. She slumped, her posture
bashful, shy. Without saying a word,
the confident Immortal appeared to become a young teenager. The way she held her body made her seem
unskilled, uncordinated. Her face was no longer held still, it seemed softer,
younger, hinting at a soon to blosom beauty.
She walked with an uncoordinated slouch that told of a recent growth
spurt, one to which she hadn't become accustomed.
"Jailbait." Duncan murmurred as transfixed by the change
as Joseph.
"I
could have told you they were good at what they do." Methos spoke softly.
"And
just what is that?" Duncan's words
were touched with awe. He had seen
actors with less ability. He blinked as
they both resumed their normal stances, Diana draped against Methos and Lethe
sitting alertly apart. While one was
obviously relaxed, the other was subtly vigilent. It was an interesting juxtaposition. He silently mused at the significance. He knew that he was still missing something about them.
"Corporate
espionage, high-tech security investigations." Lethe answered.
"People will talk to naive teenagers where they will clam up to
normal corporate investigators."
"MacLeod,"
Diana took over, "we are telling the Watchers that both Joseph's and
Abigail's lives were saved by your intervention. Although the Hunters may be curious as to the odd number of
Immortals involved, they won't be able to question us or you about it. After all, you are infamous for your unusual
number of friends, both mortal and immortal."
"That
leaves him vulnerable to their attention." Methos pointed out quietly.
"That
is one problem with the plan." She
admitted.
"I've
survived their attention before."
"I can
warn the Watchers I trust to keep their eyes open for renegades." Joe commented.
"NO!" Both women responded rapidly.
"If they're
already members of or have been contacted by the Hunters you'll tip our
hand. And if they're not, they may
interfere and then they'd be hunted. We
will not have any mortals killed on our behalf." She shook her head emphatically, her hair skittering across her
lap.
"Lethe,
it's not your job to protect the world."
Methos' voice was bitter, past memories clouding his face. He looked down at the woman at his side,
turning his profile towards the others.
Peering down his long acquiline nose at her he frowned at the way she
tensed.
"It
always has been, love, and you well know it!" Diana's voice was arch and
so was her look. She began to move away
from him, glaring.
"Now
it not the time to revive old arguments.
Shelve it, please." Lethe's
calm voice broke between them.
Reflexively, they turned, uniting fronts against her. "We've survived this long, Methos-rai,
we'll manage for a while longer. He
does have the right to his opinion about your lifestyle, Lele." Both of
them glowered silently and shrugged before settling back on the sofa.
"It
will be at least two to three weeks before the Hunters move against anyone here
in Seacover after the uproar we cause today." she continued smoothly.
"That means we need to establish lives here. We'll register at the college as we had
previously planned. If we are careful
not be in classes together, no one will be able to sense that we are
Immortal. MacLeod, may we join your dojo
for *self-defense* lessons? Joseph
would have arranged them for us if we'd been mortals."
"Yeah,
I'd already planned on talking to him about them once you'd arrived." Joe grinned. A sudden thought clouded his face. "Where will you live?"
"Do
you mind us staying at your place?"
She frowned. "We'd stay out
of your way and try to keep from cramping your style. Unfortunately, everyone
thinks we're minors and that means we have to stay with our guardian."
"We'll
manage somehow." Joe smiled. "Only, I want you to take over cooking
breakfast."
"Deal."
Both women spoke at once.
"I'm
not sure about the college, though.
There are too many risks. It
would be too easy for someone to grab one of you there." he thought furiously. "We could arrange for you to be tutored
at the HQ for a while. It wouldn't
surprise anyone, you two are already legendary for your learning skills."
Methos
began to laugh. "Joe, anyone who
tried to grab one of them had best have a mob with him or else he'll lose a
limb. For all that they look young,
innocent and fragile, you're facing two of the most dangerous immortals *I've*
ever met."
"Come
on, Methos, you're exagerating."
Joe's voice was smoky with laughter.
He could not picture the truth of his friend's words.
"They
backed the Horsemen down, Joe.
Stratigically, physically and mentally." The ancient Immortal's face was passive as he spoke, his eyes
turned inward as he saw the tent walls shake from the desert winds.
"You'll
not come here again, Cronos." The
soft voice spoke eeriely. Somehow it
came from all around them. "You
and the Horsemen will not attack our valley."
"Once
we're free, we'll hunt you down and skewer you!" Caspian's face was flushed with fury as he struggled with his
bonds.
Methos
tugged lightly on his ropes. Tight
without being constricting, the ropes refused to yeild. He relaxed against the soft rug beneath
him. Silk brushed his face as a person
glided past him on silent feet. A hand
gently touched his brow in passing.
The shadow
wore dark bloused trousers and kept disappearing as it walked around the
tent. It knelt briefly beside Silas,
its hands gently touching his chest and listening to his breathing. It nodded to itself, reassuring him that his
friend was all right. Still silent, it
dodged Caspian's ineffectual kick.
Finally, it stopped beside Cronos.
The leader
of the Horsemen glared silently. His
face partially hidden behind his webbed paint, the shadow alternately hid and
revealed his expression. The shadow
leaned down, avoiding his attempt at head butting with ease. Testing the ropes that held the most
dangerous Horseman, the shadow backed away, signalling the waiting voice.
"Your
word, Cronos. And your vow. Then we'll let you go."
"What
makes you believe my word?" he
growled bitterly.
"We've
watched you. We'll bargain. We pay you to stay away from our people and
you let us be. That way we honor our
debt to your brother." The voice
spoke so silkily, its menace was nearly hidden.
"And
if we break it?"
"Then
our debt is void and we hunt you down like the monster you are." The voice purred and suddenly the buzz of a
powerful Immortal jerked through their awarenesses. "We get to collect four heads and four quickenings for our
friend."
"Do
you want us to bargain over the terms of the argreement?" Laughter danced briefly in the voice and
then it became as cold as steel.
"Or do we take your heads now?"
"We
bargain. Methos will make the
arrangments." Cronos forcibly
relaxed his tense muscles.
The shadow
moved to Methos' side and drew a knife.
With swift movements, it slit rope that was connected to his bonds and
stepped away. The knife had been left
at his side.
"A
sign of good faith." The voice purred.
Methos grabbed the cold steel to part the rope at his wrists. "Let the bargaining begin."
"You
had the chance at Cronos' head and let him go?" Duncan's voice was
strained with incredulity.
"Twice." She admitted.
Joseph
leaned forward, taking in every detail.
It was another conversation he'd never be able to record, but he didn't
want to miss a single word. The idea
that an Immortal had backed Cronos down and then been allowed to live was
intriging. He'd have to check his
records, there had to be some mention of these two.
"Why
didn't you take him?"
"The
first time, I let him keep his head for a debt I owed one of his
brothers." Her voice was mildly
amused as she watched the Highlander's expression change from shock to anger.
"And
the second time?"
"Caspian
had me in chains and traded my life for Cronos'." Diana answered quietly. "That was the last time we saw
him."
"They bargained
him into disbanding the Horseman and releasing me as well." Methos growled, defending them.
"No.
We bargained with Silas. We threatened
Caspian. We simply convinced Cronos that it was time for the Horsemen to
disband." Lethe moved, leaning against
the wall. Her eyes were curiously flat,
watching them. "It's over and
done. The past cannot be changed."
Duncan
stared at her momentarily, one eyebrow raised in question as he considered her
closed expression. HIs eyes flickered
over to Diana, whose face was calm and emotionless. He glanced at Methos' sullen expression and then back to
Lethe. Her eyes were cold, as cold as
the frozen blue skies that had seared his soul in the Himalayas after a
blizzard. He wondered briefly what it
had cost her to bargain with Cronos.
The ice in the blue eyes was testament that the cost had been high. He wasn't sure he liked the thought that she
had been scarred enough to produce that much ice.
His
upbringing had included protecting women.
The look in her eyes promised instant retaliation if he jumped to her
defense. There was a curious stillness
about her, like the stillness before an earthquake, that warned against any
false move. He saw the same emotion flicker in her eyes that often plagued
Amanda just before she did something she knew would be regretted.
There was
also an edge to her stillness that was absent in Amanda. Even at her best, the younger Immortal
didn't have the lethal danger to her eyes.
For once, he was glad that Amanda had so often acquired a
protector. He needed to defuse the
situation before it escalated out of hand.
"Well,
Joe, from the sounds of it, they can handle just about anything the Hunters
dish out. And if they need any back up,
we'll be there." He spoke quietly,
breaking the tense silence.
Lethe's
head tilted slightly in acknowledgment.
Slowly she straightened.
"We need to change. If
you'll excuse me?"
She walked
away, her skirt swirling at her abrupt movements. Joe watched her pass regretfully. She paused for a moment and smiled at him. "I apologize for placing you in the
middle of an old dispute."
"For a
chance to hear about your history, I'd put up with a lot." The neatly trimmed mustache couldn't hide
his smile. His eyes caught hers with
dismay as she noted where his gaze had rested.
"I can
see that. Thank you." She leaned down and kissed his cheek and
contiued walking away.
"Lover,
you really know how to pick fights with her, don't you?" Diana's voice was rueful and her face
amused. With a single graceful movement
she rose and stood, leaning over Methos.
Ignoring the other two men, she kept her eyes on his and gently grabbed
his chin, lifting his head. Her head
dipped low until her mouth touched his.
Her lips
brushed his once, twice and then were fiercly grabbed by his. Her hand reflexively gripped his shoulders
as his hands grabbed her waist and pulled her towards him. After a moment, they parted, breathless.
"Go,
get changed. And remember, from now
until this is finished, you are off-limits." Methos' voice was husky, his eyes soft and liquid as his fingers
traced her face. The woman in his arms
was flushed, her lips wet and swollen.
With a sad smile, she leaned foreward and her lips parted over his, her
kiss demanding and receiving a hard, hungry response. She pulled away.
"I
don't like that part of this. I hate being underage." With a last quick kiss she turned and walked
away.
"How
long did you say you've known them?"
Joe's voice was interested.
Methos shot
him a hard look. He glanced at Duncan
and met a blank look from the Highlander.
"I didn't."
"He
won't answer your questions about them Joe." Duncan's voice was cool.
"At least, he refused to answer mine."
"All
right, all right. I've known them most
of their lives. I think they were about
three or four when I first met them."
Methos' voice was resigned.
"Diana and I are close.
Lethe is the closest thing I have to a sister. Good enough?"
"No,
but it'll do for now." Brown eyes
met hazel, unspoken questions brimming.
"Why do both the Watchers and the Hunters want them?"
Joe
answered quietly. "I can answer
that one. Henry's 'daughters' are
almost a bit of Watcher myth. About three or four years ago, word got out
that they have eidetic memories.
Abigail read an old chronicle.
It was lost on its way back to France.
As a gift to Ian, she reproduced it.
"When
it was found again, he discovered that it was a perfect reproduction. That's when they were recruited into the
Watchers. Any chronicle they read they can reproduce perfectly. They've salvaged a lot of very old, very
badly damaged or decaying chronicles."
"It
makes a lot of sense for them to be recruited by the Hunters. The girls read the chronicles and then they
can give pertinent information to the Hunters." Methos explained.
"Only, neither Lethe ever played by the rules."
"You
live, you learn, you survive. You
taught us that, Methos." Lethe's voice came from the doorway. The change in her was surprising. Her clothes were plain, a muted brown shirt
and skirt. Her long legs were bare,
discreetly hidden by the calf lenght skirt.
Her hair was pulled away from her face with silver barrettes, hanging
loosely down her back. The color of the
clothes darkened her hair, muting the highlights. Her walk was loose and gangly, that of a girl, not fully adjusted
to her coming maturity. "Sometimes
to do that you have to break the rules."
"What
about honor?" Duncan asked.
"Your
medieval code of honor? Or my people's
code of honor?" The startling blue eyes met deep brown ones. "If my being honorable means many
innocent mortals die, where is the honor?
Is it in the fact that I was honorable?
Or is it lost because of the deaths of innocents?"
"If you become what you are
fighting, you become your own enemy."
His words were soft but his gaze had hardened.
"That
is true. So you walk a fine
balance. Getting done what is necessary
without crossing the line into barbarism." She winced slightly at memory.
"And sometimes you regret your choices for a very long time."
"We
have work to do." Diana cut
in. "If we're going to get our
stuff to Joe's and fix his window before 10 we need to get moving."
"Methos,
can you make arrangments for the bikes?"
Lethe spoke up. "I don't
want anything to happen to them. They're
collector's items."
He grinned
at Duncan. "I have a friend who
would love keeping an eye on your Indians.
I'll have him pick them up this afternoon."
Adam
Pierson entered the office first. He
carefully checked the office and the ducked out briefly. He re-entered, followed by two young
teenagers and Joseph Dawson. The girls
shifted nervously until he led them to chairs in front of the big desk. The man behind the desk frowned as he took
in the strange tableau.
"Are
you going to explain why you demanded this meeting. And who are the girls?"
His voice barked roughly. His
craggy face matched his voice, both rough and aged. Dark brown eyes glared at them from under bushy grey eyebrows.
"They're
my wards, Abigail and Diana Fontaine-Montrose.
They're the reason we asked for this meeting." Dawson's voice was
tired and soft. His face showed the
signs of the rough night.
"I've
heard of them, in fact, everyone here has heard of them." The man looked
non-plussed. "So why the emergency
meeting? And please tell me it is not
just to introduce them to me."
"Simon
Carides tried to kill me and Abigail last night."
"Sit
down, Joseph. This sounds like it'll a
long story." The big man's voice
was calm, but his face was not. He
picked up his phone and dialed his secretary.
"Cancel all of my appointments for this morning, I'll be busy for a
while. Could you please bring some
refreshments for my guests?"
The two
teenagers held onto each other, watching him nervously. When his secretary entered the room, they
both startled, nearly leaping to their feet.
Adam whispered to them, one slim hand gripping their joined hands
gently. The big man watched them slowly
calm under his attentions. Once Bethany
had left, he turned back to the problem before him.
"How
are you involved, Peirson?" he asked.
"I've
been a friend of these two for a long time.
We've been working together on some projects over the
internet." The graduate student
turned his attention back to them.
"I
asked him to help." Dawson interupted.
"Fine,
tell me everything. And tell the girls
they can get out of that body armor. It
has to be uncomfortable for them."
"No!" the color had fled the girls faces. One of them spoke forcefully. Her accent was
startling, he'd forgotten where they were from, they looked so much like his
own granddaughters. "Its the only reason I'm alive."
"Nothing
will happen to you here." the man
softened his voice. The blue eyes that
met his were soft and lost. The girl's
lip trembled and was instantly held still with obvious effort. He turned to Dawson. "I'll guarantee their safety."
"I
think Simon's trying to resurrect Horton's Hunters. He tried to get the girls to join him. When they refused, he shot Abigail." The grey-haired man had fully caught his
superior's attention. "If MacLeod
hadn't interfered, he might have noticed the body armor had protected
her."
"I
take it your friendship with him has finally paid off." the man knew his
voice was bitter. He hated being
reminded that Dawson was friendly with his assignment.
"Leave
our uncle Joe alone!" Both girls
bristled at him. Fury livened their
features. Behind them, Pierson covered
his mouth as he fought a chuckle.
"Simon hurt him and we'll not let you hurt him too."
"Hurt?
Joe didn't say..." The older man turned back to the girls for information.
"How was he hurt?"
"First
he drugged him and then he tried to use a sword on him, and pretend an immortal
killed him!" One of the girls was
sitting forward, glaring at him. If
looks could kill, he'd be sprouting bullet wounds.
"Diana,
calm down." Dawson spoke softly,
but the girl reacted as if he had yelled.
She sat back instantly and bowed her head, meekly, her entire body
trembling. "I'm fine, Ben."
"What
kinds of drugs?" The thought of using drugs or swords on another Watcher
bothered him. What could Simon have
been doing, thinking, when he'd attacked them? There was no way that it would
go unnoticed.
"Truth
serum. He wanted information, lots of
it." Dawson's voice was thoughtful, introspective. "Most of the questions were ones I
couldn't answer."
"I'll
have him brought in immediately."
He turned to the girls again.
"We will make sure nothing happens to the two of you. Right now, I know things are hard. All of your previous research is in the
process of being transferred here. When
the two of you are ready to return to the archives, it'll be waiting for
you. I'm very sorry this happened on
top your recent. . ."
"Thank
you." Both girls interupted him
before he could mention their parents.
He could see the reason for their unusual reputation. Hand in hand, they stared up at him, their
eyes bright with unshed tears. There
was something not normal in the deeply etched pain he saw there. He remembered the reports of their survival
and realized that again an Immortal had saved one of them from a Watcher. He wondered what it was that made them
special or it was just coincidence? After all, their parents had also
befriended their Immortal assignment.
Whichever it was, he'd have to have an eye kept on them.
"This
is the list of questions that Simon asked me and the ones he didn't get to
before MacLeod interrupted him. He left
them behind when he ran. It also has
the plans he had for the twins."
"Get
them home and keep an eye on them."
Ben spoke softly, keeping an eye on the two teenagers whispering quietly
to each other. "I'll have Simon
picked up and questioned."
Dawson
nodded, laying a file down on the desk and stood. The two girls followed him, glancing around them nervously. Pierson smiled faintly and nodded on his way
out the door.
They were
halfway down the hallway when Simon entered it. He looked at them, his glance skimming the group. He froze.
His eyes widened as he realized that both girls were alive. As he heard their piercing screams, he
reacted and a hand dove into his coat, pulling out a snub nosed pistol.
"Joseph!" Lethe's voice was sharp. Joe half turned, catching the panic in her
tone. A movement danced in the corner
of his eye as she launched herself at him.
One leg swept his prostethics legs, tumbling him to the floor. As he fell she caught his arms, controlling
his fall. His position gave him the
best view of the ensuing chaos.
Diana
screamed as only a young teen-aged girl could.
Heads turned and people began running to office doors. Adam reached for her and missed as she
ducked. The sudden loud sound of a
baretta rang in the enclosed space. Her
head flew back as the first bullet found her torso. The speed and force of the bullets tossed her backwards into
Adam's arms. Pain and shock claimed her
face. The last bullet creased her
forehead and ricocheted off the wall into Adam's side.
Lethe was
up and moving fast as the sound of the cylinder hitting empty came down the
hall. In her hand was a lethal looking
knife. The dead calm on her face warned
Dawson of the coming danger. He vaguely
remembered Methos telling him that the two women often felt each other's pain
and deaths. That meant that Lethe could
well be out of control. He tried to
pull himself to his feet.
Her vision
had narrowed to her target. Simon's
pale face stared at her as he dropped the useless pistol. Her hand flickered and the knife caught him
as he turned away, trying to run. The
back of her head reverberated with Diana's pain. One bullet had penetrated the armor, breaking her ribs and she
hurt. The crease on her head had taken
her consciousness and that kept her from controlling the pain that passed like
lightning between the two of them. She
knew she was losing control, but for the moment could care less.
The sound
of the knife hitting Simon's side was low, his scream of terror was not. She leapt at him, landing heavily on him,
bringing both of them to the floor.
Struggling with her rage at her sister's pain, Lethe forced herself not
to kill the man.
She began
pounding at him with her fists, her blows strong but ineffectual as he
protected himself with his arms. She
heard others heading for her and inside her head felt Diana's control
reasserting itself. With a grim smile,
she got her hands past his and grabbed his hair. His eyes met hers as she began beating his head into the
tile. He read the barely contained fury
and paled. She mercilessly dug her knee
into his wounded side, the knife sinking deeper at her movement.
"Let
him go, kid." A deep voice was directly behind her. She ignored it as she continued pounding on
him. Large hands gripped her arms,
forcing her to stop. She shifted her
knee, driving the knife further into his side and felt his shudder of
pain. His eyes took on a wide shocked
expression as the new pain hit him.
"He
killed my sister!" She screamed,
fighting the grip. Tears raced down her
cheeks. More hands grabbed her, forcing
her to be still.
"She's
alive. The body armor protected her
just like it protected you last night."
Joseph's voice was soft, entreating her to calmness. With one last shuddering sob, she turned her
face to his. At his quiet nod she
released the hair between her fingers.
His head
dropped and hit the tile with a hard thud.
Joseph's lips twitched but he didn't say a word, just spread his arms
wide. The man behind her said something
and everyone released her, but their hands hovered, waiting for her move. Instantly she bolted right into the waiting
arms. His head bent over her ears and
whispered so softly she almost missed it, "You did real good. Hell, I almost believed it."
Her silent
chuckles shook them both, but the Watchers all around them thought she was
still crying. She took a deep breath and
turned to face the hallway. Adam
crouched beside Diana, a medic beside them.
Joseph wrapped his arm around her shoulders and leaning heavily on his
cane ushered her down the corridor.
"Are
you okay? I took you down pretty
hard." she spoke quietly. Her eyes measured his limp and his face
critically.
"I'll
live. You cushioned my
landing." he grinned at her and
then frowned. "You're hurt. There's blood all over your leg. When did he get you?"
"It's
all his blood." Her voice was cold
even to her ears. She glanced back
briefly at the fluent curses that came to them from behind them. "It'll take a miracle for him to
survive that wound. Maybe if there is a
full service medical station here or an ambulance within a minute's
arrival."
"What
are you talking about?"
The smile
she gave Dawson was cold and full of her unvented fury. "Unless I am mistaken, he is currently
bleeding to death. When they helpfully
removed the knife just now, they did more damage. From the angle that it hit him, it probably sliced through his
stomach. Peritonitis is such a nasty
thing to die from without even adding all the damage I did by shift the
thing." She glanced at the pale
man beside her. "He'll never
threaten you or Diana again."
"Abby?" Diana's voice was soft and shaking. "Are you okay?"
"Sim. Estoy ben. Como estas,
chiquita?" Diana looked shocky as
she lay quietly in Adam's arms. A
slight movement of his arm bared their bloody sides. They couldn't move in front of the medic who was checking her
eyes or they'd have to explain blood without wounds.
"Asutao,
quiero retornar na Brasil." Her
voice was frail, but her eyes danced as she thought furiously.
"Na,
na. We'll stay right here, with Uncle
Joseph." She knelt close to them, her blood covered leg against their
sides. Her knee firmly held his shirt
to the floor. The wounds hadn't bleed
much, so she might be able to convince the medic that it all came from Simon,
transferred by her. She gathered her
sister into her arms, and held her tightly.
Under her breath, she whispered her idea. The Akkadian syllables sounded similar enough to the Portuguese
they'd been speaking. Adam watched her
moves and a knowing look filled his eyes.
His raised eyebrow the only comment he made to her rapid speach. Phase one of their plan was complete.
Six weeks later
Lethe
stretched as she danced down the steps.
Around her gaily clad students poured out of the building and joined her
race for the freedom. In the back of
her head she could feel the gathering murmur of an approaching Immortal and
knew that MacLeod was right on time.
She turned slightly to see the approach of his Thunderbird, top down to
catch the warm fall breeze.
"Abbie,
don't forget to study for the test!
I'll call you later!" One of her new friends called.
She waved in acknowledgement. As the
"youngest" student in the class, she was viewed with amazement for
her ability to explain their anthropology text to her study group. It had been a while since she'd attended a
university but she found that the past several weeks had been enjoyable. Her only regret was that she had to keep
everyone at a distance lest they turn out to be Hunters.
"Good
afternoon." MacLeod smiled past
his sunglasses at her. He took in her
plain clothes that stood out among the student's more colorful attire.
"You still look like a lost wren among the flowers."
"So,
take me shopping at the mall. Or you could just surprise me with something
bright." She paused as she tossed
her bag into the back seat and made a moue of her mouth. He frowned at her as
she blithely jumped into the seat beside him. "On second thought, that
could be dangerous, I think I'll pass.
I might end up in a nun's habit of silk."
"Would I do something like
that?" his brief smile was
contagious and she returned it without thinking. "So how was your day?"
"Interesting. Some of the kids have decided that they need
to take us under their wings. They feel
that egghead teenagers don't stand a chance on their own." Her brief smile was matched by her
escort. In the past weeks the two of
them had finally worked out a quiet detante.
The squeal
of tires caught their attention. A dark
gray van slammed into the front of the Thunderbird. As the front end crumpled,
Lethe folded over her seatbelt, hitting the dashboard. Colored lights flashed across her vision as
pain blosomed sharply from the impact.
She dimly felt MacLeod fumble with her seatbelt as he tried to get her
out of the car. The report of a gun
almost drowned his cry of pain. She
shook her head, forcing her eyes to focus.
The blurred figure of a man grabbed her and pulled her away from the car
and the Highlander. Reacting blindly,
she stiff armed him, breaking his grip.
Her balance was off as she tried to keep the other men off them.
From the
distance she heard cries of outrage from her fellow students. Even as she thought they might be able to
help, arms closed around her from behind.
Headbutting the man earned her a rough shake. A chemical smelling cloth was pressed to her face. She struggled to hold her breath only to
receive a heavy fist to her gut. Her
lungs emptied with an explosive whoosh.
Before she could stop herself, she reflexively gulped for air to replace
that which she'd lost. Dimly she
mourned the fact that Immortality did not make a person immune to drugs as she
slipped into unconsciousness.
Within
moments, both Immortals were bundled into the gray vans and they were
gone. Behind them, students and
professors stood in shock at the violence they had just witnessed. Several of
the more level-headed were busy talking on cellular phones, calling in the
license plate of the van.
"What
the Hell did you think you were playing at Joe?" Ritchie raged.
"Duncan may be good at being an Immortal, but at playing bodyguard? Come on, you know he's not up to handling
the thugs you find on the street! You
should have come to me."
"He
wasn't her bodyguard. He was just
picking her up from class for me. I was
running late today." Joe was
yelling right back. "Do you think
I set him up?"
"He's
not thinking at all." The calm
voice of the ancient Immortal was cruel.
"If neither of you can stay calm enough to help us find them, both
of you need to shut up."
The still
figure coiled on the floor beside him stirred.
Blue eyes, lined with fatigue opened and focused far away. "She's awake. I can't make out any impressions. She must be fairly heavily drugged. It's no use, I can't locate her right now."
"Can
you give us a direction?" Methos'
voice was husky, his face pinched with worry.
"Can you tell if Duncan's still alive and with her?"
She
focused, leaning back against his leg.
His hand unconsciously crept to her shoulder, curling about her neck and
supporting her head. After a long
pause, she shook her head.
"No. She can't project
anything except that she's out there. I
can't get anything specific from her.
She seems to be north of us."
"What
is this, some kind of psychic game? If
the Hunters have Mac, why would they want a girl?" Ritchie's voice was confused and angry.
"Ritchie,
my god-daughter is more important to the Hunters than Duncan
MacLeod." Joe sounded
resigned. "If they can make her
talk, they can access every living Immortal known to the Watchers."
"What?" Disbelief crossed the young Immortal's face.
"She
has a photographic memory and has been working in the archives for the past six
years." Methos glanced down at the
tense body leaning against him.
"If they can get her to talk, the Hunters will know how to get at
all of us without going through Watcher files for the information."
"How
could she get that much power?"
"It
wasn't power she wanted. My sister
started out simply helping repair and catalog old chronicles. Then she helped with the binding of newer
chronicles. The next thing anyone knew,
she could quote any of them verbatim."
The long hours between Lethe and MacLeod's kidnapping and this meeting
showed plainly on her face. Her eyes
reflected her weariness. Only the
presence of the Immortal beside her kept the young man from realizing that she
was more than she seemed. She
sighed. "Our plans seem to have
back fired, adon."
"We'll
get her back." Methos rubbed her
shoulders gently.
Cold was
burning her feet. She jerked
awake. The dim light didn't give her
much of a view of her surroundings.
When she moved, chains clinked softly.
Tethered by her ankle to the wall with prison chains, it reminded her of
the inquistion.
She was not
amused by the memory. She rubbed her
head, remembering the dull ache from the accident. She sniffed at the air, noting the musty wetness of mold and
rancid water. She moved cautiously,
reaching the end of her chain and peering at the door. Nowhere did she sense the Highlander's
presence. Her thoughts turned
inward. No there was no new quickening,
so they hadn't beheaded him in her presence.
She wondered what had happened after she'd been drugged. From the distance came footsteps.
They
approached slowly, several men from the sound she heard. Voices joined the footsteps. Three disctinct ones that she carefully
added to memory. Another voice was
possible, but it was too quiet to make out at this distance. She closed her eyes and tried to reach
Diana, but the combination of the drugs and the distance baffled her
abilities. She began to feel the first
splinters of fear and doubt creep into her consciousness. Firmly she pushed them away, refusing to
acknowledge the tremor running up her back.
"I see
you're awake." the voice was rich
and mellow. It's accent was smooth and
polished, cultured. "I apologize
for the inconvenience and the fear we must have caused, but it was the only way
to get past your protectors."
"Who
are you?" her voice cracked with
cold and dryness.
"Unchain
her and bring her to the other room." The dim figure turned away as two of
his underlings entered her chamber.
They were
firm but gentle. They quickly unchained
her ankles and lifted her to her feet.
When she wobbled, trying to become steady, they gripped her arms softly
and kept her from falling. Once she was
firmly standing, they led her out the door and down the hallway. Never did they face her or release her
arms. As they approached a brightly lit
doorway, the Highlander's presence loomed in her senses. She didn't falter or stumble but only
because she had almost expected the jolt.
The
brightly lit room was large, painted a stark, unrelieved white that hurt the
eyes. She easily recognised the man
chained spread-eagle to the wall. Along
another wall, steel and glass fixtures made an eerie display. In the cases were instruments she recognised
from earlier centuries as well as grisly trophies. She shuddered and turned her face away.
Against the
third wall was a chair, restraints and a pair of IV stands. A free standing light faced the chair, as
did a table and chair. The top of the table held steno pads, writing
instruments, a tape recorder and several tapes. Two video cameras also faced the chair, their purpose ominously
clear.
The man was
sitting, calmly waiting for her in a cushioned armchair in the middle of the
room. He waved the men away and she was
released. They stepped back and she
heard the door close. From the sound of
their breathing she knew they were inside the room. She stepped meekly forward.
"Why?" she asked, her voice still cracked and
hoarse.
"Dawson
and Pierson had you too well covered, Abigail.
There was no way for me to get to talk to you." The man motioned her towards him. She froze like a scared rabbit, even her
breathing slowing, hiding from him.
"After what that renegade, Carsides, did, I knew that getting close
to you would be hard, but I didn't quite expect it to be this hard."
His voice
was gentle and soft. The lack of
discernable accent intrigued her. For a
brief moment she considered the lure.
The stark lighting and the arrangement of the room placed him in the one
area that seemed safe. His words, the
cadence of his speech, the tone of voice...he was trying to hypnotize her. Inside her mind, walls and defenses came
alive. Her eyes avoided his as she slowly
turned to face the man on the wall.
"What
have you done to him? He's my
friend."
"He's
an Immortal, he cannot be your friend because of what he is, child." The voice coaxed, urging her to turn
around. "As long as he has his
head, he'll always be fine. As
observers, we rarely get a chance to really examine an Immortal. This will be our chance."
"What
do you want from me?"
"Quote
me the chronicles. All of them."
"No. I cannot." her words were soft, but firm.
MacLeod openned his eyes and looked at her wearily.
"If
you don't your friend will suffer." There was steel in the voice now. "Come over here and tell me about the
chronicles."
She ignored
his command and stepped closer to the pale immortal. Icy hands grabbed her arms.
Instantly she whirled, forcing the man to the floor with a vicious kick
to the knee. Her free hand dipped into
his jacket and withdrew his weapon. She
drew it level with his chest and froze.
A sword
rested on Macleod's exposed throat. His
eyes met hers and he deliberately leaned forward. The sword withdrew and a man's fist slammed into his jaw. His head hit the wall hard. The hand then
grabbed his hair, pulling his head back and exposing the throat again. The bleak look in the immortal's eyes burned
her. With a gentle sigh she glanced at
the man under her pistol and reversed the grips, returning it to him. His punch caught her chin, lifting her and
tossing her to the floor.
The man
towered over her, glaring hostilely. He
motioned her to stand with the pistol.
She gingerly returned to her feet, one hand holding her jaw. She moved
it and carefully felt the bruise. As
she slowly stepped forward, he grabbed the nape of her neck. She wimpered softly as his fingers tangled
painfully in her hair.
"That
was not a smart thing to do child."
The steel in the leader's voice was icy. "I would prefer your cooperation, but it really is not
necessary. Do you understand me?"
She stood
on her toes, trying to relieve the pressure of the hand digging into her
neck. Tears of pain began to form in
her eyes. Mentally she began closing
herself off from her body. If she could
just hold on long enough, Diana would locate her presence. A part of her wondered how long she would
last.
Coming to a
regretful decision, her eyes flickered to the man on the wall. She worried her lip as she stared at the man
in front of her. She committed his
face, his stance, his voice, even the scent of his aftershave to memory. She wouldn't betray the hidden ones. She had to let him die if necessary. And his death would mean her own as soon as
the Hunters realized that she was Immortal.
She spoke softly. "I won't
do it. I cannot give in to your
demands."
"Tie
her to the chair, Matthew." The
man stood and walked over to MacLeod.
"How does it feel to know that she just signed your death
warrant?"
"I
knew you would eventually kill me no matter what she did." His voice was calm. Only his eyes reflected the bitter knowledge
of his fate. "Go ahead, take my
head."
"Oh,
no, we won't do that. We'll just kill
you and let her watch."
At the
first cut of the blade, both Immortals screamed. As the blood ran down his side, she vomited all over the men
trying to hold her down. When he
finally passed out from the pain, he still heard the woman's screams as she
fought against her restraints.
The sudden
jarring awakening of an Immortal waded past her drugged senses. She tried to roll her head back but was too
restrained to move. Finally she gave up
and slowly opened her eyes. Across the
room she met the painfilled eyes. She
thought of the rich, dark chocolate color they should be as she watched them
become fully aware of their situation.
He
straightened, taking in the equipment hooked to her body. The barely restrained fury in his face was
like a slap, reminding her groggy mind of how she had misjudged the
Hunters. IV tubes ran into both of her
arms. Multiple restraints held her
firmly immobile. Electrodes were
clamped to her temples, throat, wrists and chest. One of the men was carefully studying the electronic readouts,
while another prepared the recording devices.
The third man measured her pupil response and nodded to the others.
"What
is your name?" The leader's voice
was calm again, soft and gentle as he questioned her.
"Abigail
Fontaine-Montrose." her voice was
cracked and broken from her screams.
The immortal on the wall winced as her heard it.
"How
old are you?"
"I
don't know."
"What
do you mean?" the man leaned
closer.
"What
is today?"
"The
seventh."
"I'm
sixteen in three days." her voice
slurred. Inside her brain whirled
answers, too many answers for the questions being asked. Deep in her subconscious alarms were
sounding, dropping her metabolism further.
"Maybe."
"Let
her alone." MacLeod called out
hoarsely. The man standing near him
backhanded him roughly.
"Tell
me about the Chronicles."
"Okay. Ab futurum . . ." her words rolled out in fluent Latin.
The men
around her watched and listened, trying to understand her accent and
slang. Her words rolled out faster and
faster, getting more and more slurred.
The stenographer set his pen down in frustration and looked at the few
words he'd been able to write. The men were anxious for her information but
could not understand the words.
"In
English." Finally, the leader barked at her. At his words she paused and then began again in Latin.
"Her
pulse and respiration are dropping."
the medic looked worried.
"Stabilize
her."
"Yes,
sir." He administered more
drugs. Her voice ceased
altogether. After a moments, he nodded,
satisfied.
Every
question they posed to her brought more foreign languages to her lips. Her efforts to refuse answering their
questions made them increase the dosage of her drugs. The Immortal watched as she groggily dodged their questions and
kept her secrets hidden.
He knew
that they were far from the original plan and wondered how long either of them
would last. The memory of the knife
cutting through his flesh and the burrowing fingers in the wound made him
tense. When they figured out that she
was immortal, the kid gloves they'd used so far would come off. Sooner or later she would yeild and then the
Hunters would get all of her memorized history.
"Translate
the oldest chronicle you've memorized."
She
hesitated, and then for the first time in hours spoke in in English, her voice
faint and rasping. Her eyes closed as
her head sagged within its restraints.
"Methos led us to the Tombs today.
I know from legend that these tombs have been cursed by the gods
themselves.
"In
the past century that we have protected the mountain, no one has gotten past
the first challenge. It has taken three
long ... to reach this mountain.
Somewhere near here is the place where they say Immortals first learned
the Law. Methos is no longer speaking
to anyone. Except for the words of
power which he gave the guardian of the pass, he has been silent since the
beginning of the quest.
"The
guardian was fierce and silent. A
fleshly copy of the statues that line the entrance, she appeared behind him and
laid her sword on his neck. The
Immortal stopped and spoke words that I could not hear. Immediately another statue came to life and
another.
"One
guardian approached us, flail and dagger flashing like the sun. Methos spoke one word, a word which I could
not hear or understand and the guardian stopped. Then the guardians vanished, as if they had never been. Only their stone statues remained. Methos told us to touch nothing here, lest
we die. "Inside the gates was a mosaic floor and on the
floor was the symbol of our organization.
Inside were beings of a kind I have never seen. Their faces were covered to protect us from
the their heavenly beauty, but their perfect forms were bare or clothed in rich
samite.
"The
lust for the form of one of the godlings came upon Nasirim and he grabbed the
passing form of one of the young gods.
The cry of the young god roused the entire valley. The guardians of the valley struck him from
the their positions in the walls and his body never struck the ground. The child god was taken back by the godlings
and we were banished from the valley.
"Before
we left the valley, one of the guardians touched Andros' heart and was promised
that he would be brought back to this shore after his death. Methos was given the talisman for which he
sought and now I follow him into Babylon."
She
stopped, breathless. MacLeod watched as
a man blotted away the fine sweat the hot lights had formed on her body. Lethe's body tensed and the quivered. A small light began flashing on one of the
consoles. It was followed by a shrill
electronic noise. The medic raced from
his equipment to her side. Within
moments the IV bags were removed and replaced with another solution. After several tense minutes the alarm was
silenced.
"Sir,
we cannot continue questioning her. She
has been given too much already and any more of the drug could kill
her." he spoke softly. "There are other methods which can get
the information."
"When
can she go again?"
"With
our current equipment? Under the drugs
no sooner than 48 hours but it would be better if it were 72 hours. Under conventional methods, 24 - 48
hours. Psychological methods, she'll be
sober enough for them tomorrow."
"Put
them back in their cells."
"Sir,
the cell she's in occassionally floods.
They can be chained separately in the larger cell." One of the men spoke up.
"No. We don't want the abomination to get to
speak to her. If you need to, chain her
to the wall in here. We don't want her
getting too comfortable." The man
stood to leave. "Take good care of
them both. I'm looking forward to
finding out what the limits are to the immortal's healing gift."
After the
big man left, the other men slowly began to release Lethe from the chair. The muttered words that he could hear made
him tense. They left her there to
approach him.
"If
you give us any trouble, we'll take it out on Abigail." His personal guard advised. "Any trouble at all. Do you understand?"
"You
would rather take it out on a defenseless girl than take your chances that I
could fight you off." He growled,
earning another blow.
"We
can always take your head and claim self-defense."
MacLeod
clenched his jaw and turned over his options rapidly. He was facing four men, all of them brawlers. He was chained. Lethe was too drugged to fight them. He allowed himself to sag in the chains and nodded his
acquiesence.
She sat
limply, trying to pull herself together.
She knew that now was the time to act.
Her movements were blurred to her eyes.
The drugs in her bloodstream were far more powerful than she had hoped
they would be. She tasted cooper and
bile and something else in her mouth and knew it was time to move. One move blending into another she called up
a long memorized kata. The medic didn't
stand a chance and fell to the floor.
She let the
smooth fluid steps of the dance take her body to the table. There she grabbed a knife, covered with
dried blood from the now unchained immortal.
It was badly weighted but very sharp.
Her eyes met his and she smiled.
His slight shake of the head brought laughter to her throat. She bit her tongue to silence herself.
The knife
point entered the back of the man in front of her. Angled up and laying flat it bypassed his ribs, slicing through
lungs and heart. As she withdrew it
from him, blood flooded over her hand.
The corpse fell forward, hitting the men in front of it. They turned with looks of horror.
The
Immortal kicked out at the man nearest him.
The man fell towards her. Her
knife lashed out, gashing his face as he ducked. She leapt past him to MacLeod's side. He took in the blood seeping from her lip and the blood on her
hands and whinced. His eyes reflected
her madness back to her. Then they
began fighting in ernest.
The
immortal at her side moved rapidly and smoothly, blocking and attacking. The mortals flowed around them, trying to
get blows in without getting close to her blade. The movements of fight reminded her of a dance. She shook her head dizzily and forced
herself to stay near the immortal.
She
remembered that she had to stay with him.
The sound of a rifle load being chambered whirled her around. The medic fired and she felt the projectile
pass her arm. Behind her came a pained
grunt. She turned her head to see a
tranquilizer dart embedded in his side.
The big man fell. She caught his
weight and crumpled under his weight.
"Go! Run Abigail!" MacLeod whispered into her neck as they landed.
"No. I
can't leave you!" Her voice was
still painful. She watched the men
approach, stroking his forhead. His
eyes closed. She rolled him to the
floor and stood, swaying.
"Easy,
girl." The medic's word were
soft. His eyes measured hers, counting
on the effects of the drugs running through her system. He had laid the weapon down, approaching
cautiously. The other three men backed
away at his motions. "We won't
hurt him. Listen to me, it's all a
misunderstanding."
She
crouched above MacLeod's body, shaking her head. Away, they needed to get away.
She couldn't lift him. She
couldn't leave him here either, they might take his head. Her mind ran in circles. She pointed her knife at the medic. He froze.
She reached out for her sister's presence and called frantically.
Arms
wrapped around her, pinning them in place.
The knife was pried from her fingers.
She tossed her head back, another hand grabbed it, holding her
still. She barely felt the prick of the
needle.
"Lethe!" Diana jolted from the couch. Her eyes were unseeing, focused on the
picture forming in her mind. She
crouched, arm outstretched, holding an invisible weapon.
"NO!
Don't touch her!"
She heard
Methos' voice, but he wasn't there. She knew he wasn't. She had to figure a way to get them out of
their prison. Her thoughts kept running
away. Where was she? Why was MacLeod laying at her feet? Hands grabbed her shoulders.
Mortal
hands! She turned, barely
conscious. Her hand rose, forming a
knife edge, preparing to strike. She
was grabbed from behind and tossed to the ground. Immortal flesh tingled against hers. An immortal was fighting her!
Her eyes closed and she went into an attack. After getting a blow in on the immortal she danced away. She listened for his movements and
breathing, distinguishing two immortals and one mortal. Where was MacLeod? Where were the other mortals?
She opened her eyes in confusion.
She saw the
underground room. Arms held her/them
down, controlling the arching convulsions of her/their body. Faces peered down at her, mortal faces. MacLeod was close to her/them, unconscious
and heavily bound. The medic's face
approached, his eyes staring into her eyes.
She forced her/their teeth to clamp down on the hand trying to pry
her/their mouth open. Silent words
poured from his open mouth. She tried
to read his lips.
"She's
reacting to the mix of drugs! Get me my
kit, fast!" Another needle was
slid into her arm. Everything went
black. She could feel the abuse that
had been poured out upon her/their body.
Bruises were forming sluggishly from hard grips, manacles and
blows. Two ribs ached, not even
beginning to heal. Her/their metabolism
was low, far too low for any normal healings.
The combination of drugs was bringing it even lower. Too much of this and it would kill even
her/their immortal body.
Then the
Hunters would definitely know what she was.
She tried to raise it, but found herself helpless to do anything. It wasn't her body and she couldn't control
it like she could her own.
She opened
her eyes to see bright blue eyes and red-blond curls. The pale face backed away rapidly. It was replaced by a more familiar face. Methos pulled her into his arms and rocked
her as she cried out her anger and fear.
"She's
overdosing on the drugs they used. I
can't reach her anymore." Her
voice was soft as she spoke into his shoulder.
"Duncan's alive but unconscious and heavily tied down. They're in an underground complex. It's cold and damp but heavily
fortified. It's stocked like one of the
war playrooms of Mengele. She heard
them mention that it floods regularly when it rains."
"Where
is it?"
"She
didn't see. She unconscious when they
brought her in."
"Will
they see her die?"
"Probably
not. The medic is fairly
competent. He might just save her
life. Especially if we help. Adon, mejai." She stood, turning away from him. "Please, I'll lose it if she dies."
"Under
these conditions it's dangerous."
"If I
can't force her metabolism to speed up, she dies! It's worth the risk."
Her face set in a grimace.
"One of the drugs they gave her is affecting me, too. That means I can affect her. But it has to be now."
"Not
here. We'd do too much
damage." Methos turned to
Ritchie. "We'll need the key to
the dojo and your bike. Take my jeep
and meet us there."
Ritchie
handed over the keys without question at the terse commands. He wasn't really sure what was going on,
but he knew enough to know that this was not the time to ask. Methos and the girl raced out the door
before he could even think of any to ask.
He turned to Dawson, jingling the other man's key ring.
"Want
a ride?"
"Sure."
The lights
were on when they arrived. The door
unlocked and wide open. They could hear
the clash of blades and grunts of effort as the two inside dueled. Both men stepped inside and froze at the
sight that met them.
Diana was
diving off one of the weight machines, avoiding Methos' sword by inches. The ancient immortal was attacking her with
a sword in one hand and a long-bladed knife in the other. The girl held a sword in each hand, tucking them
out of her way as she rolled. She spun,
one sword going high to be deflected by Methos' blade. The second sword lashed out low, glanced off
his knife and slid across his arm. The
wound began to bleed freely, sparking with his Quickening.
"Shit!" Methos' was breathing hard. He danced backwards. The silent woman stepped back and tossed one
sword on a pile of mats. Both of her
hands cradled the hilt of her sword. He
began talking quickly. "Lethe,
mejai. Snap out of it. You really don't want to try for my
head. It's just the reaction to the
connection."
She
snarled, her lips curling viciously.
Methos back-pedaled furiously to get out of range of her attack. She thrust and twisted her sword tip,
catching the knife and tossing it across the dojo floor. She swept the sword forward, forming a block
across her body. Methos attacked
warily.
"She
won't really take his head, will she Joe?" Ritchie's voice was quiet.
"I mean, she's mortal, isn't she?"
"I
don't think she would, kid. They go way
back." Joe's answer was just as
quiet.
A sudden
flury of sparks caught their attention.
Diana was attacking again, driving Methos back with the speed of her
blows. She ended with her sword at his
neck, held at bay by his block. His
eyes were wide as he measured the growing madness in hers.
"Fight
it, love. Don't give in to the
fury." He pleaded. If she didn't let up soon he'd have to hurt
her to stop her and that could well kill both women. "Mejai, you can do it.
Just listen to my voice and come back.
Please."
The second
sword hit the floor as she fought the impulses flooding her system. The link between them was getting
stronger. She felt her heart begin to
race and the accompanying jolt that hit her sister. The muted fury that was her sister hit her harder. She crouched, hands coming to her head as
she fought the pain. She sensed the
coming blow and rolled away.
"Adam!" Ritchie cried out as he watched the older
Immortal attack the crouching woman. He
and Joe froze as she exploded into action.
The pure fury of her moves shocked them both. They watched as Methos backed away.
"Ritchie! Get the swords and my knife out of
here. Fast!" the man yelled. He barely was able to keep the blows from hitting their
targets. Her blow were fast and vicious
as she vented the emotions racing through her body.
Her moves
were smooth and even. Every one flowed
into the next. She was focused on
Methos. He could keep up with her for
now. She felt the changes within
herself as the adrenaline flow stimulated Lethe's. She felt the power of Methos' quickening as well as her own. Close behind that was the feel of the young
Immortal who was carefully removing all the swords from the area. She returned her attention to her
opponent. Just when she thought there
was a chance, the connection snapped.
She dropped like a puppet without strings.
"Hand
me that vial, quickly." the voice
rang in her head. It was rapidly
followed by a needle being inserted below her sterum. "Damn, she's not responding. Give me that one, too."
Another
needle. She thought about the
sensation. Distantly she noted that all
of the men surrounding her were mortals.
The only Immortal near her was MacLeod and he was tied down. She heard the sound of racing footsteps as
more people came in the room. A jolt
hit her system as another needle was applied.
She decided that dying by drug overdose was not fun. Her arm was burning. So was her chest. Someone was slapping her face.
She opened her eyes, dazedly.
"Come
on, sweetheart." The medic leaned
close to her, peering at her eyes.
Silent rage
at what they'd done to her flared in her eyes.
He backed away slightly. She saw
a hand holding up an IV bag. The medic
approached again, laid his fingers on her neck and cursed again. Yet another needle in her arm. She felt her heart skip a beat, then skip
two. Cardiac arrest was coming, she saw
it in his face.
"Try
this." A commanding voice from
above her. A new face appeared. The man wore hospital scrubs. "Someone hold down her arm!"
She watched
as a large needle was carefully inserted in her vein. The fire in her arm became a raging wildfire. A moment later, she felt her twin's
adrenaline rush hit her through their shared connection. The pain was incredible. It stripped her of her carefully acquired
civility and beyond. The fury she'd
held back so carefully was freed as the drugs broke past all of her restraints.
Duncan woke
to find someone petting his face. He
opened his eyes slowly. Saphire blue
eyes stared at him. Her face was nearly
touching his as she slowly stroked his jaw.
The eyes caught his and he nearly recoiled in horror. Her eyes were blank. Fully dilated, there was no consciousness in
them at all. They studied him frankly,
with no sense of understanding. They
had done something and broken her, the shell he was looking at was no longer
Lethe. She finally stood and walked
away.
The remains
of her clothes were coated in blood.
What had been a white blouse was now dull rust colored shreds. The skin that he could see was also covered
in dried blood. The scent of the room
was a mixture of cordite, blood and chemicals.
He gagged and she whirled, bringing up a pistol. She stared at him and lowered it before
turning away again. She walked away,
heading back toward the cabinets. He
heard the crash of broken glass and wondered what she'd broken.
A pile of
bodies lay next to the door. He counted
eight and shuddered. As he watched the
door slowly began to open. The muzzle
of a veternary rifle slipped through the openning. It was followed by a silent, grim faced mortal. The man looked around, taking in the chains
holding him down and dismissed him. He
was looking for Lethe and couldn't find her.
Suddenly,
she shrieked and bounded past his vision, coming from a different direction
than expected. One hand grabbed the
rifle, pushing it away from him. The
other whipped a knife across the man's face and then his neck. The door slammed shut as she raced for
it. The Hunter fell gurgling to the
ground. She ignored him and studied
the door, trying to get it open. Above
her a video camera blinked at the doorway, its motor jammed so it could not
move from its position. She bared her
teeth at it and growled before turning to the body.
She picked
up the rifle and carefully carried it to the pile of weapons she had made. It was just beyond his reach. When he thought about crawling to it she
looked up. Her lips curled away from
her teeth in a snarl. He froze and
watched her as she slowly dragged it farther from him.
He
experimented and discovered that she had no objection to his sitting up. He was not allowed to move from his space on
the floor. Any attempts to move in any
direction were firmly curbed. Her mad,
drug crazed eyes would peer at him and the knife would be brandished
threateningly. She knocked his feet out
from under him the one time he attempted to stand. He settled down for a long wait.
She paced
incessantly through the hours. Back and
forth in front of the door. Occassionally
she would dart over to the cabinets and he'd hear the sound of more breaking
glass. Most of what she found was left
there. She had found another knife and
gently, almost revently cradled it in her hands as she carried it to the corner
to place in her stockpile.
Twice more
Hunters tried to enter the room, only to find her waiting. The first she simply shot the moment he was
inside the door. The calmness she
displayed as she striped his body and removed all of his weapons was
eerie. She laid one of his knives just
outside his reach and then kicked it lightly, so that it stopped just touching
his hand.
The second
man actually managed to hit her with a tranquilizer dart before she reached
him. After ripping open his throat, she
paused and peered at the dart. Casually
she plucked it from her arm and scored the wound with her blood encrusted
knife. Once it was bleeding freely she
ignored it to return to her search of the cabinets. Her wound crackled with blue lightning as it healed.
He heard another
crash and then an odd choked sound. He
tried to peer over his shoulder but couldn't see what had happened. Suddenly, she appeared in front of him. She
knelt down to his level. In her hand
was a rosary. He stared hard at the
worn wooden beads, his face going pale as he recognized them. Tears were streaming down her face. Her voice startled him as she began reciting
the rosary.
The memory
of Darius reciting the Latin words echoed in his ears. The sight of his fingers counting the beads
burned in his memory. Tears filled his
eyes as he joined her, his Latin rusty from disuse, hers fluent and oddly
accented to his ears.
Her eyes
held the edge of sanity, the edginess of the drugs wearing off. Her eyes met
his, haunted by a sense of loss that he could feel like a punch. Another memory echoed in his mind.
"They're
beautiful. Where did they come
from?" the young Immortal
asked. The beads in his hands glowed in
the firelight. Each bead was carved
differently. One was was a rose about
to bloom, another a filigree oval. No
two were quite alike. Even the woods
they were made of were different.
Sandalwood, beech, oak, cherry, apple, cedar, and more that he could not
identify. The crucifix was a small
masterpiece in itself, carved with intricate details.
"A
friend made it for me. To commemorate
my becoming a monk. It's the only thing
I've kept with me." The old
Immortal's face was pensive, his eyes distant.
"Every bead is a prayer for my safety within the church. If I ever change my mind this would bring a
sword and protection until I was able to fight again. I may once have had my doubts, but now I know I never will use it
for that purpose."
"Now
it's just a rosary?"
"It's
a promise that neither of us can break."
"Darius
was a great man." he whispered
softly, understanding dawning in his eyes.
The look that had been in his old friend's eyes was mirrored in
hers. He watched as the madness fled
her eyes.
At the name
her head turned briefly towards the bodies.
Her body began to shudder softly.
She looked at him without fully comprehending his words. Her lips moved
and she breathed, "Darius, mortus est."
"Darius.
. ." her fingers closed his lips, blocking his words.
She kicked
the knife away from him and tossed hers away.
She then turned away from him and went to the pile of bodies. Methodically she searched them all. Tears continued to run down her face as she
looked for and found a set of keys.
Her
movements toward him were slow and gentle.
The keys were held carefully, so that he could see them as she
approached. Keeping her eyes on him she
crouched at his feet and unlocked the manacles. Watching him for a reaction, she nervously unlocked the ones
confining his wrists and the belt at his waist. As the chains fell to the ground she backed away. He sat stiffly watching the tear streaked
face. Then he opened his arms and
waited.
Her move
was sudden and very smooth. Without
telegraphing her intentions, she launched herself at him. Before he could do more than coil his
muscles, she was settling softly at his chest.
For all her speed, the control of her movements was unsettling. He wrapped his arms around her as she sobbed
the remnants of the drug and adreline from her system. He rocked her silently, cradling her until
she finally fell asleep. When the
rosary fell from her hand, he picked it up and tucked it into his pocket.
"Ritchie,
I want you to watch over her."
Methos' words were soft. His
face was tense. "When she wakes
up, call me. No matter what, don't let
her leave!"
"And
how am I to stop her, Adam? I don't
want to hurt her." The young
Immortal looked at the woman resting on MacLeod's sofa. The faint buzz on his senses was
unnerving. It flared and faded
unpredictably, causing him to continually turn to look at her. "How does a preimmortal know about
Immortals? I thought that was never
told to them."
"I'll
explain later. Please, just trust
me." He sighed and looked out the window.
His gaze was far away, tracing memories from the past. he knew there had to be a was to way to find
the missing Immortals before the Hunters killed them. A cellular phone rang. He turned, looking at Dawson.
"Hey,
it's not mine." The mortal spread
his hands with a frown.
"Diana's
coat!" Methos raced for the coat. Searching rapidly he pulled out several
cellular phones. Finally finding the
ringing phone, he answered. "Lethe ne zdes. Poshli otvichats?"
"Kto
vi?" the man on the other line
answered after a moment's deliberation.
"Methos." he spoke softly, but both Joe and Ritchie
heard and stared at him in shock. He
shrugged at them.
"Give
me your id."
"I'm
the original. There is no
id." His voice was cold and
hard. "If you want any more
information, you'll have to come here."
"Where's
the boss lady?"
"Out."
"Tell
them Mel called. There's a
problem."
"What
kind of problem?"
"Our
source in the Hunters is dead. He was
killed trying to locate your missing friends."
"Did
you get any information on them?"
"Tell
the ladies to call." The line went dead.
He looked
at the other men. "Diana's source
just dried up. Unless the Hunter's make
a mistake or Duncan and Abigail escape, we're out of options. When she wakes up, we have to force the link
between them back. If they haven't
already killed them."
"What
made her pass out?" Joe's voice
was harsh, his face lined.
"I
don't know. I've seen them find each
other in a blizzard with one down and out.
I've never seen a reaction like the one we just saw."
Lethe
stirred in his arms. The small whimper
she made as she stretched brought his attention back to her. Her face was pale and smudged, heavy black
circles under her bright eyes. She
winced as the light hit them and looked at him through slitted lids.
"MacLeod?" Her voice was groggy. She shook her head and froze.
"How
are you feeling?" he kept his
voice soft, knowing her head had to be pounding. The shudder the swept through her body shook him.
"I
feel like dirt under the highway. What
did they give me?" Her voice was a
mere whisper.
"If I
had to guess, I'd say the wrong thing.
What do you remember?" His
eyes bored into hers as she watched him speak.
"The
man with the red hair was putting manacles on you to lead you out to the
cells. Then just bits and pieces. Who's Ritchie?"
"What? When did you meet Ritchie?" His voice and face reflected his
surprise. To his knowledge they had yet
to meet.
"I
don't know. He was just yelling at us
about endangering you. . ." her
eyes widened and then closed. Her face
closed in on itself, tensing and hardening.
Shudders racked her body, shaking the two of them with their force. "Ashta! No! Please tell me I
didn't do what I think I did."
"Abigail,
look at me." MacLeod pulled her
up, pressing her harder into his chest.
With one hand, he tilted her head back, their faces nearly
touching. "It was the drugs, not
you. Come on, look at me."
Slowly her
eyes opened. Still slightly dilated
from the remnants of the drugs coursing through her system, they looked
lost. She stared at his face, reading
what she had become and what she'd done.
His face was sad, mourning the violence she'd displayed. Traces of anguish shaded his eyes as he
tried to assume her guilt. She dug her
nails into his arm and tried to draw away.
He tightened his grip, refusing to allow her to look and see what the
destruction.
"You
don't want to look. The drugs may not
have taken all of the memories, but you don't need to make new ones
either. Don't move, just relax, let the
rest of the drugs work their way out.
It'll be all right." He
murmurred, keeping her eyes pinned with his.
She nodded,
closed her eyes and turned to bury her face in his throat. His hand stroked her hair, keeping her still
and quiet. His eyes were blank and full
of unshed tears as he looked at the door.
Standing there were men holding rifles pointed at them. Behind them stood men carrying machetes and
long heavy bladed knives. One of them
beckoned him. He stood slowly, cradling
her body to his. She stirred slightly
but relaxed at his quiet murmur.
The men
warily led him out the metal door. The
corridor was lined with armed men, ready for any move on their parts. They wanted vengance for their friends, but
were orders to bring them unharmed.
Their leader waited for them impatiently.
"If I
hadn't seen the tapes, I would never believe that such a child could do so much
damage." He spoke with a mild
amusement. The loss of his men didn't
seem to be bothering him. "Your
lessons paid off, Highlander."
"What
did you give her?" MacLeod replied
coldly. The limp body in his arms
stirred slightly.
"She
killed the only men who could have answered that question. Put her down."
The Scot
looked over the cold, damp cell. A
small trickle of water coiled through the lower end of it. The walls were scarred with the marks of
past floods. He turned towards the man.
"Put
her in there. If you don't we shoot
both of you and then behead you."
The smile
on his face was cold. Behind him
several men cocked their shotguns.
MacLeod entered the cell and went down the steps. Coming to the far
wall, he gently laid her on the floor.
Alive, they had a chance. Dead,
his Quickening would race to her and then she would lose her head too.
Cold was
numbing her legs. Her toes had
disappeared long ago. Stabbing pain
pulsed through her thighs. Even if she
curled in a ball, she wouldn't hold onto her body heat. Since she couldn't curl up, it was escaping
like the vanishing mists under the morning sun.
She
silently marvelled at her mental picture.
Her mind drew upon the remembered warmth of the sun. She shivered convulsively, slipping under
the cold water. With a gasp, she
wrapped her fingers in the chains and pulled herself above the water.
The water
wasn't deep, barely running ten inches at its deepest, but it was cold. Bitterly cold, it stole her body heat faster
than she could produce it. The iron
chains on her legs were attatched to the far wall, near the deepest water. The chain at her wrist kept her prone,
barely able to keep her head above the water.
Soon, hypothermia would claim her aching body and she wouldn't be able
to wake herself. Drowning was easier
when extreme cold was involved but she still wanted to avoid it.
Her head
bobbed under water again. She raised it
defiantly, shaking with muffled fury.
The buzz of an approaching Immortal snapped her to full
consciousness. It was strong, grabbing
her attention, bringing all of her survival traits to the fore. Her heart sped up and muscle groups began
quivering, trying to regain their warmth and flexibility. She tugged futilely at the chains, scraping
her wrists in the process. They healed
rapidly, the pale blue tracery of her Quickening covered by the murky waters.
With a
wrenching moan the door to her cell opened.
Several men entered dragging a man between them. She watched as the Immortal shook with fury
upon seeing her. Her head dropped below
the water again as she yeilded to the cold. She was almost too tired to care
this time. Wearily she raised it to breathe.
"Yer
going to kill the child!" his
voice shook with fury. "Damn you
mon! She's barely grown! First ye drug her into insanity and then ye
try drown her!"
"Get
her out of there!" The leader of
the men roared at his minions. The cold
anger in his voice sent them into the icy water at a run.
Hands
released the manacle from her wrist.
She dropped under the icy stream without its support. Hard fingers dug into her scalp and dragged
her to the surface. Her eyes
opened. Lazily they wandered, catching
their faces and expressions. Their
leader stood in the light, his face fully visable for the first time. His calm demeanor was instantly imprinted
upon her memory. Her red-rimmed blue
eyes found the Highlander's and focused weakly on his deep brown eyes. His fury lent her warmth, causing her eyes
to light up briefly before they closed.
"Stand
up!" The voice was hard, the word accompanied by a stinging slap. Her head rolled, pulling against the hand in
her hair. "Damn it! She's out cold!"
A second
set of hands grabbed her shoulders.
They pulled her to her feet.
Muttered curses reached her ears as the two men splashed deeper into the
freezing water. The weight pulling at
her ankles vanished as they released her.
She leaned bonelessly against the man holding her shoulders, soaking his
suit. The numbness of her body, joined
with the cold pressing against her will, making her listless. She struggled, trying to force herself
awake.
"She
was your responsibility, Tobias. If she
dies, you die." the cold voice spoke
in her ear as someone pried her eyes open.
Light burned her eyes, but she couldn't pull away. The grip on her shoulders tightened, but her
body was too cold and tired to care.
Then the fingers suddenly released her.
Firm, but
oddly gentle fingers caught her. The
tingling sensation of an Immortal reassured her. She knew she could trust MacLeod's hands. They held her upright and helped her walk up
the steps into the hallway. The dim
light seared her eyes through her eyelids and she shrank back. But the hands forced her up and out. Their warmth slowly sank into her, burning
slowly through her skin.
"Och,
lassie, hold yuir hed up. Keep yuir
feet movin'. We ha' got ta get yuir
blood running agin." The husky
voice purred at her. He warmed her with
his nearness, somehow doing it without bringing his body into contact with her
wet one. He stayed close enough that
the intervening air could not keep his bodyheat from her. "Yer supposed ta be a pink-cheeked
lass, no the colour of ashes."
She stumbled
again, lurching away from his grip. He
shifted his hold, pulling her even closer.
His hands and forarms were soaked and rapidly becoming numb. He turned to the man following them.
"She
needs dry clothes, warm ones, and blankets." his accent was thick, almost as thick as when he first left
Scotland. The worry on his face was
clear. The woman he led stumbled and
began coughing. "She'll need
medicine to fight that, else she'll ha' pnuemonia."
The man
turned and looked over his men. Finding
what he wanted he pointed to one and said, "Jerry, strip. MacLeod, remove her wet things."
The young
man looked at his leader incredulously.
Catching the calm, impatient expression he blushed. With jerky movements he removed his bulky
sweater and shirt, handing them to another man. At the raised eyebrow, he removed his shoes, socks and
pants.
The
immortal, made clumbsy by his chains, stripped the nearly frozen woman. The skin of her body was the color of
chalk. Her lips were blue. The tattoo on her wrist was only a slightly
deeper blue than the blue shade of her fingertips. The man holding her upright, gazed at her, his eyes hot. He stroked her side thoughtfully.
"Do na
do that." The immortal's tone
brought all of their attention.
"Wilson. Give her back to the Highlander." Cold grey eyes measured the barely
controlled immortal. "He seems to
put value on her innocence and she values his life. We don't want to destroy our only means of extracting information
from the girl."
With the
help of the blushing Jerry, MacLeod dressed Abigail in his clothes. Still warm from his body, Jerry's clothes
bagged over her slim form. The
convulsive shivers slowed as the warmth began to penetrate her skin. He pulled her back against his body and ran
his hands down her arms. A blanket was
thrust into her hands. Unresponding,
she let it fall to the floor.
"She
needs a hospital, mon. She's likely die
here."
"Keep
her alive, MacLeod. The only reason you
still have your head is that girl. For
some reason, you mean a lot to her. She
begged and pleaded for your head."
The cold gray eyes measured his reaction, slight though it was. His lips turned up in a smile. "Her life guarantees yours and yours
her cooperation. Now, let the good
doctor give her the antibotics she'll need."
Another man came running down the
hallway. He stopped suddenly upon
reaching them. He smiled
ingratiatingly. "I have checked
her medical records and there are no listed allergies. This is a simple broadspectrum
antibotic. There should be no problems
with her reacting to it."
The
Highlander smiled, his eyes flat and deadly.
His words made the man pale. "The last man who gave her a shot died
from her reaction. Would you care to
hold her down while she gets this one?"
"That
would have been a stimulant, quite a heavy dosage since the two previous ones
had failed. That was unwise on the part
of that doctor since she had been under the influence of several different
drugs while they questioned her."
The doctor was speaking slowly, measuring his words. "It has also been nearly thirty hours
since she came down from her drug induced frenzy. At this point, an antibotic will not cause a reaction unless it's
an unknown allergy."
He looked
into the man's eyes, measuring the competence there. Although, obviously frightened by the situation and the armed men
about him, the man was certain of his medical facts. He nodded and gently gripped her arms. Gently her turned her and held her steady. The doctor dispassionately bared her buttock
and jabbed her with the needle. He then
took her vital signs, muttering to himself as he did so. She moaned slightly and leaned her head on
his shoulder.
"Her
body temperature is too low. The
Immortal is correct that she needs a hospital.
She must be warmed slowly and carefully, otherwise she could be
damaged. Also, if she is not warmed
soon, her body will shut down completely.
Please, sir, let me take her in.
No one would ask questions if I told them I found her while camping in
the hills. I doubt she remembers enough
to cause a problem. Even if she did, we
could get her out of the hospital before she could talk."
"No. There has been too much activity on her
disappearance. She'd be under police
protection from the moment she was recognized." At his gesture a door was flung open and the cell inspected.
"It's
dry. No signs of any
flooding,sir." the man reported.
"Take
her in there, MacLeod. Keep her
alive."
All the men
in corridor tensed, watching him. He
raised his eyebrow. Twelve to one odds
and he was holding a barely conscious young woman. He scooped her into his arms and grabbed the blankets thrust at
him by the doctor. Smiling wryly at
their leader he walked into the cell.
Behind them the door slammed shut, its lock sounding a heavy dirge.
Her eyes
opened and she turned her head to him.
A very weak smile crossed her face.
"I'm c-c-cold Duncan."
He laughed
at the wry sound of her voice.
"How much were you awake?"
"Nnot
much. Not e-enough to care." she shivered again. Her breath rattled in her throat. "I wwant a warm sauna. Think you can arrange it?"
"I
wish I could Abigail. I wish I
could."
He draped
the blankets around her shoulders. Her
skin was still like pale ash. Her
shivering, while less forceful than it had been, was constant now. Her lips were still the pale blue tinged
purple that had aroused his anger before.
He untied the thong holding her braid and freed the long tresses. He gently squeezed water from her hair,
watching it puddle on the floor. She leaned
against him, burrowing her face in his shoulder.
"Come
on, theres a cot over here." He
lead her. There he sat her down,
adjusting the blankets to cocoon her body.
After a moment of looking at her peaceful face he cursed under his
breath. Her eyes flew open, but didn't
quite focus on him. She watched
passively as he unbuttoned his filthy silk shirt. He could not get it past the chains on his wrists, so he left it
hanging open. When he removed his pants
she closed her eyes again. The shallow
breathing bothered him. He stripped the
blankets from her, followed by her clothes.
"Sstripped
ttwice in an hour. Tthhat's a record,
Duncan."
He felt her
voice more than heard it as he gathered her to him. He wrapped the blankets around them and settled down upon
cot. Her cold body was a shock against
him. Her instinctive response to his
recoil was to shift and wind her arms around him, refusing to release him. His hands began stroking her sides and back,
trying to force her blood to the surface.
"It's
the best way to get you warm and back to normal."
"Tthhere
is no normal." her voice was
sad. It shook from both her bone deep
cold and her sad resignation. "At
lleast not for us, Duncan. You've been
alive long enough to know that."
He looked
down at her. Her eyes were open,
staring at and through him. The pain
and desolation there numbed him as much as her cold body did. With a sigh she closed her eyes and laid her
head on his chest. Her breath was warm
in contrast to her body. He took a deep
breath, shuddering. Gathering his
control her reached around her and pulled the rosary from his pocket. He nudged her with his fist closed. When she finally opened her eyes, he slowly
unclenched his fist. Nestled in his
palm, the wooden beads made his hands seem large and clumbsy.
"You
saved them?" Her eyes were wide
and luminous. The innocent shock in
them shook him. "I thought they
were gone forever. Thank you."
"You
found them. I just put them in a safe
place. I didna think they'd search me
again."
Her eyes
clouded again at the hazy memories.
"Thank you again."
"How
long did you know Darius?"
"Forever,
or almost forever."
"You
made these for him?" He watched
her fingers play with the beads in his hand.
They gently touched and spun the beads, trying to acknowledge their
reality. He caught her nod. "He told me about them, and a little
about you. He never told me who you
were."
"He
used to write me long letters. About
two hundred years ago he started writing about his new Scots friend. You've done him proud, Duncan MacLeod. Very proud."
"Not
everything I've done is . . ." Her
fingers sealed his lips. Her eyes met
his, and she shook her head.
"Dark
quickenings and war aside, you are a good man.
A good Immortal. One of the ones
we hope earns the final Prize."
Her smile, brief but reaching her eyes, dazzled him for a moment. "My husband was very proud of you. I agree with his aspirations for you."
The world
spun around him. The thought of the
woman in his arms being Darius' wife rocked him. He started to pull away but realized that she was still half
frozen. Her calm blue eyes watched him
patiently. She knew the response
running through his mind. The sadness
in her eyes was immistakable but finally made sense. His grip on her tightened until she winced.
"You
were married to Darius?"
"Yes,
for two hundred years before he became a monk."
"But,
how could he be a monk when he was married?" he gasped, trying to understand.
"Papal
dispensation. It allowed him to join a
monastery. I was given the choice of
joining an abbey or remaining his wife.
I waited for him. Now, I am his
widow."
"You've
waited centuries?"
"I
made a vow. I don't break my
word." she smiled at his
dumbstruck face. Her fingers pulled his
head down to her shoulder. "I
think we need to sleep. Sleep."
"You
sleep, I'll keep watch." She
smiled up at him. Even as his smile
answered hers she felt the encroaching darkness close over her mind. Her body relaxed bonelessly against his.
Her
feet were cold. The toes were numb,
racing fingers of cold creeping up her shins.
Her toes flexed convulsively, cracking inside her heavy boots. She shifted uncomfortably. The cold was not her own.
The
weight of her coat dragged on her shoulders.
Carrying her weapons in this manner was inconvenient. Only, the knives in her boots fit well. Swords hooked into the coat's inseams threw
the balance off slightly and had to be compensated for carefully.
Her
hand stroked the pommel of the left-hand sword. Cool metal teased her hingertips. The bold flowing griffin design intimately known by her fingers
comforted and dismayed. The sword was old, its age evidenced by the worn grips,
the silver wire nicked and smoothed by years of combat. Her twin's sword, it fit her hand well, but
not quite perfectly.
The
other sword rested gently in her hand.
Its carved lion caressed her palm.
Just as old as the other sword, she knew every stike, every parry it had
ever made. Its weight conforted,
encouraged and reassured her. Made
expressly for her, it reflected her inner self's strength and her outward
youth. Silver wire, untarnished by
time, carefully repaired to hide the ravages of battle, molded to her grip,
keeping her hand in place.
She
stared at her reflection. Her pale skin
was gone, hidden by woad and black camouflage.
Her eyes disappeared in her face, seeming to float in the air without
any support. The conflicting patterns
of her cheekbones and the paints dizzied the eyes of the beholder, obscuring
her features. The line of her jaw and
the rise of her cheekbones were marred by false scars, further disguising her
features.
Her
hair was hidden from view under her dark gray cap. It's color darkened to a deep brown which matched her now bushy
eyebrows. It was braided and tucked and
sprayed firmly into place. It was a
good thing she kept her hair shorter than her sister, she reflected
grimly. Too much longer and it would
never have fit or stayed. Even if she
lost the cap, it would not be recognized.
She
smiled to herself, her blackened teeth gleeming wetly. Her hands pale against the paint as she
inserted her black contacts. Now even
her eyes were different.
With
another grim smile she checked her tight fitting black catsuit. If she had to lose the coat, she wanted to
be prepared. She double checked her
belt, lock picks and wires, thin stranded rope, a silencer in one pouch, a
pistol in the other. Certain it was
ready, she wrapped the belt around her waist, making sure it didn't catch on
the swords.
A
flash of movement in the mirror sent her spinning, knife in one hand, pistol in
the other. The pale face of Duncan's
Watcher froze her movements. With a nod
to him, she made both items disappear.
"Jesus! I would never recognize you!"
"That's the idea, Joseph." her voice was cool
and toneless. "Are you ready to
go?"
"Yeah."
the older man frowned at her. "Are you sure you don't want back up?"
"Yeah. You'd just slow me down. Besides, I can't sense you." her smile appeared again, cold and deadly. "Anything mortal that's in my way
tonight, dies."
"What
about Ritchie and Methos?"
"I've
never worked with Ritchie, now's not the time to start. As for Methos, he's been out of the business
for too long."
"Where
are they?"
"Investigating
something with Ivanov. He'll keep them
occupied for a while. You know what to
do if something goes wrong?"
He
nodded grimly. "If you don't meet
me in seven hours, I blow the whistle."
"Send
my message to Rio first. You'll need
their support on this." Her
fingers lightly touched his cheek.
"Keep yourself safe, old friend.
We need you alive. She would be
very upset if anything happened to you."
"You
take care of yourself, kid."
Dawson's eyes were moist as he lead her to the car. "I want all three of you back in one
piece."
"I'll
do my best, Joe." She took the
keys and walked away, silently.
She
was almost warm. Her slow movements
burrowed her nose into warm flesh. Even
with her eyes closed, she recognised this scent, this feel. The flesh she was curled up with was firm,
corded with muscles. Her fingers
carressed the chest softly, tracing ribs and scarless skin. She inhaled, savoring the scent of the
masculine skin against her.
It
was a warm scent that even after this long of a time brought memories the
fore. Beyond the scent of male musk was
the individual scent of this man. She
thought fuzzily and tried to come up with his name, but couldn't think of any
man with whom she'd be sharing a tent.
Wait, she thought, this was definitely not a tent.
She
felt hands stroking her back, stirring her hair. The long tresses were slowly and teasingly being freed from
tangles. At the sensation she stirred,
pressing closer to the warmth. Firm
hands soothed her, while a deep voice murmurred foreign words into her
ear. She felt a frown form between her
eyesbrows. Gentle lips nudged the frown
away. The hands moved, and began
massaging her back and neck. She
shivered more from the sensation than from the cold.
"Sleep,
love. Ye need yer strength back. Ye need ta be warm." The acccent was Scots. Highland Scots to be exact. The memories blossomed in her mind and her
eyes opened.
"Good
morning." she whispered. Brown eyes peered at her, laughter creasing
their corners.
"But
it nae morning, lass. It be the middle
of the night."
"Och,
but I just woke, sae it mu' be mornin'"
she parroted his accent back to him.
The smile on his face was worth the effort.
"Nay. Ye need more sleep."
"I'm
not tired. I'm just cold."
"And
how am I ta fix that, lass?" His
eyes were mischeivous as he waggled his eyebrows. She could fix his smug grin.
She
stretched luxiouriating in the feel of skin against skin. His breath caught in his throat. She inhaled deeply. He gripped her back, digging his fingers
deeply into her muscles. She looked up
into his eyes. The brown irises had
thinned, the pupils watching her every move.
His eyelids drooped slightly and a wicked smile crept slowly across his
lips. As her eyes focused on his lips,
the smile changed. It wavered slowly
and then the lips were pressed into a thin line. His fingers wrapped around her arms and he set her away from his
body.
"I
cannot do this. He was friend."
She
frowned. "I have been his widow four years. Before that, I waited patiently for centuries. I honored my vows. I kept them and waited without trying to make him change his
mind. How does that make this
wrong?"
"I
will not marry you. I'm not the
marrying kind." his face was grim
as painful memories crossed it.
"I
would have refused you if you'd asked."
Her blue eyes met his brown eyes.
Her face was as serious as his. "I would like your comfort and
warmth. I would also like to keep your
friendship. If I can only have one or
the other I'll take the friendship and let this drop."
He
leaned forward and touched his lips to hers.
The warmth of his lips pressed to hers made her sigh. His tongue traced her lips and then slowly
slipped inside, tangling with hers. His
fingers gentled and traced her sides.
The feel of his tongue against hers, his body rocking against her, his
warmth speading to her made her sigh.
Closing her mind to all other sensations, Lethe gave herself to the feel
of the Highlander.
Hours
later, Lethe sat up with a jerk. At the
edges of her senses was the reverberation of an approaching Immortal. Rapidly she threw off the blankets that she
shared with Duncan. He awoke and
watched her curiously. As she dressed
and tossed him his pants, he frowned.
At her frantic movements, he dressed his eyebrows raised.
"What's
wrong?" His voice was low,
cautious.
"Company's
coming." Her whisper was so soft he almost missed it. Once he was dressed, she curled up in his
lap, wrapping the blankets around them.
Her blue eyes were wide and shocked.
"I don't like the feel of this one, Duncan. I wish I hadn't gotten you involved."
"Shh. I would have joined this party no matter
what you said." He spoke into her
ear, his breath bringing a shudder. He
smiled, and buried his nose in her ear to whisper something else and
froze. The loud, insistant buzz of a
strong Immortal hit his senses.
They stood,
her arms wrapped around him. Her
fingers tightened, digging into his sides as he tried to set her aside. The sound of the key in the old cell door
sent her burrowing under the blankets and into his side. MacLeod had to remind himself not to smile
at her actions. To any outsider, she
was a frightened girl who had dealt with more than she could handle.
"So
this is what you brought me? A bundle
of cloth and the infamous Highland Immortal?" The man's voice was wry and amused. His face was florid and marred by a scar running across one cheek
from nose to chin. His smile was slow
and predatory. "Let me see the
girl, MacLeod. Now."
At the
man's words, her head slowly came up and she turned in his arms. He wrapped his arm around her and gently
pulled her to the side. He could feel
her peer around him, her fingers gripping his biceps painfully. The breath of her words warmed his arm, but
the sound barely reached his ears.
"His name is Andrew Teague.
His original name was Marcus Andropos. He's old, Duncan. A thousand years."
"Come
out, little girl. We won't hurt you, we
only want answers." The man's face
gave lie to his words. His eyes
glittered menacingly. "Set her
free, Highlander. Otherwise your blood
will cover her pretty face."
"No." He growled.
"Shh."
Her voice was soft, but loud enough for everyone to hear. With a smooth glide, she slipped around
him. She turned and smiled dimly at
him. As she spoke, her voice
broke. "You cannot keep dieing for
me, Duncan. Even an Immortal cannot die
so often. Especially for a Watcher. Remember who and what you are. Survive, learn, grow stronger, is the way of
life for you. Tell Joseph and Diana I
love them."
"She's
not part of this."
"All
the Watchers are part of this." He
held out his hand. When her hand
touched his, his eyes widened. The
dazed look on his face was enough. He
felt her presense and judged her a preImmortal. "And her sister, MacLeod?"
"No." he willed his face to be impassive. "Abbigail is the one I've been keeping
watch over."
"True,
you let the other one stay with Dawson.
Have you told. . . no you wouldn't have." He nodded to himself and then gestured. The man beside him raised his shotgun and fired.
Lethe dug
her nails into his hand and kicked. The
sound of his knee shattering came as the echoes of the blast rolled through the
small room. She ducked under his arm
and threw him to the ground. She froze
as the doublebore shotgun tapped the nape of her neck. Being decapitated by a shotgun did not seem
a good way to die. Handcuffs were
painfully applied to her wrists and she was dragged away from Teague.
"You
will never attack me again, little girl." he hissed and slapped her. The taste of blood filtered through her
mouth. "You will learn to obey me
without question. You will live when I
command, you will die when I command and he will be your first Quickening."
Before she
could try to move or fight the men holding her, he produced a knife. With a gentle smile he twisted it in front
of her eyes and then shoved the knife through her breastbone. She didn't even have a chance to scream.
Diana
scurried through the tunnels. Deep in
her gut came the feeling that she had to rush, that disaster was on its
way. Her footsteps were silent as she
raced farther down, deeper into the maze of corridors. Lethe's sense was near and so was that of
other Immortals. But whether they were
close to her or to Lethe she was unsure.
She came to a stop, hearing voices coming around the corner.
"When
she comes back to life, behead MacLeod.
She'll get his Quickening and we'll own her body and soul." the first voice purred.
"Just
as long as you don't lose control of her." the second voice was odd, it didn't fit the situation. "Although, having an Immortal to
experiment on would be quite interesting. I think I like the idea."
"Give
me five minutes to get out of here and then you'll be sure that the
Highlander's quickening goes to her."
The man spoke again.
Diana
backed away slowly. The banked rage
that smoldered within her began burning fiercely. She breathed deeply, trying to regain control. She had to get to them and fast. She listened to the approaching footsteps
and grinned. First, though, it seemed
she had an Immortal to dispose of.
He barely
survived the first strike. She had
waited for him to turn the corner and attacked without warning. Only his reflexes had saved his head. Her sword swept up and towards his neck,
only to be deflected by his arm. The
sword penetrated his shirt and skin, breaking through the first bone it
encountered. His movement and the
weight of his ulna turned the blade. As
he fumbled for his sword, Lethe's sword came up and pierced his chest. The wide surprised look in his eyes was well
worth the effort it to hold him upright.
She raised her own sword and struck.
Dropping the headless body, she ignored it and headed for the lower
dungeons at a run.
Several
yards later, the first of the quickening struck. Lightning raced across her nerves, lifting her to her toes. She fell to her knees, swords poised above
her head. The lights throughout the
corridor exploded with the swirling cloud of energy. The memories and experiences of the other Immortal flooded
throuhg her brain. With hard earned
silence, she absorbed the assault and conquered the pain and rage it
engendered.
When it was
over she licked the blood off her bitten lip and struggled to her feet. They knew she was here now. Maybe they didn't know who she was, but they
had to know what she was. She shook her
head to clear it of the man's thoughts and carefully put away her sister's
sword. She had a feeling she would need
the pistol from now on.
A few
corridors farther into the basement complex, her senses lit up like silent
alarms. More than one Immortal, but no
more than three. She raised her sword
to a ready stance. This was a Hunter's
lair, finding one loose Immortal was bad, but this many wes frightening. She warily turned the corner.
Her sword
blocked and parried, striking rapidly.
A familiar voice called out, "Diana!"
"What
are you doing here?"
"We're
here to help you get Mac and your sister." Ritchie spoke before Methos could.
She
nodded. There was no time for
discussion now. She would deal with
Ivanov later. She headed down the
corridor at a quiet run. Behind her,
she heard and felt the two men following her.
She sprinted, her breath coming in short quick gasps. Trying to use her sense of her sister to
find her and MacLeod was hard in these tunnels. The turns of the corridors and the levels made it hard, painful
to sort out the direction. She barely
heard the conversation between the other immortals.
"What's
she doing?"
"Trying
to find Lethe." Methos' voice was
hoarse and low, filled with foreboding.
He knew the dangers of what she was doing. He also knew that she would only be doing it if she was sure it
was the only way to save the others.
"Now that she's accepted we're here, she's letting us guard her
back. Neither of them would do this
kind of stuff unless all hell was about to break loose."
She could
feel Ritchie's dismay at the less than comprehensible explanation. She reapplied her attention to the senses
she was trying to manipulate. There,
her sister was starting to awaken, she felt the first beat of her heart. The sudden expansion of their Quickening
shocked her conscious. For a split
second she saw through her sister's eyes again.
Rage flew
between them as they both saw the room.
Duncan MacLeod was again chained to the wall. The red stains of his blood had turned his cream shirt an odd
muddy brown. His head was tilted
forward, hiding his face, but she could feel his anger and his acceptance of
the situation. He slowly lifted his
head and looked at her. His eyes were
filled with eloquent words that he would not speak. She felt the tears running down her sister's face as she dropped
her masks. She didn't know if their
rescue would arrive in time, but she/they wanted him to see the truth. His eyes widened and then he nodded.
Diana
blinked back into herself and without pausing the pistol was dropped into its
holster. She broke out into a full run,
making both Immortals behind her curse.
Once, a long time ago, she had won prizes for her ability to race. Today the prize was another's life, someone
whose life was important to them both.
The footsteps behind her faded as did the curses. She didn't have the time to explain or to
wait for them.
A mortal
stood guard at the base of the stairs.
This was the floor. This was the
lowest level. Before he could turn to
face her, her sword stabbed out and sliced between his ribs. She barely paused to withdraw its blade as
she passed his falling corpse. Her hand
moved on its own, drawing the pistol and removing the safety. Her sister's rising panic spurred her
on.
This level
was musty and damp, the floors slightly slick.
She skidded to a halt in front of a scarred metal door. The scent of blood was strong here. She felt the presence of two Immortals
coming from behind her, just barely in her range. She prayed they were Ritchi and Methos. If not this would be real ugly.
Behind the door were two presences, MacLeod and Lethe. Lethe's presence was stronger than normal,
odd tasting to her senses. She tranced
to see through Lethe's eyes again.
There were
several men there, two holding her, pinning her arms and controling her
struggles. A third was firmly tieing
her down to the metal chair. She felt
the growing rage and the fear in her sister's mind. Across the room a man stood, MacLeod's katana in his hand. He was poised, waiting. The look in MacLeod's eyes was measuring,
watching. Somehow he seemed to know
what was happening inside Lethe's eyes.
A wry, bitter smile crossed his face as the sword's edge was
inspected. She measured the distance
between the door and the sword. Then
she carefully located the five men in the room. Lethe's head bowed and she smiled.
The door
opened and Diana's dark figure entered.
Her entrance made the men pause.
Her hand came up, pistol firing.
The fifth man in the room, armed with a shotgun, received the first
three bullets, two of them headshots. The men holding Lethe's arms took the
next shots as she darted for MacLeod, trying to beat the coming blow.
The man
with the katana swung for MacLeod's neck.
The bullets fired at him hit, absorbed by body armor. Her breathless rush and parry barely turned
the blade. Her back pressed against
MacLeod as she dropped the pistol to place all her strength behind her
sword. Their attacker was strong, but
knew little about swordfighting. She
whipped her wrists around, twisting with all her strength and he lost the
sword. She continued the move, cutting
his throat with the edge of her blade.
Methos and
Ritchie came into the room. The scent
of old and new blood made the younger Immortal pause. He took in the destruction of the room with wide eyes. Methos and Lethe quickly and efficiently
dispatched the Hunters who had survived Diana's attack. Diana turned to MacLeod and began picking
the locks holding him in place. He
watched warily and then his eyes cleared as he recognized her past the
disguise.
"Thank
you." he murmurred as she released
one of his wrists. She shrugged at
him. Ritchie handed him his katana as
the other wrist sprang free.
She felt
her sister's approach. A hand held a
set of keys in front of her and she grabbed them. The hand ran under her coat and latched onto the griffin sword. It was gently removed from her side. A second later she felt the loss of one of
the pistols and a knife. Her sister squeezed her shoulder silently before
walking away. The brush of her thoughts
was warm and welcome. She finished freeing
MacLeod.
"Diana!" Lethe's voice was pained. She held a scabbarded knife and offered it
to her. Without a word she took
it. She didn't look at it, just put it
in a pocket. The pain in the matching
blue eyes was instantly hooded. The low
buzz of an alarm began sounding. "Shit! Let's go!" Diana's voice was harsh.
"Did
you really expect them not to notice us?"
Methos quipped wryly as they raced for the door.
The group
moved warily through the corridor and up the stairs. The passages were eeriely quiet, only their footsteps and the low
buzz of the alarm to be heard. Disaster
hit them as they came out of the basement levels. The first warning they had of the mortals was the blast of the
shotgun. Diana staggered back, her
chest blossoming crimson from the wounds.
The second blast took MacLeod in the side as he tried to lift her.
Lethe
reacted first, drawing and firing her pistol
The man fell, shotgun firing into the floor. Another man fired his weapon, trying to pin them down. Methos charged, ignoring the bullets hitting
his chest. Before he fell, his sword
reached the gunman. He staggered up and
pulled at his chest.
"You
know, this stuff is very useful."
he murmurred, tearing at the straps of his kevlar vest. He peered out the door. "I see two of them."
"There's
probably more." Lethe's voice was
cold. She checked the dead man's weapon
and handed it to Ritchie. "Know
how to use it?"
"Yeah,
but " He began.
Her cold
eyes stopped him. "At times like
this, you fight to kill, you fight to survive."
"Mac
doesn't believe that."
"His
problem, not mine." She glanced down at the two unconsious Immortals. She looked around a corner and pulled back
under fire. "Adon, any other way
out?"
"No, we're trapped."
The words
that flowed from her lips were fast and furious. Methos argued briefly.
Finally he nodded, lips pressed together in a straight line. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. He pulled her into a rough hug and closed
his eyes. She pulled away and with
swift, economical moves began arming herself from her sister's weapons.
"Hey,
kid, take care of her for me. She needs
help keeping out of trouble." Her
words were soft. Blue eyes wide,
Ritchie nodded as she painted her face with the blood from the two
Immortals. She pulled out a rosary and
kissed it, praying briefly. Then she
tucked it into MacLeod's pocket.
"Get ready to run. I'll
distract the Hunters."
"Be
safe, Lethe." Methos grabbed her
arm. "Don't take too many
risks."
"Methos-rai,
remember who I am. Remember what I
am." Her voice was resigned. She pulled a pair of disks from another
pocket and tucked them into her friend's shirt pocket. "Keep an eye on
them? These should help you track the
Hunters. Get them for me."
"I'll
do my best. I'll see they
survive." He grunted as he tossed
MacLeod's body over his in a fireman's carry.
The strain of his weight was almost more than he could handle, but he'd
manage. "Don't be a sacrifical
lamb. We need you alive."
She nodded
to them and stepped to the doorway.
With a smile, she chambered the shotgun. Waiting until each one had grabbed his charge, she stepped out,
firing. The two burdened Immortals
slipped out behind her and ran for the exit.
Ritchie
followed Methos across empty lots. The
sudden presence of two Immortals shot through them. They stopped and lowered the two bodies, watching as they began
to breathe. Both opened their eyes and
began to speak only to be hushed by the look on the faces above them.
Methos drew
his sword and turned back towards the warehouse. He debated mentally whether he should go back for Lethe. The distance was almost too far for him to
see well. A figure raced out,
silhouetted by light, stopping abruptly as another figure appeared. Both drew swords. They fought, their shadows merging and emerging with the
night. The lights of the warehouse showed
the circle of armed men that formed around them. One of the men raised his weapon and fired. Both swords paused and then flickered as
they crossed. One fell to the ground as
the other completed its move, beheading its opponent.
"Lethe!" Diana sprang to her feet and tried to
run. Ritchie grabbed her, pinning her
to the ground under his weight.
Lightening
gathered and flared. And then it began its coiling dance. Lights exploded overhead. It danced out to the circle of men, striking
and killing, causing weapons to explode.
A car near the door started, its lights turning on and bursting. Then its gas tank blew, flipping the car
over on its side.
The
swordsman raised his hands, dropping his sword. The energy of the Quickening raising his body to its toes. The beheaded body rose from the ground,
sparks flying around it. Inside the
warehouse a fire broke out. Windows
shattered, sending broken glass into the men fleeing the lightening. Finally, the lightening centered on the
Immortal and struck, bringing him to his knees, head bowed wearily.
The distant
wail of sirens brought the few remaining men to their feet. They grabbed the dazed Immortal by the arms
and helped him into a van that came around the corner. As they loaded him, the warehouse began
exploding.
"Aw,
Christ! Please tell me that wasn't who I think it was." Joe Dawson's voice made the assembled
Immortals turn, weapons ready. The gray
haired man leaned heavily on his cane, his face filled with sorrow.
"We
have to get out of here before the cops find us." Was Methos' only comment.
The
television news anchor stared at them from the screen. Behind him was a picture of a young woman
and a set of dates. Below her picture
was the photo of the burned remains of a warehouse.
"Among
the bodies found at the burned warehouse last week, was one now tentatively
identified as a missing University student, Abigail Fontaine-Montrose. Miss Fontaine-Montrose, who was kidnapped on
campus in front of many witnesses, would have been sixteen on the day of her
murder. There are no leads on the cult
group that beheaded her and several other people at the warehouse. As one of the police officers at the scene said,
this is one of those cases that makes you wish that Agents Scully and Mulder
from the X-Files really could be called in for assistance. . ."
Duncan MacLeod hit the remote control,
turning off the set. He leaned back on
his couch and sipped his Scotch. He
stared at the rosary in his hand, gently turning the hand-carved beads. His fingers slipped effortlessly across the
smoothly worn beads, remembering the explanation of the beads. His eyes were dark, misted over as he
thought of the gift that had arrived in the mail.
On the
table stood a wooden crate, its top beside it. Packing straw, spilling out like a fountain, guarded the
contents. Several bottles were revealed
nestled carefully there. A small dagger
was perched across the bottles, it wooden scabbard dark with age, carved in his
family's crest. A letter of golden vellum
lay beside the box, velvet ribbons draping gracefully from a wax seal. The carefully sculpted calligraphy reminded
him of the way she had spoken to him so often on the way back from her classes
or while they practiced in the dojo.
Duncan,
If you've gotten this, today must be
the day! These are things I got in
Scotland a long, long time ago. From
back before your cousin was around. I
hope you enjoy the Scotch and the wine.
Have a happy birthday, Highlander!
L
He raised
his glass high, toasting the ceiling.
Tears glistened in his brown eyes before spilling down his cheeks. His words were soft, pained. "Happy
Birthday to ye, Lethe! I'll ne'er
forget ye."
"I'm
sorry I got you involved."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Notes: Ideas
bandied w/Mal
Lethe/Diana spar dojo:
dance more than kata, but many kata
elements. gathering force of quickening
as they spar, allusions to end fight; reaction of those who enter to witness;
one in shadow and then gone only to reappear in light while second one
disappears into shadows. neither one
choreographed with other; only later
notice that both are blindfolded- both fighting by means of feel of quickening
and other senses, hearing, scenting, movements in the aircurrents,etc. .. check
for old text on qatal dancers for reference
see old history text for britany re:old fight style. possible cross regerence to karate book with
special inference to original style and okinawan mixed with shaolin kung fu... staff usage from yoeman's reference if
located try Pratt.
Ritchie
comment to Methos:
you and her? but you're so old/ and
how old do you think they are?
sore muscles: sore?
(?) move?.. .. laughter.... you'll heal, be glad you're Immortal, you recover
fast... at his expression "Who do you think she perfected it on?" and
smirk.
Lethe -
Methos confrontation about Diana:
"She seems to have gotten over
me fairly quickly. She left
faithfulness behind long ago."
"Back off, Methos. You don't want to go there."
"What do you call Henry? A husband or a concubine? What about Ritchie?"
"Alexa? Byron?
Should I go on?" moves very
very close to him and whispers, "I never lost track of you or your
activities. Don't go where you can't
protect yourself, isn't that what you taught us as children? I think you want to drop the conversation,
Methos-rai."
Methos pales and backs away.
need to work on viciousness of voice when she protects her
sister from her mentor's words. she
will go to the ends of the earth for either of them, but conflict between them
puts her at odds with both. duality
needs to be explored here. flesh out
idea.
Out takes:
I'm supposed to be
the teenage daughter of a dead Watcher.
I think an Immortal killed him and while I'm edging into the Hunters.
The presence resonated loudly, like the presence of the
Immortal they had felt before. The
Immortal was just within sensing range, probably in front of the dojo below
them
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