The Curse
Prologue
Seacouver. An old apartment house in a quiet neighbourhood…
It was always easy for him. With his child like body in dirty and torn jeans, tears in his ski-blue eyes and his blond hair unravelled, he had once again put on his best show of being a scared, helpless child immortal when she stumbled across him two days ago. Now she already thought of him as a son. Tonight he prepared a simple dinner for them, slipping a few sleeping pills into her meal. As soon as she fell asleep, he walked into the bedroom and took the head of the sleeping woman. Yes, this time it was almost too easy for him, until her Quickening hit him.
An endless amount of energy, powers, and thousands of years old memories hit and tormented his never fully developed brain and shattered every bone in his body. The apartment house exploded around him and blasted him onto the street. After his body had healed enough to walk, Kenny stood up and stumbled a few blocks farther into a dark alley where he collapsed and died next to a couple of dumpsters, before reviving and dying again and again. Only the darkness of the night kept him save from being found by someone passing by.
Somewhere in the Lake District, UK
A nightmare woke him with a start. He had dreamt Maya was dead and her house was exploding around her. Luckily, he thought, it was only a nightmare that had now past. She would be sound and safe asleep.
But the urge to call her didn't subside and kept him from getting any more sleep this night. With a sigh, he got up to make some coffee. The clock in the kitchen told him it was only 5:30 in the morning; normally, he would have slept for at least another 2 hours. He would call her soon to see if she was OK. He decided to leave breakfast for later and went to start his work out; he hadn't trained for 2 months. Being a smith had its advantages. However, it used different muscles than he needed for his other life he was going back to in a few weeks. He smiled when he looked at the old house that kept the forge and his living quarters; it had been built holy ground over 500 years ago and it was the best place he could have bought.
Two hours later, he returned to his apartment above the shop to take a shower. After shaving, he looked at himself in the mirror. The man looking back at him seemed to be so young, somewhere in his late twenties. The slightly curled hair was short and black with not a grey hair in sight. His olive-coloured skin showed no wrinkles, but if he looked into his own dark eyes, he could see his inside view, his soul. It was not young; it was old, so very old. He was no normal human being. He was an immortal, and he was over 4800 years old.
Yet, he was not the oldest of the immortals there were two others older than he was. His best and oldest friend, Methos, was over 5000 years old. The other one was Maya, his wife; she was the oldest. She would always be the oldest. She was as older than both he and Methos were together.
Maya! He had phoned her just before going to bed the night before. She sounded so happy. She had found someone to look after, and he would be back with her within the next three weeks. There would be an armoury and smithery crafts exhibition in Seacouver, where he would be showing some of his swords. Besides, the summer had been too rainy for the tourists, so he would not return here this year; instead, he'd stay in Seacouver until the next spring.
Most of the swords were sent to Seacouver already. He would only take two others with him and a few blades of his latest creation. They still needed to be sharpened, polished and fitted with a handle, but he could do that back in Seacouver.
He turned on the news and went into the kitchen to make breakfast. When he heard something about an exploding house, he returned to the living room to watch the news. As he got sight of the TV, he stopped in his tracks as his eyes were glued to the screen; he knew this house. It was his. The reporter said the fire was extinguished. One person was found dead in the building; a decapitated body of an unidentified woman in her bed and burned to an unrecognisable lump. The police continued to search for answers.
His heart, soul and body screamed at him and he wanted to break down and cry. He didn't let himself; there was too much work to do. He knew the answers. It wasn't a dream, Maya was dead. Someone had taken her head and her Quickening.
She was gone.