Rated T for violence, rape, and profanity. Not my universe, not my characters. No money made.

HOPE REMEMBERED

Cassandra and the Horsemen

by Parda (March 1999)

the fear that is within you now
and seems to never end

"Surprised to see me, Cassandra?" Kronos asked, smiling. He dropped the tent flap behind him, and the spiderweb of dark lines crawled over his face in the dimness of the tent. "It's been a long time."

He turned and spoke to a shadowy figure in the corner. "Isn't that right, Little Brother?"

"Yes," said a voice that Cassandra knew very well, a voice that brought the feel of maggots crawling on her neck. "A very long time." Roland emerged from the shadows and came to stand near Kronos, a little behind him and off to one side. Spiderweb lines covered his cheek and nose, too, and both of the men were smiling as they looked at her. "She's all yours, Brother," Roland said to Kronos. "I'm done with her now."

"Good!" Kronos said, slapping him on the back. "We share everything."

"Everything," Roland echoed.

"Have you tamed her well, Little Brother?" Kronos asked, stepping forward and standing directly over her, staring down at Cassandra as she lay naked, bound, and gagged on the floor.

"Oh, yes," Roland said. "Better than Methos did."

"Better than Methos did?" Kronos repeated with derision. "But she killed you, didn't she?"

The smile disappeared from Roland's face, and the weblines on his face became the color of blood. "She didn't kill me. She got Duncan MacLeod to kill me for her." The paint of the lines dripped down his face to reach his neck, and he faded into shadows again. "Avenge me, Brother!" his voice called.

"I will, Little Brother," Kronos answered, as he knelt beside her. He took out the knife Cassandra had once used to kill him, then he smiled and said more quietly, "After I avenge myself."

He was still smiling as he reached for her, and Cassandra closed her eyes.

Evening 20 June 1996, Isle of Lesvos

Cassandra woke. She kept her eyes closed and held her breath. Her body was relaxed, her heart racing. There was no sound of anyone else breathing nearby, no sensation of another Immortal. She was alone.

She started breathing again, then opened her eyes and looked about her. It was nearly dark outside, and her hotel room was dim and shadowed. The window was open, and the warm breezes from the Mediterranean Sea carried the smells of salt and fish and ripe fruit. Snatches of conversation came from the veranda.

She sat up in bed and hugged her knees to her chest, her head bowed. She had never seen Kronos and Roland together in a tent. Kronos in a tent, and Roland in a tent, yes, but never both together. It had never happened; it had been only a dream.

Cassandra knew all about dreams - more than she wanted to. She stood abruptly and went to walk on the beach.

The moon was only a thin crescent in the sky and gave little light, but Cassandra walked swiftly. The sand was still warm from the long hours of sunshine on this summer solstice day, and the heat penetrated the thin soles of her new sandals.

She stopped walking and stared out at the water. The surf surged in a gentle beat under the bright glimmer of the thin moon. The sea and the moon: they were ever-changing yet ever-constant, like the Goddess, like life. She had watched the sea and the moon for over three millennia, and she watched them still.

She had watched them this morning, too, earlier that day.

Morning of 20 June 1996, Isle of Lesvos

She walked down the hill, away from the ruins of the Temple of Artemis. The crescent moon had set, hidden behind the hills, and the sun was rising over the ocean. It was a new day, a new life. Finally, she was free. After more than three thousand years, the Prophecy had been fulfilled. The Highland Foundling had silenced the Voice of Death. Duncan MacLeod had taken Roland's head.

Cassandra started running down the path to the sea, and she kept running when she reached the beach, slowing only to drop her backpack and strip off her simple gray gown. The water was warm; it was glorious, and she swam out as far as she could. She was free.

Seagulls flew overhead, their cries floating on the air as she floated on the water. Cassandra closed her eyes and let the waves carry her. She had no particular place to go, no particular thing to do. She was free.

The waves carried her back to the shore, and she pulled her robe on, then slept in the shade of a beach umbrella. When she woke, she was hungry. Her vigil at the ruins of the temple had lasted three days, and she had not eaten during that time. She walked to the hotel for lunch.

Cassandra watched the boats and listened to the lilting strains of Strauss while she ate on the hotel's veranda. The fruit was sweet, the bread fresh-baked. While she was drinking her coffee, she asked the waiter for a telephone and called the airport to find information about available flights to Edinburgh. Then she dialed Connor MacLeod's number at his farm in the Highlands. The phone was answered on the third ring.

"MacLeod residence, John speaking."

He sounded a little out of breath, but at least he had better phone manners than his father. Cassandra did not tell him her name; she was not sure Connor would want his family to know about her. "May I speak to Connor MacLeod?"

"Just a minute."

There was a solid clunk as he set the phone down, then she could hear him calling. "Dad! Dad! Phone!" Another voice called in the background, a woman's - "John! You're going to be late for the game. Do you have your gear?" Then it was John's voice again, more distant now, "I'm getting my shoes!" Then running footsteps, a hurried, "Bye, Uncle Dunc! Bye, Dad!" and the slamming of the door.

No wonder John had sounded breathless. And Duncan was there; it was good to know he had followed her suggestion to visit Connor.

Another voice, tolerantly amused, speaking into the phone this time. "Connor MacLeod."

"Connor? Cassandra."

There was a sudden quietness in the background, as though Connor had moved into another room. The tolerance and amusement disappeared from his voice. "Yes?"

"I can fly into Edinburgh this weekend." He did not answer. "Or Monday, if you would prefer." Still no answer. She added more slowly, "If you want to do to the training." She had promised him several weeks ago that she would teach him to resist the Voice, the hypnotic power of persuasion she had learned three millennia ago, when the Temple of Artemis had been a thriving community instead of ruins.

A pause, then he said, "Late Sunday would work. I'll get you a hotel room and pick you up at the airport. What name are you using?"

"Catherine Grant."

"And the flight?"

She told him the flight information, then added, "I'll see you on the twenty-third, then."

"The twenty-third," he agreed. There was a short click, then silence.

Cassandra looked at the phone for a moment. Arrogant annoying man. She called the airport and made her reservations for Sunday, then hung up the phone. She wondered when Duncan was leaving Connor's home in the Highlands. Connor would probably never even mention to her that Duncan had been there.

She left the restaurant, then strolled to the seaside village of Thermi and bought new clothes, a gaily-embroidered blouse and a long skirt of shimmering blue, sunlight on water. She sang as she walked, the sun warm on her back, the bees busy in the gardens that surrounded the hotel.

"Pardon, lady," called the desk clerk Alexos, when Cassandra entered the hotel lobby. He was a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, with dark, curling hair worn long. His English was accented but clear.

Cassandra smiled at him with interest and appreciation, and he smiled back, his teeth very white against his dusky skin. He handed her an envelope, her name scrawled in Greek across the front. "This was for you," he said. "It waited here three weeks. Please excuse us. We did not deliver it when you arrived a few days ago."

Cassandra had not seen her name written in Greek letters for centuries, but she recognized the handwriting immediately. It was Roland's.

She stared at the letter, wishing she could drop the envelope like a snake and watch it slither away. But it was not going to go away. Roland would never go away. Even dead, he would never go away. She put on her mask of composure and kept her voice steady. "You said it had been here three weeks?"

"Yes," Alexos said, eagerly. "I was not here, but my uncle said it came with a picture of you. We were to keep the letter a year for you to arrive. And we did not have to wait so long. You are here soon!" He beamed at Cassandra.

Cassandra smiled back, an empty smile now. "Thank you," she murmured, then made her way to her room. She set the letter gently on the table and walked over to the window and stared at the harbor. The gentle breeze from the sea ruffled her hair.

She could burn it. She could throw it in the sea. She could leave it here and walk away from this hotel, and never know what it said. She did not have to read it.

But she would read it. Roland had probably left other letters waiting for her, other little surprises. She preferred to know.

There were no pictures in the envelope, only a single piece of stationery. She forced herself to look at it. It was written in a variety of languages and alphabets, starting with modern English and ending with the cuneiform script of Mesopotamia. She read the letter through, then read one paragraph again, the ancient Greek script cramped and hard to read.

You believed me in Aberdeen over three and a half centuries ago when I told you that Kronos was dead, but Kronos is alive. I saw him ten years ago. He's reading a letter from me now, just like you are, and finding out that you are alive, too. I told him a lot of other things in the letter, but I don't have time to write them all down for you just now.

Maybe he'll tell you, when he finds you. And he will find you, Cassandra. Just like I did.

The last line of the letter was written in the cuneiform wedges used in Mesopotamia over three thousand years ago. She had spent many hours helping her adopted son Roland remember all those different symbols. He had started learning when he had been six years old, and they had sat together on the bench in front of their house in the cool evening air and practiced. Once in a while he had looked up at her and smiled, revealing the gap of his missing front teeth. He had practiced these particular symbols over and over again.

Your loving son, Roland

Cassandra folded the letter carefully and replaced it in the envelope, then lay on the bed and stared blindly at the wall. For five hours, she lay motionless, remembering ... reliving ... thinking ... planning. She fell asleep, and then she dreamed.

And now it was evening, and the darkness was coming again. The breeze from the sea was warm, but Cassandra shivered and hugged her arms close about her, remembering the curse the village midwife Margaret had laid on her, over four centuries ago in the Scottish Highlands: "May all your friends desert you! May your enemies come back again and again to haunt you! May you be alone all your days!"

The curse had come true. Cassandra had no friends. She had been alone for millennia. Roland was dead, but her ancient enemy Kronos was still alive, and now he was hunting her.

This morning she had thought she was free, but she had been wrong. She would never be free, not until Kronos - and all the men who wanted to hurt her - were dead. But this time, it would be different. This time, there was no Prophecy. This time, she did not have to wait for a Highland Foundling, or anyone else, to help her.

This time, she would be the one to do the killing.

This time, nothing - and no one - was going to stop her.

FRIEND

the dreams that have escaped you

Sunday 23 June 1996, Edinburgh

"Didn't expect to see me, Cassandra?" Connor MacLeod asked when she got off the airplane in Edinburgh.

"No," Cassandra replied. She had thought she would take a cab to the hotel; she had never really expected Connor to pick her up. She settled her backpack more comfortably on her shoulder and started walking swiftly to the baggage claim area. Her sword was in her duffel bag, and she wanted it.

Connor matched her pace, his long beige coat flapping about his calves, his hands deep in his pockets.

Cassandra stole quick glances at him as they made their way through the scattered crowds. His short hair was sun-bleached, strands of bronze gleaming atop the brown. He could have used a comb. He could have used a shave, too. His coat was unbuttoned, and the dark-blue of his sweat-shirt lightened the color of his eyes from the dark-gray of storm clouds to the blue-gray of ocean waves.

His stride was quick and purposeful. Strength, grace, and discipline showed even in that everyday movement. It was the stride of an athlete, a dancer, or a master swordsman. Connor was all of those.

His face was expressionless, save for a certain wariness around the eyes, and a tenseness about the mouth. The soft fullness of his lips was narrowed to a harder line. It was a look common to many Immortals, the look of someone always anticipating - or expecting - an attack.

But Connor added his own particular stamp to that look; there was a layer of sullen coldness over his features that very effectively kept everyone away. It was the way he had looked a few weeks ago, when she had gone to his farm in the Highlands of Scotland and promised she would teach him to resist the Voice.

It was not the way she remembered him.

She claimed her duffel bag, and he drove his Jaguar in silence until they reached the New Town area of Edinburgh. "That's my house, there on the corner," he said.

Cassandra looked out her window at a three-story house with a facade of yellowish stone that had been grimed to black by centuries of smoke and pollution. Wide steps led to the elegant front door, and four large windows on the first floor looked onto the street. All the houses on the street had been built during the Georgian period.

Connor continued driving and pointed out landmarks for her. "To get to the Hawton Hotel, just go around the circle, then take this street until you get to Great King Street. It's not far, about half a kilometer. You won't need a car; Edinburgh is an easy city to walk in." He pulled up in front of the hotel, three Georgian townhouses combined into one larger building. "Do you want help with your bags?"

"No." Cassandra knew he was not really interested in helping her. She picked up her backpack and put it on her lap, then reached behind her and pulled out her duffel bag.

Connor put his hand on her arm and stopped her. "The hotel room is paid for; they'll give you the key when you tell them you're Catherine Grant."

She nodded once. He was the one who had asked her to teach him to resist the Voice. He could pay for it.

Connor said, "My house tomorrow, at nine in the morning?"

She did not bother to nod again. "At nine." Cassandra pulled her arm from his grasp and got out of the car, then shut the door quickly and walked into the hotel without a backward glance.

"How does the Voice work, Cassandra?" Connor asked the next morning, leaning back in the leather wingback chair near the fireplace in the parlor of his elegant - and expensive -townhouse.

Cassandra glanced at him, wishing for the thousandth time in the last four days that she had not promised to teach Connor to resist the Voice. But she had promised, and she would keep that promise, no matter what it cost her, no matter that Kronos might be hunting her down right now. She could not betray Connor again.

He was still leaning back in the chair, still watching her. He did not look as sullen or suspicious as he had looked last night, merely cautious. He was definitely not friendly. There was no fire in the fireplace next to him, of course, now at the beginning of summer. The two floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the street were open, and a breeze made its slow way into the parlor, through the opened folding doors that led into the library, and then escaped from the two windows at the back of the house.

Connor was wearing a deep-green shirt and gray slacks, the same colors he had worn in the Highlands when she had last seen him three weeks ago at his farm. The colors suited him. His eyes looked more gray than blue now, but it was almost a warm gray, burnished pewter instead of cold iron. Perhaps his wife Alex bought his clothes. His wife. His pregnant wife. Artificial insemination was yet another miracle of modern technology.

Connor had obviously come a long way from the man who saved his money for two years to buy a horse. He had done very well for himself over the last four centuries: a house in Edinburgh, a farm in the Highlands, a Jaguar for himself, a car for Alex, another car he had said she could borrow. Connor was paying for her hotel room, too, and that was not cheap. What would it be like to be rich? She was almost out of money; she would have to look for work soon. Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she would be dead.

"Cassandra?"

She jerked her head up, startled. Connor stirred impatiently in his chair and cocked his head to one side. "I'm sorry," she said, trying to focus. "How does the Voice work?" she repeated, wondering how best to explain. She took a sip of her coffee, grateful for its warmth and bitter taste. She had not slept well. Cassandra set her cup on the gracefully carved cherry-wood table in front of her, then tried to sit more comfortably on the Queen Anne-style sofa, its rich brocaded upholstery a darker shade of blue than the washed silk covering the walls. "It is much as I told you," she started. "The Voice works when you know what a person will listen to. To use the Voice, you must learn how to listen, and then how to speak."

Connor was nodding slightly. "How long does it take to learn the Voice?"

"It depends. Some are better at it than others. Women seem to be better at it than men, usually. Some people never learn how to listen to others. They're too busy listening to themselves." She smiled a little in remembrance. "For those that can learn, it usually takes at least ten years to fully master it. It is like any language - the younger you start, the easier it is to learn." She stopped then, and did not smile at that memory. Roland had learned the Voice very quickly; she had started teaching him when he was six. She reached for her coffee and curled her fingers around the delicate china cup, welcoming the lingering warmth.

Connor waited, watching her, then asked, "How do you know what a person will listen to?"

She considered him for a moment before answering. He was not going to like this. "It helps if you know what their native language is. It is even better if you can speak it." She spoke Scots Gaelic, Connor's native tongue. "Also, it helps if you know something about the culture they were born to - city, country, tribe." She paused, then added, "Clan."

His eyes narrowed at that word.

Cassandra had lived in the Highlands longer than he had. Connor was not going to like this next part, either. "And it helps if you know the person, especially if you have known them when they were young, and if you know what has influenced them." She had met Connor when he was twenty-three - a grown man, to be sure, but a very young Immortal. She had been married to Ramirez, Connor's first teacher, and she knew how much Ramirez had meant to Connor.

Connor shifted uncomfortably and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

She set her cup down and took a deep breath. "And, it helps if you know what they like or dislike, what they admire or despise." She had been Connor's teacher; she had lived in the same house with him for six months. He had told her his dreams and his sorrows, his hopes and his fears.

His eyes had hardened to iron now, and his mouth was a thin straight line.

She added softly, unable to stop herself, unable to look away from him, "If you know what they love." She had been Connor's lover. She knew his body. She knew how to make him tremble with desire, how to touch him and leave him gasping, how to make him cry out in ecstatic release. But even more than that, she knew what touched his heart. She knew his soul.

Connor was staring at her intently, sitting very still, very controlled.

She spoke even more quietly. "And if you know what they hate." Connor hated lies and cowardice, treachery and betrayal. Connor had hated her for a very long time.

She stood suddenly and murmured, "Excuse me," then made her way to the entry hall, a cool, high-ceilinged space of stone and dark wood, brightened by flowers on a circular table and by an enormous oriental vase that served as an umbrella stand and a convenient storage place for swords. Cassandra walked past the ornately-carved staircase to the modern kitchen at the back of the house, then went into the bathroom.

When she came back to the parlor some ten minutes later, Connor was standing by one of the two large windows, staring into the street, ignoring her. She stood in the doorway uncertainly, wondering if he would tell her to leave. She knew he would hate being under the influence of the Voice, and he would very likely hate her, too. She did not want to teach Connor, but he had asked her to do this, and she owed him whatever he might ask.

He spoke without turning, his voice abrupt and harsh. "You said it would take at least a month to learn to resist the Voice."

"Yes, well ... I think it will take about that long, maybe two months. I've never taught anyone to resist the Voice before."

He swung around and fixed her with a searching gaze. "Never?"

"No." He was obviously wondering what he was in for, so she added, "When you learn to use the Voice, you also learn to resist it. I was planning on teaching you some of those techniques."

He nodded in satisfaction. "Good."

Cassandra smiled to herself grimly. He would not be so eager to start the next time. She decided to maintain an air of indifference. She knew Connor would not want her to appear sympathetic or, even worse, to smile at him. A simple task, and a very reduced form of the Voice would be best, so he would at least have a chance to learn how to resist her. She knew him very well; she could control him with a single word.

She perched on the edge of the sofa and picked up her cup again. The coffee was cold now, but that did not matter. "Shall we begin?" she asked, her voice cool and remote.

"Put the cup on the table, Connor," Cassandra ordered.

Connor tried to concentrate on the words she was using, tried to ignore the sound of her voice, tried to focus on each separate syllable, as Cassandra had suggested he do. He could not. The words and her voice ran together, a smooth and compelling melody, the siren song of the Voice. His hand started to move toward the table. He stopped it, the muscles in his arm quivering with strain.

"Connor," she said softly, "put the cup down."

Connor watched helplessly as his hand moved toward the table. His hand hovered there, the empty cup held a few inches above the surface. The cup was shaking slightly under the force of his grip. Sweat broke out in his armpits, and his shirt was much too warm. He could smell the rank odor of fear - his fear - as his body betrayed him.

"Down, Connor," she said, as if she were speaking to a dog. "And do it gently," she added as an afterthought.

Connor watched as his hand set the cup gently on the table. He waited until his fingers had uncurled from the cup before he even attempted to control his own arm. "Back," he thought, afraid that his body would betray him again. But his arm moved where he wanted it and obeyed his command. He clenched his fingers into a fist, welcoming the pain as his fingernails dug into his palm. The slight tremors in his muscles were gratifying now instead of infuriating, instead of terrifying.

One more command. He pulled his arm back farther, then backhanded the cup, sweeping it off the table and sending it crashing against the fireplace. The cup shattered on the gray stones of the hearth, and the broken pieces of china scattered over the Aubusson rug and the polished wooden floor. Connor slowly let his breath out through his nose and unclenched his fist. That was better.

Then he turned to see Cassandra watching him. He took another deep breath, quietly and surreptitiously, ordering his body to be calm, refusing to allow his face to flush with embarrassment. He had every right to do what he had done. It was his house. It was his cup. He raised one eyebrow, daring her to comment.

Cassandra broke eye contact with him and turned away from the fireplace to look out the window. After a moment, she asked, still not looking at him, "Do you have a plastic cup we could use?"

A little over an hour later, around eleven in the morning, Connor called a halt. "I usually go running before lunch," he told Cassandra. That was true, but it was not the only reason he wanted to stop. Connor hated listening to her voice, hearing it not just with his ears and his mind, but hearing it inside him, the honeyed words oozing over his skin, those tendrils of domination spreading and winding their way through him. He hated allowing her to control him, knowing she could make him do anything she wanted to. Anything.

He hated having his body follow her commands while a small corner of his mind watched, alert and aware but helpless, screaming silently in useless protest, terrified and trapped and alone. He hated that she understood him so thoroughly, that she knew him so well. He hated everything about it. He hated every second of it. He hated her.

And he hated the way she looked at him. He hated that look of cool detached interest, that all-knowing, all-disdainful stare. There had not been a flicker of amusement or compassion in her the entire morning. No condemnation of his temper, no comment on his increasing sullenness. Nothing. He felt like a bug being tormented by a cat. No, not even that. A cat would have more interest in a bug. Eventually, the cat would eat the bug.

It would have been even worse if she had smiled or pretended to be sorry for him. Then he would have wanted to smash her face the same way he had smashed the cup. God, he hated this.

He stood and stretched, trying to ignore the uncomfortable dampness of his shirt, the sour smell of fear and stale sweat. "I'm going to go change."

Cassandra stood, too. "I'll go back to the hotel. Do you want me to come back after lunch?"

No. He fucking didn't want her to come back after lunch. He never wanted to see her again. He never wanted to hear her voice again. "Yes," he said calmly. "We can work more on it then." He needed to learn how to resist the Voice. He had to do this. Others might know the Voice, and he did not want anybody to be able to control him, especially not her. He had to do this.

She nodded coolly, then went with him to the hall and waited while he took the key from the table-drawer and unlocked the door. Cassandra walked out onto the front step and said, "I'll see you around one-thirty then."

"At one-thirty," he agreed, then shut the door gently behind her and locked it again. He leaned his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. Only two and a half hours until he had to submit to the Voice again. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"What's wrong, Cassandra?" Connor asked her later that day, as he leaned against the kitchen counter and stirred his tea. This time she had been the one to call a halt. He had been glad to stop, even though the afternoon training session had gone marginally better than the morning one. Marginally. He had been able to resist her for almost two seconds instead of one. He still ended up doing whatever she told him to. Fuck.

Connor took another calming breath. He had been taking a lot of them today. He had let out a sigh of relief when they had finally stopped, but somehow, he did not think Cassandra had even noticed. She had been preoccupied and distant all day, and she had been that way last night, too.

She was sitting at the table, stirring her raspberry tea, staring at the movement in the liquid. A single ray of afternoon sunshine came through the clouds and made its way through the window. It managed to reach the table and touch the edge of Cassandra's teacup. She had not even moved when he had asked her the question.

Cassandra was tired; that was obvious. She looked no older, of course, but the fine-etched lines of strain around her eyes were more pronounced, and the generous curves of her lips were tightened and compressed. She wore no make-up, and the translucent skin above her high cheekbones showed faint-blue smudges, shadows of exhaustion that dulled the changeable sea-green of her eyes almost to a flat gray. The black shirt and jeans she wore did not help.

The only touches of color about her were the dangling silver teardrops of her earrings, and the very pale red of her mouth. Even her hair, which in the past had put Connor in mind of sunshine on ripe wheat, seemed darkened to a simple brown, lacking the gold and copper highlights he remembered. She had pulled her long hair back into a simple ponytail, and the style was too severe for her face.

Cassandra was still attractive, tall and graceful, slender yet curvaceous, but right now she was not a woman anyone would have looked twice at. Connor suspected she wanted it that way. A woman who wanted to be noticed as a woman moved with a certain swing to her hips, a certain faint smile on her lips, a certain proud look in her eyes. He had seen Cassandra move that way, many years ago. He had seen men stop and stare when she walked past. He had seen a young lad drop a tray and blush when she had merely smiled. He had seen Cassandra when she was beautiful.

Now, Cassandra moved quietly and efficiently, self-effacing in her silence. No smile touched her lips, no certainty or pride shone from her eyes. No beauty showed.

Yes, she was tired, but there was something else going on. He was going to find out what it was. He repeated the question. "What's wrong, Cassandra?"

She looked up from her contemplation of the sunshine on the ripples. "What do you mean?" Her face was serene, her voice calm, her eyes wide and innocent.

Connor ground his teeth together. While he had been running, he had realized it was not fair of him to hate her; he had asked her to teach him. Connor would be on guard against that hatred in the future. But she still irritated the hell out of him. Did she really think he was so stupid he would not realize when she was hiding something? Or maybe she just didn't want to admit to anything. All right. He would spell it out for her. "Roland's dead; the prophecy's fulfilled - and you're not happy."

She shrugged and went back to staring at the tea. "Nothing's wrong."

He walked over to her in two quick steps and grabbed her by the throat, right under the chin, forcing her head back so she would look at him. His fingers pressed painfully on her arteries. He knew how much she hated that, how much it reminded her of Roland. He could see the flare of panic in her eyes. Good. He didn't hate her, but he didn't mind intimidating her. He didn't mind at all.

"Don't lie to me, Cassandra." He squeezed a little harder. "Not again." If she tried to use the Voice, he would squeeze even more. "Not ever." He kept his hand there, but relaxed the pressure. "What's wrong?" he repeated. She had damn well better not lie to him now.

The flare of panic became anger, then changed immediately into resigned acceptance. She nodded as best she could with his hand still on her. "No lies," she agreed. "Ever."

He let go of her and waited. He did not step back.

Cassandra's gaze went back to the teacup, and she said softly, "There is - an old enemy of mine, named Kronos. I thought he was dead."

She lifted her head and stared at him, and he was surprised to see the pure hate in her eyes. With Roland the hate had been tempered by guilt and shame and hopelessness. She had not been able to kill her son. Now there was just hate.

Her voice was flat. "I'm going to kill him."

Connor nodded and moved away. This he understood. He picked up his own cup of tea and sat down across from her at the table.

"I found out he was alive on Thursday," she said. She took a sip, then poured a little of the tea into her saucer. "After I called you at your farm, and we agreed to meet here."

He knew her flight had come from Athens. "Did you see him in Greece?"

"No." She dabbled her fingertips in the red liquid, making smooth swirling patterns. "I received a letter, telling me Kronos was alive."

"Who sent the letter?" he asked.

She lifted her hand and rubbed her thumb slowly along the tips of her fingers, then very deliberately clenched her fingers into a fist until her nails sliced into her palm. "Roland. He had left the letter for me before he died."

Connor shook his head in confusion. "How did Roland know where he should leave the letter?"

Cassandra unclenched her fist and laid her hand flat on the table, then shrugged one shoulder. "He understood me."

Connor snorted derisively. He didn't think anyone really understood her, not even Cassandra herself.

"Kronos was Roland's teacher," she explained, ignoring his reaction. "They met over three thousand years ago, before the fall of Troy."

"And is that why Kronos is your enemy?" Rather hard, he thought, to blame Roland's misdeeds on his teacher. Not even the best teachers had all of their students turn out well.

"No," she said, flatly. "Kronos was my teacher, too."

Connor hid his start of surprise by reaching for his tea again. Cassandra had mentioned her teacher to him only once before, four hundred years ago, and Connor still remembered the depth of pain and hate that had been in her voice and in her eyes. The pain had become hunger now, but the hate was still there. Connor knew that look.

She blinked, and the hate and the hunger were hidden again. She picked up her napkin and carefully dried her hand, leaving pale-pink smears of tea and darker smears of blood on the white cloth. "He was my teacher," she repeated evenly, "and I am going to kill him."

Connor nodded, accepting that.

"Connor ...," she began, finally lifting her eyes to him, eyes that were no longer flat gray, but cold dark-green, "would you help me?"

Connor leaned back in his chair and looked at her warily. And just what did she mean by that?

"Not to fight him," she added quickly. "I couldn't ... with Roland... It..." Her lips tightened briefly, then she leaned forward and said earnestly, "I don't ever want to have to wait for someone to fight for me again. This is my battle, and I want to kill him. But ...," she paused, then admitted in embarrassment, "... I'm out of practice with a sword. Can you help me train, be my sparring partner?" She smiled a little, hesitantly. "For old time's sake?"

Connor looked her up and down with a critical eye. She had been his teacher once, many years ago. He nodded. "For old time's sake," he agreed.

Cassandra shrugged ruefully. "It won't be like the old days, though. You've learned a lot since then."

Connor permitted himself a smile and picked up his cup of tea. It would be good to knock her on her backside a few times, for old time's sake. "All right. We can practice working on the Voice in the morning and spar in the afternoon, upstairs in the exercise room."

"Tomorrow afternoon," Cassandra agreed. She still did not look happy.

Connor knocked Cassandra to the floor for the third time that afternoon. He swung his katana gracefully and held it casually an inch away from her neck. Her sword lay on the floor on the other side of the room. Her loose T-shirt and leggings were cut and sliced, spattered and stained with blood, both old and new, and she was panting heavily. Connor was untouched.

He did not offer to help her get to her feet, but walked away from her and went to the table that stood underneath the three windows on the front wall of the house. He had had the house renovated almost two years ago, soon after he had moved to Scotland with his new wife Alex and his son John. Most of the third floor had been converted to an exercise space. The staircase went through the center of the house, neatly dividing the sparring floor and weight-lifting equipment from the area which held the bath, the office, and the storage room. Connor took a long drink from his water bottle and looked out the window.

He had owned this land for almost four hundred years, and he could remember a time when cows and chickens had roamed the rutted paths that served as streets, before the rows of Georgian houses had been built. He could remember the smells, too. Progress wasn't all bad.

Cassandra joined him and laid her sword on the table. She picked up her own water bottle and sat down in the chair.

Connor did not turn from the window. "I thought you were better than this."

"I was." She took several slow deep breaths, trying in vain to hide how tired she really was. "I haven't used a sword much lately."

"Lately?" he said scathingly, looking at her now. "You act like you haven't even picked one up in centuries."

"As I said," she answered coolly, reminding him of how old she was, how old he was. "Lately."

Connor's jaw tightened at her remark. He did not like being patronized. "How long has it been?" he demanded.

She shrugged. "Over three and a half centuries."

Connor turned to stare at her, incredulous. "How the hell have you survived?"

"Survived?" Her voice was bitter. "I existed."

He shook his head, still not quite believing this. "How?"

"I hid. I ran. I used the Voice." She looked at the sword on the table and spoke softly. "I don't like being a killer."

"You want to kill Kronos," he reminded her.

Cassandra took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, and he could see the hate in her eyes again. "Yes," she said. "That, I want."

He kept his tone dry and unemotional. "Then you need to practice." He stood up and moved to the center of the floor, then held his katana in the ready stance and looked at her inquiringly.

She gritted her teeth and went to face him again.

The sparring session ended after another agonizing hour, and Cassandra left Connor's house immediately for her hotel. She did not want to go back to his house the next day. She did not want to teach him to resist the Voice. She never wanted to face him over swords again.

She had no choice.

Continued...