Part Two – Deception

Kronos spied her as she walked through the door. She wore an absurdly loud orange sun dress, but somehow the color suited her summer-tanned skin and the dark hair that hung at a bob to her chin. He'd wanted to grab her by that hair and drag her into the boiler room when they were alone in the basement.

And Methos always said he lacked control.

She saw him and smiled and took a seat at his table. "Good choice," she said of the restaurant.

"You've eaten here before?" he asked.

"There are only five decent restaurants in town," she replied. She didn't even bother looking at the menu. "The fillet mignon is excellent – medium rare."

Kronos glanced down at the menu, puzzled.

"It's not on there. You just have to ask for it."

"Ah," he said and laid the menu on the table. "Beer or wine, then?"

Michele shook her head. "This place is BYO."

"I know," he said and pulled out a small cooler from under the table. "I brought a nice red – and some Guinness."

Michele eyed the selection. "Guinness? Careful there – or I might fall in love with you."

"Beer it is," Kronos took out a bottle and opened it for her before handing it over.

He watched her lift the bottle to her mouth. Painted lips closed around the mouth of the bottle. She took a swig and when she was done she licked her lips clean. Each movement was natural, without explicit intent, but that didn't stop Kronos from noticing, from watching her swallow.

Their waiter arrived at the table. He asked if they needed a few minutes, but they were ready to order. Michele took her usual and Kronos had the same. She smiled when he said he was 'taking the lady's advice'.

With their food ordered and waiter gone, it was time to make conversation. "Are you from Britain?" Michele asked.

"I suppose that depends on what you mean by 'from'." Kronos replied. "My passport is British, but I'm Eastern European by birth."

Michele had suspected as much. "I thought there was something about your accent that was not-quite-British."

Kronos laughed. "I never was very good with languages. It takes me a hundred years to pick one up." He took a swig of his beer. "And you're American, I take it."

"First generation on dad's side, third on mom's – Italian, Polish, Czech and Slovak."

"Ah, a fellow Easterner!" Kronos saluted her with his drink.

"More or less," she said, laughing. "Mostly less. I know about five words in Polish and that's it."

Kronos watched her take another sip of her beer. "I think I like Americans more than any other people I've encountered."

That was something Michele had never heard anyone say before. "Why is that?" she asked, curious.

"I don't know," Kronos said. He leaned back in his chair, considering his answer. "Something about how enthusiastically they embrace wickedness."

Michele nearly choked on her drink from laughing. "You mean like Vegas, the wild west … Al Capone?"

"Don't forget capitalism, manifest destiny, the 'big stick'. I admire a race that unabashedly prides itself on a culture of evil. So honest…" he tailed off.

Michele shook her head in amusement. "You like honesty, then?"

"I never was a fan of intrigue or deception," he replied. "I much prefer a direct approach."

"Well, on that note…" She pointed at his scar. "May I ask how that happened?"

Kronos lifted a hand to his face. "I was rather hot-tempered in my youth. I didn't always know when to keep my mouth shut."

"Let me guess. You took the direct approach."

That was an understatement of some immensity, if Kronos remembered those events correctly. "I picked a fight with someone who was bigger, stronger and better armed," he said. "Not a good combination."

"I hope you learned your lesson," Michele said.

Kronos nodded. "Oh, I did." Yes, he'd learned a lot that day. And soon thereafter the young warrior who cut him learned not to turn his back on Kronos. Or he would have, if Kronos had given him the chance to do so again.

Their appetizers arrived and they continued to eat and drink. They laughed at each other's jokes as the conversation wound its way through work, film, religion and politics. A short time later the waiter returned with their main course. It was the last thing Michele remembered.


He watched her stir. Her eyes fluttered open and her unfocused gaze recognized him.

"Where … where am I?"

Her words were slurred but he understood them well enough. "Somewhere we won't be disturbed."

"My head …" It throbbed painfully despite the fact she'd only had one drink. She tried to cover her eyes with her hands, but couldn't move them. Handcuffs held them firmly above her head. "What the…?"

"It'll be awhile before the drugs wear off," Kronos told her. "I had to be sure you'd come quietly."

"Let me go," she cried, pulling at the shackles binding her hands.

"Sorry," he said – his tone was anything but. "I can't let you leave just yet."

"Why?" she asked, her dazed mind growing ever more frantic. "What do you want?"

Kronos chuckled, then he took her chin in his hand and leaned down to kiss her, brushing her lips lightly with his. He withdrew, and without warning, pinched her nose closed with his fingers. He reached for a glass of water sitting on the nightstand and when she gasped for breath he poured the liquid down her throat. She choked on the water as it filled her mouth and lungs. When the glass was empty Kronos tossed it aside. He watched her cough violently as she cleared the water from her lungs.

"What I want," he said, as she gasped for breath, "is to see what happens next."