Chapter Two
It was snowing only slightly as Salera, now using the surname "Neves", dropped the second coin into the slot and listened as the catch released. Opening the small door with one gloved hand she reached in with the other and extracted a copy of USA Today. Before letting the door slam shut a sudden whim caused her to retrieve an additional copy. Smiling at a thrill as petty as the larceny she straightened up and continued on her way, not breaking her unhurried stride as she dropped the surplus newspaper into a trash bin. She allowed herself to stroll almost absently as her eyes played over the various headlines of her new acquisition. There was the usual mix of celebrity fluff, consumer advertisements and "serious" news. And mortals did indeed take a great number of things seriously. Her earlier smile returned and grew as she read about a possible civil war sparking up in the Balkans, rioting coalminers in north-west China and a novel little fellow in Wyoming who beat four cab drivers to death with a frozen salami while dressed as President Taft. "…just can't make this stuff up", she breathed to herself.
By the time she'd finished scanning the interview with O.J. Simpson's fifth grade teacher she was nearly at her destination. Folding the paper into a neat rectangle she casually studied the old industrial building that housed the dojo owned by Duncan Macleod. She guessed that it was about 110 feet distant and her guesses were more often right than not. She also guessed that her quarry was presently somewhere inside those rough-hewn walls. Of course it was an educated guess. The spies she'd sent ahead of her several weeks earlier had kept a close yet artfully subtle eye on the comings and goings of Mr. Macleod. The Scotsman was, of course, smart enough to avoid too predictable a pattern in his habits and movements but the odds were good that, just now, he was right where she wanted him.
The woman took a step forward – just under 108 feet now. Nothing. A gust of wind herded some litter across the lonely, snow-kissed alley. Another step – 106 feet. It could be tricky business gauging the radius of a particular Immortal's sphere of engagement, the "Buzz" as the Watchers called it. By any name the sensation was a near-impossible to describe cool tingle of flesh and heightening of senses that alerted one Immortal to the proximity of another, and it was functionally impossible to ignore. The effect's onset could rouse one from the deepest sleep and cut through all but the most excessive of stupors. It's radius of effect was largely dependent upon both of the Immortals in play and their experience levels, relative to each other. A true champion who'd amassed a great many Quickenings would actually begin to project a somewhat wider "Buzz" zone than a novice. Rather than give the champion an advantage, however, this would only really serve to give early warning to greener rivals. "Self-passive" was the term Salera used to describe the effect – herald, not spy.
98 feet.
Salera had done a great deal of research into all aspects of Immortal life and death, designing and carrying out dozens of experiments on herself and assorted volunteers (though, in truth, some were more voluntary than others). With an I.Q. as measured by the Stanford-Binet test of 191 she'd always been a smart one; intensely curious and quick to adapt to new circumstances even as a child. Often this had been an asset. In 1838 when she was 31 years old it had killed her. Salera had been less than cautious while stealing a closer look at an electric dynamo which had been part of a traveling sideshow passing through Lisbon. Her first taste of lightning. When a member of the sideshow's company – an Immortal strongman called Octavius but really named Ned – had dug her out of her grave forty-eight hours later, her curiosity about her startling new circumstance had quickly overpowered her shock.
Ned, quite taken with her, had agreed to leave the company and become her mentor. They'd traveled across much of Europe supporting themselves with odd jobs – there was always work for someone of Ned's great size and strength – and he'd taught her all that he knew about fighting, about surviving, as an Immortal. And Salera had learned deeply, never faltering in her zealous pursuit of knowledge, absorbing like a blotter all that the strongman had to give. And when he had taught her everything he could she'd killed him.
88 feet.
It wasn't that she'd returned none of Ned's affections – she was actually quite fond of him, and genuinely grateful for all that he'd done for her. But she liked the idea of this Game – really liked it – and was eager to get into it, up to her elbows and more, regardless of how it stained her. The thought of losing this second virginity by besting such a mighty champion as Ned and using nothing but her wits to do it, well, that was more than irresistible to her – it was compulsory. She didn't kill him in his sleep, didn't get him drunk or put him at any other grossly unfair disadvantage – she didn't even play off his affection for her. She'd simply left an anonymous note of challenge in the pocket of a shirt he'd hung out to dry, written with her left hand so as to disguise its authorship. It invited Ned to a midnight meeting in a small churchyard behind a local chapel. When he'd told her about the note, she'd feigned concern, for in all their months together no other Immortal had crossed their paths. He'd told her that this was the way of their world and that she should be strong and not worry – he took every challenge seriously and would exercise due caution. She'd said that she was glad of that and meant it.
79 feet.
After Ned had left to meet his challenger Salera had hidden her face and hair behind a long woven scarf, pulled on a heavy brown cloak, took up her scimitar and stole out into the darkness. The pounding of her heart had filled her as she'd rushed to keep their appointment. She'd felt not happy, but giddy with excitement and terror, and would later remember nothing of her mad dash except the point at which she'd caught sight of the chapel. Ned was right where she'd expected him to be, of course, in the center of the humble cemetery; his single-edged axe at rest against a slate marker for there was no danger here on Holy Ground. He'd called out something in his rich baritone upon seeing her approach, his name perhaps, but the words failed against the rush of blood in her ears. She'd walked straight up to him – she could scarcely believe her own audacity and seemed almost to watch her actions from a distance, from a dream – and with one practiced move sliced halfway through his neck.
That wasn't at all how she'd imagined things going. The grisly failure of her strike banished her sense of euphoria. Suddenly the coldness of the night air and the weight of her weapon, her cloak and her very limbs fell upon her with a terrible immediacy. A thick, hot spray of her teacher's blood had soaked her scarf and steam rose before her eyes. Ned had stumbled back, eyes wide with disbelief, and groped for his weapon, but his movements were uncontrolled and he quickly fell to the ground, the signals from his brain sabotaged by the trauma. Rooted by shock she'd simply stared into the anguished face of the one who had pulled her from the grave, his great limbs wracked with ugly spasms until pins and needles told her she'd stopped breathing.
It was with a different kind of detachment than her previous euphoria that she'd stepped over to Ned's side, raised her sword and finished the job. She never knew whether or not he'd recognized her weapon or her eyes. She hoped he hadn't. Salera took some comfort in the fact that Ned had often overlooked details. Details like the stains on her frock that last evening – mud from the field and blood from her quickly healed palms that had been worked raw as she'd labored to build the cemetery while Ned had been earning their living. She'd stolen the irregularly cut blank slates from a mason's slag pile and prayed that a near-full moon wouldn't reveal her sleight of hand. At least she hadn't needed to construct the vacant chapel nearby. Neither did she need to dismantle the mock churchyard – her first Quickening knocked every marker flat. One alone did she raise back up again, but marked it only with a kiss.
At about 70 feet it occurred.
She thrilled for a moment in the exhilarating sensation, rather like a shark catching the feint, coppery scent of distant blood, and smiled at the knowledge that it wasn't hers alone. After several seconds the Venetian blinds masking a third story window parted slightly and she felt the measured gaze of unseen eyes rake over her. Salera reached up one gloved hand and doffed her wool-knit hat in salute. She then turned merrily on her heel and melted into the welcoming darkness.