Hope Remembered III: CONFIDANTE

Chapter 4


27 November 1996
Duran Estancia


When Elena awoke the next morning, she was surprised to see bright sunshine coming though the French doors. She hadn't slept this late for four and a half months. She hadn't slept this long, either. Bethel had not let her sleep very much, not for the twenty-three days he had held her prisoner. And after that, even after she had escaped, even after he had been beheaded, she still had not been able to sleep. Bethel owned her nights. But she had slept last night, for a few hours, and she knew why. She turned to look at the woman next to her.

Cassandra was still peacefully asleep, as she had been asleep all night. She did not have screaming nightmares. Her long hair was spread over her pillow, her eyes—both her eyes!—closed, her cheek pillowed on her hand. Cassandra had said that Roland had chased her and brutalized her for three thousand years, but she bore no marks of it. She was still beautiful, and Elena hated her for it.

Elena got out of bed abruptly and poured herself a drink. It was still early, but not too early for a drink. Wasn't it? It didn't matter. She had not done any drinking during her four days of self- imposed imprisonment in her dojo. But she had had a few drinks on Sunday, after she had met Cassandra at the church. Seeing the other woman had brought back memories which Elena did not want to remember.

Then yesterday, after that other Immortal, Horowitz, had come for her just before dawn, Elena had had more than a few drinks. A lot more. At least she was getting drunk on good, single-malt whisky, instead of that cheap rotgut Scotch she had drunk before she had met the MacLeods. She lifted her glass in a silent toast to them. That was one thing they had left her—something good to get drunk on.

But before Elena could toss her drink down, Cassandra awoke and looked at her. Elena paused with the glass halfway to her lips, aware of the picture she presented. She was stark naked, still much too thin, standing there at eight o'clock in the morning with a shot of whisky in her hand. At least she didn't have to worry about brushing her hair. She gave Cassandra an ironic glance and tossed back the whisky. "Want a drink?" she asked, not at all politely.

Cassandra sat up in bed, her hair falling gracefully around her shoulders. "Yes."

"Good. I don't like to drink alone." She walked over and handed the bottle to Cassandra, noting it was almost empty. No problem. Plenty more where that came from.

"Nor I."

"Yeah." Elena waited to see if the older Immortal was going to say anything about last night or smile at her in a cheerful greeting. She waited for the knowing glance, the strength and confidence in the face of Elena's weakness and humiliation. Just like the night before, when Elena had screamed in fear and terror, humiliating herself, showing her weakness. Then she had asked Cassandra to stay with her, like a child afraid of the dark. Elena waited for the calm, condescending words designed to soothe her ego, to tell her it was all right, that it was understandable, that Cassandra knew how she felt. Elena did not want to hear any of it.

But Cassandra said nothing, merely sat in the bed and sipped at her drink, looking out the window, beautiful and composed.

"Well, I can't stand around here forever," Elena said, as she clunked her glass on the night table. "I'm getting dressed and going downstairs. Although Carmela will insist I eat." Elena waited for Cassandra to tell her again how lucky she was.

Cassandra merely nodded, still silent, then tossed back her own drink. She leaned over and set her empty glass next to Elena's. "Maybe after breakfast we could talk," she suggested, stretching both arms over her head, revealing the full roundness of her breasts under the fabric of her T-shirt. Cassandra wasn't too thin.

"Well. I'm about talked out, but you haven't been doing a lot of talking, Cassandra. I think it's your turn," Elena snarled. She stalked to the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

When she finished her shower and came back into her bedroom, Cassandra was gone.


Elena walked into the large dining room warily, amid sounds of bright chatter and laughter.

Cassandra and Carmela were sitting at the long oak table, talking animatedly. It was the first time Elena had seen Cassandra seem interested in anything. Cassandra even sounded happy. She was dressed in a white cotton shirt and blue shorts which revealed her long tanned legs. Her hair lay in shining waves along her back and shoulders.

Elena laid her sword, still sheathed, on the sideboard, then set the empty Scotch bottle next to it. There were fresh flowers on the table and a lot of food. Too much food: banana bread, rolls, empanadas, bananas, fresh strawberries. The smells made her sick. "Coffee, please, Carmela," she said as she made her way to the head of the table and sat down.

"Just coffee?" Carmela asked, getting up and standing next to the table.

Elena saw the old woman glance quickly toward the sideboard. She wondered if Carmela was going to say anything about her sword, or about the empty bottle. She had better not.

Carmela said, "Please have some strawberries, Mariaelena. And I made these empanadas, just for you. They're chick—"

"I'm not hungry, Carmela," Elena interrupted, leaning forward. "Just coffee." Her voice was a little thick, and more than a little hostile. She added, "Gracias," but she couldn't make even that sound gracious.

Carmela stared at her for a moment, opened her mouth, closed it, then poured Elena some coffee. She glanced once at Cassandra, who was staring at her plate of food, and went into the kitchen.

Elena sat back, sulking. The pleasant conversation had ended at her entrance, and the cheerful atmosphere had disappeared. At least the espresso was strong and hot. Elena didn't drink it in a little demitasse. She added milk and more sugar, then wrapped her hands around the mug, trying not to notice how bony her long, thin fingers looked. She gulped her coffee, just as she had been gulping her whisky while she dressed. Scottish coffee, she could call it, just in two separate doses. It roiled in her stomach as she watched Cassandra eat. Carmela came back with a platter of eggs, and the aromas of onions, garlic, and green peppers wafted behind her. Elena's stomach was doing more than roiling now. One of Carmela's great-grandchildren, a boy of about five, came out of the kitchen with her, but the old woman sent him back into the kitchen with a curt word.

Elena wondered if Carmela was afraid of her, afraid that she might somehow hurt a child. She wanted to be angry about that, but at the moment, she didn't much care what Carmela thought. What anyone thought.

Raul came into the dining room, his nails clicking on the floor tiles, and Carmela shooed at him, waving her apron with her left hand, balancing the platter of eggs in her right. "That dog is always sneaking inside," she complained. "!Vamos, largate, condenao!"

"He stays," Elena said tersely.

Carmela glanced at her mistress, her lips pressed together. She slammed the food down on the table and went back into the kitchen. She did not return to the dining room.

Raul, who had been backing away and whining softly under the housekeeper's fluttering apron attack, now came forward again. He sniffed at Elena delicately, then went around the table to sit next to Cassandra, pressing his nose against her thigh.

"Hola, Raul," Cassandra murmured softly, caressing the dog's head.

Great! Elena thought. Now all that was needed was for the horses to trail after her, like ducklings, and for the children to start calling her Auntie, tia Cassi. Maybe Cassandra would like to move in permanently. Everyone liked her—Carmela, the cat, the dogs. Maybe they preferred her.

For a long, silent ten minutes Elena watched Cassandra eat. Cassandra had a good appetite. Elena wondered if this Roland had fed Cassandra delicacies while he was busy terrorizing her. Finally, Elena couldn't stand it any longer. She shoved her chair back from the table with an audible scrape on the floor. "Are you done eating yet?" she asked.

Cassandra set down the remaining half of her roll. "Yes."

"Excellent," Elena said as she stood. "We didn't finish our tour of the house yesterday." There was one place she really wanted to show this woman, one place she was sure Cassandra wouldn't be so damn condescending, so damn cheerful, so damn ... normal; one place Elena felt in control. "Let's go see the ballroom."

Elena picked up her sword from the sideboard, then unlocked the door to what used to be the ballroom. Elena didn't do much dancing these days, and the room was outfitted as a dojo now. On the threshold, she took a deep breath. It smelled of lemon and oil; Carmela had taken her chance yesterday to make sure the room was thoroughly cleaned. The wooden floor gleamed, the mirrors that lined the inside wall sparkled, and bright sunshine came through the French doors that led to the outside.

Long years of training took over, and Elena bowed quickly at the door, then walked inside. Even the many weapons that hung on the wall were clean and shining. Someone had dusted every single sword, the ax as well. She looked them over, wishing her broadsword were here, the one her father had given her, the one she had sworn to herself she would die before losing, the one Claude Bethel had taken from her.


4 October 1996
Bethel's Basement


When Elena finally "revived" in Bethel's basement in New York City, she was strapped, naked, to a metal chair. Leather bindings wrapped around her wrists and ankles; bands strapped tight across her waist and forehead.

Bethel picked up her sword and examined it carefully. "An exquisite work of art. Toledo, of course. Oh, don't worry," he said smiling. "I promise I won't use it to behead you."

But then he did something far worse. He clamped her sword in a vise, then leaned his weight against it suddenly, snapping it. Elena wailed, grief and sorrow flooding over her rage, knowing she would remember the sound of her broken sword forever.

"I will break you, Maria Elena Duran, just like I broke your blade," he hissed directly in her face, his breath visible in the cold, windowless basement.


26 November 1996
Duran Estancia, Argentina


He had kept his promise. For twenty-three days, he had hurt her; he had broken her. And he had done it for fun, because he enjoyed it.

Elena shook off the memory and walked over to the wall of swords. At least Don Alvaro's own sword was still here. Xavier St. Cloud, the Moorish Immortal who had beheaded her father in 1659, had pretty much looted the house before leaving, but he hadn't taken her father's weapon. She still had that.

She put her katana down on the floor, then pulled Don Alvaro's sword down from the wall and slowly unsheathed it. The soft swish it made was familiar, comforting. She swallowed over the sudden lump in her throat. As she balanced the weapon in her hand, she noted it was too heavy for her. All the swords were too heavy, except for her katana, and she couldn't handle even that for too long without getting exhausted. She turned to see Cassandra still standing in the doorway, Raul by her side. Cassandra didn't have to know the swords were too heavy, or how exhausted Elena was.

"Come in, come in!" she invited, with a broad sweep of the sword in her hand.

Cassandra sent the dog away, then entered the ballroom, but made no move to come closer. She did not look scared, only watchful.

Elena wanted to see Cassandra look scared. "Want to spar?" she suggested, doing a practice lunge with the sword.

Cassandra shook her head. "I came here to talk."

"Come on, Cassandra. We could both use a little exercise."

She shrugged, that small elegant shrug that Elena hated. "Maybe I'll go running later."

Elena raised her head at that word, like a hound picking up a scent. "Oh, yes, you'll go running. You're good at running, aren't you? But are you good at fighting?"

"I didn't come here to fight, Elena. And you said it was my turn to talk."

"We won't be fighting." Elena put the sword back in its scabbard, then walked over and picked up two bokken, practice swords made of bamboo. "Just practicing."

She tossed one of them to Cassandra. The other woman caught it easily, but held it stiffly, away from her body. Elena smiled to herself. It was good to see Dona Perfecta wasn't good at everything. "We could start with the bokken, then use steel blades later," Elena suggested. "Do you want to get your sword now?" She was frankly curious as to what kind of weapon Cassandra had. Elena hadn't seen any signs of one yet. It was probably still upstairs, in Cassandra's luggage.

Cassandra stood by the door, her hand gripping the hilt of the bamboo weapon. But she said nothing, and she did not move.

So Elena stepped toward her, a gloating and incredulous smile on her face. "I don't believe it. You don't have a sword, do you?"

Cassandra did not respond.

Elena's smile broadened. This was even better. "Tell me, Cassandra," she asked, "just how the hell do you fight?"

Cassandra didn't respond to that, either.

Elena snapped her fingers in mocking realization. "Oh wait, I forgot. You don't fight; you run. You run for decades. You run for centuries. Hell, you run for millennia! Congratulations on breaking the record for total, long-lasting, mind-numbing cowardice!"

Cassandra tossed the bokken toward Elena. It slid across the polished wooden floor, then stopped at Elena's feet. "I guess this isn't a good time to talk." Cassandra turned to go.

Elena wasn't going to let her get away that easily. She followed her to the door and yelled after her, "Hey, you're still good at running, Cassandra. Must be all that practice you've had!"

Elena watched as Cassandra moved smoothly through the dining room. The other woman disappeared from sight, but Elena could hear her footsteps sedately going up the stairs.

Elena slammed the door shut, then thought about what had happened. Why was Cassandra running? Cassandra had not looked afraid, just ... what? Shy? Weak? Surely no Immortal her age was quite that timid. Hell, this woman had just gone after the Four Horsemen! So why was she running from Elena, from a few harsh words? She had said she wanted to talk, but she didn't say anything to defend herself. She didn't fight back; she didn't attack. She just stood there, and then she walked away.

The more Elena thought about it, the less angry she got. And the more she decided she wanted to find out what the hell was going on in Cassandra's twisted, anguished psyche. She needed to get the old Immortal to talk; and that meant she needed to get a real reaction out of Cassandra. More than just running.

So she went back for her katana, opened the door, and followed the older Immortal upstairs. Cassandra had gone in her bedroom and closed the door. Elena burst through, not even bothering to knock.

Cassandra kept her back to Elena and stared out the window at the stables beyond the fence.

Elena didn't like being ignored. She took another two steps into the room. "I can't believe you just ran away from me like that. Don't you get tired of being a coward?" she asked, calmer now, with a mixture of curiosity and condescension.

Cassandra turned slowly and deliberately, then examined Elena. Her gaze was disinterested and clinical, and it paused on the sword Elena held in her right hand. "Don't you get tired of being a murderer?" Cassandra asked, sounding almost bored.

Elena stared at her, incredulous. "All Immortals kill, Cassandra. And you must have, too, at some point. It's what we do. It's not murder."

Cassandra gave a small snort of derision.

Elena stiffened in annoyance. Even this woman's snorts were elegant. Elena's annoyance turned to contempt, and she gave up on being calm, which wasn't working anyway. "At least I do my own killing! I don't fuck a man so he'll do it for me." Elena was very pleased to see Cassandra's eyes narrow. A reaction from Dona Perfecta at last! Elena kept pushing. "How the hell have you lived for three thousand years?"

Elena knew Duncan had killed Roland for Cassandra, and Duncan had killed Kronos and Caspian, too. Cassandra had offered Duncan her body so he would do her killing for her. What a whore! Elena's snort of derision wasn't elegant, but it was truly heartfelt. She examined Cassandra in the same insulting, clinical way. "How many men have you fucked over the centuries so they would protect you?"

Cassandra took a step forward and spoke slowly and deliberately. "Connor killed Bethel. You didn't." Her voice wasn't calm now; it was filled with contempt. "You couldn't. You let a man do your killing for you, too."

Elena was stung, but she tried, unsuccessfully, not to let it show. But what Connor had done was different, !cono! Elena said hotly, "I didn't fuck Connor to get him to kill B-Bethel for me!"

Cassandra looked at her, her gaze lingering on the eyepatch and the stubble of hair, then moving thoroughly over the rest of her. Cassandra was not being clinical and dispassionate now; she was judging. She smiled slightly and said slowly, almost drawling out the words, "No. I don't think fucking you would have been much of an incentive for him."

Elena felt her stomach muscles contract as though she'd been punched. Her cheeks were burning, and her breath caught in her throat. The fucking bitch! How dare she come to her house and then mock her like this, ridicule her pain? !Puta arrogante! She closed the distance between them in a few quick strides, then breathed right in Cassandra's face. "You know what I think, Cassandra? I don't think you came here to talk. I think you came here to gloat, to make yourself feel superior. I think you lied to me." She took a deep breath, barely controlling the urge to break that beautiful nose. She had promised she would not attack. But if Cassandra attacked her first...

And if she didn't, well, Elena could still use words. "You're a liar, Cassandra. And you're a coward."

Cassandra did not respond to that. Not even by a flicker of an eyelash. Nothing. She was still the ice princess, still confident, calm, controlled.

Elena was not calm, and she didn't want Cassandra to be, either. So Elena struck at the one thing Cassandra had responded to. "And, Cassandra, you are a whore."

Cassandra drew in her breath sharply.

So, the ice princess wasn't frozen, after all, Elena gloated. Cassandra wasn't just standing there anymore, either. She was rigid, her hands clenched into fists. For a minute, Elena thought Cassandra was actually going to hit her. Elena smiled to herself, not at all bothered by that prospect. If Cassandra tried to hit her, then she would be breaking her word not to fight, and that meant Elena could fight, too. And Elena wanted to fight.

Cassandra let her breath out slowly and stepped back. Her voice was not at all calm now. It was low and angry, and malevolently cold. "And you, Elena, are an ungrateful, vicious bitch." She looked Elena over once again. Now her voice changed to amused sarcasm. "Is that why Connor and Duncan left you?" She added sweetly, "All alone?"

It was Elena who was rigid now. Cassandra was good at this kind of fighting at least, and she was fighting back now. Well, enough damn words. Elena tossed her katana on the bed and reached with both hands for Cassandra's throat.

Cassandra moved back quickly and said, "Palabra de honor, Elena! Have you forgotten that already? Or will you forswear yourself? Are you a liar, Elena Duran?"

Elena froze. Well, Cassandra obviously wasn't going to run this time, but she wasn't cool, calm and collected anymore, either. Elena had finally gotten some reaction from Cassandra. It made Elena feel just a little better. She closed her fists but lowered her arms, then smiled contemptuously at the older Immortal. She was sure, even now in her weakened condition, that she could defeat Cassandra in a fight. But Elena wasn't going to fight. They had agreed they would not. However, Elena knew how to use words, too. "A liar like you?" she hissed viciously.

Cassandra took a deep breath. "Yes," she admitted. "Like me." She took another deep breath and nodded. "I have been a liar. But I'm trying not to lie anymore, Elena. And I did not lie to you. I did not come here to fight. Or to spar. Or to gloat. I came here to talk, to make us both feel better." She circled Elena, never taking her eyes off her, and backed away toward the door. "Let me know when you are ready," she said, then left the bedroom.

Elena stood for a moment. Cassandra was like a damn ghost, gone again! Elena wanted to strike out, to hit someone, to hurt anyone, but Cassandra was gone, and Elena had given her word, !carajo!, her fucking word. She couldn't break that, or the traditional rules of hospitality. No matter that Bethel had stripped her bare; she had to regain her sense of self. She turned to go, then caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror in the corner.

When she saw what was left of her, she remembered something a nun had said to her once. No somos nada. We are nothing. She was nothing, she was alone, and Cassandra's visit only emphasized that fact. Elena picked up her katana from the bed and slammed the lacquered hilt into her reflection. The mirror shattered, and shards of splintered glass lay around her feet. "Oh, yes," she muttered to herself. "I feel so much better after our talk."

For long minutes she let the rage and self-pity fill her. If only Duncan hadn't left her; if only Connor hadn't been insulted and taken Duncan with him; if only Bethel hadn't captured her and tortured her; hell, if only she weren't an Immortal...

Elena stopped and snorted. If she weren't an Immortal, she'd be in a grave. Dead. Completely. Rotted away to dry bones. And in spite of everything, Elena Duran wanted to live.

She got herself under control and started breathing more deeply, thinking about what had been said. She had set out to get a reaction out of Cassandra, and that was exactly what she had gotten. And Cassandra had gotten a reaction out of her. The problem with pushing people, Elena, she said to herself wryly, is that sometimes they push back. Well, she'd gotten Cassandra to push back. Now what? More talking, of course. But this time, maybe...

She went back downstairs and found Cassandra sitting at one of the tables on the patio outside the dining room, her hands lying empty in front of her on the tabletop. The bright morning sun glinted off the bronze highlights of Cassandra's long hair.

Elena went into the library to get the half-full bottle of Scotch she'd left there the night before. She picked up two glasses from the liquor cabinet, then walked out onto the patio and sat down across from the other woman.

Raul came around the corner of the house and approached the table happily, but stopped a few meters away. His tail went down between his legs, and he stretched out his neck, sniffing delicately, but not getting any closer. Cassandra did not look at Elena or the dog.

Elena poured them both a drink, not even bothering to ask Cassandra if she wanted it. She pushed one drink toward Cassandra, then leaned back in her chair with her own, letting the sun warm her.

Beyond the house, in the direction the dog had come from, a group of children had started a game of futbol. A girl of about eight years kicked the ball high, and Elena watched its trajectory until it landed again amidst a pile of screaming, laughing kids.

Elena sat and let her eye lose focus for a moment, simply sipping and savoring the peaty taste of the Scotch. She could actually get to like this poison. Elena wondered if she could really do without it, for now, or if she was hooked again, as she'd been in the past. An addict. An alcoholic. She took a deep breath; she'd think about that later.

Right now, she had a different problem. Elena knew that Cassandra would never feel better if she kept her anger, fear, whatever, bottled up inside. And Elena remembered what she'd noticed about Cassandra before, during those long weeks on that Atlantic crossing. Elena was convinced now that Cassandra's rigid control was not about confidence or calm. It was about fear. But Roland was dead. Why was Cassandra still afraid?

I'm an idiot! Elena thought suddenly. A self-centered idiot! Bethel is dead, and I'm still afraid. Every fucking night. I can't even say Bethel's name without stuttering.

Maybe Cassandra had nightmares, too. Probably. Of course she did! She just wasn't a screamer; it was more of that rigid discipline. Well, she'd need to relax some of that anal-retentive control if she was ever going to be free. And Elena could help.

"Cassandra," she said softly. As soon as they made eye contact, Elena continued, in an almost soothing voice, "You can let it go, you know. You can let yourself get angry if you want. Getting angry is ... it's liberating sometimes. Didn't it feel kind of good, upstairs, just now?"

Cassandra looked at Elena as if she had sprouted wings, horns, and tentacles. "No, it did not feel good, Elena. It felt..." She stared into her drink.

Elena ventured, "It felt ... scary?" Taking Cassandra's silence for assent, she asked, "Look, I don't think you're afraid of me, and I don't want you to be, not really. But you are afraid of something, or someone, aren't you?"

Cassandra blinked once, but kept staring at the amber liquid.

Elena leaned forward and said earnestly, "Roland is dead. And so is B-Bethel." !Carajo! she thought savagely, just say the fucking word. Bethel. Bethel. Bethel. Maybe next time she could say it without stuttering. "We don't have to be afraid of them anymore. Except for in here," she amended, tapping her temple, using the same argument Duncan had used to convince her.

Cassandra glanced once at Elena, ironic and bitter. "I'm not afraid of Roland. I'm afraid of myself." She picked up her glass and emptied it in a couple of swallows, not stopping. Then, her voice raspy from the whisky, she said, "I'm afraid of what he made me become. I'm afraid of what I can do." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Of what I have done."

"What have you done?" Elena prompted, curious, but beginning to worry a little. Did she even want to know?

Cassandra reached for the bottle and poured herself another shot, but she did not drink it. She tilted the glass back and forth, watching the ripples in the whisky. "You were afraid of the Voice, Elena." She put down her glass and looked directly at Elena. "You were afraid of what I could make you do."

"Yes," Elena admitted. Not this again, !Dios mio! This was exactly what she had been afraid of, from the beginning. She remembered Duncan telling her about losing control of his own actions, of his own body—of his own mind—and how terrifying it was.

"The Voice gives me a great deal of power. Too much," Cassandra said, interrupting Elena's almost-panicked thoughts. The ancient Immortal glanced at the katana, then went back to looking into Elena's eye. "I could tell you to give me your sword, to put it into my hand. I could tell you to kneel, here on this patio, and not move. I could hold the sword to your neck, then tell you to lean into your own blade and slit your own throat." Cassandra smiled, a small cruel smile of power and contempt. "And you would do it."

Elena didn't doubt it for a moment. Bethel had gotten her to do anything he wanted. So could Cassandra, and she could do it easily, with just a few words. Elena wouldn't even be able to fight back at all; her pride, her strength, her will, were all illusions. We are ashes, we are dust, we are nothing.

Now Elena realized the full extent of the mistake she'd made, inviting this woman here. Because if Cassandra attacked Elena, the Indians would try to stop her, possibly shoot her. The Oniocos had tried to stop another Immortal in the past, and one of them had died for it. Cassandra could kill several of them, could make them do things, shoot themselves. Or each other! !Madre de Dios, Elena wouldn't even have a chance to warn them!

Elena held her breath as the fear slithered within, paralyzing her, and Cassandra watched her unblinkingly, her eyes dark green with cold amusement.

"I've done it before," the older Immortal continued, "and I did it to someone I cared about." Cassandra lifted her glass in an ironic toast. "And I did it when I was angry." She took a large swallow, then slammed her glass on the table, slopping the whisky over the edge.

Raul whimpered once. Out of the corner of her eye, Elena saw him back away, then turn and run.

"And that was just the first time," Cassandra said. "The second time I forced him to his knees, I didn't bother to tell him to lean into the blade. I simply ... drew my arm back for the blow." She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, but her eyes were haunted. "I wanted to take his head, and I almost did."

Cassandra blinked and the hunger was hidden, but Elena knew it was still there, waiting. Not always waiting, either. !Cono! She wouldn't want to be on her knees in front of this asesina loca. That poor bastard must have been terrified, whoever he was.

"I gave you my word I wouldn't harm you," Cassandra said, "and I don't want to, but now I'm giving you a warning. I'm not always ... in control of my anger. Sometimes, it controls me." Her hard stare challenged Elena. "So don't ask me to spar, and don't push me again. All right?"

Elena swallowed in a dry throat and nodded. What had she gotten herself into by letting this woman into her house? Cassandra could kill her, behead her, and Elena would be helpless to stop it. The muscles in her thighs twitched with the desire, the instinct, to simply run, to jump up and escape. But then she closed her fists and took a deep breath, and then another, calming herself.

She had run from New York to Seacouver, and then she had run to Argentina—but now she was home, and she was not going to run anymore. And she was not going to be afraid in her own home; she was not going to let the fear rule her anymore. Not again. And she was not "nothing."

If Cassandra tried to use the Voice on her, Elena would try to crush her larynx, quickly, efficiently. She'd killed enemies quietly and efficiently before—it was a matter of being alert and careful and watchful. Coitela. And maybe pushing a little less.

Now she leaned forward slightly, not back, not away. "Cassandra ...," she began, then paused, wondering what the hell she could say, how she could get Cassandra to open up and let that rage out, without hurting Elena or her people.

Cassandra blinked again, and the hard stare was gone, replaced by uncertainty and regret. "I didn't mean to scare you," she said.

Oh, but you did mean to, Elena thought. And you succeeded.

Cassandra continued, "I just thought ... you should know." She sighed once, then offered, "I'll leave the estancia if you want me to."

"No," Elena said swiftly. She was not a whimpering dog running off with her tail between her legs. She was an Immortal, and she was a fighter. "No. I invited you here. You are my guest. You listened to me last night, and it's my turn to listen to you." She smiled tentatively at Cassandra, and waited until Cassandra gave her a small smile in return. Elena sighed inwardly with relief, then leaned even further forward, interlacing her fingers in front of her on the table. In spite of Cassandra's warning, and the real danger of the Voice, Elena found she wanted—no, needed, to satisfy her own curiosity if nothing else—to hear Cassandra's story. And she still felt an obligation toward the older Immortal. So Elena asked, "What did he make you become? What were you before?"

Cassandra shrugged, and now her eyes were empty. "The person I was, is gone. And now there's no one left."

The lost soul of the broken bird, Elena thought. It had indeed been too long. Three thousand years of horror, !Maria Santisima! But Cassandra needed to tell, even if she didn't want to. "Tell me, Cassandra," she urged. "You came here to talk, remember?"

"Yes," Cassandra said, but she made no move to do so.

Elena decided to ... well, not push, but encourage her. "You dream of him, don't you?" she asked.

"Yes," Cassandra answered in surprise. "And not just of him." She added quietly, "These last six months or so, it's been every night. I thought ... I hoped, that after they were dead, the dreams would stop. But they didn't."

"You have ... quiet nightmares," Elena observed diplomatically.

Cassandra was surprised again. "Of course. If I cried out, or screamed, he would beat me, or kill me. He liked strangling best." She reached for her glass again, her hand trembling ever so slightly. "And he would kill me if I protested, or tried to fight back, or protect myself, or showed anger, or hate, or fear—" She stopped abruptly and set the glass back down. Her voice lost the edge of hysteria and became slower. "He killed me over and over again, until he tamed me, until I did exactly what he wanted, whatever he wanted."

Elena winced, sickened, swallowing even more whisky. She knew what that was like. She squinted against the morning sun. One of the boys playing futbol had fallen, hurting himself and losing the ball. He began to cry. The others ignored him, and after a moment he got back up and ran happily after the crowd with the ball.

Elena felt like crying, too. She stood unsteadily, her vision blurred, got dizzy, then sat back down. Now that it was her turn, she didn't want to talk. So she began. "He broke my sword, the one..." She hadn't wanted to start, and now she couldn't finish.

Cassandra finished for her, in a low and gentle voice. "The one that Don Alvaro gave you."

Elena nodded bleakly. She didn't want to cry anymore. She felt like she'd been squeezed dry, and the only liquid left in her body was Scotch. She poured herself another drink, emptying the bottle. She and Cassandra had downed the whole thing.

Elena emptied her glass, too, then slammed it down on the table. She wanted more, but wasn't sure she could get up again, much less walk. She was not going to ask Carmela for another bottle. So she had to talk instead.


Seven weeks earlier
Bethel's Basement


"What toy should we use today, Elena?" Bethel asked, his echoing voice filled with amusement and anticipation; the only sound she ever heard anymore, except for her own whimpers, her own pleadings, her own screams. "The sledgehammer? The knife? The branding iron?" He picked that up out of the coals in the small grill on the table and studied its glow. "Being burned is your least favorite, isn't it?"

Elena whined, a hurt animal caught in a trap, giving herself completely away, again. She didn't even have the strength left to writhe in her seat, strapped to the metal chair. She could clearly remember the smell of her own charred flesh, see the orange-hot iron in her mind's eye, feel the pain of the branding rod as he held it against her thigh—always her thigh, always the same spot—then the agony as he pulled it away, searing her skin off in a long band from her hip down to her knee.

He was going to burn her, and she couldn't stop him. !Dios mio! she couldn't get him to stop, he'd never stop, the pain would never end! But maybe if she—

"Choose, Elena. Choose, or I'll use them all." He came near her, and she could feel the heat of his body as well as the hotter fire of the metal, as it came near her cold skin.

"No, please, please, the ... sledgehammer."

Bethel smiled. He put the branding iron down and picked up the two- pound metal sledge. "Good choice. It's a nice toy." He looked her over. "Your right forearm," he decided, always warning her, always telling her ahead, so she could know what was coming.

He lifted the sledgehammer high above her.


27 November 1996


Elena shuddered and reached for the whisky again, holding the empty bottle in her trembling hand. There was no Scotch left in it anyway, and she used up all the willpower she had at that moment to keep from smashing the bottle into the ground, gripping it instead until her breathing came back to normal.

"Hurting me made him feel better, stronger." She put the bottle down carefully and looked at Cassandra. "Do you know that he was first killed by the Gestapo? Tortured and murdered. He broke under torture, just like me, just like anyone would, and he had to do the same thing to everyone else, I guess."

Cassandra looked sick, too, but she shook her head and said emphatically, "That does not excuse what he did, Elena. Nothing does."

"No. It doesn't." Elena thought about it a minute, then asked, "Roland was insane, too, wasn't he? Just like B-Bethel." No, she still couldn't say it. Not quite yet, damn it. But she would—she had a whole Immortal lifetime to say it. "Both of them needed so desperately to control us, to tame us. And they succeeded," she added, bitterly.

"Roland?" Cassandra repeated in confusion. "Oh. Yes. Him, too." She grimaced and pushed away her whisky. "I was thinking of Methos when I was talking about taming."

It was Elena's turn to be confused and surprised. Lacing her fingers together in front of her on the table top, she leaned forward and asked, "Methos? Our Methos did that to you? You mean, the Methos Duncan knows?" she said, while thinking: the Methos I know? Duncan had told her Methos had been one of the Biblical Horsemen, and she knew that the Horsemen had killed Cassandra the first time, made her Immortal, but she hadn't realized that Methos had captured Cassandra, or tortured her, or... "He killed you over and over again?" Elena asked. "To tame you?"

Cassandra just looked at her, flat and bleak and hard. "Yes. That Methos." The bitter twist to her mouth could not be called a smile. "We have a lot to talk about, Elena, you and I."

The two women talked all that morning, and all through that afternoon. Often they wept. That night, getting drunk and eating popcorn and cold empanadas and staying up late, sometimes they even managed to laugh. Finally, exhausted and tipsy, they lay down side by side in Elena's bed and slept.


Continued in Chapter 5, wherein Elena and Cassandra speak of intimate details


Translations

puta arrogante - arrogant whore

no somos nada - we are nothing

!Dios mio! - my God!

asesina loca - crazy assassin

Maria Santisima - Holy Mother

futbol - soccer

Dona Perfecta is the title character of a Spanish novel by Benito Perez Galdos.