Hope Triumphant I: Healer (part 7)
COUNTERFEIT
Sunday, 8 June 1998
By the Ruins of Babylon
Methos was dead.
He revived slowly, but he didn't move or open his eyes. His tongue felt thick, with a furry quality he didn't want to think about, and grit rasped against his cheek. The sun shot through his eyelids, seared its way to the back of his brain. Methos carefully opened his left eye the merest slit, then waited for the glaring pain to subside. His vision cleared to let him see mud, baked to a white-salted crackling finish, stretching in a great plain to the distant, barren hills beyond. No trees, no bushes, not a tinge of green.
He closed his eye and considered his body. All his fingers and toes were present and accounted for, each wiggled on command. He could feel more blistered mud beneath his knees and hands, and on his feet and arms, but his torso was covered, ragged shirt and pants. He ached all over, as if he'd been beaten with sticks, his head hurt, he was exhausted, his lips were cracked, and he thought he might just die of thirst all over again.
In short, he felt like death warmed over. A semi-hysterical giggle bubbled up within him, forced apart his lips and made them bleed. He was Death warmed over, baked to a crisp and hung out to dry.
Methos painfully scrabbled to his hands and knees, then sat back on his heels. Where the hell was he? And how had he gotten here? What day was it? What year?
What century?
It was evening when Methos found a village, a miserable collection of mud-brick huts along the reed-choked trickle of water that passed for a river around here. Methos knew where he was now, and he knew when. The jets overhead and the radio in the headman's hut said twentieth century. The crackling salt plains and crumbled piles of mud said Babylon, ruined remnants of once-fertile fields and once-thriving towns.
Methos had lived here in Mesopotamia, the land between the rivers, for centuries. He'd been a statesman in Ur and a scribe in Nippur, a farmer in this village, a craftsman in that, a merchant traveling from town to town. He'd married, raised children, made love. He'd built houses and dug irrigation ditches, made boats to fish in and carried bricks for the temples of the gods, ziggurats towering over the plain. He remembered it all from three thousand years ago, and he remembered it from three days ago, too. He remembered it all.
One Year Earlier
After he left Cassandra's flat, Methos checked in with Joe, but no one anywhere had seen any sign of Duncan MacLeod. Methos sighed in frustration and foreboding and caught the next flight to Istanbul. The journey to the mountains was as he remembered it—uncomfortable, slow, and freezing cold. Thank the gods, it didn't rain.
There'd been a religious settlement here, many years ago. At least he thought he was on the right mountain. After a while, all mountains looked alike. They went up, then went down, they went up, they went down. They went up. Methos sighed and kept climbing, looking for the entrance to the cave.
It took him four days, but finally he found it, a tiny opening in a narrow split of rock. Animal dung and bat droppings covered the floor of the first chamber, but farther in, farther back, were the smoothed walls and level floors of the monks' quarters. And farther still, he found drawings on the walls and writings left in jars. Methos knelt on the floor and huddled into the fleecy lining of his corduroy coat, then pried off the wax covering on the top of the jar to find sheets of vellum, faded yellow and brittle with age. He unrolled one carefully, tried to make sense of the long-forgotten words. Ahriman, Avatar—he could pick those out easily enough. More words here and there ... empty-handed ... open-minded ... a war of the soul.
Methos closed his eyes in relief. This was what MacLeod needed to know. Methos rolled the sheet carefully and reached for the jar, tucked the parchment back in.
"Greetings, Brother."
Methos dropped the jar and sprang to his feet, whirling, reaching for his sword. There'd been no buzz, no footsteps, no sound...
A tall, bearded figure emerged from the shadows, bulky in a cape of fox furs. His face was unmarked, unpainted, save for the scar going down over his right eye. A bronze-bladed knife was at his side, and he carried no sword.
"Kronos?" Methos whispered, but it couldn't be, not him.
"Methos!" Kronos said smiling, his arms held wide, but Methos backed away, shaking his head.
"You died," Methos said, certain of that. "I saw you. I was there." He'd burned Kronos's beheaded body, set the fire, watched the flesh blacken and char.
"Of course, you were!" Kronos agreed. "You killed me, to make me immortal, to make us brothers. I was wondering where you'd gone off to, Methos," he said cheerfully. "You were supposed to met me by the fork in the river five days ago, so we could travel together to the great valley between the two rivers, do some trading in the town of Tilpuk. I was starting to get worried, but I knew I'd find you, eventually." He came closer, his ox-hide boots making no sound on the floor. He picked up a jar and turned it over in his hands. "Find something interesting here?"
"Where's Silas?" Methos asked him. "Where's Caspian?"
"Who?" Kronos set the jar down and looked at him carefully, then came over and laid a hand on Methos's arm—his leather-covered arm—in concern. "Are you all right, Brother?"
Methos looked down at himself, at the ox-hide boots and leather leggings, the tunic of deerskin, the long cloak lined with rabbit-fur. The gas lantern in the corner had become a flaming torch, and his chrome and nylon backpack was a woven bag with leather straps. He rubbed at his face in confusion, found there a heavy beard. "No," he whispered. "No."
"Sit down, Methos," Kronos urged him, and they sank to the floor. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know," Methos said. He'd been looking for something, to help someone, someone far away ... MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod. And Ahriman, a demon, a demon who wore Kronos's face, a demon with red eyes. But this was Kronos his brother, Kronos from before the Horsemen days ...
"Too much mountain air," Kronos said decisively, pulling Methos back to his feet with easy strength, then grabbing the bag from the floor. "Let's go."
"No," Methos protested. "I have to help a friend."
"Look, Methos," Kronos said with gentle patience. "You can either stay here, alone, in a cold mountain cave, or you can come with me to the valley and a warm fire."
"A fire," Methos murmured, turning around. That was it. There'd been a fire. Many fires, burning through the years, burning high. And Kronos had died in a fire, burned to death in the raid on Tilpuk that had destroyed his family. Methos remembered, remembered it all. After the raid, Kronos had started killing. That was when the madness had begun.
"Your choice, Methos," Kronos said, and his voice seemed suddenly harder, colder. "Me, or your friend."
Methos turned to his brother, but Kronos was smiling, and Methos saw no coldness, no insanity, no jealousy, no hate. Only concern and love showed in those bright blue eyes. Kronos was like he used to be, long ago. "Your choice," Kronos repeated. "Leave your friend and come with me, so you can change the world. You can change what has yet to be."
Change the past? Methos wondered, his heart leaping with sudden hope. And maybe change the future as well?
"I need you, too," Kronos said, reaching out to him once more.
Yes. Methos knew that was true. Kronos needed him. Methos couldn't fail him, not again. This time, Methos was going to help his son. And this time, there would be no Horsemen, no slaughtering of innocents, no centuries spent drenched in blood. No nightmares to keep children awake at night, no Cassandra, no tens of thousands slain. No bloody, endless, pointless Game. No sentencing his son to a thousand years in the darkness, and then abandoning him to a lifetime of darkness after that. Methos could actually make a difference in the world, do something good for a change. MacLeod would understand that, MacLeod would see. And just this once, MacLeod could manage on his own.
"Come with me, Brother," Kronos urged, and Methos made his choice. He walked with his brother from the darkness into the light of day.
By the Ruins of Babylon
1998
And Methos had ended up alone. Had he wandered, mumbling to himself, through mountains and deserts, past guarded borders and checkpoints, while he was imagining traveling south with Kronos? Everyone Methos had met, everything he'd seen, from the tiny villages and the small caravans of laden asses, to the marketplaces awash with music and dust, from the clothes to the languages to the stars in the sky, everything had been as it used to be, long ago. He and Kronos had gone to the town of Tilpuk and wintered there, but when Kronos started paying court to a young widow, Methos insisted they leave town, knowing that if they stayed, Kronos's family would be slaughtered and the Horsemen would be born. Eventually, Kronos had agreed, and they set off for Egypt, while Methos thanked the gods every night for this chance to save his son.
But it had all been a dream. Kronos was dead, beheaded by MacLeod in Bordeaux months before, and the Horsemen had ridden far and wide. Methos knew that now. He'd known it all along, but he hadn't wanted to remember, just as he hadn't wanted to remember what he'd been—a Horseman of the Apocalypse, a white rider bringing death. The past year had evaporated, gone up in a puff of red smoke, leaving only the taste of ashes behind. Ahriman had seduced him, played a trick with lights and mirrors, a deception built on the delight that memory treasures so.
/ Death, despair, division of families, all entanglements of mankind grow,
/ As that old wandering beggar and these God-hated children know.
Methos squatted with his back against the wall of a mud-brick hut and rested his head on his knees. An old wandering beggar indeed. That's all he was now. And God-hated, too. He'd failed. Utterly, and in many things.
OK, now what? Methos summoned five thousand years of practice and let go of the past so he could look to the future. Time to review the situation. A fellow couldn't be a villain all his life. Methos checked his pockets and found nothing. He didn't have any money or his passport. He didn't even have his sword. Had he left it? In the cave?
And what had happened to MacLeod? To Ahriman? Methos got to his feet and joined the men in their morning prayers, ate breakfast, then started walking. MacLeod needed help. Methos couldn't fail him, not again.
It took Methos a few weeks to get to civilization, find money, find a sword, find some traveling papers, and finally make his way to Paris. When he arrived, he didn't go to MacLeod or Joe right away. Observing from a distance was the safest option. Joe had a regular routine, blues bar in the evenings, sleeping late, probably doing Watcher business in the afternoons. No sense of frantic urgency, no traveling, no red fog. MacLeod was back at the barge, sporting a new look: short hair, beige clothes, sunglasses—a walking advertisement for ... well, for something.
Methos watched for a week. Appearances could be deceiving, as he knew very well, and getting too close to MacLeod could be—and had been—fatally dangerous. But another Immortal got close; a blonde woman came to visit MacLeod, and one morning Methos saw them kissing on the deck.
So, everything was back to normal. MacLeod had triumphed over the demon and found another woman to warm his bed. Joe was playing the blues and writing reports. Methos decided he might as well go back to that mountain and retrieve his favorite sword. MacLeod and the blonde went into the barge, arms around each other, and Methos walked away.
STUDIES IN LIGHT
September 1998
Fort William, Scotland
"Hello, Miss Grant," Harriet said cheerily. "It's good to see you again. And don't you look lovely today, in your new dress? Those blue flowers are a pretty color on you."
"Thank you, Nurse Briscoe," Miss Grant replied with a smile, pausing by the desk and resting her harp on the floor. "Did Wendy go home this week?"
"Yes, she did," Harriet answered proudly. "Her parents took her home on Monday. Her weight was up to thirty-two hundred grams, and you know she only weighed half that when she was born two months ago in June." Harriet shook her head, amazed as always by the way things had changed. Why, when she had started her nursing career, nearly forty years ago now, babies that small wouldn't have lasted a day.
Harriet came around the desk to open the door to the nursery for the premature babies, and she and Miss Grant went in. "We only have the three," Harriet said, taking a quick look at each of the tiny bundles in the isolettes against the wall, adjusting the temperature in the last one. "Todd and Lisa are still here, and Iain came in just yesterday. The doctor was surprised by how fast Todd and Lisa have grown this last month. Your harp music helps, of course, and the mothers have been coming in almost every day to massage them."
"Massage?" Miss Grant asked.
"Yes, they've done some studies that show babies grow better when they're touched and held. It's not surprising, really, but these little ones don't get much of it, with all the tubes and wires and all."
Miss Grant nodded as she unzipped her harp from its case, then she took her usual place sitting near the door. Soon the soothing ripples of harp music drifted over the hum and whir of machines. Harriet went back to her station, leaving the door open so she could hear, too. After twenty minutes the music stopped, and a little while later Harriet peeked in. Miss Grant was sitting next to Iain's isolette, reaching through the holes in the clear plastic cover to massage the fragile body with her fingertips. Miss Grant was crying silently, just letting the tears run down her face.
Harriet tsked to herself and shut the door, giving the poor lady some privacy. Such a tragedy, to lose a baby, and Miss Grant's therapist, Mrs. Corans, had said that the husband had died, too. Miss Grant would never hold even the full-term babies, though Harriet had suggested it
"Oh no, I shouldn't, really," Miss Grant had said, but her empty arms had been pressed tight against her body, and her eyes were sad. And yet Miss Grant had come in twice a week for the last six months, to help other people's children grow.
"It's good for her," Mrs. Corans had explained. "She needs to feel she can help somehow, to stop thinking of herself all the time, and she's been alone far too long."
Maybe not too much longer, thought Harriet, setting out the medications for the patients. Such an attractive woman as that wouldn't stay unmarried very long. And then Miss Grant could start a new life for herself, maybe even have another baby, once her grieving was done.
REUNION
After Methos found his sword, he decided to go walkabout—visiting Athens, remembering Alexa, thinking of times long ago. He arrived in Paris at the end of October, and on his very first day back in town, whom should he meet but Morgan Walker, an obsessive-compulsive Immortal who was still out for his head, even after nearly two hundred years. Methos decided to go look for some information about the fellow, just to be safe.
He hadn't planned on getting caught.
"Hey!" Joe Dawson yelled as he came into the cluttered store-room/office in the back of Le Blues Bar. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Looking for something," Methos answered, still typing away at Joe's laptop computer and reading the Watcher chronicle for Walker.
"I can see that," Joe snapped. "Where have you been?"
"Oh, here and there," Methos answered, then muttered to himself, "There, mostly." Or rather, mostly then, but he didn't think this was a good time to explain.
Joe reached over and shut the computer with a bang. "You are unbelievable."
Methos was doing whatever it took to survive. But Joe didn't want to listen, and he didn't want to help. "Come on," Methos protested. "You'd do it for MacLeod!"
"Well, you know, I know MacLeod," Joe said, as slowly and as carefully as if he were explaining one plus one to a simpleton. "You see, I know who he is. I know what he is." Joe gave Methos the once-over and said, "As far as you're concerned..." Joe snorted in disgust and looked away.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Methos asked quietly, but he knew damn well. Betrayer, liar, murderer, Immortal, Horseman—Methos had been many things, and Joe didn't want to know him at all. Not anymore. Joe and he had known each other for years as fellow Watchers, and Methos had saved Joe's life after Joe had been shot during the Galati mess. All those late nights of conversation and companionship, all those years of shared laughter and shared pain—and none of it mattered a damn.
"Look, let's make this real simple," Joe said, explaining things again. "I'm a Watcher. You're an Immortal. It's not my job to make your life easier."
"Your Watcher oath?" Methos said, not believing Joe would dare to offer such an inane excuse. The man didn't even have the guts to come right out and say it. Well, fine. Maybe Joe should see just what that Watcher oath was good for. "Oh, yeah," Methos agreed, oozing unctuousness. "Heaven forbid that you'd get involved with an Immortal." The last word came out tainted with filth.
Methos stepped a little closer, got right in Joe's face. "That would compromise your precious ethics, wouldn't it?" Joe's jaw was clenched tight, and Methos let loose another barb. "Oh, providing, of course, that it's possible to do that with a hypocrite."
That did it. "Get out," Joe growled, low and deadly, and Methos gave a sniff of uncaring laughter and sauntered away. It was over. They were through.
Methos had done this before.
But Joe came to talk later that afternoon, when Methos was throwing his bag into the back of his car, getting ready to go to the airport. And this time, Methos and his friend ended up working together, instead of fighting some more. They set out to find Walker, even enjoyed each other's company. Methos hadn't realized how much he'd missed Joe over the last year and a half. After Methos took Walker's head that evening, he and Joe found rooms for the night in a hotel, and in the morning they went back to Paris.
"So, what happened with that Ahriman thing?" Methos asked on the drive.
Joe considered him sourly for a moment but finally answered. "MacLeod faced it, back in June."
And Methos had woken up in a desert back in June. At the stroke of midnight, the magic spell will be broken, and Cinderella has to leave the ball. The coach becomes a pumpkin, the horses go back to being mice. Everything returns to what it used to be, with only the memory of the dream left behind.
"But no weapons, no fighting," Joe was saying. "Mac just ... accepted it, somehow, and that took the wind out of its sails."
"Empty hands and open mind," Methos murmured.
"You knew about that?" Joe demanded.
"I found something."
"Gee, nice of you to share it with us," Joe observed, sour again.
"Ahriman paid me a visit right after I found it," Methos said reluctantly. "Offered me something I couldn't refuse."
"Oh, did he?" Joe snarled.
Methos knew where that lethal mix of anger and sarcasm came from. "What did he offer you, Joe?"
Joe turned to stare out the window, and Methos drove two kilometers before Joe spoke. "My legs."
Methos sucked in his breath and nodded slowly. "Bastard."
"So, what was the offer you 'couldn't refuse'?" Joe asked, and the sarcasm was heavier still.
Another kilometer clicked by. "The chance to stop the Horsemen before they began."
"Jesus, Methos," Joe swore, sympathetic now. "That would have meant..."
"No raids, no murders, no thousand years of terror. No Cassandra, no Bordeaux. I spent a year in the past," Methos explained, carefully keeping his attention on the road. "I thought I was with Kronos before the Horsemen started, the way it used to be." The way Kronos used to be—his friend, his brother, his companion of the heart, the one man in all the world who knew him better than he knew himself.
"And you believed that?" Joe asked incredulously.
"It seemed real enough, while it was happening." Or at least, Methos had wanted it to seem real. Oh, he had wanted that to be real!
"Yeah," Joe agreed after a minute. "It did." The two men sat in silence for the rest of the trip.
When Methos dropped Joe off at Le Blues Bar, Joe paused on his way out of the car. "Hey, I almost forgot. We got this great musician tonight. You've got to come and hear her play."
So Methos went back that night to have a few drinks and have a good time. It was working fine until Cassandra walked in the door, a blonde woman by her side. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into yours," Methos muttered to Joe.
"What?" Joe said, looking up from some paperwork and focusing on the women near the door. Cassandra had already focused on them. Joe let out a low whistle, but Methos knew it wasn't just over Cassandra's admittedly stunning dress of tailored russet suede, now being revealed as Cassandra took off her coat. "What's she doing here?" Joe asked.
Methos gestured to the stage, where a long-haired woman in a black miniskirt and blue leather bustier was tuning an electric harp of shimmering blue. "Probably here for the music. Cassandra plays the harp."
"She does?" Joe shook his head. "Never thought she was a musical type. Who's that with her?" Joe asked, as they watched the women make their way through the crowd toward the bar.
Methos took another look at the coolly elegant blonde, dressed in a white silk sheath that shimmered with her every breath. Not as voluptuous as Cassandra, but plenty there to look at, and then to look at again. "Don't know, but it seems we're going to find out." Methos stood as the women arrived.
Cassandra nodded to him, then spoke to Joe. "It's been a while."
"It has," Joe replied non-committally.
Cassandra turned to her friend. "Alex, these are friends of Duncan. This is Joseph Dawson, and—"
"Benjamin Davis," Methos broke in, giving his latest alias and offering Alex his hand. She took it, smiling.
Cassandra continued smoothly, as if Methos hadn't said a word. "And this is Methos."
Alex dropped his hand immediately and stepped back, her deep blue eyes gone cold.
"Cassandra—," Methos protested. Who hadn't she told about him? And what the hell was she doing, using his name in public like that?
She ignored him again and finished the introductions. "Gentlemen, this is Dr. Alexandra Johnson MacLeod." Joe's head jerked at the name, and Cassandra added with a small, satisfied smile, "Her husband is Connor MacLeod."
Well, that explains that, thought Methos sourly, wondering if Connor had told anyone else about him. And who had Duncan told? Or Cassandra? Or Joe? And how about the Watchers, or Richie, in those eight months before he had died? Methos swore silently in annoyance. He was going to have to disappear again. Too many people knew he was wasn't a myth.
Joe was turning on the charm for Dr. Alexandra Johnson MacLeod, smiling wide and friendly. "Duncan told me you and Connor bought a farm in Scotland."
"Yes," Alex replied civilly enough, but keeping a wary eye on Methos. "We came to Paris for the weekend on a holiday and to do some early Christmas shopping. Cass and I came here tonight to listen to the jazz harper."
Cass? Methos looked over at Cassandra, and she gave him one sweeping glance that was either decidedly imperious or deliberately provocative. He wasn't quite sure, but the ambiguity was intriguing. Come to think of it, a combination of the two would be even more intriguing. And "Cass," was it? He'd never thought of her as Cass before, but he might start now.
Alex was still talking to Joe. "Connor and Duncan didn't want to hear the music, so they went somewhere else tonight."
"MacLeod's back from London already?" Joe asked with delight, and Methos was glad to hear the news, too. "I mean Duncan, of course," Joe added, with another charming smile.
Alex smiled back, thawing a little, at least toward Joe. "Duncan came over on the train with us this morning," she said.
"I'm surprised you didn't know," Cassandra said to Joe. "You seem to keep such close tabs on him."
"Well, I can't watch everything," Joe said, smiling still, but with more effort than emotion.
"No," she agreed serenely and with smug satisfaction. "You can't."
"Did you come over on the train, too?" Methos asked Cassandra, breaking up that little glaring match.
"No. I've been in Paris for nearly a week."
And she hadn't even called to say hi. "Sightseeing?" Methos asked.
"Shopping."
Methos had a sudden vision of Cassandra descending on a boutique, a sword in one hand and a credit card in the other, clad only in lacy white underwear and high-heeled shoes. He blinked hastily and banished the image before Cassandra noticed his smile. He'd think about it later.
Or maybe he could think about it now. She'd turned to the stage, where the harper had started to play a jazzy tune with the drummer adding a calypso beat. When the song was over, Joe whistled in admiration. "She can do things with that harp that I can't even imagine doing on my guitar."
"You play the guitar?" Cassandra asked. At Joe's bemused nod, she looked him over and shook her head. "I never thought of you as being musical."
Methos spluttered into his beer at the outraged shock on Joe's face. These two certainly didn't know each other very well. "Did you come here tonight for the music, too?" Cassandra asked Joe.
Joe managed a passable imitation of a guppy, opening and closing his mouth a few times. "Yeah," he said finally. "But then I come here almost every night. I own the bar."
"Oh," Cassandra said in surprise, then looked around at the pictures on the walls. "It's a nice place," she said, seemingly sincere.
"Thanks," Joe said dryly.
Methos bit his lip to force away his smile. "So, Dr. Johnson," Methos began, turning on his own charm, "what kind of doctor are you?"
"I'm an archeologist," she replied, still cool, but no longer showing obvious revulsion.
"I've had some training in that field myself," Methos said, perking up. Maybe this night wouldn't be a total disaster after all.
NO PLACE TO RUN
The night turned out great, but Alex left before midnight. "I told our babysitter I'd be back at the hotel at twelve," she said, putting on her coat. "And the twins are going to wake me up at dawn."
"Twins?" Methos asked, curious. "How old?"
"Almost two." In response to the glances exchanged between the men, Alex said pointedly, "Connor and I decided to use artificial insemination to add to our family." She buttoned her coat and picked up her purse. "Nice to meet you, Joe ... Benjamin." Joe and Methos half-stood and half-bowed to say goodbye. "Goodnight, Cass," Alex called. "I'll see you next week."
"Goodnight, Alex," Cassandra replied. "See you Saturday."
After Alex left, the conversation lagged. Joe got busy at the bar, and Cassandra listened spellbound to every set the jazz harper played. Methos had another beer and relaxed in his chair. When the place closed, Joe and Cassandra joined the musicians on the stage for some playing of their own. Methos actually saw Cassandra and Joe almost smile at each other once or twice, when the music got really good.
Joe was still playing when Cassandra stood to leave. "Going my way?" Methos asked as she put on her coat.
"I don't know which way you're going," she answered, logically enough. She lifted the silken mass of her hair out of the way of her coat, then let it fall in a shimmering cascade.
"How about something to eat?" he suggested. She considered him for a moment, then nodded. "Goodnight, Joe!" Methos called, and he grinned at the complete disbelief on Joe's face when he saw the two of them leaving together.
"Which way?" Cassandra asked when they got outside.
"My way," Methos answered as he turned to the right. "There's a great place called La Dame Elegante not too far away."
After half a block, Cassandra broke the silence between them. "And how have you been this last year and a half, Methos?" A seemingly innocuous question, but loaded with meaning and sarcasm. Just Cassandra's style.
"Busy," Methos answered, in the same smooth fashion, but he knew Cassandra wouldn't be satisfied with that, and neither was he. "Ahriman paid me a visit."
"You were helping MacLeod," she said, showing no surprise.
Methos nodded, his suspicions of last year confirmed. "What did you know, Cassandra?"
"I knew MacLeod needed to be alone. That's all I knew. Anyone who tried to help him would be eliminated, one way or another."
"So you did nothing," he said. Cassandra stopped walking and merely looked at him, a steady measuring stare quite capable of slicing through titanium. Methos gave it up right then. "Well," he said cheerfully as they started walking again, "you seemed to like the music tonight."
"Oh, yes," she agreed. "Her technique is incredible, and the way she uses the soundbox for a drum really adds to the intensity. I like the harness she has, to hold her harp on her body."
Methos smiled to himself, pleased to see her actually showing enthusiasm for something other than killing him. His smile faded and Cassandra's chatter stopped abruptly when they sensed another Immortal.
"No place to run, no place to hide," Cassandra commented, for the buildings were all close together and the man at the far end of the street had already drawn a sword and was coming near. "Should we go back to the bar where there's a crowd?"
A woman after his own heart. Methos found challenges tedious, and he avoided them whenever possible. "Doesn't look like we'll have time," he observed, for the fellow had started jogging and was only about five meters away. "Do you want to kill him, or should I?" Methos asked, loudly enough for the man to hear. The man stopped where he was, only three meters away now.
Cassandra examined her fingernails, polished and shining on a graceful splayed hand. "Didn't you get the last one?"
"You're right, of course," Methos agreed politely, then bowed to motion her forward. "Ladies first."
"I've always preferred it that way," Cassandra murmured, then focused her attention on the other Immortal. "What do you want?" she asked in English, sounding supremely bored.
"Your head," the man answered in the same language, but with a French accent. He looked at Methos next. "And then his."
"Greedy, isn't he?" Cassandra said to Methos. "Have you met him before?"
"No, don't think so," Methos said, examining the fellow in the yellowish light of the street lamp—about Cassandra's height, light brown hair, stocky build, cavalry saber. "Have we met?" Methos inquired.
"I am Paul Orlin. Who are you?"
Cassandra answered for him. "We are the knights who say ... 'Ni.'"
"What?"
"You heard her: the knights who say 'Ni,'" Methos chimed in, then quoted another line from that movie. "Those who hear us seldom live to tell the tale."
"What is wrong with you people?" Orlin demanded then glared at Cassandra. "I challenged you!"
"Oh, that's right," she said. "But I'm afraid I didn't bring my sword tonight. Steel just doesn't go with suede, you know?" She turned to Methos. "May I borrow your sword?" Methos merely looked at her, a steady measuring stare. "I didn't think so," she said, giving it up right then. "I guess I'll just have to say 'Ni' to him until he runs away."
"To find some shrubbery," Methos said, straight-faced. "Two of them, so we can have a little path running down the middle."
"Look," Orlin broke in, obviously exasperated, waving his sword around, "be quiet and fight."
Cassandra tossed back her hair. "You don't want to fight," she said slowly and distinctly, speaking in French now. "You don't want to use your sword." Orlin's sword wavered, then the point fell to the ground as he blinked in confusion. "Put the sword away," Cassandra commanded, and he did. She walked over to him, almost close enough to touch. "You cannot kill me, Paul," she told him, so softly that Methos had to strain to hear. "You will never try to kill me. C'est vrai?"
"Oui," he agreed, his eyes dull.
"Forget you saw me tonight," Cassandra commanded. "But remember: you will never try to kill me. Now go home, Paul."
"Neat trick, that," Methos commented as he watched Orlin walk back the way he had come.
"It's not a trick," Cassandra corrected. "It's a skill."
"Teachable?" Methos asked.
"Not to you."
So much for that idea, at least right now. He had time. "Don't suppose you could have told him never to kill me, could you?"
"Yes, I could have."
And so much for that. But Methos was curious about how often she used this little "skill" of her. "Did you use the Voice on that rapist you killed?"
"Of course. It would have been inefficient for me to try to overpower him physically. And besides," she added with a show of flirtatious insouciance that reminded him of Amanda, "I might have broken a nail."
Methos snorted in surprised amusement and agreement. MacLeod seemed to enjoy going about and smacking people with exotic martial art techniques, but Methos appreciated the efficiency—and safe distance—he got from a gun. The Voice was just another weapon that worked at a distance. "Heard any more about it?"
"Not a word," Cassandra said, walking again.
Methos sauntered by her side. "Got away with it cold, eh?"
She slid him a sidelong glance. "So have you. More than once."
A lot more than once. "And he never had a chance," Methos murmured.
"He had his chance to leave me alone, and he had his chance to be rehabilitated, but he chose to keep raping, and he chose to come after me." She shrugged. "Bad choice."
"I'll say," Methos agreed. Cassandra was not a woman to be trifled with.
Cassandra stopped walking and swung around to face him, eyes glittering cold, apparently taking his comments the wrong way. "My tribe never had a chance, Methos, and we never had a choice, either."
Methos groaned silently and prepared himself for another round of her accusations, deciding to let her have her say one last time. But not after this, he was getting tired of it.
"We had done nothing wrong, and you slaughtered us all," Cassandra began and then she just kept on going, as Methos had known she would do. "You rode down a one-year-old boy who was screaming in terror, and you sliced him in half, Methos. You sent Taliq's head and half his body flying through the air. Then you beheaded his mother and impaled his sister. Then you killed my father. Then you killed me."
"Yes," Methos admitted grimly, because it was all true, every last word, and they both knew it, and there was absolutely nothing he could do. He banished those memories from his mind, and other memories as well. He hadn't always been the one holding the sword. "I did. But I've changed. I don't go around killing innocent people anymore."
"I wasn't killing an innocent, either."
Defensive, wasn't she? Methos decided to find out more. "Rape isn't a capital crime, Cassandra."
"Not here. Not now. But sometimes it has been, and sometimes it hasn't been considered a crime at all. You and I both know the rules change, Methos. Which rules do we live by? Which rules do we enforce?"
Methos shrugged, pretending indifference. "I'm not a policeman. I don't enforce the rules."
Cassandra laughed aloud. "Oh, not their rules, of course. But you do enforce your own. Survive, right? Isn't that your rule? When was the last time you killed someone, Methos?"
About two days ago, Methos realized, remembering that goon of Walker's he had shot at point-blank range. And Morgan Walker himself, of course, but that was just part of the Game. "I find it best to leave the mortals to their own devices," Methos told her, goading her on.
"That's right," she agreed, acid-edged and cutting. "How could I forget? Stand back and watch, that's your other rule."
"MacLeod doesn't get involved with mortal justice, either," Methos pointed out, though that wasn't always strictly true. MacLeod got involved far too often, in Methos's opinion.
"Oh, please," Cassandra retorted. "I've read his chronicles. MacLeod's stopped joining armies, but what about the hired guns he's killed, the thugs, the Hunters, the dictator he tossed out the window, the miscellaneous guards here and there?"
Methos shrugged again, because he knew exactly how angry that would make her, and in anger, truth. "Those are war-like situations, Cassandra."
"Women live their entire lives in a war zone, Methos," she shot back. "Never being safe, never knowing when or where they'll be attacked or raped or killed. And the enemy doesn't wear a uniform; sometimes he's even living in the same house. Most women are completely unarmed, innocent non-combatants who get slaughtered time after time after time."
Well, he'd certainly found one of her buttons, hadn't he? Methos filed the information away for future reference and nodded to her respectfully, encouraging her to continue.
Cassandra finished her tirade with a defiant toss of her hair. "MacLeod has killed to protect others, and so have I." She looked Methos up and down with a sniff of disdain. "You kill only to protect yourself."
"Usually," Methos admitted cheerfully, taking no offense. He could find other ways to protect people when he wanted to, and he always tried to avoid killing mortals or taking Quickenings. It was safer that way, both for him and for everyone else. Once an addict, always an addict, and he never wanted to be a Horseman again. And speaking of Quickenings ... "Did you really forget your sword?" Methos asked, but Cassandra gave him only a steady glare. Right. Next topic. "Still hungry?"
She considered the question—and him—for a moment, then nodded. "Does that place you mentioned have herrings?" she asked as they started walking again.
Continued in "Revenge is Sweet"
