Author's Note: By the way. I posted an original short story I wrote based on a concept from a novel I've been working on for several years, over at fictionpress, the sister site to fanfiction. It's called A Cacophany of Stone and is under my same pen-name... ellenora. It's in the Science Fiction section. Please stop by and read and review. I'd appreciate the input. elle

21

Promises to Keep, part 3

Chicago, IL:

The afternoon sun shone weakly in the winter sky. Earlier… the day had been overcast, but it had finally broken through an hour ago. Unfortunately… it didn't really seem to warm anything up. If anything… it seemed colder. Perhaps a cold front was moving in.

James Horton sat on the bench on the grounds of Holy Name Cathedral and watched tourists mill about the area. He still flinched occasionally from the healing sword wound in his chest. That he'd survived MacLeod's assassination attempt only made him more focused on the rightness of his mission. The immortals were an evil plague on mankind. Why could his brother-in-law Joseph Dawson not see it? Why could the tribunal not understand? They'd booted him out… as well as several of his closest confidants. Horton had already begun organizing a separate group and he still had a few moles inside Watchers to feed him information. One of them was actually keeping an eye on him as per the orders of the tribunal. Horton nearly laughed at their blindness. They had no idea how far his reach into the rank and file had been. But they would.

One of them had sent him information regarding a certain immortal that likely hated Duncan MacLeod at least as much as Horton did. The Englishman smiled. He could use that for an advantage over the man… and get his revenge on MacLeod at the same time. But first he had to meet the man and play nice. He'd offer him a deal… and feed his ego and his bloodlust. They'd start slowly and build. Before long… they'd have MacLeod right where they wanted him. And both the Highlander and his whore would die. Horton leered at that thought. He'd slit her throat right before MacLeod's eyes. And then…

"James Horton?" said a cultured voice.

Horton glanced up at the tall elegantly dressed black man whose shadow fell across him and caused him to shiver momentarily.

"Ah… Xavier St. Cloud… I presume."

"And who exactly are you?" St. Cloud looked around nervously. They were on Holy Ground and he was clearly uncomfortable being where he couldn't fight back against a mortal. He'd expected another immortal to be the sender of the message that had arrived at his apartment yesterday, especially as the place of the meeting was church property.

"Relax Mr. St. Cloud… I'm your new best friend."

St. Cloud snorted. Gesturing with one hand he derisively snorted. "I choose my own friends."

"Ah… but I can give you the head of Duncan MacLeod."

"Really? Now you've said something interesting. Yet… why would I want this man's head?"

"Oh come now Mr. St. Cloud. Don't you want him to pay for taking your hand?" Horton smiled knowingly at the Moor.

St. Cloud pulled the hook out of his enlarged coat pocket and clicked it thoughtfully. "How do you know about that?"

"Oh come now Xavier… may I call you Xavier… relax. I know many things." Horton patted the seat on the bench beside him. "Have a seat so we can talk." Inwardly he wanted to flinch at the nearness of the monster… yet outwardly he remained calm and smooth. After all… he wanted MacLeod to suffer and die… and he'd need help to accomplish that. He also wanted to hurt the Watchers… especially Dawson… and for that… he needed immortals to die. But not by mortal hands… by immortal ones. The more immortals who died… the fewer there were. The Watchers would see their reason for existence slowly dwindle away. "He's rather handicapped you in the game… wouldn't you like to even the playing field?"

St. Cloud smoothly settled on the bench. "Revenge is for poets… and madmen. I am neither."

"Quite right. Well… wouldn't you like help in becoming a stronger immortal… one strong enough that your hand might grow back?"

St. Cloud said nothing. The loss of his hand had been a surprise. If he'd managed to have held onto it when he'd leaped into the Seine… it might have re-attached. Legends were inconclusive. Legends were also inconclusive as to whether a limb might be re-grown in time if one had enough power… but there were tales that were older than he was that suggested such a thing might be possible. In his eight and one-half centuries of life… he had seen and heard of all manner of phenomena. Suddenly this man's words were intriguing. It was true… as he was now… he was hardly a threat to any immortal except the very young. And he'd always prided himself on leaving the young alone. Everyone should have a chance at life. He'd never raped a virgin or killed a fledgling. He did have scruples. Few… true enough… but he did have them. He was thief… not a monster. He couldn't help it if mortals died at his hands. They were weak and in the end… totally unimportant.

St. Cloud chuckled to himself thinking of the time when Darius had attempted to reform him. He'd been very young at the time… new to France and he'd only recently killed his first teacher, the French crusader Henri St. Cloud whose name he'd taken. St. Cloud had found him on the battlefield in the Holy Land… apprised him of what he was… and taken him home with him to France… secure that he'd done the right thing. He had. He'd opened Xavier's eyes to a wider world… and to the possibilities of wealth almost beyond understanding. When he'd disapproved of Xavier's activities, the young immortal had killed his master and come fully to understand the great gift of immortality.

But then he'd had some difficulties. He was young… didn't yet know the language or customs of France… and had fled before the mob to find protection in a Paris church. There he'd also found a new protector in the ancient immortal Darius from whom he learned many things. The immortal priest's words had sounded softly on his young ears. But Xavier was immortal and wanted a better life… certainly not one that involved a cloister. He'd wanted fine clothes, money, and the best that immortality had to offer… not an eternity of selfless denial. And he'd so enjoyed torturing the priest in later years with that knowledge and flinging Darius' failure with him into his face. He truly had never understood how any immortal could give up life the way he had… especially one who'd once stood on the pinnacle of success with the known world spread at his feet… ready for his rule.

"Say your words are interesting… what do I get out of it?" St. Cloud said smoothly.

"All the money of your victims… whatever accounts they own I can see are transferred legally to a holding company and then diverted to whatever account you specify," Horton said with a smile. "Their swords of course. In fact… anything you want."

"And what do you get?"

Horton smiled as he crossed his legs. "I get an immortal strong enough to kill Duncan MacLeod."

St. Cloud sat back. There were still times that the nerve endings in his right arm flared and he felt once more the pain of his hand's severance. He'd been almost five hundred years old, and among the best swordsmen who walked the earth when he'd first met Duncan MacLeod, Hamza el Kahir's young student. He'd found the young Scot to be a joke. St. cloud had wasted a moment on him. As a rule, the Moor studied his opponents… found their weaknesses… and never challenged a superior swordsman… just ones who could increase his own abilities. It was a tactic, which had served him well in his long life. He'd run across MacLeod several more times in the past few hundred years… but he'd never seen the man as either worthy of his skills… or a threat to his head. The Highlander had always seemed a bombastic barbarian to Xavier. But he'd evidently mellowed since their last encounter. He'd slipped up with MacLeod… let his anger at losing the income from the robbery get in the way of his challenge. And in so doing… he'd paid for that anger. Xavier St. Cloud was determined never to let anger get in his way again. But if he could achieve an advantage over the Highlander… he might yet get the younger man's head. Who'd have thought the brash young Scotsman would have gotten so good in so short a time? "If I were inclined to this rather vague proposition… how might I level the playing field."

"With guns," Horton said.

St. Cloud laughed. "Guns are ineffective. You can't kill with a gun."

"No… but you can slow an immortal down long enough to take his head."

"I can't fire weapons and wield a sword. Your plan is utter foolishness."

"What if someone else fires the gun… or guns."

St. Cloud was silent. Then he turned on the bench toward Horton. "You are offering to shoot immortals for me so that I can claim a hollow victory? Part of the game is that the skill of one must overcome the skill of the other. Guns are a cheat."

"Oh… I wouldn't be the one firing the gun… although once we face MacLeod I might be. No… I have men who do my bidding… men I will put at your disposal. Don't be such an effete snob, Xavier! You've cheated before in the game. You've used gas or any advantage you could get to be certain that you survived. Guns are no different. Besides, don't you want the chance of re-growing your hand? Oh yes… I know the old legends too." Horton's smile widened. "I also know that to defeat Duncan MacLeod… we have to cripple him… rob him one by one of everyone in the world he cares for. His friends… his workers… his lover… even the immortals he wants to save… like Darius."

"Darius? I'd heard he was dead?"

"No. He escaped my trap."

"But you know where he is?"

Horton shook his head. "Not yet. But I will. Eventually he will contact MacLeod and then we can strike."

"Darius," breathed St. Cloud suddenly very interested. Darius had absorbed a great power according to legend… a power and quickening so great that it was said to have leveled half of Paris at the time. What would that power do for St. Cloud? He lifted his hook and clicked it thoughtfully. Taking Darius' head might well give him all the power he'd ever need to be the one. Besides… killing the priest would upset MacLeod. "I may be interested in your plan," he said aloud to the mortal. He didn't trust him. Any mortal who knew this much about them was a danger to them all. But he might be able to use him for a while.

"Excellent," Horton said smoothly. "We can begin making arrangements for your first beheading. I have someone in mind… a bit young… not especially skilled… but we should start small… Don't you think?"

"Hmm…" mused St. Cloud, "… then perhaps we can come to an arrangement. I warn you… I require a not so modest stipend. After all… it's my head on the line."

"Your head will be quite safe, I promise you. No one will expect you to bend the rules. The kill squads will be a surprise. And you will reap the rewards." Horton slapped his hands together several times in excitement. He had the monster… he was certain of it. He had him in his grasp and would continue to dangle heads before him… and money… whatever it took. But soon… very soon… he would be ready to close in on Duncan MacLeod. He offered St. Cloud a hand to shake… and made certain he didn't flinch. Later… he'd burn the gloves, scrub his hands, and likely vomit from this near encounter… but for know… he could manage. After all… it was MacLeod he wanted dead… and he'd promised himself that it would happen… no matter what.

St. Cloud offered his good hand and kept the smile plastered on his face. This foolish mortal would die as soon as he no longer had any use for him. But Horton was right about one thing… St. Cloud was handicapped in the game at the moment and he could use a little help… at least for a while. But in the end… Duncan MacLeod's head and quickening would be his… it was a promise he'd made to himself that night last spring that he'd dragged himself out of the Seine and seen the damage the Highlander had done to him. St. Cloud liked keeping promises he made to himself… yes indeed he did.

-----

After St. Cloud had left, Stanley Barton claimed the seat the immortal had vacated. "Well?"

"I rather think we have him."

"I don't like this, James. The plan was to kill them and prevent any of them from being the one. If the quickenings are lost at our hands… then none of them will ever be the one."

"Patience my friend. Xavier will die when we no longer need him. I promise that you can take his head. You can gun him down as you will do others for him as he gains new confidence and becomes enmeshed in our snares."

"Me? I'm his official Watcher."

"Yes… and you will continue to feed false information on his whereabouts and activities to your superiors. I don't want there to be any slip-ups in this. We will help Mr.St. Cloud kill immortals until I'm ready for him to face MacLeod. We'll start small… with immortals MacLeod's never had dealings with."

"Why not just kill them ourselves?"

"Because… as long as a quickening is released… they will believe it is an unidentified immortal on the hunt. They won't suspect our involvement. We will gain strength and allies. Our moles still within the organization will continue to strengthen support for our movement. In the end… we will be the ones in control. And then… then Stanley, my young friend… we shall slaughter all the immortals. None shall remain to hold sway over us. Mortal man shall rise triumphant! This offshoot of humanity will go the way of the Neanderthal! They are a dead end. They can't even re-produce."

"Where do they come from?"

Horton shrugged. "Who knows. But no immortal has ever had children. Wherever they come from… it's not from each other."

Barton shook his head. "Then how can we ever be certain that we have them all?"

"Because we have the records… or we will have. We'll be able to gain access to the complete library and one by one we'll hunt them down."

Barton nodded and rose to return to his current job of following St. Cloud. He had some doubts about this that he was as yet afraid to voice. One of those was that by hastening the end of the game… they might be signing their own death warrants. Still… Horton seemed to know what he was doing… and much of what he said made sense in a twisted sort of way. Besides… as long as he finally got to be the one to whack the Moorish bastard… he'd be happy. He could play along. He just hoped that Horton didn't really want him to be friends with the monster… not really.

St. Cloud had come to Chicago as one of the finest centers for prosthetics in the world was here. The man obviously wanted the best appliance made to replace his living hand… and he'd paid dearly for it. Well, thought Barton, for all the good it will do him in the game, he was welcome to it. Whistling he flagged a cab. This might turn out to be the best assignment he'd ever had.