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Other Choices, Other Lives, part 3
If he had thought the quickening might be less satisfactory than normal, Xavier St. Cloud was pleasantly surprised that it was just as good as it ever was. He'd had a few reservations about letting Horton's handpicked squad of men gun down his opponent. But he'd discovered that cheating did not leave a bad taste in his mouth. Besides… an immortal with one hand had to level the playing field somehow.
The quickening plowed into his heart as effectively as it ever did while excess power exploded nearby streetlights, neon signs, electronics in a store window display… and car alarms. It crackled like living fire about his prosthetic hook… but otherwise seemed much the same.
When he recovered… he fired some of the neurons, which activated the hook and saw with glee that for a few moments… sparks flew when the parts of it moved.
He was nearly delirious with glee and glanced up at James Horton in the shadows. "This might work out very well for both of us," he said smoothly, awkwardly replacing his sword within his coat.
"I told you that my plan was flawless," Horton said with sarcasm. "All you have to do is call them out, let the boys do their thing, and then reap the reward."
"And how long will it be before I outlive my usefulness?" St. Cloud replied with humor.
Horton's eyes widened before his expression was once more that self-satisfied smirk. "In the end there can be only one. Why not you?"
"With you as my…" he held up the hook which replaced his left hand, "… left hand man as it were?"
Horton's smile widened. "Of course. We make an excellent team. I'm the brains… and you're the brawn."
"And here I thought you'd approached me for my mind," chuckled St. Cloud.
"Without me… you'd still be hiding from other immortals except the very young. This way… my way… you can manage MacLeod."
"Now?"
"Not quite yet. A little more practice is called for I believe."
"Practice," murmured St. Cloud, his eyes taking on an unfocused look.
Paris, 1195"You must practice," Henri St. Cloud was saying again to the young immortal he'd taken in as a student. He'd renamed the Moor Xavier, and had brought him back to France following the end of the Third Crusade. "You cannot go back to your own village and people until at least a lifetime later," he'd told him. "In France, I can teach you everything you need to know."
The young man now called Xavier had agreed. He had much to learn if he were going to be able to compete in a kill or be kill game. If the centuries-old Henri St. Cloud were any indication of the level of competition in this game… then Xavier was clearly out-matched. Nevertheless, he missed the wide desert vistas of his youth, and the clean heat of the days. This damp cold of the north did not agree with him. He sneezed… again.
"Ha… ha!" laughed St. Cloud, pounding Xavier on the shoulder. "All you need is a little acclimation. I will make a gentleman of you yet!"
Xavier had arched an eyebrow at that. He thought St. Cloud and the entire life-style of these barbarians was beneath him. He had grown up in a more civilized though harsh world. These Europeans were only a few generations removed from wearing animal skins and painting their faces. Indeed, some still did so.
He shuddered at the thought of animal skins draped on his shoulders, as was still the fashion here, or laid on the cold, stone floors of the keeps. He made certain not to step on them, preferring to avoid them when at all possible.
He had been intrigued by leather, however, especially on the foot as it gave greater protection in this land of rocks instead of sand. Well… perhaps these barbarians had a few good ideas. He smiled and bowed, moving his hand to reverence his teacher. "I shall endeavor to learn all I need… and to practice daily… my master."
"And stop bowing to me! I'm not a king… by God! Nor would I want to be!" He belched some of the ale he was drinking and slapped Xavier's arm. "You're far too effeminate sometimes. You best watch that."
Xavier glared a moment at St. Cloud's uncouth behavior, and then smiled. "Yes… I'd hate for anyone to think I sleep with boys."
"Right you are!" roared St. Cloud. "Which reminds me… I have some servants around here who shall serve us quite nicely."
Their names were unimportant, Xavier discovered. They were of the lower class, daughters of serfs, bound to St. Cloud's land… and accustomed to their lordship's demands. Xavier discovered that they had little finesse in the matters of love… but would bend over without complaint if St. Cloud or Xavier asked them to do so. St. Cloud did so often… Xavier less so… as he'd been taught to regard even prostitutes with respect. And these were not prostitutes… simply women without a choice in the matter.
"… and I need not worry about bastards coming out of the woodwork," laughed St. Cloud as he finished up with one and slapped her rear before turning to continue down the corridor with Xavier. The Moor and averted his eyes as he always did. He truly disliked much about his mentor… his casual attitude toward sex with his employees being one of those reasons. But Xavier still had much to learn… his skill with his scimitar clearly no match for the evident skill of Henri St. Cloud… Crusader Knight of the Realm.
But the day will come, thought Xavier as he stepped along sprightly behind his mentor. The day will come when I will be better than you. And on that day my barbarian master… all you have… including your name… will be mine.
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And the day had come. Xavier had learned to wait for his opponents and to pick his battles carefully. No one he couldn't beat was challenged. He and MacLeod had just come up against one another a bit too soon… or maybe he'd left him too long. The man was much better than he'd given him credit for… especially for one so young.
"Are you going to stand there all day and stare off into space?" Horton was saying. "We need to get going."
Xavier smiled benignly… almost indulgently at the mortal. "I am at your service. Mr. Horton." But even he did not trust the man. He'd turned on his own kind for a reason… he hated immortals. Xavier had no illusions about what Horton would try to do once he no longer needed the Moor. When MacLeod is dead, Xavier thought as climbed neatly into Horton's sedan, You and I will part company… permanently.
"I want to set some things up in Paris," Horton was saying. Xavier nodded absently.
"Paris in the dead of winter… how perfectly charming," he said with droll wit.
"I want to be certain that when we draw MacLeod out… we have a fallback position in case of problems."
"You worry too much," Xavier replied smoothly. "With your men and their Uzi's to slow him down… he shouldn't put up too much of a fight."
"This isn't a game, St. Cloud!" Horton insisted testily.
St. Cloud laughed merrily. "That's where you are wrong, Mr. Horton. It is indeed a game. Without a sense of humor and style… it becomes only murder. I don't murder."
Horton snorted. He'd crossed his legs and was staring at the Rio de Janeiro skyline, the pedestrians and the tourists wandering the brightly lit street. As far as he was concerned… murder was all it was. Immortals had no conscience about it… they killed… and they didn't care who got in the way.
July 4, 1988
James Horton had to agree; his new assignment was far easier on his life and marriage than his previous one. Whereas the Kurgan had frequented biker bars and usually been on the prowl in the underbellies of the world's large cities in his quest to kill all immortals, Blake Wilmington was a breath of fresh air.
True, he was no saint, but then few of them were. He'd been killed during the robbery of a convenience store. The clerk, tired of being robbed again and again, had pulled a forty-five from under the counter and blasted Wilmington to kingdom come. That should have been the end of the story… but it wasn't. Immortals just didn't stay dead.
Wilmington had awakened in the morgue, beaten and robbed the attendant, and fled into the night. He'd next turned up later that year of 1985 as a member of a crew of thieves attempting to rob the First National Bank of Seacouver, WA. He'd died along with several of the others in a police shootout. When a plant inside the police department noticed Wilmington's ID… he contacted the Watchers and they had a stakeout on the morgue.
Once again, Wilmington rose from the dead; beat and robbed the attendant, this time inflicting broken bones and a ruptured spleen on his victim. And this time… he was followed.
Horton was assigned to him about three weeks later. The young man was drifting through petty crimes with an increasingly devil-may-care attitude of "Ya can't stop me coppers!" In fact, he'd uttered that phrase during the shootout after the bank robbery.
Benjamin Corlett had finally found him and attempted to teach him what he was and what he needed to do. Wilmington took his teacher's head about three months later. Never let it be said that he didn't get the message. In fact… Horton had overheard him after he recovered from Corlett's quickening as saying something to the effect that "it was better than drugs… better than sex… and better than rock and roll." Horton had somehow doubted that last one.
Since early 1986 and now, Wilmington had become quite the daring assassin for the local mob. He didn't mind getting killed in the process… and then getting up again. It was likely only a matter of time before another immortal… a really bad one… got word of this Johnny-come-lately. But Blake… while certainly a problem child, was not truly evil… at least… not yet.
As far as James Horton was concerned… Blake Wilmington was a walk in the park compared to his earlier assignments… the mercenary Kage, and the Kurgan. The Kurgan was dead, thankfully at the hands of Connor MacLeod in 1985… but Kage had vanished shortly after witnessing the killing fields of Cambodia in 1975. He'd come upon a field of slaughtered children… dead by his refusal to airlift them out of danger rather than his drugs… and that field of torn and bloodied bodies had made more of an impression on the mercenary than hundreds of years of corpses had. When and where he'd turn up next… no one knew. Horton had lost him in the jungles… his own terror and confusion about what he witnessed, rendering him incapable of Watching for a while.
But the Kurgan's cold calculations, and his ability to spot a tail, and the deaths of several Watchers inadvertently, had led to Horton's drawing the assignment. It had nearly ended his marriage… and lost him his child.
But all that was past now. Today was the Fourth of July and Blake Wilmington was taking in an amusement park. So James Horton had decided to relax a bit, bring his daughter Lynn for a father-daughter outing prior to her senior year of high school, and enjoy the sunshine and the Independence Day Celebrations at the park. His wife had begged off… something about a headache. Horton hadn't cared. She was not important to his life anymore… but Lynn was; and now that she was nearly grown, her mother wouldn't be able to stand in the way of their being together. Lynn loved him… and that was all that mattered.
Horton kept one eye on Wilmington, and the other on Lynn as they wandered about the park. Even Wilmington seemed to be getting into the spirit of the day. Oh… he'd likely lifted a wallet or two… but essentially… he was behaving himself… just one more guy out for a good time on the holiday.
It all went horribly wrong in less time than it should have.
Wilmington ran across Norman Kellogg… a rather distasteful immortal who had been a pedophile in his first life and continued to kidnap and abuse children in his immortal life as a hobby. Likely finding his next prepubescent boy or girl was his reason for being at the park. When they ran into some of Lynn's school friends, Horton managed to lose his daughter for a bit while he watched the duel. Surprisingly, it went to Wilmington. He cheated of course. He pulled out his magnum and blew a hole in Kellogg's chest before going to work on him with Kellogg's own sword. The quickening knocked out about half the rides. Lynn later told him that she'd been caught at the top of the Ferris wheel with her friends when the "power outage" had occurred… but at the time… Horton had been frantic.
Blake had risen after the quickening and brushed himself off… then he'd begun laughing maniacally. He'd reloaded his magnum with a full clip and sauntered through the park… killing mortals at random. He didn't seem to have any fear of what might happen to him. He went through five clips of ammo before an off-duty police officer managed to cut him down. Wilmington was laughing the whole time.
Horton, frantic that Lynn had been among the dead, was barely capable of calling for backup and help. He'd pleaded with the Tribunal in the days that followed that Wilmington had to be stopped. They'd calmly told him that Watchers… Watch… they don't interfere. Then they'd recommended counseling for him.
Horton had played along… but the combined trauma of what he'd witnessed over the past thirteen years, had crystallized his thinking. He began to covertly seek out other Watchers also sickened by what they observed… and together… they were ridding the world of these inhuman freaks.
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James Horton had personally dispatched half a dozen of the demons, as he tended to think of them, since 1989. It wasn't as easy as he'd thought. First he had to recruit others… then they had to pool their limited information on immortals… not their own… and begin to rid the world of the worst of them. Blake Wilmington had awakened in a morgue one night in 1991… to the feel of several men holding him down… and the face of James Horton as he'd used a bone saw to end Wilmington's reign of terror. By that time… Horton had no longer been his Watcher, but was head of the Northwestern American Bureau of Watchers. It had felt extremely rewarding to rid the world of that weasel.
St. Cloud would follow Wilmington in good time. Once MacLeod was dead, Horton would have no further use for the crippled immortal. He smiled at St. Cloud who chuckled beside him in the back seat of the sedan. Theirs was an unholy alliance based on need… and mutual hate of one man… Duncan MacLeod.
"You'll like the immortal I've selected for you in Paris," Horton said smoothly.
"Oh? And who is the sacrificial lamb to be?"
"Anton LeGris… he's a florist."
"Well… we all have to be something."
"He hasn't had a challenge in nearly ten years. He's ripe for the slaughter," chuckled Horton. He pulled out a file and passed a glossy 8 x 10 black and white headshot over to St. Cloud.
"Does he even carry a sword?"
"Not usually. But I'm certain if you extend the challenge… he'll be glad to meet you. He's very honorable."
"And the devil take honorable men," purred St. Cloud. He used his hook to rip the photograph in half… raggedly separating LeGris' head from his shoulders. "This could be fun."
"Just don't get cocky," Horton reminded him. "We stick to the plan. Trust me. By the time we're finished… MacLeod will be shaking in his boots waiting for the axe to fall."
St. Cloud regarded him with a cocked eyebrow. "I don't think MacLeod is the sort to quake."
Horton chuckled. "But then… you don't know everything I have planned for the good Highlander and his lovely bride."
"Oh? Care to share?"
"All in good time, St. Cloud; all in good time."
The two men rode in companionable silence until they reached the private airfield, and boarded Horton's Lear Jet for the flight from Brazil to France.
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