"Blood loss in a bathroom stall
A southern girl with a scarlet drawl
Wave goodbye to ma and pa"
"Scar Tissue" - Red Hot Chili Peppers
03 January 2000
Innsbruck, Austria
Brad Miller stared at the Algerian map, his frustration growing with each passing second. He sat back and rubbed his eyes. A groan passed his lips as he searched for his cup of coffee, finally finding it on the far side of the table. Tara Ingram nudged it closer to him.
"I thought you knew where this training camp was," she said as he took a sip of the cold beverage and made a face into the cup.
"I thought I did, too," admitted the Watcher, "but nothing on this map looks familiar." He waved his hand across the giant paper laid across the table. "For starters, this is an aviation map at one over two hundred fifty thousand scale. The map Earnshaw was using one over fifty thousand, like the military uses. Also, this thing is in German. I don't understand any of what it's saying."
Ingram frowned. "Perhaps General Honnecker can get us a different one. Would that help?"
Miller set his cup back on the table. "Maybe. It would really depend on whether he gets one with the right area depicted. That means he'd have to get a lot of sheets for me to look at. And in English, preferably."
This time Ingram grinned at him. "I don't think that would be a problem for him."
"I know it's somewhere fifty or sixty kilometers or so south of Annaba, but I can't be more specific than that without seeing something I recognize on the map."
Ingram nodded. "That's still a lot of ground to cover."
"Yeah, and it's not like there's a lot of ground references to use. I'm mostly looking for the names of mountains that look familiar. Oh!" He held up a finger. "All of those were in Arabic, I think. If he can get us a map with Arabic town and mountain names, that would help out a lot."
Miller regarded the map on the table again, his eyes far away. "The first class will be back from there by now. The next one will be leaving for there in a few days, probably. What do you think Ashton will do once we figure out where it is?"
"I have no idea," Ingram replied, shaking her head. "It's not like he has some planes waiting on standby to bomb the place."
Miller smirked. "I've read parts of his chronicles. He's resourceful. He seems to have a profound ability for making people die when he wants it to happen." He pointed at the map. "Somehow, I think once we have a definitive location of this place, we're signing the death warrants for a great many of its occupants."
"Do you have a problem with that?"
Miller looked up into her eyes. His shrug was noncommittal. "I've thought about that since I've come to be with you. While it's true, yes, that I've come to see the error of my past ways and I do regret them," he pointed at the map again, "I know a lot of the people who are going to be there. Some of them I, sort of, called friends. It's difficult to think that my actions are going to lead to their deaths."
"More so than planning the deaths of Immortals?" she asked. There was no accusation in the question, only frankness.
"No, that had just as much gravity for me back then, as well. I think that is partially why they only had me as part of the security detail. Had it been Louis DeVille maybe, I think I may have been fully willing to kill him, but those others were not guilty parties to me. I couldn't completely justify what I was doing, at least in my own head, but I never said it out loud."
"Why not?"
Miller laughed. "You never met Tammy Ochoa." He reached for his cup again, sipping from it before remembering it was cold and making the face again. "Damn, I wish this was something stronger. Anyway, she was the type that would shoot you in the face if she thought there was a shred of doubt or disloyalty about you. It wasn't safe to say anything of the sort around her. Singer wasn't much better, though he had a much better sense of humor."
"So you kept quiet."
"Yes, and I accepted whatever minor roles they gave me. Tried to make myself somewhat important in other ways, like doing all the cooking at the safehouse and whatnot. They didn't seem to have any problem with that."
"Oh? I didn't know you could cook." Ingram looked at him with renewed interest.
"You never asked." Miller grinned at her, his eyes sparkling.
"We'll have to get you to test your skills sometime, then," she said, a hint of a challenge in her voice.
"Anytime."
Ingram smiled again and stood. "I'll see about getting us some new maps." She grinned and pointed at his cup. "And some fresh coffee. Or maybe some whiskey."
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03 January 2000
Salt Lake City, Utah
Since capturing Scott Moran two months ago, Charles Ulrich had tracked Matthew Crouse across the United States. First, the Watcher went from Washington State to his home in South Carolina, then to Arkansas, then Ohio. From what Ulrich could discover, the man was competing in other martial arts tournaments and watching his Immortal. Since Crouse was a Hunter, Ulrich thought that this Immortal's life was also very much in danger. It took some digging, but Ulrich soon learned the location of the current tournament. It was Salt Lake City.
Ulrich had finally learned the pattern to Crouse's travels. While no harm had come to Vladimir Sokolov, his assigned Immortal and a competitor in the same tournaments, other Immortals in the area had died…and not by Crouse's hand. The revelation had come to Ulrich a week before. Crouse was the decoy; another team was actually making the hits.
That meant the Hunters were aware of Ulrich trailing Crouse and were simply using him to keep the German occupied while they took out Immortals behind his back. It also meant Ulrich was in more danger than he thought.
Well, Ulrich may not know the location of this other team or their plans, but he could make one decision, take one action, that would throw them off slightly before he made his own disappearance and made his way back to Europe.
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Crouse sat alone in his hotel room, in the zazen position. His only belongings were some clothes, martial arts paraphernalia, and several notebooks. They were filled with the strange Watcher script, a variation of the ancient Sumerian cuneiform, which the Watchers had used as code for their entire history. It had been the language of the first and originator of their order, according to legend.
Crouse had spent many years as a Watcher, but somehow, possibly against his own will, he had entered the ranks of the Hunters. The Immortal he watched, on whom he had taken so much detailed information, had to die now. They all had to die. They were abominations, creatures living forever, or at least with the potential to live forever. Crouse had known Jacob Elwin, the leader of the 1994 Seattle Hunter uprising, briefly before another Immortal had killed him. Talking with him, all things became clear. Immortals had existed for thousands of years, no one knew exactly how long. They had fought each other through those millennia, and were, it was thought, approaching the final Gathering, when the last would receive the Prize. Elwin had explained what this Prize was, or at least what it was rumored to be. No one, not even the Watchers, knew what it was, but as it could be the total power of all Immortals bestowed on one individual, it meant almost certainly godlike ability for that Immortal. Mortal men would suffer.
It terrified Crouse; as it had Elwin, as it would all mankind, if the secret were known. It could not be known. The Hunters had to proceed silently, with caution. The Immortals were, many of them, ancient, with knowledge and understanding beyond mortals. They must not know we are among them, Crouse thought.
He opened his eyes. The meditation was broken. That one dark thought had become conscious. He rose to his feet in a smooth and practiced manner. He had been striving for an inner stillness in preparation for the execution of Vladimir Sokolov. That had been broken, but the execution would have to proceed. He retrieved several firearms from a silver metal suitcase under the bed, and then a sword in a black case beside it. He opened it and lifted out the sword. It had been taken with great care from the Watcher archives, from the headquarters for Western Europe. He knew that a replica would have done just as well, but it was the ceremony that mattered just as much as the killing. He was not an animal like those they hunted, who only knew killing. There was a ritual to execution. The sword was a beautiful English longsword from the early fifteenth century. He slipped it from its scabbard and the polished blade gleamed in the dim light of the room.
He smiled.
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Charles Ulrich stood outside the hotel. He touched the .45 pistol in a shoulder holster under his long coat, making sure it was secure. There was another, a .475 Wildey Magnum in a holster at his left side. He carried a shotgun in the long case he carried, a Benelli Super 90. He had a short sword secured inside his coat. He would decapitate Crouse at the last and leave him as a warning to the other Hunters.
For nearly a minute, he stood there, staring up at the hotel, and the room he knew that Crouse occupied. Crouse would die tonight, but in order for that to be so, Ulrich needed to have the right mindset. All battles were lost or won before they ever began. The man with the superior spirit would triumph.
He entered the hotel and brushed past several people who called after him. The desk clerk was going for the phone. Security. The thought of killing the desk clerk flitted through Ulrich's mind, but he dismissed it. He came here to kill one man. The desk clerk and all others were not deserving of death. It had never been in Ulrich's nature to unnecessarily kill the innocent.
He found Crouse's room. The advantage to fighting mortals was they could not sense one's approaching presence, he thought, smiling grimly. It was a cold, chilling smile. He knelt and opened the case, lifting out the Benelli. He racked the pump, chambering the first shell.
Inside the room, Crouse was alerted. He dropped the rescabbarded sword to the bed and pulled an M9 pistol from a shoulder holster. He attached the silencer as he moved away from the door, which crashed inward after a thunderous report from the Benelli. Ulrich entered and fired again, but Crouse was no longer there. Ulrich turned to see him levelling the M9 at his chest. He fired. Ulrich slumped against the wall, blood spurting from his chest. It had missed the heart.
Ulrich fired the Benelli again and caught Crouse in the hip. Blood exploded in a bright cloud. Crouse, crying out, was thrown to the ground. He managed to lift the M9 and fire again, catching Ulrich in the shoulder. Ulrich staggered back, dropping the Benelli. He drew the Wildey from the holster at his left hip. Crouse was staggering to his feet. Ulrich did not have the chance to fire. Crouse fired several more times, emptying the weapon.
Ulrich lay on his side in front of the open door in a welter of blood. He was alive, barely. Crouse, grievously wounded, dragged himself to the bed, where he retrieved the longsword. He made his way to the still living, but mortally wounded, Ulrich, and struck off his head. There was no Quickening. He dropped the sword and rolled away from the body. It was pure agony to do so. Crouse drew a cell phone from his pocket and dialed. A familiar voice answered.
"Is it done?" the voice asked.
Crouse struggled to control his breathing, struggled to control the pain. He was sure he would bleed to death if he did not get help, and quickly. "Yes. Ulrich is dead. But I am…wounded."
There was a small pause on the other end. "Help is on its way. Good work, Crouse."
The line went dead. Crouse dropped the phone and collapsed, a smile on his face. He just had to hold on a few more minutes.
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05 January 2000
Paris, France
Chez Papa Jazz Club
The interior of the restaurant was a well-constructed and eye-pleasing combination of stone and dark hardwood. The tables and chairs were made from a darker hue of fine wood with white table cloths. To offset the darkness of the place, each table had candles set upon each tabletop. A large grand piano sat in one corner where, currently, one of the patrons was playing a sultry tune. Album covers of jazz artists - like Bill Evans and Eric Dolphy - covered many sections of the wall while handwritten scrawls were etched across much of the stone sections.
"I would have thought a man of your caliber to have gravitated more toward classical than jazz," commented Ambrose Barron as he and Dublin sat with Ashton as a corner table.
"I do," replied Ashton, sipping from a tumbler of Scotch. "But I also find quite a few of the jazz artists of this century to be quite pleasing, particularly the instrumental stuff. I won't bore you with the details of which artists I prefer, but let's just say that I have graced the doors of a few jazz concerts in my day."
Beside him, Dublin chuckled. "Don't be too surprised, Ambrose. Ol' David here is actually quite the connoisseur of music in several forms, not just classical and jazz. Every now and then, he's even been known to attend pop concerts and even rock, though you won't see him among those jumping up and down hooting with the rest of the crowd. He's much too sedate for that. That's more Jonny's thing than his."
Ashton smiled. "Yes, the boy is much more the excitable type, but he's also a teenager. If he were not bouncing around at a concert, he'd be expending his boundless energy in other ways."
"Oh, don't get me started on the other ways he expends his energy," grinned Dublin.
"What?" asked Barron. "Tell me about this Jonny?" A look of confusion crossed his face. He reached for his mojito and took a sip to cover it. "I've heard the two of you mention him over the years but I've never met him myself."
"Jonny Fairbanks," answered Dublin. "A friend of ours. He's a child Immortal. You have the pleasure of meeting him one day. He's an absolute joy to be around."
Ashton paled slightly, taking another hit from his Scotch. "Except when he and Dublin are together. Then the mischievous side of him comes out…more than usual, I should say. They just feed off each other and the antics get out of hand quickly. Though it can, at times, be entertaining."
"Tell me about him," said Barron.
Dublin leaned forward, his glass of stout forgotten. "Like I said, he's a young Immortal, at least biologically. In that regard, he's fourteen. In real years, he's eight hundred or so."
"Eight hundred one," added Ashton. "You keep forgetting his birthday. It's in June."
"Yeah, I knew it was somewhere in there," admitted Dublin.
"Eight hundred?" repeated Barron. "That's quite impressive for a child Immortal. I've not heard of one living that long."
"They usually don't," stated Ashton.
"Right," said Dublin, "and the fact that Jonny has is entirely David's doing. He taught him all the right tricks to stay alive."
"Besides simply using a sword, you mean?" Barron inquired.
"Yeah, he also showed him how to use his own personal attributes as an asset?"
"Personal attributes?" Barron looked confused again.
"Yeah," Dublin continued. "First of all, no one expects a child Immortal to be able to fight. It's just a given. So they typically go into the fight expecting an easy win. Hell, I fought him once when I first met him and I made the same mistake. He lets you think that until he has his own sword in his hand and then…well, by then it's usually too late."
"How so?" asked Barron.
"Well, you see, the kid has had a hard past. This has developed a certain mindset about him. He doesn't expect you to show him any mercy whatsoever."
"Understandable, I suppose," Barron remarked.
"Right, so he enters a fight with two things on his mind: one, everything that people have ever done wrong to him in the past and, two, destroying you as quickly as possible. For example, when I first fought him, he took me down in two moves."
"Two moves?" Barron's eyes went wide. "That's unbelievable. I have sparred with you and I know your abilities. An Immortal would have to have incredible skill in order to do such a thing."
Dublin nodded. "That's what I'm sayin', Ambrose. The boy's a fireball and he doesn't mess around in a fight."
Ashton cut in at this point. "Darren's biggest failing, you could say, is he knows exactly how good he is. So he shows off. He gets theatrical. Jonny doesn't do that. He has only three things in mind, three things that I taught him to do: incapacitate, disarm, decapitate."
"And he doesn't bother trying with a lot of the types of swordplay that we do," added Dublin. "Things like deflecting or blocking blades simply wouldn't work for him, so if he can avoid doing it, he does. The strength factor, you see. He can't compete with that. So he learned other techniques to make his strikes more effective and, conversely, not be there when his opponent attacks."
"And you taught him all this?" asked Barron, pointing at Ashton. The Minoan nodded.
"And he learned well."
"I would say so," Barron agreed. He looked back at Dublin. "Now what was this you said about his energy? How he is always doing things to expend it?"
"Oh, yes." Dublin finally remembered his stout and took a pull from it. "Just imagine you're a fourteen-year old boy. How would you keep yourself occupied? Well, for starters, the kid is quite the athlete. He loves to run and swim. He does that all the time. Sometimes he'll join competitive teams to do it. David even told me that a decade or so ago he even joined the U.S. diving team."
Ashton smiled and nodded. "The eighty-four Olympic team in Los Angeles," he said. "On the ten meter platform and on his final dive, he overtook Li Kongzheng of the Chinese team. He was still sixty or so points overall behind that other American diver, Louganis, but they were on the same team, so Jonny came away with the silver medal."
"I wish I could have seen that," grinned Dublin. "I bet it was quite a match."
"It was. I've got a recording of it somewhere in all my things," commented Ashton. "When this is all concluded, I'll dig it up for you."
"I didn't know boys his physical age could compete in the Olympics," stated Barron, slight confusion on his features.
"The age requirements differ based on the event," Ashton clarified. "For divers, the minimum age is fourteen. Based on the documentation he had at the time, he just met that age by about a month and a half when the games started."
"On top of that," said Dublin, turning back to Barron with a mischievous grin, "getting back to the original topic, the lad is quite the little ladies boy. That, I would say, is how he burns off a great deal of his energy. The exercise is just to keep up his physique, I would guess. The rest of his time, besides the concerts, of course, is spent chasing the girls. And why not? He's got the looks for it and he's such a smooth chatter, he could talk a nun out of her habit."
"Oh, dear," blushed Barron, sipping his mojito.
Dublin laughed at him. "Don't get prudish now, Ambrose. It's not like any of us here are completely celibate. What would you do if you constantly had teenage hormones raging through you?"
Barron blushed brighter. "When you put it that way, I don't suppose I would be any different."
Sipping again from his pint, Dublin laughed again. "Just imagine the stories he has to tell the priest when the kid goes to confession." Dublin mimed the sign of the cross and folded his hands in front of him. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have committed two hundred counts of carnal knowledge with local girls…this week. And then he lists them…by name." Dublin reached for his stout again and chuckled. "How many Act of Contrition prayers, stations of the cross, Hail Maries, and penance do you think that will garner him?"
Barron's blush grew brighter still. "I couldn't imagine." Dublin laughed. Even Ashton joined him.
"I haven't asked him, but I wouldn't be surprised if he just glosses over the carnal knowledge bit when he goes to confession," said Ashton.
"Haven't asked?" Dublin looked at the Minoan curiously.
"That's his business, not mine," Ashton replied.
Dublin snapped his fingers and pointed at his mentor. "That's right. You're Jewish. Well, for all intents, that is. What a Catholic boy like him does with his life is not your concern."
Ashton nodded. Dublin smiled and turned back to Barron. "See? Even Immortals can have quirky little differences when it comes to theology."
Barron chuckled and pulled his mojito closer. "As long it doesn't result in drawn out arguments and killing each other, all of that is just fine. There's certainly enough of that already."
Ashton waved a finger to get the attention of the other two. "Gentlemen, it appears our guests have arrived."
Dublin's eyes flickered toward the front briefly then back to his beer. Barron, his back to the entrance, glanced at a reflective surface nearby but did not turn. All three of them recognized the tall, blond man in the pea jacket, a benefit of having looked up Sather's record in the Watcher computer they had captured. The two men with him were strangers. All three of the newcomers scanned the bar briefly before spotting Ashton. Smiling at the host, Sather pointed toward the back and the three men headed their way. All three Immortals watched them surreptitiously, hands on hidden weaponry, until Ashton nodded. Then they stood and faced the men.
Sather smiled and extended his hand. Ashton shook first, then Barron, then Dublin. The other two men, Nick Mayfield and William Bosa, also shook hands. They sat with Mayfield and Bosa facing the doorway.
"Thank you for coming," began Sather. "I was afraid you'd be concerned about an ambush and not show up."
"That's why we checked out the place two hours ago and have been here for the past hour." Ashton grinned at the Watcher.
"Of course, you did," said Sather, returning the grin. "As you should have."
They ordered lunch all around. The Immortals all opted for additional drinks. Sather asked for an Old Fashioned. Bosa and Mayfield drank tea and ordered light food. Ashton mentally nodded. Their job was security, not eating. The food was just a cover. Once they had all been served their drinks, he turned to Sather.
"Tell me now, Mr. Sather, why have we met at this lovely little establishment?"
"You come right to the point, don't you?" Ashton nodded. Sather sipped his Old Fashioned and cleared his throat. "Well, to put things in perspective, let me tell you a little about myself, at least as far as the Watcher Organization is concerned.
"When this whole affair began a few months ago, I was the Regional Director for Europe. There were some who disputed that assignment, because of my age and time in the organization, but the Executive Director, Michael Walker, whom you met a while ago - thank you for saving him, by the way - gave me his endorsement and defended my appointment. Anyway, shortly after this all started, I made some recommendations to improve security for the Watchers' families and facilities which resulted in my appointment to his special staff.
"Now that, let me tell you, was definitely being thrown into the deep end of the pool without water wings. If people thought I was out of my league having a continent under my purview, how was I going to be with having global responsibility suddenly thrust upon me?"
Ashton interrupted. "Like training and organizing this new force of Guardians you had suggested."
"Exactly," agreed Sather. "Now, I was lucky. I was able to pick my own staff and, of course, chose the best people I could find. But I was still left with fourteen hundred people who have no training and no equipment. It's a nightmare. And the boss has pretty much left me in charge of fighting a war against two groups of people that don't want to be found and that my people aren't prepared to fight. Sending them against either group, no matter how motivated my people might be, is just sending them on a suicide mission."
"And that, I presume, is where you want my help."
Sather took another sip and nodded. "Yes. You see, we have all sorts of information and resources but, like I said, we're not prepared yet to take on the Hunters or the Council when we find them. You are. Your people are organized and prepared for this sort of thing. We're not."
"So what exactly do you propose?"
"A partnership. I have been talking to the EDOW for weeks about this and he has finally agreed to it. We pass on any information we have on the Council or the Hunters that we have and you guys can act on it. When we can, we also add our manpower and help out, but we can't do so every time."
"So, let me get this straight," added Dublin. "You guys feed us info and we take most of the risk. You blokes'll chip in with some firepower when and if ya feel like it. Is that about right?"
"Not exactly how I would put it, but those are the basics, I suppose," admitted Sather. He drained his Old Fashioned and signaled the waiter for another.
"Doesn't sound like an equitable arrangement ta me," muttered Dublin. Ashton remained silent.
"Like I said, those aren't the words I would have used," Sather countered. "It's our families and our lives at risk with the Council walking the streets."
"An' our lives at risk with the Hunters free ta roam about," argued Dublin.
"Alright," interrupted Ashton. "Let's keep this civil. Before voices get raised, let's divert this conversation back to the main point." He turned his gaze to Sather. "You want to share information." Sather nodded. "And you want us to be the primary action point of that information." Another nod.
Ashton sipped his Scotch and thought for a moment. Barron picked up on the silence and asked a question.
"How many Guardians do you have available in Paris at the moment?"
"I'll admit I don't have many that I can release for operations in the area," said Sather. "Most of them are obligated with facility security, executive security, or family security missions. Out of the four hundred in the city, I might be able to scrape together twenty or thirty at the moment who could help out with anything that pops up. And that's only if I had advance notice."
Sather's drink arrived and he paused until the waiter was out of earshot. "And, to make matters worse, I'm sure you're aware that my boys - not to knock them, just to be honest - are not that well trained yet. We just opened up a training facility a few days ago. The first class won't be graduating for three months. Everyone who is actively working at the moment is doing so based solely on what they recall of the military or police training they received years ago. We're still building these guys and won't have any sort of basic foundation of skills for them for a year or more. Whatever I am able to give you will be guys with guns but their abilities with them will be variable. Know that from the start."
Sather glanced at Mayfield and Bosa and smirked darkly. "Sorry, guys. I'm not trying to insult you."
"No problem, sir," replied Mayfield, smiling slightly. "We understand the situation." Bosa nodded, but said nothing, keeping his eyes toward the door and sipping his tea.
"Let me add this, Sather," said Ashton quietly. "If we agree to this, then the number of Guardians you supply us in the future will have to increase. We already know that the original number of Hunters facing us when this war began was in excess of two hundred. I have twenty-seven people here in Europe. Even if I add your thirty Guardians and discount the number of Hunters we have killed, that is still insurmountable odds for us. That's assuming we find them all and can draw them into a fight. We need to stack the odds in our favor. Right now, they are not."
"Two hundred?" repeated Sather. "Where did you get that information?"
"That doesn't matter right now. The important thing is we must find them and attrit those numbers. We also must prevent the Council from doing any more damage to your organization. As long as we are fighting a two-front war, we will never win. We will only continue to fruitlessly sacrifice lives until we have none left to give. In that regard, you will last longer than I will. You have thousands; I have two dozen. Do the math."
"I see," admitted Sather. He grasped his drink in both hands and looked into its depths. After several blinks, he looked up into Ashton's eyes. "I will find the additional men for you. It will take some time, but I will do it."
"Very well," allowed Ashton, leaning back in the booth. "We are closer to an agreement, then."
"It would be a lot easier if you'd just tell us where the fuckers are hidin'," prodded Dublin.
"We know part of that," said Sather, sitting up straighter. "We know their leader is a man named Alan Ottenbreit." Dublin and Barron both nodded as he said that. "He is the Area Director of Scotland so we can tell you right now that he's likely somewhere up there. His area headquarters is in Lockerbie, but I would highly doubt that he is staging most of his Hunter activities out of there."
"We found out that much when Payton went in back in November," stated Ashton. "At great cost."
"Yes," said Sather, looking into his Old Fashioned again. "I know." He took a deep pull from the drink. "Ottenbreit is very well known and influential among the European Watchers. He's German by birth but holds Scottish citizenship as well as German. His grandmother was Scottish. Why he never progressed beyond Area Director is a mystery to me. He has the skills for it. I think it might have been part of his plan for this whole Hunter campaign. It makes sense, I guess. Being an Area Director allows you a lot of familiarity with your specific area, even though it might be a country as large as Scotland, it's still not like being a District Director where you have several countries under your responsibility. That has to be it. He stayed at that lower level so he could become intimately familiar with his stomping grounds and choose just the right place to make his homebase for the Hunters."
"If you're right," observed Barron, "then finding him is going to be even more difficult than we thought."
"Could be," Sather whispered. "He's had years to set himself up. We've only been trying to find him for a few months."
"I think we've digressed enough, gentlemen," said Ashton, pushing his empty glass aside.
"You're right," agreed Sather. "I guess we need a decision now."
Dublin nodded. "I'm good with this if you guys provide more Guardians in the future."
"As am I," said Barron.
"And the information sharing begins when?" asked Ashton.
"Immediately," said Sather. "I already have your email addresses."
"Good. Then I agree as well. Now let's enjoy what's left of our lunch. Don't worry about the bill. I'll take care of it. Let's move on to happier conversational topics while we eat. Afterward, I'm taking Darren and Ambrose down to the Louis Vuitton store down the street. We still have some clothing shopping to do after losing our home a few weeks ago."
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05 January 2000
Paris, France
"Thank you, Vincent. I really do appreciate this," Angela Carson told him for perhaps the fifth time in as many minutes.
"It's all right, Angela. I understand. I don't blame you. If I had a choice, I wouldn't stick around here either," Vincent confessed.
She had quietly approached him that morning, nervously telling him that she wanted to leave, but didn't have the money for a plane ticket. He had laughed hollowly and told her that she had certainly picked the wrong person to ask for money. Seeing the disappointment and fear in her eyes, he told her he would see what he could do.
Omeir Faaris had grumbled all the way to the banking machine and all the way back, but he had finally handed over the thousand Euros. He had also pressed a Beretta 92F into his hands. "Just in case," he said. Locke had agreed to accompany Carson to the nearest booking agent. From there she could catch a taxi to the airport.
The rain had stopped just after lunch and thin, watery sunshine brightened the streets. The two Immortals walked side by side, ever watchful both in front and behind for anyone who looked suspicious.
"Then why don't you leave?" Carson asked. She couldn't understand why any of them stayed. If she had known what was going on, she certainly wouldn't have come. Now she just wanted to get as far away from this mess as she could, preferably with her head still firmly attached to the rest of her.
O'Banian had been annoyed, but quiet. She had made no attempt to either dissuade Carson from leaving, or prevent her. No one else had said a word. Carson suspected they were all secretly wishing they could leave with her.
Before anything more could be said, the buzz of another Immortal touched them, halting them in their tracks. Carson drew in a shaky breath, her hand moving inside her jacket.
Then, as abruptly as it had started, the feeling dissipated. Locke breathed a sigh of relief. He looked at Carson. "It's nothing. Someone just passing."
She nodded, but wasn't entirely convinced. Her hand stayed inside her jacket, the feel of her sword a comforting thing.
"Here we are," Locke said, stopping in front of an elegant looking office. "Marton Razumov recommended this place. Said they give great deals on last minute flights. Where exactly did you want to go?"
"As far away from here as I can get with the money I have," Carson replied. "I just want to leave Paris as fast…"
She never finished the sentence. The first bullet caught her in the stomach, the second in the shoulder. She dropped to her knees, coughing and spluttering, one hand reaching up and clawing frantically at Locke.
He crouched low beside her, one hand inside his coat, not sure where the shots had come from. Even less sure if he could do anything about it. His hand touched on the Beretta, but he knew that out in the open like this, he wouldn't stand a chance.
"Vincent…," Carson choked. "I'm dying…" She struggled to remain upright, eyes wild.
The screech of tires caught Locke's attention and he looked up to see two dark sedans hurtle down the street, stopping near them. Another car screeched to a halt in front of them. Three men, all masked, exited each of the cars. One similarly masked man exited the building directly across the street and joined them. One gunman fired three shots into the air.
The few people on the street screamed, running away or taking cover in nearby shops. Locke tried desperately to drag Carson's rapidly expiring body into the travel agent's. He was hampered by the fact that the door swung outward rather than in and Carson was now slumped across the entryway.
"Damn it," Locke muttered, noting that the men were taking a direct course toward them. He didn't need to wonder who they were. The cold sweat on his brow and the shiver up his spine told him all too well. He drew his pistol, gave a soft prayer for small mercies that he hadn't brought Sophie along, and felt a twinge of regret that, just when he found some love in his life, it was all going to be over.
The men rushed Locke with determined speed, pistols in one hand, drawn short swords in the other. The first three were nearly upon him. A bullet tugged at Locke's left sleeve, another clipping his right earlobe. Other rounds skipped off the pavement around him, getting constantly closer.
A dark realization set upon Locke. He could stay where he was, try to fight, and die where he was, or back into the travel agent's, abandoning Carson but giving himself time to shoot back. Even then, if he could kill a few of them but they were able to take her head, the Quickening would set upon him. That would incapacitate him long enough for them to take his head, as well.
There was no time to mull over the possibilities. He had to act now. Cursing vehemently, Locke crouch-walked back into the travel agent's shop, extending his arms and firing the Beretta. One Hunter fell, hit in the knee. Locke kept shooting as he took cover behind the service counter. Another man fell. Two more leapt over Carson, firing at him while two behind them began hacking at her with their short swords.
"Damn it, no!" shouted Locke, firing at the men. A bullet struck him in the shoulder and chest, knocking him back. An instant later, he felt the electric crackle of the Quickening's initial storm. He closed his eyes, tears flowing down his cheeks. As the first wave of power struck him, he did not mourn his own pending death. He only thought, I'm sorry, Angela.
Another shot rang out, this one coming from the same side of the street as Locke. The masked gunman on the far right dropped, his hand clutching his chest. The other covered heads turned this way and that, their exposed eyes frantic. Locke, too, scanned the street, looking under the counter as he convulsed for whoever had come to his aid. His eyes widened when a figure caught his eye, and he had to look twice to convince himself who it was.
David Ashton stepped from the doorway of an upscale clothing shop three doors down from the travel agent's. His arm was outstretched in front of him, the Glock 17 in his hand. His face was stone. Another man stood with him, pistol also drawn. The gunmen in the doorway backed off, joining those in the street, looking at each other in confusion.
"Get up," a voice hissed in Locke's ear. He sat up to stare into a stranger's face, but a definitely Immortal stranger. Now that Locke was paying attention, he noticed the buzz.
"Get up," the man repeated.
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They had been in Louis Vuitton, Dublin haggling over what he considered to be an outrageous price for an Aran sweater, Ashton and Barron watching in amusement, when the presence had hit them. Dublin had stuck his head out the door cautiously, pulling it back in immediately and telling Ashton that Vincent Locke and some young girl were just a ways up the street.
The three men mulled over what to do and decided to simply use the back door of the shop. A confrontation on a busy Paris street was something to be avoided. They had been in the alleyway when they heard the gunfire. Ashton pulled up short.
Dublin stopped and turned back. "Yer gonna do something daft. I can feel it."
"We can't just leave them, Darren. Not knowing what's going to happen to them."
"David, Vincent Locke is four hundred years old. The Immortal Hermit. Don't you think he can take care of himself? Why should we get involved? They sure as hell wouldn't do the same for us. Hell, they'd probably give the Hunters their swords to do the job with."
Ashton raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Neither did Barron. Dublin gave a world-weary sigh and threw his hand in the air.
"All right. All bloody right. But I swear, David, if this gets me killed I'm comin' back to haunt you." He pointed at Barron. "You, too."
"If this gets you killed, I don't doubt I won't be far behind," commented David Ashton, moving back toward the street.
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Dublin shot Locke a glance that intimated that he wouldn't ask again and Locke complied quickly, eyes returning to the gunmen in the center of the street. They had stopped walking and were staring intently at David Ashton and Ambrose Barron. Ashton, gun still pointed at them, was staring back just as intently.
"This might appear to be seven against two," he told them. "But if you think we're crazy enough to do this by ourselves…" He let the sentence fall, and smiled.
"There's more of you?" Locke queried, turning back to the other man. The man grinned. "No, they are just crazy enough to do it themselves, and I'm even more stupid coz I let them drag me into it. If you were hoping for the cavalry, I'm afraid all you got are the scouts."
He didn't wait for an answer, but pushed Locke to the alley beside the shop. "Getaway car is that way. A '99 Rover, black."
"What about…?" Locke began.
"Oh, don't worry about David. He usually comes through fairly unscathed. Just try to stay out of sight. Being seen covered in blood usually leads to questions."
"Who are you?" Locke asked.
"I'm Dublin Dublin. You might have heard of me. Your associate, Siobhan, certainly has. How's she feelin' lately anyway?"
So this was Dublin Dublin. Locke's eyes swept up and down him, assessing. O'Banian had mentioned him in passing, but something in her eyes had told Locke that this man was more than just a mere acquaintance.
"Go," Dublin told him hastily. He handed Locke the keys to the vehicle, repeated its description and turned and headed back to the street. Just then he heard more gunshots. Things were not still at a stalemate.
Two more Hunters were dead, each having been shot in the face. Pistols lay on the ground a few meters from Ashton and Barron. One of the hooded men had been eviscerated by Ashton's katana. Another Hunter clutched his arm, blood seeping through his fingers, a victim of Barron's Confederate saber. While Ashton engaged a Hunter in front of him, slashing the man's throat with seeming ease, the remaining two moved to attack from behind.
Dublin noted the glint of steel in one man's left hand. A short sword was clenched in his fist. The other man held a pistol, aiming at the Minoan's head. Reaching behind him, Dublin pulled the sgian dubh from the back of his jeans. He pulled it free and threw it forcefully all in one smooth, fluid motion. Barely a heartbeat went by between the small, sharp dagger leaving Dublin's hand and it embedding itself in the throat of the pistol-wielding Hunter. He looked up, startled, dropping his weapon as his hands went to his neck. He tried to speak but could only generate a gurgling noise. He clawed frantically at the dagger, trying to rid it from his body. His blood soaked fingers left red streaks along his jawline, but the dagger remained in place. Slowly, he sank to his knees. Then his eyes glassed over and he pitched forward. Barron spun around, saber flashing. The sword-bearing Hunter crumpled, his intestines exploding out of the ragged slash in his abdomen.
Dublin fixed a penetrating gaze on the other, already injured Hunter, silently asking him if he wanted to take a chance. The man swallowed shallowly and turned away, hurrying to remove himself from the scene.
David Ashton let out a deep breath and shook the blood from his blade. "I was hoping you and Locke weren't going to get acquainted for too much longer. What the hell took you so long?"
"You can thank me later," Dublin grunted and strode forward. He removed the sgian dubh from the Hunter's throat, giving the man a swift kick for good measure. He looked at the bloodied blade of the dagger, then dropped to one knee, wiping it clean on the dead man's shirt. The soft wail of a Paris police siren drifted by.
"I think we'd better make our exit," suggested Dublin, already moving off down the street at a quick pace.
"Yes, I think so," Ashton replied, joining him.
"You know, it's too bad. I really liked that damned sweater and I had the man down to half price," Dublin groused as they sprinted off.
The Rover was still where they had left it; keys just under the front tire. Locke was nowhere to be found.
"Think another bunch of Hunters got to him?" Dublin asked, eyes searching for any signs of a struggle.
"I don't know," Ashton replied, truthfully. He, too, was concerned. "Perhaps he just decided not to wait."
Dublin snorted. "Well, that was pleasant of him. He could at least have stuck around to thank us. Or help pick up the pieces."
With that, they climbed into the Rover and departed the scene as quickly as possible.
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05 January 2000
Paris, France
Hotel Raphael
Back at the hotel, there were two messages for David Ashton; one to return a call to Max Honnecker, and another to call Sheila Whitaker. Ashton called Honnecker first.
While Barron poured drinks, Dublin was looking out the window, keeping a close eye on anyone who showed great interest in the hotel. Ashton's sharp intake of breath got their attention. They turned. Dublin could tell by his face that it wasn't good news, and he was right.
"They got Charles Ulrich," Ashton offered gravely as he lowered the phone. "Two days ago in Salt Lake City. He'd managed to track one of them, but…" His voice trailed off slowly.
"I think you'd better call Sheila Whitaker," Dublin suggested in a low voice. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then Ashton nodded and picked up the phone.
Dublin could hear Sheila's almost hysterical voice from across the room. He swallowed deeply, trying not to be impatient for the news. Ashton put his hand over the mouthpiece. "They got Todd, too."
"What about Jonny?" Dublin asked quickly, but Ashton turned his attention back to the phone, forcing Dublin to wait several more anxious minutes before the call was broken.
Ashton shook his head. "Just Todd. Apparently he stopped at a red light on his way to work. They jumped him then. Jonny got your message a few days ago and left the Whitakers'. Sheila doesn't know where. Todd didn't tell her."
"Do you think he's all right?" Dublin asked hesitantly, wishing he had never made the call to Jonny. Though perhaps if he hadn't, the Hunters might have killed him by now, too. If they hadn't already.
"I hope so, my friend. I hope so," David whispered, eyes staring into the floor.
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06 January 2000
Paris, France
Quai Voltaire Hotel
Watcher Headquarters
Once again, Devon Sather sat at the massive conference table next to Michael Walker. On Sather's other side reclined Adam Drummond, the Watchers' IT director. Across from them sat Rebecca Capella. Both men, for the moment anyway, seemed relaxed. So did Capella. Sather knew that would be changing once he opened his mouth. This time, at least, he was prepared. Sitting in front of him was a bottle of Maker's Mark straight bourbon and four glasses. He was sure he would need them before long.
"Are you planning a party for the four of us, Devon?" asked Walker.
"No, sir," grinned Sather. "Just a chat. I thought the bourbon would help keep us relaxed as we talked. Get the creative juices flowing."
"Should we pour it now or wait until you make your proposal?" inquired Drummond.
"What would you prefer, Adam? It is after lunch. It's appropriate either way."
"Ah, what the hell? How about now?" Drummond motioned for a glass with his fingers.
Sather grinned again and peeled the wax cap off the top of the bottle. He poured four healthy measures into each glass and pushed one to each person. Waiting for each of the others to take a sip, he prepared himself for his opening statement.
"I'm going to start, gentlemen, with a simple question, like I did last time, about the security of the Watcher computer systems. The answer I get will determine where we go from there."
"Alright," replied Drummond, taking another sip.
Sather drank from his own glass and began. "Okay. Here goes. Adam, I would like to know what it would take to cut off access to the Watcher database for all those Watchers whom we suspect are involved in Hunter activities. If we can terminate that access, we can significantly reduce their threat to the Immortal population."
Drummond paled and drained his glass. He then motioned for the bottle.
"Is it that difficult?" Sather asked as the man refilled his glass.
"Currently, yes," replied Drummond. "You see, like the computer access issue we solved earlier, the login credential is generic. Except for directors, that is. They have a slightly different login and password so we can grant higher levels of access, but even that is generic based on whether they are an area, district, or regional director. We don't have individual profiles for each Watcher."
Drummond emptied his glass again. "My God, if we were to create profiles for each Watcher in the organization, even if we designed a template to apply to most of them, we are still talking about over seventy-four thousand employees across the globe who are accessing our computers for one reason or another. That is a gargantuan task."
Drummond poured a third measure into his glass. "And then you want us to be able to manage all of those profiles and be able to continue that access or shut it down based on suspicion of Hunter activity? It would take us months to be able to develop that capability, especially if we only do it with the people we have on staff now. Managing it once we have the profiles in place would not be as difficult, maybe two or three extra people for that, but the initial creation of the profiles will be a beastly project for us."
"How many people would you need to bring on in order to make it happen, Adam?" asked Sather.
Drummond sipped again and closed his eyes. "Twenty experienced people plus the workstations for them."
Capella spoke up. "We can detail some of the Guardian who have prior programming experience to your section to help out with the project. Some of them even came from IT originally. They can work with you until the job is done and then come back to us."
Walker nodded. "And money for the equipment is not an issue right now. Time is, though. How long do you think it would take you to complete this project, Adam?"
"Even with those extra people and the equipment, we are still talking about seventy thousand profiles. It's going to take time. I would say six months minimum. And that is being optimistic. That's if all of us are doing nothing else but this."
"Well, I can't promise that," said Walker. "Devon here has a knack for coming up with ideas."
"I've noticed," muttered Drummond. "Though, I must grudgingly admit, despite the extra work they cause, they do result in increased security and upgrades that likely should have been made years ago. I want to complain, but I can't." He filled his glass once more.
"Careful, Adam," cautioned Sather. "You're going to need a nap after all that."
"What do you think I'm going to do after this meeting? First, I'm going to cry, then take a nap, then I'm going to have my guys get to work on this monster."
All four around the table had a good laugh at that comment.
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06 January 2000
Paris, France
Hotel Raphael
Later, when Dublin went to buy himself a newspaper, David Ashton called the K & K Hotel. O'Banian answered on the first ring.
"Don't hang up," he told her quickly. "Listen to what I have to say first. Then you can hang up if you want to, all right."
A grunt was all he received in reply, but the line didn't go dead.
"Did Locke get back all right?"
"Yes."
"We need to talk. Charles Ulrich is dead. Hunters got him. I know he was a friend of yours."
"Aye," Siobhan admitted coolly.
"Like I said, we need to meet. I'm at L'Hôtel Raphael. Room 802. I can assure you your safety if you come here. Far more than you can assure me if I come there."
"Why are ya doin' this?" she asked suspiciously.
"While I have no desire to see innocents lose their lives in this, I have even less of a desire to see anymore of our kind lose their heads. No matter what side you align yourself with, I cannot stand idly by and watch Hunters take heads. We have to do something. And soon."
There was a pause. "I'll think about it," was all she said before hanging up.
Yes, thought Ashton as he hung up the phone. You think about it…while you still have a pretty head on your shoulders with which to think.
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O'Banian had come to the hotel with good intentions, but now she had almost convinced herself to just turn around and go back to the K & K Hotel.
She only arrived in front of Darren Dublin's room after a very serious mental argument with herself, still not persuaded she should be doing this. She hesitated, gathering her thoughts before knocking. David Ashton saved her the act. He felt the presence and, katana in hand, opened the door. If he were surprised to see that she had actually come, he didn't show it.
"I'm not armed - gun or sword," she casually informed him, raising her arms. "You can pat me down if you like."
He looked at her for a moment, searching her eyes in that disconcerting way that he had. "No, that won't be necessary." He held the door wider, granting her access to the room. She entered, eyes ever cautious, sweeping the room, looking for danger. Ashton closed the door behind her, but didn't put down his sword. "Thank you for coming. I wasn't sure you would."
O'Banian shrugged. "Neither was I. But I wanted you to know that I'm not an unreasonable person. I'm grateful for what you did for Vincent yesterday, and, for that, I will listen. But I'm not promisin' I'll agree to anythin'."
Ashton nodded. Listening was a beginning. Hopefully, O'Banian would do more than that.
O'Banian glanced around the room expectantly. "I rather thought yer sidekick would be here."
"Ah, he doesn't exactly know I asked you here," Ashton explained, the buzz that touched his senses indicating it wouldn't be a secret for too much longer. The two Immortals turned to the opening bedroom door.
Darren Dublin stood, shirtless, with sword in hand. At the sight of O'Banian, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightened, and the tip of the blade had risen to hip level before he noticed Ashton and realised what was happening.
"What the hell is she doing here? What the hell did you let her in for?"
His countenance was as dark as a storm cloud ready to burst, eyes shifting from David Ashton to Siobhan O'Banian and back again. It was difficult to see with whom one he was most angry.
O'Banian ran her gaze along the length of him, heart rising to her throat. His hair was loose and wet, indicating that he had just stepped out of the shower. A scar, a present from the spear of a boyhood playmate, still marked the skin along his right ribcage. The small cross he'd worn longer than she'd known him hung on its thin silver chain in his solar plexus, just below where he liked to be kissed. O'Banian swallowed quickly and averted her stare, aiming her eyes at something that would rip less emotion from her, the floor.
"I invited her," Ashton explained simply. "To talk."
The two men eyed each other, the silence lengthening. Dublin broke the gaze first, turning back into the bedroom and muttering to himself in Gaelic. He returned a few moments later, in the midst of buttoning a plain black cotton shirt, still grousing. At least he had put the sword down, a fact that brought O'Banian only a small measure of comfort. She knew all too well the man was never out of reach of that damned dagger of his. It had gotten in her way more than once and in more than one capacity.
Ashton indicated the couch and chairs set around a small rosewood coffee table. Silently, they each took a seat; Ashton on the couch, Dublin in one armchair, O'Banian across the table from him in another.
"Siobhan, I believe your group needs to rethink its position on the Watchers," Ashton began.
O'Banian snorted. "Perhaps it's you that needs to rethink yer position."
Dublin stood angrily. "This is pointless. I told you she'd never listen."
"Sit down, Darren," Ashton said deliberately. He shook his head, turning back to O'Banian. "You have to know that this isn't right; killing all the Watchers, their families. That's not the answer and I think, deep down, you know that."
"Hrmph," Dublin snorted.
"I know deep down that if we get rid of all of them, we won't have to live this nightmare again," she retorted. "I know that I'll sleep better knowing that there isn't someone out there ready to shoot me and take my head for no good reason."
"From what I saw, you don't sleep that badly now," Dublin offered.
"My conscience is clear, if that's what yer askin'," O'Banian responded.
"That's a nice big word for you, how long have you been waitin' to use that one?"
"Oh, and you'd know all about conscience, wouldn't you?" she sneered mockingly. "That's right, Darren Dublin - a man who has never killed without just cause, valid reason, or without provocation." She laughed humorlessly.
Dublin seethed in his chair.
"You forget, Darren, I slept beside you for two years. I heard the screams. I listened to yer stories. How many times have I woken to yer sobs in the night? Don't play holier than thou Immortal with me. I know better."
Her words stung, and Dublin sucked in his breath at the reminder of past deeds he'd long since buried. They only surfaced now in his sleep, and were more often than not accompanied by the image of a red haired figure that hovered on the fringes of his dreams. The figure never spoke, was usually just a fleeting flash of red, but he knew who it represented. Dublin mentally shook off the thought, hurt making him lash out.
"At least I regret what I did. The only thing you regret is that you didn't have the opportunity to send more innocent children to their maker. Something you obviously hope to remedy with this little campaign." He didn't look at her as he said the words, knowing the pain he would see in her eyes.
"I did what I had to do, same as you've done time and again. Besides, I didn't come here to listen to your prattle, Darren Dublin." O'Banian rose. "I came to talk, to see if we can't bridge our differences. It's obvious we can't." She turned toward the door.
"Oh, aye. Leave. Ye always were good at makin' yer escape. 'Course, when everyone's distracted by the explosion, it's a lot easier." Dublin also rose, following her to the door. His comment was met with the slap he'd expected on some level, but made no attempt to stop.
David Ashton sat quietly, letting the drama play itself out. He'd been the catalyst to bring them together. Now, all he could do was sit back, watch the fireworks and hope like hell that the fallout didn't include a head.
He'd recognized early on that O'Banian acted on emotion, her passion one way or another dictated her course of action…and no emotion existed that was stronger than love. Ashton could talk, plead, threaten and cajole or he could just let emotion take its course; with a little help.
O'Banian's eyes bore into Dublin and he very nearly took a step back. "As I seem to recall, you were the one who did the goin'. Rather damn fast, too, if I might say so."
Dublin snorted. "What? You expected me to stay after I found out the woman who shared my bed murdered children?"
"I expected you to do exactly what you did, refuse to listen, refuse to talk, refuse to try."
They were oblivious to anything except each other, and Ashton knew it was time to make his exit. "I think I'll just go back to my room," he told them, skirting round O'Banian. Neither Immortal heard him, nor noted his departure. He shut the door firmly and made his way back to his own suite next door.
"Refuse to try?" Dublin ran his hand through his hair, exasperated. "Refuse to try? Siobhan, this wasn't a disagreement about whether or not I left the seat up. You planted bombs and murdered people. There is no grey here. This is black and white. You are a terrorist. You were then, and you are now. Everyone is expendable to you."
"That's not true!" she cried. "Do you know how long I sat in that house and waited for you to come back? Do you? Ten days. Ten days I sat there. Not eatin'. Not sleepin'. Just starin' at those damned photos. Just waitin' for you - knowin' that if you did come back you'd more than likely take my head. But you never came. I obviously didn't mean as much to you as you'd like me to believe."
"You meant everything to me," Dublin shouted. "It was you who destroyed what we had," His eyes were blazing with accusation. How dare she think he hadn't cared? How many nights had he laid awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to get her image out of his mind?
"I loved you ...you stupid...stubborn… Damn you, Darren!" It was the first time in eleven years that she had allowed herself to acknowledge the feeling, either aloud or internal.
Dublin shook his head. "No! You loved "The Cause." I was just an also ran. If you loved me so much, why didn't you leave the IRA?"
"You never ASKED me to. You just left."
"And if I had asked you, would you have walked away from it?" he asked with a snide tone.
"YES!"
It wasn't her answer that threw him. He had expected it. It was that he could plainly see she wasn't lying. If he had asked, she would have left, but it was as she said, he never asked. He'd simply disappeared. The thought sobered him, stealing away the fight.
"Then walk away from it now. I'm askin' you, Siobhan. Walk away." His voice was soft, pleading, the anger dissipating.
Their eyes met. "I can't," Siobhan whispered. She turned away, unable to face him any longer, not wanting him to see the tears in her eyes. Damn the man. No one, not even her Da, had been able to make her cry - no one except Darren Dublin.
"I'm askin'."
Siobhan continued to look away. "No. Because this time I don't have you." She hadn't meant to say it, and she only just managed to complete the sentence, swallowing the sob in her throat.
Dublin hesitated for the briefest of seconds, then found himself crossing the room. He stretched out a hand to rest on her shoulder. As little as he liked to admit it, he knew the weight on her shoulders all too well. She turned and melted into his arms. It was only natural for them to reach around her. God, how he'd missed the way she felt. One hand slid around the small of her back; the other threaded into her hair. She pulled back a little, looking up into his eyes, seeing tears to match her own. It was just as natural when he pressed his lips against hers in a kiss that blocked out the rest of the world; the rest of the centuries; the rest of the war.
She matched his intensity, arms wrapping around him as easily as they had done eleven years ago. By the time they reached the bed, all of their clothes, along with any common sense either might have once possessed, were gone.
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David Ashton had listened to the raised voices, not quite able to distinguish the words, but able to clearly discern the anger. Perhaps he had been wrong to bring the two of them together. He had bargained that their feelings for each other would outweigh their differences. Now, he wasn't so sure. Both were stubborn…and proud. Perhaps, it had been a mistake.
The sudden drop in sound caught his attention fully and he waited for the voices to rise again or for the unmistakable sounds of a sword fight. Given the intensity of the screaming, he personally was putting money on the latter and now tried to think of a plausible excuse to give the housekeeping staff for the state of Dublin's room after a Quickening. He'd stopped Darren from taking O'Banian's head once; he wouldn't stop him this time.
A different barrage of sounds reached his ears. He sighed, screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. "Talk about crawlin' back," he muttered. He reached for the phone to call for room service. It didn't appear that he and Dublin would be going for dinner anytime soon.
After placing his order, David reached for the T.V. remote and turned up the volume. "There must be ferret blood in the Celtic line somewhere," he mused while a documentary came on the History channel concerning Vietnam, the last war in which he'd fought.
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O'Banian lay in the darkness, listening to Dublin's deep, even breathing. They lay together in a comfortable tangle of arms and legs, having fallen asleep three or four hours ago. Now she was awake…and thinking, toying with Dublin's necklace. It had become draped over her shoulder and lay across her breast. She twiddled the cross in her fingers.
Once she had been willing to walk away from it all for this man. What about now? Could they ever go back to the way it had been between them? Or was there too much distance, too much anger? Perhaps she was assuming too much. Perhaps this was just a one off. Perhaps, Darren Dublin had no intention, or desire, of having Siobhan O'Banian back in his life. O'Banian's mind raced, tossing around more questions than answers.
The honk of a car horn eight floors below startled her, bringing her back to reality. It was late, and she should be getting back. O'Banian hesitated, savouring the last few moments of warmth and security. She'd always felt safe with Dublin, a feeling she had all too little lately. She pressed her lips softly to the hollow of his throat before moving away from him.
The shift of her body and the silken drag of her hair across his shoulders and chest was enough to bring Dublin out of his sleep. He didn't move, but watched the woman pull herself to a sitting position on the side of the bed. This should have felt wrong; she was the opposition, for chrissake; an out of control terrorist bent on killing damn near everyone. But it didn't feel wrong; it felt satisfying, and peaceful, and right. Feelings like these were few and far between for him.
She was a child compared to his centuries, still easily within her mortal life, and a child should be allowed to make mistakes, shouldn't she? God only knew he'd made enough himself, but he'd always had Ashton to ground him, to turn him around and make him see sense. Who had O'Banian had? Anastacia Delmar? She might just as well have had Aibhistear (the devil).
O'Banian sat for a moment, contemplating returning to the warm bed and Dublin's arms. For a few hours, she had been able to forget - forget the Hunters, forget Antrim, forget that her life was in tatters…but the cool air of the Paris hotel room was bringing it all back. She sighed wearily.
"Were ye plannin' to just disappear into the night, then?" Dublin asked softly, startling her. She turned and looked over her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake ye."
He grunted but didn't say anything. One hand reached out, touching the long red tendrils that cascaded down her naked back like a waterfall. He'd always loved her hair. He slowly began to run his hands through it, fingertips lightly caressing the skin beneath. O'Banian shuddered, but didn't move.
"It doesn't have to be this way, Siobhan," Dublin offered. "We can defeat them - if we work together."
"By them, you mean the Hunters, not the Watchers." It was a statement rather than a question.
Dublin sighed. "Siobhan, you can't just go around annihilating everyone whenever some group or organization does something you don't believe in."
"They burned my home, Darren. I have nothing - nothing!" Her voice danced out on an emotional wave and then died. O'Banian swallowed, then began again. "They came to Skye. They burned my home and stood outside waiting for me."
"As long as we exist, mortals will learn about us, it's inevitable. Do you plan to live out the centuries killing everyone unfortunate enough to see a Quickening? What about if someone sees a horribly antique sword laying on a modern street and starts asking questions? What about the end? Who else will tell our story when we are all gone?"
O'Banian ignored his simple logic. "They would have killed me and taken my head. I was nothing to them. Why should I treat them and theirs any different?"
"Because that would make you just like them...and you aren't."
"Aren't I? There is no one alive who knows me better than you - and you think I'm a monster." She hurried on, not waiting for his reply. "They murdered Patrick, you know? Killed him right in his own church."
"Yes, I know. He was a good man. He didn't deserve that. I'm sorry." Dublin hesitated a moment, then sat up behind her, his hands resting lightly on her bare shoulders. "But killing them won't bring him back. And it won't take away the pain."
"How do you know?" she snarled, still not turning to him.
"I know," he said solemnly. "It doesn't matter how many you kill, Siobhan."
She interrupted, "But, at least, I'll get revenge. At least…"
"No. It doesn't matter if you kill fifty or five hundred. The pain will still be there."
They sat silent for a moment, until finally O'Banian spoke. "Then what do I do? How can I make it go away?"
Dublin sighed. "You don't, love. It never really does go away. If it does, then you really are a monster." He wrapped his arms around her. "That kind of pain you can only learn to live with in time, something we have in abundance."
O'Banian shook her head. "Not if the Hunters get their way. Time is a precious commodity for us. Unless we do something about it."
"And do something we will. But you can't just shoot everyone, Siobhan. You'll kill the innocent along with the guilty. There won't be an end. There'll just be war. It will be the end of us."
The room sat in silence, O'Banian contemplating his words. She was suddenly tired - tired of fighting, tired of killing, almost tired of living. Haltingly, she told him as much, welcoming the tightening of his arms around her and his gentle kiss on her shoulder.
"It will pass, love, it will pass," he counselled. He reached around, catching her under her chin and turning her face toward him. "Just promise me you'll think about what I've said, Siobhan."
She looked into his hazel eyes for a moment, then nodded. Dublin sighed and leaned down to kiss her. O'Banian allowed him to draw her back down to the bed and be settled comfortably into his arms, her head on his shoulder. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to try a new way. Perhaps fate was giving her a second chance - or maybe someone else was. A thought suddenly occurred to her.
"Darren, you don't think David Ashton planned this, do you?"
"Imrím, ghrá, ta an. Tabhair dhom póg." (Yes, love, I do. Now kiss me.)
Her reply was lost in a deep, open-mouthed kiss.
