Defend and Betray
Act 2
"Don't look back
Keep your head held high
Don't ask them why
Because life is short
And before you know
You're feeling old"
"This Used to Be My Playground" - Madonna
09 January 2000
Paris, France
"Merci, Monsieur Fairbanks. Bienvenue vers Paris. Appréciez votre sejour." (Thank you, Mr. Fairbanks. Welcome to Paris. Enjoy your stay.) The customs officer handed Fairbanks' passport back to him and smiled.
"Merci," Fairbanks muttered and moved on. He anticipated the usual question as to whether he had someone to look after him. He found the question tiresome, and today it would be downright annoying. He was in a hurry. He was relieved when it did not come.
He had tried the Paris number Dublin had left several times before catching his flight in Seattle. There was never any answer, although the hotel operator assured him that Mr. White had not checked out.
Fairbanks couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had plagued him the entire flight. He had been constantly alert, checking and rechecking faces, scanning for anyone he might have recognised. For hundreds of years he had always been aware when the enemy lurked near. The presence had alerted him to others of his kind who might be after his head. The Hunters were different. They could be anyone, anywhere. The woman over there with the baby stroller. The seemingly old man with the cane. The young couple a few meters away from him, embracing warmly in what appeared to be a lovers' reunion. All could be Hunters. And Fairbanks would never know. Until they tried to kill him - again.
He continued to look over his shoulder until he exited the airport and flagged down a taxi.
"Où à monsieur?" (Where to, sir?) the driver asked him with a smile.
"L'Hôtel Raphael, 17 Avenue Kléber," Fairbanks replied, slamming shut the taxi door.
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The driver nodded and pulled out smoothly into Paris traffic, still heavy despite the early hour. Fairbanks leaned back and, for the first time in twenty-four hours, closed his eyes.
If he had turned his head, he would have seen a familiar face. The man watched the taxi pull away from the curb and drive out of sight. Then he returned to the airport building, heading for the payphones.
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Dublin knew she was gone before he even opened his eyes. She hadn't left long ago; the bed beside him was still warm. He opened his eyes a sliver. Watery grey light streamed in through the window, neither of them having taken time to pull the curtains closed. He glanced at the clock and groaned. Six thirty-six am.
He knew he should move, but still he lay there, feeling the last of O'Banian's warmth dissipate. Would last night change anything? And how much change was he hoping for? Christ. When did things get so complicated? he thought, running one hand wearily across his face. He lay mulling over the night, finding himself grinning like a fool. He contemplated a moment, then pushed good sense aside and reached for the phone.
A few calls later and Dublin laced his hands together beneath his head, well pleased with himself. Pushing it all from his mind, he forced himself out of bed and into the shower.
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"Monsieur? Monsieur? Nous sommes ici. Ce sera des deux cents et quatre-vingts cinq francs, s'il vous plaît." (Sir? Sir? We are here. That will be two hundred and eighty five francs, please.)
Fairbanks woke with a start. He hadn't planned to drop off, but exhaustion catches up with Immortals, too. He blinked several times, trying to think where he was.
The taxi driver watched him sympathetically. "L'Hôtel Raphael. Est ce ce que vous avez voulu, oui?" (Hotel Raphael. That is what you wanted, yes?)
"Oui. Oui," Fairbanks answered hastily, the happenings of the past two days rushing back to him. He dug into the pocket of his coat, removing the requested money. "Merci," he muttered, grabbing his carry all and exiting the taxi.
The driver waved at him amicably and drove off. Fairbanks stood on the deserted street and looked up at the hotel.
Well, Darren. You appear to have outdone yourself this time, he thought with a grin. No more grubby flea infested inns for Darren Dublin. This was at least a four star hotel, possibly even a five.
"Well, Doobie, if you can afford to stay here, you can afford to buy me breakfast," Fairbanks muttered, picking up his bag. He headed for the front door, nodding at the concierge who opened it for him.
He approached the front desk, smiling at the pretty brunette behind the counter. She smiled back. "Bienvenue à l'Hôtel Raphael. Est-ce que je puis vous aider?" (Welcome to the Hotel Raphael. Can I help you?)
"Oui. Je voudrais parler avec l'invité dans la chambre huit zéro deux, s'il vous plaît." (Yes. I would like to speak with the guest in room eight zero two, please.)
Movement across the foyer suddenly caught his attention, and Fairbbanks turned, eyes widening.
"Good morning, Mr. Fairbanks. You don't know me, but we do have a common acquaintance." The man, of average height with collar length sandy blond hair and glasses gave an affected smile and crossed the lobby at an easy pace. Men whose size indicated they had been hired for their intimidation ability rather than their looks flanked him on both sides.
"And who might that be?" Fairbanks asked guardedly. He was afraid he already knew the answer.
"Alan Ottenbreit," the man replied, his lips twitching with amusement at the Immortal's paling. "It seems you were rude and left Mr. Ottenbreit's company without even so much as a bye your leave. Alan was rather put out by it all."
Fairbanks snorted but didn't reply
"I'm Harlan Earnshaw." The man offered his hand, chuckling when Fairbanks looked at it with disdain. "Here to visit someone?" he asked with interest in English.
Fairbanks swallowed and shook his head. "No. Just seeing if there was room at the inn, so to speak."
The Hunter chuckled. "Your loyalty is admirable, Mr. Fairbanks. Misguided, but admirable."
"And your obsession with killing Immortals is obscene; defeatable, but obscene," Fairbanks replied mildly. He moved with purpose away from the front desk, not wanting the clerk to pass along any information about what room he had been interested in.
Harlan Earnshaw licked his lips. "Well, Mr. Fairbanks, I'm willing to do you a deal."
Fairbanks snorted. "If it's anything like the last deal you guys offered me, I'm not interested."
Earnshaw shook his head. "Tut, tut. You shouldn't be so hasty, Mr. Fairbanks. I'd like to put that down to your age, but I know better. No, this deal is more…pressing than the last one."
Fairbanks looked at him, but didn't speak.
Earnshaw continued. "You see, my friends and I were just about to pay a visit to a couple of friends of yours, a Mr. Dublin and a Mr. Ashton."
The Immortal shrugged. "Sorry, never heard of them. The Immortal world is bigger than you think, Earnshaw. I don't know everyone in it. It's a bit like saying you come from New York and someone saying "Hey, my cousin lives there, perhaps you know him.""
"Cut the crap, Jonny." Earnshaw's voice was brittle. "You know and I know that Ashton was your teacher. Your guardian up until a few months ago. Dublin is another one of his hangers on. Don't bullshit me. I'm a lot smarter than you think. I know all about you. I know where you've been. I know who you've been. Hell, if I wanted to, I could probably tell you the last time you changed your underwear."
Fairbanks looked away, affecting a bored appearance. Inside, he was shaking. This was getting too close.
"Now, as I said, I have a deal for you. My friends here and I were just about to pay a visit to David Ashton and Darren Dublin. But we are willing to - postpone - that visit, if you would be so obliging as to spend some quality time with us."
"What, you want to take me to the Louvre?" Fairbanks quipped. "It'll be a good deal for you, I think I still get in half price."
Earnshaw's hand flashed out, open palm catching Fairbanks smartly across the cheek. "Don't get cocky with me, you abominable little bastard. You might look fourteen, but I know better. You should have died centuries ago. You're a perfect example of a mutation."
"And you're a perfect example of why people shouldn't procreate near a microwave," Fairbanks shot back, making sure to step out of Earnshaw's reach as he spoke. The two goons grabbed him by the arms, stopping any chance of an escape.
"Est-ce que tout est bien?" (Is everything all right?) the desk clerk asked from behind them.
"Oui, tout à fait bien. Merci," (Yes, quite all right. Thank you,) Earnshaw answered, turning and giving the woman a smile. "C'est mon neveu. Il a exécuté loin et sa mère est malade inquiétée. Il ne veut pas venir à la maison." (This is my nephew. He has run away and his mother is worried sick. He doesn't want to come home.) He shrugged his arms in a helpless way. The woman nodded in understanding and turned back to her paperwork.
"Now," Earnshaw growled, turning back to the Immortal, "You have tried my patience too much. What is it going to be? You leave with us? Or do we go and find your precious David Ashton?" The Hunter's smile was cruel. "Or better yet. We'll pay a visit to…." He paused, turning to one of his henchmen for effect. "What was that lovely young thing's name again?"
"Nicole," replied the goon with a snicker. "Nicole Montpetit."
"Ah, yes. Nicole Montpetit," Earnshaw cooed. "I must say you have excellent taste, even if she is only fifteen. Pity for her not to see sixteen."
Fairbanks' head came up quickly. Leaving with Earnshaw could only mean one thing - death. But he wasn't about to let Nicole Montpetit, an old girlfriend, be dragged into this. She had shown him nothing but kindness and affection in their few brief months together, and she knew nothing of his immortality. Ashton and Dublin could well protect themselves, but Nicole couldn't.
Was this what eight hundred years came down to? Had it all been for this? A part of him wished that Ferdie Huissen had beaten him the other night. At least his Quickening would have lived on. A part of him would have remained alive. Dying this way there would be nothing. Except the memories of those who knew him. At least for as long as they were alive to remember, which wouldn't be long if Harlan Earnshaw and those like him had their way. Fairbanks clenched his jaw, forcing back the tears in his eyes that appeared when he contemplated his own seemingly imminent demise. He wouldn't give Earnshaw the satisfaction of seeing such emotion.
"I am losing patience, Mr. Fairbanks," Earnshaw hissed, his face centimeters from Fairbanks'.
"If I go with you, you leave Nicole alone?"
Earnshaw smirked. "Oh, I promise you. I won't touch her."
Jonny's eyes shifted to the two goons. No. You'll just get them to do your dirty work for you, he thought bitterly. His death wouldn't buy Ashton and Dublin's lives, and it might not buy Nicole's, but it might buy them all some time. He nodded.
"Excellent. So glad you have come to your senses, Mr. Fairbanks." Earnshaw stood up straighter. "Might I suggest a walk in the park. It's so quiet there this time of morning. No one around. No one at all."
Jonny Fairbanks gave a grim look and nodded again, his face awash with sadness.
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O'Banian slipped from the hotel room quietly. She stopped in front of David Ashton's door and debated knocking, then decided against it. At this point she wasn't sure if she'd kiss him in thanks, or slap him in indignation. Everything had been so clear earlier. This morning, nothing was clear. Her life was even more complicated. She gave a soft sigh and headed for the elevator.
She felt the presence before the door opened to the lobby and automatically reached for her sword. It wasn't there.
"Damn it," she muttered. She'd left it back at the K & K, having decided that to show up on Dublin and Ashton's doorstep with a sword was to invite trouble. She'd gone there to listen, not to fight, but even without the sword, she'd still managed to get herself into trouble, although not of the combative type.
O'Banian peered out of the elevator cautiously, ignoring the odd look the desk clerk gave her. She caught a glimpse of three men, one of average height, two well over one hundred eighty centimeters. They appeared to be accompanying a young boy out of the hotel.
They were the only people around. The desk clerk wasn't Immortal. She had been working last night when O'Banian arrived, and she hadn't felt any presence. No, it had to be one of the four people leaving.
O'Banian carefully entered the lobby, eyes scanning for any hidden dangers. She discreetly moved closer to the group, now standing on the steps of the hotel. They appeared to be arguing.
"If all you want to do is talk, Earnshaw, I don't see why the hotel café won't suffice," argued Fairbanks, knowing that talk was the last thing on Earnshaw's mind. He knew that if he wanted to stay alive, he needed to be out in public. Earnshaw would think twice before doing something in public. It didn't ensure his complete safety. After all, the Hunters hadn't hesitated in shooting up the airport, but being alone would certainly guarantee Fairbanks' demise.
"The coffee here is atrocious. There is a lovely little café on the other street. The park is merely a shortcut, I assure you," Earnshaw replied smoothly.
He looked at the Immortal, their eyes meeting, both knowing he was lying and that once in the park, Jonny Fairbanks would never leave it alive.
"I don't like coffee," Fairbanks answered smugly, arms crossing over his chest. "I'd be just as happy with tea."
"Move, or Mutt and Jeff here will march directly upstairs and bring you the heads of your friends," Earnshaw hissed.
Fairbanks felt the barrel of a gun press into his side. He sighed. His heart was starting to race. He was running out of options and out of escape routes. His eyes frantic, he searched the area, looking for help.
An Immortal presence touched him and he started. Luckily, Earnshaw thought it was the effect of the gun in his side. Fairbanks released his breath slowly and looked over Earnshaw's shoulder, his eyes locking with the brown eyes of Siobhan O'Banian.
O'Banian was still inside the hotel, looking through the glass doors at the group on the hotel steps. She hadn't recognised the boy until he turned. It hit her. Jonathan Fairbanks.
They had met in the southern states a little less than four years ago. They had come out of it as friends, or, at least, not as enemies. O'Banian didn't have friends exactly, but Fairbanks wasn't what she considered an enemy. And enemy or not, he was Immortal - and from the gun in his side, he was obviously in trouble.
Hunters.
The notion made O'Banian shiver. All the more so because she didn't have her sword or her gun. She was helpless.
She could just charge out there, but more than likely she'd get shot for her efforts. Plus, there were three of them, and only one of her. She needed help.
Darren. The thought was instant and, she knew, correct. Dublin and Fairbanks were friends, good friends. She remembered Dublin speaking fondly of Fairbanks. He was like a younger brother.
She turned and sprinted to the front desk, ignoring the clerk's look of astonishment when she vaulted over the counter and grabbed the telephone.
"Excusez-moi. Vous ne pouvez pas faire cela," (Excuse me. You can't do that,) the woman protested.
"Taisez-vous," (Shut up,) hissed O'Banian in a tone that was decidedly threatening. The clerk backed away, eyes large.
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The first thing Darren Dublin became aware of when his shower ended was that he wasn't alone in his hotel room. Another Immortal was nearby. He wrapped the towel around his middle, and grabbed his sword, thankful that he had had the foresight to bring it into the bathroom with him. Cautiously, he opened the door, hoping it would reveal Ashton, or O'Banian, but equally aware that it might be someone else.
David Ashton sat on the couch, newspaper across his knees, cup of coffee balanced precariously on the arm of the furniture. "Ever heard of the term, sleeping with the enemy, Darren?" he asked without looking up. He gave a soft chuckle.
The phone rang before Dublin could verbalize the sarcastic remark he had in mind.
"Hello?"
"Darren? It's Siobhan." Her voice was strained and Dublin was immediately on alert. "Get downstairs. It's Hunters. And they have Jonny."
She didn't wait for a reply, simply hanging up in his ear.
Dublin turned to Ashton. "David. Hunters have got Jonny downstairs."
Ashton sprang up, knocking the coffee cup off the couch arm. It landed on the floor, soaking the carpet. Ashton cut the distance from the couch to the secretaire where his pistol lay into a few brief steps. He turned on his heel and headed for the door, his face grim.
Dublin hurriedly pulled on his jeans, grabbed a shirt, and a gun, and then followed.
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O'Banian put down the phone and fixed the desk clerk with a look that nearly brought the young woman to her knees. "Séjour ici. Ne vous déplacez pas. N'appelez pas n'importe qui. N'égalisez pas le souffle. Comprenez?" (Stay here. Don't move. Don't call anyone. Don't even breathe. Understand?)
The woman nodded mutely. O'Banian hopped over the counter again and headed for the door.
Fairbanks and the three men were gone.
"Shit," muttered O'Banian. She exited the hotel, eyes scanning the street.
Nothing.
The concierge was nowhere to be seen.
"Damn. Damn. Damn." O'Banian turned and went back inside, waiting for the elevator to reach the lobby.
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The park isn't such a bad place to die. Fairbanks tried to console himself with that thought as they walked. He had fought in worse places. Derelict buildings, abandoned houses, parkades that reeked of gasoline fumes and cigarette smoke, but this time there would be no fight. This time it would simply be an execution; his execution.
He swallowed, trying to dissipate the lump in his throat. He didn't want to die. He knew that he had had eight hundred years - more, far more, than mortals ever had. It still wasn't enough. He wanted to live.
He remembered David Ashton's words when they heard of Bianchi's death. "We all have our time here. It is longer for some than for others, but death comes to us all eventually. And we must learn to accept it with as much dignity and self respect as mortals do. If they can go to death peacefully after having only lived a few decades, surely it is within us to accept our fate after having been allowed to live centuries."
Fairbanks would have argued that that might have been the case when an Immortal lost their head to another Immortal, but it was quite another story when an Immortal's head was taken by a Hunter. He knew Ashton well enough; the Minoan would likely have simply sighed. He probably would have said something like, "I don't know, Jonny. Mortals have their diseases. Perhaps that is what Hunters are for us. Perhaps they are our disease."
It didn't make sense to Fairbanks in his own mind - and it made even less sense in reality now that he was being escorted to his execution by what Ashton would surely have termed "our disease." Fairbanks was personally wishing for a cure for this type of disease - a quick one.
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"Where are they?" Ashton questioned as the elevator doors opened.
"I don't know," O'Banian replied anxiously. "They were on the step when I called but, by the time I got back out there, they were gone."
"Gone where?" Ashton demanded turning on her. "Gone where?" he snarled, grabbing her by the front of her shirt when she didn't answer fast enough.
"I don't know. Just gone," she spat back.
"Let her go, David." Dublin's soft voice came from behind the man's ear. "It's not her doin'."
Ashton paused a brief second, then released her. He turned his attention to the front door. "Come on. We have to find them. Fast." Dublin and O'Banian hurried after him.
The street outside looked no different than it had a few minutes before when O'Banian had been out there. Deserted.
"Darren, that way." Ashton pointed to the right. "Siobhan, that." He pointed left.
"I have no weapon," Siobhan reminded him.
Dublin handed her a revolver, removed from the waistband of his jeans. "I don't think I need to tell you to shoot first, ask questions later," he told her.
With that, the three parted company.
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"Well, Mr. Fairbanks, I think this is far enough." Harlan Earnshaw stopped beneath a large oak tree.
Fairbanks looked around cautiously. "I wasn't aware they served coffee here."
Earnshaw gave him a crisp smile, then spoke slowly. "Come, come, Mr. Fairbanks. Both you and I know what is about to happen. I am about to do the world a great service, and you are about to go to the hell you deserve."
"I'll be sure to say hello to all of your friends," Fairbanks bantered. He wanted to stall Earnshaw for as long as he could, hoping that something would happen to help his situation, although he wasn't sure what.
"Chain him." The Hunter gave the order to the two henchmen and they complied, forcing him to step over the fence and walk over to the massive statue of Lafayette and Washington. Two other men, who had awaited their arrival, assisted them in their task. They sat him on the lowest ring of the foundation and chained the Immortal to it, Earnshaw pacing in front, hands clasped behind his back.
"You know, I really do expect to win a Nobel Prize one day. One day when the world finally learns about Immortals and what the Hunter organization had to do, the sacrifices we had to make to save our civilization, we will be as revered and celebrated, as honored and thanked as today's war veterans are." His eyes glazed over with anticipation. "I will be a hero."
Fairbanks snorted. "You'll be a tyrant. The normal people - the sane people - will see you for what you really are. A murderer."
Earnshaw shrugged. "Perhaps so, but you won't be around either way - will you?" He reached inside Fairbanks' backpack, removing the wakizashi. "I understand that the greatest shame is to have your head taken with your own blade."
Fairbanks said nothing, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard. He would not let this man see his fear. He would not plead for his life; he knew it would be useless. He would die with dignity. He would die with honor.
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They came back together across the street, at the entrance to the park.
"Nothin'," O'Banian replied to Ashton's questioning gaze. "I can't feel him. And I didn't see anyone."
"They have to be further into the park." Ashton cursed. "I went in a little ways, but they have to be in there further."
"Then what are we waitin' for?" Darren Dublin asked, not lingering for an answer.
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O'Banian found him first, freezing in her tracks with horror. She screwed her eyes shut, a vain attempt at changing the image. It didn't help.
Weakly, she pointed the gun downward and pulled the trigger. The sound rang cut through the morning stillness, sending the birds screaming for the skies. Most Parisians would think it a car backfiring. Dublin and Ashton would know differently.
She moved cautiously, eyes ever watchful. She appeared to be alone, but that didn't mean she was. Skirting round the back of the statue, she found the iron rod upon which the chain links were latched. It took all her strength to pull the chain forward enough to remove it from the catch, and she was breathless by the time she did so.
She shifted back to the front of the statue, and, not knowing what else to do, dropped to her knees, pulling the body onto her lap. The scarlet, still wet, still warm blood covered her. She sat. And she waited.
They arrived at the same time, both coming to a complete standstill, aghast at the sight before them.
Siobhan looked up. "I'm sorry. I found him like this. I'm so sorry." Her eyes moved from Dublin's face to Ashton's, not sure which man reflected the most pain.
Ashton gave a small cry, and dropped his pistol. He took a few tentative steps and halted, then moved closer, dropping to his knees beside her.
"Give him to me," he ordered in a hoarse, raspy voice.
O'Banian complied, then pulled herself clumsily to her feet. She looked up at Darren Dublin, still stood a few feet away. "Darren...," she began, arms reaching out to him. She stopped, seeing the emotion on his face.
He looked at her, his look turning to revulsion when he noted the blood that coated her arms.
Jonny's blood.
"No," he whispered intensely, shaking his head. "Nooooo!" The whisper became louder, turning from a denial into a long, soul-wrenching shout that echoed through the park, unsettling the birds once again. O'Banian moved toward him, pulling him against her in a fierce embrace.
Wordless, Ashton got to his feet, the broken body of Jonathan Fairbanks cradled in his arms. He looked at Darren Dublin, the tears pooling in his eyes.
"They die," he rasped. "They all die."
With that, Ashton moved off, carrying the body of the Immortal who, to him, had been his son.
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09 January 2000
Paris, France
"What do you mean, kill all of them?"
Sophie rolled and looked at Locke, shocked. "What do you mean?" she repeated forcefully.
Locke hesitated, eyes purposely not meeting hers. "The plan is - was - to kill them all. The Hunters. The Watchers. And their families."
It was early morning. Locke had been awake for hours, listening to Sophie's even breathing and turning Marton Razumov's comments from a recent conversation about eradicating all Watchers and their families over and over in his mind. He slowly realised the implications and truth of his words. Sophie was in danger here.
Suddenly the cause in which he had so vehemently believed sickened him. How could he have ever thought that killing innocents like Sophie was the answer? He needed to warn her of the danger she was in, not just from Hunters, but from Immortals, as well; possibly from Immortals that he considered friends.
Sophie looked at him for a brief moment, then looked away, her face pale. "That would include me." She propped her head up on her arm and gazed at him, her face still displaying shock. And something else. Fear. "Do you plan to kill me?" the woman asked haltingly.
"No." Locke's reply was instant and he moved to pull her into his arms, hoping a touch would reinforce the word.
Sophie shifted beyond his reach, standing. "How can I believe you? I mean, why would you tell me the truth?"
"Because I haven't lied to you yet. Why should I start now? Lying would have been easy. About who I was. About what I was. About everything." Locke sat up in the bed, his face serious. She needed to believe that he would look after her - and that he could look after her. "But I didn't lie to you then, and I won't start now."
Sophie swallowed shallowly. "So, all those people, those Immortals, they all want to kill me?" She struggled to contain her fear, fisting her hands at her side to stop their shaking.
Locke shrugged. "I don't know what they want. I'm not even sure they know anymore. Siobhan's been gone all night, no one knows where she is - or if she's coming back. Ruth, Hewett, and Angela are dead. The only one who has any sense of purpose anymore is Omeir. And I think he's just happy to have a battle on his hands. That's the life he knows, that he's comfortable with."
"So, pretty much what you're saying is that I can't go home because these people called Hunters might want to kill me. And I can't stay here because people who are Immortal might want to kill me." Sophie looked at him questioningly. "Seems I'm dead no matter where I go."
"Sophie, I promise you, I won't let anyone hurt you. If you want to leave, I'll find you a place where you are safe - away from Immortals and from Hunters."
"And will you come with me?" she asked, eyes steady, gazing at him.
Locke hesitated a moment, then looked away. "I can't. Not until this problem is dealt with, one way or the other."
The young woman settled her shoulders back, her chin coming up in defiance. "Well, then I'm not leaving either."
Locke looked back at her in astonishment. "But..."
"No, Vincent, I'm not leaving you - not now, not later. No matter what you say." She moved toward him on the bed, pressing herself to him and wrapping her arms around his neck. "One thing you had better learn quickly, Vincent Locke, is that I am a spoiled brat who always gets her own way. The sooner you learn that, the easier our life together will be."
She didn't wait for his reply; slanting her mouth over his and pushing him back onto the pillow. It was only an hour later, when he finally managed to come up for air, that the impact of Sophie's last sentence dawned on Vincent Locke. ...the easier our life together will be. The thought made him smile.
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09 January 2000
Paris, France
David Ashton staggered down the path, carrying the decapitated body of Jonathan Fairbanks.
From a distance, Daniel Aaftink had seen it all. The Hunters bringing Fairbanks here. The momentary conversation. The binding with chains. The killing. If he had been nearer, Aaftink might have been able to intercede. But chances are he would then have perished too. If he had been there earlier, he might have been able to save the boy, but he had been too late. All he could do was watch as the five men walked away, chuckling to themselves as they stashed the dead child's head into a waterproof sack. He pondered what he had seen, sure there was some importance to the oddity of the event, but put it behind him. For the moment, he saw an opportunity for victory he could not let slip past him.
He stepped out in front of Ashton, drawing his sword, a medieval longsword. It was a common blade, but had been as well preserved over the centuries as any nobleman's sword. He had taken it from the dead hand of his first victim. He tossed away the scabbard, so that he would be unencumbered in the fight. He had worn a long coat that he had discarded before confronting Ashton, a coat that had concealed the metal-studded leather battle garb he wore. In modern times it looked odd, to say the least. In modern times, it was almost humorous, but it was effective. It did not encumber as mail armour did, and could be worn easily and undetected. Besides, it did afford some protection against glancing blows and minor cuts.
Aaftink, however, had ill chosen this moment. He knew nothing about Ashton and Fairbanks but their names. He knew not at all what the boy had meant to Ashton. The Minoan eyed him for the briefest of moments, comprehension coming to him in a blink. Calmly, delicately, he lowered the body he held to the ground, and then rose. With blinding swiftness, far faster than Aaftink could perceive, his face a mask of rage, he charged Aaftink barehanded.
Aaftink stepped back, lashing out with his longsword. Ashton froze for a moment, as if unable to comprehend this cowardice. All thought was gone from him now. The experience and skill of being four thousand years a warrior was within and about him, so totally a part of him that he did not need to think. He acted. That was enough.
He stalked toward Aaftink who held his longsword down and back in two hands, the blade almost behind him, preparing to cut Ashton down with one blow. Ashton had become consumed with the rage of the berserker, and was now beyond anyone's control.
Again Aaftink had misjudged Ashton's abilities, and misjudged his rage. The Minoan ran at Aaftink now, and thrust at his face with an upward open palm. Aaftink flinched, stepped back, and the move that would have taken Aaftink in the chin caught him in the nose. There was a horrid crunching sound as the cartilage in Aaftink's nose was driven upward into his cranial cavity. As his body wavered on unsteady legs, Ashton seized the man's longsword from his weakened hands and, with a roar of animalistic rage, struck off his head. Aaftink crashed to the ground, his neck wound pulsing blood.
Far behind Ashton, the others - Darren Dublin and Siobhan O'Banian - watched calmly as Ashton dispatched this Immortal.
Ashton did not pause to speak. He did not know why this foolish man would attack him now, of all times. In another time and place, he might have spared him, but not now. He did not care about why. All that mattered to him was the kill. The body writhed on the ground, blood rushing from the torn neck, thick and bright. It thrashed for a moment and then lay still. Ashton let the sword fall from his hand. Weak and quavering, he fell to his knees in the blood, consumed by the Quickening.
