Chapter Nine

Cassandra entered the elevator and pulled down the sliding gate. She was nervous, unsettled, both dreading what was to come and itching to get it over with. Such conflicting feelings were becoming the norm for her, and she didn't appreciate it.

As the elevator took its time traveling downward, unphased by human impatience or anxiety, she reached under her coat to draw sure comfort from the cold certainty of steel in her hand. This time, however, it only served to heighten the unrest, and she reluctantly pulled her hand away.

At long last, the elevator reached the bottom and she hurried out as though afraid she might have missed something. In fact, the dojo was deserted save for Duncan, methodically doing sword kata. She paused to watch him for a moment, admiring not just his physical beauty but his focus and sense of purpose.

His dark hair was loose and danced around wildly with his movements. Shirtless, his muscles were clearly defined and could be seen hard at work as he executed each segment of the forms with long-mastered precision. Judging by the gleaming sweat, he had been at this for a good while already this morning.

It occurred to Cassandra that she was witnessing Duncan's elemental being now. He had been bred a warrior centuries before, and though he had been influenced over time by mentors and experience to embrace a preference for peace, at his core he still longed for the simplicity of determining where Justice resides in a conflict and fighting for it with every last ounce of his strength and passion.

Perhaps, she thought, that was the true source of the brooding that had so much become the Scot's hallmark; not the balancing act between his code of honor and the non-ideal realities of life, but the conflict between his intellectual desire for a non-violent life and the fundamental ingrained need for the physical conquest of evil.

He looked in her direction, briefly, not halting his exercise. "Morning."

"Good morning," she answered.

"Sleep well?"

"No."

He nodded, still continuing his workout. She walked toward a bench but found herself too antsy to sit down. She knelt to pick up the bloodied towel, holding it up toward him, her face a question mark.

"Cut myself," he said shortly.

"With your sword?"

"No, with my nail file."

She ignored the sarcasm, lost in concern. Duncan losing control of his sword while practicing forms was not something to take lightly. He must be as unsettled as she.

"Maybe you should take a break," she suggested. She wanted him to stop anyway.

"I'm fine. A minor cut, already gone."

Irritated by his dismissive tone, Cassandra said, "It won't help, you know. All this practicing."

"Won't help what?"

"It won't change the facts."

Now Duncan did stop, wiping sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, his expression challenging. "And what facts are those, Cassandra?"

"That you have chosen the wrong man as a friend. That you have agreed to help him with a plan you haven't even heard yet. That you are risking your life on the word of a liar who always has a hidden agenda and whose only priority is surviving."

"You forgot one fact: I gave him my word."

She snorted. "Oh, yes, your celebrated honor. It's what makes you the perfect victim for someone who lives by a strict code of self-interest."

"I'm nobody's victim." His voice was calm, but the anger was visible in his face. "And I would prefer dying by my own code to living in the solace of hate."

Cassandra stiffened. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"Let me ask you something, Cassandra. For two thousand years, you've lived with the anger, the humiliation, the betrayal of your trust by Methos. Letting your resentment build and build, to the point where your need for revenge is stronger than your desire to survive. So, when I found you two days ago, why weren't you hunting Methos? Why is it Kronos whose trail you were on?"

It was a question she hadn't anticipated. "I – I didn't know Methos was still alive. All I knew about was Kronos."

"Yeah, but you said yourself that survival was job one for Methos. You had to figure that if Kronos had endured the millennia, there was a good chance Methos had, too."

"Maybe, but I didn't know where to look. I had a lead on Kronos, so I went with it."

Duncan shook his head. "When you talk about the Horsemen, I see your pain and grief over the villagers, your anger at being captured and enslaved. But when you talk about Methos, I see naked fury in your eyes. And when you were together the other night..." He shook his head again at the memory, then closed the distance between them, pinning her in place with his steady gaze. "All that anger, all that hate, all directed toward him. Why wouldn't you want to search out that man first and make him pay?"

"What does it matter who I chose to hunt first?" Cassandra felt an irrational surge of resentment at the questioning. "I would have found Methos eventually."

"Maybe. Then again, maybe you're not being completely honest with yourself about your motivations. Finding Methos would have forced you to do that. Maybe you've just grown too comfortable with the rage to risk giving it up."

They stood a few feet apart, glaring into one another's faces, when they felt the buzz indicating the arrival of another immortal. Knowing who it would be, they scarcely budged, even when Methos' voice rang out, "Good morning, team."

***************************
Methos slowed his stride as he surveyed the unexpectedly confrontational tableau before him. Cassandra and MacLeod looked almost ready to square off and trade punches. Not a good start for Team Methos.

Watching as the two of them stopped glaring and turned their separate ways, Cassandra walking to the other side of the dojo with arms folded, he could see that whatever they'd been arguing about was far from resolved, and would likely contaminate their attitudes for the bulk of this meeting. Par for this course, he reflected sourly. Could nothing go right in this whole bloody mess? The last thing he needed was more angst in the mix.

Pondering his options for a non-incendiary opening remark, Methos noted absently that MacLeod appeared to have just finished a substantial workout. Less absently, he noted that the Highlander still held his sword with a grip that meant business. As Duncan turned a less-than-friendly glower his way, Methos' eyes fell upon the bloody towel Cassandra had left on the bench.

This meeting's prospects just kept getting better and better.

He had anticipated a cool, even frosty reception from his friend, not this burning hostility that seemed directed toward both himself and Cassandra. It appeared Methos' game plan for running this informational meeting would require some last-minute tweaking. He thought once more of the risks of improvisation, then forced himself to make a start.

"Well, I met with Kronos yesterday and sealed the deal. He has seven days to collect two teammates; any later, and he forfeits."

"He'll be there. Any indication of who he's going to get?" The question was innocent, but Duncan's tone was demanding.

"It's immaterial," replied Methos. "All that matters is that we are properly prepared."

"This might be a good time to give us some details about the contest, then," Duncan said, facing Methos squarely, his arms folded, the katana still in his hand. Cassandra drifted toward them, also with her arms folded. They presented themselves not exactly as a united front, but as two enemies facing an enemy they had in common.

"That is the point of this meeting," the common enemy said lightly. And he told them exactly what the contest would involve.

Ignoring Cassandra's rolling eyes and Duncan's head-shaking, he continued. "I'm on my way after this to finalize the rental of the facility. Kronos doesn't know which one I've chosen, so tampering won't be an issue. And I'm paying extra for the installation of metal detectors and additional supervision of the game, to ensure everyone's safety."

"I can just imagine Kronos' reaction to the choice of such a childish activity," Cassandra muttered, hinting at her own displeasure.

"I think I mentioned before that our contests were usually somewhat juvenile in nature."

"You also said they were non-combative," Duncan growled pointedly.

"Yes, but I knew that Kronos would require something a little more confrontational – it wouldn't hold his interest otherwise. That's why I chose something that is completely non-contact and safe."

"Safe!" Cassandra snickered. "What a word. There's nothing safe about any of this."

"You opted yourself into it," Methos reminded her, fighting to maintain his patience.

"Can we stick to the point of this meeting?" Duncan demanded. The old immortal had rarely seen the Scot so agitated, and moved almost unconsciously out of range of his sword.

"Sure thing," he said, trying once again to project a light mood. He motioned them into the office, and Duncan stalked along behind him, glowing with hostility. Cassandra reluctantly brought up the rear.

Spreading a large paper out on the desk, Methos began. "This is a blueprint of the playing field. For our purposes, there will be two bases – one for us, one for them. Defense of the base is the top priority; once it has been disabled three times, the game is over."

He glanced at Duncan and saw him peering fiercely at the drawing. Good, he thought. Keep channeling all that belligerence into the contest and there will be no need to watch my head. At least, where MacLeod is concerned. He continued.

"All around the room, there are obstacles and shelters, places to hide, to use for ambushes. The light is low and the air will be murky, and there may be a lot of noise that will cover sounds made by both teams, making it easier to sneak up on your opponent."

"And for your opponent to sneak up on you," Cassandra observed sharply.

"That too," he agreed. "The terrain is widely varied, with one of the bases being on slightly higher ground. The distribution of the bases will be determined by a coin toss right before the contest." He sat on the edge of the desk, arms loosely folded, giving a relaxed appearance. "Any questions?"

Duncan moved abruptly, pacing the office like a caged beast. Methos deliberately didn't watch him but could tell each time he got closer by the radiating heat of his antagonism. One of his mantras began running itself automatically in the background of his consciousness.

Cassandra leaned close to him. "I have a question. What aren't you telling us about this contest?"

She was too close, trampling his personal space all to hell. After yesterday's incident with Kronos, he was a little hypersensitive, and he edged away before he realized he was doing it.

"I suppose there are a great many little things I've left out," he said, still aiming for an airy tone. "What specifically would you like to know?"

She studied his face for what seemed like eons. "I know you're keeping secrets, Methos." Her voice was nearly a whisper in his ear. She had leaned in even closer, and he felt a rising panic at the intrusion. Suddenly his face felt warm, and he wondered mindlessly whether that meant it had reddened or paled.

He had an overwhelming urge to shove her away, but the memory of their physical confrontation two nights ago helped to stay that reflex. That, and the fact that the Marching MacLeod had stopped pacing and was standing directly beside him – between himself and the doorway.

Methos took a breath and forced an ironic smile. "I have many secrets, Cassandra. But I assure you that I've given you all the information needed to survive this contest." He pulled from his jacket a brochure from the facility he was renting, placed it on the desk, and used one of Duncan's pens to scribble on it. "Here is the date and time the contest is to start. I will come by here 90 minutes earlier to pick you both up. I think it's prudent for us to arrive early and as a group." Pocketing the pen, he rose languidly from his perch on the desk.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some errands to run." He took a step toward the doorway, which Duncan was blocking. Briefly, they remained in this posture – Duncan with arms folded and still clutching the sword, Methos looking relaxed with his hands in his jacket pockets – before Duncan took a single step to one side.

"I'll be in touch," Methos called as he walked out of the dojo. He waited until he was out on the sidewalk before taking a deep, slightly quaking breath.

*****************************
There was a moment of thunderous silence in the office, then Duncan turned on his heel and stalked through the doorway and toward the elevator. "I need a shower," he said.

Cassandra watched him into the lift, then hurried out of the dojo in time to see Methos round the corner. As she stepped out to follow, she saw another man move away from the car he'd been leaning against and round the same corner, trying too hard to look casual.

Secrets all around, she thought.

She began to walk faster, keeping them both in sight.