Author's notes: I don't own any of the Highlander characters. I do, however, own Rochelle and her family. Please read and review. I wrote this when I was 15, just so you know, so please be kind. I'm posting it without much revision just to see the kind of response I get.
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Duncan MacLeod drove his green Range Rover through the gates and up the long, steep driveway, following a long procession of cars. The large embassy loomed before them, its perfectly manicured grounds covered in snow, the massive roof covered in snow, a light in every window, making the estate look like a picture worthy of "Better Homes and Gardens"-they had an image to portray and a reputation to keep up after all. MacLeod parked the car and both he and Amanda, who was dressed in a long red dress that clung to her every curve, got out and began walking towards the large glass doors. There were two guards stood on either side, checking invitations. A tall, blonde-haired man dressed in standard military dress uniform inquired after their invitations. Amanda turned to Duncan. "Well, honey, show the man our invitation." MacLeod made an elaborate display of searching every pocket in his tuxedo. When he could not find the invitation, he turned to Amanda.
"Don't you have it?"
Amanda's mouth opened in shock. "Me? I told you to bring it."
"But I though you had it in your purse, *dear*."
They bantered back and forth for several more moments, when Amanda looked beseechingly at the guard. "We're on the guest list, can't you just let us in?"
"I'm sorry ma'am, but no one enters this embassy without an invitation." Amanda tried again, but got the same answer. She was about to try a third time when she and Mac felt another Immortal's presence. Duncan looked up and saw Rochelle emerge from behind a statue. She was dressed in a soft green gown, with a long green chiffon scarf wrapped about her neck. Her long hair fell about her shoulders and MacLeod now knew what Tessa had been talking about all those years; done up, Rochelle could look years older. Now that she was eternally frozen at the age of sixteen, anything to make her look older would help. She could pass for eighteen. Which, as MacLeod thought about it, was probably how she was able to remain employed by the troupe.
"It's all right," she called, coming up behind the guard. "They're with me." The guard nodded and ushered them inside. Amanda thanked him, smiling sweetly, and followed Shelly and MacLeod. Shelly whipped around on her high heels, almost losing her balance in the process. "What in Hell are you doing here?" she hissed, obviously none too happy to see either of them.
Amanda's eyes shifted uncomfortably between the two other Immortals before she gave up and took an amazing interest in the ornate marble embassy floors.
"I had to tell you...everything," MacLeod answered.
Rochelle sighed sadly, "It could not wait?" It had waited a day, she reluctantly remembered. For one day, she had been running on adrenaline. She had chosen to set aside what had happened at the barge and throw herself into her work. She had been doing a lot of throwing since Frank had died.
MacLeod shook his head.
Suddenly bored with the shiny multi-colored stone, Amanda piped up, "I couldn't talk him out of it."
Shelly looked at her as if just noticing her. "Who are you?"
Amanda extended her hand graciously, "Amanda."
Rochelle shook Amanda's hand, "So you're the infamous Amanda. I have been told quite a few stories about you."
Amanda cocked her head, "Really? By whom?"
Shelly smiled coyly, "A mutual friend." She then grabbed the arm of a passing butler. "Pierre," she said. "Could you give my friend Amanda here a quick tour of the embassy?"
Pierre shook his head. "I'm sorry Mademoiselle, but I have to help prepare for the banquet." He stood tall and spoke with a thick French accent, a butler hired for the occasion.
Rochelle dismissed it with a wave of her hand as though she ran the place. "There are a million other people who can do that. Can you do this for me? Please?" she begged. She poured it on thick, pleading with her long lashed eyes.
The butler nodded and MacLeod detected a fluctuation in the color of the man's cheeks. "*Oui*, Mademoiselle Picaut. This way," he said, extending his arm to Amanda. She asked him a question about the value of a painting they passed, to which he replied that is was quite valuable indeed, an original.
"*Merci*," Rochelle thanked him and led MacLeod into an unoccupied drawing room. She sat on an over stuffed velvet couch, smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt. MacLeod sat on an antique rocking chair opposite the couch; the silence in the drawing room was deafening. Shelly raised her head and looked straight into Mac's brown eyes. "Tell me. All of it."
Duncan took a deep breath. "Shell-Belle," he said softly, using Tessa's intimate nickname for her, though he saw no glimmer in her eyes; she just looked at him, her intense and unwavering gaze telling him not to coddle her.
With great resignation, he began at the beginning, knowing most modern Tessa-MacLeod history would have to be explained. In a quiet and deep voice, he told her about the Watchers and their purpose, which meant he also had to tell her about James Horton and his band of renegade Watchers who had sought to banquish Immortals from the face of the earth, seeing them as abominations. He then moved on to the story of Darius, the gentle Immortal priest who tragically died at the hands of Hunters. He then explained how he and Tessa and Richie had fled back to the Pacific Northwest for protection. As Rochelle sat in tearful silence, MacLeod informed her of the conditions surrounding Horton's eventual death, and the role he had played in it. With a type of wistful happiness, he told her of his and Tessa's engagement and their plans for marriage. He explained to Rochelle about one of Horton's Watchers, still determined to wipe out Immortals and how he managed to lure Immortals to his booby-trapped house. The Highlander explained how Tessa had been abducted, then later rescued.
"I sent them home, Tessa and Richie, I mean. I had decided to go back in, to make sure there were no other chances of it ever happening again. A junkie came up behind them and demanded their money. He got a few hundred dollars and her engagement ring, then I guess he panicked, because shot them and ran. By the time I got to them, they were both dead." His face twitched as he struggled to hold back bitter tears and old rage. He decided against telling her that he and Richie had found the junkie some time later, but now sober, he barely remembered doing it-which was of no consequence, because the cops could not bring him up on charges. How could Richie have explained to them how he too had been murdered?
Rochelle's mouth worked and a few stray tears ran down her face. She hung her head and quietly thanked him for explaining it all to her. Then she apologized for running off earlier in the day. "You have to understand that this afternoon was *not* the family reunion I had been looking and hoping for *at all*." She laughed quickly, in spite of herself. Just then, a maid entered the room, announcing that the first course was being served. Shelly slapped her thighs resolutely and in one graceful motion, rose from the couch. She extended her hand to Duncan. He accepted it and together, they went in search of Amanda. "I really am glad you're here," she whispered to him, her breath warm on his cool skin. "I absolutely hate these formal dinners; they are stuffy and boring."
MacLeod chuckled as he spotted Amanda emerging from one of the large staterooms, looking, well, peculiar. He waved her down, noticing how tightly she was clutching her small red handbag. Inwardly, he sighed, immediately recognizing the warning signs he had come to know so well over the centuries. "Give it to me," he ordered, holding open his hand.
Amanda's eyes opened widely and she smiled with child-like innocence, "I don't know what you're talking about, darling."
But MacLeod would have none of it, "Give it here."
Now it was Amanda's turn to sigh. Exasperatedly, she reached into her stuffed purse and drew a small yet expensive crystalline paperweight from it, placing it in the Highlander's hand. He discreetly passed it on to Rochelle, who nonchalantly deposited it on a nearby table. Amanda bit her lip. There was going to be hell to pay. She knew her younger lover did not approve of her thievery. That was why she had not mentioned it to him. Or explained why she had moved. Or told him about a certain ex-cop.
MacLeod folded his arms, "I thought you weren't stealing any more."
Amanda shrugged slightly, "Would you believe me if I told you this was just a one-shot deal?" Of course he wouldn't, she knew that, but what the hell? It had been worth a shot.
Duncan glowered. Eve though he was younger, he was far more menacing than she had initially believed him to be, all those years ago. Mac said slowly, gritting his teeth, "Why do I get the feeling this has something to do with Nick?"
Amanda sighed. The gig, as they put it, was up. "Could we possibly about this at some other time?" she hissed, grabbing him by the arm. They locked eyes and Amanda knew there was no way to avoid the subject now.
But Rochelle intervened, coming between them and taking hold of both their arms. "Yes, let's," she said, dragging them nearer the grand dining room. "In case you have both forgotten, there is a room full of diplomats and my colleagues waiting on the other side of the door, and your squabbling has probably held up the entire thing." She hooked her arm into MacLeod's and ordered, "Now march."
"Yes ma'am," he replied, his voice wry, for the moment putting his anger on the shelf. The three Immortals entered the lavish dining room. A long table ran down the center, while another ran horizontally forming a T. Both were decorated with beautiful centerpieces, shimmering crystal glasses, imported china, and fine silk napkins. An elaborately decorated Christmas tree was the opulent focus of the room; it had large, gleaming ceramic and glass bulbs, and shining silver tinsel that glistened in the light of the real candles. A bright shining star sat on top. An array of wrapped, yet most assuredly empty boxes decorated the base. A lone violinist stood at the far end of the hall, which was lit entirely by candlelight, playing softly. The light cast eerie shadows across the faces of all who entered. The ambassador and his family came through a door at the far left of the table. They took their seats at the head table, surrounded by their various guests, and assorted dignitaries. Then, the fifty members of the North American Theatre Troupe-or NATT, as their promotional sweatshirts read-who were dressed to the nines, took their seats as well. Amanda and MacLeod sat on either side of Rochelle, each draping the napkins across their laps, one appraising its monetary value. Waiters and waitresses poured through the doors, some carrying steaming bowls of soup, others, decanters of wine.
After the wine had been poured and every last bowl had been set in front of a body, the ambassador, a stout and balding man, ceremonially tapped his glass with his knife, drawing the attention of all the diners. He raised his glass in a toast to the members of the North American Theatre Troupe, intoning endless thanks of their hard work and dedication, droning on incessantly about how much he and all the other United States dignitaries (and their families) looked forwards to all that the members of the North American Theatre Troupe had in store during their stay. In closing, he promised them two days worth of an exciting, intensive tour of the city. Shelly shot MacLeod a look that seemed to say, "See what I mean." He nudged Amanda, who had started to doze. She snorted softly. Finally, the ambassador finished his address, allowing all dinner guests to at last enjoy their soup, which had been quickly growing cold. People held private conversations with those around them, but no one addressed anyone who was more than ten feet from them until the soup dishes were being cleared.
The ambassador's wife finished her soup, set down the soon, and regally dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin, summoning a waitress to take her dish. "Ms. Picaut," she said, staring straight at Rochelle, pronouncing it "Pea-coat." Rochelle returned the woman's gaze with equal intensity, as she was addressed. "I understand you attended the University of Alaska, is that correct?"
"Alaska?" MacLeod murmured under his breath.
Shelly sipped her newly refilled wine thoughtfully, then placed her elbows on the table, interlocking her fingers and resting her chin on the structure. "Yes, ma'am. I was living in Alaska at the time and decided to pursue my double Masters of Classical Theatre and Vocal performance. I also managed to be one credit shy of a psychology certificate by the time I graduated. All I need is that one credit and two years of graduate school, and I will have a Masters." She finished listing her impressive credentials, then asked simply, "Why do you ask?"
The woman, either unfazed or unimpressed-or both-by Rochelle's resume, inquired, "I asked because I was wondering if you knew of a Professor Berkowitz. With that grocery list, I'd imagine you had at least heard of him."
MacLeod could see that Rochelle and the ambassador's wife were going to have an all-out battle of wits until there was only one woman standing. Amanda, not to mention everyone at the table, including Rochelle's boss and the ambassador, took notice of the civil war of words.
Rochelle nodded simply, "I do know him. I was never lucky enough to have him as a professor, though our paths did cross time and again."
The ambassador's wife leaned in, mimicking Rochelle's arm position, "And what was your opinion of him?" She had a look in her eyes as though she had just laid a trap.
But Shelly was more than ready. "Well, some of my classmates had a nickname for him: they called him Beanie-Eyed Berkowitz, because he wore spectacles that made his eyes appear quite small. In the course of the conversations I was privileged enough to have with him, I came to one conclusion."
"And what was that?"
"Does she really want to know?" Amanda whispered.
Rochelle dropped the bomb, "The man could argue with Satan himself and not only win, but leave with control of Hell and half of Heaven." She again sipped her win and sweetly asked, "Why do you ask?"
The ambassador's wife fired back, "He's my brother."
But the Immortal actress was determined to win. She peered over her fingertips and looked the middle-aged woman up and down. Then she nodded, "I can see the resemblance."
MacLeod cast a glance at the NATT director and found the man looking ready to slide under the table and leave only his resignation and alias behind. The ambassador, however, looked highly amused; the man had found someone who could cut his wife down to size. MacLeod cast a sidelong glance at Amanda and could sympathize with the man. The waiters returned with the next course, saving Rochelle from any further battles. This course consisted of Cornish hens in a white wine sauce accompanied by an array of exotic vegetables and some other unique foods they could not identify. The ambassador and the other diplomats chatted idly with each other while their wives gossiped and giggled. The members of NATT discussed practice schedules, among other things, and tried to persuade others to switch roles, and debated which musical to begin work on; after all, they would be retiring the present one, "Les Miserables", after they left Paris.
Amanda turned to Rochelle, "Alaska, huh? I've been around in eleven hundred years and that is probably one of the places I've never been."
"At least with Nick," Duncan muttered sourly.
Amanda glared at him, "All right, that's enough! He's a friend, a colleague, that's all. Get over it." She shook her head, getting quite flustered, "Besides, it's my life, and I don't have to justify to you anyway. I don't ask you about your liaisons."
That was the straw that broke the Scottish camel's back, "Liaisons! He went from a colleague to a liaison? And I don not have liaisons. We never agreed, not in three hundred and seventy years, to be exclusive." The Highlander's face was beet red and the two elder Immortals had seemed to forget that Rochelle was seated between them.
But she would have none of it and interrupted, pushing them away from her, "Whoa! Antony, Cleopatra, retire to your corners. Christ! This isn't Celebrity Death Match you know. We're in an embassy at a banquet. I will not have you embarrass me." She pretended to pout, "Besides, we got off the topic: me!" Rochelle brightened up, seeing her companions throw in the towel, at least for now. "We were discussing my house in Alaska. If you have the time, Amanda, I could show it to you sometime; when Frank was killed, the estate reverted to me."
"An estate?" Amanda's eyes widened. "We're not just talking Little House on the Arctic here, we're talking estate?" The monetary possibilities were astounding.
MacLeod piped up, interrupting Amanda's overly wild imagination, "Why did Frank choose Alaska?"
"He wanted to get as far away from our old connections as possible, so he dragged my whiny little ass over three thousand miles. At first I hated it: cold weather, no one to talk to, rigorous training. But now I love it and try to get back there whenever I can-since NATT is based out of St. Louis," she added, finishing her meal and allowing a waitress to take the plate, knowing more wine and food would follow, most likely salad if they were following European meal traditions. Rochelle happened to glance up as she sipped the last of her wine and her eyes fell upon a row of portraits on the wall behind the ambassador's head. She saw one in particular drew her undivided attention.
The salad came, as did more wine, and MacLeod noticed Rochelle had suddenly grown uncharacteristically quiet. He nudged her, "Homesick?"
Abruptly, "Did you ever meet my mother?"
"No," he replied slowly, sounding perplexed. "Why?" He let is eyes follow her line of sight and examined the portrait. Then the missing pieces fell into place. "Is that her?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rochelle nodded silently. In the hustle and bustle of flying from country to country, going to endless rehearsals and finding lost friends, she had forgotten that this was where her mother had once lived. This was where Nicole had searched for missing articles of clothing; where she had come home from various dates with various and unending men. This is where she had told her parents she was going to have a baby out of wedlock, and had no idea who the father was. Where her parents, reeling from the recent death of another child, in fury, tossed their only surviving daughter out on the streets to fend for herself and pay for her crimes. This was where Nicole and her long-time friend, a young Tessa Noel, had sneaked in during a banquet and completely and totally moved all of Nicole's things from the embassy to an apartment they would share near the Sorbonne. Nicole would never again see her parents; they would never see their only granddaughter. She and Tessa would be on their own, soon with a baby: Tessa, an
aspiring artist with little money, and Nicole, eighteen, knocked up, without a family, a retired tart soon to have a child.
Amanda finally took notice of her soundless dining companions and found that the candles had become very black indeed. Rochelle had tears in her eyes and Mac looked as though he was groping for words. Before she could even say anything, Rochelle excused herself from the table, feigning illness, and scurried out of the room before anyone could ask any questions. The Immortal thief turned to Mac. "What did I miss?" She had been deep in conversation with the person on the other side of her; they had been discussing investment portfolios.
MacLeod sighed, "Rochelle's mother, Nicole, was the daughter of a diplomat. They lived here." he furrowed his brow, trying to remember what Tessa had told him, all those years ago. "About six months before Nicole got pregnant, her twin sister," He indicated the portrait of a man with salt and pepper hair, his stunning wife, and two equally beautiful, equally identical teen age daughters. "Noreen, died in a car crash along the left bank. The parents were crushed. They were enraged to find Nicole pregnant out of wedlock. So they kicked her out. Tessa invited Nicole to move in with her, and they raised Rochelle until she was five. By that time, Tessa and I had decided to live together, and Nicole had gotten a good job offer in Boston."
"And then what happened?" Amanda asked, enthralled and deeply pitying her new young friend.
"Tessa never saw Nicole again." The sadness seemed almost double for him, speaking of Tessa, long dead and Nicole, Rochelle's mother, Tessa's friend, also long dead. So many dead.
Amanda shook her head, "Sad. All of it is just so sad."
But sadness was part of Immortal life. It was a constant companion, quiet as the death it was born from. It was the invisible cloak Immortals wrapped themselves in. Sadness was accepted and taken in, but rarely displayed-though it was ever present. It was sharper than the sharpest of accouterments that could bring Immortals either salvation or eternal death. Sadness was like an undetected virus that could lay dormant forever, then strike at the most inopportune and unfortunate of moments. Sadness left its victims cold, naked and bleeding, vulnerable to attacks that could render a person weaker than a dying babe. But it could also, if treated respectfully and digested fully, make an individual stronger than the fabled son of the greatest god of Olympus. Yes, sadness was conjoined with the shadows that followed Immortals to battles at dusk and led them home when dawn's light illuminated the distant horizon.
Eventually, Rochelle returned to the banquet, making up an excuse of an allergy to something in the hen. She looked pale, her eyes were red, and her cosmetics seemed newly applied. When she took her seat between Duncan and Amanda, he squeezed her hand gently, knowing she was trying to push it from her mind, as if that was at all possible. Amanda, ever the optimist, ever the shopper, offered to take her on a tour of the boutiques in the next days, partly because she needed an excuse to go shopping. She meant well, but it was no good. Rochelle sipped her wine, toyed with her salad, ate little of her dessert, and drank her coffee long after it turned cold. The banquet ended as formally as it had begun, with a toast; this time with gourmet coffee instead of fine wine. After a few doors had been greased, the ambassador and his family returned to their living quarters, the diplomats rolled back to their residences, and the members of the North American Theatre Troupe retired to their rooms.
"Talk to her," Amanda whispered at the door of the embassy. She kissed him and expertly pulled the keys to MacLeod's jeep from his jacket pocket. "Call and I'll pick you up." MacLeod nodded and set off up the large, winding marble staircase. He stopped the director of the company in the corridor, who pointed him to Shelly's room. As he walked down the long, marble hallway, MacLeod noted how reminiscent it was of the Boston courthouse. Gently, he rapped on Rochelle's door and pushed it open. She was seated in front of a vanity mirror, absently brushing her long red hair. MacLeod sat on a couch behind Shelly, not saying anything, not prying or pressing, just waiting supportively. She looked at him in the mirror.
"I'm not a child; I don't need to be coddled."
Duncan shook his head. "No you don't, but you need friends. It's no fun being alone, especially when you're Immortal; trust me, I know." All too well, he knew. But he had learned to cope, and knew that with time, she would also.
She sighed, more out of sadness than exasperation. She set down her brush and rose from her seat. Going behind a door, she hummed softly to herself, a song MacLeod had not heard in seventy-five years. "Where'd you learn that?" he called. Rochelle re-emerged, wearing an over sized flannel shirt.
"Frank," she answered. "He wrote it." She looked tired and Mac reached for her hand, pulling her down next to him. She leaned her head on Duncan's shoulder, closing her eyes. "Did you know about Noreen?" he asked.
She nodded, "We were returning from her grave, the night Mom died. She'd told me bits and pieces of the story before, but never the whole thing. On the anniversary of Noreen's death, Mom decided I was old enough, I guess. She took me to the Cemetery-the Ambassador and his wife had her buried back in Boston-and told me everything." A long silence followed. Mac gently ran his hand up and down Shelly's arm, for reassurance and comfort. "Do you want to know how she died?"
"I know it was a car accident and that you were with her, that much we were told."
Shelly laughed sarcastically, "That about covers it, but did they mention that it should not have happened; it didn't have to have happened."
Mac took her hand, "Don't."
She looked at him, furiously blinking her long lashed eyes. "I have to." She took a deep breath and willed all her composure and strength. It had taken a long time for her to deal with her anger towards her mother, some of which she still carried with her. "It was raining, and we could barely see the road in front of us. I begged her to pull over, but she insisted that we were almost home and kept driving. I was so scared and I knew, I could feel that something bad was going to happen. The car slipped on wet leaves and spun out; we hit a tree. I managed to crawl out and went back for her. She was semi conscious and I got her out, but we were in the middle of no place in one of the worst storms the area had ever seen." Her voice wavered and MacLeod squeezed her hand. Shelly wiped a tear from her face. "She whispered for me to get help, so I ran. I ran out to the road and waited for someone, yelled for someone; at that point I would have been grateful to see Satan coming through the rain. No one came and I went back to Mom. She was soaked, as was I, and we were both shivering. I remembered that there was a blanket in the back seat and I pulled it out. I covered us with it and held her. I talked to her all night, even when she slipped into a coma. Even when," she paused, gulping. "Even when I knew she was gone." Shelly gritted her teeth and angry tears fell from her eyes. "If she'd just pulled over, if she'd just listened to me, then she'd still be alive."
Duncan held her, smoothing her hair and whispering to her. He remembered one night, back in '88, when they had staying with her in Boston. He and Tessa had woken up to Shell screaming for Nicole, crying out to her, begging her to pull over and to wake up. Tessa had held her, stayed with her through the night, while Shelly slept. However, this time Tessa was not there to comfort her and MacLeod was not quite sure he knew how. What was he supposed to say? Get over it? Death happens? There'll be more? No, someone her age should not have to experience so much death. Someone his age should not know so much death.
Especially not around Christmas. He remembered that Tessa had told him once how much Rochelle the child had loved the holiday. While he had never been big on it, MacLeod loved watching Tessa-also a big Christmas person-rip into the presents he had bought for her. Come to think of it, he had not celebrated a Christmas since her death.
She clung to him, grateful for someone to be able to cling to for comfort. She began to remember a night many years ago, when a similar thing had happened. Tessa. Mom. Dead. Suddenly, Rochelle pulled away and pulled herself together. She thanked him for staying and tried to convince him to go home. She had almost succeeded when they felt the unmistakable sensation that another Immortal was near. "Amanda?" Duncan called. Because he did not receive an answer, he asked Shelly "Expecting anyone?" To his surprise, she nodded and rose from the couch. In one movement, they'd both drawn their swords and MacLeod motioned for her to check the windows while he checked outside her room.
While Shelly found no one, Duncan found a note. It was addressed to her and he handed it to her. She opened it, read it and angrily crumpled it into a wad of paper. Throwing it to the floor in disgust, she told him, "It says 'I'm still coming.'"
MacLeod looked to her in confusion, "And this means something to you?"
She nodded, "It was not just some guy that killed Frank; his name is Samuel Genova and he has been after me for two years. I've managed to waylay him and cover my tracks, but he has still found me. He's made it his goal to destroy anyone who ever knew...one of the Ancient Immortals."
Mac cocked his head, "Well that narrows it down; there are only a handful of them left on earth." *And I know one of them*, he thought.
She again sighed, then, shrugging her shoulders tiredly, walked to the bed, and drew back the covers. MacLeod watched and wondered. She was so calm; maybe she had grown accustomed to being hunted. This letter was just a warning, but all the same, he expected her to show some outward signs of worry. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"It's late; I'm jet-lagged and I'm going to bed."
MacLeod nodded, "Do you want me to stay?"
Yes! Rochelle's soul screamed. "No," she said. "He's been hunting my ass for two years, I doubt another night or two will make that big a difference to him." Shelly walked over to MacLeod and took his hands in her own. She knew that if she didn't stop Sam Genova, then MacLeod would be his next target. "It's a small world after all." The lyric played over and over in her mind.
MacLeod conceded, "I'll help you prepare; you've been without a teacher for two years." He remembered that even after nearly ten with his kinsman and teacher, Connor MacLeod, he still hadn't felt prepared.
"I was with one for five years," Shelly declared cockily.
"Which is nothing more than a heartbeat for us. You need a teacher," he said definitively, gathering up his sword and trench coat.
"You volunteering?" she asked. Right then MacLeod realized that the answer was yes, that he had just volunteered to take on another pupil. Was he ready to grow attached to a new student so soon after what had happened to his last? Duncan MacLeod decided the answer was, "Yes," he told her. She opened the heavy bedroom doors for him.
"I have an am practice at the Theatre Francaise tomorrow. We move to the Opera on Thursday. I'm sure I'll be fine until then. Come around noon and we'll train then." MacLeod left and Shelly dead bolted the door behind him. She checked to see if all the windows were locked, even though she knew that they were; she settled in for the night. Into the darkened room she hummed a child's tune that she'd heard on an amusement ride in Florida when she was young. Just before she gave herself over to a deep, dreamless, much needed sleep, she whispered "Now I know why you loved him Aunt Tessa."
* * *
Amanda lay awake in Mac's bed, waiting for his phone call. It was close to two in the morning and he still hadn't called. Suddenly, she felt his presence and jumped out of bed, tossing back the comforters. After pulling away from a long kiss, she asked expectantly, "Well?" He laid down his sword and began undressing. She watched as he removed his tie, his cumberbun, his shirt, pants, socks and shoes. Amanda watched as MacLeod lay in bed next to her and smiled when he took her in his arms
"She's being hunted."
A pause.
"I'm going to be her teacher."
Amanda absently traced patterns on his bare chest with her fingers. "Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, Richie was..."
He cut her off, "My best friend, but that was a long time ago. Shell needs me. She needs a family." In the silence that followed, they did nothing more than breath. Duncan twisted a strand of Amanda's short, blonde hair around his finger, and Amanda wondered, *And exactly how much do you need her?*
Out loud, she replied, "We're not supposed to have families."
"Oh, it's not so bad," MacLeod said casually. He'd had two. Both of which ended in tragedy, but he did not want to think about that part. Raising a suspicious eyebrow, he asked, "You're not jealous are you?"
"No!" she snapped. "Shelly's a lovely person," Her voice softened. "I just don't want to see you get hurt again."
Richie. Life. Grateful, but none the less indignant and determined, MacLeod said, "I'm teaching her, effective immediately."
"Define immediately," she said.
"Thursday," MacLeod replied rather huffily.
Knowing that his mind was made up and there was nothing she could so to change it, Amanda snuggled against him and asked, "Need any help?" He smiled and nodded. She rolled over, on top of him, until she was on the opposite side of his body. He leaned his head on her shoulder and she ran her fingers through his short hair, which she still hadn't fully grown accustomed to. "We'll talk more about it tomorrow," she whispered, kissing him passionately.
Smiling, he nodded and lowered himself on top of her. "Tomorrow," he whispered.
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Duncan MacLeod drove his green Range Rover through the gates and up the long, steep driveway, following a long procession of cars. The large embassy loomed before them, its perfectly manicured grounds covered in snow, the massive roof covered in snow, a light in every window, making the estate look like a picture worthy of "Better Homes and Gardens"-they had an image to portray and a reputation to keep up after all. MacLeod parked the car and both he and Amanda, who was dressed in a long red dress that clung to her every curve, got out and began walking towards the large glass doors. There were two guards stood on either side, checking invitations. A tall, blonde-haired man dressed in standard military dress uniform inquired after their invitations. Amanda turned to Duncan. "Well, honey, show the man our invitation." MacLeod made an elaborate display of searching every pocket in his tuxedo. When he could not find the invitation, he turned to Amanda.
"Don't you have it?"
Amanda's mouth opened in shock. "Me? I told you to bring it."
"But I though you had it in your purse, *dear*."
They bantered back and forth for several more moments, when Amanda looked beseechingly at the guard. "We're on the guest list, can't you just let us in?"
"I'm sorry ma'am, but no one enters this embassy without an invitation." Amanda tried again, but got the same answer. She was about to try a third time when she and Mac felt another Immortal's presence. Duncan looked up and saw Rochelle emerge from behind a statue. She was dressed in a soft green gown, with a long green chiffon scarf wrapped about her neck. Her long hair fell about her shoulders and MacLeod now knew what Tessa had been talking about all those years; done up, Rochelle could look years older. Now that she was eternally frozen at the age of sixteen, anything to make her look older would help. She could pass for eighteen. Which, as MacLeod thought about it, was probably how she was able to remain employed by the troupe.
"It's all right," she called, coming up behind the guard. "They're with me." The guard nodded and ushered them inside. Amanda thanked him, smiling sweetly, and followed Shelly and MacLeod. Shelly whipped around on her high heels, almost losing her balance in the process. "What in Hell are you doing here?" she hissed, obviously none too happy to see either of them.
Amanda's eyes shifted uncomfortably between the two other Immortals before she gave up and took an amazing interest in the ornate marble embassy floors.
"I had to tell you...everything," MacLeod answered.
Rochelle sighed sadly, "It could not wait?" It had waited a day, she reluctantly remembered. For one day, she had been running on adrenaline. She had chosen to set aside what had happened at the barge and throw herself into her work. She had been doing a lot of throwing since Frank had died.
MacLeod shook his head.
Suddenly bored with the shiny multi-colored stone, Amanda piped up, "I couldn't talk him out of it."
Shelly looked at her as if just noticing her. "Who are you?"
Amanda extended her hand graciously, "Amanda."
Rochelle shook Amanda's hand, "So you're the infamous Amanda. I have been told quite a few stories about you."
Amanda cocked her head, "Really? By whom?"
Shelly smiled coyly, "A mutual friend." She then grabbed the arm of a passing butler. "Pierre," she said. "Could you give my friend Amanda here a quick tour of the embassy?"
Pierre shook his head. "I'm sorry Mademoiselle, but I have to help prepare for the banquet." He stood tall and spoke with a thick French accent, a butler hired for the occasion.
Rochelle dismissed it with a wave of her hand as though she ran the place. "There are a million other people who can do that. Can you do this for me? Please?" she begged. She poured it on thick, pleading with her long lashed eyes.
The butler nodded and MacLeod detected a fluctuation in the color of the man's cheeks. "*Oui*, Mademoiselle Picaut. This way," he said, extending his arm to Amanda. She asked him a question about the value of a painting they passed, to which he replied that is was quite valuable indeed, an original.
"*Merci*," Rochelle thanked him and led MacLeod into an unoccupied drawing room. She sat on an over stuffed velvet couch, smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt. MacLeod sat on an antique rocking chair opposite the couch; the silence in the drawing room was deafening. Shelly raised her head and looked straight into Mac's brown eyes. "Tell me. All of it."
Duncan took a deep breath. "Shell-Belle," he said softly, using Tessa's intimate nickname for her, though he saw no glimmer in her eyes; she just looked at him, her intense and unwavering gaze telling him not to coddle her.
With great resignation, he began at the beginning, knowing most modern Tessa-MacLeod history would have to be explained. In a quiet and deep voice, he told her about the Watchers and their purpose, which meant he also had to tell her about James Horton and his band of renegade Watchers who had sought to banquish Immortals from the face of the earth, seeing them as abominations. He then moved on to the story of Darius, the gentle Immortal priest who tragically died at the hands of Hunters. He then explained how he and Tessa and Richie had fled back to the Pacific Northwest for protection. As Rochelle sat in tearful silence, MacLeod informed her of the conditions surrounding Horton's eventual death, and the role he had played in it. With a type of wistful happiness, he told her of his and Tessa's engagement and their plans for marriage. He explained to Rochelle about one of Horton's Watchers, still determined to wipe out Immortals and how he managed to lure Immortals to his booby-trapped house. The Highlander explained how Tessa had been abducted, then later rescued.
"I sent them home, Tessa and Richie, I mean. I had decided to go back in, to make sure there were no other chances of it ever happening again. A junkie came up behind them and demanded their money. He got a few hundred dollars and her engagement ring, then I guess he panicked, because shot them and ran. By the time I got to them, they were both dead." His face twitched as he struggled to hold back bitter tears and old rage. He decided against telling her that he and Richie had found the junkie some time later, but now sober, he barely remembered doing it-which was of no consequence, because the cops could not bring him up on charges. How could Richie have explained to them how he too had been murdered?
Rochelle's mouth worked and a few stray tears ran down her face. She hung her head and quietly thanked him for explaining it all to her. Then she apologized for running off earlier in the day. "You have to understand that this afternoon was *not* the family reunion I had been looking and hoping for *at all*." She laughed quickly, in spite of herself. Just then, a maid entered the room, announcing that the first course was being served. Shelly slapped her thighs resolutely and in one graceful motion, rose from the couch. She extended her hand to Duncan. He accepted it and together, they went in search of Amanda. "I really am glad you're here," she whispered to him, her breath warm on his cool skin. "I absolutely hate these formal dinners; they are stuffy and boring."
MacLeod chuckled as he spotted Amanda emerging from one of the large staterooms, looking, well, peculiar. He waved her down, noticing how tightly she was clutching her small red handbag. Inwardly, he sighed, immediately recognizing the warning signs he had come to know so well over the centuries. "Give it to me," he ordered, holding open his hand.
Amanda's eyes opened widely and she smiled with child-like innocence, "I don't know what you're talking about, darling."
But MacLeod would have none of it, "Give it here."
Now it was Amanda's turn to sigh. Exasperatedly, she reached into her stuffed purse and drew a small yet expensive crystalline paperweight from it, placing it in the Highlander's hand. He discreetly passed it on to Rochelle, who nonchalantly deposited it on a nearby table. Amanda bit her lip. There was going to be hell to pay. She knew her younger lover did not approve of her thievery. That was why she had not mentioned it to him. Or explained why she had moved. Or told him about a certain ex-cop.
MacLeod folded his arms, "I thought you weren't stealing any more."
Amanda shrugged slightly, "Would you believe me if I told you this was just a one-shot deal?" Of course he wouldn't, she knew that, but what the hell? It had been worth a shot.
Duncan glowered. Eve though he was younger, he was far more menacing than she had initially believed him to be, all those years ago. Mac said slowly, gritting his teeth, "Why do I get the feeling this has something to do with Nick?"
Amanda sighed. The gig, as they put it, was up. "Could we possibly about this at some other time?" she hissed, grabbing him by the arm. They locked eyes and Amanda knew there was no way to avoid the subject now.
But Rochelle intervened, coming between them and taking hold of both their arms. "Yes, let's," she said, dragging them nearer the grand dining room. "In case you have both forgotten, there is a room full of diplomats and my colleagues waiting on the other side of the door, and your squabbling has probably held up the entire thing." She hooked her arm into MacLeod's and ordered, "Now march."
"Yes ma'am," he replied, his voice wry, for the moment putting his anger on the shelf. The three Immortals entered the lavish dining room. A long table ran down the center, while another ran horizontally forming a T. Both were decorated with beautiful centerpieces, shimmering crystal glasses, imported china, and fine silk napkins. An elaborately decorated Christmas tree was the opulent focus of the room; it had large, gleaming ceramic and glass bulbs, and shining silver tinsel that glistened in the light of the real candles. A bright shining star sat on top. An array of wrapped, yet most assuredly empty boxes decorated the base. A lone violinist stood at the far end of the hall, which was lit entirely by candlelight, playing softly. The light cast eerie shadows across the faces of all who entered. The ambassador and his family came through a door at the far left of the table. They took their seats at the head table, surrounded by their various guests, and assorted dignitaries. Then, the fifty members of the North American Theatre Troupe-or NATT, as their promotional sweatshirts read-who were dressed to the nines, took their seats as well. Amanda and MacLeod sat on either side of Rochelle, each draping the napkins across their laps, one appraising its monetary value. Waiters and waitresses poured through the doors, some carrying steaming bowls of soup, others, decanters of wine.
After the wine had been poured and every last bowl had been set in front of a body, the ambassador, a stout and balding man, ceremonially tapped his glass with his knife, drawing the attention of all the diners. He raised his glass in a toast to the members of the North American Theatre Troupe, intoning endless thanks of their hard work and dedication, droning on incessantly about how much he and all the other United States dignitaries (and their families) looked forwards to all that the members of the North American Theatre Troupe had in store during their stay. In closing, he promised them two days worth of an exciting, intensive tour of the city. Shelly shot MacLeod a look that seemed to say, "See what I mean." He nudged Amanda, who had started to doze. She snorted softly. Finally, the ambassador finished his address, allowing all dinner guests to at last enjoy their soup, which had been quickly growing cold. People held private conversations with those around them, but no one addressed anyone who was more than ten feet from them until the soup dishes were being cleared.
The ambassador's wife finished her soup, set down the soon, and regally dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin, summoning a waitress to take her dish. "Ms. Picaut," she said, staring straight at Rochelle, pronouncing it "Pea-coat." Rochelle returned the woman's gaze with equal intensity, as she was addressed. "I understand you attended the University of Alaska, is that correct?"
"Alaska?" MacLeod murmured under his breath.
Shelly sipped her newly refilled wine thoughtfully, then placed her elbows on the table, interlocking her fingers and resting her chin on the structure. "Yes, ma'am. I was living in Alaska at the time and decided to pursue my double Masters of Classical Theatre and Vocal performance. I also managed to be one credit shy of a psychology certificate by the time I graduated. All I need is that one credit and two years of graduate school, and I will have a Masters." She finished listing her impressive credentials, then asked simply, "Why do you ask?"
The woman, either unfazed or unimpressed-or both-by Rochelle's resume, inquired, "I asked because I was wondering if you knew of a Professor Berkowitz. With that grocery list, I'd imagine you had at least heard of him."
MacLeod could see that Rochelle and the ambassador's wife were going to have an all-out battle of wits until there was only one woman standing. Amanda, not to mention everyone at the table, including Rochelle's boss and the ambassador, took notice of the civil war of words.
Rochelle nodded simply, "I do know him. I was never lucky enough to have him as a professor, though our paths did cross time and again."
The ambassador's wife leaned in, mimicking Rochelle's arm position, "And what was your opinion of him?" She had a look in her eyes as though she had just laid a trap.
But Shelly was more than ready. "Well, some of my classmates had a nickname for him: they called him Beanie-Eyed Berkowitz, because he wore spectacles that made his eyes appear quite small. In the course of the conversations I was privileged enough to have with him, I came to one conclusion."
"And what was that?"
"Does she really want to know?" Amanda whispered.
Rochelle dropped the bomb, "The man could argue with Satan himself and not only win, but leave with control of Hell and half of Heaven." She again sipped her win and sweetly asked, "Why do you ask?"
The ambassador's wife fired back, "He's my brother."
But the Immortal actress was determined to win. She peered over her fingertips and looked the middle-aged woman up and down. Then she nodded, "I can see the resemblance."
MacLeod cast a glance at the NATT director and found the man looking ready to slide under the table and leave only his resignation and alias behind. The ambassador, however, looked highly amused; the man had found someone who could cut his wife down to size. MacLeod cast a sidelong glance at Amanda and could sympathize with the man. The waiters returned with the next course, saving Rochelle from any further battles. This course consisted of Cornish hens in a white wine sauce accompanied by an array of exotic vegetables and some other unique foods they could not identify. The ambassador and the other diplomats chatted idly with each other while their wives gossiped and giggled. The members of NATT discussed practice schedules, among other things, and tried to persuade others to switch roles, and debated which musical to begin work on; after all, they would be retiring the present one, "Les Miserables", after they left Paris.
Amanda turned to Rochelle, "Alaska, huh? I've been around in eleven hundred years and that is probably one of the places I've never been."
"At least with Nick," Duncan muttered sourly.
Amanda glared at him, "All right, that's enough! He's a friend, a colleague, that's all. Get over it." She shook her head, getting quite flustered, "Besides, it's my life, and I don't have to justify to you anyway. I don't ask you about your liaisons."
That was the straw that broke the Scottish camel's back, "Liaisons! He went from a colleague to a liaison? And I don not have liaisons. We never agreed, not in three hundred and seventy years, to be exclusive." The Highlander's face was beet red and the two elder Immortals had seemed to forget that Rochelle was seated between them.
But she would have none of it and interrupted, pushing them away from her, "Whoa! Antony, Cleopatra, retire to your corners. Christ! This isn't Celebrity Death Match you know. We're in an embassy at a banquet. I will not have you embarrass me." She pretended to pout, "Besides, we got off the topic: me!" Rochelle brightened up, seeing her companions throw in the towel, at least for now. "We were discussing my house in Alaska. If you have the time, Amanda, I could show it to you sometime; when Frank was killed, the estate reverted to me."
"An estate?" Amanda's eyes widened. "We're not just talking Little House on the Arctic here, we're talking estate?" The monetary possibilities were astounding.
MacLeod piped up, interrupting Amanda's overly wild imagination, "Why did Frank choose Alaska?"
"He wanted to get as far away from our old connections as possible, so he dragged my whiny little ass over three thousand miles. At first I hated it: cold weather, no one to talk to, rigorous training. But now I love it and try to get back there whenever I can-since NATT is based out of St. Louis," she added, finishing her meal and allowing a waitress to take the plate, knowing more wine and food would follow, most likely salad if they were following European meal traditions. Rochelle happened to glance up as she sipped the last of her wine and her eyes fell upon a row of portraits on the wall behind the ambassador's head. She saw one in particular drew her undivided attention.
The salad came, as did more wine, and MacLeod noticed Rochelle had suddenly grown uncharacteristically quiet. He nudged her, "Homesick?"
Abruptly, "Did you ever meet my mother?"
"No," he replied slowly, sounding perplexed. "Why?" He let is eyes follow her line of sight and examined the portrait. Then the missing pieces fell into place. "Is that her?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rochelle nodded silently. In the hustle and bustle of flying from country to country, going to endless rehearsals and finding lost friends, she had forgotten that this was where her mother had once lived. This was where Nicole had searched for missing articles of clothing; where she had come home from various dates with various and unending men. This is where she had told her parents she was going to have a baby out of wedlock, and had no idea who the father was. Where her parents, reeling from the recent death of another child, in fury, tossed their only surviving daughter out on the streets to fend for herself and pay for her crimes. This was where Nicole and her long-time friend, a young Tessa Noel, had sneaked in during a banquet and completely and totally moved all of Nicole's things from the embassy to an apartment they would share near the Sorbonne. Nicole would never again see her parents; they would never see their only granddaughter. She and Tessa would be on their own, soon with a baby: Tessa, an
aspiring artist with little money, and Nicole, eighteen, knocked up, without a family, a retired tart soon to have a child.
Amanda finally took notice of her soundless dining companions and found that the candles had become very black indeed. Rochelle had tears in her eyes and Mac looked as though he was groping for words. Before she could even say anything, Rochelle excused herself from the table, feigning illness, and scurried out of the room before anyone could ask any questions. The Immortal thief turned to Mac. "What did I miss?" She had been deep in conversation with the person on the other side of her; they had been discussing investment portfolios.
MacLeod sighed, "Rochelle's mother, Nicole, was the daughter of a diplomat. They lived here." he furrowed his brow, trying to remember what Tessa had told him, all those years ago. "About six months before Nicole got pregnant, her twin sister," He indicated the portrait of a man with salt and pepper hair, his stunning wife, and two equally beautiful, equally identical teen age daughters. "Noreen, died in a car crash along the left bank. The parents were crushed. They were enraged to find Nicole pregnant out of wedlock. So they kicked her out. Tessa invited Nicole to move in with her, and they raised Rochelle until she was five. By that time, Tessa and I had decided to live together, and Nicole had gotten a good job offer in Boston."
"And then what happened?" Amanda asked, enthralled and deeply pitying her new young friend.
"Tessa never saw Nicole again." The sadness seemed almost double for him, speaking of Tessa, long dead and Nicole, Rochelle's mother, Tessa's friend, also long dead. So many dead.
Amanda shook her head, "Sad. All of it is just so sad."
But sadness was part of Immortal life. It was a constant companion, quiet as the death it was born from. It was the invisible cloak Immortals wrapped themselves in. Sadness was accepted and taken in, but rarely displayed-though it was ever present. It was sharper than the sharpest of accouterments that could bring Immortals either salvation or eternal death. Sadness was like an undetected virus that could lay dormant forever, then strike at the most inopportune and unfortunate of moments. Sadness left its victims cold, naked and bleeding, vulnerable to attacks that could render a person weaker than a dying babe. But it could also, if treated respectfully and digested fully, make an individual stronger than the fabled son of the greatest god of Olympus. Yes, sadness was conjoined with the shadows that followed Immortals to battles at dusk and led them home when dawn's light illuminated the distant horizon.
Eventually, Rochelle returned to the banquet, making up an excuse of an allergy to something in the hen. She looked pale, her eyes were red, and her cosmetics seemed newly applied. When she took her seat between Duncan and Amanda, he squeezed her hand gently, knowing she was trying to push it from her mind, as if that was at all possible. Amanda, ever the optimist, ever the shopper, offered to take her on a tour of the boutiques in the next days, partly because she needed an excuse to go shopping. She meant well, but it was no good. Rochelle sipped her wine, toyed with her salad, ate little of her dessert, and drank her coffee long after it turned cold. The banquet ended as formally as it had begun, with a toast; this time with gourmet coffee instead of fine wine. After a few doors had been greased, the ambassador and his family returned to their living quarters, the diplomats rolled back to their residences, and the members of the North American Theatre Troupe retired to their rooms.
"Talk to her," Amanda whispered at the door of the embassy. She kissed him and expertly pulled the keys to MacLeod's jeep from his jacket pocket. "Call and I'll pick you up." MacLeod nodded and set off up the large, winding marble staircase. He stopped the director of the company in the corridor, who pointed him to Shelly's room. As he walked down the long, marble hallway, MacLeod noted how reminiscent it was of the Boston courthouse. Gently, he rapped on Rochelle's door and pushed it open. She was seated in front of a vanity mirror, absently brushing her long red hair. MacLeod sat on a couch behind Shelly, not saying anything, not prying or pressing, just waiting supportively. She looked at him in the mirror.
"I'm not a child; I don't need to be coddled."
Duncan shook his head. "No you don't, but you need friends. It's no fun being alone, especially when you're Immortal; trust me, I know." All too well, he knew. But he had learned to cope, and knew that with time, she would also.
She sighed, more out of sadness than exasperation. She set down her brush and rose from her seat. Going behind a door, she hummed softly to herself, a song MacLeod had not heard in seventy-five years. "Where'd you learn that?" he called. Rochelle re-emerged, wearing an over sized flannel shirt.
"Frank," she answered. "He wrote it." She looked tired and Mac reached for her hand, pulling her down next to him. She leaned her head on Duncan's shoulder, closing her eyes. "Did you know about Noreen?" he asked.
She nodded, "We were returning from her grave, the night Mom died. She'd told me bits and pieces of the story before, but never the whole thing. On the anniversary of Noreen's death, Mom decided I was old enough, I guess. She took me to the Cemetery-the Ambassador and his wife had her buried back in Boston-and told me everything." A long silence followed. Mac gently ran his hand up and down Shelly's arm, for reassurance and comfort. "Do you want to know how she died?"
"I know it was a car accident and that you were with her, that much we were told."
Shelly laughed sarcastically, "That about covers it, but did they mention that it should not have happened; it didn't have to have happened."
Mac took her hand, "Don't."
She looked at him, furiously blinking her long lashed eyes. "I have to." She took a deep breath and willed all her composure and strength. It had taken a long time for her to deal with her anger towards her mother, some of which she still carried with her. "It was raining, and we could barely see the road in front of us. I begged her to pull over, but she insisted that we were almost home and kept driving. I was so scared and I knew, I could feel that something bad was going to happen. The car slipped on wet leaves and spun out; we hit a tree. I managed to crawl out and went back for her. She was semi conscious and I got her out, but we were in the middle of no place in one of the worst storms the area had ever seen." Her voice wavered and MacLeod squeezed her hand. Shelly wiped a tear from her face. "She whispered for me to get help, so I ran. I ran out to the road and waited for someone, yelled for someone; at that point I would have been grateful to see Satan coming through the rain. No one came and I went back to Mom. She was soaked, as was I, and we were both shivering. I remembered that there was a blanket in the back seat and I pulled it out. I covered us with it and held her. I talked to her all night, even when she slipped into a coma. Even when," she paused, gulping. "Even when I knew she was gone." Shelly gritted her teeth and angry tears fell from her eyes. "If she'd just pulled over, if she'd just listened to me, then she'd still be alive."
Duncan held her, smoothing her hair and whispering to her. He remembered one night, back in '88, when they had staying with her in Boston. He and Tessa had woken up to Shell screaming for Nicole, crying out to her, begging her to pull over and to wake up. Tessa had held her, stayed with her through the night, while Shelly slept. However, this time Tessa was not there to comfort her and MacLeod was not quite sure he knew how. What was he supposed to say? Get over it? Death happens? There'll be more? No, someone her age should not have to experience so much death. Someone his age should not know so much death.
Especially not around Christmas. He remembered that Tessa had told him once how much Rochelle the child had loved the holiday. While he had never been big on it, MacLeod loved watching Tessa-also a big Christmas person-rip into the presents he had bought for her. Come to think of it, he had not celebrated a Christmas since her death.
She clung to him, grateful for someone to be able to cling to for comfort. She began to remember a night many years ago, when a similar thing had happened. Tessa. Mom. Dead. Suddenly, Rochelle pulled away and pulled herself together. She thanked him for staying and tried to convince him to go home. She had almost succeeded when they felt the unmistakable sensation that another Immortal was near. "Amanda?" Duncan called. Because he did not receive an answer, he asked Shelly "Expecting anyone?" To his surprise, she nodded and rose from the couch. In one movement, they'd both drawn their swords and MacLeod motioned for her to check the windows while he checked outside her room.
While Shelly found no one, Duncan found a note. It was addressed to her and he handed it to her. She opened it, read it and angrily crumpled it into a wad of paper. Throwing it to the floor in disgust, she told him, "It says 'I'm still coming.'"
MacLeod looked to her in confusion, "And this means something to you?"
She nodded, "It was not just some guy that killed Frank; his name is Samuel Genova and he has been after me for two years. I've managed to waylay him and cover my tracks, but he has still found me. He's made it his goal to destroy anyone who ever knew...one of the Ancient Immortals."
Mac cocked his head, "Well that narrows it down; there are only a handful of them left on earth." *And I know one of them*, he thought.
She again sighed, then, shrugging her shoulders tiredly, walked to the bed, and drew back the covers. MacLeod watched and wondered. She was so calm; maybe she had grown accustomed to being hunted. This letter was just a warning, but all the same, he expected her to show some outward signs of worry. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"It's late; I'm jet-lagged and I'm going to bed."
MacLeod nodded, "Do you want me to stay?"
Yes! Rochelle's soul screamed. "No," she said. "He's been hunting my ass for two years, I doubt another night or two will make that big a difference to him." Shelly walked over to MacLeod and took his hands in her own. She knew that if she didn't stop Sam Genova, then MacLeod would be his next target. "It's a small world after all." The lyric played over and over in her mind.
MacLeod conceded, "I'll help you prepare; you've been without a teacher for two years." He remembered that even after nearly ten with his kinsman and teacher, Connor MacLeod, he still hadn't felt prepared.
"I was with one for five years," Shelly declared cockily.
"Which is nothing more than a heartbeat for us. You need a teacher," he said definitively, gathering up his sword and trench coat.
"You volunteering?" she asked. Right then MacLeod realized that the answer was yes, that he had just volunteered to take on another pupil. Was he ready to grow attached to a new student so soon after what had happened to his last? Duncan MacLeod decided the answer was, "Yes," he told her. She opened the heavy bedroom doors for him.
"I have an am practice at the Theatre Francaise tomorrow. We move to the Opera on Thursday. I'm sure I'll be fine until then. Come around noon and we'll train then." MacLeod left and Shelly dead bolted the door behind him. She checked to see if all the windows were locked, even though she knew that they were; she settled in for the night. Into the darkened room she hummed a child's tune that she'd heard on an amusement ride in Florida when she was young. Just before she gave herself over to a deep, dreamless, much needed sleep, she whispered "Now I know why you loved him Aunt Tessa."
* * *
Amanda lay awake in Mac's bed, waiting for his phone call. It was close to two in the morning and he still hadn't called. Suddenly, she felt his presence and jumped out of bed, tossing back the comforters. After pulling away from a long kiss, she asked expectantly, "Well?" He laid down his sword and began undressing. She watched as he removed his tie, his cumberbun, his shirt, pants, socks and shoes. Amanda watched as MacLeod lay in bed next to her and smiled when he took her in his arms
"She's being hunted."
A pause.
"I'm going to be her teacher."
Amanda absently traced patterns on his bare chest with her fingers. "Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, Richie was..."
He cut her off, "My best friend, but that was a long time ago. Shell needs me. She needs a family." In the silence that followed, they did nothing more than breath. Duncan twisted a strand of Amanda's short, blonde hair around his finger, and Amanda wondered, *And exactly how much do you need her?*
Out loud, she replied, "We're not supposed to have families."
"Oh, it's not so bad," MacLeod said casually. He'd had two. Both of which ended in tragedy, but he did not want to think about that part. Raising a suspicious eyebrow, he asked, "You're not jealous are you?"
"No!" she snapped. "Shelly's a lovely person," Her voice softened. "I just don't want to see you get hurt again."
Richie. Life. Grateful, but none the less indignant and determined, MacLeod said, "I'm teaching her, effective immediately."
"Define immediately," she said.
"Thursday," MacLeod replied rather huffily.
Knowing that his mind was made up and there was nothing she could so to change it, Amanda snuggled against him and asked, "Need any help?" He smiled and nodded. She rolled over, on top of him, until she was on the opposite side of his body. He leaned his head on her shoulder and she ran her fingers through his short hair, which she still hadn't fully grown accustomed to. "We'll talk more about it tomorrow," she whispered, kissing him passionately.
Smiling, he nodded and lowered himself on top of her. "Tomorrow," he whispered.