Margaret Scully rocked her grandson, who managed to sleep despite his agitation. So far, thank god, their captors had treated them relatively well. She'd acquired a bruise or two, but the baby was untouched. They'd been fed, and a large package of diapers sat in the corner, along with bottles and other necessities. Whoever these kids were, someone among them knew about caring for infants.
Children themselves, their abductors spent a lot of their time in horseplay. If either Margaret or the new captive watched for the right opportunity, there was a good chance they could escape.
Eyeing the Polynesian beauty, Margaret sighed. What drove young women to choose such dangerous lifestyles? Dana never told her mother the things that happened to her. This woman had quietly recounted one adventure after another, most in which she escaped death only by dumb luck.. Margaret didn't question the child's veracity. Sydney knew intimately too many details about too many places, descriptions clearly based on memory and not imagination.
Whether solely because of William or because they considered her no threat, Margaret remained unbound, while Sydney was tied hand and foot. It was risky, but Mrs. Scully planned to change that soon. Fortunately, the younger woman's tone never changed while Margaret's fingers plucked nimbly at the knotted ropes. If she could just get Sydney free…
There was a commotion outside and Margaret swiftly focused on William, keeping both hands in full view when one of the children turned toward her. The teenager straightened into a posture of full military attention.
A moment later the door flew open and two new hostages were thrown into the room. The men were battered and gasping and bound too tightly to stop the impacts of their respective falls. Both groaned as they connected hard with the unforgiving floor. A man entered then, a small man of uncertain heritage. His dark eyes were hard and glittered with unmistakable insanity. His gaze finally settled on Sydney and he pointed to her. "Bring her to me."
Margaret's heart sunk. Sydney was still tied up and would be at the mercy of the madman. She also recognized the two new hostages. Mrs. Scully was now solely responsible for rescuing herself, William, Sydney, and the incapacitated Agent Doggett and Fox Mulder.
"Damn, you look hot. You should do this for a living."
"Shut the hell up, you twisted little chimpanzee, or I'll send you back home to the zoo. The circus would gladly loan me their cannon. Wanna go for a fly?" Langly glared at his flawlessly shabby and imperiously short companion. "Frohike, so help me God, if even one dude comes on to me, I'm going to puke, and then I'm going to beat the living crap out of you. Come to think of it, even if some dude doesn't come on to me, I'm going to beat the living crap out of you."
Sans horn-rimmed glasses and decked out in glorious drag, Langly looked a lot like what he was: a tall, lanky, angular man whose feet were pinched by a pair of black pumps, who kept trying to pluck pantyhose out of his ass, and who was kicking himself for ever agreeing to this romp. "Dustin Hoffman did it. Dustin Hoffman did it. I'm an actor," chanted the blond geek, gritting his teeth against each and every word. "Tell me again why I'm doing this."
The unlikeliest of duos traipsed up and down in front of Attila's current hideout. Here in Harlem, practically nobody gave a second look to a tall blond transvestite walking with an extremely short, grubby man. The only ones who did were a couple of pros who were working the area. Once Frohike grabbed Langly and kissed him, declaring undying love, the streetwalkers ignored them.
The young guards smirked but didn't attempt to chase them off. And while Langly and Frohike entertained the troops, Byers bypassed simple alarms to gain entry to the building.
Sydney kept her wits about her. Unlike Margaret Scully, she didn't underplay the danger posed by the children. Regardless of their age, these were warriors, too-young soldiers being fed into a war based on nothing but the senseless appetites of a madman. These kids would kill on command, coldly and capably. Sydney's stomach churned at the knowledge that she might be required to strike or even kill one of the young guards. The awareness gave her even more loathing for the squat, middle-aged beast who strode before her like he was a monarch.
"Ah, but I am a monarch, Sydney Fox. And you are right. My new army will kill if provoked. Not you, of course; you are integral to my quest. But you left behind companions. Some are here, some outside, one in a hospital. I could kill them all at a single command. I know all about you. You'll help me if it means saving lives."
The words sent a chill down her spine. "You can read minds now, too?" she asked, only half-sarcastic.
Her captor turned to her, and this time she saw him clearly. The angles and planes of his face were crisscrossed with fine scars and his flesh bore a patina she couldn't explain. It was like watching a statue or painting come to life. Only one rough execution of the 5th century Attila the Hun had survived the centuries, a small fresco on the wall of a Roman ruin. If this wasn't the depicted man, it was his spawn, thousands of generations removed. Staring into his eyes was like looking into a telescope and watching history as it was lived.
"I always could," he sneered. "The Sword was my beacon, no more. With or without it, I can will the kingdoms of the world to bow down and they'll do it. But I want it, and you will help me to acquire it."
"Ah, so now you're the antichrist," Sydney remarked, keeping her tone carefully neutral. She was marking the path they took, knowing she might be required to retrace her steps in a hurry. "That explains a lot." Getting herself out wasn't the problem. Getting the other hostages to safety was a big problem, one for which she didn't yet have an answer.
Malevolent laughter bounced from the wall. "Yes, I am." The succinct answer chilled the relic hunter to the bone. Whether it was true or not, this man believed every word.
Swallowing, Sydney realized that she couldn't dismiss an incredible possibility no one had ever considered - that this was neither reincarnation nor psychosis -
That this was Attila the Hun, somehow returned to life.
Rain sheeted over the windshield, a downpour that dropped visibility to near zero. In Scully's heart, visibility already hovered near zero. With both William and Mulder missing, she was so blinded with grief that nothing existed beyond the relentless halo of pain that enveloped her.
Being taken off the case was a formality. She knew that she would be worse than useless and knew that she wouldn't bow out no matter what it did to her career. Skinner's official dismissal in his office was underscored by something almost like humor. He knew when he gave her the news that she would throw it into a mental trash can and plow ahead just like the orders never existed.
It was what Mulder would do.
It was what she would now do, too, and heaven help anyone who really tried to stop her.
She pulled her nondescript gray sedan into the parking garage of the New Haven hospital, praying that Nigel was more coherent today than yesterday. The doctor in her hated questioning a young man who was hurt and frightened and alone in a country that was not his own. How ironic that in all of her years of chasing aliens, an alien of a different kind would become so critical to her family's survival.
A perfunctory umbrella shielded her head, its somber black bowl inverted over equally dismal trench coat. Black had become her normal mode of dress, but today it was her mourning attire, a bleak reflection of the darkness that roiled within her soul. Rain, oblivious to her dejection, continued its battery against the thin nylon shell beneath which she hid.
The young historian remained in intensive care, slipping in and out of consciousness, occasionally calling out for a mother who was dead and buried, or for his missing companion, Sydney.
Scully straightened as she entered Nigel's room, pleating the damp folds of her coat over her arm after shaking off the excess moisture. It was a dance, the façade of normalcy where none existed. She'd gotten up this morning, applied a thin masque of cosmetics, dressed in suit and pantyhose, sliding her feet into heeled pumps. The sun refused to kowtow to the fact that her world was at a standstill.
Pasting on a practiced smile, she forced her body to stride forward. She had become a mannequin of a sorts, and she was never quite certain who was pulling the strings to keep her upright when her knees threatened to collapse beneath her. "Nigel?" she asked softly, torn between wanting to let the little Briton heal and wanting to drag him out to help her find her child and Mulder.
"Hello, Miss Scully. Any word? Anything at all?"
So far, so good. His voice was weak, but when Nigel turned his head to look at her, there was a cognizance in his eyes that had been absent the day before.
"No," she admitted bitterly. "I'm sorry. I'm hoping you can help me. The Lone Gunmen – " At his puzzled expression, she sighed, "Don't ask. Suffice to say they're friends, for lack of a better term. They tracked Attila's entourage to a warehouse in Watts, they got inside, and discovered that it was all a sleight of hand. They were diverted into a trap that could have killed them, and we didn't find anyone." Her words were ragged with emotion, but considering that she wasn't on FBI time, she no longer cared. This was personal for her, and she didn't have to be told that it was personal for Nigel, too.
Pulling a crinkled page from her purse, she held it so the expert could see. "Does this make any sense to you?" The uneven scratches and doodles on the parchment meant nothing to her.
Nigel's eyes went wide. "It's not possible. This is modern paper, but that writing is ancient Scythian, signed by Attila, King of the Huns."