Chapter 4 : The Mark of Famine

The day was pleasant, the weather people typically
thought of when California was mentioned, bright and
sunny without a cloud in sight. It was just the sort
of day when those innocent or naive could believe that
all was right in the world and that monsters were just
figments of the imagination. This would, of course,
not be true. There were always monsters, usually in
the least likely of places, the homes of families, the
tables of restaurants and the offices of businesses.

One such monster was quietly making his way to one of
those least expected places. Caspian had decided that
Zeke was not going anywhere today so he was now in the
process of returning his book to the library.

The library was not one of the places where Caspian
could be expected to be found, which was exactly why
he liked it so much. Perhaps another reason was that
following Ezekiel was not as amusing as it should have
been. That man had no life at all. Well, he was dead,
so that was technically true, but Caspian would have
thought he'd be enjoying his second chance in more
ways than ordering huge meals at restaurants and
stalking his widow. Lately, the damned souls he was
hunting down were pathetic creatures who didn't even
realize how they had escaped their prison. Now,
Caspian was patient, but even he could get bored,
which explained his trip completely.

Pushing open the door, he took a moment for his eyes
to adjust to the dimmer interior before continuing to
one of the desks. Madeline, the librarian sitting
behind it, smiled at him pleasantly. It was obvious
that when he had first started coming here that she
had been frightened of him, but now his presence was a
welcome difference from many of the other visitors. It
always paid to be polite, at least under certain
circumstances. This had certainly helped the woman
overcome her fear of his appearance, at least in
combination with his constant visits. "Michael" always
said "good morning", made small talk when he signed
things out and invariably returned his books on time.

"Michael, finished it already?" It was a rhetorical
question. Caspian wasn't the fastest reader in the
world, but he certainly had time on his hands. It
wasn't like he needed to sleep, and who knew when Zeke
would get a new assignment, though it was unlikely
that he would acquire one today. The ex-cop had
finally finished off seemingly innocent damsel who was
actually a wolf in disguise yesterday.

"I'm afraid so." His reply was touched off by the
vaguely European accent he knew she found intriguing.

Madeline took the book and pivoted to her computer,
entering that it had been returned. Considering him
with the dark unsuspecting eyes of an animal that does
not know its looking at a butcher, she spoke. "If you
liked this, Stacy's just putting up the shipment of
his books we finally have cataloged." She gestured
with her head down one of the many isles.

"Thank you. I just might do that." He nodded and
smiled at her, getting a returning grin.

Walking down the towering isles, he could almost see
why Methos loved these places. Almost. There were
other things here more interesting than paper. His
eyes widened at the man who turned the corner. It
couldn't be...

It wasn't. There was no recognition from the
approacher and now that he was closer Caspian could
make out the distinct differences. The eyes, though
brown, were a shade too far apart, the face not quite
the right shape and the man was shorter than the
Highlander. Still, the resemblance was striking.

"S'cuse me," came out of the man's mouth, muffled and
faint. Caspian moved to the side to let him pass.
Well, just because Zeke chose not to live his second
chance to the fullest didn't mean he had to agree. It
would be best and less suspicious if he left before
the man. Perhaps he should sign out a book. Routines
should be followed, like always. Without really
concentrating, he grabbed what appeared to be a volume
of poetry and proceeded in the direction of the exit.

"So, what will it be today?" Madeline looked at the
work in surprise. "Byron? You really didn't seem to be
the type."

Caspian schooled himself to not look behind him, to
catch a glimpse of his prey, but instead answered,
"I'm not, really. Never read him before, but you
always hear things..." Byron was it? Well, he'd heard
that the fellow was Immortal. It could be interesting.

She nodded in understanding. How could you know what
you liked if you never tried anything new? Scanning
the book through, she handed it back to him. "Well,
have a nice day."

"You too." He nodded at her and made his way for the
door, intent on concealing his inner thoughts beneath
a mask of being nonchalant.

***
Memory
***

The salty-sweet taste of blood filled his senses,
overwhelming in sensation. The woman gasped and
gurgled, drowning. She could not cry out, for he had
just removed her tongue. It would not have mattered if
she could scream, there was no one who could hear her.

Well, that was not precisely true. There were three
people who could have heard her cries for aid, though
none would have fulfilled them. One was Caspian, the
other was her husband Ireto and the third was his
brother Zinair. Zinair sobbed in horror while Ireto
strained at his bonds, determined to avenge Chenia.

The rest of the village was silent. Fire in this
tinderbox was easy to spread, though in some ways not
a satisfying as a hands-on approach. Trapping those
who had been his killers in their own houses had been
enjoyable. Not all of them had been killed that way,
but fighting a man who was dead certainly did not
bring many victories. The few survivors had certainly
been interesting to play with in front of Zinair,
whose constant praying and blubbering showed how close
to the edge he was.

It was unfortunate that the priest had met his demise
earlier from shock, but it was done now and perhaps
fitting that he had died from seeing that he was
right.

He supposed he could have continued to play with
Ireto, but that was not his goal and he had already
used Zinair's sister in law in such a way. So instead
he merely, mercifully, stabbed him, letting him die
quickly. Never once did Ireto take his eyes off
Caspian's, still burning with the fiery fuel of hatred
until they turned as glassy as a pool of water, empty
and undisturbed.

He turned to Zinair. "Well, it looks like it's just
the two of us. Whatever should we do?" Caspian reached
out and removed the gag. "That's better. It's more fun
when they scream."

Scream Zinair did, despite its uselessness. There was
no attempt to be manly and brave, especially after
witnessing Caspian's brutality. The killer ignored
him. Instead, he turned to Chenia's tongue. Eating the
flesh of the dead was forbidden. He smiled. "I wonder
what it tastes like?" Turning back to his captive, he
said, "Want some?"

***
The Present - a few days later
***

The man shook his head groggily, looking around with
glassy eyes trying to make out the darkened room. An
impossible task, for the room had been altered
specifically to keep both light and sound from
escaping its confines. Caspian waited for the
inevitable questions, silent within the all
encompassing shadows, smiling to himself. He could
practically hear the heart racing, smell the adrenalin
powering fear. This was what he loved most.

"What?" The voice quavered slightly from dread. "Where
am I?"

Ah, the all-encompassing question. It was typical. He
answered with unnerving quiet, the silence of death,
not even breath disturbing the air in the room. As
intended, that silence alone was more frightening than
any answer could be. There was a pause, a catch, as a
decision was made, whether to struggle in silence and
hopefully avoid notice or to call out for aid. The man
chose the former, pushing and pulling against expertly
tied ropes, more likely to injure himself than get
free. He had done this before, after all. From memory,
Caspian moved, causing the faint brush of skin against
cloth.

"Who's there?"

His response was to flick on the blinding lights
overhead. The man winced visibly, blinking watery
eyes. Caspian had been prepared and recovered quickly,
practically gliding over to the confined man with the
grace of a millennia old hunter.

Eyes stared at him, trying to discern his identity.
"Who are you?" The man had pride, trying to keep his
voice, even despite the circumstances, not realizing
the significance of the view. If he had understood,
his voice would have shaken anyway. As if he would
ever escape alive after seeing Caspian's face.

Caspian flashed white teeth at him in a cruel smile.
Brown eyes widened as the monster leaned towards him
and he turned his head away. Caspian only went closer
and, with his tongue, he traced up the displayed
cheekbone and temple, removing evidence of dried blood
that remained from the original struggle. The olive
skin was smooth, ruffled only by the shuddering
beneath it. With that, he backed away and moved to get
some instruments. The man might not know who he was,
but he'd soon know what he was.

***
Later
***

It was beautiful. It always was. The man would do
anything for him, anything at all. This was why he did
it. Could there be anything more sublime? Caspian
doubted it. He couldn't help but laugh at those fools
who thought the Quickening was power. It wasn't like
you could take that with you. This, though, this was
Power, to have someone in the palm of your hand,
owned, willing to do anything to please you. For the
moment he reveled in it. There was no longer any hope
in those dark eyes for escape, only for a surcease
from pain and willingness of obey to get it.

He caressed the man's cheek fondly. There was only one
way this could be better, but MacLeod was in
Seacouver, safe for the moment. Unfortunately, he
didn't have time to play longer, though the past week
had made up for his previous boredom. Caspian had
other things to do, no matter how tedious and he
couldn't expect his plaything to survive here.

Also, someone might find him. It was better to make
sure that there was no evidence thoroughly, rather
than
rushing through it. That lead to mistakes. It wasn't
like it would matter if he got caught, he could fake
death; it wasn't if he had a heartbeat, but that would
mean leaving the area and Ezekiel alone. This, too,
was part of the game. A much more interesting game
than the one immortal's played, or at least so he'd
always thought.

The Horseman still had a bit more time, however. It
was always so difficult to say goodbye to one of his
toys.

"Pet?" The question demanded instant response, a
command and not a query, though it gave no hint of his
intentions. Eyes trained upwards, though the head
stayed bowed, prepared to submit once they knew what
was intended of them. Using a light touch for his
index finger, he raised his pet's head to face him. A
feather-light brush was all it took.

The purple and yellowing bruises on that face bespoke
of his recent abuse over that past few days. Still,
the man's face was too pretty for his own good. It was
almost surprising that this hadn't happened to him
before Caspian found him.

That would have been such a shame. He pressed his
mouth onto already bruised lips. There was no need to
force the mouth open, it surrendered immediately. He
claimed it with his tongue, knowing it was his.

So sweet, that was what this moment was. Too bad it
could not last longer. He wanted to keep his pet, he
was his, but knew it was not possible. He drank in
exhaled air, wishing he could drink in more instead.

That was when it happened. It started slowly at first,
then increased, curling down his throat. He could
taste the surrender, the pain, the terror, winding its
way up through his captive.

Drowning. As fine as aged wine, sweet a sugar, energy,
emotion, like a quickening with only the ecstasy.
Caspian swallowed it all, his eyes closed,
concentrating only on the sensation, not caring as the
body shrunk and grew brittle beneath his hands.

The rest of the world ceased for a instant, paused the
consistent beat of time. It was as close to forever as
his time in hell had been, opposite in feeling.
Everything crystalized into clarity for a moment, he
could feel the beating of life around him in the city,
a great pulse of fears and hopes, dreams and failures.
Then, as suddenly as it occurred, it was gone, like he
was trying to draw up water from an empty well.

He stepped back and opened his eyes, heady with the
power he felt. The body before him was dead, as if it
were days old instead of minutes, shrunken like it had
died from lack of nourishment rather than a kiss. He
wondered how this had happened, but it was fitting. It
was, after all, the mark of Famine.