Bordeaux, France, Western Europe
7 February 2002
2:44 A.M.
Warren Carter stepped out into the streets of Bordeaux, France. Bored, tired, and cold, he trudged solemnly back to his hotel from the bar he had just exited. Five pints of hard liquor and three hours later, he was barely soused. Still, the alcohol did little to warm his spirit. Life was getting…boring. Quite frankly, he was tired of it: the running, the hiding, the constant fighting. But that wasn't the boring part.
Nothing surprised him anymore. No one surprised him. He tried to enjoy life, he really did…but without her…
Carter sighed. "Mother of God," he muttered to himself. "Why did she have to die?"
His mind flashed back to three weeks prior. The love of his immortal life, lying in a hospital bed, silent, motionless. His own battered and exhausted form slumped in a chair next to her, sleeping restlessly, praying to God that she would wake up, that she might say something. His mind flitted again to two days before that, when the two of them had been found on a deserted highway, their car destroyed beyond recognition, her body flung out into the dirt, broken and bleeding. He had been thrown clear as well from the crash, but as usual…
He looked up, an unwelcome feeling pricking his senses. Narrowing his eyes he scanned the side street he was passing, then looked behind him. Nothing. Turning around to look in front of him once more, he spotted a figure standing about twenty yards ahead, sword in hand, waiting. Carter rolled his eyes.
"It's going to be a long night."
The lingering effects of the quickening had driven all sense of dullness from the alcohol away from him. Angry and tense, Carter had stalked back to his hotel, put his sword into it's case and immediately booked a flight home. He didn't care that it would look suspicious if the police came to ask him about the corpse of a headless man from Ulster lying in the street a mile from his hotel. He was tired of this. Tired of the Game. Tired of losing the people he cared about. For the first time in over sixty years, as he fell asleep under the influence of alcohol and sleeping pills, he dreamed of home. Not his loft in New York, or his flat in Seattle. His real home. Eire. Ireland.
7 February 2002
2:44 A.M.
Warren Carter stepped out into the streets of Bordeaux, France. Bored, tired, and cold, he trudged solemnly back to his hotel from the bar he had just exited. Five pints of hard liquor and three hours later, he was barely soused. Still, the alcohol did little to warm his spirit. Life was getting…boring. Quite frankly, he was tired of it: the running, the hiding, the constant fighting. But that wasn't the boring part.
Nothing surprised him anymore. No one surprised him. He tried to enjoy life, he really did…but without her…
Carter sighed. "Mother of God," he muttered to himself. "Why did she have to die?"
His mind flashed back to three weeks prior. The love of his immortal life, lying in a hospital bed, silent, motionless. His own battered and exhausted form slumped in a chair next to her, sleeping restlessly, praying to God that she would wake up, that she might say something. His mind flitted again to two days before that, when the two of them had been found on a deserted highway, their car destroyed beyond recognition, her body flung out into the dirt, broken and bleeding. He had been thrown clear as well from the crash, but as usual…
He looked up, an unwelcome feeling pricking his senses. Narrowing his eyes he scanned the side street he was passing, then looked behind him. Nothing. Turning around to look in front of him once more, he spotted a figure standing about twenty yards ahead, sword in hand, waiting. Carter rolled his eyes.
"It's going to be a long night."
The lingering effects of the quickening had driven all sense of dullness from the alcohol away from him. Angry and tense, Carter had stalked back to his hotel, put his sword into it's case and immediately booked a flight home. He didn't care that it would look suspicious if the police came to ask him about the corpse of a headless man from Ulster lying in the street a mile from his hotel. He was tired of this. Tired of the Game. Tired of losing the people he cared about. For the first time in over sixty years, as he fell asleep under the influence of alcohol and sleeping pills, he dreamed of home. Not his loft in New York, or his flat in Seattle. His real home. Eire. Ireland.