September 09, 2004, 12:00 PM
Le Blues Bar, Paris, France
As the morning drew to a close, Asher had moved from the stool to a back booth. Richie had flipped the radio on, and hummed along with the songs as he dusted the shelves. It was days like this that he missed Joe the most, and his rugged edges and intelligent wit, and how sometimes on rainy afternoons he would play his guitar. There had been music since, but Duncan had arranged or booked all the music and music groups, and despite the strong friendship the two men had formed, Joe and Duncan had two completely different preferences in *good* music.
Softening the radio, (some American pop-rock station), Richie poured himself a rum and coke, and threaded his way through the boots and the tables. "Could I join you?"
Flicking her eyes from the table knots and her empty glass, Asher shrugged. She had removed the calf-length black duster [sweater-coat] she had been wearing, and Richie noted that her hair had waived now that it was semi- dry. He also noted that she carried no sword.
"So, why did you come to Paris?" he asked, sliding into the leather cushion across from her.
"You asked me this already. Before your friend left."
"I did, but you didn't give me a straight answer."
Asher met Richie's eyes, saying nothing, but rather she studied him. He had about four inches on her, (she was five foot five), and curly reddish- blonde hair. He was muscular, but not bulky, and dressed casually in jeans and a green t-shirt with a flannel plaid shirt worn like a jacket. He was still young, and obviously caring to show so much interest and concern in her: a stranger. She sighed, and averted her gaze. He was also Immortal.
Shrugging, she responded, "I needed a vacation." She caught his gaze again. "Surely you understand."
"Too well, actually." He sipped his rum and coke, wanting to say something else, but unsure of what. Her eyes held much sadness, for one so young. She did not possess a strong aura, which either meant she had been not Immortal for very long, or she had lived the life of a recluse for centuries. Richie guessed, (or rather hoped) it was the former. "So," he asked making sure his voice and tone was light, "how old are you?"
Asher raised an eyebrow. "Twenty-two. Or, I will be twenty-two next week. You?"
"Happy Birthday. Thirty. Old, huh?"
Asher shrugged, and retreated back into her melancholy. Richie opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by the creaking of an opening door and the presence of another Immortal.
"You know, Richie. I pay you to work, not to talk with the patrons."
"You don't pay me anything, Mac."
"Yes, well," Duncan muttered as he strolled to the booth where his former protégé and now sometimes employee was sitting. "I still expect you to work."
"Take a look around Mac. No one's here. Except for me you, and Asher."
"Asher?" Duncan looked across the booth, and noticed the young woman there, eyes downcast, and knuckles nearly white as they grasped her glass. "Hello, Asher. I'm Duncan MacLeod of-"
Let me guess," she interrupted, raising her face and eyes, and focusing on Duncan's smile, "of the Clan MacLeod."
"Have we met before?"
"Doubt it. It was a lucky guess. Perhaps you should try a new line." Standing, she dropped a few francs on the table and pulled on her black sweater-coat. Without a word of farewell, she disappeared, the door slamming shut behind her.
Duncan looked after her. "A bit biting, isn't she?"
Richie shrugged. "Nah, she's all right. Just hurt." He sighed, and stared after her. For whatever reason, the sarcasm had returned to her tone.
As the morning drew to a close, Asher had moved from the stool to a back booth. Richie had flipped the radio on, and hummed along with the songs as he dusted the shelves. It was days like this that he missed Joe the most, and his rugged edges and intelligent wit, and how sometimes on rainy afternoons he would play his guitar. There had been music since, but Duncan had arranged or booked all the music and music groups, and despite the strong friendship the two men had formed, Joe and Duncan had two completely different preferences in *good* music.
Softening the radio, (some American pop-rock station), Richie poured himself a rum and coke, and threaded his way through the boots and the tables. "Could I join you?"
Flicking her eyes from the table knots and her empty glass, Asher shrugged. She had removed the calf-length black duster [sweater-coat] she had been wearing, and Richie noted that her hair had waived now that it was semi- dry. He also noted that she carried no sword.
"So, why did you come to Paris?" he asked, sliding into the leather cushion across from her.
"You asked me this already. Before your friend left."
"I did, but you didn't give me a straight answer."
Asher met Richie's eyes, saying nothing, but rather she studied him. He had about four inches on her, (she was five foot five), and curly reddish- blonde hair. He was muscular, but not bulky, and dressed casually in jeans and a green t-shirt with a flannel plaid shirt worn like a jacket. He was still young, and obviously caring to show so much interest and concern in her: a stranger. She sighed, and averted her gaze. He was also Immortal.
Shrugging, she responded, "I needed a vacation." She caught his gaze again. "Surely you understand."
"Too well, actually." He sipped his rum and coke, wanting to say something else, but unsure of what. Her eyes held much sadness, for one so young. She did not possess a strong aura, which either meant she had been not Immortal for very long, or she had lived the life of a recluse for centuries. Richie guessed, (or rather hoped) it was the former. "So," he asked making sure his voice and tone was light, "how old are you?"
Asher raised an eyebrow. "Twenty-two. Or, I will be twenty-two next week. You?"
"Happy Birthday. Thirty. Old, huh?"
Asher shrugged, and retreated back into her melancholy. Richie opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by the creaking of an opening door and the presence of another Immortal.
"You know, Richie. I pay you to work, not to talk with the patrons."
"You don't pay me anything, Mac."
"Yes, well," Duncan muttered as he strolled to the booth where his former protégé and now sometimes employee was sitting. "I still expect you to work."
"Take a look around Mac. No one's here. Except for me you, and Asher."
"Asher?" Duncan looked across the booth, and noticed the young woman there, eyes downcast, and knuckles nearly white as they grasped her glass. "Hello, Asher. I'm Duncan MacLeod of-"
Let me guess," she interrupted, raising her face and eyes, and focusing on Duncan's smile, "of the Clan MacLeod."
"Have we met before?"
"Doubt it. It was a lucky guess. Perhaps you should try a new line." Standing, she dropped a few francs on the table and pulled on her black sweater-coat. Without a word of farewell, she disappeared, the door slamming shut behind her.
Duncan looked after her. "A bit biting, isn't she?"
Richie shrugged. "Nah, she's all right. Just hurt." He sighed, and stared after her. For whatever reason, the sarcasm had returned to her tone.