Disclaimer: Still not mine. Highlander and its characters are the
property of their creators and production companies. The Jacobsens, Sylvia
Enos, and the universe are the creation of Harry Turtledove. Don't own
them and making no profit.
I'm actually a really HORRIBLE chess player and a shame to my friends who are actually quite good. :) I also make a hash of the Romanov ascension to the Russian throne, which happened later than my story actually implies.
Chapter 4: A Different Sort of Hell
Three weeks later (Roughly mid-January, 1936)
The snow and ice of an unseasonably cold DC winter had forced most residents of the city into their homes and near their stoves, heaters, and fireplaces. The coffee shop on Beech Street was no exception. Nellie was downstairs, cleaning tables and windows that didn't need cleaning and grumbling to herself about the lack of customers. Clearly, she thought that the cold should have made people more interested in coffee and hot food, but what it actually was doing was keeping people from coming out at all. She moved from table to table, front room to kitchen, floors to windows with a rag and some soap and a harsh mood.
Wisely, perhaps, the younger inhabitants had retreated upstairs, away from the commotion. Clara was nominally reading a novel written by a woman named Sylvia Enos for her modern literature class. While the story, of a war widow who had found and shot the Confederate submersible captain who had downed her husband's ship after the armistice went into effect, was certainly interesting, Clara found it difficult to keep her mind and her eyes on her school work. Instead, she settled for watching the shop assistant over the top edge of the book, enjoying the unrecognized and unobstructed view.
The object of her scrutiny seemed wholly unaware it was going on. Karolek Romanov was, as he had been for most of the past three weeks or even the past few months, thinking. Thinking about Book's arrival in the United States, Erich's desperate and angry plea for action...and what move he should make against Connor in the chess-by-mail game that they'd started on Connor's return trip through Washington.
"What are you going to do about this boy's request?" Connor asked his friend, moving the first pawn to open the game.
"I don't know." Karolek admitted. "On one hand, Book is dangerous. On the other, he hasn't affected me personally in a very long time." He moved his own opener, returning the play to the Highlander.
"Aye, but the last time you met he threatened to kill you as soon as he found you."
"Ok, so that's a point worth considering."
Connor laughed dryly. "Yes, I suppose it is."
"What would you do if you were me?" Karolek asked, honestly seeking his friend's advice.
Connor thought for a moment, finally deciding on the safest answer he could give. "Wish I was someone else, I suppose."
Karolek growled in frustration. "-Thank you.-"
"Hey, you asked, I answered." Connor protested, moving a rook into position opposite one of Karolek's pawns. "Personally, I think you've gotten yourself into a mess of a situation with von Ridesel. The way I see it, you can either wait for Book to find you, as he will eventually, hunt him first, or stick your head in the sand and hope it will all go away. The first two are fairly equal in their result: you'll still have to fight him, and we both know that could go either way. The third is the way of fools and cowards, and I've never known you to be much of either." Steepling his fingers, Connor leaned back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. "So endeth the lesson of the elder."
In mid move, Karolek bit back a snort and both glared and grinned at Connor. "One year of age and four years in the Game makes you older, not elder. Besides, that was crappy advice anyway. I could have come up with THAT on my own."
"Make your move, Karo, before I go gray over here."
"You couldn't go gray if your life depended on it." Karolek sniped back, moving a bishop and glaring at his friend.
"You look very far away, Karolek." A soft voice broke into his musings. "Is something wrong?"
The prince's head snapped up, and his eyes slowly focused on Clara's face as he forced himself not to reach for the dagger hidden in a sheath at the base of his neck. It was a regrettable habit that he'd developed during the Great War, when he was unable to carry his sword with him. It would have been very strange for any person, especially a sniper, to go wandering around with nearly three feet of sharpened steel among their kit. Blending in aside, no sensible Immortal - or at least one who wanted to live long - would go around completely unarmed. The dagger was Karolek's compromise, the companion piece to his broadsword, and it had come in rather handy during a Confederate raid on the trenches where he happened to be sleeping. Nineteen years later, he still hadn't shed the habit of carrying it. "I'm sorry, Clara?"
"Is something wrong?" the young girl repeated herself, staring in confusion at the young man. "You look lost in thought, like something is troubling you a great deal."
'You could say that.' Karolek mused to himself. 'I'm trying to decide whether I need to become the me I was...a man I now abhor, but who has the fire needed to get out of this mess I seem to find myself in.' "I'm just thinking about what move I should mail to Connor, Clara. That's all."
"It seems to be taking you a very long time." Clara settled herself on the footstool opposite the small table where the chessboard was set up.
Karolek offered the girl an indulgent smile. "Chess isn't meant to be played quickly, Clara." He picked up his lost pawn from its resting place next to the board, a magnificent inlaid set which had been given to him by his nephew, Mikhail, not long after the boy had assumed the Russian throne. "It's a game of strategy. You have to know what pieces to move, and when, and when a sacrifice is necessary for your overall objective."
Clara nodded slowly. "Which is what, exactly?"
"To win, of course." Karolek chuckled at the embarrassed look which appeared on the teenager's face. Obviously Clara felt she should have known that. "There IS a reason why many of the top military colleges also produce excellent chess players. Chess strategy is not altogether different from military strategy."
Which was, of course, the reason he and his father had spent so many of his boyhood hours by the fireside in the palace he'd called home in Moscow. Konstantin Romanov had wanted to ensure that his heir would be a sound military leader as well as a political force. In the absence of real battles and after Karolek was done with whatever martial or academic tutor was scheduled for his day, his father would find time to resume their current game. Karolek smiled at the memories of long winter nights, spent with his father's undivided attention. By 14 the crown prince could last against his father for a few hours at a time. By 15 he beat the man for the first time, and by the time he was 17, winning became a regular occurrence. By his 19th birthday, his father was dead and the chess games became military strategy in the flesh rather than the abstract.
"Will you teach me?"
Karolek frowned. "You want to learn how to play chess?"
"Sure." Clara sat up, looking at the board. "It's a checker board. How hard can it be?"
"Riiight." Karolek drawled slowly, attempting to hide an amused smile. "Well, let's find out, shall we?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Four hours later, Clara gave up on the game. While she discovered that learning how all the different pieces moved wasn't quite so hard, losing game after game to Karolek in the span of 15 moves or so did take a lot of the thrill out of the skill. And, as she might have suspected, Nellie returned from the deserted shop to start dinner and railed at Clara for wasting time and Karolek for indulging her. Clara was sent to her room, Karolek excused himself from the apartment. She'd watched with a certain degree of envy as Karolek pulled on his coat, scarf, and hat and disappeared out of the building. 'How swell it must be to be able to go where you please when you please and not have to answer to a mother.'
"Awfully rude of him to just storm out like that." Nellie complained to her daughter, not expecting an answer. "Off with you. Get that reading done!"
"I'd go if I could." Clara mumbled under her breath, making as much noise as she could as she went to her exile. "One of these days I'll get out of here and travel the world. I'll see everything there is to see and I'll NEVER come back to Washington again."
~~~~~~~~
It was well on to Saturday morning before Karolek actually turned back to Beech Street and the coffee house. In the hours that he'd been out he'd visited several taverns, staying only long enough to have a single beer before his wanderlust took over and forced him back out into the streets. He figured that he'd had somewhere between 5 and 10 drinks. As a result of his Immortality, however, the experience had left him about 5 dollars lighter and not the least bit buzzed or relaxed. That would have taken a great deal more of something much stronger than beer. Of course, the many miles he'd walked trying to think out his life would work against him, as well.
In the few months that he'd been sparring with Erich, he probably would have saved the problem in his mind and mentioned it to the German while they worked out. Unfortunately, Erich now lay at the heart of his problem. Either he betrayed his friend and let Book go, which could also entail standing by while Book killed Erich (as he didn't believe that Erich was *truly* capable of fighting the Brit) or he betrayed himself and became a headhunter once again. Neither was an option he particularly enjoyed.
As the Russian's thoughts drifted while his feet took him home, he conceded that maybe Khan Seh had a point when he was training Karolek 400 years ago at the court of Ivan IV. The new Immortal had, in disguise, been working as a swordsman in the palace. He maintained the swords of the palace guards and the tsar himself, making sure they were always in good repair and ready at a moment's notice. Khan Seh had arrived as an ambassador from China, and had taken the youngster under his wing. With a solid background in the basics, he'd proved a willing student for the swordsmanship. He had a much harder time dealing with what his teacher told him about the realities of Immortal life.
"To stay in one place so long...to form attachments and make friendships, this will only serve to hurt you in the end, Karolek. For an Immortal to remain strong he must remain free from attempting to impose the laws of mortality on our kind."
"There can be only one." Karolek recited.
"Yes."
"Suppose I don't agree with that?"
"That is your right." Khan Seh conceded. "Maybe in time you will prove me wrong." Immortal friendship outside of the teacher-student relationship was still a point of contention between the 418 year old Russian and the 1300 year old Mongol, and likely it always would be. In his current mood, however, Karolek probably would have surrendered the battle and hoped for better in a new match up later in the war.
The signature of an Immortal presence pulled him from his thoughts. "- Crap. Because this is EXACTLY what I needed on a night like tonight. A Challenge.-" Sighing heavily, Karolek put a hand on the hilt of his sword. Maybe this would be Erich, or someone else he could convince just to go away. Maybe his luck would change for today, and he could go on to bed as he planned before finding somewhere to spend alone with his sword tomorrow. He wasn't in the mood to fight, and her certainly wasn't in the mood to deal with all the energy that came with taking a Quickening. Maybe his challenger would leave him alone.
Or maybe he would meet a thug from Spain who wanted to enhance his own meager reputation by taking out someone with a bigger one. "Greetings, Prince."
Karolek sized up the man standing in the gateway of the half-empty lot in back of the coffee house. The man was not exceptionally tall, maybe about his height. He had short black hair, tawny complexion, and dark brown eyes. Discounting the crew cut, Karolek could have been looking at his photo negative, so far was the man removed from his pale Slavic skin, hair, and gray eyes. "Now you have me at a loss. You think know who I am, and I am quite certain that I have never met you."
"So very sorry." The Spaniard bowed. "Maximiliano Ruiz. Feel free to call me Max if you like. I doubt it will matter. You won't be alive long enough to use it." He twirled his rapier and drew his dagger, as if to make his point.
"I see." Karolek slowly drew his own blade, feeling the reassuring heft in his left hand. "I have no quarrel with you. What do you want to fight me for?"
"There's benefit in it." Max admitted. "A little bit of fame can't hurt me."
"You think I'm famous." Karolek forced out a chuckle. Funny, though not ha-ha funny, that all these Immortals thought having a reputation was such a good thing when it was the very thing that had caused them to seek him out in the first place. "I can assure you that I am not."
Max grinned. "But of course you're famous. Karolek Romanov, the Russian Prince. Headhunter turned coward who hides among mortals. Yes, I know all about you." He made a tsking noise with his tongue. "If you really wanted to hide, Prince, you should have gotten rid of your name."
"If it's a reputation you want, there are more important people than me you could kill." Connor sprung immediately to his mind, though he wouldn't rat on a friend to save his own skin. "Go and fight the Kurgan or Grayson or someone. Leave me out of it. I'm not worth the effort."
"But you I can beat." Max lifted his sword into the ready position. "I can't beat Grayson any more than I could beat the Kurgan. No, you'll do for a start, Romanov. Then I'll worry about moving up in the world."
"Nice to see you're open to discussion." The Russian commented sarcastically. "Maybe we should move this out of sight of prying eyes? This is not exactly a neighborhood where the sound of steel on steel will go unnoticed." He motioned to the back of the lot, where the remnants of an office building stood. It had been shelled during the fight to take back Washington in the Great War. The owner fled south with the remains of the Confederate Army, and no one had ever taken up the lot. With the Depression, it was likely that no one would for some time. It was as good a place as any to undertake a sword fight.
"Of course." Max said, attempting to be formally cordial. "After you."
"I think not. This is your fight, not mine. I'd just as soon go home." He made a shooing motion with his free hand. "I'll follow YOU."
"Anything to make a man's last moments easier." Max rested his rapier against his right shoulder, hopping over a small pile of dirt and making his way into the downstairs area of the building. One whole wall had mostly crumbled down over time, leaving gaping holes where the faint glow of the lights from Beech Street and the houses entered the space. It gave the two men just enough light to fight by, though if Max had been wearing brown or black, Karolek might not have been able to see him all that well. As it was...well they weren't the best circumstances that Karolek had ever fought in, but given the alternative he'd make the best of it.
As he entered the building, his darkened gray eyes carefully examined the place, taking note of boxes, rubble, and other obstacles on the floor as well as of support beams and other things he could use to hide behind to regroup if he wanted. He slowly shed his coat, dropping it and his scarf to the floor. He didn't want to take the chance of them getting in his way.
Max spun to face Karolek, sword at the ready. "Shall we begin?"
"No time like the present."
Max launched the first attack, Karolek taking advantage of the flurry of activity to defend and see where any gaps might be in the Spaniard's attack. There weren't many. However old Ruiz was, he'd spent a lot of time training with that sword. This was going to be a tougher fight than Karolek really wanted. He decided to let Max do most of the attacking for a bit, hoping that he could tire the other man out. Defense was easier on his muscles and his mind.
The fight was fairly even, both men being of similar size and reasonably similar skill. Ruiz managed a deep slice through Karolek's left arm, forcing the Russian to switch his sword to his right hand. Luckily, like many left handed people, Karo was functionally ambidexterous and dealt Ruiz a sharp stab to his dagger-hand shoulder while the Spaniard's guard was down.
Max hissed through his teeth, pressing his hand against his shoulder and darting behind a post to avoid Karolek's burgeoning attack while his shoulder healed. The slice to his arm wasn't slowing his opponent down the way he intended, and he needed some time to recover. Karolek wasn't having any of the tactic, and pursued his quarry across the room. Maximiliano had foolishly assumed that anyone who chose to associate with mortals was too soft to be a serious competitor. He was now learning the lesson that Erich von Ridesel had learned during his first training session: a very dangerous man lurked within the unassuming exterior of the Russian Prince.
Karolek swung his sword, intending to catch Max on the run and end the battle. Max nimbly darted out of the way, and Karolek's broadsword bit into the rotting wooden support column and stuck. Karolek tugged furiously, trying to dislodge the blade.
A slow grin worked its way across Max's dark face. "Tsk tsk tsk, Prince." Max crooned, raising his sword and coming around the column to where Karolek was still fighting with the handle of his sword. "Too much emotion. Let's at least see you die like a man." He drew back his arm, preparing to end the fight. Karolek gave one last desperate pull at his sword, which slid from the pole. He took a page from Max's book and ducked at the last second, pulling the dagger from its sheath at the back of his neck and putting it firmly through Max's heart.
Max, expecting his sword to hit pay dirt, went pale and wide eyed as it hit nothing and pain exploded through his chest. His chocolate brown eyes looked down at the glittering ruby and silver handle now protruding from him. "You son of a bitch." He rasped breathily, rapier clattering to the floor as he sank to his knees.
"Tell me one I haven't heard before." Karolek said, putting the blade of his broadword to Max's neck, gray eyes dark with anger, adrenaline, and purpose. "Do you have any last words."
"Go to hell."
The Russian smiled humorlessly. "Someday, I'm sure. But not today." He pulled his hand to the left, severing Max's head from his shoulders. "No, not today," he whispered, pulling his dagger from Max's heart as the Quickening began to swirl about him. 'I get to live in a different sort of hell.' The last conscious thought floated through Karolek's mind as the bolts of energy began to hit his exhausted body and the world exploded around him.
As Ruiz's Quickening finished swirling about him, Karolek dropped to his knees in exhaustion. He realized for the first time in the forty-five minutes he'd been fighting Max that it was bitterly cold and beginning to snow again. He needed to get inside his room...a little bit of sleep would be exactly what he needed to cure his ills...after he dealt with the headless body he'd just created. Children liked to play in the ruins after school, even through their mothers told them not to. 'Kids don't need to see a sight like this.' Slowly, the exhausted Immortal pulled himself to his feet, wiping the blood from his sword and dagger on Max's shirt. He slid the dagger into the hidden sheath at his neck and used his sword to lever himself back into a standing position.
And then he saw it. The shadow cast from the now even larger hole in the building wall. A short shadow, with long brown hair, shivering in a coat and a nightgown.
"Clara."
~~~~~~~~~~~
Philadelphia, PA
While Karolek was fighting for his life against Maximiliano Ruiz in a DC ruin, Jacob Book was at the British Embassy getting a little early work done. As the personal assistant to the ambassador, many of the people at the embassy thought that James Tudor was a little too dedicated to his work. No one needed to spend that much time filing papers and checking passport requests, especially someone so highly placed in the office. Especially not someone who was reasonably handsome and could surely find himself female company somewhere.
What they didn't know, and what Book wasn't about to tell them, was that he was checking the application requests against birth and death certificates, looking for inconsistencies that might spell the location of another Immortal. In this new world of the wireless, it was next to impossible to walk down the road to another city and pretend to be someone new, the way it had been when Carlsson had found him outside of London in the 1680's. People today needed identities, nationalities...something a passport could give them. Considering the state of the world, US and German passports were the most desirable, but also the hardest to come by. Many Immortals, so went Book's logic, would resort to British passports because they were easier.
When Henrik Carlsson found Jacob shivering under an abandoned hay cart, the young Brit hadn't wanted to believe in the concept of "There Can Be Only One." It hadn't seemed like reality to him, any more than Quickenings or Challenges had. Oh he'd believed it, because Carlsson told him it was true, and he figured he owed the man at least that much. He'd just never planned on putting the theory into practice.
Then, about six years later, he and Henrik had met up with Karolek Romanov. Carlsson challenged the Russian, believing his reputation to be built on the sand. Jacob begged him to reconsider. His teacher had refused to believe he could be beaten. Only he was. Romanov was every bit as good as his reputation suggested and then a little bit better. He took Henrik's head without a second thought, and Book imagined that he seemed to relish the Quickening that followed.
Not knowing what else to do, and believing he needed to honor his teacher with vengeance, Book had drawn his sword and challenged the killer that stood before him.
"You don't want to do that, kid." Karolek had insisted, wiping the blood from his blade.
"Yes, I do." Book insisted, confidence wavering. "What? Am I not worth the fight to you?"
Karolek sighed. "You don't need to do this, boy. Carlsson was too eager. You could have a long life if you let this go."
"Are you going to fight me or not, coward?!?"
"As you wish." Karolek said, returning his sword to the ready position. Book made the first attack, and inside of a minute the Russian had him disarmed and on his knees.
Book glared at the man through hate-filled eyes. "Do it."
Karolek shook his head, pulling the blade back a bit from the Brit's neck. "I think not. When I go, I suggest you take your sword and head elsewhere. The next person won't be quite as kind as I am, and they'll take your foolish head right off of your shoulders." He backed away a few more steps. "Next time, fight someone closer to your own weight, boy." Book dropped his head in shame at the criticism, looking up only when the victor's signature was out of range. Collapsing on himself, Book began to sob.
A year later, he met Grayson. Grayson was a true warrior in Book's eyes, strong and capable and fully devoted to the idea that revenge was indeed best served cold. Grayson taught him everything that Carlsson hadn't, couldn't or wouldn't. He became a strong fighter. He embraced the Game and stopped shying away from challenges. And he began to plot the best way to find and kill Karolek Romanov.
"James?" Jacob looked up from the papers he'd been staring at, seeing his boss standing in the doorway.
"Something I can do for you, Sir Edward?" He asked, hurriedly standing. He buttoned his jacket and ran a hand through his red-blond hair, pushing it into a semblance of order.
"What are you doing here at this hour of the morning, son?" Edward Philips motioned to the papers strewn about the desk. "The guard downstairs said you came in at 4:30 this morning."
Jacob blushed slightly at the grandfatherly fussing. "I couldn't sleep, sir. I thought as long as I was going to be an insomniac, I might as well get some work done." He gathered the applications back into their file. "Is there something you needed?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact." Edward motioned for Jacob to follow him out of the office. "We need to start checking with the Americans about the reservations and what not for the inauguration. It's in a little more than a month, you know." Philips placed an arm on Jacob's shoulder, guiding him down the hallway. "Come along James, and we'll get some coffee and get started."
Shooting a longing glance at the papers on his desk, Jacob dutifully followed the ambassador down the hallway to the canteen. Hunting Romanov would have to wait a little longer.
~~~~~~~~~~
Clara Jacobsen stood at the mouth of the building, hands pressed to a pale face, eyes wide as she took in the decapitated body, the mess created by the Quickening, the sword, and the large and bloody slice on Karolek's left arm. Her hair was unbraided, hanging loosely down her back. She'd been dozing in bed, Sylvia Enos's book on her stomach, when she'd been awoken by the sound of clinking metal outside her window. At first, she thought it was a burglar or something, trying to get in downstairs. As she rose from her resting position, she thought she saw sparks or something coming from the abandoned building in the lot catty-corner to the coffee shop. 'Maybe it's tramps or something.' Clara mused, pulling on her boots over bare feet and slinking quietly down the hallway. A glance into Karolek's room showed a perfectly made bed. He still hadn't come home. The clock in the hallway declared it to be 4:30 in the morning. The girl grabbed her coat from its hook in the wall next to the door, pulling it on as she quietly crept down the stairs. A quick look to satisfy her curiosity and then she'd go back to bed.
The back door off the kitchen opened smoothly and with no noise. She said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever had possessed her mother to get Karolek to oil the hinges last week, considering that they never used the door. She crunched through the old snowfall in the yard as silently as she could, slipping out into the alley and down to the opening of the deserted building where she thought she saw sparks.
She arrived at the entrance just in time to see a strange, dark skinned man swinging...a *sword* at Karolek? Her hands came up to her mouth as she watched her friend duck the sword, pull a long knife from seemingly nowhere, and drive it into the stranger's chest. The man muttered a curse at Karolek, who asked if he had any last words. Who was this person masquerading as Karolek? The man she knew was incapable of acting so harsh, and certainly incapable of committing murder. The stranger told Karolek he could go to hell. Karolek answered the insult with a somber "Someday, I'm sure. But not today," before neatly slicing off the man's head with the sword he'd shown Clara when he first moved in.
Clara lost her dinner as the fierce electrical storm erupted in the confined space of the building. She watched, horrified, as an unearthly glow seemed to seep from the dead stranger into this ball of energy, before bolts of it began to strike Karolek where he knelt on the ground. The roar of the storm drowned out Clara's retching and Karolek's yells of pain.
The young girl stood as the Russian stood, bringing her hands to her face again as she watched Karolek...this person she thought she knew and trusted, wipe the blood from his weapons on the dead man's shirt. The long knife disappeared again, and she shivered noticeably as Karolek weakly stood up. She noticed the long, bloody gash in his left shirt-sleeve and realized he was injured.
Then Karolek noticed her for the first time. "Clara."
"Oh my God." Clara said, in barely more than a whisper. "What have you done?" She stared, transfixed, at the headless corpse lying on the ground. Clara was, like most of Washington's young inhabitants, too young to remember the carnage which dotted the city during the intense shelling at the end of the war. Her knees trembled and her stomach rebelled, and the young girl found herself sick yet again.
Slowly, Karolek crossed the space to Clara, grabbing his now filthy coat from where it had been dropped on the ground before. He placed a gentle hand on the back of her neck, trying to calm her down.
"Get away from me." Clara spat, flinching away from the touch. "How...knife...sword. You killed him." She said, before repeating the phrase more intently. "You killed him."
Karolek squatted down on his heels, using his sword to balance his weight. Clara scrambled to her feet and moved a few feet away from him. The Russian sighed, running his hand through his unbound blond locks, realizing the trust that had been shattered because Clara had gotten curious. "I had to do it, Clara. If I hadn't killed him, he WOULD have killed ME."
Ignoring the statement, Clara pressed further. "What ARE you?" She whispered. "Men don't...that light...what kind of *thing* dies like that?"
"Immortals." Karolek said softly, standing to his full height. "Men and women who can't die unless they die like you saw tonight." Clara's mouth moved as if to respond, but no words came out. Karolek took advantage of the silence by stepping forward to the edge of the pool of light cast by the street lights. "I'm not an evil man, Clara. I swear to you I wouldn't kill if I didn't have to." He ran his hands through his tangled hair again. "If you can believe that about me, I'll tell you anything you want to know about me."
"How can I believe that?" Clara asked, voice stronger. "How can I reconcile my friend with this bloody murderer I see before me?" For that, Karolek had no answer. "How can I trust anything that you've said? You killed that...that man, and then you CUT off his HEAD!"
Karolek closed the remaining space between he and the girl in an instant, putting his hand over her mouth. "Clara, close your mouth! You can't go around saying that. I have to keep what I am a secret. You can't tell your mother, your sister, your friends, no one. Do you understand?" Clara nodded, squirming under Karolek's tight grip. The Russian released her, picking up his now thoroughly muddy coat from the ground. It was going to need a good cleaning, he decided, before it was fit to wear. He'd have to pull the sheath and the sword rigging from inside it as soon as he could, in case Nellie happened to take offense at the filthy item. He looked up at Clara, sizing up the girl with his eyes.
"If you can't or don't trust me, I'll leave as soon as I can tell your mother I'm going." Karolek said, sliding his sword back into the sheath in his overcoat. As he began to pull the garment on, a light, hesitant hand on his arm stopped him.
"You're hurt." Clara said, simply, looking at the gash on Karolek's upper arm. "Let me clean that up for you."
Karolek, whose arm had long since healed, had to look at his own arm to see what the girl was talking about. The bloody tear in his shirt spoke volumes to her, but to him was little more than a paper cut would be to a mortal. "It's not necessary, Clara."
Clara tugged at his hand, insisting, "Yes it is. There are some bandages upstairs in the kitchen, let me clean that."
"Clara, I'm not hurt." The Russian insisted, trying to put his coat on. "It looks much worse than it is."
"But..." Clara insisted, pulling at the cut in the shirt to get at the wound below. Whatever she planned to say next died on her lips as she saw the unbroken skin beneath the blood. "How?"
"I'm Immortal." Karolek repeated, simply. "I can't get hurt. I don't get sick. I don't age, and I can't die." While that was a gross oversimplification of reality, it would do for the moment. "I was born in Moscow in 1519. I'm 417 years old."
"Four hundred and seven..." Clara slowly trailed off, still amazed at the woundless arm. "How is that possible?"
"I don't know. I wish to God I did." Karolek said softly. "No one knows how it works or who is chosen or why. We just...are." He wrapped an arm around Clara, guiding her back towards the house. "Come on, I'll take you back inside. You're shivering, and while the snow won't kill me, it'll make you sick, and then your mother will kill me."
Karolek took Clara back inside, practically carrying the half-frozen girl up the stairs to the apartment. He removed her snow covered coat and hung it next to the small heater, hoping to dry it out before Nellie woke up in two hours. Clara mechanically stepped out of her boots, before following Karolek's hand through the living room and down the hallway to the kitchen. The Russian prince put a cup of strong coffee in her hands, chiding her to stay put until he could come back from cleaning up outside.
'What's a night without sleep?' He mused to himself, pulling on his own soaked woolen garments. His progress to the door was stopped by a low voice. He turned around to face Clara again, asking, "Da?"
"Is Karolek really your name?"
"It is. When I was born, I was called Karolek Konstantinovich Romanov. I was the crown prince of a Russian province called Moscow." He grinned. "Anything more will have to wait until later. Finish your coffee and get yourself down to bed before your mother sees you're awake."
Clara wasn't ready to let go, yet. "Will you really tell me all about yourself? Your real self?"
"I promise, I'll answer any question you ask, as long as Mrs. Jacobsen is out of earshot."
"Will it be the truth?"
Karolek looked at the sixteen year old with new respect. "As much of it as I know."
'Or rather, as much of it as I can convince you of.'
I'm actually a really HORRIBLE chess player and a shame to my friends who are actually quite good. :) I also make a hash of the Romanov ascension to the Russian throne, which happened later than my story actually implies.
Chapter 4: A Different Sort of Hell
Three weeks later (Roughly mid-January, 1936)
The snow and ice of an unseasonably cold DC winter had forced most residents of the city into their homes and near their stoves, heaters, and fireplaces. The coffee shop on Beech Street was no exception. Nellie was downstairs, cleaning tables and windows that didn't need cleaning and grumbling to herself about the lack of customers. Clearly, she thought that the cold should have made people more interested in coffee and hot food, but what it actually was doing was keeping people from coming out at all. She moved from table to table, front room to kitchen, floors to windows with a rag and some soap and a harsh mood.
Wisely, perhaps, the younger inhabitants had retreated upstairs, away from the commotion. Clara was nominally reading a novel written by a woman named Sylvia Enos for her modern literature class. While the story, of a war widow who had found and shot the Confederate submersible captain who had downed her husband's ship after the armistice went into effect, was certainly interesting, Clara found it difficult to keep her mind and her eyes on her school work. Instead, she settled for watching the shop assistant over the top edge of the book, enjoying the unrecognized and unobstructed view.
The object of her scrutiny seemed wholly unaware it was going on. Karolek Romanov was, as he had been for most of the past three weeks or even the past few months, thinking. Thinking about Book's arrival in the United States, Erich's desperate and angry plea for action...and what move he should make against Connor in the chess-by-mail game that they'd started on Connor's return trip through Washington.
"What are you going to do about this boy's request?" Connor asked his friend, moving the first pawn to open the game.
"I don't know." Karolek admitted. "On one hand, Book is dangerous. On the other, he hasn't affected me personally in a very long time." He moved his own opener, returning the play to the Highlander.
"Aye, but the last time you met he threatened to kill you as soon as he found you."
"Ok, so that's a point worth considering."
Connor laughed dryly. "Yes, I suppose it is."
"What would you do if you were me?" Karolek asked, honestly seeking his friend's advice.
Connor thought for a moment, finally deciding on the safest answer he could give. "Wish I was someone else, I suppose."
Karolek growled in frustration. "-Thank you.-"
"Hey, you asked, I answered." Connor protested, moving a rook into position opposite one of Karolek's pawns. "Personally, I think you've gotten yourself into a mess of a situation with von Ridesel. The way I see it, you can either wait for Book to find you, as he will eventually, hunt him first, or stick your head in the sand and hope it will all go away. The first two are fairly equal in their result: you'll still have to fight him, and we both know that could go either way. The third is the way of fools and cowards, and I've never known you to be much of either." Steepling his fingers, Connor leaned back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. "So endeth the lesson of the elder."
In mid move, Karolek bit back a snort and both glared and grinned at Connor. "One year of age and four years in the Game makes you older, not elder. Besides, that was crappy advice anyway. I could have come up with THAT on my own."
"Make your move, Karo, before I go gray over here."
"You couldn't go gray if your life depended on it." Karolek sniped back, moving a bishop and glaring at his friend.
"You look very far away, Karolek." A soft voice broke into his musings. "Is something wrong?"
The prince's head snapped up, and his eyes slowly focused on Clara's face as he forced himself not to reach for the dagger hidden in a sheath at the base of his neck. It was a regrettable habit that he'd developed during the Great War, when he was unable to carry his sword with him. It would have been very strange for any person, especially a sniper, to go wandering around with nearly three feet of sharpened steel among their kit. Blending in aside, no sensible Immortal - or at least one who wanted to live long - would go around completely unarmed. The dagger was Karolek's compromise, the companion piece to his broadsword, and it had come in rather handy during a Confederate raid on the trenches where he happened to be sleeping. Nineteen years later, he still hadn't shed the habit of carrying it. "I'm sorry, Clara?"
"Is something wrong?" the young girl repeated herself, staring in confusion at the young man. "You look lost in thought, like something is troubling you a great deal."
'You could say that.' Karolek mused to himself. 'I'm trying to decide whether I need to become the me I was...a man I now abhor, but who has the fire needed to get out of this mess I seem to find myself in.' "I'm just thinking about what move I should mail to Connor, Clara. That's all."
"It seems to be taking you a very long time." Clara settled herself on the footstool opposite the small table where the chessboard was set up.
Karolek offered the girl an indulgent smile. "Chess isn't meant to be played quickly, Clara." He picked up his lost pawn from its resting place next to the board, a magnificent inlaid set which had been given to him by his nephew, Mikhail, not long after the boy had assumed the Russian throne. "It's a game of strategy. You have to know what pieces to move, and when, and when a sacrifice is necessary for your overall objective."
Clara nodded slowly. "Which is what, exactly?"
"To win, of course." Karolek chuckled at the embarrassed look which appeared on the teenager's face. Obviously Clara felt she should have known that. "There IS a reason why many of the top military colleges also produce excellent chess players. Chess strategy is not altogether different from military strategy."
Which was, of course, the reason he and his father had spent so many of his boyhood hours by the fireside in the palace he'd called home in Moscow. Konstantin Romanov had wanted to ensure that his heir would be a sound military leader as well as a political force. In the absence of real battles and after Karolek was done with whatever martial or academic tutor was scheduled for his day, his father would find time to resume their current game. Karolek smiled at the memories of long winter nights, spent with his father's undivided attention. By 14 the crown prince could last against his father for a few hours at a time. By 15 he beat the man for the first time, and by the time he was 17, winning became a regular occurrence. By his 19th birthday, his father was dead and the chess games became military strategy in the flesh rather than the abstract.
"Will you teach me?"
Karolek frowned. "You want to learn how to play chess?"
"Sure." Clara sat up, looking at the board. "It's a checker board. How hard can it be?"
"Riiight." Karolek drawled slowly, attempting to hide an amused smile. "Well, let's find out, shall we?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Four hours later, Clara gave up on the game. While she discovered that learning how all the different pieces moved wasn't quite so hard, losing game after game to Karolek in the span of 15 moves or so did take a lot of the thrill out of the skill. And, as she might have suspected, Nellie returned from the deserted shop to start dinner and railed at Clara for wasting time and Karolek for indulging her. Clara was sent to her room, Karolek excused himself from the apartment. She'd watched with a certain degree of envy as Karolek pulled on his coat, scarf, and hat and disappeared out of the building. 'How swell it must be to be able to go where you please when you please and not have to answer to a mother.'
"Awfully rude of him to just storm out like that." Nellie complained to her daughter, not expecting an answer. "Off with you. Get that reading done!"
"I'd go if I could." Clara mumbled under her breath, making as much noise as she could as she went to her exile. "One of these days I'll get out of here and travel the world. I'll see everything there is to see and I'll NEVER come back to Washington again."
~~~~~~~~
It was well on to Saturday morning before Karolek actually turned back to Beech Street and the coffee house. In the hours that he'd been out he'd visited several taverns, staying only long enough to have a single beer before his wanderlust took over and forced him back out into the streets. He figured that he'd had somewhere between 5 and 10 drinks. As a result of his Immortality, however, the experience had left him about 5 dollars lighter and not the least bit buzzed or relaxed. That would have taken a great deal more of something much stronger than beer. Of course, the many miles he'd walked trying to think out his life would work against him, as well.
In the few months that he'd been sparring with Erich, he probably would have saved the problem in his mind and mentioned it to the German while they worked out. Unfortunately, Erich now lay at the heart of his problem. Either he betrayed his friend and let Book go, which could also entail standing by while Book killed Erich (as he didn't believe that Erich was *truly* capable of fighting the Brit) or he betrayed himself and became a headhunter once again. Neither was an option he particularly enjoyed.
As the Russian's thoughts drifted while his feet took him home, he conceded that maybe Khan Seh had a point when he was training Karolek 400 years ago at the court of Ivan IV. The new Immortal had, in disguise, been working as a swordsman in the palace. He maintained the swords of the palace guards and the tsar himself, making sure they were always in good repair and ready at a moment's notice. Khan Seh had arrived as an ambassador from China, and had taken the youngster under his wing. With a solid background in the basics, he'd proved a willing student for the swordsmanship. He had a much harder time dealing with what his teacher told him about the realities of Immortal life.
"To stay in one place so long...to form attachments and make friendships, this will only serve to hurt you in the end, Karolek. For an Immortal to remain strong he must remain free from attempting to impose the laws of mortality on our kind."
"There can be only one." Karolek recited.
"Yes."
"Suppose I don't agree with that?"
"That is your right." Khan Seh conceded. "Maybe in time you will prove me wrong." Immortal friendship outside of the teacher-student relationship was still a point of contention between the 418 year old Russian and the 1300 year old Mongol, and likely it always would be. In his current mood, however, Karolek probably would have surrendered the battle and hoped for better in a new match up later in the war.
The signature of an Immortal presence pulled him from his thoughts. "- Crap. Because this is EXACTLY what I needed on a night like tonight. A Challenge.-" Sighing heavily, Karolek put a hand on the hilt of his sword. Maybe this would be Erich, or someone else he could convince just to go away. Maybe his luck would change for today, and he could go on to bed as he planned before finding somewhere to spend alone with his sword tomorrow. He wasn't in the mood to fight, and her certainly wasn't in the mood to deal with all the energy that came with taking a Quickening. Maybe his challenger would leave him alone.
Or maybe he would meet a thug from Spain who wanted to enhance his own meager reputation by taking out someone with a bigger one. "Greetings, Prince."
Karolek sized up the man standing in the gateway of the half-empty lot in back of the coffee house. The man was not exceptionally tall, maybe about his height. He had short black hair, tawny complexion, and dark brown eyes. Discounting the crew cut, Karolek could have been looking at his photo negative, so far was the man removed from his pale Slavic skin, hair, and gray eyes. "Now you have me at a loss. You think know who I am, and I am quite certain that I have never met you."
"So very sorry." The Spaniard bowed. "Maximiliano Ruiz. Feel free to call me Max if you like. I doubt it will matter. You won't be alive long enough to use it." He twirled his rapier and drew his dagger, as if to make his point.
"I see." Karolek slowly drew his own blade, feeling the reassuring heft in his left hand. "I have no quarrel with you. What do you want to fight me for?"
"There's benefit in it." Max admitted. "A little bit of fame can't hurt me."
"You think I'm famous." Karolek forced out a chuckle. Funny, though not ha-ha funny, that all these Immortals thought having a reputation was such a good thing when it was the very thing that had caused them to seek him out in the first place. "I can assure you that I am not."
Max grinned. "But of course you're famous. Karolek Romanov, the Russian Prince. Headhunter turned coward who hides among mortals. Yes, I know all about you." He made a tsking noise with his tongue. "If you really wanted to hide, Prince, you should have gotten rid of your name."
"If it's a reputation you want, there are more important people than me you could kill." Connor sprung immediately to his mind, though he wouldn't rat on a friend to save his own skin. "Go and fight the Kurgan or Grayson or someone. Leave me out of it. I'm not worth the effort."
"But you I can beat." Max lifted his sword into the ready position. "I can't beat Grayson any more than I could beat the Kurgan. No, you'll do for a start, Romanov. Then I'll worry about moving up in the world."
"Nice to see you're open to discussion." The Russian commented sarcastically. "Maybe we should move this out of sight of prying eyes? This is not exactly a neighborhood where the sound of steel on steel will go unnoticed." He motioned to the back of the lot, where the remnants of an office building stood. It had been shelled during the fight to take back Washington in the Great War. The owner fled south with the remains of the Confederate Army, and no one had ever taken up the lot. With the Depression, it was likely that no one would for some time. It was as good a place as any to undertake a sword fight.
"Of course." Max said, attempting to be formally cordial. "After you."
"I think not. This is your fight, not mine. I'd just as soon go home." He made a shooing motion with his free hand. "I'll follow YOU."
"Anything to make a man's last moments easier." Max rested his rapier against his right shoulder, hopping over a small pile of dirt and making his way into the downstairs area of the building. One whole wall had mostly crumbled down over time, leaving gaping holes where the faint glow of the lights from Beech Street and the houses entered the space. It gave the two men just enough light to fight by, though if Max had been wearing brown or black, Karolek might not have been able to see him all that well. As it was...well they weren't the best circumstances that Karolek had ever fought in, but given the alternative he'd make the best of it.
As he entered the building, his darkened gray eyes carefully examined the place, taking note of boxes, rubble, and other obstacles on the floor as well as of support beams and other things he could use to hide behind to regroup if he wanted. He slowly shed his coat, dropping it and his scarf to the floor. He didn't want to take the chance of them getting in his way.
Max spun to face Karolek, sword at the ready. "Shall we begin?"
"No time like the present."
Max launched the first attack, Karolek taking advantage of the flurry of activity to defend and see where any gaps might be in the Spaniard's attack. There weren't many. However old Ruiz was, he'd spent a lot of time training with that sword. This was going to be a tougher fight than Karolek really wanted. He decided to let Max do most of the attacking for a bit, hoping that he could tire the other man out. Defense was easier on his muscles and his mind.
The fight was fairly even, both men being of similar size and reasonably similar skill. Ruiz managed a deep slice through Karolek's left arm, forcing the Russian to switch his sword to his right hand. Luckily, like many left handed people, Karo was functionally ambidexterous and dealt Ruiz a sharp stab to his dagger-hand shoulder while the Spaniard's guard was down.
Max hissed through his teeth, pressing his hand against his shoulder and darting behind a post to avoid Karolek's burgeoning attack while his shoulder healed. The slice to his arm wasn't slowing his opponent down the way he intended, and he needed some time to recover. Karolek wasn't having any of the tactic, and pursued his quarry across the room. Maximiliano had foolishly assumed that anyone who chose to associate with mortals was too soft to be a serious competitor. He was now learning the lesson that Erich von Ridesel had learned during his first training session: a very dangerous man lurked within the unassuming exterior of the Russian Prince.
Karolek swung his sword, intending to catch Max on the run and end the battle. Max nimbly darted out of the way, and Karolek's broadsword bit into the rotting wooden support column and stuck. Karolek tugged furiously, trying to dislodge the blade.
A slow grin worked its way across Max's dark face. "Tsk tsk tsk, Prince." Max crooned, raising his sword and coming around the column to where Karolek was still fighting with the handle of his sword. "Too much emotion. Let's at least see you die like a man." He drew back his arm, preparing to end the fight. Karolek gave one last desperate pull at his sword, which slid from the pole. He took a page from Max's book and ducked at the last second, pulling the dagger from its sheath at the back of his neck and putting it firmly through Max's heart.
Max, expecting his sword to hit pay dirt, went pale and wide eyed as it hit nothing and pain exploded through his chest. His chocolate brown eyes looked down at the glittering ruby and silver handle now protruding from him. "You son of a bitch." He rasped breathily, rapier clattering to the floor as he sank to his knees.
"Tell me one I haven't heard before." Karolek said, putting the blade of his broadword to Max's neck, gray eyes dark with anger, adrenaline, and purpose. "Do you have any last words."
"Go to hell."
The Russian smiled humorlessly. "Someday, I'm sure. But not today." He pulled his hand to the left, severing Max's head from his shoulders. "No, not today," he whispered, pulling his dagger from Max's heart as the Quickening began to swirl about him. 'I get to live in a different sort of hell.' The last conscious thought floated through Karolek's mind as the bolts of energy began to hit his exhausted body and the world exploded around him.
As Ruiz's Quickening finished swirling about him, Karolek dropped to his knees in exhaustion. He realized for the first time in the forty-five minutes he'd been fighting Max that it was bitterly cold and beginning to snow again. He needed to get inside his room...a little bit of sleep would be exactly what he needed to cure his ills...after he dealt with the headless body he'd just created. Children liked to play in the ruins after school, even through their mothers told them not to. 'Kids don't need to see a sight like this.' Slowly, the exhausted Immortal pulled himself to his feet, wiping the blood from his sword and dagger on Max's shirt. He slid the dagger into the hidden sheath at his neck and used his sword to lever himself back into a standing position.
And then he saw it. The shadow cast from the now even larger hole in the building wall. A short shadow, with long brown hair, shivering in a coat and a nightgown.
"Clara."
~~~~~~~~~~~
Philadelphia, PA
While Karolek was fighting for his life against Maximiliano Ruiz in a DC ruin, Jacob Book was at the British Embassy getting a little early work done. As the personal assistant to the ambassador, many of the people at the embassy thought that James Tudor was a little too dedicated to his work. No one needed to spend that much time filing papers and checking passport requests, especially someone so highly placed in the office. Especially not someone who was reasonably handsome and could surely find himself female company somewhere.
What they didn't know, and what Book wasn't about to tell them, was that he was checking the application requests against birth and death certificates, looking for inconsistencies that might spell the location of another Immortal. In this new world of the wireless, it was next to impossible to walk down the road to another city and pretend to be someone new, the way it had been when Carlsson had found him outside of London in the 1680's. People today needed identities, nationalities...something a passport could give them. Considering the state of the world, US and German passports were the most desirable, but also the hardest to come by. Many Immortals, so went Book's logic, would resort to British passports because they were easier.
When Henrik Carlsson found Jacob shivering under an abandoned hay cart, the young Brit hadn't wanted to believe in the concept of "There Can Be Only One." It hadn't seemed like reality to him, any more than Quickenings or Challenges had. Oh he'd believed it, because Carlsson told him it was true, and he figured he owed the man at least that much. He'd just never planned on putting the theory into practice.
Then, about six years later, he and Henrik had met up with Karolek Romanov. Carlsson challenged the Russian, believing his reputation to be built on the sand. Jacob begged him to reconsider. His teacher had refused to believe he could be beaten. Only he was. Romanov was every bit as good as his reputation suggested and then a little bit better. He took Henrik's head without a second thought, and Book imagined that he seemed to relish the Quickening that followed.
Not knowing what else to do, and believing he needed to honor his teacher with vengeance, Book had drawn his sword and challenged the killer that stood before him.
"You don't want to do that, kid." Karolek had insisted, wiping the blood from his blade.
"Yes, I do." Book insisted, confidence wavering. "What? Am I not worth the fight to you?"
Karolek sighed. "You don't need to do this, boy. Carlsson was too eager. You could have a long life if you let this go."
"Are you going to fight me or not, coward?!?"
"As you wish." Karolek said, returning his sword to the ready position. Book made the first attack, and inside of a minute the Russian had him disarmed and on his knees.
Book glared at the man through hate-filled eyes. "Do it."
Karolek shook his head, pulling the blade back a bit from the Brit's neck. "I think not. When I go, I suggest you take your sword and head elsewhere. The next person won't be quite as kind as I am, and they'll take your foolish head right off of your shoulders." He backed away a few more steps. "Next time, fight someone closer to your own weight, boy." Book dropped his head in shame at the criticism, looking up only when the victor's signature was out of range. Collapsing on himself, Book began to sob.
A year later, he met Grayson. Grayson was a true warrior in Book's eyes, strong and capable and fully devoted to the idea that revenge was indeed best served cold. Grayson taught him everything that Carlsson hadn't, couldn't or wouldn't. He became a strong fighter. He embraced the Game and stopped shying away from challenges. And he began to plot the best way to find and kill Karolek Romanov.
"James?" Jacob looked up from the papers he'd been staring at, seeing his boss standing in the doorway.
"Something I can do for you, Sir Edward?" He asked, hurriedly standing. He buttoned his jacket and ran a hand through his red-blond hair, pushing it into a semblance of order.
"What are you doing here at this hour of the morning, son?" Edward Philips motioned to the papers strewn about the desk. "The guard downstairs said you came in at 4:30 this morning."
Jacob blushed slightly at the grandfatherly fussing. "I couldn't sleep, sir. I thought as long as I was going to be an insomniac, I might as well get some work done." He gathered the applications back into their file. "Is there something you needed?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact." Edward motioned for Jacob to follow him out of the office. "We need to start checking with the Americans about the reservations and what not for the inauguration. It's in a little more than a month, you know." Philips placed an arm on Jacob's shoulder, guiding him down the hallway. "Come along James, and we'll get some coffee and get started."
Shooting a longing glance at the papers on his desk, Jacob dutifully followed the ambassador down the hallway to the canteen. Hunting Romanov would have to wait a little longer.
~~~~~~~~~~
Clara Jacobsen stood at the mouth of the building, hands pressed to a pale face, eyes wide as she took in the decapitated body, the mess created by the Quickening, the sword, and the large and bloody slice on Karolek's left arm. Her hair was unbraided, hanging loosely down her back. She'd been dozing in bed, Sylvia Enos's book on her stomach, when she'd been awoken by the sound of clinking metal outside her window. At first, she thought it was a burglar or something, trying to get in downstairs. As she rose from her resting position, she thought she saw sparks or something coming from the abandoned building in the lot catty-corner to the coffee shop. 'Maybe it's tramps or something.' Clara mused, pulling on her boots over bare feet and slinking quietly down the hallway. A glance into Karolek's room showed a perfectly made bed. He still hadn't come home. The clock in the hallway declared it to be 4:30 in the morning. The girl grabbed her coat from its hook in the wall next to the door, pulling it on as she quietly crept down the stairs. A quick look to satisfy her curiosity and then she'd go back to bed.
The back door off the kitchen opened smoothly and with no noise. She said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever had possessed her mother to get Karolek to oil the hinges last week, considering that they never used the door. She crunched through the old snowfall in the yard as silently as she could, slipping out into the alley and down to the opening of the deserted building where she thought she saw sparks.
She arrived at the entrance just in time to see a strange, dark skinned man swinging...a *sword* at Karolek? Her hands came up to her mouth as she watched her friend duck the sword, pull a long knife from seemingly nowhere, and drive it into the stranger's chest. The man muttered a curse at Karolek, who asked if he had any last words. Who was this person masquerading as Karolek? The man she knew was incapable of acting so harsh, and certainly incapable of committing murder. The stranger told Karolek he could go to hell. Karolek answered the insult with a somber "Someday, I'm sure. But not today," before neatly slicing off the man's head with the sword he'd shown Clara when he first moved in.
Clara lost her dinner as the fierce electrical storm erupted in the confined space of the building. She watched, horrified, as an unearthly glow seemed to seep from the dead stranger into this ball of energy, before bolts of it began to strike Karolek where he knelt on the ground. The roar of the storm drowned out Clara's retching and Karolek's yells of pain.
The young girl stood as the Russian stood, bringing her hands to her face again as she watched Karolek...this person she thought she knew and trusted, wipe the blood from his weapons on the dead man's shirt. The long knife disappeared again, and she shivered noticeably as Karolek weakly stood up. She noticed the long, bloody gash in his left shirt-sleeve and realized he was injured.
Then Karolek noticed her for the first time. "Clara."
"Oh my God." Clara said, in barely more than a whisper. "What have you done?" She stared, transfixed, at the headless corpse lying on the ground. Clara was, like most of Washington's young inhabitants, too young to remember the carnage which dotted the city during the intense shelling at the end of the war. Her knees trembled and her stomach rebelled, and the young girl found herself sick yet again.
Slowly, Karolek crossed the space to Clara, grabbing his now filthy coat from where it had been dropped on the ground before. He placed a gentle hand on the back of her neck, trying to calm her down.
"Get away from me." Clara spat, flinching away from the touch. "How...knife...sword. You killed him." She said, before repeating the phrase more intently. "You killed him."
Karolek squatted down on his heels, using his sword to balance his weight. Clara scrambled to her feet and moved a few feet away from him. The Russian sighed, running his hand through his unbound blond locks, realizing the trust that had been shattered because Clara had gotten curious. "I had to do it, Clara. If I hadn't killed him, he WOULD have killed ME."
Ignoring the statement, Clara pressed further. "What ARE you?" She whispered. "Men don't...that light...what kind of *thing* dies like that?"
"Immortals." Karolek said softly, standing to his full height. "Men and women who can't die unless they die like you saw tonight." Clara's mouth moved as if to respond, but no words came out. Karolek took advantage of the silence by stepping forward to the edge of the pool of light cast by the street lights. "I'm not an evil man, Clara. I swear to you I wouldn't kill if I didn't have to." He ran his hands through his tangled hair again. "If you can believe that about me, I'll tell you anything you want to know about me."
"How can I believe that?" Clara asked, voice stronger. "How can I reconcile my friend with this bloody murderer I see before me?" For that, Karolek had no answer. "How can I trust anything that you've said? You killed that...that man, and then you CUT off his HEAD!"
Karolek closed the remaining space between he and the girl in an instant, putting his hand over her mouth. "Clara, close your mouth! You can't go around saying that. I have to keep what I am a secret. You can't tell your mother, your sister, your friends, no one. Do you understand?" Clara nodded, squirming under Karolek's tight grip. The Russian released her, picking up his now thoroughly muddy coat from the ground. It was going to need a good cleaning, he decided, before it was fit to wear. He'd have to pull the sheath and the sword rigging from inside it as soon as he could, in case Nellie happened to take offense at the filthy item. He looked up at Clara, sizing up the girl with his eyes.
"If you can't or don't trust me, I'll leave as soon as I can tell your mother I'm going." Karolek said, sliding his sword back into the sheath in his overcoat. As he began to pull the garment on, a light, hesitant hand on his arm stopped him.
"You're hurt." Clara said, simply, looking at the gash on Karolek's upper arm. "Let me clean that up for you."
Karolek, whose arm had long since healed, had to look at his own arm to see what the girl was talking about. The bloody tear in his shirt spoke volumes to her, but to him was little more than a paper cut would be to a mortal. "It's not necessary, Clara."
Clara tugged at his hand, insisting, "Yes it is. There are some bandages upstairs in the kitchen, let me clean that."
"Clara, I'm not hurt." The Russian insisted, trying to put his coat on. "It looks much worse than it is."
"But..." Clara insisted, pulling at the cut in the shirt to get at the wound below. Whatever she planned to say next died on her lips as she saw the unbroken skin beneath the blood. "How?"
"I'm Immortal." Karolek repeated, simply. "I can't get hurt. I don't get sick. I don't age, and I can't die." While that was a gross oversimplification of reality, it would do for the moment. "I was born in Moscow in 1519. I'm 417 years old."
"Four hundred and seven..." Clara slowly trailed off, still amazed at the woundless arm. "How is that possible?"
"I don't know. I wish to God I did." Karolek said softly. "No one knows how it works or who is chosen or why. We just...are." He wrapped an arm around Clara, guiding her back towards the house. "Come on, I'll take you back inside. You're shivering, and while the snow won't kill me, it'll make you sick, and then your mother will kill me."
Karolek took Clara back inside, practically carrying the half-frozen girl up the stairs to the apartment. He removed her snow covered coat and hung it next to the small heater, hoping to dry it out before Nellie woke up in two hours. Clara mechanically stepped out of her boots, before following Karolek's hand through the living room and down the hallway to the kitchen. The Russian prince put a cup of strong coffee in her hands, chiding her to stay put until he could come back from cleaning up outside.
'What's a night without sleep?' He mused to himself, pulling on his own soaked woolen garments. His progress to the door was stopped by a low voice. He turned around to face Clara again, asking, "Da?"
"Is Karolek really your name?"
"It is. When I was born, I was called Karolek Konstantinovich Romanov. I was the crown prince of a Russian province called Moscow." He grinned. "Anything more will have to wait until later. Finish your coffee and get yourself down to bed before your mother sees you're awake."
Clara wasn't ready to let go, yet. "Will you really tell me all about yourself? Your real self?"
"I promise, I'll answer any question you ask, as long as Mrs. Jacobsen is out of earshot."
"Will it be the truth?"
Karolek looked at the sixteen year old with new respect. "As much of it as I know."
'Or rather, as much of it as I can convince you of.'