Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own and didn't create the characters of Connor MacLeod or Duncan MacLeod, nor do I have any rights to the Highlander universe. I'm just dallying there a bit with them - without permission, of course. No profits have been made (by me anyway), and no pixels were harmed in the writing of this story. I also borrowed the song lyrics without permission. The characters whose names you don't recognize are mine, however, so please don't take them anywhere without checking with me first.
A Merry Little Christmas - part 4
"Abiageal Flynn," Connor mused, considering his list once more.
He hadn't heard from Abby, or of her, for over 140 years. Though she'd had a strong survival streak, she'd most likely fallen victim to a more skilled Immortal somewhere along the way. Knowing how much she'd loved teasing and tormenting him, he couldn't believe that she'd resisted doing so for all these years. She must be dead, he thought, with a heavy sigh as he finally crossed her name off his list.
There were three more names left in the friends column.
Though he hadn't seen the Baron since 1690 or '91, Connor knew Robert de Valicourt was still alive. Like Jack Blackthorne, The Bloody Baron, had also been one of the Brethren of the Coast back in his Port Royale days. The three boon companions had shared many a pint, and argued over many a wench in the pubs and taverns that lined the streets of the bustling seaport.
Robert had returned to Paris soon after the earthquake, then he married a female Immortal. As far as Connor knew, they were still together. They'd sent invitations to their anniversary celebrations every 100 years, but for some unknown reason, he'd never had an inclination to go.
He shook his head as he shook off the mantel of memories. He'd been so young back then - barely over 150. He'd been more lighthearted and fun-loving - not burdened down by the rigors of the Game, like he was now. And he'd been a fool. Too trusting. Too open. Such folly could get an Immortal killed.
Two more names to consider, then he'd run down the list of enemies.
Connor had last seen Leonardo Librandi in 1764, but he'd seen his paintings hanging in galleries and sold at auction now and then, so he knew the great painter was still alive. Of course the signatures on the paintings were different every 50 years or so, but Leonardo's skilled use of light and color were always easy for a friend to spot.
The Immortal artist was most likely holed up in some villa on the Mediterranean with his oils, his canvases and a woman, or two, or, three or four. Connor smiled at the picture that thought conjured up - and at the fond memories as well.
Though Leonardo was skilled enough with a sword to keep his head, he was one of those Immortals who hated playing the Game. "I'll wait until the last, old friend," he'd often said, while waving a glass of red wine in Connor's face. "Then I'll surrender my head to you, and you can have the Prize. I'm not interested!"
Fool, Connor thought, as he crossed the painter's name off his list. "Even if he's managed so far, the man is a fool to think he can stay out of the Game, forever," he said, aloud. "None of us can."
The last name Connor had noted in the right hand column was Alexi Sharimanov.
Connor had met the Russian spy in the middle of the Crimean War, just before the battle of Balaklava. He'd offered Russian battle plans in exchange for a chance at a new life, and Connor had been his contact.
Though Alexi had never revealed the exact reason why he felt compelled to betray his country, he'd led Connor to believe it was connected to a traumatic incident during his childhood in the Ukraine. What Connor had known, but Alexi didn't, was that he had more of a new life in his future than he'd bargained for.
The pre-Immortal spy died his first death while Connor was helping him escape, then Connor had taught him for awhile as they traveled through Europe together after the war. Last he'd heard, Alexi was playing hockey for the IHL in central Canada.
Since the big Russian was more likely to just show up one day with a bottle of cold vodka under each arm, than he was to send cutesy postcards, Connor crossed Alexi's name off the list.
And then there were none - none but his enemies, that is.
Connor tossed his pen down on the desk in disgust. The list of enemies was just too long to tackle in his mind. The postcard sender could be anyone of them. He would just have to wait it out.
But he hated waiting. He needed to do something, yet all he could do was wait - wait and prepare to meet his enemy. Standing abruptly, he decided to go down to the empty warehouse on the third floor and work out awhile. That would take care of two things. One, it would give him something positive to do. And two, it would keep him sharp for the inevitable confrontation.
As he pulled on a pair of sweats, however, the last line from today's postcard ran through his head. Faithful friends who are dear to us, will be near to us once more ...
Isn't that what he'd been doing all morning? Spending time in the company of old friends. Albeit, mental time, rather than physical time, but still, he hadn't thought of any of these old friends in a very long time. And if not for the postcards, he probably wouldn't have thought of them at all.
Then it hit him - Duncan! The man was such a damned sentimentalist. And he'd been even more philosophic since that incident in Paris last year. Though Duncan had refused to talk about it, Connor had heard rumors, disturbing rumors. Whatever it was, it had changed Duncan profoundly. Still, it would be just like his former student and clansman to come up with such a scheme to get him wallowing in the sentimentality of the season.
"Idiot!" he shouted as he snatched up his sword. "Wait 'til I get my hands on you!"
As he worked out with his sword in the vast empty warehouse, Connor thought of different ways he could kill Duncan. Oh not permanently, of course, just something to get him back for all the aggravation he caused. It was a most satisfying session, and when he was through, he wasn't nearly as angry at Duncan as he had been when he started.
"Idiot," he said again, as he paused to for a long swallow of spring water. Then he shook his head and chuckled. "I will get you back for this ... count on it."
Not that Duncan could hear him, of course. He was either in Vermont somewhere or on his way down here. But what was Duncan doing in Vermont, anyway?
Connor shook his head again as several images came to mind. Probably shacked up in a cozy snow-covered cabin with Amanda or some other woman he'd met. And most likely indulging all sorts of Currier and Ives type activities - cruising around the countryside in a horse-drawn sleigh - sipping hot cider and roasting chestnuts over a crackling fire.
"Idiot," Connor said again, then he picked up his sword and returned to his loft.
* * * *December 24, 1998 dawned with bright sunshine and a sharp nip in the air, but as the day wore on, the clouds moved in. "It feels like snow," was the hopeful opinion of everyone who came into Connor's shop all day.
A steady stream of customers kept him busy and his mind occupied through most of the morning. He didn't have time to think about postcards, though he did give them a passing thought when Ben brought the mail.
The mailman handed over the packet with a cheery greeting, and Connor thumbed through it between customers, but it did not contain one of the mystery postcards. Perhaps his tormentor had tired of this game.
The flow of customers slacked off about 3 in the afternoon, and no one came between 4 and 5. Connor's pre-Christmas rush was over. Now the long evening and the next day stretched out before him.
Grabbing his coat and his sword, he flipped the sign on the door from open to closed, then he left the shop, locking up behind him. A light snow began falling as he walked the three blocks to Joy Yuen's China Palace.
The tiny restaurant that specialized in spicy Hunan cuisine was nearly deserted. That suited Connor just fine. Mrs. Lee, Joy's seemingly ageless grandmother, bobbed her head in greeting and smiled when she recognized him.
"Ah, Mr. Wilson," she crooned in her sing song accent. "Come in, come in."
Though he was often tempted to greet the old woman in her own dialect, Connor resisted. He really didn't need to get involved in a whole explanation about how or why he spoke several Chinese dialects fluently. He merely smiled in return, then followed Mrs. Lee's plump red satin-clad form to a table near the back.
He ordered cold noodles with sesame sauce, the house special soup and Kung Po chicken, then poured himself a cup of tea while he waited.
Unbidden, images of Abby Flynn, returned. At first, he fought them. He wasn't going to fall into that trap again. But the memories were too strong, too pleasant, and there really seemed to be no reason to fight them.
Much to his displeasure, she'd followed him back to his rooms that Christmas Eve so long ago.
* * * *"Stop following me." he'd snapped at her. She'd been at his heels like a stray dog since they left the Bull and Finch.
"I'm not followin' you," she'd insisted. "I just 'appen to be going in the same direction."
She was following him. He just knew it, though what she hoped to accomplish, he couldn't begin to imagine. He'd already shared his dinner with her, and she didn't want to fight him - so what did she want from him? Asking got him nowhere - demanding would probably get him less - so he quickened his pace.
She kept up.
"This where you live, cap'n?" she asked, when he finally turned to mount the steps at Mrs. Price's Rooming House.
"That's none of your business," he snapped, irritated by the odd feelings she kept stirring up within him. He should just take her head and be done with her. Instead he kept having to fight off this urge to protect her - like she needed protection. She was probably tough as an alligator's hide.
"Looks like a right nice place," she said, with a wistful sigh. Fake sigh, he suspected.
He merely grunted in response as he fit his key in the lock. Mrs. Price locked up promptly at nine, but Connor had managed to talk her into giving him a key for the front door.
Slamming the door shut behind him with more force than was required, he waited a moment, expecting Abiageal Flynn's presence to fade. It didn't. After counting to ten, he yanked the door open again.
The Immortal pest sat on the bottom step with her head in her hands. She turned at the sound of the door.
"Go away," he shouted.
She smiled as she shrugged. "Got no place else to go cap'n. Figure, I might as well just stay here."
"You figured wrong."
She took a moment to mull that over, then she shrugged again. "Why?"
Connor felt his patience slipping away like fine sand through his fingers. "Because I said so," he snapped.
Abby chuckled softly. "Oh and, I suppose you're king of these 'ere steps ... this 'ere street, as well."
Connor's fists clenched and unclenched as he growled through his teeth. Obviously, she didn't understand the finer points of Immortal etiquette. One simply did not camp on another Immortal's door step unless one intended to issue a challenge. But he doubted if Abigail Flynn had any mind to challenge him.
"What do you want?" he asked at last, frustrated and out of viable options.
"Just a place to spend the night," she answered.
"Fine!" he shouted, then he went back inside, slamming the door behind him.
"Hey there, keep the noise down. People are tryin' to sleep," a voice dropped down from above.
Connor shut his eyes and made an attempt to quiet his roiling thoughts. If you held a sword to his neck, he wouldn't have been able to come up with a reason why he did what he did next.
He tugged open the door once again. "Get in here," he snarled.
Abby stood and considered him with a flinty stare. "Why?"
"Don't ask questions, woman," he snapped. "Come on - before I change my mind."
Slowly, she bent to pick up her pack, then she sauntered up the stairs like a lady of noble birth on a sunny afternoon stroll in Kensington Gardens.
His fingers ached to strangle her as she passed him, but he thought better of it. "Two flights up, third door on the right," he said instead, then he followed her up the stairs.
Abby leaned against the jam with an inscrutable smile on her face while he opened the door. He was quite tempted to tell her she could go to hell, but he doubted that would make much difference to her, so he pushed the door open and motioned her inside.
She rolled past him and into the room in such a way that he wouldn't have a clear shot at her neck - if he planned to take her head. He conceded her a few points for that precaution while he castigated himself for allowing her into his rooms in the first place. What was he thinking?
"Mighty fine digs, cap'n," she said, dropping her sack on the floor. "But your fire's gone out."
"There's no more coal," he snapped.
"Oh," she said, eyeing him with a healthy measure of sympathy.
The nerve of the little chit, feeling sorry for him.
"Maybe, I'd better go," she said.
"You're staying here, and that's the end of it." He took a long deep calming breath. "You can sleep on the floor. In the morning, you leave, then I never want to see you again. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," she said, smiling as she snapped him a proper salute.
Connor didn't sleep a wink all night. How could he knowing there was strange Immortal just on the other side of his bedroom door? One he'd invited to sleep there in a fit of insanity brought on by extreme frustration.
