Shelter from the Storm Chapter 10

All standard disclaimers apply. This story is mine, as are the characters of Leyza Berard, Ray Garcia, Phillippe and Marie Vachon, Francine, Solange Laperrier and Jeremy Cole. Please do not borrow them without asking.

The Highlander concepts and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson and May Ling Shen are not. They belong to Gregory Widen, Davis/Panzer, Rysher, Gaumont and probably a few others I've forgotten. I've dared to use them without permission, and hope they'll forgive the transgression, because this story is merely a labor of love. I'm not making a cent from it.


Later that day, Duncan strolled into Joe's at the same time he'd been dropping by for the last month - a little past noon. The plan he'd formed earlier lay neatly sketched out in his mind. He was ready for action, but he needed one more piece of information.

At the sound of the door opening, Joe looked up, then a smile of recognition brightened his face. "Hey MacLeod - I was just thinking about you!"

Duncan crossed to the bar, then leaned his arm on the dark polished surface. "Should I start running now?" he asked with a grin.

Joe chuckled softly as he shook his head. "Only if you want to chase down that snooty wine merchant for me."

"What's he done now?"

"I'm not sure, but I think he's trying to pull a fast one on me. I ordered one thing - at least I think I did - and he delivered something else - wine that wasn't as good ... at the same price I'd agreed to pay for the better stuff. He's so slick - he could be a master at Three Card Monte."

Duncan laughed. "Perhaps it's time to look for a new supplier."

"Yeah, maybe," Joe agreed. "But everyone tells me he's the best guy to deal with. If he is, I'd hate to see the rest."

"Well, if there's anything I can do, let me know," Duncan offered.

"I will," Joe said. He spun a mug onto the bar, then reached behind him for the coffee carafe. "Want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot."

Duncan considered the offer for a moment. Though he and Joe had mended the bridges between them, Duncan still wasn't sure if the fix would hold the weight of what he needed to ask.

Joe had done so much for him throughout the ordeal with Ahriman. He had sent Watchers into the fray, and they had died. Ahriman had offered to restore Joe's legs, and Joe had refused the tempting offer because the price had been Duncan's life.

But most of all Joe had believed in him at a time when he wasn't even sure he believed in himself. The debt he already owed would take several lifetimes to pay back, and yet, here he was about to ask another favor - something he promised himself he wouldn't do. To put his plan in motion, he needed something stronger than coffee - something like a healthy shot of liquid courage.

"I'd-a ... rather have a single malt," he said, drumming restless fingers on the bar.

Joe lifted one eyebrow at the request, but he pushed the mug aside, then slid a glass into its place. He snagged a bottle from the shelf behind him, then poured two fingers of pale amber liquor into the glass.

"Cheers," he said tapping his coffee mug against the side of the glass.

"Cheers," Duncan said in return. He lifted the glass to his mouth, but he didn't take a drink. Instead he set the glass down again, then he stared at his hand as he ran his finger around the rim. "Joe ... I ah--"

Before he could finish, fingers pushing a folded square of paper invaded his narrow line of sight. He didn't touch the paper, but he looked up to find Joe wearing a wide grin. The Watcher's gentle grey eyes twinkled with mirth.

Joe pushed the paper across the bar until it touched Duncan's glass. "Take it," he said softly.

Duncan picked up the paper as though it might be an unexploded bomb. He didn't open it. "What is it?" he asked.

Joe chuckled as he reached for a bar rag. "Something I thought you might want."

Duncan opened the paper slowly. Inside he found an address scrawled in Joe's familiar handwriting. No name - just an address. He didn't have to ask whose address it was.

"How did you know--"

"I'm your Watcher, MacLeod," Joe replied before Duncan could complete the question. "I know everything there is to know about you - remember?"

Duncan glanced down at the paper in his hand as he nodded, then he smiled. A wry smile with a grim twist. Yeah, he remembered, though most times he preferred to forget.

It was extremely disconcerting to know someone was watching and recording every detail of your life. Most of the time he pushed the knowledge to the back of his mind - the only way he could deal with it - but now and then something popped up to remind him. Something like this.

He refolded the paper and tapped it on the bar letting it slide through his thumb and forefinger, then he turned it over and tapped it again. He should thank Joe and be on his way. He should rush off to find Leyza ... but what would he find? Earlier he was sure he wanted to know - now with the prospect at hand he wasn't quite so certain.

Of one thing, he was certain - the pre-Ahriman Duncan wouldn't have had any doubts. That Duncan would have charged off, sword in hand, colors flying, into the unknown. But the Duncan he was now asked too damn many questions.

What if Leyza didn't want to be found? What if she was married, or involved with someone? Perhaps she and her lover had had an argument. Perhaps that was why she walked the night away.

And what if she was dead? Would he seek out the Immortal who had killed her? Would he take up his sword again? Take up where he had left off - seeking revenge - seeking to right every wrong?

As he stared at the smudged white square in his hand, he remembered something. "I thought you didn't want to play cupid," he mumbled.

Joe's response was a muffled snort. "So sue me," he said. Though there was nothing on the bar to wipe up, he swabbed the shiny surface near the glass of whiskey.

Duncan glanced up to catch Joe grinning at him again.

"You know something ... you worry too much, MacLeod," Joe said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "She's fine. Now, stop moping around my bar and go see her. I've got work to do."

More than a little self-conscious, Duncan grinned back. Had he been that obvious? Or did Joe really know him better than he knew himself? He sighed as he stepped back from the bar. Better not to know the answer to that question.

He picked up the glass, then drank the whiskey in one swallow. It was false courage - he knew that - but the liquid fire of it burning in his stomach had the effect of a catalyst.

"Thanks, Joe," he said as he extended his hand. Joe took it, and when Duncan slid his hand up to grasp Joe's forearm, Joe mirrored his actions.

"I owe you so--" Duncan tried to express the enormous gratitude he felt, but adequate words refused to rise to the occasion. "If there's ever anything I can do ..."

"There is," Joe said. He released his grip, then backed away. Picking up his empty coffee mug and Duncan's glass, he carried them over to a sink filled with soapy water.

"Name it," Duncan said.

"Get out of here - I've got work to do."

Duncan smiled as he shook his head. Even if they couldn't find the words, the sentiments had been conveyed. "See ya, Joe," he said.

"See ya, Mac," Joe answered without looking up from his task.

* * * * *

The neighborhood Duncan walked through was in an older part of the city. Most of the buildings had a tired look about them. Like old people feeding pigeons in the park, they looked weary and a little worn around the edges, yet they clung stubbornly to their pride and the knowledge that they had a rich history to sustain them.

New buildings stood shoulder to shoulder with the old. The bright shiny columns of steel and glass rose impudently above their elders. Clearly this was a neighborhood in transition, though which way it was going couldn't be guessed from casual observation.

Though he had memorized its contents, Duncan glanced at the paper in his hand, noting the numbers on the buildings as he passed each one. He paused before number 216, then checked the paper again. The number Joe had written matched the number on a brass plaque mounted on the wall before him.

Though the wall was crumbling in places and patched in others, the iron gate set in the center had a fresh coat of black paint and ornate brass fittings. The brass had been polished to a rich sheen, and the gate stood open inviting him into the courtyard. Duncan stepped up to the opening, then he hesitated.

Doubts circled around like buzzards - great ugly birds with a hunger for carrion. What if Leyza didn't want to be found? What if she didn't want to see him? He took a deep breath and willed the doubts away, then he concentrated his senses. He waited for the tingle of Immortal presence, but all he felt was the tepid breath of a spring breeze sifting through his hair. Perhaps she wasn't even home.

Marble chips covered most of the small courtyard. Tidy garden beds lined both sides, and neatly trimmed bushes skirted the front of the grey stone house. Bricks dappled with deep green moss and set in a herringbone pattern formed a walk that led up to four granite steps. He took a deep breath, then followed it.

Judging by the late Rococo style of the three story house, Duncan guessed that it had stood in this spot since the reign of Louis XVI. He wondered if Leyza had owned it then. Had she lived here during the French Revolution? And if she had, how had she survived the Reign of Terror when so many people had lost their heads?

As he remembered, Paris in those days had been extremely dangerous for Immortals. Those with ties to the aristocracy were in as much danger of dying in the hands of the rebels as were their mortal friends.

Thoughts of the guillotine and its unmerciful blade triggered an itch at the back of his neck. Other memories surfaced as well. He scratched away the itch as he paused before tall glass-paned doors, but he let the memories linger while he rang the bell. It was easier to think about the past than an uncertain future.

Images of Gina DeValincourt and Fitzcairn scampered through his mind. He smiled as he remembered riding off with them to rescue Gina's beloved Robert from the guillotine. They'd been lucky - they'd survived, but so many others hadn't.

After a few moments, a face peered at him from behind the glass. A pretty round moon face with almond-shaped eyes - an Asian face. Definitely not Leyza. Duncan forced his concentration back to the present, then he smiled when the young woman opened the door.

"Oui?" she said, hesitantly, but she swept him with a sharp glance of appraisal that took in every detail.

"Bonjour," he said. "I'm Duncan MacLeod."

She stared at him with a blank expression. Apparently his name meant nothing to her. Then again, he thought, perhaps she was just skilled at masking her thoughts. "I'm looking for Leyza Berard," he continued.

"May I tell her the nature of your business, Monsieur?"

"Er ... it's not business ... it's ... ah, personal."

The woman considered him for a long moment, then she stepped back to let him in.

"Please have a seat," she said in flawless French. "I'll just be a moment."

She directed him to an old, but meticulously waxed church pew that stood on the right wall of the spacious foyer, then she hurried off toward the back of the house.

Duncan gave the pew with its Gothic-style arches and worn blue velvet cushion a cursory glance, but he chose to stand while he inspected the hall. He'd learned over the years that a person's home could tell you things about them that they might not tell you about themselves.

Leyza's home seemed grand, but not so grand that it felt pretentious. Warm cozy touches diluted the grandeur and whispered welcome with a gracious smile.

An elaborate marble balustrade guided a wide staircase up through the three story entrance hall. From somewhere high above - a skylight, he presumed - sunlight streamed down filling the space with soft diffused light.

With a theatrical sense of presentation, the light fell on a clear crystal vase filled with three shades of pink tulips. The vase sat in the center of a wrought iron glass-topped table, and was surrounded by a gaggle of knickknacks.

As he strolled around on his inspection tour, he clasped his hands behind his back. He wondered if the table had been set in that spot because that's where the light fell, or if the placement had simply been a serendipitous choice. Knowing what he did know of Leyza Berard, it had probably been an amalgam of the two.

Just a quick turn around the foyer answered one of the questions he'd had about her earlier. She obviously had substantial wealth, for nothing his trained eyes could see had come from the local discount store.

The stately grandfather clock bore chisel marks that indicated it had been hand carved. The Venetian glass sconces, though not old, appeared to be hand blown. And from just a casual glance, he knew the Aubusson carpet under the table was of the highest quality, not a machine-made copy.

He moved closer to get a better look at the pattern of the carpet when a stirring near the staircase caught his attention. He passed the table and stepped over to check it out.

A large black cat of indeterminate parentage rose from its perch on the flat end of the balustrade. It bent into a deep stretch, then pinned him with an inscrutable stare.

"Hello kitty," he whispered approaching it cautiously.

The cat's ears twitched as it tested the sound of his voice. It blinked once, regarded him for a moment with one eye closed, then ignored him as it proceeded to wash its face. Apparently, the cat was unconcerned with the presence of a stranger in its domain. Still Duncan kept his eye on it as he moved deeper into the hall to check out something else that had caught his eye.

He'd always found cats to be unpredictable, and he didn't want to startle this one into leaping on him with its claws drawn. The last thing he needed was an encounter with an angry cat.

What he'd noted, when the cat's movement drew his attention to it, was a suit of dress armor of the kind knights wore to court. It stood guard at the side of the stairs, and a closer inspection made him smile.

The piece was a splendid example of Renaissance craftsmanship in prime condition. The embossed and mercury gilded helmet closely mimicked a man's visage. What made Duncan smile was that it also sported a mustache with jauntily curled tips. He chuckled softly as he imagined how delighted Leyza must have been to find such a spectacular bit of whimsy.

Footfalls echoing from his right warned him that he was no longer alone. He suppressed his laughter, assumed a more serious expression, then turned toward the sound.

When he didn't sense another Immortal, he knew the Asian woman had returned alone. Perhaps Leyza didn't want to see him after all. Still he managed to hide his disappointment and greet the young woman with a smile.

"Leyza will see you in the garden," she said returning his smile. "It's this way."

She tipped her head to indicate the doorway she had just come through, then without waiting for a response, she turned and headed back the way she had come. Duncan trailed along behind her, peering into the open doors of the rooms as they passed.

One door led to a dining room. Fresh flowers and unlit candles in silver holders topped a large dark gleaming table. On the other side, was a well-stocked library with a fireplace. Nothing surprising or unexpected there. The style of the furnishings fit the impressions he'd garnered in the entrance hall. Though elegant, Leyza's house was definitely a home not a showplace, and it was one he could feel comfortable in.

The young woman stopped before a set of glass doors that duplicated the ones in the front of the house. "The garden is through here," she said with a sweep of her hand, then she reached for the curved brass handle on one of the doors. "Leyza's just finishing her exercise routine."

Duncan took a moment to speculate on the young woman's place in the household. At first, he thought she might be a servant or a personal assistant, but as he took a second look at her, he wasn't so sure.

She simply didn't have the submissive demeanor of a servant. Though she couldn't have been more than 5 feet in height, she stood tall, and regarded him with a bold look that he couldn't quite fathom. Her dark eyes twinkled with a speculative gleam, and he suspected she knew more than she let on.

The expensive turquoise silk blouse, the soft dark pants and the gold earrings she wore didn't belong to a servant either - at least not any servant he'd ever encountered. But he didn't have any more time to dwell on this mystery, for as she opened the door, he was immediately surrounded by the swelling drone of another Immortal.

Even as deeply embedded instincts sounded fight-or-flight warning signals, his thoughts shifted quickly to Leyza. She was here - now, he had no doubt.

"Thank you," he said, smiling. He nodded a casual good-bye, then he stepped through the door.