Stalking the Darkness
by Aislynn
Sorry it took me forever to update. Real life (read: my job) has me back in it's ugly clutches and it doesn't leave me much time to write. I also had a few special problems with this chapter because I could not really decide how best to dispose of some suspect clothing. In the end (and this revised version) I rather followed the Inspiration by another story: Rhiannon Shaws marvelous "Law of Averages". Go read it, it is great like everything she writes!.
However, I took the time to go over the last chapter once more and tried to polish out the more obvious grammar and spelling errors. What reminds me: if any of you out there would be willing to grammar check this thing, I would be grateful. Just contact me! I use the spell check of my writing program, but I have no grammar check to go with it. Besides, even if I had one I still don't know how helpful it would be to non-native speakers (hell, the German grammar check of Word is not very helpful at the best of times, and there I am at least capable to judge it!).
A great thank you to all who reviewed this. It is great to know you don't consider this story not a total loss so far!
BethCarielle: Special thanks to you. I'm glad you find the rapport of Mac and Methos is working! As for the spelling errors and grammar, I will revise the former chapters as soon as I find time to do it.
Corolain: Thank you very much for your review and encouragement, your support keeps me going!
Disclaimer and warnings:
See Part one (Prologue) for disclaimers and warnings!
Additional warning: SLASH (D / M), don't read it if you don't like it! This chapter is most definitely rated R for male/ male situations, violence (cold-blooded murder) and horror. It is dealing with boys loving boys and the gruesome feeding habits of vampires. So, if you don't like that or are under age to read this, turn back now!
And now, on with the story.
Chapter 5: Feeding Habits
MacLeod sighed and went to lock both the doors of the barge. He'd had about enough of any kind of visitors tonight, especially of the kind of the last one. Only then he relaxed enough to put aside his katana, but he kept it in easy reach. That recent night guest had him nervous, and he didn't trust him not to suddenly return.
Listening to the quiet noises coming off the bath room, he quietly went into the little galley and picked up his lovers torn and bloody coat. He inspected it carefully. A total loss. They could only burn it; it wouldn't do to throw it into the trash, not with a visit by the police being expected in the next few days. Pulling a face, he wondered how he was going to tell his lover about this one. Methos was paranoid enough, and the expectation of police scrutiny would have him positively skittish.
Moodily, he searched the coat for Methos belongings and for hidden weapons, placing the found items onto a little growing pile on the couch table. His lovers second blade was soon accompanied by the fried cell phone and Methos brief case, as well as the sawn in leather sheath of the big broadsword. The sword itself was missing; obviously, his paranoid lover had taken it with him into the bathroom. As well missing was Methos gun, and any other possibly hidden blade. If Methos carried more weapons, he had them hidden on his body. Except... Duncan smiled when he finally discovered a long, hard piece of wire neatly sawn into a seam. Figures. Never leave home without it.
Shaking his head and regarding the pile a moment longer, the Highlander finally squatted down in front of the oven.
It was then that the bathroom door opened.
__________ o __________
Methos relaxed into the spray of the hot water. Slowly, he let the tightly wound tension in his muscles drain out of him and felt reality restore itself. Had he really believed the crazy guy out there was a real vampire? Here, under the warm spray of the shower and the hard, solid lights of MacLeods small, little bathroom it was hard to believe. Even harder to believe he could have fallen to the crazy story of the raving nutcase out there. Of course, then, he was under the pressure of two Quickenings and had had a rather bad night. Still...
He sighed. Need and the energy of the two taken heads still ate at him, and for a moment, he wished Duncan would get rid of the stranger and come in to share the shower with him, and his hand traveled slowly down across his chest, the hardened nipples, to his stomach and deeper, to his loins. He sighed again. Unfortunately, the Highlander was not here, and had he been, there would not have been enough space in here for the two of them together anyway. One of the many complains Methos had uttered so far about Duncans living arrangements – aside, of course, from living on a boat in general – had been the small bathroom and the narrow shower the barge could provide. The other constant complaint had been the amount of the hot water supply, that in Methos opinion was far too small.
But it did not take much to imagine broad hands on his back, massaging the knots out of his shoulders, then circling around to his breast, his stomach, lower... soft words whispered into his ears, lips on his neck... his own hand traveled down to the center of his need, and it took just a few strokes to reach his peak, then tumble over.
Afterwards, he leant himself against the wall of the shower, resting and waiting until his breathing calmed again. Then, he quickly lathered himself, rinsed off and stopped the shower, snatching a towel. This was much better. It was not enough to settle the Quickenings, not even enough to abate the need for long, but it was enough to dull the edge. And if he had his way, there would still be plenty time this night to do something about the rest of the tension curling inside him.
However, first they had to deal with their strange guest, made sure to control any damage done by his watching tonight's light show; and he better hurried up if he wanted any chance that they could get rid of their strange night guest soon and go on to more pleasant matters. But he had to do something about the energy raging inside him. And still he could dream...
Sighing, the oldest Immortal slipped into the fresh clothes he had snatched on his way to the bathroom and gave his bloody, torn shirt of this night a mourning look. It had been one of his few classy ones, and one of his favorites, even more so since it had originally been MacLeods. He supposed the jacket had to go, too. Geraldys sword had left a nice, big hole in it.
Still, there was no help for it, so he dropped it on the floor, took his sword and left the bathroom.
_____________ 0 _____________
Duncan turned his head when he bathroom door opened and his lover emerged in a cloud of damp fog. Methos cocked his head at the unusual sight before him – MacLeod kneeling in front of the oven with his own torn and shredded coat – and then he looked around a bit puzzled.
"Where's our guest?" he asked.
MacLeod left the coat where it was and got up.
"He left," he growled. At Methos' questioning stare he added:
"We had a disagreement."
Methos brows furrowed further and he stepped down the steps, then absentmindedly put his sword away right to the wall near the small galley.
"You threw him out?" he asked, "why?"
MacLeod turned to him.
"Oh, I don't know," he answered grimly, "I suppose it was something about his eating habits. I think it had something to do with him killing humans quite regularly just to feed on them. Or with him starting out this evening planning to turn you into a snack."
Methos stared.
"You did not really believe him this vampire crap, did you?" he finally asked, careful, as if threading on unsure territory. Out there, in the night, it had been easy to believe, for just a moment, that there was something to the strangers claim. In here, however, and much calmer now, he could hardly believe the guy had been able to fool him.
Or MacLeod, for that matter.
MacLeod gave back a grim stare.
"Oh, I do believe, Methos! I have to! He had no mirror image! He showed me. He stood right in front of it and he didn't show up. And he didn't breath. At least he did not seem to do, save when he was talking. I... I have no other way to explain it."
Even as he talked, he blanched visibly, and his eyes grew huge.
Except... No! That is not possible! He was defeated! I was sure he was defeated! Oh, please, no...
Shivering inwardly, he brought himself back under control and damped down on his feelings of panic and utter terror. Hard.
There was no more millennial demon. Ahriman had been defeated by the champion, at least for another thousand years; he was sure of it. It was over. That stranger out there was another guy.
He felt more than saw Methos take a step closer, obviously concerned by his sudden discomfort, and shook his head, finding his lovers eyes again. Getting himself back on track he added:
"And he had fangs. He convinced me."
Methos stepped carefully closer. He had seen the sudden look of utter terror on his lovers face and he could guess what was going on in his mind. He cursed inwardly, at the same time he sent a silent prayer to all the long dead gods who might actually listen.
Please, not again! He did not want to deal a second time with Mac turning delusional; the first time had been bad enough.
So. Time to nip this in the butt early on.
"Look, MacLeod, whatever that man claimed to be, of course you know, there are no such things as vampires? I have been around for 5000 years, and I never met one before."
MacLeod gave him a hard look.
"Like you never met a demon?"
Methos sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. There it was. Just as he'd feared. The edginess he had felt earlier returned, and with it the wired-up tension and the crackling energy of the two still unsettled Quickenings that were raging inside his soul.
"Yes, something like that," he gave back. "Look, MacLeod, we have been over that already. I know I wasn't there, and I do not know what to think of it. But this..."
MacLeod shook his head.
"You never believed me. You didn't believe me then, although you believed Joe, but you never really took it for real. You thought we both were delusional. But it was real, Methos, it was there, and it was not only my delusion.."
He swallowed, hard. Turning away, he added tightly:
"Whatever you believed, I know what I saw!"
Methos sighed. He was too tense to address this right now; he felt his restlessness return, the aggressiveness, the familiar, wired up tension of post-quickening, poised for fight or flight.
Let's deal with this crap later!
There was only one way to end this conversation now, before it could dissolve further and end in a fight. Or at least the only way that he could think of right now. One that would not include violence. Like taking the troublesome Highlanders head or something similar rash...
Silently he closed the distance between him and his distressed lover and took the other man tightly into his arms.
"Look, Duncan," he said with barely restrained tension, "it's all right. I believe you saw something. As did Joe. It doesn't matter what it was. Whatever it was, it is over. All right?"
In his arms, Duncan turned around to face his lover. He swallowed hard and slightly shook his head.
He drew a deep breath and willingly unclenched his shoulders. Tightly he said:
"It is not okay. But you will probably never believe me. I can't blame you; I doubt I would have believed it myself...."
Finally, he looked up into his lovers eyes.
"Well, whatever this guy was you brought back with you tonight, he wasn't human. He had no mirror image, and he didn't breath."
Methos looked at him, skeptically, and finally sighed.
"Okay. Let's just assume you're right, and his claim was real. I have to admit, I have heard some tales about these guys, as have heard tales of demons. It has just been a long time since I really believed them, and I have to say that I never met one of them, either. So, I assume, it may be possible..."
MacLeod nodded grimly.
"You seemed less skeptical when you brought that guy home earlier tonight," he observed.
Methos sighed.
"I was hardly myself earlier tonight" he gave back.
Not that I am much better now, he thought, trying to get a grip on his slight trembling.
"Mac, do we have to talk about him? Right now I can think of a few more pressing things to do..."
He snuggled closer to his Highlanders body, letting him feel up close one of those things.
MacLeod felt his trembling, and took in his lovers still up-wired and painfully aroused state..
"No, I suppose we do not have to talk about him right now," he answered. He gave one last fleeting thought to he coat and the need of cleaning up the mess in front of the oven.
Oh darn, it could wait until later!
"Let me take care of this."
Then his hands traveled down alongside Methos back, and made their way to his ass, and finally under up his sweater to his skin.
"At last!" Duncan thought, as their hungry mouth found each other and he contentedly reveled in the touch of his lovers skin.
"At last...."
______________-o ______________-
In front of the barge, the vampire stood a moment, motionless, then he sighed and turned away. Time to find shelter.
The sun was under the horizon for hardly another hour or so by now, and he still had not fed tonight. He had barely enough time to find other prey. If he was really unlucky, he wouldn't be able to drink anything tonight.
That is what you get for your curiosity, he wryly addressed himself. And for your indecision about what to do with the object of it. Then he started to walk. Time to get going!
Under the second bridge behind the mooring place of the Daywalkers barge he stilled.
A heartbeat. Not on one of the other barges moored to the quay, but closer. Much closer.
He could it make out clearly, and it did not come from the early workers and nightbirds walking on the close streets, or from the bridge above. He could make those few heartbeats out, clearly, too, mixed with the background noise of the traffic. No, this one was nearby, to his right, under the dark bow of the bridge, and much closer. It was sluggish and low, too, so it belonged probably to a older person, sleeping.
He looked around, listening intently. Now he listened for it, he could hear the low breathing, too. Hen he saw him. A bum, one of the clochards, quite enthralled in some booze-induced dreams. He was sleeping in the warm weather under the bridge, above the waterline.
Perfect!
With a quick look around if anybody was up and watching, Hybert moved silently over to the sleeping mortal and closed down on him. Steely hands grabbed and subdued the startled form, as his hungry fangs found the unwashed, stubby throat.
No time to be picky! He disliked booze-polluted blood, and he felt disgusted at the smell, but he had to drink, before the THIRST drove him into a rage and robbed his control, and drink he would. So he ignored the smell, as well as the sick feeling of the booze in the mans blood, and drank deeply, relishing the feel of the warm, salty fluid that streamed down his throat, carrying fresh life and new strength even if it was only that of an old man, tired and worn down from living.
The two Daywalkers had smelled all too excitingly, and the bloody mess of the two beheadings earlier that night had risen his hunger and worn thin his control. What a waste! All this good blood, so full of life, gone to nothing! Too bad his new acquaintances had not felt like sharing a bit of their life force with him...
With the blood, as always, came the emotions.
Hybert sighed in contentment, as the mortal in his arms went still, overwhelmed with the almost sexual excitement of the kiss, of the brief merging of souls, that went along with sharing his life force with the undead who drank it from him. Then came the memories.
A woman, beautiful, young.... full of life, lovingly... then an old wife, burned out, a haggard. Fights. Screaming. A courtroom. The words of the man in the robe: Divorce. Painful, harsh, cutting word. And the relief: a bottle. Then there were more bottles, more booze, until it was all that mattered... losing work, being sent away with harsh words, after getting drunken once too often on the job.... Finally this hopeless life from bottle to meal to bottle, living on the streets, until his recent evening, his drunken sleep here, under the bridge...
He felt more than noticed the astonishment of the mortals mind as he, in return, experienced strange pictures of castles and medieval city streets, cast in nights darkness.
Hybert drank deeply, not concerning himself with trying to analyze the memories or stop the confusing dreams of medieval cities and of modern streets, swordfights and beheadings that flowed out of his own mind into that of the man. Nobody would believe the bum anyway and nobody would think it odd that he was feeling bad and a bit anemic for a few days. It would just be considered a side effect of the mans heavy drinking and his sick liver, if anybody concerned himself to medically look over that poor ruin of man in the near future at all. He doubted the bum would go see a doctor...
The slowing of the mans heartbeat alarmed him, just a moment too late, that he had overestimated the mortals health and drank to much. Then, much to fast, there was the overwhelming dizziness, sudden fear, panic – and the void, that was death.
Hybert recoiled and drew back. He had not drunken that much, had he? He had lost track of the amount he'd taken, but surely he had not drunken the man dry!
The unseeing, dead eyes of the clochard stared back at him, the last whispers of his living spirit dissolving into nothingness.
Cursing inwardly, Hybert quickly licked over the bite marks in the dead mans throat. Normally, it had to be done while the victim was still living, and the vampires salvia could prompt the body of the prey into healing the wounds to make them disappear. It did not work with the already dead, because the body of the victim had to live to do the healing. But sometimes, cells would live a few moments longer than the whole body did. If he was really lucky...
No such luck. The last, automatic reaction of the dying cells was starting the healing, but it was not fast enough. The wound would not completely disappear. There would be bite marks.
Hybert licked his lips, straightened and quickly checked his surroundings.
What a mess! He had not meant to kill the man; not that he felt any remorse, but all he needed was a body lying around, especially when it had rarely any blood left and wore vampire bite marks! And besides, of course, this one was a far cry from his usual prey. He simply had not counted on his victim having a weak heart and an already weakened state of health. Now, what to do?
Shrugging, he drew one of his knifes. Well, he guessed, better an unresolved murder than a mysterious one that looked like a vampire was running around and could pique the curiosity of the press.
Slashing two times through the throat of his victim with quick, experienced moves, until every bit of the bite mark was destroyed, he chided himself for his carelessness.
Things like this will get you killed! This time for final! It seems arrogance truly is the bane of old age among our kind... You should know better!
Whatever he had told this MacLeod tonight, he could not afford to leave a trail of dead, bloodless bodies lying around where ever he went. Especially not if it hampered his hunt of his real prey... When had he grown this careless?
Still softly cursing under his breath, Hybert rolled the body over the quay into the water and disposed of it with a splash. Quickly, the strong current drew the body away and under. Then he straightened and quickly moved on to the next entrance of the canal system, fleeing the growing light that licked through the sky and spoke of the coming dawn. He had to hurry to get to his resting place before the sun came up and stole his consciousness.
_________________ 0 ________________
Duncan opened bleary eyes to the ringing of the phone. Some time earlier, he had finally decided to move their activities to he bed and made good of his vow earlier that evening to show the old man thoroughly just how much he appreciated him. Later that night he had gotten up and had proceeded to dispose of the bloody coat and the torn and shredded shirt and jacket. His lover had refused to be risen. Methos had just rolled over and murmured something in the lines of "just dump it into the Seine, MacLeod".
Tired as he was, Duncan had felt tempted and given it some thought, but had finally decided to chose the more secure option to first shredder and wash the things. The trousers could be saved, he supposed, given there were no blood stains on them. His tired inspection in the early morning light had revealed none. But better be safe than sorry. So he dumped the whole pile into the washing machine and turned it on. Then he had proceeded to polish Methos sword, to make sure there was no blood on it. He had just crept back into bed and buried into he pliant body of his lover, willing to sleep for once as long as the old man did usually. The persistent noise of the phone brought him up cold. Angrily, he got himself out the bed and moved over to grab the offending thing.
"MacLeod?"
There was a short pause on the other end, and then a familiar voice said:
"Hi, Mac, it's Joe. You sound awful!"
Duncan sighed and went down to sit on the floor in front of the couch table.
"Hi, Joe!" he mumbled. "I had an long night."
"Sorry to disturb you, " Joe drawled. He actually sounded amused. Of course, then, usually it was Mac who would be fresh and awake and Joe who would feel rather awkward at this hour of the morning. Occupational hazard of being a bar owner, MacLeod supposed.
"Yeah, of course Joe. Are you still in the States?"
The connection actually sounded rather like it.
There was a short pause. MacLeod imagined the old Watcher nodding.
"Yeah. It will take me a few more days. Maybe two weeks. You know...." he sounded apologetic. It was MacLeods turn to nod.
"I know, Joe. Family business." Joe was in Seacouver for the wedding of his niece, Lynn Horton. Both Mac and Methos had offered to accompany him, but Joe felt that in this case he would better not turn up with his immortal friends in tow. Even so, these days his dealings with his sister were frosty at best.
"You okay?"
Over the phone, he could hear Joe sigh.
"Don't ask. I think arctic climate is less frosty at times," he said. Then he added carefully:
"I hear the Old Man took someone last night?"
Duncan shook his head.
"News travels fast," he stated.
"Hey, what do you expect? It's our job!" the Watcher answered. "So it's true then? It was the Old Man?"
Duncan sighed. It was probably too much to hope they could deny it. Still...
"You are not sure?"
"No such luck. The description Geraldys Watcher gave was very specific, although he did not identify Adam directly. But there are not as much other candidates in town." There was a short pause, then Joe added: "I suppose this is why he decided to contact me."
Duncan sighed again. Across the desktop, at the bed, he could see Methos stir, and he tenderly followed the lines of his body under the thick sheets.
"Yes, it was him. And he did not only take out one, Joe. They were two. The bastards were hunting together."
He could hear the old Watcher sigh.
"Yes, I know. Geraldy always used his students in this way before he released them. It was time that someone took him out."
There was a pause.
"Mac, about that fight... Geraldys Watcher said the winner had help, too?"
Duncans voice was grim.
"Yes, he had. There was a stranger who decided to get involved. Actually, this saved Adams life. He did not have his other... toys on him."
Joe said nothing. The silence over the phone was growing awkward.
"You know the guy?"
"He came to the barge shortly, last night. But beside that, no, we do not know anything about him."
There was a sharp intake of breath.
"So it was the same guy Adam brought home. I wondered!"
For a moment, Duncan felt his anger stir. Of course he knew that he and Methos were still being observed, even when Joe himself these days mostly relayed on themselves to report to him what was going on with them directly. But that did not mean he liked it more one bit. However, this was probably not the right time to get upset about it.
"How is it that you did not have a Watcher on the Old Man, but one observing my barge?" he asked, and privately thought that last night the fact that nobody was following Methos might have been just for the better. If that hapless Watcher would have managed to run into the guy they were talking about...
Joe seemed distracted.
"Oh, please, Mac, you know how it is. When the two of you are going out together, we usually send off just one of our guys to look after you. You know, efficiency and all that. Unfortunately, when you and Adam decided to break up last night, our guy decided that you were the one more likely to get into trouble. He followed you to the barge, but we lost track of the Old Man until he got back to you."
Duncan could not help to grin.
"You're lucky he did get back to me then. I'm afraid that we had quite he spat."
He shook his head.
"Joe, about that guy..."
"Yeah?"
"Be careful around him!" MacLeod warned. "Do not follow him! Don't set a Watcher on him or let your people get too close! He's dangerous!"
Joe's voice was grim.
"I know!" he answered over the phone. "This is part of the reason why I called."
He made a short pause.
"Mac, just after that guy left your barge last night... well, I am told he killed somebody there. Cut his throat."
He made another short pause. Then he added:
"Practically at your doorstep."
MacLeod stared unbelievingly at the phone, as if it had been offending him, and cursed.
____________________0_____________________
TBC
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Okay, that's it for now. I know this chapter turned out rather long, but I felt there was no way to break it up in two nicely. I also hope MacLeod and Joe were not too greatly out of character; if you feel that they were, let me know. I'm flying without a beta reader here!
The next chapter will bring the reappearance of an old and well know character of the Paris episodes of the first season, and an unwelcome police investigation concerning a few strange beheadings.... Go figure.
Aislynn