Hope Triumphant II: Sister

CHAPTER 6
(World population: 7.28 billion)

So Shall You Reap

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Wednesday, 2 January 2013
Edinburgh, Scotland
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"Are you certain this is the right address?" Jennifer asked, peering out the dirty window of the cab at the three-story brick building painted in swirls of white and blue, an anomaly in this city of gray stone. A large sign over the front doors proclaimed it to be the "Church of Our Lady of the Wanderers," and a three-foot high stone statue of Madonna and Child stood in the garden near the door. It had snowed last night, and small piles of snow sat atop each head like tiny white tams.

"It's the address you gave me," the driver replied, sounding bored.

Jennifer had just opened her handbag to hunt for the paper with the address so she could check when Cassandra appeared at the front door of the building and waved. By the time Jennifer had paid the driver (an enormous amount—the prices of things these days!), Cassandra was opening the car door. "I thought you said this was a women's shelter," Jennifer said, climbing out of the cab.

"It is," Cassandra said with a smile, and just at that moment two women with babies in prams came by, said "Good morning, Cathy," and pushed the prams up the ramp to go inside.

"Cathy?" Jennifer questioned.

"I'm going by Cathy Pelton now," Cassandra explained. "I'd been Sandra Grant for nearly twenty years."

"Yes, of course," Jennifer murmured. She should have realized.

"Come on in!" Cassandra urged with a shiver, and Jennifer belatedly saw that Cassandra hadn't put on a coat to come outside; she was wearing one of those new-fashioned flowing tunics in a collage of colors, mostly green and white with silver circles overtop it all, and a belt of silver circlets, too. Jennifer didn't mind the style so much on the women, but the men were starting to wear them, and the ones who weren't in tunics were in kilts. Business men, too, not just the younger set. And the capes! Everybody seemed to be wearing capes these days, ever since that movie about Boudicca came out last year. They were rainbow colored, too. Well, at least clothes were some spot of brightness in people's lives.

Jennifer followed Cassandra to the door then held onto the railing as she went up the stairs, just in case of ice. She wasn't reduced to needing ramps, not yet. "Are those two women here for counseling, or for classes on infant care?" Jennifer asked.

"Counseling sessions are usually in the afternoon, though we take emergency cases at any time. Infant-care class is tomorrow morning, and they'll be back then," Cassandra said as she opened the left-hand door, which was painted (Jennifer couldn't help but notice) with one-half of the earth as seen from space, a black background with more swirls of white and blue, and then a gold bar near the bottom sticking down and to the left. The right door held the other half of the globe, along with the top of the tilted gold axis pole. In the center of the large square entry hall was a shallow pool with a trickling fountain, and a fifteen-foot high painting of a tree on each of the side walls. Beyond the pool stood another pair of large doors. Those were decorated with a large yellow sun and an equally large silver moon.

"The toddler play-group is on Friday morning," Cassandra continued, shutting the earth-door behind them and coming all the way in. "The teens are here nearly every afternoon, and sometimes in the evenings when there's a football game to watch—their fathers come then, too—and of course the young people show up for the weekly Saturday night dance. But Mairie and Michelle are here for belly-dancing classes this morning. That's very popular with new mothers."

Jennifer stopped. "The sign outside said this was a church."

Cassandra smiled again. "It is."

It certainly didn't seem anything like the quiet respectable church Jennifer had attended all her days. She switched to something easier, giving herself some time. "You're looking wonderful, Cassandra," she said, and it was true. Cassandra had continued to let her hair grow, and it was down to her waist, gathered in a loose braid. She seemed relaxed and confident; at ease with her body and herself, not at all the stiffly held and emotionally disturbed woman Jennifer had met sixteen years ago. "Those are lovely earrings," Jennifer said. The concentric hoops of silver slowly twirled inside each other, and Jennifer noticed that they matched the silver circles of the belt. Her necklace was a silver circle, too, with a tilted bar dividing it in half. The earth's axis again, Jennifer realized. Or maybe the Greek letter phi. "And a lovely outfit."

"Thank you! Alex bought me both the outfit and the earrings for my birthday last year."

"Your birthday? When is that?"

"I have no idea," she admitted cheerfully. "But Alex pointed out that I must have had one, and years ago she told me to pick a day and we would celebrate. So, I picked the next Saturday, March third, and ever since then, she's remembered."

"Alex is very considerate, isn't she?"

"Oh yes," Cassandra agreed. "She's a wonderful friend."

"I'm glad I got to finally meet her," Jennifer said. "Even if …" She shook her head and shrugged helplessly. "There are so many MacLeods in Edinburgh that it never even occurred to me that 'the MacLeod fellow' my husband had met was the Connor MacLeod you know—I thought Connor was in the Highlands—so Tom and I went off to the New Year's Eve party, and then …"

And then Jennifer had chatted away happily with "Mrs. MacLeod," until she'd seen Cassandra across the room and abruptly realized just whose house it was. Jennifer couldn't deny that it had been fascinating to finally meet some of the people she knew from Cassandra's descriptions in therapy sessions, and to see Connor and Alex and Duncan and the twins in person. Even the older son John and his wife, Gina, had been in town. A pity Methos hadn't been there.

But it had also been extremely awkward, to accept the hospitality of people who had no idea that you knew the intimate details of their lives, so Jennifer had pleaded a headache and left soon after realizing where she was. "Well, no harm done," Jennifer said. "At least Alex doesn't know who I am."

"Actually," Cassandra said, "she does."

"Cassandra!"

"I didn't tell her. She saw us talking as you were on your way out the door. Later she said, 'So, that's your Jennifer.'" Cass shrugged just as helplessly as Jennifer had. "I couldn't lie."

"No," Jennifer murmured. She and Cassandra had worked for years on not-lying.

"No harm done," Cassandra repeated, and Jennifer supposed that was true, even if Alex—and now Cassandra, too—knew her as Mrs. Thomas MacDonald, instead of only by her professional name of Jennifer Corans. But then, Jennifer had retired from being a therapist over five years ago, when she'd turned sixty, and she'd never have reason to see Alex again. No harm done, Jennifer thought once more.

"Alex knows you weren't there deliberately," Cassandra added, "and she asked me to give you her regards. She's been curious about you for years, and she was glad you came to the party. And so am I. It's been a long time since we've talked. I've missed it."

"Have you?" Jennifer said dryly.

"No," Cassandra admitted with a smile. "You're right; I haven't missed therapy sessions. But I have missed you."

"I've missed you, too," Jennifer said, and it was at least partly true. Cassandra had been exasperating and often annoying, but fascinating in a variety of ways, and Jennifer was curious to see how far Cassandra had come in the last seven years. Letters just weren't the same. So, at the party two nights ago when Cassandra had once again issued her oft repeated invitation to "stop on by," Jennifer had finally agreed.

And here she was, in a building that didn't look like any shelter—or any church—she'd ever seen.

"This was originally a school," Cassandra was saying. "We bought it a year and a half ago. Would you like to see the sanctuary?" Cassandra motioned to the doors with the sun and the moon.

Jennifer could think of no good reason to refuse. She braced herself for a rainbow or a zodiac, but instead found an enormous circular room devoid of any decorations and lit only with skylights from above. It was completely empty of chairs or pews.

"That's so we can all go dancing," Cassandra explained then took Jennifer for a tour of the kitchen facilities (busy with lunch preparations), the child-care room (full of infants), the playground out back (full of preschool children playing in the snow), the greenhouse, the classrooms (Mairie and Michelle and seventeen others were undulating away, but still decently clothed, Jennifer was relieved to see), and the dormitory rooms upstairs. Three families were staying there, and there was room for five more.

After all of that, Jennifer was ready to sit down. Cassandra took them to a small room with a round table and six chairs on the second floor. "No one will disturb us here," Cassandra said as she pulled up a chair. "The poker game doesn't start until eight."

"This is quite a facility, Cassandra," Jennifer said. She couldn't bring herself to call it a church.

"We're building a community here, and communities need to be available to everyone, everyday."

"It's … very colorful."

"Yes, that paint is good advertising."

Jennifer hadn't been talking about only the paint. She took a moment to choose unaccusing words and a non-judgmental tone. "I'm a little confused, Cassandra. I thought you and Alex were going to start a network of women's shelters."

"We have," Cassandra said. "This church does offer counseling and has a few rooms, but Alex and I started 'secular' shelters four years ago. There are five of them now. I thought of meeting you at the Edinburgh shelter, but I had work to do here this morning, and you're leaving town soon, and … I also wanted to show this to you."

Cassandra's eager words reminded Jennifer of a school-child bringing home a finger-painting for mother to see and approve and then hang on the refrigerator door. "You've obviously put a lot of work and thought into it," Jennifer said, giving praise where she could.

Cassandra beamed. "Yes, I've been dreaming of it for years."

"Really." Jennifer hadn't known that. "What about the shelters? Why not put all your efforts there?"

"Women's shelters are important, but they're like a bandage on a chronic ulcer. They may slow a little of the bleeding, but they can't cure the disease. A church can do more. The whole family can come here."

"And do what?"

"Learn, play, heal—any day of the week."

"Do you have Sunday services?"

"Yes, people expect that," Cassandra said. "We light candles, maybe have a sermon, sing songs."

"And dance."

Cassandra smiled again. "Sometimes."

"What kind of a church is this?" Jennifer asked. "When I saw the statue outside, I thought it might be Catholic, but …"

This time Cassandra laughed. "Oh, no. We're not Catholic. We're not any form of Christian, though Christians are welcome here, and some stay. It's as the sign says: a church for the children of the lady of the wanderers. It's for people who are searching for a church, a community, a home."

"Do you preach?"

"No. I teach classes now and again, but I don't go in front of crowds."

"Because you're an Immortal, and you have to be discreet," Jennifer guessed, and Cassandra nodded with yet another smile, this one almost sad. Jennifer understood that sadness, but still she leaned forward to ask: "Cassandra … why? Why a church? Why this …" She searched for a polite word and gave up. "Why this kind of church?"

Cassandra leaned forward, too. "This is my kind of church, Jennifer. This is something like what my church used to be. I've been lonely and afraid, and I haven't worshipped in community for centuries. I'm tired of hiding what I am and what I believe. I want sisters. I want friends."

Jennifer nodded, understanding better now. One of her lesbian clients had said almost the same thing when she'd decided not to pretend to be straight anymore. No wonder this church had been a part of Cassandra's dreams.

"And also," Cassandra said, leaning back in her chair, "religion can be a powerful instrument of change."

"And what do you want to change, Cassandra?" Jennifer asked, slipping easily into therapist mode.

"The world."

"Cassandra—," Jennifer began, shocked by the urge to power laid bare by the intensity of those two words.

"Would you say that the world is perfect now the way it is?"

"No, of course not, but—" Jennifer found herself hunting for words again. "Religion has no place in politics. Look at Ireland. Look at Palestine."

"Religion is part of being human," Cassandra replied. "We can no more eliminate it than we can eliminate fire. It's always in politics, sometimes with good results, sometimes with bad. Religion was one of the main impetuses behind the anti-slavery movement in the United States before their civil war."

"And you think your religion will give good results."

"I think it's worth a try." She added, almost to herself, "I think we have to try."

"And what do you want out of it, Cassandra? Do you see yourself as pope? High priestess? God?"

"I've been a high priestess," Cassandra said. "And a queen, and I've been worshipped as a goddess, too. They're really not that fulfilling as vocations. No. As I said, I don't go in front of crowds. I don't want to rule the world, Jennifer; I want to change it, just as you changed me."

"You changed yourself," Jennifer corrected. "I only helped show you the way."

"Exactly," Cassandra agreed. "Change doesn't work well when mandated from on high. The most effective change comes from within. And paths to change can be taught in schools and in churches, by stories and by song."

"And by dancing?"

"It worked for the Shakers, and for the Roman Catholics not so long ago. King David danced before the Lord."

Well, perhaps that was so, but still … "Football games?"

"The Olympics were originally a religious festival." Cassandra was leaning forward again. "Church doesn't have to be boring, Jennifer. It can be fun."

"I suppose," Jennifer said, trying to take a larger view. There was nothing wrong with starting a church, even if it did have dancing. And poker. And flashy colors and sports events and statues in the front yard. But Jennifer supposed she shouldn't be surprised by Cassandra's interest in religion; Cassandra had spent centuries as a priestess or a nun—a Roman Catholic nun, Jennifer remembered, and those people had always had outlandish ways.

"We're here to serve," Cassandra said quietly, "not to rule."

That sounded more like the churches Jennifer knew. And Cassandra's church was active in the community, and heaven knows good works were always in short supply, especially with the way things were nowadays, what with food costs up again and heating oil so dear and people standing about with no jobs to do. But still … Jennifer shook her head and admitted, "It's not for me."

Cassandra didn't seem to mind. "It's not for a lot of people. But there are many paths to change."

Jennifer left soon after, though Cassandra invited her to stay for lunch. "Tom's waiting for me," Jennifer explained. "We're taking the train home to Fort William this afternoon." She and Cassandra chatted in a small alcove near the entry hall while waiting for the cab to arrive. Behind Cassandra's head, a sign advertised the topics for this month's coming sermons: "Individuality—Identity or Idolatry?"; "Living in Community"; "Walking Lightly on the Earth"; and "Life Is Sacred, Death is Sacred."

"So, have you had any boyfriends?" Jennifer asked, curious to see how far Cassandra had come in other ways.

"I've done some dating," Cassandra said. "And I'm seeing Mark now. We go dancing every weekend, and he's a lot of fun. But no serious relationships, not yet." Then she smiled wryly and shared what Jennifer really wanted to know. "No sex."

"Ah," Jennifer said.

"I am interested, and I am looking," Cassandra said. "I just haven't found the right person yet. But I will. Someday."

"Good," Jennifer said with fierce satisfaction. "I'm glad."

Cassandra reached out to her, and with some surprise, Jennifer took the offered hand. Cassandra wasn't much for touching. "Thank you, Jennifer," Cassandra said, her eyes bright with tears, her grip tight almost to the point of pain. "I had buried myself alive, and you helped me climb out of that grave. I couldn't have done it alone, and I'm so glad, and so grateful, that you stayed with me all those years."

"So am I," Jennifer said, and that was true now, though it hadn't always been. On many mornings, Jennifer had simply wanted to stay home, dreading the afternoon session with Cassandra, and on many evenings, Jennifer had left her office feeling rather ill, wishing she had never met the immortal woman at all. Cassandra had confessed to feeling the same way about her, a common enough reaction. Therapy wasn't pleasant, and clients often resented the therapists who "forced" them to go through with it, or who kept "taking their money," or who suggested that perhaps the clients themselves might be, in whole or in part, responsible for the difficulties in their lives. But she and Cassandra had persevered, and it had been worth it, in the end. Oh, Jennifer knew that Cassandra wasn't completely healed (was anyone?), but she was strong enough now to work through her problems on her own instead of needing a guide. She seemed in control of her life, busy and doing well, and Jennifer was pleased.

"Here's your cab," Cassandra said, looking out the window. Outside the building, with a parting hug, she and Jennifer said goodbye.

Cassandra watched until Jennifer's cab disappeared around a corner, then said softly, "Farewell, my friend." A cold winter wind tugged at her clothes and her hair, and Cassandra went back to her church. She ate lunch quickly then joined her first afternoon class, a group of eight young women who had responded to Cassandra's advertisements in the local colleges and coffeehouses about a class on "Matriarchal Prehistory." They were chatting about the film with Lalita Mero as Joan of Arc when Cassandra arrived.

"Why do people still go to the cinema?" Cassandra asked, joining them on the floor. "Why not download them at home?"

"I like the big screen," Allison said, running a hand through her bright blue hair then examining the toe ring on her big toe. "The picture's bigger, the sound's all around you … You're drawn into it."

"And the sitting quiet before," Terya joined in. Her hair was dark green. "In the dark, waiting. People you don't know, people you do, all about to be taken into another world."

"It's like church," quiet Roxanne said suddenly from her corner. Most of the others laughed, but Cassandra nodded encouragingly, and Roxanne went on, "My grandmother took me once, a stone cathedral on Christmas Eve, and there were candles and shadows, and everybody waited, without talking." She stopped, her eyes darting from face to listening face, then concluded self-consciously, "It was nice."

"Sacred space," Cassandra said, drawing all eyes back to her. "The use of light and dark, silence and sound. The ancients understood it well." She opened one of the books she had brought along. "Let's talk of Crete and some of the buildings there." They ended the class with the agreement to look for other sacred spaces in the modern world, and then go visit them as a group.

At three, Cassandra worked with the missionaries, training them to start churches in other towns and other lands. At four-thirty, she called her contact in the Vatican, to see how the campaign in favor of birth control was going there.

When Cassandra got home that evening, Phoenix greeted her with a flurry of leg-twining, head-nuzzling, and chirruping, and Cassandra picked the cat up then rubbed noses and chirruped back. When she sat down on the cushion in front of the computer, Phoenix curled up in her lap, kneaded her thigh with both front paws, and purred herself to sleep while Cassandra stroked her from head to tail. When Phoenix was totally relaxed, Cassandra turned on her computer to deal with the correspondence that had accumulated over the holidays.

Grace reported that the birth control trials looked very promising, and they might even be able to move into full-scale testing next year, if all went well. Had Cassandra thought more about distribution?

Amanda's chain of upscale boutiques had posted record profits for the year. She was planning on opening another store in the States, probably Dallas, and was considering starting a chain of medium-priced stores to reach a wider market. After three years at a loss, the four men's stores had finally broken even. The advertising campaign Henriette had orchestrated had worked wonders; thanks for recommending her! And with Marcus Andrew wearing their clothes in his last movie and at his wedding to Lalita Mero, Amanda was sure business would pick up soon. Capes continued to sell well, especially in the British Isles and Seattle. In the meantime, she was going to go to Rio for some research—and some fun. Would Cassandra like to come along? The dancing would be even better than it had been in Venice right before Christmas the year before.

Liana, one of Cassandra's former students from Rousby Hall, wanted to know if Miss Grant would be coming for her annual visit to the orphanages in Argentina in March, and how was little Enrico doing, way up north in Canada, living at the school Senora Duran-Ponti had suggested a few years ago? In a timely coincidence, Ceirdwyn had written from British Columbia to say that Martinique and Enrico's lessons (both sword and regular school) were progressing well, and if Cassandra found any other pre-Immortals, send them along; there was plenty of room at the ranch. Oh, and a former student of Ceirdwyn's, Matthew McCormick, would be joining them as an instructor next month.

Sister Bernadette had forwarded the quarterly newsletter from the Celtic Christian Church of Ireland—negotiations with Rome had stalled again on the issue of the ordination of women, but four nuns were studying for the priesthood even so. "We're trusting in the Lord and in his Holy Mother," said Sister Mairi of the Brigidines. "We pray every day that He will open the hearts of the cardinals and his Holiness. The time will come."

Elena Duran-Ponti's missive contained a detailed and amusing report of her children's antics during the filming of the movie about Helen of Troy, in which Elena had played a non-speaking, supporting role (a masked Amazon on a horse), one of the benefits she had claimed as sponsor's right. The movie would be coming out next summer; they were still trying to decide on a name. She and Lorenzo would be moving from Rome to Naples in the spring, to take over a branch of the family shipping business.

Mark had sent a quick question about which club to go dancing at on Saturday night, and did Cathy want to go out to dinner, too?

Cassandra answered all the posts, one after another—encouraging, congratulating, confirming dates and times, chatting, suggesting. Then she wrote to some people she hadn't heard from in a while: the wife of a Baptist minister in Tennessee, a city planner in Japan, a member of the Holdeen Endowment in India, a Catholic priest with the land settlement movement in Brazil, and the leader of the Garden Project in California.

As Cassandra reconnected to the Web and posted them, another letter arrived, this one from Christina, another student from Rousby Hall, class of '01. Christina had just been made a junior partner in a law firm in New Washington, and she was dating Rob Hartman, a Republican congressman from Ohio. Prospects looked good. "I heard from Tracy last month," Christina wrote in her final paragraph. "She's pregnant again, and still a stay-at-home. She says she's happy enough, and she's doing volunteer work with some breastfeeding group or other in York, but it seems such a waste. I always thought she'd go far, and that she and I would always be friends. We don't seem to have much to say to each other now. Debra just got promoted, though. She's vice-president at Trithea, in charge of their educational supplies. We're going to tour Egypt together in April." Christina ended with her usual cheery "Weave the Web!"

Cassandra went to the breastfeeding group's website for its statistics: nearly half a million women contacted every month, meetings in sixty-eight countries, help available in thirty-four languages. There was a meeting of a local group in Edinburgh next Tuesday morning. Cassandra put that on her schedule, then wrote to Tracy right away, suggesting that they meet for lunch soon and have a nice, long chat. The children, too, of course—she'd love to see them. Children were such an important part of life, didn't Tracy agree?

Weave the web.

Cassandra checked the news services next. Border disputes, riots, looting … the usual. That sort of thing happened when people were hungry, angry, or scared. Millions of people were all three. On the isle of Britain, at least, everyday services hadn't broken down. Yet. The schools would need to be as self-sufficient as possible if they were to survive.

She turned off the computer, and Phoenix looked up and blinked lazily. She hadn't once tried to pounce on Cassandra's moving fingers. "Not a kitten anymore, are you?" Cassandra asked then stroked the soft golden fur and scratched just so under the chin. Phoenix tilted her head back and purred, and she kept purring as Cassandra scooped her up and carried her into the kitchen area. The cat sat on the counter and watched intently as Cassandra prepared their dinner, and after they had eaten, Phoenix washed her paws and whiskers while Cassandra brushed her teeth. The two of them slept on the futon in their nest of pillows, side by side.

One Minute to Midnight

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Thursday, 17 January 2013
Watcher HQ, France
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In the tribunal conference room, Joe Dawson and Rhee watched the short video on the monitor. The picture quality was poor, grainy with horizontal lines, but Joe could still make out the six figures, blindfolded and kneeling in a row, and then the row of soldiers standing in the background with rifles in their hands.

Joe had turned the sound off after the first two times, before Rhee had come in. Joe didn't need to hear the commands of "Ready, Aim, Fire!" (in whatever language that was) to know what was going on. He didn't need to hear the rattle of the guns. Joe watched as the kneeling figures crumpled, and the rifles went back up with military crispness, one by one. The soldiers marched away. The picture stayed on the pile of bodies for another thirty seconds, then went black.

"Two of our people were in that group, executed for the crime of espionage," Rhee explained, as if Joe hadn't already read the report. Those two field Watchers had been spying, yes, but on Immortals, not for "espionage." But Joe knew Rhee needed to talk it out, too. As Tribune of the Guild, Joe was in charge of all Watchers. Those had been his men, two Watchers just doing their jobs, sworn to observe and record. But Rhee was Tribune of the Guard; those men had been his to protect.

Both tribunes knew damn well that they had failed.

"They broke curfew," Rhee said, tapping the ash off his cigarette into a white ceramic tray. "The military police arrested them that night and shot them the next day. Which," he said, pausing to take a drag and then slowly exhale, "is fortunate. For the rest of us."

Joe grunted, because he didn't want to agree with that, even though he knew it was true. Eventually the men would have cracked under torture or drugs, but their government (whoever was in charge right now; it changed from day to day) hadn't cared about details; they'd just hauled the men out and shot them at dawn.

Rhee tapped off the last of the ash. The cigarette was burned down to the filter. "The Watchers have been unbelievably lucky that the secret of immortality has not yet been revealed."

Joe pressed replay again, but Rhee clicked off the monitor. "Ironic, is it not?" Rhee began. "It is two years since the bombing of Washington, and we have had five Watchers executed for espionage, and yet not one has been 'spying' as you and I suggested they do."

"I know." Damned if they do, and damned if they don't. "Immortals aren't the only ones playing a dangerous game."

"But the stakes are getting too high, and our luck will not hold." Rhee crushed out his cigarette, twisting it round and round. "For centuries, Joseph, we have relied on poor communication and on people not believing the impossible. One person tells a story of immortality, he is obviously mad. Even two or three, they must be deluded. No one would submit such a tale to his superiors. And if he did—a report in China, a rumor in Australia, decades apart—no one could put the pieces together. But now …" Rhee shook his head. "At the council meeting next week, I am suggesting that the Watchers stop."

"Stop? What do you mean, 'stop'?"

"Stop the chronicles. Stop Watching. Stop. Perhaps even disband."

"You can't be serious!"

"But I am. Deadly so."

"We've been Watching for thousands of years!" Joe had given forty-four years of his life to the cause. "We can't just turn it off."

Rhee was unmoved. "If we do not stop, we will be discovered. It is only a matter of time. Our entire organization—and the Immortals—will be exposed. All our chronicles will be taken away. We will have nothing. It is likely we may all be killed or imprisoned for the secrets we hold. If we stop, then perhaps in five or ten years it will be safe to go on. The Immortals will still be there."

"Not if the Gathering happens."

Rhee laughed, a thin high sound. "If the Gathering happens and the Prize is won, the Watchers will have no reason to exist. We will simply have anticipated the event."

"Maybe this mess the world is in is what the Prize is for," Joe said slowly, putting into words something he'd been wondering about more and more these last few years. "Maybe the winner can make everything right."

"Perhaps," Rhee allowed. "But more likely not. I am not a Christian; I have no faith in the second coming. We cannot depend on the Gathering and the Prize, and we should not depend on the Immortals. We must take care of ourselves. It is true we will have gaps in the records if we stop, but we have gaps now. We have gone quiet before, Joseph. During Stalin's purges, the Spanish Inquisition."

"Yeah, but not all over the planet! Not all at once."

"Globalization. It affects us all." He leaned forward, his dark eyes earnest. "Even if we stop for fifty years, or a hundred, if a nucleus of the Watchers survives we will be able to start again." Rhee's faint smile did not reach his eyes. "As you know. The seven academies could provide seven nuclei, not just one."

Joe added a shrug to his grin. "Yeah, I was thinking of that, but also, like I told the council, travel may not always be easy. And in the meantime, the exchange program between the seven Watcher academies helps us all. People are loyal to people they know—their family, their buddies … their school friends. If we all see the big picture, stop looking just in our own backyard, then we can work together and maybe help stop some of these wars."

Rhee sank back in his chair, looking tired. "Your idea has merit, Joseph," he said finally, "but too many know too much. The exchange program, while good in other ways, merely increases the risk. As long as we are active, we are too easy to find. I cannot protect us. No one can."

He sighed, and Joe suddenly wondered when his friend's hair had gone from mostly gray to mostly white. He'd never see Rhee so down. "Rhee," Joe said, trying to reach him, "those two Watchers … it was bad luck, and bad times. You can't protect every operative. Hell, our losses aren't even half what they were in the nineties. You're doing a good job!"

"The nineties was the decade of the Hunters," Rhee said dismissively. "Bad enough that they killed Immortals, yes, but they also killed fellow Watchers, and—most deadly—they led Immortals to our door." He coughed once, a dry hacking, a smoker's cough, then picked up his pack of cigarettes anyway. Joe had given up trying to convince Rhee to quit smoking years ago.

"Duran and Galati slaughtered dozens before they were stopped," Rhee said as he extracted a cigarette. He met Joe's eyes. "The younger MacLeod has also taken his share."

Joe wasn't going to back down, not here. "He was saving my life."

"I know, Joseph. And though some of the guards he killed were my comrades, I am glad."

"He stopped Elena Duran, too."

"Yes," Rhee agreed. "But he has told his kinsman, Connor MacLeod, of us, has he not? And the incomparable Amanda. And of course, Methos knows. Duran knows. How many have they told? How many know?"

Joe thought about that. Methos had reason to keep quiet. Elena Duran … that one was unpredictable at the best of times, and a murderous harpy when she was angry. Joe massaged his fingers, absently rubbing where Duran had snapped the bones, and considered the MacLeods. Connor had always been close-mouthed, and Duncan hadn't taken any students since Richie—God, had that really been twenty years ago? But the MacLeods did have friends: Grace, the de Valincourts, Ceirdwyn … Damn. Probably all of them knew, and all of them had friends, too. Amanda had told Nick Wolfe, but he'd lost his head within a few months after becoming an Immortal, so he wouldn't have had time to tell many others. Joe could only pray that Amanda hadn't told that goofball Cory Raines. Cassandra knew; she'd been breathing down Joe's neck while he looked for the Horsemen in the database. God only knew who that witch would tell.

"At least a dozen know," Joe concluded. "More likely two."

"More likely three or four." Rhee was holding his cigarette—still unlit—between the two middle fingers of his right hand. "More information leaks, and the possibility of a two-fronted war. A government may decide to go through us to find the Immortals; an Immortal may decide to eliminate us to protect their secret, or to use us to find other Immortals." Rhee was looking tired again. "I leave my successor an impossible job. As do you."

"It seems that way some days," Joe said. Recruitment was way down, Immortals were going to ground, Watchers were going off to war (either on their own or being dragged), the gene-prints and IDs cards and retinal scans were making it harder for everybody—Watcher and Immortal—to move about or to hide, and the part in the Watcher Oath about "thou shalt not interfere" seemed to get harder every day. Rhee's idea of disbanding the Watchers would sure help take care of deciding whose side you were on.

But disbanding completely … No way in hell would the tribunes agree to that, Joe knew. But if Rhee proposed it, then Joe's idea of giving each academy more autonomy would look that much better by comparison. The Watchers had too much bureaucracy anyway, too much paperwork. Maybe they should just shut down HQ. Not yet, but in a couple of years, after the new academies were better established, after all the Chronicles had been copied and stored in secure places. The Assistant Keeper of the Chronicles was due to retire this summer, and Joe decided to recommend Demiko for the job; she'd done great work in Research, and she really knew her stuff. Plus, she was a friend; she'd keep him up-to-date on what was going on after he retired. And after—

Rhee interrupted Joe's planning by asking, "Have you chosen your successor?"

"Not yet."

"Joseph," Rhee said in rebuke. "We are old, you and I. We can die at any time."

Anybody could. But Rhee was right. When their term ended in another five and a half years, Joe would be seventy-one and Rhee would be sixty-nine. Not that Joe planned on staying that long; Emory would kill him. "I just need to put some things in order, Emory; then I'll go," he had promised her last summer when he had taken another term. "You'd better," she warned. "I want my husband home at nights, and Haylie and Ian need their dad." Joe wanted to be home on time every night, too, and in another year or two, he would be. He just needed to finish a few things first.

"We cannot leave this to chance," Rhee said firmly. "Choose your successor and have the council approve him." He grinned evilly. "Do you want them to select Trier?"

Joe shuddered. Trier followed directions perfectly, to the letter, but the man couldn't blow his nose without a manual. Definitely not the person to put at the helm in the midst of a storm. "No."

"Then pick your successor and train him—now."

"I will," Joe promised.

Rhee nodded, mollified, then took out a match. "Sometimes," he said, lighting the match off the sole of his shoe, "after watching them for so many years, it is hard to remember that we are not immortal, too." He lit his cigarette, blew out the match, then leaned back in his chair. Smoke curled between them, dusty blue gray.

Bloodlines

======================
Spring and Summer 2013
Edinburgh, Scotland
======================

The days sped by, busy with work and play, and Cassandra kept a close eye on the twins. They were sixteen now, and their powers were coming to the fore. Even so, she wasn't prepared for Alex's abrupt announcement when she stopped by Cassandra's flat one bleak spring day.

"Colin's leaving."

Cassandra stopped with their tea half-poured. "Where?"

"Oregon. He'll be staying with John and Gina."

Cassandra nodded as she finished pouring the tea. John had spent a year with Duncan, soon after he'd turned seventeen. Connor wasn't the most easy-going of fathers, especially with his teenage sons. Cassandra carried the tray to the Japanese knee-high table in the center of the room, then knelt down. "This summer, after school's out?"

Alex reached for her tea, wrapping her fingers around the cup. "Tomorrow. He'll have to go through Canada, of course, since we couldn't get a travel permit so quickly, it not being an 'approved emergency,' but John will meet him in Vancouver then escort him across the border."

Cassandra pushed her tea aside. "Alex?"

Alex's cup went back down, a nervous rattle of china, and Alex got up from her cushion then went to a window and stared out at the rain pouring down. "Connor took a head two nights ago," Alex explained. "He's not hearing voices from the Quickening, but Colin is. All of them. All the Quickenings through the years."

Cassandra closed her eyes in dismay. The psychic backlash of multiple Quickenings was excruciating, and Colin had always been the more perceptive and more sensitive of the twins. "I'm sorry."

Alex swung around. "Why? It's not your fault Colin has this 'talent.'" She made it sound like a curse. "I'm the one who picked a sperm donor with a history of psychic ability in his family. I'm the one who married an Immortal who's taken more than two hundred heads. I'm the one who had—"

She stopped, biting her lip, and Cassandra offered, "I could come over, maybe help him to—"

"Colin doesn't want you near him," Alex interrupted bluntly. "You have voices, too."

Cassandra nodded slowly. "So I do."

Alex was near tears. "Connor went to stay in a hotel yesterday. He can't even tell Colin goodbye."

Cassandra went to stand by her friend, tried to touch her, but Alex pulled away. "I'm sorry," Cassandra said again.

"Did you foresee this?" Alex demanded. "In your dreams?"

"No. I've never dreamed of Colin."

Alex had never been slow. "But you have dreamed of Sara."

"Yes," Cassandra said. "A few years ago. But nothing of her powers, I would have told you. I only saw her, grown and standing next to me, with her daughter at her side."

Alex crossed her arms, hugging herself, her fingers digging into her flesh. "I take it I wasn't in that vision."

"No, but neither was Connor or Colin. That doesn't mean—"

"That we're dead?" Alex interrupted.

Cassandra didn't answer, and she didn't look away.

After a moment, Alex rubbed a hand over her face and sighed. "That's why you never mention your visions, isn't it?"

She shrugged helplessly. "The questions are often worse than the answers."

Alex's nod was a controlled jerk of the head. "And that's why I didn't want my children to have any of this at all." Her laugh sounded more like a sob. "Well, it's too late for that. I suppose I should be thankful that Sara can hear only trees." Alex fixed Cassandra with a suspicious stare. "So far."

"I don't know what's going to happen, Alex. I only wish I could help."

"Thank you." Alex walked across the room and picked up her coat and her purse from the hook near the door. "I think you've done quite enough."

Cassandra started to follow. "Alex—"

"I have to go."

It was two weeks before Alex spoke to Cassandra again. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was … upset."

"I understand," Cassandra said immediately, and she did. "You had cause. How is he?" she asked, still hoping to help, if only by offering to listen to her friend.

"John took Colin camping, and they talked," Alex said. "Colin's answering our letters now, so he's doing better, which means Connor and I are, too. I think, in time, Colin will come home."

It was nearly five months before Colin returned, just before the fall school term began. "I don't want it," he told Cassandra on the phone. "My dad's more important to me than anything I could ever get from this 'talent.' Help me make it go away." Sara, on the other hand, had decided to be a witch.

"She doesn't know what she's getting into, Cassandra," Alex said, pacing back and forth in front of the wall of windows in Cassandra's flat. "She has no idea."

"I have warned her of the dangers, Alex."

Alex stopped walking to give Cassandra a measuring stare. "So she said."

Cassandra returned the stare without a blink. "And it's true."

After a moment, Alex sighed then joined Cassandra at the table. "We had a 'family conference' yesterday afternoon."

Cassandra knew that already. Sara had called her as soon as it was over, to say that her parents had given her permission and that she wanted to get started right away. Cassandra didn't tell Alex that Sara had called.

Alex sighed again. "She wants to be special, to have magic powers, to be a hero. She always has."

"Most children do."

"Yes. But my children have the option to make that fantasy real. And they see their father and their uncle walking in a world of magic and swords, and then … there's you."

"The Witch of Donan Woods," Cassandra said wryly. "I know." She had crafted that persona to appeal to a different adolescent in a different time, but it still held considerable charm, and the twins had grown up hearing the tales. Cassandra had also known this decision was coming; she'd been preparing Sara and Colin for years.

Alex's smile was an unhappy mix of admiration and concern. "She's bright, she's determined, and she wants to be able to do as much as she possibly can. Just like her father."

"And just like you," Cassandra pointed out.

Alex looked up in surprise, then her smile softened to one of fond pride. "I suppose." She tapped her fingers on the table, just once. "I know I have to let go," Alex said. "Somehow, I thought I'd have more time. But I won't hold her back. Connor and I have decided that you can teach her how to use her powers, but not the Voice."

"Never," Cassandra agreed. She hadn't been about to in any case, but she also knew that Connor would be keeping a very close watch on his daughter—and on her. And indeed, Connor came with his children to Cassandra's flat so he could observe. He stopped after the first two lessons, but Cassandra knew he would never be far away.

Sara came on Wednesdays, right after school. "Can we look at the tarot cards today?" Sara asked in the second week of September, so Cassandra untied the white ribbon and unwrapped the green silk, and Sara spread out the deck. They spent half an hour on the cards then discussed Sara's most recent dream. Cassandra promised to start showing Sara how to scry next week. "And now for the enchanting part of magic," Sara said, going over to the harp, which was a joke between the two of them from years ago.

"I can never be a witch," ten-year-old Sara had said glumly, a failed spelling test crumpled in her hand. "What good is a witch who can't do spells?" Cassandra had sat by her side and taken the spelling test away then told her, "To enchant means to sing." Sara had brightened immediately and declared, "Music has to be easier than spelling, so that means enchantments have to be easier than spells!" Cassandra had been teaching Sara music for the last six years, all according to plan.

After Sara went home, Cassandra lit a candle then laid a reading of tarot cards on the floor. Three of the four suits were evenly represented—three cups, three wands, two pentacles—but the only sword showing was in the hand of Justice. The Sun and the Wheel were the two other major arcana, and they both spoke of things to come: accomplishment and happiness in the near future, and the inevitable changes of life in the final outcome.

Cassandra used the tip of her little finger to slide the three center cards apart, then picked up the Three of Pentacles from its place as the seeker, frowning slightly. She hadn't shuffled the deck before she'd done the spread—the cards had been just as Sara had left them—but the seeker wasn't Sara, as Cassandra had hoped. This seeker was herself: a white-haired craftsman carving wings out of stone. She'd laid out this card only once before, over sixteen years ago with Richie Ryan, the month before he died.

Overall though, Cassandra decided as she laid the card back down, almost all of the cards were positive ones. The covering card was the Ten of Cups (a happy family: mother, father, daughter, son). The Ace of Pentacles (a well-tended garden) was at the base, with Justice (balance and forethought) in the recent past, the Queen of Wands as the goal, and the Sun shining in the future. The Three of Cups was the card of influences: three young women dancing joyously in a meadow under a blue sky, representing past, present and future … the ideal of the Sisterhood, perhaps? The position of hopes and fears was filled by the Two of Wands: a young person looking out to sea with a globe in one hand and a staff in the other, carrying the meaning of watch and wait, almost always good advice.

At the base of the rod was the Four of Cups, the role of the Seeker in the current situation. The card showed a man staring discontentedly at three cups while a fourth hovered unnoticed just beside him. Cassandra reached for the guide book that had come with the cards. "Discontent with materialism," it read. "Introspection and contemplation. Solitude. Start of self-awareness."

That didn't sound too bad. But that crossing card … Cassandra studied the Ten of Wands: a man carrying a too-heavy burden of ten wands, trudging head down—walking blindly—to a distant town. Not good. The crossing card was sometimes called the challenge card, and it could be either a block to progress or a bridge across difficulties, but Cassandra knew a warning when she saw one. She'd been busy shaping things—and people—to her own ends, yet she didn't know where she was going, and she was still carrying a heavy load. Cassandra looked again at the Two of Wands, at the world balanced carefully in one hand.

So. She'd been doing too much, going too fast. The waiting wasn't over yet, and she apparently had more lessons to learn. No surprises there. She knew she was going too fast, but the world was careening with no one at the helm. All of the paths led to pain.

Continued in "The Devil You Know" wherein Cassandra is brought up short