This section was written by Listen-r. Emory belongs to her.

Cassandra and the Sisterhood
Hope Triumphant II: Sister

THE DARKNESS

Friday Night, 1 August 2014
Le Blues Bar in Paris, France

All things considered, it wasn't a bad party, Emory decided. Joe always had been able to draw a crowd, and tonight at Le Blues Bar was no exception. Watchers, Immortals, musicians, random friends—they had all come. The large number of guests combined with the August heat made Emory extremely grateful for the luxury of efficient air-conditioning.

Yes. There were plenty of things she could still be grateful for.

There was, for example, plenty of food. Emory had ordered sandwiches, and most people had arrived with some dish or other in hand, as was customary for this sort of affair.

The live music was also working out nicely. The three-piece blues band was doing a good job of creating a pleasant ambiance without drowning out the conversation, as Emory had insisted to Joe when they had planned this months ago. People needed to be able to talk. The drummer was using only brushes, the stand-up bass player's amplifier was on its lowest setting, and the saxophonist was keeping the music soft and mellow.

No one was playing guitar.

But it was good that Joe had insisted on a live band for the occasion, because some people clearly weren't in any mood to talk. The music gave them something else to focus on, something to enjoy quietly while they nibbled on their sandwiches and drank their drinks. A few people were even dancing to the melancholy strains. Amanda was on the floor, swaying in time with a young man Emory recognized as one of Joe's musician friends, though she couldn't recall his name. But tonight, Amanda's perpetual sparkle and wit seemed to have disappeared. Now, she just looked inexpressibly sad.

Emory swallowed a lump in her throat and turned away from the dancers. At a table in the corner, Demiko and Marie were sharing a pitcher of margaritas. But the pitcher was almost empty and they were out of salt. Maybe she should say something to the waitress—

"Emory?"

Emory turned and saw Mike Barrett, one-time bartender at Joe's bar in Seacouver and one-time Watcher of Richie Ryan. Mike had lost some hair since the last time she had seen him, but he'd lost some weight, too. He looked good, fit and trim. She found herself smiling, despite everything. "Mike, I'm so glad to see you here," she welcomed him and gave him a hug, which he returned warmly.

"I'm glad I came, too," Mike said, pulling away then jamming his hands into his pockets. "Last week wasn't exactly … well … It wasn't about Joe. Or about anybody, really."

Emory felt her mouth twist in disgust. Last week's service had been horrible. "I know, Mike. I felt the same way." She tried to quash the swell of bitterness that accompanied the memory of the Watcher service, but wasn't completely successful. She'd waited her turn with everyone else while the intensive security checks and ID verification went on and on. Finally, she'd made it through that gauntlet, only to find herself in a ugly rented hall with bad acoustics, and confronted by an enormous picture of Watcher headquarters as it had been before the attack. The Watcher Emblem—those branching horns inside a circle with thirteen dots—had been hugely apparent: on the white banner across the top of the stage, on the podium (where the emblem was touched with gold trim), and on the programs that listed those being honored that day.

During the service, upper-level officials of the Watcher hierarchy gave dull, impersonal speeches that touted the grand history of the Watcher organization and made repeated glowing references to the four tribunes. "We will rebuild!" one of the speakers trumpeted, motioning to the picture of Watcher HQ, but Emory saw the doleful looks on other faces and Tribune Wildorfer's tight lips and shake of the head. They didn't have the money to rebuild, she knew. Wildorfer had told her that a few days before, along with other bad news.

"We're selling the schools," he'd said, nervously twisting a pen in his hands. "I thought it only right that you should know, Mrs. Dawson."

"Why?" Emory had demanded. Joe had poured his heart into those schools.

"We borrowed heavily to build them, and, with the current situation, they are not being used. Nor can they ever be used. Their locations are known. Also, we have additional expenses now. We—" He'd taken the cap off the pen and then put it back on. "To be blunt, Mrs. Dawson, we need the cash. And three companies have shown interest in the school facilities: Trithea Corporation, Phinyx Foundation, and Grayson/Crown. We may even get a bidding war."

Wildorfer had actually sounded pleased. Joe's life-work, what should have been his living memorial, sold off to the highest bidder, just to make ends meet. As Emory sat there, listening to gray men in gray suits droning on, she could think of only one thing: It had all been for nothing. For thousands of years, thousands of men and women had devoted their lives to keeping meticulous, invaluable, irreplaceable records of the lives of Immortals. And now the Chronicles were gone.

The destruction of Watcher headquarters was déjà vu all over again. She'd had the same sick, helpless sensation after the D.C. bomb. All those people dead, all that history erased … all gone. All those nights that Joe had spent typing feverishly at his keyboard to meet his deadline didn't matter. All those entries that Joe had written about Duncan MacLeod were gone. The schools Joe had worked so hard to create were going to be sold. Every sacrifice he had made, every compromise Emory had made to help him out, everything their family had done for the sake of Joe's job as Tribune of the Guild in the Watchers had been

for

nothing.

The last of the speakers finally sat down. The names of the four tribunes and the fifteen fallen guardsmen were read out. An honor guard marched with military precision across the stage with some flags. That was it. It was over. The numbered programs were collected on the way out the door. "Security sensitive material," one of the guardsmen explained.

Emory had fled for home, thanking god that she hadn't brought the children, though they'd wanted to go.

On an intellectual level, Emory understood that the service had been intended to remind everyone of the greatness of the Watcher organization, to try to reassure everyone that all was not lost. But in Emory's firm opinion, there was simply no place for political agendas or personal crusades in a memorial service. Rebuilding and re-establishing yourself and your life was important, certainly, but not when you were honoring the dead. A memorial service was meant to be a time and place for solace and healing. And those things had to come before the work and stress of rebuilding.

The only good thing that had come out of that service was to crystallize exactly what Emory did not want, under any circumstances, to happen tonight. And it wasn't happening. They were having a party, and although no one felt like celebrating, at least no one was being stifled with ceremony and overwhelmed with propaganda.

"Did you bring anyone with you?" she asked Mike. After the official Watcher service, Emory had gone out of her way to invite every Watcher she knew to this memorial service. Emory had also encouraged them to bring any friends who might want to come, known to her or not. Even if the Watchers couldn't be honest about their professional connection to Joe, at least they could be honest about their grief.

Mike shrugged and shook his head. "I wasn't even sure that I'd be coming," he admitted. A rueful smile touched his face. "But Demiko bullied me into it."

Emory smiled, genuinely pleased. "Good for her," she said firmly. She had always liked Demiko, and not just because the young woman was an angel of mercy who babysat the kids and brought over good food.

Mike snorted once and nodded in agreement. "And good for me. Thanks, Emory. This is good. With the schools closed, we can't do our usual ceremony, and we needed …" He trailed off.

Emory understood. "I know," she said sincerely, meeting Mike's troubled eyes. "I feel the same way. I think John Bancroft does, too," she said, nodding toward the man in the outmoded three-piece suit standing near the buffet. He'd been by himself most of the night, nursing a drink that could have been straight Coca-Cola, but probably wasn't. "Have you talked to him yet?" she asked Mike. "He's the only tribune who came, and…"

"And most of the Watchers here are lowly field agents who are too scared to talk to him," Mike finished. He grinned ruefully. "I know exactly how that feels. Nobody wants to talk me, either, ever since I became Chief of Internal Affairs." He took a step towards John, hesitated, and then turned back to Emory. And then, in a gesture that surprised and touched Emory more than she could say, Mike bent down and kissed her cheek. "Keep in touch, Emory," he said seriously. "We'll all miss you, terribly."

Emory nodded, unable to speak, and Mike went over to talk with John. She took the opportunity to try to regain her composure. She was not going to burst into tears. Not here. She needed to be strong now.

Emory started looking for her children, finally catching sight of them with Maurice, in the corner over by the windows. The elderly man was entertaining them with, of all things, a game of cat's cradle. Bless him. Emory would miss Maurice. He'd been so helpful with the bar (Emory had recently sold him the Dawson family share, making him sole owner), and he was always so sweet with the children.

Haylie was wearing her best dress, a sleeveless sheath that hung past her knees, black with silvery threads in curving lines. Emory wasn't sure if Haylie chose it because she wanted to dress up, or because she wanted to wear black. She looked very grown-up. Too grown-up, Joe might have said. It would only be a year or so before Emory would have to take Haylie shopping for a bra.

Little Ian (not so little, he would be nine two months from now) was looking equally handsome, and so much older in his navy blue sports jacket, button-down white shirt, and beige slacks. The patterned gray tie was too large and too long for him, and rather spoiled the formal appearance of his outfit. It was his father's tie. Ian had come to Emory a few hours ago, the tie in hand, and said: "I want to wear this one. Can you help me put it on?"

Emory hadn't been able to refuse. She hadn't been able to refuse when Haylie and Ian had asked to come to the party tonight, either. Or rather, they had both resolutely refused to be left behind with a sitter. Emory suspected that neither of them wanted to let her out of their sight. That needed to be addressed. They would both benefit from a little therapy from a sympathetic third party. And so would she. But for the moment, between getting ready for the move and getting this damn party together, Emory had her hands full. It had all been a lot more stressful than she'd originally anticipated.

She hadn't planned on doing all the work alone.

She scanned the crowd again, looking for a familiar face she knew better than to expect. Her heart sank just a little lower, just as her common sense had warned her it would, when she didn't see who she was looking for.

"I don't think any of our messages have reached him yet," came the quiet words close by her side, and Emory glanced around to see Duncan, who had appeared out of the crowd and was apparently reading her mind. She scowled, angry with herself for that moment of weakness, and angry with Duncan for catching her out.

Duncan misinterpreted her expression. "Methos will come as soon as he hears," he assured her.

"Don't be stupid," Emory snapped, even as she cringed inwardly at the harshness of her words and tone. What had happened to solace and healing? "Adam's worked very hard to disappear from the Watchers' eyes," Emory went on. "He wouldn't compromise all that work by showing up to visit me in a building that's full of the very people he's been avoiding. And I wouldn't want him to," she added, hating herself, because she knew that was a lie.

"He would have come if he'd known," Duncan quietly contradicted. "He'd have come because he wanted to, both to support you and to say goodbye to Joe. You're his family, Emory."

"Immortals don't have families," Emory retorted, which she knew perfectly well was both unkind and untrue. When and why had she become such a terrible liar? What was the matter with her?

As soon as Duncan had heard about the bombing, he'd immediately left his own family behind in New Zealand and flown all the way to Paris just to be with her. He'd been nothing but helpful and comforting ever since he'd arrived. Even in the midst of his own grief, Duncan had always had time for her and the kids. And Alex MacLeod, who was married to an Immortal, had sent a very kind letter just a few days ago, along with some origami animals her teenagers had made for Haylie and Ian to play with. Even Cassandra had sent a nice note.

Duncan, thankfully, didn't even dignify her untoward remark about families with a reply. "There are two scenarios that I can think of," Duncan was saying. "Either he never gets any of our messages and eventually contacts one of us, or he does get one of our messages and then immediately contacts the first person he can safely reach. In both cases, he's not going to be able to contact you, since he doesn't know your new address in Canada."

Emory sighed and nodded, not knowing what else to do or say. She hadn't seen or heard from Adam in over a year. Neither had Duncan or Amanda.

"But he does know my number, my address, and my email," Duncan continued, "and none of those is likely to change for another few years. He also knows that, of all of our friends, I'm the one most likely to keep track of you."

"That's because you're the most shameless mother hen in all history," Emory teased, but her heart wasn't really in it. She was more tired than she had realized. She needed to go, and soon. Duncan drew her close in a hug, and Emory let herself lean on him, for a moment. Duncan had always been the best of friends to her and to Joe.

"When Methos contacts me," said Duncan, pulling back a bit to look at her, "I'll tell him what's happened and give him your address. You can see for yourself how fast he gets to you. He'll come running."

Emory bit her lip. "You won't let him do anything stupid?"

Duncan squeezed her a little tighter. "You know I won't. Susan and I would like to have Thanksgiving with you this year," he said, changing the subject. "I don't know if you'd rather have it in Canada or in New Zealand, but either way works for us."

"Thank you, Duncan, that's very kind of you. Let me think about it, OK? We can talk about it the next time I call." It would be a good way to spend the family's first holiday, after what had happened. But first, she had other things that required her attention. Emory pulled away from Duncan's embrace. "The kids are tired," she said. "I need to take them home soon."

Duncan nodded. "I'll stop by tomorrow to help you with moving; what time would be good?"

"That's not nec—"

"I'm not leaving Paris until you do, Emory," Duncan interrupted her. "You can check my plane ticket, if you like. Getting ready for a move is a miserable job, and I'd like to help. When should I come by?"

She wanted to refuse. It was completely ridiculous, but she didn't want anyone to help her as she sorted through all of the things that belonged to their life in Paris. To allow that felt like some kind of betrayal, somehow. But she was so tired, and Duncan was right: moving was miserable. "After ten?" she suggested.

"I'll see you then," Duncan agreed.

Emory nodded and turned away to walk over to her children and Maurice. All three of them looked up at her approach, and she gave them the most reassuring smile she could muster. "Hey, kids. You about ready to go home?"

They both nodded, their gray eyes regarding her with the same silent intensity they'd shown for the past two weeks. Emory suspected that her own eyes might show something similar, but she hadn't taken the time to look. She wanted to just leave, now, but she could not bring herself to simply duck out on all of her guests. That would be an easy thing to do, but horribly unkind. "OK, just let me say goodbye to everyone, and then we'll go." Emory had a sudden vision of the unwashed dishes piled in their kitchen sink at home. "While I'm doing that, why don't you both get plates and fill them up with whatever you want to eat for dinner tonight."

Ian looked pensive. "Can I have a brownie and a cookie?"

One dessert was usually the limit. "You can have whatever you want," Emory allowed. Why the hell not? "Just make sure you also get at least one sandwich and one fruit or vegetable."

"Does the jello thing count as a fruit?" asked Haylie. "It has fruit in it." Some things, it seemed, remained constant even in the face of life's tragedies.

"I'll help you choose," Maurice interceded smoothly. The elderly man got up to follow the children to the buffet. "Don't worry, cherie. I'll make sure they get some dinner with their dessert."

"Thank you, Maurice," Emory said, warmly. On impulse, she grabbed his hand. "Thank you for everything."

Maurice had a wonderful smile. Emory would really miss his kind heart and amiable chatter. "You will be sure to visit me, eh?" he said pointedly. "I'm not so young as I once was."

"We will," Emory promised. "And maybe you could come to visit us in Canada."

Maurice rolled his eyes heavenward. "Canada. Your children's beautiful French will be hopelessly spoiled there." He shook his head in mock dismay. "I shall certainly have to come to set for them a good example." And then he was off after the kids. Satisfied that they were in good hands, Emory turned her attention back to her last duty.

She walked over to the small stage on which the musicians were performing, and politely waited for the song to come to an end. Then she stepped up on the platform, motioning to the musicians to take a break. "Excuse me," she called out to the crowd. "Excuse me, may I have everyone's attention, please?"

Had this event truly been the celebration Emory and Joe had originally planned, it would undoubtedly have been harder to get everyone to focus on her. Unfortunately, no one was celebrating today. It took less than a minute for a hush to fall over the entire room, and a hundred pairs of eyes stared at her intently, waiting for her to speak.

Emory steadied herself with a deep breath. She'd never liked public speaking in the best of circumstances, and this … this was the worst. "Everyone," she addressed the crowd. For a mad moment she actually considered saying "Friends, Watchers, musicians …" but thankfully the moment passed. "Everyone, the kids and I are going to go home in a minute, but I want you all to feel free to stay as long as you like. Le Blues Bar is going to remain closed to the public and open to all of you until midnight, or until the last person leaves, whichever comes first. Please take some of this wonderful food with you when you go home. We can't possibly eat it all, and I don't want it to go to waste."

That was a good beginning. Now for the hard part. "I want to thank each and every one of you for coming here tonight." She cleared her throat, which had grown unexpectedly tight. "Your being here, today, and your support through this … this tragedy … it means everything to us. I really can't tell you how grateful I am."

Oh god, she was choking up. Come on, Emory, she tried to rally herself. Just a few more words and this will all be over. Then you can go home and eat a brownie and a cookie, yourself.

"I think most of you know that this was supposed to be Joe's retirement party," Emory said. Her stomach clenched at the sick irony of that. "Joe and I wanted to have a chance to say goodbye to all of you, and to let you know how much your friendship has meant to both of us." Emory looked over the enormous number of people gathered around her. "I think Joe would have been pleased and humbled by how many people came here to … to say …" She couldn't say it. She wasn't ready. She didn't want to.

She had to. "To wish him a fond farewell."

Then, to Emory's absolute horror, she burst into tears. This wasn't fair. This was completely unfair. If that attack on Watcher headquarters had been delayed just one lousy month, they would all have been safe in Canada. Together.

But instead, her husband, her bluesman, her Joe, was dead from a stupid, pointless act of terrorism, and there wasn't even so much as a body left to bury.

Duncan appeared beside her and ushered her offstage, dismissing her distraught apologies for making a fool of herself in front of everyone. Outside, the August heat was like a slap in the face, but not an entirely unwelcome one. Maurice came out with Haylie and Ian, and Emory pulled herself together. This was completely inappropriate, falling apart in front of her guests—in front of her children, who needed her to be strong for them.

"Mom, are you OK?" asked Haylie, looking anxious.

Damn it. Emory tried to give her daughter an encouraging smile. It didn't feel quite as reassuring as she wanted it to be. "It's been a hard day," she said. "Let's get a cab and go home."

Except that they didn't get a taxi, because Duncan insisted on driving them himself, and Emory couldn't think of a reason to refuse. Once at home, she didn't even give a token protest when Duncan came in with them. She let Duncan set the kids up in front of the television while she walked back to her bedroom. It was only seven or so, but she wanted to go to bed. The idea of going through any more of this day awake was just too appalling.

Emory closed the door firmly behind her and kicked off her shoes. She could hear the television blaring in the other room, and dimly recognized the music for the opening credits of "The Incredible Adventures of Nellie Bly." Emory walked into her closet and undressed, pulling on a t-shirt and shorts to accommodate the hot weather.

She needed to go through the closet. The packers were coming on Monday, and Emory still needed to get everything sorted before they arrived. Plus the food needed to cleaned out of the kitchen, all the cleaning supplies given away, and the pictures taken down from the walls.

Emory looked around the bedroom helplessly. She was so tired, but she didn't really have time to just lie around. She had to get everything organized for the move. There were so many things that still needed doing: library books returned, computer backups finished, suitcases packed for the trip, boxes of essential items mailed ahead of time…

Her eyes rested on Joe's wheelchair, where it sat empty by his side of the bed. What the hell was she going to do with that? Joe had intended to bring it with him on the plane, to ensure that it wouldn't get damaged or lost. But of course, that wasn't going to happen now. So, now what was Emory supposed to do with it? What did you do with a used wheelchair? Donate it? Was she going to have to call around to hospitals and nursing homes on top of everything else? And what about Joe's assortment of canes? Or, for that matter, his clothes?

What the hell was Emory supposed to do with all these things? She didn't have time for this kind of nuisance! She was going crazy trying to take care of everything as it was, and yet it seemed every time she turned around, there was one more thing.

"Son of a bitch!" she cursed heatedly. Here she was, trying to take care of all the details, as always, and where was Joe when she needed him?

A soft knock came at the door, and Emory spun towards the sound. "Emory?" Duncan opened the door and cautiously peered in. "Do you need anything?"

That simple, innocent question was enough to send Emory screaming over the edge. "Yeah, I do! I need you to convince my husband to retire from his fucking job two years ago like he damn well promised he would!" She paced around the room as Duncan closed the door behind him.

"I knew that this job would be the death of him," she said angrily. "I knew it! The late hours, the constant interruptions—do you have any idea how often those idiots would call us during dinner? But he never told them not to call. He never could tell them 'no.' He promised me, he promised me he would retire, and then he took it back so he could stay on as Tribune of the Guild!

"He promised me he'd stop working late nights," Emory continued. "But he lied about that, too. He could keep his oath to his stupid, pointless job, but he couldn't keep a simple promise to me! I'm his wife! I should have been his first priority!"

"Emory, you were," Duncan protested. "You know you were—"

"I don't know any such thing!" Emory denied. "He called home nearly an hour—one whole hour!—before the bombing! He said he was coming home! If he'd been telling the truth, then he would be here, right now! But he lied to me, again. The fucking, no good bastard! I should never have married him!"

"Emory—"

"THIS IS ALL HIS FAULT!"

And suddenly Duncan was rocking her in his arms where she had collapsed on the floor, sobbing helplessly. How could Joe do this to her? How could he walk out on her when she needed him so much?

"Why didn't he come home?" she asked. "I want him to come home."

"I don't know, Emory," Duncan said softly, and it sounded like he was crying, too. "I just don't know."

"I can't do this all by myself."

"You won't have to," Duncan promised

"It's not the same!"

"I know."

"Please make him come home." She couldn't stop herself. It hurt too much. "Please … I need him to come home."

Emory cried for what seemed like hours. At some point Duncan tucked her into bed, and then left her for a moment so he could do the same for her children. If he came back to check on her, she never knew it.

In the morning she found him asleep on the couch, and was careful not to wake him as she padded into the kitchen for breakfast. When Emory opened the refrigerator, she discovered that Maurice, in his infinite kindness, had fixed her a plate of leftovers, too. She ignored the vegetables and ate the brownie first.

This story is continued in "A Matter of Time", in which Alex tries to navigate the maelstrom of an immortal marriage