The English Channel, January 2044
"MacLeod!" yelled Pierre, his voice just barely loud enough to be heard above the roar of the rotor blades above them. Jean-Paul was holding the helicopter steady above them, so that they could reach the man in the water, but the downwash was whipping the water to a white froth, and the salt-sea mist froze in tiny droplets on every surface, coating everything with slick ice.
Duncan waited for the crest of the wave then tossed the end of the rope to Pierre, who snagged it from the air with his left hand. Duncan waited until Pierre had clipped the rope to his life preserver, then slowly and steadily pulled Pierre and his rescuee to the net. When they were close, Duncan hauled the rescue—a thin man in his twenties—into the seat and strapped him in. He was pale, but still shivering, a good sign. Then Duncan gave Pierre a quick hand in clambering on and checked all their harnesses before giving the crew waiting above the signal to winch them up.
The trip up into the helicopter was exhilarating, if freezing, and Duncan took the opportunity to enjoy the view. The gray waters of the Atlantic stretched to the horizon, save for the smudge to the north that was the coastline of England, and another smudge to the south that was France. The young man's boat was a pale yellow dot below them; its mast snapped in two.
Then they were in the helicopter, out of the frigid wind, and the doors were sliding shut, even as the craft tilted forward and Jean-Paul headed for home. Marie's fingers, warmer and more nimble than theirs, undid the icy buckles and helped them from the net. Ahmed immediately began checking the young man for injuries, and Marie pressed a cup of hot coffee into Duncan's numb hands. Pierre was cradling an identical mug, emblazoned with their company's logo: a pair of outstretched hands above the name Soteria, spelled out in blue letters.
They took the young man to hospital, where the medics said he would be fine. Then Duncan flew the crew back to the station, and they all piled out to clean up and get ready to go out again. "What kind of idiot takes a sailboat into the English Channel in January?" Pierre asked as he laid the rescue net flat on the floor.
"A nearly dead idiot," Marie answered, checking the net carefully for weak spots.
And a soon-to-be much poorer idiot, Duncan reflected. The bill for this rescue would be huge. But maybe the young man would be more careful next time. Duncan and Jean-Paul ran through the standard post-flight checklist, and then Jean-Paul went home, already two hours past the end of his shift. Duncan started refueling the helicopter, and Pierre and Marie placed the neatly folded net back aboard.
After filing his report and eating lunch with his friends, Duncan checked the day's reports for western Europe, skimming down the list: ship in distress, plane with an unconscious pilot, person overboard, small plane with engine failure, ship requesting medical assistance for a passenger…
Duncan stopped and went back to the plane with engine failure. He knew that registration number. Duncan pressed play on the distress call
"Mayday. Mayday. Mayday," a woman said, her English tinged with an Argentine accent. Duncan knew that voice, too – Elena Duran. Half a century ago, Duncan and Elena had been lovers for a few years. Duncan had left first, driven to wandering by grief over Richie's death and an emptiness nothing seemed to fill. In time, Duncan had healed, and within the decade, Duncan and Elena had each married a mortal. By unspoken agreement they'd carefully avoided each other since then, though Duncan had seen Elena's name in the news now and again; her husband's family was both well-to-do and well-known.
"Engines failed," Elena's voice continued. "Three onboard. Heading west. Landing on water between islands of Sardinia and Minorca. Mayday."
Her words were measured and clear, but Duncan heard the tension underneath. Elena's husband, Lorenzo Ponti, was probably flying. He might be able to set the plane down safely; the waves weren't too high today. Elena and her family could be rescued soon.
Duncan waited. Seventeen minutes later, forty-eight minutes after the original distress call, the report came in from the Barcelona station: "Site reached, plane already submerged, no emergency beacon, no survivors seen in water."
Even if she had died in the crash, Elena would survive. She might be trapped inside the plane at the bottom of the sea. She might be floating in the water with broken bones and internal injuries, or dying repeatedly from hypothermia. But unless she'd been decapitated in the crash, she would survive. Duncan was not going to leave her in the water.
He called Margot and asked if she could cover his shift, and he sent a message to Cassandra and told her he was going to look for Elena. Then Duncan went to see the station chief. "I need to leave," Duncan said. "Family emergency. Margot said she can be the pilot on call for the next few days."
The chief nodded, asked a few questions, and offered to help. Duncan thanked him and lied and finally got out the door. Duncan made a copy of the charts and the coordinates of the crash site then surreptitiously packed his diving gear. The suit cost half a million Euros and was supposed to stay onsite, but he needed it. He'd bring it back soon. Margot arrived as he was loading his car. Duncan gave Margot the standard change-of-shift briefing then headed for the airport.
By the time he reached the isle of Minorca that evening, everything was closed, but in a bar near the docks he found a boat captain who was willing to go out early the next morning, for the right price. Duncan counted out the bills, then went to a hotel to sleep.
In the predawn darkness on Sunday morning, the little boat chugged its way through quiet seas, while in the cabin, Duncan maneuvered himself into the different layers of his diving suit. The captain shook his head, saying, "The water is very cold, señor."
"Special gear," Duncan said as he adjusted the collar seal. Duncan's crew had finished their training for these new suits only a few months ago. Not as bulky or as buoyant as a space suit, it was designed for pressure instead of vacuum, and it would maintain his body temperature for an hour even in waters as cold as these. Luckily, the crash had happened near the shore, so the plane wouldn't be too deep. Otherwise, he would have had to rent a submarine.
They arrived at the ditching site just after dawn. Duncan set his receiver to the frequency of the plane's emergency transponder then checked his tanks and put on his helmet. The captain shook his head again when Duncan went over the side. Below the surface, darkness still reigned. Duncan flicked on the headlamp and started going down. The beeping of the transponder grew stronger, guiding him, and after a long, cold descent, he could see the dim outline of the plane. The craft was on its side, one wing crumpled. Duncan didn't bother to try to open its door or go inside; if Elena had been inside he would have sensed her presence. She wasn't there.
Duncan headed for the surface, taking his time to let the pressure equalize. Small waves lapped at his face plate and over his shoulders when he finally reached the top. He radioed the captain, and the boat chugged toward him. The captain shook his head again as he helped Duncan into the boat. Back in the cabin and out of his diving gear, Duncan gratefully drank the hot coffee from the thermos. Even with his fancy suit, that water was damn cold.
As they headed for shore, he called his hotel and asked them for information about helicopter tours. By noon, he was in the air, scanning the waters with eyes and immortal senses as the pilot flew back and forth in a search pattern. After five hours and two refuelings, they had to stop. Nightfall came early in winter.
Duncan stood on the city dock, staring at the shimmering reflection of lights on black water. Elena's plane had gone down thirty hours ago. In water this cold, thirty minutes was enough to kill. He'd gotten here as fast as he could and done everything he could, and he still couldn't find her.
He pulled out his phone and called Cassandra. "No," she said. "No word." Elena was still lost in that frigid water, in the darkness, dying over and over, alone. Duncan would search again tomorrow, starting at dawn.
He climbed the steep hill from the harbor to his hotel, showered and took a nap, then went walking the town and found a restaurant in a white stucco building. At a nearby table, Italians with expensive camera gear were talking of the Ponti plane crash and speculating about why the plane had gone down. The paparazzi were already in town.
Duncan ate an excellent seafood dinner and was about to order a dessert when he caught the whisper touch of an immortal walking by. Perhaps Elena had made it to land? Or perhaps this was an immortal's home town.
And perhaps an immortal had come hunting. Elena would be seen as easy prey.
Duncan dropped bills on the table and started searching, on land this time. After a frustrating two hours of cat-and-mouse through narrow alleys, wider streets, and the occasional open plaza, he finally zeroed in on the other immortal coming out of the bus station in the center of town. Duncan followed him to the park on the other side of the street.
"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," Duncan said pleasantly when they were about five paces apart. In the yellowish light of the distant street lamp, it was hard to judge age, but the other man had no hair. He was shorter than Duncan, but not by much.
"Josef Kivitsky," the other replied, not so pleasantly. "Do you live on this island?"
"No. Do you?"
"No. Are you visiting friends? Or hunting?"
Duncan smiled tightly. "Searching."
"For Elena Duran," Kivitsky said with a nod. "I arrived here yesterday afternoon from Monaco, only two hours after her plane went down, and I've been waiting for her to reach land ever since. I got here first, so I have first claim to her head. Leave."
Duncan almost smiled at the other's arrogance. "It doesn't work like that."
"I say it does." Kivitsky pushed back his dark green coat, revealing the hilt of his sword.
At least it wasn't a gun. "We don't have to fight," Duncan said, already evaluating the terrain. Tall trees surrounded a level grassy space that was dominated by an obelisk atop stone steps. This late at night in the dead of winter, no one else was outside, and the surrounding buildings were commercial, not residential. They were unlikely to be interrupted. "You stop hunting Duran," Duncan offered, "you keep your head."
In answer, Kivitsky drew his sword.
"Don't do this," Duncan warned once more, but when Kivitsky started toward him, Duncan drew his katana. They circled each other twice, then Kivitsky attacked. He was a decent but unimaginative swordsman, and Duncan ended the first bout by drawing blood with a slice to Kivitsky's upper arm. "Walk away," Duncan said as they circled each other again. "I don't want your head."
"I want yours," snarled Kivitsky and attacked with a flurry of blows that left them both panting. Their breath came out in puffs of white fog. Then they both froze, sensing another immortal just within range. Duncan wondered if it were a local immortal, another hunter, or had Elena made it to shore? And if so, had Kivitsky actually been hunting her all evening?
Duncan banished those thoughts for now and kept his attention on his opponent with the naked blade. Kivitsky glanced over his shoulder then attacked again.
Duncan just wanted this to be over. He drove the other man away from the open space near the obelisk to a place where deep shadows lay beneath the trees. Then Duncan finished the fight with brutal efficiency, slicing the tendon behind the knee so that Kivitsky went down. Kivitsky kept his sword up, trying to maintain a defense while his leg healed, but Duncan simply circled behind him to deliver the final fatal blow. The head fell with a muffled thump onto dead leaves, and the body crumpled to the ground. More fog rose from the warm spilled blood. Duncan stood with teeth gritted, arms upraised and katana in hand, bracing himself for the storm of lightning to come.
The Quickening blasted through him and drove him to his knees, and when it was over the scent of burning leaves hung in the air, like a pleasant autumn day. He also caught a whiff of melted plastic; he'd lost another phone. The next one he bought would be ceramic. He immediately got to his feet, preparing to fight again, but there was no trace of the unknown immortal, and Duncan breathed a sigh that mingled relief and disappointment. Elena would have stayed.
Duncan left the body and its head where they lay. He had no way to get them out of the city, and touching anything would just leave traces of himself behind. He did take the other man's sword.
Then Duncan walked the nearby streets, searching, but sensed nothing. The other immortal, whoever it was, had probably gone to bed. It was dark, it was cold, and it was two in the morning. Duncan went back to his hotel room and used the phone there.
It was picked up on the second ring. "Hello."
"Connor," Duncan said in greeting.
"Duncan," his kinsman replied then said, "Elena made land."
"Thank God," Duncan said, closing his eyes in relief and shuddering even though the room was warm. "That water is damn cold."
"We've been trying to call you," Connor told him.
"My phone got fried," Duncan explained.
"Ah," Connor said in understanding.
He didn't ask who, and Duncan didn't volunteer. Mentioning recent murder victims by name on an open phone line wasn't smart. Duncan snorted in disgust. "He told me that since he got to the island first, he had priority."
"Bald?" Connor asked.
And just how did Connor know that? "Yeah," Duncan said.
"Elena called just after midnight and told us she was being 'followed' by a pelon," Connor explained.
So Kivitsky had lied. Not exactly a surprise.
"There could be others," Connor warned.
Other people 'following', more immortals hunting. "I know," Duncan said. The Ponti plane crash was all over the news. "Where was she?"
"She called from Estación de Autobuses de Mahón," Connor told Duncan.
Duncan had been at that same bus station, which meant it had been Elena he'd sensed during the fight. She must not have recognized him. Maybe she'd left before the fight was even over? But that wasn't like her; Elena was just like a cat: both curious and stubborn. Duncan said carefully, "I'm surprised we haven't run into each other yet."
"I think she's defenseless," Connor said next.
Which meant she didn't have a sword. Duncan swore softly, but now he understood why she'd run. Elena was also smart. She wouldn't linger if she couldn't fight. "I'll find her," Duncan said. He'd start checking the churches; unarmed immortals usually went to Holy Ground.
Then Cassandra came on the line, and Duncan briefly wondered if they were in Connor's bed or hers. "Duncan, stay in touch," she said. "Elena should call me soon, if she's all right. I'll tell her the name of your hotel."
"Thank you," Duncan said. It would help a lot if Elena were looking for him, instead of trying to hide.
Duncan took a quick shower then called for a cab. He sat in the back seat and took a tour of all the cemeteries and places of worship: twelve churches (almost all Catholic), two temples (one Gaian and one Mormon), two synagogues, and one mosque. At each one, he got out of the cab and called Elena's name, while the cab driver whistled tunelessly. Elena never answered. Around dawn, Duncan returned to his hotel room once more.
A message from Cassandra was waiting: "Duncan, I told Elena you were on the island, but she was already at the airport, on her way to a convent in France. I think she needs some time alone, to grieve."
Duncan understood that, all too well.
"She said she'd be in touch soon," Cassandra said then wished him well and said goodbye.
So, Elena didn't need rescuing after all. But perhaps killing Kivitsky had helped to keep her alive. Duncan looked longingly at the bed, but a decapitated body lay only a few blocks away. It was best to leave town.
The airport was crowded with families returning for the traditional festival of St. Joseph, plus more paparazzi arriving. From the chatter around him, Duncan learned that Elena's grown son, Marcello Ponti, was planning to salvage the plane so that he could bury his mother, his father, and his grandmother in their family crypt in Rome. Duncan knew that one of those coffins would be empty; Elena was still very much alive.
Duncan slept on the flight back and went to bed early, too. On Tuesday he was back at work, the dive suit safely returned. He told Margot he'd take her and her husband out to dinner soon.
"How's your cousin?" asked the station chief.
"She pulled through," Duncan said with a happy smile. Then a distress call came in, and the rescue crew headed out to sea once more.
The next morning, he checked his messages and found the scan of a handwritten note from Elena.
"Duncan, thank you so much for coming to help me in Menorca. You saved my life! and I appreciate your love and friendship very much. I know I can always count on you. I'm here in Austria with Cassandra being still for a while, mourning, and trying to accept Lorenzo's death and the death of Elena Duran-Ponti. I'm sure I'll see you again soon. Gracias, che."
It was signed only with her first name, the letters bold and dramatic, just like her.
So much for the convent in France. Well, Elena had always been one to change her mind, and at the school in Austria she would have other immortals to talk to. Cassandra and Connor understood how hard it was to walk away from a life and from the people you love.
And Cassandra had obviously told Elena that Duncan had been the one fighting Kivitsky. Duncan was glad to know he had helped, and pleased to know Elena appreciated it. He called the florist in the village near the school. "We have lavender plants, but they are not yet in bloom," the woman told him. "I have a lovely ceramic bowl I can repot it in, to add color."
"That's perfect," Duncan said. To everything, there was a season, and it was winter still. The flowers would come in time.
Duncan read the letter twice more before he saved it in his files then headed to work. Elena sent him a thank-you note for the plant that evening, and after that, he heard nothing more.
Connor called him a week later. They talked about the new helicopter blades coming out and a recent book on the history of the Civil War, then traded news of their kind. "Any more shootings?" Duncan asked.
"One. Just before Christmas in Spain."
"They're happening all over the planet. Every … five years?"
"It's erratic, both time and place," Connor told him. "No pattern we can see. The Watchers don't have leads, either. So says Cassandra's spy."
"Send me all the files," Duncan said. "I'm going to take another look."
Connor nodded then mentioned, "Elena and I have been giving demonstrations to the students with different weapons. Not easy going against a leftie."
"It is a challenge," Duncan agreed. "Especially with Elena. She's hard to predict."
"In everything," Connor observed.
"How's she doing?" Duncan asked.
"Better. She's leaving here tomorrow, going to Basel in Switzerland to see a lawyer, then to Rome to visit her husband's grave. His funeral is tomorrow."
Having publicly died, Elena could not attend her husband's funeral or comfort her only son. She was completely cut off from her former life, and she was completely alone. "Thanks for letting me know," Duncan replied.
He met Elena at the train station in Basel, and she greeted him with a surprised smile and a quick touch of a gloved hand, quite unlike her usual exuberant hugs. But her grief was an unbreachable wall between them, and Duncan did not try to touch her at all. He was there as a friend, to stand by her side.
So he waited while Elena visited a lawyer and banker and settled some of her affairs. He took her out to dinner that night. They talked, and they listened, and when, hours later, Elena told Duncan, "I've always loved you. I would never have left Lorenzo, or betrayed him, but the fact is I love you, since that first day and forever," Duncan wasn't surprised.
"Querida," he called to her softly, Beloved, and Elena closed her eyes and blinked back tears. "I love you, too," he told her, and they smiled with a promise of love to come—someday.
The next morning on the train to Rome, Elena said, "Duncan, about what we said to each other last night… I meant it."
"Me, too," Duncan said.
"But now's not the time. You understand?"
Duncan did. Elena needed to grieve. She needed to rage and to weep and to curse the very earth and sky. He stood next to her again while she wept at her husband's grave and then from a distance watched her son, who was walking into a restaurant with his fiancée.
"At least Marcellino has Angelina," Elena said. "He won't be alone."
Duncan and Elena said farewell that night at the airport: she to Australia to go walk-about, he back to his search-and-rescue job in Caen.
Duncan didn't have any luck figuring out the shooter, though he went to a few places and investigated some more. On the phone, Methos was unhelpful and not very interested. "It's not that unusual, MacLeod, nor exactly new. There's a whole slew in the chronicles of 'death by arrow then by sword'."
"Can you send me that list?" Duncan asked, but Methos said no. Cassandra said yes, when Duncan asked her, but he still couldn't tell who the assassin was.
As spring was beginning to show, Cassandra sent a lavender plant to him, potted in a lovely ceramic bowl. "Last year, Elena asked me to take care of this while she traveled," the note said. "She's ready for it now."
When Elena arrived on his doorstep five days later—thin but very fit, dark from the sun and with a halo of glorious black hair—Duncan once again gave that lavender plant, a symbol of devotion, to Elena.
"It's about to bloom," she said, inhaling deeply, her fingers gently encircling the slender green stalks. "But how did Cassandra know when to send it? I didn't tell anyone I was coming."
"She is a witch," Duncan said with a shrug. He'd long ago given up trying to figure out how Cassandra knew what she knew. "Coffee?" he offered Elena, and they sat in his small courtyard and listened to the eager springtime courtship of the birds.
"This is a good time for me, right?" Elena asked. "There is no one else?"
Duncan shook his head. "I've been waiting for you."
Elena smiled and reached for his hand, and when he kissed her, she told him, "I love you," and he called her "Querida," once again.
The next morning, they planted the lavender outside in the courtyard, and it bloomed that very day. It grew magnificently all that summer, and when in the autumn they brought it back inside, they needed to get a larger bowl. After the winter, spring came again, and again in the courtyard, the lavender bloomed.
Next: Cassandra goes with Elena on a hunting trip