London, England – Sunday, 18 October 2048
"You've had enough, mate," the stocky bartender said with a shake of his balding head.
Connor considered arguing with him. Or maybe hitting him. Or maybe picking up his stool and bashing the fellow in the corner, who was talking too loud. That might start an all-out, old-fashioned barroom brawl in this dark and crowded pub, complete with people crashing into tables and bottles being smashed over heads, and then he could go down swinging.
Instead, Connor picked up his empty shot glass and tilted it this way and that, watching the last lonely drop of golden liquid roll around the bottom. "Just one," Connor said, going for persuasion instead of argument. "A single this time. Then I'll go."
"Tea, coffee, or water," the bartender countered.
"I'm not driving," Connor added, but the bartender knew that already. No one drove in London anymore. It was all taxis and trams and the tube.
"I'm not worried about you driving on the street; I'm worried about you puking on my floor. I'm not keen on cleaning it up."
"An excellent point," Connor had to acknowledge then gave in. "Water."
His shot glass went away; a glass of water appeared. Connor drank it then walked to the men's room in the back of the bar and took care of business. Then, in a semi-quiet corner of the hallway, he called Duncan.
"How's Cassandra?" Duncan asked.
Cassandra was a cold-hearted, scheming bitch. But that was nothing new. "She's fine," Connor replied. She was coping.
"Is she drinking enough? Did she eat?"
"Yes." Before Duncan the medic could quiz him about Cassandra's blood pressure or bowel movements, Connor asked, "How are Alea and Will?"
"I saw them with their dad in the hotel restaurant. They were both eating."
That was an improvement. "Good," Connor said.
"Connor," Duncan said next, "come back to the hotel."
Connor didn't answer.
"All right," Duncan said evenly. "I'll come to you. What bar are you in?"
Connor didn't know.
Duncan sighed. "Connor…"
"I'll be there," Connor replied. "In a bit. I'm going to walk."
"OK," Duncan agreed after a moment. "I'll leave the light on for you."
At that trite expression of welcome, Connor abruptly found himself struggling with a smile and with tears. He leaned his forehead against the rough concrete wall, breathing carefully and with great control. Then he thanked Duncan in Gaelic, to make it real, and Duncan answered in kind.
Connor put away his phone and went back to the bar. The barkeep regarded him warily, but Connor asked for coffee, and that came quick enough. He could use the caffeine before he went outside; immortals might be on the prowl. The coffee was hot and black and bitter, and he drank it straight down. His tip was more than generous, and cash instead of card.
The bartender pocketed it swiftly, with a silent nod. "Whatever it is," he said as Connor stood to leave, "the drink won't help you to cope."
Cope.
What the hell did "coping" mean anyway? Struggling? Dealing with it? Or turning tragedy to your own advantage?
A coping saw cut odd and intricate angles in the wood. To cope a falcon was to clip its talons and its beak, leaving it defenseless.
Cope. What a fucking stupid word.
"Nothing will help," Connor told the bartender then pushed his way through the crowd of people, trying to get to the door. He was hemmed in by a dozen others when he sensed an immortal. He swore under his breath, and a middle-aged woman with green hair and one earring gave him a haughty glare.
Connor let himself be carried by the crowd, using it as camouflage. But in a tight corner near the doorway, jammed in with somebody's elbow in his ribs, he came face to face with Methos, the oldest immortal alive.
"Fancy meeting you here," Methos said, sounding chipper.
Connor didn't fancy meeting him at all.
"I'm sorry," Methos said, suddenly growing serious."I heard about your daughter."
No one else had called her that.
"She was … fiercely wonderful, from what little I saw," Methos said. "I wish I'd known Sara better."
No one else called her by her name. Connor's throat tightened and his eyes burned, and he dug his nails into his palms, clutching at pain to keep the tears away. It wasn't enough, so Connor summoned black rage from a deep and enduring well. "Sod off," Connor snarled then shoved his way out the door, getting outside just in time to breath in great gulps of cold air.
He started walking, hands in his pockets and his head down. The wind was damp and smelled of the sea, and the sun was gone.
Darkness had come.
Cassandra woke in darkness. She did not move or open her eyes. She was in her bed in her new flat. She was alone. No one was touching her. No one was holding her down. The dream was over. She was fine.
Cassandra sat up in bed and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. She hadn't had a dream like that in decades, but she suspected she'd be having them for the next month or so. Or maybe the next year.
She shuddered as revulsion uncoiled within her, spreading to all her limbs, its roots sucking life from a dark pit of dread. She didn't want to go through this again. She didn't want those dreams. She wanted to burrow back under the covers and escape back into sleep. She wanted to wake up in a different world, a world where yesterday had never happened, a world where Caorran was still alive.
But she couldn't, and she knew that, and she knew life had to go on. She also knew she wouldn't be getting back to sleep anytime soon. Cassandra flung the covers aside and got out of bed. She was hungry, but there was nothing in the kitchen. She dressed in the darkest clothes in Elise's wardrobe: grey trousers and a dark green top—mourning clothes. Outer symbols of inner pain. Right now, the grief was less piercing, more of a bone-deep ache. Grief would bring out its knives again, she knew, stabbing unexpectedly, any time and any place, stopping the breath and ripping open the heart, and she would drown in sorrow again. And still life would go on.
Cassandra braided her hair and hid it under a hat, pulled on a cloak, and headed out into the night. She found a pub and ordered half a pint and curried lamb stew. Cassandra was almost finished eating when the vidscreen on the wall announced the identity of the people in "the Pieto picture from the horrific bombing yesterday afternoon." The name Karen Harulfsen appeared in front of a ten-year-old photo of Caorran, while the man in the picture was "said to be the ex-husband, in town for the weekend."
Cassandra breathed a sigh of relief and sipped at her beer. A few hours ago, she'd called her contact in Phinyx's department of propaganda and made a suggestion, and the "facts" had been posted right away. Some people might quibble if they looked into Daniel's itinerary, but the "tragic love" storyline would become the accepted version quickly enough, and once a story took root, it was harder to eradicate than weeds.
She left the pub and went walking, past hospitals and museums and rows of houses. The moon was high in the sky and nearly full, she knew, but it was hidden behind thick scudding clouds. The air was cool and tasted of rain to come. She went south to the river, then watched the water flowing to the sea, thinking of what had gone wrong that day.
Connor's visit had started out as well as could be expected. He'd been irritable, but she'd expected that. Anger at death spilled over in many ways, and Connor wasn't himself right now. She wasn't herself right now, either.
No. That wasn't true. She was herself, the self she didn't want to be. "Hello, me," she murmured again. After the nightmares and the multiple deaths, she'd fallen into age-old patterns, waiting on him hand and foot, even asking for his permission to eat or to bathe. Then, when he had grown angry over the picture, she'd retreated into pathological submissiveness.
Cassandra sighed. It was a depressingly familiar dance, and she didn't ever want to do it again. She carefully identified each trigger and its cause, so that she could be more aware next time. Connor needed to understand, too. Tomorrow, she would explain. Duncan could vouch for her grief. Connor would be more reasonable, and then they could mourn Caorran together and try to heal.
Cassandra sent Connor a message, to let him know she wanted to talk, and then went walking again. Her path took her past the palace and then to the site of the attack from yesterday. Her footsteps slowed, but Cassandra kept going.
Caution tape cordoned off the ruined hotel, and the reek of smoke and burning hung in the air. The park was empty now. Offerings to the dead had been placed at the base of a fence. One of the hares in the bronze sculpture wore a scarf from St. Hildegarde's wrapped around its ears. A dozen trees stood tall and silent. In the dim light, their golden leaves looked pale as ash. Cassandra went from each to each, laying her hand upon the bark and listening to the heartbeat of the trees. They were young ones, not even three centuries, but their roots dug deep and their branches spread wide, and they spoke to her of heat-warmed soil and cool rain, of the nibbling of earth worms and the tickling of sparrows, of the quiet sleep of winter, and the coming of the spring.
When she found the tree where Caorran had died, Cassandra knelt and leaned forward, touching the earth with both hands and bowing her head to the ground. Her tears watered the earth, and three times she whispered Caorran's name. Cassandra placed a small candle on the ground and lit it, then leaned her back against the great trunk of the tree. The flame glowed in the darkness, touched now and again by a gust of wind, as she called forth memories of Caorran, cherishing each one. An infant in her arms, a little girl playing with kittens, a young woman dancing in her father's arms, Caorran trying on clothes, arguing about politics at council, a teenager in love, a colleague, a sister, a friend.
A daughter of her heart.
Methos wasn't surprised when Duncan called. Nor was he surprised by what Duncan had to say. "I'm sorry; I can't make it," Duncan said. They had planned to go horse-back riding in Devon. "Family emergency."
"Yes, I saw," Methos said. He sat down on the edge of the bed in his hotel room. "I'm sorry about Sara."
"Thanks." Duncan rubbed a hand along his jaw. "Connor's taking it hard."
Methos had to bite into his lip to keep from commenting on the elder MacLeod's foul mood. He'd gotten the whip-end of it in the bar. He said merely, "Losing a child hurts like hell."
Duncan blinked, his eyes lost in memory and his mouth tight with pain. He refocused and said, "Yeah."
They would have to talk about that sometime. Methos would like to know how many children Duncan had raised. But first: "I saw Laina Garrison's name on the list of the dead. How's Cassandra?"
"She was burned pretty badly in the second blast, but she's healed now."
Ergo, she still had her head Unlike another still-unknown immortal. Methos hadn't recognized any of the other names on the casualty list, but that meant nothing. And there was nothing to be done about it anyway.
"We're going to the Highlands tomorrow for Sara's funeral," Duncan said.
"I'm heading to Sheffield," Methos announced.. "I met a fellow at the conference who invited me to tour his facility there."
"Not that far away," Duncan observed.
Far enough.
"I'll call you," Duncan promised.
Getting closer all the time. "Good," Methos said.
As Connor walked through the dark streets of Soho, a song kept running through his head.
Little old lady got mutilated late last night. Ahoooo-yeah.
It wasn't raining. Not yet. He hadn't seen any werewolves in London, either, even though it was past midnight, and the moon was close to full. No immortals, either. Just the robo-rubbish collectors and the occasional cat prowling the streets.
If you hear him howling around your kitchen door, better not let him in.
On one particularly long car trip, seven-year-old Colin and Sara had sung the howling part from this tune. Over and over and over again. They'd thrown their heads back and pointed their faces upward and howled, then collapsed into giggles. Then they did it again. Alex had just laughed and howled with them, and eventually Connor had joined in, but giving voice to the howls he'd heard when he was young, when real wolves prowled outside. The kids had gone quiet, listening, their eyes wide.
Forty-five years ago.
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim.
It hurt to breathe. Connor leaned his back against a cold wall of brick and called Duncan. "I'm still walking," Connor said. He'd been walking for two hours, going nowhere.
"The light's still on," Duncan said. "But I'm going to bed."
"I'll be there soon," Connor told him. He'd wandered enough.
But on the way back to the hotel, cutting through one of the many parks in the city, Connor ran into someone else prowling late at night. He was young, perhaps mid-twenties, wearing plaid trousers and a dark jacket. His beard was clipped short, and so was his hair. He walked straight up to Connor, as if recognizing an old friend, then said calmly, "I'll have your money."
"No, you won't," Connor replied, just as calm.
"I will," the other replied, and a length of heavy pipe appeared in his hand.
Connor briefly considered pulling out his sword, but this was only a mortal. Besides, Connor didn't want to nick the edge. Instead, he settled into fighting mode—alert yet relaxed, a place of stillness at his core yet instantly ready to move. "Get out of my way," he warned.
For answer, the would-be thief jabbed at Connor's midsection with the end of the pipe. Connor pivoted to the side, getting away from the weapon but close to his opponent, and chopped with the knife-edge of his hand on the man's wrist, a swift and numbing blow. The pipe clattered to the ground as Connor stepped back and away. If Pipe-boy had any brains, he'd back away too, and they could each go on their way.
He didn't have any brains. He picked up the pipe and threw it at Connor's head. Connor ducked, but the pipe was spinning and the jagged edge caught him just above the right eye, and then Pipe-boy charged, screaming curses and with fists held low. Half-blinded and tasting his own blood, Connor snarled with laughter as he let loose the fighter inside.
The next few minutes were all grunts and punches and blows, with swearing on both sides. Connor got an elbow to the face, and he gave a supremely satisfying punch to the jaw that sent Pipe-boy staggering back and down. Connor went after him, ready for more.
From the ground, Pipe-boy kicked out and caught Connor just below the kneecap with the sharp edge of his boot heel. Connor grunted in pain, then hauled the thieving bastard up by the collar and swung him around, slamming Pipe-boy up against a lamppost and holding him there.
Pipe-boy hawked and spat out a mix of blood and spit then smiled crookedly and gasped out, "You motherfucking daughter-fucker."
Connor bared his teeth in a fierce and hungry smile. Then he let go with his right hand and punched the man just beneath the ribs, driving his fist deep. As Pipe-boy doubled over with a wheeze of tortured air, Connor yanked down with his left hand as he lifted up with his knee, breaking the man's nose and smashing his lips against his teeth.
Connor released his hold, and Pipe-boy slumped to the ground, panting in hoarse grunts. He started to pull himself up, hanging onto the lamp post. Connor waited until Pipe-boy was on his knees, then kicked him in the lower ribs. Something crunched, and Pipe-boy screamed. Connor smiled through bloody lips and kicked Pipe-boy again. He merely gurgled that time, lying on the ground.
It was then that Connor sensed another immortal, flickering at the edge of sensing range. He immediately pulled his sword and turned, zeroing in the immortal. Cassandra was standing in the park, her hands at her side, her face composed. Cassandra looked at the man he had beaten, and then she looked at him. In the dim light, everything was shades of black and white and gray. Her mouth was a thin dark line.
He's the hairy-handed gent who ran amuck in Kent. Better stay away from him.
Connor stood there, his hands sticky with blood and cold, his weapon in his hand and his enemy vanquished at his feet, and stared back. She had no right to judge him. She had no right to disapprove.
He didn't give a fuck what she thought, anyway.
For a long, silent moment they watched each other; then Cassandra backed up a good five paces before turning on her heel and walking away.
Continued in "Unusual Suspects" - Connor's investigation takes an unexpected turn