The MacLeod Farm in the Highlands – Tuesday, 20 October 2048
"The sky is crying," said a little girl during Sara's funeral.
Duncan watched as the girl tilted her face and caught a raindrop on her tongue.
"Hush now," the mother said as she took the girl by the hand. They went up to the vases of flowers in the back of the funeral cart, and the little girl chose an orange lily to drop into Sara's grave. The mother took a red carnation.
Elena had sent those lilies; the carnations came from someone in town. Amanda had sent white roses. When it was Duncan's turn, he took a sprig of heather from the spray that Ceirdwyn and Matthew McCormick had sent. Those two were busy running a boarding school for pre-immortals in Ohio, along with raising two they'd adopted as their own, but they'd called Connor as soon as they'd heard. Connor's very old friend Evann had called, too. Duncan hadn't seen anything from Cassandra or Grace, but then he didn't know what names they were using now.
Keiko Osato, Sara's childhood friend who had moved back to Japan, had sent a single orchid, and Oona carried it to the grave. Graham brought the wreath of yellow daisies that John had sent, since snow had grounded all the airplanes in Denver and kept John from coming to his sister's funeral. Connor was standing at the edge of the crowd, his head down, and Duncan went to be by his side. Alea and Will walked up together and tossed lavender for their mother. Daniel let go of a single rose.
The coffin was nearly hidden beneath blossoms of every color when Colin stepped forward. His hand trembled a bit as he dropped a withered branch with five wrinkled berries, probably something he and Sara had found decades before.
One of Alea's friends from school sang a song Duncan didn't recognize, and then people started to leave. The family went first, Alea and Will walking arm in arm with Daniel, and Colin and Oona holding hands as they went down the hill to the farmhouse. Graham took the horses and the funeral cart with the flowers to the stable.
"Isn't Grandpa coming?" the little girl asked, twisting around to look back at a stocky, gray-haired man wearing a tweed cap who was standing still.
"Leave him be," her mother said, and their footsteps faded, squelching on the faded yellow grass. Others drifted away: a gaggle of Alea's friends from school, people from the village, three older women walking side by side, silent in hooded gray robes.
"Teachers?" Duncan asked Connor quietly, motioning to the women.
Connor didn't bother to look up. "Half of what's left of the nine Phinyx councilors."
The man in the cap stayed.
A light rain began to fall, slow and relentless. Far below them, the surface of the loch was a sullen dark gray. The letters carved into the pair of gravestones were black: "Alexandra MacLeod (1962-2027) Beloved Wife and Mother" and "Rachel Ellenstein (1939-2041) Daughter and Friend."
The man reached into his coat pocket and took out a silver ring with a blue stone then stood twisting it between his fingers. When he finally looked up, he met Duncan's gaze. "I was going to ask her to marry me," the man explained. "At Christmas time." He looked back down at the casket and said softly, "We'd been together over a year."
Duncan hadn't known Sara even had a boyfriend. Judging from the utter stillness on Connor's face, Sara hadn't told her father, either.
The man knelt then leaned forward and dropped the ring on top of the yellow daisies. He got up with a creak of one knee and a grunt, nodded to Duncan and Connor then left them standing in the rain, next to a pile of dirt and an open grave.
Twenty-one years ago, Duncan had helped Connor dig Alex's grave. It had been summer then, not autumn. Colin and John had been there, too, and the four of them worked together and taken turns in the age-old ritual. But John wasn't here this time, and Colin and Graham had dug the grave yesterday, before the rain had started, before Connor had even arrived.
The final task, burying his daughter… Connor had claimed that for his own.
Duncan listened as Connor softly bade his daughter farewell in Gaelic, an ancient prayer of safe journeying. Duncan had said that same prayer when he had buried Deborah, over four hundred years ago, not so far away. Duncan's mother had said that prayer over him whenever he went hunting, and on the day he had left the clan.
Connor crossed himself at the end, slowly, and Duncan did the same. He let his hand keep moving, to wipe away the beginnings of tears.
"Goodbye, Princess," Connor whispered then resolutely picked up his shovel and started to dig. A clod of damp earth landed heavily on the flowers, the dark soil flattening the petals. Duncan got to work on the other side, and their shovels rose and fell as they shared in the ritual of duty and love.
When it was done, Duncan took out a fine single-malt from his bag, pulled the cork, and offered the bottle to his kinsman.
"Methos sent this?" Connor asked as he looked at the attached card, which read simply "MacLeod."
Duncan nodded.
"Is it to help me drown my sorrows?" Connor asked. "Or to help you put up with me?"
Probably a bit of both. "It's for the MacLeods," Duncan replied. "And that's us."
Connor was looking at the ground. "And them." He poured a bit of whisky on Sara's grave then lifted the bottle toward the sky. "To Sara," he said. He'd cleared his throat, but the words came out ragged and hoarse anyway. He drank, then gripped the bottle in both hands before handing it over.
"To Sara," Duncan echoed and drank in turn. The bottle was gritty from the dirt that had rubbed off Connor's hands. They drank to Rachel and to Alex next, and sprinkled whisky on their graves, and then they drank to their own parents, and to Heather and to Deborah. "And to my cousin Robert," Duncan said next, and they began calling out names of clansmen long-dead whose bones lay buried in these hills. They ran out of whisky before they ran out of names.
"Walk?" Duncan suggested. Connor nodded, and they set out across the hills.
The sky was still crying.
When Connor and Duncan returned to the farm at dusk, most of the cars were gone, but a lot of the lights in the farmhouse were still on. "Ready to go in?" Duncan asked.
Connor shook his head. "I'm going to the stable." Horses didn't ask questions or wonder who you were or inquire in hushed tones how you knew the deceased.
Duncan nodded, laid a hand lightly on Connor's shoulder, then headed for the house. Connor headed to the stable, seeking solitude.
But Colin was there, his face hidden in the mane of a bay mare, his arms around her neck. The horse just stood there, as horses will do, but Colin's shoulders were shaking, and Connor could hear his youngest son's anguished, wrenching sobs.
This, they could share.
Connor went up to Colin and put a hand on his upper arm. Colin turned to him, and they stood there, holding onto each other while they each let go.
After a long while, Colin said, "Damn it, Dad." His voice was muffled against Connor's shoulder, and he drew a shuddering breath.
Connor tried doing that, but it still hurt to breathe. "Damn it all to hell," he agreed, and the words hurt, too.
When they finally separated, they both studiously looked away, giving each other some time. Connor wiped his nose on his sleeve, then scrubbed at his face with his hands. Colin picked up a brush from a tack box and went to the other side of the horse.
Connor got the hoof pick out, then bent down and leaned his shoulder against the mare's foreleg. She lifted her foot, and he set to work on digging out muck. "What's the mare's name?" Connor asked as he dug loose a tiny stone.
"Penny," Colin replied. His brush loosened a cloud of dust from her flank. "Got her in trade. She's bouncy at the trot." He cleared his throat. "Sara loved to ride her."
Sara loved to ride. Connor had put her on a pony when she was three, and she'd been grinning from ear to ear. She and Colin had ridden nearly every day after school.
"She and Will would ride nearly every day after school," Colin said, with one of his eerie echoing of thoughts. "Will rides Butterscotch."
Connor turned his head to look at the sturdy chestnut who had poked his head out of his stall, obviously hoping for a treat.
"Will's going to keep living here," Colin announced. "Daniel agreed."
"Good," Connor said. The boy didn't need any more of his life ripped away.
"Alea's going to move here, too, before the baby's born."
That was good, too. No one should have to raise a baby alone. Connor gave the hoof a final brushing and let go. Penny stamped her foot down.
Connor straightened and faced his son over the mare's back. Colin's hair had faded to gray a few years ago, just like his sister's. In the last three days, his face had gone old with grief, and at the funeral his shoulders had been bowed like an old man's.
But his voice was still strong, and his hands were sure, and he was standing straighter now. "Just last week," Colin said, "Sara was talking about teaching her granddaughter how to ride." He patted the mare and tried to smile. "That's up to me now."
"Sara would like that," Connor said.
Colin's nod was firm; then he added, "I'll be teaching my own, too."
It took Connor a few seconds to puzzle that out. "Graham?"
"His girlfriend, Fila Barton, is due in April. They're going to live in the guest cottage."
And so the family would go on, with another generation of MacLeods on the farm. "Good," Connor said. "Kids should have cousins and family close by."
A sister.
They finished grooming in silence then put the tack away. They both paused outside the stable door and looked up at the daffodil hill, now only a faint outline in the dark. "When you called," Colin began in a low voice, "I already knew. There was … a silence inside me. An empty place." He managed a heartbreaking grin. "Twins, you know."
"I know," Connor said. He'd watched them grow up together, finishing each others' sentences or—more often—communicating without any words. When their powers had emerged, they'd even shared each others' dreams. Sara and Colin had taken different paths in life and lived in different countries, but they'd never grown apart.
Now she was gone.
Colin let out a long sigh then shook his head rapidly, as if to shake loose his thoughts. "You know how Alea looks like Mom?" he asked next.
Connor did know, and it was getting more obvious every year. Alex had been blonde and Alea was dark, but other than that, they might have been twins themselves. Alex had lived just long enough to hold her infant granddaughter in her arms. Sara never would.
"I'm hoping this baby will look like Sara," Colin confided.
Connor had a sudden image of Sara at two years old, blue-grey eyes glaring at him with outraged fury and utter disgust from under dark bangs because he'd told her it was time for bed. She'd been adorable. He'd still carried her up the stairs to her room. "Let's hope," Connor agreed.
Colin was looking at the daffodil hill again. "Remember what I said when Mom died?"
Connor cleared his throat. "You want to be buried there, too."
"It's a good place," Colin said, sounding at peace with the idea.
"Yeah," Connor had to agree. It was home.
Cassandra arrived at the MacLeod farm the morning after the funeral. The place seemed deserted; she sensed no immortals and saw no cars. But as Cassandra took a bag from her car, Colin came out from the stables, wearing work clothes and muddy boots. Her clothes weren't much better, though they weren't muddy yet.
"Dad went running," Colin told her as he came near. "He left at dawn."
It was nearly nine. When Connor was troubled, he would run for hours at a time.
"Oona just went shopping, and Uncle Duncan took Graham and Alea and Will to Glenfinnan this morning." Colin tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes a bit, the way Alex used to do. "But you know that."
She did. She'd called Duncan that morning and asked him to take the "younger set" away from the house. "They shouldn't see me."
"Right," Colin said with a nod. "Your character Laina died from the bomb."
Forthrightness was another gift the twins had shared. In spades.
Colin finished with: "It's just me here now."
Now that his sister was gone. "I am so sorry, Colin," Cassandra said, reaching out a hand to him, For an instant, his face crumpled and his eyes were bewildered with grief, and she remembered that look from when he was four years old and one of their cats had died, but then his expression went quiet again. His eyes were still sad.
"I'm sorry," she repeated.
He gripped her hand and said, "Me, too." Then he let go and nodded at the bag. "Did you bring flowers for Sara's grave?"
Not many spoke of the dead so simply. Not so soon. "Yes," Cassandra said.
"Good. They help. Mom's flowers bloom in March, February sometimes. I go up every day during the spring."
"Shall we plant them together?" Cassandra made herself say the name: "For Sara?"
Colin nodded, and they climbed the hill in silence, side by side. They worked silently, too, and they watered some of the bulbs with their tears. Only as the last of the bulbs went in did he say, "Planting bulbs on top of the grave is better than dropping flowers in. But most people don't like to get their hands dirty."
Their hands were muddy, and Cassandra had dirt under every nail. No gloves today, the hands and the earth should touch. "Were there many flowers?" she asked, wondering how the funeral had gone.
"Dozens, all kinds. But I gave her the rowan branch." Colin scooped a pile of dirt back into a hole.
His sister had taken that branch from a rowan tree on the day she and her brother had turned seven years old, the day Cassandra had told the twins their secret names. "Did it still have all five berries?" Cassandra asked.
"All five," Colin confirmed. He patted the earth down then rubbed the sleeve of his forearm across his eyes, wiping away tears.
"Gallan," she named him softly. "Branch of the rowan tree."
He looked up at the name, but his smile was wistful, and he shook his head. "Sara was Caorran, I know, but no magic name for me. No powers. I decided that thirty-five years ago."
Cassandra had helped him tamp the abilities down. But he still carried the power in his blood, and he still dreamed sometimes.
"The dreams are no help," Colin said, as if he had heard what she didn't say. "Sara and I both dreamed of fire and darkness for months, but we had no clue what it meant, and she died from a fiery bomb. The very last thing she said was: 'It's getting dark'." He shrugged then got to his feet and wiped his hands on his thighs.
Cassandra stood, too. "Her granddaughter will come here each spring, every day, to watch the flowers grow," she promised.
"I know," he said. "I'll bring her."
He didn't mention his own grandson, still to be born. But Cassandra knew that the boy from Fila and Graham would also come to this hill, as would some of Will's children. And their children, down through the ages. Cassandra could see them, a long line across the hills, shining with power and growing brighter as the blood lines intertwined even more.
Those dreams would also come true.
"I have to go," Colin said, looking at his phone. "Vet call. Are you going to wait for Dad?"
She nodded, and they parted with a hug. Cassandra had a final offering to make, but for now she sat by Caorran's grave to wait.
Soon enough, Connor appeared on the horizon, moving at a steady jog. He slowed to a walk when he reached the hill she was on, and he stopped three paces away. In the sunshine, the pale hairs of his beard gleamed. They would be soft under her hand, not scratchy, if she brushed her fingers the right way. His skin would be smooth, slick and salty from the run.
But she didn't dare to touch him, and she didn't want him to touch her. Cassandra breathed out silently and reminded herself to relax. He didn't look angry now. He wouldn't hit her, not here. "Colin and I planted flowers," she said.
Connor looked at the grave, where the dirt still bore the imprint of hands. "Good."
As usual, she counted to five to give him time to speak. Then she counted to five again. Nothing. It seemed their conversation was up to her. "What kind of flower did you place on the coffin?" she asked. They were both still looking at the dark earth of the grave, not at each other.
"None."
Lord of the monosyllable, he was. But the door had been opened, and once more she waited for him to step through.
"When I buried her," he said, almost too quietly to hear, "the dirt covered all the flowers."
And the earth had covered her. Cassandra closed her eyes as the tears began, making no attempt to wipe them away. Water for the flowers. Water for the dead.
When she opened her eyes, Connor was watching her. Judging her. As if he had the right. "I loved her, too," Cassandra flared, finally able to speak for herself.
"I know," he agreed quietly. "On Sunday, I was … upset."
"So was I," she shot back.
"I know," he agreed again, and the softness of his answer blunted the sharpness of hers. "I was wrong. And I'm sorry."
Cassandra hadn't heard that from Connor very often. She hadn't been sure if she'd hear it today, certainly not so quickly. "Thank you," she said as more tears came to her eyes. "I didn't respond well, I know. I was…" She had been haunted by the memory of Connor's hands holding her down as she died over and over again in pain, and as soon as he became angry, she had immediately gone behind her walls. He'd tried to force his way through, so she had kept retreating until he exploded in rage.
They'd done that dance before. She really needed to get that music out of her head. At least it was fading quickly, and the nightmares weren't so bad as she had feared. But she didn't want to go into that, not now, not here, so she settled for, "It was a horrible day."
"That it was," he agreed ,and they both went back to looking at Caorran's grave. "I went to the memorial service in London," he said next. "It was well done."
"I'm glad."
"I talked to Erika afterward. She said the second explosion wasn't planned, just a gas line."
Connor was watching her, waiting, so Cassandra said, "Oh." But she didn't see how this should matter to her. The dead were still dead.
"Don't you want to find the people who did this?" he asked.
What she wanted was for Caorran—and everyone else—to still be alive. But bombings happened all the time, and just because this one had affected her personally didn't make it any worse than countless others. That was why she worked to pull out the roots of such violence, not pick up its bloody fruit.
Besides, she had no training in investigation, except for interrogating people with the Voice, and she didn't want to go down that road, not again. "Vengeance is a sword with no handle, Connor. When you pick it up, you cut your own hand to the bone. I won't do that anymore."
"And you don't think I should, either," he challenged.
She tried not to sigh. "That's up to you." His mouth tightened in irritation, so Cassandra agreed with him where she could. "You're right; such bombings need to be stopped."
That seemed to mollify him, and he asked, "I told Erika I'd get back to her soon. You were there; did you see anything? Anyone?"
"Nothing unusual."
"Any ideas?"
Nothing the Guardians and the police weren't already considering, she was sure. "No."
"Who suggested you go outside that day?"
"I think it was Maril, one of the acolytes," Cassandra said. "The weather was beautiful." She was getting tired of the questions. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Erika wanted to know."
He was lying. She could tell. And he was watching her again. "Oh," she said in hurt surprise, as the pieces of the ugly picture came together and her heart slowly splintered apart. "You're wondering if I set the bomb."
"No."
That was true. But not completely. "You did wonder." He looked uncomfortable but he didn't deny it, and Cassandra caught her breath in pain. When he'd accused her of not caring about Caorran at all, he'd been distraught, and then he'd reacted with rage to her own pathological silence. Cassandra could understand that. But this devastating suspicion wasn't inspired by sudden rage. "How could you think this of me?" she whispered.
"It's a murder investigation," he explained, shifting his feet. "Everyone's a suspect."
"Even your daughter?" she challenged. "Did you consider her a suspect, even for an instant?" She already knew the answer to that. "Why me, and not her?"
"Don't be obtuse, Cassandra," he said wearily. "Sara never sacrificed innocents to a cause, and you have."
"So I have," she agreed slowly. She'd sacrificed them for lesser reasons, too. She'd done cruel and despicable things in her thirty-five hundred years. Methos wasn't the only one with brutality in his past. Connor knew some of what she'd done. His suspicion was not without reason.
But he knew other things, too. They'd been student and teacher, co-workers and friends. They'd been lovers. She'd opened her heart to this man. She'd bared her soul. "I have never deliberately hurt a child," she said. "You know that. Or you should."
"I do know that," Connor said. "That's why I decided you didn't do it."
"How kind of you," she replied with icy politeness. "If we hadn't had any childcare that day, would I still be a suspect?"
"No," he said flatly. "I don't believe you would do such a thing. All right?"
It wasn't all right. "Just how long," she asked, "did it take you to come to this decision?"
He sighed and rubbed his hand across his mouth and chin, a prelude to a lie. "Cassandra—"
"How long?" she demanded.
His head snapped up and he glared right back into her eyes. "It was a horrible day," he told her, tossing her words back in her face, so that her plea for understanding became an angry reminder. "It's been a fucking horrible week. My daughter is dead—murdered—and I'm trying to find the person to blame. All right?"
That wasn't all right, either. That was the sword with no handle that cut to the bone. But Connor wasn't ready to give up his dream of vengeance, and it was clear he hadn't been thinking well these past few days. She needed to forgive and let go of the hurt and the anger then move on. He needed her to. "All right," she agreed then forced herself to add, "I understand."
"Thank you," he said.
He should have offered her an apology.
"I do trust you, Cassandra," Connor said. "And I know you cared. I just…" He looked at the grave again. "God, I miss her."
"I know," Cassandra said, her eyes burning with tears. "I miss her, too. Caorran was my—"
"Her name," Connor ground out, taking a step forward, "was Sara." His voice was cold; his eyes were angry, and Cassandra found she could not move.
"Sara Heather MacLeod," he spelled out, and with each name his fists grew tighter, and Cassandra dared not look away.
"And she was my daughter," he snapped then took one more step, getting closer, much too close.
"Stop!" Cassandra ordered, summoning the deep-rooted Voice of command, and Connor froze. His muscles were locked and trembling, and eyes were shocked into disbelief. That shifted all too quickly to pent up rage, and Cassandra swiftly backed away, cursing herself for a fool. She should never have done that. She should have controlled herself better.
"I'm sorry," she whispered as she moved to the other side of Caorran's grave to put that barrier between them. He might hit her after all.
Connor shuddered himself free, a great rippling of rage, then turned his head to snarl, "What the hell?" and start to come at her once more.
Cassandra backed away once more as she opened her mouth, ready to command. He saw it and froze, this time on his own. Then he held up both hands, as if in surrender, and slowly backed away.
She swallowed, tasting bile, and held onto Rachel's gravestone for balance as her body trembled with relief, exhaustion, and fear. In slamming him hard, she'd drained herself. If she'd used all her power, she might have stopped his heart. Or her own.
Connor repeated, more calmly this time: "What the hell, Cassandra." His words sharpened as he demanded, "Using the Voice?"
"It just… I wasn't…" She was nearly babbling, and she marshaled her breathing, one in, one out. In, out. "I was defending myself," she said finally. "I was afraid."
"Of what?" He seemed honestly bewildered. "All I did was say her name."
"You were coming at me. Your hands were fists." He looked surprised. He probably hadn't even realized it. The urge to violence ran that deep in him.
"Damn it, Cassandra, I wasn't going to hit you," he said in exasperation. "I haven't hit you in fifty years."
But sometimes, she knew, he had wanted to. Fifty years ago, he had enjoyed hitting her, and five hundred years ago, he had enjoyed killing her. She had thought that his pleasure in her pain was only because of what she had done to him. She had thought she would be safe, as long as she didn't betray him or lie to him again.
Then she had seen him beating a mortal with his fists, and smiling at every blow. She had never seen him fight before, and she had never realized just how much he liked to kill, how much pleasure he took from inflicting pain.
It repulsed her. It terrified her, and so did he.
"You're afraid of me," Connor said, as if that were a surprise.
He was angry again; she could tell. But what did he expect? He was the one who'd been threatening and accusing her and then beating that helpless man into a bloody pulp. Why wouldn't she be afraid of him?
He was the one who would take her head if he believed her power with the Voice was a threat. He wanted her to be afraid of him. Cassandra wondered why she hadn't seen that before. To stay alive, she had to keep him happy. To stay alive, she had to please him.
She wasn't going to be that woman any more. Not with Methos, not with Roland, not with Kronos, not with Connor. Not with anyone.
Never again.
Cassandra went back behind her walls and shut the door, then settled into the silence and the safety there. She wouldn't be able to do this otherwise, and she knew it had to be done. "I think you were right, Connor," she said, her voice calm. "We're not good for each other."
"What?" he demanded, his eyes narrowed in confusion.
"This isn't working between us," she told him. "A relationship needs trust."
"I told you that I trust you."
She looked straight at him, feeling weary sadness and compassion. "But I don't trust you."
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he swore in disbelief. "After everything I've put up with? Listening to you, waiting for you, defending you…"
"You have been caring and kind and unbelievably patient with me," she agreed. "I appreciate that, truly. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you. I know that, and I am grateful. But … there's another side of you, Connor, and I don't feel safe when I'm near you."
"You sure that's me, and not you?" he prodded. "I know I lost my temper the other day, but you're always hypersensitive, Cassandra. You overreact. You see threats that don't exist."
"Yes," she admitted. Especially now. "Part of the problem is me. But not all. Was that man that you were beating in London 'hypersensitive', Connor?"
He rubbed his hand over his eyes then said, "He started it," as if trying for a joke.
"Did you finish it?"
"He'll live."
The words were grim, but it might have been grimmer. If she hadn't appeared, Connor might not have stopped in time.
"I'm an immortal," Connor said impatiently, defending himself. "I'm a warrior; I have to be. You know that. Or you should."
Once again, he'd thrown her own words back at her. This time, he'd missed the point. "I know you're a warrior. But you're a killer, too."
He shrugged. "We all are."
"No," she said, slowly shaking her head. "Not all of us enjoy hurting other people."
She was watching, so she saw him flinch as that truth struck home. But Connor had his own walls, and an instant he was hidden behind them, face blank and eyes watchful.
This needed to be finished. She wanted it done. "I can't be with you, Connor," she told him.
His only reaction was a long, measuring stare. "Still friends?"
She had pledged herself to that friendship. He was the best friend she had. "Yes. Always."
"But not lovers," he said, testing that ground.
"I can't," she whispered.
"Cassandra—"
"No."
After a long silent moment he nodded then turned and walked away. Cassandra knelt beside Caorran's grave and didn't watch him go.
Connor walked away from Cassandra, down off the hill where his wife and his daughters were buried, and he kept walking, past the horses and the house and down to the cold waters of the loch far below.
When he reached the water's edge, he started throwing rocks. They sank and disappeared, leaving tiny ripples behind.
Fuck.
That had not gone well.
It had started fine, but they'd pissed each other off fast enough. He should have waited a few days before asking her about the bombing, but he'd needed to be sure. Unfortunately, she could read him well enough to figure that out. On the other hand, he could also read her, and now he was certain she hadn't done it. So he could understand her getting mad about being a suspect. But how the hell could she not care about catching the bastards?
And why the hell couldn't she use Sara's real name? Even the memorial service had gotten it right. He'd spelled it out for her, only to see absolute panic in Cassandra's eyes just before the sound of her voice—her Voice—had whipped out and sliced into him, uncoiling in his mind and sending tendrils to strangle round around his legs and arms.
For a long, nauseating moment, he hadn't been able to move. She'd taken him by surprise, and that command had been knife-edged and made stronger by her fear. Plus, he was out of practice in resisting, which was his own damn fault for not getting a refresher course every ten years or so. But Cassandra hadn't been toying with him; she'd apologized even as she was backing away.
And so Connor had decided to let the Voice episode go. He'd lost his temper the other day; she'd lost her control today … both of them were still on edge and raw with grief. He knew that.
So did she.
She'd dumped him anyway. Instead of the classic "It's not you; it's me", she'd gone for "It's a little bit me, but mostly it's you."
He picked up a smooth, flat rock and skidded it across the water. It hit four times before it sank.
Cassandra had it backwards. It was a little bit him. It was mostly her. She was hypersensitive and jumping at shadows. She'd taken one fight, seen from a distance, and cast him in the role of a torturing sadist, like the ones who'd haunted her dreams.
He was a warrior, damn it, and he fought to win. And sometimes for fun. Yes, he'd gone too far the other night in London, but that happened in battle sometimes. She should know that, but she obviously wasn't thinking very clearly right now. Arguing with her in this mood was pointless; he knew that better than he wanted to. She'd calm down eventually, and they could figure this crap out then. And frankly, he could use some time away from Cassandra and her accusations and her moods.
Connor shook his head as he selected another rock. Looked like she was right about that: they weren't good for each other right now. He threw the rock as far as he could; then he headed back up the hill. When he reached the farm, Cassandra's car was gone.
Colin showed up just before noon. "Did you see Cassandra?" he asked. "Did she leave?"
"Oh, yeah," Connor replied. "She's gone."
Just before dinner, Connor went to the stable and started mucking stalls: steady, repetitive work that required no thought. Colin found him there."Dad…"
"What?" Connor said, looking up. His son's face was pale, carved old by lines of grief and new fear, and he was shaking his head. In his hands was a vid screen. Connor put down the muck rake to hear the bad news.
It wasn't a bomb. Not a human bomb, anyway. Yellowstone had erupted. That national park was really a super volcano that had been dormant for over six hundred thousand years. "Wasn't there any warning?" Connor asked.
"The US dismantled their Geological Service twenty years ago."
The map on the screen showed North America. Nearly the entire western half of the continent was colored: the lava flow area was bright red, the ash fallout orange, the ash cloud pink. The red area covered most of Wyoming; the orange covered nearly to the Mississippi River. The pink was scheduled to reach Scotland in a few days. The death toll was estimated in the millions.
Connor lifted a hand to the screen, as if he could wipe those deadly colors away, then dropped it numbly and whispered, "John."
He trudged back up the hillside, to talk to Alex and Rachel. And Sara. She was buried there, too. It still didn't seem real.
It was raining again, and the sun was almost gone. The earth of Sara's grave still bore the imprint of Cassandra's hands. More flowers would bloom in the spring. Crocus, maybe. Purple and white. Sara had always liked those.
Connor knelt on the damp earth to tell them about the volcano. It helped, to talk. "Alea and Will are staying here with Colin and Oona and Graham," Connor said, the wind carrying his words. "Alea's baby will be here in a few months. They'll be fine, here in the Highlands with Colin. I'm going to go look for John. Maybe … maybe bring him home."
Maybe right here.
Connor was about to leave when he noticed the triple braid of copper hair lying coiled at the foot of Sara's grave. He touched it, picked it up, ran it through his hands. It was silk under his fingers, nearly four feet long, but no longer a living cloak, soft and warm against his skin. The hair was heavy, cold, and dead.
Connor lifted his face to the darkening sky and let the rain run down.
Continued in "Inferno" - The MacLeods mount a rescue mission, and Cassandra goes to Methos for advice