Fairhill Academy, Ohio River Valley, 1 November 2050
Baden and Stef showed up before sunset, drawn by the smoke and the scent of roasting flesh on the wind. "Oh, dear God, no," Stef said, seeing the triple funeral pyre. "What happened?"
"Who is that?" Baden wanted to know at the same time.
"A wanderer," Chelle said. "He'd been camping out here for a while. Terah was bringing him food."
"And he killed her? And Tomas?" Baden asked in outrage.
"Yes," Chelle replied, and Connor didn't contradict the lie. The truth was unspeakable in front of a mortal, even one like Stef who'd been trained as a Guardian by Evann and Matthew at the Themis Institute and been working for Ceirdwyn this last year.
"Who killed him?" Stef asked.
"I did," Connor answered.
"He pulled a gun on me," Chelle explained immediately. "Connor got it away from him, but-" She took a deep breath. "And it was too late for the kids."
Connor stayed silent once more. All of that was true … in a way.
"I see," Stef said, taking note of the blood on his clothes then looking at their hands and faces. "I'll have to tell Maria when I go to town. The police need to know."
"I don't want any trouble," Connor said.
Stef looked at the blackened bodies. "Two murdered children, one dead bandit, Chelle as a witness, and Ceirdwyn and Ra'el and I will all vouch for the two of you… It should be all right," she said. "Though there will be questions. Especially since you burned the bodies."
Connor dealt with the implicit question in that last sentence by ignoring it; he knew the cops wouldn't let it go so easy. But he'd dealt with questions from cops before. And these days, they had their hands full, so the elimination of yet another bad guy was unlikely to get much of an investigation. The cops would more likely be glad of the help.
"Did you get a name?" Stef asked.
"Just David," Chelle said, but Connor pulled out David's wallet and handed it over, and Stef flipped through it, stopping at a picture ID of the dead man.
"Huh," Baden said in surprise.
"You know him?" Stef asked.
He looked closer then shook his head. "No. Just looks like someone I knew, back in school." But when Stef turned away, Baden mouthed the name "Preston" with his eyebrows raised, and his hands mimed holding a sword.
Connor nodded, and Baden spat on the ground. Connor went back to staring into the leaping flames of gold. Long spears of sunlight sliced between the trees as the sun lowered in the sky.
Chelle and the others left at sunset, but Duncan came. Connor told him what had really happened, and Duncan took his hand in a steadfast grip, his eyes dark with knowing pain. "I am so sorry, Connor," he said, using the Gaelic, and he stayed to keep vigil, standing by Connor's side.
Soon the moon rose, nearly full, just a little sliced off one side. Its bloody orange hue faded to white as it lifted above the trees. The dead orb crept, achingly slow, across the sky, and the flames gave up their dancing as the air grew cold and the fire slowly died. The coals went gray and then to black, the bodies reduced to ash and bones and skulls. Darkness lay its shroud upon the land.
The moon slid downward in the western sky, and in the east, the bloody sun appeared. Another day begun. All Souls' Day. The last of the three days of the dead.
The day to pray for the souls of the damned.
The low-slanting rays of the early morning sun glinted bright among the ash. Duncan stepped forward and picked up the small ball of orange glass with a leaf-shaped smear of green. He held it gingerly, for it was still hot. When he blew upon it, so that the moisture from his breath mixed with the chill morning air, it shattered.
Just as well. They didn't need mementos.
Back at the school, Connor stripped off his filthy clothes and washed, then cleaned and sharpened his sword. He lay down on the bed, but even though he'd been up all night, he couldn't sleep, not with two quickenings slamming around in his head. He got up and put on his running clothes.
Then an immortal knocked on his door. "Not now," he called, a polite way of telling them to go away, which was a polite way of saying fuck off.
But it was Ceirdwyn, and she asked him "please", so he finished putting on his shoes then went with her to the immortal conclave in the teacher's lounge. Ceirdwyn locked the door and Connor got out the whisky, no matter that it was not yet noon, and within the shadowed room, Chelle told them all the truth.
Gregor whistled softly, and Baden muttered, "Damn." Duncan nodded, eyes somber, while Ceirdwyn bowed her head and pressed her hands together as if in prayer. "Neverland," she repeated.
Second star to the right, and straight on till morning. And no way to ever get home. Connor leaned back in his chair and blinked his eyes to clear them, his lids scraping over grit.
"I'm sorry about Preston," Gregor told Ceirdwyn, taking her hand.
She lifted her head, the stark planes of her face carving a terrible beauty out of shadows and grief. "Another one we found too late."
Too late, too early… immortality could go wrong in many different ways. And since "David" was Preston, he couldn't have been the shooter/beheader they'd been hearing about these past twenty years; he was too young. The shooter was still out there, not playing by the rules. Connor idly swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching it go round and round.
"I found Terah's diary," Chelle said, putting a green notebook on the table. "Seems Tomas wasn't the first pre-immortal she's killed."
"What?" Duncan asked, leaning forward, and Baden said, "Who?"
"Zachary," Connor answered, seeing now why Terah had kept mentioning that name. "The night before his birthday."
Chelle nodded. "As soon as he revived and realized—"
"—he cut off his own head," Ceirdwyn finished, and everyone was silent, remembering that neatly orchestrated auto-decapitation in the barn.
"How'd she kill him?" Baden asked.
"A knife."
"We did knives in martial arts this summer," Gregor said. "She was very keen." He looked over at the collection of swords on the wall, which now included Preston's. "And we do teach them to kill."
There was more silence then. Connor took a sip of whiskey, and then another one.
"We should tell the kids about immortality," Baden said, as he had argued before. "They deserve to be warned."
"You'd tell a five-year-old that he'll be immortal someday," Gregor with flat disbelief. "That people will try to kill him with swords."
"If it motivates him to take sword lessons seriously, and that helps him to survive? Damn straight I'd tell. I'd sure as hell tell a fifteen-year-old."
"Or an eighteen-year-old," Chelle put in, fixing Duncan with a steady stare. "If I'd known—"
"You'd have been even more reckless," Duncan interrupted. Chelle's eyes narrowed, but she didn't disagree.
"If Tomas had known, he wouldn't have fallen for Terah's trick." Now it was Baden staring at Connor. "He would still be alive."
And if Chelle had killed Terah months ago like she should have done, none of this would have happened at all.
"We don't tell pre-immortals when they're young," Duncan said. "They need a chance for a normal life."
"Yeah?" Baden challenged. "And how's that 'normal life' working out for Tomas?" He snapped his fingers in an elaborate show of forgetting and said, "Oh, right. Not so good. 'Cause he's dead."
"We tell them when they graduate," Ceirdwyn said, joining the discussion and calming everyone down. "There would be too much chatter about it here if they all knew. And don't forget: it's our secret, too."
"So, how were you going to explain Terah to them?" Baden asked. "When the other kids noticed that she always looked nine?"
"I'd been making plans for her to leave," Ceirdwyn informed them. "Next month, actually."
Too fucking late. Again. Connor reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink.
"Is there anything else, Chelle?" Ceirdwyn asked, her usual graciousness gone brittle.
"I'm afraid so." She looked at the green diary, still on the table. "That night, before Terah killed Zachary, they became sexual partners."
Baden gagged in disgust. "How could he?"
"She was seductive," Gregor reminded them.
"And persistent," Duncan added.
Connor had had to tell her "no" only once. Duncan had probably been too nice about it.
Ceirdwyn was staring out the window at the cloudy sky. "Zachary was very lonely."
"So was she," Chelle said. She opened the diary and laid it flat so everyone could see. On one page, Terah had written her name over and over again, as people often do, especially when they don't know who they are. It was dated May 15, soon after she'd started to learn to read and write. The letters were big and over-controlled, painstakingly neat. On the facing page, the letters on each line were rearranged to spell other words:
TERAH
EARTH
RATHE
HATER
HEART
Before each word, in blue ink, she'd written "I am", and in the margin, she'd drawn a globe after the word "earth", a blossom after "rathe" and a lightning bolt after "hater". The spaces after her name and "heart" were blank, but a large heart encompassed all five words. A black zigzag line had been drawn on top of that shape, all the way around.
On the bottom of the page, in smaller letters and in black ink, were the words: "I am a broken heart."
Ceirdwyn reached out to touch the page, to trace the jagged edges of the heart. "I suggested she keep a diary, and she would show it to me every week. But that diary was pink. I never saw this one." She shook her head, lips pressed tight. "She seemed to be getting better. I didn't realize just how much she lied."
"What's a rathe?" Baden asked.
"It's an old English word," Duncan said. "It means fruit that ripens too early."
"And then gets blasted by frost," Connor added, just in case the non-farmers didn't get it, then he finished all the whisky in his glass. It wasn't enough. He closed his eyes again, sinking down in his chair.
"OK," Baden said. "A tragedy. I get that. And I get why you killed her," he said to Chelle. "She was a menace, like Kenny."
"Is Kenny blond, looks about ten years old?" Duncan asked immediately.
"That's him," Baden confirmed. "Kenny fed me a line about being new, and I bought it. But Chelle was on to the little bastard, and she took his head."
"Oh," Duncan said, sounding surprised, but then added, "Good."
"Amanda had warned me about him," Chelle explained. "She still cried when I told her Kenny was dead."
Yesterday, Connor had seen Chelle crying for Terah, and years ago, Cassandra had cried for Roland, who'd been a sadistic, murdering thug. Killing a child was never easy, no matter how evil or how old.
"But then Amanda said she knew that Kenny had to die," Chelle added.
"Right," Baden agreed. "So did Terah. But Tomas? What the hell, Connor?"
Connor opened his eyes to find Baden looking straight at him, indignantly fierce, saying, "He was a good kid."
Connor damn well knew that.
"He wasn't a threat to anyone," Baden continued. "So why'd you kill him?"
"He was seven years old," Connor said, stating the obvious.
"Yeah, so?"
Duncan answered that question: "Immortal children don't turn out well."
"And how many immortal adults 'don't turn out well'?" Baden demanded. "Fifteen percent? Fifty? Do you kill every adult immortal on sight, too, just in case they might 'turn out' bad?"
"No, of course not," Duncan answered.
"Then why don't kids get the same chance?"
"Because," Connor explained with weary patience, "they are easy targets for every headhunter on the planet. And every pedophile."
"They could live here at the school," Baden suggested, "for a—"
"—forever?" Connor interrupted. "Are you volunteering Ceirdwyn for that eternal job? Or are you going to stay here and watch over them for the rest of your life?"
"We could take turns," Baden said stubbornly. "Say, ten years at a time."
Connor raised an eyebrow at him. "You won't find many volunteers to change thirty thousand diapers."
"Tomas wasn't in diapers."
"Some of them are," Duncan put in. "I met a toddler once, about eighteen months old. When her father saw her healing and realized she hadn't grown for a while, he thought she was possessed by a demon."
Connor had heard that explanation for immortality before. Kate had named him demon, just before his clan had driven out with sharp-edged rocks and sharper words.
"So the father killed her," Duncan was saying, "then he started to bury her. When she revived, half-covered with dirt, he beat her to death with his shovel, then started burying her again. I don't know how many times she suffocated before I dug her out."
"And then you took her head?" Chelle asked in dismay.
"Yes, I did," Duncan said evenly. "To keep her safe. To keep her from an eternity of pain."
"Well, shit," Baden said, "why not just kill us all now? To keep us safe? To keep us from an eternity of pain?"
Sometimes, Connor was tempted. But he explained again, "Because we're old enough to take care of ourselves. They're not, and they never will be."
"Kenny was nearly a thousand years old," Baden shot back. "He lasted a hell of a lot longer than most immortals do. Seems to me he took care of himself fine."
"But Kenny wasn't 'fine'," Chelle contradicted, and her eyes were unfocused, looking inside. "He was angry and miserable and lonely." She looked at the book on the table, still showing a broken heart. "Like Terah."
"Like all of us," Gregor pointed out. "At times." He turned to Baden. "You asked what percentage of immortals 'turn out' bad. I can't say, but I will say that eventually, one hundred percent of us will 'go bad', at least for a while."
Baden—and Chelle—blinked in surprise then looked at each other before looking around at the elder four. One by one, they nodded. "We all have dark times," Ceirdwyn said.
Baden cursed under his breath, looking scared. Chelle's lips were tight together, and she wouldn't meet Connor's eyes.
"Sometimes, we lose perspective," Duncan explained. "Three hundred years ago, when the English invaded my county and were slaughtering my people, I killed Englishmen in return. A lot of them. I became what I was trying to kill. Finally," he said, glancing at Ceirdwyn, "and with help, I realized that, and I stopped."
"And sixty years ago, when I was hurting people," Gregor shared, "Duncan helped me to stop."
"You?" Chelle said in surprise. "But..."
"I'm a doctor, and doctors are supposed to help, I know. But doctors see a lot of death. After a while, that's all I saw: death, suffering, pain. Nothing lasted. Nothing mattered. Why not end it all?"
"Ouch." Chelle winced. "They warned us about depression in med school."
"They need to. It can be deadly, both to you and to others. Some people kill for no reason other than fun, but most people cause pain because they're in pain themselves."
Chelle touched Baden's hand, and he turned back to her. "Remember Alvarez?" she asked. "That village in the mountains?"
Baden grimaced. "War can fuck you up that way."
"My first war was when the Romans came," Ceirdwyn said. "My tribe lost. Some people killed their children and then themselves, so that they would die free and never have to live as slaves in the mines or the galleys or the brothels."
Baden was shaking his head. "Yeah, but that's not—"
Damn it, enough! Connor stood and slammed the flat of his hand down on the table, and five heads instantly turned his way. "The Game is war," Connor reminded the two young ones harshly. "We're either soldiers in it, or prisoners of it."
"We're both," Ceirdwyn said softly. "Soldiers and prisoners."
"The kids are prisoners," he ground out. "Forever. And an endless war is no place for an eternal child."
Connor left the room and went running, ten miles at a punishing pace. As he got back to the school, a black crow took off from the stripped and empty garden, and Connor stopped to watch. The crow's wings beat steadily as it aimed for a bare oak tree nearby. It took up a sentinel perch on a high branch, black beak jabbing like a needle into the sodden gray sky. The harshly rhythmic call was answered by another, and then a third, and then a hundred birds came to roost, flowing across the sky in a black wave, until the tree fluttered with a new crop of leaves, feather black instead of oaken green. It was a river of birds in migration. A nation, a river of wings.
Alex used to sing that song, when she was putting Sara and Colin to bed, half a century ago.
Connor turned on his heel and headed to the dojo. He needed exercise. A hard workout, some kata, maybe another run…
Apparently Chelle had the same idea, for she was in the corner beating the hell out of a punching bag. He nodded in greeting but said nothing. He wasn't in the mood to talk.
She stopped anyway and asked, "Run far?"
"Ten."
"Me, too."
Connor nodded then went to the wall and picked up a jump rope from its hook. Chelle got the message and went back to punching the bag, while Connor worked up to a steady rhythm, his feet beating an insistent tattoo on the floor in counterpoint to her fists.
When he stopped to wipe away the sweat, Chelle stopped too. She came over to him, eyes intent and mouth tight, and even under her loose exercise clothes, the lines of her body showed tense as a drawn bow. "Spar?" she suggested.
"Not now."
But she took hold of one of the ends of the jump rope and wound it about her hand, so that they were joined by that thin, taut line. "Now," she said.
He should tell her no. Neither of them had yet climbed down from the bloody ragged edge of a quickening. But her eyes were fierce with desperation and haunted by guilt and grief and rage, and climbing out of that pit was damn near impossible on your own, so he told her, "Get your sword," and then he went and locked the door.
"Limits?" she asked, as they faced each other, blade in hand.
"Don't cut anything off," he told her then asked in turn: "Limits?"
Her smile was feral, but more tragic than frightening. "Don't be gentle with me," she told him, but before she'd finished the last word, she attacked.
He barely got his sword up in time. They'd sparred a few times before, but only politely in front of students, and she hadn't been aggressive then. Connor swiftly settled into the bout, staying on the defensive and letting her take the lead. She was no match for him in strength or size, but she was quick and well-trained, and she got in a few good cuts. Connor gave her one each in return.
Chelle's eyes narrowed in frustration, and she launched another attack. She was reckless, therefore unpredictable, therefore dangerous. When the tip of her blade came unnervingly close to his eyes, he'd had enough. He shifted from defense to attack, forcing her backward, cutting her in quick succession on the forearm, the ribs, the thigh. She hobbled away, panting and bleeding, her sword held too low. Connor wiped his bloody left hand on his thigh, pushed the remains of his shirt sleeve above the elbow to get it out of the way, and marshaled his breathing, using the moment to recuperate.
But she'd healed, too, and she came at him again, this time with the shriek of a banshee and the uncaring ferocity of a berserker, and her slash at his leg could have sliced him to the bone if he hadn't pivoted away. So he stabbed her, with a thrust and then a twist in the lower back, slicing up her kidneys, and then he stepped back to watch her die.
She almost lived through it, her healing was that quick, and she came back almost right away. She blindly groped her way to the water jug in the corner then drank down a lot, sitting on the floor.
"Had enough?" he asked as set their swords on a table near the door.
She crushed the cup between her hands. "No."
"Then get up," he told her, feeling no pity, no rage, just a vast, weary irritation with the whole fucking mess of the Game. She needed to get over this destructive self-loathing and guilt, or she'd never survive. And it was up to him to force her through it, bound together as they were.
Chelle took a deep breath and rose to her feet in one smooth motion, then walked over to face him with empty hands.
He hit her. Not hard, just a slap across the face.
She blinked in surprise and rage, and then she hit him in return, a stinging slap that left him tasting blood. He hit her again, with the back of his hand, and she had to shake her head to clear it before she kicked him just below the knee cap, and he bit into his lip as hot spikes drove up behind the bone. And so it went between them, each taking a turn, but there was no passion this time, only pain.
Because that the way out of the pit, that eternal black well of loss, deep with grief and guilt, numbing and cold. Pain was red-hot. Pain was real. Pain was how you paid for your sins, taking—seeking—the punishment you deserved.
Eventually, after both of them were bloody and bruised and she'd broken his nose with her elbow and he'd knocked her to the floor, Connor realized that Chelle wasn't fighting back anymore. She wasn't defending herself either. She was just lying there, letting him hit her. He wasn't even sure how many times, but his fists were smeared bright red, and her face was a swollen bloody pulp.
Part of him wanted to throw up; part of him wanted to hit her again. And part of him wanted to strip her naked and take her, brutally, right there on the floor, and listen to her cry.
"Christ," he muttered in self-disgust and shame, then climbed off her to sit nearby on the floor, his hands pressed tight against his eyes, wishing not to see. Not to remember, either. This wasn't the first time he'd gone too far. "Idiot," he told himself, because he should have told her no. Both today and when she'd come to his room a month ago. Once that beast inside was let loose, even for a stroll, it was damn hard to keep it in its cage. And right after two quickenings…
"Idiot," he said again.
He mopped his blood off his face with his shirt and wiped his hands. Connor got them cups of water then carefully gathered Chelle into his arms. She whimpered, either in pain or in fear, and he soothed her with gentle words and held her while she healed. The skin was already smoother, bones knitting together, bruises melting away. He dipped the corner of his shirt in the water and wiped away some of the blood.
"I'm sorry," he told her as soon as she opened her eyes.
A bitter smile started, but she winced as the skin of her lower lip split again, and then she sat up and shrugged. "I was asking for it."
True. But he'd given her more than she needed. More than he should have.
Chelle was staring at him intently. "Your nose is crooked."
He sat still as she set it straight, enduring—welcoming—another burst of pain. As they cleaned their blood from the floor, he advised, "When you're hating yourself this much, go to a friend who understands or go to a mortal who doesn't mind inflicting pain. Start a bar fight, if you have to. But don't take a challenge. You'll probably lose."
She thoughtfully squeezed out a towel into the bucket. A red flower blossomed in the water. "Dark times, huh?" Chelle asked.
"Dark times," he agreed.
She sat back on her heels, looking at him intently again. "So what have you done, in your 'dark times'?"
I strangled a naked woman in my bed. I stabbed my student in the heart and watched him die. I've laughed as I butchered men in battle and then licked their spattered blood from my hands and gone back for more. I've tossed men overboard to drown. I've beaten a man senseless and kicked him when he was down, and I smile when I kill.
Connor didn't say any of that. "Different things, here and there." He scrubbed at a blood drop that had dried. "Fighting too much. Drinking too much."
"Yeah," she agreed ruefully. "Drinking too much is how I got Husband Number Two, right after I got out of the Marines."
"Fifty-two days?" Connor guessed.
"Fifty-two days," she confirmed. "At least I got a new name out of it." She went back to cleaning before asking, "Did someone help you? Out of the dark?"
"Duncan warned me off a time or two. And other friends." Kastigir, Bouchet, Nakano… On occasion, Alex and Rachel and Colin had all expressed concern. Cassandra had, too, much more bluntly and more than once. But he was a warrior, damn it. The Game left him no choice.
That stubborn blood drop was finally gone, and the floor was clean. Connor was washing his hands when an immortal pounded on the dojo door.
Chelle unlocked it and was met by Baden, come to prepare for his afternoon class. Baden took one look at her sliced and bloody clothing then glared at Connor with an outrage only slightly mollified by the sight of Connor's own tattered attire. "Nosebleed," Chelle airily proclaimed, and Baden gritted his teeth but said nothing as Chelle and Connor walked out the door.
She came to his room that night, but waited in the hallway for Connor to open his door. He stood in the opening, blocking the way, but when she told him, "I don't want us to hurt each other anymore," Connor let her in. Moonlight spilled into the room, laying a silver sheen upon them, and they were gentle with each other in the night.
The next morning before sunrise, as they lay in bed still curled around each other, he shared with her what helped him find his way, even in the dark times. "Every year, I light candles for the people in my family," he told Chelle. "Remembering them grounds me."
"I like that," Chelle said with a thoughtful nod. "Do you agree with Gregor, that we cause pain because we're in pain?"
"Yeah, sometimes, but it's not that simple," Connor said. "With the Game, if you don't like to fight—and to kill—on some level, then you won't survive. Not for long."
She nodded. "Fire in the belly, my sergeant called it. Like when you were fighting David."
"Right." Connor was glad he didn't have to explain.
"And like when you were hitting me?"
Fuck. He didn't want to explain this. "I didn't realize you'd given up," he told her.
"I wondered," she said then added, "You were laughing."
In the darkness, Connor closed his eyes. The sounds still came back anyway: the succulent crunch of fist upon flesh, her mangled moans, and his harsh gasp of brutal laughter between each blow. "I didn't know. I wasn't…" Connor gritted his teeth, but he owed her the truth. "I lost control," he admitted.
"I figured," she said. "One quickening is bad enough. Two…" Chelle shook her head. "I should never have asked you to spar."
"I should never have agreed. And I'm sorry," he told her again.
She rose up on her elbow and kissed him, quick and sweet, before saying, "Done is done."
Connor liked that approach, and he liked when she kissed him again, longer and sweeter this time.
After, when they'd slept again and the sun had risen and they were getting dressed, she asked, "When are you leaving?"
He hadn't said anything, but he wasn't surprised that she knew. "As soon as the cops are satisfied." He hoped it was before the snow came. He needed to go home. "You?"
"Depends what the kids need."
He liked that about her. Loyalty and commitment were rare. "I'd like to see you again," he told Chelle. "Someday."
A smile danced around her mouth. "I'd like to see you again, too, Connor MacLeod. Someday."
Bengaluru India, April 2053
The spring rains had started and the flowers were budding when a letter for Dr. Kyle Winston arrived at the Space Research Center and eventually, via a few forwardings, ended up on Methos's desk, with a note from Dr. Hirakawa saying: "a note from a friend of your uncle".
"I didn't know Dr. Winston was your uncle, James," Raj commented. "Your family name is Coulsen."
"He was my mother's brother," Methos replied. He looked up at his coworker with a grin. "Taught me everything I know."
"That explains why you know so much, and you so young," Raj said. "I saw him speak once, at a conference years ago. Excellent presentation." He peered at Methos and commented, "You do look a bit like him," then went back to work on the fuel consumption calculations.
Methos stared at his former name on the envelope, wondering if Duncan was still using the name Justin Morris. He'd adopted it only seven years before. Serena had become Jillian Vathos and joined the space program. He hadn't seen her in a decade, but he'd recognized her in the picture of the Ganymede expedition, which was orbiting Jupiter now. Cassandra's latest incarnation was Elise Daugherty, and she was a sworn priestess, moving up in the temple hierarchy.
Names came and went; their hobbies and interests remained. Some of them, anyway. Methos abruptly pulled the paper from the envelope to read: "Landed in Ireland, going to Dartmoor. Cash in that rain check?" Duncan had added the line: "I'd like to see you." It was signed simply "DM". A small card held a printed address for "Justin Morris."
Four and a half-years ago, they'd made plans to go riding in Dartmoor. First a bomb and then a volcano had intervened. Nice to know Duncan hadn't forgotten.
Methos briefly entertained the idea of just showing up in England without sending an answer as a surprise, but he couldn't leave now; the space launch was in forty-six days, and it would be rude to make Duncan wait that long. Beneath Duncan's initials Methos wrote: "Check will be cashed this autumn –with interest" and he signed it simply "M." He folded the letter, placed it in a new envelope addressed to Justin Morris, and sent it on its way. Then he turned to give Raj a hand.
A few days later after work, Methos walked through the gardens on his way home. The coming of the rains had washed the dust and grime from the leaves. Other people had the same idea, and he strolled the paths with the rest of the crowds, half-listening to the chatter of a thousand busy lives, enjoying the evening. He climbed the ancient rocks to the remains of the tower that centuries ago had marked the boundary of the city. In the distance, modern skyscrapers marked out new boundaries.
Rain started, and people began to leave, gathering their belongings, pulling hoods over their hair. Methos stood a moment longer, head flung back and mouth open to taste the rain then followed them down. He ate dinner in town then headed for home, down the street, past the fountain, and into the alley that led to the boulevard.
The narrow passageway was made darker by windowless buildings rising high on either side, and so he first mistook the dark pool for water, when it was really blood, and he didn't notice the crumpled body in the doorway until he'd nearly kicked the severed head across the way.
It had been a pretty head, young and female, dark of hair and dark of eyes. Perhaps a local. Perhaps not very old. He didn't see a sword.
Methos bade her a silent farewell and kept on walking. He couldn't help her, and she'd be found eventually. He didn't feel like convincing the police he hadn't been involved, not when he was carrying a sword quite capable of doing the deed.
He was five steps from the body when another immortal arrived at the end of the alley, a slim figure swathed in black and veiled, with hidden hands. A friend of the dead woman? Or the killer returned? Either would be dangerous, so Methos took out his stunner and shot her, intending to ask questions later.
Unfortunately, she had come to the same decision, and her shot caught him under the left clavicle and trailed fire across his chin and left cheek. He jerked away but kept to his feet, until someone else shot him, from behind this time. Then the pavement was wet and slippery beneath his palms and against his cheek, and the toes of his feet cramped in excruciating pain. He could not move at all. He believed he smelt fermenting bananas nearby.
"Is he dead?" a voice asked, far above him, wavering away, like wisps of a cloud.
"Not yet," came the cool reply.
Not yet, Methos echoed with desperate silence inside his head. Damn it all to hell and back again, not yet. He wasn't ready yet. He hadn't had enough time. Then a stun gun buzzed close to his right ear, and the world dissolved in a splintering rainbow of pain.
Darkness came.
To be continued in "An Eye for an Eye",
in which Methos and Connor are forced to face their pasts and decide their futures