Incalzando
16 April 2046, Caen France
When Elena woke the next morning, the other side of the bed was empty. Duncan had already gone to work. She felt awful, both in body and in mind. Duncan had only been trying to help. She shouldn't have taken all her disappointment and anger out on him. And she certainly shouldn't have drunk so much wine.
She'd make it up to him that night, she decided as she showered. An apology, dinner, a back rub … a front rub.
But when she checked her messages, Duncan had written at nine that morning to say he wouldn't be home that night, and maybe tomorrow night, too. Half his station had been called out to help a ferry in the Baltic Sea. Elena wrote him a warm note back, wishing him well. She signed it "with love."
She took a cup of coffee to the little courtyard and sat in a patch of spring sunshine, wondering if her son would ever understand, if she would ever see him again.
Her phone rang, and Elena cleared her throat before saying, "Hello, Cass."
"Elena," the other woman replied. "How are you?"
"Fine," Elena lied. She didn't want to talk about it. "Everything all right with you?"
"Yes. I've been in London all this last week for the royal wedding; Connor just arrived today."
"Avoiding the commotion, was he?" Elena asked dryly.
"Of course," Cassandra agreed with a smile, but then she grew serious. "I have something you should see. Can you meet us here?"
Elena hadn't been to London for decades. Back in 2007, she and Peter Shaw had agreed to stay out of each others' home towns. "If I see you in Rome in the next half-century or so," Elena had warned him, "I will decapitate you."
"If you come to London or Edinburgh in the next fifty years," Shaw had promised in return, "I will decapitate you."
That agreement still had nine years to run, but Elena didn't care. Lorenzo was dead, and if she and Shaw did happen to run into each other and he challenged her, Elena would be more than happy to oblige. In fact, maybe she'd go knock on his door. She hadn't taken a head in six years. She needed to truly get back into the game for real; a challenge to Shaw was the perfect opportunity to do so.
Besides, Duncan was gone, and the Oiseaux weren't expecting her back at the stables for a few days; Elena had planned to have time available to spend with her son. Moping around the house was no good. "The ferry leaves for Portsmouth at noon," Elena told Cassandra. "I'll be in London by dinnertime."
London
Seven hours later, Elena met Cassandra and Connor in a small sitting room at St. Anne's Academy, sister school to St. Hildegarde's. Elena and Cassandra exchanged warm hugs and greetings, while Connor stood and gave Elena a silent, welcoming nod.
"You look wonderful, Elena!" Cassandra said, standing back a bit to see. "Shoulder-length hair frames your face so well!"
"I have to keep it in a ponytail so the horses don't nibble at it," Elena said, laughing. "And yours is longer than ever, I see. And still gorgeous." But Cassandra hadn't asked her here to discuss hair styles. "?Que paso?" Elena asked, feeling a bit of foreboding.
Cassandra locked the door then sat down on the burgundy love seat against the wall. "Claudia Jardine lost her head on Friday."
"Maestro Jardine?" Elena shook her head sadly as she took one of the comfortable chairs. "I was listening to one of her recordings just the other day."
"Lasted longer than I thought she would," Connor said, taking his seat again, across from Elena.
"How old was she? Seventy?" Elena asked, trying to remember when she had first heard that magnificent performance with the Boston Pops, and the brilliant teen who had amazed the crowd. 1979? Or 1975? Arthur Fiedler had still been alive.
"Claudia was almost seventy-seven," Cassandra answered. "She'd been an Immortal fifty years."
"And never once picked up a sword," Connor said.
"When I went to her concert in London in 1998, three years after she had become an Immortal," Elena said, "Duncan told me that Claudia said she needed to fear death to create joy. Thinking she was invulnerable interfered with her music."
"I'll bet beheading interferes with her music, too," Connor observed dryly.
"And having a sword certainly doesn't take away the fear that you'll be killed," Elena added. "Do we know who killed her?"
"An Englishman, whom Connor says you know," Cassandra said. "Peter Shaw."
Elena shot to her feet. "!Ese maldito! I hate that man! He beat Lorenzo mercilessly years ago for a gambling debt, and I'm pretty sure he enjoyed it," she said, pacing. "Remember him, Connor?"
Connor tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowed. "I remember you coming to my house—and talking to my wife and children—when you were hunting him."
"Yes, and you didn't much like it. You threatened to take my head if I ever came near your family again." She smiled at him happily. "Notice I didn't do it again."
"I noticed," Connor said simply.
"I remember Shaw very clearly. He was disgusting but somehow thought he was sexy. And he was balding and had terrible teeth then. Disgusting!" she repeated as she sat down again. "How did you find out about Claudia?" Elena asked Cassandra.
"I've known Claudia's executive assistant, Zoelle, for years." Cassandra answered. "She's a graduate of the Phinyx music school. She called me on Saturday, concerned about Claudia, then came here and gave me a video."
"Of the beheading?" Connor asked in surprise.
"Not exactly. Claudia had a recording system installed a few months ago to help her critique her playing," Cassandra explained. "The cameras are fixed and show only the piano keys and the pedals. The acoustics, however, are excellent. "
"Let's see it," Elena said, and she turned the chairs to face the wall screen while Connor went to the liquor cabinet in the corner and brought back three glasses of Scotch, and Cassandra turned on the display screen. Elena nodded her thanks as Connor gave her the drink but put it down on the small table next to her chair, untouched. She'd done enough drinking the night before.
Cassandra started the show. The display on the screen was split: the top three-quarters was a view from above, showing Claudia's hands and all eighty-eight keys, while the bottom quarter focused on Claudia's feet on the piano pedals. In the bottom right corner was a clock display: 13 April 2046 | 18:42:05.4.
Elena recognized the music as the end of the third movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, the measure with the grace notes that had always reminded Elena of a falling leaf. Or each crystal clear note falling like a raindrop into a pond's still surface. The beauty was breathtaking, and the raw talent needed to recreate Beethoven's art so rare, and so valuable… Claudia Jardine could have continued recreating such beauty for decades, centuries. But Shaw… dammit! He totally had to die.
Claudia's fingers both commanded and caressed the keys, moving with impeccable precision and dazzling speed, her fingers sometimes a blur, then culminated in the final two crashing chords.
As the notes lingered in the air, her hands remained motionless just above the keys. Only when total silence reigned did she bring her feet to the floor and pull back her hands.
A person clapped deliberately five times. "Breathtaking, my dear. Breathtaking," came Shaw's voice. He sounded just the way Elena remembered: British, upper-class, smarmy. "I love the energy you bring to that movement," his voice continued. "The fury of the ascending scales, the suspense of the silences, the tremolo slowly building… You have brought passion to the abyss."
"At least he has an appreciation for good music," Elena muttered.
"Why, Peter," Claudia replied, her tone lightly teasing but still pleased, "I think you liked it."
"I adored it," Shaw said. "I'm pleased with the care you've taken with the dynamics. An improvement from last week. And the second movement is exquisite now. You've made it much more lyrical."
Claudia sounded delighted, as any appreciated artist would. "You really listened."
There was the sound of footsteps as Shaw moved closer. "I always listen. May I?" he asked.
Claudia answered, "Of course."
As he sat next to Claudia, Elena could hear clothes rustling and the bench squeaking. The foot camera showed his feet, in black dress shoes, appearing next to hers, and his hands on the keys. What a contrast, Elena thought, between his large, square-knuckled, mottled pink hands and her perfect light brown ones. Her calves and ankles were the same warm color above her pretty gold shoes, low-heeled to allow pedal access. Even without seeing their faces it was truly a beauty and the beast situation.
Elena had missed some of what Shaw was saying. ". . . at the end, in this measure…" He played some of what Claudia had played, but it wasn't even close. The notes were all correct, the timing precise, though slower. Elena had been studying the piano for ten years now but even without that training she could tell his playing was flat and mechanical, like a player piano.
Claudia obviously knew it too. "Your timing is good," she said, trying to encourage him. "Speed will come with practice, with time, and we certainly have a lot of that."
Elena could hear the amusement in her voice, but Elena herself was not amused. She knew how this show would end. Obviously Claudia didn't, yet.
"But the end must be played incalzando," Claudia said. "With increasing passion." She showed him, her fingers perfect on the keys, once again hovering motionless in the final silence.
"He must be so envious!" Elena murmured, wanting to talk to Claudia, warn her, scream at her to get away, the way you screamed at a horror movie heroine who was unknowingly moving towards the monster. But it didn't do any good at the movies, and it wouldn't do any good now. Claudia was already dead, and Elena got up and went to the window, glaring at the closed shades. She didn't want to see this anymore. But she could still hear it.
"Yes," Shaw agreed. "Incalzando."
Elena's eyes were drawn back to the screen, and she saw his hands close over Claudia's. Claudia started to pull away, but his fingers closed around hers, trapping her. Her hands stopped moving.
"I have been your ardent fan since you were fifteen, Claudia, and your protector for the last five years." Shaw's voice was oily with persuasion.
Elena was repulsed, but she had to see this through. She came back to sit.
His thumb started stroking Claudia's skin. "I hope to be much more."
Claudia stopped his thumb with her other hand. "Peter…," she began.
Shaw pulled back. "Surely this isn't a surprise," he said, although he sounded surprised that she would refuse him.
!Cabron! Elena thought.
"I have to say, I thought you preferred boys," Claudia said, apparently thinking she could get on top of this situation with lightness and humor.
"Like your friend Walter Graham?" Shaw's response was not light; in fact, it was sharp. But then his voice became smooth again. "After he died, you were lucky to find me."
"I know," Claudia said, her tone placating, "and I'm grateful."
"And you will find I am quite flexible in matters of the boudoir." His fingers went around her wrists, not tightly but enough to give the impression of handcuffs, then back to stroking again.
Elena shuddered.
Claudia pulled her hands away then patted the back of his hand. "Peter, I'm flattered, but… I'm sorry. I must say no."
"That's what I said to him, too," Elena contributed, "but without the being flattered part. Or being sorry, either."
Connor snorted.
The silence onscreen was absolute and lasted almost a full minute while his hands went motionless. Finally he asked, "You're sure, my dear?"
"Yes."
Shaw squeezed her hands then let go. "Pity."
"Ay, Dios mio," Elena muttered.
"I'm sorry," Claudia said again.
Shaw's hands and feet disappeared from the screen as he stood. "So am I." The sound of his footsteps receded.
Elena thought she heard Claudia sigh with relief. Then the maestro started to play a few slow notes from the beginning of the first movement, romantic and sad. At this point there was the sound of approaching footsteps. She stopped playing abruptly. "Peter?" Then her hands disappeared from screen and her feet moved swiftly to the side. "Peter, no…"
Shaw sounded confident and not in the least bit regretful. "Surely this isn't a surprise," he repeated.
They could all hear the sound of her footsteps running away, his unhurried footsteps following, mechanical and precise. Then there was a scream and a distant thud.
A dreadful silence.
Elena had never seen the effects of a quickening reflected on a polished surface; she usually was part of the quickening rather than an observer. She felt like a voyeur, listening to the shattering bolts, squinting her eyes at the brightly flickering lights on the black and white keys, knowing what it meant, that someone had died; no, that someone, Claudia Jardine, had been killed, and her life essence was pouring into her killer. What fucking vampires we all are! Elena thought, not for the first time. For a moment the screen went completely white; then she thought she could make out ghostly blue shadows glowing in the black mirror polish of the antique Steinway.
Another silence, even more dreadful. Elena let out the breath she'd been holding. It was over. "Que Dios la guarde, Claudia Jardine," she prayed.
But then a man's footsteps came near, quickly, eagerly. The piano bench squeaked under his weight as his hands and feet appeared on the video screen. The hands paused above the keys, trembling, hesitant, then descended and released a torrent of sound.
No. It wasn't over.
"Son of a bitch," Connor breathed.
Because the music was perfect. Beautiful. Peter Shaw had taken Claudia's head, absorbing all her knowledge and power, and now he could play. His laughter floated above the music, incalzando with unholy glee.
Elena had been studying the piano for decades. She, too, would have loved to play like Claudia Jardine. But what Shaw didn't understand is that people were the real beauty, the real truth. People had to come first; Claudia's life was more important than her art. But not to him. Elena was now more convinced than ever that Shaw, who didn't value innocent life, must forfeit his, if only to keep him from decimating the entire London Philharmonic.
Cassandra abruptly turned off the recording, and welcome silence filled the room. Elena shook her head, her eyes closed. She felt physically sick, not by the Quickening or the death—she'd been a part of too many of those herself—but by the total waste of a beautiful, innocent life at the hands of Vampire Shaw. Elena looked longingly at her glass of Scotch, licking her lips, but refused to pick it up, although she noticed Connor taking slow sips from his.
"So," Elena said thickly, "did Shaw kill Claudia because she wouldn't fuck him, or because he wanted to play the piano better?"
"I think he planned to kill her from the very beginning," Cassandra answered. "Whether she slept with him or not. Once she said no, he had no other use for her and no reason to wait."
"!Que barbaridad!" Elena exclaimed.
"Have the police seen this?" Connor asked.
"Yes, Zoelle took it to them Saturday morning," Cassandra answered. "It was waiting in her mailbox as usual; she edits the videos. After Zoelle saw it and then couldn't reach Claudia, she became concerned and went to the police. However, when the police visited Mr. Shaw at his estate south of Edinburgh, he said that he had hoped to convince Claudia of his honorable intentions, and so had come back with an engagement ring. She was upset and ran from the room; then she slipped and fell in the hall. That explained the scream and the thud. She also cut herself slightly, which explained any traces of blood."
"How did he explain the Quickening?" Elena demanded.
"An unfortunate accident with an electrical transformer in his very old house. The power company was coming by to look at it soon." Cassandra looked at the display in her phone and shared what was written there. "Mr. Shaw said that right after the transformer blew, Claudia went upstairs to her room. He played the piano for a while to calm down—"
"What about that 'bwa, ha ha' laughter? " Elena asked. "Weren't they suspicious of that? He reminded me of the movie The Phantom of the Opera, with him as Lon Chaney, the monster!"
"Suspicious or not, it's not enough for an arrest," Cassandra said. "Shaw said he went to Claudia's suite, where they had a good conversation and agreed to stay friends. Then he went to a party at a neighbor's house to celebrate Princess Elizabeth's wedding, where he stayed until two. The next morning, he found a note from Claudia, saying she thought it best to leave. He has no idea where she might be."
"Smooth bastard," Connor muttered.
"The police searched his house but found nothing suspicious, save some scorch marks in the hall, obviously electrical. Claudia has been known to be impulsive; she is a musician, after all. Her car and her clothes and books and music were gone. The police thanked Mr. Shaw for his time and apologized for bothering him. They did take Claudia's note with them, and told Claudia's assistant they would investigate further if Claudia didn't surface in a few days." Cassandra pushed her reader away. "Zoelle was afraid to go back to her flat. She's staying here at St. Anne's."
"Why did she contact you?" Elena asked.
"When she took the job with Claudia, I told her I had concerns, and that I would like to know if anything happened." Cassandra sighed. "I had met Claudia three years ago at a concert in Paris, and after she described her life with Shaw, I told her I thought she should leave him."
"Was he abusing her?" Connor asked.
"Not physically or emotionally, but he was starting to control her life. Choosing her clothes, screening her calls, inviting her to live with him for safety… all with the most helpful of intentions, of course." She shook her head, saying, "That's how it begins. He was keeping her isolated and dependent upon him in a luxurious cocoon."
Cassandra finished her drink then held the glass in her hands. Her long, elegant fingers were motionless on the clear glass. "Claudia told me she was aware of it, and that she could handle it—and him. She thought she was the one in control."
"She was wrong. And he's a disgusting pig, un hijo de mala madre," Elena swore. "Dangerous, too."
"Yes," Cassandra agreed. "He needs to die. And soon. If he can absorb a skill that completely through a Quickening, he will become enormously—dangerously—powerful."
Elena nodded and couldn't quite control a shudder at the thought of a man like Shaw with Connor's or Duncan's—or Connor and Duncan's—fighting skills, or—even worse—the power of the Voice.
"And that, Elena, is why Connor suggested that I call you," Cassandra said.
"Did he?" Elena asked Cassandra, but Elena was looking at Connor, and he lifted his glass to her in silent toast.
"I was thinking of calling Duncan, as Claudia had been his protégé," Cassandra explained, "but Connor told me you wanted Shaw's head."
"I did. I do," Elena said. She'd wanted to behead bastard forty years ago for what he'd done to Lorenzo, she'd been thinking of paying him a visit anyway, and, now, after seeing what he'd done to Claudia…
"Connor also said you can take Shaw," Cassandra was saying.
"Did you?" Elena said, now asking Connor directly.
"You're a warrior," Connor said simply. "You were raised as one."
"Yes," Elena agreed, complimented almost to tears. She was crying too much these days. Connor, also a warrior, understood the need for battle, the fierce satisfaction it could bring. He had told her she could do it, re-enter the Game, two years ago. He still believed in her, and she was gratified. "My father, Don Alvaro, was all about honor and duty," Elena explained, "and that's how he raised me, to fight. He loved fighting," she said, almost smiling in remembrance of him. "When I became an Immortal, he became my teacher as well as my father, and I learned the lessons again. He had the same Immortal teacher you did," she said to Connor, finally picking up her drink so she could toast him, too, "and it's clear from his students that Ramirez taught very well."
Connor half-smiled and half-bowed in response to her compliment, and then they drank to each other, one warrior to another.
She'd been a warrior when she'd met Shaw nearly four decades before, but then she had chosen life and walked away to raise a child with her husband, rather than killing Shaw. Now she was choosing differently. Lorenzo would not have liked it, but he was gone, and even when he had disagreed, the Game had never been his war anyway. It was hers.
Elena knew she wouldn't much like the Englishman's Quickening inside her, but that was part of being an Immortal, too. She was alive—Shaw was the dead man, as he deserved to be. "So," Elena said, setting down her drink and rubbing her hands together, "how soon can I kill Peter Shaw?"
"Tomorrow afternoon?" Cassandra suggested. "He's at his country home south of Edinburgh." She smiled at Elena. "Would you like company?"
Elena certainly didn't need a babysitter or backup, or any help from the Voice, but she and Cassandra hadn't seen each other in over two years. It would be good to talk. Unless Cassandra meant… Elena glanced at Connor.
"I have plans," he said, with a shake of his head.
Elena thought, if Connor was unhappy about the ladies going off alone on their quest he wasn't showing it. And he'd been supportive of Elena all along, this time. And from now on, she hoped.
"I can help you get rid of the body," Cassandra offered.
"Thanks," Elena said cheerfully. "Although I'd just as soon leave Shaw for carrion. " She smiled at her old friend. "I'd love for you to come."
Connor was already at the door, his hand on the knob, waiting for them. As Elena rose from her chair, she added, "One more thing, Connor." She waited until he looked at her directly. "If Shaw decapitates me, Duncan will go after him."
Connor lifted an eyebrow at her but waited silently.
"Warn him then about Shaw's left hand," she said. Shaw was right-handed… now.
Connor glanced down at Elena's left hand, her sword hand. "I know. Thanks."
Early the next morning, Elena waited impatiently in the lobby for Cassandra to appear. She finally showed up, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. No wonder Cassandra hadn't wanted to take the sleeper train to Edinburgh. "Good morning?" Elena asked, grinning.
Cassandra grinned back. "Very good."
As they walked the two blocks from St. Anne's Academy to the station, Elena said, "I didn't mean to interrupt your time with Connor here in London."
"Oh, it's fine," Cassandra said. "He's going to be busy with the metallurgy convention people for the next three days, and he and I see each other all the time in Austria. A little break is good for us."
Elena wasn't sure her "little break" from Duncan was good for them. The last thing she'd said to him was "No." She'd stayed up late last night, writing him of her love, thanking him for everything he'd done and apologizing for anything she'd done, explaining why she had left when she did, apologizing for her behavior to him…. then she scrubbed the apologies and the explanations and kept her thanks, their love, and their mutual decades-long devotion.
She'd written a letter to Marcellino, too. Three days ago, she'd lied to him when she told him she couldn't die. If she did die, he deserved to know, although she did not supply any details. "I have some letters for people," she told Cassandra. "Would you—"
"Of course," Cassandra said instantly.
"I'll give them to you on the train," Elena said as they reached the stairs to the underground. She shouldered her duffel bag and tried to shield it from the crowd of people heading for the tube.
After they were seated on the express train to Scotland, Elena handed Cassandra the letters, and Cassandra said quietly, "I have some files on Peter Shaw, if you're interested."
"Watcher files?" Leave it to Cassandra to get a hold of those files.
"Just one: a list of his kills. The other files are from the 1990s; Connor hired a detective agency when he and Shaw were both living in Edinburgh."
"Connor already told me quite a bit about Shaw, back in 2007," Elena said. "Anything new?"
"Probably not."
Elena shrugged. She already knew she was going to kill Shaw. Why learn what his hobbies were? But she did like to know a few things. "How many are on that Watcher list?"
"Twenty-seven. The list was last updated in 2009, a few years before Watcher HQ was destroyed, so there could be more."
Claudia made the total twenty-eight. "Anyone I know?"
"I don't know who you know," Cassandra replied. "Twenty-one of them were considered good fighters; the other six were like Claudia."
Elena had killed two "like Claudia": young, inexperienced Immortals who had nevertheless come after her boldly, to her house. Not quite the same. But Elena had also killed a few mortals who had been unarmed and begging for their lives. She took a deep breath and shook it off. This was not about what she'd done, but about what Shaw had done and could do. Immortals judged each other, passed sentence then executed it. It was the nature of the Game, and she would not be burdened with guilt over a fair challenge. He still deserved to die. And if she deserved to die, which she probably did, it would be up to another Immortal to do something about it. Ultimately, it would be up to God to judge her. "Finally!" she said as the train began to move.
"And how's Duncan?" Cassandra asked as the train started to pick up speed.
"Fine," Elena said, and that was true. She was the one who had messed up. She still didn't want to talk about that with Cassandra, because it would mean talking about Marcellino, too. So Elena launched into a story of how Duncan had rescued people last month and then a story about how they were training the racehorse, and Cassandra talked about a concert she was planning, and that kept them busy until breakfast arrived.
Cassandra ate all of hers; Elena had café au lait and one scrambled egg. "Nervous?" Cassandra asked.
Elena shook her head, even though it was hard to sit still. "I'm more … eager than nervous. Like a racehorse before the bell. But food slows me down, so I only eat a little protein, for strength. I need to stay light on my feet."
"Oh, I've been meaning to ask," Cassandra said. "Can you recommend a teacher of parcours? I'd like to start a class at St. Hildegarde's. I think the girls would have fun on those old castle walls."
"Would they ever!" Elena exclaimed. "Well, for those tall outside walls and cliffs you'd need a rock climbing instructor and pitons. But inside, the walkways, staircases, statues – oh, the courtyards and those wonderful dormers and windows!" Elena exclaimed happily, seeing herself there, running up walls, balancing, jumping. "I'll give you Lucien's number," she said, pulling out her phone. "I think he would love a new challenge. He hates his day job-"
"Wait," Cassandra said, holding up her hand. "How old is he?"
"Twenty-three?" Elena guessed.
"Is he married? Or gay?"
"Married."
"Good. The headmistress won't hire young, single men. Too much temptation—on both sides."
Elena understood that. "His wife is not a traceur. She loves to play in the dirt." When Cassandra raised her eyebrows in confusion, Elena added, "Grow things."
"Even better. We always need people in the gardens and the greenhouses."
"Good. Lucien could set up a training area in a corner of the dojo—with sensei's permission, of course—before he takes the girls to town. You should know," Elena warned, "some towns don't take kindly to parcours."
"Our mayor is intrigued. And so," Cassandra added with a smile, "is our sensei."
Elena smiled back. She shared Lucien's contact information with Cassandra and sent him a message to let him know. And the next time Connor "invited" Elena go to running, she'd suggest a different kind of workout.
Next: Elena confronts Shaw
Translations (Spanish):
Que paso – what happened
Ese maldito – that damned man
Cabron – asshole
Que barbaridad – unbelievable
Hijo de mala madre – son of a bitch