Scotland

The train arrived in Edinburgh in early afternoon. Cassandra borrowed a car from a Phinyx branch office, and they drove south toward the village near Shaw's estate. "First, I want to check out that abandoned barn I saw online last night," Elena said. "I don't want Shaw choosing the ground, or setting traps."

"Connor said Shaw had 'too much bloody English pride' to cheat at the Game."

"Shaw's still a 'bloody Englishman,' and I don't trust him at all." Elena turned on her phone for directions, and Cassandra drove. When they got to the street address, they still needed the phone, because young trees had sprouted in the abandoned farm fields, and the place was nearly a kilometer from the road.

The barn was an old two-story building made of light-colored stone on the bottom story and wood on the top story. They walked in and scared off a few small animals; an owl hooted angrily and flew out. Inside were several horse stalls in various states of disrepair on either side of the center aisle, with a hay loft above the stalls; the center area was clear all the way up to the age-and-weather-damaged roof. The stone walls were still sturdy, and it looked like no one had been there for years. The roof, even though it had a few small holes, would hide the fight from satellites. "Perfect," Elena said.

She looked out a window at the overcast sky, where the sun was a bright spot behind clouds. "At least it's not raining. And it's not too cold." Chilly, but not frigid. She'd still be wearing her custom-made leather gloves—with no fingers. Otherwise she just couldn't feel her hilt well enough.

Cassandra was also looking at the sky. "Five hours until sunset. I should start digging now."

"It's a lot of work," Elena said, feeling a bit guilty.

"I need the exercise," Cassandra said with a shrug. "And you can buy me dinner tonight."

"Deal," Elena agreed.

"Call me as soon as you and Shaw set a time, so I can get clear before either of you arrives," Cassandra said next.

"Right," Elena agreed.

Cassandra did not smile or say farewell, but reached out with two fingers and gently touched Elena's forehead, nose, and mouth. "Be strong," Cassandra wished for her then picked up her bag of tools and walked away. Elena could still feel the touch of those fingers, bright and warm and somehow comforting.

Elena walked back to the car and drove to Shaw's estate. The three-story brick manor house was handsome, and the grounds were lovingly-kept. Spring flowers bloomed along the walkway and in pots on the worn stone stairs. He must be very proud of his "family heritage," as proud as she was of her Argentine estancia. A man came by with a dog on a leash, who barked at her furiously and protectively. That, too, was familiar. Well, so what. She was here, she was ready, and she was going to take Shaw's head. It was past time.

Elena adjusted her sword inside her cape as climbed to the front door. The door knocker was a British lion. Very patriotic and traditional, she thought, as she lifted it. After only one knock a very proper British butler quietly ushered her inside. Large paintings decorated the spacious entryway, and there was even a genuine suit of armor in the corner opposite the stairs. Five wooden doors led to other rooms, but all the doors were shut. And surprise, no scorch marks. The paint was fresh. Bastard! She took a few steps into the hall then sensed an Immortal and tensed up.

The butler opened the second door to her left then led her into a fancy parlor, where she waited alone for a few moments. The butler did not ask her name, which was good, because she wouldn't have given it. She intended to kill Shaw today, and she didn't want her name…

The butler offered her refreshments, and she murmured, "Thank you, no." She looked around the very tastefully arranged library, at the large oak desk on the Aubusson rug, the chairs near the fireplace (but sadly, no fire). No piano, either. Claudia's music room must be behind one of those five closed doors.

Finally, Peter Shaw arrived, whistling the Moonlight Sonata, perhaps having been summoned from the greenhouse and his beloved roses, or perhaps from his dog kennels. Perhaps from sodomizing one of his maids. His clothes gave no hint; he was neatly attired in country clothes: sensible trousers, a wool vest, a tweed jacket. His hands were clean, and his thinning brown hair was perfectly combed.

Shaw looked her over as he entered the room, his gaze roaming up and down her body in a way that made Elena want to scratch. "Elena Duran. What a surprise. I love the hair." He peered at her face. "And the new eye."

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she said. It had taken her brain almost six months to get used to binary vision again; six terrible months of bumping into furniture and feeling helpless, where she couldn't get her eyes to focus together and had had to hide in a convent for her 'health.' But now the eye worked as well as a real one.

Shaw finished his thorough inspection. "That will be all, Iverson," Shaw finally said, and the butler left the room then quietly shut the door.

"I'm here for your head," she said bluntly to Shaw.

"Goodness," Shaw said mildly. He walked over to a liquor cabinet. "Care for a drink, Elena?" he asked with irritating politeness, holding up a glass. She shook her head, and Shaw fixed himself a whisky and soda then came back and sat in the leather wingback chair. "Please," he said, motioning to the smaller chairs on either side of the cold fireplace, "make yourself comfortable."

Elena chose the chair to his left, furthest from his dominant right hand. Just in case. It wasn't comfortable, and it creaked under weight. An antique, no doubt; its silk covering was slippery beneath her legs. She sat on the edge, very erect.

"So," Shaw began. "Elena Duran, two years a widow, comes knocking on my door on a chilly spring day." He smiled with a slow licking of his lips. "I am so glad you have decided to take me up on my earlier offer of adventures in the boudoir."

Elena gritted her teeth in revulsion. "I've already told you why I'm here. I'm going to kill you."

"Oh, you meant that head," he said, as if surprised, then settled back in his chair. "You do realize that even if you weren't interested in my head, yours would be forfeit to me. Our agreement to avoid each others' homes still has nine years to go." He leaned his chin on his left hand. "Or did you assume our agreement became void when your husband died? If so, you really should have let me know that I was free to visit Rome."

"So you could beat up another young man who hadn't paid his debts?"

He set his drink down and asked curiously, "After all this time, are you still upset about that gambler fool of a husband of yours? I thought we had put that behind us, my dear, and frankly, I'm surprised to hear you still care, especially seeing as he shipped you off to Spain nearly twenty years ago."

Elena wasn't surprised Shaw knew that; it had been on the news. But she had never attacked an Immortal's family, or the memory of that family. What else could she expect from this abominable Ingles?

Elena decided to stay quiet, so as not to give anything anyway. A mistake could be deadly for her. Besides, she remembered, Shaw liked to talk. He could be the one to make a mistake today.

Shaw leaned forward, as if to impart a secret, and said, "Did you know, Elena, I was quite impressed with your ruthlessness and your resourcefulness, ditching your husband—and his sainted mother—at sea. Of course, your husband was past sixty. He probably hadn't been 'up' to the task for quite some time." Shaw asked with avid curiosity, "Was he?"

"You're disgusting," Elena said as coldly as she could manage. But she could feel the tears come. !Carajo! Not now!

"Oh, have I pricked you, my dear?" Shaw said with mock sympathy. "Are you actually… heaven forfend… crying?"

She resisted the urge to jump to her feet and slap him. !Controlate, Elena! "Yes," she said, pleased that her voice was still cold. "It's called an 'emotion,' Shaw. Love. Something a cold-hearted murderous villain like you wouldn't know anything about." She angrily rubbed the tears away. "Don't worry. My grieving will not affect my fighting. I will still behead you."

"So passionate," he murmured, his gaze lingering at her breasts before he looked into her eyes. "Does Duncan MacLeod satisfy you better than your darling Lorenzo ever could … Miss Luz Marina Gutierrez?"

Elena kept her face calm. So, Shaw had been tracking her, and he knew her new alias and where she lived. Or maybe he'd been tracking Duncan, and she'd come back into Shaw's sights again after her trip to Australia. It didn't matter. Lots of Immortals kept track of each other.

"Tell me," Shaw asked next, still showing off how much he knew about her, "does darling Marcellino know about your Immortal lover in Caen? Or does your 'son' even know you're still alive? Have you told him that you slice off people's heads?"

Disgusting, abominable Ingles! Elena was furious at Shaw for getting under her skin and noticing the reaction she hadn't been able to hide, for reminding her of her recent loss, and especially for mentioning her son.

She wanted to slap Shaw but said nothing. This was all an attempt to rattle her. It was the same ages-old pre-battle strategy of verbally undermining your opponent's confidence by causing him to lose control via fear, anger, hurt pride, sorrow, whatever worked. Elena had done it before, and so had every Immortal she knew. Elena breathed deeply and centered herself again. She would not give Shaw any further satisfaction.

Besides, if she did die today, Cassandra would deliver the letter to Marcellino, and he would have those last words from his mother, even if this bastard Shaw told her son the truth about how she had died. And, she thought with grim satisfaction, once Shaw was dead—and he would be dead today—he couldn't tell Marcellino anything and could never come near her son.

Shaw smiled at her as he leaned back in his chair, but his eyes were narrowed. "Why are you here now, Elena? Are you bored?"

She shook her head. "Claudia Jardine."

"Ah. The lovely Claudia." Shaw said her name as if it were ice cream on his tongue. His eyes were cold. "And just how did you hear about her?"

Elena gave a tiny shrug.

"I see I shall have to seek out the lovely Zoelle and teach her discretion," Shaw said to himself. He smiled at Elena again. "After I'm done with you, of course."

Yet another reason to kill him, Elena thought: protecting another defenseless young woman. Elena kept her silence once more, but it was hard. She wanted to scream at him. She shifted in her seat. "!Controlate, Elena!" her father had told her many, many times.

After a moment Shaw said, "Were you Claudia Jardine's teacher? Her lover? Mother, perhaps? Or just a fan?"

"I was her admirer. She had a great genius," Elena said.

"Yes, she did. Limited, of course, as all artists are. And weak, as all women are." Shaw set his drink down and steepled his finger tips together. "Do you know, Claudia was grateful to have a benefactor like me. Someone who would provide for her, applaud her, cater to her whims… and protect her." Shaw lifted his hand in a gracious wave. "Over the last four decades, I've taken the heads of eight Immortals who came hunting for her."

Elena was not impressed. "You were using her as bait," she accused. "And then you had the gall to accept her gratitude. Do you like playing at the lord of the manor?"

"I was her patron," Shaw said, his nostrils flaring. "And her protector. She owed me."

Elena saw her chance to rattle him. "Owed you what?" she demanded. "Her head? Or her body? I find you personally repugnant, Shaw, and so did Claudia, I'm sure. I know why she wouldn't even kiss you." She was rewarded by Shaw's hand starting to rise to his mouth before he stopped it. She went on, "You weren't Claudia's liege lord, protecting her from a sense of noblesse oblige. You just wanted her head for yourself, you selfish bastard." She leaned forward on the uncomfortable, creaking chair. "Tell me, Shaw, did you kill Claudia because she wouldn't sleep with you, or for her talent? Or did you take her head simply because you were bored?"

"I don't kill people over sex," Shaw said with withering scorn. But then he repeated, "She owed me. The talent… I didn't know it would transfer, not that way." He raised his face, his eyes glowing with rapturous joy. "That genius, that power, to create such music…" His smile was unholy with delight. "It's a gift."

Elena shook her head. Unbelievable, but true. Shaw had killed Claudia, carelessly destroyed another human being just in the hope that he could play the piano better. He had shown no mercy, and he would get none.

"Gifts are given," Elena said, "not taken. And you won't keep this one for long." She looked him over with disgust. "You take money to beat up untrained men. Today you made a widow cry. You betray and murder helpless women under your 'protection.' You're a bully and a coward, Shaw, and you have no honor."

His eyes narrowed in irritation, and she knew with a flash of glee that she had managed to get under his skin again. She stood, squaring her shoulders, her face grim and implacable. "I want your head," she told him again. "Do you accept the challenge or not?"

"You're serious," he said in wonder. He looked her over yet again, but now his evaluation wasn't sexual, it was professional. He rose to his full height and smoothed his jacket before saying, "You surprise me, Duran. I did not think you were a warrior."

Elena was surprised by Shaw, that he would give her a compliment like that. Unless it was a ploy? Connor had called Shaw a "smooth bastard."

"I accept your challenge, Elena Duran," Shaw said then actually bowed to her, all formal and … almost … polite.

Another ploy? It didn't matter. She nodded her head, very briefly. "Ready?" she said, getting impatient.

"I have a few details to take care of. Shall we meet tomorrow?"

She tilted her head, studying him. "You're not trying to drag this out, are you? Scared a little?" She could tell Shaw wasn't scared, but no harm in pushing.

He actually laughed aloud. "I find challenges invigorating, not frightening, especially a challenge of true skill between opponents."

So, Elena decided, este hombre liked to fight, not just win. That kind of confidence didn't come from killing only obviously weaker opponents. Well, she knew that already. He had to die anyway. "You killed Claudia when she was unarmed," she pointed out.

He waved that away. "She wasn't a warrior. That wasn't a challenge."

When Connor had called her a warrior, she had been flattered. She didn't value Shaw's opinion at all. A truly honorable man, like Connor, would never have betrayed and killed Claudia Jardine. "Unlike Claudia," Elena told Shaw, "I am a challenge. You're vermin, Shaw."

"And you, Duran, are uncivilized. But even so, I think, not without honor on the battle field. This fight between us has been a long time coming; one might say it was inevitable. I am eager for this match, believe me. Shall we meet at dawn?" he proposed.

He was treating her differently, like a real opponent. Whatever. "We're both eager; how nice. Today, six o'clock," Elena countered. She wasn't spending any more time away from home than she had to. "I'll meet you at this abandoned stone barn." She pulled out a piece of paper from her pocket with the address and GPS coordinates on it then dropped it on the seat of the uncomfortable antique chair.

Shaw glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. "In one hour and forty-two minutes," Shaw agreed. As she went to the door, he called after her, "Duran." She stopped but did not turn, and he asked, "Shall I inform both MacLeod and Marcello of your death? Or just MacLeod?"

"I'll spare you the trouble," she assured him as she exited. Vermin, she thought. As soon as Elena got in her car, she called Cassandra. "Six o'clock," she said. "How's it going?"

"Better than I expected. Want to help?"

"Sure." Elena drove back, parked her car on the side of the road, and met Cassandra not too far from the barn, but hidden from sight behind a grove of trees. "You've been busy," Elena said, for the hole was already nearly three feet deep. A blue tarp hide the site from prying eyes above.

"This used to be a garden," Cassandra said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. "The ground is easy to dig."

"How'd you find it?" Elena asked, picking up a shovel.

Cassandra pointed to a heap of stones not far away. "Chimney."

They dug together for half an hour. "My arms are starting to get tired," Elena declared and stopped. She needed to save her strength for the fight. Cassandra dug until about five-thirty then stacked the tools and put on a wide-brimmed hat. Elena handed her car key and phone to Cassandra.

"I'll see you soon," Cassandra said firmly then walked off between the birch trees, reaching out to touch them one by one until she disappeared, a witch in the woods.

Elena felt the need for solitude, and she didn't want Shaw to think she was waiting for him. She walked silently into the fields then into a small forested area, dim under thickening clouds. The ground was cold beneath her feet, and the air was still frigid. At least she'd warmed up with all that digging, and it would be marginally warmer inside the barn. Elena, a tropical creature, was dressed warmly in dark layers she could remove as needed and was wearing comfortable, well-worn boots. She'd also pulled up her hair, so Shaw couldn't grab it, and stuffed it under a knit cap.

The uneven ground made for some rough passage, and for some reason she was thinking of Duncan, how gracefully he'd be walking, remembering what a superb dancer he was. Fencing was a dance too, of course. A dance of death. A Totentanz. She was not a great dancer but she was good at this dance. Connor had agreed, and Cassandra had practically sent her here. If they were confident of her, so would she be. It was time to meet Shaw.

When Elena could just see the barn in a small clearing through the trees she sensed the dim thrum of an Immortal. She stopped and took a deep breath then said a prayer, unsure how much time Shaw would give her, if any. She wished Duncan were here, or even Cassandra—for a moment she felt very alone. But that, too, was the Game.

Elena took one more deep breath. Then she left the cover of the trees and strode confidently into the ruined barn, her backpack (with her sword) over her shoulder.

Shaw was leaning with one shoulder against a stall wall and humming softly. Damn if it wasn't Beethoven again, the Moonlight Sonata Claudia had been playing when Shaw beheaded her! Elena thought. Was he remembering Claudia? Feeling guilty? She doubted it would make a difference in the fight. He was dressed all in gray under a hand-woven dark blue coat, as neat as always. His beautiful English broadsword, slightly longer and heavier than her German broadsword, lay balanced atop an old feeding trough.

He snapped his pocket watch shut and straightened as she came in. "You're on time,' he said, sounding surprised.

"Do you expect me to be late because I'm a woman or because I'm Latin?"

"Both."

"I'm never late for my opponents' funerals," she said.

That almost got a smile out of him. He nodded then placed his watch in his coat pocket and hung the garment and a grey woolen scarf over a stall wall in the far corner of the barn. Elena took the opposite corner and hung up her cape and her backpack. Behind her, the lowering sun glowed brightly right into through the barn door opening.

Elena drew her sword then kissed the hilt, murmuring, "!Ayudame, Dios mio!" Then she struck the point against the dirt floor. "!Desperta, ferro!" she clearly called out.

Shaw shook his head again. "Superstitious nonsense. Shall we begin?"

Elena nodded, and Shaw assumed the classic fencing stance, saluted with his sword, then lowered it and said, "En garde." Then he rushed her.

Within three minutes Elena knew she would not be able to outfence Peter Shaw. He was equally skilled, had as much endurance, and although she was marginally faster, he was stronger, brutally stronger, much stronger than he looked. Every few minutes he pounded on her then went back to regular fencing. It was disconcerting, screwing up her timing, her rhythm.

Sooner or later, she knew, he'd pummel right through her guard. For now, they were evenly matched and neither one had scored more than just a shallow cut. Then he made a mistake, a lowering of his blade, and she managed to jab the tip of her sword into his side, pricking him. First blood! Elena exulted.

But his fierce riposte forced her back, and she couldn't finish her stroke. She had to withdraw, and fast. Then he beat on her again, blow after blow, simply outmuscling her, and she barely stood her ground.

But he couldn't maintain that pace, and they separated, both breathing hard. To win, Elena knew, she would have to look for a worse mistake on his part and not ever close with him. Except he wasn't making any more mistakes. Well, nor was she.

Until Shaw rushed her again, striking at her with a savage blow that swept her sword arm away from her body, exposing her chest and totally numbing her wrist.

And Elena dropped her sword.

Shaw looked straight into her eyes, and smiled.

For half a heartbeat they looked at each other, silent and motionless, his eyes glittering with triumph and hers dull with despair, even as every instinct in her body screamed at her to reach for the sword on the ground to her left, to pick it up, to get her weapon back in her hand! She was faster, she could do it! She crouched then started to reach, just as his sword came down in a brutal arc with enough force to slice through bone and cut off her hand.

Game over.

Except Elena's hand wasn't there. That reach had been a feint. Instead she had pistoned her legs and leaped to her right, away from her sword, vaulting over a stall wall as she called mockingly, "Too slow, Shaw!"

He wasn't all that slow; as she had leaped his sword had cut into the heel of her left boot. After she landed, she could hear him growling with rage. Not only had he missed what should have been a sure victory, the wall was too high for him to reach her. If she was lucky, Shaw's anger would cause him to barrel through the stall's open doorway soon, knowing she was disarmed, probably hoping to be quick enough to catch her sprawled on the ground.

But Elena had practiced sticking her landings too many times, and instead, he was barely in time to see her take two running steps, hit the unstable wall again, and come out the way she had come in – between the ceiling and the top edge of the stall wall.

Except this time she didn't go down, but up. She grabbed the edge of the loft floor, swung her legs through the opening and rolled up onto the loft above the stall, then moved to place herself above the stall doorway as she pivoted one hundred eighty degrees. She was now crouched and facing the outer barn wall, her back to the inside of the barn. She had pulled a muscle in her left calf but had no time to wait for the muscle to relax. She was just grateful that the rickety wall had held her weight one more time.

Shaw was still in the stall. He must know that Elena now had the advantage of higher ground and would surely jump on him when he came out. She could hear him breathing hard, hesitating at the doorway – which was what Elena was hoping for.

But he might be too ready for her; she needed just one moment's distraction. Near her on the loft floor, blessedly, were several broken, discarded items. Knowing any noise would force Shaw's attention in that direction, she picked up an old curry brush. As she threw it hard against the outer stable wall, above and behind him, she also jumped backwards off the loft, launching herself blindly into thin air. On the way down, she grabbed the edge of the loft floor again. She swung her hips forward, straightening her curled legs and kicking with all her weight to let her momentum carry her through the stall doorway.

Shaw was already turning back to face her, too damn quick, and his sword slashed up, this time cutting through her boot and into her left ankle. Her right boot, however, crunched into the softness on the side of his head, and he took a few stumbling steps backward into the stall then fell heavily, striking his head on the stone wall.

Elena swung back and let go of the loft edge, landing softly on her good foot, almost losing her balance. She ran-limped to her nearby sword, thanking God Shaw had been in so much of a hurry to kill her that he hadn't tossed her blade further away. She scooped it up and rushed back to the stall, but by this time Shaw was already standing. However, he was leaning against the stone wall, shaking his head to try to clear it, holding his sword double-handed in front of him in a classic defensive stance. Behind him on the pale stone, about knee-high, was a new glossy smear of blood.

Elena smiled. !Ahora si, cabron! I have you! She closed in swiftly, for she wasn't some swashbuckling hero in a movie, allowing her deadly opponent a chance to regain his full faculties. She was going to kill Shaw now.

She feinted to the right, and he parried, but slower and weaker than before. She could see the death grip he had on his sword hilt, knuckles white with effort. Concussions took time to heal.

His time was up. With her right hand she pressed against his wrists, pinning them with all her weight against his body. At the same time, she drew her left elbow back then thrust hard, burying her blade up into his chest, between his ribs, through his lungs and into his heart. She stopped only when she felt the satisfying clink of her sword tip against the stone wall behind him.

Shaw gasped with surprise, then pain, then shock. Elena leaned back and wrested his sword away out of his hands, tossing it behind her.

"Clown acrobatics…not…real fencing," he gasped, slumping onto her blade. Bloody foam was already filling his mouth and spilling out. "Not … honor—"

"It's parcours. And you're just a sore loser, aren't you?" She pulled her sword out of his body, taking a step back, and Shaw lurched forward then fell onto his knees. Before he could topple forward yet again Elena called out, "!Solamente puede haber una!" as she brought her sword down in a two-handed stroke and decapitated Peter Shaw.

Elena put her sword point down into the earth of the barn floor then moved to the center of the structure and stood still, waiting and dreading it. The birds and even the shhh of the wind coming in through the various holes in the old building suddenly stopped, leaving an empty silence, a vacuum, followed immediately by the crash of the all-too-familiar light show. The Quickening filled the barn top to bottom, lightning strokes leaping from wall to wall, splintering the ancient wood.

But the lashing within her soul this time was not that bad. It was almost … gentle. Of Peter Shaw she could hardly detect anything. He was a whisper, a shadow, nothing more. But following that she sensed the overwhelming force of … of music. It was piano music—Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Ravel, Brahms, Beethoven—all playing at once in her head, a cacophony of simultaneous music boxes gone wild. She covered her ears against the racket even though she knew it was all coming from inside. Then Elena concentrated and exerted her will, calling out her own name, forcing her identify forward, fighting against being overcome by Claudia Jardine. No, not by Claudia Jardine—by Claudia Jardine's music.

By the time the lights stopped so did the music, mostly. Elena could still hear echoes of a soft piano in the background. It was the same Debussy piece she had played in Austria, but now Elena knew how she could play it better, with more feeling, more art. More like Claudia.

Elena threw up a quick prayer of thanks. Then she picked up her sword, wiped it on Shaw's scarf and resheathed it. She went outside, walking past Shaw's body. The clouds had finally broken and the sun was just above the trees. It would be a beautiful sunset, and she, not Shaw, would get to enjoy it. Elena wanted to sing to the trees with the joy of being alive and the confidence that came from winning and from proving to herself that she was back, that she was an Immortal again! A triumphant keyboard march she didn't even recognize was going through her head.

She laughed aloud then quickly, surprisingly sobered, realizing the 'thrill' was not gone, but it was muted. Yes, she was alive and happy, and she was horny, and she couldn't wait to get back to Duncan. But for the first time she couldn't seem to get past the idea of the price she'd had to pay, the price all Immortals paid to survive: deliberately removing the heads off other human beings then watching the bodies twitch and die. Whether Shaw was a good man or a bad man, she'd still killed him.

Elena had never felt quite this way before, so … philosophical … about her Immortality. Claudia Jardine? she wondered. No. Maybe she was just getting old, Elena considered, chuckling. It was possible that O'Sensei's aikido pacifism from the middle of the previous century was catching up to her. Or maybe after being a real part of a real mortal family for four decades she was growing up. All her talks with Methos were finally having an effect? Or maybe, as she felt another Immortal sensation drill into her brain, Cassandra's closeness and calmness were influencing her.

The Quickening, the adrenaline, the music, an Immortal's approach—the combination was giving Elena a headache, and she was massaging her temples when Cassandra walked into the clearing. They shared a victory grin, and Elena called, "Ready?"

"Let's go," Cassandra agreed.

Elena went back into the barn and took off her ruined boot, putting on the shoes from her backpack. She sorted through Shaw's coat pockets, removing his keys, pocket watch, phone, and wallet. She and Cassandra wrapped the body in the coat then used an old wheel barrow to carry it and the sword to the grave they had dug earlier that day. "I'll get the head," Elena offered.

When Shaw's body, head, and sword were arranged in the grave, Elena and Cassandra started to shovel. "You don't fight, do you?" Elena asked.

"Quickenings give me nightmares for years, sometimes decades," Cassandra said. "Even when I'm not asleep." She looked up with a rueful smile. "Everyone is much safer if I'm sane."

"Yeah," Elena strongly agreed, wondering how sane she herself was. There was another unknown melody going through her head.

"And with Shaw…" Cassandra tossed a shovelful of dirt on his head. "If he had beheaded me, he might have acquired the power of the Voice. I couldn't let that happen."

"So you recruited me to kill him."

"I asked," Cassandra corrected. "You volunteered."

"I did, didn't I? In fact, as soon as you invited me to London I was thinking about killing him. Before I even knew about Claudia."

"Revenge for Lorenzo, after all these years?" Cassandra asked. "Or just looking for someone to kill?"

Shaw had asked her the same question. She'd lied to him. She wasn't going to lie to Cassandra. "Both," Elena had to admit. "I haven't fought in six years, and I am an Immortal, and so fighting is what I do, even if Lorenzo didn't want me to, even if Marcellino doesn't—"

"Marcellino?" Cassandra repeated then guessed, "You told him."

"This weekend." Elena shoveled some more. The whole body was covered now. "Looks like you were right." She jabbed her shovel into the dirt. "He said he never wanted to see me again."

"Ah, chica, I'm sorry," Cassandra said softly. "I wouldn't have called you if I'd known."

"I think it helped, actually," Elena said. "I'm more angry than sad. I fight better that way." Elena concentrated on burying his feet before asking, "What if I had lost?"

Cassandra stopped shoveling to look at her. "Then now I would be weeping as I buried a friend."

"But about Shaw?"

"I would have gone to plan B."

"Duncan," Elena guessed. Maybe Connor, she thought. The Voice? It didn't matter. They finished filling in the hole and stamped down the dirt, then Cassandra covered it all with last year's fallen leaves while Elena cleaned up the blood in the barn then changed her sweaty, blood-stained clothes.

It was nearly dark as they started walking back to the car. "They're addicting, you know," Cassandra said quietly. "The Quickenings."

"I'm not addicted," Elena said.

"I am," Cassandra said. "And so is Methos. That's why we avoid them as much as we can."

"You said that Quickenings make you crazy, that you hear voices."

"I do, for years," Cassandra agreed. "And I'm ill for days afterwards." Her tongue flickered over pale lips. "But even so, I still crave that power." She pulled her cape more closely about her and said thoughtfully, "Resisting must be even harder for Methos. He does very well."

Elena was surprised to hear Cassandra praise Methos for anything, but she wisely kept that thought to herself.

Cassandra looked at her sidelong, and even in the dim light her eyes were incredibly ancient. "Be careful, Elena, of the heads you take and the souls you consume. Because I can tell you, it is not good to need to kill someone simply in order to feel alive."

"I don't," Elena said. "I just feel like a successful—that is, alive—Immortal. Although killing Shaw was different, a little. It's kind of a waste, isn't it?" she mused. "Destroying another human being. Having that responsibility." Cassandra was looking at her closely, and Elena demanded, "What? I can't think about this, ponder my role in the universe? Am I that shallow?"

"Of course you can ponder your role," Cassandra said. "But I must say, you haven't often been so … reflective."

Elena smiled at the sort-of compliment. Cassandra was honest and blunt; it was a good trait in a confidante. "True."

"I like the change."

"It might be partially your influence. Anyway, I've never killed lightly, and less so now. So don't worry that I will go challenging someone because I'm bored, or because I want power. Ok?"

"Ok," Cassandra agreed.

"But the truth is, amiga, you need not have worried about Shaw taking my 'abilities,' or yours, or anyone else's, for that matter."

"Except Claudia's."

"Well, he wanted to take Claudia's music, but he didn't; it took him. Her genius just poured out onto him, overwhelmed him. And I've got it now." She linked arms with Cassandra and added, "Let's find a piano. I'll play the Moonlight Sonata, and you'll see."

"I would very much like to hear that. After you buy me dinner."

Elena got home to Caen late on Wednesday night, but still before Duncan. His last message had said he'd be here soon. She was singing as she fixed dinner for them: a lullaby she barely remembered her Mapuche mother singing when Elena was about four years old, then started softly singing Spanish children's songs: "Las Mananitas," "Arroz con Leche," the little ditty "Marcelino." But surprisingly, that music was drowned out by piano music. Mozart. Damn, this could get annoying, Elena thought as she sensed the arrival of an Immortal.

And when she saw Duncan come through the door, the melody in her head immediately became Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No.2, the most romantic piece of music in the world. She ran to Duncan and embraced him more than warmly.

He kissed her then drew back and asked, "Who was it?"

Elena giggled with lust, relief, just plain happiness. "Could you tell if I had been with another man?"

"Maybe," he answered, serious. "But I can definitely tell you killed an Immortal."

"Does it matter who?"

"Is it a secret?" he countered.

She shrugged. "Peter Shaw."

"Connor's mentioned him. I've never met him."

"And you never will," she replied. "I'll tell you all about it later. Can we make love now please? If you're not too tired from saving lives while I was taking a life?"

Duncan frowned slightly. "Elena—," he began. Then with a shake of his head he obviously let it go. "I'm not too tired. Love tonight. Talk tomorrow."

"Deal," she said and led him by the hand into their bedroom.

Duncan woke Elena before dawn, but she didn't complain. He was placing tiny kisses along the inside of her arm, slowly working his way up to her neck, then her cheek, then her mouth. And then he worked his way down again. Rachmaninoff again. It added a new dimension to lovemaking.

Afterward, as they lay panting in each others' arms, Elena said, smiling, "We should buy a piano."

Duncan looked at her, puzzled. "Really?"

She sighed. "Let me tell you about yesterday," she began.

Duncan closed his eyes when Elena told him about Claudia, and when the tale was finished, he shook his head. "Claudia was sixteen when I met her," he told Elena. "Tessa and I had gone to an arts festival in Portland, and Claudia was in a tent playing a Bach fugue. She was amazing. And stubborn. That never changed." He tightened his arm around Elena and said, "I knew she wouldn't survive very long, but I'm glad to hear her gift isn't gone forever. And that Peter Shaw, her murderer, didn't get to keep it."

That afternoon, when Elena got back from the stable, she went into town and bought an upright piano that just barely fit between the two windows in the front room. The music that had been sounding in her head for days poured forth from her fingertips.

She played every day, and she found herself singing, humming, and air playing the piano throughout the day. Music she'd never heard before ran through her head—victory marches while sparring with Duncan, Romeo and Juliet while making love, even music to ride a horse by. Yet over the next few weeks, the music subsided. Elena could still call it up when she wanted, and her playing had definitely improved, become more art and less mechanical, but Claudia's influence was no longer uninvited, and Elena could simply ignore it when she wanted to.

A few days later, Duncan called her to say, "The crew is having a birthday party for Margot tonight. Can you get home early?"

Parties with Duncan's rescue crew were always a blast, and Elena and Duncan had gone out with Margot and her husband several times. Then there had been that New Year's Party. Margot was a serious, dedicated rescue pilot, but extremely funny when in her cups. "Sure!" Elena said.

That evening she put on her dancing clothes, and they went to Gaia, a nightclub in town. Elena asked for a piano and played Art Tatum, Monk, Duke Ellington. She was the hit of the party. As people whooped, danced, and clapped, Elena said quietly, "Thank you, Claudia."

Next: Elena to the rescue