Hope Remembered - Part II: Fury

Chapter 4

Duncan and Cassandra landed in Paris and took another flight to Bordeaux, arriving in the late afternoon. It was a beautiful autumn day of blue sky and cool breezes. Duncan and Cassandra went to the elegant and expensive Hotel de Seze, but there was no message from Methos. They checked into the hotel, taking a room on the second floor.

"I need to go running," she said, after they had settled in. "We've done nothing but sit on airplanes for three days."

"Good idea," Duncan agreed. "We should go together."

They ran for eight kilometers along the side of the river. On the way back to the hotel, they went through a park with a Ferris wheel and an ornate fountain of mounted horses. Mothers pushed strollers; a pair of nuns in gray habits kept watch over a group of schoolchildren. Duncan stopped running to toss a ball back to a boy of perhaps ten years. "Eh, attrapes!" he called, and the boy caught the ball and smiled, then ran off to join his friends.

"You like children," Cassandra observed, for Duncan's answering smile lingered as he watched the boys play.

"Sure," he said, in some surprise. "Kids are great."

Cassandra knew that not everyone thought so. Roland had hated children. Silas liked to play with them sometimes, but the other Horsemen merely exterminated children if they were bothersome in any way, as if they were flies to be swatted. Once Methos had stopped raping her to slaughter a three-day old infant who was crying. The baby's mother, a brand-new slave, had protested. Methos had killed her, too. Then, spattered with their blood, he had come back to Cassandra and finished the rape.

Children never lived long in the Horsemen's camp. Of course, that was not unusual. Children were always among the first to die when slaves were taken.

She and Duncan walked together through the park, the graveled sand on the pathway rough underfoot. "Did you ever raise a child?" she asked, wondering what Duncan was really like, what he wanted, what he dreamed. They had been in each other's company almost constantly this last week, but there were still many things about him she did not know.

"Now and again, through the years. But never from the beginning." He stopped and leaned on the edge of the fountain, staring into the pool. "And never through to the end." The spray from the fountain misted his hair and his face, and he was silent again.

Cassandra knew why. "It's a hard thing," she said, "to have to leave them, or to see them die." The ripples on the water mingled and spread, then died away, even as new ripples came to take their place in an endless flow and ebb. All of the children she had raised were dead, even the Immortal ones. "Did you ever marry?"

"No." The word carried with it the memory of missed chances and forgotten hopes, and the knowledge of futility and loss.

Cassandra wondered which of the two MacLeods was more lonely—Duncan, with his many different lovers down through the years, or Connor, who loved seldom but long.

"How about you?" he asked. "Have you ever married?"

"Four times. The first three when I was young. Well," she amended, smiling at him as she turned around and leaned her back against the fountain wall, "about your age." Cassandra watched a couple as they strolled along hand-in-hand, the man's dark head bent to the woman's, laughter in their eyes. "It got…harder, to marry mortals, to commit…" The couple sat down on a bench and kissed, and Cassandra turned away and looked into the pool again. "My last husband was Ramirez, Connor's teacher."

Duncan nodded. "Connor told me that Ramirez introduced you to him. Was it easier, marrying one of us?"

"In a way. We didn't have to pretend with each other, or be so careful about what we said. And we didn't have to feel…guilty about living on while the other grew old." She leaned forward into the fountain and reached for a floating leaf, but the current carried it along. "It was easier, but it wasn't as intense." She shrugged. "But after all, it was an arranged marriage. We decided it was better to marry than to be arrested for fornication."

"Those were the days," Duncan commented ruefully, then asked, "Have you adopted children?"

"Oh, yes," Cassandra said. "Many times." From the beginning, to the end. "But not lately."

Duncan straightened and turned from the fountain. "Connor's really excited about the twins."

"He always did want children," Cassandra agreed. Connor's wife Alex was pregnant by artificial insemination, a modern-day option. "I called Alex a few weeks ago, and she said it wouldn't be long now. She's hoping to carry them for another eight weeks, perhaps." Not that Cassandra was likely to ever see the children, unless by some miracle she survived the Horsemen.

"You called Alex?" Duncan asked, doing a very poor job of hiding his curiosity. "You know her?"

"Yes," Cassandra said. "We spent some time together this summer, in Edinburgh." She took pity on Duncan's obvious interest and added, "Connor was helping me with my swordfighting." He had helped her with a lot of things.

A casual nod was Duncan's only response, but his speculative look and his silence were not casual at all. Duncan was very curious about her relationship with Connor. And why not? It was a very curious relationship. It was also a private one. "Let's go back to the hotel," she said. "I'm hungry."

The next morning they practiced sword-fighting at a fencing club, then waited for Methos to contact them. They ate lunch and waited some more. "I'm going running," Cassandra announced near midafternoon, when she could bear the waiting no longer, and Duncan went with her again.

"You're a good runner," Duncan commented when they finished. They stopped in front of the hotel, then went to the grassy strip under the trees alongside the street. Duncan did a few deep knee-bends, then sat on the grass and reached for his ankles. "Did Connor ever make you go running with him?"

"Make me?" she repeated, leaning against a tree to stretch her calves. That was an odd way to put it. "No, why? Did he make you?"

Duncan snorted. "Oh, yeah. When it was just part of training, it wasn't bad, but sometimes he decided to teach me a lesson. Then we would run. And run. And run. There was one summer— I think it was 1630 or so—when we ran like that almost every week." He shook his head at the memory and massaged his left calf. "Connor likes to run."

Cassandra had seen Connor that year, on a spring afternoon in Aberdeen. Connor had told her he would kill her if she ever came near him again. "No, Connor never made me run," she said, as she joined Duncan on the grass. "But then, he wasn't my teacher. I was his."

"Were you?" Duncan shot her a measuring glance at that piece of information. After a moment, he said, "Connor still challenges me to go running every once in a while, though." He watched her closely as he worked on his other calf. "When he's angry at me about something."

Cassandra kept her head down as she stretched and reached for her toes. Connor had other, less pleasant, ways of showing his anger with her.

"I went to see him this summer," Duncan said, done with stretching, done with trying to find out more, at least for now. "Like you suggested."

"And did he make you go running then?"

"All afternoon." He shrugged, his rueful grin fading. "You were right. I needed to tell him. About the Dark Quickening. About…Sean Burns, and what I…" Duncan stopped, then picked up a pebble that was lying at the base of the tree and tossed it from hand to hand. "I think he was actually angrier at me for not telling him, than he was about what happened."

A cold breeze gusted down the street, and Cassandra shivered. Connor did not like the people he trusted to keep secrets from him.

"It'll be dark soon," Duncan said, standing and throwing the pebble back to the tree. "We should go in."

"Inter canem et lupum," murmured Cassandra, as she rose and stood beside him, looking into the gathering dusk.

"Between dog and wolf?" Duncan asked, translating the words, but not understanding the meaning.

"A Roman idiom," she explained. "It's the time of day when, from a distance, you can't tell the difference between a dog—or a wolf."

—-—-—-

While she was taking her shower, she decided to try to convince Duncan again. Methos was a wolf, no matter what he looked like, no matter what Duncan thought. Cassandra wished Connor were here to talk some sense into his former student. Duncan certainly hadn't been listening to her.

She wrapped her wet hair in a towel and put on a bathrobe, then went into their room to get her clothes. Duncan was sitting in a chair, staring out the French doors that led to the balcony.

Cassandra decided to be blunt. If it came down to a fight between him and Methos, then Duncan needed to realize just how dangerous Methos was. "Will you kill him, Duncan?" she asked, as she sat on the edge of the bed and rummaged through her suitcase for her hairbrush. "Can you kill him?"

Duncan wouldn't even look at her. "If I have to."

Her answer was certain and grim. "You will." And if Duncan didn't, she would, if she ever got the chance.

He leaned forward, all earnestness and hope. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe he's trying to help us?"

She could not believe he had survived so long. Earnestness and hope were appealing qualities in a child, but this was ridiculous, and so was his continued faith in Methos. "No."

The phone rang, and Duncan got up to answer it, while Cassandra sat in front of the mirror and started to brush her hair. "Hello?" Duncan said into the phone, then added quickly, "I'll be right down."

"Was that him?" she asked, watching him in the mirror.

"No, something wrong with my credit card. I'll be right back," he called as he headed for the door.

That was hardly a surprise, the way they had been charging things these last few days. Two of her cards were already charged to the limit. Hunting and running used to depend on who had the most sail or the fastest horse or camel. Now it was who had the most credit cards.

If she survived this, she was going to apply for an American Express card.

Cassandra jerked the brush through her hair. This waiting for Methos was stupid. They should start looking, or call Dawson and see what the Watchers knew. But Duncan wanted to wait. Duncan was sure Methos was his "friend."

She slammed the brush down on the table, remembering her words to Methos when he had dumped her off the bridge: "You should have killed me when you had the chance." She hadn't even been worth killing to him. She hadn't been worth anything. Ever.

Cassandra knocked the chair over as she stood, then started to pace. She wanted to kill Methos, slowly, and with a great deal of pain. But she would have to settle for slamming her fists into the side of the wardrobe. She couldn't break it, and no one would hear.

Cassandra settled into an even, comfortable rhythm, the ache in her hands slowly intensifying as she punched the wood over and over again. She should have killed Methos when she had the chance, that very first day. She shouldn't have stopped to talk to Duncan in the dojo. She should have gone after Methos right then. She should have tracked him down and killed him. Then Kronos would never have found Caspian, and the Horsemen wouldn't be back together. And if Kronos had been by himself, then she could have —

She slammed both fists into the wardrobe and stopped, leaning her forehead against the side.

"Face facts, woman," she muttered to herself. "You couldn't, and you didn't." Kronos had been by himself, and she hadn't had a chance against him. Her only chance had been using the Voice, but Roland had taught Kronos to resist the Voice, just as she had taught Connor. She didn't doubt that Roland had taught the other three Horsemen as well. After all, they were brothers. They shared everything—and everyone.

She didn't want to think about that. Cassandra yanked the bathrobe off and threw it on the floor, then dressed. She picked up her sword and paced back and forth, wishing she could start hunting right now. But Duncan had said he would be back soon, and she should wait here for him. She lay on the bed and closed her eyes, trying to relax.

"What are you doing, Cassandra?" His voice came from behind her, very close.

She froze, dread slithering from her stomach to coil in her arms and legs, her hands clenching tight to the hilt of her sword. She did not turn around. "I was just—"

"Going somewhere?" Methos's voice was smooth next to her ear.

"No!" she protested, standing very still as he moved to her other side. She could feel the warmth from him against her back, the faint breeze from his breath against her cheek and hair.

"Don't lie to me, Cassandra." It was Connor's voice now. His arm came up around her, and his hand lay lightly on her collarbone. "You know I don't like it when you lie." His fingers slid up her throat and tightened a fraction.

"No more lies," she agreed immediately, hoping to please him. "Ever." But Connor was gone and Roland was there, and the hand tightened even more.

"Don't trust her, Little Brother." It was the voice of Kronos, amused and skeptical, behind her on the other side. "Don't ever trust a woman. Look at what she did to me." He was in front of her now, his face swirled in black designs, a bloody knife in his hand. "Remember this?" he asked, holding it close to her eyes, a lazy, anticipatory smile stretching his mouth. He moved the knife lower until it lay against her throat, right above Roland's hand, then he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. "You owe me," he whispered against her mouth, and pressed on the knife until it drew her blood.

Kronos moved back and wiped the knife on his clothes, then said cheerfully, "Isn't that right, Brother?"

"Right," came the drawling, mocking voice, and now Death was there again, the shadows darkening the blue half of his face to black. "She owes us all." He moved closer, and shook his head in sorrow. "You shouldn't have left."

Roland's whisper came harsh in her ear. "I told you not to leave."

"I didn't—"

Roland's hand tightened, and she could not breathe.

"Haven't you tamed her yet, Little Brother?" Death asked. "I can show you how." Now his face was the face of a skull.

"Take this, Brother," Kronos said, holding out the knife. "She deserves it." There was blood on the blade again.

"No," she said. She knew she did not deserve this. Now Roland was in front of her, flanked by the two Horsemen. All of them were smiling. Silas and Caspian were there, too, holding her arms tight behind her back. Her sword was gone. "No…"

Roland stood in front of her. "We can do this as many times as it takes to tame you, Cassandra. Submit." He smiled. "Tell me you deserve it."

"No." It had not been her fault. She had done nothing wrong.

Kronos hit her from the side, a slap that would have knocked her to the ground if Caspian and Silas hadn't held on to her. "Submit."

The side of her face went numb, but that faded soon enough to heat and pain. She spit out the blood in her mouth. "No."

Death changed again, the skull fading to reveal the modern Methos, his face unpainted, his hair short. He was smiling slightly, his eyes faintly amused. Methos took the knife from Kronos and stabbed her once through the heart, then smiled at her as she crumpled to the ground.

Silas and Caspian were still there, each holding one ankle. Methos held her wrists. Kronos asked happily, "We share everything, don't we, Brothers? Who wants to go first?"

Roland's weight was on top of her, his eyes very close. "You owe me, Cassandra. Submit. Tell me you deserve it. Tell me," he repeated, his hands around her throat. He did not use the Voice. "Tell me you're sorry you left me."

She looked into the eyes of her son, the little boy who had trusted her, the child she had failed to protect. The eyes of a lost, lonely, frightened, little boy. "Yes," she said, admitting her guilt. "I'm sorry."

He smiled at her, a smile of love and trust and happiness, and then he started to squeeze.

—-—-—-

Cassandra woke suddenly, unable to move or to breathe. She kept her eyes closed and tried to relax her arms and legs. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs, and she took a first cautious breath. She was on the bed, in the hotel in Bordeaux, and her sword was by her side. There was no one else in the room.

She opened her eyes slowly. It was dark outside now, and the room was dim, so she reached over and turned on the bedside lamp, blinking at the sudden brightness, still trying to control her breathing. She hadn't had that dream before, not in quite that way. She hoped she never had it again. It was definitely one of the more unpleasant ones.

She sat up a little, and reached for a magazine, hoping to find something else to think about. Then she blinked again at the pain in the back of her head. Another Immortal was near. Cassandra stood shakily, heading for the door. It must be Duncan, finally done fixing his credit card. "Duncan, what took you so long?" she asked as she opened the door, needing to feel his arms around her right now.

But it was not Duncan.

It was Silas, shoving the door open when she tried to slam it shut. And it was not just Silas. Kronos and Caspian were there, too, and all of them were smiling.

She fell back in dismay, her hands at her sides, cursing her stupidity and her carelessness. One bad dream, and she forgot every single thing she knew. She should have run immediately, gone out the window. What an idiot she was!

Kronos advanced on her, smiling still. "I'm afraid—Duncan—is otherwise engaged." His voice lingered on the name, giving it a evil, mocking twist.

What did he mean by that? Had they already killed him? Or was Methos killing him now? Had the Horsemen been waiting for Duncan at the hotel desk? Cassandra took another step backwards, moving slightly sideways, trying to edge closer to the bed and to her sword. She could not use the Voice on Kronos, and she probably wouldn't have any chance against the three of them, but at least she could try.

Kronos tilted his head and asked engagingly, "Am I wrong? Don't I owe you something?"

She swallowed in a dry throat. She owed him. No. That had been the dream. That was not real. She owed him nothing. She was not going to be tame.

Now Kronos was in front of her, flanked by the other two Horsemen. Kronos said, "Too bad you didn't know you had to take my head to kill me."

"I'll take it now," she said fiercely and leapt for her sword on the bed.

Caspian got there first. He flung himself on top of her sword, then grinned as he stood with the blade in his hand.

Cassandra cursed silently again and retreated, but she had nowhere to go. There were three of them, all bigger, all stronger, all skilled fighters. All men. What were her chances? Realistically—zero. She swallowed, dreading what she knew was coming. Her best plan now was to appear to give them what they wanted, to minimize the pain, to get it over faster. It was not total submission; it was a strategic retreat. She knew how to do that. She had done it before.

Cassandra allowed her terror to show. The Horsemen liked to see that; they thrived on others' fear. She knew that if she tried to hide her terror, they would simply become more and more violent until they broke through her defenses. It was better to seem to surrender immediately, to let them think they had broken her.

Kronos smiled in response to her fear and took out a knife.

This time the terror on her face came of its own accord. It was the knife from the dream, the same knife she had used to kill him over three thousand years ago. He had kept it all this time.

"I've waited a long time to give this back to you," he said, in vicious satisfaction. He moved closer, and Caspian and Silas came with him, jackals following the kill.

Cassandra retreated until her back was against the wall. It was not difficult to make small frightened whimpers, to cower in fear. It was going to hurt. She knew that. This had happened before. But she had survived then, and she could survive now.

"Scream," Kronos warned, "and we'll kill whoever comes through the door."

She must be silent, then. She would not be responsible for another's death. Not again. At least the Horsemen would not torture her now, or take her head in the hotel. It would make too much noise.

"Methos did a good job, calling MacLeod and luring him away from you," Kronos said, well-pleased.

Cassandra blinked, trying to hide her shock. Duncan had lied to her? Duncan? He had told her would "be right back" when he knew he was leaving the hotel to meet Methos? Duncan had lied?

Damn him! How dare he mislead her that way? How could he do such a thing? She swallowed hard, rage and fear and betrayal freezing into a cold certainty within her. She knew what this meant. Duncan had chosen Methos over her. Methos was his "friend," his "brother," and she was just a woman. And if she couldn't trust Duncan MacLeod, then who could she trust?

Damn all men! Fucking murderers, all of them! She shook her head and blinked, then hid her hatred, and allowed only her fear to show. Kronos would break her for hatred; he would enjoy her fear.

Kronos advanced until he was almost touching her, then carefully laid the edge of the knife against her throat, slicing into her skin. She shivered, and his smile broadened as he moved the knife moved downward, the tip delicately flicking against her nipples, teasing them into prominence. "You like that, don't you?" he asked softly, smiling again. It was Roland's smile.

She forced down her anger, held it deep inside her. She must not be angry. She had no right to be angry, no right to protect herself, no right to anything at all. The knife moved lower, and she swallowed hard, trembling.

Kronos grinned and stepped back. "But you don't want to get blood on your clothes, do you?" He spoke without turning to Silas and Caspian. "Strip her."

Not again! But she was not surprised. She was a woman, and this was what women were for. Cassandra closed her eyes and did not resist, retreating even farther behind her walls, going into that small hidden place where they could not touch her. She had done this before. The tight grips on her wrists and ankles were only dimly felt, their blows and touches did not really touch her at all.

Spread your legs. Turn her over. On your knees. Your turn, Brother?

She did not listen to their words and their grunts, her moans and her muffled cries. She did not see. She did not hear. She was not there.

When Kronos finally killed her, she felt almost nothing at all.

Continued in Chapter 5