Redemption, Chapter Two
morga...@my-deja.com
by Beck McLaughlin
Methos, Duncan and Cassandra are the property of someone else, alas, and
no copyright infringement is intended. Everything else is mine.
Comments, criticisms and flames should be directed to bec...@umich.edu.
CHAPTER TWO
Cassandra sat on the cheap, vinyl couch, and wondered why her heart
wasn't pounding. At her feet sprawled the battered form, still
unconscious. Even as she watched, his bruises began to fade. A jagged
cut across one prominent cheekbone knitted and was gone. Soon only his
clothes, torn and bloody, would remain to remind the bastard of his
first taste of justice.
"Cassandra?" His voice was a breath. As always, hearing it sent
shivers up her spine, equal parts of fear and desire. He realized then
that he was chained and she waited as he struggled frantically to his
knees, twisting his hands against the confining steel. Her men stepped
forward, alarmed when the prisoner leaned toward her. She motioned them
back even as Methos realized they were there.
"Go," she ordered. "Wait outside." And, finally, when they were gone:
"Good evening - Death."
He settled back on his heels, bound fists pressed against his knees, and
looked up at her. Cassandra's hand flew out, cracked across his face
with a force that sent him sprawling backwards.
"Do *not* look me in the eyes!"
After a moment, he rolled over and regained his position. His eyes
glittered with anger, but he was no fool and they were quickly veiled by
his lashes. "So I'm to die, after all?" The quiet voice was calm, only
the hands, white-knuckled, betrayed his dread.
"I gave MacLeod my word that you should live," she replied, "and so you
shall. Although it may reach the point where you wish you did not."
"Revenge, Cassandra?"
She longed to slap him again, but withheld the pleasure. Suddenly,
perversely, she wanted to see his eyes. "I prefer to call it justice,
Death. Justice for the murder of my people and countless others,
justice for being subjected to your whims."
"Cassandra, I'm sorry." The dark head bowed; long fingers opened and
lay stiffly against his faded jeans. "If I could undo it all, do you
think I would not?"
His voice cracked; she could almost believe the note in it was truly
pain. Goddess, his tongue was so facile! Unwelcome, a memory surfaced.
Impossible numbers of stars against the inky sky, and the two of them
lying outside his tent, covered by furs, laughing as she tried to show
him the constellations.
"How easy it is to deny what you were, what you did! Torture, rape, the
slaughter of women and children. . . CHILDREN, Methos!"
The ancient Immortal's face hardened, went bleak and cold. It was a
look she remembered as vividly as if it were yesterday. "Yes," he said.
"I did those things."
"And now, finally, you will pay. As one of your victims, Death, I claim
right of retribution. No! Do NOT speak!"
"Cassandra - that was *thousands* of years ago. . ."
Gracefully, Cassandra sank to the floor beside him. Methos tried to get
up; she pushed him back to the dirty concrete. This time, he was still,
tense as wire. She ran her fingers through his short, dark hair and
remembered when it had fallen across his shoulders and into his eyes.
Those amazing eyes, with corners that crinkled as he squinted against
the glare of the sun; eyes that could go soft as velvet in lamplight.
Her fingers knotted convulsively and he made a small sound when she
yanked up his head.
"I am Cassandra," she said, so softly only he could hear. "And now,
Methos, at last, *you* live to serve *me!*"
***
Duncan woke and lay without moving, limbs heavy with sleep, content.
Sunlight fell through the tall windows and across his bed. Wednesday.
Dinner with Joe and Methos, and then uptown to see a new rock band the
latter currently championed. Maybe Methos wouldn't ask him about
Milius. Ha!
In the meantime, Duncan realized suddenly, life was good. A burgeoning
economy was taking his investments with it. People were suddenly
interested in antiques again. Aside from Milius, no other Immortal had
Challenged him in almost a year. His friends were getting along, and
that *extremely* attractive art critic for the New York Times had given
him her phone number at Joe's.
Rolling over, Duncan reached for his wallet. Inside was the scrap of
cocktail napkin. It was almost noon - why not? Grinning, he reached for
the phone. It rang.
"MacLeod?"
"Hey, Joe."
"You OK?"
Hearing a strange note in his friend's voice, Duncan pushed the blankets
back and sat up. "Yeah. What's wrong?"
"Maybe nothing - maybe a lot. Have you heard from Methos lately?"
"Not for a couple days. Why?"
Joe mumbled something.
"JOE!"
"We've had a man on Methos since he left the Watchers."
"What? Oh, he's going to love that!"
"I was rather hoping you wouldn't tell him," was Joe's dry retort,
"although, if it's any consolation, we're Watching him as Adam Pierson,
new Immortal. Anyway, about five days ago, Methos got into a cab.
Carlington followed. He thought Methos was going home, but the cab sped
up and went right past the apartment. The guy lost the cab down by the
docks. Methos hasn't been back."
Duncan said nothing, unease crawling up his spine. On one hand, Methos
did tend toward unpredictability. On the other -- in five thousand
years, a man could make a lot of enemies. Knowing now what he did of
Methos' past, the possibility of enemies was very great indeed.
"Maybe he figured out he was being watched?"
"Could've." Joe didn't sound convinced. "Do you think he went to meet
another Immortal?"
"Methos? Walk willingly into a fight? I doubt it."
"Yeah. Well, I thought it was strange, myself. I thought maybe
something was going on with the old bastard and we could get out of
seeing that thrash metal band he loves so much."
Duncan burst out laughing. "Joe, you're a snob!"
"Oh, yeah. You could hardly wait to see 'em, right?"
The Highlander chuckled. "Let's find out if Methos shows tonight. If
not, I'm betting there's a reasonable explanation for his
disappearance." Duncan paused, then: "Or as reasonable as you can
expect from him."
***
The plane circled lazily above a scattering of islands. Sunlight
glanced off the cold blue water below. Methos shifted uncomfortably.
Steel cut into his wrist, binding him to the arm of his seat. There
were four mortals in the small plane with him - the pilot and guards who
kept their distance and ignored his attempts at conversation.
The plane sank closer to one of the larger islands. He saw a rocky
coast, broken cliffs and a deep, narrow valley. Canada? His memories
of the flight's beginning were hazy. Cassandra had given him water, a
kindness he should have suspected at once. Not long afterwards, he'd
lost consciousness, waking to this.
Banking sharply, the timbre of the engine changed. Methos' two guards
unbuckled themselves and approached him. They stood with legs braced
apart as the plane lowered, then slowed. The ocean was alarmingly
close. He was unlocked from the seat, hauled bodily to the door. When
one of them started to turn the lock, he knew suddenly what they
intended.
Methos struck as his captors succeeded in opening the door, a desperate
fist connecting to the smaller man's jaw. The larger of the two,
looking annoyed, lifted his gun and fired point blank into Methos'
chest. It was fortunate the Immortal died then, for he surely would
have done so - and much less cleanly - when his body smashed onto the
rocks below.
***
Duncan checked his watch, waiting impatiently for the light to change.
He was late for the auction and likely to miss out on the Flemish
tapestries. If they were genuine, of course. With Mathering, one could
never be sure. The light changed. He hurried forward, swept on by the
mass of New Yorkers around him. As he stepped onto the curb, he felt
the sudden pull of another Immortal. Head going up, eyes narrowing, he
looked through the crowd and saw a familiar sweep of dark hair, the
unmistakable, elegant figure. Heart jumping, he shouted: "Cassandra!"
The crowd shifted and hid her from view. Duncan tucked his newspaper
under his arm, and slid through the press of people, trying in vain to
find her. Just as he decided he was mistaken, he spotted her again.
Dodging around a woman with a stroller, he started after her. Then,
unexpectedly, he felt the presence of yet another Immortal. A tall man
loitered near a newsstand, watching her hurry to hail a cab. Drawing
his long raincoat close, the stranger started forward. Smooth as silk,
pretending to be unaware of his presence, MacLeod cut him off.
Cassandra started and spun around.
"Duncan!"
"You're a hard woman to catch." He lifted her hand to his lips. "Have
you forgiven me yet?"
She looked at the cab, then back at him. "About Methos?" Her eyes
flashed, but her mouth twitched. "Perhaps. A little."
"Good! How long are you in New York? Why didn't you call me? Can I
take you to dinner?"
She touched him, a brief caress along his jaw. He was distracted by her
lips, full and petulant. "I was only in town for the day, Duncan, and
my flight leaves in two hours. Come to Paris. We can -- talk about old
times."
The cabbie honked impatiently. She looked past Duncan. The slanted,
curiously feline eyes went blank with shock. Duncan looked around and
saw the strange Immortal seven feet away. A chill ran down the
Highlander's spine. He took a step toward the man and was halted by a
crowd of Japanese tourists. When they were past, there was no sign of
the stranger.
"Who the hell was that?" MacLeod turned back to Cassandra, but she too
was gone - the cab receding in traffic. More disturbed than he wanted
to admit, he continued on to the auction.
***
end Chapter Two
Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/
Share what you know. Learn what you don't.