Redemption, Chapter Twelve
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 can be sent to bec...@umich.edu.
Chapter Twelve
Tom approached the ruins with some trepidation. Methos stood along a
cleared section of floor, his pick resting on it, staring blindly into
the valley. He jumped when Tom came up.
"Hi," the boy said awkwardly.
No answer, only a long, bleak look. Then Methos turned away and,
lifting the pick, drove it into the hillside. Great, damp clods of
earth came loose and rolled down to the dirty stones.
"I -- I heard about last night." The words tumbled out, not at all the
way he'd wished.
A muscle leapt in the Immortal's jaw, but still he said nothing.
"It was wrong!"
"I'm a murderer," replied the Immortal in a flat voice. "What do you
care?"
"I don't believe it!"
Methos turned and looked at the boy with a mocking smile. "Really?
Even after I've confessed?"
"It was a long time ago."
"Yes," replied Methos softly. "It was."
Tom's throat was so tight he could barely speak. He remembered how
Jason had looked, pale and stricken, shattered by what he'd done to the
Immortal -- what he'd done for Cassandra. Even now the youth shook from
the argument he'd had with his guardian, both of them screaming at each
other across the breakfast table while the staff ran and hid. But she
was wrong this time, damn it! Maybe Methos had been evil once, but
three thousand years was a goddamned long time! It was impossible *not*
to change in all those years! What was the point to such a long life
otherwise?
Methos shook his head and turned away. His pick froze in midswing and,
unexpectedly, he whirled around to face the valley. Tom's mouth dropped
as four strangers came up over the ridge. He started to turn, to run
back to the house, but Methos reached out and grabbed him, pulling him
back. Then Tom saw the guns. His heart began to pound.
One of the man was taller than the rest, broad-shouldered, with
well-defined features. His hair was just turning gray, but his
movements were those of a young man.
"Adam Pierson, I presume?"
"You have the advantage," said Methos finally.
"Neilin Vortig." He looked Methos up and down. "I can't say that I
think much of Cassandra's hospitality."
"Club Med is superior." Dark eyes continued wary. "Are you a friend of
Cassandra's?"
"We have a -- history." The man walked slowly around Methos,
considering him. "*Whatever* did you do to incur her wrath."
"That's personal." Methos released Tom.
"The collar - what does it do?"
"Inconveniences me."
Tom looked from one Immortal to the other, heart pounding. Vortig
gestured to his men. They stepped forward, surrounding Methos. The
dark-haired Immortal became very still, body tense as they took hold of
him. Vortig drew a knife. The edge glittered as he laid the tip
against Methos throat.
"NO!" Tom cried. The blade flashed. Methos shivered. Long fingers
touched his newly bare neck.
"Thanks," he said finally. "How much is this going to cost me?"
***
"The link's been broken!"
Cassandra looked up, startled, as Dane appeared breathlessly beside her.
Setting the beaker on the table, she brushed chamomile from her
fingers. "Then find him."
"No, you don't understand! The collar's *off*!"
MACLEOD! For a moment she was so angry she could barely breathe. With
the anger was a shattering sense of betrayal. Taking a deep breath, she
said: "Get everyone out searching for him. Notify the villages and
above all, get someone to the pass. They mustn't get off the island."
Goddess! She'd thought MacLeod so honorable that even his implied word
was good. Methos' corrupting influence was even stronger than she'd
thought.
From the front of the house came a crashing. Cassandra snatched the
sword leaning against the chair, pulling it from its scabbard. Out in
the corridor, she heard shouting and, for the first time, another
explanation occurred to her. The door ahead flew open and two strangers
stood there, guns aimed dead at her.
"Please put the sword down, ma'am," ordered one of the men. "We know
you're Immortal and we won't hesitate to shoot."
Wordlessly, thoughts whirling, Cassandra put down the blade and walked
forward at the other's gesture. They gave her room to move, respectful
- professional. Somewhere nearby, was another Immortal.
Vortig.
He was waiting in her formal parlor, large body arranged neatly,
relaxed, on the couch. The tree covered ridges visible through the
window behind reminded her abruptly of the hills above Bath, before his
quest to become Britain's High-King.
"Vortig." She stood between his soldiers, calm, hands clasped at her
waist. "Welcome to my home."
He smiled appreciatively at the sarcasm and nodded to his men. They
stepped back.
"What do you want?"
"A disingenuous question, my dear Cassie. You know who I want."
"He's not here. He's dead, Neilin -- has been for almost fifteen
hundred years."
"And this island? Its charming people with their so-interesting cult?
Existing by pure coincidence?"
"Have you found him?" she asked. Annoyance flickered across those
disciplined features. "Have you torn apart the island? I remember how
you work, Vortig."
"As we speak, my dear. Please. . ." he waved toward the place beside
him. She remained standing. "My money is on that monstrosity of marble
-- the Tomb of the Dragon. Once we locate your priests, it should only
be a matter of time. I thought I would offer you a chance to give me
the information freely before I began hacking your people apart."
"They can't tell you anything," she replied, still outwardly calm,
inwardly panicking. "There is nothing to tell."
Vortig was on his feet in a single, predatory movement. She took a step
backwards in alarm, remembering the sudden rages.
"They brought him to you and you smuggled him north. It was a while,
but I did find you. Only, by then, you had gone north again, whored
yourself to that Norse barbarian! Well - you've run out of places to
hide, woman! I know he's here! I will find him, and if I must, I
*will* put you to the Question."
She shuddered as his hands closed around her arms and he pulled her
close. His heart was pounding, the harsh, handsome face inches from her
own. When his mouth came down on hers, it was all Cassandra could do to
keep from twisting away. She forced herself to stand, unresponsive, as
his tongue ravaged her, as his hands moved possessively over her body.
Then he set her away, eyes afire and she remembered, too late, how
resistance excited him.
"SMITH!"
One of the men stepped forward.
"Take her to down to the village, then get Samson on the line. I want
the rest of the islanders neutralized!" To her, he said softly: "I look
forward to an interesting . . . discussion of old times, my love. Until
later."
***
continued
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