Redemption, Chapter Eight
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 EIGHT
Joe arrived, red-nosed from the cold, and blowing on his hands. He gave
the hotel lobby a curious look, eyes lighting up as MacLeod rose to
greet him.
"So?" Joe asked at once. "Did you find her?"
"No." MacLeod added grimly, "but Vortig's in town."
"Ah. The plot thickens." Joe brandished his briefcase. "A little
privacy?"
"Upstairs."
Duncan's suite had a small refrigerator well stocked with beer. Joe
accepted one, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. He shoved his
briefcase toward the Immortal.
"Vortig's file," he announced. "For what it's worth."
As MacLeod had expected, Vortig was very old. Other than that, there
was not much in the way of information. Duncan leafed through the
collection of photocopied sheets. Vortig was a military man. He'd held
high-ranking positions in various armies over the past century. At the
moment, he was a "security advisor," but there was no information on
just who he advised.
"There's some discussion," Joe said, "that Vortig is an arms dealer, but
so far, nothing to directly link him to the business."
Mention of exploits in the more distant past were even less forthcoming.
Entries were terse. 1196 AD. Germany. 448 -Caer-Guricon. When Duncan
pointed this out, Joe nodded.
"I know. Those are summaries of old reports kept in vaults beneath the
Watcher archives here in Paris. The records are rumored to be very
detailed. Unfortunately, they're not accessible to those of us in the
rank and file. Anyway - Cassandra."
He opened another envelope and pulled out a folder.
"Thorough," congratulated Duncan. "Thanks, Joe. I appreciate the
help."
"You damn well better," growled the Watcher. "If anyone finds out what
I did, I'm toast."
Duncan grinned, unimpressed by the frequent lament. After a moment,
shaking his head, Joe continued. "Check out Cassandra's whereabouts in
the fifth century
"Britain." Duncan frowned. Something nagged at him, a sense of missing
a piece to the puzzle. "You say the complete files are here, in Paris?"
"The archives," repeated Joe shortly. "Heavily guarded. Very, very,
very heavily guarded."
"I'm sure." Setting the files down, Duncan smiled at his friend.
Not being an idiot, Joe glared back. "Mac! Don't do anything stupid!"
"I promise, Joe. Nothing stupid. Now - do you remember that little bar
down by the Seine? I understand Robert Cray is doing a couple of sets
there tonight."
It was a low blow, and the flash in his friend's eyes told him Joe
recognized it. Still - it *was* Robert Cray.
"All right," he growled. "At least I can keep my eye on you."
***
The launch pulled into the tiny bay. Cassandra set down her glass and
made her way up on deck. It was a rare, clear day for late November,
but the pleasant weather was not likely to last. Her pilot made ominous
noises about a new front coming up the east coast. That was fine with
her. She wanted to be home, away from the world. Peace was what she
needed, refuge and healing. The island would give her the first two in
abundance; the final obstacle to the last was waiting for her on the
other side of the cliff wall, among the dense green of the interior
forests.
Tom was on the beach, jeep parked at the end of the pier. The sun
continued to shine brightly, but there was a stiff wind building. She
scrambled into the vehicle, warmed by the open delight in the boy's
smile.
"Cassandra! Welcome home!"
She hugged him and set him back. Goddess, but he was getting tall.
"You're looking well, Tommy. How is everything?"
He turned the jeep and started it along the steep, winding climb through
Elwyn's protective wall of cliffs. She settled back, letting Tom rattle
on about his studies, the good harvest and other homely matters. Some
of the last month's ever-present anxiety drained away. The heater was
on, the jeep a bit too warm, but she did not complain. Lulled by his
voice, she made small comments where appropriate, enjoying the sweep of
towering spruce against the blue sky, the sudden glimpse of ocean as
they crested the rim. It was not until they started into the valley
that she realized what she was not hearing.
"And my lord Death?"
Tom fell silent and, after a moment, nodded. "He's here, Cass."
"Did he try to deny his crimes?"
The boy shook his head. Her brows arched. "Really? I'm surprised.
Has he given you much trouble?"
A shrug and an expert turn of the wheels around a hard corner. For a
moment, Cassandra was treated to a breathtaking panorama of cliffs with
their feet buried in mist-crowned forest. Another sharp turn and the
valley lay out before her. Although it was yet afternoon, the sun was
already sliding past the Wall. Shadow stretched across the empty
fields. In the easternmost houses, lights were coming on.
"He tried to escape a couple times, but we soon cured him of that."
Tom's voice was expressionless. Cassandra frowned and leaned over to
lay her hand on his arm.
"Tom . . ?"
"No." The mortal straightened and gave her a quick, sober glance. "I
understand that justice must be served."
"Good." She settled back and tried to ignore the memories. "Methos is
clever. He can be charming when he chooses. He also kills without
hesitation or conscience. Never let down your guard, my sweet."
The house welcomed her, its rambling walls of glass and stone reflecting
the last of the afternoon sun. Jason was at the door to take
Cassandra's coat and hug her, Charlie to hoist her bags and follow her
along to the west wing where she kept her rooms. A fire had been laid.
With admonishments to remember dinner, they left her. Cassandra went
to the fireplace and stretched her hands before the blaze. Peace
settled around her.
Yet she could not be completely easy. Methos was here, somewhere. By
now he would know she had come. She'd received regular reports, but
Dane's dry recitation of events hadn't given Cassandra the satisfaction
she'd expected. She would see for herself, later. Tonight she wanted
no part of her vengeance. When Charlie returned to announce dinner, she
told him to keep Methos out of her sight. He nodded, unperturbed.
Dinner was wonderful - salmon and cress, with Maurice's famous hazelnut
torte. Cassandra retired soon after and slept straight through the
night. When she woke, it was to find her pilot's prediction fulfilled.
White drifts piled up against the glass that was her bedroom's east
wall. She could not see the Japanese maples six feet away, so dense was
the falling snow. The wind howled around the low eaves, rattling glass
and sending a draft down the chimney. With a shiver, she was back in
bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.
Renee knocked diffidently. Small, dark, with a sprinkling of freckles
over her snub nose, Cassandra could remember her mother at a similar
task. The girl hurried to build up the fire, replying shyly to
Cassandra's greeting. When she beckoned, the child came to the bedside
with downcast eyes.
"Tell Maurice I'm ready for breakfast." She hesitated, then added:
"Have Methos bring it."
The girl's eyes got very wide. "Y...yes, ma'am."
Cassandra lay back among the pillows, heart beating faster. She
regretted involving the mortals; Jason had instructions to keep the
monster as far from them possible, but she could not do this without
their help. Rolling over, the Immortal reached across to the bedside
table and rooted through her bag. Her hand closed around the taser -
added security.
She threw back the covers and found a robe, deep blue velvet and lined
with fleece. Even with the fire and the central heating, there was a
decided chill in the air. She was nestling into a chair by the fire
when the door opened. Her heart jumped and began beating wildly. Even
so, her hands were steady as she arranged the soft folds of a cashmere
blanket over her knees.
Methos came into the room, carrying a large, silver tray. She saw at
once how thin he was, and when she let her hand move over taser on her
lap, the contents of the tray rattled. Neither speaking, nor looking at
her, the oldest and most evil of Immortals set the tray down on the
table beside her, and began lifting away the silver covers. His hair
was longer now. Soon it would be the straight, thick mane she
remembered so vividly. Maybe this would be easier then. He poured
coffee and backed away.
"Thank you," she said. "You may go."
For a moment, Cassandra thought he would protest. He hesitated, fists
clenching at his sides. Then he turned and slipped out. She sagged
back into the cushions, pressing her own hands together to keep them
from shaking. It was a long time before her pulse slowed.
***
continued
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