Redemption, Chapter Six
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 Six
Methos hissed in frustration as he tried to pry an ancient cornerstone
from the earth. In spite of the bitter cold, the Immortal was covered
with sweat, sides heaving with effort as the damn thing finally budged.
Unable to go further, he sagged to the ground, back against the
recalcitrant rock, and caught his breath. This job needed several men
with more equipment than a spade and crowbar, but his mistress was in no
apparent hurry. He looked ruefully at his blistered hands, watched as
the lesions healed for the millionth time, then stared out over the
valley.
Clouds were piling against the high ridges. There was a nor'easter
coming. He felt the wind's bite on his cooling body and wished for more
than the shreds of his original clothing. Methos reckoned that soon the
rags wouldn't even preserve modesty, let alone hold back the cold. His
teeth started to chatter, so he got back to his feet and bent over the
crowbar again.
Two hellish months he had been on this island. Methos had yet to see
Cassandra, but it hardly mattered. Her rage confronted him every day
out of a dozen different faces. His escape attempts had not ended with
the attack on Tom. Twice Methos tried to make the beach and twice the
collar led them right to him. They'd punished him for each attempt and,
after the second failure, Methos postponed that idea.
The stone came free from its bed at last, rolling a few inches toward
the precipice. Swearing, Methos dodged out of its way. Icy rain
spattered in huge drops around him and, miserably, he swore again.
Picking up his crowbar, he happened to glance toward the valley. Lights
spread across the fields, moving away from the village at the foot of
the hill. Methos watched them scatter over autumn-bare fields, moving
toward the Grove.
The rain began in earnest. Turning his back, he began to push the rock
onto the sledge. He'd fashioned the thing himself, using a dimly
recalled memory to do so. It was clumsily made and he was forever
repairing it. Still, it was better than trying to roll the damn rocks
across the ridge to the growing pile by the woods.
As he bent to lift the handles, Methos saw movement at the corner of his
eye. He straightened and turned, hoping it wasn't Dane. It wasn't.
Clinging to a nearby tree, a child stared back at him. She was a tiny
thing, perhaps eight years old, eyes overlarge, her face too thin and
white to be healthy. Pale hair hung, dripping, over frail shoulders.
She wasn't wearing a coat. Alarmed, Methos dropped the sledge. He took
a step forward before remembering who he was to the islanders.
"Hello!" he called, smiling. "Are you lost?"
The reason for the lanterns was now clear. The child did not answer
him, but neither did she look afraid. He took another step forward.
"Wouldn't you rather be at home in front of a nice fire?"
Her small head tilted There was still no answer, but the bloodless
lips curved into a sudden, answering smile. Encouraged, Methos
scrambled up the rocky slope. "How about a ride on my sledge?"
Wind rattled the tree, so cold it stopped Methos' breath. The girl
seemed not to notice. "Yes, please," she chirped, barely audible above
the rain. The Immortal stared stupidly at the hand held out to him,
blind-sided by the trusting gesture. Wordlessly, he took it and his
heart jumped to feel how cold were the tiny fingers.
They ran down the hillock while the rain pelted around them. She paused
at the stone, releasing his hand and, inexplicably, stroked the worn
carvings. Methos lifted her gently, carefully, and set her securely upon
it.
"What's your name?"
"Igraine."
"That's a pretty name. Are you comfortable, Igraine?"
She nodded. The compulsion to snatch her up and run to the house was
almost irresistible, but Methos was terrified of scaring her. Instead,
he pulled the stone a few feet, then stopped. Crouching, his face level
with hers, he asked: "I think we should go get out of the rain, don't
you?"
Methos was arrested by the look in her huge, sunken eyes. For a moment,
he couldn't move. Then she lifted her arms to him, and when he picked
her up, she curled tightly against him and buried her face in his
shoulder. He ran.
The storm was directly overhead, afternoon giving way to early dusk.
There were people around the house when he came over the hill. He saw
lights, heard dogs barking. Someone spotted them and shouted.
A woman broke from the knot of onlookers and ran to the child, snatching
her up. Villagers closed around them and bore them away. Methos
stayed where he was, afraid to move. Dane was coming, swearing and
slipping on the wet grass, Tom right behind him. The older man carried
his taser. Fear closed the Immortal's throat. He tried to twist away
from the barb, but half-frozen, dizzy with exhaustion, he wasn't fast
enough. Pain dropped him to his knees in on the muddy slope.
"Get up!" Dane's voice shook. "If you've harmed a hair on her head . .
."
Methos tried, but half-frozen, muscle control shattered by the taser's
disruption, he only slipped and fell again. In the end, they had to
lift him bodily, dragging him up the hill to the house.
The sudden cessation of the rain and wind took Methos' breath away. He
was released to fold quietly to the kitchen tiles, dazed by the fragrant
warmth. Dane's boot nudged his flank. Hoping to forestall any more
trouble, Methos gathered himself up and faced the man. Tom hovered at
his back; there was something new in the boy's grey gaze - Methos
couldn't read it.
"Clean up and get back to work." said Dane harshly.
For the first time, Methos was aware that there were others in the
kitchen. Maurice and Renee were standing at a table, hands covered with
flour, staring. He could not bring himself to look at any of them.
With reasonable steadiness, the Immortal turned and managed to get to
the laundry room. Bracing himself against the edge of the sink, he put
his head under the faucet, letting warm water sluice away the mud.
Behind closed eyes, he saw the child's face again, the luminous,
otherworldly gaze that saw straight into his soul.
And suddenly there was another child looking up at him, her
soot-streaked face white with terror. Smoke filled Methos' nostrils; he
inhaled it with relish. Screams and the roar of flames rang in his
ears. Kronos called it the music of chaos. Sobbing, the child held up
her arms to him. Methos lifted his axe, its weight familiar in his
hands.
"NO!" He reeled away from the sink, head hitting the shelf above it,
crashing into a stack of laundry and coming up hard against the wall.
For a long time, he remained there, shaking, stomach turning. "No," he
whispered at last. "Not any more. Never, ever again."
The door opened. Tom stared across the room at him Methos sank to a
crouch, drew his knees to his chest and lowered his head. The villager
could do what he liked. Exhausted, heartsick, Methos was past caring.
But the kick he expected never came, nor the angry blow. After a
moment, he heard Tom leave and the door close. Even so, it was a while
before he summoned the energy to look up.
Next to him on the floor was a steaming bowl of soup.
****
Cassandra wasn't in Paris. Duncan arrived at the doorstep of her (very
exclusive) apartment building only to be told by a supercilious doorman
that Mme. Cassandra was Away. Neither sincere appeals nor wads of
folded francs were enough to squeeze one tiny hint from his lips.
Disgruntled, MacLeod headed for his best friend in the city, Robert de
Valicourt.
The baron was at home, although - to Duncan's disappointment - Gina was
not.
"She is on St. James, waiting for me, my friend. Sunlight, rum and my
incomparable Gina - and you delay me! See how great is my regard for
you?" de Valicourt lifted an inquisitive brow, then laughed and
embraced the Scot. "It's wonderful to see you, Duncan. Come to St.
James with me. Gina would adore seeing you again!"
"You tempt me," admitted Duncan, returning the grin and the embrace.
"Are you staying at the Corazon del Mar?"
"Of course."
"Tempting, indeed." MacLeod shook his head. "But as it happens, I'm
looking for Cassandra."
"That witch?" Robert bent a suspicious look on him. "Good lord,
Duncan! You live dangerously, oui?"
"Absolutely," his friend replied. "Know where she is?"
"Non," de Valicourt paused, "but we do share a solicitor. Jerome
Solvay. Most discreet and a very old friend."
"Would he give out information on a client?"
"Certainly not! However, were I to vouch for you, he might be convinced
to communicate with her on your behalf." There was a very Gallic shrug.
Then: "MARCEL! Bring me a phone!"
Armed with his letter of recommendation, Duncan said goodbye to his
friend and headed back into the city. Evening approached; Joe's plane
would be landing soon. The Highlander consulted de Valicourt's
near-illegible directions and turned sharply right.
Ahead, the street was blocked off. Flashing red and blue lights danced
off the surrounding buildings. Police, ambulances and a growing crowd
of gawkers stood between him and the solicitor's office. A moment
later, with a chill, Duncan realized it *was* the solicitor's office.
He parked and jumped out, moving through the crowd toward the line of
police holding them back. Paramedics were running back and forth,
carrying equipment inside and the wounded out. Two body bags lay on the
sidewalk nearby.
"What happened?" He asked his neighbor. The woman turned wide eyes on
him.
"Armed men burst into Monsieur Solvay's offices. Terrorists, the police
say."
The sense of another Immortal raced across his flesh. He spun around,
but saw no one he recognized. "Was Mr. Solvay injured?"
Wordlessly, the woman pointed to one of the bags. Duncan thanked her
and returned to his car. Once beyond the crowd, he felt the Immortal
again. There was movement in the shadows of a nearby alley. A man
smiled, tipped him a lazy salute - and was gone. Vortig.
Duncan swore and went after him. Once beyond sight of the street, he
drew his sword, hesitating just a moment to get accustomed to the gloom.
The alley was very narrow, shadowed by tall buildings that shut away
the sun. It ran straight for some distance, then turned sharply. He
saw no one. There were dozens of doors leading onto it. Vortig had
likely stepped into one of them. Suddenly, the familiar tingling made
him spin about, hand going to sword hidden inside his coat.
"MacLeod."
Vortig stepped into the alley behind him. For a moment, they stared at
each other across the dirty bricks.
"Your work?" Duncan asked finally, gesturing in the direction of the
street.
Vortig shrugged. "It occurs to me," he said, "that you, too, are
looking for the lovely Cassandra."
"What do you want with her?"
"Not to challenge her, if that's what you fear." The man crossed arms
over his broad chest. He stood like a soldier. "She and I have a
mutual friend that I am very anxious to find. All I want is to talk to
her. Nothing more."
"And why," MacLeod drawled, "should I believe you?"
Vortig shrugged. "I give you my word that it is so."
The Highlander nodded slowly. "Who is this mutual friend?"
Vortig's eyes narrowed slightly. "That, Highlander, is none of your
business. No one you know."
"And you know all my friends?"
"You intrigued me in New York. When my interest is engaged, I make it a
habit to research the subject. Did you ever find *your* missing
friend?"
"Who would that be?"
Vortig looked away, as if holding onto his patience. "The young Watcher
- Pierson. Ah - do you think you're the only Immortal who has friends
inside that esteemed organization?"
"Pierson's not a Watcher."
"Yes, I heard he left. Under something of a cloud, I believe. Is it
possible, do you think, that Cassandra has something to do with his
disappearance?"
"I can't imagine why."
"Nor I," was Vortig's frank agreement. "But they were in the same
building several months ago. Perhaps she fancies him. Who knows?
Cassandra is . . . shall we say, endowed with many interesting facets.
Second guessing that woman has always been chancy."
"Same building?"
"Yes. The waterfront. One of my agents had her under surveillance.
Pierson arrived in a cab. My contact says, unwillingly. No one saw him
leave."
"And Cassandra was there at the same time?"
"I see this information is of interest."
MacLeod nodded grimly. "I'd like to know where she is, too, Vortig.
The man you killed had that information. He might have contacted her
for me."
Vortig shook his head. "He knew nothing. I interrogated him at
length."
A chill ran down Duncan's spine. "You tortured him?"
"Yes." the old one smiled drily at Duncan's outrage. "I see you're
offended. Modern sensibilities are so - senseless."
"There's nothing senseless about compassion or courtesy," retorted the
Highlander. "How far *before* the age of chivalry were you born,
Vortig?"
The Immortal grinned. It was a startlingly boyish expression. Methos
smiled like that sometimes.
"Cassandra and I are of an age," Vortig replied. "Chivalry makes
stirring stories, but is -- ultimately -- impractical. I am a practical
man."
"And a bit full of himself."
Again the shrug. "Since you have no information, MacLeod, I shall be on
my way. Perhaps, as a favor, I will keep my eye out for your young
friend, Pierson."
Men appeared behind Vortig. Duncan's mouth tightened, but they merely
surrounded the other Immortal. The small party vanished down the alley.
Sheathing his blade, troubled, Dancan returned to his car.
***
continued
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