Redemption, Chapter Four
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 FOUR
The prisoner was awake when Tom came to get him in the morning. His
eyes were smudged with exhaustion and there was no sign of yesterday's
bravado. A night spent chained to the wall, no food, no water -- that
would take the fight out of a man soon enough. The boy unlocked the
shackles and stepped back as Methos promptly slid to the floor, arms
hanging uselessly at his sides.
"Get up," Tom said, poking the ragged figure with his boot.
The dark head lifted fiercely. Tom laid his hand on the taser in his
pocket. Methos clenched his fists, then got awkwardly to his feet.
Without a word, he preceded Tom down the narrow passage and upstairs
into the kitchen.
The entire staff was gathered for breakfast, Jason included, and the
room fell silent when Methos appeared. Janet and Renee, the two maids,
giggled nervously as the Immortal looked them over. Steel collar around
his neck, clothes in ribbons, he nevertheless looked anything but cowed.
Tom itched to erase the expression of cold disdain.
"Well, well- - there's fight left in you yet." Jason lifted his coffee
and sipped, watching Methos over the rim.
"Want some breakfast?" Maurice asked.
Startled, the Immortal nodded.
"Too bad!" the cook retorted and everyone laughed.
"Take him out to Fire Point and get him started," Jason said to Tom.
"Bring Charlie along, just to be safe."
"I don't need Charlie. I've got that shocker thing." Bending over the
table, Tom swiped a rejected bacon strip from Renee's plate. She
giggled and slapped at his hand.
"Methos."
The Immortal looked up, sullen. Unperturbed by his hostility, Jason
said: "Someone will come get you later and bring you back. Remember, if
you try to leave the estate, the collar will alert us. By all means,
however, feel free to test it."
The lean, stubbled jaw clenched, but the Immortal only nodded. Jason
studied him a moment longer. "I'd feel better if you took Charlie," he
told Tom.
"I'll be fine. You worry too much."
"Damn straight. Cassandra would be very, *very* annoyed if anything
happened to you."
"*Cassandra* worries too much."
Laughing, Jason returned to his coffee and accounts. Renee peeped up at
Tom through her lashes. "You can have the rest of my bacon, if you
want."
"Tom?" Jason bent a forbidding look on Renee.
"Move!" Tom ordered Methos. The Immortal turned and stalked from the
house.
It was cold. Tom zipped his jacket up to his neck. There was frost on
the ground and by the time they reached the tool shed, he was blowing on
his hands and wishing he'd brought gloves. After rummaging about, Tom
handed the Immortal a spade, pick and crowbar. Without a word, Methos
slung the tools over his shoulder and walked out.
Fire Point lay east of Caerleon, high atop a promontory overlooking both
the great house and the valley. It was a picturesque pile, the tumbled
stones softened by time and moss, trees setting roots among them.
"You're supposed to clear away the undergrowth and dirt, clean the
stones and set them aside."
The Immortal gave him an incredulous stare. "They weigh a hundred
pounds each - at least."
"Then you've your work cut out for you," snapped Tom. "And I wouldn't
waste any time. Cassandra expects to see progress when she returns. It
would be stupid to disappoint her."
"When's she coming back?"
"Whenever she wants."
The prisoner turned his back on Tom and walked slowly toward the
overgrown ruin. After a moment, he began stripping away vines and moss
with swift, angry motions. Mistrustful, the mortal found a sheltered
spot higher on the hill. The Immortal ignored him, methodically
clearing brush away from a stone.
Tom remembered the first time he'd seen this place. Lucius, the old
Islander priest, said it was a watch tower, one of three built when the
Folk first came to the isle. The other two had been perched on the
cliffs, one on the east, the second to the west. From those vantage
points, a signal could be passed to the villages if the enemy's ships
were seen. But Cassandra had chosen their haven well. The enemy never
came and the outer towers gradually vanished, erased by sea and storm.
Tom was no islander. He knew damn well modern enemies wouldn't even
notice stone battlements. Shivering a little, he drew his knees to his
chest. Below, Methos stopped, ran a hand through spiky, dark hair.
Setting aside the shovel, the Immortal dropped to a crouch. Curious,
Tom leaned forward. "What is it?"
"A capstone, I think, but the carving is extraordinary."
"Stand away from it -- by the edge of the ridge!"
Methos backed up as Tom slid down. Something in the dirty stone caught
a ray of sun and sparkled. His eyes widened. Bending over, he pushed
away the mud.
The blow came out of nowhere, knocking Tom into the leaves, shattering
his thoughts. Another blow drove the breath from him and he rolled,
narrowly avoiding a third, savage kick. Somehow he got to his feet,
mouth pulsing with pain, furious, terrified. Ducking wildly, he avoided
being impaled by the flying pick. Desperate fingers found the taser in
his pocket. He yanked it out and aimed, but Methos was faster. He was
on Tom, lean hands closing with frightening strength around the mortal's
arm.
A desperate twist extricated Tom; a lucky blow slowed the Immortal's
assault. Somehow, he managed to roll out from beneath Methos, slipping
and tumbling over the mossy lip of a stone. This time, he fired.
Abruptly, there was no more resistence. The Immortal's body twisted.
His eyes were wide and blind. Shaking, Tom lifted his finger away from
the control.
The Immortal shuddered and was still. Wiping blood from his swollen
lip, Tom fought the urge to let the prisoner have another taste of hell,
but contented himself with yanking back the dart. After several long
minutes, slowly and without grace, Methos rose to his knees. His ashen
face glistened. When Tom took a step toward him, he flinched, coming up
against rock. The mortal retrieved the fallen pick and shoved it
unceremoniously back at him.
"Get to work," Tom said. Then, heart still hammering, he turned his
back on the silent Immortal, and left him alone on the hilltop.
***
MacLeod leaned forward, his back straight, eyes distant and focused
inward. He brought his arm back slowly, felt the strain of muscles
before he released the energy in an explosive punch. Then it was back
to shifting his balance, beginning again.
Warning slid along his nerves, prickled over his skin. The Highlander
spun, kicked, then bent to snatch up his sword. He heard the street
door open (it had been locked) and footsteps on the stair. Moving
toward the nearest door, he waited.
A tall man stepped into the room. Well dressed, graying hair clipped
and shining, his hard eyes moved over the Highlander.
"Duncan MacLeod?" The accent was faint, from no particular place. Old,
very old.
Duncan nodded his head slightly, not relaxing his stance. He recognized
the other Immortal as the man on the street following Cassandra. The
stranger seemed faintly amused, peeling off his gloves, looking around
the long, mirrored room.
"A dance studio once?"
"Have you come for me?"
"Certainly not." The hands under the gloves were square and
thick-fingered, at odds with the man's languid elegance. "I am Neilin
Vortig. We have a common acquaintance. I was hoping you might help me
find her."
MacLeod spun his blade. It blurred back into its scabbard. Vortig did
not seem overly impressed. Keeping a wary eye on his visitor, the
Highlander grabbed a towel.
"Who would that be?"
"Cassandra. Quite the beautiful enchantress. We're old, old friends."
"I don't know where she is," MacLeod said finally. "And I don't like
strangers breaking into my house."
"I won't linger." Vortig continued pleasant, strolling along the
exercise bar, his reflection repeating into infinity in the mirrors
around them. He stopped by the window and looked out onto the street.
"Are you sure you don't know where she is?"
MacLeod nodded. Shrugging, Vortig moved to the weapons rack and, after
a moment, selected a longsword
"You might be lying. Are you willing to defend your words, Duncan
MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod?"
The Highlander's jaw tightened, drawing his blade while the other
Immoral shed his coat. Vortig's hands were swift and sure as he tested
the longsword's balance. They faced each other in the center of the
room, late afternoon sunlight falling across the wood in wide, dusty
bars.
The attack came suddenly, a lightning thrust that drove Duncan back a
step. He recovered at once, only to find Vortig coming in from below.
The other Immortal was good, quicksilver on his feet and tireless.
MacLeod, already fatigued from a long workout, could feel the weight of
his own limbs and struggled to stay out of reach.
Harsh breathing and the clash of steel echoed through the studio.
Slowly, inexorably, Vortig was driving MacLeod toward the end of the
room. A feint, a thrust, and there was searing pain along his left arm.
MacLeod dodged the next attack, hitting the wall, rolling along it as
Vortig's blade took a chunk out of the plaster.
"Where's Cassandra?"
Sides heaving, MacLeod backed away slowly. Vortig was barely winded,
almost affable. He waited politely for the Highlander to catch his
breath.
"I don't know." MacLeod's sword weighed a thousand pounds. "Wouldn't
tell you -- anyway."
Vortig lowered his blade. "Guess what? I believe you, Highlander - on
both counts."
"Good." Duncan wanted to sit down. "Close the door on your way out."
Eyes of unusual depth held his. It was a trait of the old ones, Macleod
thought irritably, that those eyes so often held amusement.
"It's very rare to find a reputation that is actually justified," Vortig
returned the sword to the rack and retrieved his coat. "I'll remember
you, Highlander."
"And I you," was the Highlander's grim reply.
"Yes," Vortig said softly. "I suspect you will."
****
Methos sat, back against the warm clothes dryer, long legs stretched out
in front of him. It was late and he was tired. When the washing
machine rattled to a stop, he ignored it.
Elwyn Island, under other circumstances, would be a fascinating place.
The ruins he was excavating, for instance, were easily tenth century.
So were the foundations of Caerleon. Incredible as it seemed, the Folk
had been here for centuries before any other Europeans except the
Vikings.
Elwyn had a population of six hundred, all members of an obscure pagan
cult - the Dragonfolk. Methos had never heard of it before. It had its
roots in fifth century Britain. His informant, the flirtatious Janet,
knew little about the Dragon, or why it was worthy of deification, but
she was not one of the Folk. Like most of Caerleon's inmates, she was
Canadian, third-generation in Cassandra's service. Apparently,
fraternization with the islanders was not encouraged.
At some point in their history, the Folk had acquired an enemy of
fearsome power who hounded them across England to the shores of the
North Sea. Trapped there, they were threatened with slaughter. At this
point, Cassandra entered the story and the tale promptly became -- in
Methos' opinion -- a little overwrought.
"Miss Cassandra was a wise woman and very famous in the olden days,"
Janet confided. "She knew the Norse king. It was for love of her that
he sent his finest ships to bring the Folk safely to this island. Isn't
that the most romantic thing?"
Romantic, indeed. Far more interesting was how the bitch had wrangled
sovereignty for this wretched rock. He had to admit, albeit grudgingly,
*that* was a pretty good trick. The rest of Janet's story he discounted
completely.
"Methos?"
He started out of his half doze. Speak of the devil. Little Janet was
in her nightgown, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders.
"I can't find my night robe. Have you seen it?"
Warning bells were going off in his mind. Methos got to his feet as she
advanced on him. The nightgown was *very* low-cut. And Janet had an
exceptionally nice bosom. He took a deep breath.
"I'm sorry. I haven't." Deftly he turned, pretending to look in the
pile of clean clothing stacked on a nearby table. He sincerely doubted
he'd find the garment, but at least he put the dryer between them - a
momentary respite.
"I'll help you look." Undeterred, she moved in, trapping him between
dryer and table. Her arm brushed his. The night turned dangerous.
"I don't think your robe is here."
Gods, her hand was on his arm now - no pretense at accidental touch.
Heart hammering, he tried to move around her and succeeded only in
getting stuck. Worse, the soft curves pressed against him were having
their predictable effect on his own body.
He tried again, desperate. "This isn't a good idea, Janet. You'll get
us both in trouble."
And he'd be the one to suffer for it.
She ignored his resistence, pressing closer and bringing her arms up
around his neck. "I don't care what they say," she whispered. "I think
you're ever so handsome. Are you really five thousand years old?"
Methos tried gently to extricate himself, but she only tightened her
hold on him. He smelled lavender water. Maybe -- maybe he could use
this to his advantage . . .
"METHOS!"
Janet shrieked. Methos, heart jumping into his throat, dispensed with
courtesy and flung her away. Jason Dane stood in the doorway, face
white, furious. Janet was stammering -- a confused melange of apology
and denial. Methos' gaze fixed irresistibly on the taser gripped in
Dane's hand.
"Out," snapped Dane and Janet, bursting into tears, fled. Methos braced
himself. .
"Nice try," the man purred, "but I think you'll regret it."
"It wasn't my fault . . ."
Dane came into the room and Methos found himself once again backing up
to the wall. He couldn't win this one, didn't even try. Keeping a firm
hand on his temper, the Immortal dropped his eyes, forced himself to
keep his voice meek. "It won't happen again."
"Cassandra was right," breathed the mortal. "You *are* dangerous. All
soft-voiced and penitent." His lips curled. "I think I understand how
she could have thought herself in love."
Caught by surprise, Methos' gaze locked into the man's.
"*Jesus*, but I hate bastards like you! Selfish and unpitying, taking
whatever you want and damn the misery you leave behind!"
Abruptly, he turned away, looking around the room, struggling to control
himself. "Finish up," he said finally, harshly. "And you can be sure
Cassandra will hear about this." He was gone, footsteps echoing across
the kitchen. A door slammed. Methos realized he was trembling and sat
down on the spot.
*I think I understand how she could have thought herself in love.*
In those days, he'd been a crude, brutal creature. Cassandra had been
the embodiment of a dream. Mysterious, passionate, exquisite of face and
form, she'd held him in thrall. She hated him now, of course --
probably had for millennia. Of that, Methos had no doubt whatsoever.
Still, it was oddly comforting to hear that there might have been a
time, however brief, when she had not.
****
continued
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