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hafital(Well, here goes nothing!)
I debated whether to post this story all at once or over the course of a week, but its not *that* long, and I think I'm out of patience. heh. So, sorry for bombarding you all this morning.
Title: Missed Connections
Pairing: Duncan/Methos, ~30,000 words, Adult (for violence and adult situations)
Author's Note: More notes to follow the final post. This story is set some time after Highlander: Endgame, and fully ignores Highlander: The Source.
I would be no where without my betas![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
killabeez, unovis_lj, and terrio. Special thank you and hugs and all around adoration to killabeez for just being awesome and generous and wonderful.
Summary: It happened in the sunshine of the late afternoon, as he walked down a quiet street on the left bank. She came charging from around a corner following the signal of her presence by only a second or two. He had just enough warning to draw his sword and block her downward strike.
Missed Connections
by hafital
Part 1
~~~
MacLeod was on a beach. The sun shone on the back of his neck. In the distance he saw a man standing with his back to him, facing the ocean. He tried waving, calling to the man. A strong hot breeze blew sand. MacLeod had to reach the man. He didn't know why, he just knew that it was important. He started running.
~~~
MacLeod stepped into Le Blues Bar, pausing for a moment at the threshold of music and conversation layered like hazy smoke. The bar was full with the early evening crowd, a band playing a salsa infused jazz. He spotted Joe behind the bar, working on the books and serving drinks. MacLeod glanced at his watch, annoyed that Methos wasn't there.
Joe waved to him. MacLeod slid onto a stool and accepted a stemless glass of Scottish whisky. MacLeod swirled, then savored a mouthful.
"Thanks," he said over the music. "Have you seen Adam?"
"You just missed him," said Joe, smiling, pouring another glass for himself. "He left about ten minutes ago. Something wrong?"
Scowling, MacLeod shook his head. "Yes," he said, irritated. Then, "No. Except he's an annoying bastard."
"Tell me something I don't know. What'd he do now?"
MacLeod, eager to share his injuries, shifted on his stool so he could lean in to talk to Joe. "He owes me one carton of strawberry ice cream, a new rice cooker, and a pair of Testoni shoes."
Joe whistled. "I'm not going to ask."
"Amanda gave me those shoes. Not to mention he mismatched all of my socks. What kind of fiend does that?" MacLeod finished his whisky, nodding for a refill. Joe obliged. MacLeod, too restless to appreciate the flavor, took another hasty swallow.
"Remind me to show you his bar tab sometime," said Joe.
"He's avoiding me. Three days now." MacLeod reached into his pocket and took out his money clip, rifling through bills.
Blue eyes twinkled at him. "He mentioned something about stopping by the barge sometime tonight."
MacLeod paused with a ten euro note between his fingers. "He did?"
Joe nodded, rubbing his face as if trying to remember. "Said he had to go to Carrefour first, I think. And then to the barge to see you."
MacLeod snorted. "You can't buy Testoni shoes at Carrefour," he said, with feeling. Stubbornly, he sat down, determined to take his time and make Methos wait. He glowered as he sipped his whisky, scaring the other customers who gave him a wide berth. He glanced at his watch every few seconds and ignored Joe's bemused smile. Supposing Methos hadn't lied to Joe to keep MacLeod off his scent, which was a big if, Methos would probably get to the barge in about two hours.
He rose from his stool, said, "Yeah, yeah," to Joe's smirk, and promised to stop by the next day.
~~~~
Presence rang against the old stone of the Pont de la Tournelle. MacLeod felt the vibration rattling his bones, strong enough to loosen his teeth. The Immortal stepped out from behind the wall of the bridge, standing half in light, half in shadow with fog creeping around her legs. The scrape of her shoes echoed against the curve of the bridge. Her hair tied back, she was dressed all in dark colors with a fashion sense that reminded MacLeod of the underground, of squatters and hackers and urban decay, full of buckles and straps and safety pins. She was tall, her pale skin almost the color of the curling mist--a corpse gray. She was like a statue come to life.
MacLeod stopped a few feet away, his stomach clenching in apprehension. He did not recognize her. Skin prickling, he felt for his sword at his side. He looked up along the quay, then glanced behind him. The quay was deserted, but the back of his neck crawled with awareness. "Can I help you?" he asked, calmly, with all of his charm.
"You're Duncan MacLeod," she said. Her voice matched her body, like the edge of a knife. She circled around him. He turned as she turned.
There seemed little point in denying it. "The one and only." His attempt at levity fell heavy in the thick, damp air. The light of day sank behind the indifferent gray of rainclouds.
"You know Methos." It wasn't a question.
MacLeod felt his heart stop for one terrified second. Every instinct screamed, and tightness spread across his chest. But he kept his face neutral, affecting a mask of ease, mildly curious, a little annoyed. He still tasted Joe's whisky. He wondered if fear showed on his face. So he laughed, and looked confused. "I'm sorry, who?"
Her eyes were hard. "You will bring him to me. I will be waiting at the Chateau de Grosbois, at midnight."
This time he really did laugh. "You've got to be kidding me. Even if I knew this person, what makes you think I would just give him to you? I don't know you. I don't know any Methos, either," he said, nearly through gritted teeth. "I wouldn't do that to an enemy, let alone a friend."
Her smile chilled his blood. The brilliance in her eyes held knowledge, as if lies were nothing but a little bit of fog she could easily see through. "You will bring him to me. If you don't, you and I will fight until either you give in and deliver Methos, or I kill you anyway."
MacLeod backed away, edging toward open air. "Look, I'd like to help, I really would, but I don't know who this Methos person is."
"Five a.m., Duncan MacLeod." She pointed her sword at him. "I will be watching. I will know everything." She left as she'd come, disappearing behind the stone of the bridge.
Tempted for a moment to pursue, MacLeod put a hand to his forehead. Warily, he walked to the barge.
~~~
Duncan weighed his options, but decided he had no choice and picked up the phone. Before the call could connect, he hung up. She could have the phones tapped. If she figured out Methos's cell number, she would have his location. She would follow MacLeod if he went to the bar. He could do nothing that would connect him with Methos.
This might be some old rival of Methos's, but MacLeod's instinct told him she was a hunter and she wanted to play a game. She might not know what Methos looked like or where he lived. If she did, she wouldn't need MacLeod to draw him out. Somehow she'd found out enough to know the oldest Immortal could be found in Paris, and could be found through MacLeod. MacLeod didn't want to speculate on how she came by this knowledge, not yet. There would come a time, but at this moment he needed to concentrate.
He peered out from a port side porthole and scanned the quay and the street. Although the temperature was mild, in March darkness still fell early and the street lamps were lit, ineffective in the growing fog. He had to do something. Every minute that passed brought Methos closer to the barge.
MacLeod took up his cell phone and hoped to God Methos had his on him. He started a new message.
a fan of yours says hi
sorry I didnt pay my phone bill
the barge is off limits
have a nice trip
He paused as he puzzled out what to say next.
live grow stronger fight another day
Danger. Going dark. Stay away. Leave town now. Goodbye.
Immediately after sending the message he sent a more direct text to Joe, and then canceled both his wireless and landline service, took the battery out and destroyed his phone, trusting Methos would get the message and do the same before anyone could trace the connection. He knew Methos had several contingency plans in case of emergency. He would be safe; he would get out of Paris and vanish and be far, far away before the break of dawn. That's all that mattered. MacLeod could handle the Immortal.
He watched the quay and the street from a porthole, his sword in his hand, his body rigid with anticipation. Every tall, dark-haired man he saw caused his stomach to flip-flop with adrenaline. But the first hour passed, and then the second, and the evening inched further into night with no Methos appearing with a bag from Carrefour.
He debated whether or not to meet her, but the arrogance of the summons galled him. At midnight he sat on his couch, drinking a cup of coffee, listening to the passing boats on the river and the toll of Notre Dame over the murmur of the city.
He spent a restless night, sleeping with his hand on his sword, jumping at every unknown noise. By mid-morning, his restlessness drove him from the barge to walk the streets of Paris, hoping to draw her out. A shop owner's attention lingered on him for too long. He saw shadows moving behind window curtains, was followed by slowly moving cars. People bumped into him, yelling at him to look where he was going. Every little sound, every shiver of wind across his neck, every shrieking honk or cry from a child made him reach for his sword. The world spun faster and faster, until he stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk and closed his eyes.
It happened in the sunshine of the late afternoon, as he walked down a quiet street on the left bank. She came charging from around a corner following the signal of her presence by only a second or two. He had just enough warning to draw his sword and block her downward strike.
~~~
She was fast. A blur of movement.
Sweat stung his eyes. He could feel each blow reverberate across his shoulders, in his elbows and wrists. MacLeod bled from several cuts, strength slowly sapped away. He managed to retaliate in kind, but she was not slowed by her injuries. Blow for blow, they were evenly matched. The fight dragged down the street and tumbled into an abandoned building on the corner. MacLeod stumbled over debris, turning before she swung laterally at his neck, landing on his back. He struck at her knees. She parried, kicked him in the face. He saw white and red, bit his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth. She stepped on his wrist, trapping his sword arm.
He spat and blinked up at her. She leaned in close and dug the flat of her blade into his neck just hard enough for him to feel its bite under his jaw, to feel the pressure against his jugular. Her face was calm, unmoved, carved from stone: her eyes glittered hard like diamonds. With his free hand he was able to grab her hair and yank hard enough to dislodge her foot. He swung his sword and met nothing but air. Spitting more blood, he sprang up to his feet, sword ready, but he found himself alone.
From elsewhere in the building he heard her voice, echoing down hallways and against walls. "Have you reconsidered? Bring me Methos and I'll let you live."
He followed, running out to the street. Empty. He turned in a circle, looking up and down, wiped at his mouth and cursed. Wincing, examining a cut on his arm, he limped away.
~~~
He returned to the barge without incident. Once inside, in the welcoming comforts of his home, he stripped naked and took as long a shower as his water heater could handle. She would come again. She would be relentless. He was uncomfortably aware that she could have taken him. That she let him live.
He bent his head to the stinging spray and prayed Methos was gone and safe. MacLeod might never see his friend again. He thought of Connor, like he had every day since that day in New York, and missed him, a dull ache made sharp. Help me, Connor. He missed Methos, too, desperately. MacLeod breathed in water and it hurt his throat. He put a hand against the wall of the shower, rested his forehead against the cool metal.
The day dissolved into night. He wandered around the interior of the barge, caged. He could not sit. He could not stand still. It felt like Ants crawled beneath his skin, marching over exposed nerves. Meditation eluded him as he sat cross-legged on a closed trunk, seeking a calm he knew he could not reach. He was nervous. It made him restless and uncentered.
With the dying sun's rays filtered through the portholes, he lay down with his sword in his hand, exhausted, soul weary. Dreams crowded his sleep. He ran on a beach, in a great hurry to get somewhere--he didn't know where, only that it was important he get there quick, before it was too late--but the sand was loose and fell away below his feet. The faster he ran, the more difficult it became. He was desperate, his heart pounding. A wind blew, picking up the loose sand, stinging his eyes. Faster and faster, the wind whipped sand around in a whirlwind of sensation, making a sound like diamonds scraped across glass.
With a gasp MacLeod woke and raised his sword to block the strike that would have taken his head. He rolled to the other side of the bed. The female Immortal was a black shape of nothing across from him. He could hear her breathing. The barge was dark. Only a little moonlight coming through the portholes provided round splotchy patches on the floor. But he had the advantage here; he knew his barge blindfolded.
"I don't remember inviting you in," he said.
She laughed, a sound like sand over glass.
MacLeod leapt and attacked. Their blades rang brightly in the darkness. All he could see was the glow of the moon on her sword and the glint of her eyes. The bookshelf toppled, the couch slashed and shredded to ribbons. A vase shattered. He slipped on spilt coffee. She disarmed him. He twisted around, grabbed a shard of the vase and sliced her shoulder, knocking her back. MacLeod scrambled for his sword. He blocked, their blades sparked. He pushed her back and they fenced across the length of the barge.
Blood made his grip slippery. She pressed him into a corner, her sword across his neck, the katana scraping along her blade the only thing keeping him alive. "Give me Methos," she said calmly.
He didn't answer, only dropped his weight to the floor. She lost balance long enough for him to push her back, but the escape was only temporary. She slashed and beat him across the barge. She swung wide. He took the opening, thrusting at her stomach. The wound slowed her down for a second. He twisted his sword. She hissed, smiled, blood spilling from her lips, and drove her sword through his heart. He gasped. His wound was instantly fatal; hers was not. As he died, she said into his ear, "The Chateau de Grosbois. Midnight. You have four hours."
His vision darkened. The last thing he saw before he sank to the floor and succumbed to darkness was the Immortal staunching the flow of blood from her stomach with one hand as she put a foot onto his chest and yanked her sword free.
~~~
With a hot spear of pain striking through his heart, he jack-knifed up to sitting, alive, fumbling for his sword. The barge dipped up and down almost peacefully; the bells of Notre Dame tolled. He was alone, lying on the floor of the barge in the middle of the broken, blood-smeared detritus of his life, heart beating wildly. He touched his chest with a shaking hand, closed his eyes, and attempted to get his breathing under control. He lay back down, put his hands over his face, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.
Several minutes passed. He let them pass, let them collect into an hour. Lying on his back, he concentrated on the slow, gentle up-down movement of the Seine and the barge. From somewhere, he heard a bottle rattle across the floor, back and forth, back and forth, in a choppy rhythm. Roll across the floor. Clink against metal. Roll back again. The sound served to center him, to bring him down from the heights of panic and fear.
He rose, showered a second time, and dressed in fresh clothing. Carefully, he cleaned and sharpened his katana. Well before midnight, he went up and sat on the deck of the barge until it was time to go.
~~~
The Chateau de Grosbois was located in the town of Boissy-Saint-Léger, about twenty kilometers outside of Paris. It took MacLeod less than half an hour to reach it. Stars spread across the sky, fighting the luminance of Paris. The Chateau stood shining in the moonlight, a spot of bright stone in the shifting shadows of the dark park that surrounded it. MacLeod walked through the damp grass onto the graveled avenue that led to the chateau, sword swinging at his side. He looked around, listening to the wind whistling through the line of trees dancing in the distance.
Across the vast, uncovered sea of grass and the long avenue, he saw her before he felt her, striding silently closer. She stopped a few feet away, her sword casually at her shoulder, the tip gleaming.
"I will spare you, if you bring him to me," she said.
"You know I would die first."
She nodded. "So be it."
"We don't have to do this." He was without hope, but he had to try. "Why?" he asked, a little desperately.
She tipped her head to one side, studying him with a slight narrowing of her eyes, and then laughed. She was not beautiful, but striking. "Why do you kill? Why does anyone? Because I can. Because I want him. That is not the question you want to ask."
He gripped the ivory handle of his sword. The wind was strong enough to flap his long coat against his legs. "Who told you how to find Methos?"
This time her smile was a little twist of her lips, almost lazy. Dull moonlight gleamed off the buckles on her jacket. She turned her head to look east. "I lived for a time in a village by a woods just like this one," she said. "Years ago. So many years. There was a wolf who lived in that forest. A white wolf to scare all the villagers." Her voice cut through the noise of the wind shrieking. "This wolf showed me my immortality. She told me stories. Of a band of men who roamed the land, killing and raping and taking everything for themselves. Of the power they had. And of one called Methos. How she hated Methos."
MacLeod held his breath. He thought he heard a sharp keening.
"And I thought, I would like to find these men. They seemed fitting company."
She was insane. Except her eyes were clear of madness, and her voice rang louder than the clash of metal. MacLeod felt the chill of the night deep in the marrow of his bones. Mist coated the ground, a dirty downy blanket. "Cassandra," he said. "She told you."
She laughed. Her smile widened. "No." The shadows that fell over her face made her teeth look sharp. "I am more the wolf than she. She ran from me. For all her stories and her hatred, she was weak. To answer your question," she said, facing him again, holding her sword out to her side. "It was the last thing he told me before seeking Methos for himself. The other one. The one with a scar down his right eye."
She swung. He sidestepped and met her sword. Metal clashed. They fought under starlight. The gravel sprayed as they fenced. He used every advantage he had: his height, his strength. She met each blow, more than matching him. They came to the gates of the chateau. Without pausing, she sliced through the chain locking the gate and they moved into the courtyard.
MacLeod ducked to the right. The female Immortal's sword came down, missing his head, ringing against the cobblestones. With a kick, MacLeod went flying through the air, landing hard on his back, head banging against the ground. He blocked, rolled to standing, shaking the dizziness away. She sliced at his sword arm, cutting through muscle and sinew to the bone. He cried out as blood gushed from the wound, hot over his skin. His sword clattered as it fell against stone.
She grabbed his hair, pulled his head back, and put her sword to his neck. "Last chance," she said, the words breathless and rough. "Bring Methos to me."
He spoke through gritted teeth. "Certainly." With his good hand he reached back and hooked his arm around her leg. She fell on her ass. He picked up the katana with his good hand, but she was already on her feet. Their swords clashed. She circled his sword and disarmed him, her blade point at his neck. The wind howled and swelled, breaking over the chateau. The gates clanged open and shut.
Immortal presence rang deep and true, shivering like wind down MacLeod's back. They both looked out to the gate. Methos stood in a pool of moonlight, his broadsword dangling from his hand, the dark expanse of night behind him. MacLeod's heart leapt in wild joy, then was seized by such gripping fear he became lightheaded.
The wind died down, its absence leaving a valley of silence. Casually, Methos walked across the courtyard. "Someone say my name?"
Before either MacLeod or the female Immortal could speak, or move, or even think, a gunshot rang through the air.
He flinched, slow to realize Methos had fired, the gun appearing as if by magic.
MacLeod turned his attention to the female Immortal. She didn't look shocked or angry, but only cocked her head to one side, studying Methos, curious. As if he looked different than she had imagined. The dark red stain on her chest spread. She took a couple of steps toward Methos, and then fell to her knees before collapsing to the ground onto her side.
Part 2
I debated whether to post this story all at once or over the course of a week, but its not *that* long, and I think I'm out of patience. heh. So, sorry for bombarding you all this morning.
Title: Missed Connections
Pairing: Duncan/Methos, ~30,000 words, Adult (for violence and adult situations)
Author's Note: More notes to follow the final post. This story is set some time after Highlander: Endgame, and fully ignores Highlander: The Source.
I would be no where without my betas
killabeez, unovis_lj, and terrio. Special thank you and hugs and all around adoration to killabeez for just being awesome and generous and wonderful.Summary: It happened in the sunshine of the late afternoon, as he walked down a quiet street on the left bank. She came charging from around a corner following the signal of her presence by only a second or two. He had just enough warning to draw his sword and block her downward strike.
Missed Connections
by hafital
~~~
MacLeod was on a beach. The sun shone on the back of his neck. In the distance he saw a man standing with his back to him, facing the ocean. He tried waving, calling to the man. A strong hot breeze blew sand. MacLeod had to reach the man. He didn't know why, he just knew that it was important. He started running.
~~~
MacLeod stepped into Le Blues Bar, pausing for a moment at the threshold of music and conversation layered like hazy smoke. The bar was full with the early evening crowd, a band playing a salsa infused jazz. He spotted Joe behind the bar, working on the books and serving drinks. MacLeod glanced at his watch, annoyed that Methos wasn't there.
Joe waved to him. MacLeod slid onto a stool and accepted a stemless glass of Scottish whisky. MacLeod swirled, then savored a mouthful.
"Thanks," he said over the music. "Have you seen Adam?"
"You just missed him," said Joe, smiling, pouring another glass for himself. "He left about ten minutes ago. Something wrong?"
Scowling, MacLeod shook his head. "Yes," he said, irritated. Then, "No. Except he's an annoying bastard."
"Tell me something I don't know. What'd he do now?"
MacLeod, eager to share his injuries, shifted on his stool so he could lean in to talk to Joe. "He owes me one carton of strawberry ice cream, a new rice cooker, and a pair of Testoni shoes."
Joe whistled. "I'm not going to ask."
"Amanda gave me those shoes. Not to mention he mismatched all of my socks. What kind of fiend does that?" MacLeod finished his whisky, nodding for a refill. Joe obliged. MacLeod, too restless to appreciate the flavor, took another hasty swallow.
"Remind me to show you his bar tab sometime," said Joe.
"He's avoiding me. Three days now." MacLeod reached into his pocket and took out his money clip, rifling through bills.
Blue eyes twinkled at him. "He mentioned something about stopping by the barge sometime tonight."
MacLeod paused with a ten euro note between his fingers. "He did?"
Joe nodded, rubbing his face as if trying to remember. "Said he had to go to Carrefour first, I think. And then to the barge to see you."
MacLeod snorted. "You can't buy Testoni shoes at Carrefour," he said, with feeling. Stubbornly, he sat down, determined to take his time and make Methos wait. He glowered as he sipped his whisky, scaring the other customers who gave him a wide berth. He glanced at his watch every few seconds and ignored Joe's bemused smile. Supposing Methos hadn't lied to Joe to keep MacLeod off his scent, which was a big if, Methos would probably get to the barge in about two hours.
He rose from his stool, said, "Yeah, yeah," to Joe's smirk, and promised to stop by the next day.
~~~~
Presence rang against the old stone of the Pont de la Tournelle. MacLeod felt the vibration rattling his bones, strong enough to loosen his teeth. The Immortal stepped out from behind the wall of the bridge, standing half in light, half in shadow with fog creeping around her legs. The scrape of her shoes echoed against the curve of the bridge. Her hair tied back, she was dressed all in dark colors with a fashion sense that reminded MacLeod of the underground, of squatters and hackers and urban decay, full of buckles and straps and safety pins. She was tall, her pale skin almost the color of the curling mist--a corpse gray. She was like a statue come to life.
MacLeod stopped a few feet away, his stomach clenching in apprehension. He did not recognize her. Skin prickling, he felt for his sword at his side. He looked up along the quay, then glanced behind him. The quay was deserted, but the back of his neck crawled with awareness. "Can I help you?" he asked, calmly, with all of his charm.
"You're Duncan MacLeod," she said. Her voice matched her body, like the edge of a knife. She circled around him. He turned as she turned.
There seemed little point in denying it. "The one and only." His attempt at levity fell heavy in the thick, damp air. The light of day sank behind the indifferent gray of rainclouds.
"You know Methos." It wasn't a question.
MacLeod felt his heart stop for one terrified second. Every instinct screamed, and tightness spread across his chest. But he kept his face neutral, affecting a mask of ease, mildly curious, a little annoyed. He still tasted Joe's whisky. He wondered if fear showed on his face. So he laughed, and looked confused. "I'm sorry, who?"
Her eyes were hard. "You will bring him to me. I will be waiting at the Chateau de Grosbois, at midnight."
This time he really did laugh. "You've got to be kidding me. Even if I knew this person, what makes you think I would just give him to you? I don't know you. I don't know any Methos, either," he said, nearly through gritted teeth. "I wouldn't do that to an enemy, let alone a friend."
Her smile chilled his blood. The brilliance in her eyes held knowledge, as if lies were nothing but a little bit of fog she could easily see through. "You will bring him to me. If you don't, you and I will fight until either you give in and deliver Methos, or I kill you anyway."
MacLeod backed away, edging toward open air. "Look, I'd like to help, I really would, but I don't know who this Methos person is."
"Five a.m., Duncan MacLeod." She pointed her sword at him. "I will be watching. I will know everything." She left as she'd come, disappearing behind the stone of the bridge.
Tempted for a moment to pursue, MacLeod put a hand to his forehead. Warily, he walked to the barge.
~~~
Duncan weighed his options, but decided he had no choice and picked up the phone. Before the call could connect, he hung up. She could have the phones tapped. If she figured out Methos's cell number, she would have his location. She would follow MacLeod if he went to the bar. He could do nothing that would connect him with Methos.
This might be some old rival of Methos's, but MacLeod's instinct told him she was a hunter and she wanted to play a game. She might not know what Methos looked like or where he lived. If she did, she wouldn't need MacLeod to draw him out. Somehow she'd found out enough to know the oldest Immortal could be found in Paris, and could be found through MacLeod. MacLeod didn't want to speculate on how she came by this knowledge, not yet. There would come a time, but at this moment he needed to concentrate.
He peered out from a port side porthole and scanned the quay and the street. Although the temperature was mild, in March darkness still fell early and the street lamps were lit, ineffective in the growing fog. He had to do something. Every minute that passed brought Methos closer to the barge.
MacLeod took up his cell phone and hoped to God Methos had his on him. He started a new message.
a fan of yours says hi
sorry I didnt pay my phone bill
the barge is off limits
have a nice trip
He paused as he puzzled out what to say next.
live grow stronger fight another day
Danger. Going dark. Stay away. Leave town now. Goodbye.
Immediately after sending the message he sent a more direct text to Joe, and then canceled both his wireless and landline service, took the battery out and destroyed his phone, trusting Methos would get the message and do the same before anyone could trace the connection. He knew Methos had several contingency plans in case of emergency. He would be safe; he would get out of Paris and vanish and be far, far away before the break of dawn. That's all that mattered. MacLeod could handle the Immortal.
He watched the quay and the street from a porthole, his sword in his hand, his body rigid with anticipation. Every tall, dark-haired man he saw caused his stomach to flip-flop with adrenaline. But the first hour passed, and then the second, and the evening inched further into night with no Methos appearing with a bag from Carrefour.
He debated whether or not to meet her, but the arrogance of the summons galled him. At midnight he sat on his couch, drinking a cup of coffee, listening to the passing boats on the river and the toll of Notre Dame over the murmur of the city.
He spent a restless night, sleeping with his hand on his sword, jumping at every unknown noise. By mid-morning, his restlessness drove him from the barge to walk the streets of Paris, hoping to draw her out. A shop owner's attention lingered on him for too long. He saw shadows moving behind window curtains, was followed by slowly moving cars. People bumped into him, yelling at him to look where he was going. Every little sound, every shiver of wind across his neck, every shrieking honk or cry from a child made him reach for his sword. The world spun faster and faster, until he stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk and closed his eyes.
It happened in the sunshine of the late afternoon, as he walked down a quiet street on the left bank. She came charging from around a corner following the signal of her presence by only a second or two. He had just enough warning to draw his sword and block her downward strike.
~~~
She was fast. A blur of movement.
Sweat stung his eyes. He could feel each blow reverberate across his shoulders, in his elbows and wrists. MacLeod bled from several cuts, strength slowly sapped away. He managed to retaliate in kind, but she was not slowed by her injuries. Blow for blow, they were evenly matched. The fight dragged down the street and tumbled into an abandoned building on the corner. MacLeod stumbled over debris, turning before she swung laterally at his neck, landing on his back. He struck at her knees. She parried, kicked him in the face. He saw white and red, bit his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth. She stepped on his wrist, trapping his sword arm.
He spat and blinked up at her. She leaned in close and dug the flat of her blade into his neck just hard enough for him to feel its bite under his jaw, to feel the pressure against his jugular. Her face was calm, unmoved, carved from stone: her eyes glittered hard like diamonds. With his free hand he was able to grab her hair and yank hard enough to dislodge her foot. He swung his sword and met nothing but air. Spitting more blood, he sprang up to his feet, sword ready, but he found himself alone.
From elsewhere in the building he heard her voice, echoing down hallways and against walls. "Have you reconsidered? Bring me Methos and I'll let you live."
He followed, running out to the street. Empty. He turned in a circle, looking up and down, wiped at his mouth and cursed. Wincing, examining a cut on his arm, he limped away.
~~~
He returned to the barge without incident. Once inside, in the welcoming comforts of his home, he stripped naked and took as long a shower as his water heater could handle. She would come again. She would be relentless. He was uncomfortably aware that she could have taken him. That she let him live.
He bent his head to the stinging spray and prayed Methos was gone and safe. MacLeod might never see his friend again. He thought of Connor, like he had every day since that day in New York, and missed him, a dull ache made sharp. Help me, Connor. He missed Methos, too, desperately. MacLeod breathed in water and it hurt his throat. He put a hand against the wall of the shower, rested his forehead against the cool metal.
The day dissolved into night. He wandered around the interior of the barge, caged. He could not sit. He could not stand still. It felt like Ants crawled beneath his skin, marching over exposed nerves. Meditation eluded him as he sat cross-legged on a closed trunk, seeking a calm he knew he could not reach. He was nervous. It made him restless and uncentered.
With the dying sun's rays filtered through the portholes, he lay down with his sword in his hand, exhausted, soul weary. Dreams crowded his sleep. He ran on a beach, in a great hurry to get somewhere--he didn't know where, only that it was important he get there quick, before it was too late--but the sand was loose and fell away below his feet. The faster he ran, the more difficult it became. He was desperate, his heart pounding. A wind blew, picking up the loose sand, stinging his eyes. Faster and faster, the wind whipped sand around in a whirlwind of sensation, making a sound like diamonds scraped across glass.
With a gasp MacLeod woke and raised his sword to block the strike that would have taken his head. He rolled to the other side of the bed. The female Immortal was a black shape of nothing across from him. He could hear her breathing. The barge was dark. Only a little moonlight coming through the portholes provided round splotchy patches on the floor. But he had the advantage here; he knew his barge blindfolded.
"I don't remember inviting you in," he said.
She laughed, a sound like sand over glass.
MacLeod leapt and attacked. Their blades rang brightly in the darkness. All he could see was the glow of the moon on her sword and the glint of her eyes. The bookshelf toppled, the couch slashed and shredded to ribbons. A vase shattered. He slipped on spilt coffee. She disarmed him. He twisted around, grabbed a shard of the vase and sliced her shoulder, knocking her back. MacLeod scrambled for his sword. He blocked, their blades sparked. He pushed her back and they fenced across the length of the barge.
Blood made his grip slippery. She pressed him into a corner, her sword across his neck, the katana scraping along her blade the only thing keeping him alive. "Give me Methos," she said calmly.
He didn't answer, only dropped his weight to the floor. She lost balance long enough for him to push her back, but the escape was only temporary. She slashed and beat him across the barge. She swung wide. He took the opening, thrusting at her stomach. The wound slowed her down for a second. He twisted his sword. She hissed, smiled, blood spilling from her lips, and drove her sword through his heart. He gasped. His wound was instantly fatal; hers was not. As he died, she said into his ear, "The Chateau de Grosbois. Midnight. You have four hours."
His vision darkened. The last thing he saw before he sank to the floor and succumbed to darkness was the Immortal staunching the flow of blood from her stomach with one hand as she put a foot onto his chest and yanked her sword free.
~~~
With a hot spear of pain striking through his heart, he jack-knifed up to sitting, alive, fumbling for his sword. The barge dipped up and down almost peacefully; the bells of Notre Dame tolled. He was alone, lying on the floor of the barge in the middle of the broken, blood-smeared detritus of his life, heart beating wildly. He touched his chest with a shaking hand, closed his eyes, and attempted to get his breathing under control. He lay back down, put his hands over his face, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.
Several minutes passed. He let them pass, let them collect into an hour. Lying on his back, he concentrated on the slow, gentle up-down movement of the Seine and the barge. From somewhere, he heard a bottle rattle across the floor, back and forth, back and forth, in a choppy rhythm. Roll across the floor. Clink against metal. Roll back again. The sound served to center him, to bring him down from the heights of panic and fear.
He rose, showered a second time, and dressed in fresh clothing. Carefully, he cleaned and sharpened his katana. Well before midnight, he went up and sat on the deck of the barge until it was time to go.
~~~
The Chateau de Grosbois was located in the town of Boissy-Saint-Léger, about twenty kilometers outside of Paris. It took MacLeod less than half an hour to reach it. Stars spread across the sky, fighting the luminance of Paris. The Chateau stood shining in the moonlight, a spot of bright stone in the shifting shadows of the dark park that surrounded it. MacLeod walked through the damp grass onto the graveled avenue that led to the chateau, sword swinging at his side. He looked around, listening to the wind whistling through the line of trees dancing in the distance.
Across the vast, uncovered sea of grass and the long avenue, he saw her before he felt her, striding silently closer. She stopped a few feet away, her sword casually at her shoulder, the tip gleaming.
"I will spare you, if you bring him to me," she said.
"You know I would die first."
She nodded. "So be it."
"We don't have to do this." He was without hope, but he had to try. "Why?" he asked, a little desperately.
She tipped her head to one side, studying him with a slight narrowing of her eyes, and then laughed. She was not beautiful, but striking. "Why do you kill? Why does anyone? Because I can. Because I want him. That is not the question you want to ask."
He gripped the ivory handle of his sword. The wind was strong enough to flap his long coat against his legs. "Who told you how to find Methos?"
This time her smile was a little twist of her lips, almost lazy. Dull moonlight gleamed off the buckles on her jacket. She turned her head to look east. "I lived for a time in a village by a woods just like this one," she said. "Years ago. So many years. There was a wolf who lived in that forest. A white wolf to scare all the villagers." Her voice cut through the noise of the wind shrieking. "This wolf showed me my immortality. She told me stories. Of a band of men who roamed the land, killing and raping and taking everything for themselves. Of the power they had. And of one called Methos. How she hated Methos."
MacLeod held his breath. He thought he heard a sharp keening.
"And I thought, I would like to find these men. They seemed fitting company."
She was insane. Except her eyes were clear of madness, and her voice rang louder than the clash of metal. MacLeod felt the chill of the night deep in the marrow of his bones. Mist coated the ground, a dirty downy blanket. "Cassandra," he said. "She told you."
She laughed. Her smile widened. "No." The shadows that fell over her face made her teeth look sharp. "I am more the wolf than she. She ran from me. For all her stories and her hatred, she was weak. To answer your question," she said, facing him again, holding her sword out to her side. "It was the last thing he told me before seeking Methos for himself. The other one. The one with a scar down his right eye."
She swung. He sidestepped and met her sword. Metal clashed. They fought under starlight. The gravel sprayed as they fenced. He used every advantage he had: his height, his strength. She met each blow, more than matching him. They came to the gates of the chateau. Without pausing, she sliced through the chain locking the gate and they moved into the courtyard.
MacLeod ducked to the right. The female Immortal's sword came down, missing his head, ringing against the cobblestones. With a kick, MacLeod went flying through the air, landing hard on his back, head banging against the ground. He blocked, rolled to standing, shaking the dizziness away. She sliced at his sword arm, cutting through muscle and sinew to the bone. He cried out as blood gushed from the wound, hot over his skin. His sword clattered as it fell against stone.
She grabbed his hair, pulled his head back, and put her sword to his neck. "Last chance," she said, the words breathless and rough. "Bring Methos to me."
He spoke through gritted teeth. "Certainly." With his good hand he reached back and hooked his arm around her leg. She fell on her ass. He picked up the katana with his good hand, but she was already on her feet. Their swords clashed. She circled his sword and disarmed him, her blade point at his neck. The wind howled and swelled, breaking over the chateau. The gates clanged open and shut.
Immortal presence rang deep and true, shivering like wind down MacLeod's back. They both looked out to the gate. Methos stood in a pool of moonlight, his broadsword dangling from his hand, the dark expanse of night behind him. MacLeod's heart leapt in wild joy, then was seized by such gripping fear he became lightheaded.
The wind died down, its absence leaving a valley of silence. Casually, Methos walked across the courtyard. "Someone say my name?"
Before either MacLeod or the female Immortal could speak, or move, or even think, a gunshot rang through the air.
He flinched, slow to realize Methos had fired, the gun appearing as if by magic.
MacLeod turned his attention to the female Immortal. She didn't look shocked or angry, but only cocked her head to one side, studying Methos, curious. As if he looked different than she had imagined. The dark red stain on her chest spread. She took a couple of steps toward Methos, and then fell to her knees before collapsing to the ground onto her side.
Part 2
