No Dominion (HL/AB:VH crossover, chapter 5)
My god, it's been so long since I updated this. I hope people haven't completely given up on it!
Anyway. Without further ado, here's chapter five of No Dominion
Chapter Five: As Things Unbeheld
"Men I dismiss to the Mercy greet me not willingly;
Crying, "When seekest Thou me first? Are not my kin unslain?
Shrinking aside from the Sword-edge, blinking the glare of it,
Sinking the chin in the neck-bone. How shall that profit them?
Yet, among men a ten thousand, few meet me otherwise...
Lo! My sword sinks and returns. At no time she heedeth it,
More than the dust of a journey, her garments brushed clear of it.
Lo! Ere the blood-gush has ceased, forward her soul rushes.
She is away to her tryst. Who is her pandar? Death!"
-Rudyard Kipling, Azrael's Count
Over the next few hours, Methos does his best to fend off an excruciatingly direct series of questions from Blake about Immortals in general and himself in particular. He tries to satisfy her curiosity with the same lies he used on Edward, and throws in Adam Pierson's cover story for good measure. When she asks how he could possibly have bested a professional assassin, he shrugs helplessly and guesses that whoever was behind the hit must have been counting on the element of surprise to put Edward at a disadvantage.
Blake looks deeply skeptical, though whether it's at the thought of anything surprising Edward or at the thought of any sort of surprise actually putting the man at a disadvantage is impossible to say.
"Was he surprised?" she asks dryly. They're sitting at the kitchen table, drinking another of what appears to be an endless series of cups of coffee. Methos has a rare moment of gratitude for the Immortal metabolic rate for drugs and alcohol, as it's the only thing that's going to keep him from spending the rest of the night bouncing off the walls.
"Not for very long," he answers, matching her tone for dryness, before reaching for his cup and taking a sip. At least it's good coffee.
"He says you could have killed him." Blake's eyes narrow over the rim of her own mug. The waltzing penguins that decorate it are, in her hands, amusingly perverse. One is wearing a Santa hat; the other, a pair of reindeer antlers.
"Only because I can survive being shot in the heart and he can't," Methos says apologetically. Internally, he's cursing Edward for what was certainly an uncharacteristic burst of loquaciousness. Dr. Adam Pierson shouldn't even have been able to put up an effective resistance to a professional of Edward's calibre, let alone fight him to a standstill, element of surprise or no. The expression on Blake's face says that she's well aware of that, and is planning to ask all sorts of awkward questions.
Fortunately for both of them, she only gets as far as 'how' before a knock at the door cuts her off. Whoever is knocking is human enough -- there's no feeling of Presence of any sort -- but Blake doesn't have Methos' advantages, and she goes to the door with her gun in hand.
The glimpse of blond hair and the sudden release of tension from Blake's shoulders identify the arrival as Edward even before she closes the door to release the chain. When she re-opens it, the man himself saunters in, reminding Methos inescapably of the wilder temple cats in Egypt, his eyes doing a thorough sweep of the room even as he makes himself at home next to Methos on the sofa.
He smells of blood and gunpowder, and the edge of his right jacket-cuff is spattered with a red stain that's drying to brown. Methos doesn't need the external cues to tell him what Edward has been doing. There's a calm satisfaction in the lines of arms and spine that were piano-wire tight when he left, and his ice-blue eyes are empty and serene.
"Well?" Blake asks. She seems to know as well as Methos does what Edward has spent the past few hours doing, and the hesitancy with which she meets his eyes shows that she's bothered by it. Methos finds that wildly amusing, given her reputation.
"It was a set up," Edward acknowledges, eyes flickering to Methos' hands, their expression never changing. He turns his attention back to Blake. "It seems I owe you my thanks. The same client who ordered the hit on Pierson ordered one on you as well, and that one's not supposed to fail." He smiles, and this time the expression touches his eyes; warms them momentarily. "I'm going to stop it -- and the body count's always higher when you're involved."
And isn't that tone of voice familiar? Methos heard it from his lips and from his brothers' for a thousand years; still hears it in his head on occasion. Hearing it from a mortal is fascinating; adds another level to Methos' growing interest in Edward himself. Blake takes the news -- and Edward's smiling bloodthirstiness -- without any visible reaction, beyond the tightening of her hands on the arms of her chair.
"Did you get a name?"
"I will." Edward's smile is gone, but something like anticipation still lingers in his eyes. "The actual transaction was carried out by a lower-level vampire. Tracking his master will take a little time."
"Not necessarily," Blake says. The grim tone of her voice is enough to make Methos look at her, for the first time since Edward's return. "I have a feeling that I know what's going on."
She sketches out the threat Lucius Decimatus presents in a few simple sentences, leaving out Jean-Claude's visit altogether, which is curious. Her recalcitrance could stem from any number of reasons; Methos' instincts, however, are telling him that she's trying to protect the vampire rather than Edward -- which adds another dimension to Edward's abilities, and makes his own achievement even more suspect.
Upon hearing Lucius' name, Edward's eyes light up. For a moment, he reminds Methos so strongly of Kronos that the grief is like a knife to the heart.
"I've heard of him," the assassin says, with the same quiet anticipation audible in his voice that shines from his eyes. Methos has to look away. "He's supposed to be absolutely insane," Edward continues. Blake snorts.
"Fantastic," she says bitterly. "That's just perfect."
"Who told you about Lucius, anyway?" Edward asks casually. The implication is clear: if she'd known about Lucius Decimatus before Edward went on his little killing spree, she would have said something then. Blake can read between the lines -- at least in this instance -- as clearly as Methos can, and her face closes off.
"An informant," she says shortly. It's clear that Blake doesn't want Edward to know about the vampire's involvement and, given Edward's nature, she's more than likely trying to protect the vampire than she is Edward. It seems out of character, especially when one considers the way she behaved towards the creature. It's a puzzle, and Methos doesn't like this sort of puzzle in the people he's relying on for assistance. It makes them difficult to predict.
He realizes suddenly that Edward is watching him watch Anita, with the sort of intensity in his blue eyes that bodes no good for the integrity of Methos' cover. He's been doing everything he can to play up Adam Pierson's image, to relegate his death and resurrection and skill under arms to the sort of surreal episode that the human mind tends to try and pretend never happened. Clearly, it's no longer working -- if, in fact, it ever was. He gives Edward his most absent-minded smile precisely because he knows the man can see right through it, and turns back to the magazine. He can almost feel Edward's eyes narrow.
"Are you hungry, Edward?" Anita asks, to Methos' relief. Some sort of confrontation with Edward is inevitable; he accepts that much. He just doesn't want them to have an audience, if only because he doesn't feel like demonstrating the range or limitations of his ability to heal in front of a group -- even a group of one.
"Yes," Edward lifts an eyebrow. "Have you two eaten already?"
"We waited for you," Anita tells him. "I made spaghetti and meatballs."
"Maybe we should have Adam eat it first," Edward says, after a pause that says more about the dubious nature of Anita's cooking than mere words could hope to say. "Then if he doesn't die, we'll know it's safe."
"I've already died once today, thank you very much," Methos says tartly. "I'm not volunteering to do it again. We can order take-out."
Blake scowls at them; Edward smirks, dropping his gaze to hide the amusement in it, and for a moment the sheer human normalcy jars Methos down to the bone.
"It's not that bad," she insists, and Methos, shaking away the last of the surreal feeling at the edge of his consciousness, pushes himself to his feet.
"All right; lead on," he says. "I've been eating swill in university cafeterias for years; this can't possibly be any worse."
"Thank you," Anita says flatly, her mouth unamused. There is, however, a faint gleam of humour in her dark eyes, and it's with that in mind that Methos gestures flamboyantly to the kitchen.
"After you," he says gallantly, and the moments of normalcy vanish as swiftly and as completely as pricked soap bubbles as Blake weighs the pros and cons of going through a door with the two of them behind her. The pause is brief, and she does go first, but it's there, and it reminds Methos that he's back in the sort of company he once considered normal, where every word has to be weighed before being spoken; where every pause and every inflection is measured before being offered. He glances at Edward before following Blake into the kitchen, and catches the man looking at him with eyes as neutral as a wild thing's.
Dinner, after the build-up that Edward gave Anita's cooking, is surprisingly edible. Methos says so, once he's devoured most of what was on his plate. Being killed always gives one an appetite. That part, he keeps to himself. It's the sort of comment that both Edward and Anita would jump on, albeit for different reasons, and he's fairly certain that it would lead to his answering more questions about Immortality than he's really comfortable with -- though he has a feeling that will happen anyway before this little interlude is over.
After they've eaten, Methos retreats to the livingroom. Edward is only a few steps behind him -- until Blake calls the man back, ostensibly to request his help with the dishes. Methos, who can recognize a conference of war when he isn't invited to one, debates for a moment the merits of going back in there and forcing them to take him seriously. Reluctantly, he decides that it wouldn't be worth the trouble that would inevitably ensue. Instead, he swipes a few sheets of paper from Blake's printer and one of the few hardback books she possesses from her bookshelf, then settles back onto the couch, fishing a pen out of his pocket. His current journal is sitting on the nightstand at home, but this will hardly be the first time he's inserted loose pages into one of them.
From the kitchen comes the murmur of conversation, alternating between Anita's alto and Edward's tenor. The words themselves are inaudible, but Methos can hear the tension in Anita's voice and the unnatural calm in Edward's. Ignoring them requires an effort on his part, but he manages it in the end, submerging himself in the pages in front of him, and in the description he's trying to give of the two unusual mortals in whose company he has so suddenly found himself. He's so absorbed in his task that he only distantly notices when Edward and Anita join him in the livingroom; his first conscious realization that they've done so is when Anita pauses behind him, looks over his shoulder, and asks what language he's writing in.
"Akkadian," Methos murmurs absently, as Edward settles himself at the other end of the couch. He only realizes his mistake when he sees the sharp flash of curiosity in both of their eyes. "It's a good way to keep in practice." The words sound lame even to him. "What did you two decide in the kitchen?" The question puts Anita, at least, on the defensive; distracts her from prying further into his linguistic talents. He's not entirely sure yet how to distract Edward.
"Nothing, really," she says. "We were just coming up with a plan for tomorrow." Methos lifts an eyebrow, and after a moment, she elaborates. "I have some contacts in the city who should be able to tell me if Lucius really did take out the contract on us. It makes sense, especially if Edward was the actual target in your case -- he and I took out the last Master of the City, and that's the position Lucius wants to fill -- but we need to be sure before we take any actual steps. If it wasn't Lucius, then attracting his attention is the last thing we want to do." Methos nods, conceding the point. "While I do that, you and Edward can keep each other company." From the way Edward shifts on the couch, that particular arrangement displeases him. Methos, glancing from one of them to the other, voices the obvious objection.
"Are you sure it's safe for you to be out on your own? There's a contract out on your life, remember?"
"Edward already accepted it. They're not going to offer it to anyone else. The client has no way of knowing which assassin took the contract." The look on her face says quite clearly that she's determined to go alone. Given her attitude towards revealing to Edward where the information about Lucius came from, Methos can only surmise that her sources in the city are supernatural in nature, and that she wants to keep Edward away from them. Edward himself doesn't seem happy with the idea, but he appears to have accepted it. Not that it's easy to tell. The man does a better job at maintaining inscrutability than any mortal Methos has ever met; better than some Immortals, even (Duncan MacLeod springs inevitably to mind). Still, if Edward and Anita Blake are both all right with a plan of this sort, then Adam Pierson is certainly not going to gainsay them. It is not, after all, his area of expertise.
The rest of the evening passes quietly enough. Edward breaks down and cleans two pistols on Anita's dining-room table; she, after an exasperated look in his direction, settles down with the newest issue of the Animator and a notepad, on which she occasionally jots a few sentences. Methos finishes his journal entry and folds the pages away, tucking them into the pocket of his jeans, before opening the book he's been using as a makeshift desk. It turns out to be a history of Byron's dealings in witchcraft and devil worship that bears only a tangential relation to actual fact, and Methos settles in to read, repressing the laughter that occasionally threatens to break free. The scene is oddly domestic, particularly when one considers its participants, and Methos pulls the journal entry back out of his pockets to dash off a few more paragraphs. Once he's finished, he uses it to mark his place in the book on Byron, and begs the use of the shower from his hostess.
"And then if you wouldn't mind pointing me to somewhere I can sleep, I would be most grateful," he finishes.
Anita shows him to both bathroom and guest bedroom, the latter of which holds not only a bed, but a sofa that's almost long enough for Methos to stretch out on. He has better luck with furniture than he did a few centuries earlier, but it still sometimes feels as if everything is just a few inches too small for comfort. She is also good enough to provide him with towel and toothbrush, bathrobe and clean t-shirt. If he is to be away from his apartment for much longer, a trip to the store will become vital.
He showers quickly, letting the dust and violence of the day wash down the drain with the dirtied water, then towels himself off and pulls on boxers and bathrobe. Once he's finished the rest of his ablutions, he sticks his head briefly back into the livingroom to bid his hostess a good night.
"Good night," she says, smiling at him with that bemused expression that Adam Pierson so often brings out in women. Methos knows what he looks like with his hair wet and sticking up in places and the bathrobe carefully wrapped to make him look thin and awkward; it brings out this peculiar gentleness in even the least maternal of women. The look that Edward is giving him is a different story. Methos can't read it, and he doesn't like that in the least.
"Good night, Edward," he starts to say, but the man cuts him off.
"I'll be in shortly. Just leave the couch for me."
Adam Pierson might have insisted that Edward take the bed, but Methos can't help remembering that this whole situation is, after all, Edward's fault, and takes the bed without the slightest compunction. As a result, when the attack begins a few hours before dawn he is sleeping soundly.
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Chapter Six
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As always, thanks to my wonderful beta-readers, lferion and marauderswolf. Thanks especially to lferion, who basically held my hand while I wrote this. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.