Happy Holidays, elistaire!
Title: The Manuscript (2/2)
Author: A Dancing Christmas Tree aka hafital
Written For: elistaire
Crossover With: The Dresden Files
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Amanda, Harry Dresden, Bob, Duncan MacLeod, OCs; Genish Pre-slash, very very light Methos/Harry Dresden
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 13,200
Warnings: Misuse of electrical devices
Author's Notes: This story uses a mixture of the TV show and the books, for The Dresden Files. It is set during a time when both MacLeod and Methos are in Seacouver.
Summary: Amanda needs help. Methos meets a new friend. And MacLeod comes to the rescue.
Part One
The T-bird purred softy, gleaming in the light of the Police Station, MacLeod leaning against the hood with folded arms and a questioning half-smile on his face. "Hullo," he said, taking note of Methos's disheveled suit. "Adventuring?"
Fearful that he was actually blushing, Methos stopped in front of MacLeod and awkwardly rubbed at the back of his head. "Uh, yeah. I'll explain it all." He turned as Harry caught up with him, clutching that satchel. For a moment, Methos wondered if this Bob person could hear everything that was going on. Shaking that thought off, he turned to MacLeod. "Mac, this is Harry Dresden. Harry, this Duncan MacLeod. He's a friend."
The two men nodded, offering each other a hand to shake.
Methos opened the passenger door, grateful that there was no electric shock. Before he got in the car, he looked at Harry who still stood by the car as if about to take himself and that skull of his and depart for parts unknown. Methos paused, leaned in. "Listen," he said. "I know we've only just met, and not under the most normal of circumstances, but believe me when I say your best bet of figuring this entire situation out is with me. It may not seem like it, but you can trust me. And you can trust MacLeod."
With narrowed eyes, Harry searched Methos's face for a moment before giving him a lopsided smile. "You know," he said with a shake of his head and a glint in his eyes that was more smart aleck than anything else, "she called you Addison in there." Harry searched Methos's face. Methos swallowed. "No worries, friend," Harry winked at him, then slid past and opened the back door to the T-bird. "I think I can be of assistance to you."
Methos couldn't help it: he smiled, and then got into the car, ignoring MacLeod's curious expression. The T-bird pulled away from the station, driving swiftly through the darkened streets.
Methos was never so grateful to see the four walls of MacLeod's loft. As soon as the rattle of the elevator door stopped, he groaned a sigh of relief and started removing his tie and suit jacket, heading straight for the dresser where MacLeod kept his jeans and sweatshirts.
"Help yourself," said MacLeod dryly as he watched Methos rifle through his clothing.
"Socks?" Methos asked, plaintively. Snorting, MacLeod walked over and pulled out a complete outfit for Methos to change into.
Leaving MacLeod and Harry to get acquainted, Methos retreated into the bathroom for a moment's solitude. He sat on the toilet and checked his cell phone. Still no message from Amanda. It hadn't been working properly earlier, so he gave it a few more minutes, but he knew he couldn't put off telling MacLeod any longer.
He emerged from the bathroom and then stopped in surprise at the sight of MacLeod and Harry Dresden sitting around the kitchen island laughing at a story Harry was telling about a three-headed dog, a large jar of magical peanut butter, and a vampire named Reginald.
"Adam," said MacLeod, waving a beer bottle. "Did you know Harry's a wizard? From Chicago," he added, as if saying the location allowed that random bit of information to make more sense.
For a second time, Methos stopped dead in his tracks, catching the quiet, assessing look in Harry's eyes. "Must be a popular first name for wizards."
Harry didn't answer, but looked amused.
An awkward silence descended. Methos helped himself to a beer from the fridge, turning back to the room to find two pairs of brown eyes watching him. He took a long pull on his beer. "Has Amanda called in the last few hours?"
"Amanda?" exclaimed MacLeod, sitting up, looking aghast at Methos. Then dawning realization showed on his face. "You didn't," he said, almost in awe, and Methos had an urge to giggle, but he bit his lip instead. "You wouldn't. You couldn't." With Methos's continuing silence, MacLeod had his answer, and he burst out laughing.
"Don't look at me like that," said Methos. "What the hell was I supposed to do? You know how she is."
"Yes, and so do you," said MacLeod, eyes still gleaming. "Just as well as I do. I'm surprised you fell for it, old man."
"I didn't fall for anything." Methos felt that was an important fact to make clear. "The situation became ridiculously complicated," he added, somewhat irritably.
Macleod met his eyes, humor dampened. "No, she hasn't called me. Was she supposed to?"
"I thought she might, when we got separated. She hasn't contacted me either, but my cell phone isn't working."
"Oh," said Harry with a slight apologetic expression. "That's my fault. Sorry. Cell phones and I don't mix very well."
Methos and MacLeod looked at each other. Then they looked at Harry.
"I think you'd better start from the beginning," said MacLeod.
Methos debated briefly which beginning to start from, then decided to play it safe. The rest would probably come out eventually anyway. "Amanda called me this morning to invite me to lunch."
"Never a good sign," said MacLeod.
Methos grinned. He told MacLeod about the lunch, about spotting Harry and following him into the book store, and the dead body of Hughes the forger.
"But how did you know to follow me?" asked Harry. "How did you know about the manuscript?"
"Manuscript?" asked MacLeod, brows furrowed.
"The electricity," said Methos, answering Harry first. "It's... unique." He turned to MacLeod. "Have you ever heard of Isabelle Corday?"
MacLeod's expression turned thoughtful, unfocused as he thought back. "Connor mentioned her once, but never elaborated further. He wouldn't say much, only to avoid her, if possible."
Methos nodded.
"Who is she?" asked Duncan.
It was Harry who answered. "You two think she's an Immortal? Like you both?" MacLeod became very still. No one moved, but the atmosphere in the room changed. Harry raised his hands up in a passive gesture. "It's all right, guys. I don't carry a sword."
Before Methos was even aware of him moving, MacLeod grabbed both of Harry's wrists and pulled back his shirt and suit jacket to reveal clear, unblemished skin. He relaxed, sat back in his stool, and picked up his beer. "What do you know?" he asked with all the appearance of casualness except for his ready-to-spring energy that MacLeod couldn't mask.
"Only what Bob told me."
"Bob?" asked MacLeod, rubbing his face.
"Ah, Bob," said Methos. "By all means, let us hear what Bob has to say about Lady Isabelle."
Harry took a breath. He hadn't reacted to MacLeod's actions, seemed to take it all in stride, but Methos wouldn't take the man for granted. "Uh, well," Harry's gaze shifted to Methos. "Those three guys we saw at the museum? The real pale ones? They belong to a group of... people. An underground group of people, who call themselves the White Court. They've been around a long time. They sort of, prey on individuals. Kind of like emotional vampires, if you will, the old succubi and incubi. They are vampires, in every sense except the blood sucking part. Love, sex, anger, devotion, exhilaration, obsession, you name it, they want it. And see, what you have to understand," he said, shifting a little as he looked from Methos then to MacLeod and back to Methos again, "is that one kind of magic usually doesn't mix well with another kind. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Methos narrowed his gaze, glanced at MacLeod who was frowning.
"You can have a magic like the kind you two have, something innate to your own personal nature that you don't even think of as magic. It can be fantastic like being Immortal, or as simple as a baby growing up and becoming a boy and then later a man. But when you try to alter that, change it in some way that's not natural to who and what you are, well --" Harry fell silent.
"So, what you're saying," said MacLeod, almost conversationally, "is that Isabelle, an Immortal, tried to become one of these White Court people? And then what happened?"
"No," said Harry, quietly. "You can't be turned into White Court. You're born into it."
"But," said MacLeod. He turned to Methos, those brown eyes of his darkening with horror.
Methos jutted his jaw, closed his eyes again. "Perversion," he said, deciding to enter the conversation. Harry and MacLeod looked at him. He sighed. "1300s. Or thereabouts. Isabelle was born into a little-known noble family in Bohemia. She took after her mother, who was very beautiful. White skin, white hair, and a kind of... appetite that had no limits. And couldn't be contained. Her reputation grew. There were a few deaths as a result. She was viewed as both an abomination and an object of desire. Used as some sort of pawn in a larger scheme that I'm not entire familiar with, her family traded Isabelle in marriage to another little-known nobleman. Who just happened to be Immortal."
MacLeod turned and faced Methos, with a fearful question in his eyes. Methos shook his head.
"No, not I," he said with a sad smile, and was happy to see MacLeod's expression relax. "But someone we both know. Or knew, I should say. His name was Corday back then."
MacLeod grew thoughtful for a moment, then his expression hardened. "Kronos," he whispered. It was unlikely anyone would truly know what sort of transformation or transference occurred between Isabelle and Kronos that would have created the unfortunate monster she had become. Certainly Kronos had suffered no ill side effects, but he was old, and had taken so very many heads. And, despite her nature, Isabelle had been young at the time. Methos shivered, and he couldn't help but think of Alexa. He would have gladly cut out his soul and fed it to her with a spoon if it meant she could live a little longer. He rubbed at his chest, felt a hand on his shoulder, knowing it was MacLeod.
"Anyway," said Harry, glancing at both of them. "Back to the story. Lady Isabelle showed up at the bookstore and at the museum when your friend Amanda stole the manuscript."
"What's this manuscript?" asked MacLeod.
Methos was careful not to change his breathing, not to shift in his seat. He did not meet either man's eyes.
After a moment, Harry spoke. "Uh, the Addison Manuscript. It's always been more legend than anything else. An illustrated manuscript written in an undecipherable language, with an unknown script. It would have been forgotten for all eternity if Jacques Marceau hadn't made a meticulous copy before his death in 1520. He was the last known documented owner. It disappeared after that. Many try to decipher the script, from the copies, but no one's succeeded yet. Regular scholars dismiss it as a curiosity, some kind of medicinal or herbal diary. But in the world of the occult, we know better. The manuscript is not something you play around with. If you can figure out the right spell to unlock the text, well then," Harry's eyes met Methos's, "you have access to the toolbox of life and death. If you survive that long. People tend to die around the manuscript."
Harry stopped talking and silence fell across the loft. Methos heard a clock ticking, and the wind outside rattling one of MacLeod's windows.
MacLeod cleared his throat, then spoke softly. "It's called the Addison Manuscript. Who's Addison?"
Methos continued to breathe regularly, staring at the kitchen counter. He could feel Harry's gaze fall on him. "Addison was a monk, living in the monastery in Broumov, near the Polish border," he said, speaking quietly. Methos made himself meet MacLeod's eyes. "The monastery is still there. You can go see it, if you like. Many attribute the origin of the manuscript to this Addison, but although there isn't much primary information on him, it's pretty clear he was just a simple man. Maybe he wrote it, maybe he didn't. But he was the first owner of the manuscript, so it takes his name. He made one very big mistake," he paused. "The day he met Isabelle Corday, and he regretted it very much."
Another silence fell, the suddenly somber moment lifting. "I see," said MacLeod after a moment. "All this over what's probably the doodlings of a very bored monk."
"That's what I said," said Methos, sharing a smile with MacLeod.
"And Amanda?" asked MacLeod. "How did she get herself involved?"
"Stole the manuscript from the museum," said Harry.
MacLeod looked to Methos. "No," said Methos. "She stole the forged copy, the one your friend Hughes made."
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it, apparently deciding Methos must be right.
"That doesn't mean she's not in danger," continued Methos. "It's not the manuscript itself that's dangerous, but the idea of it. Whomever Amanda got herself mixed up with -- and from the sounds of it, I'd say it's someone in this White Court you mentioned -- that person wants the manuscript, and is either using the fake to flush it out, or, " he paused. "They want Isabelle. You want to know why anyone who becomes associated with the manuscript dies? It's because she kills them. She thinks the manuscript can cure her, she's been hunting for it all her life."
"And it can't do that," said MacLeod, quietly, and Methos was grateful MacLeod had realized it.
Methos didn't answer. "Isabelle will be hunting for Amanda," he said.
"Do you have something personal of hers?" asked Harry, standing up, removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. He moved further into the kitchen. "Something she owned, perhaps." He opened up his satchel, taking out what looked like herbal ingredients and laid them on the counter, then rummaged around in MacLeod's cupboards and shelves looking for bowls and wooden spatulas. Almost bashfully, Harry took out the skull. Methos held his breath, noticing MacLeod only looked curious.
"Come on out, Bob," said Harry, already turning to the bowl he'd set up. A moment passed, then a small ball of dark smoke flew out of the skull and materialized into Bob.
MacLeod stumbled from his stool. Methos let out his held breath, trying not to laugh.
"Well, it's about time. Honestly, I thought you'd forgotten me," said Bob, as prim as ever. "Planned to leave me to the tender mercies of the boys in blue."
"Quit complaining," said Harry, busy with his preparations. "You're safe."
MacLeod, still dumbstruck, had risen to his feet and began circling around Bob. Bob, taken aback, started circling around MacLeod in turn, almost mirroring MacLeod's actions. "What are we doing?" asked Bob.
Reaching out tentatively, MacLeod poked at Bob, snatching his hand back. Harry stepped between them. "Location spell," he said to Bob. Then he turned to MacLeod. "You don't have anything? A piece of clothing? A necklace? Anything belonging to this Amanda person?"
"What?" asked MacLeod, confused, then, "Oh, right." He moved quickly to the back of the loft, rummaged around in his bathroom, returning with a hair brush.
"Oh, that's great," said Harry, returning to his concoction. Methos was thoroughly charmed to see Harry take out what looked like a drumstick and start muttering charms. He watched Harry with interest.
"Don't over mix," said Bob, although he wasn't looking at Harry. He and MacLeod were still eyeing each other like a pair of puppy dogs at a playground. MacLeod turned to inspect Bob's skull.
"Ah," said Bob, tsking. "No no."
Coloring slightly, MacLeod backed away, muttering, "Sorry, Yorick."
"Oh, clever," said Bob, nodding. "Like I've never heard that one before."
Methos snickered. MacLeod made a face, then moved closer to Harry, looking over his shoulder at the rather disgusting brew he was making.
"Just look at the three of you," said Bob, his hands pressed together, fingers against his lower lip. The three men in question looked at each other, then down at themselves, each with matching perplexed expressions. "It's like I wandered into photo shoot for one of those men's clothing catalogues Harry receives in the mail."
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, then, through gritted teeth, asked, "Are you going to be helpful, or not?"
Bob peeked over Harry's shoulder, pointing. "You're boiling."
"What? Oh." Harry turned back, taking the pot off the fire and decanted the mixture, while Bob gave instructions to both MacLeod and Methos to find a map and clear a flat surface. Harry took a crystal, wrapped some of Amanda's hair around it, then dipped it in the solution. Sitting before the map, Methos watched Harry center himself, then close his eyes, chanting softly. He held the crystal over the map. It spun in a circle, then landed in the center of the map.
Methos bent over the map to look closely, nearly bumping heads with Macleod. They looked at each other.
"Well?" asked Harry.
"That can't be right," said MacLeod. "That's this building."
Harry cursed under his breath, getting up and returning to the kitchen counter.
"Are you sure that was Amanda's and not yours?" asked Methos.
MacLeod rolled his eyes. "Yes," he said. "I don't have flowers on my hair brushes."
Bob stood behind Harry. "Did you use too much eel's bladder?"
Thoughtful, Harry pursed his lips and looked uncertain, staring at the mess of ingredients and then at the crystal and the map.
"Maybe it's because we're Immortal?" tried MacLeod.
Methos considered that, then felt a strong Immortal presence resonate loudly in his head, traveling down his spine. He stiffened and looked at Macleod. They moved at the same time, Methos going for his sword he'd left with his suit, and MacLeod to where he kept the katana, by the bed. Harry and Bob stood still, watching. Methos placed himself by the elevator, and then nodded at MacLeod.
There was a knocking, and then a clear voice calling, "Duncan? I know you're in there."
Methos and MacLeod deflated. "Typical," muttered Methos, leaving his broadsword by the coat rack. He retreated to the fridge and got a second beer.
MacLeod opened the door and then started right in. "Where have you been? Adam's been worried."
"I have not," said Methos from the kitchen, indignant.
Glowing from the cool night air, Amanda breezed in still in her cocktail dress, obviously chilled but smiling broadly. She held a leather bound book to her chest. "Had to take the long way. I tried calling, but I couldn't get through. Those men, the pale-white ones," she looked at Methos, "were following me. But I lost them. " She was nodding and smiling, rubbing her hands. "Oh, hello," she said, noticing Harry and Bob. "Are we having a party?"
"You're freezing," said MacLeod, reaching to take her into his arms. A loud snap and a bright electric shock arced when he touched her. He flinched, and she drew a sharp intake of breath.
Everyone in the room froze, staring at each other with growing horror. Experimentally, Methos reached out and touched Harry's arm. The jolt was so strong, his entire body shook. Harry jumped back, nearly stumbling to the floor. "Goddamn it," he said, rubbing his arm, shaking his head.
Methos started moving. "Down to the dojo," he said to MacLeod. "Now. You don't want her in the loft."
MacLeod didn't question it, taking Amanda by the arm, wincing through another shock, he grabbed his sword. Harry picked up Bob's skull. MacLeod lifted the elevator grate, waiting for everyone to get in. Electricity danced across the elevator walls, down the doors.
"Would some one please explain the situation to me?" asked Amanda, looking around.
As they exited into the dojo, Methos and MacLeod moved into the center of the room, swords out, back to back.
"Bob, do you mind bringing the lady up to date?" said Harry, who was watching Methos.
Bob moved closer to Amanda. "Hello my dear, my name is Hrothbert of Bainbridge."
"Oh," she said, confused but smiling. "I've heard of you." She looked at Methos who only shrugged.
"Have you? My reputation does proceed me. Well," he said, leaning toward her. Bright-eyed and still glowing, she listened with interest. "Young Master Harry Dresden here, is a wizard, new to town, on a daring mission of great import. And, if I'm not too mistaken, sparks are definitely flying between him and that mysterious Immortal with the olivine eyes."
"Bob," gritted Harry, then grinned awkwardly at a laughing Amanda. "Don't make me throw your skull out the window."
From where he stood in the center of the room, Methos glanced back at Harry, smiling a little at his unease, but then he returned his attention to the rest of the room, listening for movement. The air grew heavy with electric charge.
"Right." Bob straightened, as if breathing in, then continued. "Isabelle Corday wants the manuscript. And she's coming to get it. Only she doesn't know it's fake."
"It is?" cried Amanda, looking at the leather bound book she still carried.
"'Fraid so, my dear," said Bob, with a sort of kindred dismay. "What's more, the White Court is involved. Naturally, considering who Isabelle Corday is to them. Let's watch, shall we?"
"No," said Methos, looking at Harry. "You're mortal. You need to leave."
Harry opened his mouth, ready to protest.
Bob cleared his throat. "Harry. I think we'd better."
Grumbling, Harry shut his mouth and nodded, and started for the side stair exit, but was stopped as a charge of electricity barred the way.
Methos watched white lines of electricity travel along the weight equipment and up and down the metal pipes lining the ceiling and the walls. Small lightning bolts struck out, reaching for him and MacLeod. One zapped MacLeod, then another. A thought struck Methos.
"Um, Mac?" He touched MacLeod's arm, then let go with another electric shock. "This might not be such a good idea."
"What do you mean? This is a great idea. This is the best idea you've ever gotten me mixed up in."
The heavy charge in the air increased. Methos felt his hair lifting, felt the tingle of energy all along his skin. Then he felt that terrible presence that wasn't presence, like liquid fire pouring over his skin.
"You took Kronos's quickening. She's made from his quickening. We can't predict what's going to happen."
Macleod had no time to answer. The room brightened. Methos turned and yelled at Harry. It was like yelling through a storm, the rush of electricity in his ears louder than wind. "Get out, get out. You're mortal, damn it. Get out." But Methos couldn't see anything anymore, everything filled with pure white light. He scrunched his eyes shut, clutching at MacLeod. He thought Macleod was talking, or trying to say something, but he couldn't hear it.
Then, suddenly, the light returned to normal. Isabelle stood a few feet away, electricity emanating from her body as if she were the center of one of those glass plasma globes found at novelty shops. She was magnificent and terrible, white hair flowing long and wild all around her.
On his knees, Methos glanced back and saw Amanda shielding Harry in her arms, who was cradling Bob's skull against his chest. MacLeod pushed at him, whispering fiercely in his ear. "Do what you have to do." He stood in front of Methos, turned and faced Isabelle.
"I can't be like this anymore," she said, and her voice crackled with intensity. Her eyes danced with white fire.
MacLeod approached her, hands held out and open. "Let me help you," he said.
A bolt of electricity shot out and hit Macleod squarely in the chest. He staggered, but didn't fall. "You can't help me," she said. "No one can."
Breathing hard, MacLeod bent over for a moment, then straightened. Methos stood. Isabelle turned and faced him, electricity building again. Her dead white eyes watched him closely as he walked backwards and took the book from Amanda. He met Harry's eyes briefly.
Electricity danced all around the room. Methos couldn't distinguish her features any more, couldn't look into her face. But he remembered how she had been, centuries ago, and the raw power of her sexuality. He saw some of that still in her indescribable face, as she beheld the object of her desire. He held out the bound manuscript. "Here it is," he said. "If you want it so badly."
Electricity had became her arms, reaching out to take hold of the manuscript. It floated in the air before her, the pages blackening, the leather becoming charred. Her cry of anguish hurt more than the burn of her fire. Her rage grew.
Methos held on to his sword. He had to stop it, somehow. Through the mayhem, he met MacLeod's eyes for one electric moment before MacLeod stepped toward Isabelle and embraced her, crying out from the pain.
Like entering the eye of a storm, the electricity running wild around the dojo paused, and then pulse outward, like a sonic boom, before gathering inward, back to Isabelle, circling around her, pooling at her feet.
Methos took up his sword. There was one chance, one opportunity. MacLeod bowed his head, low over her chest, holding her with his strong arms. Methos reached back and swung. Isabelle's head fell into a bed of electricity.
A loud pop. Sparks flew everywhere. Glass shattered. Then a rush of light and energy and fire before everything went still.
Methos made his limbs move, crawling toward MacLeod who lay twisted with Isabelle's body. Rising onto all fours, he managed to lift MacLeod's dead weight enough to get a good grip and haul him partly away. He wasn't capable of too much more, but he held on. He was afraid to look behind him, at what he might find. But then he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Harry standing over him. Methos's relief could only be expressed with a sigh and a tight grasp of Harry's hand.
There was a rustle of fabric, a soft patter of footsteps on hardwood floor. Methos looked up and saw the three pale-faced, white-haired men from the museum, and a fourth in the center. The fourth was slightly taller, and ridiculously beautiful, like a quartz statue. White Court, thought Methos, and even half dead as he was he could feel the draw of their fierce sexuality calling him.
"Aw, are you serious?" asked Harry. "Can't you see we've had enough? What are you all doing here?"
"Peace," said the talking statue, "Harry Dresden. We've only come for what's ours." He bent down, and his other men came forward to pick up Isabelle Corday's remains and the charred manuscript. They left as they came, quietly.
Harry's hand went around and cupped the back of Methos's head. It took Methos a moment to realize there was no electric shock, no jarring pain. His entire body relaxed. They looked at each other for a long moment, until MacLeod gasped and came back to life.
Harry smiled. "Your own kind of magic," he said, then helped Methos to rise, and together, with MacLeod and Amanda, they all stumbled back into the elevator and up to the loft, grateful that it was all over.
Seacouver, a few days later.
The elevator came to a stop, and the gate rattled. The stereo was on, playing something light and jazzy, and the smells of onions frying in olive oil met Methos as he stepped into the loft, MacLeod's presence buzzing familiarly.
"Over here," said MacLeod, a kitchen towel over his shoulder, pouring pasta into a strainer.
Methos went to the stove and lifted the cover off one of the pots, leaning over and breathing in. "Not bad," he said.
MacLeod grinned, then shooed him. "You can try it yourself, if you stay for dinner. Amanda should be here in a few minutes."
"Love to, but my flight's in a few hours."
MacLeod stopped moving, taking the kitchen towel and drying his hands. "You're sure about this?"
Methos shrugged a little. "Yes. I've kept it hidden for too long. It doesn't belong to me, not really. It should go back to where it came from. He'll be a better keeper than me."
"Well," said MacLeod, leaning one hand against the kitchen counter. "Can't really argue with that. Need a ride to the airport?"
It was on the tip of Methos's tongue to refuse. "What about your dinner?"
"It'll keep. Amanda won't mind."
"All right."
MacLeod came forward and Methos stepped into his embrace, comforted by the clap of MacLeod's hand against his back. "It's over here," said MacLeod, when he stepped away, moving over to his bookshelf.
In the second row from the bottom, all the way over to the far right side, was nestled a dark brown, narrow, sealed box. MacLeod crouched down and withdrew it, bringing it over to the coffee table.
Carefully, MacLeod withdrew the Addison Manuscript. He passed his hands over it. "You know, it's just like you to tell me to hold something for you and not inform me that it's actually a live, ticking bomb."
Methos chuckled sheepishly. "I knew you'd keep it safe."
"Yeah," said MacLeod, then reached over and tweaked Methos's nose. Before Methos could even squawk a protest, Immortal presence flooded the room and Amanda sailed in, dripping with shopping bags and beaming a happy, flirtatious smile.
Chicago, 10 am on a Tuesday morning.
The door chimed as he entered, warm sunbeams filtering in through the windows and catching the floating dust. Methos looked around, once again thinking of bad 'B' movie sets, but he recognized the signs of Harry all over the place and it made him smile.
From somewhere else further into the honeycomb of rooms, he heard a voice call out,"Be right there."
Methos turned when he heard footsteps.
"Sorry about that," said Harry, traipsing into the room. "Was stuck in the cellar with a mad scient--Oh. Hi. Adam." Harry stopped mid stride, and stood staring at Methos.
Methos would have found the situation amusing, but he was too busy shifting the weight of the awkward box he was carrying. "I'm sorry I didn't phone ahead."
"No, it's all right," said Harry, moving into the room. "Hey, sit down. It's good to see you. Make yourself at home. Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Tea? I think I have those things," said Harry, a whirlwind of activity.
"Coffee's fine." Methos was charmed all over again. He set the narrow box down on a table, kept himself busy looking at the odd bits and pieces and strange artifacts spread around the room while waiting for Harry to return with the coffee.
"Did you fly in this morning?" asked Harry, returning with a tray.
"Last night," said Methos, putting down a particularly perplexing deck of I Ching cards. The tray was set down and they both sat across from each other. The next few moments were filled with serving the coffee, then a strange, not entirely uncomfortable silence followed.
"Oh hey," said Harry, rising from his seat. He disappeared for a moment and then returned with a thick, ancient-looking, book. "Remember you looked familiar to me? Check this out."
It was an old text, written in Latin, a sort of magical encyclopedia. Harry opened the book to an entry in the middle. One glance at the heading told him whom it was about. There was an illustration with a remarkable likeness of the monk known as Addison. He traced the image of his face. Methos read silently, remembering. "Nothing much in this is true."
"Really? Well." Harry scratched his head. "Not much about that darned manuscript seems to be true."
Methos set his coffee down, lowered his eyes for a moment. When he looked up again, Harry was watching him. He set the tray of coffee to one side, made sure the table was clear, then pushed the narrow box that he'd brought over to Harry.
"What's this?"
"It's for you," said Methos. "It's why I'm here."
Harry didn't say anything, but he sat up straight. He put his hand on top of the box, then closed his eyes. After a moment, he undid the fastenings, and slowly slid the manuscript out and held it in his hands.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because it belongs to you," said Methos, quietly.
"Considering its history, I'm not sure I want it."
Methos smiled. "I don't blame you. But it's yours nevertheless. If you want to throw it into the fire, you can do that. I wouldn't give it to you if I thought it would bring you harm."
Harry's eyes were warm. "No, I guess you wouldn't." He sighed. "I never wanted unspeakable power."
Methos laughed quietly. "It won't give you that. It might give you a headache, though. It's nothing more than a curiosity, Harry. An old man's fancy. It holds some knowledge, if you can unlock the text, but no more than you probably already hold inside your head. Or inside that extra skull of yours. Maybe it'll come in handy one day."
Slowly, Harry opened the manuscript to the first few pages. The ink of the strange text was still dark, its preservation held perhaps by magic. Harry passed his hand over the page and Methos thought he saw the letters tremble. "Tell me," said Harry. "Who wrote it? Did you?"
Methos smile was slow, spreading across his face. "What do you think?"
Harry bit his lip, shook his head a little. "You don't hold this kind of magic."
"No I don't. And if you don't mind me saying, I'm very glad I don't. My life is difficult enough as it is. The name wouldn't mean anything to you. He was someone I knew, someone I cared for in his final days. A crazy old monk who knew a bit of magic he'd learned from his uncle." Methos shrugged. "He gave it to me, on his deathbed. I didn't even believe in magic, your kind of magic, at the time. Not till later. It's not nearly as exciting as anyone would expect."
Harry sighed. "I'd like to hear the story, one day."
After a moment, Methos inclined his head. He could tell the story. He'd kept it silent for too long, and the old monk would have liked that.
"Where was it, all this time?"
Methos took another swallow of coffee, setting this cup down. He met Harry's eyes, and smiled. "With a friend."
Harry canted his head to one side. "You always play your cards this close to your chest?"
"Usually," said Methos, but made sure his expression was open. "You live as long as I have, you learn to be cautious."
"Yeah," said Harry. "I can believe that."
There was another strange beat of silence, and then Harry jumped up from his chair. Methos stood as well. "Hey," Harry said, taking the manuscript and returning it to its box. He placed it carefully on a nearby bookshelf. "How about some brunch? There's a coffee shop around the corner. Food's pretty good. Hasn't killed me yet. How about I treat you, and then, I don't know," he stopped, bit his lip again, then smiled. "What do you say?"
Unable to stop himself, Methos reached out and touched Harry's arm, cupping his elbow. It was nice to be able to touch him without feeling the harsh bite of an electric shock. Harry covered Methos's hand with his. He squeezed, then pulled Methos in, arm going around his shoulder, giving him a shake and a lingering hug. "Come on," he said, looking down at Methos because he was that much taller. "I'm not letting you go. I wanna hear that story."
Harry took Methos's hand and led him out into the sunshine.
END
Author: A Dancing Christmas Tree aka hafital
Written For: elistaire
Crossover With: The Dresden Files
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Amanda, Harry Dresden, Bob, Duncan MacLeod, OCs; Genish Pre-slash, very very light Methos/Harry Dresden
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 13,200
Warnings: Misuse of electrical devices
Author's Notes: This story uses a mixture of the TV show and the books, for The Dresden Files. It is set during a time when both MacLeod and Methos are in Seacouver.
Summary: Amanda needs help. Methos meets a new friend. And MacLeod comes to the rescue.
Part One
The T-bird purred softy, gleaming in the light of the Police Station, MacLeod leaning against the hood with folded arms and a questioning half-smile on his face. "Hullo," he said, taking note of Methos's disheveled suit. "Adventuring?"
Fearful that he was actually blushing, Methos stopped in front of MacLeod and awkwardly rubbed at the back of his head. "Uh, yeah. I'll explain it all." He turned as Harry caught up with him, clutching that satchel. For a moment, Methos wondered if this Bob person could hear everything that was going on. Shaking that thought off, he turned to MacLeod. "Mac, this is Harry Dresden. Harry, this Duncan MacLeod. He's a friend."
The two men nodded, offering each other a hand to shake.
Methos opened the passenger door, grateful that there was no electric shock. Before he got in the car, he looked at Harry who still stood by the car as if about to take himself and that skull of his and depart for parts unknown. Methos paused, leaned in. "Listen," he said. "I know we've only just met, and not under the most normal of circumstances, but believe me when I say your best bet of figuring this entire situation out is with me. It may not seem like it, but you can trust me. And you can trust MacLeod."
With narrowed eyes, Harry searched Methos's face for a moment before giving him a lopsided smile. "You know," he said with a shake of his head and a glint in his eyes that was more smart aleck than anything else, "she called you Addison in there." Harry searched Methos's face. Methos swallowed. "No worries, friend," Harry winked at him, then slid past and opened the back door to the T-bird. "I think I can be of assistance to you."
Methos couldn't help it: he smiled, and then got into the car, ignoring MacLeod's curious expression. The T-bird pulled away from the station, driving swiftly through the darkened streets.
Methos was never so grateful to see the four walls of MacLeod's loft. As soon as the rattle of the elevator door stopped, he groaned a sigh of relief and started removing his tie and suit jacket, heading straight for the dresser where MacLeod kept his jeans and sweatshirts.
"Help yourself," said MacLeod dryly as he watched Methos rifle through his clothing.
"Socks?" Methos asked, plaintively. Snorting, MacLeod walked over and pulled out a complete outfit for Methos to change into.
Leaving MacLeod and Harry to get acquainted, Methos retreated into the bathroom for a moment's solitude. He sat on the toilet and checked his cell phone. Still no message from Amanda. It hadn't been working properly earlier, so he gave it a few more minutes, but he knew he couldn't put off telling MacLeod any longer.
He emerged from the bathroom and then stopped in surprise at the sight of MacLeod and Harry Dresden sitting around the kitchen island laughing at a story Harry was telling about a three-headed dog, a large jar of magical peanut butter, and a vampire named Reginald.
"Adam," said MacLeod, waving a beer bottle. "Did you know Harry's a wizard? From Chicago," he added, as if saying the location allowed that random bit of information to make more sense.
For a second time, Methos stopped dead in his tracks, catching the quiet, assessing look in Harry's eyes. "Must be a popular first name for wizards."
Harry didn't answer, but looked amused.
An awkward silence descended. Methos helped himself to a beer from the fridge, turning back to the room to find two pairs of brown eyes watching him. He took a long pull on his beer. "Has Amanda called in the last few hours?"
"Amanda?" exclaimed MacLeod, sitting up, looking aghast at Methos. Then dawning realization showed on his face. "You didn't," he said, almost in awe, and Methos had an urge to giggle, but he bit his lip instead. "You wouldn't. You couldn't." With Methos's continuing silence, MacLeod had his answer, and he burst out laughing.
"Don't look at me like that," said Methos. "What the hell was I supposed to do? You know how she is."
"Yes, and so do you," said MacLeod, eyes still gleaming. "Just as well as I do. I'm surprised you fell for it, old man."
"I didn't fall for anything." Methos felt that was an important fact to make clear. "The situation became ridiculously complicated," he added, somewhat irritably.
Macleod met his eyes, humor dampened. "No, she hasn't called me. Was she supposed to?"
"I thought she might, when we got separated. She hasn't contacted me either, but my cell phone isn't working."
"Oh," said Harry with a slight apologetic expression. "That's my fault. Sorry. Cell phones and I don't mix very well."
Methos and MacLeod looked at each other. Then they looked at Harry.
"I think you'd better start from the beginning," said MacLeod.
Methos debated briefly which beginning to start from, then decided to play it safe. The rest would probably come out eventually anyway. "Amanda called me this morning to invite me to lunch."
"Never a good sign," said MacLeod.
Methos grinned. He told MacLeod about the lunch, about spotting Harry and following him into the book store, and the dead body of Hughes the forger.
"But how did you know to follow me?" asked Harry. "How did you know about the manuscript?"
"Manuscript?" asked MacLeod, brows furrowed.
"The electricity," said Methos, answering Harry first. "It's... unique." He turned to MacLeod. "Have you ever heard of Isabelle Corday?"
MacLeod's expression turned thoughtful, unfocused as he thought back. "Connor mentioned her once, but never elaborated further. He wouldn't say much, only to avoid her, if possible."
Methos nodded.
"Who is she?" asked Duncan.
It was Harry who answered. "You two think she's an Immortal? Like you both?" MacLeod became very still. No one moved, but the atmosphere in the room changed. Harry raised his hands up in a passive gesture. "It's all right, guys. I don't carry a sword."
Before Methos was even aware of him moving, MacLeod grabbed both of Harry's wrists and pulled back his shirt and suit jacket to reveal clear, unblemished skin. He relaxed, sat back in his stool, and picked up his beer. "What do you know?" he asked with all the appearance of casualness except for his ready-to-spring energy that MacLeod couldn't mask.
"Only what Bob told me."
"Bob?" asked MacLeod, rubbing his face.
"Ah, Bob," said Methos. "By all means, let us hear what Bob has to say about Lady Isabelle."
Harry took a breath. He hadn't reacted to MacLeod's actions, seemed to take it all in stride, but Methos wouldn't take the man for granted. "Uh, well," Harry's gaze shifted to Methos. "Those three guys we saw at the museum? The real pale ones? They belong to a group of... people. An underground group of people, who call themselves the White Court. They've been around a long time. They sort of, prey on individuals. Kind of like emotional vampires, if you will, the old succubi and incubi. They are vampires, in every sense except the blood sucking part. Love, sex, anger, devotion, exhilaration, obsession, you name it, they want it. And see, what you have to understand," he said, shifting a little as he looked from Methos then to MacLeod and back to Methos again, "is that one kind of magic usually doesn't mix well with another kind. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Methos narrowed his gaze, glanced at MacLeod who was frowning.
"You can have a magic like the kind you two have, something innate to your own personal nature that you don't even think of as magic. It can be fantastic like being Immortal, or as simple as a baby growing up and becoming a boy and then later a man. But when you try to alter that, change it in some way that's not natural to who and what you are, well --" Harry fell silent.
"So, what you're saying," said MacLeod, almost conversationally, "is that Isabelle, an Immortal, tried to become one of these White Court people? And then what happened?"
"No," said Harry, quietly. "You can't be turned into White Court. You're born into it."
"But," said MacLeod. He turned to Methos, those brown eyes of his darkening with horror.
Methos jutted his jaw, closed his eyes again. "Perversion," he said, deciding to enter the conversation. Harry and MacLeod looked at him. He sighed. "1300s. Or thereabouts. Isabelle was born into a little-known noble family in Bohemia. She took after her mother, who was very beautiful. White skin, white hair, and a kind of... appetite that had no limits. And couldn't be contained. Her reputation grew. There were a few deaths as a result. She was viewed as both an abomination and an object of desire. Used as some sort of pawn in a larger scheme that I'm not entire familiar with, her family traded Isabelle in marriage to another little-known nobleman. Who just happened to be Immortal."
MacLeod turned and faced Methos, with a fearful question in his eyes. Methos shook his head.
"No, not I," he said with a sad smile, and was happy to see MacLeod's expression relax. "But someone we both know. Or knew, I should say. His name was Corday back then."
MacLeod grew thoughtful for a moment, then his expression hardened. "Kronos," he whispered. It was unlikely anyone would truly know what sort of transformation or transference occurred between Isabelle and Kronos that would have created the unfortunate monster she had become. Certainly Kronos had suffered no ill side effects, but he was old, and had taken so very many heads. And, despite her nature, Isabelle had been young at the time. Methos shivered, and he couldn't help but think of Alexa. He would have gladly cut out his soul and fed it to her with a spoon if it meant she could live a little longer. He rubbed at his chest, felt a hand on his shoulder, knowing it was MacLeod.
"Anyway," said Harry, glancing at both of them. "Back to the story. Lady Isabelle showed up at the bookstore and at the museum when your friend Amanda stole the manuscript."
"What's this manuscript?" asked MacLeod.
Methos was careful not to change his breathing, not to shift in his seat. He did not meet either man's eyes.
After a moment, Harry spoke. "Uh, the Addison Manuscript. It's always been more legend than anything else. An illustrated manuscript written in an undecipherable language, with an unknown script. It would have been forgotten for all eternity if Jacques Marceau hadn't made a meticulous copy before his death in 1520. He was the last known documented owner. It disappeared after that. Many try to decipher the script, from the copies, but no one's succeeded yet. Regular scholars dismiss it as a curiosity, some kind of medicinal or herbal diary. But in the world of the occult, we know better. The manuscript is not something you play around with. If you can figure out the right spell to unlock the text, well then," Harry's eyes met Methos's, "you have access to the toolbox of life and death. If you survive that long. People tend to die around the manuscript."
Harry stopped talking and silence fell across the loft. Methos heard a clock ticking, and the wind outside rattling one of MacLeod's windows.
MacLeod cleared his throat, then spoke softly. "It's called the Addison Manuscript. Who's Addison?"
Methos continued to breathe regularly, staring at the kitchen counter. He could feel Harry's gaze fall on him. "Addison was a monk, living in the monastery in Broumov, near the Polish border," he said, speaking quietly. Methos made himself meet MacLeod's eyes. "The monastery is still there. You can go see it, if you like. Many attribute the origin of the manuscript to this Addison, but although there isn't much primary information on him, it's pretty clear he was just a simple man. Maybe he wrote it, maybe he didn't. But he was the first owner of the manuscript, so it takes his name. He made one very big mistake," he paused. "The day he met Isabelle Corday, and he regretted it very much."
Another silence fell, the suddenly somber moment lifting. "I see," said MacLeod after a moment. "All this over what's probably the doodlings of a very bored monk."
"That's what I said," said Methos, sharing a smile with MacLeod.
"And Amanda?" asked MacLeod. "How did she get herself involved?"
"Stole the manuscript from the museum," said Harry.
MacLeod looked to Methos. "No," said Methos. "She stole the forged copy, the one your friend Hughes made."
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it, apparently deciding Methos must be right.
"That doesn't mean she's not in danger," continued Methos. "It's not the manuscript itself that's dangerous, but the idea of it. Whomever Amanda got herself mixed up with -- and from the sounds of it, I'd say it's someone in this White Court you mentioned -- that person wants the manuscript, and is either using the fake to flush it out, or, " he paused. "They want Isabelle. You want to know why anyone who becomes associated with the manuscript dies? It's because she kills them. She thinks the manuscript can cure her, she's been hunting for it all her life."
"And it can't do that," said MacLeod, quietly, and Methos was grateful MacLeod had realized it.
Methos didn't answer. "Isabelle will be hunting for Amanda," he said.
"Do you have something personal of hers?" asked Harry, standing up, removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. He moved further into the kitchen. "Something she owned, perhaps." He opened up his satchel, taking out what looked like herbal ingredients and laid them on the counter, then rummaged around in MacLeod's cupboards and shelves looking for bowls and wooden spatulas. Almost bashfully, Harry took out the skull. Methos held his breath, noticing MacLeod only looked curious.
"Come on out, Bob," said Harry, already turning to the bowl he'd set up. A moment passed, then a small ball of dark smoke flew out of the skull and materialized into Bob.
MacLeod stumbled from his stool. Methos let out his held breath, trying not to laugh.
"Well, it's about time. Honestly, I thought you'd forgotten me," said Bob, as prim as ever. "Planned to leave me to the tender mercies of the boys in blue."
"Quit complaining," said Harry, busy with his preparations. "You're safe."
MacLeod, still dumbstruck, had risen to his feet and began circling around Bob. Bob, taken aback, started circling around MacLeod in turn, almost mirroring MacLeod's actions. "What are we doing?" asked Bob.
Reaching out tentatively, MacLeod poked at Bob, snatching his hand back. Harry stepped between them. "Location spell," he said to Bob. Then he turned to MacLeod. "You don't have anything? A piece of clothing? A necklace? Anything belonging to this Amanda person?"
"What?" asked MacLeod, confused, then, "Oh, right." He moved quickly to the back of the loft, rummaged around in his bathroom, returning with a hair brush.
"Oh, that's great," said Harry, returning to his concoction. Methos was thoroughly charmed to see Harry take out what looked like a drumstick and start muttering charms. He watched Harry with interest.
"Don't over mix," said Bob, although he wasn't looking at Harry. He and MacLeod were still eyeing each other like a pair of puppy dogs at a playground. MacLeod turned to inspect Bob's skull.
"Ah," said Bob, tsking. "No no."
Coloring slightly, MacLeod backed away, muttering, "Sorry, Yorick."
"Oh, clever," said Bob, nodding. "Like I've never heard that one before."
Methos snickered. MacLeod made a face, then moved closer to Harry, looking over his shoulder at the rather disgusting brew he was making.
"Just look at the three of you," said Bob, his hands pressed together, fingers against his lower lip. The three men in question looked at each other, then down at themselves, each with matching perplexed expressions. "It's like I wandered into photo shoot for one of those men's clothing catalogues Harry receives in the mail."
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, then, through gritted teeth, asked, "Are you going to be helpful, or not?"
Bob peeked over Harry's shoulder, pointing. "You're boiling."
"What? Oh." Harry turned back, taking the pot off the fire and decanted the mixture, while Bob gave instructions to both MacLeod and Methos to find a map and clear a flat surface. Harry took a crystal, wrapped some of Amanda's hair around it, then dipped it in the solution. Sitting before the map, Methos watched Harry center himself, then close his eyes, chanting softly. He held the crystal over the map. It spun in a circle, then landed in the center of the map.
Methos bent over the map to look closely, nearly bumping heads with Macleod. They looked at each other.
"Well?" asked Harry.
"That can't be right," said MacLeod. "That's this building."
Harry cursed under his breath, getting up and returning to the kitchen counter.
"Are you sure that was Amanda's and not yours?" asked Methos.
MacLeod rolled his eyes. "Yes," he said. "I don't have flowers on my hair brushes."
Bob stood behind Harry. "Did you use too much eel's bladder?"
Thoughtful, Harry pursed his lips and looked uncertain, staring at the mess of ingredients and then at the crystal and the map.
"Maybe it's because we're Immortal?" tried MacLeod.
Methos considered that, then felt a strong Immortal presence resonate loudly in his head, traveling down his spine. He stiffened and looked at Macleod. They moved at the same time, Methos going for his sword he'd left with his suit, and MacLeod to where he kept the katana, by the bed. Harry and Bob stood still, watching. Methos placed himself by the elevator, and then nodded at MacLeod.
There was a knocking, and then a clear voice calling, "Duncan? I know you're in there."
Methos and MacLeod deflated. "Typical," muttered Methos, leaving his broadsword by the coat rack. He retreated to the fridge and got a second beer.
MacLeod opened the door and then started right in. "Where have you been? Adam's been worried."
"I have not," said Methos from the kitchen, indignant.
Glowing from the cool night air, Amanda breezed in still in her cocktail dress, obviously chilled but smiling broadly. She held a leather bound book to her chest. "Had to take the long way. I tried calling, but I couldn't get through. Those men, the pale-white ones," she looked at Methos, "were following me. But I lost them. " She was nodding and smiling, rubbing her hands. "Oh, hello," she said, noticing Harry and Bob. "Are we having a party?"
"You're freezing," said MacLeod, reaching to take her into his arms. A loud snap and a bright electric shock arced when he touched her. He flinched, and she drew a sharp intake of breath.
Everyone in the room froze, staring at each other with growing horror. Experimentally, Methos reached out and touched Harry's arm. The jolt was so strong, his entire body shook. Harry jumped back, nearly stumbling to the floor. "Goddamn it," he said, rubbing his arm, shaking his head.
Methos started moving. "Down to the dojo," he said to MacLeod. "Now. You don't want her in the loft."
MacLeod didn't question it, taking Amanda by the arm, wincing through another shock, he grabbed his sword. Harry picked up Bob's skull. MacLeod lifted the elevator grate, waiting for everyone to get in. Electricity danced across the elevator walls, down the doors.
"Would some one please explain the situation to me?" asked Amanda, looking around.
As they exited into the dojo, Methos and MacLeod moved into the center of the room, swords out, back to back.
"Bob, do you mind bringing the lady up to date?" said Harry, who was watching Methos.
Bob moved closer to Amanda. "Hello my dear, my name is Hrothbert of Bainbridge."
"Oh," she said, confused but smiling. "I've heard of you." She looked at Methos who only shrugged.
"Have you? My reputation does proceed me. Well," he said, leaning toward her. Bright-eyed and still glowing, she listened with interest. "Young Master Harry Dresden here, is a wizard, new to town, on a daring mission of great import. And, if I'm not too mistaken, sparks are definitely flying between him and that mysterious Immortal with the olivine eyes."
"Bob," gritted Harry, then grinned awkwardly at a laughing Amanda. "Don't make me throw your skull out the window."
From where he stood in the center of the room, Methos glanced back at Harry, smiling a little at his unease, but then he returned his attention to the rest of the room, listening for movement. The air grew heavy with electric charge.
"Right." Bob straightened, as if breathing in, then continued. "Isabelle Corday wants the manuscript. And she's coming to get it. Only she doesn't know it's fake."
"It is?" cried Amanda, looking at the leather bound book she still carried.
"'Fraid so, my dear," said Bob, with a sort of kindred dismay. "What's more, the White Court is involved. Naturally, considering who Isabelle Corday is to them. Let's watch, shall we?"
"No," said Methos, looking at Harry. "You're mortal. You need to leave."
Harry opened his mouth, ready to protest.
Bob cleared his throat. "Harry. I think we'd better."
Grumbling, Harry shut his mouth and nodded, and started for the side stair exit, but was stopped as a charge of electricity barred the way.
Methos watched white lines of electricity travel along the weight equipment and up and down the metal pipes lining the ceiling and the walls. Small lightning bolts struck out, reaching for him and MacLeod. One zapped MacLeod, then another. A thought struck Methos.
"Um, Mac?" He touched MacLeod's arm, then let go with another electric shock. "This might not be such a good idea."
"What do you mean? This is a great idea. This is the best idea you've ever gotten me mixed up in."
The heavy charge in the air increased. Methos felt his hair lifting, felt the tingle of energy all along his skin. Then he felt that terrible presence that wasn't presence, like liquid fire pouring over his skin.
"You took Kronos's quickening. She's made from his quickening. We can't predict what's going to happen."
Macleod had no time to answer. The room brightened. Methos turned and yelled at Harry. It was like yelling through a storm, the rush of electricity in his ears louder than wind. "Get out, get out. You're mortal, damn it. Get out." But Methos couldn't see anything anymore, everything filled with pure white light. He scrunched his eyes shut, clutching at MacLeod. He thought Macleod was talking, or trying to say something, but he couldn't hear it.
Then, suddenly, the light returned to normal. Isabelle stood a few feet away, electricity emanating from her body as if she were the center of one of those glass plasma globes found at novelty shops. She was magnificent and terrible, white hair flowing long and wild all around her.
On his knees, Methos glanced back and saw Amanda shielding Harry in her arms, who was cradling Bob's skull against his chest. MacLeod pushed at him, whispering fiercely in his ear. "Do what you have to do." He stood in front of Methos, turned and faced Isabelle.
"I can't be like this anymore," she said, and her voice crackled with intensity. Her eyes danced with white fire.
MacLeod approached her, hands held out and open. "Let me help you," he said.
A bolt of electricity shot out and hit Macleod squarely in the chest. He staggered, but didn't fall. "You can't help me," she said. "No one can."
Breathing hard, MacLeod bent over for a moment, then straightened. Methos stood. Isabelle turned and faced him, electricity building again. Her dead white eyes watched him closely as he walked backwards and took the book from Amanda. He met Harry's eyes briefly.
Electricity danced all around the room. Methos couldn't distinguish her features any more, couldn't look into her face. But he remembered how she had been, centuries ago, and the raw power of her sexuality. He saw some of that still in her indescribable face, as she beheld the object of her desire. He held out the bound manuscript. "Here it is," he said. "If you want it so badly."
Electricity had became her arms, reaching out to take hold of the manuscript. It floated in the air before her, the pages blackening, the leather becoming charred. Her cry of anguish hurt more than the burn of her fire. Her rage grew.
Methos held on to his sword. He had to stop it, somehow. Through the mayhem, he met MacLeod's eyes for one electric moment before MacLeod stepped toward Isabelle and embraced her, crying out from the pain.
Like entering the eye of a storm, the electricity running wild around the dojo paused, and then pulse outward, like a sonic boom, before gathering inward, back to Isabelle, circling around her, pooling at her feet.
Methos took up his sword. There was one chance, one opportunity. MacLeod bowed his head, low over her chest, holding her with his strong arms. Methos reached back and swung. Isabelle's head fell into a bed of electricity.
A loud pop. Sparks flew everywhere. Glass shattered. Then a rush of light and energy and fire before everything went still.
Methos made his limbs move, crawling toward MacLeod who lay twisted with Isabelle's body. Rising onto all fours, he managed to lift MacLeod's dead weight enough to get a good grip and haul him partly away. He wasn't capable of too much more, but he held on. He was afraid to look behind him, at what he might find. But then he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Harry standing over him. Methos's relief could only be expressed with a sigh and a tight grasp of Harry's hand.
There was a rustle of fabric, a soft patter of footsteps on hardwood floor. Methos looked up and saw the three pale-faced, white-haired men from the museum, and a fourth in the center. The fourth was slightly taller, and ridiculously beautiful, like a quartz statue. White Court, thought Methos, and even half dead as he was he could feel the draw of their fierce sexuality calling him.
"Aw, are you serious?" asked Harry. "Can't you see we've had enough? What are you all doing here?"
"Peace," said the talking statue, "Harry Dresden. We've only come for what's ours." He bent down, and his other men came forward to pick up Isabelle Corday's remains and the charred manuscript. They left as they came, quietly.
Harry's hand went around and cupped the back of Methos's head. It took Methos a moment to realize there was no electric shock, no jarring pain. His entire body relaxed. They looked at each other for a long moment, until MacLeod gasped and came back to life.
Harry smiled. "Your own kind of magic," he said, then helped Methos to rise, and together, with MacLeod and Amanda, they all stumbled back into the elevator and up to the loft, grateful that it was all over.
Seacouver, a few days later.
The elevator came to a stop, and the gate rattled. The stereo was on, playing something light and jazzy, and the smells of onions frying in olive oil met Methos as he stepped into the loft, MacLeod's presence buzzing familiarly.
"Over here," said MacLeod, a kitchen towel over his shoulder, pouring pasta into a strainer.
Methos went to the stove and lifted the cover off one of the pots, leaning over and breathing in. "Not bad," he said.
MacLeod grinned, then shooed him. "You can try it yourself, if you stay for dinner. Amanda should be here in a few minutes."
"Love to, but my flight's in a few hours."
MacLeod stopped moving, taking the kitchen towel and drying his hands. "You're sure about this?"
Methos shrugged a little. "Yes. I've kept it hidden for too long. It doesn't belong to me, not really. It should go back to where it came from. He'll be a better keeper than me."
"Well," said MacLeod, leaning one hand against the kitchen counter. "Can't really argue with that. Need a ride to the airport?"
It was on the tip of Methos's tongue to refuse. "What about your dinner?"
"It'll keep. Amanda won't mind."
"All right."
MacLeod came forward and Methos stepped into his embrace, comforted by the clap of MacLeod's hand against his back. "It's over here," said MacLeod, when he stepped away, moving over to his bookshelf.
In the second row from the bottom, all the way over to the far right side, was nestled a dark brown, narrow, sealed box. MacLeod crouched down and withdrew it, bringing it over to the coffee table.
Carefully, MacLeod withdrew the Addison Manuscript. He passed his hands over it. "You know, it's just like you to tell me to hold something for you and not inform me that it's actually a live, ticking bomb."
Methos chuckled sheepishly. "I knew you'd keep it safe."
"Yeah," said MacLeod, then reached over and tweaked Methos's nose. Before Methos could even squawk a protest, Immortal presence flooded the room and Amanda sailed in, dripping with shopping bags and beaming a happy, flirtatious smile.
Chicago, 10 am on a Tuesday morning.
The door chimed as he entered, warm sunbeams filtering in through the windows and catching the floating dust. Methos looked around, once again thinking of bad 'B' movie sets, but he recognized the signs of Harry all over the place and it made him smile.
From somewhere else further into the honeycomb of rooms, he heard a voice call out,"Be right there."
Methos turned when he heard footsteps.
"Sorry about that," said Harry, traipsing into the room. "Was stuck in the cellar with a mad scient--Oh. Hi. Adam." Harry stopped mid stride, and stood staring at Methos.
Methos would have found the situation amusing, but he was too busy shifting the weight of the awkward box he was carrying. "I'm sorry I didn't phone ahead."
"No, it's all right," said Harry, moving into the room. "Hey, sit down. It's good to see you. Make yourself at home. Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Tea? I think I have those things," said Harry, a whirlwind of activity.
"Coffee's fine." Methos was charmed all over again. He set the narrow box down on a table, kept himself busy looking at the odd bits and pieces and strange artifacts spread around the room while waiting for Harry to return with the coffee.
"Did you fly in this morning?" asked Harry, returning with a tray.
"Last night," said Methos, putting down a particularly perplexing deck of I Ching cards. The tray was set down and they both sat across from each other. The next few moments were filled with serving the coffee, then a strange, not entirely uncomfortable silence followed.
"Oh hey," said Harry, rising from his seat. He disappeared for a moment and then returned with a thick, ancient-looking, book. "Remember you looked familiar to me? Check this out."
It was an old text, written in Latin, a sort of magical encyclopedia. Harry opened the book to an entry in the middle. One glance at the heading told him whom it was about. There was an illustration with a remarkable likeness of the monk known as Addison. He traced the image of his face. Methos read silently, remembering. "Nothing much in this is true."
"Really? Well." Harry scratched his head. "Not much about that darned manuscript seems to be true."
Methos set his coffee down, lowered his eyes for a moment. When he looked up again, Harry was watching him. He set the tray of coffee to one side, made sure the table was clear, then pushed the narrow box that he'd brought over to Harry.
"What's this?"
"It's for you," said Methos. "It's why I'm here."
Harry didn't say anything, but he sat up straight. He put his hand on top of the box, then closed his eyes. After a moment, he undid the fastenings, and slowly slid the manuscript out and held it in his hands.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because it belongs to you," said Methos, quietly.
"Considering its history, I'm not sure I want it."
Methos smiled. "I don't blame you. But it's yours nevertheless. If you want to throw it into the fire, you can do that. I wouldn't give it to you if I thought it would bring you harm."
Harry's eyes were warm. "No, I guess you wouldn't." He sighed. "I never wanted unspeakable power."
Methos laughed quietly. "It won't give you that. It might give you a headache, though. It's nothing more than a curiosity, Harry. An old man's fancy. It holds some knowledge, if you can unlock the text, but no more than you probably already hold inside your head. Or inside that extra skull of yours. Maybe it'll come in handy one day."
Slowly, Harry opened the manuscript to the first few pages. The ink of the strange text was still dark, its preservation held perhaps by magic. Harry passed his hand over the page and Methos thought he saw the letters tremble. "Tell me," said Harry. "Who wrote it? Did you?"
Methos smile was slow, spreading across his face. "What do you think?"
Harry bit his lip, shook his head a little. "You don't hold this kind of magic."
"No I don't. And if you don't mind me saying, I'm very glad I don't. My life is difficult enough as it is. The name wouldn't mean anything to you. He was someone I knew, someone I cared for in his final days. A crazy old monk who knew a bit of magic he'd learned from his uncle." Methos shrugged. "He gave it to me, on his deathbed. I didn't even believe in magic, your kind of magic, at the time. Not till later. It's not nearly as exciting as anyone would expect."
Harry sighed. "I'd like to hear the story, one day."
After a moment, Methos inclined his head. He could tell the story. He'd kept it silent for too long, and the old monk would have liked that.
"Where was it, all this time?"
Methos took another swallow of coffee, setting this cup down. He met Harry's eyes, and smiled. "With a friend."
Harry canted his head to one side. "You always play your cards this close to your chest?"
"Usually," said Methos, but made sure his expression was open. "You live as long as I have, you learn to be cautious."
"Yeah," said Harry. "I can believe that."
There was another strange beat of silence, and then Harry jumped up from his chair. Methos stood as well. "Hey," Harry said, taking the manuscript and returning it to its box. He placed it carefully on a nearby bookshelf. "How about some brunch? There's a coffee shop around the corner. Food's pretty good. Hasn't killed me yet. How about I treat you, and then, I don't know," he stopped, bit his lip again, then smiled. "What do you say?"
Unable to stop himself, Methos reached out and touched Harry's arm, cupping his elbow. It was nice to be able to touch him without feeling the harsh bite of an electric shock. Harry covered Methos's hand with his. He squeezed, then pulled Methos in, arm going around his shoulder, giving him a shake and a lingering hug. "Come on," he said, looking down at Methos because he was that much taller. "I'm not letting you go. I wanna hear that story."
Harry took Methos's hand and led him out into the sunshine.
END