Thaw: Part 2
The end of the Snow series. Yes, really, this time. The first half was just too big to post as a lump. I hadn’t realized that it ran to over thirty pages.
01:47 GMT
Unable to find a comfortable spot to sit on in his own room, Methos returned to MacLeod's and settled into a half-lotus on the brown paisley rug. He closed his eyes and shaped the pitch of his soft chant. Perfect tones, precise breathing. His focus--
--Was fine, except he kept slitting his eyes and checking on the door. Was anyone coming? More than a dozen people knew, now. Methos. A dozen people who could put a face to the name.
He relaxed his belly, drew a slow breath. No. He wouldn't panic. Wasted emotion, and dangerous. What he had done was necessary. More than necessary, it was his only chance. And, probably, a very *good* chance.
His voice wavered slightly. Methos drew another breath and shaped the vowels. Even. Slow.
Around him the resonance of the other immortals was an inaudible buzz in the background. When was the last time he had been among so many of his own kind--?
His hands were sweating. And perhaps that was natural. He had been in hiding so long, shielded by names that had no aura of myth around them. Average names. Average lives. He'd been concealed so well by the mundane and expected. He'd grown comfortable with that, but the comfort had been an illusion. Things could not have gone on as they had in the past.
Immortals as a whole could not survive the rest of the world if they spent their energies fighting each other. Not now, with face recognition software in beta testing. Not now, with forensic genetics and digital records. In the coming years, it would take all of them working together to sustain the masquerade. It was take this risk now or wind up on a laboratory table before even fifty years had passed.
Methos shifted to a more complex chant. He was determined to clear his mind. Second guessing the decision now would do no good. It was too late. They knew his name: Matthew of Salisbury, Carl Robinson, all three of the Valicourts, Ceirdwyn--
Robinson had probably told his Watcher by now--
Methos shuddered, gasped, began the chant again. There was no point to this panic. He was saving his life, not risking it. Even a hundred years ago there had been no chance that the fearful or bloodthirsty would have brought on a Gathering. If every immortal in one city--if one *nation*--had gone mad, it had been possible to run. Easy, even. Was Europe too dangerous? Move on to Asia? Asia too hot? There was the Pacific with it's thousands of islands. Yes, you had to reach them by boat, but it was so easy to disappear.
Now it was only easy to be convenient. He could fly to Bali in a few hours. Hell, he could fly around the world in a single day if he wished. And that was the problem! There was no where to run any more. No way to hide. Transportation was too fast and communication instantaneous. If five Immortals in Calcutta decided that the Gathering was upon them, their delusion could spread across the globe in a matter of hours. If things had continued as they had been going, it might all be over in a decade or two. Never mind winding up on a dissection table. Methos had been in six fights in the last seven years. No one could last long with that active a lifestyle. Not Connor. Not Duncan even. And certainly not Methos.
Revealing himself and throwing his resources in to this battle was his only chance. Methos had not done this out of altruism or for love. He had done it to survive. And it was a very good chance. It was--
Methos realized he was losing his battle to regulate his breathing. His mantra was coming in gasps and pants, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to try to forestall hyperventilation.
At the edge of his perception, the blurry presence of one of the other Immortals seemed to shift and move. Logic told him it had to be MacLeod coming up the stairs. Who else? But Methos reached under the paisley dust ruffle and took the hilt of the sword he had hidden beneath the bed. It had to be MacLeod. The timing was right. And anyway--
Even in the best of times, when he was rested and alert and only one other presence resonated against his own, Methos could not judge direction or strength, and even distance was vague.
The door opened and MacLeod met his eyes over the bed. Methos let go of the sword. "How did it go?" he asked mildly. He was fairly sure his expression was bland and guileless, but in the draft of the open door it was clear that his face was drenched with sweat.
"Joe is fine." MacLeod closed the door behind him and locked it. "We had a long talk and I unblocked his ki. He's asleep now."
Methos dredged up a look of patient disapproval. "You would have done better to balance his charkas. Much more efficient."
"You're not going to start with that again? That's a religion, not a body discipline--"
"It's a medical system with thousands of years of effective application behind it. I assume you do accept the value of a little experience?"
MacLeod made a rude noise. "Oh, come on. You can't even get two of the 'experts' to agree which way the pretty little flowers should be turning--assuming you're talking to two who think they should all be turning the same way. And how many chakras are there, anyway? Can even you give me a solid answer, O Venerable One?"
Normally Methos delighted in winding MacLeod up about Eastern mysticism. On his few visits to the monastery where Mac had spent the last four years mocking the Tao, finding irrelevant logical flaws with ahimsa, and making crude jokes about the Buddha had produced the most relaxed and friendly moments they had shared. Just at the moment, though, he couldn't think up any acidic comments about comparative religion. Methos took a deep breath--and regretted it as he gulped back another wave of hysteria.
Moving slowly, MacLeod came around the bed and knelt on the floor beside Methos. "You'll be all right," he whispered. "I promise you." Strong hands crept around his waist and chest, pinning Methos against solid muscle.
"You can't promise anything."
"I'll have help. Matthew and Nick are already on board. I've called a friend of mine--absolutely competent, absolutely loyal. She can join us in a week."
Methos felt a slightly hysterical laugh rise. "Kira, I assume. Is this the moment to mention that she and I have history?"
"Naturally," MacLeod muttered. "She didn’t mention it."
"I wasn't using my own name."
"How bad is it?"
"Well....we parted amiably enough. She probably thinks I'm a bit of a flake, though. I knew her in the mid nineteenth century. I spend most of the time then plastered. Or high. Or both."
"Well, that's all right then. I mean, you *are* a flake. She'll need an accurate picture of the situation."
Another near-hysterical laugh. "Nice to know what you really think of me."
"Flake doesn't begin to cover it, actually. You are a total idiot, Methos. I can't believe you did this. But I promise you, you won't pay for it. We'll take care of it somehow."
Methos groaned softly. He could not allow someone else to protect him this way. They would all underestimate the risk to themselves. And Methos would lose his edge if he became dependent, complacent....
Oh, but there was such safety in numbers. The greatest safety of all was in the certainty that his death would be avenged--
"Come." MacLeod shook him gently. "Come to bed."
"Duncan--"
"Come!"
There was no subtlety in MacLeod's lovemaking. If one could call it 'lovemaking.' It was sex, ruthless and very competent sex deployed in an irresistible offense against the terror occupying Methos' mind. MacLeod's hands were everywhere. His mouth was demanding and sweet. Within moments, Methos was beyond thought, blindly chasing after that sweet mouth, those skillful hands.
Panting, sweating, inarticulate in his desire, Methos didn't resist the glorious assault. The fear was of no use to him and he hated the way it felt. This was better. Oh, better. He spread his arms and gave himself over to the moment, to the heat of the body. The sharp points of teeth in his ear. The light caress along his inner thigh. The tongue tickling at his nipples.
MacLeod turned Methos, inserted one gentle finger in preparation, and the world whited out.
When the tide had passed and he found himself tired and happy and face down among the pillows, Methos had to admit that it was a good plan. His terror had served no good purpose and would only have blunted his reflexes in the end. His own endorphins would keep him pleasant and calm long after chemical euphoric or narcotics would. And they would also leave him alert.
A very good plan....
MacLeod smiled down at him. Methos reached for his face, slipped into sleep before his hand made contact.
07:54 GMT
Marian Bell opened the door and smiled pleasantly. "I'm afraid my husband isn't here," she said to Matthew. "He's gone to the train station to meet one of the other supervisors."
Her easy cordiality was no surprise, but Matthew hadn't expected her to be so forthcoming. Obviously, she was an accomplished liar, and the calm demeanor he had admired over the years could cover a multitude of awkward truths. "Maybe I can have the conversation with you that I was planning to have with the Reverend," he said.
"Maybe you can." She stepped back from the door. "May I offer you a cup of coffee?" Her polished Southern gentility always reminded Matthew of happy days long past. Ten wonderful years he'd spent blissfully in love, the best years of his long life and ones he didn't expect the future would ever match.
But, of course, in those days it was only the White women who'd had the luxury of gentility. Time didn't always change things for the worse.
"I assume you have questions," she said, observing his long silence. She held out a cup of coffee. They had dined together before, once or twice, when he'd gone to the Islands to visit Carl. The cup she offered was fixed with cream and no sugar, the way he liked it.
"They're not...polite questions," he said.
"No, I wouldn't expect so," she said slowly. "You've had an upsetting surprise. But perhaps I can answer those questions. Currently, I am the Watcher of record for Grace. And, yes, she knew about me. She spotted me on my second day."
"Madam," he said, "I can scarcely believe that you are so unskilled at your occupation as to be caught quite so quickly."
"I believe....that she already knew about us, but we have never discussed the topic."
"But the two of you are friends!" Despite his firm intention to be civil, Matthew's horror was slipping out. "I've eaten with you. At Grace's own house. With Carl right there--"
"We came to Trinidad first as friends of Derek. He needed what Carl could teach him, but he needed us, too. Our friends are still what comes first."
"And what exactly comes second," Matthew asked.
"*Second* we are missionaries working in a very poor neighborhood in a country with few advantages. Our position gives us opportunities that we take very seriously." She smiled kindly. "And third, we are historians."
"And your history lives less than half a mile away and invites you to dinner."
"Yes," she said. Her polite calm didn’t waver.
"And it doesn't strike you as the least bit repugnant, this deception you've been living for--six years is it now?"
"No more so than yours, Mr. McCormick," Marian answered gently.
08:07 GMT
Miles looked ruefully down at his rumpled suit and decided that he would simply have to *make* time to change before heading over to that bed and breakfast. It would be impolite to show up too early, anyway. As important as his business was, the people he needed to see were still grieving.
The air was shockingly cold after the warm compartment. Miles had to blink to clear wind-tears from his eyes. Halfway down the crowded train platform an arm waved for his attention. Gathering his garment bag and portfolio, Miles waded through the crowd toward the three figures who waited for him: Elizabeth Tynan, Amy Thomas, and Tom Bell. "Liz, Amy! Are you both on your way back to Paris?" he asked without pausing to greet them properly.
"Only me," Amy said.
Liz added, "Claude called this morning. Father Riley is even now on a train headed in this direction. It seems my assignment is coming to me."
"Yes, of course," Miles muttered. He should have foreseen this. He turned to Amy. "You're off leave as of this moment. And you're staying here. I’m putting you on Nick and Amanda."
"But I don't *want* a field assignment," she protested. "And I've got a project half finished in Historical Reference--"
"We need someone we can trust here. Until we can line up someone else, it'll have to be you. Say the next fortnight? Sorry." He headed toward the stairs at the end of the platform. The other Watchers trailed after him.
"And that's another thing. You can't use *me.* My reports will be suspect--"
"You'll be partnered with Christian Lindhard, absolutely reliable and above reproach." He flashed a smile. "Possibly because he is the most boring person in the history of Denmark. Or maybe Europe. He's got seniority on this, but he won't give you a hard time. Tom," setting the problem of Amy Thomas aside for the moment, he turned to Reverend Bell, "What is our current status?"
Tom, with oblique discretion since they were in a public place, answered, "Of the guests at the funeral, only one has left town. Corwin of the Green took off last night. Mertonson is following him. As of ten minutes ago there hadn't been any sign of movement at that little hotel so far this morning. Are you planning to approach them today?"
"I don't see that we have much choice. The General Committee probably won't reverse itself, but the regional coordinators are very....nervous. I don't think we should press our luck. Unless you think it's too soon--?"
"No, I don't. I don't think MacLeod will thank you for holding back. And I know we can't keep Dawson from noticing forever. It'll be better if we're up front about everything."
"Damn." Miles realized that, inwardly, he had been hoping to postpone. "Right then. Let's get it over with."
08:46 GMT
The day after they'd buried Connor, Joe came in to breakfast late, a mere fifteen minutes before the hostess was scheduled to come back and collect the items from the buffet. Everyone but MacLeod and Methos had already eaten and gone except for Michelle, who picked at a plate of cold eggs and yawned continually. Derek had not showed at breakfast at all. Assuming the obvious--
Assuming the obvious, MacLeod found that he was a little worried. They were so young. Except, of course, that they weren't all that young. They had both been immortal for several years, and neither of them had been innocent at first death. They knew what they were doing.
If anyone knew what they were doing. MacLeod wasn't sure he did.
Methos, refilling his own coffee, glanced over his shoulder at Joe. "Tea?" he asked, already reaching for the pot.
He did not wait for an answer before starting to pour. Perhaps it was his imagination, but MacLeod would have sworn the Joe had hesitated just a moment too long before saying, "Do they have any green?"
Methos looked at the half-full cup, then set it down and selected another.
Any doubts that MacLeod might have about whether or not Joe had done it on purpose were quickly put to rest. Joe took bran muffins and fruit from the sideboard, but when he sat down he--too casually--remarked that he had wanted to try the local jam. Methos obligingly got it for him.
After the jam, he asked about the sausage.
"You don't want the sausage," Methos said. "It's cold."
It was the first time the food issue had really manifested in words instead of gestures everyone pretended weren't being exchanged. "I don't mind."
"You don't want the sausage."
Trying not to smile, MacLeod said casually, "The oat cakes were good."
Innocently, Joe said, "Are there any left?"
Methos stood up again--was this three times? Four? And turned to the sideboard. He turned around again at once and looked at Joe with dawning comprehension. His expression was equal parts irritation and delight. "You utter shit," he said softly. "You complete dog!"
Joe's innocent look was gone now. "Are we done with this?" he asked.
"I'm...not sure," Methos said. Slowly, he walked around the table, his eyes never leaving Joe's face.
"I'm serious here."
Methos nodded. "So am I." He was standing beside Joe now, so that Joe had to lean sideways and look up. Something passed between them. Then Methos leaned down and kissed him.
At the other end of the table, Michelle looked on in surprise. Her expression faded from embarrassment to wonder to embarrassment again. She began to stack her dishes loudly.
The doorbell rang. They all jumped, even though no one had felt an Immortal coming. Methos straightened and folded his arms. Michelle's eyes went to the bread knife, the only obvious weapon in the room. 'We're too edgy', MacLeod thought, forcing his mind away from his sword, still upstairs in his room. 'We'll never be ready for a real threat if we keep jumping at shadows.'
Voices in the hall and then Nick Wolf appeared in the doorway to the dining room. "Mac, there's a man here to see you. I think he's a Watcher."
Joe gave him a dirty look. "You can't tell by looking."
"He gave me this." Wolf held out a business card. It had the Watcher symbol on it.
Joe winced slightly. "Oh. That would be Miles, trying to be charming. He has an odd idea of funny."
"So you don't normally use business cards?" Wolf asked sourly.
"Shockingly, no." Methos said.
"Show him in," MacLeod said, looking at the business card that Wolf had laid on the table. He didn't think it had been sent for its humor value. It wasn't funny at all. Just shockingly honest....
It was indeed Miles Bancroft who followed Wolf into the room. Matthew brought up the rear, his sword in sight. He stood almost carelessly in the doorway, looking disinterested but able to see into both the hall and the dining room.
Bancroft was businesslike and polite. He took the seat MacLeod offered, but turned down a cup of coffee. He came right to business. "Mr. MacLeod, it is the understanding of my employers that you intend...." He frowned. "You're intent on putting a stop to the Game?"
"It's a lie. I'm not going to play any more. And I’m going to do everything I can to encourage my....To encourage other people like myself to find another hobby, yes."
"I have been authorized to give certain information into your hands." Bancroft withdrew a manila folder from his briefcase. "I should probably mention--It is only because the current situation has become urgent that we are prepared to take such an extreme step. The Watchers have no desire to set themselves up as an arbiter of the Game. And in any case, things are moving very quickly--"
"I understand," MacLeod said curtly. "This is a one-shot." He held out his hand.
"Indeed. Exactly." Bancroft was sweating.
MacLeod waited, dreading the contents of the folder. It wasn't very thick, he observed. But it would be bad news, whatever it was.
The file was laid carefully in MacLeod's hand.
"Miles," Joe said softly, "what the hell is this?"
MacLeod was wondering that himself. He scanned the paper looking for a line that seemed sensible. Nothing seemed to be in order. "Is this in code?" he asked irritably.
"Oh. Um, no. Our recordkeeping is a little idiosyncratic, I suppose. If you'll just look here--"
But MacLeod had already found the beginning of an answer: '... and approaching from two directions, they trapped Aziz in an alley. Lung Hao killed Aziz with his handgun. Kiem Sun took the head.'
"It's another posse," MacLeod whispered.
'Regarding deposition of the body--'
Blinking, MacLeod flipped through the papers. "How long has this been going on?" he asked.
"About six years. We only have detailed reports going back the last six months. You must understand the difficulties of conducting observations in mainland China."
"What happened six months ago?" MacLeod gave up on the convoluted report and pinned Bancroft with his eyes.
Bancroft swallowed and glanced at Joe. "Hong Kong. Malaysia. Indonesia. Australia. Two days ago, Kiem Sun and the others boarded a plane for Russia."
MacLeod forced down the familiar burn of rising tears. "How many men does he have? How many...have they killed?"
"Only five." Bancroft reached across and helpfully flipped a page. "Kiem Sun and five...subordinates. All male, all Immortal, all Chinese. We believe they all had first death less than seven years ago, although our information is somewhat sketchy."
Sure enough, the page Bancroft indicated was a list of names with brief biographies attached. Young men. Ignorant and confused and desperate and all under the sway of Kiem Sun, who was so afraid of dying. "How many have they killed?" MacLeod ground out.
"We have fifteen documented--" here he hesitated as he caught the look on MacLeod's face. "--quickenings. We suspect forty-seven, total."
"Christ," Joe whispered. Forgotten at the end of the table, Michelle squeaked. Methos began to pace.
"Kiem Sun." MacLeod caught Joe and Methos alternate in a cold stare. "Were either of you going to tell me?"
"*I* didn't know," Methos fairly spat. "It's hard enough to keep up with the sword waving fruit cakes inhabiting the continent I'm on!"
"Kiem Sun, Joe?"
"No, damn it, I didn't know. Mac, there are thousands of you! And I was teaching."
"Don't be an ass, MacLeod," Methos shot as he paced past. "He didn’t know, either. He didn't notice. It's not like anyone gives a crap about what happens in Asia."
"Pardon me--" Bancroft began indignantly.
"I don’t think so," Methos snapped back. "Six years this went on before *anyone* noticed. Standards have dropped since I left."
"China is not my region. And, Pierson, you can't be ignorant about the conditions there. Travel and communications--"
"I don't understand," Michelle said. "Immortals don't--they don't hunt like that. Combat--"
"Quiet please," MacLeod interrupted. For several long moments silence reined in the room. "Why are you bringing this to me?" he asked Bancroft.
"We understand Kiem's motivation. We believe he can be stopped without bloodshed. We think you might be able to do it." He took a deep breath. "Jacob Kell wasn't an isolated case. We've seen nine examples of this kind of cheating in the last ten years. That's more than in the last three hundred. If something doesn't change, we'll just see more and more of it."
MacLeod looked at him. He was still sweating. "And?" he prodded.
"And it's scaring the hell out of us. Usually, yes, organized groups like this don't last very long. Given the nature of the Game...they're unstable. But enough of them have lasted long enough for some people to start worrying about the prize."
MacLeod could imagine.
"If someone like Jacob Kell, or even Kiem Sun--"
"Yes, I see. So you've made it my problem."
"Sir, I don't think you want it to be *our* problem. We knew you would find out about this eventually," here Bancroft pointedly did not glance at Joe, "and we wanted it to be open and formal. As well as timely. I realize..." he trailed off and sighed.
MacLeod flipped through the pages. Names, faces, dates: this was the posse. And here, names, faces, and dates for the victims. Some were marked "presumed inactive" and others "inactive." Every "inactive" meant a Watcher had witnessed a murder with his own eyes. Witnessed it or seen the body....
MacLeod stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Bancroft. I appreciate the time you've taken today. I'll let you know if I need anything further.
Looking relieved but solemn, Miles Bancroft said polite farewells and followed Nick to the door. In the hallway they passed the hostess coming with a tray to collect the breakfast things. MacLeod closed the file on its gruesome details and said to Matthew, "Call the others. We need to have a meeting. Here, in half an hour."
MacLeod gave the problem of transportation over to Amanda. By the time the others had gathered, it remained a problem. "I can get eight of us on a flight from London to St. Petersburg on Christmas day," she said.
"Three days?" MacLeod tried to rein in his annoyance.
"Well, we can get on a train on the twenty-fourth. But that will get us there on the twenty-sixth. Late. I’m sorry. It's a bad time to travel."
"Item one," Methos muttered. "Buy a plane."
"It's very short notice," she said defensively. "And you know what this time of year is like."
"Look, we've got cars," Wolf said. "Let's just drive." It was a very North American solution, and it brought MacLeod up short. Petrol prices in Europe were quadruple those in the New World. And St. Petersburg was a couple of days away by car anyway.
"No," he said. "We can't go charging off madly in all directions. If we do this in a thoughtless hurry we're going to foul it up anyway. The twenty-fifth will be fine. We'll need to get tourist papers anyway. Fortunately, their holiday isn't until next month. If we pass around enough money, we should be all right."
"Yes, about that--" Amanda said delicately.
Sighing, MacLeod selected one of his credit cards. "Get cash," he said. "The next question is, who's going?"
Although the Valicourts would rather not travel on Christmas (given that they had intended to celebrate with their son) and Amanda was fairly sure she was still wanted in Russia ("What did you steal?" "Not as a thief, as a spy. And, anyway, I wasn't. It was all a silly mistake.") there were still more people who wanted to go than seats.
"Myself, Dawson, Methos, Matthew, Nick, Cierdwyn, Marcus, and Grace."
"Now wait a minute--" Carl protested.
"I need her credibility," MacLeod said "Kiem Sun might not be beyond reason. He was a great man once. Grace's reputation may be invaluable." It didn't close the issue. Michelle, Derek, and Gregor also wanted to go. Everyone seemed to have in opinion, and nobody agreed. It was like herding cats.
There was also the question of some sort of permanent headquarters. Even if they were inclined to work out of this bed and breakfast indefinitely, more guests were scheduled to arrive the day after Christmas. They needed a better place to congregate, even temporarily. Someplace easily accessible to transportation. Someplace rather large, solidly built and, ideally, even fortifiable. Holy ground would be best of all. Amanda offered her building in Paris, but it would take a few weeks to buy her partner out.
"I know someone who has a nice little mansion in London," MacLeod said, smiling sweetly at Methos.
"Oh, fine. Invite yourselves over then. Have a party." But he could tell that Methos wasn't really annoyed.
That was the easy part of the discussion. The task of how to handle Kiem Sun and his gang of thugs was much more complicated. Everybody had an opinion. Matthew, the Valicourts, Carl and Gregor were for delivering an ultimatum. Make it a clear choice. Show they were serious. Rely on MacLeod's reputation as the guarantee of their trustworthiness. End it quickly one way or another.
Grace, Ceirdwyn, and Marcus argued against committing to a course of action before they met with the man. They were guessing at his state of mind. It was too early to know what the best approach was. They were in no hurry. The whole world couldn't be changed in a day or even a year, after all. Yes, they would stop this distorted parody of the Game one way or another, but blustering about making threats would only make Kiem Sun panic more.
Early on in the discussion, Joe gathered up the file on Kiem Sun and left the room. MacLeod let him go. He would get Joe's opinion later, after he'd had time to do some research. He couldn't blame Joe for wanting to keep a low profile for a bit. The Watchers hadn't been brought up in this latest discussion and maybe that was for the best, at least for a while.
At about half-past eleven, Marcus Constantine got a call on his cell that sent him staggering to his feet, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Yes," he said. "Yes, yes," and then lapsed into Hindi too fast for MacLeod to follow. The other Immortals watched in silence as he left the room.
"We have to keep in mind," Amanda said after a minute, "that Kiem Sun isn't our only problem. We all have...old friends we need to talk to. It's not always going to be easy."
"Not just old *friends*," Gregor said darkly.
Around and around they went, shifting topics, shifting perspectives. Sometimes the group discussion dissolved into little pockets arguing internally about side issues. MacLeod began to wish he actually were herding cats. At least they were all thinking like Immortals, which meant that they weren't in a blind hurry to act before thinking.
MacLeod found himself talking less and less. It was their voices he was listening to. Ceirdwyn, low and slow and even. Robert, sometimes forgetting himself in joy and laughing at odd moments. Gregor, sounding like he'd cried most of the night. Derek, quick and eager. Carl, clipped and precise. Even though they were planning a secret and desperate war, they sounded relaxed in a way MacLeod had never heard such a large group of Immortals.
He supposed it would be this way from now on. He supposed soon there would come a time when the most important thing you taught your students wasn't to be afraid of other Immortals. How Richie would have loved this. Richie and Rebecca and Brian and Mai Ling. And Connor.
He felt Connor's loss like a sword through the heart. Connor should have been here for this, but Connor had left him--
Around the table the others were standing up. They had called a recess for lunch, apparently. A late lunch; it was nearly two. MacLeod begged off, claiming that he had some calls to make, smiling to cover the numbness, the empty ache....He could not face sympathy just then. Or help. And he could not break down in front of these people who relied on him to make the impossible come true.
Marcus also wasn't going with the others. "I have to meet the train. Duncan. Someone is coming. A friend of mine, I--"
"An old friend--?" MacLeod roused himself to focus on what Marcus was saying.
"A goddess," he answered. "And a great woman. I've been searching--but she was driven from India. The British. And then China--"
MacLeod vividly remembered the power of Marcus's loyalty. It worried him a little, actually, because Marcus sometimes lost his sense of self-preservation in depth of his looking-back. "Should we send someone with you? Amanda, perhaps?"
"No, no. We'll be fine. You will meet her this afternoon."
MacLeod wandered slowly into the livingroom and watched through the window as the cars pulled away. It was another cold day, grey and overcast, though not quite freezing. Really, it was only the second day of winter; two or three long, cold months stretched out ahead. St. Petersburg would be no better, although he had spent a winter there once. Cold, yes, but thick snow had lain everywhere. The sky had been overcast and sunset came dreadfully early, but what light there had been had reflected of the snow that covered the roofs, the trees.
It had been Connor who had first told him of far-off lands. Strange peoples, strange languages, brightly colored art, churches and temples, tall ships on the seas, impossible foods, exotic women--
A soft noise behind him made MacLeod jump. He turned around to see Joe getting up from the old-fashioned, gold sofa. For a moment MacLeod could only stare in consternation, irritated with himself. Too many people were still fighting the Game for an Immortal to casually wander into a room and *not notice* someone already there. Never mind that Joe was mortal. And completely safe. He couldn't afford to be careless, not yet.
Joe shrugged and smiled apologetically. "Sorry," he said kindly. "I'll leave you alone."
"Don't. Please."
Joe regarded him for a moment and then sat down again. He patted the seat next to him. Inclined to obedience by his emptiness and loneliness, MacLeod joined him. "Connor," he said, wanting to explain. He couldn't force himself to say more, though. He felt wretched. He tried to shove the feeling aside, failed, decided to ignore it. "What's your opinion? Kiem Sun, I mean."
"You don't want to fight him," Joe said immediately.
"I knew *that* already."
"I meant tactically. When you beat him ten years ago, he was...rusty. He's been practicing."
MacLeod nodded. "And his gang?"
"Not terribly special. They've had very good training, of course, but they're young. Competent swordsmen at best." Joe sighed, fiddling with his ring. "The real problem is that they cheat. That puts you at a disadvantage, because that crowd you're with? You won't get most of them to cheat. Not yet. Most of them are thinking in terms of the 'rules.'"
"Well. It could be worse," MacLeod said, trying to smile.
"Do tell me how."
"The thing I want to do is also the best tactical choice. How many times does that happen? I don't want to fight him, and I sure as hell don't want to fight his kids."
"Yeah." Joe sighed. "The bottom line is surviving, though."
Oh, Connor. But no, he was ignoring that feeling. "So...speaking of kids. I saw Amy yesterday. How are things going there?"
Joe glanced down at the floor, but he was smiling slightly. "Not bad, really. Finally." MacLeod remembered a summer afternoon in the monastery garden, Joe pacing restlessly, showing him pictures of a young woman with short dark hair. It had been awkward and Joe had been embarrassed. It had been a painful little talk. Today was better. Joe looked up at him out of the corner of his eye and laughed sheepishly. "You'll like this, actually. The irony. She showed up at my place in Geneva last January. She said she needed advice."
"Professional advice?"
"Noooo. Personal advice. She'd fallen in love. With a co-worker. A new academy graduate assigned to Liam Riley," here Joe winced "at his request."
Amy had wanted her biological father's advice about a Watcher who'd broken the rules even before getting assigned? "I'm...Sorry?" He wasn't sure that was the right thing to say.
"No, it wasn't about that. She wanted my advice because she'd fallen in love with a woman."
"And of course you told her it didn't matter and there wasn't anything wrong with it." MacLeod nodded.
"No. You don't understand. She came to me for advice, not assurance. On dating. Advice on *dating*. She said she didn't have anyone else."
Advice on being gay. "I don't see how you could be much help," MacLeod said. "Why did....ooooo."
Joe nodded. "Like everyone else, she assumed I'd been screwing you for the last eight or nine years."
"I'm very sorry," MacLeod whispered.
"I'm not."
"What did you tell her?"
Joe laughed shortly. "Well I sure as hell didn't tell her the truth. She wouldn't have believed me and anyway--"
"It would have been a rejection."
"Yeah. So I told her to follow her heart and be herself and as long as she behaved honorably, no matter what happened she would not regret it later."
"Not bad advice."
"Terrible advice. I think she was hoping for something practical. Like, for example, were there any secret handshakes or something so she could make an offer known without having to make things awkward." He snorted. "Father's don't do practical. They do supportive. It was all very...surreal."
"I bet you were fine."
A grin. "I was fantastic. Well, I was good enough."
"How did things work out? With the girl, I mean?"
"Still dating. From what I've heard, Lizzy is quite the handful. Reckless, short-sighted, takes dangerous chances. Father Liam knew her from *before*. All I can imagine is he requested her to keep her out of trouble."
"Well, hell. I can't think of a more boring assignment than Father Riley."
Joe patted his shoulder. "Buddy, lately you have topped him."
MacLeod thought of the monastery and what had dragged him out of it. He imagined what was coming. He said cheerfully, "Well that's about to change." But all he could think of was Connor, how he would never see it, how he had given up--now, when MacLeod needed him so badly. The pain of it was so sharp that he could scarcely breathe.
MacLeod could tell from Joe's face that he wasn't hiding it. His impulse was to run, but there was no place far enough away to either escape or conceal this endless grief.
Joe dug around behind him and produced a throw pillow. It was an unfortunate thing: small and square and embroidered with little pink hearts and red roses. Joe set the pillow against his hip and patted it.
His teeth clinched over the crying he was not--not--going to let take over again, MacLeod lay down, curled on his side, his head braced against the overly pretty pillow. Joe curled his near arm over MacLeod's shoulder and after a moment began to sing very quietly. MacLeod was beyond making out the words or caring about content, but the soft shape of music numbed the pain a little. He let himself sink, into the stiff couch, into the soft voice. A couple of tears escaped. He let them go.
The end. Finally.
01:47 GMT
Unable to find a comfortable spot to sit on in his own room, Methos returned to MacLeod's and settled into a half-lotus on the brown paisley rug. He closed his eyes and shaped the pitch of his soft chant. Perfect tones, precise breathing. His focus--
--Was fine, except he kept slitting his eyes and checking on the door. Was anyone coming? More than a dozen people knew, now. Methos. A dozen people who could put a face to the name.
He relaxed his belly, drew a slow breath. No. He wouldn't panic. Wasted emotion, and dangerous. What he had done was necessary. More than necessary, it was his only chance. And, probably, a very *good* chance.
His voice wavered slightly. Methos drew another breath and shaped the vowels. Even. Slow.
Around him the resonance of the other immortals was an inaudible buzz in the background. When was the last time he had been among so many of his own kind--?
His hands were sweating. And perhaps that was natural. He had been in hiding so long, shielded by names that had no aura of myth around them. Average names. Average lives. He'd been concealed so well by the mundane and expected. He'd grown comfortable with that, but the comfort had been an illusion. Things could not have gone on as they had in the past.
Immortals as a whole could not survive the rest of the world if they spent their energies fighting each other. Not now, with face recognition software in beta testing. Not now, with forensic genetics and digital records. In the coming years, it would take all of them working together to sustain the masquerade. It was take this risk now or wind up on a laboratory table before even fifty years had passed.
Methos shifted to a more complex chant. He was determined to clear his mind. Second guessing the decision now would do no good. It was too late. They knew his name: Matthew of Salisbury, Carl Robinson, all three of the Valicourts, Ceirdwyn--
Robinson had probably told his Watcher by now--
Methos shuddered, gasped, began the chant again. There was no point to this panic. He was saving his life, not risking it. Even a hundred years ago there had been no chance that the fearful or bloodthirsty would have brought on a Gathering. If every immortal in one city--if one *nation*--had gone mad, it had been possible to run. Easy, even. Was Europe too dangerous? Move on to Asia? Asia too hot? There was the Pacific with it's thousands of islands. Yes, you had to reach them by boat, but it was so easy to disappear.
Now it was only easy to be convenient. He could fly to Bali in a few hours. Hell, he could fly around the world in a single day if he wished. And that was the problem! There was no where to run any more. No way to hide. Transportation was too fast and communication instantaneous. If five Immortals in Calcutta decided that the Gathering was upon them, their delusion could spread across the globe in a matter of hours. If things had continued as they had been going, it might all be over in a decade or two. Never mind winding up on a dissection table. Methos had been in six fights in the last seven years. No one could last long with that active a lifestyle. Not Connor. Not Duncan even. And certainly not Methos.
Revealing himself and throwing his resources in to this battle was his only chance. Methos had not done this out of altruism or for love. He had done it to survive. And it was a very good chance. It was--
Methos realized he was losing his battle to regulate his breathing. His mantra was coming in gasps and pants, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to try to forestall hyperventilation.
At the edge of his perception, the blurry presence of one of the other Immortals seemed to shift and move. Logic told him it had to be MacLeod coming up the stairs. Who else? But Methos reached under the paisley dust ruffle and took the hilt of the sword he had hidden beneath the bed. It had to be MacLeod. The timing was right. And anyway--
Even in the best of times, when he was rested and alert and only one other presence resonated against his own, Methos could not judge direction or strength, and even distance was vague.
The door opened and MacLeod met his eyes over the bed. Methos let go of the sword. "How did it go?" he asked mildly. He was fairly sure his expression was bland and guileless, but in the draft of the open door it was clear that his face was drenched with sweat.
"Joe is fine." MacLeod closed the door behind him and locked it. "We had a long talk and I unblocked his ki. He's asleep now."
Methos dredged up a look of patient disapproval. "You would have done better to balance his charkas. Much more efficient."
"You're not going to start with that again? That's a religion, not a body discipline--"
"It's a medical system with thousands of years of effective application behind it. I assume you do accept the value of a little experience?"
MacLeod made a rude noise. "Oh, come on. You can't even get two of the 'experts' to agree which way the pretty little flowers should be turning--assuming you're talking to two who think they should all be turning the same way. And how many chakras are there, anyway? Can even you give me a solid answer, O Venerable One?"
Normally Methos delighted in winding MacLeod up about Eastern mysticism. On his few visits to the monastery where Mac had spent the last four years mocking the Tao, finding irrelevant logical flaws with ahimsa, and making crude jokes about the Buddha had produced the most relaxed and friendly moments they had shared. Just at the moment, though, he couldn't think up any acidic comments about comparative religion. Methos took a deep breath--and regretted it as he gulped back another wave of hysteria.
Moving slowly, MacLeod came around the bed and knelt on the floor beside Methos. "You'll be all right," he whispered. "I promise you." Strong hands crept around his waist and chest, pinning Methos against solid muscle.
"You can't promise anything."
"I'll have help. Matthew and Nick are already on board. I've called a friend of mine--absolutely competent, absolutely loyal. She can join us in a week."
Methos felt a slightly hysterical laugh rise. "Kira, I assume. Is this the moment to mention that she and I have history?"
"Naturally," MacLeod muttered. "She didn’t mention it."
"I wasn't using my own name."
"How bad is it?"
"Well....we parted amiably enough. She probably thinks I'm a bit of a flake, though. I knew her in the mid nineteenth century. I spend most of the time then plastered. Or high. Or both."
"Well, that's all right then. I mean, you *are* a flake. She'll need an accurate picture of the situation."
Another near-hysterical laugh. "Nice to know what you really think of me."
"Flake doesn't begin to cover it, actually. You are a total idiot, Methos. I can't believe you did this. But I promise you, you won't pay for it. We'll take care of it somehow."
Methos groaned softly. He could not allow someone else to protect him this way. They would all underestimate the risk to themselves. And Methos would lose his edge if he became dependent, complacent....
Oh, but there was such safety in numbers. The greatest safety of all was in the certainty that his death would be avenged--
"Come." MacLeod shook him gently. "Come to bed."
"Duncan--"
"Come!"
There was no subtlety in MacLeod's lovemaking. If one could call it 'lovemaking.' It was sex, ruthless and very competent sex deployed in an irresistible offense against the terror occupying Methos' mind. MacLeod's hands were everywhere. His mouth was demanding and sweet. Within moments, Methos was beyond thought, blindly chasing after that sweet mouth, those skillful hands.
Panting, sweating, inarticulate in his desire, Methos didn't resist the glorious assault. The fear was of no use to him and he hated the way it felt. This was better. Oh, better. He spread his arms and gave himself over to the moment, to the heat of the body. The sharp points of teeth in his ear. The light caress along his inner thigh. The tongue tickling at his nipples.
MacLeod turned Methos, inserted one gentle finger in preparation, and the world whited out.
When the tide had passed and he found himself tired and happy and face down among the pillows, Methos had to admit that it was a good plan. His terror had served no good purpose and would only have blunted his reflexes in the end. His own endorphins would keep him pleasant and calm long after chemical euphoric or narcotics would. And they would also leave him alert.
A very good plan....
MacLeod smiled down at him. Methos reached for his face, slipped into sleep before his hand made contact.
07:54 GMT
Marian Bell opened the door and smiled pleasantly. "I'm afraid my husband isn't here," she said to Matthew. "He's gone to the train station to meet one of the other supervisors."
Her easy cordiality was no surprise, but Matthew hadn't expected her to be so forthcoming. Obviously, she was an accomplished liar, and the calm demeanor he had admired over the years could cover a multitude of awkward truths. "Maybe I can have the conversation with you that I was planning to have with the Reverend," he said.
"Maybe you can." She stepped back from the door. "May I offer you a cup of coffee?" Her polished Southern gentility always reminded Matthew of happy days long past. Ten wonderful years he'd spent blissfully in love, the best years of his long life and ones he didn't expect the future would ever match.
But, of course, in those days it was only the White women who'd had the luxury of gentility. Time didn't always change things for the worse.
"I assume you have questions," she said, observing his long silence. She held out a cup of coffee. They had dined together before, once or twice, when he'd gone to the Islands to visit Carl. The cup she offered was fixed with cream and no sugar, the way he liked it.
"They're not...polite questions," he said.
"No, I wouldn't expect so," she said slowly. "You've had an upsetting surprise. But perhaps I can answer those questions. Currently, I am the Watcher of record for Grace. And, yes, she knew about me. She spotted me on my second day."
"Madam," he said, "I can scarcely believe that you are so unskilled at your occupation as to be caught quite so quickly."
"I believe....that she already knew about us, but we have never discussed the topic."
"But the two of you are friends!" Despite his firm intention to be civil, Matthew's horror was slipping out. "I've eaten with you. At Grace's own house. With Carl right there--"
"We came to Trinidad first as friends of Derek. He needed what Carl could teach him, but he needed us, too. Our friends are still what comes first."
"And what exactly comes second," Matthew asked.
"*Second* we are missionaries working in a very poor neighborhood in a country with few advantages. Our position gives us opportunities that we take very seriously." She smiled kindly. "And third, we are historians."
"And your history lives less than half a mile away and invites you to dinner."
"Yes," she said. Her polite calm didn’t waver.
"And it doesn't strike you as the least bit repugnant, this deception you've been living for--six years is it now?"
"No more so than yours, Mr. McCormick," Marian answered gently.
08:07 GMT
Miles looked ruefully down at his rumpled suit and decided that he would simply have to *make* time to change before heading over to that bed and breakfast. It would be impolite to show up too early, anyway. As important as his business was, the people he needed to see were still grieving.
The air was shockingly cold after the warm compartment. Miles had to blink to clear wind-tears from his eyes. Halfway down the crowded train platform an arm waved for his attention. Gathering his garment bag and portfolio, Miles waded through the crowd toward the three figures who waited for him: Elizabeth Tynan, Amy Thomas, and Tom Bell. "Liz, Amy! Are you both on your way back to Paris?" he asked without pausing to greet them properly.
"Only me," Amy said.
Liz added, "Claude called this morning. Father Riley is even now on a train headed in this direction. It seems my assignment is coming to me."
"Yes, of course," Miles muttered. He should have foreseen this. He turned to Amy. "You're off leave as of this moment. And you're staying here. I’m putting you on Nick and Amanda."
"But I don't *want* a field assignment," she protested. "And I've got a project half finished in Historical Reference--"
"We need someone we can trust here. Until we can line up someone else, it'll have to be you. Say the next fortnight? Sorry." He headed toward the stairs at the end of the platform. The other Watchers trailed after him.
"And that's another thing. You can't use *me.* My reports will be suspect--"
"You'll be partnered with Christian Lindhard, absolutely reliable and above reproach." He flashed a smile. "Possibly because he is the most boring person in the history of Denmark. Or maybe Europe. He's got seniority on this, but he won't give you a hard time. Tom," setting the problem of Amy Thomas aside for the moment, he turned to Reverend Bell, "What is our current status?"
Tom, with oblique discretion since they were in a public place, answered, "Of the guests at the funeral, only one has left town. Corwin of the Green took off last night. Mertonson is following him. As of ten minutes ago there hadn't been any sign of movement at that little hotel so far this morning. Are you planning to approach them today?"
"I don't see that we have much choice. The General Committee probably won't reverse itself, but the regional coordinators are very....nervous. I don't think we should press our luck. Unless you think it's too soon--?"
"No, I don't. I don't think MacLeod will thank you for holding back. And I know we can't keep Dawson from noticing forever. It'll be better if we're up front about everything."
"Damn." Miles realized that, inwardly, he had been hoping to postpone. "Right then. Let's get it over with."
08:46 GMT
The day after they'd buried Connor, Joe came in to breakfast late, a mere fifteen minutes before the hostess was scheduled to come back and collect the items from the buffet. Everyone but MacLeod and Methos had already eaten and gone except for Michelle, who picked at a plate of cold eggs and yawned continually. Derek had not showed at breakfast at all. Assuming the obvious--
Assuming the obvious, MacLeod found that he was a little worried. They were so young. Except, of course, that they weren't all that young. They had both been immortal for several years, and neither of them had been innocent at first death. They knew what they were doing.
If anyone knew what they were doing. MacLeod wasn't sure he did.
Methos, refilling his own coffee, glanced over his shoulder at Joe. "Tea?" he asked, already reaching for the pot.
He did not wait for an answer before starting to pour. Perhaps it was his imagination, but MacLeod would have sworn the Joe had hesitated just a moment too long before saying, "Do they have any green?"
Methos looked at the half-full cup, then set it down and selected another.
Any doubts that MacLeod might have about whether or not Joe had done it on purpose were quickly put to rest. Joe took bran muffins and fruit from the sideboard, but when he sat down he--too casually--remarked that he had wanted to try the local jam. Methos obligingly got it for him.
After the jam, he asked about the sausage.
"You don't want the sausage," Methos said. "It's cold."
It was the first time the food issue had really manifested in words instead of gestures everyone pretended weren't being exchanged. "I don't mind."
"You don't want the sausage."
Trying not to smile, MacLeod said casually, "The oat cakes were good."
Innocently, Joe said, "Are there any left?"
Methos stood up again--was this three times? Four? And turned to the sideboard. He turned around again at once and looked at Joe with dawning comprehension. His expression was equal parts irritation and delight. "You utter shit," he said softly. "You complete dog!"
Joe's innocent look was gone now. "Are we done with this?" he asked.
"I'm...not sure," Methos said. Slowly, he walked around the table, his eyes never leaving Joe's face.
"I'm serious here."
Methos nodded. "So am I." He was standing beside Joe now, so that Joe had to lean sideways and look up. Something passed between them. Then Methos leaned down and kissed him.
At the other end of the table, Michelle looked on in surprise. Her expression faded from embarrassment to wonder to embarrassment again. She began to stack her dishes loudly.
The doorbell rang. They all jumped, even though no one had felt an Immortal coming. Methos straightened and folded his arms. Michelle's eyes went to the bread knife, the only obvious weapon in the room. 'We're too edgy', MacLeod thought, forcing his mind away from his sword, still upstairs in his room. 'We'll never be ready for a real threat if we keep jumping at shadows.'
Voices in the hall and then Nick Wolf appeared in the doorway to the dining room. "Mac, there's a man here to see you. I think he's a Watcher."
Joe gave him a dirty look. "You can't tell by looking."
"He gave me this." Wolf held out a business card. It had the Watcher symbol on it.
Joe winced slightly. "Oh. That would be Miles, trying to be charming. He has an odd idea of funny."
"So you don't normally use business cards?" Wolf asked sourly.
"Shockingly, no." Methos said.
"Show him in," MacLeod said, looking at the business card that Wolf had laid on the table. He didn't think it had been sent for its humor value. It wasn't funny at all. Just shockingly honest....
It was indeed Miles Bancroft who followed Wolf into the room. Matthew brought up the rear, his sword in sight. He stood almost carelessly in the doorway, looking disinterested but able to see into both the hall and the dining room.
Bancroft was businesslike and polite. He took the seat MacLeod offered, but turned down a cup of coffee. He came right to business. "Mr. MacLeod, it is the understanding of my employers that you intend...." He frowned. "You're intent on putting a stop to the Game?"
"It's a lie. I'm not going to play any more. And I’m going to do everything I can to encourage my....To encourage other people like myself to find another hobby, yes."
"I have been authorized to give certain information into your hands." Bancroft withdrew a manila folder from his briefcase. "I should probably mention--It is only because the current situation has become urgent that we are prepared to take such an extreme step. The Watchers have no desire to set themselves up as an arbiter of the Game. And in any case, things are moving very quickly--"
"I understand," MacLeod said curtly. "This is a one-shot." He held out his hand.
"Indeed. Exactly." Bancroft was sweating.
MacLeod waited, dreading the contents of the folder. It wasn't very thick, he observed. But it would be bad news, whatever it was.
The file was laid carefully in MacLeod's hand.
"Miles," Joe said softly, "what the hell is this?"
MacLeod was wondering that himself. He scanned the paper looking for a line that seemed sensible. Nothing seemed to be in order. "Is this in code?" he asked irritably.
"Oh. Um, no. Our recordkeeping is a little idiosyncratic, I suppose. If you'll just look here--"
But MacLeod had already found the beginning of an answer: '... and approaching from two directions, they trapped Aziz in an alley. Lung Hao killed Aziz with his handgun. Kiem Sun took the head.'
"It's another posse," MacLeod whispered.
'Regarding deposition of the body--'
Blinking, MacLeod flipped through the papers. "How long has this been going on?" he asked.
"About six years. We only have detailed reports going back the last six months. You must understand the difficulties of conducting observations in mainland China."
"What happened six months ago?" MacLeod gave up on the convoluted report and pinned Bancroft with his eyes.
Bancroft swallowed and glanced at Joe. "Hong Kong. Malaysia. Indonesia. Australia. Two days ago, Kiem Sun and the others boarded a plane for Russia."
MacLeod forced down the familiar burn of rising tears. "How many men does he have? How many...have they killed?"
"Only five." Bancroft reached across and helpfully flipped a page. "Kiem Sun and five...subordinates. All male, all Immortal, all Chinese. We believe they all had first death less than seven years ago, although our information is somewhat sketchy."
Sure enough, the page Bancroft indicated was a list of names with brief biographies attached. Young men. Ignorant and confused and desperate and all under the sway of Kiem Sun, who was so afraid of dying. "How many have they killed?" MacLeod ground out.
"We have fifteen documented--" here he hesitated as he caught the look on MacLeod's face. "--quickenings. We suspect forty-seven, total."
"Christ," Joe whispered. Forgotten at the end of the table, Michelle squeaked. Methos began to pace.
"Kiem Sun." MacLeod caught Joe and Methos alternate in a cold stare. "Were either of you going to tell me?"
"*I* didn't know," Methos fairly spat. "It's hard enough to keep up with the sword waving fruit cakes inhabiting the continent I'm on!"
"Kiem Sun, Joe?"
"No, damn it, I didn't know. Mac, there are thousands of you! And I was teaching."
"Don't be an ass, MacLeod," Methos shot as he paced past. "He didn’t know, either. He didn't notice. It's not like anyone gives a crap about what happens in Asia."
"Pardon me--" Bancroft began indignantly.
"I don’t think so," Methos snapped back. "Six years this went on before *anyone* noticed. Standards have dropped since I left."
"China is not my region. And, Pierson, you can't be ignorant about the conditions there. Travel and communications--"
"I don't understand," Michelle said. "Immortals don't--they don't hunt like that. Combat--"
"Quiet please," MacLeod interrupted. For several long moments silence reined in the room. "Why are you bringing this to me?" he asked Bancroft.
"We understand Kiem's motivation. We believe he can be stopped without bloodshed. We think you might be able to do it." He took a deep breath. "Jacob Kell wasn't an isolated case. We've seen nine examples of this kind of cheating in the last ten years. That's more than in the last three hundred. If something doesn't change, we'll just see more and more of it."
MacLeod looked at him. He was still sweating. "And?" he prodded.
"And it's scaring the hell out of us. Usually, yes, organized groups like this don't last very long. Given the nature of the Game...they're unstable. But enough of them have lasted long enough for some people to start worrying about the prize."
MacLeod could imagine.
"If someone like Jacob Kell, or even Kiem Sun--"
"Yes, I see. So you've made it my problem."
"Sir, I don't think you want it to be *our* problem. We knew you would find out about this eventually," here Bancroft pointedly did not glance at Joe, "and we wanted it to be open and formal. As well as timely. I realize..." he trailed off and sighed.
MacLeod flipped through the pages. Names, faces, dates: this was the posse. And here, names, faces, and dates for the victims. Some were marked "presumed inactive" and others "inactive." Every "inactive" meant a Watcher had witnessed a murder with his own eyes. Witnessed it or seen the body....
MacLeod stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Bancroft. I appreciate the time you've taken today. I'll let you know if I need anything further.
Looking relieved but solemn, Miles Bancroft said polite farewells and followed Nick to the door. In the hallway they passed the hostess coming with a tray to collect the breakfast things. MacLeod closed the file on its gruesome details and said to Matthew, "Call the others. We need to have a meeting. Here, in half an hour."
MacLeod gave the problem of transportation over to Amanda. By the time the others had gathered, it remained a problem. "I can get eight of us on a flight from London to St. Petersburg on Christmas day," she said.
"Three days?" MacLeod tried to rein in his annoyance.
"Well, we can get on a train on the twenty-fourth. But that will get us there on the twenty-sixth. Late. I’m sorry. It's a bad time to travel."
"Item one," Methos muttered. "Buy a plane."
"It's very short notice," she said defensively. "And you know what this time of year is like."
"Look, we've got cars," Wolf said. "Let's just drive." It was a very North American solution, and it brought MacLeod up short. Petrol prices in Europe were quadruple those in the New World. And St. Petersburg was a couple of days away by car anyway.
"No," he said. "We can't go charging off madly in all directions. If we do this in a thoughtless hurry we're going to foul it up anyway. The twenty-fifth will be fine. We'll need to get tourist papers anyway. Fortunately, their holiday isn't until next month. If we pass around enough money, we should be all right."
"Yes, about that--" Amanda said delicately.
Sighing, MacLeod selected one of his credit cards. "Get cash," he said. "The next question is, who's going?"
Although the Valicourts would rather not travel on Christmas (given that they had intended to celebrate with their son) and Amanda was fairly sure she was still wanted in Russia ("What did you steal?" "Not as a thief, as a spy. And, anyway, I wasn't. It was all a silly mistake.") there were still more people who wanted to go than seats.
"Myself, Dawson, Methos, Matthew, Nick, Cierdwyn, Marcus, and Grace."
"Now wait a minute--" Carl protested.
"I need her credibility," MacLeod said "Kiem Sun might not be beyond reason. He was a great man once. Grace's reputation may be invaluable." It didn't close the issue. Michelle, Derek, and Gregor also wanted to go. Everyone seemed to have in opinion, and nobody agreed. It was like herding cats.
There was also the question of some sort of permanent headquarters. Even if they were inclined to work out of this bed and breakfast indefinitely, more guests were scheduled to arrive the day after Christmas. They needed a better place to congregate, even temporarily. Someplace easily accessible to transportation. Someplace rather large, solidly built and, ideally, even fortifiable. Holy ground would be best of all. Amanda offered her building in Paris, but it would take a few weeks to buy her partner out.
"I know someone who has a nice little mansion in London," MacLeod said, smiling sweetly at Methos.
"Oh, fine. Invite yourselves over then. Have a party." But he could tell that Methos wasn't really annoyed.
That was the easy part of the discussion. The task of how to handle Kiem Sun and his gang of thugs was much more complicated. Everybody had an opinion. Matthew, the Valicourts, Carl and Gregor were for delivering an ultimatum. Make it a clear choice. Show they were serious. Rely on MacLeod's reputation as the guarantee of their trustworthiness. End it quickly one way or another.
Grace, Ceirdwyn, and Marcus argued against committing to a course of action before they met with the man. They were guessing at his state of mind. It was too early to know what the best approach was. They were in no hurry. The whole world couldn't be changed in a day or even a year, after all. Yes, they would stop this distorted parody of the Game one way or another, but blustering about making threats would only make Kiem Sun panic more.
Early on in the discussion, Joe gathered up the file on Kiem Sun and left the room. MacLeod let him go. He would get Joe's opinion later, after he'd had time to do some research. He couldn't blame Joe for wanting to keep a low profile for a bit. The Watchers hadn't been brought up in this latest discussion and maybe that was for the best, at least for a while.
At about half-past eleven, Marcus Constantine got a call on his cell that sent him staggering to his feet, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Yes," he said. "Yes, yes," and then lapsed into Hindi too fast for MacLeod to follow. The other Immortals watched in silence as he left the room.
"We have to keep in mind," Amanda said after a minute, "that Kiem Sun isn't our only problem. We all have...old friends we need to talk to. It's not always going to be easy."
"Not just old *friends*," Gregor said darkly.
Around and around they went, shifting topics, shifting perspectives. Sometimes the group discussion dissolved into little pockets arguing internally about side issues. MacLeod began to wish he actually were herding cats. At least they were all thinking like Immortals, which meant that they weren't in a blind hurry to act before thinking.
MacLeod found himself talking less and less. It was their voices he was listening to. Ceirdwyn, low and slow and even. Robert, sometimes forgetting himself in joy and laughing at odd moments. Gregor, sounding like he'd cried most of the night. Derek, quick and eager. Carl, clipped and precise. Even though they were planning a secret and desperate war, they sounded relaxed in a way MacLeod had never heard such a large group of Immortals.
He supposed it would be this way from now on. He supposed soon there would come a time when the most important thing you taught your students wasn't to be afraid of other Immortals. How Richie would have loved this. Richie and Rebecca and Brian and Mai Ling. And Connor.
He felt Connor's loss like a sword through the heart. Connor should have been here for this, but Connor had left him--
Around the table the others were standing up. They had called a recess for lunch, apparently. A late lunch; it was nearly two. MacLeod begged off, claiming that he had some calls to make, smiling to cover the numbness, the empty ache....He could not face sympathy just then. Or help. And he could not break down in front of these people who relied on him to make the impossible come true.
Marcus also wasn't going with the others. "I have to meet the train. Duncan. Someone is coming. A friend of mine, I--"
"An old friend--?" MacLeod roused himself to focus on what Marcus was saying.
"A goddess," he answered. "And a great woman. I've been searching--but she was driven from India. The British. And then China--"
MacLeod vividly remembered the power of Marcus's loyalty. It worried him a little, actually, because Marcus sometimes lost his sense of self-preservation in depth of his looking-back. "Should we send someone with you? Amanda, perhaps?"
"No, no. We'll be fine. You will meet her this afternoon."
MacLeod wandered slowly into the livingroom and watched through the window as the cars pulled away. It was another cold day, grey and overcast, though not quite freezing. Really, it was only the second day of winter; two or three long, cold months stretched out ahead. St. Petersburg would be no better, although he had spent a winter there once. Cold, yes, but thick snow had lain everywhere. The sky had been overcast and sunset came dreadfully early, but what light there had been had reflected of the snow that covered the roofs, the trees.
It had been Connor who had first told him of far-off lands. Strange peoples, strange languages, brightly colored art, churches and temples, tall ships on the seas, impossible foods, exotic women--
A soft noise behind him made MacLeod jump. He turned around to see Joe getting up from the old-fashioned, gold sofa. For a moment MacLeod could only stare in consternation, irritated with himself. Too many people were still fighting the Game for an Immortal to casually wander into a room and *not notice* someone already there. Never mind that Joe was mortal. And completely safe. He couldn't afford to be careless, not yet.
Joe shrugged and smiled apologetically. "Sorry," he said kindly. "I'll leave you alone."
"Don't. Please."
Joe regarded him for a moment and then sat down again. He patted the seat next to him. Inclined to obedience by his emptiness and loneliness, MacLeod joined him. "Connor," he said, wanting to explain. He couldn't force himself to say more, though. He felt wretched. He tried to shove the feeling aside, failed, decided to ignore it. "What's your opinion? Kiem Sun, I mean."
"You don't want to fight him," Joe said immediately.
"I knew *that* already."
"I meant tactically. When you beat him ten years ago, he was...rusty. He's been practicing."
MacLeod nodded. "And his gang?"
"Not terribly special. They've had very good training, of course, but they're young. Competent swordsmen at best." Joe sighed, fiddling with his ring. "The real problem is that they cheat. That puts you at a disadvantage, because that crowd you're with? You won't get most of them to cheat. Not yet. Most of them are thinking in terms of the 'rules.'"
"Well. It could be worse," MacLeod said, trying to smile.
"Do tell me how."
"The thing I want to do is also the best tactical choice. How many times does that happen? I don't want to fight him, and I sure as hell don't want to fight his kids."
"Yeah." Joe sighed. "The bottom line is surviving, though."
Oh, Connor. But no, he was ignoring that feeling. "So...speaking of kids. I saw Amy yesterday. How are things going there?"
Joe glanced down at the floor, but he was smiling slightly. "Not bad, really. Finally." MacLeod remembered a summer afternoon in the monastery garden, Joe pacing restlessly, showing him pictures of a young woman with short dark hair. It had been awkward and Joe had been embarrassed. It had been a painful little talk. Today was better. Joe looked up at him out of the corner of his eye and laughed sheepishly. "You'll like this, actually. The irony. She showed up at my place in Geneva last January. She said she needed advice."
"Professional advice?"
"Noooo. Personal advice. She'd fallen in love. With a co-worker. A new academy graduate assigned to Liam Riley," here Joe winced "at his request."
Amy had wanted her biological father's advice about a Watcher who'd broken the rules even before getting assigned? "I'm...Sorry?" He wasn't sure that was the right thing to say.
"No, it wasn't about that. She wanted my advice because she'd fallen in love with a woman."
"And of course you told her it didn't matter and there wasn't anything wrong with it." MacLeod nodded.
"No. You don't understand. She came to me for advice, not assurance. On dating. Advice on *dating*. She said she didn't have anyone else."
Advice on being gay. "I don't see how you could be much help," MacLeod said. "Why did....ooooo."
Joe nodded. "Like everyone else, she assumed I'd been screwing you for the last eight or nine years."
"I'm very sorry," MacLeod whispered.
"I'm not."
"What did you tell her?"
Joe laughed shortly. "Well I sure as hell didn't tell her the truth. She wouldn't have believed me and anyway--"
"It would have been a rejection."
"Yeah. So I told her to follow her heart and be herself and as long as she behaved honorably, no matter what happened she would not regret it later."
"Not bad advice."
"Terrible advice. I think she was hoping for something practical. Like, for example, were there any secret handshakes or something so she could make an offer known without having to make things awkward." He snorted. "Father's don't do practical. They do supportive. It was all very...surreal."
"I bet you were fine."
A grin. "I was fantastic. Well, I was good enough."
"How did things work out? With the girl, I mean?"
"Still dating. From what I've heard, Lizzy is quite the handful. Reckless, short-sighted, takes dangerous chances. Father Liam knew her from *before*. All I can imagine is he requested her to keep her out of trouble."
"Well, hell. I can't think of a more boring assignment than Father Riley."
Joe patted his shoulder. "Buddy, lately you have topped him."
MacLeod thought of the monastery and what had dragged him out of it. He imagined what was coming. He said cheerfully, "Well that's about to change." But all he could think of was Connor, how he would never see it, how he had given up--now, when MacLeod needed him so badly. The pain of it was so sharp that he could scarcely breathe.
MacLeod could tell from Joe's face that he wasn't hiding it. His impulse was to run, but there was no place far enough away to either escape or conceal this endless grief.
Joe dug around behind him and produced a throw pillow. It was an unfortunate thing: small and square and embroidered with little pink hearts and red roses. Joe set the pillow against his hip and patted it.
His teeth clinched over the crying he was not--not--going to let take over again, MacLeod lay down, curled on his side, his head braced against the overly pretty pillow. Joe curled his near arm over MacLeod's shoulder and after a moment began to sing very quietly. MacLeod was beyond making out the words or caring about content, but the soft shape of music numbed the pain a little. He let himself sink, into the stiff couch, into the soft voice. A couple of tears escaped. He let them go.
The end. Finally.