New Beginnings
"Bad news, Joe?" MacLeod asked as the Watcher lowered the receiver. His friend's face was creased with concern, and from what he could gather from the end of the conversation he'd heard-it actually was bad news.
"Nothing that would concern you," Joe Dawson started, with a look that translated as, "This is Watcher business. Please make your own guesses."
"Who is Mari Leung?"
"I said…"
"Other than Genevieve's Watcher, that is?" he answered quickly. He took note of the surprise on Dawson's face, and smiled. There was no reason for him to know that, but he did, because Genevieve had told him. And there was no reason for Genevieve to know that, other than the strange concern she had for "watching her Watchers." Since the first one she had died, it made a kind of sense. And because Genevieve was not always forthcoming about what she did and did not know, it impossible to guess how much other information she had.
"She's been hospitalized. Nervous exhaustion. Burn-out. She's only been following Genevieve for a year."
"Is that common?"
Joe shook his head. "It's hard to say what happened, but my guess is that following someone who follows you back got to her. And since she's been in Paris…"
"Methos has been looking after her."
He received a curious look from that. "Right. And he's a fantastic role model. But this isn't…she's had five kills in the last three months-all Immortal, but all Immortals involved with one another."
"Three months?" Duncan inquired. "What's going on?"
"Have you ever heard of something called The Gauntlet?" Receiving a negative response, Joe went on. "Apparently, she's become a target for a group of headhunters. Immortal headhunters-and needless to say, they're all more experienced than she is. It's only a matter of time."
"You're damn right it is-I spoke with Methos, and she's headed here."
"Here?"
"Where else would she go, Joe?"
"And she's more than likely going to avail herself of your protection…why else would Methos call you?"
Duncan turned away, briefly. He knew full well that she had no such intention-the last serious contact he'd had with her, not counting a very awkward farewell, was when she broke his nose. Dealing with her was not easy, on any level. And then there was the fact that she once swore that she would kill him. And that Methos wasn't the only one who inquired after her.
"She's supposed to be…not quite herself."
"I don't believe it's a Dark Quickening. She's nothing like…"
"I'll be the judge of that. She'll be back here, and I know she's still keeping that apartment."
No more than a few blocks away from the dojo. He didn't even want to pretend he knew how her mind worked, but if he were to make any guesses, she'd be there, by now.
*****
She stared at the apartment-it never felt like home. It still didn't. She looked at the bags she had brought-just carry-on. She lived out of gym bags, and slept on couches. When she slept. If she slept. She stared at the clock. And then stared at the calendar that hung on the refrigerator. Such strange ways of keeping time. Why would anyone want to keep time so precisely-why yes, to catch planes. To do things on other people's time. And what about her own?
Well, she'd figured out a few things about her own time-it was done. She wound up her corporation-and sold out her own people…well, they were players, and they deserved it. And she made sure the state was very much aware of who the top earners were-she did what she had to do to feel clean.
It didn't work. It took a week to do that. But the bridges were burned. Genevieve Fowler was dead, and all she ever owned belonged to other people, or sat awaiting trial. But she-whoever she was, did not feel quite clean.
All she knew for absolutely certain was, she still had her head. Methos was probably safer because she wasn't with him. She had made sure that she'd wrapped up her last life. That was almost enough. Now, all she needed to do was draw fire. Bring the heat to wherever she was. And hopefully, the showdown would be brief. She didn't know how many there were-she didn't know how long it would take. She only knew she was going to do it alone. She couldn't imagine anyone wanting to help her with something like this-the only person she could count on-was herself. She sat on the couch, and winced when she heard the sound of something breaking. It was the remote control. Christ. Not that she watched so much t.v., but still.
And then…
Oh, god. The approach of another Immortal-that was just what she needed. She stood, and pondered whether or not to carry her sword to the door. As she became aware that she had no choice, she picked it up, and opened the door, waiting. She leaned on it, like a cane. How not bizarre, to stand there with a sword! And then she saw who it was.
"Duncan, how the hell are you?" She rather hoped that didn't sound like she was too desperate to talk to someone.
"Well, fine…and…"
There was an uncomfortable silence. She gestured. "Come on in."
And Duncan MacLeod looked back at her. "You realize you had people worried."
"Who? Methos?"
"Of course."
"I left him a note."
"He wants to know who you think you are."
She thought about that, stewing. He wanted to know just who she thought she was-when she wasn't so sure, herself! She glowered, and then answered,
"Well, just who the hell does he think he is? He doesn't tell me where to go or when! I needed time to think and I told him that in the letter. It wasn't like, some unexpected thing."
Duncan blinked. He could recall the sense of urgency in the old man's voice-a note he didn't want to comment on, but was there nonetheless.
"No, he wanted to know who you thought you were. The Quickening…"
Genevieve sighed. It all went back to that-an old, old lunatic, now inside of her. She was rather steadfastly convinced that it hadn't affected her overmuch.
"Duncan," she whispered. "We are friends, right? I do know who I am." But she said it with uncertainty. Was she the neighborhood girl and ex-call girl she remembered being? Or was she…no. She was not older or wiser. Never that.
And she wavered. It dawned on her that she had been, for so much of her life, what other people had wanted her to be. When she had been married, she had tried to be a good wife, when she entered her family's business, she had tried to be a good earner, and she knew, the worst of it was she also could have been what Kronos had wanted-a weapon. And she had no idea-or maybe only the least bit of an idea-of what Methos would have wanted her to be. And without knowing what was wanted of her-she was lost-she simply didn't know who she was supposed to be. She was no one.
"I am…who I've always been." She hoped that was enough.
But she had no idea of who she'd been-she didn't live in the past-but in the now. And now, she felt pain. Fear.
"I'm fine," she reiterated, lying badly.
"You're sure? Because Methos made it sound as if you were losing your mind."
She stood, prepared to lie to him, and insist that she was sane, and fine, and great, never better. She knew she could, and could get away with such a lie. It was, after all, the easiest lie, the one everyone makes. Fine. Great. But the floor was slipping out from under her, and the walls were caving in, and she knew there was no lying…she was losing everything she knew.
"Genevieve, take a breath," Duncan cautioned, and she broke.
"Duncan, I think I am losing my mind. Oh my god, I don't know who the hell I am."
She expected a look of disbelief, of derision, of anything but what she received-sympathy. He came close to her, and she felt the tears beginning to stream down her face. She tried to turn away, but he wouldn't let her-he touched her, a finger touching her face, and knocking off a tear-and as she let him touch her, she thought that that was exactly what a man should do in that situation.
"Come on, tell me about it. You took in more than you could handle."
"It isn't just that."
"It could be. I've gone through it. You do things you didn't think you would do-didn't think you could. It's called a Dark Quickening."
She turned. She'd heard of it from Methos-one of a number of things about him she had pumped Methos for, uncertain why she should care.
"It isn't like that! I have control-no excuse! If I were evil-wouldn't you be in danger, now?" The sound of her voice shocked both of them. He stood back from her, and she crossed her arms, almost hugging herself. "I am in control. I just don't want to be! I don't want to be!"
She bit back sobs so hard her teeth ground together, and she seethed-she couldn't go weak before MacLeod-not him. Anyone but him. His arms found their way around her in a reassuring grip-and the very idea of anyone touching her in a reassuring way was anything but reassuring. The idea of someone trying to calm her felt infuriating, and she struggled, but then realized, as she tried, with effort to take in a lung full of air, that she was hysterical.
It was humiliating, and wrong. She shivered, in spite of herself.
He let her go, and she watched in helpless agony as he found a glass in her kitchen and filled it with tap water. It seemed so simple, him doing something like that, and then handing the glass to her. She wondered at the act-the strangest thing about any man was when he behaved as a woman thought he should-and this was exactly how she had rather hoped to be treated if ever she should become hysterical.
It grated on her nerves, a bit. And then, protectively, once she had the glass in hand, he led her by the elbow to her couch, and made her sit. She stared, helplessly, and with a touch of affection. She learned from no one. No one. But she would listen to Duncan because he had killed the worst man she had ever known.
She considered him one of the very few good men she had ever known.
Suddenly, the sorrow dawned on her-just what, and just why-she was dead.
It happened March 25, 1993, and she never even acknowledged it, until now. It was something she had joked about before, and thought about, and marked on her calendar-but never once did she consider the implications. She died. Suddenly she wondered how she had spent the last seven years dead. Walking around-dead? When Kronos had pushed the knife into her she really had died. It had only taken her this long to know it. Not her beating heart, or her breathing, or anything else, would stop her from being dead.
"I can't go back-ever," she whispered, in a voice Duncan strained to hear. "You know, don't you-what I did before?"
Duncan looked at her-he knew. He knew what she was; the language she used, and the way she knew guns and explosives made it easy enough to guess. Organized crime would be the only home for someone who killed as easily as she did-the only explanation for her fear. "You're in trouble."
She stared at him. He had to have died, once. Lost his family. She knew they both did it-she only wondered how he had. How did he live once he was shut off from his people? She nodded, and tried to change the subject.
"I'm dead. Dead people can't be in trouble." He dropped the subject, but then brought up another.
His hands were touching her face, and he was so close. She wanted to die.
"Genevieve-how much of this has to do with what happened between you and Methos?"
She stared, sipping from the glass and wishing it was bourbon. Everything? Nothing? He was the worst person for her to love, next to Kronos. She had killed an old enemy for him never understanding what it would mean to play in his league-and now she did. And now she was mad-because she saw what history was-what time was. An enemy. She couldn't answer that question. She realized no one could. And so she looked at Duncan.
"I have-or at least, I think I have, a bottle of good wine under my sink. A Gewurtztraminer, twenty years old."
He didn't ask any more questions, but turned and went back to the kitchen, searching out the bottle.
She paused, watching him search-so determined to answer her whim. It seemed strange to her that he would. She realized he was also in a touch of shock-she did that to people. It would make sense if she liked a good Chianti-a Burgundy, or even something cheap-Thunderbird. Ripple. Maddog 20/20. He found the bottle, and stared at her, uncertain as to whether he should really pour her a drink, but then he found another glass. She smiled. He was perfect.
He poured, and then handed her a glass. She gulped down a bit, knowing full well there were arguments against her drinking that way. It never mattered-drinking felt good. It felt comfortable, and maybe the buzz it gave her was home, in the way nothing else was.
"You still haven't said a word about what you're doing here," he offered.
"There's somewhere else I've got?"
"Methos said you…"
"I could take shade with him. Duncan, ever get pissed at him for being the way he is?"
A smile played on his lips. Of course. Methos could be a total ass, and the worst part of his superiority was that it could be backed up with experience and wisdom. And, in his case-more being an ass about it.
"I know," he said quietly, not giving up the sentiment. She realized at once he was more decent than she.
"Well, I can't deal with that. I'm…"
"Joe says you killed a few people after Akkasur."
She felt the blood rise to her face and swallowed hard. She had once broken into Duncan's place to carry out a little revenge. It dawned on her, suddenly, that he might have realized exactly what she was about. She sighed.
"Anyone I killed a friend of yours?"
"No. It just wasn't your style."
"So-you know my m.o. I don't play the Game. I still don't. I never will."
She remembered Akkasur looking into her eyes and seeing an old enemy-a millennia-old monster so vicious he still feared her. She knew she reminded him of the old woman and she knew she had the old woman to thank for who she was, now: she felt old-very old. A monster.
"Don't you ever tell me about killing, though, Duncan."
He stared. Why did she do that? Ruin everything-when he only wanted to help? "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked, and then saw the way she recoiled, nearly spilling the wine. Her hands were even trembling, but she tried to answer in an even tone.
"Only that you do what you have to do to survive. You do it. I do it. None of our hands stay clean. That's all. You have anything to say to me about that?"
"The Gauntlet." Her eyes widened, and she nodded.
"Yeah. I guess you talked to Joe," she grinned, wryly. "I'll stop by before I…take care of a few things I still haven't."
He looked at her, wondering if he could offer to help, but saw no way to do it. Not the way she stood, and started walking to the door, clearly implying she thought he should go. "If you need..." he tried.
"If I need anything, I need a few minutes rest. I need time alone. I am not having a very good year."
He could respect that. She quietly looked at him, wondering when he would decide to leave, wondering if he would insult her by offering assistance, guidance, or any other useful thing. There was the worst thing about him-he was decent. She found it horribly disorienting. He returned her gaze, and then nodded, realizing there was little more to be said. She was determined to be self-destructive to the last.
"Cassandra asked about you."
"Cassandra?" She did a quick calculation, and quickly figured out why, of all people, Cassandra should have an interest. "You have her number?"
The suddenness with which she asked caught Duncan off guard, and she smiled to see it. As long as she could surprise people, she imagined, she must be fine.
She watched him leave after taking Cassandra's cell phone number. Cassandra was one of the few people alive whom she could honestly say made her truly uncomfortable-she knew exactly how little they had in common, and had every reason to believe Cassandra was facing the exact same heat from the Gauntlet. And that was exactly why she was eager to talk to her. Also, she felt that she might have gotten off on the wrong foot with the woman, somehow. Might as well use the opportunity.