Death and Company Take a Holiday
"You and Methos-you enjoy this sort of thing, don't you?" Kronos frowned.
"A pool-little frosty drinks, fantastic beach, and very livable accommodations-what's there not to love?" Genevieve sighed, rummaging through her things for her bikini. She knew Kronos would like it-he might even try to like this. It just wasn't his style; that was all. Then, she caught on, and gave him a level look. "Oh, the hiding in plain sight? I know. But really-who would look for us in Hawaii?"
"Anyone who knew Voshin's trade route took us this way. You never did explain how you knew of him?" If the accommodations here were plush, the travelling in the hold of a ship smuggling drugs certainly had not been. But it was strange how she managed to find transportation on such short notice. She sometimes did surprise him.
"Oh, Uncle Alexei? He's a friend of the family. He was also a part of the, um, 'pharmaceutical' end of my business."
"He was?" Kronos asked. He suspected she still had a few irons in that particular fire. He knew what her "family" was. It was fascinating, though. The "legit" world-to use Genevieve's term, seemed in some ways, crueler than the world she described. Although, she had made it clear-if she made anyone angry, or failed to hold up her end on certain "obligations," she could be in some trouble.
Genevieve smiled. "Was-a part of Genevieve Fowler's pharmaceutical investments. But something bad happened to Genevieve Fowler-she's lying low. She's lamming it. There are things with which she isn't directly involved at present. Ooh, I found it," she then squealed, and held up the black leather bikini.
"You're changing the subject."
"I'm changing my clothes," she responded.
He went to her, grabbing her by the arms, tightly. His fingers dug into her uncomfortably, and the look in his eyes wasn't pleasant. She knew this was not a joking matter with him-he liked knowing what she was doing. She figured she might as well spill it.
"Kronos, I need my contacts. We need them. How else did I get us out of there? And where do you think I got the guns? The semi-auto fairy? So, sometimes I might have to handle something-it's no big deal."
"It is if I say it is."
She looked away momentarily.
"Baby, I don't know if you realize this, but there are guys out there as bad as you. They can do shit to people-shit that someone like you or I would just have to live with. Crazy-ass shit. I'd drop it, Kronos, I would, but you have to understand me-we are better off with people like that on our side." She then looked at him, thoughtfully. "It would never distract me from you, though. It only helps us get things done."
"Crazy-ass shit?" Kronos echoed. "You don't know what crazy-ass shit is like. I perfected it."
Her heart started pounding, wildly. But she knew she had to make a stand here-he was not going to do this to her.
"Well, Kronos, they must have read your book. What was the title-oh, yeah, Crazy-ass Shit for Dummies. Look, you know what I do everything for-don't you? You know what I'm about."
He smiled then. "Don't you ever forget it." He released her and she seemed almost to loose balance. "Put that thing on-it's," he started, but then paused. She kissed him.
"Tiny," she answered. "I thought you'd like it."
And with that, she headed to the bathroom. She had a little something to do-or everyone would know for sure if she were a real redhead or not.
*****
"Hot tub? If this is being on the run-I could get used to it."
Jacob smiled-this wasn't being on the run. Being on the run meant villagers chasing after you throwing rocks, the threat of being arrested and hanged, it was watching other Gypsies being herded onto trains to die in a camp, and of course-the threat of being grabbed by the Watchers. Being on the run was something he felt like he had always been-but never at this level of style. There was one good thing to be said for this group-they knew what they were doing.
They hadn't even completely poisoned the world, yet. Kronos was right-the plague didn't spread, but he still had a bad feeling about it. He could remember watching those helicopters heading out of range and wanting to do something to stop them-Horton was on one. He could feel it. And the man was alive.
He felt Horton was still alive. He didn't believe the plague had done it. He wasn't sure why he felt that way-but he did.
"Earth to Jacob-come in, Jacob. Hot tub?"
"Lead me to it."
*****
Methos read down the page. He had told her to create a distraction so they could get out of there. He had not told her to do something like this. The riot had been suspicious-as was the way she refused to divulge how it got started.
Now he knew. The paper made it all too clear-it was reckless and stupid. It was insane. They could be in serious trouble if it ever got traced to them and added to the shit they were already in. It was probably worse than she had intended, as well-people had actually died in the confusion. Some were trampled, some killed in fights, some passed out and died from sheer exhaustion-and some were ripped to shreds.
It was so Genevieve.
He cursed, and then realized Kronos would be proud of her-probably. He encouraged her to do this sort of thing. She would never pick up any finesse being his student. If she really was-theirs was a crazy relationship. At times, she even seemed to be showing him things.
All the same, he felt he had better confront her. Things like this would only appall more serious would-be allies-like Ceirdwyn and her group. He was looking forward to another rendezvous. They weren't quite as organized-and Ceirdwyn herself seemed a bit of a loner, but they had enough information to know about the exploits in France. The woman had been around long enough to know what he and Kronos were-the legends had lingered for a time even after their initial association had ended-but she seemed very earnest. And her people seemed very dedicated-even though they were spread out.
He was rather glad she had gotten in contact with him.
So, nonsense like this from Genevieve was simply too much-he folded the paper, and made his way up to hers and Kronos' room.
*****
Kronos took a long look. This wouldn't do. No, it certainly wouldn't.
"You aren't leaving the room like that."
She raised an eyebrow.
"You aren't leaving the room at all," he continued.
"You have something else in mind?"
"I think you might want to take that off-just the bottom."
"This suit set me back three hundred bucks-you're damn straight I'm taking it off," she said, stripping it. She had gotten the response she wanted. Since the attack on the estate, and their flight into Greece, where they met up with Voshin-Kronos had been very tense. She didn't know what had him so tense-but thought it might have something to do with that place he mentioned in the diskette he had left her five years ago. That was part of the reason why she wanted him here-some place nice and fun. It was like a vacation. She wanted to loosen him up.
"Just the bottom," Kronos repeated, and she saw the little twinkle-okay, she could go with that. Whatever turned him on-generally got her started. She ceased adjusting her bikini straps, and then stood, waiting. He undid his jeans. 'There's something you need to do." She knelt, helping him off with them.
"You might as well sit down on the bed," Genevieve said. "Relax. Let me…" She curled her fingers around his cock, gently squeezing. Her tongue lapped at the wetness she found at the tip. Her lips enveloped the head and then she stopped, looking up at him. "We'll be at this awhile."
He smiled, looking down on her with his hand on the back of her head.
"Don't you mean you'll be at this awhile?" With that, she felt a little pressure.
"Hell yeah. You might even want to be lying down." She did not find the back of her head being pushed very amenable to good cock sucking. She'd bow to- kneel to-his experience on other things, but not the fine art of cock sucking, unless he had some experience there she didn't know about. "The bed. Let me work." Her mouth slipped over the head again, and she let her nails graze the skin on the underside of the shaft. She left off again. "It'll be worth it."
He was losing patience. So was she. He was obviously in a stubborn mood. She grabbed his wrist-the one behind her head, and with her other hand, the back of his knee. With a fluid motion, she had him sprawled before her. She saw a moment's rage, and then she smiled. One of these days, he might just kill her.
"Fine, the floor, then," she said, pushing him down with one hand, and then stroking his cock with the other. She was pleased to see that the struggle hadn't done anything to diminish his excitement.
"You bitch."
"Your bitch," she responded, and then lowered her mouth on his cock, finding her rhythm quickly. The hand that held him down slid down his stomach to his thigh. He lay back, and then sighed.
"Why do I let you live?" he asked, rhetorically. Of course, he knew the answers to that one. As she did something particularly pleasant with her tongue, he thought about the best one-she never needed to be told what he felt towards her. She asked for nothing and she gave everything. He would let her have her little victories for that-so long as he got his way in the long run. And he knew he would. She showed him as much with everything she did.
Suddenly, the door flew open. Genevieve looked up. Kronos got up on his elbows.
"I'm going to…kill…her…"
"Hello-it's called knocking. You could try it sometime," Genevieve said, bemused.
"What has she done now, Methos?" Kronos asked, irritated.
"Here-take a look," Methos said, handing him the paper. "That riot we saw as we were leaving France? Well, remember how she said we didn't want to drink the water? There's why."
"Traces of cocaine, heroin, angel dust, and some unidentified substance," Kronos read. "Well, Genevieve, what do you have to say about that?"
"Sounds like the work of some goddamn anarchist," she commented, unconcerned. "Did anyone die?"
"Thirty people-there were people literally torn to shreds. The streets of Paris were turned into a madhouse. Is this what we want to be known for?" Methos looked at her sternly.
"No. Next time I will use a lot less angel dust."
"There isn't going to be a next time," Methos snarled.
Kronos turned to regard her. "Unidentified substance?"
"Serotonin. And a little something else. The idea is to boost any potential addictive effects. They haven't just gone mad for the moment-but for a good long time. We did want a distraction. There's one."
"They've gone homicidal-and they like it," Kronos commented, appreciatively. "I don't see the problem."
"The problem," Methos answered, "is that it's a turn-off . Do you think other groups like Ceirdwyn's would have anything to do with us if they knew we were willing to endanger hundreds of lives?"
"I think you're getting soft, Methos," Kronos answered. "There was a time when we wouldn't stop at hundreds."
"That's not it," Genevieve said softly, realizing what was going on. "It's Ceirdwyn. He doesn't want us to scare her off. I can deal-I'll take it down a few notches. Really, no biggie." She reached over for her bikini bottom. "I mean-it was just an experiment to see what would happen if I did it-now I know."
She slipped the bottom on, and then rose.
"So, Methos-what's she like?"
Methos was about to point out the interesting aspects of the woman's organization and the fact that she seemed to be a fairly good leader-but then he realized that wasn't what Genevieve was implying.
"Not everything comes down to sex. Well, maybe for you-but not…"
Genevieve put her hand on her hip at that and looked perturbed. "Well, really Methos. I think you've hurt my feelings. I think you should go."
She looked with a touch of mischief at the confused look he gave her.
"Kronos and I were in the middle of something. You know, sex. And that is what it really comes down to for me."
"She has you there, Brother."
He shook his head at her with a smile and left, but as he closed the door, he realized something odd. He hadn't actually given her a lecture at all. And she had changed the subject on him and sent him on his way.
The manipulative little-and he smiled again. Maybe she was learning something from him after all.
*****
"So, when the four most wanted individuals on the planet go into hiding, they pick Hawaii?" Robinson asked, with a touch of amusement.
"Carl, number one, there's five of them-they're travelling with Claudia Jardine-unless you've forgotten. And she could easily be recognized. But only about as much as you could. You know, we never used to have this problem-I mean, recognition," Ceirdwyn pointed out, and then grew thoughtful. "It's hard isn't it? I never sought it out, myself-but I know…"
He looked at her, knowing what she meant-but also knowing that for him, there was more to it than that. Most of his life had been about looking for recognition for what he could achieve; now that he thought he might have a real opportunity, the Watchers had come knocking on his door. Some greeting card that had been-It's 1997-and people still hate you for being a minority. And so ended his athletic career. It was one of those ironies that hit hard enough to send him looking for people like Ceirdwyn, Ann and Liam-people who took their fight and made it personal.
Ann laid a paper across the table. "There's what it can do for you," she said, pointing to the picture. "Antonio Neri II, grandson of the famous tenor, and also a talent in his own right. But we know who he was."
It was a news story about the man's much-publicized demise-all the more grisly for being a beheading. Between them, there was some rumor that he had been an unpleasant man, and had few friends. Certainly few Immortal friends, as it was said that he took the Game very seriously. But all the same, he had made it easy for himself to be tracked down.
"He's hardly a martyr," O'Rourke said, "but he was one of us."
"Exactly," she agreed, smiling. "But he should have been killed for being a bastard-not for being an Immortal." O'Rourke smiled back-the best thing he could say for Annie Dean was that she pulled no punches. Her spirit reminded him of someone he knew-and he wondered at times how the hell he never crossed paths with her directly before-except in this cause. When certainly they had a cause in common all along.
"The second thing is," Ceirdwyn continued, "I like Hawaii."
"And you want to see that Horseman of yours in a pair of swim-trunks," Ann said, with a touch of mischief. It hadn't escaped her notice that the gentleman Ceirdwyn had rendezvoused with was well worth another rendezvous-from the look of him and the way Ceirdwyn herself had just about floated a few inches off the ground after meeting him.
It was meant in fun, but the use of the term "Horseman" didn't strike her as necessarily the way she wanted to think of Methos. The stories had trickled down to her over the years of a band of ruthless Immortals who once defied every law of man. Although she herself had been a warrior, and no stranger to the sight of blood, it had occurred to her that Methos might have done more than she would care to think about. She thought, perhaps, he regretted some of it. It was too late, now though. She had just about pledged their assistance to him-and that meant the assistance of Methos' group in return. That meant accepting him as being what he was-and the rest of them.
And, she had learned over the years, if you cared enough about someone, some things didn't matter. Love was usually worth the price, whatever the outcome.
Their newest member then spoke. She was an unusually intense woman-a "true believer" in what they were fighting for.
"I don't know if 'her Horseman' and his people are right for us. They seem to be killers, and nothing but."
"Ingrid," Ceirdwyn sighed, 'is that not what we all do? We do it for survival, we do it for our causes-and, might I add, some of us are a bit more willing than others to accept collateral damage."
A shadow crossed the dark-haired woman's brow, but then passed. She knew Ceirdwyn was referring to her own most recent exploit-an attack, not against the Watchers, but against another hate-monger, some time prior to her having fallen in with them. If Ceirdwyn herself had only known the hate that the man was spewing, she might have wanted to blow him up herself. And as for the younger persons who had been killed, she could only quote John Brown-although she did not dare say this aloud, she thought it: Nits grow up to be lice.
Seeing the look on Ingrid's face come and go, she then turned to Ann. "But, as you were saying-seeing the man in trunks is not out of the question."
But then she looked down at the paper again, at a different story. There was something about that she did not like at all.
*****
"Going on a date?" Claudia asked, almost passing Methos in the hall. She almost wouldn't have known him. He was wearing a tee shirt and-good god, a suit jacket. She could only imagine what had jerked him out of casual wear hell. Not that he didn't look good-but really. She wondered if advanced age brought around some kind of fashion-impairment. At least she had gotten Jacob out of those vests.
"Um, sort of," he said, with a look that suggested a man about 4, 970 years younger and a bit reticent to talk about girls. "It's more of a business meeting."
"Oh. Well, have fun," Claudia responded, cheerfully. "If you're back by around ten, there's this really good band they have playing the lounge. I mean, I've heard better-but they're entertaining. If you can convince her-bring Ceirdwyn along." And then she waved, and was off.
He stood looking at her for a second and then shook his head. Genevieve had a name for it, as she came up with names for everything-mob wife syndrome. Claudia didn't seem to like thinking about exactly what they were doing, so she dwelt on the positive. She glossed over the notion of "business" meeting, entirely. And, even though they were, to use the colorful expression of their own private wiseguy-"lamming it," she seemed determined to enjoy herself. Genevieve (damn, he hated to think she was an authority on anything, but she had an insight) said that her own mother suffered from this, but it made her a "stronger person." Although she seemed naïve to Genevieve, she knew her mother to have been very protective when it came to "family matters."
He thought Claudia might be very strong when it came to things like that-if given the opportunity. He had come to like her and Jacob very much, though. He hoped the opportunity never came, especially given how close it was that night when they (whoever those men in black had been) came down on the compound. Jacob had been knocked out, and never saw what his woman did for him.
When he was out, she covered him-literally. She grabbed one of the rifles, and laid down a pattern of bullets that would make Audie Murphy proud. Methos didn't know if musical training did something for the hand-eye coordination, but she made sure nothing was getting near them, until Kronos had gotten them dragged out of their position. And the next day-one would have hardly known she had done it. She only seemed very thankful to be alive.
There was a woman to be reckoned with-hell, all of them were. At any given moment, they might go from "Mary, meek and mild" to "I am Ishtar of Arbela-I will flay your enemies and lay them at your feet."
Thinking this happy thought, he was off to meet Ceirdwyn, warrior-leader of one faction of the resistance, and earth mother-up until you cross her. And, he imagined, one of the most beautiful women he could imagine coming across in this strange enterprise. And it was strange-that this ended up having a purpose to it all. He and Kronos never fought for a cause-but only because they could. Somehow-this had changed.
He dimly wondered how much the Whore (even he was calling her this, now, and he liked her) had to do with this. She always seemed to be conjuring answers out of thin air. He could only imagine what she and his brother were about this afternoon.
*****
She knew no one really ever thought the way Kronos did (thanks to Methos, who did have his insights, damn him)-but she realized she came quite close. She knew what she was doing when she invited him in quite that position-it gave him the choice. With two holes to chose from-she certainly couldn't have expected him to try the one he'd done before. But she was surprised that he caressed her tits with one hand, and then gently touched her pussy with the other, exciting her, and making her squirm. He broached her with a will, and with violence, had her screaming in passion and pain. When he had finished his task with what seemed like a few exquisite thrusts, he let her lie, stomach-down on the bed, to wonder at exactly what he did to her.
She tried to shake off the feeling of awe by rolling over to face him.
"Baby," she began, but his mouth was covering hers. When she recovered from the kiss-a battle of the tongues-she continued, "you are amazing." His hand was back on her pussy, and she knew what he was about, then.
"And you still want more," he said.
"Always," she said, truthfully. She felt down to his member, expecting it to be just a touch soft, as he had just righteously had his way with her-but no. He was ready to go. And so was she. She kissed him then, her own tongue being the aggressor. And when they paused to breathe, she whispered, "You can fuck me forever."
"Hmm-Genevieve-roll back over."
He had done this to her before-after all. She knew he could, and would. She was helpless about this-he simply had years and years of this kind of experience on her. She was prepared to be thoroughly knocked out.
She found that she even felt good semi-conscious-with what he could do to her. There were times when she wondered if he had driven her a little insane, this way. It seemed like an old wives' tale: Too much fucking can drive you crazy. Maybe it was true, but if that were the case, there wasn't anything special about being sane.
"I'm going to do something to you I haven't done before."
Her eyes widened at this. It could mean anything coming from him, from being drawn and quartered to being served a la John the Baptist. She did roll over though, only pausing to ask, "Really? Something new?" She looked over her shoulder, anxiously.
Mischief didn't begin to describe the look in his eyes.
"You'll see."
With a touch of something like resignation, she prepared to kiss her sanity goodbye.
*****
Jacob ignored the sounds he heard as he passed Kronos' and Genevieve's room-he also abruptly decided there was nothing he really needed to tell either of them, after all. It was just an inkling of a hint of a news story regarding international terrorists that may or may not have been seen boarding a freighter after a near-capture. Typical of American news, they ran only a tease, to be played up later. There were no details, nothing at all to lead him to believe that it necessarily referred to them. It only seemed to be a coincidence.
There was something about a coincidence like that he simply didn't like. He knew the Watchers could play dirty, and wouldn't put it past them to create a story in order to get back at the people who caused as much damage as they had-even if it meant using the media, et al as pawns.
Sometimes he wished he could be innocent, like Claudia. He stopped and looked at her, lying on a chair by the pool, seemingly at peace with the world. It seemed as if she had no care in the world.
Sensing his approach, she looked up. "How soon before we're leaving?" she asked, casually.
He looked at her, puzzled. Her eyes seemed completely calm and sure. He went to sit on the edge of her chair as she continued to look at him, expectantly. He wasn't sure how to answer that, except with another question.
"What do you mean?"
"I saw the news, and look at all this," she said, gesturing. "I know this is too perfect to last-the same as living at the compound couldn't last. Our lives are about running now, aren't they?"
He rested his hand on hers. "I wish I could say it wasn't true."
"But it is true. So we're just going to have to make the most of it. But I really would like to know how much time we have." She smiled, seeing the question in his eyes, and then leaned forward. "Just so I know what we need to make time for."
"Anything in mind?"
She simply nodded, and he knew it to be something worth making time for.
*****
"Kronos?" Genevieve asked, after he had made another lovely assault on her from behind. This time, he had been a bit slower in his use of her-but it was use all the same. He came quickly, and then made her turn around to face him. He seemed to be searching her face for something, but she wasn't sure what it was. She only hoped he saw it there.
He kissed her, and she felt as if the room was spinning. She was eager to do whatever he wanted of her-and she was still puzzling over the idea of doing something they had not done before.
He broke the kiss. "Genevieve," he began, and placed her hand on his penis. "You know what I want you to do."
She did know. He had come four times already, and even he needed a little assistance with what he wanted to do. She gently caressed his balls. She knew a good deal about what he did and did not like-it was her especial study. She knew she could stroke his member to life and then some-but she didn't wish to do that. Instead, she snaked down to kiss the head of his prick-still wet from her juices, and then let it disappear into her mouth. She did not suck it, but simply let it rest as her tongue gently bathed it. Slowly, she felt it harden. Her hand still stroked his balls. She knew it would only be a matter of time with him. The wonderful thing, she had discovered, about immortality, was what it did for the sexual appetite. Her only Immortal lovers had been Kronos and Methos-but both of them had remarkable recovery times. When any other male might be spent, they would still be ready. It almost made her wonder if she herself was different from other women by virtue of her Immortal readiness.
Once she had him as hard as he would get, she left off tonguing his prick, and then gazed into his eyes. They were expressive, wonderfully so. She waited to see what he would have of her. He sat on the bed, spread-legged, and gestured to her that she should situate herself in his lap. She knew this position well. They had even done this in a tomb-a long, long time ago. That time, he had her so worked up she came in no time at all, but this time he whispered to her,
"I am the end of time, and you…the beginning."
The statement was so beautiful, she kissed him…thoroughly, even as she lowered herself onto his member, and began to gently move against him. The beginning? It stirred something in her, even if she wasn't sure what that was. The beginning of time-a part of her Catholic-educated-self thought of creation and the seven days, and that made her think of Eve and the Tree of Good and Evil, and that made her think of the serpent… and that made her think of the beautiful thing she had between her legs.
They moved slowly, as if there were no hurry at all. There was no hurry, only sweetness. She rested her head on his shoulder, and simply let herself enjoy being close to him this way.
Perhaps this was something he had never done to her before.
*****
"I saw this in the paper. I want you to explain," Ceirdwyn said, sternly. She knew she had to guard herself with Methos-she knew it all the more when she laid eyes on him. Her warrior's instincts told her he was not always to be trusted-seeing things like this, things that could only have been done by him and his people, only reinforced that feeling. Of course, seeing him only reinforced the feeling that she should wrap her arms around him and make love to him. She resigned herself to the notion that distrust and desire would go hand in hand where he was concerned.
"It was a spur of the moment decision, made by…our youngest member. You don't know Genevieve," Methos explained. "She's…"
He trailed off at that point. There was no explaining her without explaining Kronos, and there was no explaining Kronos without getting into talking about being a Horseman…and there was no explaining that without mentioning a thousand years of murder, rape, and…even he didn't like to think about what it entailed. It was brotherhood. It was reality, and godhood, and a thousand things he could easily regret. He knew it was evil in the eyes of most people-but it was who he was. It was a part of himself.
"What is she? And what are you? You act as if these deaths are nothing…"
Ceirdwyn's voice trailed off, and Methos could see that she was supplying her own answers to her questions. He knew she had killed, and that she was no stranger to violence. He knew she had seen enough of the world in her nearly two thousand years to have at the very least an inkling of what it meant to be what he was.
"Ceirdwyn…you know what I am. For a thousand years, I was Death. And I was good at it, and I still am. I didn't kill a few hundred, but a few thousand in my time. Do you want to know what Gen is? She is what Kronos and I have taught her. And I don't think you need me to explain that. Can you count the men and women you have killed in your time?" He touched her face, and wondered if she would let that suffice. It should, damn it. It should be enough. What the hell was this? A test?
She looked down; her gray eyes clouding with the numerous thoughts that came to her. Surely, she had been a killer in her time-but those deaths were personal. They were for the good of her people, while she was yet mortal. They were in revenge, at times-and now, they were for the cause. She could count the kills she had made. She had made sure she could, as all of them meant something to her. She had no answer. His fingers brushed against her lips, and she kissed them. He was beautiful to her, and she knew she wanted him. She wanted to feel him pressed so close up against her that his argument was her own…that there was no difference between them. She wanted him to be in her blood. But she knew better. Letting him be that close to her would mean letting herself be what he was. A monster.
"You've done some good things. I know their strength is halved-by what you did in France. And I know you have other plans," she said, coldly. "I've heard you even, just you four-or five-could wipe out the whole of the organization-I know you were among them. But I can't…"
She did not need to finish for Methos to know what it was she couldn't do. She couldn't accept what they were-outlaws. Killers, and even more than that-they were free. Freedom was the hardest thing to accept.
But he had to let her know what she was turning her back on.
"I killed not tens, not hundreds, but thousands. And that is what we still do. And yes, we could wipe out every one of them. And I wish you could be alongside of me. I do. If you think it stops there, you are mistaken. Why can't you just accept me? I've endured five thousand years this way-it can't be entirely wrong. If it was then…"
He tried to formulate what the consequences would be, but couldn't. There were no consequences-that was the problem. Morality itself seemed a scam.
"Methos-I thought I could love you. But I know…I shouldn't. I wish you the best," Ceirdwyn said, even though she felt horrid. He was in every way what she once thought a man should be-willing to kill for a cause. Strong, intelligent, and even noble. She cared for him even as she dismissed him.
She did not know that one of her favorites could hear this conversation.
*****
Carl knew there were reasons why a man might want to kill another man. He had known those reasons-knew them when he killed the man who owned him-all those years ago. It seemed like his life revolved around those reasons-that was what a black man had to face-hate. Other men hated him, and he knew he had to hate them…or else, how could he hold his head up? How could he face the world, other than by admitting that hate? It was clear. They would hunt him down-hang him by his neck until he was dead. They would accuse him to his face of shit he didn't do. They would tell him his senses were wrong, and all he believed didn't matter. They would, at best, make him invisible, and at worst, make him a villain. There were reasons why a man might want to kill another man.
He knew that. And he knew what they were-that other group. Methos-Ceirdwyn's on again-mostly off again, lover, was one. And Kronos-whatever he was. And the others. They were killers, and they were killers because they didn't accept the shit they were being handed-lord, it felt like he was being fed shit all the time-he knew that. He even felt it being a part of Ceirdwyn's group.
He knew Ceirdwyn was letting Methos down…but at the same time, he was wondering what it would be like to be part of their group. He knew about France-they did something more than watch the Watchers burn. He knew that. What had they done? He wished he knew. It might feel fine to know what they knew of destruction.
He paused, hearing a silence. He saw Methos depart. It was academic now, wasn't it? They weren't joining that group-Methos' group, were they?
He knew better than that.
Those people did more than defend their lives-they acted. They did what they had to do. As he watched Methos leave…he knew what he wanted to do. He was hungry for the confrontation. Maybe Ceirdwyn said "No," but he could still say yes, and he would. He had to. Maybe no one else knew as well as he did what it meant.
*****
Claudia thought, even as Jacob's lips touched her, all over, about swords. She had been appalled by the thought of using one-even when she knew she must. She even felt that way when Jacob stepped aside, and let Genevieve train her.
Genevieve knew nothing about swordplay-even though she had killed a few dozen by way of sword. But she did have one great insight regarding the art of killing someone by the blade and this she said, without any sense of irony-
"A sword fight is like making love."
Claudia had her elaborate-and as expected, she did.
"When you make love-there is just the two of you, doing what feels right and comes naturally. And in a sword fight-there is just the two of you-and you do what you have to do-whether it feels natural or not. All the same, you do what you must-and one of you gives in first…"
She thought of this, and how Jacob had turned pale when he first saw her after a fight with Genevieve. Men scarcely began to know how violent women could be-he couldn't begin to know how the two of them had slashed at each other, drawing blood. But still, she considered Gen her good friend, and she knew Genevieve, even though she had cut her-considered her a confidante.
She elected to treat making love to Jacob as a sword fight, for this once. And she hoped he would let her give in first.
*****
"I'm losing my mind," Genevieve whispered. She hadn't known it was possible to make love this way-and she was beginning to feel a strange combination of strain and anticipation. Whatever they were doing, this was distinctly not something they had done before.
"Who would notice if you did?"
She paused to look at his sweet evil expression, and shook her head. He could still joke, but she was feeling tension building inside of her and genuinely did wonder if she was losing her mind. It seemed to her as if they were covered in more than just sweat-but also in light. And then there was the thing that made her truly curious-her sense of him was changing. She was used to feeling his signature, but it seemed to have intensified. It was as if they were (she didn't like the sound of the word-it seemed New-Age-y and inadequate) bonding.
It was enough to make her wonder if he had known it would feel this way to her.
The truth was he hadn't expected that he would feel it, either. He had simply known that this was a way to fuck that would surely tire the little whore out-it might take hours, but even her appetite had to know some end. He hadn't expected to say those words to her, either.
He thought back to when he first heard them, Thebes, perhaps three thousand years ago. The woman who spoke them was a priestess with eyes like old turquoise, but she made love as if she were starving and sex was what she lived on. She was the one who showed him this-but she had been mortal. She showed him the way every muscle and every nerve could fill with that exquisite tension, and then explode at release. But that didn't prepare him for the way the electricity seemed to build between himself and Genevieve-it was almost…
He couldn't finish his thought as she drew in a sharp breath and seemed to tremble. The look on her face was one of confusion. Her back arched, and she pressed against him.
"Kronos?" she began. The erratic flux of her orgasm was only just beginning. His hand caressed the small of her back as she gasped. Her eyes were the eyes of someone lost in a whirlwind.
"I have lost my mind," she decided, aloud.
"Get used to it," he answered. She had no reply for that, only the gentle keening over her hormone-drowned sanity. He was feeling the tension in his legs-he could simply hold back no more. It was almost painful to.
He almost went limp in her arms as he came. It was like a shadow falling over the room, a sudden and startling thing. She tightened her hold on him even as she was still throbbing. He seemed stricken, but then, she felt the same. She could barely see straight-she saw stars. A tremor whipped through her.
When it was over, their eyes met.
"Like a Quickening," she noted, in a hushed voice. "Only no one died."
Even as she said it, she could note the one difference-she didn't feel wiped out at all. She felt, rather, like she could take on anything. She kissed him, but felt how sweat-soaked he was, and how he breathed. Damn, she felt so in tune with him (more New-Age-y corniness, that). He was a man-that was all. And he had just fucked her for…she looked at the clock. A very long time. She broke their embrace, and let him settle back against the bed, and then nestled beside him.
"Like a Quickening," he mused, but then his eyes closed.
"Breath-taking," she said. It would be good if he rested, she told herself, still wondering at what she felt. Sometimes she had to remind herself that she lay next to one of the most dangerous men going. It certainly didn't feel that way right then. He was simply the man she loved.
It seemed like this was how it always was-what wise-ass Creator came up with the twisted result that men doze after sex, but women feel energized? Her mind seemed to teem with thoughts. She watched him, resting, and it seemed almost strange to her-but then, it always did-he was a vicious, brutal killer, an unapologetic bastard, and had a past that made all but a few brutal killers and unapologetic bastards look like pikers. Almost anyone would find much to fear, or hate, in him. But he was still a man. He was a man of depraved intellect, poisoned nobility, and all the rest of it. He probably should have been put to death like a dog a long time ago, by the standards of the civilized world.
She had a very strong beef with the civilized world for being like that. As far as she was concerned, he was one of the better people she had ever known.
Her mind was too restless for her to stay still. She left the bed, and went to clean up.
*****
He paused in the midst of beating himself up to take note of the twilight sky. A warm, beautiful, sunny day in Honolulu was turning into a warm, beautiful night. Very nice. Very poetic. He, however, did not feel nice or poetic.
A man can't just wander around forever, he tried to tell himself. The woman had made it clear-he wasn't wanted. It seemed final enough. Of course, it was more a rejection of his entire past, his closest friends, and his personal goals…but why torture himself?
Methos knew why he was torturing himself. He used to be very good at torture, actually, and had never really lost his knack. And when there was a shortage of other people about to practice on, he simply practiced on himself. But he realized the absurdity of walking around torturing himself. If he was going to ever getting around to making himself truly miserable, he'd best do it sitting down with a beer. Might as well be comfortable. He made his way back to the hotel. The concept of the hotel lounge was very clever, actually. Very similar to a bar…but only a short elevator trip back to one's bed. Less ground to cover…and that was very good when one was tanked.
At the end of the bar was one person who knew, and could relate in graphic detail, the trouble one could get into in the brief trip from lounge to room. She once even told herself she would write it down for posterity, not that she considered herself much of a writer. Seeing him, she smiled and waved him over.
He looked at her. It was her stunt that got Ceirdwyn started. It was her plan, with Kronos, that got them in enough trouble to be on the run. Her idea of a casual mistake would be a disaster that would make the H-bomb look like an M-80. And she looked sickeningly cheerful.
All the same, drinking with Genevieve was better than drinking alone.
*****
"So you let him down after a thing like that?" Ann asked. She didn't mean to necessarily sound accusatory in that, but it could not be helped. Surely, Ceirdwyn didn't think she was running herd over a flock of angels.
The older woman sighed. She didn't want to be pounced on coming in the door in this way, but she did remind herself that this wasn't just about the affairs of the heart, but rather the very real situation of mortals killing Immortals. After watching Methos leave, she had done nothing but think about their conversation, and had almost convinced herself that she had honestly turned him away because of her moral concerns-not the possibility that what he had been, and very nearly still was, scared the devil out of her. But that was "almost convinced"-she knew what Methos, and his group, had to offer. Even now she wondered if shouldn't have given it all more thought.
"What they've done is reckless. Their attitude has gotten them in enough trouble-I won't have us be pulled into…"
"You've no idea what 'enough trouble' is until you have a look at this," the light-haired woman cut in, pointing to the television screen. "Did you think you would ever?"
Ceirdwyn's face went ashen. She knew they were in trouble, but she never thought anyone would resort to something like this. Worst of all, she knew only too well that this had serious repercussions for all of them-if only certain connections were made. And in this day and age, it was only too likely that they would be.
*****
The dreams-well, he never remembered what the dreams were on waking, he only knew they occurred more frequently since Greece. Genevieve and Methos never knew that he went to the site of the ruin himself. The well was no longer there, and he told himself this was a thing that was behind him. Methos had come to his senses, and was no longer the same, self-deluded man who had abandoned him there. That was the past. Those differences were in the past.
But the dreams were happening now. They were dreams of being alone. They were dreams of a coldness nothing would banish and thirst that burned, and finally, madness. If any man thought he knew madness, he should try the life-in-death of that-an imprisonment far worse than anything a mortal could know.
By his own standard, Kronos knew he was stronger than he had been when he emerged. When he was lifted from the bottom of that well by some kind idiots hoping to give him a "decent burial," he lashed out once he had the strength. They had been surprised he was alive-he himself had been alive too long to be surprised by anything. He knew himself to have been like an animal then, but an animal burning with hate. If he knew hate now, or anger, or violence, it was nothing compared to those first few centuries. He had been a good part of the shadow covering the Dark Ages. Methos had betrayed him for the love of "culture" and "civilization." That only made him want to wipe those things out.
Knowing all this did nothing about the dreams. He woke with a start, inexplicably shivering even in the relative warmth of the room. He could not sense Genevieve anywhere.
Pathetic though it was, he had gotten used to her arms around him when he awoke from those dreams. She never asked him about them, in that way she had about her that she never asked about anything. He cursed himself for the very weakness that had him getting up to look for her. Damn her, most of the time he was practically tripping over her, but when he wanted her…nowhere to be found.
The thought bothered him, and that was the one thing thoughts should never do.
*****
They stopped everything to watch the screen, horrified. It wasn't all of them, but it was nearly as bad. It was bad enough that Claudia almost went to shut the damn thing off, but Jacob grabbed her wrist.
"No. I want to see what they have to say."
"It will be mostly lies. It will be lies. They will come out looking like some kind of victims, and we look like…these things. What next? You? Then Methos? And then what? All of us?"
Jacob's eyes seemed very dark. Not looking away from the familiar faces on the flickering set, he said, "It's like the beginning of the end."
*****
Methos wondered if he had simply failed to notice that her eyes were the color of a faded gemstone, or if it was just a trick of the light, the mild inebriation, and the way her eyes seemed offset by her impossible hair. It was distracting, but even more distracting was following what she was saying. At the right level of intoxication, Genevieve became rather talkative. She rambled, as a matter of fact.
"So, I guess the point is," she said, finally seeming to come to one, "she couldn't deal. Her loss, really. I mean…look at you."
"Look at me?" he repeated, amused.
She made a look of disgust. "I think you're just fishing for compliments. Please. You're…perfect," she finished, with a wave in his direction. "You're smart, easy on the eyes, and a classic lay…and you're a beautiful liar. And you…the woman is out of her mind."
"You were going to add something else?" Methos smiled.
She eyed him. The bartender was a heavy pourer and she always did have a bad reaction to tequila. But even so, she knew Methos was a vain son of a bitch-it was part of his charm.
"You kill without conscience, and you have the most interesting friends. I mean it. You know some great people." With that, she stuck her pink little tongue out at him. With her youthful face, the gesture didn't seem absurd.
He laughed. "You've done it. I can't feel miserable after that kind of praise."
"Good thing. You shouldn't be." She got quiet, and he wondered if she was heading for the maudlin stage of drunk. She rarely got to that point, but she seemed to be in a queer mood. "Are we that bad?"
Methos didn't have an answer for that one. He didn't want an answer for that one. He had tried, almost as an experiment, trying to atone for what he did with the Horsemen, but it seemed atonement wasn't in the cards. Maybe killing was too much a part of his nature. He knew for a fact Kronos would never have asked such a question, but it didn't surprise him to hear it from Genevieve. She had, in her own way, a kind of morality. It wasn't well developed, but it still existed.
"Is the word you're looking for 'evil'?"
"It might be," she answered, dead serious. Hers was the kind of face that wore seriousness well. It seemed truer to her character than when she smiled.
"I didn't think you believed in that."
"Once a Catholic…" she said, but then stopped in the midst of her joke. "It isn't funny. Do you know why I went into science? I mean, besides the being good at it and all? You know-the knack?"
Methos shook his head, sadly. He had a damn good idea what her reason was. But he thought he might like to hear her tell him. The thing that always disturbed him about her wasn't the ways in which he didn't understand her, as it was the ways in which he did.
"I knew what my family was-I mean, you don't send Christmas cards to your uncles in jail when your people are legit. Your grandfather's best friend doesn't lose his brains in a plate of linguine because you're a great bunch of folks. I knew-even though my mom tried to keep me out of it. So, when I turned up having the ability, you know? I wanted to help people. Really help people. Like, find the cure for cancer or something?"
He stared straight ahead, at the mirror behind the bar. He didn't look at his reflection, but he did see himself, in a way. In his mind's eye, he was seeing himself, dissecting corpses, trying to understand what made the human body tick. He, too, wanted to be a healer, as if it would make up for any wounds he'd afflicted on others. As if saving lives might make up for taking them. He had done some good, but at the first opportunity…
"The virus…that was about trying to do that. Save lives. To make up for whatever bad things we did. Hooking people on drugs…rubbing people out…whatever. But you see? What you want doesn't change who you are. And I am a fucking soldati. And it means death."
"The virus? How can that be?" He looked at her, incredulously.
"I wanted to make everyone Immortal. It was like gene therapy. You know, to add to the gene pool, since we can't. I thought, if people just got off the death trip-the world would be a better place. Don't tell Kronos that. He doesn't know. He thinks I did want to wipe out the world. And he loves me for that. I'm a weapon…not a person."
He looked in those pooling blues-what did they remind him of? Old turquoise, when it's been in the sun?
"You're a person to him, all right. If you weren't a person to him, he'd have killed you by now. You don't know what he's done to women. You don't know…"
She smiled then, not as if she was pleased, but as if she had just heard the saddest, most pathetic thing she had ever heard. Whatever those eyes looked like-they were the eyes of a very old person. And they did look strange in that kid's face she had. And she gave a short laugh, as if she was just a bit insulted.
"He doesn't think I know either. But you know how I told you he tied me up and carved me open? That wasn't even the worst thing anyone's ever done to me. Kronos thinks he knows from bad, but that wasn't it…not the worst thing. What he did was never rape-because I always felt something for him, not that I know what. But…there are things that can be done to a person-not even physical things…"
Methos knew. He knew because he did them. He knew because he had seen the look in a woman's eyes after humiliating her and degrading her. He knew what it was to completely take the power from someone. But still…
"He was a neighborhood guy, and he said he'd protect me when I sold my ass. Yeah right. Protection-I should know more than anyone else that's code for 'racket'-right? But I didn't dare go to my family. And he did things to me. That motherfucker."
"What ever happened to him?"
"I stabbed him. I don't know if he died or not…but I never saw him around again."
"And that was?"
She took a drink. A very long drink, the kind that would steady a whole lot of nerve. She seemed to be thinking. She didn't like the way she was thinking-he could tell that much by the shadow that fell across her face. Tequila-she knew she would switch with the next order. It always made her nauseous like this. She was remembering the way his face had been the perfect mask of surprise when she drove the knife into him, as if he never dreamed someone would do a thing like that. But it couldn't have been a fatal wound. Not if he got himself to a hospital. Not like she called 911, or anything.
"Before Kronos. Maybe I did kill him. Maybe the guy died. Maybe I've always been a killer. And maybe Kronos could smell it on me when he first saw me. And I smelled it on him." She regarded the glass-empty except for the ice-rather avidly. She seemed to be making up her mind about something.
"I think I'll have scotch, next. I've always been fond of scotch."
*****
The news made him certain. Not that his mind hadn't been well made up beforehand. But he knew they would need help getting out once the shit hit the fan-and it certainly looked like it was going to. He wanted to leave a message to Ceirdwyn, but he knew, finally, that he couldn't. She was a fine lady, but she was the one, after all, who sent Methos packing. Did she even know what he'd done? Carl could see what he'd done. He was the oldest one-and that meant he should have kept quiet about himself. But he didn't. He let her know-and everyone else know what he was. Just so he could be with her. In terms of the Game-that meant something. It was honest.
This may well be a time for honesty, he tried to reassure himself. He knew those people he'd seen on CNN-not that he'd met them-but he could imagine what it would be like. Publicized as a murderer-and then hunted like one. They were a lot like himself, he reasoned.
If he was going to be honest with himself, he was going to have to admit that he wanted to do more than just end this business with the Watchers. That would be a hell of a start-but only a start. He knew in his blood that they wanted more-that was why the Watcher HQ in Lyons burned. That was why Ceirdwyn really sent Methos packing. They were out for something else-and he would be damned if he didn't try to find out what.
He knew it would be something interesting, at any rate.
In the hall, as he left, he ran into Ingrid. He never truly liked her, but she seemed to be interested in him-he could well understand why, though. Some white women needed to prove they were open-minded, and so they fostered an interest in the black man. It was a hateful thing-he would almost rather be spit on than be romanced by a woman who just wanted to try something different in her bed. But he tried to be civil-it was all he could do. After all, she would be the one who ended up carrying the news to the rest of them-Ceirdwyn, and Liam, and Annie-damn. Annie seemed to have been the most decent among them about this. He wished he ran into her instead.
"You're going to the other side," she said, and heard the slight emphasis on other side, as if she were implying the other side was hell itself.
"I'm going to Methos' hotel-and I'm going to warn them-if they need warning. You saw the news. I don't know what they did, or didn't do. But I do know they are on our side-and they need my help."
Ingrid drew in a sharp breath. He hated her-but she couldn't quite fathom why. She had always tried to be decent towards him, but he seemed to treat it like an insult. She thought he was strong, excellent, brave…but he only seemed to be angrier with her the more she tried to speak with him. It bothered her-not that she didn't understand. She remembered what it was to be a Jew, long time gone…Poland, it was then. Not that the border was within Poland now. And there were men-Russian, by ethnicity, but men, by everything else. They were excited by her because she was different-exotic, maybe. Every word they spoke to her was hateful, then. But she wondered at times. She stopped wondering when the pogroms started. And the town she loved was nothing. She began to hate then-and she did understand hate.
"I know, Carl," she said, softly. "And they will do more than we mean to. That's why they were targeted-not us. They will do more."
"That's what I'm hoping," he answered, honestly.
"I wish you well," she said, meaning it. "And if you ever needed help from us-I will try to talk them into it. I will. Try to keep in touch. Somehow, try-promise me."
He put his hand on her shoulder and wondered if she saw past his skin-but knew it couldn't be. He saw the way she regarded him, though-as if she felt some kind of kinship with him-and he realized that, even though she wasn't leaving the relative safety of Ceirdwyn's fold, she was longing to. She also wanted to do more. Maybe there was something in common between them, after all.
"I do promise-I will try to. If only because I think they will get in more trouble than even this. I suspect they will."
"Me too. I know we were never close-but I understand. I was there…"
"I know. You could've stopped Hitler…that's what Annie told me. Why didn't you?"
Her face became pensive, and seemed even paler against the dark of her hair. The truth be told, he thought she was attractive, even if he suspected her motives. She seemed sad beyond all understanding-sad, the way he had seen mothers sad to have their children sold away from them, or sad, the way wives looked when their men were hanged. Sad, the way a person with soul could be sad…a deep kind of sad not easily understood but by somebody who knew the same.
"I worried that I was becoming the same way. I thought-I thought maybe it was a bad thing to kill to get the job done. I saw that they were killing to do what they thought was right-even if it was an abomination. I thought-I shouldn't do the same. I failed to detonate the bomb. And more people died. I should have stopped them, and never did. I feel the weight of that. I do. And I hate all the haters for that. Their killing, makes me have to."
Carl saw her in a different light, then. He saw the strength she possessed, but a little too late.
"I'll keep in touch…but I better move."
"Go. God be with you."
They hugged, maybe one of the most awkward hugs on record. But it was genuine-and for once…there was some kind of affection between them. Both puzzled over that. But Carl knew he didn't have time for more words-even now, someone might be closing in on the people he saw as the Immortals' only hope.
He would do whatever he had to do.
*****
"Jacob…I know we should pack, but wouldn't it be better to tell the rest of them? So they can get their stuff together?"
Jacob paused in the midst of stuffing their things into the suitcases.
"You never noticed? They never fully unpack-they know they will have to move on. That's what I never fully unpack. That's why I told you not to. Because we would only have to leave."
"But still-Genevieve and Kronos-I doubt they even know…"
"I know. They would've missed it-but they were doing something more important-just like we would've done, if we never saw the news. I envy them, by the way."
She kissed him, meaningfully. "We will find the time. And I'm glad for them-having been together like that. It's a love story-the way Genevieve tells it…"
"Genevieve would make a fight sound romantic-everything is romantic, the way she tells it. She's a damn gypsy, that way. Everything is romantic. But they should be aware-by now. No two people could have spent that much time making love-unless they were…"
He knew there were some people who could spend that kind of time making love. If Genevieve was a damn half-Sicilian gypsy, Kronos was a damn-whatever his frigging genealogy, full-fledged gypsy…a thief, a lover, and a bloody romantic. He probably pleased her like a Gypsy queen...and neither of those romantic fools would have caught the television. He cursed in Romani, and continued stuffing the suitcases.
"I think Genevieve has a point, though, Jacob. Even a fight is romantic."
She smiled mysteriously after saying that, and then resumed the packing. Let him figure that part out, later, she told herself. There would certainly be a later. She was almost convinced that none of them would ever catch hell-not after having survived the siege at the compound. Losing their home was a test. They had passed with flying colors.
She did miss the little, never-in-tune, piano, though. It hurt to leave that behind.
*****
She was too close to him, Kronos thought, looking at the man he relied on, but couldn't trust, and the woman he slept with, but couldn't-trust, either. He couldn't trust her. He couldn't trust Methos or her. He saw that he definitely couldn't trust Methos with her.
Just moments before, she was practically worshipping him-that was the worst part. He thought she understood all of it-and loved him. She had seemed to. She was so good at lying though. Just as she was good at everything else-killing, fucking, torture. If she had only been in bed beside him, it would never have come to this. But seeing her with Methos was too much.
Kronos was standing just outside the door of the lounge-he could see the two of them, but not hear anything they said. They were talking about him.
"I love Kronos for that-he appreciates my strength. Most men wouldn't understand that I am…strong. I come across like a fucking bull in the china shop."
"He is afraid of you-in a way," Methos said-wondering if she would see that much. Surely she knew that the reason he never truly hurt her was because he saw the monster in her-the thing that would exact revenge.
"No," she said, almost bashfully. "He…loves me. He does…I think. And if he doesn't-he can kill me easily. If anything, he must know how I feel. I guess I'd hand the world to him, not that I think it comes down to that."
"It does, though. Remember the Watchers' HQ. You would have let the disease spread, before letting him feel disappointed. You were very…" He didn't want to think what happened then. She was strong-she had been in control. Kronos allowed it. Methos fucking allowed it. Jacob accepted it. But it was absurd. She was a child.
"Methos, you know what the trouble with you is?" she asked, suddenly. She was quite drunk. But she had an insight she had to give him. It would help him to know this about himself.
"Do tell."
She whispered in his ear, and each, slightly lisped, syllable (her teeth were gently crooked, and her lips were full) troubled him. It troubled him almost as much as her proximity to him.
"Methos, you think too much. I love you anyway-but you do. And it hurts you. I think you should just--"
She never finished her sentence. Kronos came into the room, and his attitude was severe-as Methos thought it usually was. He stalked up to Genevieve, grabbing her and turning her around to face him.
Typical of Genevieve, she treated it as if he was not hurting her in the least-even though Methos could see the droplets of sweat forming on her upper lip, and knew she was feeling pain. She loved Kronos just enough to let him be right-Methos hated that. He stood, ready to answer any question that came up-but then he saw those magnificent Krishna-blue prayer-bead irises. They silenced him. He settled back to the stool. She would handle this.
"Is this where you've been? With him?"
"What if I have? There's no crime in that. It's not like you own me."
"Really?" he asked. "Then why do you look guilty?"
People were turning to look at the three of them, and if they weren't totally absorbed in their melodrama, they would have noted a certain degree of recognition in the faces of the bar patrons. And a certain degree of panic.
"I'm not guilty of anything but drinking. What the fuck are you afraid of, huh?"
She saw, in a flash, that this was the wrong word. She should never mention fear to Kronos. Never, ever…no matter what. She was hanged by that word. He twisted her wrist, and she heard the bones shatter before she felt the pain. But she wasn't in the mood-not with a few drinks in her and the sudden realization that he didn't understand her at all. She swallowed any fear or hurt she had in her, and lashed out.
"Kronos-you are a complete asshole. Fuck you. Really. I mean it. Fuck. You. Asshole."
She twisted her arm in a way that hurt beyond all measure, but let her free from him, and she ran into the lush Hawaiian night. She wondered why she found night more lovely than the day-but not much. She wondered why he had to be that way. She leaned against a palm tree, and sobbed. She was very young, and in her this would be forgiven.
Methos would not forgive Kronos his stupidity, though.
*****
He laughed.
"You think she loves me-how quaint. She loves you-not that it would matter to you."
Kronos turned to the older man, surprised at the laugh, and at the sentiment.
"She?"
"Loves you. She would have the world destroyed before you. She talks to me because I can talk to her-she is intelligent, lest you forget. She wants to be understood. But if you think she could love me-you are very mistaken, Brother. She loves you. Every ridiculous, evil, bloody, horrifying facet of you. She thinks you love her-thinks you capable of such a thing-she is a fool."
"She isn't-"
"No. She isn't. She is not a fool. And she will see through you-hate you-if you don't go after her. She is the best weapon you ever knew-a fucking genius, a mind made in your own image. And you insulted her. You bastard."
Kronos nearly vacillated between the thing he knew, and the thing he almost loved. He knew his love/hate with Methos-but barely knew what Genevieve was. He only knew she could hurt him. That was something he didn't like. He went out to find her. And part of him wanted to kill her.
Methos watched him go, and smiled. Kronos, whether he knew it or not, had met his match in the Whore. Kronos only thought she was his whore and his soldier--the truth was, she had become his myth. His weapon, and his woman. His fixation.
It made Methos rather relieved. Better her than him.
*****
She saw red in her lover's eye-and she feared. She didn't think it was the vision of a demon-but worse-it was the sight of a laser scope-a sniper was on her tail. But worse than seeing the red sight-was seeing it in Kronos' eyes...and fearing him-she thought she should never fear him, or at least, not much.
A moment stretched out between them-a long moment, but then he rushed towards her, and she was pushed down, before the heavy retort of the semi-auto firing, and she felt Kronos' body fall against her, and she knew at the very least he didn't want her ass shot off. She was touched.
After the ringing in her ears was done, she whispered, "I don't get the chance to stay pissed off at you, do I?"
He was motionless. She wondered if he heard her, and so she spoke again.
"Are you all right?"
He looked at her, wondering why he gave a damn about her. There was a brief sound of return fire. That was strange-who else would be out here? But she was looking at him so curiously, and he knew she had been crying. Methos was convinced that she was a genius, but he didn't see it. She could be just as stupid as everyone else.
They lay together like that, until Kronos realized he should question what had happened. Surely, it was not everyday he was shot at like that. He whispered to Genevieve, as if she would know.
"What was that?"
"I think it was family-I must have done something wrong." She kissed him, then, as if to put his mind at ease. "I just don't know what. But it must have been a fucking doozy. Oh, and by the way-about Methos?"
His eyes grew hard. "We'll discuss that."
"No," she answered, firmly, and with an expression every bit as hard. "We won't. We won't discuss it. I'm going to forget that. And you better forget that, too."
He was about to reply, but then he felt the approach of someone with a handgun drawn and a look of surprise on his face. He began to get to his feet, but something told him that this person was probably not the one who fired at them.
"I guess I got here at a good time," Carl said. "When you people get in trouble, you seriously get in trouble."
"You were the return fire. You know who we are."
"You are Kronos and Genevieve. The news…"
"The news?" Kronos interjected, concerned. "Are you saying we were…"
Carl realized that Kronos was very old and Genevieve was very young, and both of them were completely without a clue as to what was going on. He saw Methos out of the corner of his eye, and two others approaching. He realized he better get them up to speed.
"They released a news story about you calling you wanted terrorists. That was about an hour ago-and with that bit of action, there should be cops swarming all over here. But they broadcast pictures of you both. Look-through the window-right there-even in the bar."
Kronos and Genevieve looked. The t.v. in the bar showed a surprising picture. A redheaded, young woman, and a scar-faced, intense-eyed, man.
Kronos, Genevieve, Methos, Carl, Jacob, and Claudia-the last two having come running when they heard gunfire, knowing only too well what it meant-all stared.
It was surprising, until Genevieve spoke.
"The bastards are even using our right names. See? Genevieve Fowler, Melvin Koren-a.k.a. Kronos. They want us caught. I could go incognito-but you?"
She gasped. She could go blonde-cover up her bloody locks-but her man? She caressed his face…touching his scar. She never spoke of it. She had avoided what it meant. It meant that he could be betrayed by his own face.
He kissed her. "We shouldn't fear anything. You or I. You saw to that."
She knew what he meant. The fucking virus, the fucking plan-it just kept getting back to that. But she saw the look on his face. He seemed the happiest he had been on this whole fiasco of a trip. As if all he needed to really be satisfied was an excuse to go on a rampage.
She should have known better though. He never really needed an excuse.