Historical Notes
Agua Dulce, Texas, was the site of one of the more brutal massacres in the whole history of the Wild West in the year of Our Lord 1867. Agua Dulce, Texas, where a few dozen U.S. Marshals were gunned down in a four-day long bloodbath. Agua Dulce, Texas, where Melvin Koren turned boots up and was carried to an unmarked grave, to be buried like a dog. And not too long thereafter, had the temerity to show up in Carson City. Same name, same face. Grinning like a pole cat with gas. Not a man he rode with lived to tell the tale of just how he managed to escape what anyone could guess was a live burial. Nor, could anyone figure out just how he managed to be walking around with a few bullets in his guts. Just a lucky son of a bitch, one supposes.
Jim Coltec knew better, and also knew it was no damn good that he was recruiting stupid young Indian boys to ride with him. They had no use for white men or white laws, so they figured riding with a man like El Gato was some kind of payback. They also said he had a good medicine about him-he didn't die. But any one of those stupid "braves" could die, so he went out to do what he had to. He was Hakoya-and getting rid of evil was his job.
Some survival instinct had told old Melvin Koren that he didn't want to be back in Texas anytime too soon, so he was mostly sticking to Nevada territory. He was living in a tent-the damn white was living in a tent under the stars. And the way he moved, Jim Coltec wondered if he didn't have a snake totem. He wasn't like other men-this El Gato.
He swallowed hard when the man came out from the tent to see him. His men stood around, waiting. They didn't know what their chief would do when he saw Jim Coltec, so they were just ready-aware. That made him swallow hard, again. They saw Koren as their chief, as being like them-and that made him an outsider to them. He wondered what kind of man could make things like that happen. And it wasn't just Indian boys. Mexicans, too, and black men. Didn't matter. Whatever they were, he clouded their minds, and poisoned their hearts, and made them what he was-a killer. But he could feel those eyes on him, so he just raised his hand in greeting. And then, wondering if he wasn't getting himself killed, he told Koren he wanted words with him.
And the man, as if there were no eyes on him, walked out of the encampment to speak with him. There was no fear on him, but his eyes glittered with something. He wanted to say it was evil, or that it was sickness, but he wasn't sure.
Coltec expected he would simply be challenged by the killer. But instead, he was treated to a discussion of the Old Ways. The way the man said those words, he could tell they meant something to him, the way the old ways meant something else to Jim Coltec. As he spoke, he began to drift, as if he went on a quest, but he just kept speaking. It was mostly shit, but it was very familiar shit. He spoke of the way things were when he once rode with his brothers-men he thought forgot him. He spoke of a time when he lived day by day, just as he did now, but with better men. The women may have been better looking then, too. He spoke of seeing fear in his enemies' eyes, and then watching the light go out of them. He spoke from his heart about these things-his killing was his way of life. Coltec thought of pulling his sword on him, but the man went on and on, like a stream. And, helpless, he listened.
They came to a place that was clear, and beyond the hearing of the other men, who didn't dare follow them. The night sky was clear, and moonless, but the stars were bright. Jim Coltec was a Hakoya, first, and an Immortal, second, that night. He saw him, not as another Immortal would, but as a man who knew the spirit world would. And he knew a few things about Melvin Koren, then.
He saw the man was old, and the Old Ways he spoke of were from days when whites lived as Indians did. But he also saw that the man was not well-there was something in him, a pain, a poison, that made him dangerous-but it wasn't evil in the sense that men thought of good and evil. It was danger in the way fire could burn, but it could also keep you warm, or in the way venom from a rattler could kill, but the same could be a powerful medicine. He looked at him, and saw that he spoke with power, but it was all unfocused, and used in bad ways. Maybe, there could be a way where this man was not evil. There could be a way he could be made good, even. What was in him wasn't a bad spirit, so much as something like Coyote-a Trickster. An Adversary.
Coltec saw all these things when he looked at Koren as a Hakoya sees, but more than that, he saw two important truths. The man was stronger than him, and if he fought him, he could be one dead Indian. Also, if somehow he managed to kill Melvin Koren, all the sickness that made Melvin Koren a killer would be in him, and he could tell he wasn't big enough inside to hold that sickness. A good Hakoya knows that-even evil needs somewhere to go-like floodwater, it can overflow, and cause damage to everything in its path.
He listened, and then he pulled a pouch from his belt. He wanted to offer a pipe with the herbs he brought to this Koren, so he would sleep, and Coltec could walk away. But before he could ask, he saw that the man had read him, and then he saw something move, and felt the pain in his chest.
He woke up in the middle of the plain, his chest still sore. He could see a knife at his side, with dry blood on it, and the smell of some of his own herbs. He was alive, and the encampment of Melvin Koren and his men was gone. He found himself not wanting to be a Hakoya anymore. He knew that something was changing because he had a vision-not the kind of vision he was used to, but a new kind of vision, because something new was in the air. It was one thing to use a sword to get rid of evil-but there were kinds of evil a sword would not get rid of. Maybe some young men would get their asses killed by riding with that man, but maybe the Marshals and the rest of white America would leave other Indians alone if they were concerning themselves with the man behind the massacre.
Jim Coltec decided there was another way to do things for his people, like keeping himself alive. He went to school, and had his hide thrashed by whites, and was threatened, but he learned the laws, and the myths, and the religions of many peoples, and remained respected as an Elder. He found this way to be of more help than killing and used the law to help his people hold onto their land, and their ways.
And all because he met the man they called El Gato.
That was the story Jim Coltec told to his seatmate, Carl Robinson, on the bus just before it stopped in Agua Dulce. Carl Robinson smiled at the story, because he knew the man, himself. And he also smiled at the irony. Even before he knew he would join up with them, they had decided that an address in Agua Dulce would be the right place for correspondence to be dropped off-if ever there was a need for him to get information from the rest of Ceirdwyn's group, it could be picked up there. And in hushed tones, Carl told Jim Coltec who he was, and what he did. And why he wanted the help of a lawyer-in case they came up needing one for Genevieve.
After all, she'd gone to prison in the interests of her people. He hoped Coltec would understand.
*****
"They'll be showing that pretty face of hers on television sets throughout the world-that's what I'm afraid of," Annie "Devlin" confided to the inebriated soul seated next to her. "And she-well, did you hear what they were?"
"Yeah-like the IRA, or some terrorist group like that, a chara," Warren Cochrane said, with a hint of irony. He waited to see the flash of temper, and then went on-"As I know some fought for Ireland free-the same way I fought for Scotland. It doesn't end. Fighting. Believe me, I know." Flodden Field. Cullodden. Battle after battle, red blood on red coats, and never a bloody difference. He looked down at the empty shot glass he held. "Here's my fight." He motioned to the bartender to get a new shot. He held out the glass. "Macallen. My Highlands."
"Christ. Take it easy with that." She looked at him, worried. She'd seen others take that road, and knew how dangerous that could be.
"I only do it to forget. It doesn't work. I guess nothing will make me forget."
"You said your wife, and your student. That's a tragedy. The bastards, all of them."
"Aye. Particularly Andrew-I hate to say that, but he gave me hope. As near as you can have to a son-a student. I felt like a coward, surviving." He sighed. "I close my eyes, but I can still see him, dead. We disagreed on thousands of things, fought and argued, but I never needed to see it come to that. God, I miss him." He amended that. "I miss them both. To the end…she never knew. I never told her…she had no idea when they came what it was about. I don't know if that makes me feel better, or worse. Maybe she'd have hated me, if she knew."
"Or not. She sounds like she would have stood by you-loved you. Women have stuck by their men through-I'll tell you a story about a friend of mine," she said, suddenly missing her mates. Liam, Ceirdwyn, even Ingrid. Something told her it was time to leave, so she had. She wondered where they were, now. "Liam O'Rourke-hopeless romantic. Lost his wife in 1968-she died bombing Harrods…"
"Better than football…"
She smiled. His drunken humor was almost-mind you, just almost-tolerable. When she saw him smile. "Which was what she believed in. As did he. He said, he came close to losing her once…she nearly got picked up some time in the fifties-and if she'd been put in jail, he'd have been a bitter, bitter man. He swore it would have turned him. But they were inseparable. And they fought alongside one another. I mean…"
"Sharing a struggle." He nodded. "I could share Scotland with her-my stories, my books. I just couldn't share…"
"There it is. The worst of it. But she…that girl could bust it open-no secrets. It'll come out, and that's what I'm afraid of."
"I'm past being afraid-that's always been how it is with me. Something new to fight for. A new battle. You never mentioned why…" His voice trailed off. He wasn't sure of what he was asking. A woman freely admits she's aware of the Watchers, and that she's fought against them, and then also adds, she no longer is a part of the battle. Strange-very strange.
Her face grew serious. "It isn't the fight. It's the means. Them-Kronos and the girl-and, you ever hear of Carl Robinson, that baseball player? He's a part of it…there might be a different means. I don't know what they're planning, but that their faces are plastered all over the news as they are? And the way Kronos allegedly disappears from that hospital? Suspicious? I'll tell you what-they're planning something-big. And I don't know…" Her eyes misted over. "Maybe I'm beginning to tire of the fighting. Maybe there's a way we have the advantage-I'm used to…"
"Being overmatched. Losing. Constantly feeling put down…back in your place."
"The curse of a conquered people," she agreed. "Immortals, we aren't even supposed to exist-how can we be conquered?"
"Do you feel that way? Defeated?" He looked into her eyes the best he could with only a slight waver. Someone put on the jukebox-it was loaded with old Gaelic songs-Irish or Scottish, it usually meant love or battle. Or they were one and the same.
"Worse…I feel hopeful," she admitted. And then she smiled. And he wondered if he couldn't find another way to forget.
*****
Perhaps the gods don't care for numbers or respect the odds. Or, perhaps there are no gods, and things do not need reasons to happen. If there were gods, if the world did make sense, if numbers had any meaning, then the two men who slipped over the gate should probably have no business still being alive. They should have died each of them, thousands of years ago, instead of continuing to live, to breathe, to walk, and to kill.
But of course, they were Immortal, and they did still live, breathe. They walked past the dead bodies of Watchers-and they killed. And it was no different for them, now, than it had been thousands of years ago.
Why should it have been? The world had never changed. It was still brutal, still a place of necessary violence, and even if the violence wasn't always necessary, there was still pleasure to be taken there. The two men were armed with guns and swords, and five people died. Like nothing, they gave up their souls to the night with the barest of whimpers. There had been no siren or alarm to announce the arrival of the Horsemen, anymore than to announce the deaths of the Watchers. The place hadn't been equipped with any such devices. Ironically, they were invading the sight of their last camp-
Home.
It was no different from any other invasion, any other time. It didn't matter that they were outgunned-they found no need to even fire shots. It was all too easy, and they could see the advantage that they had in the faces of their victims-surprise and fear. No one had expected this "visit". Certainly not from them. Certainly not when one of them had such a well-known face, and the other was once a Watcher, himself.
No, they found they didn't need to fire shots, for under the cover of night, they could come in close, and kill eye to eye with their prey-a slit throat here. A stab in the chest. The old ways are sometimes best-at the very least, they are quieter. None knew what was happening in the compound, and no one had been prepared for this.
Save perhaps, one soul.
Only one person even suspected such a thing could be possible, but he never truly told anyone of his suspicions. Perhaps he would have been thought mad if he did. But once he was alerted to what was happening, he realized there was nothing more for him to do-his plans were nearly complete. It would do no good to look for outside assistance-no. That would only create misunderstanding. The truth would be known soon enough. That thought made it easier to accept the death he knew awaited him.
He simply sat, waiting. He knew they would find him soon enough-if they had come this far, it was certainly with the knowledge that he would also be here. He had Kantos and his sloppiness to thank for that-never trust an Immortal to do anything. On the desk before him, he had a few things: a CD, a gun, and a book. The author's name had been Jason Landry-he had died rather recently and unexpectedly, but not before sending a very important message to confirm what Horton had always suspected-
Immortals were pure evil.
Not that he ever really needed that confirmed. He had always known. He had known as soon as he had begun watching them that killing was built into their very makeup. That was why they were all so very good at it. But he felt in his heart that humankind should prove superior in the final battle, and he had done his part to ensure that the battle would begin very shortly.
There was another thing that he had on the desk before him. He knew that this was the real reason why they had come. It was a steel box, and inside, there was a vial. When his people had initially found it, there was some concern as to how it should even be handled. A researcher-a DNA expert-had even died in the attempt to analyze it. The only people who would know what to do with it, he surmised, were the very people who created it; the very people he was about to face.
He hoped that they could come to some agreement. He hoped that the contents of the CD would make sure that the agreement would be kept-on their end. Because he felt sure that they would have ample reason to protect themselves-they were all interested in survival. It was what they were good at.
But for himself, he had no intention of holding up his end of any agreement. Not with those animals.
*****
"So, your man can walk on water, got X-ray vision, is ten feet tall, and bulletproof. That right, Genevieve?" Lucille asked, smiling. The girl was out of her mind, but she talked about her man constantly. The girl had never been snakebit in her life-that was the problem. Once she'd been around, she'd know that men could not be trusted to come through for you.
Her eyes opened. Lu was 6' tall and built like a telephone booth, but at least she finally had a cellmate. There was nothing worse for her than solitary-it made her think terrible thoughts. She smiled-Lucille didn't even know the half of it. Her cellmate was the sort of woman who felt that she'd seen everything. She hadn't.
"Well, bulletproof, yeah," Genevieve smiled, enjoying life in the g.p. much better. There had been some evil, icy looks at her, and some threats, but it was nothing she couldn't get at home. And besides, it was only temporary, after all. She was intending on making her statement to the world at large, and getting her behind out of there. Preferably with a hostage, if she could just keep that Fed near her.
She was getting fond of that little idea. He was taking an interest in the things she had to say. He thought she was an animal, but she could deal with that, so long as she had him thinking.
"He was in that hospital, even though they retracted it. I think they just embarrassed at themselves they lost him. You think he took that guy's head off?" She looked at her, eyes wide in a dark face. She herself was doing a stretch for killing some convenience store clerks, but she couldn't see taking anybody's head off. That was crazy. But then, she heard stories about Genevieve-and she didn't know what to believe. "Well?"
"It could happen. I don't know."
"It could happen," Lucille asked in disbelief. Like people just accidentally on purpose went around taking off people's heads. And blowing up buildings, and crashing airplanes, and setting stuff on fire. "He crazy?"
Genevieve laughed. "Yeah. We're both crazy."
"He good-looking, though. I seen his picture on t.v. Explains you-don't it? Shit. You might be crazier'n him. I want to see them things again. They all mean the same thing?"
The prison jumpsuit was being unzipped. Genevieve knew what this was really about, but she also knew it was keeping her from getting the hell beaten out of her. She slipped her arms through, then lifted the back of her tee shirt. She didn't really mind, and since this wasn't Methos, she figured Kronos wouldn't mind if she did what she had to do.
"Soldier and whore," she said. "I think it's in…demotic-that's a kind of Egyptian? I think so. And the others-Greek. There's Akkadian-that's the oldest he knew. He said it was the first he ever knew. I mean-other than English," she said, recovering herself. "He's like, really smart."
"It's pretty when you don't know it means that," Lucille commented, letting her long fingers brush Genevieve's back. "I was going to get a Chinese symbol for good luck on my neck, but I was seeing this Muslim. He said he didn't approve of me getting tattoos. Now, I think I might get me one." Her fingers moved slowly.
"I could do one for you, someday," Genevieve said, softly, staring at the wall. She started to let her mind go blank. Sometimes, she could pretend all of it was happening to someone else. "I know where I can get a razor-and then all I'll need is some ink."
"Anything you need, baby. I know where I can get my hands on anything."
A thought made her pause, suddenly. There were some things she could use, after all, if everything went south on her.
"India ink. Tin foil. And some hand lotion."
The hand stopped caressing her. "Tin foil? And some hand lotion? You don't want anything that makes sense?"
Genevieve smiled. Oh, it made sense. Especially if she could get some lye from the prison laundry. Made nothing but sense.
"Tattoos-your skin isn't ever the same."
"Hmm," Lucille snorted. "You got nice skin. Now, your hair…"
Feeling the fingers twist around her hair, she shuddered. One of the threats the other women made was cutting her hair off-something about that made her feel vulnerable. They would find anything they could to break her, just because of how tough she was supposed to be. She was learning her reputation wasn't always an asset inside. She was going to have to settle-just the same way she'd settled on the arrest in Seacouver. She guessed it didn't matter, after all-it would still be televised worldwide, just so long as it was her interview. Geraldo and Barbara Walters could take the flying leap if they thought they were above giving her a listen.
There was always Randi MacFarland, that eager-looking chick from the Seacouver local station. She looked like she wouldn't turn down any story.
All she knew was, she didn't truly want to stay any longer than she had to. She wanted to get to her man. She knew he wasn't ten feet tall and didn't walk on water, and she wasn't sure how long being bulletproof was going to keep him together.
Her eyes were starting to glaze over when the figure of a stern prison matron came into view.
"Okay, ladies," the voice said, wearily. "You can stop amusing yourselves for a moment can't you? Miss Fowler, you apparently have a fan club. And the president of it wants to have a talk with you."
"No shit?" Genevieve asked, expectantly. She knew that could only be one guy-her very special agent.
*****
The news from Ingrid hadn't been exactly what Carl expected-for one thing, Annie Dean had gone her own way. That part hadn't been entirely unexpected, as he knew she also wanted the group to do more than Ceirdwyn would allow. But what was surprising was that she had left, even when it was becoming clear that there was something that they were planning-something that would definitely stall the Watchers. Or at least, cripple a good part of the organization.
It turned out that there was some strange business about how the Watchers handled themselves in the East. Carl himself was only familiar with what he'd witnessed in the U.S., and Jacob had told him some very interesting things about their European operations-all of which Methos had corroborated from being inside. But, for a number of reasons, they didn't have the manpower or resources to run as tight a ship, and they were relying on certain persons involved in the crime syndicate in the Orient for weapons for the exterminations they were planning, as well as communications, due to certain restrictions imposed by the government in China, etc. Although Carl paused for a second over that thought-it meant, more than likely, Genevieve and the Watchers may have used the same source at some point-it also meant that they could be cut off from the central group-effectively choked off from Horton.
Effectively stopped in the course of their purges in the Far East as well, and far more importantly.
Not surprisingly, there was a faction of Immortals with an interest in how things were run out that way-and they were sick of helping the Watchers kill their own. O'Rourke had made a deal with one of them to arrange a "meet"-sabotage. Just one bad experience between the gunrunners and the Watchers could well be enough to do that-especially if it got the attention of the authorities. Most governments were aware of organized crime-but they would actually bring some power to bear if there was an engagement that proved messy. And embarrassing. Particularly if it proved embarrassing.
None of the plan was particularly surprising in and of itself. After all, Ceirdwyn, et al. had certainly made their strikes against the Watchers before, usually by finding out things like whom they did business with, and where. What was surprising was who they were working with in order to accomplish this particular job-a guy he thought was something of a myth.
The Man with No Face.
Something about the fact that the man they were working with wouldn't let himself be seen in the last five years made him suspicious about the guy. But Ingrid had met with the man, and insisted he was a decent sort.
Just very, very private.
All the same, he felt worried. Why would they turn down dealing with the Horsemen, if they were going to throw in with the Asian crime syndicate? It made no sense. He thought it all over as he sat in the café across from the Agua Dulce post office. Not that dealing with the Horsemen was necessarily all glamour. He hoped he'd remember what the good points were when Coltec got back from his errands.
Looked like he'd have another recruit joining him on the road to Mexico.
*****
Nick Wolfe was a good cop. He knew a good lead when he heard one, and what Genevieve had alerted him to were the leads to some of the most shocking homicides he'd ever heard of. Irena Galati. Antonio Neri II in Italy. Amanda Darieuex in France. Once he was informed that these were all Immortals, he did some searching around as to how they died-the same m.o. every time. Armed gunmen in black. Carrying swords. And a beheading.
But whatever he heard, nothing quite prepared him for the secrecy Genevieve told him he'd have to maintain.
"Just don't…don't mention what we are to anyone, don't try to talk about it…don't. You can speculate, investigate, but if you think you've run across one of us…keep it to yourself, because we are all underground. Even if you think you want to…" She looked at him, her face deadly serious. "I know how we seem. I know how I seem, anyway-it isn't supposed to be like this. If things were different, shit, I'd only…I'd only be killing other Immortals. I guess." She turned her face away from him, angry. It never ended. She couldn't picture a world where she wasn't killing at all.
"The Game that you were talking about. That's the part that makes no sense."
"It isn't supposed to make sense. Look. I don't grow old-I don't get sick. I don't die, unless my head is taken. So, it's a trade-off. One any Immortal faces. So there's a Game. We fight to the death, because eventually, there's supposed to be only one." She swallowed hard, at that point. "I don't buy it. I don't buy anything, anymore. I just wanted to end…a lot of it. The Watchers…just to start."
"I opened up your case again-the Byrd Building. It was an accident."
"Bullshit…how did it happen?"
"A fire, and an accident with the fire extinguisher…"
"Like I said, bull -frigging-shit. What's my m.o.?" Genevieve demanded.
"What?"
"My m.o. What did I do in Honolulu? What did I do to Joe Dawson's?"
A look of realization spread across Wolfe's face. "Even then?"
"I could teach Mac-friggin-Guyver how to make bombs-I was trying to get rid of the evidence about the virus," she explained, in a very low voice. "Professor Roberts, the one I told you about?"
"He's dead, Genevieve."
"Christ. It exists, Nick. I'm telling you-it exists."
He stared at her. "Sure. And tell me another thing-what about Kronos?"
"I'm not revealing where any of my associates happen to be. I'll turn state's evidence about anybody-I can kick it pretty high up, as far as that goes-not just Philly. I know guys in Newark-we could bring down the Five Families, but we don't touch Kronos. We don't touch Immortals."
"I'm not asking you about that-I want to know-why him?"
She grew silent. He was hopeless. She wouldn't be able to explain it-maybe not without killing him. Maybe he'd understand it, once he was seeing it from the other side. She shook her head, slowly.
"You never forget your first?" she said, half-jokingly. "Let's try-he's the baddest man I know. And for what's going down out there-I need a bad man. The worst. He fits that picture. And…I love him."
"From what I can see-he's sick."
"Yeah, that, too. Ever been married, Nick?"
"Once."
"Me, too. You know-the one that…got blown up?"
"I checked-that bomb didn't fit your profile."
"Thanks-but you know? It might have ended anyway. Because he wasn't like me. I might just need someone like me."
"Immortal?"
"Sure. Immortal. Someone who knows. I don't know if I'm going to lose my head to another Immortal, or to the Watchers. At least…" She shrugged. "Better the devil I know. And that he knows. He trusts me-I need him. Simple as that. We can end this war with the Watchers, or wreck the world trying-he will get his hands on the virus, Nick. All I want you to know is…I can make a bomb out of a fire extinguisher, okay? I can make one out of…anything. A handful of Fruit Loops and batshit. If you hear about an explosion-you know I'm back out. Or if you hear I'm dead-you know better. And the world as you know it?"
She didn't finish that thought, and she didn't need to. She had made it pretty clear that she didn't like the odds on "the world as he knew it." This time, she'd only told him things he already knew. He motioned to the guard to make it clear that the conversation was over, and Genevieve was led away.
Neither of them noticed the tattoo on the guard's wrist.
*****
When they came to the room where Horton sat, it was with the full intention of killing the man, but when they saw what lay on the desk before him, they paused. It wasn't that they were any less interested in killing him, it was just that they were curious as to what this insect of a man would have to say before he died. Would he beg for his life, valuing it, as if by begging, he could live forever? Would he taunt them with his superiority-claiming that by being what he was, he was better than any Immortal?
They stood, waiting, seeing those eyes resting on them. Crazy eyes, eyes full of assurance.
"So you are…Kronos? Melvin Koren-the famous…terrorist?" the Watcher's voice slowly began, even as his face showed signs of contempt.
"Kronos. And I guess I'm famous…because of you." He glared at the man, wanting to simply kill him, but knowing that there could be more satisfaction to be gained in letting him say his piece.
"And Adam Pierson…but you wouldn't…you couldn't be…who we suspected you were? Could anyone have such a ripe sense of humor as that? Are you really Methos-the world's oldest man?" Horton went on, as if Kronos hadn't even spoke. "You worked on the very project that bears your name-did it disturb you at all that not revealing yourself to us was firmly against your oath? Or were you actually in the midst of finding yourself while you were a Watcher?"
"I found myself in a hail of bullets…I found myself mourning one of my fellow Watchers…who you killed…" Methos answered, his voice grating with irritation.
"The past is the past-is that not the case? What I want to discuss…is the future. Mine, yours. The fate of the Immortals. The virus we discovered…yours?" Horton said, nodding towards Kronos. "Or was it created by the lovely Genevieve? Your woman? No matter-I want to know-how is it to be contained? You've used it on my people…" Horton wrapped his fingers around the vial, almost caressing it.
"That was another-we have more tricks than you could imagine…" Kronos answered, wrapping his hand around Horton's own. "Don't even mention her name. It would be contained…by your calling off this war. But we know that won't happen. Will it?"
"You are a man after my own heart-much better than that wretched Kantos. Honestly. I do have no intention of calling off my… 'war'…as you would have it, with Immortals, for any reason, but I do think I have something much, much more interesting to you-after all…Kronos, how have you enjoyed your recent publicity? Have you enjoyed the attention you've received?"
Methos looked into Kronos' eyes, and knew full well why he did not respond. He did not simply enjoy the attention-he loved the attention, craved it, found it flattering. Kronos' fingers seemed to tighten their grasp on Horton's hand, until the man went on.
"Perhaps it was fine with you-perhaps you were finally receiving your due…monster that you are. Your woman, alas, did not fare so well. How would things go, however, if it were the identities of all Immortals at stake?"
"What the bloody hell do you mean?" Methos sneered, but he could see the CD on the desk, and a terrible idea already crossed his mind. He was beginning to remember the work he did with Don Salzer, and the idea…the implications…of it all, suddenly stunned him. He straightened, and stared, as the disk was slipped into the computer.
"You recall being a Watcher? You were very good-conscientious! Perhaps the very best person we could have had for the Methos project-after all, you knew more than anyone else about the past-didn't you? And you knew more about Immortals! Was that your Game? To try and find out more about your competition? To keep tabs on your brethren-like Kronos?" Horton asked, gleefully, seeing the looks of doubt momentarily crossing each of their faces.
"It was my idea not to be found…I suppose it's too late…" Methos offered. Kronos put up the hand that was not still putting pressure on Horton's own.
"What is this CD? What are you putting on the table?" He released Horton's hand with a flourish, making it clear that he did so only so that Horton could better show them what he intended.
"My intent…is to deliver this information worldwide-first to the newspapers, to the t.v. stations-and the world will come to know what you are. Immortals. Men who cannot die unless their heads are taken. Men like yourselves. Monsters. How do you imagine the world will respond to this piece of information?"
Both of them could imagine it-a world thrust into anarchy and chaos. It would upend what most men believed-whether they liked it or not, one of the most secret wishes lurking in the hearts of men was not to grow old-not to die, to fail.
"What does this mean?" Kronos demanded, but Methos was already edging back, knowing full well what this was.
"Why, your friend here…your brother in arms…he's made it very easy for me to expose all of you!" Horton answered, pressing a few buttons. And the image on the computer screen-Ceirdwyn.
"Not that she would upset anyone-who knows how long she will live?" Horton asked, gleefully. "Or her?" And he pulled up the image of Genevieve. "She's been effectively stopped in the course of her little killing spree, hasn't she? And I will see to it that she's stopped in the course of breathing-her…and Ceirdwyn! We know where all of your people hide, operate…it's only too easy…"
"What do you intend to do?" Methos suddenly snarled, lunging forward. "Have them killed? Is someone being sent to her cell? Or…or after Ceirdwyn and her people?"
"Beyond that…I intend to have the whole world after you…all. But yes…Genevieve and your associate, Ceirdwyn, are going to be first among the ones to die. The will be others, unless you promise not to use the virus…I hope you realize I've already got the information in play. It would take very little...prompting on my part."
"Not to use the virus," Kronos mused. "Do the effects of it frighten you so much? Is the idea of your death so terrible to you? Why…haven't you lived a good life, destroying us?"
Horton simply stared. Methos found no words. They looked at the desk. The CD. The vial. Each considered the stakes.
"You do realize this isn't only going to hurt your lot?" Horton finally continued. "Mortals…Immortals…it won't be like our little war-it will be total war. What do you say? You lives-the lives of Immortals…the safety of your women…versus the information about the virus, and your oath…your sworn oath…not to use it?"
Methos considered the information. His eyes met Kronos' eyes.
"Your decision?" Horton prompted.
Methos felt his hand reach…for the hilt of his sword. The decision was made. Neither of them needed to say so much as a word to know that much
"Civilizations rise and fall," he responded. Horton stared, unblinking, and then, the meaning of the words sank in. Mortal civilization--would fall. In an instant, he felt cold steel at his throat, and noted, with irony, that he was dying by the sword. The information, being what it was, continued to flow. In all honesty, he had set up the file transfer hours before. Soon, all would know about Immortals. Both Horsemen stood, staring at the dark blood streaming from Horton's mouth. "You shouldn't have mentioned..."
"She can take care of herself," Kronos responded, not allowing Methos to finish. "We will take care of our own…"
He looked at Methos, staring, standing, looking at the dark blood on the blade as if he had never killed before. He prodded him.
"We grab the vial, and we go…we have a plan."
"Civilizations rise and fall," Methos repeated, turning. "The bombs…you did say the Whore had this place rigged?"
"There's the spirit, Brother!" Kronos answered. "We need only to find the fusebox, and this place will be, as she says, en fuego!"
*****
Genevieve stirred, with a dream in her mind, and strange words on her lips. Ever since she'd taken the head of that man, the one she could have sworn she'd castrated…she'd had the occasional dream-dreams that felt so real. Dreams that made her want to do things.
The green-eyed lady before her smiled. "It's time. Don't reveal yourself, only run."
She didn't know if this was someone she had known before, and didn't care. What she was saying went against the plan--and Genevieve believed in the plan. It was all she had at the moment.
"But Methos…"
"Don't listen to him…listen to yourself. Get going…run!"
Genevieve awoke, and thought. She had a razor blade. She knew what could be done…she knew an area of the prison that wouldn't be so carefully watched…and an escape plan came into view. She wasn't sure why she should listen to the figure from the dream, she only had the distinct sense that the voice was speaking the truth, and that something was about to heppen. If she had ever learned anything, it was that her she needed to listen to her instincts. She shook her cellmate awake, hoping to sound stressed and in despair--and she succeeded.
"Lu…wake up…I…I can't take it anymore. I want you to know…I did like you. I'm sorry I never got to do that tattoo for you…"
Before Lucille's widening brown eyes, she expertly slit her wrists, and Lucille screamed for a guard. Several came.
*****
Jeremy Chaney stared at the screen, knowing that what he was seeing was the information he was promised, suspecting that it was true, but not knowing where to go from there. James Horton had carried through on his promise-this was big. It was beyond big. He stood in the Tribune building, alone but for the janitorial staff, and let out a little moan of despair. It was his journalistic duty to let the world know, wasn't it?
All the same, he couldn't help but mutter under his breath, "It's the end of the world."
****
The chateau burned...the kitchen had exploded exactly ten minutes as the timer in the fusebox had been triggered. In a quiet room, the light of day began to stream through a window on the dead face of James Horton. He died with his eyes open, facing death with the same humorless look he'd come to face his life, and the war with Immortals. The early morning rays caught the glaze of those open eyes, and for a moment, glowed red.