Men Without Conscience
Methos stared impassively at the sight of Kronos nestled between the two prostitutes. One of the women had stopped breathing-he was rather certain of that much, and the other would die shortly. Heroin laced with strychnine tended to do that. His hand was on the phone. He considered exactly what he wanted to do next. He could have police up in the room within a few minutes-but not so few that he wouldn't have had time to leave. But then what?
The secret was going to be out soon enough. There was no way that Horton could have been bluffing. He had died like a man who knew that a goal had been accomplished. That being the case, it would be pointless to try and get out of this now.
But a part of him didn't want to watch the world die.
The vial sat, of all places, in the hotel mini-bar fridge. It didn't need to be kept cold. The fridge simply seemed like a good place for it. Inside that vial was not a deadly virus, he informed himself (funny, how when one is awake, but tipsy, and it is very late at night, how one talks to oneself), but a way out. Not for himself, but for the whole accursed race of them. As for himself-he was stuck. Stuck with Kronos. Stuck with the possibility of killing thousands, he considered the irony of it all.
In his long, long life, no matter what he had done, or who he had killed (thousands, were there? Could it have been tens of thousands?), whether it was for, well, any of the reasons one might kill another-he never tired of the world. Felt angry, felt sick, felt disillusioned by the whole lot of them-humanity in all its feeble, fragile, gut-wrenching limitation-but not tired. Not so tired that he could hate all that he saw and wish that it were gone. Perhaps if he had truly tired of the world, he'd have turned his back on it years ago. He'd seen men do it-yes, lock themselves away for the good of their souls, or to save themselves from the Game-Darius sprung to mind. But Darius, good man that he was, was one of the first to go when the Watchers began their purges. Tired? Maybe, if Methos had ever been tired of it all, he'd have given up his head by now. Tired?
No. Life was, no matter how tedious, sorry, ugly, pathetic, or tragic, too interesting. There simply was no tiring of it-it retained all its fascination for him, all its poetry. He could almost-just almost, call it love.
And yet it was taking life, always taking it, which he came back to. It was what he was good at. As he watched the young woman on the bed convulse for an instant, he couldn't help but note that he didn't entirely dislike it. It was really cleaning up the mess afterwards that he truly disliked.
Killing thousands in an instant. What a mess that would be. What a waste.
Kronos sat up in the bed, having been stirred awake by the prostitute's death-throes. He gripped her jaw in one hand, looking steadily into her face as her eyes glazed over in death. He winced, momentarily.
"You bastard. Why did you poison them? I might not have been done with them." He glanced at the still figure on his other side. "Both of them-and now I suppose we will have to take care of this. Methos, it's as if you can't even enjoy yourself."
"Perhaps I enjoyed killing them," Methos answered, numbly. His eyes then met Kronos', and he put on a look of satisfaction. "Besides, I didn't want there to be anyone who could trace us back here-anyone who got a good look at our faces. They got a look at more than our faces."
Kronos smiled. "That they did. Good thinking. Of course, now we'll have to dispose of them." He then took a look at Methos' face in earnest. "You have something else on your mind?" He then let go of the jaw of the one corpse, and touched the other. She had been a rather good lay, all things considered-she'd been high as a kite, of course, but she gave head slightly better than Genevieve did. Her mouth was more generous, and her teeth not nearly as obtrusive. Now, she was a little stiff. Her generous mouth leaked a stream of white fluid, more or less as it had done a few hours beforehand.
"I was only considering that I might not have been entirely done with them, myself," Methos lied. Kronos accepted that answer.
"I will take care of these-you have something else on your mind besides that, but I know you by now. You're considering what we will do next. I was thinking…"
Methos stared at the man. "Thinking. Sounds dangerous."
Kronos shrugged. It was difficult to tell whether the statement was a compliment to his penchant for destruction, or a disparagement on the results of his thoughts. He chose to take it in the way that pleased him. "That CD, that was your doing-I wonder how the world will change once that information is known? Had you ever given thought to that?"
"No, I hadn't…" Methos began, and then realized that these questions were by no means an accusation. On the contrary, Kronos seemed pleased with him.
"They will know what we are-beyond that, they will have proof. Can you imagine-how would a mortal man feel? Think? Comparing his life span to one of ours, his accomplishments-what sort of god gives such a gift to so very few, but denies it to most?" Kronos asked, rhetorically.
"Getting religion, brother?"
Another shrug. "If I were mortal, it might shatter my faith." He smiled again. "I was only thinking. We are living in interesting times."
"That we are," Methos responded, but it brought him to mind of that old Chinese curse. It wasn't supposed to be a good thing.
Kronos stretched and moved one of the dead whores out of his way so that he could leave the bed. He found his pants, and then gestured at the bodies. "I will take care of these. We've a lot to do tomorrow, and you will be useless to me if you haven't worked out your…doubts? Tell me that you aren't doubting, now."
"No-no, I'm not," Methos answered, this time, truthfully. "I simply want to be alone."
"Then go."
****
Of course, Nick realized what it was when he got the phone call. Part of him wanted to inform them they needed to watch over the body to make sure nothing happened to it, and then, he realized just how bizarre that would sound. So he found himself driving back there.
Too late.
There is absolutely no telling what a dead woman might do, especially the kind that's still breathing. She wasn't so dead that she couldn't strangle one prison guard with a very odd-shaped tattoo on her wrist, nor was she so dead that she couldn't find a way to escape without so much as one tiny explosion. Or at least, she had to have escaped, as she was nowhere to be found. Was she still in the prison...was she outside?
Somehow, in the confusion surrounding the search for the woman who was not dead, the searchlights, and the shock over how she'd done it, they lost track of the possibility that she might not have managed to leave the building. Well, almost everyone did.
Of course, he didn't know it for sure until he felt the tickle of steel against his throat.
"Hi. Sorry about this. I didn't want you to be my hostage, but, well...you know."
"Where did you get the machete, Genevieve?"
"The prison guard I killed? Watcher. Duh. I picked a fine time to leave; there was a hit out on my ass. So, we should get moving."
"Wait a minute."
"Wait...a...minute? Nick, you don't seem to realize that I have a big knife at your throat. And besides, I don't have a minute."
"You don't want to kill me."
She sighed. His eyes reminded her an awful lot of Methos'...they changed with the light. They also read her cold. Why in the world couldn't she find some men she was good at lying to? She elected to tell him the truth. It was underrated, but it could sometimes even work in her favor.
"No. I don't want to kill you. You're a stand-up guy, and killing you would make my position worse than it already is. So, I'm going to keep you alive, if I can help it. But I do want to get out of here. Now, you know, and I know, that they will have a hard time killing me...how do you like your odds?"
She tried to get a fix on his emotions. She couldn't.
"This goes against absolutely everything I..." He shook his head. "I'm not cooperating with you."
"I'm not giving you a choice. I'm telling you how it is. You are already screwed...how screwed is up to you." She slid the blade up a bit higher under his chin, forcing him to raise his neck. "Steel...the longer it's there, the warmer it will feel. But it won't get any more comfortable. You help me, act the victim, and work with me to get my ass out of here. Or you can be a victim...I've had others."
"I tried to understand you."
"I'm not here to be understood. Get moving."
"This is going to lead to a stand-off...they have guns."
"So? Who's afraid of being shot at? Besides...they won't want to chance hitting you just to get me."
She knew that last one was less than convincing--it might be worth hitting any number of stand-up guys to get to her. However, she wasn't all that concerned with whatever happened to him once they had a path out. And by then, she imagined he would understand her a whole lot better.
****
"Is this supposed to be a success, or a disaster?" Kamir asked the silent figure who stood beside him giving off little more presence than a ghost might. And yet the man was Immortal-merely, subtle. With a turn of the head, he was treated to the sight of the man's eyes-the rest of his face was still swathed in the veil he had taken to of late. The eyes alone were enough to silence him-blue-green and icy.
"Either," the man responded, and then tugged at the kaffiya, uncovering his face. "Neither!" the man then added, after a pause. "I may have lost some money, but I've gained some important allies. If they've lived."
Kamir studied the rarely seen visage of Andre Korda. Though he had begun wearing a Muslim dress, he knew that man was no Muslim. He barely knew what the man's beliefs might be, but knew this: despite having spent most of his time on holy ground-he was no holy man, or rather, if he had any religion at all, his religion was himself. He bowed his head, though, in the elder man's direction.
"All but one of Ceirdwyn's people yet live. But for the loss of one, can you expect they will continue to work with you?"
Korda turned away. "I can expect that, and I do. What would you do? Would you turn away my assistance, simply because one of your own was lost? This is war-you know that as well as I!" he snapped.
"You miss May-Ling," Kamir observed.
"She would have nothing to do with The Man with No Face-and what has happened? I offered my assistance."
"Your price was too high. She would not compromise her ethics…"
Korda raised a hand to silence the man. "You misunderstood me. I offered. I expected nothing that she could not or would not give. She refused me. All that I was and am. I expect Ceirdwyn or one of her people will be by this evening-tell me-was it a slaughter?"
"I should be surprised if any Watcher lived."
"Horton and his contacts made a grave error in underestimating me. He should have known better-no one stops me from getting what I desire."
Kamir made as if to leave the room, but the paused, and turned. "Forgive me-there was one thing I had forgotten to tell you. I received a phone call this morning-Horton is dead."
Korda turned to inspect Kamir's impassive face. "Could you not have strangled him yourself? Imagined his face changing colors in your grasp? Does it please you as well as it does me?"
"I fear his blood will cause a thousand others to rise-better he should have been. He was a zealot-but zealots often have followers."
Both men stood in silence, until Korda spoke.
"Whoever follows Horton, does so to the grave."
****
Methos stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her-shocked. He wasn't certain why she made him pause, she simply did. It wasn't that she was some impossible beauty, no goddess, only, the way her hair rippled when she tossed it out of her way, and the way her voice sounded-small, feminine, but with a note of something. Something frail, strong, human, eternal, different. He wasn't sure.
She stood by the bar, and only turned in his direction-noticing him, then turning away. He looked in one direction, then another, as if it could have been someone else she had seen. But it wasn't, and he slid next to her. He motioned to the bartender. And then, trying to be all the things he wasn't, he spoke to her.
"Let me buy you a drink," he said, almost urgently. He spoke in English, having noticed her accent was American. She looked at him in surprise, and then smiled.
She shook her beverage. "No, I'm taken care of." Her glass clearly had nothing more than soda in it. The bartender came by, and looked so much like all the bartenders in all the hotel bars he'd been in lately-which was a bloody lot.
He ordered a beer, shaking off the urge for something stronger. Almost at once, they tried to speak-
"I'm…Adam…" he managed, getting in his words first.
"Alexa," she offered, along with her hand. He took it. It was so small. What was that e.e.cummings poem-not even the rain? Could have?
He realized he was still holding her hand before letting it go, which told him he had held it just a touch too long. It was easy enough negotiating with those two prostitutes for the evening-but speaking to an honest woman? After how long-pretending he was an honest man? Something hopeless surged in his chest. He took note of its being his heart.
"You're on vacation?" she asked. He thought about that. "I mean…you aren't from around here…you aren't French," she rattled on, and then bit her lip.
"No…" he answered, bewildered.
"English?"
"No," he found himself answering to that as well, and then responded. "You could say that I'm…on business. And you?"
"I'm celebrating," she said, with a shy smile. She held aloft her drink for an instant, and then set it upon the bar with a clink. She apparently had had some sort of more potent beverage earlier on. "Being alive, you could say."
"Alive. Tell me about it," he started, and then turned. Her eyes were so light a blue. They were clear as a child's eyes.
"Oh, I can't," she smiled, almost laughing. "No." She shook her head. "I'm just happy."
"To be alive?" he questioned her, a bit more abruptly. Suddenly, he found himself desperate to know. Why would any of them be happy for just being alive? When it could…
"I know I shouldn't be telling you this…but I…shouldn't be. Alive," she added, almost off-handedly. Seeing his confusion, she went on. "I was dying, but I'm in remission-for no reason. For no good reason!" she nearly shouted, happily. "I asked…I had a very good doctor, and I was so worried…why was I well? And he said…perhaps there was something I had yet to do."
"Perhaps it was having a drink with me?" Methos asked her.
Her eyes seemed clouded for a moment, and then brightened again. "Maybe. After all, you're kind of cute."
****
Genevieve felt the sweat bead on her forehead. The halls were too brightly lit, and it would only be a moment-not even a moment. Someone was bound to be coming by-but everything was so quiet. The stillness was welcome, but improbable-she knew full well that she should be greeted by police, prison guards-what the hell, throw in a bunch of slavering hounds and a three-ring circus. She moved her lips for a moment-a movement that Nick caught.
"Praying?"
"Yeah-to my patron saint," she quipped.
"Jude?"
"Nah, Genevieve-patron saint of disasters." She released her hold on him and looked him up and down. One possible course of action-which she absolutely did not want to take-would put him squarely on her side. "Think I can get one?"
"A disaster-I think you have one."
"This…this is nothing…" she paused, as if hearing something. Nick also strained to hear what had stopped her. And then they both heard what sounded like an explosion. "Wasn't me," she commented.
"Are you sure?"
A second sound shook the ground. Genevieve's eye widened. "I don't want to pretend the world revolves around me or anything, but I can't help but notice…this whole me trying to escape, things exploding business is an awful coincidence."
"Unplanned."
"You bet," she responded. But she grabbed his arm and took off in the direction of the noise all the same. He quickly ended up dragging her, and then, both paused as another sound could be heard-gunfire.
"Something tells me somebody planned this thing."
"Yeah, but I wasn't let in on it-I was kind of…detained and stuff."
"You're very calm about this."
She regarded him with a look of concern. He wasn't calm, at all. Where the hell was this guy from that things didn't constantly explode around him and guns weren't going off all the time?
"To you-this is a bad thing-to me…" with that, she stopped mid-sentence. "Get down, anyone asks, you're with me-hopefully, I get to do the talking."
"What the?" he began, and then they heard another burst of gunfire.
"Whoever's busting this place up-they're Immortal."
****
Kronos surveyed the dead whores with some amusement. There were times when Methos still surprised him; if anything, that was the best thing about the man. He continued to surprise and amuse. Unfortunately, even Kronos had to admit that this was an example of rashness on Methos' part. Not that rashness was bad-no, at times rashness was absolutely necessary, but on the whole, he wondered if the old man wasn't succumbing to some kind of stress. He certainly seemed different since their siege on what he was beginning to think of as "Horton's Last Stand." Perhaps he even seemed a bit strained beforehand.
Ah, but it was the CD, wasn't it? Still no universal screams of terror about the dead people who rose and walked, was there? He considered, briefly, flicking on the television to see if there was anything on the news-but he knew better. If such a story were to be broken at all-it would unfold slowly. But no-better to take care of the matter at hand. This is to say-disposing of the bodies.
There was a day when Methos was more of the clean-up person, but it certainly was good to see that he hadn't lost his taste for killing. Cutting into Horton must have been exquisite-exactly what the man would have needed. He nearly regretted that he himself hadn't been the one to do the deed-but only vaguely. After all, Methos had expressed on many an occasion his desire to see the man dead, in large part owing to what had transpired with the girl. And all of that residual bitterness at having been a Watcher welled up then, having known in his heart that it was wrong to have been there from the start.
What had the man thought he was, living among mortal as he had? Blending in among them, hiding what he was meant to be? Oh no, he knew Methos far too well, better, at times, than Methos knew himself. He knew the emptiness the man had in him, and the need. He could see it flickering across his face while that pitiful worm had spoken of what could become of Ceirdwyn-or of Genevieve. He hoped none of that would distract Methos, now, though. There was Methos' weakness-women, and the occasional strange burst of compassion. It was like a disease with him. There had been a woman once, some time ago, who had nearly come between them, as he could vaguely recall.
He took up the lighter of the two dead women, and as her head rolled back he noticed the paleness of her skin, and thought about Genevieve-still in prison, and still, he imagined, safe. Nothing, of course, would happen to her, because she was not the sort who terrible things happened to-at least, not anymore. She was, rather, the sort of terrible person who now happened to things-she was what he had made her.
There was more than likely a furnace-a window-perhaps he would simply toss the flesh out on the roof for the birds to peck at. He rolled her up in some of the stained sheets-another woman, who, presumably, nothing terrible would happen to, ever again.
****
Ascending the stair to retire to his room to go over a few new pieces of information, he paused as he felt the sensation of another Immortal.
"Kamir?"
"Wrong."
The voice, stern and feminine. And the blade, firmly pressed to his back-but he noticed, not so that the point dug in. Should he count this as a good thing, or a bad one?
"Ceirdwyn. My condolences. I had been informed, and perhaps I should not consider this to be entirely a surprise." He felt the hand holding the blade must have relaxed, as the pressure against his back had lessened. He breathed deeply, once, but did not yet contemplate turning to face her.
"It was a set-up."
"Who had it been? Liam? Ingrid?"
"Liam. You could answer me, Korda."
"I have yet to hear a question." The pressure entirely left-she had lowered the blade, and he felt it was safe to turn and look her in the face. Such a lovely face, albeit smudged with-makeup? And then he realized that she had adorned herself after some old way she must have followed in a long-ago time. She was nearly as old as himself. He assumed a respectful posture in regards to her for that reason. She stood, still angry, but willing to hear his reply. He continued to regard her for a moment, choosing his words, before continuing.
"I was aware that these contacts were gunrunners and common thugs. I was also aware that they dealt with the Watchers, and that there was a good possibility that they would catch on that something would occur. The Watchers, as you may have noticed, have no love for us Immortals. I, in return, have little love for them. And I was aware that your people were trained, motivated, and equipped. Why would I not assume that no matter what the Watchers did or did not know-your squad would easily…decimate them?"
Ceirdwyn lowered her eyes at his words, unable to judge if what he was saying was a confirmation of the affair's having been a set-up, or an expression of his confidence in her team, and it seemed altogether likely that he was saying both at once. She did not know what to make of that, and vaguely did not care for being at once screwed over and flattered. She elected to simply answer the question that he had put towards her.
"You did know we had recently lost Annie Devlin, as she had elected to go-and that our newest member is not…yet acclimated to all of our methods…"
"Carter Wellan…but he is indeed motivated. I spoke with him-I had nothing to be concerned about-you've lost one…but otherwise, it appears it was a success."
Her eyes met his again, unwillingly. She was about to reply in the negative, but he was correct. The raid went well, the Watchers they happened upon were dead.
"Come," he offered, then. "Let us talk this over further. There are other resources I would like to discuss with you, and also some matters regarding some contact you may have had…with another, more flamboyant part of the resistance."
There was no doubt in her mind who Korda was referring to. She knew hardly anything-perhaps Ingrid, who had some correspondence with Carl, might have known more. And yet she followed him up the stairs, if only because she needed whatever he could supply her with.
****
"What had it been, if you don't mind my asking?" Methos inquired, motioning to the bartender to get her another drink. He found her most delightful, in the way the color came to her cheeks at times, and the way she seemed soft-spoken, but didn't say ordinary things. And also, the erstwhile physician in him was curious.
"Something I'd…rather not discuss," she replied, earnestly. "I'm just glad, right now…that…I have right now."
"Tell what that must be like then," he urged, as another champagne was set before her. He had insisted on champagne, and with a little arm-twisting, she had agreed. Whatever would a celebration be without champagne? "Consider me…curious. I mean, what is it like…knowing you're going to die?"
"You sure are curious," she began, and then realized he was serious. She looked down, considering. Her expression darkened, and she finally said, "You don't die when you stop breathing. It isn't when your…heart stops beating, or when your brain no longer works. You die when you're told that you have no choice-that it's fatal. And that's when the doors begin closing-all you want to do, all you want to see. Close off from people-and…"
Her voice caught, and he could see she'd rather not go on, but something in him made him reach out to touch her arm to steady her. She was shaking, but he wanted or needed her to go on. It fascinated him.
"It's all right," he said, softly. "I just want to hear."
She wiped her eyes then, and continued. "I felt like I wasn't the same…I can't expect you to understand, but knowing that you're sick, and that it won't be…pretty. You feel like some kind of alien, walking around just pretending to be normal." She covered her face then with a hand, and leaned against the bar. "I guess you say nothing because you'll be asked questions like this."
He put his arms around her. "I'm sorry." She rested her head against his chest, just sad enough and unsober enough for that to be a comfortable thing. She laid her head against him for a good long time, almost as if listening to his heart. In honesty though, it was her own that she heard, pounding. She felt so close to him, and it was an aching thing-it had been too long since she had let herself be this close to anyone-did she feel now that it was safe?
"The worst thing is," she said, when she was composed enough to resume, "is feeling that you have no choice. You don't have the choice to go on living. There's bills, and there's arrangements, and there's thinking about it all the time. And living, really living, stops. And…I always wanted to see Paris." She raised her head, looking him in the eye, her face brightening. He smiled in answer.
"How have you enjoyed it?"
"I've seen some sights," she responded, but with just a touch of mischief in her voice, implying he was one of the sights she'd been happy to see. The thought made him so happy that he kissed her. Her mouth was small but warm and her lips yielded easily. She was at once alive and such a fragile thing. It was hard to imagine something like that could ever die.
****
It wasn't until she saw felt the heat that she knew they were that close-and then she realized with horror that she didn't know who they were. As much as she hoped that any Immortals going to all the trouble of breaking her from prison would be friendly-she had no guarantee of that. It could very well be that there were some in the Immortal population who held a grudge against someone who could have brought down some heat on them all.
"I think we should…get going…I mean, I don't want to show my face right away, maybe we shouldn't go in this direction…" she began.
For the first time, Nick was seeing a girl who was in way over her head-or perhaps, not for the first time. This was simply the first time she was choosing to show it. He looked over at her, and she was pale.
"What's the matter? Afraid you made some enemies-killing people, blowing things up…"
A scream was heard, and Genevieve grabbed Nick's arm, instinctively.
"Shut up with that. I told you-this is a war-notice the whole bombs and guns and people getting killed parts of it, okay? You might look on me as being some kind of freak, but I'm telling you…" More gunfire erupted. She grabbed his arm tighter as he was about to pull away. "Jesus, you'd think a person could be safer in prison-I should know better."
"You should know…"
"My grandfather died in prison, all right? I should know bad things happen…I can't…I can't just wait," she then announced, agitatedly. "Whoever they are, I have to know." She started pulling in the direction of the sounds. Alarms were going off, and there was a sound behind them. Guards could be seen rounding the corner. Genevieve looked ahead, and behind, and then into Nick's eyes. He looked conflicted.
"They are after me-for good, or bad-but there's things I…I'd try to explain why you have to come with me, but I can't." She bit her lip. There was no way to explain what was going on to him, or the feeling she had. She looked at the guards-they had no interest in her-amazing. She tugged again.
Nick shook her hand loose, but ran in the same direction, and as they rounded a corner, they could see sunlight where there once was a wall, and a few figures-who Genevieve suspected were all Immortal-standing with rifles. There were two black men, one Asian, and then a woman, close to Genevieve's own size. She held a grenade in one hand, and tossed it, some distance past Genevieve and Nick. The wall behind them burst as they dove forward, each out of instinct. Genevieve rolled, knowing she was fine-but Nick had been apparently injured. She reached for him.
"The Gathering is now," the woman intoned. Genevieve turned. The woman had dark brown hair and deep brown eyes-almost too large for her face-but what a face. "Genevieve Fowler? We've come for you-come on. We have to go."
"Not without him," she answered, pulling herself to her knees.
"Who is he?"
She stared at him. His face was bruised, and she could tell that there was something else-something in the concussive blast they both felt. Something she had recovered from-and he, still mostly mortal, hadn't. She touched his face, hoping he'd regain consciousness. He did, but appeared groggy.
"Nearly my student," she responded. She couldn't gauge what those words would mean to them-she hardly knew what they meant to herself, having never truly known a teacher. And that he was not yet what he would be, she did not know what to make of him. The words had impact on the Asian man.
"She claims him-it would not be right to kill him. He doesn't yet know." His eyes met the woman's-she, Genevieve could tell, was the apparent leader. A bleach-blond man appeared from behind-running across the yard.
"Kurgan's gunning the engine-get the bitch and go."
"Don't call her a bitch!" the dark-haired woman responded, and then turned to Genevieve, who was trying to get the very out-of-it Nick to his feet. "Can both of you walk-I mean--both?"
"Nick," Genevieve whispered, and she saw the trickle of blood behind his ear. It was some sort of head wound. She wondered how far she would need to drag him. "Come on…just walk with me."
Eyes vacant, his feet started forward. She saw that as an excellent sign of life. She turned to the Asian and nodded her head in what she hoped was an acceptable bow, and then, to the apparent leader, even as she led him, she asked.
"Who am I thanking?"
"God," the woman answered, tersely and ironically.
"No, I mean-who are you?"
"My name is Faith," the woman answered, and it was all Genevieve could do to keep from fainting.
Faith? Only by rumor the best swordswoman in existence. Only one of the most dangerous women alive. Faith?
****
It was the sort of kiss that could make a man forget anything and everything, unless a man had about five thousand years worth of baggage to deal with, in which case-not exactly everything. Methos found himself coming up for the air he barely breathed, and then looking into Alexa's shining face-she was beautiful, make no doubt about that. She slipped her arm about his waist, and he knew what by all rights should come next. They should be able to make love. He should be able to take her in his arms and let her know what he felt-but there was the fact that his roommate was Kronos to contend with. And also the fact that he could not be sure that the two walking party favors had been appropriately taken care of.
"I'd…like to…take a walk with you, Mademoiselle Alexa…"
"Bond," she smiled.
"Alexa Bond." He smiled then, and offered his arm.
"But wait…Adam? There's always-my room. Couldn't we just…" she colored, beautifully, modestly, sweetly. Not even implying that it would be simply sex-only imply that they should be together, for what it was worth.
"Your room," he responded, numbly. "Of course…I should have considered. You're in this hotel?"
"No," she smiled, shaking her head, as if denying it was this hotel, and also denying she was inviting a man up to her room. "I'm simply here because it was a stop on the way from a concert-but-I'm two blocks down. We could…share the walk."
He took her hand, and pressed it to his lips, feeling almost courtly as he did so. Chivalry-was that dead, yet? Or was it still something that titillated woman about that style? What there nothing he knew of that would make this night last forever, for both of them? She reached for his face while he kissed her hand, caressing him. She seemed pensive. He cocked his head, wondering what this exquisite would say.
"You seem so serious," she said, almost accusingly.
"I've things on my mind. Business," he said, grimly.
"Your business doesn't make you especially happy."
"No, it doesn't," he agreed. "Let's just-walk."
He left a few crumpled franc notes on the bar-too dazzled by the light in her eyes to have counted them, and also, certain enough that they would stiff on paying for any of the charges for the evening that he could care less about a little thing like paying for the alcohol he plied this woman with. They walked, close together, out into the street, but then Methos felt the old familiar sensation-and sickly knew who it was. Who else could it be?
"Greetings. I see you've found another for the evening. You do well for yourself," Kronos said, leering.
Alexa's eyes became wide. She knew who this was-he was regularly in the papers--this terrorist. This was Kronos, wasn't it? She was about to speak, and then she simply made a fist, and plunged it against Methos' chest.
"He's-you know who he is-a terrorist--?"
Her voice became too soft for Methos to hear-not over the ringing in his ears. Not over the sensation of needing to decide. Kronos stood. And then he spoke.
"I took care of that little matter-and I see there is another matter here-but I trust you know what is best."
"Alexa…this is an associate of mine-and yes, he is Melvin Koren-but I'm a diplomat…" Methos attempted, lying, but in a way he hoped she might accept. But he could see her stare, blank, at Kronos' face. She looked at him with something like disgust-would she look on him that way? Would she deny everything he was?
Perhaps she would. And he saw then-there were times when one had no choice. He took her by the arm, roughly.
"I know this is hard-but understand-I never wanted to hurt anyone…"
"He was responsible for that airplane crash-and he and his people poisoned the reservoir-he's a monster…"
"So am I," Methos said, and with a simple motion, he had her on the ground. Her neck was twisted. Her eyes seemed conscious, but he could not be sure. For good measure, he added, "I know why you survived-why you never died. It was to meet with me-and make me suffer." And with another simple motion, she was dead.
And he could swear it made Kronos smile.
****
"He's losing a lot of blood," Faith informed her, as if she did not know. The van rolled on, and Genevieve had had a better time to look at the people she was now found among. Nonetheless, she fixed her eyes on Faith-legend or no, she would not let herself be ruled.
"He'll survive," Genevieve snapped. "People have survived worse."
"Really? Mortal people have? Well, in his case, you know there's a choice. And he'll be a long time healing. But we don't really have a long time-do we?"
Genevieve looked into Faith's deep brown eyes. She couldn't begin to express her aversion to this-it seemed not to be her place. And yet Faith handed over the knife.
"It would very well be wrong to let him die a slow painful death, wouldn't it? If he is your student?"
And Genevieve took the knife in her hand. It would. She had no choice. She plunged it into his chest, right where she knew the heart to be. She drew it out, and, as if it was contaminated, she dropped it from her hands. And then she waited, bracing herself. He breathed in once, twice, and then, before he could say a word, she snatched the knife back up and he stared at the point-so lose to his face.
"You better stay like a dead man, dead man," she intoned.
Nick stared. He was alive. He was alive and he hurt. His chest felt ripped to shreds, as if his lungs as been thrown into a woodchipper. But most of all, he was alive.
Did he suspect he had her to thank?
Or curse?