Throwing The Gauntlet
Cassandra met Genevieve at the door of the motel room, keeping an eye on her. The younger woman struck her as being every bit as much of a potential enemy as a potential ally. She was just that-younger, and despite any overlay of confidence she put on, she was a time bomb whose ticking could be heard for miles. With little in the way of formal greeting, she invited herself in, and looked about the room.
"Cheap and dirty-damn I love motels. You wanted to see me?"
"I asked to, didn't I?"
Genevieve glanced away. "I've been asked to motel rooms before, usually it's never for anything good. But you're running from the same people I'm running from-so I'm guessing-want to share information?"
"You're abrupt."
"It's a knack I have," the girl responded, and went to a window, taking a look through the blinds. "Anyway, we didn't spend much time on the phone, and Duncan wasn't elaborating. I'm a little curious how you traced this mess to me, but it's cool."
"Traced this mess…" Cassandra began.
"Well, I didn't start it. But I'm involved. These guys…" she added. "Friends of yours?"
She watched as a Chevy Cabriolet, mid-eighties, faded paint pulled up. It was a "beater", in her estimate, the kind of car someone might spend a couple hundred on to pull a job and then abandon. Decent engine, fairly good-sized trunk. And then she saw someone get out of the passenger side in a long trench coat that looked out of place for the weather-even without feeling a buzz, she had him made for what he was. One of them, and he was carrying. He looked like he meant business, or shopped at Zipperhead, she couldn't make up her mind which. The driver remained in the car, but when she got a good look, he was rolling down the window-spotted a sleeve. Two. "No inter-freaking-ference, my left foot," she sighed.
Cassandra joined her at the window. "I've seen them before."
"Were you expecting them?"
"Not yet."
"Boy, I gotta hand it to you," she started, and then gave her a second look. "You really weren't expecting them?" Genevieve reached a hand inside her coat, just to touch her claymore. The feel of her sword reassured her. "You seen any action up close?"
Cassandra turned from the window. "I killed one two nights ago, when I made up my mind to see you. But they certainly know me-they know who the older ones are."
It suddenly made sense to Genevieve-Cassandra might have thought she was behind it. Literally, as opposed to, in the general sense of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She groaned inwardly, wondering if she'd have any time to explain herself. She groaned out loud when it dawned on her that she usually never did.
"Look, these people are the Gauntlet…and I while I do know where they got the information…I…oh, whatever." She put her hand on the door. "My problem."
"They came here for me. After all…"
Genevieve smiled, grimly. "Yeah, for you. Well, you'll see. No one's fighting anybody, once they see you aren't alone."
"Really? What are you about to do?"
The younger woman sighed like a person much older. "Something stupid and dangerous. You'll get used to it." And with that remark, she opened the door to meet the would-be assassin before he got to the stairs, and then turned to Cassandra. "Just don't say anything." And stepped forward to meet him.
When he fixed his eyes on her, she got a look of recognition, which was what she had been counting on. Trying to look stern, she pointed a finger at him.
"Are you looking for someone?" she demanded, in her best "wiseguy" tone. It was her impression that roughly 80% of the world responded to that, and that the rest were either cops or psychopaths.
"It looks like I'm finding someone," the man smiled. "You…you're the one who killed my teacher."
"He ever mention who taught him?" she responded. She could feel her pulse race, but what she said affected him more than the sheer weight of the lie was affecting her. She smiled as he looked over his shoulder at the fellow in the car. When he looked back at her, he licked his lips as if they had suddenly gone very dry.
"Yeah, he might have mentioned somebody."
"You lose any friends lately?"
"Yeah." His eagerness was rapidly deflating. He took a step back from her.
"Well, you've found someone then. Two of us, two of you-do the math. But I wouldn't really like those odds, if I were you. I mean, he's not getting out of the car. And we were expecting you." She didn't feel so much like Anath-Sin, as Dirty Harry as she spoke, but the tough talk did its job. With a parting glare that spoke volumes, he took another step back.
"Yeah. Later, then. When you're alone."
"See you, punkin," she answered, and then waved. She continued smiling as he turned around and went back to the car, her heart pounding all the while, even as they drove off. She turned back to Cassandra. "I thought it might take longer that that. I'm still trying to get the hang of it."
"That wasn't the Voice…how did you…?"
"That was the old lady. I've got lot of explaining to do-I'll give you the Reader's Digest version. It starts somewhere…I guess it's Turkey, right now. About eight thousand years ago. You might want to get back inside, pack your things…they're coming back. And uh…I'll just keep explaining." She started speaking with her hands, a nervous habit.
"Turkey-eight thousand years ago?" Cassandra repeated, in a tone of disbelief.
"Or I could start in Paris, about four months ago-I'm flexible. Or, I could start in…I guess it was Sumer, then…just over four thousand years ago. They think I'm…somebody else."
"Obviously." She gave the young woman a better look, and could tell something had changed since the last time they had spoken. She seemed less defensive, but tired. Very tired. "Start four months ago…if you don't mind."
The girl shrugged, and followed her back inside. It was still a long story.
****
Genevieve finished her story as Cassandra packed, and she noticed that the woman was traveling lightly, as if she had definitely been on the move before. She could appreciate that, having spent the last year "in transit" herself.
"I don't understand why people are following me over it, though," Cassandra commented. "Akkasur wanted Methos dead, because he's…him, and wanted you dead because you reminded him of the woman who…"
"Castrated him. I'll admit it's farfetched, but there are some things that might make a person hold a grudge. And I wasn't the first woman he killed over it-just, Immortal and the one who ended up killing him. He was messed-up as a football bat." She shrugged. "I see where it could have messed him up for life, and all, but it became an obsession, or something. Maybe her Quickening messed him up, because his sure did something to me."
"You said you were having dreams?"
"Was. Now I don't sleep. Can't. But those dreams-they are hers. I mean, I don't…" She gave Cassandra a look as if she needed help finding words. "I don't get the feeling that the experiences are his. I don't think he had a life-like he was just anger inside?" She fumbled with the idea-it was all too subjective for her to put into words without sounding like a flake. But Cassandra nodded.
"Maybe hers was the stronger personality. I've considered what could happen-taking the head of someone older." She realized it would do no good to mention to Genevieve the seriousness with which she went after Kronos, or how close she came with taking Methos' head. Genevieve already had a good enough idea, and the young woman's sympathies were very difficult to establish. "I still don't see why I should be affected. How it led to the Gauntlet."
"Methos is still the oldest…unless I am," she added, sarcastically. "And Akkasur was a very spiteful son of a bitch. Hated both of us. And he was a Watcher. He had access to files on a good number of people."
Cassandra made a puzzled face. "How could he have been? I mean, he would have been sensed?"
"Well, I mean, if Methos could do it…"
"Damn." She gave it some thought. Except that it made sense, it didn't make any sense. Genevieve noticed her look, and then smiled.
"You knew about them, too," she guessed. "Before Duncan ever introduced you to Joe."
She rolled her eyes at that, smiling. "I didn't need witchcraft to know I was being followed. I haven't always taken the most traveled path, but I could tell that there was company."
Genevieve shook her head at that, and then went on. "Well, he had files. So it didn't look like he was carrying out a post-mortem vendetta against just two people, he must have had a little list. You were on it. I mean, you are…damn."
"What?"
"I don't know. I mean, I guess I'm just lucky, in that I've met a lot of…"
"Relics?"
Cassandra's sudden quip caught her off guard, but she nodded. "Immortals of advanced chronology. Methos, Kronos, Akkasur, you. I don't know if there are any women older than you." She stared at Cassandra with a touch of new respect, something altogether different from the way she regarded Methos. With him, it came across as an accident, with Cassandra, it came across as a miracle.
The look she got in return was acknowledgement. "I'm not certain that I'm aware of one older."
"With, per the Gauntlet, the possible exception of me." She buried her face in her hands for a moment. "Which would be unbelievable to anyone not retarded. Otherwise, consider yourself on the team with Anath-Sin, living legend and all-around scary chick."
"On your team? How are you, though?" Cassandra noticed the circles under her eyes-even Immortals could look worn down, if they were only worn down enough. And Genevieve was looking even a touch older than the twenty mortal years she had had behind her.
Genevieve tried to pull away from Cassandra's gaze, knowing full well those eyes took in an awful lot more than most people's, and tried to put out of her mind how she had broken down in from of Duncan.
"I won't get us killed, if that's what you mean. I'll help you ride it out, if you want…or we go…damn."
"Damn?"
"We should go back to Paris. We'll just leave…my car. They should know your rental, by now. The Prizm?"
Cassandra looked at her with surprise, and then realized this was exactly the speed at which the girl's mind moved. She smiled back, shrugging.
"It's got rental written all over it. You'll like my car."
****
"This doesn't attract any attention," Cassandra commented, sitting shotgun in Genevieve's vintage Camaro. It was only red, with a plastic Jesus on the dash and white leather interior, heavily tricked out and purely gauche. What was worse was that Genevieve seemed absolutely aware of the fact that it was gauche.
"It's street legal. I'm not, especially, but the car is."
"I noticed that, too. Are you in some kind of hurry?"
Genevieve smiled as Cassandra tried to be tactful with her. It was not her way to attempt not to stand out. In fact, being followed didn't truly faze her-not with the world watching. She looked over, and affected the "wiseguy" voice again.
"Don't worry. I can spot a bathtub with a disco ball at 120 yards. It isn't like we're getting pulled over."
"You're intentionally reckless."
"Maybe. Besides-we're stopping at my apartment. Let them follow me-they know where I live! No one does a hit in broad daylight with a sword."
"Why are we stopping by your apartment?"
"I need a few things. And I guess I have to book a flight."
"Paris." Cassandra said the word as if she were not referring to a major European city, but a rather bad fate. "Methos…you're worried about him."
"You're seeing action-I've just realized I've made a horrible mistake. I was…well, let's say, he isn't as aware of the danger he might be in as I was. I…took the heat." She felt eyes burning into her skull, and abruptly stopped at a stop sign. After decades of practicing the "Philly roll," it was an accomplishment. "I…may have…actively tried to attract attention to make sure no one got to…challenge him."
"And for what earthly reason would you do a thing like that-for him?"
Genevieve shrugged, letting the car move forward again. "It seemed to make sense, in context-I'm…you know, not who I'm supposed to be. So I figured…he is who he's supposed to be…at the time it made sense."
"He knows that the Gauntlet is out there."
"Hell, this is Methos we're talking about-but…it's the principle of the thing. These mooks more than likely can't take him, but I don't want to play around. I'm sentimental. So, we just regroup…with him."
"We…meaning you and me…and him."
"Sorry. I mean, if you'd rather just be on your own, I'll understand." She shrugged. It wasn't like she wasn't planning on just holing up and letting them come to her, after all. And then she heard a surprising thing.
"If we all get out of this alive, he'll owe me."
Genevieve grinned. "That's the spirit." The thought that she might be able to pull off a small truce gave her a sense of satisfaction. She was known for thinking big.
****
Cassandra looked in on Genevieve after twenty minutes, and then realized her bags were already packed, and she was simply touching up her makeup. The woman, after being watched for a while, shrugged. "I look older when I wear more make-up. I mean, I look like a well-developed teenager, so I have to do something, right?" She loaded on the eyeliner like an Egyptian, and then teased her hair like a Jersey girl. Genevieve would have shrugged at the first, and gagged at the last. Her hair simply kinked when it got humid-so she went with it.
She went on, working on her cheekbones with bronzer-which did have a slightly aging effect. "I always wore too much makeup. I used to get demerits for it back in high school. My dad would yell at me-'Christ, Genevieve, you look like a hooker.'"
She suddenly stopped. It no longer seemed particularly funny. "Joke's on him. In all kinds of ways."
Cassandra turned away. It was like watching someone who seemed oblivious to having an arrow hanging out of her. She would skid over the parts of her life that made her uncomfortable at light speed-Cassandra recognized it.
She took a look at the results, once Genevieve pulled her trench back on-there was something strange about her.
"The jewelry."
"Etruscan," she answered, fingering her bronze earrings. "A thing my grandfather picked up on the other side-he's very big on antiques." She paused. "I'm very big on antiques, just not this kind. I like mine breathing. Anyway, since I'm supposed to be…whoever…I want to look the part."
"We don't advertise our…"
"Nice necklace, Cassandra. What century you get it?" Genevieve pounced, with the infallible instinct of the brutally gifted.
"My first."
"Any reason you wear it?"
"I'm sentimental," she snapped. Methos had put it around her neck with the instruction to think of him when she wore it. She did think of him when she wore it-the thoughts weren't always pleasant, but oddly, she did think of him.
"Well, maybe I'm wearing this because I'm sentimental. After all, I liked my grandfather. He was always good to me. He knew what I was."
Cassandra stared. "What you were?"
"You know-smart. A natural businessperson. He saw I had talents when other people didn't see it. My parents thought I was…not right when I was a kid, because I didn't talk, really."
"I can't imagine."
"I know? Who knew? But when they were going to have me tested, he said-leave her alone. She just isn't like other people. And he was right."
"How did he know?"
"Because I could pick horses." Her eyes glowed, and Cassandra wasn't sure if she was joking. "And run numbers. And I helped him with crossword puzzles, because his English wasn't great. I read more than I talked. You have someone like that? Just-saw you?"
"The man who raised me-Hijad. He knew I had…talents. He tried to teach me to use them. He said I would exceed his skills, someday."
"Well, there you go. You're sentimental about him?"
"No."
Genevieve stared. "I meant, just, have good memories, you know? I don't mean, sappy, or anything. I'm that way, sometimes, but just…"
"I don't think much about my life before, because then I remember how it was taken. And how his was taken."
"Yeah. Forget about what I was saying. And…"
Genevieve stood, unable to do say anything or do anything. It dawned on her that Cassandra's "life before" was more or less taken away by the very people who practically "gave" her the life she knew. Kronos-killed her to prevent her from killing herself, in a sick way, but permanent nonetheless. Methos-the only person who came close to showing her how to come to terms with what she was. She could feel the gap widening between them-Cassandra and herself.
"Forget? You have only the roughest idea what they were, don't you?"
"Cassandra-I don't need to go there…I just…can't. The past is the past…Your past. And me? Like I said, if you'd rather not go with me after Methos…then don't. It's something I've got to do, but don't do this. I know what happened."
"I stepped in front of Kronos' sword to protect my father."
"Well, I guess he killed both of us our first times, then. Thanks for the memories, sis. And know what-we're both still alive. And I don't want to go into it-he knew what I was when he did it to me-probably knew what you were too."
The memory of Kronos telling Hijad, "You know what we are." And it never seemed to have any more meaning than, "the Horsemen." She didn't want to think about that. She wouldn't. What if he did know what she would be? And Methos knew what she was? What difference did it make, if she were never told?
"I don't know why I'm bothering to tell you anything-it's pathological with you, isn't it?"
"What do you mean? I'm not trying to excuse anything they did-they had reasons, maybe. Not excuses. But I'm not going to…"
"Oh yes, you are!" It was amazing that the girl couldn't even face the truth of what they had been, as if the simple fact that she wasn't hurt, that she survived, meant that they hadn't done damage to others. Killed others. Maimed, raped…but of course, this was Genevieve. "You are trying to excuse it, and see things in the best light. Trying to be understanding-well, you understand that what they were was wrong, don't you? They were killers…"
Genevieve's face nearly went the color of her hair. She stood, face to face with Cassandra, and gave off heat.
"I can understand that, okay? They raped-they killed. It was what they did-understood. And I understand that what happened to you was horrendous, okay? That was something I could understand, okay? Just so we're understanding. But didn't it occur to you that you were a prize? That a mortal woman wouldn't have lasted-would be dead-but you lived. And that made you valuable to them. I'm not going to say Methos did all those things because he was lonely-that's disgusting. But you lived. And they were men. I mean, human. With human emotions, somewhere in there, no matter how it played out. There may have been reasons."
"And there are reasons why you lie to yourself, aren't there?" Cassandra asked, once Genevieve was through with her outburst. She glared, then turned.
"I'm not having this conversation. You don't know me. You don't know anything about me, and I don't care if you ever do. We're in this-together or not." She stormed into the bedroom, and then rifled through her closet, unable to understand what made her go off like that. Lying to herself? She couldn't even wrap her head around that one. She wasn't certain what she was looking for, but at least her hands were busy.
When she looked up, Cassandra was standing in the doorway.
"Kronos wanted you because you were the same…your words," Cassandra said, slowly, trying to keep any emotion out of her voice. "You don't even remember that clearly, do you?"
"I remember wanting to die. I remember thinking to myself, only a little more time, only a little more scotch…and it'll be done. A strange city, away from my family. Better than one of them finding me dead in my room. And then Kronos came along. And I thought-why the hell not? Why the hell not? And…when he did it-I wanted…to live. It wasn't rape. It wasn't murder. Because…I…"
She stared. "I was very drunk. I don't remember it clearly. But you know-I lived." She nodded. "I lived. Are you done with me? Or do we still go to Paris? Either way, Gauntlet's still out there."
Cassandra stared. "I'll be waiting in the car."
"Good."
Genevieve found a spare trench coat and decided she had a use for it. The damn things were always getting holes in them, or blood on them. Don't remember things clearly? She could remember Kronos running the knife over her skin, explaining that she would be a good student. Methos being so frustrated with her stubborn stupidity he couldn't even speak. Her father, teaching her by example-holding the knife on her-"What do you do, then?" Her husband's clenched fists, when she knew full well that if he even touched her, she could kill him.
She didn't remember everything-and she didn't want to. What would it help? When she dreamed, she remembered someone else's life. If she dreamed. When she slept. If she slept. She chalked everything up to nerves and sleeplessness, and got going, but not before trying Methos' number. And got no response.