Texas, 1883
The first thing that caught his eye when he walked into the saloon was the woman sitting at the far end of the bar. She was beautiful, blonde hair, blue eyes, alabaster pale skin, with an ethereal quality about her that made her seem unreal. He stopped in the entryway, the saloon doors clacking together behind him, only to push against his back as someone else tried to come in behind him.
"Duncan!"
The complaining voice came from behind him, and the doors were shoved hard against his back, knocking him off balance. He caught himself as several pairs of eyes turned his way, including those of the woman he had been staring at, moving out of the way and settling into a chair at an unoccupied table. Once again he found his gaze drawn to the woman. With a flick of his eyes around the room, he realized that he wasn’t the only one whose attention she had captured.
It wasn’t just her beauty that was drawing glances, although that was most of it. But the way she carried herself, and the way she was dressed, would have caught most the patrons’ eyes even if she had been homely. From the loose fitting, white, men’s shirt, to the snugly outlining fawn colored breeches she wore, with leather boots encasing trim calves, and the brimmed cowboy hat pushed back on her head, her attire was not what one would expect from most of the women in the south. At least, not respectable ones. But there was an air of disdain around her, of haughtiness, that clearly dared anyone to gainsay her over it.
Chair legs scraped against the floor as his companion sat down across the little worn table from him, setting his hat down on the nicked and scarred surface, then pulling off sweat stained leather gloves and laying them next to the hat.
"What was that all about?" his friend asked in irritation before turning to signal the barkeep for a drink.
Duncan snapped back to reality, his gaze centering on his companion. The man sitting across from him lounged gracefully, if a bit precariously, on the not too sturdy wooden chair. Shaggy, sandy blonde hair fell haphazardly across blue-green eyes that were filled with exasperation.
"Sorry, Connor, but you have to admit she is an eye catcher." Duncan gestured with his chin, to a spot somewhere over Connor’s shoulder.
One of the serving girls chose that moment to stop at their table, depositing two small glasses of whisky before leaning forward to give them an ample view down the front of her bodice. She gave them a sultry smile, her eyes lingering on Connor, then walked away from them, hips swaying in invitation. Connor’s gaze followed her across the room.
"Aye, that she is."
"Not her," Duncan dismissed the serving girl’s existence with a wave of his hand. "Her. "
Connor slewed around in his seat, following Duncan’s gaze, wincing slightly as the chair made threatening noises. "Ah, I see now. Yes, Duncan, you’re right. She is an eye catcher at that." Connor chuckled under his breath. "You seem to have caught her eye too."
"What?" Duncan had been so busy watching the woman that he had failed to notice her staring back at him. With a jolt, he made eye contact with her, thought he heard a faint whisper in the back of his mind, her blue eyes searing into his.
*********
The man was breathtaking. Long, dark brown hair, eyes the color of chocolate, tanned skin. She had noticed him the minute he walked through the door, smiling in satisfaction when he saw her and froze, obviously as taken with her as she with him. She had turned away when his friend almost knocked him over coming through the door behind him, hiding her amusement as she sipped her drink. She could feel the eyes of almost every other man in the room on her; it didn’t bother her, she was used to it, her vanity even expected it.
Well, she had come in here tonight looking for a man, and it seemed now she had found one. Why she had settled on him was beyond question. She loved beauty, and this man was beauty incarnate. If it hadn’t been him, she would have settled for his friend, who was another artful specimen of manhood. But there was something about the darker man, the younger one--now why did that come to mind? She glanced at the pair out of the corner of her eye, saw the buxom barmaid plying her wiles on them. Looking at them, the man with the dark blonde hair would seem the younger, but something instinctive inside her knew that this wasn’t true.
She turned her attention toward them now, hearing the whisper of thoughts of the other saloon patrons playing through her head, narrowing in on the two men across the room. They were talking about her. She turned her head, saw the blonde man turn to look at her then say something to his friend. The darker man seemed startled, and then their gazes met, her eyes snared by those warm brown ones. Yes, she thought, we have a connection, you and I.
She picked up her drink, swallowed the rest of it one gulp, then slid off her chair, decision made. She saw sudden hope in those dark eyes as she made her way toward him and his friend. She stopped at their table, her eyes raking over her choice, aware that his friend was sizing her up as well. She smiled widely at him, and he smiled back at her, his teeth white and even. Closer up, he was even more beautiful, if that were possible. She felt a tiny pang of conscience flare through her at the inevitable end to this encounter, then quashed it, knowing that where mortals were concerned, death was undeniable, she was just shortening the timeframe.
*********
Duncan felt a surge of elation as she stood and came over toward them. He was unable to take his eyes off her as she approached their table, almost missed Connor’s amused sigh.
"Good thing she’s not an Immortal," Connor whispered to him, "or she’d have your head before you knew it."
Duncan ignored him as she stopped at the table, smiling at him, a sharpness about her small white teeth that slightly unnerved him. He could see Connor watching her, a wary look in his eyes, but she seemed only interested in him.
"May I join you?"
Her voice was light, with an almost musical quality to it. Duncan heard the faint whispering at the back of his mind again and he nodded, reaching out to pull an empty chair over from the next table. This close her pale skin was almost translucent.
She settled herself in the chair, her every move reminding Duncan of a cat--but no tame housecat this, this woman was a lioness. She folded her hands on the tabletop, her long fingers tipped by nails that just reinforced the lioness image in Duncan’s mind.
"My name is Gabrielle," she said, smiling again, this time at Connor, who seemed taken aback that she deigned to pay attention to him. "And you are?"
Connor composed himself, leaning back in his chair again. "My name is Connor, Connor MacLeod." He indicated Duncan with a negligent motion of his hand. "This is my cousin."
Duncan gave Connor a glare at the deliberate slight. "Duncan, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
"Hmm, Scotsmen are you?" She turned her attention to Duncan now, her bright red lips pulled back in another smile.
Duncan nodded. "You sound foreign yourself, madam."
"It’s miss, and yes, I am from France originally. Have you ever been there?"
"Yes, I have. Maybe I would recognize your family name if you told it to me."
She nodded, her expression clearly saying that she knew he only wanted more information about her, wanted to keep her talking. "De Lioncourt."
Duncan had never heard the name. He glanced toward Connor, to see if it sounded familiar to his kinsman, but Connor just shook his head. "Ah, well, strangers well met then."
She inclined her head toward him. "I would hope that we would be more than strangers."
Duncan felt her gaze on him, felt the warmth that started in his head and worked its way down the rest of his body. He quickly knocked back his drink, setting the glass carefully on the table, then stood abruptly, offering her his hand. She hesitated a moment, then took his hand, letting him pull her up out of the chair. He started to lead her toward the door when Connor’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned to see his kinsman grinning.
"Why is it you always have all the fun and get all the good women?" Connor asked, sighing in resignation.
Duncan just laughed softly, letting Gabrielle pull him out of the saloon, out into the cool night air. He followed docilely as she guided them past the saloon and into the dark alley beyond.
"Now, darlin’, I’m thinkin’ we would be a bit more comfortable back in my room," Duncan started to protest. But she stopped suddenly, pushing him up against the wall where the shadows completely hid them, her mouth coming down over his, silencing anything more he had to say.
She broke the kiss several seconds later, her eyes bright in the darkness. "I’m perfectly comfortable right here, mon ami, why waste time getting to your room?"
Duncan didn’t bother to answer her, just drew her into his arms, his lips meeting hers. He felt her tongue trace his lips lightly, her hands reaching up to wind in his hair, trapping his head in her grasp. He was startled at the strength he felt in her hands then, and tried to pull away. But she held him fast, whispering against his lips.
"Ah, cherie, do not think to deny me. I will have you."
Duncan sighed, letting himself melt into her embrace. He felt her lips slide down his chin to settle over the pulse in his neck, her tongue tasting the saltiness of his skin, her teeth nipping lightly. He moaned in the back of his throat, thought he heard an answering moan from her, then he gasped when he felt her teeth pierce his skin.
He fought to get away from her then, terror rising quickly to supplant lust, but her grip on him was so strong that he struggled in vain. Then the terror slowly gave way to a rising lassitude, bringing with it a heady pleasure that spread through his limbs, weakening his resistance. He could hear his heart beating now, loud in his ears, could feel his life draining away with his blood as she drank from him. His vision dimmed and he realized the only thing keeping him upright was her hold on him. His last thought was of the beautiful but deadly creature that had ensnared him and brought him to this end, his beautiful lady death...
*********
Gabrielle let the body fall to the ground, the new blood pumping through her system, her cheeks flush and warm, her eyes bright and glistening. She looked down then, at her beautiful Scot, the pang of conscience prodding her again, and she knelt next to him, brushing the long dark hair away from his face.
Ah, my bonnie man, you should not have come with me, so willingly to your death.
She had gotten more of a prize than she knew. Once locked in her embrace, his mind had been open to her and she had seen the kind of man he was. Honorable, gentle, a true warrior. But his memories had been strange to her, as though he had seen things that by rights he couldn’t have, and that didn’t settle well with her. She felt as though she had held something in her grasp that had now slipped away and she would never be able to unravel the mystery.
A noise suddenly came to her ears and she stood, her senses straining. His companion would be along to check on him eventually. Poor man, she thought as she faded into the shadows, I’m almost sorry I took your kinsman from you. Almost.
*********
Connor strolled along the front of the saloon, whistling off tune, wishing he were drunk, but the feeling of something being not quite right about that woman had him leaving the saloon and Lily, the barmaid, earlier than he had wanted. Damn Duncan anyway, the boy had a bad habit of getting himself in trouble.
He was just about past the mouth of the alley when he heard the groan. He stopped and backtracked, trotting down the alley to where a still form lay half in the moon cast shadows. As he knelt next to his kinsman he heard Duncan groan again, then, with a loud intake of breath, the younger man’s eyes flew open and he began to thrash wildly.
Connor tried to put a restraining hand on Duncan’s shoulder, then recoiled with a muttered oath when Duncan’s hand caught him in the jaw.
"Connor?" Duncan quit struggling, let Connor pull him up to sitting.
"What happened, Duncan? Where’s Gabrielle?" Connor searched the darkness with his gaze but saw nothing.
Duncan’s hand came to his throat rubbing gingerly. "I’m not sure, but I think she bit me!"
"What?"
"Well, here, see for yourself." Duncan leaned into the moonlight, turning his head so Connor could see his neck.
Connor felt chills go through him as he saw the four tiny holes, already healing over, on Duncan’s throat.
"She drank your blood, killed you ?"
"Yes, apparently she did. Help me up, would you?"
Connor extended a hand, pulled Duncan to his feet. He watched as the younger man searched the alleyway, every corner, every shadow, coming up with nothing, before finally returning to stand in front of Connor.
"What in hell happened to me, Connor? What was she?"
Connor rested a hand on Duncan’s shoulder before once again staring off into the darkness. "I think, my friend, that you just had a run in with a vampire."
"You think they exist, then?"
Connor gestured towards Duncan’s throat. "That should answer your question."
Duncan nodded and rubbed at his throat. "Well, I hope I never run into her again."
Connor chuckled.
"What?"
Connor smiled and shook his head. "I just hope that if you ever do run into her again, that I’m there to see the expression on her face."
"Just as long as you don’t let her bite me again."
Connor chuckled again. "Agreed."
Part 2
********
Paris, 2001
Dusk had settled over the city like a warm, dark blanket, the netherwhere of twilight deepening into night. The muted sound of automobiles and street noise came faintly to Gabrielle’s ears, the hum of the thoughts of the multitudes brushing softly at the edges of her perception. She leaned against the cemetery fencing, the bars cold even to her hands in the Paris winter.
The bloodthirst was strong now, heightening her senses. She liked it that way, the desire for blood singing wildly in her veins, the anticipation only serving to sweeten the experience when she finally made her kill. And she would kill tonight, that was a certainty. She was just waiting for the right victim to come along.
The fortunes had deigned to smile on her this evening. She took a step back, then cleared the tall iron fence in one supernatural leap. She wasn’t going to have to wait. There was already someone here, someone who would suit her purposes just fine.
She could hear the mortal, a man, weeping softly near the middle of the cemetery. She reached out with her mind, touched his thoughts briefly, enough to gain a glimpse of a woman with reddish blonde hair, laughing in the memory. She was dead, this mortal’s love, and he was crying over her grave. All the better. She didn’t feel like putting up with a struggle tonight and maybe the man would welcome the oblivion of her embrace.
Gabrielle wound her way through the headstones and crypts, stopping when she was about ten feet behind him, hidden in the shadow of a vault. He was kneeling in front of the headstone, head bowed. From her vantage point she could see that he had short, wavy brown hair, but that was about it. The rest of him was covered in a trenchcoat that pooled on the ground about his feet and knees, obscuring his body. He stayed in that position for several minutes, shoulders shaking in grief, until he finally straightened up, getting to his feet and breathing a single word, a name, two syllables of anguish.
“Tessa.”
He turned to leave then, his face awash in moonlight, and Gabrielle froze, stunned. The passing of one hundred and eighteen years had not dimmed the memory of her beautiful Scot, his features still crystal clear in her mind. But she had killed him, had felt the last resonating beat of his heart. The man before her now could only bear the Scot’s resemblance and nothing more. His looks only increased her desire to have him.
She stepped away from the vault, then, directly into his path, waiting for him to notice her. He didn’t at first, his vision still blurred with tears, but then he came to an abrupt stop, dragging the back of one hand across his eyes and shaking his head as though in denial.
“You!” The word erupted from him, full of disbelief and menace. “You’ll no’ have as easy a time of it this time, demon!” He half jumped backwards, his right hand reaching inside his coat.
It took a moment for Gabrielle to realize that he recognized her, then another moment for her to reach the highly impossible, but only plausible conclusion that this man was her Scotsman from so long ago, alive still and clearly not happy to see her again. How he could still be alive was a mystery to her, but she knew that stranger things had happened. She was a vampire after all.
Metal gleaming caught her eye and her attention was brought to the weapon he now brandished in front of her. A sword of all things. What did he think this was, the Middle Ages? But she decided that she had better be wary of him nonetheless. He stood and held the katana like he new how to use it and she had no desire to lose a limb this night.
She gave him a wide smile, knowing that her fang teeth were showing, delighting in the fear she felt in him. She spread her hands out to the sides, showing that she was unarmed, feeling satisfaction as he took another step back from her.
“Ah, mon ami, my lovely Scot, I killed you once already. I’m here to do it again.”
“This is holy ground, you’re no’ supposed to be able to come on holy ground.” He gestured with the sword, his eyes never leaving her, his stance expectant.
She shrugged delicately. “Rubbish, figments of a writer’s imagination.” She watched him carefully, waiting for a safe opening.
“Och, then wha’ does that make you?” His brogue had thickened with nervousness but his stance never wavered. If anything, he had settled into battle mode with a practiced ease.
She laughed softly. “No more fictional than a man coming back from the dead, eh, cherie?”
He inclined his head as though conceding the point and she chose that moment to strike. No matter how well trained he was with that oversized kitchen knife he carried, she had supernatural swiftness and strength at her disposal. The sword flew out of his hand as her foot connected with his wrist, his face a portrait of astonishment as she spun him around to pin him against the vault, her hands imprisoning his against the cold cement, her body holding his to the wall.
“Ah, Duncan, this would be sweet and pleasurable if you wouldn’t fight me. Let me love you, Duncan, my bonnie man, let me love you to death.”
*********
That she remembered his name surprised him, and for some strange reason, pleased him as well. He met her gaze unflinching, memory surging back of the last time she had held him thus, and he knew that it would be useless to fight her. It galled him that a woman had the upper hand, was stronger than he, but he reminded himself that she was no mortal woman, but a vampire, with inhuman strength and agility at her disposal. He sighed deep in his throat when her lips touched his, part of him wanting to pull away in revulsion, another part still drawn to her as strongly as he had been that first time he had seen her.
Ah, Connor, where are you? You promised me you wouldn’t let her bite me again.
She whispered his name against his lips, feathered kisses along his jaw line to breathe warmly in his ear. He felt her slide his hands up alongside his head, then she released them, burying her cool fingers in the short length of his hair, turning his head to the side and exposing the vulnerable expanse of his neck. She ran her tongue lightly down the side of his neck, sending warm shivers throughout his body, before pausing over the artery, where his pulse beat fast and strong. He tensed, waiting for her to sink her teeth in, but she didn’t, she just rested her lips against his throat, making small circles with the tip of her tongue.
Of their own volition, his arms wrapped around her, his hands sliding up her back to twine in her long blonde hair, pressing her closer to him. Despite the chill winter air, he felt heat suffuse his entire body and with a sigh of resignation he leaned into her, tilting his head back, surrendering himself to her.
After all, there are worse ways to die.
He heard her chuckle softly, then felt his skin give as her teeth gained entry, but incredibly, there was no pain. He could feel the pull in his veins as she took his blood, his nerve endings suddenly afire with pleasure. He sagged into her embrace, unable to hold himself up as waves of ecstasy rolled through him, consuming him, dragging him into a maelstrom of bliss. She pulled away from him to look into his eyes, blood staining her lips scarlet, and he whimpered in protest, dragging her head back to his neck, gasping in pleasure pain as she fastened her teeth into him once more. He heard his heart beating loudly in his ears, slower now, weakening fast, and his vision began to blur. He made one last sharp inhalation, his heartbeat ceasing, before he sank into warm blackness.
*********
Methos tapped his fingers idly on the steering wheel, then looked at his watch again. He realized that it was Christmas, that MacLeod always spent part of Christmas Day at Tessa’s grave, grieving himself into a maudlin depression, but it had been over and hour now and it was quite late. It had been eight years since the woman’s death and Methos figured that by now Mac should have gotten over the worst of it, at least enough to not turn himself into a melancholy sot every year. There was a really good movie on the television later on that night and Methos didn’t want to miss it. Besides that, he wanted a beer.
He looked as his watch yet again, decided that more than enough time had passed and popped the car door open, shivering as cool air invaded the warm interior. If Methos didn’t go into the cemetery and get him, MacLeod would probably sit there in morose abjection all night and he’d have to thaw the Scot out in the morning. He climbed out of the car, thinking that leaving the man to turn into a Scotsicle might very well serve him right, but he knew that if the circumstances were reversed, Mac would come drag him home, so he squashed the thought.
Out of habit, he plucked his sword out the backseat. Holy ground or no, he wasn’t going unarmed. He secured it inside his coat, then shut the car door so all the heat wouldn’t escape. Humming softly under his breath, he strode up to the cemetery gates and pushed them open. It was then that it dawned on him that he couldn’t feel the buzz of another Immortal nearby, that he couldn’t feel Mac. Which meant that Mac was dead. But no lightshow, no explosions, no sensing any other Immortals nearby, which meant that Mac still had his head...hopefully.
Now what in hell has happened?
Panic lent wings to his feet as he raced through the cemetery, repetition from years past taking him unerringly to Tessa’s grave. But no Mac.
He paused then, catching his breath, wondering where Mac would have gone, when he spied a still form lying on the ground in the shadow of a vault. He approached cautiously, sword drawn, knowing it was Mac and sighing in relief when he confirmed that Mac’s head was still where it was supposed to be.
He knelt down next to his friend, trying to ascertain what had killed him. It wasn’t until he thought to check for a pulse that he noticed the bite marks on Mac’s neck. He laid his sword on the ground beside him and pulled Mac up so that Mac’s head rested on Methos’ knees, turning Mac’s head so that the moonlight shone on the four tiny wounds. He felt the hackles on his own neck rise and he quickly scanned the area around them, knowing, somehow, that the assailant wasn’t gone.
Vampire.
He recognized the marks, if not from the myriad movies, from his own experience. He’d seen them before, usually on peasants, their bodies left carelessly outside their homes. But it had been a long time since his last encounter with a vampire, somewhere around the turn of the century, and coincidentally also in Paris. He’d run into a few before that, but the last one had scared him, if anything could scare a five thousand year old man, and if he never saw that one again it would be too soon.
Mac suddenly inhaled, a sharp gasping breath, his head moving back and forth as though searching. Methos leaned over him, waiting for him to become fully aware, not wanting to do anything that would startle him.
“Mac,” he whispered softly, seeing MacLeod’s eye snap open at the sound of his name. But instead of the leftover terror he expected to see in Mac’s eyes, there was something else, something akin to a yearning expression.
“Where’d she go?” he asked hoarsely, pushing himself up to sitting, accidentally digging one elbow painfully into Methos’ thigh in the process.
“Ow, careful, Mac!” Methos rubbed at his leg, then stood and helped his friend to his feet, scooping his sword up along the way. “She? It was a female vampire that attacked you?”
Mac eyed him expectantly, absently rubbing his neck. “Why do you not seem surprised?”
Methos just shrugged. “You try living five thousand years and see if you don’t have a run in or two with a vampire along the way. Don’t look so shocked. Did you think that we were the only kind of immortals that existed?”
“Well, maybe not, but I hadn’t exactly expected vampires of all things.”
“’There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio...’” Methos had the grace to look slightly sheepish as Mac glared at him. “Sorry. But really, are vampires any harder to believe in than people who can’t die except by having their heads chopped off?”
“That’s just about what she said, too.”
Methos was taken aback. “Really. And how did she know that you couldn’t die, unless...I take it this isn’t the first time you’ve met her?”
Mac shook his head. “No. The first time, was, oh, a little over a hundred years ago, Texas.” His eyes grew distant for a moment, remembering. “Connor was there.” He suddenly smiled. “He wanted to see the look on her face if I ever ran into her again. Too bad he missed it.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll tell him all about it when you see him next week.” Methos looked nervously around the cemetery again, still feeling eyes on them. “Come on, Mac, let’s get out of here, get home, and you can tell me all about your lady friend with the sharp teeth.”
Mac nodded, walking over to retrieve his sword where it lay on the ground, before turning back to Methos. “She’s still here, isn’t she? Somewhere nearby? I can feel her.”
“So can I. But look at it from her point of view. If you thought you had killed someone, then ran into them again umpteen years later, then killed them again, wouldn’t you stick around to see if they rose from the dead again?”
“Yes.”
“All right then.” Methos didn’t like the look on his friend’s face. When Mac had realized the vampire was still in the vicinity he had looked almost hopeful. He grabbed Mac’s arm, surprised when his friend failed to move. “Unless you would rather stick around and let her kill you a third time?”
The only response that garnered was Mac looking earnestly around the cemetery again.
“Oh for gods’ sake Mac!” Methos yanked on his friend’s arm and began to drag Mac toward the gates, looking over his shoulder one last time, knowing they were being watched. He thought he saw movement at the far end of the cemetery, thought he saw a flash of blonde hair, then it was gone and the feeling of presence vanished. He turned his attention back toward the matter at hand, still feeling uneasy, and knowing that he wouldn’t be able to let his guard down until they were both safely home.
Part 3
**********
Paris, 2001, later that evening
When Gabrielle walked through the broken down door of the old chateau she could sense that there was someone already there. Another vampire, in her home, in her territory. She froze in the doorway, reaching out to touch the mind of the intruder and finding only blankness, relaxing a little at the implication. The only vampire whose mind was closed to her was that of her Maker, which meant that the one laying in wait for her had to be Lestat.
She followed the feeling of presence, through the high ceilinged main room, opening a side door to the chamber she had claimed as her own. A fire burned merrily in the hearth, illuminating walls lined with bookshelves, the firelight playing crazily off the crystal chandelier that still dangled above. The chair by the hearth had its high back to her and she could see denim clad legs stretching out from it, booted feet resting on the ottoman. She shrugged out of her black leather coat, carefully laying it across the small table nearby, before settling herself into the wingbacked chair near the bookshelves.
"So, Lestat, to what do I owe the honor of your presence?" she asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
The booted feet hit the wood floor with a thud as he leaned around the side of the chair, long blonde hair falling errantly across his too handsome face, the deathly whiteness of his skin accentuated by the firelight. A crooked smile curled his lip, his blue eyes bright with humor.
"Ah, mother, it’s Christmas! It would be remiss of me as a son to not pay my own flesh and blood a visit on the holidays, would it not?"
She gave a short bark of laughter. "Since when do you do anything that convention would expect of you?"
He stood up and crossed the room to her, kneeling by her feet and taking her hands in his own, his face the picture of innocence. But innocent he was not, and hadn’t been for a couple of centuries. She looked down at him and gave him a halfhearted smile, before her gaze swung back to the fire, the vision of her Scotsman still in her head.
"Something is troubling you, mother. Care to tell me what it is?"
She felt him squeeze her hands lightly and she turned her attention back to him. He always had been perceptive when it came to her moods, too perceptive at times, but she didn’t mind this time. She had to tell someone about her strange Scot and Lestat had been around. Maybe he could shed some light on the mystery, or at least tell her that seeing mortals rise from the dead was a sign of early vampire senility.
"There’s a man, a mortal, that I killed over a hundred years ago." She stopped, her eyes unfocused as she remembered the first time she had see the Scot, so long ago, in Texas.
"And?"
Gabrielle shook her head, clearing the vision, before staring her son straight in the eyes to let him know she was being serious. "I killed him again tonight." She waited for him to say something, to tell her she was crazy, to offer some kind of explanation, but he just stayed silent, holding her gaze. She sighed in irritation. "Tell me, Lestat, do you know of any mortals who cannot be killed, who rise from the dead?"
He was silent for several moments, then finally asked, his tone curious, "Did he carry a sword?"
She gave him an incredulous look. "Yes, he did. How did you know?"
"The headhunters." Lestat stood abruptly, striding over to stand in front of the fire. He leaned on the mantle, his back to Gabrielle.
Gabrielle stood too, moving over to stand behind Lestat. "The what?"
"Headhunters." He turned to face her and she could see the slightly amused expression on his face. "They’re not mortal. They run around chopping each other’s heads off, it’s the only way they can be killed. It’s some kind of game to them."
"How do you know this?"
"Tried to make a meal out of one of them about a hundred years ago. Unfortunately I was still there when he woke up. Scared the hell out of me, too. At least you had quite a few years in between the time you killed him and the time you saw him next. Try having what you thought was a corpse come back to life on you and explain in no uncertain terms that he was really not appreciative of being killed by you. He already knew that we existed."
"Well, this one didn’t." She walked away from him then, grabbing her coat off the table and slipping it on, a single thought running through her head.
A human that could not die.
"Where are you going?"
She halted, her back to him. She could feel his eyes on her, knew that despite his devil may care attitude he was concerned for her. "I have to find him."
"What? Have you become infatuated with him, mother?" Lestat gave a derisive laugh.
She whirled around to face him, something in between hope and pain welling inside her. "Think of it, Lestat. A human that cannot die!"
Lestat shook his head, his eyes sympathetic. "He’s no more human than you are."
She nodded jerkily, smiling tightly. "I know. That’s what I’m counting on."
*********
Seacouver, 2002, New Year’s Day
Duncan heaved the safety gate upward, striding into the loft and carelessly throwing his duffel bag somewhere toward the vicinity of the couch. He stood motionless for several moments, surveying the large room with shadowed eyes, not feeling at all welcome, and with sudden clarity knowing why.
It’s empty, soooo empty.
"Hi, honey, I’m home!" His voice echoed eerily through the room, sounding vaguely sinister, but there was no answer. No joyful cry at his return, no one throwing themselves into his arms, no one to leave messes for him to clean up. Nothing. They were all gone now, and he was alone.
He hated being alone.
Oh, sure, later on that evening Methos would show up, ostensibly to visit, but really just to raid his refrigerator. Duncan made a mental note to pick up some beer, lest Methos be affronted over the lack of hospitality. And Connor was supposed to stop by too. He hadn’t seen his kinsman for several years, so when Connor had called him and told him he was going to be in this neck of the woods around the New Year, Duncan had leaped at the chance to visit his old friend. But Connor was a loner, preferring not to get involved. Connor kept his distance even from those he cared about, and despite their close ties, their relationship didn’t do much to soothe the ache of loneliness in his heart that had started with Tessa’s death and widened when Richie had left.
And Methos. Well, Methos was just, well, Methos. Probably his best friend in the whole damned world, but not someone he could share the beautiful things in life with. Not someone he could get close to both mentally and physically. And definitely not someone he could cherish and comfort in the night.
He wasn’t sure if he would ever have that again. He was not a masochist by nature, and the pain of losing someone you loved that deeply....How many times had he gone through this already? Debra, Little Dear, Tessa. All he really wanted was someone he could spend the rest of his life with. An image of Amanda filled his mind, laughing, loving, getting herself into trouble. There was a part of him that still loved Amanda deeply, but he knew that he could never be truly happy knowing that one day it might come down to one of them taking the other’s head.
There can be only one.
It was a damning phrase. Damning them all to an existence of loneliness and fear, hatred and paranoia. And no one as yet had figured out the point of it all.
He sighed heavily, glancing once more around the dark and empty room. He could feel the walls closing in on him now and with a muttered oath he turned and strode back to the elevator, knowing he had to get out of that depressing place, at least until this evening. He decided that now would be a good time to get the beer.
It was almost dark when he returned to the loft. As the elevator came to a grinding stop, the familiar buzz of a nearby Immortal played through his head. Logic told him it was probably Connor or Methos, but caution had his sword drawn before he lifted the safety gate, his fears banished when he heard the familiar English accented voice.
"Ah, the other MacLeod! That is beer you have in that bag, right? Your refrigerator is woefully lacking."
Methos greeted him at the gate, plucking the bag out of his hands and fishing in it for a beer, tossing one across the room to Connor, who lounged in a chair in front of the television, before crossing into the kitchen and depositing the rest in the fridge. He returned with one in hand for himself, then sprawled elegantly across most of the couch.
"I hope you don’t mind," Connor said, "but we let ourselves in."
Duncan shrugged. "As a friend once told me, ‘Mi casa es su casa’." The room didn’t seem as disheartening now and Duncan felt his mood brightening. He crossed the room quickly, enveloping Connor in a bear hug, lifting the shorter man off his feet.
"Ok, ok, Duncan, put me down before you break something!"
Duncan complied, slapping the older man on the back. "It’s good to see you, Connor!"
"It’s good to see you too, Duncan!" Connor’s smile suddenly faded, his eyes filling with sympathy. "I’m sorry about Tessa."
Duncan swallowed around the sudden lump in this throat and gave Connor a curt nod. "How did you find out?"
"Richie told me, several years ago."
Duncan felt the ache in his chest coming back at the mention of Richie. "Yes, he told me that he had run into you then." After the Dark Quickening, after Richie had fled for his life from Duncan, Richie had come across Connor during that time he had spent on his own. "Have you seen him lately?" Duncan had to ask, had to know if the boy was all right.
Connor nodded. "About a year ago."
"Did he tell you what happened?"
Connor met Duncan’s gaze squarely. There was no condemnation there, no blame. "Yes."
"I actually thought I’d killed him, until I realized it was only Ahriman trying to drive me over the edge." But by then it had been too late. Richie had been able to forgive him once, but this last attempt to take his head, even though Duncan had thought he was a demon, had shattered the trust between them forever, and Duncan hadn’t seen Richie since. In the end, it was probably better that way, for Richie’s sake.
"Your friend Adam here tells me that you had another run in with the lovely Gabrielle."
Duncan unconsciously rubbed at his neck. "Yeah, you weren’t there to make good on your promise to keep her from biting me again."
"Heh, heh, heh. Was she surprised, to see you again?"
"Very."
"I wish I could have seen that." Connor’s expression suddenly became serious, his eyes darkening as he looked at Duncan. "Unfortunately, you have other problems."
Duncan knew that look, knew that whatever news Connor had to impart on him was of a deadly nature. "What? Or maybe I should say, who?"
Connor took a long drink of his beer before answering. "There’s an Immortal looking for you. Wants your head something bad."
Duncan laughed mirthlessly. "So what’s new?"
"This Immortal is a woman. Rumor is she’s looking for revenge."
There was a chuckle from the direction of the couch. "Amanda must have found out you cancelled your credit cards."
"Me--Adam!"
Methos held his hands out in a warding off gesture. "Sorry. So, Connor, what is this woman’s name?"
"She calls herself Talitha."
Beer spewed out of Methos’ mouth, causing the two MacLeod’s to stare at him in undisguised interest. He coughed and spluttered for several seconds, but Duncan could see that it wasn’t humor that had brought that reaction in his friend. Quite the opposite. Methos looked stunned.
Methos finally composed himself enough to ask chokingly, "Did you say Talitha?"
"Yes." Connor set his beer on the table and leaned forward in his chair. "You know of her?"
Methos closed his eyes briefly, letting out a loud exhalation of air before looking at Duncan with what could be considered panic in his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know of her."
Duncan was getting impatient. "Well, who is she then? Why would she want revenge against me?"
Methos was silent for so long that Duncan moved to stand in front of him, glaring menacingly. "Well?"
Methos sighed, then finally answered. "She’s Kronos’ wife."
"What!?" This in unison from both MacLeod’s. Then, from Connor:
"What kind of insane woman would ever love that butcher?"
Duncan was surprised. From Connor’s comment, he obviously knew who Kronos was, but Duncan had been unaware of this little tidbit. "You knew Kronos?"
"I wouldn’t exactly say I knew him." Anger flashed through Connor’s eyes, his nostrils flaring. "But the bastard killed some people I cared greatly about, tortured another Immortal, a woman named Cassandra that I knew." He gave Duncan a penetrating look. "Please tell me this woman wants revenge because you killed the sick sonofabitch. He got away from me."
"I did."
"Good." Connor turned his gaze to Methos. "How do you know of him?"
Methos swallowed hard, his eyes pleading with Duncan to not say anything. Duncan gave him an imperceptible nod. "I, uhm, had a few run ins with the bastard myself. I was there when Duncan killed him."
"But you knew this Talitha woman?"
"Yes. Unbelievable as it may sound, she really did love him."
Connor made a disgusted noise. "I still would like to know how any woman could fall in love with a raping, murdering bastard."
Methos looked away from him, his eyes fixing on a spot somewhere over Duncan’s head. Duncan could see the pain that flashed through his friend’s eyes, the tightness in his face as Methos replied, "Oh, it can happen, even to the best of women."
Connor snorted, still unbelieving. "So, is she any good with a sword?"
Methos jerked his head back toward Connor. "Sorry?"
"Is she any good? Can Duncan beat her?"
Methos smiled wryly. "Yes, and maybe. Kronos trained her. She’s been alive a long time. She’s good, very good, better than Kronos was. The only kind of woman he would have had any respect for was one who could kill him if she wanted to." He sighed and stared at Duncan. "But that’s not the main problem. He is." He gestured toward Duncan with his beer bottle.
"Me?" Duncan was offended.
"You. You and your overblown sense of honor over killing a woman. Even if you can beat her, you won’t be able to bring yourself to kill her. The eternal boy scout, that’s what you are."
"I’ll kill her if I have to."
"You’ll have to."
"Why?" The idea of killing what he considered the gentler sex, Immortal or no, had never set well with Duncan. If there was any way to leave the woman alive, despite her poor choice in men, he would.
Methos set his beer down and stood up, moving to stand directly in front of Duncan, staring straight into Duncan’s eyes. "Because, MacLeod, if you don’t kill her, she will kill you. And you, my friend, are too important to lose."
Copyright 2000 by kyrdwynCDC