Immortal Beloved

by C. E. Murphy

  Methos pressed the attack, unwilling to let the advantage go. Too tall to effectively step inside Aroz’s reach and still leave himself room to manuever, he met a strike or two with quick parries, watching nicks fly from the edges of his blade as the two swords met. A third blow he deflected badly, deliberately, and crashed to his knees, leaving himself open and vulnerable.

  Aroz grinned in triumph, a flash of white against his pain-etched dark face. He took two running steps forward, sword lifted high for the final strike.

  Methos flicked his free hand to his belt, whipping out the horn table knife he wore there, and shoved it into Aroz’s abdomen, just above the pelvis, halting the charge. Aroz staggered, shocked, and Methos rolled out of danger’s way, to his feet, the knife in his hand. While the other Immortal swayed, Methos smashed his blade against Aroz’s wrist, severing tendons. The steel sword fell to the sand. Aroz followed it, to his knees. Methos took a breath, and swung his sword back to deal the killing blow.

  “No!” Ghean’s scream made both men jerk, looking up. Methos’ sword stopped, a breath from Aroz’s neck. Ghean fell down the dune, unable to keep her feet, sliding to a halt a few feet from Methos. “Methos, no, please, don’t. Please. I’ve known him all my life. I don’t want him to die.”

  Methos rested his sword at the joint between neck and shoulder, holding it steady and not taking his eyes from Aroz. “May I point out,” he said, a little shortly, “that he was just trying to kill me?”

  “He won’t do it again. Will you, Aroz? Please? Please promise me. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want either of you to die. Promise you won’t try to kill Methos. Please?” The words rushed out of the young woman, desperate.

  For a long moment there was silence, broken by the harsh breathing of both warriors. Finally, Aroz inclined his head in agreement. Methos crouched and picked up the steel blade, leaving his own sword still at Aroz’s neck.

  “Spoils of war,” he said thinly. “Care to argue?” He waited a few seconds, then straightened again, throwing his bronze sword to the sand. “I didn’t think so.” He turned to stalk up the shifting sand dunes. Behind him, Ghean hesitated, looking at Aroz. Then she turned to run after Methos, catching up with him in a few steps.

  “Methos?” she whispered.

  “I told you to go back to the town,” he growled.

  Ghean flinched, but lifted her chin. “I couldn’t. Not with the two of you fighting. I couldn’t bear to lose either of you.”

  Methos shoved the steel blade into his belt and glared down at her. “You shouldn’t have interefered. It’s what we do, Ghean. I told you that.”

  “I couldn’t sit back and do nothing,” she insisted. Her eyes were angry in the reaching light of the town’s fires. Looking at her, Methos felt his own anger beginning to fade. He kept quiet until they reached his tent, and he held the door flap aside for her.

  “I don’t suppose you could have,” he said then, tiredly. He sat down on the carpeted floor, cross-legged, withdrawing the blade from his belt again. For a moment he tilted it, studying the workmanship, and then found a cloth to rub over it, bringing more gleam to the metal. “But Ghean, you have to promise me. Next time, you can’t interfere. It’s one of our Rules. No mortal observers, no interference once a battle is met. Promise me.”

  Ghean sat down across from him, pulling her hair over her shoulder and tugging on it while she considered him. “No,” she said, finally. Methos looked up, surprised. “I can’t promise. I can’t imagine letting you fight to your death if I could prevent it. So I won’t promise.” Her chin set defiantely.

  Methos started at her a moment, then laughed, setting the blade aside and placing his hands on either side of her face. Too late, he noticed the blood still staining his skin, from stabbing Aroz. Ghean noticed it as well, and he waited for her to cringe.

  Instead, she lifted her small hands to cover his, with a steady strength. “I love you,” she said. “I can’t promise not to interfere.”

  Methos couldn’t stop the smile that worked its way across his face. “You are an impossible woman.”

  “I am,” she agreed. “I have to be. I’m going to marry a man who’s much more impossible than I am.” She picked up the sword to set it aside, then reached for the knife Methos had put back in his belt. “Let’s put these away for the night,” she whispered, “and find a less war-like way to distract ourselves.”

  Methos’ smile turned into a grin. “If you insist.”

  Chapter 9

  Lights came up slowly in the auditorium, giving the audience time to adjust. Ghean took the time to scan the hall, searching for the Immortal she’d sensed when she came onstage. The crowd shifted, collecting coats and bags in preparation for departure. A few of the more curious made their way forward to the stage, for a question-and-answer session. Ghean ignored them for a few moments, searching for the seats that had been abandoned at the beginning of her lecture. A couple from that section of the house came up to the stage, but there was no warning from them; whomever had left had almost certainly been the Immortal who triggered the warning. Ghean tapped her thumb against pursed lips, building the glimpse she’d caught of the trio leaving into a more solid image.

  Three men, all tall, the patient one recounted. All with short hair. One had an awkward gait, as if he’d been injured. That’s probably not our man. The second was slender, and the third taller than the other two, and wider of shoulder. One of the last two.

  Ghean nodded faintly, unaware of the motion. One of the second two, she agreed. Not much to go on. She glanced at the convening group on the stage, then beckoned Michael onstage from where he stood in the wings. “Could you field the questions for me?” she asked. “I think I caught sight of an old friend in the audience, and I’d like to try to catch up with him.”

  Michael, not tall himself, smiled down at her. “Of course. I keep telling you that you don’t get out enough. Go catch up. Don’t forget the flight leaves at eleven tomorrow morning.”

  Ghean grinned. “If I got out more, I wouldn’t have dedicated my entire life to this dig and we wouldn’t have found Atlantis yet.” She stood on tip-toe, kissing Michael’s cheek. He blushed clear to the top of his shiny head, and Ghean grinned again. “I’ll be at the airport with bells on,” she promised, then hurried backstage. The clunky, thick-soled shoes she wore for the lecture added much-needed height, but they were impractical for wandering Chicago streets at night. She kicked them off, pulling on black Keds, not bothering to untie them first. Being small makes them underestimate us, the patient one reminded her. We can fight to compensate for it.

  I know, she answered irritably. That doesn’t mean I like it. At least in Atlantis the women didn’t tower over me, too. She pulled her coat off the back of a chair, and pushed open the stage door, frowning thoughtfully down the hall as she went up to the main lobby. A bored youth sat behind the ticket booth, head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling. Ghean grinned. “Excuse me?”

  The boy jerked upright, guiltily. “What? Yes? Uhm, yes ma’am. What can I do for you?”

  Ghean gestured loosely at the door. “A trio of men left just after the lecture began. Did you see them, by any chance?”

  The kid nodded. “Yeah. Three of ‘em, an old guy and a couple others. The old guy walked funny.”

  Ghean inclined her head. “That’s them. Did you happen to see which way they went?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head. “They just headed out. The guy with the nose didn’t look very happy. Oh, hey, he said somethin’ about findin’ a bar or a coffee shop or something. Does that help?”

  Ghean’s eyebrows quirked and she laughed. “The guy with the nose?” She laughed again, shaking her head. “It does help, thank you.” She began to turn away, then reconsidered, looking back. “Was one of them wearing a long coat, kind of like mine?” She moved her hands in her pockets, making the tails of her trenchcoat swing.

  “Two of them,” the kid supplied helpfully. “The young guys. Hope you f
ind them. Hey.” He squinted at her. “Did you really find Atlantis?”

  Ghean paused again, smiling. “I really did.”

  “How do you know it’s really Atlantis?”

  Carefree, Ghean grinned. “I was born there.” She dropped the boy a wink, and crossed the lobby to walk out into the Chicago night.

  Wind knocked hair into her eyes instantly, and she pushed it out of the way absently, walking away from the University. The streets were quiet, a steady drizzle beginning to fall as the last cars left from the lecture.

  Whomever it was doesn’t want to meet up with us, the patient one said. Perhaps he’s young, and doesn’t want to risk a battle. Ghean pressed her elbow against the hilt of her sword, hidden beneath her coat.

  Maybe, she said, but I don’t want a fight, just to talk. I want to see why he left.

  It could be dangerous! the frightened voice broke in.

  Ghean shrugged dismissively. I’ve had training, even taken a head or two. We’ll be fine. It had only been a very few heads the small woman had taken. The Watcher files had proved very useful, and Ghean didn’t want to risk her ability to rejoin the Watchers at some point if she needed their knowledge again. The only battles she’d fought had been after making absolutely sure the Immortals had no Watchers nearby. Idly, she lifted a hand to touch the pendant of her necklace.

  -o-O-o-

  The vault the Methos Chronicles were kept in was dusty, not impressive. Ghean scowled at the lower left-hand corner, crouched to peer under the stacks. The shelving was far too deep to just reach back and feel for the crack that would indicate where the safe Methos had cut out would be. Bringing a mop into the vault would be noted. Ghean swore softly, and batted at the dust, then sighed and crawled under the shelving. Even with a flashlight, it took several minutes of squirming to find the edges where the stone had been cut. Ghean sneezed. How the hell did he expect me to pull this out? There’s no handholds, no grooves. I’m not as strong as he is.

  He didn’t expect you to at all, the patient one said helpfully. He thinks you’re dead.

  Oh, shut up. Ghean gained a tiny purchase against the stone, pulling back without success. Her fingers slid off the sharp corner, skin tearing.

  Trapped! the frightened one screamed. Trapped again! Forever and ever in the darkness again! We should have stayed! Atlantis was safe, we knew Atlantis! Now we’re trapped again!

  Ghean shuddered violently, biting back a panicked scream as she flung her arms up, hiding her face. Trapped!

  We are not trapped. For the first time, the patient voice sounded impatient. Roll backwards. We’re safe. There are answers to mysteries behind that stone, but we are not behind that stone. We’re safe. We won’t ever be trapped again. Now try again. We’re fine. It subsided into a grumbling silence.

  Ghean, trembling, unwound her arms, and tried a second time to pull the stone out. The struggle flew back and forth within her mind, practicality and fear shouting at each other until her own thoughts were all but drowned. When the stone abruptly came free, it shocked both voices into silence, and Ghean dropped her head against the stone floor in relief.

  Gods, you’re loud, she muttered, then wiggled backwards to pull the stone further out. It came out smoothly, once there was enough to get a grip on. Ghean brushed dust out of her eyes, studying the stone for a few seconds.

  Time had distorted her memories too far to be sure, but she was fairly certain the lump of rock would have been too heavy for her mortal self to move, centuries ago. I don’t have any idea what a normal strength is anymore, she realized. I’m no Atlas, but I don’t think a woman my size should have been able to move that.

  Greater endurance, greater strength, more developed senses, the patient one said. We are more than human. Not as great as a god, but greater than mortal.

  Ghean rubbed a dirty hand over her face, picking up her flashlight, and crawled forward into the space left by the stone. I know, but why? Maybe when I’ve found Atlantis and we’ve had our revenge I can become a doctor, study what makes us the way we are … . The gap went back about three feet, more area than the stone she’d dragged out took, though there was nothing visibly set into the space. She lowered the flashlight, running her fingers over the floor, setting her teeth to ignore the screaming frightened voice. Too familiar, the search for imperfections. Shivering, she almost missed the thin bump in the floor. In a moment, she was able to lever the box out of the floor, and back up with it, flashlight clutched in her other hand.

  She shoved the stone back into its resting place as quickly as she could, then sat on the floor of the vault, running her fingers over the Atlantean box. It took several minutes to find the subtle depressions where pressure would open the box, and she held her breath as it quietly clicked open.

  An envelope lay at the end of the box, and two delicate velvet bags lay atop it. Ghean picked up the larger, working it open uncertainly, and turning it to spill its contents into her palm.

  A silver chain tumbled out, drawing with it a pendant painful in its familiarity. Minyah’s pendant, the symbol of House Aries, was blackened with time, the silver uncleaned in at least a century, but even so Ghean was certain it was her mother’s original necklace. She slipped it on, fingers clutching the pendant. Even the voices were silent as she clung to the necklace, shivering every once in a while with memory.

  Eventually she worked open the second bag. A gold ring, etched with the stamp of House Leo, fell into her palm, and she smiled a little. What little had been saved from Atlantis, it seemed, was now hers. She slipped it on over her thumb, where it fit snugly.

  Methos’ handwriting spelled out her name on the outside of the envelope, written in Atlantean as the other note had been. She slowly lifted it, still hardly breathing. It cracked open, and she withdrew the note carefully. A key fell with it, and she caught it quickly, scanning the note.

  The key is to a safe-deposit box at the Bank of England, in London. Minyah’s Watcher papers are there, detailing the first fifty years of the Watchers. The family name they’re under is Lazarus; I couldn’t help myself. Someday my sense of humour is going to get me in trouble. There’s a bank account associated with the name. I didn’t put much money in it, but I made the deposit in 1720. I rather expect it’s built up. I imagine I’ll use it someday, since I’ve got the other key to the safe-deposit box, and you’ve been dead forty-five centuries.

  The things we do for old lovers.

  Again, there was no signature. It was dated the same year as the note Ghean’d found in the book, 1845. Ghean sat, re-reading the words, and finally let out a breath. “Well,” she whispered, “I hope all that money is still there. I’d like to be rich.” She tucked the box under her arm, and stood, trying to brush some of the grime off her clothes as she left the vault.

  -o-O-o-

  Ghean turned the pendant again, splashing as she made her way down the street. If we were running away to hide in a bar, the patient one said, we’d find a bar with a bolthole.

  Our shy friend might not be that clever, she replied, but nodded anyway, lifting a hand to tuck damp hair behind her ear. She crossed the street, continuing up the block to walk under a streetlamp that sputtered on and off with a faint electric hum. A rag-tag sign hung above a door in the wall, and she backed up to read the sign, resting her hand on the doorknob.

  The rush of nausea hit her so fast she jerked back, yanking her hand off the doorknob as though it had caused the sudden illness. She backed up, staring at the door, and then a quick smile flashed over her face. She glanced both ways down the street, almost missing the alley a few yards further on in the dark and rain. Grinning, she walked down the alley to lean on the wall several feet from the bar’s back door.

  -o-O-o-

  Methos broke off his story mid-word, an expression of intent assessment on his face. Duncan’s eyebrows rose, and he leaned out of his booth, glancing through the dim bar at the front door in obvious expectation. Joe groaned. “Another one?”

  Methos
swung out of the booth, pulling a fistful of money from his pocket and throwing it on the table. “Come on,” he said, looking over his shoulder nervously.

  “Life with him is never dull,” Duncan murmured to Joe as they both slid out of the booth.

  “Not if you like running away,” Joe agreed.

  Methos began pushing his way to the back door, using his elbows liberally to clear the path. “A very wise man once said there’s no problem so big you can’t run away from it, Joe.”

  “Who was that?” Joe grinned. “You?”

  “His name was Trent.” Methos opened the back door, gesturing Duncan and Joe through before him.

  -o-O-o-

  Ghean grinned again as the door swung open. So I was right, she thought, the phrase borrowed from words her mother had often used, centuries past. That is always satisfying. She tilted her head a little, to better see whom it was she had trapped without yet revealing herself.

  The first man out the door was the one with the awkward gait, a good-looking man in his early fifties. He used a cane, but perfunctoraly, as though it were old habit and largely unnecessary. Fond exasperation was settled into the lines of his face as he stepped away from the door, waiting for his companions.

  The second man she recognized with a shock, from Watcher files a now a half century old. Duncan MacLeod was a favorite of the Watchers, a man who’d carried his chivalrous code down through four centuries. Ghean watched him with curiousity. At the moment, there was less exasperation than on the grey-haired man’s face, and more amusement, settled on Duncan’s face. The expression sat well on handsome features, and even through the rain, Ghean’s eyebrows rose a little in appreciation. She’d only seen Watcher photographs of the man, and those fifty years ago. He was almost impossibly attractive. No wonder the list of lovers over the years reads like a telephone directory. She grinned again at the thought. There’s my Immortal. I think I’m insulted. Duncan MacLeod doesn’t exactly have a reputation for running from women Immortals.