The fat man settled back in his plush leather chair and folded his pudgy fingers across his stomach. He glanced over his shoulder, through the great picture window and out onto the Thames, where even now in the late afternoon, with the golden sun setting on the horizon, ships and boats of all kinds puttered up and down the waterway.
The fat man leaned forward, and hit the speaker switch on his phone. "Deidre," he said, his mustaches bristling, "call my wife. Tell her I'm headed home." He switched off the speaker and stood ponderously. He grabbed his briefcase from below the desk and scooped up a great file folder from the desktop. He was about to shove the folder into the briefcase when Deidre's tinny voice came over the speaker.
"Mr. Smythe," she warbled. "There is a man here to see you. He is most insistent."
The fat man grumbled. "Tell him to come back tomorrow," he said. "Business hours are over."
"But sir--" Deidre began.
"But me no buts, Deidre. I am through for the day, and my sweet wife will have supper waiting for me. Tell him good--"
The door to the fat man's office exploded open, and a nightmare stepped into the room. Clad all in black, with eyes of deepest pitch and a fine stubble growing on his smooth head, was the largest man Nigel Orpington-Smythe had ever seen. And he was a man Smythe had hoped to never see again.
"Nigel," the man crooned in that horrid voice of his, the voice that had colored Smythe's nightmares ages ago. "Certainly you have time for me. You'll just have to tell your sweet little wife to wait a bit longer."
"Mr. Kruger," Smythe breathed. "A most unexpected surprise." Smythe fought to regain his composure. Victor Kruger had disappeared almost ten years previous. Most people assumed he had died. Indeed, Smythe had taken it upon himself to declare Mr. Kruger legally dead. And yet now here he was, larger than life and twice as terrifying.
"But a pleasant one nonetheless, eh Nigel?" Kruger grinned hugely. "You look like you've put on weight, Nigel," Kruger observed, stepping into the room. The man grabbed the back of a chair and plopped himself down in the seat. "Sit down Nigel."
Smythe looked at Kruger's pale, smiling face and did as he was told.
"How about one of those fabulous cigars of yours?" Kruger suggested.
"I... gave up smoking some years ago, Mr. Kruger."
Kruger made a moue of distaste. "What terrible news."
Deidre appeared in the doorway, and mouthed the word "security." Smythe shook his head quickly. Kruger grinned, as if he could see Deidre and understood Smythe's reaction.
"Lets get down to business, then, Nigel. I need money. Lots of it. I have to take a trip to the states. And I need to buy a few things before I go."
"I..." Smythe was almost speechless. Those killer's eyes were watching him like a hawk, and unnerved him greatly. Not for the first time, Nigel Orpington Smythe regretted becoming involved in the life of Victor Kruger. Twenty years ago, when he was a struggling lawyer just beginning his practice, a client with Kruger's wealth seemed like a godsend. But Kruger turned out to be more like a demon than an angel. Kruger proved to be more trouble than he was worth. Smythe had always feared him, and could not bring himself to terminate the contract. When Kruger disappeared in 1986, Smythe had rejoiced for weeks.
"Spit it out man," Kruger said, leaning forward menacingly.
Smythe took a deep breath. "I'm sorry Mr. Kruger. Its just that, well... everyone presumed you were gone. Deceased, as it were. Your...uh... your estate was auctioned off. Everything was sold. Two years ago."
Smythe saw Kruger's face contort with barely contained rage, and the hard muscles in his arms tensed. Smythe knew that in an instant, Kruger would kill him. So he spoke quickly, almost screaming each word to get it out in time to save himself. "ButifyouneedanythingI'llbemorethanhappytoprovideitoutofmyownpocketanythingwhateveryouneed."
The dangerous glint did not disappear from Kruger's eyes, but the rest of his expression softened. Kruger leaned forward, and stretched out a hand to cup Smythe's chin. "Now that's the Nigel I remember. Good chap. And while I'm away in America, I want you to find everything that was sold off, and return it to me." Kruger leaned forward, across the desk. His hand slid up Smythe's cheek and his fingers ran through Smythe's hair. Kruger looked Smythe directly in the eyes, and his fingers snapped closed like a steel trap, twisting Smythe's hair and pulling his head back. "If you miss so much as a lamp, or a throw rug or a silver spoon I will kill you. Do you understand?" Kruger spoke slowly, without passion, as if he were ordering a pint or giving directions to a tourist.
Nigel Orpington-Smythe found his voice. "Yes," he croaked.
Kruger smiled. "Excellent."
The three Immortals piled into the small rental car. Boxy and thoroughly unappealing, it offended both Richie's passion for fast transportation and Connor's sense of style. But it suited Methos's desire for anonymity. And he was picking up the check, so neither of the younger Immortals made a discouraging sound.
Richie was tense, and nervous with excitement. After the battle in the hotel with the "nightwings," the adrenaline was pumping fast and furious through his system. But his mind admonished his body to relax. He didn't want to do anything stupid that might get himself or one of his friends permanently killed. It would have been easier if Duncan were here. After only a few years, Richie was used to Duncan's rhythms and his style. He didn't feel he was ready to get mixed up in a fight with Methos and Connor. He never had a chance to spar with either man, and wasn't sure what to expect when the fight started. Even during the fight in the hotel, Richie had been pushed into the hall, out of the way. He missed the main bout, between Connor and some seven foot monstrosity. Methos assured Richie it had been spectacular.
Richie suddenly wondered how well Methos acquitted himself. The Old Man had to have been crippled by the loss of his right hand. He leaned forward in his seat. "Hey, uh... Adam."
Methos looked away from the road for a moment. "Yes, Richard?"
Richie let out an exasperated sigh. "Would you stop calling me that? I'm no Nixon."
Connor smiled secretly. "That you are not," he muttered.
Richie rolled his eyes. "Anyway... I don't how to phrase this, but... are you good to go? I mean, with your hand and all..."
Connor was suddenly very attentive.
Methos spared a glance at the Highlander. "Concerned yourself, MacLeod?" Connor didn't say a word. Methos laughed softly. "Don't worry, either of you. This isn't the first time I've lost a hand, you know. I'm as adept with my left hand as I am with my right. My bladework will not suffer."
"Stop the press," Richie interrupted. "Did I hear you correctly? Did you just say you've lost a limb before? But that's... that's... impossible!"
Methos sighed. "Richard, when will you accept the fact that you are all but clueless about what is and what is not possible?"
"Uh-uh," Richie growled. This "Richard" crap really was grating on the young man. "I know we can't regrow limbs."
Connor watched the interplay between one of the world's oldest Immortals and one of the world's youngest with some amusement.
"And who told you that?" Methos said, signaling for a left.
Richie gripped the seatback as they made a sharp turn. "Duncan," he said. "He took Xavier St. Cloud's hand. And it never grew back."
Methos nodded. "I see. And after Duncan took his hand, did he take Xavier's head?"
Richie suddenly felt the urge to smile. "Yes," he said.
Methos looked back and gave Richie a satisfied smirk. "There you go," he said.
Richie couldn't help it now. He smiled back. "But it was two years later that he killed St. Cloud. And he never grew the hand back."
Connor finally chimed in. "The boy has a point, Adam."
"Point, shmoint," Methos growled, blinking as someone with their brights on hurtled past them. "I have no idea how old this Xavier St. Cloud may have been, or how much Quickening he had at the time of his maiming. But I do know it took me almost seven years to regrow a leg the first time I lost one -- well, the first time I remember losing one. At present age and strength, though, I should have a new hand outside of four months, tops."
The smile disappeared from Richie's face. "But-but-" he stuttered.
"But nothing," Methos said. "Look: the Quickening can repair damaged organs. Heal mortal wounds. Everything south of the neck is repaired after it is wounded. Limbs take more time than, say, a heart or a papercut because bone is a much more difficult substance to create. Marrow is only slightly more easier to grow back. And then there are muscles, nerves, other tissues that have to effectively rebuilt -- it takes time. But it gets done. Do you really think I have survived five thousand years without accident? I'm careful, but not infallible."
Connor nodded. "I've lost a few fingers in my day too. They always come back." He waggled a hand in Richie's face to emphasize his point.
Richie sat back in his seat. One more thing Duncan was never aware of. Or something he just never told Richie -- like the fact that Adam Pierson was Methos. Richie shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "It makes us sound like starfish."
Methos laughed. Connor twisted in his seat to give Richie a penetrating look. "You joke, Richie. But you hit close to the truth. We aren't human beings. Duncan could never accept that. Lord knows I've had my share of trouble dealing with it. But the sooner you get more comfortable with the idea, the better off you'll be. If you allow yourself to think too much like a human... you'll lose the Game."
Methos gave Connor an odd look and said, "You know, MacLeod, you're beginning to remind me of a certain Greek I used to know".
But Richie wasn't listening. He was suddenly very cold. And suddenly aware of why Duncan never introduced him to Connor, and almost never visited him. Connor was a cold bastard. Duncan and he would never have seen eye to eye. But Connor was still alive. And Duncan wasn't. And that sure as hell was not fair. Richie entertained very dark thoughts while Methos drove, and Connor -- inscrutable, cold, obsessed -- turned back to watch the road.
Connor could tell Richie was uncomfortable, perhaps apprehensive. It was only too apparent that Richie did not like him very much. No matter. What was it that Ramiriz had said? "It is a good place to start." Yes, that was it. For all Methos' talk, Connor wasn't convinced the little man would be much help in the hand to hand combat they would surely see. More than likely, Methos would serve better as a counter-agent to whatever spells this Nyarlathotep might conjure up. Connor did not doubt that, in five millennia, Methos had learned more than a bit of sorcery. Had Connor not first met him in the company of Nakano himself?
Richie was competent enough, Connor mused, but still unsure of himself. Still hesitant. And more than a little afraid of what they might encounter in the wizard's lair. If only Kastigir were still alive -- with Sunda at his back, Connor need fear no man nor beast. But Connor's closest friend was ten years dead. Like Duncan, struck down by the Kurgan.
Sometimes it seemed like everyone he had ever loved had died or been harmed in some way by the black knight of the Ukraine. His village banished him because of the Kurgan's death blow. Ramiriz was killed. Darling Heather... raped. Sunda Kastigir slain. Brenda brutalized. And now Duncan and Amanda murdered. Connor would kill the Kurgan a thousand times over if need be, to ensure his evil was extinguished.
Methos slowed the car and pulled the vehicle over to the curb, parking it beneath a broken streetlight.
"We're here already?" Richie's voice, from the back seat, was thin and hoarse.
"Anton gave me precise directions. The wizard's home is there," Methos said, pointing towards the crumbling walls of an ancient townhouse.
"And where are those Gargoyles now?" Richie asked.
Methos's grin was sardonic. "Oh, they're around," he said.
Connor grunted and got out of the car. While Methos and Richie followed suit, Connor went around to the trunk and popped it open. He reached inside and pulled out the swords, tossing them to his companions while slipping his own under his coat.
"We should have shotguns for this," Richie grumbled.
Methos crossed the street, heading for the front gate of the townhouse.
"Take it easy, Richie," Connor told him. "Keep your blade high and your eyes open. You'll be okay."
Richie shook his head. "I don't trust this guy, Connor." There was a pause. "I'm not sure I trust you."
Connor smiled grimly. "Relax, Richie. You are Duncan MacLeod's last student. Whether that means much to Methos is anyone's guess. But Duncan was my kinsman and my friend. I will not let anything happen to you." Connor's smile widened. "Provided, of course, you do the same for me."
Richie sucked in a deep breath and let it out. "Okay," he said. They shook hands quickly, and followed Methos.
Methos's sword was drawn, and it glinted in the light from the streetlamps. Above them, on the crumbling wall of the townhouse, a shadow moved. Connor felt Richie tense up beside him, but when the figure moved into the light, the broad features of the short Gargoyle, Alaric, were revealed. In heavily accented English, he said, "Weelcomb to zee partee."
Methos pushed the rusted gate open. It screeched like a banshee as its ancient rest was disturbed. He glanced over his shoulder at the younger Immortals. "Ramses purchased this building during the early years of Henry IV's reign. In those days, this place would have been located far outside of the city proper. A perfect spot for a necromancer's experiments."
Connor pushed past Methos into the yard, drawing his sword as he did so. "Now is not the time for a history lesson, Adam."
Alaric leapt to the ground beside Connor. Connor heard wings rustle, and Marie and Scar stepped out of the darkness. Marie spoke in French, saying, "You took your time, my friends. We were about to start without you." As Richie and Methos stepped through the gate, Genevieve and her mate Anton appeared as well. Anton's tusks gleamed in the half-light.
"Can we expect more of those black things?" Richie asked.
"Aye," Connor answered. "And much worse." Connor missed Richie's grumbled response.
"De entrance to zee wizard's towair is zis way, my friends," Alaric said, pointing one huge claw straight ahead, into the darkness.
Connor shook his head. Trust a Gargoyle to point out the obvious. Without a word, he set off up the driveway at a quick trot. Somewhere, up ahead in the murk, was the man who brought back the Kurgan. Connor intended to thank him for that service, as painfully as possible. He didn't look back, but he knew the others were with him.
When the great, sprawling townhouse loomed out of the night, huge and threatening, Connor drew to a halt. He heard Methos's ragged breathing behind him, as well as Richie's more controlled exhalations. Yes, Duncan taught him well. The house was dark, of course. No signs of life greeted their arrival.
"We going to just knock?" Richie asked.
"There will be no need," a voice said. It came from the house. Connor tightened the grip on his katana. The voice was old, like dried parchment or a creaking hinge. But as a shadow detached itself from the greater darkness of the house, some moonlight fell upon the speaker, and it was not an old man, nor, truly, was it a young man. Rather, the figure seemed somewhere in between or beyond.
The face and hands were desiccated, the flesh taut over the bones. A mane of molten silver spilled from his brow, falling down past the shoulders. The eyes were pits of blackness that burned with ancient vitality and madness. This man was an immortal, but he was an immortal who did not care much for his appearance. Had not cared, presumably, for many centuries.
Connor's gut twisted despite himself. Methos had warned him; this necromancer, this wizard, had been a brother of Tek Ne. A sibling of Ramiriz. And though all Immortals were supposed to be foundlings, Connor could see the ghost of Ramiriz' features on the pale face of Nyarlathotep.
The wizard took a few halting steps down the front stairs. Those dark eyes examined each of the Immortals and the Gargoyles, all standing frozen and uncertain on the wizard's front lawn. When Nyarlathotep's gaze fell upon Methos, those too familiar features twisted with rage. The wizard spat something in Egyptian. Methos flinched, but held his ground. Methos tightened his grip on his sword, and yelled something at the wizard in the same, dead language.
Connor wasn't sure what to do. Attack? Might be a good idea to strike Nyarlathotep down now. But Connor didn't trust this situation. It could be an illusion or a trap. It might be wiser to hold his ground, and follow Methos's lead.
Nyarlathotep backed away from them, stepping once more onto the stairs of the townhouse. His dark eyes shifted from Methos to Connor. "You have violated the sanctity of my home," he said in English. "You have proved yourselves enemies by bringing the despised jackal-headed one to my door. And you have murdered many of my dark children. For those transgressions you will die."
Connor took a step towards Nyarlathotep, blade extended, but he was too slow. The Egyptian disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaving nothing behind but his laughter. Connor rounded on Methos. The Old Man looked as livid as the wizard. Connor bit back what he was going to say. He would ask Methos about the exchange and the jackal comment later.
"Uh, Connor," Richie's voice quavered. There were grunts of surprise from the Gargoyles as well. Something was happening.
Connor shifted his attention away from Methos, and saw the grass and earth beside the road erupting. A withered hand, small bits of flesh still clinging to it, reached out of the ground. "Mother of God," Connor gasped, the exhalation passing his lips without conscious thought.
All around them, the dead were rising. Four hundred years of corpses, accumulated by the necromancer and carefully seeded in the grounds of the ancient townhouse, were rising from their secret graves. Skeletons garbed in scraps of cloth that were once bright, zombies with eyeless and lipless faces, worms tumbling from their bodies, mummies wrapped tight in earth-stained linen -- all of them bubbled to the surface, rending mud and sod and roots to do their master's bidding.
There was something unholy, something blasphemous about the jerkily moving bodies that swarmed up from the Earth. Despite all the hard years between then and now, Connor's Catholic upbringing still exerted its influence now and again. This was one of those times; he felt the cold rage and abject fear of someone who witnesses the existence of something far outside the plans of god or man, something that defied all the laws of nature. A scream of horror and hatred welled up in his breast, but he bit it back, even when an icy claw gripped his ankle. Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was a highlander, and he would not whimper as his death came for him.
The katana rose and fell, rose and fell.
A slim, pale white hand pushed at the roof of the coffin, and the wooden door banged open. The Vampire rose from his deathbed and crossed the bare room to his wardrobe. Flinging it open, he leaned in close to the mirror.
The Vampire smiled; sharp white teeth flashed between bloodless lips. There was no sign of the terrible damage the Witch's fire had done to him. His flesh was flawless as ever, hard and white. His dark locks glistened, and his azure eyes gleamed.
Hazard grabbed jeans and a t-shirt and pulled on his sneakers. After days of hibernating and healing, he felt only mildly thirsty. But he was worried that his friends were suffering without him.
In moments he was bounding down the stairs of the old plantation manor he owned, bursting out into the cloudy, cool night. There was the Lotus, sleek and crimson, a bright arrow in the dark night. Hazard slipped into his car, revved the engine, and headed for the gleaming towers of the city.
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