Perseus had been dreading the request, but he knew it was coming, and he couldn't very well refuse it. While he, Shelley, and Bran, were sitting at the bar, Bran had suddenly asked, "Shall we spar?," as if the thought had just occurred to him, popping into his slightly alcohol hazed mind out of the blue. The Greek could tell by the glint in the big Celt's dark eyes that Bran had been waiting for some time to ask the question. And behind that seemingly innocuous phrase lay more probing questions, questions Perseus wanted to ask himself, but questions with answers he feared to learn.
"Shall we spar?" Bran said. But that wasn't what he was asking. Bran wanted to know how badly Hong Kong had affected Perseus -- in particular the forced aging of Perseus' body. How would that affect his reflexes, his strength, his speed? For all intents and purposes, Perseus was living in a new body. The balance felt right to him, and he knew that, really, he only aged a decade or so. But such assurances did not alleviate the worry in the pit of his gut.
There were additional considerations as well. For example, while Perseus knew Bran would have killed Tyr or Lei without a moment's hesitation, the act had cost Perseus himself terribly. He kept it to himself -- there was no need to tell Shelley, as she had her own demons to wrestle -- but his sleep of late had not been very comfortable. Whenever he allowed himself to slow down, to think about what he had done, he saw Tyr's eyes, as they had looked when Perseus' shortsword descended for the killing blow.
That alone was enough to keep him from sleep, but in addition to that sin, he had to live with the fact that he had failed an entire city, and that, had he been faster or more cunning, he could have saved them all.
Bran was wondering how good Perseus would be in the coming battle. He was wondering if Perseus could be counted on to watch Bran's back, to do what had to be done. Bran's concerns were warranted. Perseus privately expressed them to himself several times in the past few days. His very uncertainty seemed condemning, in his own evaluation. Perseus had never been uncertain in his life: he had always known what to do, how to react, in any given situation.
But the current scenario in which he found himself was beyond his faculties. For the first time in twenty-five hundred years, he had reason to doubt his own physical abilities, that which had had relied almost exclusively upon for his entire life. Perhaps he had put off resolution long enough.
He smiled nonchalantly, a heartbeat after Bran posed his query. "Sounds like it might be fun," he said. He pushed his beer mug out of the way and stood up. "I should check on the hounds first, though. Why don't I meet you in the gym?"
Bran nodded. "I'll clean up here."
Shelley looked at the two of them. Perhaps she had sensed the undercurrent of the seemingly innocent exchange. "You have a gym in this place?" she asked, surprised. "I knew it was big, but..."
Perseus sighed inwardly. Shelley was still such an innocent... so trusting. He admired that quality in her, and he felt guilty that he would be the one to exterminate it. He forced a smile. "Yes, I have a gym. I even have an Olympic sized pool way out in the back. The upkeep is a bitch, I'm not ashamed to say. New Orleans weather is not kind to pools... nor is the high watertable. Cost a fortune to have it installed." Shelley shook her head in amazement, and for the first time Perseus noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She wasn't sleeping either. Shelley...
"Shelley, you look tired. Maybe we should find you somewhere to collapse..."
She shook her head vehemently, as Bran watched, one eyebrow raised. "I would rather not," she said. "I'd prefer to keep busy." She added, after a moment's hesitation, "You know?"
Perseus nodded tiredly. He did indeed know.
He left the room felling suddenly heavy, and he wondered if he had already destroyed Shelley's innocence.
Bran eyed Shelley as he cleaned off the mugs the three had used. Shelley's was mostly full, and Bran, never willing to let a good beer go to waste, downed the contents himself in one prodigious gulp.
"Not bad," Shelley said. "I know a few guys at school who can do that."
Bran set the mug down and wiped the foam off his upperlip with a forearm. "And what school would that be?" he asked.
"Columbia."
"Aye?" Bran said, apparently surprised. "I went to Columbia as well."
"Really?" Shelley asked. She seemed surprised that an Immortal of Bran's age would attend school. "What year?"
"Nineteen-o-two."
"Oh," Shelley said.
Bran went on, nonplused. "I matriculated in the fall of 1898 with my friend Sunda Kastigir -- he got in, of course, by playing his role of African prince. It was quite a time, I must say. An Irishman and a Negro at one of New York's largest universities... well, let's just say I didn't have to play football in order to hammer some people. Most seemed quite interested in giving me opportunities left and right."
"Frat guys?" Shelley asked.
Bran shook his head. "Not exactly. Most students -- no, most of the people in New York were disdainful of immigrants. You know the famous saying, 'help wanted: Irish need not apply'? Those feelings were very real at the turn of the century, and they weren't reserved solely for the Irish. Kastigir had more than his share of troubles, and so did a few other non-Anglo students as well. Which isn't to say every moment of every day was spent fending off angry WASPs out to get us; a number of them ultimately proved friendly, in fact, and we had our own amusements.
"But still... when I look back at this last century, and the state this country is in right now, I am continually amazed at how much progress has actually come about in such a short time."
Shelley leaned forward. "Progressed far? I would hardly say that. I grew up in an area that is predominantly white. Yeah, most kids accepted me, but I still got the occasional bastard calling me 'nigger' or people treating me like an idiot because I'm black. Racism hasn't gone away, Bran. Its still in my face everywhere I go."
Bran nodded. "Aye, I know. I'm not saying the race situation in this country is where it needs to be. But it is much further along than I thought it would get."
Shelley watched him for a moment, and then sat back. "I guess I can accept that."
Bran smiled slightly. "Shall we go find Perseus, then?" The girl nodded, and hopped off the bar stool. He followed her out of the room. and then directed her towards the gym.
Perseus felt a little better after spending time with his dogs. They were a fun bunch, and enthusiastically welcomed home their master. Trying to fend off Nuadh in order to scratch Hermes' ears was a task worthy of a true warrior, and, having accomplished it, Perseus felt a little more sure of himself.
He led the dogs out of the conservatory, where Bran had locked them up so they wouldn't bother the guests, and outside so they could play in the snow. Most of them had never seen the bizarre material, and they had a good time romping through the drifts and barking up a storm. He left them outside for the moment, and went back inside to find the gym and Bran.
He found Bran and Shelley in the hall along the way. The two of them were chatting amiably. Bran was telling Shelley about Franz Boaz, and the girl was listening with an attentive look on her face.
"Have you been taking them out regularly?" Perseus interrupted.
"What?" Bran said. "The dogs? Yes, I have. Why, are they stir crazy?"
Perseus nodded. "I'd like to say they were just excited to see me, but I think they were more interested in getting outside."
"How many dogs do you have?" Shelley asked.
"Thirteen. They're an eclectic bunch, too," Perseus said, smiling.
"Huh," Shelley said, shaking her head. "I never thought of you as a dog owner."
Bran arched that eyebrow of his, and asked, "Did you think our Percy was a cat person?"
Shelley glanced at Perseus, who appeared bemused at the conversation, and shook her head. "No, I guess not."
Perseus found the door to the gym and pushed it open, walking inside. He slipped his sweater over his head as Bran edged past him into the room. Behind Perseus, Shelley groused, "This is a gym? Where's the equipment?"
Perseus tossed his sweater on a bench and looked around. The room that served as his gym was fairly large, and had probably once served as a ballroom for the previous occupants of the house. The floor was hardwood, with several exercise mats spread throughout the area. Along one wall, near the fireplace, was a rack of weapons that included a variety of both authentic and practice blades. On the opposite side of the room, Perseus had stacked a few hundred pounds of free weights, with three or four bars laid out beside them. Two weight benches made up all the furniture in the room.
"What do you mean?" Perseus asked.
Shelley shrugged. "Well, its sort of low-tech. When you said 'gym," I thought you had a hoop or some nautilus equipment or something. Not...this." She made a feeble gesture with her hand, encompassing the room.
Perseus smiled slightly. "Neither the Celts of Europe nor the Spartans of Greece utilized nautilus equipment. Nor did the Romans who conquered them. The giant and I get by without modern amenities."
"I guess so," Shelley said, still not convinced. "I notice you aren't so sheepish when it comes to indoor plumbing or refrigeration, though."
Perseus laughed. "Good point."
While Shelley was expressing her disappointment, Bran had kicked off his shoes and crossed the room to scoop up a pair of wooden practice swords. He tossed one back to Perseus, who deftly snatched it from the air. Bran then shucked off his shirt and stepped onto a mat in the middle of the room. Perseus followed suit, revealing those strange scars that marred his chest. Once more, Shelley couldn't hide her curiosity at their origin; once again, Perseus ignored her. She didn't need to hear that story yet.
The two combatants nodded to eachother and faced off. Perseus quelled the flutter of fear that blossomed in his gut, squelching it with over two thousand years of battlefield experience. Bran looked bigger than he had during their last encounter, though, and that wild grin combined with his choice of weapons told Perseus that the big Celt would not be holding back.
Perseus braced himself, blade extended, and waited for the attack. It came swift and light, and Perseus blocked Bran's blow easily. Bran deliberately left an opening, but Perseus had seen him try that trick before. He shook his head in distaste. This was supposed to be a test of his reflexes, not his skill. Bran just shrugged, smiled amiably, and then launched into a blitzkrieg assault that almost caught Perseus offguard. Almost.
As it was, he had to fight furiously to keep up with Bran. The first few parries were easy enough, but Perseus grew progressively slower with each one. The strength of Bran's blows sent shivers all the way up Perseus' arms as he caught them with the wooden sword, and the speed of Bran's attack was almost blurring.
Perseus knew where each blow would land, that was not the challenge. The challenge was getting his body to keep up with Bran. He felt himself being slowly pushed backwards across the mat, and he grimaced.
Suddenly, Bran slipped past his defenses and connected a stinging blow to Perseus' ribs. Perseus stepped backwards, staggered, as a vicious red welt appeared on his flank. Had they been using real weapons, Perseus knew his entrails would be spilling out onto the mat, and the fight would be over. For a brief moment, anger flared in his breast; anger at his own incompetence and sloth. But he pushed that down deep, knowing anger was as dangerous as fear.
Bran stepped back, lowering his wooden blade. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to say anything.
"Again?" Perseus asked. Bran nodded.
The two Immortals stepped back into the center of the mat, and once again began to spar, trading even blows. Bran seemed a bit winded by his exertion, and needed a few moments to recover his equilibrium, while Perseus was measuring himself. He had no wish to make any further mistakes, nor to take advantage of Bran's exhaustion. As the Quickening made short of the welt on Perseus' side, so too did it restore Bran to optimum efficiency quickly.
When he was sure his opponent was ready, Perseus forced himself to ignore his anger, his insecurities, his pride, and the ache in his shoulders from Bran's heavy blows. He was a Spartan, he reminded himself. Hardship and pain were endemic to a Spartan's life; the true warrior accepts his pain and his limitations, and absorbs them. The true warrior works through them. And the true warrior does not accept defeat.
Perseus found the rhythm of combat that had eluded him, and he held his own against Bran. The big Celt was still faster and stronger, but he soon found himself unable to penetrate Perseus' defenses. But Perseus, concerned with protecting himself, could not reach Bran either.
The two Immortals battled back and forth across the mat, neither gaining an advantage. The only sounds were a few brief, wordless exhalations from Perseus or Bran, the steady whack of the swords connecting, and bare feet whispering over the rough surface of the practice mat. Bran seemed serene, his face placid beneath a sheen of sweat. Perseus' face was contorted into a rictus grin, though his eyes registered the same serenity that Bran's held.
At last, they broke away, panting heavily, and wordlessly dropped their weapons to the floor. Perseus' face relaxed, and Bran stepped forward to slap him on the back. Perseus allowed himself to give Bran a brief, grateful smile. Apparently, he had passed muster. Bran was no longer worried.
Perseus though, once removed from the fight, felt the insecurities well up once more. He had held his own, as he always did, but Bran had beat him initially. That had never happened before. Perseus had never lost a fight before -- real or practice -- in all his life as an Immortal, but for the two battles with the Kurgan. But Bran was no Kurgan; Perseus should have done better.
Perseus knew, had it been a real fight, he would have been killed. Bran was no Ivan; the same tactics Perseus used against the Russian would not have worked on Bran. He should have been finished.
Perseus turned to Shelley, to suggest she practice her own swordwork, but he stopped short. Shelley, despite her earlier exhortations, had fallen asleep.
The two men standing beside the tomb could not have looked more different. One was tall and spare, with piercing blue eyes and a dark hat pulled low over his face. The other was blocky and wide, with a healthy tan and short blond hair and a movie star's smile.
Neither of them was smiling now, however. The door to the tomb showed signs of forced entry, as if a group of men had wedged it open with crowbars and a fork lift. Both men knew that it was a single creature that ripped the door apart and stepped within the confines of the tomb.
"The Scarecrow," the blond man said, his healthy tan taking on a greenish pallor. "And now the Fool is loose too."
The darker man nodded sagely. "It appears we have our work cut out for us, Gordon. Two of Mephistopheles' creatures are now loose. I'll wager that the third is awakened as well."
Gordon stepped away from the tomb, his feet crunching in the snow that blanketed the cemetery, and the rest of the city. "Lamont... the two of us are no match for those monsters." He looked up at his companion, his face stricken. "If they awaken the Wyrm..." he trailed off, unable to come up with the words to express his horror.
Lamont pulled his hands out of the deep pockets of his trenchcoat and blew on them, trying to warm his frozen digits. "New Orleans," he muttered. To Gordon, he said, "I'm beginning to think that Greystoke expected this when he sent us down here. And it seems to me, if Jones' failure in Hong Kong is any indication, we aren't meant to stop the Wyrm."
Gordon stiffened. "What are you saying, Cranston?"
The Shadow smiled. Gordon was always the idealist. Even in China, during the Tai-Ping rebellion, the farm boy never lost his zeal for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. "Flash, my boy," Lamont said, "you never did understand. The Council never meant to postpone the apocalypse. We want to stop it. But we can't stop it unless it begins."
Gordon shifted in the snow, his right hand flexing, as if he wanted his sword. Lamont half-believed that, were they not in a cemetery, Gordon would have actually drawn his weapon. "That's madness, Lamont. We can't let the Scarecrow run free. We can't let Mephisto succeed!" Again, Gordon sought the words, but could not find them.
Lamont leaned in and grabbed the back of Gordon's neck, pulling him close. He enunciated each word clearly, speaking with exaggerated slowness. "Mephisto isn't going to win, Gordon. Viracocha has a plan. Always has. The lord of the apes and the good doctor know all about it." <Which is probably why they are far away from here,> he added to himself silently. "We're here to observe. We'll interfere when it is time to do so. When Viracocha says its time. Not before. Do you understand?"
Gordon pushed Lamont away, and finally did reach for his sword. He stopped with his hand around the hilt. He exhaled a cloud of frost from flaring nostrils. "Lets entertain your notion for a moment," he said. "What is this 'plan'?"
Lamont smiled, though no humor reached his eyes. He knew the plan wouldn't fit Gordon's sensibilities. Sometimes life was like that.
After he found Shelley a room and a nice, soft bed to sleep in, Perseus took a quick shower and checked on the animals. They wanted in. Once inside, they swarmed over him once more, and he was only able to escape by filling their food bowls. He knew it was a momentary respite from the dogs' assault, however.
Leaving them to their repast, he went into the living room, where Bran was already sitting, running a whetstone along his sword, though the enchanted weapon didn't need it.
Perseus took a seat and dropped into it. He thought, momentarily, about sifting through Nicholas Covenant's mail, but decided against it. Covenant would have to be retired, anyway. He died in Hong Kong, and it was Andris Endrijonis' credit cards that paid for the flight from Taiwan to the United States. Endrijonis would probably get Covenant's old house, though. Perhaps he should start putting old Nick's stuff in order?
Perseus was saved from the monotony of such a task by the doorbell. He was on his feet before he knew it, while Bran continued to scrape the stone along the edge of his sword.
It had to be Selura. He could feel the Buzz tingling along his spine as he approached the door. Without thinking, he whipped the front door open, and took a step outside.
It wasn't Selura.
Perseus had a moment to give himself a mental slap upside the head, and then stuck his hand out. "Mitra, its good to see you. How are you?"
The lanky Hindu took Perseus' hand, and smiled slightly. "I apologize for dropping by unannounced Percy. Obviously you were expecting someone else."
"Selura, actually. But you're more then welcome. Come in, come in," Perseus said, releasing Mitra's hand and leading him inside.
Mitra grinned suddenly. "Are you two back together?"
"You and Bran," Perseus said, "are far too concerned with my love life."
"The bear is here?" Mitra exclaimed. "This is a party. Where is he?"
Perseus shook his head, trying to hide his smile. "He's in the living room."
Mitra clapped Perseus on the shoulder, and then headed deeper into the house, no doubt intent on finding Bran and giving him hell. Giving Bran a hard time was one of Mitra's favorite pastimes in the old days; the unflappable Celt always rose to Mitra's bait. Nobody could irk Bran as easily as Mitra did, and Mitra relished it.
So, it took worldwide chaos and imminent Armageddon to get the old gang back together. Would Brigid come waltzing through his front door next? Mitra, along with Bran, Brigid, Selura, and himself, and formed a sort of unofficial gang of do-gooders around the close of the twelfth century, following the resolution of Mephistopheles' last attempt at world domination. They had intended to keep men like Ramses and the Kurgan in check by pooling their resources and abilities, but though their intentions were good, the never could quite gel themselves into a cohesive unit. The threat of the Gathering hung over them all, and Bran's and Brigid's romance, as well as Perseus' and Selura's blossoming involvement, complicated matters considerably. Mitra always felt like the odd man out, especially as a non-European, and when he split from the group, the others didn't try to stop him.
It was only later that they realized Mitra, with his unswerving dedication to justice and his sharp, sarcastic sense of humor, had been the glue that held their hodgepodge alliance together. It was Mitra who had been able to control Perseus' nihilism, Bran's wild savagery, Brigid's eccentricity, and Selura's pigheadedness to make the five of something reminiscent of a team. After Mitra left, the others drifted apart as well. They stayed in touch -- friends to the last -- but they never again gathered together all at once.
But Mitra was back. Perseus felt the insecurities that had plagued him for days suddenly drain away. With the entire crew... with the Wraith, the Vampires, and Kurt... maybe. Just maybe they could pull it off.
Perseus saw his redemption then; the possibility that he could make up for Hong Kong. He was about to shut the front door and go watch Mitra chew Bran out when Selura's rental car plowed its way up the drive. It skidded across the snowy ground and almost crashed into Hazard's Lotus.
In a flash, Perseus was off the porch and hopping through the snow, his hair, still wet from the shower, starting to freeze.
Selura kicked the door open and stepped out of the car. There was a big hole in her coat, and she was covered in dried blood. She kicked the door closed.
"What happened?" Perseus asked. He reached out a hand to steady her.
Selura brushed his hand aside. "I'm fine, Percy. Really." She tried to smile, but it came off looking like more of a grimace. "I'm just really, really pissed. Wotan tried to ambush me at the hotel."
Perseus' breath steamed in the unnaturally cold air. "Who? How?"
Selura shook her head. "Big bad guy with only one eye." Her grimace turned into a wicked smile for a moment. "Well, no eyes now. I couldn't take his head, but I incapacitated him." She grimaced again. "And then some fucker shot me in the back!" She kicked the car door once more, leaving a noticeable dent.
Perseus raised his eyebrows. "You have been working out" he said.
Selura cocked her head. "Oh? And you didn't notice before?"
Perseus thought it safer to keep silent on that score. He took her hand. "Come on. Mitra just arrived, and we need to rescue Bran. We'll hash this Wotan business out tonight."
Selura gripped his hand tightly, and followed him up the drive to the house. "All right, Percy. Although I can think of better things to do to -- wait, did you say Mitra?"
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