As the sun set on the first day of Mardi Gras, and the meager warmth of the day was replaced by the night's sharp winter winds, the city was curiously silent. Few people moved about on the streets, still overflowing with huge drifts of snow. The part of the year -- Carnival -- had officially begun that day, and yet none of the traditional festivities occurred. No parades. No bars packed to the bursting point with revelers. No beads thrown at willing, scantily clad women. No raucous laugher or off-key singing echoing down the narrow alleys. No costumes.
It seemed the city was indeed dead, as night rolled in and brought with it stinging cold and another snowfall. Men and women and children huddled in their homes seeking warmth and comfort from the freakish weather. No one truly understood what was happening, and yet on some level they must have sensed events were spiraling out of control in the city by the river.
Outside, in the snow, wolves howled.
Three figures wrapped in bizarre costumes forged their way through the snow and wind, ignoring the brutal cold.
The lead figure was spindly and thin, dressed in rags and a straw hat, his face wrapped in a tight leather mask with a frightening, twisted visage. Just behind him walked a harlequin in black and white, with painted lips and face. At the clown's side strode a massively built man whose clothing was cunningly designed to make him appear to be carved from stone, churning up snow beneath blocky feet.
The Three were searching for the Fourth, hidden somewhere in the snowy city...
At a bus station in the North End, a bus station that was inoperable due to the extreme weather, the snow had piled up to waist height against the great bay windows that looked out on the parking lot, where a half dozen buses huddled together like tired dogs.
The station was closed, and should have been empty, but someone had shattered the lock and wedged the door open, slipping inside to make use of the illusory warmth offered by the building's interior. In a city like New Orleans, buildings were equipped with air conditioners, not central heating. The cold leeched through the walls and penetrated the interior, making the bus station useful only as a means to avoid the stinging wind.
Three men occupied the waiting area. The youngest one was stretched out across a bench, catching a few moments of fitful sleep. A middle-aged man sat nearby, keeping himself entertained with a walkman and his scarf, which he twirled in his one good hand. The third man paced back and forth alongside the windows, his fists clenching and unclenching, muttering curses under his breath.
The man wearing the walkman was Methos, the oldest living Immortal, currently going under the name Adam Pierson. He watched the pacer with hooded eyes, and tried to keep his mind empty. Time passed more quickly if he did so. Though he tried, he could never quite succeed. Thoughts and memories bubbled up out of the morass of his five thousand year old brain, seeking to distract him. Thoughts of Kronos and Silas and the terrible years as a Horseman, Cassandra, the village that Braddisario had destroyed simply to delay he and Perseus, Duncan MacLeod and a paint brush, Amanda threatening to kill him over a piece of rock, Alexa giggling in his arms, Viracocha scorching him with righteous lightening, the Kurgan bearing down on him with bloody blade, and thousands of other fragments from thousands of other lives.
He clicked the walkman off and flipped the tape over. George Clinton simply wasn't making him feel funky enough, and yet he daren't ignore the Parliament Funkadelic completely; he would be alone with his thoughts then.
Richard had passed out almost as soon as MacLeod led them into the bus station. Jet lag, emotional exhaustion, or something else had put the boy out like a light. And MacLeod himself had degenerated into a twitching, mumbling old man, obsessed with the Kurgan and the chance to exact vengeance.
The Kurgan had gone to ground, Connor had said. He was somewhere in the city, probably sleeping or planning his next move. Though Connor claimed to be able to sense the Kurgan's whereabouts, he couldn't get an exact fix on the big barbarian. He claimed that he could feel the Kurgan better when the Kurgan was in transit, moving from one place to another. If the Kurgan sat still, he was lost in the "background noise" generated by all the supernatural entities that made New Orleans home. So, with Connor unable to track the Kurgan, they had followed the barbarian's example and set up camp in the abandoned bus station. Supposedly this would give them time to rest, to recuperate from the fiasco in Paris, and perhaps formulate a plan.
But Ryan had opted for sleep instead, and MacLeod resisted Methos' attempts at conversation, preferring instead to mumble incoherently and glare balefully at the snow outside. Connor's pace quickened when the sun went down and the snow began again. Other than that, there had been little change.
Methos was beginning to get sick of the tape. It was the only one he had thought to bring with him on the plane, and he had listened to it four times already. Perhaps it would be best to tell Connor about the allies in town, and to make a phone call to a certain Greek with a big, warm house.
Methos flipped his walkman off once again, and prepared to stand up when MacLeod suddenly drew to a halt. He spun on his heels and faced Methos.
"I can sense him again. He's on the move. Wake the kid."
MacLeod stormed towards the door, not waiting for Methos to follow. No time left to call Perseus, then. He rose and began the arduous task of rousing Richard Ryan from a deep sleep.
Perseus and Bran made dinner with Selura's help. Mitra just watched, offering the occasional needling comment that caused Bran to bristle and threaten to put Mitra in the pot.
Perseus, at first, was a bit put off by how well stocked his kitchen actually was; when he left the house weeks before, there had been little in the refrigerator except some yogurt and wheat germ, while the cupboards held bagels and a few other odds and ends. Apparently, Bran had done some shopping in Perseus' absence. The refrigerator was now stocked almost to bursting, and there was a great deal of junkfood scattered about the room as well, predominantly Doritos and Hostess snack cakes.
To Perseus' horror, Selura devoured nearly a dozen Hostess cupcakes, with copious quantities of milk, even as she diced vegetables for the soup. He teased her about it, and she threatened to deck him. He told her not to talk with her mouth full, and then ducked; Selura narrowly missed blacking his eye. Bran volunteered himself to look after the bird, and he hovered over the oven like a careful sentinel, checking on it repeatedly and basting it too much. This caused no end of amusement for Mitra, who sat at the counter, tossing popcorn into his mouth between cutting comments. Perseus busied himself with the salad, surprised at the variety of vegetables Bran had procured in the last few weeks.
The smell of cooking food gradually drifted through the house, waking some of the sleeping occupants, and one by one they roused themselves and made their way to the kitchen, tripping over hounds begging for scraps.
Kurt was the first one downstairs, and he and Mitra thumped backs and pumped hands, much to the surprise of Perseus and Bran. Mitra just smiled enigmatically and promised to tell the story "sometime." Kurt went to find a good wine for dinner.
As he did, Victoria and Jones made their way to the kitchen. Perseus was pleased to see Victoria looking rested and alert; she offered to help with dinner, but Bran shooed her away. Jones grabbed a handful of popcorn and hopped up onto the counter, dangling his feet over the eager snouts of the dogs. He offered them some popcorn, but one snorted derisively at the morsel, while the other ignored him. Jones shrugged and ate more popcorn.
Shelley was the next to arrive, barefoot and slightly dazed. She wasn't certain how she had reached a bed, and she grumbled that she had been lost when she awoke. She found the fridge and poured herself some apple juice, and then noticed Mitra.
Kurt reappeared with three bottles of white wine as Alec and Rachel made their appearance. The spider perched on Alec's shoulder, and the arachnid looked far more comfortable than the Wraith. Rachel held his hand and greeted everyone with a smile. Apparently she had slept well with Alec watching over her.
Between the banter of Mitra and Bran, the flirting of Selura and Perseus, and Kurt's generosity with the wine, the small group managed to forget, for a little while, that the end of the world was coming.
Just as Bran announced that the chicken was ready and Selura was ladling the soup into bowls, Hazard appeared in the room. Somehow, his appearance served to remind everyone of the gravity of the situation, as all conversation ceased when he stepped into the room, his blue eyes glimmering with baleful light behind his dark sunglasses. Mitra straightened in his seat when he recognized Hazard, and the Vampire gave him a perfunctory nod, trying to hide a sneer.
Looking past Mitra, Hazard addressed Perseus. "Sorry to interrupt, but Gold is itching to feed. I'm going to tag along and make sure he uses discretion. We should be back shortly."
Perseus nodded, and Hazard disappeared as abruptly as he had manifested.
"Why don't we move into the dining room?" Perseus suggested.
Perseus laid out the silverware while Selura set down the plates.
Mitra and Bran, with Kurt's help, brought the food out and spread it on the table. The other's found seats; Alec took the seat at the end of the table, furthest from everyone else, while Rachel sat between him and Jones. Shelley finagled a seat across from Jones, and saved the one next to her for Kurt, who thanked her with a smile. Mitra held a chair for Victoria, and then settled in between she and Selura. There was a brief scuffle at the head of the table as Bran and Perseus challenged eachother to the right of sitting there, but when Nuadh "ruffed" threateningly, Bran backed down.
Everyone ate silently for a few moments -- everyone except Alec, who left his plate empty -- until the Wraith broke the silence.
"So... what are we planning to do?"
Rachel gave him a stricken look, as if he had brought up something inappropriate to the dinner table, but he ignored her, looking at Perseus instead.
Perseus swallowed some chicken and answered Alec. "Well, that is an excellent question. What are we to do? We can't allow the chaos in New Orleans to continue unabated. At some point, we must leave this house and do battle with the Demons running the show. How do we best accomplish this? Our enemies have powerful allies. We need to prepare for them."
Victoria set her glass down. "So far, all I've heard are vague grumblings about these 'enemies.' Who is exactly we're facing? And how are we supposed to beat them, if they're so powerful?"
Jones arched an eyebrow and looked toward Perseus. Perseus, in turn, sipped his wine and gestured at Kurt. The Nightspawn shrugged and scooped up some pasta. "The ringleader is a creature called Mephistopheles. He is a Demon -- an ageless creature, and a master of super science and sorcery. Mephisto is employing at least two Immortals. In addition, he has several demonic minions at his beck and call. Some of them Alec and I have destroyed; others are on the loose. According to Hazard, these others include the Scarecrow and the Fool."
"The Scarecrow is one of Mephisto's oldest creations. Nearly two thousand years old, the Scarecrow is man of straw animated by magic and the soul of a sociopath named Attila. The Scarecrow is virtually impervious to attack; its one vulnerability is fire, but Mephistopheles has given it an enchantment that protects it from flame. The Scarecrow possesses a monstrous strength, and can shatter rock with its bare hands. Its deadliest ability, however, is the power to drain the life energy, or soul, of a living being. There is no defense against such an attack."
"The Fool's origin is steeped in mystery. The Fool manifests itself as a clown garbed in black and silver, and has appeared variously as both a man and a woman. It appears to have some kind of close bond to the Scarecrow, but I don't claim to understand how it works. The Fool, too, has supernatural physical abilities, as well as an aptitude for magik. Don't underestimate it because it looks like a mime; the Fool is as deadly as they come."
"Michael only saw the Scarecrow and the Fool, but those two are but one half of a deadly foursome. They might be able to awaken the Gohlem and the Wyrm. If the do, then there is simply no way we can survive a straight fight against Mephistopheles. We've fought them to standstills in the past, but there was more of us then. As we are now, we're outnumbered and outgunned. The very fact that two humans are considered invaluable to our efforts -- and I'm not trying to sound superior in any way -- hints at how desperate we really are."
Victoria nodded. Perseus could feel her fear, as well as her determination to master her fear. He could also sense her indignation. "Well, give me a mike-one-six and a couple of grenades, and I guarantee these 'demons' will be in sorry shape."
"But," Mitra said, "none of us has access to military grade weaponry."
"Maybe not," Alec offered, "but I know where we can get some artillery. Its going to cost a bit, though. I've about used up all the favors I ever had."
"Money won't be a problem," Perseus said. "You and Vic can work out the details later, Alec. Get what you can; don't worry about the cost."
Alec nodded, while Victoria shot Perseus a grateful smile.
"Now, about this Narrow Cult..." Perseus continued. "What is it? Where is it?"
Kurt spoke up again. "The Cult is apparently Mephisto's cover for his attempt at awakening Chibbikukk. Humans mostly, we think. Rachel and Alec found their headquarters."
Alec remained silent, so Rachel continued Kurt's thought. "Alec thinks that they're set up at a place called Franklin Enterprises. They have a compound outside of town, and apparently some kind of dark tower that doesn't appear on any zoning plans."
"You have a map?" Selura asked.
Rachel blushed. "Not exactly. We were attacked while we were going over the documents -- we had to leave them at City Hall. We'll have to go back for them if we need them..."
"Probably when Alec and Vic go into town for guns," Perseus interjected. "You are certain that this Franklin Enterprises is where the Cult resides?"
"Yeah," Alec said. "I got a weird vibe from the blueprints. So did Rachel. The Spider didn't like it either. I'm sure that's where... the Cult is."
Perseus appeared to think it over a moment. Kurt wolfed down some more food, and then told Perseus, "I trust the kid. Anyone who can take down five Carnifexi all by his lonesome is aces in my book."
Bran clapped Kurt on the shoulder. "Well said."
"Okay," Perseus said. "It looks like we're going to visit Franklin Enterprises. Alec: you and Vic get to work on the weaponry. Anyone else who wants a firearm, let them know. Selura: take Rachel and get those prints. We may need them. Kurt: what haven't you told us?"
Kurt pressed a hand against his chest as if wounded. "Moi?"
Perseus nodded. "Yes, you."
Kurt suddenly grinned. "I have one mistletoe arrow left. It has Mephisto's name carved on it." His grin slipped a bit. "I'll only have one chance to use it, though."
"Don't worry, Kurt," Selura said. "We'll make sure you get that chance."
"Thank you, dear."
Selura and Kurt matched grins for a moment, and then Selura turned to Rachel. "Well, I'm about done here. Why don't we hit the road?"
"What -- now?" Rachel glanced at Alec, who seemed impassive. "I guess so..."
She was cut off by the sound of the phone ringing.
Perseus automatically pushed himself away from the table, but Bran jumped up and headed for the phone instead. "I'll get it, Percy," he said.
Mitra watched him go. "He hopes its Brigid," he said, without any of his usual sarcasm. Selura put a hand on his leg. "You do worry about him, don't you?" Mitra smiled too quickly. "Of course not," he said.
"Shelley, you okay?" Perseus asked, noting the worried expression on his pupil's face.
Shelley schooled herself, and tried to look more nonchalant. "I'm fine. No, really. After dealing with Gargoyles, crazy Immortals, werewolves, and God knows what else, a couple of Demons should be a piece of cake."
Kurt gently elbowed her in the ribs. "That's the spirit, kid."
Selura excused herself from the table, and Vic turned toward Alec to begin discussing calibers. Jones showed some interest in the discussion as well -- presumably he wanted some kind of firearm as well.
Bran suantered back into the room. He had his coat and his sword.
"Who was it?" Perseus asked.
Bran smirked. "Viracocha," he said.
Everyone in the room froze. Shelley's jaw dropped open, Kurt blinked rapidly, and Mitra look dazed. Jones stiffened involuntarily, while Rachel, Victoria, and Alec looked at the others in puzzlement. Selura stood stock still halfway between Mitra and Rachel, shocked and surprised. Suddenly Perseus leapt to his feet. "He's here?"
"At the Belvedere hotel downtown. I'm going to pick him up." Bran put a hand on Perseus' shoulder and squeezed. "We're going to get through this, Percy. Just you wait. Meph hasn't seen anything yet."
Perseus caught Bran's hand and held on tightly for a moment. "Be careful," he said, letting go. "Don't lose your head."
Bran grimaced. "Bad pun, Percy. And you should know better than that by now. I'll be back shortly."
The dinner party broke up with Bran's departure. Selura and Rachel followed him out, while Alec, Vic, and Jones retired to another room to make a shopping list. Perseus sat down in his seat, still slightly dazed, while the others began to clean off the table.
Bran decided not to take the bike; he borrowed Hazard's Lotus instead. Driving the sportscar through the snow was nearly impossible, but somehow he managed. He kept to the center of the road and under 20 mph, and prayed that he wouldn't bottom out. And he thought about Brigid.
When Mitra arrived earlier that afternoon, he brought news of Brigid -- and he managed to share it with Bran before Perseus and Selura entered the house.
She was alive. And well. Living with an artist in Bedlam, Arizona. Arizona, of all places. She hated the desert. It was somewhere he never would have thought to look, however. Just as well. Had he known before, he probably would have tried to find her, to talk to her. Not now, of course.
Too late for that sort of thing. It was enough, though, to know she was safe, far removed from this killing field. Bran was almost looking forward to the final battle.
The Lotus took him farther than he thought it could; eventually he was forced to abandon it in the snow and proceed on foot to the hotel.
He wrapped his heavy coat around himself, checked on his sword, and then waded through the quiet, snowy streets, under the ghostly illumination of the street lights. Errant flakes of snow blew past him, carried by a wind that grew increasingly more violent as he drew closer to the hotel.
There was a tingling at the edge of his perceptions, some neo-Buzz that seemed to warn him of impending trouble. He tried to concentrate, to try and sense what and where the disturbance was coming from. He had no success. It was like having a name or a word at the tip of his tongue, unable to voice it.
Bran Mac Lyr had not survived nearly two thousand years by ignoring hunches, no matter how vague they were. He kept his hand by his sword and increased his pace, kicking snow out of his way as he half-jogged down the road. In just a few minutes he reached the hotel, the Belvedere.
It was quiet, with only a few lights switched on in a half-hearted attempt to ignore the dark. He took the stairs two at a time, and reached for the latch on the front door. It was broken -- the door open. Kicked in?
The sword was in his hands without conscious thought, and to his horror, the runes glimmered slightly. There was magic in the air.
Bran forced himself into the hotel, bringing snow and a swirling gust of wind with him. The interior of the hotel was dim, but Bran could still make out two bodies, each with its own pool of slowly spreading red.
He leapt over them, bounding towards the elevator, and jamming his thumb on the button. There was a "ding," and he heard the elevator begin to move.
Too slow. "Fuck," Bran growled. He took the stairs instead, the naked blade creating an eerie blue glow in the dimly lit stairway.
Fourth floor in thirty seconds, and he wasn't breathing hard. Not yet. He could feel a Quickening, though, one of extraordinary power. Viracocha, almost surely. There was something else, as well, a sort of half-Buzz, not unlike the aura of a pre-Immortal.
He ran down the hall at top speed, and found Viracocha's room in a heartbeat -- 415. The door was slightly ajar, but he heard no voices, nor sounds of violence. He kicked the door open and stepped inside, the sword ready for attack or defense.
The room was small, and poorly furnished with a ratty carpet, a low bed that sagged in the middle, and yellowing, water stained walls. One small lamp by the bedside illuminated the room and the two figures who stood static within. Viracocha, young and dark, sat cross-legged on the bed, his eyes locked on the big man before him, holding a large sword.
Bran was almost surprised to see the Kurgan. Almost. But with all the screwiness and oddities popping up in the last few days, it seemed almost logical that the deadliest, most evil Immortal who ever lived -- ten years dead, now -- should be hale and hearty, and grinning like a shark. The Kurgan stood stock still, one black gloved hand gripping the hilt of his bastard sword tightly. He didn't move, and hardly appeared to be breathing.
The stillness of the figures was broken as Bran burst into the room. Viracocha's eyes flicked towards him for an instant, and in that instant, whatever force he was using to hold the Kurgan at bay dissipated. The huge grin on the barbarian's face widened, and he pulled his sword back for a killing blow. Viracocha's features remained bland as the sword fell towards his neck.
There was a clang and a cascade of sparks as Bran's ensorcelled blade connected with the Kurgan's sword. The Kurgan grunted. "Bran Mac Lyr, we meet again," he spat. He pushed Bran's sword away with a quick shove, and then slashed at the Celt. Bran blocked in time, and grunted himself.
He didn't remember the Kurgan ever being so strong; the blow he landed nearly pushed Bran backwards.
"Once again, you will not be able to keep me from what I want," the Kurgan continued, pressing the attack and forcing Bran to defend himself.
The Kurgan looked faster as well. Resurrection apparently worked wonders for him.
"You cheated last time, Kurgan," Bran muttered, looking for an opening he could use. The room was too small for a fight between such large men, and Bran was hampered by an unwillingness to accidentally harm Viracocha.
The young-looking ancient still sat passively, watching the two combatants trade blows. What was he thinking?
"I simply took advantage of the fire, whelp," the Kurgan responded, launching into a blistering assault that pushed Bran further backwards, almost to the door. The impact of the Kurgan's blows was beginning to numb Bran's palms, and he fought desperately to take command of the situation. But it was all he could do to keep up. Swords hammered together, sending sparks arcing through the room, as the two giants fought. The Kurgan was clearly winning, though he had yet to score an actual hit, as Bran felt himself pushed back, and forced into a purely defensive stance. He couldn't attack because the Kurgan was relentless.
He thought back to the fight in Kansas, against Keller. He had used Keller as skillfully as the Kurgan was using him now. Bran didn't like it. His scar blazed, engorged with blood, and his black eyes hardened into chips of obsidian. He would not let the Kurgan beat him. Not here, not now.
Bran took a hit on purpose, a glancing blow to his left shoulder that cut through his coat and shirt to the flesh beneath. Ignoring the pain, he launched himself forward, stabbing at the Kurgan with all of his strength. The Kurgan was fast, but not fast enough; he didn't recover from his own attack in time to parry Bran's. The sword punched through his defenses and his stomach, smashing through the rib cage and vital organs and erupting through his back was well. Bran shoved the sword in to the hilt, and then pushed the Kurgan away.
The Kurgan slid off of his sword, and Bran grinned, expecting the Kurgan to collapse from such a vicious wound.
The Kurgan still stood, bleeding for only a few moments before the stomach completely healed. Bran's smile collapsed. He had never seen an Immortal recover from a wound so quickly. It wasn't possible.
He stood, stricken, for an instant, and the next thing he knew, his chest had sprouted three feet of steel. He had a moment to realize that the Kurgan had killed him, and as his heart quietly stopped, and his life's blood erupted from his chest, he had only one thought.
"Brigid," he whispered. The darkness closed in.
The Kurgan wrenched his sword free from Mac Lyr and let the Celt's corpse collapse to the floor. He hawked up a wad of mucus and spat on Mac Lyr's body. "That's for hurting me," he grumbled. He turned towards Viracocha, who still sat silently on the bed. The oldest Immortal in existence sat passively while his champion fought for him, not bothering to lift a finger to help him.
"You're a rather pitiful demigod, Vir," the Kurgan said. He was careful now to avoid Viracocha's eyes. The Kurgan watched the man's throat instead. "Where's the lightning, the fury? You could strike me down with some of that magic of yours? Why don't you?"
There was silence for a moment, and then the Kurgan saw Viracocha's throat moving. He spoke in English only slightly marred by a Spanish accent. "Because I have seen the future, Kurgan. I have seen it, and I fear it. I have spent far too much time in the jungle, contemplating my existence, hoping this day would never come. There is a vast darkness descending on this city, a darkness more pure and violent then anything I have ever seen in seven thousand years."
"I am an old man, tired and afraid. I do not wish to face this gathering darkness. I have trained others to do it for me. I am here because I know my power is needed -- but I do not wish to wield it myself." Viracocha sighed. "Had Bran won, I would have offered myself to him. But you have emerged the victor, Kurgan. So you gain my might. Strike me down, absorb my essence, and use it to save this world from the coming dark."
The Kurgan shook his head. Perhaps Viracocha had finally gone insane. Seven thousand years was a long time, especially when so much of it was spent alone in the jungle. What kind of an Immortal simply gives up his head?
A weak one, obviously. One who deserved to die.
The Kurgan slashed down with his sword, and the metal blade sheared through flesh and bone, severing Viracocha's seven thousand year old head from his seven thousand year old body.
The Quickening erupted from him with terrible violence, and jagged bolts of multi-colored lightning blew around the room, shredding through the Kurgan, blasting the walls of the room, shattering the floor.
As the building exploded around him, the Kurgan was enveloped in the excruciating, orgasmic intensity of the Quickening. He cried out in pain and joy as the power coursed through him, sucking him up, absorbing him as he swallowed it all.
"Highlander!" he screamed over the din of the dying hotel, his ruined throat making him hoarse. "You are next!"
And half a city away, Connor MacLeod shuddered.
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