Sunlight streamed through the tall kitchen windows, falling across the breakfast table, and bringing out the highlights in Tatyana's hair. She delicately lifted her bagel and scraped cream cheese across its toasted surface. Martin took a sip from his cup of coffee, and contemplated how attractive Tatyana was wearing only his shirt, with her auburn locks in disarray. She caught him looking at her and smiled, reaching across the table to poke him in the nose.
"Wake up sleepyhead. You're still dreaming," she said in her heavily accented English.
Martin caught her hand and pressed it against his cheek. "I suppose I am, my dear," he said, returning her smile. He kissed her palm and let her go. As she continued with her breakfast, Martin picked up the paper.
"What would you like to do today?" Martin asked.
She looked at him like he had grown a second head. "Aren't you going in to work today?"
He shook his head, privately delighted at the look of surprise on her face. "I don't think the ship will sink without me around. Not for just one day, certainly."
"Who are you and what did you do with the real Martin?"
He laughed. "Well, if you would prefer I abandon you for the day..." She shook her head vehemently. "Well then?"
She cocked her head for a moment, considering. As she opened her mouth to speak, they both heard the phone ring. Martin held his hand up. "Hold that thought, love." He stood up and went into the hallway, scooping up the phone.
"Ozymand. Who is this?" Few people had his private number. And most of those few knew he didn't wish to be disturbed that morning.
The voice on the other side was dry and gaunt, and spoke Ancient Egyptian with a fluency that Martin remembered only from his childhood.
"Brother," the rasping voice said, "I have made a breakthrough in my research. You must come and see what I have accomplished."
Martin bit back a curse. This was the worst possible time. But he could not refuse the summons of his elder brother. "All right," he said into the phone, his voice tight. "I'll be there as quickly as I can."
He returned to the breakfast table, and disappointed Tatyana with his dour expression. "There's been a change of plans, love. Something's come up." Tatyana's disappointment mirrored his own.
Perseus and Shelley were in baggage claim for almost two hours.
Most of the luggage belonged to Perseus, as Shelley had left the bulk of her belongings behind in London at Quin's place. Perseus had six bags.
His sword was concealed in his backpack, kept close to him where he could mask its presence from Customs. Shelley's blade, however, was secreted in a special case designed by Quin. Small electronic devices woven into the interior of the case actually bent x-rays, concealing the sword from prying eyes, while a simple smuggler's compartment kept it hidden from more mundane searching techniques.
Shelley was anxious until she saw that case tumble into the baggage retrieval area, tagged and ready for her to claim it. She snagged it quickly and looked around for a seat, yawning. The long hours on the plane talking with Perseus were catching up to her. But she didn't regret it. She was beginning to get a clearer picture of the man she would spending the next few years of her life with.
Perseus was a pretty complex guy, all things considered. Which wasn't surprising to her in the least. After all, he was over two thousand years old; a person can't experience that much and not grow from it. He had a practical streak that colored the rest of his personality, and seemed the strongest part of him. Cold pragmatism had served to keep him alive in the Game, where romantics and dreamers too often gave into despair or heartbreak.
Perseus maintained a tight reign on his emotions, but Shelley could tell he was loosening up around her. At first she had thought him so grim, but as the days in his company wore on, she noticed a dry sense of humor, and the occasional mischievous glint in his eyes. And what she told him about Ivan... she had a feeling that Perseus didn't just tell anyone that story.
<Probably fooling myself,> she thought. <He's just stringing me along, fulfilling an obligation to an old friend.> She contemplated that thought for a moment. <Nah.>
Perseus appeared, dropping his last bag at her feet. "Stay put. I'll be right back."
Shelley mustered the energy to give him a quizzical look. "Where are you off to?"
Perseus shrugged. "Call of nature." Then he melted back into the crowd, leaving Shelley alone and slightly embarrassed.
Perseus found the bathroom easily enough. A large blue pictograph illustrated the room's function, with subtitles in English and Cantonese. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, unsurprised at the chrome and white paneled walls. Airport bathrooms the world over looked pretty much the same.
Perseus ambled over to one of the sinks and placed his hands under the faucet. An infrared sensor picked up on the motion and hot water immediately inundated his hands.
The bathroom door opened, and a squat, barrel chested man with thick glasses stepped into the room. He waddled up to the sink next to Perseus', ignoring all tenets of public lavatory etiquette.
"You wanted to see me," the man mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.
Perseus nodded, pulling his hands free from the scalding water, and wishing momentarily for a simple knob to regulate the water's temperature. "I need information only one of your kind has access to, Vanderhurst."
The Watcher grimaced. "You know I can't do that. I've broken enough rules for you. I won't break that one."
Perseus' expression was mild, but Vanderhurst could see those eyes harden like chips of obsidian. "Vanderhurst, there is more at stake here than your weakness or obligations, more than the Game. Lives hang in the balance. Human lives."
Vanderhurst looked at the Immortal, trying to discern whether the man was sincere or not. Perseus had played him for the fool many times in the past, used him to run interference on several occasions, so that the Talamasca had no knowledge of the Immortal's whereabouts. But he had never asked for access to Watcher documents. Vanderhurst had crossed lines many times, but, thankfully, never over that one. Yet now Perseus expected him to do it, to jump through the hoop like a trained dog.
"Sorry, Perseus. No dice."
All the air left Vanderhurst's lungs in a whoosh as Perseus' fist slammed into his gut. The Immortal grabbed the heavy man by his jacket lapels and slammed him against a stall door. Perseus leaned in close, his nose almost touching Vanderhurst's cheek.
When he spoke, his voice was dangerous and low. "You are forgetting your place, mortal. I order. You obey. It is that simple. If you refuse, someone dies. Maybe its you, maybe its that bitch of an ex-wife of yours in Pasedena, maybe its your sweet young daughter."
Vanderhurst's heart fluttered in his chest. "Stay away from Janie," he croaked.
"Then give me what I want. Find everything you can on Lei Wu Long and his current activities. Where he's staying, especially. And get back to me. Or else start planning someone's funeral."
He paused, and looked Vanderhurst in the eye. "Do you understand?" Vanderhurst could not find his voice. He nodded. Perseus released him, and the man collapsed on the floor. The Immortal departed without another word.
Vanderhurst was left, gasping on the floor of the bathroom, wondering how one might contact some Hunters.
It was evening when Ozymand parked the rental car in the road outside of the townhouse. He exited the vehicle and pulled his cap lower over his head, regarding the old building for a moment. He purchased it nearly four hundred years ago, at a time when he had the ear of the king and the large townhouse had been located a few hours outside of the city. In the ensuing centuries, the city had expanded and swallowed the former countryside, and the monarchy had dissolved.
But Ozymand still held considerable clout in the city of lights, and the townhouse still served his purposes.
He had given it to his elder brother, all those years ago, so that the wizard could continue his arcane experiments in relative peace. And now, four centuries later, Nyarlathotep, elder brother to Ramses, had reached some sort of breakthrough in his research.
Ozymand -- Ramses -- sighed, and shut the door of his cheap rental car. He could have ridden here in more style, but, as always, he came to this place incognito, wary of announcing his presence to the world.
For, though he kept his face and thus his true identity out of the press, his company logo and name were well known. It would not do if any of his enemies knew the location of this villa.
Ramses adjusted his jacket and stepped up to the gate, pitted with rust and age. He pushed it open on squeaking hinges and began the long walk up the drive to the house proper. He found the door unlocked, as he knew it would be. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Motes of dust hung in the air, and spiders had created elaborate constructs all up and down the foyer. What furniture the building possessed was shrouded with sheets. Ramses coughed, sending more dust into the air. <The bastard never cleans,> he groused.
<Osiris' rod, I hate coming here.> Wiping his palms reflexively on his thighs, Ramses penetrated deeper into the house. The door to the basement was in the hallway near the kitchen. Dust puffed up wherever he stepped, and he left a trail across the floor. He did not like this place, or the aura of death and decay that seemed to cling to it like a curse. He had become an immortal because he loved life, and he still did; he had not succumbed to the madness that seemed to grip his brothers.
But he had made an oath, to his brothers and his mother. Their family would always take care of one another, and that bond was sealed with magic and alchemy, blessing them with the gift of Osiris himself.
Eternal life. A life of power and influence for Ramses, though his brothers took other paths. And always when one of them needed something, they came to the youngest for help. Ramses had money, contacts, resources. When Nyarlathotep needed a laboratory, Ramses supplied it. When Anok-Sun wanted a bride, Ramses supplied her. And when Tek Ne sought the perfect sword, his little brother Ramses found it for him.
But there had been some returns on those investments, Ramses admitted. Anok-Sun, who had no need for wealth, once gave Ramses a chest of gold stolen from a Spanish galleon. Tek Ne introduced Ramses to Ivan Rerschenko. And now, Nyarlathotep may have found the solution to the one problem that nagged at Ramses. Violent death. He would never age, yet one well placed blow to the neck, or the heart -- the loss of some irreplaceable body part -- and he would die as easily as any mortal.
Nyarlathotep might now possess the knowledge to prevent that death, or, at least, to ensure that such death was not permanent.
Ramses pushed the basement door open. Beyond lay a stone staircase, lit by torches. Ramses shook his head. Nyarlathotep could be so primitive at times. It was a wonder the old Pharaoh even knew how to use a phone. Ramses slid the cap off his head and descended into the bowels of his brother's sanctum. He pulled his jacket tighter, as he realized the further he went, the more the temperature dropped.
Nyarlathotep was waiting for him at the bottom. He was dressed in a voluminous black cloak that shrouded his gaunt, skeletal features.
Nyarlathotep was the perfect picture of an immortal who had let himself go. The centuries down here, hidden away from the life-giving sun, had drained him. His face was thin and drawn, with a ratty beard growing in clumps across his chin. The eyes were sunken deep in his face, and glowed with feverish intensity. His silver, oily hair - the same odd shade as Ramses' - hung past his shoulders, nappy and snarled.
He smiled and welcomed his brother. "I was not sure if you would come, Ramses," he said in Egyptian.
Ramses answered in the same tongue. "I had some things that needed taken care of before I could get away."
His brother nodded. "I have gathered together everything I need. Tonight will be the culmination of my long centuries of research. Ramses, my brother, I now have the ultimate power over life and death."
Nyarlathotep grinned sickly.
Ramses, despite the benefits he could stand to gain should Nyarlathotep's work succeed, did not wish to stay in the dungeon for long. "Let's see it," he urged.
Nyarlathotep smiled again, drawing his face into a ghastly picture of sick humor. Ramses knew that the centuries of solitude and necromancy had unhinged his brother's mind. He only hoped some measure of lucidity remained. He followed Nyarlathotep deeper underground, his flesh crawling as he thought of the atrocities that had been committed in this building. Atrocities he financed. He brushed those thoughts away. <Best to concentrate on the task at hand,> he thought.
Suddenly the corridor opened up into a massive, high vaulted chamber. Flickering torchlight illuminated tables packed high with glass bottles and beakers, overflowing with arcane and esoteric chemicals and compounds. Implements of torture hung on the walls, racks and boards, stained with blood and other fluids. Bones, human and otherwise, were scattered about the room, some organized into piles, others loose and free. On the far end of the room was a stone altar, carved with hieroglyphs and magical symbols. A body was laid across the altar, a white sheet dragged across it for modesty's sake. Arranged in a circle, like the spokes of a wheel, were twelve bodies. All of them young, and of various genders, each possessed a steel spike driven through their chest, anchoring them to the floor.
A stone staircase wormed around the edges of the room, leading the immortal duo to the killing floor. Ramses could not resist a sneer of distaste. Nyarlathotep seemed to thrive on all this filth, but Ramses was disgusted.
Without a word, Nyarlathotep led the way through the wreckage to the stone altar. Ramses was not as nimble footed as his elder sibling, and tripped more than once along the way. Cursing Set and all the dark gods, Ramses smashed the femur he stumbled over as Nyarlathotep reached the altar and whipped the sheet off the body.
Ramses froze in his tracks, almost not believing what he saw. "How... where did you find him?" Ramses asked.
Nyarlathotep smiled. "You are surprised? Splendid. I was hoping for just such a reaction. One of my Nightwings found him where he lay, decapitated at the hands of the Highlander."
Ramses shook his head, picking his way towards the altar. "That was ten years ago. You've had him ever since?" It was unbelievable. He knew the body had disappeared, but he had no idea it was in Nyarlathotep's possession. He drew closer to the altar, and reached out a tentative hand towards the head.
The head was hairless, shaven down to the skin. Even the eyebrows were gone. His eyes were closed, and almost peaceful. A thin, angry red line marred his powerful neck, the only evidence of the blow that had killed him. The body was just as broad and well muscled as it had been in life. Absolutely no deterioration had taken place.
"Incredible," Ramses breathed, his breath misting in the cool air of the dungeon. "You have the most evil Immortal who ever lived. The Kurgan himself."
Nyarlathotep chuckled. "I thought it would be fitting. He served you once, did he not?"
Ramses shrugged. "Not exactly. More like he happened to have interests similar to mine on a few occasions. The Kurgan was too willful to control." On the heels of that thought came another: <And I'll wager he'll be less controllable if -- when -- this works.>
He shook his head and looked at his brother. "How is this supposed to work, exactly? If the Highlander has the Kurgan's soul, than how do you propose to resurrect him?"
Nyarlathotep began to explain as he moved about the scene, inspecting the staked bodies, ensuring they were tightly in place. Double checking the inscriptions traced into the floor and the altar.
Hefting a great silver headed ax. "You have hit upon the very crux of the problem I have faced for centuries. Returning life to the lifeless is simple enough; you and I are testament to that. But how to return life to a being whose soul is in the possession of another? For years I worried at the problem, always failing to find the answers I sought.
"Then I realized I was going about it backwards. I was trying to find someway to get a Quickening to enter its old body. I met failure after failure with that. Then I realized I needed to analyze the nature of the Quickening itself. Always we assumed that the Quickening was the soul, the inner being. But I discovered that it is not. Indeed, the Quickening is little more than an intense power source, more efficient and destructive than an atomic weapon.
"The memories that accompany a transfer of Quickening are just that: memories. They do not contain the essential elements of a being's psyche. It took me nearly a century and a half to learn this. And then I had to find a way to utilize this knowledge. I could use the potion we ingested, and return the dead Immortal to life, but that would make him one of us; not a true resurrection. I wanted to return a dead body to its exact, living state.
"So, what to do?" Nyarlathotep ran his fingers along the edge of the heavy ax, drawing blood. The wounds closed, and a few drops of blood stained the weapon. Ramses heard the wizard mutter and incantation under his breath. The silver axhead began to glow.
"I pondered the question for decades. And then I had a plan. But I needed the perfect candidate. I was fortunate that the Kurgan perished when he did, and my winged servant found him. He was the perfect choice: strong of will, a capable warrior, and a man with enough hatred to bridge the gap between life and death.
"I used magic to preserve his body, and heal the laceration that ended his life. And then I spent another decade gathering the items I would need to finish the process. Twelve neophyte Immortals, too young to have taken their first head, their Quickenings bright and clean and pure. These you see before you, in suspended animation. And then I needed a way to draw their Quickenings to one central point, and a means to have that central point suck up that energy.
Nyarlathotep set the ax down, leaning it against the altar. "I fashioned thirteen stakes out of silver, the most mystically attuned metal. Twelve to channel the energy. And one to absorb it like a lightning rod." Nyarlathotep reached within his cloak and produced a foot long cylinder of gleaming, polished silver. One end was filed to a razor sharp point.
With the strength of an immortal, Nyarlathotep drove the stake into the Kurgan's chest in one swift movement. Ramses flinched slightly at the meaty thunk, and admonished himself silently for such weakness.
Nyarlathotep lifted the ax again. "Step back, brother. Outside the circle." Ramses backed away, stopping only when he reached the edge of the symbols carved into the floor. He stood silently, watching his brother practice his craft, watched him reach the culmination of centuries of research.
Nyarlathotep began chanting in a sing song, guttural voice millennia older than his native Egyptian. He danced about the circle, waving the ax about. Ramses watched in breathless anticipation. When Nyarlathotep stopped suddenly and brought the ax down, separating one head from its body, Ramses jumped in surprise.
He was ready for the second, and the third. As Nyarlathotep moved about the circle, executing the Immortals, blue white arcs of electricity began to form around the bodies, sparking up and down the exposed lengths of the spikes that jutted from their chests. the air was heavy with the tang of ozone, and a field of blue white light was rapidly enveloping the floor of the circle, jolts of electricity flowing from one carved symbol to another.
When the last head rolled free, Nyarlathotep leapt free from the circle, tumbling to his knees and dropping the ax with a clang that was barely heard in the roaring silence of the huge room. Ramses hardly noticed the event, his eyes were glued to the scene unfolding before him.
There was a moment of utter silence, when everything, even the electricity of the Quickening, was frozen, unmoving.
And then everything exploded.
Flashes of blue and violet tinged light shot in spinning arcs towards the stake imbedded in the Kurgan's trunk. The light was intense, searing Ramses' retinas with sharp brilliance. As his eyes teared and healed, he heard a heavy, bass rumble, like the thunder of Shu himself. Electricity sizzled in the frigid air of the basement, and Ramses felt one final, white hot blast wash over him.
And then all was quiet.
Ramses hunched over, his hands covering his eyes as the ruined orbs healed. Just as they reached the point where they were strong enough to open, he heard a strangely familiar voice.
"Where the fuck am I?" the Kurgan growled.
Ramses looked up. The warrior was standing on weak legs, leaning against the altar. He held the stake in his hand like a weapon, and the hole in his chest closed up quickly. More quickly than it should have.
Ramses shot Nyarlathotep a suspicious look. The wizard shrugged. "I forgot to mention; I made some improvements."
The Kurgan stood taller as he recovered from his ordeal. He spun the silver stake in his hand. "Which one of you dies first?"
Nyarlathotep drew himself up, as if to match the Kurgan. "Neither one of us will face your wrath. We have saved you. Connor MacLeod took your head, and with it, your power. We have returned both to you." He paused. "So show us some 'fucking' respect." Only Ramses noticed his brother stumble over the English expletive.
The Kurgan looked at both of them for a moment, an then traced his fingers across the red line on his neck. "What do you want?" he growled.
Nyarlathotep took a step forward. "My minions have encountered trouble at the hands of three Immortals who occasionally dwell in Paris. One of them is kin to the man who killed you."
The Kurgan's massive brow lowered. "Where are they?"
The three friends sat around the low table, enjoying dinner and wine and the companionable bantering that could only come from long years of intense friendship. One man was clean shaven, with dark hair cut severely short and a set of animated, expressive eyes. Across from him, taking a large sip from her glass, was a lithe, athletic woman with short hair bleached blond. At her side, laughing at a comment made by the one of the others, was a powerfully built man with long black hair tied into a ponytail.
The Kurgan recognized two of them. The girl was Amanda, student to that annoying wench Rebecca. The short haired man was Methos. How that little snot had survived for so long, the Kurgan could only guess. The third was unknown to him, which meant he was the MacLeod. A slow, evil grin crossed the Kurgan's face. Even with his nose almost plastered to a porthole, they could not sense him. Too much background noise, especially with an Immortal as old as Methos there.
Stupid.
The door shattered easily under the Kurgan's blow, and he stepped into the room, a heavy bastard sword hanging lazily from his right hand. The other three Immortals reacted quickly. MacLeod leapt to his feet, producing a dragonheaded katana. Amanda reached for her own broadsword, but froze as she realized who stood before them.
Methos stood up slowly. The Kurgan could tell Methos was rattled.
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the Highlander said. His back was to his friends, so he did not notice their reactions.
The Kurgan grinned. This would be immensely fun. "Of course you are," he chuckled. "And I am the Kurgan."
Duncan actually grinned. The Kurgan would enjoy wiping that stupid look off his pretty face. "I don't think so, chum," Duncan said.
Methos coughed. "Actually, Duncan, I think it is the Kurgan. Or else its his twin brother. Which would be sort of impossible. Of course, the actual Kurgan standing there is impossible as well, so..." Methos trailed off.
Duncan's grin slackened. Seeing the oldest Immortal he knew babbling like a neophyte clearly unnerved him. As did the notion of fighting the actual Kurgan. The Kurgan's mouth widened into an expression halfway between a smile and a snarl, and then he attacked.
The first Quickening was heaven. The second was sweeter still.
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PoT_Ch14.php -- Revised: January 27, 2021.