Vanderhurst relaxed in the stiff chair the hotel provided, examining his watch. Just past midnight on the first of February. By now, the local chapter of the Hunters would have dispatched Perseus. Vanderhurst could now sleep easy for the first time in many years, secure in the knowledge that the great demon that had simultaneously beguiled and bedeviled him for most of his life was gone forever, beheaded in a square in the cramped downtown of China's busiest port. Strange that, after all the problems Perseus had given him, it would be the threat of violence against a daughter he had neglected for twenty years that would finally drive him to action against the Greek Immortal. Once, he had gladly given up the pleasure of watching his daughter grow up in order to follow Perseus around the globe. Yet now... perhaps his paternal instincts were not completely gone.
He sighed. His life had been devoted to the chronicling of Perseus' adventures, yet now he had been instrumental in the ending of the Immortal's existence. A slight smile tugged at Vanderhurst's pudgy cheeks. Amazing that Perseus survived for so long, only to be brought done by an overweight middle-aged bookworm.
After a moment, he turned to the desk at his elbow and opened his powerbook. A few quickly typed commands, and Vanderhurst logged onto the Talamasca network, seeking the Watcher databanks. It was time to place the final entry of Perseus' long, illustrious career. Struck down in his prime; all those years a waste. Vanderhurst tried to ignore the fact that his own career, his own life, had been invalidated during this evening's events. He betrayed the Watchers, betrayed his charge, and showed that his whole life to that point had been a colossal waste of time. Vanderhurst smiled hugely, though. He felt too damn good for remorse.
His hands flew over the keys, crafting the epitaph for a man who lived two thousand and five hundred years, a man who, somewhere along the extensive journey, became a monster. It was better this way, really. A creature like Perseus didn't deserve the Prize. Just as Vanderhurst finished, and his finger hovered over the mouse, preparing to hit the "send" button, the door to his hotel room exploded inward, the flimsy lock shattered by a titanic blow.
Vanderhurst leapt to his feet, the chair crashing to the floor as sudden, real fear blossomed in his chest. It couldn't be...
Perseus stepped into the room, his dark hair tousled and unkempt, a reddish brown stain marring his sweater, though no other evidence of a wound existed. The Spartan's face was a cold mask of fury, and rage seemed to blast from his eyes into Vanderhurst's chest.
The portly man staggered to his knees. Words froze in his throat. Somewhere inside himself, he screamed, while another, older part of himself, a part he thought long dead, rejoiced that the Spartan survived one more test, emerging unscathed.
"That was a very foolish thing you did, Vanderhurst. And eighteen men and women are dead because you couldn't control your temper. Couldn't accept your place in this world." Perseus' face was livid, but his voice was ice. And that made it all the more terrifying.
"I... I... " Vanderhurst stuttered, fear freezing his tongue. The Watcher could hardly believe it. Perseus was supposed to be ambushed by over a dozen Hunters armed with guns. Even an Immortal of his stature should have perished. Yet here he was, untouched and ready to give Vanderhurst the same mercy Vanderhurst gave him.
Perseus' hands tightened into fists, knuckles white and skin drawn tight. "After all we've been through, you go and stab me in the back. Really, Vanderhurst, I expected more of you." He paused. "Do you have that information I requested?"
Vanderhurst stared at him a moment, and then ponderously rose to his feet. "I... I won't give you anything. Kill me if you want to... but I'll do your bidding no more." He let out a deep breath.
Perseus eyed him. "Pretty speech. And I can see that you are in the midst of editing the Watcher databases. I really don't need you alive anymore. God knows I should kill you." The cold black eyes of the Spartan met Vanderhurst's watery blue ones. "But I grant you your life, Nathaniel. Leave this place now, this very moment, and go find that daughter of yours. And if I ever see you again, be certain I will not demonstrate such mercy again."
Vanderhurst looked at Perseus, almost not daring to breathe. For a moment he considered jumping for his computer and ending the connection in a last, defiant act. But he realized such a thing really would be a *last* act. Never a man of great courage, he decided to take Perseus' offer. He edged around the older man, to the doorway and the splintered door. Then he bolted into the corridor, heading for the elevators. He didn't look back.
Behind him, in the room, Perseus examined the computer. He read the message Vanderhurst typed, detailing his demise. The Spartan grinned and hit the "send" button. Then he began looking for Lei.
Once again Alec sat at the scratched table in the tiny kitchen of his second floor apartment. One pistol lay on the table to his left, the spider crouched protectively over it. In his palm, its weight cold and unsettling, the strange pendant sat. He couldn't take his eyes from the grotesque carving. Something about it tugged at the edges of his memories, memories still shrouded in fog and darkness.
He found himself thinking of Teresa, a friend during his teenage years. One of very few. Her letters and care helped him survive the hell of art school in New York. When he returned to Baton Rouge, his fingers permanently stained by paint and heart heavy with grief at the death of his parents, Teresa was there for him. He thought he fell in love with her. He presented her with an antique brooch his mother once owned. She wouldn't take it. She wanted to remain friends, but she just didn't feel about him the way he wanted her to feel.
Her rejection hurt him more than it should have. It wasn't as if she led him on or spurred his attentions. She was just one of the few people a misanthropic bastard like Alec could talk to without getting disgusted. He let himself be fooled by his own loneliness. Still, the sting took a long while to wear away. He let it gnaw at him, worrying away at the black, desiccated thing he called his heart. He threw himself into his art completely, disappearing into his studio for days at a time. He answered no calls.
He missed Teresa's wedding. Found the invitation under a pile of unread mail. He missed the date by mere days, but missed it all the same. It was then he stopped lying to himself and sold the house, moved out of that city with all the tired memories and wasted dreams and headed for the most dynamic city in the South. New Orleans. Where he found an outlet for his anguish, more potent than art. First was the morphine. Then he graduated into rather heavy heroin use. Heroin was all the rage amongst tortured artistic types, the penultimate tortured artist being Kurt Cobain. Alec remembered the night he heard about Cobain's death. He had laughed. Laughed loudly and heartily for the first time in long, long months.
He clenched his fist around the pendant, feeling the sharp points dig into his palm. Why did all of his memories *hurt* so much? He shook his head. He couldn't understand what could have brought him back, what helped him bridge the gap between life and death. Simple hate? A desire for revenge? Nothing so petty, Alec thought. The man he remembered courted death, he didn't fight it. Alec Scott the artist was one of those walking dead people who was too much of a coward to check out on his own.
How could such a pitiful little man refuse death when it came for him? There was something he was forgetting. Something that eluded him >still. All part of the mystery of his un-life. He supposed that if he found his murderers, he might remember everything. Right before he winked out of existence.
He opened his hand and looked at the pendant. It was time to get back to solving that mystery.
A phone call to the Jamaican and two hours later, Alec was deep in Creole territory, searching the back roads and alleys for a curio shop dubbed "The Green Room." The Jamaican assured Alec that the shopkeeper would be able to identify the strange pendant, though Alec was reluctant to describe the monstrous little thing to his friend.
He ignored the delectable smell of roasting food, ignored the calls from the whores that lined the street, brushed past the panhandlers and the drunks, and in a relatively short time, found his destination. The exterior of the building looked shabby and badly used, but the sign over the window, etched in fine green letters that spelled out "The Green Room" in English, French, and Spanish, looked new enough.
Alec pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It wasn't what he expected. The floor was protected by a thick burgundy rug, and a half dozen chairs, carved exquisitely by the same careful hand, were spread around the small room. A low table was pushed up against the far wall, its surface polished to a mirror shine. Finely woven Arabic tapestries covered the walls, showing scenes of genies, wars, and demons, all captured in vibrant, breathing color.
A high counter stood across the room from where Alec stood, and behind the counter lounged a man Alec took to be the proprietor of the store. He had dark skin, shoulder length curly hair, and a neatly trimmed Van Dyke. A single gold hoop dangled from his left ear. His clothes were stylish and neat.
He looked up from a copy of TIME magazine when Alec stepped into the shop. "May I..." he began, and then trailed off. The look in his eyes suggested that he recognized Alec from somewhere.
Something told Alec to bolt like a hare, but he held his ground. After all, what does a dead man fear? "I was told you could help me identify a... piece," Alec said.
"Really?" the man said absently, closing the magazine and setting it aside. "Who told you that?"
Alec was at a loss for words for a moment. What should he tell this strange man with the dark eyes? Alec decided on the truth. "A man called the Jamaican." He waited for the reaction.
He didn't get what he expected. The man just said "Really?" again, almost to himself. Then he looked sharply at Alec, and gestured at the chairs. "Sit down, young man. Sit down."
Alec was reluctant to do so, but grabbed a seatback anyway and pulled it to him. He reversed the chair and sat down, leaning against the backrest. "Do I know you?" he asked.
The man shook his head. "No, but *I* have heard of *you*."
Alec tried to reach for his gun without seeming to be obvious about it. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means... the dead returning to life is not a normal everyday occurrence. Things like that have a habit of being noticed, Mr. Scott. Especially around here."
Alec sat speechless, trying to absorb what the man just said, what he meant. How much did he know? Was he an ally? He must be, Alec swore, or else the Jamaican would never have recommended him.
"I can see by your face that you have many questions," the man said, coming around the corner. "Allow me to answer a few. My name is Kurt Densmore, and I am actively involved in the... supernatural community of New Orleans. Your presence here, in the city, at this time, has caused ripples... you've agitated a sizable amount of factions in this town." Densmore smiled. "I don't happen to be a part of any of those. In fact, I have a feeling we're on the same side."
"And which side is that?" Alec asked slowly.
Kurt walked over and found a chair for himself, one not too close to where Alec sat. "The side that wants this city to survive what's coming."
Alec shifted in his seat. "That's a pretty strong statement to make. But how do you know I want that? All I want is to find the people who ki -- did this to me and pay them back."
Densmore nodded. "Yes, that's how most Wraiths feel at first. But I can tell you have a bigger role to play in what's coming."
*Wraith? Is that what I am?* Alec thought. Aloud, he said, "Why?"
Densmore shrugged. "Call it intuition. A hunch. I've learned to trust my instincts." Suddenly, he shifted gears. "But we can discuss this later. Let me see this piece of yours."
Alec stared at the man for a moment, wondering if he should pull the pendant out. Wondered if he should share it with the strange man who seemed to have all the answers. Answers that just created more questions in Alec's tired brain. Still, he reminded himself, the Jamaican had steered him to this door. Alec believed he could trust his only remaining friend. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced the small piece of jewelry.
A reptilian, golden eye, ringed by teeth and surrounded by writhing tentacles. The sculptor, whatever sick and twisted genius that had been, was able to give the pendant the illusion of movement, of life, so realistically was it carved. Yet the pendant also gave one an intense feeling of fear, of hatred, of impotence. Alec hated letting the thing touch his hand.
Densmore recoiled from it as if stung, a look of shock writ across his dark features. He shook his head in disbelief. After a moment, he found his voice. "Where..." he began, his eyes still locked on the thing in Alec's hand, "did you find that thing?"
"It was hanging around the neck of the woman who seduced me and delivered me into the hands of my killers," Alec said emotionlessly. He was put off by Densmore's extreme reaction to the pendant. He could understand it, certainly, but the earlier conversation had led him to believe Densmore was made of sterner stuff. "What is it?" he said at last.
"A portent," Densmore said. "A sign that matters are far worse than I had imagined." He took a deep breath and licked his lips. "You'd better let me have that," he said, putting his hand out as if he expected to get bitten.
Alec shook his head and slipped the thing back into his pocket. "Uh-uh. Not until you give me a straight answer."
Densmore looked up, into Alec's eyes. His expression was haunted. "You really don't want to hear it. But you must." He paused. "And so do a number of others. If you can be patient, and let me make a few phone calls, I will tell you what you wish to hear."
Alec shrugged. "Its my only lead, Densmore. If you need the rest of your club here to help you explain, its fine by me."
Densmore seemed about to say something more, but stood up instead, and headed into the back room. "I won't be long," he said over his shoulder.
Richie Ryan huddled further into his jacket as the cold New York air knifed through his body. He rubbed his hands together and looked up. St. Peter's Cathedral was a lot bigger than he had anticipated. And it was locked at this time of night, to boot.
Richie cursed the luck that had brought him out of Vancouver, into the States. Into New York City, of all places. Some called it the capital of the world. Richie thought it was a shithole.
He reached behind his shoulder to make sure his saber was still in place, and then mounted the steps to the main doors. Suddenly he felt the buzz thrum from the base of his spine up to the reptilian center of his brain. Without thinking, Richie flowed into a defensive kata, looking around him for the source of the always welcome, always feared warning of another Immortal's presence.
A figure detached itself from the shadows, and stepped toward Richie. It was a man, with unruly reddish hair and a few days growth of beard marring a strong jaw. A tan trenchcoat was belted over a leather jacket and jeans. A pair of scuffed, comfortable sneakers covered his feet. The man smiled slightly, and reached out a hand.
"Hello Richie. We only met once, but I've heard a lot about you."
Richie swallowed hard. "Connor. Hello. I wasn't sure you'd come... I mean, make it in time." He took the proffered hand and shook it. Connor MacLeod had a strong grip, a swordsman's grip.
"How could I stay away?" Connor said sardonically. Even in the darkness, Richie could see the pain stretched across the man's features, though MacLeod tried to hide it. "Shall we go in?" he asked, his voice still light.
"But isn't it locked?" Richie protested.
"Hardly. This Pierson fellow of yours managed to open the building for us. I'm rather interested in meeting him." Richie didn't doubt it. Only Dawson's word convinced the young Immortal that Pierson had been telling the truth about Duncan's killer. If it wasn't for Joe, Richie would be going after Pierson, instead of trying to talk to him.
Connor turned and led the way to the ominous dark oaken doors and pulled one open far enough to slip inside. Richie followed suit.
The interior of the cathedral was huge and impressive, especially when it was so dimly lit. Richie could almost see the humped shapes of gargoyles moving about the rafters, deep in the shadows. A few candles were lit on the ground floor, allowing the duo to pick their way through the pews to the altar. The lights from above barely reached them.
When they drew even with the first row of pews, and were looking up past the altar to the huge crucifix looming above them, Connor looked around, fingering the hilt of his katana through his trench coat. "Where is the little bastard?" he muttered under his breath.
They heard a creak from the far left, and Richie instinctively groped for his own blade as he turned to investigate. Hidden deep within the shadows, he could just barely make out a confessional door opening slowly, and a figure emerging. Pierson.
Richie felt Connor relax beside him, but couldn't do it himself. Every fiber of his being cried out to attack, to strike down Pierson, even here on Holy Ground. And then he noticed something odd, as Pierson stepped further towards the light. Something about the way the man carried himself looked different. Richie was about to draw his sword when Pierson stepped out of the shadows, and the whole game was changed.
Two things happened.
First, Richie realized Pierson hadn't been joking about going around "one-handed for a while." Pierson's right arm ended just above the elbow, and his trench coat sleeve was buttoned up to accentuate that fact. All of Richie's doubts and apprehensions were cleared up right there. No one was crazy enough to cripple himself forever, simply as a ploy to get the heads of Connor MacLeod and Richie Ryan. Pierson could not have been involved in Duncan's death. If Mac had been able to get a blow in against his attacker, it would not have been a dismemberment. Mac didn't fight that way.
Second, Connor said the word "Methos" and dropped to one knee.
Richie didn't know what to make of it. He had never seen Mac genuflect to another man before -- well, except maybe Darius -- and the image of Connor MacLeod, kneeling before a dink like Pierson was more than a bit confusing to the young Immortal. Pierson couldn't have been that old; Richie had met Darius only once, but the Quickening he felt from the monk was much more powerful than the twinging he picked up from Pierson. Richie didn't know what to do.
Pierson stepped forward, and offered his hand to Connor. "Oh, do please get up, Connor," he said. "I am still trying to keep my cover."
Connor slowly rose. "My apologies. You left a rather great impression on a young Immortal in Japan. One that lasted quite a while." He took Pierson's hand. "But that was 500 years ago. Things change." Connor noticed the tattoo on Pierson's wrist. "How long have you been a watcher?'
Pierson smiled like a fox. "Quite a while, actually. But we haven't gathered here to speak of that. We're here to talk about the Kurgan, and how he could have survived his battle with you a decade ago. And how he found us in Paris, and killed Duncan and Amanda."
Richie was all for that. He vaguely remembered a conversation with Mac about some guy named Methos, but that was a few years ago. And Richie wasn't really paying attention at the time. It might have been interesting to hear about him some other time, but paramount in Richie's mind was the desire for payback, for retribution. "Yeah," he said. "Lets talk about this Kurgan guy. He killed Mac and Amanda. So that means he's tough. But Connor beat him before, so he can't be all that tough."
Connor spared Richie a glance. "Richie, the Kurgan has done what no Immortal has ever done. He survived a beheading. That means he might well be invincible. What is to say if we find and kill him again, he won't rise in another ten years time?" Was that fear in Connor MacLeod's voice?
Richie opened his mouth to argue, but Pierson forestalled him with a raised hand. "I think the Kurgan's resurrection, while miraculous, is not as awesome as you think, Connor. My... contacts have discovered that the Kurgan was *raised* from the dead. By a third party."
Connor's eyes narrowed. "Explain," he said tersely.
Pierson nodded. "There is a necromancer who has made his home in Paris for centuries. He is a younger brother of an old friend of yours, Connor. His name is Nyarlathotep, and he is one of a brood of silver haired Egyptian immortals. The only true Immortal among them, however, was the oldest. Tek Ne."
Richie heard Connor gasp, even as he struggled to follow the concepts Pierson was bandying about. Necromancers? Broods of Immortals? Nothing in his admittedly limited experience had prepared him for any of this. Had Mac known and not told him? Or had he been as in the dark as Richie?
"That's right, Connor," Pierson said. "Tek Ne, who later became known to you as Ramiriz, had a number of younger brothers. When Tek Ne achieved Immortality, several of them wished to follow in his footsteps. None of them were born Immortal, however, and thus needed to find alternate means to a long life. One of them, Nyarlathotep by name, discovered the secret, and shared it with his family. But they all became evil, and avaricious, and savage. All save the youngest and the oldest; Ramses and Tek Ne. Tek Ne denounced his family and fled East, into Asia. Ramses stayed among his brothers, fully believing in the concept of ma'at."
"Over the centuries, the brothers became more evil and monstrous. Ramses was corrupted by them, and he became the most efficient and ambitious of their number. He weaseled his way into positions of power and influence, amassing wealth and temporal power. He took care of his brothers. Avenged their deaths, found homes, brides, and money for them. Eventually, Ramses formed an alliance with the Kurgan, and sent the Kurgan on several assignments to eradicate his enemies. Such men included Perseus, Burdigala, Bran Mac Lyr, and even Ramiriz, whom Ramses had never forgiven for deserting the family."
"In most cases, the Kurgan succeeded. And if he failed a few times, there were always rematches. Shortly after Ramiriz' death, Ramses dissolved their partnership. Feeling guilty perhaps. At any rate, the Kurgan continued as the killing machine he always has been, until New York City, 1986. When you, Connor, put a stop to him."
"But the Kurgan's body disappeared, a fact that has long confounded the Watchers and our parent network, the Talamasca. But I believe I know what happened. Ramses has long based himself in New York. I think he recovered the Kurgan's body, and sent it to his brother, the necromancer Nyarlathotep. Somehow, that monster found a way to bring the Kurgan back.
"If we eliminate the Kurgan, Nyarlathotep, and Ramses, then I think we need never fear the return of the Kurgan again." Connor and Richie sat mostly in silence during Pierson's lecture. Richie had a feeling this was new information for *both* of them. Yet somehow, it made sense. It shouldn't have, but Richie had long since stopped believing in the impossible. His own return from the dead had neatly nixed the notion that impossibilities existed."
"Well, then," he said, "lets do it."
Connor, his face a mask, nodded assent.
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