The dark clouds gathered over the city, twisting and billowing in an ecstatic dance. Lightning caressed the shifting mass of water vapor. Soon the rain would come, bringing with it the sense of purification. But now, only the promise was there. Though some that lurked amidst the city's darkened streets would have thought "threat" a more appropriate term.
A battered, faded red chevy nova slowly drew to a halt on Morgue Street, under a broken street light. Shrouded by darkness, the single mobile occupant opened the driver side door and carefully stepped out of the car. It turned and lifted its straw hat in a silent solute to the desiccated husks that had once owned the car. With an adjust of its cloak, and a gentle push to the door, the Scarecrow took his leave, and began to make his way along the empty street, soft, straw filled feet whispering on the pavement.
"Can I get either of you a drink?" the stewardess asked, her smile widening just a bit as she shifted her blue eyes from Lamont to Gordon.
Lamont shook his head testily. No alcohol for him. Ever. Gordon returned the woman's smile with one of his own, and asked for a Coke. The woman nodded, and then produced a small plastic cup from her cart and filled it with soda, handing it to Gordon. With one more dazzling grin, she moved on, further down the aisle. Gordon sipped his drink. "Greystoke seemed irritable this morning," he said.
Lamont snorted. "Small wonder. He fucked up big time. And six million people are dead because of it. Including your little friend Jones." Gordon winced, and inwardly Lamont chuckled.
Gordon played with the napkin that came with his beverage. "I don't think it was that, exactly. Remember Angola?" This time it was Lamont's turn to grimace. Angola was a bad time for both Greystoke and himself. "I think his lordship is more worried about what Hong Kong means. Not how many people died."
Lamont grunted. There might be some merit to that. Greystoke could be a cold bastard sometimes. Something he and the nobleman shared in common. In many ways, Greystoke's hard edge was what made him such a good chairman for the Council. Lamont had once coveted that position, but he had come to realize his mania would actually make him a terrible leader. Greystoke was a bastard, but he was a sane bastard.
"What is so important about New Orleans?" he asked.
Gordon shrugged. His blue eyes followed the smooth lines of the stewardess's rear as she returned to the front of the cabin. "Any number of reasons. The presence of the Wraith, for one. First Wraith anyone has seen in almost twenty years. Plus we just got word that somebody offed the Weird Sisters. That takes balls, and power. And then there's that subtle tugging feeling in the pit of my gut that's telling me we have to go South."
Lamont had to admit he felt that tugging as well. It made him uncomfortable, and reminded him of the old legends of the Gathering. "We will feel drawn to a faraway land, to battle to the last," Kublai had told him, years ago as they sat in Kublai's tent, and the maddening wind whipped about outside, scouring the Mongol steppes. Lamont knew it was a myth; he had been privy to Viracocha's secret for decades, but that didn't stop the dread from welling up from the depths of his psyche. Angrily, Lamont clamped down on that old fear. He wouldn't be afraid anymore. It was unseemly for a man of his age and stature.
Gordon finished his drink, and began to munch on the little chunks of ice. "I wish Walker were here. He'd be able to make sense of all this."
Lamont, his nerves beginning to fray as Gordon crunched on the ice, snapped back at him, "Walker's dead. And so is Blaise. We're better of forgetting them both and worrying about the future. If there's a future."
Gordon twisted in his seat, his brow darkening. "So, you do think the End is on the way?"
Lamont shook his head. "I don't know. But the signs certainly point in that direction." He suddenly grinned. "Have you seen the reports from New York?"
Gordon set his cup down. "What reports?"
"Bodies. Forty seven people have been found over the past two weeks, dead as doornails. No signs of trauma. No signs of drug use, heart disease, or brain tumors. Do you know what that means?"
The faintest tic formed on Gordon's left cheek. "It couldn't be," he protested.
Lamont's grin widened, as if that were possible. "Oh, it is indeed possible. We never did destroy the damn thing, just sent it into hiding. The Scarecrow is loose again." Lamont paused, savoring the moment as Gordon's tic worsened, and the older Immortal looked away. Then Lamont dropped the other shoe. "And there is evidence that it is heading South. My guess is, it will be waiting for us at the airport when we touch down."
Gordon suddenly gripped the armrest of his chair, his knuckles going white with undisguised tension. Lamont chuckled to himself.
Two blocks away from the car, the Scarecrow came across a low stone wall, fashioned from heavy granite blocks so cunningly set together that only a trained eye would be able to find the joints between them. The leathery face of the Scarecrow twisted into a mockery of a smile. He was close now, so very close. Though he could easily have vaulted over the wall to the treasure beyond, the Scarecrow followed the wall as it paralleled the street. A few cars passed him, but no one walked at this hour of the night. Not here, for certain, and none would have moved as silently as the Scarecrow did. A mortal would need to whistle or sing to steady his nerves.
The Scarecrow only needed to walk a few dozen yards to find the gate. Huge, rusted and pitted from all the moisture in the air, and fashioned in that pretentious neo-gothic style, the gate stretched ten feet into the air and swung open on noisy hinges. A rumble of thunder accompanied the Scarecrow as he entered the graveyard.
Mausoleums, tombs, and raised sepulchers greeted the burning gaze of the Scarecrow. He threaded his way through the maze of burial chambers, searching for a single one. It would be hidden deep in the heart of this forest of stone, and though the Scarecrow had never before seen it, he knew he would recognize it when he came upon it.
"Who are you to disturb the sleep of the dead?" a sibilant voice demanded. The Scarecrow paused and looked around. He found the Gargoyle perching on an obelisk, twenty feet from where the Scarecrow stood. It was a young specimen of that false race, a creature that was all scales and horns and bony spurs. The Gargoyle shifted on its perch. "You are not welcome here, whatever you are," it said.
The Scarecrow almost laughed. The creature was obviously uncertain and weak. Hardly worth the effort to destroy it. But the man of straw never refrained from teaching a pup a lesson it would never forget. "Then perhaps you should try to remove me," the Scarecrow said.
The Gargoyle grimaced, and seemed to ponder what to do; whether to attack or leave the Scarecrow be. And then it sprang forward, bounding forth on powerful legs, its heavy claws outstretched to rend and tear.
The Scarecrow was ready.
The accommodations were adequate, certainly. Each of them had their own small room complete with sink, bed, and dresser, and there was a bathroom down the hall with two showers. Connor had certainly seen far worse in his life, and to be honest, he found the hotel rather quaint. But for the indoor plumbing, the inn could pass for one of the places he frequented a hundred years ago. Even the wallpaper looked similar.
He watched with some amusement as Richie went off into a description of just how horrid and disgusting the place was. It truly was miraculous how Duncan had transformed the boy in such a short time. But then, Richie was still quite young and capable of being molded. He hadn't yet had time to become set in his ways, as Connor and Duncan and Kastagir and so many others had. When Richie seemed to have all his things settled in the tiny room, Connor stood up from his seat on the bed, and headed for the door. "Let us check on Adam," he said.
"Aren't you going to unpack your stuff?" Richie asked, following him.
Connor shook his head. "I expect we won't be here very long. Besides," he said with a grin, "I prefer to be able to move quickly when I'm on the hunt." Richie blanched somewhat at the choice of the term; Duncan had never gone headhunting, not as long as Richie had known him. The thought that Connor might do such a thing clearly made the boy uneasy. "Don't forget your glasses," Connor said as he stepped into the hall.
He heard Richie grumble and go back for the lenses. When Richie returned, the glasses firmly set on his nose, Connor led the way down the hall to Methos' room. Connor rapped on the door softly, and pushed the door open without waiting for invitation.
The Old Man looked up sharply as Connor and Richie barreled into the room. "Bloody hell," he spat. "Ever heard of privacy?"
Connor gave him an insolent grin. "There is no privacy between murderers," he said. "Nor honor among thieves. Now, when do we start looking for this Egyptian sorcerer of yours?"
Richie looked uncertainly from Connor to Methos. He felt like the earth was shifting under his feet. He didn't really know who to trust, and his instincts told him to watch his steps around both of these men. There was something about Connor that made Richie uneasy, a sense of barely restrained violence and anger. As for Methos -- Richie may have been young, but he certainly wasn't stupid. Immortals don't live five thousand years without being cold-hearted bastards. Richie felt that he could believe Methos about the Kurgan; the missing arm was proof enough of that. But as to the rest of Methos' story... Richie would believe it when he saw it.
Methos sighed. "Your chronicle mentions in several places just how temperamental you can be, MacLeod. Do try to be patient though." He gestured with his single hand at the bed, the only furniture in the room. "Have a seat, will you. I contacted some friends before we left New York. They should be arriving soon, with news."
"What kind of friends?" Richie asked suspiciously. He could do without Watchers. Dawson was okay, but he was an isolated case. That band of voyeurs on a whole gave him the creeps.
Methos smiled enigmatically. "Let us say... they are most unusual."
Connor plopped down on the bed, and stretched out across it, leaning his head back and cradling it in his hands. "I don't suppose you have a set of playing cards or a chessboard? Games do make the time go by much more quickly."
"I'm afraid not," Methos admitted. He glanced furtively at the window. Richie noticed it, but doubted Connor could have seen it from the bed. Richie lounged against the dresser and crossed his arms. His jacket stretched tight across his back, emphasizing the reassuring pressure of his rapier between his shoulders. "But I could ring up room service for a deck of cards, if you really want me to," Methos said.
"If it isn't too much trouble," Connor said.
Something scraped against the window pane. Richie looked sharply at Connor and Methos, but they were too engrossed in their inane chatter to notice. Maybe it was nothing. But there it was again. Something definitely scraped against the window. Richie unfolded himself smoothly, and drew his rapier in one quick movement. Methos' eyes bugged out of his head as Richie took a step toward the window. Connor sat up. "Richie, what is it?" he said sharply.
"There's something at the window," Richie said. He whipped the damn glasses off his face to keep his vision clear, and then stepped closer to the window. Methos put a hand on his shoulder, but Richie shrugged it off violently. There was now a very loud, consistent scraping noise emanating from the window.
Out of the corner of his eye, Richie saw Connor draw his katana. The Highlander had his back. Somehow, Richie felt better. He reached out with the tip of his sword and flipped the curtain away from the window, revealing what was on the other side of the thin pane of glass.
It was monster. A massive, blue-black skinned face with yellow, bulging eyes and a set of ram's horns curling from its forehead down to its heavy jaw. Tusks jutted upward from its mouth, and a long mane of silvery hair framed the terrifying visage. One thick claw was pressed against the window and making the scraping sound.
Richie fell backward with a shout of fear and brandished his sword. Suddenly Methos' talk of sorcerers and monsters didn't sound like a fairytale. Richie prepared to drive his sword through the window to skewer the beast, but Methos grabbed his wrist and held it with surprising strength.
"I wouldn't recommend that," Methos said coldly.
"Adam is right," Connor said, stepping forward and making his blade disappear under his heavy jacket. "It isn't wise to anger a Gargoyle."
Methos looked sharply at Connor. "How -- ?" he began, but Connor cut him off. "I live in New York," he said, "where all sorts of lunacy occurs. Now, are you going to let him in?"
Methos looked at Richie. "Will you control yourself?" The boy nodded warily, and Methos let him go. Quickly, the Old Man crossed to the window, and opened it. The cold, bitter February wind blew into the room, and seemed to suck all the heat outside. The Gargoyle slipped into the room, the scales of its skin rasping on the window sill.
Methos stepped back, and then clapped the creature on the shoulder when it stood up. "Terribly sorry about that, Anton," he said in French. "My young friend Richard was unprepared for your unorthodox entrance."
The Gargoyle eyed Richie. "Perhaps you should teach the pup some better manners," it said in fluent, flawless French. "If any hatchlings tried that with me, I'd box their ears."
Connor chuckled as Richie looked around in confusion, unable to follow the conversation. "I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he told Anton, using the Gargoyle's native tongue. "And if Adam had told us a Durus would be joining us, I could have made sure Richie behaved."
Anton nodded at Connor. "I have heard of you, Highlander. You aided some of our brethren in New York. My clan thanks you."
Connor accepted Anton's words silently. Methos clapped Anton across the back again. "Tell me, old friend, what have you found?"
Anton shrugged, a curiously human gesture on so inhuman a creature. "My mate Genevieve and I were able to locate the den of the Dark One easily. One of his homunculi led us there last night."
"Homunculi?" Connor tried the word.
Anton nodded. "The Dark One used his magicks to fashion inferior copies of the Durus. He calls them Nightwings. They are large and stupid, and have no wills of their own. Nor are they bound to stone. They are a travesty of all we stand for."
Methos refrained from pointing out how close the Gargoyles themselves came to such a life. Instead, he said, "Can you show us the way?"
"Tonight?" Anton asked. Methos murmured the affirmative. Anton's face split into a ghastly grin. "We would love to."
"What's going on?" Richie asked.
"It appears I was wise to refrain from unpacking," Connor told him him. "We're going hunting tonight."
The Gargoyle proved to be a light snack, hardly a hindrance to the man of straw. The battle was short and sweet, and when it was over the Scarecrow continued on his way, seeking that one specific tomb where he would find...
And there it was, directly across from him, illuminated by a brief flash of lightning. The momentary burst of light showed a massive marble mausoleum, pitted and worn by rain and wind, the bas reliefs and carvings etched on its surface blurred long ago. Ivy snaked over the southern wall, reaching up onto the roof and constricting the tomb in its green grasp.
The Scarecrow allowed himself a brief smile, and then moved towards the structure and the mighty stone door that guarded its entrance. A few tugs from his straw thews wrenched the door open, and he stepped into the gloom beyond. His crimson eyes adjusted to the darkness easily, and he made his way across the smooth floor to the great stone coffin on the far side of the room.
He threw his cloak back with a flourish, and stepped up to the coffin. One gloved hand caressed the bare stone lid for a moment, and then he clamped his fingers down upon it, and contracted his muscles. With a groan, the coffin lid was ripped free from its mooring. The Scarecrow shifted, and threw the lid to the floor with a resounding crash.
Revealed within was a tall, thin form dressed in the black and white garb of a harlequin. White paint was washed over the face, and black makeup stretched the full lips into a devilish smile. A black, tight skullcap was wedged over the narrow head, which rested upon a scarlet pillow. The Scarecrow looked at the figure for a long moment, noting the complete lack of decay and the excellent shape of the clothes and fabrics besides. And then the Scarecrow raised his hands over the body, and his crimson eyes began to glow with an unholy light. Crackles of electricity formed on his fingertips, and leapt from his hands to the still body in the coffin.
The corpse hitched and convulsed as the galvanic energy coursed over and around it. The electricity played over the body like delicate fingers tracing the curves of a lace handkerchief, pulling at the edges with insistence and care. In a few moments, the convulsions were apparently caused by the body and not the electricity.
When he realized this, the Scarecrow stepped back and ceased the transfer of energy. He waited, and was rewarded when the harlequin suddenly sat up and looked about. Round, black eyes framed by delicate lashes blinked in confusion for a moment, but then focused on the Scarecrow.
"Darling!" it said breathlessly. Then it looked down upon itself and uttered a sound of dismay. "I'm a man this time!"
The Scarecrow grunted. "We all have our burdens, my sweet Fool. But we must shoulder them with equanimity and continue in our sacred duties."
The Fool gave him a dazzling smile. "Of course, my dear. It is so good to see you again. How long have I slept?"
"A little over a century."
The Fool gasped. "That soon... what has that fool Mephistopheles been up to?"
"I think... plans have proceeded much more quickly than we thought. The End is on its way, and the Great Dark One will return ahead of schedule."
"Simply marvelous, darling. But what of the others?" the Fool offered a hand to the Scarecrow, and he took it, giving the Fool a lever to help him out of the coffin.
"Mephistopheles woke me first, and I headed here as quickly as I could. As for the Wyrm and the Gohlem, they slumber still. It is our responsibility to awaken them."
The Fool nodded and smoothed his clothing, noting the anatomical differences that had taken place since he had last walked the Earth. Gone were the smooth lines of womanhood, replaced with a hard, athletic musculature that seemed foreign, yet familiar. This wasn't the first time the Fool had been born a man. "Well, then," he said, trying a short skip across the mausoleum floor. "We should find them. But first, I want to kill someone." The black eyes flashed like flint, and the smile broadened into a horrific lunatic's grin.
"Of course, my dear," the Scarecrow said, bowing slightly, his red eyes gleaming.
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PoT_Ch22.php -- Revised: January 27, 2021.