Apparently, Hazard was the only person in the room who was not surprised to see Perseus alive. Once everyone else explained to him what had happened in Hong Kong, he was as amazed as the others that the Greek had survived. In typical Perseus fashion, however, the Spartan downplayed the miraculous nature of his escape. From the tales of his companions, however, it seemed that Perseus had accomplished the impossible.
As usual.
But Perseus had not escaped unscathed. Hazard knew -- as Selura, Bran, and Kurt knew -- that Perseus' bland exterior hid a mass of self-recriminations and anger. Perseus did not take losing very well, especially when losing meant the deaths of six million people. In addition, his body had aged considerably. Age lines had appeared on his dark face, and his black hair was now streaked with gray.
Perseus sat back, smoking his cigarettes, and let his current student, Michelle, tell the assembled group their story. The human girl, Victoria, looked uncomfortable, and Hazard had an inkling of why. His empathic abilities could sense the presence of some kind of bond between her and Perseus. The exact nature of the tie escaped him, but it made Hazard nervous for some reason.
No, not true. He knew why it bothered him. He had never seen the like before, and after seven hundred years of un-life, there was not much left on the globe that Hazard had not experienced, or at least heard of. This new connection, this binding cord between Perseus and Baron, made Hazard uncomfortable.
Not as uncomfortable as Perseus' other companion, though. Doctor Jones seemed friendly enough, and willing to support Michelle's story, but Perseus had introduced the man as a member of the Mystery Council. Hazard had learned not long ago, to his regret, that the Mystery Council was not to be trusted. But who was he to talk? He had brought Paul Gold into the circle, hadn't he?
When Michelle was done, Kurt and Alec and Bran began to tell Perseus about all that had occurred while the Greek was in Asia. Kurt mentioned Mephistopheles and the Narrow Cult. Alec mentioned that he and Rachel had a solid lead on where the Cult was headquartered. The Wraith seemed a bit put off by the deference with which everyone dealt with Perseus. A note of respect actually seemed to come into the voice of the normally caustic Alec; although Hazard might have imagined it. Bran, with Selura's help, mentioned that New Orleans was crawling with Immortals, and the two spoke of who they had met, and who they had already fought. Hazard just had time to talk about the Scarecrow and the Fool and the destruction of Gold's coven before the sun began to come up.
Alec still looked annoyed that he didn't quite understand everything that was going on, but he took some comfort in the fact that he was not alone any longer. Michelle and Baron and Rachel seemed as lost as he was, and even Jones had trouble following the conversation at times.
Hazard left them all to muddle through what they had learned. Gold followed him, needing rest just as much. The two Vampires disappeared into the basement of Perseus' home, where Hazard had secreted some coffins for just such an occasion. Before he slipped into blissful unconsciousness, Hazard made a mental note to talk to Perseus in private when he awoke.
After Hazard and Gold left, the party broke up. Rachel was beat, and she needed rest. She rose quietly and, still wrapped in the blanket, approached Perseus. He stamped the cigarette out immediately, and caught her as she embraced him.
"I am so glad you're here," she whispered into his ear. "We need to talk, soon," she added. He nodded, and let her pull away.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here," he told her.
She glanced at the Wraith, who still leaned against the window. His dark eyes were watching Perseus and the girl. "Its all right," Rachel said. "I have another protector now."
As if bidden, the Wraith straightened, and crossed the room to stand behind Rachel. "Let's find you somewhere to lie down," he said, watching Perseus guardedly. The spider on his shoulder waved a hairy leg at Perseus.
"The guest rooms are on the second floor, in the west wing," Perseus told him. Rachel knew that, of course, but Perseus didn't feel like mentioning that. Rachel gave him a grateful smile, and Perseus mentally padded himself on the back. The two children, the human psychic and the walking dead man, left the drawing room.
*Poor Rachel* Perseus thought. *She finally finds someone worthy of her, and he's a Wraith.*
Kurt followed the kids as well. He clapped Perseus in the arm, and gave Shelley a kiss on her forehead. She blushed, but Kurt missed it. He had already turned away, heading for a soft bed of his own.
Victoria looked at Perseus expectedly. He nodded, dismissing her, and she rose and exited the room as well. Victoria still wasn't sure how to deal with her connection to Perseus, but she had apparently decided to treat him as if he were her superior officer. It didn't quite work, but since Perseus had no experience with the situation, he went along with her, unsure himself of how to deal with it.
The human girl worried him. Her presence in his head was making him soft. Emotions that he had kept a tight rein on for centuries were once more bubbling to the surface. And he knew that now, of all times, it was of paramount importance that he retain that tight grip on his emotions. Not only for his own sake, but also for Victoria's. His age and psychic power made him the dominant personality in the bizarre relationship; if he was not careful, he could swamp the mortal's emotions or wipe her mind out.
Logically, his decision to save her made no sense. It made him weak. And yet he did not regret it; he told himself it was because of the bond itself that he had no regrets. Deep down he knew he was lying to himself.
Selura rose after a few moments. She was unsure of how to act around Perseus. Their last encounter had not been pleasant. They parted company after a particularly heated argument that threatened to spill over into lethal hostility. Neither wished to do anything that they would later regret, so they had separated. That was a long time ago. Often, usually late at night, when the booze had settled into his system and made him melancholy, Perseus had wanted to contact Selura. Apologize. Pull her into his arms, breath her in, and hold on for as long as possible.
He never did call her. He could never think of what to say. But here she was, in his home again. Called back to New Orleans by the Gathering -- not by a desire to patch up their differences. Perseus didn't know what to do anymore than she did.
They looked at eachother, not saying anything. Selura's blue eyes met Perseus' dark ones, and he could see his anger and sorrow mirrored in them.
Still he couldn't speak, anymore than she could. Too many years, too much pride.
"Would you two idiots just kiss and make up?" Bran growled.
Perseus started, surprised at the vehemence in Bran's voice. Selura looked indignantly at the Irish giant.
"Would you mind your own business, you dumb Irish ox?" Selura said.
"Don't talk to me that way, wench," Bran riposted. "Its been obvious for centuries that you two were made for each other. Don't let some stupid argument ruin the two of you. Don't let some petty bullshit tear you apart. You need each other, dammit."
Perseus looked at his friend with dawning realization. *Where is Brigid?* he wondered to himself. Perhaps Bran was right.
Then he took a step forward and offered his hand to Selura. He opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could dredge the words up, Selura was in his arms, and her lips met his, silencing him. It was awhile before they came up for air.
When they did, they looked around, and saw that no one else was in the room. Jones, Bran, and Shelley had quietly made their exit. Perseus smiled. Selura made that throaty chuckle of hers, that one that drove him wild, and he growled. She laughed again.
"I have missed you so much," she said.
"I'm sorry," Perseus said, finding the words finally. "I was..."
Selura put a finger to his lips. "Let's let the past be the past."
Perseus smiled again.
They didn't talk much after that.
Marcus Constantine died hard.
Ogbanna still bore the wounds from the engagement as he stumbled through the icy streets of New Orleans. The weather had turned nasty before Ogbanna had run into Constantine; sleet and freezing rain had pelted them both as they crossed swords in a flooded plaza.
Constantine was old, and powerful. The Roman had been killing Immortals longer than Ogbanna had lived. But Constantine had abandoned his martial ways decades ago. His reflexes were not what they once were. He was slow. His short sword and his passion for battle had dulled with age.
For all that, he had still fought like a cornered lion. For two hours the battle raged, and only as the sleet turned to snow did Ogbanna gain the upper hand, shattering Constantine's ancient gladius into a dozen shards. And then, with a clean sweep of his great broadsword, Ogbanna separated the Roman's head from his shoulders.
Ogbanna had never experienced a Quickening of such strength. Arcs of lightning had ripped through him, picking him up and holding him in the air as the Quickening surged through his every molecule. The buildings around the plaza exploded in a shower of sparks, sending glass and chunks of rock spinning through the atmosphere. And though the gashes from Constantine's blade were healed by the Roman's Quickening, that storm of glass and rock had nearly shredded Ogbanna to tatters.
Even now he bled profusely as he limped down Bourbon Street. He held his heavy coat, now ripped as badly as his flesh, close about him as he slogged through the snow. Through his pain he felt a dull astonishment that Bourbon Street was quiet and dead. At this hour, early in the morning of another gray, grim day, the street should have still been quite active.
Carnival only came once a year, and it should have taken more than a little snow to keep the revelers in their homes, away from the parties and debauchery.
Ogbanna shivered as his wounds closed and the bleeding gradually stopped. He tightened his grip on his coat, and assured himself that his huge Nigerian broadsword was still hidden under the garment. He heard a howl somewhere behind him. A dog? A wolf?
Ogbanna looked back at the trail he left in the white snow; dragging footprints dotted with red blood.
"Damn," he muttered. The last thing he needed now was a werewolf or two trying to eat him.
He looked around. The snow had stopped falling, but the street was still empty. No doubt the city didn't have much experience dealing with snow. They probably would not start plowing for a while yet, if they did it at all. The snow was wet and deep, and few cars could cut across the snow packed streets. Too early for any innocents to be about.
Ogbanna drew his sword, and began looking for cover. He heard a sharp bark behind him; he whirled, and saw a huge mastiff with a studded collar race toward him, churning up snow in its paws. The huge dog's jaws hung open, and yellow teeth flashed. An attack dog?
Another bark came from the left, and Ogbanna spared a glance in that direction; a second warhound moved to attack.
Ogbanna felt the Buzz a moment later. Of course. Kanis. Ogbanna shook his head. Kanis was an idiot, a fool who depended on animals to achieve his paltry victories. He would use them to attack inexperienced or foolish Immortals, those with no inkling of what the Quickening was capable of. With sufficient strength, or training, an Immortal could use his Quickening to sense an animal, to feel its heartbeat, to borrow its strength. A stag could give an Immortal its speed, a bear its strength, a dog its savagery.
To use that ability in combat with another Immortal was dangerous, for the Immortal you attacked could turn that power against his attacker. Marcus Constantine had done it several times in the past, in Gaul and Scythia. And now, with the knowledge and power of Marcus Constantine coursing through his veins, Ogbanna did it as well.
He reached out with the merest fraction of his Quickening and took control of the dogs, dispersing them. With yelps of pain, the two animals veered off from the attack and bolted away from Ogbanna.
Kanis stepped out into the open, rounding a corner, his long sword naked in his hand. Kanis was dark and slight of build, with a weaselish cast to his thin face. He gave Ogbanna a sly grin and walked toward him.
Ogbanna dropped to one knee as a wave of pain washed over him.
"I watched your fight with Constantine," Kanis said, spinning his sword in his hand. "Not a bad job, really. But now you're weak. And even if you're smart enough to deal with my dogs, you're not strong enough to defeat me."
He advanced on Ogbanna, and stabbed toward him with the blade of his sword.
Stupid, stupid Kanis.
Ogbanna grabbed hold of the tip of Kanis' blade, and felt the sharp edge slice his palm open. With his other hand, Ogbanna thrust his own sword into Kanis' stomach, ripping him open, spraying scarlet fluid on the snowy ground.
Kanis lurched backward, his legs buckling. A look of surprise stretched across his face. He opened his mouth, and coughed blood.
Ogbanna stood and casually took his second Quickening of the morning.
"What are you drinking?" Bran asked, stepping behind the bar in Perseus' billiards room.
Jones racked the table. "Any orange juice back there?" he asked.
Bran frowned at the other Immortal's back. "Orange juice? This late in the morning. Ask for something stiffer."
Shelley watched the two of them with some slight amusement. There was the same tension between them as existed between Perseus and Jones, but the huge Irishman seemed to have a greater sense of humor than the Spartan. And he enjoyed needling the Councilman.
Jones looked askance at Bran. "Fine," he muttered. "Beer."
Bran grinned. "Now that is more like it," he said. He turned to Shelley. "And for the lady?"
Shelley smiled. "I'll have what you're having."
Bran barked a short laugh. "A wise choice, my dear. A wise choice." A moment later, he slammed two tankards filled with dark beer onto the bar, followed by a can of Budweiser.
Jones grabbed a stick from the rack and eyed the can of beer. He grinned ruefully to himself. "You don't much care for me, do you Mac Lyr?"
Bran hoisted the mug up to his lips and took a deep pull. When he set the tankard down again, he shook his head. "No, Jones, I do not. Don't take it personal, though. I have a general dislike for your club."
Jones nodded, as if he expected such an answer. He picked up the can, popped it open, and saluted Bran and Shelley with it. He took a careful sip.
Shelley put a hand on her mug, but waited, watching the two older Immortals. She still wasn't quite used to being in America again, after all those years away. And it felt especially odd to be in Perseus' home for the first time. She had to admit, much of the decor seemed odd for him, as if someone else had furnished parts of the house. Someone like Selura, perhaps?
"And what do you know about my 'club'?" Jones asked.
Bran smiled, and Shelley shivered despite herself. Bran's smile was not a kind one, and she suddenly understood why he and Perseus got along so well.
"Do you remember Walker?" Bran asked.
Jones' look was guarded. "Yes. But he died not long after I joined."
Bran nodded. "Exactly. And I killed him." Jones took a step back.
Shelley spoke up. "Who's Walker?"
Jones and Bran both looked at her. Bran answered, "Walker was an Englishman. An old friend of Greystoke's. Walker used to own quite a bit of land in West Africa, and he was a devout hunter. But not a very good one, apparently. An angry rhinoceros with a bullet in its side ran him over, and ripped his stomach apart. He died like us all, but awakened the next morning, healed and whole."
Jones turned silently, and began to play a game. "His friend Greystoke found him and taught him the rules of the Game. In a short time, Walker learned to be a killer and a warrior. Like us all. But at Greystoke's side he also learned to be ruthless. He gained a contempt for his fellow man that he never had before. And later, when the atrocities of the early twentieth century affected them both, they and a few other young Immortals formed a council to guide humanity through the modern age."
"They used their wealth and influence to guide the countries of Europe and their colonies from behind the public stage. And sometimes, when the rulers they paid off didn't do what they were supposed to do, they used force to ensure their plans were followed."
"Walker engineered just such an assassination. Perhaps you know of it?"
Shelley shrugged. "A lot of great people have been assassinated in this century."
Bran nodded, his eyes wide. "Aye," he said. "That is true. But this one is one of the more well known and puzzled over killings of the century. Isn't that right, Jones?"
Jones grimaced, aiming for the nine ball. "I had no part of that Bran. I argued with Walker and Greystoke about it. Gordon and I both. But it did no good."
Shelley finally took a sip from her beer. "Well?" she urged.
Bran's brow darkened, and he examined the dark ale in his mug. "Dallas. Nineteen Sixty-Three. I came to Dallas on the nineteenth of November, on business -- my friend Kastagir and I. We were having breakfast at a diner on the morning of the twenty-second when Walker stepped in. He was wearing his dark suit and those opaque shades of his. He seemed surprised to see Kastigir and I, but he recovered his composure quickly."
"He asked if we were in town to see the president. I told him it was a coincidence that we were there. He nodded, and seemed at ease. We chatted for a bit, but he left, saying he had an appointment to catch."
Bran paused and took a sip from his beer. Jones had stopped playing, and leaned against the billiards table.
"Later, I heard the news. Kennedy was shot, his head blown apart by an assassin's bullet. They found Oswald, of course. But they never found the man who groomed Oswald. *I* did that. I found Walker at his hotel." Bran looked up, and Jones' gray eyes met Bran's black ones. "And I cut the bastard down."
Bran suddenly smiled at Shelley. "It was dumb of Walker to kill an Irishman with me around. He should have known better. "And that, Doctor Jones, is the kind of club you belong to."
Jones threw the pool stick down and left the room.
Bran quietly sipped his beer. "Will he try to cut me down now, do you think?" he asked Shelley.
She thought a moment. "I don't think so. He's behaved himself around Perseus. And Perseus has treated him like shit. I think Jones really wants to help."
Bran arched an eyebrow. "Well," he said. "Stranger things have happened."
Shelley shrugged, and contemplated her beer. It really was too early for alcohol.
"Why are you two looking so glum?" Perseus said from the doorway. His face was glowing, and his clothes were disheveled, but a cigarette burned between his fingers, so he somewhat resembled the Perseus Shelley knew.
Bran suddenly grinned hugely. "Ah, you know us Irish, Percy. Always crying in our beer." He hefted his mug and took a healthy swig.
Perseus took a seat at the bar. "Mind getting me one of those, Bran?"
As Bran turned to get Perseus a beer, Shelley asked him, "What happened to Selura?"
Perseus puffed on his cigarette. "She left. To get her things and bring them back here." His smile suddenly died. "We have to convene a War Council."
Bran slammed the beer down in front of Perseus. "We've a glorious struggle ahead of us, my friends. Drink up." He took a swig from his beer, and Perseus and Shelley followed suit.
"What news, Bran?" Perseus asked.
"Max Keller is dead. I found him in Wichita."
Perseus looked surprised. "Wichita? What was the pirate doing in Wichita?"
Bran shrugged. "How would I know? I also took care of Rastopovitch."
Shelley sat back, her beer in her hand, and watched the two Immortals talk, presumably, about recent kills.
Perseus looked confused. "Rastopovitch? Who was that again?"
"The Polish cavalryman who sacked Cartegena."
"Cartegena? When was that?"
"Eighteen thirteen," Bran supplied. "Napolean held Spain..." he added.
"Yeah, yeah, I remember now," Perseus growled. "Did he die hard?"
Bran smiled. "And you?"
"Well, Quintan Pierce is dead," Perseus said. Shelley sat slightly straighter at the mention of her old mentor.
"Too bad," Bran said, with some irony.
"Do you have a problem with Pierce?" Shelley said, surprised at the sudden anger that welled up within her at Bran's tone.
Bran smiled amiably. "Not really. He was a decent fellow, although a typical Englishman."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Shelley demanded.
"Well," Bran said, "he was a thief, wasn't he?"
Shelley opened her mouth to yell at him, but Perseus cut her off. "A toast to Quin!" he said. Bran grinned. "Aye, a toast," he agreed.
The three tossed back their beers.
Perseus continued, as Bran refilled his mug. "Logan MacClennan is dead; he challenged me a few weeks ago."
"That's too bad," Bran said. "I met Logan at Verdun. He was a good man."
Perseus raised his mug again, and the three of them toasted Logan MacClennan. "I killed Ivan, finally," Perseus continued.
Bran nodded slowly. There was no post for poor Ivan.
"And Lei Wu Long is dead, slain by Tyr. And then... I killed Tyr myself."
"Best news I heard all day," Bran exclaimed. Perseus made a sour expression.
Shelley looked at Bran with incredulity. "What? Tyr was a friend."
Bran looked at her around his tankard. "Of yours, perhaps, but not of mine." To Shelley's shocked expression, he added, "Who do you think took Tyr's hand? Before he achieved his Immortality, I met him at Dublin. I was with Brian Boru then, and Tyr fought for Sitric Silkbeard. I wounded Tyr, and he escaped. But he has been an enemy ever since."
Shelley shook her head. "But..." she began.
Perseus laid a hand on her arm. "The older you get, Shelley, the more complex your friendships get. I was Bran's friend before I was Tyr's, and when I met Tyr I knew nothing of his encounter with Bran. Should I have hated one, over the other? No, life isn't like that. And neither Bran nor Tyr would have demanded it of me. And I would not do the same to anyone else I know."
"It is the way of things," he said, and took a drink.
There was no toast for Tyr either.
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