Merciless 5: Threats at a Funeral Vi Moreau and Suzanne Herring Write the authors c/o Bridget Mintz Testa, btesta@houston.rr.com. RATING: PG-15 for language and one sexually-suggestive scene Special thanks to Michelle Wolfe for collaborating with us on this section with her own Immortal, Emma Cuzo and for also lending us her other Immortal, Henriette de Langeac. Duran [estancia] outside Buenos Aires, Argentina, July 9, 2008 The estate was large and old enough that it had its own small cemetery -- and the man by the gates was almost as tall as Connor, very dark, in his mid-thirties, wearing a long expensive coat against the evening chill. He looked competent, he was standing just *outside* Holy Ground, and he was an Immortal. As Connor walked forward, the man stepped into the Highlander's path. "[Soy Pedro Vargas e Ysidro,]" he announced in the distinctive Argentine Spanish. "[?Y vos?]" "I'm Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Connor answered. Vargas switched to flawless English. "MacLeod? That is the name of the man responsible for this funeral today. You must be the other Scotsman." He scrutinized Connor closely. "Duncan MacLeod is my kinsman," Connor said. Although the last thing he wanted now was a challenge, right outside Elena's house, he didn't feel he owed this vain, strutting peacock any further explanation. In fact, Vargas reminded Connor of another similar individual, Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez. But Ramirez had been a *dangerous* vain, strutting peacock, and as Connor assessed the man before him with an experienced eye, he thought this Immortal might prove to be just as dangerous. "And your reason for coming here, MacLeod?" Vargas' voice was soft, quiet. The voice, Connor thought, of a man who had never needed to shout. "I'm here to offer my condolences to Elena Duran," he replied, his own voice low and even. All right, so Vargas was being protective, maybe over-protective -- fair enough, under the circumstances. "Generally Mariaelena does not need protection from our kind," Vargas said, echoing Connor's thoughts. "But at the moment she is particularly vulnerable. She has spoken well of you, MacLeod. I will therefore assume that you are not the kind of man who would take advantage of her moment of weakness." "I'm not," Connor said simply, pleased that Elena had "spoken well" of him but also annoyed that this arrogant Argentine was interceding between himself and Elena -- deciding whether he could pass. But he said calmly, "Elena and I are friends. I have no intention of hurting her." Unless ... he thought to himself, making sure the thought didn't show on his face. "That's good, [escoces,] because if you try I will kill you," Vargas said quietly. Connor nodded, acknowledging Vargas' challenge, accepting the menace in the other man's smooth voice. Vargas stepped aside, staying by the gate and letting Connor pass. Connor felt uncomfortable having at his back an armed Immortal who'd just threatened his life. But they were on Holy Ground, after all. However, Connor hadn't finished running the gauntlet to Elena Duran. As he looked beyond to the gravesite, another man, this one no Immortal, approached him. "Senor MacLeod? You do not remember me, I think. I am Juan Onioco." Like many Immortals, Connor had a good memory for faces. "I remember you, Onioco. We met before, here at the [estancia]." "Yes. I am her ranch foreman." He took a deep breath. "We know who you are, senor. And what you are. I must warn you...." Connor knew a threat when he heard it -- another threat, and this time from a mortal! He turned his gaze from the gravesite to give his full attention to the Indian before him. Onioco's words seemed to die in his throat. Fortyish, fully a dozen centimeters shorter than Connor, with jet black hair tied back in a ponytail, the man was clearly frightened -- and just as clearly determined. Connor took a step closer, whispering harshly down at the man, "Warn me?" and Onioco pulled back, but did not retreat. After a moment, he said, "Senor ... we will not allow you to harm the senorita." "I am not here to harm her, just to pay my respects," Connor said coolly, wondering if he was lying. But he was angry to be threatened by a mortal. And he also wondered if Elena knew what Onioco was doing. "I ... we ... are glad to hear it, senor." And with that collective 'we' Connor understood what he would be up against, the whole group of Indians who worked here and loved and were loyal to Elena Duran. Who did not care about Holy Ground. Who knew how to kill Immortals. Connor looked at the foreman searchingly. "Does Elena know about this?" Onioco shook his head, looking down. Then, with some difficulty, he raised his eyes back to Connor's. Connor could admire the man's loyalty, despite the threat to himself. "She would be furious if she knew, Senor MacLeod." Onioco turned to look at Elena, then back at Connor. "But in any case, we will not let anything happen to her." Connor moved away from the foreman, resisting the impulse to look around him to count the number of Elena's Indians present. His eyes were fixed on his destination, on Elena Duran. She was ringed protectively by men and women in black, their faces grim or grieving, their voices low and murmuring; some of them watching Elena solicitously, like nurses around a sickbed, some of them watching him, warily. Before Connor could get close, one woman in the circle broke away and intercepted him. He wasn't surprised; he had expected to find her here. Standing by the grave, Elena had looked up when she sensed the Immortal approach. Even at a funeral, [!Dios mio!] even at a funeral they won't leave me alone -- and she remembered that the first time she'd met Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod had been at a funeral. The thought squeezed her heart, but those considerations had to be put aside, for now. For now, there was this dangerous new Immortal to attend to. Elena looked around her and easily spotted him, walking slowly and gracefully toward the still-open grave, Pedro Vargas glaring at him from behind. The Immortal had sandy hair, wide shoulders, was dressed elegantly and stylishly in black. He wasn't even wearing his trademark trenchcoat and sneakers, she noticed absently. Instead, he was wearing a formal greatcoat, dress shoes -- out of respect, she realized. She was glad to see this man paid attention to such niceties. MacLeod. The other MacLeod. They wouldn't leave her alone either. Sighing, she started toward him, but Emma Cuzo held her back and said, "Let me talk to him." Connor watched Emma approach him: a young immortal, starkly attractive in a plain black pantsuit, no make-up, no jewelry, her feral red hair tamed back into a bun. She walked toward Connor slowly, without any of the luxuriant menace of Vargas or the earnest aggression of Onioco, her glance darting from Connor, to Vargas -- who watched both of them with a suspicious glare -- to the other mourners, and always back to Elena. Emma's mouth frowning and her brow knitted, obviously thinking hard about what to do, what to say, when they were finally face to face. He made the decision for her. "Emma," he said, and before an audience of potential enemies, clasped his youngest and latest student in a quick avuncular hug. Elena saw Connor hug Emma, and the Argentine closed her eyes, thinking she couldn't feel any more miserable, and yet here was Emma in the middle, between her and Connor. And Elena had no doubt whatsoever which way Emma's loyalties would make her go. This had to end -- it had to end, now, before any more blood was spilled. "Obi-wan," Emma said, and reciprocated his embrace with a cheeky kiss and a smile. But her eyes were dark with worry. "What a joy to see you." "Yes, I can see you're thrilled." "You came to pay your respects, right? Stopped down from New York to drop off some flowers and a casserole?" Emma's words were hopeful, but her voice was flat with dread. "It's a funeral. Why else would I be here?" She raised one coppery eyebrow. "That is the question, isn't it?" She was still smiling, sort of, her lips curved tight with tension. "When one considers that guys from the clan of Glenfinnan aren't especially popular with this crowd. At least not right now." "You've always been a smart girl. Capable of figuring things out." Emma had obviously been figuring things out from the moment he strolled through the cemetery gates. He could see the conclusions written all over her anxious face. "Connor," she pleaded, "she's grieving. And there are people here who would line up to take your head. Not all of them are Immortals," she added. "So I've been informed," he noted dryly. "It's dangerous for you to even be here. Not, of course, that that has ever stopped you before ...." Her voice trailed off with exasperation. And beneath the exasperation, Connor heard a little fear. She was worried, and not just for Elena. She was worried for him. He was touched by her care, her concern. At least, he thought, he had *one* friend here. He wanted to reassure her. For just a moment he cupped her chin in his hand, gently tilted her face up toward his. Feeling her skin, her flesh and bone, feeling that relief he always felt whenever he punched Duncan in the arm or gave the girl a hug, to feel that they were both still real, still alive, that the Game hadn't swallowed them up suddenly, when he wasn't looking. "Hey," he said softly, "I'm not here to start a fight." "You're not?" Well, he also had to tell her the truth. "No. But I am here to find out what her intentions are. Toward Duncan. If she intends to avenge Stephen." "You think now is the time her ask her that?" "Better now than after she's taken Duncan's head." "And if her intentions are -- " She stopped, unable to finish the sentence, to contemplate the question. And he didn't answer her. Because they both already knew how it would then end. "In Elena's mind, Stephen was her son," Emma protested desperately, her voice a hushed explosion. "She's suffering." "So is Duncan. I've been with him, talked to him. Do you understand? If she comes after him, I don't know if he will defend himself." Emma looked away. "You know, I could just about kill Stephen for pulling this stunt. Problem is," she observed wryly," he's already dead." Connor nodded in bleak agreement. Elena and Duncan's fifteen-year-long love affair had braided all their lives together. Now Stephen's suicide mission would rip them apart. "Emma, I have to talk to her. Now. I have to know." "Elena's my friend," she said softly. "I always thought she was your friend, too." "She is. But there are loyalties that transcend friendship." He looked hard into his young protege's eyes, making his meaning clear. She held his gaze; she understood; she nodded. And then she stepped aside, letting Connor finally make his way to Elena Duran. "Connor," she whispered, nodding her head. "Hello, Elena. I'm sorry," he murmured, simply. But he looked her over carefully. He believed, he hoped, that she had been too busy dealing with Stephen's death and his funeral to contemplate revenge. Because the alternative was that she was using this time to plan it. And that after the funeral, she would be on a plane to Paris to take Duncan's head. Elena sarcastically began, "I'm sure you are." Then she dropped the sarcasm and added, "Gracias." She took a deep breath. "Thank you for taking care of returning Stephen's ... for sending him back home to me." Connor nodded, acknowledging her thanks. He gazed at Elena, at the others around her. Then he looked at the Immortal woman who had just walked up to take Elena's arm. Blonde with shining dark eyes, the other Immortal managed to look alluring even in her funeral attire, and there was a scent about her -- pheromones, he supposed -- so frankly sexual that Connor had to remind himself that he was here for a sad occasion, a tragedy. This woman had to be Maria Feliz, the slut from his and Elena's conversation of a decade ago. "[?Y este es el otro escoces?]" she asked Elena, appraising Connor boldly, aggressively, sexually, raking him with her eyes, making him feel like he was on display. "Si," Elena answered. Dismissing the blonde with some difficulty, Connor turned his attention back to the Argentine. Elena looked tired. She was pale, the black eyepatch stark against her skin. Her hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, and her long black skirt trailed along the ground. And her hands -- her hands were clasped in front of her so tightly he was sure they were hurting her. But she did not look defeated, not by any means. Elena murmured something to Maria Feliz and moved away with Connor. As they walked side by side, Connor said, "Duncan --" "It doesn't matter," she interrupted, slashing her hand through the air, cutting him off. "You know he loved that boy, too," Connor protested. Even though Stephen Holz hated Duncan. And tried to kill him. And threatened to kill others. "I've been with him, Elena. I saw how he ... this was terrible for Duncan. You must know -- " "Of course I know how he felt, Connor!" she said, with some heat, interrupting, stopping, turning to him. "I've loved Duncan for fifteen years, since the first day I met him. And I still do. I know what he's like, what he went through, what he's going through now. I know that he had no choice, that Stephen would have kept coming after him. It doesn't change what happened, though, does it? What he did?" "No, but would you have preferred that Stephen killed Duncan?" Connor retorted. "I'd have preferred that they were both here and alive," she said then sighed. "But that doesn't change the fact that Duncan and I are finished. Maybe forever. Forever for *us*," she added for emphasis. Connor could see her agitation, her grief. He studied her, judging her, trying to figure out what she might do, which way she might go, as a result of Stephen's death. He thought about other Immortal women, other Immortal "mothers" he'd known. Henriette de Langeac. Hannah Swenson. Both women he'd loved. They'd never been able to forgive those who killed their "children." Never. And ultimately, they had both lost their lives because of it. He didn't want Elena to die. He definitely didn't want to kill her. But for him, there was no choice between Elena's life and Duncan's life. He would stop her if he had to. Or die trying. And perhaps, ultimately, he thought, it was the same parental instinct motivating them both. Connor had felt that instinct strongly in Paris, when he had finally reached Duncan at Darius' church. They'd gone to the barge, Connor on edge and jittery all the while, warily sniffing the Immortal "ether" for any hint of an unfriendly presence -- and trying to hide it all from Duncan. Once they'd reached the barge, Connor had sat at the small galley table, relaxing a little and drinking more whisky, while Duncan had paced the cabin, blaming himself for everything. ///// (Paris, Duncan's barge Duncan's voice is trembling with emotion, with effort. "He said -- Stephen said -- he'd kill them all, take the head of every Immortal who lied to him. Richie. You. Emma Cuzo. Methos." "Duncan,..." Connor shakes his head, not knowing what to say, how to make his kinsman -- his brother -- feel better. But then he thinks about it for a moment. Duncan has never been very successful at keeping secrets from Connor, and Connor can read between the lines. He closes his eyes, then opens them again. "And Elena too, right?" he asks softly. "Stephen threatened to take her head too, didn't he?" "No!" Duncan answers, but too quickly. Connor decides not to push it -- not this time, maybe later -- but Duncan continues. "He didn't know what he was saying. He'd had a shock. He didn't mean it, he was angry, confused...." Connor waits silently. They both know Stephen Holz may have been shocked, angry, confused, but he had certainly tried to kill Duncan, just as he'd said he would. And if he'd threatened others too.... "He would never have hurt her," Duncan insists. Connor says nothing. "He wouldn't, Connor." Connor sighs heavily, running his hand over his face. He needs a shave, needs some sleep, needs a new life. He doesn't want to say what he's going to say. He doesn't want to hurt Duncan any more. Still, he has to say it. "But you thought he would. Didn't you." It's not a question. Duncan shakes his head violently, his long hair whipping from side to side wildly. "No!" he cries out, pacing the length of the cabin, then coming back to loom over Connor. "No," he repeats, but the second time it's quieter, with less conviction. Then he sits down at the table, lowers his head and takes a long, shuddering breath. "Yes." Connor shakes his head too. Duncan always thinks the best of people, but he isn't stupid, and he's not a bad judge of character. Which means the real reason he took Stephen Holz's head.... Connor says it out loud, for both of them, "And she'd never have believed it. She trusted Stephen completely. And he would have taken her by surprise; he would have taken her head." Duncan jumps to his feet, toppling his chair backwards. He leans over and grabs Connor's shirt in his fists, jerking Connor to his feet. "You must never tell her, Connor! It would kill her, on top of everything else!" "Duncan..." "Promise me, Connor!" Duncan scrunches up Connor's shirt and pulls harder, grief and now panic turning his handsome features into a grotesque mask. "I want your word!" Connor ignores the physical assault and asks the question that's been burning his own guts out ever since Stephen's call. "What if she comes after you, Duncan?" "I won't fight her." Connor growls softly, warningly, in the back of his throat, like an animal. Duncan lets go of Connor's shirt. "But I won't let her kill me, either, Connor. I'll go to Holy Ground." He steps back then issues a warning, "Don't interfere between Elena and me." Connor has his own ideas about that, but before he can say anything, Duncan leans forward again. "You can't tell her that Stephen was after her! You can't! I want your word on this!" "All right, Duncan," Connor says, taking Duncan's upper arms in his hands and pushing Duncan back, just a little, putting some space between them. "I give you my word.") ///// Argentina, Elena's Estancia But Connor MacLeod knew that if he had to, to save his kinsman's life, to keep Elena from coming after Duncan, he'd break his word to Duncan. It was Connor's last resort, his ace in the hole, and he didn't want to use it, because he feared that it would kill her, just as Duncan had said it would. But he would use it. And if that didn't work, if he had to, he'd take her head. "I also know why you're here." Elena leaned closer to him. "You're worried for Duncan. You want to know if I'll come after him. You, too, are a MacLeod first, aren't you? Everything else comes a far second." That's right, Elena, he thought. I'm interfering -- I didn't give my word about *that*. But he didn't say it. Christ, he thought, looking at Elena, seeing her pain, her despair. Please, Elena, he wanted to say, don't make me -- "Well, I know he had no choice," she said, answering Connor's silent plea. "I don't blame him ... entirely. I understand, I think, why he ... killed Stephen and I won't be coming after him. Now or later. You have my word." She paused, then added, "I hope that satisfies you -- this time." For the first time since he'd received Stephen's phone call, Connor could feel the chains around his throat slipping loose, the vision of Duncan's death, Elena's, perhaps his own, disappearing with these simple words. He took a deep breath and replied, sincerely and with relief, "It does, Elena. Your word has always been good." She nodded. "Then your errand is done. Now you can leave." She started to turn away, and, not wanting to be dismissed so abruptly, not wanting to go yet, he called out, "Elena!" And because he didn't want to leave her like this, angry, hurt, bitter -- not at him -- it came out sharper, louder than he'd anticipated. This got the Indians' attention, and Emma's, and everyone else's. Connor was at the center of everyone's scrutiny -- again. He moved closer to her. "I didn't come just for that," he whispered for her ears alone. "I care ..." he began. "I know what you're going through, how you feel...." She looked at him closely, knowing that he did know how she felt. She also realized he'd been about to say he cared about her. Too honest, MacLeod? she wondered. But at least he was sympathetic, even empathetic. It surprised and pleased her a little. Maybe more than a little. At a time like this, one fiercely gathered one's friends around oneself. Even if he wasn't quite a friend. She considered, then said, "Would you like to stay, come back to the house afterwards?" "I'd like that very much," he answered. Translations: (all Spanish) estancia - Argentine combination ranch/farm y vos - and you escoces - Scotsman Dios mio - my God y este es el otro escoces - and this is the other Scotsman