8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 I M M O R T A L S N I G H T By Sheri Richardson (c) 1994, All rights reserved Conventions: [Thoughts] and *Emphasis* For best appearance use a monospaced font. Comments, suggestions, whatever are welcome! Addresses follow the text. Enjoy! :j 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 I N T R O D U C T I O N 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 The priest raised the purple vestment to his lips and kissed it with the utmost reverence. Slowly, deliberately he draped it around his neck as he had done so many times before. He opened his book and began intoning the words. He moved to his right, circling the room as he continued. Every step he stopped and sprinkled a small amount of holy water and made the sign of the cross. And every time, the man behind him crossed himself. When he had circled the room, he turned to the man. "Now is the time." The man presented the priest with a small wooden box, its surface worn smooth by centuries of hands. The priest laid his hand atop the scrollwork carved deep into the box's lid and moved his lips in a silent prayer. He stepped forward to gently place the box in its permanent home on the top shelf of the doorless armoire, again making the sign of the cross. The priest stepped back to stand beside the man. "Brother, please offer a prayer for this holy place." The man bowed his head and began. "Lord, in Your wisdom You have created many mysteries in this world. May all who enter here, mortal and immortal alike, find their peace with You. Amen." The priest intoned, "We ask this in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen." Both men honored the moment silently. The priest removed his vestments and carefully returned them to his satchel. He slowly shook his head and laughed. "Well, that's the darnedest thing I've ever done. Where did you get that, Joe?" He nodded toward the box in the armoire. "Oh, it's just something that I came across in a shop a few years ago." Joe shrugged. "I'm just glad you could get it authenticated so quickly." The priest walked over and touched the box again. "Well, thank you for bequeathing it to the Church. That was very generous." "It belongs to God, Father Mathew." "And that prayer, Joe Dawson? 'Mortal and immortal alike?'" Father Mathew leaned over conspiratorially. "Are you expecting a few deities to drop by?" "No," Joe laughed, "it's a blues thing. The old-time players are 'immortal.'" The priest laughed. [The traditions men make for themselves.] "I suppose you'll be wanting a case of sacramental wine to christen the place." "I promise I'll come to your place for *that* drink, Father." Joe gestured toward the door and they went back out to the main room of the bar. Joe slipped behind the bar and poured them each a couple of fingers of his best brandy. He smiled when the priest went through the motions of checking his watch before accepting the drink. "To life," said Father Mathew, raising his glass. "To life." They chatted absently while they sipped their drinks, until the priest rose to go. "Well Joe, I need to get back to the rectory. Thanks for the," he searched for the right word, "interesting afternoon. And the drink!" Joe stuck his hand across the bar and the priest took it in both of his. "Thanks again, Father." The priest had about reached the door at the top of the stairs when it suddenly opened. Backlit by the sunlight, Joe saw the priest greet the man who entered before he himself went into the light. It took several seconds for Joe's eyes to readjust to the darkness of the bar and by then the new arrival was reaching the wide mahogany bar. "Macleod!" Joe greeted his friend. He gestured for Macleod to join him as he walked out from behind the bar. "Have I got a surprise for you!" 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 C H A P T E R 1 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 Duncan followed Joe into the spacious office that doubled as a private lounge. As he crossed the threshold, he knew something was different. He shot a glance at Joe. "Holy ground . . . ?" He grinned at the barkeep sideways and propped his hands on his hips. "What have you done?" Joe shrugged, "I just brought a little heirloom in from home." He pointed to the box in the armoire. "Figured I'd do it right and had Father Mathew say a few words." Duncan stepped up to admire the box. "A holy relic?" he asked. "Where'd you find that?" "Not everyone is as astute an antique dealer as you, Macleod." Joe beamed. Duncan laughed and sat on the sofa. Dawson lowered himself into a chair, rested his cane against his knee, and opened the bottle of California white he'd brought in with him. They raised their glasses in silent toast. "You didn't have to do this, Joe." "You think I did this just for you?" Joe teased. "I seem to recall you weren't too happy to meet me, Macleod. I did this for my *own* safety." Duncan leaned back and sipped his wine while he looked around the room. The pair of sofas and Joe's chair were sturdy and comfortable, but everything else in the room was packed with books and artifacts. Even the big desk was covered, except for the space in front of the computer. That the room's occupant was a historian or researcher would be obvious to anyone who entered. And it looked like that someone would be Richie. The bell on the front door rang and they could hear Richie enter the bar. "Mac?" he called. "Down here," Duncan answered. They heard Richie's footsteps on the stairs. "So much for peace and quiet," Dawson joked. Duncan laughed as Richie entered the office. "I--whoa!" He stopped short and looked at Dawson in amazement. "I redecorated," Joe said, a glint in his eye. "No kidding." He gave the room a once-over. Richie still couldn't get over the sensation that washed over him in churches. Kinda what he'd always imagined being held in your mother's arms would feel like. "Richie? Duncan interrupted his reverie. "Hmm?" He turned to see that goofy what-do-you-want look on Duncan's face. "Oh yeah. Right." Richie handed Duncan the sheath of papers he'd brought over from the dojo. Duncan shuffled through the papers. "And?" "I can't make heads or tails out of 'em! The files are all over the place! Are these like the monthlies or are they the quarterlies?" He threw up his hands. "I can't tell!" "That's why you're taking the business courses at the university," Duncan reminded him calmly. "There's a code in the upper-left corner. '1' is January first. Put them in order and you'll see the--" "Pattern," Richie finished for him, nodding furiously. "Thanks, Mac. Nice office, Joe." Richie was already sorting the reports as he left. He stopped momentarily after he stepped out of the office, shook his head, and sighed. "I miss Charlie." The bell on the front door rang as he left and Dawson laughed good-naturedly. "He's a good kid, isn't he?" Duncan smiled and nodded. "Think he'll ever calm down?" Joe asked. "Connor was the same age," Duncan reminded him. "Yeah, that's right. Where is Connor anyway?" "You'd know that better than I would," Duncan said, raising an eyebrow. Dawson tried to look innocent; it had become a running joke between them. Duncan laughed and tried to change the subject. There was still something about *helping* the Watchers that he couldn't get past. "You know what you need in here, Joe?" he asked. "A chess board." It didn't work. "Connor hasn't been one to stay in one place lately. Not since New York. You know he was actually on his third name on Hudson Street before we caught on?" Joe shook his head. "That's the last time we relied on the Recorder's Office." [Well, that's good to know], Duncan thought, trying not to smile. "Oh, you like that?" Dawson asked. [Duncan still doesn't know he gets that twinkle in his eye when he thinks he's getting away with something.] It was Duncan's turn to feign innocence. They both laughed. "Ah, you already know anyway. I haven't seen Connor since-- when was it?" "'92," Joe answered. "'92. Right." Dawson's mind started clicking off like a calculator. [The math fit.] "Didn't you have a break-in at the antique shop about that time? I remember a police report and that the charges were dropped." "Yeah," Duncan replied, suddenly quiet. [Tessa.] Dawson immediately saw his blunder. "Hey, sorry, man," he said quickly. "That's okay." Duncan shook it off. They were silent for a few minutes before Dawson picked up his line of thinking. "Wasn't a street kid picked up for the break-in?" "Yeah. That was Richie." Duncan saw no point in evading what Joe had already figured out, especially after Richie had taken a fatal bullet right in front of the man. "That was the first time he turned up at my doorstep." He smiled. "Sort of." "I thought so," Dawson said, slapping the arm of the chair. "I wonder why I never put that together before?" Duncan leaned forward, splayed his fingers, and quickly intertwined them. "I don't know." Duncan poured himself another glass of wine and would have filled Joe's glass but the other man waved him off. "Naw. I had a brandy with Father Mathew earlier. So Richie actually met Connor?" "I wouldn't say 'met' exactly," Duncan said. "They were in the same room at one point." Dawson nodded, not wanting to interrupt. Macleod didn't ramble like this often. "Apparently the boy tagged along with Connor when he went out to Soldier's Bridge. At least that's what Connor said. He hid in the trunk or something." The Watcher nodded again and reconsidering the wine, poured himself half a glass. Duncan was studying his boots. "Richie saw everything. Connor. Slan. Me. Everything. And he was still there when I fished Connor out of the river, hiding in the weeds." Duncan looked up and shook his head. "And why the bluidy hell am I telling you this?" he asked, laughing. Dawson smiled and shrugged. [Even you have to unload occasionally, Macleod.] He raised his glass to Duncan. "To friends." "Friends," Duncan agreed. They drained their glasses. "Well," Duncan said, standing, "I'd better check in on Richie. And the dojo." Joe walked him to the foot of the stairs. "Hey," he said, remembering, "be sure to come by Sunday night. Any time after nine. I'm starting a new theme and I'd like your opinion. And bring Richie; he could use a break, you slave driver. Just make sure he brings his ID." Duncan laughed. "Of all the things I've ever been, a slave driver isn't one of them. We'll be here." Dawson watched him ascend the stairs and leave before returning to his office and turning on his computer. 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 C H A P T E R 2 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 "Come on, Richie," Duncan snarled. "You take longer than a woman." Richie came into the kitchen tugging on his tie. "I will enjoy the day when I throw this tie in the trash compactor!" Duncan stepped up and deftly adjusted the tie. "Why are you wearing a tie anyway?" "You never know, Mac. You never know." "It's a blues club, Richie." "Doesn't matter," the younger man said emphatically. "You just don't have to try so hard. Can we go now. Please?" Richie held up his hands in shock. "What? Me? I've been ready." "Well let's go," Duncan said, pushing Richie out the door. Before he closed and locked the door he remembered something. "Do you have your ID?" Richie came barreling back through the door and made a beeline for his wallet on the shelf. Duncan gave him a dirty look as he went through the door a third time. "Okay, okay. Don't rub it in." Richie was disappointed Joe's wasn't packed. Duncan thought it was just about right. Most of the tables were occupied and only about half the bar stools. Not a bad showing considering there was no band playing. Joe had unveiled his prized digital audio- visual system. A Stevie Ray Vaughn concert was currently playing. The volume was up loud enough to move the clientele, not the tables. The two men descended the stairs in tandem, painting quite a picture that turned several feminine heads. Richie was eating it up. Duncan was oblivious. Richie paused to say hello to a woman he recognized. Duncan approached the bar. Joe came over beaming. "So what do you think?" Dawson asked, pointing to the florescent chalkboard over the back of the bar. Duncan squinted to read it in the dim lighting. Joe's Presents . . . Immortals Night! Digital presentations of The Legends of the Blues! Every Sunday night "Subtle." Duncan raised an eyebrow at Joe. "I knew you'd appreciate that," Dawson laughed. "A drummer I play with suggested it and I couldn't resist the irony." Duncan glanced over to see that Richie was heading over to the bar. "Friend of yours?" Duncan asked. "Hopefully!" Richie said. Then he noticed the chalkboard. He leaned across the bar. "Cute, Joe." Dawson smiled. "Show me your ID, kid." Richie flashed his driver's license. "Thanks. Can't be too safe with a liquor license." He set a drink in front of each. Richie grinned at Duncan, but Duncan shook his head: He hadn't ordered the drinks. They turned to Dawson, who leaned over the bar. "These are from the guy at the end of the bar." Duncan thought he recognized something in Dawson's eyes. He picked up the drink and breathed in the aroma. He laid a hand on Richie's arm to stop him from taking the drink. "Glenmorangie?" Duncan asked. Dawson just smiled. "Where is he?" Dawson pointed to the end of the bar near his office. It was far enough that no more than a shape could be seen. Duncan motioned for Richie to bring his drink and follow him. As soon as they moved toward him, the man got up and slipped into Joe's office. They stepped through the door and Duncan closed the door behind them. The man stood with his back to them. His beige trenchcoat was laid neatly across the chair. [Why does he look so familiar], Richie wondered. The man was wearing a slate blue wool sweater, jeans, and white sneakers. [Where had he seen him before?] Maybe it was the tiny ponytail, the reddish brown hair pulled back tight. Duncan had taken his own coat off and put it across one of the sofas. Richie did likewise, carefully juggling his drink. [What is going on here?] Duncan raised his glass. "To peace." Richie looked from Duncan to the other man. No one made a move. [I guess it's my turn.] "To love." The man raised his own glass, concealed until now. He turned around. "To magic," he said and emptied his glass. Duncan tipped his glass back and so did Richie, though he almost regretted it. "Connor!" Duncan said and embraced his clansman, almost lifting him off the ground. Richie was still recovering. He wasn't much of a drinker and he'd never thrown back two-fingers of fine Scotch whisky. "Sir Lancelot?" he said under his breath, like a kid about to get in trouble. "Just Connor'll do," Connor said, sticking his hand out and dragging Richie into the embrace. Duncan remembered his manners, and the conversation he'd had just the other day with Joe. "Connor, I don't believe you two have been properly introduced. This is Richie Ryan." He draped his arm across Richie's shoulders. "Richie, this is Connor Macleod." Richie coughed to clear his throat. "Connor. Macleod? That was you? I mean--you're him?" "That's right. You left in a hurry, didn't you?" Duncan teased. "Well, I came back, didn't I?" "No. The police caught you and I got you out of jail." "And *then* I came back." "Yes, and then you came back. And made a complete pest of yourself." "I--" Connor laughed, interrupting them. "A parent's fondest wish," he said to Duncan, "that their child should have as much fun as they did." Duncan tried to glare at him, but his laugh was infectious. All three collapsed on the sofas. Richie was confused, "Hey isn't strong drink discouraged on holy ground?" "Glenmorangie *is* a religious experience," Connor was quick to say. "Where have you been?" Duncan was asking when a knock came at the door. "Come in," all three said at once, sparking another round of laughter. Dawson entered, set down a bottle of Glenmorangie, and moved to leave. "I thought you'd like to take your time with the second drink." "Dawson! Wait." Duncan rose to stop him and without looking picked up Connor's coat and threw it in the elder Macleod's face. Connor and Richie burst into laughter again. "Sit down," Duncan invited and closed the door. The other two concurred. "Well, Marcy has the bar covered for now." Connor reached for a fourth glass from a table covered with them and poured the drinks. Connor raised his glass and the others followed suit. "Tir nam beann--" he began. Richie and Dawson, knowing little Gaelic, just watched the Highlanders. "Nan gleann--" Duncan continued. "Nan gaisach!" they finished the toast together and tipped back their glasses. Richie and Dawson both took a drink. "Connor," Duncan said, "this is Joe Dawson." "We introduced ourselves at the bar." He shook Joe's hand anyway. Dawson seemed a little overwhelmed. He'd broken all the rules by becoming friends with Duncan Macleod, and then Richie. But Connor! This was an opportunity he'd barely hoped for. He noticed Connor looking at Duncan. Duncan looked to Dawson, a question in his eyes. Dawson, guessing correctly, nodded his agreement. "Yes, Joe knows about us," Duncan explained to Connor. "Actually, that was easy to figure out, what with 'Immortals Night' and this room being sanctified." He looked to Dawson, "How did you get a priest to do that?" Dawson explained and pointed out the box in the armoire. "It helped that I bequeathed the relic to the church." Connor laughed. "Very clever. I'll have to remember that." "Joe's also part of an organization that studies immortals," Duncan continued. Connor turned to Dawson in alarm. Richie and Duncan sat back while Dawson gave a brief history of the Watchers and answered Connor's questions. "And you never get involved? What about this?" Connor asked, gesturing to the gathering in their midst. "Isn't this involved?" "Yes, but the circumstances required action." Richie watched while Duncan and Dawson explained what they knew of the Hunters. Connor stood up and paced the room. "Darius? Gone?" he asked. "I didn't know Darius as well as you, either of you, but I had a great respect for what he'd accomplished." He shot a look at Duncan, "Not that I believe you can stay out of it; that will never change." "We can debate that later, Connor," Duncan assured him. "Have I only been away a few years? Look what happens when I leave for a little while!" He winked at Duncan. "And you--" Connor said, affectionately shaking Richie by the shoulders, "look what happened to you!" He turned to Duncan, "Didn't I say he needed watching?" He flashed a grin at Dawson, "No offense. Interesting room, by the way." "None taken. Thanks." "You can only watch him so much," Duncan protested. "I know," Connor threw right back, glaring at Duncan. Richie smelled a story, but Duncan cut him off. "So where have you been, Connor Macleod?" Connor nodded to Joe. "Why don't we see how accurate they are? So. Where have I been?" he challenged the Watcher. "Well," Dawson said, leaning back, "even money says you came here directly from Scotland, with a six-hour lay-over in Chicago, just enough time to get in for a pizza--sausage and mushroom--and a draft beer. Close enough for you?" Dawson was proud of the Watcher's network. He'd helped to design it, after all. Connor whistled appreciatively then leaned over to Dawson. "But that was anchovy on the pizza, not mushrooms." He noticed Richie had covered his mouth and nose. "I like fish," he shrugged. Dawson checked his watch. "Well I have a business to run, gentlemen. And I'm sure Marcy could use a break. The room is at your disposal." Richie rose too. "And I have a class in the morning. Thank you very much, Mac." Both Macleods looked at him. "Uh, Duncan." Connor draped an arm over Richie's shoulder. "I'll be around for a little while, so let's talk, okay?" "Okay," Richie said. He picked up his coat and headed for his apartment. Duncan got up to see Joe to the door. "You knew he was coming didn't you?" "Why else do you think I had Father Mathew do a rush job on the authentication?" He patted Duncan on the arm and grinned, "Besides, I just fixed this place up. I don't need you guys tearing it down right away." Connor laughed and poured two more drinks as Duncan closed the door behind Dawson. "Nice guy," Connor said, once again raising his glass. "Slainte!" Duncan said. "To Immortals Night!" Connor replied, laughing. 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 T H E E N D 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 Gaelic Translations ------------------- "Tir nam beann, nan gleann, nan gaisach!" To the land of the bens, the glens, and the heroes! "Slainte!" Health! Glenmorangie is a fine Highland single-malt Scotch whisky. The name rhymes with "orangey". 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 K E E P E R O F T H E ---- --- \ / \ / --- -- / / / / \ / / \ / / / / / ---- --- / \ / \ --- / \ F L A M E One golden glance of what should be, It's a kind of magic. Sheri Richardson The Watchers of CIS SheriR17@AOL.COM 70703.2746@compuserv.com 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888