by Red Wolf
Seattle, Washington
1998
If looks could kill, the building housing DeSalvo's Gym would be dust. The short, stocky woman glared up at the windows of the dojo, her red hair plastered to her skull by the incessant rain. The man she had come to see was not in and she was far from happy.
She had been propping up a bar in San Francisco when, on a whim, she decided to head north and catch up with Duncan MacLeod. But after days of manoeuvring her bike through hoards of morons — all of whom seemed to lose the ability to drive once it started to rain — the least she expected was for the Scotsman to actually be home. "Serves yourself right for not calling first," she muttered darkly, casting another baleful glare up at the building.
Rather than standing in the rain waiting for the missing Highlander to return she decided to dump her gear and make a few inquiries of her own.
"So what happened then?" Joe asked as he absently cleaned glasses behind the bar.
The deceptively young looking man who was regaling him with tales of his recent travels had gone suddenly silent. Joe glanced up from his task to see a familiar look on Methos' face — it was the look he associated with the Immortal ability to sense others of their kind. Joe followed Methos' line of sight to the door in time to see a small, bedraggled figure escape in from the weather. The individual leaned forward and shook like a dog, effectively removing a large amount of water, before flinging her head back and facing the two curious men.
"Jordan!" Joe exclaimed in surprise, taking in the sight of the young woman. She was clad in black motorcycle racing leathers and was, as usual, devoid of shoes. Methos merely registered her appearance with a slight smile.
"Thanks," she gratefully accepting a towel from Joe. "But, call me Wolf, everyone else does."
"What are you doing here?" He watched Methos from the corner of his eye, curious about the man's reaction to the woman. As far as he knew she wasn't Immortal, but Methos seemed to have sensed her before she entered. The two hadn't shown any signs of recognition and Methos certainly didn't seem troubled by her presence — but with him it was hard to tell. "I thought you were still in London."
"You could say I'm on something of a sabbatical," she replied, straddling the stool beside Methos. "I was looking for Duncan. He's not at his place and I thought you might know where I could reach him."
"He's off on business; you only missed him by a few hours," Methos offered, the small half-smile still playing around his mouth. "He should be back in a couple of days."
"Bugger. I guess I'll have to wait then," she sighed before turning a pitiful expression on the bartender. "Any chance of a beer, Joe?"
"Sure. What'll it be?"
"Anything that isn't domestic," she stated bluntly.
Methos snorted in amusement beside her as Joe retrieved a bottle from the 'fridge. "Will Corona do?"
"Sure. Ta, mate." She upended the bottle and drank half in one long swallow; the rest soon followed.
Joe sighed and handed her another bottle. "Have you two been introduced yet?" he asked, getting the distinct feeling that there was something between them that neither were letting him in on. But as they were both friendly with MacLeod it shouldn't present any problems. "Adam Pierson, Jor — sorry, Riordan MacInnes."
Joe looked toward the door as the first of the early crowd drifted in. "I'll catch up with you," he smiled warmly and left them to tend to the new customers.
Wolf turned to take in her companion fully. He was average height, but slender and dressed much as she was in casual, slightly scruffy attire. Short dark hair, dark widely spaced eyes, large nose and small mouth. Overall he was an average looking young man — not one you'd look at twice. It was the perfect façade for a man who had become a myth, even amongst his own kind. He was as much a physical chameleon as she was a sensory one.
"Methos," she stated simply, laying her palm over first his heart then her own. Even though her tastes ran more toward the likes of Joe Dawson, she'd always considered the man before her beautiful — but then she tended to have the same biased opinion of all her friends.
"Mactíre," he returned the formal greeting with the added embellishment of capturing her hand and drawing it to his lips.
With brilliant green eyes she watched him study her, thinking of the changes since they'd last seen each other. She was currently in a punk mood and her face was adorned with small metal balls. An early memory of their first meeting sprang to mind. 'What goes around comes around.'
"It's been a while, Wolf."
"A couple of years," she agreed. While they hadn't physically seen each other recently — always seeming to be in the wrong place at the wrong time — both kept in close contact. They were technological junkies who had embraced the communication revolution with a passion — a trait that seemed strangely absent in others who shared their longevity. "I think it might have been a Stones concert in England," she thought aloud, definitely remembering that music had been a part of it.
"Uh uh," Methos disagreed. "Too far back. Last time we saw them play in England I found you shacked up with those two young English coppers," he clarified with a smirk.
Wolf shook her head and adamantly replied, "It wasn't like that." Her older friend raised an eyebrow. "Oh, all right, so it was sort of like that, but I wasn't living with them." She laughed in retrospect at the situation he'd walked in on. As long as she'd known him, Methos had always had the most spectacular sense of timing for interrupting her love life.
"So what are you doing here?" he asked.
"Like I said, looking for Duncan. I missed Connor when I was in New York and thought Duncan might be able to pin him down for me. What about you? I thought you were still on the road."
"I was. Just got back from the dark continent. I stepped through the door just before you did..." He paused as something caught his eye. Grasping her chin lightly in his hand, he tilted her head to the side to get a better look at what she was wearing through her ear. "Is that what I think it is?"
"Yeah," she drawled slowly, offering him a grin that briefly flashed elongated canines.
Still staring in fascination at the object Wolf wore, he asked, "Want to tell me how it came into your possession?"
"Not much to tell," she shrugged eloquently. "I had to meet Logan in New York to pick up my bike and he suggested a pub. Well, you know Logan's taste in pubs..."
"I have vague memories of a few. Dark interiors, vaguely human inhabitants, good beer." Methos brightened at the last point.
Wolf chuckled in amusement. "This was one of the more 'colourful' ones," she said, catching Methos' look of recognition.
"So there I was, minding my own business, waiting for Logan to show, when some redneck decided that I was going to be his date for the evening."
"I take it you weren't interested?"
"I couldn't quite get him to understand that the only way I'd be spending the evening with him naked was if it entailed identifying his body on a slab in the morgue."
"So what happened then?" Methos asked, idly eyeing a blonde woman who wandered past their perch.
"He tried what I think was his method of encouraging the fairer sex to accompany him to his love nest. It was at that point that I broke his thumb." Wolf grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the counter.
"I'm guessing he still wasn't discouraged." Methos reached up and popped the odd saddle shaped ear plug out, rolling it between his fingers with interest.
"Nope," she shook her head. "Self-preservation skills certainly didn't run high in this guy's gene pool. He got a bit stroppy after that, so I took things to another level and bit his thumb off. I was just starting to strip the flesh off when he passed out for some reason — big girl's blouse. Nobody else bothered me after that. Although, Logan did ask why the pub was so quiet. In any case, that piece," she pointed to the bone plug Methos was playing with, "serves a far more practical use through my earlobe."
By this stage, Methos was convulsed with laughter. "Duncan won't see the funny side of that you know," he stammered when he'd composed himself enough to regain the ability of speech.
"I'll make a deal with you," Wolf offered, a gleam of amusement in her eyes. "You don't mention the thumb bone in my ear and I won't tell him about those boots you had made out of the great white hunter."
"I can still hear that shoemaker telling me how soft and fine the leather was," Methos choked out. This set them both off into another bout of hysterics.
The other patrons in the steadily filling bar were now giving the pair a wide berth.
Joe spared a glance to Methos and Wolf at the end of the bar. They seemed to be getting on remarkably well for people who professed no knowledge of each other. He frowned slightly before another thought brought a smile to his face — at least he wouldn't have to explain to Duncan that his friends were killing each other for a change.
He saw the last of the Friday night crowd out before checking on his two remaining customers. At his interruption they both turned to fix him with the same disturbing stare. Joe shifted uncomfortably; it made him feel like a bug under glass and for a moment he was reminded just how dangerous Immortals could be — if that's what Wolf really was. The looks changed to ones of recognition so fast that Joe found it hard to believe he'd seen anything amiss. "Where can I tell MacLeod you're staying if he calls?" he asked them both.
"His place," they replied together, looking at each other in surprise before bursting into laughter again.
The grey-bearded Watcher rolled his eyes as Wolf collapsed against Methos' chest and he held her tightly to keep them both from sliding bonelessly to the floor. Joe was dying to know what sort of history they shared between them. "I'm sure he'll be delighted to know you'll be so easy to find," he dead panned.
"Of course he will." Methos ignored Joe's sarcasm. "Time to hit the road, Wolf."
Joe watched them leave, arms slung around each other. The Chronicles were going to be getting a serious work over before he was satisfied as to who Jordan Wolf, Riordan MacInnes or whatever the hell she wanted to call herself, really was.
Waking to an empty bed, Methos sat up to look for Wolf. Clad in nothing more than a jumper she raided from Duncan's wardrobe, she was sitting on the floor beside Duncan's stereo, muttering to herself and tossing CDs into a large pile.
"What the hell are you doing?" he called sleepily. "It's too early to be awake." He was debating with himself whether staying in bed was worth it now that his bed warmer was on the other side of the loft.
"It's past midday." She looked up at Methos' rumpled visage, laughing quietly. "Have you seen the garbage Duncan listens to?" She tossed yet another disc aside in disgust. "Hasn't he entered the 20th century yet?"
"That was a stupid question." Methos pulled on a pair of sweat pants and padded across the room to join her, looking through the titles she'd discarded with a grimace. "Found anything salvageable yet?"
"Well, I've ruled out the pipes already."
"Thank you," Methos breathed in genuine relief, grateful to have escaped being subjected to Wolf's irrational belief that bagpipes were a musical instrument.
"Barbarian," she muttered fondly. "I've found Carmina Burana, some Bach, Wagner, Grieg — and a copy of Meatloaf's Bat Out Of Hell that must to have been left here by mistake."
"No," Methos said, picking up the CD. "It's a well known fact that all music collections will spawn a copy of this album. I've got one and know damn well that I never bought the thing." In fact every time he threw it out, it reappeared within a month. "Still, it's bound to be better than some of the stuff you travel with."
"Okay, so punk isn't everyone's idea of music, but I at least expected some blues," she bewailed the pitifully small selection of decent music.
"Next time we'll have to grab some of Joe's stuff." He made a mental note to do so, as he loaded the CD player and cranked it up to full volume.
"Good idea," Wolf agreed.
"Here's another. Let's get downstairs before our eardrums burst." They pelted for the lift as the opening strains of the Peer Gynt Suite filled the loft.
"I've been waiting to have another go at you." Methos paced around his opponent, a quarterstaff held lightly in his hands.
Wolf smiled charmingly back and mirrored his movements. "Think you can take me?" she challenged.
"I think I can manage to clean up a scruffy wolf girl like you in my sleep," he countered.
Wolf snorted indelicately. "I thought we were discussing a fight not last night's activities." She twirled her staff down and swung it across the backs of Methos' knees.
He easily leapt out of her reach and blew her a raspberry.
"Duncan's image of you would be shattered if he caught you doing that," she laughed at her friend's childish rebuke.
Methos lashed out using a variation on Wolf's own move to drop her to the floor. She fell backwards onto the timber with a thump and rolled to her feet with the staff extended in one hand. The tip of the weapon caught Methos in the side and he gasped at the sudden pain of broken ribs.
"Damn that hurts," he curled into a ball as the ribs popped back into place and knitted.
Wolf stood upright, her weight balanced on one leg. "Better than a smashed kneecap." She flexed the newly healed joint experimentally. "I really hate that."
Methos shrugged. "At least these things are safer than swords." Both of them winced at the amount of times they'd nearly lost limbs to each other in sparring. After a near fatal encounter with an axe, they'd settled on the proverbial blunt instrument as their preferred practice weapon.
"Nice to see you've kept in practice." She reached down to help him up. "I thought hanging around the Watchers for so long might have dulled your edge," she teased.
"I've been around long enough to know how to take care of myself, thank you very much. I intend to keep this head."
Wolf put a finger under Methos' chin and stood on her toes to lightly kiss his lips. "And a lovely head it is, too." As Methos leaned in closer, she ducked and kicked his feet out from under him. She straddled his chest in a crouch and smiled delightedly. "But, remember that I was trained by people far older than you."
Methos smiled in return, catching her unawares when he drew his knees up and slammed them into her kidneys. Wolf sprawled across him, a puddle of pain. Methos shoved her body aside and stretched out with his hands laced behind his head. "That doesn't mean you've seen it all, love."
Muffled curses of dubious origin answered his smug statement. "I'm sorry," Methos cupped a hand around his ear and made a show of listening to Wolf's cursing. "We've resorted to name-calling now?"
The small woman launched herself at Methos, the momentum of impact barrelling the entwined bodies across the floor. It cost the Immortal a broken nose before he brought her assault to a standstill. "I thought you were going to do something about that temper of yours?"
Wolf nudged her dislocated jaw back into position. "Sorry," she apologised, wiping blood from a split lip. "I'm getting better; I didn't kill you this time." Methos gave her a dark look that she decided to ignore. "Declán is usually around to see I don't get too far out of line." Since she'd had her younger kinsman in her life, she'd been a lot calmer, but in her line of work, calm was a relative term.
Methos changed the subject. "Changing identities all the time takes some getting used to. I sometimes think Duncan has the right idea of keeping the same name."
"It would make life easier," she agreed. "It's getting harder to suddenly take up a new name."
"Tell me about it. It was so much simpler when the only proof you needed was your word."
Wolf smiled wistfully. "I miss that sometimes." She reached out for Methos' hand and turned it over to reveal his Watcher tattoo. "I miss this," she ran her fingers over the mark. "I miss my tattoos, they always grow out."
"I don't like the overcrowding," Methos mused. "Cities are getting bigger."
"At least they smell better."
"Not all of them."
Wolf had to agree with that. "Plumbing is nice."
"Oh yeah... And sewer systems, and electric lights."
"Microwaves."
"Refrigeration," Methos added dreamily.
Wolf started, looking sightlessly about the dojo, almost sniffing the air for a scent.
Methos recognised the sudden change in Wolf. He was more than familiar with her senses and knew that she could feel anybody in the vicinity of the building, particularly if they took an interest in it. "It's not Duncan?" She shook her head. "Immortal?" She nodded in confirmation. "You expecting anyone?"
"No. I don't know who he is, but he's spoiling for a fight."
"Do you think he'll go away if we explain Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod isn't in at the moment?"
Wolf turned to stare at him.
"Didn't think so," he shrugged. "Whose turn is it?"
"I think it's mine. Tel Aviv." She collected their swords and handed Methos his weapon.
"That was me in Tel Aviv, you did London."
Wolf shook her head.
"New York? Sydney?"
"I can't remember. Throw for it?" she suggested holding up her fist.
Methos shrugged, counted three, and threw.
"Ha!" Wolf exclaimed in delight as her paper beat his rock. "Told you it was my turn."
"I stand corrected, my lady." Methos bowed flamboyantly. His preference would have been to get the hell out of Dodge and let MacLeod set his own house in order. But Wolf had a certain code for handling potential confrontations — and Immortals turning up swords drawn on friend's doorsteps rated as a situation to be resolved as soon as possible in her books.
"I am Enriqué del Costo," a voice interrupted their discussion. Methos and Wolf turned to acknowledge the man and started in surprise.
"He walked the streets like that? He looks like a bad Hollywood pimp," Methos muttered under his breath to Wolf. The Immortal was wearing tight black pants, a loose purple silk shirt and a bright yellow scarf tied in a dramatic knot about his waist. The ensemble was completed with a broad brimmed hat that trailed plumes of ostrich feathers in its wake and an opulent cape that would have done Bela Lugosi proud.
Wolf blinked in surprise. "I think he got a deal on wardrobe rejects from Zorro," she whispered back.
Enriqué del Costo cleared his throat to attract the attention of the couple who were casually leaning on their swords, deep in quiet discussion. "I have come for the head of Duncan MacLeod," he interrupted.
"Sorry," Methos replied cheerfully. "He's not here." Turning back to Wolf, he continued to ignore the Immortal.
"What?" the Spaniard blustered, getting annoyed at being treated in such a cavalier manner.
"Duncan MacLeod," Wolf answered him this time, enunciating the words carefully as if speaking to a dim child, "Is not here at the moment. We'll be sure to let him know you dropped by."
"No!" the slender man screamed, his olive complexion darkening in rage. "I will not be treated this way. I challenge you to a duel in MacLeod's stead," he directed at Methos.
Methos offered the agitated man a brief smile of condolence. "I'm afraid I can't do that."
"Why not?" del Costo sneered. "Are you afraid to fight me? Does your honour mean so little to you?"
"Oh, nothing like that," Methos explained simply. "I can't fight you, because it's not my turn."
Wolf grinned at the man's totally confused expression — and the interesting shades of scarlet he was turning. "It's my turn," she explained.
"A woman?" he questioned in disbelief. "Bah! What does it matter. I shall have someone's blood on my sword today and yours is as good as any." He removed his cloak with a theatrical flourish and tossed his hat aside.
As Wolf stepped forward to engage del Costo, Methos laid a hand on her arm and spoke quietly. "You know he's going to be pissed if he takes your head and doesn't get a Quickening." Amusement more than worry coloured his voice.
Wolf looked into her friend's hazel eyes. "Well, I trust you won't let it come to that," she laughed back. She was not bound by the rules of the Game and certainly didn't have a problem with interference.
Facing the Immortal, Wolf allowed him the first move to gauge his style. The Spaniard leapt forward in attack to be neatly parried and side-stepped the smaller woman. He tried again, only to meet the same elegant defence.
Looking on, Methos was amazed that del Costo hadn't suffered a stroke. The man was turning purple in rage and his fighting skills — what little he still retained — were suffering for it.
Wolf played with the furious Immortal for a few moments longer before tiring of the game and stabbing him through the heart.
The startled Spaniard looked down in bemusement at the spreading blossom of blood soaking through his shirt. He dropped to his knees and looked into his opponent's face with a mixture of fear, respect and relief. "There can be only one," he whispered through blood flecked lips.
"Whatever lights your fire." Wolf shrugged and took his head in a clean stroke. She was surprised that someone with so little skill would attempt to challenge Duncan and turned to tell Methos, when she realised she was standing right between the two Immortals.
Seeing her eyes widen in shock, Methos saw her predicament and threw himself in the opposite direction. But it was too late. Del Costo's Quickening took the shortest route to the only Immortal in the room and, unfortunately, that happened to be right through Wolf. Methos had a fraction of a second to see her body ripple between forms as she fell, before he was engulfed. He battled the Quickening as it took him, trying to crawl to his friend's side with little success. The lightning tore through him with little regard for his wishes, bombarding him with images from the dead Immortal's life. The last impression he felt was of the man's devastation at a lover's death, something he didn't want to have to share personally. Finally the sensations of the Quickening faded and, fighting his exhaustion, he knelt at Wolf's side and started CPR.
Of the many times they'd played this game over the years this had never happened. Neither of them had a death wish and he found it hard to believe the feisty little woman he'd known for centuries had fallen victim to something he took in his stride. Methos estimated that it had been ten minutes since Wolf had taken the Quickening when he ceased his attempts to revive her. Gathering the small woman into his arms, he held her as the shock of her death finally sunk in. Tears coursed down his face as he cradled her body in the silent aftermath of the Quickening.
Wolf's body unexpectedly convulsed in his arms and she curled into a ball, coughing wretchedly. "That... was unpleasant," she felt her chest, the singed skin sloughing off to reveal undamaged flesh beneath. "How do you do that all the time?"
"You scared the hell out of me," Methos admonished, holding her tightly, almost afraid he was dreaming her resurrection. "I thought you were dead."
"Not quite. My heart stopped. My body can usually handle that."
"Usually?"
"So far." She grinned to try and lighten the mood, failing miserably as the pain in her chest sent her into another bout of coughing. "If del Costo had wounded me, I probably wouldn't have been able to heal myself. A friend of mine died in similar circumstances. Picked the wrong spot for a fight, got shot through the heart and fell on a live rail. Instant barbecue."
Methos felt the shudder run through her body as she realised just how close she'd come to death. "Good thing he was a poor swordsman then."
"You're telling me," she relaxed into Methos' strong arms as his lips claimed hers.
It was a while before either of them took any notice of their surroundings. The dojo was a mess. All of the lights and windows were gone and there was a sizeable pool of blood staining the floor where the fallen Spaniard lay.
"We've got problems," Wolf announced.
"No kidding," Methos looked at the mess around them, wondering if they would survive Duncan's homecoming.
"No," Wolf shook her head emphatically. "There's a Watcher outside — who has just witnessed a Quickening and has to be wondering who won."
"Damn!" Methos cursed. "If he sees us ditching the body he's going to assume one of us is Immortal."
"One of us is." Wolf ignored Methos' look and continued. "I can cover that. What I can't hide is the fact that he's seen del Costo walk in here, a Quickening, then nothing else. Duncan doesn't need that kind of scrutiny."
"He needs to see someone walk out, preferably not one of us."
Wolf looked Methos up and down, smiled nastily, and started to strip the corpse at their feet. "You're about the same size as the ex-Spaniard here."
"Oh no," Methos held his hands up. "I am not wearing that."
"Got another plan?"
"No," he muttered, giving Wolf a hand to remove the man's boots, resigned to the fact he wasn't getting out of the situation. "But I do this under protest."
Wolf wisely kept her comments to herself. "It won't be for long," she consoled. "You just have to get the Watcher's attention, then lose him."
"I feel like an idiot," Methos complained, as Wolf handed him the hat and made final adjustments to his cloak. The shirt wasn't salvageable, but the cape would be enough to hide the fact that he was wearing a tee-shirt.
"If it's any consolation, you look like one, too." She just managed to dodge his fist. "Sorry, love. Couldn't help it."
"You tell anyone about this," he threatened, "And you'll wish you hadn't recovered from that Quickening."
"You're taking all the fun out of this." She grinned back at him.
"Good." Methos tossed her his keys. "Just make sure that body's in the truck when I get back."
Methos climbed into his truck, started the engine and smoothly pulled away from the curb.
"What happened to the rest of the gear?" Wolf asked, seeing that Methos had ditched the cape and hat.
Turning a broad grin on her, he explained, "Let's just say that Seattle is going to have a very nattily dressed bum come morning."
"What are we going to do with him?" Wolf jerked her thumb in the direction of the rapidly cooling body in the back.
"You'll love this." Methos smiled enigmatically.
"What?"
"Wait and see."
"Tease," she chuckled good-naturedly under her breath.
Joe had Lou relieve him the moment Methos and Wolf walked into the bar. He caught their attention and beckoned them over to his office.
"You know that feeling you get when you're called up to see the principal?" Wolf whispered to Methos.
"Not personally," he whispered back. "But I get your point. Joe doesn't look like a happy camper." Methos closed the door behind them and took a seat in front of Joe's desk.
"What I want to know is..." Joe broke off, taking in their disarray for the first time. Both were clad in black and wearing long coats. Wolf's unruly hair had been tamed by virtue of having a dark viscous something smeared through it, and from their general appearance — they were filthy and smelled like an abattoir — he wondered if he truly wanted to know the origin of the suspicious liquid. "What have you been doing?"
"Garbage disposal," Methos answered, his hair standing up in damp spikes.
"Big, heavy garbage." Wolf held her arms apart to illustrate their point.
"Did you think to have a shower before coming here?"
Methos shrugged. "We only dropped by for a beer run."
Joe considered asking them exactly what they'd been doing, but decided it could keep for now. He figured they were only going to distract him in any case. "What I want to know," he continued, "is exactly what has been going on at the dojo over the past few hours." He glared at them both to no effect, sighed, and elaborated. "I have a Watcher on my hands claiming that his less than stable Immortal has taken Duncan MacLeod's head." Still no reaction, but at least they were both still paying attention. "His report states that Enrique del Costo entered the premises, he witnessed the resultant electrical disturbance associated with a Quickening, followed his man from the scene, only to lose sight of him not long after his departure. Now." Joe closed the report and slammed the file on his desk. "What the hell is going on?"
Wolf and Methos exchanged a glance and shrugged at each other. Turning back to Joe, Wolf took del Costo's sword from her coat and laid the rapier on the desk. "I took his head. Neither of us really wanted to be spotted by his Watcher, so we provided a distraction."
"The man seen leaving the dojo," Joe reasoned. "I take it del Costo won't be turning up in the local morgue."
"No." Methos smirked at Joe's question. "That's one place he won't be putting in an appearance."
Joe held up a hand. "I don't want to know any more. I take it that even if you admit to being in residence at the time, you'll be disavowing all knowledge of the fight."
"Must have been a sudden power surge," Wolf replied ingenuously.
"Or a lightning strike," Methos added. "Made a mess of the dojo. Glass everywhere. Think I would have remembered a sword fight." He looked at Wolf, eyebrows raised in question.
She shook her head. "Nope, I can't recall a fight taking place, either. But with the stereo up that loud, we wouldn't have noticed anything short of an explosion."
"Enough," Joe interrupted their game and spoke to Wolf. "So you took del Costo's Quickening?"
"Not exactly," she answered slowly, continuing at Joe's look of inquisition. "Usually a Quickening will dissipate around me, but with Methos so near, it went for him..."
"Through Wolf," Methos finished for her.
"Okay, back up there." Joe stared at Wolf. "You told me once that you aren't Immortal — and this little incident confirms it — but this isn't the first time you've killed one." Wolf nodded in affirmation as Joe dug through another file. "I did some checking on you last night out of curiosity. Care to explain why you're listed as an agent of InterPol under the name of Riordan MacInnes and all records for Jordan Wolf have been deleted? In fact, if I hadn't seen those records with my own eyes — I checked the last time we met — I would never have believed that Jordan Wolf had existed. And this," Joe grabbed a sheaf of pages. "Unconfirmed Watcher reports of Immortals, second-hand sightings, tales of miraculously healed wounds." He flicked through the pile. "All featuring a woman matching your description dating back hundreds of years."
Wolf looked to Methos for support; he shrugged as much to say that the ball was now in her court.
As Wolf made her decision, Joe was subjected to her intense gaze. He tried not to flinch from it, as he wondered exactly how much of the truth — if any — she would share with him.
She uttered a loud sigh as she made her decision, Wolf dug her InterPol ID out of a pocket and handed it to Joe. "I'm officially Riordan MacInnes now. I'd used Jordan Wolf, way too long." As Joe examined her identification, Wolf took his reports, and sorted through the small bundle. In silence, she scanned them, absently picking out the ones that didn't concern her. "Those," she handed the paperwork back to Joe, "are about me. They're far from correct, but the essence is there."
Joe glanced through the remaining reports. There were three from World War II, one from London in the 1830s — that he'd already suspected — and a handful of others scattered over the centuries. The oldest report was from late in the thirteenth century. It was a second hand account of a possible Quickening during a battle between the Scots and English. The English soldiers had thought the Immortal a demon — 'a painted and barbed vision from the pits of Hades' had been the exact phrasing. While the Scots had referred to not one, but two warriors of exceptional ability. They even had a name for them: Laoch Sidhe.
"What does the term lay-otch sid-hee mean to you?" he pronounced the words carefully. Wolf and Methos both looked at him blankly. "Here," he pointed to the text in frustration.
"Oh... Joe," Wolf managed before she dissolved into giggles. Methos snorted in amusement as she explained, "It's Scots Gaelic. You pronounce it leek shee."
"And...?" Joe prompted.
Wolf managed to compose herself. "Roughly it means
warriors of the old ones."
"How old are these old ones?"
"Older than you could possibly imagine. Older than Junior here." Wolf poked Methos in the ribs playfully.
"You're kidding me?"
"No," Methos and Wolf spoke at once.
Joe could see that they were both amused by his confusion, but he sensed the truth of their assertions. He took a deep breath and finally asked the questions that he'd wanted to ask since he first met the woman. "What the hell are you? And how old are you anyway?"
Wolf slapped Methos' arm as he started to smirk in anticipation. "Well, I'm not one of the 'old ones'," she explained, neglecting to mention she was related. "I'm a werewolf."
Joe blinked. This wasn't exactly the revelation he'd been expecting. He watched as she removed her necklace — a bronze amulet on a leather thong — and handed it to him. He turned the piece over in his hands. It was about as long as his little finger and shaped like an inverted cross. The leather was threaded through the mouth of a wolf's head at the top. "Thor's Hammer." He looked back up at Wolf, catching her nod of affirmation. "I haven't seen one of these for a while."
"Neither have I," she spoke more to herself than to the others. "That belonged to the first man I killed. He was one of Magnus Bareleg's men, one of the men that fired the woods on Lewis. I was barely thirty years old..." she trailed off, lost in her memories.
"That would make you over nine hundred," Joe said, as he handed the amulet back.
"I was born in Ireland nine hundred and thirty-three years ago and raised as a warrior. Do you have any other questions?" Wolf concluded conversationally.
Joe was still trying to assimilate Wolf's age with her not being an Immortal, so he tried a safer topic. "Um... So when did you two meet?"
"Funnily enough, not that long before your first report," Wolf answered.
Scottish Borderlands
1270
Methos came back to life with a groan to find himself held gently, but securely in the arms of a strange woman. Her fingers pressed against his lips to silence him, then pointed through the dense screen of shrubbery. He could see glimpses of a handful of English soldiers searching the surrounding woodland, presumably for him. One of the soldiers passed below the branch he and his companion were sitting on, when it suddenly filtered through to his still befuddled senses that he was a long way off the ground.
He grabbed his companion as the surprise of his location unbalanced him and turned to ask her what the hell they were doing in a tree. The question died on his lips as he looked into her face for the first time. She looked like a hound from Hell. Woad marked out canine features and silver spikes pierced her cheeks, nose and eyebrows in imitation of whiskers. The blood that matted her red hair added to the overall effect. The alien face split into a huge grin at his slack-jawed reaction.
"Scares the hell out of the English too. They think I'm a demon," she laughed softly. "Mactíre Mac Conchúir an Treibh Mhac Conmara, at your service, Sir. But Wolf is easier to get your tongue around."
"Methos," he offered in return.
"I'm sorry," her soft Irish voice whispered. "The tripline that took out your horse was meant for me. I guess they expected me on horseback."
Methos slowly recreated the last thing he remembered before dying. He recalled his horse falling with a scream and throwing him from the saddle. "I hit something, didn't I?" he muttered to himself.
"The ground — went down like a sack of rocks." She sounded amused. "I dragged your arse up here before company turned up."
"You knew I'd come back to life? How did you know I'm an Immortal?"
The small woman shrugged. "I didn't. I just didn't want your body to be found."
"Why?" He watched as the soldiers started to move closer to their location.
Bits of superstition-laden conversation drifted up to them and Wolf nodded toward the frightened men. "That's why. I like to keep them off-guard." She glanced down at her dangling bare feet rather than facing her companion. "And I don't care to think what they would have done to you — dead or alive — if they'd found you."
"My thanks indeed." The dark-haired Immortal breathed a sigh of relief at his good fortune. "How long do you think they're going to wait around here?" The small group of soldiers were starting to gather within sight of their vantage point.
Wolf cocked her head and listened to the men below. "Looks like we're here for the duration. They're setting up camp for the night," she answered with a snort.
"Wonderful," Methos' voice dripped with sarcasm. "I've always wanted to spend the night in a tree." As it was, he wasn't even sure if he could stay in the tree that long. He was still relying on his young benefactor for balance.
Wolf was quite at ease, nestled amongst the branches as they were. "Stay," she spoke with quiet command as she extricated herself from Methos' grip. "Okay. Now shift over here." Methos gingerly moved where she indicated and settled back against the solid trunk of the ancient oak in relief. The young woman stepped around him, unconcerned about the height, and dropped down in front of the much calmer Immortal to straddle the same branch he was sitting on. "You'll have to keep watch on them now; I can't see as well from here."
Methos relaxed, confident that he wouldn't unexpectedly fall to the ground in his sleep. "You don't seem surprised by my sudden resurrection? I take it you've had dealings with my kind before."
Wolf shook her head. "No. You're the first." She smiled at his look of surprise. "You feel different to normal men. I've felt your kind before, but never actually met one."
"You're not Immortal," he stated, not feeling the familiar buzz that signalled his kind's proximity. He could feel something though, but it required a great deal of concentration to recognise it as her signature. "But you're not human, either."
"I'm neither," she looked surprised at Methos' declaration. "My kin were created as warriors when mankind was still young."
Methos' eyes widened. "You're that old?"
"Not personally, no. I've only just seen my second century."
He had rarely heard anyone brush off that many years as insignificant. "You said you're Clan Mac Conmara?" Wolf nodded. "You must be one of Dáibhí Mac Conmara's offspring then?" he hazarded a guess.
"You know of my Sire?" she queried in genuine amazement.
Methos shook his head. "Only through stories. According to legend he sired the wolfen warriors that saved his Clan during the great wars."
"My Lord and Sire." She inclined her head in acknowledgement of her heritage. "I've heard the stories, too. I wish I could have been there; it would have been fun."
"War," Methos stated bluntly, "is not fun"
"Oh, yes it is," the small redhead countered, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "At the moment I'm having buckets of fun. I get to run around the countryside killing English soldiers."
The older Immortal sighed at the folly of youth. "You'll end up getting yourself killed."
"So be it," she shrugged his warning off. "Fighting is what I was born to do. And I'm damn good at it."
Methos doubted she was bragging. He'd heard of her kind's ferocity in battle, and even if she was half as good, he wouldn't want to be the one to face her. "So why are they still alive?" he pointed to the nearby soldiers.
"I'd already taken down two of them and the other four were almost ex-soldiers when you blundered in and saw fit to get yourself killed," she answered sarcastically.
Methos was about to reply to her good-natured taunt when he smelled something. "What is that?"
"Do you really want to know?" Wolf asked, making a show of sniffing the air.
"No!" He didn't like what he saw in the young werewolf's face. "Please tell me that isn't my horse they're cooking." Wolf grimaced in sympathy. "Motherless sons of goats," he muttered and made to get down from his perch in the tree. "I'll kill them myself."
She grabbed his arm before he did anything stupid. "Wait." Wolf held his gaze before continuing. "You'll have a better chance with me. Four to two are far better odds. Besides, it's a good drop to the ground and dying in a fall is not going to help your plans for revenge. And," she paused, "this is my show, so we play by my rules."
Methos nodded his agreement and took her proffered hands. She locked her legs around the branch and swung underneath before the man realised what she was doing. He found himself swinging through the air to dangle from her strong grip. She released him and he dropped soundlessly to the ground. Looking up in surprise, he saw her grin break the darkness above him. A moment later she dropped beside him in a crouch, her arms clutching a bundle to her chest.
"You'll be needing this." She extracted his blade from the bundle, which turned out to be a leather breastplate studded with metal spikes. She quickly donned the armour and strapped on her own swords — one across her back and the shorter one at her side.
Wolf signalled Methos to follow her as she silently crept through the brush and circled around the camped men to where the sentry leaned, half asleep against a tree.
The man started awake to see the demon who'd killed his friends standing before him. Before he could shout a warning to the others, a hand was clamped over his mouth and a sword pressed against his throat from behind.
Wolf looked on in amusement as Methos lowered the dead soldier quietly to the ground. "What the hell did you do to the others to scare him like that?" he asked.
"One I hung upside down from a tree with his own intestines," she listed off on her fingers. "And I ripped the other one's heart out and left it in his mouth. For soldiers, they startle easily."
Methos got the impression that she'd gotten a great deal of entertainment from panicking the soldiers. "That would do the job," he agreed, wondering what she expected to find on the dead man's body.
Rising to her feet, Wolf ran her fingers down Methos face, painting rough lines with the soldier's blood.
"Hey!" he stepped away from her and she grabbed his hands to stop him wiping the blood off.
"Trust me on this one. I have my reasons." She held his eyes until she had his acquiescence. "One more touch and we'll wake the camp."
"What do you think you're doing with that thing?" he hissed as she removed her septum spike.
Wolf smiled and raised her eyebrows, the silver spikes making the gesture all the more dramatic.
"Oh no. You are not sticking that thing in my nose."
"Calm down. It's not going to hurt." She batted his hands away and lined the sharp needle-like object up under his nose. "Okay. Now take a deep breath."
Methos did as she asked.
"And exhale." She pushed the spike through before he realised she'd done it. "That wasn't so bad now was it?"
Methos felt his body heal around the metal and wriggled his new jewellery experimentally. "How do I look?"
"Cute. It suits you," she answered with a quick grin. "I'm sure the English will be just as impressed."
They advanced on the camp and killed two of the men sleeping by the fire, snapping their necks in their sleep.
"You broke the necks of the other two before you —"
"— Played with them?" Wolf finished. "Yeah. I gave them a good death — quick and clean. I have nothing against them personally and the embellishments were only for the benefit of their compatriots' morale."
"What about him?" Methos leaned on his sword and looked at the final soldier who slept soundly at their feet.
"He gets to live." Wolf booted the soldier in the ribs none-too-gently. "Oi! Wake up."
The man opened his eyes to see two terrifying visages peering down at him. "Mother of god," he screamed and scrambled away from them, stumbling over his feet to flee into the surrounding woods.
"Do you think he noticed he's not completely dressed?" Methos inquired of the soldier whose passage through the woods was reminiscent of a small elephant.
"Not yet. All he saw was a pair of monsters undoubtedly come to steal his soul." She sighed and reached into her mouth to start extracting the spikes from her cheeks. "Here," she handed Methos a skin of water. "You can wash the blood off now."
"That feels better." He scrubbed the last of the sticky blood from his face. "You can have this back, too." He removed the septum spike and handed it and the water skin back to Wolf. Now that she had removed the last of her metal accessories he saw that she did indeed favour her ancestors in looks. The last of the woad's stain faded as he watched.
"Keep it." She passed the silver ornament back. "Let's start burning these bodies."
Methos laughed and shook his head. "No wonder they fear you." He dragged a body to the centre of the clearing. When the surviving soldier's story was checked, there would be no evidence and the legend of a kilted demon stalking the Scottish border would increase.
"Hey, I may not be able to kill them all but I can keep them in constant fear."
Seattle, Washington
1998
Joe had been lost in the easy banter between Methos and Wolf as they related their tale. They finished each other's sentences and good-naturedly argued over details of who did what to whom.
It was a side of Methos that Joe hadn't seen before. He'd known the man longer than Duncan had, but this was a different aspect to the one he saw when he believed his friend was a young Watcher. There was a playfulness between them that surprised Joe. An acceptance and trust that Duncan had yet to earn — from either of them — but then a seven-hundred-year old friendship was beyond his ken.
Methos and Wolf sat back and waited for Joe's reaction. They had the look of young children having reported their vacation antics to a teacher. A strange thought that Joe brushed away; despite their deceptive appearance they were far from young, even if they seemed to behave that way in each other's company.
"You ripped out a man's heart?" Joe questioned in disbelief, wondering how much of their story had been embellished. "How?"
"Seeing as how the guy was dead, I tore his breastplate out and removed his heart from the front," she demonstrated on Methos, miming the movements with a hand that was a blend of human and wolf — the perfect instrument for messy but effective organ removal. "If I wanted something more dramatic, I'd go in under the rib cage. If you're fast enough you can show a man his own beating heart before he dies — kind of neat really," she cheerfully embellished.
"That was a little more information than I needed." Joe was looking decidedly pale.
"You did ask," Methos offered. "What did you expect?"
"Definitely not that. What did you do with the glove?" he asked Wolf, wondering at her sleight of hand.
She looked at him blankly. "What glove?"
"You know. The one you were..." He made clawing motions in the air.
"This?" She held a hand up and shifted it between forms, watching Joe pale again. "Are you okay?"
His eyes hadn't left her now human hand. "How'd you do that?" he whispered in awe.
"The shift?"
Joe nodded.
"I'm a werewolf, mate. It's what I do."
Methos shook his head at Wolf's confusion. "I don't think he believed you."
"Oh." She shook her head. "For a man who spends his life watching Immortals, you could show a little more faith."
"I just didn't expect it," he replied, pulling himself together. "It's not something you hear everyday. But I guess it explains this." He handed two printed reports to Wolf. They were InterPol profiles on both Jordan Wolf and Riordan MacInnes. The photographs were similar, but only the home address matched. Even the fingerprints differed. "Don't tell me you can change your fingerprints?"
"Yeah. Anything that can be used to identify me can and will be changed if needed."
Joe stared at her in disbelief.
"What can I say, I'm adaptable. You live as long as I do and you learn to move with the times." Wolf paused, her gaze on Joe regarding. "How did you get access to my InterPol records?"
Joe's eyes dropped to the desk, while Methos' found the ceiling far more interesting.
"Methos... you bastard!" There was no other way Joe could have gained full access to her secured records.
"You would have done the same in my position," Methos laughed. He'd used her InterPol access to piggyback into every other intelligence agency. Information was everything.
"True," she conceded. "As soon as I get the chance you can consider your access cut off."
"For now," he replied with a smirk.
Wolf threw her hands up in defeat. "Okay, but when I tighten security, only you two get in. I'm not having every man and his dog tramp through my carefully set up network, it is not a public access service. Misuse it and I will be very pissed. Do we have an understanding?"
Both men nodded in agreement. Methos grinned and Joe swallowed.
"Sense at last."
Methos rose to leave, Wolf at his side. "We'll catch you later, Joe. We've still got some cleaning up at the dojo to take care of."
Wolf retrieved the rapier from Joe's desk.
"Aren't you leaving that?" Joe asked, as the sword vanished into her coat.
"I killed him; it's my sword. You want a sword, kill your own Immortal," Wolf replied indignantly.
Methos offered Joe a lopsided grin. "She gets very attached to her weapons. It's best you let her keep it."
"Okay, okay." Joe held his hands up resignation. "I'll see you later."
Methos leaned against the lift wall watching his companion. She looked as bad as he felt. It was a wonder Joe hadn't tossed them back onto the street in their current state.
"You know something..." he said, as the lift stopped at the loft landing. "We smell really bad."
"Yeah, I noticed." She peeled her coat off — the only garment she was wearing that wasn't blood-spattered — and went to hang it up. Thinking again, she tossed it into the laundry basket. "I can't believe Joe let us set foot in the bar, let alone his office."
"I was wondering the same thing." Methos looked at the state of his friend and raised his eyebrows in question. "Shower?"
One word was enough to galvanise them into action. Clothes flew in all directions. Wolf was well on her way to beating Methos when she realised that the bottom half of her leather pants were still wet and had adhered to her legs. Arms pinwheeling wildly for balance, she hit the floor with a thump, just as Methos' pale form disappeared into the bathroom. Struggling with the garment she finally removed it with a jerk, tossed it aside and followed a laughing Immortal into the bathroom.
Wolf snorted to herself in amusement as she scrubbed her hair.
"What?" Methos asked quietly, making his hair stand out in wild shampoo spikes.
"I was just thinking," she replied.
"Dangerous," Methos interjected.
Wolf rewarded the comment with a loud slap to Methos' rump. "I was just wondering why nearly every time we get together I end up with blood in my hair."
"A secret desire to re-enact the shower scene from Psycho?" Methos suggested, watching blood-tinted water swirl around the drain at their feet. "Just remember that it wasn't me who started throwing entrails about."
"I didn't throw anything," she replied indignantly. "It was clearing that bloody machine when it backed up that did it. And, I think this," she indicated her blood-matted hair, "is the last time I agree to a request to 'just check that outlet over there', thank you very much."
Methos took pity on her and used his long fingers to carefully untangle the mess, smiling as he felt her relax under his gentle ministrations.
Continuing on from her hair, Methos gently turned her to face the wall. He ran soapy hands down her back in long strokes, thumbs tracing the ridges of her spine. He smiled to himself as she leaned back into the contact; indulging her, he worked the muscles in her back.
He deftly cleaned his way down Wolf's legs and, turning her around again, worked his way up the front of her body.
He was very thorough in his task, and very impersonal. As he finished, he finally met her eyes and saw the barely restrained desire burning in their depths. Her hands were clenching and unclenching rhythmically as she sought control — it was an action he associated with some interesting memories.
Methos knew that Wolf was as comfortable with her human side as she was with her animal side and had a wicked — and extremely dark — sense of humour. He'd once seen her walk into a biker bar and leave it a leather bar of a different sort. He loved nothing more than to tease her until she lost complete control of her pheromones — he had been responsible for pushing her hard enough to leave the rutting mass of flesh and leather in their wake.
Not yet finished with his game, he looked back down her body and smiled. "Only one now," he breathed in her ear, fingering the barbell through her hardening nipple. "I can remember a time when you had them all pierced." Methos felt rather than heard Wolf's low rumbling growl as she wrapped her arms around his neck and caught his lips. The kiss deepened as Wolf pressed herself against Methos' body and — feeling his hardness pressing into her abdomen — responded with a hardness of her own. Small hard nubs of other nipples rippled along her body.
"You have no idea how much they disturb people," she smiled seductively.
"I like it when you don't play nicely," Methos groaned as her tongue worked its way along his neck. Her musky scent washing over him in waves, creating the most enticing sensations all over his body. He wove his hands through her hair and pulled her lips back to his. Gentle kisses soon lengthened into slow explorations.
Wolf's slid her hands appreciatively over Methos' solid back, running them down to grasp firm buttocks. Twining a leg around his body, she stood on her toes and cupped his face, kissing him gently. As he leaned into the kiss, she stretched her leg muscles and slowly impaled herself on his hot shaft.
Throwing his head back with a groan, Methos grabbed her waist and thrust hard into her welcoming warmth.
They moved as one, curled around each other in a delicate balancing act, oblivious to the gentle fall of the shower. Lost to everything but each other, Wolf's pheromones fed the sensations and memories of their past encounters over their bodies like the water from the shower. All of their senses were attuned to each other with an intensity that spiralled out of control.
Methos insinuated a hand between their bodies and fingered Wolf's clitoris. His touch was enough to send her over the edge, her pulsing climax triggering Methos' own. Joined in a dance as old as time, they merged on another level beyond the physical, Wolf's unique signature filling Methos' mind with light and sound.
Slowly returning to themselves, they kissed slowly and unwound from their close embrace.
Methos gazed into her green eyes and gently held her face in his hands. The moment was shattered when a blast of cold water hit them.
"Bloody hell!" he yelled, leaping out of the shower and grabbing for towels. "I bet that bloody Highlander has it set like that on purpose."
Wolf shut the water off and gratefully accepted a towel from Methos. "I wouldn't be surprised," she laughed at her shivering friend. "You look all cold, and after I just warmed you up, too. I'll have to do something about that."
"After we eat. I'm starving."
Stomach growling at the mention of food. "Pretty and smart," Wolf teased, yelping as Methos flicked her with his towel.
"For that, my dear, you are making dinner."
"Cool. We're having steak."
Methos looked at her delighted expression and quickly caught onto her intentions. "Oh no. Raw and meat are not something I want to hear in the same sentence. I'll call for pizza."
"We have company again," Wolf announced, breaking the loft's silence.
Methos slowly opened his eyes and glanced at the body sprawled across the other end of the sofa. "That was a rather ominous announcement. Duncan?" he asked, not yet feeling the warning buzz.
"Uh huh," she replied lazily.
"Alone?" Methos questioned with little real interest.
"Yep."
"Going to do anything about it?"
"Nope. You."
Methos thought for a moment. "No. He knows where the 'fridge is. He can get his own beer," he managed, before dropping off in a light doze.
"Good plan," Wolf replied and joined him in slumber.
Duncan entered the dojo and swore long and loud. His office windows were missing and all of the external windows were boarded up. But aside from the lack of glass, the dojo was the about same as he'd left it, if not cleaner. A closer inspection revealed that all of the lighting had been replaced. It looked like someone had come calling for him and met something nasty in his stead. He headed toward the lift to see if the loft was still intact.
Feeling the buzz of another Immortal just before the lift doors opened onto his apartment, he drew his sword in preparation. The last thing he expected to find was two of his friends passed out in total oblivion to his presence.
Methos was sprawled gracefully across the sofa, while Wolf looked more like a crash test dummy — bent in strange and uncomfortable looking ways. The pair of them were surrounded by a sea of discarded beer bottles.
Torn between relief at his friends' safety and anger at their total disregard of his home, he looked again at the mess and decided on the latter.
Striding across to Methos, he held his sword at the older man's throat. "You could lose your head doing that, old man."
Without opening his eyes, Methos replied, "Not before you'd be singing soprano."
Duncan looked down to see the tip of Wolf's sword resting far too close to his manhood for his liking. Conceding defeat, he put his sword away as Wolf settled herself beside Methos.
"Nice double act," Duncan said, genuinely impressed as he dropped into the spot Wolf had just vacated. "I didn't see you move."
"You weren't meant to." Wolf smiled.
"It ruins the surprise if you do," Methos added.
"Some surprise," Duncan muttered to himself. "What happened downstairs?"
"You had a visitor."
"He insisted on playing."
"He died."
"We cleaned up."
"The glazier will be here later today."
"How was business?"
"Seen Connor recently?"
"Have a beer," Methos managed to find an unopened bottle on the floor and passed it to Duncan.
Duncan felt like he was watching a game of tennis as they filled him in on their activities. "Anything else I should know about? Any bodies hidden under the bed?" From the smirks he received, he had a brief moment of horror that they had secreted a body in his apartment. They were perverse enough to do it. "What?"
"You don't own a dog do you?" Methos asked innocently.
Duncan looked hard at the grinning man. "You know I don't. Why?"
"Then you won't have to worry about running into your gate-crasher," Wolf answered, trying to stifle a fit of giggles.
"What are talking about?" Duncan looked from one to the other when it dawned on him. "You didn't? Please tell me you didn't?"
"We were in need of a quick and permanent way to disappear a body," Methos explained.
"And he deserved it," Wolf chimed in. "At least he's making a useful contribution to society. And just think, there'll be a guaranteed meat content in pet food for a while."
"What did I do to deserve this?" Duncan beseeched the air above him. "And why didn't you tell me you knew each other," he asked, glaring at them in turn.
"You didn't ask," Methos and Wolf replied in unison.
Duncan groaned in misery.
Joe Dawson settled himself on the edge of the small stage, idly tuning his guitar as he watched the interplay between the threesome who were sitting at the table in front of him. Wolf was slouched in a chair with her feet across Methos' lap, keeping a prudent distance from Duncan, Joe noted. While the Scot had calmed down about his unexpected guests, she didn't seem to want to push her luck at the moment.
Joe mused on the differences between Immortals and werewolves from his limited pool of information. While Wolf didn't possess the Immortals ability to return from the dead, she did have a lifespan that could measure millennia and had a remarkably tough constitution. Despite her scruffy appearance, she seemed to be able to blend into the background effortlessly — a talent some Immortals seemed to possess too, if Methos was anything to go by. One of the big differences seemed to be Wolf's acceptance of her life, but that could also be because she had family. Not being involved in the Game like Immortals meant that she wasn't alienated from her own kind.
Watching the small redhead tease Duncan, Joe wondered what she wasn't telling him. Where did werewolves come from? How many of them were out there? Were they all like Wolf? He doubted there was an equivalent Watcher organisation following her movements — she would be almost impossible to shadow. It was an interesting problem.
Joe looked up with a start as Wolf eerily mimicked Connor's odd staccato laugh in response to something Duncan had said. The interruption derailed his train of thought completely.
"You have no appreciation of music," Wolf accused Duncan.
"I have no appreciation?" Duncan laid his palm on his chest and looked from Wolf to Methos in amazement. "I wasn't one setting new lows in singing last night." He winced at the memory of the pair of them drunkenly regaling him in song. He wondered if knowing the songs would have helped him to recognise what they were singing. He somehow doubted it.
"Joe," Methos joined in. "Give this barbarian your opinion of Tommy, please."
"Greatest piece of work The Who ever did. I thought everyone knew that."
"Everyone who hasn't been hiding under a rock since the last War." Methos indicated Duncan with a toss of his head.
"Hey," Duncan countered indignantly. "I'm just not into the whole groupie thing."
"Just because we've seen a band a few times doesn't not make up groupies." Wolf stared at Duncan with her arms folded across her chest.
"How many times?" Duncan queried innocently.
"I don't know," Wolf shrugged. "San Francisco in '69 and '71..."
"'71 was in London," Methos interrupted. "We saw them at the Isle of Wight Festival in '69, too," he reminded Wolf. "That was the one with the huge PA system."
"Oh yeah," she grinned. "I remember the signs warning people to keep at least fifteen feet away from the speakers."
"See," Duncan told Joe. "Groupies."
Wolf scowled at Duncan. "At least we have taste."
"Now children," Joe intervened before things got too heated. "Play nicely. Where are you off to now?" he deftly changed the subject before blood was shed.
"We're still undecided," Wolf replied. "What about Jamaica?" she asked Methos. "I like Jamaica."
"No way," Methos shook his head vehemently. "Not after last time."
Duncan looked at his friends in curiosity. "What happened last time?"
"She pissed off with a bloody pirate from Belize. Not a word, just up and vanished. Didn't see the silly tart again for over a year."
Wolf smiled dreamily. "Ahh... Christophe, a chocolate skinned god, with a razor smile and eyes as dark as a moonless night. Eyes that turned the most amazing shade of orange when he —" Methos unceremoniously dumped her legs onto the floor. "Hey! I seem to remember that when I did get back, you were happily ensconced in your own harem."
Joe snorted in amusement.
"At least I abandoned you in civilisation. Unlike when you vanished in the middle of Burma with our transport and I had to hike for days to get back to camp."
"I was kidnapped!" Methos replied indignantly.
"Of course you were," she drawled. "By a lovesick village girl."
Duncan's eyebrows shot up. "A girl."
"I didn't want to offend her family." Methos examined his beer closely, ignoring the amused looks his friends were sending him. "So I went along with her peaceably."
"The fact that she was gorgeous had nothing to do with it?" Wolf teased.
"Nothing at all."
"Fibber," she smiled.
"That still doesn't solve the question of a destination." Joe leaned across his guitar.
"Paris," Duncan suggested, handing over two tickets. Anything, he'd decided, to see the last of them. He would have expected better from a five-thousand-year old Immortal and a nine-hundred-year old werewolf, but it seemed that close proximity to one another resulted in a mutual reversion to childish behaviour. And two large, playful, heavily armed children with a magnetic attraction to trouble, were not something he wanted camped out on his doorstep for any longer than necessary.
"Cool. I've never seen the city as a tourist," Wolf leapt on the idea with enthusiasm. "It'll make a nice change from breezing through on business."
"Business," Methos snorted rudely. "That's an interesting name for it."
"Quiet, you beast," Wolf kicked him under the table. "Or I shan't let you take me to the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower. And the Château de Versailles — I've always wanted to see the gardens there."
Methos narrowed his eyes at Duncan. "I hate you."
"Just returning the favour," the big Scot smiled sweetly. "And stay away from the barge. After what happened here, my hospitality doesn't extend quite that far."
"We did clean up. Even reorganised your music collection," she offered in all innocence.
"But I'm sure it could have been avoided if you'd really put your minds to it." He wasn't sure what to make of the look she exchanged with Methos, or the way that the old man smirked.
Methos caught sight of the time and drained his beer. "Get the lead out, love. We've got some arrangements to make if we want to make that flight."
Wolf stood on her toes and kissed Duncan's cheek. "Thanks for the tickets. Here," she handed him a key. "Take care of my bike."
"Of course," Duncan accepted the key to Wolf's Ducati 916. "I'll look after it like it was my own."
"Duncan." Wolf took his hand, folding it over the key. "She's yours." She continued before he could interrupt, "It's too much of a hassle shipping her home and at least I know you'll appreciate her — or find her a good home."
"Thank you." Duncan was unable to manage anything else.
"It's the least I could do after removing all the windows in the dojo." She winked.
They made their farewells and started for the door when Joe called out, "A piece of advice. Try not to both turn up at once next time. I don't think we could take the stress."
"We'll take it under advisement," Methos laughed.
The End
Afterword
Irish Translations
Mactíre Mac Conchúir an Treibh Mhac Conmara: Mac-tcheera MacConnor of the clan McNamara.
Dáibhí Mac Conmara: Davy McNamara
Published Revelations 2 by Ashton Press — 01.07.1999
For ordering and pricing information, please contact Linda Knights at KnightWriter Press
duncan macleod | enriqué del costo | fan fiction | fiction | joe dawson | methos | wolfPost a Comment