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A large man dressed in brightly-coloured unfashionable clothing runs into Felicia. Without any thought, her hand reaches into his coat as she grapples to steady herself. The man yells in English for her to watch where she’s going, disengages himself as quickly as possible. Felicia glances down at the folded leather pouch that she has “acquired” before quickly slipping it into a pocket. The tourist is still loudly protesting to his companions about “these rude foreigners”, but he has no idea that he has lost anything. She slowly shakes her head in disbelief as she continues walking. What kind of capricious Gods did this world have, that would create a man like Duncan MacLeod, and still produce whole flocks of these sheep? At the thought of sheep, her stomach growls and there is a faint stirring in the back of her mind… perhaps that is a bad analogy.
The contents of the tourist’s wallet pay for an excellent meal. Felicia is contemplating the idea of a little window shopping when she realises she is being followed. Her pursuer has neither the skill nor the subtlety of—what did the old man say? — A Watcher, more like the cold persistence of a hunter. Several times she tries to lose him in the crowds, only to catch a glimpse of him again minutes or even hours later. Felicia slips through side streets and back alleys: a survival instinct for her, but a dangerous habit in a city she does not fully know.
Passing the entrance to an alley, she feels a surge of power that reminds her of Duncan and Methos; the figure that steps out of the shadows, however, bears little resemblance to either the Warrior or the Scholar. Felicia had seen his type many times in her adventures: bloodthirsty thugs, a little too eager for the kill and not at all picky about the victim.
“Well look at this young thing”, he sneers, “such a pretty little head. You must be new to the Game if you really think you can survive with just a knife. Maybe I should show you a real blade, hmm?”
A little bit confused by the mention of a game, Felicia is nonetheless sure she can deal with this bravo. A man’s “blade”, in her experience, is often not nearly as large as he imagines it. Keeping the motion casual, Felicia reaches for the knife at her belt, draws it as if to display the decorated hilt: an eclipsing sun, moon and stars. “Do you mean this? I’ve had it all my life.” She smiles innocently “Besides, it isn’t size that counts, it’s what you can do with it”. A negligent wave of her hand suddenly turns into a well-practised throw. The blade sinks hilt deep into the brute’s chest—a heart shot. He drops instantly, without a sound.
Adrenaline surges; the night seems to leap into sharper focus. Beneath the battle-high is a cold logic she cannot avoid: she has just killed someone. Felicia creeps back to the mouth of the alley, carefully looks out. Few people are left on the street; none take even the slightest notice. She wonders how efficient the guards—police—are in this city. How quickly would they find the body and how soon would they start the investigation? Street instinct screams for her to get away, but there is something she has to do first.
Felicia wasn’t joking about having had the knife all her life, it is just as much a part of her as the Warrior’s honour-sword. She had been found with it as an infant; it is the closest thing she has to a history and she never leaves it behind. Her thoughts are interrupted by another surge of magic, giving her an extra second’s reaction time. She spins around, hears a voice like an animal snarl, “Is this yours, Bitch?" She dodges fluidly but her own knife, aimed at her throat, still grazes her shoulder. She curses the pain and her own carelessness: never trust anything that’s too easy. She watches with growing horror as the bully she had foolishly dismissed rises easily to his feet. The elf-cat can see quite clearly in the dark, so she can’t blame the missing wound on a trick of the shadows. Light of the Moon! What am I fighting? she thinks, even as she begins to gather up her magic….
Felicia rises to her full height; the motion provokes a grimace of pain and a fresh stream of blood from her shoulder wound. “I met a bully tonight. He wouldn’t play nice, so I took away his toy.” Driven into the wood by her weight, the sword stands between them like an accusation. “The guy challenged me: called me young and weak, kept saying how much he admired my head.” Duncan frowns, not liking where this is going at all. Felicia touches the knife hilt at her hip, “Of course, he didn’t say much with a couple inches of steel where his heart used to be.” She sways on her feet, and for an instant her eyes betray a look of sheer terror, “When he woke up, though, he was furious…
The fist slams her back, into the nearest building. He uses the dazed moment to get between her and the only exit. As she shakes her head, trying to clear it, a wild, desperate idea comes to mind. The elf-mage grapples the stranger with both hands and it’s the Immortal’s turn to stagger as she pulls some of the Quickening right out of him. A quick series of gestures lets her retreat to higher ground—up the wall. Felicia sits perched at an impossible angle; pauses to catch her breath. In the darkest corner of her mind, the Tigress rages against its confinement, eager to join the fray. Carefully, with supreme discipline, the lady lets a tiny ray of light into that dark mental cage; she feels the Change come over her….
The frustrated Immortal searches the shadows for an enemy he can still feel; his easy prey has turned dangerous. Not just a Bitch, he thinks but a Witch. The attack, when it comes, is from above… a massive furry paw, blending into a very human arm. Knife-sharp claws rake downward; the sword falls as both hands come up to protect his eyes—
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed swiftly by absolute fury. “You Bastard! You’re the same as him aren’t you? I almost got killed because you decided that your secrets are more important than mine.” Her voice rises to a near-hysterical pitch: “When were you planning to tell me? After the first time you died in front of my eyes? After my first “death”?”
Mac tries to calm her down, “I didn’t know. I thought—“ a snarl that isn’t entirely human halts him in mid-breath. She pounces eagerly on his words: “You thought what? That I didn’t need to know? That I already knew? That I was one of your kind?” She twists the word into a curse.
“Look at me,” she shouts. “Get a good look.” With an effort, she turns herself once, displaying every bruise and gash. “Death might be a temporary inconvenience to you, but for me it’s very real. I didn’t know she was Mortal is a poor excuse, and a worse epitaph.” She pauses for effect. “Or maybe you’re just looking for a new grave where you can stand and apologise.”
There is a blur of motion and suddenly Felicia finds herself flat on the floor, looking up. The Warrior looms over her, one hand poised like a striking falcon. “You will not mention Tessa again.” She had once called him a furnace of power, but here is a fire of a different kind: a Highland temper, kept banked by layers of discipline, now flaring wild in those dark eyes. He drops the martial pose, though his body remains taut as a bowstring and just as dangerous. “I never said this would be easy. If you want a quick way out of this world, just go back out there and stretch your neck, and someone will be happy to oblige. But if you want to get home, then you’re going to have to trust me.”
An empty hand, once a weapon in its own right, now reaches out in friendship: “Trust?” A weak and clumsy strike bats aside the offer. “Don’t touch me” she snarls; “Necromancer!” Unable to stand, Felicia gathers the last of her failing strength… and vanishes.
MacLeod releases a long sigh into the now empty room. “Well, that could have gone better.”
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