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It was a busy day, the tables were full and there was a line up for drinks. Deb was still mentally debating her menu choice when a casual glance brought a moment of sheer panic. "Duncan, we have to get out of here, now."
"We’re already in line; if we leave now, we’ll attract even more attention." He couldn’t feel anything, but she was still the more sensitive of the two; "What’s wrong?"
She nodded quickly in the direction of the counter. "The barista, I know her; she knew me… from before."
"What?" His whisper almost turned into a hiss; "How could you let this happen?"
"The last time I saw her, she was working on the other side of town. What do we do now?"
"Just stay calm, act casual. We’ll
be just two more customers out of hundreds she’s served today. At least
the woman’s not working cash; she might not even see us."
§ § §
There was nothing in the world worse than having to work on your birthday. It had been a long, hard day, and the end of her shift was still nowhere in sight. A morning delivery had gone wrong, forcing her to open the shop late; they were understaffed, overworked and threatening to run out of the coffee of the day. Worst of all, the new equipment that had just been installed was acting up; she’d spent several hours on barista station already simply because she was the only person who could get the machinery to work.
Trying to shake off exhaustion, she scanned the line of customers. Maybe one of her regulars would be able to cheer her a bit. There, near the back, she thought she saw a familiar face: a woman about her height, with long brown hair; by chance their eyes met—no, she must be working too hard. That woman looked almost exactly like…no, it couldn’t be! Her old friend Debra was dead. She remembered the accident, her obituary, and the controversy when the body had disappeared; she had thought the whole thing felt like a bad episode of Highlander, and then chastised herself for making light of such a tragedy. The cappuccino machine chose that moment to have a tantrum, bringing her attention back to reality. Besides, this woman didn’t wear glasses, and leaned on the arm of a six-foot, dark-haired hunk. Some girls have all the luck.
"Pay attention, Sheila," growled the
equally overworked cashier. "You’ve got two lattes, a hot chocolate and
an iced frappuccino waiting."
§ § §
It was hard to maintain an outward appearance of calm, knowing she could be discovered at any moment. Never had even a Buzz produced such a need for escape; she envied MacLeod his self-control. As the line crept forward, the opportunity to slip away unseen went from slim to none. Mac stepped up to the counter first, giving her (intentionally or not) an extra few seconds to prepare. "I’d like a venti cappuccino: triple shot, skim milk, extra hot," he paused for a smile, "with cinnamon on top." As the complex order tripped off his tongue without hesitation, Deb’s jaw dropped in amazement. And he had told her not to attract attention: A triple espresso? Why don’t you just call it a Quickening and get it over with!
It was her turn at the counter and she could still barely think straight. "Venti hot chocolate, with a shot of English Toffee, whipped cream and caramel on top." She had already paid and stepped aside for whoever was next before she realised the words hadn't been her own. Fitz-cairn! She stopped in the middle of her mental scolding; he'd actually done something useful this time, getting her out before she attracted attention. Thanks, Fitz.
§ § §
Triple espresso cappuccino: skim milk, extra hot, with cinnamon, now that was quite an order. She had to get a look at the kind of person who could handle a drink like that. Glancing over, she saw it was the dark-haired cutie; close up, she noticed he had dark, smoky eyes to match. This man was…he was—"Oh. My. God." Her mind could not handle the evidence of her senses; she went numb with shock. She paid no attention when the machine started making a dangerous hiss; a faint, sputtering sound came from her own lips, "Duh—Duh—Duh—" Duncan MacLeod.
§ § §
"You know her better, do you think it worked?" He kept his stance casual, but tension crept into his voice.
"I'm not sure. I feel like I'm waiting for a scream." She felt an ache in the back of her skull, must be stress. "Hey, do you hear something; kind of a hissing sound?"
He paused for a moment, frowned thoughtfully; "No, it's more like a high whistle. It sounds like…STEAM!" Desperately, he shoved her away from the sound, diving for cover a second later.
They both hit the ground at the same time, just as a massive explosion took out the whole counter. She hardly noticed the ringing in her ears; the shards of hot metal and splinters of wood; only one thing was important. "Sheila? Sheila!"
With her face to the floor, Debra was surrounded by panicked shouts, the howl of an alarm, a crackling sound like a mockery of a fireplace; but amid all the chaos, the one voice she prayed to hear was conspicuously silent. She tried to leap to her feet, but something held her back, held her down. "Let go! Mac, you have to let me go; she was my friend." Her muffled words faded away, her struggles stopped. MacLeod had landed on top of her, taking most of the force from the blast. Why couldn't she hear his breathing? Hell, in this position, she should have felt it. There was no movement above her; no sound; just dead weight. An icy chill froze her veins; nothing could stop the primal terror of being pinned under a dead body, however temporary the condition might be.
Frozen in shock, hardly daring to breathe, Deb felt the shudder, the surge of life returning. The grip on her shoulder was a reassurance, but it was also a command: Stay down, don't move. As adrenaline faded, she slowly became aware of the full extent of her injuries: splintered bones ground against each other; the dry, papery sensation of burnt skin; salt sweat stinging in a thousand cuts and perforations. An eternity passed while they waited for the paramedics, during which she had time to appreciate the peculiar pain of each individual wound reversing itself, but all this was nothing compared with the anguish of not knowing.
§ § §
Leaning on the bumper of a bright yellow fire truck, two dishevelled figures huddled beneath institutional blankets. The pair leaned close, seeming to share strength from each other; amid the confusion, they were all but ignored. "Duncan, I felt something," one of them whispered harshly. "I could feel it, and I think it was from her."
"I know you want her to be okay, but you have to learn to accept death. Life’s not a story; there’s rarely a happy ending."
"Look, if it was anything else, I’d be the first to admit to my over-active fantasy life; but you know my talents, my perception."
Duncan frowned thoughtfully, giving her a long, soul-searching gaze. He paused as someone passed close by; when he spoke again it was all business. "Tell me exactly what you felt."
Deb gathered her thoughts, trying to frame them into words. "It was faint, very faint; at the time I thought it was just anxiety. And it was off somehow, like the difference between instrumental and synthesised music. Just as I was almost able to identify it, the explosion hit. The sensation just—stopped. A second later, so did yours; that’s when I knew you were…" dead. Her throat tightened, for a moment she couldn’t speak. For the first time in over a year, her hands began to shake: shock was setting in.
Around them, people were rushing here and there; as a gurney sped past, Deb caught a flash of familiar red hair. Her heart leapt into her throat and she buried her face in the solid reality of a muscular shoulder. Duncan held her without judgement until she regained control.
MacLeod had been raised to be a leader, he knew what to do in a crisis; he took control of the situation instantly. "We have to do this quickly, while we still have a chance. That leg of yours should still get you into the ER, at least for another few hours." Her left leg had been a mangled mess when she hit the ground; it had improved greatly, but still looked like a crippling injury. "When you get there, try to find out as much as possible what they're doing with her—"
Deb interrupted with a question, so she never knew for certain if he had been about to say body. "Wait a second, what happens when my compound fracture disappears while I'm waiting for an X-ray? That'll attract just a teeny bit of attention!"
He shook his head; "They'll tell you to get out of the way, relieved to be able to work on a higher priority case. It's an ER; they don't have time to be suspicious."
"And what'll you be doing…" her complaint died on her lips as she felt a new Buzz, her eyes widened, turning unerringly towards the source. A second later, he felt it too: the ambulance. Had another of their kind been attracted to the explosion? Could an Immortal get a Quickening even before the first rebirth? Duncan rushed to the ambulance door, Deb stumbling after him. "Stop!" she shouted as Mac was about to raise a hand to a bemused EMT; "It's not them."
The Buzz wasn't coming from the paramedic, or the driver; the figure on the gurney was no longer still, it thrashed weakly, uttering a low moaning sound. Mac swept the vehicle with his most dangerous expression, "Get out!" The pair wisely retreated. Even the Highlander was shocked silent for a moment; "I've never seen, never even heard of a First Death recovery this fast."
Deb shrugged, "Maybe it was the coffee." She took his withering glare without flinching; "That's not what I meant. She practically lived on caffeine; her metabolism must be sky high."
He glared at her again for good measure, but let it pass. "No time for speculation; we can't let her into a hospital."
"I thought you said ER didn't have time to be suspicious?"
"For a broken leg, yes; but this? She might never get out of testing."
"So what do we do, hijack an emergency vehicle?" She paused, not liking his expression at all. "Did anyone ever tell you that with a smile like that, you'd make a great cat?"
"I swear, I've never been anywhere near Cheshire. Now get in the back; I'm driving."
§ § §
"Where are we going?"
Deb turned away from her barely conscious friend; "What do you mean, where are we going? You're the Chieftain's Son."
"And you're the Northlander; it's your home territory." Gods, she hated it when he made sense. They needed a place that would be empty this time of year, somewhere to dump the ambulance and seek shelter.
She looked out a tiny window at the spotty patches of snow; it had been a mild winter for Northern Alberta. No snow…Gallagher Park! The ski club would be closed and the Folk Festival wouldn't set up until late July, perfect. She quickly outlined her idea; Mac got a strange look on his face when she mentioned the Folk Fest, but otherwise agreed to the plan. All he said was "Call Charlie Strathern, he'll help."
"Two-Forks? You mean he's—" she saw him nod crisply, eyes still on the road. Unbelievable: there was a story in there somewhere; she'd have to get it out of him someday, but not now. "And exactly how am I going to find him 5 months before production even starts?" He frowned for a moment, then rattled off a number.
As she blinked a couple of times in confusion, he stopped in a little used alley and turned around. "All right, I’ll talk to him then." Deb handed forward her cell; he plugged it into the vehicle’s hands-free system and dialled. While the phone rang, she checked their patient once more, concern creasing her brow. Wasn’t an Immortal rebirth an all-or-nothing phenomenon? You either came back or you didn’t; but this, this seemed like titanic struggle. Oh Eeyore, why do you always have to do things the hard way?
MacLeod’s voice pulled her thoughts back to the here and now; "…did you a favour last summer, now it’s your turn. We need the keys to the chalet, a place to hide a vehicle for a while; supplies: food, clothing for myself and two others, first aid, some blankets; and needless to say, absolute secrecy."
Charlie’s voice on the phone sounded very similar to his voice on radio, brusque and to the point. "You’re asking for a lot more than you gave; I don’t even have the authority to be there until July…."
Deb leaned halfway through the access window; "Sheila Woodyard needs your help." The voice on the line changed instantly. "Eeyore? Why didn’t you say so! Meet me at Kitchen Gate and I’ll see what I can do." There was a click as the veteran Folkie hung up abruptly.
Mac gave Deb a dubious look despite her quick thinking, "Eeyore? Don’t any of your friends have normal names?" She just grinned. "Oh, we all have normal names, we just choose not to use them." Her voice lost its playful tone, "Follow the signs to the Muttart, I’ll guide you in from there."
§ § §
Stephen Savage was just coming out of the shower when he heard the sound of keys in a lock. It was rather early for his roommate to be home from work, but who else could let themselves in without buzzing? He didn’t really think anything of it until he noticed Boudicea; the little cat was puffed up to three times her normal size, hardly the way to greet the man who feeds her. The door finally opened and the cat rose into a full hissing attack posture.
A tall, dark-haired man stepped through the door; his clothing was in shreds, but he was by no means a vagrant. Steve took one look at the man and swore under his breath; "What did she do this time?"
MacLeod saw the Watcher clad only in a dripping towel; he scowled. "If you were doing your job, you’d know that already, wouldn’t you?" He gestured at the other man’s state of undress; "Go get decent; does Sheila still leave her clothes and things here?"
"How do you know about Sheila?" Never mind, there were too many questions already. He hurried back to his bedroom, almost tripping over the still hissing cat (what was wrong with her?) and returned just as quickly in a T-shirt and sweats. Watcher and Immortal were still arguing when the door clicked again. There was a soft curse from outside as the key locked the unexpectedly open door; MacLeod spun around instead of side-stepping, leaving him framed perfectly in the doorway.
The moment stretched into a frozen tableau as three men looked at each other in shocked silence. The aforementioned roommate was tired and worn out from a day’s work and a long trip home, but not so much that he didn’t recognise a familiar face. "All right, Stephen, why is Adrian Paul standing in my front hall?"
A nervous smile froze on the Watcher’s face as his mind raced for a quick explanation. "Um, discussing a potential convention appearance?" He couldn’t keep the questioning tone out of his voice.
Swinging a backpack off his shoulder, the newcomer shot his roommate a glare and an oft-repeated sigh. "Oh, I don’t think so. First, we can’t afford him; second, he wouldn’t come in person; and third, if anyone was going to organise a Con in this city, it would be me. Now spill it!"
MacLeod appraised the other man with a quick glance: short, stocky build, firm stance, the stubborn glower of a man demanding answers. He noticed one detail immediately; "Did you buy that jacket?"
The man’s chest swelled with prickly pride. "No one buys a Folk Fest hundred hour jacket; if anyone tried to sell one, they’d be banned from volunteering for life."
Duncan nodded slowly, needing only one confirmation "Site security?"
"Nighthawks."
"That was all I need to know." Anyone who can handle 100 hours of ‘hawks duty could be trusted. "Sheila’s in trouble; I need food, blankets, clothing for three of us; any of her belongings she might have left here."
"Well, that shouldn’t be too hard; though we’ll have a wee bit o’ trouble finding clothes for you." A familiar lilt crept into his voice, as it often did.
Duncan blinked surprise; "What did you just say?"
"I said there might be a bit o’ trouble fitting someone your size." The two confronted each other in silence for several seconds; even Stephen didn’t try to interrupt. The smaller man offered his hand first, "Ronald Ian Ferguson."
"Duncan MacLeod." As if a border had been crossed, he broke into a relaxed smile; "I knew a Ferguson once. He owed me money."
"A farmer, down Argyllshire way?" He wouldn’t actually hold him to it would he? Ron wondered what even token interest would add up to over a few centuries.
"No," the Highlander frowned, lost in thought, "but he did say he always wanted to settle down near Kintyre.
He sighed, barely suppressing a cringe. "That sounds like my family."
"In that case, you owe me—" a pregnant pause "—your co-operation."
§ § §
Besides the folding chairs and ratty couches, the chalet had one small bed, tucked into a back room. Upon that bed lay the late Sheila Woodyard, fussed over by a caretaker who worried whether, at any moment, that title would stop being facetious. Deb peeled away the last shreds of her friend’s clothing, gently bathing her with a damp cloth. If she stared at one of the wounds or burns long enough, she could actually see it growing smaller, folding in on itself; it was fascinating to watch. She’s rather attractive, you know. "Shut up Fitz." When she recovers, the lass may need some comforting. "Fitzcairn, one more stray thought out of you and I swear, I’ll never set foot in a pub again." Silence. "That’s better."
There was another soft moan, eyes that opened slowly. A faint, confused voice: "I smell coffee." Sheila had always believed in the importance of the truth, so Deb gave it to her, no holds barred. "You had an industrial cappuccino machine blow up in your face; you’ll probably be smelling coffee for the next month."
Shock pierced through the fog in her brain, she jerked up to a sitting position faster than Deb could hold her down. "Debra? No, no, you’re dead."
A reassuring smile; "No, I was dead, there’s a difference. Now, how do you feel?"
"Like someone put me through a meat grinder. Look, can we talk later, I’ve got the worst migraine right now…."
"That’s not a migraine, it’s a warning; you better get familiar with it now, ‘cause recognising it could save your life."
She was fully awake and sober now; "You’re not joking, are you?"
"I wouldn’t joke about this, not anymore. What you’re feeling right now is me, and someone else I’ll let you meet when you’re feeling better." She took a deep breath, hoping this wasn’t a mistake, "I’m an Immortal now, and so are you. Please don’t ask for proof, because it’s really quite unpleasant, and my body already had to put itself back together once today."
She watched her friend carefully, gauging the reaction; suddenly she felt the approach of a familiar Buzz. Sheila looked up, past her shoulder; her eyes widened, her mouth opened and closed a couple of times like a fish. Deb spun around instantly, "Get out!"
The big Scot looked rather taken aback, "I brought some of her clothes."
"Well then leave them here and then get out. You are not helping." She watched while he dropped a pile of clothes on a chair and meekly retreated.
"Th-that was MacLeod…" Her voice trembled, she could hardly believe her own eyes. "Yes, yes it was." Deb’s tone was so casual, so matter of fact, that it calmed the other woman somewhat. "But, you—you yelled at him."
"I’d do more than that to help a friend." The way she spoke made it clear that she meant every word.
"You really have changed."
"I guess you could say I’ve been through the fire; tempered by experience." A warm smile softened her eyes; "You feel like getting into some clean clothes? At least I hope they're clean…"
§ § §
Deb stepped out of the tiny room, leaving her friend alone to consider everything that had happened. Her own rebirth had been recent enough that she could appreciate what Sheila was going through. Looking around, she saw they had grown into quite a little conspiracy: MacLeod, Two-Forks and…oh dear.
Her smile was somewhat crooked, and she failed miserably in her attempt to seem casual. "Oh, hi Ron. What’s new?"
"I knew it! I knew as soon as I heard about your body going missing that it would be something weird like this."
"Weird? You want to talk about weird; ask your roommate why he’s been wearing long-sleeved shirts lately."
He looked at her, frowned, shook his head, and then looked at her again, before understanding dawned in his eyes. "But Stephen can’t even spell!" She sighed deeply, "Tell me about it."
"How did he end up being a Watcher?"
She shrugged, "Something to do with a pilgrimage to Normandy Beach and a set of dog-tags; I haven’t asked too much about it yet. If you really want to see him squirm, though, mention the name Amanda." It was fun to laugh and joke again, but the feeling didn’t last long.
She gave them all an update; "Physically, she’s doing fine, there’s hardly a mark on her and those are fading fast. Emotionally, it’s hard to tell. She’s always been a strong person; I think she’ll be able to handle this if we just give her time. But I don’t want more than one person visiting at a time; she’s not ready to deal with multiple Quickenings right now. Except for you," she pointed at a surprised MacLeod. "You do not want to be in a room alone with that woman."
"I’m a big boy, I think I can take care of myself."
"You don’t understand. She’s got the same obsessions that I do, but she’s a lot more…aggressive." He looked dubious, but didn’t say a word.
A few hours later, Deb quietly stayed by the door and chaperoned while Sheila had a relaxed conversation with the Highlander. At least she wasn’t tripping over her own tongue every time she saw him anymore.
"And he actually convinced you he was Security? Charlie’s been Production for as long as I can remember; he’s responsible for turning two empty fields and a hill into a five stage, wired for sound music festival that caters to 20,000 patrons a day and almost 2,000 volunteers." She smiled, "But then again, I’m biased."
She continued without hesitation, having a familiar topic seemed to boost her confidence. "As for the call sign, he must have been trying to pull your leg. ‘Two-Forks’ has nothing to do with the kitchen, it’s the two fork-lifts that are on site every year." It was so good to hear Sheila's laugh again, and the look on Mac’s face the first time she dissolved into a snorting fit was priceless. Deb was finally sure that her friend was going to be okay.
At the tail end of one of her laughing jags, Sheila suddenly turned serious, frowning thoughtfully. "Wait a second, what day is it today?"
Deb stopped to think for a second, once again amazed by how much could happen in a single day. "It’s Monday, March 26th."
Sheila swore under her breath. "So close, so very, very close."
Deb smiled in sympathy, while Mac looked totally clueless; "Are you Ladies going to explain, or is this an inside joke?"
Deb answered first, "It’s a female
thing. Sheila here just missed every woman’s dream come true, to be 39
forever."
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