Date: Mon, 12 Feb 1996 02:18:46 -0500 Reply-To: NSumsion@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "Nathan R. Sumsion" Subject: RESEND- Value of Friends (1/10) This story contains some scenes of violence and the occasional profane word. The Value of Friends part one of ten by Nathan R. Sumsion NORA'S 24-HOUR CAFE. OUTSIDE LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA. 1996 He snubbed out his French Silk cigarette in the cheap tin ashtray on the counter. The coffee sat cooling before him, untouched. He glanced lazily around the greasy spoon where he was seated. Humanity's lost souls surrounded him, people who would amount to no more than the majority of their fellows. He sneered. Cafes such as this truly pleased him, helping remind him of his superiority over the teeming mass of people that lived around him. He stretched casually, ignoring the squelching from the blood-soaked shirt underneath his jacket. His wounds had not quite healed. "Want a refill, sugar?" the nasally voice asked him. He turned to look at the waitress who had been serving him. She had been slighting her other customers in his favor for the past half hour. Some of the regulars in the cafe were giving him openly hostile glares, which he returned with amused indifference. While normally a hostile crowd, their mood hadn't been helped by the recent power outage in the area, only now repaired. None of them harassed him, though, after he sent one trucker to the restroom to tend a bleeding nose. Few had seen him move, the slap had come so fast. Now they were content to merely glare and keep their opinions silent. "No," he answered in a deep voice, with an accent not spoken by mortal tongues for hundreds of years. "No refill." His boot tapped rhythmically on the footrest of the stool as she paced past him to take someone's order. Despite the heat outside, his black leather jacket was zipped up to his neck. While it looked uncomfortable, it strongly accentuated his raven black hair and dark eyes. The waitress had never seen hair so black! Not natural, anyway. She sauntered back over to the large biker at the counter. He was bigger than most men she had seen, but his mass had not gone to fat like the majority who stopped in here. He looked dangerous, and that only heightened his appeal. "I've never heard an accent like yers. Where ya from?" she asked. She had been attempting to draw him into conversation for the past fifteen minutes with no success. "A small village near Felvidek, the Upper Country." When he noticed the blank stare, he elaborated wearily, "Hungary." "Oh," she replied, a bit flustered. She couldn't place that other than being in Europe somewhere. "So what brings you to these parts?" she asked casually, making sure to lean a bit over the counter to flash her best assets at the stranger. She saw all kinds come through this place, but never a man like this. She could tell there was something different about him. Sure, he wore a biker's jacket and ripped jeans, but there was a certain elegance about him, a vitality she had never seen. She didn't want this one to slip through her fingers. "Tourist," he replied simply. He was starting to get on edge from her questions, but she wasn't deterred. He looked down at the coffee in front of him. He was tempted to drink from it just to avoid having to talk to the waitress, but looking into its brown depths he decided he wasn't that brave. "You came from Europe to see the sights here? Isn't it beautiful where you're from?" He immediately relaxed. A pleased, faraway look entered his eyes. He looked at her fondly. "Oh yes. There is no sight more beautiful than the sun rising over the Blue Danube, casting its rays on the ancient towers and walls of Budapest and the countryside surrounding. It is a sight that no life should be without." Another patron down the counter called out for her, and she cursed as she went down to help them, leaving the stranger to his internal musings. When she returned, he was rubbing absently at his left shoulder, wincing a bit. The worst of his wounds was almost healed, but there was still a dull ache. "Hurt yerself skiing?" He looked at her quizzically. "Skiing. Isn't that bag there for your skis?" She indicated the long canvas bag leaning against the counter next to him. He smiled at her slyly. That was a look she knew. He was humored over something he knew and she didn't. "Yes. Skiing." "You came down to Southern LA to go skiing?" He laughed. "No. Of course not." He did not elaborate further. "Oops. Looks like you spilled something on yourself," she stated, grabbing his hand and pulling out her cloth to wipe at the red stains congealing on his leather. He gently pulled his hand out of her grasp, smiling kindly. Again, he seemed humored. "Could you use some company tonight? Someone to show you around?" she asked, nearly blushing at her boldness. He opened his mouth to answer, but paused as he noticed the dishwasher in the back preparing to haul out a few large cans of trash. He turned to the waitress. "I regret that I cannot accept your generous invitation." He slipped her a tip. $50! "But I must be leaving. I have to be to the Bay Area before it gets dark." He kissed her hand, picked up his canvas bag, and walked out of the diner to his motorcycle parked out front. He took his time stashing his bag on his hog, casually seating himself atop it. The cycle roared to life and he placed a pair of dark glasses on his face. He paused before leaving. Waiting. "Jesus Christ!" came a strangled scream from behind the cafe. Cries of horror and disgust were issuing from near the dumpsters behind the little restaurant as he pulled his bike out onto the highway heading north, laughing. The dishwasher had evidently just found the body of Drake Sanders, age 347, with his head setting next to it, stashed in the dumpster. The young Immortal had even put up a good fight, drawing blood. It wasn't as good as his recent battle in Dallas, but it hadn't been as bad as Phoenix. And beside the Immortal's body, he had stuffed the body of a man that had been monitoring Sander's activities. He didn't know the man's identity, but he had been noticing more and more of late that many other Immortals had certain individuals following them around, taking notes. No matter. They were easy to kill. The Magyar suppressed a grin and turned his thoughts to his intended destination. Oh, yes. He had some unfinished business with a certain Jacob Hamilton. And there were plenty of other Immortals in the Bay Area to amuse him. SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA. 1996 The interior of the church was vast, lost in shadows and stained glass. Sunlight brought the murals in the windows to life, but somewhere before the light reached the floor, it lost itself in the indeterminite space in between. Echoes from the faintest of noises bounced endlessly around the chapel. The stones seemed to draw the heat out of the air, out of one's body. Even to one as old as Jessica, the structure radiated age. She had long since given up belief in any deity, but she could not deny the peace she found within those areas dedicated to their worship. She sighed, peaceful and relaxed, one of the few times she allowed herself such a luxurious feeling as peace. Since she was waiting on Holy Ground, she wasn't even disturbed that Jacob was late. Again. She casually brushed a lock of her blond hair away from her eyes and gripped her elbows in both arms. She hated waiting. He made his appearance nearly half-an-hour after their agreed rendezvous. "I'm sorry I'm late," Jacob whispered sincerely, his voice carrying to her ears, seconds after she felt his Presence approaching. She chuckled softly. "Jacob, you'd think after two hundred years you would learn how to manage your time." He shrugged, embarrassed. She looked at him. Jacob Hamilton seemed not to have changed at all over the past ten years. His hair was still dishwater blond, a mass of curls and waves caught up at the nape of his neck. His navy peacoat made his blue eyes nearly blaze. Jessica stood up and embraced him, holding him close. "It's good to see you again, Jacob." "Likewise," he replied. And it was true. He looked forward to his visits with Jessica. They had been lovers at the turn of the century, but had decided a relationship of such an intimate nature was not quite right for them. Instead, they remained extremely close friends. They saw each other once every decade, here at this church. Jacob half-wished Jessica would agree to give their relationship as lovers another go, but he knew she was happily attached to a fine mortal named Chris. "Are you still trying to pass yourself off as a writer?" she asked. "Pass off?" he protested indignantly, then winced as how loudly the remark seemed in the confines of the church. "Dinner?" he offered. Jessica accepted, and they walked arm in arm out of the church. He stared at her, absorbing her all in. She was beautiful, he had always thought so, since they had first met. Her green eyes always hinted at being perpetually annoyed, but he found that charming. A challenge. "So Chris isn't mad that you're having a week-long tryst with an old flame?" She snorted. "No. When I told him _how_ old, he agreed there wasn't anything to worry about." "Hey!" "What I really want to know is if you're still hanging around with that rapscallion Lamont." Jacob laughed, leading Jessica across the street toward the lounge where they celebrated their reunions each decade. Their reunions for having survived yet another ten years. "You don't like Lamont?" Jacob asked innocently. "Oh! I don't see how you can put up with him. He's incorrigible! I'm at my wits end after ten minutes, let alone you having put him for... how long has he been your best friend?" "Fifty years or so," Jacob admitted. "Don't worry. You'll get to see him. He wouldn't pass up our reunion if it killed him." "If I were only so lucky..." she grumbled wryly. PORTLAND, OREGON. 1996. August smiled as he heard the heart-wrenching scream from the mansion's interior. Tear-filled shrieks of denial and anguish followed, causing him to grin even more. He had outdone himself this time, truly. His prey had spent the past twenty years building up his new identity, his new occupation. And within the space of a month, August had torn it all down, piece by piece. The man's reputation was ruined. He would never again find work under his present identity. His money had been lost in wire transactions, and his credit was in ruins. His student, a young man only two years beyond his first death, had fed his Quickening to August two nights previous. And the Immortal had only just found what remained of his mortal wife. August approached the home and, as soon as he was close enough to be sensed by the Immortal inside, dropped his message on the ground. The meeting place. The time. Stephan Donaldson would come. August left quickly, before the Immortal could come out to confront him. He wanted the man to grieve, he wanted him to suffer. Only after that would he end his game. And then he could move on. He already has his next target. A friend of his current victim, in fact. And San Jose wasn't so far away. ******************************* End part one. Please send any comments to me at Nsumsion@aol.com I am interested in anything you have to say, criticism or praise, as long as it is constructive. =========================================================================