Date: Sat, 22 Jan 1994 13:13:36 -0700 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: L J Constantine Subject: Til Time... part III Til Time and Times Are Done A Forever Knight\Highlander story by Tara O'Shea Christopher looked up at the sound of a key in the lock. Or rather, someone attempting to insert a key into the lock without much success. He peaked through the window, smiled, and pulled the door open. Niamh almost fell inside, and Fitz was hanging on her, babbling in a language Kit did not recognise, which Niamh seemed to be ignoring. "Corrine?" "Yes?" "Are you shitfaced?" "You bet, bhoyo. Have you met Fitz?" He shook his head. "This is Kit." "Sut rydych chi, heddiw?" "eh?" Kit looked bewildered and Niamh shrugged, pushing Fitz in the direction of the stairs, and he ambled up to the loft, still muttering to himself in Welsh. "That was Fitz." "Corrie, it's 9am." "I know. I'm actually not as drunk as I seem to be." "Yeah, *right*." "Yeah. I think I'm going to crash for a while." She seemed so cheerful, Christopher knew she was going to have an amazing hangover by evening. "You're in charge." "Great." "Don't sell anything too important while I'm asleep." "I'm sure I won't." * * * Niamh awoke fully clothed under her down quilt, the LED display of her alarm declaring it 3pm altogether too brightly, and she was pleased to note that Fitz was also fully clothed. This was important to note only because he was in the bed with her. She would have been pissed off if it weren't for the simple reason that they had both been too amazingly drunk to do anything they might regret later. Not that she hadn't done such things in the past. But now was *not* a good time. She ambled down the stairs, blinking in the afternoon sunlight that flooded the room. Kit suppressed a chuckle at the expression on her face as she shielded her eyes are drew the blinds. "Hey, Corrine, there was a message on the tape when I opened this morning, something from a friend in the States." "You catch a name?" "Mitch in Seattle ring any bells?" "Got it." She snared the portable and dialled from memory. Mitch picked up on the first ring. "Mitch? It's Corrie, I just got your message." "Where were you last night? I called and called..." "I was out. With an old friend. So what's up?" "Look, I was going through the paper yesterday morning and thought you might like to know your artist friend, Tessa Noell, died the other day. The funeral was Saturday, and the shop is up for sale... Corrie?" "I'm here." "MacLeod has some guy named Ryan selling the whole thing, stock and all. I figure you'd want to know before it gets out on the grapevine and every antique dealer in the northern hemisphere converge on the place like piranha." "Look, do you have Nash's number in New York?" "No, but I have Rachel's home number. Why?" "Nothing... I just thought he should know." "How do you know Nash? He's a weird bugger." "Old friend." "*Jesus*, Michaels, is there some sort of conspiracy among antique dealers around the world? What is with all this old friend stuff?" "Mitch, I'd love to talk, but I need to think. How did Tessa die?" "Carjacker with a gun." "Jesus God...." She blinked, not believing. Not able to believe it. "Yeah, the things that happen nowadays... remember when it was just "lock your doors'? Now it's 'own a gun.'" "I gotta go, Mitch." Her voice was devoid of feeling. "You take care of you." Mitch sounded concerned, and Niamh smiled sadly. If he only knew. "Yeah. Bye." She hung up the phone quietly, then suddenly threw it across the room. "Corrine!" Kit froze in the act of opening a display case. "Dammit dammit *dammit!*" He came over, placing one hand on her shoulder, and felt a shudder pass through her tiny frame. "Tessa's dead." She gave half a laugh that ended in a sigh. "I don't know why I should be surprised." "Hey, I'm sorry." Kit hugged her, knowing that somehow there was more to what he was witnessing than the death of a new friend. Much more. But then, there were things about Corrine Michaels that he didn't think he'd ever be able to figure out. "I've got calls to make. Duncan and Richie are selling the store, I have all kinds of things I have to do. When Fitz comes down, tell him I'm in the office." I'm not seventeen, but I've cuts on my knees falling down as the winter takes one more cherry tree -Tori Amos, "Girl" Part II "Falling Down" Niamh hung up, somehow feeling calmer after speaking with Rachel in New York. She liked Rachel. The grand English lady who looked after Connor was much more accessible than her employer for some reason, despite the fact that MacLeod was one of her own. Connor MacLeod rarely let people get close to him. That much Niamh had picked up when she had first met him, years ago. It had been at an auction in Vermont, where they attempted to outbid one another for a Masamune dai-sho. There they were, Corrine Michaels and Russell Nash, rival antique dealers for all those assembled there knew. Mitch had been there, and that was when he started wondering what it was with certain dealers. He made an observation then. Upon meeting, one of three things were bound to happen, he remarked to her that very afternoon. Either they were "old friends", or they alternately loved or hated one another on sight. Niamh had laughed it off. She wasn't laughing later, when they had confronted one another in the freezing cold out in the parking lot. "I am Connor MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod." "I am Niamh Ni Bhriain, of the Brianagh." And then they had whipped out near-identical Masamune katanas. That was how she had discovered how much they actually had in common. Ramirez had been their link, albeit indirectly. They had chatted for a few hours, gotten pissed in the hotel bar, and then the next day they had parted. She hadn't seen him since. She had no idea there was more than one MacLeod until she had met Rachel. Rachel was Connor's conscience, his memory, his heart. She was like a daughter to him. She loved him dearly, perhaps better than any mortal had in hundreds of years. Connor had raised her, but in turn she had taught him to open his heart again in a way he hadn't apparently since the death of his first wife. It had been a year or two after Nash had snared the dai-sho. She had been in New York, and on a passing whim had looked up the shop and dropped by. The store had been empty save for a slim blonde woman, perhaps 30, perhaps 35, with a crisp English accent and guileless blue eyes. Niamh had admired the matched dai-sho, which then had hung in the main room. They had chatted, Niamh meaning only to leave a message for Mr. Nash, but finding Rachael to be a delightful woman. It had not taken long for the two of them to realise all the pretence was pointless. Rachael knew exactly what Niamh was, and Niamh knew she would never have to be anyone else when she talked to her. Thinking about Rachael now, Niamh was reminded of Kit. They had the same eyes. Niamh couldn't help wondering what it would be like when Rachael finally aged and died. Or if Rachael outlived her and Connor both. It was not a thought she wanted to follow at the moment. * * * The sun slipped behind the horizon, and Nick's eyes snapped open. He padded into the kitchen and spotted the note he'd tacked to the fridge that morning. He glared at the tupperware container of protein drink standing alone among the two remaining bottles of cow blood, but picked it up anyway. Nat would kill him if it wasn't empty by the time she brought the next batch. He poured a small serving, and grabbed the portable phone. He had gotten home with minutes to spare and couldn't keep awake long enough to call Curiosities during work hours, and Niamh's private line had been busy. * * * Fitz had started out looking a bit green, and after hearing the news about Tessa, was now pale. "I have no idea where Duncan is," Niamh sighed, running her fingers through her hair. "He's disappeared, or at least I can't find a listed number." "I don't think he'd ever worried about surviving her, not with the Gathering here at hand." Fitz sank into one of the chairs, steeple ing his fingers. "It must be terrible for him and the boy." "Richie." Niamh supplied, lost in thought. The phone rang, and she snatched it out of its cradle a bit too hastily. "Curiosities, can I help you?" "Niamh?" "Nick!" "I got your message, and tried to call this morning..." "I'm sorry, I got in late and must have kicked the phone upstairs over on my way to sleep. I was not myself. Should I drag out my cook books yet, or are you still on a liquid diet?" She forced cheerfulness, and was relieved that it was not as hard as she thought it would be. "I'm afraid it may be a while before I can sample your culinary talents." "It may not be so far off as you think." "No?" "I got a visitor and a package from Paris. Fitz found a book set aside for me among Darius's things, something he wanted me to have it would seem. I can't read it yet, it's in a language that predates me, I'm afraid, but I remember you telling me something of a book you were looking for in Germany?" "The Abarat?" Nick sounded guarded, and she couldn't blame him. he had been looking for a copy for so long she was sure he had given up hope by now. "Darius had an extensive library, one that would rival any museum, I'm sure. His letter was short on the details, certain he would be able to explain them to me in person but..... time caught both of us up, I'm afraid." Her voice caught, and Nick's voice was filled with concern. "How did it happen?" "Fitz said it had something to do with a mortal group, called the Watchers. *Everyone* is rather short on the details it would seem. In any case, before I even think about a museum or anything else, I want to get the thing translated. We wouldn't want anything potentially dangerous to either of our kind falling into the wrong hands." "Niamh, be careful. There is something I haven't told you, about some of my kind called the Enforcers--" "Oh, I know all about them. I've had quite a little chat with Janette." "Oh." "Yes, we talked at length, about many things." "Oh." "Listen, can you be over here, or are you on duty?" "My shift ends at four, do you think you can hold on till then?" "I'm not going anyplace." She smiled, toying with a lock of her hair. "I'll be expecting you." "Well?" Fitz perched on the edge of the desk. "We've got ten hours to kill, more or less." She removed the photo and opened the safe. "Let's see how much of this bastard we can get translated. You know Sanskrit?" "A smattering." "Great, that's a smattering more than I." She settled down, gingerly opening the decrepit manuscript. "I can manage the French and the German, however." "The French and German what?" Kit stuck his head in the office. "I sold the end table, by the by. That lady came back with her husband." "Just a book that Fitz brought from Paris." "How old?" Kit's archaeologist's instincts had kicked in, she could see it in his hazel eyes. "Very, very old. I don't suppose you know any sanskrit?" "Quite a bit, actually." Niamh's jaw dropped, and he grinned. "Hey, there are some things I do better than you, you know." "Remind me never to doubt you." She scooted her chair over, making room for another at the desk, and they got to work. * * * As a light rain began to fall on Yonge street no one seemed to take notice of a tall man in a large overcoat standing in the centre of the walk, staring up at the lighted windows above a closed antique store. And no-one saw him smile. Had they, it would have chilled them to the very bone. =========================================================================