Title: Pearl of Great Price Author: Kat Solano Email: orchydd@hotmail.com Rating: PG-13 Keywords: Action, Clan Denial admirer Characters: DM, M, J, RR, lots of OFC's Summary & Disclaimer in 0/5 ****************************************** “You have taken a life, Esme Walters.” Eyes the colour of the bottom of the ocean glowed in the darkness. A shape began to coalesce from the fog, a large misshapen thing with claws and tails and horns and glittering teeth to numerous to count. “You have made yourself one of My Children.” For one second, Esme wanted to curl up and cry. But she recalled her faith and stood with her chin held high. “You cannot frighten me, Dark One! I have Order and Light behind me!” The demon laughed again, or maybe the echoes from before had simply amplified as he solidified. “What is Order without Chaos? What is Light without Darkness?” A whirlwind danced around the room, paused in a corner, and split to perform a harrowing pas de deux around the tiny human. “Your soul is damned, Esme Walters. Unless...” The demon drew the final sound out, its tongue flickering out to taste her fear. “Unless you tell me where you worship.” “Whuh-what will you do with it?” With the winds scattering debris and throwing around the sadomasochistic paraphernalia dangerously close to her body, Esme was becoming decidedly less brave. “I will crush it,” the demon replied, acid pouring through every word, “I will take it in my hand and burn it with Hell fire until it is ash. Come, come, Esme Walters.” Its voice became alluring, almost pleading. “It is only a building; true faith lies in its worshippers. No?” “If it were true, you wouldn’t not want it so much!” A glorious thrill of strength filled Esme’s body. She had figured this demon out! She knew what he was up to. The Caelum had been right about the Dark Ones trying to sway their followers. Wasn’t the fact that the demon had to ask her, Esme Walters, for the temple’s whereabouts proof enough that she was one of the Caelum’s better preachers? She managed to straighten her thin spine. “I won’t say a thing, demon! I banish you from this world! You can do anything you want with me and I still won’t talk!” The demon roared, a terrible ear-splitting bellow of rage. A fiery sword appeared in his hand. Prayers found their way out of Esme’s mouth, convoluted and half-forgotten. She was going to die but she was going with her soul intact. Inches before the sword could separate her head from her body, a brilliant white light pierced the crimson fog. The beam of light darted between Esme’s neck and the demons’ sword and, to Esme’s surprise and pleasure, drove the sword back. The demon growled but Esme thought she could also sense fear in the Dark One. “You have no power here,” said a softer, musical voice, “Begone or face my wrath.” The light gathered itself into a winged creature with four arms and flowing robes that covered its feet. In its hands was a sabre. The demon roared out his laughter. Sword raised, it charged the creature of light. Esme wanted to call out, to help her saviour but there was no need. In the last possible moment, the angel stepped to one side and neatly plunged its blade in the demon’s chest. Thunder crashed and lightning scorched the room, setting cloth aflame. The Bright One stood over demon, triumphant. “You have done well, Esme Walters, just as we all knew you would.” The winged one covered her with its wings to prevent anything from hurting her. “You...you really watch me?” Awe tinged every syllable that came from her lips. “Always.” The voice was gentle now, the storm passing over. “But now that we know what the Dark Ones want, we need to protect your temple. Tell me where it is; invite me.” Giddy with relief and pride, Esme answered without a pause. “It’s in Abbotsford, three hours’ drive away. In the old Jameson farm.” Light touched her eyes. “Thank you, Esme Walters. You may leave now and as soon as you pass those doors, you’re going to forget everything you just saw. You’re going to walk to the nearest bus stop, take a bus home, drink some coffee, and take a nap.” Five minutes later, Esme Walters was turning the corner just as the next bus to the suburbs pulled in. The burned, torn, demolished room she left was swept back to its former order. The “angel” pulled its arms back for a stretch then cracked its knuckles. “Well, that wasn’t too hard,” it called back over to where the “demon” lay inert, “Wakey, wakey, my friend. Time to report to the big boss.” It nudged the demon with a sneaker-clad toe. The demon was still for a second longer, then inhaled deep and suddenly. “Did it work?” “As if you needed to ask!” It snapped it fingers. Another illusion faded and Mikala held a hand out to help Noel back to his feet. His stomach still cramped a bit from where her sword--or rather, _his_ sword-- had cut. “So, I guess we’re on our way to Abbotsford.” Noel nodded, still trying to convince his pancreas that it was not in pain. “Next time, I want tae be the good cop.” “Gripe, gripe, gripe.” Unperturbed, Mikala picked up a U-shaped piece of rubber that was astonishing in its anatomic correctness. “Do you think this is real hair?” ~*~*~ Desalvo’s Dojo... Steel clashed against steel. “I don’t think so!” Jean grinned toothily, his auburn hair furred slightly over his green eyes. “Let’s try this again with someone similarly armed, shall we?” Keeping Casteciel’s sword at bay with his own katana, Jean casually drew back his trenchcoat, revealing a commendable amount of hardware in his various pockets and belts. With a flick of his wrist, he took out a hand-sized Splinter. “I think the chemical blast from this little baby is about the same as the one you bolted MacLeod with.” Casteciel just barely snarled; his usual tight hold on his emotions barely slipping. “Playing nanny to your pet Immortal again, Jetblayd?” “No, just trying to keep things fair and balanced,” said Jean, “After all, that is the name of the game.” “This is no game, you insolent roach!” Casteciel drew back his sabre, immediately getting into a fighting stance. Jean did the same, holding his katana high over his head, his body poised to pounce. Casteciel didn’t fail him. He thrust the sword up and to the left, forcing Jean to roll away. He came up and threw his blade back just in time to catch Casteciel’s slash at his neck. A flick of his wrist and a push of his muscles drew the other man’s sword away, giving Jean time to get back on his feet. He whirled around to meet his opponent. A mad, glorious grin plastered itself on Jean’s face and wouldn’t go away. _This_ he knew; in this he had no doubts about his skill. If Casteciel wanted to cross swords with him, Jean was going to do his best to make the white-haired monkey regret it. Duncan came back to life to the sound of sword fighting and someone throwing taunts in a very strange form of Russian. The first thing he did was reach for his sword; it was inches from his slack hand. But as he did so, he spotted the fighters in the corner of his eye. The white-haired man who had pulled the gun on him had fantastic form; he didn’t waste a single shred of energy and his movements were grace and strength personified. Duncan had only ever seen this type of self-control in Consone when he danced in the circle. The Scotsman was ready to bury the other guy. ...who happened to be that Immortal with the weird song. Curiouser and curiouser. The young man’s technique was too flashy, too wild. He thrust with his whole body and just barely managed to dodge his opponent’s strikes. He flipped and somersaulted all over the dojo as though he was a damned circus performer! He parried not only with his sword but with his arms and legs and hands. Duncan gave him five more minutes before he started to tire out. That time never came. Curly was an explosion of energy. “Is that all you can give me?” he asked insolently, tossing an auburn lock out of his eyes with a shake of his head. At least, that what Duncan translated; the dialect of Russian he used seemed to be tinged by Mandarin. And the second half of the sentence involved a rather improbable situation between the white-haired man, a polar bear, and a vat of snot. While the insults hadn’t affected the white-haired one at first, Duncan could see him slowly lose his cool. The guns had come out now, the green-yellow blasts of heat scorching the hardwood. If he had not been so intent of the two strangers, Duncan would have moaned broken-heartedly at the sight. The wielder of the katana could evade gunfire as well, though with a lot less ease. The grin still hadn’t left his face. In fact, it seemed as though the more frustrated his opponent became, the wider the grin smile grew. Any moment now, his face would be all teeth. The white-haired one was becoming sloppy. Duncan saw the weakness at the same time as the pale man did. Curly missteped--perhaps there was a dip in the floor where it had been burnt or maybe he _was_ tiring despite his outward indifference. When he came down from a jump, his left leg buckled. Duncan’s mouth dropped open, his arm coming up in a useless attempt to prevent the oncoming attack. Now it was the pale one’s turn to smile, a small, menacing turning up of his lips. The sabre winked as it caught the thin spring sun coming through the windows, then flashed down. Curly rolled to one side but he wasn’t fast enough. The sabre went through his deltoid and pinned him to the floor. A strangled groan was wrenched from his throat but his right hand came up to point the gun. The pale one shot it away; the heat made the small firearm explode and took some of Curly’s fingertips with it. The pale one’s smile faded but his eyes remained smug. “So much for the greatness of Jetblayd of the Xeno Core Warriors.” Through tight lips, Curly--or Jetblayd-- said, “You still move too slow, Casteciel.” To Duncan’s surprise, the young man grasped the sword that was pinning him down with his bleeding hand and forced it further in his shoulder. Casteciel, eyes wide, tried to yank it away, but Jetblayd held down with bullish tenacity. The blade began to glow. Blue-purple light danced quickly up the metal, snapping and sparkling at the hilt before jumping the short distance to Casteciel’s cuff. “Dammit!” yelled the white-haired man as he leaped away. As soon as he did so, Jetblayd pulled the sabre out of his shoulder, flipped it to catch the hilt and threw it. The glowing, crackling blade caught Casteciel in the thigh. It wasn’t a deep cut; Casteciel should have been able to pull it off. But as soon as his hand touched the steel, it blew up. Casteciel howled as he was thrown back. Duncan, thrown against a wall, heard it through the acrid smell of smoke and burnt flesh and the sound of the blast itself. When he came out of his crouch, he saw Casteciel trying to drag his body away. The explosion had not only blown away his leg but some of his torso as well. Duncan didn’t know how the man could be mortal and still be alive. In the centre of the dojo, the man he knew as Jetblayd was slowly coming to his knees, his hand tight on his shoulder. Blood poured from the cut. “Take my gun,” the young man commanded, not taking his eyes off of his enemy, “and shoot him stupid.” Slowly, almost dreamily, Duncan leaned down to take the firearm which was only inches from his feet. He looked at Jetblayd who was suddenly stoic and firm then at Casteciel in the corner who was trying to gather his guts back up inside his body, trying not to whimper. “Shoot him, MacLeod.” “No!” gasped Casteciel, “Take... take _his_ life! He is... darkness.” “Oh, fuck you. MacLeod, give me the gun and I’ll finish him off.” Casteciel hissed. “You can certainly try, Xeno.” “You bet your sweet ass, Sot’é.” “If you two don’t shut up, I’m going to shoot both of you.” Duncan first eyed Casteciel then Jetblayd through crosshairs of the translucent pink plastic. “Now will someone tell me what the hell is going on?” “Fool!” gasped Casteciel. If it was possible, he was even paler than before, his skin taking on a sickly green-grey around the gills. “The longer you wait, the sooner I die and the earlier your death will come from that one.” He threw a hate-filled glare at Jetblayd. The young man only snorted. “Give me five minutes, Sot’é, and if I have to I’ll crawl over there and gnaw your heart out.” He looked serious enough; as he spoke, he’d been trying to get on his feet. Blood loss, however, had turned his knees into gelatine. Duncan had taken a step forward-- towards whom, he didn’t know. Next thing he knew, Casteciel had whispered a word in a glutteral language and disappeared in a flash of white light. “Oh, fan-bloody-tastic,” moaned Jetblayd. He dropped face-forward on the floor. _________________________________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com.