"Khyan knows that the sword is here, he wants it, and he's trying
to get the gods, Set in particular, to help him locate it."
"And we," MacLeod said, "have to stop him."
Methos looked at him with absolutely no expression. " 'We.' "
"Come on, Methos! You're the one who knows what he looks like!
You want me to call the police and tell them, 'There's a three-thousand-year-old
madman sacrificing people, and you can only kill him by cutting
off his head'? You know about the Hyksos and about this Khyan."
"Sorry. I gave up my Boy Scout badges a long time ago."
"Methos."
"And no, I am not going to feel guilty over the antics of a lunatic
I didn't get to behead over three thousand years ago."
With great restraint, MacLeod said, "I'm not asking you to be a
Boy Scout. But we are faced with an insane Immortal. One who is
killing people so that he can perform divinations over their mangled
bodies"
"Exactly. I am, as the saying goes, out of here."
"No, you are not. Think about it, Methos: Even if the police do
manage to track Khyan down and capture him, he's not going to stay
caught for long. Nor is he going to keep his mouth shut about himself
or the rest of us. And a murderous, crazy Immortal who isn't going
to worry about mortals discovering who and what he is"
Methos held up both hands in resignation. "Is a danger to all Immortals,"
he finished. "Yes, right, true enough. Particularly if he happens
to miraculously come back to life in front of everyone, or is subjected
to any in-depth medical tests. And yes, true enough, I'm the only
one who knows enough about him and his native time and place to
have any hope of stopping him."
"Well?"
"Well, what? I don't have much of a choice, do I? But d'you
know something, Duncan?"
"What?"
"I really do hate it when you're right."
Egypt, Avaris: Reign of King Apophis, 1573 B.C.
"Ha, here you are!"
Methos started at the sudden shout and sharp inner warning of another
Immortal, then stifled a sigh. The last person he wished to see
right now was Prince Khyan.
But before he could make any excuses, Khyan was propelling a warm,
soft body full into his arms, saying, laughing, "Here! A gift!"
Methos drew back enough to see that it was, indeed, a woman who
had just been all but thrown at him. A young woman, at second glance,
though with the air of someone who had suffered so much she no longer
cared about youth or even life. Slender, fine-boned, an Egyptian
slave, no doubt. What he could see of her lowered head, the sweet
curve of a cheek, implied a lovely face, and Methos gently tipped
her head up again with a hand only to force himself not to
make the slightest of starts, the slightest sound of surprise.
Her face had, indeed, been lovely. Once. Now the scar of a badly
healed burn scored its angry way down one cheek and on down the
side of her throat.
"I know she's flawed," Khyan said coarsely, "but not where it matters!
Blow out the lamp before you strip her, and you'll find all that
a man needs to find! Trust me, it's all there!"
Used goods, and damaged as well.
But there was such dull sadness to the woman that he couldn't mock
her, even in thought.
Nor, Methos realized, could he refuse the gift; Khyan would, one
way or another, casually kill her, and possibly come after him,
too, for the insult.
"I thank you, Prince Kyhan," Methos said with a bow. "Woman, come."
"That's right!" Khyan yelled after them. "Try her out! She's a
hard worker, that one!"
The woman flinched ever so slightly, and Methos glanced at her.
"I won't give you back to him," he said experimentally, and she
flashed him a glance of such gratitude that something deep within
his being winced.
Oh, I don't need another complication, I really don't.
©1998 Warner Books, Inc. All rights reserved. Highlander:
The Captive Soul by Josepha Sherman. US $5.99 ISBN 0-446-60571-9
|