Too Late for the Damned, Undead and Immortal

by
Lisa Y. Drexel

"Again!" the older immortal yelled as he watched his student pick up her sword and face him. He charged and within seconds their swords clashed, sending sparks in the air. This time she held her own for nearly 15 minutes, continually keeping him at bay—never too close.

A metaphor for her life? he wondered as he finally managed to knock her sword out of her grasp. "One more time!"

Biting her bottom lip, she glared at him as she pulled herself up to face him. "How long?"

He moved in to engage.

"As long as it takes. Better me than someone who doesn’t care."

She snorted as she dodged his sword.

"Yeah, right."

He jabbed again, this time catching her shirtsleeve, slicing through the cloth. A thin red line appeared and he found himself frowning. She hadn’t let him cut her in over a week. What’s wrong with her? He asked himself as he watched her drop her arm, her sword pointing to the floor.

"Bloody hell, Tracey! I could’ve taken your damned head!" he snapped as he noticed her staring entranced at the blood as it ran down her arm. With her free hand, she wiped the red liquid and then held her index finger up, studying the blood in mute fascination.

Exasperated, he tossed his sword down and pulled hers out of her hand.

She didn’t move.

"Vetter!" he said as he placed his hands on her shoulders. "Tracey! Pay attention!" He shook her.

She finally looked up and he found himself gasping. Her face, normally tan and flushed, had turned white.

"Adam, I could’ve saved him!"

And she collapsed.

The 5000-year-old Immortal barely caught her before her body hit the floor of the dojo.

Fifteen minutes later, Methos was sprawled out on a chair, drinking one of MacLeod’s beers, watching his student sleep on the couch. Much to his surprise, it was actually quite entertaining, if one were into that sort of thing. She was tossing and turning in her sleep, as if she were fighting some unknown assailant—trying to keep her attacker at bay. Occasionally she would call out—names mostly, from what he could decipher. But that wasn’t all either. He also caught phrases that sounded eerily foreign coming from what seemed to Methos, the cliché of the all North American woman: tall, blond and blue-eyed.

Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and asked himself for the thousandth time since he took her in, why?

But he knew the answer.

Repentance.

For the last two thousand years, he had skated around the issue of the Four Horsemen—rationalizing his actions, trying to ignore the thrill of the power he and the other three Immortals wielded. The thrill of the kill. The total disregard of life and the nearly certain belief that since he was Immortal, he had this right to kill, rape and pillage.

A right.

Grimacing, he sat up and opened his eyes and watched Tracey sleep.

In someways, he was doing this for Cassandra. Before Tracey, his last male student had been sometime during the Middle Ages, up north in Britain. The first and last female he took under his wing had been Cassandra.

And instead of nurturing her and teaching her the rules of the game and how to fight, he repeatedly raped her and killed her, teaching her anger, fear and hate.

Not a very good legacy to leave the world.

And for all of his and MacLeod’s problems, the Scot seemed to understand when Methos came back to Seacouver with Tracey Vetter, former Detective of the Toronto police in tow, asking if he could have use of the dojo while training his new student. The Scot nodded and in his unbashingly charming manner, tried to sweep Tracey off of her feet.

Fortunately for Methos, it didn’t work. He had no intention of competing with MacLeod for her attention. She would need all her wits to learn and survive the next few months.

But that didn’t happen.

Instead Methos found himself fighting something much more nebulous and unknown: her past and her nightmares.

Although he knew of how she died, and who she was before her first death, he had not a clue what was haunting her. His competition for her attention was nameless as well as faceless. And if he didn’t find out who or what was consuming her heart and soul, Tracey Vetter, his first student in over seven hundred years was going to loose her head before her Immortal life had even begun.

"Bloody hell," he muttered as he stood, empty beer bottle in hand and walked into the kitchen. He threw the bottle away in MacLeod’s trash earmarked for recycling, and got another one. He sat down at the counter and picked up the phone and called the one person who might know what Vetter’s past was in Toronto: Dawson.

Blood was everywhere—on her hands, her clothes, in her hair as she stared at the body flung over her lap. Her hands ached as she clutched the wooden stake. Afraid to move—afraid that she would make matters worse or kill him even more—she sobbed, her voice echoing hollowingly through out the old church—her pain as full as the church empty.

Her eyes flew open, and for a second she didn’t know where she was. Then she heard Adam’s quiet and elegant voice talking on the phone on the other side of the room.

She turned her head and met the warm cloth of a couch.

She was on MacLeod’s couch.

She sat up and noticed her sweatshirt was cut and then she remembered. The cut, the blood and the realization.

Tears pooled in her eyes as she bit her bottom lip in frustration.

Too late. Too late for the damned, the undead and the immortal.

Just plain too late.

Who wants to live forever?

Surely not her when her life ended before it even began.

She fell back down and closed her eyes.

A picture of Javier Vachon flashed through her mind, his dark, unblinking eyes, when normal seemed older than time and incapable of turning with a drop of a hat to the bright feral yellow of the hunter and vampire inside of him.

She had once called him evil.

What then, was she?

She heard the clank of the phone being hung up. She opened her eyes to see her teacher and mentor standing behind the couch, watching her as his face portrayed the battle of anger, frustration, fear and concern flash over his features.

Sighing, she sat up and waited for him to speak.

"What happened to your partner, Nick Knight?" He asked her as he walked around the couch and sat down next to her.

She found herself watching him move—still fascinated at the grace and agility her mentor displayed. It was as if he had more than a millennia to perfect his movements—never to trip over himself or be surprised by what his body may do.

The only other people she knew that displayed that kind of grace were Nick and Vachon…

The only other two in her life that she knew lived passed their given time…

Shaking her head at the irony she looked up into his face. "Nick? I don’t know. Last I knew of he was alive (yeah right Vetter, undead you mean) and well."

Adam frowned and downed half of his beer. "You haven’t been in touch with anyone since your ‘death?’"

She shook her head.

"Nope. Didn’t have time." She bit her lip and sighed. "Adam, you know as well as I do, that once you got me out of the hospital morgue, we were out of there. Hell, you didn’t even give me time to pack."

"I couldn’t Tracey, or someone might’ve suspected something other than some sick asshole stealing gorgeous dead blondes."

She chuckled. "Keep piling it on, Adam and I someday I may even bite. Nope," she shook her head. "Don't have clue." She watched him frown and shake his head.

"Why Adam? What happened?"

"Do you know a Dr. Natalie Lambert?"

She nodded.

"Well, it seems as if her and your partner disappeared shortly after your death. Also, it seems a radio personality and owner of a local nightclub, The Raven, a Mr. Lucien LaCroix…"

Her heart jumped and she found herself standing up. Light blond, almost white hair. Eyes so cold that just thinking of them sent chills down her spine. Old eyes. Like Nick’s, Vachon’s, Mac's and Adam’s. LaCroix. The Nightcrawler. Nick’s car radio always tuned in to that man’s sick meandering's of life. The morbid, cynical outlook…

The man who told her to forget…

And she couldn’t. But until just now, she had forgotten that he was the one that whammied her.

That bastard!

"…they were close. Some said Knight claimed he was an old friend of the family’s. Vetter, are you listening to me?"

"He’s one," she whispered as she began to pace, oblivious of Adam, her mind racing, making connections, finally filling in the holes where there were just shadows and mysteries before…

"One what?"

"He’s one of them. Vachon always told me that there were others. God, how could’ve I been so stupid? First Nick, then LaCroix. Natalie too? No, not Natalie. We went out to lunch. And she had more than a liquid meal. Besides, it was during—"

Suddenly Adam was standing in front of her grabbing her arms. "Tracey, what the hell are you talking about? Liquid diets? Daytime? One of them?" He shook her. "Talk to me, damnit! How can I help you when you’re never here?"

She frowned at first, not quite realizing that she had spoken outloud. Then it hit her. She had.

She told the secret.

Enforcers.

She looked up into Adam’s deep hazel eyes and saw that same ancient, almost otherworldly care emanate from them that she had seen from her partner several times. Gory crime scenes. Vachon’s death. In the locker room.

Her eyes clouded with tears, and for the first time in six months, since her ‘death’, Tracey Vetter cried.

Not for the first time in his long life, Methos found himself at a loss as to what to do for his student as she collapsed in his arms, with fear and sorrow radiating from her soul, sobbing uncontrollably.

In six months, he had seen Tracy Vetter cry many of times for many of reasons: in fear, in anger, in frustration and in exhaustion, but never for her heart that had been obviously broken. For over ten minutes they stood in the middle of MacLeod's living room while Methos held her. The only solace he had was the knowledge she was finally letting go of some of the pain she had been holding so tightly inside and that could only help her move on and let go of her former life.

At least he hoped so.

But, knowing his luck, that wouldn't be so. The walls she built around her heart were strong and impenetrable. For someone so young, she carried a lot of pain.

He rubbed her back, whispering mindless, but calming adages, all the while trying to ignore how perfect she fit against him. He tried backing away a bit, but she let out another heart-wrenching sob and thought to himself, fuck it, and pulled her closer and instead thought of what he needed to buy at the grocery store for MacLeod as well as for their own refrigerator.

After going through his mental grocery list for the third time, he realized she had calmed down a bit (as well as certain parts of himself) and he backed away, his hands moving down to her arms as he watched her face begin to calm itself.

"All right now?"

She sniffed loudly and nodded.

Smiling gently, he took one of her hands, not surprised that they were still damp and clammy, and led her to the couch.

She sat down and pulled her legs up and leaned against the armrest. Hugging her legs to her chest, she rested her chin on her knees.

"I'll go get you some tissue. Anything to drink?"

She bit her lip in thought. "Something with caffeine. Crying always wears me out."

He nodded and left for the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, they were both sitting on the couch sipping their perspective drinks. Tracy had her hot coffee and Methos swiped another one of MacLeod's beers.

The ten minutes had passed in a comfortable silence. Methos knew she was ready to talk and was just trying to figure out where to begin. He could wait. Age gave him patience.

Another five minutes passed before she spoke.

"Did you know that I used to be called perky?" she asked, her voice harsh and sarcastic. She shook her head. "As if it was my fault that I always tried to see the good in everything. As if that was a 'bad' thing. Yes, I was a girl and blond, and later, when I became I cop, I was the commissioner's daughter, but that didn't mean I didn't have any brains. It was almost as if all those things precluded any kind of intelligence."

She placed the cup on coffee table and stood up. "Who cared that I carried 3.5 GPA all the way through high school and college? Or that I tested in the 1200s on my SAT? It didn't seem to matter."

Methos nodded, remembering how he too had judged women too quickly when he was younger. For as long as he could remember, men always seemed to judge what didn't fit into their notion of what was.

"The first person who really appreciated me for myself, was Vachon. When I would say or do something, he would just look at me, blink a couple of times and process me--as I was.

"Even my partner, Nick, always underestimated me," she stopped and looked down at her hands. "Then I would overcompensate--to show him and everyone that I was capable and intelligent. Even at the end, he didn't trust me."

She chewed on her lip. "I think that's why I loved Vachon. Although I didn't realize it until after he was gone. But I did. He accepted me and possibly even loved me--with no pretensions--no facades."

"What happened to him?"

She took a deep breath and then started chewing her lip again. "I killed him."

Methos choked on his beer, spraying himself and MacLeod's table.

Damn. Another thing to add to the list. Murphy's Oil Soap.

"What?"

She didn't answer his question. Instead, she began pacing in front of him. "Did ever wonder why I didn't have a hard time accepting what I was? A late 20th century woman raised in the age of science?"

Still recovering from her past admission, the question almost escaped him. But then he flashed onto that night that he found her in the hospital's morgue and the events following their meeting.

He realized she was right.

"At the time no, but now that you bring it up, yes, it was strange."

"Did you know that there were Others?"

"Other what?"

"Immortals. But not like us, but still immortal."

"Are you saying you know of such of being?"

She nodded. "Beings."

He dipped his head in question.

"As in more than one. A race. Just like Immortals."

He suddenly flashed on to a book he had found at Darius' library. Who knew where it was now. An old book, older than Methos himself that talked of many different beings. He had always believed it was a myth, much like vampires and werewolves were myths.

He shook his head. "But I've heard of such things. I never put much stock into it though. I figured they were myths."

A small smile appeared on her face as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "How old are you, Adam?"

"Old. Real old."

"And evasive," she pointed out.

He shrugged.

She looked back outside at the darkening sky. "I guess that's something you learn with time as well."

"Learn what?"

"Evasiveness," Tracey answered matter-of-factly. She turned back to him and leaned against the window sill. "Well, I've got news for you, Adam. Immortals do not have the patent on longevity. There are Others."

"What do they call themselves? This race of Immortals?"

She stood up and straightened herself, as if preparing for a battle. "Vampires, Adam. Vampires," she repeated softly.

"You've got to be kidding! It's a myth! Conceived by the ill-educated masses to explain allergies and diseases!"

She chuckled softly and shook her head.

Methos found himself struck at her poise. At that instant, she seemed to be the elder teaching him.

"When we settled here, I checked out the nightlife. Every major city has a 'vampire' hangout. Remember that night that Richie and I went bar hopping?"

Methos nodded as he stood up and walked over to her. "Yeah, it was that night that MacLeod and I stayed at Joe's and got shitfaced."

She nodded. "Yep, that's the night. Well, I made Richie take me to all the places I suspected were 'vampire hangouts' and I found two. Ever heard of Les Enfants?"

He shook his head.

"Downtown. It's one. Reminded me a lot of The Raven."

The Raven? Wasn't that the nightclub Joe just told him about. "Isn't that the one that was owned by Lucien LaCroix? That friend of your partners?"

She nodded. "I didn't put it together until just now, that he was one. All the pieces were there, but I ignored the puzzle it was trying to form. I guess, when I found out about Vachon, I didn't want to consider that I knew others. Or I thought I could tell of they were one because I knew one pretty well." She laughed, shaking her head. "Who would've thought that the person I trusted my life daily to was one as well?'

"Are you saying your partner was a vampire as well?" he asked, unable to hide the disbelief in his voice. Could he have been so wrong or that blind? After 5000 years, he believed he had seen and dealt with it all.

"Yes, that's what I'm saying," she said, her voice still quiet and unassuming. "It's also what got me killed." She shook her head ruefully. "I took chances that if I had know he was vampire, I wouldn't have taken. I wasn't the one that perp meant to shoot. He shot at Nick--who came flying--literally--through the locker room--all vamped out--to protect me and the perp fired at Nick and the bullets went right through him and into me, slamming me to the wall." She suddenly smiled. "As pissed off as I was at him, at that time, and I told him too. My last words were to him, "'You should've trusted me, Nick' But now I understand why he didn't. I guess finding out that I was an Immortal helped. Vampires like being a myth and not real. It gives them the invisibility to function and live in today's world. Although they have to more careful about their kills and leaving bodies around, in some ways, because people don't believe in vampires, it gives them an anonymity they need to survive.

"They have a code of silence and it is pursued with diligence. That's why I hadn't said or told you any of this before. They have vampires that are supposedly even stronger and more powerful than your regular everyday vampires that make sure that they remain a myth and fantasy. These beings are called Enforcers and that's what they do. They enforce the Code. If the mortal can't be whammied into forgetting, they're either drained and used as someone's hot meal or turned into a vampire themself."

Methos shivered. "What's whammied?"

"Vampires have the ability to hypnotize mortals and make them forget. Vachon called it 'the whammy.'"

"Why were you allowed to live?"

She closed her eyes and smiled gently. "I'm a resistor, which means I can't be whammied. It was my first case as a detective. Remember that plane crash last year in Toronto?"

He nodded, recalling the images he saw on TV. "I thought there were no survivors?"

She smiled. "They weren't, but there were a couple of unidentified bodies and parts. Vachon was on the plane and lost an arm. I found him searching through the temporary morgue looking for his arm so it could re-attach itself." She shuddered uncontrollably. "At that moment, when our eyes met, something clicked. I don't think he could've killed me if he tried."

"You said you killed him. What do you mean?"

She looked back outside. Now it was dark. Methos suddenly wondered if there were any vampires in Seacouver. Would they be up now? What would they do to him?

Now that he knew that there could be such a thing, he had to see for himself.

"Three days before I was 'killed', Nick and I got a case that was horrible. We were called to The Raven because an Egyptian nationalist's head had been on found on the bar with note written in ancient hieroglyphics. That same night, something began attacking vampires. I know that one of Vachon's children was bitten as well as Vachon. It was a child vampire. A little girl whose bite was evil. It poisoned him. I visited him that night and he would fly into the vampire rages--he bit me once. He wanted me to stake him before he killed me. But I couldn't. Although I didn't realize at the time, I loved him. And I believe that's why he wanted to die--because he loved me. Or at least, I like to think that.

"In one of his more lucent moments, he put the stake in my hands and threw himself onto it."

Methos watched the tears begin to fall again. This time she cried silently. "Once I realized he wasn't coming back and doing that miraculous healing that vampires are famous for, I said goodbye. I also pulled the stake out, because I couldn't stand the idea that he would spend eternity with that damn piece of wood sticking out of his chest and I buried him by his best friend who had just died a couple of months before. I did my own little service and poured a bottle of Raven's house specialty over the grave.

"Little did I know that I was being watched by LaCroix. Right as I was getting into my car, he tried to whammy me into forgetting that Vachon had died and he implanted a cover story that he moved on and wasn't dead. Although LaCroix whammy worked better than Vachon's attempt, by the night I died, I was having conflicting memories about what happened. After you found me, the pieces had begun to fall into place.

She sighed. "But I didn't know who whammied me until tonight. It wasn't until I heard his name, that I remembered all of it." She wiped her face with her sleeve and turned to Methos. "Now you know why I feel so guilty. For all I know, my blood could've saved him. It saved me. Why not him? He could've drained me dry and I would've come back. We could've made love, and I wouldn't have died. I could still walk in the sunlight and be with him. All the obstacles that prevented me from being with him would've been a non-issue. I could've at least found out if he was the love of my life. Now, I have an eternity to wonder and mind-fuck myself." She walked back to the coffee table and picked up her coffee cup. She took a sip and made a face. "I'm going to warm it up. You want another beer?"

He nodded, still staring out the window. So, he asked himself, is she nuts or is she telling the truth? His gut said she was telling the truth but his mind screamed she wasn't. Although he suspected that it was his ego that was more offended. Five thousand years old and he had not a clue that a whole race of beings were out there--more like Immortals than mortals. Although Immortals didn't sport any supernatural strength or abilities, just the mere fact they remained the same for so long, was magic in itself.

Someone who he could share experiences with that didn't want his head. What a thought. All his life, he had been wary about making friends with other Immortals because the threat was always there. This person could take his head. Hell, just this year, he had taken Silas' head. A friend for over 2000 years. How many times in the past two years had he feared that MacLeod would take his head?

Too many, was the answer.

"Here," Tracy said as she handed him his beer. "So, do you think I'm crazy or just have a rampant imagination?"

He chucked lightly. "I was just wondering about that myself and decided that I will reserve judgement until I see otherwise."

Tracy giggled. "Smart man. That's what I would've said in your shoes. How about going out tonight? I know of this bar. Real gothic. Lots of people wearing black and seem to share the same sun allergy. I hear they serve really interesting drinks as well."

"All right. You're on," he looked over at her, smiling. "Too bad Richie and Mac are out of town. I would love to see Mac's face if what your saying is true."

She sighed. "One thing, Adam. Vampires can read minds. They also can tell when one of their own is around. I'm not sure how they sense Immortals, but I bet they can’t tell the difference. Or you would've met one by now. I'm sure, they would be as curious about you as you are about them. Also, you can't tell Duncan. It might get him killed. For all we know, Enforcers know how to kill Immortals and if the truth were to surface, any one of our Quickenings would be lost."

Two hours later, after a quick run to the grocery store (to replace Mac's food and beer that Tracy and Methos had helped themselves to in the past week) and a stop off at Methos' favorite take-out Vietnamese restaurant, the two Immortals were ready to head out.

Although they didn't discuss vampires after Tracey's confession, she could tell he was dying to ask her a thousand questions. She didn't know how long her mentor had been around, but she believed it had been for quite some time. She figured he was at least a thousand years old, maybe more. Older than Vachon and Nick, for that matter. Older than Duncan and of course, Richie. In some ways, he reminded her of LaCroix. They both had a very commanding presence. Although you could feel LaCroix's from across the room, Adam's was more subtle--almost like a rose, opening up. Everytime she thought she had a handle on the man, he would surprise her with an offhand remark, that gave her more insight into him than he realized.

The other thing she noticed about Adam was his Quickening. He had a powerful, almost overwhelming Quickening. So strong, that when she first felt him, instead of experiencing the normal confusion and slight headache that most fledging Immortals felt, she came down with a full blown migraine. Luckily, it dissipated quickly and with time, she’d grown used to it. But at first, she thought it was going to kill her.

One thing she did know. If she hadn't so much baggage with her, she could fall easily for the man. He had a wicked sense of humor, constanly quipping about something or another. And he was smart. She had a feeling that life with him would always be challenging and different--never boring. Especially with his incredibly attractive streak of cynacism that made her want to show him or prove to him, he was wrong. Even more than Vachon, in someways he was her polar opposite, or at least the opposite of who she was before her first death.

Now, she hadn't a clue who she was.

She had always defined herself as her father's daughter, or the girl-next-door, the good kid. The proper one, that followed all the rules and instinctively knew what was right and wrong.

But that was changing, even before she died.

When she found out about vampires, her whole world was turned upside down. About the time she died, she finally had cleaned up all the confusion in her mind, and placed all her ducks in a row only to be thrown another loop. Now she an Immortal. She had to kill to survive.

How different was she from the vampires she once called evil?

No wonder Vachon saw everything in shades of gray.

Immortality had a tendancy to do that.

to be continued...hopefully

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If you like what you read or have any ideas where I should go with this, drop me note...pleeease!!

©1996 Lisa Y. Drexel