Covers - Chapter 4

9 May 1993
Marrakech, Morocco

Evann's Story

People die. Immortals die. Grayson had told me that once, when I had lost a student who had hardly been out of his first century. We die. Someone comes along and we miss a step, we get arrogant, we get stupid, or we just stop caring. Immortals die.

Grayson wasn't supposed to die. Not yet. Not ever. But he was gone. For eighty-four days now. In the ground. Dead and gone, and I was lost. Wandering around the world, ultra-rich, high-profile, and utterly vanquished.

Sixteen days ago, I had flown to Egypt. It was stormy and my flight was delayed. The charter service had a nice waiting room, and a polite woman brought me a selection of English language newspapers. Right there on the front page of one of them was a full-color picture of me: Evann Grayson, the widow of John Grayson, multi-billionaire tycoon. In the photograph, I was dressed in an all-black suit, and dark sunglasses covered my bleary eyes as Grayson's men herded me into the limousine waiting outside our Prague home. The headline read "Elusive Heiress Vanishes."

Vanished? Hardly. I had gone to Thebes, to the Valley of the Kings, to Cairo. The ancient towns and monuments did nothing for me. I wandered aimlessly through the streets, half expecting Grayson to be just around the next corner, waiting for me with a smile in his eyes.

I wanted a drink so badly my teeth hurt, but I was alone. There was nobody to watch my back, to make sure I didn't lose my head while I was too damn stinking fucked up drunk to take care of myself. Immortals may die, but I still wasn't ready to go. Soon maybe, but not today.

Connor was in Marrakech. I had checked before I left for Egypt. It wasn't far; I could hop a flight and be there in a few hours. I was running. Again. Running away from all those memories, from lifetimes of laughter and chess games and Grayson's smiling blue eyes.

I didn't want to run; I wanted to see Connor again. But he was married, and he was a MacLeod.

But he wasn't Duncan MacLeod. He was Connor.

I was lost.

I hopped a flight.

I rented an open-topped Jeep from a sleepy clerk at the airport. It was late already, maybe too late to go banging on Connor's door, yet somehow the Jeep and I ended up in front of his locked gate.

Motion-sensitive lights blazed as I pulled up. Connor was many things; stupid was not one of them. He had had a wife for eight years now, a mortal wife. That made security important. Cameras dotted the wall, their fields of view covering every inch. I marked them in my head, stalling, debating.

The gate swung open, controlled from somewhere on the other side of the wall. Either Connor knew it was me, or he had gotten stupid in his old age. Or it wasn't Connor in the house, and I was walking into a fight I wasn't ready for. I made no move to enter his home.

Connor's voice crackled over the intercom. "You going to sit there all night?"

I had to think about it. But finally I put the Jeep in gear and pulled beyond the gate. More motion-sensitive lights announced my arrival, and I got my first look at his home, a sprawling one-story adobe building. It was a warm place, comfortable. Or it should have been.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I was intruding on something. I didn't belong here. Connor had a family now. A wife. I would only bring sadness to this place and to these people. He was my friend, and a truer one would be hard to find. But even between friends, there were lines that shouldn't be crossed.

I shouldn't have come.

I sat in the Jeep and looked at the moon. The house. The open front door. The dashboard. I had driven 37.2 kilometers. Connor in the doorway. The radio. The steering wheel.

I heard the crunch of gravel as he approached, felt his presence settle in my gut. Connor slouched against the door of the Jeep, one arm draped over the frame of the windshield. From the corner of my eye I caught the flash of blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt. Typical Connor.

The fuel gauge. I needed gas.

"So, now you're going to sit here all night?" he asked. The sarcasm was lost on me. I didn't even have my normal urge to put my fist through his nose when he took that tone with me.

His look changed. I felt it. Gray eyes, normally hooded, turned piercing. I inspected the steering wheel for flaws.

"Come inside," he ordered. "You need a drink."

I take orders well, especially ones like that. He didn't offer to take my bag, but then my sword was strapped to it. Instead, he pulled open the door to the Jeep. I hiked my bag onto my shoulder and kept my eyes on his white tennis shoes as he led me into the house. Typical Connor.

I dropped my bag just inside the door, sword and all, and slipped off my coat. Connor's white tennis shoes moved down a hall to my left, into a nice, if cluttered, living room. Connor was a pack rat, at least that's what I used to call him, back when he still lived in New York and we used to go to Yankee games, watch hockey, and drink until the sun came up.

A dark-haired boy, maybe nine years old, was sleeping soundly on the couch. I watched as Connor pulled the blanket over the boy's chest, tousled his hair, and kissed him goodnight. Connor turned off the light and disappeared from view, but when he came back to the hallway, he had two bottles under his arm.

"Your son?" I asked, my eyes finally meeting his. Connor was unshaven, as usual, and his eyes were watchful, an expression I had seen before.

He simply nodded. "John."

"Where's Brenda?" I asked, wondering if his wife were in bed already, if I had intruded on anything.

Connor turned away, starting up the stairs before the answer came. "Dead." He continued up without looking back.

The word echoed through me. Dead. I wasn't the only one who had lost. I spared another glance at the boy, comfortable on the couch. John.

I followed Connor upstairs to the roof.

As with most of the homes in Morocco, in all desert countries I suppose, the flat roof became a living space, as integral and utilized as any room in the house. It was where they retired at night, when the air cooled off enough to breathe. There was no light except that of the moon, and the small twinklings from the city in the distance. Benches were built into the adobe walls, and deep hammock-like chairs faced the west for the sunset. Large wool blankets lay on the floor, their bright patterns matched by the pillows on the benches.

Standing suddenly felt difficult, and I headed for one of the benches. I was still a few steps away when a cold glass was pressed into my hand. I knocked it back in one gulp without thought. It was alcohol, and that was enough. As soon as I sank to the bench, the glass was removed, refilled, and replaced. That one went down as easy as the first.

The glass was once again removed, but this time Connor replaced it with the bottle. No, Connor was definitely not stupid. I leaned back against the corner of the bench, stretching my legs out along its length, silent, eyes closed. I heard Connor sit on the bench, facing me, felt his foot nudge mine gently as he poured his own drink. I listened to the night for a while, then opened my eyes to look at the stars.

"Where's Grayson?" Connor asked, sounding both curious and concerned.

"Dead," I replied. There was a long, expectant pause. Connor didn't ask, but I knew he wanted to. I didn't want to tell him it had been Duncan MacLeod, his own kinsman, who had murdered my husband. I didn't want to think about it either, so I took another pull from the bottle which I could now identify as well-iced vodka, my favorite when I needed to get damn stinking fucked up drunk. I could deal with that.

I rested the bottle against my thigh, too numb to register the cold glass on my skin. Blindly, I searched for a neutral topic. Something to talk about that resembled normalcy. I was curious about his son, but couldn't find the voice to ask. There would be time. Right now, I wanted to drink, to get drunk and forget, and to know I was safe.

"Did you ever get to that wrestling match at the Garden in '85?" I asked. Connor and I both hated professional wrestling, but Grayson had been out of town on business, and I was alone and bored beyond belief. I had called Madison Square Garden and reluctantly put down good money for two seats. Hell, it was either that or the opera. One can only see Carmen so many times. Luckily, Connor had been up for a night out, even wrestling, but only if he got to make snide comments about the wrestlers.

"Yeah," Connor said. "Interesting night."

"I'm glad someone had one." I leaned back against the warm adobe wall, the vodka finally settling in my limbs, loosening them along with my tongue. "I spent most of that night on the Long Island Expressway, watching the back of an 18-wheeler. By the time I got close to the Garden, the place was crawling with cops and fire trucks." I glanced over at Connor. He looked ... embarrassed? Connor? Embarrassed?

"You and one of your 'girlfriends' set off the sprinkler system or something?" I teased, taking another, smaller sip. Too much more too soon and I'd get very sick very fast.

Connor shrugged as he drained his glass. "Or something."

His silence and the carefully chosen words were like a blazing neon sign. Connor was worried about me. There are times when Connor MacLeod is an enigma, and times when you can read him as easily as the stars in the sky. This was one of those times.

I didn't want Connor to worry about me. I wanted to forget I was worried about myself. I wanted something I hadn't found in the weeks of wandering. I wanted my friend. "You're an old stick-in-the-mud, Connor," I said, feeling the vodka start to warm me against the cool night air. "No fun at all."

His eyes changed too quick for me to catch it, and suddenly, I was hit square in the face with a throw pillow from the bench. "No fun, eh?" he said, chuckling in that unique Connor way.

"No," I replied casually, staring just over his shoulder, straight ahead to the lights of the city. Resting the bottle safely on the floor under the bench, I smoothly grabbed a pillow of my own and chucked it hard at his face. "No fun at all."

The pillow glanced off the top of his head as Connor dove for my legs, his fingers heading for the backs of my knees, a spot in which I was notoriously ticklish. I shrieked my protest, trying to flip him off my legs, but he had plotted his attack carefully. He had wrapped his left arm around both my calves, holding them together as he tickled me.

If I had really wanted him off my legs, I could have smacked him square on the ears, or laid a hard blow to his temple. Instead, I whacked the back of my hand across his head, laughing uncontrollably like a child.

His head rose, his own laughter in his eyes. "Had enough fun yet?" he asked, his fingers stilling. He traced one hand down the side of my knee as a reminder.

I smiled, and slid my fingers through his hair. "Enough fun," I agreed.

Letting go of my legs, he returned to his corner with a triumphant look in his eye. I reached for my vodka as he poured himself another drink, then I tipped the bottle in his direction in a truce salute before drinking again.

"How long?" he asked suddenly.

The abrupt question threw me, and it took me a moment to answer. "Eighty-four days," I said quietly, once again staring out over his shoulder, almost afraid to meet his eyes. I checked my watch. "Six hours, eighteen minutes." I didn't want to talk about it, so I asked him the same question. "And for you?"

His answer was just as quiet. "Six years."

And he had only met Brenda about eight years ago. Not enough time. No matter how long it was, it was never enough time. Two years together, twelve years together, two thousand years together ... never enough time. I took another drink.

"Do you know who?" Connor asked, his eyes narrowing. While Connor and Grayson could never really have been called friends, they had maintained a mutually prosperous business relationship for decades. The few times they ran into each other, or were forced to spend time in the same room, they both kept civil tongues in their heads and kept the conversation on mundane topics like art or business or mutual funds. Connor sat up straighter, waiting, fingers curling tightly around his glass. Whether it be for my sake, or for reasons I knew nothing of, Connor found the news unsettling.

"Yes," I answered truthfully, but said nothing more. How could I?

"All taken care of?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

My hands shook and my eyes left his face. Taken care of? It was over, but it would never be taken care of. My breath shuddered in my chest at the thought of Grayson's death going unavenged, as it would have to. MacLeod the younger lived on, although I wanted to kill him. I longed to feel his blood drip down my hand, to taste his blood on my tongue. I wanted his head, but there was nothing I could do. I had given my word, and vows made must be kept.

I couldn't answer Connor - not in any way he would accept. The bottle slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor. I was as frozen as I had been in the car - not frightened, not of Connor - but destroyed, both by Grayson's death and by my damnable oath.

I hadn't noticed Connor slide off the bench and crouch beside me. It wasn't until his fingers brushed against my wrist and found their way around my hand that I realized how close he was.

"Want to talk?" he asked quietly, in a voice I rarely heard from him. I shook my head hard. Loose hair fell over my shoulder, blocking my face from his view. I felt the tears come again, welling up in my eyes. I couldn't stop them, and as I blinked, tears flowed freely down my cheek.

Talk. What would that do? Would it erase the oath I had taken to spare Connor's kinsman's life? Would it bring Grayson's smiling eyes and soft voice back to me? Would it make the pain go away?

No, talking would merely reopen the wounds that had only just begun to scar over, and my soul couldn't stand that kind of pain again. I wasn't ready to die yet, but another wound like that and I would lay down my blade forever.

Connor wrapped one arm around my shoulders, slid another under my knees, and pulled me off the bench, onto his lap. I tucked my head against his shoulder, soundless tears wetting his shirt, plastering long strands of hair to my cheek. I let the tears come until I had no more, then sighed against him, the choking tears passing as quickly as they came. It had been a long time since I cried. I could hardly remember the last time I hurt enough to have the tears find their way to my eyes.

I was shaking slightly, and Connor's arm tightened around me, while his other hand gently pushed the hair away from my face. I kept my eyes closed, but tilted my head back to let gravity do some of the work for him. My tears lay cold and wet on my cheeks, until the warmth of his thumb brushed them away. His fingers tangled in my hair and lay still, and his arm tightened even more.

I opened my eyes, and there was Connor, staring at me, his eyes still concerned, but not so gentle anymore. Connor - my drinking companion, my "go to the hockey game and scream at the players" buddy, my friend. We had teased each other and flirted with each other for more than a century, but it had always been a game. We had other lovers; we didn't have many friends. The decision had been made long ago.

That decision suddenly seemed very old indeed. I could feel his hunger, taste it as if it were my own. Six years since his wife Brenda had died, and if I knew Connor half as well as I thought I did, he hadn't been with a woman since then. Sex for him was either a casual romp or a complete sharing, body and soul. Connor never did things by halves. He hadn't found a woman to love, and he couldn't go back to the plain physical release of anonymous sex without being reminded of what - and who - he had lost, so he had done without.

I knew he wouldn't push me, he wouldn't even ask, but I also knew he wanted to. He needed to. He needed me.

And I needed him. I was lost, defeated, destroyed. Pieces of me lay scattered, strewn between Morocco and Grayson's grave on a lonely hill in Prague. Connor's steady gray eyes were a rock, like the granite of his beloved Highlands. They were strength and steel. They were safe.

My hand went to the back of his neck, the fine hairs there soft under my fingertips, and I pulled him closer and whispered his name. That was all the permission and encouragement Connor needed. The first kiss wasn't gentle, wasn't soft. It tasted of the fire of whisky and the ice of vodka. It burned clear through to my bones, and left me shaking once again.

Connor was shaking, too, with need and desire, and I moved off his lap to kneel in front of him. I wanted to feel him, to feel him move under my hands, to feel both of us come alive. I tugged his sweatshirt over his head, then slid my hands across the bare skin of his shoulders, fingertips tracing the muscles. My palms pressed against his chest as he pulled me to him again for another kiss, and this one was only of fire, a desperate need to find something we both had lost.

His hands were busy, loosening my shirt from the waistband of my shorts, then traveling up my back to unhook my bra. Well, to try to unhook my bra. It was a front-fastener. I didn't have to tell him; Connor wasn't stupid.

"Other side, eh?" he said in a deep, husky voice, which, coupled with the fire in his eyes, sent shivers up my spine. He pulled my shirt over my head, then used his teeth to unhook the bra. His hands were still busy, slowly sliding the bra straps down my arms, then caressing my palms. Connor bent his head, his tongue flickering over the line of the scar that began between my breasts.

I gripped his hands hard and started to shiver again, my breath catching in my throat. His lips slowly traced the ridge of the scar, up to my neck, over the curve of my shoulder, caressing, soothing both the wounds of the past, and those of the present. Easing the grief, erasing some of the pain.

My fingers traveled down his back, tracing the lines of bone and muscle, pressing hard, massaging deep, and Connor groaned softly. I leaned in to nip at his earlobe, our bodies touching now, the softness of skin warming, enflaming.

Abruptly, one hand behind my head, another at the hollow of my spine, he laid me backwards onto the blanket on the floor. My hands found their way to the waistband of his jeans, working them open easily.

Connor's eyes darkened with desire, his expression bordering on extreme pain as I slid my hands around to his back, under the jeans, pushing them off his hips slowly. I had often
wondered if he wore boxers or briefs. I wasn't surprised to discover he wore neither.

He kicked off his shoes and sat up enough to yank off his jeans, then straddled me, kneeling. Sure fingers unfastened my cutoff shorts, and he yanked my clothes off, too. Connor lay down beside me, and I turned to him, reaching, even as he pulled me hard against his body. Our legs tangled, and I felt his heart pounding against my chest. His fingers twined in my hair, his lips found mine again, and he drank from them like a man dying of thirst.

Need, strong and insane, clawed inside me. I ran my hand down his back, then lower, pulling his hips hard against mine. He groaned against my mouth, a sound I more felt than heard, and worked his knee between my legs.

Our lips never parted as we poured lifetimes of pain and grief into the kiss. We lay side by side as Connor ground his thigh between my legs, slowly rubbing, teasing. I whimpered softly, and he drank that from me as well with a soft growl of triumph. My fingertips dug into his back as Connor's thigh pressed and teased. I could wait no longer.

With a sharp flip, I rolled us so he lay on top of me, the solid weight of his body pressing me into the blanket. I needed him. Now.

"Evann," he breathed, ragged and hoarse, his weight braced on his arms, his legs between my own.

I stared up into his eyes, gray shadowed into blackness. I took strength from his strength; I shared his grief as he shared mine. I wrapped my legs around his waist and used my hands to urge him to come to me, now.

For all our urgency and need, the joining was achingly slow and sweet, a gentle unfolding of warmth from deep within. My numbness melted, the cold within me burned away, and I closed my eyes and surrendered to life.

Connor's Story

Fire in my veins, the silken warmth of a woman beneath me and around me, and the insistent, pounding grief and need that drove us both to drown ourselves in touch, in sensation, in life. It didn't last long, it couldn't, not when we hurt so much, not when we'd been alone so long - three months alone, six years alone, lifetime after lifetime alone. Her legs held me tight, and her hands pulled me closer and deeper, and when it was over I buried my face in her hair and whispered her name.

Evann sighed and tightened her arms across my back, locked her hands together, an embrace that wouldn't let go. I had let go of Brenda just a few months before, toasted her memory and bade her farewell. I'd let her go, but she was still with me, just as Heather was with me, was a part of me, forever. Evann hadn't had time yet to accept the loss of Grayson that way.

The desert breeze blew across us, suddenly cool when only a moment before it had been warm. I reached over and tugged on the edge of the blanket, twisting to pull the wool fabric up and over my back, trying not to move too much. Evann helped arrange the heavy cloth, then wrapped her arms about me again.

I lifted my head enough to kiss her still-closed eyes. "I've been looking forward to a stroll through the rose garden with you for a long time, Miss Bradford."

She smiled sleepily. "Worth the wait, Mr. Carruthers."

Well, that was good to hear. It hadn't been much of a stroll, more like a gallop. Later, in the morning maybe, we could take our time. And probably all this coming week, or maybe even a month; Evann wouldn't be ready to be on her own for awhile. "What's a century between friends?" I asked lightly.

"Sometimes too long," she answered, opening her eyes. "Sometimes not long enough."

It was never long enough.

She kissed me then, reaching up to pull my head closer, her lips warm and inviting, friendly and loving, but not aching with need, not now. She yawned a little, stretched beneath me, and I eased off her to lie on my back. "Sleep, Evann," I said, tucking the blanket in around her, covering her completely.

"Sleep is good," she murmured with her head on my shoulder, her leg between my own. Her eyes had already closed again, and her breathing became slow and regular in a moment, as she followed the habits of a soldier, falling sleep anywhere and at anytime, able to wake instantly.

And I knew Evann would wake again, would laugh and even love again. Not this year, maybe not this decade, but someday. She was a survivor.

She'd survive, but it wouldn't be easy. Thirteen years ago, she had waltzed into my antique store in New York City and led me straight to my office. She had sat on the edge of my desk, pulled the calendar onto her lap, flipped to June 11th, circled it, and marked in giant letters "busy attending Evann's wedding." Then she had handed me the calendar with that impish smile on her face. I had never seen her so content and so ecstatic, not even when the U.S. ice hockey team had won the Olympic gold medal earlier that year.

"You are going to the wedding," she had informed me, and of course I had. I had watched as she exchanged vows with Grayson, her comrade and partner of nearly two millennia, her lover only recently, her best friend in all the world. Grayson and I had never been friends, but I had respected him as a man, and as an Immortal. Some of his business dealings had been shady, but then so were some of mine, and he had always played the Game with honor, and he had done everything he could to make Evann happy.

But "happily ever after" never happens, even for Immortals. Grayson had been one of the oldest Immortals, and one of the best fighters, and now he was dead. I didn't like not knowing who had killed him, who might very well be able to kill me. I'd ask Evann about it again in the morning, or maybe Duncan or Amanda might have heard something.

I looked up at the familiar patterns of the stars high above, named the constellations as I had done with my father long ago, as I often did now with my son. Evann's warm breath tickled my chest hair, and she stirred in her sleep, pushing the blanket off to one side. I wrapped it around both of us more securely, holding it around her shoulders with my arm while I let my fingers glide through her hair. I kissed her gently on the forehead and looked back to the stars.

Tomorrow, I would make her eat and make her exercise. I would let her get drunk, and we would talk more about Grayson, whether she wanted to or not. I knew she needed to. Then I would hold her in my arms to help her feel safe, and I would let her cry until she had no more tears.

She would do the same for me.

DISCLAIMERS:

Guess what, folks? We don't own them! We don't even rent them. (On a monthly basis that would get rather prohibitively expensive.) We don't make money off this. If you sue, all you'll get is a handful of dust bunnies and a really wicked recipe for apple pie.

However, Evann (in all her incantations) is the sole property of Robin L. Tennenbaum, and all rights are reserved. Don't use her without permission or Robin will come after you for *your* dust bunnies and apple pie. However, if you're hell bent on borrowing Evann, Robin will entertain the notion.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

To Larry: Many, many thanks for patient answers to innumerable questions and to saint-like patience in the presence of obsessed females in your home.

To Ceebs: Mucho thank you's and much virtual Cervesa for the rush-rush-hurry-up beta job. We both know how busy you get this time of year, and we appreciate your taking time away from hors d'oeuvres, bias cut beans, and Guggenheim spring rolls to help out.

To Bridget: As always, thanks for pushing *one* of us to get this thing DONE. (We won't tell which one.) When the ConnorMuse comes a-calling, he a-calls out your name.

Special thanks to all those who continue to take the time to send us feedback. Some of these stories are born of your imaginations, and to that we are ever grateful!

AUTHORS' NOTES

ABOUT THE BATTLE OF ANTIETAM

On September 16, Maj. Gen. George B. McClellan confronted Lee's Army of Northern Virginia at Sharpsburg, Maryland. At dawn September 17, General Hooker's corps mounted a powerful assault on Lee's left flank that began the single bloodiest day in American military history. Attacks and counterattacks swept across Miller's cornfield, and fighting swirled around the Dunker Church.

On that day, approximately one in four soldiers (23,100 out of 93,000) became a casualty (either wounded, dead, or missing). Four thousand died that day; many more died later due to wounds. Burial details performed their grisly task with speed, but not great care. Graves ranged from single burials to long, shallow trenches accommodating hundreds. For example, William Roulette, whose farm still stands behind the Visitor Center today, had over 700 soldiers buried on his property.

Death Totals for American Soldiers:

American Revolution - 4,500
U.S. Civil War - 625,000
World War I - 117,000
World War II - 405,000
Korea - 33,746
Vietnam - 58,000

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ABOUT WOMEN SOLDIERS

There are records of women serving as soldiers in the Civil War. Many were found out within a few weeks or months, but not all of the women soldiers of the Civil War were discharged so quickly. Some women served for years, like Sarah Emma Edmonds Seelye, and others served the entire war, like Albert D. J. Cashier. These two women are the best known and most fully documented of all the women combatants.

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The motto of the U.S. Marine Corps is "Semper Fideles" - Always Faithful.