Vanquishing

The ancient immortal snorted and snatched a blanket from the bed as he padded across the well-worn wooden floor to a sofa in front of the fire. MacLeod lingered at the door, waiting for Mikayla to reappear. After a few moments, she shot from the water, her dark hair streaming down her back, and lifted herself onto the end of the pier. Her skin glistened with the water, highlighted by the silvery moon. She wrung her hair as she strode quickly along the boards towards her family’s home and the troublesome twosome awaiting her inside. The niggling warning prick at her magical wards alerted her to someone else’s presence. Halting in her tracks, she spun around to stare at the copse past the stone archway to her patio and glared menacingly.

“Uh oh,” muttered MacLeod.

“What?” mumbled Methos from his drowsy repose.

“Trouble.” One word forced Methos to his feet, wrapping the blanket around himself quite toga-like. He sprang for the door as MacLeod scanned the room for anything else to use. Methos stopped short at the sight of the shiova woman redressing magically as she flew over the grounds to meet a dark-haired figure striding with equal purpose towards her.

“Go back inside, Viejo!” she commanded. “This is MY fight.”

Methos hesitated as he watched the man draw a blade then Mikayla conjure her own as she moved.

“I think I’d rather not lose my head!” he hissed at Duncan, backing for the door.

“She’s alone!”

“Not incapacitated, though.”

“Quit bickering. This is sacred ground. He won’t dare challenge YOU here,” Mikayla shouted in anger.

“How could you!” raged the man. “You brought them HERE?”

“I brought no one. They followed me. If you had waited, I could have disappeared again quite peacefully,” she retorted, blade at the ready, two hands on the hilt.

“You would challenge your own uncle?”

“I have no family left,” Mikayla bellowed. “You have used me for the LAST time.”

“You will ALWAYS have family. You can never change that,” the man answered her softly, lowering his blade to his side in silent surrender.

“I renounce you all. I will not be a weapon,” Mikayla lowered her weapon as well.

“You will return to the Council and report on this,” he paused, waved his hands towards the black surface of the lake, then continued, “… succubus?”

“Perhaps,” she relented only slightly.

“I would not have known you were here if you were alone?”

“Of course not. Now, I ask you to respect my wishes and leave.”

“For now,” her uncle allowed. “For now, I will leave you to take care of this …” he struggled to find the right word, “exposure. But, if you do not report to the Council within forty-eight hours, I will hunt you instead.”

“You’ll have to catch me,” she challenged.

“We’ll see …” he called out to her as he abruptly turned and strode away from her.

“You’ll see,” she vowed.

She watched him until he disappeared then she turned and ran for the house. “Go back inside,” she hollered at the two men watching her. “It’s freezing out here!”

She barreled past them and they turned to follow her inside. She stopped to reverently place her blade on its holding pegs inside her door. “Come this way,” she commanded again, leading them down a long hallway, past a den-like office, a locked door, through a kitchen and into another part of the house with more bedchambers. She entered the first one and went straight to a wardrobe which she opened to find it well stocked with clothing. She pointed at it and offered her grudging hospitality to her guests. “You should be able to find something warmer to wear in there.” She struggled to suppress her sniggering at Methos’ improvised attire and left them rummaging for said same warmer clothes as she retrieved a bath towel to dry her hair more.

“Care to explain?” Duncan finally broke the silence, watching her as she vigorously rubbed her hair.

“What exactly would you like me to explain?” she jibed. “Any particular mystery here tonight?” She hung the damp towel over the edge of the claw-foot tub and faced the men as Methos yanked a soft cotton tee over his head.

“Where the hell are we?” he blurted out.

“My home on Loch Laren,” she grumbled.

“Told you so,” MacLeod gloated.

“Who was that … visitor?”

“My uncle. The only person who would have been able to tell that my wards had been breached here. He was actually coming to my defense.”

“Okay …” Methos conceded with doubt.

“Okay, if he won’t ask, I have to know … how did you make your clothes and sword appear?” MacLeod asked in a friendly tone.

“I am shiova. We have a magick all unto ourselves.”

Both men scoffed a bit.

“What? Don’t believe in magick?” she retorted. “Step away from the wardrobe.”

They looked at each other briefly then stepped back. Mikayla closed the door then remained standing in front of it for a short moment. She re-opened the door, and stepped aside to reveal the contents, now all women’s clothes, in her size.

“Damn!” Methos exclaimed.

“Nice trick,” complimented MacLeod.

“Not a trick. The wardrobe is charmed. It was a gift to me from a very annoying wizard who dumped me into a pickle barrel and left be to drown in the brine,” she grumbled. “At least it is handy to have around with guests.”

The two immortals laughed and followed her out of the room. She paused in the den-like office and retrieved a bottle of brandy and glasses from a sideboard.

“What is it that you really do?” Methos finally caved in to his curiosity.

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that, vanquish demons, perform healing ceremonies. You know, the usual stuff,” she joked. Returning to the warmth of the blazing fire, she proceeded to pour for her guests. “Welcome to Loch Laren. You are the only Viejos to visit here, ever.”

“Why do you keep calling me Viejo, anyway?” Methos grumbled.

“Are you not viejo? Muy, muy viejo?” she rejoined as she settled on the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her.

“Yes, but so is he!” Methos protested pointing to Duncan.

“He is the youngest person in the room,” she corrected Methos with her eyebrow cocked in challenge and her glass raised to her lips.

“What?” he sputtered, snorting brandy in a very un-refined manner.

“You are the oldest. He is the youngest,” she restated calmly, watching his reaction.

“But …” Methos began to protest her logic.

“When I walked near you the first time tonight, did you not have a sense of my presence?”

“Just a hint. Not like another immortal.”

“Of course not. I am not a Viejo. I am a shiova who made a terrible mistake many decades ago. I continue to pay for it with each passing year.”

“A mistake?” interjected MacLeod. “What kind of mistake?”

“Bluntly?”

“Short version,” Methos demanded.

“I beheaded a demon on holy ground. The Fates did not approve. I live until I atone for my action.”

“Uh, exactly how long ago was that?” Macleod asked hesitantly.

“Over nine hundred years now, I think. I’ve lost track I’m afraid. Beginning to think I’ll never even the score.”

“Well, then, I am the youngest in the room.” MacLeod grinned smugly, raised his glass in a silent toast to the mysterious shiova and drank contentedly.

“Damn women,” Methos raised his glass as well, shaking his head.