Zealot (32 page)

The shock of seeing the contents of the case was enough to slow Avram momentarily. That’s all he needed—Constantine saw his
opening and Avram suddenly found himself impaled through the gut on the general’s sword. He sank to his knees and howled in
pain. The sword did not yield.

“I don’t want to kill you, Avram,” Constantine said between labored breaths, exhausted from the fight. “Swear to me you’ll
stop this senseless holy war, and I’ll let you live.”

Avram, each breath a lesson in pain, glared at the Roman with hate in his eyes, but did not speak.

“Dammit, Avram, swear it!” He turned the sword in Avram’s wound, just a bit. An old trick, but an effective one. He saw the
wave of agony shoot through Avram’s body.

“I swear,” Avram finally managed through clenched jaws.

“On your honor,” Constantine pressed.

“On my honor.”

Constantine removed his sword from Avram’s belly and Avram slumped to the floor like a broken toy. “It’s over, Avram. This
is over.”

Constantine had barely finished speaking when a searing pain blossomed in his chest. He staggered back against the shattered
Temple display, unable to breathe. His hands clutched desperately at the boot knife suddenly protruding from his body.

“
Now
it’s over.” Avram struggled to his feet, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. He moved toward Constantine, his sword
at the ready.

“On … your … honor …” Constantine managed to croak out as his heart began to die.

Avram shook his head. “Honor is meaningless.
Life
is all that matters.” And with a mighty swing, he cleaved his teacher’s head from his shoulders.

Constantine’s body hung there for a moment, taunting him, then the momentum of the blow carried it backwards, crashing onto
the Temple, demolishing it.

Then, as if out of the ruins of the Temple itself, the tendrils of the Quickening rose like a mist on the moors, coalesced,
dancing in the air, and sought its new home in the vessel that was Avram.

Its first touch flowed through him like lava and he howled, a wild, feral sound, as his identity was consumed by the great
chaos that claimed him by force.

Lightning arced from Constantine’s body and slammed into his own, igniting the circuitry of his nervous system, uncontrolled
power surging through him. The intensity of the bolts drove him across the room, pinning him against the wall, his arms outstretched,
forcing him to take in all that was Marcus Constantine.

As Constantine’s
essence
overwhelmed him, he screamed even louder and the lights hung overhead exploded in a rain of glass and shooting stars. Avram
was oblivious to the jets of flame that shot through the gallery, kindling the displays, for he was no longer Avram the Jew,
but Constantine the Roman—the warrior, the leader, the lover, the scholar. Suddenly, he knew Constantine, understood him far
better than he did himself, for he
was
Constantine. Constantine was in him and with him and around him.

Alarms rang and a shower of water cascaded from the ceiling to douse the fires, but still the lightning coursed through the
crucified form of the body called Avram as two Immortal essences fought for control. He was Constantine. He was Avram. He
was Constantine. With a thundering cry ripped from his soul, the lightning stopped—

And he was Avram. Avram, son of Mordecai. And he was alive.

He slid down the wall and sprawled on the floor, spent, exhausted, deaf to the alarms sounding around him. The water from
the ceiling sprinklers anointed his head like a soothing rain and slowly brought him back to the world. He struggled to his
knees and forced himself to look at the body of the man he had defeated, lying in the ruins of the shattered Temple. He felt
no joy, no elation at the sight, only a deep, abiding sorrow. He’d been forced to kill his father once again.

Suddenly, his weakened body was assailed by the presence of another Immortal, MacLeod. He couldn’t face him, not now, not
like this. They would have their time later. Avram staggered to his feet, retrieved his sword, and stumbled toward the exit.

Paris: The Present

As MacLeod pulled up beside the Musée National des Antiquités, he had a vague premonition that something was wrong. He had
remained at the hospital until he was sure Maral was out of immediate danger. He’d left her sleeping peacefully in her hospital
room, ably protected by Farid, and returned to the barge. It was already three o’clock when he retrieved Constantine’s message
from his answering machine. He left the Citroën in a loading dock and ran into the museum, the tails of his black overcoat
fluttering wildly in his wake.

The lobby was empty, the last of the patrons gone for the day. As MacLeod hurried through it and into the glassed-in cloister
walk through the sculpture garden that connected Constantine’s exhibit to the rest of the museum, he noted that it seemed
the employees had gone home for the day as well. He was midway down the walk when he heard an explosion. Simultaneously he
could feel a vibration in his soul—there was a Quickening.

MacLeod broke into a full run just as another explosion rocked the cloister. The fire alarm began to sound its urgent wail.
He slammed through the massive wood doors leading to the marble gallery, not waiting for them to swing open at their own automated
pace. “Marcus!” he screamed out over the alarms and the lightning and the water cascading from the ceiling.

He found the giant rend in the temporary wall of the entranceway near the Arch of Titus. Drawing his
katana
, feeling the weight of it in his hand, he pushed through the hole into another corridor. He ran in the direction where he
could sense an Immortal. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the Quickening ended and all that remained were the sound
of the alarms and the sprays of water dousing the fires.

“Marcus!” he called out again, but the sensation grew farther and farther away, until it was gone entirely. MacLeod’s heart
went black. Had Constantine been the victor, he wouldn’t have run from his own museum.

Dear God. Marcus.
MacLeod stood in the doorway of the Temple room for a long minute, unable to will himself to enter, but unwilling to abandon
his friend, even to go after his killer. And MacLeod had no doubt about the killer’s identity.

He finally moved into the room, close to the body sprawled across the fragments of the broken Temple. In the back of his mind,
he could hear Constantine’s voice. “And never, ever get involved in the politics of Palestine. It will only bring you grief.”

“You were more right than you’ll ever know, Marcus,” he said, his voice husky with sorrow. He reached out and touched his
friend’s body, trying to convince himself that it was real, that this awful thing had happened to a man who meant no harm
to anyone. He saw the boot knife embedded in Constantine’s chest and pulled it out angrily.

Then, in the debris near the body, he spotted the gray figurine Constantine had identified as his own. He was right, it wasn’t
a very good likeness. With a fierce shake of his head to fend off any tears, MacLeod thrust the figurine and the knife into
the pockets of his overcoat and stormed from the room.

There was no trace of Avram in or around the museum. MacLeod knew there wouldn’t be, but he had to look anyway. He had to
keep moving, had to keep busy, or the full impact of Constantine’s loss would cripple him.

The Hôtel Renaissance was next, the safe haven of the Israeli delegation. An enormous crowd of reporters was gathered in front
of the stately building, barely held in check by a ring of security operatives. Their weapons weren’t drawn, but the men in
the suits made it obvious they meant business.

MacLeod double-parked the Citroën against a news van and forced his way through the mob, not caring who or how many he jostled
and elbowed on his way to the front. Avram wasn’t among the security team. No surprise.

A dark man on an angry mission, he pushed past a security guard and made it as far as the first step before being stopped
by two more guards, their weapons drawn.

“Avram Mordecai,” MacLeod growled at them.

“Who?” The security man was purposely blank.

“Avram Mordecai,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable carefully. “He’s one of your security guys. I want to see him,” he
said in that tone that clearly meant that “no” would be the wrong answer, “now.“

Never heard of him.” The Israeli was unintimidated. “Now get lost before we take you out of here in a bag.” MacLeod opened
his mouth to protest, then thought better of it when he realized the eyes of the entire security team as well as the international
press were upon him.

MacLeod backed off, started back to his car. He’d find some other way in. Avram wouldn’t elude him for long. The crowd parted
for him to pass through. He had nearly cleared the mob when a French photographer recognized him. “He was with the Palestinians
this morning!”

MacLeod took off at a nun. He dodged around two journalists trying to block him and slipped the grasp of a television soundman
in the back of the crowd. In the clear, he raced for the Citroën and jumped in before the reporters dogging his heels caught
up with him. He barely pulled away before the pack of newshounds smelling “lead story” could surround his car.

MacLeod returned to the barge feeling tired and defeated as the sun was setting over the Seine. In the three hours since he’d
discovered what Avram had done to Constantine, he felt like he’d accomplished nothing. As he got out of his car at the Quai
de la Tournelle, how he wished for Maral’s healing hands to soothe away his pain. He could almost feel her soft touch on the
back of his neck, but then the feeling was blasted away by his sudden awareness of another Immortal.

Pulling his
katana
, he looked warily around, his eyes taking in the embankment, the road, the barge. There, cross-legged at the bow, a figure
silhouetted in the sunset sat motionless, staring out at the water. MacLeod, striding rapidly toward the barge, mentally readied
himself for combat and issued his challenge.

“Avram!”

The figure turned to him. “Afraid not,” Methos said, uncoiling his body and standing.

MacLeod sheathed his sword again and started grimly up the gangplank. “Constantine’s dead,” he said, and there was a mixture
of sadness and anger in his voice.

“I know, Amy, his assistant curator, phoned me. She was his Watcher.” Methos looked thoughtful for a moment. “You wouldn’t
happen to play poker, would you?”

“Methos …” MacLeod growled, not in the mood. He started belowdecks.

“It was just a thought.” Methos followed him into the barge. “How is Dr. Amina?” Helping himself to an apple from a bowl of
fruit on the coffee table, he plopped himself down recumbent on the sofa, his head propped up on one arm.

MacLeod removed his black overcoat and tossed it on the back of the sofa near him. “Better than Avram would like, I’m sure.
She’s got a nasty concussion. They were running a CAT scan and some other tests when I left the hospital, to see if there’s
any permanent damage. Either way, she’ll be in for observation for at least a few more days.” He opened the fridge, took out
a bottle of mineral water for himself. On second thought, he reached in and grabbed another bottle. “There’s some short-term
memory loss. She can’t remember what happened,” he said, lobbing the second bottle at Methos, who, surprised, dropped the
apple to catch it.

“That’s probably a blessing.” Methos twisted off the cap, but didn’t drink. “So what are you going to do?”

MacLeod rooted around some more in the fridge. Nothing looked appealing. He knew he wasn’t really hungry, just empty. “What
do you mean, what am I going to do? I’m going to find him, that’s what I’m going to do.” He closed the fridge door with finality.

“And then?” Methos raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“And then …” MacLeod felt himself start to flounder, “and then … I don’t know what then.” Restless, he wandered over to the
cold fireplace and began raking out the dead ash.

“It never gets any easier, does it?” Methos took a long, contemplative drink from the bottle as he watched MacLeod work. “Okay,
let’s say he wasn’t your friend. Let’s say you’d never met him, and then he comes along and kills Marcus Constantine. What
would you do?”

MacLeod reached into a bin by the fireplace for fresh wood, glad to have a simple, mindless task like starting the fire to
keep him occupied. “What, you’re my ethics professor now?” He pointed sternly with a piece of kindling. “
You
are the last person in the world to lecture me about ethics.”

“Humor me. What do you do?”

“I’d go after him.” MacLeod’s face was dark as he shoved the wood into the fireplace. “I’d make him pay with his own head.”

Methos was intrigued. “Really? Would you? Revenge, just for playing the Game?”

MacLeod stopped his work and turned on Methos. “Avram doesn’t play the Game,” he growled. “This was personal. ”

Methos kept his tone light. “Ah, ah, but we’re not talking about Avram, remember. One Immortal takes another Immortal’s head.
That’s the Game. Reasons don’t matter. Motives don’t matter. ‘There Can Be Only One’—and it’s not going to be Marcus Constantine.”