Duncan Mac Leod of the Clan MacLeod stood hip deep in the rushing waters, carefully finding his balance in the rock-strewn creekbed. Though the sun was hot on his bare head, the water was bracingly cold. He felt it even through the thick rubber waders that came up to his chest. A steady rain yesterday had fed the small stream, swelling it beyond its normal volume for this time of year. The current was swift; the breeze steady; the rolling hills of the French countryside gorgeous. And, best of all, the fish were biting. It was a good day to be alive.

He licked his lips in anticipation. The beer bottles he had sunk between two rocks before wading into the middle of the stream would be wonderfully chilled by now. A perfect accompaniment to the bacon sandwich wrapped in wax paper that was tucked in his vest pocket. His stomach growled impatiently. Down, boy! Only a few more before you're fed. Methos had offered to prepare his famous "Trout Adam" tonight, if Mac would supply the main ingredient. It would be a final meal together before Joe and Amy left Amanda's chateau and returned to Paris tomorrow.

Mac moved slowly upstream, cautiously scanning ahead. There! That pile of large sun-bleached rocks sheltered a deep hole from the eddies and backwash of the swift stream. A favorite hiding place for fish. He set his feet carefully on the bottom. Then the Immortal cast the bamboo rod with expert flicks of his wrist, placing the artificial fly unerringly on the placid surface just to the front of the boulders, again and again.

This was a favorite spot and a secret one. In the nearly two centuries that he had been fishing these waters as a houseguest of Rebecca Horne, he had never told anyone about the hole. It was a lesson drilled into young Duncan MacLeod at a very early age. Scotsmen took their fishing very seriously. Brother battled brother; kinsman fought kinsman, ... why, even whole clans had gone to war over the rights to a good fishing spot. MacLeod had claimed this one in 1816. Even when there was nary a nibble anywhere else, it had never failed him.

The repetitive actions with rod and reel induced a near-meditative state, which Mac savored. It had been three days since the five of them - Duncan, Amanda, Joe, Amy and Methos - had put an end to the End of Time. The last surviving member of the Millennial cult was being held in Watcher HQ in Lyons. Once debriefed, he would be turned over to the Paris police.

MacLeod and his friends had left the field victorious but subdued, secluding themselves at the nearby chateau which had once belonged to Rebecca Horne. Since then, there had been little opportunity for solitude or contemplation, or MacLeod's infamous Scottish broods. The last three days had been a time of food and drink and talk and play, lush with moments of simple companionship and quiet joy, underscored by Joe and his guitar. Three homely days that Duncan would remember and treasure.

And three nights, he reminded himself with a somewhat salacious grin. His days were shared with friends, but his nights belonged to Amanda. They had been lovers, on and off, for over three hundred and fifty years. But Mac's near-beheading three days ago had added a piquant reminder of mortality that had driven their passion to sharper and sweeter heights. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly at the picture in his mind's eye, glad suddenly for the cold water. No, he thought, licking his lips, he would never forget these summer nights with Amanda, either. A fish took the bait, and Mac returned his full attention to the task at hand.

Mac pulled fat trout from his hook in steady succession. The lure he'd been using was getting a little ragged. He unhooked the ever reliable Royal Coachman he had tied fifty years ago from the collar of his canvas vest, and traded it for the sodden Fuzzy Bunny. Mac cast again and again, whipping the rod with a supple movement first taught to him by his father, then perfected over centuries. The feathered lure sat innocently on the surface, in perfect mimicry of the real insects buzzing about. He watched it float gently down a ripple. With practiced ease, he snatched it back and cast again.

Suddenly, a big trout leaped from the stream, its pale belly glistening in the sun. With acrobatic grace, the fish snatched the fly on its downward trajectory, closing its mouth on it in midair. MacLeod jerked the rod with exquisite precision, setting the hook a moment before the fish hit the water. The zhing-zhing of the line and the machine gun rat-a-tat of the reel underscored his shout of excitement. MacLeod leaned into the effort, giving the fish its head. Then, he pulled back on the rod, simultaneously reeling in on the line.

The struggle was Homeric. But despite its best efforts to escape, the exhausted fish was hauled up and out. Mac marveled at its size. It was a ten-pounder, at least. Grasping the slippery creature in his left hand, Mac worked quickly to remove the hook. He wasn't the first to snag this behemoth. Its gaping mouth sported many scars of the hook, evidence of a lifetime of close calls. MacLeod bent, reaching for the wicker creel submerged behind him. Suddenly, the limp trout sprang to life. With a powerful surge, it twisted free, leaping into the air. Lightning-quick, Mac dropped the rod and snagged the fish in his other hand, hooking his fingers under the gill, thwarting the near escape. It was a dazzling display of hand-eye coordination and reflexes honed to perfection over four hundred years.

Mac's triumph was short-lived as the maneuver overbalanced him. He lost his footing, pinwheeling his arms frantically before going down. The swift current swept him away. He struggled to right himself, but the waders filled quickly, dragging him down. At the deepest spots, he fought to keep his head above water, swallowing great mouthfuls of creek. He traveled fifty yards downstream, before bumping to a halt on a rocky shallows, the water flowing up and over his waist as he sat. He coughed and sputtered, tossing sopping hair out of his eyes.

Incredibly, MacLeod still held the fish. He brought the struggling creature close to his face and glared balefully at it. It stilled, staring him down with one cold eye for a long moment, before resuming its efforts to escape. MacLeod's shoulders hitched. He heaved the fish into deeper water. One flick of its tail and it was gone. Mac's body shook with mirth, his laughter carrying on the honeysuckle-scented breeze. Standing up was a problem with the waders full of water, but he managed it. Still chuckling, he walked with ungainly strides to the steep bank.

"They'll never believe the one that got away," said a feminine voice with a light English accent.

MacLeod started in surprise. Then he smiled up at Amy Thomas, and accepted the small hand she held out to him. She gave a mighty pull. He clambered up the bank, sloshing water over the top of the waders. "Did you catch a look at the sea-monster, Amy?" he said, extending his hands as far apart as possible. "He was thaaaat big!" He wiped his streaming face. "A real old-timer!"

She grinned at him, her eyes sparkling. "Shall we dub him 'Methos', then?" she asked, playfully.

Mac looked sharply at her, before replying. "Aye, he was a survivor, all right." He pushed his dripping hair back from his face with both hands.

"Why'd you let him go?" she asked, curious.

Mac shrugged. "Seemed a shame to put such a one to the sword."

Amy looked quizzical. "You mean the frying pan, don't you?"

"Right," Mac nodded. He plopped unceremoniously on the grass, unhooking the large buckles at his shoulders. He eased out of the rubber waders, and upended them. Twin gouts of water splashed out and ran down the bank. He tossed the waders aside. "I'll be back," he intoned in his best Governor of California voice. He jumped back into the stream and retrieved the rod which had snagged on a fallen log, before sloshing back out. He sat on the grass again, working on the knotted laces of his shoes.

Amy found a spot of dry ground and dropped down beside him, still smiling. Tall, dark and handsome Duncan MacLeod was a drowned rat. His clothes clung to him. His dark hair was plastered to his head and straggled down his neck. Water dripped in a steady stream from the tip of his nose as he bent over his shoe. The knot surrendered. He pulled off the shoe and upended it, before wringing out his sodden sock. Pale, shriveled toes wriggled in the sunshine for a moment, before MacLeod went to work on the other foot.

"You know, Mac, I watched you there for a while." He glanced up. "You were poetry in motion with that rod - till you met your match." Amy chuckled. "I only wish I had a camera."

"For my Chronicle?"

"No, for Adam, Amanda and Joe." Her eyes twinkled. "You know I'm just a poor, struggling student. I could have auctioned off that picture for some serious money!"

Mac regarded her solemnly. "If the situation ever presents itself again, come to me first. I'll double whatever they'd pay you."

She extended her hand. "Deal." He took her warm hand in his cold one and they shook on it.

MacLeod fished a soggy packet out of his vest pocket. He tossed his lunch in the stream and tucked the wrapping back into the vest with a sigh. He took his shirttail in hand and twisted it till it dripped.

Amy wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. She stared at the stream for a few minutes, admiring the scenery, breathing deeply of the honeysuckled air. Her amused expression gradually turned pensive.

Mac watched her, hesitant to intrude on her thoughts.. Three days ago, Amy had shot and killed the leader of the Millennial cult, a young woman known as Magda Tokes, a split-second before she would have severed Mac's neck with a very sharp sword. Amy's distress had been compounded by the knowledge that Magda had herself been a victim. The Watchers had confirmed that Tereza Ladov had been abducted by Vadem Tokes in 1990 at the age of eleven. Presumed dead after all these years, the young girl had been kept by the Immortal after her family had paid her ransom. MacLeod didn't want to imagine the girl's torment at the hands of her abductor. The end result was the destruction of young Tereza. Tokes remade her into the image and identity of his dead wife, Magda. An identity that Tereza had clung to desperately until the abrupt end of her tragic life. She had died in Mac's arms, gasping her real name with her last breath. In the next surrealistic moment, Tereza's killer was in his arms, clinging to him with desperate strength.

Mac's memory flashed back several years to Tessa Noel, and how distraught his love had been after running the "Scalper" down with a car. The man was a ruthless, vicious murderer and Tessa had acted, in extremis, to save Richie's life. Unlike Tereza, the serial killer had lived, though he had been hospitalized for months before beginning a life sentence. Yet, Tessa had cried herself to sleep in Mac's arms for days after. Like his Tessa, Amy was a sensitive, compassionate young woman. Mac feared the effect on her of keeping the fight at the Cloister a secret. Amy needed time to come to terms with the blood on her hands. He wished with all his heart that he could spare her the pain. That was beyond his power. All he could do was offer her the chance to share it.

Mac spoke softly. "Penny for your thoughts?" Lame, but hopefully effective.

Amy's smile was bittersweet. "I was thinking how much you reminded me of my father, out there in the middle of the stream." She turned suddenly. Mac's face was an open book. She watched surprise, then confusion march across his handsome features, quickly followed by comprehension. "Yeah, I didn't mean Joe." She plucked a buttercup and twirled it in her fingers.

Mac was momentarily at a loss for words. He had never heard Amy speak of the man she had grown up believing to be her natural father. Amy's mother hadn't revealed to her daughter that her biological father was really fellow Watcher, Joe Dawson, until months after her husband's death. Mac realized he was curious about the man who had raised this remarkable young woman. "What was he like?"

Amy was silent for a long moment. "He was a quiet man. Gentle. Bookish. More at home in a library than the outside world. But, he loved to fish. Particularly fly-fishing." She plucked a petal from the flower, then another. "Every summer, he and my mother and I would stay at this little cottage in Hampshire, near Longstock."

"On the river Test?" Mac asked.

"You know it?"

He nodded. "Good fishing."

"It was a lovely place," Amy agreed. "He would take me fishing every day." She tossed the denuded stalk away. "Mum told me he bought my first rod when I was only a year old. I learned to tie a fly before I could tie my shoes." She sighed.

How many times had she sat just like this, her chin on her knees, watching a tall, bespectacled man casting a rod in those endless summer days? To her child self, the summer seemed to stretch on forever and ever, unchanging. Everything was forever then. The child she had been couldn't imagine a world without the cottage, or the fish, or fireflies, or ... Dad. Watching MacLeod had brought back those old memories so strongly, it felt as if it was only yesterday. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Amy shook her head, impatiently. What was wrong with her? He had been gone nearly seven years now. Time enough to get over it.

Mac's voice was quiet. "I still miss my father, and it's been nearly four hundred years."

Amy looked shyly at him. "You still, ... I mean ... you think of Ian MacLeod ... as your father? Even after everything ..."

Mac nodded. "I had lost that for a while, ... but, in time, I found him again in my heart." He shrugged one shoulder, a surprisingly boyish gesture. "He was my Da."

She sat up straighter. "Sometimes ... sometimes, I don't know how to feel, you know? This ... this situation ... with Joe, my Mum and ... Da - David Thomas --"

Mac interrupted her. "He was your father, Amy. The fact that you don't share his genes doesn't change that." His words rang with quiet authority.

She colored. "I know that. Really I do." She cleared her throat. "I had lost ... Dad ... for a little while, too." She smiled. "And, like you, I found him again." Funny. It had never occurred to her that she shared anything in common with Duncan MacLeod. Studying Rebecca Horne's Chronicle, understanding the bonds the Immortal woman had forged in her very long life, had helped Amy accept that life-altering revelation. "I love Joe dearly, don't get me wrong." She gestured helplessly. "It's just that ... it gets ... complicated ... sometimes."

He patted her arm. "Amy, it's OK to love two fathers, without being disloyal to either." Something nudged at his memory. Something about two fathers ... No, it was gone. "You honor them both."

"I guess you're right." She tossed her head and brightened her tone. "So, did you catch anything?"

Mac looked affronted. "Och! Ye wound me, lass!" he said, affecting a heavy brogue. "A Scotsman always gets his limit afor' takin' a swim."

She laughed, then sobered. "Mac, you know Joe and I are leaving in the morning?" She hesitated. She had sought MacLeod out, but was now uncertain how to proceed.

Mac saved her the trouble. "You want me to make good on my promise," he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

"Um ... well, yes."

He frowned. "Are you sure you want to know, Amy?"

She thought of the events of the past week, from the fire that nearly killed her, Martin Guerre and Adam Pierson in the University library to the deadly fight at Rebecca's Cloister. Five people had died there, one of them by Amy's hand. MacLeod had promised to tell her why the Millennial cult known as the End of Time wanted to destroy him and his friends. But Amy wasn't the same person she had been when she bound Mac to his promise. Did she still want to know? She realized that wasn't the question.

Amy took a deep breath. "I have to know, Mac."

He nodded once, sharply, and took a deep breath of his own. "What do you know about Zoroastrianism?"

She frowned at the abrupt change of subject. As head of the Myths and Legends division of the Western Europe Watchers Organization, it was Amy's job to match known Immortals to the larger-than-life characters in the ancient stories of the world. As such, she had a working familiarity with most of the mythologies. "Not a whole lot. Let's see. It was ... is monotheistic. They call the one god 'Ahura Mazda'. Believers follow the teachings of the prophet Zarathustra."

MacLeod nodded. "They also believe in the devil," he prompted.

"Ahriman." She paused, puzzled at the expression that flitted across his face. "There are also ... angels, I suppose you'd call them. Beings that battled Ahriman. They were called the Beneficent Immortals. For obvious reasons, the Watchers investigated those beliefs very thoroughly ... " She stopped at the intensity of his expression. "What?"

"Did they find anything, any connection to ... us?" he asked, eagerly.

"None. It was determined that it was religious belief only." She paused. "Mac, are you all right?"

"Uh-huh."

Amy continued. "Anyway, these Beneficent Immortals were the chosen ones ... special warriors ... um ..." She struggled for the right word.

Mac supplied it. "Champions."

"Exactly! Champions that fought for our world against Ahriman, in a thousand-year cycle of Good versus Evil."

"Every Millennium." Mac's expression was grim. "Like clockwork."

A prickle ran up Amy's spine. Four days ago in Joe's Parisian hotel, MacLeod said the Millennial cult called the End of Time had believed he had stopped their Dark One from coming ... because he did. She laughed, nervously. "Mac, for a minute there I thought ...?" She stopped at the look on his face. "You're not serious ...?"

MacLeod tried to rub some warmth back into a bare foot with both hands. "Believe it or not, Amy. I stopped Ahriman from returning to the world in this Millennium." A bead of water rolled off his nose and landed in the grass. "I was the Champion."

CHAPTER TWO

Methos felt the pinch on his arse a split-second before he heard Amanda's sleepy "Good morning." He jumped, banging his head on the uppermost refrigerator shelf, hard enough to slosh fresh orange juice out of its pitcher. He closed his eyes against the sudden pain, cursing floridly in a long-dead language.

"Aw, so's your mother." Amanda replied, pleasantly. Her beautifully patterned kimono hung open, revealing a short silk pajama set as she padded past him on bare feet. She slid on to a stool at the counter. "Morning, Joe," she said, reaching for the coffeepot.

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead." Joe, ensconced in a comfortable chair at the window, looked up from his newspaper. He peered over his reading glasses, chuckling at the sight of the old man simultaneously rubbing the crown of his head and the seat of his pants. "Rough night?" he asked, with a twinkle.

Amanda huffed in pretended offense. "A lady doesn't kiss and tell."

"Then that leaves you out," Methos grumped. He opened the refrigerator door again and resumed the position. It was very tempting, but Amanda felt too lazy to get up and goose him again. She savored the coffee, admiring Methos' cute little butt between sips. After a few minutes, she spoke.

"What is so fascinating about my refrigerator?"

"He's making his famous 'Trout Adam' tonight," Joe explained.

"Oooh! That sounds good!" Amanda loved trout. "What's in it?"

"I haven't decided yet," came the muffled response from the refrigerator.

Amanda concentrated on her coffee. "Where's MacLeod?" she asked Joe after a few more sips.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Guess." She looked blank. He mimed the action of casting a fishing rod, yanking back hard and reeling in an imaginary catch.

Caffeine kicked in and suddenly her brain was functioning again. She should have realized. MacLeod was an avid fisherman. Once you got him started on the subject of Scotland's other sacred pastime, you couldn't shut him up. Amanda had gone fishing with him once. Oh, about a hundred and fifty years ago or so, here on Rebecca's estate. She had thought it sounded like fun. Hah! It had been the closest she and Duncan had ever come to swords.

"I don't know where he finds the energy," she muttered. "He was up half the night."

"I'm not touching that one," said the refrigerator.

"You're such a dirty old man, Methos." Amanda sat up abruptly, eyes wide open for the first time. "Oops. I mean, 'Adam'". She looked around, guiltily. "Where is Amy?" she stage-whispered to Joe. Amanda knew that Amy knew that Methos was an Immortal, but not that he was Methos the Immortal. It was all rather complicated and more than a little confusing.

"A bit late to ask, don't you think?" Methos complained, straightening and closing the fridge door.

"It's not my fault. I haven't woken up yet." Amanda took a big gulp of coffee. "Did she go fishing with Duncan?"

"Nah. Mac was up and out before the rest of us tumbled out of bed," Joe said. "Amy went for a walk a little while ago."

"How is she doing, Joe?" Amanda asked, solicitously.

Joe removed the reading glasses and leaned on the table with his elbows. "She's handling it."

Methos sat down across from him, and grabbed a section of the newspaper. "She's a strong woman, Joe. She'll be fine."

Joe nodded slowly. "Getting back to normal life tomorrow should help." He cleared his throat. "I can never repay you guys. All I can say is 'Thanks'".

Methos looked up from the newspaper. His eyes were warm as he shook his head at Joe, then returned to the financial page. Amanda padded to him, and kissed him tenderly on one cheek. "You are most welcome." She returned to the counter for the coffee carafe and refilled their cups, taking the chair between them.

Joe fussed with sugar and cream. "So, Amanda, how long do you think you'll stay on here?" he asked, casually.

Amanda matched his tone. "So, Joseph, are you asking as my friend or as Duncan's Watcher?"

"A little bit of both, honey," he said, apologetically. "We've pulled our teams off the two of you while this thing with the End of Time played out. I could use a heads-up before you guys start moving again."

Amanda looked thoughtful. "I really don't know. We hadn't planned that far ahead." She paused. "I was trying to talk Duncan into a trip to Bora-Bora before all hell broke loose over here, but he wouldn't go." She pouted. "He turned me down again last night."

"Why Bora-Bora?" Joe asked, curious.

"Methos has a house there."

"Amanda!"

"Oops!" She cringed. "Was that a secret too?"

"Not anymore," Methos muttered.

"It's so not my fault! All these secrets of yours! How's a girl supposed to remember them all?"

"My lips are sealed," Joe assured the old man. He turned back to Amanda. "How come Mac won't go? He's off for the rest of the summer."

"It's Lilith and Rebecca and this whole Champion thing," she complained. "He says he is what he is, he can't run away from his responsibilities, he's can't let what happened to him happen again to somebody else. Yadda, yadda, yadda." She rolled her eyes. "You know how he is."

"Yeah," Joe concurred. Thank God.

Amanda's brows knitted together as she frowned. "The thing I don't get is this - we're talking about something happening in another thousand years or so from now, right?"

Joe nodded.

"So what's wrong with a little beach blanket bingo? What's the big deal about Lilith and company now?"

Joe spread his hands, helplessly. "I don't know."

Methos snorted behind the headlines.

Joe and Amanda waited expectantly. Silence. They exchanged a look.

"Do you have something you want to share with the rest of the class?" Joe said, sarcastically.

Methos looked up. "Who, me?"

"O Wise One, enlighten us!" Amanda begged, her hands clasped together in supplication. "Oh, please!"

"You really don't get it?" Methos asked, looking from one to the other.

"Get what?" they chorused.

Methos carefully folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. "MacLeod has been looking for something to live for ever since Richie ... uh ... died. Once he believed that he defeated his demon - "

"He did defeat Ahriman," Joe interjected.

"OK, Joe," Methos conceded, tactfully. "Once Mac did whatever he did - saved the world, pushed back the Darkness for another thousand years, whatever - after that ... what next?" He looked at each in turn. "We all saw that play out in that mess with O'Rourke."

"You're not telling us something we don't already know, old man," Joe said.

Methos held out a hand. "Look, Mac's Champion search started a few months after O'Rourke." He ticked off points with each finger. "He sponsored some academics, endowed a few chairs, took up a couple of dead languages, read everything he could find on the battle between good and evil in every conceivable culture." Methos shifted in his seat, a thoughtful expression on his face. "He's becoming quite the scholar himself, applying the same discipline he's devoted to the sword and martial arts to the academic pursuits."

"We don't need his report card, Methos," Joe said, with a touch of impatience. "Mac's been keeping me abreast of his research, and updating my data cache for over five years now." Mac had several redundant copies of the research he'd gathered in safe places all over the world. He had entrusted one of them to Joe to keep. Not as part of Mac's Watcher Chronicles. Personally.

"Didn't you notice, Joe, that he's become even more focused on this in the past couple years?"

Joe squinted in thought. "Yeah, I guess so. Mac used to update my information every few months or so in the beginning, but then it became more regular. Once he moved back to Seacouver." He paused. "Of course, we see a lot more of each other too, with the bar and all."

"How often?"

"Usually whenever he has something new, he gets it to me right away." Joe thought back to the hidden cave writings that Mac and Methos had deciphered this past Spring. The day after the translation was completed, Mac had appeared at Joe's Paris apartment with the completed verses.

"You didn't think that was significant?"

"No. Should I have?" Joe had just been glad to have him back in his life on a regular basis. He had missed Mac terribly.

Amanda had been very patient during this Q & A. After all, the Socratic Method was probably a radical advance for Methos. Like New Math. "What does this have to do with MacLeod being too uptight to take a vacation with me now?" she demanded.

Methos studiously ignored her. "When did Mac move back to the States, Joe?"

"Two years ago ... after Connor died. You know that." Joe sat back in his chair. "After Connor MacLeod died ... " He trailed off.

"Elementary, my dear Dawson." Methos picked up the newspaper again.

"I don't get it," Amanda said, rather wistfully. She had known Duncan MacLeod for more than three centuries. Been his lover for a lot of that time. Yet, these two men understood Duncan far better than she did. She hadn't known about this Championship search until a few weeks ago when she had identified Rebecca's old sword by accident. If she hadn't supplied that missing link, she'd probably still be in the dark.

Methos guessed what she was thinking. "I just learned about this myself in March, Amanda. Until then, he had only told Joe about his search. He's given me access to all his data only recently."

Amanda felt a little better, but persisted. "I still don't get it."

"Connor MacLeod had been a part of Duncan's life since the beginning," Methos explained. "He told me some of his earliest memories were the stories told around the fire of the great Warrior from his grandfather's time who rose from the dead." He leaned forward in his chair. "When he became Immortal, everything Duncan had ever known was taken from him. His family, his home, his birthright. Then Connor found him. He took him in, taught him, sent him back into the world when Duncan was ready. Can you imagine it?" It was Methos' turn to sound wistful. "An Immortal kinsman who shared the same birthplace, the same values, nearly the same time. Stronger, older, wiser - a fighter and a survivor. Connor became the family he'd lost."

Amanda nodded. "I know that."

"How did you feel when Rebecca died?"

His question surprised her. Her first instinct was to tell him it was none of his business. But, she really wanted to understand what was driving Duncan. Amanda swallowed the retort and drew a sharp breath. Her answer was as honest as she could make it. "Like the sun went dark and the world stopped turning."

"Before it happened, could you imagine a world without Rebecca in it?"

"No," Amanda replied. She felt a tightening in her chest and looked down at the coffee cup in her hand.

"The next time you faced a Challenge, how did you feel?"

Amanda swallowed coffee before speaking. "As scared as I've ever been. Like ... the first time I faced another Immortal for real."

Methos cocked his head at her. "Why?"

"I don't know." He looked at her patiently. She squirmed a little under his scrutiny. "Because ... I felt more vulnerable, ... more ... mortal ... somehow."

Joe spoke up. "I think I understand." He looked at Amanda. "My father died when I was only seventeen, you know. I was still at that age where I felt ... immortal." He snorted. "I was never going to die - that was for other people." His gaze shifted to Methos. "But when my mother passed fifteen years ago ... "

Methos nodded. "With both your parents gone, you felt your own mortality breathing down your neck."

"Yeah." Joe breathed in deeply, and let it out slow. He turned to Amanda. "I see." He reached out and squeezed her hand. "Not so very different, are we?"

She squeezed him back. "No," she agreed, "we're not." She looked at Methos. "So, Duncan's afraid that he won't make it to the next Millennium. But he's much more powerful after Kell." She paused. "And Connor."

"He doesn't think that way. You know that." Methos mused. "And he's had two close encounters with the Grim Reaper in the past two months." He grimaced. "Very close."

Joe blew out a noisy breath. "They don't come any closer."

"I understand," Amanda sighed deeply. "Sayonara, Bora-Bora."

"Actually, it's 'Elaha roa, Pora-Pora'," said Methos. At her disbelieving look, he explained in a pedantic tone. "The indigenous population speaks Tahitian, and there's no 'b' in their language."

"Nobody likes a know-it-all, Methos," she said, sourly.

"On that note ..." Joe pushed away from the table and levered himself to his feet with his cane. "How do you say 'I gotta take a leak' in Bora-Bora?"

"Ma te taparahihia," Methos replied.

"Ditto," Joe said, walking away. His cane rapped noisily on the marble floor, out of the kitchen and down the hall.

"I'll never forgive Connor for doing what he did to Duncan," Amanda said, fiercely. "Never."

Methos looked grim. "Connor did what he did because he loved him."

"It's a lousy way to show it," she grumbled.

"He couldn't bear to see Duncan die." Methos said, gently. "Are we so very different?" He held her gaze solemnly for a moment. Then he smiled wickedly. "Isn't that why you've been shagging him stupid every night?"

Amanda tossed her head. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she said, with asperity.

"Boffing him blind, banging his brains out, scr - ..."

She punched him in the arm. Hard.

"Ow!" He scowled, rubbing the sore spot. "Hey, it's not my fault I can hear you two doors down, Amanda. Even over Joe's snoring," Methos lied. In actuality, the bedroom walls were excellently constructed and very thick, completely soundproofed. But it was the only logical explanation for that look on Mac's face. He anticipated her embarrassment with relish. Revenge for the pinch on his bum. He forgot one thing. Amanda really wasn't a lady.

She purred and stretched, sensuous as a cat. As the sound of Joe's peculiar steps preceded him to the kitchen, Amanda leaned over and whispered long and low into Methos' ear. She sat back, just as Joe pulled out his chair. He glanced suspiciously down, aware that something had passed between the Immortals in his absence. Amanda quirked a supercilious eyebrow at him, and reached for a section of newspaper. Joe sat down heavily, peering up quickly at Methos. He leaned over the table, slightly alarmed.

"You feeling all right, old man? I've never seen your face so red!"

Methos retreated silently behind the newspaper where he sequestered himself until Duncan and Amy returned, bearing trout.

CHAPTER THREE

Methos watched the black sedan - Amy at the wheel, Joe in the passenger seat beside her - lean into the curve and disappear from sight. He stood there, staring down the long, tree-lined vista of the drive, lost in thought for several minutes. A strong hand clasped his shoulder, interrupting his reverie.

"How 'bout breakfast?" Mac asked.

"You cooking?"

"Yeah."

"Sure." Methos turned, and they walked together under the portico. "No oatmeal." He'd had enough porridge in his long life to last him for the next five thousand years.

"No oatmeal," Mac agreed.

MacLeod allowed Methos to operate the espresso maker, while he poured milk in a small pan on the stove. He turned the flame on low, then shooed the older man away. "You cooked that great meal last night. Sit down."

Methos took a seat at the counter and watched silently as MacLeod puttered, frying slices of thick, smoked bacon, and grating a small rind of cheese onto a plate.

"Do you want to talk about her?"

"Who?" Methos asked, disingenuously. He knew who.

Mac winced as he grated skin from a knuckle. He popped the bleeding digit into his mouth for a moment. When he pulled it out seconds later, his finger was fully healed. He returned to his task before answering.

"Genevieve Montand."

"There's nothing to talk about, MacLeod." Methos said, in a tone of absolute finality.

"OK." Mac grated cheese without speaking.

Amy's telephone conversation with Martin Guerre earlier this morning had brought the news of the death of Madame Montand. The elderly librarian, universally known to the student body as "The Troll", had ruled over the lowest level of the Library with an iron hand. Until it had been destroyed by the fire set by the End of Time a week ago. The old woman had been buried yesterday.

Mac snipped stalks of chives and stems of thyme from little clay pots perched on the windowsill. He rinsed and dried the herbs, minced the chives with kitchen shears and stripped the thyme leaves from their woody stems. He cracked six eggs into a bowl and added the herbs and a drizzle of cream, before whisking the mixture vigorously with a fork.

"She was an eighty-six year old woman who had a stroke," Methos said. "Happens every day. Hundreds, no, thousands of times."

"Uh huh." Mac split two English muffins, set them on a rack in the toaster oven, and pushed the lever down. He swirled butter around the hot skillet, then poured in the eggs. When the omelet had set, he lowered the flame, and sprinkled on the cheese. The toaster dinged. In an instant, the muffins were buttered, and half the omelet and bacon were set on a plate before Methos. Mac carried his own plate and slid on to the stool next to him. The espresso maker beeped.

Methos poured hot coffee to the halfway line of two oversized cups. "Eighty-six is a ripe old age." He topped one cup with milk and handed it to MacLeod.

"Absolutely," Mac agreed.

Methos added the hot milk to his own cup and stirred, inhaling the steamy aroma. Sense-memory transported him sixty-four years into the past. He closed his eyes at the sudden vision of his crappy little coldwater flat, with its leaky windows, and the pot of vibrant red geraniums on the tiny sill. Inadequate heat, rusty tap water, two-burner hot plate ... it was an odious place to live. But it was all his student persona could afford. The plant had been a gift from Genevieve DuFait, along with the cranky little espresso machine that she had picked up in a second-hand shop off the Rue Jacob. Genevieve had been in her last year in the dance program at the Sorbonne that winter of '39-'40. The winter she had awakened him every morning with a steaming cup of café au lait. And an even steamier kiss.

"Charles Adamson" had been a doctoral candidate in the linguistics department of the University of Paris. A gifted, but somewhat retiring student, Charles had left England behind to see a bit more of the world after several years at Oxford. Charles' best friend at the French University had been the much more gregarious Michel LeGros. Michel, an athlete and scholar, had been working on a translation of proto-Teutonic symbols he had found in a cave he had discovered while hiking the Pyrenees. The work was to be the culmination of his doctorate in pre-Germanic languages. His moldering notes on the project had been forgotten in the bowels of the Library until Methos unearthed them this Spring. They had been the key to deciphering the mysterious writings that he and MacLeod had found in the hidden ice cave of the Austrian Alps.

Unbidden, his memory supplied a succession of images of Michel, Genevieve and himself. Drinking cheap wine in a bistro, laughing at a stupid joke told badly by the Frenchman, as the war news competed with the Andrews Sisters on the radio; gulping beer surreptitiously in the Dungeon of the library from bottles smuggled under the then-resident Troll's glare; sipping bitter coffee in a dark and crowded café, the air thick with the smell of smoke and onions and rumors of coming war. Laughing, arguing, clowning - the three of them had been nearly inseparable in those heady, pre-war days. Michel, an incurable romantic, had dubbed them the Three Musketeers. All for one and one for all, they'd chorused, as they clinked their glasses or bottles or mugs together. All for one ...

"... and one for all? " MacLeod said, completing the line when Methos didn't.

Methos started. He hadn't meant to speak that last thought aloud. What the hell was he doing? What was the point of this ... stroll down Memory Lane? He narrowed his eyes at the man sitting next to him. "No," he snapped, "no, it wasn't." Far from it.

He had left them there, in Paris, in May 1940. Without a word, without even a note. Charles Adamson, sipping a cup of steaming Earl Grey on a London commuter train, had read of the fall of the Maginot Line in the Times. After the war, Methos had learned that Michel, wounded at Dunkirk, had drowned in the bottom of a fishing boat in the frantic scrabble across the Channel. He had neither seen nor heard of Genevieve, until his encounter with the latest Troll in the depths of the Library a few months ago. The bitter taste in Methos' mouth flavored the next words out of it.

He lifted his cup in the manner of making a toast. "All for one and one for all ... " he put the cup down too quickly, sloshing hot liquid over his hand, "... until it's every man for himself." Like always. Methos looked down at his plate, and the cooling food. He ate in silence. When he was finished, he looked up at MacLeod.

Duncan's dark eyes were warm. He sipped his coffee without comment.

"Good breakfast, Mac," Methos said. "Thanks."

Mac heard the unspoken apology in his tone. "You're welcome."

Methos wrapped both hands around the coffee mug, and stared at the dregs until he felt a tug on his forearm. MacLeod topped off the mug from the pot he was holding. Methos brought it to his face, his eyes closed. He let the fragrant steam bathe his face and fill his nostrils.

Oh, Genevieve! Sweet Genevieve!
The years may come, the years may go ...

Methos turned the final page in that chapter of his life, before taking a sip. After a while, he spoke. "You told Amy you were the Champion."

Mac blinked. "Yeah," he replied. "It was time."

"How did she react?"

Mac's expression was wry. "Well, she didn't send for the men in white coats with the butterfly nets. Not yet, anyway." He sobered. "She was intrigued, of course. Curious. Angry when she realized that all the misery and destruction that the End of Time caused was over a 'stupid myth'." He paused. "When I finished, she very politely thanked me for telling her." He sighed. "She didn't believe a word of it."

Methos wasn't surprised. The only other person who did believe in an evil demon named Ahriman that Duncan MacLeod fought in 1998 by somehow not really fighting it was Joe Dawson. The only living person, he amended. Don't forget Jason Landry. And one other. He cocked his head at MacLeod, certain of the answer before asking the question. "What version did you tell her?"

"I told her the truth," Mac said, defensively.

"Of course." Methos waved a hand dismissively at him. "But was it the whole truth?"

MacLeod averted his eyes, and smoothed the placemat on the counter in front of him. He shook his head.

"So, you gave her the dry, condensed, scholastic version," Methos said. The one that doesn't mention Richie.

"Methos ...," Mac began. "It's only been a few months since Amy and I ... became friends. I didn't want ...." He trailed off. Mac had told himself he would tell Amy the whole story when she asked, beginning with the hermit and ending with Ahriman's defeat in Darius' church. He really had intended to ... keep right on telling yourself that, Mackie-boy, and maybe you'll believe it. When it came right down to it, he had chickened out.

"I understand, Mac," Methos said, sympathetically. "I'd have done the same."

MacLeod shot him a suspicious glance. He doubted that was meant to be a compliment.

Methos changed the subject. "So, where does your Champion search go from here?"

Mac gave him a searching look before replying. "Lilith," he said, emphatically. At Methos' raised eyebrows, he continued. "Know anybody at the Louvre?"

"Nope, not since the twenties," he replied, curious. "Why?"

"An expert there authenticated a newly-discovered artifact for a private collector a few months back." Mac refilled his cup. "A Taball-Lorg," he said, his own eyebrow raised in challenge over the rim of the cup.

"Mm-hmm," Methos said, scratching his chin. "Crib-notes for a bard."

Damn! One of these days, Mac thought, he was going to stump the old man. A Taball-Lorg, Gaelic for "poet's staff", was a long, wooden staff marked with letters and symbols. Ash, oak, rowan, hazel and hawthorn were most frequently used for their durability. It was an aide-memoire, designed to help a bard recall his extensive repertoire of poems and stories. Story staves had been found in tombs and other archaeological sites throughout the British Isles, northern Europe and other areas influenced by the Celts. Once, in his boyhood, Duncan had proudly carried such a staff for the old storyteller who visited their village every Spring.

"What language?" asked Methos.

"Ogham."

"That's quite common."

Mac nodded. "But this one's old, Methos." He suddenly remembered who he was talking to. "Relatively speaking. The expert dated it to 1200 B.C. And it was found in the Rhine Valley."

Methos sat up straighter. "If authentic, that would place the Celts there a lot earlier than conventional theories maintain. That's bound to shake some people up." He rubbed his nose absently. "I'm surprised I haven't read about it."

"The discovery has been kept very quiet. Apparently, the collector doesn't want the publicity. Dating was all the expert was allowed to do." Mac sipped coffee.

"How'd you find out? And where does Lilith come in?"

"You know Ellis Dantes at State University, right?" At the old man's nod, Duncan continued. "He's a friend of a friend of the expert used by the Louvre." Mac smiled. Methos' expression mirrored his own reaction to the "whisper down the lane" provenance. "From what little the expert was allowed to see, she was able to translate a part of the staff." Mac leaned forward eagerly. "The story was about a female warrior fighting to save the world by battling an evil being. A woman who cannot be dominated, in battle or in bed.."

Methos considered this information. Public interest in Lilith had been rekindled beginning with the women's movement, and spurred on by the recent trendiness of Wiccan and Druidic practices. The domination theme was very much a part of her legend, a legend which appeared in many diverse cultures. In Hebrew mythology, Lilith was divorced from Adam by the will of God for demanding that she be treated as an equal, then replaced by a more submissive Eve. Lilith had certainly gotten a raw deal in patriarchal societies. Over the millennia, Lilith's mythos had spanned empowering earth mother to baby-killing monster, before nearly fading into obscurity. But she was making a comeback.

Duncan's recent interest in the Lilith mythology was triggered by Amanda's identification of the hermit's sword he had recovered from a Highland cave. The sword had once belonged to Rebecca, who had received it from Lilith. Methos shook his head. It was impossible to separate the realities of the Immortal woman named Lilith, one-time teacher to Rebecca Horne, from the myths. Yet that was the Herculean task that MacLeod was undertaking.

Methos stated the obvious. "That's not much to go on, Mac."

"I know." The Scot ran his fingers through his hair excitedly. "But it's a new discovery! No one's studied it, or published about it, yet. My researchers would never have come across it. The only reason I even know that it exists is a fluke."

Methos smiled fondly at the younger man's enthusiasm. "And you just happen to be in France."

Mac grinned. "Exactly. Why waste the trip?"

Methos pondered what Mac had told him. "If this collector is as obsessive about privacy as he seems, the museum isn't going to just hand over his name to you. Once they've pledged anonymity," he cautioned, "they'll keep that promise. Like a Swiss banker. Bad for business otherwise. "

"Oh, I just need a foot in the door," Mac said, confidently.

Too confidently. Methos' eyes narrowed. "You have something up your sleeve."

Mac thrust his arms out of his short-sleeved tee and peered down at his wrists. "Me?" he asked, innocent as a choir boy.

A noise at the doorway distracted Methos. Amanda stretched and yawned luxuriously before shuffling into the kitchen, murmuring sleepy greetings. Methos' eyes darted back to MacLeod in surprised reappraisal. He leaned back on his stool, a speculative gleam in his eyes.

"Let me get this straight," he said. "The Boy Scout is taking the International Thief to the Louvre - the Louvre!- to steal?!

MacLeod was affronted. "We're just after a name, Methos. That's not stealing." He frowned. "Not really."

Methos threw his head back, and laughed long and hard. Mac was coming along quite nicely in Situational Ethics 101.

Amanda wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, and took a sip. "I don't see what's so funny."

"You wouldn't!" Methos choked out. "Whose idea was this?"

"I offered last night to help Duncan in his little project, that's all."

"I bet." He chortled. "Because you're such a helpful person, Amanda."

Amanda looked wounded. "I do want to help him," she said, hurt evident in her tone.

"Of course you do, baby, and I appreciate it." MacLeod put his arm around her shoulder, and glared at Methos. "Just as I appreciate all the help Methos has given me." He gestured with his eyebrows at the woman in his arms.

Methos reflected on yesterday's conversation with Amanda and Joe. The little vixen had seemed genuine in her desire to understand MacLeod's state of mind. And her help with the End of Time mess, though unexpected, had been invaluable. Maybe it was altruism. A chance to help MacLeod in his Quest without helping herself to the goodies. Maybe, for Mac's sake, Amanda could behave herself in a building full of priceless treasures. Yeah, right. Methos opened his mouth to speak when he caught his reflection in the shiny surface of the espresso machine He bit back the scathing remark on the tip of his tongue. People can change ... can't they?

"I'm sorry, Amanda," he said, contritely. "Of course, you want to help. So do I." He looked up at MacLeod, a barely suppressed grin making the corners of his mouth twitch. "Count me in." He nearly lost it at the dubious expression on Mac's face.

Amanda clapped her hands and jumped off her stool. She leaned over and kissed Methos on the cheek. "This will be so much fun." She draped one arm over the old man's shoulder and linked the other with Duncan's. "Look at us - we're like the Three Musketeers all over again!"

CHAPTER FOUR

"Someone at or connected with the Louvre? Yes, I believe I can help you with that, MacLeod ... I mean, Duncan." Martin Guerre leaned back in his leather-upholstered chair, stretching the telephone cord across his massive mahogany desk. "Some years ago, I served on a joint commission on the preservation of antiquities sponsored by the Musee. Let me think ... ". He stroked his chin. "Well, the head our commission was Paul Ingraham. Brilliant scholar. Never failed to spot a fake. I remember one time, he was asked by a very shady character to authenticate a Hittite phal - um, fertility symbol." As he related the information to his caller, Guerre held up his index finger and smiled apologetically at the person sitting on the opposite side of the desk.

Amy Thomas relaxed against the back of her chair. Martin in anecdotal mode would be a while. She waited, outwardly patient, glancing over the paperwork in her hand. Still, curiosity nibbled at her. MacLeod had mentioned once that he was acquainted with Martin Guerre. She wondered why an Immortal antiques dealer needed the assistance of a professor of linguistics and anthropology? Or, she thought, narrowing her eyes, maybe it was the self-proclaimed Millennial Champion who needed Martin's help? She leaned closer, intrigued, in spite of herself.

Martin gave her a quizzical glance before continuing his conversation. "... so, Ingraham detained the culprit in his office until the police arrived by showing him in a collection of fourth century Persian erotica. ... Yes, yes. Hoist by his own petard, indeed. Good one, MacLeod ... I mean, Duncan." He chuckled in appreciation. "No, I do not have Ingraham's phone number." He chuckled again. "That would be quite an accomplishment." He paused. "Well, you see, Ingraham died a few years ago." He sat up straighter. "Sorry. Hold for a moment, please."

Guerre laid the telephone receiver on the desk, reached past Amy to the little table next to the desk, and grabbed a large Rolodex wheel. He spun the wheel, muttering in French. He pulled out a handful of cards. "Voila!" he exclaimed, waving the cards triumphantly at the young woman before snatching up the phone.

"One moment, MacL -- Duncan.." He scattered the cards on the desk, selected one, and squinted at it. "Right. Now, Nathan Forrestal ... one of the best. He wrote the book on it ... oh no, not literally. A bit of an adventurer, but still an excellent scholar." Guerre frowned in thought. "Wait a moment. I heard something about Forrestal a little while ago. Let me think ...ah, yes, I remember now. He went into a cave in South America and never came out again."

He ripped the card in half, and picked up another. Tilting his head, he squinted as he read. "Jenny Callender was well-regarded in this field. Beautiful woman. Such a shame." A very French sound exited Guerre's nose as he listened. "No, Jenny is not dead. Worse. The last I heard she was teaching in Southern California. " He shook his head in disgust, then returned his attention to his caller. "I know you are looking for someone in Paris who dates ancient artifacts, MacLeod." He winked at Amy. "How about Adam Pierson? He had a thing with that old librarian. Took her for coffee on more than one occasion, or so my sources tell me." He paused as he listened. "It was just a little joke, MacLeod." He sat up straighter, rolling his eyes at Amy. "Ah, well, yes, you are right. Respect for the dead and all that. Sorry."

He picked up another card hastily. "Here we go! Albert Durer in Authentications and Restorations. What? ... yes, he's alive and well and living in Paris. Just like Jacques Brel ... except he isn't, is he? Brel, I mean." Guerre held the phone away from his ear at the growl of protest. "No, no, I have his phone number right here," he continued, somewhat chastened. "You are welcome. Anything connected to ..." he glanced at Amy, "...our little project? Non? Too bad. It sounds intriguing." He listened for a moment. "Durer is good. Bit of a stuffed shirt, always taking forever to get to his point, if he has one. Why, one time ... Oh, his phone number? I thought I already gave that to you, MacL- ... Duncan. No? Well, do you have a pencil?" He recited the information into the telephone.

Amy stifled a giggle. She could just imagine Mac's face, those bushy eyebrows drawn together in frustration. He must be at the near-unibrow stage by now. Martin's comment about their "little project" intrigued her. Martin had several patrons backing various lines of research - corporate, public and private. It was very expensive to properly exploit a find, and substantiate and publish the findings. She wondered which one Mac was involved with? Perhaps that Celtic mound in Brittany?

"Always a pleasure, MacLeod," Guerre said, and hung up. "The man has no sense of humor," he muttered. He pushed back in his chair. "I am sorry for the interruption, Amy. Where were we?"

Amy silently disagreed with his assessment of their mutual acquaintance. Her memory flashed on the image of Duncan MacLeod, waist deep in a country stream, waders full of cold water, laughing heartily at the stubborn trout that had bested him. Of course, he had been absolutely grim the last time she had really talked to him. Their conversation about Zoroastrianism and Ahriman and a line of Immortal Champions leading up to MacLeod as the avatar of this Millennium had been somber and surreal. Amy was still trying to digest what he'd told her. She was sure she had hurt his feelings, but she honestly hadn't known how to respond to his assertions, other than to mutter vague and uncomfortable platitudes, and furious imprecations at the End of Time and all the trouble they had caused.

It had been on the tip of her tongue to discuss the matter with Joe on the long ride back to Paris, but something held her back. Too much on her emotional plate right now, she supposed. She didn't really want to know if her father shared Mac's belief in apocalyptic prophesies, Millennial demons, and Immortal Champions. What was next - alien abductions, or ... sightings of Elvis? What was the expression? Be careful what you ask for, she answered herself ruefully. Mac had asked her if she really wanted to know. Turns out she really didn't.

"Amy?" Guerre said, with a curious look.

Amy shook her head and focused on the task at hand. "Jean-Baptiste Trudeau. With the extra credit he's earned, that brings him up to a 'Satisfactory'". Amy continued with the next student on the list. An hour later, grades were assigned to all the students in the class.

Amy had been Guerre's teaching assistant for his summer course. While their class had ended a few weeks ago, the final grading had been delayed by the fire in the University Library which had put them both in the hospital. She had returned yesterday from her brief leave of absence. Martin was aware that she had taken a few days in the country to recuperate from the ordeal. He had no idea that ordeal included the fight with the doomsday cult known as the End of Time on the grounds of a ruined estate that had once belonged to an Immortal named Rebecca Horne. Or that his patron, Duncan MacLeod and academic rival, Adam Pierson were Immortals themselves, and Amy and her father were part of a secret organization that observed them. Or that Amy had shot and killed a young woman named Tereza ...

Martin interrupted her train of thought. "Finis," he pronounced, signing the grade sheet with a flourish. He handed it to her.

"Good. I'm glad to get this chore done. I'll drop this off at the Registrar," Amy said, tucking the paper into a folder in her briefcase. She stood, smoothing down her slacks.

Martin reached for her hand as he stood. "Amy, wait." She looked up expectantly. "Join me for lunch?" He stroked the hand he held with his thumb.

"Martin, ..." She squeezed his hand gently before releasing it. "I have too many things on my to-do list today. May I have a raincheck?"

He looked at her intently. Amy had always been slender. But she was thinner since the night of the Library fire. That was not surprising, considering the circumstances. Martin still had shortness of breath from his own milder case of smoke inhalation. His recurring nightmares of burning alive while trapped in the Library's dumbwaiter shaft were bad, though the ones where he pulled Adam Pierson's, or worse, Amy's charred corpse from the little elevator were even more terrifying. Fortunately, his bad dreams seemed to be abating.

Surely Amy must be suffering some of the same residuals of that traumatic night. He saw it in her eyes. They were older, sadder ... He resisted the impulse to gather her into his arms and lay her head on his shoulder. Since her return, Amy had exuded a subtle 'don't touch me' aura that stayed Martin's hand, even though her apparent fragility made him ache to hold her. Professor Martin Guerre, notoriously oblivious to other people's feelings, chose not to press. He cared too much.

He nodded, with a slight smile. "Certainly. Perhaps Friday?"

"Perhaps," Amy said, grateful to leave it that way. "I'll call you."

"Au revoir, cherie," Martin called to her, as she closed the office door.

It was a brisk walk to the Registrar's office in the center of campus. Amy turned in the grading sheet with a feeling of satisfaction. It was a lovely summer day. She took her time walking to her apartment. She hadn't lied to Martin. There were a lot of items on her to-do list. She just wasn't in the mood to actually do any of them.

At home, Amy changed into shorts and a T-shirt rendered so threadbare with laundering that it was soft as silk. She fed the tropical fish, watered her scraggly begonia, and tidied the cramped apartment. She set a proper pot of English tea carefully on the small table next to her reading chair. Amy dropped into the chair, letting her gaze travel around the room. She loved it all - the second-hand furniture, the prints she had framed herself, the photos of family and friends and places she had been scattered among the books. She marveled at a simple, yet extraordinarily wonderful feeling.

"There's no place like home, Auntie Em," she murmured, lifting her cup toward the family portrait on the mantle. Her mother's younger sister's name was Emily.

Amy opened the tote resting next to the chair and removed an old book bristling with color post-it tabs. She stroked the worn leather cover for a moment before finding her place. Curling her legs beneath her, Amy sipped her tea, and began to read.

Excerpt from the Chronicle of Rebecca Horne, the fifteenth day of the ninth month, in the year of Our Lord 996

I have arrived in Marathonas, the southwestern port of the island of Aiyina. I am nearly too tired to write this, except that such a concentrated task eases the sensations I still feel from that damned boat. I have never been a sailor, God knows, but surely even Charon's ferry would have been more comfortable than that twice-damned fishing boat. And the price I paid for my passage! Crossing the River Styx could not be so dear, though I could easily believe my captain to be a denizen of the Underworld. The only thing that smelled worse than the triple-damned boat was him.

I have found lodging. Though there are no public accommodations in this small fishing village, Mother Church is my innkeeper. At least for a little while. I have persuaded the good Father that I can be of service. Though he took little note of my modest skills with carpentry or husbandry, his eyes lit up at the discovery that I am a learned man. I imagine that there are no scholars in this small community of fishermen, farmers and shepherds with whom he can discuss the theological mysteries. And in Latin, no less.

Is it a sin to tell this venerable soul that I am in the employ of a noble and wealthy patron who wishes for me to study the ancient civilizations of Greece? If so, I must seek God's absolution without intercession, since there is no confessor now for me.

I must proceed carefully. A stranger in these parts is unusual enough. A stranger seeking other strangers ... Well, a church, like an inn, is a focal point of a town. Perhaps, information about the Lady Rebecca and her strange companion will come to me.

My small chamber is comfortable enough. And there is a warm breeze that comes through my open window, rich with the scent of salt and crepe myrtle. Still, I cannot stop my thoughts from returning to colder climes and bygone days. This time of year, the air at home would be crisp and bright and full of the crackle of leaves trampled underfoot. The days would shorten as the harvest was gathered from the fields. And when the night came, I would settle myself in the Library with my research, or in the common room with my brethren and learn the lessons of my elders. Or simply sit at fireside, enraptured by the tales of the Others. Those tales! Of heroes and villains, valor and treachery, courage and cowardice. How I longed to play a part, however small, in those wonderful stories that wind through the ages like a neverending chain, binding us to Them, and Them to us.

But a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.

Even as I write this, I wonder if someone will ever read my humble story. Will they, unlike poor, murdered Mathias, see beyond my mark, to the uncertain and unworthy man appointed to this most important task? If only I had someone to talk to ...

Amy lifted the book closer to the light. James had struck out the next and last part of this passage. She carefully scraped the edge of her fingernail over the faded ink. She blew away little black flakes, and tilted the book into the light again.

... for I am lonely and I am far from home.

Amy swallowed cold tea, marked her place, and set the little book on the table. She sat in her soft chair for a while, then reached to turn off the light before settling in her bed.

CHAPTER FIVE

Duncan checked his watch for the third time in five minutes. "Amanda!" he called, exasperated. "We're going to be late!" He muttered under his breath and strode to the briefcase on the table, checked its contents (also for the third time), and strode back to his starting point. "Amanda!" he called again, before resuming his trek.

Methos yawned loudly and rustled his newspaper.

MacLeod stopped pacing. He looked down in irritation at the old man sprawled full-length on the couch, a cup of coffee balanced on a saucer on his chest. "Careful with that coffee. I had to put a damage deposit down to book this suite, y'know," he said. The Hotel Versailles had forgiven MacLeod for the damage to the last suite he had rented ... for a price. He looked at his watch again. "Amanda! It's almost 8 o'clock!"

Methos clucked his tongue.

Mac rounded on him. "What?!" he demanded, venting some of his nervous tension on the recumbent man.

"A woman will be ready when she is ready. It is impossible to accelerate the process by pointing out the time." Methos tucked back into the news. "One would have thought that one would have learned that in one's four centuries," he muttered.

"Is that so, Methos?" Mac countered. "I should write that down." He patted his pockets, looking for a pen. "The Accumulated Wisdom of a Really Old Guy, Platitude Number Six Hundred and Fift - "

Methos lowered the newspaper when Mac fell silent. He followed the Highlander's open-mouthed gaze. His own jaw dropped.

"Well, boys, what do you think?" Amanda purred. She posed in the doorway for maximum effect.

"Simply amazing, Amanda," Methos said, eying her from top to toe.

"Thank you, kind sir," she replied, preening shamelessly.

"You look absolutely ...," Methos struggled for the right word, "...frightful."

"I was going for frumpy," Amanda replied, with a pout.

"That, too," he agreed.

She walked to the still speechless MacLeod. Hands on hips, she twirled before him. "Well, Duncan?"

MacLeod swallowed. The illusion was perfect. If he was able to pass Amanda on the street without setting off his Immortal radar, he wouldn't have recognized her. Her curvaceous figure had disappeared. The woman standing before him was flat on top and wide at the bottom. She seemed shorter, too. Salt and pepper hair was wound in a knot at the nape of her neck. Owlish glasses, slightly tinted, hid Amanda's large eyes. Her usually luminous complexion was dulled. The plain skirt and blouse, together with the sensible shoes, completed the picture of a plump, no-nonsense, fiftyish woman. One who didn't hold with feminine frippery.

Mac was impressed and showed it. He bowed, taking her hand in his. Bringing it to his lips, he noticed that Amanda's short fingernails were unpolished and ragged at the tips. He was touched. She had sacrificed her manicure for him! He kissed her hand tenderly. "A pleasure to meet you, Madame ...?"

"Miss," she corrected primly. "I was thinking 'Hathaway'".

Methos snorted. He dropped the newspaper on the floor and stood, stretching. "A little obvious, isn't it?"

"This is Paris, Methos," she retorted, smoothing the skirt over her hips, "not Poughkeepsie".

"Why the disguise?" Methos asked, curious.

"I'm supposed to be Duncan's personal assistant. I have to look the part, don't I?" Amanda replied, without meeting his eyes. She fussed with the collar of her blouse.

Methos eyed her suspiciously. Before he could follow up, MacLeod pulled him aside.

Mac pitched his voice low. "What's obvious?"

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Oh, Duncan! You are so clueless!" She walked to the table and riffled through her handbag.

Mac was perplexed. "I don't get it," he said to Methos.

"Obviously." Methos smirked. "Now, who's not up on pop culture?" After a moment, he relented. "60's sitcom character?" he hinted. Mac still looked blank. "Never mind." Methos turned back to Amanda, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Unlike the Boy Scout here, our guy could be a Parisian couch potato, hopelessly addicted to classic American TV."

"All right, all right." She cocked her head, giving him a cool look. "So, you name me."

Mac checked his watch again. "The christening will have to wait till we're on the road! Come on, both of you!" He scooped up the briefcase and shooed his companions out the door. Mac sucked in a big breath as Amanda's padded rear brushed against him in passing.

On the way to the parking garage, Mac was silent as Amanda and Methos continued to argue over a suitable name, discarding one suggestion after the other. He tried not to stare at the Immortal woman's chest as he held the passenger door of the Mercedes for her. As Mac slid behind the wheel, Methos sprawled on the back seat. His companions' debate over names went on through several traffic lights. All the while, Mac was acutely conscious of the warmth of Amanda's thigh pressed against his, as she talked over her shoulder. MacLeod kept both hands on the wheel and resisted the impulse to reach over and caress her knee. It took a few minutes for his brain to figure out what his body was telling him. The realization surprised him so much he nearly missed the turn on to the Champs Elysee.

Mac was turned on. A lot. What was up with that? He was four hundred and eleven years old, for Chrissake, not some hormone-crazed teenager. Besides, he and Amanda had made love only last night. He stole a glance at the gray head bobbing animatedly, the plain white blouse concealing the bound breasts and padded waist, the sturdy shoes. While Mac truly believed that the essential beauty of a woman was undimmed by age, there was something else going on here ... something more ... visceral. As he weaved expertly in and out of the Parisian morning traffic, Mac found himself humming. Brown paper packages tied up with string, these are a few of my ...

It didn't take the insight of Sean Burns to connect the subconscious dots. Under the makeup, the dreary clothes, the bindings and the padding awaited the lush body of his lover. Mac was looking forward to an exclusive unveiling. First, he'd start with those sensible ... He stopped that line of thought with difficulty. Now was not the time, nor the place, he reminded himself sternly, with a final desirous glance at the woman beside him. Mac licked his dry lips, and thought of England.

As he pulled into the Rue de Rivoli, Mac's libido was once more under control and Amanda's metamorphosis was complete. In the clipped tones of a proper British secretary, she reached out her hand to Methos. "Elizabeth Latham, personal assistant to Mr. MacLeod." She shook his hand briskly.

"Dr. Adam Pierson, over-credentialed geek. Damn glad to meet you." Methos had undergone his own transformation. He had retreated into his oversize shirt and jacket like a turtle into its shell. Using only posture and tone of voice, he morphed into his underfed, mild-mannered, post-graduate persona with enviable ease. "Drop me on the next corner, Mac."

MacLeod pulled smoothly up to the sidewalk. "Remember, number 112."

"Yes, Mum," Methos mumbled.

Mac ignored the sarcasm. "And don't forget to give us thirty minutes to get acquainted."

"Right," Methos said, crisply. "We'd better synchronize our watches."

Mac shot his wrist out of the cuff. "I have 8:32."

"Quarter past a freckle," Amanda giggled, holding out her bare wrist.

"Half past a hair," Methos chimed in.

Mac looked up from his watch into their grinning faces.

"Gotcha!" Methos said.

"Lighten up, MacLeod!" Amanda said. "This is supposed to be fun!"

"Fun!" Mac exploded. "Fun!! We're about to break into the Louvre's confidential files!"

"Exactly!" Amanda crowed. Lust surged through Duncan as she leaned in and kissed his nose. She smiled impishly up at him. "And it was your idea!"

So it was. Mac's lips twitched, but he refused to smile. He jerked his head toward Methos. "Out, ye Sassenach!" he ordered, in mock outrage.

Methos slid on the leather seat, and opened the door. He reached for his pack. "Good luck, kids," he said, slamming the door. Mac watched him shoulder the pack and saunter around the corner, before putting the car in gear and easing back into traffic. By the time he pulled into the parking garage at the museum, it was 8:45. He eased the Mercedes into an available space, and turned off the engine.

"Ready, Miss Latham?"

Amanda gave him a haughty look. "I'm always ready, Mr. MacLeod," she said cooly, then spoiled the effect by giggling.

Mac rolled his eyes. The Geek, the Thief and her Lover invade the Louvre. What the hell had he been thinking?! He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and wiped sweaty palms on the legs of his trousers. He'd almost rather face an Immortal challenge than this.

They avoided the crush of tourists already queuing up under the glass pyramid that framed the main entrance. At the administration offices, uniformed guards efficiently confirmed their appointment and directed them down a long hall. Mac, clipping his visitor's badge to his lapel, had begun to relax a little, until he heard Amanda's deep, heartfelt sigh of relief. He knew then, with sudden crystal clarity, that there was more to Amanda's disguise than her stated purpose of blending in. The butterflies returned to his stomach in full force.

"Amanda, what aren't you telling me?" he whispered.

"Nothing, Duncan," she whispered back, all wide-eyed innocence. "Nothing at all." And knocked briskly on the door to Room 112.

Twenty minutes later, ensconced in plush leather armchairs, they watched silently as Albert Durer, director emeritus of Authentications and Restorations, peered through a large magnifying glass poised over the photographs on his desk. He emitted a happy exclamation, the latest in a series since he had begun his perusal.

"Remarkable. Simply remarkable." Durer leaned back in his chair and held one 8 by 10 photo closer to his face. "An extraordinary piece."

MacLeod agreed. "It is a beautiful work of art."

"It's much more than that, young man." Durer leaned eagerly over the other photographs spread across the surface of his desk. "It is a window into the past." He traced the outline of a stone figure in one of the photographs with a gnarled finger. Durer went on, animatedly. "Look at the fine detail here on the face... and here..." The scholar went on at some length about the resemblance to other statue-menhir found in the Rhine River Valley.

Amanda, sitting primly in a chair beside MacLeod, legs crossed demurely at the ankles, stifled a yawn. She pretended interest in the old man's lecture while she discreetly surveyed Durer's office. The perks of being senior in the Archaeology department of the Louvre were evident in his decor. Large glass cases came halfway up the walls, displaying an eclectic assortment of pottery, carved implements and the writings of long-dead cultures. Elaborately carved and painted tribal masks surrounded a rather austere modern clock on the wall beside her. Bronze weaponry caught the morning sun on the opposite wall, near where Duncan sat.

Durer chuckled. "Ah. I would prattle on all day, if you would permit me. But, you must forgive an old man his enthusiasms. Statue-menhir of this quality are so seldom found in this condition."

"Yes, sir. I know." Mac shifted uncomfortably. Durer's reaction to the photographs Methos had taken in the Austrian hidden cave mirrored Mac's own. A wave of guilt washed over him. Lying to this true scholar did not sit well. The statuettes in the pictures had not, in fact, survived the cave-in last Spring. He reminded himself that the deception was harmless and in the service of a good cause. It didn't help much.

Amanda sensed Duncan's unease. She entered the conversation for the first time since being introduced. "Mr. MacLeod's client is aware of the rarity of the find, M. Durer," she said, with a slightly reproving air.

"Yes, yes, of course, Madamoiselle Latham." Durer removed the half-glasses perched on his nose. He peered across his desk at MacLeod. "What you seek is not without precedent," he leaned his elbows on the desk. "But, M. MacLeod, may I speak freely?"

"Of course, M. Durer."

Durer emitted a massive sigh. He leaned back and folded his hands over his rather ample belly. "The preservation of the past is in my blood, M'sieu. My father was curator here before me. I, myself, have been with the Musee for over fifty years." He nodded slowly. "Fifty years." He paused. "To a young man like yourself, that is an eternity." He snorted. "But it seems like only yesterday to me." He blinked slowly, his face assuming a faraway expression. "Yesterday ..." He drifted into silence.

"M. Durer?"

Durer focused on Duncan again. "Where was I? Oh, yes, I was speaking of my father ..." He sat up straighter. "It was during the war. My father knew the Germans would loot the Musee and ship our treasures away, out of the country." He steepled his fingers together. "The government had surrendered; the army had retreated. The Germans were coming. Nothing could stop them. It was inevitable." He paused.

Durer's words catapulted Duncan back in time to those grim days when the German war machine seemed indomitable. Nations fell, one by one, like dominoes, into darkness. But even then, an occasional ray of light broke through the gloom. "It was inevitable," Mac replied, "but the treasures did not have to be here when the Germans arrived."

"Exactly!" Durer slapped his hand on the desk. "They were not here. My father moved them - all of them, the entire collection." He frowned in thought. "Somehow."

"They borrowed every vehicle they could find - trucks, vans, lorries - no matter how dilapidated, from the neighboring shops," Mac said, absently. "The Mona Lisa was packed into a butcher's van in a crate marked 'boeuf'; the Venus de Milo a hearse. The line of vehicles stretched from the Rue de Rivoli all the way to the Place de la Concorde." Mac was lost in memory. "If it had an engine and wheels, they pressed it into service. Anyone that could drive a truck was drafted. I remember -" Amanda's discreet kick in the shin brought him to his senses.

Durer looked surprised. "M'sieu ...?"

"I remember reading about it in a book about the French Resistance," Mac said hastily, with a sidewise glance at Amanda. He had driven the baker's lorry carrying several Rembrandts, working with Georges Dalou's little band of saboteurs and other cells in one of the most public escapades of the Resistance. He remembered the fussy little curator who had supervised the loading, ordering about beefy men twice his size with impunity. He looked more closely at Durer. Yes, he could see the resemblance, though the son was older now than the father had been. "The mission was a great success. At times, the trucks were only hours ahead of the Boche, but they saved them all."

Durer leaned in over the desk, his eyes no longer dreamy. "Then, you know that the treasures survived the war, hidden away in private homes and chateaux all over the countryside." At Mac's nod, he continued. "And all of it was returned by our citizens to the Musee when the war was over. All of it." He drew himself up proudly. "It was understood without question. The treasures belonged to the people. Not just to France, but tout le monde." His expression sharpened, banishing any hint of the absent old man, as Albert Durer honed his point to a razor edge. "All the world." He tapped one of the cave photographs with his finger. "As do these." Durer paused to let his message sink in.

"Perhaps, M. MacLeod, your client would reconsider?"

If the statue-menhir still existed, MacLeod would have turned them over to the old man without hesitation, written a sizable check for the endowment, and thanked him for the privilege. As it was, Mac could only smile apologetically and perpetuate the fiction.

"Sir, if it was in my power, these artifacts would be preserved and studied and shared with the world." Mac spread his hands in a placating gesture. "But, unfortunately, it is beyond my control."

"But the scholarship, M'sieu! I know you understand. Surely you could convince your client ...?"

MacLeod cleared his throat. "Persuading my client to authenticate the age of the artifacts was a hard-won victory for me, M. Durer. And that, only if you can assure us of the very highest level of security. And privacy."

"But..."

MacLeod cleared his throat. "My client is quite adamant on the subject. Authentication of age only."

Durer sighed in resignation. "Ca va." He looked up toward the ceiling. "I tried, Papa." He cleared his throat and continued. "Your client may be assured of the total cooperation of my department, if not my personal approval. While the artifacts are here, they will be protected by a state-of-the-art security system, and 24-hour armed guard ..."

Amanda sat up straighter. Finally, the conversation was getting interesting. She opened the notebook on her lap, and began writing. This was more like it! The mark explaining the security precautions (albeit rather generally) while the thief openly took notes. She glanced fondly at the man beside her. With Duncan's golden reputation in the antiquities trade and his squeaky clean record, all they had to do was make an appointment. What a partner he'd make! She tugged discreetly at the padding that was riding up at her waist as she wrote. The discomfort was worth it. Amanda could never walk through the front door of the Louvre as herself. Not after that little ... incident ... last year. She wrinkled her nose. Oh well, one more decade and they will have forgotten all about that.

Duncan glanced surreptitiously at his watch. "M. Durer, the security precautions for the artifacts sound quite adequate. But my client believes that it is equally important to protect his privacy. What assurance can you give me that his anonymity will be preserved?"

"His identity will be kept in the strictest confidence, I assure you, young man. We have handled such requests for many, shall we say, 'patrons', who require the highest level of discretion. Their privacy is fiercely guarded." He gestured at the computer. "Our records are impenetrable without proper authorization and passwords."

"But you must have many people working here who have just such authorization, M'sieu." Amanda said, in a tone of disbelief.

"If an unauthorized person, even one of our employees, were to access the computer files, Mademoiselle Latham, I assure you they would still not discover the name of your client."

Amanda looked skeptical.

"You see, none of the names of our confidential patrons are in the computer." He smiled. "Just their number."

"A number?"

"A code assigned to a person or entity who does not wish his identity to be known." He turned up a hand. "And the key to the code is not kept in the computer."

"Then where is the key to the code kept, M'sieu?"

"Now that is a secret, my dear lady." His eyes twinkled. "Let us just say there is safety in numbers."

"Of course." Amanda demurred.

"And you, M. MacLeod, are you satis -"

Durer was interrupted by a knock at the door, which opened immediately thereafter.

Methos stuck his head into the room. "Oh, I say." He looked at the door and back at the occupants of the room in confusion. "I seem to be lost. Perhaps you could tell me where to find the director of Medieval Arts?"

Durer answered impatiently. "His office is on the second floor."

"And the stairs are ...?" Methos pointed hesitantly to his left, and then to his right.

Durer stood. "The stairs are on the right. Up one level, take a right and he is at the end of the hall."

Methos pointed to his right. "This way?"

"No, no," Durer said, exasperated, walking to the door. "On the right ... er, your left. That is ... " He reached the door and pointed down the hallway.

Adam frowned. "Then up one flight, take a left, and at the end of the hall."

"No, take a right."

Adam pointed to his left again.

"No, take the right after you arrive at the second level." Durer pointed to the right again. "Down this hall to the stairs, up one level, take a right, and down the hall."

Adam repeated the directions properly, to Durer's obvious relief. "Thanks ever so much. I've been wandering about forever looking for his office." He held out an object in his right hand. "I've been trying to return this to him."

Durer gasped. "What are you doing with the Archimedes Palimpsest?!"

"A spot of research on the old boy. Part of an article I'm writing for the British Museum," Adam began.

"But the Palimpsest is priceless!"

"I know!" Adam agreed. He held the manuscript out admiringly. "I never believed that I would have a chance to look at it, much less read it!"

"You touched the pages?! With your bare hands?!" Durer visibly paled. "Wh-who are you?"

Methos tucked the book high under one arm and extended his hand. "Dr. Adam Pierson."

Durer gasped again. Ignoring Adam's outstretched hand, he pulled the white linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and used it to take the book from Adam. His hand shook.

"Are you all right, M. Durer?" Duncan asked, concerned.

"Yes, yes, M. MacLeod', he replied, wiping his brow with his other hand. "Will you excuse me for a few minutes, M'sieu, Mademoiselle, while I escort this young man upstairs?" He paused, a flush spreading up his neck to his pale cheeks. "I assure you, sir, that this ... this ... irregularity ... is not typical of the Musee. I will return directly." He ushered Methos out the door and pulled it shut firmly behind him. Amanda and Duncan heard him remonstrating with Adam all the way down the hallway.

Amanda and Duncan leaped from their chairs and dashed around opposite sides of the desk. He looked at his watch. "Methos guaranteed us fifteen minutes." Mac quickly examined the computer and the area around it, taking care that he put everything back where he found it. No computer system was impenetrable. Even if the name of the collector wasn't in the system, maybe there would be some reference to help identify him or her. If he could just find the password ...

Amanda sat down in the chair Durer had vacated. She leaned back, closing her eyes, ignoring Mac's frantic search. Mac moved on to the drawers on the left side of the desk.

"Don't let me disturb your nap," he said.

"Hush, Duncan, I'm thinking." She fixed her gaze on the wall beyond where she had been sitting. The key was in this room. She was sure of it. She had caught Durer's "tell" when she asked him where the codes were kept. Amanda rose slowly and approached the wall of masks. She recalled Durer's exact words. Let us just say there is safety in numbers.

Mac struck out on the drawers. Most people couldn't remember a password that changed frequently. They wrote it down and kept it near the computer for convenience. Surely a man of Durer's age wouldn't commit it to memory. Of course, Mac had learned, in his very short acquaintance, that Albert Durer was not "most people". Mac began examining the underside of every item on Durer's desk.. He picked up a photo cube containing snapshots of what were, presumably, grandchildren. Scrawled on a yellow post-it note stuck to the bottom was one word: "MacGuffin".

"I think I found the password," he called, quietly.

"You won't need it," Amanda replied. She reached up to the clock hanging amid the tribal masks. It was ultra-modern in design, chrome-edged, out of keeping with the rest of the office. A single "12" adorned the face. As Duncan watched, she pressed the numerals firmly. A hidden panel in the wall, covered by one of the masks, popped open. From his vantage at the desk, Mac could just make out the combination dial of a small safe.

By the time he reached her, the door to the safe was open and Amanda was reaching inside. Mac dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "You know, you really are amazing," he murmured into her gray hair.

She pulled out a small leatherbound book which she passed over her shoulder to MacLeod. He opened it eagerly. "This must be it. There are numbers, names, artifacts ..." He didn't notice Amanda reach into the safe again as he riffled through the pages. Mac found the entry. It was dated nine months ago. He jotted the information in a small notepad and stuffed it back in the breast pocket of his suit. He looked at his watch. "Time's up. You'd better put this back ...What are -? Amanda!"

Amanda was admiring her reflection in the glass front of a cabinet. A heavy gold necklace, set with cabochons of green and red stones, gleamed against the collar of the plain white blouse.

"Isn't it beautiful? These rubies and emeralds must be forty carats apiece!"

"Amanda." Mac said. "We don't have time for this." He checked his watch again. "It's been twenty minutes!"

"You're no fun anymore, Duncan," Amanda complained, reaching around to the clasp. She frowned, tugging at the necklace. "It's stuck!"

"Knock it off, Amanda." Mac said, tiredly. "You are not going to 'accidentally' steal that necklace."

"No, it's really stuck," she said, as she fumbled at the back of her neck.

Mac dropped the book back into the safe. "Let me try."

Amanda obliged, turning her back to him.

Mac struggled with the unfamiliar mechanism. "How does this thing work?" he said in frustration.

"Pinch the two sides of the clasp together and then pull."

"It's not working," Mac muttered as he fiddled with the clasp. "I can't believe you did this!"

"It's not my fault the clasp is broken!" she said, hotly.

"It's old, Amanda! You should have thought of that before you tried it on." Mac threw up his hands. "It's really stuck!"

"I told you that already!" Amanda started on the necklace again. "What are we going to do?"

"Well, I could take your head. Then, we could get it off ..." He pushed her hands away and worked at the clasp again.

"Will you shut up?!" Amanda hissed over her shoulder.

"Hold still!" Mac shot back. "And don't tell me to shut up!"

Suddenly, there was a voice outside the door. "Thank you, M. Durer. Again, I am so sorry for the mixup." It was Methos, loud and clear. "Now, which way is the exit?" Durer's voice was muffled by the door. "Thank you, M'sieu," Methos sang out, "have a jolly good day!"

Amanda shut the safe door carefully and spun the combination dial. She snapped the mask panel shut. The "12" on the clock popped back out to its usual position. They scrambled to their chairs a moment before the door opened. Duncan remained standing, blocking Durer's view of Amanda, as she worked the necklace up, then under the collar of her blouse.

"Is everything all right, M. Durer?" Duncan inquired, a bit out of breath.

"Yes, yes." He sat down heavily in his chair. "I do apologize for the interruption." He smiled weakly. "Where were we?"

"Actually, I think we have covered the situation, M'sieu," Mac said, gathering up the photographs of the statue-menhir and returning them to his briefcase. "But before we leave, I wonder if you would be so kind as to show me your collection." He gestured to the bronze weapons on display on the wall beside him. He pointed. "That short sword is particularly fine. Etruscan, isn't it?"

Durer was delighted. "Ah, I see you know edged weapons, M. MacLeod."

"Un peu," Mac said modestly, gesturing with forefinger and thumb.

Durer reached up to remove the sword. Behind his back, Mac mouthed to Amanda, "Put ... It ... Back."

"I'm ... Try ... Ing," she mouthed back, wrestling with the necklace.

Mac spent what did, indeed, seem like an eternity diverting Durer. He gushed over every sword, dagger and axe as loudly and effusively as he dared, but he was rapidly running out of steam.

"Mr. MacLeod?"

MacLeod turned. "Yes, Miss Latham?"

Amanda handed him his briefcase. "You will be late for your next appointment if we do not leave now."

"Right." Mac extended his hand to Durer. "Thank you, sir, for your time and your courtesies," he said. "I will let you know my client's decision as soon as possible. Au revoir."

"Most welcome, most welcome." Durer shook Amanda's hand at the door. "I look forward to hearing from you. Au revoir."

Duncan exhaled hugely as the door closed behind them. He took Amanda's arm and walked briskly to the exit where they surrendered their visitors' badges to security. Mac noted that Adam Pierson had signed out a half hour ago.

Outside the entrance, Duncan took her arm again and drew Amanda close as they walked down the steps. "Did you put it back?"

"Of course I did," she insisted.

"You're sure?"

Amanda pulled away from him, offended. Holding her hands out at her sides, she performed a slow pirouette on the toe of one sensible shoe. Then, placing hands on ample hips, she scowled at him. "Do you want to search me?"

"Yes, I do," Mac growled. He pulled her close and nuzzled her ear. "A very slow, very thorough strip search, Miss Latham."

Amanda shivered. "Why, Mr. MacLeod! I do believe that constitutes sexual harassment!"

"So sue me," Mac said, tucking a strand of gray hair behind one small ear, before nibbling on it. "I have lots of money."

"Ooohh," Amanda nearly swooned in his arms, "I love when you talk sexy."

Methos, outside the door of the suite at the Hotel Versailles, sensed the Immortal signatures of MacLeod and Amanda inside. He heaved a mental sigh of relief. So the Amazing Amanda had behaved herself after all. He juggled the paper bags in his arms and used his key card to let himself in.

"So, how'd it go?" Methos asked, before realizing the living room was empty. He crossed to the kitchenette, stumbling over one sensible shoe in his path, and dropped the bags on the table. He stared at the door to Amanda and Mac's bedroom and the "Do Not Disturb" sign dangling from the knob, then glanced at the clock on the wall. Eleven-thirty in the morning! Well, he thought, answering his own question, it must have gone very well. Very well, indeed.

He reached into a bag, and wearing a woebegone expression, bit into a still-warm croissant.

CHAPTER SIX

"Joe," Mac said, sotto voce, "what's between the sheets?"

"You and Amanda, I hear," Joe quipped, as he pulled the lever of the beer tap toward him.

"Very funny." Mac gestured with a thumb over his shoulder toward the end of the bar. "Customer."

Joe eyed the attractive, forty-ish woman sitting in the far corner. "Oh." Joe frowned in concentration. "Equal parts Cointreau, brandy, rum, and a twist of lemon." As Mac reached overhead for a glass, Joe added, eyes twinkling, "That is, if she meant the drink."

Mac recited the formula under his breath as he mixed the concoction carefully. Joe watched as he presented one "Between the Sheets" cocktail to the lady, with a flourish. Mac held his breath while she took a sip. At her appreciative nod, the Scot let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, then leaned on the bar chatting with the woman and her friend for a few minutes. Mac rejoined Joe, easily hoisting a tray loaded with pitchers of beer and glasses to the long table by the window. Joe watched, amused, as the ladies at the bar leaned back to check him out.

It was an unusually large crowd for a Wednesday afternoon at Le Blues Bar. But a flat tire had disabled a tour bus loaded with Americans practically on Joe's doorstep. MacLeod had dropped in five minutes after the onslaught, stepping immediately behind the bar to back up the beleaguered Joe. The two of them hustled companionably for an hour keeping up with the drinks orders. When the tourists, including Mac's admirers, filed out, Joe set a tumbler of Glenmorangie in front of the Highlander. He sat down heavily on the stool behind the counter. He thanked MacLeod, as he raised his own cup of coffee.

Mac waved his thanks away, and sipped his drink. "Where is Maurice today?" he asked.

"Wife's birthday," Joe explained.

"What is it - her twelfth?" Mac said, sardonically.

"Twenty-sixth." Joe smiled. "And you are on thin ice there, my friend."

Mac didn't argue the point. He popped a pretzel into his mouth. "Oh, I almost forgot." He pulled crumpled bills out of the pocket of his jeans. "Been a while since I worked for tips." He tried to give the money to Joe, but the Watcher shook his head.

"You keep it." As Mac demurred, Joe said, "Then, put it in the poor box at St. Julien's."

"OK." Mac folded the bills neatly before returning them to his pocket. He looked at his watch. "Amanda's meeting me here later. We'll drop it off on our way to the movies." He drank more whiskey. "'Between the Sheets', eh? New one?"

"It's been around a while," Joe said, eyes twinkling. "It's just that you're a little 'Old-fashioned'."

Mac groaned. He'd thought Methos' puns were bad.

Joe was undeterred. "Good thing I was nearby. What if she'd asked for a 'Purple Hooter'? "Or a 'Trip to Paradise'?" Joe said. "Or the ever popular 'Stinger'."

"I'm just glad Amanda wasn't here," Mac muttered, only half-joking.

"Actually, "Between the Sheets" is a decent drink. Wanna try one?"

Mac wrinkled his nose. "I'll stick with Scotch."

"I can do Scotch. Let's see ... you got your classic 'Rob Roy'. Or the 'Bobby Burns'. 'Heather Mist'," Joe said, enthusiastically. "I know! How 'bout a 'Hoot Mon'?" His brogue was terrible.

"Abominations, all." Mac shuddered. "And a waste of good Scotch whiskey."

But Joe was just getting warmed up. "Ya gotta love the names, though! Harvey Wallbanger. Harvey Cowpuncher. That's a Wallbanger with milk," he added, helpfully. "'Manhattan ... Parisian ... Oklahoman Breeze? Gibson ... Tempest ... Old Pal ..."

"Enough, Joe," Mac protested, "I'm impressed already."

"... and my all-time personal favorite, the ever-elegant 'Duck Fart'."

"You're making that up!" Mac said, accusingly.

"No, I'm not!" Joe rummaged behind the counter. "I have a Bartender's Guide here, somewhere," he muttered. "It's one part ..."

"OK, OK, I believe you!" Mac held up his hands in surrender. "I really don't want to know what's in that one."

"You may know twenty-odd languages, MacLeod, and antiques and swords and every martial art on the planet," Joe tapped his chest proudly. "But I am a graduate of the Chicago Institute of Mixology."

"Okay, Professor," Mac held out his empty glass, "how 'bout a refill?" He watched with affection as his friend poured the single malt. The banter felt good. Mac hadn't seen Joe since he left the chateau last week. "How's Amy?"

"Good. We talked this morning." Joe munched a pretzel of his own. "She wrapped up Guerre's summer class the other day."

"That'll look good on her resume."

"Yeah, I guess. She liked it, anyway." Joe stroked his beard with a thoughtful expression. "She's thinking of moving to the States next year, maybe teaching at your University."

Mac smiled. He heartily approved. It would be good for Joe and Amy to be near each other. His friend wasn't getting any younger.

"She's started working again on that old Greek Chronicle of Rebecca's." Joe smiled. "I take that as a good sign."

"How's that going?" Mac said, intrigued. Joe had mentioned several weeks ago that Amy was working on an old volume of Rebecca's Chronicle that had been lost among the Ramirez' histories. Mac tried, not for the first time, to imagine the sheer magnitude of the Watchers' collection of records. He wondered how many volumes it took to encapsulate an Immortal life. In his own case, that would be ... say, conservatively, one book a year ... over four hundred eleven years ... no, that wasn't right. The Watchers wouldn't have started his Chronicle until he was with Connor, say only three hundred and seventy-nine, not four hundred. But, still ...

Joe was talking. "... more than halfway now. She hadn't been working on it with all the excitement, but she's getting there." He looked grim. "She had the book with her that night. At the Library."

Mac had known Amanda's teacher at the relative end of her very long life. Rebecca Horne had been over four thousand years old when she died ten years ago. How much of that remarkable life had been chronicled? He whimsically pictured a teetering stack of books stretching, like Jacob's ladder, up, up into the clouds, maybe into heaven itself. For the first time, Mac felt a twinge of envy for Methos' alter ego. Adam Pierson had nearly unlimited access to the Watcher archives for over a decade. What he wouldn't give to read about Rebecca's life! Or Ramirez ... Darius ... Connor ...

"Have you read any of it?"

"Not much. Not since before she found Timothy." Joe explained. "I've been pretty busy mys-"

"What?!" Mac nearly spewed Scotch out his nose. "Timothy! What do you mean, Timothy?!" He grabbed a napkin off the bar and dabbed at his shirt.

Joe was astonished. "I didn't tell you?" He rubbed his beard, thinking hard. In the hospital on the night of the fire, Amy had told him she had found Timothy of Corinth. With everything that had happened since, Joe had forgotten about it. "I didn't tell you," he said, chagrined. "Christ, Mac, I'm sorry. It slipped my mind." He shook his head. "Don't ever get old, man. It's a bitch."

"Never mind that, Joe! Who was he? What happened? How did he meet Rebecca? What - ?"

"I don't know." Joe said, apologetically. "I haven't talked to her about it since."

Mac ran a hand through his hair, his eyes dancing with excitement. "This is fantastic news! Fantastic!" He gulped the last of his drink. "Is she at home?"

"Y-es."

Mac slid off the stool. "Tell Amanda I'll see her at the hotel later."

"Wait, Mac!"

Mac turned back, impatient to be on his way.

"You can't ... Amy needs to finish ..." Joe cleared his throat. "Mac, it's a Chronicle. It belongs to the Watchers. Amy can't just turn it over to you." He held out his upturned hands. "I'll give you a copy of the full translation on disk when she's done."

"But, this is too important to wait!" Mac protested. "Methos can breeze through the Old Greek in no time." He checked his watch. If he hurried, he should be able to head off Methos before he left the suite.

"No, Mac. Adam's not a Watcher anymore." He looked earnestly at his friend. "Besides, it's Amy's baby." His tone was placating. "She'll be finished soon. I told you she's more than halfway."

"Joe, I need that Chronicle," Mac started to turn away.

Joe lunged across the bar and grabbed his sleeve. "No, Mac!" At the stubborn look that stole over the Scot's face, Joe's expression hardened. "It's her job!" he said, angrily.

Mac shook him off. "Dammit, Joe ..." His face was set. "You, of all people, should know how important this is. " He started for the door.

"I do, Mac. I really do." He took a breath. "But it's also important to my daughter."

Mac stopped.

Joe tried a different tack. "The next Millennium is still nine hundred years away, Mac. Amy and I aren't gonna be around then to get in your way."

Mac turned around slowly, an odd expression on his face. "Joe ..." he faltered and stopped. He stood there for a minute, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Besides," Joe said, wryly, "you can't leave me here to tell Amanda you stood her up. That's inhuman."

Mac returned to his stool. Joe poured him another drink. Mac took a swallow before speaking. "Nine hundred and eighty-nine years, give or take. I suppose a couple of weeks won't matter."

"Right," Joe said, relieved.

"This is great news, Joe, really great." Stop being an obsessive jerk, Mac told himself sternly. Sit here and talk to your good friend, do dinner and a movie with Amanda, and let ... it ... go. Rebecca's Chronicle can wait. He leveled his eyes at Joe. "I'm sorry," he said, earnestly.

Joe waved away the apology. "By the way, Timothy matched your description perfectly." At Mac's quizzical look, he continued, "Amy said he was very hairy and extremely filthy."

Mac forced a smile. It can wait. He willed the muscles in the back of his neck to relax. He leaned back on the stool. "Been there." He popped another pretzel in his mouth. He squinted in thought. "You know, I once went a year ... no, two ... without a bath." He regaled Joe with the story, and others, until Amanda showed up, laden with packages.

Methos quietly let himself into the suite. He was surprised to see MacLeod, clad only in black pajama bottoms, sitting upright on the couch. Except for the pool of light cast by the lamp on the table beside him, the suite was dark.

Mac looked up as he approached. "Hi."

"Hi, yourself." Methos shrugged out of his coat and laid it carefully across the back of the sofa. "You're up late."

"You too," Mac said.

"I ... bumped ... into someone I knew." With an inward smile, Methos made his way to the little refrigerator. He opened a bottle of beer, and took a swig. "How was the film?"

Mac shrugged. "OK."

Methos frowned. Mac was a film buff. Ask his opinion and you got a full review, including an informed take on the direction, editing, photography and production values, as well as the number of stars earned in his personal rating system. Methos looked down at the table. The translated verses from the hidden cave were spread out on the tabletop next to MacLeod. The pages, torn from a yellow legal pad, were getting a little ragged around the edges. Quel surprise.

Mac said, without preamble. "Did you know that Timothy of Corinth met Rebecca Horne somewhere in Greece in the year 996 A.D.?"

"No shit?!" Methos exclaimed, then lowered his voice as Mac gestured to the bedroom behind him. "So, Amy found him! Where? How? What happened?"

"I don't know." Mac related his earlier conversation with Joe. All of it.

Methos itched to get his hands on that Chronicle. He could just imagine what it took for Mac to sit here quietly. After all, this was merely an intellectual puzzle for him. But the younger man believed he had a destiny, to find and teach the future Millennial Champion. And Timothy of Corinth was his only link to that destiny.

"Bummer," he said, succinctly.

"Yeah," Mac replied. He scrubbed wearily at his face. "I was a real asshole at Joe's," he said, scowling.

"True," Methos said, absently. "But Joe is used to it." He ignored MacLeod's offended look. "I read some of it a few weeks ago. I didn't get very far, but Rebecca had just left Athens, heading south." He looked at MacLeod. "Amy may not be moving very fast, but it's a good translation."

"I'm sure it is. She's very talented," Mac said. He looked ruefully at the older man. "I keep reminding myself that patience is a virtue."

"... and all good things come to those who wait," Methos said, adding his own platitude. "It's not the end of the world, you know," he pointed out.

Mac gave him a sour look at his choice of words. "Yeah," he agreed He picked up one of the verses, twisting a corner of the paper between his fingers. "I know." He let out a breath. "It's good news. Hell, it's very good news. At least, there's a confirmed link between Rebecca and Timothy now. Even if I don't know what it is."

Methos eyed him, sympathetically. He shifted to another subject. "So, ... any reply to your letter?"

"Yep. It's been a real red letter day," Mac said, tersely. "It came while we were out. I'll get it." He rose from the couch and opened the briefcase on the table.

Methos watched him speculatively. The adventure at the Louvre had yielded up the name and address of the anonymous owner of the Ogham story staff. The Celtic artifact had been authenticated by the museum at the request of one Raul St. Claire. MacLeod had made discreet inquiries among the European art community. Over the last two decades, St. Claire had acquired an impressive and eclectic collection of art and antiquities, as well as a reputation as a recluse. He lived in an eighteenth-century Chateau in the Marne Valley, a few hours outside of Paris.

Amanda and Methos had weighed in on the approach with the elusive collector. Amanda advocated breaking and entering; Methos, the scholarly hat-in-hand appeal. In the end, MacLeod had taken his own straightforward route. Relying on the professional credentials that he had painstakingly acquired over the last twenty years of this life, Duncan MacLeod, appraiser, authenticator and dealer extraordinaire, consultant to Sotheby's, Christie's, Bonham's and several other high-end auction houses, had written politely to the collector, seeking an appointment to discuss an undisclosed business matter. That had been five days ago. Methos knew that MacLeod had been on tenterhooks waiting for an answer. But, judging by the Highlander's body language, the answer he had received wasn't the one he had hoped for.

Mac closed the briefcase, and handed Methos an envelope. The note, handwritten in French on expensive, cream-colored paper, was brief:

Dear M. MacLeod, I am the personal assistant to M. St. Claire. I presented your request to him today. He is aware of your credentials and your reputation for fair and courteous dealing. For that reason, he is assured that you will respect the decision and the privacy of an infirm old man in refusing your request for an appointment.

Yours truly,

Sarah Weiss

Methos sat on the couch. "Short and sweet."

"And to the point," Mac agreed.

"What's your next move?" Methos asked.

Mac shrugged eloquently. He sat in silence for a moment, then stirred. "How was the lecture?" he asked.

Methos rolled his eyes. The topic, Art and Functionality: In War, at War, was interesting, but the discussion and conclusions had been puerile. He sipped his drink before answering.

"Idiotic."

"You always say that," Mac complained. "I'm surprised that you bother."

Methos nodded in agreement. "It is getting harder and harder to sit there silently, grinding my teeth, while the talking heads drone on and the audience takes copious notes," he said, thinking back on the evening. At one point, he had nearly jumped to his feet to yell "It's a chamber pot, stupid!", before coming to his senses. It had been disconcerting, to say the least, when Martin Guerre, the moderator of the event, had directed the same remark (without the pejorative) to one of the panelists. But for Michele, the evening would have been a complete waste.

Michele, ma belle ... Methos stretched luxuriously. As he described the academic farce to MacLeod, the snatch of song played in the background of his mind. Michele Touissant, a fellow in the same doctorate program with Adam Pierson, had been awarded her degree a year earlier than his procrastinating alter ego. They had run into each other unexpectedly at the lecture hall. He had invited her to a bistro near campus, where they had talked over beer, catching up on the last few years, until the maitre d' threw them out. Then, to his delight, she had invited him to her flat for the unpretentious, uninhibited, good-natured sex that had been the hallmark of their friendship. Michele, ma belle ... sont les mots qui ...

Mac shot him a suspicious look.

"What?" Methos asked.

"You were humming," accused Mac.

"No, I wasn't," Methos said. He swallowed beer. "Besides, can't a guy hum if he feels like humming?"

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Feel like humming?" Mac said, exasperated.

"It was a hypothetical question, MacLeod." He took another gulp. An amorous evening with an energetic, inventive young woman; an icy cold beer; bedeviling MacLeod. Methos sighed. Life was good.

In the shadows behind them, Amanda listened from the doorway of the bedroom she shared with Duncan. She closed the door quietly, and went back to bed. She punched up her pillow and pulled the covers up to her chin.

She had told Duncan the direct approach would fail. She was older than him by eight hundred years. But would he listen? Of course not! Now he was stuck. She knew MacLeod wouldn't press St. Claire. He really was too polite. He had royally disliked deceiving the old man at the Louvre, even when they hadn't taken anything. There was no way he would go along with her recommendation now. Not after that letter. It pushed all of Duncan's white knight buttons.

Amanda tried in vain to go back to sleep. Despite her best efforts to clear her mind, she kept remembering a dream she'd had a few weeks ago. In it, Rebecca stood in the hall of the old Cloister, the way it had been when Amanda first knew it. Her teacher was resplendent in a gown that gleamed like moon-lit snow in the torchlight. The sword from the treasure chest - Lilith's sword - was in her outstretched hands, as the dream-Rebecca presented the weapon to a kneeling Duncan. MacLeod, his dark head bowed, was also bathed in light. Amanda's dream-self had watched from the shadows, the crystal she had stolen from the same chest clutched to her bosum. She had awakened with a pounding heart, as if she really had run in panic through the dark Labyrinth under the Cloister, twisting and turning, round and round, until she was thoroughly lost. Lost and alone. Though she'd had the dream weeks ago in Seacouver, the imagery still haunted her.

Rebecca Horne died eleven years ago. Lord knows, Amanda hadn't tried very hard to live up to Rebecca's standards while her teacher was alive. So, what was going on now? Amanda scowled in the dark. She honestly didn't know. As she had told Amy, she really wasn't a very deep thinker. She left that to MacLeod. He took the art of brooding to sublime heights. Or was that depths? Look at him now. Shaken by his recent close calls, he felt driven to find his successor Champion. Yet, he was restricted by the bounds of friendship, ethics and his innate ... what? Civility? Chivalry? Or just plain good manners? He felt guilty when he pushed and frustrated when he didn't.

Fortunately, Amanda wasn't afflicted with these handicaps.

After a while, she heard Duncan's muffled "Good night, Methos." Amanda felt a gentle tug on the covers, and the shifting of the mattress as he quietly climbed into bed.

"What time is it?" Amanda said, with a yawn.

"Four-thirty. I'm sorry, baby, I didn't mean to wake you," Mac said, spooning against her. He kissed a spot behind her ear. "Go back to sleep."

Amanda wriggled closer. She listened as his breathing slowed, and the arm encircling her waist grew heavy.

"Duncan?" she asked. No response. "Duncan?" she tried, a little louder.

"Mmmmm?" Mac murmured, sleepily.

"What will you do now that St. Claire said 'No'?"

"Dunno."

Minutes passed. Amanda whispered, "I want to help, all right?" No response. She nudged him gently. "All right?"

"Mmmmm," Mac muttered, before rolling on to his back. A low rumbling accompanied his every breath.

Satisfied, Amanda lay scheming in the dark. Paris had been getting just a teensy bit dull.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Duncan signed the card with a flourish, tucked it into the box and closed the lid. Ten minutes later, the package, sealed, stamped, and insured, was on its way to the States, guaranteed to arrive in time for the first wedding anniversary of Ellis Dantes and Shandra Devane. He smiled in satisfaction. The first edition of Sonnets from the Portuguese was in fine shape. MacLeod had taken very good care of it over the years. He wished he could see the expression on Ellis' face when he read the author's inscription. Mac counted on his fingers as he walked away from the American Express. That Duncan MacLeod would have been his great, great, great, great, great, great, great-grandfather.

Two more stops and his mission was complete. MacLeod whistled a jaunty aire, a bottle of champagne tucked under one arm, a brown paper tote swinging from the other. He walked briskly down the Boulevard St. Germain on his way back to the Hotel Versailles. Yesterday's conversation with Joe Dawson had been an eye-opener in more ways than one. The revelation that Timothy of Corinth had been chronicled by the Watchers in at least one volume in their pantheon was excellent news. More than he could have hoped for.

In fact, since the Spring, so much progress had been made. The discovery of the hidden cave writings and the statue-menhir, the translation of the verses that seemed to describe the Beneficent Immortals, the recovery of the hermit's name from Mac's well of Quickening memories and his artifacts from the Highland cave, the identification of the sword of Rebecca and Lilith, and the possible implication of Lilith as one of the Champions of the past. He had made more real progress in his search for his successor in the past two months than in the previous two years.

But Joe's words had been a stark reminder that the Champion search was only one part of Mac's life. A very important part, to be sure. But not his whole life.

He mounted the stairs into the Hotel Versailles with a light step. Outside the door of the suite, he paused. He felt the ring of Methos' unique persona and the second "generic" presence of Amanda. Maybe it was the particularly close quarters of the last several weeks, but it seemed easier to distinguish the older man's Buzz lately. Mac used his key card and let himself in. He shut the door with an elbow, and stood there a moment, amused.

Methos was sprawled on one end of the sofa, his bare feet tucked under Amanda's shapely derriere. A book and a bottle of beer rested on his chest. Amanda's feet were also bare. Brow furrowed in concentration, feet propped on the coffee table, she was painting her toenails a vivid shade of scarlet.

Methos peered up at him, squinting. "What?"

"Nothing," Mac said, in bemusement. He set his parcels down on the kitchenette counter and eased out of his coat. He popped the champagne into the fridge and grabbed a bottle of beer.

Amanda smiled sweetly, then wiggled her toes at him. "What do you think?"

"Beautiful," Mac said sincerely, not looking at her feet.

She looked quizzically at him, then flashed him one of those incandescent grins. "Was that champagne?"

"Uh-huh," Mac replied. He reached into the bag on the counter and extracted two gift-wrapped packages. He carried them and the beer to the sofa. He dropped the smaller, oblong parcel on Methos' chest. The larger, flatter box he presented to Amanda with a courtly bow.

Methos looked suspiciously at the parcel sitting on his chest. "What is it?"

"It's a present," Mac said, matter-of-factly.

"I love presents!" Amanda exclaimed, as she carefully capped the bottle of nail polish and set it aside. Her fingernails were also bright red and wet-looking. Using only the pads of her fingers, she put her box to her ear and shook it.

"What's the occasion?" Methos asked. He still hadn't touched his box.

"Who cares?" Amanda said. "It's a present!" She blew impatiently on the tips of her fingers.

"No occasion," Mac said, shrugging. "Can't a guy give a friend a gift without getting the third degree?" As the old man continued to stare at him, he threw his hands up in exasperation. "Oh, for God's sake! Call it a birthday present, then!"

"It's not my birthday," Methos muttered.

"Sure about that, are you?" Mac shot back, one eyebrow cocked in challenge.

Methos carefully set his beer on the coffee table, and marked his place before putting the book aside. With one final dubious glance at MacLeod, he untied the ribbon and ripped the bright paper away. He carefully lifted the lid and peeked inside.

"What is it?" Amanda asked, eagerly.

"I think it's my merit badge," Methos said, drily. He lifted out a gleaming Leatherman's pocket tool. He examined it closely, pulling out each blade and implement in turn. "Hey, it's got a bottle and a can opener! What will they think of next?" he marveled. He had teased Mac unmercifully about his perfect accessory for the well-dressed Boy Scout. Yet, just such a tool had saved both their lives last Spring.

"Thanks, Mac," Methos said, meaning it.

"You're welcome, Methos."

Amanda picked carefully at the ribbon on her gift. Duncan reached to help her, but she pulled the box away, out of his reach. "No, I want to do it." Reaching over her shoulder, Methos snipped the ribbon with a pair of tiny scissors. Amanda managed to remove the wrapping paper and lift the box lid with the heels of her hands. She carefully pushed the tissue aside, and plucked the top of a very small bikini out by the strap.

Methos emitted a piercing wolf whistle, then another as she lifted out the equally scant bottom.

Amanda looked a question at Duncan, her eyes shining.

"Aloha, Bora-Bora," he said, quietly.

"Actually, it's 'E t'ai ta te, Pora-Pora'," Methos began. "There is no 'b' in ..."

"Shut up, Methos," Amanda and Duncan said in unison, then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him thoroughly.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Joe Dawson, telephone cradled in the crook of his neck, opened the door to his suite. He ushered Amy in with a smile and continued his conversation.

"Nico, ... Nico, I'm not criticizing your department," Joe said, rolling his eyes. "It's just that this guy was documented at one time." He paused, listening, as he walked slowly back to the kitchen.

Amy's ears pricked up as she shut the door quietly.

"Hold on a minute." He covered the mouthpiece. "What was Timothy's Watcher's name?" he asked Amy.

"Mathias." Amy said. "In 996"

Joe repeated the information into the phone. "But, Anna, that doesn't explain why this particular Chronicle ...." Joe gestured to the pot of coffee on the counter, "... is missing."

Amy helped herself to a cup as she openly eavesdropped on the conference call. The Balkans Regional Headquarters in Athens should house the Chronicles of an Immortal from Corinth. Nico, she guessed, was Nicolas Dimakas, senior archivist. And Anna? According to the latest memo from home office, the new Division Chief heading up the region was Annamaria Belescone. Amy had never met her, regional directors being way, way up the ladder above a lowly department head under the auspices of the Research Division.

"Well, OK, I see your point, Anna. Humor an old man, though. Check again. Thanks. Adeeno." He hung up the phone and turned to his daughter. "Hey, kid."

"Hey, Joe." Amy kissed his cheek. "What was that all about?"

"The Balkan Archives. They still can't find a trace of Timothy of Corinth." Joe sat down on a stool across from his daughter. He scrubbed at his face in frustration.

"Wipe-out?" Amy asked, using the Watcher buzz word for the cataclysmic loss of their records. There were a lot of wipe-outs. More than they cared to admit to. War, fire, famine, flood, plague - all causes for the mass destruction of Chronicles. All over the world, none of their archives had been spared. Significant gaps in Rebecca's Chronicle, for instance, were attributed to outbreaks of the Black Death in the 13th and 14th centuries that had decimated the Watcher ranks, along with a third of the population of Europe. Allied bombers had taken out the Dresden cell in 1945.

"No. That's what bothers me." Joe stroked his beard. "Chronicles on other Immortals in that region spanning the last Millennium are intact. But nothing on our guy." He frowned. "I have half a mind to go to Athens and start looking myself."

"That would ruffle a few feathers, Joe," Amy cautioned.

"I know, I know," Joe said, wearily, "but what else can I do? They don't really have the manpower to spare for an Immortal who's been dead for centuries."

It was on the tip of Amy's tongue to ask why Joe felt this long-dead Immortal was so important. She curbed her curiosity. Joe had asked her not to ask weeks ago when he began his inquiry about Timothy of Corinth. It had something to do with MacLeod, but that was all she knew.

"Hmmm, I suppose there could be any number of explanations for the Chronicle to be missing." At Joe's questioning glance, she continued, "Timothy's records could have been transferred to another archive."

"Yeah, I suppose." Joe said. "But that should have been noted in Athens."

"The key words in that sentence being 'should have been'," Amy said, drily.

Joe snorted in agreement. The Chronicles, despite recent efforts to modernize, were, to put it kindly, a mess. Decentralization was the norm; indexing and cross-referencing nearly non-existent. Although computerization was de rigeur for field agents now, the database contained only living Immortals - living at the time the data base went operational, that is. The massive effort required to catalogue the Chronicles of Immortals mustered out of the Game before 1995 was a low priority for an Organization which had barely survived the upheaval of the past decade.

"Or Timothy could be catalogued under another name. That's happened a lot, especially before the invention of the camera." Amy looked amused. "You know, you've been spoiled, Joe. MacLeod is the only Immortal I know of who has kept the same name from one life to the next. Do you know how many aliases Rebecca has used over the millennia?"

"How many?"

"Over a hundred," Amy replied. "That we know of." She frowned in thought. "Why does MacLeod do it? It has to make life more difficult for him."

"To make his mother happy," Joe muttered vaguely, then refused to say more.

Amy finished her coffee. "Why don't you put a request through to some of the other regionals?"

"I will, honey. It's worth a shot."

Amy fished in her pack and removed a computer disk. She handed it to Joe. "Hot off the presses. I finished another few pages after we talked last night." She quirked an eyebrow. "It's a real page-turner, Joe," she said, gesturing to the disk. "I'm several weeks ahead of where the disk stops. To tell you the truth, it's been hard to tear myself away from the reading to write it up."

"Thanks, I can't wait to get to it." Joe set the disk near his laptop. He crossed his arms at his chest and leaned back on the stool. "So ... tired of the old man hanging around Paris just yet?"

"Of course not!" Amy protested.

"Good, 'cause it looks like I'll be here the rest of the summer."

"Oh?" Amy quirked an eyebrow in surprise. "I thought MacLeod would be returning to the States soon."

"He and Amanda are taking a holiday. They're leaving for Bora Bora in a couple of days." Joe's eyes twinkled. "And three's a crowd."

"What about her Watcher?"

"Madsen? I'm re-assigning him to Kit O'Brady temporarily," he said. "That ought to keep him in shape." Rick Madsen's transformation from mild-mannered researcher into ultra-hip jetsetter was the direct result of keeping up with Amanda's high life. A professional gambler on a hot streak, Immortal Kit O'Brady was cut from the same cloth as the beautiful thief. Joe figured that was why they couldn't stand each other. The O'Brady Bunch could use Madsen for a couple of weeks. One of the team was very pregnant and out on maternity leave.

Amy laughed and took another sip of her coffee. Her expression became thoughtful. "You're not worried?"

"Worried?" Joe asked, momentarily puzzled. Then comprehension dawned. "You mean ... that Mac'll take off for parts unknown, and I'll never see or hear from him again?"

"Well ... yes."

"No," Joe said, shaking his head slowly. "Mac's my friend." There was a time when Joe had feared that MacLeod, chafing under the constant surveillance of the Organization, would disappear, at least for a while. But not anymore. He smiled fondly at Amy. Duncan MacLeod would watch over Joe's child and her children and her children's children for as long as he lived.

"Of course," Amy said, patting his arm. She was rather touched by her father's faith in his friendship with MacLeod. A few months ago, she would have considered that kind of faith in that particular Immortal to be extremely ill-advised. She had come a long way since that day in Joe's bar when she had hurled books and ugly words at the Immortal she mistakenly believed had attacked her father. Such a thought was unimaginable now. "But what about Amanda?"

Joe let loose a laugh. "You mean She of the Low Profile?" He chuckled. "Amanda might give us the slip from time to time, but we always reacquire her pretty quickly. Stake out a couple of boutiques, a museum or two ..." He trailed off and took a sip from his mug. "Nah, I'm not worried about those two."

Something about the way he said "those two" prompted Amy to ask, "Will Adam stay on in Paris?"

"I doubt it. Too many Immortals pass through here." Joe looked thoughtful. "I don't know what his plans are."

Amy frowned. She had seen a lot of Adam since his return to France this Spring. She realized that she was going to miss him. Very much.

"Join me for lunch, honey?" Joe asked.

"I can't, Joe. I'm sorry." She looked at her watch. "I'm meeting Martin in ten minutes. I just stopped by to drop off the disk." She slid off her stool, kissed his cheek and was out the door before Joe was able to get to his feet.

Joe inserted the disk into his computer. While it was booting, he made a fresh pot of coffee and a ham sandwich. Taking a sip of the hot drink, he made himself comfortable. He quickly found the place in the Chronicle where he'd left off a few weeks ago. Rebecca Horne was on a horse on the road to the peninsular city of Corinth, her young Watcher in tow. A little later, Joe reached this passage.

Excerpt from the Chronicle of Rebecca Horne

The thirteenth day of the eighth month.

... His name is Matthias. He poses as an itinerant tinker. For ten years, Matthias has watched Timothy, a fisherman, who until recently was living a respectable life with a widow woman he had married two years back. She had three children, the youngest only a suckling babe when her husband drowned, caught in the nets. Seven days ago, Timothy was found weeping, clutching the bodies of the children. They had been dismembered with a sword and axe. The villagers had to beat him to unconsciousness before he could be pulled from the poor battered bodies. They could get nothing from him, and held him in the inn's basement until he could be brought before the magistrate. That night, he tried to rip his own eyes from their sockets, shrieking that he saw the children, broken and bloodied, in his cell. They bound him then to prevent his doing further harm to himself.

In the morning, he was brought before the magistrate. That venerable man asked Timothy gently if he had done this foul and bloody crime, killing the entire household, including his wife and her mother, the children and the serving girl. All the bodies had been defiled and debased. The magistrate asked him three times. There was no reply. Then, the man howled. It was a sound that my brother Watcher said froze the blood, the pain and anguish and horror were unbearable. Timothy shrieked and swore at the magistrate, cursing and spitting at the man, urging him to cut off his head. When the magistrate pressed for answer to the charges against him, the wretch cried, "Mea culpa, mea culpa. I saw the horror. I saw it. They died because of me. Because of me. They died because of me. Me! Me! It is my fault. Kill me, please. Please kill me. Take my head! Cut off my head! Please kill me!" Then he threw himself into the brazier, trying to burn his bonds. Matthias said he can still smell the odor of burning flesh. It sickened him, though he alone of the onlookers knew that the wounds would heal. The magistrate passed sentence even as the madman struggled with his guard. Death by crucifixion, affixed to a tree on the public road where he would be taunted and spat upon by passersby, until his rotted corpse was devoured by the elements.

Mathias was still shaken by the telling of his tale. He says that Timothy had seemed a kind and decent man, at least where mortals were concerned. Mathias said that Timothy's battles with others of his ilk were few. The fisherman did not seek a Challenge. But when the Challenge came to him, Timothy fought as ruthlessly as any Mathias had ever seen. Mathias asked aloud what I have often asked myself. If all must kill to survive, how can any remain unscathed? I shared his melancholy. I had no answers for him, and could only shake my head in sorrow. It was only after Mathias departed my room, that I remembered the Lady Rebecca. And the priest called Darius. And others I have read about in the records that Mathias will never see. I suspect that I went to my bed with a lighter heart than my fellow Watcher. Perhaps it is unwarranted, but I still believe - I must believe - that Good will triumph over Evil. Even if Timothy of Corinth has become one of the worst of his kind ...

Joe leapt to his feet. Actually, Joe hadn't been able to leap to his feet for some forty years now, but he hoisted himself up swiftly, his powerful arms propelling him out of the chair in one fluid motion. He grabbed his cane and paced from one end of the suite to the other, working out the kinks in his back, and massaging the back of his neck. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to quell the disturbance in his mind and gut. Amy was right - it was a real page-turner. And Joe was only half-way through the Chronicle.

Last night, Joe had asked Amy for the most up-to-date translation with a mind to giving it to Mac before he left, on the theory that half a loaf was better than none. Not anymore. This Chronicle was about as far from a beach read as you could get. He'd let Mac and Amanda enjoy their few weeks in the sun. Christ, he owed Amanda that much at least.

Joe knew that Timothy of Corinth had been a loony tune when Duncan MacLeod had met him in a lonely Highland cave. Joe had presumed that the man's six hundred year isolation had been the cause. But according to this Chronicle, Timothy had been a homicidal maniac centuries before he sequestered himself in the Scottish Highlands, waiting for his successor to be born. The young Duncan was luckier than he knew to have survived the encounter with this crazy.

Standing at the kitchen sink, Joe splashed cold water on his face. He couldn't shake the mental picture of an Immortal on the cross. Crucifixion was an excruciatingly painful form of execution, intended to inflict maximum torment on the condemned. It was a horrible way to die even for the most vicious of criminals. For an Immortal, where there was no end to the suffering, no escape, no release ... Joe shuddered involuntarily. Timothy had hung on that cross for days before Rebecca Horne found him. What had that done to his already troubled mind?

And why had he snapped in the first place? One day a fisherman living a quiet family life; the next, condemned to the cross for the brutal murder of that very family. Could it have been a Dark Quickening? But surely Mathias would have mentioned to Rebecca's young Watcher if an Immortal Challenge had gone bad. Unless he had missed it? But another Immortal that powerful appearing in such a remote and insular region would have alerted Mathias. At the very least, any significant Immortal entering the city should have been trailed by his or her own Watcher, and a terminal report filed if a Challenge had been lost. Besides, the phenomenon was extremely rare. The only documented DQ in all their Watching was K'oltec to MacLeod. And K'oltec's vast wellspring of darkness from his centuries as hayoka seemed to be the catalyst for that one. Joe discarded the Dark Quickening theory. But as hard as he tried, Joe could come up with no explanation for such a dramatic change in Timothy. Which begged another question. Why was he trying so hard?

Because Timothy of Corinth was supposed to be one of the good guys. A Champion, like Mac, who had saved the world from a millennium of darkness. Joe scowled at the computer screen glowing at him from its perch on the coffee table. Some Champion, Joe snorted, derisively. Champion? Huh! Try mass murderer. He rubbed the grit from his eyes, then stared gloomily at the dregs in his coffee cup. After a minute, a corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"'Say it ain't so, Joe'," he said aloud to the empty room.

Timothy of Corinth had died more than three hundred years before Joe Dawson was the merest glint in his father's eye. Yet here Joe was, centuries later, taking it personally that the Immortal hadn't been the hero Joe had expected him to be.

It was a rookie's mistake, he thought, absently rubbing his wrist. And it had been a long time since Joe Dawson was a rookie.

Flashback, Paris, 1970.

Joe Dawson absently rubbed the underside of his left wrist. He had expected the month-old tattoo would be sore for a while, but not that it would itch so damn much. He glanced at his watch. 6:46.

"Relax, Joe," Ian Bancroft whispered to the young man on the chair beside him. "Services won't start for another twenty minutes or so."

"I'm fine," said Joe Dawson, deliberately slouching in his chair, trying to appear casual. He made an effort not to fidget. After all, he was the one who insisted on arriving early, taking up seats in the last row of the tiny church before any of the neighborhood worshipers arrived. e peeked at his wrist. 6:47.

Bancroft shook his head slightly. "Patience, Joseph, is the single most valuable trait a Watcher must have. Unfortunately, the Academy cannot teach it to our recruits."

"I'm patient," Joe protested. Ian gave him a dubious look, but didn't argue. To prove his point, Joe held still a long time, before looking at his watch again. 6:50. He picked up a hymnal and riffled through it. Although he had studied the language in high school, Joe's rudimentary French had not included hymns. He set the book back down on the empty chair beside him. As he peered up at the rounded stained glass window above his head, Joe went over the new tune he had been picking out on his guitar last night. He was unaware that he was tapping out the rhythm against his leg with his cane until Ian reached over and stilled his hand. An old woman, bent over her rosary a few chairs over, shot him a disapproving look. Joe checked his watch again. 6:51. Joe gritted his teeth. He counted the lighted candles in the stand by the altar and the angels in a wall tapestry and refused to peek at his watch.

At fifty-two cherubs and counting, a door opened to the side of the altar at the front of the church. A tall, dark-haired man dressed in vestments emerged. Father Darius knelt and crossed himself before taking his place behind the altar. These early morning Masses were the only times since he had arrived in Paris that Joe didn't feel like a stranger in a strange land. Mass was Mass, in Paris, France or Cicero, Illinois. For a moment, as he made the ritual responses, Joe was transported back to his altar boy days at St. Stanislaus. That feeling lasted only until the congregation all around him knelt while he remained in his seat. Even the decrepit old woman managed it, though the creaking protests of her knees were audible several feet away.

Joe tried to focus on something besides his own discomfiture. He craned his neck to get a better look at Darius. If he didn't know better, Joe would have pegged him at thirty-five or so. About Ian's age. As he had done at every morning Mass, Joe studied the man, trying to discern something - anything - that hinted at the priest's secret. There was a sense of presence about him, but Joe chalked that up to the priestly trappings. Even after all this time, he still had the conditioned responses of twelve years of Catholic school. But that was all. There was nothing special about him otherwise, Joe thought, disappointedly. Not one hint of the great general who had stopped his Goth army fifteen hundred years ago at the very gates of Paris. But then again, Joe's inner voice piped up, you're not really close enough to get a good look now, are you?

Alarmed at that radical thought, Joe gripped the sides of the chair tightly with both hands as if he were afraid he might float up and out of it if he didn't hold on. He stole a glance at the man beside him. Ian knelt, head bent, hands folded in an attitude of prayer. Many in the Watcher hierarchy disapproved of Joe's desire to be in the field. They believed that his handicap would keep him from being quick enough, or inconspicuous enough to shadow an Immortal assignment. Of all the field agents, only Ian had been willing to accept Joe for mentoring. Joe was grateful that he had been given a chance outside of Research, and he was pleased to be partnered with the man who had recruited him. Still he couldn't help a bitter thought - there was no more sedentary assignment than Darius. The man never left Holy Ground. His last Immortal battle occurred sometime in the fifth century, for Chrissake! Joe had heard the rumors buzzing around HQ. May-Ling Shen's Watcher was retiring. Ian must be ready to move on to the more exciting post and he was grooming his replacement. After all, here was one superhuman even Joe Dawson could keep up with.

Ian stood up. Joe, surprised out of his woolgathering, realized belatedly that it was time for Communion. He watched the faithful queue up quietly as they made their way to the altar. Ian paused beside the old lady, extending his arm politely, as she tottered up the aisle. As he had on every other morning, Joe sat alone in the empty row of seats in the back of the church. He ran his hand through his hair. That niggling little voice spoke up again. Why should he expect the Watchers to have confidence in him, when he had so little in himself?

Taking a deep breath, Joe reached for his cane and lurched to his feet. Slowly, resolutely, he made his long way to the altar. Too late, Joe realized that he wouldn't make it to the end of the line before there was no line. Every tap of the cane, every footfall reverberated in the high-ceilinged space. Ian, the old woman on his arm, nodded approvingly to him as he passed Joe on their way back to their seats. Joe felt every eye in the church upon him. He concentrated on his feet, careful not to overstep on the highly polished floor. One slip of his cane and ... well, he could just imagine the consternation in the Organization at the spectacle of the new recruit sprawled at Darius' feet.

Finally, Joe was there. A little flushed, a little out of breath, he lifted his head and looked up into the kind gray eyes of Darius the Immortal. The priest held up the host.

"The body of Christ," he said, reverently.

"Amen," Joe replied softly, before the wafer was placed on his tongue.

Darius smiled warmly. "Go with God, my son," he whispered, patting Joe's shoulder briefly after making the sign of the Cross.

Joe stared at him a moment before bowing his head. He turned and made the long slow walk back to his seat. The old woman gave him a toothless grin as he sat down heavily. Joe slumped in the chair, relief washing over him, as Ian patted his arm.

Later, over coffee and croissants at a small café, Joe said, "He spoke to me in English."

"Who? Darius?" Ian asked.

"He told me to go with God," Joe said.

"Sounds like good advice," Ian replied, before taking a sip.

"How did he know?"

"What? That you're not French?" Ian asked, amused. "Look at you, Joe." He waved a hand at him. "You're the veritable picture of the all-American boy!"

"Just don't call me 'Boy Scout'," Joe muttered. "I still don't see ..."

"Darius is nearly two thousand years old!" Ian said, stabbing the table with one finger. "How can we even pretend to understand the perception and insight of such a man?"

Joe narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "I thought we're supposed to remain detached?"

"We are," Ian said, nodding. "Objectivity, Joseph. Always objectivity. My Watchword," he said with a twinkle.

"You don't sound very objective," Joe accused.

"I am always objective, Joe," Ian said. After a beat, he leaned in close. "But there is only one Darius," he said, in a conspiratorial tone.

His frankness emboldened Joe. He cleared his throat. "Watching May-Ling will be a real change of pace," he said, rather wistfully.

Ian looked at him sharply. "That was supposed to be confidential until the Council formally approved the assignment."

Joe shrugged. "I just kinda put two and two together."

"It's a great opportunity, Joe." Ian said. "Make the most of it."

"I'll try." Joe smiled weakly. Darius was a field assignment. He should be grateful. Dammit! He was grateful. "Ian, I know you must have had a lot to do with me getting the assignment. Thank you."

"I just put in a word," Ian said, shrugging off his thanks. "You earned it, Joe." He lifted his mug, exposing the tattoo on his wrist. "Congratulations."

Joe lifted his own mug. "And to you."

Ian looked puzzled, but clinked the mug against his own. "It's quite different being part of a team, Joe. But I'm sure you'll do fine."

"Team?" Joe's face darkened. "Christ, don't they think I can keep up?"

"It's nothing personal, Joe," Ian explained. "May-Ling is one of the more active Immortals. She's been covered by a team for as long as I've been with the Organization."

"May-Ling?" Joe scratched his chin. "You mean Darius."

"No, I mean May-Ling. Darius doesn't need a team," Ian said, impatiently. "He rarely leaves Holy Ground."

Joe swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Ian, what the hell are we talking about?"

"Your assignment to May-Ling Shen. What the hell did you think we were talking about?"

"I thought ..." Joe felt his face grow warm. "I thought I was taking over for you. Watching Darius. I thought you wanted a more interesting Immortal."

"More interesting than Darius?!" Ian was flabbergasted.

"I'm sorry." Joe's apology was sincere despite the goofy grin on his face. A real field agent!

"That's all right, Joe, I understand," Ian said, sagely. "Underestimating Darius is a rookie's mistake."

End of Flashback

Joe poured himself two fingers of the Glenmorangie that he kept stocked for MacLeod. He remembered with a pang that the single-malt was also Ian's favorite. He returned to his computer and lifted his drink in a silent toast to a departed friend. "Objectivity," he muttered to himself. "Always objectivity." Oh well, nobody's perfect. Some of Joe's best friends were mass murderers. Well, one of them anyway. He found his place and resumed his reading.

CHAPTER NINE

Duncan ducked his head under the shower faucet, letting the hot spray cascade over his face and body for as long as he could stand it. The steam filling the bathroom when he finally shut off the water was a thick as a London fog used to be. He reached out a dripping arm and flung the door to the bathroom wide, reveling in the feel of cooler air caressing his skin as he toweled himself dry. A long, hot shower following his morning run was an indulgence he would never grow tired of.

Mac wiped steam from the mirror with a towel. Turning his head to the left and to the right, he carefully inspected his image. Satisfied, he tidied the bathroom, folding the wet towels into a neat pile on the sink for Angelie, the teenage maid, to remove later. He stowed his kit in the duffel in the closet. Then, pulling on briefs and a pair of jeans, Duncan padded out of the bedroom, his damp hair brushing the back of his neck as he moved. He needed a haircut, and mentally added that to today's to-do list.

Duncan perched on a stool at the kitchenette counter, sipping a glass of ice-cold tomato juice while coffee perked on the counter. He perused Le Monde, finishing the first page just as Methos emerged from the suite's other bedroom. Mac watched what was now a familiar routine. Clad only in boxers, the old man yawned and scratched as he shuffled across the room. His bleary eyes were half-open; his hair stood up in little spikes that pointed in all directions. Grunting noncommittally in reply to Mac's "Good morning", he placed both hands flat on the counter, leaned over the coffee maker and inhaled deeply. Then he interlocked his fingers above his head and stretched like a cat. The chain reaction of pops and creaks that traveled up the length of his spine was audible to the younger man seated across the counter. Mac poured hot coffee into a mug and set it in front of his friend, earning another grunt, this one of approval.

Methos sipped slowly from the mug. His eyes widened with each sip. When he was nearly finished, he spoke. His voice was deep and gravelly.

"You missed a spot," he said, gesturing at Mac's head with his cup.

"Damn!" Mac said, picking up the toaster. He shifted it from side to side, studying his reflection in its chrome surface. This business of graying his temples every other week had gotten old real fast. "Where?"

Methos stared at him, blinked, then rubbed the corner of one eye. He flicked something crusty off his finger before squinting up at MacLeod. "Never mind," he said, "it was me."

Mac, with an expression of disgust, swept an arm across the counter. He reached for a croissant from the plate of pastries and inspected it carefully, before taking a bite.

"How long are you going to keep up the Grecian Formula in reverse?" Methos asked.

Duncan shrugged. "As long as I can." He poured himself another cup of coffee and topped off Methos' mug. "A few more years, maybe."

"You're pushing it," Methos said, mildly. He closed his eyes for a moment pressing the hot mug to his cheek, then jerked to attention. "Where's the goddess at this ungodly hour?"

Mac plucked a piece of paper from underneath a magnet on the refrigerator, and handed it to Methos. It was a page of hotel stationary. On it was scrawled:

My darling, Paradise awaits, but I have a few little things to take care of before we go. See you on Sunday.

A.

P.S. So excited about our vacation!

P.P.S. I left some things for the valet. Be a doll and see that he gets them.

With a sidewise glance, Methos took in the mountain of clothes piled high on the couch, and the shoes stacked precariously on the easy chair. He handed the missive back without comment.

"She was gone when I got back from my run," Mac explained.

"Did you book your flight?"

Mac nodded. "Last night. We leave Orly Monday at 10 and arrive in Bor- " He smiled sardonically. "I mean 'Pora-Pora', just in time for a glorious sunset." He sipped coffee. "Yep, four days from now we'll be lying on a pink coral beach, sipping drinks with little umbrellas, and toasting your name." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Bikinis optional."

Methos smirked as he reached for the pitcher of juice. "It's just a cottage, not the Hotel Versailles. The water heater is solar, so forget about those long showers you like," he cautioned. "Be sure to check the bath and bed for critters before getting in." He poured himself a glass of juice. "And I have to tell you that the pump is a little cranky. Just bang on the pressure switch a few times before you start it up."

"I will." Mac finished his coffee and rinsed his mug in the sink. "This trip means a lot to Amanda," he said, warmly. "And to me. Thanks."

Methos shrugged. "I told you, Mac, 'mi casa es su casa'."

"Well, mi suite es su suite," Mac said with a slight bow. "Stay as long as you like." He grimaced. "Just don't break anything, OK? I'm still on double secret probation with the management."

"I'll be careful," Methos promised. He reached for a section of the newspaper.

Mac put the pitcher of juice back in the refrigerator. "I'll be back in Seacouver on the first of September. The semester starts the day after Labor Day."

Methos, one eye on the newspaper, spoke absently. "Oh, I think it'll be sooner than - " He shut his mouth abruptly, studiously focusing on a headline on another suicide bombing in Iraq.

"What?"

"Nothing, " he mumbled. "None of my business."

But Mac finished the thought for him. "You wonder how long she'll stick around?" He left another thought unspoken. I wonder the same about you, old man.

"Well, yes," Methos conceded. "It's been a month already. Another month on a South Sea Isle, nowhere to go, nothing to steal ..."

"The thought has crossed my mind." Duncan's smile was wistful. He plucked an orange from the complimentary basket of fruit on the counter, and began to peel it. "It doesn't matter. I'll take what I can get." He set the bits of orange peel in a neat little pile on the counter. "I can only take what she is able to give," he said, simply.

Methos looked up, surprised. Mac never talked about his on-again, off-again relationship with Amanda. Acceptance of things he couldn't change did not come easily to the young Immortal. It was just not in his nature. He was also a man who gave his heart completely to those he loved. Traits Methos had derided often. He was genuinely at a loss to understand how Duncan had managed to sustain them over four centuries. They certainly weren't qualities conducive to long term survival.

Amanda, on the other hand, was a different story. One Methos understood very well. Too well, perhaps. No matter how many years separated her from her savage beginnings, stealing or fighting or whoring for every crust of bread, the scars were still there. She would forever be the abandoned and unwanted child despite the transformations that Immortality and Rebecca Horne had wrought. Her whirlwind entrances and exits from Mac's life were simply the manifestations of a fundamental insecurity. ... you leave 'em laughing when you go, and if you care, don't let them know, don't give yourself away ... That snatch of a pop tune could well be Amanda's theme song.

Methos idly wondered how many times Duncan had battered himself against the wall surrounding Amanda's heart before he had learned to accept that simple fact of life. He nodded approvingly. It was a lesson well-learned.

Duncan pulled the succulent fruit apart and handed half to Methos. He was thoughtful as he popped a section into his mouth. "I don't know," he murmured, half to himself, "maybe this time ..."

Then again, maybe Mac was still on the up side of the learning curve.

"This time ...?" Methos prompted when Mac didn't continue.

Mac shook his head and didn't answer. He concentrated on dividing the fruit into neat little sections, while the slight flush in his cheeks dissipated. He couldn't believe what he had nearly blurted out to the old man. Maybe this time, what? Things will be different? You and Amanda will ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after, emphasis on the"ever"? For God's sake, act the age you are, not the age you look! So Amanda has finally said those three little words. Big deal. So what if you felt closer to her these last few weeks than ever before? Nothing has changed. You are still two very different people with two very different personalities. Still both Immortal. And you still have a job to do, even if you take a couple of weeks off for fun in the sun. "It doesn't matter," he said, with finality. He refused to amuse Methos with yet another example of his youthful naivete. He ate the rest of the orange in silence.

Mercifully, Methos dropped the subject and focused on the newspaper again.

Mac stood up, dropping the little orange peels into the trash can. "I have a few errands to run today. Do you want to meet up later for dinner?"

"No can do. I'm having dinner with Amy."

Mac opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.

"What?" Methos challenged.

"Nothing." Mac said, unconvincingly.

"She called me." Methos heard the defensiveness in his voice. "Besides, it's just dinner."

"Sure," Mac said, nodding. "Dinner. Right."

"Right," Methos replied, scowling. Combined with the "bed head" hair, it was a forbidding sight.

"O-kay." Mac wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. "I gotta get dressed." He beat a hasty retreat to his bedroom.

Methos propped his elbows on the counter and leaned his head on his hands. It was just dinner. Nothing more. As much as he might, in a perfect world, like it to be ... something more. He sighed. Well, it wasn't a perfect world. He was Immortal, the oldest of his kind, as old as the pyramids. Amy was young ... mortal ... a Watcher ... and Joe Dawson's daughter.

They could never be. Not in a million years.

Methos straightened on the stool and popped an orange section into his mouth. That was the difference between himself and MacLeod. Mac was the dreamer; Methos the realist, able to see life as it was, not as he wished it to be.

He glanced toward Mac's bedroom. Dream on, MacLeod, but Amanda isn't going to change. And dinner with Amy is just dinner with Amy. They still had to eat, right?

"Right," he said, aloud.

"What'd you say?" Mac replied, pulling a Tshirt over his head as he walked across the living room.

"I said it's just dinner," Methos said, with absolute conviction as he started in on the crossword.

CHAPTER TEN

"Adam, this isn't just dinner," Amy said, spearing a portion of chicken crepe with her fork.

Methos nearly choked on his beer. He cleared his throat before speaking, feeling his heart speed up in spite of himself. "What do you mean, Amy?"

"I had an ulterior motive for inviting you,"she said, a little shyly. "There's something I have to ask you."

"Uh ... sure." He took a bite of his ham and gruyere sandwich and chewed slowly, in an performance of nonchalance worthy of Oscar consideration.

"Joe told me Mac and Amanda are leaving Paris." She sipped wine. "I was wondering what your plans ... that is, are you staying on in the city?"

"I hadn't really thought too far ahead, Amy." He washed the morsel of sandwich down with beer. "But, no. I'll be leaving Paris. After that, ...." He shrugged.

"Would you consider Greece?"

"I like Greece," Methos said, neutrally.

Amy colored a little. "What I mean is ... would you consider going to Greece with me?"

"With you?" Methos echoed.

She frowned. "This is not coming out right." She looked across the table at him, her expression earnest. "This is silly. I didn't want to give you the wrong impression, and that's exactly what I'm doing."

"Amy," Methos said, firmly. "Start from the beginning, say what you want to say, and don't worry about impressions. Good, bad, or indifferent."

"OK," She leaned back in her chair and took a breath. "You know the Chronicle of Rebecca's that I've been working on?" At his nod, she continued. "Well, I finished it last night." She held up her hand as he began to speak. "Not the translation. I've read the book all the way through once, but I'm woefully behind on transcribing what I've read."

"Still, that's wonderful!" Methos said. "I know you were working hard on it."

"Work?! God, Adam, it didn't feel like work at all!" She leaned forward, excited. "It was like reading a suspense thriller!" She chuckled. "At least, until the end."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, ... it just ... ended."

"That is a common failing with a good book," he said, sagely. "Don't you just hate when that happens?"

She gave him a stern look. "What I meant was that James wrote -"

"James? I thought you said the Watcher was anonymous?"

"James is anonymous. I mean, I call him 'James'." At his quizzical look, Amy said, "I had to call him something. That's not important." She continued. "In the last entry, James wrote that he had found Rebecca living in a shepherd's hut on the southern end of the island of Aiyina." She stopped. "Sorry, I keep using the old name. I mean, Aegina. He said he was too tired to write any more that night, and that he would make a complete report the next day. But he doesn't, Adam! That's the last entry he made."

"Oh." Methos said, sharing her disappointment. "Well, he probably continued it in another volume."

"There were plenty of pages left in this one," she pointed out.

"Well, that's strange, I'll grant you, but not without precedent." Adam leaned back in his chair. He was thoughtful. "So, you want to check out the Balkan Archives for more Chronicles written by your 'James'." He narrowed his eyes. "But, Amy, I'm not in the Society anymore. I have no access to the Archives."

Amy shook her head. "Of course you don't. Joe is going to search the Archives in Athens."

"Then, what ...?"

"I said James never made another entry in the Chronicle." She reached into her bag and pulled out the old book. "But someone else did." She opened the little volume and handed it to him across the table.

Methos squinted at the faded ink.

"Adam," she said, intently, "I think that's Rebecca's handwriting!"

Methos tilted the book into the flickering light afforded by the candle in the center of the table.

"I was up all night translating that last page. My Hebrew is a little rusty," Amy explained.

Methos read the flowing script from right to left. He looked over at Amy, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Those are ... directions ... of a sort, aren't they?"

He nodded.

"I think something was hidden on the island of Aiyina a thousand years ago. I think Rebecca wrote those ... coordinates ... so someone could find it. I want to go to Aiyina and see if it's still there." She reached across the table and grabbed his hand. "And I want you to come with me. Tomorrow morning," she said with an apologetic grimace, hunching her shoulders, "at six a.m."

Methos stared at her sweet face, aglow with excitement.

"I know you're not a morning person. And it's woefully short notice. But it was the only flight I could get," she added. "The hotel rates will triple in another week."

Methos looked down at the small hand clutching his.

"Because the Olympics start on the 11th," she explained. "In Athens."

Methos let go of her hand, picked up his beer and took a long swallow.

"Adam, say something," she beseeched.

"Aloha, Aiyina," he said, quietly. Then, he smiled.

"Actually, it's 'Ellinika, Aiyina', " Amy said, returning the smile. "But, you already knew that."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Amanda washed a handful of raisins down with a swig from her water bottle, before picking up the binoculars. Her vantage on the hillside to the south of the chateau afforded her a complete view of the entrances to the house below. The sun setting over her shoulder cast a rosy glow on the house, the terrace and the flagstone path that meandered through a formal knot garden to the swimming pool.

She continued her meal of dried fruit and grains as she watched a middle-aged woman dressed in black serve a more elaborate dinner on the terrace. A man and woman sat at opposite ends of a table, which despite the outdoor setting, gleamed with china and crystal. The man's hair was a perfect match in color to the snowy linen tablecloth. Despite the warm summer evening, Raul St. Claire wore a sweater and sported a rug over his lap. Amanda could just make out the outline of the tires of his wheelchair under the tablecloth. He lifted a glass of wine toasting his dinner companion. Even at this distance, Amanda could see his slow, tremulous movements. His dinner companion was much younger. Amanda admired her outfit at a distance. The moss-colored sleeveless dress she wore looked like Prada silk and set off her dark red hair and milky skin to maximum advantage.

Amanda had left the Hotel Versailles early, springing out of bed when Duncan had headed out for his crack-of-dawn run. Methos, as usual, had still been snoozing. She had gathered her equipment from her stash in the city, rented a nondescript car, and driven two hours north of Paris, hiking in from the road. After a surreptitious perimeter search, she had ensconced herself on this small hillside. She had been surveying the comings and goings of Raul St. Claire and his household for several hours now.

The household was small, consisting of five people, if today was any indicator of the regular routine. The competent-appearing woman serving dinner was obviously the housekeeper. She had a tendency to fuss over the old man in the wheelchair. A wizened groundsman had spent the day noisily trimming the topiaries with a hand-held trimmer, but he had gone home at four. Earlier, Amanda had been happily diverted watching the chauffeur wash a Mercedes, a Triumph and a handicap-equipped van. Every well-defined muscle in his chest and arms was outlined by his clinging wet T-shirt. Like the groundskeeper, Muscles had left at the end of the day.

That left the attractive young woman sitting opposite the old man. Amanda presumed she was Sarah Weiss, the personal assistant who had answered Duncan's letter. She peered through the binoculars again, the powerful lenses bringing the woman's face in sharp focus as she reached across the table and patted the old man's hand affectionately.

Amanda's reconnoitering had revealed no dogs. Unless a night watchman unexpectedly showed up tonight, it appeared that St. Claire relied exclusively on his electronic security system to protect his treasures. No doubt it would be effective for a lesser thief, but Amanda should be able to disable it quickly and without detection. All she needed was an opportunity. The mansion was very secluded. There would be no need to wait for cover of darkness, if the inhabitants were absent. If not, Amanda would risk a nighttime entry when the housekeeper, secretary and old man were asleep. It was a simple bag job for a cat burglar with her centuries of experience.

Amanda was prepared to spend the night on this hillside, and tomorrow night and Saturday night, if need be. She needed to be back in Paris on Sunday. She smiled as she imagined the expression on Duncan's face when she presented him with the story staff. Oh, he would fuss and fume at first, and launch into his "stealing is bad" lecture. He looked so cute when he was stern. But Amanda planned to cut him off at the pass. She'd offer to return the staff as soon as he finished examining and photographing it. After all, she was only borrowing it in the service of a good cause. No harm, no foul. Just like the Louvre job. Which, she'd gleefully remind him, was his idea.

As she munched on a granola bar, Amanda idly wondered what else was in the old man's collection. It wouldn't hurt to look around a little. After all, St. Claire was a well-known and eclectic collector of antiquities. Whoa! She ruthlessly clamped down that line of thought. She was on a mission, not a shopping expedition. A noble mission, she reminded herself proudly. I hope my Watcher is getting all this down, she thought, as she unconsciously smoothed her hair and clothes.

A movement below caught her eye and she put the binoculars to her nose. Dinner was over. Sarah stood up gracefully, dropping her napkin on her chair. She planted a kiss on the white head as she wheeled the old man into the house, careful not to jar him as they crossed over the threshold. In a few minutes, the housekeeper had whisked away the remains of dinner and turned out the terrace lights.

Amanda rubbed mosquito repellant on her exposed face and hands and settled herself for the night. She watched as the occupants of the house wound down their day. As the last light went out, Amanda lay back on the sweet-smelling grass and watched a volley of shooting stars fall from the sky, until she, too, slipped down into darkness.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Duncan, his chin propped in his hands, stared morosely at the slips of paper spread out before him on the counter, and read them through again. First, the short missive from St. Claire's assistant. Then, Amanda's breathless note. And the latest, found just before his morning run:

Mac,

By the time you read this, I'll be on a flight to Athens with Amy and Joe. Tattoo business. Tell you later.

Adam

P.S. Give up the suite when you leave Sunday.

P.P.S. Sorry about the note.

Mac stood up abruptly. He shoved the furniture in the living room against the walls and cleared a space large enough to swing a sword. He exhausted himself with kata after kata until dinnertime, when he treated himself to a movie and a late supper at his favorite bistro. Still, he wasn't sleepy. He slipped into a robe, padded into the living room, and poured himself a drink.

MacLeod opened his briefcase and removed the file containing the seven translated verses from the hidden cave. As he did every time he opened the file, he reread his verse first, feeling a chill sweep up his spine as his life was described in text written thousands of years ago:

"'... before thy Path is done ... '" he murmured. What is the right path? How will I know if I'm on it? He cast a spurious glance at Methos' note. Tattoo business, my ass! It wasn't much of a leap to suppose that this last minute trip to Athens involved Rebecca's Chronicle and the mysterious Timothy of Corinth. But what ? And why would Methos go along? Adam Pierson wasn't in the Watchers anymore. He no longer had access to the records of the secret society.

And how did Amanda's absence fit into this puzzle, if at all? Mac had sternly stood over his lover while she shredded her notes on the Louvre's security procedures. But that was a symbolic gesture, not an actual purgative. Amanda, like most Immortals, was possessed of an excellent memory, especially when it came to her chosen profession. Mac had been keeping a weather eye on the news. No reports of any break-ins at the Louvre, the Musee d'Orsay, or other places of note.

Yet.

Mac scrubbed at his face wearily. He didn't like being out of the loop. He also had a sneaking suspicion that he was being kept out of said loop for his own good. But, barring hopping the next plane to Athens, there was nought he could do about it.

He looked down at the file on his lap and picked another verse at random.

Duncan sipped his Scotch. A wave of depression swept over him at the futility of his task. How the hell could he identify the next Champion from this cryptic crap? His inner voice answered him. You can't, Mackie-boy. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. But it's the only game in town. All he could think to do was to carry on. And hope.

MacLeod rose and rinsed out his glass. He crumpled Amanda's and Methos' notes and tossed them into the trash. He was about to do the same to the note from St. Claire's assistant, when he hesitated. Sarah Weiss wrote a good hand. A little old-fashioned perhaps; spare verging on abrupt prose. But clear. And clearly feminine. The seed of an idea began to take root.

Mac caught his reflection in the chrome of the toaster as he smiled his most charming smile, then spoiled the effect by crossing his eyes. Well, he was an Immortal warrior in a battle between Good and Evil after all. It was incumbent upon him to use all the weapons in his arsenal. He could almost hear Connor's staccato laugh in his head. All of the fun and most of the good women. The smile faded but didn't disappear entirely as he answered his kinsman's favorite observation aloud. "In a good cause, cousin. All in a good cause.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Methos stood on the metal railing, leaned out beyond the point that safety permitted and inhaled deeply. Out on the prow, with the ferry's diesel exhaust and the smog of Athens behind him, salt air filled his lungs, invigorating his blood. No matter how old he got, no matter how many years away, no matter if he were suddenly struck deaf, dumb and blind, (an admittedly unlikely event), he would always be able to identify the Aegean by its unique smell. He surveyed the glittering blue water, the caps of white froth and the clouds gathering on the horizon with an experienced eye. The Aegean was notorious in its capriciousness. A storm was coming, despite the promise of the clear sky overhead. Nothing to worry about, he judged. Their crossing would be long over by the time foul weather arrived.

"King of the world, eh?" asked a feminine voice behind him.

Methos smiled sardonically, pulling back from his precarious perch. "Not quite." Not anymore, he added silently. He reached for the paper cup of hot coffee she held out to him. "Thanks."

Amy nodded. "I thought you didn't like boats?"

"I don't." He gripped the rail with one hand. "But this ferry is worlds better than the hydrofoil. Those contraptions will rattle the teeth out of your mouth."

Amy leaned an elbow on the rail and blew on her coffee. "It's beautiful," she said, appreciatively. "So many shades of blue. And so many islands. On the map, they look just like stepping stones."

Adam stood erect and cleared his throat. "Once upon a time," he began sonorously, "there was a mighty battle between the Titans and Zeus, the great and powerful Thunderer. Zeus laughed as he hurled bolt after bolt of lightning at them, while the Titans threw rocks, trying to knock him from the sky. They failed." He gestured behind him toward the mainland. "But the rocks formed the mountains of Greece." He pointed ahead to the horizon. "Some went astray and tumbled into the sea. And thus the islands of the Aegean were created." He relaxed against the rail again.

"I'd love to explore them all," Amy said.

"There are over a three thousand, you know," Methos pointed out.

"Oh," she thought it over. "Too much for one lifetime. Maybe an even dozen, then." She peered out over the water. "Which one is your favorite?"

"Thera," he replied instantly, using the old name. "I mean, Santorini." He had a small house there on the cliff looking down on the black stone beach from its perch on the caldera.

"How long since you've been?"

"Eight years," he replied, absently. He supposed he should sell the house. He didn't expect to go back there. He just didn't have the heart. Alexis had loved it so.

"The Santorini eruption is thought to be the basis for the legend of Atlantis, isn't it?" Amy stole a glance at his face when her companion didn't answer. His expression was faraway. And a little sad. "Adam?" she prompted.

After a moment, his face cleared. "Sorry," he said, "I was miles away."

"It's all right," Amy said. She shaded her eyes. She could just make out a brown speck on the horizon. Aegina, known as Aiyina in James's day. Yesterday, they had flown into Athens. Last night, she and Adam had squeezed in with Joe in the small apartment the Organization maintained for visiting department heads and other dignitaries. Her father had seen them off this morning at the dock at Piraeus, the port of Athens. Aegina was only an hour south of the capital city by ferry.

Amy felt like pinching herself. It gave her such a thrill to be following in James' footsteps on his journey of a thousand years ago. She frowned slightly. Actually the young Watcher had come to Aegina from the west, in a fishing boat from Corinth, not south in a ferry from Athens, so she wasn't really following his footsteps. And honestly, could one say one was following in another's footsteps if one were traveling on a boat upon the water? Amy stopped that line of thought with a shake of her head. She had been hanging around Martin Guerre too much.

"What?" Methos asked, quizzically.

"Nothing." She took a deep breath of the sea air and let it out slowly. Adam pointed downward where the bow cut a churning white swath through the clear blue water. Amy's gaze followed his finger. She laughed with delight. "Dolphins! How lovely!"

Methos nodded. "Good omen, too."

Amy gave him a serious look. "Do you believe in that, Adam?"

"What? Signs and portents?" Adam watched the graceful creatures frolic in the bow wave. "Not really." Not anymore, he added, silently.

Amy hesitated a moment, then plunged right in. "What about," she lowered her voice, "Zoroastrian demons?"

Methos' tone was neutral. "Mac told me he told you about that."

"I honestly didn't know how to react to what he said." Amy frowned. "I'm afraid I hurt his feelings."

Methos snorted. "MacLeod's a big boy. He'll get over it."

Amy looked earnestly at him. "Do you believe him?"

Methos chose his words carefully. "I believe that Mac believes." He paused, looking down at the dolphins. "But no, Amy. I haven't believed in anything I can't see, hear, touch, smell or taste for a long time."

"The original doubting Thomas, eh?" she said, lightly.

"Not quite," he said, bemused. Not there, he added silently.

"I think Joe believes," she said, slowly. "At least, I assume so from something Mac said. You know, when we took on the End of Time." She thought sadly about the ending of the apocalyptic cult before continuing. "Funny, that I'm talking to you about this. For some reason, I couldn't ask Joe." The unspoken question hung in the air between them.

There was a silence as Adam stared at the water for a long moment. "Amy ... MacLeod and Joe shared an experience many years ago." He looked at her. "I wasn't there. I can't attest to what happened." He paused. "All I know is that whatever happened, Joe stood by Mac." He looked down at the water again. "He was the only one who did." Besides Richie, he amended silently. "MacLeod will never forget that."

Amy remembered a note she had found a few months back, a note to Joe written by MacLeod. It had been tucked inside a picture frame that Mac had given to her father for his last birthday. She had discovered it quite by accident, when she had knocked over the frame. It was brief but heartfelt:

I want you to know that Amy will always have a protector and a friend. She and her children and her children's children can come to me for anything, as long as I live.

"I'm glad they are friends," she said aloud, coloring a little. "I never thought I'd actually hear myself say that," she muttered, unconsciously rubbing the tattoo on her wrist. She looked slightly defiant. "But I am. I'm glad that my father has such a friend."

Methos looked down at the mark on her arm. Not so long ago, he had sported the same rank of office. Unlike him, Amy took her oaths seriously. But, like Joe, she had made an accommodation where friendship and duty intersected. Methos was glad that propensity ran in the family. "It hasn't been easy on either of them, but I think they've weathered the worst."

"You know, I support the protocols we have in the Organization. There are very good reasons why we only observe and record. The temptation to interfere when a friend's life is on the line ... or a lover ... well, I can't even begin to imagine." She paused, thoughtful. "But still ... we could learn so much ... understand so much ... become so much more, if we could only talk to them."

Methos smiled affectionately. "You're preaching to the choir, Amy."

"Oh, Adam," she laughed, "sometimes I do forget!" She patted his arm, before leaning way out over the rail to watch the playful animals. After a moment, she changed the subject. "So, where do you think we should start?"

"With dinner." Methos smiled. "We should be at the hotel just in time."

Amy gave him a look. "You know what I mean."

"At the church in Marathonas. From there ... ?" Methos shrugged.

"Do you think we'll be able to find the spot after all these years?"

Methos shrugged again. "Who knows? Even if we find where Rebecca leads us, whatever was hidden there could be long gone." He squinted at storm clouds gathering on the horizon. "Or maybe there was nothing there in the first place."

"That's what I love about you," Amy said, "your cockeyed optimism."

The dolphins stayed with them all the way to the port at Aegina town. Amy waved goodbye to the cavorting creatures as the ferry docked. The storm held off until they arrived in Marathonas on the southwestern side of the island. They dashed from the rented Land Rover to the hotel's front entrance as the sky opened up. Drenched and laughing, they were just in time for a dinner of fish and figs, olives and bread washed down with sweet, red wine.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Joseph!"

Joe looked up, then smiled. He waved to the young man at the entrance to the street café.

"Nico!"

Nicolas Dimakis turned and placed a hand on the arm of a wizened old man, dressed all in black with a battered fedora raffishly angled on his gray head. He shepherded the old man through the tables and chairs of the sidewalk café and deposited him in the seat opposite Joe. Joe reached for his cane.

"Don't get up, Joe," Nico said. "Allow me to introduce my grandfather, Konstantin Dimakas."

Joe reached a hand across the table. The old man's hand was soft and dry, all of the bones prominently felt through the flesh. Joe squeezed it gently.

"My pleasure, sir," Joe said.

Nico looked at his watch. "Another crisis came up as we left my office. I have to return at once, Joe." He touched the old man's shoulder. "One drink, Grandfather." He nodded to Joe. "Call me when you are through." He departed the cafe.

Joe signaled the waiter. Ouzo all around. When the drinks had been delivered, the old man knocked back the anise liquor in one swallow, banged the tumbler on the table - hard - and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The waiter rushed over with another glass and set it in front of him. Joe opened his mouth to protest, when the old man cocked an eyebrow at him. Joe swallowed his remark. The ritual was repeated. The old man wiped his lips with his handkerchief, folded it carefully and returned it to his pocket. Finally, he spoke to Joe.

"Nico tells me that you are interested in my Archives." The voice was surprisingly cultured, the slight quaver in his voice just discernible over the heavy Greek accent.

"That's right," Joe began. He chose his words carefully in light of the public place. "I've been trying to find a fellow who died in 1625. There doesn't seem to be anything on him."

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Terminal report?"

"None was made." Thirty year old Duncan MacLeod, unknown to the Watcher networks at the time, was the sole witness to the demise of the old hermit.

"Odd," Konstantin muttered. "What was his name?"

"Timothy," Joe said. "Timothy of Corinth."

Konstantin was silent for a long moment. It amused Joe to imagine him riffling through a massive card catalog that he carried in his head. Nico had said his grandfather was an archivist in Athens for forty-two years before retiring a decade ago.

"I do not know the name." He sipped his drink, evidently intent on making this one last. "What else do we know of him?"

Joe lowered his voice and filled him in, reserving only the death of the hermit and the strange words he had spoken to MacLeod. Within the Society, only Joe Dawson knew of the existence of the Immortal Champions and their millennial battles with Ahriman. He told the old man about the Chronicle Amy was translating, of the nameless young Watcher who followed Rebecca across Greece in 996 A.D., of the heinous crimes that condemned Timothy to the cross. The old man was fascinated, his dark eyes bright as a bird's.

"The Watcher of Timothy. You have a name?"

"Matthias. Worked as an itinerant tinker around Corinth. Nico couldn't find any record of him either."

"Hmmm, that is surprising. The assignment records for that period are very well preserved. The director at that time was a bit of a fanatic about documentation." He rubbed his long nose thoughtfully. "Even if your Timothy's Chronicles had been transferred to a new Archive at a future point, the record of Matthias' assignment should still exist. Also, his reassignment. Those records stay in the region of origin."

Joe cleared his throat. "Matthias was never reassigned." At Konstantin's puzzled look, Joe continued. "He died. Apparently, Timothy killed him." Konstantin recoiled, a look of revulsion crossing his seamed face. "I'm not convinced that it was Timothy," Joe added, hastily, feeling oddly compelled to defend Mac's predecessor despite the damning evidence of his guilt.

"It happens," Konstantin said, quietly. "Fortunately, not too often, considering our longevity." He looked at Joe intently. "Although in recent years ..." He left the thought unfinished.

Joe looked away in shame. Peter Horton had set a bloodbath in motion twelve years ago that had taken the lives of dozens of Immortals and Watchers, ending only with the death of Jacob Galati. Joe had never come to terms with his role in the Immortal gypsy's death. The best he could do was to acknowledge that Mac was right. He had traded a life for a life. Galati for MacLeod. And I'd do it again, he thought fiercely, God help me.

"Yeah," he mumbled, taking a gulp of his drink. He blinked back the tears the strong liquor produced. "It happens."

Konstantin shook his head, sadly. He finished the drink, curling his tongue to get the last drop in the glass. He set the tumbler down. "Perhaps that is our key."

"What is?"

"The Honored Dead."

"The what?"

"It is a ... a roll call ... of our brethren who have died ... how do you say? ... in the line of duty."

"I never heard of it," Joe breathed.

"Its existence is not common knowledge." The old man's eyes twinkled. "It is not exactly an advertisement for recruitment, eh?" He sobered. "Actually, it is not a part of the Archives, per se. Not kept with the Chronicles and Assignments. It is more in the nature of an accounting record." At Joe's quizzical look, he continued. "Like the pension. The family of a deceased Watcher receives additional compensation for their loss." He sipped his drink again. "If the death is in the line of duty."

"Even back then?" Joe was astounded. He supposed he shouldn't be. He knew the Watchers' roots went deep. Of course, its organizational structure was phenomenal. It had lasted five thousand years, after all.

"Oh, yes," the old man said, his eyes twinkling. "I imagine we could teach Lloyd's of London a few tricks."

"Where do I find this list?"

"It's in the safe of the Chief Financial Officer. Melina will allow you a look, I'm sure."

Joe scratched his beard, thoughtfully. "How will this help me find Timothy's Chronicles?"

"Ah," said Konstantin, "it may not. But the path to Enlightenment is not always a straight one. It is possible that you will find something to guide you in your quest." He shrugged. "Or not," he said, philosophically.

"Quest," Joe repeated softly. "I guess it is at thay." He regarded the old man warmly. "Thank you, Mr. Dimakas."

The old man waved away his thanks. He gestured to his empty glass, then signaled the waiter. "Just don't tell Nico."

Joe smiled. "I observe and record, sir." He picked up his own glass and saluted the old man. "I never interfere."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Duncan turned the Mercedes to the side of the road and checked his map. He took his bearings, then leaned back against the seat. The lane leading to the St. Claire house was just over the next hill. Satisfied, he tucked the map back into the glove box, then stole a glance in the rear-view mirror. He brushed an errant lock of hair from his forehead, and checked that there was nothing caught in his teeth. Then, he sheepishly popped a breath mint in his mouth from the roll in the pocket of his jacket, grimacing at the absurdity of it all.

He was a four hundred year old Immortal warrior, born to lead, weaned on strategy and tactics, a combat veteran at the age of fifteen. And the best plan he could come up with - nay, the only plan - was to charm the pants off a no-nonsense battleaxe as likely to set the dogs on him as give him the time of day. Duncan frowned. Not that he was intending to literally divest Sarah Weiss of her pants ... or skirt ... or whatever she happened to be wearing today. Just schmooze her enough to get a look at the story staff, maybe take a few pictures. He had always had a way with little old ladies, beginning with his grandmother. Mac put the car in gear. He was actually glad no one was around for this little adventure. Not Methos, or Joe. Or, Heaven forbid, Amanda. He'd never hear the end of it.

MacLeod made the turn onto the private road. He drove slowly on a pleasantly winding road, the sun dappling his windshield through the trees. After a quarter mile or so, he approached a gated entrance. He had expected something like this and pulled up to the intercom slowly, mentally rehearsing the speech he had prepared in the shower this morning. But his sales pitch proved unnecessary. The gate was open. He rolled down the window and pushed the call button on the intercom. Then, twice more when there was no response. With a mental shrug, he eased the vehicle through the gate and proceeded up a long, tree-lined drive.

A beautifully maintained house and garden in the Louis Quatorze style was set at the base of a small hill. A blue Triumph convertible, top down, was parked at a careless angle at the front of the house. He pulled in beside it, surprised that his presence had not yet been detected or challenged. He exited the car, keeping an eye out for dogs. As he passed the convertible, he touched the hood. The engine was still warm. He adjusted his jacket and smoothed his hair as he walked under the portico. As he approached the ornate front door, Mac saw that it, like the gate, was slightly ajar. Curiouser and curiouser. He was puzzled at the oddness of the situation, but not alarmed.

Mac lifted a hand and knocked firmly. He halloed the house in a loud voice. After a few minutes with no response, he cautiously pushed the door open wider with one finger and peered in, calling again. He noted the security system was disarmed before stepping over the threshold into an elaborately but tastefully decorated foyer. The tapestries and paintings hanging in the main hall were worth more than the cursory glance he was able to give them now. He proceeded carefully, calling out in French and English, but there was no answer. Other than the puzzling lack of security, nothing seemed amiss.

Well, it was a hot summer day, after all. He moved to the rear of the house, again calling hello, intending to check out the pool and terrace he had seen from the drive. But as he passed a room with glass double doors, he paused. One door was ajar. Conditioned air spilled out of the room. His heart beat faster as he stepped into it.

Duncan's eyes widened as he turned slowly around. It was a treasure trove. Artifacts - books, scrolls, parchments, potsherds, sculpture, and more - were displayed in glass-topped cases or mounted in display cabinets on the wall. On this sultry August day, the air in here was a perfect temperature and humidity level for the preservation of fragile antiquities. That type of climate control didn't come cheap. Mac peered into the nearest case. With a start, he recognized the fragment of clay tablet with the cuneiform markings. He had a photograph of this very piece among his research data. He moved quickly to the next case and the next, the mystery of the unoccupied house momentarily forgotten. Most of the pieces were unfamiliar, but Duncan had seen many of the artifacts in books and photographs over the past few years. He rocked back on his heels. Raul St. Claire had amassed an eclectic and expensive collection of original art and artifacts from many cultures and times. MacLeod felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he realized that a single theme united the diverse objects.

The battle between Good and Evil.

Mac hurriedly continued his inspection. Most of the room was dominated by the items on display. At the far end, two desks, set front to front, formed a work area. Duncan approached, curious despite the prickle of unease at his trespass. Oddly enough, the desk closest to the window had no chair. This must be St. Claire's, he realized. It was built to accommodate a wheelchair. There was little on the surface, and Mac drew the line at rummaging through the drawers of another old man's desk. A silver frame lay face down on the desktop. Mac turned it over. A man and a woman smiled at him from a black and white photograph. Circa 1950s, from the cut of his suit and the style of her dress. Mac studied the picture. A dark-haired man, young and dashing, had one arm around a lovely young woman. They were obviously a happy couple. St. Claire and his wife, he presumed. According to one of Mac's sources, the old man was a widower of many years. And a lucky man, Mac thought, once upon a time. He set the picture frame carefully back in place and turned to the other desk.

This was an active work station. It must belong to the assistant, Sarah. Papers were scattered across the top. Detailed sketches of artifacts, with handwritten notes. His breath quickened as he snatched up one document, bringing it closer to the window. It was a sketch of a story staff with one of the characteristic fans spread open. An arrow extending from the fan pointed to the stark bold lines of Ogham. Duncan barely noticed the symbols of the ancient Irish language. The Watcher symbol - the double circle with the "Y"- shape in its center, surrounded by thirteen dots - had been painstakingly copied below the Ogham. Still clutching the sketch, Mac quickly searched the display cases. The story staff was not here.

Something caught his eye at the window. He moved closer, taking in the terrace and shimmering pool in the near distance and the sloping lawn beyond. There it was again. In the distance, sunlight glinted off metal. Duncan shielded his eyes from the glare with one hand. Two figures moved in a familiar and deadly pas-de-deux. Though he was too far away to see their faces, Mac let out a cry of dismay as he recognized the elegantly concise movements of one of the combatants.

Amanda.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Amanda expertly parried the thrust that was aimed at her neck, whirled and danced out of reach, planting her feet on more level ground. Her opponent was very good, compensating for any lack of technique with ferocity. Amanda's sword arm ached as she raised her weapon and prepared for her opponent to strike. Everything had been going so well! She blocked a slash aimed at her belly, and backed away a few feet. How did I get myself into this, she wondered with dismay.

Flashback - thirty minutes earlier.

Amanda moved swiftly, but carefully, down the hill. Ten minutes ago, the occupants of the chateau had driven through the gates at the end of the driveway. It was a caravan of sorts. The old man, Raul St. Claire, with the assistance of the housekeeper and Sarah, had been lifted, wheelchair and all, into the specially equipped van. The housekeeper had joined him, and the chauffeur had smoothly pulled away from the house. Amanda's disappointment that Sarah hadn't joined them vanished a few minutes later, when Sarah zipped after them in the little blue Triumph. The place was empty. The gardener, apparently, had Saturdays off.

She skirted the terrace, pressing her back against the wall to the side of the glass doors. A quick perusal revealed security cameras in the corners above the doors. Checking her watch, she observed the pattern of panning and scanning. They were synchronized to cover any approach to the French doors. Amanda shrugged out of her small backpack and flattened herself on the grass, peering under the low bushes. There! Wireless motion sensors.

She sat up, thinking furiously. Outdoor sensors would not be rigged to call the police or the security company automatically. Squirrels, birds, wind ... too many potential triggers for false alarms. She picked up a small pebble, and aiming carefully, tossed it at the motion detector furthest from her position. Instantly, both cameras shifted their gaze to that spot for a few minutes, before returning to the pan and scan. Amanda grinned. She had a window of opportunity, albeit a small one. She stood, dusted herself off, and grabbed the backpack and another pebble.

Amanda was already moving when her second pebble snagged the attention of the cameras. She pressed her back against the stone wall and edged along the terrace until she could see into the house through the glass doors. As she suspected, the interior alarm system was wireless as well. A terminal, with a keypad for entering the passcode, was visible on the interior wall, directly next to the glass door. Amanda recognized the manufacturer. A very good system for home security. There were no wires to cut. Breaking the glass, as well as opening the door, would disrupt the invisible beams and set off the alarm. These systems had become very sophisticated in recent years and were shielded from jammers, electrical overload, or radio signal. Fortunately, Amanda had something more ... unusual ... in mind.

Amanda stood silently, getting as close to the juncture of wall and door as possible. She pulled a small fabric bundle from a pocket and unwrapped the jackknife contained within. With a barely audible snick, the blade leapt from the hilt. Keeping the knife in her right hand, Amanda extended her left hand, palm up. She heard the cameras over her head whir, resuming their pan and scan surveillance. The pebble no longer held their interest. Another few seconds, and she'd be on Candid Camera. She slashed her left palm deeply. Wincing, she pressed the wounded hand against the glass. Blue-white Quickening energy leapt from the cut and arced to the electronic terminal a few inches away on the other side of the glass. Amanda looked up at the cameras. They hung, silent and disabled, dead in their tracks. Satisfied, she wiped the blood from the glass and her hand. No sense in leaving any overt clues behind. The wound closed as she finished. She stuffed the cloth and the knife back into a pocket, pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves, and carefully eased open the door.

A quick examination of the security terminal in the entranceway proved that the system was down with a very bad case of indigestion. Amanda marked the time on her watch. Empirical evidence showed that this particular system would take twelve minutes to reset itself. She smiled. She had discovered this phenomenon quite by accident. Last year, she had botched an entry, cutting her leg on an electrified fence. The healing energy had arced to the wire fence, sending up a shower of sparks and briefly disabling the fence, at least long enough for Amanda to fall back and make her escape. Since that serendipitous discovery, she had experimented with the effect on various and sundry electrical devices. The wireless security systems reacted quite well -from a thief's point of view. They were unable to recognize the unique energy that made up the Quickening fire. Their internal computers, confused by the energy spike, shut down for a spell, in hopes that the unusual power source would be gone when they rebooted.

The unusual power source planned to be.

Amanda moved as silent as a cat through a large airy sunroom, eclectically decorated in bright, primary colors, then into a hall with many branchings. Her first choice led her off course, ending in a formal dining room and kitchen beyond. She backtracked and took the next turning. Bingo! She peered through the leaded glass of a set of double doors. Though the glass was frosted, she could see enough to know she had found her objective. The same security system governed this room, and it was still out. She slipped through the door, pulling it shut behind her.

Amanda's eyes gleamed. The contents of this room were on a par with a small, but world-class, museum. Artifacts of every kind were expertly displayed. She shook her head in disgust. A collection of this quality really deserved better than a home security system, even a good one. She lingered at one case taking in a particularly fine Assyrian burial vase. She recognized it from Interpol's list of antiquities "liberated" from the National Museum in Iraq. So, Monsieur LeClaire was not fussy about how he acquired his treasures. She had a few antiquities collectors among her clientele. Some of these babies would fetch a pretty ... Amanda stopped that line of thought with difficulty. There was one mission objective and only one. And time was of the essence.

She found the story staff on a desk at the rear of the room. Compared to some of the flashier pieces in the room, it was a poor relation. Still, it was what she had come for. She grabbed it. As she turned back to the doorway, a framed photograph on the other desk caught her eye. A very attractive man looked out at her. She presumed it was Raul St. Claire. The frail old man she had observed in a wheelchair for the last few days had been a fine figure in his prime. The woman in the picture was pretty but Amanda paid more attention to her darling suit and perky little hat. She sighed. She missed the fifties, especially the hats.

Suddenly, the Presence of another Immortal washing over her made her gasp. She set the frame down carelessly. The picture toppled over. Amanda looked up in dismay. A young woman stood at the doorway, a sword in her hand. Instead of the tailored suit and hat, she wore a flowing white dress, her red hair loose about her shoulders instead of tightly wound in a chignon. But there was no mistaking that the woman in the old photograph and Sarah Weiss were one and the same. Belatedly, Amanda realized that the attractive woman she had watched on the terrace was not just St. Claire's assistant, but his wife. His Immortal wife.

Merde!

Amanda recovered quickly. "You startled me, Madame," she began, with a little laugh. She held out her hands. "Believe me, this is not what it looks like."

"It looks like you have invaded my home, and are stealing my belongings," Sarah said, grimly. "That is what it looks like."

"My name is Amanda Montrose. I'm with the security company. We are conducting a real-time test of the system ..." Amanda began.

"All appearances to the contrary," Sarah interjected, "I was not born yesterday."

Amanda smiled charmingly. "Okay, ya caught me." She deliberately relaxed her posture, using her body language to try to defuse the situation. "Actually, I was just borrowing this staff for a little while," Amanda explained. "To take some photographs and make a few sketches. I was going to bring it back. Honest." She gestured to the sword. "I had no idea you were Immortal. Small world, huh?"

"Why should I believe the words of a common thief?" Sarah asked, contemptuously.

Amanda narrowed her eyes. "Honey, there's nothing common about what I do." She pointed to the security terminal on the wall. "And you should invest in a better system. Where'd you get that one? Alarms-R-Us?" She looked casually at her watch. "I hope you remember the passcode. I don't think you want to explain to the local constabulary why that Persian bust is in a Paris suburb and not Baghdad."

"What are you talk- ?"

"Five ... four ... three ... two ... one ...." Amanda counted.

A deafening alarm shrilled. Sarah jumped, raising the sword defensively. Then keeping a wary eye on Amanda, she punched a security code on the small keypad. Silence descended. Sarah, her color high, lifted her chin defiantly. She tightened her grip on the sword.

"Look, I'll put the staff back where I found it and we can forget all about this." Amanda's tone was placating. "No charge for the security advice," she said, lightly. She set the staff back on the desk, and took a few steps toward the door, her empty hands held up in front of her.

"Not only a thief, but a coward as well," Sarah spat the words at her.

Amanda stood, hands on hips. She cocked her head. "In case you haven't noticed, testosterone is not a factor here." She flashed her widest grin. "You don't want to do this, Sarah. You really don't." Gesturing to the photograph, Amanda said,"Think of St. Claire. What will it do to him if he comes home to find you dead?"

Her words had the opposite effect than Amanda had intended. "Leave him out of this! How dare you even speak his name?!"

"OK! OK!" Amanda tried once more. "I thought we could, you know, call it a draw? To paraphrase an old friend of mine, we both get to live, grow stronger, and shop another day."

"I never walk - or run - away from a fight!" Sarah lifted her sword to attack position. "Never!"

Amanda blew out a noisy breath. "OK, have it your way," she said, resigned. She pulled her own sword from its nesting place in her jacket. "But do you really want to fight in here?" She ran a finger along the top of a glass case full of delicate potsherds. "A Quickening is a rather extreme way to redecorate." She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. "Let's take it outside." She picked up the story staff again.

"Put that back," Sarah ordered.

"Oh, no, honey. If I'm gonna have to fight for it, I'm taking this with me." She gestured to the door. "After you."

Sarah smiled without humor. "You are my guest. After you."

End of Flashback.

Now, here on the manicured lawn, they were caught up in a fight that Amanda never wanted. But, Sarah was relentless. The smaller woman pressed the attack, even when she was at a disadvantage with her shorter reach. Sarah nicked her arm as Amanda blocked. Amanda, up till now, had been defending only, still hoping to talk some sense into the girl. Suddenly, she tired of the fight, giving up any illusion that this train wreck could be averted. She summoned the internal focus necessary to win a fight to the death, taught by her teacher centuries ago. Her world narrowed to her sword and her opponent. Nothing else mattered. She moved with uncanny speed and acrobatic grace, using her greater height and reach to maximum advantage. Skills she had learned and perfected over 1100 years were brought to the fore.

Sarah stepped back, clutching at the slash on her thigh. Her eyes widened in surprise. Amanda read the dismay in her face as Sarah realized her opponent wasn't tiring after all. Amanda channeled the adrenaline rush, achieving a singular focus that she usually only managed when she was in the middle of a complicated heist. Her blood sang as she pressed her advantage, darting in for hit after hit, then whirling away before Sarah could connect. The red-haired woman's frustration mounted. In desperation, she lunged and overstepped. Amanda slashed the sword from her hand, then backhanded her blade across Sarah's belly. Sarah dropped heavily to her knees, her head bent, gasping, clutched herself as blood stained the white dress. In one fluid movement, Amanda stepped back and lifted the sword over her head in a two-handed grip.

At that moment, Presence washed over her. Sarah's head jerked up. A shout came from the direction of the house.

"Amanda, stop!"

Somewhere in a distant part of her consciousness, Amanda registered that the voice was Duncan's, but she was too caught up in the moment to wonder why or how or even comprehend his words. She raised herself up on her toes, the sword held high.

"No, Amanda! Stop!" Duncan's voice was closer. "Stop!"

Sarah looked up at her then, her blue eyes brimming with tears. She reached out her hand, in defense or supplication - Amanda didn't know. But something about the gesture was heartbreakingly familiar. Amanda, poised to strike, hesitated. Maybe it was the white dress that gleamed in the bright sunshine or the red hair cascading over the shoulders, but at that moment, the imagery in Amanda's dream flashed in her mind's eye, superimposing the dream-Rebecca on the form of the woman kneeling before her. Amanda, shaken to the core, lowered her sword. The vision dissipated. She turned her head, looking uncertainly toward the man running across the wide expanse of lawn.

"Dunc-?"

It was all Amanda managed to get out. Puzzled, she looked down at the sword imbedded in her chest. Then, Sarah yanked out the blade. The breath whooshed out of Amanda's pierced lung, along with the blood pumping from her lacerated heart. She sank to her knees, her own sword dropping on the grass beside her. Sarah's eyes were at a level now, surprise and determination in equal measure shining forth from the blue depths. Amanda's mouth worked, but no sound came.

"No!" Duncan's cry sounded very far away. How odd. He had been running toward her only a moment ago. Amanda's vision narrowed to a very small, graying tunnel. She saw Sarah pull back her arm for the final stroke, the sword clutched tightly in red-stained fingers.

Amanda closed her eyes. The last sound she heard was Duncan screaming her name before her head smacked the ground and she knew no more.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MacLeod, shielding his eyes from the sun, squinted up at the summer sky. A bird - some kind of hawk - soared lazily high overhead. He lowered his hand. The buzzing of cicadas in the nearby meadow filled his ears, the noise harsh and grating. The sun was overbright, glaring. Even the markings on a Monarch butterfly flitting about a wildflower seemed garish and strange. The scent of a nearby mock-orange hedge was strong, cloyingly sweet. It nearly obscured the smell of blood.

For several minutes, he stared numbly at the dead women at his feet. Then, he shook his head sharply. His mind skittered away from the implications and consequences of what had happened, choosing to focus on the practicalities of the here and now. As he bent over the bodies, MaccLeod realized he was still clutching the sketch of the story staff he'd grabbed in the artifact room. He uncrumpled the paper and stared at the bit of Ogham script. He automatically translated the chicken-scratch symbols: a Lady who knows not of Surrender, in love or in battle ... He folded the paper again and again, until it was a tiny white square, then tucked it into his breast pocket. He picked up the bloody swords - prying the one from the death grip of the woman in white - and concealed them under the low branches of a nearby hedge. Then, he dragged her lifeless body off Amanda.

He laid her out neatly several feet away, smoothing the bunched fabric of her ruined skirt primly over her knees. As he folded her hands across her belly, the ivory bangle on her left arm slipped. He started in shock at the tattoo on the underside of her arm. But he stubbornly shoved all speculation about it from the forefront of his mind. As he brushed tangled red hair from her pale face, he recognized her. She was the woman in the old photograph in the artifact room, the woman he'd presumed was St. Claire's deceased wife. He fussed over her clothes, tucked an errant lock behind one ear, and nodded, satisfied with his ministrations.

Except for the bloodstained dress, she looked like she was sleeping. Sure she does, Mackie-boy. If you ignore the knife handle protruding from her chest. He silenced that mocking inner voice as he reached across her body. But as Duncan gripped the handle of his knife, the enormity of what he had done struck him like a thunderbolt. His hand trembled. He released the hilt, rocking back on his haunches. Unbidden, images of a time and a place long ago blotted out all other thought.

Flashback, Scotland, 1625

Duncan gasped as the blade cut behind his left knee, then collapsed as his leg refused to support his weight. He tucked and rolled and tried to ignore the pain of his severed hamstring, then scrabbled backwards as Connor advanced on him. He awkwardly blocked the plunging blade, turning it aside while he struck out with the undamaged leg. That brought Connor down to his level, but the older man quickly rolled out of his reach and on to his feet. He leaned on his blade, looking down at Duncan.

"Much better," he said, with an approving nod.

Duncan managed not to howl with pain as he straightened the injured leg with both hands, but it was a close thing. He took a few seconds, breathing heavily, before he spoke.

"Aye, I lasted another whole minute that time," he gasped, then grabbed at the leg, groaning despite himself.

"Hurts, does it?"

Duncan glared up at his teacher. "What do you think?" he shot back.

"I think you will not underestimate a smaller opponent, next time. That is what I think," Connor said. He gracefully dropped beside his student, wiping the blood from his blade on the grass. He unhooked a water skein from his belt, uncapped it, and handed it to the younger man. "Here."

Duncan tipped his head back and squirted cool water down his parched throat. As he wiped his mouth, the pain in his leg began to recede. He handed the skin back. "Thanks."

Connor took a swallow. He pointed to the westering sun. "There's a storm gathering."

"Aye," Duncan agreed. They watched the darkening clouds in companionable silence for a while. They weren't going anywhere until Duncan's leg mended.

"Connor?"

"Mmm?"

"I have been thinking ... about yesterday ... what you said," Duncan began, shifting his leg as he felt the healing fire tingle and burn. "About the women." He looked away towards the sunset.

"You mean fighting and killing an Immortal woman," Connor said, flatly.

"Aye," Duncan frowned. "It is our responsibility to protect the women and the children, the weak and the helpless. What you said ... well, it goes against everything I have ever learned, every rule my father ever taught me."

Connor's eyes narrowed. "That life is over. There are new Rules you must live by now." He swallowed water and capped the skin. "If you want to live."

"I know, I know. You've drilled them into me day and night for months now." He ticked off each point with a finger. "Only fight one on one. Do not interfere in a battle between two Immortals. Never fight on Holy Ground. I can recite them in my sleep." Duncan rubbed the back of his knee. "But a woman!" He paused. "Have you ever ... ?"

"Once," Connor said, his head bowed.

"What happened?"

"I lived. She died."

Duncan knew his teacher well enough to read that expression. He would be getting no more out of him on that subject. He tried a different tack. "Where did these Rules of yours come from?"

"They are not my Rules, Duncan," Connor snapped back.

"All right," Duncan sighed. "Where did our Rules come from?"

"Ramirez taught them to me."

"But where did he get them from?"

"From his teacher."

"But where -- ?"

"Enough, Duncan! From his teacher and the teacher before him and the teacher before him and so on and so on! Just as I have taught them to you."

"What happens if you break these Rules?"

"I don't know. I have never done so."

"Did you ask Ramirez?"

"Of course I asked, you witling!" Connor rubbed his chin, ruefully. "I peppered him with so many questions he threatened to take my head just to get a moment's peace."

Duncan snorted. A not unfamiliar threat to the younger man.

Connor spoke softly. "Ramirez had no answers for me, Duncan. He said I must trust in him and his teaching and promise to never, ever break these Rules, no matter how long I lived. And that I must teach these Rules to the new ones I meet." Blue eyes met Duncan's brown. "I gave him that promise. I have never broken it." Connor leapt up nimbly, then reached a hand down to his student. "I never will."

Duncan grabbed his forearm and lurched to his feet. He held the grip in a tight handclasp. "I promise, Connor. I will abide by the Rules you have taught me, no matter how long I live. And I will teach the new ones the same."

Connor nodded solemnly, then released him. "There'll be no teaching for you unless you master this defense. Now, watch carefully."

End of Flashback

Duncan squeezed his eyes shut, banishing that centuries-old memory. But he was unable to shut out the scene of a few minutes ago as it played like a movie behind his eyelids. He had run out of the house just as Amanda disarmed the woman in white. He had shouted to her to stop as she raised the sword over her head. Amanda had turned toward him then. Mac's relief turned instantly to horror as her opponent, taking advantage of Amanda's distraction, scooped up her fallen sword and ran Amanda through. As the red-haired woman pulled her sword back for the fatal stroke, Duncan knew he was too far away to stop it. He was still running when he threw his pocketknife with desperate and deadly accuracy into her heart. He'd skidded to a halt as the woman in white collapsed across Amanda's body, nearly falling on top of them.

He looked up at the sky again. For a moment, modernity deserted him. He was once again the rough Highland boy, ignorant and superstitious. The Rules were a part of him, instilled so deeply by his teacher and reinforced so thoroughly over the years that Duncan half-expected a mighty hand to reach down from the heavens and smite him for his breach.

Nothing happened, of course.

There would be a price for his action, MacLeod thought bitterly, and it would be dear. But whatever it was, the reckoning would not be so merciful or so swift as the proverbial bolt out of the blue. Of that much he was certain.

"I promise, Connor. I will abide by the Rules you have taught me, no matter how long I live."

With an effort, Duncan thrust those words to the back of his mind. He concentrated on the woman in white. With clinical detachment, he noted that his blade had entered cleanly, between the third and fourth rib. It seemed the hours of practice he had put in after that little mishap in the Moscow circus had paid off. After some consideration, he decided to leave the knife in place, preventing her untimely resurrection.

He turned to the other body sprawled on the manicured lawn. Duncan grasped Amanda's shoulder firmly and rolled her on to her back. She had cut her head when she fell, but the scalp wound had closed. He used his handkerchief to gently wipe the blood away. The chest wound still gaped, though he could see the healing fire working its magic through the rent in her shirt. He knelt by her side, praying that Raul St. Claire did not return home in the meantime. Enough damage had been done here today without subjecting a fragile old man to this bloody tableau.

Then he felt it. The gathering sense of Presence that set his teeth on edge and his stomach churning. His hands, resting on his thighs, tensed into fists as he waited. Amanda convulsed, pulling in a great breath. Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at MacLeod for a moment without recognition. Then, she closed her eyes and moaned.

"I thought I was dead," she murmured, rubbing her chest.

"You were," Duncan replied.

"You know what I mean." She pushed herself painfully to a sitting position. Coming back to life usually hurt more than the dying did. This time was no exception. She coughed, bracing an arm across her abdomen.

"What happen-?" She stopped in mid-sentence as she beheld the other body. Her eyes widened in recognition of the Leathermans pocketknife, a duplicate of Methos' "birthday" gift. "Duncan ... ?," she whispered, thunderstruck, not quite believing the evidence of her own eyes.

He turned his face away.

Amanda swallowed hard, compulsively rubbing her throat with one hand. The unthinkable had happened! Duncan MacLeod had interfered in a battle between Immortals! It was inconceivable! Sure, she had been known to bend the Rules from time to time, (stealing Zachary Blaine's Quickening out from under Duncan's blade sprang to mind) but even she had never actually crossed that line. It was one of the few lessons that Rebecca had taught her for which Amanda could make that claim. But Duncan! He actually did it! Amanda trembled as a second, more powerful realization hit her. He did it for me. She looked at him in wonderment. For me.

Duncan's eyes were hooded, his face expressionless. He spoke in a low tone. "Amanda, what are you doing here?"

"I came for the story staff." Amanda looked around. "Where is it?" she muttered, standing shakily. She found it about ten paces away, lying in the grass. Duncan still knelt where she left him. She stood before him, eyes shining, holding out the staff in both hands. Her heart swelled with pride that she could do this for him.

MacLeod didn't move.

"Take it, " Amanda urged, shaking the gift at him.

He reached up slowly and accepted the artifact, still not meeting her eyes.

Amanda couldn't help preening a little as she tugged at her ruined shirt. It wasn't a gleaming white gown. Still, she had fared better than Sarah. At least Amanda wore black. "We should get out of Dodge before anybody else shows up," she said, glancing around for her sword.

"You shouldn't have done this," Duncan said, quietly.

"I tried not to. Sarah came back unexpectedly. I suppose she forgot something." Amanda frowned. "I did try to talk her out of the fight, Duncan," she said, earnestly, "but she wouldn't let me go."

With her words, the last of the puzzle pieces dropped into place. The lifeless body on the grass, the smiling woman in the old photograph, and the scrivener of the note were one and the same. The Immortal wife of a mortal man, Sarah Weiss must have faked her death and resumed her place at the "widower's" side in the guise of personal assistant. Which meant that Raul St. Claire knew the secrets of Immortality. Duncan looked down at the disheveled figure lying so helplessly on the ground. It also meant that Sarah had been with St. Claire for more than fifty years, had remained with him despite the inevitability of age and infirmity. Till death us do part. A flash of Tessa, sprawled on a dark street, as her blood, pooling on the rain-and-oil-slicked asphalt, gleamed blackly in the glare of the streetlight ...

Duncan shook his head, dispelling the mental image. "It doesn't matter now," he said, half to himself.

"Come on," Amanda urged, pulling on his arm. "Take your knife and let's get the hell out of here."

He stood up, still holding the staff. "What were you going to tell me?"

"What? About the stick?" Amanda said, absently, still looking for her sword. She shrugged. "I really hadn't thought that far ahead." She tugged at his arm again. "Come on."

Duncan stood as if rooted to the spot. "I can't," he said, "I have to talk to Sarah." He looked down at the staff. "I have to give this back to her."

"Oh no, you're not!" Amanda was indignant. She snatched the artifact from his hands. "I fought for this. I'm keeping it."

"You fought and lost," Duncan pointed out. "If I hadn't interfered -"

But Amanda was adamant. This was her prize! "So, we take it, and give it back to her later. After you've studied it."

"I can't do that."

"Duncan -" Amanda began, exasperated.

"Amanda, you should never have come here," Duncan repeated. He gestured toward Sarah. "You almost killed her."

"Hey, she almost killed me," Amanda countered, rubbing her chest. "I'd call us even."

"Even?!" Duncan roared, suddenly furious. "You broke into her home, stole her property, then gutted her in her own backyard!" His mind conjured a picture of an unsuspecting fragile old man returning home from a Saturday outing to discover his beloved wife's headless corpse decomposing on the south lawn. His temper flared white-hot. "And then you would have given that thing to me with some half-baked story about how you got it and I would never have known that you killed for it!"

Amanda yelled louder. "That wasn't supposed to happen! I was just going to borrow the staff for a little while! Sarah came back early!"

"You never mean for things to go badly, Amanda!" Mac ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "You're over a thousand years old! When are you going to grow up?!"

"Don't you dare lecture me, MacLeod! I tried to back off! I gave her every opportunity to walk away. Hell, she nearly took my head because ... because ..." Amanda faltered. She didn't know how to explain that disorienting image of Rebecca. Nor did she want to. So she lied. "Because you distracted me!"

"If I hadn't, she'd be dead!" He brushed a hand across his forehead, forcing himself to calm down. "And if I hadn't interfered, you'd be dead." He shook his head wearily. "Christ, what a mess." All because of that length of old wood clutched in Amanda's hand. No,Mac thought despairingly, because of me. Amanda did this for me.

Amanda drew herself up to her full height. She looked her lover squarely in the eye. "Are you sorry that you interfered?"

"Yes," Duncan said, unflinchingly.

Without conscious thought or volition, Amanda slapped him hard, her sudden fury adding unexpected power to the blow. It rocked him and he staggered. He turned back to her, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.

"And I would do it again," he said, miserably. "And again. And again."

"Oh." Amanda's anger vanished. She reached up and caressed his reddening cheek. "I'm sorry." Her downward gaze took in Sarah, the staff, the chateau. Her expression was contrite as she gestured broadly with her hands. "I'm really sorry. About all of this."

"I know, Amanda," Duncan said, "you always are."

Amanda took a deep breath, biting back a nasty reply. "All right. It's done. I don't want to fight anymore." She dropped the staff on to the grass. "Do what you want with it." She looked around. "Where's my sword?" she demanded.

Duncan nodded toward the hedge. "Under that bush."

Amanda retrieved the weapon and wiped it on the grass. She tucked it into its hiding place in her jacket. "I have to pack for tomorrow. I'll see you back at the hotel." She turned crisply on her heel.

"Amanda, wait!"

She whirled, her face a question.

Mac's expression was bleak. "I'm sorry. I --" He paused as his voice failed him. He swallowed and took a breath.

Amanda tipped her head back and crossed her arms. This was more like it. "Apology accepted." Then she grinned at him. "I'm sure you can think of some way to make it up to me."

"No, that's not ..." Duncan shook his head. "I'm sorry, but we ... I ... uh ... we have to talk," he finished lamely.

"We're talking now, Duncan," Amanda said coldly, "it's just that you haven't said anything worth listening to."

"Not here. At the hotel." He looked down at Sarah's body. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Whatever you have to say to me," she insisted, "you can say it now."

He looked at her without speaking. A hollow feeling settled in the pit of Amanda's stomach at the expression on his face. She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head at him, striking an insouciant pose.

"Well?" she demanded.

There was a long silence. "This isn't going to work, Amanda," he said, finally.

"What isn't?"

"You and me. Us. Together."

Amanda's heart quickened at his somber tone. "But we're leaving tomorrow morning. Our flight's at ten."

Mac shook his head, sadly. "No."

She looked uncertainly at him for a moment. Then, she threw up her hands. "Fine! Have it your way! I don't need this!" She stalked off. She had only gone a few steps, when she turned around. Her expression was bewildered. "For God's sake, Duncan, I did this for you! I said I was sorry! Why are you punishing me?"

"This isn't about punishing you!" He ran a hand through his hair, then scrubbed his face with it. When he spoke, his voice was calmer. "I'm sorry. This is all my fault, Amanda. I should have known better. I thought I could do this. But I can't."

"Why not?!" Amanda cried.

Duncan jammed his fists into the pockets of his trousers. His voice was tight with emotion. "Because ... I have a responsibility that I can't walk away from." He lifted his chin as she rolled her eyes. He gestured toward Sarah and the staff. "Because ... she could be the One I'm looking for." He hated himself for the next words out of his mouth. "And because ... you'll just get in my way."

"Duncan," she pleaded, "this is an obsession. It's unhealthy. Can't you see that?"

He acknowledged the truth of it with a brusque nod. "Maybe it is. But it's what I have to do." He hesitated, reluctant to hurt her more than he had already. But he owed her the truth. All of it. "But even if she's not the One," he paused, "even if she's not ... she almost died ... you almost killed her ... because you were trying to help me." She crossed her arms over her chest impatiently. "And you still don't see how wrong that is." His expression became scornful. "Listen to me." He let out a short, derisive laugh. "I'm a fine one to talk about right and wrong. I've broken the Rules, Amanda, and I've broken a promise." He looked at her, stricken. "I did it because I love you." He held up a hand, warding her off as she made a movement toward him. "I will always love you. But I can't do what I have to do, and have you, too. I thought I ... we ... could ... but I can't."

"But I told you ..." Amanda whispered, then stopped, not trusting her voice.

"I know," Duncan said, huskily. "I'm so sorry, Amanda."

Her face crumpled and she ducked her head. Duncan watched as she slowly straightened, squaring her shoulders. He ached to hold her but forced himself to stand still. After a moment, she looked up, a cocky grin set firmly in place.

"No big deal, MacLeod. I was getting a little bored, anyway. All the domesticity was cramping my style." She brushed at a lock of hair on her forehead, and peered down at her clothes in disgust. "I really do need a bath." She tossed her head, then turned away. "See you in the funny papers, MacLeod," she said, waving jauntily over her shoulder.

Duncan watched her stride away swinging her arms. He took a few steps after her, then stopped. He clamped his jaw shut, fighting the nearly overpowering urge to call her back. He watched until she disappeared over the hill behind the chateau.

Only then did he attend to the dead woman at his feet. He put one hand on Sarah's shoulder and the other on the handle of the knife and pulled. The weapon came free with a sickening suction noise. He sat cross-legged on the grass beside her while he methodically cleaned each blade and implement with the handkerchief already stained with Amanda's blood. He folded the cloth neatly and returned it and the weapon to his pocket.

There was nothing left to do.

Everything that Duncan had ruthlessly suppressed since the moment he had let the knife fly slammed into him. Every thought, every image, every emotion. The power of it made him gasp. He hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face against them. In time, he felt life flood into the body of the woman beside him. He lifted his head wearily. When she sat up looking fearfully at him, he said gently, "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I promise I won't harm you, Sarah."

Amanda made it as far as her perch on the hill. She watched as Duncan helped Sarah to her feet and handed her the story staff until the tears brimming in her eyes overflowed. She dropped her head into her hands. Her shoulders shook, but she made no sound.

Several yards behind her, the man hidden in the tall grass was torn. A part of him wanted to gather the weeping woman into his arms. Another part wanted to punch Duncan MacLeod in the nose - hard - though a small voice deep down told him that he was being unfair to the Highlander. In the end, he gave in to neither of these impulses, and dialed his cell phone instead.

"Dawson?" he said, quietly. "Madsen here. You can forget about my reassignment." He paused. "No, I don't think anybody's going to Pora Pora."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Joe closed his cell phone and returned it to his pocket. He picked up his too hot cup of coffee and took a gulp, then gritted his teeth as the hot liquid burned his mouth. His first thought was selfish. Duncan MacLeod had broken the Rules for the first time in four hundred years and Joe hadn't been there to see it! Then, a chill crept up his spine and he felt the hair stand up all over his body. Duncan MacLeod had broken the Rules for the first time in four hundred years. Joe punched numbers into his cell. He dialed all but the last digit of Mac's phone number before he came to his senses. Immortal Duncan MacLeod would not talk to Watcher Joe Dawson about this. Joe doubted that MacLeod would talk to anyone about this. And he would resent the intrusion and yet more evidence of the omnipresence of the Watchers in his life. Joe cleared the number from the screen and put the phone away.

No one knew where the Rules came from. No one. There was endless speculation among the Watchers, of course. He and Mac had talked of it many times. He'd asked MacLeod why, when so many Immortals failed to honor the Rules, did he feel bound to keep them. Mac had challenged Joe to name one Immortal, still alive, who had failed to fight one on one, or interfered in a battle between two Immortals, much less one who did violence on Holy Ground. Try as he might, Joe couldn't name one. Kell and all his posse were the last organized attempt to gang up on other Immortals and look what happened to them.

Joe sucked in a big breath. He couldn't bear to think about the logical conclusion to this line of thought. So, he concentrated on the rest of his mindblowing conversation with Madsen. Damn and double damn! He thought Mac and Amanda would last a bit longer this time. At least, till they had returned from the South Seas. He didn't know why he was so disappointed. Two words described the relationship between those two Immortals - tempestuous and temporary. Still, Joe had thought he detected the faintest of sea changes in this last go-round. Mac had seemed genuinely happy since they had dealt with the threat from the End of Time. Happy and content. And Amanda ... Joe was Mac's Watcher, not hers. Still, the loving looks he had observed when Mac wasn't looking had spoken volumes. He shook his head, saddened for his friends.

Madsen had barely concealed his own dismay. Joe knew he'd been looking forward to his temporary re-assignment to Kit O'Brady's team. But Joe heard more in his associate's voice than mere disappointment at the change of plans. Amanda wasn't just another assignment for the former researcher. Rick cared about Amanda as a person in her own right. He disagreed with the old school code that a Watcher must remain indifferent to the Immortal he Watched. Like Joe, who had argued this very point with Ian Bancroft on the day of his death. Joe had come to terms with that difference of opinion and laid that old ghost to rest some time ago. Rick Madsen was upset because Amanda was hurting. That made Madsen all right in Joe's book.

Joe puzzled over the rest of Madsen's report. He had never heard of Sarah Weiss before. Madsen had accessed her Chronicle, reporting that she was a young, rather unremarkable Immortal. She had a Watcher, of course. But, like so many of the younger Immortals today, coverage of Sarah's activities was rather perfunctory. She wasn't a Hunter; nor was she Hunted. She led a quiet life in the Paris countryside with her aging recluse of a husband, taking great pains to avoid others of her kind. She accepted a Challenge when made, but never went looking for trouble. Since her husband's decline, she had rarely even ventured to Paris. Her Watcher hadn't been on duty when today's bizarre menage-a-trois had unfolded. She would be kicking herself from now till Thursday when she heard what a show she'd missed.

Joe stroked his beard. Madsen had been puzzled to hear MacLeod call Sarah Weiss "the One" he was looking for. As he had told Joe, if there can be only One, it seemed unlikely that it would be Sarah Weiss. He left unsaid who he thought would be the One. But Joe knew. The last time Amanda had been in Seacouver, Madsen had joined the regular gang at the poker table at Joe's. The shop talk had come down to the usual speculation of who would be the last Immortal standing. Madsen shared the majority opinion that it would be MacLeod, arguably the most formidable swordsman, especially now that Connor MacLeod was out of the Game. Joe thought ruefully of what his brethren would say if they knew how close the indomitable MacLeod had come to losing his head in the last few months, without ever picking up his sword.

No, Joe knew who Mac was looking for and it wasn't the destined last Immortal. Could it be that the Highlander had found his successor Champion? Joe's pulse quickened. As soon as he got back to his hotel, he'd take a closer look at the Chronicles of Sarah Weiss. He looked down at the scrolls on the tabletop. He'd almost forgotten what he was working on when Madsen's call had interrupted.

Just as Konstantin Dimakis had predicted, Joe had found the book known as the Roll of the Honored Dead in the business section of headquarters. Melina Oberlin had graciously given him access, and a small room down the hall from her office to work. The book was slim, leatherbound, elegant in its simplicity. Like most Watcher records, it had been painstakingly recopied by hand over the centuries. Melina said this volume was five hundred years old. The name of the Watcher, the year of death and the amount of the small sum paid to surviving spouse were all that it contained. For all that it was a business record, a mere ledger of accounts, there was an elegiac feel to the book Joe held reverently in his hands.

The list wasn't very long. Not really. Not when you considered that the Society of Watchers spanned five thousand years. There were bound to be Watchers caught up in the violence that surrounded the Immortals they Watched. Somewhat masochistically, he started at the back, riffling quickly through the empty pages. The cluster in the 1990's contained too many familiar names. Joe knew too many of the dead. Hell, he had almost been a casualty himself, caught between Jack Shapiro and Jacob Galati. Add Horton and his death squads ... Joe closed his eyes.

These names underscored the great upheaval of the last decade. A decade that the Organization had barely survived. Joe was intimately familiar with the causes. And, he thought, sadly, with the effects, as he perused the names of old friends and colleagues. He sighed and continued backward through the book. The twentieth century had certainly taken its toll on the ranks. Here was the Dresden cell in 1945. But after that, the entries were sporadic. Centuries passed without any names being recorded.

Joe turned a page carefully, then let out a yelp of surprise. Here was Mathias, almost lost among a large cluster of names in the year 996. But that wasn't what made Joe's heart race with excitement. It was the tiny red symbol impressed in the page next to the names. It was the mysterious double ring, the circle within the circle, which embossed the Chronicle of Rebecca that Amy had found. Joe counted the names. Nearly a hundred. He flipped hurriedly through the rest of the pages. There were no entries with the little circles after 996, though there were some few scattered earlier through the volume, all the way back to its beginning in 500 A.D. But nothing after 996. No legend, no key, no explanation of the mysterious little symbol.

Joe took a pen from his pocket and began to copy the names with the mark next to them into his notebook. A chill settled in his gut. All those names signified a "wipeout". It happened from time to time. They had lost whole Watcher cells due to plague, famine or other natural disasters. But death by natural causes did not get registered in the Roll of the Honored Dead.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Amy wiped the sweat from her brow with a bandana, replaced her billed cap, and retied the scarf around her neck. Despite her sunglasses, she squinted at the bright afternoon sun. A slight, all too brief breeze caressed her face bringing with it the scent of the pine trees in the surrounding grove. It would be cooler in the shade of those pines, she thought, longingly. There was no shade at her destination - the stone temple at the top of the hill.

"Lord, it's hot!" she exclaimed to no one in particular. Adam had outpaced her on this hike and had no doubt reached the summit several minutes before. He wasn't bothered in the least by the oppressive temperatures. Rather, he seemed to thrive on it, soaking up the warmth like a lazy cat on a sunny windowsill. Amy hitched her pack a bit higher on her shoulders and pressed on.

Five minutes later, she dropped down on the stone steps of the ruined temple and sighed deeply. Adam was there, his lean legs stretched out in front of him. He reached into the open backpack beside him and handed her a parcel of waxed paper.

"What is it?"she asked.

"Ambrosia," he answered.

Amy opened the package. It contained a thick slice of watermelon. She took a bite. It was ice cold. She closed her eyes in ecstasy as the sweet juice ran down her chin. "Food of the gods, indeed," she said around a mouthful of fruit. "Where did you get this?"

"A kid was selling them," he gestured behind him to the front of the temple. "I bought his last two slices before he packed it in."

"S'wonderful," she managed between bites. Not wanting to desecrate Holy Ground, she indecorously spat seeds into the waxed paper. She looked around with interest as she munched the fruit.

The view from the summit was magnificent. To the east, she looked all the way down to the coast and the Aghia Marina. To the west, the mountains dominated the sky. But she could see the fertile plains to the northwest, amber and green fields of grains, grapes and olives, orchards of fig and almond and pistachio trees. Even now, the sun was lowering. It would be hidden by the mountains in another hour. This late in the day, there were few tourists. On her way up the trail, Amy had passed a few people on their way down. There were a few stragglers wandering around the temple, but they should depart before the sun set. The hike up here would be too tricky in the dark.

Amy finished her treat with an unladylike slurp and spat out the last of the seeds. She wiped her hands on her shorts, then rolled up the seeds and rind in the paper and stowed it in her pack. Refreshed, she stretched out beside Adam, who managed to look comfortable sprawled over several stone steps.

Their scavenger hunt, as Amy called out, had started Sunday dawn in Marathonas. Rebecca's Chronicle entries had been deliberately cryptic. The first refrain read:

Bend thy knee in sacred sanctuary to greet the herald of the new day;
With one dark finger, pale Helios points the way.

Based on this clue, they had started, logically, with the Christian church in town. It dated to 759 A. D. so it had certainly been around when Rebecca wrote that bit of doggerel. It had grown from its more humble beginnings and now sprawled over the length of a city block. They had enquired of the pastor, but their records only went back as far as the fourteenth century. A fire had gutted the sacristy then, leaving only the stone. They had explored the building and the grounds, finding nothing to match to the writings in the old Chronicle. And had waited for dawn to point the way to something. The sun had risen bright and pure over the mountains behind them. When its first rays struck the church, Amy's breath had quickened. But there had been nothing to see.

Amy had been disappointed, but not discouraged. After all, there were over three hundred places of worship on Aegina. Still, not all of them had been around at the turn of the last millennium. The next morning, Monday, they had watched the sunrise at the monastery at Chrysoleonitissa. And today, Tuesday, the underground church at Faneromeni. She was becoming concerned. Their departure was scheduled for Saturday. At this rate, they would run out of dawns faster than they would run out of holy places.

At Adam's suggestion, they had skipped the next church on their list and gone directly to Aphaia. The ruins of the temple of Aphaia were already fifteen hundred years old in 996 A.D. Surely it had been a familiar sight to Rebecca. And Adam thought the nod in the verse to the Greek sun god was telling. Amy tilted her head back and peered up at the ruins behind her. There was no roof. All that remained of the great temple were the columns, floor and steps. This had been holy ground since the first temple was erected in 700 B.C.E. to Aphaia, an ancient deity of Crete. Two hundred years later, the cult of Athena had built this Doric temple on the site of the old religion. The temple at Aphaia was the earlier model for the Parthenon and the other classic temples of Greece's Golden Age, though of all those structures, Aphaia alone retained the columns of its inner sanctuary. It was stately and elegant. But not a very comfortable place to spend the night.

Amy yawned widely and loudly. "Excuse me," she said, sheepishly. They had been up well before dawn each of the last five days. As much as she teased Adam about his night owl proclivities, she wasn't a morning person either. Although they had packed light, they had each brought along a strident travel alarm in their packs, not trusting to their biological clocks to rouse them before the sunrise. While this was definitely a working holiday, Amy was enjoying herself. She hoped Adam was too, though one could never tell with him. Since they had arrived in Athens, there were times when he was distracted - preoccupied was probably more accurate - requiring Amy to repeat herself or touch his arm to get his attention. On more than one occasion, she had surprised a melancholy expression on his face as he stared at sea or sky. The blue moods didn't last long, and otherwise Adam had turned out to be quite an agreeable traveling companion. She didn't press him for explanations. Lord knows, in her relatively short life, she had enough difficult memories of her own to contend with.

These long, sun-baked days had proven therapeutic - for her, at least. Her appetite had come back, and she was sleeping through the night now, for the first time since the end of the End of Time. A much more effective remedy to heartache than her attempted seduction of Adam that first night at Amanda's chateau. She must have been out of her mind, initiating a sexual liason with an Immortal just to make herself feel better. Fortunately, Adam had been the perfect gentleman, rebuffing her advances while leaving Amy's pride intact. Amazingly, there had been no awkwardness between them the next morning. If anything, their friendship had deepened. Before that night, she doubted that she would have invited him to join her on an excursion to a romantic Greek island. Now, it was only natural that she invite a friend, fellow scholar and former Watcher, from whom no secrets needed to be kept.

Amy yawned again, so widely that her jaw creaked. "Excuse me!" she apologized, "It's not the company."

Methos yawned in sympathy. Despite the early risings, he too had enjoyed the past few days, though memories of his time in Santorini with Alexa haunted him here. The sun-washed houses and colorful awnings, the scent of rosemary growing wild on the hill, the taste of ouzo and salty air, Amy's youthful enthusiasm -- even the churches, for Alexa had wanted to light a candle in every church they had encountered in their travels -- all had evoked that last, lovely idyll before the cancer had devoured her.

He and Amy were researching the island's holy places on the fly. There had been no time before they left Paris if they were to explore Aegina before the Olympic crowds descended upon them. They had quickly established a routine. Up early to catch the sunrise, work online until mid-afternoon, a swim in the azure waters a short walk from their hotel, and dinner at the taverna right on the beach. Early to bed, and early to rise, and start all over again.

He shaded his eyes as he looked westward. Although official sunset wasn't for two more hours, the sun was already sinking behind the mountains. He gazed around the ruins. They were the last tourists. The path to the site would be too treacherous to negotiate in the dark. They had decided to camp for the night. That would be easier than hiking the five kilometers from Aghia Marina in the predawn. He chuckled.

"What's funny?" Amy asked.

"I was just thinking of the last time I went camping," he replied, smiling.

"Why? What happened?" Amy said, curious.

"Mac and me in a pup tent on the side of a mountain," Methos explained. "I objected to his snoring. He disliked certain of my ... uh ... bodily functions." At her dubious look, he continued, "Enough said."

"O-kay, I'll take your word for it," Amy drawled. "We didn't even bring a tent with us."

"Don't need one. Look at that sky," he said. "It will be a beautiful night." He put his hands behind his head. "More stars than you can shake a stick at." He paused. "Though why anyone would do that, I have no idea."

"Adam, if this site doesn't work out ..."

Methos interrupted her. "Shhh, think about that tomorrow."

"What's that?" Amy said, sarcastically. "From the Collected Wisdom of Scarlett O'Hara?"

"The Fiddle-dee-dee Principle," Adam nodded. "Works for me."

They watched the sunset in companionable silence. After a tidy dinner of dried fruit, bread and cheese served up by Adam's shiny new pocketknife, they made their camp on a bed of soft pine needles on the edge of the patch of trees. Adam was right. It was a lovely night, with a fine, soft breeze. Stretched out on her blanket, slathered with insect repellant, Amy saw more stars than she thought possible. The more she looked, the more appeared, until she was sure her eyes were playing tricks on her. She could even make out the denser cluster of the Milky Way. Beautiful and vast, the star field was a wonderment to behold.

"Look, Adam! A falling star!" she exclaimed, pointing toward the mountain peak. "And another! Oh, look at them!"

Adam's deep voice came out of the dark. "It's the Perseids meteor shower. It happens this same time every year."

"It's brilliant," Amy breathed.

Adam watched silently as three streaks of light flared in unison. 'Falling star' was a misnomer, of course. It was only debris burning up in the atmosphere - ancient fragments left behind by a forgotten comet in its solitary course around the sun. Cosmic dust. Though he had witnessed this annual light show too many times to count, it was only in the last few centuries ago that he had come to understand it as a natural, rather than supernatural, phenomenon. It was only dust. Dust in the wind.

An overpowering sense of deja vu seized him. Memories of so many nights like this engulfed him. Faces swirled before him, dim and vague as if glimpsed through a veil. One face swam suddenly into focus. Heart-shaped, with delicate features illuminated by starlight. He drew a deep breath and smelled the salt tang in his nostrils, tasted it on his tongue. He watched the gaudy night in contentment, the lapping of the surf lulling him to the very edge of sleep. Alexa sighed and reached a hand to the kaleidoscope sky.

Another ray of gold-green light sped by, its shimmer briefly illuminating the night and the outstretched hand and upturned face beside him. Methos started violently. It wasn't Lex's face. It wasn't her hand. There was no beach. A mountain loomed before him, its hulking shape blotting out the stars. He felt strange, disoriented. His heart pounded in his ears.

In the darkness on this ancient hill, Methos came unstuck in time. Melancholia suddenly enshrouded him and he shivered despite the warm night. It might have been eight years ago, or a hundred, or a thousand; any one of a legion of women could be lying near him in the dark. He started to reach out, to confirm by reassuringly solid touch that it was Amy so close in the darkness, but he drew his hand back, fearful that she was but another memory of another colorful night long ago. Six months, twenty years, a lifetime. The blink of an eye.

Another shooting star lit the sky. It blazed for a moment. Then the moment was gone. Dust in the wind. Methos felt the abyss opening inside him, yawning before him, and he teetered on the edge.

"This reminds me of a story I once read."

Methos latched on to the sound of that disembodied voice, like a drowning man to a spar. He slowly turned his face toward it.

"It was by Ray Bradbury, though I've forgotten the title," Amy continued. "I read it so long ago."

"What's it about?" His voice sounded rusty to his own ears. He cleared his throat.

"Well, it's pure Bradbury, if you know what I mean," she said. "It begins with a spaceship exploding somehow ... I think it's hit by a meteor. I don't remember exactly." She thought a moment. "But the astronauts suddenly spill out into space. They're wearing space suits so they don't die instantly in the vacuum. But each of them is on a different ... trajectory, I suppose one would call it. Some are headed out into deep space, or toward the sun, or falling to earth. One gets caught in the meteor swarm. But they're all doomed. And they know it."

"Sounds depressing," Methos managed.

"At first it is," she agreed, nodding in the dark. "All they know is sheer terror. But they can still communicate with each other by radio, so they are still connected to each other, for a little while. At first, they try to find a solution," she sighed, "but, of course, there isn't one. They talk about the things they never did or reminisce about their lives, until one by one they either pass out of radio range or succumb to something sooner. Sometimes, they lash out viciously at each other, sometimes they support each other." She stopped briefly, gathering her thoughts. "One man, the one whose point of view we take, is a bitter man, dour and standoffish. He had no friends among his shipmates, he has made no ties in his life, no connections. He thinks about his regrets. He has so many regrets, Adam. A thousand regrets. As he falls --" She paused. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," he muttered.

"As he falls, he wishes with all his heart that he could have mattered to somebody. Anybody. He knows he will burn up like a cinder, with nothing left to mark his life ... or his death. He's the one who is falling to the earth, you see." Amy paused, taking a breath. "At the end, as he enters the atmosphere, the perspective in the story shifts to a little boy looking up at the night sky. He screams, 'Look, Daddy! A falling star!' And the father bends down close to his child and whispers, 'Make a wish!'"

Amy was silent for a long moment. "I've always loved that story."

"I'd like to read it," Adam said, softly. He shifted on his makeshift bed. The scent of pine wafted up and surrounded him. He inhaled deeply, each astringent breath centering him, as the darkness within receded like the turning of the tide.

"This is my first time camping, if you don't count the Girl Guides outings when I was young," Amy mused. Small tents pitched at the local park, five minutes from her home. No, that definitely didn't count.

"Give me a four star hotel any day," Adam groused, more as a matter of form than a true complaint.

"But, Adam, we have a four thousand star accommodation tonight!" she said. "There's just no pleasing some people."

"Tell me another story," he asked, impulsively.

"About what?" Amy asked, surprised.

"Anything," he replied. He looked up at the night sky appreciatively, as Amy's soft voice tethered him securely to this moment, this place, this life. A spectacular meteor blazed directly above him. "Tell me about the Girl Guides." His eyes grew heavy as he listened to the triumphs and tribulations of pre-adolescent English girls in uniform.

Amy watched the Perseids for a long while after Adam fell asleep. She could detect no objectionable bodily functions on her companion's part, though he had drifted off as she was describing her merit badges. Before she closed her eyes for the last time that night, she saw a particularly bright flash streak over the mountain. "Oh, I wish!" she whispered, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, "I wish we find what Rebecca left behind." Then she fell, like a shooting star, down, down into sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY

"Adam, wake up!"

"Ubi?" Methos fought his way up from the depths of a dream. The blanket ensnared his legs like a boa constrictor swallowing its prey. He kicked it down to his ankles, then sat up blearily. The eastern sky was brightening fast. He looked at his watch. Five minutes till dawn. Methos made it to his knees, then lurched to his feet. His full bladder ached to be emptied, but he ignored the urge.

"It's nearly sunrise!" Amy rooted hurriedly through her pack. "You hit your snooze button twice!"

"We have to get into position. You have your stuff?"

She nodded, slinging a small binoculars and a camera around her neck. She trotted up the marble steps of the temple, carefully positioning herself dead center at the entrance. She knelt carefully on the rough surface.

Methos hurriedly rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He slung his own binoculars on his neck and grabbed his sketchpad and pencil. He dashed to the opposite side of the temple, 180 degrees from Amy. He assumed the same position in the center point between the two side walls, facing the eastern sky while Amy faced west. From this vantage, he could see all the way down to the sleeping harbor of Aghia Marina. The Aegean was as still as glass in the pre-dawn gloom. It was impossible to discern where the sky ended and the water began. He watched and waited, though he had no idea what he was looking for. Their plan was simple: position themselves on the east-west axis and hope for the best.

Amy shifted uncomfortably at her perch. She wished she had thought to bring the blanket with her to use as a kneeler. The cold, cracked marble was tough on the knees. It was cool in the shade of the massive structure and she shivered.

Adam called from his post, his voice carrying easily in the stillness. "Here it comes."

Amy knelt at attention. The wooded area where they had slept became more distinct, shadowy shapes gradually revealing themselves to be bedrolls, a rock, a clump of bushes. Suddenly, as if they were had been set afire, the mountain peaks to the northwest blazed with a golden light. Amy deliberately kept her focus wide and relaxed, as she scanned the landscape. The fire poured down the mountainsides, dispelling the purple shadows in its path. She held her breath.

The sun crested the ancient structure behind her.

"I see it!" she cried, pointing. "Adam, I see it!" She remembered the camera around her neck and clicked the shutter several times.

Adam's feet made crunching noises in the gravel as he ran to her side, then skidded to a halt. On the face of a distant peak, a narrow, vertical shadow pointed upward. His eye followed the shadow "finger". In a direct line above the long shape, a round darker spot stood out. The finger and the circle looked remarkably like an upside down exclamation point painted onto the cliff face.

"With one dark finger, pale Helios points the way," Amy breathed, a thrill running up her spine as the meaning of the thousand-year-old message was revealed.

Adam's pencil flew over the notepad as he rapidly sketched the scene, roughly filling in the landmarks and other identifying features. Already the finger shape was shrinking. Even as he watched, the sun moved on and the dark finger, much shortened, merged with other shadows and disappeared altogether.

Amy still knelt, her discomfort forgotten in her excitement. She looked at her watch. Official sunrise had been only two minutes before.

"What formed the finger shadow?" Adam asked.

"That rock outcropping there." Amy pointed at an unprepossessing formation on a nearer hill. One needle-like shape jutted out from a base of jumbled rock.

Adam reached out and helped Amy to her feet. She dusted off the knees of her khakis. "Why did we have to kneel? It made no difference in what we saw."

"Poetic license, I should think. Rebecca was known to be rather devout." He stared at the mountain, frowning in thought.

"How far away, do you think?"

"As the crow flies, about three miles." Adam frowned, shifting his feet. "But we're not crows." He thrust the sketch pad into her hands. "Or camels." He moved urgently down the steps and into the copse of pine trees. As he passed their bedrolls, he practically ran to the thicker bunching of trees, fumbling with his zipper along the way. Amy lost sight of him as he rounded a fat pine.

Amy compared the sketch to the mountainside for a few minutes, then tossed it on to Adam's tangled blanket. She stood, hands on hips, and studied the mountain face in the distance. The sun was already washing out the details. She rolled her blanket into a small, tight sausage, and fastened it to her pack with a couple of bungee straps. She munched a handful of trail mix and washed it down with a swig from her water bottle. Adam emerged from the trees at a decidedly slower pace than he had entered.

"Feel better?" she asked, amused.

A grunt was her only reply.

In a matter of minutes, they were packed, leaving little sign of their makeshift campsite. While Adam took bearings with his compass, Amy attended to grooming, running her fingers through her short hair and chewing a stick of gum vigorously. Morning toilette completed, she slung her pack onto her shoulders.

"Ready?" she asked her companion, eagerly.

"Onward and upward," he replied, leading the way through the pines.

Three hours later, Amy tangled with a thornbush, leaving a tiny bit of skin on the bush and a watery red streak on her sweaty forearm. She swiped it with her bandana, then took a swig of water. She watched as Adam stood on a large boulder, taking their bearings. Here in one of the valleys in Aegina's mountainous interior, it was impossible to keep an eye on the mountain they were seeking. The terrain was rough and wild with dense undergrowth. A buzzing insect whirred near her left ear, darting away as she swatted at it. The heat and humidity had temporarily wilted her enthusiasm for the hunt as she thought longingly of the blue water and stony beach outside their hotel, and the lemony iced tea served in tall, frosty glasses at the neighboring taverna. She sipped blood-warm water and sighed.

Adam leapt nimbly down from his perch. Amy had noted that the temperature had little effect on him. No, that wasn't quite accurate. He absorbed the heat, drawing energy from it like a solar battery. How a fellow denizen of the British Isles could relish this climate ... With a little shake of her head, Amy abruptly realized her mistake. Her fellow ex-Watcher was a young Englishman. But she had no idea of the true origins of the Immortal under the Adam Pierson shell. It was a fact of life - of eternal life - that she kept forgetting where this particular Immortal was concerned.

"Right," Adam said, frowning at the compass. "This way," he pointed. There was blood on his arm from his own tussle with the thornbush, but the skin beneath was already healed. Amy sighed with envy, shifted her pack to a more comfortable position, and soldiered on.

Two hours later, they had reached the base of their destination. Amy stared up at the cliff face in dismay. She was no mountain climber, even if they had brought that kind of equipment with them. Which they hadn't. How were they going to get up there?

As if he reading her mind, Adam said, "It's not as bad as it looks." He pointed. "See, there's a path." He frowned. "Or rather, what's left of a path. Come on."

Not quite wide enough to walk two abreast, the remnant of the path was steep, but not unmanageable. The toughest part was the gravel and loose rock which made footing a little tricky. But even that wasn't too bad, Amy concluded. There were places where the wind and rain had eroded the path altogether, but they managed. Amy wondered who had worn this path here to this remote place and how long it had been since a human being had trod on it. Halfway up the mountain, the cave they had seen from the Temple yawned before them. The path continued, meandering its way on up the mountainside and out of sight.

The cave mouth was large, high enough for Adam to enter without stooping and for two people to walk side by side. He pointed out that the edges of the cave appeared to have been worked at some point in the past, widening the opening. Amy peered inside, but the contrast between the bright sunlight overhead and the gloomy darkness within was too high to see anything.

Methos set his pack on the ground. He rummaged inside and removed a flashlight and a small jar. He shone the light into the cave. The entrance stretched tunnel-like for a short distance then curved away to the left several yards in. "Amy, you had best wait out here," he said, absently.

"No!" Amy insisted, "I'm coming with you."

"We don't know what's inside," Methos explained, "it could be dangerous."

"And I could get sunstroke out here and fall off the mountain," she countered, "or choke on a granola bar. I'm going with you."

"Amy, be reasonable. I'll reconnoiter and come back -"

Amy seethed. "Adam, must I point out that I invited you on this expedition?"

"That isn't -"

"Another word and I'll toss you over the cliff!" she said with asperity, clenched fists on hips. "You are not my father and you are certainly not Duncan MacLeod!"

Methos stood up, unexpectedly stung by the comparison to the younger Immortal. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?!"

Amy calmed herself and softened her tone. "You have always treated me as an equal. But Mac ... he acts like I'm a ... a delicate little flower ... the little woman that has to be protected by ... by manly men." She shone her own flashlight into the cave. "This is the twenty-first century, for heaven's sake!"

Methos shook his head, somewhat mollified. "You're wrong about Mac."

"I am not!"

Methos waved a hand dismissively. "He can be over-bearingly over-protective, I'll grant you." He paused. "But not because you're a woman." He watched her expression grow thoughtful.

"Oh," Amy breathed. "Because I'm mortal."

She was half-right. MacLeod adopted the people he cared about into his "clan". Raised to protect and defend the clan with his very life, Mac was the proverbial mother hen, instinctively gathering his brood to shelter under his very broad wings. Mortal, Immortal - it made no difference. On their first meeting, Duncan had extended his protection even to the eldest of them all, an act that had endeared the younger Immortal to Methos, as much as it had exasperated him.

"He can't help it." Methos was bemused, placed in the dubious position of defending a character trait he had long encouraged Mac to leave behind. "It's in his nature."

Amy took the offensive. "But it's not in yours, Adam," she said, with finality. She settled her backpack onto her shoulders.

Methos was silent as he pondered the exchange. She was right. As he was fond of pointing out, he was a man born long before the age of chivalry. And as different from MacLeod as night was from day. So, why had he copped the Male Protector attitude? Certainly not because she was a woman, or because she was mortal ... The answer came swiftly. Because she was Amy. Get over it, old man, he told himself sternly.

"OK, you win," he conceded. "Spiders, snakes and bats be damned." He took a deep breath, mentally girding his loins. He harbored little love for dark, mysterious caves himself. The last time he had explored one, he had been swept away by flood waters and promptly drowned. He turned to Amy. "Ready?" He handed her the jar.

"Ready," she said, repressing a shudder as she followed Adam into the darkness. She really didn't care for spiders, snakes, or bats. Rats, either. She would rather have her fingernails pulled off one by one before she admitted it, though. Are there bears on Greek islands, she wondered, nearly stepping on Adam's heels. Or mountain lions? Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

The cave twisted and turned and dropped in height a little so that in some places, Adam was compelled to duck his head. After a while, the tunnel forked into two branches. They stopped, shining their lights into each branch in turn.

"Now what?" Adam asked.

Amy took a slip of paper from her pocket, and read aloud:

To choose thy Path correctly, bow thy head in humility.

Adam rolled his eyes, as Amy folded her hands and bowed her head. "It can't hurt," she retorted. He shone the flashlight at the walls of the branching to the right. Amy said a silent prayer then shone her own flashlight on the floor of the left-bearing branch.

"Adam, look!" She knelt and brushed at the floor with her free hand. Two short parallel lines had been cut in the stone floor at the center of the left arch. The accumulated dirt nearly obscured the markings. "I'm guessing this way," Amy said, pointing to the branch on the left. She unscrewed the lid of the jar and dabbed a bit of the fluorescent orange paint at eye level on the left-branching wall. Its disembodied glow was eerie, but reassuring.

Methos agreed. The right-hand branching was unadorned. "Make a mark every fifty feet or so, and at any branch or turning we come to," he instructed. It would be very easy to lose their bearings in here.

They continued on. Amy painted three more arrows pointing their way back. Then the tunnel forked again. The path to the left went on for several feet narrowing as it went, then abruptly stopped.

"It's a dead end," Methos said, stating the obvious.

They stood there, puzzled. Rebecca's clues seemed to be steering them to the left. Had they misinterpreted her meaning? Amy read the couplet aloud again.

Stay thy course to end thy Path,
where all our Paths shall end.

Methos grunted and retraced his steps back to the branching, examining the wall running between the two tunnels. Amy stepped closer, reaching out to touch the very solid wall in front of her. She directed the flashlight beam up and down. Her heart beat faster. This was not a natural formation. Someone had constructed this wall, stone by stone, and mortared them in place. It was cleverly done. The mortar had crumbled in several places, leaving individual rocks jutting out of the wall. Without that deterioration, it would have been nearly impossible to tell that the wall was artificial in this gloom. One rock, about waist high, wobbled in response to her touch. Without thinking, she tugged at it. To her surprise, the rock came away easily. She heard a small noise, like a door creaking. A trickle of dirt spilled out of the hole she had made, ran down the wall, and puddled on the floor. Alarmed, she took a step back, still clutching the rock.

"Adam?" she called uncertainly, backpedaling rapidly as her flashlight showed the trickle had become a torrent of dirt, gravel and crumbling mortar. "Adam!" Her cry was drowned out in the crescendo of crashing rocks. As she retreated backward, she tripped on the uneven floor and fell on her bum, dropping the flashlight. Dust billowed from the rockfall and engulfed her. The noise was incredibly loud in the enclosed space. Brilliant, you git! she thought as she coughed dust out of her lungs, half-expecting the whole cavern to come down on her head. Serves you right if it does.

"Amy!" Adam's footfalls were loud in the sudden and enormous silence. A light bobbed toward her. "Amy!"

"I'm OK," she coughed. He reached out a hand and helped her to her feet. Amy still held the rock that started it all, and hastily cast it aside. She wiped dust from her streaming eyes with her bandana then held it, belatedly, to her nose and mouth.

Adam sneezed loudly, then waved away the dust around his face. "What happened?"

"It was me," she admitted. She dusted her sleeves, her cheeks burning, grateful for the darkness. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

Adam wasn't listening. He scrambled on to the pile of rubble that had fallen from the wall and shone the flash into the opening.

"What do you see?" Amy asked, eagerly.

"Not much. But there's a bigger chamber back there." He jumped down. "Let's see if I can finish the job you started." He gave her a stern look, made even more so by the harsh glare of the flashlights. "Stand back, O Mighty Woman of the Twenty-First Century." She complied meekly, retreating several feet. "And don't touch anything!" He picked up a rock, then straightened. "This probably goes without saying ... but if the rest of this starts to come down, run like hell."

Methos worked steadily in the light afforded by the flashlight Amy held. Most of the stones were light enough to toss out of the way. Only a few required him to muscle them around. Still, by the time he had cleared the way, his shirt was soaked with sweat. He stood, catching his breath as he surveyed his handiwork. He had expanded the opening in the wall enough for one person to make it through, if he ducked.

"Here," Amy offered him her bandana. He wiped his brow before taking a long swallow from the canteen she handed him.

"Thanks." He took his flashlight from her. "I'm going first."

"Of course," she agreed. Then, because she couldn't resist, quipped, "Age before beauty."

Adam muttered something she didn't quite catch in a language she didn't know anyway. He hoisted his pack, peered in with the light, and disappeared. After a moment, he called to her. "Come on in. The water's fine."

Amy stepped carefully through the narrow opening. At first, her attention was on her feet as she picked her way over rubble to Adam's side. But as she raised her eyes, her jaw dropped. The chamber was bigger than she expected. It extended back at least twenty feet to the rear, flaring out from the tunnel like an opened fan. She played her flashlight slowly around the room. Rocks, big and small, were scattered near the walls. Several pillars of natural stone reached from floor to ceiling, obscuring her view. As she peered around, her flashlight beam briefly illuminated Adam's back.

Amy darted forward with a cry, sweeping her hat off her head and across his shoulder blades in one fluid movement.

"What the ..." Adam craned his neck over his shoulder. Amy pointed the flashlight at his feet. A small black scorpion skittered across the floor. "Damn!" He lifted his foot, about to crush the tiny animal.

"Don't!" Amy cried.

He hesitated and the scorpion scuttled off into the gloom. He played the flashlight over her front. "Turn around," he ordered. Amy pirouetted, holding her breath until he gave her the all-clear. She shook her hat out before replacing it on her head.

Adam brushed at his hair with both hands. "They're poisonous, you know," he said, mildly.

"I know," she acknowledged. "But he was probably more scared of us, than we were of him."

"Speak for yourself," he mumbled. He gestured with his flashlight at the gloom between two pillars. "There's something over there, by the far wall." They advanced together, shining the light at a long shape that loomed from the darkness. Amy stopped suddenly, her hand clutching Adam's arm.

"Adam," she breathed. "This is a tomb!"

"Truly a dead end," Methos said, as Rebecca's meaning was suddenly clear. 'Where all our Paths shall end'. Thanks for the reminder, Lady.

The remains of a human being, wrapped in the stained and tattered remnants of a shroud, lay upon a stone plinth which jutted out from the back wall of the chamber. The head pointed to the far wall; the feet toward them.

"Why here?" Amy asked, mystified. She spoke in a hushed tone.

"It's cool and dry," he said. "And sealed off by that wall, the body would be safe from grave robbers. Plus --"

Amy interrupted him. "No, I mean why would Rebecca lead us here? What does an old crypt have to do with -"

"It wasn't an old crypt then, Amy," Adam explained, patiently.

"Oh. Of course not," she said, with a sheepish laugh. And then, with dawning dismay, "Oh, no!" She rushed to the plinth, startling Methos with her sudden movement. Dessicated flesh, gleaming like polished wood in the glare of her flashlight, peeked through the dirty tatters of a shroud. The hands had been folded reverently on the chest, held in place with the barest shreds of the cloth wrappings that had been wound around and around the body. Before Methos could react, Amy seized one mummified hand. There, just barely visible in the mottled skin, twin circles of black encircled the left wrist. Her eye traveled to her own wrist to the same fading marks she had drawn weeks ago while sitting, bored, in a Parisian hospital bed. Amy dropped the dead hand in shock.

"James," she whispered. "Oh, God, it's James." Her throat tightened as her vision blurred. "He never made it home." A warm hand squeezed her shoulder. She leaned into it, grateful for Adam's touch, as she struggled to regain her composure.

"Actually," Methos cleared his throat. "Actually," he tried again, "his name was Geoffrey."

Amy made an inquisitive noise. Methos pointed the flashlight over her head. There was writing on the stone wall above the plinth. Old Greek. The lettering was blood-red, though Amy suspected that it had to be ochre or some other clay derivative to maintain its color for so long. She squinted in the dim light, following along as Methos read the inscription, his strong voice echoing sonorously in the stone chamber.

"Geoffrey of Kent departed this life on the thirteenth day of the eleventh month of the Year of Our Lord, 996. May the Lord have mercy upon his soul."

"Amen," Amy whispered, wiping her cheeks. She took a breath and let it out. "This is so silly. He's been dead a thousand years. I knew that!"

Methos sympathized. "He was alive to you, Amy. He lives in that Chronicle."

She looked sadly down at the body she had disturbed. The left hand dangled several inches from the floor. Amy grabbed the shrunken wrist and carefully bent the arm at the elbow, intending to restore the tableau to its original condition. She noticed the right hand lying on the sunken chest, almost as if James clutched something precious to his bosom. She looked closer. There was something there. A small bundle wrapped in a darker fabric than the shroud. A small, rectangular, book-shaped bundle ...

"Adam," she began.

"I see it," Adam replied. The excitement in his voice matched her own. "Where's the camera?"

Amy mentally slapped her forehead as she shrugged out of her pack. As she photographed the plinth, the inscription, the body, she cursed herself for her unprofessional emotional reaction. Never disturb the site until it had been mapped and photographed! The greenest of students knows that! Even though this Watcher's burial site was never going to appear in the archaeological journals, it should still have been properly documented.

Adam spoke when she had finished. "Bring the light closer." He lifted James' - no, Geoffrey's - hand and arm carefully, and placed it to the side of his body. "Careful, careful," he muttered to himself, as he grasped the bundle with both hands. Unlike the shroud, this material didn't crumble. He pulled gently, working the bundle back and forth in small, rocking motions. At first, nothing happened. Then, with a nauseating sound, like ripping duct tape from a roll, the bundle came away from the body.

Methos held it out in front of him. "It looks like oilcloth," he said, reverently.

"Could it have possibly lasted over a thousand years?"

"It looks like it did." He turned it over and back gently. "We should open it where we can see what we're doing."

Amy extracted a clean T-shirt from her pack. They wrapped the bundle carefully in the garment, then nestled it gently among her spare clothes. Amy eased the straps of her pack over her shoulders. She stood a moment, looking down at the remains. Then, one by one, she repositioned the hands on the chest and stepped back. "Right," she said, drawing a deep breath. "Let's go." They turned back to the cave entrance simultaneously.

Suddenly, the floor trembled beneath their feet. Amy froze as a terrible grinding noise filled the cave. She staggered, bumping into Adam's back. Just as suddenly the movement stopped. Silence descended. Dust trickled down from the ceiling.

"Earthquake," Adam said, tersely, shining his flashlight on their makeshift opening in the wall. "Let's wait a moment to make sure that wall won't come down on us."

Amy nodded, her heart pounding in her throat. The Aegean was at a confluence of three major fault lines. Tremors and quakes were common here. In fact, there was a tremor the day that they had arrived on the island. This one was probably along the same order of magnitude - just enough to rattle the crockery along with your nerves. Amy much preferred to experience a trembler in the hotel bar, chased with a long cool drink, than in this gloomy cave under the earth. She silently counted to ten. The rock wall held steady. A trickle of icy sweat ran down between her shoulder blades, and she let out the breath she had been holding in relief.

"Let's go -" Adam began. A noise interrupted him. A strange, high-pitched, supremely disturbing noise that reverberated in the stone room. Adam shifted the light around searching for the source, then pointed it down to the floor, illuminating a spot just in front of the exit from this chamber. Something gleamed in the glare. It moved, and Amy felt the hairs stand up all over her body. Adam drew a sharp breath.

"What's that?" Amy squeaked. "Lava?" Even as she said the word, she knew it was wrong. She joined her light with Adam's. A small fissure had opened in the floor. The black shape spilling out of it undulated obscenely toward them. She backed away in horrified comprehension just as Adam spoke.

"Scorpions," he said, grimly. "The tremor disturbed their nest."

Hundreds of black scuttling creatures surged out of the crack in the earth. They moved as one, a writhing, seething, shifting mass, mindless and malevolent, darker than the deepest shadow. It was an obscene sight, the stuff of nightmares. And it was between them and their escape. They were trapped. Amy's breath whistled in her dry throat. . She saw Adam's face, the lips pulled back in a rictus of fear, and knew his expression matched her own. She reached blindly for his hand and squeezed it hard, wanting to give the comfort of human touch as much as she needed to take it.

Her touch galvanized him. He hurriedly dropped his pack and flashlight on the floor, barking orders. "On my back. Now!" She stared at him, uncomprehending. "Now! There's no time to waste!" He turned his back to her and stooped. Amy clambered on, hooking one arm around his neck, while she held her flashlight in the other. Adam boosted her by the thighs. He settled her on his hips, then clamped his hands on her legs. "Whatever happens, don't drop the flashlight!"

He strode through the mass of angry, biting insects without hesitation, as if he were walking into the gentle surf at the beach outside their hotel. But Amy felt the rock-hard tension in his shoulders, the rapid beat of his heart, heard his nearly subliminal croons of fear. They echoed her own. She trained the light ahead, refusing to look down, even when she heard the crunch of armored bodies under Adam's boots. He hissed in pain, his hands jerking on her legs, but nothing slowed him down until he reached the tumble of rocks at the opening. Amy shone the flashlight on the ground as he picked his way over the rubble. She caught glimpses of the loathsome creatures clinging to his trousers and the tops of his boots. Don't fall, please don't fall, O God, don't let him fall, she prayed, over and over.

Adam staggered at the opening, his breath laboring. Amy almost dropped the flashlight as she nearly lost her grip on his back. Sheer willpower kept her in place and she wrapped her legs around Adam's hips. Adam released her legs and grabbed the sides of the opening. She heard an awful scratching, clicking, scrabbling noise behind her. In her mind's eye, she saw the scorpion mass rearing up behind them like a towering, cresting wave about to break. Terror filled her. She wanted to clap her hands over her ears and scream and scream and scream. Some last shred of reason kept her grip on the flashlight and Adam's neck. He teetered backward for a heart-stopping moment, then lurched forward through the opening. He staggered a few feet, then dropped to his knees, hurling Amy off his back with a mighty heave. The momentum of her fall rolled her over and over again, till she slammed into the wall of the tunnel. She dropped the flashlight, momentarily stunned. She lay winded, facing back toward the tomb. The light rocked back and forth on the ground, its beam casting long shadows in the dank cave.

Illuminated in the flash's strobe-like effect, Adam gibbered and capered and slapped at his legs in a surreal danse macabre. He fell, once, twice, three times, each time staggering up, reeling instinctively away from the danger behind him, all the while tearing at his legs with his hands. He fell again. Amy watched as he struggled to his knees, head hanging, chest heaving.

She rose shakily to her feet. All her instincts urged her to run out of the cave, to run and run and keep running and never look back. For one agonizing moment, all she could do was watch as Adam collapsed on his face. She willed herself to pick up her left foot and put it down in front of her right foot. The simple movement broke her paralysis. She ran to the downed man, scooping up the flashlight on her way. Adam struggled to breathe, pulling in air with a harsh choking sound. Amy approached cautiously, using the flashlight to make sure that the way was clear. She stooped beside him, looking fearfully back into the shadows behind her. She didn't have the nerve to shine the light back there. The noises were bad enough. She played the flashlight over his shuddering body, using her hat to sweep several of the creatures off his legs and buttocks. They skittered away in the gloom.

"Adam?"

"Help me," he said in a strangled voice. "Help ..."

Amy grabbed his arm and rolled him on his back. She brushed three more scorpions off his trousers then pulled him to his feet. "Come on!"

They made it to the second fluorescent arrow before he collapsed again, bringing Amy down with him. She pulled him to his knees, got her shoulder under his arm, and levered him up the rest of the way. His head lolled on his shoulders, and he was barely conscious, but he kept his feet as she half-carried him out of the cavern. She stood at the mouth of the cave, blinking dazedly in the sun, surprised that it was still daylight.

Adam was incoherent, his weight sagging in her arms. Amy desperately wanted as much distance between them and the horror in the cave as possible, but she was never going to get him down that treacherous path. She dragged him to the edge of the precipice and paused, looking down thoughtfully. Then, she dropped the semi-conscious man over the cliff. Amy winced as he landed on an outcropping about 15 feet down, and lay still.

She skidded down the slope as fast as she could, almost plunging over the edge herself a few times, as she skinned palms and elbows in the shifting gravel. It seemed like forever, but she finally reached the ledge where Adam lay unmoving. She picked her way carefully to him, and rolled him gently on to his back.

His face was flushed dark red, his eyes bulging. He struggled to draw breath through a rapidly closing throat, his hands clutching spasmodically at his chest and throat. With shaking hands, she soaked her dirty bandana with water from her canteen, and bathed his face, whispering inadequate words of comfort to the dying man. She watched helplessly as his struggles grew weaker and weaker, then finally stopped.

She stared numbly at his lifeless body for a long time until a movement of his leg pulled her out of her stupor. He was reviving already, she thought, relieved. Adam's glazed eyes stared up at the afternoon sun. Amy reached over and closed them. She waited expectantly. But no, he wasn't coming back yet. Something was moving under the fabric of his pants, near the knee. Amy proceeded to carefully strip Adam down to his skin, shaking out his clothes before folding them neatly in a little pile. When she peeled off his trousers, she found one stubborn scorpion insistently stinging the unfeeling flesh of his leg. She knocked it into the dirt with the butt of the canteen, then spent a satisfying five minutes grinding it to a greasy smear with her boot.

Her own skin crawled. There was nothing for it but to strip down herself. The warm air on her naked skin was like a balm. She checked all the parts that she could see, and compulsively raked her fingers through her hair. She was clean and sting-free. She shook out her blanket and carefully emptied her pack. No more bugs. Enormously relieved, she turned back to her fallen comrade. Adam's usually pale skin was mottled in hues of red and purple. His legs were a mass of angry welts from ankle to knee. She counted at least sixty separate stings in the swollen flesh of his legs, and a score more on his hands.

A wave of reaction swept over her at the close call. What if Adam hadn't been here? One bite probably wouldn't have killed her. She was, after all, a healthy adult. Still, it would have made her quite ill. Two or three stings would most certainly have finished her off. Adam had sustained dozens getting them out. Thank God for the blessings of Immortality!

She reached for her clothes. She was loathe to don the sweat-stained garments, but the Mediterranean sun was brutal to her fair skin. As she shouldered into her damp T- shirt, a vivid picture intruded into her mind's eye. What if she hadn't come through unscathed? Death - ugly, painful, and desperately, perhaps, blessedly final. Her eyes swung back to Adam's limp form. But if he had succumbed in the burial chamber ... Nausea roiled her stomach as she thought of the helpless man, buried under that writhing mass, dragged down, down into the dark by thousands of eager little warriors who'd strip the flesh from his bones over and over as he healed again and again, reviving endlessly deep in the earth. Over and over, again and again ... She leaned over the edge of the cliff, retching, struggling to retain the contents of her stomach. She succeeded, but it was a close thing. Amy rinsed the sour taste from her mouth and forced herself to swallow a handful of raisins. She saved the rest of the water for her fallen comrade. They had lost Adam's pack and canteen. According to the Chronicles, Immortals were ravenous with hunger and thirst after healing, especially from a mortal injury.

Amy spread the blanket. It was a struggle, but she managed to roll Adam's body onto it and straighten his limbs. She didn't bother with dressing him, but laid his shirt and trousers over him to protect his skin from the sun. She needed something to shield his face and eyes from the bright glare.

Amy reached for the rectangular bundle and unwrapped her last clean shirt. She tenderly caressed Adam's cheek, then kissed him lightly on the lips before laying the shirt loosely over his face. She dismissed the image it conjured in her mind's eye of Geoffrey's body, wrapped in his burial shroud. Unlike the young Watcher from long ago, Adam was coming back. My knight in shining armor, she thought fondly. Actually, my knight in nothing at all. She was shocked at the giggling fit that overcame her, but chalked it up to nervous reaction. She was mildly surprised that she felt no discomfort or even curiosity about his nudity. Modesty had taken a back seat to necessity - way, way back, so far back it was left behind in the dust.

She sat quietly for a while, hugging her knees to her chest, wondering how long Immortal healing would take. Her mind kept flashing back to the horror of the cave, and she couldn't help glancing back up the cliff every few minutes. She reminded herself that the deadly creatures shunned the light. She and Adam were safe outside, especially in the daylight. She quivered inside at the thought of sunset. Finally, she could stand the company of her own thoughts no longer. She reached for the bundle inside her pack.

Patiently, methodically, Amy opened the oilcloth wrapping, and set it aside. It had done a remarkable job. She held a small, leatherbound book in good condition. The circle-within-a-circle symbol, the same insignia on Geoffrey's Chronicle which had led her to this place, was impressed on the front. She opened the book. The parchment pages were the durable, high-quality skin used by the Watchers for millennia. Most of the pages were blank, but Rebecca's familiar handwriting covered the pages which were written upon. Amy kept the watch, nestling close to Adam's lifeless body, and settled down to read.

Excerpt from the Chronicle of the Lady Rebecca, the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the year of our Lord, 996 .

The Lady Rebecca has graciously consented to act as my scribe during this time. She has acceded to my request not to ask me questions, albeit reluctantly, so that I may relay my tale as quickly as possible. I am committing a grievous breach of all that I have been taught in begging this service of her. But there have been so many breaches, grievous breaches, of the rules in recent days that dwarf my violation of protocol. I must bow to necessity. If I recover - the Lady corrects me - when I recover, I shall set down this tale in my own hand. Alas, that is beyond my strength now. Though the Lady assures me I shall recover, I cannot bear the thought that no record of these events will survive me. If my health is restored - again, the Lady demurs - when my health is restored, this passage will never be read by another living soul, for I shall destroy it. I have begun with a fresh volume for this reason. I do not wish it to be known that the Lady Rebecca has some knowledge of the Society of which I am but a lowly member. Not for my sake (though revealing who we are to those we Watch is a capital offense) but for the Lady's. She tells me not to distress myself for her safety, but I am sore afraid, in a way that I have never been. May God have mercy upon me, upon us all.

I continue from my last entry in the volume I began upon arrival in Greece. It has been nearly a two weeks since I reported upon events. When last I wrote, I had briefly noted that I had found the Lady Rebecca and the murderer called Timothy of Corinth living in a shepherd's cot outside of the town of Marathonas. I had been living at the Church, passing my days tending to the livestock or the odd repair and my nights in lively theological and philosophical debates with the old Father. I had been residing in the Church nearly a fortnight, seeking any information on the Lady and her wretched companion. My efforts availed me nothing. But on Market Day, which occurs but once a month here, I espied the Lady Rebecca in the tumult of the fishermen, farmers and craftsmen hawking their wares, haggling with a fishwife over salted tunny and leading a laden ass. So great was my joy and surprise, I nearly called out to her before I remembered myself.

She moved through the marketplace with ease, burdening the beast with her acquisitions. She paid in coin, a trait that distinguished her from the rest of the populace, many of whom bartered for their trade. To be sure, that was not the only trait that set her apart. Among the mostly sun-darkened peoples of this small island, a pale and beauteous woman, dressed and armed like a man, would always be a figure of note. I followed her from stand to stand, keeping my distance but reluctant to let her out of my sight. I deduced, though, with the amount of provender piled high on the beast that she was not planning another voyage by sea.

As I followed, I cursed myself for the lack of discipline which rendered me ill-prepared. No food or warm raiment, much less paper or implement was upon my person. But I would not risk losing the Lady again. Imagine my relief when she wound her way through the town and entered the very Church which had become my home. While the Lady was at prayer, I was able to slip into my small chamber and gather my cloak, the books, and some small provision. She spoke at some length with the old Father, before placing a golden coin in his aged hand. The old man thanked her most sincerely, and made to hand her an indulgence, which the Lady graciously declined. Then, leading the heavily-laden ass through the crooked streets, she departed Marathonas by the northern road.

She made her way through the pastures outside of town, stopping only once to water the beast of burden. The road diverged at a smallish path in the foothills. We took the road less traveled by. It was twilight before we reached a humble shepherd's cot, high on a lonely hill. It was old and in disrepair, though there were signs of recent habitation. New thatch adorned half of the roof. Bundles of thatch were drying in the recently cleared yard. There were fowl, a few sheep and swine, and one lone cow in a small paddock next the cottage. The Lady had been busy since I had lost track of her in Corinth.

Of course, I wondered about Timothy of Corinth. There was no sign of him or any other inhabitant. The Lady Rebecca entered the dark cot unheralded. The glow of a candle illuminated the interior shortly thereafter and, a moment later, wisps of smoke exit the chimney. After a while, the Lady unloaded her purchases from the donkey's strong back, and stabled him in the small croft to the side of the cottage. She tended to the other animals in residence before retiring herself. I concluded that the Lady was alone. Whether Timothy still lived was a question that engaged my curiosity. I made a comfortable perch on a small hillock, shielded from sight of the cottage by several large rocks. The night was cold, colder in these heights than in town, but with my thick cloak gathered tightly about me, I was comfortable enough. In truth, my relief in finding the Lady Rebecca alive and well warmed me that night.

At dawn, the crowing of a cock awakened me. As I partook of a bit of bread and cheese, the Lady exited the cot. I ducked low as she tossed grain to the clucking hens scratching in the yard. I thought the household was limited to the beasts in the paddock and yard, but I was wrong. As the Lady busily moved about the small holding, feeding and watering the stock, a man shuffled out of the cot. It was Timothy.

At first glance, he was quite changed from the wretch that hung on that cross. His hair and beard were trimmed and clean, no longer matted with filth. His raiment was fresh, though shabby and ill-fitting for he was dreadfully thin. I was alarmed as he walked directly toward me, fearful that he had seen me observing the Lady at her duties. But he stopped at a patch of scrub short of my hiding place to attend to his personal need. When he finished, he shuffled back to the cot. The Lady intercepted him then with a hand on his arm. She spoke to him, in a tone of voice that one would use to address a young child. It was as if she were speaking to a post for all the notice he took of her. I had seen his eyes when he had come close to my hiding place. They were distant, unfocused; his face slack. The body was there, but I daresay the spirit - the essence - of the fisherman Timothy was somewhere far, far away. The Lady patted his arm sadly and he continued into the cot and disappeared from my sight.

For the rest of that day, the Lady Rebecca worked diligently to make the decrepit shepherd's cot fit for habitation. Timothy appeared from time to time, wandering aimlessly about the holding. The Lady spoke kindly to him several times, but received no response from the man. She gave him food and water, but he consumed very little. Without her urging, he would have taken no nourishment at all. Despite my knowledge of his terrible crimes, I pitied the man. Clearly, he wanted to die, but his nature permitted no release from his pain, no surcease of his guilt.

I watched the household all the next day. I was convinced that the Lady's intentions were to spend the winter in the refurbished cottage. I decided to return to Marathonas, gather more supplies, and take my leave of the good father. I did not know how I could spend the coming winter without shelter, but until then, I would perform my duties and Chronicle the Lady's activities to the best of my ability.

It was full dark by the time I reached the church. The priest and the servants had retired for the night so I slipped into my chamber noiselessly. I decided against a light as I deposited my cloak upon my pallet. A candle flamed suddenly behind me, casting a shadow, large and foreboding upon the wall before me. I started violently, remembering the fate of poor Mathias and whirled, my humble knife clutched tightly in my fist. My knees trembled as I beheld the face of the intruder. Then, forgetting myself, I threw my arms about the man whom I most esteemed in all the world. My mentor, my teacher, my savior. Daniel. The head of my order.

Amy inserted a blade of grass between the pages and carefully closed the book. She felt at Adam's neck for a pulse. Nothing. Was it her imagination or was his skin actually cool to her touch? It was a stark contrast to the fevered heat she had felt as she stripped him down. How long would it take to clear that much poison out of his system? She had no idea what to expect. But she was prepared to stay by his side until he was well enough to travel. She licked dry lips. The last bit of water left in the canteen she was saving for Adam. She rooted in her pack and extracted her last orange. She saved the banana, granola bar and figs for the injured man. A moan of pleasure escaped as the sweet juice ran down her chin. She nibbled the fruit down to the core and wiped her hands carefully on her shirt, before opening the Chronicle again.

Except from the Chronicle of Rebecca

Daniel extracted himself from my embrace. "I am glad to see you too, lad," he said, smiling. "More than you know."

"But this is wonderful! I have needed someone to talk ... I never dared hope ... What are you doing here?" I babbled like a brook in my joy.

"Looking for you, Geoffrey."

I remembered my obligations as a host. "Sit, sit," I said, gesturing to the raised pallet. "I have little to offer in the way of refreshment, but fortified wine and hard cheese." I reached for the bottle on the rough table. At his nod, I poured a little into a wooden cup. "This is a wonderful surprise," I said again. I sawed a slice of cheese from the round and handed it to him.

"Take some for yourself, lad," he gestured with the cup.

I poured myself a small portion and settled on the floor at his feet. It was a familiar and comforting position. I had spent much time with my fellow students at just this vantage point, looking up at my teacher. Daniel had been elevated to the position of Master only three years ago. The appointment had surprised us for Daniel was as different from the venerable retiring Master Kenneth as night was from day. Brilliant, charismatic, provocative, a nimble athlete - as adept with a sword as with a horse, Daniel was a natural teacher. He had taught me to swim, to fight, to read Homer in his native tongue, to question and challenge, to look beyond authority and tradition in search of the greater truth. I studied this man I owed so much. The silver threads in his hair and the lines around his eyes were more numerous than I remembered. I had last seen Daniel in his office, the day that I had been assigned to the Lady Rebecca. Had it really been eighteen months?

Daniel's words echoed my own thoughts. "So like old times, is it not, Geoffrey?" He pulled a knife from his jerkin and neatly sliced a piece of cheese from the round on the table. I remembered that finely crafted knife with envy, with its perfect balance and polished handle. Daniel had taught us how to use edged weapons, including throwing a knife at a target. I had scored only one miserable hit in all my attempts. Using that knife, I recalled. Daniel was still speaking, his expression thoughtful. "Those were happy days, lad, when you were my finest student."

I protested with a laugh. "Nay, I was a poor pupil. Master Leopold said I was dull of wit and a clod and that I exasperated every one of my teachers with my innumerable questions and odd interpretations."

"That is precisely why you were my favorite." He downed the wine in his cup, and poured himself more.

"Because I was a dull-witted clod?" I asked with a hidden smile.

He clouted me on the head with the handle of the knife, before slicing another piece of cheese.

"And do I have you to thank for this assignment?" I ventured boldly.

"Yes," he acknowledged. "It was I who insisted upon this duty for you. Many among the Elders protested that you were too young, too unworldly for such an important task."

I am, I said silently. "How did you persuade them?"

"I reminded that august body that I had been the same age when given my first field assignment." He smiled. "But in the end, it was not I that convinced the Elders." He paused at my puzzled look. "It was simple arithmetic." An odd expression flitted across his face. He swirled wine in his cup. "There were too few to do all that needed to be done. No one else could be spared." He shook his head briskly and lifted his cup. "To the old days."

I joined in the sentiment and sipped my wine.

Daniel took the bottle and poured us each a generous amount. "Drink up, lad," he said. I looked up surprised at the change in his tone. His eyes were sad. "I bring grim tidings."

My heart stuttered in my chest. "What is it?" I realized belatedly that something extraordinary must have happened for Daniel to take to the road in search of me. I had been too caught up in the pleasure of seeing him to wonder at his presence in this remote corner of the world. "Someone has ..." I swallowed. "Has someone died?"

His hand tightened on the bottle. "Yes," he said, without meeting my eyes. He took a long drink.

"My moth -" I began, then stopped. The head of the order would not come all this way to tell me of an aged woman's death, no matter if I was his favorite student, a statement of which I was still in doubt. "Who, Daniel? Who has died?"

He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. His eyes bored into mine. "All of them."

I did not understand. "All of whom?"

Daniel seized my wrist and twisted it sharply, exposing my mark. "All of the Circle. Dead." His grip tightened painfully. "You and I are all that are left."

I sat mute at the feet of my teacher. A part of me recorded all that he said. How scattered reports of the deaths of several of our brethren on assignment had reached the Circle, impelling Daniel to take the extraordinary action of recalling all operatives of the Circle home. A council was to be convened to address this ominous situation. Daniel had urgent business in Rome and decided he would spare a runner by delivering the message and bringing me back himself. But the Lady and I had left Italy on a ship bound for Greece the day before he arrived there.

Daniel had returned to the Circle a week later, looking forward to the conclave and the meeting of old friends. Instead, he found an abattoir. The recall had been most successful for they were all there - teachers, students, agents, servants. All dead, hacked to pieces with swords. Even the young ones in their beds. Some of the bodies had been defiled. The library had been defaced, strange, ancient-seeming symbols scrawled in blood upon the walls, the Circle's Chronicles burned in a pyre in the center of the courtyard. His hand shook as he lifted the cup to his lips.

"Our worst fear has come true, Geoffrey. We have been exposed to those we Watch." He shook his head. "And the result was beyond our worst nightmare."

As I listened to this horrible tale, I felt strangely cold, deadened. I knew I must tell Daniel of Timothy's conviction for the deaths of his family and of poor Mathias the Watcher, the crimes so like the slaughter of the Circle within the Circle. Yet I could not speak. Of my teachers, my fellows, my friends - I was unable to conjure a single face among those I had left behind alive and well so many months ago. As Daniel spoke, only one thought absorbed me. One single thought pounded a drum beat in my head: The prophecy has come to pass. The prophecy has come to pass. The prophecy has come to pass.

It was the end of the Millennium and the world had indeed come to an end.

My world.

The Lady Rebecca implores me to stop this dictation for the night. I will take her advice, for she is very wise and I find that I am very weary.

Amy closed the book carefully. She looked at the fading ink rings encircling her right wrist. She had drawn the parallel rings a few weeks ago, in imitation of the marking on the leather cover of James' Chronicle. Geoffrey's Chronicle, she reminded herself sternly. He had called it "the Circle within the Circle." An inner Circle within the Society of Watchers. She had never heard of such a thing. The Watchers Organization as she knew it was hierarchical, governed by a ruling Council whose members were promoted up the ladder from the rank and file.

Could the Circle within the Circle have been the predecessor of the Council? No, that didn't feel right. Records documented the governing Council's existence stretching back thousands of years, with nary a mention of the slaughter of the entire body. Moreover, Geoffrey's Chronicle was replete with references noting the differences between a standard-issue Watcher and Geoffrey's mysterious order, which Amy now knew was called the Circle within the Circle, a difference made evident by the different symbols in the tattoos and books. She had examined Geoffrey's body earlier today. He did not sport two tattoos, which one would expect if he had worked his way up from the rank and file to the governing body where he might earn a new mark of office. Besides, this new entry confirmed what she always suspected. Geoffrey was young, barely more than a student, too young to have earned a seat on the governing Council.

So, she mused, if we postulate that this inner Circle was distinct from the ruling Council, what was its purpose? Why did no one in the present day organization, an organization that prided itself on the preservation of its long history, know anything about this? Who had killed them all? And more importantly, why? And what did it have to do with the end of the Millennium? She was uneasily reminded of her conversation with a bedraggled Duncan MacLeod, the self-proclaimed Champion of the Millennium, on the banks of the fishing stream flowing through Rebecca's estate.

She glanced at Adam's shrouded figure. Still no sign of recovery. Amy sighed, picked up the book, and resumed reading.

Excerpt from the Chronicle of Rebecca, the twelfth day of the eleventh month of the year of Our Lord, 996.

I have assured the Lady Rebecca that I am restored today. Fortified with her honey cakes and sweet wine, I am quite able to continue my tale. The Lady agrees that the return of my appetite is an excellent sign. She allowed me to sleep well past noon, believing me to be in want of restful sleep. It is true that I feel for the first time that my strength may be returning to me. The recording of this Chronicle eased me last night. I will continue my story with renewed vigor.

In my chambers that night, Daniel and I talked until dawn. I showed him the Chronicle of my journey to date, supplementing the written report with my account of the discovery of the Lady Rebecca and Timothy of Corinth just two days before. He too believed that Timothy's murder of his family and the death of poor Matthias must be related to the utter extinction of the Circle. Though he, unlike me, is convinced that Timothy killed Matthias in my room at the inn in Corinth. I have pointed out that the fisherman was sequestered with the Lady Rebecca on the island of Aiyina at the time that the poor Watcher was butchered. But, as Daniel pointed out, it is only one day's journey by boat to Corinth from Aiyina, and Matthias was killed a fortnight after the Lady spirited Timothy from the cross. Another fortnight passed before I found them in the hills. But, I argued, Timothy could not have slaughtered the Circle at home. Matthias told me that Timothy had not left Corinth since his marriage to the widow two years ago.

"Then, there are more of Them behind this. But this Timothy is involved. He must be!" Daniel's voice rose in agitation. "Tell me again his words to the magistrate?"

I found my place and read from my writings. "'Mea culpa, mea culpa. I saw the horror. I saw it. They died because of me. Because of me. They died because of me. Me! Me! It is my fault.'"

"Yes," he mused, stroking his beard. "This Old One is in the midst of it all." He straightened and clasped my shoulder. "You and I are all that is left of the Circle, Geoffrey. We must continue with our mission."

"But how? We cannot hope to go on alone."

"We are not alone." He smiled thinly. "We will rebuild the Circle, drawing from the lesser brethren to replenish our ranks." He raised a hand at my protest. "Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures."

"But the end of the Millennia is at hand. There is no time to start anew."

"We will ... because we must." He patted my arm. "But first, we must find out what They know about us. We must talk with Timothy of Corinth."

"But I have told you he is mad!"

"Perhaps he is merely feigning madness."

"For what purpose?"

"Perhaps to take the Lady Rebecca's head?"

"But that makes no sense. She took him from that cross, nursed him back to health ..."

"Their ways are not our ways, Geoffrey. They are a race apart. They live by different Rules than common men." He shook a finger at me. "How many times have we seen that difference?"

"I know, but -"

"Enough, Geoffrey!" His voice was sharp. "We will confront Timothy of Corinth and he will answer for the slaughter of our Order entire." His tone softened and his eyes grew moist. "He has to ... for I do not know where else to start."

I realized that the horror that I had seen only in my mind's eye had been all too real for my teacher. "I am sorry, Master Daniel. It is just ... " I stopped, feeling my own tears threatening.

Daniel patted my shoulder. "It is just too much to bear. I know, lad." He poured himself another drink. "Tomorrow, you will take me there."

"What about the Lady Rebecca? Shall we reveal ourselves to her as well?"

"We will Watch and wait for an opportunity to speak to Timothy alone."

"But ..."

"It is decided, Geoffrey." He set the empty cup on the table. "We will rest here tonight." He grimaced. "I suspect that it may be some time before we sleep under a roof again."

I insisted that Daniel take the pallet while I lay upon the floor. I confess that I did not sleep much that night, weary as I was from my journey and the last two nights in the rough. The faces came to me in the night - Jacob, Michael, Fernand. We had begun our tutelage together when we were but twelve years of age under Masters Leopold and Berowne. So many others. I could not bear to think of my friends and teachers in the way that Daniel had described them. I wept silent tears for the loss of the Circle, my family and my home. I did not have much faith in Daniel's plan. But in truth, I could not think what else to do either.

On the morrow, I took my leave of Father Dmitri. The journey to the hills was easier with a companion, though conversation was desultory. Too much weighed upon my companion and myself. We made camp some short distance from the shepherd's cot. We would approach the Lady's dwelling before dawn, and see what we would see.

We knelt behind the small hillock, peering down into the small yard of the cottage. The Lady Rebecca's morning routine proceeded as before. After the crowing of the cock, she exited the cottage. She drank deeply of the water she drew from the well, then splashed her face vigorously. She watered and fed the stock before returning to the cottage, presumably to break her own fast. As before, Timothy wandered from the cot, his morning ablutions consisting solely of relieving himself upon a dead bush before shuffling back to the cottage.

But when he arrived at the threshold, the Lady Rebecca barred his way. Timothy wandered away even as she spoke to him. Her tone was harsher than I have heard it before. She pulled at his sleeve, but he would not respond. He squatted in the courtyard, making random patterns in the dust with a finger. Rebecca entered the cot again, and emerged with a long bundle of cloth. She knelt beside Timothy and unwrapped the bundle. I gasped when I beheld the sword. Not her own longsword, which I had seen many times. This was a magnificently ornamented blade. Even at a distance, I could see its quality. The blade gleamed brightly in the early morning sun, the strange, intricate symbols inscribed on its surface catching the light like a faceted stone. The pommel shone darkly of polished wood. My breath quickened. I turned to my companion, whose own excitement was evident on his face.

"It is the blade that the legends speak of," I whispered, "is it not?"

"Yes, lad, I do believe it is."

The Lady bowed her head and presented the sword on outstretched hands to the squatting man. Even in his deplorable state, Timothy was not indifferent to its beauty. He reached out and stroked the blade with a reverent finger. Encouraged, the Lady beckoned for him to take it. Timothy grasped the sword in both hands and raised it high. For a moment, his face shone, the expression no longer blank as he gazed upon the beauteous weapon. The Lady stood and reached a hand down to Timothy, helping him to his feet. I could see the hopeful expression on her face. Then, his face changed, and with a hoarse cry, he plunged the blade into the earth. He screamed, a scream of such anguish that it rent my heart. Then, he knelt quickly and slashed his arm along the edge of the blade, opening the vein. Blood spattered on to the earth. The Lady stopped him or he would have done the same injury to the other arm, and bound the bleeding wrist with her own kerchief.

"You see, he is quite mad," I said to my companion. There was no answer. I looked up at my teacher's face. It bore a look of rapt fascination, which, I am sure, matched my own.

Timothy pulled away from the Lady's ministrations, knocking her roughly to the ground. He cried out, his voice grating with disuse. "Never again!" They were the first words I heard him utter. He staggered to his feet. The bloodstained kerchief fluttered to the ground. Already, the wound was healed. He looked down at the Lady for a long moment. "Never again," he said once more. He walked away from her, as she knelt in the dust. I knew with utter certainty that he was leaving her. A blind man could see it in his walk, the set of his shoulders. She called to him to come back, to take food and water, to take the sword. But her words fell upon deaf ears. The Lady watched as Timothy walked away. He never turned or acknowledged her pleas in any way. She called to him until he disappeared round a turning in the path.

The Lady Rebecca knelt with her head bowed, the sword piercing the earth beside her.

I spoke over my shoulder. "Quickly! Now is our chance to foll - " I gasped. White-hot pain lanced through me. I could not speak or draw breath. My blood roared in my ears.

"I am sorry, Geoffrey," Daniel whispered into my ear. "But you have served your purpose." He twisted the knife and the hellfire in my back blazed higher and hotter. "There is no sense in trying to appeal to you. You will not turn. And I have no wish to make you suffer. Goodbye, my lad." My vision narrowed to a dim tunnel, limned with bright light. At the end of the tunnel, I saw the Lady Rebecca get slowly to her feet. She shaded her eyes from the sun, peering down the path that Timothy had taken.

Daniel jerked his knife from my back and took careful aim. God help me, I tried to warn the Lady, but all that came out was a weak croak. I watched helplessly as the Lady staggered, her hands flying to her bosom. Before she collapsed in the dust, I saw a red stain bloom upon her bodice, that exquisite knife jutting from her breast. My vision narrowed to a single point of light that wavered, flickered, and then, went out.

How long I was insensible I do not know. Gradually, I came to myself. I lay face down breathing in the dust of the place where I had fallen. It took great effort to roll on to my side, and lift my face out of the dust. I squinted at the bright sun beating down on me. I was dazed, confused, my thoughts sluggish. I lay still, concentrating upon breathing out and breathing in until my head cleared. When it did, I was crushed beneath the weight of my despair.

Daniel, my teacher, my friend, the head of my Order, had stabbed me in the back and killed the Lady Rebecca.

Amy closed the book, deeply disturbed. Her empathy for young Geoffrey was all-encompassing. She felt his shock and pain in a visceral way. She drew a couple of deep breaths to steady herself and then checked on Adam. She pulled the T-shirt from his face. Except for his extreme pallor, he looked like he was sleeping. She peeked under the trousers laid across his still form. The skin mottling had diminished as had the swellings. She had to look carefully to see the faint marks of the stings. She replaced the fabric and settled back against him. She picked up the book again and turned to her place.

Excerpt from the Chronicle of Rebecca.

I have no idea how long I had been unconscious. Long enough for the blood pooling beneath me to become sticky and attract the flies buzzing about my face. I brushed a feeble hand before my face in a vain attempt to shoo them away before drawing an experimental breath. Though painful, agony no longer stabbed me with each breath. I gathered myself and slowly rose to my hands and knees. The world turned to gray, but when the weakness passed, that vantage allowed me to raise my head over the hillock and peer into the courtyard.

The Lady Rebecca hung by her arms from the limb of the lone tree near the cottage. Her head slumped over her bosom, her feet just barely touched the ground. The bodice of her simple gown was stained crimson with her blood. As pitiable as she looked, I nonetheless rejoiced, for her head was intact. Daniel was nowhere to be seen.

It was my fault that the Lady was in danger. I had led the villain to her. I had failed to warn her. Summoning my strength, I began the long and tortuous crawl to her. I had just circled around the hillock, when a bloodcurdling scream made me freeze in my tracks. It had not come from the Lady. She was still slumped in her bindings, dead or unconscious. The sounds came from behind the cottage. Daniel appeared, dragging a pig by its hindquarters from the paddock. He wrestled it to the center of the courtyard. With a quick slash of his knife, he cut the struggling creature's throat. He held a pail to the gushing wound, collecting the blood. The animal squealed appallingly, then its cries grew weaker as its struggles gradually ceased.

I had been paralyzed by the sight of this slaughter and cursed myself for failing to take advantage of his distraction. I moved as quickly as I could away from the hillock, feeling sickeningly exposed until I was once again sheltered by scraggly bushes. Though Daniel was intent upon his gruesome task, I felt sure he would hear my gasps for air.

I peered at the Lady from my new vantage. Her long hair had come free of her pins, hanging loosely, like a curtain obscuring her face. One foot was still clad in a leather slipper, the other bare. The sword that she had tried to give to Timothy still stood upright in the earth, too far away from my scant cover. I ached to have my hand on it, but saw no way to retrieve it without revealing my presence long before I could reach it. The only weapon I possessed was my all-purpose knife, with its short blade and cracked handle.

Daniel finished his bloody business and stood. He carried the pail to the cottage. He disappeared into the dwelling and returned with a long-handled spoon. Snapping off the bowl, he dipped the handle into the pail of blood and used it like a quill to write upon the walls of the cottage. The symbols he made, though incomprehensible to me, were nonetheless familiar. I had seen the foul drawings on the walls of my room at the inn, written in Mathias' blood. I knew now with absolute certainty that Timothy of Corinth was no murderer, but another victim of a foul and bloody crime laid falsely at his feet.

I crept as close to the Lady as I dared while Daniel's back was turned to me, keeping under cover of brush and bramble. Perhaps I could free her while Daniel's attention was otherwise engaged. I looked up in dismay at the thick rope binding her hands, where it looped around the tree limb. I couldn't reach that height on tiptoe, much less in my current condition, doubled over and scuttling like a crab. As I looked more closely, I saw that the rope trailed down the trunk of the tree. The end was cinched around the trunk, low to the earth. I could unwind the rope and lower her to the ground. Still, there was a great deal of open ground between the post and me.

At that moment, the Lady Rebecca stirred. I crouched low behind my bushes. She moaned softly. Then her head whipped up and she tossed her long hair from her eyes. She yanked on the rope binding her wrists hard. Again and a third time.

"Do not hurt yourself, Rebecca," Daniel said in a voice that was perversely tender. "That is my job."

Rebecca looked imperiously at my teacher. "Who are you?"

"Forgive me. I have been rude." He bowed deeply. "My name is Daniel. I am at your service, milady."

"I think not," the Lady said coolly. "If you have come to rob me, I will not stop you. Take anything I have." Her voice softened. "But please let me down. This is very painful."

"Of that I have no doubt. But I am afraid that I cannot accommodate your request, milady." He gestured with the spoon handle to the cottage. "When I have finished my work, I will ease your pain." He laughed coldly. "I promise you that."

Rebecca was silent. For the first time, she noticed the bloody writings upon the cottage wall. "Sumerian," she said in a surprised tone. "How do you ...?" I watched her eyes narrow as she appeared to read that ancient script. Her expression became alarmed. "What exactly is it you want from me, Daniel?"

"Why, Lady, isn't it obvious." Daniel slashed the air with the spoon handle, mimicking the action of a sword. "I want your head."

"But you are not of my kind!"

"Not yet, milady. Not yet." Daniel said, mysteriously. Then he did an astonishing thing. He winked slyly at her.

She started at the gesture. "You are mad. You were not born like me." She pulled at the rope in frustration. "You can never become like me."

Daniel turned his back to her without speaking and continued his bloody work.

The Lady looked at him, her expression intense. She stopped struggling. Her voice changed. "Release me, Daniel, and I will be very grateful." Her tone was seductive. "More grateful than you can imagine."

I was sickened at the thought of the Lady reduced to offering herself in this manner. But Daniel ignored her pleas. She closed her eyes as her body went rigid. As I watched, she twisted her wrists cruelly within the ropes. Daniel continued with his task without turning around.

With renewed resolve, I crept closer. My leg brushed the bramble bush, making a soft rustling noise. The Lady's eyes snapped open. Her gaze was fixed upon me. At first, I dared not move, for fear that Daniel might have heard. Then, slowly, I put a finger to my lips. She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Daniel was intent upon his task. Whatever mad purpose he engaged in absorbed his complete attention. Now was my chance! Every particle of my being screamed at me to stay still, to hide, to get away this mad tableau. But I scuttled into the open, moving on hands and knees as fast as I could across the yard. At last, I was behind the trunk of the tree. It provided me with scant, but much welcomed cover. I turned my back on Daniel and the Lady and reached for the rope. As I unwound it, I heard a voice directly behind me.

"Do you know why you were my favorite student, Geoffrey?" Something slammed into the small of my back, pushing me on to my face in the dirt. Daniel stood over me. He placed his foot on the wound in my back. An inferno rose within me and I gasped in agony. He punctuated each word with a twist of his foot. "Because ... you ... never ... ever ... give ... up."

I lay in the dirt, helpless as a newborn, pain crashing over me like surf breaking on a shore.

"Stop, Daniel. Stop torturing him," the Lady commanded. "He cannot stand in your way! Do what you will with me. But let the boy be."

Daniel slipped his foot under my belly and flipped me on to my back. I squinted up at him, striving to stay conscious. One thought blocked out all others. The Lady Rebecca's long life was over. Because of me. Daniel drew his bloodstained knife from his belt and brandished it once. He sighed deeply. "I dislike killing you, Geoffrey. You'll never know how much."

I struggled to see him clearly through the veil of pain and weakness that enshrouded me. Suddenly, my vision returned and with it, a mighty surge of hope. It took all my strength to keep my eyes fixed upon Daniel's face. Time. We needed more time. I had to keep him talking. It was our only salvation.

"You're a liar and a murderer!" I spat the words at him. "Why should I believe anything that you say! Maybe the Circle isn't dead. You couldn't have killed all of them."

"Believe what you want, if it gives you comfort. But it is the truth." He stroked the bloody knife in his hand. "As the saying goes: 'in the night, a running man may cut a thousand throats." His voice assumed a lecturing tone. "But you are making an assumption, Geoffrey, that is unsupported by the facts. I taught you better than that." He shrugged. "I never said I acted alone."

My mind reeled at this revelation. "Did you kill Mathias?" I gasped. "And the family of Timothy?"

Daniel bowed his head in assent. "Aye." He tightened his grip on the knife. "They were strangers, easy to kill. Not like the Circle. Not like you."

"How? You just arrived in Corinth!"

"I have been here for weeks, lad," he said. Then added, in a regretful tone, "I had no idea that you were on your way here."

I gasped out. "Why, Daniel? For God's sake, why would you do this?"

"Because I want to live forever." He started the knife toward me. I stared helplessly up at him, raising an arm in futile defense. "Goodbye, Geoffrey."

He saw something in my eyes then, or maybe he heard something. Too late, Daniel sensed his danger. He whirled, slashing out with his knife in a wide arc. To no avail. A dark shadow loomed over him, blocking the sun. Daniel managed a short scream before his head was swept from his shoulders. It fell to the ground and rolled over and over. If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the look of utter surprise on Daniel's face. Hot blood spattered my face, blinding me. I blinked rapidly through a veil of red and gaped at the apparition standing over me with its bloody sword.

The Lady spoke. "Cut me down, Timothy."

The thin man was silent, his eyes mad and staring. I trembled at his feet. He looked at the mark on my upraised hand, then down at the same symbol on Daniel's still twitching body. He raised the sword again.

"Timothy!" The Lady's voice rang with authority.

Timothy stared at me, then whirled suddenly. With one stroke of that legendary blade, the thick rope parted and the Lady tumbled to the ground. She eased her hands from the bindings. I could see the raw flesh where she had rubbed the skin away. She knelt by my side and ripped the hem from her garment.

"He is badly hurt." She wiped my face with the piece of her gown, clearing the blood from my eyes. "Help me, Timothy."

The silent man stared dumbly at the sword in his hand, then dropped the priceless blade in the dust. He knelt at my right; the Lady at my left. "Gently now," she said as they lifted me from the ground. The last thing I saw were Timothy's deep-set eyes boring into my own. Before I swooned, I think I screa -

"GGGGAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!"

Amy shrieked as Adam flailed wildly to life behind her. The book flew from her hands as she simultaneously leapt to her feet and whirled to face him. The naked man, still yelling at the top of his lungs, scrabbled to his feet, ripping away the white shirt that shrouded his face. He beat at his legs frantically, his eyes wild, unaware. Each breath rasped loudly in his throat.

Amy, her heart pounding, held her hands out in a supplicating manner. She spoke in a soothing tone. "Adam. It's all right. You're safe. You're safe!"

Adam's eyes darted around, seeking escape. He scooped up a jagged rock in a white-knuckled grip, and backed up against the ledge.

Amy backed away a few feet. She licked her dry lips. "Adam, listen to me. You're safe. There's no need to run." He raised his arm as if he meant to throw the rock at her. "Adam Pierson!" she said, clapping her hands loudly. "Stop this nonsense! Wake up!" Amy stilled, a surprised look on her face. That sharp voice had sounded remarkably like her mother's on a bad day.

As Adam stared at her, the wild expression was slowly replaced with a look of utter confusion. He opened his fingers and the rock fell to the ground. His legs gave way then, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, as a coughing fit wracked him.

Amy rushed to him. She put an arm around his shoulders and braced him until the spell passed. Adam, chest heaving, sucked in great gasps of air. Amy held him tightly as he leaned into her embrace, his body shuddering in a reaction she supposed mirrored her own earlier collywobbles. After a while, he pulled away. She released him, reached into her pack and removed the canteen. She unscrewed the top.

"Here." She handed it to him. Adam tilted his head back and drank all of the water in one long swallow. He wiped his mouth with a shaking hand, and handed the canteen back to her.

"Thanks," he croaked. He squatted in the dust, wrapping his arms around his knees. He peered at her. "You OK?" he asked, hoarsely.

She nodded. "I'm fine. Not one sting."

"How long was I down?" Adam rubbed his throat with one dusty hand.

Amy looked at her watch. "Nearly seven hours." She was surprised. It had seemed like an eternity. "How do you feel?"

Adam grimaced. "Like a thousand scorpions used me for target practice." He swallowed rapidly. "And nauseous as hell," he gulped in explanation. "I wouldn't get too close,"

"Actually, it was only a hundred or so," Amy offered, helpfully. At his quizzical look, she continued. "I counted the stings. Your legs looked horrible."

Adam's gaze traveled downward. No physical evidence of the ordeal remained on his limbs, of course, though his skin still tingled a bit. He noticed he was kneeling on a dusty piece of patterned cloth. Curious, he tugged at it. It came free with a jerk and dangled before his eyes. Boxer shorts. His boxer shorts, the blue ones with the puffy little sheep jumping over a stile. For the first time, Methos registered that he was completely and utterly nude. His gaze slowly met Amy's.

Her cheeks grew hot. She averted her gaze and scooped up his T-shirt. "I'm sorry, but I had to - " she stopped, handing him the garment without looking at him.

"'S'alright, Amy." His hand met hers as he took the shirt from her, and he squeezed it gently. "Don't apologize."

Amy turned her back as he donned his clothes. You weren't the least bit embarrassed when he was dead, you ponce! The heat in her cheeks slowly dissipated as he dressed, but didn't go away entirely.

The sun was low on the horizon by the time a fully clothed Methos finished the figs and banana.

"Are you able -?" Amy began.

"To get the hell away from that cave?" he finished. "Ready, willing and able." He stood up, tottering slightly. "How about you?"

Amy leapt to her feet, tightening her grip on her pack. She nodded. "I'll walk all night if I have to."

They marched eastward, the sun at their backs, the horror of the cave receding with every step. They reached the ruins at Aphaia at dawn. Was it a trick of the light or a trick of his mind that the shadow finger pointing the way seemed tinged with red this morning, Methos wondered. He was too tired to explore the thought any further. They passed the first of the legion of tourists on their way up the hill as they made their weary way down.

Two hours later, they exited the parked car at the lot of the Hotel Maddalena. Amy stepped on to the small terrace outside their rooms. Methos trudged past her to the beach. Pausing only to remove his boots, he strode into the surf, fully clothed. The look on his face as the water engulfed him was beatific. Amy opened her mouth to call to him, then shut it abruptly. She dropped her pack on the stone terrace, pulled off her shoes, and joined him in the warm, salty water.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MacLeod sat down heavily in the last chair in the last row at the rear of the Church of St. Julien de Pauvre. The chair scraped backward on the stone floor, producing a harsh noise that reverberated loudly in the empty space. He wasn't surprised that he was alone. Parisians traditionally left town en masse in August. Besides, an empty pew in an empty church in an empty city perfectly suited his mood. He rubbed grit from tired eyes. He really should be making his own travel plans. There was no reason to stay on, not with Methos, Amy and Joe somewhere in Greece, and Amanda ... well, somewhere. He had no idea where, except it was a sure bet Bora-Bora wasn't on the short list. Their plane tickets were still tucked in the top drawer of his dresser. Nothing of Amanda's had remained in the suite when Mac had returned from the Chateau St. Claire on Saturday. Nothing, except one forlorn bikini stuffed into the waste basket of his bedroom.

He sighed deeply. He had handled things badly with Amanda. You would think after four hundred and eleven years he would learn. But he had been so rattled by the events at the country estate, that he couldn't think straight. Still couldn't. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep since, despite a daily regimen of rigorous workouts and punishing runs in the holiday-depleted city.

His thoughts cycled and cycled in an endless spiral of recriminations and regrets. Faces haunted him whenever he closed his eyes. Amanda, bewildered and hurt, trying to comprehend his rejection while struggling to project an air of breezy nonchalance; Sarah Weiss fearfully backing away from him, frantic for the intruder to leave her home before the invalid husband returned. And that was just the tip of the iceberg compared to the endless second-guessing that kept him tossing and turning long into the night. He knew it was pointless self-flagellation. But he couldn't stop. A snide inner voice kept asking why, if he was able to disregard the Rules with impunity on a sunny summer day in 2004, why hadn't he done so in 1704, 1804, or 1994? The image of Hugh Fitzcairn on his knees before Kalas as the bastard swept Fitz' head from his shoulders, consumed him.

Mac sighed deeply. He knew what Fitz would say. What Fitz had said. "It's my fight, laddie!" Fitz had warned him off, eager for the challenge. But the cold hard truth was that Kalas had targeted his old friend in the first place because of him. If Mac had interfered then, Fitz could still be around. Stop it! he berated himself, This is senseless!

Duncan had been raised to believe in retribution for your sins - dire, draconian, Old Testament-style retribution. Call it what you will - a reckoning, a meting out, a balancing of the scales. There had to be some kind of consequence to his breaking the Rules, even if he didn't know what it was. There had to be. The alternative was ... unthinkable. No wonder you can't sleep, boy, he thought, ruefully rubbing the bridge of his nose, you're on tenterhooks waiting for the karmic other shoe to drop.

But that wasn't all of it. Not by a long shot. He sighed. He ran a hand across his face wearily. He frowned in dismay, as his fingers encountered a patch of stubble his razor had missed. Today of all days, he had wanted to make a good appearance.

No, the hardest aspect of this whole mess, the absolute worst, was Connor. Connor MacLeod had believed in the Rules with all his warrior's heart and soul. He had died believing in them, believing that it was his duty and Duncan's duty to fight on, to keep the Prize from the likes of the Kurgan and Kell. When he could no longer do that, Connor had given his life so that his brother could carry on the battle. For the past two years, Duncan had held fast to his memory, his Quickening, his teachings. With the betrayal of his promise, Duncan felt as if he had finally lost the last of his teacher.

Duncan had been indoctrinated from the beginning, had drilled newborn Immortals as he had been taught, had stood helplessly by watching when friends died. Because of the Rules. Because of the bloody goddamned Rules. He had condemned those who broke them as cowards, reprobates, degenerates, or worse.

He rubbed the rough spot on his jaw. So what does that make me? he thought, bitterly.

*It makes you human.*

That answering thought came so swift and sure, it was as if he'd heard Tessa's soft voice echo in Darius' church. The impression was so strong, he started to look around the nave before catching himself. His hand stole to his breast, his fingers encountering the silver pendant dangling from its chain. Tessa had made it as a gift for Richie from one of the ancient stone runes Darius had sent in warning a long time ago. Mac closed his eyes tightly as a wave of intense longing engulfed him.

Flashback. The Island, 1992

A loon called across the lake, the sound low, mysterious, lonely. Duncan lying in the big bed under the cabin eaves, strained in the darkness, listening in vain for an answer from its mate. He sighed deeply, and turned over carefully, suppressing the urge to punch up his pillow. A voice in the darkness startled him.

"Mac, are you asleep?"

"No, sweetheart. I thought you were."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Tessa said, without preamble.

Duncan sucked in a big breath and let it out. His exhalation riffled the hair on the back of her head. His answer was a long time coming.

"Because ... I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of losing you."

"But you told me about your Immortality. That we would not be able to have children. You even made me watch you die, for God's sake!" Tessa took a calming breath and lowered her voice. "Why didn't you trust me with this?" The hurt in her voice was palpable.

"Oh, Tess! It wasn't about trust! It was never about trust!" He turned over, curling his back away from her. "Almost from the day we met, I would have trusted you with my life."

Tessa turned and reached a hand to his shoulder. His muscles were rigid with tension.

"Then, why?"

Mac was silent for a long moment. "How could I tell you that I belonged to a race of ... of killers. That I lived by the sword, and would, one day, die by it? That others would seek me out for my power, to take my head, or die trying?" He paused. "How could I ask you to share that kind of life? How could I tell you that I was an inhuman killer myself?" His voice faltered. "I loved you and wanted you in my life. I was afraid if you knew the whole truth --"

He stopped, perplexed. "What's so funny?" he demanded.

"You!" Tessa managed to choke out. The bed shook with her mirth.

Mac was a bit affronted at her reaction to the baring of his soul. "I don't get it."

It took a few minutes for Tessa to wind down. She wiped her streaming eyes with a corner of the flannel sheet.

"Duncan, you may be a killer, though we can debate survival tactics in this ridiculous Game of yours another time. But you certainly are not 'inhuman'!" A chortle escaped her. "Keeping the Game a secret from me ... because you were afraid you would lose me ... well, that is the most 'human' thing I have ever known you to do!"

MacLeod was at an absolute loss. If the bedside light had been on, Tessa would have convulsed anew at the dumbfounded expression on his face.

"I don't understand," he confessed.

"Duncan, you, more than anyone I know, value honesty, courage, honor. You don't just pay lip service to a code of conduct, you actually try to live by it." She paused as if that explained everything.

Mac was silent.

"Don't you see? You violated everything you hold ... sacred ... because you loved me." She curled up tightly against his back, and reached an arm around his waist. She kissed a known sensitive spot behind his left ear, and nuzzled his neck.

Mac frowned. "So, ... I was cowardly, dishonest and dishonorable ..."

"Mmm-hmm."

"And you love me for that?"

"Oh, yes."

"Uh, ... thank you."

If he lived to be as old as the mythical Methos, he would never understand women, Duncan knew that with bedrock certainty. But, for the first time in days, the tightness which had been gripping his heart loosened and something like joy bubbled up in his chest. He took a deep breath, and felt it cleanse him as surely as if he had been dropped in a hot tub of water, lathered, and scrubbed till his skin glowed.

Tessa took his earlobe into her mouth and nipped at it, none too gently. "I didn't say I have forgiven you yet."

He turned, his heart too full to speak, and gathered her to him, raining kisses on her face and throat. Their lovemaking was tender and joyful and passionate, as if they had been reunited after a long separation instead of just one night. Afterwards, Duncan lay with his head pillowed on her breast, listening to the steady beat of her heart.

End of Flashback

He squeezed the rune pendant so tightly it hurt his hand. He missed her. God, how he missed everything about her. Her warm smile and kind heart, the ice-cold feet she'd perch on his backside in the middle of the night, her passion for art, justice, and old movies, the Homeric quests for good bread and the best of those god-awful chili dogs, her shockingly bawdy humor when they were alone and the way she always mangled the punchline in company, her pet peeves and bad moods, soaring dreams and earthly desires, night terrors and morning breath. He missed it all. All the sublime and prosaic intimacies that come when you share your life with someone you love.

Duncan drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. He stood, smoothing his coat. He walked purposefully toward the tiered ranks of candles at the side of the altar. Halfway there, he stopped in his tracks as a wave of Immortal presence washed over him. He whirled. Someone stood in the door of the chapel, backlit by the bright afternoon sun. Duncan squinted.

"Amanda?" he asked, tentatively.

The figure stepped into the nave, the door swinging shut behind.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he said, his voice reverberating in the open space. As his eyes adjusted again to the gloom, he was astonished to recognize the auburn-haired Immortal standing before him.

"Yes, I know," Sarah Weiss said, walking slowly toward him. She held something in her right hand, close to her side, but it was too dim for Mac to make it out among the voluminous folds of her long, dark coat. His heart sank. A sword in this place of sanctuary meant only one thing. She stopped a few feet away from him. The long look she gave him was cool and appraising.

Duncan found his voice. "Sarah! What are you doing here?"

"I followed you. From your hotel." At his frown, she continued. "Your note to Raul said you were staying at the Hotel Versailles." She looked curiously around the church. "I thought I knew most of the holy places in the City, but I've never been here before." She looked thoughtful. "This has such a feeling of ... of peace." She shrugged. "More than I get from most churches."

Mac nodded. This had been Darius' home, on and off, for nearly fifteen hundred years. And a refuge for so many, mortal and Immortal alike. "It is the holiest of Holy Ground to me," he said simply. He took a breath, his gaze fixed on her right hand.. "I don't want to fight, Sarah."

The woman shook her head. "Neither do I." She lifted the long slender object she carried and held it out to him on outstretched palms. "This is for you," she said.

Duncan's pulse quickened as he realized what the knobbly object, wrapped carefully in packing paper and heavy twine, must be. He hesitated, looking a question at her.

"I owe you my life," she explained. "And I always pay my debts."

"You don't owe me anything," he said, raising his hands in protest. "It was my fault that Amanda tried to take this from you in the first place."

"Perhaps. But if it hadn't been for you, I would be dead right now." She offered the package again. "I am very stubborn, MacLeod, and I will not take 'No' for an answer." She tilted her head up at him. "But it comes at a price."

"What?" he asked.

"That you answer a question," she said.

Duncan stared at her. "If I can," he said, cautiously.

"Believe me, I would like to know why this thing nearly cost my life or the life of your friend." She eyed him shrewdly. "But I do not think you will tell me that."

Mac shook his head. "I can't, Sarah. I'm sor - ..."

She shook her head impatiently. "That wasn't my question." She smiled briefly at his consternation and took a step closer. "This is." A beat. "Is it important? "

"Yes," he said, his gaze locked with hers. "Yes, it is."

"Then, take it," she urged, impatiently shaking the parcel at him. As she did, the left sleeve of her coat slipped back. The tattoo on the underside of her left arm peeked out from under the fabric.

Mac couldn't help staring at the mark. He'd seen it before when he had disentangled her and Amanda's bloody bodies. Of course, he had seen many like it over the years. Too many. He reached for the package. Their hands touched briefly as he took the staff from her. She noticed him staring, and hastily pulled the sleeve down.

"Was it your first time?" he asked kindly, gesturing toward her wrist.

For a moment, he didn't think she would answer. It was a major breach of Immortal etiquette to even ask such a question. But she lifted her chin defiantly. "Yes," she said, tugging at her sleeve again.

"I'm so sorry," he said, with utter sincerity. He knew the words were wholly inadequate, presumptuous even, but he felt compelled to speak them nonetheless.

She shrugged, looking away. "It was a long time ago."

He gazed at the story staff. "I don't know what to say. Except 'thank you.'" He looked back up to her face. "I'm sorry for everything that happened that day. Amanda should never have -"

She interrupted him with a humorless laugh. "She did try to walk away. But I wouldn't let her." She paused. "I never walk away from a fight." She lifted her wrist, deliberately exposing the mark of the death camp. Her expression was fierce . "You understand?"

Mac nodded. "'Never again,'" he said, quietly.

There was an awkward silence, then Sarah's hand stole to her chest. "You interfered," she said, frowning. "My teacher told me it is forbidden."

"So did mine," Duncan said, shamefaced. His discomfort grew as she continued staring at him while rubbing the spot over her heart, the spot where his knife had ... He stepped closer to the alcove with the rack of candles, compulsively turning the wrapped story staff over and over in his hands.

The curiosity suffusing her features made her look very young. "W-will something happen to you now?"

Though he was more than three centuries her senior, Duncan felt just as young, just as ignorant. He sat down abruptly in the closest pew, turning his back to her. "I don't know," he confessed. "I never -" He stopped, bowing his head. He laughed without humor. "I guess I'll find out."

Sarah stepped closer. For a long moment, she stared pensively at her wrist. Then, she laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. "It is said," she began, hoarsely. She cleared her throat and her voice was strong. "It is said that he who saves one life saves the world entire."

Duncan looked up sharply. She met his gaze and held it. After a moment, he nodded and she withdrew her hand, then plunged both hands in her pockets, seemingly embarrassed at the exchange.

MacLeod sighed. "I don't have any answers, Sarah." He shrugged. "Neither did my teacher. The truth is ... I simply don't know."

She nodded. She walked away from him. "I have to go." Her hand was on the door when Duncan called out.

"Sarah! Wait!"

She turned, expectant.

"Would you ... could we ..." He shrugged and started over. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

She looked searchingly at his face. "OK," she said, apparently satisfied with what she saw. She took the hands out of her pockets and checked her watch. "But I must be home by six. My husband will be waiting for me." She shrugged. "He worries."

He smiled. "You will be. I promise." He paused. "Would you wait for me outside, Sarah? I'll be along in a moment." She nodded, and exited the church.

MacLeod turned back to the rack of candles and knelt, setting the story staff gently on the floor beside him. He drew a slender reed from the receptacle affixed to the side of the wrought iron rack. He touched the tip of the reed to the only burning candle until it caught, then held it to the unlit wick of its neighbor. It flared brightly, then settled into a steady flame.

Flashback, The Island, 1992, later that night.

Duncan lay with his head pillowed on Tessa's breast, listening to the steady beat of her heart. He was warm and content, sated from their lovemaking.

"Mac? Are you asleep?"

"No, sweetheart, I thought you were."

She wound a lock of his hair around her finger. "Connor and I had a long talk on our way out here."

"I do not have all the fun and all the good women! He keeps saying that!" Mac was indignant. "If you had seen the redhead in London -!"

His head bobbed up and down on her bosom as Tessa laughed heartily. "Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much," she said when she recovered her breath. She stroked his hair gently. "Will you do something for me, if I ask?"

Duncan sobered at her serious tone. "Anything, my love."

She hesitated. "Will you ... will you light a candle for me on my birthday?"

Duncan tightened his grip around her . They both knew exactly what she was asking. He nodded against her breast.

Tessa cupped his chin with her hand, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Look up, my love." She kissed him tenderly. "Always look up." Then she snuggled in his arms. She was asleep in moments.

For a long time, Duncan lay there listening to her breathe. Just before he too fell asleep, the loon called again from the far side of the lake. The mournful reply echoed nearby, a beacon in the dark, calling her mate home.

End of Flashback.

Yes, he had interfered in a battle between two Immortals. He had caused a rift with Amanda which they might never be able to bridge. And yes, he had betrayed his most solemn promise to Connor MacLeod. Duncan straightened, squaring his shoulders. He had broken his word for one simple reason. He loved Amanda and he could not watch her die. Not when it was within his power to stop it. He rubbed the prickly spot on his jaw.

After all, he was only human.

Amanda may never understand why he had to let her go. Connor was gone forever. So was Fitz. He couldn't change anything that happened; he couldn't ask their forgiveness. He didn't know what would happen next. All he could do was live with the consequences of his actions, come what may. He picked up the story staff and looked at it, then regarded the door Sarah had used with bemusement.

"Come what may," he murmured.

With shining eyes, Duncan looked up at the rosette window in the ceiling of Darius' church. The sun streaming through the colored glass illuminated his upturned face. "Happy Birthday, sweetheart," he whispered. Then, he pulled open the heavy door at the rear of the nave. Sarah turned toward him with a tentative smile. Duncan stepped out of the darkness and into the light of the warm summer day.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Methos, coverlet from his bed tossed casually over one shoulder, picked his way quietly across the floor of the sitting room of the suite to the easy chair where Amy curled up, sound asleep. He reached down and removed the half-open book resting on Amy's chest. He gently tucked the blanket around her. He glanced at the book. She hadn't gotten very far before nodding off. Poor kid, he thought, she's had quite the vacation. Methos indulged himself, planting a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair smelled of lemons and rosemary.

Amy had insisted she was too wound up to sleep after their swim, announcing that she wanted to finish the Chronicle. Methos, on the other hand, craved sleep. He ached with a bone-deep weariness that only hours of oblivion would cure. He had tried valiantly. But every time he closed his eyes, the sound of chitinous legs scrabbling on rock filled his ears and the nip of sharp pincers danced across the skin of his legs. Even with daylight streaming through the window.

Methos appropriated the pot of tea that Amy had barely touched. He settled himself in the adjoining chair and turned on the reading lamp. Through the open terrace door, the gentle surf of the Aegean lapped against the shore. Sipping cold Earl Grey, he opened the book at the beginning and began to read. The pot was empty when he reached the end of the small volume.

Excerpt from the Chronicle of Rebecca.

... The thin man was silent, his eyes mad and staring. I trembled at his feet. He looked at the mark on my upraised hand, then down at the same symbol on Daniel's still twitching body. He raised the sword again.

"Timothy!" The Lady's voice rang with authority.

Timothy stared at me, then whirled suddenly. With one stroke of that legendary blade, the thick rope parted and the Lady tumbled to the ground. She eased her hands from the bindings. I could see the raw flesh where she had rubbed the skin away. She knelt by my side and ripped the hem from her garment.

"He is badly hurt." She wiped my face with the piece of her gown, clearing the blood from my eyes. "Help me, Timothy."

The silent man stared dumbly at the sword in his hand, then dropped the priceless blade in the dust. He knelt at my right. The Lady knelt at the left. "Gently now," she said as they lifted me from the ground. The last thing I saw were Timothy's deep-set eyes boring into my own. Before I swooned, I think I screamed. I knew no more until I awoke in the Lady Rebecca's bed, weak as a newborn kit. When I woke, the Lady told me that four days had passed since Daniel's death. Four days during which I lay raving in delirium, oblivious to this world. That was six days ago. Day by day, I have regained a little of my strength. The Lady, of course, is completely restored. Daniel is buried at the foot of the hillock. Timothy, armed with the sword of legend, honey cakes, fresh pork and wine, has been gone ten days now.

This is my story. My heart's desire has come to pass. I have played a part upon the stage of those we Watch. I have been written into the history that we observe and record. And I wish ... oh, how I wish that I could turn back time as easily as I turn back the pages of these Chronicles. Daniel was a liar and a murderer, but I fear that he did speak the truth about the fate of my Order. And it chills me to the bone to consider that he did not act alone.

The Lady refuses to write any more this night. I must defer to her greater wisdom and seek the sweet release of sleep. Tomorrow will be time enough to think, to plan, to begin anew.

Methos rubbed his tired eyes, echoing Geoffrey's last sentiment. He glanced at Amy. She was frowning slightly, her eyes moving rapidly under fluttering lids. He reached a hand across and stroked her forehead until the tense expression eased and she moved into a deeper level of sleep. He clamped down the persistent urge to indulge in the "what ifs" and "might have beens" that kept pressing at the forefront of his mind. Amy had insisted on accompanying him into the cave. There was no sense in brooding about what would have happened if she didn't. He suppressed a frisson of fear that tickled the base of his spine. No sense at all. Methos hastily opened the book, gratefully returning to the far more distant past.

Excerpt from the Chronicle of Rebecca, the thirteenth day of the eleventh month of the year of Our Lord, 996.

The boy is dead. I found him this morn, cold and lifeless in my bed when I came to tend him. I had thought the danger was passed when his fever broke, but alas I was wrong. His end was peaceful, as his sweet still face attests. I heard nothing in the night. I suspect the deadly internal clotting of the blood, that which Hippocrates called thrombosis, which sometimes comes with wounds like these, despite the willow bark tea I had been administering.

I am sorely grieved at the loss of this good and decent young man. I barely knew him, though he knew much of me. The death of young Geoffrey leaves me with many unanswered questions. He was reluctant to tell me much about himself or the Society he serves, insisting that my life would be endangered with the knowledge. He was adamant that my writing should be destroyed once he recorded the recent events for himself. Yet, he was equally insistent that a record be made in the event that he was prevented from writing his own account in his own hand. Insistent is too mild a word. He was frantic about this, and though he was still weak and ill, I consented to transcribe his account. I feared refusal would cause him more harm.

The boy leaves me a responsibility. And a dilemma. What shall I do with the accounts that he has left behind? The earlier volume is nearly full. I read with astonishment his account of my life since leaving Rome months ago. I had no idea that I was under observation. No inkling that I, and others of my race, have been watched for centuries, perhaps millennia. I cannot express the depth of my incredulity and outrage at this revelation.

Yet, for all that, there is a sense of wonder that the extraordinary history of my kind has been recorded, that we do not pass through this world unheralded and unmourned, with nothing to mark our long lives save the fleeting Quickening fire that awaits us all in the end. I quiver at the prospect that my teacher's life is recorded somewhere and that I may someday read of the early years, the times that she refused to speak of. The revelation that young Geoffrey recognized my teacher's sword thrills me. I had intended to ask him what he knew of its mysterious origins when he was stronger, but alas, that is impossible now.

Since Timothy's departure, I have lain awake, lamenting the impulse that led me to give him the blade, fretting that I have betrayed my teacher's trust. She said I would know to whom it shall be given. I wonder now what guidance the young man could have given me on this matter and wished that I had detained Timothy of Corinth. But, I am being foolish. The only way I could have detained Timothy was to take his head. The man is driven. He is like a Spirit, who walks with one foot in each world. Though he now knows that he was not the instrument of his family's death, an event foreshadowed by the terrible visions which have plagued the poor soul all of his life, that knowledge was not much comfort to him. No, I could not have kept him here. The only question was whether he would leave with the sword or without. I gave him Lilith's sword. I know not why. But, it is done and I cannot take it back.

I have decided. Tomorrow, I shall lay the boy to rest. He shall safeguard the account I have scribed, this small volume he believed so dangerous. I know not how long he must perform this duty. There may be none of his so-called brethren left to take up the quest and retrieve this book. Mayhap Geoffrey will be its guardian until the End of Time.

I need counsel. I shall carry the first book to the wisest of my race. Perhaps the priest in his sanctuary may shed some light upon this dark puzzle.

If you are reading this missive, you have found the final resting place of Geoffrey of Kent. May God bless you and may the Lord have mercy upon his soul.

Attested,
Rebecca Horne
In the year of Our Lord, 996.

Methos slowly closed the book. He wished that Mac was here. In this slim volume was the confirmation that the young Immortal so eagerly sought. The ancient ebony sword had indeed passed from the mythic Lilith through Rebecca Horne to a nameless hermit who gave up his Quickening to a frightened Highland youth four hundred years ago. Rebecca's musings about the Watchers echoed his own sentiments. Though he avoided being "tagged" by the Organization in this life, Methos too took comfort from the existence of the recorded history of their kind, despite the deficiencies inherent in such a monumental task.

He glanced fondly at the slumbering woman beside him. This was Amy's triumph. She had persisted and solved the mystery of the strange Chronicle she had discovered last Spring. But it raised as many questions as it answered, tantalizing questions. What was the purpose of the mysterious Circle within the Circle? Why did Daniel and his accomplice or accomplices murder them to the last man? How could the Circle's very existence have been wiped from the Watchers' collective memory in a scant thousand years? Why did Rebecca give the prized ebony sword to a Corinthian fisherman skirting the edge of madness? And what part did Darius play in this drama?

If only Geoffrey of Kent hadn't taken his secrets to his grave. Or, he grimaced, Rebecca.

Methos, his thoughts awhirl, reached up to turn off the reading light, hesitated, then withdrew his hand. He curled up in the chair, listening to the sound of Amy's soft breathing amid the breaking of the waves until the sun rose over the mountains. When Amy awoke hours later, refreshed and invigorated, though a little stiff, she found Adam sleeping soundly in his chair, with his hand nestled in hers.

THE END OF PART 4

NOTES: As the observant reader already knows, the titles for these installments are the lyrics to my favorite song "As Time Goes By". The working title for this installment, "Still the Same Old Story", was originally chosen with my tongue set firmly in cheek. But, this installment was such a long time coming that the title stuck. Duncan's quest for the next Champion will continue in the next installment, which (hopefully) won't take two years to finish. Thanks for your interest. I hope you enjoy it!