Highlander fanfiction: When Two Lovers Woo by Nutmeg9cat

Disclaimer: I do not own the Highlander characters or the concept of Immortals living in our midst. I am just playing with these wonderful characters for a time.
This story, called "When Two Lovers Woo", is the third installment in a series that I am calling "As Time Goes By." It will make more sense if you read the first two parts. They are all posted here and at Daire's Fanfic Refuge.
Part One is called "Fundamental Things". Here is a synopsis:
Two years after the events in "Endgame", Duncan MacLeod is settled in Seacouver, teaching art history at the local University. He has been quietly searching for the next Millennial Champion, engaging experts in various academic fields to research references to the battles between Good and Evil. Methos learns of his activities, and though not a believer, takes an academic interest in the work. Amy Thomas, Joe Dawson's daughter, comes to Seacouver for a seminar and a visit with Joe, and has a surprising encounter with MacLeod. Methos and Duncan travel to the glacier ice caves of the Austrian Alps and find a mysterious hidden cave with cave writings and statues that hint at the Millennial Champions. The Immortals are nearly lost when a flood causes a cave-in.
From Austria, Methos flies to Paris to use the archives at the University. MacLeod continues on to the Scottish Highlands, seeking a clue to the identity of his predecessor Champion. He returns to the hermit's cave, and removes the dead Immortal's sword and the bones he cast to predict Duncan's destiny. In the meantime, Methos successfully translates the words of the ancient writings, but has yet to find the cipher key that will put the words in the proper order. Without that, it is gibberish. While at the University library, Methos encounters an old love. Before returning to Paris, Duncan visits the Donan Woods for old time's sake, and meets Cassandra.
Part Two is called "On That You Can Rely". Here is a synopsis:
Duncan joins Methos in Paris. Joe is already there, keeping track of his Immortal assignment, and enjoying a visit with his daughter. Amy, the head of the Myths and Legends Department of the Western Europe Watchers, is also a graduate student at the University of Paris, under the tutelage of Dr. Martin Guerre, linguist-anthropologist. Guerre, one of MacLeod's sponsored researchers, is an academic nemesis of Adam Pierson. Duncan adds his insight to the mystery of the hidden cave cipher, enabling Methos to complete the translation. The result is seven verses, which appear to allude to Seven Champions of Good. Duncan is stunned when he realizes one of the verses is about him, referencing events in his life thousands of years before he was born. Amy, learning a lesson from her study of Rebecca's Chronicles, takes a walk down an unexpected path.
On the eve of Duncan and Methos' departure from Paris, they are ambushed by an Immortal. Duncan is severely wounded, and experiences some disturbing aftereffects as a result of his injuries. Methos takes the head of the attacker, a mystery Immortal unknown to the Watcher network. Methos accompanies Duncan to Holy Ground until he recovers, and finally answers a question posed long ago by MacLeod. Methos decides to remain on Holy Ground for the summer, while Duncan returns to the United States. And so we begin ...

AND WHEN TWO LOVERS WOO
And when two lovers woo, they still say 'I love you'. - As Time Goes By

It was a grand Midsummer's Eve. The sky over the Sound was streaked with the amber pinks and blues rarely found outside of the paintings of Maxfield Parrish. There was a fey quality to the light. It imparted an other-worldly glow to the water, the boats and the people strolling along the riverwalk. The walk looped along the harbor, past the Academy of Fine Arts, before merging with the walking trail and disappearing into the little park beyond. Chamber music drifted through the Academy's open French doors, across the terrace, and spilled over the balcony. At the sound, a strolling couple peered up. A dark-haired man wearing a tuxedo leaned his arms on the parapet as he watched the sunset. "Look, honey. It's James Bond!" the woman said in a stage whisper to her companion. Their soft laughter caught the attention of the lone figure, who smiled down at them.
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod repressed the urge to tug at the collar of his silk shirt. It had been a long time since he'd worn a suit, much less a tux. He stood alone on the balcony, away from the knots of well-dressed people clustered in the main gallery behind him. Tonight's gala affair was an advance view of a contemporary art show for the patrons and the senior students of the Academy.
The elite of Seacouver society was certainly well-turned out tonight. The women's garb was as varied in color and style, and daring, as the tuxedoed men's were uniformly conservative. It amused MacLeod to recall some of the outfits he had worn in years past, when gentlemen, dressed in their peacock finery, competed with the ladies for outrageous and dramatic effect. In retrospect, tonight's tight collar shouldn't seem quite so uncomfortable, he thought, as he tugged at it. He briefly envied the casual clothes of the couple on the path below. He watched them walk hand in hand, until they rounded a curve in the walk, and disappeared from his sight.
The fund raising aspect of the public art scene was never high on MacLeod's list of preferred activities. Mac had lost count of how many of these affairs he had attended over the years. But, as Tessa had often admonished him, it was a necessary evil. And, she'd point out, one that could usually be endured with fine wine and gourmet fare. Tessa Noel was the reason MacLeod was here. Several of his lover's sculptures were featured in the exhibition opening to the general public tomorrow.

"So, this is where you've been hiding!" MacLeod turned at the voice behind him. A dark-haired woman, elegantly wrapped in a sari, approached. She held a flute of champagne in each hand.
"Shandra, you look lovely." MacLeod accepted a glass. "Thanks." He sipped champagne. "I'm not hiding." he added in afterthought.
The woman's brown eyes narrowed in disbelief. Shandra DeVane had inherited her coloring and features from her Indian mother. Her bluntness was her Irish father's legacy.
"Right. Half the women and a few of the men have been giving you the eye all evening. And here you are, all by yourself." She sipped from her own glass. "Hiding." As Chair of the Art History Department, she was Duncan's immediate superior at the local University, where he taught both graduate and undergraduate classes. Shandra had arranged MacLeod's faculty appointment two years ago.
MacLeod turned away. Any heightening of his color may have been a trick of the light.
"You didn't bring a guest?" Shandra asked, curious.
"Nah. Everybody's away for the summer." Mac himself had just returned to the city. Several weeks ago, he and Methos had traveled to the Austrian Alps to study the cave writings of an ancient people. Duncan had hoped to find a clue to the identity of the Immortal destined to be the next Millennial Champion. That search had taken him on a convoluted journey through Europe, lasting nearly two months. Only yesterday, MacLeod had returned alone, to his empty house in Seacouver. Yesterday. He shook his head. A few days ago, he had shared a cottage with Methos on Holy Ground in Brittany, while recovering from a gunshot wound. The swiftness of modern travel still had the capacity to amaze him.
Mac fiddled with his tie again. This little affair was by invitation only. Mac's own invitation had been tucked into the batch of mail he had retrieved from his attorney upon his return from Europe. The invitation was extended to Duncan MacLeod and guest. He would have invited Joe Dawson and Methos, if only to hear Adam Pierson whine about wearing a tux. But Joe was still in Paris, working with his daughter Amy on a Watcher research project. And Methos was in France. Presumably. One never knew with Methos. He had a habit of disappearing and reappearing when you least expected him. Mac had left the older Immortal at the Abbey of Saints Crispin and Crispinian, in a little cottage reserved for the eldest man's use centuries ago. It was just as well. The two people Mac would have wanted most to share this evening with, were dead.
"I don't know why you won't let me fix you up, Duncan." Shandra, survivor of an unhappy marriage and bitter divorce in her youth, had recently begun indulging in her mother's culture's penchant for matchmaking.
Mac snorted. "No blind dates, Shandra. Not at my age."
She scoffed. "My point exactly. You're no spring chicken anymore, Duncan."
He grimaced at the colloquialism. If only she knew how long ago he had left spring chickenhood behind. "Shandra ...", he began.
"And don't be so old-fashioned." She went on. "Nobody calls them 'blind dates' anymore. You can meet her first in a non-dating scenario, or online ..."
"No, Shandra." Mac was firm. "Thanks, but no thanks."
"Oh well, can't blame a girl for trying." She looped her arm through his and gazed at the colorful horizon. "I suppose I just want to see my friends as happy as I am." They watched the sunset for a while in companionable silence.
"Shandra ..." A man's voice called from the doorway of the gallery.
Shandra turned. Her face lit up as she beheld her husband of less than a year. "Never say 'never again', Duncan. Look at me, after all."
MacLeod watched as tenderness softened her features. Duncan looked directly into Shandra's dark eyes. "I like what I see." he said fondly.
"Duncan, how are you?" Ellis Dantes extended a hand, and MacLeod took it. Dantes, a bear of a man, taught at a rival University. He was a scholar in world religions and philosophies with a passion for rare books. MacLeod had casually introduced Shandra to him at an estate auction a few years back. The man had quietly, but persistently, wooed the gun-shy professor, drawing his strategy from a more romantic age. Love poems and forget-me-nots had gradually melted Shandra's icy reserve. Ellis' gentle nature had warmed her heart. The rest, as they say, is history.
"Where have you been?" Dantes asked. "I've been trying to reach you."
"Europe. On business. I just returned." In addition to teaching at the University, Duncan kept a hand in the antiques trade with the occasional appraisal or special commission. "What do you need, Ellis?"
"Well, I was looking for an authentication on a first. Sonnets from the Portuguese." Dantes rolled his eyes. "I ended up calling Georges Delacroix."
"Was it the real thing?" Mac was intrigued. A Barrett Browning first edition, in good condition, was very rare.
"Georges turned his nose up at it, so I passed. But I had my doubts." Dantes looked around, and lowered his voice. "I didn't dare tell him so. You know, ever since he appeared on the Antiques Roadshow, that man has become insufferable."
MacLeod laughed. Delacroix was always pestering Mac to appear with him on the television program. He thought they'd make a great on-air duo.
Dantes took Shandra's hand in his. "Beautiful, isn't it?" He gestured to the sunset with his head. Shandra leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Dantes nuzzled her hair.
"Yes", said Duncan, his gaze on husband and wife "Yes, it is." He quietly excused himself, professing the need for a refill on champagne.
MacLeod wandered into the main gallery and set his empty glass on a passing waiter's tray. He meandered about the room, taking in the objets d'art with a connoisseur's eye. He nodded hello and exchanged small talk with numerous acquaintances. Hands in his pockets, he slowly approached a pedestal set in a corner of the room. A spotlight illuminated a small marble sculpture on top. A portly, balding man, talking animatedly, used his hands to illustrate his points. A younger man sipped champagne, eyes darting in panic from side to side. Duncan crept up behind them.
"... perfect example. It straddles the divide between figuration and abstraction, realism and symbolism. Grounded in observation, but at the same time, co-existing in a more ethereal plane. Compare it to that last piece, and ..."
Duncan cleared his throat. As the speaking man turned, the other man slipped away, a relieved look on his face.
"MacLeod! I was just explaining this amazing fusion of styles to ... to ..." He looked around for his companion.
"Hello, Georges."
Georges Delacroix recovered his aplomb. Hands behind his back, he dipped his head to the sculpture in front of them. "A remarkable piece. From your private collection?"
"Not exactly." For legal reasons, the placard stated it was on loan from Duncan MacLeod, but the sculpture had never belonged to him.
"It's generated a lot of interest tonight."
"I'm glad."
"Have you priced it?"
"It's not for sale, Georges."
"My dear fellow, I'm sure you could get in the high five figures, at least. I sold a piece only last month for three times what I paid for it. Noels have been steadily appreciating in value in the last eight or nine years, ever since she.... that is, when she ..." He stopped. "I mean, since her works became finite in number." Delacroix shifted his feet, and looked uncomfortable.
"Yes, I know, Georges."
Delacroix noisily cleared his throat. "MacLeod.... I ..."
MacLeod spoke softly. "Don't worry about it, Georges."
The silence stretched until Delacroix spotted someone he knew, and hastily made his own escape.
Duncan stepped closer to the last work completed by his lover. The piece was carved from a solid piece of white marble, swirled with ribbons of brown and gray. The base was quarry-rough, minimally shaped. As the eye traveled upwards, the sculpture became more and more refined. Two life-size hands - one male, one female - morphed from the stone, cupping a smaller figure of a youth within them. Within the bowl formed by the hands, the small figure perched on one knee. His upturned face looked outward, his own hand reaching out and up. Unlike the exquisitely detailed hands, the face of the youth was without detail. Polished and smoother than the rest of the sculpture, it reflected the light from the ceiling spotlight, as if it was lit from within. The museum's insurance company required his name, but this work of art had never belonged to MacLeod. Her last completed sculpture was Tessa Noel's gift to Richie Ryan on his nineteenth birthday.
MacLeod reached out and caressed the cold marble hand, so like, and yet unlike, that of his love. Georges Delacroix was wrong. It was eleven years, three months, and twenty-nine days since the works of Tessa Noel became finite in number. He dropped his hand and closed his eyes. And remembered.
Flashback - Paris 1993. The barge on the Seine.
"Duncan, you are doing it again.", Tessa complained.
MacLeod looked down at his right hand in surprise, as the fingers drummed a steady beat on the tabletop. A look of panic appeared on his face. Then, the fingers crawled, spider-like, up his arm. He reared back in horror, making choking sounds as his left hand tried to break the stranglehold. With a final, agonized "Aaarrrggghhh!", he fell backward off the stool, disappearing behind the table with a thump. A moment later, he peered over the edge, waggling thick dark eyebrows at his lover.
Tessa was not amused. With that tone that only the French have mastered, and of them, only the women, she said "I thought the object of Richie moving in was for him to learn from us, n'est ce pas? It seems to have had the opposite effect."
"Awwww, Tess." Duncan whined in perfect imitation of the teenager.
Tessa laughed, in spite of herself, then straightened her face. She put down her pencil and closed her sketchbook, resting her hands on top of it. Duncan picked up one hand and brought it to his lips.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I promise to behave now." he said, contritely.
"Never mind, I'm not in the mood anymore." She squirmed a little as Duncan continued to kiss each finger in turn, then the palm, then brought her arm forward and draped it around his neck, pulling her into a clinch. They danced around the barge, as Duncan crooned, a little off-key, "Heaven, I'm in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak, and I seem to find the happiness I seek, when we're out together, dancing cheek to cheek." One thing, of course, led to another. Duncan woke a few hours later to the sounds of running water and Tessa singing the Irving Berlin tune in the shower.
He rose from the bed, intending to join her, when he spied the sketchbook, open on the dresser. On a single sheet, she had drawn a life study of Duncan, asleep, utterly relaxed, one hand resting on his chest, the other on her vacant pillow. The edges of this image were framed with detailed studies of his hands. Duncan looked at the drawing for several minutes. Then he closed the sketchbook, and carefully placed it back on the dresser.
"I like this one." A feminine voice drew MacLeod out of his reverie.
Duncan opened his eyes. A young couple stood on the opposite side of the pedestal. The young man wore a rather ill-fitting jacket over corduroy jeans; the pretty brunette, a simple dress. She reached out her hand, but drew it back, self-consciously, before touching the marble.
"So do I." The young man took her hand in his and kissed it. "That'll be us someday."
"Oh, Michael." She rested her hand on her abdomen. "I hope so."
Michael covered her hand with his briefly. "You will be the best mother. I have no doubt. I don't know why you do, Melinda." He noticed MacLeod watching them, and shrugged. "First-time parents."
Duncan smiled warmly at them. "Congratulations." He estimated the woman was in her fifth or sixth month.
Melinda inclined her head toward the sculpture. "Do you like it?"
"Very much." Duncan replied. "What do you like about it?"
"Oh, I don't know. Michael's the art student." She glanced shyly away. "I don't know anything about art."
"That's not important." There was something familiar about her. Duncan searched his memory, to no avail. She showed no sign of recognition. Not one of his students then. "What does it make you feel?" he said, with an encouraging smile.
Melinda frowned, gathering her thoughts carefully. "I feel ... their ... connection. The way the hands are touching each other, and the boy. And the way he is touching their hands. You can see the bond that they have." She sighed. "But it's time to let go. It's very hard for them, but they know it has to be."
"Where did all that come from?" Michael's voice was bemused.
"Look at his hand, Michael. It's so strong. See the tension there?" She pointed at the sculpture. "He wants to keep the boy safe, protect him. But he knows he has to let him stand on his own." Then Melinda reached out and touched the sculpture. "Look at her hand. It's so gentle ... open. Loving."
Both men silently studied the piece. After a moment, Duncan looked at her. "And the boy?" he asked.
"Well, do you see how he's looking up, reaching out?" Duncan and Michael both nodded. "He couldn't do that without the hands supporting him. If he falls, they'll catch him. He knows that."
"Do you really think so?" Duncan's voice was quiet, as he looked into her eyes.
Melinda nodded solemnly.
Michael put his arm around her and drew her close. After a moment, Michael spoke. "What is it called?"
Melinda bent and read the placard. "'Always' by Tessa Noel."
They made a movement toward the next work on display, smiling a goodbye to Duncan. Melinda said "It was nice talking to you."

"He's right, you know." Duncan told her.
Melinda stopped, puzzled.
"You will be a good mother."
Her dimpled smile transformed her face. She reached for her husband's hand and they moved away. Duncan turned back to the sculpture.
As they walked on, Melinda said to Michael, "I knew a lady named Tessa once. A long time ago. She gave me the most beautiful doll."
Duncan stopped breathing. By the time he turned, Melinda and Michael were at the far end of the gallery, admiring a large watercolor. He studied her profile from across the room. Yes, he saw it now. He turned back to the sculpture, his expression thoughtful.
After a few minutes, MacLeod searched the room for the director of the Academy. The gray-haired gentleman easily identified senior student Michael Danelski and his pregnant wife when Duncan pointed them out. At MacLeod's hushed directions, the director blinked in surprise, then nodded slowly. Satisfied, MacLeod shook his hand, before exiting the main gallery. He descended the main staircase, exited the front entrance where it joined the riverwalk, and followed the path around the harbor. He skipped stones in the water until full dark, before climbing into his T-bird. He drove out of the city with the top down, following the moon over silver-lit country roads until it set. Then, he drove home.
Mac parked the car in the driveway and entered through the kitchen door. As he stepped across the threshold, his hand reached for the sword concealed under his topcoat. The ring of Immortal Presence kicked his adrenaline level into high gear. MacLeod approached the great room cautiously. A candle burned in the hearth, faintly illuminating the room. A dark head popped up over the back of the sofa, the candle casting a golden glow on a sleepy face and tousled hair.
"You can put that thing away, MacLeod." The Immortal gestured to the sword. "Where have you been all night?"
MacLeod stared at the apparition, expressionless.
"You need to go grocery shopping. There's nothing in your fridge, not even beer."
MacLeod sheathed the sword, removed his coat, and draped it over an armchair.
"Cat got your tongue, MacLeod?"
MacLeod slowly shook his head.
The other Immortal faltered, uncertain. "If this is a bad time ..." The sentence was never finished because MacLeod, in three quick strides, had gathered the older Immortal in his arms. When he broke the kiss, Duncan gently tucked a lock of dark hair behind one ear and whispered into it, "I'm glad to see you, Amanda."
CHAPTER TWO
Amanda watched as the sunbeam crept slowly across the room, advancing inexorably toward the big bed and its occupants. When it reached the colorful quilt, she picked up the heavy arm that was thrown across her, and settled it carefully behind her. Duncan was spooned against her, his breath tickling the back of her neck. She slid toward the edge of the bed. He stirred then, turned over, and sank deeper into his pillow. Amanda tiptoed to the bathroom.
As she was washing up, she took a long look in the mirror. Large dark eyes peered back. She ran wet fingers through short black hair. It was silly, but her natural color still seemed a bit unnatural to her after life as a platinum blonde for the last several years. A born snoop, she perused the contents of Duncan's medicine cabinet. What she found practically screamed that an Immortal lived here. There were none of the minor ailment remedies of the mortal world - no aspirin, antacids, antiseptics, band-aids. Only toothpaste, floss, shaving creme, razor blades, and hair dye. Who, she idly wondered, buys gray hair color other than Immortals presenting a facade of aging?
Amanda never resorted to the usual aging tricks. She didn't stay in one place long enough for anyone to notice that she wasn't getting any older. MacLeod, however, had lived in this city, off and on, for fifteen years or more. She shook her head and closed the cabinet. Too long. He was pushing it. She wondered what held MacLeod to this small American city. The younger Immortal had returned to the Pacific Northwest many times over the last hundred years, reinventing life after life. Of course, he had to move on eventually. But he always returned.
Amanda thought MacLeod had left this place behind for a while, at least a generation or two, when he sold the dojo and moved to London some years ago. But after Connor MacLeod's death, Duncan sold his penthouse flat in Chelsea, and returned to Seacouver to renovate this house and teach at the University. Once again, he was trying to live a quiet life, a normal life. As normal a life as one could have with the constant threat of a challenge to the death. Amanda wondered how he managed to fit that in between the midterms and the finals. She wondered why he bothered to try.
Amanda wrapped herself in the terry robe she found hanging on a hook behind the bathroom door. She breathed in Duncan's scent as she rolled up the sleeves and cinched in the belt. She crept toward the big four-poster bed, then stopped. She really wasn't sleepy, despite the fact that they hadn't tumbled in till four am. She'd surprise Duncan with breakfast in bed. If she could whip something up out of the freezer and pantry. But first, she'd do something about the disorder of the room. Clothes, his and hers, were scattered on the floor or flung haphazardly over the furniture. Amanda wasn't the neatest of people, but, in the cold light of day, the sight of an Armani tuxedo crumpled in a heap on the floor was akin to sacrilege. She scooped up Duncan's trousers and hung them neatly on a hanger. She removed a folded program from an inner pocket, before hanging up his jacket. Damn, he had looked good last night, slightly rumpled, tie off and collar open. And with that touch of gray at the temples ...
As she set the program on his dresser, it unfurled, giving her a glimpse of the glossy cover. The Academy of Fine Arts opened a new exhibition last night. So that's why he was all dressed up. Amanda flipped through the program. While she could, and did, appreciate art for art's sake, Amanda maintained a professional interest in any museum's acquisitions and collections. She made a face. This catalogue was disappointing. There were a few nice pieces, but it was a contemporary show. Not enough value here to pique her interest. She flipped pages with a desultory air, but then stopped, and drew a sharp breath.
Amanda moved across the room to the chair by the window, where sunlight peeked through the blinds. She smoothed the program open on her lap. It was the artist's name that had caught her eye. The caption read: ALWAYS, a previously unexhibited work of Tessa Noel. There were two photographic views of a small sculpture. The photos were excellent, showing each carved marble hand in exquisite detail. Amanda didn't need to look at the bed, and the hand resting on the coverlet, to recognize Duncan's hand. She suspected that Tessa's hand was rendered as accurately, and wondered how the artist had done it. She traced a finger over the stylized figure braced within the supporting hands. Oh, Richard. I do miss you. A wave of emotion swept over her, and she impatiently brushed away the wetness from her cheeks. Damn, she hated when she got like this. Brooding was the specialty of the man in the bed. Not the Amazing Amanda. Not the original Good Time Girl.
"Amanda?"
She looked up, startled. Duncan lay on his side, watching her, his head pillowed on his arm. Amanda shook her head briskly. She pasted a brittle smile on her face and opened her mouth, a flippant remark on her lips.
"Don't do that." Duncan said, quietly.
The smile crumbled and she turned her head away.
"What's the matter, baby?"
The tenderness in his tone pushed a button deep, deep down in Amanda's psyche. She jumped to her feet and tossed the program onto the chair. "Nothing." she said, brightly. She hurriedly dressed, keeping up a running patter, as she wriggled into her lingerie, and rooted around the bed for her shoes. "Sorry I gotta run, MacLeod. I didn't think you'd be out all night. But you know how it is. Places to go, people to see."
MacLeod threw back the covers and swung his legs over the bed. He ran his fingers through his hair. "Amanda. Don't ... " He stopped, and scrubbed at his face. Mac knew from long experience that the more you tried to hold onto Amanda, the faster she slipped through your fingers.
Amanda continued her frenetic dressing and ignored him. As she scooped up her jewelry from the nightstand, he grabbed her wrist, in spite of himself.
"Amanda...."
"Lemme go, MacLeod. I've got a flight to catch." Duncan released her, and she bounded away, skittish as a colt. He gripped his knees. Amanda briskly gathered her things, clutching the clothes to her breast. She was at the door, about to make a clean getaway.
"Don't run away from someone who loves you." Mac said, softly.
Amanda froze, her back to him. Then, her arms dropped to her side, and the clothes and shoes tumbled to the floor. The next thing she knew, strong arms encircled her. She melted into his warmth, content to listen to the beat of his heart and the rhythm of his breathing, while he caressed her hair. They ended up back in the bed, Amanda's head resting on Mac's shoulder.
"What's wrong, Manda?"
"Nothing." She sighed. "And everything." Amanda felt amusement ripple through him. "What's so funny?" she demanded.
"You. You never do anything in half-measures, do you?" Duncan sobered. "If you want to talk about it, I'm listening."
Amanda was silent, absently playing with the stone pendant hanging from a silver chain around his neck. After a while, she spoke.
"I saw Nick, yesterday."
"Where?"
"In Vegas. He's head of security for one of the casinos."
"Why were you in ....?" MacLeod cleared his throat. "I mean, did you talk to him?"
Amanda nodded against his chest.
"And ...?"
"He hates me, Duncan." Her voice caught on his name.
"He doesn't understand, Amanda."
"Oh, he understands all right. He told me all about it." Amanda said, bitterly. "I sentenced him to watch everyone and everything he cared about die, while he lived on. I robbed him of his belief that he had a family, parents. I condemned him to a violent death at the hands of another of his kind." She angrily brushed at her eyes again.
"And you saved his life."
Amanda was silent.
"You loved him, Amanda." he said, gently.
"And that gave me the right to do what I did?" She transferred some of the anger to him.
"No, no." Duncan shook his head, thinking of his own worse sin, committed nearly three hundred years before. Unlike Kate, Nick Wolfe had been dying when Amanda triggered his quiescent Immortality. "It just makes you human."
He had to strain to hear her next words. "Am I, Duncan? Are any of us human?"
He nodded. "Of course, we are. We're born. We live. We love. We die."
"And I'll leave nothing behind to show for it. Just a shell. An emptied shell." Amanda rubbed her head against his chest. "Not like her." she murmured.
"Who?"
"Tessa." She felt him move in surprise.
"What do you mean?"
She was silent for a long moment. "I saw her sculpture in the catalogue." She paused again. "It's beautiful."
"Yes, it is."
Another long pause. "She died, ... but she still touches people, Duncan."
Duncan tightened his arm around her, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "You touch people, Amanda. You do. You have all your life. Me. Rebecca. Richie. Joe. Methos ... and Nick." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Even Tessa."
Amanda scoffed. "I just bet she wanted to 'touch' me. With a welding torch."
Mac smiled. "She was a wee bit jealous of you."
"She shouldn't have been." she said, quietly.
Duncan, ever the gentleman, didn't answer that. They both knew it was true. He stroked her cheek. "There's someone I want you to meet."
"The new lady in your life?" She pouted. "I don't think she'll like me."
"No, there is no 'new lady in my life'." He pulled her hair. "But she is a lady. Her name is Amy Thomas." He waited a beat. "Joe's daughter."
"Joe?'
Mac nodded.
"Joe Dawson?"
He nodded again.
"Joe Dawson has a daughter?"
"By George, I think she's got it. Now repeat after me. 'The rain in Sp-... Ow!" He rubbed the spot where Amanda had tugged his chest hair. Hard.
"Details now, MacLeod!"
Mac filled her in. Amanda sat up, incredulous, a grin transforming her face. "I can't believe it! A daddy, at his age! That sly dog!" She laughed with delight. "I've gotta call Joe. Do you have a number for him?"
"Downstairs, next to the fridge." She jumped out of the bed and out the door, nearly tripping on the overlong robe. "Don't tease him too much, Amanda." Mac called after her.
She poked her head around the doorframe. "I'm just going to reach out and touch someone, Duncan." Amanda said innocently, and disappeared.
Duncan slowly rose from the bed. He picked up the program Amanda had tossed aside, and opened it to Tessa's page. He looked at it for a long moment. Amanda's unexpected reaction to Tessa's work of art and love moved him deeply. Immortality existed in many forms. He remembered the words of a poem, written a few years before he was born. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee. He closed the program and tucked it away in a drawer.
As Duncan padded down the stairs, he heard Amanda crowing with delight. "Joe, I heard a song the other day and thought about you. Uh-huh. Stevie Wonder. It goes like this." She sang in a low, sweet voice. "Isn't she lovely, isn't she wonderful ...?"
CHAPTER THREE
Armand straightened his tie and brushed at his jacket before expertly swinging the tray up and over his shoulder. He knew he looked elegant in his uniform, with his dark curls and brooding eyes. After all, he was the handsomest waiter at the Café Nola. He had been told so many times. He walked confidently through the dining room, female heads turning in his wake. The young waiter presented the pot of café au lait and basket of croissants with a flourish that would have done any maitre d' proud. But his best efforts to impress the attractive young woman sitting at a sidewalk table went unnoticed. She only had eyes for the book in front of her. Mon Dieu! What was so interesting that this woman didn't notice Armand Hubert! The waiter craned his neck to peer at the volume. It was obviously old. He squinted at the page. Faded handwriting. He couldn't make out the words, and leaned a little closer, curious. Very strange letters. Drawings. What looked like lightning bolts.
"Ahem." Amy Thomas politely cleared her throat. Her blue eyes twinkled with amusement Armand started, and took a step back.
"Excusez-moi, mam'selle." He bowed, a little flustered. Still, he was pleased to finally get her attention. He smiled his most charming smile. "May I get you anything else?"
Amy smiled at him. "No, thank you."
Armand gestured to the book. "It is very interesting, non?" He peered at the book again, frowning.
"It's in Greek.", she explained.
"But of course." He nodded his head, sagely. "Eureka!"
"Milate Ellinika?" Amy asked eagerly.
Armand looked blank. "Mam'selle?"
"Never mind." Amy closed the book gently. "Merci." Armand withdrew, brows knitted together in frustration.
Amy poured herself a cup of coffee. She took a bite of buttery pastry and leaned back in her chair. It was a beautiful summer day. She had treated herself to this little café today because of the weather. Between her teaching assistant duties most mornings, and her obsessive translation of this Watcher Chronicle, she had hardly seen daylight in weeks, confining herself to the subterranean vaults at Watcher Headquarters or the University of Paris library.
She patted the cover of the old book. It was, indeed, a puzzlement. This old volume was a Watcher Chronicle, recording a year in the life of the Immortal Rebecca Horne. It had been mistakenly filed among the Ramirez Chronicles housed in England, until discovered by Amy's counterpart in London and shipped to her a month ago. Unlike all the other Chronicles Amy had ever seen or heard about, this one did not have the familiar Watcher symbol emblazoned on or in it. Instead, its leather cover had been stamped with a symbol she had never seen before. Two parallel stripes, forming a circle within a circle, were tooled into the faded leather cover. Even more curious, the leather backing had been covered over long ago with a vellum cover which had been stamped with the traditional Watcher symbol. Amy turned her arm over. That same Watcher symbol was tattooed on the underside of her left wrist. She had begun to wonder if someone had covered this book with the newer vellum in an effort to hide those odd circles.
Greece, 996 A.D. Rebecca Horne had traveled from Rome to Athens, followed by her Watcher. It was a fascinating account. The Watcher - she thought of him as "James" - had a gift for story-telling, imbuing his thousand year old tale with life and heart. That wasn't his real name, of course. Contrary to the usual practice, the writer of Rebecca's Chronicle had not signed this volume. But Amy had dubbed him "James" in her own mind, in a nod to the most famous biographer in Western literature - James Boswell, chronicler of Dr. Samuel Johnson's life.
When she had read The Life of Dr. Johnson in school, Amy had paid little attention to the man who wrote about the great man. Back then, the life of the scribe had no interest to her. Now, she understood, the biographer was writing as much about himself as he was his famous subject. James Boswell's identity was overshadowed by Samuel Johnson's exploits. But no matter how retiring, or self-effacing he was, Boswell's writing lived on, carrying his subliminal message, along with the details of Johnson's life, into the future. I was here, he was saying. Remember me.
We are all Boswells, Amy thought irreverently. We Watchers, dutifully recording our larger-than-life Immortal subjects, taking our own slice of vicarious Immortality. Except we do it at a distance, in secret. Samuel Johnson's biographer was also his friend. James Boswell wrote of a life he shared, in part, with his famous subject. The only Watcher Amy knew that fit that definition was her father.
Joe was still here, in Paris, even though his Immortal assignment, Duncan MacLeod, had returned to America a few days ago. He said he was intrigued by the mystery of this lost Chronicle, too. At first, Amy had suspected that Joe really just wanted to spend some time with her this summer. But, in actuality, Joe had been preoccupied with a research project of his own, something involving MacLeod's past. He had been unusually close-mouthed about his work. But Amy had seen Joe at the Watcher Headquarters in Lyon, delving into the old Chronicles stored in climate-controlled vaults in the bowels of the building. They had shared a brown bag lunch in her windowless office there just the other day. Amy was enjoying Joe's extended visit. Both their lives were so busy, and they lived so far apart, that times shared were precious and few. Amy's doctoral work would be finished next year. Until then, she was tied to the City of Lights. She was considering moving to the States next year to be near her father.
Amy's areas of expertise were linguistics and anthropology. She had a facility for languages, counting French, German, Italian and Latin among her gifts, in addition to Greek. Even so, her translation was slow going. While she was fluent in Greek, the writing in this Chronicle was an archaic form of the language. The handwriting was also difficult to read in places where the ink had faded. But she was reluctant to relinquish control of this little mystery to anyone else. The life of Rebecca Horne had become her particular area of expertise. More than that, she admired the Immortal. Amy didn't want to share the newly discovered Chronicle of this fascinating woman with any other Watcher ... except Joe, who understood perfectly her attachment to this particular Immortal. Amy found her place and began to read.
From the Chronicle of the Lady Rebecca, in the fifth day of the eighth month of the year of Our Lord, nine hundred and ninety six.
For one of the few times in my life, I cannot summon the words to write. I have been staring at this blank page for over an hour, with the ink drying upon my quill. I simply do not have the words to describe the Quickening, the first that I have ever witnessed.
The Egyptian would not be deterred. The Lady Rebecca accepted his Challenge, agreeing to meet Ramos at dawn today in a field far from the scattered huts of the fishermen and farmers that populate these parts. I must confess that I feared for the Lady. Her Challenger was a large man, obviously fit, who exuded the utmost confidence in his certain victory. I know the Lady has survived scores of Challenges, though I have never seen one. In the months that I have been Watching, she has not met, much less fought, another of her kind.
I followed the Lady to the small church in the village, though I did not enter. No one else was about at that early hour, and I was careful not to reveal my presence. After a quarter hour, she exited and mounted her horse. I kept a discreet distance, and was able to keep the white mare in sight in the light of the half-moon.
The battle was fierce, but brief. Ramos was powerful and wielded his sword with fearsome strength. If the Lady Rebecca had been struck with even one stroke of his blade, I believe she would have been cloven in two. The blows shook the earth. Because they never landed anywhere else. The Lady was quicker, darting here and there, always out of reach of Ramos' blade. She weaved and dodged, blooding him at every turn. I could see his anger grow as this will o' the wisp sliced and slashed and danced away. Finally, he stumbled with weariness. With unbelievable speed, the Lady struck the fatal blow and cleaved Ramos' head from his shoulders. It fell to the earth with a sickening sound.
Time itself held its breath. Then, the Power struck the Lady Rebecca over and over as she stood, shrieking, in the maelstrom. Despite all reason, I nearly rushed to her aid. Despite my knowledge, I couldn't believe that anyone could survive that storm. When it ended, the Lady fell to her knees, shuddering with the strain of the absorption. I must confess that I trembled in my hiding place, as well.
The Lady rested for a while, then used her sword to push herself to her feet. I thought she would depart the scene in haste. But she did something that surprised me. Not the man's burial. It behooves the survivor of the Challenge to conceal the evidence of battle. No, it was the fact of the Christian burial that I did not expect. The Lady knelt at the grave in an attitude of prayer, for some time, before sprinkling a small vial of water over the mound of freshly-turned earth. I can only presume that it was Holy Water from the church she had visited earlier. I wonder if Ramos the Egyptian would object to the last rites of an infidel religion being performed over his body? Or would he appreciate the respect shown to his earthly remains, no matter the ritual? I must remember -
A shadow hovering over Amy's right shoulder broke her concentration. "I'll have more coffee, please." Amy said, without turning.
"Too much coffee will keep you awake tonight. Then how will you dream of me?"
Amy looked up at a trim, thirtyish young man, stylish in a light summer suit. "Martin!" She gestured to the chair opposite, while slipping Rebecca's Chronicle into her bag. "Do sit down."
He sat. Professor Martin Guerre was Amy's faculty advisor in the Department of Linguistics. He was also her summer employer, and a good friend. A triple threat.
Amy frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"It is Midsummer."
"I see. The night I dream of my true love." She looked at him appraisingly. "What makes you think it would be you?"
"I am handsome, am I not?" He batted his gray eyes at her.
"Yes." Martin was compact, athletic and dapper. Most of his female students, and, Amy suspected, some of the males, had crushes on him.
"And clever?"
Amy rolled her eyes. Martin was the youngest Department Chair at the University of Paris. He held doctorates in linguistics and anthropology. A prolific author in his dual fields, he had also written a mass market book on the prehistoric cave drawings at Lascaux in southern France which had enjoyed popular success.
"And brave, n'est-ce pas?" Amy quirked an eyebrow at him in challenge. "At that children's lecture last week. I saved you from the ravenous horde when you dropped the tray of snacks."
"Martin, a dozen kids hardly constitutes a 'horde'." She frowned. "And throwing packages of biscuits at small children is nothing to brag about."
"I had to create a diversion, or they would have taken you down like a pack of hyenas with a she-lion." He smiled. "But let us return to my favorite subject. Me. I am also witty. And very charming."
"Let's not forget modest." she parried.
"But of course. And then there is the most important trait of all."
"Pray, tell."
"I am available."

"So, to recap." Amy ticked points off on her fingers. "Handsome. Clever. Brave. Modest. Witty. Charming. And Available. Hmmm. Sounds like that group that went about with Snow White." She rested her chin in her hand.
"Well, my attributes do dwarf other men's." he said, lightly.
Amy chuckled. "You're right, Martin. You are my true love. Who needs the dream? Let's elope," she said, matching his bantering tone.
Martin looked her in the eyes. "Let's." Amy was still for a moment, then opened her mouth to speak. Before she could say anything, Martin winked. She sat back, relieved.
Amy couldn't resist. "Who knows? Maybe I'll dream of Adam Pierson tonight." She said, mischievously.
"Oh, yes. If ever there was a fellow that aspired to low heights, that would be Pierson." Martin mimicked Amy's gesture, and extended a finger with each word. "Bashful, grumpy, dopey, sleepy, ... Well, at least he finally is a 'doc'."

"Martin!" Amy laughed, in spite of herself. Martin Guerre and Adam Pierson had rubbed each other wrong from the moment they had met. Unfortunately for both, Martin had been the head of his department during the time Adam had been a doctoral candidate
"But seriously, Amy, I've hardly seen you outside of the class for several weeks." Martin gestured to a scowling waiter, and ordered more coffee for two. The fellow verged on the edge of surliness as he took the order. "You dash in just as class starts, and dash out at the end."
"I've been very busy." Amy explained. "And Joe is in town."
"How about dinner tomorrow?" As Amy demurred, he held up a hand. "There is a new jazz club that opened last month. Perhaps your father would consent to join us?"
Amy sat back, surprised. Then, she patted Martin's hand. "Thanks. I'll ask him."
Martin sipped his coffee. "How long will Joe be in Paris?"
"I'm not sure. Until he concludes his business affairs, I imagine." She had told Martin of Joe's ownership interest in a little Parisian club with that odd little Maurice, and of his bar-restaurant in the States. Martin knew nothing of Immortals or Joe and Amy's membership in the Watchers. "A few more weeks, perhaps."
"You are enjoying his visit." It wasn't a question. Martin knew how close Amy was to her father. When a family emergency had prevented him from attending a seminar in Seacouver last Spring, he had insisted that Amy take his place so she could spend some time with Joe.
"Yes, I am."
"I am happy for you." There was no hint of teasing in his voice.
Amy smiled at him. Despite the sardonic edge Martin had trouble curbing at the best of times, he was really rather sweet. Of course, she'd never tell him that. If his head got any bigger, he wouldn't fit through the door of his office.
They chatted about his summer class for which she was the teaching assistant, until the coffee and pastries were gone. Comfortable in the conversation and the silences, they walked to Amy's apartment in University quarter at a leisurely pace. Amy wished him goodnight, and kissed his cheek. As she opened the door at the top of the stoop, Martin called after her. "Sweet dreams, cherie." He pressed a hand to his heart, and bowed, before walking into the night.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sneezy, Dopey, Bashful. Methos counted on his fingers. Grumpy, Happy, Doc. OK, that's six. Who's that last one? Grouchy? No. Stinky? No. Horny? It's a Disney flick, stupid!
The oldest Immortal had already rattled off the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, and the Modern, and his own unofficial, but more authentic, list. The Seven Deadly Virtues and Sins. The Magnificent Seven. The Dirty Dozen. The wives of Henry VIII. Santa's reindeer, including Rudolph. The language of flowers. The bones of the human body. The Astrological Zodiac. The Chinese Zodiac. The hits of the Andrews Sisters and the Mills Brothers. The Muses, the Fates, the Nymphs, and the Graces. The sublime ingredients in a bowl of wassail, and the disgusting contents of a haggis. The U.S. Presidents. The Kings and Queens of England. The Dynasties of China. The Pharoahs of Egypt. The planets and their moons. The books of the Bible. The Periodic Table of Elements. Even the sure-fire, never-fail International brands of beer with country of origin from Alpha(Greece) to Zipfer(Austria), and everything in between.
This was MacLeod's fault, Methos thought, for the countless time. He's probably sleeping like a baby in his big four-poster bed. The Highlander had left four days ago for Paris and then a flight home to the States. Methos had elected to stay here at the Abbey of Saints Crispin and Crispinian for a while longer. He had looked forward to a summer of quiet and solitude and peace. He hadn't found it.
Buggy? Bratty? Silly? Creepy? Burpy? Breezy? Flopsy? Topsy? Cottontail?
Methos felt ... odd since MacLeod left. No, it started before that. Since the young Immortal had told him about Cassandra. Mac had discovered the beautiful woman, who had once been Methos' slave, living with a mischievous calico cat in a little cottage in the Scottish Highlands. A cottage apparently not unlike this cottage. This cottage in which Methos was currently not sleeping, nestled on the grounds of the Abbey of Saints Crispin and Crispinian. . Though Mac had been back in France with Methos since the end of May, and it was now late June, MacLeod had kept his encounter with Cassandra to himself. Until a few days ago.
Methos shook his head. He and Mac had been ambushed by an Immortal sniper in Paris. Mac had been shot four times. The last one, the head shot, had caused massive brain damage that had taken a week for the younger Immortal to fully recover. Methos, through equal parts guile and luck, had taken the sniper's head. With Joe Dawson's help, he had managed to move Mac to Joe's hotel for a couple of days, until he was well enough to travel to Holy Ground, to this Abbey. They had shared this little cottage till just a few days ago.
While Mac was recovering, Methos told him what little he knew about the strange Immortal who had shot him. It wasn't much. The man refused to give a name, other than to declare himself "The End of Time" before his head fell from his shoulders. MacLeod had been unduly impressed with Methos' actions in taking out an Immortal sniper, armed with only a sword, a dagger and a pocket knife. Methos just wished he could have done it without using Mac as a decoy. The younger man had suffered the head trauma, and the disturbing aftereffects, as a result of Methos' ruse.

Grimy? Whiney? Feisty? Picky? Mucky? Droopy? Loopy? Snoopy? Nah, wrong cartoon.
It was so like MacLeod to turn this brush with permanent death into an opportunity to contemplate his navel. Brutally reacquainted with the fragility of life, Mac had decided to tell Methos about Cassandra. That Mac had seen her for the first time since she had nearly taken Methos' head in Bordeaux. That she was whole and happy. Mac wanted Methos to know that. Just in case.
And ever since that revelation, Methos had felt ... odd. The sleeplessness tonight was just one example. During the day, he found himself re-reading the same sentence over and over, no matter the book. He took long walks, and found himself breaking into a run, sprinting for short bursts, without being aware of it. He alternated between being ravenously hungry and having no appetite at all. He was easily distracted, unable to concentrate and very annoyed at himself.
Drippy? Baldy? Hairy? Frumpy? Stumpy? Chatty? Sticky?
He rolled over on his belly, punched up the pillow, and buried his face in it. It was all Mac's fault. This was where the path led him when he let MacLeod find him all those years ago. Unable to sleep, wracking his brain over the name of a stupid cartoon character.
The peace and quiet and solitude Methos had looked forward to had become ... intolerable. His thoughts were far, far away from the bucolic French countryside. He wondered what MacLeod was up to in Seacouver. How Joe Dawson was faring in Paris. Whether Amy Thomas had solved the research puzzle she was working on. Whether that feeb Martin Guerre had figured out the hidden cave cypher. What Cassandra was doing right now.
It was all Mac's fault. The man had lured him with beer, and laughter, and companionship, beguiled him with his Boy Scout values and his innumerable moral dilemmas, coaxed him into participating in life and the lives around him. If it hadn't been for MacLeod, he could sleep.
The part of himself that operated Methos's internal self-test was brutal, relentless, and honest, and couldn't stop there. Go on ...
If it hadn't been for MacLeod, ... he'd have never been in Joe's bar to meet Alexa. Even if he had met her, Methos would never have allowed himself to feel anything for her, much less love her so desperately, if MacLeod hadn't pulled him out of the nacred shell of a life he had been building for centuries.
Rewind even further. If it hadn't been for MacLeod, he'd have never met Alexa because he'd have been dead months before at Kalas' hand.
If it hadn't been for MacLeod, he'd have been caught up in Kronos' plans for a brave new world, with no hope of escaping with his head intact.
If it hadn't been for MacLeod, he'd still be entombed in the cold dark under the Similaun Peak in the Austrian Alps.
If it hadn't been for MacLeod, he'd never know that Cassandra was glad he was alive. Even, if only as a shoulder for Duncan to cry on.
That was it. That was why he felt so strange. He didn't know what to feel in a world where Cassandra didn't want him dead. It unsettled him.
That internal voice spoke. *Why?*
Because it gives me ... hope.
*Hope for what?*
I don't know.
*Yes, you do.*
Hope that someday I might atone. That I might be forgiven. That I might be ...worthy.
*That's pathetic.*
Yes, yes, it is.
And with that thought, his restless limbs settled, and his breathing and heart rate slowed to a regular rhythm. His mind calmed. Just before sleep claimed him, Methos murmured into the pillow "Sleepy. That's his name."
CHAPTER FIVE
Joe Dawson applauded enthusiastically. The jazz singer and her trio of accompanists bowed graciously, before launching into another song. They were good. They were very good. Joe sipped his wine, and nodded his appreciation to the young man sitting across the table from him. Martin Guerre had arranged admission to this smoky little club in the Latin Quarter. That gesture had undoubtedly scored a few points for Guerre with the third member of their table - Joe's daughter, Amy. As a Watcher and a bartender, Joe was a professional observer with years of experience. It was evident to Joe upon meeting Guerre tonight that he was attracted to Amy, though the linguist tried to hide it behind a facade of sardonic detachment.
What was more difficult for Joe to gauge were Amy's feelings. She and Guerre had been friendly for a few years now, since Amy had moved to Paris to continue her dual doctorate program. They were scholars, sharing the common field of linguistics. Amy was assisting Guerre in his summer class. Both loved music, the arts, good books, movies, and all that Paris offered. It was obvious to Joe that she liked the young man, and enjoyed his company. But Joe honestly couldn't tell if there was anything more there.
Long before meeting him in the flesh, Joe was acquainted by reputation with Professor Martin Guerre. At thirty-five, he was the youngest departmental chair in the history of the University of Paris. MacLeod sponsored his research. Amy talked of him frequently. Methos ranted about him regularly. Joe had presumed Methos was exaggerating when he detailed Guerre's shortcomings. Joe knew of the academic friction between the two. The long-awaited completion of Adam Pierson's doctorate had been noted by a few of his ex-fellow Watchers. When Guerre circulated that devastatingly funny parody of Adam's unusual dissertation, it had fallen quickly into Joe's hands. The Watcher nearly laughed his ass off when he read it.
Yes, Martin Guerre was a good-looking young man, intelligent, sophisticated, well-regarded in his fields of study, with a wicked sense of humor and the future in his pocket. Joe hadn't met the man but five minutes before he knew Guerre was also a horse's ass, with an ego the size of Texas.
Tonight had started with drinks and dinner at a restaurant of Guerre's choosing near the Louvre. Joe's host was well known at the joint. Guerre basked in the obsequious attention lavished upon him from the maitre d' down to the cloakroom girl. Over an expensive repast, Guerre dutifully inquired into Joe's work, trying but not succeeding, in showing an interest in Joe's bars or his music.
Joe reciprocated about Guerre's work. The professor had been eager to talk about his position at the University, his most recent scholarly publications, the success of his popular book on the cave paintings at Lascaux, and his appearances on French educational television. "I am currently working on a fascinating project. Four, maybe five, thousand year old cave writings recently found in the Austrian Alps. Proto-Teutonic ... that is, a pre-Germanic root language."

"Really? Sounds interesting." Joe said through slightly gritted teeth. I know what proto-Teutonic is, you feeb! Joe didn't let on that he knew all the details about this project. It was part of the research Duncan MacLeod had commissioned in his Champion search. Methos and Mac had traveled to Austria this Spring, following up Guerre's initial findings. The Immortals had found the hidden cave with its mysterious writings and circle of stone statues. They had nearly been entombed there when the hidden cave collapsed in an underground flood, barely escaping with the photographs of the archaeological find. "How long have you been working on it?"
"Actually, it was recently turned over to me by another linguist, a lesser scholar who was stumped by the project." Guerre sipped his wine. "He was able to translate the writing to words, but fumbled the cipher."
"Cipher?"
"Yes, the words were, how do you say? Scrambled up." Guerre was animated, clearly intrigued by the work, reminding Joe of Methos and MacLeod's enthusiasm over the mysterious writings. "I believe there is a cipher key to order the words coherently. Pierson ... the other linguist ... could not discover it, and despaired." He tapped a finger against his chin. "I am quite surprised that Pierson came as far as he did."
"Martin ..." Amy warned.
"You don't say." Joe itched to tell Guerre that Adam Pierson, with MacLeod's help, had solved the mystery and translated the entire wall weeks ago.
"I am convinced that the cipher key is hidden in the writings themselves. It is not uncommon among ancient cultures." Guerre went on for a bit on the history of ciphers and codes.
Joe feigned ignorance of the subject. "That's very interesting, Martin. Do you think you'll find the key? I mean, if it beat this other guy, ...um, Pierson ...?"
"But, of course." Guerre oozed confidence. "It is simply a matter of time." He signaled the waiter for more wine. "I have devised a computer program that will allow me to dissect these writings down to the smallest detail. Once my students have finished scanning the photographs into a computer ..." He paused as the waiter refilled their glasses. "These were the writings of a primitive people, Joe. Their mystery will yield to modern scientific method. I have no doubt that I will... what is the word ...'crack' their secret code."
Amy rolled her eyes, and shrugged at Joe when Martin wasn't looking.
Joe merely wished him good luck, though he nearly bit his tongue in two holding back the secret. The clue to the order of the words was, in fact, contained in the writings themselves. MacLeod had discovered it, by taking a step back from the minutiae, and looking, literally, at the big picture. This guy has his head up his butt so far, he'll never see that circle, Joe thought wickedly.
Joe's attention returned to the music. He relaxed, and let the music carry his thoughts wherever they'd take him. Tonight's performance was so good, it made up for the ordeal that was dinner. He wondered if he could see this group perform again before he left Paris. Initially, he had planned a brief stay in the city, after MacLeod left, to spend more time with Amy. She had a project going with the odd Chronicle of Rebecca's she had discovered. But Joe had his own research task that Amy could know nothing about.
Joe was searching Watcher records for Timothy of Corinth, the Champion of the last Millennium, the Immortal who had killed himself and forced his Quickening on young Duncan MacLeod in 1625. Joe had a name, now. He'd seen Timothy's sword. And he had a vague physical description from Mac - though, white, hairy and filthy wasn't very helpful.
Actually, Joe had been surprised at the number of Immortals named Timothy in the Watcher records. A fair amount of them were known Immortals still alive. Joe eliminated them immediately. His quarry had died 379 years ago. The problem was the Chronicles weren't set up to retrieve information this way. Only living or recently deceased Immortals were in the computer database. Timothy of Corinth was dead 300 years before the first computer was invented. He never made the list. Joe had scratched off the dead Timothys he had found. All of their deaths to another Immortal were observed and recorded.

Joe was stuck for leads. He had a few more Chronicles to review here in France at Western Europe's headquarters. If he had the same dismal luck, the only other course of action he could think of was to go to the Balkan Regional headquarters in Greece. See if he could come up with an Immortal named Timothy who dropped off the Watcher radar around 1000 A.D., but wasn't confirmed dead. Joe knew he was grasping at straws. He just didn't know what else to do.
The set was ending. The singer finished with a spectacular version of "Over the Rainbow." Joe added his applause to the noise that filled the room. He watched his daughter laugh at something Guerre had said, leaning close so he could be heard above the tumult. Joe shook his head. He had come late to this fatherhood business. Still, his reactions were as if Amy were his little girl. She was old enough to make her own choices. After all, she had been making her own decisions long before Joe Dawson had become a part of her life. Their relationship had grown over the past few years to become the most important thing in Joe's life. Don't screw it up, Joe told himself. He repeated his mantra to himself. Observe and record, but never interfere. He was on his fifth repetition as he shook Guerre's hand and thanked him for a wonderful evening.
CHAPTER FIVE
"MacLeod, wake up! Wake up!"
"Five more minutes, Manda." MacLeod murmured.
An elbow in his ribs was accompanied by a hiss. "MacLeod, your piece is up!"
Mac jolted awake, simultaneously fumbling for his bidder number while scrambling to stay on his chair. He waved the card frantically at the auctioneer, a moment before the gavel came down.
"Ah, a last minute bid from Mr. Mac Leod. I have fifteen. Do I hear sixteen? Anyone? Sixteen? Sixteen?" The auctioneer looked at a white-haired woman in the front row, elegant in a tailored gray suit. "Madam, are you in? No? Anyone else? Are we done? Fair warning. Sold to Bidder #438 for fifteen thousand dollars."
Mac, pleasantly surprised at the bargain price, heaved a sigh of relief, and turned to the chair on his left. "Thanks, Georges, I didn't want to miss that."
Georges Delacroix grimaced. "You've just bought a nineteenth century child's tea service, old boy. The sword is up now."
Mac turned back in dismay, and peered over the heads of the bidders in the rows in front of him. On the display table to the side of the auctioneer's podium was the Confederate saber he was trying to acquire for a client. An assistant was carefully removing the miniature tea set that had been resting just in front of it. The gray-suited woman in the first row gave MacLeod a dirty look.
The auctioneer was speaking. " ... in excellent condition. Fully authenticated, complete with a letter of provenance from the last living descendant of the Confederate colonel. A fine piece. Who will start us at $75,000?"
MacLeod groaned, and raised his bidder card again. The bidding was fierce, but he won the high bid. He leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair.
Delacroix leaned in close. "Rough night, MacLeod?"
"Georges, you have no idea." Mac ripped his bidder number in half before he could get into any more trouble. "Excuse me, while I humble myself before a lady." MacLeod spotted the disappointed woman just as she was leaving the building. She was frosty at first, but Mac could be very charming, when he wanted to be. After a few minutes, they had a deal. She took the set off his hands for her last bid, plus the Buyer's premium. So, that little nap only cost you a five hundred bucks. You got off cheap there, old boy. He returned to the gallery with a fresh cup of coffee, and took a seat way in the back.
He scrubbed at his face. Even Immortals needed a good night's sleep. Amanda had been here a week now. They had been to a different dance club every night, including last night. Mac had a long-standing commission for a very good client for a Confederate saber, and had known for months that this one was coming up for sale. Because of the early gavel, Mac had fully intended to go right to sleep when they got in last night. But then Amanda had done that thing with the feather. Mac had barely managed to drag his butt out of bed this morning.
Mac watched a bidding war over a near-mint copy of The Amazing Spiderman #1, in disbelief. He finished his coffee and took his leave of Delacroix. As he checked out at the cashier, Mac idly wondered how long it would take for the story of his expensive little nap to circulate among the local antiques set.
An hour later, Mac pulled the Thunderbird into his garage. He carried the sword, wrapped in soft foam and heavy fabric, and a bag of pastry. He set his burdens down on the counter, and crept upstairs. He peeked into his bedroom. Amanda opened a sleepy eye, then burrowed deeper into the covers. With an effort, MacLeod resisted climbing back in with her, and returned downstairs. While a pot of coffee was brewing, he opened the weapons safe in the great room, removed a long muslin-wrapped object, and put the Confederate sword in its place. He closed the safe and grabbed yesterday's newspaper from the basket by his armchair. He spread the paper on the kitchen table, and carefully unwrapped the muslin package.
It was an ancient broadsword. The ebony hilt and pommel gleamed, showing off the intricate design of spirals and stars. MacLeod was pleased at the luster he had been able to achieve with the dark wood. Centuries-old dirt had been caked in the inscribed handle and hilt when he had found it in the hermit's cave in the Highlands. The blade was dull in edge and appearance, though he had succeeded in removing all but the thinnest layer of rust. He had to be very careful with removing that, so as not to damage what little remained of the chasing on the blade.
Mac worked methodically for a couple of hours. He wondered when Amanda would arise and what little adventures she planned for today. Since her arrival, she had been filling up their time together, keeping them going at a brisk pace. MacLeod let her have her way. She had been upset by the confrontation with Nick Wolfe. Amanda's way of dealing with emotional distress was to exhaust herself . And anyone who happened to be around her. At least she had opened up to Mac about what was bothering her. Amanda's decision to kill Wolfe before he died of the poison he had ingested had triggered his latent Immortality. She had saved his life, but not without a price. Maybe someday Wolfe would understand the Hobson's choice which had confronted Amanda at that moment. At least, Amanda had reacted to a crisis not of her making. MacLeod had no such excuse for his own action with Kate.
Mac idly speculated about the job the little thief had originally planned for Vegas. Perhaps that art museum attached to one of the casinos. Or maybe a casino itself? Did even Amanda have the nerve to hit a casino? He pondered that a moment. Yes, she did. Still, it was more likely one of the high rollers.
Mac wondered how long she'd stay this time. Another week, he figured, and she'd be off to see a man about a camel, or a jewel, or a priceless objet d'art. Amanda never stayed in one place for long without becoming restless. MacLeod had accepted that long ago. She was a ship at sea, always in motion, blown here and there with the winds. And in MacLeod, she had found an anchor and port in the storm.
The analogy was apt and amused him. So what was Amanda to him, then? An ocean breeze. An exciting whirlwind that loosened his moorings and lightened his heart. Usually along with his purse. But as much as Amanda needed to sail on, Duncan needed to return to dry land. She was an inconstant constant in his life for over three hundred and fifty years. Her schemes and misadventures that MacLeod sometimes became entangled in, were a part of the package.
"Ooohhh, that coffee smells good." Amanda padded past him, wearing his robe, and dropped a quick kiss on the top of his head.
"There's croissant and brioche on the counter." Mac continued working with the solvent and rag.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and sipped at it, with her eyes closed. "You got the sword."
"Barely. I nearly slept through the bidding." He told her about the tea set acquisition and his deal with the dragon lady.
Amanda smirked at him. "Sorry about that, MacLeod." She helped herself to a croissant, and walked to the table."I hope you didn't pay too much for that sword, Duncan. It's in terrible shape."
MacLeod realized her mistake. "Oh. This isn't it. I put the new one in ..." He stopped as he got a glimpse of her face. Her dark eyes were wide as she stared at the old sword on the table. The croissant was clutched tightly in one hand, forgotten. "Amanda?" He asked, puzzled.
Amanda gulped down the bite of croissant she had taken, and dropped the rest of it. It landed on the floor. She sat down, nearly spilling the coffee. She reached out a hand and touched the pommel of the sword.
"Amanda? What ...!"
"Where did you get this, Duncan?" She turned intense brown eyes on him.
"I found it in a cave in the Highlands." He replied neutrally, though his pulse was pounding in his ears. "Amanda, have you seen this sword before?"
She nodded, still stroking the pommel.
"Where?" Mac asked urgently.
"In Rebecca's treasure chest." She closed her eyes, her hand resting on the blade.
Flashback. France. Rebecca's Cloister. 853 A.D.
"I may really choose my own?" Amanda clapped her hands together.
"Yes." Rebecca said simply.
"But there are so many! Where did you get them all?" Amanda marveled at the array of swords laid out on the plank table. They gleamed in the light of the oil lamps on the walls.
A few I purchased." Rebecca stood tall and proud, regal as a queen. "But most were won in combat."
"They must be very valuable." Amanda whispered. One of the swords was set with gems.
"An Immortal's sword is priceless ... " began Rebecca, for the hundredth time.
"... for it is the only thing between her and Death." Amanda finished.
Amanda picked up a scimitar, testing its heft in her hand. It was well-balanced and felt good in her hand. She put it down and picked another, a longsword. She tried all eight blades that were laid on the table. All felt natural in her hand, like an extension of her body. She was torn. Whatever sword she chose, would become her only weapon in the deadly Game that she must soon play against others of her kind. Her time with Rebecca as her student was drawing to a close. That upcoming event filled her with equal parts fear, excitement and sadness. She looked up at Rebecca suddenly.
"What about the one in the treasure chest?"
Rebecca looked at her sharply. "I suppose I should not be surprised that you know about that, Amanda."
Amanda put out a hand in protest. "No, I saw it that night. The night I ... took ... I took the crystal from the chest. I have not looked in there since." She looked earnestly at her teacher. "I swear."
Rebecca looked at her for a long moment and then nodded. She strode to the long chest, removed the bowl resting atop, and opened the lid. She withdrew a sword, and rose gracefully. She moved the other swords aside, and set it carefully on the table. Amanda admired its beauty. The blade was long and intricately inscribed with symbols she did not recognize, though Amanda could now read Latin and some English. The pommel was made of dark wood. It too was inscribed with a delicate design of spirals and stars. Amanda had never seen its like.
"It is beautiful." she breathed. Amanda wiped her hands on her dress before touching the pommel with a finger. She looked up at Rebecca, who smiled and nodded. Amanda stood and took the sword in both hands. It was wonderfully balanced. She performed one of the sword exercises that Rebecca had taught her. With each move, the blade glittered in the flickering light of the lamp.
Her teacher watched Amanda with an unreadable expression. "I cannot give you this sword, Amanda, because it is not mine to give."
Amanda's curiosity was fully engaged, and she placed the sword carefully on the table. She sat in the chair, and folded her hands in her lap. Maybe Rebecca would tell her another of her wonderful stories, if she behaved herself.
Rebecca took the dark pommel into her strong hand and shifted the blade from side to side. Her flame-colored hair shone in the lamplight. To Amanda, Rebecca seemed the very incarnation of an angel of the heavenly host that had heralded the birth of the babe. Amanda learned to read from the holy book with the beautiful pictures.
"My teacher gave me so much, Amanda. Her skill, her wisdom, her companionship, her love. But the only things she gave me, she told me I must not keep." Rebecca looked intently at her rapt student. "You have seen the crystal. Lilith bade me scatter its shards to the ends of the earth. So, when a student leaves me, they take a piece of it with them. As you will."
"But you keep the sword?"
Rebecca nodded solemnly. "She told me that I must never use it. That I must hold it in safekeeping."
"Safekeeping? For who?"
"For the one who will come."
"Who will that be?"
"I have not the slightest idea, Amanda."
"But, ... if you do not know who it is, how will you know who to give it to?" Amanda's brow was furrowed in thought.
"I do not know that either."
"I do not understand." Amanda, shook her head, admitting defeat.
Rebecca laughed. "Neither do I, Amanda." Rebecca reverently returned the sword to the chest. She turned to the table. "Now, which sword do you choose?"
In the three years she had lived with Rebecca, Amanda had acquired a little wisdom of her own. She stood eye to eye with her teacher, sister and friend. "You choose for me."
Rebecca's blue eyes were warm, as she reached for the English broadsword. She presented it with the wheel-pommel first. Amanda took it solemnly, clutching it to her breast, while Rebecca told her of the great warrior she had vanquished to win this sword.
MacLeod leaned back in his chair, stunned at Amanda's revelation. Had Timothy of Corinth acquired this sword from Rebecca? When and where had he met her? If this was the same sword .... They might actually have a finite window of time to search. At last, some connection to the hermit and the outside world!
Amanda had waited long enough. "Duncan, tell me how you got this sword." she demanded.
MacLeod nodded, and reached for her coffee cup. "It's a long story, Amanda. You'll need a refill." He filled their cups, and led her to the great room. Once they were settled on the couch, he began. "I was thirty-two years old, cast out of the Clan by my father three years before, when I met the hermit. It was early in the Spring of 1625. There was a storm that night ... " It took most of the afternoon to tell her the rest of the tale, as Amanda sat beside him, hands folded in her lap, entranced.
CHAPTER SIX
"... you know as much as I do now, Joe." MacLeod was pleased to pass on Amanda's information to the Watcher.
"From Lilith to Rebecca to Timothy to you." Joe marveled.
"I know." Mac sounded as awed as Joe felt. Then, he chuckled. "Not quite Tinker to Evers to Chance, but I'll take what I can get." He cautioned his friend. "Still, we're not sure that the sword went directly to Timothy from Rebecca."
"It's a good working hypothesis for me, Mac."
"Joe? I hope it was OK to tell Amanda about Amy?" Mac's tone was apologetic, but rueful. It was a little late to ask permission for his impulsive disclosure.
"Sure. I'd have told her myself sometime. Amy and I don't keep it a secret. Not anymore." Joe was curious. "Why now, though?"
"Amanda needed to hear it. I'll explain later." MacLeod paused. "She'd like to meet Amy. How do you think Amy will feel about that?"
Joe hesitated. His daughter held some strong opinions about the interactions of Watchers and Immortals. Though lately, they seemed to be evolving. "I don't know. All I can do is ask her."
"Fair enough. I'm sorry I called so late." It was nine hours earlier in Seacouver than Paris.
"Don't worry about it. I was up anyway." Joe was a night owl. He had been playing his guitar when Mac called. "Besides, this is good news."
"Thanks, Joe." He paused. "For everything." Even through the long distance connection, Joe heard the warmth in his tone.
"You're welcome, Mac."
"Hold on a minute. Amanda wanted to talk to you." Joe heard the muffled voice of the Scot calling her name.
A click as Amanda picked up an extension. "Joe, just wanted to say 'Good night'".
"Good night, Amanda. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite." Joe said playfully.
"No, but I can't guarantee that I won't." He heard Mac's embarrassed "Amanda!", his hasty "Night, Joe.", and then a click. The big Scot, for all his years and experience, was still a bit of a prude. Amanda giggled, "Gotta go, Joe. Bye."
Joe hung up, chuckling. He was elated. At last, they had caught a break. For the last several weeks, Joe had been on a fishing expedition through the Western Europe Watcher Chronicles. He had been cross-checking the Chronicles of documented Immortals known to be in the Highlands of Scotland prior to 1625 A.D. Joe had naturally started with Connor MacLeod's Chronicle. He didn't need to go back to Duncan's Chronicle. He was intimately familiar with it and knew the hermit had never appeared in it. The Watchers didn't pick up on Duncan's Immortality until later in 1625 when Connor took on his first student, after the battle of Glen Fruinn. But Connor MacLeod's Chronicle began very early in his Immortal life.
The Kurgan's Watcher had traveled with that big ugly sonofabitch to the Highlands, and reported his assignment's interest in the young MacLeod. The Kurgan had struck the boy down in the midst of battle between his clan and the Frasiers, but was prevented from taking his head by the boy's fierce kinsmen. The Watchers had picked up young Connor MacLeod again when, in his exile, he settled down with the blacksmith MacDonald and his daughter, Heather. When Juan Sanchez Villa Lobos Ramirez had sought out young Connor as his student, the Watchers were already there.
Joe had lost himself in young Connor's tale. His Chronicler had a gift for language, and a fondness for his assignment. Ramirez' teaching style had been unique, and his young charge had grown strong and proficient under his tutelage. In the process, they had become fast friends. Joe wished he could show these volumes to Mac. Connor the student, was brave and tough, impulsive and full of life. And very, very young. He reminded Joe of Richie Ryan. By the time Duncan met him, Connor was over a century old, a widower for thirty-eight years, since his beloved Heather had died in his arms of old age. After reviewing his Chronicle, Joe was confident that in all his years in the Highlands, Connor MacLeod had never met Timothy of Corinth.
Joe next cross-referenced the Kurgan's Chronicle for his brief stay in the Highlands, as well as any other Immortals known to be in the region from 1000 to 1625 A.D. No dice. Of the Immortals entered in the database, Joe had found a few who had been in the Highlands during that time, but he found no encounters with a Timothy of Corinth or a strange Immortal that fit his description. If the hermit was taken at his word, he had hidden himself away for six hundred years before that, waiting for Mac to show up one dark and stormy night. He would have avoided encounters with other Immortals, not willing to risk a challenge. Watchers didn't have that sixth sense that allowed Immortals to identify each other. The only way for a Watcher way to find an Immortal was through observing an encounter with another Immortal. As the saying goes, "It takes one to know one." Joe had been looking for a needle in a haystack.
Joe was further handicapped with his limited knowledge of Timothy's age. He knew the month and year of his death from Duncan. Since he had fought Ahriman for the prior Millennium, Joe placed his date of birth before 1000 A.D. But how much before? How old had he been when he battled the evil one? Were the Champions born in the Millennium they battled? Could he extrapolate from Duncan's experience? Mac was 405 years old when he encountered Ahriman for the first time, and 406 when he defeated it. Joe just didn't know if there were any rules to this Champion business. The lack of information frustrated him. Watchers had been around since Gilgamesh was observed returning to life by Ammallatto the Akkadian over 5000 years ago. In all their observation and recording since then, how had they managed to miss Armageddon every thousand years?

Joe had been stuck. Until now. Amanda's revelation changed everything. Sometime between the years 853 and 1625 A.D., the ebony sword had passed, directly or indirectly, from Rebecca Horne to Timothy of Corinth. It was still nearly 800 years, but it did narrow the search. More importantly, there was a connection between the mysterious hermit and a well-known, well-documented Immortal. And Joe just happened to know an expert in the life of Rebecca Horne. She was a night owl, too. It ran in the family. He dialed Amy's number, and invited her to breakfast.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Duncan lifted his head from the pillow, reached down awkwardly and untangled the sheet at his feet with his left hand. He pulled it and the coverlet up and over, one-handedly tucking it around himself and the female form that felt molded like hot rubber to the right side of his body. Amanda squirmed even closer, the heat from her body merging with his own, so that it was impossible to feel the line of demarcation between them. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling above the big bed, but his thoughts were further away than that.

"Amanda, what else did Rebecca tell you about Lilith?"

Amanda languidly opened her eyes. "Duncan, it's bad form to think about other women after what we just did." She petted the hair on his chest. "Actually, I'm surprised you're thinking much at all right now" she said, with a wicked little smile.

He kissed the top of her head. "Let's just say you've stimulated my ... thought processes."

"Not exactly what I had in mind when I started." She yawned and stretched deliciously. "Damn, I feel good."

"Always happy to oblige a lady, ma'am." he said in his best Texas drawl. He had ridden with the Texas Rangers for over a year. "So, what else do you remember about Lilith?"

Amanda wrinkled her brow in thought. "Rebecca really didn't talk about her teacher much."

"How did they meet?" Duncan asked, curious.

"Don't know. I just know it was a long time before I knew Rebecca." She stroked one of his eyebrows, smoothing some of the wayward hairs into place. "You know, Rebecca was nearly three thousand years old when she taught me."

"Holy Cow!" Mac blurted. "I didn't know that!"

"Jeepers, MacLeod! Watch your language!" Amanda teased. "You kids today ain't got no respect."

"Very funny." His brow furrowed. "It's just that ... when we met, Rebecca said she was only a few hundred years older than you."

"It's a woman's prerogative to lie about her age, Duncan. Especially in the Game."

"I know that." He absently stroked the small of her back. "Later on, I gathered that she was much older, but I didn't know she was that old." Amanda was twelve hundred, give or take. That meant Rebecca was over four thousand years old when she died. Holy Cow, Mac repeated silently.

"Uh huh."

Mac pondered that for a while. "How old was Lilith when she taught Rebecca?"

"She never said."

"Did she tell you what part of the world Lilith came from?"

"Nope."

"When did Lilith die?"

"A long time before I met Rebecca."

"Did she tell you who took ...?"

"Duncan, if I knew anymore I'd tell you."

"But, ..."

"All I remember is her name, she was very old, and that Rebecca told me Lilith was the best and the wisest person that ever lived." Amanda chuckled. "I remember thinking that couldn't be true. I knew Rebecca was the best and the wisest person that ever lived."

She felt his low rumbling laugh along her entire length. "That's exactly how I felt about Connor." he said. When he was his student, Duncan had thought Connor MacLeod, at 107, was one of the ancients.

She fingered the silver rune pendant hung around his neck for a moment before speaking. "That's how Richie felt about you, too." she said quietly.

MacLeod said nothing.

"This is his necklace, isn't it? I remember seeing him wear it."

"Yeah."

"What does the symbol mean?"

He told her then of Darius teaching Rich how to read the ancient runes, as he had taught Duncan. How Tessa had learned that Richie always carried this particular rune symbol with him, and fashioned the pendant out of it as a gift for the boy. How this symbol had many meanings, such as warrior, guardian, or chief, but Darius had designated it as the Highlander's personal symbol. And how Joe had found it on Richie the night he died.

"And now you wear it?" Amanda asked, genuinely puzzled. Wearing the necklace was a painful reminder of a tragedy Duncan should put behind him. Amanda didn't believe in beating yourself up over things you couldn't change. It was bad enough when other people did that for you.

Mac nodded, but didn't speak. He couldn't explain the feeling of connection to Richie and Tessa that came with wearing the pendant, so he didn't try. God, how he wished he had been a better teacher to Richie. As Connor had been to him. As Rebecca had been to Amanda. If Richie really had felt the same way that Duncan had felt about Connor ... well, Mac wished he'd deserved it. There were so many things Duncan wished he had said or done differently with Richie. He sighed. You can't change the past. All you can do is learn from it. Starting now.

Mac pulled her warm softness closer. He tilted her chin up till Amanda met his gaze. "I love you, Amanda. Always. I want you to know that."

She looked at him, her dark eyes huge. "Jeepers." she breathed, and melted into his kiss. She laid her head on his shoulder. "I love you, too." she whispered when she knew he was asleep.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Amy joined Joe at his hotel suite for an American-style breakfast - blueberry pancakes, hashed brown potatoes, bacon, sausage, toast, juice and coffee. Joe cooked, all the while lamenting the inability to find scrapple (whatever that was) in Paris. Though ignorant of that delicacy, Amy sympathized. For all the fine cuisine in the City of Lights, Amy still longed for the occasional bangers and mash. Or really good crumpets, topped with marmite and cheese. The thought made her mouth water. She set the table while Joe bustled in the kitchenette. They sat down to a feast. Joe regarded Amy with a serious look.

"Amy, I need to ask you some questions about Rebecca's Chronicle."

"Sure, Joe." She spread strawberry jam on a slice of toast. "MacLeod and Rebecca had a lot of interesting encounters."

"It's not about Rebecca and MacLeod. Well, actually it is, but not about Rebecca and MacLeod. I mean, not together." Joe scratched his beard.

Amy was amused at his verbal predicament. "Joe, what's this about?"

"Amy, I can't tell you why I need to know. I'm sorry." He took her hand. "Trust me, it is important."

Amy was puzzled. "I do trust you, Joe." She squeezed his hand, and set aside the itch of curiosity. "What do you want to know?"

"Between 853 and 1625 A.D., did Rebecca encounter an Immortal named Timothy of Corinth?"

Amy frowned in thought. "Not that I recall. I'd have to confirm with the record, of course. That name is not familiar, though. Do you have aliases, aka's?"

"No. That's the only name I've got."

"How about a description?" Amy prompted.

"White male, apparent age - mid-twenties to mid-fifties."

Amy raised an eyebrow at him. "That's not much to go on."

"At some point, he became very hairy and extremely filthy." Joe added, helpfully.

"Joe!" She protested with a laugh.

"I'm serious. There's also a sword ..."

"Isn't there always?" Amy interjected.

Joe nodded. "Usually. This one is very old. It's a broadsword, with an inscribed blade, and an ebony pommel and hilt. The ebony was inscribed too."

"That's still not much to identify someone."

"I know, but it's more than I had yesterday." he muttered cryptically.

Amy thought for a moment. She continued eating her breakfast, so what followed came in bits and pieces. "There are a lot of gaps in Rebecca's Chronicle, as you know. Within that time frame, let me see, we have her teaching Amanda for a few years. Then she started traveling again. We're missing a few decades from about 875 through 1066, when Rebecca shows up at Hastings. After that she's in England for a while. Some more gaps until she married Peter the Brewer and settled in Kent . Let me think ..."

"That missing gap, 875 through 1066, we lost her?"

"Or we lost the Chronicles. Remember, some of the Watcher cells collapsed during that time too."

"That's right." Joe recalled that mysterious gap in Watcher history. Well, one of them. The prevailing theory was that a disease had devastated their predecessors, causing a collapse in the hierarchy and structure at worst, or a loss of the records, at best. Or both. All of the Watcher divisions all over the world had such gaps, the worst being in the time of the Black Death that swept Europe in the fourteenth century. The most recent was during World War II. One of their cells had been based in Dresden. "Damn, that's probably the years we're looking for."

Amy retrieved the old book from her bag. "That's one reason why I was so excited when Basil sent this to me. It's one of the lost years. 996 A.D. Greece."

"Right time period. Anything interesting?"

"Well, I'm not nearly finished. But, the Watcher, whoever he was, chronicles Rebecca starting in Parga, on the western coast of Greece. I gather she crossed the Ionian Sea from Italy, but that's, apparently, in another volume. She's still south of Athens now. I mean, where I left off." Amy licked jam from her fingers, and wiped them on a napkin, before opening the book to a tabbed section. "She's had one challenge, so far. An Egyptian by the name of Ramos, around the town of Megara."

Joe was thoughtful. He was still considering the trip to Athens to study the Chronicles there. Still, Rebecca's lost Chronicle sounded promising. Corinth was a Greek city, after all.

"Joe, is this mystery man a threat to MacLeod?" Amy was concerned. It was one thing for MacLeod and Joe to be friendly. It was altogether another to provide information about an opponent from their records. That would violate the Watchers' most inviolate rule.

"What? No, it's not like that." Joe didn't like keeping secrets from his daughter, but the Champion story was not his secret to share. "He's dead. Been dead for nearly 400 years. This is history we're talking about, nothing affecting the Game."

Amy nodded, reassured, but still curious. She patted the old book. "I'll let you know if I find anything in here."

Joe thanked her, and refilled her coffee cup. "By the way, somebody wants to meet you."

"Who?"

"The Amazing Amanda."

Amy's mouth dropped open. "Amanda wants to meet me!?"

"Yeah. What do you think about that?"

"I don't know, Joe." Amy felt the old flutter in her stomach, the specter of Morgan Walker setting her nerves on edge. Amanda! Twelve hundred year old thief, concubine, circus star, survivor ... and the last living student of Rebecca Horne. Amy took a deep breath. "All right."

"You're sure?"

Amy nodded.

"OK, then. I'll tell her."

Both were quiet for a while. Then Amy piped up. "What's she like, Joe?"

Joe struggled to find the right words. "She's amazing, honey." Amy punched him in the arm. "No, really. Amanda is ... beautiful, smart, funny, unpredictable. Sexy as hell. She used to have Richie Ryan all tied up in knots with just a look." He snorted. Not just Richie.

"Do you think... do you think she'd tell me stories about Rebecca, if I asked, Joe?" Amy said, eagerly.

With stunning clarity, Joe realized this was what MacLeod had in mind by introducing the two women. Joe never tired of stories about his own father, who had died when Joe was seventeen. The teacher-student relationship was the closest Immortals came to family among their own kind. He nodded to his own daughter. "I think she'd like that, honey." He refilled his coffee cup and took a sip. "I think she'd like that a lot." As he spoke, Joe made a resolution of his own. Somehow, he would find a way to share with his friend the Chronicles of young Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.

CHAPTER NINE

The Tracker 4 by 4's tires squealed as Methos hit the brakes, then darted into a parking space on the Rue de Verneuil. He couldn't believe his luck. A parking space only a block from his destination! He chose to interpret that as a sign of good fortune, on a par with finding a four leaf clover or a white origami crane. Paris was filling up with the tourists that flocked to the city in the warmer months. He hoped his luck would hold and that Joe Dawson was still in residence at the little pension.

Methos had managed to last eleven days at the Abbey of Saints Crispin and Crispinian after MacLeod's departure. The peace and quiet and solitude he thought he had wanted had become almost immediately burdensome. He had tried books, meditation, exercise. Even drastic measures, such as assuming MacLeod's field and livestock duties, were no help. Time, which usually seemed to race by at a lightning pace, hung on him like a cheap suit.

So, he had left this morning for Paris. But, there were no flights available to the Pacific Northwest until tomorrow morning. There were also no hotel rooms in the city either. At least, not in Adam Pierson's modest budget. If he was still here, Joe would put him up on his couch for one night. As couches go, it was a fairly comfortable one, Methos knew from experience. A few weeks ago, Joe had unexpectedly hosted Methos and a severely wounded MacLeod in his hotel suite for a couple of days.

Methos unloaded the trunk, slamming it shut. He had a paper sack in one arm, his pack in another, and his sword concealed in the long coat he was wearing, as he took the one flight of stairs to Suite 202. Outside Joe's door, he set the pack on the floor and shifted the sack to his left arm. As he did, he glanced into the top of the sack and noticed that the package of roasted cashews had opened and spilled. Annoyed at the flimsy packaging, he turned back to the door just as he raised his hand to knock. Joe Dawson was there, not twelve inches away. Startled by the unexpected apparition, Methos yelped in surprise, stepped back, tripped over his pack, and landed hard on his back. Though he maintained his grip on the paper bag, a rain of cashews pelted his face and chest. He looked up, the breath temporarily knocked out of him, analytically assessing the situation. Good thing Joe's not Immortal, or you'd be at a distinct disadvantage. Of course, if Joe was Immortal, he'd have never been able to surprise you like that.

Actually, Joe wasn't much of a menace to anyone. He was laughing so hard that he was in danger of falling himself, his grip on his cane wavering as he shook with mirth. Methos, recovering his wind, shot him a nasty look. He rolled to his side, and lurched to his feet, still holding the bag. Mustering his dignity, he carefully picked his way through the cashew minefield, and shouldered past the helpless Watcher. Methos set the bag on the counter in the kitchenette, and returned to the doorway to retrieve the pack.

Joe was winding down, wiping his eyes with his free hand. "You OK?" he managed to choke out.

Methos slung the pack over an arm. "I'll survive." he said, sourly.

Joe walked back to the kitchenette and removed a broom and dustpan from behind a pantry door. Methos snatched them from his hand. The Immortal quickly cleaned up the nuts and joined Joe at the counter. He dumped the cashews in the trash can, and put the tools away.

Joe peeked into the paper sack. "I see you saved the beer."

"Hey, I have my priorities straight."

"What are you doing here?"

"I was hoping to crash here tonight." Methos put a hand to his back, and looked rueful. "Figuratively speaking." He explained about his early flight.

"Sorry I scared you. I was on my way out." Joe chuckled at the replay in his head. He gestured toward the couch, with a flourish. "Mi casa es su casa."

Methos looked at him sharply.

"What?" Joe asked, innocently.

Methos waved a hand dismissively at him, as he reached in to the sack and removed beer and provisions and put them in the refrigerator. He crumpled the bag, and tossed it into the trash, before turning back to Joe.

"Actually, your timing is excellent." Joe chuckled again. "And not just with the pratfall."

Methos arched an eyebrow at him.

"Forensics ID'd the sniper that shot MacLeod. At least, the identity he was using in France. They found his crib in the city. I was just on my way there, now. Coming?"

Methos grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. At Joe's raised eyebrows, he rubbed his backside, then gestured to the bottle in his hand. "For medicinal purposes." He took a healthy swallow. "Lead on, MacDuff."

They took Joe's car. He drove efficiently in the afternoon rush traffic, operating the hand controls expertly. They drove through the industrial district to the northeast of the old city to a run-down residential section. Joe parked in an alley off the Rue Manin, and peered up at a grimy stone building. "This is it, I think. Second floor."

The elevator was out of order. Joe struggled a bit on the narrow stairs, and Methos waited for him on the dimly lit landing, discreetly shaking a cashew out of his pants leg. They walked down a narrow corridor littered with trash and broken bottles. Stale cooking smells and the wails of a very unhappy baby assaulted their senses. Joe stopped at the last door on the right. There was a shiny new padlock on the outside. Joe produced a key and opened the door.

It was a shabby, sparsely furnished apartment. Dimly lit, which, Joe thought, improved the decor. The small living room/kitchen area contained a chipped enamel table, and two chairs. An overstuffed sofa sagged against one wall, a television set was propped precariously on a crate.

"How did you guys find this place?" Methos asked.

"Short term tenant stopped paying. Landlord didn't see him around, tried to get in and found the lock had been changed. To a good one. Landlord called a locksmith in our network. Forensics checked it out. And Bingo!" Joe walked in and shut the door behind him. "We paid up the landlord till next month, installed the padlock."

While they talked, Methos explored the room carefully. Joe watched for a while, then stood looking out the window to the alley, and his car below, hoping the hub caps would still be there when they left. The Immortal was very thorough. I guess after five thousand years, one would get pretty good at hiding, and by extension, finding things. There were chipped dishes and cheap glasses in the cupboards. The tiny refrigerator contained half a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. and a few eggs. Joe walked to the stack of newspapers next to the TV. The Paris Gazette. The latest issue was dated the day Mac was shot. Joe pointed that out to Methos.

"Forensics hit paydirt in the bedroom and bathroom." Joe said, peering into the bedroom. A thin, stained mattress was slightly askew on metal springs. A small night table and lamp were the only other furniture. Methos finished his search of the kitchen and joined him.

"They took everything with them." Joe sat on the bed, and pointed to the bathroom. "A Czech passport, five thousand Euros and an American Express card were in a waterproof pouch in the toilet tank. Along with a handgun, a Glock. No serial number. Some clothes in the closet. Cheap stuff, mostly black, that you can buy almost anywhere in Europe. A camera with a long lens in a case under the bed. No film or photos, though. They matched the fingerprints on a glass on the nightstand to the guy we took out of the alley. An extra confirmation. The passport photo was a good likeness."

"What was the name on the passport?" Methos was searching the bedroom with the same thoroughness as he had the kitchen/living room.

"Gregor Havel. Same on the credit card. Probably bogus. The billing address was a double-blind direct debit from a fictitious corporate account. The passport address is that of a respectable grandmotherly type, with no discernable connection to the dead man."

"When did they find this place?"

"Yesterday."

"I'm impressed."

"They're good at what they do." Joe gestured vaguely with his cane. "There's nothing left here. But I wanted to see the place, anyway." He looked around at the ugly little room. He wondered how long the sniper had lived here watching and waiting for a chance to take out MacLeod. After a few minutes, he realized Methos was no longer in the room with him. He called his name.

"In the bathroom." Methos' voice echoed in the tiled space. Joe rose and looked in the doorway. It was another depressingly dingy space. The small mirror over the stained sink was cracked and discolored. There was a toilet and a shower stall. No medicine cabinet. With quick and efficient motions, Methos thoroughly searched the small room for hiding places. Nothing. He knelt on the tiled floor of the shower, examining the drain. He gave up trying to pry it up with his fingernails, and was rolling up the leg of his jeans to get at his dagger, when Joe handed him a pocket knife. Methos took it with a roll of his eyes, muttering something about the ubiquity of Boy Scouts that Joe didn't quite catch.

Joe lowered the toilet seat lid and sat down while Methos worked. The old man manipulated the flat-head screwdriver under the flange. After he had raised the edge of the flange high enough to get his fingers under it, Methos removed it, revealing a large circular opening. He reached in, then tossed something dark and furry at Joe. The Watcher recoiled, let out a yell and batted at the object with his cane. It fell to his feet.

Methos grinned evilly at him.

"Not funny, man!" Joe glared at him. "I thought it was a rat!"

"If you don't tell MacLeod that I tripped over my own feet, I won't tell him you screamed like a woman over a clump of hair." Methos said casually, putting the flange back in the drain opening.

Joe didn't answer. He reached down and picked up the clump. Though it really did look like it, it wasn't hair. It was some sort of fibrous matting, cut to the size and shape of the drain hole. "Methos, look at this." He tossed it back to the old man. Methos examined it without speaking, then removed the flange again.

"Do you have a flashlight, Joe?' Joe stood and handed him a slender mag-lite. Methos shone the light in the hole. Joe leaned precariously, and peered over his shoulder. Methos reached down into the hole carefully. He unhooked a piece of black wire about four inches down the pipe and pulled gently. A black plastic tube, about a foot in length, dangled from the wire. It was capped on top, with an eyehook where the wire fastened.

"What is it?" Joe said excitedly.

"Hopefully, not a pipe bomb." Methos muttered.

Joe shot him a worried look. Methos instructed Joe to stay in the bedroom, behind the door. Then he returned to the kitchen, where the light from the overhead fixture was marginally better. He sat down in one of the rickety chairs, and set the tube on the tabletop. Methos proceeded very carefully. Finally, the cap was off without incident or injury, and Joe breathed a sigh of relief. The Immortal peered inside with the flashlight, then gestured to Joe to join him. By the time Joe made it to the other chair, Methos had spread the contents of the tube over the table.

A rolled sheaf of papers, more cash, a key, a plastic canister of film, and a ring. Joe spread the papers out. He stared in dismay. Six black and white photographs, taken with a long lens and then enlarged. Of Duncan MacLeod. One included Methos in the shot, taken outside the Hotel Versailles. It was disturbing enough to see the surveillance photos of an obviously unaware MacLeod. It could as easily have been a rifle as a camera that took these shots. If Mac was a mortal, it would have been. But, the sniper had marked up the photos with a red pen. The scrawled obscenities were nasty. But in each of the photographs, thick red lines slashed across Mac's neck. Joe exchanged a look with Methos. Mac hadn't even known the sniper, yet hatred oozed from these photos like a living thing.

"Did I happen to mention how glad I am that you took this guy out?" Joe said quietly.

Methos grunted in assent. The photograph of Methos and MacLeod had a large red question mark next to the older Immortal's face. He turned it over. There were notes scrawled in the same red ink, in French. Methos squinted at the cramped handwriting, then read aloud. "'Adam Pierson. Kept by MacLeod. Student? Lover?'"

Joe harrumphed at that last speculation. "He wasn't sure you were Immortal."

"He never got close enough." Neither he nor Mac had felt an Immortal Presence, other than each other, while they were in Paris this Spring. This creep had taken extraordinary care that they hadn't.

Methos examined the key and then passed it to Joe. It looked like a safe deposit box key. Joe pocketed it for the Forensics team. Methos was intently examining the ring. It was heavy silver, with an intricate design on it. He handed it to Joe without comment. Joe put on his reading glasses and studied it carefully. No inscription inside the band. No maker's mark. He didn't recognize the design on the front. It was highly stylized. It looked somewhat like a tree, or maybe a cross, or a snake? While the silver was polished and there was no trace of tarnish, something said "old" to Joe. He set it down and looked at his companion. Methos had that inward look of intense concentration. Joe waited for him to speak.

Finally, Methos smiled grimly. He picked up the ring again, and looked over to Joe. "The End of Time."

Those were the mysterious words uttered by the sniper just before Methos took his head. "You know what it means?" Joe asked.

Methos nodded. "One of the Millennium cults. I haven't seen this symbol since the last the-end-is-near hysteria a thousand years ago. As I recall, it had a pretty good following in Europe back then."

Joe didn't say anything. He looked back at the photographs, a sick feeling in his stomach. This guy had stalked MacLeod, and no one, not Methos or Mac or the Watchers had had a clue. An Immortal that had somehow managed to slip under the Watcher radar. This was not good. A new thought occurred to him.

"How would he know about Mac?" Joe mused.

Methos looked at him in surprise. "A lot of Immortals want the head of Duncan MacLeod. Word spreads fast. Especially after Kell. That much power is very tempting." He frowned. "And the Boy Scout doesn't make it hard for them to find him. You know that, Joe."

"That's not what I mean." Joe licked his lips. "Methos ... don't you find it a bit of a coincidence that this guy was connected with a Millennium cult, and just happened to be stalking Duncan MacLeod, the freakin' Millennium Champion? How would he know that?"

"Joe ..." Methos hesitated.

"Yeah, yeah. I know you don't believe in the devil." Joe tapped a finger on the pile of pictures. "But I think this asshole did. How would he know?"

"How did Jason Landry 'know', Joe?" Methos' tone was exquisitely dry. "Landry was obsessed. He spent ten years searching for his mystery Champion before casting Mac in the part. The man dabbled in the occult. He had dealings in the antiquities black market. On the Internet. How many sick people do you think he might have told? How many dark and shadowy places might he have played the ersatz John the Baptist, proclaiming that one Duncan MacLeod, currently living on a barge on the Seine near the Quai de la Tournelle, is the Chosen One?"

Joe sat back, aghast.

Methos patted him on the arm. "The good news is that the Millennium ended three years ago. Or four if you count 2000 as the turning point. These cults spring up before the calendar changes and fade away again when the world doesn't actually end." He looked once more around the room. "There's nothing else. Let's get out of here, Joe."

They gathered up the photographs and returned them to the tube. Methos pocketed the ring and the cash. At Joe's look, he narrowed his eyes. "Hey, this guy owes me for the clothes and coat I had to throw away, not to mention the aggravation."

Joe had no counter to that. He took the tube, and put the roll of film into his pocket with the key. Out in the hall, he locked the padlock, and tugged on it, hard. Back in the car, Joe turned to his companion.

"What's the bad news?"

"What?"

"Upstairs, you told me the good news is that these cults usually fade into the sunset. So, what's the bad news?"

"Oh." Methos stated the obvious. "It takes at least two people to constitute a cult." He silently watched Joe absorb the implications. Then the Watcher, with a grim look, put the car in gear and sped out of the alley.

CHAPTER TEN

Amanda screamed and flailed desperately to escape her fate. But there was no escape. Her Immortal opponent was just too strong and had her at a disadvantage. She managed to take one last gulp of air before her head disappeared beneath the surface. A ripple on the water was the only thing that remained to mark her presence. Then, it too vanished in the sudden stillness.

Several feet away, she popped up in the arms of Duncan MacLeod as he spun her round and round, laughing, in the waist-deep water of the sun-dappled lake.

"Lemme go, MacLeod!" Amanda struggled to get free.

"You really want me to let you go?" He hugged her tightly to his bare chest.

"Yes!" she yelled.

"Ok, then." He spun around fast, then tossed her as high and as far as he could throw her.

"MacL - !" She shrieked before sinking like a stone. She came up, launching a splash attack, which ended in his surrender. They emerged from the lake, giggling, and collapsed on the blanket spread out on the shore.

Duncan grinned and propped himself on his elbows, the afternoon sun warm on his naked body. He enjoyed the view as Amanda, equally nude, toweled herself. She ran her fingers through her short, dark hair.

"I'm going for a drink. What do you want, beer or wine?" She stood, hands on hips, completely unselfconscious.

"Beer. Bring the pretzels too, Manda."

Amanda walked the short distance up the hill to the cabin in the trees. Mac closed his eyes and lay back. Now that the humans had settled down, the local residents gradually resumed their activities. He listened to the chatter of a couple of squirrels in the trees behind him. The buzzing of the insects in the low grass. The distant quacking of a mother duck to her ducklings. The steady lapping of the lake at the shore.

They had arrived last night, paddling the canoe across the lake to reach the island in the darkening twilight. The weather forecast for the Fourth of July had been favorable - hot and sunny. To Mac's surprise, Amanda had been receptive to his suggestion that they spend the weekend at the cabin. A getaway to a remote log cabin, with the minimum of modern conveniences, was not what one associated with the Amazing Amanda. Her usual idea of fun included loud music, lots of people, and exclusive little shops. Actually, they had to make a brief shopping excursion to outfit her for the weekend. The extensive wardrobe she had brought with her from Vegas had not included the tight T-shirt and jeans she wore yesterday. Riding in the T-bird, with the top down, along winding mountain roads, Mac had thought that outfit one of the sexiest he had ever seen her wear.

He gasped in shock at the sudden application of a cold bottle to his belly, and jackknifed to a sitting position. Amanda, looking innocent, handed him the beer and the bag of pretzels. She sat, cross-legged, on the blanket beside him, sipping her own bottle. They drank beer and munched pretzels and watched the family of ducks paddle by. She shaded her eyes and peered out across the water.

Amanda sighed in contentment. "It's really beautiful, MacLeod."

"I know," Mac agreed. "I never get tired of coming here." He lay back on the blanket, arms pillowing his head. MacLeod had been proud as a peacock at Amanda's admiration of the cabin he had built himself. What had begun as a rough one-room shelter had been refurbished over and over again in the past hundred and twenty years. The latest amenities had been the indoor plumbing, generator, and solar panels he'd installed when Tessa began to come here. Despite the embellishments, though, it was remarkably like stepping back in time. It was his special place.

Amanda lay down beside him, propping her head on one hand, while resting her other hand on his chest. The lake water had been chilly, but the sun had warmed his flesh. "And it's Holy Ground. You can really relax here." She whispered in his ear.

No response.

She nuzzled his neck. "I said, you can really relax here."

"Um-hmmm." The sun, the beer and the sound of lapping water were having a soporific effect on MacLeod.

"Duncan, I'm talking about desecrating Holy Ground here!" Amanda said, exasperated.

That woke him up. Mac rolled on to his side and pulled her to him for a long lingering kiss. His voice was husky. "Holy Ground just happens to be one of my turn-ons, Amanda. Just ask Methos." He frowned. That hadn't come out quite right.

"Oh? Is there something you want to tell me, MacLeod?" she asked, archly.

He could feel the heat rising in his face. Rather than sputter out an explanation, Mac went on the offensive. "You bet there is! Since when did you start telling Methos details about my sex life?"

"I never ...!" she began hotly.

"The blue ribbon?" he accused.

"Oh, that." Amanda fluttered a hand. "That doesn't count. Nobody had any sex."

"Ralphie's grave?" he continued.

"Now, Duncan, that wasn't my fault!" she protested. "He made me tell!"

Mac was indignant. "And how exactly did Methos force you to tell him how I lost my virginity?"

"He got me drunk, and then ..." She stopped.

"And then what?"

"He, ... uh, asked me."

"What else have you told him?"

"Nothing, I swear."

"Huh!" he scoffed.

"I mean, I didn't tell him how much you like this ..."

"Now, Amanda, we're having a serious disc-..."

"Or that you like this."

"A - maanndda ..."

"Or how you really love this."

"Mmmmffphh."

And that was the end of the serious discussion. The squirrels looked down, chattering with laughter at the spectacle.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Methos padded out of the bathroom, wearing Joe's terry robe, running a towel quickly across his head. Toilette and coiffure completed, he made for the kitchenette and microwaved a cup of the coffee Joe had brewed before he left this morning. These were some of the things Methos particularly liked about this era - limitless hot water, easy coffee and the effortlessness of male grooming. He had particularly loathed the powdered wig decades in Europe.

Methos sat at the counter, content, sipping his coffee and reading the newspaper. He had fallen asleep early on Joe's couch, while the bluesman had played his guitar. If Joe and his guitar had been with Methos at St. Crispin's, he'd have slept like a babe. It had been a long time since anyone had sung Methos to sleep. He squinted in thought. One of his wives. He could almost hear the lullaby in her sweet, high voice. Which one was it? Judith! Judith, his fortieth wife. Not the easiest of women to get along with. But possessed of the voice of an angel.

Joe didn't seem to mind Methos bunking with him for a little while. After their excursion to the sniper's apartment, the Immortal had cancelled his flight this morning. The sniper and this Millennium cult business had captured the old man's interest. He told himself it was sensible, prudent even, to follow up on the sniper's possible connections to a doomsday cult for the sake of his own survival. After all, the dead man had tried to take Methos down too, when he attacked MacLeod. And it was sensible and prudent, though probably academic. There was nothing to indicate that the Immortal sniper was not acting alone. His apartment had been undisturbed until the Watchers found it nearly three weeks after his death. But, Methos had learned to go with the flow when something piqued his interest this strongly. He had lived far too many years bored stiff to let go of this little mystery so soon. That same feeling had propelled him up the Similaun Peak in the Austrian Alps, searching for the hidden cave writings with MacLeod a few months ago.

Let the Watchers tackle the forensics and the police procedural stuff. That's what they excelled at. Methos would approach the mystery scholastically. He had vague memories of the End of Time cult a thousand years ago. He would use the vast resources of the University of Paris to follow it up further. As a distinguished alum, Adam Pierson had the nearly unrestricted access to the University library that he wouldn't have elsewhere.

He wondered again where Joe had gone. The Watcher had departed quietly, early this morning. Methos had subliminally registered the sound of the bath. Joe had left a cryptic note affixed to the refrigerator under a little plastic magnet in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. It read:

"S.D.B. with L."

Methos had been idly puzzling its meaning since he'd found it. Was Joe into riddles? There was a form of riddle that it resembled. "88k on a p" means eighty eight keys on a piano. "8 s on a ss" means eight sides on a stop sign. "S.D.B. with L." Hmmm. "Sailing downstream, blitzed, with Larry"? Probably not. "Seeing David Bowie with Louise."? Nah. "Singin' da blues with Laura." was more promising. Maybe it was like a personal ad "Single, debonair bluesman with lust"? Methos gave up. He was better with ancient cipher codes etched on dank cave walls.

Someone knocked on the door. A mortal. Methos cinched the belt of the robe tighter, and opened it. Amy Thomas stood on the threshold, dressed casually in jeans and a Tshirt, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder.

She looked amused. "Adam, we've got to stop meeting like this, or ... ."

"... people will talk." He ushered her in. "If you insist on visiting my hotel at ungodly hours, Amy, then you risk catching me in a state of undress."

"It's one in the afternoon. And this is Joe's hotel."

He looked at her. "Your point?"

"Never mind." She sat at the counter. "Is Joe here?"

"No, he's Sliding Down Banisters with Lucy."

"Pardon me?"

"I can't figure it out either. Coffee?"

Amy shook her head, puzzled, then nodded. Methos correctly interpreted this and poured her a cup of the fragrant hazelnut blend.

"I thought you'd left Paris?" Amy asked.

"I did. I'm back."

"Obviously. Staying long?"

"I doubt it." He sat next to her. "I've got another, rather unexpected, research project. Need to use the library again."

"Oh, for that televangelist that you did the hidden cave work for?" She scowled slightly in mild disapproval.

"In a way." Methos said, mysteriously. He'd forgotten how Amy had come to believe that the benefactor of his last project was an unsavory religious fraud, but it amused him that MacLeod was so maligned, even if anonymously.

Joe had filled him in on recent developments last night. Methos had been thrilled by Amanda's revelation that the old sword of the hermit had once belonged to Rebecca, and Lilith before her. In the same way that younger Immortals were in awe of Methos, the legendary survivor with five thousand years of living under his belt, Methos was, in turn, in awe of Lilith. Stories about Lilith told around innumerable camp fires comprised some of his earliest coherent memories. Joe had also told him about Amy's work with the old Greek Chronicle, and how he hoped Timothy of Corinth might make an appearance. "How's the translation of the Rebecca Chronicle going?"

Amy's face lit up at his query. "Very well. It's been a little slow. The old Greek has taking a little getting used to." She refilled her coffee cup. "Her life was so fascinating, Adam."

Methos smiled fondly at the young woman. Rebecca had been one of the finest of his race, cut from the same cloth as Duncan MacLeod. It warmed him that young Amy appreciated the Immortal woman just from reading her Chronicles. He idly wondered if the Methos Chronicles would ever inspire anyone. Probably just the parts he made up. No, unlike him, Rebecca had been a great teacher all her long life. He was reminded of something MacLeod had said once, at Joe's, long after the bar had closed on one of those proverbial dark and stormy nights. Mac had peered morosely into his glass of smoky Scotch, before speaking. "We should be the world's teachers, Methos. Instead, we hide in the shadows, killing each other." It was one of the many sad aspects of their Immortality, they had agreed.

Methos shook off his reverie, and focused on the lovely woman sitting next to him. "How far are you?" he asked with genuine interest.

"On the road to Corinth." She chuckled. "Sounds like an old movie." She pulled the leather book out of her bag. It bristled with colorful Post-it tabs. "About halfway through."

Methos looked at the odd double circle tooled in to the leather cover. Joe had asked, but he had never seen any Watcher Chronicles so marked. "If you need any help ..."

Amy shook her head slightly. "No, thank you, Adam. This one is my baby."

Her fellow scholar nodded in complete understanding. There were times when he had buried himself for years in some arcane research for the sheer pleasure of it. We are uber-geeks, indeed.

"How's your summer class?" Methos inquired politely.

"Winding down. Finals are next week." Amy smiled mischievously. "Martin's giving extra credit to the students who are scanning your cave writings into his computer."

Methos reacted with a derisive snort. "The feeb. He'll never solve it that way."

Amy patted his arm. He was so predictable. "Now, Adam, just because you couldn't do it, doesn't mean Martin won't be able to. He is, after all, the youngest Department head in the history of the University of Paris." Pushing Adam's buttons about Martin Guerre, and vice versa, was rapidly becoming Amy's favorite pastime.

Methos launched into a rant about Guerre's shortcomings for a few minutes, then stopped mid-sentence. He looked suspiciously at Amy. "You're too young to do that."

"Do what, Adam?" she asked, innocently.

"Manipulate me."

She broke into a broad grin. "But it's so much fun!"

Methos harrumphed. He had nearly explained the key to the cypher, before he had come to his senses. That would have spoiled all his fun. He narrowed his eyes at her. How and when had this child gotten so far under his skin?

Amy's blue eyes twinkled. "Well, I just stopped in to drop off the latest translation." She pulled a disk out of her bag. "Would you give this to Joe, please?"

Methos eyed it hungrily before taking it. "Amy, would you mind if I ...?"

"No, of course not, Adam." She rinsed her coffee cup in the sink. "Enjoy."

"Thanks." He set the disk on the counter. "I might run into you on campus."

"I hope so." Amy picked her bag off the floor and slung it over her shoulder. "Tell Joe I'll call him tomorrow?"

Methos nodded. He saw her out, then pounced on the disk. He turned on Joe's laptop. His fingers drummed a rhythm on the countertop while it booted up. He willed himself to be patient.

His inner voice spoke up. *Curiosity killed the cat.*

He replied aloud as his fingers flew over the keyboard. "But satisfaction brought him back. Over and over and over again."

CHAPTER TWELVE

The bank manager peered up at Joe Dawson and the distinguished-looking man in the dark suit standing beside him. Joe tried to look confidently casual, or was it casually confident? He felt a trickle of sweat slide slowly down his back, between the shoulder blades. Fortunately, the woman returned her attention to the legal documents spread out on the desktop in front of her.

"Well, M'sieur LeFavre, everything appears to be in order. Come with me, please, gentlemen." She led them through the bank lobby to an elevator at the rear.

Joe exchanged a look with his companion. Jacques LeFavre winked at him. Joe admired his cool. The lawyer cum Watcher had just snookered the Premiere Banque de Paris.

They descended three levels. The bank manager conducted them to the safe deposit vault, and unlocked the steel cage. She presented the registry sheet to LeFavre for his signature. Jacques made a production of finding his pen, giving Joe the chance to note the entries on the sheet. The box had been hired on May 31st. The sniper had entered the vault four times since. Joe noted the dates. The last entry was two days before the attack on MacLeod and Methos. Jacques signed his name as agent under Power of Attorney for Gregor Havel with a flourish. He handed the woman a key. Using her own key, she unlocked a vault at eye level and extracted a narrow metal box. She took them to a little room to the side, set the box on the table, and excused herself, shutting the door behind her. Joe slid the privacy lock into place.

"Whew!" Joe said, dramatically wiping his brow.

"You worry too much, Joseph." LeFavre raised the lid of the safe deposit box. Together, they laid the contents out on the table. More cash, lots of it, in several European currencies. Another handgun. Another passport, this one Rumanian. Joe opened it - the sniper's photo, but yet another name. Laszlo Tudor.

While Jacques counted the money, Joe examined a small leather case. He pressed the clasp. It opened like a clamshell to reveal a picture frame. On one side, under glass, was a lock of dark hair and a pressed rose, faded to a dusky color. Opposite was a color photograph of a man and a woman, also under glass. The man - their sniper - was in a military uniform. Joe didn't recognize the service. The Immortal stood behind the woman, who was seated in a chair. She was very pretty, clad in a simple flowered print dress. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders in luxuriant waves, swept up on the right side by an old fashioned comb. Joe squinted. The man's hand was caressing her hair at her shoulder. Joe thought it a pretty good bet that the lock of hair had belonged to her. He pulled the photo carefully out of the frame, and turned it over. There was some writing, in what looked to Joe as a feminine hand:

"Magda & Vadem, 9/08/85"

Joe's heart beat faster. "Jacques, look at this."

Jacques stopped his counting, and studied the photo. He nodded significantly. "That's his real name, Joe. I would bet on it."

"No bet." Joe agreed. The sniper, Vadem, had been extremely cautious about any personal identifiers. Till now, the Watchers had found nothing but aliases. Joe wondered what the dark-haired woman, Magda, was to him.

Jacques spoke. "That's everything in the box. What do you want to do, Joseph?"

"Take it all."

Jacques nodded. He put the cash, gun, and passport in the briefcase. He reached for the leather case. Joe picked it up. "I'll keep this on me, Jacques."

LeFavre nodded, then used the telephone on the table to advise they were finished. The bank manager returned the now empty box to its slot, and escorted them out.

They parted on the sidewalk. LeFavre gave the briefcase to Joe for delivery to Forensics in Lyon. Joe sat in his car for a while, looking at the photo and keepsakes, before driving to his hotel.

Joe looked at his watch as he rode the little wrought iron elevator to the second floor of the small pension. It was nearly four. He could be in Lyon in a few hours. He opened the door to his suite. Methos sat on a stool at the counter, hunched over Joe's laptop computer, several empty beer bottles next to him.

Joe was annoyed. If Methos was hacking into the Watcher database again, he just forfeited his sleeping privileges on Joe's couch. He shut the door and walked into the kitchenette. He set the briefcase on the counter with a bang. He tossed the empty bottles in the trash.

"Hi, Joe." Methos noted the scowl on Joe's face. "No, I am not hacking into the Watcher system." He bent over the screen again.

"That thought never crossed my mind, Methos." Joe said innocently. "What are you doing?"

"Reading Rebecca's Chronicle." He looked up from the screen again. "Amy dropped off her latest translation. She'll call you tomorrow."

Joe nodded and opened the refrigerator. He automatically retrieved two beers, popped the caps off, and plopped one down next to Methos. Joe took a long swallow. It tasted great. It was a warm day. He tossed his suit jacket over the back of the sofa, took off his tie, and opened the collar of his shirt.

Methos eyed him. "So, how was Sharing Dark Beer with Lana?"

"Huh?"

"Or was it Slimming Down Butt with Lars?"

"You've finally gone senile, old man." Joe gulped beer. "What are you going on about?"

Methos gestured to the refrigerator with his head. "Your note."

"Oh." Joe grinned. "Safe Deposit Box with Lawyer."

"D'oh!" Methos slapped a hand to his forehead. Then he sobered. "Find anything?"

Joe nodded. He told Methos how Jacques' legal artifice had gained them entry to the vault, and what they had found. He retrieved the leather case from his jacket pocket and showed it to Methos. "Anyone you know?" He sat down on the couch.

Methos removed the photo and the keepsakes from the case. He looked at the photo, front and back. Then, he looked up at Joe. "Obviously, this is our man. Don't know the woman." He drank more beer. "I have seen the uniform before, though."

Joe leaned forward eagerly. "I didn't recognize it."

"It's Securitate." Methos said grimly.

Joe looked blank.

"Rumanian security police under Ceausescu."

Joe leaned back into the sofa cushions. "The dictator?" Joe stroked his beard, thoughtfully. "He was ousted in what? 1988?"

"'89."

"Ceausescu was in power a long time, wasn't he?"

Methos nodded. "Twenty two years. Nasty bloke."

"Tell me about it." Joe said.

Methos slipped easily into Adam Pierson's lecture voice. "Most of the Communist regimes toppled peacefully with the breakup of the Soviet Union. Not Rumania. Nicolae Ceausescu wouldn't let go of his power." He rose and stretched. "In December of 1989, a small group of demonstrators were attacked by the army and the Securitate. That ignited a short, but bloody, civil war. The turning point occurred in Bucharest, when Securitate forces fired on civilians. The Army had had enough. It turned on the security police and armed the civilian population. Within two weeks, it was over." He flopped down in the easy chair opposite Joe. "Tens of thousands of people were dead, including Ceausescu and his wife. They were tried and executed by a secret Army tribunal on Christmas Day. Most of the Securitate were dead too, or fled the country."

"I remember reading about the orphanages." Joe said, sadly.

"Yes. Ceausescu's mad overpopulation plan. The orphanages were filled to overflowing. The children warehoused like livestock. Or worse."

Joe was silent for a while. "How'd you recognize the uniform?"

Methos concentrated on peeling the label from his beer bottle in long strips. "Caspian was one of them."

Joe gaped at him. Caspian was the final member of the Horsemen to reunite back in 1996, when Kronos, Methos and Silas had sprung him from an asylum for the criminally insane in Bucharest. And the first of them to die. LIFO, Joe thought nonsensically, Last In, First Out.

Methos noted his surprise. "Check his Chronicle, Joe. 'Evan Casparri' was one of their officers. Until even the Securitate couldn't stomach him." He grimaced. "No pun intended. Caspian was arrested and thrown into that god-awful asylum by the very people he worked for. In 1983, I believe." He swallowed beer. "Probably the only good thing the Securitate ever did for the people of Rumania."

Joe was thinking furiously. "You don't think Caspian and this Vadem had any connection?"

Methos shook his head. "I don't know, Joe. But I doubt it. The Watchers have a complete record on Caspian's time in Rumania. Believe me, I'm very familiar with it. There's no report of even one Immortal battle during that time. Caspian sought out that regime so he could kill with impunity. Hell, he got paid for it." Methos frowned in distaste at the memory of the man he once called brother. "Caspian wasn't interested in the Game, Joe. But he was good with a sword. If Vadem was Immortal then, and Caspian met him, Vadem would be dead."

"Not necessarily." Joe said. "Maybe Vadem was his student."

"Caspian didn't take on students." Methos said, flatly. "He ate them."

Joe shuddered involuntarily. "I don't know, Methos. This guy Vadem hated MacLeod. You can see it with the surveillance photographs. It was personal. Like he was taking revenge. It could have been for a teacher."

Methos shrugged. "You could be right. But I doubt it. Caspian didn't inspire that kind of loyalty." Not even among his brothers. Only Kronos would have avenged Caspian, and more for the destruction of the Four Horseman as a concept, than for the individual death. Methos looked at the picture again.

"Maybe we're concentrating on the wrong party, here." he said, thoughtfully.

Joe looked a question at him.

"Beautiful woman. Vadem obviously loved her." Methos paused.

"I don't follow you."

Methos put the back of his hand to his forehead, and intoned dramatically. "'O, beware, my lord, of jealousy. It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.'"

"You mean Mac? And Magda?" Joe's wheels were turning. "Mac wasn't in Rumania during Ceausescu's time." He stroked his beard. "Doesn't mean they couldn't have met elsewhere, though." He got a faraway look on his face, mentally reviewing MacLeod's Chronicle. Assuming Magda was mortal, she looked to be in her mid-to- late-twenties in the photograph. He reviewed Mac's life in the seventies and eighties. Make that the seventies. Mac had met Tessa Noel in 1980. There was no other woman for him after that. "I'm going in to the office. I'll email this photo to Mac. See if he knew Magda. Also, see what Forensics can dig up on a Securitate officer named Vadem, circa 1987. I'll be back pretty late." He stood up. He realized he wasn't being a very gracious host. "Uh, what were you ... I mean, do you have plans for tonight?"

Methos was amused. "Joe, you don't have to play cruise director. I'm heading over to the University library. See what I can dig up about the End of Timers."

Joe changed out of the business suit into jeans and a cotton shirt. They left the suite together. As Joe headed for his car, Methos spoke. "Let Mac know I'm here, will you?"

Joe nodded, a bit surprised. "Sure. I'll tell him what you're working on if you'd like."

Methos nodded. "And tell him if I had to sit in a stinking dumpster all night with him bleeding all over me, because he couldn't keep it zipped ... he owes me. Big time."

Joe laughed all the way to the car. Methos watched him get in, then walked the rest of the way to the campus of the University of Paris.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MacLeod engaged the decryption program while he tidied the great room. Joe Dawson's encrypted email used the custom program that Methos had designed for just the three of them. Mac added another shoe that he found under the couch to the collection of Amanda's gathered in the laundry basket. What was it about women and shoes? If he lived to be a thousand, he'd never understand it He dusted the furniture and ran the vacuum cleaner. When he turned the noisy thing off, he heard the computer beeping. The decryption was completed.

Mac scanned the missive quickly. He was surprised that Adam Pierson was back in Paris, camped out on Joe's couch indefinitely. He'd thought the old man was going to stay the summer at the Abbey. Joe wrote that Adam had linked the sniper who called himself the End of Time with a cult by that name that was active a thousand years ago. The old man would delve into its history, using the University's resources. Joe's report on the sniper's apartment and safe deposit box and what had been found there was succinct. It ended with "Watch your back, MacLeod. Assuming Amanda ever lets you out of bed."

Very funny, Joe. He opened the attachments. MacLeod studied the picture of the mysterious Magda for several minutes. He didn't know the beautiful woman. Then, he scrolled through the disturbing surveillance photographs with increasing dismay. One picture really was worth a thousand words. A half-dozen left him speechless. He sat at the big desk, staring at the computer screen. Who was this bastard? And what did I ever do to him?

MacLeod had no memory of being shot by the sniper who called himself The End of Time. The last thing he remembered of that night was walking from the restaurant with Methos, after seeing Joe and Amy off in a cab. Two days later, Mac had awakened in Joe's hotel suite, completely unaware of how he had come there and what had happened to him. As a result, the Immortal sniper wasn't quite ... real.

That was a dangerous way to think. Whether he remembered it or not, it had happened. Joe had previously shown him a gruesome photograph of the decapitated head. Mac had studied it for a long time, searching for any glimmer of recognition. Nada. Yet, judging from these surveillance photographs, the dead man had hated MacLeod with a passion. Had this Vadem had a grievance MacLeod didn't know about, like Stephen Keane? Or was he just another hungry Immortal looking for a powerful Quickening?

MacLeod had a sinking feeling that it wasn't that simple. He knew a little about Millennial cults. Most were apocalyptic hand-wringers, preaching repentance before the end of the world. Or grim survivalists, preparing to face the end of life as we know it. But he knew that some people welcomed Armageddon, fanatics choosing up sides with either Good or Evil. Fanaticism scared him. It should scare any sane man. Too many evil things were done in the name of someone's god or cause. And devil worship was an old, old phenomenon.

Unfortunately, MacLeod understood all too well the attraction that Evil had. The Dark Quickening had taught him much that he wished he had never learned. About human nature. About himself. He shook his head, annoyed. Without that knowledge, that personal understanding of the Darkness and Light inside himself, MacLeod would never have defeated Ahriman. Learn from what happens to you. Don't wish it away.

Mac sent a reply, urging his friends to be careful, emphasizing in bold capital letters that he had no acquaintance with the mysterious Magda, intimate or otherwise. He downloaded Joe's message and attachments to a disk and put it in the safe. He deliberately cleared his mind. He'd leave that mystery in the capable hands of Methos and Joe for a while. Mac had another puzzle to disentangle.

Lilith.

Operating on the premise that the mythical Lilith was based on an ancient Immortal woman of the same name, MacLeod was reading everything he could find on her legend. The references were confusing, contradictory and conflicting. And fascinating.

He felt Amanda's Presence a moment before she burst in the kitchen door. She flounced into the great room, laden with packages. Grinning, she dropped them on the couch, and flopped down herself. "I just hit the best shoe sale, MacLeod!"

MacLeod looked at her, in fond amusement. Amanda's shopping expeditions were legendary. She approached a shop with the intensity of a big game hunter stalking elusive prey. She positively glowed with the thrill of the hunt. She patted the sofa cushion beside her meaningfully, her dark eyes sparkling. Mac sighed. He had an appointment. He had to promise that she could model all her new shoes for him tonight before he could extricate himself.

Traffic was heavy and campus parking non-existent at the University of Washington. Some sort of sporting event was underway. In desperation, MacLeod parked in the faculty lot, hoping that his own University's sticker might pass muster here. MacLeod had to ask directions twice before he found Ellis Dantes' office in the labyrinthine stone building that housed the Humanities Department. He was a few minutes late. Dantes' office was open, but unoccupied. Mac took a seat on the only chair not piled high with books, taking advantage of the solitude to peruse the contents of the office. Amid the eclectic artwork decorating the walls, diplomas conferring multiple degrees in Religious Studies and Philosophy to Ellis E. Dantes were displayed. A framed picture of Shandra and Ellis on their wedding day stood on the table behind the big desk, nearly hidden by a pile of books.

Books were everywhere. In the ceiling-high bookcases. Stacked on the floor and the other chair. Teetering in piles on the edge of the desk. The only surface not so laden was a glass-fronted barrister case under the window. Curious, Duncan rose and walked to it. Ah, here were some of Ellis' treasures. Mac had helped Dantes acquire the Great Expectations. There was also an English first edition of The Count of Monte Cristo. Poe's Bells, illustrated by Dulac. Particularly fine was the Strand Magazine containing the first installment of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Duncan was instantly transported back to Victorian London. He had stood in line all day in the rain, waiting for that issue to come off the presses. Harry Potter had nothing on the Sherlock Holmes mania of the 1890s. He admired the rest of the volumes, then straightened, hands on hips. Dantes had a handsome collection, nicely displayed.

"Duncan! So sorry I'm late." Ellis Dantes entered his office, bearing another stack of books in his arm. He added them to the tottering pile on the chair and extended his hand to MacLeod. "How are you?"

"Good. And you?"

"Bummed. I missed out on another Sonnets from the Portuguese on Ebay today. A bit outside of my budget." he said, sarcastically.

Duncan was interested. "What was the high bid?"

"Ten thousand."

Mac whistled at the exorbitant price. The rare book market had seen significant changes in recent years. Online auctions and a collecting craze among celebrities and dotcom entrepreneurs had increased interest and prices in the rare book market. The dotcommers had gone bust, but the infusion of their easy money into the book world, and the surge in popularity of the so-called "modern firsts", had caused an inflationary spiral. For the life of him, MacLeod couldn't understand why anyone would pay $25,000 for the first edition of the first Harry Potter book. Methos boasted he had twenty of them, signed by the author, stashed in an offshore bank as a hedge against the proverbial rainy day.

"Ditto." Dantes agreed. "I wanted it for Shandra. You know, the traditional gift for our anniversary."

Duncan nodded. "Paper for the first. Has it been a year already?"

"It will be. On the twenty-eighth. Best year of my life." He grinned. "You should try it, Duncan."

Duncan put a hand to his heart. "Et tu, Ellis?" he said, sadly.

"What?" Dantes said, innocently.

"Shandra DeVane's Matchmaking Service is bad enough as a one-woman shop. Don't you start."

Dantes held up his hands. "I'm done." His eyes twinkled. "Still, Shandra's sister's husband's cousin is here for a visit and ...." He stopped before MacLeod could protest. "Just kidding. Besides, Neelu's probably a little too lively for you." At Duncan's quizzical look, he continued "You know, a fellow your age needs his naps to keep his strength up."

"Delacroix has a big mouth." Mac said, resignedly.

"Yes. Yes, he does. He needs it to accommodate the size of his feet." Dantes leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Now, what can I help you with, Duncan?"

"I was wondering what you could tell me about Lilith."

"I take it you don't mean Lilith Morganstern in our Philosophy Department?"

"No." MacLeod smiled. "The other Lilith."

Dantes sat back in his chair and stroked his beard before continuing. "Well, do you want to know about the ancient Lilith, the modern Lilith, the artistic Lilith, the Cabalistic Lilith, the folkloric Lilith, the Biblical Lilith, the Talmudic Lilith, or all of the above?

"How about the historical Lilith?"

"Ain't no such person. Lilith is a mythological figure, going back millennia." He made a face. "She was a she-demon, a child-killer and soul-stealer. Or an empowering goddess/Earth mother, who, in refusing to submit to the domination of man, is a role model for contemporary women. Depending upon who's doing the talking."

"Yeah, I noticed that." Duncan said, drily.

"We have a Lilith club here on campus. Although they borrow more from Wiccan and Druidic practices than the actual Lilith mythology itself." He looked thoughtful. "Well, let's start at the very beginning. The earliest documented reference to Lilith goes back to the Gilgamesh Fragment."

Duncan was intrigued. "What's that?"

"A piece of a Sumerian terra cotta tablet, found in Ur." He looked at Duncan. "You're familiar with the legend of Gilgamesh?"

Duncan nodded. "I've read the poem." It was Darius who had introduced him to it. The epic poem, the earliest known work of Western literature, was found in the seventh century B.C. in the ruins of the library of Ashurbanipal in the city of Ninevah. Remarkably preserved clay tablets written in cuneiform were dated to 2000 B.C. They told the story of Gilgamesh, the warrior-king, thought to have lived a thousand years before. Favored by some gods and cursed by others, Gilgamesh fought many epic battles against both natural and supernatural forces. When he spurned the advances of one particularly vengeful goddess, the gods punished his friend, Enkidu, in Gilgamesh's stead. After Enkidu's death, Gilgamesh set out on a great Quest to find the secret of Immortality. The Epic of Gilgamesh, despite its antiquity, was a stirring adventure tale that still resonated with modern readers as it wrestled with the universal themes of life and death, love and loss, friendship and sacrifice.

Dantes looked thoughtful. "Unlike Lilith, Gilgamesh was an actual historical figure. A very powerful king of Uruk, one of the ancient city-states of Babylonia. Kings of Babylon were granted god-like attributes after their deaths and entered into the pantheon."

Duncan wondered. Though he couldn't tell Dantes, Lilith was a real woman, albeit an Immortal woman. Could Gilgamesh have also been an Immortal? It would explain some of the hero's miraculous feats of derring-do. MacLeod was suddenly reminded of Richie. The curious teenager had plagued Mac with endless questions. Was Elvis an Immortal? How about Dick Clark? And Amelia Earhart? Or Jim Morrison? And every other famous person who looked well-preserved or had died or disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

Dantes continued. "Anyway, the Gilgamesh fragment contains a part of that epic poem. I have a picture of it here somewhere." Dantes consulted a book from the shelf behind his head. He riffled pages. "It's a bas relief of a woman with the feet of an owl standing on the backs of a pair of lions. Owls were a sacred symbol to the Sumerians. She holds an ankh in each hand." He handed the open book to Duncan.

Duncan murmured, half to himself. "The ankh is the Egyptian symbol of Immortality." He studied the picture. The fragment was a remarkable piece of art. The image was beautifully rendered, clean lines, subtly balanced.

"Yes. In the poem, Gilgamesh comes to a great willow tree by the banks of the Euphrates, where a dragon has built its nest at the base of the tree, a great bird has its nest in the top of the tree, and a demoness ..."

"Lilith?"

"Yes, she dwells in the trunk of the tree. Gilgamesh, with his great shield and his mighty bronze axe, slays the dragon. The bird flies away. The demoness flees in fear."

Mac traced the outline of the figure on the page with his finger. "How old is the fragment?"

"Old. It's been dated to 2000 BC."

Four thousand years ago, and Lilith was already a legend. Duncan shook his head. How old had Rebecca's teacher been when she died? He closed the book and handed it over the desk to Dantes.

"Why don't you keep that for awhile, Duncan? And here ..." Dantes stood and retrieved a book from the bookcase on the other side of the window. He took two more from a stack on the floor. While he searched the shelves behind the door, he talked, glancing over his shoulder at Mac. "Now, the Talmudic and Cabalistic Lilith is where she gets interesting. I'll give you the condensed, PG-13 version. The story goes that God created Adam and Lilith, man and woman, from the dust of the earth. They were equals, but compliments, of each other. Lilith refused to submit to Adam's will, ... uh, sexually ... and otherwise. Adam complained to God, who cursed Lilith and created a new wife for Adam using one of his ribs. Thus, Eve was a part of Adam, and must bend to his will. As all women must." He shrugged in amusement.

"Have you explained that to Shandra?" Mac said, eyes twinkling.

"No, I'm too fond of breathing." Dantes replied, with a grin. "Now supposedly, Lilith had parted from Adam before he and Eve ate of the Tree of Knowledge, whereupon they fell from Grace and became mortal. So Lilith escaped the curse of death which had been put upon Adam and Eve and their descendants." He bent and pulled a book from the very bottom of a teetering stack with a magician's legerdemain.

"So ... Lilith remained Immortal." Duncan was thoughtful. Immortals had lived in the midst of the mortal world for thousands of years, perhaps as long as there was human life on this earth. People often created myth and legend from kernels of truth to explain what they didn't understand. The real Lilith's Immortality may have been the basis for this one.

Dantes continued. "Yes, but, unlike Eve, Lilith had no mate. She became a seducer of mortal men, lying with them while they slept, becoming impregnated by their nocturnal emissions. She bore children, the demons of this world, who shared her Immortality. They were known as the Lilithom. But Lilith wanted human children and abandoned the Lilithom once she birthed them."

MacLeod shifted uncomfortably in his chair. This myth resonated too closely for comfort. He could almost hear his father's voice naming him a demon changeling as he was disowned, and banished from the Clan.

No one, not even the Watchers, knew where newborn Immortals came from. All were foundlings, usually left where the baby was likely to be discovered before it died of exposure to the elements, or wild animals, or starvation. When Connor MacLeod had explained to his young student that this was the beginning for all Immortals, to be left to the Fates as a helpless babe, Duncan had been horrified.

Methos had told him once, of finding a newborn pre-Immortal, dying in the desert. It had been too late - he couldn't save her. He had held the wee thing until she died, feeling her tiny spark of nascent presence fade away with her last breath, and buried her body as deep as he could in the shifting sands. How many Immortal babies had been lost, cold and hungry, or ravaged by beasts, without even the comfort of human touch at the end? Why? With an effort, Duncan brought his attention back to Dantes.

Dantes was talking. Mac tuned back in. "... jealous of mortal women and their children. It was believed that Lilith would take an infant's soul in its first weeks, unless the babe was protected by an Angelic Amulet made by its mother."

"Angelic Amulet?"

"Yes, it was a symbol to ward off the evil demoness. Some legends say it was a copy of a talisman that Lilith herself wore. But they were imperfect copies, and could only protect the infant in the first weeks of life, when it was vulnerable to Lilith and her demon spawn. There's a story told among certain tribes that if a mother, watching at night beside the crib of her infant, could snatch the talisman that Lilith wore, for her baby, the child would become Immortal itself and escape the curse of death. Many a young mother kept vigil all night, waiting for Lilith to appear."

The hairs stood up on the back of Duncan's neck. He kept his voice carefully neutral. "What did Lilith's talisman look like?"

"No one knows. But some of the Angelic Amulets still exist. In some very primitive societies, the amulet was simply a bundle of owl feathers suspended over a baby's crib. Others were more elaborate. There is no one universal shape, though the ankh is common. Some were carved crystal; others wrought in precious metals. There's a gold one in the British Museum which is encrusted with jewels. It was fashioned for a baby prince of Persia. Beautiful piece of work."

Duncan thought of the last shard of Rebecca's crystal that was Amanda's most prized possession. Legend said the crystal entire would make an Immortal invulnerable. Luther wanted it enough to kill Rebecca and her students for the pieces. It was also said that the crystal would make a mortal who possessed it Immortal. Methos had risked his life for it, in a vain attempt to save a dying Alexa. The renegade Watcher, Daniel, had killed for it, and died in the act of obtaining it. According to Amanda, Rebecca's crystal was given to her by Lilith. Could this crystal be the basis for the myth of the perfect Angelic Amulet?

Tracing the ebony sword from Lilith to Rebecca to Timothy to himself gave Mac a sense of connection resonating through the ages. He felt the same thrill at the possibility that Amanda's piece of crystal might be part of Lilith's legend, spanning four thousand years or more. Duncan smiled inwardly. My girlfriend is the student of the student of the legend. Talk about your six degrees of separation. He could almost hear Richie's voice in his head. Cool!

Dantes was looking at him expectantly. "I'm sorry, Ellis. What did you say?" Mac asked.

"I said, what's your interest in Lilith?"

MacLeod was deliberately vague, not wanting to lie outright to a friend. "A client. Some kind of artifact that's been related to the Lilith mythology." Well, Timothy's sword was an artifact. And who's to say Duncan couldn't represent himself?

He could almost see Dantes large ears prick up. "What artifact?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, Ellis. I'm sorry."

Dantes leaned forward eagerly. "It's the Ogham story staff, isn't it?"

"What's that?" Mac said, curious.

Dantes winked, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Gotcha. I never heard it from you, Duncan."

"No, really. I never heard of the Ogham story staff."

"It's cool, Duncan. I won't say a word." Dantes made an exaggerated gesture of sealing his lips.

"Ellis, I truly don't know what you're talking about." Mac said, exasperated.

Ellis studied his face for a minute. "So you're really not in on the new find?"

Duncan shook his head impatiently.

Ellis jumped out of his chair and pawed through a pile of magazines on the windowsill. Muttering to himself, he tossed magazines right and left. "Here it is!" He handed a magazine to Mac. It was the Journal of Biblical Archaelogy, this month's issue. "Page 27."

MacLeod opened the magazine to an article on the discovery of a carved staff in the Rhine Valley. He quickly scanned the article. The staff was of a type used by early Celtic bards, written in the ancient language of Ogham. The staff was in the hands of an anonymous private collector, who had been very restrictive of access to the artifact. It had been reliably dated to 1200 B.C. The find was generating a great deal of excitement. If authentic, it would place the Celts in that part of the world at a much earlier period than previously believed. Duncan was fascinated. He read the short article, a blurb really, through twice, before he realized that Lilith was not mentioned at all.

MacLeod was puzzled. "What does this have to do with Lilith?"

"Ah! Now, that is the question. The expert who dated the artifact is a friend of a friend of mine."

Duncan made a face.

"I know. I know." Ellis waved his hands at him. "She told my friend that the staff describes a great battle between a Chosen Warrior, who must defeat an evil monster to save the world."

"Stories like that are a dime a dozen, Ellis." Duncan knew from personal experience. His sponsored researchers were sifting through an amazing number of such stories.

"I agree." Dantes leaned back in his chair. "But how many of them are about a female avatar?"

Duncan sat up straighter. "Really?"

"Yeah. In this story, the Warrior is a woman, who cannot be dominated in battle. Or, apparently, in bed."

"Does this story mention the Warrior's name?"

"Nobody knows. The collector hasn't let anybody have a crack at translating it. Only testing to establish authenticity. The friend of my friend gleaned this from the small part she was allowed to see."

MacLeod turned back to the article. "The collector isn't named. Does your friend know who it is?"

"Nope, never met him or her. It was all very hush-hush."

"Where were the tests performed?"

"At the Louvre."

"Curiouser and curiouser." Duncan closed the magazine, and held it out to Dantes. "Well, I can't say I blame 'em for wanting to preserve their privacy."

"Not in this day and age." Dantes agreed. He waved the magazine away. "You keep it, Duncan." He stood up. "And take these with you. A little light reading." He handed MacLeod the stack of books he had gathered. It reached to Mac's chin. Dantes demurred at Mac's protestations. "No hurry on getting them back to me. Just tell me someday what this is all about, OK?"

Mac looked at him earnestly. "I can't promise, Ellis. But if I can, I will. Thank you."

"Fair enough." He clapped his hand on Mac's shoulder as he walked out the door.

Mac managed to make it to his car without dropping any books. A parking citation under the windshield wiper fluttered in the breeze like a trapped insect, reminding him of Tessa. She had acquired parking tickets like kids collected baseball cards.

MacLeod drove home slowly, his thoughts far, far away when he used his key to open his kitchen door. He felt Amanda's presence before he saw her, the stack of books teetering precariously as he hurried to the kitchen before he dropped them. At the sight of her, he lost the struggle and the books fell from his arms. Amanda leaned seductively against his refrigerator. It would not have been entirely accurate to say she was naked. She was wearing her new gold shoes, with the stiletto heels.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Tom Donovan frowned at the photograph he held in his hand. Joe Dawson sat in a chair in Donovan's office in the Watcher's regional HQ in Lyon, eating tandoori chicken from a cardboard container. A few hours ago, Joe had scanned this photograph and the surveillance photos into a computer and emailed them to MacLeod. Donovan, a former New York detective, was the chief investigator in the Western Europe Forensics division. His team had found Vadem's apartment. He looked up at Joe. "This is the break we've been looking for." He turned to his computer. After several minutes, he spoke. "You're right, Joe. It is a Securitate uniform." After several minutes more, he said "Gotcha!"

Joe looked over his shoulder. A picture of the sniper, in uniform, filled half the screen. "What have you hacked into?"

"Interpol's database." Donovan read from the screen. "Vadem Tokes, pronounced 'Toe-kesh'. Born September 24, 1959. The only child of Vladimir and Anna Tokes." He whistled. "There's baby pictures, school attendance and childhood immunization records, high school and college graduation photographs. This isn't a false history. He really was born in 1959. Attended the University at Bucharest." He raised his eyebrows. "Member of his college fencing team. Recruited by the Securitate after graduation. Rose quickly in the ranks. He was an excellent marksman, trained in assassination, surveillance, and torture techniques. Promoted to captain before the regime toppled."

"Was he married?"

"Yes, to a Magdalena Ludovic, high school sweetheart, in 1981."

"What happened to her?"

"She was killed in the civil war. Shot in the streets of Bucharest. By Securitate forces." He paused. "Apparently, Tokes was there. She died in his arms."

"I wonder ..." Joe mused. "Maybe he died there, too." At Donovan's puzzled look, he explained. "His first death. That could have been it. He looked about thirty to thirty five years old. What happened to him after the civil war?"

Donovan scanned the screen. "He left Rumania like most of the surviving Securitate members. Interpol first picked up on him in 1990, in Czechoslavakia". He leaned closer to the screen, frowning. "This is nasty, Joe."

"What?" Joe peered over his shoulder, trying to keep up with the fast-scrolling screen.

"He was a suspect in a series of kidnapings for ransom. Kids. Six over the course of that year."

"What happened?"

"Ransoms were paid in each case. The kids were never returned." He scrolled quickly. "Damn. Remains of five of them were eventually found. Each child was killed, apparently, once payment was made. The last was a girl. Her body hasn't turned up yet."

Joe was silent. He couldn't begin to imagine the pain of those parents. What was worse, he wondered, the grim finality of a sad, small corpse, or the never-ending uncertainty? Did the family still cling to scant hope after all these years and the other grisly discoveries? Joe shook himself. Tom was talking.

"... a suspect in the murders of two Rumanian ex-patriates, rumored to be former Securitate members. He was never arrested."

"Two of his own, eh? I wonder if they were somehow responsible for Magda's death."

"After that, there's nothing until 1993. Interpol was looking for him in connection with a blackmail scheme in Germany. Looks like he put the surveillance training to use. He's a slippery bastard. His name comes up again in an investigation of a couple of hits on underworld figures in Poland in 1994. One shot with a long rifle, dum-dum bullets. Very professional." He was silent for a bit, reading. "This is weird." Donovan sounded puzzled.

"What's weird?"

"In 1995-96, his name pops up in the investigation of a series of bizarre killings around Prague. Ritual murders. Strange markings on the bodies. The authorities thought it might have been the work of a religious fanatic or cult. Something called the End of Time. But after the seventh death, it stopped. They never caught anyone. Not professional-type kills at all." He read further. "There's nothing on Tokes since then."

"Check the aliases." Joe suggested. "Gregor Havel and Laszlo Tudor."

Tom nodded, while his fingers flew over the keyboard. "Nothing. Our boy was either keeping his nose clean, or getting better in covering his tracks."

"What about the End of Time cult?"

Tom typed in a new search. "There's not much here. Vague references to a doomsday cult. Apparently, they believed that the Y2K bug would be the end of the world." Tom looked over his shoulder. "You know, my mother-in-law stocked up on so much toilet paper then, she hasn't had to buy any since." He chuckled. "There were a lot of these apocalyptic cults a few years back. Interpol kept an eye on them." He scrolled faster. "This one was apparently law-abiding. It came to the attention of the authorities on routine investigations of apocalyptic cults and sects. There's a bit of the history here." He clicked on a file. "It was headed by a Czech named Ladislav Novak in the 1980s. Wealthy guy, old money. The sect lived quietly, no trouble. Ran an organic farm outside Prague. The authorities had them on a list only as a general precaution." He whistled. "That's the connection with the ritual murders. Novak, the cult leader, was the seventh victim. In 1996. The investigation naturally focused on members of the sect, but they all had alibis. They were at a public meeting protesting, along with other environmental groups, the construction of a new dam that was proposed near their compound. They were all cleared. The case was never solved."

"What happened to the End of Time after his death?"

"It limped along to the Millennium, then quietly disbanded. There's no further information on them here. They dropped off the law enforcement radar."

Joe's head spun, as he tried to digest all this information. "This Vadem obviously came into contact with another Immortal at some point. He knew the score." Joe shook his head. "How did we miss him?"

"Joe, if you're right and his first death was in the Rumanian civil war... well, Rumania was in chaos. We lost a couple of our own in the street violence. It would have been very easy to miss one new Immortal. Plus, with the breakup of the Soviet Union, the problems in the Balkans, that part of Europe has had a lot of upheaval in the last fifteen years." He looked up at Joe. "So have we." The Watchers had been in crisis since 1991, when James Horton began murdering Immortals with the death squad he had recruited from within Watcher ranks.

Joe sat down. For an Immortal, Tokes had been young. Still, he was well trained in the killing business before his first death. Unlike most new Immortals, he would have transitioned more easily to a life of kill or be killed. And he was using those deadly skills in the Game. Though he appeared to have known the Rules, he obviously cared nothing for them.

Nobody knew where the Rules to the Game came from. They had always been there. Through the ages, the older Immortals had passed them on to the new ones. One on one, with swords. No interference once the battle was joined. No violence on Holy Ground, against mortal or Immortal. In the last decade, Joe had begun to lose faith in the Rules. Some Immortals, like Xavier St. Cloud, had used guns to cut down an opponent, then took his head. Kell's posse of younger Immortals ran down his prey and softened them up for Kell to finish them off, and take the Quickening.

Joe had asked MacLeod about it once. Why should Mac or any other honorable Immortal be bound by Rules that their brethren cast off with impunity? In an exaggerated brogue, Mac replied "Because good must always triumph over evil. Did ye no' know tha', Joseph?" At Joe's quizzical look, Mac smiled enigmatically at his private joke. But then Mac turned the question around on his Watcher. He challenged Joe to name one renegade Immortal who had used forbidden tactics who was still alive. The question had stumped Joe. Xavier St. Cloud, his protege, Morgan D'Estaing, the punk Johnny K., Kanus, Kell and all of his posse. All dead. Including, most recently, Vadem Tokes. Joe fell back against his chair. Was it karma of the 'what goes around comes around' kind? Some form of Providence refereeing the Game? Or, in Tokes' case, merely the misfortune to mistake Methos, the oldest and wiliest Immortal, for a young and inexperienced student?

Tom looked over his shoulder. "Joe, I'm running Tokes through the other law enforcement systems, but it'll take a while. Do you want to stick around?"

"Sure, Tom." Joe picked at his cooling dinner with his fork.

Donovan gestured with his head to the desktop. "By the way, we developed that roll of film you found in Tokes' apartment. There's a nice shot of you in there."

"What?!" Joe tore into the large brown envelope on the desk. More surveillance shots of MacLeod. There was one of Joe on the steps of the Hotel Versailles with Mac. The next two photos nearly stopped his heart. The first was of Amy and Mac leaving Joe's small hotel. The next one was Amy walking into the lobby of her apartment building, while Mac stood on the stoop watching her. Jesus Christ! That must have been the night Amy cooked a meal for them at Joe's place. Mac had walked her home. Joe's stomach churned.

Donovan noted his reaction. "Bet you're glad this sonofabitch is dead." He smiled coldly. "Me too."

Joe nodded wordlessly and returned the photos to the envelope with trembling hands. He remembered Methos' words. It takes at least two people to constitute a cult.

"Tom, I've changed my mind. I want to get back to Paris right away."

Tom nodded and returned to his computer. "I'll let you know if I find anything interesting."

"Thanks." Joe walked as quickly as he could out of the building. When he got to his car, he dialed Amy's apartment on his cell phone. He got her machine, and left a message urging her to call him back right away. He tried her cell phone. He got her Voicemail, and left another message. He knew Amy often left the phone turned off so she wouldn't be disturbed in her work. He tried his own hotel and Methos' cell. No answer at either number. He pounded the steering wheel in frustration, then forced himself to calm down. Tokes was dead. These photos had never been seen by anyone except Watchers. There was no evidence that Tokes had any associates. Joe put the car in gear and headed back to Paris, disregarding the Rules of the Road with impunity.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

From the Chronicle of the Lady Rebecca, in the tenth day of the eighth month of the year of Our Lord, nine hundred and ninety six.

The Lady Rebecca left the inn at Megara after five days and four nights lodging there, an hour after the dawn. The Lady Rebecca has stayed no more than seven nights in the same place since she left Athens. The mistress of the house pressed provision upon provision upon her, until the lady protested the horse would be unable to carry such a load. The mistress embraced her and wished her good fortune in her journey. The children helped saddle the horse. Though they were very clumsy, the Lady Rebecca gave them each a coin for their labors and comforted the little one who wept at her departure. The children followed until the bridge. When she reached the bend in the road, the Lady turned and waved to them. Then, she disappeared. I passed the children returning with sad faces as I followed.

She rode all day, stopping only to water and rest her animal. She set a simple camp, no fire. I stayed well back and set no fire myself. It was a fine and clear night. I lay on my blanket and counted the stars. I fancy that the Lady Rebecca did the same as I, only a short distance away.

The eleventh day of the eight month.

O wretched, wretched day! I have failed in my duty. With heavy heart I set down here the record of my observations of this most unfortunate day. Travel began again as the dawn rose in the east. We were on the road leading into Corinth. The day was hot again, and the road is dusty. There were more travelers about as we approached the city, so I moved closer to the Lady Rebecca and her steed. I saw in this nearly barren expanse a strange tree in the distance, twisted and misshapen. The Lady slowed then stopped her horse before she reached the tree. I saw her remove her sword in the scabbard hung from the horse's side, and proceed slowly. She stopped at the foot of the odd tree for a while. Then, she continued on her journey.

I approached the tree with trepidation. If the Lady Rebecca was disturbed by it, I too would exercise caution. It had once been a tree, but no longer. It was a cross, in the shape of an "X". A man was affixed to it, though as the tree was no longer a tree, he looked no longer a man. His arms and legs were bound by thick ropes to the wood, which cut cruelly into the flesh. I thought him dead, but when my horse nickered, the ptitful figure opened his eyes. Blood, and dirt, and sweat caked his body. The flies were thick on his face, where I could see it under the tangled and matted hair and beard. I knew he must be the worst sort of criminal to meet such a fate. Still, pity for this miserable creature stirred in my breast. I offered a prayer for his soul and his quick release and continued on the road.

The Lady Rebecca engaged a room at the first inn that presented itself, barely within the confines of the town. Once I confirmed this, I retraced my route and returned to the fields on the outskirts. I kept my distance from the wretched man on the cross, though I could see the outline of the tree clearly in the setting of the sun. I could not tell if he was dead, though I hoped it was so.

I slept fitfully that night, my sleep disturbed by strange dreams. Late in the night, I roused. As I was drinking from my water skin, I saw a strange sight. The Lady Rebecca's white horse glowed in the moonlight, grazing at the side of the road, near the cross. I crept closer, low in the brush, until I was within two lengths from the road. The Lady stood behind the cross. I saw her knife glint in the moonlight, as she used it to sever the ropes binding the wretch. As she cut the last cord, he slipped from the tree and fell down in the dust. In the moonlight, I could see the blood stain her gown as she knelt beside him and pulled him into her arms. The man lay as one dead until she held a skin to his lips. Whether it was water or wine, this writer does not know, but the man drank and drank as if it were mother's milk, until she took the skin away. She urged him to his knees, and wrapped her long, hooded cloak around his nakedness. She summoned the steed, and the beast was patient while she helped the man to mount it. It was a struggle and he fell once, but finally she led the horse and rider into the night, following the road that skirted the city.

I could barely move in my astonished state. But then I shook myself and hastily gathered my possessions and woke my unhappy horse. In minutes, I was leading Pax in the moonlight, keeping the Lady Rebecca and her charge in sight until the dawn. She had reached one of the boatyards, and leaving the horse and rider, approached one of the fishing boats. She gave a heavy purse to the fisherman and pointed to the horse. He nodded and followed her. She helped the wretch, well disguised in the hooded cloak, from the horse, and handed him over to the fisherman. She removed her few bundles from the horse and laid them on the ground. Then she caressed the animal's head and whispered in its ear. The horse nickered to her, and she turned and left it without looking back. She walked to the boat and stepped in, helping the man, and laying him down in the bottom of the boat. Then the fisherman untethered the boat and took his place. In minutes, the sail was trimmed and it moved slowly away. I watched with unbelieving eyes until the sail vanished in the morning mist.

I cannot follow the Lady Rebecca over the water. I have failed.

Amy leaned back in her chair. She was caught up in the tale of Rebecca's travels, empathizing with the unnamed Watcher. In her short stint as a field agent, she remembered when she lost track of her assignment, Morgan Walker, for two days. He had taken off, unexpectedly, in his private jet as Amy watched in dismay from the ground. She had felt a complete failure. She was sure she would never find him again. When he showed up as usual at his office on the third day, Amy had felt giddy with relief. A week later, he was dead and Amy had been changed forever.

Amy sat at a table in the small reading room in the lower stacks of the University Library.

It was part of the Library the students called the Dungeon. It was her favorite place to work, undisturbed. For this project, it gave her access to some of the research material she needed, including a classic languages and literature section which boasted excellent old maps. There was a small bathroom down here and a lone vending machine.

She was racing through the old volume open before her. Over the last few weeks, she had become familiar with James' handwriting. The archaic Greek had become easier to understand too. Using the old map spread open on the table, she had traced Rebecca's route from Parga on the western coast of Greece, across the interior to Athens, then down the Peloponnesian peninsula. Rebecca had just departed Megara, a small town southwest of Athens, heading towards Corinth.

She sipped her cold coffee and made a face. Taking some change from her bag and the Chronicle, she left the reading room, weaving her way through the stacks. She followed the shortcut she had found to the bathroom and the vending machine on the other end of this level, careful to pay attention. She still got lost down here sometimes. Amy was not particularly tall, but she felt like a giant down here in the Dungeon, with its rows and rows of shelves which reached nearly to its low ceilings. The overhead lighting was glaring in some places, but the high shelves cast dark shadows where they blocked the light.

As she turned a corner, Amy stopped in her tracks, surprised. A young couple was backed against the bookshelf, arms wrapped around each other, kissing passionately. The girl's back was to Amy. She had beautiful dark hair. The young man's long pale fingers were visible through the wavy tresses. They were oblivious to Amy's presence. Amy backpedaled and turned another corner. She was bemused. Her days of canoodling in public places seemed like such a long, long time ago. It was the first time she had come across an amorous couple here. Though this lowest level of the library was very private with many secluded nooks and crannies, it did not usually attract trysting students, like some of the other levels. Amy suspected that the ubiquitous presence of the elderly librarian known as the Troll had something to do with that. She left the young couple their privacy, and changed her route. After a few minutes, she realized she was lost, meandering in the labyrinth-like stacks.

As she turned another corner, Amy saw someone sitting on the stone floor, between the stacks, surrounded by open books. It was Adam Pierson, his back leaned up against a bookshelf and his long legs splayed out in front of him. He was intent on the book in his lap.

Amy called his name. Adam looked up, startled. It took a moment before recognition set in. She walked to him, watching as he struggled to rise. He winced and rubbed his lower back, while stamping his feet to restore the circulation. He was old enough to know better than to sit on a cold, drafty floor. Amy could hear her mother's voice in her head "You'll catch your death." Not bloody likely in this case, Mum.

"Hi." she said.

"Hello, Amy." Adam put his hands to his lower back and stretched prodigiously. "You're here late."

"Uh-huh. I was just going for coffee. Want some?"

"If you're referring to the caffeinated battery-acid that spurts out of that double-crossing, coin-stealing, triple-damned demonic machine ... "

"I am."

"I'd love some."

"Adam, why don't you bring your books and join me in the reading room? I'm the only one there." She cocked her head at him. "Unless you like the floor?"

"Actually, I had intended to monopolize the one comfortable chair in there for the night." He gestured to the books scattered on the floor. "I only sat down to find one book from the bottom shelf." He looked at his watch and raised his eyebrows. "I got sidetracked."

"So did I." Amy said, amused. At his questioning look, she explained the reason for her detour.

"Ah! Young love." Adam sighed, sarcastically. "Follow me, then. We will leave them their privacy ... such as it is." He led her on another circuitous route through the stacks, while telling an absurd story of the ghost of a student, condemned to wander forever through this maze, for his failure to return a book. Just then, their route approached the librarian's desk. At the sight of the wizened old woman perched on the high stool, Adam stopped speaking. Amy understood. The senior librarian always made her feel like a naughty school girl. Still, one should be courteous. Amy cleared her throat. The old woman, nicknamed the Troll by the student body, peered through steel-rimmed half glasses perched on her nose.

"Bon soir, Madame Montand." Amy said, politely.

The woman nodded. "Mademoiselle Thomas, the Vespucci is overdue." she said, with disapproval."

"Yes, madame. I am sorry. I will return it tomorrow." Amy looked down at her shoes.

"Bon soir, Adam!" Amy looked up abruptly at the radical change in tone. The Troll was smiling! Her voice was soft as she spoke to the man beside Amy. "Comment allez-vous ce soir?"

Adam smiled and tilted his head to one side. "Bien! Bien! Et vous, Genevieve?"

Amy gawked as Adam Pierson flirted with the octogenarian, solicitously asking about her health, her children and grandchildren, and the newest great-grandchild, whose picture was produced for Adam to admire. Amy, recovering her aplomb, cooed over the photo of the fattest infant she had ever seen. The Troll graced her, then, with a smile of such transcendent radiance that Amy nearly gasped. Their eyes met.

It was like looking through a magic mirror. For an instant, Amy saw beyond the age-ravaged features and caught a glimpse of the lovely young woman Genevieve Montand must once have been. And, Amy realized, still was, in her own heart. This insight moved Amy unexpectedly. She looked away from the old face abruptly, only to surprise Adam staring at her. He averted his gaze, reaching to help Madame Montand with her coat. It was after midnight. Only students and faculty were permitted to remain in the building after the staff left for the night.

They escorted the elderly lady to the elevator. Adam handed her the large tote he had carried for her, and wished her sweet dreams. Amy spoke. "I will return the scroll tomorrow, Madame."

Just as the elevator doors were closing, the old woman waved her hand gracefully. "Whenever you are finished with it, mam'selle."

The doors closed before Amy recovered her voice. She turned to Adam, an accusing expression on her face. "What was that all about?"

"What?" he said, innocently.

"You know what!"

He shrugged. "I remind her of someone she used to know."

Despite her questions, Adam refused to satisfy Amy's burning curiosity. They continued the stalemate until they reached the restroom/vending area, where they both used the facilities. The machine ate only one coin before, as Adam put it, "disgorging its vile brew." They returned to the reading room by the same circuitous route, without encountering another soul. Amy returned to her wooden chair. She thought Adam would take the squat bean bag chair in the corner, but he plopped onto another wooden chair, indistinguishable to Amy from the one she was using. He wriggled his rear end and sighed contentedly, before opening a book. Curious, Amy tilted her head to read the title. Something about Doomsday cults. She opened the Chronicle again, and, wriggling her own back end, settled in.

The twelfth day of the eighth month.

The fisherman returned to his berth just after dark. He unloaded no catch. I draw the conclusion that he delivered his passengers and returned directly, though I have no way to know if he stopped or stayed along the route. I cannot ask him, for I feel sure that the lady's gold was paid to ensure his silence as well. I have taken lodging at the inn. There has been talk over their cups among the villagers about the disappearance of the dead man's body from the cross. I learned that he was a madman who murdered his family, including a babe in its crib. My blood ran cold at the thought of the Lady Rebecca in the company of such a one, and one of her Race as well. Her compassion may yet be her undoing. Please God, I may find her alive.

The thirteenth day of the eighth month.

Something has happened that I must consider providential. One of my brethren, though of the lesser caste, has appeared at the inn. Strangers are not uncommon in this crossroads to the great city, but are few enough to be noticed. He apparently is not a stranger, and was greeted heartily by the master of the house and several of the villagers. I saw his mark when he lifted a tankard of ale, but I was unable to approach him quietly with the press of people. I will try to approach him in his rooms.

Later that night.

I went to the room of my fellow Watcher. He was suspicious at first until I showed him the mark of my order. At the sight, he bowed and apologized for his inhospitable demeanor. He ushered me into his room, and bade me take the only chair. I tried to refuse, in deference to his age, but he insisted, taking a seat, painfully, upon the pallet on the floor. I fear that the fawning respect shown to my order by the lesser brethren is taken too far. If he only knew how little I know. But that is not important now.

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 ...

Amy stopped reading, disturbed at the visceral description. She could almost smell the smoke of the fire in the reading room. With a start, Amy realized the smell of smoke was real.

She looked at Adam just as his head jerked up from his book, and he sniffed the air.

"Adam, ..." she said, alarmed.

Just then, she heard a noise behind her, at the door. A little noise, of metal scraping metal. Adam was already moving. He leapt out of the chair and ran to the door. He peered out the door's narrow little window. Amy was right behind him. Then, he pressed one hand to the metal door and the other gingerly to the knob. Satisfied that it was not hot, he turned the knob and pushed the door. Nothing happened.

"Adam, what's wrong?"

"The door is jammed. Here, help me push." He leaned his shoulder against the door. "It's not hot."

Amy added her effort to his, and pushed hard against the door. Grunting with effort, she pushed until Adam said stop. He dropped flat to the floor and peered under the door. There was nothing wedged here. He dragged Amy's chair over and stood on it, peering at the space between the top of the door and the ceiling. There was nothing there either. He jumped off the chair and kicked it out of the way. Adam peered out of the tiny, rectangular window set in the door, but was unable to see what was restraining the door. He looked at the tempered glass, reinforced with wire, in dismay.

Amy was frightened, but trying not to show it. Her mind was having trouble grasping the fact that somebody had locked them in here while a fire was burning. She realized with sudden crystal clarity that the culprit had also started the fire. She looked around the small room. It was windowless, and there were no other exits. She turned back to Adam.

"Adam, what are we going to do?"

"Break this window, if I can. You bang and kick on this door. Call for help. Yell 'Fire'." Amy complied. He strode to his chair and the coat he had draped over it. A sword appeared from it like a rabbit out of a magician's hat.

"Stand back." he commanded. Amy stood behind him. He hammered the sword, hilt first, against the window. No effect. He tried several more times, cursing in a language that Amy didn't recognize. Nothing. He stopped, and the sword hung by his side, as he suddenly pounded the window with his fist.

"Adam?"

He didn't answer. He pushed on the door again. Then, he climbed quickly on the table, examining the ceiling. It was white-washed stone. This part of the library was the oldest section of the University, built in the Middle Ages.

Amy, eyes glued on him, walked around the table, following his progress. She nearly tripped on her bag on the floor. Seizing it, she cried out in relief. "Adam, I have my cell phone!" She pulled the device from the bag and concentrated on dialing the French equivalent of 911. So intent was she that she never saw Methos shaking his head. "Bloody hell, I can't get a signal!" She moved frantically around the room, trying to get a signal.

"Amy, we're three stories underground." Adam said, gently. His thoughts were grim. There was no way out of this room, except through that door. He jumped off the table and picked up the sword. He used it to rip a hole in his long coat, and then tore it in half.

"What are you doing?" Amy asked.

He was intent on the task, and didn't look up. "We have to block the cracks under and over the door, to keep the smoke from coming in. Amy, get down on the floor. Over by the far wall."

Amy didn't move. "Adam, we have to get out of here!"

"Amy, do as I say." He still didn't look at her.

"Adam!" They couldn't stay here! They had to get out of this room! She felt a surge of fear at the thought of being trapped in this room while a fire raged toward her. Why didn't he understand? She grabbed his arm. "Adam! We have to get out of here!"

Adam ignored her. He dragged a chair to the door and stood on it. He stuffed the fabric of his shredded coat in the space between the jamb and the top of the door, wedging it tightly in place. He hopped down. Amy saw his face then. It was a shuttered mask, implacable and distant. His eyes might have been glass for all the humanity she could see in them. Anger and rebellion surged through her. The unfeeling Immortal bastard! How dare he write me off like that!? How dare he act as if I'm dead already!?

Amy threw herself at the door so hard that the breath whooshed out of her. She pounded on the door with her fists, yelling at the top of her lungs, kicking with her foot. Her hands went numb. Her voice tore and strained her throat.

"Stop it, Amy! Stop!" Adam grabbed her shoulders and pulled her away from the door.

She turned, flailing at him. "Why? Because I might hurt myself?" Anger and fear heightened her voice to shrillness. He backed off. Amy closed her eyes tight, trembling with the effort not to strike him with her fists. After a moment, she opened her eyes and looked up at his face.

The mask was gone. Adam wore an expression of such sadness, that the breath stopped in Amy's throat, anger draining away rapidly, like water down a drain. She recoiled from that look and stumbled back a step. We're really going to die, she thought. I'm really going to die.

Methos pulled her into his arms, and held her tightly.

"We can't get out." she said, flatly.

"No." he murmured into her ear.

His heart was pounding furiously, just like hers. Amy was deeply ashamed. For a few moments, she had hated Adam. Because he was Immortal, and she was not. He would live and she would ... She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. If she was to die, she didn't want it to be like this. Lashing out. Hating. She thought of Rebecca Horne and tried to be like her, to summon an inner core of strength to face what was to come. But she wasn't Rebecca. The best Amy could manage was grim gallows humor. "Don't mind me. It's just that ... I never died before." She looked up at him, outwardly calm. "Will it hurt?" she asked.

"No." Methos promised, stroking her hair. If the heat and smoke didn't take them before the flames reached them, he'd make sure.

"Adam, I'm sorry." Her voice caught on the last word.

"I know, Amy." He kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry, too."

Amy took a deep breath and pushed slowly away from him. She picked up the remaining part of his coat and knelt by the door. Methos joined her. Together they wedged the fabric tightly under the door. They stood back, examining their handiwork. The heavy fabric was keeping the smoke at bay, though some seeped in around the sides of the door.

"Adam, I can't just lie on the floor, waiting to ... " She stopped. "I just can't." She pounded again on the door with her fists and feet and shouted for help again. This time, though, she was in complete control of herself. After a few minutes, Methos spelled her, banging and yelling until he, too, was hoarse. He stopped, gasping for breath, slumped against the door.

Amy raised her fist and drew a breath to start again, when she thought she heard something. She pressed her ear to the door.

"Amy! Amy!" The voice was muffled by the thickness of the door, but she recognized it.

"Martin! Thank God! Martin, we're in here!" Amy shouted, and pounded the door again.

"Amy! There's something on the door. Wait a minute." They heard the sound of metal on metal, and then a silence that seemed to go on forever. Methos swung a chair over to the door, and leaped on it. While he pulled the fabric from over the door, Amy knelt and removed the remains of his coat from under it.

Finally, with a metal clang, the door was opened from the outside. Smoke rolled in above Martin Guerre's head. He saw Amy and embraced her fiercely for a moment, then stood back.

"Who put this thing on the door?" he demanded angrily. He held out a metal object. It looked machined, well-made, a clamp engineered to fit the reading room door.

"No time for that now." Methos pushed past him, and peered out into the smoky stacks. He closed the door nearly all the way, leaving it open a crack. Smoke lazily drifted in, but he was loath to shut it all the way. He turned to his companions.

He spoke quickly, urgently. "Martin, how did you get down here?"

"The stairs by the bathroom. The elevator was out of order."

"Why not the circular stair by the elevator?"

"I don't trust those old stairs. Never thought they were safe." Martin said impatiently. "We have to get out of here now!"

Methos held up his hands. "Hold your horses a minute. We need a plan first." Methos spoke quickly. "Did you see any smoke or fire by the elevator or the bathroom stairs?"

"No, I was halfway to the reading room before I smelled smoke. Then, I heard you. I still haven't seen any fire." Martin shifted his feet impatiently.

"There aren't any sprinklers down here, are there?"

"No."

"Any automatic alarms?"

"No, someone has to break the glass and pull the lever. I think there is only the one alarm down here." He took Amy's hand and pulled her toward him.

"Yeah, near the elevator." Methos frowned in thought. The bathroom stairs and the old winding stair, next to the elevator, were at opposite ends of this level. They were equidistant from the reading room. "Right." He pointed to Amy's sweater hanging on the back of a chair. "Is that cotton?" She nodded. "Rip three pieces from it large enough to cover nose and mouth." Amy started the task, while Methos continued. "Does anybody have a flashlight?"

"In my bag." Amy nodded toward the tote on the floor. Methos strode to it and dumped the contents on the table. He found the small flashlight and a bonus, a small bottle of Evian water. He spoke to his companions. "We have to assume that no alarm has been given, and help is not on the way. We have to get ourselves out of here."

"Wait a minute, Pierson. Nobody put you in charge. We don't ...." Guerre faltered. He stared at the man in front of him.

Adam Pierson, the awkward, self-effacing student Guerre had known for years had disappeared. In his place stood a stranger who exuded absolute confidence in his own authority. His piercing look stopped the words in Guerre's throat.

Methos continued. "We're going to the restroom stairs. Martin came through there and it was clear. That's where we're heading, understand?" They nodded. "Right now, the biggest danger is panic. The second is smoke inhalation. Both are deadly. Stay calm. Breathe through the cloth." Amy and Guerre nodded. "We must move as fast as we can. We may have to drop to the floor and crawl. We may lose the lights, but we have a flashlight. The smoke will make it hard to see, so we must hold on to each other. I'll go first. Amy, you're next. Hang on to my belt. Martin, you hang on to Amy's belt. Do not let go." He put the flashlight in his shirt pocket and grabbed his sword.

Guerre had recovered his voice. He shook his head. Amy's safety was too important to leave to Pierson, even this weirdly transformed Pierson. "No, I'll go first." He took Amy's hand.

She yanked her hand away. "Martin!" Amy commanded. She looked up at Guerre. "Adam knows what he's doing. Do what he says."

He stared at her for a moment. "All right, cherie." He nodded to Pierson, though he looked skeptical. He noticed the sword then. Guerre opened his mouth to demand an explanation, then shut it with a snap.

Methos soaked the face cloths with the bottled water, and handed them out. "Keep these to your mouth and nose constantly." The others nodded. "Okay, here we go." He put the wet cloth to his face. The others followed suit.

"Wait, Adam." Amy darted back to the table. She snatched up Rebecca's Chronicle and tucked it down the front of her shirt.

Methos peered out the door. The smoke was heavier, but not so thick that he couldn't see through the stacks. He stepped out and felt Amy take hold of his belt. Guerre grabbed the waistband of her jeans. Methos instructed Guerre to shut the reading room door. Then Methos led the way, crouching, yet moving at a steady pace. He took the serpentine route through the stacks, hoping his extensive knowledge of this library would hold up if the lights went out. It won't be completely dark, he reminded himself, you have the flashlight. Unless the smoke gets too thick to .... He stopped that line of thought and concentrated on leading the way out of the labyrinth. The smoke made his eyes tear and burn, but it was bearable. The wet cloth was doing the job for now.

As they approached the restroom through the stacks, the smoke became thicker. Methos heard a roaring, crackling noise. He dropped to his knees, Amy copying his motion, and Guerre following hers. Methos listened with his eyes closed, swiveling his head slowly from side to side. The noise was definitely coming from the direction of the restroom and the stairs.

"Stay here and wait for me." Methos crawled quickly to the next bend in the stacks, to what should have been a clear vista to the stairwell. His heart sank. A wall of flames blocked the narrow space. He returned to his companions. "We can't get through this way!", he shouted through the cloth. They nodded, their eyes red and irritated, dripping tears. Methos stood, made sure they were connected and set a new course toward the elevator and the winding wrought iron stair that was near it.

The smoke was getting thicker and the temperature of the air had risen. As he navigated through the stacks, Methos thought frantically. Guerre said the elevator was out of order. Whoever had blocked the door to the reading room, had sabotaged the elevator and set the fire. Probably more than one fire. He doubted that he, she or they would leave an exit route open by way of the circular stair. This was probably a dead end too, but it had to be tried. There was no other way out of this level of the library.

As they approached the end of the stacks, Methos heard the unmistakable sound of flames again. He dropped to his knees, as did his companions. He again crawled on ahead. The flames were even worse here. Panic clawed at his throat. There was no way out. The fires would grow and converge, consuming everything burnable in their path. Methos forced himself to calm down. His only course of action now was to lessen their suffering. It would be better for all of them to die of smoke inhalation, rather than the flames. He bit his lip hard to keep from crying out. They were so bloody young!

Methos crawled back to them. He pulled his companions close so they could hear him, without shouting. "This way is blocked by fire, too."

"Adam, there aren't any other ways out!" Amy's voice was muffled by the cloth.

Guerre spoke, the cloth thickening his voice. "I will set off the alarm. You two go back to the reading room, and get on the floor. I will join you as soon as the alarm goes off."

"No, Martin, that's suicide!" Amy protested.

"You'll never make it, Guerre. No one could." Methos said, matter-of- factly.

Guerre's temper flared. "Do you have a better idea?!" His shout was impressive even through the fabric.

Methos nodded. "We have to go back to the reading room. Try to hold on until help comes." They had little time left. He had to lead Amy and Guerre back. The reading room was furthest from the fires and it was made of stone.

"No!" Guerre rebelled. "We cannot play 'hide and go seek' with fire!" he shouted, and started to rise. Amy grabbed his arm in both of hers and held on tightly.

Methos clamped an iron hand around Guerre's wrist. At the same time, he closed his eyes tight, thinking furiously. Something in what Guerre said ... The young man tried, unsuccessfully, to shake him off. Methos held fast, and remembered.

Flashback, Paris, 1940.

"... Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty. Ready or not, here I come." Methos opened his eyes and looked around the deserted stacks. He moved stealthily through the endless rows of books. He checked the small reading room, the bathroom, both sets of stairs, even under the Troll's desk.

Where was she hiding? He held his breath, listening intently. He heard nothing. He closed his eyes. Then he opened them, a smile on his face. He turned and walked resolutely to the rear of the third level, past the little reading room. He stood in front of a small wooden door set in the stone wall and knocked politely.

"There's nobody here, but us chickens," a feminine voice said, giggling.

Methos pushed up the dumbwaiter door and Genevieve DuFait tumbled, laughing, into his arms. Her mirth transformed rapidly to passion as he held her lithe body tightly to his and kissed her.

End of Flashback.

Methos' eyes snapped open. "I do have a better idea." He let Guerre pull him to his feet. He looked at the younger man intently. "Trust me, Martin, just a little longer." He let go of Guerre's wrist.

Guerre stared at him. He rubbed his wrist. Amy still held his other hand. She looped her free hand through Methos' belt.

Methos walked as fast as he could, counting on the others to keep the pace. He led them back to the reading room and past it to the last bookshelf pushed up against a wall. The smoke was not as thick back here. He turned to his companions. "Take the books off these shelves and throw them out of the way over there." He pointed away into the stacks.

"Why?" they demanded in unison.

"There's an old dumbwaiter in the wall, behind the bookshelves." Methos dropped the cloth from his face. Instantly, the smoky air irritated his nose and throat. He ignored it, and took an armful of books and tossed them out of the way. Amy and Martin did the same. They cleared the shelves rapidly. Methos and Guerre pushed the heavy shelf unit several feet away, its metal feet scraping loudly on the stone floor.

Amy saw it then. There, in the wall, the outline of a small rectangular door, about two feet wide by three feet high, painted the same institutional green as the wall. Two nails were driven into the door where it latched at the bottom. Methos awkwardly maneuvered his sword to try to get under the nails, when Guerre pulled a penknife out of his pocket and pushed him out of the way. He pried the nails up with a screwdriver blade. Then, using a sharp blade, Guerre traced the knife all around the outline where the door had been painted shut. Using his sword's greater leverage, Methos pried up the door. He shone the flashlight into the gloom, and sighed in relief. The platform was still here. The dumbwaiter operated by two chains that were counterweighted. He yanked on one. It was rusty, but it moved a little in his hand.

Guerre lifted Amy up into the dumbwaiter. Methos stopped him.

Guerre whirled on him, angry. "Amy goes first, Pierson!"

Methos put a hand up in a placating gesture. "Martin, you must go first. This shaft was used to return books to the stacks. But the two stacks levels above us are blocked with a bookshelf just like this one. You'll never get out on those levels, pushing from inside. In the main gallery, it's covered by a tapestry. You know the small one near the librarian's office? It may only be sealed like this one, with paint and a couple of nails. Amy can't break through there. You're stronger, but even you might not be able to. Still, you'll have a better chance than she will."

"You go first, then. I'm not leaving Amy." Guerre said stubbornly.

"No, I'm claustrophobic." Methos lied. "I might freeze up in there."

Amy settled the question. "Don't be a feeb, Martin! Get in there!" Amy pushed him, hard, toward the little door.

Martin hesitated a moment, then climbed in. It was a tight fit, but he made it with his head bent and knees drawn up. Amy handed him his face cloth and the flashlight. As Methos handed Guerre the sword, he said "Whoever did this, may still be hanging around." Guerre looked startled, then nodded. He gripped the sword fiercely. Martin looked miserably back at Amy and Methos.

"Bon chance, mes amis." he said, tightly.

Amy stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth. Guerre put the cloth to his face. Methos and Amy pulled on one chain with all their might. At first, Amy thought it wasn't going to move, and all this had been in vain, when suddenly the platform lurched up. Methos offered up a blessing for the men who had crafted this precision device. It had been designed with the counterweights to allow the female librarians to move heavy stacks of books. Without the counterweights, they wouldn't have had a chance to move Guerre's weight. While the progress was slow, the platform moved steadily upward.

Martin Guerre had never considered himself claustrophobic, but this experience was sorely testing that opinion. It was pitch dark. The small shaft acted like a flue, drawing the smoke up into it. He breathed shallowly through the cloth pressed to his face. The lurching upward movement of the platform was steady, but with stops and starts that he presumed were due to rust snagging the chain. His heart nearly stopped with each snag. It seemed to take forever before the platform stopped, and refused to go higher.

Martin lit the flashlight and saw a wooden panel in front of him. He kicked out with a foot. The wood gave a bit. He braced his back against the shaft wall and kicked hard with both feet. He heard or felt splintering wood. He continued kicking until he made a big enough opening to climb out. He was enshrouded in the heavy tapestry that hung from the library wall. Remembering Pierson's warning, he peered cautiously out into the library's main gallery room, with the sword in his hand. He saw no one. Martin yanked hard, and the tapestry ripped from its moorings. He hurriedly tossed it out of the way, and hacked at the remains of the door with the blade. In moments, he had the door completely off.

Smoke poured up and out of the shaft, setting off the smoke detectors and the automatic alarms on this main level. The shrill shriek of the alarms deafened Martin as he pulled frantically on the chain, sending the unburdened platform down three levels much faster than it came up. He took as deep a breath as he could manage. Even with the smoke coming out of the dumbwaiter shaft and rising to the ceiling, the air up here was deliciously cool and clear.

Methos and Amy heard the shriek of the alarm sounding in the Dungeon. Immediately thereafter, Methos felt the chain pulling away from him. He grinned at Amy.

"He made it." she said hoarsely, then stopped as a coughing fit overtook her. Methos ordered her to drop flat to the floor and cover her face. With Guerre on the other end of the chain, Amy's help was unnecessary. She obeyed. Methos was coughing too, and Amy looked up at him in silent sympathy. Then the lights went out. The alarm stopped shrieking.

"Adam?" Amy's voice was hoarse.

"Fire ... reached ... electric." Methos coughed out. He heard a clang. The platform was back. "Amy ... your ... turn."

She stood shakily, and reached her hand out to him in the dark. She caressed his cheek for a moment. Then he helped her to climb on to the platform. By touch, Methos made sure her hands were out of the way, briefly squeezing one before hauling on the chain. Between Amy's lighter weight and Guerre's efforts on the other end, the young woman's ascent was taking half the time. Good thing, Methos thought, because his strength was faltering. The smoke was very thick now, and the temperature uncomfortably hot. Sweat poured from him, slicking the hands that hauled on the chain. Every breath was a struggle, punctuated by racking coughs. His eyes streamed tears under closed lids.

Methos heard, or thought he heard, the crackle of flames somewhere behind him. He was afraid to turn and look, afraid he'd see the roaring beast that was moving inexorably toward him. Methos knew he would come back from smoke inhalation. He could come back physically from being burned, though the healing would bring unimaginable pain. Unless the fire was so hot it cremated him. Then he wouldn't come back at all. In his mind's eye, he saw flames licking at the bookshelves behind him. That internal voice shouted in his head. You're going to burn to death, if you stay here! You could make it to the reading room ... it's made of stone. You have a chance of survival if you go now! Let Guerre pull Amy up the rest of the way. She'll make it without your help. You're going to die forever if you stay here! Methos let go of the chain.

For one horrible moment, the oldest man was paralyzed with indecision. Then, with an inarticulate cry, he seized the chain with both hands and pulled with desperate strength. He closed his mind, and narrowed his perspective until his entire reason for being was to reach up and pull down on a rusty chain, over and over again.

Amy had no sensation of movement, except for the fits and starts when the dumbwaiter chain stuttered and caught. Each stop ratcheted up her fear to nearly unbearable levels before the platform moved again. The air was hot and smoky in the shaft. She could hardly breathe through the cloth she held to her face, but she knew the unfiltered air would clog her throat and lungs worse than they already were. Her sweaty clothes clung to her. In the darkness of the shaft, Amy touched her eyelids with one hand to confirm they were closed. Even squeezed shut, her eyes still burned and wept. Over and over, the same thoughts raced. Please, God, please get us out of this, please let Adam be safe, please, oh please, don't let him burn. She knew what happened to Immortals who burned to death. Though their remarkable bodies healed without a trace of scars, they suffered horribly. Some went mad, begging for death. She pulled herself into a tight ball. She willed herself to be lighter than air. It was working. She could feel herself rising up, becoming light. She was floating aw-

"Amy! Cherie! Are you all right? Come out of there, cherie."

Amy started out of her stupor as Martin's hands pulled her from the shaft. She fell into his arms, her legs folding up under her. I'm not weightless anymore, she thought nonsensically. In the next moment, she took a breath of cool air and stood shakily on her feet. Martin turned back to the dumbwaiter shaft and hauled on the chain frantically. A bout of coughing left her weakly holding on to the wall. Amy took another breath and joined him, pulling on the chain with all her remaining strength.

"It is at bottom." Martin said worriedly. "Sweet Jesus, I hope he has the strength to climb in."

Amy looked at him without speaking. Her throat hurt horribly.

A few minutes went by and Martin glanced at her, uncertain. But, he began pulling the chain again. He thought there might be weight on the platform, but he couldn't be sure. Guerre hadn't hauled the platform up without a person on it, or without Adam's assistance on the other end. Amy joined her strength with us. They worked steadily, silently.

It seemed like forever and Amy had ceased to register anything but the weariness in her arms and the stabbing pain in her throat. Then Martin pulled her hands away from the chains and pushed her gently aside. Amy staggered back against the wall, and slid slowly down to the floor. She watched Martin pull Adam from the platform. Martin tried but couldn't stop the limp form from falling, succeeding only in preventing Adam's head from striking the floor. Adam's eyes were half-open slits. Black soot marred the area around his nose and mouth.

Martin put his ear to Adam's lips, then to his chest. He straightened his tangled limbs, and pulled Adam's head back, opening his airway, feeling for any obstruction. He pinched Adam's nose shut and breathed into his mouth. He did this for a few breaths, then he pressed on Adam's chest. He alternated breathing in to Adam's mouth, with the chest massage. Amy watched his actions through a narrowing tunnel of vision, wanting to tell him it was all right, wanting to ease the fear and pain on Martin's face as he worked desperately over the unresponsive body. But she was too weak to move and had no breath to speak. Even if she could talk, Amy had no assurances to give. All her theoretical knowledge of Immortals and their miraculous ability to return to life had left her. She saw only the cold reality of her friend, Adam, dead on the library floor. Amy found herself praying again in cadence with Martin's actions. Please, God, please, God, please, God ...

Suddenly, Adam convulsed and he breathed in with a shuddering gasp. Surprised, Martin fell back on his haunches. Then, he gently eased the prostrate man onto his side and held his head as great coughing spasms wracked Adam's body. After a while, they eased, and Adam curled tightly into a fetal position. Martin patted his shoulder, pulled the tapestry over him, and tucked it in around Adam. He looked up at Amy. She had never seen that expression on Martin's face before. Tears streamed down his handsome face, making tracks on the sooty cheeks. He crawled to her, cradling her in his arms, shaking so hard Amy feared he would fly apart. With the last of her strength, she squeezed his hand. Amy let go then, spiraling down into the darkness, a moment before the first fireman rushed in to the library.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Joe Dawson strode past the nearly empty waiting room, to the intake desk in the emergency room of the Hopitaux de Paris as fast as his cane and legs would carry him there. He gripped the high counter tightly.

The nurse looked up at him with concern. His face was pale and he was breathing hard. "May I help you, m'sieu?"

"I got a call. My daughter was brought here. Her name is Amy Thomas."

"Yes, she is here."

"Is she all right?"

The nurse smiled reassuringly. "She will be. She is with the doctor right now. Please sit down, m'sieur. I will come for you when the doctor has finished."

"No, I don't want to sit down. I want to see -"

A familiar voice came from behind his left shoulder. "Joe."

Joe turned around. Methos was there.

"Amy is all right, Joe. It's smoke inhalation. They're treating her now." He gestured to the chairs in the empty waiting room. "Let's sit down before you fall down. Come on." He put a hand on Joe's shoulder and guided him to a chair.

Joe sat down heavily. "What happened, Adam? I was on my way back from Lyon, when I got a call on my cell that Amy's been taken to the hospital by ambulance. They wouldn't give me any more information."

"I told the hospital to call you, Joe. I'm sorry, I lost my phone." Methos spoke in low tones. "There was a fire in the University library. Down in the Dungeon."

For the first time, Joe noticed Methos' clothes were smeared with black. He reeked of smoke. "You were there, too?"

"Yeah." He leaned close. "Joe, it was deliberately set."

Joe's eyes narrowed. "Who did it?"

"I don't know. But it wasn't just arson. Somebody was trying to kill us." Methos explained about the door to the reading room being jammed from the outside. "If that feeb, Guerre ..." He stopped and looked sheepish. "If Martin Guerre hadn't happened along just then-" He stopped again at the expression on Joe's face. "Joe?"

Joe was even paler. "He didn't just 'happen along', Adam."

Methos looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I called him. I was worried when I couldn't reach Amy. I called Guerre and asked him to check on her for me." Joe's face went gray and he swallowed rapidly. "Christ, if I hadn't, ..."

"Joe, bend down. Yeah, like that. Put your head between your knees. Take slow deep breaths. Thatta boy." Methos rested his hand on Joe's back and urged him to breathe slowly and deeply. After a few minutes, Joe straightened, still pale, but without that ashy color. Methos fetched him a cup of water from the cooler. Joe's hand trembled a bit as he took the paper cup. "Sip it slowly."

Joe nodded. "I'm OK. It's just ..." He gestured helplessly.

Methos patted his shoulder. "I know, Joe." He was curious. "Why did you call Guerre?"

Joe explained his uneasiness when he saw the sniper's surveillance photographs of Amy in Tom Donovan's office. "I just had a bad feeling. I needed to know that she was safe." He closed his eyes. "Tell me the rest, Adam."

Methos gave him a condensed version of the events in the Library this night. He extracted a small smile from Joe when he described Guerre's resuscitation efforts.

"Is Martin here, too?"

"Yeah. He's got a lesser case of smoke inhalation. But the doctors will probably keep him overnight. I expect Amy will be here for a few days."

Joe looked at Methos closely. He was paler than normal, which accentuated the dark circles under his eyes. "What about you?"

Methos shot him a sharp glance. "I'm fine, Joe." He grimaced. "Except for having to publicly acknowledge that the feeb saved my life." He put a hand to his heart. "Now that hurts."

Joe snorted. "I don't know. It sounds like you two might be even." He was quiet for a few minutes. "Somebody else is out there. Someone connected to Vadem Tokes." At Methos' questioning look, Joe described what he and Donovan had learned from the Interpol records.

"Whoever it is, it's a mortal. Someone I won't feel coming." Methos' expression was grim. "And it could be more than one person."

Joe rubbed his forehead. "If this is connected to the End of Time cult, why are they after you? I thought Mac was the target?"

Methos took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I don't think they were after me tonight, Joe."

"Wha ...?"

"They were trying to kill Amy."

"What!? Why!?"

"I don't know why."

"But, why do you think that?" Joe's head was reeling.

"Because I just returned to Paris yesterday, planning to fly home today. You and Amy were the only people who knew I was here. Whoever locked us into the reading room was prepared with that homemade device to jam the door. How would they know that I would be there, when I didn't know myself until a few hours ago? Amy, on the other hand, is in that reading room on a regular basis, often late at night, after the staff goes home. Just like tonight. Whoever did this was waiting for their opportunity. I think I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Joe looked up at him. "Actually, you were in the right place at the right time... for Amy."

Methos nodded grimly.

Joe sat back in his chair, his mind racing at the implications. The Millennium had passed. Joe thought the danger was over when Mac had defeated Ahriman in Darius' church six years ago. The next battle was in a thousand years. Why would a Millennium cult be after MacLeod and his friends? Were they all targets of these loonies simply because they were associates of Duncan MacLeod? Or did the fact that he and Amy were Watchers factor into the play somehow? Too many questions. No answers.

The nurse called from the desk. "M'sieur Dawson? If you will come with me ...?"

Joe hauled himself to his feet and followed the nurse, with alacrity. Methos leaned back in the chair. He was exhausted, filthy, and stank of smoke. He felt as queasy as Joe looked. If the Watcher hadn't sent Guerre in search of Amy, they'd be dead. Amy permanently, and Methos, even if he survived, probably wishing he was. It had been a very close call. They were lucky that the lowest level of the library had been relatively free from modern furnishings or carpeting. The smoke particulate from wood and paper was bad enough. Modern materials, when burned, produce toxic fumes that will render a person, mortal or Immortal, unconscious in minutes. Methos looked uneasily around the nearly empty waiting room. It was a public place, and there was a security guard at the door. Still, he felt vulnerable and exposed, unable to rely on his Immortal radar to warn him of danger approaching.

The nurse led Joe to a curtained room. The bed was raised so that Amy, propped up with several pillows, was in a sitting position. An oxygen tube was strapped under her nose. An IV dripped fluid into her arm. She opened her eyes when she felt Joe's kiss on her forehead. She was very pale, but managed a small smile for him.

Joe found his voice. "Hi, honey."

Amy tried to speak but that started a round of coughing that left her breathless. Joe patted her on the back until she caught her breath, and handed her the cup of water sitting on the side table. She sipped small amounts through a straw, then leaned back against her pillows.

"Don't try to talk, honey."

She nodded. Then mouthed the words. "I'm OK."

"Sure you are." He patted her arm. "You should be out of here in a day or two."

She gestured weakly with her hands, mimicking the action of writing.

He pulled a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket and handed them to her. She wrote quickly. "We were lucky, Joe. Martin freed us and Adam saved us."

Joe nodded. He owed a lot to those two men. He patted her hand.

"Are they all right?" she wrote.

"Yeah. I just talked to Adam. He said Martin would be here overnight. He didn't eat as much smoke as you did." He cracked a smile. "Adam told me how Martin saved his life."

Amy's eyes gleamed. She wrote quickly. "You can be sure Martin will never let him forget it."

Joe agreed with her. "How're you doing, honey?"

"I'll be fine. Don't worry." she wrote, and underlined it. She took his hand in hers. They were quiet, content in the moment. Amy closed her eyes.

Joe thought she had dozed off, when she suddenly opened her eyes and grabbed the notebook. "I found Timothy of Corinth!!!!!" she wrote.

Joe stared at her. She pointed to a plastic bag on the small table next to the bed. He picked it up. Rebecca's Chronicle was inside, along with Amy's jewelry.

She wrote again. "You were right. He was very hairy and extremely filthy." She smiled at him. Her beautiful blue eyes, though red and irritated from the smoke, twinkled with humor.

Joe's eyes suddenly filled and he enfolded her in his arms. He held her for a long moment, then pulled away, wiping at his cheeks. She patted his arm, and wrote in the notebook again. "I love you, Joe."

"I love you too, honey." He lightened his tone. "The nurse said they were going to take you up to a room soon. They'll set a chair up for me." At her quizzical look, he said "I'm staying the night."

Amy nodded, pleased, and closed her eyes. She was asleep in moments.

Joe tore Amy's last note out, before setting the notebook and pen on the little table. He folded the piece of paper very small and tucked it into his wallet. He left the room quietly and returned to the waiting room. Methos was asleep in a hard plastic chair, head resting against the wall. He looked impossibly young. He jolted awake when Joe took the chair next to him. Methos sat up, blearily.

"Are you all right to drive?" Joe asked.

He yawned prodigiously. "Sure, Joe. What do you need?"

Joe handed over the keys to his car and hotel suite. "Just take a shower before you climb into the bed, OK?"

Methos stared at the keys for a moment and looked a question at Joe.

"I'm staying in Amy's room tonight. You be careful, my friend."

Methos nodded and rose, tucking the keys into the pocket of his jeans. He turned to go, weariness evident in the slump of his shoulders. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned back.

Joe looked directly into his eyes. He pitched his voice low. "Thank you, Methos." He extended his hand, and Methos took it. "Thank you for my daughter."

The old man nodded. Joe watched him walk out of the hospital, before returning to his daughter's room to watch over his sleeping child.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MacLeod rubbed his eyes. He looked up at the old carriage clock on the mantlepiece as it sounded the hour. Four bells chimed musically. He turned back to the verse in his hand, willing it to make sense. The other six verses that Methos had translated from the hidden cave writings were laid out on the polished surface of his desk He had read them all over several times now. Any one of them could be about Lilith. Or none of them.

Something made him look up at the doorway of the great room. Amanda, wearing his black silk pajamas, leaned against the jamb, arms crossed. "I thought you were beat, MacLeod."

"I slept." He shrugged. "I woke up, and couldn't go back." In truth, Mac had jolted out of a convoluted nightmare where he was lost somewhere in the mist, desperately fleeing a phantom menace he could hear roaring behind him, the incomprehensible details fading rapidly even as he had tried to hang on to them. He had lain in bed for nearly an hour, listening to Amanda's soft breathing, but further sleep had eluded him.

"Duncan, I ..." She paused.

"I know, Amanda." He looked up at her. "You'll be leaving tomorrow."

She retorted, piqued at his presumption. "That is not what I was going to say!"

"I'm sorry, baby." He was genuinely contrite. Mac didn't like it when Methos presumed to know what he was thinking. He owed Amanda the same courtesy. "What were you going to say?"

She looked chagrined. "That I was leaving the day after tomorrow."

MacLeod couldn't help but laugh at her expression. "I'll miss you." he said, affectionately.

"Duncan, I ..." She stopped, then she shrugged, at a loss for words. Amanda didn't know why she felt this restlessness, this need to move on. How could she explain it to him when she didn't understand it herself?

"S'okay, Manda. Really." He understood her verbal dilemma. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

"Right." Amanda changed the subject. "What are you doing?"

"Compulsively re-reading enigmatic translations of four thousand year old cave writings." Mac said, with a wry smile.

"O- kay," Amanda drawled. "Whatever floats your boat." She crossed the room to stand behind him, and put her hands on his shoulders. Mac eased back in the chair as she kneaded the muscles of his neck and shoulders. "Is this part of the 'Champion' business?"

"Um-hmmn." He felt tense muscles loosening as her strong fingers massaged. "That feels good."

After a few minutes, she spoke. "Duncan, are you sure about this?"

"No, I can't be sure that Lilith was a past Champion, Amanda. It's all so vague and cryptic that ..."

"No, " she interrupted, "I mean, are you sure that you should be doing this?" Amanda gestured to the tabletop littered with the photos and notes on the cave writings.

MacLeod tilted his head back and met her troubled eyes. "What do you mean?"

Amanda, obviously uncomfortable, looked away. After a moment, she spoke softly. "I know how much Richie's death affected you. I thought you got over it. But this ... this ..."

"Obsession?" Duncan supplied the word.

"Well, yes." She hesitated. "All these books and things about Lilith. Her sword. Wearing Richie's pendant. I don't know if it's ... healthy ... for you to do this."

Mac reached for her hand and pulled her around to sit on his lap. He tucked her dark head under his chin and held her close for a long moment before speaking. "Amanda, I will never 'get over' Richie's death. The best I can manage is to accept it." He stroked her hair. "I killed him, Amanda. I didn't mean to..." He laughed mirthlessly. "God, just listen to how that sounds."

Amanda murmured into his chest. "You shouldn't think about it. Put it out of your mind." She looked up at him, an inviting smile on her face. "Come away with me, Duncan. Someplace hot and sandy. We never did get to Bora-Bora. Methos has a house there, did you know that? I'm sure he'd lend it to us for a couple of months. We could ..."

Duncan put a finger to her lips. "I am what I am, Amanda. I can't run away from this."

"But, ..."

"Amanda, you don't have to believe. It's OK." Duncan stilled her protest with a kiss. He summoned all the conviction he could. "I'm OK. I am. Really." He assured her. "But I gotta do what I gotta do." He sobered. "I have to try, anyway."

"Why, Duncan? If you're right, ... I mean, if you were this Champion ... then you did your part."

He took a deep breath. "Amanda, I didn't know what I was dealing with. I was absolutely unprepared. And because of that, Richie died. Ahriman nearly won because I was so ... so ..." Mac struggled for a word to express how he had felt. Still felt. "Shattered." he said, inadequately. He looked intently into her eyes. "I can't ... I won't let that happen to somebody else."

Amanda brushed dark hair from his forehead, then nodded, though she was not entirely convinced. She kissed him tenderly. Then, she stood and extended her hand. "Come to bed, Don Quixote. The windmills aren't going anywhere tonight."

Duncan took her hand, and brushed it with his lips. "As thee commands, my Lady Dulcinea." She led him back upstairs, to the big bed. He snuggled into the warmth of her, wrapping himself around her smaller body. She pulled his arm close around her, entwining his hand with hers, clasping both to her heart. She felt him relax into sleep before she too let go. Amanda dreamed all night long, though in the morning, she remembered only one image - Rebecca, blue eyes brimming with tears, handing a shining sword to a kneeling Duncan, while Amanda ran away with the crystal hidden in her gown.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Methos sat by the ring of smoke-blackened stones, carefully feeding the fire with small twigs. A drum was beating somewhere behind him. The horses whinnied and neighed to each other in their rough-hewn corral. Someone called his name. He looked up. Silas sat across from him, on the other side of the flames. The flickering firelight played across the giant's face. He grinned toothily at Methos. Methos was absurdly grateful to see that expression. He had thought Silas would hate him for his betrayal. He opened his mouth to speak to the man, to explain how sorry he was for beheading him, when a sharp pain lanced into his neck. Silas' grin broadened and his eyes shifted to look above Methos' head. Methos struggled in vain, his fingers unable to slip beneath the garotte. As his eyes rolled up, he saw Kronos' face above and behind him. The garotte tightened, and Methos' head dropped into the fire. The drum beat louder and louder, as Methos shrieked and shrieked and ...

He opened his eyes. Heart pumping furiously, throat dry, he looked wildly around for the drums. Methos recognized the room and the sound at the same time. He was entangled in the sheets on Joe's bed. Someone was banging on the door to the suite. He reached for the sword resting on the floor. The noise stopped. As he unwound the sheets from his legs, the telephone on the bedside table rang. He snatched it up.

"Hello?" His voice was gravelly.

"Adam, open the goddam door! I have to piss!" It was Joe.

"Yeah. Hold on, I'll be right there."

"I have been holding ..." Joe muttered.

Methos hung up the phone, and wiped the sweat from his face with the top sheet. The fireside chat with Silas and Kronos was only the last in a succession of nightmares that had plagued him since tumbling into Joe's bed. He hurried out of the bedroom and through the living room. He scooped up the cans of food he had stacked against the door, and set them on the counter. One slipped out of his hand and rolled across the kitchenette floor. He removed the chair propped up under the knob, and unlocked the two locks, before swinging the door open.

If Joe was capable of hopping up and down on one leg, he would have been doing it. He gave Methos an exasperated look and strode to the bathroom as fast as he could navigate it, dropping a newspaper on the table as he passed. Methos locked the door again, then knelt and retrieved the runaway can, returning it to the cupboard with the others. He put the chair back in its place at the little dining table. He heard the toilet flush as he made coffee.

Joe walked into the living room at a much slower pace than he'd entered. "Whew." he said, sheepish. He retrieved the newspaper and tucked it under one arm.

"Sorry, Joe. I was asleep." Methos looked at the clock on the small stove. It was four thirty in the afternoon. It had been after dawn when he fell wearily into the bed. "How's Amy?" he asked.

"OK. Slept like a baby last night, I mean, this morning." Joe sat on one of the stools at the counter. "I left Jean Mirron, and a couple of his guys watching over her."

Methos nodded. "Good idea. What did you tell them?"

"What could I tell them? That someone set fire to the library basement and locked you and Amy in. That's all I know. There's not much more in the Gazette this morning." Joe handed him the newspaper. "I've been on the phone most of the day. The Council, Public Relations, Legal, Housekeeping, Human Resources, Research, the field chiefs. Everybody is up in arms about someone coming after two of our own." At Methos' raised eyebrow, he continued. "Adam Pierson may have resigned from the Watchers, but we still don't like our former members being bumped off. It's bad for business. Plus the way they tried to do it! To Watchers, book-burning is a hanging offense."

Methos unfolded the newspaper. It was headline news. "SUSPICIOUS FIRE DESTROYS OLDEST PART OF UNIVERSITY LIBRARY. THREE INJURED. VALUABLE COLLECTION LOST." Methos scanned the article. Sources close to the investigation claimed multiple fires were set in the sub-basement using a fire accellerant that spread from two points to converge in the middle. Three persons, names withheld, were in the library at the time. Two remained hospitalized for smoke inhalation, and one was discharged.

Methos read on. The fire department was able to extinguish the blaze before it spread to the next level, though there was extensive smoke damage throughout the library. The entire facility was closed pending the conclusion of the investigation, and the necessary cleanup. The stone construction of that part of the library helped keep it confined to that level, but had hampered efforts to put it out before it burned itself out for lack of fuel. All the books and materials on that level were destroyed. Much of the destroyed works and materials were unique and irreplaceable. "The losses are incalculable." That quote was attributed to senior librarian emeritus, Genevieve Montand. Methos silently concurred. He would never know if he could have survived the inferno by taking refuge in the reading room. He was glad he hadn't had to find out.

"Did you give a statement to the police?" asked Joe.

"No. They whisked me away in an ambulance before the police could get to me."

"How did you get discharged so fast?" The medical approvals, forms and other red tape Joe had to deal with for an emergency room visit last spring had taken hours.

"I was never admitted, Joe. By the time they had me in the ambulance, I had recovered. I refused all medical treatment, and since I was so obviously healthy, they didn't push it."

"How about Amy and Martin?"

"Amy was unconscious and Martin wearing an oxygen mask when I last saw them. The police didn't get to them last night, Joe."

"Good, then Public Relations might be able to keep a lid on this. Arson is bad enough. We don't need a murder attempt to take over the headlines. "

Methos leaned his elbows on the counter. "Guerre will be the problem on that score, Joe."

"He'll be interviewed by one of our own in the police department, today, and cautioned to keep away from the press." Joe scratched his beard. "We might still have a problem with him, though. Amy might need to convince him. At the least, we may have a day or two before he's up to speaking at length with anybody. Same with Amy."

Methos frowned. Adam Pierson's identity would hold up to official inquiry. It had passed the vetting by the Watchers with flying colors. But publicity and the press were abhorrent and dangerous to him. To any Immortal.

Joe continued. "If Public Relations can suppress the detail about the door to the reading room being jammed, it should keep the authorities and the press from looking too closely at Watcher Amy Thomas and ex-Watcher Adam Pierson, and who might be interested in killing one or both of them. Give us some elbow room." He looked fiercely at Methos. "I need to find these bastards first."

"No, Joe." Methos corrected him. "We need to find them first."

Joe felt a prickling behind his eyes, and a sudden constriction in his throat. He realized that he hadn't expected Methos to stick around in the face of this danger. He rubbed at his eyes. "That hospital air is so dry. My eyes and throat feel like sandpaper." He took a swig of orange juice and noisily cleared his throat. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it." he said, when he regained his composure.

Methos was inwardly amused at Joe's transparency. "Don't worry. It's not a sudden onset of altruism, or Alzheimer's. The End of Time, whoever and whatever it is, tried to kill me too. Twice." He looked thoughtful. "I just don't know how we're going to find them, Joe."

"We'll do whatever it takes, Methos. They tried to kill my daughter." Joe locked his gaze with the old man.

Joe's cell phone shrilled. He fumbled in his pants pocket, pulled it out and flipped it open. "Dawson." He looked up at Methos. "Yeah, Mac. Amy and Adam are all right. Smoke inhalation, but she'll be fine. She's in the hospital for a few days. How'd you find out?" He listened a minute. "Oh, CNN. ... Yeah, they were both there. Martin Guerre too. He's OK." A pause. "Deliberately set ... Adam says whoever did it was after Amy ... Mac, you can't ... Mac, you shouldn't ... I know, but .... Mac, wait a minute! ... Mac!" He shrugged, and put his hand over the mouthpiece. MacLeod's voice was faintly audible as Joe handed the phone to Methos. "You tell him not to fly back here."

Methos put the phone to his ear. "Mac, shut up a minute ... Yeah, it's me ... Listen a second. Get your ass back here ASAP. Be careful. It's a no-Buzz scenario. ... Right .. OK ... Bye." He handed the phone back to Joe.

Joe gaped at him. "Methos, this is the last place MacLeod should be!"

"We need him, Joe. To watch my back, and yours and Amy's." He paused. "And, maybe, as a stalking horse."

Realization dawned on Joe. "If the firestarter is connected to that End of Time cult, you hope they'll come after Mac. But Methos, ..."

"Mac understands the risks." Methos stated the obvious. "He's Immortal. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking. Amy doesn't."

"But, ..." Joe was at a loss for words. MacLeod had just recovered from the sniper's assault on him a few weeks ago. An assault that had left him comatose for two days. It had taken another week on Holy Ground for him to fully recover. If the Highlander returned to Paris, he'd be walking right back into the line of fire.

"Joe, think about it." Methos said, patiently. "Can you see MacLeod sitting home by the phone, twiddling his thumbs, waiting to see how all this turns out?"

"No." he admitted. Of course, MacLeod would stand by him, and Amy, in this crisis. No matter what they said to Mac, he'd be on his way here on the next plane. There was no doubt in Joe's mind. Joe was suddenly ashamed that he hadn't expected the same from his friend, Methos.

"No." Methos agreed. "You said it yourself, Joe." Methos poured coffee into two cups, and handed one to Joe. "We do whatever it takes."

Joe took the cup. He looked into it for a long moment, then looked up at the old man. He nodded. "Whatever it takes.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The flight attendant was amused by the couple in first class. They were in the midst of a lover's quarrel. If it were up to him, Jesse would skip the fight and cut to the chase. Making up with that gorgeous creature would be worth abasing onself in humble apology - no matter who was right or wrong. That face capped by dark hair, that fabulous body. And those flashing dark eyes! Such passion and grace! Yep, if he had his druthers, the truce would be declared and the opening ceremonies of the Mile High Club already underway. If there was one thing Jesse had learned in his thirty-one years, it was that life was way too short to be mad at each other over some silly little thing. After all, they were on their way to Paris.

Well, he'd do his small part in the cause of romance. "May I pour you some champagne" Jesse held the flute out to the lovely creature.

Amanda uncrossed the arms she had folded tightly on her chest. She gave the attendant a brilliant smile. "Yes, thank you." She held the flute out as he poured expertly.

Jesse spoke to the gentleman across the aisle, whose face was turned toward the window. "Sir?" No response. "Excuse me, sir, would you like some champagne?"

MacLeod turned, scowling at the polite young man. Then, with an effort, he relaxed his face into a mere frown. "Scotch, please. Single malt." He turned back to the window.

Jesse was a winsome young man, with a genuine romantic streak. He persisted, undaunted. "But sir, I just opened this bottle, and you two are the only passengers in first class. It does seem a shame to waste it."

The reply was terse. "No, thank you. I'd like the Scotch."

The attendant was disappointed. "Yes, sir. Right away." The woman seemed to recognize an ally, and raised her glass to him. He exited first class, the velvet curtain swirling in his wake.

"That wasn't very nice, MacLeod." Amanda scolded in a stage whisper. "He was just trying ..."

Mac interrupted her, without turning. "Amanda, it's going to be a long flight. Let's just not talk, OK?"

Amanda pouted and flounced against the back of her seat. She sipped her champagne. God, he was stubborn! And pig-headed! Not to mention chauvinistic. She occupied herself mentally cataloguing Duncan's negative qualities, until the attendant returned with his Scotch. She noticed that MacLeod gave him a friendly smile, and thanked him warmly. Then he ignored the drink and her.

Their argument had started this morning. Amanda had meandered down to the kitchen, following the smell of brewing coffee. Duncan sat at the table, burnishing Rebecca's sword with a polishing cloth. Juice, fresh fruit, and scones were set out on the counter. The radio was on, tuned to one of those boring public stations that never played music, and extorted money out of its listeners semi-annually. Amanda knew for a fact that MacLeod pledged generously, and always refused the thank-you gift. Yawning, she fixed herself a cup of coffee and a plate of goodies and joined Duncan at the table. He set the sword down, reached a hand behind her head, and pulled her in for a long, luscious kiss. He tasted of sugared coffee.

"Good morning." He picked up the rag and dabbed gently at the sword. The blade gleamed in the morning light that streamed through the window. Not a trace of rust could be seen.

"Mmmm." Amanda took a sip from her mug. She sang a snatch of song. "Sweeten my coffee with a morning kiss. That's an even better eye-opener than the caffeine." She looked at the weapon with a critical eye. "The sword looks great, MacLeod. Just like I remember it."

Mac raised the sword by the hilt, and peered down the length of it. "It turned out better than I expected. The chasing is shallow, but you can still make out the engraving." He turned the sword. It caught and reflected the sunlight streaming through the window. "This was a bonny blade in its day."

Amanda ran a finger lightly along the inscribed metal. "I wonder what these symbols mean?"

He shrugged. "Might just be decorative." Mac set the sword down and rose. "I've made a rubbing. I'll show it to Methos next time I see him." He took his cup to the counter and poured himself a fresh drink.

"Duncan, what do you say we ..."

"Hush, Amanda!" He turned up the radio.

It was the news at the top of the hour. The announcer continued. "... extensive damage to the building and the complete destruction of the contents of an entire wing. Three people have been injured and taken to area hospitals. The fire has been deemed suspicious by the Parisian authorities. An investigation is in progress. In Jerusalem today, another suicide ..." Duncan switched off the radio. He looked grimly at Amanda.

"What ...?" She said, alarmed.

MacLeod strode into the great room, and turned on the TV. Amanda followed him. He tuned in CNN and stood close to the set, scanning the scrolling bits of news across the bottom of the screen, while the newscaster interviewed Pierce Brosnan about the latest James Bond film.

"Duncan, what's the matter?"

"A fire in the library at the University of Paris, last night. Arson, apparently." His eyes didn't leave the screen. "Amy Thomas is a graduate student there." He turned up the sound. "Here it is."

Nighttime images of a chaotic scene outside the edifice of the old library on the University grounds filled the screen. Police and firefighters were scrambling behind the on-air reporter. Amanda recognized the stone building, though she hadn't spent much time inside it. The report was brief. A fire broke out in the lowest level of the library some time after midnight, Paris time. Three people had been in the library at the time. They were taken by ambulance to hospital. No information had been released on the seriousness of their injuries. The fire had completely consumed the lower level.

An elderly woman, her gray hair escaping in wisps from the bun at the top of her head, spoke to the reporter. Under her image, a name appeared: "Genevieve Montand, senior librarian, University of Paris". Amanda tuned out the English translation, and listened to the woman's actual words in French. In a quavering voice, choked with emotion, she said "Why would anyone do this? Why? It is all gone. Why?" A younger woman, waving dismissively at the camera, put an arm around her shoulder and led her away. The report concluded with a statement from authorities that the fire appeared to be deliberately set, by persons and for reasons unknown.

Duncan turned the television off. His mouth tightened in a grim line. He returned to the kitchen and punched numbers into the phone. "Joe? ... Is Amy all right? ... CNN ... Was Adam with her? ... What happened? ...What! I'll be on the next plane ... I have to ... Joe, don't argue with me! I'm coming! I can't stay here while she's ... Me - Adam? Don't argue with me! I'm com - ...Oh, OK ... I understand. ... I'll see you when I see you." He hung up.

"Is she all right, Duncan?" Amanda's heart was in her throat. She hadn't even met the young woman. But Joe Dawson was a dear friend.

Mac nodded. "Yeah, mild smoke inhalation only. She'll be in the hospital for a few days." He looked at his watch. "Amanda, I have to catch a flight. I'm sorry. I know you're not leaving till tomorrow." He smiled absently. "Just lock up when you go?" He was already starting his to-do list in his head.

"Don't be sorry, MacLeod. You're not running off and leaving me behind."

"Hmmmmm?" He was wrapping the sword in soft muslin. "What was that?"

"I'm going with you."

"That's not necessary, Manda. I'll take a cab to the airport." Mac walked into the great room and opened the weapons safe in the corner. He set the sword carefully on the brackets, and closed the heavy door, spinning the combination dial.

Amanda was right on his heels. "So will I. I'm going with you to Paris."

That got his full attention. MacLeod stopped in his tracks. "No, you're not. I don't have time to explain, but it's too dangerous, Amanda."

"You can explain while we pack." Amanda walked around the room, picking up her bits and pieces. Where was the other gold shoe?

"Amanda! You're not going, and that's final!" Mac stood, hands on hips, resolute, the very picture of the immovable object.

The irresistible force just danced around him. The argument became more heated and continued until the farcical scene of two taxis pulling up in tandem in front of Mac's house. MacLeod tried to dissuade Amanda before she entered her taxi. He tried one more time to persuade her at the ticket counter. After that, he had pulled the silent treatment and was now all broody and dour and so, so ... Scottish. Amanda finished her champagne, and another glass, in silence.

"Amanda, is there anything I can do or say that will change your mind?"

Surprised that he was speaking to her, Amanda turned. Duncan's expression was solemn, his dark gaze intense.

"No, Duncan. Joe is my friend, too." Her expression was equally serious.

He took a deep breath and nodded. "I know you're even more stubborn than I am." He put up a hand as she protested. "Come over here." She tossed her head and stayed put. "Please. I need to tell you what we're dealing with, and it's not for public consumption." He held out a hand across the aisle. "Please, Amanda."

Amanda relented and scooted into the seat next to him. MacLeod leaned in close, and pitched his voice low. She stared at him as Mac told her about the ambush of Methos and himself on a Paris street by an Immortal, and the cat-and-mouse game the old man and the sniper had played over Mac's body. He tried to gloss over the severity of his wounds, but Amanda knew it must have been very bad.

"Oh, Duncan." She breathed, upset. "That's just awful."

"I never knew what hit me, Amanda." Mac reassured her, then frowned as he realized that statement wasn't particularly reassuring. "Anyway, it was Methos who had to deal with the situation. Do you believe the old man, taking out that bastard the way he did?" He shook his head, admiringly.

Amanda had a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. Duncan was one of the best swordsmen in the world. And, in her opinion, the likeliest contender to be the One. The thought that her Highlander could be taken like that, without a fight, without a chance! She reached up and caressed the left side of his face, shaken at how close she had come to losing him.

Mac turned his face into her hand, then kissed her palm. He held on to her hand as he continued with his tale. He reported the subsequent discoveries that Joe and the Watchers had made tracing the sniper, finding his apartment and safe deposit box. He explained about the photograph of the mysterious Magda with the sniper, Vadem, and Vadem's silver ring that Methos linked to the End of Time cult. He ended with Methos' belief that the fire in the library was intended to kill Amy, by persons and for reasons unknown, the natural assumption that it had something to do with Vadem and the End of Time.

By the time they were circling LaGuardia, Duncan had finished. Amanda's face was pale and the hand he was holding was icy cold. He rubbed it between both of his and brought it to his lips.

"Amanda, you don't have to get on the plane to Paris." Duncan's voice was as neutral as he could make it.

A sudden, overpowering urge to shop in mid-town Manhattan seized Amanda. She took a deep breath. Before she could speak, the imagery in last night's dream returned in a rush. Amanda shook herself, and squared her shoulders. "I won't run away from someone who loves me, Duncan. Not this time. Let me help." She half expected him to pitch another fit, when he suddenly gathered her into his arms and pulled her close.

He whispered into her ear. "We do this as a team, understand? We make the plan together, we do the plan together - nobody charges off on their own. You got it?"

Amanda bristled. "I'm always a team player, MacLeod." She pulled away from his embrace.

Duncan stifled the snort of disbelief, but rolled his eyes, in spite of himself. He instantly regretted it.

Amanda was indignant. "Hey, you're the one who wants to fight everyone's battles for them, MacLeod."

"Amanda, ..." Duncan's tone was placating.

"Like that time with Luther."

"Amanda, we just made up. Let's not start arguing again." He gave her his best puppy-eyed look.

But Amanda was just getting wound up. "And don't forget Kalas."

Duncan narrowed his eyes. "I wouldn't bring up Kalas if I were you. You were the one that broke him out -"

"I only did that because - !"

Mac shut her up with a kiss.

Jesse, waiting at the curtain a moment, smiled at the bussing couple before intruding with the seatbelt instruction. He just knew they would make up before they reached Paris.

As they disembarked for their connecting flight, he said to the lovely woman, "Enjoy your stay in Paris." He smiled warmly. "It's the City of Lovers." Jesse was a little puzzled that she didn't return his smile. Oh well, he defied anybody to visit Paris without having a wonderful time. It was a city to die for.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The 30^th day of the eighth month, the year of Our Lord, Nine Hundred Ninety-Six

I have been waiting at this inn for news for the Lady Rebecca for a fortnight now. Today, Matthias left a letter with the innkeeper for me. The master of the house asked me if I was a scribe, when he handed me the sealed letter. I owned that I was. He inquired of me what fee I would charge to write a letter for him to his mother in Patrai. Surprised, I asked him if his mother could read such a letter. He eyed me as if I were simple-minded. I could see his doubt that an idiot such as I could really write. Finally, he explained that the priest in the village would receive the missive and read it for his mother. We agreed that the price of the scribing would be a tankard of ale. His good humor restored, I proceeded to write the letter to the good woman, with many a fancy and flowery phrase. Pleased by my efforts, he gave me a second tankard on the house. It was some time before I could retreat to my room to read Matthias' letter. I broke the seal with hands trembling in anticipation. Good news indeed! Matthias has word of the whereabouts of the lady, and bade me to meet him at the stable on the outskirts of town at midnight tonight. I am elated!

The 1^st day of the eleventh month, the year of Our Lord, Nine Hundred Ninety-Six

God help me! The worst has happened! Matthias is dead and I am running for my life. I cannot believe it, even as I write it in this Chronicle. What does this mean? I cannot understand. I will write what I know here. In the event that I am apprehended, I will try to hide this volume so that it is not found on my person. But how can I let my brethren know where it is hidden? No, that does not matter now.

In compliance with Matthias' letter, I departed the inn at eleven o'clock for my meeting. The stable was quiet, only the horses were in situ when I arrived. I waited in vain for three hours for Matthias to appear. Puzzled, I returned to the inn and slipped back to my room, in the darkness, taking great pains not to arouse the sleeping inhabitants of the house.

The first inkling of alarm came at the odd smell that greeted me as I closed the door of my room behind me. I lit the lamp. Dear Lord! Even now, I am sickened by the sight that greeted my eyes. Blood was everywhere, on the floor, the furnishings. Strange symbols were written in blood upon the walls. The blood belonged to Matthias, whose poor, defiled body lay at the foot of my bed. Weakness overcame me and I sank to my knees, my hand to my mouth to hold back the scream or the contents of my stomach, I do not know which. How long I was insensible, I cannot say. I became aware of a whimpering noise and thought, perhaps, that Matthias may not be dead, though his head was cleaved in two. I crept within inches of his body before I recognized that it was I who made those sounds. Poor, poor Matthias. He had been ... it is unspeakable. I will say no more.

I said a prayer for the soul of the poor man, and closed his dead eyes. As I folded his hands upon his breast, I found a slip of paper clutched in his right hand. Soaked with his blood, folded over many times, the missive was very small. I tucked it into my blouse. I took very little with me. Most of my possessions were tainted with blood. I covered Matthias' body with the blanket from the bed, and said another small prayer for his eternal rest.

I left the room and crept out of the inn for the second time that night. By the time I had retrieved my horse from the stables, it was only a few hours before the dawn. I had to get away from Corinth as fast as I could, before the body is discovered, or I will be crucified like Timothy, accused of a foul and bloody crime. I did not do this heinous act, but would I be believed? I am a stranger here. Why would Timothy return to the city of his condemnation to continue his murderous rampage? But he is a madman, and reason has abandoned him. I feared for the Lady Rebecca, who was last seen with the wretch in her care.

I have made it to the road heading south, away from the city. I will spend the night on the side of the road, and avoid other people at all costs. I must not be found near Corinth. In the light of the new day, I unfolded the paper I found in Matthias' hand. It contained one word. Aiyina.

It was only after several hours upon the road that another thought has come to me. I did not commit this heinous act, yet my denials would not avail me when the body is found in my room. With this in mind, I cast myself in Timothy's place before the magistrate, and listened to the words of the poor wretch with a different ear. Is it conceivable ... is it at all possible that Timothy of Corinth did not commit the crimes for which he was condemned to the cross? And if this is so, who did? Will I be his next victim?

I will make for the island Aiyina as soon as I may find the passage. I pray I may find the Lady Rebecca there alive and well. I truly do not know if I hope to find Timothy of Corinth in her care. For if he did not kill Matthias, I do not believe he killed his family. And it that is so, who did? I shiver with more than the cold. May God have mercy upon me.

Amy jumped, emitting a croak of alarm when the door of her hospital room was opened. She had been so intent on her reading, she didn't register the knock. A young Watcher from the Housekeeping team poked his head in the door.

"Would you like anything from the cafeteria, Amy?"

She picked up the pad and pen from the bedside table, and quickly wrote "Ice cream!"

He nodded and closed the door. Amy leaned back against the pillows, as her heart rate reverted to normal. Between the suspenseful Chronicle, and the fire that nearly killed her, she was entitled to be a little jumpy. She had made a token protest when Joe told her she would be under 24 hour guard by her fellow Watchers while here in the hospital, but she was that glad to have them here. Except for the severe sore throat and the shortness of breath, Amy felt fairly well. She would probably be discharged tomorrow or the next day.

Martin Guerre was released earlier today. He had come to see her immediately upon his release. He looked tired and pale, and his eyes, like hers, were red-rimmed. Amy, though glad to see him, was relieved that her sore throat prevented her from speaking. She had long suspected that Martin felt more than just friendship toward her. His words and actions in the library basement had revealed a depth of feeling that had surprised her with its intensity. And the way Martin had looked at her today ... Amy didn't know how to feel about that. Keeping her membership in the Watchers a secret required her to compartmentalize her life. Martin belonged in the academic box. Didn't he?

And where did Adam Pierson belong? Adam presented a satiric face to the world. Amy had assumed it overlaid a cynical, world-weary Immortal's detachment from the vicissitudes of the mortal lives around him. She was wrong. Being trapped together in the reading room, expecting to die, had stripped the masks from both of them. She had seen Adam's humanity then. Seen it and been drawn to it. Despite her fear, Amy had found comfort in his embrace. More than comfort. She had felt ... treasured. That feeling had given her a measure of strength to at least try and face what was to come.

Amy was absurdly proud of both men. At Adam's stalwart leadership, risking his sanity and possibly his Immortal life to ensure Amy and Martin's escape. And Martin - he had swallowed his doubts about Adam's abilities at her insistence. She had seen what it had cost him to go first in the dumbwaiter, leaving her behind, his desperation to "save" Adam, and his unashamed tears of reaction when Adam returned to life.

Surviving the fire had forged a bond between the three of them. Amy had no idea how long it would last, or where it might lead them. She didn't have a clue who had locked them into the reading room, and started the fire. Or why. She didn't know if they would try again. Amy was usually a contemplative person, with a tendency to overanalyze situations. Not today. Today was about one simple truth. She and Martin and Adam were alive.

The young Watcher - Jeremy - returned with a small container and a plastic spoon. Amy thanked him with her eyes and smile. She licked her lips in anticipation. As the first spoonful of vanilla soothed her sore throat, she closed her eyes in rapture. Yes, she was alive, and there was ice cream. Today was a good day, indeed.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

"Joe, I simply cannot believe that you believe that."

"What's so hard to believe? It's the clearest example among a ton of instances I could name."

"You're basing it on the Readers Digest version of history, rife with narrative cohesion, tidy conclusions, and footnotes. History is life, messy and chaotic. If you'd lived through what I've seen ..."

"Whoa, Methos! I can't argue with the wise old man because I'm just a kid and don't know any better? Because I wasn't there? That's bullshit, man!"

"Joe, the world today would not be that different because of the presence of one man at one battle in one war." Methos explained, patiently.

"Yes, it would. If Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain had not been at Little Round Top at the Battle of Gettysburg on July 3, 1863, then ..." Joe stopped speaking at the expression on his opponent's face.

Methos sat up abruptly as Immortal Presence washed over him. He put down his beer and reached for the sword on the coffee table. Joe, perched on a stool in the kitchenette, noticed the movement and turned toward the door. He reached for the handgun resting on the counter in front of him a moment before there was a knock.

"Methos?" Joe inclined his head toward the door. He was closer to it, but he wasn't moving until the old man gave him the thumbs up.

Methos let out the breath he was holding when he felt the distinctive ring of MacLeod's aura join the first Presence. Still holding the sword, he padded to the door in his stocking feet. "It's MacLeod, and I'm betting he has Amanda with him."

Another knock, somewhat louder. A muffled voice was just audible. "Adam, it's Mac, and ... a friend."

Methos opened the door wide. Amanda breezed in, looking fresh and fashionable in a sleek black pantsuit, carrying a small canvas duffle. MacLeod followed, breathing hard, a suitcase in each hand and matching carryall bags over both shoulders, sweating in his long coat. He hurried past Methos, nodded at Joe, and dumped the luggage on the sofa. He took a deep breath, stripping off the coat. Mopping his brow on his sleeve, he turned around to greet his friends.

Amanda had her arms around Methos, kissing him thoroughly on the lips. As Duncan watched, the older man dropped the sword, and encircled her with his arms, pulling her tightly against him. Behind them, Joe's mouth hung open, his eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline, as he caught MacLeod's eye.

"Hey, Joe." Mac said.

Joe stared, speechless, at the lip-locked twosome. He swung his gaze back to MacLeod, and cleared his throat. "Hey, Mac." he said, weakly.

MacLeod walked around Methos and Amanda, still in a clinch. He stretched his hand out to Joe, who took it automatically. "How's Amy?"

Joe, with some difficulty, tore his eyes away from the scene in front of him. Be cool, he told himself. "She's better. They'll probably discharge her tomorrow." He concentrated on the mundane. "How 'bout a beer, Mac?"

"Thanks, Joe." MacLeod waved a hand at his friend. "Don't get up." He reached into the refrigerator and emerged with two bottles. As Mac twisted the cap off the first one, Amanda released Methos. The old man stumbled back a few steps, his expression dazed. Mac dangled the open bottle before Methos' face. He seized it, threw his head back and drank deeply.

"Joe!" Amanda squealed with delight, and rushed to him. Joe couldn't help the flinch, but he recovered nicely as she hugged him and kissed his cheek. "It's so good to see you."

Methos pressed the chilled bottle to his overheated brow. He looked speculatively at MacLeod, seriously wondering how the younger man ever made it out of bed when the little vixen was in town. Mac shrugged eloquently, as if in answer to the old man's thought.

Methos, summoning as much aplomb as possible, and faking the rest, slouched against the counter. "Not that I'm complaining, Amanda, but what the hell was that for?"

"That's just how I say 'Thank you', Methos." Her large brown eyes were solemn. "MacLeod told me how you saved him."

Methos traced his lips lightly with a finger. He turned to the younger man. "Sorry, Mac. Next time, you're on your own."

Joe regarded the woman beside him. "Amanda, you look wonderful."

She preened and graced him with a brilliant smile. "Thank you, kind sir."

"But what are you doing here?"

"I came to help, Joe." Amanda said, sprightly.

Joe looked beyond her to MacLeod, who was sipping his beer with a neutral expression. "Mac, didn't you tell her what we're dealing with here?"

Amanda interjected before Mac could respond. "I'm such a goose when it comes to anything other than clothes and shoes, and having my nails done." She held out one hand, admiring her red-tipped fingers. "You fellows have no idea how hard it is to keep up with women's fashions over twelve hundred years." She tapped her cheek with a finger. "Let me see if little ole me can remember what the problem is." She put her hands on her hips. Her voice sharpened. "There's one or more mortals, involved with a dead Immortal sniper, who belong to this crazy cult who think the world should have come to an end a couple of years ago, and when it didn't, want to blame Dunkie here, and kill him and all his friends, including your daughter, by any and all means available, such as burning down one of the oldest libraries in Europe and incinerating a priceless collection of books that took centuries to acquire." She fluttered her eyelashes. "Did I leave out anything important?" she cooed.

Joe gawked at her, a flush spreading up his neck.

"I told her, Joe." Mac said, helpfully.

Methos barked out a laugh, retrieved another beer, and returned to the sofa. Duncan hastily removed the luggage, stacking it neatly in a corner behind the easy chair. Methos sat down. The Highlander joined him.

Joe found his voice. "I didn't mean ... Amanda ... I'm sorry." He ran a hand through his hair. "Thank you."

Amanda wound her arm through his and leaned against his shoulder. "You're welcome." She patted his arm. "Don't worry about me, Joe. I'm just a part of the team. I promised Duncan that I would be good and follow the plan to the letter." She looked over at the couch. "So, what's the plan?" she asked, brightly.

Methos looked up from his bottle as he felt three pairs of eyes drilling into him. "We paint a big red bullseye on MacLeod's back, and let him walk around the Tuilleries for a couple of days, while we hide in the bushes?"

Dead silence.

"OK, that'll be Plan 'B'." He slumped against the sofa back.

MacLeod spoke. "Amanda, we haven't even figured out where we're going to spend the night yet. We'll come up with a plan."

"Stay here, Mac." Joe piped up. "You and Amanda can have the bed."

"Oh, no, Joe ..." Mac protested. "I'm not putting you out of your bed again. We'll find a place. I just have to make some calls."

"You won't be displacing me, Mac. I won't be using it." Joe checked his watch. "As a matter of fact, Methos and I are due at the hospital in half an hour. Jean is picking us up in a few minutes. I'll be on a chair in Amy's room tonight, Methos outside it."

Amanda put a hand on his arm. "Joe, ..." she stopped, uncertain.

"Yeah, honey?"

"Would you mind ... that is, would it be all right if ..." She smiled a little shyly. "Could I go with you?"

Joe looked at her in surprise.

She continued, earnestly. "I could spell Methos tonight. Keep the watch outside Amy's door."

Joe's smile was warm. "Sure, Amanda." He nodded toward the men on the couch. "Those two can have the bed tonight."

"No thanks, Joe. I'll keep the couch." Methos said. "Mac snores."

"I do not." Mac protested.

"Yes, you do, Duncan." Amanda put in.

"No, I don't." he insisted.

Joe settled it. "You do, Mac." At MacLeod's look, he said "It says so in your Chronicle."

"And we just know everything in the Chronicles is true, now don't we?" Methos said to no one in particular.

"Maybe I should come with you." Mac said, reaching for his coat.

"Then you'd be leaving Methos alone in here," Joe said, "sleeping with tin cans stacked against the door."

Mac turned and looked down at the old man. Methos shrugged.

Joe continued. "We have the hospital very well-covered, Mac. Inside and out."

Mac laid his coat back on the easy chair, and sat back on the couch. Joe gathered things around the room - car keys, change, wallet. He disappeared briefly into the bedroom and returned wearing a light jacket. He removed an object wrapped in a handkerchief from the jacket pocket, and unwound the fabric.

Amanda lifted an eyebrow at the gun in Joe's hand. "And I thought you were just happy to see me, Joe."

"Very funny." Joe handed the weapon to her.

She took it. "A Glock.G-17." She expertly sighted down its barrel, removed the clip and checked the chamber. She pointed it at the television set and squeezed the trigger. She returned the clip, put the safety on, and hefted its weight. "Nice."

"It ought to be. It belonged to our dead assassin friend."

"Vadem?" Mac asked, rising from the couch again.

Joe turned toward Mac for a second. "His full name was Vadem Tokes. Methos can tell you the rest. I'll fill Amanda in on the way." He turned back to the woman. The gun had disappeared. She gave a little wriggle and adjusted the neckline of her top. Joe forced himself to stop staring at her bosom. He retrieved his own gun from the counter, checked the safety, and tucked it in a holster under his left arm. "Ready?" he asked.

She nodded. "Bye, bye, boys." She waved a hand.

"Amanda?" Mac called to her as she was halfway out the door. "Be careful. You too, Joe." They nodded and Joe closed the door behind them.

Mac retrieved two more beers from the kitchen and returned to the couch. "I thought you were spending the summer at St. Crispin's?" He handed his companion a bottle.

Methos gave him a strange look. "I wouldn't bring that up if I were you."

"O-kay, then." Mac hastily changed the subject. "So, bring me up to speed on developments here."

Methos did.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Amy bit her lip in concentration. It was awkward using the marker in her left hand, but she already had the Watcher tattoo marking the underside of that wrist. She capped the marker and set it on the tabletop next to her. Holding out her right hand, she admired her handiwork. Two black parallel lines encircled her wrist. Operating on the premise that her Watcher tattoo was the same symbol impressed in the pages of every other Chronicle, Amy had wondered what the unfamiliar symbol tooled into the cover of Rebecca's Greek Chronicle might look like on her arm. Kind of like a bracelet, she mused, satisfied at the experiment.

Actually, Amy had drawn the mark on her arm as an extension of the idle doodling she had been making on her tablet. She was a little stir-crazy. Tonight would be her third night in the hospital. Physically, she felt much better. Except for a raspy edge to her voice, and a slight shortness of breath on exertion, she felt almost normal. Not that she had exerted herself much, just trips back and forth to the bathroom right here in her room. Even the respiratory therapy she received several times a day was done here. Amy longed for a change of scene from these same four institutional walls, even if it was just a ride in a wheelchair down to the cafeteria. But Amy understood the necessity of staying in her room, where the Watchers who were guarding her could control the approaches to their charge.

Amy picked up Rebecca's Chronicle. She was more than halfway through the volume, and had become increasingly intrigued by the teller and his tale. She was struck anew by how much the Chronicle recording an Immortal's life actually revealed so much of the mortal writer. James was young, earnest, homesick and more than a little in love with his assignment.

Amy had read a lot of Chronicles over the years. She noticed these personal glimpses in the other records she had read. Darius' Chronicle reflected the admiration of every man and woman who Watched him over the centuries. The terminal report filed by Ian Bancroft after the priest's death had been permeated with Bancroft's grief. Joe's Chronicle of Duncan MacLeod exuded his respect and affection for the Highlander long before their friendship was formed. Amy knew her own entries in Morgan Walker's Chronicle during her brief stint as a field agent dripped with the contempt she had for the man. She'd had the unique experience of having them read to her by the subject himself. Amy had cringed, not only in fear of the Immortal, but at her inartful and unprofessional entries, made evident upon hearing them read aloud.

Amy riffled through the small volume. She had left James fleeing for his life from the city of Corinth, leaving behind the body of Mathias, his fellow Watcher, in his room at the inn. But she backtracked to an earlier excerpt. After a few minutes, she found the passage she was looking for.

This paragraph had nagged at Amy since she had first read it. James apparently was referring to a hierarchy among Watchers - she had read numerous passages where he referred to "the lesser brethren" or "my order". Additionally, James' references to the mark of his order and the mark of the lesser brethren indicated differences in the tattooing of its members as well. Such a distinction was not a part of any Watcher protocol that Amy had ever heard of.

All Watchers from the supreme director of the Council to the greenest recruit sported the same tattoo - the "Y"-shaped symbol within a circle, banded by thirteen dots. She had inquired among the other researchers in her department. No one had ever seen the circle-within-the-circle symbol stamped into the cover of the Greek Chronicle before. It was very odd.

Amy looked at her right wrist again. Maybe James' tattoo looked something like her crude efforts with a magic marker. Still, she couldn't imagine a system of tattooing for rank within the Organization. Would an upwardly mobile Watcher get a new tattoo with every promotion up the ladder? Ouch! Or, conversely, a removal if they were demoted? Double ouch! And while she knew next to nothing about Rebecca's Chronicler, not even his real name, she was convinced that James was young. Achingly so. It was evident that this journey was his first time in the field, his first time away from the familiar comforts of home, wherever home was. He was too young and inexperienced to have risen in the ranks to a position of authority.

Amy found her place in the little book and began reading. She had only turned one page when there was a soft knock at the door. "Come in." she called.

Jean Mirron opened the door. "Visitor.", he said, tersely. Martin Guerre stood behind him, impatiently shifting from foot to foot.

"Martin! Come in." Amy slipped the old book into the drawer of her bedside table. "Thanks, Jean."

Martin looked suspiciously at Mirron as the older man closed the door. He held a small nosegay in one hand. With the other, he pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Who are those people?"

"Just some friends of Joe's." she replied, uncomfortable with the half-truth.

"Are they guarding you?" Martin said bluntly.

"No. Not guarding me, exactly. They're just watching over me a little." She squirmed. "Joe is worried about me. With the fire and all."

Martin came closer. "It is not a bad idea, until the police catch the culprit." He frowned. "I cannot imagine why anyone would lock you and Pierson in that room. Who would want to hurt you? Now, Pierson ..." He stopped, shaking his head. "No, Pierson can be irritating, but I cannot see him inspiring enough genuine emotion for anyone to try to kill him."

Amy adjusted the pillows and sat straighter in the bed. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said about Adam."

Martin made a very French noise in his throat. "He surprised me that night." he admitted, grudgingly. "Have you seen him?"

"Yes, Adam was here last night."

"How is he?" At Amy's surprised look, Martin added. "Pierson was not admitted to the hospital, as we were." He looked down at his hands. "I was wondering if he is all right." He looked a little embarrassed by his own solicitude.

"He was hoarse, like me. A bit pale." She quickly covered for the Immortal. "Apparently, Adam refused medical treatment. Has a phobia about doctors and hospitals. Adam's been treating himself, at home. With some vile homeopathic concoctions."

Martin jeered. "Mixed with beer, I will wager."

"No bet." Amy chuckled. She smoothly shifted the subject away from the Immortal's medical condition. She pointed. "Are those for me?"

Martin looked down at the forgotten flowers in surprise. He shrugged, sheepish. He presented the bouquet, with a slight flourish.

She sniffed the fragrant blooms of violets and tea roses. How sweet! He remembered her favorites. "Thank you."

"Amy, may I ask you something?" he said, his expression serious.

Amy's heart beat faster. Here it comes. The subject she had avoided thinking about. She didn't know how to respond to Martin's declarations of feelings for her. She took a deep breath. Well, she owed him the courtesy of listening, and an honest answer at least. Whatever that might be. She nodded.

He moved closer to the bed. His gray eyes were solemn. "Is Joe in the Mafia?"

Amy goggled at him, then burst into laughter. Which set off a coughing fit. Martin patted her back and handed her a glass of water. Wiping the tears streaming down her face, she shook her head. "No, Joe is not in the Mafia."

Martin had flushed pink at her reaction. He thought it a perfectly legitimate question. Martin Guerre did not like being laughed at. Still, it was good to see Amy's merriment. He searched for a change in subject. He cleared his throat. "What is that on your wrist?"

For a moment, Amy thought he meant her tattoo, but her left wrist was encircled with a wide, plastic hospital band which completely obscured the Watcher emblem. She thrust out her right arm. "This?" she said, pointed to the parallel lines she had drawn. She shrugged. "I was bored. Trying out a little body art. You like it?" she said, turning her wrist in mock admiration. "I'm thinking of getting my nose pierced next." she joked.

Martin looked thoughtful. "Maybe Oetzi was bored, too. It's as good an explanation as any." Martin snorted. "Wouldn't that be a fine subject for a thesis? Boredom through the ages." He paused. "Actually, it might be the basis for a scholarly paper at that. Sounds like something Pierson would tackle." He chortled. "I can see the title now: 'I Was Bored: Killing Time Through Time.'"

Amy wasn't following his thought processes. Martin often leaped around in conversation, his lively intelligence flitting from point to point, with no regard for his listener's ability to keep up. "What are you talking about?" she asked, exasperated.

Martin looked surprised. "The mummy."

"Yes, I know. The five thousand year old mummy they found frozen on the Oztal Glacier. He's in your new book." Martin was writing a mass market book on the glacier ice caves in the Austrian Alps. The caves were found in 1991 in the wake of the discovery of the famous Iceman. He had been nicknamed Oetzi by the scientists who studied him. "I don't understand what you mean, Martin."

He touched her right wrist. "Oetzi has a tattoo on his left wrist. Looks just like this. There has been so much academic speculation on what it means. Guessing, really, on its cosmic significance. I was just thinking - maybe he was just bored, like you." A faraway look appeared on his face. "You know, sometimes, archaeologists and anthropologists, we spin these grand and complex theories out of the smallest of clues, when the simplest explanations are right before our eyes. Like those cave writings that Pierson handed over. I cannot shake the feeling that the key is right there in front of me, but ..."

Amy wasn't listening. She stared at her marked-up wrist. The Watchers organization was five thousand years old, more or less. So was Oetzi. No, it couldn't be. That would be too fantastic. Still, it tickled her fancy to imagine that the Iceman might have been a Watcher. What would it have been like back then, to Watch? She realized Martin had stopped talking. "I'm sorry." she told him. "I was just thinking - what would bore a five thousand year old man?"

Martin shrugged. "Probably the same things that bore us."

"Do you really think so?"

He nodded. "You see that in anthropology, archaeology. The similarities between people, not so much their differences. Cultures separated by oceans tell the same bedtime stories to their children, have similar forms of art. Why, even the Neanderthal buried their dead, lovingly, with flowers. And they were another species." He looked thoughtful. "I think if a five thousand year old man walked into this room, he would not be that different from you or me or Joe or even Pierson. Once you cleaned him up." He smiled slightly. "The five thousand year old man, I mean, not Pierson." Martin's expression became more serious. "We all need to eat, sleep, dream, work ... love." His gray eyes met her blue ones. "It is as the old song says, n'est ce pas? 'The fundamental things apply ... as time goes by.'"

Amy looked up at him, surprisingly touched by his words. Martin seldom said anything that was not tinged with sarcasm, or cynicism, or his unique brand of humor.

He cleared his throat. "Amy, there is something I ... It is probably not the best time, but ..." He took her hand in his. "Amy, I -"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Come in." Amy called.

It was Joe. His smile faltered when he saw Martin Guerre at Amy's bedside. Holding her hand. "Uh, sorry. Am I ... interrupting ...?"

Martin sighed and released Amy's hand. "Not at all, Joe."

Amy spoke. "Please, come in, Joe."

Was it Joe's imagination, or was there an unusual emphasis on the "please"? He shrugged mentally. "Amy, there's someone with me ..."

"Adam?" she asked, then stared at the woman's face that appeared behind Joe's left shoulder. "Amanda!?" What? Joe had mentioned only last night that Amanda was visiting Duncan MacLeod in Seacouver.

Joe moved into the room, Amanda on his heels. Amy stared at her. Her pictures didn't do her justice. Tall and shapely, she filled out the pantsuit she was wearing as if it was second skin, yet there was nothing lewd or unseemly in the effect. Her lustrous dark hair was cropped short, emphasizing the clarity of her complexion and her luminous eyes. Those eyes. Large and dark, they sparkled above the somewhat tentative smile. Amy knew Amanda and Duncan MacLeod were lovers. What a shame Immortals couldn't have children! Imagine the beautiful offspring those two would produce. Amy shook her head at her imaginative musings, as she realized she had been staring.

She wasn't the only one. Smooth, sophisticated, unflappable Martin Guerre gawked at the Immortal woman. Hands at his side, mouth agape, he looked like an illustration under which the caption "His jaw dropped" should be written. It was comical, really. Except, Amy didn't think it was funny in the least. Not a minute ago, he had been about to declare his love for Amy. Hadn't he?

Joe was speaking. "Amy Thomas, meet Amanda Darieux."

Amanda moved closer to the bed. "It's so nice to meet you, Amy."

Amy found her voice and her manners. She extended her hand as she said politely. "And you."

Joe nodded to the young man on the opposite side of the bed. "Amanda, this is Martin Guerre."

Amanda held out her hand to him, reaching slightly, over the bed. Martin stared at her, until Amy, annoyed, nudged him in the ribs.

"Huh? Oh." He clasped Amanda's hand. "Martin Guerre."

"Amanda Darieux."

"Enchante." Leaning over the bed, Martin brushed her hand with his lips, before releasing it. He had leaned in close enough for Amy to touch him with her nose. Or her fist.

Amanda looked uncertainly at Amy, who was frowning at Martin. "Maybe Joe and I should come back later ..."

"No, no, that will not be necessary." Martin protested. "I was just leaving." He turned back to Amy. "I will see you tomorrow?"

"I don't know, Martin." Amy's voice was cool. "I may not be here tomorrow."

Joe piped up. "I just spoke to the nurse, Amy. They're planning to discharge you in the morning."

Martin looked uncertain. "You will let me know how I may reach you, Amy?'

"I'll call you." She offered a cheek as Martin leaned in, and he kissed it awkwardly.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Darieux."

Her smile was dazzling. "Amanda, please. The pleasure was mine."

Martin stumbled slightly over his own feet as he turned to go. Joe clapped a hand on Martin's shoulder. He actually felt sorry for the young man. "Let me walk you out." Joe threw a worried look over his shoulder at the two women. They'd be fine, he told himself. He walked a silent Guerre to the elevator at the end of the hall. Joe nodded at young Jeremy, casually not reading a magazine in the bank of chairs at the end of the corridor.

"I'll let you know where Amy is settled, Martin."

"Thanks, Joe.", he said glumly, as he pushed the button on the elevator.

"No, Martin. Thank you." At Guerre's raised eyebrow, Joe continued. "The night of the fire. If you hadn't humored me ..." He held a hand up at Guerre's protestation. "You were humoring me when I asked you to check on Amy's whereabouts. If you hadn't ... well, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Guerre waved his thanks away. "I had an ulterior motive for humoring you, Joe." His eyes twinkled. "I was trying to, how do you say, 'score some points' with Amy's father."

Joe chuckled. "Well, it worked."

Guerre gestured to Amy's room with his head. He looked despondent. "I think I lost some ground tonight. Not my finest hour."

"Amanda has that effect on us mere mortals." Joe said, with a grin, recalling the befuddled look on Methos' face, when Amanda broke the kiss. Not just mortals. "Don't worry about it, kid."

The elevator arrived and Guerre stepped into it, hands in his pockets. "Good night."

"Good night, Martin." Joe walked slowly down the corridor. He spoke briefly to Jean Mirron. They decided that Jean would take up the post at the end of the corridor, with a full view of the bank of elevators and stairs. Jeremy was sent home. Amanda would take the seat at the door.

Inside the hospital room, an awkward silence had descended upon the men's exit. Amanda broke it. "How are you feeling, Amy?"

"Much better, thank you."

Another silence. Amy was acutely conscious of her unwashed hair, her red, irritated eyes, her pale face. She pulled the shapeless hospital gown up on one shoulder. It slipped down the other.

"Martin seems like a nice young man." Amanda turned slightly in the direction of the door.

Amy frowned. Was that a gleam of speculation in Amanda's eye? Professional curiosity, perhaps? Amanda's sexual exploits were legendary. She had been the consort of kings - when she wasn't stealing from them.

"He's very smart." Amy winced inwardly at the inanity of that remark.

Amanda lowered her voice. "Are you two, ... you know?"

"Oh, no." Amy pulled the gown up on the other shoulder. It slipped off the opposite side. "We're just friends."

Another silence stretched.

"Joe looks good." Amanda ventured.

"Yes." Amy replied, cautiously. What did she mean by that? Amy tried another topic. "Where are you staying in Paris?"

"I don't really know. Duncan and I just got in a few hours ago. For tonight, he's at Joe's hotel."

"But, I thought Adam ..."

"Oh." Amanda waved her hand. "The boys are having a little sleep-over, but I'm staying with Joe tonight."

The boys!? A sleepover! Joe was with Amanda tonight? MacLeod and Amanda were the lovers, weren't they? What was going on here!? "Joe spent the last two nights here." Amy pointed shakily at the chair in the corner of the room. Was her father really abandoning his watch tonight to sleep with this ... this bimbo?

Amanda smiled fondly. "I wonder how you can sleep, given how loudly Joe snores. He can certainly give Adam and Duncan a run for the money." She tapped her chin with a red-tipped fingernail. "You know, Adam complains about Duncan snoring, but he's no slacker himself. Not with that nose."

Amy gaped at her.

Just then, the door opened. It was Joe. He walked to the bed and stood next to Amanda. She looped her arm through his and smiled.

"Have you two been getting acquainted?" he asked.

Amanda looked at Joe, then to Amy. "Oh, Joe. We've been getting along famously."

Amy echoed weakly. "Just famously."

Joe noticed. "Are you OK, Amy?" he asked, concerned.

Amy rubbed her forehead. "I'm a little tired."

"Oh. Well, we'll let you get some sleep." Joe turned to Amanda, and nodded toward the door.

Amanda said "Good night, Amy. Sleep tight."

"You too." She responded automatically.

Joe and Amanda left the room. Amy slumped down in the bed. Joe didn't even kiss me good night, she thought petulantly. She adjusted the pillows and pulled the covers up to her chin. She took a last sip of water and turned off the light.

About ten minutes later, she heard the door open. A shaft of light from the hall knifed into the room. "Amy? Turn on the light, please, so I don't kill myself here." Joe, backlit, stood just inside the doorway.

Amy fumbled for the switch. Joe had a cup of coffee in one hand, his cane in the other. He looked concerned. "Are you all right, honey?" He set the coffee on the night stand. "Are you that tired?"

"What ...?" She sat up straighter. "What are you doing here, Joe?"

Joe was beginning to worry. "Same as last night and the night before. What's the matter?"

"You mean, you're not ...? Where's Amanda?"

"Sitting on the chair outside your room."

"Joe, you shouldn't keep her waiting ..."

"Waiting? For what?"

"For you."

"Me?" He turned and looked back at the door. "What's she waiting for me for?"

"Aren't you, I mean ..." Amy felt the heat rise in her face. "Joe, what is Amanda doing here?"

"She's taking the post outside your door. I told you that already." He put a hand on her forehead, concerned. "Jean is at the end of the corridor, and I'm in here tonight."

She looked up at her father, eyes huge, face flushed. "You mean, you and Amanda aren't, you know ...?" She looked down at the hands knotted in her lap.

"Me and Amanda aren't what?" Joe's frown was puzzled.

Amy squirmed, uncomfortable. "She said she was staying with you tonight. I thought ..."

She stopped.

Joe's jaw dropped. "You thought Amanda and me ...? Me and Amanda ...?" He was incredulous. "Amanda and me!"

"Oh, Joe, I'm sorry." She shrugged, apologetically. "It's the drugs."

"Amy, you're taking Extra-strength Tylenol." The astonishment left his face, and humor crept in. "Me and Amanda." He shook his head, chuckling. "Amanda and me."

"Will you stop saying that, Joe!" Amy was acutely embarrassed now. "It was an honest mistake." No, she chided herself, you jumped to another unfair conclusion about an Immortal, just as you did when you saw MacLeod kneeling by an unconscious Joe at the bar last Spring.

"I'm flattered, sweetie. Amanda and me." He put up a hand at her exclamation. "Sorry, that's the last one." She heard a couple of chortles as he pulled the chair from the corner and stationed it for a view of the door. He kissed her good night then. He sat in the chair, turned on his booklight, and sipped his coffee.

Amy turned out the overhead light again, and lay back on the bed. In the darkness, the heat in her face slowly dissipated. She replayed the actual sequence of events in her mind's eye, beginning with Amanda's entry into the room. Without the distraction of Amanda's overpowering sensuality and Amy's own insecurities, the Immortal's words now appeared completely innocuous. As her mind calmed, a thought came to her with such crystal clarity that Amy's eyes flew open. Amanda and MacLeod were in Seacouver yesterday. That meant the Immortal woman had flown halfway around the world, on a moment's notice, through nine time zones, to take up the graveyard shift on guard outside the hospital room of a foolish young woman she had never met. Well, Amy marveled, just before she fell asleep, I've finally met the Amazing Amanda.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Methos stirred as he registered stealthy movement in the small kitchen. He heard the sound of the refrigerator door opening quietly, then closing with a pneumatic sigh. The soft patter of rather big feet headed back to the bedroom.

He waited until the shadowy form passed close to the couch. "Can't sleep, Mac?" he said, without turning on the light.

The old man smiled in the dark when MacLeod issued a startled noise, then a muffled curse, as he barked his shin on the coffee table. "I'm sorry, Methos. Did I wake you?"

Methos switched on the light on the table beside the couch. Mac had insisted that he take the bed, but Methos had won the argument in the end. He preferred to be closer to the door, and the early warning system he had concocted with the contents of Joe's cupboards. "S'all right, Mac." He ran his fingers through his short-cropped hair. He shook his head as Mac pointed at the bottle of orange juice in his hand. "Water, please.

MacLeod foraged in the refrigerator again. He handed Methos the bottle of water and sat in the adjoining armchair, sipping the juice. "Jet-lag, I guess." He looked at his watch. It would be six p.m. in Seacouver. Mac looked sheepishly at his friend. "I've been lying in Joe's bed, resisting the impulse to go to the hospital."

"You know what we decided, Mac." Methos began.

"Yes, I know. No one of us should go anywhere alone. We travel in pairs, at the least." Mac ineffectually pushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead. His lips quirked into a half-smile. "Contrary to popular opinion, I can be a team player and stick to the plan."

Methos scoffed in derision. "Some plan."

"We'll think of better." MacLeod said. He paused, sipping juice before he went on. "It's just ... " he shrugged. "...you know ..."

"Your friends are in danger because of you, and it's impossible to stay here and sleep." Methos finished Mac's thought.

Mac's expression was wry. "Something like that, yeah."

Methos didn't bother to tell Mac what his friend already knew. That Amy was under the watch of very capable people; that they had limited options until she was released from the hospital; that they all needed to rest in the interim and gather themselves for whatever was to come; that it wasn't Mac's fault.

Neither man said anything for a while. Then Mac spoke. "Methos? May I ask you something?"

Methos inclined his head. "You may ask." His reply implied no promise of an answer.

Still, Mac hesitated. The taking of another Immortal's Quickening was a deeply private matter to MacLeod. Not something to be discussed casually. Usually not to be discussed at all. After a moment, he said. "When you took the sniper, ...Vadem, ... did you sense anything ... unusual?

Methos swivelled his head to look at MacLeod. "What do you mean, Mac?"

"Did you?" Mac insisted.

"What? Like the pricking of my thumbs?"

MacLeod waited patiently.

Methos gave in. "The only unusual thing about his Quickening was that I got nothing from him. No name, no memories, no emotions, nothing." Methos was curious. "What are you getting at, Mac?"

MacLeod looked down at the bottle in his hand. He cleared his throat, and said, "I think I know why Tokes hated me so much."

"It's like Amanda said, isn't it? He believed you were the Millennial Champion and prevented the return of the Evil One he wanted to worship, thereby thwarting all his evil and nefarious plans to take over the world." Methos said, lightly.

"I think there's more." MacLeod paused. "Joe said there's nothing in Tokes' background to suggest any interest or involvement in the occult until 1995. Nothing in his childhood, at university. Not even during his tenure with the Securitate. Then, in '95, he's a suspect, however tenuous, in a series of murders associated with cultish beliefs. Not professional kills. No motive. No ransoms, like with those poor kids. No financial gain, or personal vendetta. Completely out of keeping with his usual m.o."

"People change, Mac." Methos said, in an ironic tone.

"Yes, I know." Mac acknowledged, looking directly at Methos. He paused again, his gaze back on the bottle in his hand. He spoke softly. "When I faced Ahriman, he ... tempted me." Mac picked at the label on the bottle, peeling a long strip away before he continued, a habit he had picked up from the older Immortal. He cleared his throat before continuing. "There was a young woman. Her name was Sophie Baines. She had been Jason Landry's research assistant before he died."

Methos sat up straighter. "His assistant. Then she could tell us ..." He stopped as Mac shook his head.

"She's dead." Mac said, flatly. "Ahriman killed her."

"Oh." He mulled over what Mac had said. "What do you mean, Ahriman 'tempted' you?"

"He ... used Sophie to get to me. He killed her just to show me ..." Mac stopped.

"Show you what?" Methos prompted.

"He killed a beautiful, compassionate, innocent girl ... just to show me he could bring her back, you see." Mac's voice faltered a bit. "The prophecy said 'The dead will rise'. Ahriman told me he could bring back anyone I wanted. Richie. Tessa." His voice lowered to a near whisper. "Anyone."

Methos was silent as his mind raced. Five thousand years and you'd expect you'd be able to handle anything, right? Even surreal conversations in the wee small hours where your friend is talking about ghosts, and demons, and bringing his lover and son back from the dead.

Mac patted his arm. "Don't panic, old man. I'm not losing it here." He drank orange juice.

Methos found his voice. "What does Sophie Baines have to do with Vadem Tokes?"

"I think he believed Ahriman, or the Dark One, or whatever Tokes called him, would bring his dead wife back to him."

Understanding dawned. "And blamed you when it didn't happen?"

"Yes."

Methos thought about it. If he had believed that there was some way to bring Alexa back from the dead, and someone had thwarted him? Hate on an order of magnitude he truly didn't want to contemplate. He had hated the Watcher Daniel once he knew he was the force behind the scenes who had stopped Methos from obtaining Rebecca's crystal. Good thing for Daniel that he died before Methos could get his hands on him. Methos shook his head and focused on the here and now.

"Were you, Mac? Were you tempted?" The question was out of his mouth before Methos remembered he didn't believe in Mac's devil.

MacLeod's dark eyes were troubled. "Yes."

Methos regarded his friend. He didn't want to reinforce MacLeod's belief in an evil supernatural force, but the younger Immortal spoke with such quiet conviction, it was hard to resist being drawn in. Well, whether Methos believed was irrelevant at this moment. Real or imagined, Methos knew what it cost Duncan to tell him this. The younger man held himself to a code of conduct composed of impossibly high standards that were forever out of reach. If there was one thing Methos wished he could teach MacLeod, it would be to lower that bar. His inner voice piped up. But then, he wouldn't be Mac, would he? Sort of a Mac Lite.

"What happened to Sophie?"

"She ... chose death." At Methos' urging, Mac continued. "Sophie chose to die permanently rather than be used by Ahriman."

"Oh." Methos said. He didn't know what to say to that. "Why did you ask if I felt anything unusual, Mac?"

MacLeod shifted in the armchair. "It doesn't matter. You didn't."

"Come on, Mac, you started this. You can't leave it like that."

MacLeod looked away for a moment. "When I faced Ahriman, ... after a while, I was able to sense his ... its presence." He shrugged. "I was just wondering if you felt anything ... strange ... about Tokes."

"No, Mac. I didn't." Methos thought a moment. "Have you felt this ... presence ...?"

"No, not for years, not since I defeated him. In Darius' church, or wherever the hell that fight that wasn't a fight took place."

Methos was curious. "What did it feel like?"

Duncan looked away, clearly uncomfortable. His grip tightened on the now empty juice bottle. "I can't put it into words. Not adequately, anyway." Mac took a breath. "Cold ... dark ... empty. Repellant." He stared off into space. "Repellant, but at the same time, compelling."

"How so?"

"Like ... when you pass the scene of an accident ... and you can't help but look. Or that feeling you get looking off a great height ... that urge to jump." Mac rubbed the back of his neck. "When you just have to peer into the abyss inside yourself, even though you know you won't like what you see."

His words chilled Methos. Once again, the Highlander had managed to surprise the old Immortal. He hadn't thought MacLeod understood that dark attraction.

"You're right, Mac. I don't believe in the devil." He looked at MacLeod. "But Vadem apparently did." He swallowed the last of the water. "So, you're probably right about him, too. It was personal for Tokes. He hated you. Magda is as logical a reason as any. If Vadem was a leader in this Millennial cult, the End of Time, he passed this enmity to his followers. Or they're trying to avenge him." He smiled sardonically. "But there is a bright side."

"Which is ... ?"

"You did your thing with Ahriman. He's the next Champion's problem, isn't he? In about a thousand years? We have enough to deal with here, cleaning up the mess after this Millennium, to worry about the next one, don't we?"

Mac nodded. "That we do."

"We'd better come up with a good plan soon, too. Or you will be walking around the Tuilleries as target practice." Methos pitched his empty plastic bottle at the kitchen trash can, and missed.

"Well, I've had experience at that job." Mac said, lightly. He finished his juice, and, with exaggerated motions, executed a classic hook shot. The empty container dropped into the trash can without touching the sides. He thrust his fists into the air. "He shoots! He scores! The crowd goes wild!"

Methos tossed him a look. There were times he would swear Mac was channeling Richie. "Lucky shot."

Mac cocked an eyebrow at him. "Are you challenging me, old man?"

"I'll have you know that I was the nerf-basketball champion of the Paris Research division for three years running."

"Really?" Mac rose, retrieved the empty bottles, and repositioned the trash can. He handed Methos a plastic bottle. "You're on."

Methos bit his lip in concentration, then let the bottle sail. It bounced off the rim of the can, and clattered across the kitchen floor. "Of course, my competition were all French."

They played and joked and talked until Mac's eyelids began to droop, and he was yawning between throws. Mac promised Methos a rematch before he'd have to deliver on the bottle of Glenmorangie. "Good night, Methos." He walked into the bedroom.

"'Night, Mac." Methos turned out the light.

He lay in the dark for a time, replaying the earlier conversation with Mac. He thought of Alexa and the abyss that had opened before him as his love lay dying in that Swiss hospital. An abyss Methos had peered into, only to see her sweet, ravaged face staring back at him. What wouldn't he have given for her return? He remembered a poem he had stumbled upon in the wake of Alexa's death. It had taken him a month or more, surreptitiously combing Watcher records, to confirm that the poet had not been, as Methos had suspected, an Immortal.

If there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy?...
Dreaming a dream to prize,
In wishing ghosts to rise;
And, if I had the spell
To call the buried, well,
Which one would I?

Good thing he didn't believe in Mac's demon, Methos thought, before sleep finally claimed him.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Amy caught the spicy scent of MacLeod's aftershave as he scooted her and her chair closer to the small table. As he leaned over her, something small and hard thumped the top of her head. She reached up and rubbed the spot. "Oops. Sorry, Amy.", Mac said quietly, as he tucked the errant rune pendant, dangling from its chain around his neck, underneath his shirt. Amy was more winded after walking from the parking lot to Joe's suite than she thought, and could only nod her thanks to him. As she caught her breath, she studied the occupants of the hotel suite.

She had last seen Duncan MacLeod here in this very room back in June, the day he had awoken from a gunshot-induced coma. At that time, though outwardly healed, he still suffered significant mental impairment - confusion, halting speech, faulty memory. Not so bad, considering he had nearly had his head blown off. Today, he looked completely restored, tanned and fit, in jeans and a white T-shirt. Amy watched as he greeted Amanda with a quick hug and a kiss. For having spent the night in a hard wooden chair, on top of an international flight, the Immortal woman still looked gorgeous. Though, on the ride here, Amy had noticed a hint of shadow under Amanda's eyes. Amy couldn't hear what Mac murmured into Amanda's ear, but the Immortal woman's face lit up in response, banishing all suggestion of fatigue.

Adam Pierson noticed Amy watching the couple, and fluttered his eyelashes at her as he leaned against the kitchenette counter. She made a face at him. Adam, she was glad to see, also looked well. He had stationed himself outside her hospital room the night after the fire. He had looked wan and tired then, proving to Amy's satisfaction that the recovery powers of an Immortal, though remarkable, had their limits.

Joe joined her at the table, lowering himself carefully into the chair on her right. Amy worried about her father. He had spent the last three nights on a chair in her hospital room. She noticed how stiffly he moved today. He claimed he napped during the day, but the strain was evident in the deepening lines of his tired face.

"Any problems on the way?" MacLeod asked, as he fussed with the coffee maker on the kitchen counter.

Joe shook his head. Jean Mirron's team had escorted them here from the hospital. There had been no sign of trouble. Even now, they were on duty, watching the building.

"You should have seen the limo, MacLeod." Amanda said, admiringly. "Bulletproof glass, reinforced armored panels, souped-up engine. Too bad it doesn't come in red."

"We have a fleet of them." Amy volunteered. "They're leased out for funeral motorcades. Celebrities, politicians, mob figures, royals." She lowered her voice. "A very profitable side line for the Watcher Organization."

"Really!" Amanda marveled. "A whole fleet? Where do you keep them?"

Mac's ears pricked up at that. "No, Amanda."

"What?" she said, innocently.

"Just 'no'." the Scot said, firmly.

The Immortal woman pouted. "You're no fun anymore, Duncan."

"Was he ever?" Methos put in, as he took a seat next to Joe.

"I could tell you stories ..." Amanda began, her eyes twinkling. Amy leaned forward, eagerly.

At that moment, Mac brought the coffee pot and fixings to the table. Behind his back, Amanda mouthed to Amy "Tell you later." MacLeod poured five mugs of the strong brew. Amy added cream and sugar to her cup, then sipped slowly at the hot liquid. She felt better with every sip. "I want to thank you all." she began, her voice still a bit hoarse.

Amanda smiled, and Adam smirked. MacLeod demurred. "Don't thank me, Amy. We're just glad you're OK. "

"It's just so incredible to me that someone would burn the Library like that to hurt me. I can't imagine why - " She stopped. MacLeod exchanged a glance with Joe. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Amy, I didn't want to talk about this in the hospital, ..." Joe began.

"I'm not in the hospital anymore, Joe." she said, firmly.

Joe nodded at her, then turned to MacLeod. "It's your story to tell, Mac."

Amy turned her attention back to Mac, the pulse beginning to pound in her throat.

"Amy, I am so sorry." Mac's dark eyes held hers. "There's no easy way to say this. We think you were targeted by a group of people who were after me. They tried to kill you because they believed you were my friend."

Amy stared at him, as her insides clenched. She had feared for Joe's safety as a consequence of his friendship with MacLeod. To have her worst fears confirmed ... with her own life! The panic she had felt while trapped in the Library threatened to return in a turbulent rush. She closed her eyes tightly, taking a few deep breaths. After a moment, she looked around the table. Mac looked as stricken as she felt. Adam's face was expressionless, but Amy wasn't fooled by that anymore. Amanda's dark eyes were wide, glinting with speculation. Amy's gaze came to rest on Joe's anxious face.

He's had to deal with this before, she realized. He made his decision years ago, choosing his friendship with Duncan MacLeod, over safety, over his oaths, even over his life in the Watchers. But Amy hadn't been a part of that equation. She looked at her father, and knew, with bedrock certainty, the power she held here. He would forsake these friendships for her, no matter what it cost him. She turned to MacLeod and Adam, and knew that they would do the same. Somewhere beneath her fear, a spark of anger ignited. No! I choose who my friends are. No one makes that decision for me. Not Mac. Not Adam. Not even Joe. And certainly not the people who would burn down a library to get to me.

Amy cleared her throat and corrected the Highlander. "I am your friend, Mac." She reached out and patted his hand. "As I am Adam's." She returned Adam's cool nod with one of her own. "As I hope to be Amanda's." she said, shyly, to the Immortal woman. Amanda blinked, then unleashed one of those incandescent smiles.

Mac squeezed her hand, managing to look both gratified and worried at the same time. "I will always be your friend, Amy." He released her. "But that isn't a particularly healthy thing to be right now." He looked at Joe, Adam and Amanda. "Not a new phenomenon, I'm afraid." he said, grimly.

Amy's emotions were roiling within her. Billowing anger rapidly replaced fear. A mighty surge of anger erupted at the unknown arsonists, at the misery and destruction they had caused. "How dare they?! That library has stood for five hundred years! And the collection was irreplaceable!" Her eyes narrowed, as she thought of what she, Adam and Martin had endured. "How dare they put us through that?!" She glared at MacLeod, trying to imagine how she would feel if her friends' lives were threatened to cause her pain. "How dare they?!" She slapped the table with one hand.

She looks magnificent, Mac thought, like a petite Valkyrie, with her flashing eyes and passionate words. His heart stuttered anew at the thought that this vibrant young woman nearly perished in that fire. Because of her association with him. He had to turn his eyes away, not trusting his face or his voice. As he did, Mac caught the unguarded expression on Methos' face. Admiration, affection, ... and something ... more ... were evident, as he regarded Amy. Mac, feeling as if he had intruded on something private, quickly looked away from the older man, only to catch Amanda's gaze. She inclined her head slightly towards Methos, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. Mac, flustered, shrugged almost imperceptibly in response, and turned back to Amy.

The anger had drained away slightly leaving the young linguist looking sheepish. "Uh, ... who are 'they', Mac?"

Amusement rippled around the table and the tension eased slightly. "Remember when I was shot by an Immortal this Spring?" At her nod, MacLeod continued. "The sniper's name was Vadem Tokes. He was young. Born in 1959. We think he died his first death in 1989." At her quizzical look, he went on. "The Watchers never identified him as an Immortal until after his beheading." He turned to Joe.

Joe continued the story. He told Amy how the Forensics team had identified Tokes, and what they found in his apartment and safe deposit box. He told her of the Interpol file, the hired kills, the kidnap-murder of six children, all the sordid exploits since he fled Rumania after the civil war. "Adam found an exposed roll of film hidden in the bathroom. When we developed it, there were shots of me and you, in addition to Mac and Adam." Joe ran his fingers through his hair. "I can't tell you how crazy that made me, seeing you in those pictures, Amy."

Amy thought a moment. "But that roll of film was undeveloped. Tokes must have seen me previously with Mac or Adam or you, and passed that information on to his associates." A nasty thought intruded. "Or others have been watching all along." She shivered.

"That's the theory, yeah." Joe nodded.

"And now that Tokes is dead, his friends tried to kill me because I'm Mac's friend?", she mused. She returned her gaze to the Highlander. "What did you do to this guy?"

MacLeod grimaced. "I never met him, Amy."

"Then why ...?"

MacLeod shifted in his chair. "We're piecing this together as we go. A lot of it is supposition. We may be wrong ... but it's the only -"

Adam interjected. "Stop beating around the bush, MacLeod." He leaned in. "Amy, the sniper was a member, probably a leader, of a Millennium cult called 'The End of Time'. It has old roots, going back at least a thousand years to the turn of the last Millennium." He paused. "My research was interrupted the night of the fire, but here's the gist. These cultists believed that an evil force, that they called 'the Dark One' or 'the Black Lord" - hell, let's call it the Devil - would return to the Earth at the end of the Millennium and take over the world. They wanted to be on his team, to share in the power and the spoils."

Amy gaped at him. She looked at Joe, who nodded, and then back to Adam. "You're serious?!"

For once, Adam's expression wasn't mocking or sarcastic. "Dead serious."

"But what does Mac have to do with it?" Adam looked at MacLeod. Before anyone else could speak, Amy answered excitedly. "Oh, I know! 'Duncan' means 'dark one' in Gaelic, doesn't it? So, they thought MacLeod was this 'Dark One' and he wouldn't get with the program!"

Amanda and Adam let loose a laugh before MacLeod's glower silenced them. He spoke. "No, Amy. The cultists believe that I stopped the Dark One from coming."

Amy was puzzled. "Why would they think that?"

There was a silence around the table. Adam and Amanda looked at MacLeod. MacLeod looked a question at Joe. Her father locked his gaze with the Highlander, then nodded. Amy frowned. She was getting tired of the pregnant pauses and cryptic glances.

MacLeod looked down at his large hands gripping the cup of now cold coffee. "Amy, other than God-knows-how-many cult members, what I am about to tell you is only known among the four of us here." He looked at Amanda and Methos with a wry expression. "And of them, only fifty percent believe it." He continued. "The End of Time cult believes I stopped the Dark One from coming ..." He looked at her. "... because I did."

Amy stared at him. Mac's statement was all the more outrageous because it was said with such quiet simplicity. "What? How ... ?" She managed to sputter out.

MacLeod put up his hand. "Amy, I'm sorry. It's a long story." he said, frustrated. "We don't have time right now."

"But, Mac," she protested, "you can't just tell me ..."

Joe spoke up. "Amy. We really don't have the time. We'll tell you later."

"You promise, Joe?"

He nodded.

"Mac?" she asked.

"Amy, the knowledge of this is very dangerous ..." MacLeod began.

"And not knowing was a walk in the park?" She arched an eyebrow at him, and Mac had the grace to blush. The others all spoke at once.

"Touche." Adam muttered.

"She nearly died, Mac." Joe said. "She needs to know why."

"Yeah, MacLeod." Amanda piped up. "She's earned it."

MacLeod put up his hands in surrender. "OK, OK. I promise, as soon as I am able, I will tell you the whole story, Amy." He paused. "If you still want me to."

"Fair enough." Amy's curiosity burned, but she damped it down. "So, where do we go from here?"

"Well, honey, that's the $64,000.00 question." Joe said lightly.

She lifted questioning eyebrows at him, then answered herself. "You don't know who they are, do you?"

"Amy, what we actually know wouldn't fill a thimble." Adam said, drily. "We know Vadem Tokes was Immortal. We know he's dead. A mortal tried to burn down a library to kill you. And that is the sum total of our knowledge."

"So, it's probably just one person, one mortal person, acting here?" Amy said, hopefully.

MacLeod shook his head. "We have no idea how many people are involved. Vadem Tokes was very careful not to reveal his presence to Adam and me. He watched us for weeks without tipping his hand! It's possible that there is another Immortal, a very circumspect Immortal, still out there." He ran his hand through his hair. "Though Adam doesn't think so."

"Why not?" Amanda demanded.

"Elementary, my dear Amanda." Methos poured himself more coffee. "Most Immortals, unlike MacLeod here, are loners. Immortal partnerships are rare - how do you divide up the Quickening? If there was another Immortal, Mac and I would be dead. Tokes would never have ambushed us by himself. Not if he had an Immortal partner that he trusted to be nearby when he was flattened by a Quickening. Or even a mortal one that he trusted enough to see him take a head. He was acting alone that night, or Mac and I wouldn't be here."

"You guess." Amanda said.

"Deduce." he corrected.

"Whatever."

"Adam's deductions notwithstanding, let me see if I understand. There may be one or more mortals in cahoots with one or more Immortals, who want to kill Mac and one or more of his friends?" Amy frowned. "Or any combination or permutation thereof."

"Yes." Joe said.

Amy thought furiously. "So Holy Ground is no refuge." She looked around the table. "For any of us."

MacLeod's expression was pained. "I wanted to send you and Joe to asylum on Holy Ground until we dealt with this. But it has been vehemently pointed out to me..." he cast a significant glance at Methos "... that this would merely serve to put the two of you in the one place where we can't fight to protect you."

She turned to her father. "What about Watcher resources, Joe?"

"I've been using our resources to find out what little we do know. I could use Mirron's team for protection temporarily, but we don't have the manpower to keep that up for long." Joe explained. "And all the cultists have to do is bide their time."

Amy sat back in her chair. "Then what can we do?"

"You have two choices." Adam said. She looked at him expectantly. "You could hide."

Amy sat up straighter and leaned over the table. "The Watchers have safe houses ..."

Joe interrupted her. "We're not exactly set up like the Witness Protection Program, honey."

Adam spoke again. "Amy, these people, whoever they are, are fanatics. They seem to have the motivation and the patience for the long haul. Are you prepared to give up your teaching position, your friends, your family in England, your life here in Paris, indefinitely, to hide from them? Because that's what it will take. And even if you did that, they may still find you and kill you."

"Adam!" MacLeod protested.

Adam narrowed his eyes. "What, Mac? You want me to sugarcoat it for her?"

MacLeod opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly, and leaned back in his chair.

Amy was appalled. She thought, at first, of trivialities. Her favorite café, her season tickets to the symphony, her little apartment, the tropical fish in their tank in the living room. Then, with growing dismay, she remembered her nearly completed dissertation, the handful of students she advised, her ambition to teach in America next year. She put a hand to her mouth as it sank in further. Her mother. All the cousins and aunts and uncles, her friends here in Paris and at home in London and Oxford, and ... Martin. She shook her head. "No, I can't do that."

Adam stared at her intently. "Even if you might die?" he asked, bluntly.

Her mouth was dry as a desert. Amy swallowed cold coffee. She looked at Joe, who had silently watched her absorb all this. The pain in his eyes made her look away. She tilted her chin, defiantly, and answered Adam's question. "Yes." She paused. "You said there were two choices. What's the other?"

"To fight them."

Amy nodded. "Then, we fight."

Joe took her hand in his. "Amy, are you sure?"

"Yes, Joe. I love my life." She smiled ruefully. "Literally and figuratively. I will fight to keep it."

"Then there's only one option." MacLeod said, firmly. "We have to put an end to the End of Time."

"How?" Joe asked..

"We give them what they want, Joe." MacLeod said.

Amy was way ahead of her father. "We give them a chance to kill us." She looked at MacLeod. "Do you have a plan?"

"Well, we have some ideas. Frankly, we weren't sure what your decision was going to be. If you had decided otherwise, then ... " MacLeod paused. "Amy, are you absolutely sure you want to take this risk? You can still change your mind ..."

She smiled shakily at him. "I'll take my chances with you." She managed a small laugh. "After all, you three have centuries of survival experience."

MacLeod held her gaze for a long moment, then turned to Joe. "The packages were delivered this morning, Joe. They're in the bedroom."

Joe pushed away from the table and used his cane to get to his feet. "Let's see what we've got."

The men left the table, and walked into the bedroom. Suddenly, Amy felt drained and deflated and ... numb. She looked helplessly at Amanda. "This is how you live, isn't it? Every day, knowing someone might be coming for you? That you have to give them that chance to kill you, just so you can try to live your life."

Amanda looked surprised. "It's what all of us have to do."

Amy swallowed. "How?", she whispered. "How do you do it?"

Amanda reached for her hand and gripped it tightly. "I remember the lessons of my teacher. She said 'Choose your ground. Choose your weapon. And face what is to come.'" She squeezed Amy's hand before releasing it.

Amy took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I ... uh ... I don't know if you know, but ... I study Rebecca's life." Amy stammered. "I mean, her Chronicle."

Amanda nodded. "Yes. Duncan told me."

"She was such a remarkable person." Amy offered.

"The best." Amanda agreed.

"Do you miss her?" Amy blurted. Her hand flew to her mouth as soon as the question left her. "I'm sorry, that's a personal ..."

Amanda waved away the apology with one perfectly manicured hand. "It's all right, Amy." After a moment, she spoke softly. "I do miss her. Very much. I will, for the rest of my life."

MacLeod and Methos returned to the living room, each carrying a large carton. Joe followed. They piled the Kevlar vests, the guns and other deadly and mysterious objects on the kitchen counter. They rejoined the women at the table.

The discussion became heated at times, as ideas were tossed out, explored, dissected, challenged, discarded, and adopted. Amy repeated Rebecca's lesson to herself over and over, as the five of them made their plan, chose their ground and their weapons, and prepared to face what was to come. Finally, the decisions were made, the plan set in motion.

Amanda stood up from the table, her hands at her waist as she stretched. She looked at the diamond watch on her wrist, then at her companions. "Well, looks like we'll be having an old-fashioned slumber party here tonight." she said brightly. "Who wants pizza?"

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

The sun was nearly rising, barely lightening the sky in the east. MacLeod took no notice of it as he climbed out of the access door set near the chimney of the Hotel Versailles. Dressed in black, he crouched low, staying in the lee of the large brick chimney. He winced and rubbed his back, easing muscles cramped by a night on a hard floor. The sleeping arrangements had been spartan. At everyone else's insistence, and despite his protests, Joe slept in his own bed last night for the first time in three days. Amy had a cot in his bedroom.

Methos had wanted to flip a coin, or cut cards, or draw lots for the couch. But MacLeod had insisted that the lady take it. He had noted, with some irritation, that Amanda voiced no objection to what she usually termed his outdated, chauvinistic sense of chivalry. Mac and a disgruntled Methos had shared the living room floor, "shared" being a relative term. The older man's tendency to sprawl in any space he occupied had Mac waking up several times huddled tightly against the wall, while Methos, arms and legs outflung, slumbered on. Forget the threat from the End of Timers. Another couple of days of these close quarters and they'd happily kill each other.

MacLeod peered around the chimney. From here, he had a complete view of this rooftop and the roofs of the surrounding buildings. He saw no one. He called Amanda's name softly. The Immortal woman, also dressed in close-fitting black, joined him quickly. She scanned the area in a 360 degree survey.

"That one." She pointed to the rooftop of the building due west. Then, she knelt and opened a black backpack at her feet.

Mac squinted at it. "Are you sure? I think that one over there would be easier - ..."

Amanda cut him off. "Trust me, MacLeod, I do this for a living."

He nodded, biting back any further argument. She handed him a crossbow, the arrow a sophisticated grappling device attached to a flexible cable of the same type as a bungee strap. She maneuvered the pack on her back. He handled the cable, flexing its length between his hands. "This is too supple. How are -"

She put her gloved hands to his cheeks, forcing him to look her in the eyes. "Duncan, I know what I'm doing. You know I do." She smiled slightly, then lightly slapped his cheek. "Now stop fussing." She picked up the flexible cable. "It's the latest craze, you know. They call it slacklining." Amanda pointed the crossbow at the adjacent building, and squeezed the trigger. The hook sailed silently through the air, trailing its long tail in its wake. They lost sight of it once it cleared the other building's parapet. Mac pulled its lead wire, jerking the grapple a couple of times until he was sure it was set. He tied off the other end of the cable around the chimney behind him.

"I wish you'd use the tether." he complained.

"What would be the fun in that?" She grinned, then pulled his head to her and kissed him deeply. They spoke at the same time.

"Be careful, Amanda."

"Watch your back, MacLeod."

He set his legs apart, then squatted, cupping his hands. Amanda put one foot into the saddle formed by his hands, and another on his thigh. She gracefully stepped onto the cable, balancing herself with one hand on MacLeod's head and the other on the chimney. She took a moment to center herself, then let go of the supports, and slid one foot along the cable. MacLeod stood still, holding his breath.

It defied all logic that the flexible cord would be better than a tightwire. Hell, it defied logic that she could walk across any rope suspended over the chasm between two buildings. But, in a minute, Amanda had gracefully traversed the distance, with only a whisper of her leather booties sliding along the length of the cord. Another minute, and the high wire was gone, retracted into the back of the grapple. She silently nodded to MacLeod across the way, and disappeared in the shadows of the other building's rooftop. Mac, shaking his head in admiration, scanned the area again before returning through the access door to the attic below. Amanda had tried to teach him that skill over the years to no avail. After his umpteenth fall into a net where he had still managed to break a limb, Mac had given up. Maybe he'd try this new fad, slacklining. But he'd still use the tether. Even with the rapidity of Immortal healing, falling from a great height was no picnic.

He quickly descended the stairs to Joe's suite. He saw no one on the way. As he approached the door, he felt Methos' Presence. The door was swung open for him, then quickly closed behind him.

Methos stood in the kitchenette. Amy and Joe looked up from the table.

Mac nodded. "She's gone." He looked at his watch. "We have three hours."

The men compulsively checked and rechecked their weapons, and went over the plan. Amy watched in fascination. She, too, had a gun in the holster at her waist, but had no desire to handle it. She had passed the basic training in small arms fire at the Academy, and took the refresher certification every year. She wasn't a bad shot, actually, scoring fairly high in marksmanship. Against a paper target. She had never fired a gun at another living thing in her life. She wondered if she could, even to save her own life.

Amy knew Joe had killed before. He had been to war in his youth. She wasn't sure about after, but she had heard some of the rumors circulating in the Organization. Her father, she knew, was a good shot with a rifle and a handgun. His annual re-certification trials engendered some betting among his fellow Watchers on the tightness of the spread of the bullets.

She didn't have to speculate about the Immortals, though she had no idea if Adam had ever killed outside of the Game. It was hard to imagine the scholar cutting off an Immortal's head, even in self-defense. MacLeod, on the other hand, was a seasoned killer. Born to a warrior people, he had carried a blade from childhood. For hundreds of years, he had been a soldier, a hired sword, a spy. She watched, with a chill, as he cleaned and loaded his pistol with efficient ease.

MacLeod noticed the young woman watching him. God knows what Amy's thinking. She must be scared to death. He gave her his most reassuring smile, before his attention was caught by a shift in the conversation between Methos and Joe.

"No, it was five times." Joe said, squinting thoughtfully.

"Two." Methos insisted.

"Well, it depends on whether you count incidents or bullets." Joe explained. "I shot Mac on only two occasions, but the second time, I shot him four times."

"I don't think you should be rewarded for poor marksmanship, Joe." Methos peered down the barrel of the gun in his hand. "I only needed one shot to take MacLeod down."

Joe shook his head. "Either way, I'm still one up on you."

"Ah, but I get a chance to tie." Methos said lightly.

"Wait a minute!" MacLeod protested. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"No." said Joe and Methos, simultaneously.

MacLeod endured being the butt of the joke with grace, noting Amy's open-mouthed reaction to the banter. Anything that distracted the young woman from the waiting was worth it.

Or maybe not. That opinion was sorely tested when Methos segued, challenging Joe to top his pick for Mac's most embarrassing adventure. It was a challenge that his Watcher enthusiastically accepted, relating a long and convoluted romp, circa 1850, involving a stolen pig, a farmer's daughter, and a near- wedding at the point of a shotgun. Christ! I'd forgotten all about that! Just as Mac was beginning to regret his endorsement of the Watcher Chronicles as historical treasures, Amy finally rescued him with the tale of sticking a bead up her nose on a dare from a school chum, and the resultant three-alarm response to her mother's hysterical call. As Methos and Joe convulsed with laughter, Mac caught Amy's eye and nodded his thanks.

Finally, Amanda's signal came through on Joe's cell phone. Time to go. Amy emerged from the bedroom, buttoning her shirt, looking decidedly bulky. She tugged the Kevlar vest under the oversized shirt and over her hips. Her companions looked similarly outsized. Adam had insisted on five bulletproof vests. A gunshot wound to the torso might not kill an Immortal, but it would still inflict major damage. At best, it would take him or her out of the fight. At worst, it would leave the wounded Immortal helpless while somebody hacked off his head. The resultant Quickening would take out a second Immortal in proximity. A 'two-fer', Adam had called it. Two-for-one, he had explained, at her puzzled look. The vests were uncomfortable attire for summer temperatures, but no one was complaining.

The Immortals made a show of loading Methos' Tracker 4 by 4 with assorted luggage. Then, they escorted Amy and Joe out of the service entrance and into the vehicle. MacLeod drove, Methos riding shotgun. Amy and Joe took the rear passenger seats. The Housekeeping team's surveillance ended as their vehicle pulled away from the parking lot. They were now on their own.

MacLeod drove carefully through the crowded streets, avoiding the short cuts he normally would have taken to the Place de l'Etoile. Joe spotted them on the Champs Elysee. "Mac! Four cars back in the middle lane. A blue Peugeot."

MacLeod looked in the rear view mirror, while Methos adjusted the side mirror. "I see it, Joe."

Amy's breath caught in her throat. She started to turn.

Joe stopped her with a gesture. "Don't turn around, honey."

Amy complied. "Is it just one car?"

"So far." Joe leaned sideways against the passenger door, throwing an arm casually over the back of the seat. "That I can see." He gave her a grim look. "If they're in radio contact, another car doesn't need to follow us."

"Great." Amy muttered.

Joe risked another casual look. "I can make out a driver and a passenger. Can't see if there's anybody in the back."

"OK, the fish has been hooked." MacLeod said. "I'm heading out of the city." He turned smoothly onto the Avenue de Charles DeGaulle, eventually merging with the Expressway outside of the city. Their shadow kept well back. MacLeod drove, uneventfully, on the highway north of Paris for nearly an hour.

"There's another car, Mac." Joe said, tightly. He had begun to hope that they were dealing with only one vehicle, with just two occupants. "The silver Mercedes, in the left lane. It's too far back. I can't tell if there's anybody in there beside the driver."

"So that's at least three bad guys, folks." Methos said. "Joe, Amy, sit closer together and look straight ahead."

They complied. Methos turned in his seat and keeping his head low, braced his elbows on the back of the seat and peered through small binoculars. "I can't see into the Peugeot, but there's at least one person in the back of the Mercedes. That's four confirmed bad guys." At that moment, MacLeod applied the brakes. The binoculars bounced, bashing Methos in the nose.

"There's an accident ahead." MacLeod said, slowing to half his previous speed. "Adam, this could be staged!"

Methos leaned forward. "Or not. There's at least a couple of genuine accidents on this road a week."

MacLeod looked at him. "I don't care if it's real or not. We'll be sitting ducks. I'm getting off the next ramp."

"Mac, it could be exactly what they want. They may have staged an ambush off that exit." Methos grimaced as they rapidly approached the exit ramp. Other vehicles were turning off, slowing the traffic on the ramp. "Shit!"

"Do it, Mac." Joe urged. "Moving has got to be better than sitting still."

Amy's palms were sweating and her mouth was dry. It was all she could do not to turn around and stare out the back window.

"Adam?" Mac asked.

"Take it." Methos said tersely. "Arm yourselves." he said, over his shoulder.

As if by magic, Joe's gun appeared in his hand. Amy fumbled with the holster at her waist, removing the Kimber .45. She released the safety and held the weapon balanced on one leg.

MacLeod turned onto the ramp.

"Our friends are still with us." Joe said.

Methos didn't answer. He was hunched in the seat, peering through the windshield at the overpass, the gun in his hand propped on the dashboard. Traffic crawled up the ramp, slowly merging, via the overpass, on to the secondary road. Sweat trickled down the middle of Amy's back as she watched their approach to the bridge. It was a perfect place for an ambush, with a low wall at waist level, a couple of leafy trees. MacLeod had merged the 4 by 4 smoothly into the flow of traffic, before Amy remembered to breathe again. She took a shaky breath.

The Immortals debated their slight detour, before deciding on an altered route. Adam leaned back in the seat. Amy could see his face from the side. Tension was evident in the set of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes. She couldn't see Mac's face, but he gripped the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles were white. Joe patted her knee, and instructed her to put the safety back on. She did so, her fingers trembling.

Amy slumped against the seat. "This sucks." She said, with utter conviction.

Joe, shocked at the linguist's elegant choice of words, erupted in laughter. Methos joined in. After a moment, so did Amy. MacLeod, grinned broadly in the mirror at her.

Adam recovered first. "Joseph, your daughter has inherited your talent for stating the obvious."

Mac chimed in. "As well as your vocabulary."

Joe beamed fondly at the young woman. "That's my girl!"

Two hours later, MacLeod left the main road. The Peugeot still followed, always staying a couple of car lengths behind. The Mercedes didn't turn, proceeding straight on the main road. Amy breathed a sigh of relief.

"That settles it." Adam said.

"Settles what?" Amy asked.

"They're definitely communicating by radio or cell phone." Joe said.

"The next exit is only a mile or so ahead." Mac explained. "The Peugeot will keep them informed of our direction. The Mercedes will be trying to head us off at the pass."

Mac drove steadily on the familiar country road, remembering his first time on this road. He had been on horseback in a driving rain. Today was a warm day. Puffy white clouds dotted the blue sky. Under any other circumstances, he would have enjoyed the drive, with its gently sloping hills and fields of growing things. He glanced in the mirror at Amy and Joe. "We're about fifteen minutes away now." Amy stiffened, and sat up straighter. Joe checked the gun in his hand. Mac glanced at Methos. The old man gave him one of his inscrutable looks. Mac looked in his side mirror. The Peugeot was still with them, still keeping its distance.

Ten minutes later, he turned right at a sign that read "Private Road. No Trespassing." The road was narrower, rougher. More a lane than a road. In the mirror, Mac saw the Peugeot make the turn. "Get ready!" he said. In the distance, he saw the little airfield. It consisted of a macadam airstrip and a pre-fab building serving as a hangar. An orange windsock hung limply from an adjacent pole. The small hangar had barn-like doors, wide open on two sides. MacLeod could look through both sets of doors to a twin-engine plane on the runway a few hundred feet past the hangar. The lane dipped down a little hill, swung around to the left, skirted the hangar, and intersected the runway.

Mac turned the wheel sharply to the right. The 4 by 4 left the lane and sped up the little incline, bouncing across the grass into the open doors of the hangar. Mac turned into the shadows at the side, pulling in behind another vehicle. He, Amy and Methos jumped out. Mac heard Joe's hissed "Good Luck", as he moved. Amy hopped into the driver's side and closed the door. Mac and Methos sprinted to the other vehicle, hidden in the gloom. Mac leaped behind the wheel of this 4 by 4, identical in make, model and color to the one he had driven from Paris. Methos clambered in beside him. The engine was running.

"Go!" Methos urged.

Mac put the vehicle in gear and sped out the front of the hangar toward the small plane. He estimated the switch had taken less than ten seconds. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and barked out a laugh. Methos looked at him sharply. Mac gestured with his head to the rear passenger seat. Methos looked around.

"Your girlfriend has a twisted sense of humor." he muttered.

"Amanda gets bored quickly." Mac explained. The mannequins in the back were fully dressed. The "man" wore a silver wig and dark glasses. Amanda had drawn a beard and mustache on his plastic face with a marker. She had used the marker on his T-shirt, too. It said "Kiss me, I'm Irish." The "woman" wore a darker wig. Her face was heavily made up with lipstick, rouge and eyeshadow. Her T-shirt sported a large arrow pointing to her companion. Under the arrow, it read "I'm with Dummy."

Methos turned around in his seat. "Here they come." The Peugeot was speeding down the lane, jouncing on the road. It didn't have four wheel drive and stayed on the lane, skirting the hangar, and speeding up on the straightaway. MacLeod accelerated toward the little airplane. Suddenly, from the opposite direction, the Mercedes appeared, as it rounded a curve and sped toward them on the lane. The airplane was now equidistant between the Tracker and the Mercedes.

"Amanda can really fly that thing?" Methos asked, as they approached.

"Comes in handy for a quick getaway." Mac replied.

The Peugeot was gaining on them. It would be clear to their pursuers that they wouldn't make it to the plane before they were cornered. So far, everything was proceeding as planned. That made Methos very nervous.

"Hang on!" Mac warned. He made a sharp right, cutting a diagonal on the grass to get to the runway. It was paved and straight. Mac accelerated. The chase vehicles followed, the Peugeot in the lead, the Mercedes right behind. Suddenly, he heard the sound of metal impacting metal.

Methos turned nearly all the way round in his seat. "Lucky shot!" he exclaimed. "Do you know how hard it is to hit a moving car from another moving car?"

MacLeod was too busy driving to answer. The end of the runway was fast approaching. A field stretched beyond it. He slowed the car just before they left the tarmac and sped on to the grass. Another bullet impacted the vehicle.

Methos was still looking out the rear window. "Maybe that first shot wasn't so lucky." he said, worriedly.

MacLeod had his hands full driving the Tracker 4 by 4 over the rough field, avoiding rocks and holes and vegetation. It was a rough ride. Methos clutched the dash with both hands. The chase vehicles weren't built for off-road travel, but the bad guys apparently weren't worried about ruining the suspension. They came on, jouncing and bouncing, in hot pursuit.

"We're not far now." Mac said. He could just make out a low stone wall that traversed the field as far as the eye could see. None of the vehicles could get past it. This was it. "Make for the wall. You'll see the ruins once you drop over it. Cover me till I get to those trees over there on the left. Good luck."

"You too." Methos replied. He planted his feet firmly on the floor, and braced one hand against the dash. The other hand gripped the handle above his side window.

MacLeod tightened his grip on the steering wheel and searched the field with his eyes. There! That rock ought to do it. "Hang on!" He glanced up at the visor above his head. A sticker read "Warning! This vehicle has a higher risk of rollover." I certainly hope so. Mac accelerated toward the rock, hitting it with the driver-side tire, as he jerked the steering wheel toward the left. It was working. He felt the vehicle lurch to the side, the wheels on Methos' side of the car leaving the earth.

Unfortunately, at the same time, the marksman let go another round. This time it was a lucky shot, as the bullet caught the undercarriage just as the vehicle lurched to the side. It penetrated the gas tank. The tank exploded, the force of the blast lifting the rear end of the vehicle high in the air, rolling three times end over end, before hitting the ground, rolling over a few more times, coming to rest, upside down. The back end was on fire. The chase vehicles slowed and stopped.

MacLeod came to, face down in the field. He spat out dirt. He was groggy, unsure of where he was. He put a shaky hand to his head and pulled it away, bloody. Something was burning. He lifted his head painfully. The 4 by 4 was upside down several yards ahead of him, flames engulfing its back end. Everything came back to Mac in a rush. "Methos?" he croaked. He crawled to the vehicle as fast as he could manage, as the world tilted crazily.

Methos was lying half in and half out of the shattered windshield, face down, his legs still in the car. The burning car. Mac felt the scorching heat as he scrambled closer. He grabbed Methos' hands at the wrist and pulled. Nothing happened. He crawled closer and tugged Methos' shoulders with all his strength. The old man was caught somehow. Mac peered through the opening where the windshield used to be. Methos' feet were tangled in the steering wheel. He reached in and lifted first one, then the other foot loose. The heat on Mac's face was intense. He saw the seatbelted mannequins squirming, their plastic faces melting and running grotesquely. There! Methos was free. Mac grabbed the limp man by the shoulders and pulled.

MacLeod moved backwards on belly and elbows as he dragged his friend with him. He couldn't see what was happening with the chase vehicles. If they were smart, they'd keep away from the burning vehicle. Mac was making for the stone wall, desperately trying to put as much distance between himself and the Tracker as possible. Shelter and escape were on the other side of the wall. He knew something their pursuers didn't - there were explosives in a bag under the front seat. Very safe, modern explosives. Easy to handle, completely inert, unless one used a detonator, like the one in Mac's shirt pocket. Or subjected the chemical compounds to extreme heat.

Mac nearly made it. The second explosion lifted MacLeod, and the limp body in his arms. The best laid plans of mice and men ... he had time to think, before he was slammed into the stone wall with sufficient force to knock him senseless.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Amy swung the 4 by 4 in a wide arc, and sped out of the open doors of the hangar the same way they had come in. She and Joe had watched as the decoy vehicle tore down the runway, the Mercedes and Peugeot following in their wake. She accelerated down the lane as fast as she dared. Joe, still in the back seat, was peering anxiously back at the airfield. As the lane dipped and curved, he lost sight of the chase. He turned around with a sigh.

Amy looked in the rear view mirror anxiously. "Are they following us, Joe?"

"No", he said, "they took the bait." He was silent as they covered the distance back to the main road, looking back frequently. Amy stopped at the juncture of the lane and the road, looking both ways. As her foot reached for the accelerator, Joe yelled.

"I see smoke!"

"What? Where?"

Joe pointed. "It's coming from the direction of the ruins."

Amy looked out her window. Thick black smoke was curling up in the distance. As she watched, a plume of flames and darker smoke rose high. "Oh, Joe! It's too soon!"

Joe looked at her, grimly. "Amy, get going."

She looked at him, stricken.

"Amy, put your foot on the gas and go."

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. She drove in silence. Joe leaned forward between the two front seats. "There!" he pointed at a dirt track that led into an orchard of apple trees. "Turn there!" Amy made the turn, and they followed the path a short distance to a shed. Amy pulled along the far side of the shed where they could not be seen from the path, and turned off the engine. She still gripped the wheel and leaned her head on her hands. She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach. She heard the rear door open, and Joe's movement out of the vehicle. He climbed into the front passenger seat and closed the door. She felt him pat her back. After a moment, she looked up.

"Something's gone wrong, hasn't it?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"What are we going to do?"

"Stick to the plan. This is the rendezvous point."

"But, Joe, ..."

"Amy, they're Immortals. They can take care of themselves. We'd just get in the way." He looked away. "We have to stick to the plan."

"Joe, what if I wasn't here? Would you still stay here, hiding?"

"Yes." Joe said.

"Don't ever play poker, Joe. You're a terrible liar."

"I'm not lying."

"Oh, Joe. It's so obvious. You do this thing with your face."

He looked away. "Amy, it doesn't matter how we feel about it. We have to stick to the plan. They did this to keep us safe, don't you see? They used themselves as bait to get us out of the danger zone. If we go back, ..." He stopped. "We can't go back."

Amy looked at him for a long moment. She looked at her watch. It was ten minutes since they had left the hangar. She leaned her head against the steering wheel and closed her eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

MacLeod grunted as a foot kicked him in the ribs, then flipped him on to his back. He blinked painfully in the overhead sun. Immortal Presence thrummed in his head, but Mac hurt too much all over to give a damn. His hands were bound behind him, straining his shoulders. The strain increased as a booted foot ground down on his chest. He concentrated, ignoring the ringing in his ears. After a moment, he recognized the distinctive aura of Methos.

Mac pushed up against the foot, causing its owner to stagger for a moment, momentarily relieving the pressure on his chest. Then another, harder kick to his abdomen, and Mac needed all his concentration to draw breath. Strong hands grabbed him under each arm, half dragging, half carrying him backwards. A rough surface scraped skin from his back as he was propped against it. His bare back. The Kevlar vest and, presumably, the weapons had been taken while he was unconscious. He leaned his head against a wall. It was the stone wall above the ruins. MacLeod sat up a little straighter. He noticed, then, that his legs, bent at the knees, were also bound at the ankles and thighs, trussed with the same rope that bound his arms. He tested the bonds. Whoever had tied him had done a excellent job. Any stress he exerted on the rope served merely to tighten them.

"Welcome back, MacLeod." said a voice to his right.

Mac turned his head, painfully. Methos, bare to the waist, hands bound, sagged against the stone wall. He looked terrible. His face was bloody, one eye swollen closed. His right leg canted at the knee. The wrong way.

Mac swallowed, trying to moisten his dry mouth. He still tasted dirt. "You OK?", he asked his battered friend.

"I'll survive." Methos said, hoarsely.

A laugh came from Mac's left. Wickedly pointed black boots came into view. Mac's eyes traveled up long, powerful legs encased in faded jeans, muscular arms crossed over a deep chest, a fleshy face topped with short, sandy hair. The lips curled in a cruel smile. "Not for long." He spoke English, with an accent that Mac tentatively identified as Polish.

MacLeod looked around him. What was left of the 4 by 4 was still smoking a short distance away. The smell of burning rubber permeated the air, and caught in his throat. Two men peered into the ruined hulk, unable to get close with the heat still emanating from it. The Peugeot and the Mercedes were some distance back, parked on the grassy field. Two men by the wreck, plus Boots. Mac frowned. Methos had seen a fourth, hadn't he?

"I did see four." Methos said, in Gaelic. "There's someone in the Mercedes."

Boots squatted down beside Methos. He patted the injured man's right knee. Methos hissed in pain, reflexively drawing his legs back. Only the left responded. Without further ado, Boots placed one hand on Methos' right thigh and the other on his calf, and twisted. Methos cried out, struggling against his bonds, kicking ineffectually with his left leg.

"Stop it, you son of a bitch! Stop it!" MacLeod yelled. The man regarded him calmly, and continued to twist Methos' leg, grinding bone against bone. Methos's face went gray, sweat dripping from it on to his bare chest. His breath hissed between gritted teeth. The expression on Boots' face was sickening. He was getting off on the injured man's pain. MacLeod bit off his angry words. Mac's distress was just adding to the bastard's pleasure. He looked away from Methos' agonized face. Breathing hard, glaring at the blond man, Mac struggled for control. He studied the man inflicting the pain, seeking information, anything, to help them out of this mess. He tried, in vain, not to hear the sounds of his friend's suffering.

Boots looked thirty to thirty five, give or take. He had a gun, an automatic, in a holster under his right arm. A large knife and a walkie-talkie radio were strapped to the belt at his waist. On his left hand, he wore an ornate, silver ring. Mac recognized the End of Time symbol. A perfect match of the ring found in Tokes' apartment. As Mac stared at the powerful hands wringing Methos' leg, he drew a sharp breath. Methos' hands, like his own, were tied behind his back. But Methos' legs were free.

Methos finally, blessedly, passed out with a sighing exhalation. His body slumped toward MacLeod, his head falling against Mac's shoulder. The blond man closed his eyes a moment, then reached for the knife at his belt. MacLeod shifted instinctively, trying to shield the unconscious man with his own body, despite the restraints that made it impossible. Boots drew the very large knife from his belt.

"Leave him alone." Mac growled, menace radiating from every pore.

Boots brandished the knife a couple of times. "OK." he said, pleasantly. He rested the flat of the blade on MacLeod's cheek, under his right eye. With his other hand, he gripped the silver pendant around Mac's neck, and twisted it, until the chain dug into the flesh.

"I do not like how you look at me, with those pretty brown eyes." The big man smiled. "What shall we do about that, eh?" The blade glittered in the bright sun.

Mac froze, the pulse pounding in his throat. He longed to tell the man exactly what he could do with that knife, but he was rather attached to his pretty brown eyes. Both of them. He swallowed the retort, along with his pride, and stayed silent.

One of the men, shorter and less bulky, approached from the wreck. He stopped, staring down at Boots. He spoke in Polish. "You know what she said."

Boots replied in the same language. "What? I am just having a little fun." After a moment, he released the chain and sheathed the knife. Boots patted Mac's cheek and stood up. "Report, Jan." he said to his associate, all business.

Jan gestured to the smoking heap. "It's too hot. We can't get close. The old man and the woman are dead. They were in the back when it exploded." He nodded toward MacLeod and Methos. "These two must have come through the windshield."

Boots nodded. "What about the gasoline? Any more explosions in the offing?"

"No, it's spent."

Boots nodded. "Watch them." He walked toward the parked cars.

MacLeod drew a deep breath, sweat trickling down the side of his face. As he watched, another man, with dark hair and beard, stepped out of the Mercedes. He held something, a radio or phone, to his face.

Jan looked at MacLeod, expressionless. He called to the other man at the wreck, in English. "Peter! Come here!"

Peter trotted over. He was younger, mid-twenties, thin. He looked nervously at the bound men, his eyes sliding quickly away from Mac's glare. He and Jan moved a few feet away from the captives. They lit cigarettes, and spoke in low tones. It was a hot day and they were in shirtsleeves. Peter held a 9 mm pistol. Jan wore a holster under his arm. Both had radios clipped to their belts. Their silver rings glinted in the bright sun. Four, Mac thought. Boots, Jan, Peter and Radioman. Wait a minute. Radioman had a radio. Was talking into the radio. Who was he talking to? She Who Must Be Obeyed, he guessed, with a glint of black humor.

Methos' face was slick with sweat against Mac's skin. Mac lifted his shoulder trying to nudge the man into consciousness. After a while, he was rewarded with a low groan. Methos lifted his head groggily, and looked into dark, sympathetic eyes, inches from his own. He blinked and focused.

Mac's voice was gentle. "Please don't throw up on me."

Methos whispered, "No promises." He took a shaky breath, and rested his head on Mac's shoulder again. He closed his eyes tight, swallowing rapidly until the nausea eased. After a few minutes, he leaned back against the wall. He squinted at his throbbing right leg. That sadistic bastard had actually done him a favor, straightening the leg in the process of torturing him. It would heal faster now. "Did I miss anything?" His voice was a bit stronger.

Mac played to their audience. "Amy and Joe are dead. They were trapped in the back of the car when it exploded." he said, distressed.

MacLeod watched Methos slip into his Adam Pierson persona. It was uncanny. The man managed to look both younger and smaller in the space of a heartbeat. What an actor he'd make! "No! Maybe they were thrown clear ..." His voice rose in panic.

"Listen to me, Adam! They're dead! It's just you and me." MacLeod looked at the men watching them. "We have to cooperate with these people. We must be very careful, or we will be dead too. " He noticed the young man, Peter, turned away at that statement. He handled his gun nervously. Jan took a drag on his cigarette, watching them with cold detachment.

Adam swallowed, and nodded. "OK, Mac." he said, with bravado.

MacLeod dropped his head down and spoke softly, barely moving his lips. "They didn't tie your legs."

Methos got it in one. He rested his head on his uninjured knee. His voice was barely audible. "They didn't know I'd heal." He thought furiously. "They may not know about us at all."

"You said it yourself." Methos looked a question at him. "Vadem had no Immortal partner, or any mortal he trusted to see him take a head."

Methos smiled with just his eyes. "They don't know how to kill us."

"Maybe." Mac cautioned.

The sound of an approaching vehicle brought their heads up. A third car, a black Citroen, pulled up next to the Mercedes. Boots walked toward it. The driver exited. A tall man. He nodded at Boots, then walked to the wreck of the 4 by 4, peering into it with morbid curiosity. He greeted the two men guarding the captives. Boots opened the passenger door. A woman emerged. She was tall, with wavy, dark hair, wearing a print dress that fluttered in the breeze. Dark glasses shielded her eyes from the noon sun. She spoke to Boots, then both turned. She held her left arm tightly to her side, the right swinging freely. Mac frowned. Something about her was familiar. Boots and the woman walked toward the bound men. All eyes were on their approach. Driver by the wreck. Radioman nearly at his side. Jan and Peter by the captives.

MacLeod felt Immortal Presence wash over him at the same time he saw the sword in her hand. He felt Methos stiffen beside him. The woman drew closer. MacLeod saw that her shoulder-length hair was swept up on the right side, clasped in a tortoise-shell comb.

"Magda!" he gasped. He recognized the wife of Vadem Tokes from the photograph the dead Immortal had treasured. "She's one of us." In fact, she looked exactly like her picture, from the flowered dress to the lock of hair swept up in the old-fashioned ornament. The only incongruity was the holster under her left arm. And the sword.

Methos cursed vehemently in a dead language. "Mac, my leg is healed." He winced. "Somewhat." He slowly drew up his right leg. His eyes locked with MacLeod's.

Mac didn't hesitate. "Go!"

Methos was on his feet in an instant. And rolled over the wall in the next. Boots yelled and pointed, and broke into a run. Peter let out a yelp and fumbled with his gun, nearly dropping it. His smoking companion ran to the wall, leaned over it, and extended his gun arm, taking careful aim. He forgot about MacLeod. The Highlander launched his powerful upper body into Jan's legs, knocking him to his knees. Mac head-butted him. The gun dropped from Jan's hand. Mac lay across Jan, using his greater weight to pin the dazed man to the ground.

"Shoot him! Shoot him!" Boots yelled to Peter, who was staring at MacLeod in shock. The young man leaned over the wall and fired at the escaping Immortal. Mac winced at each shot, too far away to do anything. The man under him was rallying. Jan landed a few blows on Mac's body, before Boots yanked Mac off. And kicked him into oblivion.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

On the other side of the stone wall, Methos landed on a grassy slope, mostly on his good leg, tucked and rolled. He was up instantly, running in an ungainly sprint. His right leg hurt like hell, but it supported his weight. He hunched his shoulders, anticipating the shock of a bullet entering his body. Behind him, a voice yelled "Shoot him! Shoot him!" An instant later, he heard gunfire. A chip flew off a rock a little ahead of him. More shots, as he zigged, then zagged. He threw himself over the crumbling remains of a wall, and slammed his back against it. He gasped for breath, but the arms trussed behind his back restricted his breathing. He struggled against the bindings, with no success.

Methos thought frantically. This rocky pile was no shelter from the men giving chase. Bloody hell! Everything was going according to plan until that lucky shot hit the gas tank. Now, he was trussed up like a chicken. And Mac, weaponless and bound hand and foot, was at the mercy of an Immortal woman and her five henchmen. An Immortal woman with a grudge! Bugger all! He cursed himself for his arrogance. He had been so sure there was no other Immortal! And now Mac was paying the price for his hubris. Well, Mac had been wrong, too. Vadem's interest in the occult did not arise out of the death of his wife, after all. Methos calmed himself by an act of will, recalling the threads of the plan they had made - yesterday! - in Joe's hotel suite. He looked around.

Rebecca's Cloister had once consisted of a main hall and eastern and western wings, which ended in rounded turrets. There had once been an inner and outer defensive wall. All that remained of the outer wall was the stretch back up there on the slope. The rest had crumbled to rubble and dust. Methos was crouching in the remains of the inner wall of the western wing. The turret was gone. Large boulders and rocks of every size littered the slope and field.

Amanda had said the labyrinth was over there, to his left. The entrance was completely overgrown. He only spotted it in the face of the grassy knoll because of the odd lintel stone that Amanda had described. He peeked over his little sheltering wall. The kid was dropping over the big wall above the slope. So was the driver. For the moment, their backs were to him. Methos was on his feet in an instant. He crouched low, dodging the remnants of the old stone structure. Footing was treacherous with the uneven ground and the thick underbrush. He ran to the knoll, grown over with weeds and wildflowers. Voices drifted from somewhere close behind him. Too close! Heart pounding, Methos threw himself headfirst into a tangle of brush, felt space open up in front of him, and landed on his belly, the breath whooshing out of him.

He struggled to his feet. In the dark, he scrabbled along turning and twisting walls, scraping his bare torso against rough stone, putting distance between himself and the entrance. Where was she? He couldn't hear over the sound of his harsh breathing. He couldn't feel his way with his hands tied behind his back. He knew he'd never find his way out of this maze on his own. He stopped, and caught his breath, straining with all his senses. Where the hell was she?

Suddenly, Methos felt Presence. Hands bound, stripped to the waist, weaponless, and in the dark, all his instincts screamed danger. He froze, holding his breath, flattening his body against a wall. His inner voice told him it had to be her. But he couldn't bring himself to call out. When all candles be out, all cats be gray. And all Immortals, save Mac, feel the same.

"Methos!"

"Amanda?" he whispered, relief flooding into him.

"Yeah. It's me."

Still, Methos flinched when her hands touched his chest, then slid up to his face. "Turn around." she ordered. He complied. The ropes bit into the flesh of his arms as she sawed through them. She slipped once, and cut him. "Sorry." Finally, his hands were free. She turned him around.

Methos briefed her on the situation as he rubbed the circulation back into his wrists. "There's six of them, Amanda. Five men, one nearly a boy, and an Immortal woman. Vadem's Magda. They have Mac."

"I saw them, Methos." she said, quietly.

"You saw them? How?" He lashed out in his anxiety, his voice sharper than he intended. "You were supposed to be hiding in here, while we led them to you!"

"Don't yell at me! I heard the explosions. Two explosions, too close together! I knew something was wrong. I couldn't ..." Amanda stopped. "They didn't see me. I crept up from the eastern side, and hid in the brush. I dashed back in the other end when I saw you escape. They were too preoccupied with you to notice me." She grabbed his hand. "Come on, we have to get to MacLeod. She's got a sword." She pulled him along a few feet before he dug in.

"Wait, Amanda! We need a plan here."

"Plan-schman, Methos! She could be cutting off Duncan's head right now!"

"Amanda, there's six against two! And they have guns and radios! You know that! That's why you didn't start shooting back there!" He felt her push past him. "Stop!" He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Please, Amanda." She struggled for a moment, then stilled. Methos pulled her close, and whispered into her ear. "Listen to me. We'll get to him. Calm down and listen to me."

Amanda took a deep breath and pushed away from him. "Okay, talk."

"They think Joe and Amy are dead, killed in the explosion. They still don't know about you. You're our secret weapon." He paused. "Unless, Magda felt your Presence?"

"No, I was never that close to her. You guys were halfway between me and her."

Methos nodded, relieved. "The men in the Mercedes and Peugeot - they don't know about Immortals." He explained how his legs were left unbound. "Amanda, they had no idea that I could heal. Magda hasn't told them about us. That means she doesn't trust them enough." He ran his hands through his hair in the dark, verbalizing his thoughts. "I don't think she'd take Mac's head while they're around. They'd see too much. They'd know her vulnerabilities, then." He realized something else. "Now, she knows I'm Immortal. She won't kill MacLeod until I'm accounted for. His Quickening would incapacitate her for hours. She'd be too vulnerable to me."

"You didn't think there was another Immortal, besides Vadem!" Amanda said accusingly.

"I know. I was wrong." He swore in frustration. "I'm sorry, Amanda."

She was silent for a long moment. "What are we going to do?"

"They took my weapons. Even my dagger. What do we have to work with?"

She took his hand and guided the handle of her knife into it. "My favorite throwing knife." He heard the sound of leather creaking. "Here's the Glock." She put it in his other hand. "Be careful, the safety's off."

"You still have the rifle? And your sword?" And she was wearing the Kevlar vest. He'd felt it when he held her close.

"Yeah."

Methos thought furiously. "The original plan was a good one. We just need some real-time adjustments."

She snorted. "Hey, I'm good at improvising."

"Okay, here's what we do."

CHAPTER THIRTY

MacLeod groaned, coughed and spat blood. Big mistake. Movement was a spectacularly bad idea. He tried to open his eyes. Only the left eye opened. Panic flooded him at the mental image of blond Boots and his big, sharp knife. Mac summoned all his strength and managed to open his right eye a crack. Relieved, he watched an ant crawl through the grass for a long minute. Even for an Immortal, being rendered unconscious three times in rapid succession was no picnic. He raised his head slightly and saw blood-stained black boots directly in front of him. One boot pulled back. Mac braced himself for the blow.

"Karl! Enough!" A woman's voice commanded in English, lightly accented. "Sit him up."

"Aww, Magda." Boots, aka Karl, sounded exactly like a whining kid whose mother had taken away his toy. But the kick never landed. Mac was grabbed painfully by the hair and one arm, and manhandled to a sitting position against the stone wall again. His head swam. He blinked blood out of his eyes, and squinted up at the woman standing in front of him. Magda. Vadem Tokes' wife. His Immortal wife. How wrong he had been, they all had been! A second Immortal changed everything. Mac shook his head, confused, trying to clear the cobwebs in his brain. What the hell! Something wasn't right. She was only a few feet away! Panic stopped his breath. What the hell have they done to me!

Magda spoke. "Get me some water." Karl trudged away toward the cars. Magda removed her sunglasses. She looked at MacLeod with the intensity of a scientist examining a particularly fascinating bug. MacLeod noticed the sword held loosely in her right hand. Without warning, she ran the blade lightly across his left thigh, slicing through the denim of his jeans and opening a shallow gash in his leg. Mac gasped at the pain, but was enormously relieved to see the blue white sparks of Quickening energy seal the cut. Whatever happened hadn't affected his healing ability. So, why couldn't he feel her aura?

She raised the sword to his neck. Mac couldn't help the flinch as the blade lightly nicked the skin over his Adam's apple. Again, he felt the healing energy skitter across his skin. She stared at his neck, then her eyes traveled upward and Magda finally met his eyes. Her expression was one MacLeod had seen before. Fascination and repulsion in equal measure. Mac's head finally cleared. There wasn't anything wrong with his Immortal senses. It was her. Magda was mortal.

Then where was the Immortal whose Presence he had felt? Where had he or she come from? And why hide now? Comprehension slowly dawned. MacLeod must have felt Amanda's Presence as Magda had approached. He and Methos had leaped to the wrong conclusion. Mac swore to himself. Amanda!

Amanda was the secret weapon in an elaborate plan. A plan designed to make the End of Time think there was no plan. Everything had been staged to appear as if they were reacting in a panic. The airplane, poised to fly, that they couldn't reach in time. The frantic chase over an open field. The car crash. Then, the trap would be baited. Methos would make for the stone wall, cover Mac's escape from the vehicle, then draw off some of their pursuers. Mac would take off in the opposite direction, using the detonator to blow up the 4 by 4 to prevent discovery of the dummies in the back seat. And, hopefully, take out whoever came too close to the Tracker as a bonus. Methos would lead his pursuers to the west entrance of the labyrinth, where Amanda waited like a spider in a web. Meanwhile, Mac would lead his pursuers on a merry chase the long way around to the eastern entrance. By the time he got there, Amanda and Methos, taking the hidden route through the labyrinth, would be waiting. Mac sighed. It had been a good plan. Choose your ground and your weapon. Lull your enemy into over-confidence. Divide and conquer. Spring the trap. Well, at least the bait-and-switch had worked. Amy and Joe were out of danger.

Amanda must have come pretty close to their position for Mac and Methos to feel her. She took a big risk of being seen. Mac replayed her promises in his head "I'm always a team player, MacLeod." and "Don't worry about me, Joe. I promised Duncan that I would be good and follow the plan to the letter." Mac fervently hoped they lived long enough for him to rag her about this. But right now, he had more important concerns.

MacLeod frowned at the woman in front of him. If she wasn't Immortal, then how could she be Vadem's wife? Magdalena Ludovic Tokes was born in 1959, and reportedly killed in 1989. MacLeod knew from personal experience that reports of a death could be greatly exaggerated. But this woman should be forty-five years old. She was no more than thirty. A lookalike daughter? Again, the record showed Magda Tokes had died childless. But records could be wrong, altered. One thing was sure, the father wouldn't have been Vadem.

Karl returned with a bottle of water. He handed it to Magda. "Go, help the others. Use extreme cautioun. Kill Pierson, tie him up, and bring his body to me." she said, commandingly.

The big man balked. "You shouldn't be alone with him, Magda." He gestured with his head toward the ruins. "Jan and the others don't need me to catch one unarmed man."

"He is no ordinary man. Now, go." Her tone brooked no argument. "Make sure you bind his arms and his legs this time."

Karl reluctantly turned away, muttering to himself in Polish. He vaulted the wall one-handed. MacLeod looked up at the young woman, inwardly recoiling, his heart beating faster. Her expression had changed. Hatred like that was impressive. Get her talking, he told himself. Get her mind off that very sharp sword in her hand. He licked dry lips, and tasted blood. "Who are you people? Why are you doing this?"

Magda didn't answer. She drank the bottle of water in a few deep swallows. She looked at the sword in her hand. She ran a finger along the length of the blade, now stained with MacLeod's blood. Some of the blood smeared her finger. She looked at it with distaste, then knelt on one knee, wiping her finger on the grass.

"Why are you after me and my friends?" MacLeod continued, frustrated at her silence. "What do you want?"

She moved in a blur of motion. Agony seared him. MacLeod tried to scream, or speak, or draw a breath, but his body refused to cooperate. He peered down at the sword imbedded in his chest, and looked, wordlessly, up at the woman.

Magda leaned in close until her face filled his dimming field of vision. She spoke slowly and distinctly. "I want the dead to rise." Her cold smile was the last thing MacLeod saw before he died.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Methos forced himself to relax, to follow Amanda's lead in the dark. She had a firm grasp on his hand as she led him with sure and certain steps through the labyrinth. Black as an abyss, the underground passage torturously wound its way under and through the ruined Cloister above their heads. There were steps up and steps down, and steps around, and always the twisting and turning walls, until Methos was beyond disoriented. He had no doubt, if Amanda let go his hand, that he would never find his way out. At that thought, he tightened his grip until the Immortal woman squawked in protest.

"Sorry", he muttered, then offered a silent apology as she shushed him. The last thing they needed was for Amanda to lose her concentration.

Finally, she led him around one inward curving wall. In the distance, he saw the faintest of glimmers. Or was it his eyes playing tricks?

"We're here." Amanda whispered, with such obvious relief that Methos frowned in dismay. How close had they come to losing their way?

Methos released her hand. "I don't know about you, but I have a sudden craving for a piece of cheese." he said.

She giggled. "Tell me about it. Rebecca made me walk the labyrinth every night. If she had to come and find me, then I went to bed without my supper. The first time I did it by myself, we celebrated with wine and honeycakes." She paused. "And then the next night, I had to do it all over again. Only this time, without the lamp."

Methos checked the Glock by feel. Safety off, clip in place. Amanda reached for his hand again. At last, they were at the exit. A shaft of sunlight streamed through tangles of vine. Methos smelled honeysuckle and jasmine and wild roses. No doubt there were thorns and bees and poison ivy in the mix too. They waited a minute for their eyes to adjust. Then, he met Amanda's eyes and nodded. She crouched low, pushing quickly through the tangled vegetation. Methos counted off thirty seconds. Then, he ducked and followed, the expected thorns tearing at his bare back and shoulders. He crouched next to an opening in the crumbling wall where a long window casement must have stood. He took a moment to orient himself.

Rebecca's Cloister had once consisted of a main hall and two wings, which ended in rounded turrets. There had been an inner and outer wall which had all but crumbled to rubble and dust. Methos was standing outside the east wing, looking into what was once a courtyard. He marked the exit from the labyrinth. It was hidden between two listing stones covered with wild growth. The other opening to the labyrinth, what he now thought of as the entrance was close to the west wing. The hill topped by the stone wall, where he had left MacLeod and Magda, was behind the Cloister and to the northwest. The ruins blocked that view. But from his vantage, he saw the kid. About 100 yards away, at the end of the courtyard, looking back towards the west wing and slope. Methos worked his way stealthily behind the young man's position.

Peter stood alert, placed halfway between the northern slope and the crumbling west wing. He was speaking into a radio, his gun in the other hand. Methos couldn't see the others, but his instincts told him Peter was the anchor of a cordon. The End of Timers had been well trained. Logically, they should be concentrating their search in the area where Methos had disappeared. An injured man on foot, hands bound, unable even to throw stones at them, wouldn't get far. But there were many hiding places in the ruins and the weeds. They must be literally beating the bushes there.

What Methos didn't know was how many of them had given chase, and were engaged in the search. He had seen the kid and the driver. What about the other four? His gut told him that Magda would stand guard over her captured Immortal. She wouldn't trust that duty to mortals who wouldn't know what they were dealing with. They had already lost Adam Pierson because of that ignorance.

An ugly thought intruded, despite his assurances to Amanda. Magda could have already taken Mac's head, while he and Amanda had meandered through the labyrinth. They wouldn't have seen the Quickening down in that dark place.

Methos shook his head. No, Mac's Quickening would have shaken the earth. He and Amanda would have felt it, even underground. When MacLeod took Kell, all the Immortals in New York City, including Methos, had registered that enormous transfer of energy. The power of it had flattened the Highlander, leaving him weak as a kitten for hours after. No, Magda couldn't risk that vulnerability here. Methos deliberately dismissed MacLeod from his mind. He had to believe that Mac's head was still attached to his body. He just had to.

The searchers would soon move the cordon, taking another section of the ruins in another coordinated and methodical search. Methos needed to disrupt that cool organization. Using the available cover, Methos worked his stealthy way toward the kid and a view of the search perimeter. He peeked through a chink in a wall. There! His guess was confirmed. Four of them combed the area in a baseball-diamond pattern. The kid, Peter, was home base. The others were moving slowly to his fixed position. The kid was watching the field from a bit of distance, his young eyes taking in the big picture, alert to any movement in the grass, or weeds, or among the stones. Jan and Radio were at first and third. Magda's driver anchored second base. That left Poland's version of the Marquis de Sade unaccounted for. A man like that could inflict a lot of damage - irreparable damage - on an Immortal. Methos ruthlessly suppressed a mental image of Mac at the mercy of that brute.

The search team would not expect Adam Pierson to be where he was. Methos hefted a small stone, then pitched it to fall behind the kid. Peter whirled. As he did, Methos let him see him duck behind the wall. The young man fired his gun at the fugitive. He shouted to his comrades, oblivious of the radio in his hand. Methos jumped up and ran, holding his arms behind his back as if they were still bound. He looked over his shoulder. The kid had taken the bait. He was running flat out too, his gun arm extended, firing. Do you know how hard it is for a running man to shoot a running man at these distances, kid? The old man was counting on that fact, hoping the kid wasn't the sharpshooter who had hit their speeding vehicle three times. Still, Methos zigzagged as he ran.

As he neared the entrance to the labyrinth, Methos deliberately headed for a small mound of rock. Looking back over his shoulder, he feigned tripping over it, tucking and rolling into a ball, still with his hands behind his back. He had a good worms' eye view of the kid slowing up, gun arm extended, shouting for his comrades, the radio forgotten, or perhaps lost in his pursuit. He felt Immortal presence, and prayed that Amanda had drawn a bead on the kid.

Methos shifted into Adam Pierson mode. Tears running down his face, Adam cowered before the approach of this ersatz Billy the Kid. He saw the boy inflate with self-importance at his capture of the fugitive. As Peter turned his head over his shoulder, mouth opening to call his companions, Methos moved. Lightning quick, he uncurled his long body, snapping his arms forward. The Glock was in his left hand; Amanda's knife in the other. He let the knife fly. The butt end struck the kid solidly in the left temple. He collapsed like a spilled sack of grain. Methos leaped to his feet. He grabbed the knife and Peter's gun, adding them to his jeans pockets. Scooping up the boy's limp body in a fireman's carry, he bundled him off to the labyrinth opening. He ducked inside.

From his vantage at the overgrown entrance, Methos saw Jan and Radio run past, guns drawn, calling Peter's name. Right on their heels came Driver. None of them spared a glance at the labyrinth entrance. Methos dragged the kid's body into the darkness, behind the first curving wall. He didn't dare go further, for fear of losing his way. He stripped the kid of his clothes and shoes. He cut Peter's jeans into strips. He used the leather belt and strips of denim to hogtie and gag the boy. Methos knew, from personal experience, how demoralizing it was to wake up in the dark, bound, gagged and naked. Satisfied with his handiwork, he made his cautious way to the mouth of the labyrinth.

He peered out of his hiding place. The three men would be more cautious than the boy. Already, the lack of response from the kid would have them on their guard. Methos, keeping low, moved in the direction they had taken.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Amanda eased back on the trigger of the rifle. She had watched as Methos took the kid out of the fight. Even from her bird's eye view, it was impressive. She had kept the rifle trained on the young man, just in case he gave the Immortal any trouble. The three men who rushed past Methos's hidey-hole still had no idea of the Amazing Amanda, ace-in-the-hole. Nor, that their fugitive was armed and dangerous. Well, if the old man could take out a couple, or even one of the others, without tipping their hand, they might just have a shot at pulling this off.

She circled to the other side of the turret for a quick look. From here, leaning dangerously out of the casement, she tried to catch a glimpse of what was happening up on the hill. She was too far away to see Magda or MacLeod. All she could see was the side of the stone wall that faced this way. She was too far to feel MacLeod's or Magda's auras, too far to do anything to prevent the woman from taking Duncan's head. Amanda reasoned he still had his head. There were no signs of the devastation that a Quickening would wreak. Especially a Quickening as powerful as Duncan's would be. Methos' assertion that Magda wouldn't take MacLeod's head under these circumstances sounded good in the abstract. But when Amanda thought of Duncan, sitting there helpless, while an Immortal stood over him with a sword ... It made her blood run cold.

But Methos, damn him, was right. They needed to take out the other gunmen before they could move on Magda's position. They'd lose the advantage of surprise that they now held with the mortals. When she was young, Amanda had spent hours trying to sneak up on Rebecca. But her teacher had always felt her coming. Amanda wished for the umpteenth time that she could turn her Immortal radar on and off at will. With a frustrated sigh, she returned to her post on the other side of the turret.

The three men had grown wary, she could see it in their body language. One of them was talking into his radio, obviously frustrated at the kid's lack of response. They knew Peter had been taken out. They moved as a group, watching each other's backs. Uh-oh. This wasn't going to be easy. Damn! They were moving back the way they had come, out of her field of vision. Another minute and she'd lose her targets. It was now or never! Amanda drew a bead on the radio man and squeezed off a round. He flew backward, the radio flying from his hand. Another man whirled and froze, looking down at his fallen comrade. The third man instantly dropped flat, rolling behind a large stone, as she swung the rifle his way. Bright boy! She aimed for the standing man. He started to run, but she caught him in the shoulder. He spun and fell to his knees, still holding on to his gun, then jerked and toppled sideways. Methos had finished him off. She looked intently through the sight, concentrating on the stone, hoping Bright Boy would pop his head up ... for ...just ... a ... moment.

Something punched into Amanda's back, slamming her into the wall with sufficient force to stun her. The rifle dropped from her nerveless fingers. Vision fading, knees buckling, she clutched at the stone window ledge, trying to stay conscious, to draw breath, to reach for the rifle at her feet. Strong fingers grabbed the back of her neck, and smashed her head into the stone wall. Once. Twice. Blackness descended as her skull cracked.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

A beat. Nothing existed. Not time, not space, only that single sensation in a vast emptiness. A beat. Another beat. And then another, and then nerves were on fire as blood pumped once more through arteries and veins. The diaphragm contracted, and lungs drew air in a great intake of breath. MacLeod squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the healing fire burned through his chest, radiating outward in a red haze of pain that blotted out all thought. When it receded to mere misery, he drew a shaky breath and opened his eyes. He was lying on his side in the grass. Dizzy and disoriented, he tried to sit up. Only then did he register the ropes binding him. The memory of where he was and who had killed him returned, along with surprise that he still had his head. A hopeful thought came to him. Maybe, despite the sword, Magda didn't know how to permanently kill an Immortal. He ignored the burning in his chest, and a throat so raw it felt like he had swallowed ground glass. It was a struggle, but Mac finally righted himself. He leaned back against the stone wall, breathing as deeply as he could. After a moment, he raised his head.

Magda sat a few feet from him, her long legs tucked elegantly under her dress, the sword on the grass beside her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open. As he watched, she licked her lips. "It's true, then." she whispered. "You can rise from the dead."

MacLeod watched her warily, and didn't answer.

She closed her eyes then. "Forgive me, my love, for doubting you." Her face was transformed by happiness for a moment. She opened her eyes, then, and her face lost all expression. "Where is the book?"

MacLeod stared at her. What book?

She stroked the sword blade. "Tell me where the book is, or I will cut off your head." she said, matter-of-fact.

MacLeod looked away so she wouldn't see the shock in his eyes at that deadly, casual threat. His faint hope that she didn't know how to kill an Immortal evaporated. Mac had no idea what book she was talking about. He sat a little straighter, forcing himself to appear relaxed. As relaxed as he could manage when bound hand and foot, sticky with his own drying blood. After all, he had learned to play poker from Connor MacLeod. He shrugged one shoulder. "It's safe. I wouldn't bring the book here." he said, forcing the words past a bone-dry throat. He upped the ante. "It's somewhere only I can get to."

"Tell me where it is." She spoke in the tone of one who is used to being obeyed.

"That wouldn't help you. My presence is required to retrieve it." He saw a flicker of doubt cross her lovely face. "I know how important the book is, Magda. Do you think I wouldn't safeguard it?" he said, a touch impatiently. "It's in Paris, but you'll have to take me there." He leaned back as casually as he could. "Forget Pierson. He's no threat to you. Retrieve your men. Take me to Paris, and I'll get you the book."

She looked at him, cooly. "You're right. Pierson is no threat to us. He's dead." At Mac's questioning look, she continued. "You didn't hear the shots while you were ... dead." She looked thoughtful. "But dead is a temporary condition for him, too, is it not? " She stroked the handle of the sword. "Unless I use this when my men bring him to me."

The urge to struggle against his bonds was nearly overpowering. What was happening to Methos? To Amanda? Frustration at his helplessness threatened to overwhelm him. MacLeod concentrated on calming down. He couldn't help his friends by giving in to his emotions. He needed his wits about him. With a part of his mind, he began the mental rituals he used for meditation.

Magda stared at him, curiously. "Vadem's dead, isn't he? You killed him, yes?"

MacLeod was silent.

She thrust the sword tip into his leg. Mac yelped involuntarily. What the hell, the Watchers had already given him the credit for Methos' kill. "Yes." Mac lifted his head. "It was self-defense. He attacked me."

Magda wasn't listening. She closed her eyes again. MacLeod saw tears trickle from under the lids. She smiled then. Mac realized, with a start, they were tears of joy. Warning bells clanged in his head.

"What was he to you?" he asked, intensely curious.

"Everything." She opened her eyes. Her expression was beatific. Mac had been wrong. She wasn't thirty, not for a few years yet. "He was everything."

Her reactions didn't make sense. MacLeod had just admitted to killing the man she loved. Yet, the confirmation of her lover's death made her happy. Why? This smiling Zen-Buddha attitude was scaring the hell out of him.

She picked up on his confusion. So much for the poker face. "You do not understand? You killed my love. So, I will kill you. Permanently." She explained, as if speaking to a child. "And when you are truly dead, my love will live again."

MacLeod said cautiously. "You can't bring Vadem back by killing me."

"No, I can't." Her face was suffused with joy. "But he can."

"Vadem is dead. He can't do anything."

She laughed coquettishly, shaking her head at MacLeod's obtuseness. "You stopped the Dark One coming to us at the appointed time. But once you are dead ..."

Uh-oh, Mac thought.

"... once you are dead, He will come. And the dead will rise." She stood up, and incongruously dusted off her dress and smoothed her hair, before holstering the gun. She bent, and picked up the sword.

A feeling of unreality crept over MacLeod. It was absurd. This couldn't be the end. Not like this. Not at the hands of a mortal girl. Not yet. His Path was not complete. He still had to find the next Champion, teach him or her. He had to do something, say anything, keep Magda talking. MacLeod found his voice. "Yes, Magda, I did stop Him from coming. But killing me won't bring the Dark One back."

She ignored him, and raised the sword.

"Or Vadem." He couldn't die now. There was no Immortal here. There would be no Quickening. They would all be lost. Richie. Connor. Fitz. Rebecca. All of the others. Lost forever. Mac struggled desperately against the ropes binding him, succeeding only in tightening them further, cutting off the circulation to his feet.

She took the pommel in both hands. "Vadem told me you killed him, and it is true. Vadem told me you rise from the dead, and it is true." She hefted the blade. "And Vadem told me when I kill you, he will live again. So, that too must be true."

"Wait, Magda! How could Vadem tell you these things if he is dead?" She took a step closer to Mac. "Kill me now and you'll never have the book." No effect. Mac focused with a concentration that he usually only achieved when engaged in mortal combat. He desperately cast his mind about. "You'll need his body to raise him from the dead."

That stopped her. "What?"

Mac nodded. "You're right, Magda. If you kill me, the Dark One will return." He looked earnestly at her, putting all the sincerity he could summon into the lies. "But you'll need Vadem's body for him to be raised. I buried him. Only I know where."

She looked uncertain. "He ... didn't tell me ..." She shook her head. "You're lying. He would have told me that." She sounded, as if she were trying to convince herself. She tightened her grip on the sword, and raised it chest high.

Mac held himself very still. "Can you afford to take that chance?"

She shook herself. "No, the Dark One is all powerful! He will know where-"

"If He was all powerful, Magda, then how could I defeat Him?" he asked, quietly.

She lowered the sword, frowning.

"Vadem didn't tell you everything." MacLeod breathed.

Direct hit! For just a moment, the vulnerability showed in her mouth and in her eyes. Then, her lips tightened. "Of course he did!" she insisted.

Methinks the lady doth protest too much. MacLeod quickly followed up the advantage. "In fact, Vadem kept a lot of things from you, didn't he, Magda? Or whatever your real name is." He held his breath.

She went white around the eyes. "What ...?"

In four centuries of living, MacLeod had known love, and loss, and obsession. The desperate longing to bring back the dead. Even if only in facsimile. To his shame, he had nearly done the same with Tessa and the look-alike imposter Horton had sicced on him. It was all suddenly crystal clear. Her age. Her appearance, down to the same hairstyle, the same dress, as in the old photograph. His voice rang with authority. "Vadem made you over. Into the image of his dead wife."

It was as if MacLeod, with his words, had found the flaw in a diamond-hard crystal. The brittle, brutal confidence shattered. She stared at him, her face white, her mouth slack with shock.

Mac remembered what Ahriman had offered. "Vadem wanted to bring the Dark One back so he could bring her back, didn't he? The real Magda." His voice took on a taunting edge. "And when he did, he could throw the copy away. What would he want with a poor imitation when he finally had the real thing?"

"No!"

"You weren't sure he was dead until I confirmed it. I saw your face. You were happy to know that he was dead. Why?" MacLeod thought furiously. "Because you were afraid he had left you! Abandoned you!"

Her hand went to her mouth, her eyes shifting from side to side, like a child afraid to be punished. She gave a little shake of her head.

"Vadem was alone the night he came after me. He didn't trust you, any of you, not even to watch his back. But Vadem was always clever, always careful, wasn't he? He left you a message, didn't he? Just in case. A message with the knowledge he didn't entrust to you while he was alive." It was all making sense, coming together to form a clear picture in Mac's head of the Immortal man, Vadem Tokes, the sniper who had never seemed quite real to MacLeod. Not real? The dead man was here, wielding this woman as his weapon as surely as he had used a rifle and a sword in life. "You gave up who you were to be his Magda, but he didn't trust you with the truth."

She moaned, clutching her head, dislodging the antique comb from her hair. The luxurious waves tumbled free, veiling one side of her face. "You shut up! You liar! He did too trust me! He did love me!" she keened. "I am Magda! I have always been Magda! You lie! You're a dirty, filthy liar!"

"It's the truth and you know it! My God, girl, didn't you notice he never got any older? Never got sick. Or hurt." Mac pressed on. "He was an Immortal! An Immortal like me! He didn't trust you with the knowledge of how to destroy him! He didn't love you! He used you! He's still using you!"

"You're trying to trick me! Confuse me! Vadem said not to listen to you! I won't listen to you! I won't!" She covered one ear with her hand, shaking her head. In a sing-song voice, she crooned to herself. "Vadem will come back and everything will be the way it was. You'll see. He'll make everything the way it was. You'll be sorry, then. I won't listen to you. I just won't listen."

Mac's thoughts raced at lightning speed. A part of him could appreciate the irony even now. The Immortal known as Vadem Tokes had succeeded in bringing back the dead. Without any supernatural help. What kind of power had Vadem had over this woman? How had he persuaded her to assume the identity of his dead wife? Why would a grown woman give up this most fundamental aspect of her humanity? But, Magda wasn't behaving like a bereaved lover. In fact, she wasn't acting like a grown woman at all. If Mac closed his eyes, he could almost believe a distressed child quivered before him. A child ...?

Sweet Jesus! MacLeod shivered, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. The children. The kidnaped children that Joe had told them about. All the bodies eventually found. Except ...one ... girl. He swallowed the bile that gathered in the back of his throat. When Mac spoke, compassion softened his voice.

"How old were you when he took you?"

She swayed on her feet, her eyes brimming over, the sword wavering in her hand. Her lips trembled. "I ... I don't ... I can't ..." she stammered. She gulped air. "Vadem!' she cried. "Vadem!"

"Vadem's dead. He's never coming back. Never." MacLeod's voice carried the conviction of all his four hundred and eleven years. "You're free. He can't use you anymore. Let me help you." He took a deep breath. "Please. Don't let him use you anymore."

She opened her mouth, then shut it abruptly. She covered her eyes with one hand. The sword was held limply in the other, its tip dragging on the grass.

"What is your name, child?" he asked, in a tone of ineffable tenderness.

For a moment, for one long, hopeful, heart-stopping moment, MacLeod thought he had reached her, reached the girl she must once have been, before that monster had ripped her away from her family, her life, her very identity.

Her hand tightened on the sword and she stood taller. Then, she looked down at him. She had old eyes, as old as Methos'. Mac could hardly bear to see them in a face so young. She lifted the sword in both her hands.

"My name ... is Magda."

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod bowed his head in recognition of the power of the name she had chosen. As he did, the rune pendant he wore around his neck glinted in the sun. A great calm settled over him at the sight of it. He lifted his chin, and accepted the death he saw in those old eyes. Endgame. Goodbye, Amanda, my beloved. Methos, my friend, take care of them ... Joe and Amy and my love ...

Magda swung the sword at MacLeod's neck with all her might.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Methos crouched behind a leaning pile of stone. Jan was doing the same several yards ahead of him. The man's instincts and reflexes were good. As well as his luck. The cultist had managed to find cover that sheltered him from both Methos' and Amanda's aim. Together, the Immortals had taken out three of the bad guys. Three down, three to go. Methos hoped one of the downed had included the marksman who had blown up the 4 by 4. But, given their luck, he doubted it. Methos knew, or thought he knew, the location of two of the remaining enemy. Jan was pinned down, for the moment, here. Magda, he hoped, was with MacLeod, up on the hill. But where was the sadistic bastard?

He peered up at the crumbling turret. At this angle and distance, he could just make out the rifle barrel protruding from a casement. Amanda was keeping Jan in her sights. Good girl! Methos looked quickly around for the blond booted man. Nothing. He had to end this stalemate. Quickly. Before reinforcements arrived. He tucked the gun in his jeans, at the small of his back.

Methos stood up abruptly and marched toward Jan's position, hands up in an attitude of surrender. He hoped the man would take the bait and stand up. Just as he thought it, it happened. Jan stood up, his gun pointed at Methos. Then, the gunman smiled up at the turret. Methos moved, without conscious thought. The bullet only winged him, as a result. He spun and dropped and rolled behind a very small and inadequate rock pile. He looked up at the turret. He saw the sun glint off blond hair. Not only did he know the sadistic bastard's position, Methos also knew the identity of the sharpshooter as another shot from the turret shattered the top stone of his pathetic little refuge.

Methos retrieved his gun from his waistband with his left hand. The right arm was out of commission for a while. Amanda was down. MacLeod was out of the fight. It was just him. And he was pinned down by a rifle with the high ground, and another gun at his level.

Suddenly, there was a sound like a rampaging elephant behind him. The Tracker 4 by 4 crashed through a thicket and raced directly for Jan's position. Jan had no choice but to scuttle away from the vehicle bearing down on him, shooting wildly at it as he dodged. Methos dropped him with one shot.

The 4 by 4 kept coming, toward Methos now. He heard the shot that shattered its windshield, saw the glass go flying, and caught a glimpse of a silver head tucked low as the vehicle careened wildly through the ruins. Methos stood, extending his gun hand, his back to the lumbering behemoth that was bearing down on him. He fired at the turret, too far away to do any real damage, just trying to give Joe some cover. The horn blared directly behind him, and Methos dove to the side, landing painfully on his wounded arm. The Tracker finally stopped, straddling the spot where Methos had been standing only a moment before. He was in the open, his Immortality his only shield now. He knew Joe had no chance of escaping on foot from the vehicle. He prayed that the sadist would miss the gas tank this time.

A scream sounded high above his head. Methos looked up to the turret to see an object rocketing from the casement. It landed with a thud in the grass, and rolled toward him. Methos lurched to his feet, and walked to it. His smile would have chilled his friends had they seen it. Methos clutched his right shoulder, wincing as he turned. "Joe?"

"I'm all right." It came from inside the cab of the Tracker.

"Amanda?"

"I'm OK." she called, waving down from the turret. "Get to MacLeod! I'll meet you there." She disappeared.

Methos drew back his right leg and kicked the round object at his feet. The blond head sailed over crumbling stones, flew between two small trees and disappeared into the brush. He shoots! He scores! The crowd goes wild! He stamped his right foot. "Good as new." he muttered, and then turned toward the 4 by 4.

Joe's head barely peeped over the passenger side door. "Was that necessary? One of Jean's team is going to have to go looking for that."

"Not necessary, Joe, but very satisfying." Steam poured out from under the hood of the Tracker. "Do you think this thing will move?"

Joe started to scoot over to the driver's side. "I don't know."

"Forget about it, Joe. I'm driving."

Joe gave him a look. "I thought I did pretty good. There're no hand controls in this car."

"You nearly ran me down!"

"I beeped the horn!" Joe protested. "Besides, you try operating the gas pedal with a cane!"

Methos quickly perused the damage. The Tracker was dead. Shot through the radiator. "Joe, follow me."

He led Joe to the labyrinth exit as quickly as the disabled man could get there. "Don't go past the first turn, or you'll never find your way out." Joe struggled past the vine-covered entrance. "We'll be back for you." He turned away. "Oh, there's a prisoner in there, Joe. He's bound and gagged, but be careful."

Methos moved his shoulder, experimentally. Good enough. He switched the gun to his right hand. He began running toward the slope and the stone wall. Hang in there, Highlander. The cavalry's on its way.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

MacLeod heard the sword slice through the air, saw its polished metal catch the sunlight as it moved in a downward arc toward his neck. He felt the rough ropes cutting into the skin of his arms; the sticky itch of blood drying on his belly; the warmth of the sun on his naked chest; the verdant grass under his feet. An insect whined near his ear. The air smelled sweet, thick with the scent of honeysuckle. All his senses were hyperaware, stretching his perception beyond their normal limits. The gunshot, when it came, roared like a cannon and deafened him.

As if in slow motion, he watched Magda fly backwards off her feet, the sword leaping from her hand. The momentum of her swing carried the sword into the wall inches from his head, where it stuck in the crumbling mortar. MacLeod, stunned, stared at the spreading red stain on her dress. Her chest heaved, as she gasped and choked. Mac swivelled his head.

Amy Thomas, white-faced, crouched behind a large rock. With that hyper-aware perception, MacLeod saw the gun held steadily in her extended right hand, the left hand bracing it. He saw an odd marking on her right hand, two black lines encircling her wrist. Bluish-gray smoke drifted lazily around the barrel. She stared at Magda, then shifted her gaze to MacLeod. She had bitten through her lower lip. Their eyes locked for a moment. Then, Mac shouted. "Amy, untie me! Quickly!"

She didn't move.

"Amy! Please!"

She ran to him, then. He turned his body as best he could to give her access to his arms. She sawed through the ropes with a knife, her hands shaking, cutting both of them in her clumsiness. Finally, Mac's hands were free and the tension eased enough on the leg bindings for him to crawl to the wounded woman.

Magda was trying to breathe, choking on the blood welling into her throat. It was a mortal wound. Mac had known it from the moment he saw her fall. He slipped an arm behind her back, gently raising her to a sitting position. The labored breathing eased a bit, and her panic lessened as she drew a small breath. Her eyes were glazing with shock. She didn't have long.

She struggled to speak. MacLeod leaned toward her, turning his head, straining to hear her words. She tried again.

"Tereza." she whispered. "Tereza."

"Tereza." he repeated softly, caressing her cheek.

She died with the breath sighing out of her. Duncan closed Tereza's eyes with trembling fingers. He heard a noise beside him. Amy's face was ashen, awash in sweat. She gasped his name.

Mac held her head, as she vomited in the grass. And gathered her to him when the spasms ceased. Amanda found them as she came racing down the field. She stopped in her tracks, taking in the gruesome tableau. Mac, streaked with blood, leaned against the stone wall. He lowered the gun that he held in his right hand. His left arm clutched Amy to him. A dead woman, her breast shattered, lay at his feet.

"Duncan?" she said, tentatively.

MacLeod's face was a grim, bloody mask. Amy clung to him, her head tucked in the angle of his jaw, obscuring her face. "It's over?" he asked, hoarsely.

Amanda nodded.

Mac closed his eyes. After a moment, he gestured toward Amy. Amanda knelt by her side, laying a hand on her shoulder. The muscles were rigid.. "Amy, honey. Can you stand up? Sweetie? Try to stand up, please." Amanda gently tugged on her shoulder. Amy let Amanda pull her away from MacLeod. She knelt facing the stone wall. Amanda put an arm around her, and helped her to her feet, steadying her when she swayed. She tried to turn Amy to face her, but she resisted. "Amy, come with me. We'll just get out of this hot sun and ... "

"I can't ... "

"Sure, you can, honey. Here, I'll help you ... "

"I can't look at her.", Amy whispered.

Duncan was sawing at the ropes that bound his legs, with Amy's knife. He spoke gently. "You don't have to look, Amy. Close your eyes. Amanda will help you. It's only a little way. Just keep your eyes closed."

Amy did as he instructed. Amanda led her carefully to a cluster of small leafy trees. She helped Amy sit down against the trunk, facing away from the corpse. Amanda knelt next to her, discreetly checking the young woman for injury. She realized that it must be MacLeod's blood on Amy's clothes.

Amy opened her eyes and looked dully at the view overlooking the ruins. "I'm not hurt." She took a deep breath and looked at the Immortal woman. Amanda was surprised at the stony expression on the younger woman's face. "Go help Mac. I'll be all right." She took another deep breath. "I just couldn't look at her."

Amanda brushed a damp lock of hair away from Amy's forehead. She remembered suddenly that the young woman was released from the hospital only yesterday. Amy was very pale, but otherwise seemed OK. Physically, anyway. Amanda stood and brushed the knees of her trousers in an automatic gesture. Her clothes were dirty and bloody and ripped in a few places. She returned to MacLeod just as he freed his legs. She held her hands out to him. With her help, Mac lurched to his feet, and stumbled to the wall. He leaned on his hands against it.

"Feet fell asleep." he said.

"Duncan, what happened here?" Amanda asked.

"Amy saved my life." he said simply, not looking at her.

At that moment, they felt an Immortal Presence. "It's Methos." Mac told Amanda just before the old man bounded into view. Like Amanda, he came to a screeching halt at the sight of the bloody corpse lying in the grass. He looked at his friends. Before either could speak, he grabbed the sword imbedded in the stone wall, wrenched it out and raised it over the body.

"No!" Mac lunged at him, stumbling on deadened feet, and grabbed his forearms. His face was inches from the old man's. "She's dead!" he shouted.

Shock replaced the steely determination in Methos' face. "Magda was mortal?" he asked, astonished. Mac released his arms and turned away. Methos lowered the sword, uncertainly.

Mac looked down at the body. "Her name was Tereza."

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Joe Dawson leaned carefully against the stone wall, taking some of the weight off his prostheses. The small flashlight in his hand illuminated the small alcove he stood in. The light illuminated a faded, flaking painting on the crumbling wall, a fresco, depicting a station of the Cross. Though it was badly deteriorated, Joe could make out a still luminous face or two. He had been examining this image for some time. It was preferable to looking at the naked and bound figure on the floor behind him. The young man was terrified, cowering away from Joe's flashlight beam, moaning around the gag in his mouth. Joe didn't want to look at him, or talk to him. If the kid was going to be taken out ...

You coward! You mean 'killed'. Joe recognized he was distancing himself from a fellow human being. It made it easier to do what had to be done if you didn't think of him as a person, with a name, a family, a life. He had learned this trick in 'Nam.

Except, it shouldn't be made easier, goddammit! That was an ugly lesson you learned in country. Remember James Horton and his death squad? That's how they thought! Joe turned around and faced the man on the floor. God, he was young. Maybe twenty-five, if that. Not much younger than Amy. How the hell had he gotten mixed up with the End of Time? What the hell were they going to do with him?

"Joe!"

Joe could have sworn he levitated, artificial legs and all, at the unexpected shout. Heart pounding, he called an answer. "Mac, I'm here!" He shone the flashlight in the direction of the labyrinth opening. After a moment, MacLeod appeared in the beam. He looked like hell, blood smeared and drying on his face and bare chest, staining the silver chain and pendant around his neck, but all his parts appeared intact. He strode quickly to Joe.

"You OK?" Mac asked.

"Peachy. You?"

"The same." MacLeod knelt beside the trussed man. He untied the gag and tossed it away. "Your name is Peter?"

The kid shrank from him, but managed a nod.

"Well, Peter", Mac said, "we're trying to decide what to do about you." Joe wouldn't have thought it possible, but the young man managed to look even more scared. "We'll be back." He stood. "Come on, Joe."

Joe happily left the dark and dank labyrinth. He blinked in the bright afternoon sun, and took a deep breath of fresh air. "It's all over, I take it?"

"Yeah. It's over." Mac said, quietly.

"Thank God!" Joe's prayer was heartfelt. "Mac, can you go and get Amy?" He pointed to a copse of trees in the distance. "She's waiting over there."

"Joe, Amy's here. She's in the Mercedes." Mac pointed at three vehicles parked on the rough lane which led to the Cloister.

"Oh." Joe started toward the Mercedes, but Mac held him back with a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait a minute, Joe." Joe turned, puzzled. "I have to tell you ..."

Alarm bells went off in Joe's head. "Is she all right? Is she hurt?"

MacLeod reassured him. "She's not hurt, Joe." He paused. "She saved my life." His dark eyes were troubled. "She shot ... Magda. Killed her."

Joe gaped at him for a moment. "Shit!" he said, emphatically, when he found his voice. He closed his eyes. "Shit." he repeated, sadly.

"Yeah." Mac agreed. "Joe, I'm sorry."

Joe looked at him. "She saved your life?"

Mac nodded solemnly. "If Amy hadn't done what she did, I'd be dead. Forever. And my Quickening lost."

"I'd better go to her." He walked slowly to the Mercedes. Methos emerged from the Peugeot and spoke a few words to Joe in passing. Joe nodded and continued on his way. When he got to the Mercedes, Amanda and Amy emerged. Joe held his hands out to his daughter, and she walked into his arms. Amanda strode away from them, and joined Methos and MacLeod.

Amanda put her hands on her hips. "Now what?"

"Joe will call in 'Housekeeping'." Mac said. "They'll take care of the bodies." He turned slightly toward the hilly slope behind them as he spoke. Before driving the vehicles the long way around to the Cloister, Mac had moved Tereza's body out of the sun. He found a blanket in the trunk of the Mercedes. He had been about to spread it over the body when a movement from behind him stopped him. Amy reached out a hand and took a corner of the blanket. Together, they covered the dead woman. Then, she climbed into the passenger seat of the Mercedes. Amanda drove it, leading the procession, with Mac following in the Citroen and Methos in the Peugeot, to the lane leading to the front of the Cloister.

Mac shook his head, and returned his thoughts to the subject at hand. A difficult subject. And already a contentious one. They were all stressed out, exhausted. Mac's own emotions were running the gamut from relief to depression to euphoria and everything in between. He chose his words carefully, and kept his tone neutral.

"We still have a live one in there." Mac gestured with a thumb to the labyrinth. "We have to talk about - "

Methos cut in. "You know what we have to do with him, MacLeod."

"Do I, Methos?" Mac said, cooly. Up on the hill, Methos had refused to discuss the options for their lone survivor, insisting that their only logical course was dispatching Peter, after finding out what he knew. He had been quite hostile about it. In the space of five minutes, Mac had gone from an overwhelming desire to hug the old man, elated to see him alive, to a nearly irresistible urge to clean his clock.

"This is no time for the Boy Scout to rear his virtuous head." Methos said, derisively.

"Or for you to play the Great and Powerful Oz and read my mind for me!" Mac said, exasperated. He tried to count to ten, but barely made it to two.

Methos smirked. "I don't have to read your mind, Mac. The noble, but naive, hero routine is just oh-so-predictable."

"Come on, Methos." Mac's tone was placating. "I'm not saying I know what we should do. You may be right. But can't we at least talk about this?"

"There's nothing to talk about. The kid has to die." Methos crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back. "I'll take care of him. Take a walk, Mac. Keep your hands clean."

MacLeod was angry now. "What the hell is your problem, Methos?!"

"My problem?" Methos raised his eyebrows, looking surprised. "Your inability to face the nasty reality is the problem."

"I'll do what has to be done, Methos." Mac said, through gritted teeth. "The difference between us is that I'm not looking forward to it."

Methos' eyes glittered. "You have no idea of the difference between us, Mac. Pray you never find out." His voice oozed malevolence.

MacLeod's eyes narrowed. "Oh, I already have." He stepped closer to the old man, invading his personal space. "Or did you think I'd forgotten Bordeaux?"

"Now, boys, ..." Amanda intervened, stepping between the two men. "It's been a long, hard day. Let's not -"

They were interrupted by the approach of Joe and Amy. Joe spoke. "What's going on?" He looked at the Immortals, curious. The tension was palpable.

MacLeod looked at Methos and Amanda. Nobody spoke for a minute, then Mac said "Joe, why don't you take Amy to the chateau. We'll catch up with you in a little while."

Amy protested. "No!"

Methos spoke. "Amy, there are things that have to be done here. Unpleasant things. You don't want to stay."

Joe put his hand on her shoulder. "Amy, come on, ..."

Amy shook his hand off, and stepped up closer to MacLeod, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. "You said it back in Paris, Mac. We're all in this together. We're a team."

"Amy, this isn't the same ..." Mac began, then stopped abruptly. He closed his eyes, one hand brushing his forehead. What the hell was he trying to do? Protect poor little Amy from the big, bad world? It was far, far too late for that. He opened his eyes and looked into hers. "You're right. You're absolutely right."

Mac gestured behind him with his thumb. "That young man in there was part of a ruthless, murderous group that tried to kill us all today. They tried to kill Amy and Adam by burning the library. God knows what else they've done." He paused. "Let's be perfectly crystal clear about this. We're deciding the fate of a human being." He looked around the little group. "Amy is right. We all have a stake in the decision here."

Methos scowled. "So, what? We take a vote? Thumbs up, he lives? Thumbs down, he dies? Majority rules? This isn't about idealistic niceties. It's about survival." He crossed his arms on his chest. "He's the enemy. The only reason he's not already dead is because I couldn't risk tipping off the others."

Amanda piped up. "I'm with Adam. We have to eliminate the threat."

Mac looked at her. "Is it about eliminating the threat to our survival? Then, let's find out what threat remains." He looked at Joe and Amy in turn. "Or is it about vengeance for what they did to us?" He looked at Methos.

"You weren't in that library, MacLeod." Methos snapped.

"But I was, Adam." Amy said, in a low tone. "I understand what you and Amanda are saying." Her voice grew stronger. "But there's been a lot of killing today." She put up her hand as Adam began to protest. "It was necessary. I know that." She swallowed. "But ... if it isn't necessary ... to kill this young man ..."

"I'm not willing to risk your life, and Joe's, for his." Methos said, frowning.

Amy looked at her father. He smiled slightly. "We are, Adam." She stood on tiptoe and kissed the oldest Immortal on the cheek. "But thank you." She turned to MacLeod, and put a hand on his arm. "I heard what you said to her, there, at the end." She looked searchingly at his face. "You have my vote, Mac, to do what you think is right with this man. Whatever that is. Whatever it takes." She saw Joe's nod. "And you have my father's." She slumped slightly. "Joe, could you take me to the chateau? I'm very tired."

Joe hesitated. He had to call in Housekeeping, take care of innumerable details with his people. He couldn't leave that to the Immortals. More importantly, he couldn't shirk his share of responsibility in carrying out the fate of the kid. Thumbs up, or thumbs down. Amanda saw his dilemma.

"I'll take Amy to the chateau, Joe. I know you have things to take care of." Amanda said. She kissed MacLeod lightly on the lips. "You have my vote too, Duncan." She walked away with Amy in tow. They climbed into the Mercedes and sped away down the lane.

Methos frowned. He had always had his doubts about democracy ever since that Athenian putz, Cleisthenes, dreamed up the idea. "Mac, ..." he began, then stopped. "What's the use?" He threw up his hands. "Fine, we'll try it your way."

"Thanks." Mac said, sincerely. He started to reach out a hand to Methos, but pulled it back. "I ... I didn't mean what I said, Methos. I'm sorry."

The old man, his expression remote, said nothing.

Mac moved on. "Let's get this over with." Joe handed his flashlight to MacLeod. Mac strode to the labyrinth's entrance and shouldered his way past the vines, ignoring the thorns that ripped the flesh on his back. Methos, after a moment, followed him, cursing at the clutching vegetation.

Their prisoner scrabbled away from the light as they approached, whimpering as Mac cut the bonds on his ankles. They left his hands bound. They had to half carry, half drag him into the daylight.

Peter blinked furiously in the bright sun. They dropped him onto a little patch of grass. Joe was sickened by the sight of him. The kid was streaming sweat, and had soiled himself. Joe forced himself not to look away.

MacLeod knelt by the boy. The Highlander's expression was as cold and hard as Joe had ever seen. "Peter, listen to me very carefully." He had to repeat himself a few times. When he was sure the boy was tracking, he continued. "Your friends are dead."

"Magda?" Peter choked out.

"All of them, including ... Magda." Mac paused. "Do you know who I am?

Peter nodded.

"Tell me."

"Y ... You're M ... MacLeod." he stuttered .

"What else?"

"Y... You're the Ch ... Champion."

"That's right, Peter. I defeated your Dark One." MacLeod gestured broadly to the ruins, the meadow, the slope. "And my friends and I defeated the six of you today." He waited to let that sink in. "Do you have any doubt that, if I wanted to, I could end your life in a heartbeat? Anytime. Anywhere."

Peter shook his head vigorously.

"There would be no place to hide from me and my friends, would there?"

Again, Peter shook his head, trembling.

"OK, now let me explain what we're doing here." He pointed to himself, Joe and Methos. "We are your judge and jury, and if need be, your executioners. Do you understand?" Joe shivered involuntarily. Mac's explanation of Peter's possible fate was all the more chilling for being presented calmly, logically, and in the bright light of the afternoon sun. In cold blood. Joe suddenly understood that expression as he never had before.

Apparently, Mac's matter-of-fact demeanor had the same effect on the kid. Peter's eyes showed white all around. "Y ... yes." he stammered.

"All right." Mac nodded, satisfied. "We're all on the same page. It's up to you now. Tell us why you shouldn't die today." He patted the kid on the cheek, before standing up. "And remember, Peter, in this court, you bear the burden of proof."

Peter blinked owlishly. He looked at Mac, mouth open, lips trembling. He looked at Joe. He looked at Methos, and trembled even more. Then, he proceeded to spill his guts. Mac's questions kept him on track. His full name was Peter Miller. He had been recruited by Vadem Tokes five years ago. He confirmed that the six of them - himself, Magda, Karl, Jan, Stefan, and Georg - were the last remaining members of the End of Time cult. Headquartered in Prague, Vadem had been their leader. Beginning in early 2002, with no sign of the return of the Dark One to the mortal realm, the other members had drifted away.

Vadem had held this last remnant together, with promises that the Dark One was still coming. They were his Inner Circle. Vadem was their leader. His wife, Magda, was his second-in-command. Karl and Jan were their security force. Stefan and Georg were assigned multiple responsibilities. Peter was a computer wizard, a hacker. Peter was responsible for much of the information- gathering for the group, hacking with impunity into every significant data base to find the information or funds that they had needed. Not all of their money or properties were acquired through Peter's genius. Vadem would target a wealthy and careless "benefactor". He, Karl and Jan would pay a call. It always worked. They always reaped their reward, though sometimes Karl's enthusiasm would turn a shakedown, or blackmail, into murder. Vadem was very good at solving these sorts of problems. It was clear from the subtext of the kid's recitation, that this cult had formed a family of sorts. Vadem was the strong, implacable father figure; Magda, the mother, submissive to Vadem's will in all things, but ruling the rest of her brood with an iron fist. Peter was afraid of Karl, the putative big brother, though Vadem and Magda kept the blond man in line, protecting Peter from anything more than the occasional taunt or insult.

But something had changed this Spring. Vadem had become more and more agitated, prone to quick fits of anger, unreasonable demands on the others. He wasn't eating or sleeping as he normally did. He had lost weight. One day, Vadem had called them together. He was going to Paris. He didn't know how long he'd be gone. He had been very secretive. He left Magda in charge in his place. He had given Magda a key, and had instructed her to use it should he fail to return. Peter didn't know what the key opened.

It was understood that Vadem was in deep cover. He and Peter set up an elaborate communication scheme using the Internet that could not be traced from either end. If Vadem failed to send the coded message by the appointed time, he was to be assumed to be dead. The signal came faithfully for five weeks. Then nothing. After a week of silence, Magda had instructed Peter to search for Vadem using all of his talent and skill. But it was as if their leader had dropped off the face of the earth. It was disquieting for Peter to imagine that something had happened to Vadem. The older man had always been so confident, competent. To Peter, he was a super-hero, impervious to the weaknesses of lesser men. It had scared him that Vadem might have fallen. Peter finally reported his failure to find him to Magda.

Magda had left their house and returned with a package. She had retreated to her room for three days after that, not even leaving to eat. When she had emerged, it was with a renewed sense of purpose. She gathered the group together. She told them Vadem was dead. She showed them photographs of a man named Duncan MacLeod, and his associates, Adam Pierson, Joseph Dawson and Amy Thomas. Writing on the photographs was in Vadem's hand. Magda told them that MacLeod was the Champion that the legends foretold, the man who prevented the return of the Dark One to the world. MacLeod had killed Vadem. She told them that if MacLeod was killed, the Dark One would return. And then, Vadem would be raised from the dead. And all their dreams would be fulfilled. She directed Peter to find them. He found Amy Thomas and Joseph Dawson in Paris. Pierson and MacLeod had disappeared. So, the End of Time had come to Paris.

Vadem had taught them well. Observe, before acting. Strike decisively. Cover your tracks. They had established surveillance on Dawson and Thomas. Then, Peter discovered that MacLeod had traveled to the United States in late June. Some of them wanted to follow him there. But Magda insisted that they stay in Paris. This was where Vadem had disappeared. She became more and more solitary, spending long hours away from the rest of them. She had announced last week, that they would be making their move on Thomas. The fire in the University Library was planned to look like an accident, an electrical fire. Peter and Magda had set it because they looked young enough to pass for students if questioned. Magda had been overjoyed to see Adam Pierson with Thomas in the Library. They had disabled the elevator and the alarm, set the fire there, locked Pierson and Thomas in the reading room, set the second fire at the restroom stairs, then fled the building. They had never seen Martin Guerre enter the library.

They had heard about the escape by Pierson and Thomas and Thomas' professor friend on the news the next day. The alarm had been raised before the evidence of arson had been consumed. They had tipped their hand. Magda had been in a rage for a few hours. Then she had composed herself, and directed them back to the plan. They observed Dawson, Thomas and Pierson, seen the protection that they had gathered around themselves. They bided their time. Magda, herself an expert marksman, insisted Peter learn to use a gun. Karl and Jan trained him quickly. They waited for their opportunity. They could afford to wait. Their resources were ample, their patience vast. They would kill the Champion and his friends and restore the Dark One and Vadem to the world.

Then MacLeod had returned to Paris unexpectedly. Magda had been ecstatic. Her faith in the imminent return of Vadem had galvanized them all. Peter had been very nervous. No, he had never killed anyone before. The closest he had come, before today, was helping Magda at the library. Book? What book? He had no idea what book Magda had been referring to. He knew nothing of six children kidnaped in 1990. He was ten years old that year.

MacLeod stopped him there. They knew the rest. He adjusted Peter's bonds so his hands were bound at the wrists in front of him. He handed the kid a bottle of water he had found in the Peugeot. He stepped away, out of earshot, but where he could keep a close eye on him. Joe and Methos followed.

Mac looked at them both. "Well?"

Methos said, sourly. "All right, Mac, you win."

"This isn't about winning, Methos!" With an effort, Mac stopped himself from arguing further.

Joe stroked his beard. "What are we gonna do with him? Just let him go?"

"I thought..." Mac hesitated, with a sideways glance at Methos. "I thought we could turn him over to the Watchers for debriefing. Return the money, anonymously, to their victims, if you can, Joe. Anything left over, you take for the Watcher coffers. When you've wrung him dry, turn him over to the police for the arson at the library. There'll be no trial. He'll plead guilty, to an edited version of the crime."

"... and Justice for All." Methos said, with ill-concealed scorn. He kicked at a stone. Mac glared at him. "Fine. Whatever." He threw up his hands. "I'm taking a walk." He slouched off toward the ruins.

They watched him go. Joe said, quietly. "It's hard to turn it off, Mac." Maybe even more so for the last surviving Horseman of the Apocalypse, Joe said to himself.

"I know, Joe." Mac said, wearily. "Believe me, I know."

"I'll call Mirron. We need to get his team here before dark. He'll bring in Jacques LeFavre." At Mac's quizzical look, he explained. "He's one of our lawyers. He can advise on this kid copping a plea." Joe looked back at Peter. The kid had finished the bottle of water, and was hugging his knees. His fair skin was reddening in the bright sun. "Do you think we can trust him to stick to the deal, Mac?"

Mac looked at him earnestly. "I can't guarantee it, Joe. But, my gut says he's that scared of me. Of us."

"Scared straight, huh?"

"Let's hope so."

MacLeod explained the conditions to Peter that would allow him to live. The kid burst into tears, sobbing his agreement and thanks over and over. The men, uncomfortable, moved away. Joe sat in the Mercedes and used his cell phone to put plans in motion. Mac searched the cars and came up with another blanket, which he handed to the kid. Peter looked at it blankly before taking it. Mac instructed him to cover up, keep the sun off. The kid looked down on himself and flushed. He clutched the blanket around him, and took another bottle of water from MacLeod, gratefully. Mac retreated to the Peugeot, using more water and a rag he found in the car to clean the blood from his face and chest.

Methos returned from his walk. Joe, just finishing on the phone, couldn't make out what he was carrying in his hand. The old man walked toward the kid, then stopped. He set his burden down, and knelt, as if he was tying his shoe. The kid toppled over backwards, and lay in a boneless heap.

Joe alarmed, lurched to his feet, calling to MacLeod who was rummaging through a suitcase in the trunk of the Peugeot. Joe, despite his handicap, got there first. And almost lost his lunch. If he'd had any lunch. He scowled at Methos.

Methos looked innocent. "What? I'm just saving Jean's team the effort of looking for it." MacLeod skidded to a halt, eyes on the kid who was sprawled in a dead faint in the dust.

"What the ...?" he began, then saw the grisly object at Methos' booted feet. It was the head of blond Karl. MacLeod did a double-take. Methos had started out this day in a pair of athletic shoes. Mac's face was a thundercloud.

Methos looked at MacLeod without expression. The Highlander's glower changed slowly to a frown of disapproval, then a slight upward quirk of his lips, and then all out laughter. Joe was shocked. But the Highlander's peals of mirth were contagious. It was, Joe thought, macabre, grotesque, twisted, tasteless and savage. Laughter whooped out of him. And it was funny as hell.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

Amanda was running out of steam as she drove skillfully along winding country roads. She had been chattering non-stop for the past forty-five minutes. She knew she was chattering, but she couldn't help it. Amy hadn't said a word since she had climbed into the Mercedes. Amanda felt an irresistible compulsion to fill the oppressive silence in the hour-long drive. Fortunately, the ride was nearly at an end. She was rapidly running out of things to say about the weather, the countryside, and the deplorable state of French public roads.

"You'll like the chateau, Amy." Amanda soldiered on, beginning to feel like a tour guide. "It was built in ... 1755, I think, or was it - ?"

"1745, by the Marquis de la Faire ostensibly as a hunting lodge, but really as a secluded love-nest for the Marquis and his mistress." Amy interjected..

"That's right." Amanda said, surprised.

"Rebecca Horne acquired it after the Revolution. In 1801. She kept the house for nearly two hundred years, and left it to her husband, John Newcomb, upon her death." Amy went on, in a monotone, describing the history of the chateau through political and industrial revolutions, the rise and fall of empires, and two world wars.

It was disturbing to realize that Amy knew as much about Rebecca as her student did. Perhaps more, Amanda realized suddenly. The Watcher Chronicles pre-dated Amanda's relationship with the elder Immortal. How much of her life had Amy read about, Amanda wondered with dismay. She had never really thought much about her Watcher Chronicles beyond the fact of their existence. This young girl probably knew more about her than Duncan did! Amanda felt her face grow hot. She reached up and adjusted the sun visor, and boosted the air conditioning up a notch. It was a warm day, that's all. The Amazing Amanda simply does not blush. She took refuge in conversation.

"You probably already know this, but after John died, he left the Chateau to me."

"No, I didn't. Rebecca's Chronicle ended upon her ... in 1993."

Amanda looked thoughtful. "I'm not sure why he did that. I mean, it's not as if I'd ever live here. I tend to gypsy around a little." She paused. "Still, it was nice of him. I'm not sure how long I'll keep it. The Millets - that's the housekeeper and groundsman - are quite elderly. After they pass on, I'll probably sell it." She pulled into the long, curving drive to the porticoed entrance. She turned off the ignition, and said to Amy. "Anyway, we'll have the place to ourselves. I instructed Jacques and Marie on what we needed, and then gave them a holiday."

The accommodations, especially compared to last night's, were spacious and sumptuous. Amy, despite her weariness, marveled at the grand, sweeping stair above the marble floor, lit by a glittering crystal chandelier. The chateau was a remnant of the days of royalty, pre-Republic, pre-Empire, harking back to a time of aristocratic wealth on an unimaginable scale. Still, this country house was an exercise, for that time, in restraint. Compared to some of the hunting chateaux that Amy had visited, it was downright cozy. Amanda ushered her in, striding to a set of leaded-glass doors set behind the stair.

"This was the ballroom." Amanda flung open the doors, revealing a large, white room devoid of furniture. "Rebecca loved music. All kinds. Her parties were always the best!" She strode across the polished floor to the center of the room, and turned around slowly. "Especially the balls. I danced and danced and danced, until my feet were numb." Amanda closed her eyes and twirled, lost in the memory, her figure reflecting in prismed mirrors lining the walls. For a moment, for just a moment, Amy could see the elfin-faced woman in an opulent gown, her dark hair piled on her head, satin slippers stepping nimbly in time to the music of a string quartet. But the reality of Amanda's torn and blood-stained clothes reflected back to Amy a hundred-fold.

Suddenly, it was all too much. Amy trudged out of the ballroom on leaden feet, and plopped on the bottom step of the arching stair. She had eagerly looked forward to talking to Amanda about Rebecca, to hear the stories, but now ...

Amanda sat beside her.

"I killed someone today." Amy said, flatly.

"Uh-huh." Amanda agreed.

Amy ran her hands through her short hair. "I feel so strange. Disconnected. Like I'm wearing someone else's skin." She looked at Amanda, pleadingly. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel."

Amanda panicked. She wasn't very good at this sort of thing. She wished Joe was here. Amy's father would know the comforting words she needed to hear. Or Methos. He ought to have learned something useful in five thousand years for times like these. Or Duncan. He was always thinking about stuff like this. Anybody but Amanda would be better equipped.

Amy registered her discomfort. "I'm sorry." She shook herself. "I must seem very silly to you." She started to rise.

Suddenly, Amanda had a vision of herself sitting on the rough steps leading to the Cloister's walled garden. She had been weeping. The reason why was lost in the intervening centuries. Rebecca had found her and pulled the younger woman into a warm embrace, stroking her hair, and whispering wise and soothing words until the storm had passed. Well, Amanda might not possess the wisdom of her teacher, but she still had two good arms. She put a hand on Amy's shoulder, and drew her back down to the step. Tentatively, she extended her arm around Amy, and pulled her head in to rest on Amanda's shoulder.

"Amy, I'll let you in on a little secret." She felt the girl's inquisitive movement. Amanda lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm not a very deep thinker." She felt the slightest ripple of amusement pass through Amy's body. "I don't know what to say to you. How to make you feel any better about all this." She took a breath. "Yes, you killed someone today." She paused. "But you also saved someone today." She kissed Amy's forehead. "And for that, I am very, very grateful."

Suddenly, Amy's arms circled her neck and clutched her so tightly Amanda could barely breathe. But she held very still, gently stroking the auburn hair, and speaking soothing nonsense words until Amy pulled away. She looked at Amanda and smiled. It was small and sad. But it was a start.

Amanda stood, adjusting her battered clothing. She reached a hand out to the younger woman, and helped her to her feet. "Amy, I may not have all the answers. But I do know exactly what you need right now."

"What's that?"

"A bath. I don't know if you've noticed, but you stink, girlfriend." Amanda wrinkled her nose emphatically.

Amy sniffed, and tossed her head. "You're no Rosebud, yourself."

Amanda linked her arm with Amy's. "Wait till you see the bathtub in the Louis XIV room. The five of us could fit into it, with room to spare for Louis." They climbed the stairs together, as Amanda told Amy about her first bath. Administered by her teacher. At swordpoint.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

Duncan stood, legs apart, arms braced on the tiled wall, while the hot water streamed down his body. It sluiced away the sweat, the dirt, the blood. It couldn't touch the weariness. He reached for the cut-glass tumbler he'd set on the shelf above the spray and took a healthy swig of whiskey, before leaning his head on one arm. It was nearly midnight. At last, this awful day was at an end.

He, Methos and Joe had waited for three hours for the Watcher teams to arrive from Paris. Four vans with darkened windows and a couple of trucks, had turned into the rough lane to the Cloister at irregular intervals, trying not to appear too conspicuous at the isolated ruin. Joe had coordinated the activity with Jean Mirron, introducing Mac to the taciturn man. Mac had endured his cool appraisal in silence, then sincerely thanked Mirron for his efforts, receiving an impersonal nod in return. His team was competent and efficient. In a few short hours, they had erased all signs of the battles that had occurred here today. All of the dead, including the two 4 by 4s, were removed with cold efficiency. They had taken the End of Time's vehicles too, replacing them with dark, anonymous sedans.

The Watchers had taken the position that when an apocalyptic cult comes after their own, the non-interference directive does not apply. Still, Joe had been relieved that there had been no Immortal involved after all. The Watchers' assistance in this matter had been limited to the round-the-clock protection and surveillance of their own people, supplying the weapons and other equipment needed today, and the disposal of the dead. Technically, there had been no interference in the Game. Joe kept to himself how close MacLeod had come to losing his head. The loss of Mac's powerful Quickening from the Game would have been catastrophic, and sent panicked shock waves through the old organization. They didn't need that kind of shake-up. What the Watchers didn't know, wouldn't hurt them.

During the clean-up operation, Methos and Duncan, wearing clothes scrounged from the back of the Peugeot, had hiked to the airfield. Karl's shirt hung on Methos' lean frame, making him seem far too young to taxi Amanda's little plane into the hangar. Mac had secured the plane and the hangar doors. He tried again to talk, really talk, to Methos, but the old man had retreated inside his inscrutability suit. The walk back to the ruins had been silent. At least, Methos' antagonism had receded after his little show-and-tell with Peter. Still, Mac had a sinking feeling that Methos would be gone in the morning, pulling one of his famous disappearing acts in response to emotional overload. Every time it happened, Mac was afraid the disappearance would be permanent.

Mac sighed and gulped more whiskey. He set the glass down and picked up the bar of soap. A couple of hours ago, Mirron had driven away the last van, containing their lone prisoner. Young Peter, handcuffed and wrapped in his blanket, believed that he was under arrest with a covert multinational agency. They left him with his illusions, sending him on to Tom Donovan in Lyons. Finally, Mac, Joe and Methos had driven to the chateau.

They had found Amanda's note, taped to the refrigerator. Food and drink were in the fridge, clean clothes and sundries in their respective bedrooms, she and Amy in their respective beds. Methos took a shower before joining the others in the kitchen. The men ate wolfishly, washing down thick, meaty sandwiches with icy beer. Conversation had been desultory. Methos's replies were monosyllabic and Joe was nearly nodding off at the table. Mac left Methos reaching for another beer, as he lent a hand to Joe on the high, winding stair.

Outside his bedroom, Joe had turned to MacLeod. The lines on his face were deep with fatigue. "You try to protect them, Mac", he said, wearily, "but you can't."

Mac had squeezed his friend's shoulder. "You and Amy saved us today, Joe."

The silver head had nodded. "Where do we go from here, I wonder?"

"I don't know." Mac replied, truthfully. They wished each other good night. MacLeod had tiptoed into his own room, careful not to disturb the sleeping Amanda. He had poured a hefty dose from the bottle of Glenmorangie on the dresser, kicked Karl's filthy clothes into a corner, and stepped into the huge, thoroughly modern shower.

Mac watched the blood pool at his feet and spiral down the drain. His and Tereza's blood. The bar of soap in his hand felt too heavy to lift. Suddenly, he felt a draft of cool air wash over his back. Before he could summon the energy to turn around, a small hand grabbed the soap from him. Amanda washed his back, buttocks, and legs before turning him to face her. He looked down at her sweet face, her hair wet and sleek as sealskin. He clutched her to him, burying his face in her neck. He knew he held her too tightly, but his arms had a will of their own. She wrapped hers around his neck until the water ran cold. Mac released her then, shooing her out from under the icy spray, quickly scrubbing the front of himself while his teeth chattered. Amanda, wrapped in an overlarge terry robe, stood, laughing, at the bathroom door, as he hooted and whooped under the cold water.

Finally, he was out, and dry, and wrapped in his own terrycloth warmth. He sat on the edge of the big bed. Amanda had chosen the Pompadour room, dominated by a huge portrait of the famous "other woman" herself above the carved headboard. Amanda came to him, holding out her hands, studying his face. He pulled her into his lap.

Mac leaned his forehead against her hair. "Long day.", he said softly. He felt her nod. "Is Amy all right?"

"I think so. We talked a little before she fell asleep." Amanda's voice faltered. "Duncan, from what she said ... it sounded ... " She whispered. "How close?"

He held her gaze a moment, before looking away. "As close as it gets."

"Ah, Duncan." She didn't understand anything anymore. Duncan was the best of them all. Yet, in the space of a few weeks, her Highland Warrior had come closer to losing his head than he ever had. Without ever picking up his sword.

"Um-hmmm", he agreed. He held her close without speaking for a few minutes. "Amanda, I know I'm a ... what did you call me at the airport? ... a patronizing, stubborn, pig-headed dour old Scot ... " He paused for breath.

"Don't forget judgmental." she prompted.

"And judgmental." he agreed.

"And, I think I said proud and vain."

"All right. Proud and vain."

Amanda warmed to the subject. "And I'm sure I said chauvinistic."

"What do you expect, woman? I was born in the sixteenth century ..." He took a calming breath. "OK, chauvinistic."

"And ..."

"Amanda, if we're going to talk about shortcomings now." He tweaked her nose. "You didn't stick to the plan."

"I stuck to it until you and Methos blew the car up while you were still in it!" she retorted. "So, don't talk to me about ..."

"It was a lucky shot! Do you know how hard it is -" Duncan put his hands to his temples. "Whoa!" he said.

"Don't whoa me, mister! I'm not a horse!" she said, hotly.

"I was talking to myself, Amanda - the horse's ass." He kissed her into silence. "I'd have done the same thing, baby." She looked up, surprised, at this admission. "OK, I admit it. I'm stubborn, chauvinistic, pig-headed, dour, patronizing, judgmental, rigid, proud and, uh ..."

"Vain." she supplied, somewhat mollified.

"And vain." He tilted her chin up. "What this dour old Scot wanted to say was ... that I'm glad ... and grateful you came to Paris with me. Thank you."

Amanda was delighted. "You're welcome, Duncan." She kissed him, then leaned back, speculatively "How grateful?"

He took her hand, and raised it to his lips. "Very grateful." He looked rueful. "But, tonight ... well, let's just say the spirit is willing ..." He grimaced. "It's been a very long day."

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

"Nah." he eased her off his lap, and stood, shucking his robe. He pulled the bedcovers down. She tossed her robe over a chair. "I don't want to talk. Or think. Or brood." He drew her with him into the big bed, tucking the bedcovers around them. He turned off the light on the bedside table. He lay on his back, and she scooted against him. He pulled her closer, resting their entwined hands on his chest. He whispered into her ear. "Tonight, I just want to hold fast to my beloved Amanda." She wriggled impossibly closer. "I love you," he murmured. And under cover of darkness, Amanda told Duncan something she had never told him before. At least, not in words.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Methos closed the door to his room, looped his pack over one arm and sauntered down the thickly carpeted hall, past walls hung heavy with tapestry. As he passed a door, he heard the slow and regular snoring of Joe Dawson. Several more steps carried him past the bedroom that MacLeod and Amanda were sharing. He heard her high, tinkling laughter and Mac whooping with abandon. He shook his head in envy and some admiration. Don't they ever stop?

He descended the marble steps, passed under the crystal chandelier, through the brightly lit foyer. He opened the door to the parlor. It was the one room, besides the kitchen, that exuded a warm and cozy ambience in this gilded mauseleum. He found his shoes on the hearth where he had left them. He set the pack against the stone. But instead of reaching for the shoes, he found his hand on the switch for the gas fire. Despite the summer evening, he lit it. He piled the cushions from the couches and chairs into a nest in front of the stone fireplace. He settled into them and watched the flickering flames.

Once again, he had survived. They had all survived, in spite of the lucky shots, the misinterpretations, the blunders. Because of him, Magda Tokes had come closer than anyone ever had in killing Duncan MacLeod. Permanently. Methos had been so sure that there was no Immortal involved, until Magda had showed up. Then he assumed that Magda was Immortal after all, and acted on that error. He persuaded Amanda not to follow her instincts to go to MacLeod's rescue. Methos cringed as he recalled his prophetic remark after Amanda's thank-you kiss - "Sorry, Mac, next time you're on your own."

If not for the random element - if not for Amy Thomas - MacLeod would have died today, and his Quickening scattered to the winds. That knowledge chilled Methos' blood and unsettled his gut. It was a black hole in his mind, sucking in heat, energy, light itself, leaving emptiness in its wake. In reaction, he had pulled in on himself, erecting all the barriers he could summon around his dried-up, twisted old heart. Five thousand years old. Huh! He had the emotional maturity of a five-year old. Or the Grinch.

He grimaced. Gods help him, he was brooding! Methos knew this masochistic guessing game of "what ifs" and "might have beens" was pointless. If he heard MacLeod indulging in this sort of second-guessing, he'd rake the younger man over the coals. So why was the older and putatively wiser man doing it? It had to be Mac's fault somehow. He'd been hanging around the Highlander too much. Absorbing the Scot's guilt complex through osmosis, he supposed. It was irrational to feel guilty for things that had been out of his control.

Methos shifted uncomfortably in his nest. That infernal internal voice spoke up. Focusing on the irrational guilt distracts you from the other reasons you're brooding, doesn't it? While they had waited for the Watchers to arrive, Mac, in a tightly controlled voice, had told Methos and Joe about the woman who had assumed the identity of Magda Tokes. He believed she was one of the children kidnaped by Vadem Tokes. If she was, the Highlander didn't need to spell out what had been done to her. Tereza had been destroyed, and Magda reborn from her ashes.

Joe, deeply moved by the story, had promised MacLeod that the Watchers would find out about Tereza. If she had been one of Tokes' victims, Methos knew that Mac and Joe would not rest until they found some way of ending the uncertainty for her family. Methos, sitting silent and apart, had felt nothing for the woman. Nothing except relief that an enemy was dead. And a very uncomfortable certainty that his friends, like Methos himself, weren't just thinking about Magda, or Tereza, or whatever her name had been.

The nightmare which had begun weeks ago when a sniper's bullet felled MacLeod on the streets of Paris was ended. Methos had thought Vadem Tokes, alive, was a formidable enemy. Dead, he was even more dangerous, inflicting far greater harm on the extended Clan MacLeod long after he was buried. In a twisted sense, Methos could appreciate the irony. He had told Mac he had learned nothing of Vadem Tokes when his Quickening lanced into him a few weeks ago. But Methos knew him. Oh, yes. He knew him very well.

The techniques used by Vadem to destroy Tereza's personality were no doubt the same as those Methos had used himself, many times. On Cassandra and others. It would have been easier, perhaps, with a pre-adolescent girl. But the terror, the cruelties, the forced dependence, the mind games - these would be much the same three thousand years ago or fifteen years ago. The world doesn't change in five thousand years, he'd once told MacLeod, only the details do. But Methos had secretly hoped that maybe, sometimes, some of the people do. Given enough time.

Methos had thought he'd changed, that he'd turned away from the old ways. But the bloodlust had flared today like the billowing embers of newly stirred ashes. Methos would have opened Peter up like the proverbial tin can. When he was satisfied that the boy had told him everything, he'd have killed him, quickly, efficiently, and without remorse. Methos told himself it was necessary. He had even believed it. The six cultists, including young Peter and Magda/Tereza, were the Enemy. They were "Them" as in "Us versus Them". Mercy had never occurred to him. It bothered him that it hadn't. It bothered him that he had harangued MacLeod, belittling the younger man for his reluctance to kill. He had thought it a weakness, a flaw in Mac's character. Only Amy's words had made him stop and consider Mac's point of view. To consider the concept of mercy.

Oh, Amy. Where would we be without you today, child? Methos closed his eyes, leaning back into the nest of pillows. Who did he think he was fooling? When it counted, when it really mattered, he had fallen back on the old patterns. How could he ever hope to atone? How could he ever hope that Cassandra might come to forgive him someday? He was still Death. Dismounted, perhaps, but still the pale rider. That grim spectre had been seen by everyone today, including Amy, as clearly as if Methos had worn that death's head mask he was once so fond of. You want to know the difference between us, Mac? Millennia upon millennia of blood and death and savagery. He eyed his pack. He really should go now. Better to be alone for a while. Better than feeling this alone among the only friends he had.

"Adam?"

He started at the voice behind him. Amy stood tentatively at the door, in her pajamas and slippers.

"Am I disturbing you?"

Child, I was disturbed millennia before you were born. "No, of course not." He stood up, stiffly, and tossed cushions back on to the sofa. "I was just going ... to bed."

"Oh, I was hoping ... " She stopped. "Good night, then." She turned to leave.

"Amy, wait." He put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "What were you hoping?"

"Nothing. Good night, Adam." She turned and walked away.

"Good night." He bent and restored the remaining pillows and cushions to the sofa. With a sigh, he stared into the gas fire. After a moment, he registered a presence standing next to him. "Can't sleep?" he asked, softly.

"I slept for a little while. I was so exhausted when Amanda and I came here, I thought I would sleep for days and days." Amy sighed. "But, I've been lying in bed for the past two hours, counting the cherubs in the mural on my ceiling." She paused. "Seventy-eight, in case you were wondering."

Methos gestured to the sofa. "Here, let's sit down." She sat and scooped a pillow into her lap. She played with the fringe on one corner as she stared into the flames.

"I guess life goes back to normal tomorrow." she said.

"Well, it goes on, anyway." Methos replied.

She tightened her grip on the pillow, hugging it to herself. "It all seems so unreal, Adam. Like it happened to somebody else, and I've just been watching from the sidelines."

"That's a fairly normal reaction to traumatic events." he said, in a clinical tone. "People need to distance themselves."

"But I shouldn't feel distanced from it! I did it! I killed that girl! It wasn't a movie. It wasn't somebody that looked like me. I shot her and watched her choke on her own blood." Her eyes were bleak. "I should feel something, Adam." She looked back at the fire. "I don't want to be the kind of person who could do something like that and feel nothing."

Methos closed his eyes as a memory flashed. Dawn outside his Seacouver apartment eight years ago. His fists bunched in MacLeod's coat, shoving the bigger man against the side of his car. His face was inches from Mac's, as he gloated. "Cassandra was nothing! Her village was nothing! Do you know who I was? I was Death!" The look on Duncan's face at that moment would haunt Methos the rest of his life.

"Adam? Are you all right?" Amy touched his arm. Methos let out a breath, and opened his eyes. Her worried face filled his sight. "Adam? Where did you go just then?"

He turned abruptly away from her.

"Adam, what is it?" She put a hand on both sides of his face and forced him to look at her.

"Nothing." he managed to say. "Amy, the numbness is temporary. You will feel. Probably more pain than you thought was possible." He gently took her hand in his and stroked it with his thumb. "You have a kind and compassionate heart, and it will, from time to time, be broken." He caressed her cheek. "Be grateful for that, my dear, dear Amy. That, for you, the alternative is ... unthinkable."

"And what about you? What do you feel?" She forced the words past the lump in her throat.

Old. Old and tired, and so very, very alone, the eldest man thought. But Methos said "Nothing."

"I don't believe you, Adam." And with that, she kissed him.

Too surprised to react, he tasted the salt of her tears amid the sweetness of her lips. She deepened the kiss, wrapping one arm around his neck, the other at the back of his head, pulling him to her. He gathered her to him then, wanting to feel her warmth, her softness, the rhythm of her heart. Her youth and vitality intoxicated him. It was like awakening from a long, dreary, unsatisfying sleep, weak with thirst and hunger, into the light and warmth and freshness of a bright new day. He wanted to lose himself in her. Lose the weight of all the years, all the regrets, all the dear dead loves. For a little while.

His eyes snapped open. "Amy, stop." Methos said gently, against her lips. "Stop, please."

"Adam?" she murmured, nipping at the corner of his mouth. "What's the matter?"

He leaned into her again. Then, he put a hand on each of her shoulders, and gently pushed her away. She looked up at him, bewildered.

"Amy, this isn't ... we shouldn't do this." His voice sounded unconvincing, even to himself.

"But, ... you want this, too." She looked intently at him. " I can tell." Then, she colored and looked away. "I'm sorry. If you don't want ...?"

Methos lifted her chin. "I want this so badly, Amy, I can't begin to tell you." He ground his teeth together. "But it's not what you need right now."

"Adam, I'm a consenting adult." She kissed him again.

That's right, she was over twenty-one, or eighteen, or whatever passed for the age of consent in this time and culture. He was having some difficulty remembering exactly which time and culture applied. That internal voice weighed in. Take the gift that is being offered to you, old fool. You know it's a rare and precious one. Take comfort where you find it, while it lasts. He responded, surging into her embrace, inhaling the smell of her skin, her hair. While it lasts.

Bloody hell! It took all the discipline Methos could summon to pull away from that incendiary kiss. "Amy, it may be what you want." He moved a few inches away from her. "But, it's not what you need. Not tonight."

She stared at him a moment, then turned her face away. "I ... I'm sorry." She started to rise, acutely embarrassed. "Good night, Adam."

Methos grabbed her hand before she escaped. She strained to pull away, keeping her back to him. "Amy, sit down, please." He pulled her unwillingly back to the couch. She wouldn't look at him. He released her hand and scrubbed at his face.

"You are beautiful, Amy, in mind, and body, and soul. I want you so badly, it hurts." He sucked air through his teeth. "It would make us both feel better. Call it a comfort in the night, an affirmation of life, if you like, after a day filled with death. A most effective way to be less alone." She started to speak. He stopped her with a gesture. "But only for a little while." His voice carried the conviction of his years. "A very little while." He looked at the fire. "Sometimes that's enough, when that's all you can hope for. But I want you to have more. You deserve so much more." He took her hand in his. "You need a friend tonight, Amy. Not a lover."

She looked at him for a long moment. "And what do you need, Adam?"

"A cold shower." he said, without humor.

She laughed in spite of herself. "Oh, Adam!" Her eyes twinkled. "How about a cold beer instead?"

He smiled sardonically. "How about a half-dozen?"

She popped off the couch, and headed for the kitchen. Methos ran his hands through his short hair. Well, this is a first in five thousand years of living memory. Turning down an attractive, willing, ardent young woman. For her own good! You've definitely been hanging around the Highlander too much, old sod. Or maybe you're just growing up, after so long? The suspicious, cynical part of him weighed in. Or maybe your sudden nobility is just the latest in a series of defense mechanisms to guarantee survival at all costs by avoiding the perils of living? Methos ruthlessly examined his feelings with an inward lens, seeking the flaw in the facets of his heart.

Sometimes, the warm body in the night was enough. And, sometimes it wasn't. It wouldn't be for her. He didn't want Amy to wake up tomorrow morning, depressed, chagrined, regretful or worse. Methos had had many such mornings after. He realized that he wanted to make love with Amy Thomas, with all that the phrase implied. Not use her, or be used by her, as a temporary salve to the soul. Been there, done that, invented the T-shirt. Relief flooded him, as he realized he had genuinely thought of Amy, ahead of himself.

Methos sat up straight, silently listing international brands of beer backwards, from Zipfer to Alpha. By the time he reached Old Speckled Hen, his ardor had cooled sufficiently. He adjusted his clothing, and scrubbed at his face. Amy returned with a tray, and six bottles of the dark brew that he liked. They talked for hours, drinking from icy bottles. Sometime in the night, Amy put her head on his shoulder and cried for a dead girl named Tereza, for herself, and for something that had been irrevocably lost. As he held her, Methos felt something strange. It took him a minute to identify the stirring of pity for a fallen foe, unable to speak her real name until the moment of her death.

CHAPTER FORTY

Shortly after dawn, MacLeod disentangled himself from Amanda's sleeping form, and shrugged into his robe. He padded quietly to Methos' bedroom. Even though he couldn't feel the old man's aura, he tapped lightly on the door, before he opened it and peered in. The bed had not been slept in. None of Methos' gear was in residence. He was gone. Mac's heart sank. He should have tried harder to talk to Methos, should have found the words to reach across that great barrier the old man had erected.

Mac descended the marble stairs with a leaden step, when he felt the distinctive aura of the oldest Immortal. Relief and a glimmer of hope quickened his pace. As he hurried past the parlor on his way to the kitchen, the glow of a fire caught his eye. He saw Amy, asleep upright on the couch, her head turned slightly into the cushions. He followed the trail of empty bottles scattered on the floor, the little side table, on the hearth, next to Methos' pack. Methos lay with his head on Amy's lap, sleeping soundly. Her hand rested lightly on his forehead. The very old man and the very young woman looked of an age, their faces peaceful in their slumber.

Well, I'll be damned. He picked his way carefully through the bottle minefield, and turned off the gas fireplace. He plucked a couple of brocade throws off the armchairs and tucked them around his sleeping friends. Methos stirred, murmuring something unintelligible. Mac froze, trying to will him back to sleep by projecting that thought across the weird Quickening connection they shared. He let out the breath he was holding when Methos finally settled again. Mac resisted the impulse to clean up the empty bottles, but hoisted his friend's pack over one arm. He left the parlor as quietly as he entered, and mounted the stairs with a light step.

As he passed Joe's bedroom door, Mac heard a sound reminiscent of a buzz-saw emanate from within. He shook his head. And they say I snore. He continued to the last door. Well, old man, even if you won't talk to me, maybe you'll still get the message. It's a very simple lesson, one that you helped me to learn after Connor died. He set Methos' pack carefully in the middle of the bed. Don't run away from the people who love you.

MacLeod climbed carefully into his own bed, spooning his body around Amanda's drowsy warmth. He smelled the scent of the lavender soap they had used. Turn off the brain, ye broody auld Scot. Stop wondering what you could have or would have or should have done or said differently, or what happens next. Amy and Joe and Methos are safe and close. Amanda is sleeping in your arms. And you're alive. Alive, when by all rights, you shouldn't be. Now, at this moment, nothing else matters. Nothing.

Something tugged at his memory, something Methos had said after they had climbed out of that alpine cave last Spring. They had been so weary and bedraggled. Methos had clopped down the mountain in one shoe. It was a line from ... Homer, wasn't it? Methos had tossed it off as he submerged in the hottest bath he could stand at their Innsbruck hotel. Duncan had made him repeat it a couple of times. How did it go? "Dear to us ever ... " - something, something, - " ... changes of raiment and the warm bath and love and sleep." He folded his hand about the rune pendant resting on his chest, and kissed Amanda's dark hair. "Dear to us ever," he murmured, before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The End.

_______________________________________________________________________________

This story will continue, as Duncan continues his search for the next Champion.

Melinda is the grown up version of the little girl in the first season episode, "The Sea Witch". Her mother, Nikki, nearly left her with Tessa, to raise as her own daughter.

Duncan quotes the last two lines of Shakespeare's Sonnet XVI when he ponders Amanda's reaction to Tessa's sculpture.

Methos quotes "Othello" to Joe when he describes the green-eyed monster.

The poem Methos remembers as he thinks on Alexa is "Dream-Pedlary" by Thomas Lovell Beddoes.

Duncan quotes his fellow Scot, Robert Burns' poem, "To a Mouse", for "the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry."

My thanks go to Ellen Clements and Vicky Nolan who have read this story from its fits-and-starts beginning, for their insight and interest, for their suggestions and corrections, but mostly for their unbridled enthusiasm.

I neglected to thank Ysanne who allowed me to use her words and ideas from a Holyground Forum Mid-Week Challenge in the very first chapter of "Fundamental Things." I have another reason to thank Ysanne. Her Mid-Week Challenge story, "Memory", was an inspiration for the flashback scene of Tessa sketching Duncan, while he was sleeping.