Try Not To Look In The Shadows

by ghostfire

When Duncan takes refuge in a small town, he discovers a young pre-Immortal with a family that redefines unfortunate.

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Disclaimer: I in no way own or claim to own anything to do with the Highlander
universe, in this case the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson, Amanda,
Methos, and many others, and the concept of immortality as they present it.
Julia Larkin (not me, really, I swear) and her friends are all mine. Though
there are references to Anne McCaffrey's Pern, this is -not- a Pern fanfic.
Some song lyrics were borrowed from various songs because they fit the story.
They include parts of the theme from _The Last Unicorn_, and some of 'Tears in
Heaven' by Eric Clapton and Will Jennings. No copyright infringements are
intended, and I'm making absolutely no money off of this story. Try to keep in
mind, too, that this was written about five years ago now, so hopefully I've
improved since then.
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***Comments, questions, praise, and constructive criticism always appreciated.
Flames used to roast marshmallows. silver_faerie@hotmail.com***
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__Try Not to Look in the Shadows__

JuliaL

Duncan MacLeod sneezed suddenly, an embarrassingly loud sound in the
large, empty building. He shifted the old and crumbling leather-bound books in
their box, allowing a fine cloud of dust to drift upwards. These were
absolutely filthy. Some of the dust worked its way into his mouth and nose, and
he made a short, disgusted sound which only served to increase his annoyance.
At least he had not paid too much for this shipment, and if all they were was
dirty he might yet have gotten the better deal.

He rose quickly from his kneeling position on the floor, holding up a
small, faintly reddish colored volume to the early morning sunlight. He smiled
faintly, brushing off the thick coating of grime. Perhaps he had gotten a
better deal than he had imagined, he thought, inspecting what seemed to be gold
leafing. Duncan shook his head, replacing the book in its box and settling the
cover back over top.

-----

The sun slanted in a definite western direction by the time Duncan MacLeod
of the Clan MacLeod was finished. What a battle it had been... In the end, the
only pieces of clothing left on him were a pair of dingy gray sweatpants and a
blue and white speckled bandana. His broad, naked chest was streaked with sweat
and dirt; his hair, held back by the bandana, lay heavily against his neck.
With an incredibly satisfying, spine popping stretch, he straightened... and let
the rag drop from his hand to the bucket. The store was clean at last, every
dingy shelf dusted and polished, every surface scrubbed to gleaming perfection.

Some of the fixtures and the kitchen of the tiny café could use another
polishing or two before the inspectors came, Duncan was forced to admit, but
other than that... He could relax somewhat now. As he started for the door to
the backrooms he turned to survey his latest place of business and smiled.
Nearly a hundred years ago it had been a railroad depot of some size. The
tracks had long since been abandoned, left to rust, then removed, but the old
building, for some reason, had refused to disintegrate. Huge, full-length
windows pierced the sides of the large, open room at regular intervals and cast
light into the small section in which travelers had once welcomed a bite to eat
on a long journey. Behind this were the kitchen and a series of rooms which,
Duncan guessed, had been used to hold cargo until the next train happened by.
All in all, it was a nice place, the wooden floors smooth and clear, the
structure amazingly sound for such a neglected building. It was a wonderful
change of pace and a welcome one at that.

It was only when the warmth of the sunlight faded from his face, leaving
MacLeod blinking at the change, that he realized what the hour must be. That
was another thing to put on the to do list--find a nice, large clock to install
somewhere above the main door. The light could be just short of hypnotic in
here, and the last thing he wanted was to be continuously having to glance down
at his watch to check the time. Hastily, Duncan pulled on a light flannel shirt
and ran a hand along his sweaty brow. He had all the time in the world, almost
literally, to finish.

After leaving the cleaning supplies by the rear entrance and carefully
locking up for the night, Duncan stepped into the cool dusk with a smile. The
land reminded him so much of the home he had left long ago, in the highlands of
Scotland. Lush, emerald green hills, maybe not quite so large as he remembered
them to be, but certainly passable, slipped quietly into wind swept, golden
tinged fields and those into the deep sparkling blue of the northern Mississippi
River which was visible in front and to one side of him. To look over his
shoulder would reveal a reasonably sized town, for this area at least. Since
its founding, it had grown from the center steadily eastward, leaving the store,
and his house, in an area mostly undeveloped but not far from the main
population. At first he had been apprehensive about the move to such a
location, but after taking a few slightly too profile heads, Duncan felt he
needed to be out of the spotlight for a little while, so to speak.

A soft breeze sprang up, tickling the long, gray-green grass along the
lane against his bare ankles. Duncan took in a deep breath, pausing just to
savor the warm, sweet, lilac scented air in his lungs. He had spent so much
time lately residing in large cities where the scent of burning oil and shifting
masses of people hung in the atmosphere like a dull haze that this was close to
pure bliss. Absently, he reached out with his right hand and caught a bunch of
the velvety smooth blossoms in his fingers. The bush snapped back with a
shuddering rustle, then was still. MacLeod, fully enjoying the walk, was almost
saddened after five minutes or so to see his new home come into view. Two-
storied, white with dusty slate-blue trimmings, it would need some fixing up as
well, but not nearly so much as the store. The steps creaked dully as he moved
up them, and the door did not fit exactly into the doorway; he dropped the
lilacs as he opened it and stepped inside. Tomorrow would be another day.

-----

"How exactly do you pronounce that? Mac-Lee-odd? Mk-Loud?"

"Mak-Li-ud," piped in another adolescent feminine voice.

Duncan winced as no less than five separate voices chose various ways to
mangle, mutilate, and otherwise completely murder his name. For what might well
have been the thousandth time today, he regretted his choice of location. Damn,
but he should have realized that this was only a fifteen-minute walk from the
local high school. Since opening only four days ago there had been a near
constant stream of snide, backward, grungy-looking teenagers who most certainly
wanted nothing to do with the books.

"Can I help you ladies?" MacLeod heard himself asking in tired tone.

These were no different than the rest. Two of the girls, who seemed
collectively to be between fourteen and eighteen years old, were wearing skirts
which left very little indeed to the imagination. One had a row of tiny silver
earrings along her left eyebrow. Another, her old, white t-shirt far too tight
across her chest, immediately sidled up to Duncan and began a crude attempt at
what he later decided was flirting. Of course, all of her peers began to
silently egg her on. Why did thoughts of Amanda suddenly spring to mind? At
least she had a small amount of dignity.

With murmurs and mumbles of disappointment as Duncan refused to give in to
their advances, and without any definite answers, the girls one by one drifted
off to the café which was scented by chocolate, cinnamon, and coffee. What
subtle, near-telepathic connection existed between them? Four hundred years...
He still did not understand the mind of the teenage girl. Then again, perhaps
that was to the best. The twenty-three year old, open-shirted, wide-shouldered
boy behind the counter leaned over to take their orders as MacLeod watched from
behind a row of bookshelves. A wave of giggles, too loud by far, swept through
them. Could he endure another week of this, let alone a year, five years? He
heard the door open, and hastily suppressed thoughts of taking his own head.

There was always work to do, now. Duncan readjusted books on the shelf
which had been carelessly left on their sides by rough, unappreciative hands.
He had time only to brush against a group of large, gaudily colored volumes when
the all too familiar, not quite disorienting sensation hit him. The buzz was
weak, uncertain, not exactly concentrated--a pre-immortal. Cautious suddenly,
he straightened up and peered toward the entrance which he knew the person must
just have come through, but saw nothing.

Another spate of laughter from the café almost startled him with his
suddenness. All of the girls were seated around the largest table, cups, mugs,
and momentarily unidentifiable containers in front of them. He had been close
enough to each already to know it was none of them.

"Excuse me, sir, Mr. MacLeod?"

Duncan briefly realized that she had spoken his name not only quietly, but
also correctly. He turned.

"I was wondering if you have anything else by Anne McCaffrey? I didn't
see any, but there's all those boxes I saw unpacked--or could I possibly order
something here?"

She could not be much more than a few inches above five or so feet tall,
and the way she held herself seemed to suggest that she was even smaller. She
held out a small, paperbacked book for him to examine.

"I don't stock much science-fiction," Duncan said, perceiving suddenly
that it was she who was the pre-immortal. The sensation of her fingers, as they
brushed against his, left no room for doubt. "So this probably is the only one
I have for now, but I would gladly order anything for you."

He handed the book back to her, flashing a brief smile. This was the
smile that had melted women throughout the ages, that had melted hearts without
his even realizing it, but the effect seemed lost. She smiled back at him
softly, looking up finally, and he very nearly asked her how old she was.
Physically she might have been anywhere between fifteen and twenty-two years
old, but there was something else about her. The unconscious, lithe slenderness
that marked the rest of her body continued to her face, but her eyes refused to
submit. Duncan hardly noticed the glasses she wore, the frames were light and
neither gold nor silver, making them blend into her features as if they belonged
there. Even the fact that her left eyelid drooped just slightly below the level
of the right did not distract. Those eyes seemed sad beyond belief, clear as
someone who had been through a lifetime of sadness and been forced to accept
that that was simply the way things were. He could not exactly place the color.
It was blue, certainly, but almost indescribable; not light, not dark but
shadowed, piercing, constantly changing, instinctively disturbing.

"Whoo, you go Julia!"
"Never thought you'd get 'im!"
"Hey there Julia..."

Duncan glanced in the direction of the taunts, for the tone allowed them
to be nothing else, and saw the same group of girls who had been at him not
fifteen minutes before just exiting the store. They must've seen him and the
girl--Julia--standing together in the isle. They all started laughing as they
continued to tease, and were still talking as the door closed behind them.

He looked to the girl in front of him again. She gave no indication of
having been affected by the others, in fact, if anything, she had not noticed
them at all. He closely examined the rest of her face, searching for some
reaction. There was none. Under her eyes, deep rings of darker blue-purple
skin seemed only to fit with her troubled irises. Like her hand, which he had
seen for a second or two, the rest of the flesh of her face was nearly
translucent. Her lips were relaxed and such a soft pink that they seemed to
almost disappear. To complete the picture was white cast blonde hair, like
cornsilk.

"Do you know the title of the book you were looking for?" Duncan asked,
tearing his eyes away from the girl.

"Yes, actually," she said. Her voice was soft, with an accent he couldn't
exactly place. "It's called 'Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern'. I think it's the
only one in that series that I've never read." This time her slight, slow grin
made her seem terribly childlike.

"And it's by Anne McCaffrey?" Duncan gestured with his hand toward the
back of the store. This would be the perfect opportunity to learn a little more
about her. She started in the correct direction and he smiled. Her clothing,
which he noticed finally, was several notches in taste above that shown by the
rest of the town. A satiny, shimmering black blouse with carved silver buttons
and a smooth, fitted collar matched perfectly with an ankle-length, flowing
skirt of less pronounced black with bluish-silver flowers. Open, dark leather
sandals with wide straps and thick soles would've looked odd on almost anyone
else, but not only did she pull it off, she did it flawlessly. A twined silver
and gold ankle bracelet graced her left side.

"Yes sir, Mr. MacLeod." She slowed down for a moment, turning her head to
observe him. "Your name--it's Scottish, isn't it?"

He was once again struck by the suspicion that she was a lot older than
she seemed, but had nothing to back it.

"I've heard it is. Duncan MacLeod..." He kept himself just barely from
completing the statement-'of the Clan MacLeod'-that would completely destroy any
semblance of the persona he had built up. "But I'm afraid don't know your
name."

"Julia, Julia Larkin," she answered, reaching the back of the store and
the small counter on which the computer was clearly visible. "Some people call
me Julia, some people call me Lark," she added with a small smile.

"Well, Miss Larkin, Julia." He very privately could never imagine calling
her Lark. Duncan got behind the counter and depressed the buttons to make the
machine whir into life. "Let's see what we can do about that book." He flashed
another smile at her, this time actually making an effort to affect her in some
way. The reaction was the same, nonexistent. Mac had long since given up
watching other people enter and exit the store. His attention was focused on
the girl in front of him, and he was now more confused than before.

She stood quietly, neither asking for information nor volunteering any.

"Do you go to high school here?" Duncan asked, his long fingers beginning
to roam across the keyboard. There--there was a reaction. He noticed her head
jerk up slightly as he spoke. She had been watching his hands. He smiled.

"Yes, I do. I'm a junior this year." Julia answered sparsely.

Duncan's eyebrows rose to an unexpected level as he nodded. She adjusted
the purse strap on her shoulder. The silence was awkward.

"Here we go--Anne McCaffrey's 'Moreta: Dragonlady of Pern'--I can have it
in about three weeks. If you like you can pay for it when it arrives or right
now. That'll be... $7.85." Mac looked her in the face; she nodded and took
some folded bills out of her purse.

"I guess I'll pay for it now. That way I know I won't forget it later,"
Julia said, now smiling gently and handing over the cash.

"So," Duncan asked as casually as possible, taking the money and handing
the girl back her change. "Do you read a lot of science-fiction?"

Julia delicately dropped the coins into her purse, nodding as she fixed
the catch which held it closed. "I read a lot of everything, actually, but I
like science fiction the best and the library has the least of it."

Duncan did some rapid metal calculations. First he decided that this girl
was going to be hell to get answers out of--she gave not the slightest
indication of the sort of verboseness that nearly everyone else around had
shown. Next, he realized that if he did not learn a little more about her the
curiosity would shortly have him digging through her records--he just couldn't
let her disappear without knowing that he would see her again sometime soon.
Last, MacLeod would much prefer to hear her story from her own lips, rather than
hacking into the high school computers to get her personal profile--that would
be a last resort only. He said the first thing to come to mind when he opened
his mouth.

"You wouldn't by any chance be looking for a job, would you?" Duncan
asked, pointing to the backward but easily readable sign in the front window.
He nearly sighed with relief. Not only was it the perfect way to observe her,
and a perfectly plausible excuse, but as her employer he would have access to
records, profiles--this was a much better way to start than Richie's breaking
into the antique store. He smiled broadly, then toned the expression down as he
realized how ahead of himself he was getting. Hopefully it would be years
before she needed him as a teacher. Well, anyway, he fully intended to be there
for her when she needed him the most.

"Me?" There was more than surprise in her voice, almost shock. Her
eyebrows went up, then resumed their normal positions. She shook her head
sadly, her eyes cast downward. "I'd love to work here, Mr. MacLeod, but you
really wouldn't want me." Julia peered in the direction in which the group of
girls, her classmates, he realized, had departed. "You'd probably loose
business, if anything."

He couldn't quite decide whether this was going in his direction or not.

"Ah, but I'm in need of someone who knows her way around books, not a café
or the back rooms and I've yet to meet anyone as qualified as you seem to be."
MacLeod couldn't care less about loosing the business of the local airhead
population. He leaned onto the counter, toward her, crossing his arms under his
chest and smiling so that his rich chocolate eyes warmed. "I wish you'd at
least think about it."

He saw some of the uneasy pressure about her features begin to crumble; he
could nearly imagine her balancing the pros and cons of the venture as she stood
in front of him. It seemed an eternity or two before she nodded, but was truly
only a moment. At the same instant broad grins, his several centuries more
practiced than hers but no less childlike, spread across both of their faces.
Neither one knew exactly how much the acceptance had meant to the other.

"I'll ask my parents and we can work out the details tomorrow, say four o'
clock?" Julia said, once again with that oddly familiar accent.

"That would be excellent Miss Larkin," Duncan reached over to take her
hand in a firm shake which she returned happily. He stood, and walked her to
the door, unwilling to relinquish her hand. If he detected a trace of
nervousness she gave no outward sign of it and he could more than allow it.
From her perspective a nearly unknown man had not only taken a genuine interest
in her, but was giving her something she had neither expected nor anticipated--
what could be his motivations? He smiled down at her, meaning to be reassuring.

"Four o' clock it is then. Good bye Mr. MacLeod." Julia nodded slightly,
her delicate but amazingly strong hand dropping from his as they reached the
door. He held it open for her, watched her walk through it, then took a few
steps back himself.

Through the glass, he watched her look right, look left, then continue on
straight ahead and further into the town. She seemed ethereal, and Duncan fully
expected her to vanish into nothing in front of his very eyes, to prove that
this had been only an odd waking dream. Nothing of the sort happened--she
simply kept going until the haze of trees and cars and people melted her from
view. He thought about how she had spoken those last few words, sounding far
away and disconnected. She had entered that way, and exited that way, a barrier
of more than silence and coldness, mystery, cloaking and protecting her from
hurt and pain. He shook his head; finally getting back to the books which still
needed to be put on the shelves, but could not restrain a glimpse in the
direction she had taken. A few fat, late afternoon raindrops now hit silently
against the glass windows, and menacing clouds hung low in the sky. He had not
even noticed their arrival. He wondered if she could possibly know what she
was. The low rumble of thunder impinged on his senses. How could she possibly
know?

-----

"Do you think you could possibly have picked a worse place MacLeod?"

Joe Dawson was behind the counter, carefully wiping off new glasses and
stacking them to one side. His cane leaned in a little used corner, and the
usually well dressed Watcher was in a similar state of attire as Duncan had been
just two weeks ago. The bar had still been in use when Dawson purchased it, but
it seemed in no better shape than the store had been. The stool that Duncan sat
on was greasy and the vinyl covering was torn.

"Just think of this as a good chance to help a struggling local economy,"
Duncan offered, unable to come up with anything better. A low, snarling growl
sounded outside, but both men were now used to the regular peals of thunder.

Dawson snorted. "But I don't exactly have your financial security, my
friend. The Watchers don't have unlimited resources and neither do I."

"I've heard the weather here is nice..." That was a total lie. Duncan had
never heard any such thing and Dawson knew it. "It sure is beautiful
countryside..." Duncan was grasping at straws now.

Dawson rolled his eyes hugely, moving around the counter to take a seat
next to MacLeod. He had two glasses balanced in one hand, his cane in the
other. Another crack of thunder, louder this time, was followed by an uncertain
dimming of the already dull lights in the room. Each looked at the other, and
Dawson pushed a glass MacLeod's way. Neither one seemed inclined either to
speak or drink.

"You don't have to follow me you know," MacLeod at last spoke up, and
instantly regretted it. He took a small sip of the amber liquid in his glass,
wondering why he was acting as if he had suddenly reverted to the thirty-
something year old he resembled.

"We may be friends," the expression on Dawson's face was lost as every
light in the bar suddenly flickered and went out. "But I'm still your Watcher.
Aw, shit!"

This last exclamation Duncan hoped was directed at the power outage.
There was absolutely no light at all except for the rapidly flickering blue-
white lightening which danced with amazing speed around the building. Even the
Victorian-style streetlights, which had been glowing confidently yellow-orange a
moment before, were out. The steady drumming of rain against the roof continued
unabated, and, if anything, had increased in volume with the silence that
engulfed them. With a little luck, the power would return in a few minutes.

"I think I left a flashlight around here somewhere," Dawson said after
about five minutes of sitting in the pitch-blackness.

Duncan heard as Joe eased himself from the stool and the unusual clunking-
sounding gait worked its way around the end of the counter and behind it. He
felt it once Dawson was exactly opposite of him--a slight breeze which was
caused by his passing was easily detectable by Duncan's highly tuned senses.
Joe must be rummaging around for something underneath the cheap wooden surface,
he decided, when a weak beam of light shone right in Duncan's eyes.

"Found it," Dawson announced.

"Now get it the hell out of my eyes," MacLeod countered, shielding his
face with his arm.

Dawson laughed gruffly, lowering the flashlight to the counter and
pointing it straight up. The diffuse light cast the old Watcher's face into odd
inverted shadows, especially around his eyes and mouth. The last year had added
extra wrinkles to his face, and the beard had been cropped shorter recently.
MacLeod dropped his arm, wondering what he looked like to Joe.

"Now we just need marshmallows and ghost stories," Dawson chuckled,
gesturing first to the flashlight, then to the windows; sheets of water cascaded
down the glass. At the same time the most ear-shattering explosion of thunder
either had heard for years caused both of them to clap their hands over their
ears and a blinding flash of lightening lit up the bar. Each was left blinking
and rattled in the aftermath.

"I don't like the sound of that," Dawson commented, his tone deadly
serious and his expression no longer amused. "Do you know if they have
tornadoes around here?"

MacLeod was forced to admit that he really didn't know. "They might, but
we're in the river valley. That should provide some protection at least. We're
too far north to be in tornado alley." Another peal of thunder weakened the
intended effect of his words.

Dawson looked unconvinced, and snorted, shaking his head. "Tell me again
why you picked this place?"

He could think of nothing reasonable to say, or at least nothing that
would reassure Joe that they were not about to be blown away by the force of the
storm, so stayed silent for a while. He drained the liquid from his glass,
listening to the thunder rolling across the sky and wondering if it would ever
exhaust itself. He began running through the things he would have to check as
soon as he got back to his home and store. Some of the shingles would surely be
blown off, and the new weeping willow tree he had planted in the front yard
would probably need to be re-staked. If the lights were out here, they were
almost certainly all over the town and he had yet to buy surge protectors for
all the computers. That was enough to bring a wince to his face, though Joe
said nothing. When had this storm started anyway? It had to be four, maybe
five hours ago. Julia had just left the store when it started. He wondered if
she had gotten home all right and was suddenly uneasy again.

"Who got home all right? Are you dating already?"

The unexpected sound, coupled with a flickering of lightening was enough
to make Duncan jump an inch or so off of the stool.

"Excuse me?"

"You were mumbling something about 'her' getting home all right. God,
MacLeod, where'd you find her? You've only been here a couple days longer than
I have." Dawson was leaning on the counter, his eyes glued to MacLeod.

Duncan quelled the urge to say 'It's none of your business, Joe.' and
lost. "It's none of your business, Joe," he said, then instantly picked up his
glass to hide behind. As there was nothing left in it, the ploy did not work at
all. He hadn't thought he had spoken aloud.

"Uh huh," Dawson shook his head at the now obviously flustered immortal.
"Now come on, you don't have to keep secrets from your Uncle Joe. Why don't you
tell me all about her...?" He smiled almost evilly when he used that tone of
voice, Duncan thought.

"Oh, come on Joe. It's nothing like that. I mean, ah.." Duncan mentally
berated himself for his lack of discretion tonight. Maybe there was something
in the water of this little town, and he had a peculiar reluctance to reveal all
that he knew about her, even to Joe.

Dawson's face was creased with a rare wide grin. "At least tell me her
name," he directed.

"First of all Joe, we're not dating. She's probably only seventeen, maybe
eighteen years old. She came into the store this afternoon and we, we talked.
She left just before the storm started." A low rumbling of thunder sounded,
announcing to both that it had not ended. "I was just wondering if she made it
home all right."

Joe favored his friend with a long look, the tone in the immortal's voice
made him believe there was more to the story, but he was still Mac's Watcher and
still his friend. He'd find out in not too long anyway. "You still didn't tell
me her name."

"Julia Larkin," Duncan said finally, placing his glass on the table now
that he realized that he was still holding it.

"Let me guess--five eight, a hundred and five pounds, wears plastic skirts
and tiny little tight shirts. She has purple and green hair and multiple
eyebrow piercings.." Dawson kept on listing various attributes, knowing that Mac
would never fall for a similar looking, eighteen year old girl who was putting
the moves on him. The point was simply to goad him into revealing more facts.

"Dawson, just give it up." Duncan would've added more to that statement,
but with as little warning as when they had gone out, the lights flickered back
to life.

"Whatever you say Mac," Dawson chuckled, putting the flashlight back under
the counter after clicking the beam off. He shifted a few more things around,
producing noise, but little good. Both Watcher and immortal sensed it as soon
as the rain began to diminish. The lightening and thunder had been coming at
greater and greater intervals for awhile already.

Duncan slipped off of the greasy stool, grimacing as he hooked his finger
on a jagged sliver of metal. He had barely enough time to register the pain
before it was healed. Shrugging into his long coat, he nodded to his old
friend. "Good night Dawson."

"Good night MacLeod," Joe waved, watching the immortal stride the few
quick steps to the door and disappear.

Duncan turned up the collar of his coat the moment he stepped out.
Despite the lack of pyrotechnics and the fact that the thunder had decreased to
only a tolerable rumble, the rain was still coming down at nearly full pelt. If
the collar could not protect his head, at least the water would not run down his
neck to ruin his clothes. He moved across the parking lot, stopping for only
one flash of dazzling lightening. As Duncan reached the car and turned the key
in the keyhole, he looked up, certain, somehow, that he was being watched.
Again there was nothing. He shrugged, got in the car, and headed for home with
the dull beat of raindrops to occupy his thoughts.

-----

"This is where you'll be working, dear?"

Duncan had been in the back of the store, but stepped out instantly at the
grating voice and the sensation of the approaching pre-immortal. They were in
the front, just barely inside the door, and with her mother Julia seemed smaller
than ever, refusing to look up at all. The woman at her side towered just under
six feet tall but had Julia's same slender-athletic build. She was overdressed
for the occasion in a slim-skirted, wide-collared dress of crimson red with wide
white trimmings and buttons. Even her shoes and lips radiated the same
offensive color--which clashed terribly with her complexion--while a broad
brimmed hat seemed to rest on a bed of cemented brown curls. She held Julia by
the hand much like one would do with a two or three year old who was liable to
run off in the middle of a crowded supermarket.

"Mrs. Larkin?"

Duncan had reached the front of the store and the two women. Julia's
mother held out her hand at his greeting, and he managed, barely, to take it in
a brief shake. Thankfully, this was all she expected. There was something in
the woman's manner that he found just short of repellant--perhaps it was the way
her clothes fit no better than the great mass of teenagers he had seen come in,
perhaps it was how she wore a constant expression of pleased smugness on her
features, as if she were above the rest of the world and knew it.

"You are, Mister, Mac-Leod?" she asked, ending each syllable with rasping
sound which left no doubt as to where Julia had gotten her unusual speaking
pattern. Mrs. Larkin sounded like a badly tuned android from an equally bad
horror flick.

Each time Mrs. Larkin spoke, she squeezed Julia's shoulder or hand again,
keeping her close by her side and raking over Duncan with scolding glares if he
even dared to look at her precious daughter. Julia had her hair braided
elaborately today, though the fringe of light bangs she wore were still present,
and he noticed that even in such a style the end swung well below her hips.
Both her pants and tight-fitting, high-necked vest were ebony black, the buttons
the same color but shiny enough to stand out. Frost white and long sleeved,
with what looked to be elastic holding tightly about the wrists, her shirt was
fastened at the neck with an accessory Duncan had not seen for several decades,
a silver and black opal brooch. She wore no lipstick, but the black nail polish
at her fingertips was makeup enough.

"Excuse me, Mister, Mac-Leod?"

Duncan blinked, focusing once again, reluctantly, on the radiant Mrs.
Larkin. They moved to the café, and, if Duncan never really remembered the rest
of that hour and a half he and Julia's 'mother' spent together, he never, ever
regretted it. In the end, a small pile of paperwork had been signed, scrawled
upon, torn, stained with Mrs. Larkin's coffee, and otherwise abused, but
everything was in order for the girl to work five days a week after school and
on Saturdays and Sunday afternoons and wasn't that a wonderful storm last night
and perhaps she would work during the summer tooandmaybeshecouldworkondayswith
outschool... He was amazed at how she could keep up the steady stream of words
which seemed to have no meaning. Throughout, Julia sat silently, moving only
when called upon to sign her name or answer a question posed to her.

He watched them walk out of the store and down the street. When they were
well out of sight, Duncan had to shake his head. Not only could he begin to
sympathize with Julia's quietness and understand the barriers she had built
around herself, he could well imagine himself doing the exact same thing.

-----

"Having fun?" Duncan smiled, seeing Julia kneeling on the floor next to
the bookshelf that contained most of the antique books; some were as old as a
hundred years. The store had closed almost fifteen minutes ago, and there was
no one else within sight. She looked up at him, pushed her glasses back in
place, and nodded with a small smile. Immediately after he had given her
permission to read any of the used books so long as they did not leave the
store, she had taken him up on the offer.

As if realizing how late it was, Julia put the book back in its place and
stood, swiftly moving to get her purse and backpack. Duncan had gotten used to
her silence weeks ago, and it had ceased to bother him. Every once in awhile he
would attempt to strike up a conversation, but her answers were generally short,
unexpected, and lead nowhere quickly. He could be patient now, if that was what
it took.

"Good night, Mr. MacLeod," Julia said, seeing him standing next to her at
the door. Duncan observed the remarkable transformation she went through. In
the store, she seemed terribly young, perfectly innocent--and he guessed she
was, and most of all, almost happy. When she left, as soon as she stepped
toward the door at the end of the day, in fact, her shoulders hunched up, her
features turned to stone. "Good night," she said again, and he realized he had
paused, if briefly, to watch her.

Julia slipped out and began to walk. Duncan would have turned around and
gone back to cleaning the store, but something odd struck him. Despite the
sweltering mid-May heat, she was dressed in long her trademark long-sleeved,
high-necked, long-legged garb. He had adopted light pants and short-sleeved or
even sleeveless shirts as soon as the humid Wisconsin summer had set in. How
she tolerated it, he didn't quite understand.

There were still many things about Julia that he wanted to understand, but
two months had been enough to learn a great deal. She had lived her entire life
here, or at least people seemed to remember her from the time she had been a
tiny baby. Though he never visited the high school, Duncan had yet to meet
anyone around her age who acted even remotely nice to her; he guessed that if
she had any friends they couldn't possibly be very close. Test scores, the only
thing he had had to 'borrow' from the school's computers, were, indeed, in the
top percentile when compared to the national average. He remembered how very
surprised and, at the same time, not surprised at all he had been with that
particular finding. If she moved with a practiced grace, it was indeed
practiced. Every Monday and Thursday evening she attended gymnastic classes
like clockwork, and one of the few facts that he had managed to pry directly
from her was that she took self-defense courses Friday nights.

Duncan sighed, wishing, for once, that time was not moving so slowly.
Patience, he reminded himself, soothing his thoughts with the rhythmic sound of
the broom scraping against the wooden floor. Here and there he would stop to
pick up a nail, or a shoelace, all the odd little notes and things that people
let drop to the floor.

-----

Joe sat, impatiently tapping his cane against the floor in a steady, not
to mention highly annoying, beat.

"I thought you said she came in every day, MacLeod," Dawson said finally.

They were the only ones in the store, and they sat across from each other
at a small table in the café section. Joe had a mug of steaming coffee in front
of him which was occasionally lifted to his lips, though Duncan saw no
discernable lowering of the liquid's level. He himself pushed a cup of tea
around the table. The mid-afternoon sunlight slanted across through the
windows.

"She does. She's always here by now," Duncan heard himself say, and even
to himself he sounded oddly troubled. He couldn't remember being this worried
since--well, for years at least. The two men sat in silence until the telephone
rang in the back room and Duncan hurried to answer it. Dawson had, from six
months of hearing Mac talking about her, formed a few private theories about who
this girl was to Duncan, but had actually yet to meet her in person. He easily
heard Duncan's half of the conversation right through the wall.

"Hello, MacLeod's Books."

"Julia? Are you alright? What happened?" Joe could swear that Duncan's
voice cracked with every other syllable, and his mind raced with different
scenarios, none of which would prove to be the correct one.

"No, no. That's just fine. You take all the time you need. Do you want
me to come over there?"

"If you need me--"

"I understand. Thank you for calling, Julia."

When Duncan walked back into the room, Joe thought he would fall over.
Mac's skin had an unhealthy gray tinge to it, his lips were set in a grim line,
and the rest of his features showed all the signs of great mental strain.

"Dawson, turn on the television," MacLeod ordered, and, stunned, Joe did.
By some freak of nature it was already tuned to the local station.

"...though police are refusing to comment, our sources tell us that Mrs.
Stephanie Larkin was found by her seventeen year old daughter, Julia Larkin.
Once again, Mrs. Stephanie Larkin, age forty-one, was found murdered in her home
this morning at approximately seven-thirty a.m. She was apparently beaten to
death with a blunt object with considerable force..."

The scenes flashing in front of them rivaled any in Seacouver or Paris.
The cameras never exactly got a full glimpse into the bedroom before blue-
uniformed police shoved them rudely out. The image shifted to Julia and her
father being escorted out of the house by similarly attired guards.

"...Mrs. Larkin was a well known business executive, creator of the
computer software which allowed..."

"..She was found, dead.."

Julia's tear-streaked face appeared briefly, followed by Mr. Larkin's.
Duncan couldn't exactly say how he knew it was Mr. Larkin, except he bore a
slight resemblance to his wife, overdressed and tight-lipped, and he had seen
him once before, if briefly.

"I want everything possible done to find my wife's killer," Mr. Larkin's
voice broke through loud and clear, without a trace of the accent Mrs. Larkin
had possessed. The announcers continued on with the various grisly details of
the murder, then spun on to other news, unrelated. Duncan reached over and
switched off the television. The silence was near absolute.

"God," was the only thing Dawson said, and the single word rattled around
the room like so many matches in a near empty box.

They both looked to the front door as it opened, and saw a young couple,
laughing and smiling, enter. Duncan stood, smoothing his face from its grim
lines, though Joe saw easily through the tight-knit mask.

"Can I help you?" Duncan's voice was forced, choppy.

Dawson shook his head, now recycling completely most of his ideas of what
this Julia meant to his immortal friend. The pair wandered in the direction of
the rows of books, and Duncan stood uncertainly between one section of the store
and the other. What role could she possibly play in Duncan's life? She wasn't
his lover, of that Joe was now absolutely certain. Was she an immortal? There
were no Watcher records on her. A pre-immortal? How did Mac look at her? Was
she simply his friend? No, there was a sort of tenseness about MacLeod's
features that Joe simply couldn't fit there. God, he wondered, seeing Duncan
chewing his lower lip nervously, what was Julia Larkin to Duncan MacLeod?

-----

To Duncan's amazement, and Joe's intense scrutiny, Julia appeared promptly
at seven forty-five in the morning only two days later, which happened to be a
Saturday. This early on a weekend, not only was there no one else in the store,
there seemed to be no one else alive in the town. The only reason Joe was there
was that Duncan had called him and asked for his help, since he would be short
one today. The late October weather had grown cold and windy, but, as if
nothing had happened, Julia was calm and silent when she walked through the
door. Duncan noticed her well before Dawson did, though Joe was willing to put
it off to the immortal's being seated facing the door.

"Julia?" Duncan asked, his voice incredulous, and a tiny bit of hot tea
splashed to the previously spotless table. To tell the truth, MacLeod looked in
worse shape than the girl did, as if he hadn't slept a wink. Joe turned,
finally catching sight of her.

Julia would've been hard to miss anywhere, and, now blinking, Joe wondered
why he had not seen her before. True, the bar was generally open the same hours
and beyond what the store was; true, he might not have been perfectly observant
lately--MacLeod had been relatively free of the attentions of other immortals--
still, he could've imagine that he would have missed her.

The girl's shockingly white hair and complexion, almost ashen from stress,
stood out in stark contrast to her form-fitting black velvet shirt and flowing
black skirt which reached to her ankles. All black and nothing but black, for
mourning, Dawson thought. A tiny silver cross and chain rested at her chest and
moved whenever the girl breathed. She wore glasses, and, as she came closer,
Joe realized that one of her eyelids drooped just a bit lower than the other.
It did little to nothing to spoil the total effect. It was her eyes that held
his attention the longest, those troubled blue irises had the same effect on
Dawson as they did on everybody else who met the girl.

"Yes, Mr. MacLeod?" Her voice held no emotion whatsoever, but the words
carried the thought that such a small incident as the murder of her mother and
her finding of the woman's body were not enough to keep her from work.

Duncan was dumbfounded, unsure of what to do. He observed Julia peering
in Joe's direction and he hastened to make introductions. Unlike most days, the
impenetrable walls which she kept around herself remained up. Duncan would
swear that Joe sensed it just as surely as the touch of Julia's fingers on his
palm. He would be right.

"Ah, Julia, this is Joe Dawson. Joe, this is Julia Larkin." Duncan
stumbled around the words.

"I'm sorry about your mother's death," Joe said, letting go of Julia's
hand. The pulse of her skin was unsettlingly cold, like holding a corpse,
though he really couldn't blame her for any shock she was going through.

A small shiver ran down Julia's spine, and her expression could best be
described as that worn by a person who had just heard fingernails run slowly
down an old chalkboard. After a second to compose herself, the girl nodded
slowly in Dawson's direction.

"Really, it's okay. She wasn't my real mother anyway."

The tone to her voice was so soft, Duncan hoped she had not said those
last words at all, that he had only imagined them. The look that Dawson
suddenly threw his way so clearly, however, dispelled any notion of that. That
he'd expect answers later was written so plainly across his features that
MacLeod choked on the low groan that rose in his throat and only saved himself
by converting it into a series of hoarse coughs. Though there was no more
movement of her features than before, both men realized that Julia was taking in
their every glance. She had seen the look passed between them and knew very
well indeed that both were covering up something. Joe thanked God and whatever
angels were looking over him, and Duncan sweated with relief, when the sound of
the door opening and closing caught Julia's attention. With a single backward
glance, she hurried to greet the customers.

'Later,' Duncan mouthed to Joe, then moved quickly behind the counter of
the café to prepare it for the crowd of people who would shortly arrive.

Joe nodded silently, and stood up. As he passed a group of elderly ladies
he mumbled something politely and kept his cane out of their way. He had
already started to list his questions and man, there were a lot of questions.
He exited and, before turning toward his car, Dawson gazed through the windows
of the store. Julia stood in one of the isles, the small movements of her hands
obscured by a bookshelf. From this angle she seemed almost to disappear, to
blend perfectly into the shadowed background. He shook his head, fighting the
illusion, but it remained. So many thoughts rushed through the back of his mind
that he could not remember any one of them, except that he would love to be
there if she and Methos ever met.

-----

The bar had been closed for nearly an hour when Duncan finally appeared.
Joe was seated, as he had been for most of that hour, at a small corner table
with a perfect view of the door. Two glasses and a bottle sat at the ready
within easy reach.

"So you've finally decided to make an appearance?" Joe's voice carried
with it a hint of impatience and a coating of intense curiosity which he could
not disguise.

"Joe..."

"Don't try stalling again, MacLeod, is she or isn't she?"

Duncan had reached the table and pulled out a chair. He swung his long
leg over it and reached gratefully for the glass which Dawson pushed toward him.
He wondered if he could possibly put this off any longer.

"Is she what?"

"And playing dumb won't work either. Is she an immortal or isn't she?"

Duncan sighed, taking a long drink of the liquor in his glass first. He
needed it now more than he cared to admit.

"Yes, she's a pre-immortal," Duncan all but moaned.

"Dammit, MacLeod," Dawson stood up suddenly, bringing his hand down on the
table so that the glasses and bottle rattled and threatened to tip over.
"You've known her over six months now and you didn't think that this was worth
even mentioning? I thought we trusted each other."

"Look Dawson, I thought I'd keep her out of it until absolutely
necessary," Duncan tried to explain, even as Joe's last jab about trust went
like a blade through his gut. "She doesn't know that she's a pre-immortal, and
she doesn't know that I'm a four-hundred year old man who can't die unless
someone takes my head and by the way someone might just come along to take yours
too if you're not careful, and there's a large society of people called the
Watchers who do nothing but follow you around, recording what you do for the
rest of your life..." He held out his hand with a helpless gesture. "I don't
suppose I could ask you not to record this?"

Joe let out a long breath, not answering directly or right away. He sat
back down heavily on the thin-legged chair, favoring his friend with a searching
glance. There was still something that Duncan was holding back, maybe couldn't
even admit to himself.

"She really means a lot to you, doesn't she?"

Duncan was very quiet and stayed that way for a long while. Dawson had
seen him struggling, contemplative, reflective, many times before, but there was
something else this time too.

"Yeah, Joe, she means a lot to me."

The tendency toward silence that had grown on both men since they had
moved into town settled like a heavy blanket over the already still room. It
seemed that, here, getting too involved in another person's or family's private
life was just short of a capital offense. You saw your neighbor from time to
time at the grocery store or the park, but it was always a clipped, 'Hello Mrs.
Johanson.' 'Afternoon, Mr. Dawson.', and each would pass his own separate way.
This fit Duncan's needs beautifully, but Joe, by nature, would've liked someone
to share a pleasant conversation with.

"She didn't seem too terribly upset with her mother's death," Dawson spoke
up, swirling around the amber liquid in his glass and wishing that the wind
would stop grating the naked tree branches against the windows.

"You don't know her at all, Dawson," Duncan answered. "She just doesn't
show emotion like other people. If I didn't know she was only a pre-immortal,
I'd swear her to be older than I am."

"Still, wouldn't you think she'd be a bit more sad than that, or at least
scared? The police haven't caught the killer yet, have they?"

"No, they haven't," Duncan said, and Joe perceived that the immortal did
not even realize there was a worried edge to his voice.

"I guess there's not much you can do about it either, is there?"

"Not without raising too many questions, and people remember everything
around here. Besides, it's none of my business. I think this is one to let the
authorities figure out."

Dawson was forced to admit that MacLeod was completely right. No young,
mild-mannered bookstore owner in his right mind would be investigating a brutal
murder, even if the deceased was directly related to one of his employees.
There would be too many questions, too much suspicion. As it was, police had
already come into the store and questioned Duncan once. Joe glanced up from his
glass, and wondered what Mac was thinking at that exact moment, but was
sensitive enough not to bother him.

Duncan sighed, downing a long swallow of whatever it was in his glass. He
wasn't paying a great deal of attention to anything, but was, rather, engrossed
in his own memories. Something had been bothering him for the past few days
which he couldn't quite get out of his head. It had been late in the evening the
day before the murder, and Julia had left the store for the night only moments
before. As usual, he had turned to watch her leave, but just before Julia was
out of sight, Duncan saw a distinguished looking man of about fifty years old
hurrying to meet her. He was dressed in like fashion, and when she didn't move
out of the way as he fell into step next to her, MacLeod guessed him to be her
'father' and the elusive Mr. Larkin. The man turned, and looked into the store.
An expression of shock and fear, shown only for a brief second, crossed the
man's face when he noticed Duncan, and he increased his pace considerably.
Duncan, at the time, simply could not imagine that the man would recognize him,
so what on earth could be the problem now? Without a doubt it was the same man
who he had seen on the news broadcast. Something was out of order, but he
couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was. Sighing, he stood and
moved for the door.

"I'll see you soon, Dawson," MacLeod promised, not waiting for Joe to nod
before leaving.

Joe waited until long after the door closed behind his friend before
moving. When he did, his every step echoed in the nearly empty building. Not a
single familiar face besides Duncan's--not Amanda, not Methos, not any other
Watcher--had appeared in months. He hadn't felt so lonely since after Richie
died.

-----

"Good afternoon Julia," Duncan said the moment he felt her buzz tickle at
the edge of his awareness. Though he saw her every day, she never ceased to
bring a smile to his face, especially when she would return it with that small,
endearing grin of hers that so rarely crossed her features. "Are you feeling
better today?"

October had rolled around into November and that into December, as those
months tend to do. Halloween had come and gone with barely a ripple to the
normal routine of life, the days around Thanksgiving were remarkable only in
Duncan's taking in of four beautiful Arabian horses. Their previous owner had
decided that he was no longer fit, at age seventy-eight, to see to them
properly. They were his wife's babies anyway, the man explained, and she had
passed away not six months ago--he simply had to find a good home for them.
Duncan found that caring for the horses--three mares and a gelding--not only
came back to him easily, but once they came to trust him each was a graceful,
sure-footed animal. Though he never intended to keep them, the crumbling barn
directly behind his house had been fixed up enough to give them a tolerable
home. The last days of November had seen the arrival of the first snow, and
now, a week and a half into December, a thick blanket of white covered the
ground.

"Much better thank you, Mr. MacLeod."

Despite his asking, Julia had steadfastly refused to call him by his first
name. After a time, he had accepted this about her as he had so many other
things. Duncan observed her now, tilting his head to one side with sudden
apprehension. Yesterday, when she had arrived just after school, her gait had
been suspiciously awkward, listing to one side heavily. "I twisted my ankle
last night," she had muttered, "In gymnastics class."

Duncan had instructed her in no uncertain terms to keep her weight off of
it, and given her a small stool to rest the ankle on behind the counter. Today,
Julia appeared absolutely exhausted, though no one who wasn't looking closely
would have noticed. An old Ace bandage was wrapped around the ankle, a rude
beige counterpart to the jet-black leggings, matching jacket, and velvety royal
purple blouse. Gold and amethyst earrings sparkled just below her earlobes. He
didn't believe her glib dismissal in the least bit.

"Julia? Are you sure you're all right? Is your ankle still bothering
you?"

"I'm fine, Mr. MacLeod, just a little tired. It was my birthday
yesterday, you know." Julia offered up a small smile which brought no warmth to
her eyes, but Duncan hardly noticed it. Mentally, he was beating himself to a
bloody and abandoned pulp on the sidewalk. How could he possibly have forgotten
her birthday of all things? How old was she now? Eighteen--eighteen years old.
Not only had he forgotten her birthday, he had neglected to find out what
paperwork would require changes, if any, now that she was a legal adult. He'd
not said a single thing. No wonder she was acting strangely, then again, she
had never mentioned it at all before this.

Duncan had been walking by her side during this time to the cash register.
As she stepped up the single stair, Julia began to waver, to loose her balance.
He had never been so deeply into his thoughts that he would not notice this, and
he reached out and grabbed her shoulder before she could fall. A small, painful
sound came from high in her throat and MacLeod pulled his hand back instantly.
Her shoulder was so stiff that she had not bent it at all under his touch; and
when Julia put her arms out to support her weight, Duncan swore he could feel
something oddly out of place under the thin cloth.

"I had a bit of a rough night," Julia said with what amounted to the
closest thing to a blush on her face that Duncan had yet to see.

Now he had no right to pry at all. She was her own person and what she
did during her own time was none of his business whatsoever. (Duncan never did
bother to balance this thought with his regular habit of prying into her after-
school schedule.) Julia just seemed so, so childlike at times, and instead of
willingly backing down his mind nearly sung with wonder, worry, and a need to
protect her.

The usual Friday afternoon crowd was no less large this day, and soon
Duncan and Julia were each completely occupied with their respective tasks.
Night during the Wisconsin winter fell early and with biting cold, so it was no
surprise at all when the supply of people dwindled off just after five o'clock.
Soon, only two or three customers searched lazily up and down the isles, then
none, and nearly perfect silence filled the store. Julia noticed the fresh
snowflakes slipping softly against the dark windows well before Duncan did, and
started humming to herself to relieve a sort of nervous tension which filled the
air.

"When the last moon is cast, over the last star of morning, and the future
is past--" Duncan held his fingers paused over the keyboard at which he had
been typing. "Without even a last, desperate warning--" He put his hands at
his sides, content just to listen. He could barely hear her at this distance,
so he knew she didn't mean for him to, but Julia had a beautiful, rich alto
singing voice. Since he had expected her to be a soprano, this was just one
more surprise.

"Then look into the sky where through, the clouds a path is formed..."
The last line Duncan didn't quite catch, and he moved closer. It was a few
minutes before she started again, and this time he could see her sitting on the
high stool. Julia had taken one of the pens out of the cup next to register and
was drawing busily on her left wrist. She didn't even seem to notice that
Duncan was watching her.

"Would you know my na-a-ame, if I saw you in Heaven? Would it be the sa-
a-ame, if I saw you in Heaven? I must be strong, and carry on, 'cause I know, I
don't be-lo-o-ong, here in Heaven."

She had the voice of a forgotten angel, Duncan was certain. A deep
melancholia filled the song, each word, however softly whispered, held meaning.

"Would you hold my ha-a-and, if I saw you in Heaven? Would you help me
sta-a-and, if I saw you in Heaven? I'll find my way, through night and day,
'cause I know, I just can't stay..."

He had meant to stand perfectly still until the song ended, but for some
reason Julia looked up. MacLeod cleared his throat, looking almost embarrassed,
and quickly crossed the short distance to the counter. Perhaps he could say
that he had merely been looking at the snow fall--or the air move, he thought to
himself. The excuse would hold as much water. Since Duncan couldn't come up
with anything off the top of his head, he resorted to honesty.

"You have a beautiful singing voice," he offered.

"I didn't know you could hear me. I'm sorry for having disturbed you, Mr.
MacLeod," Julia had resumed her invisible mask. Her eyes had gone cold,
distant, and, worst of all, shadowed. He noticed that the rings under her eyes
were darker and blue-tinged. "I was just worried about the snow. It could turn
into a storm any time in the next two hours."

Duncan peered carefully around the store. Erik had gotten off at five-
thirty as usual, and, besides himself and Julia, there was not a soul to be
seen. A sudden sound broke the general silence, but it was only air blowing
through the heat vents. She was right, and the temperature was already chilling
outside. With wind and blowing snow, the walk to her house would almost
certainly be impossible.

"I think I can close up here for the night," Duncan nodded solemnly. "If
you want, I could drive you home..."

"No, that's alright Mr. MacLeod. If I leave right now, I'll be fine,"
Julia never did procrastinate, and, as soon as Duncan had mentioned leaving, she
had turned to take out her long winter coat. "When it comes to weather, I know
what I'm talking about. I'll be perfectly alright."

As Julia had never given him reason to believe otherwise, Duncan admitted
to himself that she could take care of herself perfectly well. She had
seventeen years of experience with the Wisconsin weather that he did not and
would know better than he when it was safe and unsafe. As every other night,
she pulled on her soft, gray woolen gloves first, then the snug-fitting hat of
darker material. She picked up her purse and bookbag in one swift motion and
stepped down from behind the counter.

As she passed him, Duncan saw something which burned instantly into his
consciousness. Before she could do anything to react or to block his hands, he
grabbed for her left wrist. A split second was all it took to prove it, but
from the -look- that Julia gave him, too stunned to speak, Duncan could tell
that he had scared her half to death. Scribbled in blue pen ink, the innermost
section boasted a figure which seemed a cross between a 'y' and a 'w' and was
ringed by an open circle; small spheres filled the space between that and the
next circle--the Watcher symbol.

"Where did you see that?" He dropped her wrist, trying to sound
unconcerned, but wanted so desperately to know that it was hard to control his
voice. It was entirely possible that she didn't know what it meant at all, had
only seen it before somewhere and thought it an interesting enough design to
replicate.

"My father has one just like it," Julia said, swallowing, wide-eyed, and
breathing shallowly. "Good night, Mr. MacLeod." Casting a backwards glance,
she edged past him and out the door, disappearing into the darkness. Something
seemed wrong and he couldn't put his finger on it. Resolving to call Joe
immediately, Duncan stood in the same location until he could no longer feel her
buzz.

-----

Duncan woke early the next morning, groggy and out of place, less than
three hours after having fallen asleep. Even that short time had been plagued
by dreams. They were not nightmares, he reflected, but refused to let him rest
peacefully. Scenes, happy scenes with Tessa and Richie, had played over and
over again as if projected from a broken movie reel, but he was never allowed to
join them. He shoved the thick covers away and meandered into the bathroom,
wondering if he was ready to face the day.

-----

Seven-thirty found Duncan unlocking the store. The sun was making a
valiant effort to appear, but without success. Each exhalation produced a fine
cloud of vapor in front of his nose, and each inhalation seemed to bite his
lungs with cold. Maybe I should get outside more often, Duncan thought to
himself. Should anyone actually find him and pick a fight, they might have the
advantage if more used to the cold. The key took a little bit of working in the
hole before it clicked, but the door swung easily open to the much warmer
interior.

Things were as dark and quiet as when he had left them. Duncan observed
frost, curled up around the edges of the large windows in the front room, once
he got that far. His nose still smarted from the cold. Quickly, he turned up
the thermostat to a more acceptable level and adjusted the lights so he could
see in the pre-dawn gloom. Fifteen minutes came and went all too quickly as he
readied the store for what promised to be a busy day--people always flocked to
the small café when it was this cold. Any moment he expected to feel Julia's by
now familiar buzz, which announced her arrival at the store. Another fifteen
minutes passed.

"G'morning Mr. MacLeod."

The good-natured tenor voice startled him, coming as unexpectedly as it
did from behind his back, but when Duncan turned Erik's green-eyed, freckled
face greeted him with a smile.

"Morning Erik," he said simply, and nodded his head. That was all it took
for the boy to leave and head for the kitchen. Duncan had to admit that Erik
had a rare talent for making coffee and heating up pre-made pastries. Once he
was out of sight, Duncan peered up at the large clock he had mounted above the
doorway. It was past eight o'clock. More insistent than before, something
caught in his thoughts but would not come forward so that he could examine it.

The sound of the front door opening and closing without Julia's presence
making itself known to him made Duncan's hands stop their busy reordering of
books on the small shelf. What time was it now? Eight thirty-two, the clock
insisted, and people had already started to enter.

Tiny prickles of apprehension would not allow him to continue working.
Julia had only been late once before this, and if she could not make it than
nothing short of a complete power failure would have kept her from calling. For
the past few months, since after Mrs. Larkin had died, he added, she had been
acting strangely. (Or at least more strangely than usual.) Most of that he
could, even now, put off to the strain of the loss and Julia's own mercurial
personality. He recalled how peculiar he had found her recent injury. An ankle
damaged while practicing gymnastics could not be too uncommon... She had come
in limping on Thursday afternoon, but her classes were on Monday and Thursday
evenings. He could not remember anything wrong, except maybe for a bit of
stiffness in her gait, on Tuesday or Wednesday. Last night, when Duncan had
seen the drawing on her wrist, Julia had mentioned that her father had one just
like it--which could only mean one thing--that Mr. Larkin was a Watcher and
certainly capable of keeping his own secrets. Duncan pictured the man he had
seen walking with Julia the night before the murder, and the look on his face
that had appeared only after seeing him. The prickles of fear expanded to a
cold rock deep in the pit of his stomach. The police had never found the
killer. If she had told him that he had seen the drawing...

"Erik, look after the store for a minute will you? I have to pick
something up in town," Duncan called out, tugging on his coat and running out
the door in the same breath.

As he sped the short distance into the city limits, Duncan kept silently
repeating over and over to himself that Julia was just too young, too young by
far to join the Game. He hoped he wasn't too late already.

-----

The house he pulled up to was as gaudy as Duncan remembered Mrs. Larkin to
be. It seemed to be a melding of Victorian and Classical styles, the heavy
columns supporting the wrap-around porch clashing with the elaborate
gingerbread-castle moulding in each available space. The awful purple and green
colors in which it was painted did nothing to help the total look. Severely
pruned hedges, now as snow covered as everything else, surrounded the entire
property, which looked to be twice as large as either of the neighboring ones.
Jumping out of the car and running up the walk, he had time to notice that last
night's light snow had not been cleared, and the garage had been left open.
When he would have knocked on the door, it moved slowly inwards at his touch.
He took that as an open invitation and stepped inside.

It was nearly as cold inside as out, Duncan realized, seeing his breath as
a cold white cloud. He found himself staring at a heavy, cream-carpeted
staircase. The room to his right was the living room, he thought, and to his
left was a sort of sitting room or parlor to judge from the number of chairs and
couches lining the walls. There was no movement and no sound in the entire
house, but, moving for the steps, Duncan thought he sensed Julia's still pre-
immortal buzz--or had it altered slightly? Without hesitation, he charged up
the stairs.

A long corridor greeted Duncan, the length of the entire house. Four
doors, all closed, stood out against the wall. Photographs hung in every open
space, most of them of family outings and trips, almost all with a static, posed
quality. He wouldn't realize until later that he was seeing Julia growing from
infant to young adult in those pictures.

"Hello? Julia? Hello?!" Duncan called out, having satisfied himself that
Mr. Larkin was not present. His voice grated in his own ears with near panic.
When no one answered, he concentrated on her buzz, weak and uncertain,
definitely pre-immortal but bringing no comfort--she could be dying right now--
to decide which general direction she was in.

"Julia, can you hear me?" he asked, pushing open the first door on the
left. It was a large, dimly lit library, nearly filled with books of all
descriptions and subjects. The scent of spilled brandy filled his nostrils
along with old paper and leather. She wasn't here either.

Duncan ran the last length of the corridor and grabbed for the handle at
the final door. When it would not budge easily he put his shoulder against it
and leaned until it slowly gave way. The sight that accosted him took most of
his years of seeing the effects of war and violence to cope with. He had to
force his legs to carry him forward and bend at the knees to kneel down beside
her.

Julia was dressed in nothing but a man's tattered white t-shirt, or at
least he guessed that to be its original color. Her hair hung around her face
in knots and snarls covered with the blood which had dripped from multiple
facial wounds. So much of her face was obscured with dried blood that he found
it hard to tell how deep the gashes were. Her lips, what he could see of them,
were tinged with blue from a night of lying in the cold. In the first fraction
of a second he had put his face up to her lips to be sure that she was still
breathing; she was, if shallowly. Up and down her arms ran tiny, irregularly
spaced slashes which he did not bother to identify. Her ankle, no longer
covered with clothing and bandages, was much worse than he had imagined it to
be. Angry purples and reds stood out against her nearly white leg and foot on
either side of the injury. Blood had soaked into the carpet underneath her and
seeped up on the sides and shoulders of the t-shirt, and he wondered what had
happened to her back. Both of her eyes were closed as if in sleep.

"Julia, Julia listen to me... Come on, you've got to wake up baby. Julia,
please open your eyes..." Duncan's heart stood still until one eye fluttered
open while at the same time he calculated the time it would take for an
ambulance to arrive. "Don't go to sleep Julia, don't sleep," he ordered.

Her lips moved slightly, though Duncan couldn't hear anything. Between
putting his ear next to her mouth and wondering if her neck was injured at all,
he decided that if her spine wasn't hurt-a paralyzed immortal was as good as a
dead immortal--he could make the hospital before an ambulance would be half-way
there.

"Please, just let me die," Julia pleaded in a hoarse whisper. He noticed
her toes curl slightly and one leg move a bit as she spoke, so he decided that
he could move her.

"You're going to live a long time," Duncan couldn't believe her words,
then could. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Longer than you could possibly
imagine. Come on, we've got to get you to the hospital." All his thoughts were
on lifting her, so he was nearly unprepared when she screamed in agony at his
handling.

The hand which had touched her shoulder, had moved to lift her, came away
slick with new blood. It was only by what little strength she had left and
Duncan's quick movement which saved her from falling back onto the floor. She
was standing now on her one good foot, but he supported all of her weight. Her
back was in ribbons. During the hours in which she had lain alone the blood had
crusted, and enough of it had worked into to the carpet that the sudden movement
broke the fragile scabs. He couldn't carry her as he had planned, but perhaps,
if he was very careful, he could back down the stairs, using the angle and his
own greater height to support her weight.

"I know it hurts Julia, but you have to trust me. Just hold onto me and
you'll be alright." Duncan forced himself to believe his own words. Though he
knew she wasn't mortally wounded, his mind refused to calm.

She made no more sounds after that, only did instantly everything that he
said. Julia's hands clung to his heavy coat as if it were a lifeline that she
would never willingly let go of again. After finding a space around her waist
where he could put his hands without touching too much raw skin, Duncan shifted
so that all of her weight rested along the length of his body. Trying to cover
her with anything would probably cause her to pass out from the pain, so his
warmth would have to be enough until they reached the car. Slowly, steadily,
Duncan backed out of the room. Until they reached the stairs, he almost did not
register that they had moved at all, but the pull of a hand against his side
directed him. How they made it to the car was always blurred by fear--that Mr.
Larkin would suddenly arrive--and by numbing emotions.

Duncan had left the car running for some reason, and the interior was warm
when they reached it. Julia still gripped to his clothing, and he found it
difficult to open the back door. Her one working eye squeezed tightly shut with
pain as he maneuvered her into a horizontal position across the seats but she
let go of him without saying a word. Stomach doing flip-flops, Duncan secured
her as best he could then got into the driver's seat. Only the knowledge that
if they sped too fast there was a great possibility of more injury kept him from
pushing the pedal to the floor in an effort to make the hospital before he had
started.

-----

This early on a bitter cold Saturday morning, very few people were out to
note Duncan racing along the city streets. A wizened old man, wearing a full
suit of dark gray and orange flannel, hunkered along the curb with his large
black garbage bag and stick. He shuffled away from the road at seeing a fast
moving black car heading toward him, but would not recall anything more about
the incident. Inside the car, Duncan chewed himself up one side and down the
other. How on earth could he have not seen? That Julia had not only given him
no reason to suspect but had tried to cover up the evidence was no excuse. He
should have noticed. Should have's wove through his thoughts as they sped
faster than the car in which he was seated.

"Julia, are you alright back there? Julia?" Duncan called back every
thirty seconds or so. If she answered, even with a hard to discern whisper, he
kept his eyes to the road. If she did not, he would peer over the seat until he
could see her head nodding.

He barely hesitated at the only stop sign on the way, hardly looked left
or right at intersections. The hospital was only a few minutes away by any
route, and as Duncan pulled up in front of it, somebody must have noticed. Two
people came running out, both clothed in thin pink nurse's garb. They took the
still quiet Julia from the back of the car, and helped her inside. Duncan stood
beside the car for a minute to collect his wits, then followed them.

-----

"And you didn't have a clue?" Dawson pulled at his beard, following the
immortal's restless pacing with his eyes. Just seeing Duncan like this
solidified his current theory. The hospital halls were still and quiet, the
artificial lighting soft on the padded chairs and couches. Stacks of old
magazines and newspapers littered the table in front of him, some ten or more
years old. He waited for a few minutes before clearing his throat. "Mac?"

"I should have, Joe. I should have known, but I didn't. I don't know how
I could've been so blind. Sure I know she didn't exactly publicize it, but I
should have realized what was going on the day her mother was murdered. I never
imagined that her own father... I just couldn't see it in front of my own face.
I'm going to kill him, I'm going to do worse to him than he did to her. He'll
regret ever laying a hand on her..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa Mac, slow down. You're immortal, not infallible."
Despite knowing how much Julia meant to Duncan, Joe was still surprised at the
savage tone in his friend's voice. He meant every word he said. "You couldn't
have known that her father was..."

"But I should have!" Duncan stopped pacing back and forth to stare solidly
into his face. Joe swallowed, noting that the warm, friendly, vividly chocolate
brown eyes were cold with anger. "I think I was trying, trying not to look into
the shadows." Duncan resumed pacing across the patterned carpet. "What did you
find out about him?"

Joe pulled a slim, moss green folder from underneath his jacket. It was
of the sort that could be bought in any office supply store, and there were no
symbols or markings of any kind on it to suggest that it might contain official
Watcher files. He handed it to MacLeod, who stopped only long enough to peer
inside.

"Christopher Larkin joined us almost twenty-four years ago." Dawson
didn't even have to glance at the files to rattle off the details of the man's
life. "At the time, he was a college professor specializing in ancient and
extinct languages. One night he happened across two immortals fighting each
other in an abandoned playground near Minneapolis. After the fight was over,
one of our guys recruited him on the spot." He paused, making sure once again
that they weren't in view of any surveillance cameras.

"Anyway, the Watchers are an old group. The higher ups decided that
Larkin could do us the most good by using the talents he already had. They put
him in charge of translating some of the older chronicles which were getting to
be unreadable."

Duncan still paced restlessly, but his speed was beginning to slow
slightly as he listened. Joe took that as a good sign and continued.

"About twenty years ago, Larkin moved here with his new wife, Stephanie.
She had already made a small fortune in the computer industry, mostly serving
the overseas governments. They haven't moved since then."

Joe took a yellowed and creased newspaper clipping from his pocket and
opened it carefully.

"Eighteen years ago, a baby girl was found next to the shore of the
Mississippi River. Two hikers happened across her as they left their winter
cabin. They took her to the hospital, and called the police, but nobody ever
found her parents."

A snort came from Duncan's direction, and Joe looked up. He had stopped
pacing momentarily, and there was a look of concentration on his face. Mac
nodded, and he went on.

"As you can guess, she was put up for adoption after just a couple of
months. The Larkins got her and named her Julia." Joe put down the scrap of
paper and shifted around in the chair. "There's not much on him for the next
twelve or so years. He turned in his work regularly, and there weren't any
problems recorded. Two years ago, however, something happened. His work came
in garbled and rushed, and he seemed to think someone was after him. We took
this seriously, of course, being a Watcher isn't the safest profession in the
world. Nothing was found, and his work was deteriorating, so we-they-ordered a
complete mental evaluation. He was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and
immediately pulled off any project which could be traced back to us."

The look that Duncan focused on him made Joe nervous. He scratched at the
back of his neck under the intense stare and decided to end his explanation as
quickly as possible.

"A couple of months ago, his medical insurance forms indicate that he
stopped buying the drugs to control it. He hasn't turned in anything of any
value in almost half a year, and refused to see a psychiatrist. You could say
he sort of-slipped through the cracks."

"Slipped through the cracks?! Slipped through the cracks?!?!" Duncan
lowered his voice at Joe's insistent gesturing and hissing. "Slipped through
the cracks is a misplaced file, or a Watcher not heard from in a while. He
killed his wife, Joe, and just about killed Julia. It's probably my fault too.
He didn't kill his wife until after he saw me, me." Duncan jabbed at his chest
to emphasize the point. "If he was just a translator, how could he know what I
looked like?"

Dawson grimaced slightly, refusing to look his friend full in the face
again. He could just imagine the expression that he would receive as soon as he
answered.

"You're, not exactly the worst looking of people, MacLeod. Of course,
sometimes pictures get into circulation... Most of the Watchers I know could
identify you by sight alone. If he knew your name, he probably just snapped..."

He was saved by an unexpected source. Before Joe had time to look up, a
woman entered the small waiting room and headed for MacLeod. She seemed to be
about forty-five years old, her hair a chestnut brown liberally peppered with
gray, her face relatively unlined. A stethoscope hung around her neck and a
diamond band sparkled on her left ring finger, as Joe noticed.

"Duncan MacLeod?" she queried, looking between them. Duncan quickly hid
the folder beneath his jacket, turned to face her, and took her hand in a firm
shake as she held it out. "My name is Dr. Brooks. You brought Julia in this
morning?" When he nodded, she went on. "She's awake and talking, and she'll be
alright in time. She's one awfully strong young woman. You're her boss?"

"Yes," Duncan said. "You're sure she'll be okay?"

"The beating and subsequent loss of blood, coupled with a night spent in
an unheated building, could have killed her," Dr. Brooks nodded gravely. "But
she's a real fighter, and you came along in time. The police will probably want
to ask you some questions later, but for now you're free if you have time.
Normally we only allow family to visit so soon, but she mentioned you, Mr.
MacLeod."

By now, all three of them had started to walk along the hallway, and Joe
blinked as they passed what seemed to be the only row of windows on this floor.
A gloomy dusk had already settled over the town, dusty rose and purple tinged
the sky. Wispy clouds hung on the horizon, but weren't heavy enough to threaten
snow again. They stopped just outside of a partially opened door. Joe could
barely make out a human form lying on a typical hospital bed and the sound of
the heating vents.

"Miss Larkin?" Dr. Brooks pushed the door open a little more, and stuck
her head inside. "Do you feel up to a visitor? Duncan MacLeod is here to see
you."

"I'm alright doctor, thank you. Mr. Dawson can come in too, if he wants."
Joe noticed that her voice was just about as he remembered it. He stepped back
as Dr. Brooks stepped forward to open the door, then waved them in.

"I'll be right around the corner Mr. MacLeod, Mr. Dawson. Don't stay too
long, she's still very tired, no matter what she says." The woman nodded to
both of them and quickly made her way through a double set of doors at the other
end of the hallway.

Duncan preceded him into the room, so Joe's second extended glimpse of
Julia Larkin came as a shock, even knowing why Mac had brought her in. She lay
on her stomach with her arms and legs wrapped around a soft, white body pillow.
Her head rested on another two normal pillows. The blood had been cleaned off,
but the damage was clearly visible. One eye was nearly swollen shut, ugly blues
and purples standing out, throbbing, shiny. Her lower lip had been split wide
open, leaving a wide, vivid crimson streak across the pale flesh. Cuts and
bruises, some with obvious knuckle marks, showed on her head and arms. His eyes
wandered to her back, and he noticed that her gown was undone nearly to her
hips. Layers of white gauze, held loosely on by surgical tape, covered most of
the open space. From what Mac had told him over the phone that morning, he knew
that the doctors had found flesh beaten raw by a belt and whip or braided cord.

"Hey there, Julia," Duncan moved instantly to her side and reached for the
nearest hand. She smiled tiredly, and let him support the limb entirely. He
could feel that the incredible character usually present in her hands was
lacking. "How're you feeling?"

"Better. Actually, I can't feel much at the moment. They pumped me full
of drugs..." Julia expanded the word to give an impression of exactly how all-
encompassing the relief was. They must have affected her more than she let on,
as this was the most talkative Duncan had seen her. "Hello Mr. Dawson," she
added with her one fully functional eye on Joe.

Duncan turned to see Dawson's reaction. The Watcher appeared to be still
disturbed by Julia's condition. He could understand. Much like watching loved
ones die off, seeing something like this never got any easier. That Julia
seemed to be better able to ignore her own injuries than either himself or Joe
could was no help at all.

"Hello Julia," Dawson nodded, hanging back from her bed. "I think I'd
better stay back. I seem to be a bad luck charm. Every time I meet you
something terrible happens."

Julia grinned, closing her eye. She moved slowly, apparently trying not
to crease any bruised or torn skin. "That's okay Mr. Dawson. You didn't do it.
In fact, you're more of a good luck charm. Every time I meet you, I know the
worst is over with."

-----

Duncan took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The road was slippery
in the shade of the naked lilac bushes, and the car had a tendency to list to
the left whenever he gave it the chance. The sky had cleared considerably, so
instead of snow, biting cold covered the countryside. Clear as tiny pricks in
an inky black night, the stars showed more numerous than was ever visible in the
city. The moon hung high above the hills, fat and round but its watery light
giving no warmth. It was the sort of night when one wished to be at home with
one's family, sitting in front of the fireplace, sipping hot cocoa and laughing
over a board game.

As soon as he pulled up next to the house, Duncan knew someone was there.
The buzz tingled his senses and, tired as he was, the fine hairs stood up on the
back of his neck. Should someone be hunting him, he'd be hard pressed to hold
his own. Duncan half-contemplated turning the car around and making a run for
it, but if he had already felt the other immortal, then he had already felt him.
The motion-sensor lights over the front porch turned on at his approach, and he
could see no one in the wide circle illuminated by them. Every sense carefully
attuned to watch for any approach, Duncan pulled out his sword and stepped from
the car. No one appeared.

By now, Duncan thought that either, one, he would be attacked as soon as
he tried to enter the house, or, two, someone with a long lifeline had needed a
place to crash. His third thought was as to how much beer he had in the
refrigerator.

The door gave easily at his touch, eerily reminiscent of that morning.
There didn't seem to be any lights on in the house, but the warm flickering of
the fireplace steered him in that direction. The first room he passed through
was the kitchen, large as was typical of this style of farmhouse. An enormous,
heavy table sat in the middle of it. He expected whomever it was to show up at
any second, and indeed, as he peered through the open doorway into the living
room, she smiled up at him.

"Amanda," Duncan let out on a long breath, letting his grip relax on the
katana.

"A little tense are we Duncan?" Amanda smiled again, rearranging herself
on the couch to show a little more thigh. She was dressed in what can best be
described as a creatively shaped scrap of black lace held on by equally flimsy
black ribbons, so such took very little effort.

"I've had a bad day Amanda. What are you doing here?" Duncan replaced
his sword underneath his duster, but stood in the doorway rather than advancing.

"Why Duncan, I thought you'd be happy to see me," Amanda pouted, running a
delightfully tempting finger up along her sinuous leg. She'd give him a moment
to let the impression sink in.

"I wasn't expecting anyone, Amanda. And I wasn't kidding when I said I
had a bad day." Duncan felt the knot of tension in his belly begin to work
itself out. The fire that Amanda had laid was wonderfully warm and cast a soft
glow throughout the room. She did look remarkably inviting, draped gracefully
across the wide couch. "I see you've made yourself at home."

Amanda furrowed her brow slightly. She couldn't see Duncan clearly in the
dim light, so his expressions were hard to read. Damn, she had put a lot of
thought into giving him a nice surprise, and he was being totally unresponsive.
Slowly, she rose from the couch and moved across the carpet. "Now come on
Duncan, you can tell Amanda all about your day." She wrapped her arms around
his neck and started to kiss his ear and jaw.

"Alright..." Duncan began, allowing her to wrap herself around him and
stopping whenever she concentrated on his lips, which was often. "I woke up
before dawn this morning, cut myself shaving, took a half hour to start my car,
drove over a rosebush on the way to work, rescued a girl who had been beaten
nearly to death from her freezing cold home, got Dawson to break the other half
of his Watcher rules, gave a statement to the police, remembered exactly how
much I despise hospitals, haven't eaten at all, and I still need to take care of
the horses before I take care of you."

"Mmmm, MacLeod, you certainly do know how to spoil a girl's mood," Amanda
was intrigued, however, instead of irritated. She nuzzled against his warm
chest. "Beaten to death? You'll have to give me the expanded version later."

Duncan brushed her short, black hair, gently pushing back the soft strands
with his hand. He smiled warmly, glad for once that she had arrived and not
really caring what she wanted this time, though he realized that he would
probably regret that later. After a long-drawn out caress to the back of her
neck and shoulders, Duncan stepped reluctantly away.

"I'll be right back, I promise," Duncan said, heading for the back door.
He wrapped his coat tightly about himself as a blast of frigid air took away any
heat he had gathered previously. The night was still perfectly clear, the moon
casting stark shadows between the trees and woodpile. Even before he reached
the barn, glad for its steady electrical lighting, he had listed all the things
he would need to do to take a couple of days off of work. There were phone
calls to make, people to talk to... As he entered the barn, Duncan was struck by
an odd sense of something not being exactly as it should be. One of the horses
whinnied shrilly as freezing wind crept into the warmth, and he shut the door
behind him. With the methodical work occupying his hands and thoughts of Amanda
lingering in his mind, Duncan soon forgot all about it.

-----

"So you're telling me her father is an insane Watcher who killed his wife,
tried to kill her, and he only did it because he saw you?" Amanda reduced the
explanations of nearly two hours down to a single compound sentence for Duncan
to sigh over.

"That's about it," Duncan nodded, then took a long swallow of orange
juice. He pushed the unevenly cooked scrambled eggs around his plate with his
fork as he waited for her to continue.

"And not only that, but she's a pre-immortal, Dawson knows she's a pre-
immortal, and she's about the only one who doesn't know she's a pre-immortal?"
Amanda elucidated right on cue.

"That's right," he nodded again, pausing to bite down on a piece of toast
spread with melted butter and strawberry jam. "And nobody's going to tell her
either, now are you?"

"Duncan, I've never even met this Julia girl. You, however, certainly
seem to have taken a liking to her." Amanda chose her words carefully, having
realized that her position, at least, was not in jeopardy. If MacLeod wanted to
take in another student, that was his prerogative, but he didn't have to sound
like..like he did.

"She's a very unusual young woman, Amanda. You, however, have nothing to
worry about." Duncan smiled, hearing the jealousy lurking in Amanda's tone. He
leaned across the table to kiss her deeply. Sweet, syrupy strawberry greeted
his questing lips, which parted to suck hers. She pressed back, leaning into
the kiss and bringing her hand around to stroke the base of his neck.

Slowly, Duncan rose from his chair, bringing his own hands into play. He
was warm, her skin was so soft, and he had had just enough breakfast to attempt
a repeat of last night. Amanda had apparently decided that the table would
ideally suit their purposes, as she started to sweep the plates and silverware
out of the way, never untangling her lips from his. Unfortunately, she had
forgotten that the meal was not quite finished. A glass of orange juice,
chilled, tumbled sideways at her touch to spread its contents across the table
and, more directly, over the front of his pants. That was enough to bring him
back to reality with a snap and a jump.

"Aw damn, I'm sorry MacLeod. Here, let me help," Amanda grimaced,
feeling her cheeks burn with a sudden blush. How could she have been so clumsy?
She jumped over to the sink and wet a washcloth, then turned back. Duncan was
standing in the exact same spot, the cold wet spreading from his crotch to his
ankles. A small puddle of juice had gathered around his bare feet. Kneeling,
Amanda began to dab off the mess.

Without warning, the telephone rang. Both immortals glanced in its
direction. Duncan, being not only closer of the two but also not wanting to
stand in the same place any longer, hurried to answer it. Amanda stood up,
wandering back over to the sink and depositing the sticky rag across the
partition. She leaned against the counter, listening to the decidedly one ended
conversation.

"Hello?"

"Really? How'd you get them to tell you that?"

"At least he won't be coming back for her."

"Thanks for calling Joe."

"Dawson?" Amanda twined her fingers about Duncan's as he reached her, and
walked in step with him as he began to head out of the kitchen.

"Larkin's skipped the country. The police found evidence that he boarded
the first plane out of here yesterday morning. His pictures are on the
surveillance cameras, his car is still in the parking lot, and the airline has a
'Mr. Cory Laken' registered on that flight. It landed in El Salvador yesterday
afternoon. He should be behind bars very, very soon," Duncan explained, still
walking. "You know, I think I could use a long shower."

Amanda smiled, brushing up the full length against him. The man was
positively electric, and she could feel the tension which had refused to allow
him to move without inhibition melting away. "I think I can help you with that
too," she said, closing the door behind them as they stepped into the bathroom.

-----

Julia let her pillow fall to the couch without a sound. She slid beside
it with a shiver, and wrapped her heavy sweater more tightly about her
shoulders. Two weeks since the beating, the night before Christmas, and she was
alone. Her entire back was incredibly stiff, terribly sore, and extraordinarily
tender. Once her body had gotten over the shock, it was healing more quickly
then the doctors had ever hoped.

A tiny Christmas tree, fake lights blinking on and off in an obscene
attempt to cast some holiday spirit, sat on a table in the opposite corner of
the room. There was only one present underneath it, from Duncan--no, Mr.
MacLeod, she automatically corrected herself. She remembered how disappointed
he had seemed when she declined his invitation to spend Christmas at his house.
She had wanted to, a great deal. A chill wind beat steadily against the house,
and the silence left over was too creepy to continue reading, as she would have
liked to have done. She needed something which would encourage no thought at
all. Julia tugged the soft blanket over her knees and clicked on the
television.

"The elephant's closest living relative is actually this small, furry..."

She wasn't really in the mood for a nature program. *click*

"..this new age-defying makeup.."

Commercials, how much she hated commercials, especially annoying ones.
The model was holding up a bottle of beige colored liquid and a bunch of little
black-haired children holding wreaths and tinsel danced around her. There was
something about the combination that reminded her of the woman she had seen with
Mr. MacLeod. They had only met briefly, and only for introductions. *click*

"We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a mer--"

*click*

"Stocks down for the eighth week in a row. Economists predict the market
should pick up in another week or two, but for some, the damage has already been
done. Stay tuned to hear their stories....With this new age-defying--"

*click* Amanda, that was her name. Julia, despite the amount of pain she
had been in, could remember clearly every bit of her meeting with the woman.
Short black hair, coupled with a stunning countenance a clear, nearly unaccented
use of the English language, had marked her as not coming from anywhere near.
Julia would have been able to recognize and remember a person like Amanda from
even a single previous encounter.

This time the channel did not immediately blast with sound. A typical
high school classroom, a group of teenagers half-comprehending the French
language, some grungy boy deciding whether or not he could use the higher
centers of his brain--Julia was half-poised to turn it again when one of them, a
girl, started balancing a pencil, on its point, and grinding it into desk, all
without a touch. A creepy movie was just what she needed. It would only
complete the sensation that Halloween and Christmas had been interchanged.

Julia felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck and a small shiver of
cold go down her back. Slowly, she turned the volume of the television down to
below audible level. She could not quite remember why she had done so, until
she heard it again. It came, a small scratching at the window at the far end of
the room. There was a large tree just outside that one, but Julia could not
remember it ever making a sound like that. She waited a moment, and a gust of
wind rattled the house.

She took in a deep breath, and drew another blanket up around her neck and
shoulders. 'It's only the wind, it's only the wind,' Julia reassured herself
silently. The combination of the movie, the otherwise eerie silence, and her
own, admittedly overused, sense of imagination were playing tricks on the
remaining logical portions of her mind.

Turning up the volume again, Julia settled herself further into the
blankets, pillows, and couch cushions. With the flickering of the Christmas
tree lights, and the flickering of the television screen, she willed herself to
withstand another long night, alone.

-----

Joe roughly kicked aside the old cardboard box containing battered
Christmas decorations. None of them were breakable anyway, the most expensive
ones being only plastic. Jason, one of his more experienced employees, was
still in the back room, making phone calls probably, but he was the only one
present. A few days after Christmas, he didn't expect many people to be there.
Everyone who could and would was away with their families. He had decided to
make the best of a bad day by taking down all of the old ornaments from the
windows and walls. Nobody had really noticed them.

It was still chilly outside, but to add insult to injury, the sun was
shining down in golden rays on the piercingly white layer of snow. Nearly two-
and-a-half feet of the stuff covered the ground, making travel treacherous but
providing a perfect picture-postcard view.

"You'd think they'd come up with a holiday meant just for lonely old guys,
if only to sell more greeting cards," Dawson mumbled to himself, pushing the box
further ahead and reaching up to remove a string of fat, white Christmas lights.

"Well hello to you too Joe," an all too familiar voice sounded just behind
Dawson's head, startling him enough to drop the end of the string of lights.

"Methos," Joe shook his head, his hand over his chest as he turned to face
the ancient immortal. "I swear one day you're going to give me a heart attack,
sneaking up on me like that without a sound."

"You know I'd never do that Joe, not intentionally at least," Methos
offered, stepping backwards and away. He looked up, surveying the entire bar
with one sweeping glance. It was obvious that Joe had put a lot of work into
it, or at least it would have been to anyone who had seen the bar before his
ownership. "Nice place you've got here, though I rather prefer something in a
more agreeable climate."

"Yeah, well, thanks." Dawson answered gruffly, just getting over the
surprise. "It wasn't exactly my first choice of locale, but MacLeod seems to
enjoy it. You want something?" he asked, reaching for his cane and heading for
the one of the nearby tables.

"Strange as it may seem Joe, no, not really. Not even -I- drink every day
at ten o' clock in the morning," Methos smiled, wondering what exactly he had
missed over the past months to receive a reaction like this one. Couldn't a guy
just show up one day, out of the blue, without having any particular reason for
either leaving or returning? It wasn't exactly as if he hadn't done it before.

"Suit yourself," Joe grumbled, dropping stiffly into a chair. It was
probably just a combination of the cold and a lack of sleep lately, but he
wasn't really feeling his best.

"Say, Joe, you wouldn't happen to know where MacLeod is, would you?"
Methos asked, his face a careful blank. Far be it for him to annoy Dawson if
the man was in a bad mood, and everyone is entitled to their days, but he wasn't
going to hang out in his company if that was the case. "I thought I'd just
spread the good cheer."

Joe grimaced, rubbing his hand over his forehead. He realized how harsh
he must sound, and Methos hadn't done anything to him, lately.

"Hey, I'm sorry Meth--Adam," Dawson started to apologize, and hastily
altered what he was going to say when he heard Jason step into the room. "I
guess I just didn't expect to see you. How was New Zealand?"

"Wonderful this time of year," Methos smiled, putting his hands in his
coat pockets and casually picking his way through the chairs. He noticed a
young man, probably in his late twenties, hanging out near the back of the room.
He had combed back, greasy, blonde-streaked hair, three earrings in one ear and
one in the other, and a large, black-blue tattoo appeared to cover half of his
neck up to the hairline--other than that, he seemed fairly normal. He was also
well beyond hearing range. "Though Auckland is a nice place to be most days.
It's rather under appreciated, considering all of those excellent beaches."

Jason got what he was searching for, a pen and large wad of yellow and
blue papers, apparently, then wandered again into the back room with a glance
between Joe and Methos. Joe let out the breath that he had been holding and
ventured a peek in his employee's direction. When Jason did not appear again,
he stood.

"Are you actually looking for MacLeod?" Dawson asked, leaning heavily
against the table until he got his balance. "I've actually been thinking about
paying a visit myself."

Methos nodded absently, though he had no particular desire to see Duncan
immediately after his arrival, he had yet even to find a hotel in this tiny
scrap of a town, Dawson seemed to be anxious to leave.

"I'd better go with you then, navigate. Only about half of the roads
around here get plowed regularly, if we're lucky. Planning on staying awhile?"
Joe strode to the back of the store while he talked, his cane making dull,
hollow thuds against the floor.

"Actually, no," Methos answered quickly enough, but Dawson was already far
away enough from him that he would not have heard it anyway. He raised an
eyebrow inquisitively--perhaps it was just him, and he doubted that, but Joe was
certainly acting a bit strangely.

In the back room, Dawson hurried to where Jason was busily filing away an
enormous stack of papers--permits, order forms, and lists of things to do. What
Methos didn't know was that Jason was the biggest gossip within a three county
radius--the sooner they left the better. Joe could only imagine what would
happen if the boy started to pick up bits and pieces of his and Methos's
conversation.

"Hey Jason, think you could run the place tonight for me? I know it's
short notice, but Ariel will be here in a couple of hours, and Mark after
that..."

"No problem Joe," Jason leaned back in his chair, letting the old piece of
furniture tilt till the wood creaked noisily. Joe watched as he peered
suspiciously through the doorway and followed Methos's long, lanky form with
critical eyes. "An old friend of yours? Who is he?"

"Yeah," was all Dawson said before he grabbed his coat from the hook just
inside the door. He had enough time to glimpse a look of disbelief covering
Jason's features, then kept his pace fairly steady as he walked to where Methos
was waiting. If Jason didn't have so many redeeming features, mostly being that
he could get twice as much work done as any of his other employees, Joe would've
fired him months ago.

"Ready to go?" Joe asked hastily, heading for the door and glancing back
at Methos to be sure he was following.

"Whenever you are, Dawson," Methos shrugged, wondering if Joe was
suffering from some sort of mental deterioration. Oh well, he thought to
himself. What's a day or two or eight in the big scheme of things? He hurried
to catch up with the old Watcher, blinking his eyes against the change of light
as they emerged into the glistening, snow-covered world.

-----

Julia opened the refrigerator, shoving the door against the trash can
even when it would go no further. A wave of cold air, scented slightly with
moisture and old strawberries, greeted her hot, sweaty face. She knelt down,
pawed through the vegetable bin, searching for just one unspoiled apple. Fruit
after fruit she tossed in the trash. With a speculative sniff, Julia selected
one that looked relatively fresh. She sighed, adding 'fresh fruit: lots' to the
grocery list above her head. More than anything at the moment, she needed to go
shopping, but it was five o' clock and most of the stores were closed already.

She tossed the firm, faintly speckled apple between her hands as she
headed for the counter. Since the cutting board had already been cleaned and
the knife was handily in reach, all Julia had to do was wash and core the fruit
before dicing it into near non-existence. Being certain not to drop it, she
held the apple under the freezing cold water from the faucet. If all went well,
she might actually have a decent dinner tonight.

The scent emanating from the two covered pots on the stove was positively
mouth-watering. Julia had never had this particular dish nor made it, but the
description in the cookbook was promising. She flicked the dampness from the
skin of the apple before transferring it to the board. With one swift motion,
she inserted the small paring knife and began to remove the tough core. Usually
she could get it out without cutting into any of the seeds, and it worked just
as well today. That discarded, she quickly sliced through the crispy flesh.

Halves, quarters, eighths--she worked silently as usual. The light from
the overhead fixture was not nearly as bright as she liked it, Julia mused to
herself. In the split second of inattention, the knife jumped a tiny fraction
of an inch away from its intended destination, nicking the edge of her
forefinger.

'Mmmm,' Julia frowned, her hand jerking back instinctively at the pain.
She held up her finger to the light, turning it back and forth. A small amount
of blood oozed out of the cut, but it was small enough to heal itself in next to
no time. Embarrassed at such a clumsy mistake, she put her finger in her mouth
and sucked on it until the bleeding stopped altogether. As an afterthought, she
turned over the small pile of apple cubes for inspection. Thankfully, none of
the blood had gotten on them, not that it mattered anyway. Lifting the lid of
the nearer pot, she waited until the cloud of steam had risen before scraping
them inside.

Julia conscientiously rinsed the knife and board before placing them in
the dishwasher, then washed off the table. She set out a single plate, knife,
fork, and glass, each dish making a small, ringing sound in the silent house.
There was nothing more to do but wait.

Waiting is soon boring under any circumstances, and especially so when
there is no one to complain to about it. Julia sighed again, meandering into
the living room. The carpet was the same cream color as was on the staircase,
but the weave was much more springy. She ran her foot over it in a wide arch,
grinning at the bouncy feel. She remembered how she used to tumble across the
entire length of the room until she'd come to a small, giggling heap against the
opposite wall.

There wasn't much to see through the light curtains blocking each of the
windows. They didn't even flutter at her passing, a small weight in each corner
prevented that. Grimacing at the initial stiffness, Julia executed a series of
simple pirouettes with her arms to the sky. The doctors had continuously
emphasized how important it was to stretch the new and healing skin. In a few
more weeks, she should be able to resume all of her normal activities. She
snorted, having decided sometime around the age for five or six years that there
was no such thing as 'normal'.

Her exercises took longer than she must have realized, as before she knew
it, the buzzer went off on the stove. Julia smiled slightly, looking forward to
a good meal, then vegging out in front of the television again. She could
almost be glad for having Christmas vacation to heal. As was usual, most of the
community, those that could afford it anyway, had left for the holiday. The
town was probably less a third of its population. She could count on them not
returning for a couple of days more. It was better this way. There had been no
questioning beyond the police, and Mr. MacLeod, of course. She reached across
the stove to turn off the burners, as well as the annoying noise.

Quickly, Julia spooned the fluffy rice and herb mixture onto her plate and
topped it with a thick medley of sliced beef and apple cubes in a sweet sauce.
If this meal tasted half as good as it smelled, she could forget having
leftovers for tomorrow.

"You sure are a good cook, huh," Julia grinned to herself, bringing a
forkful to her mouth. Something stopped her just before taking a bite. She
couldn't quite identify why she had stopped, until the silence was shattered,
literally.

From the opposite side of the house, the sound of splintering glass and a
heavy thud, followed by several smaller bounces, caused a lump of absolute
terror to rise in her throat. Julia knocked over her chair, her dinner
clattered to the floor, and she all but tore the metal holder from the wall as
she grabbed her coat and bolted madly for the back door.

Julia could feel her heart racing faster than she ever remembered it to as
she ran around the side of the house. Once, rounding the corner, she nearly
slipped on a patch of invisible ice. Her car was in the driveway, not the
garage as her mother would have insisted. Keys, keys, keys, her mind raced as
she stood next to the locked door. She'd have a better chance running than
going back into the house. Thankfully, she had never gotten over the habit of
keeping them in her right pants pocket. There was no time to think, only to
act, and Julia heard the wheels squealing as she backed out of the driveway and
headed for the only safe place she could think of.

-----

"Well I guess none of us is going anywhere now," Dawson said, lifting up
the curtain of the kitchen window and peering into the solidly snow-filled
darkness. A shrill wind beat mercilessly against the glass, making it burning
cold to the touch. Duncan brushed snow from his hair and coat, then the load of
wood he had brought in just moments before.

"Really? How long do you think it'll last?" Amanda couldn't and didn't
want to restrain her curiosity. She pushed next to Joe, pulling aside the other
half of the curtain. Surely enough, one could not see more than a foot outside.

"Probably until it blows itself out," Methos quipped. "Which means I'm
stuck here until it does, unless I want to freeze to death in my truck.
Though," he added, leaning back in his chair. "Freezing to death isn't a bad
way to go. It's almost like falling asleep, only a little more unpleasant."

"When did you freeze to death?" Dawson asked, turning away from the window
to satisfy his Watcher curiosity.

"No one's going to freeze to death," Duncan chattered through his teeth at
the same time, though even the few moments he had spent outside were enough to
thoroughly chill. Quickly, he set aside his snow covered coat and took the
nearest seat. "And there's more than enough space if you two have to spend the
night. There's the guest room, and the couch folds--"

"It's a long story Dawson, a very, very long story. In fact," Methos
stood up, peering out of Amanda's side of the window. He truly didn't fancy
going out into that weather. Five thousand years still couldn't suppress sheer
human instinct and unless given a reason to do otherwise, he preferred to follow
it. "It could take all night."

Amanda rolled her eyes expressively. Something about a night spent
listening to Methos's tales of the ancient past roiled her stomach at the
moment. The past few hours had been all right, when she had known that Joe and
Methos would be leaving at any time. She, however, didn't fancy them staying
for very much longer. Slowly, Amanda worked her way to the other side of the
table and wrapped her arms around Duncan's warm shoulders. His hair was still
slightly damp from the melting snow and she put her cheek against it. She felt
it when he raised his head slightly and his shoulders tensed.

One by one, but not more than a moment apart, first Duncan, the nearest,
then Amanda and Methos looked up and toward the door. Each wore the expression
of searching, eyes scanning hurriedly back and forth, that Joe could identify
instantly when any of them sensed another Immortal.

"We're having company?" Dawson peered intently at each of his friends when
none of them moved from the table or said a word.

"Not exactly," Duncan answered, untangling himself from Amanda's arms. He
pushed back his chair and hurried for the front door in one swift motion.
Before anyone else could do anything, Duncan had flipped on the light and
stepped into the storm.

Joe and Methos both looked at Amanda as she stood in the doorway,
partially blocking the swirling snow. She looked at both of them and shrugged,
as unknowing as they. Within a minute, two dark figures could be seen moving
through the unquiet blackness, one most obviously the worse for wear. Between
the three still in the house, only Methos was completely unfamiliar with the
young girl who burst into the house supported by Duncan's firm grasp.

"Amanda, get some blankets from the closet upstairs, will you? Joe, could
you turn the burner back on?" Each complied instantly with Duncan's requests,
while Methos only watched. She couldn't be older than her mid-twenties, he
thought, though he suspected she was much younger than that. A long black
winter coat, the original color almost completely obscured by white, was wrapped
tightly about her small frame.

Duncan instantly removed Julia's snow-covered coat and hat, then her
gloves. The flesh of her fingers was red and stiff, which, as bad as it looked,
was far better than white and immobile. She could do little more than stand,
shivering in the middle of the floor. Slowly, she blinked her eyes open and
shut, unblurring her vision somewhat. A tall, lean looking man stood almost
directly in front of her, but Julia couldn't quite bring herself to ask who he
was. Not more than a moment later, Amanda returned with the warmest blankets
she could find and helped Duncan to wrap them around her; she, unable to resist,
was guided into a chair next to the living room fireplace.

"Okay, take it nice and easy and tell me why in God's name you were
wandering around outside in the middle of the night during a snowstorm. You
could have gotten lost, frozen to death." Duncan bit down on the side of his
tongue as the noticed Methos staring at him oddly. As an afterthought, he
forced the anger out of his tone and attempted to think rationally. "What
happened?"

"I.. I think I'm being followed," Julia said, still unable to believe that
she had actually made it. As soon as she said that, Amanda hurried into the
kitchen. The sound of multiple locks being fastened seemed to echo in time with
her core-deep shivers. "My dad's back."

"Why didn't you go to the police?" Duncan asked, and handed her the mug of
steaming hot tea that Dawson held out.

Julia shivered again, nearly spilling the steaming liquid but managing to
hold on long enough to raise it to her mouth. The first sip she almost didn't
feel, the second started to spread warmth from her throat to deep within her
gut. The sensation was sickening and comforting at the same time, and she
closed her eyes before speaking.

"I guess I wasn't really thinking clearly. I was just making myself some
dinner.. and I heard this noise," she explained, taking in a long breath to
steady herself. "It sounded like someone had thrown a rock through a window...
I heard the glass shatter, and something heavy hit the floor. Anyway," Julia
hunched her shoulders together. "I ran in the opposite direction as fast as I
could and I got in my car. I didn't even know where I was going to go, I just
knew I had to get away from there."

"It was just after I left that the snow started coming down heavy," Julia
continued, despite the fact that she could see everyone looking directly at her.
The queasiness in the pit of her stomach was increasing. "I could barely see
five feet in front of my car by the time I had reached the bookstore, but I
thought, if I could just make it here.."

"..I'd be safe." Julia took another drink of the tea. Her face was
thawing out, slowly, and she sniffed deeply once she felt her nose become
unblocked. "Out of nowhere, there were these lights behind me. I couldn't have
been going more than ten, maybe fifteen miles an hour--he hit me from the back
pretty hard and I skidded into the ditch at the beginning of the alley."

"I thought, maybe, I could just pull out of the ditch," she explained, her
voice catching a higher pitch as she pulled the blanket more closely about her
shoulders. "But the lights.. they came back. He hit me again, and again, and
then his car must have stalled or something because I couldn't hear the engine
anymore. I couldn't get my door open, so I crawled out of the other side, and I
ran, and I ran.. I ran and it was so cold and I couldn't see anything.."

Julia swallowed again. Hysteria would only make the situation worse, and
it had never been like her to allow emotions to leak out so freely. And there
was that one that kept looking at her. She couldn't think of his name. For a
moment, she thought she had caught his eyes, eyes far too old for his face, but
Duncan stood up, directly in front of her, and the connection was broken as
quickly as it had been established.

"You're safe now Julia. I'm just going to call the police and they'll
send someone out," Duncan spoke as much to reassure Julia as to assure himself
that this was actually happening. He strode out of the room, his footsteps
angrily heavy on the cold wooden floor. Though he knew it wasn't his fault,
truly, a tinge of guilt coated his thoughts--he simply knew he had to protect
her--and he wasn't doing a very good job at it. Pushing away from the wall,
Methos followed, his features kept under tight control.

"You know, much as I enjoy a good mystery, I don't like being part of
one," Methos shook his head and whispered, once he was certain that the girl
could neither see nor hear him. When in the room with her, he had the oddest
sensation that she could see right through him; it was uncomfortable to say the
least. "Willing to give my any explanations?"

"Not right now Methos," Duncan offered, picking up the telephone. Just
when he was about to dial, his finger paused above the numbers.

"Oh, please don't tell me the line's dead," Methos grimaced, watching as
MacLeod first froze, then placed the phone carefully back in its cradle.

When Duncan didn't answer, Methos leaned against the near wall, not more
than a step from the front door. "I could be wrong, here's what I have so far.
Her father, who's been gone for awhile but has tried to do it before, has come
back to kill her and you think you're going to stop him."

Duncan stared at his friend for a second, then nodded gravely. "She works
for me. A couple of months ago her father, a Watcher-" and he did not miss the
slight widening of Methos's eyes "-murdered her mother. A couple of weeks ago,
he nearly beat her to death, skipped the country, and apparently he's come back
to finish the job."

"Well, I'm guessing there's a lot more to that story, and I don't think I
want to know, to tell the truth," Methos sighed deeply, resigned. "But since
I'm stuck here, and she's here, would you at least tell me her full name?"

"Julia, Julia Ari-Anne Phyre Angelo Larkin," Duncan rattled off.

"Mmwhat?" Methos nearly laughed. It was a ridiculously long mouthful of a
name for such a little girl. "Julia Ari-Anne what?"

"Julia Ari-Anne Phyre Angelo Larkin," Duncan couldn't help but grin, even
though the situation was less than humorous. "When her parents adopted her,
they apparently couldn't decide what to name her." He shrugged expressively.
"So they just strung together whatever they thought up."

Methos shook his head in wonderment, and ran a hand along the back of his
neck. "And now he's trying to kill her? Does she know what she is? Does he?"

"No, she doesn't. She doesn't even know what we are, or what the Watchers
are, for that matter," Duncan explained. "From what Joe's told me, Christopher
Larkin is paranoid and extremely dangerous. My guess is that he's figured out
that she's a pre-immortal and, this time, he'll try to take her head."

"Well, little as I know about her, you obviously trust her," Methos
observed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Anything I can do to help?"

"You can take first watch," Duncan said, stepping toward the living room
and lowering his voice. "If he comes for her, it'll be tonight."

Methos paused for a long moment before following his friend. Much as he
wanted to help, he did not look forward to the rest of tonight, not in the least
bit.

-----

Julia rested her head against the back of the couch, her eyes closed but
her mind still refusing to give in to the much needed sleep which she so craved.
She had not been left alone once that night, though she hadn't felt safe except
when it had been Duncan's turn at watch. The unfamiliar man's name, she had
learned, was Pierce Adams, though if that was really the name he was born with
she'd never believe herself again. Slowly, she opened her eyes a fraction of an
inch to examine the room once again.

The fire had been allowed to die out, but the lamp in the far corner was
still casting a diffuse glow across the ceiling and floor. Deep shadows
gathered in corners and behind furniture, giving the imagination plenty of room
to invent all sorts of terrible ghouls and evil sprites. Still as everything
else, Dawson sat in the chair directly opposite her. He almost appeared to be
asleep, but she felt so rooted to her spot that nothing short of morning's light
would bring her to touch him. Though the curtains were open on the only window
she could see from this vantage, nothing was visible through it, only a dull
reflection.

Willing herself to trust in a safety she did not feel, Julia closed her
eyes once again and tried for sleep. Everything was so quiet, and then it was
not... A violent thump opened her eyes instantly, and she struggled against the
blankets which held her momentarily pinned to the couch. Dawson had slid to the
floor from the blow to the back of his head, unconscious.

"Duncan!! Duncan hel--!" she screamed, already off the couch and
attempting to run from terror in front of her eyes. The words were torn from
her mouth.

"Try that again and I'll kill you right here," Christopher Larkin snarled
viciously, grabbing his Julia by the throat and squeezing brutally. He growled
as sound erupted through the house, and caught her about the waist. Still
struggling for breath, she could not fight him as her father dragged her from
the house and into the cold night.

Duncan could not believe the sight that greeted him mere fractions of a
second after Julia's scream. Dawson was on the floor, snowy tracks lead to the
back door, and she was no where to be seen. He ran from the house and into the
night without waiting for Amanda or Methos, though he did notice later that they
were not moments behind him. He followed in the only direction Julia could have
been dragged, towards the woods--a trail of upset snow marked clearly their
path.

"Stop right there or I'll kill her, Highlander," the malicious male voice
which greeted Duncan's ears echoed frostily in the biting cold air. Despite
that, only Methos's hand on his shoulder kept him from charging forward the
moment he looked up.

The blinding snowstorm that had prevented Joe and Methos from leaving had
stopped, leaving the land bathed in severe blue-black shadows cast by the light
of an enormous moon hanging high above the horizon. Drifts in some places were
up to Duncan's thighs, making any movement difficult to impossible. Julia's
hands were held pinned behind her back, and snow reached to her waist. As the
three watched, unable to do anything, Christopher Larkin drew from underneath
his long coat an old calvary saber. Light glinted along the silver length, and
fine clouds of vapor showed distinctly near both his and Julia's mouths as he
placed it next to her throat.

"Let her go, Larkin," Duncan said, his words ringing with more command
than diplomacy. "It's not her you want, is it?" he said, taking a step forward
and holding out his arms.

"I'll have no Immortal whore for a daughter," Christopher snarled, and
drew his arm to slide the polished metal through flesh and bone.

He never got the chance to complete the maneuver.

Duncan and Methos rushed forward at the same time, Methos knocking the
deranged man yards away and into the drifts. It had not, however, come in time.
Feeling the grip on her wrists loosen, Julia had let her feet slip out from
under her body. Instead of beheading, the sword had grazed her chin and nose,
leaving a long bloody streak across her face. The force, coupled with the pull
of the icy snow, had spun her around to face her father for a long, horrifying
second before the man had howled with rage and shoved the sword deep within her
gut and up into the ribcage, into her heart. Gravity pulled her limp body to
the ground. The world was red, the world was black, the world was gone.

Methos dug the snow from around Christopher Larkin's still form, expecting
to be met with fists and flying kicks, some sort of struggle. The snowy face
that peered up at him, disgusting, was spread with a sadistic grin. It would be
the man's last expression, as, from some unseen pocket, he dug a foot-long
dagger and slit his own throat.

"Oh no, no, no, no," Duncan cried, reaching Julia's fallen body just as
her eyes closed. Amanda pulled the sword from the girl's abdomen and threw it
beyond the drifts, far away from them all. Numb, Duncan lifted Julia from the
snow and staggered towards the house. Methos reached the building before Duncan
did, and opened the door to allow the solemn procession to proceed. He waited
for Duncan to pass, then wiped the blood from his mouth and nose and followed.
Amanda entered last, her expression unforgiving, her lips pressed tightly
together, and her hands covered in blood.

Dawson had struggled to his feet in the time that they had been outside,
and was blinking his eyes and rubbing his forehead when they came back in.
"What's going on? What's happening..?" he asked, then quieted as his vision
cleared.

Gently, Duncan laid Julia's still body on the couch and arranged her limbs
so that they would not fall once she started moving again. As he turned, Dawson
could see the dazed expression on his friend's face, his shirt covered in
Julia's blood. Silently, first Methos, then Amanda, then Duncan stepped back.
Nobody said a word, nobody moved.

Minutes passed, each barely perceptible movement of the clock's hands
burning into Joe's eyes and mind. If only he had been able to do something, if
only he wouldn't have dozed off.. His head ached still from the blow.

So it was that Julia Larkin, surrounded by Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod, Amanda, Joe Dawson of the Watchers, and Methos, the most ancient of the
Immortals, began to stir, to move. She gasped, and sucked in her first breath,
as an Immortal.

The End