Seasons of Change

by Cameron Dial

Post "To Be/Not to Be": Changes in Methos' life have him contemplating leaving Paris. First of a three-part novel, continued in "Seasons of Rest."

Seasons of Change

by Cameron Dial

"Too late I stayed,--forgive the crime! Unheeded flew the hours--"

May 19, 1999

Restless and knowing it would be impossible to find parking even this close to midnight, Methos had taken the Metro to St. Germain des Pres for a late supper. Named for the two statues dominating the room, Aux Deux Magots had once seated the likes of Ernest Hemingway. The current generation preferred the restaurant's neighbor, Café Flore, where the astronomical prices usually included an opportunity to watch celebrities come and go. Methos preferred tourist-watching from an out of the way table under the green cloth canopy shading the square in fine weather and--whatever the weather--unobtrusive white aproned waiters who understood that a man might actually prefer to be left alone with the book he'd just purchased at the late night bookstore next door.
It wasn't hard to identify the source of his restlessness, of course. Earlier in the day he had been at Gibert Jeune, a large academic bookstore in Place St. Michel, when he'd turned automatically in response to a woman's alto voice calling his name.

"Adam? Adam Pierson?"
It had taken a moment to place her, mentally erasing the tracery of fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the more pronounced lines slanting downward from the corners of a mouth that had, at one time, been truly lovely. Twenty-three years ago they had spent the summer together in a blue and white cottage on Ile de Re, a small island in the Atlantic that the locals, at least, thought of as the French Nantucket. The affair had been casual enough, and they'd drifted apart after four or five months. Eventually, Raina Luce had become the newspaper columnist she had wanted to be. He had remained in Paris, even keeping his "Adam Pierson" persona, and in time he'd met Don Salzer, the man who'd recruited him into the Watchers and set him on the road that had one day led Duncan MacLeod to his door. The only difference was that Raina had aged in the last quarter of a century, and Methos, of course, had not.
"It is you, isn't it?" she'd asked in French-accented English, two lines of doubt creasing her forehead. Then, confused: "But it can't be--"
He'd murmured an apology, abandoning his intended purchases and left the store quickly, conscious of Raina's gaze the entire way. Half a block up he'd crossed the street and headed for Pont St. Michel.
Amy Thomas had caught up with him on the bridge, silently resting her arms on the railing and watching the tourist boats move up and down the river for a few minutes before asking, "Who was that woman?"
"No one," he'd said automatically, staring across at quai des Orfevres, partially concealed by the stand of trees along the river's edge, but Amy had her father's way of using silence to invite conversation. With a sigh he'd amended his statement, saying, "Just someone I knew a long time ago."
Twenty-three years. Not so long ago, really, when measured against the centuries and decades that were an Immortal's usual clock, but Amy Thomas had been a small child with scraped knees and scuffed Sunday shoes twenty-three years ago. God--they grew up so quickly and had so little time allotted them. More, she seemed distinctly attuned to his sudden depression, and charmingly determined to make him feel better.
"I'll let you buy me lunch," she'd said brightly, startling a laugh from him.
"You're the one with the steady paycheck these days," he'd reminded her, pretending poverty.
"All right," she'd said. "Then I'll buy you lunch."
They'd crossed the bridge to the islands, dodged tour guides and tourists alike at Notre Dame, and strolled across Pont St. Louis, winding up eventually at Au Gourmet de L'Ile, an inexpensive restaurant with good food and better neighbors. Dessert was Parisian ice cream from Berthillon, just across the street, served in wide-mouthed waffle cones and eaten in a comfortable silence as they walked together to Pont de la Tournelle, leaning together against the rail in the shade of the statue of St. Genevieve, Paris's patron saint.
"Why'd you quit the University?" she'd asked guilelessly, and he'd shrugged.
"I was bored."
She'd managed to get a bit of ice cream from the wide-mouthed cone on her right cheek, obscuring two of his favorite freckles, and he'd been abruptly and acutely aware that his first impulse was to kiss the ice cream away. Amazing, the effect that realization had on his body: He'd gone stock-still and his breath had stopped in his throat, his vision telescoping in close-up detail on the pink and red rosettes embroidered on the lacy front of her summer top. It was the palest apple green, like her matching wide-legged pants--bell bottoms that had first been popular before she'd been born, resurrected by fashion mongers in the last year or two for the fun of it. She'd said something, but he'd been so wrapped up in his own out-of-kilter sensation that he'd missed it, focused instead on the way the sun found the red in her short brown hair.
And exactly what would Joe Dawson make of that? Of all the people in the world to find himself attracted to--
Like a coward, he'd settled for wiping the ice cream away with his thumb, the fingers of his left hand splayed gently along the firm line of her jaw in a gesture so natural, so quickly over, that only he had been aware he was shaking as he touched her. She'd laughed, amused at her seeming inability to eat without needing to be cleaned up afterward, like a child in need of grown-up supervision. After a bit they'd caught the Metro to the Champs-Elysées and wandered through the art exhibits at the Grand Palais for a bit; when it had grown too warm under the glass ceiling, he'd suggested the Planetarium and they'd spent the afternoon staring up at the stars.

"Non--merci." Methos shook his head, simultaneously covering the mouth of his wine glass with his hand, forestalling the waiter's attempt to refill it. Smiling, Methos stood, leaving money on the table for his supper, adding more bills for a tip, and collected his lightweight trench coat from the back of his chair. The broadsword concealed in its folds made it impossible to carry it draped casually over his arm the way another man might on a summer evening, so he slipped it on out of habit, dropping the paperback book he'd bought into the deep pocket in the left front lining. He'd meant to head for the Metro and home, but once he was on his feet he felt like walking. There was no reason not to, after all, with no classes to teach the next day. With the end of the spring semester he'd tendered his resignation to the University, refusing the offer of a leave of absence instead, and become his own boss once more.
It felt good, knowing he had no obligations, no place he had to be any given day of the week. For all his griping and grumbling about "Adam Pierson's" money problems in the last half dozen years, his alter-ego's enforced poverty had disappeared once he'd graduated with two doctoral degrees and become a full-time employee of the University of Paris. At that point there'd been no reason to maintain the starving graduate student image any longer and he'd bought a house on Rue Boileau and traded in the secondhand Volvo for a new Range Rover. The truth was, he had no real concerns about money after five millennia of acquisitions and investments, and even if he had, Duncan MacLeod had taken care of the situation when he'd left Paris in November 1998. When he'd disappeared for the second time in as many years, the Scot had named "Adam Pierson" sole executor of his holdings and property both in Europe and the United States. There was a law firm that provided any assistance he required, but beyond that he had cart blanch to do whatever he pleased with MacLeod's considerable holdings, subject only to the Highlander's return and written revocation of the order--an event that did not appear to be in the offing any time soon.
Barely 500 yards south of the restaurant was Place St. Sulpice with its chestnut trees and, directly across the street, the grandiose church of the same name. He seemed to recall a brothel somewhere in the neighborhood--it had been closed for the last half century, although it had once serviced its upperclass clientele in the very shadow of the church, much to his amusement and the church's annoyance. In another month the Poetry Market would be open, too, with A-shaped wooden easels grouped around the enormous fountain in the square, displaying the poems of amateurs and professionals alike. He'd missed it last year, he recalled, since he'd been traveling. Maybe he could get Joe to walk through the square with him this year, he thought, especially if he promised him lunch on the terrace at La Petite Cour afterward.
The city was quieter as he left the cafes, jazz cellars and bistros behind. With more than seven million people in the metropolitan area, Paris never really slept, of course, though the retail stores had closed around seven, and most restaurants had shut down about ten o'clock--a few he knew would stay open until one or two in the morning, though heaven help you if you needed a late night chemist. As far as he knew, there was only one 24-hour drug store in the entire city, in Champs-Elysées. Fortunately, Immortals seldom needed emergency prescriptions filled. Most of the city's nightclubs were just getting started at midnight, of course, but the publishing houses and high class fashion stores scattered throughout this district were all locked up tight.
He really would hate to leave Paris, he realized, but he had begun to feel it was time. In fact, he'd spent part of the last two years preparing to do exactly that, setting up a new identity in anticipation of the need for one. Running into Raina Luce had merely made him face the inevitability he'd been avoiding for several years now. What was it Spencer said? "Too late I stayed,--forgive the crime! Unheeded flew the hours--" He'd been speaking of a love affair, which was at least apropos. In a way, Methos had been having a love affair with Paris for the last 30 years--too long for an Immortal to stay in one place without attracting attention or inciting unhealthy curiosity, especially an Immortal who'd let himself become entangled with the likes of Duncan MacLeod and company.
Ah, Duncan, what am I going to do with you?
He remembered the first time he'd met the man. Not surprisingly, it was Joe Dawson who'd brought them together, although quite unintentionally. Kalas had been cutting a wide swath through his fellow Immortals at the time, apparently hunting Duncan MacLeod. Once Kalas had stumbled upon the Watchers, however, he'd set his eyes on a different target: Methos himself, oldest of the old. Since Kalas was killing Watchers and Immortals alike in his search, Joe had asked MacLeod to keep an eye on Adam Pierson, the Watchers' chief Methos scholar at the time. What Joe hadn't known was that Adam Pierson and Methos were one and the same person. As soon as MacLeod had shown up on his doorstep, of course, he'd known "Adam Pierson" was an Immortal--that he'd also known instantly that he was Methos had been a bit of a surprise, though.
Methos had been concealing his identity for a thousand years before Duncan MacLeod had been born. The moment he'd heard his name from the Highlander's mouth, though, he'd made a decision every bit as intuitive as MacLeod's recognition of him. Well, all right, in truth nothing he did was purely intuitive; he'd spent far too many years analyzing, calculating and manipulating situations for that to be true anymore. Still, there'd been a moment when he'd simply known--he visualized it as a telescoping cup, hollow in its length, collapsing suddenly in on itself so it was nothing more than concentric circles, each designed to fit inside the other. In exactly the same way he had understood that he could, with absolute faith, trust Duncan MacLeod with his identity and his life. It was a faith he tried to repay in kind so far as he was able, although he and the Highlander had radically different ideas about things at times. What the hell--it made life interesting, anyway, even when the man took off and left Methos holding the bag.
Smiling, Methos slowed, finding himself opposite the Luxembourg Gardens. Duncan MacLeod had met Stephen Keane there a few years ago, and Methos remembered the momentary confusion he'd experienced when Amanda had come beating on his door in the middle of the night, insisting he talk to the Scot. In the first place, she'd awakened Methos from a sound sleep (never, in his experience, the best way to start a conversation), and in the second place he'd misheard the name and wondered what in the world an American horror writer could have against Duncan MacLeod.
Try forgiving yourself for once, he'd counseled MacLeod. Oh, he'd known it wouldn't work, of course, and he'd wound up shooting MacLeod in the back and taking on Keane himself--an expedient solution if not exactly the smartest thing he'd ever done. He'd had the man on his knees and was winding up for the killing stroke when MacLeod had stormed up, livid.
"You do, and I'm next!" he'd shouted. He'd meant it, too--he'd have taken Methos' head on the spot, killing a friend to save an enemy he himself planned to kill, all out of some convoluted logic marked honor in that thick skull of his. He'd have regretted it later, naturally, but Methos would still have been dead. Come to think of it, MacLeod had taken his advice that time . . .
About a mile from the restaurant now, he realized he'd reached the Zadkine Museum. The last time he'd been here was in 1996, shortly after he'd returned to Paris after Alexa's death. He remembered because the last thing in the world he'd wanted to do was go to a museum reopening, but he'd let MacLeod talk him into it anyway, knowing the Highlander meant well and wanted to divert him from the agony he'd been feeling. He'd known Alexa had family in Seacouver and he'd been getting gentle hints from Joe that the Bonds wanted her buried in the States; he'd known, too, that Alexa had said she'd prefer to be buried on the Greek island of Santorini, forever looking out over the sea. It was his own desperate need to be near her that had won out in the end, though, and he'd arranged to have her body shipped to Paris because he couldn't bear to have her so far away. He was the one who had needed help that time, and Mac had been there for him, never questioning his inability to let Alexa go, even in death. At least in part, he realized, it was that which had helped him to accept MacLeod's seeming inability to move beyond Richie Ryan's death. He stopped still, checking his own mental calendar. God, how ironic. It was May 19, 1999. Richie Ryan had died at MacLeod's hands on May 19, 1997. It was two years ago to the day.
He recalled the hour or so he and MacLeod had spent together at the Zadkine Museum as pleasant but uneventful. He'd wandered around the museum's gardens, not particularly impressed with the Russian-born sculptor's work. MacLeod, on the other hand, had spent most of the time in the vicinity of a piece called "The Return of the Prodigal Son." It had been easy enough to divine the source of Mac's interest in the piece, of course, though neither of them had said anything about it. It must have been about eight months, at that time, since they'd last seen Richie Ryan, and MacLeod had missed the young man more than he'd admitted, even then. And now? Now it was MacLeod who was the prodigal son and it was Methos who had an urge to see the statue again.
The blue and white sign on the gate informed him that the museum was closed on Mondays and listed a phone number to call for further information. Rather than bother anyone, Methos simply picked the lock on the gate and let himself in after making sure there was no alarm that would summon more company that he wanted at the moment. He eased the gate silently shut and moved around the corner of the house-turned-museum, toward the spot where he remembered the statue being displayed. Not a dozen steps inside, he realized he'd erred badly.
There was a sound of feet running across a sidewalk, followed by a scuffling in the underbrush. The short hairs on the back of his neck rose as a wash of Immortal presence hit him abruptly, signaling another of his kind had just come within sensing range. Prudence argued retreat even as instinct turned him toward the source of the presence, its tremolo ringing soundlessly in his ears. Simultaneously he realized he'd drawn his sword; half a second later two men in trench coats crashed into view around the corner of the building. In the first moment that he saw them he recognized the shorter of the two, but what really decided the issue was the long, narrow pipe in the man's hands, being used as a quarterstaff to ward off the sword the other carried.
Methos threw himself between the two without a word, driving them unexpectedly apart. Suddenly confronted with a new and better armed opponent, the taller of the two men raised his weapon in a defensive stance. Less than a meter away from his opponent, Methos struck once, a single backhanded swipe at full strength. The tip of his blade caught the other in the right shoulder and then cut downward across his body, knocking the man's sword from his grip. Encountering no more resistance, Methos' blade continued south, emerging somewhere just above the other's left hipbone in a semicircular cut. The man's mouth was open to scream, but Methos' blade swept up to shoulder level before he could make a sound. In a movement too fast to be seen clearly, Methos released his hold on the Ivanhoe's leather-wrapped handle, reversed his grip to a forehand while the sword seemed to wait for him, and caught the grip again before the sword could begin to fall. The follow through dropped the man to the ground, headless, where he'd stood just seconds before.
Nick Wolfe swallowed hard in a throat that had gone thick with fear and accepted the hand up Methos offered him. There was no Quickening.

Chapter Two

"Where the hell is Amanda?" Methos snapped.
"Amanda?" Nick repeated. Oh, of course. A new Immortal could hardly be allowed out on his own, could he? "We had a falling out," he said, willing to let the old man make of it what he would.
"A falling out." Methos just stood there, looking at him.
"Well . . . yeah." Unconsciously, Nick's chin came up.
"Picked a hell of a time for it, didn't you?"
Nick hadn't felt this stupid since he'd been a beat cop, called up in front of the watch commander's desk. Or maybe since high school, when the boys' vice principal had threatened him with expulsion. It occurred to him that Methos would have made a great high school principal. Recognizing the criticism as rhetorical, Nick didn't even try to fashion a response. At any rate, Methos didn't seem particularly interested in a reply. Instead he'd fished winter's leftover gloves out of one pocket of his coat and pulled them on before stooping to check the body for identification.
Of course, Nick thought. Can't have dead bodies wandering around with fingerprints on them, can we? In addition to checking for a wallet, he noticed, Methos took time to examine both of the dead man's forearms, quickly examining each wrist in what little light there was and letting each arm drop in turn.
"What?" Nick asked as Methos hesitated.
"A chain," Methos said, straightening with the object in his hand. A chain made of tiny linked beads, similar to the metal chains military personnel wore around their necks to carry their dog tags. If it hadn't been tucked inside the man's clothing, Methos' sword might well have caught it, and it would have been lost between the bushes and undergrowth in the yard. There was neither light nor time to examine it here and now, so Methos stashed it inside his front jeans pocket. "All right," Methos said. No identification and no tattoos. Interesting. "You can tell me about your falling out with Amanda later. Right now we have to get rid of the body. Give me a hand."
The body. Amazing how detached Methos sounded, as if bodies simply sprang up around him on a regular basis and had to be disposed of. Nick decided it was probably better not to pursue that particular avenue of thought. There was another thought, though, that was almost as interesting. He'd said "we." Well, of course the man expected him to help--he'd just saved Nick's life, hadn't he? And just like that Nick was about to become an accessory to . . . what? Murder? No--Methos had killed in Nick's defense and quite possibly in his own if you overlooked the fact that Methos didn't die. It was manslaughter at worst. Never mind the fact that he'd just killed a man without even blinking and said not a word about it since.
There was a box near the steps leading up to what had once been the kitchen of the house-turned-museum. Perhaps a yard square and a couple of feet deep with a slanting lid, it looked as if it had once been used to store wood chopped for the house's cooking stoves and fireplaces. A piece of wire had been looped through the hasp and twisted a time or two to secure the lid. Untwisting the wire, Methos opened the box. An axe lay on the bottom, but otherwise it was empty. "This'll do," he said.
As a police detective Nick had seen his share of dead bodies. He'd always been involved in the finding of them before, though, and had never actually considered that the Immortals he knew--Amanda included--must routinely dispose of dead bodies. After 5,000 years of routinely disposing of dead bodies, he supposed, even that act might grow commonplace. Methos' preparations to stash the body inside the wood box were so matter-of-fact it was absolutely macabre. That he so casually expected Nick to help was even more so.
"Now, Nick." Their eyes met across the corpse.
Yep--one hell of a school principal.
"Make sure you don't touch his shoes--fabric only, where you won't leave fingerprints."
Nick nodded. He'd been a street cop for six years and a detective for another four. He knew these things--his new situation just required thinking about them from a different perspective. It was all . . . backwards, somehow, like looking in a mirror that couldn't quite be trusted. Together they lifted the body inside the box.
Nick managed not to look when Methos stooped to retrieve the leaking head and shoved it in as well before closing the lid. "If you're thinking of throwing up, don't," Methos said.
"I've seen dead bodies before, Methos," Nick snapped.
"Yeah? Well with luck you can look forward to seeing a whole lot more of them." Methos lowered the hasp, twisting the wire to secure it again. "How'd you get in here, anyway?"
Here, Nick assumed, meant the garden. "Over the fence, that way," he said, pointing toward Boulevard Raspail. "I was at the cemetery--"
"Holy ground."
"Yeah," Nick said. "He forced me out--"
Methos nodded. "Go back over the ground and check the fence," he said. "Make sure you didn't tear your jacket and leave any fabric around, that kind of thing--"
"I'm not an idiot, Methos," Nick snapped. "I know what kind of thing to look for."
"Then do it." Methos turned his back on Nick and used his gloves to smudge and smear any surface Nick might have come in contact with. The box wasn't an ideal hiding place for a dead body but it would provide concealment for the little time they needed. In a day or two enough visitors would have been through the museum's gardens to make any footprints they'd left useless to the police. The chain was interesting--
Nick was back, nodding curtly and asking, "What about the blood?"
Methos shrugged. There were some things you just couldn't do anything about. "Pray for rain," he said.
"Or the sprinklers," Nick said, and Methos shot him a look in the dark. Nick's voice was calm enough, but the words themselves had just a suggestion of hysteria to them. Now was not a time he wanted Nick going into shock.
"Here," Methos said, handing him the dead man's saber. "You'll be needing this."
Swallowing, Nick gripped the sword handle. It reminded him, and he looked at Methos in the dark. "I thought you guys had a rule against interfering once a battle's engaged," he said.
"What?" Methos asked. "You'd rather I hadn't?"
The silence stretched out and Nick was glad there wasn't enough light to reveal his furious blush.
After a moment Methos relented. "You're forbidden to interfere in a battle between two Immortals, yes," he clarified. He prodded the length of metal pipe Nick had dropped on the ground, rolling it with his foot. "Of course, that assumes both Immortals are using swords, or are at least equally armed . . . an axe and a sword, for instance. There's nothing in the Rules that says you can't interfere in a confrontation between a mortal and an Immortal, though. In fact, some Immortals feel morally obligated to do so, at least until they've sorted out who the players are." He smiled, adding, "Of course, it's usually the mortal who needs rescuing. And speaking of which, just in case you haven't noticed, you happen to be one of us guys now."
"Yeah, I know." Being pursued for no good reason through Paris' midnight streets by a mortal assailant with a sword had been bad enough. The psychic blow of unexpectedly and abruptly stumbling into sensing range of an Immortal had almost made him wet his pants. Not that he'd ever admit that to Methos. "My car's on Froidevaux," was all he said, his mouth dry.
"Good," Methos said. "I think I've walked enough tonight." As he spoke, Methos tucked his broadsword away in the hidden sheath inside his coat. "Nick."
Nick looked at him.
"The pipe."
Damn. Of course the pipe he'd grabbed to defend himself would be covered with his palm and fingerprints. Wordlessly, Nick picked it up. Between it and the dead man's sword Nick felt encumbered to say the least.
In fact, Methos had several loops of leather sewn into his coat to accommodate a second or even a third sword, but he wasn't inclined to tell Nick that at the moment. It should be very instructive for Wolfe to feel his enemy's sword in his hand for a bit and deal with the fact that it was his now. Very instructive indeed.
They cut south and west in silence, past the brightly lit La Coupole brasserie with its glass front and then struck south through Montparnasse on foot. Holy ground, Nick thought. For all the good it had done him.
"I'd cover that with something if I were you," Methos observed casually as Nick started to toss both the pipe and saber into the backseat of his SUV. Mildly annoyed, Nick supposed he was right nonetheless--if nothing else he didn't want them in plain sight in the unlikely case that they were stopped, and the prospect of the sword cutting though his upholstery didn't appeal, either. He suppressed a grumble as he found a stained towel in the back and rolled sword and pipe together in its length before laying them in the floorboard.
They were on their way to Methos' apartment on Rue Boileau in the sixteenth arrondissement before Methos spoke again. "So tell me about Amanda."
Amanda. That meant telling him about Janet and Tom Ross, not to mention Immortal Evan Peyton's computer fraud racket. Peyton had warned Amanda to stay out of his business and then made his point by leaving Nick choking in a cloud of poisonous gas and less than 24 hours to live. Nick and Amanda had intercepted Peyton's payoff only to have him kidnap Janet in retaliation. They'd arranged a swap--Janet and the antidote for the money--only to have Peyton challenge Amanda and lose. She hadn't said anything about it to Nick, but they'd both known by that time that there was no antidote. God, what a week. Strangest of all was the fact that Nick remembered dying and the way his breath had locked in his lungs and throat. It had felt like drowning--or as close to the sensation as he cared to come--and when Amanda had shot him the shock had been complete. To awake again, knowing without question that he had died and was now Immortal, that the last year's association with Amanda had been based not on respect or friendship but on her knowledge that he was pre-Immortal--a fact she'd concealed from him . . . of course, it meant that Methos had also known from the first moment they'd meant, but that wasn't quite the same. He'd only known Methos for a couple of months, and Methos hadn't shot him through the heart.
Nick shook his head. "Do you mind it we don't talk about it?" he asked. "At least until I've had a chance to sort things out?" He was grateful when Methos said nothing. Five thousand years. That Nick might live even a tenth of that seemed impossible. Amanda had lived--what?--twelve hundred years or so. A hundred years, 500 years, a thousand--what difference did it make, really? His first thought as an Immortal echoed in his mind: What chance is there for love if there can be only one? And, close on its heels, how in God's name had Methos survived 5,000 years of that dim prospect, and why would he want to?
Methos' apartment on Boileau had been half of a private home up until twenty years ago, when the American owners had gutted it, split it in half, and turned it into a rental duplex to support their retirement years in Provence. Nick pulled up in the nighttime shade of one of the thirty-year-old trees guarding the street outside the high fence and shut off the car's engine.
"Don't forget your sword," Methos said, slipping out of the passenger-side door.
Nick sighed but obeyed as Methos let them in the gate to the front yard beyond. Two shallow brick steps led from the brick walkway to the duplex's covered porch and Nick gripped the sword's--his sword's--handle uneasily while Methos unlocked the double doors to the house. Nick had been there only once before, and Amanda had let them in as easily as if she'd been carrying a spare set of keys.
Now, standing in the foyer with a sword in his right hand, Nick watched as Methos paused to remove a key from the keyring he carried. "Here," he said, handing it to Nick. "You can sleep next door. I'll get you a blanket. There's not much there," he added, "just a couch and a few odds and ends--"
Curious, Nick opened the door almost immediately to his right and flipped on the light switch while Methos' buzz retreated as he moved into his own apartment. Nick stepped into an entry hall with a galley kitchen just to the left, beyond saloon-style swinging doors. Beyond the kitchen he could see a small dining area, empty of furniture. Directly in front of him was the living area--long, as in Methos' half of the house, with a fireplace centered in the far wall. Archways on either side of the fireplace led to a hallway that, he discovered, led in turn to the apartment's single bath and bedroom, also empty of furniture. Two doors led from the bedroom, one to the walled garden beyond and the other to the bathroom. Not a bad little apartment, actually. He walked back into the living area, where a couch had been shoved out of the way in a bay-window area, end tables standing at either arm, leaving most of the floorspace open and empty. About that time he became aware that Methos' buzz was strengthening, and he looked over his shoulder to see the other Immortal standing in the open doorway.
Other Immortal. He was, he supposed, at least beginning to adjust to the idea. The sword in his hand felt awkward, though--
Methos tossed a blanket and pillow onto the couch and reached toward him. "Let me see," he said.
Nick handed him the sword and watched as Methos perched on one arm of the couch, the sword in his hand.
"And now that you're unarmed I want you to realize that I could kill you with one stroke if I wanted to," Methos said. "Clear?" He watched Nick blink, then flush red as the realization set in. "Right. Now let me see your hand."
Awkward and embarrassed, Nick held his right hand up for inspection, beefy and calloused from thirty-some years of work, the fingers square at the tips.
"Here," Methos said. He tossed the sword easily to Nick and watched him catch it. "Let me see you hold it."
Nick had no sooner grasped the sword handle than Methos was shaking his head. "You're going to need an open grip," he said. "Something like my Ivanhoe. The saber's handle is too small for you. All right. We'll get you another sword in the morning. Get some sleep."
With that he left, flipping the light off on his way out, and Nick realized something else. Methos had shown no hesitation whatsoever about being in Nick's presence unarmed. Nick snorted and threw himself down on the couch, pounding the pillow into submission. Now, why would that be, do you suppose? The only answer that came to mind was because the old man knew perfectly well he could dump Nick on his ass six ways from Sunday, take the sword away from him when he'd finished, and use it to take his head at his leisure.
And what was more, Nick knew it, too.

Chapter Three

Methos slapped the "off" button on his radio alarm and blinked, trying to remember why he'd set the damn thing in the first place. Oh, right. The barge. The Seine had already flooded once this year so he'd arranged to have the barge moved into dry dock and he was supposed to meet the movers. And Joe. He'd asked Joe to meet him, too, which meant he'd actually have to keep the appointment. Five minutes later he was out of the shower, scrubbing a towel over his body and then through his short hair. Relatively dry at least, he tossed the towel over the shower curtain bar and pulled on boxers before wandering back into the bedroom, plucking yesterday's blue jeans from the floor. He pulled them on and then went in search of clean socks, tossing yesterday's dirties into the laundry as he crossed the room.
Swords. Nick needed a sword and there were a few stashed away in what used to be the house's wine cellar. Shoving his feet into his hiking boots but not bothering to tie them, Methos opened his walk-in closet. Clothes--mostly casual--hung to the left and right, though he'd had to make some concession to building a real wardrobe once he'd started teaching at the University. Straight ahead, though, what appeared to be a solid wall opened easily to his touch, revealing a winding stairway.
It was cooler in the rock-walled basement, but water stains several feet up on the walls had made him doubt its trustworthiness for any serious storage when he'd first bought the place. The previous owners had compromised by bolting metal shelves and storage racks to the basement walls just above waist-height and he'd stashed a few things on the shelves for the sake of appearance, including some camping gear that had never been used. For appearance's sake, too, he'd installed a suspended ceiling with flourescent lighting. The real purpose of the suspended ceiling, though, was to provide some unique overhead storage that wasn't shown on any blueprints.
Stretching just a bit on tiptoe, Methos pushed one of the large ceiling tiles out of its frame and slid it out of the way, snaking one long arm into his storage space. His fingers touched cold metal and he pulled three swords hilt-first toward him, just far enough that their pommels showed. There was the gorgeous swept hilt rapier he loved, too showy for everyday use with its dazzling gold cage and swirl, but a testament to the sword maker's craft as a creation of sheer beauty. For just a moment it had to be fetched out simply to be admired and checked carefully for the least trace of rust along its 37" blade. It was, needless to say, far too fine to be entrusted to an infant Immortal whose first task was to learn not to cut himself on the damned thing. Its overall length exceeded that of his own broadsword and made it a nuisance to carry in modern times, but he hadn't parted with it for nearly 300 years and didn't intend to. He gripped its hilt familiarly, rotating his wrist to give it play, quite unaware of the smile on his face as he watched the light flash off its length.
Next was the Moorish broadsword, far less decorative than the rapier but still beautiful.  At  just a tad over 40" it was about the same size as his own if a bit lighter. The down-curved guard reminded him of the sword Amanda had used until recently and he wondered if it might be less than diplomatic to offer Nick a sword so similar in appearance to Amanda's, especially since she hadn't yet forgiven Methos for its loss. Still--the open grip was undeniably comfortable, and Methos had no doubt it would fit Nick's hand perfectly. Oh, hell. He'd offer him a couple that seemed workable and let Nick make his own choice. It wasn't as if he was the man's babysitter.
Ah, yes--he'd almost forgotten the bastard sword. He'd measured it at 44", yet despite its extra long blade it was amazingly light and fast, allowing maximum maneuverability. The guard was a lot like his own, although a bit more decorative with its cut-out designs; the handle was a full nine inches, designed for one or two-handed grips as needed. Used correctly, it was as deadly a sword as one could ask for and that was, after all, the whole idea. On second thought he pulled a dagger out as well before closing up the ceiling tiles,  not because he expected Nick needed or would even readily use one--modern sensibilities being what they were--but because he wanted the man to have a choice in the matter.

* * * * *

"We couldn't have met at the bar?"
Joe Dawson stood on the dock, looking annoyed as Methos emerged from the barge's interior in his usual jeans and sweatshirt ensemble, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows.
"Sorry, Joe," Methos called from near the wheelhouse. "I'm having the barge moved into dry dock and thought you might want to be here." He watched for a moment as the lines were secured to the bow from the tug boat and then moved to the barge's leeward side as Joe made his way up the gangplank and on deck. "There are some things I thought you might want to take a look at--maybe store 'em for Mac since you've got a basement now."
"Somehow I don't think it's in a Watcher's job description to store things for recalcitrant Immortals," Joe muttered.
"Is that a hint I should move my stuff out of your basement?"
"Hell, no. It just means I don't like hauling my ass out of bed at six in the morning. I'll tell you when I want you to move your stuff out of my basement."
The last time they'd been inside the barge together things hadn't gone too well and Joe's careful descent into the barge's interior brought it all back vividly for Methos. It had been right after MacLeod had left Paris without warning in November and Joe had, erroneously but not unreasonably, assumed the Highlander had returned either to Seacouver or the island cabin he owned off the Washington state coast. The island was holy ground, and just the sort of place they might normally have expected MacLeod to head for after the debacle of the past year, but Methos had already known it was an empty hope.
He'd been roused from sleep at a ludicrously early hour that morning by a private messenger from a Paris law firm, informing him that "Adam Pierson" had been named sole executor of Duncan MacLeod's American and European holdings and property. It wasn't a step MacLeod would have taken if he'd simply meant to change addresses for a bit and Methos still wondered exactly what Mac might have been trying to tell him. If MacLeod had been any other man, Methos might have read it as his way of saying goodbye. Mac wasn't any other man, though, and ultimately Methos had decided it came closer to a peace offering than anything--almost as if Mac were saying, "Hold this, I'll be right back." Of course, "right back" in Immortal terms was a bit nebulous, and Methos was never more aware of that than when he was with Joe Dawson.

"Shoot the old man," Methos remembered O'Rourke saying. His heart had leapt in his chest in sheer response and there'd been no need even to look at MacLeod. Mac's weakest moments were, quite predictably, when someone he loved was threatened, especially when those he loved were mortal.
"You tell him to go to hell!" Joe had shouted, but Mac's words were just as predictable.
"No one else dies because of me, Joe."
Hours later they'd stood right there, in front of that porthole, toasting each other with champagne, and Joe had gripped MacLeod's shoulder through the white, roll-neck sweater and clasped him just above the elbow. "I can't imagine my life without you, Mac," he'd confessed. "Fact is, I don't want to." And Mac had pulled him into a brief but powerful hug--the only hug Methos could recall them ever sharing, and definitely not according to Watcher protocol.

"Damn," Joe said, looking around. "He didn't leave much, did he?"
Methos shrugged. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "I've left less when I cleared out of a place." Truthfully, though, he'd almost forgotten how desolate the barge had looked after Mac had returned to Paris. The Scot had eliminated most of the furniture, keeping little more than some throw pillows for the living area and a few low tables, one of which had once held the chess set Darius had given him. Methos had already packed the chess pieces away in a teak box meant for their storage and they now sat on top of the chessboard, which was hinged and made of inlaid woods, light alternating with dark. The built-in platform bed at the opposite end of the barge was there still, of course, the mattress and pillows stripped of their linens now. The bed's headboard was as empty now as it had been six months ago, as empty as the seaman's chest shoved against the wall in the living area. Though there was no need for their light this morning, the rustic black candelabra on the tables and along the far wall remained, too, as did the wooden shelves mounted to the wall on their wrought iron brackets.
As Joe watched, Methos tossed throw pillows into the seaman's chest and then packed the few bottles of wine left on top of the pillows. The ever-so-gentle swell of the Seine made the bottles clink together almost imperceptibly as Methos pulled a decorative oriental-looking bowl down from one of the shelves. It was an interesting bowl, though Joe couldn't ever remember paying it much attention before; probably an antique. It was about four inches deep with a round bottom and stood on green curlicue legs of some sort--sea serpents, maybe, or snakes? Engraved all around with some sort of characters, it had a finger-ring of some sort on each side, too, like the handle of a cup, obviously meant to allow the bowl to be carried.
"What's the writing?" Joe asked.
"Ancient Chinese," Methos said. "It's the story of a sea voyage around the world." A smile flickered momentarily as he added, "It's fiction, most likely--it was long before Magellan, of course." A long finger traced one of the curlicue legs. "These are the sea serpents they encountered."
"Old?"
Methos shrugged. "Seventh century B.C." The curators of half a dozen top museums would happily fight just for bidding rights on the bowl, and in a good market it would fetch a small fortune at auction. Easily enough to pay off Joe's mortgage and provide for a more than comfortable retirement. Not that Joe needed to know that was what he had planned, of course. Methos poured the bowl's scant contents out into the palm of his hand and handed the bowl to Joe, who bent to tuck both it and the chessboard into the seaman's chest.
The bowl's contents were as unlikely as its story of a voyage 'round the world: an earring, most likely Amanda's, a wire whisk Methos tossed negligibly into the seaman's chest, and a scrap of wrinkled paper on which the Highlander had scribbled a phone number.
"You don't think he's coming back, do you?" Joe asked.
"What?" Joe's words had startled him, and for a moment all Methos could do was stare. "Of course he's coming back, Joe," he said then. "It's only been six months--"
"If you don't count the two years before that."
All right, he saw where this was going, and in a way Joe was right. MacLeod had returned to Paris before he'd really been ready, and it was very likely the reason he'd wound up leaving yet again. "Joe," Methos said gently. "He just needs some time away. He has to learn that he can go on, with us and without us. It's part of the grieving process, that's all."
"You mean he's still mourning Richie."
Methos nodded. "Richie," he said, "and his own actions. He needs to learn that what happened hasn't changed who he."
"He thinks it has."
"I know. He feels guilty, too, partly because he believes he should be past it by now, but mostly because he knows his grief hurts those he loves most."
Joe was staring out the porthole, unable to meet his eyes.
"Just give him time, Joe."
Time. It was easy advice from an Immortal, but Methos knew better than to say more. Joe's fifty-first birthday was coming up--not that he was an old man by any stretch of the imagination, but there had been a time in Methos' recollection when fifty would have been considered ancient. Joe had twenty, thirty, or more years left to him still Assuming, of course, that he managed not to get hit by any buses and steered clear of any Immortals who might wish him ill because of the company he kept.
And speaking of Immortals--
"Methos! Methos, I know you're in there--"
"Damn," Methos muttered.
"Amanda?" Joe asked, and Methos nodded, shoving the earring and scrap of paper into his jeans pocket.
"I do wish she'd remember to call me 'Adam' in public," he muttered. He mounted the few steps nearest the bed, snatched the short coat lying there, and threw open the bow-end door. "Damn it, Amanda," he snapped. "Would you mind not shouting my name at the top of your lungs?"
She flapped one hand at him dismissively. "As if anyone around here would care," she said.
"I care," he said pointedly.
It wasn't as if he were going to pull a sword on her with the tugboat captain and his crew watching them, of course, but her eyes narrowed, checking out of habit. The coat he was carrying was too short to conceal his usual broadsword, but odds were there was a sheath in the back lining designed to carry a short sword of some sort. When worn the coat would place the sword grip in easy reach between his shoulders, like pulling an arrow from its quiver. Gripped in one hand like that, the coat was essentially a scabbard and he could produce the sword in a heartbeat if needed. She, too, was carrying a different sword these days but not because she'd changed her wardrobe. "Where's Nick?" she demanded without preamble.
"Nick?" Joe asked. He looked from Amanda to Methos, feeling as if he'd come in on the middle of something.
"How the hell would I know where Nick is?" Methos asked. "He's your friend."
"The truth, Methos," Amanda insisted, following him. "He only knows two you-know-whats in Paris. Well, three, actually, but Liam hardly counts. He'd have to come to you."
"Amanda--" Methos started.
"Wait a minute," Joe interrupted. "When did it happen?"
"What?" the Immortals chorused, and abruptly Joe had the feeling the Joe-and-Methos team had become the Methos-and-Amanda team.
Joe glanced at the tugboat captain and his crewmen to make sure they were out of earshot. "When did Nick become Immortal?" he asked.
Amanda's mouth opened and then shut. Methos said nothing, but raised an eyebrow in Amanda's direction. Ah. Back to Joe-and-Methos.
"Who said anything about Nick becoming an Immortal?" Amanda asked.
"How long have you known?" Methos asked.
Joe shrugged. "Since Amanda faked her death in Toronto. She gave me her sword and said to make sure it got to Nick." He looked from one to the other. "Hey, guys, I'm a watcher. It's what I do."
"Makes sense to me," Methos commented to no one in particular. He turned, waving to get the attention of the tugboat captain.
"So did he come to you or not?" Amanda shouted.
"Nope. Not me."
"Metho--"
He rounded on her. "Adam."
"All right, Adam. Are you lying to me?"
"You think I'd tell you if I were?"
"Joe--"
"Uh uh, honey. You two work this one out on your own."
"But you know he can be such an ass hole about things."
Joe smiled. "Part of his charm." He chuckled, watched Amanda roll her eyes and then take off after Methos--Adam--and launch into him yet again while the man made arrangements for two men from the tugboat crew to deliver the seaman's chest to Le Blues Bar Deux and paid the tugboat captain for his services. While everything was being arranged, Joe said a personal and silent farewell to the barge, reminding himself that it was just a boat, for God's sake, and it was just going into dry dock until MacLeod returned. By the time everything was settled and the two Immortals had joined him on the quai, Methos had given in under Amanda's verbal assault and was negotiating for terms.
"I didn't say I hadn't seen him, I said he hadn't come to me. There's a difference, Amanda."
"Then he's all right?"
"His head was still attached, if that's what you mean. He didn't want to talk about you, though."
"So what did you do?"
"What do you mean, what did I do? I picked him up, dusted him off, and sent him on his way."
"Methos!"
"For heaven's sake, Amanda! I gave the man a place to sleep, all right? What did you think I'd do? Take his head?"
"No, of course not--"
"Hey!" They both stopped at Joe's interruption this time and stared at him as if they'd forgotten he was there. "So, who's driving here?" he asked. "And where to, now that I think of it?"
Methos looked from Joe to Amanda. "Oh, all right," he grumbled. "He's at my place." He shot Amanda a look. "Bring your own car--I'm not running a taxi service." He sighed, muttering, "We might just as well get this over with as not."

Chapter Four

Nick awoke around seven, stiff from sleeping on the too-thin mattress of the hide-away bed that unfolded from the couch Methos had offered him the night before. Swinging his legs over the side, he hunched forward, arms on his thighs, and wondered--not for the first time, but not seriously, either--exactly what might be involved in an Immortal committing suicide. Wasn't there something in a Gilbert and Sullivan musical about someone cutting off his own head? Nick's mouth quirked. Methos would probably know. Hell, Methos pretty much knew everything, didn't he? After all, he'd been Immortal since . . . Nick hesitated, wondering exactly what had been happening 5,000 years ago. Let's see--the millennium was coming up, so that was 2,000 years, which meant we were talking roughly 3,000 B.C. here. That would make it--what? He had a sudden image of Methos in a loincloth, helping to build the Egyptian pyramids. From pyramids to hide-away beds. The idea was staggering.
Sighing, Nick stood and scrubbed one hand over his two-day . . . no, three-day stubble. Hell, at this rate he might just as well start a beard. When he'd walked away from Amanda that night he'd simply wandered around Paris, not going anywhere, not wanting to go anywhere. In the back of his mind had been the thought that he should avoid his usual haunts--their usual haunts--because Amanda would most likely be looking for him. She'd have wanted to explain, and the last thing he'd wanted was for her to explain anything right then. A wry grin had quirked his mouth, though he'd been largely unaware of it. The thought had stayed with him though: After all, there was plenty of time for explanations now, wasn't there?
There'd been two days of simply wandering, sleeping on a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens when he'd grown tired, an arm thrown over his eyes in the afternoon, not caring how long he slept or who found him. He'd managed on pastries and bottled water and whatever else was readily available from shops and kiosks throughout the city whenever his stomach thought to rumble loudly enough to command his attention. On the second day he'd felt it, almost a physical sensation, but not quite--the frisson that had to signal the presence of an Immortal. He'd recognized it immediately, been bizarrely aware of his head coming up, swinging around, his eyes searching for the other exactly as he'd seen Amanda do a hundred times in the past--whoever he'd encountered chose not to make himself known, however, and he'd been left mercifully alone, standing on a street corner in a sudden, cold sweat, a hard knot of fear in his belly.
It had left him wondering, though. Exactly how many Immortals were there in Paris, anyway, or the world, for that matter? Amanda, Methos, Father Liam--a dozen others Amanda had run afoul of since he'd known her, Muhunnad and al Yabat, not to mention all those in the Watchers database . . . oh, and him, of course. Mustn't forget to count himself. Seven million people in Paris? Hell, even if one in a hundred thousand was Immortal that was what? Seventy or so, and all of 'em but Liam were carrying swords as far as he knew. After that he'd thought about holy ground. Paris was full of churches and Nick had a notion that a man could spend weeks memorizing them all--American Episcopal Cathedral of the Holy Trinity; American Church in Paris; Chapelle armenienne; four Notre Dames; Sacre Coeur--he'd bought a tourist map from a bookstore and stood there, running one forefinger down the list labeled "Churches, chapels, synagogues and temples," and felt a strange urge to laugh, followed abruptly by the unexpected start of tears in his eyes. That was when he'd walked out onto Pont Royal and stared down at the murky water of the Seine and thought first about suicide. He'd have almost considered it, too, except for the thought that he'd float to the top and have to explain himself once he revived.
He'd used the last of his cash for a decent meal at the best kosher deli he knew in the city and then caught the Metro back to pick up his car, feeling like a thief as he cased the area first to make sure Amanda was no where in the vicinity. Still thinking about holy ground, he'd driven to Cimetiere Montparnasse around eleven and found a place to park along Rue Froidevaux--a feat in itself--and sat in the SUV for a bit, just thinking. Eventually he'd gotten out and wandered toward Avenue du Maine. He'd been near the huge Gare Montparnasse railroad station when he'd realized he was being followed, and his first thought was to head for his car. Barring that, he'd figured he'd be safe on holy ground. What he hadn't counted on was his shadow picking up the pace, literally driving Nick in front of him and forcing him toward Boulevard Edgar Quintet, on the opposite side of the cemetery from his car.
It had thrown Nick at first because he kept expecting to be able to feel the other--that he was being followed by a mortal had simply never occurred to him until he realized the man had actually drawn his sword as they neared holy ground. Unnervingly, they'd been close enough in the nighttime shadows for Nick to hear him laugh as he forced Nick into a headlong flight toward Notre Dame des Champs. Nick had had some idea of losing him in the 60-plus acres of the Luxembourg Gardens if necessary, but things hadn't quite worked out that way. Instead they'd wound up at Musee Zadkine, and Methos had come to the rescue.
Methos. Nick frowned. He'd gotten the impression--from Amanda?--that Methos was a late sleeper, given the choice. Nick's wristwatch showed a few minutes past seven. He didn't expect to be able to sense the other Immortal's presence--at least, he hadn't been able to feel him after he'd left him alone last night. Apparently there was sufficient distance between the two apartments so they weren't irritatingly aware of each other moving in and out of sensing range all the time, whatever sensing range was, exactly. Did it vary from Immortal to Immortal? Did having walls in between effect your ability to sense the other? Damn, Nick thought. There was so much he didn't know. Experience might be the best teacher, but where Immortals were concerned your first experience could very well be your last. Methos seemed to have been aware of Nick's presence last night before Nick was aware of his--or at least he'd been ready and able to act while Nick had still been scrambling on the ground, running for his life. Now that was an experience he didn't care to repeat. An armed man chasing him around trees, statues, and what have you, crashing through ornamental hedges toward him with a sword in his hand, and then he'd run right into the unquestionable presence of another Immortal. He hadn't even had time to clearly recognize Methos before his attacker had been dead. Looking back on it, what Nick had been aware of in that instant was the fact that he didn't want to die, fleeting though the conviction might have been.
Pulling on his jeans, Nick reached reluctantly for the sword he'd left lying on the sofa pillows, which were stacked on the floor and leaning against the arm of the couch. "Saber," Methos had called it, and in the light of day Nick recognized it as the kind of sword he'd seen in dozens of old west movies. There'd always been some officer, mounted on horseback, sword raised to lead the charge, and this was the type of sword they'd used. The saber's handle was shaped like the capital letter "D," and was too narrow to feel perfectly comfortable in Nick's hand. Methos had said they'd get him another sword in the morning. This morning.
Barefoot and bare chested, Nick padded across the hall to Methos' apartment door, the saber in his hand. Given the choice, he'd have left it where it lay, but he had the feeling that he'd have to deal with some sarcastic comment from Methos if he did. Where you go, the sword goes. Make sure you remember it. Something like that, subtly and simply said, with the tone, the hazel eyes, and one corner of the mouth adding all the subtext necessary to make him feel like he was in junior high. Or boot camp, maybe. Marine boot camp. He'd already done that bit and figured it was smarter to take the saber with him than to face the humiliation of being sent back across the hall to get it. Wondering vaguely if Methos had ever been a Marine, Nick was about to knock when he saw the note on the door.
"Back shortly. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen."
So Methos had come and gone already this morning and Nick hadn't so much as roused. Hell, he could even have looked in on Nick while he slept, for all he knew. Nick let himself in to the unlocked apartment and stood in the doorway a moment, thinking a shower and change of clothes would feel good. Well, one thing at a time. He headed into the kitchen and was sprinkling ham and sharp cheddar cheese into his eggs when Amy Thomas called "Knock knock!" from the front door and let herself in without waiting for a reply. They froze, each staring at the other, she from the entryway and he from the archway that led to the kitchen. The main difference was that she was carrying a white paper bag of pastries and he had a cavalry saber clenched in his fist.
"Uh . . . hi," Nick said.
Amy's eyes lifted from the sword to his face. "Something you want to talk about?" she asked.
"Not especially." Belatedly, he remembered to lower the sword.
"Okay." She cleared her throat and stepped into the kitchen, setting the bag of pastries down on the island counter between them.
The smell of smoke caught Nick's attention and he glanced at the stove, where some of the cheese from his eggs had dropped on the electric burner. He grabbed the handle of the skillet in his left hand, still clutching the sword in his right, and stood there as if unsure what to do with either for a moment. His dilemma was solved only when Amy wordlessly placed a wrought iron trivet on the counter in front of him and he set the skillet down on top of it.
"Thanks."
Amy nodded. "Methos home?" she asked, and Nick shook his head.
After another moment Nick remembered to turn off the burner. The cheese splotch was sending a tiny smoke signal upward as it crisped to brown, and he decided he'd better wipe it off in case Methos was picky about his stove. He set the saber down on the island counter top, tip pointing toward Amy, and she reached out with one finger, saying nothing as she gently pushed the point away from her. In the meantime, Nick located a kitchen sponge, ran water over it from the tap, and squeezed it out before swabbing the cheese off the burner. In the next breath he was lurching for the sword again, startling Amy enough that she stepped back half a foot or so. Alerted by the look on his face as much as anything, Amy looked automatically toward the apartment's front door, which was swinging open to admit Methos, Amanda and Joe. If she hadn't been sure before, that cinched it--she'd seen the same look too often on Methos' face not to recognize an Immortal's early warning signal when she saw it. Her first questions were how and when. Seconds later she registered the nonchalant expressions Joe and Methos wore and Amanda's concerned look. That left just one question. Why was she always the last to know?
"Hey, Nick," Joe Dawson said. "Morning, Amy."
Amy nodded and accepted Joe's peck-on-the-cheek good morning greeting, but her eyes were on the three Immortals in the room. Not that Joe could blame her--it wasn't every day a Watcher got a front row seat in close quarters.
"Hi, Nick," Amanda said.
Nick's eyes flicked from Joe to Amanda to Methos, leaning in the archway leading to the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. An unresentful realist, Nick hadn't expected any help from that corner and wasn't surprised when none appeared to be forthcoming.
"I just--I wanted to be sure you were okay," Amanda said.
"I'll live," Nick said drily, fishing a fork out of the drain rack next to the sink. "You saw to that. Now go the hell away and let me eat my breakfast in peace."
"Nick, please. I want you to come back to the Sanctuary. It's holy ground, and while you're learning--"
"Do you want me out of here?"
Nick's words were quite clearly directed to Methos, who merely shrugged. "You can stay if you want," he said. "I'll let you know if you get in my way." With that he pushed off from the wall and strolled into the living room.
"You're going to be his teacher?" Amanda demanded. She whirled, staring through the archway at Methos, who'd plopped himself down on the couch and was reaching for the newspaper.
"Is there any reason I shouldn't be his teacher?" Methos asked.
"About a million of them," Amanda shot back.
"Then you'll excuse me if I don't invite you to list them."
"You can't--"
"Amanda, I'm 5,000 years old. I habitually carry a very long sword around with me and I know how to use it. I can pretty much do anything I want. Any more objections?"
"Nick!"
Using the fork to shovel eggs, ham, and cheese into his mouth straight from the skillet on the counter, Nick just shook his head. Amy shrugged at Amanda and reached for her bag of pastries, offering Joe an almond croissant.
"But--" Amanda just stood there, looking from Amy to Nick to Joe. Biting into his croissant, Joe shook his head when Amanda opened her mouth to protest again. Damned Watcher oath, Amanda thought. It's binding enough when he wants it to be. Her eyes narrowed. All right--so it wasn't her decision, and they all knew Methos would do exactly what he wanted to do anyway. And, quite truthfully, Nick could do worse in the way of a teacher. Methos had been around for a very long time, after all, and he'd . . . mellowed . . . in the last year or so. "I give up," Amanda said. "You know where to reach me."
She turned her back on Nick and headed for the front door.
"Amanda."
It was Methos, leaning back against the couch cushions, right leg stretched out in front of him as he dug into his front jeans pocket. He came up with a handful of stuff and laid it all on the corner of the table in front of the couch. Sorting among it, he picked up something small and tossed it to her. She caught it gently between her cupped palms and opened them, curious. An earring.
"I found it at the barge," Methos said.
Amanda rolled the earring between her thumb and forefinger. Her mouth twisted and she tossed it back to him. "Keep it," she said. "It's not mine." What the hell. She and MacLeod had never been exclusive, after all. It seemed almost fitting, somehow, given the way the rest of her morning was going.
The door closed behind her.

Chapter Five

"Come take a look at this, would you, Joe?"
Methos' request brought both Joe and Amy from the kitchen into the living room. At almost the same time Nick finished the last of his breakfast and wandered in to see what was up, leaving the saber on the kitchen counter top and the skillet in the sink.
Joe settled himself into one of the two overstuffed chairs near the black leather couch. "Whatcha got?" he asked.
"A necklace," Methos said. "Or something very like a necklace."
Amy came to sit beside Joe in the second chair, stacking several books on the table to make room for the bag of pastries. As usual, the book titles represented whatever Methos was interested in at the moment--computer programming seemed to be winning out from the look of things, although D.S. Lofton's new novel shared space on the table with a book on England and one on primatology. You could just never tell what was going to catch his interest, especially now that he'd resigned from the University. While Nick took up a sentry's position behind Joe, the Watcher examined the necklace Methos tossed him across the table.
Tiny metal balls, all linked together in a long, flexible chain that could be poured into the hand almost like sand--he'd worn one like it around his neck in Vietnam, with his Army dog tags on it. In fact, he'd had it tucked away in the back of a drawer somewhere or other until about twenty years ago. Talk about an unexplainable nostalgic impulse. Some of the chain's balls had minute rust-brown flecks that looked like dried blood, but Joe knew better than to probe too deeply before Methos was ready to talk. "So?" he said.
Methos shrugged, his shoulders moving against the couch cushions. He sat up then, reached for the bag of pastries and helped himself to the last remaining almond croissant before settling into the cushions again. Shaking his head, Joe looked more closely at the chain.
As with the chain that had held his dog tags, this had a slip catch at the center back. At the corresponding center front, however, there was a difference. The balls in the center front increased in size so the middle three were larger than the others that made up the chain. Frowning, Joe looked closer still. The letters "L," "X," "X" were etched in the center three balls. Now who in the world had initials like LXX? "Where'd you get it?" Joe asked.
"A museum."
Nick's dark brown eyes snapped up to catch the hazel ones, but Methos ignored him. The statement was true enough, though it left out a few of the more pertinent details.
"You got me," Joe said. "The chain looks modern, though."
Amy reached for the chain and Joe poured the links into her palm. Like Joe, she examined the center three balls. LXX. Not initials, she realized. LXX was . . . "Seventy?" she asked. "They're Roman numerals, aren't they?"
"I think so," Methos said. He held his hand out across the table and she handed him the necklace.
"What about the blood?" she asked.
His shoulders moved against the leather cushions, both leisurely and eloquent. "Nick," he said, and Nick caught the necklace as Methos tossed it to him, only then getting his first real look at it.
"Who'd you have to kill to get it?" Joe asked, half joking.
"That's an excellent question, actually," Methos said. "He wasn't carrying any ID, and he didn't have a Watcher tattoo, but he was most definitely after Nick's head last night."
"A mortal?" Amy and Joe chorused, looking automatically at Nick.
"That's right," Methos said.
"But how would anyone know--"
"Especially if he'd just had his first death what--yesterday? Day before?"
"Day before yesterday," Nick said.
"Who would know?" Amy asked.
Methos shrugged. "Amanda, obviously. Probably her Watcher. Who'd she kill the other day, Nick?"
Nick frowned. "An Immortal named Evan Peyton," he said. "High tech computer theft, that sort of thing--"
"I know who he is," Methos said. "Nasty bastard to have walking around in your head," he commented off hand. "Okay," he said with a nod, "so that leaves Peyton's Watcher, assuming he's got one. Joe?"
Joe snorted. "What?" he asked. "You think I've got them memorized? Come on, Methos--you were a Watcher long enough to know--"
"Just tell me who it is, Joe."
"Gilliard--Julliard--something like that. I'll have to look it up."
"Anyone else?" Methos asked, an eyebrow cocked at Nick, and Nick shook his head. "You're sure?" Methos asked. "There's no one else Amanda might have told?"
"Well . . . you, obviously. Your friend MacLeod if he'd been around--"
"Who's this 'Liam' she mentioned?"
"Liam?" Nick repeated. "Just a friend. He's a Catholic priest."
"Immortal?"
"Yeah." He shrugged. "I guess she might have gone to Liam."
"Here in Paris?" Methos asked, and Nick nodded. "Joe?" Methos asked.
"Father Liam Riley," Joe said. "He's been a priest for, oh, 200, 225 years. Since revolutionary war days. American Revolution," he clarified, remembering who he was talking to. "I know we have a Watcher on him, but I can't tell you who it is off the top of my head."
"Would you see if you can find out?"
Joe sighed, a bit reluctant, but nodded.
"What's Amy Zoll up to these days?"
"What?" That got his attention. "Methos, you are not dragging Amy Zoll into this."
"Why not?" he asked. "A trained historian and archaeologist--she could be very useful, you know. Besides, she's still on suspension, isn't she?"
"She's been back to work for a month now and she hates your guts. You're the one who got her suspended in the first place, remember."
"Not true," Methos said. "She screwed that one up all by herself. She could have gone to the Tribunal instead of coming to me."
God--talk about selective memory. "Methos," Joe said, "you're going to leave Zoll out of this. In fact, you're going to forget she even exists. I know she'll be happier that way, and I will be, too."
"Picky, picky, picky." Methos sighed. "Oh--I know something I wanted to do." For all his length, he came off the couch smoothly enough, automatically brushing the tiny flakes and crumbs from his croissant onto the floor and table. "Back in a sec," he said, heading for the bedroom.
He emerged a moment later, carrying three swords and a dagger of some sort toward the couch, blades all pointed ceilingward as he managed their grips in his large, long-fingered hands. For Amy, the image was irresistible. She had a sudden flash of Methos in a tee-shirt with the words "Runs with scissors" emblazoned across the front. Completely unaware of her thoughts, Methos laid the swords out one at a time on the coffee table. "Come 'ere, Nick," he said. "One of these should suit you well enough, but if not we'll find another."
Nick stood staring down at the swords, uncomfortably aware of Joe's eyes on him.
"What's wrong with the saber?" Amy asked as Methos threw himself back onto the couch.
"Grip's too narrow for his hand," Methos responded.
"Ah."
Swallowing, Nick stood there for a full minute before he reached for the first sword.
"Gothic bastard sword," Methos said almost idly as Nick's hand closed around the hilt. "It's a bit long for my preferences, but you're tall enough to handle it well. It's a hand-and-a-half," he added. "You can use either one or two hands on the handle as necessary, which is nice for fighting."
Nodding, Nick gripped the hilt in one hand and then both. "It's not as heavy as I thought it would be," he commented, working the sword in small and then larger circles.
Methos shrugged. "You can tell me that again after a month of sword drills with it. It's not too bad, though--just under three pounds."
"It's narrower than yours--"
"Mine's right there," Methos said, pointing. "Give it a try."
Nick put the bastard sword down and carefully took Methos' broadsword by the hilt. It was a few inches shorter than the bastard sword, but about the same weight, the blade making the difference. "Which is better?" Nick asked.
"Depends on what you mean by 'better,' " Methos replied. He took the Ivanhoe out of Nick's hand and sat forward on the couch, working the blade easily in a figure-eight rotation. "They're both cutting swords. The bastard is a little narrower, but it can still cut deeply, and it's pointed enough for thrusting, which has its benefits." He shrugged. "A broadsword's designed for hacking, essentially, so thrusting with it's a bit harder, but it can be done. Try the other one."
"It looks like Amanda's," Nick commented, and Methos nodded as Nick picked it up. "Broadsword?" Nick asked, holding the blade ceilingward in both hands.
Methos nodded. "It's Moorish," he said. "The down-curved piece is the guard; it's designed to protect your hand. The bit at the top that looks like a silver ace of spades is the pommel. I like the grip on this one, but it isn't a hand-and-a-half. It makes two-handed fighting a bit harder, but I'll show you how to compensate."
"It's heavier."
"By about half a pound."

            "And the dagger?"
"There was a time when anyone who could afford to carried both a sword and dagger en suite. I always carry a dagger in the front of my coat, and sometimes two. Modern sensibilities being what they are, a lot of people consider the second blade to be cheating somehow, or dishonorable."
"You don't?"
"I think it's a matter of personal preference. The trick is never to be surprised by what the other guy does. Keep in mind, Nick--I've lived most of my life without the benefit of 'modern sensibilities' and I'm not bound mentally, socially, or psychologically by any notion of chivalrous fighting. On the other hand, I obey the rules of Immortal fighting and I'll expect you to do the same."
Nick nodded slowly, pursing his lips. At last, he reached for the dagger and pulled it from the wooden scabbard. "I'll think about the dagger," he said.
"Fine. And the swords?"
"I like this one," Nick said, reaching for the Moorish broadsword. "It . . . feels right."
"Good. It's yours."
Nick looked down at him. "It must be valuable," he said tentatively.
"What? In terms of money? Nick." He waited for Wolfe to meet his eyes, waited for the other man to nod. "When a teacher accepts a new student, the teacher provides the student's first sword. It's just a tradition. Besides, the sword's only real value is in keeping you alive. Later today I'll show you how to cut and fashion a sheath to be worn inside a long coat. You're going to need a duster of some sort, by the way, and you'll have to get used to wearing it."
Nick nodded, just barely, and said, "I've got one." Most of this he knew already, essentially, from his association with Amanda. "What about the rules?" he asked.
Methos nodded. "Never fight on holy ground--anyone's holy ground, Nick, whether it's Shinto, Buddhist, Catholic, Muslim or Mormon. It's the only guarantee of safety an Immortal has, so remember it." Methos glanced at Joe. "The Watchers will tell you that the only Immortal duel ever recorded on holy ground triggered the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Me, I'm willing to assume it was a coincidence. Regardless, it's the first rule, and it's essential. An Immortal who fights and kills on holy ground, particularly one who would deliberately lure another of his kind to holy ground and then take his head--"
"The only difference between us and the animals?" Nick asked.
"Exactly. You may think I'm overstating it or being melodramatic, but in 5,000 years that's the only rule that's ever held in every country and in every culture. Clear?"
"Clear."
"Two: Never interfere if two Immortals are already engaged in a fairly armed fight--sword to sword, sword to axe, whatever. If an armed Immortal attacks an unarmed Immortal, you're free to give a weapon to the unarmed Immortal if you so choose. Whether you're morally or ethically obligated to do so is another issue, and keep in mind it almost always pisses off the other guy. Mortal against Immortal . . . like I said, it may be tough to decide who's the good guy and who's the bad guy, so interfere only at your own risk and be prepared to be wrong."
"Why'd you step in last night?"
"We've been through this."
"No, we haven't. You put me off when I asked last night and you're trying to put me off right now."
Amused, Joe Dawson blew his breath out in a little puff. It was kind of fun, actually, watching the youngster take on the old man.
"All right," Methos said. "I'll tell you why I interfered. I interfered because I knew you and I didn't know the other guy. I interfered because he was armed with a sword and you had a lousy piece of pipe in your hands. I interfered because I could tell you'd come into your Immortality and I wasn't about to have to explain to Amanda that I let you be killed when I could easily have stopped it. Does that answer your question?"
Ouch, Joe thought. Nick had gone a bit red in the face and nodded silently in response to Methos' question. Apparently taking on the old man was also something you did at your own risk, but Joe could have told him that.
"Rule number three: Only fight one-on-one," Methos said, and Nick nodded, obviously glad to be back to the rules. "If you come upon a fight that's not one-on-one you're free to interfere if you choose to. Again, whether or not you're morally or ethically obligated to do so is a matter for the philosophers." Methos hesitated, glancing at Joe. "That's pretty much it," he said.
"Aren't you going to tell him about the Gathering?" Amy asked.
"The Gathering?" Nick asked.
Methos drew an audible breath and let it out. "Sit down," he said. He'd set his broadsword down on the table, and Nick laid his down as Methos moved on the couch to make room for him. "All right," he said. "You've probably heard Amanda say 'There can be only one.' "
Nick nodded. "Yeah: 'In the end there can be only one.' "
Methos nodded. "Do you know what she meant?"
"Well, sure--the Game. All the good Immortals are fighting the bad Immortals and have been since . . . well, always, I guess. It's good against evil, isn't it?"
"Assuming that two 'good' Immortals should be able to walk away from an argument on the strength of their intelligence and common sense, yes. The Gathering is supposed to be a time of increased fighting among Immortals--sort of an eliminations tournament. When only a few Immortals are left we'll feel an irresistible pull towards a far away land to fight for the prize. The best fighters will weed out the weaker ones and eventually you'll have just two Immortals left. They'll be . . . driven . . . to fight. It's commonly believed that the Gathering has already begun, by the way." He let Nick digest that for a moment and waited for the inevitable question.
"So what happens to the last Immortal?"
"Through the final Quickening the last Immortal becomes the recipient of all the knowledge and power ever held by the Immortals. He gains the ability to know what people are thinking all over the world and can act as a mediator between them or can use the power to dominate and control them. He will know each man's thoughts and dreams. He will be able to have children, and will ultimately age normally and grow old. For good or evil, he will have power beyond imagination."
Nick's mouth opened and then shut. He didn't want to be insulting, but . . . "And you believe this?" he asked.
"Me personally?" Methos asked. "No. But that's the theory."
"Theory?" Amy echoed.
"I knew you didn't believe in the Game!" Joe exclaimed.
Methos shrugged. "A lot of Immortals don't believe in the Game. Not that it matters much--"
"Why not?" Amy demanded.
"Why don't we believe in the Game, or why doesn't it matter that we don't believe in the Game?"
"Both!"
"It's really not all that complicated," Methos said. "Look--I traveled 'round the known world for close to three thousand years without even hearing 'There can be only one.' As long as there was a generally accepted pantheon, the Immortals you met worshiped a variety of gods and didn't much question what the other guy did. No one I knew believed we were locked in an eternal battle between good and evil, or that there was a mystical prize to be won by the last man standing. If you had something another Immortal wanted, he challenged you. If you lost, he became the proud owner of your two camels or whatever. If another Immortal's actions offended you or your beliefs so that you felt compelled to eliminate him, you challenged him and fought your best fight.
" 'There can be only one' really only became a viable concept when the idea of a single God--capital 'G'--came to be accepted, and I don't just mean a Christian God. You'd find Immortals buying into the idea anywhere a single god or goddess came to be ascendant in a location. In Sumeria it was Matronit. In India, it was Brahma. For the Egyptians it was Hapi, Isis, and Atum at another time--they were always a bit fickle when it came to religion. In parts of Africa it was Imana. In Roman Britain it was Mithras. I was an initiate of Mithras for awhile, in fact. Before the idea of a single god caught hold, though, well . . . where you had one dominant god or goddess you might encounter an Immortal who was accepted as the god's champion, maybe someone who had lived and defended the god for generations and was accorded a type of worship for his service to the god, but that was about it. But the idea that the Immortals were locked in battle for a single prize? That's a modern concept, all things considered."
"What about Ramirez?" Joe asked.
"Juan Sanchez de los Lobos Ramirez, chief metallurgist to His Majesty, Charles the Fifth of Spain?"
"That's the one. He was Connor's teacher, and he taught Connor there could be only one--"
Methos nodded. "And Connor taught it to Duncan, who in turn taught it to Richie. I know. Now, keep in mind, I never met Ramirez, but you asked me what I believe, based on my own experience. According to Watcher records, Ramirez is supposed to have been 2,437 years old when he sought out Connor MacLeod and taught him 'There can be only one.' That means Ramirez was born . . . oh, about 900 B.C. or so--about the time of the earliest Jewish prophets and long after the Egyptians' own experiment in monotheism, aborted though it was. Ramirez lived most of his life in a world that was heavily influenced by the idea of the one God, good and evil, etc. Now, how do you think the very Catholic Connor MacLeod would have reacted to an attempt to teach him that his Immortality was sustained by a pantheon of pagan Egyptian gods he'd never heard of, and whose very names were an insult to the God he did believe in?"
"So you're saying it's cultural," Joe said.
"Cultural, historical, religious--you can call it whatever you want. I'm just saying the idea isn't universally accepted. Joe--I know devout Muslim Immortals who consider the very idea sacrilege. And in my personal experience, it wasn't until well into the Christian era that the idea came to be widely accepted in European countries."
"What about the Quickening?" Amy asked.
"Oh, certainly the Quickening's real enough. But it's a transfer of life force, of life energies, if you will, not a literal transfer of knowledge, strength, or abilities. If I kill an Immortal who happens to be a rocket scientist, I don't suddenly become a rocket scientist or know everything he knew--it just doesn't work that way."
"What about memories? Or personality?"
"When an Immortal takes a Quickening there's a transfer of memories, both good and bad, to some extent. It may take a day or two to integrate the memories, to consciously sort them out from your own, but you can always tell the difference, and the received memories always fade fairly quickly on the conscious level. Now, on a subconscious level? That's harder to say. For a day or two you may occasionally find yourself acting on the other guy's impulse, responding to someone or something as they would, but that's unusual. That's really what we mean by a Dark Quickening, isn't it? A case when a good man is overwhelmed by the accumulated energies and personalities of evil men? But how many instances have the Watchers recorded in the past two thousand years? Less than half a dozen." He turned to Joe for verification. "You've seen Quickenings, Joe, and you've been there for their aftermath. When MacLeod killed--well, hell," he said, forced to laugh, "name anyone. Slan Quince? Kalas? Xavier St. Cloud? Kronos? Any of them. It's not as if he suddenly knew everything they'd known, did he? And can you imagine how strong he'd be if the transfer of physical strength were cumulative? He'd make Hercules look like a wimp."
"So what do you believe?" Amy asked.
Methos pursed his lips, hesitating. "I believe that the prize is Immortal religious mythology, like the Tower of Babel reaching to the heavens before God knocked it down, or Ezekiel wrestling with the angel. They're things half understood, or entirely misunderstood, or created whole cloth out of a need to establish order in the world. For whatever reason, men and Immortals are the only creatures on this earth who deliberately choose to fight to the death, and as social, psychological creatures, we need a reason for that. Christianity and other monotheistic religions gave us a framework that could be used to explain it, right or wrong, and as more and more Immortals were born into Christianity, that was the model they were taught. Angels and devils, fighting God's eternal war, and in the end there can be only one."
"A myth," Joe said.
"Have you ever discussed this with MacLeod?" Amy asked.
"I thought I'd wait until he's able to be a bit more objective on the subject. Assuming we both live that long."
"That's why it doesn't matter if you believe in the Game or not," Amy said suddenly. "As long as the others do--"
"They'll keep coming around. There's no such thing as conscientious objector status in the Game, at least not at the moment. Maybe sometime in the future, though, attitudes will shift or the concept of a pre-ordained battle between good and evil will lose favor and we can go back to chopping each other's heads off the more ordinary reasons. Maybe enough Immortals of Nick's generation will find the whole idea so ludicrous, or so outside their normal frame of reference, that they simply won't believe in it either." He grinned. "Of course, it's a bit like reincarnation--if it is true, it's going to happen whether you believe it in or not. Oh, and that reminds me, Nick." He waited until his student met his eyes. "Rule number four. If your head comes away from your neck, it's all over, regardless of what you believe."

Chapter Six

Half a block down from Le Blues Bar Deux, Dr. Amy Zoll pulled her car into the access alley just behind the businesses lining Rue Oberkampf. Parking far enough away from the rear doors that she wouldn't interfere with any deliveries, she locked the car door and then backtracked, passing several inexpensive bars and small clubs before reaching Joe's front door.
"Hi, Joe," she greeted him. Unlike most of its neighbors, the kitchen at Le Blues Bar Deux did a small lunchtime business, but not so much that the owner couldn't afford ten minutes with a friend or colleague who happened to show up. The result this particular day was that Zoll didn't feel bad about dropping in unannounced, although the look on Joe's face indicated she'd caught him by surprise. More a colleague than a friend, she was just back to work for the Watchers after a 60-day suspension without pay. That, of course, was the direct result of an ill-advised confrontation with Methos that had involved her in too much personal contact with the oldest Immortal for her superiors' comfort. Part of the Tribunal's official sanction had included two grade reductions in rank for Zoll as well, which meant she was now reporting to a supervisor on her work on the Methos Chronicles: Joe Dawson.
"Amy," Joe said. "Hey, I didn't expect to see you."
She smiled, waggling a manila folder at him. "I've got that material you asked for," she said. "You know, the literature search on that Roman numeral reference--"
Wondering how many ways there were to make an Immortal die a really ugly and painful death, Joe kept the smile fixed on his face as she slid the folder across the top of the bar to him. "Oh, yeah," Joe said. "Thanks. I'd almost forgotten." Methos was dead meat.
"It's a pretty archaic reference," she commented. "Fascinating sidelights, though." The only customers in the room were seated at a table twenty feet away, so she dropped her voice and added, "Your fax said it was in reference to the mortal who attacked Nick Wolfe? It's true then, that Nick's become Immortal?"
Joe nodded. Zoll standardly saw any reference that came in to the Watchers that even mentioned Adam Pierson or Methos, so there'd been no sense trying to conceal anything from her. And despite Joe's protests, the old man was right--Zoll had almost twenty years of experience as a researcher in addition to her formal training as an archaeologist and historian. If anyone could come up with what LXX meant, she was the one, despite Joe's reluctance to involve her with one of Methos' little projects.
"And Methos has taken Nick on as a student?"
"Yeah."
"Why would he do that?" Zoll asked, and a grin tugged Joe's lips apart.
Amy Zoll had been Adam Pierson's nominal supervisor when he'd been attached to the Watchers. After "Pierson's" resignation from the Watchers it had been Zoll who had compiled all the bits and pieces of data and innuendo that had resulted in the Watchers identifying Pierson not just as an Immortal, but as Methos himself. Initially, Zoll had been both angry and humiliated--imagine working for three years with a man who turned out to be the actual object of your investigation. It had resulted in a convert's zeal, concealing at least in part the fury she felt over the fact that she'd worked side by side with him without ever suspecting a thing. Her first brush with Pierson as Methos himself had left her shaken and a bit scarred, but her continued fascination was predictable. There was a reason, after all, that Watchers watched.
Joe shrugged. "To tell the truth," he said, "at first I thought he took Nick on to annoy Amanda more than anything, but they seem to be getting along well enough. You know there's a second apartment at Methos' place?" he asked, and she nodded. "Nick's moved in and they've converted the living area into a sort of gymnasium. He's started learning sword fighting," he added, grinning. "He ends up on his rump regularly, but he keeps getting up. As a side-effect, Methos appears to be getting into better fighting shape, too. They've been at it for about a week and a half now."
Amy shook her head. "I'd have never thought it," she admitted. "And he's left the university?"
"Resigned at the end of the semester. I gather they offered him a leave of absence, but he turned it down. He told me he was bored with academic life."
"Well, it isn't as if he needs the money," she commented. "Is he getting ready to fly the coop?"
Joe hesitated. "I thought so for awhile," he said, "but with a new Immortal in tow and Duncan MacLeod still missing it seems unlikely."
"He put the barge in dry dock."
"I know." Which reminded him: There was a twenty-seven hundred year old Chinese bowl sitting in his safe.
Zoll shook her head. "Okay," she said. "Let me know if you need anything else. Mind if I go out the back?" she asked. "I parked in the alley."
"I'll walk you out," Joe said.
The manila folder in one hand, he watched from the rear door as Zoll crossed to her car and then waved good-bye to him before sliding into the driver's seat. He had closed and locked the rear door when there was a sound of a vehicle moving rapidly down the alley, gravel shifting and crunching beneath the tires. There was a metallic crash and then Amy Zoll's scream reached him as Joe fumbled with the door's lock. He jerked the back door open just in time to see her car door wide open and two men dragging her toward the open back door of a silver Land Rover, a driver at its wheel.
"Amy!" Joe shouted. His hand gun was locked in the safe, under the bar, a room away and out of reach, and a cane hardly counted against two men half his age. Helpless, he watched as Zoll was shoved into the back seat, the door slammed shut, and the silver SUV backed up and then sped forward, sideswiping the left front fender of Amy's car and jarring the car enough to make its open front door bounce on the hinges. "Amy!" Joe shouted again. The best he could hope for was a glimpse of the rear license plate as he made his way into the alley and the Land Rover swung sharply right, headed up the access alley that would let it onto Rue Oberkampf and the more heavily trafficked streets of downtown Paris.
The second crash of metal into metal surprised him, but no more so than the third. Other people were appearing here and there as the few daytime employees of the other clubs along the road stepped out into the alley as well now, curious at the noise. By the time Joe had limped from his back door to the elbow-bend in the alley way that led to Oberkampf, there were half a dozen people gathered, including Joe's own lunch time patrons. Stunned, Joe realized that Amy Zoll's would-be kidnappers had run into Methos' Range Rover in the alley, and then gone on to jump the sidewalk on Oberkampf, where they'd crashed into the front passenger-side door of Amy Thomas' blue Sunbeam wagon.
What Joe had missed was the three kidnappers shoving Amy Zoll out of the car as they spilled from it to flee on foot after colliding with the second car, and Nick Wolfe throwing himself out of the passenger's seat of Methos' SUV, gun in hand, ready to charge after the three until Methos' shouted "Nick! No!" stopped him in his tracks and left him pacing at the mouth of the alley way, both furious and frustrated as the kidnappers got away. By the time Joe made it to the sidewalk in front of the club it was pretty much over. Amy Zoll half stood and half slumped against the front of the club, gasping into her cupped hands. Rational thought finally kicked in and Joe realized belatedly she was crying and hyperventilating out of fear. The fact that Methos stood with his arms wrapped around Amy Thomas' trembling shoulders didn't even ring a bell until Methos kissed her gently on the forehead and led her out of the street and toward the club.
Joe stood there for a moment, only half aware that Nick Wolfe had collected the car keys from the two--no, three--abandoned cars, pocketed them, and was busy assuring the bystanders they'd call the police.  "Joe?" Nick said.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Joe said automatically, staring at the kidnappers' abandoned vehicle. He realized he still had Amy Zoll's manila folder gripped in one hand and made a conscious effort to lessen his grip on it. Still numb, he walked into Le Blues Club Deux through the front door, following Nick and Amy Zoll, who in turn followed Methos and Amy Thomas. Joe snorted, realizing his lunch time customers had disappeared--not that he could exactly blame them--and that he could already hear the multi-tonal blare of a French police siren headed their direction.
Amy Zoll had collapsed into a chair, and Methos had apparently seated Amy Thomas as well. He'd pulled a chair up so he could face her, watching her intently, hazel eyes never leaving her face, taking her hands in his when she reached for him, his voice too quiet to be heard by the others. Huh. Talk about a fascinating sidelight. On a more prosaic level, Nick was playing bartender, bringing Amy Zoll a tumbler full of water. Why did people always offer you water in an upsetting situation, anyway? It wasn't as it if helped any.
"Hey!" Joe snapped. It came out more irritably than he'd intended, but at least it got Methos' attention. "Does someone want to tell me what the hell just happened out there?"
"You got me," Nick Wolfe said. "We were just pulling in the alley when the other car came barreling around the corner and headed right for us. Methos threw the car far enough to the right that they didn't do much damage, but the next thing I knew they were going over the sidewalk. By that time we'd recognized Amy Zoll in the back seat, and Amy--our Amy--was driving right into their path."
"You did that on purpose?" Joe demanded.
"Well, yeah--" his daughter stammered.
"And I suppose you've never even heard the words 'observe and record'?"
"Joe," Methos objected gently.
"You can stay the hell out of this," Joe informed him point blank.
God, talk about lousy timing. He came up out of his chair, forcing himself to remain calm. "How can I stay out of it when I'm the one she's observing and recording?" he demanded. "I'm already involved."
"This wouldn't have happened if you had done what I asked just once in your lousy life," Joe said. He threw the mangled manila folder down on the table next to Methos, who looked down at it, only then realizing what Joe was talking about.
"Joe," Methos said.
"Uh uh. I asked you to leave Amy Zoll out of this but you couldn't even respect a simple request--"
"Request?" Methos echoed. "You didn't request anything," Methos reminded him. "You sounded more like Moses presenting the children of Israel with the damned ten commandments--"
"None of which you seem capable of obeying--"
"Oh, please," Methos snapped. "I don't even remember the last time I owned a golden calf."
"Excuse me?" Sounding understandably confused, Amy Zoll looked first at Amy Thomas and then Nick Wolfe for clarification. "I seem to have come in on the second act," she commented. "Nick?"
Nick held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Don't ask me," he said. Amy Thomas was sitting upright in the chair Methos had pulled out for her, her face a play of emotions. She didn't seem to have made up her mind yet, but Nick was betting she'd settle on anger once she could get a word in edgeways.
"You want to know what this is all about?" Joe asked. "I'll tell you what it's about. I didn't ask for the research material. Methos did. How'd you do it, Methos? Did you send her a fax from my machine, maybe forge my name while you were at it? That would be about your style, wouldn't it?" He turned to Zoll. "The week and a half you spent digging through historical and religious esoterica was spent working for him, in violation of your oath," he said. "And on top of that he nearly gets Amy killed--"
"Oh, now, that's enough!" Methos said. "I did not--"
"Would you please, both of you, just stop it!" Amy Thomas snapped. "Joe, you know perfectly well Methos had nothing to do with what happened out there. And you're the one who said you have to do more than just watch!"
"Not when it means putting your life in danger!" Joe and Methos chorused, predictably if abruptly finding themselves on the same side of the argument.
The silence was broken by Nick Wolfe's failure to control the laughter he'd been attempting to smother and the arrival of two uniformed officers from the Paris traffic division, a fact Nick was grateful for, given the dirty look Methos turned his direction. As described by Joe Dawson, Amy Zoll, Nick Wolfe and Amy Thomas, it took some time for the exact details of the kidnapping-cum-car accident to be resolved into a single coherent narrative--a narrative Nick noticed was conspicuously absent Methos' voice. Once the details had been sorted out, however, one of the uniformed officers radioed for a detective, and in all too short a time Police Inspector LeBrun was walking through the door to Le Blues Bar Deux as Methos leaned both elbows back against the bar, asking, "Doing traffic detail these days, Inspector?"
Oh, crap, Nick Wolfe thought. The Inspector's presence in the room reminded him rather suddenly of a certain headless body, stuffed into a wood box about a week and a half ago, and that was something he'd just as soon not be reminded of. Curiously enough, despite detailed attention to the daily newspaper and a variety of news sources since then, there'd been no indication that anything had ever come of that little escapade. Methos' silence on the matter Nick had taken as a matter of course. But LeBrun's presence was another matter.
"Ah, Monsieur Pierson," LeBrun acknowledged, sparing Nick a smile. "Traffic detail? Non. But a kidnapping attempt? Yes. Now, please--one at a time, beginning, I think, with Monsieur Dawson."
Joe glanced at Amy Zoll. "Well, it was the end of the lunchtime trade. Dr. Zoll had come in for a bite to eat. She'd parked out back, and asked me to let her out the back door. I walked her out, watched her unlock the car door, and then I closed and locked the back door to the kitchen. A minute later I heard her scream, but I couldn't get the door open quickly enough to do anything about it—"
Zoll nodded. "I had just gotten into the car and put the keys in the ignition," she said. "I was facing . . . west. There was a car coming toward me--not fast at first, but then it accelerated. The driver remained behind the wheel. Two men jumped out of the back seat and pulled me out of my car and shoved me into the other car. One of them put his hand over my mouth and held me--" She swallowed her automatic reaction at the memory and glanced at the others. "They turned south, headed for the street, but M--Mr. Pierson's car was in the way."
"We'd just pulled into the alley," Methos said, "and here's this car, barreling down on us with no sign of stopping. We barely had time to recognize Dr. Zoll in the back seat and realize she wasn't happy to be there. The driver of the other car turned the wheel right--to his right, that is--and went up on the sidewalk." He shrugged. "Miss Thomas was just coming down the street and they ran into her car."
"Miss Thomas?"
Amy nodded. "They hit my car, bashed in the passenger-side door, and then ran off," she said.
"And why would someone try to kidnap you?" LeBrun asked.
"I don't know," Zoll replied. "It makes absolutely no sense."
"The only thing I can imagine is that they thought you had the Chinese bowl on you," Methos said.
"Chinese bowl?" LeBrun asked.
Yeah, Zoll thought, staring at Methos as if he were a magician she sincerely hoped could pull a rabbit out of his hat. What Chinese bowl?
Methos stepped behind the bar and calmly opened Joe's safe, pulling out the Chinese bowl he'd picked up at MacLeod's barge. "I'd asked Dr. Zoll to do an appraisal on an antique for me," he said. "Joe had it stored in his safe." He set the bowl down on the bar, adding, "It's really quite a nice piece."
"Valuable?" LeBrun asked, looking at Dr. Zoll.
Amy swallowed. It was gorgeous. "Seventh or eight century B.C.," she said, her eyes moving from the bowl to Methos and then back again. "If it's genuine, yes, it's quite valuable." And, on the surface at least, it was more than enough reason for attempted theft or even kidnapping.
"But you didn't have the bowl on you," LeBrun summarized.
"No," Joe said. His gaze wavered between LeBrun and Methos. "I'd forgotten to have her take it with her."
"Apparently a fortunate oversight on your part," LeBrun commented. "Can anyone have expected you to be transporting it?" he asked Zoll.
"Well, we were discussing it quite openly the other day, weren't we, Joe?" Methos said. "Anyone might have overheard us."
No one contradicted him, and LeBrun nodded in the face of their continued silence. "I see," the Inspector said. "Let me suggest, then, that a police escort might be the wisest course. Assuming, that is, Dr. Zoll, that you still intend to transport this bowl to--um--"
"The National Museum of Antiquities," Methos said.
"Yes, of course," Zoll said, not even surprised to hear herself agreeing. She was looking for some sign from Joe Dawson, even for the briefest moment, but his expressionless face gave her no clue what was going on behind those ever intelligent eyes. She'd even arrange for the damned appraisal, if that was what it took. It seemed a fair enough trade for the neat little illusion Methos had just effortlessly created for the Inspector's and--she had no doubt--his own entertainment. An illusion that, with luck, would prevent a very real investigation into things like Watchers and people who lived forever if you didn't cut off their heads, and the variety of entanglements said individuals might conceivably get themselves into if they weren't careful. In fact, she thought, given that she was sworn to maintain the secrecy of the Watchers' very existence, you could almost say it was in the best interests of her oath to go along with Methos' little game, at least in this case. Another glance in Joe Dawson's direction told her she'd do better not to pursue that particular question too far. Was this what he meant, she wondered, when he'd cautioned her some months ago against looking a gift Immortal in the mouth?

Chapter Seven

"What the hell just happened here?" Nick Wolfe asked sotto voce ten minutes later. They were standing together on the sidewalk outside of Joe's bar, having ascertained that their cars needed body work but were all still operable, and were watching the police tow truck maneuver its way to the curb to haul away the kidnappers' abandoned car, which LeBrun had assured them would undergo a thorough forensics investigation. Amy Zoll had opted to leave her car parked out back with Joe's permission, and Inspector LeBrun had volunteered to drive her--and the Chinese bowl--to the National Museum of Antiquities, where it could be properly appraised.
Joe Dawson made a sound half way between disgust and amusement. "I'll tell you what just happened here," he said, watching LeBrun's car disappear up Rue Oberkampf. "The Ancient One here just pulled a fast one on me, the cops, and Amy Zoll, and we all have to just stand here and smile while he manipulates things to suit himself. That's what just happened here." Shaking his head, Joe turned back to the bar and headed inside, followed by the others.
"What'd you do with the folder, Methos?" Joe asked wearily, and Methos produced it from inside his coat.
"You didn't want me to leave it out where LeBrun would see it, did you?" he asked, and Joe just shook his head.
"You'd think I'd know better by now, wouldn't you?" Joe asked.
"Oh, come on, Joe," Methos said. "You know you were going to give in eventually."
"Nick? Amy? Anything to drink?" Joe cut Methos off with a wave of his hand before he could speak. "I know what you want," he informed him. "I'm talking to the paying customers here."
A few minutes later they were seated around a table together, sorting through the pages in the folder Zoll had brought. Joe sighed, reading aloud. "References to 'seventy' are almost exclusively biblical or religious in nature. Old Testament references include Exodus 24, Numbers 11, and Ezekiel 8. There is also the tradition of referring to the Greek translation of the Old Testament as the Septuagint, which translates to 'seventy,' a reference to the Jewish belief that it was made in seventy days by 72 elders from Jerusalem. The 'seventy' are also referred to in Luke, in the New Testament. As in modern Christian churches that use the term, it usually refers to men who are members of an elect priesthood, called to serve as missionaries and/or preachers." He looked at Nick. "So your friend from the other night was a preacher?"
"A preacher with a very long sword," Nick muttered.
"There were seventy elders of Israel who went up with Moses, Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu and saw the God of Israel," Methos mused.
"I take it this was God with a capital 'G'?" Amy asked.
Methos nodded. "The Hebrews' general administrative officers were also appointed in groups of seventy."
"Any tie between 'seventy' and 'lucky seven'?" Joe asked.
"Not for Nick there wasn't," Amy commented.
"The seventy were priests and prophets in ancient Israel," Methos said. "Luke wrote that the devils themselves were subject to them, and that their names were written in heaven."
"There's this," Joe said, scanning the sheet of paper. " ' . . . the Lord appointed other seventy also, and sent them two and two before his face into every city and place . . . ' " He paused, glancing at Nick. "Does that mean what I think it means?"
"What?" Nick asked.
"They travel in twos," Methos said. "Your attacker has a friend out there somewhere."
"Oh, well, that's good to know." Nick rolled his eyes. "What's this?"
Methos caught the photocopy Nick flicked his direction and studied it for a long moment. "The Angels of St. John," he said, reading Zoll's printing on the back. It was a line drawing, an artist's rendering of a medal of some sort, rough-edged and not perfectly circular, indicative of its great age. The medal showed a barefooted man with a halo and an old-fashioned monk's fringe of hair being borne up into the clouds by angels. A multitude of sword-bearing angels surrounded them, apparently guarding the saint. "But what it has to do with--" Oh. Of course. Zoll had included an enlargement of the first photocopy. In the close up you could just make it out. LXX, LXX, LXX, LXX, over and over again around the outside of the saint's halo. From the look of the photocopy, Zoll had had to enlarge the image several times even to make it show up.
"John the Baptist?" Joe asked.
"John the Beloved," Methos said. "Also called John the Revelator."
"The guy who wrote the book of Revelation," Nick said.
Methos nodded. "Look closely at the enlargement of the halo."
"LXX," Joe said.
"Angels with swords?" Nick asked.
"There's a fairly modern theory--"
"Define 'modern,' " Amy interrupted, and Methos grinned, ducking his head slightly.
"Mid- to late-1960s," he said. "About the time the translation began in earnest on the Dead Sea Scrolls."
"Okay," she said. "Go on."
The smile lingered as he said, "The theory holds that a number of words in the King James Bible actually represent other things that were mutually understood by the original authors and their intended audience--the ancient Jews, that is."
"They wrote in code?" Joe asked.
"Essentially. The Dead Sea Scrolls were written by the Essenes and pre-date what you're used to thinking of as the Bible by hundreds of years. When they used the word Kittim--originally used to designate the Chaldeans--they're supposed to have meant the Romans. Since the Jews were under Roman rule you can see where it wouldn't have been safe or politically correct to criticize them openly, so the use of a code would have permitted a certain . . . liberty . . . that would have been lacking otherwise. The word Babylon was also supposedly substituted for Rome. Anyone who was in the know understood that they were reading a contemporary commentary about Rome, but someone who didn't know the code would simply think they were reading an historical commentary about the Babylonians."
"So?"
"So some of the oldest known writings in the world have been found at Qumran, among them the Essenes' Angelic Liturgy. It's essentially a list of coded definitions and pseudonyms, which would at least appear to support the theory of a word substitution code. 'The Word of God' was the code for the man who came to be called Jesus Christ. 'The lion' was code for the Roman Emperor. 'The poor' was code for the highest priesthood members, who were obligated to consecrate their worldly goods to the community as a whole."
"So, when the Bible says 'the poor shall always be with us,' it means we'll always have the priesthood of God with us?" Amy was frowning.
"At least according to this theory," Methos agreed. " 'Angels' were priesthood holders whose responsibilities included acting as bodyguards for the highest officers of the community."
"And bodyguards could reasonably be expected to carry swords in that day and age," Nick said.
"There's a scripture," Methos said. " '. . . he that hath a purse, let him take it, and likewise his script: And he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment, and buy one.' Luke something or other--"
"Chapter twenty-two, verse thirty six," Joe said. He laughed at the look Nick shot him. "Hey," he said with a shrug. "It's one of the Watchers' favorites."
"And John the Beloved?" asked Nick.
Methos shook his head. "Heathen.  Didn't you ever go to Sunday School?"
"Only when they could catch me," Nick admitted with a grin. "Okay, okay--I know he was one of the twelve apostles, and in the picture of the last supper he's the one on Jesus' right hand. And when Jesus was on the cross he asked John the Beloved to look after Mary."
"Remind me to have you read the Bible as part of your training," Methos said. "The scriptures describe John as one of two sons of Zebedee, whose designation among the Essenes was 'Lightning.' Jesus called John the Beloved 'Boanerges,' though, which is Greek for 'the son of thunder,' another designation the Essenes used for their highest priests. There's a spot in the scriptures that says something about the Lord of Hosts being received upon the mountain with thunder and lightening. If you buy the word substitution theory, it means that the highest priests of the Essene order saw God.
"At the time of Christ, 'Thunder' referred to Jonathan Annas, the High Priest of the Sadducees. 'Thunder' and 'Lightning'--Annas and Zebedee--were two of the highest ranking priests in the community, so whether John was Zebedee's son or the son of Annas, he would have been part of a powerful and influential family. And even if he wasn't Annas' son by blood, the designation 'son of Thunder' might have indicated he was part of the priesthood line that was headed by 'Thunder,' in which case John was designated as an heir to one of the most powerful offices among the Essenes." A look at Nick's face showed he was losing him, so Methos did a quick backtrack. "You've heard of Annas and Caiaphas, haven't you?" he asked. "The two high priests Judas went to when he betrayed Christ?"
"Sure," Nick said. "The guys who paid him thirty pieces of silver."
"The very same," Methos agreed.
"That Annas?" Nick asked. "Jesus was betrayed by the father of one of his disciples?"
"Assuming Annas was John's father. Remember, the Bible says Zebedee was his father. It's the Essene code words that complicate things."
"I've got a question for you," Joe said quietly. He waited for Methos to look at him. "You've said 'is,' 'was generally believed to have been,' and 'could indicate.' Exactly how well did you know these people?"
"Not all that well. I wasn't a member of the Essene community, if that's what you're thinking, but I was living in the general area. I'd been permitted to study in lesser of the Essene libraries."
"So you at least met them."
"Some of them."
"Uh huh. Including Jesus Christ."
"Once," Methos said.
"Uh huh." Joe looked skeptical.
"Hey--you asked, I answered."
"You met Jesus?" Amy said.
"Look, we're getting sidetracked--"
"Oh, come on!" Nick said. "You can't claim to have met Jesus Christ and expect us not to ask questions about it!"
"All right, all right," Methos conceded. "Ask your questions."
There was an abrupt silence around the table.
"So . . . was he?" Nick asked.
"Was he what?"
"Was he the son of God?" Amy asked.
"He didn't say."
"Damn it, Methos!" It was Joe, agitated.
"Hey!" Methos snapped back at him. "Don't jump down my throat--you asked and I answered. I am not the font of all knowledge, and I don't have the answer to any personal religious crises you may be experiencing, okay? I saw him one time, in Bethany, and from a distance. I'd been studying in the chief libraries in Jerusalem, and had been invited to stay at the home of Syrus Jarius--he was the chief priest at the synagogue in Capernaum and rich as Midas." He smiled just a bit, adding, "I think the old dog hoped to convert me, but since it was the finest offer of hospitality I'd had in over a year I didn't care--"
"Bethany," Joe said.
Methos nodded. "Right."
"You're telling me you saw Lazarus raised from the dead," Joe said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm telling you what happened. You can draw your own conclusions." He drew a deep breath. "Lazarus was Jarius' son--twenty-five years old, strong, generous, intelligent, everything a father hopes for. They were devastated when he died, absolutely distraught. Four days later the family went out with a crowd to greet Jesus and I went along out of curiosity. I'd been hearing stories of his miracles, just like everyone else, and I knew Jarius' children were devoted to him. They'd told me that Jesus and Lazarus had been friends since they were boys, and they stopped at Lazarus' grave so he could have a few minutes there. The older of the two daughters had been inconsolable since Lazarus died four days before, and she said something about Lazarus not dying if only Jesus had been there to prevent it. I took it for the ravings of a grieving woman.
"And then he looked at me, and I could tell he knew who and what I was. He was mortal, Joe--at least he was at that moment--but he could sense me. In three thousand years I'd never encountered a mortal who could tell who and what I was just by looking at me, and I haven't encountered it since."
"What about Lazarus?" Joe asked quietly.
Methos nodded and ran his hand through his short cropped hair. "Okay," he said. "We were at the gravesite. It was . . .  just a cave, with a stone rolled across the mouth to keep out animals that might have spoiled the body. Lazarus' sisters were sobbing." Methos sighed, shaking his head. "Jesus pointed to the stone, and told some of the men to roll it away. When they moved the stone you could smell the rot, Joe. Four days dead in one hundred degree heat--Lazarus was dead when Jesus stepped inside that cave, I'll swear it. And when he walked out, Lazarus was well, and whole, and alive, and standing there beside him."
"It wasn't a coma?" Amy asked.
"No. After 5,000 years I know dead when I see it, and Lazarus was dead when they buried him."
"And you're sure he wasn't just an Immortal, slow to revive after his first death?"
"He wasn't any kind of an Immortal, slow to revive or not," Methos replied. "He was mortal and he was dead. And then he was brought back to life. To mortal life, by the way."
"He raised the dead," Joe said.
"I don't know for sure what he did," Methos said. "I just know what I saw."
"And John the Beloved?" Nick asked. He lifted the photocopy of the medal of St. John and the angels from the table to wave it at his teacher.
Methos took the photocopy from him. "This? This is another story altogether, because John the Beloved was an Immortal."
"Now that I could have guessed," muttered Joe Dawson.
"How?" Nick demanded.
"Easy," Joe said. "Christ promised that John the Beloved would remain alive on the earth until the second coming."
Nick stared at Joe. "So, what's the big deal?" he asked. "I mean, no offense, but the guy's an Immortal, right? And Christ told him he'd remain alive until the second coming? It doesn't seem that much of a stretch to me."
"Look at it this way," Methos said. "We're Immortals, and neither of us has the same promise."
"So . . . you're saying this was--what? A prophecy? Or a blessing of some sort?"
"Of some sort."
Nick just sat there for a moment. "And what would happen to an Immortal who tried to take this guy's head?" he asked.
Methos shrugged. "God knows."
"Damn it, Methos, I hate it when you do that!" Nick exclaimed, shoving himself back from the table. "I can never tell if you're joking or not!"
"And you think the rest of us can?" Joe asked.
"Nick," Methos said, "I'm sorry, but you're asking me to answer a question I can't possibly be expected to know the answer to. Look--I keep trying to tell you people I'm just a guy, but you insist on seeing me as some all-knowing Machiavellian figure, and I'm really not. Yes, I'm damned good at thinking on my feet, and yes, given the opportunity I'm practiced at turning a situation to my own advantage, but I've had 5,000 years to practice! Beyond that I'm as much in the dark as anyone here."
"So what about these guys who came after Nick?" Amy asked.
"Mortals don't just attack Immortals without reason," Methos said. "The odds are too much against them. Even Hunters have a specified reason for coming after Immortals, illogical as it may seem. And we have to assume Nick's playmate from the other night knew he was Immortal--otherwise he got damned lucky and just happened to pick the one weapon that would do him any good, and that's too much coincidence for me. So what are we looking at?" He counted the points off one at a time on one hand. "One: A group exists that knows about the Immortals. They are not Watchers or Hunters, or at least we're assuming they're not--otherwise Zoll's research would have turned up a connection, and she'd have had no reason that I can think of to conceal the link from her own boss. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Joe said. Just a bit begrudgingly, he silently forgave Methos whatever subterfuge he'd used to guarantee full disclosure of the facts from Zoll. As much as Joe hated to admit it, there was usually a good reason for what Methos did, whether you liked it or not.
"Two: This group not only knows about Immortals, but they successfully identified at least one brand new Immortal within days, maybe even hours, of his first death. That means they have to have been watching Nick and/or Amanda independently, or through either Amanda's Watcher or what's his face's Watcher--Evan Peyton. They might even have originally been following either Amanda or Peyton and switched their sights to Nick since he's the easier target."
"Gee, thanks, teach."
"Just trying to keep you humble. Three: This group, which I, at least, have come to think of as the Septuagint, is somehow linked to St. John the Revelator, who, coincidentally or not, also happens to be an Immortal."
"What?" Amy said suddenly. "You think he's got his own private set of Watchers to keep track of other Immortals?"
"It's a possibility," Methos said, "even if it's not what I would expect."
"Granted that you haven't seen him in 2,000 years and people change," Joe threw in.
"Granted," Methos acknowledged, "but I just can't picture it--"
He was interrupted by the phone, which Joe moved around the bar to answer. "Oui? Le Blues Bar Deux." A pause while he listened to the caller, his eyes swinging up to meet Methos' across the room. "No, I'm sorry. He left, oh, well over half an hour ago. He was going to the Museum of Antiquities from here. No problem." Hanging up, he stood there a moment. "That was the French police," he said. "Inspector LeBrun was to have contacted them when he and Amy arrived at the Museum of Antiquities. He hasn't called in. Of course, it's only been, oh, about forty minutes ago."
"Try Zoll's phone," Methos said.
"We couldn't be that unlucky, could we?" Joe asked, punching in numbers.
"The way things have been going lately I'd rather know sooner than later."
Joe stood there, the phone to his ear. On the fourteenth ring he pressed the disconnect button. "Shit," he said.
In a way, that said it all.

Chapter Eight

Joe stood behind the bar, his left hand tense over the phone's receiver still, his right hand resting on the phone in a fist. "Okay," he said half to himself, and started punching in another of Paris' ten-digit phone numbers.
"Joe, wait," Methos said. His hand came down over the face of the telephone, interrupting the other man's attempt to dial out.
"What?" Joe snapped, irritated. Automatically he pulled the phone away, but Methos' hand came down on top of it, forcing it down, and clamped it tightly to the surface of the bar. It was no contest, really, and Joe knew it. To all appearances Methos was whipcord thin, but his hand wasn't budging if he didn't want it to. "Methos!"
"Just tell me who you're calling," Methos said reasonably.
"Who do you think?" Joe asked. "A Watcher has just been kidnapped. I'm calling the Paris office."
"Oh, no no no no no no--"
"Back off, Methos," Joe said. "You're not the only one involved here."
"Joe, listen to me." For all that the bar was between them, there was less than a foot separating the two. "Joe, please. Just give me a minute to work through--"
"There's nothing to work through," Joe said. "Two people have just been kidnapped. You do what you have to, and hopefully that will include some sense of responsibility to Amy Zoll, but I'm calling headquarters." Joe tugged at the phone and, no longer resisting, Methos let him pull it from under his hand.
"I wish you'd--"
"Forget it, Methos. Joe Dawson for Irene Fiedler. Yes, I'll hold." The last was said into the phone as the call was answered at Watcher Headquarters. There was a moment of silence as Nick and Amy exchanged a look; Methos shrugged when Amy looked at him; and then Joe's call was put through. "Irene--it's Joe. Thanks for speaking with me. There's . . . a bit of an emergency. I need to meet with you personally. Uh huh. Okay. At six."
"Joe, please," Methos said. Then, as Joe started to interrupt, "No--just listen to me. Please. That's all I'm asking. If you go to the Watchers with everything we've got, if they get territorial and go rushing in . . . Joe--there's no telling what's going to happen."
"And if I don't? What then, Methos? Tell me you've got a master plan ready. Tell me you anticipated the kidnapping of a Paris police detective and a Watcher you don't give a damn about."
"Joe--"
"Uh uh. The subject's closed." He put the phone back in its customary place on the shelf under the bar. "I don't doubt you'll get over it eventually."
Methos shook his head. "Okay," he said quietly. "Nick--"
The younger Immortal looked up, meeting his eyes, and Methos sighed.
"Time for your work out," Methos informed him. "And then I need a priest."
"A priest?" Amy echoed. "What do you need a priest for?"
"They say confession's good for the soul, don't they?" Methos asked.
"You're going to confession?" She couldn't have sounded more disbelieving if she'd tried.
He shrugged. "Why not?" he asked. He headed for the door, trailed by Nick.
"I didn't even know you were Catholic," Amy called after him. She turned from watching Methos and Nick disappear through the door to look at her father. "You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah." He smiled. "Hey--it's not the first time we've pissed each other off, you know."
And no doubt it won't be the last time, either.
Gathering her things, she wore an irresistible smile. "Confession," she mused. "Now this I've got to see."
"Be careful!" Joe called after her, and she waved from the door, grinning. Huh. Confession, my ass.

* * * * *

"Nick!" It was close to five when Father Liam Riley broke free from the group of gangly French teenagers he was playing basketball with and trotted across the cement toward the chain link fence enclosing the court.
"Hi, Liam," Nick replied. Not surprisingly, the mere sight of Liam made him smile. As gangly as the teenagers he was coaching, Liam was too thin, his tousled hair making him far too innocent-looking for him to ever be taken for an Immortal at first glance, but the moment Nick had spotted him he'd been able to sense the ring of presence Liam was projecting--had presumably always projected--and knew Methos had picked it up as well, quite possibly even before Nick had. Although the sense of Immortal presence was undetectable to any but another of his own kind, it reminded Nick of having your own secret handshake or being a member of a secret society--no, not a society, Nick corrected himself. That implied too much shared closeness to truly describe the relationships between the Immortals he'd met. The links between Immortals were too tenuous for them to be that, even if they did have their own shared culture and mythology. Or maybe they were a society, but it was a worldwide society, defined not by geography but by something else. Something that could get you killed if you weren't careful.
Liam had grabbed a white towel from one of the benches surrounding the fenced-in court, and he emerged wearing it over his shoulders almost as if it were part of his vestments. He squeezed Nick's shoulder as soon as they came close enough, simultaneously looking with curiosity at Methos, a stranger to him, but obviously someone accepted without reservation by Nick. "Who's your friend?" Liam asked.
"Adam Pierson," Methos replied easily. He and Liam shook hands.
"Adam," Liam echoed. "Like the Ancient of Days."
Something like that, Nick thought. "Liam, have you seen Amanda?" he asked.
Liam nodded. "D'you mind if we walk?" he asked, nodding toward the basketball game, still going on. "I don't want to stand still and get chilled." They turned their backs on the game and strolled across the parking lot and grass at a leisurely pace, letting Liam lead the way to the tiny apartment that was his in the residential wing of the church. He left them sitting one on the edge of his bed and one in the room's only guest chair while he washed up in the bathroom, talking with them through the half open door.
"Amanda came by, oh, a bit more than a week ago," he told them. "She told me what had happened between you, said you'd found a teacher. Nick, she's quite upset about things, you know. You ought to talk to her at least."
"She killed me, Liam," Nick said.
"Yes, and if she hadn't, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Liam said.
"Besides," Methos added. "You're not upset because she killed you. You're upset because she didn't tell you what you were." The quiet interjection stopped Nick in his tracks, but Liam merely nodded, as if it, too, made perfect sense.
"You didn't tell me you knew Sigmund Freud," Nick snapped.
"There are a lot of things I haven't told you, Nick. Or anyone else, for that matter."
Liam knew better than to interfere between student and teacher, but he found himself nodding nonetheless. "He's right," Nick," he said. "You can't blame Amanda for not telling you that you were Immortal. If you're going to do that, you might just as well blame me. Mortal life is a precious thing. Too precious to be tainted by the anticipation or dread of what you might become. Just as Immortal life is too precious a gift to be tainted by the regret of what's been lost or left behind." He rung out the washcloth he'd used for his sink bath and tossed it over the shower bar, emerging from the bathroom smelling of soap and feeling quite a bit better. Crossing to the chest of drawers, he pulled out a long sleeved shirt and put it on, buttoning it up as he glanced in the mirror, running a hand negligently through his hair. As long as he didn't look like he'd embarrass the Diocese, appearance was not his top priority.
"So," he said. "Not that I'm not glad to see you for its own sake, but what can I do for you?"
"What do you know about the Order of the Angels of Saint John?" Methos asked.
Liam's right eyebrow canted upward, the surprise plain on his face. "It's not a subject that comes up with any regularity," he said, "but as an Immortal I have an understandable curiosity about them. I have to tell you, though, they're anathema in the formal structure of the Church. Their doctrines were unorthodox to begin with, and they were declared heresy in the Fourth Century A.D. All the members of the Order were excommunicated."
"The Church doesn't consider the protection of St. John the Beloved a priority?" Methos asked.
"The Church recognizes the fact that St. John the Beloved is under the protection of God and needs no earthly bodyguards," Liam said. "Especially bodyguards who are, shall we say, a bit overzealous in the pursuit of what they perceive as their duty."
"But they exist as an organization in modern times." It wasn't a question.
"Oh, yes, but entirely outside of the Church, and with the severest sanctions against them. They're made up exclusively of men who are direct descendants from the original Seventy, following the male lines only. Rather sexist by today's standards, of course, but there you have it. You know that's what they call themselves? The Seventy, I mean? The current term is actually Septaguent--sep, taj, you, went--it's a corruption of the Greek--"
"Septuagint, yes, we know. What do you mean 'overzealous'?"
"Well, you have to take the oldest stories with a grain of salt, of course, but there are statements from witnesses, defectors, I suppose, who claimed that the Order practiced human sacrifice."
"To what end?" Methos asked, and Liam burst out laughing.
"No, no, I'm sorry," he apologized. "It's just that, usually, when you mention human sacrifice, people don't ask 'to what end?' In the current vernacular the reaction I expected was something along the lines of 'gross,' or 'you're kidding.' As a matter of fact, though, your question is right on point. My best guess is that they sacrificed an outsider whenever one of the original male ancestral lines died out. The new member's line was 'sanctified' like the original seventy, through the rite. Think of it as sort of a blood initiation--"
"Or literally as a blood initiation," Methos said.
"Well, yes," Liam said, "I suppose that makes sense."
"And how is the sacrifice accomplished?"
"Well, they beheaded--" Liam stopped cold, realizing Methos had used the present tense. "Wait a minute," he said. "You're not telling me you've encountered them recently? Here in Paris?"
"One came after Nick just after he'd had his first death," Methos said. "Which leads to my next question: Is there any chance that they're not sacrificing mortals, but Immortals?"
"I--" Liam hesitated, staring at him as the thought sank in. "There's an old book," he said finally. "Come with me."
He led them out of the small residential quarters, outside, and then up a flight of stairs to a door that required a key. "We have a small library of sorts," he told them. "I was actually rather surprised to learn we had a copy of the history of the Order. It's a secular text, of course, and no doubt a copy of a copy of a copy, so I can't vouch for its veracity, but it is fascinating." He pushed the door open and flipped on the overhead light, leading them inside. It took him a few minutes to find the book he was looking for, but he handed it over to Methos willingly enough.
"Assuming they're mortals," Nick said, "how do they know when they've got an Immortal?"
Methos shrugged, flipping through the pages of the book. "There are only three ways to tell," he said. "The easiest way is to have someone in your number who happens to be an Immortal and is able to identify other Immortals for you. Alternately, they could have identified Immortals generations ago and maintained histories to the present day so they can be easily traced. They might even know their locations as a matter of course. Or--" He paused, staring at one of the pages of hand-drawn pictures in the book.
"Or what?" Liam asked.
"Or," Methos said slowly, "you kill anyone you suspect and wait to see if they revive or not."
"And if they revive you behead them?" Nick asked.
Methos nodded.
"You really think they're killing Immortals?" Liam asked. Then, abruptly, his face changed and he said, "Oh, God, of course. The Septaguent was given power over the devils themselves. What would seem more demonic than someone who returned to life after you killed them? It must seem to violate every natural law they know." He shook his head and crossed himself.
"But Saint John's an Immortal," Nick said.
"No," Liam said, and behind the priest's back Methos shook his head minutely. The message to Nick was clear: Don't contradict a good man's beliefs. "Saint John was granted immortality by Christ," Liam argued. "Our immortality would seem a mockery of everything they hold sacred."
Methos handed Nick the book he'd been leafing through, held open at a page of line drawings, and Liam looked over his shoulder, scanning the page as well. Uncertain what he was supposed to be looking for, Nick recognized it as a detailed drawing from a stained glass window. In one of the frames, two angels bearing swords stood over a kneeling figure. Jagged lines radiating out from the figure were either solder joints to hold the mosaic together, or representations of the crackling lightning that accompanied a Quickening.
"You said their rites had been declared heresy and they were cut off from the Church," Methos said to Liam. "Does that mean their names were blotted out as well?"
Liam nodded. "Blotted out in the Book of Life," he said.
"Yet their names were written in heaven," Methos mused.
"So where's heaven?" Nick asked, and Methos grinned.
"Good question," he said. "Originally it had to be Qumran--"
"How old are you anyway?" Liam exclaimed
"Old enough to know better," Methos responded. "Stay with me now, Nick, this is important. Where would heaven be after Qumran was destroyed in the Second Jewish Revolt and the Essenes' view of the world failed to come to pass?"
"Rome?" Nick hazarded.
Methos shook his head. "No. Rome was the enemy originally." He smiled slightly at Liam. "By the time Rome became a true seat of religious power the members of the Septaguent were well on their way to excommunication."
"Chartres," Liam said suddenly, and Methos looked at him.
"Why?"
"The Cathedral sits on land believed to have been sacred long before the time of Christ, and we know that France--modern day France--was one of the most receptive areas for the gospel after the Crucifixion. The original altar at Chartres was built above the Grotto of the Druids, which was called the 'Womb of the Earth'--the equivalent of the inner room or the Holy of Holies in the ancient temple." He tapped one finger on the open pages of the book, grinning. "And unless I miss my guess, the window shown here is part of a larger edifice that still survives from the Chartres Cathedral."
"On holy ground," Methos said.
"Well, it makes sense that heaven would be on holy ground," Nick said. "Doesn't it?"
"But your attacker chased you off holy ground. You said he seemed to have no respect for your being on holy ground."
"No," Liam interrupted. "If that's what happened, I think you're misinterpreting it. Remember, we said part of the Septaguent's legend is that they have authority over the devils themselves. If they see Immortals as devils, they're not likely to invite them onto holy ground--"
"--or tolerate them being there, or have much remorse over killing them," Methos concluded. "All right, so not the cathedral itself, but somewhere near by, close enough to be convenient." He paused, thinking. "The cathedral's made partially of limestone, isn't it?"
Liam nodded. "Yes, from quarries south of the town."
"And that means there are tunnels and carved archways underground to stabilize the ground it's built on."
"Probably hundreds of them," Liam agreed. "Chartres has been partially destroyed by fire several times over the centuries. Every time it was rebuilt the architects would have added more tunnels. It should be a regular warren by now, much like the catacombs beneath Paris."
"And leading who knows where," Methos said. "I suppose a map would be too much to hope for."
"I'm afraid so," Liam said. "But even if they existed, they'd likely be more representational than accurate."
Methos nodded, glancing at his student. "All right," he said. "We appear to be boring young Nick to death here--"
"Oh, no, not at all," Nick objected. "Who am I to question it if you two think a discussion of medieval architecture has significance--"
Chuckling, Methos shook his head. "Everything has significance, Nick," he teased. "The trick is learning to see the significance in what lies before you. You were a cop. You should know that. Thank you, Liam," he added. "I appreciate your help."
"And you'll let me know how things work out," Liam said, prompting the others to nod. He walked them to the parking lot and stood with Nick while Methos unlocked the Range Rover. "And don't you go forgetting about your Immortal soul," Liam told Nick. "Confession is good for us, too, you know."
"Hey, yeah," Nick said. Spotting the perfect way to deflect Liam's scolding onto Methos, he said, "You said you were going to confession."
Liam turned, his look one of amusement.
Methos climbed into the driver's seat of the SUV. "I lied," he said.
Deadpan, Liam nodded. "I don't usually receive confession in the parking lot," he said, "but with Immortals I take what I can get. Say ten Hail Marys and try not to do it again."

Chapter Nine

St. Julien le Pauvre church was sandwiched between three streets and the Seine in the Latin Quarter, just south of Pont au Double. Joe knew the area well, partly because it had been one of Duncan MacLeod's regular haunts before Darius was killed by Hunters. More than that, though, the Paris branch of Shakespeare & Co. was located just four blocks west of the chapel, across St. Michel. Yes, Joe knew the area, and Square Vivani, located just behind the chapel, featured not only the oldest tree in Paris (it said so, right there on the plaque), but several wrought iron and wooden benches where you could find a comfortable seat while waiting. And though Irene had offered an early dinner engagement nearby as her reason for picking the square as a meeting place, Joe suspected she had chosen it at least in part because of her concern for his comfort.
"Hello, Joe." She was in her mid-fifties, and her smile was genuine as she greeted him. She wore a simple shirt dress, green, with a pearl necklace beneath a brown wool blazer flecked here and there with just a nub of the same green as her dress. Her blonde hair had been pulled back for business, but its natural waves framed her face beautifully: No one looking at Dr. Irene Fiedler, First Tribune of the Watchers, could mistake her for anything other than a woman of grace and considerable intelligence.
"Irene. Thanks for meeting me."
"You said there was an emergency?"
Joe nodded as they sat down. "I hate to hit you with this out of the blue, but I think Amy Zoll's been kidnapped."
Fiedler's face showed little, but her blue eyes lit with interest. "Go on," she said.
"She was doing some research for me on a group that attacked a new Immortal--"
"Nick Wolfe."
"Yeah."
"And these are mortals?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
Oh, shit. He did the mental equivalent of gritting his teeth. "Because Methos killed the one who tried to kill Nick. There was no Quickening."
"I see. And the body?"
"I stashed it," Methos said, and Joe jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice.
"Damn it, M--Adam!" Joe barked.
"Sorry, Joe." He didn't look sorry, and neither did Nick, just visible over his shoulder, a hundred yards or so away near one of the square's clusters of trees.
"You followed me!"
"Worse yet, I deliberately eavesdropped on your conversation."
"How?"
"I turned up the volume on the phone's speaker when you were trying to dial out."
Of all the-- "Irene, I'm sorry. This is really . . . awkward--"
"It's all right, Joe," Irene said calmly. "I thought he might do something like this." She offered him her hand. "Mr. Pierson," she said with just a trace of irony. "I'm glad we finally meet."
"You could have dropped by anytime when I was in research," Methos said, hands in his coat pockets.
"Yes, I suppose that's true," she admitted. "My apologies, then, on our delayed meeting."
Her hand never wavered and he finally took it.
"Please," she said. "There's no reason for your student to be so standoffish."
"Nick!" Raising his voice, Methos waved Nick over and the younger Immortal walked toward them with a grin.
"Sorry, Joe," Nick said.
"Yeah, right," Joe muttered. "At least I know whose idea it was."
"Well," Irene Fiedler said. "You must understand, Mr. Wolfe--meeting the world's oldest Immortal and the world newest Immortal really is quite an event for me. I assume either Joe or Mr. Pierson has explained what the Watcher Tribunal is?"
"I know the basics," Nick said. "So--do I assume the 'no contact' rule just went out the window?"
"Under normal circumstances, no. We really do believe the Watchers' role is to observe and record without interfering. Obviously, though, since Joe revealed himself to Duncan MacLeod--" She hesitated. "I'm sorry," she said. "You don't know MacLeod, do you?"
"No."
"Ah. Well, since Joe met MacLeod a few things have changed. Watchers have always enjoyed significant latitude in how they do their job--a fact Mr. Pierson can testify to--and the Tribunal knows you can't hold the tide back once it's started to roll in. So, while it's unorthodox, we've given at least tacit permission for Joe to continue his relationship with MacLeod--and with your teacher, for that matter," she said, nodding toward Methos.
"Classic justification," Methos said. "Since you can't do anything to prevent it, you order it to continue."
"Not at all," Fiedler said. "Joe is free to discontinue his relationship with you any time, as he well knows. He's also free to request a change of assignment, or to leave the Watchers all together. On the other hand, the contributions he's made to Duncan MacLeod's chronicles since they met have been extraordinary. Priceless to us, both as Watchers and historians. The same can be said for the Methos Chronicles since he took over a few months ago. You know he's been Watching you unofficially, been keeping private journals on you since MacLeod first identified you for us?"
"Sure," Methos said. "I've read most of them."
A fact that was news to Joe, but he bit off his instinctive growl.
Fiedler shrugged. "And despite the fact that you knew he was Watching you, you chose to continue to associate with him. Even when Amy Thomas learned your identity. Even when MacLeod disappeared. And you've put yourself at considerable risk for your friends more than once. I'd say it's worth quite a bit to know such an Immortal better. Especially when that Immortal happens to be Methos."
"If you start genuflecting and calling me 'the oldest of the old' I can't be held responsible for my actions."
She smiled. "I'll consider myself warned. But if we have all of that out of the way, perhaps Joe could finish telling me about Amy Zoll."
"And Inspector LeBrun," Methos said.
Irene looked at Joe.
"He just does that to annoy me," Joe said on a sigh. "Unfortunately, it works. LeBrun is a Paris police inspector. We've run up against him half a dozen times or so in the last several years. He doesn't know about Immortals--at least, I don't think he does--but he's come awfully close a time or two, and not because anyone planned it that way."
"The bowl," Methos prompted.
"What? Oh, right. I told you Zoll was doing some research. Well, she brought over what she'd found and dropped it off at my place. She'd just left when the first kidnapping attempt occurred."
"First?"
"Quite accidentally, it failed. It's a long story--" he said, and she nodded, indicating he should skip unnecessary details. "Anyway, the police showed up, and we had to explain why anyone would try to kidnap Amy Zoll. Methos sold them a cock and bull about Dr. Zoll doing an appraisal on an antique Chinese bowl he had in the safe. He did have an antique bowl in the safe, I mean, but Zoll didn't even know it existed until that moment--"
"I get the picture," Fiedler said.
"LeBrun offered to drive Zoll to the Museum of Antiquities to get the bowl appraised. That's when the second attempt took place, and this time they succeeded."
"And exactly who are 'they'?" Fiedler asked.
"They're called the Septaguent," Methos said.
"The Seventy?" Fiedler said. "You're sure?"
"Fairly sure," Methos replied. "How do you know about them?"
"We do have a few resources, Mr. Pierson," she replied, a smile shaping her mouth. "Surely you were in research long enough to know that."
"Yeah, but I never ran into the Septaguent."
"Perhaps you weren't looking in the right place. Besides, a long time ago I was a religious history major."
Nick snorted and Methos shot him a dirty look. "Infant," Methos said. "Hush or I'll add a five mile run on the end of your work out."
Irene Fiedler nodded. "There's an ancient Septaguent site--well, all right," she corrected, remembering who she was talking to, "I suppose old is a better word . . . It's Fourth or Fifth Century--"
"In Chartres," Methos said. "Yes, I know."
"It's rumored to have been built over an earlier site, possibly even mid- to late-First Century. If that's the case, it may be underground now as a result of subsequent building on the site, or it may have been constructed underground originally. They've always been fairly secretive--"
"Unlike some other people we know?"
"Point taken," she conceded. "But the Septaguent is sworn to the protection of St. John the Revelator. Why would they kidnap a Watcher and a French police inspector?"
"I think Zoll was the real target," Methos said. "Leaving LeBrun behind would have meant a witness, though."
"All right," Fiedler said. "But the only thing Zoll could possibly be is bait for you." She looked up at him. "They assume you'll come after her."
Methos nodded. "If Nick's friend is right, they need an Immortal for a blood rite--"
"They think you'll trade yourself for her?"
Methos smiled. "They don't know me very well, do they?"
Fiedler shook her head in disbelief. "There are rumors, just stories, really, that they kill an Immortal to sanctify a new member's bloodline in the Order.  It's part of the secret literature on them. The Quickening is supposed to enter the initiate so he and his descendants will have some . . . essence, I suppose . . . of St. John's immortality. I always thought it was fiction. I mean, it's almost the twenty-first century, for heaven's sake."
"And of course it's ridiculous to believe in things like Quickenings, Immortals, and secret organizations that run around Watching them."
She smiled. "I stand corrected. Remind me not to argue religion with you. What are you going to do about Dr. Zoll?"
He shrugged. "Go after her, I guess, assuming I can figure out how to do it without getting a lot of people killed. I don't suppose you've got any suggestions?"
Irene Fiedler shook her head. "No. I'm sorry."
"Then I guess we'll just have to wing it. As usual." Methos stood. "Joe? I think we're going to get a bite to eat. D'you want to join us?"
"Where?"
Methos glanced at Nick.
"Au Bascou's good," the younger Immortal offered, and Methos nodded.
"Over on Reaumur?" asked Joe. "All right, I'll meet you there in about forty-five minutes. I want to stop by the bar first."
"What about Amy?" Methos asked.
"I assume she's trailing you as usual. D'you want me to call her?"
"No--I've got my phone with me. Too bad we don't have Nick's Watcher identified yet," he commented. "We could all do lunch. Dr. Fiedler?" Methos asked. His mouth was quirked in a smile, but the invitation was sincere enough and she smiled back.
"Thank you," she said, "but I have reservations at La Bucherie, and I'm late at that. Another time, perhaps."
"We can sit at separate tables to avoid any appearance of interference."
"Of course," she said, eyes sparkling. "We wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea."
It was something of a blessing, Joe supposed, that Methos didn't wave as he and Nick left. "Sorry about that," Joe said, and Irene shook her head.
"Don't worry about it, Joe," she said. "Frankly, I've been dying to meet him. Your reports made it clear enough this was the kind of thing he might set up."
"And then he wonders why he has a reputation for manipulation," Joe said, shaking his head. "Still, it would be nice if he'd occasionally let me in on some of his arrangements."
"Ah, but then he wouldn't be Methos, would he?" Irene asked with a smile.
"And that's a bad thing?"
She chuckled. "He is unique, I'll give him that," she remarked. She glanced at her wristwatch and then smiled. "I gather the Paris police are involved in looking for Amy Zoll and their man--what's his name? LeBrun?"
"Right. They've already interviewed me, and have taken the car used in the first attempt into custody for forensics examination."
"I suppose the best thing we can do under the circumstances is to gently misdirect them, at least for the moment. Certainly we'll want to misdirect them from Chartres. All right." She nodded as if to herself and then stood, conscious of her dinner engagement. "Thanks for contacting me, Joe," she said. "Listen, I've got to go, but I'd like you to keep me informed."
"I will. And thanks, Irene."
"Not a problem," she said. "I'll be glad to help if and when I can."
He stood, thinking she looked as if she meant it.
She smiled. "What do you think he'd do if I took him up on his dinner invitation?" she asked.
Joe laughed. "Methos? He'd probably leave you with the bill."
She was still chuckling as she walked away, leaving him alone in the square.
Twenty minutes later Joe was pulling into one of the three parallel parking spaces he'd reserved along the rear alley of Le Blues Bar Deux, thinking they were one of the smartest investments he'd ever made. Granted, the yearly fees he paid to the Rue Oberkampf merchants association was exorbitant, but they guaranteed him parking within walking distance of his own back door, and that was virtually unheard of in a city of ten million. One of the three spaces was likely to be occupied by Methos' Range Rover about half the time--Joe had considered charging a third of the expense to the Watchers as an operating expense--but it also gave Amy a place to park. In fact, one of the three spaces was occupied at the moment by her used blue Sunbeam wagon, its right front door dented and scratched from today's traffic accident. Seeing the damage gave Joe an odd sensation somewhere low between the ribs. She could have been killed, or at least seriously hurt today, but she had walked away from it, even laughing at the unlikelihood of Methos going to confession.
Methos. That, of course, was the crux of the problem. Remembering Methos in the street today, Amy in his arms, Joe could picture the look on her face as she caught her breath and her hands had gripped Methos' shoulders, holding on out of shock, or fear, or something Joe was hesitant to name. It was natural enough, right after the car accident, he supposed, for Methos to have been concerned, and predictable, too, that Methos had reached Amy before Joe. He'd been closer to begin with, after all, and he had Joe's mobility beat all to hell. Still, there'd been something unusual between the two, and Joe admitted to himself that Amy Thomas would hardly be the first Watcher to become a bit infatuated with the Immortal she'd been assigned to Watch. Hell, Duncan MacLeod practically exuded sex appeal--but . . . Methos?
Well, all right, that was hardly fair. Methos was a good man in his own way. If he stopped to think about it consciously, Joe had to admit it wasn't really Methos' fault things were happening the way they were, but it was easy to blame the Immortal for things. And Methos did seem to attract trouble, especially since MacLeod had left Paris. Unlike Duncan MacLeod, however, Methos' role in such things was less well defined. It was easy to cast MacLeod as the hero, riding to someone's rescue with all hell breaking loose around him. With Methos . . . well, the fact of the matter was that it was easier to see him as part of the problem than as part of the solution. Maybe it was because he'd spent so long studiously avoiding becoming part of the solution. Yeah, Joe thought. And maybe it's because your parental radar kicked into high gear and you don't know to do about it.
"Luc, have you seen Amy?" Joe came through the back door to Le Blues Bar Deux just as his relief bartender was writing the night's dinner special on the chalkboard mounted over the bar. It was early still, the first dinner patrons just starting to show. Like most clubs, though, Le Blues Bar Deux wouldn't really get going until about nine.
Luc Sole turned from the chalkboard and shook his head. "Haven't seen her since yesterday," he said.
"You sure?" Joe asked. "Her car's out back."
"Maybe she went upstairs," Luc said.
Joe nodded. One of the benefits of having established a relationship with his grown daughter was that Amy had come to think of the bar and Joe's apartment as an easy place to stop off during the day. In fact, she was almost as casual about dropping by these days as Methos was. Now there was a thought. "Thanks, I'll take a look," Joe said.
"Hey," Luc added. "I almost forgot. This came for you." He retrieved an envelope from the shelf under the bar and handed it to Joe.
"Thanks." Joe walked back into the kitchen, the smell of la cassoulet coaxing a rumble from his stomach, and was glad they were headed for supper as he stepped into the elevator. As the elevator made its rumbling way to the second floor and his apartment above the bar, he looked at the small envelope Luc had handed him. Yellowish brown, it was the kind that was lined with plastic air bubbles to cushion the contents, and squished in your hand. The front of the envelope bore Joe's name and the bar's address in fat Magic Marker strokes. Flipping it over, he saw the outline of a stylized hand and forefinger stamped there, the forefinger pointing to a red zip strip that you pulled to unseal the envelope. Opening the envelope as the elevator doors slid back, Joe stepped into his apartment.
Amy wasn't there, but the telephone answering machine light was blinking on the wall-mounted phone in the kitchen. Joe crossed to the kitchen with the odd, rolling gait his prostheses forced on him and tossed the envelope on the table as he made a stab at the machine's "Play" button.
"Since Dr. Zoll informs us the older of your Immortal friends could scarcely be bothered to come after her we've decided to up the ante a bit, Monsieur Dawson. Mademoiselle Thomas, it would appear, has rather more value. Very well. You can find her in Chartres. Think of it as a test of your friend's ingenuity."
His hand fumbled for a grip on a chair and Joe sank into a sitting position. Oh, God. How could they have left her unguarded? His mouth dry, out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of gold: A bit of chain had spilled out of the envelope he had tossed so casually onto the table. He pulled it out of the envelope with shaking hands. A round medallion on a chain. He hardly needed to glance at it to recognize it as identical to the medal in the photocopy Amy Zoll had made for him, showing St. John being borne up into the clouds by a multitude of sword-bearing angels. Joe swallowed, gripping the medal in one hand. Since the wall-mounted phone seemed an impossible distance away, he pulled his cell phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. Fast dial button "B" was keyed with the number of Methos' cell phone. He picked up almost immediately, the soft sound of gently clanging cutlery and dishware in the background telling Joe that he and Nick had already arrived at the restaurant.
"It's Joe," he said, his voice sounding odd in his own ears. "They've taken Amy. I need you here."
Methos' voice came back instantly "Don't do anything until I get there. Nick--"
The phone went dead in his hand and for a moment all Joe could do was stare at it. Not for the first time in his life, he had the oddest feeling that the world was spinning out of control and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. It wasn't a feeling that inspired confidence.

Chapter Ten

"Let me guess," Nick Wolfe said. "You've been up all right."
"I got a couple of hours on the couch around three," Methos said.
Yeah, Nick thought. He looked it, too.
"There's coffee in the kitchen," Methos told him. "Keep it down, though. Joe's asleep and I'd like to keep it that way for a bit."
"Huh." Nick wandered into the kitchen for coffee, stopping habitually to stick his head in the refrigerator, but there wasn't much of interest there. No wonder Methos ate out so often, Nick thought. One of them really had to do some shopping. After Joe's news they'd met the Watcher at his apartment over the bar and Joe and Methos had spent the better part of two hours shouting old and new recriminations until they were both hoarse and glowering at each other. Nick had offered a truce in the form of three big bowls of Luc's le cassoulet, but what had passed for dinner had been eaten in a chilly silence worse than the shouting that preceded it. Around nine they'd made the trip across town to Methos' duplex so he could use his computer for what he called "research." Having seen him at work before, Nick wasn't surprised when his research included breaking into both the Watchers' archives and the French police's database on ongoing investigations, internal and external, as well as a detailed geological and topographical survey of Chartres based on geopositioning satellites. He'd been deep into a handful of reports based on archaeological digs employing x-ray techniques when Nick had crashed.
"So what do we know today that we didn't know last night?" Nick asked, emerging from the kitchen with a cup of coffee for himself and a refill for Methos.
Methos sighed, wrapping his hands around the steaming coffee cup. "I've decided your friend Liam is probably about half right," he said.
"Half right about Chartres? What do you mean?"
"Come look at this," Methos countered.
Nick maneuvered behind Methos' chair where he could lean against the wall and see the computer screen. Centered in the screen was an animated image of a round maze. As Nick watched, a red line traced the correct path through the maze: straight ahead, left, right, straight ahead, a half circle to the right and then right again, doubling back on itself, on and on, growing too complicated visually and moving too quickly for him to follow easily. "So?"
"This is the Chartres labyrinth," Methos said.
"A maze? Like a puzzle?"
"Not exactly," Methos said. "In a maze, you can get lost or run into dead ends. But there's only one way through a labyrinth, and nothing is designed to fool you. The Chartres labyrinth is supposed to symbolize the path to Jerusalem, but ultimately all religious labyrinths symbolize what they consider the one way to God. All you have to do is follow the path that's laid out and you'll end up in the center, right where you're supposed to be."
"Okay," Nick agreed. "So, this is what? A room divided up with walls, like at a fun house?"
"Not even that," Methos said. "It's just an etching in the stone floor of the nave, about thirty feet across. Pilgrims sometimes crawl the entire distance on their hands and knees, or 'walk' around it on their knees as an act of devotion."
"Sounds painful."
"Bare knees on a stone floor, around and around in circles? Yes, I'd say so. The Chartres labyrinth is supposed to be a duplicate of the minotaur's labyrinth in Knossos, but that's debatable."
"You mean you don't know for sure?" Nick asked innocently.
"We'll discuss my misspent youth another time," Methos said. "Right now I want to focus on this question: Why would the entry to a first century site be through an edifice built three hundred years later? We know the Chartres Cathedral is built on top of earlier religious sites, so it could be coincidental or part of a logical, historical building pattern. A point of entry could also have been preserved deliberately, but that assumes a secret connection of some sort between the fourth century builders and members of their faith who had just been declared heretics. Or ask it the other way around--why would those who built a fourth century Catholic church provide an entry to what would be, essentially, a first century Jewish site? Again, the answer seems to suggest a connection of some sort between two groups that shouldn't be connected. In fact, between two groups that should be anathema to one another, at least according to your friend Father Liam."
"And the conclusion?"
"That there is no connection or, if there is, that it's coincidental at best and quite possibly unknown to one or both parties."
"Which is why you said Liam is half right."
"Exactly. We know Chartres is the right location, but the cathedral isn't the front door."
"So the front door has to be somewhere else," Joe said from the door to Methos' bedroom.
"That would be my guess."
"Hey, Joe," Nick said. "You want some coffee?"
"Unless you've got something stronger."
Grinning, Nick slipped out from behind the computer and went to get the older man a cup of coffee from the kitchen.
"You look like hell," Joe rumbled.
"You're not exactly as fresh as the morning dew," his host responded.
"Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Nick." This as he, too, accepted the coffee Nick brought him, sipping gingerly. "So where's this 'front door' you're talking about?"
Slipping back in behind the computer, Nick could hear the dual pop as Methos rolled his shoulders. "At a guess," Methos said, "the old Jewish cemetery."
"But I thought these guys were Christians," Nick said.
"No. There weren't any 'Christians' per se for a good eighty to a hundred years after the crucifixion, Nick, at least, not what you'd recognize as Christians."
Meaning not what modern people in general would recognize as Christians, of course.
"These people were Jewish. Hell, Jesus was Jewish. There'd been Jewish communities throughout the world for centuries, including France. There was usually a synagogue of some sort in the major population areas--usually just a courtyard of some sort, maybe with a fountain. It was like going to a market that doubled as a school or community center, and not just for the Jews. People of all faiths gathered there to trade news, or discuss the politics of the day. And the synagogue in Chartres was one of the oldest known in the world."
"So, you think there's a door of some sort leading from this cemetery to . . . what?"
"An underground site of some sort, probably a cave or grotto. The geological surveys of the area show it's honeycombed with them, mostly the result of seepage from the River Eure."
"We're looking for a cave?"
"A cave that's been there for centuries and is large enough to function as a meeting location for at least seventy people."
Nick drained his coffee and put the cup down on the corner of Methos' desk. "You're absolutely serious about this."
"Yep."
"And what do we do once we find this cave of yours?"
"With luck, they'll have Amy somewhere near by--"
"You don't know that for sure," Joe said.
"No, I don't," Methos said quietly. "But it doesn't make sense to take her as bait if they're not going to dangle her within sight. Joe, this is their game. They're the ones making up the rules."
Reluctantly, Joe nodded, and Nick pursed his lips. Interesting, he thought, how both Joe and Methos had redefined their quarry from Zoll, LeBrun, and Amy to simply Amy Thomas. It made him wonder if he could be just as easily dismissed from the older Immortal's thoughts.
"What about the police?" Nick asked, and Joe shook his head from across the room.
"As of yesterday they were focusing their search for LeBrun to Paris," the Watcher said. "The inspector I talked to wouldn't say much, but I got the impression they're working on two possibilities. The first is that LeBrun may have been the target of a kidnapping, possibly the result of a grudge from someone he may have arrested. In that case, Amy Zoll is just along for the ride, at least as far as they're concerned. The second possibility is the one Methos planted in their minds--they think Zoll may have been the target of a kidnapping herself, possibly because of the Chinese bowl she was transporting to the museum."
None of them mentioned that the one thing they had managed to agree on the night before was that the French police were not to be brought into Amy Thomas' kidnapping. In fact, it amazed Nick that the possibility hadn't even been mentioned, but it was something neither Joe nor Methos had even considered.
"Right now I want a shower and a change of clothes," Methos said. "Nick, why don't you give Joe a ride home? He can check in at his place and get cleaned up. I'll meet you there in an hour. We can get some breakfast and make a few decisions about how to proceed."
"Sure," Nick said, fishing his car keys out of his jeans pocket and moving from behind the computer. Keys in hand, he looked from Methos to Joe.
"You think they're meeting tonight for their initiation--their whatever you call it," Joe said suddenly.
"It seems reasonable," Methos said with a shrug. He stood, opening his desk drawer. "It's the seventh, after all," he said. He sounded a bit distracted as he moved a few things in the drawer and came up with a burgundy leather box with a hinged lid. He opened the lid, exposing what looked to Nick like a Luger handgun, nestled in a foam rubber padding that was cut out to accommodate it. Next to the Luger was a silencer, and as they watched Methos removed both and calmly attached the silencer to the barrel of the gun. "The Septaguent seems a fairly ritualistic bunch to me," he said, "so I assume they'd choose a night they deem significant. It's also the night of the full moon, and secret societies do love the full moon. Now, there's just one more thing I want to do. Nick, is that an old shirt?"
"Yeah, why?"
The gun went off twice and Nick Wolfe crumpled to the flagstone floor, his head cracking painfully as it hit, blood flowering from the region just above his heart.
"Shit, Methos!"
Joe was moving as quickly as he could, but Methos had reached his student almost instantly. He knelt, easily fending Joe off with one arm. "Sssh," he said, fingertips just brushing Nick's lips. "It'll be all right." Then, "Shut up, Joe. I need to concentrate."
Over his shoulder, Joe could see he had something in his left hand--a stop watch, of all things, and as Joe watched, stunned, two things happened simultaneously: The light went out of Nick Wolfe's eyes and Methos set the stop watch in motion.
"You bastard," Joe said.
"I'm his teacher, Joe," Methos said. "I have to know certain things about him, like how long it takes him to revive. He has to know how long it takes him to revive." Irritated, he looked over his shoulder at the other man. "What did you want me to do, Joe?" he asked. "Have him stand up against the wall while I took aim? Believe me, it's easier if you don't know it's coming."
The seconds crept by as Methos glanced from the stop watch to Nick's face and back again repeatedly, waiting for some sign of a return to life. To Joe, whose heart was thudding as painfully as he'd ever known it to, the time stretched out impossibly. He'd seen MacLeod and Methos killed probably half a dozen times, seen them both revive just moments after taking a gunshot, but it had never occurred to him to time it. Truth to tell, he'd usually been busy simply trying to stay alive at such times. Now . . .
"Are you sure--"
"Shush," Methos said, his eyes on the stop watch. "It's been less than two minutes. Just give him time."
Joe glanced down at Nick and swallowed. Immortality was assumed by the Watchers to be a latent trait, triggered by a violent "first death." That had been true in Nick's case, when Amanda had shot him through the heart rather than have him die of poisoning and lose his Immortality. Looking at Nick, cold and undeniably dead on the stone floor, looking like a broken doll, Joe had to wonder if an Immortal had ever failed to revive after a subsequent death. Some Immortals came back to life inside morgue drawers, he knew, or--in earlier days, anyway--after having being buried. That meant it could take hours for them to revive--long enough for modern day police and medical professionals to have done their thing, and for the Immortal to have been declared legally dead--
There. It was the change in Methos' posture that cued Joe. Nick's eyelids fluttered, though, and simultaneously he drew an agonizing breath, his chest filling to capacity and then spasming into coughing. Methos' eyes were still on the watch's second hand. Two and a half minutes had passed.
God, Joe thought. Talk about a long two and a half minutes.
"Pretty goddamned not funny, Methos," Nick said as soon as he was able to talk. Eyes watering, he sat on the floor still, knees hugged to his chest, looking very annoyed. No, Joe thought. Make that 'looking absolutely pissed.'
"It wasn't meant to be funny," Methos said. "Look, I'm sorry--I know it's a hell of a way to start the morning, but I had to know how long it takes you to revive." A half smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against his desk. "What?" he asked. "Were you afraid it wouldn't work again?" He started to laugh. "For heaven's sake, Nick, you're an Immortal--"
Nick shot him a dirty look and said nothing.
"Nick, look at me." The laughter was gone and Methos waited until he had his student's full if grudging attention. "I'm sorry I laughed. It honestly never occurred to me that you might . . . " God, I'm too old for this. I am not cut out to be a teacher, especially when they're brand new. He let it trail off. "Now listen to me," he said. "You're Immortal, Nick, but it takes some getting used to. There are certain things you need to know about yourself, and how long it takes to revive is one of those things. Coming back to life the first time wasn't a miracle and it wasn't a fluke. It's just the way it is with you, and it'll work every time. Every time, Nick, as long as you don't lose your head. Clear?"
"Yeah." It was grudging, but said clearly enough as he watched Methos detach the silencer from the Luger and set both aside. For cleaning, he guessed. Mustn't leave a dirty gun or a bloody sword lying around untended.
"Right. Now go change your shirt and take Joe home. I'm going to get a shower and into some clean clothes. I'll meet you at Joe's in about an hour." With that he straightened, tossing the stop watch gently into Nick lap as he headed for the bathroom.
Nick stared at the stop watch and then looked at Joe. "Two minutes thirty-five seconds," he said. "That's a long time to be out if shit's happening."
Joe nodded, saying nothing.
He'd seen Amanda revive, but couldn't have said how long it took her. Maybe it depended on the severity of the trauma to the body. "Is Methos faster?" he asked.
"It . . . varies . . . from Immortal to Immortal," Joe said, "and depending on the damage--"
"Just tell me, Joe."
"I've seen him revive in about half a minute after being shot and killed."
Nick nodded. "And MacLeod?"
"He's a little slower. It may be a function of age," he added. "We just don't know, Nick. I don't know that they--that Immortals even know for sure. Methos is the fastest I've even seen, though, and I've been Watching for half my life. If anything happens you can count on him reviving quickly enough to deal with it." Assuming he doesn't lose his head, of course.
Nick sighed, ran a hand through his dark hair, and levered himself up off the floor. "He nearly scared the shit out of me, you know," he admitted, setting the stop watch on the desk next to the Luger.
Joe nodded sympathetically. "I know," he said. "I didn't see it coming, either." He grinned. "Look at it this way--what he lacks in social skills he makes up for in charm and grace."
"Not to mention his superb teaching abilities."
"I heard that," Methos called from the bedroom.
"And tact," Joe added, winking at Nick and raising his voice. "Don't forget his tact."
"And his willingness to freely and fully share information--" Nick called loudly enough to be heard over the sound of running water.
They headed for Nick's apartment so he could change shirts.

Chapter Eleven

The French police showed up about the time they were ready to leave for Chartres and delayed them for another hour with useless questions about Amy Zoll, Inspector LeBrun, and Methos' now-missing Chinese bowl. While Joe and Methos fielded questions, Nick kept waiting for one of the French Inspectors to mention a beheading at the Zadkine Museum on the nineteenth of May, but the subject never came up. Eventually the police went on their way and Methos plopped himself down in the chair opposite Joe while Nick leaned against the bar.
"Well, that was fun," Nick quipped, earning a frown from Joe and a raised eyebrow from Methos.
They took two cars for the drive, Joe's specially fitted van with both the gas and brake pedals designed to respond to hand-operated controls, and Methos' Range Rover with its slightly banged-up driver's side door, souvenir of yesterday's car crash. South of Orly the A10 took them toward Le Mans, and from there it was a simple matter of following the road signs toward the Beauce region and Chartres. It was after eleven when Methos led the way into the parking lot of Le Grand Monarque, where he'd booked a three bedroom suite.
"Best Western?" Joe asked.
"You have something against Best Western?"
"This isn't a day trip, Methos--"
"No, it's not," Methos replied, "but American hotels always have their bathrooms en suite, and quite frankly we may need the privacy." He didn't say for what, and Joe knew better than to ask. Shaking his head, he followed Methos and Nick across the parking lot with his measured pace, each carrying an overnight bag with a change of clothes. He caught up with them in the lobby just in time to hear Methos talking to the desk clerk. "We should have a reservation in the name of Montrose."
"Yes, sir--"
"You're shitting me!" The look on Nick's face should have said it all, but his anger overrode his common sense.
"Not here, and not now," Methos said wearily. He'd taken the key from the desk clerk and was walking toward the elevator, so Nick really had no choice but to follow him.
"First you shoot me and now--"
"A little louder, Nick, I don't think they heard you in Philadelphia."
"You could have told me you called her!"
"And what purpose would that have served?" Methos asked. He walked to the elevator and stood there, his back to Nick, his overnight case dangling casually over his left shoulder as he waited for Joe. "Nick," he said, "we may need Amanda's help."
"Nick?" Joe drew even with Methos and turned to look at the younger Immortal, standing six feet away on the polished tile of the lobby, a look of disgust on his face.
Nick shook his head. "I'm sorry, Joe. I can't do this. Not this way." Not his way. He looked at Methos, willing him to turn around and face him. "I quit," he said.
Joe looked at Methos, who stood looking inside the elevator, holding the doors open with his body. "You can't do this!" Joe exclaimed, and for just a moment he wasn't sure if he was talking to Nick or Methos.
His face expressionless, Methos stepped into the elevator and leaned his back against the rear wall. "He's a grown man, Joe. He makes his own decisions." He was looking out into the lobby as the doors closed. The last thing he saw was Nick's back as he walked away from them.
"Damn it, Methos, do something!" Joe said.
"I did, Joe, I let him go."
They rode to the second floor in an agitated silence. As the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened onto the hallway, Methos looked at Joe. He sighed. "Joe," he said quietly. "He'll be back, but it has to be his decision."
"Yeah?" Joe grated. "And what if you're wrong?"
"Then it won't be the first time."
"Well, you'll excuse me if I don't find it all that damned funny!"
"What's not funny?" Amanda asked, greeting them at the door to their suite. "I could hear you halfway down the hall." She kissed Joe as he brushed past her, moving into the living room, and then rose briefly on tiptoe to kiss Methos' cheek. "Where's Nick?" she asked Joe.
"He left."
"What do you mean he left?"
"Ask the Sphinx there."
She looked from Joe to Methos. "Well?" she asked. When he said nothing, she rolled her eyes. "Would one of you talk to me for heaven's sake? Now, where's Nick?"
"We had a slight disagreement in the lobby," Methos said.
"Over what?"
"You."
"You didn't tell him I was coming?" Her voice escalated, her tone growing sharper.
"No, I didn't tell him you were coming," Methos replied, his own tone dangerously close to mockery. "If I'd told him you were coming he'd still be in Paris. This way he's pissed off at me, but at least he's pissed off at me in the right city and not fifty miles away, all right? It seemed a reasonable compromise."
"Compromise--" Joe started.
"Damn it, Methos!" It was Amanda, slicing through Joe's protest with her own. "You know what your problem is?" she demanded. "You always forget that a compromise requires two people, both in the know--"
"And does it occur to you that this particular compromise has nothing to do with me?" he shot back. "That it requires the two of you to reach some sort of arrangement?" He threw his overnight case on the floor and looked at her, his throat tight. "Amanda, I am very probably going to need help that Nick can't provide. If MacLeod were here, I'd have asked him--" He let it go, swallowed, and drew a steadying breath. If MacLeod were here, he wouldn't have had to ask. "I don't have that many friends. But those I do have I need here."
"And you couldn't have said that downstairs?" Nick Wolfe tossed his overnight bag on the floor beside Methos'. "Hey, Joe," he added, closing the door. "You know how to catch two Immortals unawares? You wait until they're at each other's throats and then you walk up real quiet and get the drop on 'em."
The joke fell flat and the four stood there, looking at each other.
"Why'd you come back?" Joe asked.
Nick shrugged. "You want the simple answer? I got as far as the parking lot and remembered I didn't have my own car. I don't know how to drive yours, and I figured Methos would be really pissed if I took the Range Rover."
"You could have hot wired Amanda's Mercedes," Methos said.
Nick smiled. "The thought did cross my mind."
"Well, I, for one, am glad you didn't," Amanda said. She reached for his hand and sank onto the arm of the flowered couch, pulling him slightly forward with her. "Nick--"
"I know," he said. "Look, I'm sorry I acted the way I did. I just needed some space between us. I still do, for that matter--no, don't get me wrong. I understand why you didn't tell me what I was, or what I was going to become. I really do. I understand why you had to shoot me that day, and to tell the truth I'm . . . I'm glad you did. I mean, I'm glad I'm alive, and I'd like to stay that way. But what we had before--" He shook his head. "It's different now, at least to me, and I still have to figure out exactly how it's different. I still can't see you as my teacher, if that's what you're thinking."
"How about as a friend?"
"Now that I think we can manage. That is, if you guys will stop shooting me."
Amanda's mouth opened to protest and then the words sank in. "Who else shot you?"
Joe and Nick looked at Methos.
"What'd you shoot him for?" Amanda demanded.
Methos shrugged. "I wanted to know how long it takes him to revive. Besides, it isn't as if it did any permanent damage."
"You killed him?"
"Amanda," he said reasonably, "you killed him first."
Oh, lord. She rolled her eyes, picturing Nick suffering at the hands of the ever practical Methos. "And?" she said.
"Nick?"
The younger immortal nodded his permission.
"Two minutes thirty five seconds," Methos said. "And while I'm thinking about it, Joe, that little fact should never be written down anywhere, ever."
"I'd already figured that out," Joe said. He could well imagine that an Immortal wouldn't want a record of that sort available for anyone's eyes, and no matter the security it might be kept in during this century, Joe couldn't vouch for the security of Watcher files at any time in the distant future.
"Right," Methos said. "So, is everyone straight on this?"
"I thought . . . maybe I owed you an apology," Nick said.
"For what?" Methos asked. "If that's the worst argument you and I ever have, and if it's over nothing more serious than whether or not I tell you I've asked for Amanda's help with something, we have nothing to worry about."
"So, you're saying I should expect you to leave out details regularly."
"What? Amanda never failed to mention a detail here or there?"
"Frequently, and it always wound up getting me into trouble."
"Well, we wouldn't want your life to get boring."
"Methos--"
"Nick, you were the one who was going to apologize to me, don't forget. Look. It's true--most of the time I probably won't tell you everything. It interferes with focus and it's the way I'm used to doing things. Oh, and while we're on the subject, I'll probably only tell you what you do need to know at the moment that works to my own best advantage. I'd say I was sorry, but after five thousand years you're pretty much stuck with me the way I am. But I'll promise you this--as long as you're my student, I'll give you every advantage I can. Until you take your first head, you're under my protection. And that means I'll put my life on the line to guarantee you come to no harm. Of course, it would help if you'd stay close enough by that I could actually do some good if you do happen to get into trouble."
All of which made him feel even more of an ingrate, but he figured Methos meant well. Maybe. "Fine," he said. "I won't apologize and you won't tell me anything I don't need to know. So, Amanda, what's new with you?"
"I've found the Jewish cemetery Methos wants to check out, or at least I think it's the one. It doesn't seem old enough to me, but it's where you said it would be--old town, off Rue aux Juifs, runs parallel to the river. It's actually part of the recommended tourist walk. If you want, you can even rent a cassette player and tape from the local tourism office and take a self-guided tour in English or French."
"I think we can probably do without the cassette players," Methos said, "unless you think they might provide a bit of camouflage. They might help us blend in with anyone else who happens to be poking around the area. I assume the cemetery's open to the public if it's been designated an historic site."
Amanda nodded. "I was there this morning with no trouble at all. Part of it's roped off for an archaeological dig of some sort, so there are people coming and going--students and volunteers helping with the field work, along with a couple of Indiana Jones types to supervise things, all very colorful. A few more people will hardly be noticed."
"Good," Methos said. "I need to look around a bit and see what I can find."
"What do you want us to do?" Joe asked.
"I'd like Nick to see the cathedral, or more precisely, the labyrinth inside the cathedral. Remember the one I showed you on the computer?"
Nick nodded. "You think the labyrinth in the cathedral is duplicated underground?"
"It seems likely. And it's just possible there's some place inside or around the cathedral that leads underground. I'll be looking for the same thing at the cemetery."
"If you find it at the cemetery why do we need to look at the cathedral?"
"Because there's no guarantee I'll find it at the cemetery, and because it would be very nice if there turned out to be more than one way in and out."
"You mean a front door and a back door?"
"It would be convenient in case things got sticky."
"So how do you want to handle this?" Joe asked. "Nick and I can check out the cathedral--"
"I'd like Amanda to go along, too," Methos said. "No offense, but I'll feel better--"
"--if Amanda's along to baby sit," Joe said.
"Well, I wasn't going to put it like that, but we know from the way they attacked Nick that they're not likely to show much self-restraint around a new Immortal. A new Immortal in public, on the other hand--particularly one who's not alone--is more than likely going to be safe enough."
Not to mention the graybeard who's tagging along after him, Joe thought. "And you don't need anything more to worry about. Yeah, I know. Okay. I don't like it, but I won't fight you about it." Not when Amy's life was in the balance and Methos was the best chance they had.

Chapter Twelve

They split up, Nick, Amanda and Joe headed to the Chartres cathedral, and Methos--after a stop at the tourism office for headphones and a pocket-sized cassette player--headed for old town Chartres and the Jewish cemetery.
Rue aux Juifs was south of the cathedral; the street itself, he discovered, became known as Rue Petrault further down. Amanda had been right about the archaeological dig, too. It was small scale, though, with perhaps a dozen people in khaki colored shorts and tee shirts visible through the wrought-iron fence that separated the cemetery from the street. The gate opened easily and when he got close enough to tell what was going on he found himself one of a handful of on-lookers, tourists mostly, all staring at three commercial-sized pieces of poster board someone had tacked up with at least a rudimentary explanation in French and English of what the archaeologists were doing. It wasn't a bad idea, actually--it probably saved some questions and interruptions, at least--but more importantly, the curious on-lookers provided the type of camouflage he couldn't have hoped for otherwise. Smiling slightly, Methos slipped the lightweight headphones in place over his ears, turned the cassette player on, and began wandering about the cemetery.
It didn't take long to learn that the oldest headstones in this part of the cemetery only dated back to the fourteenth century. To the south, though, there were older stones--the oldest stones, the tinny voice on the tape informed him, dated to the fourth century A.D., and were located in the southeast corner of the cemetery, in an area fenced off for its protection. He found it easily enough, behind a chest-high black wrought iron fence of decidedly modern construction, but that only left him frowning. A fourth century headstone was impressive enough by today's standards, but it was still several centuries off the mark as far as he was concerned. Idly, he wandered back toward the roped off area claimed by the archaeologists.
The nearest sign informed him that the scientists were excavating what was believed to be an earlier, third century synagogue, and the "artist's conception" tacked up along with the explanation showed what appeared to be essentially a long courtyard of some sort, with a low wall partially screening it from the rest of the area and a roof of sorts over the structure. From the sketch, Methos would have assumed the dig itself would have covered about twice as much ground, and that made him look more closely at things. The dig was centered around a pedestal fountain several feet in front of a wall. What struck Methos as odd, though, was the fact that another wall bisected the first at a bizarre obtuse angle, rather like the blades of a pair of scissors that had been opened up. To the modern eye, trained to seek balance in design and structure, it had to be odd indeed, and Methos was fairly liberal in his definition of the word "modern."
"Excuse me," Methos said. He'd removed the earphones, letting them rest on the back of his neck, and snagged the sleeve of one of the young women involved with the dig as she walked by him. From the looks of her she was a student or volunteer, pretty in a dark way, about twenty-two or so, with long raven hair pulled up in a ponytail. He smiled. "I was just wondering where the other fountain is."
She chuckled. "You've got a good eye," she commented. "Most people don't even realize there is another one. It's over there, on the Catholic side of the wall."
"The Catholic side?"
"Yeah," she said. "What we're standing in now was part of the ancient synagogue, not the cemetery itself. About seven hundred years ago the Catholic church acquired a lot of the property and built a sort of dormitory on the other side to house travelers. Chartres was a pilgrimage spot for the early Christians, so there's a history of all sorts of people coming and going back to the first century. Anyway, that's why the cemetery isn't laid out on a square or rectangle at this end--the property line runs at an angle, cutting between the two fountains. When the Nazis occupied France the Catholic priests dug out a tunnel behind their fountain--it's all limestone, you know, and riddled with subterranean tunnels. Anyway, the priests used the tunnel to smuggle Jews out of Chartres and save them from the Nazis. There's a lot of talk about restoring the original wall, but the Catholics won't sell, even if it is deconsecrated ground."
"Deconsecrated."
"Yeah, ever since they bought it." She shrugged. "Personally, I'm with them. Who's to say restoring a fourth century wall is more important than the entry to an underground railroad? Besides, you can see the fountain. All you have to do is go next door and ask. It's not advertised or anything, but the brothers will show it to anyone who asks."
"Thanks," Methos said. Sure enough, just north of the cemetery was a plain, Romanesque-looking stone building bearing a bronze plaque that detailed the structure's history as a spot along an ancient pilgrimage route and listing the date of the site's deconsecration. A plain door let him into the building--small and dark by contemporary standards, though glass windows had been added sometime in its history. A lay brother smiled and nodded at him from a small office area, just big enough for a chair and a desk, with bookcases behind it. A few of the tourists he'd seen earlier in the cemetery had also made their way here, but there was little enough to see--the obligatory artists' renderings of what the place might have looked like half a dozen centuries before, mounted behind Plexiglas on waist-high pedestals for easy reading; a collection of religious and small, personal artifacts left behind or lost by pilgrims over the centuries, carefully displayed in a Plexiglas box and looking out of place on their artistically arranged velvet background; and, in one corner of the room, another plaque, this one detailing the story of the church's role in protecting the city's Jewish populace during World War II.
There was, Methos noticed, no mention of a fountain on any of the plaques. A door in the opposite wall was open, leading to a tiled porch and herb garden; there the obligatory plaque informed him that an herbalist would have gathered his organic medicines from just such a garden to treat any of the pilgrims' ailments as they rested along their journey's way. Methos had his doubts about that, seeing few of the herbs he'd have expected twelve hundred years ago, but it hardly seemed worth mentioning. Paving stones marked a walkway through the garden, and there were, in fact, three fountains bubbling away, one each on the north, south, and west walls. The fountain nearest the south wall corresponded to the one in the cemetery . . . No, come to think about it, it didn't. It was, in fact, several feet too far forward--
"May I help you?" The lay brother had followed him out into the herbarium and stood smiling.
"This fountain," Methos said. He pointed to the fountain nearest the south wall. The man's smile remained, and Methos had the feeling he was merely waiting for him to reach the right conclusion. "This can't be the original."
The man chuckled, nodding. "I'm Brother Thomas," he said. "Please, let me show you. We're fortunate the Nazis weren't all as observant." He walked toward the open doorway and pushed the door shut, closing them in the herb garden. With the door shut, a second, hidden door was visible on the man's right--a smaller, cruder door that had, in fact, been concealed entirely when the larger door stood wide open, inviting one into the garden. "With the first door open," the brother said, "this one is concealed. And if anyone should notice it and demand entrance, it's merely a shed." It was true: A harmless collection of gardening tools were hung on one wall, and the opposite wall held a bench littered with pots and a small stack of paving stones. There was no electrical connection, apparently, and with the rear of the larger building blocking it, little sunlight reached beyond the doorway itself.
"If one knows the secret, though," Brother Thomas continued, "there is yet another door, and another beyond that--" He shifted a rake and several planks of lumber and pushed, revealing an even deeper darkness beyond. "This lets into what appears to be nothing more than a covered space between the two walls. Originally--that is to say, back in the twelfth century or so--this was a barn of sorts. It was no longer used in the 1940s, and had been walled up--it's a rather inconvenient wedge-shaped space of no conceivable use to anyone, so the Nazis didn't question it even when they discovered it. Beyond it, though, there's another false wall. When it is moved, the original fountain can be seen, roughly in the center of a space, oh, perhaps eight feet on a side Again, it appears to be just a left over bit of space, and rather awkwardly shaped at that. The official story during the war was that the church had sealed the fountain up for future historical and archaeological study, given its great age. In fact, one of the town's Nazi commandants demanded to view it--many of them were history buffs, you know, and they were fascinated by mysticism."
"And the fountain itself?"
Brother Thomas nodded. "When moved, an opening in the floor is revealed beneath the fountain. The opening leads to an underground passage, and the passage some distance away, under the river. Of course, the fountain itself has been rebuilt many times over the centuries. The current facade is perhaps eighteenth century--old, but not the prize they're unearthing next door, and even two hundred years ago it no longer supplied water. We're close to the river, though, so perhaps that wasn't a problem--" He smiled. "I've never explored the caverns myself, though I've been tempted. I have claustrophobia, you see, and the idea of being underground, or even much beyond this point, makes me a bit nervous. Still, if you'd like to come back later in the day, I could ask Brother Eustace to show you the fountain. No one is allowed to go into the underground chambers, of course--insurance and safety concerns, you understand. There is a book, though--"
He closed up the hidden door, shifting the camouflage of rake and lumber back into place, and led Methos back into the main room. Rummaging behind the desk, he found the book on the shelves. "Here it is," he said, handing it to Methos.
It was just a thin booklet with a cardstock cover; the pages revealing its age: Produced perhaps some thirty years ago, the blue ink on the pages were the product of an old-fashioned typewriter and mimeograph machine, and had simply been stapled in the center to create a book of twelve or so pages in French. In the center of the booklet was a drawing of the not-so-famous fountain, perhaps as tall as a man, perhaps a yard in diameter--two cubits, more like, Methos thought with an inward smile--and beside it on the floor an opening that led underground. Yet another "artist's rendition," the sketch was suggestive but hardly informative. On the opposite page were four smaller sketches of the fountain as it had appeared in earlier ages, and Methos stood for a moment, studying the pages. Although there was no way to judge the accuracy of any of the renderings, he found it interesting that all five sketches had one thing in common: Each fountain was decorated with a lion's head, centered above what looked like the U-shaped half-circle crown of laurel leaves once used to decorate a conquering hero's head in Roman parades. All in all, he mused, it was a very odd decoration for what was essentially a Jewish fountain.
"Very interesting," Methos said, handing the booklet back to Brother Thomas. "I have a friend who might be interested in the fountain--"
"We're open until five if you'd like to come back," Brother Thomas said. "Brother Eustace comes on at two today. He isn't bothered by close places and is generally quite happy to show the fountain to visitors."
Methos nodded. "Thank you," he said. "We may stop by again." In fact, Methos thought, you could more than count on it. In the meantime, he decided to try his luck again at the cemetery dig and flagged down the young woman who had talked with him before.
"Did you see it?" she asked. Smiling, she wiped a smear of dust from her forehead with the back of her hand and seemed glad to spend another minute chatting with him.
"No--the brother on duty is a bit claustrophobic--"
"Oh, that's Brother Thomas. He's sweet, but you need Brother Eustace to show you the fountain."
"Yes," he said. "He'll be available later in the afternoon, and I may stop by again. In the meantime, though, I wonder . . . Brother Thomas showed me a little booklet--" She nodded, and he went on, pleased she knew what he was talking about. "The drawings of the fountain--of course, they're not very good, or even necessarily accurate, but I wondered about the lion's head and the laurel leaves."
"Oh," she said. "The lion's head is easy--it's the lion of Judah. But it isn't laurel leaves--I'm not surprised you couldn't tell from the sketches, though. It's stylized angel wings, one on either side of the lion's head."
"Ah," he said. Of course.
"I don't suppose you're free for lunch or dinner?" she said, and he smiled.
"Not today, I'm afraid. I do want to thank you, though."
She shrugged. "No problem. Look--" Grinning, she unclipped a felt tip pen from the pocket of her camp shirt and popped off the top, reaching for his hand. He chuckled as she scribbled her phone number on the palm of his hand, along with her name. "Give me a call sometime," she said. "We'll talk ancient fountains and . . . things."
"I just might do that," he said. "Thanks again." He glanced at what she'd written as he walked out of the cemetery. It was smudged a bit, but he could make it out. Emilie Well, the number was clear enough, anyway. Maybe he could pass it along to Nick.

Chapter Thirteen

Around eleven thirty, Amanda, Nick, and Joe nominally joined one of the regularly scheduled tours of the cathedral, following along at a leisurely pace with no real concern to keep up with the rest of the group. Joe made a point of relying openly and obviously on his cane, inviting any observers to conclude that his handicap required a slower pace than it actually did. Amanda contributed to the image by linking one arm casually through Joe's, apparently lending additional support, while Nick strolled along slightly behind them, hands shoved into his jeans pockets while he kicked pebbles and idled at a much slower pace than he'd have picked for himself, the sword at his side a very real reminder that his life was quite different from what it had been not too long ago. To anyone watching they appeared to be--what? Nick wondered. Father and daughter, perhaps, trailed by a boyfriend or husband? The fact that Amanda was considerably older than any daughter of Joe's could ever be reminded Nick inevitably of Amy Thomas.
Except for the two hours Joe and Methos had spent shouting at each other right after the kidnapping, no one had so much as mentioned Amy, and it had Nick wondering about the lives Immortals and Watchers lived. He realized he'd taken it for granted that Immortals were often involved in life and death situations. A year's association with Amanda had more than demonstrated that fact to him, and as far as he could tell, Methos was no exception to the rule, despite the fact that the old man insisted he preferred a low key existence, well out of the public eye. Amanda had told Nick about Methos' years among the Watchers as an anonymous researcher no one ever looked at twice, and Nick remembered laughing at the ancient Immortal's ingenuity. The ruse had worked, too, Nick gathered, until Duncan MacLeod--and through him Joe Dawson--had stumbled upon the old man. Amanda had met Methos through MacLeod, he knew, and the rest was . . . well . . . history. And while it wasn't in Nick's nature to avoid a fight, he had no problem understanding that the world's oldest Immortal might be number one on a head hunter's hit list, so he hadn't questioned Methos' choice of survival tactics. All things considered, laying low seemed quite reasonable. The real question, Nick figured, was why Methos had stuck around once he'd been exposed.
After just less than a month of day to day interaction with the man who had become his teacher, Nick realized he knew precisely three things about Methos. One: He preferred to sleep late in the morning if the situation allowed. Two: His wiry slenderness was deceptive in the extreme, a fact he demonstrated every time he dumped Nick on his ass regardless of what Nick thought he'd learned the previous day. And three: He was, Nick had just realized, in love with Amy Thomas. And thinking back on it, Joe Dawson seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion just the other day. Studying the other man's back as he and Amanda strolled arm-in-arm a few feet ahead of him at the moment, Nick remembered the look on Joe's face as he'd watched Methos holding Amy in the street immediately after the car crash.
In retrospect, it was fairly obvious to Nick that Joe wasn't sure he liked the idea, but he was well aware there was nothing he could do about it. Nick shook his head. Did Amanda know? Probably, he thought. Amanda had a way of going right to the heart of things whether she said anything about it or not. Joe's daughter, Methos' Watcher--and more, whether it was acknowledged or not--and not one of them had spoken her name since the previous night, or mentioned Amy Zoll and Inspector LeBrun. Were they afraid of jinxing things? Or was silence just their way of dealing with things no amount of discussion could change?

"You didn't tell him I was coming?" Amanda had demanded, and even from a dozen feet down the hall Nick had known she was talking to Methos. Her escalating voice had been sufficient clue, not to mention the old man's dry and mocking reply.
"No, I didn't tell him you were coming. If I'd told him you were coming he'd still be in Paris." Like it or not, Methos had called that one correctly, but it hadn't made it any easier to hear. Was everyone else that predictable, Nick wondered, or was it just him? Regardless, the old man had known exactly what buttons to push to get the desired result, and Nick felt as if he'd swallowed something sour. Unbidden, he'd remembered Amanda some months before, describing the oldest Immortal as "more Super-manipulator than Superman, regardless of what Duncan MacLeod may think."
"Damn it, Methos!" Amanda's voice had been clear enough from the hall, cutting through something Joe was saying to demand, "You know what your problem is? You always forget that a compromise requires two people, both in the know--"
"And does it occur to you that this particular compromise has nothing to do with me?" Nick had heard Methos shoot back. "That it requires the two of you to reach some sort of arrangement?"
Guiltily, Nick had recognized the truth behind that accusation as well, but he'd been unprepared as he approached the door to the suite to hear Methos' voice, low and intense, the words forced out of a throat that had obviously been tight with tears. "Amanda," Methos had said. "I am very probably going to need help that Nick can't provide. If MacLeod were here, I'd have asked him--" He'd broken off, and as Nick stepped into the doorway, the stronger presence of the two Immortals already in the room masking his approach, Nick had seen Methos draw a steadying breath. "I don't have that many friends," Methos had said. "But those I do have I need here."

No, Nick thought. Methos probably didn't have that many friends. Immortals in general seemed to live fairly solitary lives, and a man in Methos' position was no doubt more solitary than most, and with good reason. In fact, it had surprised Nick more than a little that Methos had agreed to take him on as a student--the most he'd hoped for when he'd first broached the subject had been a sort of temporary asylum, perhaps time to get his feet on the ground away from Amanda's over-protective tendencies. Nick had counted on the willingness Methos had demonstrated in the past to frustrate Amanda's desires, and he hadn't been disappointed--a fact, he abruptly realized, that meant he'd been doing a bit of manipulating of his own.
Amanda and Joe had slowed their saunter to let him catch up with them, and he realized only then that he'd been lagging behind, lost in his own thoughts and paying little attention to his companions or their surroundings. The tour group was long gone--a fact that bothered none of them--and abruptly Nick found himself remembering something Liam had said. Stopping in his tracks, he asked, "Ever heard of the 'Grotto of the Druids'?" he asked Amanda.
Amanda frowned minutely, glancing up at the sun, which was climbing toward its noontime high. "Sure," she said. "It's one of the pre-Christian religious sites associated with Chartres. Why?"
"Because Methos thought it might be important. Wouldn't a grotto be a cave, or an underground site?"
"Assuming you can take the name at face value," Amanda said. "I mean, a grotto is a cave, sometimes natural, sometimes--"
"Manmade," Nick finished for her.
"Right."
Letting Joe set the pace, they doubled back to the Cathedral's north door and stepped from the bright sunlight into the massive interior. Nick was always struck by how dark European cathedrals were compared to the more modern American versions he was used to, and it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When his eyes were fully adjusted, it was the blue of the stained glass that he saw first, particularly the massive rosette window, so much like that of Notre Dame de Paris. "There's supposed to be a maze of some sort," he muttered.
"It's over there," Amanda said. She smiled slightly at the surprised look they both gave her. "What?" she asked teasingly. "It isn't like this is my first time here, you know. I have done a bit of sight seeing over the years. Let's see--" She started forward, leading them toward the cluster of chairs filling the nave. "It's a religious labyrinth, etched into the floor. Here."
She led the way down the center cathedral aisle and pointed. "See?" she asked, and Nick nodded, recognizing the same general outline as the maze Methos had shown him on the computer display, though it was partially obscured by the additional seats that had been set up to accommodate the cathedral's visitors. You could see the entrance clearly enough, and unbidden he remembered the pattern into it: Straight ahead and then to the left, the pattern traced by a red line on Methos' computer screen. Seeing it at full size, he saw now something he hadn't noticed before. The maze's center looked like a child's drawing of a daisy, its circular center surrounded by six "petals" of some sort. He tried to visualize it the way Methos had suggested, reproduced many times the size of the representation that lay before him here. Could they be rooms of some sort, surrounding a larger, central room of some sort?
"The maze is thirty feet across," Amanda said. "That's the same size as the Rose Window."
"Is that a coincidence?" Nick asked.
"Oh, no," she said. "Almost all cathedrals incorporate a kind of 'sacred geometry' where one element mirrors another. It's part of the mystique. People have believed Chartres to be a repository of ancient wisdom for centuries. It's like Stonehenge or the Great Pyramid of Egypt."
"Or the Temple in Jerusalem?" Nick asked.
"The Temple of Solomon?" Amanda asked. "I never really thought about it, but I suppose it all connects somehow. If so, the center of the maze would probably represent the Holy of Holies, wouldn't it? Anyway, you know there have been several fires here? The cathedral has been rebuilt half a dozen times over the centuries, and at least one of the earlier cathedrals was supposed to have been built by the Knights Templar. I don't know if I believe that or not, by the way--the Templars are everyone's favorite pseudo-historical whipping boys, so you hear all sorts of things about them. Anyway, the first time I was here I was about MacLeod's age--"
Amanda was about 1200 and MacLeod was a third her age. That meant . . . . Nick froze. "What year was it?" he asked.
"What? About 1200 or so. 1198--somewhere in there. It was right after the last fire that burned down the cathedral. You wouldn't have known the place--the entire city was leveled, and they had to build from the ground up. Less than 25 years later, though, the entire cathedral had been completed. It was amazing."
"So you saw the foundation as it was then?"
"Well, of course," she said. "You could walk right across the ground, and pick your way through the stones--"
"Was there a way underground?" he asked.
"Nick--"
"Amanda, please. Just answer the question. Was there a way underground?"
"Yes, of course. There were half a dozen places scattered around the substructure, all of them leading to underground caves--"
"Grottos?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "There was an outcropping along the west wall that used to be a well--"
"Could you find it today?"
She looked exasperated. "Nick, you can't be serious--" She shook her head. "That was centuries ago!"
"The west wall," he said. "Was the alignment the same as it is now?"
"Yes," she said hesitantly. "The modern cathedral is bigger, but it encompasses the original subflooring--"
"Show me."
"This is crazy," she said. She looked at Joe for support. "Joe?"
The Watcher nodded. "Methos seemed to think getting access to the underground caves was essential," he said.
Amanda looked from one face to the other and sighed. "All right," she said. "Come on."
Exiting the cathedral required another moment's pause while the three stood and blinked to adjust to the brighter light of day. While their vision adjusted, two busloads of French school children were shepherded past them by a small and harried-looking group of teachers and parents. Not ten feet away a cluster of oriental tourists was gathered around one of the stands selling postcards and small souvenirs, and as Amanda began leading Joe and Nick toward the cathedral's western wall half a dozen pig-tailed girls in blue and white smocks ran past them, laughing, apparently having escaped their escort's less-than-watchful eye. Just a typical tourist-filled day at the Chartres Cathedral, Nick thought, except that one of the tourists recalled a subterranean entrance she'd noted near the western wall on an earlier visit--a visit made, oh, roughly 830 years before . . .
Outside, Amanda paused, assessing who knew what as she led them along the walkway bordering the western wall. Exactly what landmarks would you look for, Nick wondered, to test your memory against the architectural changes wrought over nearly a millennium? Say he were to return to this spot in another 800 years or so. What would he find? Would there be any sign that he and his friends had come this way today, or even that a great cathedral had once stood on this spot? His concentration wavered as another tour group moved past them, the guide walking slowly backward as she gestured toward the cathedral edifice, indicating this and that feature. The language was . . . what? Not Japanese. Korean, maybe? He lost the thought as Amanda moved toward one of the cathedral's great buttresses and then another as he trailed after her, cutting across the grass.
Cold. The stones of the cathedral were massive and as cold as could be, each buttress taller than a man. You had to admire them, those medieval builders who had constructed not just this cathedral, but the thousands like it around the world. Nick thought fleetingly that he'd never really appreciated what an incredible feat the construction of even one massive cathedral must have been in ancient times. He remembered a world history course in college, when his professor had taught them to picture medieval Europe as a series of tiny hamlets sprung up around either a castle or a cathedral on some raised point of land, each with its own bit of water to support fishing, farming, travel, and perhaps some light industry. It was all right here, at Chartres--the cathedral in the center, the town spreading out around it, the River Eure beyond that, and all around the flat of fields, ripening with cereal grains year after year. And somewhere just beneath their feet, who knew what?
"Here," Amanda said. "I think this is what you're looking for."
"The buttress?" Joe asked. He frowned, looking at it, and then at the one on either side of it, identical in all respects as far as he could tell.
"This one's not solid," Amanda said. "And," she added, "it has this--"
This, Nick realized, was a waist-high appendage of some sort, half concealed behind bushes that had been allowed to grow up around the cathedral's walls. Essentially a circular outcropping, it was missing on the other buttresses they'd examined, and was obviously manmade. It had been plastered over to match the buttress, but around the circular lip the plastering had flaked off to show the--original?--rough stone construction, some of which had been replaced with what looked like cement. That was a good sign, wasn't it? Nick wondered. At least it suggested that the well got perfunctory repair and attention from its modern-day caretakers. It was small—a little over a yard across--and sealed with a cap made of wooden planks, with a metal handle set in the center, flecked with rust.
"So, what do you think?" Joe asked.
Nick shrugged. "Won't know 'til we look," he said.
"What?" Amanda asked. "You don't mean now?"
"Why not?" Nick asked.
"I'll tell you why not--" Amanda said, but she was too late.
With an experimental twist to the left and a good tug, Nick had the cover off and was peering down the shaft.
"Nick--"
He'd set the cover aside and hitched one hip up over the edge, perching there as casually as he could manage while a group of boys in matching school uniforms wandered by under the supervision of a nun who was--thank goodness, Amanda thought--too busy with her charges to pay them much attention.
"This is not a good idea," Amanda hissed. She and Joe had their backs to him now, sick smiles plastered to their faces as they attempted to provide what cover they could.
"Oh, relax, would you?" Nick muttered. "It's not like anything permanent can happen to me, you know." Well, okay, there was one thing, but the odds against that weren't something he was going to discuss with Amanda here and now. He swung both legs over and sat on the narrow, curved edge, peering into the blackness below. It looked as if there might be a ladder of some sort bolted to the wall. He'd have to stretch a bit, but it was manageable. Pushing off the edge, he balanced painfully on his palms for a moment, absurdly aware of the nothingness beneath his dangling feet and legs, his arms trembling slightly as they supported his body weight. For a moment he hesitated, but the trembling had increased in his arms and the only way he could relieve the trembling was to change the demand he was placing on them. Resolved, he lowered himself bodily into the shaft, his arms supporting him but protesting as he felt every moment of his workouts and sword drills over the past two weeks coming back to haunt him, the length of his sword banging slowly and repeatedly into his left leg.
"Nick, I really think you should talk to Methos about this first," Amanda said. It was the most effective deterrent she could come up with, and of course the last one she wanted to resort to. "Nick--"
Nothing, followed by the sound of a heavy crash somewhere below, muffled by considerable distance.
Oh, shit, Amanda thought.
She and Joe abandoned their stance of pretended casualness simultaneously and stood staring into the mouth of the converted well, neither one saying a word. No two ways about it, Amanda thought, she was personally going to kill Nick Wolfe, assuming of course that he'd survived the fall. Without even hesitating, she threw one leg over the edge of the well's mouth, levering first her sword into position and then her other leg. "Joe, go find Methos," she snapped. "Bring him back here."
Joe opened his mouth to protest, but she was already shaking her head, anticipating his objections, and he had no doubt anything he said would be a waste of breath.
"Go on, Joe," she said. "You're no good to me here and you know it. Look at the Jewish cemetery for him, the tourist bureau--maybe at the hotel. Tell him what happened." Unbelievably, she actually managed a smile for him. "Oh, and Joe?"
"Yeah?"
"Tell him I think we found his damned underground entrance."

Chapter Fourteen

Methos dropped his rental headphones and cassette player on the office of tourism's service counter around noon, collecting his deposit without ever looking at the money the clerk counted into his hand. Shoving the bills in one pocket, he reached for the handle to the "Exit" door just as it swung open, forcing him to step back a pace or two. Three teenage boys tumbled into the office, laughing and talking in mixed French and English as they brushed past him. He'd have thought nothing about it if the frustrated clerk hadn't shouted at them for their carelessness--boys of that age were always careless, after all, and the "Exit" door worked just as well as an entrance. Since the doors were made of glass Methos had seen them coming in plenty of time to avoid a possible collision, so he saw no reason to get worked up about it. He put it down to a harried city employee letting off a little steam and nodded, smiling as he accepted the boys' somewhat mechanical apologies. It wasn't until he reached for the door handle again that it occurred to him.
Of course. The exit would work equally well as an entrance, if only one knew where the exit was.
"Excuse me--" Shamelessly taking advantage of his adult status and the fact that he'd just been speaking with the clerk, he turned, pushing his way through the boys now clustered at the counter. It was easy enough to catch the clerk's eye since he was at least a head taller than the boys, and that fact let him cut right through their babble. "I was at the Catholic church earlier, you know, the one just north of the Jewish cemetery? I was interested in seeing the hidden fountain there, but it just occurred to me to ask about the route the priests used when they helped smuggle the Jews out of the city."
"Of course, sir," the clerk said. "I have a map you can use. Unfortunately, you can't follow the actual route--it's far too dangerous for the city to permit anyone to enter the underground chambers, you realize. You can, however, see the fountain with the priests' permission. The route ends on the other side of the river, west of town, some distance from a cereal mill that's still in operation. There''s a water wheel--it's really very picturesque, as well as being historically important. During the war the family that owned the mill would help to smuggle people out of town hidden in an old wooden wagon with a false bottom. The people would be hidden beneath the false bottom, with sacks of milled cereals on top, bound for market. I believe the wagon is still on display at the mill, if you're interested."
"Please," Methos said, and the clerk sorted through half a dozen stacks of brochures on the shelf beneath her counter and came up with the right one, handing it to him over the boys' heads. "Thanks again," he said.
Her "Have a nice day" was as automatic as the boys' rush of questions and demands, nearly drowning out the clerk's words.
The map was predictably sketchy, having been designed to discourage exploration of the town's subterranean chambers. There was no way to know if the buildings that had been used to mark the route actually corresponded to an underground route or not, but it didn't really matter since it was the exit he was interested in. After a few minutes' study he'd worked out where that was and it took another fifteen minutes for him to find his way through the old city to the southern-most bridge crossing the Eure.
Just short of the bridge he stopped at a chemist's and invested in a fanny pack. The name made him smile, but he couldn't argue the item's practical design. It took him another ten minutes to fill the pack with a flashlight and extra batteries, half a dozen high energy bars, two plastic bottles of water with resealable tops and a small pocket mirror. A pair of workman's leather gloves completed the pile of things he set down next to the cashier's station. While standing in line he studied the collection of souvenirs beneath the glass, toying with the idea of buying the compass he'd first mistaken for a pocket watch. He decided against it ultimately, deciding that a compass would do him little good underground and was largely unnecessary, given that religious labyrinths were designed not to confuse or confound the user, but to lead one to their centers. At the register he paid the cashier and stashed the lot into the fanny pack, zipped it shut, and then strapped it on around his waist.
That done, he pulled out his portable phone and called the desk at Le Grand Monarque to check for any messages. There were none, but he left one each for Amanda, Nick, and Joe in case they called in. There was an additional message for Duncan MacLeod at Methos' apartment in Paris, where either Joe or Nick would find it eventually, and a computer file encoded for Irene Fiedler that would be delivered to her by a law firm if Methos didn't call to veto the arrangement within 72 hours. Having liked the woman almost immediately, Methos had included additional messages for his friends for her to deliver if and when appropriate, amusing himself by having the unflappable First Tribune of the Watchers act as his personal messenger. "I'm easily amused," he'd once told Joe. Of course, the joke's punch line hinged on his own very permanent death, but those were the chances you took. What was it they said? Dying is easy. Comedy is hard. Yeah, right. He knew which he preferred. Amy Thomas he didn't allow himself to think of except in the most abstract of terms: Goal, method, alternatives--there were only so many alternatives he could calculate at this point, and none were under his immediate control, so he proceeded on automatic pilot, resisting his own preference for definitive information and multiple options. It did not amuse him to realize that the tight line of his mouth was one that Kronos would have recognized.
As he hiked northward up the damp riverbank he was glad for his usual hiking boots and faded jeans, and the gray sweatshirt he'd pulled on after his shower that morning. For all his teasing about MacLeod's boy scout ways, "Be Prepared" was as much Methos' motto as the Scot's, and the modified and silenced German Luger he'd shot Nick with that morning was stashed in a hidden holster at the small of his back. If he'd had more time, he'd have thrown in rappelling gear and a portable halogen light, but he hadn't wanted to alarm Joe needlessly. Instead, he figured, he'd just have to do things the old fashioned way.
He found the mill with its picturesque water wheel easily enough, and from there the map directed him northward a bit more, through a copse of trees that had no doubt served to screen the Jewish refugees and their escorts from prying eyes across the river. Just where he'd expected the copse to be heaviest of all, though, he had a surprise. He'd been anticipating the slit mouth of a cave, and he might have passed it if the map hadn't alerted him to its location. The trees thinned out, though, and the difference between what he'd expected and what he was actually seeing made him pause and backtrack slightly. It wasn't until he actually spotted the cave with its grated mouth that he figured out what must have happened. The city fathers had sealed off the cave entrance with a metal grate and padlock to prevent anyone wandering into the caverns. A plaque above the grill informed him that he'd actually found what he was looking for, and a thoroughly modern-looking caution sign warned the curious away in half a dozen languages, all phrased in the strictest of terms. They had, of course, deliberately thinned out the trees as well, to expose anyone attempting to break into the cave to the view of those across the river.
There was just one problem from the point of security. No one was actually watching from across the river, and Methos was a firm believer in taking full advantage of whatever fortune chose to throw his direction. He snagged his lockpicks and set to work. Amanda would have been proud of him. He'd been practicing, and the industrial strength padlock surrendered in a matter of seconds. With that, he simply opened the grill and let himself in, pulling the metal gate closed behind him and slipping the padlock back in place. To the casual observer, the cave entrance and its grate would appear undisturbed. And if anyone were to discover his trespassing, he was counting on the tendency of most moderns to let the proper authorities take any necessary action rather than becoming personally involved. At worst, he could expect some of the town's more adventurous teenagers to follow him into the cave--any of those he'd encountered at the office of tourism would fit the mold--but even the likelihood of that was small in the extreme. Unless he missed his guess, the local spelunkers would long ago have found their own ways in and out of the warren of underground caves he expected existed in the area, and the cavers could be counted on to ignore local law enforcement restrictions by mutual if unspoken consent. The only real traffic he had to worry about would be members of the Septaguent, and he was betting it was several hours before any of them would venture into the tunnels since they could reasonably be expected to know the way in and out and didn't have to worry about running into a reception committee.
Some fifty yards inside the mouth of the cave Methos shut off his portable phone and buried it with his wallet. Using a rock the size of both fists, he broke the pocket mirrors into small, rough-edged pieces and half-buried a broken shard in the sand, leaving just enough showing to mark a spot six paces from the phone and wallet's location. The rest of the mirrored glass he dropped back into the fanny pack, planning to use them to mark his path as necessary. Like Hansel and Gretel, he thought, marking their route with bread crumbs, except that no birds would be tempted to eat his flecks of mirrored glass. The action made him realize that some part of his consciousness had already slipped into a tactical mode to deal with such things. He would either retrieve the wallet and phone later or not, but either eventuality was preferable to unnecessarily handing information over to an enemy. Kronos had called this his thinking self--the Methos who watched and calculated and judged on a dozen levels simultaneously, always ready to make this or that change in response to things the more visceral man was hardly aware of. "And now that we have Methos," he'd said, "we'll have a plan."
This part of him, he knew, was the Methos that Amanda--and, he supposed, Nick as well--thought of as the remote and calculating super-manipulator, and he supposed it was a fair assessment as far as it went. Even Joe, who usually saw more than most Immortals did, had once remarked that Methos in this mode was as cold a bastard as he'd even seen. The only comfort Methos could take from that was the knowledge that--if nothing else--Joe Dawson's relatively shorter lifespan would prevent him from ever personally experiencing many of the things that had fashioned Methos into the man he was. Still, Joe had inevitably passed his opinion on to MacLeod. A bit naively, the Scot had called it Methos' cynical side, little knowing that it wasn't something conscious or deliberately nurtured over time, but simply Methos being Methos, for better or worse. Never mind the fact that it had kept Methos alive for five thousand years and MacLeod himself had benefited from it in a variety of situations.

"Don't go, MacLeod," he'd said. And then, apropos of nothing but the helpless sense of anger and frustration the Scot usually engendered in him: "It doesn't matter what I say, does it?"

Of course it hadn't mattered, he realized, kneeling in the cool sand of the cave's floor. Teachers were supposed to be forever railing against the rash and incomplete judgments of their students. That's what teachers were for, after all. They were meant to take the brunt of things and to run interference for the younger generation, weren't they, in the hope that their students might learn from the experience? And when the situation warranted it, they were supposed to hold the student's feet to the fire to guarantee the learning stuck. Of course, the only thing he seemed to have taught MacLeod of late was that you got older if you breathed in and out enough times. For a race bent on ritual suicide, though, perhaps that wasn't a bad thing. After all, Mac hadn't even managed to pass that much on to Richie. Now if only the Scot would listen occasionally.
Methos straightened, dusting the sand of the floor from the knees of his pants and moving further inside the cave. Teachers were the strongest hope the Immortals had for survival as a race, and MacLeod was the best Immortal he'd come across in 5,000 years. Of course, you had to weigh that against the fact that Methos himself was--or at least had been--the worst Immortal he'd come across in 5,000 years. All right, all right, he thought, maybe it was a slight exaggeration, but it wasn't that far off the mark, was it? Aside from the fact that it annoyed the hell out of him, it was perfectly predictable that it boiled down to some sort of balancing act that could only be equated with an attempt at redemption. With his flashlight in one hand, Methos trudged silently through the cave, following the only possible avenue available since there were no branches leading left or right, his thoughts the only accompaniment to his quiet footfalls.
So he and Mac were both seeking redemption. All right, he could live with that. He didn't particularly like it since he knew how hard redemption was to come by, but he could live with it. Four or five years before he'd have sworn he didn't believe in redemption and that acceptance was the best you could hope for, but that truly was the cynic in him. You accepted who and what you were, and you got on with life. It had been the only gospel he could afford for a very long time, after all, and he'd nearly lost that when Kronos had found him again. A short time ago he had been forced to play Kronos' lackey and he'd seen the hurt on MacLeod's face and the belief, so plain in those dark eyes, that it was his true self. It was exactly what he'd intended, of course, exactly what Kronos had to see and believe, but it had hurt like nothing had hurt in a very long time, and it had taken a long time to regain the younger man's trust after that. In fact, he'd been trying ever since to redeem himself in MacLeod's eyes, to be what MacLeod wanted him to be, perhaps even what he wanted to be . . .
For as long as he could remember, he'd had a chameleon's tendency to blend into the background, but it was more than that, really. Just as a chameleon had no choice in performing its chameleon magic, so he'd always seemed to inevitably take on the coloring of those around him. After a couple of millennia, it became a survival skill and if there was one thing he was good at, it was survival. The result? Good company, good Methos. Bad company, bad Methos. It was an oversimplification, of course, but true in essence, as Kronos could have told anyone who asked. Methos had survived ten years among the Watchers by being just what they expected--a slightly naive, bookish scholar with more interest in the doings of a 5,000 year old mystery than in the real world around him. He had become Adam Pierson initially because it had offered him a unique way to keep track of the other Immortals, but he had remained Adam Pierson because people he'd liked--Joe Dawson included--had made it easy for him to do so. Surrounded by Watchers, he'd become a Watcher.
He couldn't begin to calculate how many times he'd been the third party at a late night session at Joe's while Dawson and Don Salzer rehashed stories of the various Immortals they'd heard of, read about or encountered over careers that jointly spanned close to fifty years with the Watchers. More often than not, Dawson's stories had revolved around Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and in time Methos had found himself spending numerous hours in the Watchers' libraries and archives, reading the young immortal's chronicles when he was supposed to be doing research for the Methos Chronicles. Truth be told, MacLeod had both fascinated and amused him from the start. It seemed the infant Scot was forever rescuing damsels in distress or some such thing, and Methos had enjoyed following his exploits from a distance. When Kalas had killed Don, Methos had known without even thinking about it that Dawson would send Duncan MacLeod to look after Kalas' next likely target. That was the kind of man Dawson was. And MacLeod being MacLeod, there'd been no doubt that the Highlander would oblige Dawson and show up on Adam Pierson's doorstep. He'd considered absenting himself from Paris, of course, but for some reason he'd decided to stay. And thereby hangs the tale.
Buried somewhere among the books littering the top of his coffee table was a paperback copy of The Hero with a Thousand Faces, which he'd begun reading again for the enjoyment of Campbell's lyrical yet somehow perfectly ordinary use of the English language. There was a passage he'd memorized without even realizing it until he'd come upon it again the other day: "The doctor is the modern master of the mythological realm, the knower of all the secret ways and words of potency. His role is precisely that of the Wise Old Man of the myths and fairy tales whose words assist the hero through the trials and terrors of the weird adventure. He is the one who appears and points out the magic shining sword that will kill the dragon-terror, tells of the waiting bride and the castle of many treasures, applies the healing balm to the almost fatal wounds, and finally dismisses the conqueror back into the world of normal life. . . ."
So here he was, Merlin to an absent Arthur.

"You knew he was going to do this!" Joe had accused. "That last night we were all together--you knew it!"
"And you didn't?" Methos had asked, the meek and mild pseudo-Pierson he sometimes still wore evaporating abruptly. And for a moment--just a moment, thank goodness--he'd forgotten that Joe Dawson didn't see things from his own perspective of 5,000 years of living. "When has Duncan MacLeod done anything but walk away in the past hundred years?" he'd snapped. "When Little Deer and her people were slaughtered? After Slan Quince forced him back into the game? Or maybe when Tessa was shot? No. No, wait, I've got it. When Richie was killed--"
"Yeah?" Joe had demanded. "And what about you, Methos? Like you're not on the next stage every time something happens!"
His anger had evaporated as quickly as it had appeared, and he'd felt himself smiling the way he always did when Joe got in a good one. "Yeah," he'd said quietly, hazel eyes glittering as he'd run one hand through his close-cropped hair. "Well . . . I'm nobody's best hope, am I?" he'd asked. There was silence for another moment and then Methos had exploded in frustration, "Oh, come on, Joe! You're his Watcher, for heaven's sake. You had to have seen this coming!"

The fact, of course, was that Joe hadn't seen it coming. On the mortal scale Joe lived by he'd been unable to imagine MacLeod walking away for a year or three years or a dozen years without a backward glance, and that was precisely why Methos had remained in Paris when common sense urged him against it. He should have disappeared years ago, when Duncan MacLeod had first come calling. He certainly should have disappeared after he'd taken Kristen's head, but he'd let himself fall in love with Alexa instead, and then he'd thrown himself headlong into the debacle surrounding MacLeod's dark Quickening. And if that weren't enough, he'd nearly gotten himself killed by Gina de Valicourt in a hare-brained scheme only Duncan MacLeod could have talked him into. And the result of that? Nothing much, except that he'd been conveniently front and center when Jacob Galati came gunning for Watchers to kill. God, what a farce. He'd found himself in the middle of a full-blown identity crisis only to discover that it didn't much matter how you defined yourself when the past came calling, and at 5,000 there was so bloody much of it!
He'd had a mere six months after the Horsemen to get back into MacLeod's good graces--Byron and Steven Keane beside the point--and then Richie Ryan had died at MacLeod's hands and the whole thing had gone to hell in a handbasket again. Nothing--nothing--would ever take away the memory of Duncan MacLeod kneeling in front of him that night, begging for death, or the sound of Joe's sobs, loud in his ears as Methos stood there, offering the only comfort he could and knowing exactly how inadequate it was.

"Please," MacLeod had whispered, holding the katana out to Methos. And Methos had turned his back on him. "Absolutely not," he'd said.

Was it any wonder that Joe had been so pitifully anxious to pretend that things were back to normal despite all evidence to the contrary?
What people tended to forget--Joe Dawson included--was that you had to learn how to be a teacher and you were bound to make a few mistakes along the way. And the fact that Methos had begun to think lately that he'd been the student and MacLeod, damn him, had been the teacher, didn't help a whole lot. And to make matters worse, he'd said yes when Nick Wolfe came looking for a teacher, and he'd done it just to keep Amanda around, figuring it was one more way to make sure Duncan MacLeod kept in touch when he returned to Paris. So now what? Based on past experience it was a fair guess he'd screw up two students' lives for the price of one. Happy thought. If Duncan MacLeod were smart, he'd stay as far away from Paris as he possibly could and forget he'd ever even met Methos . . .
He hesitated, playing the beam of his flashlight ahead of him again. Instead of the beam being swallowed up in the yawning darkness as it had been before, it was reflected back to him now as a rough circle, dust motes swarming in the beam of light. Experimentally, he swept the light to the other side, satisfied when it came back almost immediately, another rough circle on a wall that was surprisingly close on his right-hand side. He'd come to the elbow juncture of two walls with a new tunnel branching off to the left, just as it should, and overhead he could just make out an artificial something. Curious, he reached on tiptoe and brushed his fingers over the surface of the limestone, sifting dust into the air. There. YHWH--the four Hebrew consonants that had come in time to represent Yahweh, the One God of the Hebrews. "El-Asherah-He-Anath," he whispered. Originally it had stood for Father, Mother, Son and Daughter, four members of a Heavenly Family worshiped in one form or another throughout much of the world. In a patriarchal world the gods' duality had been expressed as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, with the feminine aspects of the godhood all but erased. YHWH. Here they could represent only one thing: the way to God.
The labyrinth at Chartres measured 30 feet across. He expected this one to be roughly the size of a football field, divided into a series of intricately interlaced hallways, each circling around and back over and over again. Imagine bare knees rubbed raw and bloody on bare stone across that distance as an act of devotion. Imagine an Immortal, deliberately beheaded in a perverse blood rite to "sanctify" the induction of a new member of the club. And their names were recorded in heaven. Too bad he'd left his pneumatic drill at home. It was hard, at the moment, to remember why he'd eschewed such conveniences. Oh. Right. He hadn't wanted to alarm Joe needlessly.
Sighing, he moved into the tunnel, his confidence increasing when, some 70 cubits in, the tunnel turned undeniably and abruptly to the right and he found himself retracing the distance he'd just come down a narrow hallway whose walls he could brush on either side with outstretched fingertips. Regardless of the outcome, it had begun; and that, at least, was something. Too bad, though, that he'd left his magic sword at home along with his drill. Still . . . Methos squared his shoulders, letting the broadsword he did carry pull his coat into its own preferred alignment. It looked like the old fashioned kind would just have to do. Fortunately, he'd come prepared.

Chapter Fifteen

He couldn't say how long had passed since he'd entered the labyrinth. One hour or two, perhaps--immortality had made him less clock-conscious than most a very long time ago, and as a result he'd been late to class more often than not when he'd taught at the University. Joe Dawson--who probably should have known better--was forever harping at him about getting a watch. As usual with Joe's sermonizing, Methos tended to listen with both amusement and a vague affection and then went about his business, secure in the knowledge that Joe's advice would be proffered numerous times in the future with ever-increasing annoyance on his friend's part.
Never totally happy in close quarters, Methos had simply followed the winding path of the labyrinth, occasionally allowing his fingertips to brush the walls to either side of him while he pushed forward in silence. Since he could do nothing more than what he was already doing, he didn't think about what might lay at the end of his journey. For awhile he'd counted his silent footfalls, but inevitably that had grown boring in the extreme so he'd begun instead to amuse himself mentally with a series of meaningless lists, the product of both his fondness for reading and a copious memory. Eventually he'd run through the Phoenician and Egyptian dynasties from memory and, since it seemed fitting, he'd begun mentally reviewing the genealogy of the royal house of David. He was trying to remember if the second King Mattathias came before or after the second King Joseph when the gentlest brush of air against his left hand cued him to stop abruptly.
Was it growing lighter? Too gradually for it to have registered, the labyrinth seemed to have grown marginally less pitch black, and his senses were beginning to tell him that there was light somewhere ahead. The curving walls were designed to reintroduce those who followed the labyrinth to the light so gradually that he hadn't been consciously aware of the change--it was part of a deliberately structured religious experience, the journey of the initiate or one of the faithful through total darkness toward the light. In religious terms, he knew, walking a labyrinth involved three stages: purgation, or letting go of distractions as you walked in, symbolic of abandoning the physical world; illumination, or receiving the knowledge or blessing sought by reaching the center; and union, a joining with the sacred as you completed the experience and walked out of the labyrinth. Of necessity his own perception was limited to a more practical level at the moment and he raised his right hand in front of his face and spread his fingers experimentally. Well, all right, truthfully it was hard to say, but he at least thought he could detect a difference between the solid flesh of his hand and the gaps between his fingers. Not that you'd want to bet your life on it . . .
The change in the air was interesting, though. He touched the walls to his left and right and willed himself to stillness, feeling the faintest whispered touch of air moving. That, at least, was real; he was sure of it. It argued for increased caution, but the fact that his hand was actually on the hilt of his sword before he realized he'd reached for it surprised him a bit. Calm, he told himself. This was the Septaguent's home territory and the fact that he'd been invited didn't make him welcome. They were mortals, though, every bit as mortal as the three they'd taken to draw him here. There was an additional consideration, though. By definition the labyrinth was holy ground, as was what lay beyond it. Quite deliberately, he stopped himself, taking his hand away from his sword. Calm. These were mortals. The Luger would be more than adequate. And that, after all, was precisely why he'd brought it. The sleek handle came into his hand every bit as naturally as the Ivanhoe and stayed there as he moved slowly, silently, forward again.
Another ten minutes or so passed while he negotiated a dozen or so turns and halls, the light increasing gradually but noticeably now, so that he was beginning to be able to see the end of the next section of the labyrinth as he turned each corner. He had begun to blink, his eyes adjusting themselves to the increasing brightness, and he'd slowed his pace, listening intently and consciously now. He stopped, emerging into a section of the labyrinth that was, for all intents and purposes, simply a long, slowly curving hallway. From the shape of the hall he guessed he had reached the outer ring of the labyrinth. It should be a simple matter now of negotiating the perimeter, and if memory served him right there would be a single turn to the right before arriving at the center. Ahead now there was the steady glow of electricity where he might once have expected the flickering light of torches. Well, he thought, why not? He, too, had a definite preference for hot water and clean sheets, so perhaps modernization was to be expected. Still, it made him realize that he'd quite unconsciously pictured the Septaguent as dark-robed initiates mouthing centuries-old chants in their underground cavern. If he recalled correctly, the one who had attacked Nick had been wearing a standard business suit. Of course, that didn't change the fact that he'd been carrying a U.S. Army cavalry saber and had fully intended to take Nick's head.
The wall ahead of him hooked to the right. If he had a pick-ax handy and cared to attract attention to himself by battering away at the wall in front of him he figured he would emerge essentially where he'd begun, and a sharp left would take him back to the surface. He didn't have a pick-ax handy, though, and this particular journey required a sharp turn to the right, into the brightness of the electric lights that beckoned to the center of the labyrinth.
Abruptly he found himself remembering the last night he and MacLeod had been together or, more precisely, the last argument they'd had. After Amanda had been kidnapped by O'Rourke they'd left Joe's bar and returned to the barge, Mac going down the steps first. Methos had watched as the Highlander plucked a wedge of cardboard from the softened rim of a burning candle and paused to read what was written there.

"Oh, please tell me that's not written in blood," Methos had said as he came down the stairs behind MacLeod.
"It's Amanda's lipstick," the Highlander replied.
"First Amanda, now Joe." Methos remembered trying for a light tone despite the worsening situation. "I see a very worrying trend developing here."
"No, this is where it stops," MacLeod had responded, already headed out again.
Half wondering why he bothered, Methos put himself between MacLeod and the door. "Don't go, MacLeod--"
"I have no choice."
Stalling for time to think, Methos had protested, "That is existentially inaccurate!" It had no effect, of course, and he'd surrendered in almost the same breath. "All right! I will come with you."
"It's his rules," Mac insisted, and Methos had been unsurprised by the set, stubborn look on the younger man's face. "The notes says alone."
"Rules?" Methos had demanded, caught between impatience and a kind of macabre humor. "What rules? You think O'Rourke is taking Amanda and Joe to play by some set of rules?"
"He'll kill them!" Mac had shouted at him
"Yes," Methos had agreed quietly. "And he will kill you, too."

So just who was making up the rules to this little game? There was a metallic taste in his mouth as he recalled Joe's recountingof the message that had brought him to this time and place:

"Since Dr. Zoll informs us the older of your Immortal friends could scarcely be bothered to come after her we've decided to up the ante a bit. Mademoiselle Thomas, it would appear, has rather more value. Very well. You can find her in Chartres. Think of it as a test of your friend's ingenuity."

Ingenuity. It didn't take much ingenuity when someone else was pulling all the strings, of course, but it definitely simplified things.

"Don't go, MacLeod--"
"I have no choice."
"That is existentially inaccurate!"

Hah. Wrong again. Imagine that. And MacLeod had known all along, no doubt. Without a word, Methos rounded the final corner and moved toward the center of the labyrinth.
At the end of the hall was an archway, man-tall and more, leading to a circular room beyond. From the archway you stepped out onto a white stone balcony of sorts that ran the circumference of the room and was accessible from four doorways laid out at right angles, one directly opposite him and one each to the left and right. Stairs led down from each doorway to a circular room below that--at a guess--would measure thirty feet across, the same as the Chartres labyrinth. In fact, he thought, stepping closer to the edge of the balcony for a better look, a copy of the labyrinth appeared to be cut into the floor here, and he shook his head in appreciation, wondering which of the two was the original. Hmm . . . multiple doorways argued for other pathways through the labyrinth, or even other labyrinths, possibly accessed from other starting points. More important though, was the extraordinarily detailed carvings on the walls of the room. Turning from the edge of the balcony he looked at the columns on either side of the archway he'd come through and then at those flanking the other three doorways. Each was topped by an elaborately carved angel in a late Renaissance style, arms thrown out and surrounded by curlicue etchings deep in the stone that was, doubtless, meant to suggest wind. The symbolism was unmistakable, and the words came unbidden to mind:

And after these things I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth, holding the four winds of the earth that the wind should not blow on the earth, nor on the sea, nor on any tree.
And I saw another angel ascending from the east, having the seal of the living God: And he cried with a loud voice to the four angels, to whom it was given to hurt the earth and the sea.
Saying, "Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees, till we have sealed the servants of our God in their foreheads."
And I heard the number of them which were sealed: And there were sealed an hundred and forty and four thousand of all the tribes of the children of Israel.

There it was, excised from the domed ceiling almost as if it were real: the ascending angel, presumably in the east, bearing a seal the size of a shield in the crook of one arm, sword at the ready in his free hand. One hundred and forty four thousand. Dividing by 70 produced an improbable figure, but if you remembered that a "Seventy" actually consisted of 72 members--the 70 lay members plus the two priests or elders who headed the group--you came up with a nice round 2000. It seemed appropriate for millennial fanatics, he thought, though he put less stock in such things, having lived through four millennial changes already. It was unpleasant though, to think there might be 2000 groups of fanatics roaming the earth, hunting Immortals in the name of religion. If he recalled correctly, there had been twelve thousand members from each of the 12 tribes of Israel--Aser, Nepthalim, Manasses and all the rest--totaling 144,000. And the names of the Seventy were recorded in heaven . . .
There they were, cut into the columns on each side of the four angels: Name after name after name, recording all the generations of the Angels of St. John in a genealogist's dream come true, generation after generation from the time of Christ, the names growing more modern as they progressed through the centuries. And when a direct descendant's bloodline ran out, a new member was adopted into the order by blood rite and an Immortal was killed to sanctify the new member's bloodline. What was it Fiedler had said? The Quickening was supposed to enter the initiate so he and his descendants would possess an essence of St. John's immortality.
It was ridiculous, of course. If nothing else, the Chronicles on the Hunters made clear what happened to a Quickening that was released when no Immortal was present. How many Immortals, he wondered, had lost their Quickenings here, or in rooms like this, assuming the Septaguent existed in other nations and on other continents? He laid one hand on the nearest column, feeling the cool stone beneath his palm. Were their names also recorded in heaven, or were they anathema, unknown, uncelebrated, unrecorded? No, he thought abruptly. Not unrecorded. What had Irene Fiedler said? Something about secret literature. "I always thought it was fiction," she'd said.
Fiction, my ass, Methos thought.

"We do have a few resources, Mr. Pierson," she'd said. "Surely you were in research long enough to know that."

To observe and record, but never interfere. Huh. Blindsided by a mortal. Good God, he could be so dense sometimes. Probably came from thinking 5,000 years of living meant you'd seen and done things no one else could imagine. You'd think he'd have learned by now how wrongheaded that particular notion was. And she'd done everything but come right out and hand it to him. There was a Watcher on John the Revelator and possibly had been for decades, even centuries--or, at the very least, the Watchers had penetrated the Septaguent and were observing them, possibly tracking the Revelator for their own reasons. And he'd left his cell phone buried in the shallow sand at the mouth of the cave's entrance. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Contacting Joe or Nick and Amanda was out of the question, of course, and his only consolation was the likelihood that his phone wouldn't have worked this far underground anyway.
Well, there was no sense putting off the inevitable.
Carefully and quietly, he moved down the stairs to the room below. Here, too, the walls were rich with carvings drawn from the book of Revelation, showing the seven churches and seven spirits--shown as angels here--kneeling before the golden throne of God, surrounded by angels and strange beasts. A multitude worshiped a Christ descending in glory from the clouds, the Greek symbols for Alpha and Omega carved in his palms where the holes from the crucifixion nails should have been, the one truly discernible member of the worshipers plainly meant to be John the Revelator, a rainbow-arc of seven-pronged menorahs appearing to hover in the air above him as he stared up in adoration at the Christ:

And he had in his right hand seven stars, and out of his mouth went a sharp two-edged sword, and his countenance was as the sun shineth in his strength.
And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead. And he laid his right hand upon me, saying unto me, "Fear not: I am the first and the last. I am he that liveth, and was dead: and behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen."

Above the right hand of Christ were seven seals encircling a closed book, and on the opposite wall the tree of life, surrounded by martyrs and the four and twenty elders of Israel, in their midst the seven-horned lamb with seven eyes. And there--impossible to keep his mouth from quirking at the sight of them, etched deeply into the wall and nearly life-size, obviously the work of a master artisan: There stood the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

And I saw, and behold a white horse, and he that sat on him had a bow, and a crown was given unto him, and he went forth conquering and to conquer. . . .
And there went out another horse that was red, and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another, and there was given unto him a great sword. . . .
And I beheld a black horse, and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. . . .
And I looked, and behold a pale horse: And his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.

The four horsemen of the apocalypse, symbol of his angry adolescence and what Kronos would have made of him again.

"I go with the winner," he'd told MacLeod, hoping the Highlander would see in him what he couldn't show Kronos: Make sure you're the winner.

John, of course, hadn't known the true story of the four horsemen--he'd merely borrowed the imagery from an oral history that was old before Christ had walked the earth, a story brought by the Jews out of their Babylonian captivity and codified centuries later as scripture. The same was true of the story of the flood--a cataclysmic event out of pre-history had come in Judeo-Christian terms to represent an apocalyptic past and, in John's hands, the horsemen had come to represent an apocalyptic future. In time the biblical telling had outstripped the earlier sources, so that only obscure scholars and history buffs had any real sense of the originals now--unless, of course, you happened to have been there . . .
He paused, hand outstretched as if to stroke the mane of the horse before him, his head turning automatically toward the sound. A soft sound, like a sigh, or of fabric brushing against the roughness of a rock-hewn wall, followed by a voice he knew. Amy.
At first glance each of the four stairways appeared to be a solid brick structure. Given that the rest of the room was cut from stone, that in itself seemed to deserve attention, and he focused on it immediately. Interesting, too, that the center of the wall appeared to be recessed a few inches. He arched his brows and pushed against the wall experimentally. Immediately the recessed portion of the wall slid back, accompanied by the breathy, pneumatic sound--talk about modernization--and he found himself face to face with Amy Thomas.

Chapter Seventeen

"Joe Dawson? I'm Ian Laine. Irene Fiedler sent me."
Joe made a half-hearted attempt to rise from the deep cushioned green and white striped seat that was the hotel's notion of casual dining comfort, but Laine waved him back down, obviously aware of Dawson's artificial legs and wanting to spare him the effort. While he appreciated the man's courtesy, it made Joe wonder what else he'd been apprized of. Not that it was something he could just come out and ask, of course: "So, did Irene tell you you're to turn your guy over to my guy, no questions asked?" Not that Methos was his guy, or not exactly, anyway. It was . . . complicated, both personally and professionally, and getting more so with each passing moment.
"And you were told--?"
"To render any and all assistance required, although no one seemed anxious to discuss exactly what that might involve. It struck me as pretty damned irregular, but the orders came from the top." He signaled the white-shirted waiter and ordered coffee, his look inviting Joe to order something as well while they had the waiter's attention, but Joe shook his head, marginally happier when the waiter departed and they were alone again. "You want to tell me what this is all about?" Laine asked.
"Sorry," Joe said. "My orders come from the top, too." All right, it wasn't anywhere near the truth, but at this point he figured Irene deserved what she got.
"But you are Joe Dawson?" Laine asked abruptly. "I mean, I've heard about you and Duncan MacLeod, of course. And now you head the Methos Chronicles."
Hesitantly, Joe nodded.
"Then he really exists."
"Oh, yeah," Joe said wearily. "He definitely exists."
"And he's here? In Chartres?" Without waiting for an answer, Laine shook his head, asking, "What in the world does Methos have to do with John the Revelator?"
Joe's smile was a bit lopsided. "That depends on what you can tell me about John the Revelator," he said.
"Well, I can tell you that he's real, and we've been Watching him for almost as long as there've been Watchers. D'you know your bible?"
"I was raised Catholic. It's not necessarily the same thing, but I've been getting a review lately."
Laine nodded. "Saint John, John the Revelator, John the Divine, John the Beloved--the title varies, but it's the same man. In the bible he refers to himself as 'the disciple whom Jesus loved,' though none of the other gospels recognize a special relationship between them. In fact, originally he was a disciple of John the Baptist, who was Christ's cousin. Presumably he met Christ through that association. Officially John was the son of Zebedee, a priest who held the Essene title of 'Lightning.' It isn't just a nickname, you understand, but a formal title among them, one of the three or four highest designations they have--"
"Have?" Joe interrupted. "You mean 'had,' don't you? They died out--"
Laine was shaking his head before Joe could even finish. "Not true," he said. "Trust me. The Essenes are alive and well."
"The Septaguent?" Joe asked, and Laine's face lit with something that looked like pleasure.
"You've heard of them?" he asked. "The Seventies? They're almost pure Essene, passed down from father to son, and called to the earthly protection of Saint John."
"So why did Jesus call John 'Boanerges,' if he was the son of Lightning?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know--Boanerges, 'son of thunder.' You know that 'Thunder' referred to Jonathan Annas, the High Priest of the Sadducees?" When Joe nodded, he continued. "Well, there's a story--just a story--that Annas was John's real father. Of course, since we know John's an Immortal it's unlikely either man was his real father--unless you want to get into a theoretical discussion of where baby Immortals come from?"
"Not today, thanks," Joe said, and Laine nodded. "I'd appreciate anything you can tell me about the Essenes, though."
"Well, let's see . . . all Essene marriages are arranged by the priests of the Order, and except for a few weeks every year men and women alike live as celibates. In September there's a betrothal ceremony for new couples, followed by what's called a 'First Marriage'--a three month celibate period known as an espousal. It's sort of a get acquainted period when husband and wife live together but don't have physical relations. That's what the bible means when it says that Mary was the espoused wife of Joseph. They were in this probationary period, living together without having intercourse.
"In the first half of December, after espousal, members of the religion are allowed physical relations for two weeks with the goal of conceiving a child. Those couples who conceive go through what's called a 'Second Marriage' when the woman is three months pregnant--it's their way of formally legalizing the marriage. Couples who don't conceive can stay together if they choose, but they can also separate if they choose to--it's sort of a guarantee that the man doesn't get stuck with a barren wife. It's not exactly politically correct these days, but that's the way it works. You know when the bible says that Joseph was thinking of 'putting Mary away privily'? It was because she was found to be pregnant during their espousal, before they'd been together sexually. The natural assumption would have been that she had broken the rules of celibacy and was pregnant by another man."
"And when the angels told Joseph she was pregnant by the power of the Holy Ghost?"
"Oh, well," Laine said, abruptly reminding Joe unaccountably of Adam Pierson, erstwhile graduate student. "That's quite a different story, of course."
Curious, Joe found himself staring into the man's mild blue eyes. "Are you a cleric, Ian?" he asked, and Laine drew back in mild surprise, humor lighting his eyes.

            "Me?" he asked. "Hardly. I'm an archaeologist and religious historian by training."
"And John the Revelator? The 'son of thunder'?"
"When Christ called him 'Boanerges'--the 'son of thunder'--I think it was a reference to the fact that John was heir to one of the most powerful offices among the Essenes. Under normal circumstances, he'd have become the next 'Thunder' himself, after Annas died."
"But John died first? And became Immortal?"
"Possibly. Not surprisingly, there's no written account of his first death, although it probably occurred during Christ's lifetime. Not that it matters much. I mean, after Christ was betrayed by Annas, John turned away from the existing Essene structure and they were all but destroyed within 60 years. John never became 'Thunder.'"
"What did he become?"
"In essence, he became what the Essenes call a Joseph--the highest priesthood authority among them. In that role he set up his own religious sect, and continues today as their leader."
"They know he's Immortal?"
"Oh, yes. It's a tenet of their faith."
"The poor shall always be with us," Joe said, and the other nodded enthusiastically.
"You know it, then?" Laine asked. "The Angelic Liturgy and the word substitution code? I had no idea you were such a scholar."
"Let's just say I have a good tutor," Joe said drily.
"I should think so. Um . . . about Methos? Is he hunting John?"
"You mean headhunting?" Joe asked. "No--that's not his style." Or at least it wouldn't have been . . . what? God, when was the last time he'd have felt perfectly secure telling someone else just what Methos' style was, anyway? He'd begun noticing a real change in Methos about the time the oldest Immortal had eliminated Morgan Walker from the Game. Without a doubt, the Methos who had calmly stalked and killed Walker's men was very different from the man he'd come to think of as Methos in the three years before that time. He was so different, in fact, that Joe had begun to wonder just how well either he or MacLeod had known the old man in the first place. He'd long ago accepted the idea that the man he'd known for ten years as Adam Pierson had been a convenient facade. It was harder to accept the idea that the Methos he'd known for the past three-plus years might also have been a facade. What was it MacLeod had said?

"You didn't see his face, Joe."
It had been one of the few times the Highlander had ever talked to Joe about what had happened when he and Cassandra had followed Methos' trail to Bordeaux. Kronos had established a base at an abandoned naval facility on the outskirts of the city and MacLeod had traced the Horsemen there to challenge Kronos on his home ground. He and Kronos had fought, and Kronos had ordered Methos to kill Cassandra.
"His face was so--" Words had failed the Highlander, and for a moment he'd just sat there, staring straight ahead. "He looked so different," he'd said at last, and they'd both known how inadequate the word was.
"I go with the winner," Methos had said.

For just a moment Joe felt the weight of those words stabbing through him as they must have stabbed through MacLeod.
"I go with the winner."
Knowing Methos as he did, Joe had read the subtext that was there whether MacLeod had divined it or not: Make sure you're the winner. Methos had hung everything he was and everything he might become on MacLeod at that moment. Make sure you're the winner, Old Man, Joe thought, because there's at least as much at stake here as there was in Bordeaux, and MacLeod's not around at the moment.
"I need you to get me into the Septaguent's meeting tonight."
There. He'd said it. Of course, it hadn't come out exactly the way he'd had in mind, but once the words were spoken they couldn't be called back.
"Just you," Laine said. "I won't lead Methos to him."
With any luck, you won't have to. Hardly daring to trust his voice, Joe nodded.
"What about your . . . " Laine gestured toward Joe's legs, and Joe realized the man was asking about his ability to get around in possibly difficult circumstances.
"I manage well enough," Joe said. "You get me there. I'll take care of the rest."
Laine nodded. "All right," he said. "They'll meet this evening around eight. I can get you inside."
"You'd normally be there?" Joe asked, and Laine nodded again.
"To observe and record," he said.
But never interfere. Unspoken, the words hung between them, a promise Laine took for granted and one Joe Dawson had no intention of keeping. He'd learned a long time ago that there were times when you had to do more than just watch.

Chapter Eighteen

"Methos," Amy breathed.
Bars separated them, but only momentarily. He reached between the bars, took her face between his hands, and kissed her without even thinking about it.
"Not 'Adam Pierson'?" Inspector LeBrun asked from the opposite corner of the small cell.
Next to him, Amy Zoll smiled apologetically and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. She doubted it was the only surprise the Inspector was in for. "Any time you two care to come up for air," she said drily, looking at Methos and Amy Thomas.
They separated at last, Amy looking a bit stunned. Methos looked . . . well, Zoll thought, to be perfectly honest Methos looked like someone who'd just returned home after a very long time away. The look on LeBrun's face was priceless when Methos produced a zippered case from inside his coat and without comment inserted one of a half dozen lockpicks into the lock. Zoll shook her head, imagining what the Inspector would say if--or more likely when--he got a good look at the sword Methos was doubtless carrying also. There was, she had to admit, something bizarrely funny about the whole thing.
Ever the policeman, LeBrun had to move closer to the door to watch as Methos matter-of-factly went to work, stepping back only when Methos met his eyes and said, "You're in my light."
LeBrun blinked once, then realized the overhead light behind him was throwing his shadow in front of him, darkening Methos' work area. "Oh. Sorry," LeBrun muttered, moving to the side. Zoll, he noticed, looked as if she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Neither she nor Amy Thomas seemed at all surprised that Adam Pierson--this . . . Methos--appeared to routinely carry a very expensive and illegal set of lockpicks or that he knew how to use them.
"Damn it." Methos stopped working the lock momentarily, switched to a different pick, and then added a second to it, playing one against the other. Muttering something that sounded very like "Where the hell is Amanda when I really need her?" he went back to work on the lock, his brow creased slightly. A few minutes later he returned both lockpicks to their case and dropped the case back down the concealed pocket in his coat.
"Now what?" LeBrun asked quietly.
Methos gripped one of the bars, long fingers drumming in a slow and silent tattoo. Without comment, he reached to the small of his back and produced the sleek brown and black Luger he had holstered there, prompting a surprised intake of breath from LeBrun. "I do recall, don't I," LeBrun said slowly, "that you told me you were a linguist and historian?"
"I was an associate professor of both at the University of Paris," Methos said idly. Unapologetically, he slid the bolt back on the Luger, chambering a round. "Of course, I've since resigned the post," he added.
"Of course," LeBrun agreed.
"You're not going to shoot the lock open are you?" Amy Zoll asked.
"No," Methos said. "There's no sense advertising my presence if they're not already aware of it." He unsnapped the holster from his belt and handed both through the bars to LeBrun. "However, they won't necessarily expect you to be armed and we might need the advantage."
LeBrun nodded as he attached the holster to his own belt and checked the gun's safety. "I take it they will expect you to be armed?" he asked. His only reply was a tight smile. "Right. I don't suppose you'd care to tell me who 'they' are?" he asked. "Neither of your friends here has been inclined to talk about it."
"I can't imagine why not," Methos said. "You see, I'm an immortal." This as he pulled a ringed dagger from inside his coat and calmly slid the tip into the lock. "Your kidnappers--" He rammed the 14 ½" blade firmly into place. "--are part of a 2,000 year old organization dedicated to John the Beloved. They kidnapped Zoll," he said, working the blade back and forth, "because they thought I'd come after her. When she told them I wouldn't, they grabbed Amy Thomas to make sure I'd play their game. Unfortunately--" this was accompanied by a particularly wicked upward shove on the dagger's handle--"you got caught in the middle." The lock popped open abruptly and the cell door swung open.
"An immortal," LeBrun said slowly. He looked from Methos to the dagger and back again.
"They always fixate on that one point," Methos commented to no one in particular.
"I can't imagine why," Zoll said. She shook her head and snagged the sleeve of LeBrun's suit coat, tugging gently to get him to move. Amy Thomas needed no such persuasion.
With them all out of the cell, Methos slid the wall back in place and resheathed the dagger.
"You're telling me that you . . . cannot die," LeBrun said.
Methos sighed. "There are only so many ways of putting it," he said.
"And I suppose you, too, are 2,000 years old?"
"Closer to . . . um . . . five thousand . . . actually."
Half way through the remark Methos seemed to lose interest in what he was saying, his head coming up as if he were searching for something, the gesture reminding LeBrun of a hunting dog catching a scent on the breeze.
"Don't tell me," Amy Thomas said.
At the same moment Methos pulled a very long sword from some hidden recess inside his coat.
"What?" LeBrun asked as Zoll turned to shush him. "Now what?"
"Company," Zoll hissed. "Immortal company."
"And they're also carrying swords?" LeBrun asked, his eyes on Methos' broadsword. He sounded almost resigned and despite herself, Zoll couldn't hide her grin.
"Odds are," she replied, pressing her back to the wall.
Methos gestured for them to stay put and then stepped quietly from the shelter of the stairs into the center of the room, feeling very much alone there. Alone was good, he reminded himself. Alone meant there was no one around to try to take your head. Of course, with the sense of Immortal presence increasing it was unlikely he'd be alone for very long and that made him wonder why he was the one, lately, who kept pulling out a sword and going out to play hero. He might as well have a bulls eye painted on his chest for all the protection the open room offered. Still, it was a nice place for a sword fight if it came to that.  Plenty of room, nothing to get in the way . . . Except for the stairs and the fact that it was holy ground, it was just about perfect.
"Methos!"
Nick. What the--
Methos straightened from his stalking pose as Nick Wolfe burst through one of the archways above and spotted him. Returning his sword to its sheath, Methos said nothing while Nick clattered down the stairs toward him. As soon as Nick was close enough to hear him, however, he grabbed the younger man by the shirt front and hissed, "Where the hell is Amanda?" Not that there was any particular need for quiet, given the amount of noise his student had made--was continuing to make--but whispering had the desired effect of riveting Nick's full attention on him and damn it all, Nick had more sense than to come unarmed into another Immortal's presence, even if he did think it was Methos . . . . "And where the hell's your sword?" Methos snapped, raising his voice just a bit.
"They took it," Nick said. "They took it and they took Amanda--" To his credit, the account came out lucidly enough and Methos wasn't left guessing at any meanings. "Methos, we ran into them in the maze--the labyrinth. Seven or eight of them; I'm not sure. They took Amanda. They took my sword and told me I'd find you here. They let me go."

"Run, infant, run," they'd shouted. "Run to your teacher--perhaps he can save your head!"

Nick colored, red to the roots of his hair, but Methos only nodded and Nick swallowed, forcing the words out of his mouth. Accompanied by a short bark of laughter, the words had an edge of fury to them and more. "They let me go and I thought I could warn you, so I ran. Damn it, I turned my back on her and I ran."
"It's all right, Nick, but I have to know. Was there an Immortal with them?"
Nick nodded. "Yes. I could feel him, sense him, I mean. I ran, Methos. I left her there and I ran."
"Nick. You did the only thing you could do. She knows that. Did they say anything?"
"What?"
"Think, now, it's important. What did they say? What did they say about Amanda?"
Nick blinked and Methos watched his face carefully. "They said . . . they said she was the mother of demons. One of them said she was a witch."
"A witch." Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. "All right." Methos waved the others toward him. "Nick, I want you to take the others out of here. Can you do that?"
"But Amanda--"
"Amanda is my responsibility, not yours. I need you to do this, Nick. All you have to do is follow the labyrinth."
"I--Yeah," he said. "All right." He swallowed again and started to nod.
"Good. I'll meet you at the hotel--" Or maybe not. Nick's head had come up and around in time with his own, instinct pointing them both toward the source of the silent signal of another Immortal emerging on the balcony above them.
"Amanda--" Nick was three steps up the stairs when Methos grabbed his arm and whirled his student around to face him.
"Nick! This is my fight, not yours." A moment and then, reluctantly, Nick nodded, dragging the back of one hand across his mouth. "All right," Methos said. "Here." He started to hand Nick the dagger he had stashed in his coat, but Nick shook his head.
"I have my own," he said.
"Well, good for you," Methos said. "Don't draw it unless you absolutely have to. If I'm right about these people they'd just as soon kill you as look at you, especially around John the Divine. Remember, Nick--every one of them has sworn to die to protect him, and they know exactly how to kill an Immortal."
They were robed and hooded in white and entered one at each door, four mortals wearing swords at their sides, dwarfed by the elaborately carved angels cut into the walls behind them:

And after these things I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth . . . And I saw another angel ascending from the east--

--followed by a fifth whose presence rang out, raising the short hairs on the back of Methos' neck and making his gut roll; followed not by 144,000, but enough. Sixty-six at a guess, the five "angels" raising their number to 71, with the man he'd killed bringing the number to a nice round 72. At about the same time two of those present pushed forward from their midst with Amanda squirming between them, holding her in front of the Immortal both Methos and Nick had sensed. A third stood by with her sword.
"Been having trouble getting girls lately?" she asked, and the Immortal raised his hand to strike her.
"John bar Zebedee," Methos said abruptly. "Or do you prefer John bar Annas? Boanerges, he called you, the Son of Thunder. Why was that, I wonder?"
The Immortal froze at the top of the stairs and turned to stare at him, recognition dawning slowly. Gradually he lowered his hand and moved slowly down the stairs to the center of the room, followed by the four Angels who had preceded him into the room, all with swords now drawn. "Methos the Gentile," John said calmly.
Methos smiled. "You know, I'd almost forgotten you used to call me that."
"So, guys--is this old home week, or can anyone play?" Amanda asked. Her captors had hustled her down the stairs between them and she raised her chin to Methos, indicating the two robed men. "Start with these two," she suggested. "Or give me your sword and I'll take care of it myself."
"Witch!" The single word was accompanied by a sudden backhanded slap from John. He was poised to deliver a second blow when Methos snatched his wrist in the air and shoved him back.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you it isn't nice to hit women?" he asked. All it earned him was a quick frisking by John's bodyguards, who relieved him of his sword.
Having recovered from the force of the slap that had sent her head snapping painfully to one side, Amanda raked John up and down with her eyes. "Maybe next time you could try to make it hurt," she purred seductively.
"Whore!" he shouted at her. If Methos hadn't been between them, she was sure he'd have charged her. Instead he turned to the group of men descending the stairs and shouted, "Do you see? She is the mother of abominations!"
"Hey!" Amanda snapped. "I'm nobody's mother."
"Liar!" John bellowed. "She is a demon and the mother of demons. It is through her and her kind that the false ones are born, like him and him!" He pointed to Methos and Nick, causing his followers to start muttering and to draw back a little. "They are the Devil's imitations of Eternal Life, bred by Satan through her and her kind!" He turned to Methos, eyes piercing. "If she speaks again, I will have her head, as God is my witness."
"No!" Nick shouted. "We're on holy ground!"
Livid, John whirled. "Do you think we would bring your kind to holy ground?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "The very words are a blasphemy from your mouth! Because of you we buried one of our own two weeks ago--one killed by you!"
"Nick didn't kill him, John," Methos said. "I did. If I hadn't, he'd have taken my student's head."
"Liar!" John threw the word at him furiously. "Father of Lies! None of the Seventy would violate his sacred oath! Gilliard would have taken only his mortal life, and only for so long as was needed to bring him here so the rites could be performed!" He pointed to Nick. "Through me he would have been purged and sanctified!"
"Through you he would have been dead," Methos said.
"Kill him!" It was a woman's voice from the top of the stairs, and as they watched she threw back her hood and brought a handgun to bear on those below.
Nick dove in front of Amy Zoll as Methos tackled Amy Thomas, driving her to the ground beneath him. At the same time Inspector LeBrun pulled his borrowed handgun and went down on one knee, shouting "Police!" as he fired two warning shots into the air. Beside Joe Dawson, Ian Laine shouted "Emilie! No!" and threw himself forward.
And through it all Methos heard Emilie Gilliard crying, "He killed my husband!"
The gun fired once, twice, Joe Dawson's heart lunging in his chest in time with the shots, the two 9mm slugs slamming into Nick Wolfe's side. Amanda screamed and shouted Nick's name as he went down, his shirt covered in blood. With her captors momentarily stunned, Amanda brought her right foot down hard on one's instep and threw herself headlong into the other, jerking free of them both. The man who had confiscated her sword had bolted with many of the others in the confusion, his abrupt departure sending her light broadsword clattering down the steps toward her. Amanda grabbed her sword on the bounce even as Methos rolled off of Amy and realized in the time it took him to blink what was about to happen.
"No!" he shouted. He scrambled to his feet, lunging at the man who had relieved him of his own broadsword a moment before. They collided and Methos brought the man's wrist down painfully across his raised knee, wrenching the sword from his hand and shoving the man to the ground. Doing the only thing he could, Methos lunged at Amanda as she bolted toward John. With John scrambling to get away from her, Amanda half pirouetted, her sword coming down in a follow through that couldn't possibly miss as John fell to the ground.
"No!" Methos choked out, his own sword raised in a murderous two-fisted grip. He chopped downward in time with Amanda's stroke, aiming for the sword's weakest part, where hilt and blade joined, haunted by a vision of accidentally lopping off her hands at the wrists. The adrenaline-charged swipe was true, though, connecting with Amanda's blade with tremendous force, forcing it down, down, down while John scrambled back, back, back.
Too quickly for anyone to see clearly, Methos' stroke forced Amanda's blade to the stone floor, the floor providing the brace he needed. Her blade snapped at the hilt as his own continued downward on top of it, her blade ringing with the sound of metal as it clattered, bounced, and clattered again on the floor. Furious and all but incoherent, Amanda rounded on Methos, who stood over John the Beloved, protecting him with his own sword.
"You bastard!" Amanda spat at Methos. "You bastard! I could have taken his head--"
And that, of course, was precisely the point.
Somewhere in the room there was the sound of a woman sobbing still as her father rocked her back and forth in his arms, and of a man's careful steps as he negotiated stairs too steep to be truly comfortable for a cane and dual prostheses. And while a stunned Inspector LeBrun watched, Amy Zoll and Amy Thomas welcomed Nick Wolfe back among the living.

Chapter Nineteen

"Where's Methos?" Irene Fiedler asked.
Joe Dawson lowered himself to the green and white striped cushions of the chair wearily, levering his cane out of the way and his prostheses into a reasonably comfortable position. "He didn't come back to the hotel with us," he replied. "At a guess, he's with John still, trying to sort things out. I assume you had extra Watchers on him just in case."
She nodded. "It seemed prudent," she said.
"You could have told me, Irene."
"Yes, I suppose I could have, but the other Tribunes voted against it. There are three of us, you know."
Yeah, he knew. He also knew that she was First Tribune, and she had veto power over the others if she chose to use it. "Now what?" he asked.
"Emilie Gilliard will probably be hospitalized," she replied. "We'd suspected her of interference in the Game for the past two years. Peyton was the last of three different Immortals she'd been assigned to Watch, and they'd all disappeared under curious circumstances. We suspected they'd been turned over to the Septaguent. She doctored their terminal reports to make it look like they'd been killed by others in the Game, but the facts didn't add up."
"She's Ian Laine's daughter?"
Irene nodded. "Gilliard is her married name," she confirmed. "What we didn't know was that her father's . . . enthusiasm . . . for his job had led him--and her--into the Septaguent. Apparently Peyton was next in line for 'sanctification.' When Amanda killed Peyton, Emilie fed them Nick in his place."
"A Watcher who became more than a Watcher," Joe said.
"Yes." She sipped coffee--black, no sugar--from one of Le Grand Monarque's best cups. "What about Inspector LeBrun?" she asked.
Joe shrugged. "We'll try to recruit him, of course," he replied. "In the meantime, Amy Zoll has convinced him that he owes it to her to hear her out fully on what happened tonight before there's any police involvement. I'm pretty sure it'll work. He was . . . impressed enough with our friend Methos before things started happening that he's more than curious. I think he'll give us the chance to persuade him."
Irene nodded and it gave him the opening he needed to ask his own question. "What happens to Laine?" he asked.
"Leave it alone, Joe," she said, and he fell silent, staring at her. He recalled standing in front of a session of the Tribunal several years ago when he'd been charged with betraying his oath, consorting with an immortal, and falsifying Chronicles. The verdict, given by Jack Shapiro, had been death by firing squad, and they'd lined up in a courtyard, all nice and neat, to see the sentence carried out. Irene Fiedler had been there, as a member of the Senior Watchers' ranks at the time, an observer only. About a dozen men and women had died that morning, Watchers all, shot by Jacob Galati. Irene Fiedler had survived, as had Joe Dawson. He'd been reinstated and in time he'd even been given tacit approval to continue associating with MacLeod, Methos and Amanda. The privilege, it appeared, did not extend across the board.
"And John?" he asked.
"John is an Immortal, Joe. We have no control over what he does."

Chapter Twenty

"You let him go," Amanda said.
Methos leaned against the wall of the cave tiredly, flipping his flashlight on. The beam flickered back from a mirrored piece of broken glass, indicating where he'd buried his wallet and cell phone, but he was too tired at the moment to kneel down in the sand and dig for them.
"He was going to kill Nick, and you let him go."
"Yeah." There didn't seem to be much sense in talking about it, but he knew she wasn't going to let go of it.
"You should have killed the bastard."
He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, sinking to his knees on the damp sand of the cave floor and shaking his head. He really was getting too old for this sort of crap.
"Just because you think he's supposed to live until the second coming," Amanda said.
"That's what Father Liam would tell you."
"You're not Father Liam," she spat at him.
"No, I'm not."
The silence stretched out between them and he pushed the sand aside, slowly unearthing his wallet and cell phone. He shifted, sitting in the sand and looking at them, wondering why he'd bothered. Hell, he'd probably ruined his cell phone and he was getting sick and tired of having to replace them all the time.
"That's two swords you owe me," Amanda said, and Methos nodded.
"I know. Tell Nick he's to give you the swept hilt rapier at my place. You'll know it when you see it. It's about the right length for you." He'd rather not have parted with it, but fair was fair even if it was his favorite.
She looked sideways at him. "What do you mean 'tell Nick'? Where are you going to be?"
"I'm taking off for a bit. Not long--a couple of months, probably. I'll be back."
"And you figured I'd babysit Nick for you."
"Try to keep him from getting shot more than twice a day, would you? It's not healthy."
She dug the toe of her boot into the damp sand and nodded. "He's not going to like it."
"I know."
"What about Amy?"
Amy. Good question. He tipped his head back until it rested on the cave wall. He suspected he'd blundered badly there. She'd expected him to ride to her rescue, all right, but the kiss had obviously been a mistake--he'd read that much in her posture and the few hesitant glances she'd spared him since. Well, it wasn't as if it were the first time he'd made that particular mistake. He just hadn't made it since . . . well, since before hoopskirts were in style. Well before.
"Something you want to talk about?" Amanda asked.
"Nope."
"What do you want me to tell Joe?"
"You're a very capable woman, Amanda. I'm sure you'll think of something appropriate." It reminded him, though, and he reached into one of the deeper interior pockets of his coat and came up with the Chinese bowl he'd retrieved. Tiredly, he tossed it to her. "Have Zoll see what this will bring on the open market, would you?" he asked. "It should add a nice sum to Joe's retirement fund. Not that he needs to know about it, of course." That done, he rose on one knee and shoved his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed something inside the pocket and closed around a torn corner of crumpled paper with a phone number on it in MacLeod's handwriting. Oh, right. He'd retrieved it and an ear ring from the barge not quite two weeks ago. At a guess, the number wasn't Amanda's either and it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie. He shoved it back into his jeans pocket without comment and frowned at his phone. Damn. He'd probably end up replacing it whether he wanted to or not.
"Methos." He stood and looked at her, but he didn't say anything. "Damn it, Methos--don't you pull a MacLeod on me," Amanda snapped.
It struck him as funny and he started to laugh. "Is that what you're afraid of?" he asked. "I said I'd be back."
"Give me one reason I should believe you."
"Oddly enough," he said, "I can't think of a single one." She kept staring at him and after a moment he said, "I've been in Paris too long, you know. Twenty-five years with no more than a year away at a time, and never once a real change of identity." Twenty-five years. Almost half Joe Dawson's lifetime and nearly all of his daughter's. "The other day I was in Place St. Michel and I bumped into a woman I had an affair with 23 years ago. She recognized me. Called me by name."
"It happens."
Right. Not to me, it doesn't. "I've gotten sloppy, Amanda. I got involved with people I came to care about and I got careless. MacLeod found me, Kalas found me, and Kronos found me. I'm having a real hard time figuring out why I should stick around to see who's next."
"You let MacLeod find you," she said.
"Which doesn't mean I have to do the same for the next guy on the list."
"Nick was the next guy on the list," she pointed out.
He raised his shoulders in a shrug. "You can train him every bit as well as I can."
"I can teach him to use a sword, but I can't give him the perspective you can."
"My perspective's not all that unique. I'm just a guy who's trying to stay alive."
"You know, false modesty doesn't really suit you."
"Yeah, well, I'm fresh out of the other kind."
"You would be." She snorted and threw her arms around his neck. "All right. I'll watch Nick for a couple of months, even if he doesn't like it." She kissed his mouth after a moment and said, "That's for MacLeod if and when you find him. I'll understand if you prefer to wait until I can give it to him myself." He ducked his head, chuckling, and she caught his face between the palms of her hands, her eyes searching the lean, angular face. She kissed him gently this time. When they parted, her eyes met his. "That one's for you," she said, "so you'll remember there are people here who love you and miss you."
He smiled. "I'll remember," he said.

"Too late I stayed,--forgive the crime! Unheeded flew the hours--"

She watched him walk away.

* * * * *

Continued in "Season of Rest."