Duncan fiddled with keys to the rented, Cadillac sedan. The six foot Scot slid easily behind the wheel of the navy blue, luxury car. He tipped the valet and pulled out of the Roosevelt Hotel parking lot easily. Tourists' cameras flashed across from the historic hotel as they marveled at the Walk of Fame and Grauman's Chinese Theater. Fashion had changed but tourists hadn't. They still tried to see how they compared to John Wayne by sliding their feet into his foot prints and taking a photo to immortalize the event.
In all of Duncan MacLeod's four hundred and ten or so years, he'd seen times change, technology evolve, values change, religions grow and die, as well as numerous, unexplainable phenomena. While staying at the Roosevelt, MacLeod, or "Mac", as his friends called him, heard the bugle he supposed Montgomery Cliff was still playing after more than half a century of rattling around. Mac was glad he'd be leaving in a few days, just as soon as he picked up the Goblet of Temuijn for a buyer in Canada. The antiques business had lured the Immortal back after being away for fifteen years. Duncan liked handling artifacts older than he was and it was an easy explanation for having swords around. He had tried to explain it to Methos, but the idea of an object making someone feel young was lost on the apathetic, sometimes acerbic Immortal.
"Methos, not everyone would have to polish a meteor to feel young." Methos' eyes had widened and his jaw dropped. He threw the soft stress ball he'd been playing with at Duncan. The thought of it made Duncan smile as he cruised down Sunset Blvd.
"Well, excuse me if I predate Methuselah." He shot back, acting mildly offended at the dig. Duncan couldn't wait to get back to his flat in Paris and have a beer at Joe's bar. First he had to find Cousteau's Antiques on Sunset Blvd.
Alain Baudin had been one of Duncan's neighbors in Paris before coming to the United States to run his brother's antiques shop in sunny Los Angeles, California. The Goblet of Temuijin was the second artifact Duncan had bought from the Frenchman but the first to cost three million dollars. The Immortal didn't need the ten percent commission, but he wasn't going to turn it down.
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"Ah, MacLeod, good to see you again after so long." Alain pumped Duncan's hand warmly. At forty-five, the exuberant man wore his thinning, dark hair in a shaggy, rocker cut. Behind blue tinted glasses Duncan knew there to be bright, quick, blue eyes that summed up ancient artifacts' value quickly.
"Hello, Alain, How are you?" Duncan asked as he looked around at the swank shop glittering with upscale items from Andy Warhol to Van Gogh. Soft overhead lights and mellow pop tunes set the atmosphere for people to spend money.
"No complaints, I am surrounded by beautiful objects and beautiful women with deep purses." The short, thin Frenchman shrugged, with a sly smile on his narrow face.
"I can see." Duncan chuckled. After exchanging pleasantries the two got down to business in a private, back room. Duncan was surprised at how large the Goblet of Temuijin turned out to be when Alain presented it to him. The solid silver vessel sat on a six inch base with a ten inch diameter basin. Glyphs on the side depicted a battle between a warrior on horseback and a dragon. Duncan tried to make out other glyphs carved so small he'd have to use a strong magnifying glass to see them.
"I hope your buyer enjoys the Goblet. It was found in an unmarked grave somewhere in Mongolia." Alain spoke conversationally as Duncan examined the large vessel.
"Must have been a real surprise." Mac grinned, his dark brown eyes full of life and humor.
"Quite a surprise I'm sure." Alain agreed as his tapered hands lowered the heavy goblet into a box, then he filled it with packing peanuts.
"It's been good doing business with you, Alain." Duncan shook the Frenchman's hand and said good-bye in French, his accent flawless. The Frenchman bid him farewell in kind. He was tickled to hear his native tongue again.
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Memories of pain and of seeing Fred were the last thing Wesley remembered. His love's face had grown dim as blood stained everything around him. For her to be the last thing he saw before death was the only thing he'd wanted. Looking around the room, Wesley wondered where he was; Heaven, Hell or another dimension for his energy to continue into. Seeing Vale's body lying on the marble floor, Wes knew he was still in Los Angeles. What he didn't know was how or why. Blood had dried on his gray turtleneck and his hands as well as the floor. Dumbfounded, the ex-Watcher pulled himself to his feet. Examining where his wound should have been there was only pink, healthy flesh. No trace of that fatal stab wound remained. Outside darkness reigned as demons, vampires, and other spawn of Hell ran amok. Innocent civilians had left hours ago. Now useless, neon signs created colorful reflections on the rain soaked streets. Confused, Wesley headed to the appointed meeting spot, the alley north of the Hyperion Hotel. Only the damaged bodies of demons and broken bricks were left to greet him. Among the dead lay Gunn. His favorite battle ax gleamed in the light of a distant street light. Its chrome hub cap design dripped thick, orange goo. Wesley knelt down and touched the cooling body of the black man who had been both friend and rival as well as betrayer and defender; Charles Gunn.
"Good-bye, old friend." Wesley let a tear fall and mix with the rain that had been falling all night. Taking leave of Gunn and grabbing his ax, Wesley headed for the Hyperion Hotel; Angel's former headquarters. As he walked down the sidewalk a dark sedan pulled up at the end of the street. Suddenly, just like Icee brain freeze, Wes felt the presence of another person. He felt great power and immense energy overwhelm him. The sedan pulled along side as he stood reeling. Quickly, the window rolled down. A deep, European accent shouted, "Get in." The man inside looked to be about Wes' age, with thick, dark brows and a Roman nose. Wesley opened the door and hurled himself inside.
"There's a safe place just down there." Wes pointed toward the Spanish style Hyperion. The stranger hit the gas and bolted into the covered entrance where valets once parked now classic cars for celebrities and wealthy guests.
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