Lone Wolfe, a highlander fanfic

DISCLAIMER: Highlander, Raven, and their familiar characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions. No copyright infringement is intended, no profit being made.

Father Liam Riley thrust a wad of bills into the cab driver's hand, opting to over-tip rather than wait for change. Seconds later he was out of the car, clutching his duffel bag as he raced up the path to his church.

The whole time he'd been in Marseilles, making arrangements for a teen basketball tournament, Liam had felt there was a crisis at home. That he was needed.

He'd battled the feeling. Reminded himself that even though no one in Paris knew where he was staying - he'd accepted a friend's last-minute invitation, to save the parish a hotel bill - he did have his cell phone with him. Surely, anyone who needed him urgently could have reached him.

He knew better now. When he'd finally attempted to use the phone - on the train home, to check the messages on his answering machine - he'd discovered the battery was dead.

His greatest fear was for the church. Most churches were locked at night nowadays, to guard against theft or vandalism; that was one concession to changing times that Liam refused to make. He argued that the known presence of a young, vigorous priest in the nearby rectory was safeguard enough.

But he'd been away for three days. And with vocations on the decline, he was Ste. Marie's only priest.

I should have asked someone to watch over things. Maybe Nick. He could have stayed in the rectory, and locked the church at night.

He flung open the door, rushed in - and saw nothing amiss. A wave of relief washed over him. He took time to genuflect and offer a hasty prayer. Then he made a thorough inspection of the building, choir loft included, looking for signs of trouble.

All was well. No desecration, no vandalism, not even a broken lock on the poorbox.

So it wasn't the church. But he still couldn't shake that feeling of dread.

He headed for the rectory, and found it as he had left it, locked tight as a drum.

Once inside, he debated what to check first, e-mail or phone messages. The e-mail won out, and he went rigid when he saw the subject line of a message from an elderly parishioner. Translated from the French, it read, "NEED YOU DESPERATELY!"

Trembling, he opened it...and dissolved in laughter. Her "desperate need" was for gardening advice.

By the time he got to the answering machine, he'd decided his fears had been foolish. He was humming as he listened to the first three messages, all inconsequential.

But the fourth...

Liam froze. Nick Wolfe's familiar voice had never sounded like this. Strained, stifled, as if he was in pain. "Liam, it's Nick...ohhh, I just remembered you won't be home till tomorrow." A long pause. Then, choked and barely audible: "Goodbye, Liam."

Something was very wrong.

Less than a year before, Liam knew, Nick had been a police detective in the U.S. Then Amanda had made a random choice of his city as her next base of operations. Plying her (morally dubious) trade as a notorious jewel thief whose crimes could never, for one reason or another, be proven. Openly mocking those local police.

Unfortunately, another detective, Stanley Ferris, had responded by trying to frame nonviolent criminal Amanda for a violent crime he himself had committed - murdering a "fence," and stealing all the valuables he'd had in his possession.

Nick had identified Ferris as the real murderer, and ultimately shot and killed him in self-defense. But by then, Ferris had shot and killed Nick's police partner - the mother of two young children - when she'd thrown herself in front of his intended target, a horrified Amanda, in an attempt to protect the "innocent-in-this-case" civilian.

He'd gone on to "kill" Amanda...and Nick had seen her come back to life. She'd initially tried to convince him she'd been saved by a bulletproof vest. But she'd eventually told him the truth about Immortals - more readily, of course, because she knew he'd someday become one!

Despite having been offered a promotion, Nick had quit the force in disgust when his superiors decided to cover up Ferris's crimes and pretend both deceased officers had died, somehow, heroically.

A chastened Amanda was currently going straight (though Liam wasn't sure the phase would last). Running a Paris nightclub, and getting her quota of thrills by informally partnering with Nick in his new career with an international "private security" agency.

Really, good-guy commandos for hire, whose work was often more dangerous than that of police...

Forcing himself to remain calm, the Immortal priest began trying to call Nick. His apartment. The offices, a floor below, that housed the European branch of Bert Myers' private security firm. His cell phone.

No answer anywhere. Liam had left messages at home and workplace, but knew he couldn't let it go at that.

He wiped sweat from his brow, and doggedly tried Amanda. Living quarters. Workplace - the club she owned and operated, "Sanctuary." (Not, of course, connected in any way with the super-secret "retreat" by that name.) Cell phone.

Nothing.

As he stood with the phone in his hand, pondering what to do next, he found he had little choice.

He sensed the presence of another Immortal.

And the doorbell rang.

The doorbell? In Liam's experience, Immortal enemies tended to barge right in. Friends like Amanda - and the pre-Immortal Nick, whom he could only sense at close range - also strolled in, as did most of his parishioners, after a perfunctory tap on the door. They wouldn't enter the more private rooms uninvited, but the front parlor and adjoining office were almost as public as the church vestibule.

Liam was in no mood for mysteries. He strode to the unlocked door and opened it, no questions asked.

The Immortal on his doorstep was a grim-faced Nick Wolfe.

Who said politely, "I didn't want to startle you."

Liam gulped. "Come in, Nick!" His heart was racing. Why wasn't I prepared for this? The way he lives his life, I should have known it could happen any day.

He locked the door to assure privacy. Then he followed the younger man into the parlor. Nick remained standing, seeming less at ease than usual. But under the circumstances, his composure was downright eerie.

"Uh, Nick," Liam ventured uncertainly. "You do understand what's happened, don't you?"

Cool hazel eyes met his. "Oh yeah, I understand. I'm Immortal." He said it with no inflection, no emotion.

What's wrong with this picture? Liam stiffened as an unpleasant thought crossed his mind. "Nick, can you sense me? I mean...feel something...odd, that you didn't feel before you came near me?"

"Sure I can sense you." Nick seemed mildly surprised by the question. "Sort of a thrumming in my head. Felt it way down the path. But it seems I can...mute it, for want of a better word. Just by willing it to fade into the background."

Liam exhaled a sigh of relief. "That's good. It takes most new Immortals weeks to gain that kind of control. And they usually feel it as an intense, blinding headache - may even get sick and throw up."

"Huh. I guess after yesterday, I'm desensitized to pain."

That statement was delivered as calmly, almost casually, as the others. But it sent a chill through Liam. He noted that his friend was badly in need of a shave, and his trenchcoat looked as though he'd slept in it. If he'd slept at all.

"I take it your...becoming Immortal...wasn't quick and easy?" he asked carefully.

"Yes and no."

Yes and no?

Liam took a deep breath and asked the next obvious question. "Does Amanda know?"

An expression that could have been anger flitted across Nick's face, then was gone. "Oh, yes. She knows."

What's wrong here? Only that use of the present tense kept Liam from blurting out, "Is Amanda alive?"

Instead, he said, "I wish you'd sit down." He set an example by flopping in a chair. Nick shrugged, then sat. But there's still this icy reserve about him, Liam reflected. He seems like a stranger.

Before he could decide how to proceed, Nick surprised him with a question."Why did you ask if I could sense you? Okay, I wasn't complaining about a headache - or puking. But can't all Immortals sense other Immortals?"

Liam squirmed. At least, he imagined he was squirming. "Hate to answer your first question with 'I don't know'...but truth is, I don't.

"Sensing ability varies from person to person, like eyesight or sense of smell in mortals. There's a theory that some Immortals can't sense others at all. And most of us never run into anyone like that, because they don't last long."

"Um, I can imagine." A corner of Nick's mouth quirked, in something approaching a smile. Black humor. "But my radar is working fine."

His eyes narrowed. "What about pre-Immortals? Can all full Immortals sense them?"

Liam felt the color rising in his cheeks. "No. The usual guess is that only about half of us can."

Caught up in his own embarrassment, he failed to see the pursing of Nick's lips, the slight nod. "But if you're wondering about me, I did know what you were, Nick. I - I hope you won't hold it against me that I didn't tell you. I'll try to explain -"

Nick came back from some distant place, startled by Liam's concern. "That's all right!"

The new Immortal collected his thoughts, then quietly told the priest, "I could see when you came to the door that it wasn't a total shock. And I think, even a month ago, I would have been pissed. But now I understand.

"You know my ex-wife Lauren and I reconciled the night before she was killed." For the first time, his features softened. "I think we would have remarried, Liam. I know I wanted to.

"And at our age, if babies didn't come right away, we probably would have adopted, without wasting any more time. I might have had twenty or thirty years of happy marriage, children, even grandchildren, before I had to deal with this. Learn I'm not...normal.

"That's the main reason for not telling people, right?"

"Right," Liam breathed thankfully. He didn't add the corollary: allowing that "normal" life was especially desirable because in the modern world, most new Immortals survived less than a year.

He took a closer look at his disheveled friend. If he'd paid that little attention to his grooming... "Nick, when did you eat last?"

"Eat?" Nick frowned, as if he found the idea repugnant. "Day before yesterday, I think."

"Day before yesterday?" Liam was on his feet before the words were out of his mouth. "Come on. I'm hungry - I just got home from Marseilles - and if you're not, you should be." Lunch first, then maybe you'll open up and talk about what happened.

Nick was still holding back. So Liam yanked him out of the chair and half-dragged him to the kitchen. "Take that coat off! And set the table. I'll see what's in the fridge."

After a long hesitation, Nick obediently shed the coat.

Liam was turning back from the refrigerator when he remembered his friend's omnipresent gun.

"Get rid of the gun, too," he ordered. "No guns at the table..." His voice trailed off.

Nick was laying the gun with his coat.

But Liam saw only his jersey. The ugly patch of brown on the black fabric...dried blood. And the bullet hole directly over his heart.

Well, at least he doesn't have to look at it. With all the good cheer he could muster, Liam said, "I don't feel like cooking. How about ham-and-Swiss sandwiches?"

"Okay. Whatever you say."

While Liam made sandwiches and brewed coffee, he stole occasional glances at Nick. The new Immortal was setting the table with his usual efficiency, but his mind seemed far away.

The impromptu lunch was ready within minutes. Liam, genuinely hungry, attacked his portion with gusto. But after three or four mouthfuls, he looked over at Nick.

And then he simply sat there, staring dumbstruck at his friend.

Nick was eyeing his sandwich almost fearfully. At last he took a small, experimental bite. Chewed for a remarkably long time, then seemingly had to force himself to swallow. His face was contorted, and he fought to suppress a gagging reflex.

He waited. As if he's expecting pain or nausea, Liam realized.

Finally, he took another bite, and repeated the process. With not quite the same degree of tentativeness.

Liam returned to his own meal, while still surreptitiously watching his companion. Oh, Nick, what happened to you? Something more drawn-out and traumatic than that shot through the heart.

But now Nick was relaxing, eating more naturally with every mouthful. Liam smiled to himself as his young friend polished off the first half of his sandwich, and promptly started on the second.

He slid the bread and meat down the table. "I think you'll be ready for more soon. Help yourself."

Nick grunted happily as he reached for the bread.

"Feeling better now?" Liam wore a broad grin as he filled his friend's coffee cup for the fourth time.

"I was feeling okay before."

Ouch.

Then Nick relented, and produced his own wisp of a smile. "But I was famished, and I didn't know it. Thanks, Liam."

"You're welcome." Liam refilled his own cup, then dropped back into his chair. "Now, would you like to tell me how you became Immortal? Must've been a rough experience - it always is. Most of us have found that it helps to talk it out with a friend."

Usually the first non-threatening Immortal we meet. I wonder if you've discussed it with Amanda?

"Sure," Nick replied softly. "That's why I came. I need your help. But talking about it means reliving it, and that's harder than I expected..."

He cleared his throat, sat up straight, and resolutely began his story. "Are you familiar with an Immortal named Evan Peyton?"

Liam thought for a moment, then said, "No. At least, not by that name."

"Lucky you. Amanda knew him in the seventeenth century, and even then, he was a murderer. In our day he'd become a high-tech bank robber. Not waltzing into banks with a gun - stealing millions via computer.

"A private eye, Tom Ross, disappeared while investigating him. Murdered by Peyton, as it turned out. I was looking for Ross -"

"Wait a minute," Liam cut in. "I want to get this straight. Were you investigating for Myers?"

"No. Good point - I should have made that clear. Myers had nothing to do with it.

"The detective's sister, Janet, is a friend of Amanda's. She told us her brother was missing. Not asking for help, just explaining why she was canceling a dinner date. She didn't know about Immortals, or what I do - did - for a living. I offered to help her.

"So I ran into Peyton." A nerve in Nick's jaw twitched. He was gazing through the open door behind Liam, probably focusing on a crucifix on a distant wall. Avoiding the priest's eyes. "He threw something like a tear-gas canister at me. Made me inhale poison, a slow-acting poison that would have killed me in twenty-four hours. Twenty-two, by the time he showed up at Sanctuary to gloat."

"I...see."

Really, Liam didn't see. A nasty turn of events, yes. But if Nick had learned what was going on after only two hours, there shouldn't have been much suffering.

A ghastly possibility came to mind. "Don't tell me Amanda wasn't there?"

"She was there."

Liam puzzled over that. At last he said, "So...you had a difficult decision to make."

Wouldn't have been difficult for most people, but it apparently was for him.

Nick's eyes glittered. "No. I didn't have any decision to make. Amanda decided everything."

His words hit Liam like a hammer blow.

Oh no, Amanda, no! You couldn't have done such a thing. Violated Nick, wrecked your best chance for happiness...

He found his voice and stammered, "Y-you...you mean, she just shot you? Without explaining and letting you choose?"

He was hoping against hope that the answer would be, "No, you misunderstood."

But he didn't hear the answer, because his mind had raced on to confront other horrors.

The voice on my machine. He was in agony. That ties in with his remark about being desensitized to pain, and his fear of eating.

If Peyton told him about the poison after only two hours, it shouldn't have been that bad.

Unless Amanda not only made the decision for him, but let him endure hours of torment before she did it.

He looked at Nick - who was, by now, watching his changes of expression with almost clinical interest.

Clinging to a shred of hope, Liam said, "She told you. You decided, for some reason, that you wanted to die. And in the end, she snapped because she couldn't bear to see you suffer?" That would still be out of line, but easier to understand.

Nick shook his head. "Sorry, Liam. She never told me at all, never tried to learn my wishes and honor them.

"But there was more to it. Peyton said he had an antidote, and he'd give it to us if we didn't interfere with his collecting his stolen money.

"I was becoming more and more ill, and I'm not sure the things Amanda and I were doing made sense. But the idea was that we couldn't trust Peyton. So we didn't call in the police, but then we stole ten million dollars of his ill-gotten gains, to put pressure on him to keep his word.

"And Amanda insisted on taking me everywhere with her, when I could hardly stand up. Supposedly, so she could administer the antidote right away."

Liam winced. "Sounds like a nightmare."

"It was...pretty bad." Nick's control slipped for a moment; then he steadied his voice again. "On top of that, Peyton took Janet Ross hostage.

"We went to the rendezvous. Janet was tied up but not guarded, and she made enough noise that I was able to find and rescue her. Peyton was waiting to ambush Amanda.

"She defeated him. I was barely conscious at that point, but I heard him yelling about the antidote, and Amanda saying she didn't believe there was one. Then she whacked him.

"I...I remember seeing the Quickening lightning. When it was over, Amanda came to me... I was lucid, but even then, she didn't tell me the truth and give me a choice. Just picked up my gun and shot me."

They sat for a long time in silence. Liam knew he was shaking, and tears were trickling down his cheeks. Why wasn't I here when he needed me?

Nick, white-faced but impassive, watched him intently.

It was Nick who finally spoke. "I'd like your honest opinion."

"My...honest opinion?" Liam hitched himself upright in the chair, fought to keep his voice from quivering. "I love Amanda, but she was wrong. Dead wrong, and she had to know it."

The younger man's taut muscles relaxed. "I was afraid an experienced Immortal might side with her, think my objecting was unreasonable."

"No. Not this Immortal." Liam decided that answer required explanation. "There are some of us - very few - who believe a pre-Immortal must never be told the truth. But that's irrelevant here. I know for a fact Amanda doesn't hold that belief.

"And those who do hold it oppose any form of interference. Even they wouldn't condone her shooting you."

Nick mulled that over. Then he said, "She told me I wouldn't have become Immortal if I'd died from the effects of a slow-acting poison. I take it that's true?"

Liam grimaced. "Yes. Doesn't seem logical. Injuries that cause a slow death, from loss of blood, will make us Immortal. But we know how poison works, from observation."

"What about a fast-acting poison?"

"That wasn't what Peyton used -"

"I know. Just curious."

"All right." Liam wracked his brain, then said, "A fast-acting poison would have made you Immortal. I'm sure I've seen it. Forget where, but I was with Amanda at the time..."

"Ah." For some reason, that seemed important to Nick. "Getting back to Amanda, and my situation - what should she have done?"

"Told you the truth, right away," Liam said decisively. "The only 'rule' here is common sense.

"It's a matter of priorities. Once you'd been poisoned, concern about messing up your presumed-mortal future should have gone by the boards. Even if Amanda hoped to obtain an antidote, she should have told you what options you'd have if she failed. Given you as much time as possible to think about it.

"You might well have decided not to bother with the antidote - to spare yourself hours of needless suffering by becoming Immortal then and there. Why not? You're what, thirty-two years old? At your physical peak.

"Most pre-Immortals would have chosen to make themselves Immortal. I think I would have.

"But if you decided you didn't want Immortality - would prefer, in the absence of an antidote, to let the poison do its worst - you'd be within your rights. You're a competent adult, and the choice was yours to make.

"What Amanda did was...inexcusable."

"Inexcusable," Nick echoed softly. "I notice you didn't say unforgivable."

"God forgives all things, Nick. And He wants us to try to be like Him."

Their eyes met and locked.

After perhaps a minute, Nick mumbled, "I'll take that under advisement."

Then Liam made the mistake of trying to press his advantage. "What I can say in Amanda's defense is that her heart was in the right place. I suppose she was afraid you'd choose death, and she wanted you to live." Trying to lighten the mood, he added, "Better that than the other way around!"

Something in Nick's face stopped him cold.

What isn't he telling me?

After a beat, Nick responded with a near-change of subject. "If Amanda could have been expected to tell me the truth, and most pre-Immortals would have solved the problem by becoming Immortal right away, does it follow that Peyton didn't know I was a pre-Immortal?"

"Right," Liam said after a moment's thought. "He didn't know, or he wouldn't have seen anything to be gained by poisoning you."

"His motive had me stumped," Nick admitted, "till I learned from you that not all Immortals would have known what I was."

"Glad I'm good for something," Liam grumbled.

Nick leaned forward in his chair, eyes alight with a new intensity. "You're good for more than that. I've already told you I need your help.

"Liam...do you remember my last Confession?"

An hour later, Liam knew further argument would serve no purpose beyond leaving him hoarse.

"It's your life, Nick," he said wearily. He gazed out the kitchen window, past the brave new blooms in his garden, at the reassuringly solid, centuries-old stone church. A symbol of permanence in a world in which even "Immortality" could be all too brief. Am I seeking guidance, or consolation?

He turned back to his friend. "I want it on record that I'm still opposed to this. Speaking as your priest, I'm opposed to it."

"I know, Liam." There was a new gentleness in the younger man's voice.

"But I have to follow my own instincts.

"You see God's hand at work in everything. Maybe I was given a special opportunity to discover what is and isn't right for me, before I set out on a path from which there'd be no turning back."

Liam was too distressed to make the concession of saying, "Maybe." Instead, he gave a barely perceptible nod. "I'll do what you want."

"Good. Thank you, Liam." Nick joined him at the window, seemed about to offer a handshake. But then he made a small sound that was close to a sob, and swept the priest into a crushing embrace.

Shadows were lengthening when the two men exited the church. Liam was relieved to find no one sitting on the steps. He'd heard the door rattle twice, and he couldn't think of a plausible excuse for its having been locked.

"You're welcome to stay over in the rectory," he told Nick as they walked toward it. "As many nights as you want. Or are you going back to your apartment?"

"Thanks for the invite. But it's back to the apartment, at least for now." From his tone, Nick had reached that decision reluctantly. "I don't intend to hide from Amanda. I'm not the one who has something to be ashamed of."

"True enough," Liam acknowledged. "I'll make some phone calls about the other matter.

"Ah, thinking of calls...!"

They'd just gotten close enough to the house to hear Liam's phone ringing. He grinned, clapped Nick on the shoulder, and broke into a sprint.

Nick matched him stride for stride. They were both laughing - a badly needed release from the tension of the last two days - when they burst into the parlor.

Liam had left the answering machine turned off. He was still winded when he picked up the phone, on what might have been its tenth - or twentieth - ring. But the brief taste of exercise and camaraderie had buoyed his spirits, and he extended the unknown caller a hearty greeting.

The voice on the line brought him down to earth with a thump. Pascal, Amanda's assistant manager at Sanctuary.

As he listened, Liam watched the expression on Nick's face change from curiosity to concern. Mirroring his own.

"I'll go right over there, Pascal. Nick is with me, can't say whether he'll go too... Yes, something did happen between them. I suppose that explains it."

He hung up, and looked bleakly at Nick. "Amanda's in Saint-Luc's."

Nick's jaw dropped. "The hospital? That's...ridiculous!"

"For psychiatric observation," Liam said heavily. "She, uh...apparently had some thought of letting herself be decapitated by the Metro."

"She may talk her way out of this before we even get there, Nick." Liam had been on his now-functioning cell phone, talking to Pascal again, while Nick maneuvered the priest's car through rush-hour traffic.

"A suicide attempt? I'd expect the shrinks to take that pretty seriously."

"Well...it seems the engineer's stopping the train in time wasn't the only thing that saved her. She'd had a change of heart, rolled off the track. There are witnesses to confirm that." Liam cast an anxious glance at Nick, awaiting his reaction.

"Ah."

Not another word was spoken until they'd reached the hospital and found a space in the parking lot.

Then Nick turned to Liam with the question he'd been dreading. "You've known her a lot longer than I have. Was this a real attempt to kill herself, or just a bid for attention and sympathy?"

"I honestly don't know, Nick. And I suspect she doesn't, either."

Nick absorbed that, gave a noncommittal nod, and reached for the door handle.

Suddenly, Liam was sure of one thing. Nothing I said would have influenced him. Whatever Amanda's "needs" may be, Nick will be true to himself.

"You're at least fifteen years too old for these shenanigans, Mlle. Montrose. In future, try to act your age."

"Yes, Doctor," Amanda said meekly.

Her sense of humor, which had gone AWOL two nights ago, belatedly reported for duty. A tad sluggish, but it was there.

The gray-haired, gray-faced psychiatrist regarded her sternly over the rims of his half-glasses. "You're free to go. Here are your discharge papers. Take the elevator to Ground, follow the black line on the floor to the Security Desk, and they'll retrieve your purse and any other valuables from the safe."

"Thank you, Doctor." She grabbed the papers and fled, before he could change his mind.

Going down in the elevator, she thanked her lucky stars that she'd left her sword at Sanctuary. Explaining that would have taxed even her powers of invention. A game of "chicken" with unnamed friends on the Metro track, and a scavenger hunt to account for the sword?

Ugh.

She stepped out of the elevator and dutifully followed the black line. Probably would have been hanging my head in any case. God, when I screw up, I do it royally.

But right now, she was too weary to dwell on what she'd done. Her embarrassingly public yielding to a moment of weakness in the Metro station, or the debacle with Nick. She wouldn't let herself think beyond reclaiming her purse and cell phone, calling Pascal to pick her up, and collapsing into her own bed.

She had a five-minute wait for the purse, and spent the time drumming her fingers on the desk. Then a clerk insisted she confirm that the correct amount of money was in her wallet. She had no idea how much she'd been carrying, but she solemnly counted it and announced it was all there. Signed a receipt.

At long last, she reached into the purse to pull out her cell phone.

And sensed, behind her, the presence of another Immortal.

She gripped the desk, realizing for the first time that this was what she'd been half dreading, half hoping for.

Do I want it to be Liam? Or Nick? She feared facing Nick, yet yearned to know he was alive and well. Coping.

She turned slowly.

Both men were standing there. Liam's sensitive face radiated compassion, while Nick's was an expressionless mask.

But after the first instant of recognition, she saw only Nick.

She made an instinctive move toward him, then caught herself. Now, of all times, she mustn't intrude on his personal space.

"Nick!" Her voice was husky with relief. "You look so much better than when I last saw you."

He sighed, with something very like his old, good-humored exasperation. "Amanda, I haven't even combed my hair since you last saw me. Let alone showered, shaved, changed my clothes -"

"Mmm, yes, that's obvious."

I, on the other hand, changed into my smartest new outfit and spent a half hour on my makeup before I tried to kill myself.

She made a show of wrinkling her nose. Then she moved closer, careful not to touch him. "But your color is good now, your eyes are clear. And I don't smell alcohol on your breath. Those are the things that count."

"Glad you approve."

She sensed no malice...but no warmth, either. The man she'd known two days ago would have divined her need and taken her in his arms.

Blinking back tears, she didn't hear Liam's question till he repeated it. "How are you, Amanda?"

"Oh, I'm all right," she said airily. "It was just a misunderstanding. I caught my heel and fell on the track."

Damn, that was a good lie. If I'd been able to keep my voice steady, they might actually have believed it.

Liam gave her the hug she craved. "I take it you've been discharged?" he asked kindly.

When she nodded, with an undignified sniffle, he gently offered her a ride home.

Once more, she could only nod.

She'd feared the men had come separately, and she might never see Nick again. But after she'd gotten into the front passenger seat of Liam's car, Nick surprised her by climbing into the back.

They both accompanied her into Sanctuary. The place was closed - hadn't opened at all that evening, or the night before. But Pascal was waiting for them, and didn't leave until he'd chewed Amanda out for giving him such a scare.

He had some choice words for Nick, too.

By the time he made his exit, still huffing and puffing, all three Immortals were grinning in spite of themselves.

"I'll be fine now," Amanda assured the others. "Nick, are you planning to stay in your apartment?" That apartment was on an upper floor of her building, Nick's workplace on yet another floor.

"For the time being." He met her gaze squarely. "But I may not be around much longer."

What does that mean? Where is he going? She was afraid to ask.

She swallowed hard. "Can we...can we talk about what happened? What I...did to you?"

"Now? Tonight?" His expression was unreadable. "You're not too tired?"

"I seem to have gotten my second wind." And I won't be able to rest till I know where we stand. "But maybe it's too soon for you."

"No, tonight's fine. If you really think we have anything to talk about."

"Of course we do!" She flinched, hearing the note of desperation in her voice.

"Would you like a referee?" Liam asked, deceptively casual.

To Amanda's surprise, Nick spoke up quickly. "No, thanks. If Amanda wants to discuss this, we should do it in private." He smiled to take any sting out of his words. "I promise I won't become violent."

"Neither will I," said Amanda. In a feeble attempt at humor, she added, "I won't even shoot him again."

She regretted that line immediately. But Nick was ready with a quip of his own. "No, she won't. I'll sit on the gun."

Sanctuary was a members-only club dedicated to the appreciation of fine wines, quiet conversation, and - in a soundproof ballroom - late-night music and dancing. But it also served light meals. Now, before Liam left, Nick insisted on invading the kitchen and whipping up a cold supper for the three of them. Amanda offered to do it - this was, after all, her club - but he dissuaded her.

She breathed a prayer of gratitude as she watched him bustling about. Functioning in a surprisingly normal way, despite that stained, bullet-punctured jersey that tore at her own heartstrings whenever she saw it.

He's going to be all right.

Nothing else matters.

But she couldn't help wondering if he was concerned for her nutrition because he didn't want her to faint, later, when he released the rage he'd been suppressing.

They ate at the bar, making game attempts at small talk. Then Liam gave her an encouraging squeeze and a kiss on the forehead, and took his leave.

Amanda and Nick adjourned to a cozy corner table, that would have been secluded even if they hadn't had the place to themselves. She brought along a bottle of wine and two glasses. Let him see she'd passed over the premium vintages in favor of an undistinguished Italian red that he preferred.

He murmured acknowledgment, but didn't touch the wine.

She poured drinks for both of them. He still seemed oblivious to his; she took a few sips to screw up her courage. Then she blurted out, "Do you hate me now, Nick?"

The question didn't seem to surprise him. "No," he said mildly. "I don't hate you. I've just accepted that you...are what you are."

For some reason, that chilled her to the bone. Trying without success to keep her voice firm, she said, "What I am is a woman who loves you."

I've never told him that before. Why the hell didn't I? Is it too late?

He replied, "You don't know the meaning of love."

She took a deep, shuddering breath. Then she saw a hint of challenge in those hazel eyes across the table. Could she convince him he was wrong?

"Nick, I do know. I think I've loved you since Day One. I hope you're not imagining I was only interested because you were a pre-Immortal, that I felt some kind of responsibility to semi-prepare you -"

"No."

No, of course not. She should have known no trauma or series of traumas could shake his quiet, but eminently justified, confidence in his own sex appeal.

"But our relationship was never honest." At last, a trace of emotion in his voice.

"Are you saying I should have told you what you were, all those months ago? I can try to explain why we don't -"

"No, I understand that." Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair. "I agree you shouldn't have told me then. Maybe you should have gotten out of my life altogether. I don't know.

"But here's what I do know." Animated now, his color rising. "There was a powerful attraction between us. And yet I always sensed you were holding back. Most obviously, that you weren't ready for sex.

"I thought I understood why. I was mortal, and you'd either been hurt badly by the deaths of previous mortal lovers, or seen it happen to Immortals who were your friends. Sex between us couldn't be casual - we were already way past casual. So I figured you were resisting a deeper commitment because you were afraid of being hurt. And I could accept that."

With a lump in her throat, Amanda recalled Methos's soul-shattering grief over Alexa Bond - a waitress in Joe Dawson's Seacouver bar, who'd been dying of cancer when they met. Only the most recent of a hundred such tragedies she'd known, with varying degrees of personal involvement. "You're a wise man," she whispered. "If you'd been mortal, that is what I would have been feeling."

"Yeah," he said curtly. "Only I wasn't mortal. So what was your problem?

"You don't have to tell me. It's obvious now. You knew all along that the more you let yourself want me, need me, the more you'd be tempted to do what you did yesterday. Make me Immortal yourself, before I got gray and packed on the pounds and became...less desirable."

Amanda wanted to curl up in a ball and retreat deep within herself. Hide, as she must long ago have hidden in an unknown mother's womb.

"That's...true," she said at last, in a choked voice. "But I didn't give in to temptation. I didn't do it until I had no choice."

"Bullshit." He was angry now. "But in any case, our whole relationship was founded on a lie. Or at least, a false assumption. I never knew you."

Suddenly, she found herself flaring up as well. "That works both ways!

"You were holding back all those months, too. Don't try to deny it.

"I thought you were afraid of commitment because you'd been hurt. A wife had left you - okay, you never said anything against her. But it was obvious she'd done the walking out, and you were bitter and disillusioned.

"More recently, you'd lost your police partner, and felt it necessary to quit the force. Your whole life had been yanked out from under you. Plus, I knew you were a pre-Immortal, and many of us are abandoned and rejected as children.

"So until about two weeks ago, I thought I knew where you were coming from. Afraid to love me because I might either be killed, or desert you as you aged.

"But I was wrong. You weren't afraid of being hurt, any more than I was. You were carrying a torch for Lauren!"

Unlike her, Nick didn't seem embarrassed. "That's right," he said evenly. "I was still in love with her. But until two weeks ago, even I didn't realize it."

Amanda stared at him, saw the truth in his eyes.

"So I've done it again, have I?" She tossed back her drink, furious with herself. "Lost my chance by not moving fast enough. I suppose, centuries from now, I'll still be competing with Tessa's ghost -"

Too late, she realized what she'd said.

"Tessa's ghost? Oh, that's interesting."

He didn't ask for an explanation. His trained detective's mind didn't need one.

They sat looking at each other. Amanda glaring, Nick coolly appraising.

Hands shaking, she poured herself another drink.

"All right," she said at last. "Neither of us understood the other as well as we thought we did. That's life.

"B-but it d-doesn't change the fact that I love you. And you love me. Or could, with Lauren gone."

"No." The finality of a death knell. "Yesterday killed any chance of that."

"I did it because I love you!"

"Let's look at what you did, Amanda," he said softly. "First, the only valid reason for your dragging me around all day, without telling me the truth, would have been that you genuinely wanted to give me the antidote. Agreed?"

"Of...of course." She fought down the ugly stirrings in the back of her mind.

"After you defeated Peyton, he tried to bargain for his life with that antidote. Hell, it was supposedly one of the main reasons we were there! But you said, 'We both know there never was one,' and whacked him."

Why, oh why, did he have to be conscious and hear that?

Nick's eyes bored into her. "Why did you suddenly conclude there never was an antidote, Amanda?"

"Because...because Peyton had been lying in wait to ambush me. That proved he wasn't acting in good faith."

He shook his head. "Never expected him to act in good faith. All that proved was that he hadn't intended to give it to us. Not that it didn't exist, or couldn't be made up in an hour's time.

"Peyton had used poisons for centuries. There was no reason to think he'd designed that one specifically for me. It's much more likely he'd had the formula for hundreds of years. I'd say there was at least a fifty-fifty chance he had or knew how to make an antidote.

"If you'd believed in the antidote all along, Peyton's trying to kill you wouldn't have changed your mind. The only way I can explain your saying what you did is that you'd never given a damn about it, so you hadn't bothered to think through the likelihood of its existing."

Amanda tried to stare him down. "If he'd given me something he said was the antidote, I couldn't have been sure it was the real thing."

"True. But there were only three possibilities. It would have been what he said it was, or something as ineffective as water, or a poison that would have killed me outright.

"Peyton didn't know I was a pre-Immortal, so he might well have tried a stunt with another poison. But a fast-acting poison would have made me Immortal, and you knew it. A placebo would still have allowed time for you to explain, learn my wishes and carry them out.

"So there was no good reason not to take a chance on an antidote. You just decided, on your own, to make me Immortal and get it over with."

She struggled to find justification, as much for herself as for him. "Time was running out. You were dying, you know that!"

"I thought I was dying. Big difference." He finally sipped his drink, but only because he was getting hoarse. "That poison was supposed to kill in twenty-four hours. I wasn't keeping track of the time, but it was late at night when Peyton poisoned me, and still daylight when I went into that warehouse. Even when I came out."

"He could have been lying about the twenty-four hours. Or twenty-two, or whatever."

"It was twenty-four from the time he poisoned me. And I don't think that was a lie, Amanda.

"Peyton was an astrologer, a numerologist. Fascinated by order and symmetry. I can picture him slaving for months to create a poison that would kill in exactly twenty-four hours.

"Besides, he only needed us to leave him alone for twelve hours. If he wanted to put added pressure on us by lying, he would have claimed I had less time than I really did, not more."

"All right, all right!" She buried her face in her hands.

After what seemed an eternity, she forced herself to look up.

Into eyes that were unloving, but not unkind.

"So...what are you saying?"

"You knew me - or thought you knew me - well enough to feel sure I wouldn't choose Immortality. And you believed I'd never forgive you if I told you my wishes, and you went against them.

"So you stalled all those hours, pretending to be interested in the antidote. But you always intended to do what you did. You hoped I'd be so out of it by then that you'd be able to convince me, later, there was no antidote. And claim that by the time you found out, I'd been too far gone to understand."

Silence.

He's too decent to point out that while I was stalling, he was in agony.

In a small voice, she ventured, "You said I thought I knew you well enough. Does that mean you would have chosen to become Immortal?"

"I don't know," he said bleakly. "Now I can't know what choice I would have made. And I feel cheated because I've lost that piece of knowledge of myself."

They lapsed into silence again. By now Nick was fiddling with his wineglass, gazing into it as if it held the secrets of the universe.

"You are repelled by Immortality," she said. "I was right about that."

"Oh, yes."

"Why? What is it that troubles you so?"

He lifted the glass, tipped it, studying the blood-red wine.

"Vampires."

"Vampires?" Amanda exploded. "What do vampires have to do with this? They don't even exist!"

"I think they do." He peered over the rim of the glass. "They're called Immortals."

Then, in an apparent non sequitur, he said, "I wish I'd never seen a Quickening," and gulped down the wine.

In a flash, she understood. "You see the Quickening as feeding on someone else's life-force!

"Nick, there are so many differences. We only...do it...to each other, not to mortals. And we don't need anyone else's life-force to survive."

But even as she spoke, she saw disturbing parallels. Some Immortals did lust for Quickenings, become addicted, kill for no other reason.

I'm the only Immortal he's seen receive Quickenings. I've never openly exulted, have I?

Surely not while Nick was looking...

Have I?

Is this how a mother feels, when she fears she's unwittingly set a bad example for her child?

"All these months, I've tried reminding myself of the differences," Nick said. "Told myself, for example, that a person's destiny - mortal or pre-Immortal - can't be changed. That Immortals don't 'bring people across' against their will, like vampires.

"Then you went and brought me across."

Amanda shakily poured drinks for both of them. Clutched hers as a drowning woman would a life preserver.

"We've come this far," Nick said. "We may as well discuss...the worst thing.

"I didn't tell Liam, by the way."

Amanda felt a sudden, urgent need to pee.

She hadn't experienced that particular panic reaction since she was six years old.

The worst thing.

Oh yes, God forgive me, I know what he means.

It's not fair. Any self-respecting fatal poison should cause at least some mental confusion. Why does he have to remember everything with such damnable clarity?

Her need to pee resolved itself.

The same way it had when she was six.

But if her face betrayed her discomfort, Nick didn't see. He was sipping his wine reflectively. Then he said, "Remember how Lauren died? She took an unnecessary risk, to protect me. Wanted to keep me alive, even more than herself. And I would have done the same for her.

"That's what love is."

Amanda's stomach was in knots. Even now, though, she tried to defend herself. "I've risked my life for you, too. I fought Peyton..."

Mistake! Don't go there!

"Yeah, you fought Peyton." There was no anger remaining in his tired eyes, only sorrow. "Have you forgotten what happened outside, before that fight?

"I felt too crappy to go any further, so we agreed I'd wait for you there. You knew you might have to fight him, and you might lose. You actually said, 'If I don't live...'

"I tried to be brave, said something like, 'Then Peyton doesn't.'

"And you left it like that. Went into a situation where you knew you might be killed, leaving me to die a slow, painful death, and never told me there was a simple way I could save my own life - by shooting myself. Even though you knew I always carry a gun.

"You weren't trying to keep me alive, Amanda. Only to keep me with you, which isn't the same. You wanted me to live if you lived, and die if you died."

Shell-shocked, Amanda didn't realize she was biting her lip till she tasted blood.

Then she looked at her wineglass. And saw only blood there, too.

Vampires.

"Maybe I would have decided to die with you," Nick said wearily. "But the choice should have been mine.

"I don't blame you. That self-centered attitude probably follows naturally from centuries of believing 'there can be only one.'

"Real cheery thought, huh?"

He pushed his chair back from the table, then changed his mind about getting up. "Has it even occurred to you to wonder what became of Janet Ross? Or her brother Tom?"

"Oh, my God!" Amanda knocked her glass over, spilling half the wine in her lap, but wasn't aware of it. "Nick, I forgot!"

She'd forgotten, she told herself, because she was so concerned for him.

Concerned for him, or afraid she might lose him?

Her head ached.

He took pity on her. "Don't worry about Janet," he told her, more gently than she deserved. "She's okay. Peyton had her tied up in a car trunk, only a few yards from where you left me. She started making noise, and I released her. Before I went in the warehouse."

Before you saved my life. Amanda knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he hadn't been thinking of the antidote when he dragged his ravaged body into that building. Only of helping her - or fulfilling his rash promise to avenge her, beheading Peyton while the Immortal was weakened by her Quickening.

And he had indeed saved her - though she wouldn't have needed help if Peyton had been honoring the rules of a fair, one-on-one Immortal swordfight.

"Later," he continued, "I phoned home to check the messages on my machine. There was one from Janet, telling me Peyton had murdered Tom. She saw the body."

"Damn," Amanda said softly. Then, as an afterthought, "Since he wasn't dealing with us in good faith, I wonder why he didn't kill Janet?"

"My guess is that he meant to rape her first. When he had time...after he'd disposed of us."

Amanda shuddered.

Nick quietly rescued her wineglass, which was about to roll off the table, and poured her another drink.

They drank in silence. Close enough to touch, yet worlds apart.

At last Amanda said, "I can't expect you to be able to see this through my eyes, Nick. Even I don't always understand what my nasty little subconscious is doing.

"But...I've been under a strain for months, watching you rush off to tangle with killer Immortals. At least some of them knew the truth about you. I've lived in fear of someone's shooting you when I wasn't around, then taking your head before you could even learn what you were.

"Yesterday, I had this nightmare vision of you making a snap decision against Immortality, and being too proud or pigheaded to change your mind. Going off someplace where I couldn't find you, to die alone. Possibly wanting to save yourself at the end, being paralyzed and unable to use your gun -" Her voice cracked.

She cleared her throat and forced herself to go on. "Like a fool, I imagined that if I let you get close enough to death to smell it, taste it, and then suddenly restored your life and health, you'd be deliriously happy. Eternally grateful to me.

"Yeah, right.

"I think that even when I made that split-second decision to leave you outside the warehouse, I was weighing one horrible possibility against another. Gambling that I'd get back to you. I've always been a gambler.

"But that was wrong, whatever my motive. Unacceptable risk. If I was determined to do things my way, I should have given you your Immortality before I risked losing my own."

"Fundamental difference of opinion here," Nick said gravely. "I'm not a child, I'm a thirty-two-year-old man. As I see it, you had no right to 'do things your way.' "

And also, she thought bitterly, there's been so much dishonesty that you can't trust a word I say.

She extended a trembling hand toward one of his, then lost her nerve and pulled it back. "C-can you ever forgive me?"

"I already have."

That was too easy.

His troubled eyes found hers. "I forgive you. But I can't love you."

She couldn't stop the words that tumbled out. "Because of Lauren?"

"No. I'm not like the guy who's in love with Tessa's ghost.

"Lauren and I both screwed up in our marriage. But then we found each other again, set it right, had our happy ending.

"I think, after all that, her death gave me the closure I needed. Set me free. For the first time, I would have been able to love again. Not today or next week, but soon."

He sighed and got to his feet. Stood with his head bowed, shoulders sagging. "But I can never love you, Amanda, not after yesterday. Not because of Lauren. Because of you."

She sat unmoving, unblinking. Mourning his hunched posture as he trudged dejectedly away.

She was still sitting there twelve hours later, when Pascal arrived to open the club.

III

Duncan MacLeod took the stairs three at a time, not pausing until he reached a floor on which he couldn't sense either the Immortal below him, or the one said to be above.

Then he stopped to collect his thoughts. Privacy was assured: Pascal had told him the unmarked doors on this landing led to Bert Myers' suite of offices, which had been closed for days.

He hoped Pascal had been able to keep Amanda away from the windows. If she realized he hadn't left, she'd expect him to intercede for her with Nick Wolfe. He didn't intend to do any such thing. From all he'd heard, Wolfe was a mature man with a legitimate grievance, and not the sort to take kindly to unsolicited advice.

MacLeod was still miffed that when he and Amanda had been together in November, she hadn't told him her new friend was a pre-Immortal. Her excuse? She had feared he'd let it slip to Joe Dawson, the Watchers would put a tail on Nick, and Nick would spot the tail and guess the reason for it.

Bull. She felt I'd pose a threat to him if I saw him as a potential long-term rival.

How full of herself can the woman be?

Then another thought, all too familiar, snaked its insidious way through his mind.

With my track record, maybe people should keep their loved ones well clear of me.

He sank down on the dimly lit stairs. The cheerless surroundings suited his mood as he reflected on past tragedies - and the worrisome task ahead.

If I'd been a little more civil, Riley might have given me a better idea of what to expect from Wolfe.

MacLeod had never liked Liam Riley. The Irishman was in some ways the antithesis of his Immortal priest friend, Darius, who'd been murdered some years back by renegade Watchers.

Darius had kept a low profile. For the last century and a half of his life, he had never left the grounds of St. Joseph's Chapel - which, because of its location, served travelers rather than neighborhood residents. That choice had enabled him to conceal his Immortality, yet always be accessible to his many disciples. It had also kept him safe from Grayson, the archenemy bent on killing him. Grayson had been second in command of the army with which Darius had once hoped to conquer all of Europe. When Darius ordered his troops to disband, they did; but Grayson never forgave him. MacLeod had finally killed Grayson - as fate would have it, only a few months before Darius's own death.

Liam Riley, while equally opposed to violence, took a different view of a priest's mission. He had always been out and about in the community, trusting God to protect him as he ministered to the young, the poor, the petty and not-so-petty criminals. Amanda, for example: MacLeod knew Riley had a tolerant attitude toward her thievery because she'd been impoverished in her youth - had needed to steal food, just to survive. Riley found it understandable that after that start in life, she could never feel financially secure. What mattered most to him was that she never knowingly harmed anyone in the commission of her crimes, and stole only luxury items, from the wealthy.

The "street priest" had to relocate every few years. But as often as possible, the Church superiors who knew and guarded his secret sent him back to his beloved Paris.

Had Riley uttered veiled criticisms of Darius, or had MacLeod simply been oversensitive, troubled by the contrast? He was no longer sure.

But when he'd arrived from South America that morning, tired and anxious, he had - unfairly - blasted Riley for not having been in town when his friends needed him.

The very human Riley had shot back that he had been attending to his priestly duties, while Amanda's sometime lover, Duncan MacLeod, had been indulging in "aimless globetrotting."

It hadn't been aimless.

In November, after what might have been his closest-ever brush with death, MacLeod had finally found the courage to return to Seacouver, make decisions about his dojo and loft apartment (keeping both, for now), and tell Richie Ryan's friends he was dead. That he had killed him, in a "hunting accident."

Ever since, he'd been looking up other mortal friends and acquaintances of Richie's, to do them the courtesy of telling them in person.

Letting the angry men deck him, the women kick and claw and bite.

But he wasn't about to share that with Liam Riley.

So Riley had given him only the vaguest idea of why he was asking him to visit Nick Wolfe. With the ominous conclusion, "Maybe you can talk him out of what he wants. I can't."

MacLeod didn't like either of the two things he was imagining.

Sitting here is getting me nowhere. He rose decisively, and headed for the next flight of stairs.

Midway up, he sensed the presence of the man he sought.

He slipped a hand inside his coat, from force of habit, to grasp the hilt of his katana.

Holy Ground, MacLeod!

It was well-known that the building had been erected on the site of an ancient burial ground. That was why the Immortal who'd preceded Amanda as owner/operator of the ground-floor nightclub had chosen the location; he'd wanted it to be an establishment where Immortals could mingle safely.

Not to mention the fact that you're calling on a new Immortal who's probably unarmed.

With a slight shudder, he withdrew the hand. Reaching for that sword had become too easy, too natural.

At the head of the stairs, he gave a light tap on Wolfe's door. Under the circumstances, there was no chance the occupant of the apartment would be puttering in a far corner. He'd be waiting warily, not two feet away.

A chilly male voice inquired, "Amanda?"

For her sake, MacLeod regretted the lack of warmth.

That surprised him.

"No," he said easily. "But I'm a friend. Duncan MacLeod. Father Riley said you wanted to meet me - or maybe, someone like me. It wasn't too clear."

The door opened at once, with no sound of bolts being turned or a chain released. Keen eyes looked MacLeod up and down. "Hmm. Sounds like you and Liam aren't close friends. But he must respect you...unless you really were the only one he could think of."

Wolfe stepped back, waving MacLeod inside. "I asked him to help me meet an older Immortal who isn't a priest or a criminal. Preferably a guy."

"Guess I qualify." The Highlander tried to keep his voice casual. "In four hundred years, there have been some killings I regret. But I've never been a bank robber, kidnapper, or professional hit man." He avoided the word thief. "Definitely not a priest. And yep, I appear to be a guy."

Wolfe didn't seem in awe of his visitor's age. He gestured toward his liquor cabinet and said pleasantly, "Take your coat off and have a drink - uh, can I call you Duncan? I'm Nick."

"Beer would be fine. Thanks, Nick." MacLeod folded the coat and laid it on the nearest chair, aware his host's eyes were following his movements. He's speculating about the sword. "Maybe you'd better call me Mac. For some reason, only women call me Duncan."

"Ah. Yep, I also appear to be a guy." Nick produced chilled beers for both of them.

While trying not to stare, MacLeod was taking in everything. This new Immortal cut an impressive figure. A black-clad man in his early thirties, he was about MacLeod's height. Somewhat broader of build. The bulk was all muscle, not an ounce of fat.

In light of Amanda's attraction to him, his good looks came as no surprise. What did startle MacLeod was his quiet self-assurance. This soon after receiving an Immortality he didn't want, in a way that shattered his faith in Amanda, I would have thought he'd be a basket case.

Both Nick and his apartment were scrupulously neat. The man was clean-shaven, with carefully combed hair and wrinkle-free clothes. His living room was so tidy as to seem almost sterile.

The Highlander studied that dark-paneled room. The furniture was modern, masculine, understated. Its blandness helped to reconcile the clash between historic architecture and contemporary decor.

But for a man living alone, Nick had a surprising number of chairs. Did he entertain that many guests?

MacLeod had learned a lot about him in recent months, from Joe's phone calls and e-mails. Amanda's doings, as reported by her Watcher, had been so interesting that Joe couldn't resist passing them on.

Entertaining seemed out of character.

And chairs and sofa were rigidly lined up along the walls, suggesting nothing more than a doctor's office.

Suddenly, MacLeod guessed at the explanation. That long-ago marriage. The welcome extended to guests had been Lauren Wolfe's idea; her husband had contributed the less-than-welcoming seating arrangement.

And in all the years since their divorce, Nick Wolfe had never revised his idea of how a living room should be furnished.

Habit, habit. MacLeod thought again of his own instinct to strike out, too readily, with his sword.

And the terrible price his last student had paid.

I don't want to think about students.

Let alone beheadings.

He made himself focus on Nick. The reluctant new Immortal who was, strangely, more at ease than he.

"You didn't seem to recognize my name," he said. "There's something you should know. I'm an old friend of Amanda's. In fact, we've been lovers, on and off, for over three hundred years.

"But I'm not your rival." It was important to him that the young man believe that. "I've known about you for months - not that you were a pre-Immortal, just that you and Amanda seemed to be getting together. I was rooting for you as a couple.

"On the other hand" - he rushed to forestall what Nick seemed about to say - "I'm not going to coax you to give her another chance. What she did was wrong. Only you can judge how badly she hurt you, and decide what comes next."

"Glad you understand that." There was a hard edge to Nick's voice. "It's over."

The temperature in the room seemed suddenly to have dropped ten degrees.

Then the young Immortal said, "I don't wish her ill, though. Did you stop downstairs just now? Is she all right?"

"She'll survive." MacLeod relaxed slightly. "She's in her best Scarlett O'Hara mode."

Nick lifted an eyebrow. " 'I'll think about it tomorrow'?"

"Uh, no. 'I'll never be hungry again.' You know how some people respond to depression by eating? I left Amanda stuffing herself with caviar."

"Caviar? Yeah, that would be Amanda."

They exchanged rueful grins.

After a moment, Nick said, "How did you know about us? Were you in Paris all along? Was Amanda telling you?"

"Haven't seen her since early November. But she told me a little then," MacLeod admitted. "She had a stopover here on her way to Egypt, remember?"

He scanned the younger man's face for clues Amanda had told him about the jeopardy she'd been in during that "stopover."

An Immortal named O'Rourke, with an understandable (though not truly justified) grudge against MacLeod, had taken her and Joe Dawson hostage. He'd told MacLeod his mortal-thug accomplices would kill both of them - in Amanda's case, by beheading - if MacLeod didn't drop his sword and let O'Rourke take his head.

MacLeod had actually agreed to do it. But a lurking Methos - who'd followed him to the rendezvous, staying out of sensing range - had come to his rescue by opening fire on O'Rourke and his goons. (Methos had been sure that if MacLeod - in the mood he was in at the time - knew what he intended, he would have knocked him out or temporarily "killed" him, to avoid putting yet another friend at risk.)

In the end, MacLeod and O'Rourke had met in a fair swordfight, and MacLeod had killed O'Rourke.

Apparently, she hadn't mentioned it. Nick said casually, "Oh, yeah. All I recall about that trip is that she tried to re-color her hair, it turned green or something, and she couldn't take time to fix it without missing her flight. Jetted off to Europe wearing a phony-looking black wig she'd used as a disguise on some occasion."

"That's right." MacLeod smiled at the memory. "Close to what I think is her natural color, but it did look phony as hell. She wouldn't let me see the mess under it." Had the darn thing secured so well it didn't fall off during sex, or even a kidnapping.

"Anyway," he continued, "I left for the States a week later. And Amanda followed you to Paris a week after that."

He saw more questions coming, and anticipated them. "Remember meeting Joe Dawson? He's technically my Watcher - and one of my closest friends.

"But I've been traveling a lot the last few months, and Joe hasn't been tagging along. He's been observing new Watchers' performance in the field, helping out where his experience is needed. That's why he was following Andre Korda. With our special relationship, he knows that unless I get killed, I'll send him full reports.

"He also knows I care about Amanda. So he's been reading her Watcher's submissions and keeping me posted."

Nick's expression had turned sour. "I have a low opinion of Watchers. They'll bend their rules to gossip, but -" He needed a swig of beer, his first, to get his voice under control. "You know what happened in that warehouse, with Evan Peyton?"

"Yes." MacLeod saw where this was going, and flinched.

"Two Watchers were hiding there, right? They had to be aware of what Peyton was. He murdered mortals, for Christ's sake, and broke all the rules when he fought his own kind.

"But neither of them would lift a finger to sabotage his damn projector. If I hadn't done it, Amanda and I would both be dead." Peyton had been using that projector to create multiple holographic images of himself, so Amanda wouldn't know where he was - which image was real.

"I've thought about that," MacLeod acknowledged. "Joe called me in South America to tell me what had happened, and I headed for Paris as soon as I got his message. On the flight home, I couldn't get those Watchers out of my mind.

"I don't know about all of them - but Joe, at least, always carries a gun. I've asked him if he would have shot out the projector.

"He told me he thinks so. Hopes so.

"But he isn't sure."

They brooded in silence for perhaps five minutes.

Then Nick said, "If you have a history with Amanda, why were you rooting for her and me?"

MacLeod sighed. "Amanda and I have always loved each other. And been good for each other - in small doses. I keep her from being too wild and unruly, she keeps me from getting stodgy.

"But we're different enough that we can't stay together longer than a few weeks. By then I'm exhausted, and she's climbing the walls.

"From what I've heard, you and I are very much alike - except in one key area. I really want to lead a quiet, settled life. Never have been able to do it - trouble finds me - but I want to.

"You seem to thrive on constant action, always being in the thick of things. Just like Amanda."

He watched for any revealing change in his companion's expression, saw none. Are you still the same person, Nick Wolfe?

"I thought you were the ideal man for her. But I also thought you were mortal. Someone she couldn't have for more than a few years. So I was happy for her, and in pain for her, at the same time."

But all the while, he thought silently, you weren't mortal.

Amanda could have had it all. Had her ideal man for centuries...or millennia. But between fate and her own bad judgment, she blew it.

She and I may not be soulmates, but we sure as hell have a lot in common.

"I apologize if I'm getting too personal, Mac," the younger man said tentatively. "But...does the name Tessa mean something to you?"

"Yes!" How could he possibly have heard of Tessa and not me?

"She was the great love of my life," he continued softly. "Mortal. A talented sculptor. We were together thirteen years, longer than I'd ever been with anyone.

"We planned to be married...and then, suddenly, she was killed. Shot by an ordinary mugger, but she wouldn't have been where she was if she hadn't previously been kidnapped by a renegade Watcher. So, indirectly, it happened because of me."

"I know how that feels." Nick's eyes were moist. "Guess you know about my ex-wife Lauren... If I hadn't been around, she would have hired a bodyguard and let him do his job. I volunteered. To protect me, she went out with no guard - and Julian Heller killed her."

Heller, an Immortal who'd become a renowned transplant surgeon, had secretly headed an international ring that trafficked in human organs obtained by murder. He'd been exposed and indicted, and Lauren Wolfe was to have been lead prosecutor in his trial. In the meantime, however, Heller had been free on bail - with fatal consequences for Lauren.

"So I killed him," Nick added tonelessly.

Lauren had been killed with an injection of heroin, to make it appear she'd been a user and accidentally overdosed. A furious Nick had gone after Heller. Joe Dawson had told MacLeod what followed, as reported by Heller's Watcher. The men had wound up stalking each other on Heller's property - Heller armed with his sword, Nick with both his gun and a sword he'd doubtless filched from Amanda. But Nick had actually managed to kill the Immortal without first shooting him: he'd dropped down on him from above, and beheaded him.

MacLeod's flesh crawled. He still couldn't understand how the young man, believing himself mortal, had been able to do that. Or live with it.

"How did you know about Tessa?" he asked.

But Nick was somewhere far away, and didn't hear.

The silence lengthened.

Fear gnawed at Duncan MacLeod.

This new Immortal is too calm, too confident.

He's a man who wouldn't have welcomed Immortality in any case. In the unique situation of knowing he could have died, and was denied the choice.

A wife he loved was killed only a few weeks ago. He feels partly to blame. And he's turned against the woman who might have helped him make a fresh start.

He's willing to talk about the past, but he doesn't ask any of the questions I'd expect. "Where should I go now?" "What should I do?"

Whatever he intends, it's something Liam Riley opposes.

At last MacLeod had to interrupt the younger man's reverie. "Nick."

"Oh! Sorry, Mac. I was wool-gathering." Nick forced a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Would you like another beer?"

"No, thanks." MacLeod finished the one he had, just to be rid of it, and tossed the can into a wastebasket. Then he leaned forward intently. "Nick, I have to know why I'm here. I'll help you in any way I can. But -" He swallowed hard. "If you're looking for someone to take your head, I won't do that."

"Take my head? Oh, God, no!" The shock and horror were so obviously genuine that MacLeod went limp with relief.

"Forgive me, Mac." Nick seemed to believe he'd committed a major breach of hospitality. "I should have explained. You knew I didn't want to be Immortal. Of course you'd think that!

"I do wish I could turn the clock back, have a choice. But life doesn't work that way.

"I'm not sure what I would have chosen. I didn't want to be what you are. But I wasn't thrilled about the prospect of dying at thirty-two, either. Like most people, I'm not sure what - if anything - is waiting for us on the other side.

"If I'd let myself die from the poison, that wouldn't have felt like out-and-out suicide. Asking someone to behead me now would be suicide. And I somehow feel that if I were to throw my life away, after Lauren gave hers to protect it, I'd never be reunited with her. Or maybe I would meet her again, and she'd have nothing but contempt for me.

"So I'm going to make the best possible use of the gift she gave me, however much I dislike Amanda's. Does that make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense," MacLeod said weakly. He offered a silent prayer of thanks.

But his fear had given way to confusion. The only other thing he could think of was that Nick was looking for a teacher. Another assignment I can't take on. Not so soon after Richie.

Yet there was a problem with the "teacher" notion: Liam Riley's disapproval. MacLeod had thought at first that Nick might have asked for him, by name. Riley undoubtedly knew MacLeod had killed Richie. He would have heard only the "nervous breakdown" story. And might even suspect the Highlander had really killed his former student in a fit of rage, or for his Quickening.

So Riley could well have been unenthusiastic about MacLeod's teaching his friend. But Nick had merely asked to meet an older male Immortal who wasn't a priest or criminal! Despite his own pacifist beliefs, Riley must know the young man needed instruction. How could he oppose that?

Still, it seemed the only possibility.

MacLeod took a deep breath. "Nick, I realize you need a teacher. I'm afraid I can't be that teacher myself. But I can help you find a good one."

Assuming he'll go back to the States...Carl Robinson? He's not a "criminal" now, never really was. Robinson had been forced to behead another Immortal in a situation in which he had to let himself be identified as the killer. MacLeod and a friendly Immortal FBI agent had helped him fake his own death, in a shootout with police. Now, of course, he was using a new identity; but MacLeod knew how to reach him. I know he's taught Derek Worth all he can, and Derek has gone off on his own.

"I hope you won't take this the wrong way, Mac." Nick's tone was apologetic, but resolute. "I don't want a teacher."

"What? I don't think you understand -"

"Yes, I do." Nick gazed steadily into his eyes. "It would be different if I were ten years younger. Or if I'd known nothing about Immortals when this happened to me. But frankly, at this stage of my life, I'm not willing to become someone's...apprentice. Even briefly."

"You'll need to learn how to use a sword -"

"I'll take lessons." No false bravado, just the determination of a man who knew what he was doing. "Fencing is a recognized sport. I can also learn other styles of fighting - claim I'm an actor, and I want to play swashbuckling roles. I've done undercover police work for years, so if anyone asks to see my 'acting ability,' I know I can improvise something like a drunk scene. Quite convincingly."

"Most teachers of swordfighting only use aluminum blades, to minimize injuries."

"I'm aware of that. I'll ask 'casual' questions about what kinds of real swords are best for certain purposes. Learn what I need to know, buy what I need to own. Work out - alone, if necessary - to get used to the weight." The firm voice never wavered.

A dazed MacLeod conceded, "You seem to have thought of everything. Maybe that approach will be best for you." Not that I have any say in the matter.

Why do I suddenly feel that he's right? That he represents the future, and I the hidebound, tradition-ridden past?

At least, now, the Highlander thought he understood Liam Riley. Pacifist or not, Riley was a traditional Immortal. Upset because his young friend didn't want the likes of Duncan MacLeod teaching him how to protect his head!

One puzzle remained. "Nick. I don't mean to be impolite. I've enjoyed sitting here drinking with you. But...if you don't want me to kill you, and you don't want me to teach you, what do you want?"

"Oh, that." For the first time, the young Immortal seemed uncomfortable. "I hate to ask this, Mac. But I don't know where else to turn. Certainly not Amanda.

"Could you...lend me some money?"

"Money?" MacLeod was so relieved he burst out laughing. "Of course I will. How much? If I have it, it's yours."

But even as he spoke, his questioning mind went into overdrive.

Why did Nick need money? A man like him wouldn't have gone through all this for the price of a sword - or swordfighting lessons. He doubtless had enough for those purposes.

Creating a new identity would have been expensive. But since he hadn't "died" publicly, he had no need of that. Wouldn't even have to change jobs. If he didn't want to stay in France, he could resume working for Myers back in the States. According to Joe, he hadn't given up his old townhouse.

"I'm not sure how much," Nick said soberly. "But you're probably wondering why I need it. I've decided to quit working for Myers and finish law school."

"Finish law school?" MacLeod echoed. "I didn't realize you'd begun."

"Oh, yeah." The voice was soft now, melancholy. "That was where Lauren and I met. When we got married, I was supposedly just working as a cop to pay my tuition.

"My biggest mistake in our marriage was leaving law school. Because of the reason I did it.

"I've always been a perfectionist. Had to be the best at everything I did. My grades in law school weren't bad - but Lauren's were better. She had more natural talent. I couldn't take being second best to my wife, so I quit.

"I don't think it was a sexist thing, even then." He wasn't pleading for understanding; rather, he seemed to be talking to himself. "I would have acted the same way if the better student had been my brother, or a guy who was a buddy. Anyone with whom I expected to have an ongoing relationship.

"The marriage broke up because Lauren couldn't accept being a policeman's wife. But she shouldn't have had to. It took me years to face this... The truth is, I didn't want to be a cop any more than she wanted to be married to one."

"Strange how it worked out," MacLeod murmured. "I assume it was the danger you faced on the job that bothered her. But with the kind of law career she chose, she was in danger herself."

"Yes." Nick's eyes shone with pride. "She was the bravest person I've ever known. And now, I want to be the kind of lawyer she was. She worked for the International Justice Foundation. If they're still around when I pass the bar, and want me, they can have me. If not, I'll find some other group working for the same goals.

"I don't anticipate earning big bucks, Mac. But if I can stay alive for a few years, I will pay back any money you lend me."

"I'm not concerned about that," MacLeod assured him. His respect for this new friend was growing every minute. "I'll be glad to foot the bill for your tuition and expenses."

"Don't speak too soon." Nick hesitated, then appeared to reach a decision. "There's something else you should know. I said I'd repay your loan if I can stay alive for a while. I like to think I can.

"But Liam doesn't agree. He thinks certain...choices I've made...are going to get me killed. Soon."

MacLeod frowned. "You mean your not wanting an Immortal teacher?"

The younger man's eyes met and held his. "That's the least of it."

"Well, you certainly have my attention." MacLeod groped for the right words. "Nick, I want you to know you don't have to tell me any more of your personal business as a condition of the loan. But if you want to confide in someone with a different perspective than a priest's, I'm here for you."

"Thanks, Mac." The young man relaxed visibly. "Yeah, I would like to talk about it. I don't need advice. But I feel like I've been existing in a vacuum. Can't even hang out with Liam, because it hurts to see the anxiety I'm causing him.

"And Amanda doesn't know anything about this. I want it to stay that way."

"Understood," MacLeod said quietly. "What you tell me goes no further."

"Okay. To begin with, I assume you know I took Julian Heller's head. Before I became Immortal."

"Yes."

"Within a few hours of doing it, I realized it was wrong." MacLeod's grunt betrayed his surprise, but Nick continued as if he hadn't heard him. "I had killed men before. And I didn't have a belated attack of squeamishness about the beheading. It was the deed itself, not the manner of it.

"I killed Heller for revenge, because he'd murdered Lauren. But she herself had said his death wasn't what she wanted. It wouldn't solve anything. Someone else would take his place, and the black market in human organs would continue. The only hope of putting an end to it was to expose it in court.

"I told Liam in Confession that I was appalled by what I'd done. And he tried to convince me I hadn't sinned. Made a point of how distraught I'd been." He smiled in spite of himself. "Get the picture? A priest telling a penitent it's okay to chop someone's head off. I felt like I'd fallen down a pretty strange rabbit-hole."

"I feel that way too at times," MacLeod admitted. "Even after all these years."

"I couldn't put that killing out of my mind. Wrong, wrong.

"Still, if Peyton had taken Amanda's head, I would have tried to kill him after the Quickening. But she won, killed him, made me Immortal. And then I had time to think. I began wondering if it might have been, in part, simple blood lust that drove her to kill him without getting the antidote...

"Did she tell you how repelled I am by the idea of the Quickening?"

"Y-yes." A chill crept over MacLeod.

"I knew what I had to do." The young voice was soft, but had the ring of steel. "Before I even cleaned myself up and changed my clothes, I persuaded Liam - much against his will - to improvise a formal ceremony, in church. In which I made a solemn vow, before God and my priest, that I will never behead another Immortal. Never taste a Quickening."

MacLeod found himself gasping for breath, like a fish out of water.

Perhaps he was a grounded fish, thrust suddenly into a world where all the rules had changed.

Somehow, he choked out a response. "I don't understand. You've talked about learning to use a sword."

Nick nodded vigorously. "I fully intend to. If I'm challenged, or see innocent people being abused, I'll fight.

"I'm willing to punch other Immortals, shoot them, and if necessary, run them through. But then I'll walk away. While they're temporarily 'dead,' if it comes to that. What I won't do is take their heads."

In a voice tinged with regret, he continued, "You probably noticed that I didn't say I'll never kill anyone. I hope I won't.

"But I'm the same person I've always been. Even as a lawyer, I expect I'll be shooting it out with the bad guys, mortal and Immortal. Some of the mortals may wind up dead.

"I won't kill intentionally. And where Immortals are concerned, that means I won't kill at all."

MacLeod was still struggling to absorb all this. "What about Father Riley? What does he want you to do?"

Nick hung his head. "Liam says there are two ways a 'good' Immortal can survive. One is to practice total pacifism, not defend yourself even with your fists, and hope to be accepted as a noncombatant. He admits that will rarely work for anyone but clergy - sometimes, not even for them. He takes a calculated risk when he goes without a Roman collar here in Paris. Wouldn't do it away from home, or advise any other Immortal priest to do it.

"The only alternative, he says, is to be willing to use deadly force in self-defense. It was very hard for him to acknowledge that and recommend it to me. I'm breaking his heart by refusing to do it."

For the first time in his life, MacLeod could empathize with Liam Riley. He's probably as attached to Nick as I was to Richie.

He tried to put a hopeful spin on the situation. "Your odds of survival may be better than he realizes. Most older Immortals don't carry guns. You can more easily disable an opponent with your gun than with a sword. And if you don't take his head, there's no dishonor in it..." His voice trailed off.

"Except for the guy I shot."

"Uh, yes. Except for the guy you shot."

"That's Liam's argument. He says very few Immortals spare defeated opponents, so the typical bad guy has never lost a fight. If I humiliate them by defeating and not killing them, they'll resort to unfair tactics. Shoot me, intending to take my head. Or maybe gang up on me. And then I won't stand a chance, no matter how good a swordsman I am."

"He may be right," MacLeod conceded. "The Holy Ground rule is the only one that's never broken."

"Or he may be wrong!" Nick's face was transformed by a sudden, wicked grin. "The revolutionary idea of not killing each other just might catch on."

How very young he is.

Or is the problem not that he's too young to understand, but that I'm too old?

MacLeod couldn't help remembering another Immortal who'd renounced killing, set out to make converts, and sought to command respect by falsely claiming to be the 5000-year-old Methos (probably, in the belief no such person really existed). He'd foolishly advised his admirers to go unarmed. The memory was especially painful because Richie had been one of them. He'd been attacked by another Immortal (who, as it turned out, had already murdered the false Methos), and only survived because MacLeod had thrown him a sword.

But a few months later, he was killed by the one person against whom he wouldn't raise his sword: me.

Trying to put that horror out of his mind, think only of the false Methos, he knew there were no real parallels with what Nick was saying. Nick wasn't interested in converting others - except, perhaps, by example. And he had every intention of carrying, and using, a sword. He just wouldn't take heads.

The goal of "ending the killings" was laudable. Might this be...a step in the right direction?

MacLeod's eyes strayed to his coat, and he pictured the lethal weapon hidden within its folds.

"Nick," he said heavily, "there's something I have to tell you. Consider it a warning.

"Two years ago, I had the most devastating experience of my life. Killed someone I shouldn't have killed, in a case of mistaken identity. It very nearly cost me my sanity.

"I was determined never to kill again. Never to carry my sword again. For a while, I just carried a baton that I could use as a defensive weapon.

"But there came a day when I needed to intimidate another Immortal, to elicit a promise from him. For a good end. So I used the sword, just to frighten him.

"Then I continued to carry it. And the next time I tangled with an enemy, I beheaded him - even though he had just murdered two mortals, and I could have let the law deal with him."

I would have had to break him out of prison after fifteen years or so. But then he would have been out of shape, his sword skills rusty. If he hoped to survive, he would have had to lie low and be on his best behavior for a very long time.

"After that I reverted to my old ways. Not murderous ways - but not a pattern I'm proud of, either." He tore his gaze away from the coat, and looked hopefully at his new friend. "Do you see my point?"

"Yes." Nick was wincing, as if the story caused him physical pain. "You're saying that if I carry a sword, I'll be tempted to make more use of it than I intend. Tempted to kill."

"You may be able to resist. You're young, just starting out, and you've only killed with a sword once. I was trying to change the habits of centuries. But you will be tempted - don't imagine you won't."

"Thinking of temptation..." Nick seemed to wage a debate with himself for a full minute. Then, after a sharp intake of breath, he forged ahead. "When you were a new Immortal, hadn't taken your first head, did you find yourself wondering about the Quickening? Craving it?" It was his turn to look away, avoiding MacLeod's eyes.

"I was never in your situation," MacLeod said carefully. "When I first became Immortal, I didn't understand what I was - knew nothing about Quickenings.

"And then, I actually received one before I'd taken a head! I was still completely in the dark about what was going on, but an old Immortal was determined to give me his Quickening. He provoked a fight - the year was 1625, so of course I was carrying a sword. When he couldn't goad me into beheading him, he grabbed my sword arm and did it himself, with my sword. I received the Quickening, but I didn't know what was happening to me, and I was utterly terrified.

"You've said you're repelled by the Quickening..."

"I am," Nick insisted. "But still, now that I'm Immortal, I keep thinking about it. I'm determined never to experience it, but it's like the forbidden fruit...can't get it out of my mind." His cheeks were scarlet.

He imagines the Quickening has a sexual component.

And, of course, he's right.

"I'd guess what you're going through now is probably normal, for a new Immortal who knows as much as you do," MacLeod said kindly. "But if you never satisfy your curiosity, you may be in for a very uncomfortable future. One long test of will power."

Nick managed a half-hearted smile. "I'll try to convince myself that it 'builds character,' as I told Peyton after he poisoned me. And I will make it a long test! Gotta pay back that loan."

"Oh, yes. About the loan..."

After they'd worked out the details of that arrangement, and shared a surprisingly good meal, the Highlander prepared to take his leave.

Nick seemed reluctant to let him go. He lounged in the doorway, finding excuses to prolong the conversation. At last he said wistfully, "I hope I'll be seeing you again, Mac. I don't want a teacher, but I sure could use a friend."

"You've got one," MacLeod assured him, in a voice roughened by barely-contained emotion. Why does every new, young Immortal make me think of Richie?

"And, Mac?" Nick hesitated, then blurted out, "You'll still be there for Amanda, won't you? I don't know if this makes any difference to you - probably not - but she and I were never lovers. I mean, intimate."

MacLeod smiled. "You're right, it doesn't make any difference. And yes, I've been giving her a hard time, but I'll end up letting her cry on my shoulder. And that will lead...where it usually leads with us."

Nick sighed. "I almost wish it could have been that simple for me."

"Any chance...?" MacLeod asked quickly.

"No." Nick shook his head, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Different men, different relationships. There's no future for her and me now.

"But that doesn't mean I won't always have regrets."

Nick had finally gone back inside his apartment and closed the door. MacLeod was walking slowly down the stairs.

Very slowly, as he tried to decide whether to pay another call on Amanda.

Problem was, he couldn't concentrate on her. Couldn't forget the aching loneliness he'd sensed in Nick Wolfe.

Guess I'm good at spotting loneliness because I've been there so often myself.

As he reached the landing, paying no attention to where he was going, he walked right into an equally distracted young woman.

"Oh! Sorry," they exclaimed in unison, each instinctively grabbing and steadying the other. Then they laughed, both of them embarrassed and self-conscious.

But the woman quickly turned serious. Peering up at MacLeod, she said in a clipped British accent, "You - you were upstairs. Please tell me, is Nick all right?"

"He's fine," the Highlander assured her.

Curious, he studied her - as best he could in the poor light.

Probably in her late twenties, with curly, dark blond hair. Attractive, but decidedly harried-looking, nervous and anxious. The hair, her best feature, was pulled back with no concern for fashion. And she wore no makeup.

"You're sure?" she asked insistently. "Are you a doctor?"

"No, I'm not a doctor." At the moment, he couldn't imagine why anyone would think Nick might need one.

"Oh. Sorry to trouble you. Please excuse me." She still sounded rattled.

He stepped aside and let her continue up the stairs.

But then, on a sudden impulse, he drew back into the shadows and waited.

He'd be able to sense Nick as soon as the young Immortal opened his door; and that would work both ways. But Nick was so new to this that he probably wouldn't realize his last guest should be out of sensing range.

The woman knocked.

MacLeod heard the door open, sensed the other Immortal.

And then a ragged, desperate voice cried out, "Lauren?"

The woman gave a muffled shriek. Moments later, he heard her whimpering in terror.

But as he was about to race up the stairs, a distraught Nick began apologizing. "Janet, I'm sorry! The light's so bad... I thought for a second you were someone else. You don't really look like her, just the same coloring. And she sometimes wore her hair like that...

"Forgive me for scaring you. Are you all right?"

"Oh yes, Nick, I'm fine." Though she still sounded shaky. "I came to check on you. I was worried - you were so ill the last time I saw you! But you look better now. Are you, really?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. It must've been a twenty-four hour virus. Thank you so much for being concerned, with everything else you've had on your mind. I was sorry to hear about Tom..."

They took their conversation inside the apartment. The door closed.

Duncan MacLeod was smiling, and even his sword-weighted coat seemed lighter, as he continued on his way.

The End