Departed, 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.

Note: This is the third of three very different sequels to Dead on Arrival, the others being "Lone Wolfe" and "Intimations of Mortality." Readers will see that I've paraphrased a few lines from DoA.

The rays of the setting sun hit Amanda full in the face as she charged out of Evan Peyton's warehouse.

Sunset. We were in there that long?

Shivering in the suddenly colder air, she found herself remembering lines from a poem by Dylan Thomas:

"Do not go gentle into that good night...

Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Nick will fight to stay alive. Anyone would.

But how can I have let this happen? Let him just walk away?

Blinking back tears, she pulled out her cell phone and tried his number - for the third time. Still no answer.

Maybe he went back to the car. Maybe he took the car! I left the keys in the ignition.

Even if I'm stranded here, it will be a help to know what he's driving.

Glad to have a goal, she broke into a dead run. But her charcoal-gray Mercedes was where she'd left it, and there was no sign of Nick. Flinging open the door, she saw something on the front passenger seat.

His cell phone.

Damn! It must have fallen out of his pocket when he got out.

Now she wouldn't be able to reach him by phone unless he went back to his apartment, Sanctuary, or Bert Myers' office. And he couldn't have returned to that part of town this quickly, not without a car. In this neighborhood of warehouses and seedy businesses, no cabs cruised for passengers.

I should be looking for Janet - no, that can wait. Finding Nick is the top priority. I have to believe I can find him.

But as she gazed up and down the street, she saw an open car trunk.

Janet's rental car?

Racing to it, she confirmed she'd been right. A quick look in the trunk showed it to be empty...except for some ropes.

So the mortal abducted by Peyton had been tied up in the trunk. And Nick was the only one who could have released her.

But why was the car still there?

Irrelevant. Could Nick be with her?

She went back to her own vehicle and sat behind the wheel. She was so nervous that she had trouble remembering a number she'd called many times. But she closed her eyes, and visualized the mandala that always helped quiet her mind.

Moments later she was relaxed.

Now visualize the number...

And there it was.

This phone was answered on the first ring. "Y-yes?"

"Janet! This is Amanda. Are you all right?"

"Yes. P-Peyton didn't hurt me. But I'm sure he would have killed all of us, if he could."

"I know you're right. Janet, I'm assuming Nick rescued you. Is he with you now?"

"With me? No."

Amanda cursed under her breath. "Did he tell you where he was going? Or did you even see what direction he headed in?"

"What direction?" Janet sounded confused. "He told me to go, and I took off at a run. But I'm sure he went in the warehouse. And he looked terrible."

Oh, God. He saved her before he even came in.

Janet was still talking. "I was in shock - it didn't occur to me till later that I could have taken the car. I'm still walking, and I'm a long way from my hotel."

"Everything's going to be all right, Janet. Peyton will never be a threat to you again. I wish I could pick you up now, but there's a reason why I have to find Nick.

"Uh, about your brother..."

"I know, he's dead." The young woman's voice was hollow. "Peyton showed me his body. And, Amanda, don't think you and Nick failed me in any way. I know now that Tom was dead before I told you he was missing."

"I'm so sorry, Janet. I'll call you again tomorrow. But please call me - my cell phone number - if Nick comes to your place or calls. If he calls, find out where he is."

By the time she'd hung up, she was thinking clearly.

Grimly reconciling herself to the time she'd have to spend with Information, she called all the places Nick should go - but probably wouldn't. Told people to watch out for him. Asked Bert Myers to have his operatives mount a search, though it was hard to explain the problem without mentioning Immortality.

She even phoned Joe Dawson.

Finally, she told a carefully edited story to the police and news media. Anything to keep Nick from dying out there.

Her very first call would have been to Liam Riley, if she hadn't known he was out of town. Something to do with basketball. But she wasn't sure where he was, how far away. So she did try his number now.

No answer.

With Liam, that usually meant he'd let his battery go dead.

She gritted her teeth and stuffed the phone in her pocket. There was only one more thing she could do. Willing herself not to panic, she picked a direction - the one her car happened to be facing - and began cruising slowly down the street, scanning both sides for Nick.

Nick plodded into Liam's church and collapsed in the back pew. He'd had to walk for what seemed like miles before he was able to hail a cab. Now he was exhausted - mostly, he knew, because of those long hours of suffering and gradual physical decline before Amanda had made him Immortal. His body still needed time to recover fully. Hell, if she was bent on doing it, why didn't she do it sooner?

He'd gone to the rectory first, not remembering until he got there that Liam was in Marseilles. But this was better. He wasn't sure whether a rectory was Holy Ground; the church certainly was. The safest possible place for a new Immortal to spend the night.

Liam would be home in the morning. And Nick would have his strength back, be able to think and plan.

Despite his weariness, he knelt and tried to pray. He was too fatigued even to know what he was praying for. But he mumbled the words of The Lord's Prayer, then sat again, closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

He woke to find the church thirty degrees colder. What kind of May weather is this? He pulled his coat more tightly around him, but he was still shivering.

His physical woes paled to insignificance when a voice came from the center aisle. "Wolfe! How pleasant to see you again." The words were followed by a most unpleasant snicker.

Nick turned to his right - and saw, not three feet from him, a man he remembered all too well.

Who was, at the moment, lovingly fondling his sword.

This can't be happening. Andre Korda?

He edged away from the apparition, but managed to keep his voice steady. "You're dead."

"Dead?" Korda's eyebrows shot up. Then he smiled. "Ah. I can guess who told you that charming fiction - Amanda. But I thought you would have learned by now that she can't be trusted. Were there any witnesses to her killing me?"

Nick groaned. He'd hacked into the Watcher files, and learned that both Amanda and Korda had eluded their Watchers before the fight she'd described. Her claim to have killed Korda did rest entirely on her unsupported word. That lying bitch!

"If you're alive, why did you leave town? I assume you did."

Korda shrugged. "Because you'd exposed my counterfeiting operation, of course. But that was no great loss. I had other irons in the fire, in several countries."

Struck by a new thought, Nick said, "I can't sense you." He didn't know what that famous sensation was supposed to feel like - when he revived in Amanda's presence, he'd been too distracted by the changes in himself to identify what he must have been getting from her. But he wasn't picking up anything now.

"Sense me..." Korda looked momentarily puzzled. Then he smirked, and said in a bored tone, "It seems that even when Amanda had no reason to lie, she neglected to tell you things you should know. Immortals can't sense one another on Holy Ground. That may have given rise to the superstition."

Superstition? Nick didn't like the sound of that. But he said, "You can't kill me here."

"Oh yes, I can." With shocking suddenness, Korda's blade whipped out - and lopped off a swatch of hair from the top of Nick's head, without scratching his scalp. "I've lived on Holy Ground for centuries. And I had the courage to test what would happen if one Immortal killed another there.

"Guess what? Nothing happened. Except that I received perfectly normal Quickenings. They weren't affected in any way by my not having sensed the other Immortals.

"And killing them on Holy Ground was so easy! They were afraid to defend themselves." The sword shot out again, and sliced off a portion of Nick's right coatsleeve.

"You're sick." Nick scrambled to his feet and away from the other man, retreating toward the side aisle.

But Korda was at his heels, striding behind the pew. "Thinking of Quickenings -" Part of the left sleeve was cut away.

Nick fled up the aisle, hoping against hope that the holiest part of the church would afford him some protection.

He didn't mean to rely on that alone. He pawed frantically at his clothing as he ran, seeking his gun.

But he had no gun.

Shit! I must have left it in Peyton's warehouse.

And yet, I could have sworn I didn't...

Korda was still behind him, saying in an almost conversational tone, "I'm glad someone made you Immortal. I didn't realize you were a pre-Immortal! Just think, I might have run you through and walked away, and our paths might never have crossed again."

Nick planted himself in front of the main altar, but Korda kept coming.

In desperation, he turned and wrenched the tabernacle door open. Grabbed the monstrance that held the Sacred Host, and spun around to confront his tormentor.

Korda burst out laughing. "What do you think I am, Wolfe - a vampire? The symbols of your religion can't frighten me."

His sword cut through the air again. Struck the monstrance from Nick's hands and sent it crashing to the floor.

Nick cried out in anguish.

Korda reared back for the fatal blow...

And another cool, British-accented voice resonated through the church. "Korda! Get away from him."

Korda stopped his swing, but he was glowering as he turned to identify the newcomer.

Then his demeanor changed. "Yes, my friend, I will. You do have a right to this kill. You have more of a grievance."

With that, he slipped his sword into its scabbard and strolled away. Leaving Nick to face...Julian Heller.

"This can't be," Nick whispered. "I know you're dead."

"Of course I am," Heller said matter-of-factly. "And so is Korda, whatever he may have told you to the contrary. Do you believe everything you hear?

"It's because we're dead that either he or I can safely kill you on Holy Ground."

Nick felt there was something wrong with the logic of that statement, but he couldn't pin down what it was.

He did know Heller was the one Immortal he himself had deliberately killed.

"You didn't fight me honorably, Wolfe." Heller approached him slowly, inexorably, his icy calm more frightening than Korda's enthusiasm for the kill. "You dropped down on me from overhead, never gave me a chance."

"I wasn't Immortal at the time!"

"That makes no difference." Heller stopped directly in front of him, sword in hand. "But I will give you the chance you didn't give me. A fair fight. Draw your sword."

Nick moaned. "I don't have a sword."

"No sword?" Heller made it sound as if Nick had confessed to not having on any underwear. An offense to the sensibilities of respectable people. "Then I suppose I'll have to murder you."

But he, like Korda, intended other indignities to come first.

Korda had attacked Nick's hair and clothing; Heller's blade went for the flesh. It began by pricking him - in one after another of his most sensitive parts, as he tried vainly to fend it off. By the time it progressed to more painful jabs, his hands were already streaming with blood. Then came a lightning-quick succession of deep stabs.

He'd endured in silence as long as he could; now he was half-sobbing, half-screaming. Backed against the altar, he saw it defiled with his blood.

He closed his eyes...

To the pain that wracked his entire body, something new was added. A curious tingling that began in his toes, and crept slowly up his legs.

Heller's assault broke off.

And he heard a swish that could be...another sword pulled from its scabbard?

He cautiously opened his eyes, daring to hope Amanda had come to his rescue.

Heller was gone.

In his place stood a gloating... Evan Peyton.

"H-Heller?" Nick croaked, looking around for him.

"Heller and Korda were both illusions I created, you fool. Just like those doves I threw at you back at Sanctuary - remember? I hope you don't seriously believe in ghosts!"

Nick took a deep, if painful, breath. Clung to the altar for support. Heller might have been an illusion, but the stab wounds weren't.

"You're dead," he said with a confidence he didn't feel. "I saw Amanda kill you."

Peyton shook his head. "You also create your own illusions. You actually saw me kill Amanda. You still had the strength to take my head while I was weakened by the Quickening - the physical strength, but not the courage. You ran away. Later, you were so ashamed that you denied the truth and substituted a new set of memories."

"No! Amanda shot me and made me Immortal -"

"Another false memory. You became Immortal when you died from the poison."

"But she told me..." His voice trailed off. I remember her telling me death from poison would have been permanent, even for a pre-Immortal. But I'd never heard that before. So if I've created false memories, that's one of them.

He suddenly realized the tingling in his legs must be his way of sensing another Immortal. Proof that Peyton himself - unfortunately - was not an illusion.

If he's real, Amanda truly is dead...and I failed her by running away. Those troublesome legs chose that moment to buckle, and he sank in a heap on the floor.

No running now.

At this point, he hardly cared about living. But he looked up and said, almost by rote, "You can't kill me on Holy Ground."

Somewhat to his surprise, Peyton nodded agreeably. "That's right, I can't." Then his lips parted in a feral grin. "But you're weak as a kitten after that slow, debilitating first death. All I have to do is take you off Holy Ground."

"No!"

But he was powerless to resist as Peyton grabbed his feet, and forcibly dragged him down the center aisle. Every bump and jolt triggered new waves of pain. On the church steps, he heard - and felt - bones break. Through his agony, he was dimly aware that he was being hauled across Liam's flower beds, then stretches of lawn and concrete.

"The basketball court isn't Holy Ground," Peyton said cheerily. "But maybe you don't want your Quickening to damage the equipment? We could go farther."

Nick let out a wordless howl of fury.

"Hmm. I'm afraid I can't permit this sort of noise." The magician dropped his feet abruptly. "I would have preferred a more dignified site than the gutter, but we are off Holy Ground..."

Nick saw the upward sweep of the blade, a silver scythe in the moonlight.

He tried to roll away, but couldn't.

The blade fell.

And Nick found himself sitting in the back pew of Ste. Marie's. His heart was thumping, and he was soaked with sweat.

Wha-aat?

Even in the dim light from the racks of votive candles, he could see that nothing untoward had happened near the altar. And not only was he himself uninjured - so was his coat. He could even feel the weight of his gun in a pocket.

Unbelievable. It was just a nightmare. God, what a whopper of a nightmare!

But I'm ashamed I let it affect me so. The way I'm sweating - yuck. If I weren't Immortal, I'd get pneumonia.

Shivering violently now, he began to consider breaking into the rectory, having a hot bath and hotter coffee. He could easily force a window. And Liam wouldn't mind - would actually want him to, under the circumstances.

Liam? For a moment he thought he saw the priest, clad in somber vestments, standing at the head of the center aisle. But Liam was away. And besides, he'd never dress like that in the middle of the night.

That dream spooked me. Now my eyes are playing tricks on me. He blinked to clear them. But when he looked again, the robed priest was still there - and he wondered how he could, even momentarily, have mistaken that face for Liam's.

The "priest" was Evan Peyton.

Noooo!

As Nick sat frozen in shock, Korda and Heller paced solemnly in from either side, and stood flanking Peyton. They were dressed as altar boys, in cassocks and surplices.

All three had the blank-eyed look of zombies.

But then, as one, they whipped out swords. Pointed them at Nick. And began marching toward him, with the precision of robots.

Impossible...

He was still rooted to the pew, too stunned to try to escape. But when the tips of their blades were inches from his face, men and weapons alike began to dissolve and reshape themselves.

Now they were hundreds of tiny blobs of light, fluttering gracefully around him...

But a moment later, a cloud of stinging insects dove for his head.

Aaagghh!

He saw he'd been batting furiously at...nothing. Nothing at all.

But this time he was not exactly uninjured. His shivers had become full-scale convulsions.

The seizure finally passed - barring an occasional twitch - and he sat in a wretched huddle, trying to fathom what had happened.

He knew he hadn't been asleep.

I didn't "dream" any of it. My God, I've been hallucinating!

Why have I been hallucinating?

He flinched away from...something. Some dark lump of knowledge that threatened to cast its shadow over all he was.

The...only explanation I can think of...for my hallucinating now, is...is...

Is inconsistent with something I remember happening. But if I can't trust all my memories...

Oh God, no, noooooo...

The knowledge engulfed him.

I'm still being affected by the poison. At a late stage, it causes hallucinations.

Korda and Heller didn't really come back to torment me.

Peyton didn't really follow me here and drag me out of the church.

And Amanda didn't really make me Immortal.

A part of his mind was twisting in agony.

But another part could see the whole picture now, coolly and analytically.

He hadn't wanted to be a pre-Immortal, but he had wondered if he was. Especially after learning all Immortals were foundlings - like him. He'd asked outright, and Amanda had told him he wasn't. Reminded him of that a dozen times, when she thought he was taking crazy risks.

I'm sure they try to keep pre-Immortals in the dark. But how many have to see them almost daily, look them in the eye, give lying answers to point-blank questions? Even allowing for the fact that a lie would have been what I wanted to hear, Amanda isn't that good a liar.

He "remembered" her telling him, after she had - supposedly - made him Immortal, that she'd known he was a pre-Immortal the night they met. If that were true, shouldn't other Immortals have sensed it as well?

I met a good many. All of them stood as near me, at some point, as Amanda did that night. And by the time I met them I knew what they were - wasn't likely to overlook a slip, as I might have with her. It's hard to believe every one was too disciplined to show a flicker of...surprise, recognition, something.

He recalled now that months before, she'd told him about her acquaintance with Morgan Kenworthy, who'd been a pre-Immortal when they met. She hadn't told Kenworthy what he was, no. But they hadn't been that close - she'd been romantically involved with his adopted son. There had been, she thought, no need to tell him anything about Immortals.

But when she told me all that, she said, "Immortals can recognize pre-Immortals." Never suggested only some of them can.

And she said, "Pre-Immortals become Immortal when they revive after their first death." Never hinted there were ways of dying that wouldn't make them Immortal.

None of those points was conclusive. But they were enough to buttress his belief that one incident he remembered from that hellish afternoon was real.

The incident that told him, beyond a doubt, what he was.

Amanda had gone into Peyton's warehouse knowing she might be killed. She'd said as much. And she'd been forced to leave him outside. Why would she have left a pre-Immortal - who had his own gun - to face a slow, agonizing, final death if she didn't return?

She wouldn't. I know that if I'd been a pre-Immortal, she would have told me then. Told me that as a last resort, I could save my own life by shooting myself.

Corroboration. He "remembered" hearing her exchange words with Peyton before she whacked him, but they'd only spoken about the antidote. Why hadn't she asked what he'd done with Janet?

What I thought I heard makes more sense if it was my fantasy, because I already knew Janet was safe. Amanda didn't know that. And I can't believe the real Amanda would have forgotten about her.

More. He "remembered" Amanda's shooting him, with his gun.

That's my weapon of choice, not hers. Aside from proving her Immortality - in the tight space of a car - I've never known her to use a gun. If she wanted to make someone Immortal, she'd go for a swift, surgical strike with her sword.

For a fleeting moment, he'd thought he couldn't have lived this long if he hadn't become Immortal. But that wasn't true. He'd been exposed to the poison late at night, very late. And it had still been broad daylight when he went into the warehouse. So his twenty-two hours - probably more like twenty-four, from the time of exposure - had been nowhere near up.

Can't say the same now, though...

He tried to check his watch. But the dial wasn't luminous, and he couldn't make out the time. Would I normally be able to see that?

To his horror, he realized everything else had become as blurry as the watch face. His head was starting to ache. And damp though he was, he felt warm - too warm.

He knew he should...do something. Try to save himself, somehow.

But he couldn't focus on that. Another bitter truth slammed into him, with the force of a truck.

My God. I have no idea what really happened in that warehouse. I don't know whose Quickening I saw!

Maybe I didn't see one at all - no, that can't be. One of them must have killed the other.

Amanda may be dead. And if she is, I didn't keep my promise to avenge her.

He hid his burning face in icy hands, too stricken even to moan.

Or maybe...

Maybe she won.

Maybe she even has the antidote...but she can't find me!

With that realization, he lost his last vestige of self-control. Threw his head back to let out an animal scream, of fury and fear and frustration.

But the only sound he could produce was a squawk that couldn't have been heard three pews away.

And agitation seemed to make his physical symptoms worse. Moments later, he was wracked by a spasm of coughing. Even after it ended, his breathing remained labored.

She has the antidote, I know she does. But she'll never find me here! We both knew Liam was away. And Amanda has no way of knowing I thought I was Immortal, so there's no reason she'd look for me in a church.

I'm going to die, and it wasn't even necessary. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

By now he was sobbing, heart pounding like a trip-hammer, every breath a gasp.

Pain tore at his intestines.

He pitched forward, bent almost double in his seat.

A fiery claw raked his organs. And in his bent-forward position, he was unable to breathe at all. Suffocating, suffocating...

Must sit up!

Somehow, he did. Defied blinding pain and bursting lungs, pulled himself upright.

A victory, however small.

Then a new idea occurred to him. And all at once he was hugging himself, rocking, smiling through his tears.

If I know Amanda...if she's alive and has the antidote, she has half the city looking for me!

All I have to do is go out to the curb. Police will be cruising everywhere. It won't matter if I can't call out for help, even if I can't speak at all. They'll have been told what I look like. No chance I'll be mistaken for a drunk.

Everything's going to be all right!

He took the deepest breath he could, gripped the back of the pew in front of him, and tried to get up.

That was when he discovered his legs were paralyzed.

The shock of that brought on another seizure.

But when it abated, he felt as stable as he'd ever be. So he writhed and struggled until he achieved his first goal: fell heavily out of the pew, into the aisle.

He rested as long as he dared. Then he began inching along on his belly. Dragging himself, slowly and painfully, toward the door.

A distance he could once have covered in seconds had become a marathon.

But he got there. Made it up into a sitting position, shoved the door with all his strength...

And nothing happened.

It can't be locked! Liam never locks it at night. And he's away. And he wouldn't lock people in, anyway...

After an eternity of pushing and prodding, he faced the truth.

The door wasn't locked.

He was too weak to open it.

The refuge he'd thought so safe had become a trap. A trap that would cost him his life.

He teetered on the edge of hysteria.

Can't you see this is funny, Wolfe? You never wanted to be Immortal. You're getting just what you deserve! Why aren't you laughing?

He beat his head against that immovable door. Scratched feebly on it, whimpered like a wounded animal.

But he knew no one would hear.

It's all right. I've come full circle. I was found in a church as a newborn, and I'll be found in one when I'm dead. There are worse places to die.

But he wanted to die with dignity. Not on the floor.

So, however illogically, he used his last strength to make the arduous journey back to the pew. Heaved his body - mostly - up onto the seat, lay flat, and tried to convince himself he was comfortable.

Then he murmured a prayer.

This time he knew what he was praying for. Unconsciousness.

Mercifully, his wish was granted.

III

Midnight.

Father Liam Riley suppressed a yawn as he entered his church. He'd been traveling for hours, and was thoroughly pooped. But he wouldn't think of turning in for the night without making a stop here.

Liam's trip to Marseilles - to arrange a teen basketball tournament - had gone well. He'd finished earlier than expected, and decided to save the parish the cost of another night's lodging by coming straight home. Now, however, he could barely keep his eyes open.

He'd already decided any phone or e-mail messages would have to wait till morning.

He walked up the center aisle, and knelt at the altar rail to pray. Sleepy or not, he cherished these quiet times, late at night, when he alone was here to drink in the peace and grace that flowed from the Divine Presence. His cares melted away, and his prayer became a paean of love and gratitude.

But he knew that if he wanted to say 7:00 o'clock Mass, he'd have to get some sleep. So after ten minutes, he regretfully crossed himself and got to his feet.

As he came back down the aisle, slightly more alert than when he'd arrived, he glanced into the pews to make sure nothing was amiss.

That was when he saw the sleeping man.

Most priests didn't want the homeless - or drunks, or drug users - sleeping in their churches. They would have roused the man and kicked him out, without a second thought.

In fact, they wouldn't have had the problem. Their churches would have been emptied at nightfall, any would-be loiterers sent on their way. Then the buildings would have been locked.

But Liam was kindhearted. He'd bounce anyone who was disorderly, but he had no objection to some poor soul's seeking shelter for the night.

He tried to get a better look at the sleeper. Was he asleep, or ill?

One of his arms was flung up, obscuring his face. But Liam leaned close enough to see a thatch of brown hair. If the man had been gray or bald, he would have worried about a possible heart attack. That seemed unlikely in a young person.

He took closer note of the position of that arm. He was shielding his eyes from the light. And if the little bit of light from these candles bothered him, there's definitely some drug in his system.

But that, alas, was all too common. There was no reason to suspect an overdose. The man seemed merely to be sound asleep, breathing easily.

Sleeping it off, whatever "it" might be.

Liam sighed and shook his head - in sorrow, not in censure.

He made the Sign of the Cross. Whispered, "Peace be with you, my friend."

Then he quietly left the church.

1:30 a.m.

Amanda half-fell out of her car at Liam's door.

She had no reason to think he was home. But she'd been passing by, and it wouldn't hurt to check.

Besides, she was so exhausted she was becoming a hazard on the roads. She needed to get out of that car for a few minutes, even if all she did was sit on her friend's doorstep and cry.

But as she staggered up the steps, the sense of another Immortal washed over her.

Liam! She flung herself against the door, then alternated madly between pounding it and leaning on the bell.

Common sense told her there was nothing Liam could do. But all too soon, she'd have to give up hope. Accept that Nick, wherever he was, was dead.

She didn't want to face that alone.

"Coming!" And the door opened so suddenly that she tumbled across the threshold. Strong arms caught her, set her securely on her feet. "Amanda, what's wrong?"

She stared at the priest in the dim light of his foyer. His hair was practically standing on end. He was barefoot, and wearing only a nightshirt - on which was printed a group photo of Ste. Marie's basketball team.

"You're home, and you don't know what's wrong? It's been all over the news, volunteers searching everywhere -" She broke off with a choked sob, remembering that most of the volunteers had already given up.

"I just got home from Marseilles an hour or so ago, went right to bed. Tell me!" His face was chalk-white. He knew her well enough to realize this was serious.

"It's...Nick."

"Nick? Wh-what's happened to him?" Liam retreated a step, as if, even while asking, he sought to escape news he dreaded to hear. The two men were close, and she knew he'd feared for months that the mortal's lifestyle would send him to an early grave.

She forced herself to control her emotions, and recount the key facts as quickly and clearly as she could. "An Immortal criminal poisoned him, and he wandered off while I was fighting the guy. A late stage of this poison can cause mental confusion - and bursts of false strength.

"The police are looking for him, the news media, Bert Myers' people, the Watchers. Hundreds of ordinary citizens went out to search, too. All the hospitals have been alerted.

"But time's running out. He has to be close to death now, if he's not dead already.

"And the worst part of it is that this didn't have to happen. I have the antidote! At least I think it's the antidote. Peyton - the bad guy - did have this vial in his pocket, and it's labeled -"

"Wait a minute." Liam still hadn't recovered from his initial shock. But now something more specific seemed to be troubling him. "You physically have it? The whole city and all the hospitals are involved in this, and you're carrying the only antidote around with you?"

She felt her color rise. "The doctors at Saint-Luc's wanted me to turn it over to them. But I wouldn't. I don't trust them, Liam. I was afraid they'd either try to 'analyze' it and destroy it, or refuse to give it to Nick because they weren't sure what was in it. I'm scared myself, but I'd rather try this than anything they'd come up with. It was Peyton who designed the poison, after all.

"And everyone taking part in the search has my phone number. If someone finds Nick, I can get - wherever he is - as quickly as he could be gotten to a hospital. Or I can meet them at the hospital."

Liam gave an understanding nod. "I wasn't being critical, just surprised. That makes sense to me." Shaken though he was, he belatedly remembered to urge her into the living room. "Unless you have an idea where to look next, I think you need to sit down and have - a hot chocolate, maybe. And something to eat."

"I haven't had an actual idea in hours," she confessed bleakly. "Maybe we can put our heads together and come up with something." I won't give up hope! Not until we've found him...one way or another.

Liam padded into his small kitchen and took two cups from a shelf. "I'm trying to think," he told her. He carried the cups over to the sink and began rinsing them. "Have you checked out the place he found Lauren's body? The place he killed Julian Heller?"

"Yes, to both," she said miserably.

"The place he found you alive, when he'd thought you were dead?"

"Yes."

"Then I can't think of anywhere he might - oh, no!" The cups fell from his hand and shattered in the sink.

"What?" She was at his side in an instant.

He was shaking like a leaf. "I saw a man...in the church. Thought he was a drug user, sleeping it off. Couldn't get a good look at his face, never would have expected to find Nick Wolfe in that situation...

"I walked away. Th-that may have been Nick, dying, and I walked away!"

While Amanda was still in shock, he sprinted for the door. Bare feet and nightshirt notwithstanding.

By the time he reached it, she was at his heels.

Amanda rushed into the church - with Liam, now, a few steps behind her.

He stopped to turn on the overhead lights. But Amanda was headed unerringly for Nick. "Oh, my God. He's down on the floor, wedged between two pews!"

Liam came up beside her, breathing hard. "It definitely is Nick?"

"Yes."

There was no time to waste on recriminations. Working together, they half-lifted, half-dragged the limp body out into the aisle.

Nick's skin was cold and clammy. His face was gray, eyes rolled up in his head.

There was no sign of life.

"CPR," Amanda said grimly. "We have to get him breathing before we can think about the antidote."

She refused to admit it might already be too late.

By unspoken agreement, Liam, with his greater upper body strength, began the CPR. Amanda phoned for an ambulance, then made another quick call to tell the police Nick had been found. They could notify most of the searchers in the field. And if either her Watcher or Liam's saw the ambulance, they could be trusted to inform Dawson.

Just as the tension was becoming unbearable, Nick started to cough. Then they realized he was choking. They rolled him over on his side, worked desperately to clear an airway.

At last he was breathing on his own - after a fashion. They laid him on his back, and Amanda used her rolled-up coat to elevate his head and shoulders.

His eyes were closed now, but his color was no better than before. The ragged, wheezing breaths he drew couldn't sustain him for long.

And he was still completely unresponsive.

"Can't wait any longer." Amanda pulled the precious vial from her pocket. At least I don't have time to agonize over whether I'm doing the right thing. He's in such bad shape that there's nothing to lose.

But when she carefully poured a few drops of the stuff into his mouth, he gagged, then spat. Most of the liquid ran down his chin.

"Damn," she muttered. Her hands were shaking, but she tried again - and yet a third time, with no better results.

"Nick, can you hear me? This is the antidote!"

But there was no indication he knew she was there. She pleaded with him to squeeze her hand, but his remained as lifeless as an empty glove.

His only response to any stimulus was his resistance to swallowing the antidote.

"Probably tastes awful," Liam observed. "Wait a minute." He ran up the aisle, bare feet slapping on the marble floor, and vanished into the sacristy. He was actually back in less than a minute, carrying a carafe filled with ruby-red liquid.

Amanda stiffened, staring at it. "Is that...?"

He dropped to his knees beside her. "Yes. Communion wine."

She must have looked shocked, because he went on to explain, "Unconsecrated. It's just wine, Amanda. But if consecrated wine were all I had, I'd use it."

Trembling, fumbling in their haste, they began giving Nick tiny sips of wine, each one laced with the antidote.

He still retched several times. But they got most of it into him, and he kept it down.

Amanda sat back on her haunches. "I think he looks a little better. More relaxed, maybe. And he's breathing more easily. Don't you think so?"

Liam hesitated. "I-I'm not sure. I think I see what you mean, but any difference is so slight - we may be fooling ourselves."

"Oh." Her eyes stung. She knew he was right. "Liam - do you think you could give him a sip of the consecrated wine now? You know, Communion?"

"I wish I could," he said gently, "but I don't dare. The way he's been gagging - I'm afraid that if we make him swallow anything else, he'll throw up all of it. Not just the Communion, the antidote.

"But there's one thing I should do. If I can get my kit from the sacristy, I'd like to perform the Anointing of the Sick."

Her stomach turned over. "Anointing of the Sick?" She scrambled to her feet, unable to look at him. "Where do you get off, pulling that PC crap with me? He's not 'sick,' damn it! Say what you mean, what we called it for centuries. Extreme Unction. The Last Rites."

"Extreme Unction, then. The Last Rites." Liam's voice was soft but implacable. "It doesn't mean he's necessarily going to die, Amanda. But we both know this is serious. He's a Catholic, and he'd want me to administer the Sacrament."

She felt her shoulders sag.

"Yes, I know," she said at last. Heard the defeat in her voice, and winced. "I wasn't trying to stop you. Don't have the right to stop you. Get what you need."

She stayed with Nick until he returned.

But then she said, "I can't bear to watch. I'm going outside to wait for the ambulance."

And she stumbled out into the night.

Away from the smell of death.

"Are you sure the antidote was real?" Amanda knew she'd asked that question a dozen times. Like a dog worrying at a bone, she couldn't let it go.

Patient as ever, the weary Dr. Marceau replied, "There's no doubt, Amanda. That antidote was the only thing that kept him alive long enough to reach the hospital.

"But he got it too late. Can't you accept that yet?"

She tightened her grip on Nick's cold hand. "It's only been three days."

"But you can see he's getting worse. He hasn't been even semi-conscious in more than twenty-four hours. And I've told you...where things stand. There's no realistic hope."

"At least he doesn't seem to be suffering now." For her as well as for Nick, those intervals of semi-consciousness had been more agonizing than his present coma. He'd never known she was there. But she'd seen the terror in his near-sightless eyes, cursed her own helplessness as he struggled against the breathing tube in his throat.

Marceau shook his head. "We can't know that. And there are just too many problems. His legs are still paralyzed. If he were conscious, he wouldn't have enough vision to see your face as more than a blur.

"But those are the minor things - the ones that might clear up if the organ damage could be reversed. You know what's killing him. The poison ravaged his respiratory and digestive tracts. By now his insides are mush.

"Believe me, the kindest thing we could do for him is...disconnect the machines. Let him die in peace."

"No!" She couldn't agree to that. Not yet. Maybe never.

So she fell back on her tried-and-true stalling tactic. "We're still trying to find his relatives."

Nick had never said much about his adoptive family; she'd assumed they weren't close. Even so, it had come as a surprise when a search of his personal effects turned up no addresses or phone numbers. In every situation where he'd been required to state a next of kin, he'd named his ex-wife, Lauren.

Locating Lauren's parents had been no problem. Only a few weeks had passed since Nick took her body back to the States and attended her funeral. Liam had contacted the Donovans, and they'd agreed that if Nick died, he could be buried beside their daughter.

But it won't come to that. It can't! My God, he's only thirty-two.

Under the circumstances, on the urging of both Nick's employer and his priest, the hospital had accepted Amanda as de facto next of kin.

The person who'd decide when to pull the plug.

And Marceau wasn't buying her excuses. He said quietly, "You can drop the act, Amanda. I know no one's searching for those relatives. You don't even want to find them."

The silence that followed was broken only by the rhythmic whoosh of the respirator.

Nick isn't really breathing at all. Only this thing is.

When she finally looked up at the doctor, she saw a grief rivaling hers in his red-rimmed eyes, his worn face.

This was no uncaring bureaucrat, trying to rush Nick into his grave to free a bed. Dr. Marceau genuinely believed all hope was gone. And the loss of a patient, the admission of failure, would haunt this man long after she'd forgotten his name.

She bowed her head. As if from a distance, she heard her voice say, "There is brain activity."

"Yes."

"Wh-when it ends."

"All right."

She cradled Nick's hand, trying to warm it in both of hers, as the doctor's footsteps died away.

She'd been praying in the hospital chapel for fifteen minutes, while Bert Myers sat with Nick. Liam was downstairs in the cafeteria, having a bite to eat.

The men tore themselves away at times, to attend to their other responsibilities. Amanda hadn't left the hospital since Nick was admitted; the nurses had taken pity on her and lent her clean clothes. But she was eating her share of cafeteria meals, and sleeping on a cot at night.

She knew she'd need all her strength for the ordeal to come.

She silently mouthed the words of prayers she'd learned as a child. But her mind came back, again and again, to an all too familiar saying. God helps those who help themselves.

I've made a mockery of that, Lord. Joked about it, used it as an excuse for thievery.

But now I know what it means.

So I'm not begging You to perform a miracle. I mean to assure that everything medically possible, everything humanly possible, is done for Nick. But please, please don't let brain death occur too soon! That's all I ask.

Caught up in her emotions, she was jolted back to reality by the sense of another Immortal. For a moment, she went rigid.

Then the taut muscles relaxed. It was Liam, of course, just getting off the elevator.

She returned to her prayers. Please, Heavenly Father, comfort Liam. He still blames himself for not having realized it was Nick, in trouble, in his church that night.

And You and I know Liam isn't to blame for any of this.

Only I am.

She was still lost in prayer when a hand touched her shoulder. Looking up, she saw a sad-faced Dr. Marceau.

"No. No!" She shrank away from him. But she knew he wouldn't disturb her here unless...

"I'm sorry, Amanda," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to frighten you. There hasn't been any change. I just came to tell you Dr. Benet is here."

"Benet?" The names of the hospital staffers had already become a jumble; Marceau was the only one she could keep straight.

He gave her a reproachful look. "Dr. Pierre Benet. The specialist you insisted on calling in, from Geneva."

"Oh!" She was on her feet in an instant. "Yes, he was highly recommended. But I've had so much on my mind I forgot the name. And I didn't expect him to arrive this soon. Where is he?"

"Having a look at the patient. But, Amanda, I must say I've never heard of him. And I don't believe anyone can -"

She didn't hear the rest of what he said, because she was already out the door.

She saw at once that Myers was gone, probably sent on his way by the newly arrived doctor. Saw also that Nick's condition did seem unchanged.

Then she turned to look at the gray-haired man holding Nick's chart. His suit and tie were expensive but rumpled, as befit an expert in his field who'd just rushed halfway across Europe. The thick-lensed glasses through which he gazed at her had probably cost more than the suit.

"My God," she whispered. "You look at least fifty!"

He couldn't hold back a chuckle. "Seems appropriate, since I am about fifty. Centuries, that is..."

She ran into his arms. "Oh, Methos, I'm so glad you're here! But why the new alias? I made a fool of myself by not knowing the name of the specialist I'd wanted."

"Sorry I forgot to tell you." He cast an anxious glance toward the door. "We aren't supposed to know each other, are we?"

"No. But I could be excused for hugging anyone who brought me hope right now." Even so, she pulled away from him and smoothed her messed-up hair.

"It's not a new alias," he explained in a low voice. "I have a bunch of them at any one time. Pierre Benet is the only one who's licensed to practice medicine.

"But, Amanda, I don't know what you expect of me! Do you imagine that just because I'm an old Immortal, I'm Superdoctor? I'm not.

"I've been practicing, on and off, for five hundred years, and I have kept my skills up to date. But I'm just a GP. I can extract a bullet if it's not near a vital organ, yank someone's tonsils in a pinch, but that's about it. This" - he waggled the chart at her - "is totally beyond me. I know you care about the guy, but I don't think anyone can save his life."

She swallowed hard. "I'm hoping that between the two of us, we can. I have to talk to you, in absolute privacy. Will closing that door take care of it?"

Methos nodded. "It will if I go out there first and tell the charge nurse I'm going to be examining the patient.

"But really, I don't want to examine him. It wouldn't do any good, and I'm afraid even a touch might hurt him."

She flinched. But then she steadied herself, and said firmly, "Just go tell the charge nurse."

A half hour later, Methos was shaking his head. "No," he said. "To begin with, you're taking on too much of the blame for this. I know how it is - all mortals seem so young to us that we tend to feel responsible for them. But Wolfe was a mature man, older than most people lived to be a few centuries ago. And he freely chose to take the risks he did."

"You don't understand," she replied mournfully. "This time it really was my fault.

"Nick would never have heard of Evan Peyton if it weren't for a friend of mine, Janet Ross. Going further back, he wouldn't have been in France if it weren't for me - a stupid stunt I pulled. It never would have occurred to Bert Myers to ask him to head the Paris office if he hadn't been here already.

"Besides, he wouldn't even have been working for Myers if it weren't for me. If I hadn't come along to screw up his life - and get his partner killed - he'd still be a police detective in Rosemont, Illinois. Probably would have made lieutenant by now."

"He might just as easily have been killed in the line of duty," Methos pointed out.

She shrugged off that objection. "Blame has nothing to do with it, anyway. The medical staff here doesn't think there's a chance of saving his life, and I do. It's as simple as that."

"Simple?" he exploded. "Amanda, putting everything else aside, you're asking way too much of me as a doctor. What you're trying to do is like - grabbing a friend who knows how to fly his little Cessna, and demanding he pilot a jumbo jet."

She liked that simile. "Suppose the jumbo jet were already in trouble, pilot and copilot disabled, and the only person aboard who'd ever flown anything was the guy with a little Cessna. Wouldn't he have a better shot at landing the plane than someone with no experience at all?"

Methos sputtered for a moment, then said lamely, "He'd get guidance from the control tower."

"And so will you. That's what I've been trying to tell you. You have the basic medical skills we need, and I have the specialized knowledge for dealing with this problem. I received it in my last Quickening."

He looked ready to tear his hair out. "So what am I supposed to do? Take your head, to get knowledge you supposedly picked up in some Quickening? Quickenings don't work that way!"

"You weren't paying attention. I said it was my last Quickening. Very recent, no other information crammed in on top of it." She gripped his shoulders, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Methos, I've mastered a dozen meditation techniques for recovering buried memories. And if none of them work, we can try hypnosis. I will give you what you need."

"I don't want to do this. The risk -"

"We both know Nick will die if we do nothing. A chance to save his life is all I care about."

They stood toe to toe, locked in a contest of wills.

In the end, it was Methos who capitulated.

He gave a long shudder. "All right. It's a go."

Nick drifted up, ever so slowly, through layers of sleep.

Funny. My bed was never this comfortable.

Where the hell am I? A luxury hotel? Can't quite remember...

Mmm. May as well relax and enjoy it.

Then memories came flooding back.

Oh my God.

He knew he'd been in a hospital. He couldn't guess how he'd been rescued from the church, but he was sure about that hospital.

He remembered IV needles being thrust into him, hurting just as much as the imagined stabs of Heller's sword. And worse still, the throat tube...he'd fought it desperately, but a sane corner of his mind had known it was intended to help him breathe.

He'd heard voices debating whether they should continue that help. Someone had said they weren't really keeping him alive, just prolonging his death.

He felt a chill.

I can't be this much better. I feel as well as I do because they have me shot full of drugs.

And the tube is gone. It seems to me I'm breathing normally, but I can't be.

They've taken the tube out because they've given up. I'm not getting enough air into my lungs to keep me alive long - and they know that. They're just trying to give me a comfortable death, let me slip quietly away...

I won't, I won't!

He made a mighty lunge up to full consciousness. Opened his eyes, and screamed to whoever might hear, "I don't want to die!"

Whether or not he'd cried out as loudly as he thought, a man sitting beside his bed was startled into dropping a book. "Hey, Nick! Did you have a bad dream?" The man leaned over to clasp one of his hands and stroke his forehead. "Everything's all right," he soothed. "Just relax. You're safe now. It's okay to go back to sleep."

Nick stared in disbelief. At least this guy wasn't dead, like Andre Korda, but there was no way he should be here. "Joe Dawson?"

Dawson beamed, as if Nick were a schoolboy who'd gotten a perfect test score. "Yeah, I'm glad you remember me. Uh...can you see me clearly, Nick?"

"Of course I can. But what are you doing here?"

"I'm a friend of Amanda's, so that makes me your friend, too."

Nick knew that smile was false.

Amanda. She's dead, I know she's dead. If she were alive, she'd be here with me.

But he couldn't bring himself to ask about her. If the truth were put into words, it would be finally, inescapably real.

So he clutched at another explanation. "You're not real! I'm hallucinating again."

Dawson stared at him. "Hallucinating...again?" He took both Nick's hands now, and said very seriously, "I'm real, Nick, just as real as you are. You have to believe that.

"But what did you mean about hallucinating again? Were you hallucinating when you left Peyton's warehouse? That would explain a lot."

For you, maybe, Nick thought bitterly. It sure doesn't help me.

But then, despite his doubts about Dawson, he found himself blurting out the whole story of how he'd thought Amanda had made him Immortal.

When he finished, the Watcher was white as a sheet. "That was totally screwed up, Nick. First and foremost, you weren't a pre-Immortal. No way.

"Then, I can't imagine where you got that notion about poison. As far as anyone's ever been able to figure out, pre-Immortals can't die of natural causes. But anything that can kill them will make them Immortal.

"And finally, if you had been a pre-Immortal, Amanda never would have let you suffer for hours without telling you the truth. Telling you your options. That fantasy you had is just...inconceivable."

"I eventually figured that out," Nick said sheepishly.

He was beginning to tire, and Dawson must have seen it. "Are you having any pain?" he asked. "Any discomfort?"

"N-no."

"That's good. Your doctor didn't think you would. Are you thirsty, hungry?"

"No." On reflection, Nick realized he was - thirsty and hungry. But there was a wrongness about this whole situation that he had to resolve, before he thought about food.

"Then you probably should go back to sleep for a while," the older man urged.

"No!" He looked around, shuddering. This spacious bedroom, with its elegant furniture and tightly closed, tasseled drapes, didn't resemble any hospital room he'd ever seen. No monitors, no IV tubing, no respirator. And the only machine sound to be heard was the hum of an air conditioner. "Where am I? How come I'm not in a hospital?"

"This is a hospital," Dawson assured him. "It's a private clinic, owned and operated by the doctor who's treating you. He doesn't come here often, but he finances it. So when he does come, the staff treats him like royalty.

"This is his bedroom. He put you here because at this point, he thought you needed rest more than anything else."

Lies, all lies, Nick told himself. Or at least, not the whole truth. Where is this "doctor"? How can I possibly be well enough that all I need is rest?

And going back to my very first question, what's Joe Dawson doing here? Even if Amanda's dead, where's Liam?

He could think of only one reason why Dawson might have been tapped to talk to him. It wasn't pleasant.

Dawson has no legs. And I remember my legs being paralyzed.

But when he tried to move them under the bedclothes, he found he could.

So it wasn't that. But he still suspected Dawson's disability had something to do with his being there. He's supposed to break some bad medical news. Give me a pep talk.

"I know why you're here now," he said slowly, not looking at the other man. "To...explain something to me.

"I'll make it easy for you. It has to be one of two things. All you'll have to do is tell me which one.

"One possibility is that my feeling well is deceptive. I can expect to do well for a while, but the poison is ultimately going to kill me. I have, maybe, six months to live. Something like that.

"The other possibility is that I'm not necessarily going to die. But I only feel as well as I do because I'm lying quietly in bed, not moving around or trying to eat. I'm...going to be an invalid."

The last word came out in a choked whisper. But he cleared his throat, and made himself continue steadily, "Whichever it is, I can take it. So please, lay it on the line."

He finally summoned up the nerve to look at Dawson.

The man was gaping at him. And when he'd recovered from his apparent shock, he broke into a grin. "Neither of those things, Nick. I swear it."

Nick's frustration boiled over. "Then why the devil are you here? Why are you even in France?"

Something in Dawson's face told him he'd struck a nerve. "My God. We aren't in France, are we? We're back in the States. In Rosemont, or maybe New York -"

He jumped out of bed and made a dash for that heavily curtained window.

"No, Nick!"

But the Watcher's desperate grab for him was too late. Nick had already thrown back the drapes.

What was outside the window wasn't Paris. Or Rosemont, or New York.

Not unless one of those cities had recently migrated to the edge of a tropical rain forest.

Nick slid down to the floor beside the window. Weeping and giggling, at the same time.

"Nick! What's wrong with you?" Dawson sounded scared. He grabbed his cane and came to stand over him. "There's a reasonable explanation -"

"Not real," Nick gasped out. After another fit of giggles, he was reduced to babbling. "None of it real. Not the jungle, not the fancy master bedroom, not you."

Then tears came in a flood. "Oh, God, please let this stop! I can take the reality, whatever it is. Please, no more of this crap!"

"Nick!" Dawson snapped at him, forcing his attention. "Pull yourself together! You're not hallucinating." Hampered though he was by his own reliance on the cane, the Watcher dragged the younger man to his feet. "Come back to bed and lie down. That's an order."

Nick's sobs trailed off, ending in a pathetic hiccup.

He still didn't believe what he was seeing. But he crawled obediently into bed, and pulled the covers up to his chin.

"That's a good boy," Dawson said. And then, with a twinkle in his eye, "Sorry, I couldn't resist." He lowered himself into his chair again. "I tried to tell you there's a reasonable explanation of what you saw out the window. Want to hear it?"

Nick gave an unenthusiastic nod.

"We're in Belize."

This is reasonable? "Belize? Why, for God's sake?"

"Your doctor had to take you out of France for a while -"

"Oh yeah, sure. So this mystery man brought me to Belize, the medical capital of the world."

Dawson scowled at him. "No. A poor country where there's a pressing need for free medical clinics. That's what this is."

After a long pause, Nick whispered, "I want to believe you. I want to believe in Belize, in all of it. But there's so much that doesn't make sense..."

"I think you need to get more sleep," Dawson said kindly. "I'll close the drapes again, shut out some of the light.

"When you wake up you'll see that you're still in Belize, I'm still here, nothing has changed. That should go a long way toward convincing you it's real. And then I'll have answers for more of your questions."

Nick wanted to press him about that, but found he really was too tired. "We're in a hospital," he mumbled, "and you want me to go to sleep. Aren't you gonna give me a pill?"

"Uh-uh. You've had enough meds to last you a lifetime." Dawson got up and went to close the drapes.

Nick wouldn't even remember his coming back.

He woke feeling rested and refreshed. Open drapes revealed that it was still - or, more likely, again - broad daylight. And nothing around him had changed, with the very reasonable exception of Dawson's clothes.

He looked at Dawson and said with some reluctance, "I need to take a leak."

The Watcher threw his head back and laughed. "Good, good! Your body's getting back to normal. The bathroom's right there." He gestured toward a door Nick hadn't noticed.

When Dawson made no move to help him, Nick got out of bed and headed for the bathroom on his own. Moving tentatively at first, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he wasn't weak or wobbly.

"It's private, with hot water and all the conveniences," Dawson said casually. "I'd suggest you take a bath or shower while you're at it."

Thus encouraged, Nick treated himself to both - plus a badly needed shave, when he found his own shaving kit ready to hand. He'd left the bath for last, and was still soaking in the tub when Dawson called, "Ready for breakfast? I've ordered for both of us - should be here in ten minutes."

Nick yelled back, "What do they serve in this place? Tortillas?"

"Nah. I think it's usually cold porridge."

But the meal - which Dawson himself fetched from somewhere, on a rolling tray - turned out not to include either of those delicacies. It consisted of orange juice, warm croissants with real butter, and heaping plates of bacon and scrambled eggs.

Guess no one's worrying about my cholesterol, Nick reflected. And Dawson doesn't give a damn about his, either.

They washed it down with the strongest and best coffee he'd ever tasted.

Somewhat belatedly, Dawson said, "If you'd like to get out of that hospital gown, we have most of your clothes here."

Nick didn't question that. Just got dressed, as quickly as he could.

He knew why his companion had suggested it. He wants to make me feel as much like my normal self as possible, before he hits me with...something bad.

At last they were settled in comfortable chairs, facing one another, and supplied with more coffee.

"You know this is real now?" Dawson asked.

"Yes."

"Okay. Then...the truth is, I really do have an assignment to carry out here. I'm supposed to, uh, break something to you. And I can't think of an easy way to do it."

Nick closed his eyes.

I know what it is, what it has to be. Amanda's dead. And Liam's dead too.

Peyton defeated and killed Amanda, maybe by using a magic trick to distract her. Then he followed me to Ste. Marie's and killed Liam.

He opened his eyes. Said quietly, "I'm ready."

And Dawson said, "Nick...you're Immortal."

Nick sat dumbstruck as the coffee mug in his hand grew cold.

If I haven't lost my mind, this guy has lost his.

But at last he said the only thing he could. "That's impossible. You yourself told me I wasn't a pre-Immortal!"

Dawson's earnest gaze never wavered. "That's right, you weren't. But you are a full Immortal now."

There was no denying the man's sincerity. Nick struggled to make sense of it. "You're saying I was never a pre-Immortal, but in spite of that, I" - he gulped - "I died and came back to life as an Immortal?"

Dawson shook his head. "No. You were never dead. Well, some people might say you were clinically dead at one point, because you had to be revived with CPR. But that doesn't count as death in my book. And it had nothing to do with your Immortality.

"You're unique in history, Nick. You weren't a pre-Immortal, and you still haven't had your first death. But you are a full Immortal now. Others can sense you. And some tests were run, while you were under general anesthesia. You have Immortal healing."

Nick needed time to absorb that. But at last he whispered, "H-how?"

Dawson finally smiled. "Hey, that's what I've been hoping for. That you'd accept the reality of it, at least enough to say the magic word.

"How? I'll make a long story short. You became Immortal because you were given a lung transplant - and you received an Immortal's lungs."

Nick almost choked.

The possibility that flashed into his mind was appalling. Since Dawson hadn't told him Amanda was dead, she must have killed Peyton. And that could only mean... "Someone put Evan Peyton's lungs into me?"

Dawson's face went white. "Peyton's lungs? Good God, no. The bastard's still using them. You have Amanda's lungs."

"Amanda?"

Nick must have looked ready to pass out, because Dawson rushed to explain. "I'm sorry! I should have made it clear - Amanda isn't dead.

"Remember that Immortal healing? She freely gave you her lungs. And she grew new ones."

"Grew new ones?" Nick was in a fog, too stunned to grasp what he was hearing.

But he finally managed to ask a question about another surprise he'd received. "How can Peyton and Amanda both be alive?"

Dawson grimaced. "She defeated him, but he used the antidote to bargain for his life. It was worth it - kept you alive till you got to a hospital.

"And she made him tell her what he'd done with the Rosses. He said Tom was dead, but Janet was still alive, in the trunk of her car.

"Then Amanda told him exactly what she was going to do to him, and did it. Ran him through, hog-tied him, and locked him in a storage vault. She'd said that if the antidote was real, she'd send the police to arrest him. If it wasn't, she'd come back and take his head.

"Unfortunately, while she was dealing with him, you wandered off...

"Peyton will pay for his crimes. He's going to be tried for bank robbery, for the murder of Tom Ross, and for kidnapping Janet Ross and trying to kill you. He'll probably get consecutive sentences totaling over a hundred years."

"But he's Immortal -"

"Yeah, ain't that a bitch? It means Amanda or some of her friends will have to break him out in twenty years or so. But then all his skills will be rusty. With the enemies he's made, he may lose his head in a matter of weeks. Even if he doesn't, he'll have to lie low and be on his best behavior for a long time."

Nick only half heard most of that. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the lung transplant shocker. She grew new ones?

"Dawson -"

"Will you please call me Joe?"

"Joe. C-can you tell me more about that lung transplant business?"

The older man smiled. "Thought you'd never ask. But first, how about warming up this coffee?"

After they'd dealt with the coffee problem, Dawson said quietly, "You'd gotten that antidote too late, Nick. All your organs were rotting away.

"Because you'd inhaled the poison, your lungs were the first to go. The doctors at Saint-Luc's recognized that a lung transplant could be a stopgap measure, delay death for a while. But it wouldn't have been a permanent solution, with all the other organs failing. There was so much wrong with you that conventional medicine couldn't justify giving you a new pair of lungs.

"So Amanda decided to give you her own. The doctor I've mentioned is an Immortal friend of hers. He didn't know beans about transplant surgery. But Amanda had received Julian Heller's Quickening only last month, and she was able to recover his specialized knowledge. She said Heller had actually given her the idea - when they were fighting, he taunted her by saying he'd use her for transplants."

Nick shuddered. "She never told me that."

"They covered, back in France, by saying they were taking you to another country where lungs were more readily available. That's done frequently, when patients can afford it. In itself, it's not illegal or unethical. Of course, they didn't say the country was Belize! Our doctor friend just happens to run this clinic here. Which came as news to me, by the way.

"You'll be able to go back to France. You can pretend the doctors there were wrong, and a lung transplant was enough to restore your health. The experts at Saint-Luc's will know something's fishy, but it won't be in their interest to make an issue of it."

Nick wasn't thinking about returning to France. He was still grappling with the implications of the surgery. "Wait a minute. I know that if an Immortal's organs are crushed, punctured by bullets or whatever, they'll repair themselves. But Amanda once told me they have to be careful in swordfights, because if a limb or portion of a limb is cut off, it's gone forever.

"Was she sure an organ that was surgically removed would grow back?"

Dawson met his gaze steadily. "No. She wasn't."

"Oh my God," Nick whispered.

"Her doctor friend didn't want her to do it, but she insisted. No one knew what would happen, to you or her. Amanda could have died. Receiving an Immortal's organs could have killed you - but that risk was acceptable, because you would surely have died if they did nothing.

"They thought it possible a transplant might make you Immortal. But there was also another possibility - that you'd respond exactly as if the donor had been mortal. In which case, new lungs would only gain you some time. And Amanda intended that if she was still alive, she'd rest and recuperate, then give you more of her organs. As many as necessary."

Nick buried his face in his hands. He was trembling uncontrollably, and Dawson laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

At last he found his voice. "Did they at least try the experiment of removing her appendix first? And then, take only one lung for starters?"

Dawson shook his head. "No. Dr. - um, Benet, he's calling himself - wanted to do both those things. But by the time they got here, you were so near death that they couldn't. Every minute was crucial."

Nick took a deep, shuddering breath. "Joe. Why were you delegated to tell me all this? Why haven't I seen Amanda?"

"Take it easy. She needed twenty-four hours to recover fully from the surgery, but she's fine now. You haven't seen her for the same reason you haven't seen Liam or Dr. Benet. They didn't want you to sense them before someone had prepared you.

"And how many mortals have you met, other than me, who know about Immortality?"

Nick was on his feet before the last words were out of Dawson's mouth. "She's here? She's really all right? I can see her now? And Liam's here?"

Dawson chuckled. "Yes to all of that. She and Liam have been every bit as anxious as you have. That goes for the good doctor, too.

"Just head out that door over there. Not the bathroom, the other one. Follow - not your nose, but something you'll find you have, that I don't. This place isn't big enough for any of them to be far away."

Nick burst through the door into what was clearly a hospital corridor. He rushed past a half-dozen mortal staffers. All had the coloring and features of Central American Indians; all stepped out of his way, with uncertain smiles.

He only broke stride when he experienced a ringing in his head, accompanied by a wave of dizziness.

But he found, almost instantly, that some mysterious knack enabled him to banish the vertigo and reduce the sound to a barely detectable hum. It had already ceased to trouble him when Liam erupted out of a nearby stairwell. "Nick!"

Then they were embracing, laughing, and finally weeping.

Liam managed to say, "I never really believed it till now." He pulled back to look into Nick's face, and seemed reassured by what he saw. So he pushed him away with a shaky laugh. "Keep going. We'll have plenty of time to celebrate. Right now there are other people you need to see."

But a minute later, the priest came running after him. "Nick!" When he'd caught up, he lowered his voice. "I don't want to rush you, but you should start thinking about finding an Immortal teacher."

That brought Nick up short. All of this still seemed unreal. But it was real. And it meant that he'd have to use a sword, if only to defend himself. "Are you volunteering?" He found it hard to believe Liam's pacifist beliefs would permit that.

His friend chuckled. "Me? No. After all these years, I barely remember which end of the sword to hold.

"But I was once very good. So I wanted to tell you that you couldn't do better than the teacher I had."

"And that was -?"

By now Liam was grinning from ear to ear. "Someone you already know. And she knows you well enough that she may not even try to make a thief of you."

The next sense of another Immortal led Nick outdoors, into sweltering heat. There he spotted a lean, gray-haired man, clad in tank top and shorts, sprawled in a hammock. Drinking, not some fruity tropical beverage, but a Bud.

The Immortal flipped out of the hammock, and his newly sunburned face was transformed by a youthful grin. "Glad you're up and about. Have a beer!" Nick barely caught the can that came sailing through the air.

"Dr. Benet, I presume," Nick said with a straight face. "I guess I owe you my life. You and Amanda, of course."

"Wait till you see my bill. Oh, drat! I went and performed that operation here, and the place is incorporated as a free clinic. Well, win a few, lose a few."

Nick knew the guy was kidding, but he still felt awkward. This was, after all, his doctor. "Do you need to, uh, examine me again?"

"No, I'm not into beefcake. I've already seen enough to make me green with envy." Then the older Immortal turned serious. "Really, Nick, I can't tell you how relieved I am that you're okay. I don't think I've fully recovered yet.

"We're sure to meet often again. Any place you see me with gray hair, the name is Pierre. If the hair is brown - which is my natural color! - call me Adam."

He hesitated, then seemed to reach a decision. "In public, it's Pierre or Adam. But I guess any friend of Amanda's is a friend of mine. So in private, it's Methos."

Nick had a feeling he'd just been admitted to a select group of intimates. And he didn't dare guess at the age implied by that archaic name.

"Thank you, Methos," he said softly. They drank their beers together, and exchanged an emotional handshake, before Nick continued on his way.

Methos had told him he'd find Amanda in an air-conditioned outbuilding, working out with sword and fan. Her way of dealing with nerves.

Liam's teacher. God, this woman never ceases to amaze me.

I wish I could hide in a dark corner and watch her, unobserved. Drink in all that beauty and fluidity of motion...and see for myself that she's really all right, before she can slip a mask into place.

I'll never be able to do that again.

He both yearned for and feared this meeting. He knew he'd have to rein in his emotions. And that would be the hardest task of his life.

He recognized that in the short term, his becoming Immortal had put the brakes on whatever might have been developing, sexually, between them.

They'd both felt the chemistry from Day One. And they'd both held back - he because of his unresolved feelings for Lauren, she because she feared endangering his life.

But his becoming Immortal was a hindrance, not a help. It wasn't as if he'd been a pre-Immortal all along. This new development had to be almost as big a shock to Amanda as to him.

And after he'd met Joe Dawson back in Rosemont, he really had hacked into the Watcher files. He hadn't meant to pry into Amanda's past. But he'd read about Dawson's assignment, Duncan MacLeod - and discovered MacLeod and Amanda had been lovers, on and off, for over three hundred years.

From time to time, they both fell deeply in love with mortals. The Watchers believed that when that happened, they were faithful to their mortal partners for as long as they lived. But when they'd done with grieving, they always found their way back to each other.

Nick wasn't prepared to concede to MacLeod. Not forever. But he knew this was no time to sweep Amanda into his arms and declare his love.

He was young. He could wait.

He sensed her well before he reached the building. And since that presumably worked both ways, it cost him his chance to see her workout.

When he reached the doorway, she was standing tall and straight in the center of the barnlike structure. Sword and fan lay on the floor where she'd dropped them; when he glanced down at them, he saw that her feet were bare.

He'd unconsciously expected her to be wearing one of her glamorous kimonos. But she'd apparently lugged all his wardrobe from Paris, and given no thought to her own. Her legs were encased in faded jeans - men's jeans, that might have belonged to either Methos or Liam.

But the oversized black T-shirt was indisputably his. She was clutching a wad of the fabric, compulsively kneading it with her long fingers.

She looked pale and drawn.

And she was the most breathtaking sight he'd ever seen.

He stood frozen, tongue-tied.

He needn't have worried about controlling his sexual urges. He hadn't felt this inhibited since puberty.

Then he and Amanda moved at the same time. Came together - but stopped short of touching. I have this irrational fear that she'll crumble and break. I wonder if she feels the same about me?

They both began talking at once, each seeking reassurance that the other was well and whole.

When they'd exhausted that topic, they fell silent. Nick was groping desperately for words that could express even a fraction of what he felt.

But he was rocked back on his heels when Amanda said, "Nick, can you ever forgive me?"

"Forgive you?" She'd lost him completely.

"I know you never wanted to be Immortal." She was twisting the shirt with both hands now. "And I can't deny it occurred to me that the lung transplant might make you what I am. In fact, I hoped it would."

She'd evidently rehearsed what she meant to say, and was determined to spit it all out. She didn't give him time to respond. "If it hadn't, if it had worked like any other transplant, I might only have prolonged your suffering. And I didn't know whether you were suffering! I might have subjected you to a dozen operations, maybe to months of torture. I had chosen to take that chance, Nick. You may well feel I didn't have the right."

A tremor finally crept into her voice. "I did what my heart told me to do. And I'd do it again. But I'll understand if you can't forgive me. I wish I could restore what you had, make you the healthy young mortal you were and wanted to be..." The voice broke, and she turned away quickly.

But not quickly enough to hide her tears.

"Amanda." He placed himself in front of her again. "Oh, God, Amanda. All I can say about those 'months of torture' is that they would have been just as bad for you. Worse. To do what you did, plan what you did, you had to be the bravest person I've ever known.

"And about my Immortality -" Suddenly, the words came to him, with a swell of emotion so strong that he dropped to his knees. "Amanda, you've given me a gift.

"I'll see things I never imagined. I'll become things I never dreamed of.

"It's still my life...forever. Forever! That's something most people just dream about."

Then she was on her knees as well, cupping his face in her hands. Doubt warred with hope in her eyes. "I was afraid you wouldn't see it as a dream, but as a nightmare."

He eased his arms around her. When she didn't resist, he allowed himself the thrill of letting his lips brush her hair. "It would only have been a nightmare," he whispered, "if I'd lost you."

Once, everything was clear. Good guys, bad guys. Life and death.

Then you meet someone, someone you want to love. And it all changes. Death brings life. Life brings death.

Someone who could live forever risks death to give you a fighting chance for life.

What room is there for regret, when there can be even one...like her?

The End