"I'm just saying, dusting off the furniture is likely to be the least of your worries. The place has been closed up for almost four years. There's no telling what kinds of spiders have taken up residence."

"You can't seriously be afraid of a few little insects?" Duncan MacLeod asked, raising the grating to allow them to pass from the freight elevator to the loft.

"Have you ever died from a spider bite?" Methos asked, hanging back. "It's not pleasant, believe me. Certainly not something I wish to revisit. I think I'll just let you flush them all out."

"Methos," Duncan sighed at the older Immortal's childishness.

"Fine," he huffed, picking up his duffle and entering the stuffy loft. "But if I get bit, I reserve the right to shoot you."

He walked over and stood next to his friend. All of the furniture had been covered with white sheets. Smaller items and kitchen utensils were stored in stacked boxes. The care Joe had taken in closing up the loft did not go unnoticed.

Duncan had not been back to the Seacouver loft since before Ritchie's death, three years ago. It had been easier to lose himself in Paris than it would have been in the States. It was easier to remember the good times there, and forget the bad ones. But after Connor's death and other recent events, he had decided it was time to go back.

His train of thought was interrupted by Methos' cell phone ringing. The other man checked the ID on the phone, indicating that it was Joe Dawson calling.

"Yeah, Joe, what's up?"

"Are you near a TV?" Duncan's watcher asked.

Methos looked over to the sheet-covered set; Duncan had yet to have the power turned back on in the loft.

"Ah, not at the moment. Why?"

"Well, get down to my place. There's something you need to see."

That was all the explanation Joe offered over the phone, and Methos was left looking confusedly at his cell, as if it could give him more information.

"What's wrong?" Duncan asked, setting his bag on the bed.

"I have no idea," Methos replied. "Joe just said there was something I needed to see. Sounded important."

"I'll give you a ride," the younger Immortal offered. Methos was about to object, but remembered that he had yet to get his car out of storage, so the two headed back out and down to the street to Duncan's car.

Joe's tavern was a short drive away, and it was spent in silence. When they got there, it was empty, as it usually was during the day in the middle of the week. Soft blues played over the sound system, offering white noise to fill in the background.

Dawson was behind the bar, as usual, and simply nodded to the TV screen behind the bar as a way of explanation. They watched as a "Breaking News" banner flashed across the screen. The story was that of a series of beheadings in Cascade, merely three hours away. The reporter said that there had been four such incidents in the past month, none of the victims seemed to be related, the police had yet to come up with a suspect, and that details would be relayed as the police released them.

When the story was over, Joe clicked off the set. The three stood in silence for a moment before Methos spoke up.

"Well, it wasn't me."

"I know," Joe replied. "The first three were the work of Lucius Crae, a head hunter."

"I knew I shoulda killed that bastard when I had the chance," Methos muttered.

"I take it you know him," Joe said.

"Met him not long after I came to America, about two hundred years ago," the Immortal replied. "I'm only sorry I didn't take his head then."

"You said the first three killings were Crae," Duncan pointed out. "What about the fourth?"

"The fourth was Crae."

"Well, that's one less psychopath the world needs to worry about," Methos said. "What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is that all four heads were taken before the Watchers could retrieve the bodies," Joe stated. "Who ever it was would wait a couple days and then drop them off in front of the police department. Crae's head was delivered an hour ago."

"Okay, that's a problem," Duncan agreed. "The cops have heads and no bodies. There's no way this is going to slip away."

"So why did you call me?" Methos asked. "Surely you don't expect me to go to Cascade PD and tell them that disembodied heads are nothing to worry about?"

"No," the Watcher agreed. "Crae's Watcher couldn't get close enough to actually witness the fight, but he managed to surveil the entrance to the alley where Crae lost and identify the winner."

Joe reached under the bar and pulled out a file photo and handed it to Methos. Joe and Duncan watched as a multitude of emotions played over the old Immortal's face. Duncan looked over Methos' shoulder and saw a young face—she couldn't have been more than twenty when she experienced her first death. Long, straight black hair was highlighted by streaks of red, and a seven-pointed star resting on olive branches was tattooed on her left shoulder.

"Who is she?" Duncan asked.

"Her current name is Phoenix Red Hawk, a professor of Native American studies at Ranier University," Joe answered, since Methos was still entranced by the photo, "though when we first started tracking her, almost two hundred years ago, she was called Fire Bird. Her Watcher was able to determine that her teacher was an Immortal doctor named Benjamin Adams, but he was never able to actually catch a glimpse of him."

Methos looked up and met Joe's pointed look.

"What? I told you I studied medicine."

"Yeah, Heidelberg, 1453," Joe shot back.

"Documents were a lot easier to forge in 1820," Methos shrugged. He could tell by the looks Joe and Duncan were giving him that they weren't going to let this drop, so sighing, he continued.

"After my escapades with Byron, I decided to return to America. Figured it was the best place for a clean start. I lived in Savannah, Georgia for about six months when a call went out for a doctor in a frontier settlement, what's now northern Atlanta. I decided, 'what the heck?' and answered."

Three months after arriving in Atlanta, Methos—then known as Dr. Benjamin Adams—was making rounds through several of the farms and smaller plantations when a loud outcry gathered his attention. He knew there were still several Indian villages in the area, but he had never encountered any of the Natives.

As he neared, he felt the familiar buzz of a nearby Immortal. Unsure what he was riding into, but knowing a cry of pain when he heard one, he urged his horse on.

Benjamin came out of the trees into a clearing and saw several drunken men trying to force themselves on two Indian women. He was unsure which one was the Immortal, but he was not about to stand by and watch those men assault the women. He jumped off his horse, pulling the men back and striking hard enough to leave the men unconscious for some time, but not permanently injured.

"Are you alright?" he asked, pulling the women to their feet.

One of the women turned and ran; apparently the local Natives had not gotten along very well with the Whites. The second, however, stayed. Suddenly, Benjamin knew that the buzz was coming from her. It was not very strong, so she was either very young, or she had taken few heads.

She felt the buzz as well, and somehow knew it came from him. She placed one hand to her head and the other to his.

"Yes, I'm like you," he said, before realizing that she probably did not understand his English; American settlers had only been in the area for a little over a year. He searched the limited vocabulary he had picked up in the Cherokee tongue for words that would serve his purpose.

"How many winters?" he asked.

She looked surprised that he spoke in her tongue, but she responded, "Three hundred and sixty-nine."

"Benjamin Adams," he said, pointing to himself.

She seemed to understand, and replied in kind, "A-tsi-la Tsi-s-qua."

"Fire Bird," Benjamin translated, smiling softly.

By her manner, he suspected that he was the first Immortal she had ever met, and he knew that there were others who take her head with little thought or consideration of the fact that she was unarmed. Something about this innocent girl drew out his usually dormant protective side, and he knew he had to watch over her. It had been centuries since he'd taken on a student, but he couldn't let this one pass by.

"Never figured you for the 'knight in shining armor' type," Duncan said wryly, once Methos had explained everything.

"I may have been born before the age of chivalry, but that doesn't mean I can't be a gentleman," Methos shot back. He shrugged, "Something about Fire Bird just grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let me go. We were together for eighteen years, until her village was rounded up with the rest of the Cherokee in the area and herded to the reservations in Oklahoma. I offered to let her stay with me, but she insisted on remaining with her people. I haven't seen her since."

Something in the Immortal's eyes made Joe pause.

"You loved her," was all he said.

Methos smiled sadly, "We were not quite lovers, but definitely more than friends. Actually, she was a lot like Alexa: curious, intelligent, full of life. She loved for me to make her laugh," he added with a chuckle.

Joe and Duncan traded a look; neither had ever seen the old Immortal like this. Joe paused before retreating back into his office, emerging moments later with a sheet of paper.

"You didn't get this from me," he said, sliding the paper across the counter to Methos.

Methos picked it up and unfolded it; it was blank except for an address in Cascade. He nodded thanks to Joe and turned to leave, telling Duncan he was going back to the loft.

"What do you think is going through his mind?" Duncan asked, leaning on the bar.

"With him, there's no telling."


Phoenix tried to concentrate. It had been four days since her battle with the head hunter. The other Immortal's head had been dropped off in front of the police department that morning, bringing the current total to four disembodied heads. So far, the police still had no leads, but she was fairly certain the head hunter had been responsible for the first three.

She managed to clear out the stack of papers that needed grading before there was a knock at her door. She maintained a straight face, but her stomach dropped to her shoes when she saw Blair and his partner, Jim Ellison, at her door.

"What's up, guys?" she asked, doing her best to not belie her nervousness.

"We've got some questions for you," Jim said.

She could tell by Jim's tone that they weren't questions about dinner. Schooling her features to reveal as little as possible, she motioned to the chairs opposite her desk.

"What can I help you with?"

"I'm sure you've heard that another head has been delivered to the station?" Blair said.

"I had heard something to that effect, yes," Phoenix said. "Any idea who it was?"

"ID came back one Lucius Crae," Jim answered. "If you ask me, it sounds more like the villain in a bad western. Anyway, he was seen on campus last Thursday afternoon." Jim pulled out a photo and handed it to her. "Did you see him?"

Phoenix took the photo and pretended to study it, trying to decide just how much of the truth she should tell.

"He came by my office, Thursday afternoon," she finally said. "He seemed to be looking for a fight, and I apparently seemed as good a target as anyone. I managed to quietly convince him that it was neither the time nor the place for a brawl, and he left."

"You'd never seen him before?" Blair asked.

"Never," she replied, shaking her head. "Sorry I can't be more help."

Jim nodded with a sigh. There was something Phoenix wasn't saying. It wasn't a flat-out lie, but she was definitely not telling the full story. He decided to do some more digging before saying anything to Blair about this. It might mean nothing, but it could mean everything, and he needed to be sure for his Guide's sake.

"Well, thanks anyway," he said, standing. "We need to get back to work. I'll see you later."

"Bye, fellas," she said as they walked out.

Once they were gone, she closed her office door, leaning her head back against the wooden surface sigh a sigh. That was far too close, and she had no idea if Jim bought her story. Sentinels were walking, talking lie detectors, and she doubted even she was good enough to fool him. She cursed herself for falling on love with a cop; she should have known that was a bad idea from the get-go.

With a growl of frustration, she moved away from the door. There was no way she was going to get any more work done, so she didn't even try. She packed up her things and left; thankfully, it was getting late in the afternoon, so leaving early wouldn't draw much attention.

She drove home, but instead of going up to her apartment, she went to the gym nearby that she frequented. She needed to work out the tension that had almost instantaneously built up in her muscles. Her usual sparring partner was not present, so she attacked the heavy bag instead. For twenty minutes solid, she threw punch after punch, until her knuckles started to bleed through the wrappings.

She went back to the locker room and sat on one of the benches, wincing as she carefully undid the wrappings. Now that she was somewhat still, she could feel her muscles protesting to the abuse, and she knew she would be sore in the morning. When she finally unwound the wrappings from her hands, she could see her knuckles were raw and severely bruised.

She grimaced and gathered her things, walking back to her apartment. She showered and bandaged her hands before moving to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. It was only then that she noticed a note had been left pinned to her refrigerator with a magnet.

If you need somewhere to go, Seacouver's not that far. 42-A Brickstone Ave. Be safe, Fire Bird. BA

BA. There were few she knew with those initials, but only one who knew her true name.

"Benjamin," she breathed, memories of a lifetime long ago coming back to the forefront.

Suddenly, she knew what she would do. She made the necessary arrangements and gathered what things she would need before turning in. It was still early in the evening, but the weight of recent events had exhausted her, and she fell asleep swiftly.

The next morning, she rose before the sun. She dressed and fixed a cup of coffee, taking her time before setting out. The sun was just peeking over the mountains when she started her car.