Part One: From the Dawn of Time

Chapter One
Moscow, December 2023:

Snow crunched underfoot. Behind his full beard, Duncan MacLeod smiled slightly at the feel of it. It was sign that maybe things weren't as bad as the doomsday pundits were saying. Winter had at last arrived in this northern city on the Volga. It had been thirty years since he'd last come here… shortly after the end of the Communist regime that had kept the land locked in an iron fist. He'd come with Amanda. Duncan smiled, watching the plumes of smoky air emanate from his nostrils and hang about his head. His beard would have small crystals of white before long.

Thoughts of Amanda always warmed him… even now. But Amanda was far away and hopefully warm and safe in Florence or perhaps on Niebos. He hadn't dared to contact her again after their recent brief telephone conversation when he'd told her that he'd shipped the long-sought after artifacts that Darius had long ago hidden, to the island home of their immortal friend Phillip, the self-proclaimed swordmaster of Alexander the Great. Duncan still didn't know if half the things Phillip told them weren't bombast and invention… but the man was old… and he was gifted.

Duncan beat his gloved hands about his shoulders and then blew on them as he regarded pedestrians and patrolling police on the street of older aristocratic houses that had seen better days. He was on a mission… a mission that had taken him from France to Russia… much of the way on foot. Following his challenge of an itinerant immortal and the resultant fire that had demolished a run-down mansion in eastern France, Duncan had learned that he was on Interpol's watch list. Authorities all over Europe were searching for Duncan MacLeod for suspicion of murder and arson.

Thus the beard, the set of carefully forged identity papers in his pocket, and the slow tortuous journey across two continents. He'd hiked, bummed rides occasionally, and just tried to vanish beneath the radar as he'd made his way east. He'd camped out under the stars as he'd often done in centuries past, sticking to side roads and little-traveled passes in this modern world. While he'd hated the slow progress he'd made… at least he'd finally made it to Moscow.

But from the general looks of the address Joe had given him… neither Alistair Craille nor Kate Devaney were here. Duncan wasn't yet close enough to know for certain… but the former grand home had an air of disrepair about it. As he stood watching it, an elderly grandmother, wearing a heavy coat and with a red scarf tied over her white hair, stepped out through the entry and began sweeping away the latest snowfall from the front steps. She moved briskly, although even from here, Duncan could tell that she moved with the grace of the elderly. For a moment he could recall the old grandmothers of his native village in Scotland, sweeping away the leaves from before their doorsteps. He smiled at the memory. Some things were universal… some things never changed.

A young woman, wearing a purple-dyed faux fur jacket and hat over thigh-high white boots, skipped through the doorway next and sauntered along the street toward him. Tendrils of red hair peeked out from under her hat and as she passed him, he could music emanating from the earplugs of her personal player. She evidently liked her music loud. Duncan chuckled, resisting the urge to follow her and strike up a conversation. But he did watch her until she turned the corner, taking in the gentle sway of her slim hips. The young woman was managing to look stylish and attractive, even swaddled in the omnipresent heavy clothing of a Moscow winter.

His attention returned to the old woman. She'd nearly finished the steps by this point. Likely she did this every morning. Last night's snowfall had been light, so the job today had been an easy one. Duncan focused on thinking in Russian and stepped out into the street, crossing amidst the cars to approach her. After bidding her "good day" he asked if he could help her. (She was attempting to knock off some icicles that had formed on overhead protuberances and was just missing them with her broom.)

She gave him an apple-cheeked smile and handed him the broom. Duncan told her to step back as he brushed the broom against the ice so that they crashed on the sidewalk about his feet. When he'd finished, he began to sweep the ice fragments to the curb. All the while he chatted about the weather, the unusual warmth of the winter, the dilapidated state of the neighborhood, the local police, and the cost of vodka at the local market. She answered easily; adding her personal, and quite humble opinion about the quality of the meat, and her sighs about the current state of the area.

"It was not always so run-down," she was saying as he swept away the ice. "Once, when my grandmother was a girl, this was one of the premier addresses in Moscow. Once… before the czar died."

Duncan nodded. "My grandfather used to tell me tales of his home near here."

The old woman's face brightened. "What was his name?"

"Gregori Abernov. His mother, Katerina Abernov had a summer estate near here. They had to leave after the Czar's death, or be executed."

"My grandmother was a governess in the Abernov household. Ah… my mother sometimes played with the countess' children. Perhaps my mother and your grandfather once played together.

Duncan smiled. He'd finished with the sweeping and handed her back her broom. "Perhaps."

"And your name young gentleman?"

"Dimitri Abernov," Duncan replied with a slight bow. He even had the papers to prove it should she request them… but he didn't think she would.

"You look cold. I have hot water for tea. You come in… yes?" She motioned him into the building. Duncan followed, pausing only to stomp the snow off of his booted feet before he stepped across the threshold and into the lobby.

The hallway inside smelled faintly of boiled cabbage, while lines of laundry were strung across the areas inside the staircase, which wound magnificently back and forth upward for four stories. Duncan glanced upward, still trying to sense an immortal presence. He felt nothing.

Anya Koschenko opened the door to her flat on the first floor to usher the Highlander inside. He saw grand old furniture, gathered over several generations, a bit thread-bare and worn, filling the intensely warm rooms.

"Please young gentleman, have a set," Anya said with a gesture. "I'll get the tea." Duncan took a seat on the edge of the overstuffed sofa, taking time to notice the collection of family photographs proudly displayed on an end table. One of them was of the young woman he'd known as Sofia Ivanova, the Abernov governess when he'd lived here just after the Communists had taken power here. He smiled. The time he'd taken to study and gather information on the current inhabitants of the address that Dawson had given him was paying off. He should be able to get some worthwhile information from Anya. Sometimes being an immortal and having first hand information about a mortal's ancestors was very helpful.

Glancing up as Anya, divested of coat and scarf, her white hair smoothed, and her hands holding a tea tray, Duncan rose, took the tray politely and set it carefully on a low table. Anya giggled slightly as she took a seat and poured the tea into the glasses. She handed one to Duncan.

Taking it by the silver filigreed handle, Duncan recalled glasses like these at the Abernov estate. Likely they'd found their way here. He sprinkled in some sugar and a lemon wedge, stirred and then sipped. "Delightful."

"An old family recipe," Anya beamed as she prepared and sipped her own.

Duncan indicated the photographs. "My grandfather had one of his governess, your grandmother." He reached over and picked up the framed photograph. "Yes?"

Anya nodded as Duncan had known she would. "Grandmother's wedding portrait," she was saying. "After the Countess Abernov and her children fled, my grandmother married my grandfather."

"She was lovely," Duncan mused aloud, recalling the young woman he'd known briefly. He was silent a moment and then set the photograph back where he'd found it and took another sip of his tea. "So you are the superintendent here?"

"I take care of the building and collect the rent payments," Anya nodded. "It's a living. Since my Karl died, I've been on my own."

Duncan offered his condolences. Then he hesitated… holding his breath.

"Yes?" she was saying. "There is something else?"

"Only a family matter. I'm certain it's nothing," he said, attempting to brush her off.

But Anya was intrigued by this point. "Anything I can help you with young sir, please… feel free to ask."

Duncan managed not to smile and made a great production about pulling out his wallet. "My sister… I believe she returned to Moscow some months ago." He pulled a photo of Kate from his wallet… sighed over it and then passed it on to Anya.

The old woman pursed her brow and then fumbled for a pair of plastic framed glasses. One lens was cracked, so she held her veiny hand over that eye while she held the photo up to her nose and stared at the picture. "Ah… da… of course. That is Katerina Marianna Dubchek. She and her husband Gregor were here in the fall. They had sublet the top floor from another tenant," she said satisfied and handed it back.

"Da…" agreed Duncan. "Katerina… Katya. They are no longer here?"

Anya shook her head. "She did not like Moscow. Even in September she said it was too cold. Too cold! We were in the midst of a heat wave! She was very thin. I think perhaps her blood was thin, too."

Duncan nodded agreeably. "Yes… she is very thin. She married someone the family did not approve of, and cut herself off from all of us. We are very concerned about her." He met Anya's gaze with a solemn expression and a sad demeanor. "My mother is very worried about her," he added, hoping that the lie sounded sincere.

With tears welling up in her eyes, the sympathetic landlady patted Duncan hand. "I understand all too well how it is. Things were better years ago I'm told. Today… young people do as they will and do not listen to the words of their elders." She leaned back in her chair, picking up her tea glass for another thoughtful sip.

"I tell you what I know. Not long after they moved in, a man came to see them. I did not like him. He was a gruff and foul-mouthed Bolshevik. Gregor… her husband… and the man had strong words that all could hear. They did not speak in Russian, mind you, but the intent was clear. Soon after, Gregor indicated that he would have to leave to take care of some business. Katerina… Katya… she was unhappy after that and wanted also to leave. She complained about what would happen to her if the weather turned bad and she was trapped here alone. They left together soon after."

"Did they leave any indication where they were going?" Duncan asked hopefully. September! Damn! They'd left likely about the same time as the earthquake in the Aegean Sea with its resultant tsunami in the region. He'd still been in France at that time… working his way east toward Germany. Surely his long journey here was not in vain. Surely there was some word… some clue he could find to continue his search for them.

Anya shook her head sadly… then snapped her fingers. "I do recall some mention of China. But with all the recent unrest there… it's not a safe place to be. Gregor did post a letter to Hong Kong not long before they left, though.

Duncan managed not to leap in joy. Hong Kong would be his next stop. What little he knew about Craille and from what Joe had told him, the man was a foppish eighteenth century Englishman. He'd inherited his "father's" estates upon the death of a much-loved elder brother. Alistair had been overseas in the army at the time. In later lifetimes, he'd continued to pursue a lackluster military career and had married well several times to bolster his flamboyant lifestyle. Never a major player in the game, Alistair Craille seem satisfied just to live a long life and to have fun doing so. Duncan had studied the information intently… and had seen nothing other than a wastrel who might or might not have Kate's best interests at heart.

For the thousandth time since he'd become involved with the two of them… he mentally kicked himself for putting the cart before the horse, as it were, and helping them to conceive a child… without warning them of the side effects. He sighed audibly. "My thanks to you for your help."

"I hope you find her," Anya said with solicitation. "After all… she is pregnant. You did know that didn't you."

Again Duncan kept from smiling. That was the first corroboration he'd had that Kate actually was pregnant. Now, if anything, he was even more determined to find her. "Yes… she wrote me about that some months ago," he said recalling her note to him. "Thus my attempts to locate her and assure her of her family's support." He smiled thinly. "I fear I have arrived to late to find her. It was… perhaps a fool's errand that brought me here."

Anya patted his hand. "You are a good boy to care so about his sister. I hope that you find her."

Shortly afterwards, Duncan replaced his fur hat and heavy jacket, bid Anya a fond goodbye and started out the door. He'd taken too long to get here… but he had an idea of where to go next. Hong Kong had been a British protectorate for a while. Alistair's properties seemed to be in places where he'd been posted over the centuries. Duncan was about to consider contacting Joe Dawson again to see if he could discover anything else when he heard the squeal of brakes behind him and then a second squeal ahead of him. Within moments, he realized that he was surrounded.

Looking up at the police cars positioning themselves around him as he had crossed the street, and the number of officers with their weapons trained on him, Duncan considered running. As more and more officers ranged themselves around him… even running seemed foolish at best. Slowly he raised his hands, clasped them behind his head and sank to his knees. Thankfully, his katana was not on him. That definitely would have been hard to explain.


Reagan Cole had always loved the snow. She'd seen so little of it in her early life, except as something far away on top of the few mountains that she could see from the tip of southern England… that she routinely liked to head north at least once every few years, just to get the feel of the crisp winter air and to see the world transformed by snow.

Snow could make even the most wretched hovel seem quaint. Reagan blew lightly on the fur surrounding her neck. At least in a winter atmosphere, no one wondered about someone wearing a long coat. She rounded the corner at a fast clip, trying not to react to the presence of another immortal. Instead she paused, appearing to regard the contents of a shop window, when in reality, she was watching the reflections.

Then she saw him stomp a bit as he paused on the sidewalk, and tap the soles of his boots. He was looking around for her… trying to figure out exactly where she was. Reagan lowered her head slightly, glad that her hair was tucked up under her fur hat and that the coat hid her slim, athletic shape. She might yet surprise him.

She waited until he wandered further and then paused at the entrance to an alleyway. Grinning, she strode purposely toward him, grabbing him and pushing him swiftly into the alley and against the brick wall of a building.

"Looking for me?" she said lightly.

"Reagan? It is you! Damn it woman… I just wanted to say hello."

Reagan released him so that Steven Keane turned to face her. He look relieved that it was actually her.

"Are you following me?" she asked teasingly.

Keane smiled. "As a matter of fact… no. But I thought it was you ahead of me. Good Lord I haven't seen you in years."

Reagan nodded. "I've been trying to keep a low profile. You?" The last time she'd seen the Englishman was when she'd found out about Watchers twelve years ago. Hers had approached her and warned her of a plot to take out immortals. The Watcher's information had led Reagan to Rome and to working with another immortal… an old acquaintance with whom she and other immortals had worked to destroy a threat to them all. Before Rome, she'd run across Keane and warned him to be careful and get out of sight.

"So back in the north… eh?" he asked, brushing at the snow on his coat-sleeves. His was dark charcoal gray cashmere… very expensive. He grabbed his coat collar and flicked it up. A pleasant grin crossed his face as he adjusted his neck-scarf and straightened his hat.

Reagan shifted her weight to one side and opened her mouth to say something else teasing… and then changed her mind. "What are you doing in Moscow?"

"I own a nightclub. A very successful one too."

"And you're not hunting?"

"Not for heads." He blushed and gestured with a wave. "That didn't come out right."

Laughing, Reagan slipped an arm into his and pulled him once more onto the street. The two of them walked companionably along the sidewalk. To anyone watching them, they appeared to be a young couple in love. They weren't of course. Not that they hadn't been lovers once upon a time, but that had been centuries ago. They were just old friends who kept alive the promise of intimacy yet to come. "As I recall… you took me to some hunting lodge in Scotland for a month one winter. You might recall how much fun I had."

"As I recall… you wanted to spend every blessed moment in the snow instead of being curled up on the floor with me before a roaring fire.

Regan stuck her tongue out at him. "We could sit before a fire anytime and anyplace. But snow… it is something that is only a moment in time and too quickly gone."

"You sound like a poet."

Reagan's smile widened. "Do I? Some of the language of my last lover must have rubbed off on me."

"Last lover?" Keane beat a gloved fist on his chest over his heart. "You cut me to the quick. And here I thought I was the love of your life."

"Only that winter," she winked. They were falling into an easy pace and a familiar dialogue… one that called up memories of days gone by. For immortals, their memories of their long lives were often frozen into moments that illuminated their past like a slow parade of photographs, or still-life paintings. So much of who they'd been and the day-to-day moments of their lives were forgotten… but some moments… like precious frozen moments carved in ice or painted on canvas were forever a part of who they now were.

"As I recall… I wished for warm weather and rain just so you would come inside," Keane was laughing.

"As I recall," she replied with a small smile, "it rained frequently."

"Not enough," he replied with a small, but honest smile.

They were turning the corner when the sound of squealing tires, police sirens and commands to "Halt" were heard ahead. The man being surrounded put his hands behind his head and dropped to his knees.

"MacLeod," breathed Reagan softly.

"MacLeod? Good! Someone finally caught the bastard," Keane spit hatefully.

Reagan glanced at him sharply. "You don't care for him? Why?"

"He's a murderer," Keane said with a sniff. "Oh I know he has friends who excuse his butcheries… but he's still a rogue and a villain."

Reagan pushed him away slightly. "Then you know nothing."

Keane sighed with a shake of his head. "Not you too."

For a moment Reagan wondered what he meant. "I know that he's an honorable man. I know he wants what's best for our people and that he's working with others to find a way to end the game so that all of us don't have to die."

"He's likely a conman as well," Keane added bitterly.

"No. He's not," Reagan said strongly. Then she turned to watch MacLeod being bundled off into a police van. "I need to go," she added.

"Why? To rescue him?"

Reagan regarded Keane sadly. "No. To find out what's going on. I have contacts within the Moscow police. If you want to join me… I won't say no… but I don't want to hear any more slander against MacLeod."

Keane opened his mouth to say something… but ended up saying nothing as he regarded Reagan's expression. She had always been a woman of strong passions and loyalty to friends. It was one of the reasons he'd so enjoyed her company long ago… and wanted to again. Finally he smiled and nodded. "Agreed. So who do you know in the police?"

Reagan smiled. "Ever been to Vegas?"

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