Chapter Eleven
"Thank God."
"Joe?"
Joe groaned at the crushing pain at the base of his skull and tried to open his eyes. Everything spun wildly, and he pinched them shut again. "Aw, shit." He felt something warm settle over him and a shaking hand rest on his forehead. Groping a bit, he realized that somebody had covered him with a coat.
"Easy." Methos' voice sounded oddly weak. "You're okay, Joe. Just lie still."
Joe searched recent memory and groaned again; the last thing he could remember clearly was Duncan dragging him over the side of that damn boat. A disjointed series of images of the two of them struggling to keep afloat in black, freezing water, dodging thugs and bullets, paraded past his mind's eye. "Cold," he muttered. He realized that his teeth were chattering and hastily shut his mouth again. Someone took his hands and rubbed them.
"Put that back on."
"You're shivering."
"It's not the cold, Mac. Put it on Joe."
Joe forced his eyes open again as Duncan's jacket was tucked around him. He blinked, trying to clear his vision as his friends bent over him. God, they looked like hell-bruised, battered and exhausted. Duncan was still soaking wet and covered with river filth; his wet hair hung in his face, barely covering a recently healed gash on his forehead. Methos was dry, but his sweatshirt was ripped and drenched with blood. Joe glanced around, trying to catch a glimpse of their surroundings, but he couldn't see much. A kerosene lamp hung from a thick rafter above them, casting a weak, flickering light onto the dirt floor on which they were sitting; everything else was hidden in shadows.
Methos pressed Joe's hands between his own, his face twisted in anxiety. "Damn, you're like ice."
"Nothing like a dip in the Seine in February." Joe glanced from Methos to Duncan and back again, slowly realizing what their grim expressions and their current accommodations meant. His stomach turned over. "Oh. We're dead, aren't we?"
Methos gave him a crooked little smile. "As existentialist postulates go, Joe, that's pretty lame."
Joe sighed wearily. "Why is it that every time things get really bad, you go all intellectual on my ass?"
"We're not dead," said Duncan in his most obstinate tone. "Not yet." He pushed his wet hair back from his forehead with a determined expression.
"Just hypothermic," muttered Methos, rubbing Joe's hands vigorously. "How long were you two in the water?"
"Hell, I don't know," growled Joe, feeling something like warmth returning to his hands. "Mac was doing all the swimming, until they clubbed him."
"Twenty minutes, maybe." Duncan blew on his hands. "They finally came into the water after us. There were too many of them to lose."
"God," muttered Methos, blanching. "He wanted as many of you as he could get."
Joe riveted his gaze on the jagged tear in Methos' shirt. "And what the hell happened to you?"
"He took a knife for me," said Duncan in a subdued tone.
"Don't dramatize." Methos shot Duncan an odd, wry look and tucked Joe's hands under the two coats covering him. "Stay under there."
"Where are we?" Joe craned his neck, trying again to see past the small patch of light.
"No idea." Duncan shook his head, glancing around. "We were already here when I came back."
"Then we're probably still in the city." Joe drew a breath of relief at the small blessing. "You couldn't have been out that long."
"Probably."
"Did you see what happened to Rich? Shit. Amanda and Joanna-"
"Rich went over the side. I didn't see Amanda or Joanna." Duncan's voice became strained. "If they aren't here-"
"They're probably dead," said Methos tonelessly. Joe winced at the devastation in his friend's face.
"We don't know that." Duncan voice was quiet, determined.
"No, we don't. But it's the most likely possibility." Methos' face went painfully drawn as his voice strained and broke.
Joe yanked his hand out from under the coat and grabbed Methos' arm. "Hey. Mac is right. Richie and Amanda are tougher than they look. And I might not know Joanna very well, but she strikes me as too damn ornery to go down easy."
Methos smiled faintly and very gently put Joe's hand back under the coats. "True enough."
"She tracked Lucius down before. She can do it again." Joe almost convinced himself.
Methos nodded with a bleak expression. "If she's alive, she'll find us."
"You think we can't get out of here on our own." Duncan looked skeptical.
"Yes, I do. This is Lucius Germanicus, Mac. We're not going anywhere without help. There's no guarantee we'll go anywhere with help."
"Don't you think you're overestimating this man?"
"He isn't," said Joe grimly.
"Lucius can't be overestimated," said Methos quietly. "He's brilliant and completely insane; his resources are unlimited. He has a private army at his beck and call, and by the look of things, he's found himself as impenetrable a prison to slap us in as can be had in Paris. We're unarmed, and in case you've forgotten, Joe is mortal."
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't dwell on my mortality right now," growled Joe. "But I'm with Mac. If we're going to die, let's go down swinging."
"The object of the exercise is not to die at all," snapped Methos with an exasperated expression.
"What do you suggest, then?" asked Duncan in a strange, wary tone.
"We play for time." Methos swallowed hard. "We play his game."
"His game is ripping people open," said Joe sharply.
"We need to keep him occupied until someone can find us." Methos locked eyes with Duncan. "And we need to keep him the hell away from Joe."
"Goddamn it!" Frightened and furious, Joe grabbed Methos' arm and yanked him down to face him. "Don't you even think about going there. If I'm a liability, break my neck and get it over with."
"You're not a liability," said Methos unsteadily, meeting his eyes. "You're mortal. I'm not. Those are the facts we have to deal with."
Duncan nodded. "He's right, Joe."
Joe kicked off the coats and forced himself upright, horrified. Methos hastily laid a steadying hand on his shoulder as he nearly toppled backward again. "He's right? Christ, MacLeod, you're not getting it! He's not talking about a stand-up fight. He's talking about provoking that bastard into finishing what he started on him in Constantinople. Do you know what they did to him?"
Duncan shot Methos a sharp glance. "Not all of it."
"Joe," said Methos harshly.
"Well, let me enlighten you. They sliced him open, they skinned him, they put a hot poker up inside him, they fucking put his eyes out, and that's just for starters!"
Methos pinched his eyes shut. "Joe. Stop."
Duncan stared at Methos wordlessly, the color in his face bleeding away.
Joe pressed on, determined to by God shoot down this idea before it had flown too far. "I read the report of the Watchers who found you. I know exactly what that son of a bitch did to you. And if you think for one minute I'm putting you back on that table to save my own miserable hide, then you do not know me."
"That's not what I think." Methos' voice was barely audible. "I think I'll last longer there than you would. We need to buy time."
"Then time's too expensive," said Duncan thickly. "We'll think of something else."
Methos opened his eyes and spoke with a quiet ferocity that made Joe hold his breath. "There is nothing else. If we let Lucius make the first move, he'll do what he did before-he'll make me watch while he does this to one of you. That is not going to happen this time."
"Nothing is going to happen to Joe," returned Duncan, returning Methos' intimidating gaze without flinching.
"Nothing is going to happen to either of you. Not if Lucius is sufficiently entertained-and if Joanna's still alive. I'm something of an expert on this, MacLeod. Joe can tell you I'm the only man ever to survive a visit with Lucius Germanicus. I know how this game is played. Do you want to live?"
"Not at that price," whispered Duncan.
"Do you want Joe to live?"
"You're asking me to choose between you?"
"There is no choice," said Methos, all steel. "It's Joe."
Joe buried his head in his hands, every nightmare he'd ever had about Lucius paling to insignificance. This was worse than his worst nightmare; it sent his worst nightmare yelping from his mind with its tail between its legs. At least in his nightmares he'd always been alone. "Listen to me." Joe didn't recognize his own voice. "You do this, and so help me God, I'll dive on the first gun I see." A silence fell, so complete that Joe was hard pressed to hear his friends breathing.
Then Joe felt Methos' coat being wrapped around him, Methos' arm going around his shoulders, Methos' forehead resting on his shoulder. Duncan wrapped his arms around both of them, his head resting against Joe's; they were all silent for a few seconds.
"We'll survive this," whispered Duncan. "We can survive this. All of us."
"How?" Methos whispered back.
Joe heard the muffled sound of a door opening somewhere past whatever walls surrounded them and felt both Duncan and Methos raise their heads. Methos was shaking violently. "Let me do the talking. Keep quiet. Don't draw any unnecessary attention to yourselves."
The scraping of tumblers in an antiquated lock echoed in the tiny space. Joe jerked his head up. "Help me up," snapped Joe. "I'm not going to meet that bastard sitting on my ass."
He was startled to see Duncan grin broadly, hear Methos' feeble chuckle. "God help Lucius Germanicus," murmured Duncan gently in his ear as he and Methos lifted Joe to his feet. "Leave something for us to stomp on, okay?"
"No promises," muttered Joe, straightening.
"Don't be greedy, Joseph, it's unattractive." Methos squared his shoulders as a door barely visible in the shadows began to swing open.
Joe blinked as the harsh electric light of high power flashlights flooded the room.
"Come out. One at a time, and slowly."
Joe grit his teeth; he recognized the voice. He started to move forward, only to have Methos stop him with a hand on his shoulder and move through the door first. Joe clenched his fist involuntarily. Methos had to know that Joe wasn't bluffing. This sacrificial lamb scenario was not going down. Joe moved through the door on Methos' heels, moving as best he could without his cane.
It had obviously been a wine cellar once, and a large one; some of the ancient racks still lined the walls. But everything else had been cleared away. An unstable wooden staircase teetered upward to a door approximately twenty feet above the floor, beyond the reach of the flashlights; another door opened onto a dark room to Joe's right. As Duncan moved to Joe's side, Joe realized that both his friends were standing extremely close to him, their shoulders brushing his. Joe cursed silently. Methos could deny it all he liked, he was a liability; for the first and only time in his life he wished he were an Immortal. Peering past the flashlights into the dark, Joe quickly counted six men armed with prominently displayed automatic weapons-and Nathan, who stood apparently unarmed before them with his arms crossed over his chest.
Joe took a quick breath to steady himself and glanced aside at Methos. He was surprised to see his friend staring fixedly over Nathan's head, past the light into the pitch black of the wooden landing at the top of the stair. Joe followed his gaze, and with difficulty made out an undefined shape slightly darker than its surroundings. The hair on the back of his neck went up.
"Good evening, Marcus Gaius." The voice was deep, the accent cultured, the tone mild.
"Lucius." Methos' voice was as steady as Joe had ever heard it; only someone standing close beside him would have noticed his trembling.
"You have once again fallen into bad habits."
"Quite a few."
"You were foolish to delay your departure."
"Yes."
Joe felt a chill settle on him that had nothing to do with the ice water still trickling down his skin, and knew that Lucius had shifted his attention to him. Lucius fucking Germanicus, the madman who had terrorized the Watchers for six centuries, was back from the dead and sitting in the shadows like a spider, watching him. Joe stared back.
"Joseph Dawson. I understand you are an expert on the subject of Lucius Germanicus."
"Yeah, that's what they tell me." Joe was shocked to hear his normal voice come out of his mouth, like he was talking to some guy at the bar and not the mythic monster that had stalked his nightmares. Methos stiffened and curled his long fingers around Joe's wrist, squeezing slightly as if in warning.
"And what have your studies taught you?"
"More than I wanted to know," said Joe evenly.
"Surely a true scholar's thirst for knowledge is never quenched."
"Mine is."
"And yet here you are, an unwilling student, dipping your cup in the spring."
A fucking poet, thought Joe grimly. "Yeah, I'm here, all right."
"You will learn a great deal before you die."
"Swell."
"Where are our friends?" cut in Duncan impatiently.
"My master has not addressed you, Duncan MacLeod." Nathan moved in Duncan's direction, eyes narrowing.
"Mac," murmured Methos, eyes lowered.
Duncan glanced at Methos and subsided, his jaw set obstinately.
"The man asked a question," said Joe determinedly. "What did you do with our friends?" He saw Methos flinch imperceptibly.
"What are you to Marcus Gaius?" Lucius seemed oblivious to the interruption.
Joe blinked at the unexpected question. "What am I?"
"He's an acquaintance," put in Methos expressionlessly. "A fellow Watcher."
"An acquaintance you were willing to die for. You have become generous, Marcus Gaius. What is he to you?"
"An acquaintance," repeated Methos steadily.
"You lie. And you lie badly. What is he? Friend? Brother? Lover?"
Joe felt the trembling in Methos' hand intensify; he cut in with a laugh, hoping he could stall long enough for Methos to pull himself together. "Lover? You've got to be kidding, pal. What, you think I can't do better than him?"
Nathan took two long strides toward him, raising his hand as if for a blow; Joe found himself being shoved back as Methos and Duncan closed ranks in front of him.
"Don't even think about it," said Duncan in as menacing a tone as Joe had ever heard from him.
"A brother." The dark satisfaction in Lucius' voice made Joe's mouth go dry. "To both."
"Master?" Nathan glanced over his shoulder at the shadow at the top of the stairs.
"Marcus," was the reply.
Before Joe understood the import of Nathan's question, Nathan hauled back his arm and dealt Methos a savage blow across the face. Methos gasped and staggered back slightly against Joe, but made no attempt to defend himself. Duncan lunged at Nathan and immediately froze as the gunmen trained their weapons on Joe. Methos whirled and shoved Joe against the wall, pressing his palms to the wall on either side of him as he shielded him with his body, breathing hard. Everyone in the room seemed to freeze where they were for an interminable moment; Joe stared into Methos' eyes, reading there and finally understanding, in shock, the true depth of Methos' determination to keep Joe Dawson alive no matter what the cost.
"Don't," said Duncan quietly, turning his hands palm upward in surrender. "Please."
"The Watcher lacks courtesy." Nathan straightened from his defensive position.
"And the protégé of Darius of Rome lacks discipline." If Lucius was in any way ruffled by what had just happened, his voice did not betray it. "A virtue worth the pain necessary to acquire it."
Nathan nodded. "MacLeod," he barked to the gunmen.
"Mac," breathed Methos faintly, looking over his shoulder.
Six automatic weapons opened fire, and the wine racks to Joe's right exploded into tiny shards of wooden shrapnel. "No!" shouted Joe, trying to move; Methos held him firmly against the wall. In a daze, Joe saw Duncan go down bloody, saw Methos' face go twisted as one round, then another struck him in quick succession, propelling him against Joe. The firing stopped. Methos leaned his forehead against Joe's for a moment, blood staining his lips. "Adam," Joe whispered, horrified. Methos' eyes closed, and he slipped limply from Joe's weakened grasp to the floor. Joe stood, swaying, staring from one bloodied friend to the other and back again.
"We shall continue our conversation when our guests are recovered." Lucius' cool voice penetrated the fog of Joe's shock.
Joe lifted his eyes to the shadow on the stairs, wordless.
"Yes, Master." Nathan's dark eyes rested with unearthly satisfaction on Methos' still form.
"Perhaps then courtesy and discipline will have reasserted themselves."
As if responding to a signal that Joe couldn't perceive, the armed men started to withdraw. Abandoning what remained of his pride, Joe slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, and buried his face in his hands.
Amanda perched atop the stone wall and peered through the moonlit trees toward the house, but there was no movement that she could detect. She dropped to the other side of the wall and remained in a crouch, listening intently.
"This is nuts. This is fucking certifiable, Amanda." Richie slithered over the wall and landed softly beside her.
Amanda didn't allow him to distract her. "You said Shapiro knows where this looney toon with the knife fetish is."
"This 'looney toon with the knife fetish' is responsible for the slow death of thousands of Watchers. He is a master tactician with a private army and a personal fortune larger than the treasury of most nations." Joanna dropped lightly beside them, flashing Amanda an exasperated look.
Amanda flashed it right back. "Are you always this much fun?"
"This isn't one of your recreational larcenies. In case you've forgotten-"
"Do I look like the kind of woman who forgets being dumped into the Seine in the middle of the night? That clown Lucius owes me one very expensive, full-length leather coat. This one is ruined. Look at it. I wouldn't be seen dead in it. And we wouldn't be in this mess if your boyfriend had told me what the hell was going on in the first place."
Joanna's eyes widened slightly. "My boyfriend?" She made an odd choking sound.
"Will you two keep it down?" hissed Richie. "This isn't the local K-Mart, okay? The Watchers have stuff like guns and swords and really bad mood swings."
Amanda snorted. "Will you relax? I've gotten into their Headquarters before."
"Unless somebody had just delivered a dead Watcher there in easy-to-carry pieces, I don't think the experience is likely to be applicable," said Joanna drily.
"God, you even sound like him," said Amanda in disgust, leading the way cautiously through the wooded grounds.
"So I've been told." Joanna sounded amused now. "Would you mind telling me how you intend to circumvent security, which, by the way, might be dancing in the realm of the absurd, what with Lucius Germanicus being back from the dead and all? Or did you just plan to ring the front doorbell?"
"I haven't worked all that out yet."
Richie swore softly. "Amanda. Get a grip."
"I'm not leaving without Shapiro," said Amanda shakily. "He's the only one who knows where MacLeod is."
"Exactly. Which is why we're waiting for the Order." Joanna pulled Amanda down and crouched at her side.
Amanda yanked her arm out of Joanna's grasp impatiently. "We don't have time for that!"
Joanna sighed. "Amanda. Think. We're well within the standard perimeter of their security, and we haven't seen so much as a guard dog."
"You think they've already cleared out," whispered Amanda, her last hope fizzling.
"Or they've tightened their perimeter to free their security guards for other duties."
"Duties like ... packing up the Uzis and the telephoto lenses and hitting the road?" Richie hunkered down beside them with a slightly more hopeful expression.
"Exactly. Listen."
Amanda held her breath and listened intently. Engines. Car doors being slammed. And voices. All from the far side of the house. "They're leaving!"
"No, they're getting ready to leave. Listen carefully. The trucks aren't moving, they're being loaded."
"If Shapiro gets off the grounds, we'll never catch him!" Amanda leapt up and sprinted away, ignoring Joanna's muffled curse. What the hell good would Joanna's band of merry men do if the only person who knew where Lucius was got away? She stayed within the cover of the trees as she circled the house, moving as quickly as roots and uneven ground and darkness would permit. By the time she reached a spot where she had both good cover and a good view of the activity in the driveway, Richie and Joanna had caught up to her.
"I repeat," wheezed Richie in her ear, all red curls, dripping water and annoyance. "Fucking certifiable."
"How have you lived this long?" hissed Joanna. "No, don't answer that. I don't want to know. Have you even seen Shapiro before?"
"I've seen a picture of him," muttered Amanda, peering through the foliage. "After Duncan told me about what he did to Joe, I hacked into Joe's laptop and pulled up the bastard's personnel file."
Richie gave her sour look. "You love to do things the hard way, don't you? I just asked Joe to show me his picture."
"And he showed you?" Joanna seemed surprised.
"Sure he did. Said he wanted me to steer clear of him. Joe's cool."
"An unusual Watcher."
Richie shrugged. "Joe's Joe. He's family."
"Ah," said Joanna softly, comprehension flooding her expression.
"I can't see the son of a bitch," muttered Amanda in frustration. Half a dozen small moving vans were parked, engines running, on the lawn within the circular driveway, which were surrounded by again as many cars, which were in turn surrounded by a good thirty to forty security types openly armed with automatic weapons, gleaming ominously in the vehicles' headlights. A small army of men and women were carrying boxes and computers from the house and loading them into the trucks. As scared sick as Amanda was by what might be happening to the Three Musketeers, she felt a certain perverse satisfaction that anything or anyone could scare the local Hitler Youth into skedaddling in the dead of night with their collective tail between their hairy legs. Lucius Germanicus was obviously a major player.
"Even if we spot him, how are we supposed to get to him? They'll blow us away before we get halfway across the yard, and once they recognize us it's chop-chop-chop." Richie's voice seethed with frustration.
Joanna nodded. "Agreed. This is not the place."
"There is no other place!"
"Amanda, will you stop with the guilt trip already?" Richie glared at her. "You think getting yourself killed is going to help Mac? Use your brain."
Amanda tore her gaze from the Watchers to stare at him. "Guilt? You think I feel guilt? If you men had bothered to let me in on this little secret of yours, this would never have happened! If anyone should be feeling guilt-"
"You must have a great view of the pyramids from that houseboat of yours," snapped Richie. "I lived with Duncan MacLeod, for crying out loud; you think I don't know guilt when I see it? Just knock it off and start thinking."
"I've got nothing to feel guilty about," stammered Amanda, unnerved. What was it with the kid these days? The Amazing Kreskin had nothing on him.
"True," said Joanna mildly. "Rampaging stupidity notwithstanding."
"Look, oh ancient one, I didn't ask you to come along," snapped Amanda, thoroughly irritated. "If you don't want Shapiro-"
"Shapiro tortured my husband to death and left his head on a spike at my gate," returned Joanna in a voice that would have punctured titanium plating. "I want him more than either of you could in ten thousand years." Amanda stared at her, shocked into silence. "But attempting to take him here is-"
"Got him," said Richie suddenly. "Got him."
Amanda swung around to stare eagerly at the driveway. "Where?"
"By the limo. See? Talking to the blond guy. That's Urquhart, the Regional Coordinator. The guy who assigned him to find Lucius."
Amanda squinted through the leaves, then spotted the dark, stocky man she'd seen in the Watcher database. "Yeah, that's Shapiro all right. Ugly little toad, isn't he?"
Richie grinned. "Yeah, his picture doesn't do ugly justice."
Amanda started violently at the soft trilling of a cell phone; Joanna swore softly and snatched it from her pocket. "Jochen. What part of 'don't call me-'" Joanna paused, her gaze riveted on Shapiro as he and Urquhart climbed into the limo. "Good work. Yes. I'm looking at him right now. He's getting into a limousine. He should be passing through the front gate in a matter of minutes."
"He's going to get away," hissed Amanda, starting to rise. Joanna seized her arm and dragged her down again.
"It's the only limousine here. How quickly can you get control of the gates?"
Amanda turned to stare at her, light dawning. "They're at the gate?"
Richie cackled softly, his eyes glued to the limousine as it began to pull away. "It's payback time."
"If the other cars leave at the same time, this could get nasty. Yes. I know. We're on our way." Joanna shoved the phone into her pocket and watched the driveway carefully for a moment as Amanda shifted impatiently. "The other cars aren't moving yet. This could work. Let's go."
"It's about time," snapped Amanda, sprinting back the way she came at full speed, determined to beat the slowly moving car to the gate.
"Kindly do not get yourself killed," murmured Joanna, darting past her. "We need every hand we have."
"What she said," gasped Richie as he caught up to her. "Besides, Mac will have my head stuffed and mounted if anything happens to you. Get it together, Amanda."
They were crazy. Did they really think she was on some sort of guilt-induced suicide kick? Well, they obviously did not know Amanda. She had no intention whatsoever of dying. Dying had never been part of her plan. She and Methos saw eye-to-eye on that particular subject. In fact, it was the only subject on which she and Methos saw eye-to-eye-well, that and Duncan MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod the boy scout, Duncan MacLeod the hopelessly naïve, idealistic dreamer, Duncan MacLeod the windmill-tilting knight in shining armor. She knew damn well that Methos loved that quixotically romantic idiot as much as she did, whatever alpha male posturing compelled him to say to the contrary. In fact, there had been times she'd suspected that that old schemer loved Duncan even more than she did. And that was saying something.
Amanda tripped over a root and nearly went down on her face. Cutting loose with a soft Middle English obscenity, she riveted her thoughts on the here and now. It took her a moment to realize that they had already circled the house and were at the point where the drive lay nearest to the woods, close to the gate; she could hear the limousine approaching just beyond the last curve in the drive. Glancing ahead, she saw Richie and Joanna with their heads together, but before she could ask what was going on, Richie took off across the grass and sprawled face down in the road.
"You have got to be kidding," hissed Amanda in Joanna's ear, drawing Methos' gun.
"It's a classic." Joanna nodded with a wry smile at the approaching car. "I'll drive. You get rid of Urquhart. And you'll use that thing to intimidate, not kill. Got it?"
"Do you really think that they're stupid enough-" Amanda broke off in disbelief as the car slowed, then stopped about ten feet from Richie's motionless form. "I withdraw the question."
The driver got out of the car and trotted ahead to bend over Richie. "Go," hissed Joanna.
Amanda took off across the short expanse of grass and yanked open the rear door. Jack Shapiro gasped and cringed away from her; the blond man at his side stared at her in pure indignation. "Who the devil-"
"Get out of the car." Amanda shoved Shapiro aside as she slid into the back seat. She ignored the cowering Shapiro and leveled her weapon at the end of Urquhart's nose, hearing the startled squawk of the driver and the sound of a blow. Joanna slid behind the wheel.
Urquhart's eyes widened. "I know you!"
"I said get out of the damn car!" shouted Amanda.
Urquhart's door was yanked open and Richie appeared. He grabbed the Watcher by the arm and pulled him out.
"Ryan," hissed Urquhart. "Amanda. What is this?"
"Ask Shapiro," snarled Richie, shoving Urquhart away from the car. "Ask him how he busted his buddy Lucius out of prison. Better yet, ask him where Lucius has Dawson and Pierson and MacLeod!"
"Richie, now," barked Joanna, slamming her door shut.
Richie jumped into the back seat and shut the door as Urquhart leaped forward to pound on the window. "Shapiro!" he howled. "What does he mean? What have you done? Shapiro!"
Shapiro whimpered and said nothing as Joanna floored the accelerator, barreling toward the closed gates. Shapiro huddled with his face in his hands; Amanda swallowed hard. "Ah...honey. Sweetie. Gates not open."
"Really? I hadn't noticed," growled Joanna.
"This is where Jochen does his thing, right?" Richie leaned forward urgently. "Right?"
As if in answer, the steel gates began to swing inward. Slowly.
"Oh, shit," hissed Amanda. "Shit! Joanna! Tell 'em to get out and push!" A strong light blinded her; it took her a moment to realize that it was the reflection of headlights in the rear view mirror.
"They're coming! Oh, fuck, Jo, they're right behind us!" Richie stared back at the car rapidly gaining on them.
"Keep an eye on this weasel," snapped Amanda to Richie, turning enough to put her arm out the window and take what passed for aim at the approaching vehicle.
"No!" Joanna's voice was fierce. "Do not fire!"
"I'm aiming for the tires! What, are Firestones sacred where you come from?"
"You couldn't hit those tires if I offered you the British crown jewels, you little twit! Get your arm inside the car!"
"Oh geez oh geez oh geez," shouted Richie, ducking behind the front seat as the car hurtled toward the partially opened gates.
Amanda yanked her arm inside just as a deafening sound of metal shrieking against metal assaulted her ears. She stared through the rear window, realizing only then that they had somehow managed to squeeze through; the gates were beginning to swing closed again. This did not, however, appear to make much of an impression on the driver of the oncoming car, who rather ill-advisedly increased his speed to come at the gates full throttle. The resulting crash stopped the car halfway through the gate, with the mangled steel bars wrapped about it like some bizarre hood ornament. The violence done to the steel in turn pulled large chunks of the masonry from the gate's pillars into the road, piling huge piles of stone around and on top of the car. The car's horn went off, plaintively bemoaning its fate as the limousine pulled away from the estate and around the bend in the county road. Amanda flopped back in her seat with a sigh of relief. "Well. They won't be following us any time soon."
"Every Watcher in Paris will be searching for us within the hour," said Joanna grimly.
"You're right," stammered Shapiro. "Just pull over and let me out, and they might just let you live."
"I would not make such remarks if I were you, Mr. Shapiro, lest I feel inclined to emulate your methods of extracting information from my guests."
Amanda felt a chill at the unsheathed menace in the woman's voice. Shit. This was one chick she did not want to mess with. "Where now?"
Joanna glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "Midnight mass. Mr. Shapiro has an appointment with his confessor."
"Joe. Don't. This is what he wants."
"I just couldn't keep my mouth shut. Like it would have killed me to say 'Yes, sir,' and 'No, sir' and not get the both of you shot." Joe's voice was weary, broken.
"Joe. Listen to me. He would have shot us no matter what you said. He would have shot us if you hadn't said a word. It's all part of the game."
Duncan clenched his teeth against the returning flood of pain. He immediately felt someone stroking his hair back, and forced his eyes open. Methos bent over him with a sober expression. "Breathe."
Duncan breathed obediently, managing not to groan. "Joe," he whispered. He became slowly aware that his head was in Methos' lap. The room was dark again, with the exception of the weak light from the kerosene lamp in the next room.
"I'm okay." Joe appeared beside Methos, face white and eyes red. "Sorry, Mac. God, I'm sorry. I just didn't get it."
"Joseph." Duncan groped in Joe's direction until Joe's hand curled around his. "I didn't get it either." He let his eyes close again, letting the comfort of his friends' touch steady him. He hadn't gotten it-until that thug had hit Methos. He had wanted nothing more in that moment than to choke the life out of both of those sadistic bastards.
Methos sighed softly. "Do you get it now? We have to try it my way, Mac."
"No," said Duncan, cringing inwardly at the thought. "We'll find another way."
"Mac." Duncan opened his eyes at the gentle insistence in Methos' tone. Methos bent low over him with an earnest expression that completely riveted Duncan's attention. Methos was not a man to abandon his air of sardonic detachment lightly; the only thing that seemed to provoke such candor was danger to a life, or a soul, that he cared deeply enough about to make the effort. "The only reason you are here with me is because Lucius suspects that I care about you. Do you understand? The only reason Joe is here with me-"
"Is because Jack Shapiro sicced his Immortal pit bull on me, and you got caught between his teeth and my ass," snapped Joe.
"-is because he suspects I care about him. Lucius wants to play. He wants to see if hurting you two will break me, break me before he takes the first knife to me. That's the game. So tell me. What other way is there?"
Duncan swallowed hard. "First of all, you make damn sure he knows that it won't break you."
"He knows better," said Methos quietly. "So do I."
Duncan stared up at his friend, shocked into silence.
"Jesus." Joe put an arm around Methos' shoulders and leaned on him heavily. "Adam. We can't do this."
"Inches, Joe." Methos voice sharpened. "We came within inches of losing you. If those bullets hadn't passed through Mac before they hit me, you'd be dead now."
Duncan let out the breath he'd been holding, fighting his rising desperation. "I-We are not handing you over to that lunatic. We can protect Joe. We can protect you."
"We can't. Mac, we can't. Help me do this." Methos drew a sharp breath and tore his gaze from Duncan as the door above opened suddenly. Despite the ominous signature of an approaching Immortal, Duncan found himself unable to look at anything but his friend's face as Methos' expression altered from pleading to impassive; he was going into survival mode before his eyes. This was the man he'd told Joe was incapable of friendship. He wondered bleakly if either Joe or Methos had any idea how bitterly ashamed he was of those words.
"On your feet."
Duncan craned his neck, struggling to see Nathan in the pitch black above them. He couldn't. He set his jaw and forced himself into a sitting position, grunting at the pain.
"He can't get on his feet." Methos was up and away, moving toward the stairs before Duncan could grab him. "He's hurt. They both are. Let's end this farce, Nathan. Your master has made his point. He's won. Let's skip the tiresome preliminaries, shall we?"
"Christ Jesus," whispered Joe, watching him with widening eyes.
Duncan hauled himself upward and staggered over to the staircase beside Methos, leaning on it heavily as he stared up into the darkness. "No, let's not skip all of them. Give me a sword and face me, Nathan of Mainz."
Methos cast him an infuriated glance, but Nathan barked a laugh. "I have read about you, Duncan MacLeod. Your Watcher has likened you to a knight errant of old."
"Face me, if you're a man!"
"I am a man." Nathan descended the stairs, followed by a single armed man. His face was drawn in tightly controlled anger. "I am a man who has seen the true faces of those who style themselves knights errant. They came to Mainz nine centuries ago, carrying their cross, bound for Jerusalem, and slaughtered my people like cattle. The bodies of Jews were piled in the streets. The homes of Jews burned by the thousands. My father was hacked to pieces in the street outside his door, and his head was stuck upon a pike for my mother and brothers and sister to gaze upon."
Duncan stared up at him, shocked into silence.
"The knights attacked our house, and we prepared to sacrifice ourselves rather than suffer unclean hands to be laid upon us. But a guest of our house summoned his guards, and fought back the noble knights of the cross. My family's lives and honor were spared."
Duncan nodded slowly in sickened comprehension. "And you offered him your service in gratitude." It was what he would have done.
"I have served faithfully."
"But you must have seen what he was! There is no honor in serving a murderer."
"Thus speaks the servant of Darius of Rome," said Nathan coldly. "You are a hypocrite, Duncan MacLeod."
Duncan drew a sharp breath, feeling as if someone had kicked him in the stomach.
"Mac," said Methos in an urgent undertone. "Leave it."
"The Darius I served bore no resemblance to the man your master knew." Duncan forged ahead determinedly. "He changed, Nathan. He was a good man."
"You are deluded. You have deceived yourself. Or you are evil." Nathan brought the full force of his gaze to bear; Duncan could feel Methos stiffen beside him. "My master does not murder. He is an instrument of divine justice."
"Justice? How can this possibly be justice? He butchers helpless mortals who have never done him any harm."
"No harm?" Nathan's eyes widened in what appeared to be shock; it was the first lapse in restraint Duncan had noticed in the man. Nathan composed himself instantly. "Harm enough, Duncan MacLeod. My master visits his suffering upon those who inflicted it. No more, no less. Were I able to do the same to those who slaughtered my people, I would."
"The men who slaughtered your people are long dead. So is the man who tortured your master. You murder the innocent."
"You speak of what you do not know. My master suffers torture every day. The students of Darius' evil teachings live on; the society of Watchers who betrayed him enjoys wealth and power. There are no innocents here."
"Joe Dawson is innocent. He hasn't harmed anyone. He's never laid eyes on Lucius. He never knew Darius."
"He is a Watcher; they have not changed in a thousand years. My master's blood stains their hands. And he is the brother of Marcus Gaius." Nathan's gaze fell to Methos; Duncan's throat tightened at the malice in those eyes.
"And what has Marcus Gaius done to Lucius? He was his friend. For God's sake, man, he nearly died saving your master's life! Is this the gratitude of an honorable man?"
"My gratitude died when he betrayed my trust." Lucius' cool voice floated down from the landing, causing Duncan to start violently. He hadn't even realized that the man was there; he must have entered when Nathan had. The bastard had been listening to every word. "His friendship was a sham."
He's not capable of friendship.
"I was merely a tool in his designs."
He's just using us. We're nothing to him!
"He revealed his true nature when he allied himself with the evil men from his past and aided my enemies."
Another monster from your past has come looking for his old partner, right?
"His fate was his own choosing. Even now he wears the sign of the Watchers upon his wrist. What evil is he planning in concert with these god-cursed parasites? How many will suffer if he and they are permitted to continue?"
So what's the plan, Death on a horse? How many innocent lives are you playing with this time?
Duncan stared up into the darkness, sickened, demoralized. This was what he had become. This was what his friends saw when they looked at him: a man twisted, fallen from human grace, a perverted shadow of what he'd once been, one man as judge, jury, and executioner-but the judge was drunk, the jury insane, and the executioner so consumed with rage that justice died a-borning. "You're wrong. He's a good man," he croaked. "The best." He could see Methos' fleeting expression of astonishment out of the corner of his eye.
"What is Marcus Gaius to you, Duncan MacLeod?"
Duncan turned to Methos in confusion; Methos met his gaze with open dread on his face.
"Friend? Brother? Lover?"
Lover?
Duncan stared at Methos in dawning wonder.
Lover. Why had the horrors of Methos' past hurt him so badly, infuriated him so deeply? Why had Methos' lack of candor, of trust in him driven him to mindless, unjust fury? Why had the mere notion of Methos as Kronos' partner made him think of nothing but taking Kronos' head and slashing what remained into quivering ribbons? Why had the beautiful, welcoming smile on Methos' face made him loathe Byron at first sight?
Sweet Jesus. Oh, sweet Jesus, what had he been doing?
"My master has asked you a question." Nathan was regarding him intently.
"A friend," answered Methos coolly, moving to stand in front of Duncan as Nathan descended the stairs to the floor, his armed guard behind him, weapon at the ready. "This has gone on long enough, Lucius. We all know how this will end. It's time to end it."
The words snapped Duncan out of his shock and back to the gruesome reality that they were playing for their lives. He grabbed Methos' arm and yanked him back beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe drag himself to the door of their former prison to grab the doorjamb and start pulling himself painfully to his feet. "Give me a sword. Face me, Lucius. Let God determine whether or not you're an agent of his justice."
"God has answered that question many times," said Lucius harshly.
"My master would never condescend to cross blades with the likes of you." Nathan's voice was faintly indignant.
Duncan ignored the servant and stared up at the shadows surrounding the master in silence for a moment. Then he laughed softly. "Coward." He heard Methos draw a ragged breath, heard Joe mutter, "God."
Nathan's arm was a blur as he reached inside his jacket to draw his dagger. "You dare-"
"Mac, stop this," said Methos unevenly.
"Coward!" Duncan turned his back on Nathan to shout up the stairs into the darkness. "Is this the courage and honor of Rome? To hide like a snake under a rock and do nothing but hiss when honorably challenged?"
"What do you know of the courage and honor of Rome?" Lucius' voice rose to a violent snarl. "You, who befriend traitors and serve monsters?"
"Evidently more than you do, coward. The men you call traitor and monster have more knowledge of courage and honor than you will ever have, and I'm proud to have known them both. Now face me!"
"Master," choked Nathan, face flushed. "Allow me-"
"You are proud to know Marcus Gaius?"
"Yes," snapped Duncan, vaguely aware that Methos was staring at him with an aghast expression. "I'm proud to know him."
"He is dear to you." Lucius voice dropped to an ugly, deep-throated rumble.
Duncan froze, realizing too late that he had led Lucius' attention in a circle, right back to Methos. "I've challenged you, Lucius. Give me-"
"He is very dear to you." The satisfaction in Lucius' voice made Duncan's heart rate spike. "What would you do to save his life?"
"Nothing," cut in Methos. "He knows my life can't be saved. This is pointless, Lucius. You've won. Take your revenge and have done."
"Would you beg for his life, Duncan MacLeod? Would you die for him?"
"Enough. Stop." Methos spoke in a commanding tone, but there was desperation in his eyes. Whirling away from Duncan and Nathan, Methos strode past a horror-stricken Joe into the little room and seized the lantern that hung there, then walked determinedly into the dark room on their right. Turning in amazement to watch him, Duncan saw his friend set the lantern on the long table that occupied much of the room. It took him a moment to realize that the table was fitted with leather straps, and was splattered with something dark and red that glistened grotesquely in the uncertain light of the lantern. "What are you waiting for?" Methos drew Duncan's sweatshirt over his head and flung it aside. "This is what you want, isn't it? Fetch your damned knives."
Duncan drew a ragged breath, his world tilting at the sight. He stepped toward Methos, fully intending to drag him out of that horrible little room by force, when a loud curse in Russian and a gunshot tore through the shocked silence. Duncan wheeled around to see Joe struggling with the guard, yanking the business end of the man's weapon toward himself. Duncan lunged toward Joe, but Nathan moved quicker; he peeled Joe away from the guard as if the Watcher were a child and yanked him away, holding his dagger to Joe's bandaged throat.
"Master?"
"Put him away," said Lucius coldly. "He will keep."
Nathan dragged Joe toward the door of the smaller room, and Joe struggled every step of the way, shouting at the top of his lungs. "So much for the war on the Watchers, huh, Lucius? In case it's escaped your attention, I'm the only Watcher here! What's the matter? Has God changed his mind?"
"Silence, Watcher." Nathan gave Joe's throat a little dig with the dagger.
Joe jerked away from the knife and turned his head to spit in Nathan's face. "Yeah, you'd better start with me, you bastard. You'd better start cutting me first, because if you touch either one of them I will find you and I will cut your fucking heads off, no matter how long it takes me, do you-"
Nathan made a snarling sound and shoved Joe inside the dark room, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind him. Joe was pounding on the door before Nathan had turned the key in the lock. "Mac! Stop him! Fight him, damn you! Don't let him do this!"
"Such incompetence is intolerable." Nathan turned away from the door, and without further preamble, sent his dagger flying across the room to embed itself squarely in the chest of the armed guard. The man stared blankly for a moment, then crumpled to the earth.
"Mac!" Joe's voice rose to a howl.
"I won't let him," called Duncan grimly, resolved. Joe was right. Better to go down swinging. His life wasn't worth the price Methos was willing to pay for it. He turned toward Methos again, but all he saw was the blur of Methos' set face and his oncoming fist before the impact rendered him unconscious.
"The others are already inside." Jochen held open the door them, his lip curling in distaste as Shapiro passed by.
"Good." Joanna's tone was painfully brisk. "Whatever we do, we'll have to do it quickly. The Watchers will be mobilized soon."
"Don't you think we should lock the doors?" Amanda glanced back at the doors as she gave Shapiro a rough shove down the aisle, trying to rein in her unease at the sight of the people standing in front of the altar. She had never seen so many Immortals in one place before, and a lot of them were Ancients. Their signatures ricocheted unpleasantly inside her skull, creating an Immortal white noise that set her teeth on edge. Amanda knew that there were mortals mixed in with that crowd of perhaps three dozen, but there was so much interference that she couldn't tell who was what. They all turned to watch the approach of Shapiro with grim faces and dangerous eyes. So this was the Order. Or what was left of it.
"There are no locks on the doors of St. Julien's," said Joanna softly. "Darius refused to bar the doors of the house of God."
"His insurance agent must have loved him," muttered Amanda.
"What about the priest?" Richie was uncharacteristically solemn.
"An old friend. He is visiting some ill parishioners tonight."
"He's a trusting soul," remarked Amanda.
"You disapprove of trust?" Joanna gave her an odd look.
"Oh, no. Best way to get screwed over I can think of."
"You're dead," snarled Shapiro, for what Amanda was certain was the seventeenth time in the past half hour. This time he was addressing the members of the Order. "You're all dead."
"Case in point," snapped Amanda, giving him one last shove that sent him staggering among the group of people gathered before the altar. They formed a loose ring around him, examining him as if he were some new species of reptile. Amanda snorted and joined them. Well, they weren't far wrong, were they?
"If you kill me, there won't be anywhere on this planet you'll be able to hide!"
"Something tells me he isn't having a religious experience," remarked Amanda acidly to Joanna, who stood beside her with her arms crossed over her chest, scowling.
"The Watchers will find me. They'll find me and kill every one of you." Shapiro glared truculently at the people who circled him. "Holy ground won't stop them."
Amanda couldn't help glancing up at the shadowed Romanesque arches above her with a certain amount of trepidation. It wasn't that churches in general made her nervous, despite their association with the superstitions of her childhood. They were holy ground and sanctuary, after all. But this particular church was different. This had been Darius' church. He'd lived here, and died here, and there were legends a hell of a lot older than Methos about what happened to the quickening of an Immortal who died with no other Immortal there to receive it. If holy ground offered no safety, then why stick around?
"We're well aware of that," snarled Jochen. Amanda regarded him warily, startled by the violence in his tone. She was beginning to get the impression that he was the hothead in Joanna's bunch. "After all, your kind had no compunction about murdering a priest before his own altar." A muted yet angry murmur of assent rippled through the group. "To say nothing of murdering our brothers and sisters in Istanbul."
"I had hoped that this place might stir the better angels of your nature, Mr. Shapiro," cut in Joanna coolly, silencing the murmur instantly. "Certainly you must see that your plans have failed. The Watchers know what you have done. They will not be manipulated into indiscriminate warfare with Immortals now. What purpose will it serve to allow your friend-"
"Joe Dawson is no friend of mine!"
"-your friend," repeated Joanna, "to die? He has never injured you. On the contrary, he has spared your life when he would have been justified in taking it."
"He's perverted the entire organization! The Watchers will never be the same, never!"
A dark-haired woman laughed. "The same as what?"
"Tasha is quite right. The Watchers have changed many times in ten thousand years," said Joanna softly.
"You are a fool, Shapiro," spat Jochen. "You know nothing."
"And what the hell could you know about the Watchers?" shouted Shapiro, his voice echoing eerily off the stone walls.
Joanna smiled faintly. "Enough to appreciate the irony of your situation. In order to save the organization which you profess to love, you have unleashed its greatest enemy, killed half of the Order sworn to protect it, and condoned the killing of its founder."
"Oh, man," whispered Richie, looking as if somebody had hit him over the head with the collection plate.
"What?" hissed Amanda, beginning to feel left out again.
"You're insane," said Shapiro flatly, but there was a hint of doubt in his expression that hadn't been there before.
"And yet she commands us," returned Tasha. "Which would indicate, at least to me, that you are not behaving in a manner conducive to your own safety. Joanna should be humored, surely."
Shapiro licked his lips nervously, his gaze darting quickly from face to face.
"Don't bother trying to identify us." Joanna sounded amused. "I'm the only one here mentioned in the Watcher records at all, and I was never identified as an Immortal."
"Undocumented," hissed Shapiro, eyes widening. "Impossible!"
"You murdered the only one of us who was not," snarled Jochen. "And if Joshua were here-"
"Tell us where Lucius is." Joanna cut Jochen off and held Shapiro's gaze as if she could extract the answer from him through an act of sheer will.
Shapiro glowered back, silent.
"Do you imagine that you can useLucius Germanicus to your own ends? Manipulate him into eliminating your enemies, and then go your merry way? You delude yourself. You are a Watcher, Shapiro. That you have escaped his knives thus far indicates only that he has some use for you that he has not revealed."
"She's right, Shapiro." Richie's stance became more threatening. "Is getting your rocks off killing Dawson and MacLeod worth getting chopped up yourself? Because that's what's going to happen, sooner or later."
"It won't happen. Lucius and I have an understanding." Shapiro's tone was lofty, his expression contemptuous.
Amanda had to restrain herself from beating it off his face. "You idiot. He's a psycho! He doesn't do understandings. You're in as much danger as every other Watcher, and every other friend of a Watcher."
"And when he's done with the Watchers and the friends of the Watchers, he'll start on the families of the Watchers," continued Richie in an ugly tone. Amanda glanced at him, startled. "You got kids, Shapiro?"
Shapiro went white.
"This is not unprecedented," murmured Joanna. "During the march from Rheims to Constantinople, Lucius killed many children of Watchers before their parents' eyes. He is entirely capable of such an act."
"We have an understanding," stammered Shapiro. "He wouldn't-"
"He would," returned Joanna tonelessly. "He will. You have loosed the beast, Shapiro. It is inevitable that it will come to feed at your door."
"It would be no more than justice if it did." Jochen's voice was soft and menacing.
"That is Lucius' definition of justice, not ours." Joanna's voice was sharp, and Jochen subsided, pressing his lips together tightly.
"This is getting us nowhere," said Richie, quiet and angry. "Let me take him outside for a few-"
Without warning, Shapiro uttered a strangled cry and lunged at Amanda, knocking her down; he dashed back up the aisle toward the door, knocking over chairs as he went. To Amanda's astonishment and dismay, no one pursued him.
"Damn it, stop him, he's getting away!" She scrambled to her feet.
Joanna restrained her with a hand on her shoulder. "He's not going anywhere." Her voice was hushed now; Amanda became subliminally aware that all of the Order had gone very still.
"The doors don't have any locks," snapped Amanda in exasperation, dismissing the reflexive shiver that seized her, and turned back toward the man running for his life down the aisle. Shapiro was running so fast, in fact, that he ran into the doors and was forced to regain his balance before frantically tugging the handle of one door, then the other. Neither budged. Amanda watched him, dumfounded.
"No," said Joanna softly. "They don't have any locks."
Shapiro abandoned his efforts and ran panic-stricken up the other aisle toward the door leading to the rectory. "Keep him away from me! Let me out of here!" He threw himself against the rectory door over and over; it didn't move.
"What the hell?" whispered Amanda. "I suppose that door doesn't have a lock either."
"Keep who away from him?" Richie looked at Joanna with wide eyes.
"I don't know who he sees." Joanna's eyes were narrowed to grey-blue slits.
"What have you done? How did you do this? Keep him the hell away from me!" howled Shapiro, darting back to the other doors again.
"If you wish to leave this place, you have only to tell us where Lucius has taken our friends." Joanna's voice was ice.
"It wasn't me!" shouted Shapiro, his eyes focused on something that Amanda couldn't see. "It was Horton, I didn't know anything about it!"
"Shapiro! You will not be harmed if you take us to Lucius!"
Shapiro tore his gaze from whatever he had been addressing and stared at Joanna, panting. "I'll take you there. I'll take you there right now!"
"Are you certain, Marcus? He seems very devoted to you. I believe he would gladly take your place."
"Find a new game, Lucius. This one was old a thousand years ago."
"Mind your tongue." Nathan's voice was harsh.
Duncan's eyes flew open; he had to blink a few times before everything stopped spinning enough for him to determine where he was-lying on his side on the cold earth floor of the adjoining room. Methos was already on the table, his wrists pinioned with leather straps. Nathan was undoing the tie to the sweat pants Methos was wearing.
"Or what?" Methos was breathing hard, his face white. "Things will get worse?"
"If you would prefer MacLeod to taste the blades first-"
"No." Methos' voice dropped to a whisper. "I wouldn't."
"Then you will display respect."
Duncan tried to sit up and realized only then that he was bound tightly hand and foot-by someone who knew his business. Methos turned his head to look at him as Nathan stripped away the remainder of his clothing. "Sorry, Mac." He was barely audible, his expression unreadable.
"Don't do this, Nathan. You don't have to do this." Duncan could hear the raw panic in his voice and swallowed hard.
"Nathan is an honorable man and a loyal servant." Lucius' voice emanated from the darkness outside the door; strain as he might, Duncan could not see him.
"Which is more than can be said of his master," spat Duncan furiously. "Hiding in the dark while your servant does your dirty work for you! You don't even have courage enough to kill him yourself!"
"My master has more courage than you could possibly conceive." Nathan yanked the last strap brutally tight and picked up his dagger; the guard's blood still stained the blade.
Methos drew a quick, uneven little breath and fixed his gaze on the lantern, which was swaying slightly on its nail in a rafter over the table.
Duncan struggled to his knees, straining against the ropes. They only seemed to grow tighter. "Don't. Please. I'll take his place. Don't-"
"He will beg," observed Lucius softly.
"Close your eyes," rasped Methos, staring fixedly at the lantern as if it were some sort of lifeline. "Mac, close your eyes. Don't say any-" He broke off as Nathan drew his dagger lightly across Methos' abdomen, drawing blood. Methos pinched his eyes shut and pressed his lips firmly together, his hands clutching the sides of the table.
"Oh, dear God." Duncan's voice broke, but he forged ahead. "Please. He was your friend. He saved your life. You owe him!"
Nathan slid the blade into the wound and drew it across again with a surgeon's precision, deepening the cut; Methos' face twisted, but no sound escaped him. A trickle of blood ran across his hip to drip onto the table; Duncan groaned aloud at the sight.
"I owe him nothing."
"You're wrong," shouted Duncan. "You owe him a thousand things, and the least of them is forgiveness."
"His crime is beyond forgiveness."
"You're wrong," repeated Duncan, helpless, watching as Nathan picked up another knife. "Nothing is beyond forgiveness."
"For God, perhaps."
"For a friend! You must have loved him once. How can you do this?"
"Because I loved him once!" Lucius' voice rose to a howl. "He was my brother, and he betrayed me. He consorted with, fraternized with, loved my enemies-the people who abandoned me to torment. There is no greater betrayal. The one man ... the one man whom I believed beyond temptation and above reproach was in fact capable of the most base, unfeeling treachery imaginable. There is no punishment severe enough, no revenge complete enough-" Lucius cut himself off; Duncan could hear his harsh breathing. "Nathan. Gag him." His voice was trembling now; Duncan groped for a coherent response to the outburst and found none.
Nathan laid down his knife and pulled a piece of cloth from his jacket pocket. He squatted beside Duncan and tried to slide the gag into his mouth, but Duncan evaded him. "Think about what you're doing! Is this the service you swore to render? Is this what your family would want you to do?"
Nathan stared down at him for a moment, a flash of confusion crossing his face. Then the lines of his expression hardened. "I swore to serve. The trust is sacred and cannot be violated."
"Then you dishonor your family," spat Duncan in frustration. "You dishonor the dead of Mainz. You're no better than the murderers who killed your people, and the bastards who stuck your father's head on a pike!"
Nathan shoved the gag into Duncan's mouth and tied it tightly around his head, then shoved him against the wall, his expression now glacial. "Watch carefully, Duncan MacLeod. For however slowly Marcus Gaius dies, your death will be worse." He strode back to the table.
Methos opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him as Nathan laid one hand on his chest and picked up his knife. "Mac." Duncan could see tears in his eyes. "You're right. Nothing is beyond forgiveness."
Duncan's vision blurred and he struggled against his bonds, knowing it was useless and unable to stop himself. He blinked the tears out of his eyes and met Methos' gaze as steadily as he could.
"Don't." Methos' voice was shaking now. "Sit still. Close your eyes. They're not here. I'm not here. You're not here, do you understand? Don't watch this. Don't listen to it. We're not here-"
Nathan sliced Methos' abdomen again, then methodically pulled a flap of skin back from the wound he had inflicted, and kept pulling it, drawing it toward Methos' chest, slowly exposing the flesh beneath it. Methos' head jerked back as he cried out; he clenched his teeth and somehow choked the anguished sound off at his throat.
Duncan screamed into the gag, squirming; he could dimly hear Joe pounding on the door in the next room, heard him shouting for Adam.
"You are here, Marcus Gaius." Lucius' breathing quickened. "You are both here. Slowly, Nathan. 'From morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, a summer's day.' Let us give Marcus' day its full measure."
