Chapter Twelve
The screaming stopped again, and Joe let go an anguished breath, nursing his bleeding hands. Stupid. As if pounding and shouting like some crazy man was doing any goddamn good. And yet Joe knew that if he heard that screaming again, he'd be shouting himself hoarse and beating his hands bloody again. Joe realized suddenly that he hadn't heard Duncan's voice in a long time. Unconscious? Dead? He must be. No matter how Duncan felt about Methos now, he would never stand for a man being tortured in front of him. For the hundredth time in the past hour, Joe blotted out the images that sprang to his mind and pressed his ear to the door.
Something was different. The soft, sickening murmur of Lucius' voice had ceased, and someone was passing through the room outside the door he had become so intimately acquainted with in the past hour-someone in a hurry. He heard footsteps on the groaning wooden stairs, heard the door to the ground floor open-and then heard the sounds of shouting, swords clashing, gunfire.
Joe seized the latch of the door and hauled himself to his feet, a spike of adrenaline pumping through him. Damned if the cavalry hadn't come over the hill. "Hey! Hey!" He pounded on the door with all his strength, ignoring the agonizing pain in his hands. "In here!" He pressed his ear to the door again.
"Down here! I swear I heard Joe."
God, if anyone had ever told him that he'd ever be this glad to hear Richie Ryan's voice, he'd have given them the address of the nearest detox tank. "Rich!" Joe pounded on the door again. "Open this damn door!"
"Are they here?" Amanda's voice. Thank God.
"In here." Joanna, too.
Joe heard the key turn in the lock and nearly fell into Richie's arms as the door was yanked open. Richie steadied him, eyes widening.
"Damn. Joe. You okay, man?"
"Oh, my God." Amanda's voice was faint; Joe staggered toward the sound, toward that goddamn table, ignoring Richie's offered arm, then halted on the threshold and sagged against the doorjamb, nearly collapsing. It seemed to Joe's terrified, exhausted mind that every surface of the room was coated in blood. Lying in the midst of it all was Methos, dead, thank God, his chest and abdomen one long gaping wound, his skin peeled away in large patches, his eyes bleeding masses of damaged tissue.
Joe pinched his eyes shut and leaned his head against the doorjamb, trying hard not to throw up, not to imagine what Methos had been through in the past hour, not to remember that he'd chosen to go through it so that Joe wouldn't. He only managed not to throw up.
"God," hissed Richie. "That sick son of a bitch." Joe felt Richie's arm go around his shoulders.
"Aba." Joanna's voice was barely audible."Forgive me."
"Get...get him off that thing." Joe struggled out of Methos' coat, staring fixedly at the splintered wood of the doorjamb. "Here. Put that on him."
Richie took the coat from him and joined Joanna at the table.
"Cut the straps," said Joanna. Joe started at the sound of her voice; she sounded so much like Methos in a blood rage at that moment that it took his breath away.
"Duncan?" Amanda's voice broke. Joe, flinching, forced his gaze to the crumpled, bound figure lying on its side on the floor. Christ Jesus. They'd made him watch. Whatever hell Joe had been through in the past hour, at least he'd been spared that. Gritting his teeth, Joe managed to move to Amanda's side as she knelt beside Duncan, untied his gag and tossed it aside. "Duncan. We're here."
Duncan turned his head enough to stare up at her, dull incomprehension clouding his features.
"Mac," said Joe sharply, alarmed. Shock? Or had the bastards done something to him? "You okay? You with us?"
Duncan blinked a few times, then sat bolt upright, gasping.
"Shhh." Amanda put her hands on his shoulders, steadying him. "It's over."
"Methos," rasped Duncan, wild-eyed.
"Pretty bad. But his head's still on." Amanda drew her sword carefully across the ropes that bound Duncan's wrists and ankles, then stroked Duncan's hair back gently. "Are you all right?"
Joe grimaced at the question; Duncan looked as far from all right as Joe had ever seen him. Duncan closed his eyes for a second, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. He looked up at Joe, mute; it was all Joe could do not to groan aloud at the devastation in the man's face. Jesus. If finding out about Darius hadn't taken him apart, finding out about Methos just might. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw Richie and Joanna lift Methos' head and shoulders from the table and wrap the torn and bloodstained coat around his ravaged body. Duncan watched them silently, his eyes following every movement.
"We need to get the hell out of here," muttered Joe, unable to stand the silence. "We need to get him someplace safe." He heard someone behind him and turned to see a young man sprinting across the room with a gun in his hand. He recoiled instinctively.
"Joanna, the house is secured. There's no sign of Nathan or Lucius," the man panted. "We count forty-three of his men dead; half a dozen were spotted escaping."
"Did we lose-?"
"No," answered the man grimly. "No one this time."
Joanna nodded, staring down at Methos. "Forty-three dead. God forgive me." She shook herself. "Abandon the house. Scatter and search the immediate area, Jochen."
Jochen hesitated. "Joanna, Shapiro is missing as well."
"What?" Richie rounded on Jochen furiously. "What the hell do you mean, he's missing?"
"Missing," snapped Jochen. "Adjective. Absent. Lost. Lacking. Specifically, absent after combat. Tasha had to leave him to help Gregor. He's gone."
"Damn," said Joanna quietly.
"We've got to find him," snapped Richie. "That son of a bitch is dangerous!"
"I have no doubt we'll find him wherever Lucius is. But this is not our priority now. We'll take Methos to MacLeod's barge. Bring my bag to me there, Jochen, he'll need morphine."
Jochen nodded, and with one last black look at Richie, jogged back toward the stairs.
"The barge? Are you nuts?" Joe swung toward Joanna in disbelief. "That's the first place they'll look!"
"There are precious few left to look," returned Joanna bleakly. "And the handful that escaped probably won't stop running until they reach the border. Nathan and Lucius-and Shapiro-are most likely on their own now."
"Nathan, Lucius and Shapiro are enough," snapped Joe. "Just open that coat if you don't believe me."
"Try to trust me, Joe. I won't endanger him again."
"But the barge-"
"It's comfortable; we can care for him there. It moves. It's surrounded by water. And on the outside chance that any of Lucius' men should reform and try to find him, it is probably the last place they will look."
Duncan struggled to his feet, ignoring Amanda's offer of help. Joe watched, startled, as he lifted Methos into his arms, cradling him gently against his chest, and stared down at the bloody face as if he were seeing it for the first time.
"Mac?" Richie sounded really scared for the first time since this whole damn thing had started.
"Let's go," said Duncan dully.
I think it is time to indulge Duncan MacLeod.
No.
He is so eager to take your place.
No. Finish it.
"Methos."
No? Perhaps Joseph Dawson then.
I'll stay! Finish it!
"Methos, it's all right."
Methos clawed the table under his hands, but it gave way. Soft. Warm. The hellish pain that started behind his eyes and radiated down his torso spiked mercilessly, and he let himself scream his answer. "No! I'll stay! I'll stay. I'll-"
"Adam," came a broken voice in his ear. "It's over. You're safe."
"Joe?" Methos groaned, horrified. They'd brought him in here. He could see this. "Joe."
"Hang on," rasped Joe. "Jochen's bringing some morphine. He'll be here any minute, just hang on."
"Where the hell is that son of a bitch?" Someone was shouting nearby, angry.
"Rich. Keep it down." A woman's voice.
Methos felt someone stroke his hair and gasped, involuntarily flinching away. The movement exacerbated the pain, and he cried out again.
"It's me." The voice was thick and unsteady. "You're safe, Methos."
"Mac," whispered Methos. Hadn't Nathan gagged him? He could have sworn Nathan had gagged him.
"Yes. I'm here." Methos felt the warmth of Duncan's body on his right and knew he was close. "You're going to be all right."
A door slammed. "Got it."
"About fucking time! Where did that asshole go for it, Moscow?" Richie's voice was shaking.
Methos sensed movement near him and drew a breath, stiffening, bracing himself for more pain. "Aba. It is I." Greek. Joanna? "This will ease your pain." He felt a swift, barely detectable pinprick on his right arm.
"Joanna," he rasped in confusion.
"Yes. You are safe now."
Safe. Joanna. "Joe," he gasped, comprehension beginning to seep through. "Mac?"
"They're right beside you."
Methos felt a bandaged hand touch his forehead. "Take it easy. We're okay." Methos groped to his left; someone took his wandering hand gently.
"Joe." Methos would have laughed if he'd had the strength. "Joe."
"The one and only. Don't talk."
"Mac."
"Right here." Duncan's voice was strange, shaken. "Just rest now."
Methos drew as deep a breath as he could manage, and groaned as his damaged muscles protested. "Amanda. Richie."
"They're all right. Dammit, Adam, can the nanny shit and heal, will you?" Joe's voice broke; Methos felt Joe's beard brush his cheek as he lowered his head to Methos' pillow. Pillow?
"All your dear ones are safe and with you, aba," murmured Joanna in Greek. "I won't allow harm to come to them again."
"You found us," replied Methos in the same language, turning toward the sound of her voice. The pain began, slowly, to recede.
"With help."
"Where are we?"
"On the barge, moving toward Notre Dame. You must not talk now. Sleep."
Methos sighed, allowing the lassitude of the morphine to take his body. "Lucius?" He felt Joe stiffen beside him.
"Don't worry about him," whispered Duncan.
"He escaped," murmured Methos, not surprised.
There was a moment of silence. "Yes." Joanna was barely audible.
"We'll get the son of a bitch." Methos had never heard that sort of anger in Richie's voice before. "You just leave that to us."
"Yes," said Duncan, in a savage tone that shook Methos to his core. "Leave him to us, Methos."
"No." Methos fought the surge of panic that rose in him; he groped wildly for Duncan. "You're not going anywhere. Joanna. Don't let them-"
"No one is going anywhere," said Joanna firmly.
"Don't let them leave." Methos tried to sit up and fell back, gasping.
Joe swore and laid his hand on Methos' forehead. "Adam, keep still! They're not leaving. I'll sit on them if I have to."
"Great," said Methos between clenched teeth as the agony in his abdomen reasserted itself. "Who sits on you?"
"Lie still!" Duncan was at his right side again, taking Methos' seeking hand in his own.
"You're not leaving this damn boat without me," rasped Methos desperately. "None of you."
"All right. All right." Duncan's voice was ragged, shaking. "Just lie still. We won't leave."
"Your word," persisted Methos, thanking God that MacLeod was boy scout enough that his word meant something. "You won't go anywhere without me."
"You have my word," whispered Duncan. "Nowhere without you. Now lie still. Please." Methos felt Duncan bending low over him. "Please."
Methos went still, still breathing hard, startled. There was something wrong in Duncan's voice. "Mac?"
A finger was laid on his lips. "Please. Sleep. You need to heal now."
Methos drew a shaky breath and let himself sink into the pillows. He felt Joe stretch out beside him on his left, his hand sliding from Methos' forehead to his shoulder. "M'okay, Joe," he murmured, wondering as Duncan's hand left his lips and settled in his hair.
"Shut up. I've seen road kill that looked better than you, pal." Joe sounded wearier than Methos had ever heard him.
"But road kill doesn't have my boyish charm," mumbled Methos.
"Methos. Shut up," said Duncan unevenly. Methos felt blankets being tucked around him as exhaustion finally overwhelmed him.
"When I was four years old, there was drought and famine in the countryside. The family who had taken me in was forced to sell me."
Duncan started awake at the sound of the soft voice. Methos lay asleep beside him, his face turned toward him enough for Duncan to see the bloodied eyelids beginning to swell over the regenerating tissue beneath. Joe lay on his side on Methos' left, dozing lightly, one hand still resting on Methos' shoulder.
"The slave merchant who bought me took me with a dozen other slaves to Ur, to be sold in the great marketplace there. It was a long walk."
Duncan glanced toward the sound of the voice and spotted Amanda and Richie lounging on the sofa and chair a few feet away. Joanna was standing with her back to them, staring out a porthole into the dark.
"He was a cruel man. Even to the children among us. Several died along the way and were left unburied by the side of the road for the carrion eaters to feed upon. I would not have survived had it not been for an elderly woman who cared for me. She shared her water and carried me for many miles. Her name was Ruth. I don't remember the merchant's name."
Duncan stroked Methos' hair gently, noting in dismay the lines of pain in his friend's face. Methos was in pain, even in his sleep. Duncan swallowed hard. He should never have allowed this to happen. Methos should not have been put through this. Not any of it. Duncan had done nothing but fail him from the moment Cassandra had drawn her sword on him.
"Ruth died by the time we reached the outskirts of Ur. I remember holding her head in my lap, crying. The merchant was angry that I was not keeping up with the others, and struck me with his whip."
Duncan reached out to touch Methos' hair, his face. Had it come to this? Was he this blind, this obstinate, this prideful? Did a man have to die before his eyes before Duncan could admit he'd made a mistake? Before he could acknowledge his feelings?
"A man on a horse was passing by and saw this. He was very richly dressed, and was followed by a retinue of servants. He dismounted and seized the merchant's whip from his hand as he was about to strike me again. He threw the man into the sewage ditch at the side of the road, pulled two silver coins from his belt pouch-at least five times what I was worth at market-and threw them into the muck beside him. Then he set me before him on his horse and took me to his house." Joanna laughed softly. "I thought he was a king."
Duncan tucked the blankets around Methos. He loved this man. God only knew how long he'd loved him. Probably from the moment he'd caught that damned beer can. What sort of bullheaded idiot doesn't know when he's in love?
"He raised me as a man raises his daughter. I lacked for nothing. None of us did. There was not a slave or servant in his household that would not have died for him. He cared for us. He protected us. He was our father."
Methos, a loving father. Forty-eight hours ago, Duncan would have laughed himself sick at the idea. Now he knew better. Methos was a study in contradictions-he'd lived too long to be anything else. He'd been capable of deeper hatred and deeper love, deeper selfishness and deeper generosity, deeper barbarism and deeper compassion, than anyone Duncan had ever known. Methos had told him that he'd been many things. Duncan had dismissed the statement as evasion, but he knew now that it had been the simple truth. The man lying beside him was as baffling and beautiful an enigma as had ever existed. Duncan doubted he'd ever be able to understand his friend completely, but one thing had sung loud and clear in the past few hours: he wanted nothing more in this life than the chance, the commitment, to make that attempt. He loved Methos. He wanted him. He needed him in his life more than any friend or lover he'd ever had.
Methos stirred, opened his eyes and looked vaguely in Duncan's general direction. Duncan flinched at the sight of the half-healed, bloody eyes. They weren't focused on him; Methos was still blind. "Mac?" he murmured groggily.
"I'm here. Go back to sleep," Duncan whispered back, moving even closer. Why in God's name had Methos tolerated Duncan putting him through this hell? Rejection, insults, and violence had been met with nothing but the most profound loyalty Duncan had ever witnessed in a friend. He groaned inwardly as Methos' eyes closed again, his face drawn and jaw set against the pain. "Do you need more morphine?"
"No." Methos groped in his direction; Duncan took his hand and held it, let Methos squeeze it hard until the pain receded. Methos relaxed again, breathing hard, still holding Duncan's hand.
Why? Why had Methos stayed? Protected him? Endangered himself for him over and over again? What motivation would have been sufficient to...? Duncan's train of thought slowed and lurched to a trembling stop.
"Are you all right?" It was no more than a sigh; Methos was already falling asleep again.
Duncan stared at him, the answer to his question robbing him of speech for a moment. "Yes," he whispered, caressing the hand he was holding. "Sleep, Methos." Methos was asleep before he finished speaking.
Joanna's low murmur filled the silence. "He is my family, my first trust. His well-being should have come first. But I forgot this. I allowed my promise to Sebastian-to Darius-to consume me, to outweigh all other considerations."
"It was a hell of a promise," said Richie softly. "I guess letting it consume you was the only way to get the job done."
"But the job isn't done." Joanna swung away from the porthole to pace the room. Duncan caught sight of her anguished expression as she moved. "Methos was right. How many innocents have died because I would not permit Lucius to be killed? How much agony did Methos endure tonight because of that promise?"
"Methos will be all right." Amanda's voice was unusually gentle.
"You don't understand. I believed there was a reason for keeping Lucius alive. I believed it was best for everyone concerned. Sebastian-Darius-was so certain that it would be."
Duncan closed his eyes. Who had the man he'd called Darius really been? When Richie had first told him the story of Sebastian's death, he had rejected it out of hand. It was contrary to everything he'd ever been taught or had experienced. But Richie had been right. God only knew how old this legendary holy man at the gates of Paris had been. What did he know of the truly ancient Immortals, the ones who walked this planet long before Methos was born? He'd been wrong about so much, closed his eyes to so much. He wasn't going to do that again.
"Which one?" Richie's voice was somber.
"What?"
"Who was certain? Darius or Sebastian?"
Joanna laughed, but the sound was strained. "Both, in a way. Sebastian held all of Darius' memories. And he insisted that we call him Darius. He had no wish to elude responsibility for the acts committed by what was now a part of himself."
"Merde. Do we really have to get metaphysical here?" Amanda sounded peevish. "It's two o'clock in the morning."
"He seemed to see the future so clearly, to have such faith that what we were doing would come to be a blessing in the end."
"How?" Richie sounded surprised.
"I asked him that once. He just smiled and asked me if I trusted him."
"And you did."
"And I did. But now the Order has been decimated. Lucius is at liberty, I have taken lives, and Methos has been..." Duncan heard Joanna's voice break and her uneven breathing. "I don't know what to do."
"I guess it comes down to whether or not you still trust him."
"I trust him," said Joanna unevenly. "Perhaps it's myself I don't trust."
"You two talk about him like he's still here," burst out Amanda nervously. "He's dead."
Duncan smiled faintly to himself, the sound of their familiar voices lulling him back to sleep. Still here? Of course he was. The image of Darius, standing in the door of his church, smiling in welcome, had appeared to him when he had needed that welcome most. It had drawn him inside, half-deranged with a dark quickening, to the sanctuary of St. Julien's, where Methos had found him. It suddenly occurred to him that he'd never asked Methos how he'd known he'd be there. If he'd been sane, it would have been his first refuge, of course; but Methos had known damn well Duncan wasn't sane. He'd just watched Duncan butcher an old and dear friend, threaten to kill Methos, and roar off into the night. It had been one hell of a leap in the dark for Methos to seek Duncan out on the holy ground of St. Julien's. Duncan could still hear that soft voice, speaking earnestly of personal salvation and not being alone.
Joanna's voice was very soft. "Define dead."
Exhaustion claimed Duncan before he could hear Amanda's answer.
"I didn't bring them. I didn't know they were there!"
Lucius stared at the miserable creature groveling on the floor before him. It was indeed a very, very stupid dog, and its whining was growing increasingly tiresome. "Indeed. You are shockingly imperceptive."
"They must have followed me."
"You are followed by full fifty people and do not notice?" Nathan's lip curled. "I think not."
Shapiro licked his lips nervously. "I swear it's true."
"Do not presume to imagine that you could possibly deceive me, dog." Lucius shifted slightly in discomfort. Their current accommodations were significantly less well-appointed than those to which he had become accustomed, and this cur was largely responsible. It was absurdly clear that it had outlived whatever limited usefulness it had once offered.
"You've already been deceived, and not by me," blurted Shapiro, glancing with transparent apprehension in Nathan's direction as he approached.
"Enough. Dispose of this creature in the appropriate manner, Nathan."
"No! No, listen to me!" Shapiro's voice rose in naked panic. "They've lied to you. They've lied to all of us. Darius isn't dead!"
Lucius nodded Nathan still and examined Shapiro carefully, concealing his leaping heart and racing mind. It could be lying, and probably was. But he detected some grain of truth in the dog's eyes. Darius, alive, and subject to his justice? It was all he had dreamed of for fifteen hundred years. The news of his death at the hands of Watchers had tasted of nothing but ashes and despair. If it had indeed been a deception... "Explain," he ordered.
"I've seen him. He was in St. Julien's. They must have been hiding him there all this time."
The grain of truth was now a spark. The dog had obviously seen something in the fiend's sanctuary, something that had frightened it. "And what were you doing in Darius' chapel, dog? Have you embraced the teachings of mother church?"
"I...followed Joanna there."
A lie.
"She knew Darius was there. She wasn't surprised when he showed himself."
A truth.
"That's why I came to your house tonight, to tell you."
Another lie.
"She must have spotted me and had me followed."
And another. The dog had spent its limited store of truth and was now howling for the sake of noise. It was an extreme annoyance. Lucius nodded to Nathan, who came forward, seized Shapiro by the hair, and hauled him onto his back on the floor.
"No!" shrieked Shapiro, struggling to rise again. "I helped you! You owe me!"
Strange that he should hear the same argument from two such very different men in one night. But if this argument had failed to persuade in the case of Marcus Gaius, who had indeed rendered him unselfish service, then the cause of this dog was certainly not served by it. "I shall pay you exactly what you are owed."
Nathan pinned the squirming man to the floor and ripped open his shirt, then pulled out his knife. Shapiro let loose a full-throated scream at the sight.
Lucius barked contemptuously. "Your good faith has proven somewhat deficient, dog. I have therefore decided to return your gift."
Methos opened his eyes reluctantly to the dim pre-dawn light, silently relishing the absence of pain. His first sight was Joe, who was curled up close to him, one arm thrown in an unconsciously protective gesture across Methos' chest. Duncan was asleep, too, his hand curled loosely around Methos'. Methos swallowed hard as he scanned the room. Amanda was asleep on the couch, sword in hand. Duncan's katana was lying beside her. Richie was asleep in the chair, clutching his sword. They all looked completely exhausted.
Guarding him. They were all guarding him, for God's sake. Joanna and whatever other members of the Order not searching for Lucius were no doubt on deck, forming the first line of defense. So bloody typical of them, and of Clan MacLeod. Didn't they understand that they were in as much danger, if not more, than he was? They should have left him here to heal and gotten the hell out of Paris as fast as they could. They were all hopeless.
Methos very gently eased his hand out from under Duncan's, then slipped Joe's arm slowly off his chest.
"Hey," mumbled Joe without opening his eyes.
"Shhh." Methos laid Joe's arm on the bed.
"Where're you goin'? You healed?"
"Yeah. Be right back." Methos drew the covers up around Joe, wincing at his haggard appearance. "Go to sleep."
"Don't try to pull anything." Joe opened one sleepy eye. "Got an army up there, you know. Smokin' Joe Dawson's Nannies to Go now has an Ancient Auxiliary."
Methos grinned in spite of everything; he couldn't help himself. "You're just eating that up, aren't you? You're a dangerous man, Joseph."
"Damn straight."
"Come with me to the head, there might be bugs in there."
"Up yours." Joe closed his eye again, smiling.
Methos felt his throat tighten. Yielding to an impulse, he leaned over and kissed Joe on the temple, then hastily climbed off the end of the bed, careful not to jar either man. "Not on the first date, pal," came Joe's affectionate mumble behind him. Methos moved as steadily as he could into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Staggering to the sink, he leaned against it and stared in horror at the bloody spectacle he saw in the mirror.
Swearing softly, he glanced down at himself. He was dressed in his coat, which was now bloodstained and tattered, and nothing else. Sighing, he let the coat fall to the floor, then got into the tub and ran some warm water. He washed the gore from his body, then stuck his head under the faucet and rinsed the blood from his hair and face. It took a while to get clean.
Methos knew he should be thinking about what he and this gang of lunatics, who'd apparently surgically attached themselves to him, should do next. He should be trying to anticipate Lucius' next move. He should be forming a plan to protect his family, and himself. And he couldn't. He couldn't think at all. He was exhausted and numb and without any inkling of an idea of what to do about Lucius or anything else.
Methos turned off the water, climbed out of the tub, and methodically toweled himself off. Then, without any other choice, he put the coat on again, grimacing at the feel of the crusted blood against his skin. He needed some fresh air to clear his head. Then he'd figure out how to get Clan MacLeod out of harm's way, whether they liked it or not.
He opened the bathroom door and crept past Amanda and Richie to the door to the deck, which stood open. A tall, fair-haired Immortal man turned from his watch on the water to face him.
"Raphael," said Methos, smiling in surprise and recognition.
"My lord," replied Raphael softly, bowing slightly.
Methos laughed uncomfortably. "I haven't been anything like a lord in a long time."
"You will always be so to me."
Methos briefly thanked whatever deities present that Joe wasn't here to hear this; he would never have heard the end of it. "Thank you."
"Joanna is in the pilot house. Shall I summon her?"
"No. I just need some time alone to think."
"The bow is unoccupied."
"And visible from every area of the deck," returned Methos wryly.
Raphael blinked. "Truly, my lord? What a fortunate coincidence."
Methos chuckled and offered the man his hand. "It's good to see you again, Raph."
"As it is to see you, my lord." Raphael took his hand warmly; he was smiling as Methos turned toward the bow.
Methos saw half a dozen Immortals on the deck as he made his way forward through the mist, and sensed a good many others he couldn't see. Joanna was taking no chances with his safety. He moved as far forward has he possibly could, studying the sky and water, enjoying the feel of the clean wind on his skin. The sun would be rising soon. He would need a plan by then. But the future eluded him. His thoughts were rooted in the recent past, in the horror and agony of that little room in the wine cellar. And of Duncan.
It was dark, too dark to run so quickly through such thick woods. Yet he ran wildly, heart pounding in his ears as he fended off with bleeding hands the tendrils of vine and small limbs that ensnared him and knocked him off balance. His limbs were weak with the effort of many hours of flight, and the taste of his own blood was on his tongue as he labored for breath. Every movement caused a fresh parting of the barely rejoined flesh around an agonizing wound in his side, preventing its healing. The cold night air cut through his wet clothing and sliced into his skin; his feet ached as if from long submersion in icy water. Behind him an enraged and frenzied chorus of raised voices echoed briefly and then struck flatly against the ancient tree boles. An occasional glint of torchlight glared upon limbs and leaves, casting wild and deep shadows. He dodged the flicker of light and stumbled into a shallow hollow in the darkness, leaning one hand against a tree as he struggled to breathe.
Not my hand.
He managed with difficulty to focus his attention on the hand resting against the rough bark. Long, slender fingers... Pale skin visible under the blood...
A loud cry behind him started his legs moving again, moving up the gentle slope out of the hollow; but he was almost immediately cut off by a rapidly approaching band of torch flames, each swaying to its own erratic, searching rhythm as the man holding it tried to pierce the pitch shadows of the trees. He turned to his left and pelted away at as rapid a pace as his exhausted body would permit, gasping from pain and shortness of breath at every step. A large outcropping of rock provided temporary cover, and he paused again, leaning his back against the cold crags and looking down to examine his wound.
Not my clothes.
The body beneath his hands was long and lean, and dressed in white linen. Who...? How...?
"Demon!"
The hoarse shout came from his left, and he instinctively ran in the opposite direction, only to collide with the forest of human limbs that had waited, amid the smoke of doused torches, to enmesh him. He was thrown violently to the ground and savagely kicked as his arms were bound tightly behind him.
"We have caught the demon; his servants have escaped us."
"He will tell us where they have gone."
A blow to the base of his skull sent him wandering through a dark forest of a different kind; a forest of terrified faces, of flames lighting the night sky, of screams from both fleeing and dying, and of blood. It gave way, slowly, to the sensation of the sapling he was chained to digging into his back as yet another knife sank into his abdomen. He heard screaming-his own screams, and yet not so. The guttural muttering of harsh voices cut into his ears as incessantly as the knives cut into his flesh.
"Where are they? Your daughter? Your servants? Speak!"
"Far away. You'll never find them."
Not his voice.
"Where? In which direction are they headed?"
"Damn you! Leave them alone!"
"You will tell us soon, demon."
An agonizing death came, then an agonizing rebirth; then death again...and again...and again. His throat's death rattle became as familiar and as welcome as the ancient lullabies he dimly remembered hearing sung long ago. The torchlight revealed faces made brutal with hatred and terror.
"He lives again."
"The tales are true; he cannot die."
"He must be destroyed."
"Fire. Fire will destroy him. Burn him!"
Not me. It's not me. It's...
Wood was hastily stacked around him and in his lap; then both he and the wood were doused liberally with oil.
"We send you back to the realm of demons, Methos of Ur."
The stench and heat of the torch reached him long seconds before he saw the flame; long enough to sense it coming, long enough to writhe against his bonds in desperation. He did not actually see the flame until it was thrust into his face, igniting his long hair. He screamed, pulling away from the small blaze before his eyes in a senseless and futile attempt to separate himself from it. The torch traveled down his clothing, setting it ablaze also, and then was shoved into the pile of wood. His entire body was engulfed in flames almost instantly, and the piercing torment of fire consuming his flesh enveloped him, forcing a constant, high-pitched shriek from his throat as he thrashed wildly and pointlessly in his chains.
"Methos!"
"Whoa! Easy, easy!" Someone grabbed his shoulders, and Duncan shoved him away roughly. He stared into the man's face for a few seconds before he recognized him. Joe sat in the bed beside him, eyes wide, one hand still gripping Duncan's shoulder firmly. "It's me."
"Mac," said Richie shakily. "Breathe, man. It was a nightmare."
Duncan pulled his gaze from Joe to stare at Richie, then Amanda, then Joanna. "Methos," he rasped his heart still pounding. "Where's Methos?"
"He's up on deck," said Joanna. "Raphael was here a moment ago to let us know."
"On deck? Are you out of your mind?" Duncan struggled out of the bed, tripping over the sheets, and fell to his hands and knees. "With that madman out there looking for him?"
"He isn't alone, Duncan." Amanda helped him to his feet, visibly shaken.
"There are twenty Immortals up there, half of whom owe Methos their lives." Joanna came forward with a glass of water. "They would die before they would allow harm to come to him. Drink."
Duncan took the glass in his shaking hand, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to ask for something stronger. Much stronger. He sank to sit on the bed and downed the water in one gulp. "Any news of Lucius?"
"The rest of my people are still searching. They haven't found anything yet."
"You should send some of your people here into town."
"Not a chance," said Joanna grimly. "That would leave us with too few to defend the barge. I won't risk any of you again."
"If we don't find that psycho soon, he's going to hire himself some fresh goons and come looking for us." Richie started pacing.
"This is ridiculous," snapped Amanda. "We can't possibly search all of Paris. We don't even know he's still in the city."
"He's here. He knows Methos is alive. He won't leave until he's dead." Joanna's voice was flat, expressionless, but it made Duncan's stomach turn over.
"Son of a bitch." Richie's voice went thick with emotion. "He'll have to go through me first."
"Get in line," muttered Joe, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to sit beside Duncan.
"Maybe we're coming at this from the wrong end," said Duncan quietly, relieved to see his hands steadying. Methos had been right. The whiskey had only made things worse.
Joanna shot him a quizzical look. "Which end do you suggest?"
"Shapiro."
"Why would he be any easier to track than Lucius?" demanded Amanda impatiently.
Duncan shrugged. "He's the weakest link. I doubt he's enjoying the company he's keeping."
Richie snorted. "Yeah, that's a safe bet. Lucius isn't stupid. He's got to know Shapiro didn't bring us to his house for milk and cookies. Shapiro's not going to stay alive if he doesn't give Lucius something else to think about."
Duncan looked up, startled. "Something to think about?"
"Don't start that again," sighed Amanda, sinking onto the couch.
Richie threw himself into the chair beside her. "Come on, Amanda. He was scared shitless. And what about the doors?"
"What about them? They were stuck."
"Right. Stuck. You can bet your life that's not what he tells Lucius."
"Tell Lucius? Why the hell would he tell Lucius?"
Richie snorted again. "What else has he got?"
"So he tells him what? That he had a Jacob Marley moment in downtown Paris? What is that going to buy him?"
"What the hell are you two talking about?" snapped Joe.
"Shapiro freaked out in the church. He was talking to someone who wasn't there." Amanda crossed her arms across her chest and glared at Richie as if daring him to contradict her.
"To someone we couldn't see," corrected Richie, looking at Duncan.
Duncan felt a stab of unease he couldn't quite define. "Who?"
"Who knows? Do I know what bottle he was drinking from?" Amanda glared at him as if he were personally responsible for her unsettling experience.
"I think we know who it was," retorted Richie over his shoulder.
"What are you saying?" demanded Joe. "Spell it out for me, Rich, I don't have all my oars in the water at the moment."
"He saw Darius, man. He saw Darius." Richie was uncharacteristically sober, almost reverent.
"He said that?" Joe's voice turned sharp.
"I think what's important is what he says to Lucius." Duncan regarded Joanna soberly. "Maybe you should have one of your people keep an eye on St. Julien's." He rose from the bed and yanked open a drawer, pulling out a sweatshirt and a pair of sweat pants, then snatched up a spare blanket from the bed. "Joe, for God's sake, go back to sleep. You look like hell. I'm going to check on Methos."
"Yeah," said Joe vaguely. "You do that."
Methos stood very still on the edge of the bow, eyes closed. God, Duncan had begged to take Methos' place. Even after he'd been gagged, he had continued to beg. Even after Nathan had taken his eyes, he could hear Duncan screaming with him at every slice and stab of the knife. Thank God Joanna had reached them in time, before Lucius had either taken Methos' head or broken him. The thought of Duncan on that table was more than he could stand. It had been such a close thing. Surviving torture was usually a matter of retreating deep enough within yourself that the pain and horror couldn't reach you. But doing that would have meant rendering himself unaware of what Duncan was going through. He couldn't do that. He hadn't even been able to make the attempt.
What was the hold the man had over him? Duncan had brought out parts of himself he had thought long buried under the weight of centuries. He had a power over Methos that in its own way was more terrifying than anything Lucius could do. What in God's name was it about this mad Scot that made him act like such a fool?
"My lord does not wish to be disturbed."
Methos started at the unexpected proximity of the voice. Raphael had evidently taken it upon himself to guard his privacy.
"I brought him something to wear."
Methos sighed. Duncan. Nanny Prime was back on line and had tracked him to his sanctuary. What a surprise.
"I will give them to him." Raphael's voice was laced with suspicion.
"It's all right, Raphael," called Methos softly over his shoulder. He watched the changing colors on the horizon as Duncan's footsteps approached him.
"You must be freezing." The voice was soft. Hesitant.
"No. I'm fine." Methos glanced at his friend and felt his throat tighten at the battered, lost look on Duncan's face. "But thanks."
"Here." Duncan handed him some sweatpants from the pile of cloth draped over his arm.
"I seem to have gone through a lot of your clothes recently." Methos shimmied into the pants gratefully, pulling the drawstring as tight as it would go.
"Yeah," said Duncan quietly. "I'll bill you later. Get this on." He handed him a sweatshirt. "And get that damn coat off." His voice shook.
Methos let the coat fall to the deck and pulled the sweatshirt over his head. "Thanks, Mac," he managed.
"I woke up and you weren't there." He draped a blanket around Methos' shoulders and pulled it around him tightly. "Scared the hell out of me for a minute."
"Sorry," whispered Methos, caught off guard by the naked feeling in Duncan's eyes. "I just wanted to see the sunrise."
"Mind if I join you?" Duncan looked and sounded profoundly unsure of his welcome.
"Of course not." Methos shook his head and turned toward the horizon again, both relieved and strangely unnerved by the presence of the man standing with a shoulder pressed to his. They stood in silence for a few seconds.
"Methos."
"Yes?"
"I've missed you."
Methos closed his eyes for a second, a hundred flippant, heart-shielding responses leaping to his mind.
"I've missed you badly." Duncan's voice broke, and the hundred disappeared into the morning mist.
"I've missed you too," whispered Methos, trying not to think about how pathetically inadequate those words were to describe the gaping wound that had opened when Duncan had ejected him from his life.
"Methos-"
"Badly."
Duncan's arm went around Methos' shoulders. "I think I know why we've been so angry with each other," he said in a strange, breathless voice.
"You do?" Methos shot Duncan a curious look, surprised.
Duncan turned from the horizon to look Methos in the eye. "Yes." He gently turned Methos to face him, pulling him close. Puzzled, Methos stared at his friend as Duncan traced the line of his jaw, then drew a startled breath as Duncan leaned in, head tilted, eyes closing, lips parted slightly. Methos let his eyes drift shut just as Duncan's mouth touched his.
The touch was so chaste at first that Methos was mildly astonished when every muscle he possessed gave way. He sagged against Duncan bonelessly, gasping into the kiss as Duncan wrapped both arms firmly around him. Methos jerked involuntarily in the embrace as Duncan's tongue brushed his lips, jolting him violently out of shock and into hunger, the sort of ravenous hunger he hadn't known since he'd last starved to death, over a century ago. He had been starving, starving for this, from this man, for God only knew how long. Groaning, he opened his mouth and drew Duncan inside him, urging him on with light, hot, wet touches of lips and tongue. Duncan caressed every surface of Methos' mouth and tongue with a tender urgency that made Methos groan again and twist his shaking fingers into Duncan's shirt, pulling him even closer. It seemed a long time and a world away when that loving tongue finally retreated. Methos lowered his forehead to Duncan's shoulder, breathing hard.
"Oh," said Methos faintly, stunned.
"Oh," breathed Duncan in his ear. "I love you."
Methos fought an irrational and completely inappropriate impulse to laugh. All the mystery, the angst, the philosophical and psychological delving into the meaning of life, Immortality and the eternal pain in the ass that was Duncan MacLeod, and this was the answer? There was truly no fool like an old one.
His every encounter with Duncan MacLeod cascaded past his mind's eye, each one perceived with fresh perspective. God. He'd told Duncan who he was seconds after meeting him. He'd offered him his head less than twenty-four hours later. He'd spent the past three years trying to protect him at ridiculous risk to himself. When their friendship had faltered, he'd fallen into a drunken, suicidal depression that would very likely have been fatal, had it not been for the absurd intervention of Nannies to Go. Exactly when had he fallen in love with this windmill-tilting child? The moment he'd laid eyes on him? Very likely.
And when exactly had Duncan decided that he loved Methos?
"Mac." Methos lifted his head and met Duncan's anxious gaze squarely, struggling to frame a coherent thought. "I'm the same man I was yesterday, two weeks ago, six months ago."
"Yes. I know you are. But I'm not." Duncan kissed his forehead, and Methos felt his jaw drop at the admission. Well, if the boat hadn't rocked before, it was rocking now. "Please. Tell me I'm not too late. Tell me I was right."
"You're not too late," said Methos weakly, letting Duncan keep him upright. "You were right, Duncan."
Duncan sighed in open relief and kissed his temple. "I'm an idiot, Methos."
"Yeah, well," murmured Methos wryly, leaning into the caress. "The queue forms here."
"Forgive me," whispered Duncan. "God, what I've put you through."
"Mac, it wasn't just you."
"I couldn't accept it. I couldn't see you at all."
"God knows I made it as difficult for you to accept as I possibly could," said Methos quietly, knowing it was true. "I'm as much to blame as you are."
"No. I had no right to judge you. None. I don't know how I forgot who you are, but I did. I even forgot what you've done for me. I forgot everything that was important. Everything, except that I was angry."
"You had good reason to be angry." Methos forced his eyes open. "I was cruel."
Duncan actually flinched. "No. No, you-"
"I was cruel, Mac. I do cruel very well."
"You do kind better. If you didn't, I'd be dead now, half a dozen times over."
"I was furious," confessed Methos quietly. "As if you could be expected to make good on my absurd fantasies. I'm sorry."
"Fantasies?"
"Never mind. It doesn't matter." Methos hastily evaded his searching gaze, shocked that he might have revealed too much, even to himself.
"It matters. It's important to me. Please."
Well, that was vintage MacLeod. Always wanting to hear truths he wasn't ready for. Truths that Methos wasn't ready for. But Methos knew he couldn't deny Duncan anything today. "It was just a lie I told myself. That you already knew. All of you. That you accepted it. That you still liked me. That you all loved me, in fact, and wanted me around. It was a hell of a lot more pleasant than the plain fact that I was deceiving you, and that the moment you learned the truth I'd be cast out." Methos saw the horror in Duncan's face, heard his own voice break, and cursed under his breath, turning his head to survey the reddening clouds on the horizon. "I'm quite capable of bending reality when sufficiently motivated, you know. And this little clan is more motivation than I've had in a long time."
"Clan," whispered Duncan, eyes wide and face white, as if some revelation had dawned for him. "Kin."
Methos' eyes stung. "Yes."
"God. Methos."
Methos forced a dismissive laugh from his lungs, but couldn't speak.
"You are kin." Duncan yanked him closer. "What I did was..." He buried his face against Methos' cheek as his voice failed. "I know what it is to be cast out. Forgive me. Please. We know now. And we do still love you. That will never change. You'll never be cast out again."
Methos felt the tears that had threatened to spill so many times in the past two days finally hit his cheek. He blinked impatiently. Stupid. Sentimental. Rubbish. Bloody dangerous rubbish, for each and every one of them. And he didn't care. He wanted this. He wanted kin. He wanted, needed, loved Duncan MacLeod and his clan of idiots, and he-they-were worth any price the universe exacted in return. "I love you," Methos whispered fiercely.
"Thank God for that." Duncan let out a shaky little sigh. "Because I haven't finished apologizing yet."
Methos laughed raggedly. "Pace yourself, Mac, you'll strain something."
Duncan didn't take the bait. "I've been cruel, too, Methos." He kissed Methos' forehead. Methos closed his eyes and went still, relishing the touch. "I've taken someone you loved from you."
"Yes," said Methos quietly.
"I would give him back to you if I could. I don't know why I challenged him. He hadn't killed. Mike could have walked away; he chose not to." Methos nodded and leaned forward to rest his head on Duncan's shoulder again, unable to stand the torment in the man's voice. Duncan wrapped his arms around him tightly. "I've never challenged a man for being a bad influence before. Methos. I think I was jealous of him."
Methos swallowed a groan.
"Did I murder him?" Duncan's voice broke.
"No." Methos managed, with difficulty, to croak out the word. "You challenged him. You followed the rules of the Game."
"Damn the Game," said Duncan thickly. "God, Methos. I hate the Game. It's a disease, a cancer. I killed a man. A flawed man, but one with less blood on his hands than mine. I didn't kill him to defend myself or to protect someone. I killed him because I was jealous. And we're supposed to believe that because I followed the Rules, I'm guiltless? I'm not guiltless, Methos."
"No," said Methos unevenly. "You're not. None of us are. Don't do this, Mac. You'll take yourself apart. Nothing can bring him back. The best you can do is forgive yourself and live, and make damn sure that somebody in this world is better off for it."
Duncan caressed Methos' back gently. "Salvation, Methos?"
"The only kind I know."
"That takes a lot of faith."
"I had a good teacher," whispered Methos. "I have faith in faith."
Duncan was silent for a moment. "So do I," he murmured. "And in you. Will you tell me you forgive me? Please. I need to hear the words, just once, and then I'll let it go."
Methos raised his head and looked into Duncan's tear-stained face. "I forgive you, Duncan. And you?"
Duncan looked startled. "Me?"
"Do you forgive me?"
"For what?"
Methos glared in exasperation.
Duncan glared back. "Trying to live a decent life? Wanting to be loved?"
"Let's start with being a butcher." Methos made no effort to ameliorate his harsh tone.
Duncan didn't respond; he studied Methos so carefully, with such a thoughtful expression, that Methos felt his skin begin to crawl and his temper rise.
"Don't fool yourself. I still have that inside me; let anyone come for me or mine and I will kill without compunction. And some part of me will enjoy it. If you're looking for Death on a horse, Mac, that's where you'll find him."
Duncan nodded slowly and laid a hand on Methos' chest. "But not here," he whispered. "Yes?"
Methos' anger collapsed like house of cards in a warm breeze; he closed his eyes and fell forward to lean his forehead on Duncan's shoulder again, the image of Sebastian rising before his mind's eye so vividly he felt he could touch him. "Yes," he said brokenly. "Yes, Mac."
Duncan kissed his cheek and held him tightly. "There's so much I don't understand about you," he whispered. "I want to. Help me?"
Methos nodded wordlessly, overcome.
"Good. But I need you to know that I understand this much. You're my brother. You're a good man. And when you needed me, I failed you."
"I failed you, too," rasped Methos, blinking hard. He had underestimated this man badly. What would have happened if he'd told Duncan the truth from the beginning? Could the whole sorry mess of Cassandra and Kronos have been avoided? He'd never know. "We failed each other. Spectacularly."
"And that isn't going to happen again." Duncan sounded as unshakably adamant as Methos had ever heard him.
"No," said Methos softly, astounded that he actually believed it. "It isn't." He swallowed hard. "Forgive me, Duncan. I need to hear the words. Just once."
Duncan slipped his hands up Methos' arms to cradle his face carefully, tilting it upward. "I forgive you, Methos." He bent down and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
Methos wrapped his arms around Duncan's waist, deepening the kiss, vaguely aware that the painfully soul-deep ache that had tormented him for months was dissipating, just as the mist around them was yielding to the morning's light and returning warmth. He clung to his friend, lightheaded at the sensations. No one, not even an Immortal, ever fully appreciated the absence of pain.
Duncan released Methos' mouth with obvious reluctance. "You're missing your sunrise, kinsman," he whispered tenderly.
Methos' vision blurred as he whispered his reply in Gaelic. "That I am not. You are my sunrise."
Duncan drew a sharp breath at that, then drew his arms around Methos' shoulders, pulled him close and laid his cheek against his. Methos stood very still, eyes closed, savoring the present, the joy of being held, the peace of being loved; pain and fear and Lucius Germanicus seemed nothing more than a childhood nightmare.
Then Methos sighed and let the illusion pass. "Mac. Lucius."
"I know." Duncan's voice was gentle; his hands traveled soothingly over Methos' back.
"I should have a plan," said Methos quietly. "I don't. I'm tired, Mac."
"We'll think of something. We can do this, Methos. All of us, together."
"I can't risk that. We should split up and leave Paris. He'll follow me; that will take the pressure off you and the Order for a while."
"And when he finds you?"
"Remember who you're talking to. He won't find me until I'm ready for him to."
"And then?"
"That's the part I don't have worked out yet."
"You are tired, aren't you?" Duncan was actually chuckling, if a little edgily. "Do you really think anyone on this boat is going to let you hare off into the night-"
"It's almost five in the morning."
"-with that maniac at your heels, alone? Hell, I wouldn't give you decent odds of getting past Joe, let alone the rest of us."
"So I stay here and hide? Wait for Lucius to murder my-" Methos hesitated.
"Your kin," said Duncan gently.
Methos forged ahead, more grateful for Duncan's understanding than he could deal with. "-my kin, one by one?"
"It won't come to that. We'll find another way, Methos. Give us a chance."
Methos pulled back enough to look at him. "We don't have time for this," he said impatiently. "I should have been on the road hours ago."
"That's impossible," returned Duncan, with the mildness of the maniacally obstinate. "I gave you my word that I wouldn't go anywhere without you. Where you go, I go."
Methos regarded the man with narrowed eyes. God! The man was a menace, a plague! Frustrated, Methos let fly a string of soft but heatedly articulated Gaelic obscenities; Duncan had the decency to look impressed. "When," spat Methos finally, "in all the time you have known me, have I ever endangered myself unnecessarily? What you know about strategy wouldn't fill a specimen bottle, MacLeod. Listen to someone older and wiser. We cannot allow him any more time to recover. If we do, he will hire himself a bigger, better army, and everyone here will be dead inside twenty-four hours. That is not going to happen."
"I agree. So let's go below, talk to everyone, and come up with something fast. Unless you'd rather stand here flapping your mouth. By the way, you have very attractive feet."
Glaring, Methos snatched up his coat. Something fluttered out of it to the deck, but before he could pick it up, Duncan had it in his hand. Methos scowled at what looked like a little piece of paper or a card, struggling to remember what he'd been carrying around with him all that time, but he abandoned his efforts at the look on Duncan's face. "Mac?"
Duncan swallowed and handed it over. Methos took it, realizing immediately what it was. "Oh." He stared down at the photograph of himself and Duncan, feeling as if it were an artifact from another time, another planet. "I...picked this up when I was tidying. Meant to give it back to you," he lied quickly. He offered it to Duncan, battling a weird reluctance to let it go, but found himself bent over backwards with Duncan's mouth moving over his, Duncan's tongue caressing his, before he'd taken another breath. Methos gasped in startled delight and wrapped his arms around Duncan's neck, closing his eyes.
A discreet cough caught Methos' attention, but Duncan seemed oblivious. Someone cleared their throat, louder this time, and Methos sighed into the kiss and tapped Duncan's shoulder. Duncan broke away, then dropped another impertinent kiss on Methos' nose. "She's right," he breathed tenderly. "You're an old fraud."
"My lord." Raphael's voice was firm but unruffled; Methos ruefully considered the fact that he'd seen his master indulge in far more lunatic behavior than this.
Duncan straightened hastily and swung Methos into an upright position, his face a deep red. Well, you could take the boy out of Glenfinnan. Occasionally. "Yes?"
"We'll be docking in a moment to refuel. It would be best if you went below." Raphael was suitably sober, but Methos could see laughter in the man's eyes. He kept his own face straight with an effort.
"He's right," said Duncan, laying a hand on Methos' back. He plucked the photo from Methos' hand and slid it into the breast pocket of his jacket. "Let's go."
"Any other mortal dangers in the vicinity?" asked Methos drily, eyeing the fueling station with a dubious eye. The attendant lounged in the shade well away from the pumps; one lone figure sat forlornly at the dock's edge. "Loose floorboards? Mice? Mold?" He pulled the blanket Duncan had given him around him, shivering in the cold wind.
"Move." Duncan gave him a gentle push in the direction of the direction of the door to the hold as the engines shut down for the approach to the dock. The silence was slightly unnerving after the reassuring hum of the engines.
Methos sighed and made his way down the length of the barge, nodding at the greetings of the Immortals who knew him; he hadn't seen most of them in centuries. He was nearly to the door before he realized that Duncan wasn't behind him. Turning, he saw that Raphael had blocked Duncan's path a few feet behind him, and was speaking far too softly for Methos to hear. Damn. Methos hurried back in time to catch Duncan's answer.
"You won't have to. If anything happens to him, I'll give it to you."
"Trouble, Raph?" asked Methos sharply.
"No, my lord. None at all." Raphael stood aside, watching with an impassive expression as Duncan passed.
"Let's go," said Duncan casually, turning Methos toward the hold again. "Maybe we can find some of Amanda's chicken soup lying around here somewhere."
"You'll give him what?" demanded Methos in an undertone.
"It's impolite to eavesdrop. How long have you known Raphael?"
"Thirty centuries or so, but I haven't seen him in a long time. Why? What did he say?"
"He's very devoted to you."
Methos groaned inwardly. Well, it had been bound to happen. The Nannies were preparing to eat their young. "Look, MacLeod-"
"Hey! Hey! You got a Joe Dawson over there?"
Methos turned in astonishment toward the bow just as the barge came alongside the fueling station, and caught sight of the young man who had been sitting at the edge of the dock jumping to his feet. "What the hell?" he muttered. Every member of the Order on deck drew their weapons in eerie unison.
"Go below," said Duncan quietly. "This can't be good."
"Joe Dawson! I'm looking for Joe Dawson! Is he there?"
"Who is asking?" barked Jochen, emerging from the pilot house with a semi-automatic pistol in one hand.
"My lord," hissed Raphael, hurrying to intercept Methos as he tried to move forward. "Go below at once."
"I've got a package for him! Come on, man, I've been waiting here since 3 a.m. Is he there or not?" Clearly annoyed, the young man swung himself aboard, only to find himself surrounded by a dozen gun barrels. Gasping, he backed up against the side, almost toppling over. Duncan took off across the deck in his direction, and Methos started after him, only to be blocked by Raphael again.
"Who are you and who sent you?" Tasha demanded in a lethal tone.
"Whoa, whoa!" Duncan planted himself firmly between the weapons and the messenger, holding his hands out with an amazed expression. "He's just a kid."
"Yeah," squeaked the messenger, hunkering down in an undignified position on the deck. "What he said."
"Who sent you?" Jochen joined the group surrounding the stranger.
"My boss! Mercury Courier Service, okay? I've got a package for Joe Dawson. I'm supposed to wait here until the boat he's on shows up. If I've got the wrong boat, just let me off!"
"Put the guns away," ordered Methos in exasperation, and was marginally surprised when most of the Order complied. Jochen looked over his shoulder and regarded him defiantly for a split second, then obeyed; the younger Immortals followed his lead. Methos turned his gaze to Raphael, who sighed and stepped aside, allowing him to pass. "You've got the right boat. Where's the package?"
The boy hastily pulled his backpack off his shoulder and pulled out an approximately twelve-inch square box wrapped in brown paper and twine. "You Dawson?"
"Yeah, that's me." Methos spoke in a mild tone as he made his way through the circle of glowering Immortals. "Don't mind them, they've had a rough night." Squatting, he took the offered package from the boy's shaking hands. He was surprised to catch a glimpse of the pure, open affection on Duncan's face and felt his own go strangely hot. What the hell possessed the man now?
"Whatever you say, man. You gotta sign." The boy shoved the book into Methos' hands, and Methos forged Joe's signature, admiring his handiwork. He'd always been a good forger. He grinned to himself, imagining MacLeod's reaction to the nefarious, if less bloody, episodes of his past. A whole new world of MacLeod-baiting had opened up; he felt giddy at the possibilities.
"There you go. Mac, give him a tip, will you? I don't have any pockets." He picked up the package, which felt strangely heavy for its size, and moved away.
"Gee, thanks," Duncan muttered, turning toward the rapidly retreating messenger; Methos restrained another grin with difficulty. "Here you go."
"Drop in anytime," called Methos as the boy scrambled over the side and dashed down the dock toward the safety of dry land.
"Forgive my impudence, my lord," said Raphael with obviously thinning patience, "but you are mad."
"You're forgiven, Raph." Methos moved to an open spot and sat cross-legged on the deck. "Does anybody have a knife?"
Jochen swore loudly in ancient Teutonic and flung a knife into the deck beside Methos; it struck the deck and sank into it, its handle quivering. "You are insane, Methos of Ur! You must know whom that package is from. You have just confirmed our location."
"We'll be long gone by the time that information reaches him. Provided, of course," Methos lifted his eyes to Jochen's and held his gaze, "that you get on with refueling this glorified sardine can and not waste any more time waving your guns about. Understood?"
"You do not command me," hissed Jochen.
"Fine," returned Methos coolly. "Tasha, will you please see to the refueling, and get us under way as soon as possible?"
"Immediately, Methos," replied Tasha, her tone laced with satisfaction. She turned and started shouting to the attendant for service. Jochen glowered and swung away toward the stern.
"Somebody got out on the wrong side of the bed this morning," murmured Methos, pulling the knife from the deck.
"Methos. Let me do that." Duncan squatted beside him as the rest of the Order gathered around him. "We have no idea-"
"I think we do. Relax, Mac. Lucius doesn't do incendiary devices. Not his style." Methos cut the twine, and the brown paper unfolded neatly, like a blossoming flower, to reveal a metal box.
"Be careful, Methos." Methos glanced up, startled to see Joanna and Amanda standing behind Raphael, their expressions grim. "We can't make any assumptions about his behavior at this point. He is desperate."
Methos nodded and lifted the lid carefully, then flipped it back, aghast.
"Christ Jesus," hissed Duncan.
"Well," said Amanda unevenly. "That's a damned mess."
Jack Shapiro's empty eye sockets gaped obscenely at them, his twisted mouth wide open in a silent scream; the cloth beneath his severed neck was soaked in blood.
Methos took a deep breath and looked up at Duncan, who stared down at the desecrated flesh in frank horror. It never ceased to amaze Methos that Duncan, a warrior and successful Immortal combatant for centuries, still had it in him to be horrified at such an atrocity. The murmur that swept through the group of Immortals around them was equally divided between repugnance and satisfaction; Methos felt the same ambivalence within himself. If anyone had deserved this-and granted that in all likelihood no one did-then it had been Jack Shapiro. Methos regarded the head through narrowed eyes, doing his level best to quell his satisfaction. At least the bastard had paid for putting his damned hands on Joe and Duncan, to say nothing of the slaughter of the Order. Wherever Johann Zwirner and Étienne Dupré might be, they were probably resting a little easier.
"The beast has fed." Joanna's voice was quiet.
"His presentation isn't up to its usual standard," muttered Methos, peering into the box.
"You're looking for something," said Duncan in a strained voice.
"He's on the run. He doesn't have access to his usual resources at the moment. He went to a lot of trouble to send us this little gift."
"So? He's a sadist, Methos. He'll go to the trouble because he knows the reaction this will produce."
"Really? I think he knows better. Do you see anybody here shedding tears for Jack Shapiro? I nearly killed him myself two nights ago." Methos waited, gauging Duncan's reaction, but Duncan only nodded thoughtfully.
"You don't think this is a threat?"
"He wouldn't bother. Not with us. We know exactly what he wants with us. There has to be something else." Grimacing, Methos lifted the head out of the box and set it on the deck, then pulled the cloth from the box.
"My lord," said Raphael sharply. "The cloth. Look at the cloth."
Methos stared up at him. "What about it?" It looked like ordinary white linen to him.
Duncan picked up an embroidered edge that somehow had remained free of the gore. "Oh, no," he murmured.
Peering at the edge closely, Methos recognized the symbols. "An altar cloth," he said wonderingly. "What-"
"Methos, look at the pattern," whispered Joanna.
Methos regarded the embroidery blankly, at a loss.
"It's the altar cloth from St. Julien's," said Duncan very quietly.
St. Julien's. Darius'church.
"Not a threat," murmured Methos in sudden comprehension. "An invitation."
"A trap," snapped Raphael.
Methos sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Of course it is. But do you think he's been able to recruit new soldiers this quickly?"
"Unlikely," said Joanna crisply. "But not impossible."
"If he hasn't, he's setting himself up to be captured," said Duncan, frowning. "We outnumber him significantly. Why would he send this to us?"
"To be precise, he sent it to Joe." Methos' stomach plummeted the moment the words left his mouth. Dropping the cloth, he scanned the faces around him wildly. "Where's Joe?"
"He was right behind me when we came on deck." Joanna glanced behind her, then turned to Methos with wide eyes. "You don't think-"
"Check the damn hold!" snapped Methos to Duncan, who took off like a bat out of hell. Methos shoved his way through the crowd of Immortals and vaulted over the side of the barge onto the dock, vaguely aware that Raphael was at his heels. "You there!" he shouted to the attendant in French. The large man opened his eyes and regarded him with the supercilious annoyance of a Parisian rudely awakened from a well-deserved morning nap. "Did you see a grey-haired man pass by here?"
"Perhaps," returned the attendant in an indolent tone, leaning back in his chair.
Methos strode up to him, keeping a lid on his panic and temper with difficulty. "Perhaps?"
"Perhaps I saw him. Perhaps he gave me twenty francs not to see him. Then again, perhaps I didn't see him at all."
Methos let loose something akin to a snarl, seized the man by the front of his shirt, and hauled him out of his chair and nose to nose. "Perhaps you will tell me where he went," he hissed in the man's face. "before I break your damned neck."
"He's not in the hold," came Duncan's shout from behind him. Then a weary, "Oh, damn."
"Let me go! Are you mad, monsieur?" The attendant struggled ineffectually, clearly frightened.
"My lord," murmured Raphael in Persian. "Do not injure him."
"Methos, let him go!" Duncan's voice was closer, but Methos' only response was to press his thumbs into the man's Adam's apple.
"Tell me," persisted Methos coldly, riding the crest of a blood rage. "You have two seconds."
"He asked me to call him a taxi! It came only two minutes ago, and he and his friend got into it. They've gone, I don't know where!" gasped the man, clutching at Methos' hands.
Methos flung the man back into his chair and bolted down the dock toward the shore. By the time he reached the street, no vehicle was to be seen. Methos stared first in one direction, then the other, unwilling to accept the fact that Joe had actually done this mad thing, that Lucius had known he'd do it, that Methos had been too stupid to anticipate it, that there was no way to stop Joe. No way at all. He started at the touch of gentle hands on his shoulders.
"Joanna's called one of her people with a car. He's five minutes away. We'll stop them, Methos." Duncan's voice was grim but steady.
"Them?" whispered Methos, leaning back against his friend.
"Richie's gone too."
"They don't stand a chance," said Methos dully. "He'll kill them both before we can get there."
