"Just say die and that would be pessimistic
In your mind we can walk across the water
Please don't cry it's just a prayer for the dying
I just don't know what's got into me"

"Prayer for the Dying" - Seal

09 November 1999
Paris, France

Inside Saint-Vincent it was dark, the evening light of the overcast sky outside filtering through the nearly two centuries old leaded windows. Candles supplied the only other light. The place was silent; the world outside was reduced to a muted nothingness.

O'Banian halted, trying to sense anyone else, again wondering if she was alone. She already knew what she would do if she were…she'd run. Standing up for herself was one thing. Standing completely alone was entirely another. She might be dumb, but she wasn't stupid.

After allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she moved forward, noting the beautifully maintained oak pews that gleamed with fresh lemon wax. The smell tickled her nose, reminding her of her childhood. She slowly made her way up the aisle, suppressing the urge to drop to her knees and genuflect before the altar. Her eyes scanned the shadows for Patrick.

O'Banian ran one hand wearily across her eyes. The dull headache she had had since waking up on Wednesday morning was still bothering her. It was to be expected when one's brains had been splattered across the walls. The memory still made her shudder. She tried to remember the last time she had slept properly. Friday. Was it only four days ago? It seemed like a lifetime.

The murmur of voices dragged her back to alertness. There were three, no, four - all male. One was Patrick's - the rich Irish timbre of his voice unmistakable. He'd always had a voice that commanded attention - even as a child. She had listened to the stories he read to her, enchanted more by the sound of him than the story content. He had the same effect with his sermons, the congregation sitting spellbound.

"I'm sorry, I know nothing of these Immortals that you speak of. My son, I more than most are well aware that the Lord works in mysterious ways, but seriously. Do you honestly expect me to believe in people who live forever?" Patrick chuckled.

Hunters.

O'Banian looked around, searching for an escape route. Her eyes fell on a heavy, red velvet curtain at the back of the church. She suspected it covered the stairs to the choir balcony.

"Cut the bullshit, Father. You know about Immortals. Your sister is one. Siobhan O'Banian. To deny it will just make things that much harder for you." It was a nasal American accent, not quite New York but getting there. And getting closer.

"My sister, Siobhan, died in 1974 at the Guildford pub bombings." Patrick managed to sound indignant, and Siobhan smiled slightly at the Catholic priest's amazing ability to lie so well.

O'Banian moved hurriedly back down the aisle, careful not to make a sound. It crossed her mind that one of the four might be Immortal and able to sense her. She would have to keep her distance. She pushed aside the curtain. There was an archway to the right, leading back behind the church. Stone stairs rose in front of her, leading to the choir balcony above. Soundless, O'Banian climbed them.

She stopped at the sound of a crisp slap, flesh of hand meeting flesh of face.

"I told you, Father, that things would go easier if you told us the truth and I meant it." This voice was English, upper class and educated. "Now, the Immortal Council that is to meet here this evening, what is to be your role in it?"

"And I told you, I don't…" The sentence was cut off by the dull sound of a fist hitting a body and a deep "Oof."

O'Banian froze, her blood running cold.

"If you think that being a priest will protect you, Father, think again," another American accent warned, this one with a slight Texas drawl. "I've killed children and not thought twice about it. Killing an old priest won't even make confession for me."

Quickly, O'Banian climbed the stone stairs. She needed to be able to see what was happening. She didn't doubt that all four Hunters were armed and charging out from behind the curtain would only get her killed in a blaze of glory.

Once on the balcony, she dropped her bag, quietly unzipping it and removing her revolver. The front retaining wall was about a meter high and made of intricately carved stone. Unless she gave them reason to look up, she should be able to move behind it freely. Crouching down, she moved cautiously along the front, ducking low.

She had been wrong; there were seven of them, not four. And two of them were women. All sported long coats and severe expressions.

Patrick knelt on the floor. Four of the Hunters circled him, while the other three stood off to the side - taking notes or supervising, O'Banian couldn't be sure which. What she was sure about was that Patrick was in trouble. She could hear his raspy breath and low moans.

O'Banian muttered a Gaelic oath and checked her weapon. She had found the .357 Magnum under her bed, beside her sword. Someone had wanted her to know that they could have taken her head, but didn't. Although she had a very good idea who that someone was, she wasn't sure if she was relieved - or simply pissed off.

"All right, Father O'Banian, I will ask you one last time, then I let Juan here give it a try." The Englishman spoke again. "I should mention that Juan learned his trade during his stint in South America. One of those countries not exactly known for their upholding of human rights, if you catch my meaning."

A dark haired, olive skinned man to the left of the Englishman smiled, the humor not reaching his eyes.

She had to do something now - she couldn't just wait it out. Fitting the muzzle of the gun between the stone carving in the wall, O'Banian took a deep breath. She thought briefly about the injunction against Immortals fighting on holy ground and wondered if that applied to combat against mortals, as well. Still unsure, she called out.

"I don't think you'll be wanting to do that. Or human rights in South America won't be as much of an issue as the extra hole in your head. If you catch my meaning."

Seven heads swivelled towards the balcony and hands moved to the insides of pockets.

"Ah ah ah, I don't think so. I doubt you're reaching for your business cards. Hands where I can see them. All of you." She watched several pairs of eyes slide sideways, silently communicating with each other. "Aye, you're right, I don't have enough for all of you. But who wants to play Russian roulette with a crack IRA sniper?"

That halted the hands and the eyes. The group held a collective breath.

"Patrick, are you all right?" O'Banian asked the man still kneeling on the floor of the church. He looked up, his face pasty and damp.

"Yes, Siobhan, I think so." He struggled to his feet, weaving slightly. "I just feel…odd."

O'Banian chuckled. "Patrick, I thought I was the odd one in the family, don't be taking my place now."

Patrick O'Banian smiled weakly. He was a portly man in his late sixties. He put out a hand to the back of a pew to steady himself.

"Now, the rest of you. I'm sure you all came prepared…"

The sentence died when Patrick O'Banian dropped to the ground, one hand clutching his chest.

"Jesus Christ, Patrick?" O'Banian stood, eyes wide, attention diverted.

That gave the Hunters enough of a diversion. Guns were drawn, shots were fired.

O'Banian dove for cover behind the stone wall, a bullet ricocheting off the back wall and just missing her head. She hit the floor, rolling until she was behind the solid wall at the far side of the balcony. With a muttered oath, she looked back out, noting her gun on the floor several meters from her.

"Ms. O'Banian, glad you could make it. Perhaps you'd like to come down here before someone really gets hurt. I promise, if you cooperate, I'll cut clean the first time." It was a woman this time; the voice accented in German or Austrian, O'Banian wasn't sure which.

There was silence. O'Banian sat back, leaning against the cold stone wall of the church, trying to consider her options - of which there weren't many.

"Ms. O'Banian, I won't ask again." This time there was the unmistakable sound of a safety being released. "Your brother will die, right here - then we will come and get you. What is it going to be?"

O'Banian swore and pulled herself to her feet, shaking her head in resignation. "I'll come down. But call an ambulance for Patrick…and do it now." She waited a moment until the sound of someone speaking in French caught her ear. She heard the name and address of the church, then turned and made her way down the stairs.

She emerged from the velvet curtain to a seven-gun welcome - all Walther PPKs. O'Banian shook her head and laughed humorlessly. "Let me guess, you all think you're fucking James Bond."

A woman with blonde hair pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head glared. "It's the director's idea of a joke."

"Yeah, and I can see you're all laughing," Siobhan muttered.

The Englishman came toward her, grabbing her roughly by the arm and dragging her to the area in front of the altar. He pushed her to her knees, then reached down the back of her jacket, removing the Templar Sword. He moved, standing slightly to the left of O'Banian's left shoulder.

"Siobhan O'Banian." The woman with the accent stepped forward. "You have been tried by this tribunal of Watchers…"

O'Banian snorted. "Watchers? You're bloody Hunters. At least I can admit what I am. Are you too ashamed to admit what you are?" She eyed the woman defiantly, wondering if she would receive an answer.

The woman looked at her for a moment, then continued. "You have been tried by this tribunal and found guilty of crimes against humanity. As such you will be duly executed." With that, the woman nodded toward the Englishman and stepped away.

"You're not killing me because of any crime against humanity. You're killing me because I'm Immortal. At least have the guts to be honest. At least admit to what you are," O'Banian shouted. Her yells rained on deaf ears.

The Englishman stepped closer. "Ah," he sighed. "There is just something so...so...appropriate - in taking a head on holy ground. And with your own sword, too. Have fun in hell."

O'Banian glared up at him. "I'll be sure to say hello to Roy. No doubt we'll both end up in the same place and I doubt either of us will be sporting wings. We'll be sure to save you a place, Limey."

He lashed out with his fist, catching her across the jaw and knocking her to her side. Then he reached down, grabbing her by her long, red hair and dragging her back to a kneeling position. "I'm going to enjoy this, you stupid Irish bitch," he seethed.

O'Banian sneered at him. "Titim gan eiri ort!" (May you fall without rising!) she spat with a smile.

He snarled, and released her hair, drawing himself up to his full height.

O'Banian squeezed her eyes together, heart hammering in her chest.

Instantly, a presence swept over her, her eyes slamming open and her head coming up.

The first shot took the Englishman where he stood. The second, the blonde woman. Then pandemonium took over. Bullets flew, seeming to come from everywhere.

xxxxxxxxxx

The clock in the dash of the cab said five fifty-four and Erik Frost again peered out the window anxiously.

The driver saw his look. "Do not worry, monsieur, I will get you to Saint-Vincent by six sharp, I promise."

True to his word, the clock read five fifty-eight when the cab pulled up smoothly to beside the church.

Frost turned to LeFauve. "Guess this is it, then?"

She gave a pained expression and bit her lip. "Are you sure you won't change your mind. I have that ticket."

He shook his head. "I'm sure."

She smiled tightly. "Can't blame a girl for trying." She put her arms around his neck and pulled him close. "Be safe."

He nodded and, after a moment, pulled away. "Always am. And when it's all over, I just might need that holiday in Jamaica." Frost placed a soft kiss on her forehead, then exited the cab, not looking back when it drove away.

He took a deep breath, wondering just what kind of reception Michael Walker's message would receive. "Let's just hope they don't shoot the messenger," he muttered, pulling open the door of the church. The sound of a gunshot stopped him.

xxxxxxxxxx

O'Banian dropped to the ground, rolling to where Patrick lay unmoving on the church floor, eyes closed, face white. One second, he was lying there, his head resting on the cold stone of the church floor; the next, his head shattered in an exploding mass of brain tissue and blood.

"Noooooo!" O'Banian screamed, arm reaching out helplessly toward the priest. Flecks of cranial matter and blood splattered her face, hair and arm, clinging to her skin and clothing.

She scrambled up, ignoring the hail of bullets that bit into the wooden pews and stonework. Reaching the murdered priest, she slumped to the ground and cradled the limp body.

The church sat silent. Four of the Hunters lay dead or dying on the floor of the church. The others had taken cover.

O'Banian scanned the balcony choir; sure that that was where the shots had come from. She couldn't see anyone and she couldn't feel anyone anymore.

A few meters away from her, a Hunter lay, writhing in agony. He was young; O'Banian put his age at twenty-one at the most. One bullet had shattered his knee, and two more had struck his body. Blood trickled steadily from his wounds. He was dying and knew it.

One hand reached out toward O'Banian, clenching and unclenching. His eyes silently begged her to do something, to help him. O'Banian reached toward him, purposely missing his hand and grasping the gun he had dropped. She aimed it at the young man's head and pulled the trigger.

A thunderclap in her skull drove her to the floor again. Groaning in pain, she released the gun from numb fingers. She was racked with full-body spasms of agony, as if her very life were being drained from her. What the fuck is this? she wondered, shaking her head in delirium. The realization hit her just as quickly. Fighting on holy ground. So this is what happens. Oh, my God. This is awful.

"Bastard," she muttered at the nearby corpse, crawling across the floor toward the dead Englishman. He still clasped the Templar sword in his hand. She pried his fingers open, retrieving her sword.

She crawled back to her brother, and the hilt of the sword had just settled firmly into her hand when she simultaneously felt and heard the bullet. It caught her in the back, just below the shoulder blade, piercing muscle and shattering bone. A second one hit the base of her spinal cord and she fell forward, helpless, across the body of her brother.

Juan Santos stepped out from behind a thick stone pillar along the left-hand side of the church. His hand still held the Walther PPK. He assessed her coolly, noting her inability to move. Then he began to move toward her.

O'Banian was dying. She'd experienced it enough times to know, but this time she wondered if she would ever revive. Santos was coming toward her and his face told her that he wasn't coming to thank her for putting the young Hunter out of his misery.

O'Banian muttered a Gaelic oath and wondered what the hell to do. In the midst of her blasphemy, a heavy presence swept over her. This one was strong, stronger than anything she'd ever felt, even with the Immortal from whom she had taken the Templar sword. The thrumming of ancient drums filled her ears and enlivened her senses. She tried to crane her neck around to see from where the Immortal was coming.

There were two of them. One was tall and dark haired, his eyes nervously scanning the church. The other was a giant, easily dwarfing the other man, although he must have been over two meters tall. Both sported guns instead of swords. From the stunned expressions on their faces, they had experienced the same shock as she when they had fired upon the Hunters.

Santos saw the two Immortals and his footfalls faltered. Before he could say anything, a shot rang out, and Santos appeared to acquire a third eye, right between his other two. Soundlessly, he dropped to the floor.

The giant, stumbling and shaking his head as he approached, stepped over the bodies of the Hunters and came toward O'Banian. She was fighting for consciousness now, barely hanging on by a scant thread. It suddenly occurred to her that she might just have traded one devil for another. She was helpless, unable to move, her spinal cord, for the moment, severed. This giant Immortal could take her head, and there was nothing she could do about it.

The dark-haired one spoke impatiently. "There's only five bodies here. That leaves two unaccounted for. No doubt they've already called for reinforcements. Omeir, we need to get out of here." He moved from one body to the other, still trying to shake off the effects of his own pain as he pulled wallets from pockets, tucking them into his own.

O'Banian recognized the voice. Vincent Locke. She had called and informed him of the Hunters and told him of the meeting in Paris. His response had been hesitant and she hadn't really expected him to be there. Now, she was rather glad he was. At last, she noticed the Japanese man standing behind them. That must be Taiki Tokawa.

The giant knelt down beside her; dark brown eyes met hers. The drumming in her head had become louder. This was one of the ancients. What had Locke called him? Omeir. Omeir Faaris, O'Banian suddenly thought.

A tumble of voices down a passageway caught his attention. They were about to have more company - Hunter company.

Without hesitation Faaris drew himself back up to his full height. For a brief moment, O'Banian thought they were just going to abandon her to her fate. Then Faaris reached down with one arm and scooped her up, tossing her over his shoulder like a ragdoll.

The move produced pain, O'Banian could feel bone grate on bone in her shoulder and her back. Nausea swept over her and it was all she could do to remain conscious and hang on to the Templar sword clutched in her right hand.

Faaris ducked down into the low passage that led out behind the church. Slung over his shoulder like a sack, O'Banian took one last look at her brother's body on the floor of Le Saint-Vincent, and closed her eyes, welcoming death.

xxxxxxxxxx

Once outside the church, Locke and Faaris scanned the streets frantically. A black Range Rover pulled up beside the curb, David MacBane behind the wheel.

"Thought you might need a getaway car," he quipped, pushing open the passenger door. Faaris tossed O'Banian's dead body into the back of the Rover, Locke and Tokawa climbed in after. Omeir Faaris had just managed to haul his overly large frame into the front passenger seat when a shot ripped through the air, shattering the wing mirror.

"Get us the hell out of here, MacBane," the giant roared.

MacBane complied, flooring the gas pedal. The Rover disappeared down the narrow Paris street in a squeal of tires and a cloud of exhaust, but not before more bullets had been fired. One embedded itself in the tailgate, the other a side panel. A third shattered the back windshield of the SUV.

"Where are the others?" Locke asked, eyes scanning the street behind them, looking for a vehicle following.

"When we heard the shots I told them to take off. No point all of us getting killed." MacBane kept his eyes firmly on the road, slaloming through the heavy traffic. "I told them to meet me at Renaissance Paris Vendome Hotel.

"Why there?" Faaris questioned, placing one hand on the dash to steady himself as MacBane took the opportunity of a lull in the oncoming traffic to swerve into the oncoming lane and pass a slow moving delivery van.

"I'm staying there. It was the first place I could think of."

"What the blue fuck happened to us in there, Omeir?" asked Locke after a brief respite, his eyes wide. "When we shot at those Hunters, I thought I had been shot myself. I thought I was dying, too."

The giant shook his head slowly, his lips pressed together in thought. "It's just a guess, because I've never heard of anything like it happening before. Even in all of my long life. You know Immortals are forbidden from fighting on holy ground, right?"

Locke nodded. "Yeah, but I thought that was only against other Immortals."

"Apparently not," surmised Faaris. "It seems the rule is more generalized than that. We cannot fight at all on holy ground." Faaris turned his eyes toward the rain-drizzled window. "I think we were dying in there when we fired those shots. If we had been forced to fight for much longer, I believe our very Quickenings would have been extracted from our bodies, killing us eternally."

"My God!" exclaimed Locke.

A loud gasp from the backseat indicated O'Banian's return to the land of the living. She sat bolt upright, Templar clasped in one hand. She turned immediately, blade edge meeting the tender skin along the neck of Vincent Locke.

"Where the fuck am I?" she snarled.

Locke swallowed shallowly, eyes sliding downward and fixating on the blade at his throat. "I somehow envisioned you as being more grateful," he muttered.

"Put the blade down, Siobhan. Aside from the fact that myself and Vincent here just saved your ass, a Quickening in this small space would be a disaster," Faaris warned, his voice low. His hand slid to the shamshir at his side, a precaution in case the woman didn't listen.

Luckily - whether that luck be for her or for Vincent Locke is purely speculatory, she did. She rubbed one hand wearily over her eyes, remembering the scene in the church just before she died.

"Those bastards. I'll kill them, every stinking one of 'em," she hissed, slamming her hand down again and again against the razor edge of her sword, not caring or feeling the lacerations she was making.

Locke reached out one hand, placing it over O'Banian's now mutilated, but quickly healing palm. "I'm sorry about Patrick. I promise you they will pay," he told her softly.

O'Banian nodded silently, then brought her legs up, hugging her knees against herself and laying her head on top. "Aye, the bastards will. I'll see that they do if I have to die myself doing it.""

The journey progressed in uneasy silence.

xxxxxxxxxx

They ditched the Rover at the metro station, choosing to backtrack to the hotel to avoid being followed. In an effort to cover the bloodstained clothes she wore, O'Banian had donned Locke's longcoat. She now struggled not to trip on the overly long ends of it, swearing a blue streak when she wasn't successful.

Eventually, the group arrived at Renaissance Paris Vendome Hotel, making their way to the suite MacBane had taken on the sixth floor.

"Who in their right mind comes to Paris incognito then takes a suite, a suite, at the Renaissance Paris Vendome," muttered Omeir Faaris when the elevator opened.

"Who the hell can afford it?" added Locke.

"I didn't register in my name. How much of an idiot do you think I am?" MacBane retorted. "As for the cost. I, unlike some, have invested through the years." He shot a glance at Vincent Locke. "I realised long ago that one of the things an Immortal was going to need if he was going to live forever, was money. And I made sure I had some… lots, actually. And, as far as a suite, Darmond and I have reserved the entire floor for us, not just one suite."

MacBane knocked on a polished oak door, one of only six in the hallway.

There was a silence. The presence of several Immortals washed over them, followed by the sound of whispered voices behind the door. "Who's there?" a voice finally asked.

"It's me, Hewett. David MacBane. Open the door."

There was the immediate sound of a bolt being shot back, then the door was flung open. The Immortals wandered in, Omeir Faaris giving one last sweeping look around the hallway before closing the door, locking it firmly behind himself.

The suite was luxurious. Beautifully maintained antique furniture, expensive artwork on the walls, handwoven Persian rugs on the floor. Vincent Locke looked around and gave a low whistle.

"So, this is how the other half lives, huh?"

"A few wise investments and you too could be living like this, my friend," MacBane offered.

O'Banian looked around the room, eyeing the other Immortals suspiciously. There were fourteen others aside from her, Locke, MacBane and Faaris - ten men and four women.

Erik Frost caught her look. "This is everyone. We were at the church on time, but we scattered when we heard the gunshots and came here. Funny to see Immortals running from guns." The look on his face said that he had, in truth, found nothing humorous about it. "I'm Erik Frost. I was supposed to be your student. We've only spoken on the phone, though." He gave a half smile, not sure now that they were face-to-face, what to say to her.

O'Banian relaxed a little, easing off Locke's coat and tossing it onto a chair. "Aye, and when this mess is cleared up, you will be my student, Mr. Frost. Have no fear. I, for one, have no intention of letting these bastards take my head."

"Perhaps it would be a good idea if we introduced ourselves," suggested David MacBane. He gave his name and his current place of residence. The introduction continued around the room. Hewett Penn, Michal Batakova, Michael De Lioncourt, Emily LeFitte, Ruth Okin, Marton Razumov, Darmond Bilsby, Aaron Pittmann, and James MacNauton. Omeir Faaris. Taiki Tokawa. Siobhan O'Banian. Vincent Locke. Erik Frost. Marton Razumov. Maria Giovanni. Sergei Tuppankovich. Julian and Fiona Black.

The last four were new to O'Banian. She recognized the others, had even met some of them on occasion, but she had never heard of Maria Giovanni or Sergei Tuppankovich. Neither had most of the others.

A tall, thin man with black hair and eyes, and a thick black beard, Tuppankovich was decidedly Russian, a fact that seemed to unsettle Vincent Locke. When pressed, Tuppankovich explained he had been valet to Czar Nicholas and had died on July 17, 1918, along with the Czar, his wife, Alexandra, and their five children. He and the family had been herded into a cellar room by their Bolshevik captors and killed in a fusillade of bullets and stabs from bayonets. Tuppankovich had been forty-two at the time.

He had awoken in the woods where his murderers were digging a makeshift grave in which to burn and bury their victims. Tuppankovich had crawled away, unsure as to why he lived, but not willing to give his captors a second chance to kill him. After a year of wandering he had stumbled upon his teacher, Patrick Grisham. Since then his life had followed the same, similar pattern as the rest of them - wandering, fighting, surviving.

Grisham had been the one to tell Tuppankovich of the convening of the Council. Grisham himself sided as a silent partner with David Ashton, an old friend. Sergei wasn't so convinced that Ashton's somewhat reserved action was the correct one. His mortal death had taught him that unless rebellions were quelled swiftly and completely, they quickly got out of hand.

"Sometimes innocents have to die," he reasoned, "for the betterment of all."

"And what about you?" Marton Razumov inquired of the woman.

Maria Giovanni was a small, slightly overweight woman with heavy, dark hair swept up into a loose chignon. Despite the artful make-up she wore, her olive skin was marked and pitted. Her eyes were heavy lidded, giving her a permanent sleepy appearance. She was Italian, and not so forthcoming as Sergei Tuppankovich. She did tell them that she had died in March of 1812 during the siege of Bardajoz. What she refused to explain was what an Italian woman was doing in a Spanish town, or which side of the battle she had been on - the French, the Spanish or the English. Vincent Locke later commented to Tokawa, and David MacBane concurred, that Maria Giovanni had more than likely been a spy - for all three countries. Which one caught and finally executed her was a matter of opinion.

When asked who her teacher had been, or how she had come to know of the Council, Maria had told them she was a friend of Dasmius Mikal and he had asked her to join them. James MacNaughton piped in.

"I can vouch for her, I think. The Immortal who took Dasmius's head, Wallace Frazier, sent me some of his effects a few days before we left England. One of the items was a notebook of his. Maria's name, address, and email information were listed in it."

Giovanni nodded and then added, "And, as far as my teacher, that is none of your business. All you need to know is that I am more than able to hold my own and was more than ready to kill, if necessary."

A blonde woman sitting on a rose-colored loveseat next to a well dressed, blond man flinched visibly at Giovanni's words. The man immediately apologised. "I'm sorry. Fiona is new to this, and she's finding it all rather terrifying." He placed an arm around the woman comfortingly. "I'm Julian Black, and this is my wife, Fiona. We heard of the Council through Michael De Lioncourt."

Vincent Locke reached forward and shook the man's hand. "How long has she been Immortal?" he questioned, wondering what use a new Immortal could be.

There was a heavy silence, every eye slowly turning toward the Blacks.

"I'm not…I'm…" the woman stuttered.

"She's not Immortal," Julian Black finally offered. He had bargained, obviously successfully, that with so many Immortals in one room, the lack of a buzz from his wife wouldn't be missed.

"Then just what the hell is she doing here?" O'Banian asked.

"She's my wife," Black responded.

"No! She's a fucking liability, that's what she is!" O'Banian hurled.

Fiona Black recoiled from the words. "I couldn't just sit at home and wonder what had happened to Julian. I couldn't. I won't get in the way. I'll stay wherever you put me, but I'm not leaving. I'm not."

"Then you'll more than likely end up dead," the Irishwoman coolly informed her.

Omeir Faaris laughed, bitterly. "Unless we start to do something," he said, "we'll all more than likely end up dead." He dropped into another loveseat; the twin to the one the Blacks were on. His giant frame filled the furniture, making it look like a regular chair.

All were silent for several minutes, alone with their thoughts. Faaris went over in his mind all his dealings with the Watchers over his life. There were not many and all of them were simply the hearing of rumors about such people. He had known Gilgamesh, the Immortal who, in some ways, was responsible for the Watcher organization existing at all.

He remembered in precise detail all the events of his life, perhaps the reason he did not suffer, as many of the ancients did, the effects of millennial life on the mind, the memory. He remembered his early life as a mortal. He remembered taking his first head. He remembered his ancient teacher, who might still live, the Immortal Athar-Tauran, a giant taller and mightier in form and power even than he, who remembered the ancient days that had become only legend, or even myth, among the younger Immortals.

His mind had wandered. Faaris shook his head, cursing. He scanned again his memories, recalling all the information he knew about the Watchers. He knew that, contrary to what these young ones believed, the phenomenon of the Hunters was not a new one. They had existed before, it was the curse of the organization. They could weed out those elements, but always they would return, in the fullness of time. Four thousand years had the Watchers existed. It was incredible, even to him. He sighed and glanced about at the others gathered there.

They were all so young. They did not truly know what it was they faced, not even O'Banian. Her anger, her rage, had turned to madness in her. She was unstable. But she had a power to direct this group. He had not lost the fire of his spirit he had possessed as a mortal and as a young Immortal. But wisdom had tempered it. And he knew the price for being a leader of men. He could see the doom written for Siobhan O'Banian. He feared that they were all being drawn into it. She had the talent, the charisma, to lead, and the fire and the passion to direct their course, to order events, a power possessed by few even of the ancient ones.

Two thousand years ago, Faaris had met an Immortal once named Marcus Nautius, whom he had learned a decade ago now went by the name of David Ashton. Recalling what he knew of Nautius - or Ashton - then, Faaris knew this man had the leadership attributes he saw in O'Banian, as well, and had also the knowledge and wisdom of the centuries, the millennia. A match even for Omeir Faaris himself. O'Banian by contrast to the two of them was young. She did not know what time could do. He shook his head and sighed again.

At last, it was he who broke the silence. When he spoke, all turned toward him. He was a figure of awe, both in the obvious might of his physical form, and in the power held within it, that all others could feel like a raging fire. "What the hell happened back there, Siobhan?"

Briefly, she told them, trying not to think of the image of her brother's destroyed head as it lay on the floor of his church. Each in turn told of their arrival at the church, filling in the gaps up until they were now assembled.

"So now what we do?" Tokawa asked when everyone had finished.

"Now we go after the bastards," O'Banian hissed. "Vincent, you picked up their wallets. I want to know their names and I want to know their addresses." She gave him a look that indicated that while she was asking, if he didn't comply then she wasn't above taking. He pulled the wallets from his coat pockets, tossing them onto the low Louis XIV table that served as a coffee table.

O'Banian read out the names. "Pierre Garneau, Marta Ljevaja, Juan Santos, Emil Halbert, Brad Rushton." She smiled coldly. "Well, I hope the Garneau, Ljevaja, Santos, Halbert, and Rushton families have their life insurance paid off."

"Why? What are you going to do?" Erik Frost had sat rather silent until now, unsure of his role in the Council. Unsure he really wanted to be here. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn't want to be dead.

He was of two minds. Hunters had killed his wife, Kendra, an innocent mortal whose biggest crime was to fall in love with an Immortal. For her murder alone, he wanted the Hunters dead. But he was having a difficult time accepting the idea of complete eradication of the Watchers. He had the feeling that in killing all of them, he would be no different than the Hunters.

O'Banian looked at him. "I'm going hunting."

"Before you go, Siobhan," said MacNaughton, pulling her aside. He did not lower his voice and the others in the room heard him clearly. "There is one person who is not here that I think you should meet. He is in the room over there. I'll bring him out."

MacNaughton opened the door to an adjoining room and motioned for its occupant to join them. A tall, blond man with long hair and a short beard emerged, a pleasant, though somewhat quizzical, smile on his lips. He was dressed in loose fitting, stylish clothing and seemed perfectly at ease among the group of strangers.

"Everyone," MacNaughton announced, "this is Karl Eichmann. I wanted to wait until everyone was settled before introducing him to the group. I've briefed Karl on what we're doing and I think he will be an excellent addition to the group."

"And why is that?" questioned O'Banian.

"Karl possesses skills that are exactly in line with what we need for our particular mission," replied MacNaughton.

"Why don't ya let the man answer for himself," said O'Banian, crossing her arms.

Eichmann chuckled lightly as if he had been challenged to a game of grade school trivia. He took a step forward and replied to her inquiry.

"I am a man who can make your problems disappear, little lady," he stated with complete confidence. "No matter what or who it is."

"You're a hitman," Penn deduced from his response.

Eichmann's smile grew. "Yes. Very good. I see there's no need to mince words with you people."

"So you would have no problem with what we intend ta do, then?" asked O'Banian.

"None," answered Eichmann flatly. "But I do tend to work better if left to my own devices. I don't particularly care for committees." He scanned the room's other occupants as he said this. "But if you're looking to cause chaos among this Watcher Organization of yours, I'm your man. Just give me a path and set me loose."

O'Banian smirked at the tall German. "Alright, Mr. Eichmann, I'll give ya a chance to prove yerself. I've got a list of addresses of targets in this city that I've already singled out. You can take 'em and run wild. I'll let ya have a few people ta help ya, too." Eichmann nodded to her. "All I ask is that ya stay in communication with us about yer movements and actions. We don't want ta get in each other's way."

"That's a reasonable request. I accept."

O'Banian scanned the suite for a moment. Spotting what she wanted, she walked over to the two captured Watcher laptops. Next to them was her notepad from England. She flipped through the pad until she found the page she wanted and tore it off. Picking up the computer taken from the Hardley family, she returned to Eichmann.

"Here ya go. This is one of the Watcher's computers. It will give you inside information to what they're doin'. This sheet has the names an' addresses of the families I've identified as targets. Take them and do yer thing."

Eichmann took the computer and note sheet with a grin. He nodded again. "I'll do great things with these," he said.

"Talk to Darmond over there about gear. He'll get ya set up with weapons and other items. Now, for yer men. Three ought to do fer ya." She turned her gaze to the others in the room. "Any volunteers or should I pick folks?" she asked.

"I'll go," replied Erik Frost, raising his hand tentatively.

"Are ya sure, Erik?" O'Banian queried him. "Yer still kinda new to the Immortal world."

"Yeah, but not entirely new. I've been immortal for about ten years and I know my way around guns, at least. I am from Texas, after all. I'll be fighting Watchers and other mortals, too, not Immortals so that shouldn't be a problem. I'm willing to go."

"Alright," replied O'Banian, nodding. "Who else?"

"Count me in," said De Lioncourt. "I'm very familiar with Paris and the surrounding areas. I should be able to help out quite a bit."

"Good," commented O'Banian. "One more."

"That will be me, then," stated Marton Razumov, his hand rising. "I owe many of you for your help in the past so I am willing to do anything that advances that cause."

"Thank you, Marton," grinned O'Banian. She turned back to Eichmann. "There you go, Mr. Eichmann. Take yer little detachment and raise some hell."

With another grin, Eichmann replied, "You can count on that."

xxxxxxxxxx

09 November 1999
Paris, France

The call was made as soon as the Immortal was able to make a reasonable excuse for leaving the hotel suite. David Ashton answered the cell phone on the second ring.

"Ashton."

"She's at it again," the caller whispered.

Ashton's face became serious. "Who are the victims this time?"

"Families of the Hunters who killed her brother in the church today. I think she's going after Emil Halbert's family first. They're here in Paris."

"When and where?" Ashton demanded, reaching for a pen and a piece of paper.

"I don't know, just tonight. She says she's going alone - doesn't trust the rest of us to be quiet enough, although Locke has her just about talked into letting him come. Halbert lived on Rue de Montagne. Number nine."

David Ashton swore loudly. While he more than supported the idea of an Immortal Council convened to deal with the Hunters, he was decidedly against the fanatical faction's intent on destroying the Watchers and their families completely. Siobhan O'Banian seemed to be on a one-woman crusade to complete such a task.

Ashton thanked his contact, reinforcing the need to be safe and not to take chances, then he terminated the call. He had hoped for a quiet night of unpacking, but that would have to wait. Tonight, he had to attend to business and to protect lives.

xxxxxxxxxx

09 November 1999
Paris, France

In another secluded area of the hotel, a similar call was being made, this one to Hunter headquarters.

"Hello?"

"I'm in."

"Any problems?"

"No, not so far. Numbers are low, but more may show up."

"Where are you?"

"Renaissance Paris Vendome Hotel. Sixth floor. Can you believe - the entire floor" The caller chuckled humorlessly.

"Bastards," was the only response.

"O'Banian's going after Halbert's family tonight."

Silence.

"Did you hear me? I said O'Banian is going after…"

"I heard you the first time."

"Aren't you going to do something about it? Protect them?"

"Emil is dead. His family is just dead weight pulling money from the Organization. Besides, O'Banian going after the families of dead Hunters will just infuriate the other faction more. With any luck they'll kill each other."

"But Halbert's wife… His children."

"You are paid to do a job, not question the dictates of those above you. Worry about your own life, not that of some miserable, fat Frenchwoman and her screaming brats. Continue to monitor the situation. Keep me informed."

With that the phone line went dead.

xxxxxxxxxx

09 November 1999
Charles de Gaulle Airport

Angela Carson tapped her foot impatiently and watched the baggage carousel go around for what must have been the one-hundredth time. If Air-France had lost her luggage, she'd have someone's head. She thought about that statement and giggled a little to herself, earning a rather stern look from the elderly gentleman beside her.

Finally, the huge black canvas carryall with the Mickey Mouse stickers came through and Carson lugged it off the carousel. Now she just had to hope and pray customs didn't search it. It would be rather awkward to explain why she was carrying a sword into the country.

The customs officer had given her the once over, more interested in her figure than in her luggage, then waved her through. With a sigh of relief, Angela Carson hauled the bag onto her shoulder and exited into the public part of Charles de Gaulle Airport. Now all she had to do was find a phone and call the number she had been given.

xxxxxxxxxx

In the end, O'Banian went alone, telling Locke, Faaris and the rest of them that she preferred it that way. That way if she got caught, the fight would still go on. But she really didn't have any intention of getting caught.

The street was deserted when she got there. Somewhere in the distance, a lone dog barked. She was dressed in black from head to toe, having had to raid Locke and MacBane's wardrobes for clothing. It was all impossibly large on her, but it would have to do.

She casually walked up the street, eyes scanning for movement but finding none. The gas leak story had worked so well in Bromsgrove that she planned to use it again here. Finally she came to the front of number nine. First she took a good look at the garden, searching for signs of a family dog. Finding nothing she easily vaulted over the low wooden gate, not using it for fear of it being rusty and making noise.

Silently, she made her way round the back of the house, careful to keep to the shadows. The backdoor was as she'd hoped - glass paned. Lovely to look at, easy to access. She pulled the glass cutter and the putty from her pocket, affixing the putty to the windowpane nearest the doorknob. Just as she was about to start cutting, a presence and a voice startled her.

"I don't think you want to do that, Ms. O'Banian."

She whirled around, almost dropping her small flashlight and the glass cutter. The glare of a stronger flashlight caught her full in the face and she brought her hand up to ward off the brilliance. She couldn't make out who was behind the light, only that it was a man and that he was, compared to her, quite tall.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" she hissed, careful to keep her voice quiet.

"Oh, you don't have to whisper. There's no one home. I made sure of that. In fact, I managed to arrange for the entire street to be vacant. You can blow the whole of Rue de Montagne to kingdom come, but all you will destroy are houses."

"You should learn to mind your own business. Put the torch down and we'll see just how brave you are with a sword in your hand," O'Banian challenged.

The man chuckled. "You are bold; I'll give you that much. You remind me a bit of a friend of mine."

"Och, a friend? Pay him, do you? Or does he just feel sorry for you, like?"

The man chuckled again.

"Are you going to fight me or just stand around laughin' yer fool head off all night?" O'Banian asked, growing weary of standing there with the light shining in her face. The headache she had been fighting for two days was returning in full force.

"I'm not going to fight you, not this time. This time I'm going to give you a chance. This time I'm just going to shoot you."

The last word died on his lips and O'Banian felt a sharp pain in her chest, realising instantly that, for the second time that day, she had been shot, the suppressed sound of the pistol barely registering in her ears. "Bloody hell!" she managed to gasp just before her knees gave way and she slid to the ground.

"Oh, I'm sure where you're going, Ms. O'Banian, it will be a bloody hell." The man clicked off the flashlight and dropped it into the deep pocket of his coat. Carefully, he removed the glass cutter from O'Banian's hand and the Templar sword from her back. Then he hauled her over his shoulder, whistling cheerfully as he carried her down the street.

I'm starting to feel like a sack of bloody potatoes, O'Banian thought bitterly as she lugged along. She wasn't dead, but it was coming. She could feel the life slowly ebbing out of her. Resistance, she knew, was useless. He would only shoot her again. And it was important that she figure out who he was. Then she could go after him.

Upon reaching the Explorer O'Banian had rented, the man opened the door and dropped the woman's body into the driver's seat. He tossed her sword into the back, well out of her way in her weakened state.

"I'd sit there and sleep it off for awhile, if I were you," he told her. "Dying while driving is never a very good idea." He started to close the door, then hesitated. "By the way, S' misw Daibhidh Ashton." (I'm David Ashton)

He slammed the door shut and leaned in through the open window. "Now, if you are a very smart girl, and I think you can be smart when you want to be. If you're smart, you'll heed my warning and leave innocent people alone. If you are stupid, and I know you can be stupid, you'll continue on with this little vendetta. And if you do that, Ms. O'Banian, be warned, I will take your head."

O'Banian muttered Gaelic oaths enough to make a whole fleet of sailors blush, but with the life steadily draining out of her, she was in little shape to do anything more.

"Slan agat, (Good bye,) Ms. O'Banian," David Ashton answered. Then he turned away, picking up the same tune he had whistled while carrying her there. Siobhan O'Banian closed her eyes and slowly died.

xxxxxxxxxx

She awoke a few hours later to the sound of her cell phone ringing. Still disoriented, she answered it, her voice thick and muddled.

"Hello?"

"Ms. O'Banian?" a young woman's voice asked tentatively.

"Yeah. Who the hell is this?"

"It's Angela Carson. Your student. You told me to meet you in Paris, remember?"

O'Banian sat up abruptly, mind reeling. "I thought that wasn't until the eighth?"

"Ahem, that was yesterday," the voice on the other end of the line told her. "My flight arrived last night. I've been trying your phone for hours. You must have been out."

More out than you realise, thought O'Banian. "Where are you?" she said aloud.

"I'm still at the airport. I don't speak French very well and I didn't have anywhere to go."

O'Banian sighed. "Stay there. I'll pick you up in about an hour. And Angela?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever you do, don't talk to strangers."

Angela Carson hung up the phone in Charles de Gaulle airport thinking that she had just done exactly that.

xxxxxxxxxx

Vincent Locke paced the floor of the hotel suite, just as he had for the past hour. He occasionally varied his journey by looking out the window.

Omeir Faaris sat on the couch, sharpening the edge of his blade. It was an ancient blade, an acinaces, forged ages ago from the metal of a star that had fallen from heaven, or so he had thought at the time. Thus, in an age when iron was unknown, when men fought with bronze, or copper, or even stone weapons, he fought with the strength of a steel that even now in modern times could not be made. His mentor, Athar-Tauran, had taught him the art. The blade had held up well over the millennia since its creation, due to the nature of the metal and method of its forging. He did not look up at Vincent Locke but continued to work the blade as he said, "Your pacing won't make her come back any sooner. If she's coming back at all, that is."

Locke halted in his pacing and shot Faaris a dark look. "You think they've got to her?"

The giant shrugged, not committing himself either way. O'Banian had been gone all night. Calls to her cell phone had gone unanswered. Paris newspapers and television mentioned nothing of a house fire. Something had gone wrong."

Faaris had seen many Immortals perish over the millennia. The young ones struggled to survive the first century or two. That was the dangerous time. O'Baniann was not even that old. She was still within the limits of her mortality, but she fought even then with a rage and power that many older Immortals did not possess. He would mourn her, in his own way, if she had perished. He would avenge her death, if need be, but he could not have stopped her. Destroyed her, certainly, but he could not bend her to his will. She had been rash, yes. It had been foolish, dangerous, to go alone.

Faaris considered the young Irish woman. What made O'Banian an effective leader was her fire and her rashness. The others followed her.

"What if they have got her - what if she's dead?" Locke muttered.

Faaris said nothing for a moment. He looked up for the first time and studied Vincent Locke for a moment. He was a strange one. Over four hundred years old, yet he had not the spirit usually possessed by one of his years. He'd gained little wisdom or knowledge in that time, or so it seemed. Omeir Faaris knew better than to underestimate him, though. Immortals like Vincent Locke were as dangerous as those overtly powerful.

"We keep on. We continue our purpose to kill all Watchers. No matter who dies, the mission must continue." He knew it sounded cold, but it was the truth. He couldn't have stopped O'Banian, short of killing her. If she died, all that was left to them was to continue the fight, to avenge her death, as empty as it would leave them in the end. To achieve what she had desired most, an end to the Hunters, and end to the Watchers themselves. It was necessary. Faaris did not look up again or break from his work now, his eyes trained completely on his weapon.

Locke was saved from answering by a sweeping presence and a knock on the door. He hurriedly went to answer it. Faaris set aside his acinaces and lifted his massive shamshir from the floor. Locke turned to him briefly and Faaris nodded. He readied the weapon.

Locke opened the door and said, after a momentary pause, "Where the hell have you been? And who the hell is she?" O'Banian and another Immortal woman walked past him into the suite.

"Hi, I'm Angela Carson." The young woman grinned engagingly and struck out her hand. Locke found himself shaking it before he realized what he was doing.

"She's my student," O'Banian explained, dropping wearily onto the couch, rubbing the back of her neck and wondering just how much longer that part of her anatomy would remain in one piece. She'd had more close calls in the past few weeks than she'd had in the past year - and she was starting to weary of it.

Omeir Faaris was less than pleased. He set down his shamshir and stood. He said, darkly, "Your timing for taking another student is a little bit off." He gave Carson a dark glance, stopping her from offering her hand to him.

Carson's eyes widened and she swallowed slowly. This was quite possibly the largest man she had ever seen. He was tall and massively muscled, yet strangely did not appear heavy and bulky, a slow and clumsy warrior. The look he had just given her was positively ferocious. The smile slid from her face and she quietly moved to the window, dropping the bag and taking a seat in one of the barrel chairs around an oak table.

"Where are the others?" O'Banian asked, suddenly realizing that the suite was mostly empty.

"They went for breakfast. What happened? We expected you back hours ago," Locke asked again.

O'Banian leaned forward on the couch, placing her elbows on her knees. Not quite sure why she did it, she held back on all the details.

"Things just weren't right at the house," she said, casually adjusting her position so her jacket further concealed the bullet hole in her shirt. "I jus' sat in the Explorer and watched it fer a while waitin' fer an opportunity but it never came. Angela called me while I was sittin' there."

Faaris had returned to his work on his blade, and continued this through the short explanation. Now he stopped, setting the whetstone aside. "Well, I suppose that means we can carry on as before."

"Even with our new addition," Vincent Locke concluded, glancing at Carson.