"And it's been a long December and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself
To hold on to these moments as they pass"

"A Long December" - Counting Crows

01 December 1999
Paris, France
16 Place Charles de Gaulle

The clock had just clicked past midnight. David Ashton stopped unpacking. As he reached for his katana which was lying on the bed, a well worn thought flashed through his mind. Will this never end?

Freeing the blade from its scabbard, he left the room and headed for the lower floor. He knew the mansion intimately; he and his friends had used it frequently when travelling in France. He stepped out of the room just in time to see the front door begin to open. Quickly, he crouched down and watched through the railing of the landing as a man with a drawn dagger entered cautiously and asked hopefully of the seemingly empty house,

"Jonny?"

"Dublin, what are you doing here?" David asked, relief and curiosity filling his voice. "And what took you so long to get back?"

Darren Dublin looked up at his old friend, now coming down the stairs to greet him, and grinned. He switched easily from English to his native Gaelic. "Dia dhuit ma`chairde." [Hello, my friend] Then, knowing Ashton was more comfortable in English, switched, drudging up the seldom used accent he'd been born into. "Knew you'd come crawlin' back," he playfully said.

Ashton rewarded his friend's joking jab with a sour look. "Don't bring that up again." Despite his verbal warning, he couldn't stop the memory of the alluded event from flooding back into his mind.

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It had been shortly after he'd found Dublin in Ireland and taken him under his wing, teaching him of the Game. They'd come across a band of thieves conducting their business with a travelling merchant. As Ashton had started toward the incident, Dublin stopped him. "They haven't seen us yet, and they won't if ya do nothin' daft."

"They might kill the man," Ashton answered.

"It's not likely. They're just thieves, but if you get us involved they might kill us. There's ten of them."

"A man I once studied, Miyamoto Musashi, taught that if you know yourself and your weapons, you can overcome endless armies. Besides, we're Immortal." The last was said as he again started toward the band of people.

"Aye, but it still hurts, and I'll not go into it willingly."

Dublin didn't, and Ashton had fought the thieves. The merchant bolted away as soon as the conflict started. Ashton managed to cut down three of the thieves before they started to react to his onslaught. Another two died before it happened. It was one of those things that only blind luck, or a Hollywood choreographer, can bring into existence. At the exact moment Ashton thrust one of his Roman centurion swords into the abdomen of the man in front of him, he also managed to parry the down-swinging knife of the man attacking from his left side with the other, nearly depriving the man of the lower portion of his arm in the process. This maneuver unfortunately left him unable to deal with the man who struck him a savage blow to the back of his skull at that precise moment, dazing him long enough for the remnants of the bandits to disarm him and commence to beat him to death. The man whose arm he'd almost amputated turned out to have a bit of authority with the group, and his latest cause for complaint was significant enough to supersede the customary riffling of a victim's body. They rushed into the surrounding woods toward a nearby village in the hopes of finding some sort of healer.

Dublin had left him where he'd fallen and set camp nearby. He'd already eaten, and banked the fire for the night by the time Ashton had come round and crawled over to it.

"Knew you'd come crawlin' back," he said with a very dry humour. "This, ah, Mushi guy of yours, he never fought in Ireland did he?"

"The man got away, didn't he?"

"Aye, but if not for our curse, you wouldn't have."

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Ashton pushed the memory aside and extended his hand toward his friend. Dublin took the offered hand in his own. Ashton then withdrew the hand and reshaped it to point his finger at the other man, assuming a mildly accusatory tone.

"You haven't answered my question. What are you doing here?"

"You first. I thought you were going to choose a more secure place than this. I hope you don't have all the others holed up in here, too."

They were moving into the sitting room now and Ashton was pouring some drinks; he'd always unpacked the important things first. "I got an email from Jonny," he said, avoiding Dublin's questions.

"How's the kid? I haven't heard from him in a while," Dublin interrupted.

"He's been having some trouble lately. Hunters recently attacked him."

"I've got some info on the Council's activities," Dublin offered. "I didn't know the problem stretched far enough to affect Johnny, too."

As Ashton handed Dublin his drink, they both felt the approach of another Immortal.

"Not again. Company of yours?" Ashton asked.

"No. What do you do, put an ad in the paper when you come to town?" Dublin retorted.

Ashton again picked up his sword as Dublin redrew his dagger. Nodding at his friend's larger blade, Darren asked, "Got anything else unpacked yet?"

"Sorry."

"Damn."

Just then, the same door through which Dublin had entered slammed open again. In strode Siobhan O'Banian, with the bold, direct approach that would someday get her killed. She realized this fact at the same time she realized that there was not one, but two Immortals in the room she had entered. Worse yet, she knew both of them, and they knew her, as well. Coming to the conclusion that she couldn't run now, largely because her ego wouldn't let her live it down if she tried to leave, she pointed her blade at Dublin.

"I came here tonight for David Ashton."

Dublin replied before the other man could say anything. "Too bad you had to find me here."

"I'll deal with you later," she spat. Although she knew he was in the country - the little theatrical episode in her hotel room a few weeks ago could have been choreographed by no one but him - O'Banian still hadn't been entirely prepared to meet him face-to-face after all these years. It threw her off momentarily. If they fought, could she really take his head? Could he really take hers?

"You'll deal with me now," Dublin said as he took a step toward her.

"What'd you do to her, Dublin?" Ashton asked. The animosity between these two wasn't simply that of Immortal meeting Immortal. There was something more. There had to be.

"Oh, nothing really, we just had a few bangs the night she got into town." Even in the stress of pre-battle tensions, Dublin refused to give up the wise-ass character he'd had for centuries. The subject of his most recent jab didn't appreciate his humor.

"Why didn't you take my head that night?"

"I was trying to give you another chance. You could've been a great help with the latest Hunter problem. However, according to the radio, you've not taken heed to my warnings. Tonight, I'll not be so lenient."

Ashton was starting to put things together somewhat. Dublin had said he knew of the Council's recent events, he must've gone about taking care of things in that theatrical way of his. Ashton had spent centuries trying to train that out of him, but Dublin hadn't gotten himself killed doing things his way...yet.

"Dublin," he called. When he got the man's attention, he tossed him the katana.

As the ivory handle of Ashton's blade slid into Dublin's hand, he took a heartbeat or two to stare at the older man who had been his mentor for ages. He'd never before held one of Ashton's blades. He'd been cut by them more often than he'd readily admit, but in the nearly one thousand years he'd known the man, he'd never once held one. His attention then shifted to the sword itself for another beat. He hadn't fought with a katana for a long time. He preferred the style of his broadsword, the one outside in his car.

Holding both long and short blades now, he turned again to face O'Banian. "I'm the one who has challenged you. Now, you either fight me, Siobhan, or you leave."

"Indeed," she responded with a slight raise of her left eyebrow. O'Banian threw herself into the battle with a ferocity few people outside the Celtic bloodline could muster. She mixed her pride in her heritage with the rage she'd cultivated throughout her life. The resulting Berserker-like attack had served her well even before she'd discovered her Immortality. It had helped to keep her alive…so far.

What she didn't consider was that Dublin was an Irishman, as well. He'd spent centuries learning to channel, focus, and control his ferocity, shaping it into a weapon as sharp and precise as a surgeon's scalpel. He'd also faced the first Berserkers, the huge Viking men who would spearhead the Norsemen's attacks wielding huge axes and feeling no pain as they slashed through the ranks of their opponents, not stopping until there was nothing left to kill, or they themselves were butchered beyond their capability of fighting. He'd become Immortal at the edge of one of those axes. In comparison, her display diminished considerably, but the quick slash she dealt him across the ribs from her Templar reminded him that she was still very much a threat to him.

Giving her a little ground so he could push the pain in his chest out of his mind and regain his focus, he ended up nearly against the wall of the sitting room. She took advantage of his lack of maneuvering space, rushing him with her sword held high, ready to come crashing down on his head.

He blocked her attack with the end of the katana at the high left position of his outer defensive circle. He pivoted his blade while sidestepping to his left, sliding her sword along towards the center of his own, and bringing the contact point into his middle circle. This allowed him to parry her attack and direct her movement to his right side. At the same time, he brought his left hand, still holding his dagger, around to jab into her back.

O'Banian was already turning to face him again when the dagger struck, missing its intended entry point, but piercing her right lung and nicking her spine nonetheless. The momentum of her movement continued to carry her forward, pulling the dagger from her and continuing to spin her around until she slammed into the wall facing her opponent.

The impact with the wall jarred the sword from her grasp and Dublin wasted no time in kicking it out of her reach. She slid down the wall now leaving a streak of blood in her wake. When she came to rest on the floor, slumping back on the wall, Dublin strode toward her purposefully. In a moment of his usual dramatics, he lifted her chin with the tip of the katana until their eyes locked. He hesitated, breath drawn in sharply. How many times had he looked into those eyes? He had often wondered if it would come to this - one taking the other's head, just as he had wondered that, if it did happen, could he actually do it. He was surprised. The answer was yes. "Slan leat ghra," he whispered softly.

O'Banian knew that her time in the Game was over. It was strange how her mind worked, even facing her death. As O'Banian looked into her executioner's eyes she could see a sadness. She knew intimately that he'd taken thousands of lives, but that he took no joy in any of it, and that he remembered every face. Would he remember hers?

As she sat there, she felt the advent of shock start to take effect. She knew shock; she'd died from it several times. She knew that she was slipping into unconsciousness and that, were Dublin's sword not at this very moment arching around his head to gather momentum for the truly fatal blow that would come down on her neck, she would die in only a few short seconds to be revived when her body had repaired itself. In an odd way, she was glad it was him. Perhaps when they joined through the power of the Quickening, he would know how much she hated the things she had done. Perhaps then he could forgive her. At least they would be together. Mercifully, she passed out before the stroke that would end her life for the last time landed.

Suddenly, there was a new blade protruding from the wall about ten centimeters above O'Banian's shoulder. It neatly bisected the path of Darren's stroke and had Ashton attached to the other end. He'd not been standing by twiddling his thumbs during this exchange. He'd watched very closely and had snatched up O'Banian's sword as soon as she'd been deprived of it. Ashton had noted the look in Dublin's eyes during the few heartbeats he and O'Banian spent staring at each other. For once, Ashton was glad for Dublin's theatrics. It had given him just enough time to get into a position to stop the imminent beheading… barely.

When the two swords made contact, Ashton jerked his head away, closing his eyes tight and drawing his breath in sharply through clenched teeth, it was after all his sword Dublin was wielding. To his credit, Dublin managed to turn the blade just in time to avoid a serious nick in the blade. The resulting flat on flat smack produced a loud, clanging, vibrating recoil that challenged Dublin's one handed grip.

Dublin spun on his friend with a wild, shocked what the hell? look that fit so well onto his features. "What the hell are you doing?" he nearly screamed.

"You don't know what's going on, Darren. She's the figurehead of the anti-Watcher terrorist Council." It wasn't the only reason he had stopped his friend from taking Siobhan O'Banian's head, but it would do.

"I know about the damned Council. I was with you in England when we learned about her, remember? That's why she has to die. Haven't you learned anything about the Celts in all the years we've been friends? We don't give up. We don't stop. This isn't one of your diplomatic negotiations, Ashton. When one of us decides on a course, we don't stop until it's done or we're dead."

They'd moved a few meters away from her body during their argument and O'Banian was starting to come around. Dublin noticed and reflexively threw his dagger. She was by no means in any condition to dodge the projectile and it struck its target, piercing the upper part of her heart and actually passing through her back to lodge in the wall behind her. Thus pinned to the wall, she slumped back to the floor, surrendering to her second death of the night. She would remain dead this time until the dagger was removed and the wound was allowed to heal.

She heals fast for her age, Ashton off-handedly thought as he grabbed Dublin's arm to stop him. The Irishman was following his dagger back to O'Banian's body.

"Think, Dublin," he ordered. "In all the wars and battles and causes you've been in, what spurred you on more, a live leader whose mind can be turned, or a dead martyr who died for their, your, cause? If you take her head, one of two things will happen, either her people will learn it was you and come after you, or they'll credit it to the Hunters, and redouble their efforts to wipe out the Watchers."

Dublin froze. Damn it! Why does he always have to make sense? Dublin thought angrily. He pulled his arm from Ashton's grip, the venom gone out of his movements. He walked over to O'Banian's body and pulled his dagger from her chest. "What do we do with her, then?"

"I'll take care of her. You go get cleaned up, I could use your help with something." He knew Dublin needed to channel his energy into something or it would eat him up, and tonight was as good a night as any to start working on the members of O'Banian's Council.

Friends help you move. Good friends help you move bodies, Dublin thought humorlessly. He took another long look at the dead body against the wall, his sense of honor and justice at battle with a small feeling of relief that Ashton had stopped him. Perhaps he was just prolonging the inevitable. Perhaps it would just be better to take her head now and get it over with, no matter what David Ashton argued.

Dublin turned away, giving a dissatisfied growl. He knew well where the shower was and, as he shambled off in that direction, he tossed Ashton's katana onto the couch. He knew his friend would take care of things while he was in the shower, he also knew how good the shower would feel as the adrenaline withdrawal began to exact its price on his body.

"Hrm..." Ashton mumbled as he knelt to examine the body on his floor, noticing that her latest wound was almost done healing itself. "That's no good. At this rate she'll revive before I can do anything." Having little other choice he used her own blade to reopen the hole in her chest, twisting the blade as it entered her body to inflict the maximum amount of damage, and did the same with some of her body's other more complicated systems. He then wrapped her in a blanket he retrieved from one of his still unpacked bags and, after tucking a pistol and his resheathed katana under his coat, carried her out to the trunk of his car.

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Vincent Locke leapt from building to building. His dark body could barely be seen next to the night sky. Below him, cars tore recklessly through the streets of Paris. Street lights flickered. Crouching on all fours and peering down from his vantage point, he could see the building Walker's office was supposed to be in.

An endless stream of thoughts raced through Vincent's head. Why am I doing this? Why am I going to kill these innocent people to get to the Hunters?

A pigeon landed next to him and pecked the rooftop.

Everyone in my village was innocent. I was innocent. Look at me now, damned to an eternity of life. Those people in the airplane, they were innocent, and the Hunters killed them without hesitation. Yes, I must, I will do this.

Locke leapt to the next office building.

Do I really need to do this, or is it because I want the attention of that Irish girl?

Locke banished the thought of being ruled over by a woman.

It's true, I do long for the love of a woman. It will never grace my cold heart…but why does this bother me? Siobhan is too emancipated. Anyway, she wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole.

He breathed the cool air deep into his lungs and leapt to the next building. His leap fell short.

Locke's body slammed into the side of the building. Clawing as he fell, he finally managed to grab the side of a fire escape before falling to his death. The muscles in his arms quivered as he pulled himself to the top of the building. Safely on the roof, Locke sat down.

What the hell happened? That jump was less than two meters.

Deciding to give himself plenty of running space this time, Vincent jumped the narrow alley and landed on the top of the Watcher's building. The Watchers' global headquarters was located on the entire third floor of the luxurious Hotel du Quai Voltaire. The rest of the building was a functioning hotel.

There's loads of air vents and stuff up here. I should be able to sneak in easily.

Locke quietly clawed at a ventilation cover. After a minute or so, it slid off.

Bingo. I can fit in here.

"Wait, Vincent."

Locke spun around and drew his sword. Faaris, Tokawa, and MacBane stood on the roof behind him. How the hell did they get here before me?

"Come on, Vincent. You think two meter man can fit in air vent?" Tokawa joked.

"God, you guys scared the shit out of me!" Locke wiped a bead of perspiration off his forehead.

"Hey, Vince," MacBane called. "We can go crawling in air vents quietly, or barge through the main door in a blaze of glory. It's your call."

"It's your call." Their lives are my call. That's just great.

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Devon Sather stepped out of the restroom and strode down the hall to his office. As he passed by the main door, a loud crash grabbed his attention.

A giant shamshir punched down the doors. Four large men stepped into the hall, weapons drawn. Sather ducked back into his office looking in vain for a weapon. Opening his desk drawer, he grasped his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. The massive automatic in his hand, he positioned himself behind his desk and waited for them to come through the door after him.

Three Watchers ran into the main hall, one armed with a short sword.

"Remember, it's Walker we want," Omeir Faaris said, taking up his mighty shamshir. "But anyone who stands in the way is to die." Then, bellowing a war cry in some ancient language, he charged the Watchers.

One of the defending Watchers jumped at David MacBane. In a flurry of dodges, punches, and sword swings, the mortal was tossed into the air, entrails erupting from his stomach.

"Who's next?" MacBane triumphantly screamed.

The Watcher with the sword attacked Taiki Tokawa. Tokawa blocked his clumsy attacks and ran his katana through the Watcher's heart.

The third Watcher found himself surrounded. Locke leapt through the air, his sword raised above his head. In a downward cut, the man was cleaved virtually in two.

"There are not many Watchers here. Most have gone home by now," Faaris said, sounding somewhat disappointed.

Locke wiped some spattered blood from his black pants. "Well, either way, let's get Walker. He's probably still here."

I just killed an innocent man. What if he wakes up in a few minutes to find himself Immortal…like I did… The thought didn't sit very well with him, and, for one brief second, he pondered the wisdom in what he was doing.

The Immortals stepped out in search of Walker's office. At the end of the hall, stood a door with the name Michael Walker on it. The Immortals gathered around the door. Inside, a man could be heard frantically speaking on the telephone.

"Omeir…the door," MacBane whispered.

Faaris's massive leg smashed through the door like paper and Locke charged inside. Michael Walker stood behind his desk. Seeing the Immortals, Walker dropped the telephone. Before he could bring his .45 to bear, Locke jumped over the desk and wrapped his fingers around Walker's neck.

"I could squeeze your head off right now if I wanted to, and end all of this...," Locke muttered. His dark eyes locked with Walker's. The Watcher dropped his gun.

Walker struggled to breathe. "Fear me…Immortal," he gasped. "You don't know...who you're dealing with..."

"I do not fear you, for I am fear incarnate," Locke whispered. With his left hand, Locke brought his new sword to bear on Walker's neck and gently slid it across. A crimson sliver of blood dribbled down his throat.

"Vincent, what the hell you doing," Tokawa cried.

Locke didn't respond, but kept his gaze locked with Walker's. He could taste the mortal's fear. Giving a low growl, Locke slammed Walker's body down on the desk and bound his hands together behind his back.

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Remarkably, disposing of an opponent's body was often times more nerve racking than the actual battle. This thought was with David Ashton as he drove O'Banian's corpse to a suitably dark and neglected alley. As he was propping her body up against a shadowed wall, she revived for the second time that night.

At the sound of her sharp inhalation, Ashton placed a hand behind her head and the other under her chin. Staring straight into her eyes, he said in a flat tone, "Disband your Council. There are many among us who think as Dublin does. This is your second warning. There won't be another." With that he snapped her neck and left the alley to head back to his house.

To his surprise, off to his left, the heavy presence of several Immortals came over him. Ashton immediately checked the inside of his coat, ensuring that both the katana and the pistol were there. Then, giving O'Banian's dead body a quick glance over his shoulder, he moved into the shadows and waited.

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Omeir Faaris, Taiki Tokawa, David MacBane and Vincent Locke had successfully exited the Watcher office, taking their newly acquired captive with them. Slipping through the dark streets of Paris, the Immortals led Walker on foot back to the hotel. It was not far from Watcher headquarters. Locke remained silent as they walked.

From nowhere, a presence fell over them, followed immediately by a crack that tore through the night. Omeir Faaris was clipped in the shoulder by a bullet. He did not cry out, but crouched down, wary, scanning for the gunman.

"Who the fuck is that," MacBane screamed, diving for cover.

A figure darted from behind a trash can and opened fire with what sounded like a pistol. Vincent slipped behind a doorstep and hid in the shadows. Taiki Tokawa was cut down in the spray of fire. MacBane and Faaris disappeared behind the side of a building and hid from the attacker.

Then, abruptly, the gunfire stopped. Locke peered around a corner. Tokawa lay dead and Michael Walker was nowhere to be found.

Faaris, MacBane, and Locke gathered around Tokawa's corpse.

"Shit," muttered Locke, running one hand through his hair.

At length, Faaris said, "Well, we can't stand around here all fucking night." He knelt down, picked up Tokawa as though he were nothing more than a small sack of flour, and threw him over his wounded shoulder, which was already healing.

"Siobhan is going to be pissed," offered David MacBane. "Walker'll be on the lookout for us now."

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," Locke hissed. "Omeir, David, you guys head on back. I dragged us into this, I'm going to find Walker." he said.

"Yeah, but Vincent-" MacBane protested.

"Just do it!"

Without further questioning, MacBane and Faaris slipped into the shadows with Tokawa and vanished.

Locke stood alone in the darkened street, taking slow deep breaths.

This is personal now.

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Far away from Vincent Locke, David Ashton worked on untying the knot in Walker's hands.

"Ashton, thank you. I thought they were going to kill me."

"Of course, Michael. We are all in this together. Did you, by any chance, manage to identify any of them?"

"Yes, Omeir Faaris and David MacBane. There were two others. The name of one of them escapes me right now, but I could spot one of them if I saw him again. He had the deepest red eyes, like he had a touch of albinism in him."

Ashton interrupted. "Thank you, Michael. I think I know exactly who your attacker was…"

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Vincent Locke searched the streets of Paris for Michael Walker, but never found him. MacBane was right, O'Banian was going to be pissed. Finally, cold, hungry and tired, Locke began to make his way back to the hotel.

He was four blocks from the hotel when the buzz touched his senses. His hand instinctively reached inside his coat, settling on the hilt of his sword.

"Unlike you, Mr. Locke, I like to play fair. I don't believe in four on one. I prefer to keep the odds more...even."

Locke knew who it was before David Ashton even stepped out into the light.

They had met before, approximately a hundred years ago when Locke was still running guns and Ashton had tried to dissuade him from such a career move. The resulting battle had killed both of them, their dead bodies being hauled away before one could revive and take the head of the other. Locke always knew they would meet again, and given Ashton's fierce opposition to the Immortal Council, he knew it would be soon.

"I've waited a long time for this," Locke told him, stepping out of the light of the street lamp.

"Then I hope I don't disappoint you," murmured Ashton. He didn't wait for a reply, instead arcing a brutal blow at Vincent Locke.

Locke quickly moved his longsword above his head, preventing the strike from taking his head. Ashton's katana glanced off Locke's sword, sliding down and slicing Locke across the shoulder. Blood flowed freely down Locke's arm, soaking through his coat and making his hand dangerously slick.

"I'm willing to let you walk away with your head, Mr. Locke," David Ashton offered. "But I want your word that you will disband your Council immediately. You may join me in removing the Hunters, but I want your word that you will leave the innocents alone."

Locke circled the elder Immortal warily, his rage running through him almost uncontrollably. "There are no innocents, Ashton. There are Hunters and those who will eventually become Hunters. Siobhan is right, if we leave any of them alive, this will happen again."

He didn't wait for Ashton to answer, letting his blade add weight to his words by cutting through the air in a strong, direct stroke at David Ashton's neck.

Ashton had anticipated the move and ducked quickly. He could smell Locke's anger and wondered what was behind it. True, they had met and fought before, but times were different now. Ashton was willing to let the past go - as long as Locke was ready to stop killing innocents.

Locke screamed his displeasure that Ashton's head was still attached to his body and struck again. Ashton brought his blade up to meet Locke's. Locke's response was a quick flick of his wrist, effectively knocking Ashton's blade slightly to one side, allowing the point of his sword to take direct aim for the soft flesh between his ribs. Ashton twisted to the left, side-stepping Locke's charge. His mind reluctantly accepted the inevitable; this wouldn't end until someone lost their head.

It was like a ballet, a lethal, deadly ballet that had both participants holding their breath. Each thrust was precise, calculated for the most efficient use of speed and strength. Ashton was again surprised at Vincent Locke's level of skill. For someone who had only recently become involved in the Game again, he was good. It was too bad he had to put that skill to use in such a disastrous way.

Their swords clashed, the blades sliding down to the hilts. Ashton feinted to the left, then spun an agile backhand low across Locke's left thigh. He gasped at the sting of metal slicing flesh.

"Walk away from this, Vincent," Ashton pleaded. "No more Immortals have to die here. We can work together."

"Unless we get rid of the Watchers, Immortals will always end up dying," Locke replied, pressing into full attack. A slash. A stinging whip of steel on steel and Ashton was pushed back into the shadows.

Ashton lunged forward, forcing Locke to place his weight on his as yet unhealed left leg, hearing him hiss in pain. Ashton suspected the last attack had cost Locke dearly in stamina. He could feel the victory. Taste it. Smell it in the damp, dark air.

Both blades struck exposed skin and came away bloodied. Locke flinched and retreated, but Ashton pressed the attack. The two blades careened sharply together, sparks exploding from the steel as Ashton forced three swift turns from Locke's longsword, his wrist rolling painfully with each movement. One more twist tore the sword from his numbed fingers, sending it skittering across the pavement, far out of reach.

Ashton brought his blade to Locke's throat, and paused, debating. He had given Siobhan O'Banian two warnings. Could he afford to be so lenient with Vincent Locke?

"Do it," hissed Locke, jaw clenched, eyes hard. "I don't intend to stop unless someone makes me."

Reluctantly, Ashton pulled back the katana for the final arc that would end Vincent Locke's life - when a scream cut through the night.

"Arrêt! L'arrêt ou moi appellera la police." (Stop! Stop or I'll call the police.)

Ashton checked his blade at the last second, the razor sharp edge whizzing by Locke's ear.

"It seems you have been lucky tonight," Ashton told him. "I don't think you'll be so lucky again."

From behind David Ashton came the sound of running feet. "Hé vous! Arrêtez-le! Laissez cet homme seul," a female voice called. (Hey, you! Stop it! Leave that man alone.)

Giving a quick glance over his shoulder, David Ashton slipped the katana beneath his coat and drifted off into the shadows.

Locke swallowed shallowly and sank to the ground, closing his eyes. That was as close to death as he ever wanted to come. Suddenly, he was aware of the smell of perfume and a body beside him.

"Monsieur? Monsieur? Êtes-vous bien? Avez-vous besoin de la police? Une ambulance? Oh mon Dieu, vous saignez." (Mister? Mister? Are you well? Do you need the police? An ambulance? Oh my God, you're bleeding.)

Vincent turned to the woman. "I'm afraid I don't speak French very well," he told her, hoping she understood English.

"Ah," she replied. "I asked if you were alright. If you needed an ambulance or the police. And I said you were blee..." She looked at his thigh and gasped. There had been a gaping slice in his flesh a minute ago. Now all that remained was a cut in his jeans and blood. She looked from the wound to Vincent's face.

"What in the hell happened?" she asked, face pale.

"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you I was a fast healer?'" Vincent replied, grimacing.