"Every dream that we share
Every cross that we bear
Come to me darlin' rescue me"

"Do I Have To Say the Words?" -Bryan Adams

01 December 1999
Paris, France

Darren Dublin stood in the shower, feet apart, hands flat against the cold wall tile. The spray hit him full in the face, but he gave it little attention.

He had stood by the window, watching while David Ashton carried O'Banian's dead body out to the car. Watched the car drive off and the lights grow more and more distant. Even when they were nothing more than pin lights, he hadn't moved, standing, arm above his head resting against the window frame. He stood there for more than an hour, lost in remembrance, mind travelling down several paths. Finally, his rumbling belly had brought him back to the present and he went in search of something to eat. A proper shower would wait.

A thorough search of Ashton's fridge yielded the usual - fresh fruit, several types of cheese, fresh whole grain bread. Hunger satisfied, Dublin once more headed to the shower.

Now he stood there, oblivious to the hot, scalding water. Damn and blast that woman, didn't she ever learn? He wondered how much Ashton had figured out. The excuse he gave for stopping Dublin taking O'Banian's head had been valid, but Dublin didn't think that was the complete reason.

He thought back to the night when he had soundlessly let himself into her hotel room. He hadn't worried that she would hear or sense him. He knew that Siobhan O'Banian, despite her past, slept the deep, blameless sleep of the dead.

He had stood over her, watching her, half of him as angry as he could ever remember being at her involvement with the fanatical Council. The other half of him was utterly relieved that she was still alive. Given her blatant my way or the highway attitude, he'd thought her dead years ago. Dublin had originally thought to take her head but, once there, found he couldn't, not like that, not with her unarmed, sleeping like a baby. Instead, he had settled for a warning, a serious warning, by slipping her .357 Magnum under her pillow. She obviously hadn't listened. He slammed the flat of his palm against the tile, swearing a Gaelic oath. Finally, when the water began to turn cold, he turned the shower off. Then he dried himself, put on clean, unbloodied clothes and went downstairs.

David Ashton had returned half an hour ago and had spent the time cleaning Siobhan O'Banian's blood from his walls and floors. He had long ago given up on carpet, finding hardwood easier to clean. He had listened to the water run for far longer than Dublin's usually efficient shower; another sign that something was wrong.

When Dublin entered the sitting room, Ashton was sitting on the brocade couch, nursing a glass of Irish malt whiskey. He nodded toward the sideboard, indicating Dublin should help himself. While Dublin poured himself a good measure and a drop more, Ashton debated whether or not to ask the question in his mind. He needed to know. If he were wrong, a sincere apology would suffice. If he were right…

Dublin, drink in hand, settled himself into a Queen Anne chair set to the side of the gently glowing fireplace. The fingers of his right hand, although wrapped around his glass, still tapped tunelessly. In the other hand, he held the hacky sack picked up from somewhere, twisting and rolling it between his fingers. The look on his face gave David Ashton the push he needed to pose the question.

"Darren," he began carefully. "Why didn't you tell me that you and Siobhan O'Banian were lovers?"

Darren Dublin shifted uncomfortably in his chair, jaw clenched. "What makes you think that?" he asked, his voice not quite as controlled as he would have liked.

David Ashton looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Darren, I have known you for almost a millennia. You are sometimes theatrical, always dramatic, but, until tonight, you were never hesitant."

"I would have taken her head if you hadn't stopped me," the Irishman insisted.

Ashton nodded. "Yes, you would have. And you would have hated yourself for the rest of your life. I have been both on the giving and the receiving end of such a look as you gave Siobhan - and it was never with someone who was just a casual acquaintance. Lovers look at each other differently, no matter how long ago the love affair was. And my Gaelic might be a bit rusty, but not so rusty as to not know what slan leat ghra means. "Good bye, love?" Not the sort of thing one usually says to a mere acquaintance before taking their head. So I ask you again, why didn't you tell me?"

Dublin rolled his head back on the chair. Up until a moment ago, he had been tossing the hacky sack in a steady rhythm of throw and catch. Now he rolled it between his palms, appearing to be trying to crush it or assimilate it into his hands. "Not much to tell."

Ashton didn't believe him for a moment and he let the silence stand between them, growing longer and more charged.

Finally, Dublin could stand the quiet no longer. "What do you want me to say, for chrissake?" he exploded. "That our first date lasted two and a half days? That the twenty-six months we were together were the happiest I've had in a thousand years? That when I found out she was IRA, I damn near killed her? What?"

"You were together over two years and you didn't know she was IRA?" Ashton questioned.

Dublin shook his head. "Not a fucking clue. Christ was I blind." His eyes glazed over and Ashton let the memory he knew was replaying in his friend's mind run its course.

xxxxxxxxxx

July, 1986
London, England

He felt the presence before the elevator door opened, but was not able to do anything about it. He was already late for his appointment and he didn't have time to wait for another elevator. He would just have to hope that, whoever it was, was either friendly or in the same hurry as he.

She turned out to be neither. Feeling the presence, Siobhan O'Banian positioned herself in front of the doors, feet slightly apart, back straight, and waited for them to open. Immortal for a little over a decade, she had managed to keep her head and avoid most fights by being confrontive and aggressive. Most Immortals backed away from her, assuming that only a strong, capable opponent would be so self-confident.

In truth, O'Banian's fighting skills were little better than fair. The few fights she had been involved in, she had won by determination, instinct and a great deal of luck.

The elevator doors opened and they stood almost nose to nose. O'Banian's eyes widened slightly. She gave him a long, steady gaze from head to toe and back again.

Dublin stared at her, waiting for her to say something. It wasn't exactly the challenge he had expected.

"Bit short for an Immortal, aren't ya?" The Irish brogue, similar to his own true dialect, rippled like cream from her tongue.

"I didn't realize there was a minimum height requirement." Her comment brought an image of Jonathan Fairbanks to his mind. "Some of my friends won't be too happy to hear about that," he told her, smirking and already fascinated. He'd met few other Irish Immortals and never an Irish woman.

She had wanted to laugh. He could see it hovering at the corners of her mouth, the mouth that was just a few inches from his own. Dublin hesitated for a split second then leaned in slowly to meet those perfect lips. As his mouth slanted over hers, one thing refused to leave his mind - the line from The Princess Bride about perfect kisses. He'd always wondered about that line - now he knew. This was one of those perfect kisses. A kiss that would be remembered long after both participants had perished and had themselves been forgotten. At least, that's how it happened in Darren Dublin's mind. In reality, he just stared like a simpleton.

O'Banian noted his stare and recovered her seriousness quickly. "Makes no mind to me. You're just liable to become a few inches shorter, that's all," she replied.

The doors began to close and they each brought up a hand to trigger them open again. Palm brushed palm and O'Banian stepped back, the contact like an electrical charge.

"I'm afraid, as much as I'd like to take you up on your offer, I have a very pressing engagement on the fifteenth floor. And I'm already late, so if you're done playing intimidator, which you are very good at, by the way, I'd like to be goin'." Dublin stepped into the elevator, smiling openly when she took three steps back in response.

"I believe you were supposed to be gettin' off," he reminded her.

She stared at him confused, then recovered her senses. "Yes, I am." She skirted him cautiously then stepped out of the elevator.

The doors began to close. Just before they shut completely, Dublin struck his hand between them, forcing them open again. "I'll be done in an hour, if you'd care to wait?"

She scowled at him, trying to look fierce, but not succeeding very well. "Downstairs, the last level of the parkade. It's not used - somethin' about being structurally unsafe." With that she turned her back and walked away.

Dublin left the elevator doors open and watched her go. Suddenly, the importance of his appointment seemed to diminish. For a brief moment, he couldn't even remember what the appointment was for - then it came back to him. Inheritance. His grandfather had recently passed away - leaving him an awful lot of money. Finally, the woman with the long red hair disappeared from view and, with a sigh, Darren Dublin let the elevator doors close.

His appointment had taken an hour and a half, and he hadn't expected her to be there. But she was. She was leaning lazily against a post, rubbing the flat of her sword against the leg of the tight jeans she was wearing.

"I was startin' to think you'd run away," she told him without looking up.

"Now, why would I run away from a sure thing?" he chuckled.

That brought her head up and he noted the anger flash in her eyes. Oh, little one, he thought, whoever your teacher was, they should have taught you not to be so readable or so emotional. She interrupted his thoughts with a strike that appeared weak, but wasn't. Perhaps this wasn't a sure thing after all.

He parried her blows with little difficulty, seeing several chances to injure her severely, but not taking any of them. He wanted to wear her down, not take her head. She was strong and had good instincts, but her feet were all wrong and she telegraphed her moves shamefully. Dublin allowed her to get in a few good shots, always controlling the amount of damage she did. A few nicks here, a cut there, nothing more than the lighter wounds he had experienced when sparring with David Ashton or Jonathan Fairbanks.

Finally, when one such strike bloodied him a little more than he would have liked, he decided to end it, before he really got hurt. He waited until she swiped at his shoulder, knowing that when she did so she would leave her left side vulnerable and that her balance would be off. He wasn't disappointed. Dublin leaned back, away from the edge of her sword. At the same time he brought his right leg up, giving O'Banian a hard kick in the soft area between the hip and the ribcage.

She grunted at the impact and continued to spin to her right, balance completely off and legs twisted. The weight of her sword over her right shoulder didn't help and she stumbled awkwardly. Dublin had already placed his foot behind her, tripping her. O'Banian fell flat on her backside, landing with an undignified "Oof." The sword was jarred from her hand and clattered onto the concrete floor. Dublin immediately kicked it out of reach. He had been playing; she, on the other hand, had not. Given half the chance, she might have just taken his head.

He brought the edge of his sword to her throat, seeing her flinch and screw her eyes shut, waiting for the deathblow.

Stillness.

Finally, her eyes opened a sliver and she stared up at him. Dublin looked down at her, hands itching to touch the long red hair that cascaded down her back. "I tell you what. I'm willin' to make you a deal," he told her, raising one foot onto the concrete curb and taking a relaxed stance, but still keeping the blade against her neck.

"What sort of deal?" she muttered.

"Well now, I can either take your head…or I can take you to dinner. Your choice." The soft Irish accent that had, until now, only touched the fringes of his speech, came back in full force.

O'Banian eyed him suspiciously. "Dìreach dinnear?" (Just dinner?) she asked in Gaelic.

He shrugged and answered her in kind. "Uill, dinnear agus deoch às deidh. Tha mi eòlach air an taigh-seinnse beag Èireannach seo seachad air Picadilly ..." (Well, perhaps dinner and a drink after. I know this great little Irish pub over past Picadilly…)

"O'Keefe's," she supplied, eyebrows raised.

"Aye, that be the one. They do a grand Irish stew."

"The steak and kidney pie is better," she told him.

"Is that a fact now? Well, I might just have to try it." He removed the blade and offered her his hand. She hesitated a moment, then took it, and he pulled her to her feet.

"By the way, I'm Daniel East…" He started to give her the alias he was currently using, then stopped himself. It was suddenly important that he not lie to her. He wanted her to know who he really was. "I'm Darren Dublin," he told her softly.

"Siobhan. Siobhan O'Banian."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Siobhan O'Banian." He raised her hand to his mouth, placing a soft kiss along the back, lingering long and noting that she didn't pull her hand away. Their eyes met and he grinned at her. "Perhaps dinner and two drinks, eh?"

By the time they reached O'Keefe's, both had slipped into their native Gaelic. After that, with the exception of a few minutes here and there, they hadn't left each other's side for the next two and a half days - or nights.

Then O'Banian disappeared, leaving his hotel room on the Monday morning and not returning. Dublin stayed in London an extra two days, waiting, hoping. Just when he had convinced himself that it had been nothing more than a torrid weekend fling, she had returned, kissing him and artfully dodging his questions as to where she had been. She was a photographer, she told him. Disappearing on short notice was part of the job.

The next day, he had taken her home - to Ireland.

Three weeks later, the building they had met in was the target of an IRA bombing. Dublin read the newspaper article with interest, pondering what might have been if the bomb had been planted three weeks earlier. After that, he didn't give it any thought.

Under his tutelage, O'Banian's fighting skills improved tenfold. She learned not to telegraph her moves, to keep her eyes hard and unemotional. After almost a year, he had to confess, there were times when he had difficulty beating her. Dublin didn't teach her as a student, preparing her so that she could venture out on her own one day. He taught her as a lover, someone he shared his bed with, someone he wanted to stay alive.

He didn't just teach her how to fight. He opened O'Banian's eyes to a whole new world. Dublin took her to France, Belgium, Holland, and several other countries in Europe, teaching her of the people there, their culture and their way of life. He taught her French and a little German, how to tell the difference between a Cabernet and Chardonnay, and the proper way to dance a waltz.

Up until this point, there had been few women in Darren Dublin's life, and certainly no previous relationship had ever been so intense or emotional. He started out with the idea that a small fling might be nice, and ended up passionately in love. He wasn't alone.

Despite the depth of their involvement, the late night phone calls and the unannounced disappearances continued. Dublin never knew when he would wake up alone, wandering around for days wondering if she was coming back.

Then, just as he was about to force himself to accept that she was dead, she'd appear - answering his questions with kisses, deftly changing the subject until, days later, he would realise that he still didn't know where she had been. In hindsight, he should have known something was wrong; perhaps he did, but just refused to see it. He remembered clearly one night when O'Banian had alluded to the IRA. He had immediately enlightened her as to his views on terrorism and terrorists.

They were, in his opinion, the lowest level of mankind, a breed for whom he had no tolerance and no mercy. She had swallowed slowly and changed the subject.

They had continued on like that for over two years. Then, one day, it all came crashing down.

Darren Dublin had known about the existence of Watchers for most of the twentieth century. Every now and again he allowed them to get close, letting them get a glimpse of his life for a few years. Then he'd disappear again, leaving them behind until next time. He never told O'Banian about Watchers, didn't deem it to be something she needed to know. She had a tendency to be a bit paranoid as it was, if she actually knew someone was watching her, Dublin didn't doubt she'd pitch a fit.

His current Watcher was a man called Jack Sather. He didn't know if Sather was also assigned to watch O'Banian. He'd kept an eye open to see if he could spot anyone else hanging around, but hadn't detected any other recurring faces in the crowds. Perhaps like every other corporation, the Watcher organization had suffered cutbacks and their employees had found their duties doubled.

O'Banian had just returned from another four-day disappearance. When pressed, she had told Dublin that she had been in Greenland, taking pictures of walruses and whales. This time, he hadn't believed her. Secretly he checked her passport, noting it was stamped for a variety of places, including France and Germany. Wherever she had been, it hadn't been Greenland. He decided it was time the Watchers did him a favor.

Heading out on the pretense of going for a walk, Dublin cornered Jack Sather one afternoon, promising to fill in a couple of missing sections in the Dublin chronicles if Jack Sather could tell him where O'Banian had been for the past four days. Sather had reluctantly agreed to find out what he could.

The call came two days later. O'Banian was away, spending the weekend with her teacher, a woman she only identified to Dublin as "Mary," who lived near Belfast. Darren answered the call on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Darren, it's Sather. I did what you asked."

"And?"

There was a big sigh.

"And you're not going to like it." From the tone of his voice, it was obvious Sather damn sure didn't like it.

"What is it?" Despite asking, Dublin was convinced he already knew - there was another man.

"Darren - she's IRA."

Dublin suddenly felt as if someone had taken a red-hot knife and stuck it into his gut, twisting it for the best effect. While this analogy flashed through his mind, another corner noted that he actually had felt that sensation. Perhaps this was worse.

"And that's not all. Turn on the T.V."

Wordlessly, Dublin did as he was told. A woman's harried face filled the screen. She was on location, somewhere in the country. Behind her were ambulances, police cars and people in uniform. Dublin turned up the sound.

"...The awful devastation here just outside Antrim. What, this morning awoke as a peaceful, quaint Irish village, is now a place of mourning. Not one family in this small community is untouched by this tragedy. Everyone has lost a relative - a son, daughter, brother, sister, cousin - the tragedy is deeply felt by all. Increased so by the knowledge that these children died at the hands of kinsman, fellow Irishmen. The IRA issued a statement today taking full responsibility for the blast. The statement goes on to say that the bus had not been the intended target, but that the mines were intended for the four truck convoy of British soldiers behind…"

Jack Sather's voice came blistering down the phone line. "Darren, your girlfriend just blew up a school bus load of children. Twenty-four kids, some not more than six or seven, two teachers and a bus driver are dead - and she planned it."

"No, she didn't," Dublin responded flatly, knowing that if he allowed any emotion at all into his being at this point, he'd probably go mad from the flood. His eyes were still resting on the T.V., taking in the horrible pictures it projected. "I don't believe it. It's not her. She wouldn't do that."

Sather laughed humorlessly. "I thought you might be hard to convince. Go look under the mat outside your door. I took those pictures myself this morning. Look at them and see if you can still believe in her innocence." Then the phone went dead.

Dublin retrieved the envelope from beneath the mat, quickly opening it and scanning the photos it held. They were of O'Banian, alone in some, with several people in others. The photos all carried the dating of September 17, 1988. The last picture was the most damning. Taken long range, it showed O'Banian walking, head slightly down, across an open field, her face was expressionless. Behind her was the image of a school bus exploding.

He waited for her in the dark, sadness and rage vying for emotional dominance. Finally, just after midnight, she returned.

"Dia dhuit, ghra. An tusa a tha ann?" (Hello, love. How are you?)

"Why are you sittin' in the dark?" she asked, turning on a light. She wandered over to him, sitting on his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. Halfway through the kiss, she realized he wasn't responding.

"What's wrong? What's happened?" She pulled away, studying him.

He pushed her aside and stood, pacing toward a small table halfway across the room. Taking up the envelope lying on it, he turned to the fire, not able to face her. "A school bus was blown up today. A lot of kids were killed." The firelight dancing across his features gave them an elfin look.

Does he know? How could he? Have I finally slipped up? The thoughts were no stranger to O'Banian. They echoed through her mind every time she returned from one of her photo shoots.

He can't know. If he did, my head wouldn't have made it through the door. She tried to calm her nerves with that small attempt at humour. But he's never been this close to the mark before. This last thought completely undermined that attempt.

She was scared. This could be the moment she'd lived in fear of for two years. She realized, with a bit of panic, that she'd been silent too long and he was staring at her. Affecting a somewhat flawed melancholy tone, she answered his remark, shaking her head for added emphasis. "What is this world coming to?"

At this, he whirled to face her, the fire in his eyes rivalling that in the hearth behind him. Where just seconds earlier, it would have pierced his heart to look at her, now his rage shielded him from his pain. "Where are you taking this world?" Finishing his sentence, he flung the envelope at her.

Oh, God. Oh, God. No. She knew now it was over and she crumbled inside. She could tell by the feel of the envelope what it contained. The pictures would be some proof of her involvement with the morning's disaster. At a loss as to how to proceed, she opened the envelope, taking out the photos. She couldn't get past the first one. He'd left the picture of her in the field with the explosion in the background on top.

A hand went to her mouth as first one, then another tear rolled down her cheeks. She couldn't stop them.

Damn that man. She'd never cried before meeting Dublin. She wouldn't allow it.

"It wasn't… We…Something happened. It was supposed to be the trucks behind the bus. It was supposed…to be the soldiers…" Her voice trailed off shakily.

Until that moment, Dublin had managed to preserve the one small sliver of hope he'd had. If his years had taught him nothing else, it had taught him the virtue of hope. Maybe Sather was one of those damned evil Watchers he'd heard about in rumors. Maybe this was some bizarre mistake. Maybe she was an infiltrator for the other side. A thousand-year-old imagination could come up with countless possibilities. He'd seen - hell - he'd done stranger things in his life. But the tears sealed it. Even before she spoke, the tears had told him all he needed to know.

"How could you? What kind of person murders innocent children? What kind of person plants bombs on roads?" Dublin spat, hand running through his long, loose hair.

O'Banian looked up. His attack provided the catalyst she needed to transform her grief to anger. "It's war, Darren. I thought you of all people would understand that."

"It's not war. It's murder!" he yelled angrily. "You killed children, Siobhan, not soldiers on a battlefield, not raiders intent on burning your village - children!"

"And how many children have you killed over the years? How many wives have you widowed? Sons and daughters orphaned?" She knew it would hurt him, she even felt some small regret at saying it, but she had to fight back somehow.

It struck him harder than any physical blow ever had. It was the thing that tortured his sleep. He fought back with the only defense he'd found in all the ages he'd struggled with this fact.

"I fought those who attacked me. I killed the ones I could. When did those children find the time to attack you?"

"It wasn't supposed to be that way. It wasn't supposed to be them. There were four lorries of British soldiers supposed to cross that area. No one else uses that road; there's a faster route now. We planted the mines and moved up on the hill to watch. We didn't know that the local school was on a field trip, I swear. That stupid bloody limey did the only good thing in his rotten life. He let that bus pass the convoy." She looked up. "There was nothin' we could do. The mines were laid. We were helpless."

"You shouldn't have planted those bloody bombs in the first place, Siobhan," Dublin hissed. "One way or another you were out to kill someone."

"Yes, British soldiers. How can ye defend them? How many times have I listened to you telling stories about how the British have oppressed us through the centuries? How they've killed us. Starved us. Controlled us. It's time we got Ireland back, Darren, and that's what I'm doin' - getting it back!"

"At the rate yer goin' there won't be anyone left to get it back for!" he hurled.

"Where were you in January of 1972, Darren?" O'Banian questioned.

He paused a moment, thinking. He'd been in Bolivia - no, that was '74. "Australia, I think. Why?"

"I was in Derry."

She didn't need to say anymore.

January 13, 1972 - Derry, Northern Ireland - Bloody Sunday. Whether the Irish started it and the British troops retaliated, or whether the British troops fired on innocent, peaceful protestors was something that would be debated until the end of time, and firmly depended upon which side of the fight one stood. Either way, by the end of it all, thirteen people were dead, more injured.

For the IRA, it was a beginning, the start of an active war that had raged underground for years. After January 1972, it came out of the woodwork, going from quiet resistance to full-scale rebellion.

Dublin closed his eyes slowly, face scowling.

O'Banian continued. "I wasn't Immortal yet. Didn't even know of such things. I was with a boyfriend. It was a peaceful march - 'til the fucking British bastards started shooting, then it was a massacre. The boy I was with died. I was shot. Not seriously - not that it would have mattered anyhow. I would have survived it one way or another. But thirteen people didn't survive it, Darren. And they made it sound like we'd started it."

"Siobhan, that doesn't give you reason…"

"No? Well, at what point do I have reason, Darren?" O'Banian pulled herself from the couch and stood before him, hands fisted at her side. "Do I wait for them to herd us all like animals into jails, without proper trial, without proper charges, hell, without charges at all, in some cases." She paused, seeming to debate something. Finally, she took a deep breath. "Darren, I planted that bomb at Guildford."

He looked at her in horror. Dublin had known that her original death had been at a pub bombing, but this was new to him. "You planted the bomb?" he repeated.

"Aye, I did. Cut the timer too soon, and I got caught before I could get clear of the building. The British arrested four young people, three Irish lads and an English girl. They had nothin' to do with it - weren't even IRA. But they were Irish - and that's all that mattered. Even when we issued a statement takin' responsibility but tellin' them they had the wrong people, they still let those poor bastards sit and rot in jail for fifteen years! BECAUSE THEY WERE IRISH!"

Dublin shook his head. He, too, was well acquainted with the suspicion and persecution that went along with being Irish. It was one of the main reasons he immediately lost his accent when he was in England, finding it easier to just assimilate into the mainstream. No matter; it still didn't give her carte blanche to murder.

Something else popped into his brain then. Bloody Sunday was followed six months later by what was known as Bloody Friday. July 21, 1972. Eleven people were killed and one hundred and twenty injured by twenty-two IRA bombs which exploded over a terrifying one-hour period in Belfast.

Total confusion reigned as people ran from one bomb, only to turn a corner and be confronted with another. Darren had watched it on the news, horror stricken as to what his homeland had become. The target had been the Protestant public that supported British rule and the presence of British troops in Ireland. Dublin didn't need to ask about O'Banian's involvement - he already knew. He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her.

"Siobhan, you are a terrorist. You kill and maim and injure with complete disregard to your victims. This time you've not only killed your fellow Irishmen - YOU'VE KILLED CHILDREN!"

"I told you it wasn't supposed to be that way. I issued a statement saying…"

She never finished the sentence. Dublin's hand came out of nowhere, open palm catching her full across the face. The force of the slap knocked her sideways onto the couch. She lay there, staring up at him in horror.

"You think a statement will ease the pain those parents are feeling? If you think a fucking statement will make everything better, you need your fucking head examined." He was furious now, not just because of what she had done, but because she was blind to the pain she was causing and the wrongness of her actions. If she had shown remorse and begged his forgiveness, he might, just might, have forgiven her. But instead she justified what she did, implying that not only should he not condemn her for her actions, he should, in some way, agree with them. Dublin reached down, grasping Siobhan by the throat, lifting her up.

"How many times did you leave my bed to go on your little murdering raids?"

Her eyes opened wide, but she didn't reply. She didn't need to. The answer was in her eyes. He released her, and she fell back, choking, onto the couch. "You have half an hour. Get yer things and get out. If I find you here when I come back, I swear to God, Siobhan, I'll take yer head."

With that, he turned on his heel and stormed through the door, nearly ripping it from the hinges as he went.

To this day, he hadn't returned to that house.

xxxxxxxxxx

01 December 1999

Paris, France

Silence once again descended over the two Immortals sitting in David Ashton's sitting room. The elder Immortal watched his friend, noting the sadness with which he retold the memory, seeing him relive the emotion once again. Ashton had always known something significant had happened in Dublin's life in late 1988. He had been at his villa in Greece when the local astynomia (police) had called him saying they had a drunken man in their custody and that the only intelligible words they could make out were "David Ashton."

Ashton had arrived at the stathmos (station), only to find Darren Dublin in the holding cells. The Irishman was in rather rough shape. He had obviously neither shaved, bathed, nor changed clothes for several days, and was drunk to the point of incomprehension as to where or even who he was; quite a feat for an Irishman, not to mention an Immortal. Given his complete state of intoxication, he'd probably died several times from alcohol poisoning before getting to Greece.

Just how he got there forever remained a mystery. David Ashton had paid his fine and taken him home. Cleaning him up was easy. Sobering him up took two full days. Finding out what had happened was impossible. When Ashton asked, Dublin replied only that he had had an investment go wrong, then resumed his brooding silence. Ashton let it go, assuming that once Dublin had mulled things over and arranged them in his mind, he would tell him what the problem was.

For once, David Ashton was wrong. Ten days after Darren Dublin had arrived unannounced, he left the same way. Ashton woke one morning to find him gone, a simple note in Dublin's barely legible scrawl the only indication that he had been there.

Feumaidh mi falbha. Go raibh mile maith agaibh as bhur gcunahmh. Tha miduilich. (I must go. Thank you for your help. I'm sorry.) Darren.

They had never spoken of the incident, Ashton being of the mind that if Dublin had wanted to speak of it, he would have. Now, eleven years later, he had. The silence lengthened. Dublin stared hard into the floor, the hacky sack sitting in his hand, for once, completely still.

Finally, David Ashton spoke. "She left the IRA in early 1989, you know."

Dublin looked up. "No, I didn't. How do you know?"

"When I heard of Siobhan O'Banian's involvement with the Council, I looked into her background. Her teacher was Anastacia Delmar."

Dublin sucked in his breath. "Anastacia Delmar? Now there's a name attached to trouble. Siobhan would only ever tell me her teacher's name was Mary." He lapsed into silence for a few more minutes, then spoke again. "Why did she leave?"

Ashton shrugged. "I don't know. My sources couldn't find out anything more than that she returned from Lockerbie, Scotland shortly after Christmas of '88, and by the beginning of February '89 she was on her own - and the Ra had a price on her head." He looked up, watching his friend. "She hasn't had any involvement with the IRA or any other type of terrorist organization since then. In fact, since 1989, Siobhan O'Banian hasn't even had a speeding ticket."

Darren looked up sharply. "So put her name forward for "Terrorist Driver of the Decade." What's yer point?"

Ashton chuckled. "My point is that no matter what she has done, Siobhan O'Banian seems, somewhere deep inside her, to still have a conscience."

"Oh, I'm sure the families of the kiddies she killed at Antrim will take great comfort in that, David," Dublin shot back, draining his glass and rising. He ambled slowly back over to the sideboard, asking Ashton with a tilt of his head if he too required a refill. Ashton shook his head. Dublin filled his glass, then returned to his chair. The hacky sack resumed its toss and catch action.

"You miss my point." David Ashton's voice had taken on a slight edge, something that wasn't lost on Dublin. He looked over at his teacher, waiting. Ashton continued. "A person without a conscience is beyond hope, beyond redemption. They cannot be saved. A person with a conscience can. We have all done things we regret, Darren. All of us."

He paused, letting Dublin reflect what he said. Dark memories flashed through both their minds. He continued.

"The difference is that we saw the error of our ways and made a conscious effort to change our paths. Perhaps Siobhan O'Banian just needs a helping hand."

Dublin snorted. "Perhaps Siobhan O'Banian needs to lose her head."

"Is that what you really want?" Ashton questioned.

Dublin sat silent, eyes averted. "No," he finally mumbled.

"I thought not," replied Ashton. "But unless we change her course of action, that is exactly what will happen, my friend."

Dublin took a drink of his whiskey. "And if we change her mind, perhaps we can change the others."

Ashton nodded. "Perhaps not all, but enough to make a difference, yes." He paused, then continued. "And, of course, there is always the chance that you two might be able to sort things out."

Dublin snorted again. "Oh, aye, and who said I wanted to "sort things out" between me and Siobhan?"

Ashton smiled knowingly, but said nothing, letting the idea germinate in Dublin's mind.

Dublin ruminated for a few minutes, then pulled himself up from his slouch in the chair. "So, how do we affect this miraculous transformation of Ms. O'Banian?"

"Simple. We talk to her."

Darren looked at him, astonished, then began to laugh. "We talk to her? Oh, David, that's rich, that is. Have you gone daft? You could talk to her 'til yer blue in the face. Siobhan O'Banian won't be changin' her mind. She's a damn stubborn woman - trust me, I know."

"You were pretty stubborn yourself when first we met," Ashton offered with a grin. "She's stubborn, yes. But I don't think she's stupid. She just needs to be shown a different way, that's all."

"And if you talk, and she doesn't listen - what then?" Dublin asked.

David Ashton's face turned grave. "Then, my friend, I will have no choice but to take her head. Ghra ainm chroi a na." (Love of your heart or not.)

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02 December 1999

Lockerbie, Scotland

He was in. He'd almost blown it, neglecting to recall the hair color on the file. The real Ethan James had sandy blond hair, not pure blond. That fact had not gone unnoticed by Alan Ottenbreit, and he had questioned Payton on it several times.

"It's a typo," Swift insisted. "I pointed it out to them, but it never got changed. What? You think I dyed my hair?" He eyed Ottenbreit casually, belying his racing heartbeat and dry mouth. How could he have been so stupid as to forget something so obvious?

Alan Ottenbreit regarded the new Hunter carefully, weighing up the situation. Faulty descriptions on Watcher documents did happen - he himself had been affected by one. His vital statistics had him listed at one hundred sixty-seven and a half centimeters tall, when he was, in reality, one hundred sixty-eight." It had taken the organization several months to correct the error.

"So tell me, Mr. James. Do you think you can kill Immortals - even when they are knelt in front of you, begging for their lives? Even Immortal women? Children?"

Swift snorted. "No problem. Women. Children. Immortal cats and dogs, if they exist. They're abominations - all of them. The sooner this world is rid of them, the better off we will be. I wouldn't be surprised if it turns out that we can all live in harmony without those bastards around." He looked straight into Alan Ottenbreit's cold, blue eyes.

Ottenbreit smiled. "Excellent. I think you will be a welcome addition to our order, Mr. James. Welcome." He held his hand out for Swift to shake.

That had been ten days ago, and so far things had been going smoothly. All Swift had been asked to do was monitor the comings and goings of a few Immortals, no one significant, and no one he knew.

He had managed to report in to Ashton once, telling them of his success. He wouldn't report again until he had something tangible to report. He hoped that would happen tonight.

He had carefully surveyed the administration part of the headquarters several times, acquainting himself with each office, window and closet. The doors were firmly locked and alarmed at five p.m. everyday when the young secretary, Dilys, went home. Dilys was an ugly girl, with buckteeth, bad skin and greasy hair. She lived in the village and was obviously employed for her efficiency rather than her looks. That made her perfect.

It hadn't taken Swift long to find out that Dilys spent most of her evenings looking for love at a neighbourhood bar. At five on his first free night, he had headed there, finding her as he expected, sitting alone, nursing a glass of wine. Three glasses of wine later, she had been snuggled up to him, giggling when he draped his arm around her shoulders. After five glasses of wine, he had whispered the suggestion that they go back to her place. Tipsy Dilys had eagerly concurred.

Three hours later, as Swift listened to Dilys' gentle snores beside him, he contemplated that he had, in his mind, just made the ultimate sacrifice for his kind. His one saving grace had been that it was a pitch black, moonless night. With a few glasses of wine inside him, and a great deal of imagination, he had been able to convince himself, almost, that the willing body in bed with him was Cindy Crawford, not Dilys Burdett.

Slipping carefully from the bed, Swift made his way cautiously over to Dilys' purse, lying on the floor where she had dropped it. Inside, he knew, was the key to the office.

An hour later, now fully dressed, Swift carefully let himself into the office. He found the alarm system not as much trouble as he had anticipated. He had, it turned out, been one of the experts whose input was sought when designing the system, so disarming it was child's play.

First stop was the filing cabinet in Ottenbreit's office. It was kept locked, but Swift knew that Dilys kept an extra key in her desk. He had seen her replace it there once, careful to look away and appear to be interested in a pamphlet on pensions when she had seen him standing there.

The cabinet was stuffed with coloured file folders. Swift quickly ascertained the coding system - blue for Watchers, Red for Hunters, Yellow for Immortals. He looked through the Immortal files first, seeing who the Hunters deemed "top of the list."

"David Ashton. Marton Razumov. Darren Dublin. Erik Frost. Vincent Locke. Omeir Faaris. David MacBane. Siobhan O'Banian. Taiki Tokawa. " Swift scowled. He knew the names. Called some of those people his friends. All were living on borrowed time according to these files.

He set the files aside, moving on to the Watcher files. Kyle Anderson. Seth Armstrong. Anna Eng. Robert Julliani. James Miller. Victoria Monteith. Mairead O'Connell. Devon Sather. Raymond Scott. Michael Walker. No names there that he recognized save Walker and Sather.

The Hunter files, however, did yield a surprise. One name hit him like a hammer and he pulled it out quickly, opening the cover.

"Holy shit," he muttered, staring at the photographs just inside the front cover. He moved over to a desk, hesitating slightly before turning on the desk lamp. The risk was worth it; he needed to get a better look at these photos. To see if it were true or just the light playing tricks on his mind.

The extra light confirmed it. His mind hadn't been playing tricks. Swift stared at the black and white photo, a dribble of cold sweat running down his back. He had to get out of here and warn his people - fast.

Turning off the light, he carefully returned all the files to the cabinet, locking it and returning the key to Dilys' desk.

The alarm system came next, then the office door. Swift debated with himself outside the locked door. He had originally thought to slip back into Dilys' bedroom and return the key to her purse, but that would have to wait. An idea occurred to him and he casually turned from the door, dropping the key to the floor. Let Dilys find it tomorrow and think she had just dropped it when putting it in her purse. Then, Payton Swift quickly made his way to the nearest phone booth out in the street, not noticing the dark form that had shadowed his every move since he had left Hunter headquarters at five.

xxxxxxxxxx

Swift anxiously listened to the ringing tone, mentally screaming for someone to pick up. Finally someone did.

"Yes?"

"Hey, it's me. I'm fine. Listen, I got something you won't believe. I found a photo, an old one - and you won't believe who's in it! Jacob Elwin and…"

The bullet that pierced Payton Swift's heart effectively cut off any further conversation. A gloved hand listened to the voice on the other end of the phone for a moment, then placed the receiver back in its cradle.

xxxxxxxxxx

02 December 1999

Paris, France

Above anything else, Sophie Marchand was no fool. She knew a lie when she heard one, and Vincent Locke was definitely lying.

Immortals? People who lived forever? Impossible.

But he seemed so sincere, answering her when he could, telling her when he didn't know the answer. And the wound; how else could someone explain healing that fast?

Sophie shook her head for perhaps the seventh or eighth time, but every time she thought about it, it became just a bit more real.

Locke watched her beneath his eyelashes, seeing the disbelief move across her face to be replaced by wonderment and finally resignation. He didn't know what had possessed him to tell her. He had looked into those large green eyes and, somehow, it had all come tumbling out.

She hadn't done what he anticipated - slap his face, call him insane and stalk off into the night. Instead, she had sat silent, contemplating his words. Then, surprisingly, she had begun to ask questions - thoughtful, intelligent questions that didn't smack of condescension. Where did he come from? How did he become Immortal? Was there any way he could actually die? Did he have any other abilities?

"Like being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?" he had asked her wryly, chuckling when she nodded.

He answered what he could, told her truthfully when he couldn't, and waited. Finally the questions stopped and she just sat, thoughtful. "That man, the one you were fighting with, would he have killed you, would have cut off your head, if I hadn't come along?" She bit her lip and looked at him hesitantly.

"Yes. Yes, he would have," Locke told her. If whatever powers that be hadn't had the good graces to send this woman his way at this particular time, his head and his body would not be one anymore.

All Sophie's life she had waited from something exciting to happen. When she was twelve, her Aunt Bernadette (snidely termed "crazy Bernie" by the rest of the family) had taken her to have her palm read. The gypsy had, at first, told Sophie the usual tale of how she would fall in love, marry and live happily ever after. Then the Romany had stopped short, dark eyes squinting at the girl's small hand. After much hesitation, the fortune teller had told Sophie and Crazy Bernie that one day Sophie would meet a man, someone very different and very old. Someone who would bring her much joy, but also much danger. This, she was sure, was the man. Sophie turned large, innocent eyes on Locke. "I guess you owe me your life then."

Locke frowned. "I guess…I guess I do."

A radiant smile caught her features. "We will have to think up some suitable compensation."

Locke stared at her, not sure where she was going with this conversation thread.

"Perhaps we should get out of here. In case the man comes back," she suggested, glancing around her.

"Oh, yes, of course," Locke acceded quickly. He got to his feet. "I will get you a cab to take you home."

"No, you won't," Sophie interrupted. "I want to meet more of your kind. Frankly, I'm not sure if you are just giving me the best pick up line I've ever heard, or you've escaped from the loony bin, but quite frankly, Vincent Locke, either way I find you fascinating." She turned on another brilliant smile.

As they walked toward the street, Locke rationalized the weakness in his knees as being a residual effect of his fight with David Ashton. But that did nothing to explain the lightness in his heart.

xxxxxxxxxx

Upon awakening in the alleyway, O'Banian hadn't returned to the hotel immediately. She had spent a couple of hours walking the streets of Paris, head down, but senses still aware.

Damn that man. Why did he have to show up now? The toe of her boot kicked a small stone in frustration. She'd always known they would meet again. But she'd hypothesized that it would be at some old world theater or opera house, a place where she would look beautiful and Darren Dublin would have cursed the day he walked away from her. Instead, she had been dressed for battle, wild-eyed and foul-tempered, firmly intent on taking David Ashton's head.

But Dublin had gone after her - and this time he had been serious. Only the intervention of David Ashton had kept her alive. If not for his interference, her soul would now be meshed with that of Darren Dublin's - forever.

In an odd way, that didn't bother her as much as it should have. She tried to tell herself that it was only that she preferred her Quickening to go to an Immortal, rather than to lose it to nothingness at the hands of a Hunter, but it was more than that. Perhaps if he saw her life through her eyes, felt her passion, perhaps he would understand her…and forgive.

O'Banian looked up, realising that the sun was rising and that she had come full circle and was now standing across the street from the hotel. It was time to see what the rest had been up to.

xxxxxxxxxx

03 December 1999

Lockerbie, Scotland

Payton Swift awoke to a nightmare worse than the one he had been having while dead. In his dead dream, he had been about to marry Dilys Burdett, frantically trying to convince all around him that he couldn't possibly be the father of her child - that he was Immortal and thus fathering children was an impossibility. No one had been listening.

In his live one, he was in a dank, dark cellar somewhere, suspended by his arms from a chain attached to the rough stone ceiling, his feet barely touching the ground. From the pain in his arms, he had been there quite a while.

He blinked and looked around absently, trying to remember where he had been last.

The phone booth.

"Shit," he muttered.

"Yes, "shit" might be a very good description of the mess you find yourself in, Mr. James, or whatever your real name is." Alan Ottenbreit stepped out from a dark corner into what little light there was in the room.

"Of course, dead would also be another apt description," the Hunter offered with a chuckle.

Swift eyed him warily, checking the man's hands for any sharp implement. He carried none.

"You really were very sloppy. I had you marked as an infiltrator the minute you walked into my office, but I didn't realize you were an abomination, too," Ottenbreit continued.

"What gave me away?" Swift asked, stalling for time even though he realistically couldn't see any chance for escape.

"Oh, it wasn't anything you did. It was your choice of covers. You see, I once had the grave misfortune of meeting Mr. Ethan James. Not a very pleasant chap. In fact, he was an odious man with bad breath and a lisp. Now, unless you had had an extremely talented plastic surgeon, you were not Ethan James. I decided to let you stay and see what you were up to. And it didn't take me too long to find out."

Ottenbreit crossed to the far side of the room, moving something on a table just beyond Swift's sightline. The Immortal heard the sound of metal on wood and shivered.

Ottenbreit turned, coming up behind Swift. "On the bright side, you've given our poor ill-favored Dilys the greatest thrill of her life. Not only did she get laid, but it was by an Immortal - an undercover one at that. Probably the closest thing Dilys will ever get to having had James Bond. At least you'll die knowing someone will remember you."

The feel of cold, hard steel ran along Payton Swift's cheek. His eyes slid sideways, landing on the razor sharp edge of a broadsword.

Behind him, Ottenbreit watched the Immortal's eyes widen then narrow. He smiled. "Unbind him."

From the shadows, two Hunters Swift recognized as guys he had spent the last few days getting to know came forward, their faces hard. They undid the chains that held him up and he dropped to his knees on the floor. Ottenbreit waited a moment, then leaned down, dragging him to a kneeling position by his hair.

"Know this, nephil," Ottenbreit hissed. "I will be sending your head back to your friends in a basket as a sign of what they can look forward to. They can't stop us. We will kill you all. We won't stop until all of you are eradicated and the world is free."

Payton Swift didn't understand the term Ottenbreit used, but ignored it. He looked into the man's eyes and glared. "You are the abomination, Ottenbreit. What have we ever done to you? You hate us because we have what you want - we have immortality. What happens when we're gone, huh? Will you go after the painters because you can't paint? Or the singers because you can't sing? Is that how this works?"

Ottenbreit cuffed him across the jaw with the hilt of the sword. "Enough. If you think the words of a mere Immortal are going to change my ways - you are sadly mistaken. Save your breath to make peace with your god...or your devil."

With that, the Hunter raised the sword above his head, paused for a moment…then swung.

Payton Swift's last thought was his disappointment that he had failed his kind - and the wonderment of how long it would be before all Immortals were hunted to extinction.

There was no aura. No whipping of wind, crackling of electricity, or thundering of power. Just the soft, gentle thud of Payton Swift's head hitting the stone floor and rolling away - his life essence lost forever.