Author's note: I must offer my sincerest gratitude to Skowler from FanFiction dot net for his assistance with the Koine Greek dialogue which appears in this chapter. Without his help, there would only have been a few words and a lot of glossing over the conversation. Thank you very much.

"At times of war
We're all the losers.
There's no victory.
We'll shoot to kill, and kill your lover.
Fine by me."

"War Child" - The Cranberries

09 January 2000
Paris, France

"She keeps doing this you know," Marton Razumov offered coolly from his languid stance against the window frame. "Disappearing." He turned back and glanced out the window, eyes scanning the Paris street below.

"Yes, I am very well aware that she does," replied Vincent Locke harshly. "But I'm sure she has her reasons."

"Perhaps her reasons are more than you think. Perhaps she's in league with the Hunters. Perhaps even now she is preparing to offer each of us to them in exchange for keeping her own head." Maria Giovanni glanced around the room, seeing who, if anyone, agreed with her.

Locke was in front of her in an instant. "No! Siobhan is no traitor, I'll vouch that much for her. Not like some in our numbers who I have no doubt sold their mother to save their own hides." His eyes bore into Giovanni's and the room held a collective breath.

Finally, the woman smiled. "Well, we all know she can't really have been my mother, so I don't see what the fuss is about. She died quickly. Funny, I always thought she'd last longer than that. But then again, hangings can be so brutal."

Over in the corner, Fiona Black gave a little cry. Locke gazed at Giovanni with disgust. "You are contemptible, do you know that?"

"Yes. But I'm also alive and to me that is all that counts."

"I think we'd do well to remember that, Maria. Perhaps it is you we shouldn't be trusting," Omeir Faaris offered from the corner where he had, up until now, been reading a French newspaper. He hadn't commented much on O'Banian's newest disappearance, but it was plain to all that he wasn't happy about it.

She was young, he tried to counsel himself, and the young were apt to be impatient and impetuous. He had not entirely lost those qualities himself over four thousand years, but he had learned - often the hard way - that it paid to be patient. Action did have its place and purpose. One could plan only so much. If they acted without good planning, they were nothing.

Impatience and impetuousness also made Immortals apt to be dead. He didn't want O'Banian to be dead. The Council needed her strength, but her continued disappearances were making her a liability. Her comings and goings might bring her to the attention of the Hunters, thus endangering them all. He would kill her himself before that happened. He did not want that, and he did not want her to die by another's hand, either. He had not survived these long centuries by worrying about the morality of killing. He had been born before any such morality existed, and had waded through enough blood and death over those years to shock any Immortal...even Ashton.

Of course, they were all killers, but for the most part killers of other Immortals. That was survival, not murder. And Faaris was nothing like Giovanni, who would kill for nothing, and do it in cold blood. He shook his head slightly and returned to the newspaper he had been reading, folding it over and then in half to read another article.

"Do you think we should go looking for her?" asked Erik Frost, finishing his coffee and setting the cup down in preparation to leave.

Faaris looked up. "No, I don't," he said. "I, for one, have no intention of getting myself killed while running around trying to find Siobhan. And I doubt she would thank you for it. She will surface when she wants to and not before." He had overheard O'Banian's conversation with David Ashton, and had more than a good idea of where she was and where she had spent the night. Not with David Ashton, of course. No, the animosity there was genuine enough. Faaris suspected, however, that Darren Dublin was entirely another story.

Once again he wondered if she knew what she was doing. When they had first met, he had sensed a great conflict within her, but had dismissed it. Most Immortals were so afflicted - the regrets of many lifetimes. In O'Banian's case, however, she had not yet lived the span allotted to a mortal. He did not know if she had the strength to survive the centuries. She had strength, yes, and a forceful personality, but that was not always enough.

"And in the meantime…?" Locke prodded, his eyes on the giant.

"In the meantime, I think we need to talk, all of us, about where we are going and how we are going to get there. If I'm going to die, I would rather do it fighting, not sitting in some hotel room."

"What you suggest, Omeir?" Tokawa dropped onto the couch beside David MacBane. They, too, were tired of waiting around and had sat up most of the night quietly discussing their options.

"I think we should join up with David Ashton," Erik Frost chimed in suddenly. He was somewhat hesitant, knowing that his opinion was bound to raise both eyebrows and ire. "I think we'd be more effective working together. I mean, we all want to see the Hunters stopped. At least we agree on that."

"Yes. We just disagree on how to go about it," Faaris said calmly. He wasn't surprised at Frost's change of heart, having long suspected that the man was having second thoughts. He didn't fault him for it. This was an important time and following what one believed to be the right path was imperative. True, it was necessary for them to make what terms they could in this conflict, if necessary, in order to win it. He had known enough of war over his life that he knew strategy almost instinctively. But he also knew that for anything to be accomplished, one had to stick to a course of action and follow through with it.

"I - we - think Erik is right." Julian Black came forward, his arm around his wife. "Fiona and I have been thinking…"

"And we think we should talk to this Ashton fellow." Fiona finished the sentence with a tentative smile. "I mean, what can it hurt to hear what he has to say?"

"What makes you think he'll want you to join with him? What makes you think he'll trust you?" sneered Giovanni from the corner. "I know I wouldn't trust you. One minute you're on one side, the next on the other. If it were up to me, I'd get rid of you. More of a hindrance than a help. Always having to watch your back."

"Yes," Faaris told her. "I would feel the same if you were in my camp."

The two eyed each other stonily, the tension growing. At last, Faaris spoke. "Ashton will be glad of the alliance, but he will also be wary. He is no fool. He may allow you to join him, but that would not mean he'd trust you. Ashton's not that stupid."

"You sound like you know him?" Locke said.

Faaris nodded. "Yes, I know him. We've…met. Once." The emphasis on the word "met" let them all know whatever the meeting had been, it had no doubt involved swords.

Locke shuddered, thinking of the terrible weapon Faaris used. Once, he had fought Faaris, and been beaten and left for dead. Since then they had formed a tentative - but wary - friendship. Their fight seemed like an eternity ago and Locke was left wondering what had happened between Faaris and Ashton that had allowed both men to walk away.

The memory of his meeting with David Ashton came vividly to Omeir Faaris as clear as if it had been yesterday. Strangely enough, it was Darren Dublin whom he had remembered first.

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1275 AD
Franco-German Border

Omeir Faaris's mount picked its way around the bending road, moving at a leisurely pace. Omeir knew the beast hated this. It was a warhorse, trained for battle. Massive, black, and muscular, it bore the huge warrior easily. Faaris was armoured mostly in chain mail, with small metal plates fitted at the knee and secured to quilted thigh pieces. Discs of metal were fitted to the elbow and at the shoulder to give greater protection. Across his back was slung a shield, much smaller than what had been in use even decades earlier. At the moment, he wore no helm, carrying it instead on the saddle pommel. He gripped the reins in his massive left hand. The right held the helmet secure, but could easily reach for the shamshir at his hip if there was a battle.

There was a thickly wooded area ahead, a perfect place for an ambush, and he knew that he should don the helm. But it was heavy, and suffocating, and completely enclosed the head, having only two narrow slits for vision and a number of holes in the lower part for breathing.

Some distance behind, on poorer mounts, a troop of knights, his own household guard, followed. They carried wooden, iron-shod lances, and wore simple domed helmets and a gambeson. A few carried falchions. Two others, one nearly Omeir's size, carried huge two-handed swords. One had a crossbow slung over his back. There were ten of them, all seasoned English soldiers. All but two had been with Faaris for nearly ten years. The others he had acquired recently while in the Holy Land.

In 1270, the Eighth Crusade had begun. Faaris, at the time in the service of the English king, had travelled with Prince Edward to Tunis. When they had arrived, the matter had already been settled, ending without hostilities.

The journey had not been a loss for Faaris, however. He had encountered an Immortal, a worthy opponent, in the camp of the French king Louis IX. There, he had learned of the Immortal David Ashton and wondered if he was the same man, Marcus Nautius, whom he had met centuries before.

Louis IX had believed the Bay of Tunis could be converted and besieged Tunis. Not long after, an epidemic swept through the camp, killing many - including Louis. Charles of Anjou, brother to the king and recently crowned King of Sicily, took command and negotiated with Tunis, obtaining for himself and France a tribute. When Edward arrived, the matter was settled. Faaris, however, had met and killed the Immortal, Robert Montagne. And through him, before he died, he had learned of David Ashton.

Now Faaris was travelling from France into Germany, pursuing Ashton, whom, he discovered, had disappeared some years ago into the East. It was rumored this Ashton was a particularly old and powerful Immortal, younger than Omeir Faaris, it was true, but still certainly among the ancients. Robert Montagne had been among his students and had been a swordsman of some ability.

Faaris had been detained in 1272 when Edward had become king. As soon as time allowed, he set out for the East, taking with him the few knights sworn to him (he was not a wealthy knight, and had only a small fief). Knight-errantry of a sword, he had said with a laugh. But now he sighed.

There were times when he almost wished he were mortal. If that were true now, he could easily have risen through the ranks, proving himself in battle and statecraft both, showing that side that would draw others to him. It was a quality of the spirit that most Immortals shared. But it was, sadly, their doom never to be in the forefront of mortal society, for their own safety and the safety of their brethren. He also knew, in his heart, that this was best. It was best for Immortals to be apart from mortal society. That they, mortals, be allowed to direct their own destiny. It was another curse of their nature. They had been given many gifts as Immortals. But there were many negative aspects of their existence as well.

Faaris kicked his horse into a canter, and moved ahead of his men around a bend in the road, disappearing among the trees. They spurred their own mounts after him.

Suddenly, all about him, the roar of battle shattered the quiet. Arrows and spears were flying. His own men approached behind him at a gallop as enemies surged out of the trees on foot, and from ahead, on horses.

Faaris drew the sword at his side and spurred his mount forward, ignoring the arrows that bounced off his helm and chain mail. Roaring a battle cry in some unknown language, he swept his blade down in a brutish stroke that cleaved the neck of an assailant, throwing him to the ground, the head rolling away. Blood gushed from the wound. Faaris did not spare him another glance, but struck out at an attacker from his right, switching his sword to his left hand, and cutting his attacker across the face. He then delivered a powerful and devastating kick to the chest, which cracked the sternum, sending the man hard to the ground, screaming and clutching at his wounds.

Then his horse reared. Faaris jammed his sword-point through another man's eye. It jutted out through the back, scattering blood. Hot, red blood drenched the point and ran all down the length.

The Immortal struggled to free the blade but it was held fast. There were enemies on all sides. He slipped from his horse, which was wounded, and the panicked animal bolted. Faaris realized his helm was lost, but he paid it no mind. He lifted his massive shamshir from his belt and, whirling, struck a man across the face with it with all his strength. It pulped the man's head and sent him flying. Omeir struck again, knocking aside a striking sword and delivering a punishing blow to the head.

Then he reeled, struck in the side by a slashing sword. In a lightning, blind movement, his left hand caught the man's sword arm. Lifting him off the ground, he turned and threw the man into a wildly charging comrade. He spared a glance for his own men in the rear who were hard-pressed. One was down, clutching a wound to the throat and trying vainly to staunch the flow of bright blood that seeped through the spaces between his fingers. But there was no time to mourn.

Faaris instinctively avoided a sword-strike and struck the man in the chest with the shamshir. Chain mail armour was only somewhat useful against such a powerful blow and the chest was caved in, killing the man instantly. Blood frothed from the mouth and the eyes, wide and staring, rolling up in his head. He pitched back and fell to the death-stained ground.

Faaris turned, and a spear pierced his belly, driving through the tight-forged iron links of his mail shirt. "Ah…," he gasped. He seized the spear in his right fist and it shattered. The soldier wielding it, a veteran of many battles, paled when Faaris's gaze met his own. He knew the power it took to break the oak shaft, and knew that the wound he had inflicted would have instantly killed any normal man. He staggered back.

Faaris, mercilessly, struck with his shamshir and split the man's head at the brow, though he was helmed in iron. Blood flooded from under the helm, and the man tumbled forward, instantly dead. Faaris hurled him out the way, and engaged another fighter. He reached out with his shamshir, extending it, almost gently. The man tried to strike it aside with his sword. It struck his face, throwing him to the ground and leaving him there, writhing, clutching his face - a mass of blood and broken bones. His helm had been knocked away.

Faaris avoided a spear thrust of another, knocking him aside with a spear-shattering blow of the shamshir. He struggled to reach his own men who would be dead soon. He cursed himself. He, an Immortal, had not feared an ambush (nor had he expected one). It had been foolish and irresponsible of him to risk the lives of mortals. These men had families. They had only a small number of years allowed them and he had robbed them of those.

He leapt at two charging fighters and struck them both terrible blows, sending their slashed, broken bodies to the blood-soaked ground. A sword lanced his arm. The wound gushed blood, and, roaring in anger, he seized the man by the throat, crushing the life from him. Then he threw the body aside.

Another fighter, a young one, had faltered at this grotesque sight. Faaris felt nothing as he leapt forward and struck this one down too, and beat him about the head with the hilt of his shamshir. Drenched in blood, his face, chest and arms streaked with blood and gore, he charged. The small roadway was still choked with fighters. Whirling, striking left and right with his shamshir, he struck them down in droves. They could not, for all their courage, stay his savage assault upon them. His heart was alive with slaughter. He was mad, insane to kill and kill, splashed with blood, and thundering upon them in rampage.

He was speared through the back, and fell. But rather than attack him, they parted. At the rear of the battle, the last of his men fell in death, an iron-shod spear through his heart. The victorious killer stood over the body and wrenched the weapon away.

Faaris survived his attack. Raging, he pulled the spear and blood poured briefly from the wound. Then he felt the presence of an Immortal wash over him. He stood, at first unsteadily, but quickly regained his strength. He lifted up his shamshir in two hands.

Then the Immortal he had sensed stood before him. He was mailed similar to Omeir, and wore no helm. He too was covered with the stain of battle. He wore a scabbarded broadsword at his side, and a long dagger. Both were Celtic in design.

Faaris had not met this one before. "Who are you?" the bloodstained giant roared.

"I am Darren Dublin," answered the other. "I have come here on behalf of my former teacher, David Ashton."

Faaris laughed. His teeth, too, were streaked with blood. Dublin had spoken in Gaelic, and Faaris answered him in the same language. "To do what? You can't stop me, boy. You haven't the strength." The warriors about him, however, gave him pause. Otherwise, he would have leapt upon Dublin, striking and slaying.

Dublin smiled, but it was a nervous smile. He was a powerful Immortal for one so young, and experienced. And he had had David Ashton for a teacher. But he knew now the truth of what he had heard of this Omeir Faaris.

When he had first learned that his master was being hunted, Dublin had wished to take the hunter's head himself, and present it to his teacher. He was young, not yet three hundred, adolescent by the standard of Ashton who had lived over three thousand years. Dublin had heard that this Omeir Faaris was beyond even that age, and a powerful warrior of gigantic stature. He had discounted these as stories, legends. He saw now that they were true. He could not stand against this giant in open battle. He smiled. But even such a great warrior could not overcome a hundred mortals.

"Perhaps not," he said at last. "But you cannot overcome all of these." And he turned to walk away, leaving these mortals, these mercenaries he had hired, to defeat his opponent for him. He would not take a head in such a cowardly manner, but it would allow him to escape. That, his teacher had taught him, was often a prudent course of conduct.

Faaris leapt instantly to action, laying about him and scattering his opponents with the fury and suddenness of his attack. Then, with bloodstained shamshir, he cut a path of gore to reach Darren Dublin.

Dublin turned at the approach of Omeir Faaris, and drew his sword, almost casually. Had he been older, more experienced, more powerful, he might have been a match. Perhaps, in centuries, they might fight a battle worthy of an epic. But not now. There was a brief clash of sword on shamshir, steel on steel, and then Darren Dublin was thrown aside from a powerful horizontal strike that took him in the ribs. He was tossed into a tree; his ribs crushed where the shamshir had struck mail and plate, and stunned from his impact with the tree. His senses reeled.

Then Omeir Faaris was there. Without flourish, he struck two more terrible punches with his hilt, striking Dublin in the face and chest, and then he was away, fleeing the pursuing soldiers. He ran and ran, and eventually recovered his mount that had fled far away. Exhausted, he caught it by the bridle and led it away into the forest. He needed to sleep. He would find Ashton, and, the gods willing, defeat both him and his pupil, the foolish Darren Dublin.

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Faaris twisted the ancient silver ring on his finger and smiled at the memory. At some point he would have to share it with O'Banian, although he doubted she would find it quite as amusing as he did.

It had taken some years, but eventually he had tracked the location of David Ashton to China. He went by a different name, of course, but then Immortals of that age had a thousand names. But Faaris always knew. Ashton, however, was clever, and Omeir had had considerable difficulty, at last, in locating the man. By the time he arrived, however, Ashton was gone. Faaris was left wondering still if Ashton and Marcus Nautius were indeed the same man.

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45 BC
Outskirts of Rome

Omeir Faaris halted his horse. The presence of an approaching Immortal had touched his senses, tuning him up with interest from the boredom of the long ride. He focused his gaze down the path. Through the dust ahead of his, he caught sight of a small detachment of mounted Roman soldiers nearing him at a trot. As they grew closer, he made out their distinctive uniforms: Praetorians.

The man leading the horsemen drew Faaris' particular attention. He would have anyway even if he were not the Immortal in question. He was a blond man, blue-eyed and of moderate height, odd for a Roman, and clearly of aristocratic stock and breeding from his stature and poise. He eyed Faaris as they approached, signalling a halt. Being a noncitizen, Faaris dismounted out of respect for the Romans and lowered his head, though he disliked the gesture.

The Roman spoke to him, but it was in a language Faaris did not know. He assumed it to be Latin. Faaris shook his head to show he did not understand. The Roman laughed and tried again in Koine Greek.

"Aspasmós." (Greetings.)

"Aspasmós," Faaris returned humbly.

"Ti ergasia hemon?" (What is your business?) the Praetorian inquired of him. His blue eyes appraised the traveller as he spoke. His tone was neither disrespectful nor friendly. Faaris replied that he was merely a traveler.

"Poreuomai pros Borean." (I travel north.)

The edges of the Roman's lips rose into a slight grin. "Ti hetera ergasia hemon?" (Do you have any other business here?)

Faaris grinned, as well, and raised his head, looking the man directly in the eyes. "Zeto eti dialego meta sou." (I seek yet to dialogue with you.) By the tone of his voice, he made it clear that dialogue was the least of his interests with the man.

The Praetorian smiled and dismounted his horse. Turning back to his men, he reverted to Latin and told them to carry on with their travels. They only expressed their displeasure briefly before complying, leaving their commander with the giant. The Roman then returned his gaze to Faaris again, still smiling.

"Ekthamvéomai," (I am greatly astonished,) he commented in Greek as he led his horse off the path.

"Ti?" (Why?) inquired Faaris.

The Roman laughed aloud. "Ego eimi xifomaxon megon en Romaio. Tis eklegon antitassein me, ean aionion e ou, ei moron alethon." (I am the greatest swordsman in Rome. Anyone choosing to face me, Immortal or not, is surely a fool.)

Faaris chuckled, as well. He tied his horse to a nearby tree and drew his xiphos from the scabbard on the horse's saddle. Turning back to face the Roman, he asked, "Ti onoma?" (What is your name?)

"Marcus Nautius," replied the Roman, adding, "chilioi, ennea hekaton, ogdoekonta-hexi etos." (I am one thousand, nine hundred, eighty-six years.)

Faaris smirked. "Omeir Faaris. Dischilioi, treis hekaton, hexekonta-ennea." (Omeir Faaris. Two thousand, three hundred, sixty-nine.)

The Roman seemed unimpressed. He had clearly bested Immortals older than that in the past. Nautius, twelve uncias (30 centimeters) shorter than Faaris, was also obviously not intimidated by greater height. Since Faaris did not wear a helmet, he removed his own and tossed it aside. He then drew his double gladiuses and waited patiently for the giant to approach.

Faaris grinned again. He believes in a fair fight, this one. At least, at the start.

The massive Immortal gauged his opponent carefully. He was clearly a man who had defeated hundreds, perhaps over a thousand enemies, in the past, just as Faaris had done. The sensation of his presence alone told Faaris that much. The only variable was his skill with the blades he held in his hands. If they exceeded Faaris', then the older Immortal would die today. If not…

Faaris charged the Roman, emitting a loud warcry as he raised his sword. He slashed diagonally at the Praetorian. Nautius moved right, bringing his left gladius down to block while the right lunged forward toward Faaris' abdomen. Faaris slapped the flat of the blade aside with his palm and brought the hilt of his xiphos upward. It crashed into Nautius' chin, sending him staggering backward.

The Roman recovered quickly, spitting blood from his mouth and narrowing his eyes at his opponent. Faaris watched him approach, letting the first gladius connect with his xiphos before kicking a sandaled foot directly into the blond Immortal's chest. He suffered a painful slash in the thigh from the second gladius as Nautius careened back, but it was not too deep to prevent him from standing.

The Roman hit the ground hard, the impact jolting one of his swords from his hands. He rolled in the dirt, drawing himself to his feet again and wiping his eyes. He gripped the gladius in his left hand tighter and came at Faaris again, determination on his features. Faaris moved to impale him with his xiphos. Nautius knocked it aside with his gladius and prepared to lunge. Faaris punched him in the face and slashed. The curved sword cut the Praetorian from left shoulder to right hip, stunning him.

Faaris seized his enemy by the throat, lifting him from the dirt path. He squeezed. Nautius's face reddened. The gladius fell from his hand. His fingers reached for the massive fingers and tried in vain to pry them from his neck. Faaris smiled at his defeated opponent.

"Kynárion," (Little dog,) Faaris muttered in contempt, hurling Nautius aside. Scowling at the Roman, he laughed and bellowed, "Ou axiois thanatoun. ou melo hosai kephalai elabes. Hupostrephe otan ginoskei machesthai." (You are not worth killing. I care not how many heads you have taken. Return when you have learned to fight.)

Faaris shook the blood from his xiphos and turned his back on Nautius, not bothering to watch him rise. Eager to be gone, Faaris mounted his horse and kicked it into a gallop. He smiled to himself.

Yes, we will fight again, Nautius, he thought. Though it might be centuries, we will surely fight again.

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Faaris returned from his musings to the present conversation which had carried on around him.

"So what do we do then?" Marton Razumov picked up his sword which had been leaning against the wall and moved away from the window toward the rest of the group. It was a katana in a black scabbard with a black cord-wound hilt.

"Why don't we join up with this Ashton guy, find out what he knows about the Hunters, then do what we have to do?" suggested David MacBane.

Faaris smiled at the simplistic idea. If it were only that easy. "David Ashton isn't just going to welcome you with open arms. And he isn't going to just tell you what he knows. He's a closed book, keeps what he knows to himself and trusts only a few, a very few."

"Siobhan isn't going to like it that we're thinking of joining him," Locke reminded them. He purposely didn't offer more about his opinion, still not sure of where he stood. He gave a glance at Sophie who sat pale and quiet in a corner. He noted that her fingernails, which had been impeccable when he met her, were now bitten to the quick.

Faaris thought idly how childlike Locke's thinking - and speech - often were. He smiled thinly.

"Well, I don't see Siobhan here to voice an opinion," Sergei Tuppankovich replied. "In fact, when she left last night, I heard her asking for directions to the L'Hotel Raphael."

"Isn't that where Ashton staying?" Tokawa asked.

Locke nodded. "Yes, but that doesn't mean anything. Perhaps she just went to try to convince them to join us."

"Since she's been gone for several days, I can imagine what she's done to convince them," Maria Giovanni muttered. Her comment gained her several sharp looks.

Faaris clenched his right fist and rose. "Tread carefully," he said to her, the words dripping with menace. Despite herself, she drew back, ashen-faced. Faaris gave her a hard look and then, forcing himself to relax, walked to the window to stare out for a moment. When another began to speak, he turned about to face them again.

"I say we wait until Siobhan comes back, then we talk to her. See how she feels about it," Erik Frost suggested.

Locke turned to Omeir Faaris. "Omeir, what are your thoughts? What do you want to do?"

The giant looked up, his gaze meeting Locke's. He smiled. A smile that chilled Locke to the core. "Simple, Vincent. I want to stay alive. And I want to win."

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09 January 2000
Paris, France
Hotel Raphael

O'Banian and Dublin made their way back to the hotel in silence, O'Banian ignoring the stares her bloodstained arms and clothing garnered. Neither spoke.

David Ashton had recovered from Aaftink's Quickening and once more picked up the body of Jonathan Fairbanks. Again, Dublin went to aid him, only to be halted by a look that was almost as physical as a fist. Wherever David Ashton was taking Fairbanks' body, he was going alone. They never found his head.

Once back in the room, Dublin marched over to the armoire, opening the two deep drawers in the bottom from which he began to remove a proverbial arsenal of firearms. O'Banian watched him.

"What are ye doin'?" she asked finally.

"What the hell does it look like I'm doin', Siobhan?" he answered curtly.

"It looks like you're preparin' for a war."

He nodded. "Aye, well you always were clever." He slammed one drawer shut and began on another.

"Darren, no." Siobhan moved toward him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I know you're upset, but ye need to think about this. Going off half-cocked will only get ye killed. Look, I know how much Jonny meant to ye..."

"You know nothing." He stood, turned and pulled the dagger from the back of his jeans in one quicksilver motion, the blade pressed to her throat.

Siobhan took small steps backward. Dublin followed, his face centimeters from hers.

"I have known Jonny for longer than you have been alive. For centuries. He was more than a friend - he was a brother. Someone I could always count on no matter what. I knew who he was. I knew what he was - not like some people."

They had reached the corner of the bed now; Siobhan had no more room to retreat into. She leaned back as far as she could, the edge of Dublin's blade still at her neck.

He continued his advance and Siobhan fell backward onto the bed. The Irishman followed, landing completely on top of her. He stared down at her, seeing the fear in her face, her eyes wide and set on the knife. "How do I know you didn't set this up?" he growled. "How do I know that you didn't tell the Hunters where Jonny was? Where David and I were?"

Siobhan's eyes met his. "Because I wouldn't do that. I might be a lot of things, Darren, but I'd never betray my own kind - not to Hunters. And I'd never betray you." Her voice was tinged with anger. How dare he think so low of her.

He smiled at her coldly. "Oh, aye. And when did you develop morals? Perhaps last night was a complete set up. Was it? Did you crawl into my bed just so you'd be on hand to see Jonny die?"

"Don't be stupid. How in the hell was I to know he would be here?" O'Banian shot back. She began to struggle. "Get the hell off me."

"Why? You didn't seem to mind last night. Or was that just another sacrifice for the cause? Maybe I should get my money's worth, eh?"

He grabbed a fistfull of her sweater, pushing it up. Siobhan drew her breath in sharply, feeling his hand fumble with the top button of her jeans, popping it open, then reaching for the next one. His other hand moved and the sharp edge of the dagger bit into her skin.

"You don't have to force me. I won't fight ye," she said softly, eyes lowering, expression accepting.

That brought him up short. He hadn't forced a woman in his more than one thousand years - and he'd be damned if he were about to start now. He moved the blade from her throat and rolled off her, his breath choppy and irregular. They lay side by side on the bed, both silent.

"I'm sorry," Dublin offered finally. "I shouldn't have done that."

Siobhan didn't reply at first, but simply reached out and took hold of his hand. "I am sorry about Jonny. And I didn't set him up. Darren, I'd never…"

"I know. I know."

They continued to lie there holding hands, neither speaking, neither needing to.

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09 January 2000
Edinburgh, Scotland

The ringing of the telephone startled the red-haired man from his meditation. Alan Ottenbreit reached for the instrument, answering it in a barking tone.

"Yes." He didn't identify himself; there was no need. Only a select few had the number to his private line.

"It's done," a voice told him, also not identifying itself.

"Any problems?"

"No," the man on the other end of the line reassured him. "Everything went exactly according to plan. Well…" He hesitated.

Ottenbreit was immediately on alert. "Well, what?"

"There was another Immortal. In the park."

"Who?" Ottenbreit demanded. His grip on the telephone grew tighter. Up until now everything had gone well. That made him uneasy. Even the best laid plans had a few rough spots. He hoped whatever they were, they were small mole hills, not mountains.

"We don't know who. We're working on it. He challenged Ashton; Ashton took his head."

Ottenbreit frowned. "Did they know each other?"

"No. I was watching them. I think the poor guy just picked the wrong person at the wrong time. You almost have to feel sorry for him, Immortal or not."

Ottenbreit nodded silently. He agreed. Under normal circumstances, David Ashton would have probably walked away, as he had done many times before. But some poor soul had had the misguided inspiration to challenge the Minoan that morning and come out the worse for it. Still, it served to demonstrate that his intentions had been successful - he had rattled David Ashton. The idea made him smile.

"Well, when you find out who he was let me know. Where are you now?"

"Almost to de Gaulle. The package should be at the site by nightfall."

"See that it is," Ottenbreit instructed gruffly. "At this point, we can't afford mistakes." He hung up without waiting for a reply. He trusted Harlan Earnshaw, had handpicked him himself for this job. Besides, Earnshaw knew the price he would pay if he failed. He'd join the poor SOB who had had the misfortune to challenge David Ashton that morning and was now communing with the Almighty.

With that, Alan Ottenbreit reached for the phone to let his other people know that they were about to have company.

xxxxxxxxxx

09 January 2000
Paris, France
Hotel Raphael

Ashton returned an hour later, his face pallid and his eyes hard.

"It's being dealt with," was all he would answer in return to Dublin's questions, the tone of his voice indicating that, for the moment, the Irishman shouldn't ask anything further.

O'Banian sat on the couch. If Ashton questioned her continued presence there, he didn't mention it, simply nodding at her and moving to the credenza. Despite the early hour, he poured himself a stiff measure of Glenfiddich, tossing it back neatly before pouring another one. It wasn't lost on O'Banian that his hand shook perceptibly.

"I think it best if you be sharin' that," Dublin told him, grabbing another two glasses. He didn't ask O'Banian, but simply poured the drinks and handed her one. Then he dropped to the floor in front of her, his back leaning against the couch. As she expected, the hacky sack had begun its rhythmic toss and catch. She resisted the urge to reach out and lay a comforting hand on his shoulder; not sure if the touch would be welcomed or rebuffed.

For a long time the three sat in silence, Dublin and Ashton lost in misery and remembrance, O'Banian watching them, wondering if it wouldn't be better if she just left. She finished her drink and was about to announce her departure when Ashton addressed her.

"I didn't know you knew Jonny? He never mentioned having met you." The voice was pointedly interested, mildly suspicious, and, O'Banian knew, demanding of some sort of an answer.

"Yes, I knew him," Siobhan replied quietly. "We met in Atlanta in '96 - at the Olympics."

"I didn't think you did sporting events," Dublin offered mildly.

"Usually, I don't," O'Banian answered, wrinkling her nose, "but the Olympics were an exception - no fun - but an exception."

xxxxxxxxxx

April, 1996
Atlanta, Georgia

"No fucking way!" was the answer she had given her booking agent when he told her that she had a job at the Atlanta Games. "I have never gone near sports, not since that Romanian weightlifter decided to give me a show at that last sporty thing in '91."

She had been impressed enough, until the goon had decided that, despite her vehement protests, lifting O'Banian in the air was more fun than the weights. When he finally set her back on her feet, she had slapped him hard, harder than he had anticipated, almost knocking the man off his feet. It had had the opposite effect to what O'Banian had intended. Obviously Vladimir enjoyed a bit of the rough. He'd only backed off when presented with the muzzle of the gun she had the foresight to carry. After that, O'Banian couldn't leave the former Soviet Union, where the event took place, fast enough.

"Look, Derek," O'Banian told her agent, "I'm grateful for the work, but…"

"Erin," the agent interrupted, using the name he knew her by, "this isn't a take it or leave it offer. They asked for you and I've promised them. The contract is in place."

"Doesn't have my signature on it," she retorted angrily.

Derek sighed. "What did you tell me? "Derek, the house needs a new generator. Get me work, any work." Well, I did. The Atlanta Games." He tossed the contract on the desk in front of her.

She signed it in the end and found herself, the first week in July, landing in Atlanta on a hot, sultry night. She'd declined a stay in the usual media hotels, opting for the Atlanta Hilton, a high-class place that would cost her sponsor twice what the other places would have. Too bloody bad, she mused. That'll make them think twice before asking me again.

O'Banian had to admit, compared to the money she was making, the work wasn't difficult. She had laughed out loud at the sport she was assigned to cover - fencing. Specifically a French woman named Laura Flessel, the favorite for the gold in Epee. She caught the woman's arrival and even managed to wrangle her way into a training session. It had been an eye opener, watching mortals fight with swords. Despite her attempts not to, O'Banian found herself getting caught up in the event.

"Her feet are wrong. They need to be wider apart. And her left shoulder isn't straight," she absently told a trainer. He had been watching his charge, agonizing over the fact that the woman was repeatedly on the losing end of her opponent's attacks. The coach gaped at O'Banian in surprise.

"I used to do this when I was younger," she added hastily, mentally reprimanding herself for the faux pas.

She covered the event until its conclusion on July 21, giving the coach a knowing wink during the playing of the French national anthem. After that, her time was her own.

Originally, she had intended to leave Atlanta on the first available flight, but all of that changed on the evening of July 22. A colleague had told her about Festival Place, a park-like venue that offered food and entertainment. Tired of sitting in her hotel room alone, O'Banian had decided to go.

The place was crowded, people of various nationalities and color, languages as varied as one would ever find, all mixing together. O'Banian had been caught up in the excitement, enjoying the music and the food; both served in equal abundance. Then she felt it. That tingling feeling that never failed to bring her heart to her throat. Another Immortal.

She stopped walking and turned in a slow circle. In this mass of people, it was hard to note anyone with the same searching glance. O'Banian finally gave up and decided it would just be simpler to go back to the hotel. She was halfway to the transit site when he stopped her.

"Excuse me. You're one of them, too, aren't you?"

She turned to find a young boy gazing at her, his look a cross between fear and intrigue. "One of what?" she replied. Experience had taught her not to be too forthcoming.

"One of them. Immortal."

O'Banian looked around, assuring herself that no one had heard, then she crossed over to the boy. "I wouldn't be saying that too loudly, if I were you."

The boy shrugged. "Sorry." He looked down at his feet, scuffing the side of worn sneakers along the curb.

O'Banian judged him to be about thirteen, small for his age and not well dressed. His jeans had holes in the knees. The tank top he wore was a trifle too large for his, at first glance, slight frame. "You by yourself, then?" she inquired, wondering if he had a teacher lurking around a corner somewhere.

"Uh huh," the boy replied, looking up at her. "Been that way for almost two weeks now."

"Two weeks?"

"Yeah, since my parents were killed. Since I was, too, I guess."

"Ahhh," O'Banian replied. So he was newly Immortal. That was a difficult time, and it wouldn't be made any easier by the fact that he was a child. The kindest thing O'Banian could do would be to take him someplace deserted - and take his head.

She had almost decided to do that when he looked up at her and smiled - and her resolve melted. "How long since you've eaten?" she asked instead.

"Days," he replied hurriedly. "Managed to raid the garbage a few times..."

"Ugh!" O'Banian wrinkled her nose at the thought. She had been through desperate times, but never that bad. "Come on. Do you like pizza?" She began to walk away, indicating the boy should come with her.

The boy's eyes lit up. "Yeah, love it. But… He stopped. "How do I know you won't be like that other one?" A curtain of fear fell across his face.

"What other one?"

"The one that told me I was Immortal. He was nice at first, then he tried to hurt me." He bit his lip and looked at her hesitantly.

"He tried to take your head, didn't he?" Siobhan asked.

The lad nodded. "I kicked him…in the privates. Then I ran away, as fast as I could. That was ten days ago. Since then I've just been wandering."

O'Banian sighed. It might have been better if whoever had found the boy first had taken his head. Then she wouldn't have been left with the task. "Well, I've already taken my head quota for the day." She chuckled at the boy's look of alarm. "Just kidding. Come on. I promise pizza and just pizza. Do you have a name?"

"Yes, Thomas. Thomas Davidson."

"Well, Thomas, I'm Siobhan O'Banian." She turned from him, arm casually around his shoulders. "I hope you don't like anchovies - horrible little things. Whoever thought of putting fish on pizza should be hung, drawn and quartered in my books."

She had watched in amusement while he consumed a large pizza entirely by himself, during which he haltingly told her that he, his parents and younger sister had been on their way home from visiting his grandmother when another driver hit them head on. When Thomas awoke he was laying on the ground a few meters from the car - draped with a sheet.

"I was never so scared in my whole life," he managed, mouth still filled with pizza.

"Aye, it is a bit off putting," O'Banian remarked, still remembering her own awakening. "When did you meet this other Immortal?"

"Jim. He said his name was Jim. He was one of the policemen at the scene. He saw me wake up and told me to hide in the woods. Said he'd come back later."

"And he did. With a sword." O'Banian avoided Thomas' eyes, wondering if Jim hadn't had the right idea. She watched the boy eat, hoping he was enjoying what would be his last supper.

She had made up her mind halfway through the meal. She had to do it; there was no question of right or wrong. It was simply unfair to let the boy live in misery, which is what he would do. It was hard enough trying to stay alive when you were full grown, let alone if you were a teenager. No, she was doing him no favors by letting him continue on like this. As soon as the meal was over, she'd take care of it. An hour later, they were out on the street.

"Well," Thomas began uncertainly. "Thanks for the meal." He hesitated a moment, then flung his arms around O'Banian's waist in an intense hug.

She looked around awkwardly, not sure what to do. She was supposed to be leading him to an abandoned alley or empty warehouse so that she could take his head, not letting him hug her like she was his only friend.

But right now I am, she thought sadly. She closed her arms around the boy, returning his hug. "You're welcome." She took a deep breath. "Come on. It's getting late and you look like you could use a shower and a good night's sleep."

Thomas looked up. "Where are we going?"

"The Hilton," O'Banian replied. "I have a room there. You can sleep on the couch for tonight. Just tonight you understand. You'll have to be going tomorrow."

He nodded, giving her a shy smile. "Thanks."

She had a far different going in mind than he did, but she pushed the thought aside. Tomorrow she would take care of it.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Wow!" Thomas' eyes looked like dollar coins as he eyed the suite. "You must be rich."

O'Banian chuckled. "No, I'm on an expense account. Couldn't afford the likes of this place if I weren't." She moved to the closet and began to remove the extra blankets and pillows stored there.

"What do you do?" the boy asked, still scanning the room in wonderment.

"I'm a photographer. I take freelance pictures and sell them to magazines, newspapers, that sort of thing."

"You're here to take pictures at the Olympics then, huh?" he asked, picking up the T.V. remote and turning it on. He clicked through the channels until he found one that appealed to him - The Simpsons. "Can I have something to eat?" he asked, sitting back, eyes never leaving the T.V.

"You just ate a whole pizza!" O'Banian replied, amazed. "You can't be hungry again already?"

Thomas turned puppy dog eyes at her. "Sorry. It's okay. I can wait until morning." He gave a small sigh and placed one hand across his belly.

"Oh, all right," O'Banian muttered, picking up the phone. "What do you want?"

He sat up, flashing her a big grin. "I want nachos and cheese, with tomato and green peppers, and onions, but no olives; I hate olives. And lots of salsa - the hot kind. And sour cream. Oh, and a large Coke, really large. And for dessert…

"No dessert. It's already after eleven and you'll get a bellyache. And for crying out loud, stop bouncing on the couch. Didn't your mother ever teach you how to just sit?" O'Banian regretted the words the minute they left her mouth, the reminder of his mother taking Thomas from ear to ear grin to dismayed remembrance in a heartbeat. "Oh, Thomas, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that," O'Banian began, halted in her apology when room service answered. Thomas sat quietly on the couch, tear-filled eyes on the television, but not seeing the cartoon.

O'Banian finished the order and came to sit beside him. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said. I didn't mean to make you sad."

Thomas shrugged, but said nothing. O'Banian tried again. "Look, it's just that, well, I'm not used to having a kid around…"

"And I'm not used to being Immortal, but sometimes we just gotta live with stuff," Thomas mumbled, still not looking at her.

O'Banian hesitated a moment, then put her arm around his shoulders, pulling him close to her in a hug. "I know it's tough. I've been there, too. But you're safe here." She tried to shake off the reminder that he was no safer with her than he had been with Jim.

They watched the rest of the cartoon in silence, sharing the late night snack when it arrived. After that, Siobhan insisted it was bedtime for the both of them. She created a makeshift bed on the couch and then bid the new Immortal a good night.

Siobhan was just on the verge of sleep when Thomas' cries woke her.

"Mom! Dad! Amy!" The names were followed by a heart-wrenching sob.

"What? What is it? What's wrong?" O'Banian stood in the doorway of the bedroom, sword in hand. She heard the boy crying and deduced what had made him call out. "Did you have a bad dream?"

He nodded, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Every time I close my eyes, I see the crash. I can hear them screaming. Especially my mom." He looked up at her, eyes glistening with tears in the moonlight. "I've always had nightmares, ever since I was little. Mom used to lay beside me until I went back to sleep."

O'Banian sighed. "Come on. There's no way that couch is big enough for the two of us. You can come and lay beside me. Just for a while," she qualified. "Then you can come back in here. All right?" The boy nodded quickly and hastily got up from the couch.

O'Banian settled herself back down in bed, lying on her side, facing away from Thomas. It was just before she fell asleep that she felt his back against hers as he wiggled into a comfortable position, his cold toes against the back of her knees. By that point, she was too tired to object.

She awoke the next morning to find herself on her back, her arms around Thomas as he lay cuddled against her. It was the placement of his hand that pushed her from half asleep to fully awake.

"What the bloody hell are you still doing here?" she yelped, leaping from the bed in one movement.

Thomas, awoken from a deep sleep, sat up, his hair sticking out in all directions. "What?"

"You were supposed to go back to the couch," O'Banian informed him.

"Sorry, I guess I fell asleep," he responded with an impish grin.

O'Banian gave him a suspicious look, but didn't say anything. She ran her hand through her hair, trying not to think of the duty she would have to perform that morning. Why, oh why, couldn't someone else have found him? she thought to herself glumly. I'll just get dressed and then I'll take him somewhere and take care of it.

But she didn't. O'Banian could no more bring herself to take the boy's head that morning than she had been able to do the night before. Truth was, she liked the lad. His stories made her laugh like she hadn't in years. His enthusiasm and wide-eyed innocence were contagious. Suddenly, shopping for clothes (which Thomas was in sorry need of) was fun. Attending what O'Banian would have earlier regarded as "stupid sporting crap" became exciting. At Thomas' insistence, they stopped at various cultural sites, sampling foods, listening to the music, dancing along with it, oblivious to the stares and looks their actions garnered.

Along the way, O'Banian told Thomas about being Immortal, the rules of the Game, and what staying alive would mean. It was on the fourth day that he approached her with a request. A request to teach him how to defend himself. O'Banian had been reluctant at first, but couldn't, in good conscience, turn Thomas down. She told him that while she wouldn't be his teacher, she would help him find someone who would be. In the meantime, it wouldn't hurt to teach him a few things, just in case he ever got into trouble.

O'Banian rented a car, and together they drove a few miles outside of Atlanta, away from any prying eyes.

"Okay, I want you to come at me with your sword, just like I showed you," O'Banian told Thomas. She had presented him with a broadsword, several centimeters shorter than the Templar she used.

"And you're sure I won't hurt you?" Thomas asked for the seventh or eighth time.

O'Banian rolled her eyes. "Yes. And even if you do, I'll heal. Come on. And I want you to try this time. Not some half hearted attempt like the last one, okay?"

Thomas nodded, eyebrows moving into a frown of deep concentration. The two Immortals faced each other, still for a second, then moving. O'Banian made a swing at belly level, slowing her movements down so that Thomas could counteract the attack. Which he did - with a speed O'Banian hadn't anticipated. He not only blocked the move, but struck back; his sword moving up and in a very different angle than anything O'Banian had shown him. And he didn't stop there.

Suddenly, O'Banian was on the defensive, Thomas' blows coming fast and furious. She shuffled backward, blocked a few strokes, then shuffled backward some more. Her foot caught on a stray tree root and she tripped, landing heavily on her back. Thomas' blade hovered centimeters from her throat.

They eyed each other, O'Banian silently cursing her gullibility. Thomas had lied to her about never having used a sword before. No one was that much of a natural talent.

The boy grinned, his dark brown eyes flashing. He could finally no longer contain the laughter that bubbled up inside of him. He moved the sword away, doubling over with a deep belly laugh.

"Oh, God, you should see your face," he gasped between laughs. "You really don't know whether to curse me to the devil, beg for your life or throw a tantrum, do you? Oh God, this is too funny."

O'Banian sat up, teeth clenched. "All right. Perhaps you'd like to tell me who you really are? Coz one thing is for certain, you are not some newly Immortal little piss ant."

Thomas shook his head, still laughing. "No. No, I'm not. I've been around longer than that sword you carry."

O'Banian looked at the Templar. It had been forged somewhere in the thirteenth century. "You little bastard," she spat. "I should take your bloody head for this." She launched herself at him, blade sweeping.

Thomas was ready for her, deflecting her angry blows, but not retaliating. He finally was presented with the opportunity he had been waiting for, and knocked the sword from O'Banian's hands. It flew through the air, landing a good ten meters away from her.

"Perhaps now you'll give it a rest," he told her, stooping slightly in an exaggerated effort to catch his breath. He kept his blade pointed at her, not doubting that she'd retrieve her sword and go after him again given the chance.

O'Banian growled and glared at him. "I suppose you thought this was a nice little game? Getting me to look after you, pay for yer meals, buy you new clothes."

"Yes, it was rather fun, actually," Thomas replied with a grin. "But I'd like to think that I wasn't the only one having a good time. You were laughing just as much as I was. And besides, didn't you tell me it was all on an expense account?" He winked at her.

O'Banian looked at him for a brief moment, then broke into laughter herself. "Aye, it was, you cheeky little devil. How many others have you conned like this?"

"A few," he admitted. "But none were quite as taken in as you were. You really fell for it hook, line and sinker, didn't you?"

"Aye, I suppose I did," O'Banian confessed, shaking her head. "So you didn't really die three weeks ago?"

Thomas shook his head. "Nope. More like almost eight hundred years."

"And yer name isn't Thomas Davidson, is it," O'Banian asked with a sigh, looking away.

"No, it's not. It's Jonathan. Jonathan Fairbanks." He held his hand out to her for a friendly shake.

O'Banian's head came up sharply. "Jonny Fairbanks?" She offered her hand slowly, as if not really aware she was doing it.

"Yes. You've heard of me then?" Fairbanks was surprised. The name Siobhan O'Banian was not one with which he was familiar.

"Oh, yes," O'Banian replied softly, retrieving her hand, "I've heard of you. We have a mutual friend. Or at least we used to."

"Oh, and who might that be?"

"Darren Dublin." O'Banian looked away. Even saying his name still hurt.

"Ah." Jonny nodded his head, suddenly understanding. "So you're the one."

The conversation had come about in the late summer of 1990. He and Dublin had spent an evening emptying Dublin's cupboards of the homemade wine from the previous summer in preparation for the new stock. After several hours and several bottles, both were more than a little drunk and decidedly maudlin. Fairbanks began lamenting about the difficulty of finding true love when one was permanently fourteen, his current relationship with Alyssa Cordeiro notwithstanding. Dublin's response had been that true love wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Bit by bit the story had come out, although Dublin had never actually offered a name, simply stating that the girl in question had been both Immortal and Irish. "Too bloody Irish, as it turned out," had been his exact words. After that, the Irishman had clammed up, preferring to sing bawdy Gaelic tunes as opposed to delving into any deeper discussions.

"What do you mean I'm the one?" O'Banian asked cautiously.

Fairbanks shook his head. "Nothing."

O'Banian eyed him warily, but didn't speak.

"So, are you going to forgive me for this little charade?" Fairbanks finally asked with a chuckle.

"Since you're the only one with a sword, I suppose I have to," she responded. She tried to give him a hard glare, but it quickly became a grin. "What a stupid, gullible idiot I am."

"Yep," Fairbanks agreed. He picked up her sword and tossed it to her. "And you'd make a piss poor teacher. Who the hell gives their student a sharp object on their fourth day?"

"I was hoping you'd do yerself an injury with it. I've been trying to get up the courage to take your head, you know," O'Banian told him sternly.

Fairbanks laughed. "Yes, I know. You had a really bad time of it over pizza that first night. God, you looked in pain." Together, they started back toward the car.

"Hey," O'Banian suddenly stopped. "You didn't really have nightmares the other night did you?"

"Nope. But you were pretty nice to cuddle up to. Anyone tell you, you talk in your sleep?"

"And barging in on me in the shower this morning, that wasn't really an accident, was it?"

Fairbanks began to laugh again. "Given I had to pick that damn lock to do it, I guess not. Nice to know you're a real redhead, though."

O'Banian half turned and gave him a swift swat across the back of his head. "You dirty little brat. I ought to put you over my knee."

"Oh, all right," he answered with a grin.

Together they both broke into laughter.

xxxxxxxxxx

O'Banian shook her head, then took a sip of the fresh drink Dublin had just handed to her. "I still can't believe I bought his story like that."

Dublin and Ashton had, up until this point, avoided each other. Now they glanced up at the same time, each catching the other's eye. Together, they burst out laughing, the pain of Fairbanks' death momentarily forgotten in the reliving of his memory.

"Oh, God, that sounds just like something Jonny would do," Ashton managed between gasps, wiping away a tear.

"Jesus, I thought I was gullible," Dublin added, his head rolling back onto O'Banian's knee. "I've fallen for some of Jonny's charades before, but never that badly."

"Aye, well, it was a weak moment. What can I say?" O'Banian muttered. She tried to keep a dark countenance, to show her continued displeasure at having been duped so soundly, but the memory wasn't a bad one. Despite the trickery, O'Banian had to admit she and Thomas had had a lot of fun. The recollection of those few carefree days in July of 1996 flooded her mind and the frown became a smile. Siobhan O'Banian shook her head and allowed herself to do something she had seldom had the desire for in the past eleven years.

She laughed.

Dublin turned his head to her, an enigmatic look in his eyes, somewhere between happy and forlorn. "See," he told her softly, "the little brat could even make you laugh."

O'Banian nodded. "Aye, he could. I can tell he could be a right beggar when he wanted to. I can only begin to imagine the trouble the three of you got into." She looked from Ashton to Dublin, hoping the comment would provoke one of them into a story. Her purpose was twofold. First, the retelling of a tale would be a catharsis for both men. Second, she had always loved to hear Dublin's stories.

He didn't disappoint her. "Oh, trouble was our fourth companion, usually followed by a bad hangover." His mind wandered back to the last time the three of them had been together.

xxxxxxxxxx

May, 1999
Duluth, Minnesota

The place was really more bar than grill, which suited the trio just fine. They weren't here for a gourmet meal. To the cook's credit, he did manage a reasonable facsimile of a burger, steak, and some sort of fajita dish - nearly an hour after the order was placed. A blessing in disguise, Darren Dublin was sure his dinner would not have been so good without the enhancement of the last hour's beverages.

He and David Ashton had smuggled their friend, Jonny Fairbanks, into the place using the tried and true nephew role. It was always amusing slipping the extra shots the adults ordered into his customary Coke, especially knowing that the kid could put anyone on the block under the table. This, combined with the generous sips he took from the other men's drinks, was a suitable compromise they'd adapted in latter years when drinking ages came about.

"Next round, guys, get a few rums, I never did like Jim Beam," Fairbanks chimed in, draining the latest installment of the night's spirits.

"Aye, you couldn't mix that with ambrosia and make it tolerable," the Irishman commented, also draining his glass.

"Yeah, well, ambrosia wasn't all that great to begin with," Ashton offered, chuckling at a private joke lost on the other two.

"Huh?" Fairbanks said.

"Oh, no, It'll take a lot more than I've had tonight to get that story out of me."

Fairbanks and Dublin grinned at each other. They knew a challenge when they heard one, whether it was offered or not.

"More Coke, sir?" the young redhead asked on her way by.

"Aye, he'll have another and so will we." Dublin answered for him with a raise of his mug.

"I don't know. Don't you guys think you've had enough?" the waitress queried. This was cause for much laughter from the group.

"You weren't at some of our other parties," Dublin informed her.

"Whatever happened to that girl in the carriage?" Ashton asked between breaths.

Fairbanks affected an over-exaggerated look of innocence, even for him. "Search me," he said with only the slightest of grins.

Dublin tried to suppress the laugh this induced, but it crept out his nose until he gave up the effort and leaned, some would say fell, onto the shoulder of his comrade in pranks. When he recovered, the waitress was still there. He decided to have a little fun. He sobered his face and looked up at her, while picking up the knife that had come with his meal, hefting it to learn its weight and balance.

"If I can put this knife in the red of that board over there," he gestured with the knife at a row of dart boards across the room, "will you let us finish our drinkin'?"

Waitresses in places like this bar weren't hired for their striking brilliance. "If you can make a bull's eye from the line, your next round's on me."

The line to which she was referring was a little piece of red tape set about three meters back from the dartboards. Dublin grinned at his companions devilishly. It was met with the same from Fairbanks, but a slightly different look hung on Ashton's face. Before he could stop him, Darren stood and launched the knife into the air from the side of the table, a little more than the three meter distance the waitress had in mind. When the missile struck the board, just breaking the outer circle of the bullseye, Darren turned his lopsided grin on the girl.

"I think that's worth at least two rounds, lass."

When the waitress managed to get her jaw back into its proper position, she scampered off to uphold her end of the wager. Dublin slid back down into his seat beside Fairbanks, still wearing his victorious grin.

"Not everyone in this place is Immortal and has had a thousand years to perfect their knife throwing, ya know," Ashton scolded, but his objection was negated by Fairbanks' appraisal of the stunt.

"Nice shot, Doobie," he said with a thumbs up.

"Aye, it was. The only way it could have been any better is if I'd hit the right board." This caused another bout of laughter from him and Fairbanks, and a roll of the eyes and shake of the head from Ashton, a combination he thought got far too much use around these two.

The waitress returned with the drinks and, leaning over the table to reach Fairbanks' glass, she displayed the qualities that had gotten her hired there. Fairbanks helped himself to a healthy eyefull.

"You boys need a way home?" she asked.

"No, our horses know the way," Fairbanks answered. Then, remembering the century, he broke out in laughter once again. After it died down, they looked at each other and simultaneously broke into a Monty Python song.

Emanuel Kant was a real pissant,
Who was very rarely stable.
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar
Who could think you under the table.
David Hume could out consume
Shopenhauer and Hegel!
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
Who was just as sloshed as Schlegel.
There's nothin' Nietzche couldn't teach ya
'Bout the raisin' of the wrist.
Socrates himself was permanently pissed.
John Stewart Mill, of his own free will,
On half a pint of shandy was particularly ill.
Plato, they say, could stick it away
Half a crate of whiskey every day.
Aristotle, Aristotle, was a bugger for the bottle.
Hobbes was fond of his dram.
And Rene Decartes was a drunken fart
'I drink, therefore I am!'
Yes Socrates himself is particularly missed,
A lovely little thinker, but a bugger when he's pissed!

Two hours, and several renditions of The Bruces Philosophers Song - which by then other patrons had learned and joined them - later, they were finally ready to call it a night. Dublin spied the check heading toward their table and made his escape. "Nature calls again," he said, sliding out of the booth.

"Yeah, me, too," Fairbanks added, making the same observation, and making it out of the seat just as the check was delivered.

"Oh, no," Ashton started. "Get back here you two. Hey. Hey! Damn kids." The last was muttered to himself as he gave up the futile warnings. Damn, six hours in a bar with those two did bad things to a wallet.

Out on the street, Fairbanks caught a glance of the moon. It wasn't particularly late so it still had not climbed very high. "Hark! The moon, like a testicle, hangs low in the sky." Robin Williams was a common source of commentary when the three of them had had a few drinks.

"Naw, naw, they said hark a lot back then," Ashton answered. Andy Griffith was no less funny for the wear, either.

They decided to forgo a cab. The night was pretty nice and three people in a cab could get uncomfortable. They headed for Dublin's place on foot. They weren't quite as ready to call it a night as they'd thought inside, and no one could beat an Irishman's liquor cabinet. On the way, they passed a fitness club, the windows of which showed a room full of young women finishing up the night's aerobics class. Being all three of them male, they stopped to watch.

"I want to meet the man who invented leggings," Fairbanks intoned on behalf of them all.

"They sure look a lot better on them then they ever did either of you," Ashton added.

"Yeah, but you always did have better legs than us," Dublin returned.

"That's because I watch my girlish figures, particularly her in the back," Ashton replied with a chuckle.

The women had finished for the night and were making to depart, as were Ashton and Dublin.

"Hey, guys, stick around a while." Fairbanks drew them back with the suggestion.

"Well, if you insist," Dublin said, already affecting the Irish charm that had served him so well in such exploits over the years.

"You two are hopeless," Ashton declared, returning to the window nonetheless.

"Yeah, we'll see how hopeless you get when they start coming out," Fairbanks quipped back at him, already hiding his drunkenness behind a veneer of his own charm.

Of the twenty or so in the class, Dublin and Ashton managed to convince seven of them to accompany them back to the apartment for a few drinks. Fairbanks had even talked four of the younger ones into the same terms. This accomplished; they finished their trek to Dublin's apartment and had a bit more than a few drinks.

xxxxxxxxxx

It's very hard to give an Immortal a hangover, but these three had repeatedly shown that it could be done. The following morning was their crowning achievement. As Dublin struggled into consciousness, he started the well-known spiel.

"Oh God, I'll never do that again. That was the last time. From now on I'm on the wagon." And he ended it with the line everyone knows by heart - "And this time, I mean it."

He hadn't opened his eyes yet, but the stir of the slight body pressed against his and the brush of hair across his chest told him that the body in his arms was rousing, and brought back parts of the previous night. He smiled at the memories pouring back into his mind. Still without opening his eyes, he pulled the body closer to him, and after planting a kiss on the crown of the head he was presented with, he managed a grumbled, "Mornin', precious."

Dublin felt a yawn against his chest then the jaw work to form the words that came next. "Morning, honey."

Strange, he shouldn't recognize the voice, should he? It had only been one night, and he didn't know any of the girls. Sounded like she had a cold, too, a bit deeper than you'd expect from a girl of this size. For that matter, he hadn't touched any of the girls of that size, that he could remember. He'd left them up to… wait…

Now he opened his eyes, and shut them again very quickly. Some sadistic bastard was shining a searchlight into his window. No, wait, that was the sun. He hadn't expected that. He tried again, this time he managed a squint that didn't hurt as bad, as say, being buried in a fire ant nest. Dublin looked down and, sure enough, there was Fairbanks curled up under his arm. The boy's eyes opened minutely. They both let out a slow, disappointed groan.

"Get off me, old man," muttered Dublin. He rolled onto his other side. Now, that's a little better, he thought as he rolled into one of the girls. "What time is it?" he asked over his shoulder.

It took a minute, but Fairbanks finally answered, his voice small and far away. "Friday. Oh man, my head is spinning."

"Which way?"

Another pause. "Clockwise."

"Great, mine's goin' counterclockwise, maybe between the two of us, we're sober," Dublin offered. "Hey, didn't you study medicine a time or two?"

"Yeah, well, David did, but back then colleges didn't have daycares," he answered.

"Great. Roll over here. You can give me an autopsy."

"Give me a minute, I'll feel up to it once I shave my tongue."

Dublin risked sitting up. Not the best idea he'd ever had. He looked around the room that had once been part of his apartment. And considered the benefits of disaster area funding. Scattered around were various piles of bottles, bodies, and clothes, very few of which remained in their proper positioning.

From under one such pile, compiled of a healthy portion from each of the aforementioned components, came a drawn out unconscious groan acknowledging another huge headache.

"What's that?" Fairbanks asked.

"I don't know, but I think David's in there somewhere."

"Should we wake him?"

"No, look what waking up did to us," Dublin answered, lowering his body back down.

"Good point," Fairbanks agreed and slipped back to sleep.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dublin chuckled at the memory. "I had a bloody hangover for a week," he protested with a groan, looking over at Ashton. "And you, ye bastard, you slept all day, then were as right as rain by supper time."

Ashton grinned. "Ah yes, the advantages of age and the follies of youth. I've told you and Jonny…" The sentence died on his lips as the realization that he would never again tell anything to Jonny crept up on him. He looked down sombrely, his face suddenly stone again.

The three sat in silence, each lost in a memory, the brief happiness of times gone by forgotten with the bitter reminder of times present. Finally, David Ashton raised his glass, staring a moment at the amber liquid that swirled in the light. Unshed tears glistened along his eyelashes. "To great friends, and good memories," he murmured, his voice thick.

Dublin raised his glass, echoing the words.

O'Banian watched them toss back the whiskey, knowing that to participate would appear obsequious. Dublin still sat on the floor in front of her. She reached out, laying a hand along his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. He turned his head slightly to her, then brought his free hand up to cover hers, his grip strong and tight.

The three sat with no other noise than the ticking of the antique carriage clock that sat upon the sideboard. O'Banian knew she should leave, that Locke and the others would be worried about her, but she looked at the man who physically sat close to her, but who mentally was eons away and emotionally in tatters, and knew she couldn't abandon him. He needed her - he might not know it, but he did. He would need someone to help him work through his grief. David Ashton would be useless. He was, if anything, in worse shape than Dublin. For the Irishman, it was the loss of a brother but, for Ashton, it was the loss of a son.

O'Banian stole a look at the Minoan as he sat in silent contemplation. The anger and animosity she had once felt toward him had abated, if only temporarily. Now she felt nothing but sadness for his loss and sympathy for his pain.

"I need to make a phone call," she said quietly, at first not sure if either one of them had heard her. Then Dublin stood, suddenly realizing that it was not quite ten yet and they were drinking whiskey. The urge to just bury all the pain in a blazing drunk was there, but he knew he needed to keep a clear head. He didn't doubt that Ashton would be calling in favors and putting out feelers, all in an effort to find Fairbanks' murderer. And when that information came through, Dublin planned to be ready.

"Aye, I could use some strong coffee." He moved to the door. "Anyone else?"

They both nodded and Dublin departed, Ashton on his heels muttering about needing to also make a few phone calls and to talk to Barron and Abjer. O'Banian was left alone. Slowly, with a weariness that seemed to almost overwhelm her, she picked up the phone and began to dial. Locke answered. O'Banian quickly told him where she was and what had happened.

"Fairbanks? Dead?" The shock in his voice was unmistakable.

"Aye. Hunters got him this morning in the park. Is everyone there accounted for?" O'Banian asked. She was starting to feel guilty at leaving them all there, not telling them of her whereabouts sooner.

"Yes, we are all here. We've been waiting for you." Locke's tone turned reproachful. He was starting to get tired of waiting around for Siobhan O'Banian. "What's our next move?"

O'Banian sighed, running a hand wearily over her face. "Nothing right now. Just sit tight. I'm going to stay here a while."

"You are?" Locke blurted.

"Vincent, Darren needs me."

"Oh, well, Siobhan, say no more." The sarcasm rolled off Vincent Locke's tongue like honey. "I mean, we've all just come from all around the world to help you with this Hunter thing. But don't worry. We'll just sit here like good little boys and girls until you get your love life in order and feel it's okay for you to come back."

"Vincent, I'm sorry you feel that way…," O'Banian began.

"You have no idea how I feel, because you haven't been around to fucking ask me," he thundered.

Silence.

Locke, once more in control of his anger, began again. "Look, Siobhan, I've been thinking. I'm not sure that this is the right thing to do. Killing all the Watchers and their families. I understand your motivation and your reasoning, but still…"

Sophie, O'Banian thought. Killing all the Watchers and their families would mean killing her, or at least killing her father. And he doesn't want to do that. "So what are you suggestin', Vincent?" she asked, keeping her voice calm.

"I don't know. Perhaps we need to all meet together and talk about this. Perhaps it would be best if we work together. I mean, the Hunters are our biggest problem right now. Let's deal with them first, then figure out what we want to do about the Watchers. Let's at least get the wolf off our backs, give ourselves some breathing room. Christ, if they can get to Fairbanks, they can get to any of us."

O'Banian hesitated a moment, then asked, "What do the others think?"

"They're willing to meet with Ashton and discuss it. Siobhan, they're frightened and tired of sitting around, and knowing that Jonny Fairbanks is dead isn't going to reassure them any. Perhaps it's time we worked together instead of against each other."

"All right, I'll tell him and arrange something then."

She had given in without any sort of a fight, no resistance at all in fact. That made Locke wary. "What's been going on there, Siobhan? I didn't think you'd be ready to give up your stance against the Watchers?"

"Well, perhaps there's more important things in life than takin' a stand," she replied vaguely. "Perhaps sometimes you just have to walk away." She added softly, "Sometimes you have to sacrifice one desire to keep another."

"What?" Locke questioned, not quite understanding.

"Nothin'. I'll talk to Ashton and I'll call you back. In the meantime, sit tight. No one goes anywhere, especially not alone, not even Sophie. Understand?"

"Yes. Let me know. And Siobhan…"

"Yeah?"

"Be safe." With that Locke hung up the phone and turned to tell the others about Jonathan Fairbanks.

O'Banian set the phone back in its cradle and sat for a moment, mind pondering.

"It's difficult, isn't it?" David Ashton's bitter voice cut through her reverie. He had been watching her for the last few minutes, knowing that she was too involved in her phone call to sense him. He wondered, not for the first time, at her involvement in Fairbanks' death. Was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time or had she been the one to set it up? He needed to be careful; it would be all too easy to turn his anger and grief on her.

"What?" she responded, looking up. "Do you make it a habit of listening in on other people's conversations?"

Ashton shrugged. "Yes, when the other people involved are a danger to me, I do." His tone implied his thoughts.

"Not you, too," O'Banian snapped. "I'll tell you, like I told him. I had nothin' to do with Jonny's death. Nothin'! I might be a lot of things, David, but I do not betray my own kind, especially those I considered a friend."

Her gaze met his defiantly and he searched her eyes for some indication that she was lying to him. After a moment, he had to admit defeat. Either she was the best liar he had ever met, or she was telling the truth. That didn't mean he trusted her. That was asking just a bit too much, but he would give her the benefit of the doubt for now. He came toward her. "I said it's difficult, isn't it? Being a leader."

O'Banian snorted. "I'm not their leader. We don't have one. We decide things as a group and carry them out as a group. That's what works for us." She knew she was lying. The Council had elected her as their leader at its inception, but even now she couldn't allow Ashton to be right on a single point.

Ashton nodded. "I see. And what has the group decided now?"

She looked at him coolly, chin up with defiance. "They want to meet with you, to talk about working together, at least until the Hunters are taken care of."

He watched her for a heartbeat, knowing that his response was critical. He needed to cap his current emotional state and focus on the bigger picture. The Hunters. To mock her or damage her self-respect in any way would push her in completely the opposite direction, destroying all that he had worked to achieve. He needed to give her a way out that would allow her to save face - and her pride. "I think that is a wise idea - safety in numbers. The more we band together, the more formidable a target we will be. Put the Watcher issue aside for now - deal with the imminent danger first. When that's taken care of…"

There was the feel of an Immortal presence and the sound of a booted foot kicking the hotel room door. Dublin had arrived back with plenty of black coffee. Ashton ignored the banging for a moment, waiting for some sort of response from O'Banian, some signalling of a truce, albeit a tentative one.

O'Banian's eyes locked with his. She knew he was giving her a way out, that David Ashton would never come around to her way of thinking. What she had told Locke was true. Sometimes one sacrificed one thing in order to keep something more precious and that might be what she had to do. She nodded quickly and looked away.

Ashton turned, a small sliver of self satisfaction slipping over him for a brief moment. It seemed a provisional peace had indeed been reached.

xxxxxxxxxx

10 January 2000
Paris, France

"You sure about this, Vincent?" Tokawa asked for the fourth time.

"I'm sure," Locke replied through a clenched jaw. "It's the same guy. I'm pretty sure he was going to get on the plane from New York. I know I saw him loitering on the street when that thing with Angela went down. And now he's here hanging around the lobby. I believe in coincidence, but not that damned much. He's a Hunter."

"Maybe not," countered David MacBane. "Maybe he's just a Watcher."

Vincent gave him a thoughtful look. "David, there is no such thing as just a Watcher. They are a potential danger to all of us." Somewhere in the back of his mind, his conscience reminded him that just this morning he had concluded that there was a difference. That Hunters, and only Hunters, were who they should be going after. But then paranoia had kicked in and Locke found himself returning to his earlier way of thinking - that all Watchers were a potential threat. And the only way to get rid of that threat was to get rid of them - all of them. He told his comrades as much. The latest killing of Jonathan Fairbanks was just another example of their threat. Tokawa murmured in assent.

"But what about what we talked about? What you told Siobhan? About us joining with David Ashton and working this bloody mess out." Sergei Tuppankovich understood Locke's unease about being followed, but wasn't sure confronting the man in question was the right thing to do. He remembered the disaster that had occurred the last time the group went hunting.

"Well, I'll take the heat from Siobhan when she gets back. I'll be damned if I'll sit idle," Locke snarled. "Don't worry, I'll give the man a chance to explain." He looked down at the .357 in his hand, then up again with a cold grin. "He'll have all of about thirty seconds to tell me his life story."

xxxxxxxxxx

It was a place begun decades ago; a kind of safehouse tended by Watchers, Historians. Upstairs, it was an ordinary home, shared by a husband and wife who had moved there decades ago, and were now elderly. The basement was filled with books and other manuscripts, some of them centuries old, many copies of ancient documents stretching back to the early history of the Watcher organization.

Rajinder Dhaliwal circled the block three times before parking his rented, mid-sized car a discrete distance down the street. Even then, he hesitated slightly before exiting the vehicle, cautiously scanning the sidewalks for any sign of movement. Finally, assured that he hadn't been followed, he got out.

Dhaliwal had been a Watcher for almost nine years. He had been recruited in his birth city of Calcutta, India. It was during the monsoon season. Dhaliwal, at the time a twenty-eight-year old soldier in the Indian army, had been given the unsavory task of retrieving bodies from the flooded streets. The job was gruesome and tedious - at least until one of the dead came back to life. Both Dhaliwal and the soldier he was with, Gurpreet Thandi, had been immediately approached by Watcher recruiters, and worked out ways to be reasonably discharged from the army.

His first Immortal assignment had been a difficult one. A six hundred year old Swede named Janek Mar, who had turned vicious and began to stalk and rape young women. In accordance with his Watcher oath, all Dhaliwal could do was watch and record, a fact that sickened him. Finally, much to the Watcher's relief, Mar met with a more than deserved violent end, having the misfortune of choosing as victim number nine the adopted daughter of an Immortal more skilled and powerful than he was.

Dhaliwal had slowly risen through the ranks, paying the price along the way. His wife, Nasim, had left him four years ago. Her final comment before she slammed the door had been that he spent more time with his precious Immortals than he did with her. It was an accusation he couldn't refute.

Shortly after that, he received a promotion which had meant giving up field assignments completely. He liked the relative flexibility and authority the position gave him, but he missed the freedom of travelling with the Immortals he watched.

Two weeks ago, he had been called into the office of Michael Walker, the Executive Director of Watchers, and told the full details of the war between Immortals and Hunters. Dhaliwal would have liked to have said he was surprised, but he wasn't. He'd long suspected that the Hunter problem would raise its ugly head again - just as it had in 1856, 1922, and 1940. The last time of which he had been aware had been in 1967 - a small rebellion led by a Pole with the name of Stanislaus Beranek. It had been quickly quelled. Rajinder didn't think this problem would be so easy.

Walker had put Dhaliwal back in the field, assigning him to Vincent Locke until the crisis was over. The Watcher had followed Locke from New York to Paris, had been across the street from the church when all hell had broken loose, and had watched in horror when Hunters had tried to kill Locke and Angela Carson in broad daylight on a busy Paris street.

That attack had proved to be an unexpected break. The man Darren Dublin had stabbed so effectively with his dagger hadn't died - and Dublin, in his haste, hadn't stopped to check. A careless and unusual mistake for the Irishman, but one for which Dhaliwal was grateful. After Dublin and Ashton had left the scene, Dhaliwal had had the opportunity to question the man. Or, more accurately, he had promised he would help the man in exchange for Hunter names. It was an empty promise, the man was dying and even if they had been in a hospital, Dhaliwal doubted whether he could be saved. The names had been gurgled out on lips bubbled with blood. Dhaliwal had only been able to understand a few of them. But that was enough.

He debated taking the list straight to Michael Walker, but decided against it. The Hunter had been dying. The names he gave might have been anyone. Rajinder wanted to be sure before he pointed accusing fingers.

That was where the safe house came in. Or, more accurately, the occupant of the safe house. With a swift glance over his shoulder, Rajinder Dhaliwal crossed the street and moved up the walk of the seemingly innocuous house.

Daniel Nielsen put the book he was reading on his desk. The basement of the house had been renovated many years before into a kind of library and study. His wife, Anna, was absent at the moment, which was best. Rajinder Dhaliwal needed to speak to Nielsen alone.

Nielsen had been translating a codex written in medieval Latin. It was a clumsy work by a Watcher who had seen fit to disregard the rules. Instead of using the codified Sumerian that was the language of the Watchers, he had, as a priest, written in the language that he thought was a remnant of the imperial past. He had been Italian, and the Latin was, in truth, more Italian than Latin. But it was an important text. It dealt with David Ashton, and was from the thirteenth century.

Dhaliwal began by finding out what Daniel knew of the war. The Watcher Archivists were kept somewhat separate for security reasons, and maintaining a Watcher safehouse and doing the seemingly innocuous work of simple researchers, they might know little of the turmoil that had seized the organization of late. But Dhaliwal had misjudged Nielsen, whose mind was as sharp as ever.

"Yes, I know of all that," Nielsen began, somewhat impatiently. "But what can I do? The only field work I ever did was over forty years ago. I am far too old for this nonsense, for-"

Dhaliwal dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. "Yes, too old for confronting these Immortals. None of us are prepared for that. They are very powerful, the best of their kind." He paused. "I think…" He struggled to order his thoughts. "I think that it is not our way to confront them, we are historians. I do not expect you or your wife to involve yourself directly in this. Our way is not to fight. Our goal, as you know, has always been to keep the chronicles, to record the lives of the Immortals."

Nielsen nodded. "One day there may be only one left."

Dhaliwal frowned. "Perhaps." There was a long silence between them. Nielsen had a brilliant mind and had, over the course of his time with the Watchers, translated many difficult works, organized fragmented, ancient chronicles, and deciphered several hitherto unknown tongues, providing valuable information on little-known Immortals. But he had also become set in his ways. He accepted the prophecy of the Prize, of the Gathering. That there could be only one. He did not question it any longer. Like some Immortals and even some Watchers did.

Dhaliwal shook his head. We all have our place, he thought. Our function. I would be lost with all this-. He looked about the room, at the shelves crammed with books, at the piles of papers and papers strewn about the room, strange and indecipherable writing scrawled upon them, appallingly complex diagrams, pages that looked as if they could have come from a journal of Leonardo. He had an enormous respect for the Archivists, but he also had a certain contempt for them, something shared by all those in the field. He continued, breaking the silence.

"It is not our way to oppose these Immortals," he repeated. "What we must do instead is find the Hunters. I have here," he took a small piece of folded white paper from his jacket pocket, "a list of those I suspect. I need you to find out where they can be found. Use your contacts. I need all the information that is known about them. You have access to sources of information that I do not."

For Dhaliwal to suddenly start looking into the background of his fellow Watchers would announce his presence to the Hunters. They were misguided, but they were not stupid. Not all of them were in the field. Their reach was long, and Dhaliwal could alert any number of them within the organization if he attempted to personally track down the principle players.

"I will see what I can do," Daniel Nielsen was saying.

Dhaliwal shook his head. His mind had been wandering. Not good, he thought. He had to stay sharp, focused. These Immortals who were out for their blood had every advantage. They had fantastic resources - and centuries - or millennia - of experience. And they were close to uniting now, which meant they might take care of the problem themselves, but it had never been Dhaliwal's nature to sit and wait. He remembered the words of Alexander when asked how he had conquered Greece so quickly. "By not putting off for tomorrow what I could do today," he had said.

Dhaliwal could not wait to see what would happen, or what the truth of the matter was. It would be too late by then. He was determined to direct the course of this war, and save further death if possible. He was fighting a war on two fronts, and he did not know who he could trust. Nielsen, for all he knew, might be among the Hunters, but he could not let himself feel that. He had to trust someone; he could not do this alone. He must find the Hunters and kill them, and to do that he needed those like Daniel Nielsen and his wife, and others. Dhaliwal had spent the last several days travelling to various safehouses staffed by Watcher Archivists. He had slept little, but reminded himself that once this was taken care of, there would be plenty of time for sleep.

The Watcher checked his watch. It was nearing midnight. "Do what you can," he said to Nielsen, rising. He swayed. He needed to rest, but he could not yet. He had to leave. He had to travel again, to the next place, speak to more Archivists like Nielsen.

"Thank you," he mumbled.

Nielsen was already about his work, his mind leaping ahead far faster than his aged body could obey. It had always been this way, even when he was young. Never enough time, he thought. He did not hear or see Rajinder Dhaliwal leave.

xxxxxxxxxx

"What you think?" Taiki Tokawa murmured quietly, his eyes never leaving the front of the house.

"I think I'm getting tired of waiting," Vincent Locke replied. After following Dhaliwal to the safehouse, they had been clustered into the bushes across the street for the better part of an hour. Finding the Watcher hadn't been hard, and neither had been following him, but waiting was starting to prickle Locke's nerves, his mind conjuring up all sorts of scenarios about what was taking place inside. The longer he dwelled on it, the more Locke was convinced that Dhaliwal had to be a Hunter. He had no actual proof, just a gut feeling.

"Vincent," Tokawa hissed.

Locke's mind snapped back to the present and his eyes picked out a small movement down the side of the house and across the front lawn. The shape halted just on the edge of the pool of the streetlight, the gun in its hand unmistakable.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dhaliwal checked the Glock 22 pistol in its shoulder holster and the Beretta 92F in a holster at his hip. He moved to the front window and peered through a gap in the curtains. It was now just shortly after twelve and he could not see much by the pale, distant light of the street lamp. He didn't want to switch on the porch light. He was uncomfortable - and he didn't know why. He did not suspect that anyone was out there, but he had become, understandably, cautious since this trouble with Immortals and Hunters had begun…or, rather, had escalated.

The underlying current of hostility between mortal and Immortal had always been there in one form of another. The difference in modern times was that it was far more dangerous. Centuries ago the effect of a few Hunters was minimal. A tragedy to Immortal kind (and to history), but a minor conflict that the organization was able to deal with, or the Immortals themselves (something that rarely happened). Those incidents were unfortunate, but to be expected. It was inevitable that they would become known to some Immortals after four millennia.

Dhaliwal deemed it was safe enough to leave and did so out the back door. He moved around the corner of the house, drawing the Beretta from its holster. He was an expert marksman on the pistol range but did not know how that skill would last when under an actual attack. He came around the end of the house and dropped into a crouch. He quickly scanned the yard and down what he could see of the rest of the street. Nothing. He did not return the weapon to its holster, however, as he moved quickly over the lawn, halting just on the edge of the streetlight.

On his left, a tall figure, shrouded in darkness, moved toward him. Dhaliwal was completely unaware of the presence. At the same moment, far to Dhaliwal's right, a shorter figure also moved closer. He drew a Colt .45 pistol and attached a silencer.

The movements near him alerted Dhaliwal. He turned toward the shorter man as the other figure ran at him from the left. Dhaliwal couldn't quite make out faces, but the shadow of what they held in their hands was unmistakable. He paused despite himself.

"Hello?" he called into the darkness. "It's Rajinder."

A hissing sound near his ear answered him. Dhaliwal didn't have the luxury of finding out if they were friend or foe now. The obvious shot fired at him was evidence enough. He spun and hastily took aim with the Beretta, firing off a shot of his own.

It struck Locke in the shoulder and he was knocked to the ground in a spray of bright blood. Tokowa took careful aim but, now alerted to danger, Dhaliwal was moving, rolling away, moving around his car and keeping low. He cursed as the Immortal fired. Tokawa shot out one of the windows, which set off an alarm, then moved in, keeping low but moving quickly, with practiced ease. Locke was attempting to rise, levering himself up on an elbow. Dhaliwal fired again, taking Locke in the upper right thigh. Blood and muscle exploded in another spray of blood, but this time it was a deep wound and the blood dark.

Vincent did not cry out, but he could feel his life slipping away. He had been right about this one being a Hunter. He would have to trust Tokawa to finish it. He knew that his friend would not let this one escape. He fell back then, the smile upon his face ghastly in death.

Dhaliwal turned as Taiki Tokawa approached and fired three shots from the Beretta, the first two missing but the third catching Tokawa in the throat. The Japanese Immortal staggered back, clutching the wound that gouted blood. Dhaliwal used that hard-bought time to unlock his car door. He threw it open and climbed inside, fumbling with the keys to start it, the fear consuming him now. He managed it, and was away as Tokawa, already healing, attempted pursuit.

The Immortal raised his weapon to fire. The wound to his neck was still healing and his vision swam, but he took careful aim and fired. A tire blew out, and Dhaliwal's car lurched, swerving. The tires squealed loudly on the pavement. Tokawa fell to his knees, choking on blood, struggling to rise again. He could not. He pitched forward then, dead.

Moments later, Locke revived. He was momentarily disoriented and searched frantically for his weapon. Finding it, he staggered to his feet, weakened, but whole. It would be some time before his body had fully healed and was at full strength again. He saw Tokawa lying in a pool of blood. Though he lay sprawled in death, he had not been decapitated. Dhaliwal had escaped…almost. Locke turned. The noise thundering into the night was the car alarm. He turned and saw the car, a dead, hulking grey shape. It had collided with a lamppost or a telephone pole. One of the tires had been shot out and Dhaliwal had been thrown halfway through the windshield, which had been shattered completely. Locke strode toward him.

Dhaliwal was barely conscious. He opened his eyes slowly, seeing the tall figure of Vincent Locke stalking toward him, gun in hand. This wakened Dhaliwal quickly and, though his vision swam and he felt terrible pain, he began to pull himself out of the car. In his feverish state of mind, he recalled other weapons he had stored in the trunk of his vehicle. He threw open the driver's side door, hitting the trunk release. His body betrayed him and he fell. Locke, seeing all this, retreated a distance. He would be ready to make the shot.

Dhaliwal was crawling away, out behind the vehicle. In the distance, Taiki Tokawa revived. Dhaliwal, weak from loss of blood, pulled himself to his feet.

Vincent Locke fired upon Dhaliwal, but the shot was poor. Dhaliwal raised his weapon, and in a bizarre state of calm, he took aim and made a near-impossible shot under the circumstances. A head shot. Vincent was thrown again to the ground in a spray of blood. It was fortunate for him that Dhaliwal was not using a higher calibre. Dhaliwal recalled then that Tokawa had revived. He needed to deal with him now, while the Immortal was still weakened and disoriented. He staggered around the car and took aim. Tokawa was strong, but even the strongest of them would take time to revive from a recent death, to heal completely. The Watcher took careful aim and fired, taking the Oriental in the chest. He fell.

Dhaliwal did not wait to see if he lived still but reached into the trunk. He holstered the Beretta and pulled from the trunk an AR-15 rifle, a magazine, and several boxes of extra rounds, shoving them into his pockets.

He moved to where Locke lay and fired several times into him. Then, he staggered off down the street, passing by Taiki Tokawa who had revived again but lay in mute agony, waiting to heal. He fired three rounds into his chest before moving on. It crossed his mind that he could take their heads and do away with them completely, but Dhaliwal quickly dismissed the thought. That would make him what these two obviously thought he was, a Hunter. Besides, he didn't think he had the strength in him to lift the sharpened axe that also lay in the back of his car.

Even in the moment, his own life at stake, Dhaliwal was returning the Watcher safehouse, hoping to save the Archivists who would die next if Tokawa and Locke were successful in killing him. Of course, there were also many weapons there for him to choose from. There was also more protection for when he had to fight and something to help him treat his wounds. With any luck, Locke and his friend would revive with more sense than they had had before they died - and simply leave.

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It was the better part of an hour before Taiki Tokawa rolled over on the hard pavement, and rose on all fours, his hands sticky with blood. He was drenched in it, but this did not bother him. He had seen blood before and he had died many times. It was still unpleasant, though more of an annoyance than the horror it might have been to another, or to himself when he was younger.

Locke came up beside him, reloading his weapon; two loaded AR-15 rifles slung over his shoulder. "Got them from the trunk of the car," Locke said. He, too, was drenched in blood, his face streaked with it, even his teeth when he smiled at him, grotesquely, under the circumstances.

Tokawa got to his feet slowly, painfully. He accepted the weapon and checked the ammunition. "Let's go," he said, without preamble. Further time could not be wasted. Something could still be made of this debacle.

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Dhaliwal winced while his cuts were treated, Nielsen's touch far from gentle as he swabbed them with alcohol.

"Be still," the man said. "We can't waste time; they will be here soon."

Dhaliwal nodded, then stood. He said, "That's right, they will. And you must go. You-"

"I can help."

Dhaliwal shook his head. "No. You're an Archivist."

"And I'm too old."

"To be blunt, yes. These are Immortals, and Immortals in their prime. And with a definite purpose."

"Why don't you just tell them that they have the wrong man? Explain that you're not a Hunter?" Nielsen argued.

Dhaliwal smiled tightly. "I don't think they'd give me the chance to explain. And even if they did, I highly doubt they'd believe me."

"Then how do you expect to survive them?" Nielsen asked, as he capped the bottle of rubbing alcohol.

Dhaliwal sighed. "I don't think I will." He shook his head. "No, I…I want to think I can. But I don't know, I…"

"Leave with me. You can't-"

"Your wife," Dhaliwal said. "Did you call her?"

"Yes. Understandably, she is quite upset. But she went where I told her, she will await me there."

"Then you should go now, too. Don't leave her longer than necessary. And the longer we take, the closer they are. They are strong, Daniel. Very strong."

"Come with me. If we lose you, the war is lost."

"I can't flee," Dhaliwal said firmly. "I have to face them. Capture them, if possible."

"Mm." Nielsen shook his head. "There is no reasoning with you?"

"No." Dhaliwal picked up the Ar-15 rifle that lay before him. The table was littered with weapons - rifles, handguns of every description, even a crossbow and several bolts. Hand grenades of different times. It was almost humorous, he thought, the arsenal of this place.

The front window exploded. "Go!" the Watcher yelled, shoving Nielsen toward the back door. "You know the way."

He turned and raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired several bursts, but there was no one there. He moved cautiously toward the window, scanning the outside. It was odd, he thought suddenly. A car alarm screaming into the night, shots fired. A car accident. Now more shots fired. And no police. Not even the sound of a distant siren.

He moved to the door and threw it open, then rolled away. Nothing. He turned. A shape moved up, into, and through the space where the window had been. Dhaliwal turned. Tokwawa levelled the AR-15 he carried and fired, striking Dhaliwal in the right shoulder. He was thrown into a wall with stunning force. Locke came through the window, carrying a similar weapon as his friend.

"I don't know your name, but I'm sure I'll find out before the funeral service," he said. Tokawa took aim at the Watcher, intending to deliver the final shot, but Dhaliwal, surprisingly, was quicker. Time slowed for Locke. It was always like this, he thought. Always. He moved, but he too was caught in the slow time. He lifted his weapon. Slowly. Dhaliwal was faster.

Taiki Tokawa fired and three rounds caught Dhaliwal in the belly. He fired back. Locke, who had moved in front of Tokawa, took the brunt of Dhaliwal's attack. The shots meant for Tokawa struck him in the throat and tore most of his neck away. Time returned to its normal flow with a snap.

The wound to Dhaliwal erupted first in a spray of blood and flesh, and then a steady dark stream of blood. Locke's chest was torn apart. Black blood exploded with flesh from the wound, drenching him. He fell atop Tokawa, who could not fire another shot. Locke was dead instantly. The blood gushed, flowed, like a dark river, drenching them both. They crashed to the floor.

Dhaliwal, clutching his wound and coughing blood, dragged himself through the doorway. If he did not get help soon, he would be dead. No, he thought. There is too much at stake.

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10 January 2000
Paris, France
Statues de La Fayette et Washington

Detective Sergeant Palen stared at the headless body lying on the ground, the discarded sword lying near it. He puffed his cheeks and let the air out slowly, not knowing what to think of the mess. Looking off to the side, his partner was examining the statue of Lafayette and Washington with similar disconcert. Perhaps more. All that could be found there was a long length of chain and a hell of a lot of blood. There was no body to be found there. He walked over to Lebeau.

"N'importe quoi?" (Anything?) his partner asked.

"Un bon coup de tuer plus," (A good bit of overkill,) replied Palen. "Le gars serait mort d'avoir le nez écrasé dans son cerveau. Il n'était pas nécessaire de lui couper la tête. Dieu sait pourquoi quelqu'un a fait ça." (The guy would have died from having his nose crushed through his brain. There was no need to cut off his head. Heaven knows why someone did that.)

Lebeau shook his head, looking at the statue's foundation again. "Et pas de réponses du tout ici. Qu'est-ce qui se passe dans cette ville?" (And no answers at all here. What the hell is going on in this city?) He pointed to a pistol lying on the ground a few meters from the statue. "Même étranger, en ce qui concerne notre ami décapité là-bas, est ce pistolet. Pourquoi quelqu'un écarterait-il ceci et lui écraserait-il le visage puis lui retirerait-il la tête?" (Even stranger, regarding our decapitated friend over there, is this gun. Why would someone discard this and smash in his face and then remove his head?)

"Comme tu as dis," (Like you said,) shrugged Palen, "ça devient de plus en plus surréaliste." (it just keeps getting more surreal.)

Lebeau shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky, sighing. "Au moins dans le roman, Le Jour du Chacal, mon homonyme, Claude Lebel, avait des indices qui avaient un sens et qui l'avaient finalement conduit à sa carrière. Il semble que nous n'ayons que des indices qui nous donnent plus de questions et peu de réponses." (At least in the novel, The Day of the Jackal, my namesake, Claude Lebel, had some clues that made sense and which ultimately led him to his quarry. We seem to only have clues which give us more questions and damn few answers.)

"Pensez-vous que c'est ce que Lebel a ressenti au début de son enquête?" (Do you think this is how Lebel felt in the beginning of his investigation?)

Lebeau grinned. "Peut-être. Je devrai relire le roman pour en être sûr. J'espère certainement que l'auteur tout-puissant de nos vies nous accordera des solutions rapidement." (Perhaps. I'll have to read the novel again to be sure. I certainly hope that the Almighty author of our lives grants us some solutions soon.)

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10 January 2000
Paris, France

Jonny Fairbanks was buried the morning after his death. It was a beautiful sunrise and it promised to be a beautiful day. The kind of day that Jonny loved. He would have been found running about, playing with his marbles. Or simply running, feeling the sun on his back, the wind caressing his body. Perhaps he would even have been naked, he loved to feel a day like this. He loved to feel life.

His was a special curse. It gave him the choice that all men wish they had at one point in their life or another. He could choose to grow up. His childish body had allowed him to retain that special quality of children. He was a man in his own, but he had that most precious of sanctums always ready at hand. Jonny Fairbanks had grown up, and yet he had not. His curse allowed him to keep one foot in either realm.

He had shared this wisdom and gift with those he could. But he was most successful with Darren Dublin. When they had been together, both men were children.

"Don't ever grow up. That is man's folly, and it will be his undoing," Fairbanks had counselled.

They laid his small body on the pyre they had prepared, Ashton on one side, Dublin on the other. Ashton took the wakizashi from the belt of the child. So many of Ashton's students, his friends, were dead. He looked up at Darren Dublin, one of his closest friends. How long until he is gone as well? he thought somberly. How long until they're all gone? Ashton was afraid of becoming the last of his small circle of friends. Such solitude, all the people he knew gone, all the people he knew dying.

Dublin took the sack of marbles from the boy's left hand, replacing them with the hacky sack. He'd lost thousands of marbles to the boy since their invention in the 1890s. He stared at the marbles for a long time before stuffing the sack into the inside pocket of his coat. He turned then and paced the few steps to where Siobhan O'Banian stood holding his uilleann pipes.

They were older than he was. They'd been his father's before he was even born. He hadn't dared to touch them in decades; they had become very fragile. He risked them now for his brother. He took them and placed the pipes under his arm, his hand coming to rest easily on the pipe that controlled the pitch. Slowly, he began to play.

The haunting sounds of an Irish lament, Caoineadh Cu Chulainn (The Cry of Cu Chulainn), drifted slowly over the gathering as Ashton lit the pyre. It was heartbreak and comfort all in one, the aching loneliness of the notes drifting out on the wind and echoing in the trees. There were centuries in the song. There were centuries played into it. The pipes played perfectly.

As the last notes of the song faded into the distance, Dublin stared into the flames consuming the small body.

"I swear to you, brother. I'll never grow up."