They spent the afternoon poring over the combined maps that Machiavelli, Perenelle, and Fred had found the prior day. They'd estimated that Billy would have lived in the city in 1866 or so based on his age; the closest map they could find to that date was a civil war map from 1864. Black Hawk didn't entirely trust the authenticity of this map as they were often changed during the war years to confuse enemies who might get their hands on them. Because of this, they were checking the map against one that Fred had found from 1854 and trying to project later developments on it from there.

Machiavelli was beginning to get a headache from all the cross checking; similarly, Billy was beginning to look a little rag tag. Fred and Black Hawk, on the other hand, seemed to have finally found something they were invested in. The two of them made careful notations on the copy of the 1864 map, scrawling notes in the margins. When it seemed like they had been at it for hours, Fred took a blank sheet of paper out and began to sketch a new map.

"What are you doing?" Billy asked, his voice tired and a bit muffled by a hand he'd been keeping in front of it.

"Making a truer copy of this map."

"What do you mean?" The Kid sat forward, blinking wearily.

"We've fixed a lot of the ways they changed the map to make it harder for non-residents to interpret. See, they changed the land distribution and the whole thing's inverted, you can tell by the direction the map is unfurling… You said the river was nearby the laundry where you lived?"

"It seemed nearby," Billy said, sounding uncertain. "But I was young and ran pretty wild… it could have been farther away.

"Well, we looked up all the registered laundries from the 1860s. You've got those, don't you?" Black Hawk asked, looking up at the Frenchwoman who nodded and withdrew a parcel of papers. She handed them to him. Squinting at the original map, he began to make x's on the map that Fred had drawn. "You said you lived on North Main Street… look here," he pointed to one of the marked areas. "There's the only laundry on that street for that decade. And here's the house you found," he said, pulling over a modern map of the city.

Billy studied the two maps. "It looks like roughly the same area?" he asked uncertainly. But the laundry was further off the road. It overlaps a little with where the house is now… This was where I lived?"

"So you did find the right house." Machiavelli patted Billy on the back. "I told you that you would."

"We also think you should check out this place," Perenelle said, breaking in at last. She handed the outlaw a printout; Machiavelli scooted over so he could read it too. It was a Civil War museum, small to judge from the brochure before them, but dedicated towards the years where the states were at war with one each other. Billy quirked his eyebrows at her. "There might be ghosts gathered there who would know your father. If he passed through this city, he might have left traces behind…"

They were quiet, each lost in their own research. Finally, Machiavelli sat back, rubbing at his eyes. He felt like this particular exercise had aged him, at least temporarily. Cracking his neck absently, he looked over at the taller Native American immortal. "Have you gotten a hold of your friend?" he asked Black Hawk, remembering their conversation from yesterday.

"What friend?" Billy interrupted, perking up. He'd been slumped over the last of the documents, a copy of a book from the local library which detailed the Civil War battles in the area. Shaking his head like a dog getting out of a pool, he looked between his best friend and his boyfriend.

"Langston. And yes."

"Is he still around here?" Billy asked, brightening. "I didn't know that! Did you talk to him? Is he coming?"

"I spoke with him yesterday. He's going to come visit before we leave. Maybe tomorrow. It's not taking us very long here, after all."

Billy nodded, seeming to deflate a little. "That's cause there's nothing to find here."

Black Hawk thumped the outlaw on the back. "Don't be such a Debbie Downer. We haven't even begun to look yet."

"I suppose..." Billy said dubiously.

"I think we should search that house that you found," Perenelle cut in. "Tonight."

That stopped all the men in their tracks. They looked at the female immortal in surprise. "Tonight?" Billy asked, looking apprehensive. "Doesn't that seem… hasty?" He looked around at the group of them. "I mean… we don't even know if it's occupied. We could be breaking into someone's home."

"But Fred and I spent several hours with you yesterday, watching that house," Black Hawk pointed out. "Nobody came or left in all that time. Besides, does it really look occupied?"

Billy looked unconvinced, but reluctantly agreed to go along with the plan.

~MB~

Niccolo himself had his reservations about this plan, but felt that they were going to have do go forward with it at some point. It wasn't as though they hadn't laid out a series of steps to ensure their success along the way either. Listening to the other three male immortals that afternoon had reminded him for the first time in a while that they each had extensive histories with law breaking, or bending, as Billy liked to call it. Now, as he walked swiftly into the back yard, he felt like he had to say something to the outlaw.

"You sure you don't want me to keep watch outside and have Black Hawk come in with you?" Machiavelli whispered as they made their way through the dark yard. "I think either of the others would be better suited to-."

"Nah, Mac, I need you with me. Here, give me a boost. You're the tallest of us."

They were looking up at a high window which had been left open. Machiavelli felt a sense of foreboding, but laced his hands together nonetheless and held them out for Billy, who put his right boot in the step the Italian had made. With a funny little bounce, the Kid pushed off on his shoulders and wriggled into the window. It was good that Billy was so lithe because there wasn't a lot of extra space to fit through. The outlaw's cowboy boot swung out of sight.

Outside, in the dark yard, Perenelle and Niccolo looked at each other, waiting… waiting. With a soft click and then a screeching sound that seemed to echo throughout the night, the door swung open. "Sorry," Billy whispered apologetically. "It's really loud. Wish we had thought to bring some WD-40…"

"There was no way to think up everything beforehand," Machiavelli said quietly and, coming from him, this was saying something. The Italian had always striven to prepare himself for anything but, he thought as he eased into the house they were now breaking and entering into, 'you can't truly imagine everything that's going to happen in the future.' He certainly hadn't imagined even a week ago that he'd be searching an old house in the middle of the night, though he should have supposed that he might; anything was possible, wasn't it, when you were in love with someone like Billy.

"S'dark," Billy whispered. "Think it will be noticeable if we use the flashlights on our phones?"

"Maybe if we use just one," Machiavelli suggested. "Is there a way to dim them? I've never had the problem of needing less light…"

"Actually," Perenelle broke in, her eyes sweeping around the room. "If there are any ghosts here, when I peel away the protective layers of my aura, they will come and light the house in such a way that we won't really need the flashlight at all."

Next to him, Machiavelli could feel Billy shiver. He was learning that the American immortal was not at all keen on the thought of spirits. Reaching out a hand, he squeezed Billy's. "Where?" he asked the Frenchwoman.

She walked hesitantly through a little hallway into what looked like it had once been a living room. Making her way carefully across the room- the floor squeaked dangerously under her feet- she looked out the window. This window was facing the back yard. A line of trees to the left blocked their view of the road. "This room," she decided.

Machiavelli drew away from the Sorceress, giving her room; he backed up so that he was standing beside his lover. He took Billy's hand and gave it a squeeze. The Kid hung on for a minute and then wrapped his arms around the Italian's waist. Machiavelli could feel the goosebumps on the outlaw's arms. Not sure if it was cold or fear or nerves, he pulled Billy close to him.

With a crackle, Perenelle's aura illuminated the tenebrosity. Billy tightened his grip- the room seemed to plunge several degrees- and the dust sparkled around them in the air, suspended and looking like snowflakes as each particle caught the glancing rays of white streaming off the female immortal in front of them. And then-

The light faded as quickly as it came. Niccolo blinked, touching his eyes to try to make the stars fade from them. They were all quiet, listening for any new sounds, new presences around them. Billy squeezed his middle. "Hear anything?" he asked.

"No… I don't hear something, but…" Perenelle trailed off, moving towards a door that was behind the two men, a passageway they hadn't even noticed before, which was now faintly outlined by light flitting out through the crack below the door. Shadows were moving around behind the door, making the light ebb and flow. Machiavelli felt all the hairs stand up on his arm now. Though he'd never been afraid of spirits, he sincerely wished they were elsewhere. The three of them moved quietly across the room, approaching the door, and with a quick look behind her, Perenelle pushed it open.

There was a steep stairway leading down to what appeared to be an old cellar. Perenelle raised her eyebrows; they nodded. The Frenchwoman made to go first, but Billy waved to her and pointed at himself- he would go first. Machiavelli went next, then Perenelle.

The room they were descending into was small and lined with stone. There weren't any windows. Billy got down to the second step from last, turned to see the room, and- with a loud crunching noise- leapt backwards away from whatever he saw. Machiavelli, whose nerves were already tightly wound, grabbed Billy around the shoulders and pulled him backwards, moving his body in front of the American to keep him safe. "Come back here," he ordered. "What was that crunching noise?"

"It's fine. It's okay," Billy said weakly, massaging his heart. "I was just surprised. Nothing's wrong."

"But what was the noise?"

"Just the step breaking from where I jumped back," the outlaw whispered. "It's okay… it's just a bit of a shock, is all…"

"What's a shock?" Machiavelli asked, but Billy had stepped forward and the Italian immortal had no choice but to step over the missing stair and follow him down. He saw immediately what had startled the American- the room was full of spirits. Low ceilinged and rather small, there must have been thirty men packed together, men covered with soot, their clothes in tatters.

"Hello," Billy said tentatively, looking like he wished he was anywhere but here.

"Whatchu want?" one man whispered in a hoarse voice. "Why are you here…" Every word sounded painful.

"You can see us?" another man gasped, shuffling forward, as if to reach out to them.

"Yes. We're looking for my mother. She used to work here? Years ago?" Billy asked desperately. "Can you see the others? She was young. Pretty. She looked like me…"

The man in the front shook his head, his face impassive. "We never leave this room… There's a fire upstairs. We're trying to get the bulkhead open," he gestured behind them.

"Ah… well, we're going to go now. Sorry to disturb you." They all went up the stairs quickly. Billy shut the door quickly behind them, leaning against it, and looking like he was going to be sick. "That was… that was terrible."

"They must have been workers in that workshop fire we read about," Machiavelli suggested, feeling a little worse for the wear himself. "The house had to be rebuilt in certain spots…"

"Let's go upstairs," Perenelle decided, drawing her jacket closer around her. The tactician saw her glance edgily at the door they'd just left behind.

They were far more careful examining the rest of the house, but they needn't have bothered. The entire bottom floor was empty of spirits, something Machiavelli felt intensely thankful for. He felt a slight twinge of guilty- they were supposed to be finding Billy's mother and the absence of other spirits didn't help them- but he guessed from the way that Billy looked that the Kid wasn't exactly upset to find the rooms around them deserted either.

The documents they'd been reading had led them to believe that the majority of the house was the same one that Billy had lived in as a child- the creaking and cracking noises of the floor beneath them certainly spoke to that- but as they moved through the place they were forced to face the fact that the majority of the building must have been destroyed in the fire, eliminating past traces of spiritual activity.

Finally, there was only two rooms left to search. Perenelle went into the small room, which was full of old furniture covered in white sheets. The two men went into the last room, which was deceptively large. They split up. Machiavelli was looking for traces near the front of the house; Billy disappeared into a corner.

He couldn't find anything that would help them and he supposed that it made sense; Billy hadn't lived here for hundreds of years and in that time, dozens of people had lived and worked in these rooms. Finally, he had to give up. Getting up, he felt a curious mixture of relief that they would be leaving this place and regret that he hadn't really helped his boyfriend. Still, there was Billy and soon they would be out of this house and he could take a hot bath…The knowledge of that conclusion made him feel practically giddy.

"Boo," Machiavelli joked lightly, coming up behind Billy.

He had to guess that the layer of dust on the floor had muffled his footsteps because he had thought the American immortal had noticed him coming up behind him; Billy's reaction, on the other hand, indicated otherwise. With a shout, he jumped backwards. There was a second awful splintering sound, then the outlaw's foot plunged through the floor as the rotting baseboard gave way.

"Oh, shit, caro," the Italian swore, rushing forward.

"Oh, Mac, it's just you," Billy said in surprise, relief and pain mingling on his features as he grabbed onto the tactician's shoulder to keep himself upright. He was dangerously close to pitching forward. He tried to tug his leg up and out to no avail. "My foot… went through the floor. Can you pull me out honey?"

"Yes, si, of course. I'm never joking with you again," Niccolo moaned, kneeling and trying to carefully work the outlaw's foot out of the hole. The noise had brought Perenelle rushing in from across the hall. She helped Billy balance and with a powerful wrench, Machiavelli pulled away enough of the crumbling wood around Billy's leg that they were able to pull him up and out.

"What happened?" the Frenchwoman asked.

"Had a bit of an accident," Billy mumbled. "No big deal."

"It was my fault. I'm sorry," Machiavelli said from his place on the floor. "I'm the worst human being ever."

"That seems a little harsh, Mac," Billy said breathlessly. "If it had happened to anybody else, I'd probably find this funny. Hell, in a day or so, I'll probably find it funny." He smiled through gritted teeth. "After I forget about those guys downstairs…"

"I don't think we were going to find anything here anyways," Perenelle broke in.

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. Lots of creepy stuff around here, but nothing useful. I'm not sure I like knowing about all the dead people that have been liv- well, existing in the same places as where we live. Freaks me out a bit."

"I'm so sorry, angelo," Machiavelli said for the umpteenth time. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

Billy hopped along beside him. "It's okay. It's not like you pushed me through the floor." He paused for a moment, leaning heavily on the tactician. "Actually, I think most of the damage came from me trying to get my leg out of the hole."

"I'm still very sorry," the Italain apologized. "I'll wait on you every day until you get better."

"Oh, Mac," Billy sighed. "You already take care of me all the time. Besides, my ankle's not really sprained, I don't think; anyways, my aura will fix it. It's just a little swollen right now. That's all. In fact, I think I'll be able to put weight on it again." He stopped leaning on Machiavelli and slowly shifted his center of gravity back to almost where it normally was. "See?"

Machiavelli looked at him critically. "You're not standing normally."

"Oh, right. It'll be fine." Billy shifted all the way over and jumped back onto one foot. He threw his arms around Machiavelli's neck. "Not fine! Not fine." He whimpered slightly.

"Ohh," Machiavelli groaned in sympathy. "It's okay. We're not far from the hotel. I'm going to take care of you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He looked over at the Frenchwoman. "Do you want to go ahead of us and get them to bring the car closer?" She nodded and disappeared down the stairs. "Okay, we'll get you down the stairs. This is the worst thing I've ever done to you, William…"

"Mac, can I say something?"

Machiavelli stopped, one foot on the top stair. He held Billy by the waist. "Certo."

"Please stop apologizing."

He hesitated. "I'll try."

"Good, cause it really wasn't your fault, silly. I was just really focused on what I was looking at. I think I even looked over and saw you at one point, I just didn't really process it, you know?"

"What were you looking at?"

"There were some boxes in the closet there, but it was just a lot of old machinery parts… Nothing too useful, from the looks of it." He yawned. "Isn't this ironic?" he continued tiredly, hobbling on his good leg and clutching at Machiavelli almost painfully.

"What's ironic?"

"I thought that it was going to be your legs causing trouble this trip. And then I end up going through floor." Sneaking back out of the back door, they made their way to where Perenelle was waiting for them among the bushes.

"I texted them to come closer, but I'm not sure they got it as they are still pretty far down the road," she said quietly, speaking more to Machiavelli than Billy at this point. "They haven't moved yet."

Niccolo looked down the road to where he could just make out their rental car. His heart sank. It was several hundred feet away. "William, are you sure you don't want me to pick you up? The car's down the block still."

"Nah, we're almost there," he panted. "Perenelle? You still there?"

"Of course, mon cher. You've just got a little more to go," she told him, exchanging a worried look with the Italian. "Here we are. Why don't you go in the middle, Niccolo? Then we'll put a Billy in."

"What the hell happened to him?" Black Hawk asked, getting out of the car. He helped get Billy into the seat.

"We think he twisted his ankle," Machiavelli said, reaching across Billy to buckle him in. "I'll tell you when we get back. We'll put some ice on your ankle, caro. You'll be okay."

"I'm not worried," the Kid told him, but he looked very pale. "It just twinges a bit."

Black Hawk drove them as close as he could to the hotel lobby. "You going to be okay getting him upstairs?" he asked the Italian immortal, sounding doubtful. Machiavelli nodded and waved as he pulled Billy into the lobby.

"Let's just get you to the elevator," he said quietly, Perenelle trailing behind him.

"Are you okay, sir?" There was a hotel worker looking at the outlaw with great concern. He looked at her young face and smiled painfully. "Just took a nasty spill. Found a slippery sidewalk. Going to go put some ice on it now."

They excused themselves. The minute the elevator doors closed behind them, Billy flung his arms around Machiavelli, apparently past the point of caring what Perenelle might think. "Billy, kid, are you sure you only sprained your ankle?" Machiavelli asked anxiously, looking at the outlaw's white face.

"Sprained it, twisted it, I don't know." Wrapping his arm around Billy's waist, Niccolo took most of his weight, absently patting him on the behind. Perenelle leaned against the wall, looking tired. All three of them were covered in dirt. Machiavelli had to imagine that they looked quite a fright. No wonder that hotel worker had stopped them.

Their suite was on the seventh floor. Machiavelli's prayers to get there unnoticed went unanswered apparently. On the fourth floor the doors opened to reveal a little family of four. They looked at the group of immortals with some apprehension. "Sprained his ankle," Machiavelli explained, offering a little smile which they did not return.

"We'll wait for another elevator," the mother said faintly.

"Suit yourself," Billy said, jabbing the door close button again. "Self-righteous, much?" he asked as soon as the door was closed. "You'd think they'd never seen two men hugging."

"This is Kansas, they probably haven't." Machiavelli didn't waste his breath adding that this deep into the South, people were definitely not prepared to see two men who were covered in dirt, clinging to each other in their hotel elevator. He had a feeling Billy wasn't in the mood.

They finally got to the seventh floor and Machiavelli surprised Billy by picking him up entirely. He was surprised at how easily he could hold the other immortal as he wasn't the strongest man alive. He concluded that it must have been Billy's light frame that made it easy for him to carry the man. "I'll let you lead the way," he told Perenelle. "We'll need the door open. Thank god we have a room close to the elevator."

"You're stronger than I thought you'd be, Mac," Billy said bemusedly. Wrapping his arms around Machiavelli's shoulders, he hung on for dear life.

"I wouldn't exactly be able to carry you miles, but I can carry you a little bit." He put Billy down as gently as he could on the couch. "Here you go, caro." He couldn't help but kiss Billy's forehead. "I'm going to take your shoes off. It'll probably hurt a little bit."

"S'okay."

"I'm going to take a quick shower," Perenelle sighed, getting up again. She patted Billy on the shoulder. "Be right back, mon coeur." They nodded. She tossed Machiavelli a bottle of aspirin from her purse; he caught it deftly and took one out, handing it the American.

"Ouch, that really does hurt."

"Sorry, dear." Machiavelli tugged as gently as he could on the outlaw's cowboy boots, easing them off his bad foot. "Just a little more… little more… There we go. Sorry, bello…"

"What does 'bello' mean, Mac?"

"Bello? Beautiful. As in 'sei bello'- you're beautiful. Mio bel amore," he continued, a shy smile on his face that was matched by Billy in spades.

They heard a rattle at the door and moved apart; Black Hawk and Fred came in. "You wouldn't believe the problems with that parking lot. Okay, so what happened?" Black Hawk asked, coming over to sit on the coffee table which wobbled under his bulk.

"I just fell. Really, nothing important."

"I think it's twisted," Machiavelli commented.

"What happened exactly?" Fred asked, getting a bag of ice out of the minibar and handing it to Billy, who turned very slowly and propped his leg up on the couch. Stretching, he put the bag on his ankle, which was swelling rapidly.

"We were looking around the second floor and the floor collapsed under me. Stupid foot got stuck in the hole… It's been a rough night."

"I'm surprised you manage to walk all the way up here." Black Hawk said. "It's the size of a softball now," he pointed out.

"Mac carried me the last hundred feet," the Kid moaned.

"You carried him? You?" Machiavelli thought the amount of surprise in Black Hawk's voice was a little insulting. "Me," he agreed. "I'm just that rugged." Even Billy laughed at this. "We should get you out of these dirty clothes."

"I can get rid of the shirt at least," Billy said, sitting up. He pulled it up over his head and then, laying back, undid his belt and jeans. "Leave me my skivvies though, would you?"

"Course. I mean no one wants to see you in your briefs," Black Hawk agreed, leaning over him.

"I wouldn't say that," Billy argued, grinning maniacally. "Right, Mac?"

Saying nothing, Machiavelli bent over to untie his shoes, making kind of a meal out of undoing the laces. "Stop teasing him," Black Hawk said sternly, smacking Billy on the arm. "You're putting him out."

"Mac knows I'm just kidding, don't you, honey?"