Across the restaurant the bell over the door dinged and a well-dressed man stepped inside, his eyes already scanning the patrons.
Richie dropped his arms and hunkered down, sending out the silent prayer of every school child who doesn't want the teacher to call on him: don't notice me, please don't notice me. The new Immortal would know he wasn't the only one in the building, but maybe if he didn't get a response, he'd take the hint and go away. There were plenty of places to eat. And Richie could avoid Henry and Jo seeing this part of his life up close.
God, the urge to make eye-contact was so strong. No biological imperative demanded that two Immortals acknowledge each other on coming into range, yet the habits formed in the service of trying to stay alive achieved the same end. Avoiding confrontation had never been Richie's strong suit, especially when he'd been told to, and the Presence of the other Immortal was practically a siren song. Only with effort could he keep his eyes glued to the table. He felt Liam's hand clasp over his, and focused on the new warmth.
"It gets easier with practice," Liam whispered. "Relax your shoulders. If you look too tense, he'll know you're trying to hide."
It was surprisingly difficult to obey, and Richie managed only by pressing his feet hard against the base of the bench Henry sat on. He thought he felt the wood giving under the force.
"That would make it my turn...Richie, are you feeling well? You've gone frighteningly pale. Liam?"
Henry and Jo were both looking at them in concern. They had to have heard what Liam said, though neither acknowledged it.
Wrapping his free hand around his coffee cup, Liam started to raise it as if to drink. Since it was empty, Richie guessed that the real reason for the charade was so no one could lipread Liam's answer. "Another Immortal just walked in." He offered an empty smile, then continued as if his next statement followed naturally on his first. "Can you think of anything better than boomboxes? They were weren't one of our wiser cultural moments."
"Another Immortal?" Jo said, slightly louder than necessary. "Where?"
Richie hissed out a breath between his teeth that came too late to stop her. She was already twisting around in her seat. Though she'd been told that the Immortals could sense each other, she had no reason for understanding what that meant. Nor would she know the role that making eye contact played in how the Immortals approached each other.
She spotted the man right away, and he caught her looking at him, just as Richie had feared.
The man made his way over to the table and stopped, his eyes locked on Jo's. The black long coat he wore flared open, revealing the expensive suit he wore underneath. His dark blue tie provided the only color in his clothes. "I'm Franklin Drake," he said, in the tone of someone who expected the listener to be impressed. Richie's hand clenched around Liam's at the flare of panic that ran through him; Drake thought Jo was the Immortal he'd sensed. Jo blinked at him, then swept her gaze down toward the black leather briefcase he carried as if she expected to find a bomb. She clearly wasn't used to strangers introducing themselves when she didn't have to prompt for their names first. One of Drake's eyebrows started to twitch at Jo's apparent refusal to follow protocol.
There was only one way out of this. Richie sighed and stuck out his hand. "Richie Ryan," he responded. The tight fit of the booth made it difficult to clamber out without drawing the kind of attention that Richie really didn't want to draw, so he didn't stand up. The fewer restaurant patrons who saw the two men interacting, the better it was for both of them. "I'm the one you're looking for."
Drake's attention swept over to Richie. His eyes were a dark brown that swallowed the pupil, creased at the corners with fine lines. His face fell when he saw who had spoken, as if he couldn't believe his ill-fortune at being denied conversation with a beautiful woman for this. "I should have guessed. One of these things is not like the other." He swept his gaze disapprovingly around the table, acknowledging the three people who appeared to be middle-aged against the one person who was not. Liam managed to stay relaxed throughout. "I'm not looking for anyone," Drake added, as his attention once again landed on Richie, "Two days in town on business, and then I fly back out. I'm only here for lunch."
"Good," Richie responded, trying to keep his relief from showing too strongly. "That's all I want, too." He indicated the table that was spread with half-consumed plates of waffles and omelets. "Well, breakfast. Brunch." He took a breath and stopped himself before his explanation went any further into irrelevancy. "I don't want any trouble."
Drake gave a nod. "Then we're agreed." The small disk in his hand lit up then. Over the hum of the restaurant, they could all hear the disk's buzzing. "It seems my table is ready." Still, he didn't move. His eyes had narrowed and his attention was focused on Richie like he thought he recognized whom he was speaking to, and wasn't sure. "Ryan," he repeated, the light of recognition coming on. His grip tightened on the disk and his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed, the only signs of his composure breaking. "Yes," he said, "I'll be leaving town as soon as I'm able." This time it was a promise, almost a plea, and Richie found that he was hard-pressed not to acknowledge it like he was granting permission from on high. With that, Drake swung around and strode back to the hostess stand.
The rush of adrenaline that came with meeting another Immortal and viscerally preparing for a Challenge had Richie's awareness broadened. Most of his attention was on Drake's progress as he turned in the disk to the hostess and was lead to a booth-meant-for-two on the far side of the restaurant, yet Richie still noted Jo pushing her plate out of the way and leaning her arms on the table.
"What just happened here?" she asked.
He heard Liam shift next to him—a thin creak of denim against vinyl—and felt the slight eddy of air as Liam's body moved fractionally away. "I'd call that the best case scenario," the priest answered. "Bit of a surprise, too. That's not the way these meetings typically go."
Jo's mouth opened, then closed again. Her fists curled against the scratched wood. "OK, so I did read that part right. Putting aside for the moment how close I just came to becoming a conspirator in a murder—" She paused, obviously uneasy with her own willingness to put that topic aside— "Can someone tell me why that conversation felt suspiciously like something out of The Godfather?"
Not once did Drake glance back, yet Richie couldn't shake the impression that he was still being assessed. On reaching the booth, Drake slipped out of his coat, folding it carefully around his sword, then stood for a long moment with his head tilted, as if listening. The drone of voices in the restaurant would block any conversations but those closest to him. The hostess said something that she then had to repeat, and Drake finally slid into the booth, the sword-and-coat combo hidden in the darkness under the table, yet easily accessible. Not listening, then. Thinking. Debating with himself.
Richie pulled his focus back to the people at his table—to Jo, who was looking at him with narrowed eyes, though her question had been laid out for anyone to pick up. He didn't know how to answer.
Liam got to it first. "Our Richie has a bit of a reputation to live up to," he said. If he dared pinch Richie's cheek, he probably would have.
"A reputation..." Jo started, then cut herself off. "Never mind. I have a feeling this is one of those things I shouldn't know too much about."
"It's not me, exactly," Richie said anyway. There were certain things she had to understand. "It's my...I guess 'pedigree' is the word. My first teacher is one of the favorites to win the Game. His first teacher is the other. Me? I just happened to break into the wrong store one night, and the next thing you know I'm getting trained by the guys everyone wants to beat. Now the others look at me and see an easy path to them." He grimaced, then shrugged. He'd had a lot of rough lots in life, and being the guy to defeat before the MacLeod Boss Level hardly seemed to be the worst. At least this was one area where he could fight back.
"I suspect that he may be interested in testing the validity of your reputation," Henry supplied, with a nod toward where Drake was studying the menu. It looked like what a person sitting in a restaurant should be doing, until Henry pointed out that "the angle he's sitting in suggests that he's getting ready to stand up, and he has now reached down to touch his sword twice. Unless he's concerned about someone stealing it—which is unlikely given where and how it's concealed—I'd say he's giving some thought to putting it to use."
Richie hadn't caught any of that consciously, yet it explained the warning jangling through his instincts. "Yeah, I think we'd better finish up and get out of here." He twisted in his seat until he spotted their waitress and signaled for her to bring the check. To Liam he said, "Let's get you back to Holy Ground. I don't think he knows you're one of us, but just in case..."
With a nod, Liam snagged the last piece of bacon on his plate and stuck it in his mouth. "That would be for the best. I'd prefer to not have to give up my sojourns out of the church." He slipped out of the booth after Richie and reached for the short jacket he'd worn in. It was currently hanging over Richie's on the hooks on the side of the booth, the better to help conceal the outline of Richie's sword. A careful, wordless choreography of where they stood allowed for both men to slip their coats on without anyone in the restaurant catching glimpse of a weapon that the sign on the front door expressly forbid its patrons from bringing inside.
"You two get going," Jo suggested. "We can cover the bill for now and we can figure out the split later."
The silent communication continued with Richie and Liam sharing a look of unease. "We should all leave together," Richie stated. It took all his willpower not to check on Drake.
"It's really no difficulty," Henry replied. "Jo and I are quite happy to continue our brunch." He gestured at his plate, and the waffle that was barely half-eaten because he'd been too intent on their discussion, then at Jo's, which held only smears of syrup and a few crumbs. "Well, perhaps she'd enjoy a refill on her coffee while I continue my brunch." With a smile at Jo, he managed to both apologize for detaining her and promise that she wouldn't regret the extra time spent in his company.
The waitress swung by the table then, and Liam intercepted the check before she could set it down. "Richie's right," Liam said, as soon as the waitress left again. He flapped the check in the air. "We should all leave together. It's...well, let's just say that there's a certain element of risk in being a known associate of an Immortal." To Richie, he asked, "You ready?" and, on getting a confirming nod, started toward the register.
Richie followed, sticking close so that his Presence and Liam's would stay merged. Behind him, he heard the susurration of a whispered debate, then creak of vinyl as Henry slid out of the booth.
"When you say 'a certain element of risk,'" Jo started when she caught up to him, "do you mean..." She trailed off, mostly because they'd reached the counter and she didn't want to ask the rest of her question in front of the cashier. At least, that's what Richie hoped. It was entirely possible that she'd changed her mind about whether she wanted to know this, too.
Since Richie didn't dare step out of the way while Liam started the transaction, he could only give her a shrug. A few minutes followed of each of them taking their turn getting rung up, paying, and assuring the cashier that everything had been to their satisfaction.
Finally, they made it outside, blinking in the bright late-morning sunlight. The dull roar of traffic swelled up around them, along with the stench of exhaust and rotting garbage that pervaded the city. Richie slung an arm around Jo's shoulders in what he hoped she'd see as a show of camaraderie—he knew that she still wasn't entirely comfortable around him, which only made him work harder to be affable—and gave her arm a little squeeze. "It's just a precaution," he said. "Better safe than sorry, and all that. You know?" Regardless of her reason for not asking, she really didn't need to know the reality: how many spouses and lovers of Immortals ended up dead well before their times, or how many friends got cut down by a hunter looking to demoralize his target before Challenging him. There wasn't much about his life that he could ease her reservations about, so he was going to take this one.
Slipping out from under his arm, Jo turned to regard Richie levelly. "If you're going to fight this guy, do me a favor and keep it out of my jurisdiction."
"And I'll be sure to never mention it," Richie agreed. If she wanted, Jo could arrest him, could force him to have to abandon this life before he was ready to. He couldn't take back what she already knew, but he could try respect her tolerance for learning more. Call it a truce.
"Dueling," Henry interjected. As everyone's eyes settled on him, he tugged at his scarf to settle it more comfortably under his collar. "It was outlawed in England in 1840, yet didn't start to fall out of favor in America until later in the century. Of course, by then the accepted practice was to use pistols, and the purpose of the duel was to gain honor, not to try to kill one's opponent."
"What are you talking about?" Jo asked.
Henry stopped in the act of straightening his cuffs to respond. "I believe it was my turn to provide a response. Something I don't miss: dueling. As a young boy, I was privy to—"
"We're gonna get going before Drake finishes changing his mind," Richie interjected. The faster he could get Liam away from Drake, the better. Out of range, out of mind. As soon as they were gone, Jo and Henry should be safer since Drake would have no way of knowing they were there unless he came outside to check. "Gimme a raincheck on the rest of that story." He nodded at Henry—who nodded back—,saluted Jo—who didn't—, then turned and started toward his bike.
The walkway was littered with cracks and jutting corners from where the winter cold had stressed the cement, and Richie's steps hit the cracks harder than necessary. Henry's blithe denunciation of dueling had felt personal, though it probably wasn't. If Richie had learned anything about the man during their association, it was that Henry's eagerness to share his observations often overrode any tact about whether he should. Not that Richie disagreed with the sentiment.
"In a time when young men were raised with the expectation of becoming soldiers, dueling as an accepted and legal part of society had its merits," Liam commented. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, then cast a wry grin over his shoulder at Jo and Henry's retreating forms. "There's a lot to be said for there to be a defined way to settle a grievance, to stop it from escalating into rebellion. Or worse." He stepped smoothly over a hole in the sidewalk that glistened with rainbow-sheened water. Quieter, he added, "Sometimes I do miss it."
Richie cast him a surprised look. He didn't think they were talking about pistols anymore. "You ever think about rejoining the Game?"
Liam's answer was quick. Rote. "I made a vow to God." He skirted a pigeon that was pecking at a discarded hot dog bun, oblivious to the tramping feet on all sides that could injure it, then doubled back to nudge both the bun and the pigeon out of the main traffic of the sidewalk. "If something's easy to give up, then doing so isn't a sacrifice." That also sounded rote, and Liam must have heard the platitude it had become, because he hunched deeper into his jacket and walked for most of the next block with his head down, concentrating on not tripping on the broken sidewalk. Finally, he answered, "Yes." He drew a deep breath, as if expecting to get struck by lightning right then, and let it out when nothing happened.
"I get it, man," Richie answered. His own departure from the Game had lasted days, not centuries, yet he'd still had time to miss the feel of the sword in his hand and the thrill of the fight itself. Unbidden, his hand drifted inside his jacket. The metal of the sword's hilt, warm from being next to his body, reassured him that there was a reason for the life he'd been given.
"It's not going to happen," Liam continued. "I'm a man of my word, and I can do more good in this world by keeping my word than not. Losing that wouldn't be worth whatever temporary pleasure I might gain from playing." Temporary, they both knew, because after this long out of the Game, Liam wasn't likely to survive past his first fight if he rejoined it.
Richie pulled his hand out of coat before Liam could get the wrong idea, and rubbed up the back of his head instead. "Yeah, well, if you ever want to spar, you know, for exercise, it could be a good change from basketball."
For a moment, Richie thought Liam was going to reject the offer out-of-hand, and he mentally kicked himself for how much it sounded like he was trying to pressure Liam into breaking his vow to never raise a sword against anyone again. He wasn't, and he never would. Liam gave him a thoughtful look, searching for the intention behind the offer, and must have found what Richie meant. His brows drew together. "Rich, do you need someone to practice against?" With the threat of a Challenge so close, that was a question Richie couldn't afford to dismiss. As valuable as the solitary repetition of forms were for mastering the technique of sword fighting, nothing rivaled sparring with an opponent for having to learn to adapt to the unpredictability of a real combat. "What happened to your friend Matt? I thought he was teaching you now?"
Ah, Methos. Liam didn't know him by that name, of course, and he probably never would, which only made it harder to fully explain the situation. "He is. And it's good. I'm learning a lot." He brushed up over his head again. "It's just...I wouldn't mind going up against someone I can beat." That was another problem: an Immortal who had forgotten that he could win a fight was an Immortal who wasn't going to.
What his physical presence hadn't done, his laugh did; Liam let out a guffaw that sent the pigeons lumbering into the sky. "So that's how it is, is it?" He chuckled again, a hand over his stomach. "Well, if my inexperience can be of use, then I am at your service. There's nothing in my vow to prevent me from aiding a friend, where I can." They'd reached the motorcycle, and without needing to be asked, Liam positioned himself to block the alley's security camera from seeing Richie remove his sword from his jacket and slipping it into the sheath affixed to the bike. "I'm on for the eleven o'clock mass tomorrow, then I have the afternoon free. Why don't you come on by?"
To church? Richie hadn't been to church in five…four…years. There'd been a Christmas service he'd attended with his last girlfriend, shortly before she included breaking up with him in her New Year's resolutions for a better life. The breakup had no bearing on his church attendance except that he'd hit the road after that, had spent a few months living itinerantly, and had fallen out of the routine. "Uh, I'm not exactly in good standing," Richie hedged. He straddled the bike, suddenly, acutely aware that he was admitting this to a priest.
"Now that is a problem I am qualified to help with, laddie," Liam answered, his brogue deepening. Here, the omnipresent rumble of the city was muted, held back by the walls of brick and concrete that lined the way. Tilting his face upward, Liam considered what little he could see of the sky, one finger pressed against his lip, for a long moment before adding, "You'll need to take Confession. I can arrange for a private session, unless you'd prefer to go to someone else."
Richie winced. As much as he'd always viewed himself as a Catholic, he also hadn't put any effort into regular practice. Forging a Baptismal certificate hadn't even crossed his mind—any of the times he'd crafted a new identity. "You know, how about I meet you after lunch?" He grinned to take the sting out of his rejection. "I'm gonna need a little more time to pull together a complete list of my sins."
Again Liam laughed. "Let me save us both some effort. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I absolve you of any sins necessary to live as an Immortal in this world." He signed a cross in the air, then picked up the passenger helmet.
Richie was a little taken aback at how abbreviated that was; every other time he'd taken confession, there'd been a lot more steps. He'd expected to at least have to admit to what he'd done. "Is that it? No penance?"
With a slight shake of his head, Liam gave another answer he'd obviously been thinking about for a long time: "The Game is penance enough." He twisted the helmet around in his hands, letting the light play off its shiny black surface, then put it on with a note of a topic ended before its time. "If you ever stop feeling remorse for it, we'll talk. Until then, do your best to choose wisely and to limit your transgressions as much as possible—and know that the confessional is as open to you as it is to any mortal."
"Amen," Richie answered. Not that what 'choose wisely' meant was so clear, as Richie knew full well how an offender could rationalize any crime.
Settling on the bike behind him, Liam gave Richie's shoulder a reassuring pat. "I know."
As they were driving toward the exit, it occurred to Richie that, while Liam stayed out of the Game, he still had to engage in the rest of the shadowy decisions that immortality conferred, starting with the constant lying to everyone about who he was. How did he do that with a clear conscience? He asked.
If Liam answered, the words were drowned in the roar of the bike as it sped down the street.