Liam's fingers slipped over the page of the open book in front of him. Its words were more familiar to him than any name he'd ever lived with; he could say—and probably had said—them in his sleep, but today he found no comfort in them.

He'd never been easily rattled. Having the mercenary and con-woman Talia Bauer as his teacher, not to mention the oneupmanship volatility that his friends Amanda and Jade brought to his earliest years in the Immortal world, taught him very quickly to roll with uncertainty and to exercise a certain amount of moral flexibility. Yet, sometimes it only took a small nudge to destabilize a man.

Such as the phone call from Jo the previous evening.

He paced the length of the office, tracing a path between the ornately framed photograph of the Pope on one wall and the simple, hand-carved crucifix on the other, looking at both without managing to see either. Overhead, the air vent clicked with the effort to push some tepid air into a room that was growing warm and stuffy.

In the months since Henry had introduced Jo to him, she had never sought him out. She had never spoken to him without Henry nearby, nor had she ever given the impression that she wanted to. Then, out of the blue, she'd called him up with a question that could have been innocuous, in any other context: "How can I tell if someone's Immortal?"

Had the question come up during their recent brunch, he'd have thought nothing of it. He'd caught the professional distance she used when she was on a case, and had responded in kind with a clinical answer. It wasn't until he was saying his nighttime prayers that he recognized the question for what it was: a warning of another Immortal in the city.

Liam recalled all too well what it was like living in Paris when Duncan MacLeod's semi-annual arrivals led to every Immortal with a grudge flocking there after him. On Amanda's advice, he'd refrained from introducing himself to the younger Highlander—and found any reason to stay on Holy Ground during the visits. Somehow, he'd made it through. Two decades later, he lived a continent away, and in a place where he thought he wasn't going to have to be so, well, cloistered.

Then young Richie Ryan had moved to town, and it wasn't quiet anymore. The recent uptick in activity was starting to make him worry that Richie had taken more from MacLeod's tutelage than mastery of a sword. If that was true, Liam knew he would be wise to leave the city before the activity found him.

He didn't want to leave. He was coming up on his third anniversary in New York City. Though the community was a lot less Irish than it was the last time he'd lived in the States, he thought he was fitting in well here. So, barring any surprises in his upcoming annual job review, he saw no reason he'd be moved to a new parish any time soon.

Yet….

Was he ready to live with the kind of danger—temptation, a small voice whispered—that Paris had once presented?

Plucking at his robes, he sought to dispel some of the trapped heat before he sweat through them.

Liam could feel himself slipping, feel the edges of his vows softening. A compromise there, an exception here. He'd started sword training again. As much as he insisted it was only to help a friend, there was no question that strengthening his own skills would only make him more comfortable choosing to fight rather than run—should he ever have to. And he'd started spending more time off Holy Ground, increasing the chances that he'd meet another Immortal who wanted to fight.

Because of this, if he did leave, he'd need for it to be a total break—for now, anyway. It wouldn't last forever. He'd been able to stay hidden from Sean for two hundred years without trying very hard, and he'd known of other Immortals who'd successfully avoided specific conflicts for centuries, but eventually paths crossed and heads rolled. He was lucky that when Sean finally tracked him down, Liam was able to appeal to his more forgiving side. Sean had left Liam with his head intact, but that didn't mean the next Immortal would. The next Immortal may not have a forgiving side.

What mattered was the interlude and the chance it gave to prepare. If he stayed, eventually he would have to fight—or lose his head without fighting for it. And if he left, he'd have to go in a way where he couldn't be followed.

The church was quiet on this Sunday morning in the short time between Masses. The early morning crowd had left and the later one was only starting to trickle in, based on the occasional voice that filtered through the door. With a visiting missionary handling the first Mass, Liam had no responsibilities until late morning, so he'd locked himself in the Church office where no one could hear him talking to himself.

Steeling himself against the sound of his own voice done wrong, he opened his mouth and began to read. In a new cadence, with vowels shoved into new parts of his mouth, the phrases' friction chafed against his intentions.

He had to practice, to teach his lips and tongue to take their new forms as easily as the ones they already knew. The depth of his native Irish lilt had mellowed over the years, true, and his vocabulary had changed with the times, but there was no mistaking his origin. That had been lazy on his part. As the Irish priest, he was too identifiable in Immortal circles, which is why, if he had to go, he couldn't take his heritage with him.

A light tap on the door interrupted him. A second later, the door cracked open and the braided head of Luisa, one of the altar servers, appeared in the gap.

"Perdóname, Padre?" She was twelve and normally boisterous and extroverted, though the manners others complained she didn't have were always on display for him.

Liam snapped the book shut, as if needing to hide what he'd been reading, though Luisa had no reason to see anything odd in the priest reading before Mass. "Sí," he answered, automatically responding in the language he'd been addressed in. Many of his parishioners here spoke only Spanish, leading Liam to revive an old habit of switching languages as necessary. It didn't matter to him; like most Immortals over a century old, he spoke a number of languages fluently.

"Hay un visitante para ti." She glanced back over her shoulder, then quickly stepped aside when the announced visitor pushed the door the rest of the way open and let herself in.

Liam had no chance to question the boldness of such a move before he recognized the person. "Jo! ¿Qué puede hacer por ti?" He heard the sounds come out scrubbed free of his brogue, and wasn't surprised when Jo looked at him oddly. His gaze slid back to the open door, looking for the second person he expected to see. "¿Dondé Henry?"

"Estará aquí en unos minutos," Jo responded, smoothly, then: "Did you forget that I speak English?" She tugged at the neckline of her t-shirt like it was constricting her, then shoved her hands in the pockets of faded jeans, wrists automatically angled to accommodate the gun and badge she'd left at home. The outfit was a lot more informal than Liam usually saw at Sunday Mass, though people increasingly didn't dress up the way they used to. Liam didn't mind; what people wore had no bearing on their worship. Since Jo didn't have her gun and badge on, the rest was inconsequential, if oddly more informal than her usual style.

Liam cleared his throat and hid his momentary embarrassment at the language gaff in the acts of putting the book away and sending Luisa away. "My apologies," he answered. "I didn't expect to see you until later. I thought we'd agreed to meet this afternoon." Jo gave a tilted smile that confirmed that she'd changed the plans. "Are you here for Mass? You're certainly welcome—"

Jo shook her head. "Maybe some other time. I just wanted to talk to you … only, I see you're busy." She took in the alb he wore and stepped back like awareness of the garment had sprung up a force field between them. "Didn't you say you weren't presiding this week? Did I mishear you?"

Liam had only insisted on setting up the meeting with Jo for after the Masses because he'd wanted to attend the services and perform the usual greetings and good-byes with the regulars. Also, he'd been looking forward to having some time when no one would ask anything of him.

"I wasn't until about an hour ago," he explained. "The priest was called to give Last Rites, otherwise I would've been happy to reschedule our appointment…" The thought dropped off without conclusion because something had to be wrong. Jo wouldn't come to see him without Henry; Jo wouldn't change their plans without asking. He didn't think that 'something' was Henry—or, at least not related to Henry's swimming proclivities—because she also wouldn't show up and stand around obviously hedging if Henry needed help.

Before he could inquire, the presence of another Immortal swept over him. His head jerked up and the instinctive panic that his Immortal sense engendered caused him to suck in a breath before he relaxed again at the knowledge of whom it had to be. "Is that Richie?" He'd hoped Richie would start joining them. If anyone was in need of a church community, it was the lad. Liam started for the door, eager to welcome his friend. "I should go make sure he doesn't try to sit in the front row; Mrs. Garcia will not appreciate having her seat—"

"Liam," Jo interrupted, staying him with a touch. Something in her attitude said that she knew what he'd sensed, and didn't seem surprised—unsettled, but not surprised. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Without any fanfare, the other Immortal had disappeared from his perception, which raised no concerns. The sensory range was fickle; all the other Immortal had to do was find a seat in a part of the nave that was too far away to be sensed. "I really should have a word or two with him before the Mass starts," Liam explained. "I am surprised that he didn't give me some notice before dropping in, though."

"Wait, isn't Richie busy this weekend?" A look of wariness furrowed Jo's eyes for an instant, then smoothed. "I thought he mentioned having plans."

Liam nodded. "His new girlfriend is in town. I had hoped to meet her." Leaning closer, he added, "She's mortal, you know. He might be in need of a prayer or two." He grinned conspiratorially. "Young love: it's both beautiful and treacherous."

"Richie had a girlfr—" Jo cut herself off. "It doesn't matter right now. What you … felt—" She handled the word like she wasn't sure it was the right one—"…that wasn't Richie. I don't think. I'm still not clear on what you sense about each other, or how all that works."

The list of Immortals Jo knew only had one other name on it that Liam was aware of. Cautiously, he inquired, "Is it his friend, Matt, then?"

Jo pressed her lips together and slowly shook her head.

Liam's newly elevated mood fell as his earlier suspicions were realized. He pushed shut the door he'd started to open and gave the handle an extra wiggle to make sure the latch had caught. "Who, then? Someone you just met?" Suddenly Jo's question about how she could identify an Immortal made sense—and the implications chilled Liam to the bone. "You didn't think to mention this last night when we spoke?"

"I didn't know for sure." Jo hesitated, biting down on her lower lip, before adding, "Liam, he's just a kid. You haven't seen him; not yet, I mean. He's so scared, so angry. At first I thought it was because he was a street kid or abused—maybe both—but, I think it's more than that. I don't think he has any idea what's going on."

"A child? A new one?"

"I think so." She held out her hands as if begging him to understand. "He has to be. Doesn't he?"

Liam'd heard of children becoming Immortal, though he'd never personally encountered one before. Pre-Immortal orphans had found their way into his care often enough through his Church affiliation, yet all had made it to adulthood before meeting their first death—if they fell to violent means at all. It was hard to remember that not all pre-Immortals were so lucky. Palming his face, he shut his eyes and tried to process why Jo was telling him this. He was the least equipped of all the Immortals she knew to deal with a child, though there was an obvious first step: "He's going to need a teacher."

Jo's mouth dropped open in horror. "What? No! Tommy's a kid, Liam. He should be learning how to skateboard and divide fractions, not—" Her voice dropped to a grim whisper—"how to kill people."

"Teachers have more knowledge than that to hand down," Liam pointed out, "not the least of which is guidance about how to live when one doesn't age." Whether any of them could teach a child that was a bigger question. Depending on its age, a child might only have months to work with before needing to move on rather than years. Of course, that wasn't all that needed to be learned. "He will also need to learn to fight."

Jo's hands dropped, then lifted again, under the pressure of a new argument. "You don't and you're an adult. Why does he have to?"

"You know why," Liam answered, and he saw Jo pale and recoil. That truth would always be the sticking point with her, which Liam understood. He also understood that this wasn't one of those times when they should pretend it didn't exist. "Living outside the Game is a choice I can make for myself, in full awareness of the consequences. It is not a choice I can make for him. Nor can you, or Henry, or anyone else. There can be only one. Would you deny him the chance to be that one?"

"But—"

"We're Immortal, Jo. He'll need to learn what that means, assuming he doesn't already know. All of it. For that, he needs a teacher."

Who did he know who'd be willing to take up that responsibility? Liam swept his gaze across the bookshelves on the back wall as if he'd find an answer among the hagiographies that filled the shelves. They were, oddly, his best bet; it wasn't like Immortals kept personnel directories.

"He's so young," Jo countered.

Liam stopped his cursory searching and met Jo's eyes straight on. He needed to drive home the point that Jo was letting the child's physical appearance cloud her judgment. "You know that for a fact, do you?"

Further pressing of the point ceased at the light knock on the door. Before Liam could answer, the door swung open, revealing a stern-faced Luisa. The server robes hung loose on her thin frame, though she didn't shrink in them. "Padre," she said, the earlier politeness gone, "You are late." He'd never heard her speak English before, and for a moment he didn't react as his mind tried to parse the wrong language.

Glancing down at his watch, he asked, "What time is it?" The number he saw explained the impatient murmuring he now heard coming from the nave. Jumping to attention, he straightened his robes and sent a silent prayer of apology skyward. "I'll be right out," he told Luisa. To Jo, he continued, "If you'll excuse me, I have higher responsibilities to attend to." With pushing motions, he ushered her out of the office. "I'll be available at our scheduled time, if you'd like me to meet with him then."

Jo looked like she wanted to stay and argue, only she still had enough Catholic in her to back down. That residual training came through as she responded with a bowed head and a "Thank you, Father."

Liam watched her retreat down the hallway; she'd figure out soon enough what he already knew: Tommy was no longer in the building.

Which meant that Liam wasn't going to be leaving it—not until he had a better handle on the situation. There'd been too many Immortals coming to this city recently and, child or not, Tommy was one of them.

Like it or not, Liam was going to have to step up his efforts to change his accent. Perhaps he would ask Luisa for pointers.