The Head of a Slayer

A Buffy-Highlander Crossover

by David Pontier

Chapter 2

1887

Western US Territories (Present day Southeast Utah)

Duncan MacLeod bent low to look at the broken branch. Sap still oozed from it, meaning the break was less than a day old. Tracking horses through the pines was not easy, as the needle bed hid most of the hoof prints and the rustled trees dropped enough needles to hide the rest, but there was more than one way to read a trail. It was a new skill Duncan had only recently acquired, and he was putting it to good use.

He had no horse but was not worried about being unable to catch up to his prey. He was sure they had made camp for the night. With as much as they had stolen from his wagon group, he knew they could not go far with it. This land was full of canyons that made good hold ups. He just hoped he would get the general direction before night fell in a few hours.

A hundred feet ahead he saw a white scuff on a rock that had to have been made by a shod horse. Since it had rained that morning, the mark was less than 12 hours old. Drawing a line between the broken tree branch and this second mark, he continued along their path. He hardly had to slow his trot as he spotted sign after sign. Each by themselves could be nothing, but all of them strung together on a straight line heading toward where Duncan had thought the bandits to be anyway was definitely a trail.

After an hour, the ground became much rockier and he knew he was only a mile or so from where the canyons started. A glance at the sky told him he only had about an hour of sunlight left. He also saw it was going to be clear night sky. As long as the stars were out, he would not get lost in the canyons. He just hoped the bandits were stupid enough to light a fire tonight to help him out. The canyons could be an undecipherable maze without a beacon.

Duncan quickened his pace and then stopped as he felt the presence of another immortal nearby. He quickly placed his rifle on his back and prepared to draw his sword. The sensation was a powerful one, and he was not surprised when two men came through the trees to his left. They had obviously felt him as well. At least one of them had. He wore buckskin and held a shotgun. He was fitted for these surroundings with thick moccasins and long sleeves.

His partner looked like he had been dragged out of a saloon half-drunk. He wore two pistols on his waist along with a sword strapped behind them. It was a pitiful excuse for a blade. It looked like the decorative weapons military generals wore and would break easily under consistent use. He wore ridding boots equipped with jingling spurs. He had no sleeves and his arms were considerably scraped by the pine needles. He was also leading a pair of horses.

Duncan decided to ignore this second man and concentrated on the first. The more experienced looking man also had his hand on the hilt of a sword. Duncan could see he did not want to fight and brought his own hands away from his weapon. "Well met, stranger." Duncan said.

The first man smiled and relaxed. "Likewise. May I ask what you are doing out here?"

"You may. I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. Thieves hit my party while on the road to Monticello a few miles away. I intend to track them to their camp, most likely in the canyons ahead."

"Then our lines lead in the same direction," the first man smiled. "My name is Kelron Morian. This is-"

"My name is Rusty," the second man said roughly, needing no introduction from someone else. Kelron started to walk toward Duncan, but Rusty grabbed his arm to hold him back. He was not so quick to make friends. "You said your party was held up?"

"They were," Duncan answered.

"And you just let them have what they wanted?" There was obvious disgust in the man's voice. It was clear he would never go down without a fight.

"I did not want to get into a fight. There were women and children with me."

"Still, you just let them go?"

"No," Duncan admitted. "I did try to stop them."

Rusty did not believe him. "And they did not kill you?"

Duncan smiled. "They did." He pulled back his leather vest to reveal a red stain on his shirt. "Or at least they tried."

Kelron laughed, but Rusty was just figuring out what Duncan was. He reached for his sword, but strapped behind his guns as it was, it was not easy to draw, plus he still had a ridding strap holding it down. This one was not an experienced immortal.

Kelron put his hand on his arm, stopping him. "We won't be fighting today. At least not with Duncan."

"But you said-"

"I know what I said. Put your sword away. I have a feeling Duncan would strike us both down before we knew what hit us."

Rusty's hand went from his sword to his gun, letting Kelron know what he thought about that last comment, but he let it pass, for now.

Duncan had already guest at the mentor/apprentice relationship between the two, and as he listened to Kelron explain how Rusty should have sensed that Duncan was an immortal right away, he just smiled. Rusty was a fighter. The lifestyle of an immortal was an exciting, yet very dangerous for one of his demeanor. Kelron would have his hands full.

Fifteen minutes later, Duncan and Kelron walked side-by-side while Rusty followed twenty feet back with the horses. "How long has he been immortal?" Duncan asked.

"Less than a year by what I can figure," Kelron replied. "He died in an ill conceived gunfight."

"As if there are any well conceived gun fights," Duncan said under his breath.

Kelron heard this and raised his eyebrows. "What is your intention when we find these bandits?"

"There is a Texas Ranger in Monticello. I thought to bring them to him."

"Even though they killed you? You would not seek to kill them back?"

Duncan could tell where he was going. "It is a violent land and ours is a violent life. Must we make it worse."

"Well spoken," Kelron aplauded.

"May I ask of your intent?"

"One of these bandits was the one responsible for making Rusty an immortal. He seeks revenge."

"And you will let him have it?" Duncan asked incredulously.

"I wish to show him a better way. I wish to show him your way."

"With someone as volatile as him, would it not be easy to ignore this confrontation and lead him elsewhere?"

Kelron laughed. "I suppose when you come to a deep river, Duncan MacLeod, you try to walk around it?"

Duncan smiled at the poignant analogy. Kelron was definitely a teacher. "And when you met Rusty for the first time, why did you not kill him? Or he kill you?"

"When I found him, he was confused, as you can imagine. He was in no condition to kill me."

"But he could kill us now," Duncan said. "He probably has not yet tasted a quickening, but with two quick shots from his guns, he could have two rather powerful ones. You trust him to walk at our backs?"

"Yes," Kelron admitted, "he is rough around the edges, but as you said, ours is already a violent enough life, why make it worse?"

"Because there are times for violence," Duncan said. "If you coddle a rabid dog, you will get bit."

"True enough, but if you shoot each rabid dog you come across, you will never cure the disease."

Kelron would not give up. Duncan gave him a look that said as much. Even in the fading light, Kelron understood it. "I have trained many young immortals, Duncan. Some of them would make our friend Rusty look like a harmless puppy by comparison. And I have been forced to take some of their heads. But most I have turned around and made them more like us. I realize as you pointed out, that eventually I will get bitten. But I am so far ahead of the game right now with those I've saved, that my life is of no consequence."

"Does Rusty understand the nuances of our 'Game?'"

"There can be only one? Yes, he knows of it. Does he understand it? I doubt it, for I do not fully understand it. Do you?"

Duncan did not answer that question but asked another one. "Does he believe it will be him?"

"Does Rusty believe he will be the last one?" Kelron tried to laugh but did not. He knew it was a dangerous issue with young immortals. The early stages of immortality are the most dangerous by far. After the first death, if they understand what has happened to them, death becomes a novelty. They commit suicide in as many ways as they can imagine to test their new life. It gives them a sense of indestructibility, and when they learn of the "Game," they become extremely dangerous and reckless.

"Do you believe you will be the last one, Duncan MacLeod?" Kelron turned the question around.

Duncan ignored him and pointed ahead. "The canyons. Do you see the light?"

Kelron strained his eyes and just did see the faint light fluctuations within one of the canyons. "So we know where they are?"

"Do we?" Duncan asked him sincerely.

Kelron looked at him with a puzzled expression. Duncan pointed off in a different direction a mile to the right of the faint flickering. "They are over there," Duncan said.

Kelron looked between the two locations as Rusty came up behind them. Kelron finally worked out the reflection pattern within the canyons that Duncan had seen immediately and smiled. "I'm glad we ran into you, Duncan MacLeod."

"As am I," Duncan responded.

Two hours later the three of them crouched behind a rock outcropping surveying the camp before them. The fire had burned down to coals efficiently giving off more heat than light. If they had followed the false reflection, as Kelron and Rusty undoubtedly would have, they would be lost in the complex canyon system in darkness. Instead, the path to this spot had been simple. Common sense said the bandits would not have been able to carry their heavy stolen goods deep into the canyons anyway, but most hunters were too eager for the kill to use common sense.

There were four of them sleeping around the fire and another supposedly on watch who was also sleeping. Duncan turned to Rusty. "Can you use a rifle?"

"What for?"

"Cover. You stay back while Kelron and I disarm them."

"I'm not staying back," Rusty sounded insulted. "I'm going in."

"I can use the rifle," Kelron said.

Duncan shrugged. "Take off your boots," he told Rusty.

Rusty had already fallen twice, slipping on the rocky ground in his ill-equipped boots and knew he sounded like a clumsy tap-dancer. Still, he did not like being given orders. He complied. When he had, Duncan laid out the plan. Each of the four men sleeping around the fire had their guns near them, but they could be collected without waking anyone. The lookout had fallen asleep with his rifle in his hands and could not be disarmed without disturbing his slumber. They would collect the guns from the sleeping men while Kelron covered them in case any woke up. Then they would have to wake the guard while Rusty, with his two pistols would cover the other four men.

The plan went smoothly, and they had all four sets of guns in a pile away from the men without any of them stirring. While Rusty trained his two guns on the four sleepers and Kelron covered him, now with his own shotgun, Duncan ripped the riffle out of the guard's hands and quickly turned it back around on him.

"Hey!" the lookout shouted as he stirred.

The four men around the fire woke quickly, and Kelron unloaded both barrels of the shotgun into the burning coals. The four bandits around the fire instinctively looked at the bright flash in their fire pit, and their night vision was ruined. Kelron quickly switched back to the rifle for accuracy and put a shot into the air over their heads. Not only could they not see, but now they would think they were being covered by two different people, one with a shotgun and one with a rifle.

With the two phantom shooters and Duncan and Rusty clearly visible, four of the five men gave up right away. The fifth was the leader of the group and one of the men around the fire. He was also the one who had killed Rusty. As he squinted his bad eyes at the gunman who stood over him, he did recognize him.

"Rusty Carter," he said slowly, "I thought I killed you."

"You tried," Rusty said in the same tone of voice Duncan had used earlier. "Now get up, all of you, and move against that rock," he motioned to one of the canyon walls.

The leader was not ready to give up yet. "Not quite," he said, and it looked like he was getting ready to reach for a hidden gun in his shirt as he lay on his back.

Rusty pulled his hammer back and aimed right for the leader's head. "You've gone soft, Rusty," he said. "The man I killed would have shot me in my sleep. You won't kill me."

"Try me," Rusty said confidently.

The bandit did, his hand diving for his open shirt. Rusty's gun roared long before the hand even got close. Duncan and Kelron both flinched, but the bullet hit the rocky ground next to the bandit's head, cutting the side of his face with rock fragments. It had the desired effect, and both of the injured man's hands went far away from his shirt, his face a mask of pain and fear.

Rusty retrieved the hold out pistol from the leader's shirt, and he and Duncan checked the rest of the men for extra guns before they had them tied and against the canyon wall. They stayed the night before loading the thieves' wagon with stolen goods and heading out of the canyon toward Monticello. Once they reached town, and delivered the wanted men to a happy Texas Ranger, Duncan parted ways with the other two immortals, hoping they would meet again under more peaceful circumstances.

* * *

Willow and Xander were hunched over the computer in the library. They were alone. The research team of Giles, Wesley, and Patrick had turned into the research team of just Wesley when Giles and Patrick had decided to go to a "pub" (as they had called it) and catch up. Giles made a lame excuse of no longer being a watcher anyway, and the beheading research was nothing Wesley could not handle. It did not take long for Wesley to leave also.

"So what are we looking for again?" Xander asked. He had only recently arrived back after getting food.

"Buffy's been having these dreams and this guy keeps popping up in them. Last night he tried to cut off her head."

"This guy have a name?"

"Anthony Marcus," Willow said. She had been searching for more information on beheadings in the local area, but was coming up short. Now she pulled up the page that showed Tony's obituary.

"Wow!" Xander said, almost dropping his piece of pizza when the page came up. "I know this guy."

"How?" Willow asked. "Have been dreaming about him too?"

"No, Will! I'm not like that! Have you been talking to Larry?"

"What?" Willow was confused. "I'm talking about nightmares, you know, like Buffy is having. What are you talking about?"

"Uh, nothing," Xander calmed suddenly. "I mean, no, I haven't seen him any dreams. I saw him last night in that restaurant we stopped at."

"Right!" Willow sounded a bit too excited. "Buffy said she thought she saw him there too. Did you notice anything weird about him?"

"He did seem really creepy."

"Like vampire creepy?" Willow asked. "Buffy and I think he is a vampire, what with him being dead and all."

"He didn't try to bite me, if that's what you mean. I was in the restroom, washing my hands. I was sure I was alone, but when I looked up, this guy was standing right behind me. He was all quiet and somber with his dark trench coat and evil gaze."

"Yea," Willow interjected, "what is with the trench coat and all. Spike and Angel both . . . Wait! You said you looked up and he was standing behind you?"

"Yea, when I looked up I saw him . . ."

" . . . in the mirror," Willow finished. "Well that rules out a vampire. What else is human but can rise from the dead?"

"Looks human," Xander corrected.

"Right," Willow conceded. "We need Giles. Instead he is shirking his responsibilities with his old buddy. Shirker."

"Yea," Xander agreed. "I don't know about you, but I thought I had reached my British guy quota with two."

"Agreed, though it is nice to see someone from Giles's past that doesn't refer to him as Ripper. Still you think they could have waited on the reunion until after we solved this crises."

"Come on Will, like Buffy has never said she was patrolling while she visited Angel or went to a frat party or went to see Angel or went to see Angel. I mean they haven't seen each other in almost twelve years, you can't expect them to . . . Wait! When did our friend Tony die?"

Willow clicked back to the obituary and caught on as well. "He died twelve years ago this August."

"Right and Giles said that his good buddy Pat had left suddenly in August."

"You don't think Giles's friend has something to do with the beheading?"

"I think," Xander answered. "Did you see the way he flinched when Giles told him about the beheading?"

"Yea, but I just chalked that up to the freak factor."

"Come on, Will, he's a Watcher. They are trained to deal with the super freaky every day. I say he is definitely connected somehow. Did he say where he was before he came here?"

"I think so," Willow furrowed her brow. "They talked a bit after Buffy left and before they did. I think he said he came from San Diego."

"Any beheadings there recently?"

"I don't know," Willow said. "I did a local search, but San Diego is not exactly local." After a few key strokes and a brief wait on the school's internet connection, "There, two beheadings in the last month in San Diego."

Xander stood up and spread his arms out, pizza sauce dripping from a half-eaten slice. "Thank you, thank you everyone. I'm here all night." He lowered his arms as he realized what he said. "And I might not be kidding."

"But wait, this might not be a big deal."

"Excuse me," Xander came back to the computer. "Two beheadings not a big deal?"

"Well it is San Diego, you know, big city, lots o' crime. It might not be unusual for them."

"Will, I think your time on the Hellmouth has desensitized you to the super freaky. Trust me, beheadings are not the norm."

"Still, I better do a broader check, like all of California."

"Do all of the country."

"Okay," Willow was typing again, "but I'm telling you that . . ."

"Well?"

"In the last month, two beheadings, San Diego, California."

"Coincidence much?" Xander said smiling. "My work here is done. I mean that. I mean we are done, right?"

"Yes, uh, no. Yes, we know Patrick is involved somehow, but we don't know how or why, and we still don't know about Anthony. If Giles . . . Giles! He is with Patrick!"

"Calm down Will," Xander soothed. "If I was a renegade watcher controlling an undead killing machine I don't think the first thing I would do after entering town is introduce myself to the local Slayer."

"Ethan never kept a very low profile," Willow tried.

"And correct me if I'm wrong, but Buffy always kicked Ethan's ass each time he showed up. I don't think he got an 'A' in the strategies class at the Watcher's School for evil."

"True, but . . ."

"No buts, Will. We call Buffy with the info and then call it a night."

She reluctantly agreed. She quietly hoped Giles would be okay.

* * *

"Trust me, I was not okay with it," Giles said, his speech slightly slurred. "Here she was, my Slayer, and she was keeping secrets from me. Not just any secrets mind you, but her killer boyfriend had come back from the dead. This is the same one that tortured me bloody near to death." Giles took another drink and continued his story.

Patrick nodded pleasantly and sipped his own drink a little less liberally. He was truly excited about getting caught up with his old friend, but after a few beers, Giles was no longer reminiscing about the old times and was only telling, what sounded like, tall tales about his current job. Patrick was happy about meeting Rupert, but that was only part of the reason he was here.

Anthony Marcus was here, the news of the beheading confirmed it. He was not sure how Giles would react to hearing that he was involved somewhat with their current investigation, but he did not plan on letting him find out either. The library that Giles kept stocked with books was one of the best sources for super natural research this side of the Atlantic Ocean, and he needed to look a few things up.

He was Anthony's watcher, and he was having a very difficult time with it. Watcher's for immortals were supposed to be very hands off. The emphasis was on the "watching." But Anthony was in serious trouble. After killing his mentor, he had gone on a rampage of random killings. He had cut back on the killings within the last few months, but he was no less psychotic. He rarely went to sleep anymore, preferring to kill himself each night.

Patrick wanted to do something. He wanted to call the watcher's council in to handle the situation and remove Anthony from the game, permanently. He was killing mortals, after all. Instead, he hoped to find some helpful information in Giles' library. Maybe this psychotic phase was something all immortals went through, and he would get over it. Or maybe there was precedence in this case and he should call in the council. Whatever the situation he hoped he would find the information while he was here.

Giles was looking at him expectantly, and Patrick nodded as if listening. This seemed to be the right thing to do, for Giles smiled and continued with another story about his precious Slayer. Maybe Buffy would handle this situation for him. When this whole thing had started almost twelve years ago, Patrick had no idea it would become like this.

Sure, Anthony had started in shambles, most immortals did. He was usually drunk, when he could find someone to sell a minor alcohol, and almost always drugged up. Lots of that had to do with his rather reckless lifestyle before. He did, after all, die originally from a drunk driving accident. But as a potential star football player at prominent university, his future had been bright. Now he had to deal with the fact that he was immortal and his old life had been torn away from him.

There had not been an immortal waiting for him, as some do, and he had begged and wandered up the coast. That was until Kelron had tracked him down. When Patrick had found out that Kelron Morian had taken an interest in his wayward immortal, he was thrilled. Unfortunately, it had not all gone as planned.

* * *

1988

Oakland California

Kelron walked up to the front desk of the drug rehabilitation center and smiled at the middle-aged clerk who was watching him closely. "Hi, my name is Kelron Carter. I'm looking for a young man who might have come to you within the past two days."

"We have a lot of young men here. They come and go. Do you have a picture or a name?"

"I have both." Kelron reached into his back pocket and produced a very realistic senior photo from an LA high school with the name "Anthony Carter" cursively written in the side. He also had a copy of Anthony's birth certificate. "I am his uncle. You have no idea how worried we have been. Do you know if he is here?"

"I think I've seen your nephew," she said as she consulted a folder containing rap sheets of recent inductees. "Last night a young man came in calling himself Anthony Marcus. He had a driver's license and everything. We checked out the name and driver's license number and found that Anthony Marcus died seven months ago in a car accident. His body was stolen from a morgue in LA. Does that sound like something your nephew could have been involved in?"

"I hope not," Kelron tried to look shocked. "His parents said that he might have had some friends that were in a gang, but stealing a body seems a bit over the top for Tony. I don't know how he came to have this dead boy's diver's license. Maybe his friends thought they looked alike."

"They do," the clerk said suspiciously as she looked between the file photo and the confiscated diver's license. "Almost identical. How did you know that?"

Kelron shrugged, inwardly cursing himself. "Just a guess, I mean why else would he take it."

The clerk continued to eye him suspiciously. "We need to check out this new identity sir, it might take a while."

"Didn't you finger print him when he came in last night?" Kelron asked as innocently as possible.

"Yes we did," she responded, "but we have not heard back on it yet. They'll fax it to use when they get a match."

"Is that the fax machine back there?" Kelron asked, pointing through an open door to a huge machine, which looked to be overflowing with incoming faxes that had not yet been looked at.

Kelron was not getting on the clerk's good side, and his "Hurry up" attitude was clashing violently with her lethargic morning routine. "I'll check it," she said.

Kelron waited patiently as she slowly walked back to the machine and even more slowly went through the stack of papers. As he waited, he hoped that his friend in the FBI had made good on his promise. He had gotten Kelron the fake birth certificate and promised to transfer all of the vital information from the dead Anthony Marcus to the new alias he had created.

The clerk came back five minutes later. "Your story seems to check out," she said. Kelron found it odd that she would call his claim as Anthony's uncle a "story." Hopefully the fact that she did not like him would not count against him.

"I'm here to see if I can take him with me." The clerk laughed at the comment. "That is," Kelron said, "if he's not accused of any crime."

The clerk stopped laughing. "He's not, yet," she added the last word almost hopefully. "A beat cop brought him in last night. He said he found him passed out in an alley. He thought your nephew had ODed originally, and was on his way to the hospital, when his passenger quite suddenly awoke in his backseat. Instead, he brought him here. He had nothing on him, so we can not charge him with possession, unless you count what was already in his system."

"So I can pick him up?"

She shook her head. "Normal procedure is to hold him for a week at least as we run a background check to see if there are any outstanding warrants on him or if he has a colored history. If that's the case, he could get transferred to a higher security rehabilitation center. I wouldn't get you hopes up," she added with a smile.

"You might be surprised," Kelron smiled back. While Anthony Marcus had been a troublemaker, Anthony Carter's background should be perfectly clean. They would not find anything. Kelron's friend at the FBI had even set up a dummy phone line with an answering machine attached in case they wanted to call his parents.

"And if you don't find anything after that week?"

"Then we hold onto him for a month unless a relative shows up," she said grudgingly.

Kelron was all smiles. "Can I at least see him now?"

She nodded and hit a buzzer to bring a security guard. The guard escorted Kelron back to the security wing of the center. Each "inmate" had his or her own luxury padded cell with a cot, sink, toilet, and TV. Kelron sensed Anthony a good while before the guard stopped at his cell. "You've got five minutes," he said as he opened the cell. "I'll be waiting outside for you."

"Thanks," Kelron said, but the guard merely grunted as he stepped aside so Kelron could enter. Anthony was, not surprisingly, sitting in the corner of his cell with his knees hugged tight to his chest. Aside from the fact that Kelron was probably the first immortal Anthony had ever sensed, he was also coming down from a wicked high the previous night. His immortality had completely removed the chemicals in his body that had been responsible for his death, but not everything in the drugs he had taken was lethal.

"Who, who are you?" Anthony asked, obvious fear in his voice.

Kelron closed the door behind him and took a seat on the only chair available, the toilet seat. It was not the cleanest stool, but Kelron did not want to tower over his new nephew. "I am a friend," he started slowly. "I know what you are going through, and I don't mean the drugs. I have no experience with that, thankfully. I'm talking about the other thing."

Anthony's grip on his knees slackened a little. "What do you know about me?"

"I know that seven months ago you were in a very violent car crash, of which I'm sure you remember only very little. Although I imagine you remember waking up in a body bag at the morgue a few hours later quite well. I also know that you have been wandering all over this state since then begging and stealing to get by."

Anthony gripped his knees a little tighter at this stranger's extensive knowledge of things he had told no one. Kelron realized his knowledge might be a bit intrusive to this frightened kid. He was only 19, and if Kelron was going to keep him alive to see 20, to say nothing of 200, he would need to handle this more gently.

"My name is Kelron Car- uh, Kelron Morian. You could sense something strange when I stood outside your cell, couldn't you?" Anthony nodded slightly. "I sensed you as well. You and I are a lot a like." Anthony started to shake his head a bit at this. "Yes, I assume I appear old and stuffy to you, but trust me when I say that I want to help you. Promise me that you will behave while you are here and I will get you out, okay?"

Anthony had no other response but to nod his head. "Times up," came from the guard outside. Kelron hardly thought it had been five minutes, but he had said what he needed to.

"Think about what I said," he finished as he rose to leave. "I'll be back tomorrow to check on you."

He did come back the next day, and the day after that, and every day until Anthony's release. Anthony had a lot of questions during that week, and Kelron answered the easy ones, promising that all of his questions would be answered eventually. When Anthony was finally released, he came willingly with Kelron. The two left the bay area, and drove east on I-80 past Sacramento and into the lower foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountain range. Kelron had acquired a small, secluded cabin in the woods, and he introduced Anthony to his new home. "For the time being," Kelron said.

On the first morning back from the rehab center, Anthony stumbled from the bedroom Kelron had given him and slumped down at the table. "Let me guess," Kelron said, "you're hungry?"

"Sort of," Anthony mumbled.

"What do you want? I've can make eggs, bacon, pancakes, French toast, sausage, anything you want." Kelron had a good idea what he wanted.

"You wouldn't have any heroine on you, would you?" Anthony said without looking up. After a few moments of silence, he did pick his head up off the table to see a disapproving Kelron looking back. The older immortal knew Anthony was going through withdrawal. He was prepared to deal with it, but he wanted to make sure Anthony knew why. "I'm mean it's not gonna to kill me, right? If I understand what you've been telling me, I am immortal. I will never die. Why not have fun?"

"Drugs will not kill you," Kelron said slowly and carefully. "They will, however, get you killed."

"What do you mean? I can't die. You said so."

"I said you are immortal. I said that death has no hold over you. I did not say that you can not be killed."

"I get it," Anthony said. "If a nuke goes off ten feet from me, I'm not coming back, but I can take a dive off the Golden Gate Bridge with rocks in my pockets, and I'll be fine. Trust me, I speak from experience. I woke up five times at the bottom of the bay before I gave up and took the rocks out."

Kelron sighed. There was a bit of a generation gap that he had to deal with. "Come with me," he said finally, walking to the door.

"We going out to eat?" Anthony asked, following his mentor.

They did not go to the car. In fact, Anthony could not see the car they had rode up in yesterday. Last night Kelron had driven it a ways back down the road and hidden it. He did not want Anthony trying to leave. Instead, they walked down a trail in the back of the house. Kelron did not speak, and pretended to take no notice of Anthony's moaning about a withdrawal headache.

They walked for fifteen minutes until they came to a small lookout ledge. It was not a direct descent over the edge of the cliff, but it was steep enough and deep enough to be fairly dangerous. "Let me guess, we both jump and wake up at the bottom," Anthony said. "I've tried this one too. It hurts a bit more though."

"Sit," Kelron said and took a seat three feet from the edge. Anthony shrugged and complied. They were looking southeast into the mountains.

"Do you know what we are looking at?" Kelron asked.

"Rocks?"

"These are the Sierra Nevadas. One of the more famous mountain chains in the Western United States. Do you know when the Gold Rush was?"

"Sure," Anthony responded, happy to show this guy he was not just a dumb kid. "1949. That's why the Niners are called that."

Kelron looked at him quizzically. "The Niners?"

"Yea, the San Francisco Forty-Niners, the football team. They are called that because of the Gold Rush."

"How very clever of you," Kelron responded, "using your sports knowledge to answer my question. However it was 1849, not 39 years ago."

"Oh," Anthony said quietly, thinking it a bit odd that so much could have developed out here in only 40 years. "Right, I meant to say 1849."

"Of course you did. That's not my point though." Kelron looked out over the vast range. "Back then these hills and mountains were crawling with people. Everyone thought all they needed was a pickaxe, a mule, and enough food for a week and they would be rich. People killed each other over the smallest things if they thought the other person was hoarding in on their precious wealth. Very few people actually got rich, and the rush itself was a dark time in this country's history, but without it, this whole area would not have developed as quickly as it did. It was a dangerous yet exciting time."

Kelron turned now to look at Anthony. "I was here when it all happened."

"Kinda wouldn't have been as impressive if it was only 40 years ago, huh? I guess my father was alive then."

"Yes, I suppose he was," Kelron sighed. "Do you know what the Titanic was?"

"Yea, it was a really big boat that sunk on its first cruise."

"It was a ship, not a boat," Kelron said with slight irritation. "It sunk on its maiden voyage. It was launched from Southampton, England on Wednesday, April 10, 1912. It was supposed to be man's triumph over the water. Here was a ship as big as a city block, made of steel, and it could float. People thought as you do now, that they were invincible. The Titanic was called 'Unsinkable.' Like you said it sunk on its first cruise. It struck a piece of ice and sunk. I was there when it launched. I was one of the several thousand that saw it for the first and last time."

"But you weren't on it?" Anthony asked. "That would have been cool, huh. Or maybe it wouldn't. Waking up on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean would suck."

"It was the North Atlantic Oce- oh, what's the point." Kelron stood up and started to walk away.

"No, wait," Anthony said suddenly. "I get it. You've lived a long time and you've seen a lot of great stuff."

"Do you get it?" Kelron asked him. "I'm not just talking to you about a few gold nuggets and a big boat. I'm talking to you about history. I lived through history. The French Revolution. Late seventeen hundreds. The country of France was turned upside-down and inside out with events that made the Revolutionary War here in the States seem almost petty."

"Was that when they invented all those things?" Anthony asked.

"That was the Industrial Revolution. The majority of it took place in the 1700's. The steam engine revolutionized everything from transportation to manufacturing. Again, man marveled in his own ability to create, until at the end of that century, like I said, he marveled in his ability to kill."

"Was that when all those paintings were made?"

"That was the Renaissance. Europe was reborn after the plague in the late 1400's and with the invention of the printing press, information spread widely across the continent. It was a time of political and economic enlightenment. The period lasted well over a hundred years."

"You were alive for that too?" Anthony asked.

"Most of it," Kelron said. He paused in thought. "What's the biggest thing you remember? The Challenger blowing up two years ago? The Olympics coming to LA two years before that? The Dodgers winning the World Series three years before that?"

"Hey, they have a good team again this year," Anthony said quickly, happy to hear something he actually did know about.

"Are you kidding," Kelron said. "The Athletics, back where we came from yesterday, with McGwire and Canseco are going to-" Kelron sighed, unhappy that he was taken off track. "My point is you have two choices on how to live your life, well three, but I hope you don't seriously consider continuing to find new and exciting ways to kill yourself. You can go through life with your eyes forward looking at not only the future, but the things around you that will create that future, or you can constantly look behind you, wondering where the next attack will come from."

"Attack?" Anthony asked. "From whom?"

"From other immortals. An immortal who keeps his head will live a long life. I mean that figuratively and literally. If someone cuts off your head, you will not wake up, ever."

A feeling of dread crossed Anthony's face. "Why would someone want to do that?"

"As an immortal you and I have a tremendous life energy. That energy is best seen in our regenerative powers. That queasy feeling you have when I get near you, or any other immortal for that matter, is you sensing that power. When your head is cut off, that power is released and is absorbed by the immortal who killed you.

"These immortals see our lives as a huge game. There can be only one, so they hunt us down and kill us hoping to be that one."

"So you want me to just skip through the daisies whistling a merry tune while these other immortals hunt me down to kill me?" Anthony did not like what he was hearing.

"Not even remotely," Kelron said. "That is why we train to defend ourselves."

"With what?"

"Swords," Kelron said simply.

"Why not use guns?"

"We use swords," Kelron said again. "Come, I'll show you."

Back in the house, Kelron showed Anthony his weapon. "It's beautiful," Anthony said with honest sincerity.

"Thank you. It is a Full Tang Dragon Wakizashi, hand crafted in Japan where I bought it, and custom made for me by one of the finest craftsmen in the East. I've had it for over 150 years. It is 30 inches in length, fairly long for a Wakizashi, but not so long of a sword. I was 42 when I became immortal and my limbs lack the agility I had in my youth. Because of that I need all the help I can get with regard to speed. The style with a Wakizashi is based on defense, but I have taken more than a few heads with it."

Kelron put the sword down. "I will teach you to fight, but I want you to know why. We must be able to defend ourselves, otherwise, as you said, we are just naively skipping through the daisies until someone kills us, but regardless of how efficient you become, you should never seek out battle. That will only bring destruction upon yourself."

With the severity of the things he was being told and shown, Anthony was growing quickly somber. He nodded. "Very well, now what do you want for breakfast?"

They trained hard for that first week, Kelron showing Anthony the different types of swords he had to choose from and the fighting styles to go with them. Kelron had quite a collection of high quality weapons, and Anthony tried them all from a huge 56-inch claymore to a lightning quick hawk scimitar. He eventually settled on a simple crane katana. It was not the fanciest weapon, but its 38 inches fit his long arms nicely, and its flowing style of combat was very compatible with his flexible frame.

They sparred slowly at first, always with the sheaths on their swords, but as the weeks turned into months, the sessions became more intense and Kelron found it hard to stay with his trainee. Anthony was a natural athlete and was as fit an immortal as Kelron had ever met. It was all Kelron could do to keep up with him. In order to properly teach someone, it is imperative that you know more than they do. It is not necessary to be more skillful. For this reason alone, Kelron was able to continue to teach Anthony.

The sparring was only a small part of the things Kelron taught his student. Between the grueling training sessions, Kelron told Anthony about the many different immortals he had met over the years. He spoke fondly of the ones he had trained and who he stayed in contact with. He also told Anthony of the ones he had been forced to kill. They discussed the few rules immortals upheld such as treating holy ground as a sanctuary.

And there was baseball. The cabin had a TV, and they could pick up a few games. As Anthony had predicted, the Dodgers were having a good year, but so were Kelron's A's. As their training came to a close, so did the baseball season. Unsurprisingly, the Dodgers and A's met in the World Series. The A's were huge favorites, and Kelron could not help but rub it in. In the nation's pastime, Kelron had found a way to bridge the huge gap between the two immortals. Of course, Kelron had seen Babe Ruth play, so there really was no comparison, no matter how far McGwire and Canseco could hit it.

It got so bad between them, that Anthony finally got Kelron to bet that if the Dodgers did win, he owed his student a night out away from the cabin. Kelron made the bet easily, sure that he would not have to make good on it. Five games later, after the Dodgers had shocked the A's and the rest of the baseball world, Kelron and Anthony found themselves in downtown Sacramento.

Anthony was now 20, but even if he had been 21, Kelron was determined to keep his student far away from alcohol. He did not need to waken old demons. They had gone to a fine restaurant, and when the matter of the bill had come up, Kelron had the chance to talk about something he had not yet explained to Anthony, finance. Nothing made you appreciate interest more than a 500-year life.

As they walked the several blocks back to their car, Anthony guided the conversation back to baseball. "I don't know why you ever made that bet, Kelron. Your team never had a chance."

"You can't honestly say that," he shot back. "If Gibson hadn't gotten lucky in that first game, the A's would have swept them, and you know it."

"I know no such thing," Anthony said. "They were never going to hit Hershiser under any circumstance. He could have pitched four games if they needed him to."

"Now you are just bei-" Kelron stopped as a wave of power went through him.

They both felt it. Anthony was not startled by it right away. He had only ever felt it from Kelron, and then only on the infrequent occasions they got too far apart. Because of this, he did not recognize it as a warning. Kelron did, and he pulled them both into a nearby alley. "Where is he?" Anthony asked.

"There is no he," a female voice said from the back of the alley. They both spun around and saw a woman walk toward them, sword in hand. "This must be my lucky day," she said. "Two for the price of one, and only one has a sword."

Anthony had been staring at the woman, but now his eyes went back to Kelron. He had his sword in his hand. How had he kept it hidden in the restaurant? Anthony's sword was still in the cabin. "There is a church two blocks away, Anthony, get there - now. If I don't show up in half an hour, get the car, drive back to the cabin, and good luck."

"You want me to run?!" Anthony could not believe what he was hearing. "But she is just a woman. Give me the sword, and I'll take her down easily."

"Leave now!" Kelron commanded and attacked. The woman had her saber in front of her and blocked the attack easily. Anthony looked on in wonder as the woman spun and kicked in a wild frenzy of blinding speed that sent Kelron scrambling back against the wall. He never had much of a chance. The woman was just too fast.

She finally blocked his weapon off to the side and, even though they were only three feet apart, got her right leg straight up between them and kicked Kelron hard in the chin. His body went limp from the numbing blow, and she knocked the sword out of his hand. Kelron stumbled back and slumped, half-standing, against the wall of the alley.

"No!" Anthony cried.

"Don't worry, kid," she said as she readied her sword over Kelron, looking back over her shoulder at Anthony, "I'll give you a running start to the church afte-" her voice was cut off and she glanced down at a dagger sticking out of her chest. "Bastard!" she moaned with a gurgling sound in her voice.

As she stumbled away from Kelron, he retrieved his sword, stood up, and took her head. He was still shaky from the kick to the chin, and when the quickening came, he fell to his knees. Anthony had never had the quickening described to him in any way that could have prepared him for what he saw. The lightening storm was tremendous. The wind whipped up the scrap newspapers that were lying around in the alley and the lightening incinerated them as part of the terrific display. In the middle of all this chaos was Kelron, apparently unaffected by it all. His body occasionally jolted when a particularly strong bolt of energy screamed into him, but for the most part, he endured it rigidly.

When it was over, Kelron collapsed face first onto the dirty ground. Anthony ran over to him and helped him to his feet. "That was amazing!" he said.

Kelron grabbed him hard by the arms. "No, it was terrible. I hope you never have to do it, though I doubt that is likely. Don't ever enjoy it. The quickening can become addictive. That is part of the reason why some of us hunt each other down. And never underestimate your opponent like you did at the beginning of this encounter. She might have been a woman, but she was alive. That alone means a lot. She was also hunting us. She would not do this if she did not feel confident in her skill."

Kelron looked down at the body of his defeated opponent. She had several centuries of decomposing to get caught up on, and with her life energy gone, her body was making up for lost time. In an hour, she would be unrecognizable. "Let's go."

* * *

Giles was just finishing up a particularly long tale about some vampire named Spike, and Patrick was waving down the waitress for a check. He was going to need to drive Giles home, that much was pretty obvious. He hoped there would not be a quiz on what they talked about tonight, for Patrick's mind had wandered quite consistently throughout.

After consulting several different credit cards, the two of them were finally able to pay for their bill, and Patrick took Giles home. Half an hour later, Patrick was in his cozy hotel room standing under a nice hot shower. No matter how many horrible stories Giles tried to tell him, his own bad memories of the last ten years came up as more terrible.

* * *

1988

The West Coast

After Kelron had killed the female immortal in front of him, Anthony became restless and left the cabin within the next month. Kelron provided him with a driver's license to go with his new identity and even gave him a moderate bank account. He did not feel confident in Anthony's ability to take care of himself, but he could not keep him cooped up either.

Anthony had no where to go. After he had come back from the dead originally, he had thought about showing up at home, but had decided against it. Now that thought flashed through his mind again. Before he had been a wreck. He smelled of death and was in a terrible emotional and mental state. Now he was fit and confident. He knew what he was and maybe his parents would be able to accept him.

Kelron had told him in no uncertain terms that he should not try to visit his parents or any of his friends. After a while of consideration, Anthony finally agreed that it was a bad idea. But he needed something to do. Kelron had given him enough money to last for a few years, and if he kept his expenditures low, that sum would actually grow if properly invested.

Anthony's restlessness lasted for one month. That was the time it took for another immortal to find him. Anthony had tried to rehearse what he should say when he met one. "I come in peace," and "I mean you no harm," sounded too flaky and cliché. He still had not decided on a proper greeting when he met his first immortal. Even if he had, Gaurug, the immortal in question, would not have allowed him to get it out.

Gaurug made his intentions clear from the start, drawing his sword immediately and promising to make the battle quick and painless if Anthony would just take a knee and accept his fate. Anthony politely refused, and Gaurug went through his pre-battle script as if he were a medieval knight recounting his great deeds before a joust.

Anthony thought he would feel nervous, but do to the absurdity of the foe he faced, any fears or doubts that should have crept into his mind were gone. He took his first head five seconds into the fight. The quickening was nothing compared to what Anthony had seen Kelron take in, for Gaurug had not been half as prolific as he had boasted, but that was probably good. Best to start out small, Anthony thought.

Because of the absurdity of his first opponent, the reality of what he had done, taking someone's life with a sword, did not fully dawn on him. The word "game" came up frequently in his mind as he thought about that first fight, and with the comic book antics of his opponent, it was simple to view what had happened as if it were just a scene in a movie and not real.

By the time Anthony faced his second immortal three months later, he had so convinced himself that none of this was real that he was now the one spouting a litany before battle. His opponent had not really wanted to fight. He presented his sword in a defensive posture and told Anthony to walk away, but it was not a friendly greeting, and Anthony was not going to back down. He won easily again.

In the next three years, he ran into several immortals. Those who greeted him in friendship, he accepted, those who did not were killed. Then a dry spell hit him. He went nine months without taking a head, and he felt an aching inside him. He needed a quickening.

Anthony was a junkie. In high school it had been cigarettes. In college it had been alcohol. After he died, it was drugs. With each change in his life, his addiction had taken a step up in severity. Now he realized that he was as high as he was going to go. No drug was going to beat a quickening, and he needed more.

The next immortal who approached him attempted friendship, but Anthony was too hungry. After that it was easy. After all, there could be only one. Anthony went all over the West Coast, searching out immortals wherever they were. A quickening was powerful, and he did not need a fix each week, or even each month, and that was a good thing, for immortals were not that common.

Nine years after he left Kelron, his life had done a complete 180. Kelron came across him in the top penthouse of a Las Vegas Casino. It had not been too difficult to track him down. Anthony had killed two immortals that Kelron considered friends, and with a little help from a watcher or two, Anthony was fingered as the perpetrator. Kelron had hunted down former pupils before, but as he stepped into the luxurious room at the top of the huge building, he had a bad feeling he would not be leaving.

Anthony sat in a chair amidst a cloud of smoke. He did not look up as Kelron entered, but the older immortal had no doubt Anthony knew he was there. Anthony wore a silk bathrobe tied loosely around his waist. He pulled another deep drag from his blunt and flicked it accurately into an ice bucket fifteen feet away. The champagne bottle in the bucket had been opened and was half-empty. There was a crystal glass resting precariously on the arm of his chair, and Anthony picked it up, drained it, and tossed it after his smoke. It shattered against the bucket, and the noise seemed to startle him from his contemplation.

"Ladies," he called out. He still had not looked up to see Kelron standing patiently before him. "Ladies!" he called again. Kelron looked to his left at the huge bed in the corner of the room. In it two naked women frolicked with each other, apparently not needing their customer to keep themselves occupied. "Leave."

They stopped their activity in the bed, gathered what constituted as clothing, and quickly scampered past Kelron and out of the room. "I've been waiting for you, Obi-Wan," Anthony said as he stood slowly, removing his robe so he stood bare to the waist with only a pair of flashy silk pants. "We meet again, at last." He walked slowly over to the couch in the room, on which lay a fabulous sword. Anthony picked it up. "The circle is now complete."

It was not the simple blade Kelron had given him. Anthony had fought many immortals and even Gaurug had wielded a better weapon than what Anthony had started with. Anthony was constantly in the process of upgrading. The weapon he had now was a gold braid tachi, a magnificent sword. "When I left you I was but the learner." He pulled it free from its scabbard slowly, as if caressing it, the metallic ring filling the air. When free, he held it in an experienced pose. "Now I am the master."

Only a master of evil, Darth. It was the appropriate line, and Kelron had to admit it fit nicely, but he would not stoop to Anthony's level. He would not treat this as if it were a game, as if they were just characters in a movie. "Put the sword down, Anthony."

"Okay," he said easily. He relaxed his position and made as if to toss his blade back on the couch. He did not. Instead he just laughed. "What? Did you think you would find me and convince me of the errors of my ways? Did you think the prodigal son would just come running back to father knowing that all his sins would be forgiven?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Kelron said calmly.

Anthony laughed. "You, you, you," he said, jabbing his sword playfully in the air at his former teacher with each word, "you were always too good, too forgiving. There I was, a hopeless drug addict, destined to live my life on the streets stealing and killing my way into a deeper pit of despair. What had I ever done in my life to deserve a second chance? Nothing. No, but you saw the good in me. Isn't that right? You thought, 'Look at good 'ol Anthony here. He was just misunderstood. He is really a good kid.'"

Anthony laughed again and started pacing. "You really would take me back now wouldn't you?"

"I would."

"Yea, I bet. After everyone I've killed; after all the heads I've taken. You would just take me back. I collapse crying into your arms, my sobs racking my body as I beg for forgiveness." He raised is arms to the ceiling. "What have I done! What have I become!" He turned back to look at Kelron. "I have become powerful. You said I could live my life two ways. I could live looking over my back, constantly guarding against attack, hoping that steel turtle necks come into fashion, or I could look around and in front of me at the history that was unfolding. I chose a third option. I intend to write history."

"It doesn't have to be thi-"

"Oh, but it does, my good teacher. It does have to be this way. When I kill you, all of your precious little friends that you told me about will hear about it, and they will all come running. They will come running to face me. They will all die too. Then there will be me. Only me; and the prize shall be mine. Now THAT is history! My history. And we get to end the first chapter right here tonight. Pay attention," he began to spin the sword, "because if you thought the French knew how to take heads, you ain't seen nothing yet."

Kelron had his weapon out in a flash and worked solely defensively against Anthony's opening attack. He knew Anthony was stronger and faster, but he was also high on drugs and alcohol and probably not thinking straight. He could not beat him with skill, but he might be able to fool him with technique. That is, if Anthony ever let up.

Anthony's opening flurry was a blur of motion, his blade slicing up and down, side to side with no rhyme or reason. The swipes were vicious and fast, but not wrought out of any technique Kelron could discern, but he did not discount them either. He had taught Anthony, after all, and tricks were part of the trade.

Skillful or not, the blows did jolt the older immortal considerably. Just when he thought he might slip backwards, Anthony leaped back and smiled. "Your powers are weak old man."

Kelron walked forward cautiously, his blade swaying slowly back and forth in front of him, looking like a viper ready to strike. It did, and Anthony deflected it to the floor. Another strike, and Anthony angled that to the other side. A third and then a forth, and then Anthony spun the fifth in a wide circle and went back on the offensive. This time he showed his true colors cutting and slashing up his old teacher with hardly any effort. None of the strikes found flesh, but they ripped up his clothes with a vengeance.

Kelron was desperate to keep the attacks away from his body, wondering what he could possibly do to bring this fight elsewhere other than its inevitable end. Anthony saw this frustration and smiled as he twisted the next quote around to fit the situation. "You can't win, Obi-Wan. And if I strike you down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

Kelron was short on breath now as his blocks came later and later. Anthony made two wild attempts at Kelron's head, which the old immortal blocked hastily, but Anthony angled his second attack down at the last second, bouncing lightly off the block and slicing into Kelron's ribs. The wounded immortal stumbled and lost strength in his left arm, as he struggled to hold his sword in his right.

It was over three swipes later. The first was blocked, sending Kelron's weapon out wide. The second chopped down on the prone blade, dropping it to the floor. The third was preceded by the fateful words, "There can be only one," and followed by a spectacular lightening display. This was Las Vegas, after all, the City of Lights.

Anthony rode out the violent storm like he had done so many times before, noticing an eerie feeling creeping over him that he had done something terribly wrong. The last thought that went through his mind before he passed out was that the deposit on the room was shot.