If telephone staring were ever to become an Olympic sport, Adam was pretty sure Team Immortal would be in with a good chance for the Gold. He'd resisted being hypnotised by its unrelenting silence far longer than Greta who, once she'd let him in, had been enthralled immediately. At least he'd managed to make a sandwich first. He hadn't eaten it yet, but that was beside the point.

"Joe and Amanda should have been back by now, even if they were going the long way." She spoke without turning her eyes away from the object of their study, but finally managed to let the magazine she'd been ignoring for the last hour-and-a-half slip from her fingers down to the floor.

"I thought it was a mistake to put those two together." Joints popped as he stood from his seat at the foot of the bed. He stretched and cast a glance at his sandwich. It didn't look anymore interesting than it had after he'd made it, it certainly had none of the exciting allure of his telephone. Maybe if he added some kind of garnish, or the possibility of a missing Watcher or thief speaking through it.

Greta murmured again, taking his thoughts away from clairaudient sandwiches and earning herself a medal for services to his sanity. "Why didn't you say so?"

"Because it's much more satisfying to say 'I told you so' after the fact."

"Huh." Disapproval. Like he hadn't heard that before. "Why haven't you gone to help Duncan?"

He crossed his arms over the back of her chair and smiled unrepentantly when she twisted to look at him. "Jail time will be good for him, it'll teach him to straighten up and fly right. He's a good boy really; he just fell in with bad company."

The corner of her mouth twitched as it fought a grin she clearly didn't think he warranted. "He's gonna be so mad at you."

"I'll send him a sword baked into a cake, shall I?"

"You could get him out if you wanted to."

"You overestimate me. Anyway, it's probably the safest place for him to be right now."

Her eyes narrowed as she tried a different tack. "Who's Stefano?"

For the moment he decided to play along, they both knew he'd go and spring MacLeod eventually. He was just hoping to have a better greeting than 'So, were you fond of Joe and Amanda?' when he got there. They'd phone any minute now. Any minute. "Are you trying to make me leave or something?"

"Yes. We need Duncan, unless you want to find them on your own?"

That wasn't an overly appealing option, not least because he knew precisely where the van they were following had come from. Vatican plates were never a good sign when coupled with automatic weaponry. "Can't you just wriggle your nose and know where they are?"

She rolled her eyes and turned back around, under the siren song of the phone once more. "I tried. Well, not the nose wriggling. I didn't get anything useful. There's darkness and swords. A little like before Tessa died"

That wasn't the best news ever. He stood straight again and went to fetch his coat, admitting defeat. "You could have mentioned this earlier. Are you sure this isn't a ploy to make me rescue MacLeod?"

"Just go."

A sudden generosity seized him as he saw his wilting lunch again out of the corner of his eye. "You can have my sandwich, if you want."

"Euw, pickle. No thanks."

"My one entirely selfless gesture this century and you turn it down."

"You'll have others." Her voice was drifting away again, signalling an end to her participation in the reality he mostly called home.

Muttering, he slipped out.

The mental discord of another Immortal strummed his nerves as he hit the second flight of stairs and he slowed his descent, treading more lightly and sliding his hand towards his sword hilt. No voices so it was unlikely to be Joe and Amanda, unless the Watcher had snapped under the pressure of Amanda's chatter and duct-taped her mouth shut.

Now he could hear the more careless, faster tread of whoever it was on the floor below. From the heaviness and speed he judged they were jogging up. Leather creaked against leather thickly, probably a jacket. Of the Immortals likely to drop by that narrowed the field to Stefan or Richie, and Stefan simply wasn't that incautious.

He stopped on the turn of the stairs and positioned his sword edge up at roughly neck height, then studied his nails until an impact thudded against the flat of the blade, accompanied by a short yelp of surprise.

Richie's hand shoved the Ivanhoe aside as he came around the corner, stopping on the top step with a scowl that was more embarrassed than angry. "Not funny."

"I laughed." The sword slipped back into its sheath and his hands back into his pockets.

"Laugh on the way to the police station."

"Ha. Ha." He tried experimentally and then shook his head with mocking sadness. "No, sorry, the moment's gone."

"Let's go." A gloved hand came up to tug on his arm and he shook it off. What was it with people man-handling him lately? This was not to be encouraged and, perversely, he stayed where he was.

"Aren't you going to ask about Joe and Amanda?"

Richie moved closer, looking as if he couldn't decide between begging or beating. "I have one job right now. It's to get you out that door. Tell me on the way."

When the hand came up to his arm again he allowed it tug him to the first stair, then resisted just enough to pull Richie up short and nearly send them both over. "I think I left the gas on …"

All attempts at politeness left as Richie snapped in the face of admittedly quite obnoxious behaviour. "That's it. I'll push you downstairs if I have to."

He gave ground on another step before stopping to tie a lace that was already as secure as it needed to be. "Then you'd have to wait for me to revive."

"Mac's an understanding guy." This time there was just the barest hint of the bland menace of MacLeod. Apt student.

He straightened and began to descend the stairs, leaving Richie in his wake momentarily. "What exactly is it you think I can do?"

Leather creaked in a complicated fashion as Richie shrugged and caught up to walk beside him along the hall to the door. "He said to get you, I'm getting you … why isn't Amanda here? No, forget I asked, just keep walking."

"Sin. Sin. Sin, dex, sini. I'm walking. Look, I'm even opening a door - and now I'm stepping through it."

He wished he wasn't, the weather hadn't improved. The buildings were anonymous grey shapes through the rain and, although the walk to the metro was short, he was going to look like he'd had another dip in the Seine. Belatedly he remembered he owned an umbrella, but Richie would probably deliver on his promise of violence if he went back to get it and then he'd be soaked and he'd have to explain to MacLeod why his student had had to be thrown under a bus.

An answering snort as Richie pulled the hood of the sweater under his jacket up. "Yeah, thanks for the play-by-play. Why didn't you come over when I phoned?"

"I was making a sandwich, that's not something you want to rush."

What he'd come to realise was natural good-humour reasserted itself in Richie, as he'd hoped it would. The undercurrent of strained worry was covered by a light tone. "So Mac rates below lunch?"

He delayed his reply for long enough to give the appearance of serious consideration and then nodded gravely. "Unless it's served with Turkish coffee."

"Eugh, that stuff's gross."

"A blight amongst coffees." It was a little odd to form a bond over a shared dislike of a drink, but camaraderie was found in stranger places. He didn't want to get attached; he wanted the boy to get attached to him. Just enough that, in the unlikely event of a Challenge between them, there would be that second of hesitation.

He'd be disgusted with himself if it wasn't a tactic he'd found had a hundred percent success rate.

"So Mac rates below lunch but above a cup of piping hot death?"

"Sounds about right."

"So why are you helping out at all? I mean, he said you were going to hop a plane, why stick around?"

Was Clan MacLeod reading from some kind of question list designed to drive him insane? "The tragic onset of dementia."

"Sure." Richie showed no more belief than MacLeod had, maybe they were reading each other's answer sheets too. "Nice sword, by the way. From the close-up view, I mean. Looks kinda heavy though. That thing even got any balance?"

"It's balanced enough for how I fight and they're meant to be heavy. If you can't find a place to make a cut, you can just club them over the head until they stop moving."

"Why bother? Something like a katana can cut through anything. I've seen Mac's take out a chunk of cement."

He'd had to defend his choice of sword a great many times over the years since he'd acquired it, the response was almost rote by now, just an 'insert name here' for whatever the proponent of another sword was advocating.

"And when a katana gets blunt, which it does if you even think about using it, it's only good at looking decorative and pricey. Anyway, swords haven't always been able to hold their edge; my teacher taught me how to take a head with something that made your average brick look like a razor. After that, anything's easy."

"Even bad steel stays sharp long enough for a Challenge."

"But bronze doesn't. If you can fight with a bronze sword you can fight with anything. An Ivanhoe is a dream in comparison." The standard second salvo and he'd given the usual answer without thinking, too preoccupied with worry over Joe.

Amanda was over a thousand years old; she could take care of herself. Whether she could take care of herself and Joe was another matter. The Watcher was tough, but this wasn't a mortal's game.

He waited for what was now an inevitable question. An opening he hadn't wanted to give but he was confident he could slant his answers convincingly.

"You were taught with a bronze sword? How old are you?"

That was easy; he avoided the question with another truth. "My teacher was a little archaic."

"What was his name?"

It was simple curiosity and he tried not to respond as if it was the Spanish Inquisition. This was his own fault really; he should have gone with the bus option. "Bob."

"His name wasn't Bob." Quiet laughter and he laughed even more quietly with it.

"Yes it was." Well, Robert, and he had been his teacher. Not his first, or last, teacher, but a teacher none the less.

"There are guys from the Bronze Age called Bob?"

He didn't bother to correct the assumption that Robert was that old, letting Richie come up with an explanation was even easier than truth by omission. "Well, probably not anymore. Anyway, he was calling himself Bob when he taught me."

"That's just wrong, man."

"Well, if you're from the Bronze Age you probably can't keep your own name, can you? 'Fualdergoidii Smith' would be a bit of a giveaway to any of us wielding a phone book."

Golden rings on his fingers and a wolf's last howl.

Fualdergoid, smiling over the carcass, covered in its blood and its steaming heart in his hands.

"For the kill of it, the strength of it. I'll rule them as a wolf and a man."

Fualdergoid, with crimson streaks over his mouth and chin, cinereous hair and charnel eyes, leaning closer in the shadows of flames when the darkness came.

Golden rings on his fingers and a wolf in his heart.

Beautiful, ambitious, Fualdergoid who hadn't kept his head long enough to have to worry about the Iron Age, let alone phone books.

The sound of the rain drumming on the slick steps behind them was swamped by the chaos of commuters as they descended to the station. If Dante were alive now, this may very well have been his description of a circle of hell. Richie raised his voice over the chaos "Maybe I should start thinking about a new name."

Adam yelled back as he wove to the side to avoid being impaled by an old woman wielding an umbrella with an unholy gleam in her eye. The ticket barrier was the least well known death trap in Paris. "You probably don't have to worry about it."

"Gee, thanks." Richie grunted as his knees were nearly taken out by a maddened pushchair and then cursed as he managed to stop the doors on the train closing by dint of shoving his hand through the small gap.

"I only meant that Richard is a fairly enduring name." Between them they worked the doors open and fell inside, ignoring the glares from the other passengers whose journeys had been delayed by precious seconds.

In the cramped confines they didn't even bother trying to find seats, just carved a small standing space for themselves with judicious use of elbows, ending up packed against each other. At least Ryan had used mouthwash that morning.

"Yeah, right. Can you move left?"

"I did mean that! I'll breathe in while you breathe out, we might make it to the next stop alive."

"Sure you did … what's that smell?"

The police station wasn't much of an improvement over the Metro. They stood outside for almost five minutes watching the main doors swing unceasingly back and forth under the tide of humanity before Richie finally snapped and dove into the milling confusion. A few curses and a mild concussion later he made enough room to get them both inside.

Fighting their way to the reception was more of the same; though this time they had to be slightly more judicious with the application of brute force. The last thing they needed was to be hauled up on assault for clocking an officer. Richie finally set a hand on the desk and gripped tightly with a faintly shell shocked expression. "It wasn't like this when I left."

Adam shook his head with the same disbelief and tried to avoid being swept into a wall. "Maybe half of Paris decided to turn a life of crime."

Richie's laugh had a slightly nervous pitch to it. "And were really, really bad at it?"

"A state of emergency has been declared in the Latin Quarter, M'sieur Pierson. I would prefer petty theft, personally. Or insurance fraud. Defacement of public works, perhaps."

The smooth voice was close enough not to be raised and Adam turned as sharply as he could to face the man who had somehow materialised at his elbow. LeBrun was a tall and unflappable presence, apparently completely unfazed by the chaos around him. His only expression was a thin smile that was neither amused nor warm, only slightly knowing.

"Inspector." He nodded and attempted to regain some of his own composure. "What's happened?"

"I am not at liberty to say. Please, this way." LeBrun led them in a circuit around the room towards the relative peace of the back offices. The frantic rushing around was replaced by a shrill chorus of ringing telephones and a backdrop of voices trying to deal with the lucky minority who had managed to connect.

Finally the door of the Inspector's office was closed behind them and Adam took one of the offered seats, unsurprised when Richie remained by the door. "If you're not at liberty to discuss the city, are you at liberty to tell me what charges Mr MacLeod is being detained under?"

LeBrun steepled his fingers under his chin as he leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. "No charges have been filed."

The shock was non-existent but the man was clearly intending to go through the motions despite having no intention of keeping MacLeod. Time to play along, yet again. "Then why are you still holding him?"

Once more the small smile appeared. "We are able to hold him for some time to aid in our investigation."

"In other words, you have no charges to file."

One hand separated from the steeple, a finger tapped at a thick folder whose edges were rumpled with use. "There is a small matter of criminal damage and a number of questions in regards to the Nobile."

Adam watched the man's fingernail, bitten to the quick, tap the mug-shot of MacLeod clipped onto the front of the file. It hit the photograph unerringly between the eyes every time. A sliver of sympathy arose for the policeman and he mentally welcomed him to the 'Victims Of Duncan MacLeod' support group.

Still, he was careful to let none of the amusement show in the severe, almost priggish, tone he had borrowed from any number of University Review Board members. "Do you always arrest the victims of crimes, Inspector? I imagine that must make your solved rate impressive."

LeBrun refused to rise to the bait; his smile widened a fraction to briefly show a line of white teeth. "My solved rate is exemplary, M'sieur. I always find the truth, sooner or later."

"As much as I'd enjoy a philosophical discourse on the nature of truth, the fact is you have no evidence and no just cause, which makes this harassment of an innocent man. Assuming people are still innocent until proven guilty in a court of law in your judiciary system, of course."

The tapping stopped as the man leant back in his chair, the creak of the wood long and old. "What happened at the barge, M'sieur Pierson?"

"Are you asking for a formal statement?"

"Not as yet. We are having a friendly little chat; it would be a shame to spoil it with recording equipment."

Caution was trying to close his throat, but he couldn't allow LeBrun the slightest suggestion of hesitation. The man would be on it like a shark to blood or MacLeod to situations designed to inconvenience the world's oldest Immortal. "I don't know what happened, I wasn't there."

The Inspector nodded, as if suddenly recalling. Like hell. "Ah, yes, you were with MacLeod at ..?"

He almost filled in the missing word, mouth framing the word before he caught himself. Not 'barge', granted, but 'bar' would have been equally dangerous given he wasn't meant to be aware of the timescale involved. It was a tactic older than sin, but knowing that didn't beat reflex. So he ducked his head slightly as he replied, acknowledging the near hit. "Not knowing when the barge was destroyed, I have no idea where I was. Could you be more specific?"

"Just after midnight." A mild tone, no pretence at looking the information up in the file. Oh, he could like this man. Good guys might be easier to predict, but bad guys doing good things were so much more fun.

"Then we were at my apartment, I believe. A small Gathering between friends."

To his credit, Richie managed to turn the choke into a cough.

LeBrun shot a glance over to the other man, the working cogs of his mind almost visible, then he returned his level gaze to Adam's once more. "I see. And how did you find out about the event?"

"From someone who went to visit MacLeod and saw what had happened, she came directly over."

"So you learned of it that night but didn't contact us?"

"The man was in shock."

LeBrun shook his head slightly with a faintly disgusted grimace. "Neatly tied up."

"I don't follow you." He affected his most irritatingly wide eyed expression but LeBrun remained unmoved.

"Of course you don't." The Inspector stood and gestured to the door. "MacLeod is being processed out. I will be watching."

"It's comforting to know the police are so concerned for our welfare." He unfolded himself from the uncomfortable chair and followed Richie out into the din of the corridor.

The younger man was almost bouncing on his feet as they forged their way through the corridors. "See, I knew you could get him out."

"I didn't. You heard him – MacLeod's already out. He was just using him as bait for a fishing expedition. What did MacLeod do to the poor man?"

"Don't ask me. Hey, what were you saying about Joe and Amanda?"

Leaning against the wall across the way from the processing area, he spoke quietly as he watched MacLeod. "They've gone missing."

"What? Why didn't you tell me?!"

Adam held a hand over his ear and looked at the other man reproachfully. When the ringing stopped, he replied. "You told me not to. I've got a pretty good idea where they are."

"Where who are?" Naturally, the Highlander had to choose that moment to appear. He clutched his coat in his hands and his brows were drawn down in annoyance. "Let's get out of here."

"Mac!" Richie relief was obvious, for a moment, Methos tried to remember what it felt like to trust someone so much their presence alone was enough to improve a situation. No memory came obediently to the fore; apparently he'd always been smarter than Richie Ryan. What a comfort.

"Don't get too close, Richie. He's a hardened criminal, who knows how he'll act."

With a blandly sardonic frown, MacLeod cut in again. "What took you so long to get here?"

He delayed answering, having decided that this was not the moment to tell MacLeod about his Watcher and occasional girlfriend's MIA status. "This is my thanks for getting you out?"

Richie glanced at him once, then smiled slightly and followed his lead as they narrowly avoided decapitation by umbrella. "You didn't get him out."

Okay, so sudden moments of insight ran in the family, such as it was. He wasn't going to be impressed just because a twenty year old had shown signs of native intelligence. Instead he wheezed out a reply as he caught a shopping bag in the stomach. "Thank you, Rozencrantz."

MacLeod nearly got a word in edgeways before Richie spoke fast as he stumbled down the last two steps onto the street. "Who?"

They were finally spat out onto the sidewalk by the heaving crowd some twenty feet away from the station. It was even more hectic than when they'd arrived. He watched the policemen trying to bring order to what was rapidly turning into a dangerous mob. "You'd prefer Judas?"

A few more feet and a sharp left and now they were more or less secluded in one of the hundreds of side alleys that smelled of damp dust and rotting waste. Richie ran a hand through his hair distractedly and eyed the crowd with something approaching distrust as he gave MacLeod back his katana with as much subtlety as possible when three feet of sharp blade is in the equation. "I think I'd prefer to get out of here." He paused and finally looked at his teacher. "Mac, Joe and Amanda are missing."

"Missing." MacLeod's tone was flat and even and Methos began to wish they'd told him while there were still witnesses around. "How long?"

"A few hours. But Adam knows where they are." Richie nodded his way and he felt compelled to defend himself from MacLeod's entirely too interested look.

"No, I said I have an idea where they are."

A nod and MacLeod's gaze wandered back to the small riot that was rapidly becoming more than the police were able to contain. "What about Doyle?"

"Not a problem for the moment."

"What was in the river?"

"Doyle."

That jerked the Highlander from his grim-faced reverie. "This isn't a problem?"

"It's difficult to explain."

"Simplify it."

"Running water. It's a superstition. Drop a witch in to see if she'll float, vampires can't cross it and Doyle gets thrown in it every time he's caught. They stab him in the heart, wrap him up and fling him in the closest body of running water available. Here they put him under Pont Neuf, it was the only bridge near to Notre Dame for a long time."

"Who are doing this?"

MacLeod spoke the question, but only to make him answer it and after a moment he obliged through gritted teeth. "The Xerxesi."

"And why didn't you tell us earlier?" He'd expected irritation, maybe even anger, but MacLeod just sounded resigned, even disappointed. That wasn't fighting fair but he let the defence come anyway.

"I wasn't sure earlier. Look, things change over half a millennia. Even if it is them, there's no way to know whether they're still operating in the same way. I barely knew the procedure in the first place, but they always had church backing and the plates on the van Amanda and Joe were following were Vatican staff, not just state."

This was processed in silence as they stood in the drizzle and he slowly felt the cold seep down to the bone. Somehow he'd always been under the impression that heroes weren't meant to look like drowned rats.

Richie's frown slowly deepened until he finally asked the question that was clearly nagging at him. "I'm not going to ask why they're doing that not just, you know, locking the guy up someplace … but why do they have to keep doing it? How does he keep getting out of it? Knife in the heart, the guy should just stay dead, right?"

"I have no idea." And Adam could quite honestly say he didn't, it made no sense. Possibly Michael had someone helping him but even then, surely, the Xerxesi were sensible enough to maintain some kind of observation.

Finally MacLeod spoke, each word measured and determined. "I think it's time to take confession."

Richie tilted his head a touch, giving up on trying to keep the rain from making its way under his collar. "Make."

"I was right the first time. What's happening over there?"

At MacLeod's nod to the pushing, shouting crowd, they looked that way and saw even LeBrun had joined the forces trying to keep the peace and placate the citizens. "There's something going on in the Latin Quarter, LeBrun wouldn't say what."

"Okay, where do you think Joe and Amanda are?"

He raised an eyebrow and looked back to MacLeod. "Do you really have to ask?"

"Latin Quarter." All three spoke in rueful unison and stepped out onto the rain-made mirrors of the street.

i "Sin, sin, sin dex sin" – Roman marching chant (sinister/dexter left/right)

ii Milesian king, 1327-1317BC, Ireland. First to order his nobility to wear gold rings on their fingers.