All Fall Down

by LithiumDoll

Well, no, life wasn't really much like an empty bottle of beer ... [complete]

10. Part 10

They'd talked, Joe couldn't remember about what; half the conversation had probably been in his head anyway. Amanda had died from the cold three times in quick succession before the water claimed her completely. She hadn't said a word about it, but he'd counted his heartbeats as he waited for hers and felt the shudders when she returned only to die again.

The fourth time there was a single tremor and a gentle gasp that ended on a soft choke as she drew the water in; she didn't fight at all. That was unnatural, even for an Immortal, and then he realised she'd tried to make it easier on him. One spasm beyond her control and then she was just gone. His count had gone on until he'd lost his place and then he resumed their conversation.

The water was biting at him now; she had to be fully submerged. He knew she couldn't hear him and he knew it was pointless … but he still talked.

It was something to listen to, something to concentrate on. He doubted he'd get the chance to drown. He felt heavy and warm and tired, ready to slip away with more resignation than regret, hoping Adam wouldn't write the eulogy when they rang the bells.

Something grated above but he didn't pay it any attention, if anything 'pure stubborn', as his momma had called it, made him croak louder.

Another sound from above overrode his commentary on the latest Blues musicians on the circuit, but only because it sounded like a voice. "Be quiet."

He broke off, trying to work out if it was real or his imagination. After convincing himself that his imagination could come up with a better hallucination than that, he tentatively tried to speak more loudly. "Who's …?"

"Quiet, I said." It was a young voice, breaking on the divide between boy and man, a touch of an accent.

That was wrong, a kid shouldn't be here. Reality swam in circles around him. "Get outta …"

"Listen. I'm going to pull you up but you have to help, I can't lift you all the way."

Fuzzily, Joe tried to make sense of the words being spoken but it felt like he was trying to translate a foreign language; a foreign language being spoken backwards through static by a burning-card holding dwarf.

He couldn't feel the hands that gripped his arms, but the sensation of being lifted made him struggle instinctively and he was unceremoniously dropped back onto Amanda. The impact jolted some sense back into him; the babble above began to coalesce into something more intelligible.

"If you can't help me, at least be still."

He was lifted again and this time managed not to impede the progress by actively struggling. The passage up in the darkness was disjointed, punctuated with pain and swearing - he wasn't always sure whose. At some point, he knew, he must have blacked out because he somehow went from having the grate digging into his ribs to being flat on his back on a rough, cold but dry surface.

There was movement beside him, clothes rustling against his own. He reached out a hand to test for reality and had it shrugged away. The darkness was still absolute, but it had a cleaner quality and, as his sluggishly moving hands told him, it was warmer. The first pin pricks of feeling began to return and he gritted his teeth against making any noise.

After the sound of more exertion the kid fell back against him heavily. There was too much weight for just one person and he ignored the spasms in his muscles to reach forward and try and help drag Amanda in.

He gained a grip on wet clothes that had to be hers and pulled, then stopped as she seemed to catch on something. Their rescuer grunted and there was a slithering sound, then something tore and Joe was able to pull her a little further. "The dead are even heavier than you."

No one who sounded that put out, rather than horrified, was likely to be unaware of Amanda's status, but the effort had to be made - just in case. "She's not dead; she's just ... uh …"

"Sleeping?" He could hear clear amusement. "No, I don't think so. But she'll wake up soon enough."

"You're one of them." Joe knew he should have made it a question and preserved some illusion about how much he was aware of, but it was difficult to be at the top of his game when all the signs of returning life to his body were making him wish he was dead. Muscles jumped under nerves that were sending waves of stabbing pain through him, his lungs felt raw and abused and his chest felt like someone was sitting on it. He'd be lucky if he avoided pneumonia.

The voice floated out of the darkness again, slightly further away than before. "Yes."

Talking hurt, but it did keep his mind off the worst of the situation, so he tried to keep the kid, guy, talking. "Why help us?"

"I have an interest, a curiosity if you want; I'm not here to take her head." The reply was slightly laboured sounding and he discovered why as the weight of Amanda was fully settled against him, the kid must have managed to roll her over himself. She was still cold and not breathing but Joe didn't move away. It seemed like the least he could do was share some body heat with the receptacle she'd eventually return to.

It seemed like the right moment to introduce himself. "I'm Joe."

"Joe Dawson. Who runs Le Blues – a popular but not high profile venue - and knows a lot more about Immortals than he should thanks to the tattoo on his wrist. The woman is Amanda and both of you are acquaintances with ... Adam, I believe is his name now?"

Well, that was on the disconcerting side. "Okay, you do have an interest."

"But not in you." A low chuckle cracked at the end and he winced. Puberty for eternity was something Joe couldn't begin to imagine.

He suspected it wouldn't be the healthiest thing in the world to let his sympathy show and tried to sound as nonchalant as he could with the onset of pneumonia, a dead woman at his side and an eternal teenager sitting somewhere in the darkness.

"Do I get your name?"

"Stefan."

"Stefan …"

"Just Stefan."

His brain was beginning to tick over again, which was something to be profoundly thankful for. He began to mentally catalogue those Immortals who could be identified by the name or its derivatives. There were a lot of them; he needed to know more to narrow it down. "Who is your interest, Stefan?"

"Originally it was Michael Doyle and the question of his whereabouts are still of some concern to me."

"They concern everyone, kid … and now?"

Stefan's voice was timely but clipped, signalling that question time was over. "Now I've expanded my horizons … She's back."

A moment later Amanda moved, drawing in a ragged breath of air then choking out the water that had flooded her lungs. Joe held her until she stopped heaving, awkwardly trying to provide some comfort.

Finally she settled back against him, already feeling warmer. "Joe?"

"Right here."

"There's someone … Duncan?"

"Not exactly."

"Richie? Adam?"

The kid spoke politely as she fell silent. "Stefan."

"Stefan." The blank tone suggested she didn't recognise the guy either; Joe removed a few Immortals from his mental list. Her voice took on a sweet tone he knew to be entirely false "Well, I'm very pleased to meet you."

"I'm not here for your head."

The cloying was replaced by the harder version she used when she wasn't trying to charm her way into someone's good graces. "Which is good, because I'm not sure how you'd swing a sword in here. Is that how you begin all your conversations?"

"I find it saves misunderstandings later."

Amanda squirmed against Joe as she righted herself but quickly made it to her hands and knees. "How do we get out of here?"

"We crawl."

From the sound of activity behind him, Joe guessed Stefan was also positioning himself to start moving. "Oh, good."

They crawled. The rest had given him some chance to regain some energy and it was amazing what adrenaline could do for you, but Joe knew he was rapidly reaching the end of his endurance. Every time he faltered, he was gently pushed from behind. Pride kept him moving far longer than he would have thought possible.

Finally, he had to ask they rest. Amanda didn't even muster a sarcastic remark; clearly he must have sounded worse than he thought.

His breath was rattling his lungs, the fluid building fast. They ached with every breath and the idea of talking was an anathema. But he had to know, he just had to.

"You're that Stefan, aren't you?"

"What?"

"You took the head of Donovan Brice."

There was a long pause and he knew Amanda was taking this in as well. Brice's death was the Mary Celeste of beheadings; a mystery over a century old. The Watcher at the time had sworn she'd looked away for a couple of seconds, no more, and when she'd looked back Brice had been a head shorter and a Quickening was dying away. An impossible kill. A note had been left on the body, politely letting the discoverer know 'Stefan' had killed the man, and that was it.

Stefan's voice echoed up at last. "You do know more than you should."

"If you're here for Doyle, why isn't he dead yet?"

"I thought he had been removed from the board, I was mistaken."

Joe opened his mouth to pursue the topic, but all that came out was a wheeze. His remaining strength would be needed make it up, more than likely. He concentrated on putting one arm in front of the other and pulling himself up what he quickly realised was an incline, his world contracting down to the sole purpose of moving forward.

At last his hand came down on metal edging and then some ignoble shoving from behind expelled them all into the twilight of pre-dawn that was blindingly bright in comparison to the pitch black behind them. He held a hand over his eyes, letting the light through in increments until, squinting and blinking away tears, he was more or less able to see.

Stefan stood above him; Stefan the ghost. His name had become a byword, shorthand. Didn't see the fight or recognise a Challenger, call the winner Stefan until all the facts were in. Early chronicles superstitiously believed he had the power of invisibility, later ones suggested he was just that damn good and, more recently, it had been suggested he didn't exist at all.

He looked fourteen, if you were feeling generous.

Amanda stood too, inches over the head of their rescuer, and looked at him with a clinical eye. "I thought you'd be taller."

A solemn nod, as if this wasn't something the kid heard twice daily, and a flat tone. "So did I."

"Why did you help us?"

As Amanda had decided to take over the interrogation, he lay back on the grass and looked around. They'd come out next to the river, there was a road above them; he could hear the clamour of horns and tires that seemed unusually busy even for Parisian traffic.

Stefan answered after a brief hesitation, not lying, he thought, but weighing his words before he spoke them. "Because I was there and I could."

"Why were you there at all?"

"I was waiting."

"For what?"

"For whom."

The two stared at each other for a long moment before Amanda crossed her arms and spoke accusingly.

"You're not going to let us live."

Stefan tilted his head, bemused. "I'm not?"

"No. You survive because no one knows who you are."

"True. But you won't kill me; I'm under the protection of someone you hold in regard."

Now it was Amanda's turn to be surprised. Her mouth opened and shut once before she asked with some disbelief. "You know MacLeod?"

"No, we've never met."

"Then how can he protect you?"

"I would imagine he can't."

It didn't seem Stefan was planning to name his benefactor, but Amanda could no more let that thread drop than she could have the crown jewels of England. "You don't mean Adam?"

"If that's what you want to call him, I know him as Mattio."

"You're friends?"

"I've sworn to kill him and I will have your oath you will not challenge me until I've taken his head."

"Kill him!? I'm not promising anything." Amanda shook her head vehemently and stalked back out of his vision. Joe noticed she was avoiding looking at him and he couldn't quite work out why.

"As you want." Stefan sat down, his slim hand took Joe's wrist and checked for a pulse, he put up a brief fight and then let the kid play nurse. All he needed was five minutes rest and he'd be up and fighting again.

Maybe ten minutes.

Amanda paced in and out of his line of vision. "I need a sword."

Stefan stood again, gave a shrug and looked around. "I'm strangely reluctant to find you one."

"Oh, I'm not going to challenge you. I just want to go talk to whoever it was that snatched us."

"The Xerxesi? They won't be very happy to see you."

He couldn't see her, but he could imagine the steel smile to go with her too-sweet tone. "I'll do my best to make sure they don't have to live with the disappointment."

The normally serene courtyard before Sainte Chapelle was heaving in the false dawn - it looked as if the half of Paris who hadn't been at the police station had opted to find their salvation in less secular areas.

"This is new." Richie had been silent for most of the run over, for which Adam had been profoundly grateful, but he wished the boy could find it in his heart to sound even a little winded. His own chest was aching from the run and … strangely heavy.

At the back of his mind he clinically catalogued other symptoms fast appearing, but mostly he watched the crowd for danger signs. When reasonably sure they weren't about to be trampled, Adam finally replied. "No, this is pretty old. Everyone turns to their bottle or their maker at the end of the world."

"There's been a lot of those, huh?"

"More than you'd think."

In the growing light he could see younger man's skin was pasty and, from the slightly repulsed study he was receiving in turn, he suspected he wasn't looking much more encouraging. They'd been infected, probably along with MacLeod and the others, and the increased activity had exacerbated it.

Assume six hours grace after onset of symptoms for a cure to be effective and they were more than running out of time. Their breath was white in the air, droplets clinging to molecules. In his mind he saw the particles spread and fought the urge to scrub his skin.

Richie smothered a cough and sniffed with something less than gentility. "So how you gonna get us in there?"

"Me? You're the petty criminal."

"Petty? I was never petty. Anyway, this isn't about breaking and entering, this is crowd control."

Adam's gaze landed on a familiar figure standing inside the semi-circle that was providing a human wall between the riot and the doors of the chapel. The features might have been hidden by a beret and scarf but the great-coat wrapped height of the man was unmistakable.

Either LeBrun was getting so good at following them he now arrived before they got there, or Lady Luck was accidentally smiling on them for once. It was probably a good idea to act quickly before she noticed her mistake.

"Maybe we can get a police escort." He started walking, hoping a fast pace would get him through the outer edges of the chaos on momentum alone. After a second he felt Richie catch up and follow in his wake for a moment before stepping up to help the push effort.

"Oh, sure, great idea. How exactly you planning to swing that one? Old Jedi mind tricks?"

"LeBrun's over there." He nodded towards the man in question and smiled slightly on seeing that the Inspector was already staring directly at them with the air of someone who had just decided resignation was the better part of valour.

"And out of the goodness of his heart, he's going to give us a break?" Richie started to slow and he reached a hand to his arm to keep them both moving, gripping hard and altering course towards the bastion of civilization that was the riot van and its commander.

"Two parts curiosity to eight parts desperation, it's a recipe for success."

"You're a very cynical man."

"Actually, that was optimism." They drew to a halt in front of the ring of shields surrounding the van; he smiled as charmingly as he knew how. Despite this, they were waved through at their new best hope's nod.

"Pierson. Ryan. What do you want?" LeBrun stood with his hands in his pockets. What skin was visible was flushed, but only from the chill. There was no trace of the hoarseness plaguing them in his voice either. The man was as healthy as the winner of this year's 'Healthiest Horse' competition, if Doctor Adams was any judge.

"Inside Sainte Chapelle."

The soft huff of purely Gallic derision was just about audible behind the thick scarf. "You and everyone else here." The policeman's gaze turned from them to the crowd, there was the barest hint of sympathy in his voice as he went on. "The worst afflicted are bleeding from their eyes. Their nails. The hospitals are turning them away, where else can they turn?"

"Why not Notre-Dame?" The view over the police shields showed the square was still filling. For the moment it was shouts and clamouring but it was just a matter of time before it became screams and trampling and Adam wanted to be gone long before that.

"There is talk of a miracle cure; I am waiting for an official to be found who has the authorisation to pursue this further. Unfortunately, this may take some time."

"'Red tape' is a particularly ignoble cause of death, Inspector. We need to get inside."

"You are unwell?"

Adam shot a glance at Richie and met a blank gaze. Unhelpful. Various excuses ran through his mind as he turned back to LeBrun, but none of them would sound sane to anyone that wasn't heavily medicated. On the off-chance creative genius would strike, he began speaking slowly. "No. No, we're ... undercover … Vatican … health inspectors …"

"… my son." Richie's addition was quiet and deadpan but still managed to retain a hint of mockery.

No retort sprung to mind; apparently his brain didn't want to have anything to do with him. He couldn't say he blamed it; he'd fallen about as far as it was possible to go.

"I believe it is the time for truth, M'sieur. Everything."

"Ah, c'mon." Richie scowled, finally weighing in as he was confronted by the injustices of bureaucracy. "You can't keep us out just because we're not spilling everything."

LeBrun pretended to consider this for a long moment before replying in an even tone. "Actually, I believe that is very much the spirit of my profession."

The crowd had nearly doubled and soon sheer numbers would see the thin blue line turned into a wide red smear and the great doors run down. Adam licked his lips, trying to reintroduce them to the concept of moisture. "And I suppose trust is out of the question?"

"It is wonderful to see a sense of humour in these trying times."

"Adam's like this really big brain research guy; he knows what he's doing and he thinks there's maybe a cure in there."

LeBrun appeared unmoved by the glowing validation of prowess. "What gives you this impression? I do not recall seeing Virologist listed as occupation on either of your files. Weekend hobbyists, perhaps?"

Truth is was, then. For any given value of the word, of course. Adam canted his head slightly and appealed directly to the curious mix of idealistic fatalism he knew lurked at the core of the policeman. "We may be able to help and, more importantly, how can we possibly make matters any worse?"

The man studied them both unblinkingly for another long, hard, moment then finally nodded as he conceded the logic. "I will come with you."

Richie stepped back to gesture for LeBrun to lead the way. "Fine, whatever. Just get us in there."

A bunch of keys were produced from the huge overcoat and gloved fingers worked through until they found a small, modern looking, silver key. It wasn't quite what Adam had been expecting. Then he saw the large padlock covering the expected locks. They hadn't wanted to take any chances and, sooner or later, there would be no one left to hold the line.

He remembered how, during more than one war, the stained glass windows had been painstakingly removed and taken to safety. There was no time for that now, but they were doing what they could, taking the same steps the warders of the time had taken sixty years before, two-hundred years before, and before that too.

He felt old. Or maybe it was just the ache growing in his bones.

The crowd surged behind them as the door opened fleetingly to allow only three entrants; he could hear the enraged desperation even though it was dulled by the thick wooden doors that closed loudly behind them.

They stood in the lower chapel; the dark arches already beginning to be tinged with red as dawn inexorably drew closer.

LeBrun stood watching as they moved further in; Adam tried to force himself to think like Darius. They had both been marauding warlords, how hard could it be?

"Okay, now where?" Richie looked at him with the sort of unquestioning faith he had made every possible effort to dissuade. It would seem Ryan couldn't be taught after all.

Clarity broke through and there was a relief that went straight to his knees. He put one hand against the wall as he thought the deduction through and found no obvious flaws. The faith was unwelcome, he'd never said it was always misplaced … "This place is for the servants … we need the upper level."

"How you figure that?" Richie kept a pace as he jogged towards the upper tier access, he could hear the slower steps of the inspector following.

"I have a really big brain, remember?" A really big brain and a working insight into Darius' warped sense of humour. The upper chapel was for kings and princes…

The sun broke through the stained glass as they ran onto the top floor, fracturing the light in coloured shards around them. Through the beauty a dark line flowed uncut, as the shadow cast by the high crucifix in front of the alcove window lengthened over the pews and floor.

Richie was caught by the display, mouth dropping open, dazzled by the splendour of the artisans of God.

Adam couldn't say he blamed him; you'd have to be some kind of soulless heathen not to be awed into immobility. A soulless heathen or, he discovered on hearing LeBrun unhesitatingly following him, a policeman.

With the sun directly behind the crucifix, the very tip of the shadow touched a fissure in the bottom corner stone of the opposite wall. It was hard to imagine a more inaccessible place that didn't involve actual archaeology.

LeBrun finally spoke as he ran his own finger down what was obviously, on closer inspection, a man-made gap. "This is load bearing, you cannot intend to remove it."

Adam tried poking at the stone with the time honoured 'just in case' hypothesis in action, replying absently. "I'm fairly sure Darius wouldn't have intended us to demolish the house of God, no."

"Darius? The priest who was found headless..."

"Focus, LeBrun."

"Make no plans to leave the city, M'sieur Pierson."

"I think the quarantine has you covered."

Richie closed in behind them, waited a beat and then continued to pushed his way through. "Okay, I know this one, give the master some room."

Adam found himself obeying the unusual tone of command and decided MacLeod had a great deal to answer for. LeBrun was less affected and stood his ground. "What are you doing?"

"Well, last time a crack led up to a button but I'm guessing this one has the button on the inside so I'm carding the lock."

"Make no plans to leave the city, M'sieur Ryan."

"Oh, please, this is just bad TV."

The credit card was half way in and half way down before there was a faint clicking sound from within the wall. Adam would have felt worse about holding his breath if he hadn't noticed the other two doing exactly the same.

Slowly, Richie withdrew the card and they watched the stone above depress into the wall. The corner stone was hollow, inside was a small pile of bones with the remnants of shroud linen still wrapped in wisps around them.

"Bones." Richie spoke with slightly wild disbelief. Adam had to admit this wasn't exactly what he'd been hoping for either. Something more along the lines of "Stopping Michael For Dummies" would have been appreciated.

"Bones?" LeBrun moved back enough to let some light be cast on the sad little find.

"Little bones." The younger man's hand hovered over them, but didn't touch. "What is it with this city and skulls in weird places?"

"You should visit New Orleans." Adam took LeBrun's place as the man moved to a window where the movement in the courtyard below could be seen. A glance at his expression suggested it wasn't a happy place down there, but he had more pressing concerns. Crouching down to take a better look confirmed his suspicions. "Infant skeleton, new born or close to it."

"Like … the infant that owned the bracelet, you think?"

"Maybe. There isn't anything else?"

Richie looked slightly queasy, Adam wasn't sure how much was affronted ethics and how much the progression of the virus. "I didn't look. Baby bones, I'm not going to disturb those."

"Then move over and I'll let LeBrun add grave-robbing to my rap-sheet."

He was given some space to make his search in; it was comforting to know Richie's ethics extended only so far. Despite himself, he handled the remains with respectful care. The bones were brittle and moist, not a good combination, and the material that had contained them – some sort of swaddling, he surmised – fell apart at his touch. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for, only confident that there had to be something.

Finally he found what didn't belong, though it was camouflaged well. Another bracelet but this one was large enough for an adult. It was made of pieces of bone thread around a circle of iron and each of the little round bones - vertebrae, if he was any judge - had a runic symbol carved on it.

"What have you found?" The policeman was leaning over, but not crowding. There was a man who understood the importance of personal space. Or, maybe, he just didn't want to get too close to the infected.

He held up the talisman for LeBrun to see but spoke more for a horrified looking Richie's benefit than anyone else's. "The bones on this aren't human; they're from some kind of small animal. Good way to hide it."

Richie stood, swaying slightly, but finally righted himself with a frown. "Only from people who actually have morals. What's the point of that?"

A few reasons sprang immediately to mind, but he was starting to suspect his chances of second guessing Darius were slim. "I suppose we'll find out."

LeBrun returned to the window, what could be seen of his expression looking increasingly drawn.

After moving in for a closer look at the latest mystery fashion accessory, Richie spoke quietly, studying the bone too intently for comfort. "Anything written on it?"

"Just some patterns." Automatically, he closed his fingers around it.

"Patterns? Looks more like that rune writing Darius used to talk to MacLeod with."

"Does it?"

Richie raised his eyes heavenward and seemed to receive the strength advertised by the location as he managed to keep his patience enough to speak politely. "What does it say?"

"I have no idea."

"Like hell. You're research scholar dead languages guy."

"Then why does God let evil exist, Priest? Explain this to me."

"Who better to protect the innocent?"

"Have you been drinking mould again?"

"There must be balance in all things, that one might know the other as themselves."

His fingers felt stiff as he forced them to open again and looked at the symbols, wondering what he could get away with in a translation. "It says 'Death'"

"And?" Richie's foot was actually tapping so Adam surmised he couldn't get away with much at all.

"'Death may be the greatest of all human blessings'. Socrates, I believe."

"That's … not filling me with hope."

Adam had to admit it wasn't sending him dancing through the streets either. The various possible meanings of Darius's frankly appalling pun ran riot through his mind in the two seconds he let them reign, and then he decided they really didn't matter. One thing was clear. "We're done here."

"You know what it means?"

"I think it means Michael can be killed now …" Seeing Richie's relieved expression he was loathe to go on, but it had to be said "… or it doesn't mean anything at all. There was never any guarantee this had anything to do with Doyle. Greta only said Darius wanted Mac to have the bracelet. It's not like there's a user's manual attached."

"Then what are we going to do?"

"Go distract LeBrun, shouldn't be hard, then come find us in the Quarter when you've lost him."

Richie failed to hustle away towards the silent figure who was beginning to take on almost gargoyle-esque grimness. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Why does everyone insist I have Machiavellian ulterior motives? Then you take the bracelets and I'll distract LeBrun."

"Okay." Richie held his hand out for the bracelet and smiled the faint half smile Adam more regularly saw on brooding Scots.

"... Fine, I want to get rid of you."

"You could have just said."

Now it was his own turn to seek inner serenity from the vaulted heavens. "Richie, I would feel much better if you were somewhere safer and keeping LeBrun occupied is an entirely valid but far less potentially lethal task to have."

"No."

"You just..."

"I'm not a kid and I don't think you'd care even if I was."

"Yes, you are."

"And you're Grandfather Time?"

"I …" am the utterance of my name "… have a job to finish. Honestly, I just don't want witnesses."

"See, that I believe."

There was a crashing, splintering sound below and then a booming thunder that echoed through the chapel.

LeBrun turned slightly, straightening his back, the melancholy evaporating under the discipline of iron authority. "Whatever it is you intend to do, M'sieur Pierson, I would recommend you do it now."

He felt himself pushed and looked back towards Richie, who was attempting to usher him towards the side door and the back stairs beyond them. "I'll stay here and do what I can. If Greta … if she …" He paused at the top stair and saw there was no way Richie could articulate what was running through his head.

"I'll take care of her."

One way or another.

Then he was being pushed out and the door was shut hard at his back. The way before him was clear but probably wouldn't remain that way for long. He jumped down them three at a time, ignoring the complaints of his knees and trying to block out the sound of frenzied humanity behind him.

-o-

Greta's breath was a wheeze as they walked and MacLeod knew it was nothing to do with the pace he'd set. Her skin was pale enough to be yellowing in the thin light and two bright fever spots were the only real colour in her cheeks.

It looked like she had a bad case of the 'flu and he wanted to believe that, but even the epidemic after the First World War hadn't caused this sort of panic and emptied the streets.

For the moment his own health was holding fine, he'd never been particularly prone to the various maladies that ran through the world. Cholera, typhoid, small pox – even the seasonal gifts of influenza and colds - they'd all left him untouched. Maybe this would as well, but Greta was obviously not going to be so lucky.

They were nearly at the southern reaches of the Quarter when she doubled over and began to retch into the gutter. He crouched beside her, one arm around her shoulder and a hand holding back her hair. The heaves were almost convulsions and the sharp scent of acid was unmistakably threaded with a coppery tang.

When she regained some control and began to breathe through the last of the tremors he spoke quietly. "Maybe you should stay here."

"I'm okay."

He gently tilted her chin towards the light and saw the pink film gathering over the whites of her eyes. "Your definition of 'okay' is a little unusual."

"Then can I get 'interestingly pale'?" With a slight smile she stood and he kept a hand on her arm to help her balance. When she started walking again, he tried to keep them moving straight as she began to stumble across the pavement.

When she knocked into him for the third time, he stooped to put an arm behind her knees and another behind her shoulders and picked her up like a child. She weighed more than he'd thought she would, a modern woman, strong, solid. Strong, solid and attempting to kick him for the indignity.

"I don't need to be carried." The peevishness in her tone didn't entirely cover her fear, or weakness, but it had a fighting note that he could appreciate.

He was less appreciative when a flailing heel managed to catch him in the ribs. "It's just quicker, all right?" He grinned down at her "You're slowing me down."

"I'm helping you!"

With a careful nod he accepted her argument and replied in the most reasonable tone he could. "So do you want to be important enough to get carried or useless and slowing me down?"

There was a pause and the vicious and underhanded use of logic did its work. "Sure, when you put it like that."

The rain wasn't falling anymore; the wind was almost nothing in the narrow streets. It felt like there was a roof over them, a surreal sensation when he could see grey clouds and a pale yellow sun above. The world was not going to end today. Not like this. "We're going to stop this."

Greta's head bobbed a nod against his arm, her fever tracing an almost scorching line across his chilled skin. She spoke almost lightly, complacent. "I know."

That gave him a surprising uplift of hope and he stopped to look at her again as they reached the last block that could charitably be placed in the Quarter. "Know, know?"

Her expression tightened into a slightly sheepish wince. "Well not exactly. I was pretty much going for comfort and denial. You know, optimism?"

"Not lately. I'm not getting anything from Amanda, but I wouldn't if she was ..." His arms were beginning to ache, but he pushed the discomfort to the background as quickly as he did the two obvious reasons Amanda would be unnoticed even if she were within range. "Any ideas?"

"I think we've gone too far from the water."

"Back towards the bridge?"

She nodded and spoke, her tone said 'yes' while her voice said. "Stefan."

The word was muffled against his shirt and it took a moment for him to be sure that, yes, she had just randomly spoken a name. "Who?"

After a moment's silence there was an almost bemused sounding reply. "What?"

"Stefan."

She looked up with what was indeed honest confusion, but he thought he detected a hint of wariness there as well. "What about him?"

"You said the name."

"I did? Are you sure?"

"How else would I …" The eyes were too wide with innocence now, he shook his head with a wry smile. "… you're delaying."

"A little bit. Promise you won't get mad?"

"Why do people keep asking me that? I'm not going to get mad, Greta."

"He's a guy that knows Methos. Kinda. I think he wants to kill him."

He tried to keep his laughter to a minimum to avoid jogging her. "You say that like there's anyone who doesn't. Immortal?"

"Yes, but I don't think he wants to hurt them."

His mind took an abrupt turn again. "He doesn't want to hurt who?"

"Joe and Amanda." It wasn't delaying tactics this time, she had gone again; her eyes were unfocussed, her voice lower and quieter even than before.

He tried to speak as calmly as he could, not wanting to jolt her out of wherever she'd gone. "Stefan was the one who took them?"

"He saved them. He wants Doyle."

That wasn't a yes or a no, but he latched onto the new revelation. "I thought he wanted Adam."

"He can't have both? Don't be so mean to the poor boy, he has enough problems. Just listen to him talk …" Her tone was beginning to gain the absent disinterest that had signalled the complete loss of coherence earlier. He had to keep her on track.

"The Xerxesi took Amanda and Joe, right?"

"Only because he told them to."

"Stefan told them to?"

"Did he?"

"You just said … are you delaying again? If an Immortal has Amanda …"

She looked at him with such complete incomprehension that he thought she'd finally gone, but at last she blinked. When her eyes opened they were hazed, but they'd lost the blankness. "We have to get back to the bridge."

"Then we go back to the bridge."

The ache in his arms had settled into a dull thrumming that he could no longer quite ignore and the less said about his back the better. He made a mental note to start working out with larger weights, or to ask Greta to diet in case he ever had to carry her around Paris again. He let his mind skip over his grocery list, the last set Joe's band had played at Le Blues, anywhere except to the narrowing list of possibilities ahead.

When the hit of Immortality came on the approach to the bridge he nearly stumbled. As he made his way carefully down the steps to the verge he could make out two figures. A few steps closer and the relief of recognition flooded in.

Joe lay propped up against the sparse grass of the bank, beside him a smaller figure that had to be Stefan. The young man rose and stood with the sort of poise boys of his apparent age had no way to possess. A sword was in his hand but there was no sense of imminent attack. Even so, MacLeod drew his katana from inside the folds of his coat after gently placing Greta beside the Watcher.

Keeping one eye on the Immortal, he touched his finger tips to Joe's neck, searching for the pulse. Like the breathing, it was weak and irregular, but it was persistent.

He stood and moved between the two mortals and the still patiently waiting Stefan. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

"… good?"

The boy smiled with a polite lack of recognition he was reasonably sure was completely false. It wasn't ego on his part so much as most Immortals seemed to have heard of him – for one reason or another. Fitz, for instance, had ensured there were areas of southern England he probably couldn't set foot in without being laughed at for the next century.

"Get away from him."

Stefan obediently stepped further away from Joe, keeping his blade down. "I do not wish to fight you."

"Amanda?"

"May well wish to fight you, but I think she favoured other prey." The deadpan delivery unnerved him slightly; there was no hint of amusement on the boy's expression, none at all. Even Methos had the kindness to give slight clues. He decided to assume Stefan was completely serious until proven otherwise.

"She's gone after the Xerxesi?"

"I didn't like to ask."

"You're Stefan." It was a statement not a question, which made a change, but it seemed like a good idea to get a verification to go with his assumption.

The other Immortal dipped his head after a short hesitation. "Matt … Adam mentioned me?"

"No." He decided not to mention who had. Trust was a fragile thing at the best of times and introducing their very own brain spy would probably not help the détente.

"Six centuries I worked on being a ghost and now ... did I miss an announcement?"

He was beginning to see what Greta had quite literally meant when she'd said to listen to Stefan talk; he was using modern words but archaic phrasing, jarring in a way. It suggested he didn't speak to people often enough to get a sense of the times and hadn't done for a long while.

Ghost to everyone.

He let none of his creeping sympathy into his tone, but he ensured the utmost sincerity as he spoke. "It won't get passed around. Are you with them?"

"The Xerxesi? Not really. I join them every century or so as an acolyte, it was as good a place to wait for Adam as any … fortunately for your friends."

"But you didn't tell them to take Amanda and Joe?"

"Because, naturally, they'd listen to a fourteen year old boy."

"It's been a long day. Who is in charge?"

"Doyle, I think."

"… what?" It wasn't his most intelligent response, but that didn't seem to disturb Stefan's thoughtful musing.

"I could be wrong. He wore the bone relic on his wrist to prove he was Vatican sent, but several of the Xerxesi have fallen ill. If it were their true commander, the relic should not have allowed it. And, of course, he is Immortal. I went to the bridge to see if Doyle was where he should be but I was interrupted. When I returned to their base he was gone, but your friends had been placed in the cleansing room."

"You're sure it's Doyle?"

Stefan shrugged. "Of course not, but it is an appealing notion, isn't it? An organisation dedicated to his preservation and containment; surely he would find a way to control it eventually. Otherwise it's like thinking Immortals wouldn't infiltrate the Watchers."

He was looking pointedly towards Joe and MacLeod realised why at the weak cough and croaking voice. "Thanks"

In the instant he returned to the Watcher's side, but already the man was slipping back into unconsciousness.

Briefly he wondered whether he was succumbing as thoughts and theories whirled their way around a mind too exhausted to process much of anything. There was one immediately nagging question.

"If it's not Doyle, who's under the bridge?"

Stefan automatically looked at the spot of water in question and then shrugged. "I have no idea. Is that what Adam was looking for in there? I assumed he'd thrown himself in to escape someone."

"You do know him."

Mirrored half-smiles gave them a shared moment as they both considered the lengths the man would go to in his efforts to stay alive.

Stefan's smile disappeared first, his eyes hard to such a degree it would be impossible to think of him as a child again. "Better, I think, than you."

"Why do you say that?"

"You haven't killed him yet."

"He told me what happened with Doyle and … he's changed."

The tone was utterly flat but Stefan still managed to convey the absolute maximum of uncaring disgust. "Has he?"

He had nowhere near enough time to play Devil's Advocate, especially when he wasn't sure he was on the right side of the argument. "Will you help us?"

"I'll look after these two … my disagreement with Adam does not extend to harming mortals unfortunate enough to know him."

"Greta …" He turned to look at the woman who was staring fixedly at the river.

Only her eyes moved, swivelling to him like a doll's and just as glassy. "He won't harm us."

"Is he lying?"

"All the time."

Stefan made a disquieted sound but he ignored him as Greta closed her eyes and let out a long breath. For a heartbeat he thought she'd given up, but her chest finally rose with a wet stuttering.

"Stay with me, Greta."

Words on a whisper, he leaned closer to catch them. "… going anywhere. I'm right here, watching the bodies go by." Her voice strengthened like a guttering candle flaring. "Place Saint-Michel. Amanda went …"

MacLeod swallowed and stood as she subsided again. "I'll be right back … Stefan …" A request and a warning was in his tone and he didn't have to finish. The Immortal gave a salute with his sword, the model of a gentleman.

"They will come to no harm. On my honour, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

He nodded. "Thank you. Adam and another Immortal – Richie - are going to be coming this way, let them know where I've gone."

Stefan murmured an assent but MacLeod was already striding towards Place Saint-Michel, trying not to consider the irony.