Chapter Nine
Chivalry

When JD Dunne came running along the corner of the wrap around porch surrounding the Travis home, he expected Nathan to be facing off mad cultists in red robes. Instead, he found the former medic lying against the wooden floorboards, his eyes staring blankly into some unknown place beyond JD's ability to see. JD's heart clenched at the sight of the healer, before he raised his eyes to the darkness, searching for the enemy he knew was there but had yet to see.

As the newest member of the team, JD often felt out of his depth, even though he had proven his value numerous times to Chris Larabee over the past year. When he had come into the company of the six men who were in their way accomplished as they were eclectic, JD had never expected their acceptance. In the beginning, he thought he was tolerated but in truth, as Vin admitted one night when they were both drinking hard at Paloma's, their group felt most complete when there was a youngest for them to care about. During the war, Vin had played the role but now it was JD's turn.

"Nathan," JD dropped to his knees next to the tall black man who was facing away from him. He was tossing his head from side to side, his face filled with anguish and JD wondered what terrible thing he was seeing during his delirium. A spot of blood against Nathan's collar made JD examine the skin near the fabric and he soon discovered the small pinprick against Nathan's throat. It had struck him just beneath the ear and whatever it was that penetrated his skin, it was small enough to reduce the man to his current incapacitated condition.

A slight whoosh of sound suddenly broke against the grain of the crickets chirping and nocturnal quiet. JD turned around in its direction only to feel something bite into his arm. It was strong enough to penetrate the fabric of his tuxedo jacket, until he could feel it entering his skin, no doubt in the same way it had done to Nathan and possibly Josiah.

"Aw crap..." he started to curse and felt the warmth spreading over his body, aware that in seconds he would be caught in the grips of the same trap that had ensnared his friends.


"You're finished," a derisive voice spoke, and JD looked up to see Peter Nichols staring at him wearing a smirk on his face, after it was all said and done.

JD sat outside Professor Orin Travis's office, his knuckles still bandaged from the nurse's treatment, seeing doom in Mariette Nichols face as she walked past with her son, Peter. The dress on her back was worth his college tuition and she regarded him like something left behind on the sole of her shoe. Her son, sporting the considerable black eye and split lip JD had given him earlier, grinned in satisfaction.

As he passed by JD, Peter made a slashing motion across his throat, gloating with triumph because money and position had given him the last laugh and JD saw his future, disintegrating with that smarmy smile. Leaning heavily back into the bench, JD blinked slowly, aware of just how badly this was going to go, even before he was summoned into the Professor's office. Turning away from mother and son, he decided staring at them would change nothing and served to remind him what a moment of temper was going to cost him.

"Mr Dunne," Gloria Potter, the Professor's very efficient secretary interrupted his defeated thoughts. "Professor Travis will see you now."

JD remembered how he'd been shown into the office, his heart was pounding so loudly, they were almost a drum beat. He entered the dignified room with its shelves of leather bound books, its wood panel walls and the sturdy walnut desk behind which Orin Travis held court. The smell of old books always comforted him but not today, not when he saw Travis looking at him with a sombre expression that did not bode well for the rest of the meeting.

"How bad is it Sir?" JD asked before the Professor could speak. Normally speaking out of turn was out of character for JD who revered Travis, not merely as the head of the college and the curator of the university museum, but as a man he respected.

"They've revoked your scholarship, son."

From the moment he calmed down after beating up Peter Nichols for calling him the bastard child of some pick me up girl, JD expected the worst. Months of bullying from Peter, a member of Albuquerque's more prominent families, had resulted in an explosion of fury JD had been unable to control. His ma had worked all her life to make sure he had money enough to get him through college with the help of his scholarship. She'd died not long after he'd graduated, and JD still felt the sting of her loss.

Although his father died during the war, Peter had taken great relish in promoting the rumour JD was a bastard. While such insults were something he'd been accustomed to all his life, hearing his mother being called a tramp was too much for him to bear so soon after her death. He'd gone after Peter, unleashing months of pent up fury, needing to be restrained by his classmates before he caused the snotty bastard too much harm.

Now it appeared Nichols had the last laugh after all.

JD felt the air escape out of his lungs like someone had deflated him like a balloon. He slumped forward, bracing himself on the edge of the Professor's desk, knowing his life was over. He would become just another face on the breadlines, consigned to the scrap heap of unrealised potential. All that study and effort had been for nothing. He wanted to cry but he would not let the Professor see how devastating this news was. At the very least, he'd walk out of here with his head held high.

"I'm sorry Mr Dunne," the Professor apologised. "I did everything I could to keep this from happening, but Mariette Nichols has a lot of pull. Aside from being a member of the school board, many of the others are her friends. She wanted you expelled but the compromise was the loss of your scholarship."

Compromise? JD almost snorted. Mariette Nichols knew perfectly well he was on his own, relying on the pittance his mother had saved all her life to send him to college. Even then it was his scholarship that got him here. What she left hadn't been enough to cover his living expenses for the years of study. To make ends meet, JD worked nights as a busboy. Without a scholarship, he couldn't afford to remain in school. It wasn't an expulsion, but it finished him just the same.

"Well that's it then," JD managed to say, his mood descending into resignation since anger would avail him nothing. "I'm done."

Peter was right about that, he thought ruefully.

"Not necessarily," the Professor countered. "If you can make the tuition, you can stay."

"I don't have that kind of money," JD stated shaking his head, wondering if the man knew the suggestion was a carrot dangling out of his reach. "I've been working nights just to stay on campus."

Travis didn't speak for a long time, eyeing him with deep contemplation. With sadness, JD thought how much he would miss being in the man's classes, how lively their debates had been about history and ancient cultures. He had an ear for languages and had picked up several since he began his study and now it was all over. The dreams of his future, turning to ash in the wake of his fiery temper. Then again, it was probably what Peter wanted.

And then just as JD was about to slip into complete despair, Travis spoke again and said the words that changed his life.

"Are you willing to take a sabbatical for a year?"

JD stared at him with impatience. "It don't matter if I take a year off, I still won't be able to make enough money..."

"I know," Travis stopped him, gesturing JD to let him speak. "But some friends of my need a good translator and someone with an understanding of ancient cultures. The work is unorthodox and dangerous, but if I know Chris Larabee, he'll pay you fairly and what you could make in a year, would pay your college tuition, without you needing to bus tables."

JD had thought it was too good to be true but he was wrong. It wasn't too good to be true.

It was better.


Instead of what truly happened, JD now found himself standing at the end of a line. An endless breadline filled with grim faces and desperation. He looked at his clothes and saw himself clad in workman's clothes, no different than the others standing in this conveyor belt of misery. As he stood there, freezing in the cold, hands digging into his pockets trying to gain some warmth, he looked down the road and saw a car speeding past. It was shiny and gleaming, catching all the sun there was on this dismally grey day.

As it sped past him, he saw Peter Nichols through the window, making the same slashing gesture across his throat, grinning.


When enough time passed and none of his associates returned to the room, Ezra Standish began to get concerned. Despite his injury, he left the safety and warmth of the Professor's study with instructions to the man and his daughter to remain where they were. Armed with his Remington, Ezra discarded the sling even though his shoulder still ached. However, if there was trouble brewing, he had no wish to be hindered by the restriction on his arm.

Moving stealthily through the house, he arrived at the front door in no time. Josiah had been keeping a vigil on this section of the house, facing the lone street. On the other side was spruce trees, providing too much cover for an enemy to use to their advantage. It took him but a split second to spot Josiah who was lying on the floor, muttering incoherently to himself. No doubt experiencing whatever troubling hallucinations he must have been dosed with, to reduce him to such a state.

Perhaps it was the years spent studying the nuances of behaviour, no matter how subtle, to hone his skills as a grifter, that allowed him to see the sudden movement in the corner of his eye. The figure darted out of the shadows quickly, brandishing the tools with which she intended to incapacitate him. He barely had a second to step out of its line of fire before the poisoned dart was flying through the air. It hit the hard obstruction of wood, small needle incapable of penetrating the surface, before it tumbled to the floor.

Without thinking twice, he opened fire. Shooting into the shadows, where the robed figure had vanished, the gunshots only serve to shake loose from the foliage, the men awaiting amongst the tall grass and spruce trees, ready to attack. There were at least five of them. While his instincts told him to grab Josiah and pull the big man through the doorway, Ezra also knew with his arm the way it was, he could not manage it without getting them both killed.

Instead, he wasted no time taking aim and firing at the first Erran he saw. The explosion of gunfire scattered the others but this time, they were not armed with blades. At their dispersal, Ezra hurried towards Josiah, hoping the delay might allow him to get the big man to his feet. He no sooner wrapped his hand around Josiah's arm when a bullet whizzed past his ear.

"Oh bother!" Ezra cursed and was almost forced to flatten himself on the floorboards when it struck the wall behind him, sending splinters in all directions.

"Mr Sanchez!" Ezra hissed, "this is no time to be lying down on the job!"

Unfortunately, Josiah was beyond hearing him.

The older man was caught completely in his delirium, calling out a name the seven knew well. It was one they only heard when the man was in a drunken stupor and though he never explained who she was to him, it was clear, she was someone he loved dearly, whose loss was so deep, recovery seemed impossible. Ezra saw the shooter appear again through the trees and returned fire, this time, his aim was better, and he saw the man spasm in pain before collapsing into the grass.

"MR SANCHEZ! MOVE!" Ezra repeated himself more forcefully, using all the strength he could muster to haul Josiah to his feet, his good arm screaming in protest at the exertion, since he needed his injured one to fire. The forceful demand provoked Josiah into moving, though Ezra doubted he was aware of anything beyond his hallucination. The two of them stumbled through the front door, just as bullets exploded behind them.

He saw one graze Josiah's leg without the big man having the slightest awareness of it. Josiah was still lost in his stupor, moaning for the woman he'd lost, even as he trailed blood across the front landing. A surge of uncharacteristic panic filled the gambler at that moment as he pulled Josiah to safety, wondering what condition JD and Nathan were in presently. He had heard no gunshots from the other side of the house and could not imagine the Erran attacking from only one direction, not after what they'd done at the museum.

Almost on cue, he heard glass breaking and knew the Erran were about to invade the house unimpeded. Shutting the front door with a loud slam, even as more bullets dug into the wood from the outside, Ezra got to his feet and hurried towards the breakage. He was running up the corridor when he heard more alarming sounds, this time of scuffling, like those belonging to bodies in struggle.

Ezra burst into the room and saw Mary Travis writhing against the grip of the behemoth he and Josiah had confronted at the museum. He had his massive arm locked around her throat, prepared to snap her slender neck if he did not get what he wanted. The man's eyes widened and then narrowed with calculation as his gaze brushed Ezra's and he tightened his grip, turning Mary's face red from suffocation.

"Give me the Heart NOW!" He bellowed, speaking not to Ezra but to Orin Travis.

Ezra saw the hesitation in Orin's face at handing over the heart but overriding that was the fear for his daughter's life and knew there and then, he would fold. How could he not? Ezra wasn't about to let him face the choice and aimed his gun at the man's head.

"You won't be alive long enough to pull the trigger," Ezra warned smoothly. His Remington was raised to put a bullet in the man's forehead f he did not let Mary go this instant.

"The same might be said for you," the voice that brushed his ear like a lover's kiss was decidedly female, with a hint of exotic accent. "Put down the gun or you'll die where you stand."

To illustrate the point, something pressed up against his spine that felt like the barrel of a gun.

Ezra exhaled with a frown, giving Mary a look of apology at being helpless to stop what was about to happen. Even if he chose to ignore his assailant and make the shot, it was likely he would be dead before he pulled the trigger. The inconvenience of it annoyed him to no end. With an almost imperceptible expression on his face, Ezra allowed the barrel of his gun to lower, his finger holding it by the trigger guard.

"Now," she spoke behind Ezra. "You will give us the Heart and your pillar."

"I can give you the Heart," Orin declared defeated, his expression grim because he knew he could not bear the thought of any harm coming to Mary, even if it was likely these Erran would kill them all as soon as they got their hands on the artefact. "But the Pillar isn't here."

"Where is it?" She demanded. Her ire at his answer was reflected by the sharp jab in Ezra's back.

"It's in a vault at the Albuquerque bank," Orin answered without hesitation.

"Get the Heart!" The man barked. "Do it now!"

"Professor..." Ezra started to object when he felt the cold steel shoved painfully against his spine to warn him back into silence.

"It would be most unfortunate if I have to put a big hole in your infidel back!" The woman hissed.

"Come now," Ezra said smoothly, "I find your intolerance most offensive. After all, I did not bring up the fact that I was being held at gunpoint by a woman. It certainly isn't fair for you to remark about my religious affiliations."

"Be silent!" She ordered, and Ezra noticed the Professor retrieving the Heart from where he had stored it, inside a wall safe in his office, shortly after returning to the residence.

Ezra knew the instant they got their hands on the Heart, there was only one thing to be done and with more windows being broken and door kicked in, he knew they would soon be surrounded by the Erran. The Erran had planned to kill everyone at the museum, Ezra had no reason to believe that the cultist intended to change their pattern of behaviour.

"Dad don't do it!" Mary managed to rasp as Orin approached her and her captor with the heart.

In retaliation for her outburst, the man snapped his arm against her windpipe, turning her words into a hoarse groan of pain.

"Here take it!" Orin snapped, the action having the desired effect on him and he handed over the artefact to the Erran. Mary's face was almost purple, with tears streaming down her cheeks from her bloodshot eyes.

Her condition infuriated him, and Ezra declared coldly. "Far be it for me to behave anything but chivalrously towards a woman, but I can endure this no more."

Without warning, he snapped his head back hard, striking the woman's head with the back of his skull. No sooner than the action was done, he spun around like a dancer doing the jitterbug and shoved away the hand holding the gun. She pulled the trigger just as one of the Erran entered the room and blew out the back of his head. Brain matter splattered against the wall as the man collapsed to the ground.

The distraction gave Mary time to act as the hand around her throat loosened when the behemoth saw Ezra snatching the gun away from the woman behind him. Mary brought her foot down against his leg and dug her nails into his arm, preparing to take flesh with her.

"WHORE!" He snapped and swatted her with a back handed blow. Mary tumbled against a small table against the wall, landing badly. Ezra winced when he heard the furniture breaking beneath her.

"Mary!" Orin shouted. However, before he could go to her, he was intercepted by the towering man whose only interest at this point was the artefact he was holding. Snatching it out of Orin's grip while the Professor was still staring at his daughter in worry, his face split into a grin of triumph.

The woman whose gun Ezra had liberated instead pulled out a long, thin object he recognised immediately as a blowgun, no doubt what she used to incapacitate the others, when she saw her compatriot had the heart.

"Krestos! GO!" She ordered. "NOW!"

The man called Krestos barked orders at more of the Erran who entering the room, intending to deal with Ezra, before he made a running jump through the window. With his considerable bulk, he smashed through the window like a wrecking ball, leaving fragments of wood and glass across the floor and rug, in his wake. The curtains billowed inwardly as the chill of the night air was swept into the room.

Ezra now, armed with two guns, aimed her own weapon at her face, while the other was brandished in the Erran closing in. Orin had rushed over to Mary, who was lying in the ruins of the table she had landed on. As they closed in, Ezra said smoothly. "Call them off," he warned her, "or the first bullet goes through your head."

She looked at him with a smile. "I think not." Her eyes narrowed with calculation, proceeding to lift the blowgun to her lips. "I think there is too much misplaced chivalry in you to shoot a woman and even if you did, my brothers will cut you all down to pieces the instant you pull the trigger."

"Then I guess we have an interesting predicament ahead of us, my dear lady."

"I'd sooner you not," Chris Larabee's voice suddenly spoke as the leader of the Seven reached a hand around her face and yanked away the blowgun. She spun around to face the new arrival just as gunshots broke out from the window and from the hallway entrance. Ezra dropped to his feet to avoid being shot, scrambling towards Orin and Mary to ensure they did not get caught by the crossfire.

As Vin and Buck cut down the Erran in the room and outside of it, the woman glared at Chris Larabee and said with a hiss. "This is the second time tonight we have faced each other. The third time will be the last. Stay out of our affairs if you wish to live."

Without warning, she dropped an ampule against the floor, the small glass orb shattered spectacularly. Instinctively, Chris stepped back, having been on the receiving end of this woman's potions once already. However, what it contained was nowhere as noxious as what had disorientated him previously. Nevertheless, it hissed as soon as it was exposed to air, turning into a thick, enveloping cloud of lavender smoke that spread across the room in a thick, obscuring fog.

"We have the heart! Withdraw!" She yelled in a language that sounded very much like Arabic.

And like wraiths, the Erran receded into the fog and vanished.