DOUBLE JEOPARDY

Caen, France: Saturday 27 December 2042

"Amanda's in town?" Methos asked Duncan, dangling a lacy black bra from one finger. A thong of black and silver satin hung from the nose of the Chinese porcelain lion in front of the stone fireplace, and, like breadcrumbs, other articles of clothing led the way to Duncan's bedroom door, now firmly shut. Methos knew the woman was an immortal; now that he was in the house he could sense the double presence, like a faint echo.

"No," Duncan said shortly, giving a sharp tug to tighten the drawstring on his pajama trousers, which were also black and made of silk. Though the room was chilly, that was all he wore. Methos took a moment to appreciate that.

"It's not Cassandra's, is it?" Methos asked in simulated horror then took a closer look at the bra. "No. Not her size." He dropped the bra back on the chair where he'd found it then lounged on the leather sofa, his feet on one arm and his head on the other, using the folded plaid blanket as a pillow. "Let's see," he began, ostentatiously stroking his short beard between thumb and forefinger, in the clichéd manner of deep thinkers everywhere. MacLeod, true to form, was bucking fashion and was still clean-shaven. At least his hair wasn't clipped extremely short; it was long enough to curl at the back of the neck and about the ears.

Methos went back to considering the identity of the woman in the other room. "MacLeod's immortal lovers who are still alive and have a taste for exotic and expensive accoutrements," he mused aloud. "Who could it be?"

Duncan stalked past him on bare feet into the kitchen, and then came the sound of running water. Methos watched Duncan's image in the mirror over the fireplace and started ticking off names on his fingers. "Kira of Sparta—no, I'd say she's more of an athletic type . It's clearly not Grace."

Duncan's broad shoulders twitched a bit, probably a silent snort of laughter, then he brought out cups—three of them, Methos was pleased to see.

Methos kept going. "Elena and Angelina are both still married…" Ingrid might have worn a bra like that, but Duncan had taken her head some fifty years ago. Nefertiri—also dead, also by Duncan's hand. Kristen definitely would have worn something like that, but she was dead at Methos's hand. Michele, yes, but she was too young and too much like a student or a daughter; Duncan wouldn't touch her, at least not until she was a century old or so. Who was left? Ah, yes.

"Ceirdwyn the warrior princess," Methos called out. "Except I see her in leather." He hadn't actually, but he certainly wouldn't mind. Methos tilted his head back far enough so that he could actually see Duncan, who was now slicing bread with a knife. "Don't tell me you finally breached the walls of Castle Raven?" Alex Raven was one of the very few women who had resisted Duncan's charms, though according to a chronicle from the mid 1700s she had succumbed to Connor's charms, such as they were.

"Are all Watchers such voyeurs?" Duncan demanded, the knife upright in his hand.

"Reading chronicles is better than watching soap operas,' Methos said cheerfully. "The Dunanda shippers—

"The what?"

"The Duncan-Amanda shippers," Methos explained. "The ones who think you and Amanda should be in relationship."

"Oh good god," Duncan said, looking stricken.

"They had betting pools on how long she would stay with you during visits." Methos shook his head sadly. "I never won."

"Amanda will be happy to hear that," Duncan said, cutting the last slice with a decided downward stroke. "She doesn't like to be predictable."

Neither did Methos, which is why he'd stopped by to ask Duncan if he wanted to go spelunking beneath the streets of Paris in the old tunnels and catacombs. Duncan, however, was often predicable, and finding him with a woman was no surprise. Figuring out who was the fun part. "Ooh," Methos said, sitting up and summoning all the gleeful relish of a thirteen-year-old. "Is it someone new?"

Duncan didn't answer. "Why are you here?"

"Mi casa es su casa, remember?" Methos asked, making sure his tone stayed cheerful and light. "You gave me the door combination."And he'd given Duncan the key to his house in England, but Duncan had never visited him there. "If you didn't want me to use it," Methos said, "you should have changed it. Or put a tie on your door."

"I don't wear ties."

"I could buy you one. Silk?" he suggested silkily.

"I adore silk," a husky, yet ultra feminine, voice said from the bedroom door.

Methos had gotten to his feet and turned at the word "I" the better to see (and guard against) the mystery woman. Duncan always did have good luck with the ladies, and this one was delectable. Dark hair, green eyes, long legs, bedroom eyes, full lips, and wearing the other half of Duncan's pajamas. And nothing else.

Methos took a moment to appreciate that before asking, "Do you adore leather, too?"

She smiled, slowly, and stretched, so that the bottom of the shirt barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. "Can you see me in that? As a warrior princess?"

"Most definitely."

She stretched again, first one shoulder and then the other, like a cat, and the black silk robe moved in mysterious ways. She traced the line of her neck with a delicate finger, starting at the hollow of her throat and ending just under that exquisitely sensitive spot below the ear.

"Or in a ribbon," Methos added.

Now the fingertip traced its way back down. "Green?

Before Methos could answer, Duncan arrived to take charge, but before he could do that, she kissed him on the check and linked her arm through his, saying, "I didn't realize you two were friends, Duncan."

"I didn't know you two were… friends, either," he said, with admirable good-nature.

Then she turned to Methos and pouted prettily. "You didn't tell me about him."

"Can you blame me?"

"Yes." She smiled as she met his eyes, then her gaze lingered on his hands, even as she hugged Duncan's arm close to her breast. "But I can forgive you, too."

Methos rather liked the sound of that.

Then she looked up at Duncan. "Shall we forgive him together, Duncan?"

Methos carefully did not smile—or grin—as Duncan blinked then cleared his throat. "Um…" The faux-cheerful smile flared, Duncan's standard retreat from awkward moments, and he said brightly, "Nothing to forgive!"

"Then we'll just have fun," she said happily and kissed him on the cheek before stepping over to Methos and kissing his cheek, too. The scent of Duncan was on her skin. "I'll be back in a moment," she said and disappeared into the bathroom.

Methos was amused to see that Duncan was studiously examining the pattern of the black and white tiles underfoot and then the wood beams of the ceiling, and finally the window panes in the corner, all in an effort to look anywhere but at him.

"So…," Duncan said finally, with a careful exhalation.

"So," Methos agreed. With unspoken assent, they both went to the kitchen. "You know her as…?"

"Kate Cavanaugh," Duncan answered, cracking eggs into a bowl. "I met her in Ireland, five years ago. She took on a student a few weeks later, and that was finished last month. Kate was in Paris for the holidays, and we ran into each other at an exhibition at the Louvre and…"

Enough said. Methos nodded as he reached for a cutting board and a knife.

"I didn't want to name you," Duncan said next.

"Thanks," Methos said. He did like his privacy. "She calls me Philippe, from our time at the court of the Sun King, 1660 or so."

"And I should call you…?"

"Adam's fine."

"What do you call her?" Duncan asked, as Methos took an orange from the fruit bowl and tossed it high in the air.

Methos caught the spinning orange behind his back in his left hand then smiled with the utmost charm. "Serena."

"Who's Amanda?" Kate asked at the end of breakfast, when the plates were empty save for crumbs and the coffee was nearly gone.

Methos gave Duncan a cheerful smile, clearly waiting for him to respond. Kate was waiting, too, sipping from her cup and watching Duncan with interested eyes.

"A friend," Duncan answered.

"What's she like?" Kate asked next.

Describing Amanda was like grabbing a tornado. Duncan finally came up with: "Unpredictable."

Kate turned to Methos for more, and he immediately replied: "She's smart and sexy, and she doesn't follow rules."

Kate slowly twirled a lock of hair around one finger. "Is she…?"

"Oh, yes," Methos replied, and Kate smiled as she lowered her eyes and sipped at her coffee again. "I think you'd like her," Methos said judiciously. "Don't you, MacLeod?"

Duncan opened his mouth and tried to think of what to say.

Then Kate suggested brightly, "Shall we invite her to join us?"

Duncan managed an incoherent: "Um," as various possibilities flashed through his mind. Who would be with who? Methos was smiling again, his chin propped on his hand, his eyes slightly unfocused, obviously considering possibilities of his own. "I don't… think that's a good idea," Duncan said finally. "Amanda likes to be the center of attention."

Kate shrugged one shoulder, and the silk of the robe she was wearing slipped down and away. Her skin gleamed. Now her finger was playing with her lips, tracing the lower one, sliding in between. "I could pay attention to her, while you two pay attention to us."

The possibilities suddenly multiplied, and his mind supplied full-color images and sound. Duncan blinked then shot a desperate glance at Methos, only to find that the other man's lips, instead of curving upward, were now slightly parted and his eyes were glazed. "No," Duncan said firmly then stood to gather the plates and also get the hell away from there.

Duncan wasn't all that excited about clambering through ancient tunnels, many of which would probably be flooded, but Kate, as always, was enthusiastic. Duncan had yet to hear her say no to anything.

The three of them went to a store to pick up supplies and bought a pair of boots for Kate, then took the train to Paris. Throughout the city, the tunnel entrances had been blocked off by the authorities for safety reasons, but the basement of Methos's building held a way in, and he knew his way around. They spent the day beneath the streets, stepping over sewage, admiring the occasional wall painting, picking their way between piles of neatly stacked bones and pillars of leftover limestone, and estimating the age of the detritus they found.

"Eighteen hundreds," Methos said, holding up a broken bottle of green glass.

Kate took it from him, tilting her head so the lamp strapped to her forehead provided better illumination, then carefully rubbed her thumb along the broken edge and then the bottom. "I'd say seventeen hundreds, from the color, the double ring on the lip, and this pontil scar on the base."

Methos accepted her correction easily, saying, "I've usually concerned myself more with what's in the bottle than the bottle itself."

"Have you worked in a winery?" Duncan asked Kate, for such knowledge of old glass was unusual, even in immortals.

"Yes, when I was a nun in a convent in Andalusia," Kate answered.

"A nun?" Methos echoed, and his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth were all upraised. "You?"

Kate's answering smile was demure—but not innocent. "I didn't stay long."

Duncan completely understood. He'd lasted less than a year in a monastery. As he'd been leaving St. Christopher's he'd met Kristen Giles, who had been only too happy to help him make up for lost time. "I didn't stay long, either," he said.

Kate laughed aloud as she looked him over with a lustful thoroughness that warmed him despite the damp chill of the air and the cold seeping from the rock walls, and so Duncan looked her over in the same way. Even though she was wearing rubber boots, loose pants, and one of his sweaters that was much too big for her, she moved with the strength and grace of a dancer, and the long lazy glance from under lowered lashes was sultry enough to raise the temperature another few degrees.

A train rumbled by, somewhere off to the right and slightly below. When it had passed, Methos asked, "When where you a nun?"

Kate set the bottle back on the muddy ground as she answered. "The convent was in the tenth century, but I learned about glass in Venice in the seventeenth, after I married a journeyman in the trade. I've kept the family business all these years, though we had to leave Venice because of the flooding." Her smile brought out dimples. "And we're still making glass."

"For wine?" Duncan asked, for Kate hadn't spoken of this before.

"Yes, and thousands of other foods and drinks. The plastiphage has really opened that market to glass, though it's devastating other industries. They say ecoterrorists released it."

"Ecoterrorists," Methos repeated, with a shake of his head, using that sarcastic tone that could be taken in any number of ways. "Terrorizing the economy for the sake of the ecosystem."

"If it's a choice between money or the planet," Duncan said, "I'd like a planet, thanks." A livable one. He was tired of watching species disappear.

"Here I'd been thinking that all those little bits of plastic floating in the oceans would outlast even us," Methos said. "and now they're being eaten by the great plastiphage plague."

"And so ceramic and glass are looking better all the time," Kate said. "My company's most profitable branch is Kerametal; it specializes in ceramics for extreme conditions."

"Good for space ships," Methos piped up then explained, "Kerametal is one of our prime suppliers, and Serena is one of its lead engineers, as well as an owner."

"Oh," Duncan said, taking another look at his lovely bedpartner of the last few days. "I've been thinking of you as a weaver."

"Oh, I am," she said. "Weaving was my first craft. Then pottery, then glass and metals, and now ceramics." She grinned cheerfully. "I like to make things." She patted Methos on the forearm, saying, "So does Philippe."

"Oh," Duncan said, now taking another look at his enigmatic friend of the last fifty years. "Weaving?"

"Only stories," Methos replied lightly, then answered, "I was a stone carver in Ireland, and then a goldsmith. And I've worked in leather and clay, and quite a few other trades." Methos lifted one shoulder a fraction, dropped it. "Always more as a craftsman than an artist."

"You do excellent work," Kate contradicted then told Duncan, "When I lived in Kil-dara, I used to walk past one of his stone crosses every day. It was great fun to look at; he'd carved mice hiding all over it, and one very busy cat."

Duncan immediately took advantage of that opening. "Did you two meet in Ireland?"

Kate and Methos exchanged glances, each waiting for the other to reply. Eyebrows lifted, lips twitched, and somehow they came to silent agreement. "In Aurelianum," Methos said. "A bit south of here."

"Attila and his Huns were coming through Gaul," Kate explained, "and we found ourselves besieged for a time. Along with Lucianus, another immortal."

"Close quarters," Duncan observed. Immortals tended to prefer room to maneuver.

"Indeed," Methos agreed. "Happily, all three of us were friendly."

"Very friendly," Kate murmured, and there was another exchange of glances and more half-smiles.

Duncan decided not to take advantage of that opening, asking instead, "Did you fight in the Battle of Chalons?"

"God, no," Methos answered with a shudder. "I went back to Ireland as soon as I could and stayed there for three centuries, far away from the crumbling empire. Where did you go, Serena?"

"I was just coming from Ireland, so I went east. I wanted to see the world, and Lucianus went with me all the way to Constantinople. I last saw him in Sweden, about 1350. Have you seen him since then?" Kate asked Methos.

He looked away and didn't answer, and Kate said softly, "Oh." She closed her eyes for a moment then said simply, "When?"

"In 1542." Then Methos looked at Duncan before adding, "In Scotland, a place called Glen Coe."

"Ramirez?" Duncan said in surprise.

"You knew him?" Kate asked, sounding pleased.

"Only by reputation," Duncan said. "My teacher often speaks of him." He fixed his gaze on Methos before saying, "You never have, Adam."

Even with the goatee, Methos's lips said more when he wasn't speaking than when he was. A lightning-fast quirk on the right side showed weary wisdom and resignation, with a touch of wistfulness. "Other people have their own memories of him," Methos explained. "I didn't want to intrude."

"Yeah," Duncan agreed quietly. Neither Connor nor Cassandra would like sharing Ramirez with Methos, even centuries after the fact.

"Do you know what happened to Lucianus's katana?" Kate asked next. "It was magnificent."

"Yes, it is," Duncan agreed. He knew that sword intimately. It had sliced him a good one on several occasions. "My teacher has it."

"Really?" she said, lifting an eyebrow. "Do you think he'd let me look at it? I've learned so much about metals since then; I'd love to see it again."

"Ah, the eternal curiosity of the engineer," Methos drawled, but the words came with a fond smile, and Kate –Serena, now—smiled back, showing friendly warmth, not lustful heat.

Even so, as Duncan glanced back and forth between the two of them, he wondered if he should invite Amanda to visit after all. Then Kate looked straight at him—and she was Kate again—with those tempestuous bedroom eyes, and she smiled just for him, and Duncan decided one woman was all he could handle now.

"The sword's been reforged," Duncan told her, "but my teacher can talk to you about that. He was the sword smith." That got him a delighted smile complete with dimples, as if he'd given her a box of chocolates.

"Shall we move on?" Methos suggested. Duncan adjusted the lamp on his forehead, and once more they started down the ancient tunnel of stone.

When they emerged from underground, it was full dark outside. They cleaned up in Methos's place, and then Serena suggested, "Dinner?"

"I know a place," Methos said and led them to one of those little out-of-the-way cafés Paris has long been famous for.

Unfortunately, it wasn't out of the way enough. At the end of the meal, as Serena was laughingly feeding each of them spoonfuls of her crème brulee, an immortal appeared at their table. He knew Duncan, and Duncan knew him, and surprise, surprise, they didn't like each other.

To his credit, Duncan seemed willing to ignore the fellow, but when the other immortal started reminiscing fondly about hanging babies to strangle in nooses made from their own mothers' hair, Duncan pushed back his chair and stood. There was the requisite exchange of insults, complete with threatening body language and cold glares. If they had been wearing gloves, no doubt gloves would have been thrown. The dueling ground was agreed upon. Physicians were unnecessary; seconds were forbidden, and the choice of weapons was understood. The time was set for nine in the evening, less than an hour hence.

Then the immortal walked off, and Duncan sat back down and reached for his water glass.

"Duncan," Serena said in concern.

His answering smile was brilliant, charming—and empty. His thoughts were obviously already on the battle to come. Methos had seen Duncan in this mood before.

"It's all right," Duncan said to Serena. He pulled out his phone and announced, "I'm buying," then punched a few buttons and paid before anyone else could say anything. He turned to Methos. "Hang on to my phone for a bit, would you? I don't want it to get fried." Methos didn't reach for it, and Duncan laid it on the table.

"Duncan," Serena said again, laying her fingertips on the back of his hand. "You don't have to go." Duncan's eyes were full of darkness, and he didn't respond. She turned to Methos for support. "Philippe?"

Methos lifted one hand in resignation. "I've had this conversation before," he told her. He picked up his wine and slouched back in his chair.

Duncan patted Serena's hand gently then stood. She looked up at him, her mouth open to speak, but he kissed her instead. Then he nodded to Methos and walked away, the long black lines of his coat swinging nearly to his heels.

Serena watched him until he was out the door. Then she turned to Methos. "Is he addicted to the quickenings?"

Methos had considered that possibility before. "No," he said. "He's addicted to justice."

She wrinkled her nose, as adorable as a kitten. "It's not his job to rid the world of evil."

Methos decided not to mention Ahriman. Or the Horsemen. Or the Voice of Death or a few dozen Nazis or a Viking who liked to disembowel people or any number of other evil-doers that Duncan had ridden the world of. "MacLeod is a firm believer in the adage that for evil to flourish—"

"Good men need only do nothing," she completed. "And he sees himself as a good man."

Methos had considered that, too. "He has to."

Her smile was tight with pain. "Don't we all?"

Well, no. Methos had long ago decided that not actively being "evil" was enough on most days. "Middling decent" was something to aspire to, and "good" was a rare and unexpected treat. But Duncan was good. And good men fought with honor. Good men followed the rules. Good immortals put their own lives on the line to ensure that justice flourished in the world. Which meant that if they lost, there would be even less justice and less goodness in the world than if they hadn't fought at all.

Single combat to the death was a damned piss-poor system of government or law enforcement, which was precisely why good people usually took full advantage of their numerical superiority and banded together against bad people.

Except that would be against "The Rules." And only bad people broke rules.

Methos sighed. He felt, suddenly, very old and very tired. He finished what was left of his wine, then sat and stared at the thin film of red left behind in the glass.

Serena tossed her napkin on the table. "I can't just sit here. Shall we walk?"

As they picked up their coats, Methos snagged Duncan's phone from the table and slipped it into his pocket. Then Methos and Serena went out into the brisk night air. They walked arm in arm along the narrow streets of Paris, heading east.

After a time, Methos commented, "MacLeod said you recently had a student."

"Yes, these last five years. Sofie was ready to leave."

Methos caught the slight emphasis on the name. "Left early, did she?"

Kate grimaced slightly. "She didn't know enough. But then, they never do. And once they've decided they're ready, they don't see themselves as students anymore, so they don't want to learn." She shrugged in resignation. "I gave Sofie the name of a sword-master. Maybe she'll go. Someday."

"Maybe she will," Methos agreed. He looked up to see the tall towers of the donjon gleaming white in the distance. They passed into the Bois de Vincennes, underneath dark trees, coming ever closer to the dueling ground. It was nearly nine o'clock. "Do you want to watch?" Methos asked.

"No."

"Then let's wait here," he said, and they found a bench along the path. Soon enough, in the distance they heard the faint, harsh clamor of swords.

"Does Duncan have a yearning for death?" Serena asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Don't we all?" Methos asked, echoing her earlier question.

"He's going to get himself killed." She sounded close to tears.

Methos knew exactly how she felt. "Eventually," he had to agree.

At that, Serena turned to look at him, her eyes searching his, and Methos couldn't hide. Some things were easier to see in the dark. "Oh, Philippe," she whispered, her fingertips cool upon his face. "Does he know?" she asked softly. "Have you told him?"

Methos caught her hand in his and stilled it. "I have found," he replied, "that it is hard to tell MacLeod anything." He smiled tightly. "He has to figure things out on his own."

"Don't we all," she said then kissed the back of his hand and laid her head upon his shoulder with a sigh. They sat in the darkness, their fingers intertwined, and waited.

When the lightning came, Methos closed his eyes, not wanting to see. Even so, flashes of jagged white burned through his eyelids, carrying ghosts of splintered pain. Screams echoed between the trees then died away.

"Come," Serena said, and she took his hand and pulled him toward the killing ground. Methos was looking up, hoping to catch of glimpse of the stars, when he heard Serena whisper, "He walks in beauty like the night," and there was Duncan, all the best of dark and light, standing still and silent between gnarled sentinels of trees.

Methos stopped. Even from here, even in the cold, he could catch the scent of boiled blood.

"Come," she urged, looking back at him, even while her body was turned to Duncan. "You can join us, you know."

Oh, Methos knew. Quickenings blasted away reason and restraint in a scorching torrent of lust and power, so that even a goat could look good. Methos wasn't going near Duncan now. "No."

Serena turned to him then, her eyes once more searching his. "He will come to you," she said earnestly. "Someday."

"I know," Methos agreed. He added with a smile, "After all, I still have his phone." But that wasn't a good reason to visit, so Methos gave it to Serena. He brought her hand to his lips, kissed her palm, and then let go. "Take care of him," he said.

Serena had never been one to argue. She nodded, kissed his cheek and whispered, "Au revoir, Philippe," then ran toward Duncan. Methos did not wait to see her reach Duncan, did not stay to see her pull him down with her to the forest floor, did not want to watch them drowning in that irresistible flood of raw desire.

On the long walk home on that winter night, made longer by his meanderings, Methos paused on a bridge above the Seine and looked down into the moving water, ripples flowing to the sea. "A mind at peace with all below," he murmured, wondering if Byron had thought to find peace when he had killed himself, a few years after writing those lines. Instead, he had revived to find himself an immortal, condemned to write elegy after elegy for the mortals he loved.

"The all of thine that cannot die," Methos quoted, remembering his pupil and friend. "Through dark and dread eternity. / Returns again to me."

Below him, the water flowed on, endless to the sea.

Duncan slept fitfully that night, but whenever he woke, Kate was there. He took what she offered, fiercely at first, with the power surging raw along every nerve, as it had beneath the trees; then desperately, clawing his way through the darkness to bury himself in warmth of her, then finally, in the gray dim light of morning when the fires of the quickening had nearly burned away, tenderly, holding her in his arms and brushing the hair back from her face with gentle hands.

"Good morning," she said, smiling up at him.

"Good morning," he answered then immediately added, "Thank you. For last night. I was—"

"I know," she broke in, much to Duncan's relief, and then she hugged him, her arms locked tight across his back, a gesture of pure comfort and reassurance, naked though they were. Duncan relaxed against her, closing his eyes. He wouldn't have minded staying there, but he knew it wasn't comfortable for her, so after a few moments he rolled to one side, bringing her with him, and they got settled again. Duncan fell asleep once more, soothed by the touch of her hands.

When he woke, Kate was still in the bed next to him, but fully dressed and on top of the covers. She was reading the news, lying on her stomach with her knees bent and her feet in the air, like a teenage girl. "Good morning," she said, setting her phone aside. "Or, rather, good afternoon."

Duncan squinted at the window, a bright glowing rectangle of pink against a pink-flowered wall. "Is it really?"

"Almost," she said cheerfully. "Are you hungry?"

His eyes snapped open. "God, yes."

"I had food sent up," she said, "though I'm afraid I drank the coffee and the cocoa has gone cold."

"That's fine," he said, sitting up and taking note of the surroundings in a way he hadn't been interested in doing last night. The bed took up most of the long narrow room. A single dresser stood near the door, and a pair of chairs and a narrow table of dark wood were arrayed beneath the too-pink window against the far wall. And on the table was the food.

He reached for the white cotton robe hanging at the foot of the bed, shrugged it on as he stood, then sat down to eat with single-minded purpose.

Kate joined him at the table. "We're in the Hotel St. Anne," she told him as he took a large bite of a pain au chocolat. Duncan closed his eyes as the buttery flakes melted in his mouth and the chocolate warmed enough to spread across his tongue. "About four blocks from the Bois de Vincennes," her voice went on. "The staff thinks you had a bit too much to drink last night."

Duncan grimaced even as he nodded and chewed. The aftermath of a quickening could be much like a hangover: sensitivity to light and sound and smell, headache, irritability or mood swings, plus an exasperating combination of nausea and hunger. This one, thankfully, wasn't that bad. He was simply hungry. Duncan drained the large cup of liquid chocolate, luxuriating in the thick sweetness, then reached for the pastry again. Kate took the cup and brought it back filled with water, and Duncan drained that, too. He'd lost some blood last night, and he knew he'd be thirsty all day.

He polished off the pastry, a cup of yogurt, and a plate of tartines with a potful of jam before he slowed down. He was still hungry, but he wasn't starving. More protein would help; they could go to lunch soon. But first, to get clean. In the shower, he lathered and scraped and rinsed himself twice before coming out to shave. His clothes were waiting for him, freshly washed and mended.

"Very nice," Kate said when he finally emerged and displayed himself for her approval.

"Very clean," he said in appreciation, rubbing his shirt sleeve where a sword cut had sliced through the fabric.

Her smile was highly amused. "I told the maid you'd fallen down."

"Drunk and disorderly in the gutter, eh?" Duncan said, and he took her by the hand and pulled her into his arms. "Thank you. Again." He kissed her soundly. "You've been marvelous."

"You're welcome," she said. "I've had fun, too." Her dimples showed again. "Lunch?"

Back in Caen that evening, they ate dinner in his house then settled on the sofa with drinks of whisky. Kate was leaning her back against the arm of the sofa while Duncan massaged her feet. "Do you want to talk?" she asked after he'd done her left foot. "About the fight? Or the quickening?"

"No."

"All right," she agreed instantly.

"Thank you," Duncan said yet again, appreciating both her offer and her acceptance. Sometimes talking helped, sometimes it made it worse. He'd rather talk about other things. He cradled her right heel in the palm of his hand and applied gentle pressure with his thumbs to her sole as he asked, "Do you like to be called Kate? Or Serena?"

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I've had many names. Haven't you?"

"No."

"Oh," she said, as her eyebrows went up in surprise. "So you really are Duncan MacLeod. Of the clan MacLeod?"

"Yes."

"Scottish indeed," she murmured. She seemed pensive suddenly, swirling the golden liquid in her glass around. "My birth name was Doirionn. But I haven't used it since the first time I died. The new life needed a new name."

"Many people feel that way," he said then, since she had brought up the subject, he asked, "Where were you born?"

"It's called Ireland now. When I was born, it was Dal Riata, the kingdom of the waves."

"Then we're clan," Duncan said with delight. "That kingdom covered the west of Scotland, too, including Glenfinnan, my birthplace."

She shook her head reprovingly. "That kingdom disappeared a thousand years before you born, Duncan."

"Different names and different boundaries, same people," he said, now walking his thumbs up and down the sole of her foot. "I'll bet that in your village they wove plaid, drank whisky, and raised sheep, same as in mine."

"We stole sheep," she informed him. "And cows."

"Aye," he agreed with a smile. "We stole sheep and cows as well. And we fought and we swore and we kept grudges too long."

"Then you're right," she admitted, matching his smile. "Definitely the same people."

"Same clan," Duncan said and he reached over to the table for his glass then lifted it in a toast. They drank together, then Kate refilled both their glasses. Duncan reached for the lotion and smoothed it into her skin, starting at the ankle and working toward the toes. When he glanced up, Kate was regarding him thoughtfully, her head tilted to one side, green eyes as unblinking as a cat. "What?" Duncan asked.

"Yesterday morning," she said, "when I suggested the three of us could have fun together, did you say no because you don't like threesomes or because you don't like Philippe?"

Once again with Kate, Duncan found himself with open-mouthed and trying to come up with something more eloquent than "um." This time he managed a "Well." Then he added, "I was surprised." Kate lifted an eyebrow, clearly waiting for more, and with good reason. He hadn't answered the question. "I do prefer twosomes," Duncan explained. "It's easier to focus."

Kate nodded, a small smile of understanding on her lips. "Because there's only one 'center of attention'."

Duncan made Kate the center of his attention, leaning forward to reach for her hand and looking into her eyes. "Yes."

Her smiled turned knowing, and she patted his hand. Then she asked: "What is Philippe—Adam—to you, Duncan?"

Duncan had been expecting her follow-up question, and he had come up with an answer to that years before. His bent his head as he industriously went to work on Kate's toes. "A friend."

"That's exactly how you described Amanda."

"Yes," he agreed. "But—"

"But she's a woman," Kate finished for him. "You don't like men?"

Duncan stopped himself from saying "um" and also stopped the massage. He answered plainly, as if she'd asked him about his taste in wine. "In bed, I prefer women. How about you?"

"Oh, I prefer men,' Kate answered, giving him a happy smile and an appreciative look. "But I'm not averse to a change in pace now and then."

Duncan had always found that women could put him through his paces just fine.

"Do you think being with men is wrong?" she asked next.

"No. I used to," he said. "It's what I was taught." He grimaced slightly, remembering. "The church said a lot of things were sinful."

"I remember," Kate said, making a similar face. "Hence my short stay in the convent."

"I think the church was right about some things, but not everything, and certainly not about sex. After all, if I followed those rules, you and I wouldn't be together now." He gave her a happy smile and an appreciative look. "And I'm glad we are."

"As am I," she agreed and they leaned forward enough to kiss. Then Duncan went back to the massage, lightly enough to make her toes start to curl, and then a bit more firmly along the sides. "Oh, yes, right there," she said, and he spent more time on the arch until she sighed and closed her eyes.

He was almost done with her toes when she commented, sounding sleepy and with her eyes still closed, "I've found it's different, being with someone of the same sex — and not just physically. Since I prefer men, for me to want to be with a woman, the emotional connection is stronger."

"You suggested being with Amanda, and you've never even met her," Duncan pointed out.

"That was a foursome, for fun. For a twosome, when we're each others' 'center of attention,' it's… more intense."

"That makes sense," Duncan said. He'd sometimes tumbled into bed with women he barely knew out of simple mutual lust; he'd never done so with a man. A strong emotional connection always enhanced attraction.

"And I remember the women better," Kate added, her eyes still closed, "since there haven't been very many."

He understood that, too. Duncan had lost count of the women long ago, but he remembered every man. Each relationship had developed in a unique way over time, a careful and cautious dance of trust and vulnerability. Trust was always essential between immortals, and it was necessary with the mortals, too, since love between men had long been a dangerous secret to be kept hidden from the world. Some places had grown more tolerant these last fifty years or so, but in many societies having the wrong bedpartner (of any sex) could still get you killed.

He finished the massage with a light allover stroking and another application of lotion then stretched out alongside her on the sofa. He pulled the plaid he'd woven over both of them as a blanket, and smiled as she fingered the weave.

"You're marvelous," Kate said, snuggling against him. "Thank you."

Duncan dropped a light kiss on her forehead. "You're welcome."

They lay there in silence, holding each other, until Kate asked, "Are Amanda and Adam alike?"

Duncan thought about his friends for a moment. "They're both casual about rules, though they'd probably call it being pragmatic. As friends, they both challenge me, they surprise me, and they make me laugh." He smiled ruefully as he admitted, "And they can both be a pain in the ass."

After a pause, Kate said, "You're very lucky." Duncan looked at her in surprise, for she was seldom so serious, and she went on, "To find a friend—a partner—like that is rare. To have two…"

"I know," he said. He'd been very lucky—and he was still very lucky. He had Connor, too.

"And when you lose them…"

"I know," he said again, thinking of Fitzcairn and Richie now. Then Duncan realized that Kate's eyes had filled with tears, and he tightened his arm about her and said gently, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I suppose I do," she said. "Thank you." She laid her head on his shoulder and intertwined her fingers with his. "He was young," she began, "barely a hundred when we met, but, oh! he was brilliant. Full of wit and daring… a challenge in so many ways. We had such fun!" Her smile disappeared. "Then the darkness came."

"The darkness?"

"When you've lived long enough that nothing matters. When laughter and joy are buried under layers of death and pain. When you're numb to the world, and you'll do anything—anything!—to feel again." She shrugged. "We all go through it. Some sooner than others. Some longer than others." She looked at him curiously. "Haven't you?"

Duncan swallowed hard. "At times."

"The first is usually the worst, and he was barely two hundred. I had hoped he would find someone to help him; instead, he found someone to kill him. I think part of him wanted to die."

"Yeah," Duncan breathed out. He knew that feeling. He'd seen it in others, too. His own student Gregor had been striking out at people in rage and despair, and Duncan had almost had to take his head to stop him. But Gregor had gotten through it, and he was a doctor again, working in Brazil. Duncan had gotten a card from him two years ago.

Kate was shaking her head. "Such a pity. Such a waste. His brilliance went dark then was shattered. I had hoped we might have years together."

"I'm sorry," Duncan said, for there was not much else to say. He wondered who it had been and how long ago, but Kate hadn't offered a name, a time or a place, and rules of immortal politeness forbade asking.

Kate smiled even as she wiped away tears. "They say that hope is happiness. And all that hope adored and lost hath melted into memory."

Duncan knew that poem. "Alas! It is delusion all—. The future cheats us from afar."

Kate met his eyes and quoted: "Nor can we be what we recall…"

"Nor dare we think on what we are," he finished.

They both were silent, thinking on that and on what they were, until she kissed him gently on the lips. "You certainly know your Byron," she said, back to her cheerful saucy self.

Duncan's answering smile flickered and died. He knew all of Byron's poems, every last one. Almost fifty years it had been, since Byron had died by Duncan's hand. Soon after, Duncan's own darkness had come upon him, and he had wandered, hoping to die.

Yet he had lived. He had found a wife and a family, and enjoyed many years full of sunshine and love. When Susan had died, he had grieved and wept and then gone on, as she would have wanted him to. And life was still good, and the world was still marvelous, and the night was still young.

Duncan stood, lifting Kate in his arms, and carried her off to bed.

Kate left early the next morning, and he went with her to the train station. They chatted of this and that on the platform, and then as the train pulled in and they hugged farewell, Kate said softly, "Even for immortals, Duncan, the future cheats us from afar."

She kissed him goodbye then the train doors were closing, and then she was gone. Duncan watched her train disappear, the dark-energy motors running silently, so that the metallic streak of blue and silver had no sound but the rumble of the wheels and the wind.

Duncan took the next train into Paris, but Methos wasn't at his apartment. Duncan left a message, both in paper and on the phone, then visited museums and ate lunch and went to St. Joseph's chapel and did a little shopping, but Methos never called. Toward evening, Duncan boarded the train back to Caen.

As the train picked up speed, Duncan watched the dark countryside flow by in flickers of lights. Duncan had hoped to talk to Methos, to thank him for the trip to the catacombs on Saturday, to ask him about Kate/Serena, perhaps play a little chess or drink some beer, or just go for a walk along the river or argue about whether astronauts or spacemen would win in a war. Duncan had been looking forward to seeing Methos today.

But Methos was gone. Again. No warning, no word, just gone. Amanda was equally unpredictable, but she always said farewell. Except for that time she'd framed him for robbery and stolen his horse, but that had been centuries ago. Good times, Duncan thought now with a fond smile. Good memories.

Genuine love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless…

What memories did he have of Methos?

Lots of good talks and some searingly harsh words, plenty of wit and not a little wisdom, a man who had been a villain and would occasionally take up the role of hero, complaining all the while yet getting the job done… Fifty years of friendship, of learning about each other, of building trust and growing closer…

Yet always they had circled round each other, Duncan kept at bay by Methos's rapier sharp wit, Methos put off by Duncan's strong moral code, and both of them finding love with other people –with women.

What about love with a man?

Duncan knew that a physical relationship would not be casual between them. It wouldn't be "just for fun." He and Methos had waited too long. They wanted too much.

They were too afraid.

Afraid of trust, of vulnerability, of being hurt… and maybe, just maybe, of having to kill the other person some day. When they'd first met, Duncan had not wanted sex to complicate a friendship already complicated enough by feelings of betrayal and disappointment and uncertainty, and so he had ignored the many subtle and not-so-subtle hints and clues Methos had sent his way.

Then Duncan had walked alone into a darkness of the soul, and Methos had wisely let him go. A new life in New Zealand had kept Duncan busy for thirty years, and grieving for the loss of that life took another five. During the last eight years he and Methos had started circling each other again, spiraling closer.

But did he want to get closer still? Accept the emotional vulnerability that would come with physical intimacy? Did Methos? And even if they did want to, could they? Or were their patterns of defensiveness—that sarcastic wit and that automatic umbrage— too deeply ingrained?

Duncan didn't know. But it was time to find out. All that Memory loves the most, was once our only Hope to be.

Next: Connor reconsiders his options