London, England, 16 October 2048

Sara had expected to see Cassandra and Dad on the trip to London for the Phinyx reunion and the space convention, but she hadn't expected to see Duncan walk into the hotel restaurant where the family had met for a late dinner. His beard was clipped short, his hair was in a tight braid, and he looked handsome and utterly resplendent in a tunic of scarlet trimmed with black piping and fasteners made of black silk cord. His striped gray trousers were tucked into black boots that reached to the knee.

"Sensei Justin!" Will exclaimed and jumped up from his chair to meet Duncan halfway across the room.

"I'm glad you could make it," Cassandra said, after the handshakes and hugs were done. "How are things in Argentina?"

"We're busy training race horses," Duncan said, pulling up a chair between Alea and Will. "I was in Germany buying a helicopter for the estancia when I got your note."

The six of them ate dinner together, and Will and Duncan made plans to go see the Sutton Hoo ship at the British Museum the next day. After dessert, they left the restaurant to go back to their rooms. In the hotel lobby, all three immortals stiffened slightly, and Dad and Duncan looked toward the bar. Cassandra kept walking, her pace steady and her face calm, clearly pretending she didn't sense the other immortal nearby. Long ago, she'd told Sara it was a good way to hide.

It didn't work if the immortal already knew who you were. Dad and Duncan stopped short, and after a seemingly casual glance Cassandra stopped, too. Because standing at the doorway to the bar was Duncan's friend Methos. Back in the Bronze Age, he'd owned Cassandra as a slave.

Sara hadn't seen Methos since she was nine years old, halfway around the world at Duncan's wedding in New Zealand. Methos hadn't aged, of course, but he looked different. He was following the fashion of longer hair, just like Dad and Duncan, but Methos was trying to look middle-aged. His hair was long enough to be shaggy, and he had a neatly trimmed gray beard. Glasses helped to hide his youthful eyes, and the tunic of his conservative businessman's outfit was a sedate dark blue with only a bit of rose and yellow trim at the collar and the cuffs. The colors matched the plaid of his trousers.

Methos walked over to them, an ebony cane (probably hiding a sword) in his left hand, and gave a short nod to Dad and Duncan then half-bowed to Cassandra. Her slow nod back was nearly regal in its dignified silence.

"Sara, how nice to see you again," Methos said with a smile, as casually as if they'd last seen each other this past summer, instead of forty-two years ago. "And these must be your children," he said, smiling now at Alea and Will. "They look quite a bit like you."

"My daughter, Alea," Sara said. "My son, Will." Then she looked at Methos and waited, because she had no idea what his name was now.

"Kyle Winston," Methos introduced himself. He bowed quite low to Alea, and she smiled back with aplomb; ever since her pregnancy had started to show, she'd gotten used to that type of attention. Methos offered a handshake to Will, who was obviously pleased to be recognized as an adult instead of being treated as a fourteen-year-old.

Dad's eyes had narrowed. "Would that be Dr. Winston?"

"Why, yes," Methos said as he turned to Dad. "I'm presenting a paper on vacuum welding tomorrow morning at the space convention."

Dad gave a short nod. "I saw your name on the program." He'd talked about the new welding technique at dinner until Duncan had changed the subject.

Methos raised his eyebrows and said, "Perhaps I'll see you there, Mr. …?"

Sara hadn't thought about Methos not knowing anyone else's new name, either.

"Michael Audren," Dad said. He didn't offer to shake hands.

"Laina Garrison," Cassandra said when Methos turned to her. She didn't shake hands, either.

"And Justin Morris, I do believe," Methos said finally, turning to Duncan. "It's good to see you again."

"I didn't know you'd be here, 'Kyle'," Duncan said then added, "Seems we've lost touch over the years."

Cassandra shot Duncan a glance at that. Dad was watching Methos, whose only response was a tiny smile, nearly hidden in his beard. "Off-planet mail is very slow," he explained.

"Have you been to the moon?" Will asked with intense interest. "Or Mars?"

"Both," Methos replied.

"What's it like?" Will asked immediately. "Did you throw up in zero-g? Did you help build Marsdome? Have you—"

"Will," Sara said, laying her hand on his shoulder.

"No, it's good to see such enthusiasm," Methos said, smiling again. "I'd be happy to talk with Will about going into space."

Sara found herself smiling in return, and Alea and Will were clearly charmed. "He's likeable," Dad had said about Methos decades ago, "but I don't like him. I don't trust him, either, and neither does Cassandra, and neither should you."

So Sara stopped smiling and replied, "Thank you, that's very kind. But perhaps another time. It's quite late, and it's time for bed."

"For us, also," Cassandra agreed, standing so close to Dad that their shoulders were touching.

Methos gave her another of those tiny smiles and a minute bow then turned his attention to Duncan. "I hope you're not tired, Justin." His eyes and voice turned serious for the first time. "For I would very much like to buy you a beer."

It seemed to Sara that Duncan thought about that offer for a good five seconds before he finally said, "Yes."

With five thousand years of experience behind him, Methos was not often surprised. The night out with Duncan started out as Methos had expected: some reserve and some resentment at the beginning, with gradual yielding to good jokes and good humor, aided by not a few beers.

Around one in the morning, in a dim booth in the back corner of the bar, Methos looked straight at Duncan and told him: "I missed you."

For this rare (and admittedly calculated) act of heartfelt honesty, he was rewarded by a dusky flush and a darkening of eyes.

But Duncan took a long drink of beer, hiding behind the glass. He put it down, his face reserved again, shrugged wide shoulders just a little and came back with: "I wasn't hard to find."

Unspoken subtexts abounded: "If you'd wanted to look for me" and "You weren't easy to find, because you disappeared—again" and "I don't trust your honesty to last, so I'm going to be flippant first in self-defense." All of them were valid.

Methos ignored the lure of flippancy. Honesty: that was the key.

But he wasn't very practiced at it. He was still trying to decide what to say when Duncan added, "After Kate left the next day, I went to look for you, but you were already gone."

He hadn't merely "gone." He'd deliberately left. Methos had wandered the city for hours that night, waiting for the sun to rise before he went home for breakfast. He had planned on staying in Paris for a few months or maybe a year, depending on what Duncan did. Or didn't do.

Instead, in the quiet darkness of that winter night, Methos had wandered down a side street and found himself whiplashed by a pair of entwined quickenings in a hotel room nearby. He'd known who it was. He'd known what they were doing.

He could feel it. As Methos had stood on that city street, with his heart pounding in his chest and blood roaring in his ears and lust surging just about everywhere, somehow— maybe because MacLeod had just taken a head and was broadcasting, maybe because of the double quickening he and MacLeod had once shared—somehow Methos had sensed a hell of a lot more than he usually did from fellow Immortal.

He could feel Serena, sweat-slicked and warm, pressing against him, her hair sliding across his chest. He could taste her mouth, open to his, soft and hungry, and he could hear her whispered passionate words. Her hands were sweetly fierce on his hips, her legs wrapped around his, urging him closer, and he reached for her … and slammed his fist into a brick wall, gasping at the pain and shuddering until the connection snapped and Methos was himself again.

He'd hit the wall a few more times, until the pain burned out the lust, and then he'd walked away. A long way away. After the inadvertent peeping-feeling-Tom episode, Methos knew himself well enough to realize he wouldn't be ready to face Duncan for a while. He'd say something flippant or sarcastic or defensive, and then Duncan would either want to know why or get pissed off, and Methos didn't want to explain and he didn't want to argue. Best to put some time and some distance between them.

Going off-planet was a little farther than he had anticipated, true, but you didn't turn down a chance like that. He actually had gone to Caen for a farewell visit, the month before he went off-world, only to find that Duncan had set up house with Elena Duran. Once again, Methos had kept his distance and bided his time.

Until now. Running into Duncan in London (with Elena on another continent) was a stroke of fortune, and Methos had long ago learned to honor that goddess when she smiled. He'd had quiet enough of her frowns. So now Duncan and he were sitting in a bar, having a drink, and trying to reconnect. In an honest and heartfelt way. "You were… busy," Methos said. "I didn't want to intrude."

Duncan snorted in heartfelt derision. "That hasn't stopped you before."

Oh, it had. More times than Duncan knew. Methos took a deep breath, because it was time for honesty again. Though not about that. "I wanted to be invited," Methos admitted, watching Duncan's eyes.

They narrowed then widened, and then Duncan sighed. "Methos…," Duncan began with a shake of his head. He shrugged again, and then he smiled, a glorious blaze of beauty in the dim. "Mi casa es su casa," Duncan offered.

Welcome words. Balm for the spirit, ease for the heart. Though not really true. They had each said them to the other, but they'd always been visitors in each other's lives. That wasn't about to change any time soon, not with Elena keeping the home fires burning in Argentina. "Well, when you get a house of your own, let me know," Methos told him, keeping his tone light. "Maybe I'll visit."

Subtext abounded once again. Duncan hadn't visited Methos in his house in England, even though Methos had deliberately made himself easy to find. And given Duncan the key.

"I'd like that," Duncan replied, and his smile still cast a glow. Duncan looked straight at Methos and told him: "I missed you, too."

Methos was pleasantly surprised.

Sara woke late and rousted the kids out of bed. She was almost done with breakfast when Duncan knocked on the door. He seemed refreshed and in good spirits. Methos was nowhere to be seen.

"Hurry up, Will," Sara called, and her son pulled on his shoes, grabbed an apple and a bagel, and headed out the door with "Sensei Justin" to go to the museum.

Alea was still in her pajamas with unbrushed hair, yawning over her tea. "I'm going shopping with Mara at nine," Alea announced.

Sara kissed her goodbye then found Dad and Cassandra waiting for the elevator in the hall. Their fingers were lightly intertwined, and their shoulders were nearly touching. Sara gave them the privacy of the elevator and instead ran down the four flights of stairs.

They met again in the lobby. Dad gave her a quick hug, said cheerfully, "See you two at lunch!" and went whistling out the door.

Cassandra watched him go, the corners of her mouth twitching into a grin.

"What's so funny?" Sara asked.

"That song," she replied as they left the lobby through another door. "Its lyrics are a paean to Erato."

Sara translated the archaic references: her father was whistling the melody of a hymn of thanksgiving and praise to the Muse of erotic poetry, and Cassandra knew the words. "You can sing all the verses, I suppose," Sara said, pulling her hood up against the chill wind.

"Quite a few," Cassandra acknowledged. "I know at least six about how to play a flute."

"Let me guess," Sara said, with a saucy grin of her own. "Fingering, blowing, single flute, double flute, one handed, two handed…"

"I see you know them, too," Cassandra said. "Tom's a lucky man."

Sara was glad that Tom agreed. Last week she'd woken to find him smiling down at her, and she'd smiled back up at him. They'd gotten out of bed late that morning. Sara was already looking forward to getting back home. And speaking of finding a partner…

"Was Duncan out late?" Sara asked Cassandra as they turned the corner.

"I felt him come back to his room around two in the morning."

"By himself?"

"Yes, Caorran," Cassandra replied. "Alone."

She quickened the pace, and for the rest of the walk, Sara amused herself by making up rhymes about flute playing.

At the hotel where the convention was being held, she and Cassandra passed through the hotel security and the Phinyx security, and then they were swept up in the chatter and hugs of hundreds of women. The annual Phinyx reunion had become quite a show. They'd graduated nearly six thousand sisters last summer, and the first graduating class was having its twenty-fifth reunion this year. Sara listened intently as people mingled and had coffee and tea; casual chatter was much more informative—and honest—than official reports and memos.

"I asked Ysette to come," one woman said to a group of friends. "I even told her she didn't have to pay. But she said she had to ask her husband, and then she said no."

"Give her time," said a sister with short, gray hair and the gold sword-and-earth pin of a senior Guardian. "She'll come back. We always do."

"Once a sister, always a sister," said a short blonde, linking arms with the woman next to her, and they smiled at each other.

Sara passed a trio in the green and white surplices worn by those who served the Mother. "Donations are down," one said, "but more people are coming to the temple for food. We need more land, more—"

And other conversations…

"—three times as many funerals as sainings—"

"—my daughter says she wants to be a Guardian, and her dream is getting into Themis Institute. But we're pacifists, so I'm not—"

"—love your hair—"

"—the students these days think they're so precious. They've never had a brother or a sister to share with—"

"—getting married in January—"

"—salt-water intrusion—"

"—more threats from extremist groups—"

"—lowlander migration—"

"—best vid in years—"

Sara joined Cassandra in a secluded corner next to a living tree. "What's the mood?" Cassandra asked.

"Upbeat, but tense. They know how thin the margins are. "

"We've had barely time enough to sow the seeds far and wide," Cassandra said. "Not everything will grow and survive." She smiled and waved to a priestess dressed in a green surplice trimmed with black, who waved back.

"Tell me what happens at the convocation of temples this morning," Sara said.

"Of course. Tell me what happens at the council meeting."

"Of course," Sara agreed, and they exchanged an ironic glance. "Will you be joining the council again?"

"Perhaps, in a generation or two. I'll be taking on a new identity next year. Laina Garrison has been around for over two decades."

"Not so easy to change your name these days."

"No," Cassandra agreed. "Ages ago, we didn't even bother. The Lady simply told people she'd been touched by the gods and made immortal, and everyone believed."

"Now we do experiments," Sara said. Cassandra's answering smile was thin. "Any news from Grace on her 'Investigation of Fertility and Sterility of Selected Populations'?" Sara asked. Not a title to excite interest, unless you knew that "selected populations" meant immortal.

"She sent me a preliminary report last night. I'm supposed to meet her later today."

Sara raised her eyebrows in inquiry, and Cassandra unwrapped her phone from her forearm and selected a screen then handed the phone over. Sara skimmed the report, slowing when a phrase caught her eye.

…possibly a dormant virus triggered by extreme trauma…

…transmission method unknown… present in neonates … spontaneous genetic mutation possible…

…maternal death … abandonment…

…some alleles in common, but not statistically significant from surrounding population …

…females always anovulatory, even before acute phase…

...sperm appear normal but are infertile with ova of uninfected females,,,

Sara handed the phone back. "So, we still don't know where Immortals come from."

"We still don't know," Cassandra agreed. "Perhaps Richie Ryan was right. Maybe space aliens—or maybe faeries or time travelers or angels—are leaving immortal babies to be raised by mortals, like cuckoos in the nest of a starling."

Behind the humor was irritation and disappointment; Sara knew that Cassandra had been hoping for more. But that wasn't the only project their genetic labs had been looking into. "Has Georgiana isolated the psychic genes yet?"

"She's learning a lot, but as with most traits, the genes work together, not separately, plus there are strong epigenetic factors. She did find three more populations, so with eleven to work with, she has a better sense of where to focus." Cassandra gave Sara a sidelong, knowing glance. "Georgiana found your sample very interesting."

"Do tell," Sara prompted.

"You have sixteen identified markers. Colin has seventeen."

"And Will?"

"Nineteen. Alea has thirteen."

Sara had long known that Colin had more power than she did. He just didn't like to use it. And Alea hadn't shown any traits, whereas Will had manifested early. So Sara wasn't surprised by the numbers, but she did ask, "Is it stronger in males?"

"In your line, perhaps." Then Cassandra asked, "How are your dreams?"

"I see children." Sara laughed as she fluffed her hair, all gray and white now. "Not hard to guess I'm looking forward to being a grandmother."

"And Colin?"

"He hasn't mentioned any recently. We've both had the dream of darkness, as you know, though not since August. And you?"

"A tree in a courtyard with a bell tolling in the distance. I think it's a school, a new one."

"Good," Sara said. They needed to start more. Dreams of the future were frustrating, but still helpful. "How many genetic markers do you have?"

Cassandra shrugged. "I don't know enough to do the counting myself yet, and I'm not giving a genetic sample to a lab, even if they are 'anonymous'."

Back to experiments again. A chime sounded, and people began to sing as they walked to convocation and council and classes. Cassandra went off with a group dressed in green. In a business suite on the fifteenth floor, Sara put on her veil of gray silk trimmed with white then joined the other councilors in the circle.

After the opening prayer and meditation, the woman sitting across the circle from Sara greeted them as sisters. Her gray veil was trimmed with red. She gave the traditional invocation: "We are the change we have been waiting for."

With her sisters, Sara responded: "We shall change the world."

Centuries ago, Methos had ranked ways to die in order of messiness. Keeping the skin intact was important. Freezing to death was like going to sleep. Drowning was distinctly unpleasant, but didn't require healing, just air to revive. Penetrating wounds, as from swords or knives, tended to heal neatly and leave your clothes mostly intact. Slicing wounds were much messier, nor did he enjoy shoving guts and various organs back inside the intestinal cavity and holding flaps of skin together. Burns were gruesome, and the healing could take days.

His choice, naturally, was none of the above. He vastly preferred being alive. Especially on a day like today. His presentation on vacuum welding this morning had been gratifyingly well-received, and he had decided to go for a stroll. The autumn sky was deep blue, the air was brisk, and the sunshine was warm.

Methos swung his ebony sword-cane lightly as he walked the streets of London, amusing himself by looking for streets he'd walked four or five centuries ago, and trying to recognize buildings. He was thinking about where to eat lunch when he felt, rather than heard, a low frequency rumble in his bones and on the sole of his upraised foot.

It lasted less than a second. Then the windows of the building across the street erupted in flames, and the world turned upside down. He hit something that spun him halfway around and made his collarbone go crunch, then landed hard on his hip and his shoulder. He bounced.

Methos stayed down, wedged painfully between a brick wall and something cold and sharp pressing against his back. Perhaps a piece of a car? He could smell smoke, but it was too dim to see much. He also couldn't hear. Percussion shock, perhaps a ruptured eardrum. He lay there, breathing slowly and glad he hadn't died, and waited for the healing to finish.

When he could hear again (screams, high and thin, over the crackle of flames and a siren wailing), he leveraged himself to his hands and knees and started to crawl. He found his cane-sword not far away, and he hauled it with him, banging against his thigh. Blood dripped from the tip of his nose, and he followed that trail. He went around a corner, found a pole and pulled himself upright, holding on tight against the wave of nausea and dizziness. Concussions took a bit of time. There was also something wrong with his right leg.

He blinked a few more times, wiped the blood from his forehead and eyes, then took inventory. All fingers and toes still there. He touched his head, relieved to find both ears, a nose, and most of his hair. His tongue told him he still had his teeth. He stretched one shoulder, feeling the collar bone settle, then bent down and yanked out a windscreen wiper from the meat of his calf. He tossed the jagged bit of metal to the side. It landed next to a severed foot, still clad in an argyle sock and a shiny loafer with a gold tassel.

He surveyed the damage. A few people were wandering about; about fifteen others were sprawled bloody or staring in a daze. Fire was licking up the side of the building, and people were streaming out of the doors. Greasy black smoke crawled across the sky. A dark-haired woman at the very far end of the street, near a small park, was using her shirt as a bandage for an elderly man. Her pale skin was painted with thin red streaks over the white of her bra. Close by on the pavement, a pram was on its side, two wheels slowly turning.

Methos sighed and went to look for the baby.

When Connor heard the explosion, he was three blocks north of the hotel where the Phinyx convention was being held. Most people stopped in their tracks at the noise and looked at each in confusion. Connor knew what that sound meant.

He was afraid he knew where it was.

He ran, weaving between people, concentrating on speed. A phone call made on the run got no answer. By the time he got to the explosion site, the outside of the hotel was wreathed in fire. Smoke poured out the windows on every floor—the bombers had been thorough. People were rushing out of all the doors on the ground floor, some of them stumbling, some helping others, some running. He didn't see Sara or Cassandra anywhere. Not in the crowds pushing past him, not in the bodies lying on the ground.

He didn't recognize any of the body pieces, either.

Connor breathed out slowly, unwinding the cold knot of dread inside, pushing down the panic that gibbered at the back of his mind. With studied practice, he moved into battle-calmness—alert, aware, and ready to move. Now to find Sara and Cassandra.

Connor headed for the hotel but had to step back as a fire truck came careering around the corner, its siren screaming. Fire fighters emerged from the vehicle, their bodies protected by firesuits and their faces hidden behind masks. They would need them; the skin on Connor's face was tight from the heat, even from forty feet away, and the smoke stung his eyes and his throat.

"Get away from the building!" a woman yelled, waving her arms toward a small park across the street. "Go on, go on, go on!"

People started moving in that direction, but Connor had caught the sense of an immortal, so he climbed up on top of a car so he could see better. After a few moments of scanning, he spotted Cassandra on the edge of the park, talking urgently to three other women. He leapt down from the car and ran toward her.

Cassandra saw him and called, "Sara's fine," as she came to met him halfway, and Connor's dread was melted by joy. Their handclasp was fierce with relief. Cassandra's smile was tremulous, though, and her face bore the marks of tears. "We were outside in this park when it happened," Cassandra went on to explain. She looked about them, biting her lip. "It was such a beautiful day."

Sara arrived next, running, and Connor opened his arms wide. "Sara," he murmured against her hair. Her arms were tight around his ribs, making it hard to breathe. Connor didn't mind.

"Rain check on lunch, I'm afraid," Sara said after a few moments.

"Yeah," Connor agreed, reluctantly letting go of her. There was work to do. Cassandra was already tending to a young woman with blood running down her face. Sara went to help. Connor began taking the people from the arms of the firefighters and carrying them to the park.

One black-haired woman didn't wait for the firefighters; Connor saw her jump from the third floor. As Connor ran toward her, she landed on an awning, tumbled down it, then landed hard on the street. She tried to get up, fell back, and started to crawl. Connor picked her up and jogged toward the park. Her face was drawn with pain, and with his every step she gave a small moan, forced out between her teeth. Connor slowed down a bit but kept moving.

Later, he wondered if that might have made a difference, if more speed might have kept her alive. Because when the second explosion happened, they were both lifted off their feet and tossed through the air. He lost his grip on her, hit something hard, and the world went black.

Methos was still looking for the baby when another bomb exploded, or maybe it was a ruptured gas line catching fire. It didn't really matter. Windows shattered and glass went flying. At the end of the street, a fireball billowed outward and swallowed a car, a building, and several people.

Methos went flat to the ground again. The pavement still felt cool, though the air was blistering. Then the hair on his arms started to prickle, and he looked up in alarm. Lightning beckoned, long crooked fingers sheathed in flame. It came for him, an inescapable partner in the dance of death. Methos swore and pushed his cane away, then clenched his teeth as the quickening of an unknown immortal hammered at his soul while lightning strip-mined his nerves.

When it ended, he was a quivering heap on the sidewalk, and he'd scraped the skin off his hands and knees. As the quickening settled, he tried to sense something of the immortal who had just died. Not a young one, he could tell. He sensed joy and sorrow and loneliness and contentment, the laugh of a child and the taste of an orange, a bit of rage and some pretty good sex, the usual mix of a life. A woman, he thought. He didn't catch a name.

He was almost positive it wasn't Cassandra.

When the twitching subsided, he opened his eyes to find a pudgy man with thick spectacles staring at him curiously. "Are you all right?" the man asked. "There was lightning…"

"Electrical transformer," Methos suggested, sitting up and hoping all the surveillance cameras had been fried. "Must have gotten hit by the bomb and gone a bit haywire. Odd thing, electricity, you know. I heard of a lightning bolt that chased a man across a churchyard."

The man looked less than convinced, and Methos couldn't blame him. "I think I lost my dog," Methos said vaguely then picked up his cane, hauled himself to his feet for the second time in ten minutes, and walked away. At the end of the block, he stopped to help at an impromptu first aid station. The missing baby, much too still, was being rocked in the arms of a middle-aged man. The young woman who had organized the station wore a silver Phinyx insignia pinned to the collar of her green and white tunic, which was already smeared with blood.

"Sister," Methos greeted her, and she looked him over and nodded once, her hands still busy with a bandage. "I can help," he offered, and she moved over to let him work. Soon, his clothes and hands were smeared with blood, too. A fine white ash was falling, like a deadly snow.

Behind them, the fires burned.

When Connor came to, he found himself sprawled uncomfortably on top of a car. He wasn't sure if he'd died or just been knocked unconscious, but clearly some time had passed. Soldiers and police had arrived, and more fire trucks and ambulances were parked along the street. A camera crew was in the park, and a chopper circled overhead. That second explosion had set fire to the building across the street, and one of the fire trucks was burning. Bodies were laid out in rows beneath the trees, near were Sara and Cassandra had been working.

The woman Connor had been carrying was not far away, crumpled in front of a concrete urn, which was smeared with red and a few strands of black hair. Her blood was an ugly blossom beneath the broken stalk of her body and her crushed skull.

Connor swore softly but resignedly. He tried to phone Cassandra and Sara but the phone just flashed "Connection not available" so he climbed down from the roof of the car.

A man carrying a jug of water in each hand looked at him in surprise. "I passed you by twice already, mate. Sorry. I thought you were dead."

"Just knocked out," Connor replied. He motioned to his jacket, which was a mess of red blood and white ash. "I've been carrying people. This isn't mine."

"Not many left to carry," the man said, with a quick glance at the building. "I'm taking water to the aid station."

"I can do that," Connor offered, eager to check in with Sara and Cassandra, and the man handed him the jugs and went to fetch more. Connor jogged past a bizarre statue of dancing rabbits, the gravel crunching under his feet. At the station, the water was all but snatched from his hands by a dark-skinned woman in a green tunic. "Have you seen Laina Garrison?" Connor called after her, betting that the Phinyx women knew each others' names.

She shook her head and kept going, but another woman heard and came over to Connor. "I'm Giselle," she said. Her eyes were dark brown and rimmed with red, and her long, wheat-colored hair was tied back with a strip of cloth. "Sister Laina's over here."

Connor followed Giselle to the line of trees where the bodies were laid out in rows, but the sense of another immortal was dim and he didn't see Cassandra. "Where?" he asked then realized Giselle was looking down.

Connor dropped to his knees, swallowing hard. He'd seen Cassandra dead before, but this was nasty. Her front was a mass of clotted black and liquid scarlet, and one side of her face was pretty much melted while the other side was covered in blood. He wouldn't have recognized her, except for her hair. A long copper braid lay neatly on top of the body, curling around her undamaged left hand.

"I'm sorry," Giselle said from above.

Connor nodded then stripped off his jacket and laid it on top of Cassandra, covering her face. An act of respect for the dead, an act of privacy for a healing Immortal. He stood and asked urgently, "Have you seen Sara MacLeod?"

"I don't know—"

"She goes by Sister Caorran," Connor broke in hastily.

"Oh, the councilor!" Giselle said. "Yes, of course I know who she is. But I'm sorry, I haven't seen her since early this morning."

Connor thanked her then tried to phone again and got nothing. Dread was coiling in the pit of his stomach again, cold and heavy. He shoved it away and forced himself to walk past the rows of the dead.

Sara wasn't there. Cassandra was still dead. Connor started to search.

Seventeen eternal minutes later, he found Sara sitting at the base of a tree, half hidden by some bushes. Her clothing and her hands were bloody. Her eyes were closed. Perhaps she had just taken a moment to rest, or maybe listen to the tree.

"Sara?" he called as he came near, but she didn't answer. He crouched by her side and touched her shoulder. "Sara."

Her eyes opened, she blinked and focused on him. "Hey," she said with a smile. The word was a hoarse whisper, but smoke had that effect.

"Hey," he answered, smiling back. He sat down beside her, feeling the rough bark against his back and the cool dampness of the ground. It was a good place to be.

She leaned against him with a sigh and said, "I love you, Daddy."

She hadn't called him Daddy in decades. "I love you, too, Princess." His voice was hoarse, but smoke had that effect.

"For ever," she added. "And for always."

She and Colin had come up with that saying when they were three or four years old, after an argument about which one meant a longer time. They'd finally agreed to use both, and they had, ever since. "For ever and for always," Connor agreed. He reached for Sara's hand. It was sticky with blood and cold.

"It's getting dark," she said, sounding surprised.

It was early afternoon. The sun was high. Connor turned to her just as she slumped over, falling halfway into his lap. "Sara?" he said, dread and panic flooding through him yet again. "Sara!"

Her eyes fluttered closed, and she had turned enough so that he could see the terrible wound. Her blood was flowing over his legs; her life was pouring out onto his hands. "Sara," he pleaded as his hands moved frantically, trying to stop the bleeding. "Sara, please… Sara…"

She died in Connor's arms.

Next: Methos, Connor and Cassandra cope in different ways