“What the hell is going on?” Joe asked as he took the cup from him.  “You two are dancing around each other like two porcupines trying to make love.”

Methos laughed out loud at that.  “That’s one way of putting it,” he chuckled as he stretched out on the couch.  “Ian Nottingham’s dark, desperate eyes have ensorcelled your Highland friend, I’m afraid, convincing Mac that Ian belongs to that rare species, ‘Homo repentis’.  And Duncan MacLeod, of course, is responsible for making sure all wandering, repentant souls are led safely to the path of honor and righteousness.”

There were several heartbeats of silence, and Methos glanced over.  Joe was studying him with a keen, gray-eyed stare.  “Don’t look at me like that, Joe,” Methos insisted.  “Whatever path I’m on, I was there long before Duncan MacLeod ever darkened my door.”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” Joe replied, “although it seems to me if Mac hadn’t trusted that path and acted accordingly, Kronos would have cooked your goose, not to mention that of a few million innocent bystanders.”  Joe sipped at his coffee, looking over the rim at him.  “Actually, what I was thinking was that you are taking this all very personally – Mac’s determination to help Nottingham, his involvement with Pezzini and the Witchblade.  I would have expected you to disappear as soon as the influence of the Witchblade was felt, but you not only stuck around, you tried to stop Pezzini last night.  And I don’t see you making any phone calls to get a quick flight out of here, like Mac suggested,” Joe added.  “So, what game are you playing, Methos?”

Methos felt a chill brush across his shoulders and pushed himself to his feet.  “I’d better take a shower before Mac uses up all the hot water,” he announced.

“This is a fairly classy hotel,” Joe reminded him with an annoyed frown.  “Somehow I think they can handle the challenge.”

Methos ignored the Watcher and tried not to appear to hurry as he made his way to his room.  “I’m sure you can show yourself out, Joe.  Thanks for dropping by,” he called behind him as he shut the door to his bedroom, then leaned against it and closed his eyes, hoping Joe would, once again, forgive him for being an asshole.  Dawson was too perceptive for his own damned good. 

“I found him!” Jake whispered as he leaned over Sara’s shoulder.  He had been surprised to find her back at headquarters, and was even more surprised to see her accessing the archives of unsolved murders in Washington State.

Sara looked up, her face blank for a moment.  “Congratulations.  Found who?” she asked, with a raised eyebrow.

“Your Mr. Singh,” he answered, watching Captain Bruno Dante eye them both through the open blinds of his office.

Sara hit the ‘print’ command of whatever she had been looking at, and stood, pulling Jake towards the nearest empty interrogation room.  “What’d you find?” she demanded.

Jake leaned against the wall, his arms crossed.  Sara looked worn out, her hair hanging in messy strands around her face, and she was in the same clothes she had been in the day before.  “Wow, Jake, that’s terrific!” he supplied with a twist of his mouth.  “Really good job to find a guy with the middle-eastern equivalent name of “Smith” by canvassing a 10-block square of one of the most densely populated cities in the world,” he added, just for good measure.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sara waved her hand.  “What’d you find?” she asked again.

“He’s staying at the Metropolitan, a private club at 61st and Fifth, only a block or two from the Sherry Netherlands.  I tracked down the night doorman, and he said Singh came in around 3 a.m., looking mad as hell, but very much alive, so I guess the Captain’s murder theory won’t wash.  Maybe that will get him off my back.”

“Don’t tell him!” Sara snapped.  “It’s better if he thinks Singh is still missing.”

“Why?”

“Because I want him as far away from this investigation as possible,” Sara sighed, pushing her hair back from her face.

“And exactly what investigation is that, pray tell?”

Sara stared at the floor for a long, densely silent moment.  “Do you believe in…?” she began, then she shook her head.  “No, there’s just no way I can….” She blew out her breath hard, and Jake forced himself to wait while whatever she was trying to say worked its way out.  “You remember those bad guys MacLeod associated with?  The ones who disappeared?” she asked at last.

“Yeah?”

Sara just looked at him, her big eyes boring into him with an intensity he had never seen in any other person.

“Are you trying to tell me Singh’s one of those bad guys?  But he has no record.  I checked.  He’s just a business man from Madras, India,” Jake insisted.

But Sara just cocked one of those crazy dark eyebrows of hers, twisted her mouth and reached for the doorknob.

“That’s it?  That’s all you have to say?”

“Not much more I can say.  Just know that he is a dangerous man, and we’d best let MacLeod deal with him, and keep Dante and whoever is yanking his chain out of it.” She opened the door, and looked up at him with a small smile.  “And how many businessmen from Madras, India do you know who carry around a scimitar, and know how to use it?” she added softly, then slipped past him with a small brush of air.

“So I’m supposed to just drop it and let your mysterious Mr. MacLeod handle the big bad Mr. Singh?” Jake mumbled to himself as he made his way to his desk and sat with a frustrated thump.  “Yeah, right.”

Methos showered and shaved what little beard he had managed to grow in the past 48 hours.  His frowning reflection stared back at him, noting the dark circles that had gathered under his eyes.  He contemplated his options.  The most tempting one was to do just what MacLeod had suggested, namely to hop the next plane back to London.  But that would leave MacLeod alone in New York with a headhunting Immortal and, more seriously, both the Witchblade and its Wielder.  And Ian Nottingham.

He could only speculate on what the Witchblade might want with MacLeod, who positively bristled with all the Quickening power he’d taken in the last few years.  It normally took years, or even decades, for that kind of power to be absorbed and assimilated.  To take so much of it, as MacLeod had, in two massive doses, had apparently caught the Blade’s long-dormant attention.  What its intentions were was unclear, but they could not be assumed to be benign.  And whatever the outcome, it could be a disaster, not just for MacLeod, but for them all.

And then there was the wild card of Kenneth Irons and his lap dog, Ian Nottingham.  Methos scrubbed his face and ran his fingers through his wet hair in irritation.  Nottingham and his dark, pleading eyes, watching Mac as though he were a dish of cold ice cream on a hot summer day.  And Mac, in his desperate need to be needed, falling for it.  Methos threw his safety razor in the trash so hard it almost bounced out again.

Well, there was one person who truly controlled Nottingham, and who thought of himself as utterly invulnerable.  Perhaps that was the key.  Use the strongest tools at hand to get Nottingham and Irons out of the picture, then maybe he could pry Mac away from this mess and back to London, and let the damned Witchblade fry Detective Sara Pezzini into oblivion just as it had ultimately used up and discarded all its previous wielders throughout all his millennia-long existence.

Kenneth Irons was striding down the hall of his office’s executive suite, on his way from one meeting into another while quickly scanning a report from one of Vorschlag Industries’ many divisions, when his secretary stepped up beside him, waiting until he looked up from the page before she spoke.

“Yes?” he asked.

“A gentleman arrived to see you without an appointment,” she informed him.  Her face, as ever, was smooth and serene.  She had learned long ago never to show surprise or alarm at the sometimes mysterious and confounding comings and goings of the President and Founder of Vorschlag Industries, and was extremely well paid for her discretion.  “I told him you were unavailable, but Dr. Pierson claimed you would want to see him.  He is quite insistent.” 

Irons slowed to a stop.  “Pierson, did you say?  Adam Pierson?”

The woman nodded.

Well, well, well.  This could prove far more entertaining than a meeting regarding the dwindling profit margins of his pharmaceutical division.  “Show him into my office and tell him I’ll be with him shortly.”  Irons couldn’t resist the small smile that tugged at his lips.  Adam Pierson was an attractive, intelligent, fascinating young man who clearly had a private agenda, and Kenneth Irons specialized in private agendas.

He stood at the threshold of his office for a moment, observing.  Pierson was standing in front of the original Dali hung above the couch, hands in his pockets, observing the painting with a wistful expression.  He was dressed in an overlarge raincoat thrown over a dark, expensively cut suit, and he seemed to feel Irons’ eyes on him as he tilted his head slightly, then tucked his chin in and turned in Irons’ direction.

“Are you an art aficionado as well as an expert in ancient languages, Dr. Pierson?” Irons asked.  He crossed to his credenza and with the press of a hidden panel, the cabinet turned to reveal a well-stocked bar.

“I’m an observer of life, and find much of it amusing.   Dali was a sly fellow and, for the most part was having us all on with his limp clocks and distorted landscapes.  He was terribly pleased, actually, to have been taken as seriously as he was.”

Irons turned to hand his guest a glass of 30-year-old scotch, and their fingers brushed in the exchange, sending a small tingle of anticipatory pleasure up Irons’ arm.  “You make it sound as though he told you this himself.”

Pierson laughed.  It was a wonderful low, sensual sound.  “Perhaps he did,” he replied softly.  “Some of us are older than we seem.  Or perhaps I just read it somewhere,” he shrugged, turning away to look out the window at the Hudson River sparkling in the bright afternoon sun. 

Irons held himself still while his mind sorted through a sudden storm of thoughts.  So that was the game?   What did Pierson know?  Did he suspect Irons’ true age?  Did he know of MacLeod’s true age?  The multitude of questions whirled in his head and he turned, sipping at his scotch and also staring out the window, watching Pierson out of the corner of his eye, trying to discern a pattern, a need that had brought the man to him.

“Why are you here, Adam?” he finally asked.

The lean head turned and those cat-like eyes studied him up and down.  Kenneth Irons was used to being looked at, but he couldn’t remember ever being…appraised quite so keenly.

Pierson carefully put the scotch down on a nearby end table.  “I have come to make you an offer you can’t refuse,” he responded with a smile, stepping a few feet closer.

Irons chuckled, and stepped closer still.  “And what could you have that I want so badly I couldn’t refuse you, and what do you want in return?” he asked softly.

Pierson didn’t answer for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as they stared at each other, neither backing down, although Irons had to force himself to gaze unblinking into those almost feral eyes.  His heart rate surged as he recognized that there was no trace of fear or uncertainty in Pierson’s face or body, just a languid, lingering appraisal.  It generated an almost sexual excitement deep in Iron’s body.  There were so few real challenges in the world anymore, and this man just waltzed into his domain as though he were the one in charge, and Irons were the supplicant.  Extraordinary.

“What you want is history, to touch it, to see it, to experience it.  That is something I can provide.”

“Ah,” Irons breathed, finally allowing himself to break eye contact and turn away.  “The tomb rubbing.”

“And my great uncle’s notes.  They are quite detailed and evocative.  What is not generally known is that he also found some scrolls in the cave.  Letters of instruction left by Septima Zenobia, mentioning certain jewelry she had evidently hidden before her capture.”

Irons’ head whipped around.  “That’s impossible,” he snapped.  “No archeologist would keep such a find secret.  It would be direct proof of your uncle’s theory that the cave was the burial tomb of the ancient queens.”  He could feel sweat gather on his palms.  To find such an ancient artifact directly referencing the Witchblade would be an astounding addition to his collection.

But Pierson just shrugged. “My uncle was a bit eccentric.  He liked having such treasures all for himself, and he didn’t care much whether people believed him or not.”

Irons forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly.  It wouldn’t do for Pierson to see his eagerness.  He sipped from his glass, turning away again to gaze out the window.  “Assuming any of this is true, and that these artifacts are genuine, what is your expectation regarding compensation?  The world of collectors of such rarities is rather small, and their resources are frequently limited.  I hope you hadn’t set your sights too high.”

The low chuckle behind him did not bode well for their negotiation.  “Oh, my expectations are quite easily within your means, Kenneth.”  At the use of his name, Irons turned.  Pierson had once again picked up his glass and sat up against Irons’ expansive mahogany desk, crossing his feet in front of him as he sipped.

Irons let a few seconds tick by, contemplating this mysterious, and actually quite attractive young man.  He carefully put his own glass down and moved closer, glad that he was at least slightly taller, giving him the advantage of physical dominance.  He came within only a step of Pierson’s languid, relaxed figure, and reached out, tracing a finger along the sharp jaw line.  Pierson’s only reaction was to lift his chin slightly, his thin lips curving into a small smile.

He leaned in, watching closely as he did, waiting for any negative reaction, but again Pierson just watched him with those amused, glittering eyes.  He pressed his lips gently against Pierson’s, then explored lightly with his tongue, tasting scotch on his guest’s mouth.  Then Pierson’s lips opened, his head tipped back and Irons deepened the kiss, moving closer so their bodies met, hip to shoulder, and he felt a hand slip under his coat and move up his back as his tongue was sucked and tasted.  Rather than feeling like the aggressor, suddenly he felt devoured…consumed.

Breathlessly he pulled back, and Pierson licked his already wet, slightly swollen lips like a cat cleaning milk from its whiskers.

Irons swallowed to make sure his voice would work before he cocked his head.  “Was that part of the exchange?” he asked softly.  “And if it was, were you giving, or taking?”

“What I want is for you to call off your lapdog.  For Nottingham – and you – to leave Duncan MacLeod alone, to walk away.  Permanently.”

Irons stepped back as a laugh of what felt like relief bubbled up from somewhere deep inside.  “This is about jealousy?” he asked.  “You come here to offer me priceless ancient artifacts, practically offer me your body, all to get Ian Nottingham away from your pretty boyfriend?  Oh, I’m disappointed in you, Adam.  Really!” Irons poured himself some more scotch, suddenly very comfortable with the situation.  It always came to this, didn’t it?  Love.  Lust.  Hate.  Money.  Power.  It was always the same.

“No.”  The voice was soft, but something about it stopped his chuckles, and Irons turned, discovering that Pierson was right there, behind him, so close he could see the individual lashes on eyelids that were half closed, like a snake just before it struck.  “I have no doubt that you have, by now, discovered that MacLeod is not exactly your run-of-the-mill antique dealer.  He is a bit of a mystery, and you are a man who thrives on knowing great secrets and mysteries.  Your curiosity is piqued, isn’t it?  You want to know more.  You send Nottingham to reel him in like a marlin on a long line.  And now you think you can manipulate me and MacLeod and Nottingham into getting everything you want.  Including me.”  Now Pierson was so close Irons could feel his warm breath against his face.

Pierson’s expression shifted marginally, and it was as though a cold draft blew through the room, making gooseflesh rise on the back of Irons’ neck.  The lean angles of the face so close to his seemed sharp as an ancient bronze sacrificial knife that was one of Irons’ prized artifacts.  “Well, Kenneth,” Pierson breathed softly, “There are some mysteries you are not intended to know.”

Pierson turned away, picked up his scotch and finished it in one swallow.  “I’ll have the artifacts here by tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder, put down the glass, then turned.  “And I’ll expect Nottingham to be out of the picture by then.”

Irons was still trying to gather his wits about him, and he called after Pierson, more as a delaying tactic than anything.  “Nottingham can’t be controlled that easily, Adam.  He’s quite taken with your Mr. MacLeod.”

But Pierson whirled around, his face once again taking on that hard, utterly unforgiving expression.  “He’s not mine.”  An arm rose and a long finger pointed at him like a dagger.  “But he’s not Nottingham’s, either.  Nor yours.  Call Nottingham off.  Send him out of town.  Lock him in a dark room and fuck him stupid.  I don’t care how you do it, just that it is done,” Pierson announced evenly, with only a slight touch of malevolence to his words, which only made them more chilling.  Then he turned and was out the door.

Irons poured himself another scotch and sat heavily at his desk, forcing himself to shed the mantle of unease that chilled his skin.  Or was that actually fear?  Impossible.  But a thought had begun to form that wouldn’t be dismissed.  Ian had said Pierson also carried a sword.  What if the inscrutable Adam Pierson was of the same breed as MacLeod?  The two men couldn’t be less alike in style, demeanor and outlook, yet the more Irons thought about it, the more he became certain that the hard, ruthless intelligence in Pierson’s eyes was that of someone with many years of experience at life’s uglier lessons.

“His uncle?  I don’t think so,” he whispered aloud to himself as he finished his second scotch, and pressed his intercom button.  “Send Nottingham to me,” he ordered, and released the button, not waiting for an acknowledgment.

He smiled as he sat back.  Pierson was right about one thing.  He did expect to get everything he wanted.  The Witchblade, the rubbing, the notes, MacLeod, and now the enigmatic Dr. Adam Pierson had been added to his list of anticipated acquisitions.

Joe maneuvered carefully around the tables and chairs of the grungy diner to the last table in the back.  He glanced back the dirt-streaked front window to the street beyond, but he could see no shadowy figures hovering outside.  He was probably just paranoid, anyway, but the powers that be at Watcher Headquarters did not approve of what he was about to do, and they were not renowned for their tolerant attitude toward Watchers who didn’t follow the rules.  He pulled out the chair and sat with a sigh.

The man across from him just observed as Joe balanced his cane against his leg, then held his hand out.  “Joe Dawson,” the Watcher announced.

The stranger with the craggy face and long, bedraggled hair slowly reached out and took his hand, the big palm closing for one firm squeeze before it was taken away.  “I know,” he said, his voice soft and deep.  “You’re almost as famous as your Immortal.”

“And you are?” Joe prompted.

The man just shrugged.  “Call me Lazar.”

“Hebrew,” Joe observed.  “He who God has helped, like Lazarus rising from the dead.  You know, I was given access to some of the chronicles you’ve written, and you’ve been with Sara Pezzini almost since she was born.”

Lazar chuckled, wreathing his face in wrinkles.  He was a homely man, in an interesting sort of way.  Dressed like a bum, his almost colorless hair hung in shapeless hunks around his face.  He was the kind of person anyone’s eyes would simply skip over in a place like New York City.  Virtually invisible.  “Are you asking if I’m an Immortal?  With this face, I could probably convince folks I’m old enough.”  He shook his head and chuckled at the thought.  “But I’m afraid I’m not.  We just knew that Sara was from Elizabeth Bronte’s line from the beginning, and suspected she might be the next Wielder.  It has been a privilege to watch her become such a strong, vibrant person who cares so deeply about what she does.”

“She is impressive,” Joe agreed.  “I watched her deal with MacLeod, and he may very well have met his match.  So how frequently does the Wielder encounter Immortals?” Joe asked softly.  Their conversation would certainly not be reported by either of them, since the notion of the Witchblade’s Watcher and that of the most powerful known Immortal consorting together and comparing notes was, well…unconventional at best.

Lazar shrugged.  “Not very.  Usually it’s just a brief, chance encounter, and only I know when it happens, and then only if I recognize them.  While I try to know most Immortals on sight, I might miss one or two.  But the records indicate that the Witchblade or its Wielder tend to avoid them, at least until lately.”

“And that business with Bronte and MacLeod during the war?”

“Ah, well that certainly got everyone’s attention,” Lazar nodded, fiddling with his menu.  Just then the waitress arrived, and they both ordered sandwiches and beer, sending her quickly on her way.  “Your man is famous for seducing strong, beautiful women and the consequences of an Immortal taking up with the Wielder…well, no one wanted to see that happen.”

“But it didn’t.  Not really,” Joe supplied.

“No, it didn’t.  My predecessor told me he was pretty certain Bronte was interested, but that she deliberately walked away from MacLeod, as though she knew it was something that wasn’t meant to be.”  Lazar shrugged.  “Who knows?  Maybe the Witchblade is aware of Immortals and warned her away.”

“Well, at the moment it certainly seems like Pezzini doesn’t have any problem being around MacLeod,” Joe offered. 

“I know, or around that other guy, Pierson,” Lazar replied.  “And, by the way, if he’s a new Immortal, I’m Michael Jackson,” he added, giving Joe a hard look.

Joe just held his silence.  Adam Pierson was officially listed in the Watcher database as MacLeod’s new student.  Only Joe and a few senior Watchers at Headquarters knew Methos’ true identity, otherwise the possibility of an information leak letting word out that the Oldest Immortal was not a myth but a living, breathing, irony-spewing, beer-swilling, chronically annoying moocher, could result in a manhunt that would end up with the man’s disappearance or death.

“Has Headquarters given any instructions about all this?” Joe asked.

Lazar laughed, sitting back as their food arrived and the waitress plopped their plates and drinks down, then disappeared in a waft of old grease and sweat.  “You mean violating the non-interference rule?”  Lazar put his hand to his chest.  “I’m shocked you would suggest such a thing.”

Joe waved his hand with a smile.  “All right, all right.  Very funny.  But we don’t know the Witchblade’s ultimate purpose, or where it came from.  Only that it is incredibly powerful, and that, in the control of an Immortal, it would make him or her virtually invulnerable, and the Game would be over.”

Lazar nodded solemnly, and the two men took a few minutes to consume their lunch in thoughtful silence.  At last, Lazar swallowed a final bite of his sandwich, washing it down with a few gulps of beer, and placed his elbows on the table, his hands folded together as he furrowed his brow.  “I honestly don’t know what the Blade is up to lately.  I think Pezzini is the most strong-willed Wielder we have ever seen.  Perhaps because of that there are many forces working against her, as though power is attracting power, all of it getting sucked into a maelstrom that has immeasurable destructive potential.  Irons, Nottingham, and other, even more malevolent forces are pulling her in so many different directions sometimes I fear she will fly apart.  And now we suddenly have MacLeod and Pierson crowding the picture, as well.”  Lazar shrugged.  “I wish I knew what to make of it, how to help her.  I do know that somehow she has to learn to control the thing, but so far it just seems to confound and confuse her even as it protects her in the clinches.”  He sighed and shook his head.  “She needs a teacher, someone to show her that she has the strength, the will and the stamina to handle the Witchblade, but she’s certainly not going to get that from Kenneth Irons or Ian Nottingham,” he finished with a look of sour disgust.

“But you don’t interfere,” Joe said, making it sound like more of a question than a statement.

Lazar pushed himself to his feet, pulled out a battered old wallet and left a few dollars on the table.  Their eyes met, and Joe knew Sara Pezzini’s Watcher felt much about her the way Joe felt about MacLeod, and that he had done things, said things that would never be included in their reports to their superiors.

“See you around, Joe Dawson,” Lazar said with a small smile. He pulled a ratty knit cap over his mop of hair and shuffled out the front door, looking every inch the anonymous bum he pretended to be.

Sara sat hard on the bench, letting out a woof of expelled breath, then pulled the laces on her boxing gloves loose with her teeth.  She had gotten pretty good at it, given that she usually ended up in the gym punching the heavy bag long after anyone who might help her get out of the gloves had deserted the place.  Sweat trickled down her neck and between her breasts, and by the time she got her hands free, the tape off her wrists and managed to pull her tee-shirt and sports bra off, all the material felt like it had permanently glued itself to her body.

The sharp needles of the high-pressure shower felt good beating against her overheated flesh, and she changed the water only gradually to warm, enjoying first the shock of icy water, then the relaxing heat that almost made her knees weak.  It had been a long, long day.  She had made no progress on any of her real cases, being totally preoccupied with MacLeod and who he was – or what he was.  But she had turned up literally dozens of strange deaths in cities where the man had lived, and in the process had finally realized just how these… Immortals… might manage to kill each other.

Despite the warmth of the steamy shower, she shuddered at the thought of slicing off someone’s head.  She reached out and turned off the water.  She really needed a good night’s sleep and then she and Mr. Duncan MacLeod were going to have a serious talk.

She had managed to get on her loose, comfortable sweats when she looked up from packing her sports bag and jerked backwards, slamming noisily against the lockers.  “Jeez, Danny!  Don’t do that!  Can’t you make a noise or something?  Besides, this is the women’s locker room.  What are you…?” her voice trailed off, and she finally had to smile and shake her head at Danny’s bemused expression.

“It’s not like I could do anything about it, is it?” Danny smirked.

“Well, yeah, but still, it’s a creepy thought, you know?” Sara replied, pushing her dirty clothes into the bag and zipping it up.  “You weren’t here earlier, were you?  When…,” she pointed towards the shower, then decided she really didn’t want to know the answer to that question, and just shook her head and headed to the door.  As expected, Danny was there, striding beside her, invisible to anyone but herself.

“So you’re going to see MacLeod tomorrow?” he asked.  “I’m not sure that’s wise.”

Sara looked over at him, examining his face for any clues about his motives or opinions.  “What’s it to you?” she responded.  “Are you saying he’s a bad guy?”

Danny shook his head.  “No.  You can trust him.  I’m just not sure you can trust yourself.”

“Fuck!” Sara snapped, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.  “Enough with the enigmatic crap, Danny.  For once would you just tell me what the hell you are talking about?”  An elderly man out walking a small, fluffy Llasa Apso skirted way around her, walking quickly and staring studiously straight ahead.

Sara sighed, shook her head and walked on.  If any of her colleagues saw her conversing in the streets with her ‘invisible friend’ she would almost certainly be sent to mandatory psychiatric counseling.  Wouldn’t that be fun?  She started to tell Danny just that, but when she looked around, the ghost of her ex-partner had once again disappeared.  “Shit!” she snapped, her voice echoing off the hard surfaces of the surrounding buildings.  The man with the dog glanced nervously back over his shoulder and hurried on around the corner.

MacLeod spent the day with lawyers and brokers, as he usually did whenever he made the trip to New York.  It was tedious and boring, but necessary if he was to maintain even marginal control over the numerous Geneva-based and offshore accounts and trusts, shell corporations and identities under which his fortune was maintained.  He tried not to hold on to large masses of assets.  No matter how carefully they were hidden, they tended to draw attention, and his needs were not that great.  When investment income accumulated too much, or if his lawyers did not hear from him on a periodic basis – meaning he was probably dead – the money, with a few small periodically updated exceptions for mortal friends, would be distributed to a number of charitable trusts he funded on a regular basis.

While he enjoyed the hands-on running of a business, just monitoring the accumulation of assets bored him.  Worse, his lawyers’ and brokers’ tendency to be utterly captivated by the magic of wealth was annoying and sometimes embarrassing, especially as he had done nothing extraordinary to achieve it, other than to live a long time.  So when he finally got back to his hotel room, only to find it empty, he wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or glad.  A little peace and quiet would be nice, but he had gotten used to and even enjoyed Methos’ efforts to get a rise out of him, whether through friendly argument, stinging criticism or relentless teasing.  Perhaps the man had actually taken his suggestion and headed back to London.

That thought bothered him more than he cared to think about, and he checked the second bedroom, relieved to see Methos’ battered duffle bag still propped up in the corner, and his CDs and CD player scattered across the night table.  He wandered over to look at them, chuckling at the selection of k.d. lang’s torch songs, Grateful Dead albums, the Roach Sisters, Greatest Gilbert and Sullivan Hits, a variety of rock bands with bizarre names, along with orchestral works from Debussy and Phillip Glass. 

So where was the man, himself, Mac wondered, and found himself compulsively piling the scattered CDs into neat stacks.  He pushed the hotel-provided notepad so it was square with the table corner, then picked it up, reading the note written in Methos’ calligraphic scrawl.  “V.  315 W. Broad.”  He wouldn’t.  Would he?  Why would Methos want to know the address to Vorshlag Industries? 

Mac felt his mouth tighten in irritation.  It was one thing to harass him about his actions and choices, it was another entirely for Methos to directly interfere in Mac’s life.  It was almost the reaction of a jealous lover, for God’s sake.

Mac headed to his own room, and grabbed his coat, but just then the phone rang.  “MacLeod,” he snapped, half hoping it would be Methos so he could put an immediate stop to whatever the man thought he was trying to accomplish.

“My, don’t we sound hostile this evening.”  The voice was smooth and gently accented.  “Good.  Maybe this time you won’t run away from the fight.”

Mac closed his eyes and forced himself to speak calmly.  “I would have thought you had learned your lesson, Singh.”

Singh’s chuckle was depressingly full of misplaced confidence.  “Oh, I learned a lesson all right, that all that business about the great Highlander honoring and abiding by the rules is a lie.  Well, you won’t find me such an easy target next time, MacLeod.”

“That was none of my doing, and you know it.  If all I wanted as an easy kill, I could have taken your head in the park.  Don’t you get it?  I’m tired of the killing!” MacLeod snapped.

“Easy for you to say when you’ve got all that power,” Singh snarled.  “Well, your luck won’t hold forever.”

“Listen to yourself!” Mac argued.  “This is the Gathering talking, not a rational, reasonable man with hundreds of years of life behind him, and hundreds more yet to live.”

“Keep looking over your shoulder, MacLeod.  This time, I’ll find you without anyone around to do your fighting for you!”  The line went dead.

Methos let himself into the hotel suite, feeling MacLeod’s strong, almost harsh Presence long before the elevator even made it to their floor.  He let himself in, to find Mac standing at the window looking out over Central Park, a glass of golden liquid in his hand.

“Have a fun day with your lawyers?” Methos asked.  Mac didn’t turn at his entrance.

“Thought you were headed back to England,” Mac said.

“Yeah, well, you aren’t the only one with a few loose ends to tie up,” Methos pulled his sword out of his overcoat, leaning it against the wall before he pulled off the coat and then his jacket, flinging them both over a chair on his way to the bar.

“I see.  And what loose ends were those?”

Methos looked over, and Mac was studying him with a tight, expectant expression.  He took his time pouring his drink with one hand while he loosened his tie with the other.  If past experience with this man was any guide at all, deception or diversion was the worst thing he could try even though every synapse was pushing him to deny, avoid and obfuscate.  “I went to see Irons,” he said softly, and turned, leaning up against the bar.

Mac’s eyes widened a little in surprise, whether at the admission or at the unexpected candor, Methos wasn’t certain.  But even as he took a long breath in anticipation of an ugly confrontation, Methos was glad he had told the truth.  As expected, the big shoulders bunched, the square jaw clenched, and Mac turned away, shoving a fist into his pocket, but his voice was cool and calm. “And what did you and Kenneth Irons talk about?” Mac asked.

“Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that,” Methos equivocated, unable to stop himself until he heard what sounded like a low growl from the man at the window.

“Methos!”

“Look, he wanted tomb rubbings and such, and needed a good reason to leave me – and you – alone.”  Methos shrugged casually.  “So I thought we could make a deal.”

“I see.  You tried to make a deal to get Nottingham out of the way.  Why is that?” Mac asked, now taking several steps towards him with a curiously challenging look on his face.  “You may not approve of my attempt to get Ian away from Irons, but for you to practically give away some of your precious relics just to stop me?”  Mac shook his head, making a small ‘tsking’ sound.  “Hardly the behavior of a man whose self-professed sole governing interest in life is his own survival.”

“Yeah, well, I seem to do a lot of that these last few years,” Methos grumbled, almost to himself and poured a little more scotch in his glass.  “And now you’re going to get all huffy about my efforts to once again save you from your own folly.”

“Ian Nottingham represents no threat to you, or to me,” Mac stated a little too calmly.  “He is just a man crying out for help.  It seems to me your assumption of responsibility for running my life has gone from the occasional helping hand in a moment of crisis to direct interference in my private affairs.”  Mac moved around and sat on the couch.  “So I sat here for the last hour or so and gave some real thought to you – to us.”

“And what startling insights or conclusions did you reach?” Methos asked casually, although he felt anything but casual.

Mac smiled.  “Not a hell of a lot, actually.  The notion of you going to see Irons initially made me angry, then I was kind of flattered.  It was as though you were jealous, somehow.”

Methos had to bark a laugh.  “Jealous of who?  Nottingham?  Don’t flatter yourself, MacLeod.”

“I know,” Mac chuckled into his glass.  “After a few moments of fairly narcissistic fantasy, I made myself do a serious reality check and realized I really haven’t a clue what motivates you.  You never confide in me, never really reveal anything of yourself.  I don’t know your reasons for being my friend, whether they are entirely altruistic or totally self-serving,” Mac shrugged.  “And,” he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “I don’t know whether you were surprised that I might be intimate with another man, or whether you even cared.  Your efforts to get us both away from here are probably self-protective, which means it has to do with the Witchblade.  And finally, I came to the conclusion that you must know a great deal more about the Witchblade than you have told me, to put yourself at risk like this.  So are you going to tell me what this is all about, Methos, or is this another of your skeletons you think I can’t be trusted to handle?”

Methos realized he was holding his breath, and made himself take a quick drink and turn away to cover his whirling thoughts.  He would have laughed, except that would only irritate Mac, and right now he needed to placate, to soothe, to divert Mac’s attention…from what, his brain asked itself.  From his own muddled motives?  What the fuck was he doing, anyway?  And why?  Mac thought he had some grand plan in mind when he had actually only been reacting on instinct to protect someone he cared about, and to get them both away from the Witchblade.

Well, letting MacLeod know just how much he cared, and how little advance planning went into his various schemes would not do, so he carefully sauntered to a chair and slouched into it, letting his legs take over the space in front.  “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, MacLeod?” he equivocated.

“Actually,” Mac replied softly, looking thoughtfully into his lap, “I sometimes think I’m pretty stupid, especially around you.  Whatever your reasons for being kind to me and helping me these past few years, and especially these past few months, I am grateful.  I needed a friend.”

Methos looked up from his lap and met Mac’s warm, dark eyes, but couldn’t hold his gaze, and looked back down.

“Now,” Mac sat back, his voice taking on a harder edge, “are you going to tell me what you know about the Witchblade, or am I going to be left in the dark, possibly bumping into dangerous objects out of ignorance?”

Methos shook his head with a sigh.  “You seem to think I am some font of great wisdom and knowledge, MacLeod, but I’m just a guy who’s been around a long time.  My instincts have been pretty well honed in the process, and what I know is that the Witchblade shouldn’t be reacting to Immortals at all.  In my experience, the Wielder generally avoids us, but now everything is getting all bollixed up.  Sara Pezzini is just the kind of woman you generally go for, and I saw the way she looked at you, Mac.  That can’t be anything but trouble.”

“And Ian?” Mac prodded.

Methos shrugged.  “If Joe is right and he has some of the same DNA as the Wielder, then whatever is driving her towards you could also be driving him the same direction.  Either way, I can’t imagine a pleasant outcome.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mac’s face warmed into a sensual smile as his body melted further back into the couch.  “Like you say, Sara is a beautiful, sexy woman and Ian is no slouch, either.  Might be fun.”

“Gods, Mac,” Methos snapped, “is there anyone on the planet you think you couldn’t seduce?”  He grabbed for the scotch and poured himself some more, even though he had only drunk half his glass.

“There are apparently one or two who are immune to my charms,” he answered, and when Methos turned, Mac was looking at him with an unusually inscrutable expression.  Then Mac shook his head slightly, and put his glass down.  “Okay, I’ll do my best to avoid any attempts at seduction of or by Ms. Pezzini, although I sincerely hope you appreciate the sacrifice,” he announced.

“Your martyrdom is duly noted,” Methos observed dryly.  “And what about Ian Nottingham?”

Mac rose and went to the window again, his hands stuck in his pockets.  “What happened with Ian was a momentary weakness, which I regret,” he said.  “I was just…lonely, and he reached out to me.  Believe it or not, Methos, it had been a long time,” he added, sadly, then frowned.  “It was wrong to create expectations that I had no intention of fulfilling, but I won’t just abandon the man to Kenneth Irons.”

“Mac,” Methos began, but stopped when MacLeod held up his hand.

“I know I can’t make his life’s choices for him, but I want him to know he has choices.”  Mac turned away from the window, meeting Methos’ eyes.  “You don’t need to make any deals with Irons, Methos.  I have no intention of becoming Ian’s teacher or his lover, just his friend.  I was planning on seeing him tomorrow, then we can head back to London, as planned.”  A knock interrupted them, and Mac returned from the door with a large flat package wrapped in brown paper.  “It’s for you.” 

“That was fast,” Methos commented, taking it, setting it on the coffee table and pulling the wrapping away.  It was a leather portfolio case, which Methos opened with care, smiling as he revealed what was inside. 

Mac gasped softly.  “It’s beautiful, like the wall paintings of Thera.”

“Yes, it is lovely, isn’t it,” Methos agreed, tracing his hand just above the now-faint curves and lines where he had faithfully recreated the ancient cave drawings almost 100 years before.  There were several female figures standing in profile, each one with a slightly different, but equally elaborate headdress.  The photograph he had shown Irons had been overexposed to deliberately fade the image, as he had no desire to share this beauty with a cretin like Irons.

“And what are these?” Mac asked, picking up a couple of thin notebooks that were also inside the case.

“My notes on what we found.”

“You were going to give your original notes to Irons?” Mac asked, sounding alarmed, then he opened the book, and laughed out loud.  “But this is in…what?  Pig Latin?” he asked, pointing to the odd combination of pictographs and Aramaic lettering.

“Very good, MacLeod.  Go to the front of the class,” Methos grinned.  “Actually the other one is in French and was the one I was planning to give to Irons. It has my archeological notes.  This one was my personal journal.  I didn’t want anyone to be able to read it, especially the other archeologists in the party, so I kind of made up my own script.”

“Well, you certainly don’t need to give him any of this,” Mac insisted.  “Frankly, if you had bothered to discuss this instead of assuming the worst of me, you could have saved yourself all this trouble,” he added in annoyance.

“It wasn’t you I was concerned about, Mac.”  It was only a small lie.  “And it still isn’t, not really.  It’s Irons, and the Witchblade.  If this,” he gestured to the notebooks and old parchment paper, “can buy him off, then it will be worth it.”  Methos watched as Mac thumbed through the notebook, examining the strange writing with a gentle smile.  Mac’s complaint that Methos never truly revealed anything about himself had stung a little, because it was true.  It was a millennia-long habit of self-protective secrecy.  If he wasn’t truly known, he couldn’t truly be hurt – or so the theory went.  “Curious?” he asked.

Mac looked up at him, his mouth forming a tight smile, then he handed him the small volume.  “Sorry,” he said.  “Didn’t mean to pry.”

Methos took the notebook.  It still felt familiar, after all these decades.  It was similar to hundreds, or even thousands, of such books he had carried with him ever since he had found that writing down his thoughts, his observations, his feelings, made him feel a little less like time either didn’t pass at all, or that it passed so quickly that he couldn’t seem to catch any of its real meaning, to glean any substance or wisdom from his experiences.  He opened it, his nostrils catching the scent of age, of a little mold, and even of the dust of an ancient place.

“May 27, 1893.  I’m sure I’ve been here before,” he began, leaning back and settling into the chair.  “Everything seems so familiar, but that is not uncommon.  Perhaps it is just the pervasive heat and dust, but the sun baked rocks cast shadows in the late evening, and I believe I recognize the patterns.  There is evidence of an old dried-up well, and some crumbled walls.  And I remember a name, a face.  Maleta, I think her name was.  She had three children, and I lived with her, taking care of her goats, as I recall…” His eyes flickered up from the book, and Mac was sitting, watching him intently, listening with his whole body, as only he was able to do.

The coffee was cold, but he drank it anyway.  He shifted a little to relieve the numbness gathering in his butt.  Stakeouts were a bitch.  Boring, exhausting and this one was probably pointless, as well.  There wasn’t even a case, for God’s sake.  Jake frowned into his cup, wondering at his own sanity.  Rahvi Singh had checked out completely clean.  Upstanding businessman, owned three rug factories, regularly traveled to the city, no hint of criminal involvement. 

But. 

There was always one of those, wasn’t there, he grimaced, shifting again.

Singh had no history past about 25 years ago, just like MacLeod.  Records conveniently lost or destroyed, no evidence of any immediate family, just like MacLeod.  So what the fuck was going on – with Sara, with MacLeod, and now with Singh?  Well, Sara was getting pissed that he had been keeping tabs on her, and if he tried to follow MacLeod around, now, she’d probably figure that out.  That left Singh.

He stretched and yawned, keeping one eye on the entrance to the Metropolitan Club as he rummaged in the seat beside him for an apple he had brought to stave off hunger. 

The passenger car door jerked open and before his hand was halfway to the gun at the small of his back, a knife was at his throat.  Rahvi Singh’s black eyes glittered in the dark, and a hand reached around to extract the gun from his holster.  Once he had the gun, Singh relaxed a little, closing the passenger door and leaning back, studying him.  “MacLeod send you?” he asked in an accent that, while distinctively Indian, also had a trace of Oxford.

“Hey, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jake equivocated.  Reaching for his wallet, then stopping when the muzzle of the gun moved closer, and he saw Singh expertly thumb off the safety.  “I’m with NYPD, just getting my badge.”  He slowly reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, handing it over, hoping Singh would divert his attention sufficiently that he could snatch the gun back, but the weapon never wavered even while Singh perused his identity card and his badge.

“Well, Detective McCarty, why are you watching me?” Singh demanded.

“I’m not.  I don’t even know who the hell you are.  Now put down that gun or you’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”

Singh chuckled.  “You’re lying, Detective.  “You’ve been asking questions about me, and I don’t like people asking questions about me.  Especially policemen.  But now that I think about it, you might just prove to be useful, as bait, if nothing else.  Now, start the car.  We’re going for a little drive,” Singh instructed.

Jake’s mind worked furiously.  Okay, just assume Sara was right for a minute, that Singh might just be a really bad guy, and that MacLeod was some kind of special agent sent to deal with him.  What were his options?  He reluctantly reached for the keys to start the car, and almost had to smile as he heard Sara’s exasperated voice in his head. “Now you finally decide to pay attention?  Terrific, McCarty.  I suppose you expect me to come rescue your sorry ass!”

“A man can hope,” he whispered to himself.

“What was that?” Singh demanded.

“Nothing, just talking to myself,” Jake replied as the engine, unfortunately, started on the first turn of the key.