He had brewed coffee in the small machine in the suite’s living room, and sipped at the strong, hot liquid, smiling as he spotted Methos’ ‘secret’ journal still lying on the coffee table.  He sat and thumbed through it, trying to puzzle out a little of the bizarre code Methos had invented a century before, and which he appeared to remember effortlessly.

Unless he had simply made up the whole story sua sponte for Mac’s benefit and for his own amusement.  Now that was a real possibility.  Mac stopped his perusal with a frown, closed the book and carefully put it back down exactly where it had been.  No.  No, he didn’t really think that, he decided, with a shake of his head.  There had been a look of nostalgia that had softened that sharp face, and Methos’ voice had lilted and fallen in a rhythm that demanded, “Listen, understand, believe.”  And Mac had.  He had listened, he had believed, and maybe he had even understood a little.  At least a little more than he had before.  So many layers to the man, so many lives, Mac sighed to himself.

He finished his coffee, suddenly full of excess energy.  He went to his bedroom and strapped a dagger on just as a precaution in case his friend Singh tried to accost him in the park, then pulled on a sweatshirt as protection against the early morning chill, tucked his room key in his pocket, and went out into the mist.

Sara managed to park the motorcycle in a legal spot only a couple of blocks away from MacLeod’s hotel, and then made her way through the ever-increasing morning pedestrian traffic along 5th Avenue towards the Sherry Netherlands.  It was early yet, but she had awakened early from a night of troubled sleep and bizarre dreams – Conchobar, looking so alive and vibrant, singing in a spotlight but directing all his energy straight at her, in the front row of a crowded club, people pressed around her, excited and driven by the strong rhythms of his music to sway and move and grind against each other.  And her body strained towards him, but it wasn’t him, it was someone else, larger, heavier, powerful…Sara shook herself, trying to shrug off the sense of heated unease that she had been feeling for the past few days.

The doorman opened the door for her with a tip of his hat, and she looked for a comfortable place to sit and think. It was a bit early yet to disturb MacLeod and Pierson.  Just as a precaution, however, she turned back to the doorman and gave him her most winning smile.

“Don’t suppose you know a hotel guest by the name of MacLeod do you?” she asked.

The man – boy, really – swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing just above the gold piping of his high uniform collar.  “Uh, no ma’m.  I don’t usually get to know the guests by name,” he stuttered.

“Well,” Sara sighed.  “He’s tall, dark haired, muscular, mid-thirties, very GQ, stays in a suite with another guy who’s a Brit.”

“Oh, yeah, I know who you’re talking about.  Big tipper,” the boy added with a smile and a nod.

“Just wanted to be sure he was still around,” Sara explained with a smile.

“Well actually I think you missed him.  He went out about half an hour ago.”

“Out?  This early?”

“Yeah, he was in jogging clothes, though.  Probably headed over to the park.”

Sara frowned to herself, considering her options.  Actually, it might be better to talk to MacLeod without Pierson present.  The sharp-faced man made her uncomfortable, and had already proven a master at misdirection.

“Thanks, sweetie,” she smiled, and the doorman blushed.

She went back through the large, revolving doors and crossed the street.  Within two steps inside the park, mist enclosed her like a soggy gray blanket.  Joggers, roller bladers and power walkers seemed to appear out of the fog, then disappear just as quickly and Sara kept to the edge of the path in order not to get accidentally bowled over.

The chances of finding MacLeod in this muck were somewhere between slim and none, she decided, and turned to head back across the street to wait in the hotel, but then the Witchblade stirred on her arm.  She looked down, then closed her eyes, letting her mind clear.  She had recently decided that fighting the Blade's influence only won her confusion and a serious headache, despite the sometimes disturbing and even frightening images the bracelet provided.

But this wasn’t an image, merely a sense of direction.  Sara frowned at the benign-looking silver jewelry entwined around her wrist.  If she wandered off and stumbled around in the mist and MacLeod headed back to the hotel in the meantime, she might not get another chance to talk to the man before he decided to leave the country.  The Blade got warm on her arm, tightening almost painfully, and the urge to turn right grew stronger.  “Okay, okay,” Sara murmured.  “You don’t have to get rude about it.”  She turned and walked quickly, the sound of her footsteps oddly muted in the thick air.  More figures passed her on her left while others came barreling towards her, generally keeping to the other side of the path.  She walked briskly for five minutes, and was beginning to wonder if there was any point to this foolishness, when she stumbled smack into a figure stopped at the edge of the path, stretching his calves out.

“Hey!” she snapped.  “You’re creating a traffic…” the man turned, and Duncan MacLeod’s memorable face regarded her with a raised eyebrow.

“Watch it!” another runner snapped, veering around them.

MacLeod grabbed Sara’s elbow and pulled her off the path into the grass.  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.  He was limping slightly and out of breath, his sweatshirt and pants had large dark splotches where perspiration had soaked through, and his hair was plastered in damp curls all over his forehead.  Sweat ran in rivulets down his face and neck, and his body exuded heat as well as a strong waft of musk and sweat.  Sara couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone look quite so intensely, attractively masculine and her mind went momentarily blank.

“I…uh,” she stuttered, then forced herself to stop and gather her thoughts, looking away from those intense, dark eyes.  “I was looking for you.”

MacLeod chuckled, wiping his forehead off on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.  “In this?” he gestured to the heavy fog.  “Seems like an unlikely search.”

“I found you, didn’t I?” Sara snapped.

“Sheer luck.  If I hadn’t had a cramp in my calf, you …,” he paused as Sara cocked her head at him.  His gaze traveled to the Witchblade and Sara self-consciously pulled her sleeve down over it.  “So you did, Ms. Pezzini,” he sighed.  He looked off in the distance for a moment, then turned away, headed back for the path, the cramp in his leg evidently gone.

“Wait!” Sara called.  “I need to talk to you.”

The man didn’t pause.  Instead, he just began to jog, quickly pulling away from her.  “Another time,” he called over his shoulder.

Damn!  She’d never keep up with the man in her boots.  She did her best anyway, running after him, putting on a quick burst of speed, and she felt her body accelerate, almost like she was slipping through space without any effort at all.  “Dammit, MacLeod, you are not going to avoid me this time!” she shouted, stretching her stride, reaching out and catching the back of his sweatshirt.  She could feel something hard under the fabric, and yanked.  MacLeod twisted impossibly in her grasp, but Sara hung on, throwing her weight to the side and pulling them both off the path, stumbling and falling into the damp grass.

She scrambled, ending astride his torso, both of them gasping for air.  She searched for his hands, expecting to have to physically restrain him, but realized he was not fighting her.  Instead, he folded his hands placidly behind his head and gazed up at her with a playful smile.

“Well, officer,” he said, “It appears you’ve got your man.  What are you going to do with me now?”

“I...,” her mind was once again blank, except for a disturbing replay of the dreams from the night before of this man, large and sweaty and…naked.  She rolled away, and sat on the grass, catching her breath and gathering her composure.  “I just want to talk to you.”  She looked over and MacLeod had sat up, one arm draped over a bent knee, now stained green and brown from their roll on the turf.

“All right, Miss Pezzini,” he sighed, then smiled and shook his head.  “I guess the rumors are true.”  He pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand.

She took the hand and used his leverage to pull herself to her feet.  “What rumors are those?” she asked, brushing dirt and leaves from her clothes.

“That you’re as stubborn as I am,” he answered with a grim smile.  He pointed to an empty park bench under a nearby tree.  “I wouldn’t take that as a compliment, by the way,” he said, walking towards the bench.

“I didn’t think it was,” she replied tersely, following behind.

They sat, both of them still a little out of breath.  Finally, MacLeod turned to her, one arm draped over the back of the bench.  “Well, Miss Pezzini, ask your questions.”

“First, please stop calling me ‘Miss Pezzini,’” Sara insisted.  “Sara will work just fine.”

He sat back, looking away, his expression distant and a little sad.  “Okay,…Sara,” he finally replied.

“Does it bother you?” Sara asked after a moment.  “That I look so much like Elizabeth Bronte?”

He turned back to face her, studying her with a wistful expression.  “Yes, you do.  But you’re different.  She was, I don’t know,” he shrugged, “…softer.”  He smiled when Sara snorted at that.  “Well, she was raised in a different era, but she was no less determined.”

“Did you two…?” Sara stumbled over her rather crude question, not having really thought about it before, but now burning with curiosity.  Perhaps this was the reason for her erotic dreams.  “Uh,” she waved her hand a little, “you know,” she finished lamely.

MacLeod chuckled and leaned back, crossing his arms, his amused expression somewhat at odds with his defensive body language.  “No, Sara.  Beth was focused on her goal, and even though it was wartime and a lot of the entrenched notions about not having sex before marriage had gone by the wayside, we never got that far.”  His dark eyes returned to study Sara.  “Not that I didn’t want to, but she seemed to feel the time wasn’t right.”

Sara heard his words, but as she listened, the air around her seemed to shift, the sounds alter. 

It was dark, the air crisp with a sense of impending snow, and she was aware of her own heavy breathing, and that of a warm body behind her and a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“They’re close,” he said softly.

She listened, hearing male voices shouting in German not far away.  She understood every word.

“Over here!” a voice called.

“Come on, we’ve got to move!”  Duncan grabbed her wrist and pulled, headed down the slick cobblestones of an alley that smelled of old food and something else.  The sea.

“No, this way,” she said, twisting out of his grasp and heading for a dark doorway of the nearest building.

“But…,” Duncan started to voice a protest, but then just sighed and followed her as she tested the door. 

It was locked.  Beth concentrated, and the bracelet on her arm shifted into a gauntlet, protruding a short, deadly blade.  With an expert twist, Beth jammed the point into the mechanism and the metal screeched with an alarming noise as it sliced through the lock.  Duncan hissed and ducked to the side of the alley, looking to see if they had drawn any attention, but then nodded to her as she slipped inside, holding the door for him until he had followed.

Duncan’s easy acceptance of the mystery of the Witchblade had amazed her, but then the man’s remarkable ability to heal was a separate puzzle about which she had not asked.  It had been an unspoken agreement between them, once each of them realized the other had unexplainable secrets.  Most people just didn’t see what the Blade did, the bracelet’s defensive mechanisms somehow having the ability to cloud their perceptions.  But Duncan had seen, and known, and had accepted.  He was the first man she had felt comfortable with for a long time, and she knew he was falling in love with her.  And she wasn’t at all sure those feelings weren’t reciprocated. 

But falling in love was something she couldn’t allow to happen.  Not with Duncan MacLeod, she reminded herself of that once more as Duncan reached for her in the dark, his large hand folding over hers like a glove.  She didn’t know how she knew, but she was certain that, no matter what she might feel, or what he might want, their secrets would ultimately tear them apart.

“Where to now?” he asked softly.

“This way,” she answered, finding her way unerringly to the stairs.  She had learned to trust the Blade, especially when it came to her own safety.  Up several flights, and they were at a door that opened to a blast of frigid air, and a flat tarpaper roof.  She went to the roof’s edge, and they could see the dark shapes of the docks below them, just past the next warehouse.

“Look!” Duncan whispered, pointing to the end of one pier.  One small light shone, especially noticeable in Berlin’s city-wide blackout.  The light went off, then on again.  Then flashed twice more.  Duncan took a flashlight out of his coat, and sent an answering signal.  After a few seconds, two flashes acknowledged them.  “Now all we have to do is get you down there,” he murmured, puzzling over their situation.  “This may be safe for the moment,” he acknowledged.  “But essentially we’re trapped here, and the sub will only hold position for fifteen minutes.”

Beth knew the Blade would not have led her into a dead end, so she paced the edge of the roof for a minute, letting herself take in all that she saw and felt, and she paused.  “There,” she said, pointing to the next warehouse, closest to the wharf.  The building was about twenty feet away, across the alley.  “I’m sure there’s a ladder on the other side that takes you straight to the dock.”

“You can’t be serious,” Duncan stated flatly, looking down at the thirty-foot drop to the wet cobblestones below.

“Duncan.” She turned to him, placing her hands on the rough wool of his coat.  He took her shoulders, looking down into her face with concern.  There was no fear there, at least not for himself.  Damn the Witchblade, Beth thought viciously, and damn this stupid war!  Here was a man she could share her life with, yet she knew with an absolute certainty that it was simply not meant to be.  “I can do this,” she whispered.  “You have to trust me and let me go.  You are important to the Resistance.  They need you, and I need to get the codes back to Britain.  You know that.”

“The Resistance can get along without me for a while,” Duncan insisted, pulling her closer and leaning down until their foreheads were almost touching.  He cupped her face with his big, rough hands, making her feel so safe and cared for that her throat closed.  It had been so long since anyone had touched her as he did, had looked at her with such longing.  “I’ll go with you.  I can get you to that boat without you having to risk your neck like this.  I know you have…special abilities, but you are still only mortal.  Let me help you.  Let me protect you.”

“Duncan…”

“Here!” a male voice shouted from the alley.  “The lock has been broken!”

Duncan’s hands gripped her shoulders hard, and the vibration of many footsteps could be heard thundering up the stairs.  “Go!” he ordered.  “I’ll hold them off.”

“Duncan, No!” she protested with a cry.  “You can make it, too, you have to!”  She backed up, clutching the awkward box she was carrying to her chest, her mind busy calculating just exactly when she would have to jump in order to make that impossible leap.  The Witchblade would help her, she knew that with a certainty that removed all fear for herself, but would it protect Duncan? Her heart warred with her head.  The Enigma code box would save so many lives, could possibly end this terrible war.  But at what price?  She held out her hand to him.  “We can make it together!”

But Duncan had pulled a gun from inside his coat. “Go!” he ordered.  “I’ll be all right.  I promise.”

“But…”

“Go!” he shouted, as the door burst open, and he opened fire, momentarily forcing the SS troops to duck back into the building.

Beth crouched slightly, took a long breath as well as one precious second to glance at the Blade.  It was glowing and warming on her arm.  Energy rushed through her and she moved, her feet pushing forward inexorably towards the edge, and in three more long strides, she was off.  Time seemed to slow and almost stop and it felt like she drifted through the air, her head turning, her shoulder moving down, and her eyes focused on Duncan, facing down a half dozen storm troopers with only a handgun.

She saw the bullets hit, driving him back, and then her shoulder slammed into the warehouse roof and she rolled, immediately laying her body flat in the midnight shadows.  More shots, and a cry, and she edged up just far enough over the roof’s edge to see Duncan driven backwards by the force of bullets hitting his chest, and back again, then he slowly toppled over the roof’s edge, his body turning in the air before it hit the cobblestones with a horrifying noise.

Beth put both hands over her mouth, unable to stop the cry that came from somewhere deep, deep inside.  Tears poured down her cheeks and she sat and rocked, clutching the code box to her chest.  She sat, frozen in grief for what felt like an eternity, her mind so blasted with horror she couldn’t think.  But it seemed her body was on automatic now, because she found herself crawling along the roof’s edge to the other side, staying to the shadows.  She could hear the Germans calling to each other, searching, thinking they had found their prey, but not locating the precious Enigma code box.

Cold metal brushed her hands and she grabbed it, pulling herself over and down the other side, her feet slipping on the iron bars of the ladder, barely seeing anything through tears that wouldn’t stop pouring down her face.  She was operating solely on instinct and trusting in the Witchblade to guide her feet to the small boat waiting to take her offshore to the submarine. 

“Sara?”

Daylight and everyday sounds came rushing back, and she blinked.  “You died for her,” she whispered.

“Excuse me?” Duncan asked.  It was the same face, exactly.  The same broad shoulders, the same big hands, the same gentle voice.

“You held off the Germans so I…so Beth could get away with the Enigma code box.”

“Did the Witchblade show you that?” he asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

Sara shook herself, still reeling from the shock of watching a man she…that Elizabeth Bronte had cared about so much, fall to his death.  It had been so real, and yet here he was, sitting beside her.  She cleared her throat and took a large breath.  “I need some answers,” she stated, struggling to get back to the issue at hand.  “First of all, who…what are you?”

MacLeod studied his lap for a moment before he answered.  “I am who you see, Sara Pezzini.  Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

Sara started to chuckle, but stopped when she realized he was being perfectly serious.  “Is that what you people are then, part of some weird clan?”

“No,” Duncan smiled sadly.  “I’m afraid we truly have no idea where we come from.  I was actually more fortunate than most, brought up as the child of a village chieftain in Scotland.  Until my first death only my father knew I had been substituted for the babe his wife lost in childbirth.  Unfortunately most of us grow up without the benefit of a loving family.  Our imm…what we are is triggered by a violent death, and when I died the first time, then revived, I was disowned by my father and cast out as a demon.  It was my mother – my foster mother – who told me never to forget who I was, and to always carry the name of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

Sara swallowed hard.  She wanted to know the answer to the next question, even as she feared it.  “Just how old are you?” she asked.

MacLeod turned his body towards her, and took a long breath.  “I was born in 1592, Sara.  I am over 400 years old.”

Sara laughed at the absurdity of the statement, but then hiccupped, choked and coughed, while Duncan patted her helpfully on the back.  It shouldn’t have been such a shock.  Really, she admonished herself, embarrassed at her inappropriate reaction.  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t suspected as much.  All the same, it took a few seconds for her breath to return to normal.  As though anything in her life was normal.

“You okay?”

She nodded, still unsure of her own voice, or even what to ask next.  “Why,” she finally asked, “do you fight each other?”

MacLeod sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands.  “What did Adam tell you?” he asked.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Sara insisted.  “I’m not going to play that game.  All the research I’ve done has pointed in one direction.  You people kill each other, regularly, in some kind of ritual combat with swords that ends up with one of you guys chopping off the other’s head.”  Her suspicions were confirmed as MacLeod stiffened at her words.  “I can understand why Ian Nottingham wanted you to teach him.  I’ve never seen anyone as good at combat skills as Nottingham, but then I’ve never seen a four hundred year old warrior in action, either.  At least not until the other night.”

“Well,” he said, spreading his hands, “if you’ve got it all figured out, you don’t need anything from me, do you?”

“Why?!” Sara demanded, leaning close. “I want to know why.”

Duncan stood, putting his hands in his pockets.  “Walk with me,” he said.

They walked along quietly for a moment, cutting across the grass rather than going along the crowded path.  “It’s called the Game,” he reluctantly offered.  “We are driven to kill one another until only one is left.  It is sad, it is sick, and it means that we lose everyone we care about,” he added, his voice so soft Sara had to strain to hear.

“The Game?  What’s the purpose, other than to kill each other?”

MacLeod’s broad shoulders rose and fell in a helpless gesture.  “Who knows?  It’s a racial imperative that’s been going on for as long as any of us can remember.  There’s supposed to be some prize to be won, but what prize could be worth the annihilation of an entire race of people?”

“God,” Sara whispered.  “You really don’t know?  Where you came from or why you have to kill each other?” 

Duncan shook his head, his eyes on the trees beginning to appear as the mist started to lift at last.  Sara caught his arm to stop him, pulling him around so they faced each other.

“If it is a racial imperative, why is it that you try to avoid it?” Sara asked.  “I heard you.  You didn’t want to kill Singh.  You tried to get him to stop.”

Duncan closed his eyes, and he suddenly looked painfully weary and sad.  “There are a few of us who just want to live in peace,” he sighed.  “But… but they keep coming.”  Then he shook himself.  “I’m sorry, that sounded morbid, when most people would think we have a priceless gift.  But until you understand the price…” He shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” Sara said, her words seeming so meaningless in the face of such an enormous burden.  She reached out her hand, laying it against the damp warmth of his sweatshirt.  His heart beat steadily under the fabric and she took in a long breath.  That heart had been beating for four centuries of life.  What had he seen in all that time, who had he known, what had he learned? 

He folded his own hand over hers.  “Don’t be sorry,” he said with a gentle smile.  “I’ve known a lot of wonderful people, seen amazing things, watched as the world changed and grew…so much smaller.”  He reached out and traced her chin with his finger.  “And I’ve had the privilege of knowing Elizabeth Bronte, and of knowing you.”

“But you hardly know me at all,” Sara protested, moving a little closer.  The mist had settled in his dark, tousled hair, making it sparkle.

“Oh, I know you, Sara Pezzini,” he insisted with a smile, his hand now tracing a line from her ear down her neck, and she shivered at the touch.  “You are brave, and smart and foolish and stubborn.  And beautiful,” he added.

There was a long pause, a suspension of time where Sara didn’t think either of them breathed.  Then her hand moved of its own volition, up to his neck, still warm and damp from his exercise.  She moved in, and he blinked and took a long breath and cleared his throat, grasped her shoulders and gently pushed her from him, then turned away.

“This…this is a bad idea,” he said a little breathlessly.

“Why?” was the only response that popped into her head.  Her body was quite occupied with other, more immediate and quite urgent sensations.

“Sara, people… like me…. shouldn’t get close to the wielder of the Witchblade.  It’s too powerful a weapon and might somehow alter the outcome of the Game.”

“But wouldn’t that be a good thing?” she asked, pulling him back again to face her.  “If it gave you an edge, helped you defeat the bad guys?  I can help you, Duncan!”

“No!” he snapped, his eyes narrowing dangerously.  “There are too many of us who will do anything to win.  If I have any purpose in life, it is to protect the people I care about, to deal with the Game honorably and to try to see that others do, as well.  I shouldn’t even know about the Witchblade, much less start a relationship with the one who wields it.  And besides, I made a promise that I wouldn’t do this,” he ended sharply and turned, walking quickly back towards the hotel.

“MacLeod, wait!” Sara sped up to walk by his side, stretching her stride to keep pace.  “Don’t I have any say in this?  Am I such a child to you that you just dismiss anything I might want or feel?”  She grabbed his arm and stopped him, feeling slightly disembodied.  She had never ‘chased’ a man before in her life but somehow, something was pushing her, insisting that she not let him go.  “Is your promise more important than that?”

He looked at her, searching her face, then reached out and touched her cheek with a tenderness that made her ache with want.  “Sara, you’re hardly a child, to me or anyone else, but I’m afraid my promise is that important.”  Then he turned, and this time, he broke into a jog, and she knew he would not let her catch him again.

Methos didn’t bother wearing a suit this time, since whatever impression he wished to make with Irons had already been established, for good or ill.  He had already packed the rest of his things away in preparation for their flight back to London this evening, and was dressed in comfortable traveling attire – well-broken-in jeans and an overlarge, soft sweater.  Actually, he had pilfered one of Mac’s.  They were traveling in first class, and it wouldn’t do to look like he had snuck in from the peanut gallery.  Besides, it looked good on him, felt nice against his skin, and even smelled pleasantly of Mac’s subtle aftershave. 

He hadn’t bothered with breakfast, just drinking the dregs of some cold coffee Mac had left in the suite’s coffeepot.  He wanted to get this business with Irons over and done with and get the hell out of town. 

He went through an elaborate ritual of showing his ID and signing in at Vorschlag’s main desk, was given a visitor's badge, then personally escorted to the top floor.  It was totally unlike his previous reception when he had to bully, charm and cajole his way to the upper executive levels.  The formerly overtly hostile secretary had warmed to just barely above freezing, but Methos suspected that was her usual state and not directed at him, personally.  Nevertheless, he was shown into Irons’ office without delay.

“Dr. Pierson!  My, my, aren’t you the early bird,” Irons greeted him affably, rising from behind his enormous expanse of desk to reach out a hand, which Methos ignored.  He might have to do business with the man, but he didn’t have to pretend to anything other than disdain for him.  Irons’ light blue eyes hardened slightly at the snub, but he smoothly changed the gesture into a reach for the portfolio Methos was holding.  “This is the rubbing, I assume?”

“I’m ready to conclude our business, Irons,” Methos responded, but did not relinquish the portfolio.  Instead, he laid it carefully against the coffee table in the furniture grouping by the window, and helped himself to a cup of coffee from a silver coffee service on the sideboard.  "Have you taken care of your friend Nottingham?" he asked without preamble.

"You may leave Ian to me, Adam."  Irons joined him at the coffee service, refreshing his own cup.

Methos sat and crossed his legs, eyeing Irons with a cold smile.  "Oh, I had every intention of doing that."

"May I?" Irons sat, reaching for the portfolio, his eyes lit with greedy eagerness.

Methos nudged the large, flat case over with his foot and watched while Irons unzipped it and reverently opened it out over the table.  Long-fingered hands floated delicately over the parchment, never quite touching it, but tracing the patterns there like some ancient shaman divining secret meanings in the entrails of a sacrificial slaughter.  It sickened him slightly, to turn over this particular piece of his history, of himself, to such a man.

But if you took the long view, he reminded himself, eventually he would get it back once Kenneth Irons had gone on to his great reward.  Which, if there were any afterlife at all – something Methos seriously doubted – would be to burn in hell for all eternity.

“It’s beautiful,” Irons murmured.  “Look,” he pointed out the long arm of one of the women delicately painted in an angular profile.  “You can even see something on her wrist there.  Some kind of jewelry, I think.”

“Possibly,” Methos replied.  “Or perhaps it was just a flaw in the rock, or a slip of the pen,” he added with a shrug.  “Who knows?  My great uncle was not an artist.”

Irons turned his head and gave him a long look.  “He must have been an interesting man.  Did you know him well?”

Methos leaned back, considering.  Irons was playing a game, of course.  He was a man who never said or did anything that didn’t have a half dozen different angles being considered.  “Not really.  He was very old when I first met him, and you know kids.  They don’t think there’s anything to learn from anyone over 40.”

Irons’ smile did not quite reach his eyes.  “And how old were you when you knew him?”

“Old enough to believe I was just as smart as he was,” Methos replied. 

“That’s a non-answer,” Irons observed, sipping his coffee.

Methos chuckled.  “Age is a relative thing, don’t you think?  Some days I feel like a kid, and others…” he shrugged.  “But I’ve heard rumors that you have been around for a few more years than might be immediately obvious,” Methos supplied.  It was time to put Irons back on the defensive.

Irons put his coffee cup down and turned his body, laying an arm over the back of the couch so his hand just brushed the back of Methos’ neck.  It made Methos want to shiver, but he controlled the impulse.

“Let’s just say I’m more experienced than most,” Irons said softly, and Methos felt a finger trail gently at his nape.  “But I’ve always felt that experience was the best teacher, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Methos said softly.  “And experience has taught me not to take anything on faith, especially when it comes to business deals.  That has led to a long practice of providing for my own guarantees of contract fulfillment.”  The hand caressing his neck paused.  “I am a researcher, you know.”  He reached into his pocket and drew out a small piece of paper he had prepared earlier, examining the list of numbers and codes casually.  “Over the years I have developed methods to find out virtually anything I want to know, even very private information.”

“Such as?” Irons asked.  His body had gone very still and his blue eyes glittered like glacial ice.

“Oh, little bits and pieces of personal data, like where private offshore accounts are located, and the passwords to access them.  Of course, I would never use such information…unless provoked,” Methos added, meeting Irons’ icy look with one of his own.  He leaned over and moved the parchment aside a little, revealing the battered notebook he had used so long ago.  “My great uncle had a bit of a flair for the dramatic, you know.  He described what he believed to be the manner of death of the seven queens in quite colorful detail.”  Methos opened the book, flipped through the pages until he found the reference he was looking for, then slipped the piece of paper from his pocket into the spot as a marker.  “Their punishment for their betrayal was remarkably barbaric.  You might find the information quite…enlightening.”  He tossed the book back onto the table in a casual gesture, and stood.  “As pleasant as this has been,” he said with a cold smile, “I trust this will be our last meeting.”

Irons stood with him.  “Leaving so soon?  I so much wanted to discuss your…research.”

God, but the man was arrogant, and Methos had to consciously suppress an almost irresistible urge to slash his throat just to have the pleasure of watching his blood drench the plush carpet.  “Our business is concluded, Irons.  You have what you wanted, and I have faith that you will fulfill your end of the deal.  Should you not,” Methos added, letting his expression harden, “my discretion about the use of my…research, will be compromised.  And,” he added, stepping slightly closer, “you will have acquired an adversary with a very, very long memory.”

“Come now, Adam,” Irons also stepped closer, as well, remarkably unfazed at the obvious threat in Methos’ words, but even more so in his eyes.  “There is no reason for hostility.  I think we are very much alike, you and I.  I even have a gift for you.”

The man was shameless.  Evidently he was unable to conceive of anyone who might not be seduced by his presence, his power and his money.  “A gift?” Methos almost laughed.  “I’m not interested.” He turned to go.

“Wait!” Irons called, then softer, “Please.”  Methos turned to watch Irons go behind his desk and open a drawer.  “In my travels I have acquired many fascinating objects of power,” he said, reverently lifting a carved ebony box for Methos to see.  “Tests have confirmed that this blade was forged when the smelting of metal was still a new and mysterious craft.”  He brought the box around and opened it, taking out a short, wide-bladed dagger.  His eyes gleamed as he gazed at the weapon.  “And legend has it that it was used by an ancient god to cut out the heart of his victims.”

The air in the room seemed to have vanished, leaving a vacuum that sucked the very soul from Methos’ body.  “What god?” Methos heard himself ask in a disembodied voice.

Irons chuckled, holding the blade out to him for his inspection.  “The God of War.  One of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

Despite the dread that washed over him in a black swirl of vertigo, Methos found himself reaching for the all-too-familiar blade, and it was as though time had rolled back, century after century.  He could smell the dust and the blood, feel the unforgiving sun baking his shoulders, and hear the screams of the dying – a sound that would forever haunt his dreams.

No.  This could not be, some vestige of sanity insisted.  It was the Witchblade at work again, warping perceptions of time and space to its own ends, and he somehow wrested himself back under control and yanked his arm back, but not before Irons had laid the blade’s edge in his hand.

“Oh, dear!” Irons’ voice seemed to come from a distance.  “I do believe you’ve cut yourself.”

The present came back into focus, and Methos looked down to see blood welling into his palm.  “It’s nothing,” he insisted, closing his hand.  “I’m afraid I must go.”

“I can’t let you go like this,” Irons insisted, pulling a white silk kerchief from his pocket and quickly wrapping it around the injury.  “I have a doctor available right here in the building.  It won’t take but a moment to…”

“No, it will be fine,” Methos said firmly, picking up his coat and moving towards the door.

“But…”

Methos fixed Irons with a hard stare that this time truly did seem to stop the man in his tracks, perhaps because Death had already been summoned once and was still so close at hand.  “I have fulfilled my end of the bargain, Irons,” he gestured towards the rubbing and the book, “see that you fulfill yours.”  He turned and left, got into the elevator, and only then became aware of the throbbing pain in his palm.  He unwrapped the blood-soaked cloth and watched as the wound closed.  With a low, feral snarl, he wiped the rest of the blood off.  Even a beheading didn’t seem sufficient to keep Kronos from haunting him. 

The executive elevator smoothly descended for over sixty floors, but Methos needed the entire time to wrest his roiling anger under control once more. With a cleansing breath, he stepped into the lobby, only to bump straight into Ian Nottingham, practically knocking him down.  The encounter seemed entirely coincidental, but Methos no longer considered anything to do with Irons or Nottingham to be coincidental.

“Dr. Pierson,” Nottingham’s greeting was carefully neutral.

“Nottingham,” Methos nodded in return, then stepped to one side and brushed by.

“Dr. Pierson,” Nottingham called after him.

Methos closed his eyes and shook his head.  Fighting whatever forces were driving these events was proving to be monumentally frustrating.  “What!?” he snapped, turning around.

Nottingham walked towards him, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, his chin tucked down, but his eyes looking up.  It was a submissive posture, but the dark eyes were unreadable.  “Irons has told me of your agreement, and while I regret not getting to know Duncan…and you, better, I can understand why you prefer that we not continue any…relationship.  Peace?”  He held out his hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Methos took it.  “You care a great deal about Duncan, don’t you?” Nottingham asked as he shook his hand firmly, cocking his head a little.

“MacLeod is a good man,” Methos replied.  “One of a kind.”  Nottingham’s palm was cool and callused, similar to that of an Immortal, and Methos felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise when Nottingham didn’t relinquish his hold and instead reached out to make it a double-handed clasp.

“Indeed,” Nottingham agreed.  “He is a rare breed,” and Irons’ minion stepped closer and closed his grip a little more firmly around Methos’ hand.

Methos’ whole frame vibrated with warning.  He moved his left hand towards the inside his coat.  Not toward the sword, but to a shorter knife, better for close fighting.  His palm closed around the wrapped leather hilt and he took a long breath, letting his body relax into readiness…and Nottingham let his hand go, and stepped back.

“Good day, Dr. Pierson,” he nodded.  “Give my best to Duncan.”

Methos just nodded, still poised for attack, but Nottingham just turned and stepped into the waiting elevator, nodding neutrally as the door closed with a small shush of air.

Ian stepped off the elevator onto the executive level floor.  The secretary didn’t even acknowledge his presence as he glided past.  She had long ago learned that he was a wraith whose comings and goings were not to be officially noticed.  As he stepped into the large office, he had to squint against the morning sun shining golden against the New York skyline.  He went to the wall and pushed a switch that activated filters built into the glass.  They blocked out the harsh rays without blocking the magnificent view. It was one of the more profitable inventions to which Vorschlag Industries held the patent.

Irons looked up from putting away something in his desk.

“Well?” Irons asked.

“His hand was healed,” Nottingham informed him, and held out the blood-soaked kerchief.

Irons’ face warmed into a triumphant smile as he reached for the phone.

The buzz of voices in the squad room diminished slightly as Sara walked in, a half an hour late to work.  She hooked her helmet over the coat tree in the corner and pulled off her jacket.  The other detectives glanced her way, then returned to their duties as she sank into her desk chair and snapped on the computer.  “Seen McCarty?” she called to man sitting at the nearest occupied desk.  Det. 1st Class Jerry Orlinsky was one of Captain Dante’s confidantes and someone Pezzini trusted about as far as she could throw him.  Actually – Sara smiled to herself at the thought – with the Witchblade’s help, she could throw the man quite a ways.  Might be worth it.

He turned, his lips twisting in a subtle leer.  “Figured you two would be living together by now.  He practically drools every time you walk by.”

“I thought drooling was your specialty,” Sara snapped.  She should know better than to ask these guys anything.

She rose and went to McCarty’s desk to look at his calendar.  He was far better about keeping a schedule and reporting in than she had ever been, but there was nothing on his desk to indicate why he wasn’t in, or hadn’t called.  She sat, and opened his desk drawer, and the first thing she found was a tattered postcard from California from someone named Charlie, who had missed Jake at the annual surfing competition in Redondo Beach, California, but wished “you were here.”

Darkness. Patterned shadows.  The blades of a giant fan circling slowly, casting a moving shadow on the wall.

Sara blinked, the squad room coming momentarily back into focus around her. 

Jake, a gag over his mouth, his eyes wide with fear.

Sara gasped, realizing she had been holding her breath.

“Hey, Pez, what’d you find.  Dirty pictures?” Orlinsky chuckled.

“Why?  You lookin’ to add to your collection?” Sara snapped.  She pushed away from the desk and went to Captain Dante’s doorway.  He was on the phone and held up his hand as he finished the conversation and hung up.  “Hey, Cap,” Sara said.  “McCarty mentioned some murder in the park you wanted him to cover.  You give him any other assignments I don’t know about?”

“Nah,” Dante said, waving her off, and standing to put on his coat.  “That other thing was a dead end.  I don’t know where McCarty is this morning.  He’s probably picking up your bad habits and just didn’t phone in.”

“It’s not like him to just not show up for work, or even call.”

“Give it a few hours,” Dante replied.  “I’m sure he’ll show up eventually.  Probably had a hot date.  I’ve got some stuff I need to do.  We can talk about it later.”  Dante signaled to Orlinksy and the two men were gone before Sara had a chance to voice any more of her concerns.

A scimitar, flashing as it arced through space.  A dark, angry face.

Sara jerked back to the here and now, moved into Dante’s office and closed the door to use the phone.

They had driven to Brooklyn in silence, while Jake tried to think of plan for escape, but nothing brilliant came to mind.  Singh handled the gun like an expert, and had kept a careful distance and a watchful eye as they drove up and into the loading dock of an old factory that looked like it had seen better days.

It had been pitch black inside, with only Singh’s flashlight adding to an emergency exit light flickering dimly at the end of the corridor where Singh waved him in.  With a shove, he was inside an office with a few pieces of furniture evidently considered too battered and old to bother selling or moving when the factory closed.  He was looking around for possible weapons or a way out, when he was hit from behind, and the already dim room went black.

And now he was awake, cold, thirsty, desperately needing to piss, and with a throbbing headache at the base of his skull.  His hands and legs were duct-taped to a chair, and his mouth was sealed with the same effective method.  And there he had been left, evidently abandoned.  The door was closed, and he suspected it was locked, but nevertheless, he had tried to scoot the chair in that direction.  All he succeeded in doing was to nearly tip himself over, which would have left him substantially worse off, so he abandoned that effort.  Since then he had been twisting and pulling his hands and feet to loosen the tape, but so far had only succeeded in rubbing his arms and legs raw.

At last some paltry sunlight began to filter in through a high vent, where a fan made a desultory circuit whenever it was stirred by a passing breeze, casting a flickering shadow onto the wall.  Jake finally began to wonder whether he would be left to starve or die of dehydration, or just expire from indignity, since if he didn’t get free soon he was going to piss in his pants.

At last he heard footsteps, and he didn’t know whether to be glad or not.  He wasn’t naive enough to think that his situation couldn’t get any worse.

The sharp sense of threat that had settled over Methos during his encounter with Nottingham evolved into a general uneasiness that had Methos constantly looking over his shoulder.  He stood at the curb for several minutes, trying to flag down a cab, but it was the height of morning rush hour and he had no luck at all.  Finally, he gave up and decided to walk towards the nearest subway station where he could catch an uptown train.  The streets were now teeming with people, filled with a cacophony of conversation and vehicle noise, the aroma of scorched coffee from the ubiquitous street vendors, and air thick with the clinging mist and the fumes from cars and buses. 

His luck wasn’t entirely bad, however, since after a couple of blocks, as he stood at a corner and waited for the light to change, a cab pulled up right in front of him and a passenger got out, practically knocking Methos down in the process.  Methos got in and gave directions, having to speak loudly over the recorded voice of Dr. Ruth welcoming him to New York and admonishing him to fasten his seat belt.  The cab sped away and Methos leaned back with a sigh.  By this evening, he and MacLeod would be winging their way back across the Atlantic.  This absurd business with Nottingham might have served a purpose, after all, he mused.  At least it might finally break the stalemate of what the two of them had refused to acknowledge or talk about in the eight years they had known each other.

The cab made its way slowly uptown, the radio crackling with static and a babble of one-sided conversations.  Finally, the car turned onto 61st Street heading towards the park, when the cabbie picked up his mike.  “I’ve got him,” the cabbie said in Farsi – or at least that’s what Methos thought he heard.  “Approaching the hotel now.”

“Stop the car,” Methos ordered.  Perhaps the cabbie didn’t mean it like it sounded, perhaps he was talking about something else entirely, perhaps he had misheard, but…  “I said, stop the car!”

The driver looked around, his eyes wide.  “What?  I thought you said…”

“I said stop the car and let me out right here.”

“But…” the driver sped up as they approached the corner, but was blocked from making a turn by a slow-moving bus.

Methos threw a twenty into the slot for cash, just in case he was being ridiculously paranoid, and opened the door while the car was still moving, rolling out onto the asphalt.  He bumped up against the curb and managed to push himself up onto the sidewalk before getting caught under the wheels of an oncoming delivery truck.  “Hey!” a pedestrian yelled at him as Methos stumbled into him.  “Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry,” he murmured, breathlessly backing up to the side of the nearest building, peering up and down the street.  The cab had turned the corner and disappeared, and he could see nothing threatening in any direction.  Sometimes, paranoia could be downright embarrassing, he decided.  But just in case, he walked away from the hotel.  Maybe he would find a coffee shop, have some breakfast and call MacLeod, just to make sure the coast was clear. 

Unable to shake the skin-prickling sensation of danger, he glanced back over his shoulder every few steps, and within half a block was rewarded with the anachronistic sight of two men in business suits jogging around the corner.  Their eyes scanned the street, and at last Methos knew his paranoia was justified.  The two pairs of eyes fixed on him and they immediately started closing in.

Methos stuck his hands in his coat pockets, letting his palm close reassuringly around the butt of the .45 he had stored there.  The bloody kerchief he had stuck in his pocket earlier was gone, probably lost on the street, but he spared it little thought since it would merely have been in the way, in any event. 

He turned and started walking away in long strides, looking for an escape route.  As it was, however, it seemed unlikely his pursuers would try anything violent in the middle of the morning on a crowded New York City street.  Then he smiled to himself as a police car turned the corner, right on cue.  God bless public servants.  Methos casually strolled towards the vehicle.  Traffic was moving slowly enough that he easily kept pace with it, although he could feel sweat gather under his arms as the two men drew closer.

At last, Methos could feel them at his back, like pressure against his skin, and he whipped around, startling them into backing off a little.  “Gentlemen, did you want something?” he asked coldly.

There was a moment’s pause while the older, taller one with the tired face and gray hair looked to the shorter man for guidance.  The shorter man with the cold eyes just smiled.  “Why, yes, Dr. Pierson.  I would like for you to come with us.”

“And why would I do that?” Methos asked.

“Well,” the balding man had an oily, unpleasant smile.  “You have a couple of options.  You can come peacefully, or,” he pulled his wallet out of his coat, flipping it open to reveal a golden badge, “I can arrest you.  Your choice.  But I’ve heard some terrible rumors about prisoners getting hurt while resisting arrest, so I’d think about it carefully if I were you.”

Methos mouth went dry.  This wasn’t good.  “Exactly what did you plan on arresting me for?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral and his face fixed in a calm smile.

The man shrugged casually.  “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”  He moved to the door of the squad car and opened it, gesturing inside.  “Of course, if you try to run, I could just shoot you.”

Methos’ skin went cold.  The comment was a little too pointed not to have been meant.  This man knew…something.  The second cop had moved forward and eased his gun out of his shoulder holster so that Methos could see the black handle at the fold of his coat.  Shit.  He couldn’t outrun a bullet, especially in the middle of a crowded city street.

“Move it!” the second cop growled and pushed him towards the car.

“I want to talk to my lawyer,” he insisted, playing for time and twisting away, but the first cop grabbed one wrist and the other threw his weight against him, slamming into the side of the car as his arm was pulled up behind him with enough force enough to tear tendons.

“Sorry, doc,” the first cop said breathlessly into his ear.  “I don’t think Miranda rules are going to apply this time.”  Then something – a blackjack or a gun butt – slammed into the back of Methos’ head, and by the time his vision cleared he was lying in the back of the squad car, his hands firmly cuffed at his back.  Several appropriate curses came to mind, but he forced himself to be silent.  The worst of it was that he didn’t have a clue as to what the fuck was going on, although he suspected the ubiquitously annoying Kenneth Irons had a hand in it; and with only slight shifting of his position, he could tell his weapons, at least the more obvious ones, had been confiscated.
 
 

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