Prologue

Amanda stepped out of the cab, brusquely instructing the driver to wait. She looked up at the garish blue neon sign proclaiming that this was "Le Blues Bar", and shook her head slightly, not for the first time. As a nightclub owner herself, the lack of subtlety or trendy fashion of Joe Dawson's drinking establishment irritated her sense of style as well as her pragmatic business sense. The place would never be any competition for her own trendy, upscale club, but for Joe's sake, it could use a little updating.

Not my problem, she firmly reminded herself before pushing through the glass door to the entrance. She had been disappointed not to feel any immortal presence as they drove up, since she was on the hunt for a specific member of her own race. "Joe around?" she asked the young man working behind the bar. He tilted his head toward the rear of the room, and Amanda slipped past tables and chairs, finding Dawson seated at a table near the wall, studying his laptop screen with a small frown. As her heels clicked on the wooden floor, he looked up, his well-lined face crinkling up in a big smile.

"Well, looky who's here! If it isn't my favorite bad girl!" He offered up his bearded cheek for Amanda to kiss, and took her hand for an affectionate squeeze. "I haven't seen you in months!"

Amanda set her tiny black purse on the table and slid into a chair, holding Joe's weathered, guitar-callused hand with both her own. She examined the mortal's face out of habit, memorizing its many lines and planes, the intelligent blue-grey eyes, the grizzled beard and thick, unruly hair. Every time she saw him these days, there was a little more gray there. "How are you, Joe?" she asked.

"Fine as frog's hair," he responded. "Hey, can I get you anything? Drink or a soda?"

"No, nothing, Joe."

Joe returned her critical gaze. "What's wrong, Amanda?"

"I, uh, I'm leaving town for awhile. I have a cab waiting outside. I thought I'd let you know."

"That's mighty thoughtful of you, darlin', but you know I would have found out as soon as you got to the airport. What's going on?"

Amanda sat back, studying her hands in her lap. A lot of what was important in her life was riding on what happened in the next few weeks. And virtually all of it was out of her control. All she could rely on now was friendship, and trust. "It's Nick," she finally admitted.

"Nick Wolfe?" Joe's tone carried the slightest touch of hostility. The two men had not exactly hit it off.

"He's one of us, now, Joe. I thought you should know."

Joe's eyes widened, then he sat back with a small sigh of air. "Well, I'll be." When Amanda didn't elaborate, he cocked his head at her curiously. "What happened, Amanda?"

"Oh, Joe," she sighed, then swallowed hard. "I had to do it. If I hadn't, he would have died permanently, and I just couldn't..." she stopped.

"You...killed Nick Wolfe?" Joe shook his head slowly. "And surprise, surprise, he wakes up an Immortal. Oh, man, I bet that pissed him off. He didn't strike me as the type to want anyone to make any decisions for him, ever."

"He's a good man, Joe. He made me feel strong and smart and useful. He was sort of in awe of me, of what we are, but determined not to be intimidated by it. He respected me in a way that I think no one ever has. Kind of helped me to learn to respect myself in a new way, to allow myself to do things and take some kinds of risks I never have before."

"How's he taking it?" Joe asked.

Amanda leaned on the table over crossed arms, shutting her eyes against some unwanted vision. "Not well."

"Yeah, I can imagine," Joe offered.

"That's why I'm leaving town for awhile. He blames me, he's moved into some awful little walkup, and isn't being entirely rational about things at the moment. I was looking for Mac, to ask him to look out for Nick, but there's no one at the barge. I was hoping he'd be here."

"Mac's in London at another one of his charity events, underwriting some concert by Claudia Jardine. I don't see him a lot anymore, you know."

"I know. Neither do I. He always seems to be busy, or off doing something to feed the starving children or promote world peace," Amanda seemed unhappy about that state of affairs.

"Amanda...," Joe started.

"I know, I know. Mac is keeping his distance. I suppose it's better than having him disappear entirely, which is what I was afraid he would do after that "never again" crack when he killed O'Rourke, then especially when he actually told me he loved me." A small shiver traveled across her shoulders. "That was really scary, like he was saying goodbye for good."

"I think he's still searching for a compromise between involving himself in life and acknowledging that his role in the Game puts those around him at risk. He's been dealing with a lot of changes, Amanda.  Give him a little time."

"I've known Duncan MacLeod for 350 years, Joe," Amanda said with a small smile. "I've watched him change a lot, especially in the last couple of decades. But the core of what he is isn't likely to change. He sees himself as a protector. And he loves his friends. Just by example, he made me a better person, a more caring person." Amanda felt Joe's eyes on her and she realized she was getting carried away. "Sorry, Joe. It's just that he's been my rock for hundreds of years. Nick is a little like that, but Nick let's me be the rock sometimes, and I've found I like it, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. Sometimes, the rest of us need to feel like we make a difference, too. What can I do to help?"

Amanda shook her head. "Just keep an eye on Nick for me? He's not speaking to me right now. I think...I hope he'll get over it, but mostly right now he needs a teacher. I've asked Liam Riley to see what he can do, and I thought I'd get out of the city for awhile until Nick gets a little more perspective on what's happened."

"You mean until he's cooled down a little?"

"Yeah, that too." She leaned over, kissing Joe on the temple then resting her forehead on his with a sigh. "Why are all the men I love so...difficult?"

Joe laughed quietly. "I'm sure all the men who love you ask the same question."

Chapter One

Nick Wolfe, ex-cop, expatriate, out of work detective and fledgling Immortal, groped blindly for the remote, found it on the floor and turned off the television before the noise vibrated his already-pounding brains into sawdust. He lay listlessly on the couch, contemplating the sad fact that he had awakened for the third morning in a row with the damn thing still on, and couldn't remember a single program he had seen in all that time. He slowly pulled his stiff, unyielding body up to a sitting position, stretched his arms and shoulders to restore a little circulation and groaned at the effort even that small amount of movement required. That generated a brief whiff of his own body odor, an unpleasant reminder that he had been wearing the same clothes for days. Oh, well. Who would care or notice?

But his bladder was definitely unhappy, requiring him to reluctantly push himself to his feet and lurch towards the bathroom. The room tilted in a stomach-churning roll and he almost fell over one of the dozen or more empty bottles of beer and whiskey scattered over the floor, miraculously managing to kick them out of the way rather than step on them.

Ahh, emptying his bladder felt good, and already the pounding in his head from the booze still lingering in his system was fading to a tolerable level. The only good thing he had yet to discover about his new immortality was that hangovers dissipated remarkably quickly. It didn't help the foul taste in his mouth, though. Worse, it reminded him of why he was holed up in this rather rundown apartment to begin with.

Amanda. Amanda and her damned Immortal friends/enemies/acquaintances. Beautiful, maddening, arrogant bitch. Making decisions that weren't hers to make. Bile rose in his throat at the very thought of what he now was, along with an all-too-vivid image of what he was going to have to do just to survive. The volume of booze and greasy carryout food that had been his only nourishment for days rose up into his throat and he barely made it to the toilet.

He retched until there was nothing left, then sat back on the floor, his back against the cold tile wall, staring off into space. Disgust was all he felt. Disgust at himself, at Amanda, at life in general. He'd been a cop, for godsake! He'd seen his partner die, he'd loved and lost and killed, been hurt and healed, seen bizarre wonders and horrifying tragedies. So why had this immortality business so completely debilitated him, he wondered, almost idly.

Because there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, he decided. He couldn't quit, like he had quit his job. He couldn't escape it by running away because it was in him now, a part of him. He couldn't fight it or control it. Amanda had said the Gathering had begun, so that who-knew-how-many other Immortals were out there looking for other Immortals for the sole purpose of hacking off their head. That brought a shudder that made his toes curl. And all the Immortals Nick had met through his acquaintance with her were centuries old and had trained with a sword until they were considered world-class masters, at least in mortal terms. How they compared to each other was hard to judge. They all seemed pretty amazing to him.

If he left the apartment, for all he knew he'd be dead within 24 hours, his severed head rolling in an alley somewhere. That vision had haunted his nightmares since the day Amanda had killed him.  He'd never thought of himself as a coward, but he'd never felt so helpless before, so utterly vulnerable and defenseless. Then, involuntarily, his head snapped back, cracking hard against the wall behind him and he broke into a cold sweat as a sickening, dizzy wave of sensation rolled over him. They'd found him already!

Nick clambered to his feet, stumbling into the living room, kicking aside bottles and old food cartons, finally finding his jacket thrown over the back of a chair. His gun was in a pocket. Its weight in his hand felt reassuring even though he knew it could only slow an Immortal down and not kill him. He thumbed off the safety, backed against the wall to the side of the door, and waited, the only sound in the apartment that of his wildly thumping heartbeat.

The door vibrated at last with a gentle knock.

A polite headhunter? The ironic thought brought the first smile to his face since Amanda had shot him through the heart, deliberately and premeditatedly triggering the Immortality which, but for her meddling, might never have manifested itself. "Who is it and what do you want?" Nick shouted.

"It's me, Father Riley. Let me in, Nick. Please."

"Why should I? We're not on holy ground here." Nick knew his distrust was misplaced, that the Catholic priest was not a hunter, but the adrenaline was still pounding in his veins and every defensive mechanism was on full alert.

"Because we need to talk. Now let me in." Liam Riley's voice was gently persuasive, but then Amanda could be oh, so persuasive, too, and look where that had gotten him. He knew he was being unfair, that Liam was taking a risk going off of holy ground just to check on him, that his Immortality was pre-ordained by his birth...but an angry voice inside muttered that it wouldn't have happened if Amanda hadn't taken that decision out of his hands.

He closed his eyes, shaking his head at his own folly. This wasn't who he was, this smelly, disgusting, distrustful asshole who trembled in the presence of a priest he knew to be a gentle soul. The gun went into his waistband, and Nick reached over and flipped the deadbolt, removed the chain and turned the knob.

The diminutive Irish priest with the unruly mass of curly hair stood in the doorway, just looking at him for a long moment, then slipped past him into the room, his mouth twitching at the mess. "Not getting out much?" he asked.

Nick kicked a few more bottles out of the way and cleared the old food containers off of the coffee table. "The maid has been on vacation," he snarled.

"So I see," Liam observed, lowering himself carefully onto the couch to avoid a pizza box.

"Wanna drink?" Nick offered. He went to the small, battered refrigerator in the three-room apartment and examined the interior. The contents seemed oddly depleted of the two six packs he knew he had had delivered only a day or so before. Ah, there was one left, way in the back.

"It's a little early for me," Liam admitted, watching the other man closely.

Nick sat on the other end of the battered couch, his legs splayed out in front, staring off into space as he gulped down the first swallows of cold brew. It helped wash the taste of bile from his mouth.

"Nick..." Liam began.

"Amanda send you?" Nick interrupted.

 
There was a pause while Liam obviously tried to form an answer that wouldn't just irritate the new Immortal.

"Yes," he finally answered, deciding on the direct approach.

"If she expects me to come crawling back to her, she's going to be waiting a long, long time."

"As a matter of fact, she expected you to either hole up, trying to figure out what to do, or to disappear. When you hadn't emerged after three days, she decided it was time for a visit."

"Well, hoorah for her. Ain't she just the smartest bitch in town?" Nick drawled.

"Nick, you can't handle this on your own. You know that. You need a sword, just to survive. More than that, you need a teacher," Liam offered quietly.

"And she's just standing there in the wings, waiting for me to run to her, so she can show me the Immortal ropes. Well, thanks, but no thanks."

"She cares for you, Nick. A lot. I've rarely seen Amanda as upset as when you told her you would rather she hadn't...brought you over."

"Brought me over? Now there's an apt phrase. Sort of like vampires, right? Bring me over to the dark side? Now I get to live like this," he gestured at the four walls of his apartment. "Hiding from everyone, taking my life in my hands every time I walk out the door? Or required to...to cut someone's head off just to stay alive? How is that any kind of life, Liam? How could she think that I wanted this? Why couldn't she have just let nature take its course and let me die?!" The bottle flew out of his hand and smashed on the other side of the wall. Nick surged to his feet, pacing like a caged animal.

"Because she didn't want to lose you!" Liam leaned forward, trying to reach his young friend. "You've changed her, don't you know that? Oh, I think she'd already begun to re-examine her life, but there's nothing like love, real mortal-style love, to give you a whole new perspective. And in all Amanda's years, I don't think she's ever felt true mortal love before. And when she thought she was going to lose you...in her mind, she had no choice."

"She had no choice?! How about me, Father? How about me? What choice did she give me?" Nick hovered over the priest, shaking with outrage.

"None," Liam responded. "There wasn't time."

"She could have told me before. She shouldn't have kept this from me," Nick turned away, running his fingers through his hair. It felt greasy and dirty. Suddenly he was tired, bone-deep, soul-aching tired. "Just go away, Liam. Tell her to stay away, please. Every time one of you comes around it feels like my head is going to explode." He sighed, moving slowly towards the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."

The shower felt good. He hadn't realized how sticky and itchy his skin had gotten, and his head was clearing at last now that most of the booze was out of his system. And the adrenaline rush caused by Liam's arrival had certainly gotten him moving again. He supposed he would have to clean up the apartment, as well. He was no neatness fanatic, but letting his whole existence deteriorate into utter animalistic chaos was no answer to his current dilemma.

He used a towel to wipe the condensation off the mirror. The face that stared back was swarthy, a week's worth of patchy beard darkening his jaw, eyes hollow and dead-looking, wet hair sticking up every which way. And this was the face he would have to live with for the rest of time. Another depressing thought. He found a razor and ruthlessly scraped away at the bristles, ignoring the stings of minor self-inflicted cuts. When he was done, he watched closely as all the wounds closed, leaving unblemished, whisker-free skin behind. Well, he decided, one more benefit to immortality. No more wearing little bits of bloody toilet paper in the mornings.

He reluctantly ambled out of the bathroom at last, rummaging around for relatively clean underwear and pants. He was zipping up his jeans and heading to the living room when he heard whistling. Amazing. He had not noticed the other Immortal was still there, which meant that once he was no longer a threat, the eerie sense of imminent danger had dissipated. Learn something new everyday, he thought, then realized that his gross ignorance about his own new life-status was well nigh terrifying.

"Well, well," he observed wryly at the sight of the much-cleaner space. "Do you do windows?"

"That costs extra," Liam answered, shaking his hands off over the sink of the tiny kitchenette before drying them on a towel. "At least twice what you're paying me for this, you know," he smiled. "I made some coffee," he announced.

Nick's stomach grumbled loudly enough for both of them to hear.

"But I have a better idea," Liam smiled, "how about we go out for some breakfast."

"Out?" Nick frowned.

"Out," Liam repeated, his Irish lilt making the word sound almost musical. "As in, outside, in the real world, with real people. You know, Nick, there really aren't really all that many of us in the world, and if you stick to public places, the likelihood of a challenge is quite small. And you can't live like this, you know."

"You're telling me?" Nick snapped. "This isn't my choice!"

"Ah, you're back to that, are you? Well, boyo, it 'tis what it is, and you can either do the best you can with it, or just give up. Now, you've never seemed the giving-up type to me, so what's it going to be?" Liam stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for an answer.

"I can't just...how do you expect me to...for God's sake, Liam, what the hell am I supposed to do now?!" Nick exploded.

"You could come back to the church with me," Liam offered. "You're safe on holy ground. There are a number of us in the religious orders, you know. At least it would give you time to decide how you want to handle this."

"Religious order?! That's absurd, and an insult to someone like you with a real calling. The only reason I would do that is because I was afraid!" Nick snapped, then paused, shaking his head, running his hand through his hair in distraction. "Who am I kidding? I am afraid," he admitted, his lips twisted in a rueful smile. "I've been hiding in here for days, scared shitless that if I even step out that door, some guy with a huge sword is going to lop my head off." He sighed and closed his eyes. "I don't want to live like this, but I can't hide on holy ground, either. I don't know what the hell to do."

Liam moved closer, putting his small hands on Nick's broad shoulders with a sigh. "One step at a time, Nicholas. Take things one step at a time. First, let's get some breakfast, then we'll see what's next, eh?"

They found a small bistro a couple of blocks away that had a corner booth in the back, where Nick could see the rest of the room. He was obviously tense and nervous, but the smell of fresh food was enough to make him glad he had come. Liam kept him occupied with small talk for a good half hour, letting them both finish their breakfast and linger over their coffee before he deliberately set his cup down, and Nick knew he was about to get some kind of lecture.

Instead, Liam reached into his pocket and took out a piece of Amanda's notepaper and handed it to him. Nick looked at it for a long moment, then handed it back without opening it.

"I don't want anything to do with Amanda right now. Not her pity, not her help, not her apologies."

"Amanda has left Paris just to get out of your way, so you can stop being an ass about it. She came to me before she went. Asked me to look in on you, to tell you that she understands you are angry and confused, and that when you are ready to forgive her, she'll be back. There are three names on that piece of paper, Nick. That's all, just some names. They are teachers. I've heard of two of them. One is in New York, I think, two are here in Paris, at least at the moment. That's all it is, Nick. Just a list of names."

Nick reluctantly unfolded the cream-colored vellum card with an elaborate "A" embossed on the front. "Who are these guys?" he asked. "Russell Nash?"

"Nash is a Scot living now in New York, about 450 years old from all accounts. I've never met him, but he's said to be an excellent swordsman and a very good teacher. Fought one of the worst of the bad Immortals about ten years ago, though and has been a bit of a recluse since then. Amanda says he's a bit of an odd duck, but generally a good guy."

"But New York City?" Nick shook his head. "I'd have find him, and even if he accepted me as a student, I'd have to find a job there, a place to live, and while I have a little in savings, I don't have that kind of money."

"Nick, you've got to stop thinking in mortal terms. If Nash took you as a student, he would probably put you up. Most of the older Immortals have more money than they know what to do with, and I'm sure Amanda would..." Liam explained.

"No!" Nick frowned. "I don't like being obligated to anyone, especially Amanda," he insisted. "I earn my own way." He had to smile with the Irish priest rolled his eyes at his stubbornness. "Okay, what about this Pierson guy? What do you know about him?"

" I don't know him," Liam admitted. "Amanda said he's a bit of a mystery man, but that he could probably teach you a whole lot about survival, beyond just sword techniques. She said he's usually here in Paris these days, associated with the University."

"And MacLeod? Duncan MacLeod?"

"Ah, I've met MacLeod," Liam smiled. "He's probably most like you, Nick. A warrior, also from Scotland. He's known as one of the best swordmasters in the world, even among Immortals. But..." Liam shrugged.

"But?"

"You should know he got crossways with his last student. Took his head. Amanda says it was a complete fluke, and that the heartbreak of it very nearly killed him. I know he put down his sword completely for awhile after that."

"She wants me to learn from someone who killed his last student?" Nick raised his voice, then lowered it again, when Liam shot him a warning glare.

"Duncan MacLeod is a good man, Nick. A little stubborn and self-righteous perhaps," Liam said harshly. "But don't judge until you've lived a few hundred years and been hunted the way MacLeod is, just for the sheer number of Quickenings he's taken.

Nick slowly shook his head. "This is it, eh? Three guys. One an ocean away, one nobody knows and one who killed his last student. Great selection, Father."

Liam refused to be drawn into a debate, and just waited while Nick stared at the piece of paper.

~~~~~~

Nick was a professional investigator who had all kinds of contacts in Paris for all sorts of information. Even so, and even knowing that Adam Pierson was affiliated with the University, it took him much longer than expected to track him down. The man was listed as a post-graduate student and teaching assistant in linguistics at the local university, but Pierson always seemed to have just moved on, or just left, or no one could remember where he lived now, or...by the end of two weeks, and having several nerve-wracking panic-struck moments out in public when he felt just a touch of Immortal presence, he was almost ready to give up.

Finally, in desperation, Nick decided to just hang around the Linguistics Department. He'd gotten a physical description, and hopefully he would recognize Pierson even if he didn't get close enough to feel the man's Immortality. Tall, lanky, short dark hair, hazel eyes. The co-eds thought he had a nice smile, but the guys frequently mentioned an over-large nose.

Two days later, Nick was lounging on the steps leading up into an ancient stone building that housed the Linguistics Department, along with assorted other university offices, when he felt it, the distinctive twinge of Immortal presence, but then it immediately faded. Cagey bastard, Nick thought, even though his own heart had surged again at even the slightest hint of another Immortal around.

It happened again the following day, but by this time, Nick had struck up enough conversations with various students to figure out the man's rather eclectic teaching schedule, so just as one of the classes started where Pierson was expected to lecture, he headed down the hallway. Against his will, his feet just...stopped...when he felt it again. He stood still, letting the panicked, fight-or-flight response wash over him, breathing deeply. This was a strong presence, vibrating in his head on a lot of levels and his body definitely did not want to go forward. Okay, Wolfe, he admonished his reluctant feet, move it!

The class had about twenty students, mostly women, and while the pale, lean man with the big nose lounging on the front desk, long legs dangling down, was obviously aware of Nick's arrival, he never faltered in his lecture, done in perfectly accented rapid-fire French. Nick waited patiently until the class was over, not understanding very many of the arcane terms and concepts discussed, but certainly getting the impression that the other students enjoyed the hour, which was full of lively questions and answers, and a surprising amount of humor.

The co-eds drifted past him on their way out, several giving him a smile. One pretty brunette even stopped to ask him if he planned to join the class, seeming mildly disappointed when he said he was just here to see Professor Pierson.

In the meantime, Pierson went behind his desk and gathered his stuff, including a long sports bag, laying it carefully atop the desk in easy reach. He leaned up against the desk, arms crossed, and cocked his head at his visitor.

"If you are here for me, my friend, this is hardly the time or place," he said amiably.  He spoke in a gentle baritone, in the accents of the English upper-class. "But I give you points for persistence."

Nick's mouth was momentarily too dry to form any words. If this guy didn't like him, didn't want to take him as a student, would he just decide to take his head? What was the protocol in these situations? "Amanda sent me," Nick blurted at last, hoping that a familiar name would at least prevent immediate violence.

Pierson threw his head back and laughed out loud, his hazel eyes crinkling with humor. "Is that supposed to be a recommendation?!"

Nick cleared his throat. "I, uh. Sorry, I'm new at this. She gave me your name."

"Ooookay. She gave you my name. Lovely. I'll certainly have to thank her the next time I see her for giving out my name to strangers who carry very big knives," he said. He picked up his bag, hiked it over his shoulder and headed out the door.

"I don't carry a sword," Nick confessed as the other man passed him. "I don't even have one," he finished sheepishly.

The green-gold eyes that studied him gave away nothing of what the man was thinking. "And I should care about that because...?"

Several students crowded around them, pushing past to get into the room for the next class.

"Can we talk about this somewhere else?" Nick asked.

Another inscrutable look, and Pierson cocked his head towards the door, waiting until Nick passed him before following.

~~~~~~~

"You want me to what?!" Pierson asked incredulously. Nick had haltingly explained the circumstances of his brand new Immortality, and concluded with his need for someone to teach him.

"Amanda thought you might be able to teach me," Nick plowed ahead. Pierson was proving to be annoyingly dense, or annoyingly hostile, he wasn't certain which.

"Amanda expects me...to teach some youngster she's taken a fancy to?" Pierson threw his head back and laughed uproariously, drawing the attention of other patrons of the sidewalk cafe. "That's rich!" he continued chuckling, as Nick's jaw clenched tighter and tighter.

"Alright!" Nick finally growled. He stood, well aware of the disdain in the other man's eyes. "I don't need this shit! I came to ask for help because I understood that it was a tradition among you people. If you don't want to do it, just say so!" He turned, weaving his way among the tables, his face burning with humiliation. Surprisingly, when he got to the front, Pierson was already there, bag in hand, cool as could be.

"Okay, okay. Sorry, didn't mean to offend, but Amanda and I have...well, let's just say we haven't always exactly been best buddies." The smile this time was boyish and conciliatory.

Nick tried a smile, but it didn't fit his face very well. "I know Amanda can be...difficult," he admitted.

"Look, didn't she give you anyone else's name?" Pierson was once again moving along the sidewalk, weaving easily in and out of the late afternoon crowd. "What about MacLeod? That's who I would have expected her to send you to."

"Yeah, she gave me his name, but I understand he killed his last student," Nick replied with a twisted smile. "I'm not anxious to be part of a trend."

Pierson shook his head, suddenly very serious. "It would never happen again. Mac would give up his own life before he killed anyone he cared for, or even allowed someone else to kill them in anything other than a rightful challenge." Pierson's smile was sad. "He's an honorable, if somewhat misguided man. But," he concluded, "I can think of no better teacher for you. Only one problem."

Pierson had stopped and was rubbing his forehead in contemplation.

"What's that?" Nick asked.

"He's not exactly of a mind to take on any students at the moment."

"I thought you guys were supposed to do this, that it was some kind of obligation," Nick groused, knowing he sounded childish.

Pierson chuckled. "There are a lot of myths about us you would do well to take with a grain of salt. You can't force someone to teach." His bright eyes traveled over Nick's well-built frame appraisingly. "But you remind me of him, at little. Must be that alpha male thing," Pierson chuckled to himself. "But if Mac takes you as a student, Mr. Wolfe, be prepared for a whole new definition of physical fitness."

"Don't underestimate me, Pierson! I know how to take care of myself."

"Do you, now?" Pierson drawled in amusement.

They were about the same height, and Nick probably had a good twenty pounds on the other man, who until that moment had all the personal presence of a tax accountant. But suddenly Nick's flesh rose on his arms. In all his experience in tracking down killers, rapists and thieves, he'd never seen a look as hard, cold and speculating as one on that lean, sharp-boned face.

"I..." Nick's mouth went dry. "How...how old are you, Pierson?"

As quickly as it had appeared, the look was gone, replaced with the demure smile of a mischievous child. "Don't you know that's a very rude question, Mr. Wolfe?"

Damn. It seemed no matter what he did or said, he managed to violate some rule that he didn't even know existed.

"Relax!" Pierson grinned, evidently humored by his discomfort. The man seemed easily amused. "Tell me how to reach you, and I'll give you a call when I've had a chance to talk to MacLeod."

Nick studied his shoes for a few seconds, then looked back up. "How about we meet here instead?" Nick indicated the restaurant they had just exited. "Say, Tuesday, six o'clock?"

Pierson nodded in approval. "Good choice, Mr. Wolfe. You just may have a chance to live a little longer at that." He turned and almost instantly disappeared in the crowd.

~~~~~~~

"Amanda sent Nick Wolfe to you for training?!" Joe Dawson sputtered, coughed, then held up his hand before the oldest Immortal had a chance to respond. "Sorry, didn't mean that to come out like it sounded."

Methos just glared. "Don't worry, I wouldn't dream of taking in one of Amanda's charity projects. I thought I'd turn him over to MacLeod."

"MacLeod?!" Joe paused, looking curiously at the other man, but as usual, the ancient revealed nothing in his expression. "He's not going to take on another student. Certainly not this soon after Richie's death," Joe insisted. "Maybe never again," he added almost under his breath.

"All the more reason to convince him," Methos stated matter-of-factly. "You fall off a horse, you get right back on."

"What have you been smokin', Methos? Fall off a horse? He took Richie's head, for God's sake! And after that business with O'Rourke he's been friendly, but...well, you know what I mean. It's just not the same, rarely coming around here, going quietly about his business. I assume that's so no one can be used against him ever again. Although with you guys, 'never again' takes on a whole new meaning," he added sourly.

"He's gotten burned," Methos observed quietly. "Actually, he's gotten blasted, and his getting gun shy is not a surprise," he added.

Joe eyed his companion carefully, then let his lips twitch into a smile. "You devious bastard," he chuckled.

"Moi? What did I do?"

"You mean, what are you planning to do, don't you?" Joe asked.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Methos insisted, slightly indignant.

"You're trying to draw him out aren't you?" Joe was grinning widely now, his eyes twinkling in approval.

"Jeez, Joe, you and Mac get on me all the time for only thinking about myself, and the minute I try to do something nice, you give me a hard time!" Methos was the picture of offended innocence.

"Something nice? You seem to need Mac around, if for no other reason than as a target for all those semi-fictional teaching homilies that you love to tell. I'd love to see this," Joe ignored Methos' protestations. "Can I come along to watch?"

"Isn't that what you'd do anyway?"

"You know what I mean," Joe snapped. "In person."

Methos smiled.

Joe determined through the Watchers that Mac was at his barge, then sent the Watcher on duty away and accompanied Methos on a stroll down to the river.

~~~~~~~

"Amanda sent this guy to you for training?!" Duncan MacLeod asked in astonishment, then laughed in delight at his friend's obvious umbrage.

Methos looked down his impressive beak, maintaining his dignity with an effort. "Of course she did!" he stated emphatically. "Who better to teach a new Immortal to survive in today's world than someone who can fit into any situation. I think you're just jealous."

"Jealous!?" Mac almost dropped the beer the he was handing over to his Immortal guest.

"Yes, because she sent him to me instead of you," Methos explained imperiously, even while he was secretly delighted to hear such genuine laughter from a man who had had little reason for it for far too long.

"Come on, Methos, you haven't taken on a student in...I have no idea when you last took a student." Mac's brows furrowed in thought. "Who was it then? Caligula? Archimedes? Byron?" Mac's smile froze. "Not Byron!" He suddenly fixed Methos with a hard look. "You wouldn't..."

"No, I wouldn't, Mac." Methos answered, coldly.

"No," MacLeod breathed, nodding. "You wouldn't."

Joe looked back and forth between the two Immortals, wondering what the hell was going on as the tension ratcheted up to unbearable in the space of a few heartbeats.

"Maybe Amanda sent him to you because she really despises the guy and wanted to see if you could annoy him to death," offered Joe Dawson, trying to dispel the sudden chill with humor.

"See?" Methos pointed out, his mercurial expression quickly relaxing back into amused sarcasm. "Even Joe agrees I'm the perfect teacher," prompting Joe to toss a peanut across the Highlander's rather spartan quarters.

In a concession to hospitable necessity, after having spent almost two years keeping the barge almost bare of furniture, MacLeod had brought in a well-padded futon, where his two guests were comfortably ensconced while Mac stretched out on the floor next to the coffee table that also served as desk and dining table. He was lying back on his elbows looking almost pathetically pleased to see his friends, despite his initial frown when they first appeared at his door. But Methos had simply bullied his way past Mac's self-imposed isolation, insisting they were just in the neighborhood and decided to drop by.

The sudden tension in the room had been broken as though it had never been, with both Immortals going back to their easy bantering, leaving Joe feeling like he had missed something important, without a clue what it was.

Methos let a few heartbeats go by, gauging the Highlander's mood as he continued his digs at the Scot. "And Amanda knows that I can teach him all the really important survival skills." He enumerated them on his long fingers as he spoke. "Never trust anyone, especially another Immortal; never have fewer than two weapons in easy reach; always have an exit strategy; mortals can be nice, but very naive and incredibly temporary, so be careful not to get too attached, present company excepted," he nodded towards Joe with a smile, "And always, always, put your own survival first..." he took a breath to go on, but stopped at the hot glare from Mac's dark eyes. "What?" he asked innocently.

"I realize you have pronounced me too dumb to live on more than one occasion, but I know what you're trying to do, Methos, and it won't work," Mac declared, then pushed himself up off the floor and went to the small galley area, pulling out a teakettle and filling it.

"I have..." began Methos.

"...no idea what you're talking about," Mac finished the sentence for him in a sing-song voice. "Yeah, yeah. Spare me the innocent act, old man."

Joe leaned back with a smile, content to watch the verbal battle.

"I'm not taking on a student, Methos," Duncan finally added quietly.

Methos studied the beer in his hand for a moment, and Joe contemplated the incongruity of a man keeping a beverage around just to serve to people he professed not to want to see.

Methos shrugged and took a long swallow. "Okay. I guess he's on his own, then."

Mac looked up sharply. "I thought you were going to teach him."

Methos chuckled. "Me? Don't be ridiculous. As you so perceptively pointed out, I was just trying to goad you into doing it. The other choice was Connor."

"I'm sure Joe has told you that Connor's disappeared, gone up into Canada, I think. I have no idea when he's going to come back to civilization, certainly not until well after the millenium," Duncan pointed out. "Methos, you can't just leave this friend of Amanda's wandering the streets of Paris, defenseless! How about the de Valicourt's?" he seemed to be asking himself. Mac put the water on to boil, then leaned up against the counter, his heavy brows furrowed in thought. Then he shook his head. "No, they aren't due back from their honeymoon for another three months. Damn!"

"They're not back from their honeymoon yet? Jeez, they got married again over a year ago!" Joe pointed out.

Mac pushed away from the counter, pacing the small space. "They add a month on for each decade of marriage," he informed them distractedly. "Warren wouldn't..." his voice died out and he paused, but then quickened his step, evidently quickly glossing over and rejecting that possibility. "Damn!" he said again. "The Gathering has...there just aren't very many of the good ones left."

"Amen to that!" Methos said, almost under his breath.

"I don't know why Amanda can't clean up her own messes!" Mac finally snarled. He retreated to lean against a bulkhead, staring out one of the barge's portholes at the river traffic.

Methos lips formed a small smile as he watched the Scot struggle with his conscience.

Joe watched, marveling at the ancient man's unerring ability to nudge here, caution there, cajole another place, and then get exactly what he wanted, all apparently without effort.

"I can't do it, Methos," Mac's voice came from the shadows. "I just can't. It's too dangerous. Someone could use him against me, or I might...I just can't. Tell him I'm sorry."

"Mac, you know you're the only logical one to do this," Methos said quietly. "I haven't taken a student in centuries. It goes against my nature, and my sword techniques are effective for me but are, well...eclectic, shall we say," he added with a smile. "Besides, it requires time and effort I'm simply not willing to expend. But you're a natural teacher, and you and he are very much alike, in body type, in mindset -- he's tough and relatively mature. The man's an ex-cop, you know. He's not like Richie at all." Methos set down his beer as he spoke, watching the motionless man by the porthole.

"He's not a kid," Methos continued when Mac was stubbornly silent. "He's not going to look at you as a father-figure, and you won't see him as a son." Methos crossed the room to stand in the shadows behind the Scot. "He's just a guy who needs at least some rudimentary training in technique. A few tricks of the trade, Mac. A few weeks, and when the de Valicourts come back, you can turn him over to them." Methos smiled. "Sparring against Gina after having trained with you ought to be an eye-opening experience."

"Methos, please, don't ask me to do this!" Mac pleaded.

Methos reached out, letting his hand rest on a tense shoulder. It was visibly vibrating with the pain of remembrance, guilt and soul-killing regret. "Otherwise, he won't last a month, Duncan. He won't even have a chance. Just a few weeks. And it will get you out of this damn barge," Methos added. When Mac's head finally turned and glared at him, Methos smiled at little sheepishly. "I confess. I want you to do this because I think the choice to cut yourself off from everybody was wrong. I don't have that many drinking buddies, after all."

Mac turned away again with a jerk. "I'm not hiding, Methos." He deliberately ignored Methos' snort of disbelief. "I'm a part of the Game. What choices do I have? If I withdraw, go into hiding or onto holy ground then the hunters will just look elsewhere and that could be at Amanda, at Father Riley, at...and I..." He paused when Methos' long fingers tightened painfully on his shoulder. "I don't mean I intended to take on your battles, Methos," Mac added quickly. "Just that I didn't want you to have to take on mine!"

"You idiot!" Methos hissed. "You persist in thinking you need to look out for me, when, if you bothered to notice, I have far more frequently been required to save your sorry arse!"

Joe closed his eyes, shaking his head to himself. Just when he thought these two might rebuild their relationship....

When Mac refused to rise to the bait, Methos dropped his hand with a sigh and turned away. "Okay, okay. Have it your way. I'll tell Mr. Wolfe that he was just born at the wrong time, advise him to find holy ground and stay there for the next few hundred years." Methos reached out to help Joe get to his feet and the two of them headed for the stairs.

"See you around, MacLeod," Methos called from the door, the phrase almost sounding like a question, but the only answer was the lonely sound of the teakettle, whistling in the galley, so the oldest Immortal turned and left.

The Immortal and the Watcher climbed the stairs to the street, Methos taking it slow to give Joe plenty of time to maneuver his prosthetic lower limbs up the steps. They paused at the top to let Joe catch his breath, but when Methos started to move on, Joe caught his arm.

"What was that back there?" he asked.

"What was what?"

"The bit about Byron."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. I can see it in your face. Mac speculated that Byron had been your student, then said something like 'You wouldn't,' and you answered that 'No, I wouldn't.' Wouldn't what?" Joe persisted.

There was a long pause as the oldest Immortal eyed the life-long Watcher speculatively. "You really don't know," Methos said it as a surprised statement of fact.

"Well, if I knew I wouldn't be asking you, now would I?" Joe snapped.

A small smile touched Methos lips. "Well, well, well. After all these centuries you guys haven't figured it out." Then he chuckled, turning away to lean his elbows on the wall, looking out towards Notre Dame.

"Methos!" Joe whispered harshly.

"Check your records, Dawson. Try, oh, Carter Wellan and Haresh Clay. Or Xavier St. Cloud and Morgan D'Estaing, Richard Tarsis and Lucas Kagan. There are others, lots of others over the centuries." Methos turned to him, a speculative smile on those thin lips. "Open your eyes, Dawson. Look at the world as though the mores and societal taboos you grew up with have fallen away, gone into dust. There's more to being Immortal than living a long time." With those enigmatic instructions, the 5,000-year-old man turned and slipped away into the crowds streaming along the sidewalk.

Chapter Two

Every time he went out into the world, it felt like a triumph of will. But every time Nick finally made it back to his apartment, it was a relief. One more day survived without facing some madman or woman with a sword. He turned the deadbolt and slid the chain into place, leaning against the door with a sigh. He hated this. Lord, how he hated this because it made him feel like a helpless child, and a coward, to boot. He looked around his apartment, then had to close his eyes as the walls seemed to move in, pressing against him.

This was how it was going to be...forever. Locking himself away, afraid to walk the streets because he was an ignorant, defenseless child in comparison to the ancients who dwelt among them in secret. Ancients who wanted nothing more than to kill one another. He'd seen the Quickenings, witnessed the enormous release of power that came with those gruesome deaths, watched Amanda reel from them afterwards.

His mind wandered, filling with an image of Amanda, her face flushed, her whole body radiating energy, nipples standing out like dart points under her clothes. He had kissed her once, when she was like that. The memory surged in his mind and, once invoked, he had to let it play out even though it made his cock rise and fill, hard and hot in his pants. He leaned against the door, his hand straying over his groin as he could almost feel the slick, moist play of her lips against his, his tongue in her mouth, her tongue pressing back into his, their groins grinding together...until she pulled back with a gasp.

"I...can't do this," she had panted, pushing away. "Not with you."

"Amanda!" Nick had pleaded, not understanding, only knowing she was trembling, radiating passion.

"This...this is not a time for me to be around a...go home, Nick. Just go home!" she insisted again, and her long strides carried her off into the night.

Not time to be around a mortal, he knew she had intended to say. Not after a Quickening. Nick wondered that even the word seemed erotic now, although it never had before. The very thought of actually cutting someone's head off was repulsive, had made him throw up only a few days ago. But the notion of having all that power thrumming through your veins, of taking in the life essence of another being...his hand moved harder and faster over his jeans.

~~~~~~~

Father Liam Riley was in the middle of communion when he felt an Immortal presence trail up his spine straight into the back of his brain. His hand trembled slightly and he almost spilled the wine, but after a short pause and a long, calming breath, he resumed his duties, unconsciously murmuring the proper words and going through the motions while his eyes searched the dark shadows of the sanctuary.

But he could see nothing but outlines of figures moving through the pews and naves of the heavily shadowed, vaulted room. The service dragged on. Normally, he could lose himself in the familiar ritual, the comfort of the faces of the parishioners he had come to know and care for, the glory of the spiritual renewal of the service itself which rarely failed to move him. But not today. Not with that ominous presence vibrating along every nerve ending.

It was over at last. The congregation trailed out, although Mrs. Coltaire lingered, as usual, to share some breathy gossip about the other members of the Altar Guild. Finally Liam turned, walking slowly back up the center aisle, spotting a lone figure left in the sanctuary outlined in the dim light. The figure stood and turned, moving smoothly along the pew into the aisle.

It never gets any easier, Liam thought. The drop in the gut, the hair-raising fear, even here on holy ground. No wonder Nick was holed up in his apartment. An Immortal was, by definition, a hunted animal, surviving by wits and skill against ancient, awesomely powerful opponents. Most of them did not live to see the end of their first century, and those that did hardly managed to hold onto the barest shreds of sanity.

"Father Riley?" It was a gentle voice.  The tiniest edge of an ancient Gaelic lilt colored the words and Liam felt the tension leave him in a knee-weakening rush.

"Duncan? Duncan MacLeod?"

"Aye, Father." The shadow figure moved into a pool of light. Liam had met MacLeod briefly a few decades before, introduced by Darius, Liam's own mentor and idol. The Scot had made a strong impression then, at least partly colored by Darius' open affection and admiration for the consummate warrior. But the unaging MacLeod looked quite different now in a way that only an Immortal can. It was something in the eyes. The fierce pride and almost swaggering confidence was gone, replaced by a haunted sadness, an almost painful uncertainty.

"Father?" Duncan was looking at him oddly. "Is there something wrong?"

"No! Sorry," Liam laughed nervously. "Didn't mean to stare. You just look...different from the last time we met."

"Oh, yes. At St. Julian's with Darius. It's the hair," he smiled, self-consciously touching the back of his neck where his formerly long, thick hair had been trimmed back and now curled loosely around his neck. "I'm sorry if I made you nervous, but I wonder if you have a few minutes to talk?"

After carefully putting away his vestments, Liam took the other Immortal back into his office, shoving books and stacked-up mail off of a chair to make room. "What can I do for you, Duncan?" Liam asked, irritated at himself for his nervousness. MacLeod had been beloved of Darius, and was probably the most likely candidate for the Prize.

"It's about Amanda's friend, Nicholas Wolfe," Duncan explained, sitting and folding big, callused hands over his knees.

"Ah," Liam replied enigmatically, and waited. Usually it worked in drawing the other person out, but MacLeod's intense, dark eyes made him increasingly uncomfortable. "Yes," Liam cleared his throat. "Amanda's friend. You know she was the one who killed him?" Damn! It wasn't his habit to give out more information than he received.

MacLeod leaned his head back and a broad smile transformed his face. Suddenly he looked like the charming, mischievous lad he had undoubtedly been in more carefree days. "Ah, Amanda. Only she would find some pre-Immortal to fall for, then not only manage to kill the man, but totally piss him off when he realized he wasn't going to die permanently."

"Yes, well...how did you know Amanda had...was...cared about Nick?" Liam asked.

"Amanda stays in touch, at least from time to time. When she's in the same city and doesn't darken my door for months, it's not hard to figure out that she has a new interest in life. And she talked of little else but Nick Wolfe when she came by last Christmas." Mac smiled in fond remembrance. "I've known Amanda for over 350 years. She's one of my very best friends and has a hard time keeping secrets from me."

"So, Nick contacted you about becoming his teacher?" Liam ventured to ask.

"No. Adam Pierson did," Mac replied, his expression tightening into a slight frown. "I'm not taking students any more, Adam isn't interested in helping, Connor is unavailable, and I wanted to ask if you would talk to Wolfe about staying on holy ground, at least until we can find him a teacher."

Liam smiled and shook his head. "Nick is a very stubborn, independent-minded man. He refused to accept help from Amanda, and I've already tried the notion of him staying on holy ground. He wouldn't even discuss it."  Liam let the silence extend for a moment, watching the Scot's eyes turn their focus inward. "You know, Duncan," he ventured, "teaching can be very rewarding, very good for the soul."

"Father..." Duncan began.

"Call me Liam, please," he instructed. "And I know about your last student, but what you are is not defined by that one tragedy, Duncan MacLeod. Don't let the rest of your life be crippled by one horrible mistake."

MacLeod had gone white around the mouth, his lips pressed tight together, but didn't respond. Finally, the Scot sighed gently and shook his head. "I'm just not the person to do this, Fa...Liam," he corrected himself. "It's not just what happened to my last student, it's what happens to anyone who gets too close to me." He stood, reaching out to shake Liam's hand. "I'll try to think of someone to help Amanda's friend, and let you know if I do."

~~~~~~~

The engine starter was acting up again, Mac realized in frustration after moving the barge up river briefly, and back down again. He did it periodically just to make sure everything was working as it should. The barge was a constant series of repairs, then repairs on the repairs. He'd had the damn thing practically rebuilt two years ago, and yet if he wasn't constantly vigilant, the motor, the hull, the interior, the plumbing...something would go disastrously wrong. He had the engine cover off and the starter parts spread out on a cloth, carefully inspecting each one for wear or flaws, up to his elbows in grease and dirt, when the hot chill that always announced an Immortal presence washed over him. A tight look of resignation settled onto his face as he stood, wiping his hands on a rag and unconsciously double-checked that his katana was only a couple of meters away, just inside the pilot house door.

The street above the quay was busy in a mid-summer's morning, full of tourists and shoppers, but one figure stood apart at the top of the concrete stairs leading down to the river. Impressive physique. Dark shirt and pants, broad shoulders, short, brown hair. Sunglasses covered the eyes, but the man was obviously staring at him. Odd, though. No place to hide a sword.

~~~~~~~

Nick looked down at the river, trying to control the panic that threatened to send him scurrying back to his apartment. Pierson hadn't shown up for their appointment, but a waiter had pressed a note into his hand with the name "MacLeod" on it, and a location along the Quay de La Tournelle. What followed had been another day of isolated torment while he paced his floor, followed by a long shouting match with Liam Riley. Well, not exactly, he corrected himself. He had shouted, Liam had listened. He had reviewed his alternatives for continued life and sanity until they were ground into mental pulp, and the last one appeared to be the figure standing on the long, black barge below. Nick took a deep, unsteady breath and slowly descended the stairs and made his way across the broad paved walkway to the edge of the gangplank leading up to the barge.

The other Immortal just watched him, studying him with dark, intense eyes. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, about Nick's own height. After one quick look at a face that was surreally handsome, Nick decided just to focus on general impressions. Maybe if he didn't look right into those eyes he wouldn't feel quite so intimidated, and Nick Wolfe was not used to feeling intimidated, by anyone. That was the most disquieting upheaval of this new life, where with one step through the looking glass he was a dwarf among giants, prey instead of predator.

The Immortal's neck, chest, shoulders and biceps were heavily-muscled, but the rest of him was lean and tightly compact, giving him a sense of lionine strength. Sweat dampened the creases of his shirt and grease stained his hands and forearms. Interesting. So far, just about every Immortal Nick had met had been enormously wealthy and led lives of quiet luxury...except for the part about getting beheaded, that smirking internal voice spoke up again. But this man looked used to hard labor.

"Duncan MacLeod?" Nick spoke at last, breaking the silent tension.

A short nod affirmed the obvious. "And you are?" The question was edged with an unspoken challenge that managed to spark another little jolt of adrenaline through Nick's veins.

"Wolfe," he answered. "Nick Wolfe. I'm a friend..."

"...of Amanda's. Yes, I know." MacLeod casually lobbed his rag onto the top of the toolbox he had open on the deck. He leaned down and picked up a wrench and tossed it in Nick's direction.

Nick caught it reflexively, then felt stupid standing there with a wrench in his hand.

"Well, as long as you're here, you might as well give me a hand," MacLeod said, then turned his back and bent to his task, picking up a number of parts he had scattered on a cloth.

Nick worked to keep his mouth shut, letting MacLeod set the pace for the conversation. But conversation did not seem to be of interest as, with a few terse comments and instructions, MacLeod had them both elbow deep into the inner workings of the barge's engines. MacLeod knelt in the well of the engine housing as they refitted the various parts that had been disgorged onto the deck.

The sun was well past its zenith and Nick was hot, tired, thirsty and covered with grease to his elbows before MacLeod levered himself out of the engine well and replaced the cover, meticulously wiping it free of grease and oil before he stood. As he did, Nick noted the man's big, splayed, sword-callused hands with their blunt warrior's fingers. Their mutual effort to refit the engine starter had momentarily overcome Nick's nervousness, but what he faced came back in a stomach-churning lurch. He knelt, replacing tools in the toolbox to cover his sudden uncertainty.

"Want a beer?" MacLeod asked.

"Yeah, that'd be great," Nick managed with some difficulty. He followed MacLeod down the steps into the main room of the barge. The cool darkness was a welcome shock to his overwrought senses, and it took a moment after he removed his sunglasses to really take in his surroundings. The space was nearly bare, the hardwood floors gleaming in gently undulating ripples from reflected light glinting through the portholes. A raised platform bed occupied one end, while the rest of the space held only a plain futon and a low table. A small tatami mat was spread near the table, which held several candles and, anachronistically, a laptop computer. A big, brassbound trunk was tucked in a corner, and a small galley area framed in with a countertop was off to one side. The overall impression was spartan, almost like a monk's cell.

"Here."

MacLeod's voice startled him. The man moved without making a sound. "What?" Nick asked stupidly, then took the beer that was offered. MacLeod was drinking water from a bottle.

"Thanks for giving me a hand out there. It would have taken me all day by myself," MacLeod stated, sinking into a cross-legged position on the tatami mat. The knowledge that the other man was hundreds of years old and could probably kill him as easily as taking his next breath made Nick's stomach churn even more.

"Sit down, Mr. Wolfe. You look a little the worse for wear. I apologize for keeping you out in that hot sun for so long."

Nick welcomed the invitation and sat, trying to formulate a cogent reply. "Mr. MacLeod, I came here to ask you to teach me how to use a sword, how to survive as an Immortal," he stated, finally decided that with this man, the direct approach was probably best.

"Call me Duncan, or Mac, or MacLeod, please."

"Okay...Mac," Nick tested the feel of the name. 'Duncan' seemed too personal, almost intimate. "Amanda...actually Father Riley...and Adam Pierson, said that you were the best swordsman around and an honorable man, and that taking on new Immortals as students was a tradition among you people, so...I thought...you might..." Nick ran out of things to say.

"An honorable man," MacLeod closed his eyes, seeming to mull on the concept for a moment, then shook his head with a sad smile. "An archaic term, Mr. Wolfe. And one I cannot claim, I'm afraid, for I have done some very dishonorable deeds in my time." He took another long drink of his water.

"I know about your last student," Nick offered.

Mac froze briefly, then capped his bottle and set it carefully on the floor. "Do you, now?"

"Father Riley and Pierson both said you'd be reluctant to take on a student because of what happened, but they believed you and I could make it work. I...I can't live like I have anymore. I can't hide away, fearful of every footstep in the hallway. And I can't run to holy ground. I..." Nick couldn't get the words out. He knew he sounded desperate and weak and he hated himself for it. Unable to meet the other man's eyes, he focused on the beer in his hands. When there was no answer, he carefully put the half-finished bottle on the table and stood. "I won't beg, Mr. MacLeod."

"No. You wouldn't do that, I know. And I won't make you feel like you have to, Mr. Wolfe. This has nothing to do with you. Amanda is a dear friend and if I could teach you, I would. But I'm probably the second most dangerous man you'll ever meet." Then he pursed his lips in thought for a moment and amended himself. "Well, maybe the third. And if you are nearly as smart as Amanda believes you to be, you will leave here and do your damnedest never to cross my path again."

"Then tell me, MacLeod, who is the most dangerous man I'll meet?" Nick asked flippantly. "Maybe I can convince him to teach me." Nick was trying for humor, but the smile on MacLeod's face had nothing of humor in it.

"That's the Immortal who will take your head, Mr. Wolfe."

Nick sat again, reaching for his beer. "You know who that will be?"

Mac's smile was decidedly grim. "No. None of us knows who that will be, just that it will come to all of us, eventually."

Nick took a long gulp of his beer, draining the bottle, finishing with a small, breathless gasp.  "And who is this second most dangerous man?" he asked.

But this time, MacLeod didn't answer. "Here," he said at last, rising from the floor and crossing to the big trunk in the corner. He knelt and lifted the lid with a noisy squeal of old hinges, moving a number of books and cloth-wrapped objects aside before finding what he was looking for. When he stood, he was holding an elaborately inlaid long, narrow wooden box. He stepped up to Nick and opened the container as an offering to his guest. Inside was a sword, the polished metal caught the light, which ran like flowing mercury over the intricately worked, curving hilt, and down the gleaming blade, sparkling brightly at the deadly, pointed tip.

"I...I couldn't take this!" Nick protested, stepping back. "It must be worth a fortune!"

"It's worth your life," Mac answered, "whose value can't be measured. Take it."

Nick found himself riveted by the look of the blade, so deadly yet so exquisitely beautiful. Before he realized it, his hand had closed around the hilt and he was holding it before him to let his eyes caress the razor sharp edge. It felt comfortable in his hand and almost...familiar. When he could finally tear his eyes away from the sword, he saw Mac was watching him with interest.

"I thought this one would suit you. It is a rapier from the 18th Century Spanish court. I think you will catch on quickly, Mr. Wolfe."

"Call me, Nick, please," he replied, suddenly embarrassed when he realized he had never corrected the older man. He reluctantly put the blade back in its velvet-lined container. "And I can't take this."

"You must," Mac insisted. "This is not a matter of money, Nick. It's a matter of survival."

"It won't do me any good if I don't know how to use the damn thing, though, will it!" Nick snapped back. "The best use I can make of it is a very expensive bread knife! I need a teacher if I'm going to use a sword, MacLeod. Otherwise, I'm better off just using a gun and my own two legs to run away as fast and far as I can." He turned on his heel, heading to the stairs to leave, then hesitated. If what everything that had been said about MacLeod was true, then maybe he had a little of the measure of this man.

"Tell you what." He turned, his heart in his throat, knowing that this could easily be his last chance for even short-term survival. "I'll take the sword, if you include a few lessons." When MacLeod opened his mouth to protest, Nick pushed on, moving back into the room. "I'm no kid, MacLeod. I'm not like your other student, and it's not fair or right for you to condemn me to death just because you're stuck in some world-class guilt trip.  Because that's what you are doing. I don't have anyone else to turn to. I don't know any other Immortals, and Liam and Pierson and Amanda all evidently think you are the best, and none of them believe you have any intention of hurting me."

"I didn't have any intention of hurting Richie either!" MacLeod snarled. The lid of the box closed with a bang. "And he's dead."

"But I'm not!" Nick crossed the room in a few strides, daring to stand chest to chest with the other man, suddenly seeing him as just as human, just as vulnerable, perhaps even more so than the mortals whose lives were so much more transient. "And neither are you. And you can chose to help me stay alive, or we can both be dead, me in fact and you in spirit." The two men stared at one another for several painful seconds. "Your choice...Duncan."

"It's not that simple," MacLeod whispered. "Nothing is ever that simple."

The world suddenly tilted and swirled and Nick gasped in surprise until MacLeod had grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him. "It's okay," Mac's voice reassured him. "I know this one."

Nick was trying to figure out what was meant by that statement as Mac turned toward the door. And down the steps sauntered Adam Pierson, those knowing golden-green eyes were alight with amused curiosity, flicking back and forth between the two men, but mostly eyeing the Scot in a proprietary fashion.

Pierson nodded to Nick, then headed directly to the refrigerator in the galley to pull out a beer. He twisted the top off and tossed it on top of the fridge, then took several long swallows before sighing with pleasure. "Hot out there," he observed unnecessarily.

"Something I can do for you, Adam?" Mac asked. The tone was annoyed, but Nick noted that there was an unmistakable tweaking upwards at the corner of the Scot's mouth.

"Just wanted to make sure you weren't giving away all my beer," Pierson smiled, moving in and taking over the futon, his long legs stretching all the way to the opposite armrest. "You two settled on a teaching schedule yet?"

Mac sighed, rolling his eyes. "Why don't I just leave you two here to decide how I'm to spend the rest of my life? Better yet, let's get Amanda, Father Riley and Joe in as well. You can draw up an agenda for the next century or so!"

Pierson reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out an imaginary calendar, licked his forefinger in an exaggerated motion, turning the invisible pages in careful contemplation. "Hmm. Whadaya think, Nick? Wednesday, teach Nick; Thursday, buy Adam drinks at Joe's; Friday, teach Nick; Saturday, have Adam over for dinner. Oh, look, here's a reminder to re-stock beer in refrigerator. Sunday, well, I suppose you can have a day of rest in there somewhere. Monday, take Adam to Joe's..."

"Hey!" Nick protested. "You skipped a day of teaching." He felt smile threatening to break out in full force, notable because it seemed like he hadn't had anything to smile about in a long time.

Pierson shrugged. "All work and no play...and we wouldn't want you to over-train, now, would we?"

"Very funny!" Mac snapped. He had retreated to the galley area to find another bottle of water, but Nick suspected the man was more interested in putting barriers between himself and his two guests. "But you won't be laughing the first time I lose control and manage to do your friend Mr. Wolfe some serious damage...or worse."

That brought the chuckles and smirks to a quick halt, but Pierson would not be deterred. "Oh, Mac, give it a rest, would you? You're not going to hurt Nicky here. You know it. I know it. Even Nicky knows it, don't you Nick?" Methos had settled into the couch like he lived there, eyeing the Scot with bemusement.

MacLeod went very still, leaning both palms flat against the counter, and met the other Immortal's eyes with a cold intensity that made Nick's skin wrinkle. "There's evil in all of us, remember, old man? Most days we recognize it, deal with it. But for all of us there comes a day when we don't," he said very softly, and for a few seconds, Nick could feel power thrum in the air between the two men so heavy and hard his ears rang.

Old man. Nick recalled Pierson's objection to being asked his age. If a 400-year-old Immortal called another "old man"...Nick's imagination tied itself in knots.

"Fair enough, MacLeod," Adam conceded with the slightest bow of his head. "Then how about this? I attend your training sessions with appropriate standby defenses. If things appear to be getting out of hand, I'll take whatever measures are necessary to prevent anyone's permanent death or loss of necessary body parts." Adam looked up at the Scot, his face completely clear of guile or deceit.

"Just like with Keane, eh?" Mac asked, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth at last.

"Who is Keane?" Nick asked.

"Never mind," Mac answered, his eyes still locked with those of the man on the couch. "Adam is fond of interfering in my life, including shooting me in the back, when he disapproves of my choices."

Nick was definitely beginning to feel that there was more going on between these two than he was likely to learn anytime soon. But he supposed he didn't care so long as he got what he needed from them. "But what about his offer, Mac?" Nick pressed. "He monitors the lessons. Nobody, including me, thinks its necessary, but..."

"Don't you two understand?!" Mac interrupted. "It's not just the violence I'm capable of, its every Immortal on the continent who is willing to use people close to me, to hurt them just so..."

"Blah, blah, blah, as you are so fond of saying whenever I go off on some blather you find irrelevant to the matter at hand," Pierson interrupted. "We have an immediate problem -- getting Mr. Wolfe here sufficiently trained so that he has at least a modest chance for survival. We can worry about whose enemies list-of-the-week you're on another day. And after all, Nick won't be any worse off if he's used by an Immortal to get to you than he would be if some asshole just killed him outright because he doesn't know how to use a blade."

"I won't?" Nick asked, puzzling over the possibilities.

"Well, I guess it depends on whether there's torture involved, but generally, you won't." Adam's smile was intended to reassure.

"Oh, that makes me feel a lot better," Mac smirked, but he came out from behind the counter and leaned up against the couch next to Pierson, looking down at him with an expression usually reserved for annoying, precocious children.

Pierson drank several long swallows of his beer, snuggled down further into the couch, a satisfied smile curling the corners of his thin lips. "It's settled, then," he stated. His eyes drifted closed. "I love the summertime," he added. "All warm and lazy, perfect for afternoon naps."

Chapter Three

Liam Riley knew it shouldn't make him as nervous as it did, but extended trips off of holy ground always made him uncomfortable, especially these last few years when hunting Immortals seemed to congregate in Paris. It used to be that most Immortals would respect his choice as a non-combatant, but these days you could never be sure, and to be wrong was to be dead. At last he arrived at his destination, Le Salle d'Armes Internationale, eagerly climbing the long marble steps to the ancient private academy for the elite in the training of the ancient military arts. The foyer, richly paneled with time-darkened oak, was relatively cool, a relief from the oppressive summer heat. Over two centuries of warriors' feet had trod these halls, and the school still functioned as one of the most prestigious training grounds for Olympic fencers. There was a steady background noise of heavy thumps and metallic clashes, only partially dampened by the antique oriental rugs that covered the rich wood floors of the reception area.

A trim looking fair-haired young man behind an impressive dark wood counter watched him approach. "Yes, Father?" he asked in French. "May I assist you?"

"I am looking for Monsieur MacLeod," Riley explained, and the boy's face brightened at once.

"Ah, yes! Monsieur MacLeod is using his usual salon today with two other gentlemen, but they do not allow observers, Father. It is a private session."

"I am a personal friend," Liam assured him.

"I will have to ask first, Father. Monsieur MacLeod is adamant that no one be allowed to watch, otherwise he would have an audience for every session, I am afraid," the boy smiled wistfully before disappearing down the hallway. He returned a moment later, gesturing for Liam to follow.

Liam had to breathe deeply against the wall of Immortal presence that had greeted him in the large space, but the others barely acknowledged him before returning to their tasks. For MacLeod and Nick, it was going again and again over the basic motions of thrust and parry, retreat and advance, for the third man, it appeared to be napping. Or just watching. It was hard to tell with the man lounging in a chair tipped back to lean against the wall, his eyes half shut.

Liam pulled up a chair nearby and straddled it, resting his forearms across the back. It had been over a century since he had trained with a sword, but the basics remained the same. A warm light streamed in from the high windows and reflected off of the wall of mirrors that lined one side of the practice room.  MacLeod was barefoot, in a sleeveless teeshirt and gi pants, sweat dripping from hair, chin, nose, the dampness having already completely soaked his clothes.

Nick was in sneakers, sweatpants and a teeshirt, all of them darkened with perspiration. He was wielding a lovely rapier, its length well-suited to his big frame.  The swirling hilt curved back protectively over his hand, a deadly and beautiful synthesis of art and function.

Liam watched for a few minutes, mesmerized by the motions. Wolfe had a natural athleticism and strength, showing power behind his strokes, but was struggling for control and smoothness of transition between the moves. He was also working against obvious exhaustion, and Liam knew what that felt like, when the blade seemed to weigh fifty pounds and your legs were rubbery underneath you.

But MacLeod seemed unfazed, his movements light and easy, effortless and graceful, like dancing with the elegant curved katana he was wielding -- a chillingly predatory dance. All the while, the Scot's eyes were on Wolfe, analyzing even as he called the cadence of the moves, occasionally correcting more obvious style flaws.

"Remarkable, isn't he?" Pierson observed.

"That he is," Liam agreed.  He turned to smile at the other Immortal and caught an odd, unguarded look of wistful longing, then it was gone. "Liam Riley," he said by way of introduction, sticking his hand out. The other Immortal wrapped his long fingers around his hand and gave it a quick shake.

"Adam Pierson," he drawled, and Liam could hear a lot of Oxford and a bit of Wales coloring the other man's speech.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Pierson. As a matter of fact, I came by to see how Nick was doing, but mostly to thank you," Liam said.

"Thank me? For what?" Pierson seemed mildly offended.

"For convincing Duncan to help Nick, of course," Liam waived in the direction of the teacher and student. "I don't know exactly what you said, but..."

"MacLeod makes his own decisions." Pierson shrugged eloquently. "I'm just an neutral bystander."

Methos studiously ignored the long look the priest gave him and leaned back, once again just letting himself exist, letting the strong cadence of Mac's voice and the rhythmic slap of their feet on the floor, the steady sounds of their noisy breaths sooth him back into the nearly meditative state he had achieved prior to the good Father's interruption. He had found an odd peace with his fondness for the irritating Scot, and it was soothing just to exist here, watching, listening to him do what he did so well.

He had exhausted himself trying to deny it, but finally gave into the inevitable, returning from a nearly two-year walkabout intended to distance himself from the chaos that seemed to hover around MacLeod like some kind of space/time distortion. For awhile, he had tried to convince himself that the man had lost it, had succumbed to the madness and irreconcilable conflicts of being a good man caught in a perpetual cycle of violence and death.

But Joe had assured him with a certainty that bespoke of direct knowledge that the madness wasn't madness at all. That the invisible evil Mac had fought was as real as his sword, and far more deadly. But in that prolonged struggle with himself and that evil, the refining fire of that terrible battle had burned away the flamboyant confidence, the almost flippant belief in his own unique standards of honor and justice. Methos was no longer sure what was underneath that nearly impenetrable surface.

He and MacLeod had started down a convoluted path to a real relationship once. Tentative moments, desperate moments, even tender moments. But Methos found that, in his absence, that road had been obscured and Mac seemed loath to forge anything new.

For some perverse reason, Mac's reluctance only strengthened Methos determination to crack that facade. His own behavior was a source of ironic bemusement, since he recognized all the signs of obsession. Preoccupation, vague dissatisfaction, a frequent desire to ask MacLeod's opinion on something, a voice in his head that sounded like Mac's nagging him when he was doing something contrary to the MacLeod Code of Honorable Immortal Behavior. For there was no question that the Scot still held his own race to a higher standard than their short-lived brethren, and himself to virtually impossible standards of wisdom and behavioral perfection.

And as irritating as Methos found that character flaw, he also found it challenging, stimulating, amusing, especially now, watching the object of his fascination move, wet clothes clinging to him, skin flushed golden with exertion, dark eyes riveted in absolute concentration on his student.

Nick staggered and the rapier dipped wildly, completely breaking form.

"No! I told you, keep your elbows up, knees bent," Mac snapped, stepping in to correct Wolfe's stance.

"No more!" Nick gasped. He raised one hand in surrender and stepped back, letting the sword tip drop so hard that Mac had to step in to catch the blade before it gouged the oak flooring, cursing when the edge sliced deep into his palm and blood spattered the floor.

"I'm sorry! I just...I can't do it anymore!" Nick could barely talk.

"You think some opponent is going to just stop when you get tired, Wolfe?" Mac snarled, wiping the blood off on his pants. "Ninety percent of survival in a fight is about endurance, about pushing past exhaustion and pain and injury and keeping going no matter what!"

"Well some of us haven't been working at this for four hundred fucking years, MacLeod!" Nick had finally gotten enough air to snap back.

Mac closed his eyes and swallowed. "All right, Nick. Take a shower. We'll start again tomorrow."

"No." Nick straightened up with difficulty, looking like he could barely stay on his feet. "I'm taking tomorrow off. For God's sake, I have to at least do my laundry and shop for groceries! Life isn't just about survival, you know!"

Mac chuckled, throwing a look over to the older Immortal before he sighed and turned back. The oldest Immortal had frequently admonished him that life was, indeed, entirely about survival. "All right, Nick, fair enough. One day off, then we meet again at 6 am at the barge for a five-mile run. Okay?"

Nick looked like someone let all the air out of his body and for a second Methos thought the youngster was going to fall, but he took a deep breath, pulled himself together and headed towards the door with a relieved nod.

"Just a minute, Mr. Wolfe," Mac snapped.

Wolfe froze halfway to the door.

"Your blade."

Without a word, Wolfe moved to the beautiful lacquered box made to house the rapier, picked up a soft rag, and carefully cleaned his weapon, he placed it reverently at last in its resting place. His moves lost their rubbery tremulousness and the meditative action seemed to drain some of the exhausted tension from his body. Mac watched his student leave, then turned to care for his own weapon.

"I'm glad to see you're being your usual easy-going self," Methos observed.

"He's going to have to learn a lot very quickly if he's going to survive."

"And you're going to stuff 400 years worth of discipline and training into his head and body in a few weeks? Mac, give him some breathing room!" Methos advised.

"The object is to keep him breathing, damn it! You can't push me into doing this and then tell me to lay off!" Mac slammed his spare towels into his sport bag and headed towards the showers.

"Can't I?' Methos murmured, watching the Highlander stalk out the door.

"He's right, you know," Liam ventured. Despite the obvious undercurrents between Pierson and MacLeod, Liam Riley was clearly not one to shy away from expressing an opinion. "We were the ones who pushed him into taking Nick on. Why are you challenging him?"

Pierson smiled indulgently at the priest. "It's what I do, Father Riley. MacLeod has been training the shit out of the kid, and they have yet to actually spar." He stood, stretching his long limbs and picking up his coat draped over a nearby bench. "I was hoping this would help break Mac out of the cave he's crawled into, and help your Mr. Wolfe along the way as well. I think the jury is still out on both fronts."

~~~~~~~

Nick leaned into the sharp stinging spray of the hot water, letting it sluice over his head and down his back. Every muscle was protesting its individual mistreatment over the past few weeks. You'd think it would get better as he got more used to the heavy schedule of running five or six miles at the crack of dawn, then learning those damned katas, the weight work, and then hour upon hour of work with the sword.

And Mac had yet to let him actually go against a human opponent. Oh, he'd thwacked away at sawdust and wooden dummies until his arms felt like lead, but his teacher was evidently not yet convinced he was ready to take on even a benign sparring partner. The notion didn't exactly boost his confidence that he would ever actually hold his own with someone truly out for his head.

He cringed when he felt that almost-painful sensation that wasn't sound, but wasn't really anything else. He knew who it had to be, but he turned his head to look anyway. The fact that he was buck naked and dripping wet did not bode well if the Immortal presence he felt was anyone but his teacher.

Mac looked almost as done in as Nick felt and for the first time Nick considered the fact that his teacher never asked anything of him that he wasn't prepared to do himself. And while Nick was blundering through the cadences, Mac was doing similar moves, demonstrating them as they went, thinking ahead, as well as dancing around him, correcting his form. The man was relentless and tireless.

MacLeod stripped his sodden clothing off and stepped underneath the shower next to Nick, leaning his palms against the tile wall and bowing his head to let the warm water beat into his neck.

"Listen, Mac," Nick said, "I'm sorry I'm such a crappy student. I didn't really mean for you to turn your life upside down and wear yourself out over my problem." He almost offered to quit, but something stopped him. The notion of personal survival, probably.

Mac turned his head to look at him, then he shook his head, turning it back into the shower. "There are no bad students, Nick, only bad teachers." When Nick only snorted a reply, Mac smiled. "No, really. You're doing very well. I know I've pushed awfully hard. Maybe too hard."

Nick laughed ruefully. "I've never worked out so much in my life, and I always considered myself in pretty good shape. Right now, though, I can hardly lift a fork my arms are so tired and sore. And my legs, jeezus!"

"I know. But you have to work past it. You'll get there, Nick. You are strong and fast and learn very quickly."

Nick turned off the water and groped for a towel. "Yeah, but is it quickly enough?" he asked. "Do I really have any chance at all, Mac? Seriously? I have a black belt in karate, have studied self-defense and martial arts most of my adult life and yet I can't even touch you when we work out. Most of you guys are hundreds of years older than I am...hundreds of years! How can I possibly expect..." Nick threw his towel down and sat on the bench, exhausted and overwhelmed at what he was facing.

MacLeod turned off the shower and ran his fingers through his hair, squeezing out the extra water. He found his own towel and sat down beside his student, drying off as he thought about his answer. "I won't lie to you, Nick. The Gathering has already started and you are less experienced than most Immortals out there. But a lot of the Game is mental, and a lot of the Game is pure luck. One of the reasons I have been concentrating on your strength and stamina is that if you have decent defensive skills and really good stamina, you can wear down a more experienced opponent until they make a mistake."

"But how will I ever test my strength and stamina or my defensive ability if I never actually spar blade-to-blade?" Nick finally asked the question that had been frustrating him for so long.

Mac just sat for a moment staring into his lap. "Nick," he said at last, "when Immortals fight, even when we spar, there's a danger. Especially with me. I've...lost control before. There's a kind of madness, an excitement that takes over. It's something about the Quickenings, about the adrenaline rush of battle. It..."

"Bullshit, Mac. You killed your former student and you're afraid you'll hurt me, but that's what Pierson is there to prevent, remember? Maybe," Nick considered thoughtfully, "Maybe you just don't want to know, don't want to test yourself."

The corners of Mac's mouth twitched. "Maybe," he acknowledged. Then both men turned when they felt another Immortal approach.

Pierson sauntered into the room, carrying a sports bag. "Mind if I join you?" he asked. Nick bit back a sarcastic reply. The enigmatic man always seemed to intrude whenever he and Mac were trying to have a serious conversation. His teacher had mostly been polite, but distant, with rare flashes of humor or real emotion that let Nick know that he was seeing very little of what was going on in Duncan MacLeod's head. And now, when they were finally having a real conversation, Pierson shows up.

"Sure, why not," Nick responded with a frustrated sigh. "The more the merrier. Maybe you two can discuss your antediluvian mutual acquaintances while the child gets put down for his nap!" He grabbed his extra towel and headed off to the locker room, his bare feet slapping loudly on the tile floor.

"Nick! What the...?" Mac called, but the young man was gone.

"Was it something I said?" Methos asked.

"Antediluvian acquaintances?" Mac repeated, shaking his head. "Where does he get these ideas?" He stood to finish drying off, running his towel through his hair.

"Maybe because he feels treated like a kid?"

"He is a kid," Mac replied.

Methos shook his head. "In his own mind, and in every other way that's important, he's a man. You're hurting his pride, Mac. You've got to spar with him at some point. Get it over with and it won't seem so fraught with frightening possibilities, for either of you."

Mac paused and took a deep breath, feeling Methos' eyes study him, suddenly self-conscious about his nudity. Their complex and frequently fractured relationship had created an uncomfortable inconsistency between them, wavering between intimate familiarity and stark, frightening distance. As much as Mac wanted to bridge that gap, to find solace and comfort in the intuitive connection they seemed to share, he felt exposed around the oldest Immortal. It was as though the man could see through him, all the way below his skin to the churning organs underneath, while Methos -- except for brief flashes of painful vulnerability -- seemed utterly opaque and unknowable. Mac wrapped his towel tightly around his waist and headed towards the locker room. "I suppose you're right, but..."

"I know, Mac," Methos fell in beside his friend, laying a sympathetic hand on the other man's shoulder. "I'll be there," he reassured him. "Not that I think for one second that you would harm a hair on the boy's head, but just to make you feel better, okay? Now, how about buying me a beer in recognition of all my hard work on your behalf."

"Hard work? You just sat there all afternoon. Most of the time you looked like you were asleep!"

"Observing, MacLeod. Always observing, that's how you learn, you know," Methos answered, pointing a long finger towards his forehead. "Gotta keep those little brain cells active. Wouldn't want to get old before my time."

~~~~~~~

Somehow, Methos' banter and veiled insults kept Mac talking all the way through getting dressed and out the door. An argument about the various merits of sword techniques led them briskly down the sidewalk, through the late afternoon crowds, with each gesticulating elaborately in demonstration of one move or another. And before Mac was aware of it, Methos pushed open the glass door to Le Blues Bar, and the strains of John Coltrain carried above the noise of conversation and clinking glassware.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite Scotsman and his loyal sidekick!" Joe greeted the two men with a broad grin and a wink at Methos.

"Watch it, Dawson!" Methos snarled, only a little in jest. "Besides, MacLeod now has a new shadow."

Mac settled onto a barstool, casting a curious glance at Methos as he, too, sank onto a stool, except that when Methos did it, it seemed more like a zen moment of becoming one with the furniture.

"What'll it be, Mac, Scotch or a beer. First one's on the house, just cause I'm glad to see ya!" Joe offered.

"How about me?" Methos asked petulantly.

"You!? I thought you assumed all your drinks were on the house, Pierson," Joe grinned mischievously at the ancient moocher.

"Just a beer, Joe," Mac intervened before the banter between the Watcher and his friend got out of hand. "And bring my sidekick here a beer, as well. After all, he worked so hard this afternoon balancing that chair on two legs while he napped."

Methos harrumphed. "You just haven't mastered the art of relaxation, MacLeod. One of your many failings."

"Too true," Mac couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. God, it felt good to be relaxing in the company of friends. These last few weeks had been grueling, emotionally and physically. There had been times after a training session when, despite his exhaustion, every time he drifted off to sleep the nightmares would come, visions of teaching Richie overlaid with those last, horrible moments when figures straight out of hell were circling him, taunting him.

"Mac?"

Mac shook himself, realizing he had not been following the thread of the conversation.

"Looked like we lost you there for a minute. Not boring you, are we?"

"Sorry. What were you saying?"

"How're the sessions with Wolfe going?" Joe asked

Mac shrugged. "He's certainly not afraid of hard work, and he's strong, that's for sure. He just tends to rely on strength too much, instead of finesse. But, he's smart. He'll catch on."

"Mind if I let Amanda know?" Joe asked.

"Amanda? If she wants to know, why doesn't she call me directly?" Mac asked.

"Well, Mac, you have made it clear that you'd rather not be in contact., so  its easier if she gets her information from me," Joe said.

Mac studied his beer for a minute. Were his friends really that reluctant to come to him for help anymore? "Tell Amanda that Nick is doing well, Joe. And tell her she can call me anytime. Anytime," he emphasized, making sure Joe's eyes met his.

"She'll be glad to hear that," Joe commented with a smile and a nod. His eyes traveled back and forth between the two Immortals. He started to say something, stopped, then started again while the other two men shared a knowing glance.

"What is it, Dawson? Spit it out," Methos finally prompted.

"Remember that thing we talked about a few weeks ago, that conversation about Byron? You said to look up a bunch of guys?" Joe asked Methos at last.

"Mmm," Methos pretended to consider the issue. "A bunch of guys? Help me out here, Joe, my memory isn't what it used to be."

Joe snorted. "Gimme a break. Clay and Wellan, St. Cloud and d'Estang, Tarsis and Kagan. Ring a bell? You're right, there are a whole bunch of others, students who stuck with their teachers for the duration, never seemed to stray very far. Most of the time, though, eventually one of them killed the other. I think Haresh Clay and Carter Wellan were the longest-lived pair."

"Fascinating, I'm sure," Methos said.

"Come on, Methos, there's a story here. For some reason these teachers get a student that doesn't ever go out completely on his own. Generally male pairings."

"And why do you think that is?" Methos asked.

"Oh, for Chrissake!" Joe ran his fingers through his unruly, wiry hair in frustration. "I was hoping you'd tell me! You got me started on this, after all."

"Well," Methos templed his fingers together, "It is generally considered desirable for a teacher to be of similar physical stature and strength to their student, and techniques that work for a female Immortal are not necessarily well suited to..."

"Can the lecture," Joe snapped. "You know what I mean. Why do these evidently dependent pairings happen and why are they almost always male!?"

"Hmm," Methos equivocated. "Why do you think?"

Joe opened his mouth, then closed it, his cheeks flushing just a little under the scruffy beard, and Methos could see the tips of the man's ears turn pink. Methos cocked his head, waiting while Mac looked on in evident amusement at Joe's discomfort.

"Well," Joe cleared his throat. "I would have to speculate that it has something to do with sex, that these guys are lovers. But that doesn't explain the long-term dependency thing, even when they hated each other. I know Immortals generally feel that sex between teacher and student is a big no-no, but I always thought that was because of the, well..." Joe squirmed, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.

"Spit it out, Joe," Methos leaned back and crossed his arms, waiting for the mortal to work past his inhibitions.

"Well, its a little like pedophilia, isn't it? The age difference, the power difference?"

Methos shrugged. "Yeah, that must be it. We all abide by the MacLeod Code of Honor, vowing to protect the powerless and downtrodden." Methos looked over at Mac with a grin.

Joe grimaced at the sarcasm. "Well, then what is it?" he demanded, finally turning to MacLeod to try and get a straight answer.

Both Immortals were working not to chuckle, but Mac finally decided to rescue Joe from Methos' evasions. "Joe, there are some aspects to Immortality that you guys are never going to get, and that I can't really explain. But think of it this way. A young Immortal is extremely vulnerable, especially now. They've never felt the urge of the Gathering before, they've never tasted a Quickening. Their whole world has been completely turned upside down, they've usually been cut off from everything familiar and everyone they care about....until they've taken their first head. That first exposure to Quickening energy can easily define who you are as an Immortal." When Joe just stared at him, looking puzzled, Methos continued the explanation.

"Take Mac as an example. Joe, you told me that when he took his first Quickening, he didn't even know what was happening. It was painful, frightening, lonely, confusing, intense, a truly traumatic experience for him. It's not a surprise to me that, even though he is a warrior to the core and competitive as hell, he has never sought a Quickening just for the rush of it, the intensity of it." Methos spread his hands as he spoke.

Mac was astonished, watching the oldest Immortal describe him in such terms. Their eyes met and Mac expected some kind of qualification of the statement, some sarcastic addition to the remark, but Methos just smiled at him.

"I...Methos is right," Mac said quietly, remembering the horror of that moment. "Quickenings have always been associated with such a terrible sense of loss and confusion." Mac shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "That's nothing to be proud of since I have to confess that I've never been able change my reactions to the battle itself, the competition.  Even when I was a boy I got off on getting into that zone where the world narrows down to just you, your sword and your opponent. But Quickenings?" He visibly shuddered. "I know others feel differently about it. It really depends on the imprint of that first experience, I think."

"A teacher can generally control a student's first Quickening, how it happens, is there to help define how it effects them." Methos drank down the dregs of his beer. "And under certain circumstances, it can feel very good indeed."

"Under what circumstances?" Joe asked.

"We've already told you more than the Watchers have learned on the topic in thousands of years, Joe. It is an intensely personal experience, one you can't learn about from Watching, and one unique to our race."

"But..." Joe began.

"Joe, enough," Mac broke in. "This is one of those things that is hard to explain. It's just -- you don't have....jeez, Methos, why did you get us into this?" he asked the other Immortal with a frown.

"You were the one who asked me about Byron!" Methos snapped back. "That's what got him off on this."

"Well, I knew you and he...but not whether he was your student," Mac replied.

"Byron had enough demons. He didn't need that one, as well."

"What demons!? What the hell are you guys talking about?" Joe whispered loudly, leaning over the bar, almost inserting himself between the other two men.

Mac looked at Methos.

Methos looked at Mac.

"Sorry, Joe," Methos said at last. "This one isn't for the Chronicles."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Joe protested as both Immortals slid off their seats and Mac pulled a few bills out of his money clip and left them on the bar. "Listen, you two, I've laid my ass on the line more than once for you, and...."

"Indeed you have, Joe," Mac agreed. "But this is neither the time nor place to talk about this."

"But..."

"I'll be back, Joe. We'll talk. You have my word."

Joe leaned on his hands, looked away for a moment, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah," he finally agreed. He raised his hand in a desultory wave as the two men left.

"Well," Mac sighed as they stepped out into the dusk of a long summer's evening, "that was uncomfortable. "Why the hell did you tell him about Wellan and Clay, anyway?"

Methos' shoulders raised and lowered in a shrug. "I was a Watcher once. When I realized they had never figured that one out, some part of me wanted them to have the knowledge." The two men walked along in silence for a few steps. "And I must confess I was also thinking about how vulnerable Nick Wolfe is. You'll have to be careful."

"What are you saying?" Mac snapped. "That I would..."

"Don't get all huffy on me, MacLeod. It's not you. It's him. There's an edge to him. Very...animalistic. All that testosterone, and he's very physical, like you. With the Gathering stirring up everyone's Quickening, and yours being as strong as it is..."

"I'll be careful. As you say, with everybody on edge he'll be tested soon enough and then he'll either be dead, or he'll be past the vulnerable stage. I'll be sending him on to another teacher soon, anyway."

Mac paused, stepped off the curb and raised his hand for a taxi.

"Hey, Mac, its a summer evening in Paris! Going home so early?" Methos gestured toward the garishly lit streets around them.

"Believe it or not, Methos, after working out for ten hours, I'm tired," Mac explained as a battered cab pulled over.

"Yeah, and you certainly wouldn't want to be seen in public with an old reprobate like me," Methos said mildly, but his eyes were suddenly focused elsewhere.

Mac opened the cab door, but paused at Methos words, hearing the hurt behind them. "Never that, Methos. Never," he said quietly. "But to be seen with me can be hazardous to your health, and I know how cautious you are about that." He stepped into the cab and closed the door. He turned and looked as the cab pulled away. Methos stood, hands stuck into his jeans pockets, watching after him a moment, then turned and faded into the crowded sidewalk.

Mac gave the cabbie directions, then sat back with a sigh. Spending the evening with Methos would have been fun. Now he had probably left the man with the impression that he didn't want his company. His mouth tightened in frustration at his own inability to find a balance with the oldest Immortal. Perhaps it wasn't possible. Even before their clash over Methos' history with the Horsemen, but certainly afterwards, the interest, the magnetism, the sexual tension between them had manifested itself in brief, intense encounters that each barely acknowledged once they were over. And, now? Well, perhaps their opportunity for anything more had slipped away when Mac had cast such harsh judgement on acts done so long ago that even history had made them only myth and legend.

If so, then perhaps what they had -- this awkward, but careful peace -- was the right place to be. Mac sank back into the cracked vinyl seat, letting his head roll back so he could close his eyes. He had told Methos the truth, he was tired. Physically and emotionally. Yet each day he awoke knowing that today might be the day he would need to summon enough strength to defend himself in a battle to the death. Some days it seemed as though it was only Methos' example, his warm, vibrant presence -- even at their carefully choreographed distance -- that kept Mac going at all.

~~~~~~~

Paris was alive with people, the sidewalks crowded with excited tourists and blase locals, and lots of couples clinging and laughing together. It was nights like these that the City for Lovers truly lived up to its reputation. The air was warm and sultry, drawing a fine sheen of sweat to the skin, making clothes cling, outlining the young bodies on display in their haute couture fashions, if they wore much at all. It was a night for hot, sweaty sex, Methos thought to himself. But probably not for me, he sighed. Oh, he could head to some bar somewhere and find some companionship for the evening, but it was usually hardly worth the trouble. His mind wandered as he wove in and out of the crowds, looking over the flesh on display.

Hmmm. The women of Paris were too...he thought about it a minute. They tried too hard, he decided. It was those damned magazines trying to convince the female of the species that they had to look like famine victims in order to be attractive. Methos had starved to death too many times to count, had watched as people he loved became nothing but flesh draped on bone. He saw no glamour in it, only a reminder of old tragedy. Give him a real woman, with a real life, someone who cared about something other than her appearance.

And the men? Some of them were just as bad. The spiky hair, the body piercing, it was all so juvenile, done for no other reason than to shock and attract attention. Methos chuckled to himself. These children didn't know the real meaning of body piercing. And overtly gay men were worse. Peacocks, preening for the crowd. Some of them were not bad in the looks department, though, and men were usually less emotionally demanding than women, and required far less effort to acquire for the purpose of one-off sexual release.

There was one that seemed appealing, mingling with the sidewalk crowd outside a nightclub. Dark curly hair, nice hard body, but with the face and expression of an ignorant child. Nothing behind the eyes. Methos was trying to make up his mind whether mindless sex with some stud on the make was worth the effort, when he paused and scanned the street uneasily, feeling just a touch of Immortal presence, like a breath of the hot summer air on his neck. He waited a moment, but it faded. He moved on more slowly, keeping his eyes on the edges of the crowd, turning to look behind him every once in awhile.

A block later, he felt it again, just that chilling hot brush of sensation. Making a quick decision, he slipped into a crowded bistro, weaving among the tables towards the back. Much to the surprise of a waiter pushing through a swinging door with a loaded tray, Methos brushed past him into the kitchen. Ignoring the shouted curses, he traversed the obstacle course of busboys, chefs and sou-chefs, waving spoons and moving trays, finally slipping out the back door to an alley ripe with the smells of both cooking and rotting food.

Methos trotted quickly to the end of the alley towards the street and turned once again into the milling crowds, doubling back the way he had come before making a series of false turns and misdirection moves. It was almost an hour later that he finally reached his apartment building. He paused at the corner to peruse the street carefully, letting his instincts guide him. Those finely honed perceptions felt nothing, saw nothing except an empty street and with a small release of tension, he wearily climbed the concrete steps to his current home.

He didn't even bother to take off his coat before he retrieved a beer, opened it and swallowed half of it down. As tired as he was from the release of tension, he was unable to relax and ended up standing in the middle of the kitchen staring off into space. He really should get out of Paris, he thought for the hundredth time, simultaneously wondering if he could find out which new Immortal had wandered into town.

Hacking into Watcher files was trickier these days that it used to be. Paranoia had run rampant ever since that debacle with Joe's trial and Jacob Galati's systematic execution of dozens of Watchers. But if he was careful, maybe he could trace down any Immortals new to town. They seemed to all get sucked into MacLeod's orbit eventually. Perhaps this one would get distracted by the Scot and leave him alone. Except of course, he too had been caught in the Highlander's magnetic aura and had suffered the consequences more than once.

And who really suffered more, he wondered idly. His very existence seemed to confound the Scot. It had never been his intention to so complicate the man's life, but he just couldn't bring himself to withdraw, not completely.

The thought of MacLeod triggered a sense/memory of watching Mac sparring with Wolfe. Methos found the up-close-and-personal sessions a pleasure to the eye and mind. Duncan MacLeod was a consummate artist at what he did, turning training in the lethal arts into a tantalizing demonstration of an incredible body and fine mind operating at peak efficiency and discipline.

Methos smiled at the memory of Mac's discomfort as he described getting off on the combat. If he only knew. And evidence would indicate that Nick Wolfe was equally stimulated by Mac's proximity, probably exacerbated by Wolfe's own newly realized sensitivity to Quickenings. Methos had not said anything about his own reactions to Quickenings because he was sure it would make both Joe and Mac uncomfortable to know that the oldest Immortal loved them. That he was a life-long Quickening junkie, which is why he had stopped taking them several centuries ago. Methos shook himself with an internal smile as his dick hardened even at the thought of the last time he and Mac had fucked -- after a Quickening, of course.

That's all any of their encounters had been, really. Ingrid had died, Mac had been preoccupied, horny and unhappy, and Methos had taken him to bed. As with all their liaisons, little had been said immediately afterwards, and nothing at all since. No, MacLeod would not approve of Methos' fascination with Quickenings. Would probably be appalled at his friend's obsession that made Methos' participation in Mac's and Nick Wolfe's training sessions a virtual orgy of voyeuristic delight.

That thought brought Methos' focus back from his brief foray into sexual fantasy, and onto the presence that had followed him tonight.

No doubt, MacLeod could handle whoever had whiffed at Methos' scent this evening, should it become necessary. But the Scot didn't need any more emotional backlash from unwanted Quickenings, either. Methos' thin lips pressed into a line. This was at the heart of his conundrum about Duncan MacLeod. The man needed protection -- not from other Immortals but from himself. He was his own most bitter enemy, well nigh incapable of forgiving his own failures, real or imagined.

Well, if Methos didn't want to take this one on, and he preferred to avoid any further complications in MacLeod's life, that left....young Mr. Wolfe. Who was hardly ready to take on an experienced Immortal, and whose demise the Highlander would undoubtedly take personally.

Not a particularly appealing set of options.
 

~~~~~~~

To Part Two