United Nations, Divided Souls

Kir and Sean agreed to share the responsibility of keeping a watch over Adam during the rest of the night. But when Kir checked on them and found Sean spooned up next to his brother, sound asleep, she decided they were both better off left where they were and sought her own bed. It seemed wide and cold and empty, though, and sleep did not come. Lexington. Her mind kept turning over what Phil had said. An Immortal too weak to be a threat but closely guarded, moved several times. He hadn't said when, though. Was it before the connection had been cut? After? Were they on a fool's errand, putting Xan and themselves at risk for a dead man? She finally slipped into an uneasy sleep as dawn crept in through the windows.

Kir was groggy and muzzy-headed when low voices disturbed her sleep. A raised voice and a few sharp words, however, brought her out of bed.

"Dammit, you sound just like Duncan!" Connor was saying, standing toe to toe with Sean, but evidently not succeeding in intimidating the slightly smaller man.

"There's a big surprise," Sean sneered. "And he was usually right. And I'm right, Connor. Adam needs to go, and I need to go with him. At least two of us have to stay here and monitor what's going on. Ergo, you and Kir stay here, Adam and I go to Lexington."

"Wait a minute," Kir objected, tightening the sash on her robe and pushing her long hair out of her face. "Where is it written that you have to go with Methos? I can do that. That's what I'm here for."

The group paused in silence for several heartbeats. They all knew the implications of her statement, that if Methos went out of control, she was there to do whatever was necessary, including taking his head, to prevent him falling into the hands of the Eastern Dawn.

"I feel like a toy all the children are fighting over," an amused baritone voice said from the bathroom doorway. "Do I get a vote?"

"No!" three voices chorused in unison.

At that, Methos sauntered into the room, poured himself a glass of orange juice from the breakfast foods laid out on the sideboard and turned to them. "In the unlikely event we do find Duncan, I may need Sean to help me reach him," he stated unequivocally. Then he nodded at the Indian woman. "Kir, we need to talk," he motioned to the small seating area across the room.

With a baleful glance at Sean and Connor, Kir followed him.

Methos stood close, speaking softly, aware that Connor and Sean were watching them. "Sean is on a near edge, Kir. If he goes over it, I need to be there to help him. He's never had to deal with the Gathering before, what it means, what it does to you. He's only had the smallest taste of what it's like. Duncan always thought he could protect him from this, so he's totally unprepared for what is does to your soul." Methos' large hands wrapped themselves around Kir's shoulders. "I know what you've been charged to do, but please. Please," he begged. "He's not a killer, and yet he's being driven to kill. This could destroy him if we don't find Mac before he loses control. I can help him, Kir, but I need to stay close."

Kir's arms were crossed defensively as her mind whipsawed back and forth between the duty that had been laid upon her and her love and concern for Sean. Methos was right. She may have already lost the father and was in danger of losing the son as well.

"Alright, Methos," she whispered. But she caught his arm as he smiled gratefully and turned. "But that means no risks, no foolishness. If there's threat you rabbit out of there as fast as you can."

He saluted with a finger to his forehead. "Yes, Commander. I hear and obey."

Sean went around to the garage to pick up the van, not surprised when it had obviously been cleaned and serviced. Undoubtedly it had also been searched as well. Xan was nothing if not thorough. The scene from the previous night played over and over in his head and his training as a psychiatrist, a scientist, a healer, wouldn't let it go. Adam had told him of his greatest fear, that of being a victim. Worse, a willing victim. And yet he had offered his body up in sacrifice to something he wanted or needed even more than the preservation of his own identity. In a way, he mused, as ugly as the incident was, it might be a great step forward for his brother. He had offered himself up, yes. Not as victim, but as savior, as hero. Something very much like Duncan MacLeod would do.

His brother and his father were far more alike than either had recognized. They were each blind to that within themselves that called to the other, that they admired in each other. His father saw Adam as all elegance and grace and deep complexity, thinking himself simple and clumsy in comparison. Adam saw Duncan as heroic and in control, self-sacrificing and easy to love, thinking himself only as a victim, powerless except in his capacity to manipulate others, selfish and a loner. They were both all of that, and both so much more. Sean's breath caught involuntarily as he pulled up to the rear of the building and Adam emerged. Always pale and lean, the man was nothing but muscle and bone, honed to frighteningly brittle, hard strength. But the desperate need, the sense of incompleteness, was written in the tight lines around his mouth and eyes. They needed either to find his father or accept his death, and soon, or his brother would be forever be on a futile search for some lost part of himself.

Lexington was about a half-hour northwest of Boston, but an entire world away in atmosphere. The suburban city had been transformed into a military complex of gray institutions separated by depressing multi-apartment complexes. Garbage collection was infrequent and paper and trash blew in the hot summer wind across the streets and gathered at the broken curbs

Xan had provided them with passes that got them by a cursory inspection at two checkpoints. They had done a little research and found that there were three potential sites for holding prisoners in the area. One was a research facility that would be difficult, if not impossible, to penetrate. One was a state prison and the third was a rehabilitation facility for drug addicts and what the Eastern Dawn considered other socially unacceptable behaviors.

Adam had been oddly quiet during most of the drive, letting Sean find his way there with little comment since he was familiar with the Boston area from his Harvard days. As they got closer, the quiet turned into absolute silence and Sean finally pulled over to the curb and stopped. Adam . . . Methos, Sean reminded himself, had slipped into some kind of meditative trance, eyes closed chin tucked under. As Sean watched, sweat beaded on the high forehead and his brother's slow deep breaths accelerated to small gasps.

"Adam?" He reached out to touch his arm, but stopped as his ears suddenly began buzzing and ringing. He covered them with his hands, but the sensation worsened until the sounds inside his head evolved to pure pain.

"Sean?" Adam's voice seemed to come from a long distance. "Sean are you okay?"

He opened his eyes, then closed them again immediately as the light only sharpened the agony pounding in his head. "What . . happened?" he finally managed to ask. He forced his eyes open and found himself propped against the driver's side door with Adam's white face peering at him in concern.

"You fainted."

Sean made as rude a noise as he could manage when his head hurt so bad, but the pain was fading quickly and he struggled to sit up. "Don't be absurd. I've never fainted in my life."

"Call it what you will," Methos shrugged. "I take it your momentary lapse of consciousness is over?"

Sean rubbed his temples. "Seems to be. But what were you . . ?"

"Let's head to the prison facility first," Adam said.

"But I thought . . ."

"You're not along to think, Sean, you're along to help me if I need it. Now the prison is about five miles northwest of town." He consulted a map. "I think we have to turn around and go back to the last major intersection and turn west."

Sean automatically started the van and put it in gear, then paused. "Wait a minute." He turned off the ignition. "You were using the link, weren't you? I was too close, so it made me pass out. You were looking for other Immortals in the area."

His brother just looked at him. "Are we going or were you planning to moralize at me?" Methos asked quietly.

"You don't have the control to determine identity, Adam. You don't know who we're going after do you? Just another Community Immortal you can intimidate and use."

"Look," Methos' lips tightened. "You know that any Immortal in this area is going to hold power, is going to know who is doing what to whom. I don't give a damn who it is, whoever it is has the potential for helping us find Mac. This is what I was talking about back in Atlanta, Sean. Now either you help me, or you get out of my way."

Sean was suddenly reminded of the image in his meditation, of the forest on one side and the steep cliff leading to the ocean on the other. It's that first step off the cliff that's the hard one, Sean thought to himself as he started the car and pulled away from the curb. The rest is all downhill.

"We're hear to see the warden," Adam said officiously, showing the identification Xan had provided. They had both felt the presence of another Immortal as soon as they entered the square plasticoncrete structure. The windows were transparent steel, an innovation that provided security, but true transparency had never been perfected, leaving the views to the outside slightly warped and oddly colored, changing the grass and trees of the manicured lawn into a surreal landscape.

The square-jawed young man behind the battered reception desk looked at the identification dubiously. "And is she expecting you, Mr., uh, Adamson?" His smile was perfunctory and utterly insincere.

"It's Dr. Adamson, actually," Methos said in his most supercilious English accent. "And I believe she will not be surprised at all if you let her know we are here."

"Actually, I would," a voice said from behind them. "But I'll see them anyway." She was short and whip thin, with a physical age of mid-fifties. Her hair was short and businesslike, and she was dressed in a collarless conservative blue suit and trousers with low heels, almost like a uniform. They followed her into a moderately sized office equipped with desk, a small conference table to one side and a small fake leather couch in one corner. Everything looked well used and utilitarian. Shelves above the desk were lined with datadisks on organizational behavior, criminal psychology, budget and financial planning, plus a whole section on the Eastern Dawn's criminal code by which the prison systems were run. And there were a few real books at one end, along with a videocube.

Adam wandered over to the shelf, running his finger along the titles, and stopped, pulling down one slim volume. "Keats?" he asked.

She crossed to him and snatched the book from his hand. "Who the hell are you and what do you want?"

Sean carefully closed the door behind him and stood in front of it. Uncertain what to do, not wanting to really know what his brother was planning, but forced to watch anyway.

"Sit down, Dr. Edith Simpson," Methos said reading the woman's name from the placard on the desk and replacing it. "Let's talk."

"You two are certifiable! You come traipsing in here in the middle of Eastern Dawn territory and want me to lead you to Duncan MacLeod? You're not only certifiable, you must think I am, too!" She had long since stood and started pacing back and forth over the threadbare oriental carpet in front of her desk. "Look, I don't want to see the Game start up again either, but you guys can't expect me to put everything I worked for at risk on the slim hope that you'll ever find him alive."

"Then you do have information that will help us," Methos said coldly.

"I didn't say that."

"If you didn't know anything, Dr. Simpson, then that's what you would have said first. Instead you have argued, avoided the topic, changed the subject, in other words done everything but spill the beans directly." Methos stood, drawing up his long, lean frame, towering over the smaller woman. Sean braced himself, not knowing whether he could or should keep himself from interfering if his brother got abusive.

"Now tell me what you know about Duncan MacLeod," Methos whispered gently.

The warden swallowed convulsively, looking very much like an insect trapped up against a web. "I . . . I only met him the one time," she stammered. "During the ceremony. I was so tired of being afraid, so . . ."

"That's not what I mean," Methos insisted, grabbing her upper arms and lifting her slightly so their eyes were close. "Where is he now?"

"I don't know!" she cried. "I truly don't know. Please, you're hurting me!"

Sean stepped forward, attempting to pry his brother's stiff fingers away from the woman's arm. "She doesn't know, Adam. Please, stop."

"She knows something, but she doesn't want to say," Methos said coldly, his eyes fixed on the woman. "Why is that, Warden Simpson?"

"He'll . . . kill . . . me," she gasped.

"Who will kill you?" The question rang harshly through the air.

"Lansing. The head of the guards."

It was like slow Chinese torture, one little drip of information at a time. "And what does Lansing know?" Methos persisted, his face white with the strain of using the Voice again and again.

"He was in charge of the unit MacLeod was in while he was here. I was never allowed back there. I never even saw him! Please," she broke down, sobbing. "I don't know any more. You've signed my death warrant as it is."

Methos let her go and stepped back, shuddering with sudden weakness as the woman sank to her knees, then to the floor.

Sean knelt beside her, automatically checking pulse and pupils. Her heart was racing and her skin was cold and clammy, her pupils widely dilated. He pulled her close, shusshing her and rocking her, watching Methos out of the corner of his eye as he staggered to a chair.

"Can you call Lansing for us, Edith?" Sean asked softly. "We need to talk to him and we won't let him hurt you, okay?" He could only imagine what a brute this Lansing must be to have intimidated this hard edged Immortal prison warden. She couldn't stop trembling, but it eased a bit under Sean's gentle ministrations.

"Not here," she said breathlessly. "God, you can't meet him here. He has an entire squadron of goons at his command." She gathered herself and pushed away, pulling herself unsteadily to her feet. "Who the hell do you think you are anyway?" she asked, anger finally beginning to rise above the fear. "This isn't supposed to be what being a part of the Community means! That's not what MacLeod wanted. Are you really out to save him? Or maybe you're just after his Quickening." She glared at them suspiciously.

"Call Lansing. Set up a meeting someplace isolated where I can talk to him. That's all I want to do, Edith. Just talk," Methos said grimly.

It was an abandoned building at the edge of town, doors and windows covered in cheap plastiseal, long since broken through by vagrants and thieves. Sean followed Adam and Edith in the van since Adam didn't trust Edith not to, in the interests of self-preservation, warn this Lansing person that there was more to the meeting than an opportunity to earn some easy Eastern Dawn credits.

The three of them picked through the overgrown and trash-strewn yard though a walkway between buildings to where what once had been a children's playground was sheltered on all four sides by blank or boarded up windows staring at them like a dead man's eyes. They all felt him before they saw him, a man of medium height and nondescript appearance stood in the hot summer sun, a light trench coat held in one hand to provide cover for carrying a blade.

As Edith and Methos approached the coat dropped away leaving the naked curved sabre sharply reflecting the afternoon sunlight. The man's eyes widened as he felt a third Immortal, and Sean closed in from the other side, where he had carefully circled around.

"What is this, Simpson?" he demanded harshly. "You said this was a way to make some quick credits, not a way to lose my head!"

Edith raised her hands, palms out. "Take it easy, Lansing. These guys just want to talk. They're prepared to pay serious money for a little information, that's all."

"And you told them I could provide it? Thanks a lot, bitch! You set me up!" He backed off defensively glancing from one side to the other as the three other Immortals moved closer, then reached behind his back. A large hand weapon appeared in his left hand, as ugly and menacing in its appearance as the feral smile on his face.

"Okay, you wanna talk? Let's talk. But stop right there, or this gets messy real fast, and that includes you, Edith." They had moved close enough to see the sweat darkening Lansing's armpits and dampening his forehead. He was wearing a commando's uniform, lightweight for the summer, but sharply tailored and decorated with various ribbons and insignia that were a little incongruous for a prison guard. Sean sensed the man's hunger for importance and power that had distorted and diluted any moral constraints.

"All we want is information," Methos affirmed quietly. His voice carried sharply, echoing around the four empty buildings that surrounded them.

"Who are you?" Lansing demanded. With each word, Sean found more clues to this man's character. He was both officious and frightened, a dangerous combination in a man who was not used to his authority being challenged.

Methos spread his hands non-threateningly to his sides, no weapon apparent. "I'm looking for Duncan MacLeod. I understand you were entrusted with his care when he was transferred to the prison."

"That didn't answer my question," Lansing persisted. "Who are you? And why are you interested in MacLeod?"

"Those are facts you don't need to know," Sean heard his brother say, already hearing the echoes of power in his voice. Methos was already white-faced and sweaty. He was resorting too quickly, too easily now to means that might not be necessary. Sean stepped forward, attracting Lansing's attention, along with the aim of the hand weapon he was holding.

"That's far enough, I said!" the man insisted.

"Okay, okay," Sean soothed. "Look, it's not really necessary to know who we are. We're prepared to pay serious credits for the information, and no one will ever know where we got it. It's really best that you don't know, isn't it? Are you interested, or do we find someone else to give our money to?"

Lansing considered his proposal for a minute while Sean felt Methos' eyes boring down on him, questioning his interference. Finally Lansing thrust his chin out in query. "Five hundred thousand credits," he insisted.

Sean even heard Edith hiss at that outrageous amount, evidently fearing the whole situation would deteriorate to violence if his demand was not met. "What do you know that might be worth that much money?" Sean asked calmly.

Lansing smiled an ugly smile, and Sean noticed for the first time that there was a long scar running from the man's temple, down his face to the edge of his lip, distorting his features. Evidence of a life of violence even before he became Immortal. "I guess you'll have to pay to find that out, won't you? Otherwise you'll never know. But I'll tell you this much. I saw him. He was at the prison. You want more than that, you have to pay."

Sean saw his brother's body gathering itself, as though the tension were going to make him implode. He needed to move quickly. "Prove it! How did you know it was MacLeod?"

There was a pause as Lansing looked back and forth between Methos and Sean. Subliminally he must have felt that there was more of a threat here than was immediately apparent because he carefully blotted the moisture from his upper lip with the back of his sleeve before he spoke again. "Too many people interested in a comatose Immortal to be anybody else," he finally said. "Okay. Tall guy, long dark hair, dark eyes, what I could see of 'em. Records just referred to him as prisoner "M." That help? Now," he made a "gimme" gesture with the hand holding the gun. "Anymore will cost you five hundred thousand credits."

Without looking at Methos, Sean reached into his pocket, stopping when the gun rose threateningly. "Just getting your credits," Sean reassured him, pulling out his money card and holding it up for the man to see. "Give me your account codes and I'll transfer it right now."

"Stop it, Sean!" Methos growled. "This is a farce. You don't know if this idiot knows anything more than what he's already said. There's only one way to be sure."

"No!" Edith intervened. "He does know. He handled all the transfer paperwork. Tell them, Lansing, please! You don't want these people angry at you, trust me." Her eyes were desperate, caught between a man who had evidently physically brutalized her on a regular basis, and another who had violated her mind.

"Just tell me where he was transferred to," Sean begged. "You'll get your credits."

But Lansing shook his head. "Don't know that."

"Then you're useless to us!" Methos spat.

"Wait!" Sean insisted. "Who signed the transfer order? Was it Abbas?"

"Dammit, if you want information, gimme my credits!"

"Who Signed the Transfer Orders?" Methos asked, his voice ringing and hard.

Lansing froze, his mouth worked silently for a few seconds as though someone had punched him in the stomach, paralyzing his diaphragm. "They . . . came from . . . research division."

"Not Abbas?" Methos persisted, moving closer.

"Abbas came looking . . . after he was gone. He was really . . . pissed." Lansing gasped for air.

"So that's what that was all about," Edith said, obviously startled. "Abbas came tearing through, looking for all the records...he must've wanted them to be destroyed so no trace of MacLeod can be found," Edith said as if this were a headache she could do without.

Lansing shook himself out of his trance, his face suddenly distorted with terror and anger. "What did you do to me? I want my credits!" The gun raised towards Sean, and in slow motion he watched as Lansing's finger tightened on the trigger. The young Immortal moved automatically, reaching for his blade and turning to knock the weapon aside, dodging and going down to one knee as a high pitched whine sounded and a small explosion hit the hard packed dirt inches from his foot. Sean rolled to his feet, cutting low, but there was another body there, coming between them.

Lansing had shifted barely blocking the blow he had been expecting from the one Immortal, but Methos gave him no chance to recover, twisting under the blade and allowing Lansing's sword to slide along his outer arm, removing a sword's edge worth of skin, almost to the muscle. It affected Methos not at all as he reversed the thrust, impaling Lansing on the blade. Before the man could even register that it was over, Methos was on his feet, arm and shoulder putting force behind the swing that sent head and body falling in opposite directions from the strength of it.

It took Sean a moment to register what had happened, eyes wide as his brother dropped to his knees, left arm bloodied and his chest heaving as the all-too familiar mist began to rise. Methos did not even look at Sean but the younger Immortal could see his brother's face. It shook him. He had never seen Methos take a head. There had been the odd challenge here and again when they had made forays outside the Nations or beyond the greater influence of the Community, but Duncan had nearly always been there to care for his friend, always aware when it happened and, in retrospect, Sean realized, trying to intervene. Methos had only commented on it once, saying he had difficulty making room for the additional energy. What Sean saw in his brother's face now was stark fear. Terror that went beyond even his panic attacks. Methos flinched before the first tendrils of energy touched him. Aware of his close proximity, Sean gathered Edith up and tried to put some distance between them and the Quickening that now seemed to spread around Methos as if angling its best position of assault.

When it began in earnest it was like an attack. The thin lines of energy seemingly all converging on the slender figure at once, seeking entry, seeking purchase, drawn to Methos like a horde of angry bees. The sword clattered to the ground as Methos crumpled under the assault. Lansing had not seemed so old, nor that powerful but whatever had been unleashed seemed both frustrated and vicious as the energy sought grounding in the ancient body. Methos screamed, the sound cut off in mid pitch as all the lines suddenly became one; a twisted braid of blue-white energy that coalesced into a single column that suddenly slammed Methos backward, arms outstretched as the Quickening fought for a final home.

Worse than watching was what Sean felt, hard as he tried to deny the backwash that flowed from his brother's tortured body and psyche into his own, it bled through anyway, then flooded. The pain was the worst, at first. It rolled over him like molten rock, burned through his blood enough to make him gasp and double over and it was only a fraction of what Methos was feeling. The imagery was less distinct, frustration, anger, despair, and anger again. Waves of it, directed at just about anyone.

Aching, nauseated, Sean moved, fighting off the confusing, painful, suddenly erotic and magnetic images that were now bubbling to the surface of his mind. Edith still crouched in the dirt, her eyes wide, and briefly Sean wondered if she had ever seen a Quickening before. He tore his eyes away from the woman, suddenly wanting her and disgusted at his own reactions, and turned back to his brother.

Methos had not moved, sprawled on his back, legs bent awkwardly beneath him. He was breathing, barely, but made no response when Sean reached out to touch him.

He was cold. Icy even, as if the Quickening had driven every ounce of warmth from him. Carefully, Sean moved him, pulling him upward. For all the apparent near-death, Sean could feel his brother, the presences pulsating at twice the rate of his heart, an almost physical thrum emanating from his body. Sean's big hands convulsed around the slender form, rocking him, swallowing against the irrational urges that pounded against his skin, feeling the palpable power that surged in that frail body.

This is my brother, he told himself over and over. This is Adam. You can control this. You must control this. Anger rose along with the erotic images that battered against his closed eyelids. Lansing should have been his. What right did Methos have to step in! This power, this rush . . . the body in his hands trembled and moved.

"Sean," Adam's voice barely penetrated the roar in his ears. "Sean!"

He opened his eyes, finding that he was holding his brother so tightly that bruises were beginning to form where his fingers pressed.

"Why did you . . . ?" he wanted to demand, to insist, to yell his anger, but some rational part of his brain was also struggling for control, and his question came out choked and almost insensible.

"I need your help, Sean," his brother's voice was quiet, desperate. "I need you to get me to the van."

"Yes. The van."

"He saw Duncan, Sean. He saw your father. Think, Sean!"

He obeyed Adam's instructions, helping him to his feet, guiding him carefully toward the van, keeping his body moving even as his mind screamed and swirled in confusing patterns and directions. His father was alive, or had been only weeks before. Proof. No more doubts about Adam's sanity. Part of him wanted to be elated, but there were too many other thoughts and emotions circling in his mind and all he was was confused.

There was someone in front of him and he stopped, his arm around Adam's waist, holding most of his weight. Edith. Her name was Edith. The power he sensed from her called to him and he loosed his hold on Adam, gripping his sword.

"I'll take care of this," Edith said, her voice old and hard. "At least you got rid of that bastard." She nodded at the headless body lying grotesquely in the dirt. "But if you ever find MacLeod I'm not sure he will thank you for it. He would never, ever have approved of what you're doing!"

Methos pushed himself away from Sean and stood on his own with a deep breath. "I'm not looking for his approval." He tucked his bloodied sword back into his coat and carefully walked away.

Edith looked after him for a moment, then turned to look at the other Immortal who so strongly reminded her of the man who had stopped the Game, whose memorable face had been so indelibly etched in her mind at the moment of the ceremony.

"Methos?" she queried.

"He'll get him back, if anyone can," Sean replied, his eyes on the hard, stiff back quickly retreating around behind the building.

"At what cost?" Simpson whispered.

"At any cost," Sean replied, finally convincing his legs to move and follow his brother once again.

The trip back to Boston was done in silence. Both men were clearly struggling with thoughts and feelings they couldn't or didn't wish to share. Sean was swinging wildly between elation and despair, unable to hang on to one or the other for more than a few seconds. He was only vaguely aware of Adam, curled tightly into the opposite corner, shuddering periodically with the aftershocks of the Quickening.

Gradually, Sean's irrational anger subsided, leaving a gnawing hunger in its place. He knew what it was, concentrating on it, tasting it, then carefully, methodically pushing it away, building walls around it, blocking it with every mental trick he had ever been taught. This was the Gathering, a racial imperative that had driven his kind since the beginning of time. It had a bitter, metallic taste to it. It was exhilarating, intoxicating, breathtakingly frightening in its intensity. Until now it had only seemed a vague, distant threat. Now . . . oh, how easy it would be to succumb to that siren call. He shook himself again. No. This would not define his life. The Game was over!

They entered their suite in silence. Kir had been reading and rose, taking in the grim preoccupied set of their faces, Methos' torn and bloody clothes. Methos crossed to the bar and poured himself a large brandy, swallowing it down in one large gulp.

"I thought I said to rabbit out if there was a threat," Kir stated quietly. She could feel the energy radiating off the Oldest Immortal. He rarely took quickenings. They sat as badly, or worse, with him than they did with Duncan.

"It came up . . . unexpectedly," Sean said, sitting, folding his hands tightly as he leaned forward onto his knees. He took a big breath and let it out, trying to once again expel the aftermath of the reflected power that had danced through him, triggering so many unwelcome senses and emotions. "He's alive, Kir." That was the important thing, Sean knew. That was what he had to concentrate on. The sure realization poured over him, sending gooseflesh washing over his back and down his arms. "He's alive," he whispered again, to himself.

The Kir was on her knees in front of him, her huge eyes boring into his. "You . . . found him?"

Sean shook his head in frustration. "No. But we found someone who saw him, only a few weeks ago. And Adam is right, they've kept him unconscious." Sean surged up out of his seat, pacing to work off the energy Kir's closeness had suddenly sparked. "There's some confusion. It wasn't Abbas who had him moved. Some research project division. It seemed like Abbas was looking for him, not controlling him."

"Then where is he?!" Kir demanded.

"We don't know!" Methos growled behind her, having finished off a second glass of brandy. He stalked closer, the tension, the anger, barely under control, and Kir backed away, her eyes flicking to the corner where her sword lay. "But now you have your proof, Kirin. I'm not totally fucking crazy!" A cold smile touched his thin lips. "I'm sure you feel so much better about my mental stability now, don't you?" He reached out and pulled her to him, and his mouth closed over hers, brutally seeking entry. She resisted, not out of any unwillingness to help relieve him of his desperate need, but fearing that if she relinquished control, the consequences would be disastrous for both of them. After a brief struggle, Methos stopped.

Sean stood white-faced, watching, waiting to step in, but Methos and Kir just looked at each other. Both their lips were bruised and swollen, each panting, fighting for control - uncertain of whether it was of themselves or the other. Then Methos smiled. It wasn't attractive.

"Still waiting for your bra' Highland warrior, Kirin? He may not be so pretty when we get him back. But I guess I'm a poor substitute in any event." He released her, and she stumbled slightly, watching him enter the bathroom.

Sean sagged into the nearest chair. "What now, Kir? He's alive! But Adam. God, he was prepared to do things . . ." Edith Simpson's comments about whether his father would thank them if they ever got him back haunted him. "And we still have no idea where he is."

"You said the one who had him transferred was from some research facility?"

Sean nodded, running his fingers distractedly through his hair. "But Abbas was looking for him, too, and may well have found him by now and moved him again. And Abbas will have a lot better access to information than we do."

"Then we have two leads to follow, Sean." She moved behind his chair, letting her strong fingers dig into hard, tense muscles across his shoulders. "We have resources and we have time. And at last we know for certain he's alive. So we wait, and we watch."

The relief in her voice was palpable, and Sean finally allowed himself to move beyond wishful thinking to real hope. As for having time, he didn't voice his fear that Methos' time was running out.

Kir gave his shoulders a final squeeze and glanced at the bathroom, chewing on her lower lip before moving away from Sean. She leaned against the door for a moment, listening, hearing only the softest of sounds. She rapped lightly but did not wait for an answer, opening the door cautiously.

He was still clothed and leaning against the sink, face tense as he looked up at her sharply. "You'll have to wait your turn," he snapped, straightening up, his physical tension obvious, painful to look at as Kir let her eyes fall along the lean body.

She had been wrong to reject him so quickly, to think of her own control and not his. She kicked herself and moved toward him, guilt chasing itself across her soul as he flinched away.

"Please, Methos. I'm sorry," she said softly. "I should have sent Sean away."

"Or maybe left me alone with him?" he said tightly, eyes glittering, his breathing was sharp, coming in short, harsh pants. "Which are you more afraid of, Kir? Fucking me or betraying Duncan?"

That hurt. More because it was at least, partly true. "A little of both perhaps," she admitted. "But more afraid of what this is doing to you. Let me help, if I can. We have a friendship too," she reminded him.

"Do we? I think I've had about all the 'friendship' I can take," he said bitterly and closed his eyes briefly, holding himself rigid. Kir reached out to lay her hands on his shoulders, reaching out with all the empathy she could summon, willing the tension to ease enough to let her get close.

Too late. The opportunity had come and gone with the brutal kiss in the common room. Methos' hands reached out and grabbed her arms, hazel eyes bright and a little wild as he held her away from himself, just barely, his whole body trembling with tension. "Don't...don't, damn you." His voice was a hiss, hardly enough air sliding past his vocal chords to make a sound. "I have already betrayed everything he believes in...don't add yourself to the list. I had no idea Duncan's misplaced martyrdom was contagious."

He thrust her away, all but falling as he jerked the door open and moved past her. She heard Sean call out to him and a door slam but she couldn't move. She was doomed to fail Methos at every turn it seemed and she had no idea if it was his fault or her own.

Xan finished signing the papers for the latest delivery of food for the next party, wondering idly if she should not add another food storage unit if she was going to continually entertain the Eastern Dawn in her own establishment. Easier in some ways but a double-edged sword given her very special 'guests'.

She moved toward the ballrooms, passing the spas and frowning a bit. Her regular clientele had been scarce while the round of meetings and parties continued. She could only hope her business would pick up once this round of entertainment was over. Important clients the Eastern Dawn near-elite might be, but she wasn't making any profit off them.

The tremor of another Immortal washed over her and she stopped, annoyed. Granted, none of the Dawn would arrive for some hours yet, but she had warned her 'guests' to remain upstairs as much as possible. She glanced through the glass and let her anger shift into something less volatile. Methos. He and Sean were back then. She moved slowly past the observation window, watching the lean form as he cut the length of the pool with long, hard strokes, moving swiftly from one end of the pool to another as quickly as any competitive swimmer. For all his protestations of hating the water, he was as graceful in it as out. She opened the door to the pool room. Slipping the jacket off her short sheath dress as the humidity of the room hit her and leaving her shoes by the entrance, she moved to the edge of the pool. A glance revealed no towels close by and his clothes and sword in a heap on the tiles. She moved again, pulling one of the fluffy wraps from the rack and sat at the edge to wait until his return, a welcome smile on her face. Letting her feet slip into the water.

He came close and Xan could not help but admire his body as it sliced through the water. The same brief pang of jealously singing through her as it always did at the sight of him. In her opinion, modern standards of beauty left much to be desired. There was something intrinsically beautiful about bodies with little extra muscle or fat, nothing to mar the lines of bone and sinew. Preferences of her own youth, she decided.

Methos slowed and Xan realized he had not really sensed her until that moment. She kept her smile but alarm swept through her. He was treading water in the middle of the pool, naked and unarmed -- something she had never thought to see. His eyes fixed on her but he hesitated before once more moving toward her. What the hell had happened to make him so incautious?

He did not get out, merely folded his arms across the pool edge. He was trembling. She could see it plainly, the strain far in excess of what she would have expected from a swim.

"The water is a little cool," she commented, lifting her feet from the water. "I'll speak to Paul."

"It's fine," he said tersely.

"Why don't you come out and let me work on your back? You look...stressed, Miklos."

He gave a harsh bark of laughter and then pushed off again. Two more laps and he was clinging to the side of the pool, exhaustion clear.

"You hate drowning," she reminded him.

"Xan, just....leave me alone," he said softly, pulling himself along the side of the pool to the steps and then had to stop again, almost doubling over. She moved silently holding out the robe. He stared at her for a long moment, then stepped upward.

Xan said not a word as she wrapped the toweling around him, rubbing his arms to dry and warm him. His skin was like ice. Long experience gave her the answer, combined with the way he flinched and jerked under her touch.

"You are the only man I know who, when he takes a Quickening, can be cold as snow when your passions run hot as fire," she said quietly, letting a small worried frown turn down her mouth. Her touches became gentler, slipping under the wrap to gently caress at the erection hidden by the cloth but obvious in every other aspect of his stance. Her other hand came up to his chin, holding it as she kissed him lightly. He held himself still, shuddering under her touch and she stepped away for a moment to strip off her dress.

"Xan...no," he said, and she almost laughed at him.

"Miklos, this is foolish. No one doubts your control or your strength and you are not on display here and now." She moved toward him.

"I doubt my control," he said and Xan ignored him, catching his face once more, slipping her tongue expertly between his parted lips and felt him lean in toward her.

Just that fast he grabbed her, the kiss becoming brutal, the wrap falling away as he pressed his body hard against hers. She was startled enough to make a squeak of protest, her mind grasping immediately just how close to losing control he was. She had endured worse as he pushed her down on the bench, forcing herself to go pliant and not cry out as he viciously parted her thighs.

And just as quickly pushed himself away from her with a strangled cry, going to hands and knees near his clothes. She rolled off the bench, feeling the bruises healing, and came near only to have him turn on her, sword in hand. "Get out," he said, almost a sob. "Just leave me alone before you and I both regret we ever met again."

"Please let me help you," she said crouching before him. "You can only hurt me, Miklos. I will heal."

"I won't.." he murmured lifting the blade. "You can only hurt the people you...care about...so many times, mia, before their wounds become your own. Just...get out..."

She backed away, not understanding...not wanting to watch. The glittering gold of his eyes was like nothing she had seen before and it frightened her.

Almost as much as it frightened him. She did not even bother to gather her clothes before she fled the room and the soft panting moans of a wounded animal that would not be put down.

"But I watched last night for over three hours, Connor. It's your turn, or anybody's turn but mine, dammit!" Sean knew he sounded whiney, but he couldn't help himself. He'd been stuck in this closet for two nights in a row, watching video monitors, listening in on the most incredibly boring conversations he had ever not wanted to hear in his life. He began to realize how blessed he had been, being around interesting, thoughtful people doing important things all his life. This peek into the social whirlwind of the power elite was mind boggling in its triviality.

But Connor was right, each of them had taken their turn, it only seemed like he had been doing this for an eternity. As Connor relinquished his seat to his younger clansman, he gave him a grim smile and patted him on the shoulder.

"You're doin' well, lad," he whispered. "Yer Da would be proud." Then he was gone and the youngest Immortal was left in a room filled with screens with various views of Xan's party rooms.

"Yeah, right," Sean murmured to himself. "Proud that I haven't managed to rip the heads off of the Immortals who are supposed to be my friends." The anger had kept coming and coming, and he had tamped it down again and again. It was exhausting, and the urge was getting stronger all the time, every day a little more compelling. Methos had said nothing since their return --- becoming singularly uncommunicative except when he was snapping at one or the other of them. But Sean caught the eldest watching him sometimes with a knowing, hard look, as though he were just waiting for his brother to break. It made him all the more determined never to give in to this racial imperative. . . . And at the moment it seemed more likely that the eldest was shattering under the strain than the youngest....

He settled in, punched up a cup of expresso coffee from the room's beverage dispenser, and waited for the evening's guests to arrive. Once again it was going to be some mid-level Dawn event. There were only a very few parties where the higher-ups were expected to attend, and the security for those events was astonishingly tight. That they had as much access as they did could be directly attributed to Xan's cooperation. Right now all they could do is wait and watch and see if Abbas appeared, or heard some tidbit that led them to him or to anything that sounded like the research division Lansing had mentioned.

Hours went by, several cups of coffee were drunk, several trips to the bathroom made and it was blissfully close to time for Kir to relieve him. He had been monitoring conversations of a gathering of researchers, hoping for some kind of hint of a connection to a facility connected with Immortals. But the talk had consisted mostly of gossip of who was screwing whose husband or wife, with a little bit of scientific esoterica thrown in since most of the attendees were evidently desperate for grants. Then a new arrival caught and riveted his attention. Amanda, dressed fit to kill, sweeping in and drawing every eye in the room.

"What the...?" Sean murmured to himself, zooming the camera and microphone focus in on his fellow Immortal. She looked utterly out of place amid the frumpy, over-the-hill academic crowd, like a sleek predatory feline among placid farm animals. She slid among the various groups, each circling her, getting caught in the orbit of her magnetism, then moving on as though she were looking for something, when Sean saw Xan move into the room and to Amanda's side. Sean bumped up the sensitivity on the microphone even further, knowing the two Immortals could speak too quietly for normal ears to pick up.

"Amanda, you should have warned me you were coming," Xan whispered.

"Didn't know myself until just awhile ago. Is there a problem?"

"You have some ...friends here who I'm certain would like to speak with you."

The two women exchanged a cold look, when suddenly both of them stiffened, and Sean's attention perked up even further. He knew that look. They had sensed another Immortal. Both turned towards the door as another group arrived, all male, all talking and laughing, except one of them who stopped in the entrance, eyes narrowed, scanning the room. He was small, oriental, Chinese from his facial structure, age at death around 30 or 35, but his true age was impossible to tell. Unlike his dad, Sean did not know most of the members of his race.

"Well, well," Xan murmured, and Amanda gave her a questioning look. "Kiem Sun," Xan answered the unspoken question. "Head of Immortal Research Division. He might be worth your ...attentions, assuming you're here for the same reason as your other ...friends."

"You tell those other ...friends, that I'll let them know if I learn anything, but in the meantime to stay out of sight and out of my way," Amanda growled, all the time keeping a winning smile painted on her face for the audience that was watching the two most stunning women in the room.

"Emma," she said in a wonderful, husky voice, holding out a small, pale hand. "Emma Peel."

He took her hand and bowed over it, European style, his eyes never leaving her face, his own expression fixed in an admiring, but somewhat suspicious smile. "Kiem Sun," he said by way of introduction. "You make me wish I had not spent so many years in reclusive research, Ms. Peel. Otherwise I'm certain we would have met before."

"No doubt," she said, so low and soft it made him think of a cat's purr. "You, for one, are certainly famous. Head of Immortal Research Division, I hear."

He gave her a long look as they each took a glass of champagne from a passing, nearly nude and spectacularly well endowed waiter. "I am privileged to do what I can to improve the lives of all our citizens with research into the healing and non-aging capabilities of Immortals. I've developed a number of theories that show real promise in helping mortals." It sounded like a speech he had given too many times. He took a sip of his champagne. "And what are your talents, Ms. Peel?"

Amanda laughed delightedly, putting her hand on Sun's arm. "My talents have been in finding wealthy mortal husbands and outliving them, Dr. Sun. Unfortunately, it's getting more and more difficult to create a new identity each time. For the time being, Xan has been ...keeping me occupied."

Sun's smile broadened slightly. "How delightful," he said quietly. "I find mortal women so ...limited and lacking in experience and a willingness to experiment."

Amanda forced herself to curve her lips upward in an interested smile. "There are many ways to find pleasure, Dr. Sun. And Xan has a gift for providing both opportunity and atmosphere." She gently traced a delicate finger along his jaw and watched his face flush and his eyes glitter feverishly bright.

But Sun was not a fool, and he wanted more that just an evening's tryst from this magnificent creature. He captured her hand, kissing it gently. "If you are not generally known as an Immortal, my dear, open association with Xan is unwise. This place is closely monitored, and while I am an absolute supporter of the cause and philosophy of the Eastern Dawn, I would hate to see someone with your beauty and talent caught in their web. I, however, can protect you, if I chose to do so."

Amanda's eyes flashed. "I am used to protecting myself, Sun," her tone flat.

"My dear Ms. Peel, you think Xan can protect you if the Council identifies you as an Immortal?" He waved his hand dismissively. "They tolerate her for the services she provides, but she does so on sufferance. Do not underestimate them, my dear. Once in their clutches, unless you are prepared to cooperate they can make life very ...unpleasant." His eyes shifted to focus behind Amanda, and his expression smoothed.

"Ah, Madame Alexandra, as ever, you provide enchantment in your delightful establishment, in your very delightful guests, and in your own beautiful self," Sun said unctuously, bowing slightly in the direction of the approaching proprietress.

"And, as ever, Dr. Sun, you flatter us with your presence. Are you and Ms. Peel ...old friends?" Xan signaled for more champagne to be brought to them.

"Regretfully, no," Sun answered, sipping his refreshed glass and watching the two women carefully. "I spent far too many years cloistered in research in the Far East and, compared to some, know relatively few of our kind. Although certainly in my role as head of Immortal Research Division I have been privileged to interact with a much wider variety of our Race than I ever expected." The champagne seemed to bubble up inside him, loosening his tongue. "Did you know," he whispered conspiratorially, "that some of us have serious psychic talent? The more powerful you get the more likely you are to manifest it, but some are simply born with it. Why this one woman, Adelle I think her name was, could actually speak in a tone that carried..." his voice trailed off as he suddenly realized he was revealing way too much.

"I ...I think I've had enough champagne," he murmured, putting his glass down. "I need to sit down." He made his way to a chair as Xan pulled Amanda aside.

"What did you give him?" Amanda demanded.

"Just a little boost to distort his reality," Xan said as though talking about the weather. "Your ...friends are insistent. They want to talk to you Now."

"Dammit, Xan. I need to find out if this guy knows anything!"

"You're not going to gain his trust in one night, 'Manda. Let me plant the seed for you and you go talk to the others. Believe me, I'm as anxious as you to get this mess resolved as quickly as possible and get these damned Four Muskateers out of here!" Xan's expression was grim as she nodded to a well-muscled young woman loitering near the doorway, looking far more like the bodyguard she was than the decoration she was intended to be taken for. The woman cocked her head at Amanda who, with one last look behind her to observe Xan seated next to Sun and gently massaging his shoulders, followed the guard out of the room.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Methos demanded coldly as she entered.

"Nice to see you too, Methos," she replied with a grim smile. "You're looking a little more fit these days. Insanity must agree with you."

Methos' smile did not reach his eyes. "It always has, Amanda. Now what are you doing here?"

Amanda moved into the room, one of Xan's parlors rooms strewn with overstuffed chaise lounges and lots of pillows. She found a comfortable looking chair and glided into it, crossing her legs so that the slit in her dress fell open, revealing a length of leg that appeared to go on virtually forever, or at least until imagination took over. "What do you think I'm doing, Adam? That I've gone over to the Eastern Dawn? That I've become a whore in Xan's army of pleasure givers?"

Methos found a wall to lounge against while Sean hovered uncomfortably in an out of the way corner, Connor sprawled on a nearby chair and Kir stayed exactly where she was. "Neither alternative is completely improbable, albeit unlikely. No doubt you would flourish in either circumstance."

Amanda's mouth tightened. Engaging in a verbal battle with the oldest Immortal was, in all likelihood, a lost cause. "You summoned me here when I was otherwise occupied, Adam. Tell me what you want so I can get out of here and back to my little party."

"You can tell me Exactly what you're doing here, Amanda," Methos said smoothly. He pushed himself away from the wall. Amanda's eyes followed him closely as he neared, and she didn't flinch when he leaned close, his large hands grasping the arms of her chair. "And then you can stay the hell out of our way."

"I'm finding your friend. Remember him? You said he was still alive and just on the off chance you aren't completely bonkers, I thought I'd investigate." She sat up slightly, moving close enough to his face for her breath to brush against his cheek. "And I am far better equipped to do that than you, Superboy, Supergirl and Batman here, Methos. And you know it."

"Do I?" Methos asked casually, moving away. Sean stood in the corner and watched his brother, his concern growing every moment. The normally fluid grace was getting choppy, the usually loose limbed relaxed posture was disappearing as the shoulders bunched and the large hands clenched. The voice was the same, but the body was crying out with unreleased tension.

"You think this is about seducing some Dawn lackey and steeling a key or a passcard? You figure you'll fling open some prison door, grab your lover's eager hand and run off into the night, stopping, of course, to make love on the way so he can properly express his eternal gratitude?"

"Methos, you may be obsessed with getting him back yourself, but you know I am much better equipped to locate the man and get to him. I've been doing this kind of thing for almost a millenium and a half and I'm the best there is. I'm already working on the inside and your being here jeopardizes everything. If they find out you are here, security around Mac will tighten down so tight that none of us has a chance to get to him."

"You can't help him, Amanda. Trust me on this. You'll only get in my way."

"You are an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, Methos," Amanda said quietly. "And all this time I thought Duncan was the only suicidal hero in our midst."

Methos flung himself into one of the couches, stretching out his long legs until his booted feet hung over the arm. Sean moved silently to the back of the couch, perching on its edge.

"She may be right, Adam," Sean said quietly. "She's already on the inside. She has a much better chance to locate him than we do."

Methos laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back, speaking to the ceiling. "And once she allegedly locates him, what do you think happens next?" he asked casually. "A little kiss to wake the sleeping prince? Dunkie? Oh, Duncan? Time to go home now," he said in a soft falsetto that was full of irony and bile. With a quick move he sat up again and leaned forward, hands clenching and unclenching as they dangled between his knees. Then he scrubbed his face with his hands and rose, pacing.

"What are you trying to say, Adam?" Sean prodded fearfully, feeling like he was pushing a blind man close to the edge of a cliff.

"Look," Methos said, "it just isn't going to be that simple, okay? It's going to take a lot more than just a well-picked lock and a little stealth to get him ...back."

"Answer Sean's question, Methos," Kir's low voice finally interjected.

Methos finally stopped his pacing. He turned away from them, leaning his hands against the wall. Sean watched his brother's back expand and contract with a long breath before he spoke again.

"His unconscious state isn't about drugs. What we find will not be ...Duncan MacLeod," he finally said just barely loud enough to be heard. "Duncan is gone."

"But you said..." Sean started.

"I said he wasn't dead, Sean! His body isn't but ...I don't know about the rest."

"Duncan is immortal, Methos," Connor said practically. "If they didn't take his head, we can bring him back. Whatever drugs or mind control they're using on him - he'll heal."

A sharp laugh escaped the Oldest Immortal as he turned back toward them. "[They] are not doing anything except keeping his body alive, Connor." He paused again, looking at the floor, his arms tightly crossed. "So, my dear Amanda, whatever skills you may have, and I admit they are many, you are only in my way here." Again he advanced on her, but this time she rose in defiance. "Now tell me what you know."

"I know nothing more than you do at this point, Methos," she said coldly. "But I sure as hell am more likely to get to Mac than you are."

"There is something you don't want me to know, Amanda," Methos whispered. "I can see it in your eyes." He took a couple of steps closer. The other three Immortals exchanged concerned looks.

"You're mad," Amanda whispered, taking a small step back.

But the lean man's big hands darted out, catching her face and pulling her close until their bodies came together almost in a kiss. "Tell Me, Amanda." The compulsion in his voice sounded through the room like an ill wind and Amanda's large dark eyes lost focus for a brief second before she pushed against him, trying to pull her head away. But those powerful hands would not let her go. "You Must Tell Me," he insisted, and this time the sound grated and scraped against the mind, stripping away any façade of control.

"Ab ...Ab ...Abbas," she choked.

The hands dug deeper into soft white flesh and Sean finely shook off the hypnotic effect of Methos' voice enough to move in, but then his brother spoke again.

"What about Abbas!" It was a shout that stopped breath and made hearts falter.

"I'm working for him." This time the words poured out easily, without resistance as a trickle of blood dripped from Amanda's ears and down her long white neck.

But Sean had clamped his own big hand around Methos' wrist, and he yanked his brother away. "For God's sake, that's enough, Adam! Amanda is a friend!"

"If she interferes, little brother, she is no friend," Methos growled, but then staggered slightly, and Sean's aggressive grip became a supportive one which the thin man shook off before he found his way to a chair, sinking into it wearily.

Connor and Kir had moved in to catch Amanda and lower her into her chair. She was pale and sweating, and when her face went from white to gray and she pushed herself to her feet, Kir grabbed her arm, quickly guiding her to the bathroom adjacent to the parlor as the three men looked on.

Kir watched as Amanda wretched into the toilet, gasping between the violent heaves. Finally, the vomiting slowed and stopped and Kir handed the woman a cool cloth, followed by a cup of water to wash away the bitter taste of bile.

"Thanks," Amanda whispered as she closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall and sipping from the cup.

"I'm sorry, Amanda," Kir said. "That shouldn't have happened."

The older woman shot her a hard look. "Damn straight it shouldn't have happened," she said with venom in her tone.

Kir took the cloth out of Amanda's hand, wet it again and applied it to the bloodstains on the delicate ears and long white neck. Amanda was momentarily surprised before she looked in the mirror and realized what had happened.

"He could have killed me!" she growled, checking her appearance.

"Or himself," Kir added. "This is almost as hard on him as it is on his . . . subjects. And it gets a little worse the more he tries it."

Amanda carefully patted her hair into place before she turned to the other woman. "Why are you here, Kir?" Amanda asked bluntly.

"To help look for Mac," Kirin Storm replied evenly.

"Bullshit. Three was plenty, probably more than enough. Four is dangerous. Connor is the muscle, Sean the one who keeps Methos' sanity intact, Methos is the bloodhound, and then there's you."

"Mac means a great deal to me, Amanda. You know that. And he means a great deal to the Nation."

"You haven't answered my question. What role are you playing in this little drama?"

Kir carefully folded the cloth and placed it meticulously on the counter. "It was thought that Methos might be put at risk, either because of his own actions or the actions of . . . others. The Nation does not want him to fall into the hands of the Eastern Dawn, at any price."

There was a long silence between them. "You are prepared for this?" Amanda asked. There was fear, anger and a little awe in her voice.

Kir could only give a short nod.

Amanda shook her head slowly and sighed. "I've never quite understood the relationship between them." Kir knew she was talking about Mac and Methos. "And while I would never want to be the one to take that ancient, screwed up head, I can see that it might become a necessity, even a blessing. But despite everything, I care about Methos, too." Amanda pushed herself away from the sink and, much to Kir's surprise, wrapped her elegant arms around the darker woman. "And I know you do, too. God willing, Kirin Storm, you will never have to fulfill this terrible duty they have put on you."

Amanda emerged from the bathroom like a ship in full sail, followed by Kir moving smoothly in her wake. Amanda glided over the floor to stand in front of Methos for a moment in silence before her hand lashed out and struck him. He didn't move to defend himself and said nothing. After a few seconds, the outline of her hand appeared etched in scarlet against the pale skin of his cheek.

"That make you feel better?" he finally asked.

"A little." She returned to her seat with great dignity, arranging her skirt so it no longer displayed her long legs.

The silence in the room was deafening as everyone waited for Amanda to settle. At last, she carefully folded her hands in her lap and looked at Methos coldly. "I have managed to approach Abbas and convince him that I can be of some use to him in gathering information about the intrigues of the Eastern Dawn council. That has given me access to people and places you do not and could not have."

"I want Abbas," Methos said tonelessly.

"That's odd, Adam," she said softly. "I thought you wanted Duncan MacLeod."

"Are you his whore now, Amanda? Are you protecting your pimp?"

A flush appeared on Amanda's high cheekbones, but she held her tongue for a change, recognizing that the Oldest Immortal was close to the edge and it would serve none of them to push him over. "I'm gathering information, Methos. I'm biding my time to see if I can either find out where Duncan is myself, or find a way to get close to Abbas and get him to give Duncan up." She leaned forward, her tone changing, becoming desperately persuasive. "Look, Adam, Abbas is an absolute loner. He doesn't let anyone get close. I only see him in public places and have no idea where he holes up. I'm trying to gain his confidence, to find information he can use. It's going to take time, old friend," she added softly. "And you can't do this alone, Adam. I can't do it alone either, but if anyone gets wind that four Community Immortals are in town, I can guarantee I won't have a chance of getting what I need, what we all need."

Kir moved to kneel in front of Methos, laying her hand gently on his knee. He looked utterly spent and so bereft that her healer's instincts made her want to hold him like a child. But he was so brittle she feared he would shatter at her touch. "Amanda is right, Methos. We will continue our work here, but let her continue her work. We need her help."

With a sudden surge, Methos came out of his seat, his long legs taking him to the window overlooking the atrium, where a wealth of discretely placed tropical plants hid them from view of anyone in the pool and bath area. He stared out for a few silent moments.

"This is taking too long," he finally grated out. "I . . . I'm afraid he'll slip away and I won't be able to bring him back."

"Nooo," Connor MacLeod finally spoke. "I think you're afraid You will slip away and you won't be able to bring him back."

A dry chuckle escaped the Oldest Immortal. "Aye, Connor MacLeod. You have the right of it, sure enough." The brogue and the gentle humor echoing in Methos' voice finally broke the unbearable tension in the room.

"Alright, Amanda," he sighed, continuing to stare out the window. "But Abbas is the key."

He felt her small hands on his shoulders and half turned, surprised to receive a soft kiss on his cheek. "I forgive you," she whispered. Methos started to say something, but she placed her finger on his lips. "Let it be enough, old friend." He wasn't sure if he had the courage to face her, but the eyes that met his were dark and sad and full of compassion. She kissed him again, and left.

Amanda tugged on Sun's small hand, escorting him into a private salon where prying eyes could not follow. Unfortunately, she was uncomfortably aware that prying eyes were, indeed, following. Electronic eyes and ears intent on every word, every move.

"There," she purred, pulling Sun down onto a wide couch. "Isn't this better?"

"Hmm," Sun responded non-commitally, sitting beside her and tracing his fingers across her white shoulder and up her long, elegant neck. She cocked her head into his hand, like a cat pushing to be scratched. "You are a lovely creature," he finally whispered, laying a series of kisses that followed the trail his hand had laid. He reached her ear, where he nibbled softly, gently, then pulled away, meeting her eyes.

Amanda assessed her fellow Immortal carefully. Probably fairly old, but not an ancient. He had that dark, multi-layered look to his eyes. Intelligent, but with an odd spark behind them. Perhaps a fanatic then. Someone prone to obsession. What kind of obsessions she had yet to discover. Not an unattractive man, but then Immortals were rarely unattractive, Bar Abbas being the exception to the rule. His eyes sparked with amusement as he watched her face.

"Do you like what you see?" he asked.

"Of course." She ran a finger across his jaw line and up to his lips, where he captured her hand and gently kissed the offered finger.

A low laugh rumbled out of his chest. "Do not try to play games with me. I am no handsome warrior or powerful industrial magnate. What do you want, Emma Peel? Although it would be a mark of trust if you told me your real name."

"Well, Kiem Sun, I guess I underestimated you," Amanda said with breathless admiration. "I guess I can't manipulate you like I can the others." She paused, as though gathering her courage and her thoughts. "You are the head of an entire research division for the Eastern Dawn," Amanda recited. "You walk the corridors of power among the elite of the Council. I'm tired of mortals. They are so . . . limited." She let a small whine insinuate itself into her tone. "I would like to find a place to stay for awhile. Someplace safe. With someone who could protect me."

He leaned close. She could feel his soft breath against her cheek. "And what would you do for me, Ms. Peel? Take my head?"

She recoiled back in horror. "My God! Is that what you think?" She reached up to her neck, and rubbed, removing the makeup that covered the small white scar marking her as a member of the Community. "I haven't fought in half a century, and have no desire to. That damn MacLeod made us all dependent on the Community for survival, but I want to do more than survive, Kiem Sun." She took his face in her hands, kissing him gently, working her way from his jawline to his mouth, but he pulled away.

"MacLeod sacrificed everything he was to stop the Game!" Sun declared.

"Are you defending him?" Amanda asked, genuinely incredulous. "You aren't even a member of the Community!"

"One does not have to be a member of the Community to admire someone like MacLeod," Sun replied, softening his strident tone. He stood and walked away, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"I suppose so," Amanda inserted, suddenly uncertain how to continue. The conversation was taking an odd turn and she needed to pursue it without appearing to do so. She stood, standing behind Sun, folding her arms around him, speaking softly in his ear. "But MacLeod is dead, they say, and the Community is gradually dissolving without his focus to hold it together. So I guess he's not such a big hero after all. And without the Community, I am without protection. You could be that protection, Kiem Sun."

He pulled away from her, crossing thoughtfully to the bar he had spotted built into the wall. He poured himself a drink and turned. His expression was a complex mix of introspection and anger.

"I'm no Duncan MacLeod," he said, his tone almost inaudible.

"No," Amanda was moving close to him again, taking the drink from his hand and sipping it. "You are Kiem Sun, Head of the Immortal Research Division of the Eastern Dawn. A brilliant scientist. An Immortal. Comparing yourself to MacLeod is silly, Kiem Sun. He was one of a kind. The rest of us," she shrugged. "The rest of us do the best we can to get by."

"I guess that's always what bothered me," Sun said introspectively as he poured another drink. "He was never satisfied with just getting by, just doing what was necessary to survive. He reached further. I. . . I greatly admired Duncan MacLeod," Sun whispered, almost to himself.

"Did you?" Amanda asked, inviting confidence.

"He and I were friends once, long ago," he said softly. Then his voice changed and his expression changed as he turned to her with a dark smile. "But you're right. He's gone. And I do have certain things I can offer, Emma. Having someone as talented and lovely as yourself as my companion might serve us both well. But why on earth should I trust you, Emma Peel? Our kind is not usually known for altruism."

"Well," Amanda sighed, "You could ask yourself what my motives might be." She carefully ticked off the reasons on her fingers as she described the possibilities. "One, I could be after your head. But if I wanted that, it would be faster and simpler if I just followed you until you were alone and vulnerable and then took it - so that doesn't make sense. Second," she touched another meticulously manicured finger, "I could be a spy for the Nation, trying to worm state secrets out of you. But you're not involved in the military arm of the Dawn and wouldn't be likely to know a lot of secrets of value to the Nation, no disrespect intended," she smiled sweetly.

Kiem Sun's answering smile was a little strained.

"Finally," she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "and most likely, I could be slightly, if not entirely, mercenary and self-interested, and I intend to use you for both protection and enrichment. If that's the case," she touched him lightly on the lips, and he let her fingers travel their length, tasting them delicately with his moist tongue, "all you have to worry about is whether the relationship provides you with a benefit as well, and that it presents no risk or threat you believe you can't handle."

"Do you think you can handle me?" she asked softly.

He captured her hand, taking a finger into his mouth and suckling it gently before he answered. "You believe you can manipulate me, Ms. Peel. You would be wise to consider your actions, very, very carefully," he whispered. "I will require that I get more than I give in this little . . . transaction you propose."

"I think that can be arranged," Amanda smiled. "But I understand there are other Immortals in the Eastern Dawn. Can you protect me from them as well?"

Sun's eyes narrowed. "You mean Abbas?" He made a sound of disgust. "That barbarian! He is a thug, no more. The Council's guard dog. I've always been able to handle him, my dear." He moved closer, running his hand underneath the long slit that split her dress most of the way up her thigh. "Now we will see if you can handle me."

He leaned in and Amanda pulled him close, leaning back as his lips caressed her collarbone and moved lower to the white exposure of her breasts. As he did, she looked up into the corner of the room straight into the camera she knew was there, and behind Sun's back drew a silent finger across her neck.

Xan reached across and cut the connection. "That's enough," she said quietly.

"Enough?" Methos growled. "Hardly! He could be the link," he insisted, reaching his long arm back over to turn the video back on.

"No, Adam," Sean put his hand over his brother's. "She'll tell us if she learns anything."

There was a long, tense silence as the two men faced off. Then the Oldest Immortal wordlessly turned and left the room.

"It will be days or weeks before he lets me that close, Methos!" Amanda insisted.

She had finally returned to their rooms after a long evening with Kiem Sun. She had not discussed what had happened after the monitors had been shut down, other than to say that she still had not entirely gained his trust. She was stretched out on a couch, her head pillowed on one arm. She looked tired and distracted.

"We need to see his contact files, and finding out what he's researching might prove very interesting as well. Abbas might have used the fruits of that research on Duncan, or let Sun experiment on him." It was a grim thought, and Amanda shot him a hard look.

"I don't think so. He didn't seem like a bad man, and genuinely seemed to like Duncan." She sighed tiredly and sat up. "Look, he's agreed to meet me here again tomorrow night and I'll do whatever's necessary to earn his trust, but it isn't going to happen overnight, okay?"

"We don't have much time!" Methos insisted. He stood over her, arms crossed, face hard and desperate.

The Immortal woman came to her feet, closing in on him, locking dark brown eyes with gold green ones. "Were you listening, Methos? I said I'd do whatever is necessary. I assume you have enough imagination to figure out what that means, and enough sense to know I'm not doing it for pleasure."

"Methos," Kir broke in before the two ancients started battling again. "Amanda is putting herself on the line. Rushing this is undoubtedly a mistake and could cost us everything!" She turned to the other woman, insinuating herself between them. "We'll keep watching here, Amanda, and rely on you to keep us informed about what you learn. The ideal would be to get us into Sun's living quarters. He probably has contact numbers, addresses, research information . . . he's the only lead we have right now."

"Other than Abbas," Methos growled. "And she's seeing him as well. A regular social butterfly is our lovely Amanda."

"That's enough!" Kir snapped as Amanda's hands curled into claws at her sides. "Get your tongue under control, Methos. She's doing the best she can and if you could manage to think instead of just react you'd realize that." Kir hooked her arm into Amanda's and walked her to the door.

As the two women talked quietly together, Sean approached his brother, who had retreated, unbowed, to the bar to pour himself a large scotch. "She's sacrificing a lot, Adam. She's putting her body on the line to get him back. She deserves better than what you've given her."

"This is not about what anybody deserves, little brother. And I don't give a damn about preserving Amanda's feelings. This is about getting the Duncan back before it's too late!" He tossed back a half-tumbler of scotch, the third or fourth of the evening. Sean consciously pressed back the angry retort that formed at the back of his throat. At this rate, they would destroy each other before they managed to achieve any more worthy goal.

Amanda stiffened, then stifled a groan as she felt the wash of another immortal roll over her. With a sigh of resignation, she finished inputting her entry code into the keypad and let herself into her room. As expected, Abbas was seated on the couch, studying a datapad. He looked up at her entry.

"Well you look like, what's the phrase?" he asked himself, "Ah, yes, something the cat dragged in, I think."

Amanda dropped her cloak and purse onto the entryway table and found her way to the bar, where her uninvited guest had obviously already helped himself. "What do you want, 'Bas? I'm beat and in no mood for company."

"Oh, I hope not. Kiem Sun has his idiosyncrasies but I wasn't aware that beating women was one of them."

Amanda's heart skipped a beat, but she smoothly sipped her drink and went to stand at the window, watching the dawn creep into the distant skyline. "Oh, he's not so bad. He's not particularly fond of you, though."

The man's low chuckle sounded decidedly malicious. "I expect not." She heard the rustle of movement and sensed him come up behind her. She had to work not to cringe when she felt his hands slide down her shoulders. Instead, she forced herself to lean back, feeling the heavy metal buttons of his uniform imprint her skin. "A petty little man," Abbas murmured into her ear. "But he has something I want. And I'm delighted you and he have . . . found each other."

He turned her around, pushing her short hair back away from her ears with a small, self-satisfied smile. "You didn't really think you could manage to see him without my knowing about it, did you?"

"Of course not," she answered grimly. "You told me not to cross you, 'Bas, and I wouldn't dream of it. Kiem Sun seemed like someone you might be interested in, especially after he had some very unpleasant things to say about you. Is there anything in particular you wanted me to find out?"

"I want to know where he goes, what he does. I think he has some research facilities tucked away in a location he has not shared with the Council. It would be useful to know where they are," Abbas described. His small, black eyes pinned her down. "But don't get cocky, Amanda. I want to know every possible tidbit of information he provides." He had grasped her shoulders, his grip tightening with his words until she had to breathe deep to keep from flinching, but she was determined not to let him have that satisfaction.

A short nod was all he got. "I personally don't give a damn about what Dr. Kiem Sun knows, Abbas. And he's certainly not high on my list of available bachelors, so all you have to do is tell me what you want to know and that's what I'll go after. It just may take me a little time and effort to gain his trust."

"Well, I'm sure you're up to the effort Amanda, but don't take too much time. I'm not a man well known for patience." He leaned in and covered her mouth with his own. The kiss was deep and harsh and passionless, a claiming of ownership. He smiled at his handiwork, pleased at her bruised and swollen lips, then left without another word.

Amanda stripped off her dress and stepped into the shower, letting it run hot and steaming over her body until her skin was red and raw, but she felt no cleaner by the time she finally sank into the covers of her bed long after the sun had evaporated the night's shadows.

Alexandra entered her private suite, kicking off her shoes and heading for the wet bar for a drink...a strong one...filling the tumbler twice and downing both.

"You have provided us with excellent festivities, my dear. Entertainments for even the most jaded among us. Why then, do I think you are keeping the very best for yourself?"

Abbas knew something, or suspected something. Summoned to his security offices in the Plaza, she had almost thought he knew more than he apparently did.

And she had gone. Time was when she would have packed up assets and possessions and hit the road. She had not and she had walked into what very well could have been a rather final encounter.

Shedding her suit she left the clothing in disarray -- something she rarely did. Let the servants pick them up. It was what she paid them for wasn't it? Thoughts disordered she reached into the trunk at the end of the bed, moving aside precious antique linens and silks...valuable and completely unattainable any longer. The bottom of the trunk popped with a hollow sound and she reached in, withdrawn a lengthy bundle, also wrapped in fine, heavy silk. Whisking the fabric away, the blade beneath gleamed as brightly as the day it had been forged -- the day she had forged it.

She had not picked it up other than to clean it in more than thirty years. She was not out of practice, just out of motivation.

Did you know what you did when you shut down the game, Duncan MacLeod? Did you mean to foster such weakness among us? I think not...not deliberately, but foster it you did. All unknowing -- lure the weakest of us into false security and left the predators among us free to prowl at will. I hope they find you. I hope you are alive. I hope I get close enough to take your head. But barring that with your little band of protectors...I can probably manage the next best thing. What will you be like without Methos to pull you back from the abyss? Well, you may not have your chance...what you have set in motion will ensure that only the strongest among us will survive. I have walked this earth for nearly three thousand years -- I will not surrender that because of the misguided self-centered manipulations of a barbaric child. And you...

Oh, how she wanted MacLeod in front of her as she slid her hand along the blade, opening a deep cut in her palm. Outwardly she appeared utterly calm but inside she was awash with violent emotions she had not surrendered to in centuries. Anger and grief warred, anger at the absent Highlander, grief over the man she had once called both lover and friend...slave and master. A man who had survived anything and everything time had thrown at him until now...

She would not let him suffer. She had seen him after his foray with Sean into the suburbs...seeking his own holy grail and returned so sundered in spirit there was nothing left of the man she knew. She had avoided them all as much as possible, knowing they had been under her roof too long but unwilling to withdraw her support from Methos until...until it seemed he would shatter under the next disappointment.Yet his friends, his family, kept him together with spit and guilt and false compassion, turning him, in their need to rescue the oh, so noble Duncan MacLeod, into a monster, a soulless beast who could no longer recall what living was for...or why he had survived. Surely not to save the life a Scot who was not half his match.

She had tried to draw him to her bed, aggravated beyond all reasoning with Kirin Storm, a healer, who had not seen what the physical toll and aftermath of the Quickening had done to him. Was still doing to him. He had rejected her and denied himself, suffering deprivation as much as the strain. They thought his irritability just more of the same mental deterioration without noticing the physical results. All of them either too stupid or too young to know the signs. Professing their love and support while watching him destroy himself before their eyes.

She wanted his suffering to end. She wanted his power as well-- she was not so incensed over Methos' condition to not realize that lure was there as well. It always had been but she had always found reasons before to deny the lust and urge for his power, settling most happily for lust and desire for his body, his sweetness, his passion, his wit and intelligence.

Only the last was left to him now. That and his strength.

She moved to her desk, depressing the intercom. "Sofia? Would you ask Dr. Pierson if he would meet me in the salle, please. I feel the need for some exercise."

"You can choose one of those," Xan said calmly glancing at the tabletop where there were a half dozen blades laid out. "The gladius is real, if you like," she suggested.

"And where is your usual sparring partner, Xan?" Methos moved to the table. "I am surely not your first choice."

"My partner is mortal. I felt the need to practice with someone who would press the limits and not have to worry about a little blood on the floor."

"Connor would have..."

"I don't know Connor. I know you. I am not afraid you will take my head, Miklos. I am not so out of practice as that."

"You should be. I am." He said softly and Xan glanced at him. "I am not exactly running on all cylinders."

"No, perhaps not. But I think inactivity is as much your problem as anything. A safe word then? How about...MacLeod!" she said harshly and lunged.

Methos snarled and stumbled back against the table, picking up the first blade that came to hand. Lightweight, a dueling blade rather than a heavier broad bladed weapon such as Xan wielded.

"Spar or challenge?" he demanded, countering the next blow and shifting away from the table.

"Depends on who is winning." Xan twisted, opening herself up to his first attack then moving away when he took his second offensive move.

There were alarms throughout the room and Xan kept them all firmly in her mind as she engaged fully. He was better than she remembered, not as worn down as she had hoped but he was not as fast or as graceful as she expected. Stamina was her best weapon for after the first dozen parries, he was breathing hard and sweating.

But not beaten, not by a long shot. She scored hits, blood spattering on the floor, but she had forgotten how well he resisted pain -- a talent she had not maintained in recent years. A deep cut across one thigh sent her to one knee with a scream of anger but she swung anyway, cutting across his belly, and rolled, staggering to her feet to lunge at the alarm.

She hit and they both heard it go off. A second later she felt a steely hand on her shoulder, pulling her backward. Pain ripped through her stomach and her scream was choked off as the gilt tip of the dueling sword emerged from her stomach and she stared at it numbly. The same steel fingers wrenched her heavier sword from her hand and her head was jerked back.

"Why?" He hissed in her face and in the slow realization of dying she saw he was weeping, tears ran from his eyes, unchecked.

"You...you have become...what you hated...once..." she murmured and went limp, only Methos grip on her dark hair holding the body upright.

There was noise behind him, the sound of feet, of weapons, the cocking of a pistol. He paid no attention to any of them. The sword in his hand weighed heavily, the blade in his heart and soul cutting deeper with every breath. Just shoot. He begged silently, not turning, willing the oblivion if only for a little while.

"Adam, don't..." Sean, his voice entreating, reaching out to him even though his brother knew what Xan had said was true.

Methos... it was almost subauditory. Kir's Voice reaching to him, around him. His fist clenched on the blade in his hand, staring down at the lax face of a woman who had been his friend and lover two-thousand years before. Do we all go mad after so much time? he thought.

Methos...let her go... Compulsion, but more like a plea, not ripping through his mind and will but sliding along it. You learn quickly, Kirin Storm. Wait 'til you hear the rest... He consciously released Xan's hair, knowing Kir was right behind him, Sean but a few steps away and Xan's guards beyond that.

"I will not be betrayed again!" his cry was ripped from him without his will, without knowing, even as part of him cringed at what he was about to endure. Perhaps with this Quickening he wouldn't care any longer. Xan slumped over and Methos swung, not caring if they shot him.

And found the blow blocked by Kir's hands, her face in front of his, her grip strong, the dark eyes locking with his. "Then betray not yourself," she said steadily. Her fingers slid along his wrist, closing over the blade and loosening it.

He did not know if it were the blood loss or his momentary salvation from madness that finally robbed him of both intent and sense.

TO PART NINE