Chapter Eight

"Hey. Hey!"

Joe heard the frantic rustling of a paper bag and the squeak of styrofoam containers behind him as he turned the corner of his apartment building.

He glanced over his shoulder at Richie, who was busily digging through his McDonald's bag as he followed Joe. Methos, walking at Richie's side, met Joe's gaze with a pained expression.

"Where are my extra hash browns?" demanded Richie irritably. "If they ripped me off for my extra hash browns...."

"Oh, no. Not the hash browns. Please, God, not the hash browns!" Methos shoved his hand into the bag with an anguished expression, his voice rising melodramatically. "Will the horrors of this day never cease?"

Joe pulled the door open, fighting the desire to giggle. Oh, yeah. He was definitely getting punchy.

"You're a riot, Methuselah," growled Richie. He smacked Methos' hand away and continued to paw through the bag for a moment, then ground to a halt, staring first one way, then the other.

"What?" asked Methos, in a sharp voice that made Joe freeze halfway through the door.

"Road kill-boy," said Richie softly, meeting Methos' gaze and then Joe's. "He's not back."

"Shit!" Joe pushed past them to make his way to the other corner of the building, his stomach suddenly in very unpleasant knots. He had almost managed to put Étienne and everything else about the last twenty-four hours out of his mind. It was still possible that Étienne was with Shapiro, of course, but.... He reached the other corner and stared down the empty side street. No Étienne. Damn. Damn!

"Joe," said Methos quietly in his ear, and Joe jumped. He hadn't even heard the man following him. "Let's get inside."

Joe turned, saw the carefully controlled anxiety in his friend's face, and nodded. They moved as quickly as they could manage to the door, where Richie was waiting for them with an inquiring expression.

"No," said Methos shortly, in answer. "Get the door, Rich."

"Oh, shit green," said Richie in disgust, yanking the door open and holding it for Joe. "You think--"

"I think we all need some sleep," said Methos quietly, crossing the lobby and ringing for the elevator.

Joe found himself nodding in exhausted agreement as the doors slid open. God, that sounded good. Sleep. Sleep without nightmares, if that were possible under the circumstances. Étienne's continued absence was setting off every internal alarm he had. But he had to sleep, alarms or no alarms. He watched Methos hit the button for his floor, fighting to stay awake and erect.

Richie sighed loudly and started rooting through his bag again. The smell of McDonald's food flooded the elevator car. Methos raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment with an impatient expression, and Joe started laughing in spite of himself. Thank God for the kid.

"Find your AWOL hash browns, Rich?"

"Not...oh, here they are," said Richie triumphantly, as the elevator doors slid open.

"What a relief," said Methos drily, leading the way to Joe's door.

Richie shoved a hash brown into his mouth and managed to speak around it in defiance of every law of physics. "What's your problem, geezer? Hash brown envy?"

"Not a chance," said Methos calmly, taking Joe's key and dumping his damp clothing into Joe's empty hand. He unlocked the door. "Mine was bigger than yours."

Richie started to laugh, gagged, and struggled to dispose of whatever was left in his mouth. The process left him momentarily unable to speak.

Joe, watching Methos keenly, barely heard the exchange. His eyes were riveted to Methos' set face as the Immortal very gingerly pushed the door open and scanned the empty room. Midday sunlight poured in the windows, and everything seemed exactly as they had left it. Methos gestured to Joe to stay back and stepped inside, glancing quickly around the living room. He disappeared into the kitchen.

"What's the--" began Richie, pushing forward.

Joe grabbed his arm and shook his head as Methos emerged again, glanced reassuringly at Joe, then headed toward the bedroom.

"What, Joe?" asked Richie in an undertone. "There's no Immortal here."

"Then obviously it's not Immortals he's worried about," said Joe quietly.

"Then who?"

"Later, Rich."

Methos reappeared, removing his coat and draping it over the nearest available lamp. "That bathroom is disgusting, Joe."

Joe felt every muscle in his body relax, and he realized that he had been holding his breath. "You never complained before," he snapped in relief, making his way into the living room with Richie right behind him.

"I was being polite. But that mold is about to achieve critical mass. Do you have something to beat it off with if it attacks?"

"Try these," said Joe grumpily, tossing Methos' damp clothes back to him.

Methos caught them, grinning, and promptly spread them over the back of Joe's favorite chair.

Richie shut and locked the door behind them and drew the chain. "So what was all that about?"

Methos shrugged and moved to the windows, lowering the blinds. "Just making sure we didn't have company."

Richie gave him a sour look. "Thanks, geezer. That explains everything." He shoved his hand into his bag and pulled out another hash brown. "I'm hungry. You guys want anything?"

"You're hungry?" said Methos in what appeared to be genuine astonishment. "You ate everything in that place that wasn't nailed down or on fire."

"I'm a growing boy," said Richie, swallowing in time to accommodate a yawn.

"You're a bottomless pit," retorted Methos.

Joe laughed softly. The old man had been trying too hard ever since they had left the barge.

"Look who's talking. I'm not the one who scarfed down four Big Breakfasts," said Richie with a grin, tossing his bag to the coffee table and stretching out on the sofa. "Dibs."

"Isn't he cute?" growled Methos to Joe. "Don't you just want to hug the entrails out of him?"

"First things first," said Joe wearily. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand much longer; the rush of energy from the food was wearing off fast. "Sleep now. Entrails later."

Methos' hand was under his elbow instantly, and Joe realized that he must look as bad as he felt. The Immortal's hazel eyes darkened in concern. "No problem. Entrails keep," said Methos with a faint smile.

"You want fries with that?" mumbled Richie, already half asleep.

"Say goodnight, Junior," retorted Methos as they made their way to the bedroom. There was no response, and the older Immortal snorted, fixing his keen gaze on Joe.

Joe felt himself being scrutinized, and made an effort to straighten, to shift some of his weight away from Methos. He couldn't. He was as tired as he could remember being in years, and his legs hurt like hell. He sagged against Methos heavily as they reached the bed, and the Immortal eased him onto it.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Joe gruffly. "I'm fine."

"Convincing," remarked Methos with succinct sarcasm. "Can you manage?"

"Yeah."

"I'm getting myself a beer. You need anything?"

Joe reached down to untie his shoes, chuckling. "You've really got this nanny thing down, don't you? You're hired. Take one of those extra blankets out to Rich, will you?" He gestured to the blankets on the end of the bed.

"You want me to tuck him in?" demanded Methos, eyes widening. "I don't do tuck-'em-in, Joe."

"Fine. I'll do it."

"I'll do it, I'll do it!" growled Methos, snatching up one of the blankets. He disappeared, muttering under his breath.

Joe chuckled softly. Mr. Death. Sooo big and bad.

He removed his shoes and stopped, unable to proceed further. The events of the past twelve hours washed over him like a wave. Étienne. Shapiro. MacLeod. Lucius. Oh, God Almighty.

The memory of the first time Joe had visited the museum at European Headquarters played before his closed eyes. He'd been a Watcher for only six months. The historian in charge of the museum had been the first person to tell him about Lucius, and the man had taken great delight in relating the story in hideous detail. He had even pulled Gabriel's silver platters out of the vault. Those platters were, then and now, still stained with Gabriel's blood, the blood of a Watcher who had died in agony nine hundred years before. Lucius' final victim...or so they had thought then. To this very day, when Joe closed his eyes, he could still see those platters.

Joe rubbed his face, every fiber in his body screaming for sleep. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the warm touch of a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Methos gazing down at him with an anxious, almost fearful expression on his face and a beer can clutched in his free hand. His coat was hanging over his arm.

"Joe?"

"I'm fine," said Joe hastily. "I'm just tired."

Methos knelt beside him, and Joe could see the toll the past few hours had taken clearly written in his friend's pale face. "Tell me."

Joe shook his head wearily, his gaze falling to the coat. "You tell me. Expecting a cold front?"

"I chill easily."

Joe gave him a wry look. "I guess that arsenal you carry around has a warming effect, huh?"

Methos' eyes narrowed. "Arsenal?"

"Keane's Watcher filed a very interesting report. Don't worry, I did some creative editing."

Methos muttered what Joe assumed was an obscenity.

"Language, son," Joe said with a grin. His grin faded when Methos' answering smile was less than genuine. "Expecting company?"

"No. Not expecting it." Methos spoke in a subdued tone.

"But...?"

"But I haven't lasted five thousand years by taking anything for granted. Now you tell me."

Joe sighed. "Just been a hell of a day, that's all. I keep seeing those damned platters...."

Methos flinched visibly, and Joe, realizing what he had just said, cursed himself thoroughly.

"Sorry, Adam. Sorry."

"For what?" Methos' voice was very quiet.

"I know he was your friend once," he said softly, his eyes searching his friend's face.

"Once." Methos' gaze drifted away for a moment, then back to Joe's face. "Do you mind if I crash in here?" He gestured to the recliner in the corner of the bedroom. "The kid's a real window-rattler."

Joe managed, somehow, to suppress his grin. Once this guy got on the nanny track there was no derailing him. "Yeah, sure. Help yourself."

Methos nodded and rose, opening his beer and kicking off his sneakers. He draped his coat over the back of the chair and settled into it; then took a few sips of his beer and leaned back with eyes closed.

Joe managed, with difficulty, to undress and remove his prostheses. He maneuvered himself under the covers, then swore softly, wishing he had thought to close the blinds. He hated sleeping in broad daylight.

Methos suddenly rose from his chair and headed for the window. "Mind if I close these?" he asked guilelessly. Without waiting for Joe's answer, he closed the blinds. The room darkened to a comforting twilight.

Joe glared at Methos as he crossed the room, propping himself up on his elbows. All right, enough was enough. He drew the line at mind reading. "Don't bury yourself in the part, pal."

"Excuse me?" Methos raised his eyebrows at Joe over his beer can.

"You've out-nannied me, okay? Lose the spoonful of sugar."

"But it helps the medicine go down," said Methos with a grin, taking another swig of his beer as he resettled himself in the recliner.

Joe snatched up the last of the extra blankets from the foot of the bed and tossed it into Methos' lap, laughing. "Shut up and go to sleep."

Methos chuckled, set his beer can on the floor, and drew the blanket over himself, leaning back comfortably.

Joe let his head sink into his pillow and closed his eyes, fending off the image of Gabriel's silver platters with every shred of his imagination. If he could just think of something else, he might be able to sleep. If he could just turn these damn alarms off.... If he could just shake this feeling in his gut that something was coming up from behind him....

Joe was asleep two minutes after his head hit the pillow.

***

Lucius frowned as the music reached his ears. This twentieth-century obsession with Mozart was appalling. The classical radio stations of Europe seemed determined to inflict the inane screechings and caterwauls of that little Austrian upon Lucius at every opportunity. The annoyance of it had distracted him from his reading; it was intolerable. Milton deserved a far better accompaniment.

The music instantly ceased, and was replaced a moment later with the first Brandenburg concerto. Lucius glanced up to see Nathan making the appropriate volume adjustments to the stereo. Lucius nodded appreciatively.

"Has the delivery been made?"

"It has, Master. I saw to it personally."

"It has been a while since such a delivery was made in the appropriate manner," mused Lucius, leaning back in his chair.

Nathan nodded his agreement. "Too long, Master."

"Did you remain in the vicinity long enough to observe any reaction?"

"A great deal of activity ensued when the package was discovered, Master. I heard someone scream. Security was intensified tenfold around Watcher Headquarters within five minutes of the delivery."

"It would seem that the message, as well as the package, has been received," murmured Lucius in satisfaction. He raised his gaze to Nathan. "And the arrangements for this evening's business?"

"Are made and will be carried out at full dark, Master."

"Excellent," said Lucius with a pleased smile and a nod, wishing to communicate to Nathan that he had done well.

Nathan bowed his head slightly in gratitude.

Lucius stared out the window, ignoring the skyline of Paris, his gaze riveted upon the setting sun as it made its way through a blanket of orange-red clouds on the horizon.

"It will be dark soon," he whispered fiercely.

"Yes, Master," said Nathan with satisfaction.

"'From morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, a summer's day; and with the setting sun dropped from the zenith like a falling star.' "

"Yes," murmured Nathan in understanding.

Lucius paused for a moment, reveling in the moment of heart-racing, anticipatory joy--and in Nathan's unique understanding of the significance of that moment. He sighed deeply. "Soon, Marcus. You will fall very soon."

***

Joe awoke with a strangled gasp and forced himself upright in his bed to the sound of pounding and screaming nearby. It was dark, and Joe groped for a sense of time and place. He looked at the clock; it was only just after six. Why the hell was it so dark? Then he remembered Methos drawing the blinds. For a split second he considered the possibility that he was not quite awake, that the noise which had awakened him and still beat in his ears was part of some forgotten nightmare...until he saw that Methos was already awake and standing in the open door, leaning against the doorjamb and breathing hard.

"Dawson! Dawson! Open the door, goddamn you! Open the door!"

Joe pushed the covers away and reached for his wheelchair, struggling to recognize the voice. He couldn't place it. He gasped in surprise as Methos whirled and leaned down, grabbing him by the arm.

"Don't move from this room. Do you understand?"

Joe found himself barely able to recognize his friend's voice either. Before he could respond, however, Methos moved to the recliner, pulled something from his coat, and sprinted down the hallway toward the living room.

"Screw that," growled Joe to himself, struggling into his clothes. "Okay, pal, that's it. You just crossed the nanny-line."

"Dawson, I know you're there! Open the damned door or I'll kick it in! Dawson!"

Joe heard footsteps running toward him in the hall, and looked up to see Richie run into the room and close the door behind him.

"Nice wake-up call," Richie whispered breathlessly. "Methos says to stay here."

"Methos can stick it where the sun don't shine," snapped Joe, swinging himself into his chair. "Open that door."

"Shhh," hissed Richie, motioning him to silence.

"Who is it?" Methos' voice was clear and even, and the shouting and banging stopped instantly.

"Pierson?" There was a pause. "It's Jack Shapiro. Let me in."

"Shapiro," sighed Joe in relief. He started his chair toward the door, but Richie caught hold of it by the armrests.

"Wait, Joe. Wait," he whispered. "Please."

"What do you want, Shapiro?" Methos' tone was less than pleasant.

"I want to come in. Are you going to open this door, or am I going to kick it in?"

"Kick away," returned Methos coolly. "I imagine that the police are already on their way, and having them catch you in the act of breaking and entering would bloody well make my day."

"Great," hissed Joe. "How the hell are we going to get any information out of him if that Immortal idiot gets him even more pissed off than he already is? Rich, open the door. Now!"

The sounds of a body being thrown against his door, and a barrage of obscenities echoed through the apartment.

"The Malicious Damage Act of 1849 includes apartment houses," observed Methos in a conversational tone.

Joe swore softly. Great. Just great. He'd probably get thrown out of here in the morning, and if that door was damaged he could just kiss his security deposit goodbye. To say nothing of the fact that the cops might start asking some very inconvenient questions. Joe grabbed his cane and swiped it in the vicinity of Richie's shins.

Richie dodged skillfully. "Hey! All right! All right. But if that guy pulls anything--"

"Then I'll activate my Richie Ryan homing beacon and decoder ring," snapped Joe, as Richie opened the door with a heavy sigh of obvious reluctance. Damn these kids.

"Dawson!" howled Shapiro, continuing to throw himself against the door. "I hear you, Dawson! I know you're in there!"

Joe moved his chair at top speed toward the living room. "Well, bully for you, Jack," he muttered to himself. "We hear you, too. I guess the whole effin' building knows you're here."

Joe rolled into the living room just as Methos yanked open the door, sending Shapiro sprawling to the floor. Methos closed the door behind him. Shapiro scrambled to his feet and stared wildly about in the semi-darkness, breathing heavily.

"Adam, hit the lights, will you?" asked Joe softly.

The lights went on, and Shapiro fixed wide eyes on Joe. Then, with no warning but an inarticulate howl, he flung himself in Joe's direction with outstretched arms and clutching hands.

Joe gasped involuntarily and leaned back, but Shapiro never made it to within three feet of him. Before the man took two steps, Methos seized Shapiro's left arm, twisted it up behind him, and rammed him into the door with the barrel of his gun pressed to the back of Shapiro's neck.

"If you try that again," hissed Methos, with a feral expression that made Joe draw a sharp breath, "I will shatter your skull and scatter whatever passes for your brains over as wide an area as possible."

Joe realized his jaw was hanging slack and hastily shut his mouth. Well, so much for the mild-mannered Adam Pierson shtick. Joe released the breath he had held slowly, observing that Shapiro showed no signs of attempting to break free. On the contrary, he stood very quietly, his only movement caused by his heavy breathing.

"Let him go," said Joe to Methos softly.

Methos didn't move. Joe could see the taut control in every muscle, and gentled his voice even further. "Adam, please let him go."

In response, Methos uttered something like a snarl, and pulled Shapiro away from the door. He shoved the Watcher into a chair at the opposite end of the room from Joe and backed away, his aim never wavering, until he stood beside Joe's chair.

Joe found himself having to take a steadying, deep breath as he watched him. He had never seen his friend like this before. Methos was like ice: cold, unreachable...and lethal. Joe had been a soldier, and he knew this look well, but he had never thought to ever see it on Methos. He wondered briefly if this were the face that the villagers of the Bronze Age had called Death. If so, he understood why.

Joe turned his attention to Shapiro, who was glowering at them both and rubbing his left arm. His suit was crumpled, his hair uncombed and he looked as if he hadn't showered or shaved in a couple days. "Hi, Jack. How's it going?"

"You bastard," hissed Shapiro, leaning forward in his chair. "You murdering bastard."

Joe recoiled despite himself, struggling for words. Getting any information from Shapiro suddenly seemed less important, to say nothing of less likely. How could you communicate with a man in the final stages of a grief-induced meltdown?

"Jack," said Joe, striving for an even, soothing tone. "You know I had nothing to do with David's death. I--"

"I'm not talking about David!" shouted Shapiro. "I'm talking about Étienne!"

Joe stopped cold, his thoughts racing frantically. Étienne?

"What's happened?" asked Methos with icy composure.

Shapiro's eyes widened and he stared from Methos to Joe and back again. "You don't know? No one from Headquarters has called?"

"No one's called," said Joe unevenly. "Damn it, Shapiro, what is it? What's happened to Étienne?"

"He was delivered to Headquarters about two hours ago," snarled Shapiro. "In pieces about four inches square. On these beautiful little sixteenth-century silver platters."

"Jesus Christ," whispered Joe. "Oh, sweet Jesus." He felt Methos' hand rest on his shoulder, but didn't know whether it was for Joe's comfort or his own. Joe couldn't look at him. All he could see were silver platters.

"Why didn't you listen to him, Dawson? Why didn't you go with him? He's dead because of you! And not quickly--oh, no, Dawson, not quickly. The forensic team says that some of those parts were chopped out of him while he was alive. Alive! Do you know what you've done?"

"That's enough!" barked Methos savagely as Joe buried his face in his hands. "Whatever's happened has nothing to do with Joe, and you know it. This was happening to Watchers centuries before Joe Dawson was born."

"I warned you that it was happening again! You ignored me! And this is the result. That boy was like a son to me, Dawson. So help me God, you are going to pay--"

"If anyone pays for this, it won't be Joe," said Methos in the same steely tone. "Start talking, Shapiro. How did you find out that Lucius was alive?"

Shapiro laughed hysterically. "You want to discuss research? My God, man, Lucius' Rampage is on again! Watchers are being dissected alive, and you want to talk about research?"

"Is there some reason you don't wish to reveal your sources?" asked Methos in a soft, menacing tone.

Joe's head shot up. "Wait. Wait, Adam." He drew a shaky breath. "Jack. Tell us, please. It's important. How did you know Lucius was alive? Why has he only begun to kill again now?"

"Because he's only just escaped," snarled Shapiro. "Use your head, Dawson!"

Joe became aware that Methos' grip on his shoulder had become painfully tight, and he looked up in alarm. The control in the man's face was still there. Barely.

"What is your source for this information, Shapiro?" asked Methos in a tone of barely leashed violence.

"Escaped? Escaped from where? How do you know all this?"

"What the hell does the 'where' matter? All that matters is that he was captured and imprisoned after he killed Gabriel."

"Imprisoned by whom? Damn it, Jack, you're not telling us anything!"

"Including how he knows this," snarled Methos, taking a step forward. "None of this is recorded in any Chronicle, or in any Watcher records concerning Lucius."

"You think I'm inventing this?" cried Shapiro, leaping to his feet. "Go to Headquarters, Pierson. Go see what's left of Étienne if you don't believe me!"

"We're not discussing my beliefs," returned Methos in a deadly tone. "I want to know the source of your information. Now." He lifted the gun.

"Adam, back off," murmured Joe, wondering how much influence he could wield over Methos in this state.

Methos' posture didn't change. "Your source!"

"An Immortal," blurted Shapiro, trying to back away, hands up in a supplicating gesture.

"I surmised that much," sneered Methos, his aim following Shapiro as he moved. "What Immortal?"

"His name was Joshua," Shapiro stammered. "Zwirner found him."

"Joshua?" Methos drew a ragged breath.

"Joshua? The Joshua of Jerusalem?" said Joe in amazement, knowing from the look on Methos' face that he had known this man, but unable to spare his friend more than a glance. "Jack, we've been looking for Joshua for almost a thousand years! I've never seen any report--"

"There was no point in a report," said Shapiro, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. "He died a few days after he was found."

"Died?" Methos started to laugh; it was a frightening sound. "Died, Shapiro? How convenient for you."

"Died," repeated Joe grimly, beginning to see now which way the wind was blowing. My God. Just how far had Shapiro been willing to go to investigate the legend of Lucius? Would he have killed to further his obsession? Joe stared into Shapiro's wild eyes, feeling the answer in his gut. Christ. Now if he could just keep Methos from killing the son of a bitch....

"I don't know who took his head," said Shapiro shakily, now clearly frightened.

"What the hell is this, Jack?" Joe wheeled his chair next to Methos, hoping his proximity would discourage any violence. "What were you doing talking to Joshua about Lucius or anything else?"

"I didn't. Zwirner did. Joshua came to Zwirner. He told him he knew about the Watchers. He said that he came to warn us that Lucius was still alive, that he'd escaped."

"You're lying," said Methos softly, menacingly. He took another step closer to Shapiro, deliberately putting Joe behind him.

Shapiro stared at him. "N-no," he stuttered. "I'm not. He told Zwirner everything I've told you and...."

"What did you do to him to make him talk to you, Shapiro?"

"You're crazy! Joe, he's crazy!"

"I don't think so," said Joe grimly.

"What the hell is wrong with you two?" The pitch of Shapiro's voice rose into a semi-hysterical squeak. He backed himself up against the wall, sweating and panting like a trapped animal, then cleared his throat and assumed a more confident stance. "Lucius Germanicus is hunting us again! All that matters now is finding him and stopping him!"

"I want to know what's going on, Jack," said Joe sharply. "Right now! What have you done?"

"What have I done? I've tried to save the lives of Watchers! If someone had listened to me earlier Zwirner and Étienne might be alive now," snarled Shapiro. "Urquhart believes me. He's put me in charge of finding Lucius."

Methos laughed dangerously. "Yes. Now that I believe."

"You owe me, Dawson! You are going to help me track down this monster and kill him, or--"

"Or what?" hissed Methos. "Or what, Shapiro?" Before Joe could react, Methos had pinned Shapiro to the wall with the barrel of his gun under his chin. "You are in no position to be threatening Joe or anyone else. You're not touching him!"

Shapiro writhed and gasped, terrified into silence.

"Adam!" Joe rarely commanded, but he was fully capable of it when necessary. "Turn him loose!"

For two heartbeats Joe held his breath, wondering if he would really see Jack Shapiro's brains blown out in front of him. He had never considered Methos--his Methos--capable of that. That was more pedestal crap, of course. Joe knew better than most that anyone was capable of violence if the right buttons were pushed. The fact that he seemed to be one of Methos' buttons scared the hell out of him--but there you are. There was probably stuff about Joe that scared Methos, although seeing the man holding a gun under Shapiro's chin with a thousand years of rage in his face made that difficult for Joe to imagine. At the end of the second heartbeat, Joe gave up, and braced himself for the explosion of the shot.

But instead, Methos uttered something like a soft groan and flung himself away from Shapiro as if mere physical contact with the man burned him. He returned to Joe's side, averting his face, and lay his hand on Joe's shoulder, breathing raspily. Joe felt Methos' hand shaking.

Shapiro stumbled to the door, wrenched it open, and fled without another word.

A few seconds of silence hung in the air as Joe struggled to comprehend what had happened. He looked up at Methos, but his friend was still looking away. Joe touched his arm. "Adam."

Methos turned toward him, and Joe caught his breath. There was enough grief in his friend's face for all of his five thousand years; there were tears on his face. "Sorry, Joe. I'm sorry."

"For what?" asked Joe mildly. "I haven't had this much fun since MacLeod threw him in that coffin."

Methos laughed humorlessly and sank to knees beside Joe's chair, dropping the gun. "I nearly did it, Joe."

"You didn't do it," said Joe quietly. "And if anyone ever asked for it, Shapiro did."

"I wanted to kill him. I could almost feel the heat of his blood running over my skin. I wanted to feel it, to taste it. I wanted to rip him apart." Methos' voice was no more than a harsh whisper.

Joe drew a shaky breath. God Almighty. Was this what he dealt with every day? How did he keep from going crazy? No. Don't go there now. Later. "Yeah, you wanted all that. And you still didn't do it."

Methos met his gaze for a moment, then nodded and wiped his face. "We're in trouble, Joe."

"So what else is new?"

Richie poked his head into the room. "Is it soup yet?" he asked softly, his sober expression clearly conveying that he had heard everything.

"Oh, God," growled Methos, recovering his composure. "I forgot about Junior. Get the door, will you, kid?"

"I live to serve." Richie crossed the room to swat the door closed. "So what do we do now?"

"We leave," said Methos grimly. "Pack a bag, Joe. Now." He disappeared into the bedroom and emerged with his coat and shoes. He sat on the couch and shoved his feet into his damp sneakers, then glanced over at Joe and Richie impatiently. "Damn it, you two, move!"

"Whoa," said Joe unevenly. "Just hold it a minute. We need to think this through."

"Think later." Methos finished tying his shoes and put on his coat, then scooped up his gun and shoved it into one of the inside pockets. "Listen to me, Joe. Étienne was taken from your doorstep and is now lying in pieces at Headquarters in the loving care of a Watcher forensics team. Lucius knows this building. He's probably had it under observation for some time."

"Shit," said Richie very softly.

"Observation," repeated Joe faintly, groping for rational thought. "You think--"

"I think we're leaving now. I'll tell you whatever you want to know in the car. But we are going."

***

Lucius watched the growing darkness outside his window contentedly.

Yes. Yes! Full dark at last.

As if in response to his thought, Nathan's signature touched him, only a moment before the whisper of sound that always heralded his arrival. Lucius turned, smiling.

"It is time to leave, Nathan."

Nathan bowed, smiling in return, and left the room.

Lucius heard the sound of booted feet as Nathan's chosen band of six followed him through the empty corridors toward the street. They were the most dangerous of the scum he employed, and the most obedient. They were perfect for this task; Nathan had chosen well. Nathan always chose well.

Lucius anticipated no difficulty. The advantage of surprise was theirs, and only one among their enemies posed a serious threat. Lucius laughed softly. Foolish, Marcus. Foolish to surround oneself with the weak. More foolish still to become attached to them. One would think that Marcus' experience in Constantinople would have taught him that if nothing else.

It would not do, however, to make assumptions without the possession of fact. Perhaps these people meant nothing to him. This would, of course, dilute and abbreviate the pleasure of the experience, but there would be a certain compensatory satisfaction in knowing that his previous efforts had not been in vain, in knowing that he had rendered Marcus Gaius afraid to love.

Patience. All these questions would be answered soon; all these pleasures enjoyed to their fullest this night, and for many nights to come. Patience. He had learned patience very well indeed. He had waited nine hundred years for this night. He need wait only a few hours more. Yes. He was certain he had patience enough for that.

***

Joe had done some fast packing in his life, but nothing to equal this. Fifteen minutes after Shapiro's departure, Methos had hold of Joe's two overstuffed suitcases and was shepherding him out the door.

"Shit," sighed Joe in sudden realization. "The chair."

"I'll bring it down," said Richie, shrugging into his coat. "You two go on down and bring the car around."

"Watch your back," said Methos tautly.

"Are you kidding? That chair is a lethal weapon in the right hands. And I won't even mention the cane."

"Smart move," growled Joe, letting Methos angle his shoulder under his left hand and whacking Richie across the backside with the unmentionable. "Don't mention it. Just get your ass down to the car without getting into any trouble, okay? Here. Lock up when you're done."

Richie took the keys and the whack with a good-natured grin and disappeared inside.

"Anything else?" snapped Methos impatiently. "Remember to turn the oven off? Close the windows? Leave a note for the milkman?"

"Ring for the damn elevator, smart-ass."

"I've already rung. Do me a favor, Joe, and cultivate a sense of urgency."

The elevator's soft chime cut into Methos' last words, and Joe bit off a retort as Methos left him behind to glance into the car. "Okay," said Methos quietly.

Joe snorted, unnerved and trying not to let his imagination run away with him. At this rate he'd be seeing Lucius squatting behind every lamppost in Paris. He joined Methos in the lift and pressed the button for the lobby. "Getting a little carried away, aren't we? Not that I don't appreciate--"

"No, Joe. You don't. You can't."

Joe took one look at the barely healed devastation in his friend's face and flinched inwardly. Methos' memory of Lucius was a living, painful reality for him; whatever Joe knew or thought he knew about this nightmare was a drop in Methos' ocean. "No, I don't," he said softly. "But I want to."

Methos gave him a startled look, then laughed raggedly as the doors slid open. "Yeah. I know, Joe." He glanced about the empty lobby, then offered Joe his shoulder.

Joe leaned on it, unable to stop himself from checking out the corners himself. Damn. All we have to do is get to the car. Then we put some safe distance between us and Paris. Between us and Lucius. We get some breathing room. Some time to think...

Methos pulled the door open and passed through it first, checked the street, then flashed a strained smile as Joe joined him. "Shall we?"

"You know, this is giving me a fresh appreciation for what Immortals must feel like." Joe moved slowly down the empty street at his friend's side.

"Oh?" Methos glanced at him inquiringly.

"Always on guard. Always being watched."

Methos grinned. "Well, some of us, at any rate. What do you think of it?"

"I think it sucks," grumbled Joe, his eyes scanning the street as they neared the corner.

Methos laughed hollowly; Joe could feel his friend's muscles tense as they turned the corner and started down the narrow side street toward the garage. It was poorly lit, and lined with gaping black doorways and long shadows. Joe knew instantly that this had been a mistake. There was no threat that he could see or identify, and yet they hadn't gone more than half a dozen yards when their pace began to slow and their conversation died away.

"Not good," muttered Joe. He had walked through this alley in perfect confidence virtually every night since he had moved into the building, but tonight he saw movement and menace in every shadow. Methos shot him a questioning look.

Get a hold of yourself, Dawson.

And yet...some indefinable instinct, long unused, raised the hairs at the back of his neck, tingled his skin, quickened his breath and pulse. He hadn't survived Vietnam by ignoring that instinct.

He grabbed Methos by the arm and hauled him back toward the main street. "There's somebody--"

A figure barreled out of the shadows, clamping a black-gloved hand over Methos' mouth. Joe's bags went flying as Methos struggled in his attacker's grasp. Methos managed to get an elbow into the man's ribs before the mortal wrenched his right arm up behind him, pulling him out of Joe's grasp. Unfortunately for the stranger, this tactic left one of Methos' hands free, and before Joe could draw breath or move, that hand held a dagger. Methos thrust the blade over his right shoulder into the shoulder of his attacker, twisting free as the man howled in pain and staggered back.

Methos swung toward Joe and drew a sharp breath as if to cry out in warning, but it was too late. Joe gasped as an arm hooked around his throat and yanked him back, throwing him off balance. He heard his cane rattle against the pavement as his hands tried desperately to loosen the grip around his throat.

Joe saw Methos get a fresh grip on his dagger and spring toward him, only to be blocked by two new assailants--assailants with swords. The man he had wounded came up from behind him, snarling incoherently and drawing his sword, while another appeared from the shadows beside him, holding what looked like a hypodermic needle.

"Behind you," rasped Joe, gasping for air.

Methos shot one look over his shoulder, then back to Joe. His eyes widened and his lips parted slightly. His face drained of what little color it had. "Nathan," he whispered.

The strangling arm around Joe's throat slipped down to pinion his chest. He instantly felt the sting of a sharp blade slicing oh-so-shallowly across his throat, and the warm trickle of his blood dripping from the wound. Joe clenched his teeth and fought to keep the pain from his face.

"Drop your weapon, Marcus Gaius," said Nathan with pleasant menace.

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