Chapter Nine

Methos' gaze locked with Joe's for one moment. Joe could read nothing but pure shock in the man's expression, but he could have sworn that Methos' fingers loosened, slightly, their grip on the hilt of the dagger.

"No--" Joe stopped and gasped as the knife began its slow journey across his throat again.

"Do you believe I will not kill him, Marcus?" purred Nathan softly. "I cannot imagine you to be capable of so profound an error in judgment."

Joe, struggling to think clearly through a haze of pain and panic, realized that the four men surrounding Methos had frozen in place, their eyes fixed on Nathan. Waiting. Waiting...for a signal? Now was Methos' chance. He should fight, or run--now. Methos knew that. He must know that. What the hell was he doing?

Methos' fingers went limp, and his dagger slipped through them to fall, end over end, to the street.

Joe watched it fall in numb horror. It seemed to take forever for the damned thing to reach the ground, and when it did, it clattered to the pavement so softly that Joe could barely hear it.

Joe stared at it as it lay there, barely aware that Nathan's knife no longer touched his skin. Methos couldn't have done this. He wouldn't have just thrown away his last chance to escape on a slim to none chance of keeping Joe alive. This guy was going to kill him anyway; Methos knew that. He'd blown his last chance. Joe tore his gaze away from the knife and raised it to Methos' face, but still couldn't read his expression--until he saw him stiffen, and felt Nathan do the same.

Another Immortal? It had to be; Methos' expression was unmistakable. Who--?

Joe felt Nathan begin to turn, then sensed a breath of air and the reverberation of dull impact. Without warning he found himself released and fell to the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Nathan fell on top of him, unconscious; his head was bleeding profusely.

Joe pushed himself away from Nathan, then started violently as a pair of slender, strong arms encircled him from behind and dragged him further away from the prone figure and into the deep shadows of a doorway. Craning his neck upward in the darkness, Joe realized that the arms belonged to a young woman...an apparently young woman.

The man holding the hypodermic, obviously realizing that the balance of advantage had shifted, shouted something in a language Joe didn't understand and came at Methos wildly. Methos turned, seized the wrist that held the needle, and, without expression, twisted the arm, driving the man to his knees. The man screamed again as the arm snapped, and he huddled on the ground, moaning.

Methos released the wrist and tossed the man aside, scooping up his dagger and drawing his sword. He moved quickly to his left, turning so that the swordsman who had stood beside the man with the hypodermic was no longer at his back. The man Methos had wounded in the first moments of the attack had shifted his blade to his left hand and rejoined his companions. Methos faced his three remaining attackers as they advanced, somewhat more cautiously than their companion had.

Joe tried to rise, but the woman held him to her with surprising strength. "What the hell are you doing? Let me go! He needs help."

"Help him by staying out of harm's way...and out of his." The voice was firm and tinged with amusement. "He looks like he's doing just fine to me."

Methos shot a glance in the direction of the doorway, obviously unable to see either occupant.

"He's all right, aba," called the woman reassuringly.

"Keep him that way," commanded Methos grimly, assuming a battle stance with sword and dagger as the mortals closed in.

"For God's sake, help him," gasped Joe involuntarily, as the wounded mortal lunged at Methos.

To Joe's astonishment, Methos parried the blow with little effort, and sliced upward with the dagger. The man jumped back, screaming and clutching his abdomen; blood oozed through his fingers. He staggered back to lean against the wall of the alley, then slipped into a sitting position, groaning.

"You're kidding, right?" said the woman drily.

"There are still four of them," snapped Joe, watching the man with the hypodermic as he nursed his broken arm and struggled to rise.

"Your point being?"

"Dammit, lady, let go of me!" Joe struggled against her restraint as Methos fended off a series of energetic and increasingly effective attacks, backing up slowly and drawing his attackers away from Joe's hiding place and toward the street.

He was trying to clear the way to the garage, Joe realized angrily. Damn him, does he think I'm leaving him here? That arrogant son of a--

A loud cry of pain and a snarled curse momentarily drew Joe's attention away from the swordplay. Twisting in his captor's embrace, he peered to his left and caught his breath as Nathan pushed himself off the ground into a kneeling position behind Methos, his face twisted in pain and hatred. The man snatched up his knife from the pavement beside him.

Joe struggled to reach his gun, then stopped cold. No. They were too close, and the alley too narrow. One miss and a ricochet and Joe would wind up hitting Methos--which was probably why Methos hadn't pulled his gun in the first place. God damn it to hell! He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but hesitated for a fraction of a second, knowing that the distraction could be as deadly for his friend as the threat looming behind him. Before he could make a decision, he was nearly deafened by a loud, peculiarly pitched whistle from the woman who

held him.

As if on cue, Methos whirled, locked his gaze on Nathan, flung his dagger into the man's chest and turned back to parry the next blows of the attacking swordsmen before they could so much as press their advantage.

Joe stared in stunned disbelief as Nathan crumpled to the ground with the hilt of Methos' dagger protruding from his chest. He didn't doubt for a moment that the blade had gone straight through Nathan's heart. "God Almighty," Joe whispered, his gaze returning to Methos.

By the time Joe had recovered enough to be able to observe anything rationally, Methos had drawn the two remaining swordsmen to a position directly across the alley from Joe's doorway. Joe could see Methos' face now, and he was unrecognizable in his battle rage. His eyes were dark and wild, his expression taut with concentrated ferocity. Joe wondered somewhat dazedly where 'Adam' was inside all that fury.

And he wondered how much longer the man could last. Every movement betrayed his exhaustion. Joe realized that from the beginning Methos had fought a defensive fight, encouraging his opponents to attack him, drawing them toward him in an effort both to capitalize on their mistakes and to lead them away from Joe's escape route. Unfortunately, the two remaining attackers seemed to be making very few mistakes. They pressed Methos hard as the Immortal backed away toward the street, coming within feet of Nathan's lifeless body. The man with the hypodermic, his broken arm dangling uselessly, had assumed a position behind them, obviously waiting for his chance.

Methos spared a glance in Joe's direction. "Go," he gasped, flinching as one of his opponents' blades sliced lightly through the sleeve of his coat and into his forearm. "Now." His sleeve was instantly stained with blood.

Joe felt himself being hauled roughly to his feet. "What the hell?"

"Come," ordered the woman peremptorily, pulling his arm over her shoulder.

Joe pushed her away, nearly fell, and leaned against the wall for support. "I'm not leaving," he hissed furiously. "If you won't help him, I will." He started making his way toward Methos, leaning against the alley wall.

"He said to go and we are going." She seized Joe's arm and stared up at him with an astonishing amount of menace for so small a woman. "Even if I have to knock you out and carry you out of here."

"Try it, lady," growled Joe. "Just try it." He'd never hit a woman in his life, but at that moment Joe felt up to the task. He turned to push her away again, but froze as he caught sight of a shadow hurtling headlong in their direction from the far end of the alley.

Before Joe could so much as draw another breath, the woman shoved him aside, turned, drew her sword, and parried a sword thrust that arced far too close to Joe for comfort. The attacker shifted position and tried again; Joe could feel the breeze as the steel sliced through the air towards him, and drew back instinctively, hugging the wall.

The woman was instantly between them, blocking the blow with her blade. With one twist, she sent the man's sword flying to rattle on the pavement several feet away and ran her sword through the man's gut up to the hilt. She yanked it out again, watching the man tumble to the ground with a grim expression not entirely devoid of sorrow. She turned to Joe, breathing hard. "You are coming with me now."

Joe wrenched his gaze from her to settle it on Methos. Joe could see that his friend was barely on his feet; every other blow was another wound, and every instinct Joe possessed was screaming at him to get to Methos' side as quickly as possible. "No."

A moment later, Joe found himself flat on his back, not quite certain of how he had gotten there. Stunned, he struggled for breath as the woman wrapped her arms under his and around his chest and started to drag him toward the garage and away from Methos.

Methos.

Joe blinked, trying to focus his eyes on the other end of the alley. Methos had backed up to Nathan's body, and was attempting to step over it. Joe could see the man was shaking with exhaustion, even at this distance. He could barely keep his balance without impediments in his path. He was going to fall, and those bastards were going to have him, and there was nothing Joe could do about it.

"Let go of me!" shouted Joe, lashing out wildly. "They're killing him, for God's sake! Let go--"

Methos went down, falling over Nathan's legs and onto his back with two swords at his throat. The man with the hypodermic leapt forward.

"No!" howled Joe, swinging at the woman holding him, only to realize that she was no longer there. Struggling to a sitting position, he saw her running at full pelt toward Methos. There was no way she could get there in time.

An unidentifiable object of considerable mass swung out of the shadows, catching one of the two swordsmen in the chest. He went down with a crash, crying out in pain and surprise. Joe watched, dazed, as a wiry young man with red hair stepped into the uncertain light, sword drawn, and without hesitation sliced toward the hand that held a hypodermic within inches of Methos' shoulder. The severed hand tumbled, bloody wrist over fist, to the ground, still clutching the needle, as its former owner's shrieks echoed through the alley. The wounded man sank to huddle on the ground.

The man who had been knocked down staggered to his feet, sword in hand, and came at the young man wildly, only to find himself disarmed and staring blankly at his opponent's blade before he could strike a single blow.

"Stupid," observed Richie with lethal succinctness. "Really stupid." He clubbed the man with the hilt of his weapon and turned away as the mortal slumped to the ground, unconscious.

The second swordsman lifted his sword over Methos point downward, as if to impale him, then froze as Richie and the young woman each put their swords to his throat. Methos, evidently deciding to resolve the matter, raised one foot and delivered a forceful kick into the man's groin. Howling in pain, the man dropped his weapon and staggered out of the alley.

Joe realized that he was panting as if he had just run a race, and tried to steady himself. An eerie silence fell, broken only by the semi-conscious whimpering of the amputee and the mutterings of the other injured man.

Joe watched silently as Richie and the woman knelt beside Methos and helped him to a sitting position. The ancient Immortal was breathing heavily, and at least half a dozen bloodstained holes spotted his coat. Joe realized with a tightening throat that if the man had been mortal, he would probably be bleeding to death. Even with an Immortal's ability to heal, Methos had to be in a hell of a lot of pain.

Joe shook himself. Get up, Dawson. Don't sit here like an idiot; get down there.

Bracing himself against the wall, he struggled slowly to his feet and began making his way toward his friends. By the time he was within a few feet of them, Richie and the woman were helping Methos to his feet.

Methos leaned on them for a moment, his face drawn in pain, then straightened and looked around in alarm. "Joe?"

"Present," said Joe, attempting a light, steady tone and failing miserably. Shit. He sounded like an old man. He cleared his throat and tried to straighten as Methos' gaze swept over him. He failed at that too. God, he was tired.

Methos pushed away his support, staggered to Joe, and took him by the shoulders. "Are you all right?" he demanded roughly.

Joe looked into his friend's face carefully, expecting to see some evidence of the ruthless stranger who had been there just a few minutes before, but very little of that man was left to be seen, and the voice he heard was rough with concern, not violence.

"No," snapped Joe irritably, relieved beyond words to hear that voice. "I am not all right. I have been hit and cut and knocked over and dragged and scared, and I have spent the last fifteen minutes of my life sitting on my ass in an alley in the dark. Why the hell would I be all right?"

Methos' pale, taut face relaxed into a tired smile as his hands pulled Joe slightly closer. "I withdraw the question," he said unevenly, eyes very bright.

Joe took another quick look into his friend's face and felt his throat tighten again. Shit. "I'm fine," he said thickly, letting himself lean on his friend. "I'm fine. Are you--"

"No," said Methos with a crooked little grin. "I'm not. I've been hit and cut and knocked over and...."

"Shut up and humor me."

"Ask me again when we've put a few hundred miles between us and Paris."

Joe nodded, seeing a thousand years' worth of story in his friend's face, and somehow managing not to ask. "That sounds good to me, pal." Joe lifted his hand to Methos' shoulder, but was prevented from resting it there as Methos hissed suddenly, pulling Joe's collar open.

"You're still bleeding," Methos rasped, the ghost of his rage lacing his voice. "You're still bleeding!" The fire lit in the hazel eyes again, and he whirled away toward Richie and the woman...and Nathan.

Before Joe could move, Methos had already snatched up his sword and strode to Nathan's body, where Richie was helping the woman tie the dead man's hands behind him. She looked up sharply as Methos came to her side.

"Tasha and Jochen are on their way--" she began.

"Stand aside," said Methos harshly.

Richie rose with an uncertain expression. "I don't think--"

"Rich, get Joe to the car," commanded Methos, his eyes not leaving the woman's.

"What say we all get to the car?" asked Joe evenly, taking a couple halting steps to stand beside Richie.

Richie gave him a sharp look. "Geez, Joe, you look like--" He broke off and took Joe's arm firmly.

"Go to the car," ordered Methos flatly. His gaze flicked to the woman, who rose to stand in front of him with a determined expression. "You too."

"I can't do that," said the woman softly. "You know that, aba."

"It's starting all over again. How many are going to die this time?"

"He won't kill anyone where he's going."

"That's what you said in Constantinople," returned Methos bitterly. "But two people are already dead, and his master is still free."

"I cannot permit him to be killed," replied the woman quietly. "I made a vow. You of all people should know that I keep my vows."

"Damn your vows," snarled Methos. "He nearly killed Joe tonight. Get out of the way!"

"Do you have any idea what's going on?" asked Richie in a stage whisper.

"Nope," replied Joe wearily. "Look, I hate to break up what is obviously a family reunion, but we are standing here with a whole bunch of bleeding people, and the French authorities tend to frown on that sort of thing. Maybe--"

"And I thought I told you to get him out of here," continued Methos, gesturing to Joe.

"Oh, you did," the woman replied wryly. "He had other ideas."

"He always has other ideas," snapped Methos. "He's the goddamned Encyclopedia Britannica of other ideas. What the hell were you thinking, Joe?"

"Look, pal, I didn't ask you to sic Xena, Warrior Princess on me," growled Joe belligerently, ignoring the woman's soft cackle of laughter. "And if it comes to that, what the hell were you thinking, dropping your knife?"

"I said leave!" shouted Methos.

"After you!" yelled Joe.

Richie cleared his throat. "Uh...guys...."

"Go to the car!" bellowed Methos and Joe in unison.

Richie sighed resignedly. "I'll get the chair."

"Chair?" Joe stared as Richie righted the previously unidentifiable object. "You belted that thug with my chair?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Go. To. The. Car," hissed Methos, his gaze resting on each of them for one lethal second.

"After you," replied the woman mildly, meeting the gaze without flinching.

Methos' eyes narrowed, and Joe found himself holding his breath. Without any other warning, Methos whipped his sword over his head and brought it down toward Nathan's neck.

Richie grabbed Joe, pushing him away from the impending quickening and up against the wall of the alley, shielding him. "Shit oh shit oh shit...." he muttered, every muscle in his body tensing.

"Adam, for God's sake," gasped Joe wildly, becoming slowly aware of something that sounded like sirens.

The ring of steel against steel overwhelmed that sound for a moment, but in the seconds of silence that followed it became painfully obvious that the sirens were getting closer--and quickly.

Joe turned his face away from the wall to see Methos and the woman frozen in position on either side of Nathan, their blades raised, and their heads turned in the direction of the street. They turned to look at each other for a second, each breathing hard. Methos' expression of indecision faded almost instantly.

"Damn you," he snapped to the woman, leaning down to yank his dagger out of Nathan's chest.

"Likewise," replied the woman in an amused tone. "My car or yours?"

Methos ignored her, shoving his blades into his coat. "We're going."

Joe nearly collapsed as Richie released him, and Methos leaped over Nathan's legs to catch his arm.

Richie grabbed his other arm hastily. "Sorry, Joe."

"Sit," ordered the woman shortly, shoving the chair toward him.

Joe stiffened at her tone. "I can--"

"We don't have time for this," she snapped, and with one shove brought the chair up from behind him, knocking him into it.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, lady?" bellowed Joe indignantly, struggling to assume a more dignified position.

Methos pushed her aside, grabbing the handles and pushing the chair down the alley as fast as he could go. "Rich, the bags and the cane!"

"Here you go, Joe," gasped Richie, snatching up an unidentifiable object from the shadows and shoving it into Joe's arms before grabbing Joe's possessions.

Joe recognized his guitar case and groaned, holding onto the unwieldy burden with difficulty. "You've got to be kidding!"

"Keys, Joe, keys!" Methos' voice came in gasps.

Joe heard the screeching of tires and sirens a few blocks away and hastily fished the keys out of his pocket. The woman snatched them and darted ahead toward the garage.

"What the...? How the hell does she know where to go?"

"She knows," rasped Methos.

"Oh, thanks, pal. That is highly informative. Hey!" Joe nearly bounced out of his chair as Methos drove it through a small pothole. "Easy on the suspension!"

"Your grasp of priorities is mind-boggling, Joseph," gasped Methos, as they neared the end of the alley.

"Would you mind telling me who I just gave my car keys to?"

"Joanna."

"That's Joanna? The Joanna? How...? Why...?"

"How later," panted Methos. "Why later."

"They're heeeere," chanted Richie nervously, as the sirens crescendoed at the other end of the alley to the accompaniment of flashing lights reflecting brilliantly against its walls.

Joe's car screeched to a halt at the end of the alley, and Joanna stuck her head out the window. "Move it or lose it, guys."

Joe felt himself being yanked out of his chair and shoved into the back seat of his car on top of his guitar, and he struggled to sit upright. He heard several loud impacts as what he assumed were the baggage and the wheelchair were tossed into the storage area and the hatch was slammed shut. Methos piled in beside Joe and Richie jumped into the front seat, slamming their doors as the light of flashlights touched the car.

"Go, go!" shouted Methos, and was propelled backward as the car roared from zero to sixty in far less than the recommended time.

"Jesus H. Christ," gasped Joe as the car made a right turn without benefit of two of its tires. The car righted itself with a thump and accelerated again.

"Yeah! All right," shouted Richie enthusiastically, with an admiring look at the driver.

"The hell it is!" snapped Joe. "Look, lady, I can die, okay? Do you know how to handle those controls?"

Joanna shot a droll look into the rearview mirror. "Sure. It's not that different from an Egyptian battle chariot."

The car barreled through a red light, narrowly dodging the traffic, and Joe groaned. "Dammit, will you hit the brakes?"

"Brakes? What's that?" asked Joanna with a grin, taking another turn at top speed. The car teetered uncertainly on its two left tires, then returned with a jolt to all four. Richie whooped appreciatively.

"There's no one following us, Jo," said Methos shakily, still leaning back in his seat.

"Yeah, and it was too dark back there for them to make the car," said Richie in a quieter voice, looking over his shoulder at the two occupants of the back seat with a worried expression. "We'd better chill, or we'll attract attention."

Joanna glanced in the rearview mirror again, nodding and slowing the car to a more reasonable pace. "How bad are you?"

"Give me a minute." Methos' voice dropped to a whisper; he was ashen.

Joe looked his friend over in alarm, then reached over to open his friend's coat. The t-shirt Methos had borrowed from Duncan was soaked with blood. "Oh, God."

"Relax, Joe, relax," said Methos quickly, twitching the coat closed again. "It's healed. I'm just...tired." He sat up, rummaged in his coat pockets, and produced a handkerchief. "Here, let me see your neck."

Joe winced as Methos very gently wiped away the blood and held the cloth against his throat to staunch the flow.

Richie watched, eyes narrowing with anger. "Please tell me the guy who did that is the one I chopped."

"The guy who did this is very much in one piece, thanks to our driver," snapped Methos, guiding Joe's hand to hold the cloth and leaning back in his seat again.

"The Immortal," said Richie grimly. "Was that Lucius?"

"No," said Joanna softly. "He's Lucius' servant."

"Then why protect him? Who are you?" demanded Richie angrily.

"Sorry," sighed Methos. "Richard Ryan, Joseph Dawson, may I present Joanna, late of Ur, of Babylon, of Athens, of--"

"Joanna will do," said the woman drily. "Really, aba. Civilizations crumble to dust, but your mouth is eternal."

Joe shot Methos a questioning look, but was reassured by the smile that teased the corners of his friend's mouth upward.

"You're the Joanna that Methos knew in Lutetia?" asked Richie in amazement.

"Methos?" Joanna gave him a sharp look, then glanced back at Methos inquiringly.

Methos met the look wearily. "Don't say it."

Joanna glanced at Joe, then back to Methos. "A Watcher?"

"A friend."

"Obviously."

Joe tensed at the edge in the woman's tone. Great. Another story.

"Could we discuss this later?" Methos' tone was brittle. "Where are you taking us?"

"There's a safe house in Bordeaux--"

"No," broke in Richie. "We have to go to the barge first."

"The barge?" Joe stared at Richie blankly, trying to get his brain to work. "Why?"

Richie turned around in his seat, eyes wide and face pale. "We have to warn Mac. We can't just blow town and leave him there in the shape he's in. Not when there's some psycho Immortal in town. We can't."

"He'll be fine, Rich," replied Methos. "Lucius isn't interested in other Immortals, unless...." His voice trailed off, and his expression changed.

"Unless they hang out with Watchers," finished Joe grimly, his stomach turning over. MacLeod. "Right?"

Methos turned to Joe with an anguished expression. "Joanna, there's a barge moored across--"

"Across from Notre Dame, yes, I know," said Joanna softly. She and Methos exchanged a look in the rearview mirror, and Methos closed his eyes for a moment.

"As fast as you can," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

***

Lucius stared down at the bloodied man who knelt before him, struggling to comprehend what he had just been told. It was impossible. It was impossible that Nathan had failed to carry out his orders. In all the centuries of his service, Nathan had never once failed him. He watched his servant silently as Nathan, his gaze never rising from the floor, lifted his sword and offered his master his life.

"Explain," said Lucius softly. If any other had failed in this enterprise, he would have accepted the offer. But this was Nathan.

"No explanation can excuse my failure," whispered Nathan, eyes still averted.

"I do not seek to excuse it! Explain!"

"He fought well."

"We have known he could fight well for centuries. You were seven to his one! Explain."

"He was not alone. I was rendered unconscious before he could be subdued."

Lucius sighed and considered his servant for a moment, then nodded for Nathan to rise. "Put away your sword, Nathan, son of David."

Nathan rose and sheathed his sword, his gaze still fixed on the floor before him.

"Who was with him?"

"The Watcher, Dawson, was the only other person I detected when we entered the alley. I restrained him, held my knife to his throat, and ordered Marcus Gaius to drop his weapon."

"And?" Lucius leaned forward, keenly interested.

"He did so."

Lucius sat silently for a moment, contemplating the implications of this news, then laughed long and quietly. This piece of information almost made tonight's disappointment worthwhile. Marcus Gaius had been willing to die for this Watcher--and to die slowly. Oh, yes. This was illuminating indeed, and gratifying. This boded well for the totality of his revenge.

"Continue, Nathan."

"He had no sooner dropped his dagger than someone--an Immortal--struck me from behind. The man who escaped tells me that there were two who fought for Marcus--a young, red-haired man...and a woman."

Lucius closed his eyes, all his pleasure evaporating in an instant. "And the description of this woman?"

"It was she, Master."

Lucius controlled his reactions with an effort. No! Not again. Darius' whore would not deny him justice a second time! He forced himself to breathe slowly, to rein in his rage. The witch would not have him again! Never again! Better to die exacting his revenge than to be caged like a brute. He spoke, and was pleased at the calm, steady tone of his voice. "And the young man, I assume, was Mr. Ryan. How is it that he was able to take your men at unawares?"

"It seems that she dispatched the man I left on the street as sentry, Master. I depended upon this man for warning of any who approached. I depended upon him too much. The error was mine."

"Yes," said Lucius sternly, then relented. "But you could not have foreseen her arrival. I did not imagine that she would be able to trace us so quickly. In this I am to blame. I should not have underestimated her; she has always proved a worthy opponent." He fell silent for a moment.

Marcus would undoubtedly flee Paris, and take Dawson and Ryan with him. The witch would no doubt aid them in their escape and conceal them. Marcus would be beyond his reach forever, unless....

Unless there was another here in Paris whom he would wish to protect, one whom he would not leave without. It was unlikely. But then Lucius would never have imagined that Marcus would be foolish enough to befriend anyone again, let alone a Watcher.

'Unlikely,' then, was precisely what one must expect from Marcus. It was unusual, and potentially dangerous, for an Immortal to surround himself with companions who knew what he was. And yet this was precisely what Marcus had done. Dawson, Ryan, the woman Amanda...could there be others in Marcus' little family? How had Marcus and these people been drawn together? Did they have something in common...or someone?

Lucius swung toward the computer and summoned the records of Dawson, Ryan, and Amanda. He scanned each one thoroughly, feverishly, in search of a common thread--and found one. Joseph Dawson, Watcher. Current assignment: Duncan MacLeod. Richard Ryan, Immortal. Teacher: Duncan MacLeod. Amanda, Immortal. Lover: Duncan MacLeod.

Lucius stabbed the keyboard eagerly to call up MacLeod's record. He read it, chuckling in exultation, until another name caught his eye. His mirth died and his heart went cold within him. Darius? Darius? This MacLeod was a protégé of that God-cursed fiend? Yes, yes, of course he was! And a friend to Marcus Gaius, no doubt! By all that's holy, every one of these people would be taken and....

Lucius suddenly realized that he had spoken his last words aloud, and glanced up to meet Nathan's concerned gaze. Lucius nodded slowly, calming himself. "We have them," he breathed harshly. "I know where they are."

***

The leather bonds bit into the skin of his wrists as he fought to free his hands.

"You didn't really think you could escape me, did you, Brother?"

"Untie me!"

Not my voice. Not me....

Hands stroked his face, his hair, and he pulled away, straining to see in the dark of the tent. No lamps....

"You no longer enjoy my touch, Brother? Did you find another in that nest of scholarly eunuchs that pleases you more?"

The hands traveled over his body slowly, and he pulled away, only to be yanked closer again. He could feel hot breath, reeking of liquor, fluttering over the skin of his face and neck.

"What did you do to them?"

Laughter. "They took you from me...from us. I did what was necessary."

"They're dead." Uneven breathing.

"To the last child." One of the hands drifted to his crotch. "There was a time when the thought of that would arouse you."

No! Don't....

"There was never such a time, Kronos. Untie me!"

Kronos....

"Tell me which of your dead scholars was your lover. I will have his body brought here. I will take you before his eyes."

The touch became hard, hurting.

A gasp of pain. "I had no lover among them."

No! Take your hands off me....

"Among their women, then. Yes? Tell me."

"I had no lover!"

More soft laughter. "No lover? For over a year? You must be in desperate need, Brother."

"Let me go!"

Hands clutched him violently and forced him onto his stomach. His face was momentarily pressed into the sand, and he raised it, gasping for air. The hands tugged at his linen trousers, yanking them down to his knees, then over his feet. He heard them being flung away. The cool night air touched his skin.

"I will never let you go. Do you know why?"

One hot hand caressed his buttocks roughly as the other pressed his shoulder down into the sand, pinning him.

"Because you do not wish me to."

"No!"

"That is the game, isn't it, Brother? You hide, I seek, I find...I take."

His legs were pushed apart.

"No! Don't...."

"It is a good game, Brother. It is worthy of you. Many die to hide you. How many have died, do you think? How many more will die? Yes, it is a very good game."

He struggled upward and was shoved into the sand again. "No! I won't leave again--"

"Of course you will. And I will find you again. That is the game. And I like this game, Brother. We both win, don't we? We both get what we really want."

A finger entered him brutally, and he cried out in pain. "Please!"

Soft laughter. "Certainly, Brother. As you wish...."

Agony tore into him, forcing the screams from his throat again and again as the sadistic thrusts grew in power and tempo. He was being ripped apart....

"I've missed you, Brother." The voice came in labored gasps. "Tell me you've missed me. Tell me!"

"Please!" Duncan howled the word, tearing at the blanket that covered him as if it were a living enemy. He stared around the empty barge, panting as if he had been running for his life, then groaned and buried his face in his hands.

Another dream. Another nightmare. Another memory. Another of Methos' memories. God Almighty.

Methos.

Duncan staggered out of bed, wincing at the phantom pain that raced along his spine, and staggered to the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water, trying to regulate his breathing.

It was over. And it had never happened. It was a memory. And it was only a dream. Duncan had never been raped. It was not real ... at least not for Duncan MacLeod. It was very real for Methos.

Methos had tried to leave the Horsemen, and paid the price. When had that been? He had ridden with Kronos for a thousand years. How many times over the course of that millennium had he tried to escape, and paid that price? And how could this be reconciled with the man who killed thousands and liked it?

It couldn't be.

Duncan had thought that he had understood what life with the Horsemen had been like for Methos. He had thought that he had understood Methos' relationship with Kronos.

Duncan stared into the mirror as the water dripped down his face, realizing now that he had understood nothing about Methos' life as a Horseman. Nothing. He had condemned this man knowing nothing.

Duncan wiped a towel across his face roughly. He would give almost anything for five minutes of Methos' time right now....

As if in answer to his thought, the signature of an Immortal reached him, and he bolted out of the bathroom. "Methos?"

"It's me, Mac." Richie pushed open the door and stuck his head in. "Uh...you okay?"

"Rich," said Duncan shakily, approaching his former student hesitantly, then stopping in his tracks, eyes widening. Richie had been in a fight. He was disheveled and sweating, and his sleeve was splattered with blood.

"Are you all right?" demanded Duncan anxiously. He closed the distance between them quickly. "What's happened?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Richie too quickly. "No damage. Look, Mac, Joe and Methos and me...we're getting out of town for a while."

"You're leaving?" Duncan felt the pit of his stomach drop, then examined the younger man closely. "Tell me what's happened. Please."

"I don't have time to tell you everything," said Richie tensely. "Mac, you have to clear out, too. I mean, right now."

"Why? If you'll tell me what's going on--"

"There's no time! You're not safe, none of us are. Look, I have to go. Just get your ass on a plane back to the States, okay?"

Duncan saw the barely leashed fear in Richie's face, and reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder. "You faced someone tonight."

Richie laughed raggedly. "It's not what you think."

"Rich, if you're in trouble--"

"We're all in trouble!"

"Let me help you."

"Mac, there's nothing you can do!"

"Tell me." Duncan laid his other hand on Richie's free shoulder and drew him all the way inside. "Come on! You don't really expect me to just walk out on you, do you?"

"Why not?" asked Richie in an edged tone, obviously losing patience.

"I don't walk out on my friends when they're in trouble," returned Duncan stiffly, stung.

"Really," said Richie grimly. "There are a couple of guys out in the car who tell a different story."

Duncan stared at him for a moment, struggling with both anger and the sinking feeling that the two guys in the car had probably told Richie the truth. "Are they okay?" he managed finally. "Rich, I'm sorry about--"

"Damn it, Mac, there's no time for this! Now, I am leaving and you are packing."

Richie turned toward the door, but Duncan grabbed his arm and swung him down the steps and toward the sofa, trying to control his temper. Damn it, why was the kid being so stubborn? If he'd just tell him what was going on....

Richie shoved him away roughly. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Let me go!"

Duncan gasped at the phrase, fighting the images of the nightmare with everything in him. He backed away with a stricken expression, spreading his hands in a supplicating gesture. "Sorry. Sorry, Rich. Go if you want. I didn't mean to hurt you. I only wanted to help." His voice shook and he turned away. Damn. Breathe. Breathe. It was only a dream. He leaned against the couch and thought longingly of his recently departed supply of whiskey.

Duncan heard Richie swear softly. "Mac. Hey, you okay, man?"

Duncan nodded silently and opened his mouth to add his voice to the lie, then froze as he sensed another Immortal signature. Methos. It had to be.... He turned quickly, then froze in shock. Methos came through the door slowly, painfully, as if it hurt him to move. Joe, despite clutching his cane in his right hand, was leaning heavily on Methos' shoulder with his left. Methos' right arm circled Joe. Neither of them looked as if they would be able to stand without the other. They were ashen and grim-faced, their clothes torn and bloodstained.

They were hurt.

"Oh, my God," said Duncan hoarsely. "What the--?"

"We need to get moving, Rich," said Joe unevenly.

"Right," said Richie quickly, moving towards them.

Duncan was on the steps before Richie could get there. "What's happened? Are you--"

"We're leaving, MacLeod," said Methos coldly.

"Neither of you are in any shape to be going anywhere," replied Duncan, trying to steady his voice. "Please come inside."

"There's no time! Damn it, didn't you hear a thing I said?" Richie tried to get past him, and Duncan pushed him very gently backward.

"I heard you. You're in trouble." Duncan looked up at Methos and Joe. "Let me help you. Please. You're safe here."

Methos laughed harshly. "You know nothing of the danger, yet you assume that your presence alone will protect us from it. Your arrogance never ceases to amaze me, MacLeod."

Duncan swallowed and climbed the stairs to stand in front of his friends. "I'll do whatever I can to help. Just come inside and sit down, please, before you fall down."

"Come on, Rich," said Joe determinedly, clutching Methos' shoulder so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"Joe, I'm sorry."

"I am not the one you should be apologizing to, pal," snapped Joe.

"I'm apologizing to all of you," said Duncan desperately. His gaze went to Methos. God, the man looked his age. He was really hurting, and not just physically. The older Immortal was thin, even for him, and the dark circles under his eyes were so pronounced they looked like bruises. Had Methos looked like this earlier today? He must have; obviously the man hadn't dropped ten pounds and suffered sleep deprivation in the matter of a few hours.

How could I not have noticed?

Duncan had no idea what had happened tonight to make things worse, but the thought that his idiocy this afternoon had forced them to face it without his help galled him. "Methos, I'm sorry. I was wrong to say those things. I didn't mean them."

"We do not have time for this," rasped Methos, tearing his gaze from Duncan with obvious difficulty.

Duncan's reply was cut off by the signature of an Immortal, followed by the sound of an impact on deck. Joe and Methos exchanged startled glances. "Give me your sword," said Duncan quickly. He heard Richie swear softly behind him.

"It's all right, Mac," said Methos faintly, swaying slightly as he very gently disentangled himself from Joe and leaned him against the wall. Joe gave him an alarmed look. "It's just Amanda with the groceries." Methos' eyes closed. "I don't...." He stumbled slightly, then went completely limp and fell forward.

Joe made a wild grab, but couldn't get a hold of him. "Adam!"

Duncan dove forward, caught his friend before he hit the floor and then sank to his knees, turning Methos over in his arms and cradling him gently. The bloodstained shirt was clearly visible. "Christ," he gasped, laying a hand on Methos' carotid artery.

"Is he...?" Joe seemed unable to finish the question.

"Out cold," said Duncan grimly. He got his other arm under Methos' legs and picked him up, wondering numbly why the man seemed so light to him. There was far too much to this man for him to be so light to carry. Duncan walked silently past a sober-faced Richie to the couch and laid Methos out carefully, slipping a pillow under his head. He knelt beside him, his gaze sweeping over the half-dozen bloody rents in his clothing. There was no doubt that a sword was responsible for those wounds. "Did he take a quickening?"

"No," said Richie. "He wasn't fighting an Imm--" He stopped and cleared his throat. "No."

Duncan turned to look at his former student in growing confusion and impatience. "Are you saying a mortal did this to him? Why?"

Richie folded his arms across his chest and met Duncan's gaze with his most determined, obstinate expression. Duncan swore silently; he knew that look all too well. It was the one that had always told Duncan that he had no chance of reasoning with the boy, and that it was time to turn him over to Tessa. Somehow she had always managed to reach Richie. Tessa had always managed to reach both of them.

Duncan turned almost desperately to Joe, who was still leaning against the wall staring at Methos, either unable or unwilling to move. "Joe, please."

"We'll go as soon as he's awake," said Joe unevenly, not budging.

Duncan exploded with worry and frustration. "Joe, for the love of God, look at yourself! Look at Methos! You two will be lucky if you can make it back to your car, let alone anywhere else." He saw the intransigence in Joe's face grow stronger, saw Richie stiffen, and took a breath to calm himself. He lowered his voice. "Please. Let me help."

Joe's expression wavered uncertainly. "We have to leave, MacLeod. The longer we stay here, the more dangerous it is for all of us."

"Please tell me why."

A second loud impact on deck startled them all. Duncan rose quickly. That certainly had not sounded like a bag of groceries hitting the deck. What the hell was Amanda doing out there?

"Joe?" The sound of Methos' faint voice made Duncan spin around again. The older man's eyes were open; he was looking around confusedly.

"Right here," said Joe quickly, pushing himself away from the wall and struggling down the steps. Duncan swallowed at the effort it took Joe to manage that. The man could barely move. Richie hastily took Joe's arm and helped him over to the couch.

"What the hell...?" Methos sat up as Joe sank onto the couch beside him.

"You passed out."

"How long was I--"

"Only a minute."

A deafening metallic crash made all four men turn toward the door. Joe's eyes widened and he stared at Methos as if in sudden and dismayed comprehension.

"What the hell was that?" demanded Duncan, but found himself being ignored as his three guests exchanged glances.

"Did I hear a thud?" asked Joe in a resigned tone.

"Sounded more like a clatter to me," said Richie, going down on his haunches beside Joe.

"Did the boat rock?" asked Methos seriously, a faint smile touching his pale face.

"I didn't feel the boat rock," said Richie, with the air of a man who was giving the matter a great deal of sober thought.

"Then it wasn't a thud," Methos informed Joe with quiet confidence.

"Thanks for the clarification, pal," growled Joe.

"Will someone please--" began Duncan impatiently.

Richie leaned forward with a painfully earnest expression that made Duncan break off and stare at him suspiciously. "Tell me, Methos, as the oldest living Immortal--"

"Yes, my son?" asked Methos serenely.

Duncan's eyes narrowed.

Richie continued in a tone that conveyed nothing but the most profound reverence. "If there's a thud on a barge on the Seine and nobody's there to see the boat rock, does it still rock?"

Joe shot Richie one lethal look and developed a sudden fit of coughing. Duncan stared at each face in turn, struggling for comprehension.

Methos shook his head and laid a hand on Richie's shoulder with a grave expression. "No, my son. It just...lies there."

Joe's uncontrolled guffaw was immediately followed by Richie's loud burst of laughter--slightly hysterical laughter, but laughter all the same.

"Very funny," said Duncan icily. He had no clue what the joke was, but knowing Methos, Duncan was sure that he was the butt of it. Trust these three to choose a moment like this for their little in-jokes.

Methos looked up at Duncan with an innocent, bewildered expression. "What?"

The sudden and unmistakable rumble of engines cut off whatever acid reply Duncan had intended to make. Duncan felt the faint roll of the deck below his feet. The barge had begun to move. Someone was....

"What the hell is going on, Methos?" shouted Duncan, all his previous concerns forgotten in a flash of anger.

"Off-hand I'd say someone is hijacking your boat."

Joe sighed loudly and leaned back into the couch, closing his eyes and addressing a few brief remarks to the room at large. "Yeah. Sure. Why not? It's time for a nice ride on the big boat. Go with it, Joe. Have fun."

Richie patted Joe's arm soothingly. "That's right, Joe. When it's inevitable, relax and enjoy it."

Unable to stop himself, Duncan seized Methos' coat by the collar and hauled him to his feet, hating himself as the older man winced in pain. Duncan reached inside Methos' coat and seized the hilt of his sword. "I'll borrow this, if you don't mind."

"MacLeod, you're an idiot," said Methos wearily.

"Mac, it's okay!" Richie scrambled to his feet. "Just relax."

"I've had enough of this," snapped Duncan. He turned and bolted up the stairs and out the door onto the deck. He glanced quickly astern and saw Notre Dame rapidly receding in the distance. The barge had been properly unmoored and was being piloted correctly. Whoever was at the helm knew what they were doing. He started toward the pilothouse, noting a pair of suitcases, a guitar case and Joe's wheelchair lying heaped up on the deck as he passed. So much for Amanda and the groceries. What the hell was Methos up to now?

"Mac, take it easy," panted Richie, catching up with him. "It's not what you think."

Duncan waved him to silence peremptorily, and Richie sighed and said nothing more, although he continued to follow Duncan as he made his way to the door of the pilothouse. Duncan tried the door as quietly as he could. It was locked from the inside.

Fine. The window, then. Duncan flattened himself against the wall and turned the corner, noting Richie out of the corner of his eye. His former student was standing well back, his arms folded across his chest and a thoroughly exasperated expression on his face. Duncan focused his attention on the window, getting a grip on Methos' sword, and then in one smooth movement swung around in front of the window with the sword extended before him. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

The person at the wheel turned toward him. In the dim light of the pilothouse, Duncan could determine only that it was a woman.

"Good for you. I'm Xena, Warrior Princess," she said around a mouthful of something. She eyed the end of the sword that hovered a few inches from her nose. "You won't need that. Want some?" She shoved something wrapped in foil toward him with an inquiring expression.

It took Duncan a moment to realize that the woman was offering him a chocolate bar. "Who are you? And what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"She's Joanna," supplied Richie helpfully over Duncan's right shoulder.

"Hey, Rich," said Joanna casually. "Nestlés' Crunch?"

"Ah...maybe later," said Richie uncomfortably. "I think you'd better explain--"

"Cut the engines now," commanded Duncan angrily. "And unlock that door."

Joanna's expression hardened. "If you want your friends to live, you'll--"

Duncan tightened his grip on the sword. "If you want to live, you won't threaten my friends!"

Joanna lifted an eyebrow. "My, we are developing into a paranoid little hard-ass," she said drily. "How disappointing."

Duncan felt his jaw drop slightly and heard what sounded suspiciously like a stifled bark of laughter from Richie.

Joanna popped another piece of chocolate into her mouth. "I was about to say that if you want your friends to live, you'll let me get this thing as far from Notre Dame as possible. The people who attacked us tonight will trace us there. It's imperative that we move."

Duncan glanced uncertainly at Richie.

Richie nodded. "It's okay. She's an old friend of Methos'."

"How reassuring," muttered Duncan, not lowering the sword.

"Mac, she saved Joe's life tonight," said Richie in a tone laced with suppressed anger. "Geez, man, just once will you listen before you start swinging?"

Duncan felt a flush rise to his face. Damn. He'd done it again. And he couldn't blame it on the whiskey this time. He withdrew the sword from the window, groping for something to say and coming up speechless.

"You could have given us a little warning," Richie added, casting Joanna a reproachful glance.

"You said two minutes," returned Joanna. "We'd been in one place too long." She glanced back to Duncan. "I think your friends have some explaining to do. Why don't you go below and let them do it? I'll come down when I get us to a safe moorage."

"Piloting this river at night can be tricky--" began Duncan uncertainly, then stopped as Joanna began to laugh.

"God, when did you get to be so twitchy? I've been piloting this river since the divine Julius' day. Here." She extended the chocolate again. "You look like you need this more than I do."

Duncan, bemused, reached out and took the chocolate.

Joanna nodded approvingly. "Now run along." She returned her attention to the river.

Duncan turned and followed Richie back to the hold, peering at the chocolate suspiciously. "Nestlés' Crunch," he muttered. "What a night." If Methos didn't start giving him answers now, that old schemer was going to find this thing being wedged up a highly inappropriate portion of his anatomy.

***

Amanda dragged three bags of groceries out of the back seat of the cab and struggled to look at her watch as the driver pulled away. Almost seven o'clock. She grimaced. Later than she had thought. Methos had said to bring the groceries and the phone to the barge sometime this afternoon. Oh, well. She shrugged. So, she was a little late. Wasn't a girl allowed a little time for herself? This nanny business could be overdone. After all, Duncan was in good hands now.

She took a few steps toward the river and then stopped dead in her tracks.

The barge was gone.

No barge? There had to be a barge. Where the hell does a barge go? It doesn't go anywhere. It just lies there. Who moves a barge?

Methos moves a barge. That's who moves a damn barge! It was probably his idea of a joke, a payback for being late.

Amanda spotted another car parked beside Duncan's and approached it suspiciously. It was Joe's car. Joe Dawson. Yes. Of course! This made perfect sense! Joe and Richie were in on this, too. The Nanny Brigade were all in it together.

Amanda could see it now: all four of them squatting in various stages of undress in that damned floating sardine can of MacLeod's, having some sort of He-Man-Let's-Laugh-at-the-Girl meeting; cheap beer and stale chips and jokes about her hair; the whole place awash in dirty underwear and beer cans and male smugness; and male bonding levels so far into the toxic range that human habitation would be impossible for millennia.

"Oh! Oh!" shrieked Amanda, incoherent in her outrage. She had spent an hour shopping and getting over here. An hour! "Those...those...men!" She dropped the bags and kicked one of them viciously. She would cut off their heads! After she cut off their dangly bits. And then she would stuff and mount these objets des hommes in a public display case, so that all men would know better than to try to screw Amanda!

Unless of course, Amanda amended hastily, she wanted to be screwed. Clearing her throat, she smoothed her hair and adjusted her clothes, recovering her composure. Then she stalked to the edge of the dock and peered upstream and down. She spotted the barge moving downstream about a quarter of a mile away, its lights reflecting against the dark water.

Amanda grit her teeth at the sight. If that pack of mouth-breathing knuckle-draggers thought they were going to get away with this, they could think again. It's not as if they would be hard to follow. Amanda didn't know much about barges, but this she knew: they stayed in the water and they were slow. So....

Amanda turned to Duncan's car with a satisfied smile. She strolled to the driver's side door and opened it.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Ooooh, Duncan MacClueless. How careless."

Typical of MacLeod. Unlocked door, no car alarm, not even a steering wheel lock. What a boy scout. She slid in and reached under the dashboard with expert hands. It had been a few years, but hotwiring wasn't brain surgery. All she had to do....

Amanda froze as the signature of another Immortal touched her. Damn. Who? She waited a moment, reaching for the hilt of Duncan's katana inside her coat, then stopped as the signature faded and passed. She waited for a few seconds, but didn't sense it again. She shrugged and went back to work. Probably a passing Immortal on the promenade. You couldn't swing a dead cat in Paris without hitting an Immortal these days. They were drawn to MacLeod like flies to road kill.

The engine roared to life and Amanda sat back with a satisfied sigh, then glanced at the bags of groceries lying on the ground beside the car. Her eyes narrowed. Why she would even consider taking food to those creatures she couldn't imagine. However, some of the canned goods would make formidable projectiles, and she could come up with creative and exquisitely painful uses for just about everything else. She sighed and loaded the bags into the car, then swung herself into the driver's seat and slammed the door behind her. As she slipped the car into gear, she sensed an Immortal again.

It couldn't be a different one. That would be too much of a coincidence. Somebody having second thoughts about letting one get away? Well, that was just too damned bad. She had agony to inflict elsewhere tonight. Amanda pushed the gas pedal to the floor, and the car took off with an emotionally satisfying scream from the engine and a squeal from the tires. Glancing in the rear view mirror, Amanda caught a brief glance of a tall, slender man with long, dark hair watching the car speed away. She snorted derisively at the sight.

***

The telephone rang, and Lucius stared at it for a moment, startled. This did not bode well. Suppressing, with difficulty, any emotional reaction, he bent to press the button on the speakerphone.

"Yes?"

"Master, the barge is no longer moored here."

Lucius said nothing. He could hear in Nathan's tone that all was not lost.

"The woman Amanda came to the river. She seemed surprised that the barge had been moved, but has taken MacLeod's car and is headed downstream. I believe she knows where it is to be found. I have instructed two of my men to follow her. Your orders, Master?"

"Remain the same. Locate the barge and bring everyone aboard her to me--alive."

"It shall be done, Master."

Nathan broke the connection, and Lucius leaned back in his chair. "Yes," he murmured contentedly. "I believe it shall be."

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