And immediately came up again, warily reaching into the rear well of the car to close his fingers around the leather wrapped steel. The peculiar skin-crawling sensation, just shy of a touch--not quite a murmur in his mind--wavered, faltered as the nearby Immortal tried to retreat out of range of his counterpart’s senses. The long body tensed, hazel eyes scanning in all directions quickly as blood and adrenaline surged into his brain.

        Taking a challenge in the open, on a busy Paris street in broad daylight was not his first preference. Taking a challenge at all was pretty low on his list of priorities.

        The presence drew closer, giving Methos the full flavor of the unseen Immortal and stirring something else--the buzz had a peculiar taint to it--something just barely familiar that clawed at memories so old they couldn’t even be called memories any longer, but instinct. Its significance eluded him and he swayed, reaching out to steady himself against the Volvo’s open door.

        He slowed his too rapid breathing, his faint caused by an involuntary case of hyper ventilation and it in turn caused by...

        Fear.

        It was clawing for attention, twisting inside him--twisting his insides, prompted by that strangely familiar buzz. He couldn’t force it to the surface. Wasn’t sure he wanted to.

        The presence retreated, dwindled, faded to nothing.

        “Gods...” Pierson murmured, sitting down on the car’s runner, not quite making the seat. His fingers were white knuckled around the sword hilt. He took a few moments to breath, forced his heart rate to slow down and untangled his aching fingers from the blade, setting the sword on the seat behind him and pressing his hands against his eyes, the bridge of his nose. His face was slick with sweat and his hands shaking.

        He contemplated the advantages of reloading the car and heading for parts unknown. In five thousand years he had met fear on a variety of levels--some harsh enough to rob his mind of any vestige of sanity or humanity. This reaction threatened to rob him of his soul and for one long minute he was sickened and weakened by it, bending over to escape it or vomit or just surrender--whichever seemed appropriate. All three compulsions passed and he was no closer to knowing what had prompted them than he had been when the fear struck.

        Another inhabitant of the unremarkable apartment building exited, pausing to stare at the pale and trembling young man, human concern cutting through mortal fear.

        “Monsieur, are you all right?” the elderly man asked, taking a step forward as if afraid his new neighbor would faint.

        Methos looked up, five thousand years falling back and under his less daunting persona at the sound of a voice not restricted to his mind alone.

        “Yes, thank you. Just a little dizzy. Too many stairs,” Adam Pierson replied in the same language he had been queried from, summoning the charming, boyish smile to allay the man’s concerns as they chatted for a moment. The man walked away reassured that his new ‘young’ neighbor was not going to pass out on the street and embarrass the neighborhood.

        Leave taking was done politely as Methos shoved his sword into his coat, picked up his box again and mounted the stairs to his new sanctuary. But the airy space didn’t seem quite as safe as it had twenty minutes before. And he didn’t notice the stocky, dark haired figure that exited his flat and disappeared down the hallway as his booted feet hit the stairs.

        He liked his old flat better--it had been larger--but the new one would do and it did have a rather spectacular eastern view at the front, large window offering an unobstructed panorama of sunrise over Paris. Not that he planned to be, or often was, up early enough to see it.

        Furniture was minimal, geared to a bachelor who did little entertaining--a student who spent his late hours in libraries and archives rather than in the cafes and cabarets of the City of Light. And light was what shown through the large window after dusk fell. It was as spectacular in its own way as the promised sunrise but not holding much appeal without someone to share it with him.

        He washed away the memory of a fair face, golden hair and sweet smile with hot water and soap, using Alexa as a shield against the fear that still hovered even after hours of unpacking, hard labor meant to dull the body and brain. Praying that the water would wash the fear down the drain along with his fatigue. Soft jeans and a beer added to his cure as he sat down at his desk--it and the computer the first things he had set up in the new space. Two commands brought up his personal journals, body ready for sleep but mind still snapping at every noise and vibration from the occupied building.

        Alexa’s face still haunted him and he banished it. She was still too raw an experience to add to his diaries--too private to be put on paper or microchip, just yet. Instead he turned to an equally fresh memory, also raw but not as precious. It was important to him to sort out his feelings on the dark path he’d so recently been drawn back to--a road which began over two thousand years before and had come to an abrupt and violent end only a few months ago.

        He had no qualms of guilt or loss over Kronos’ death and Caspian was forgotten without effort. Silas’ death still caused an ache but it was fading. There had been no other way for it to have ended and have he and MacLeod emerge alive. And Cassandra...

        That hand wasn’t played out yet--not entirely. But the next move was hers and he could only wait her out...if he lived that long.

        The fear rose again and he shoved it back down, not ready to examine or even acknowledge it yet, concentrating instead on the other player in the game.

        Graceful fingers skimmed the keyboard as filtered through his last encounter with Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, acknowledging the guilt MacLeod did summon as well as an unfamiliar and unwelcome slash of remorse. He had stretched an already tenuous friendship thin. It hadn’t snapped, not yet, and he was still trying to figure out why. The double Quickening--a mystery in itself--may have played a part in it. An odd effect being that he would never have to wonder again if the approaching presence of another Immortal were MacLeod. Duncan’s presence and signature were burned into his brain like a fingerprint. What other effects that devastating surge of Immortal energy had unleashed hadn’t been fully realized yet.

        He had spoken to MacLeod only once since then--a brief, terse conversation to close the situation. The messy details were cleaned up, but they had lost some ground and that cut deeper than Methos had expected. He had relied heavily on the Highlander’s predictable responses and manipulated him without thinking too hard about the possible and myriad outcomes. It had been a betrayal of sorts and MacLeod knew it.

        So did Methos, but it wasn’t his first and probably wouldn’t be his last. His past, it seemed, thought it high time to remind him what he had learned over fifty centuries before he could begin repeating his mistakes irrevocably--and using MacLeod the way he had had been a mistake, a dangerous gamble. The fact that the Highlander survived didn’t undo the damage or even ease it’s sting. MacLeod's trust wasn’t easily won and once broken, might be impossible to regain.

        The screen blurred under tired eyes and he shut the system down and the lights, flinging himself onto the bed as he was and pushing the past back where it belonged. Still, he slid his arms under the pillows to feel the cold comfort of steel and gave in to the fatigue that hadn’t entirely been lost to Paris’ sewers.

        Fear crept back like a nightmare as he bolted upright, fingers clutching the sword that was his only bedmate. That presence, the one from the previous day, was close...too close. If faded again, dwindled but his body didn’t relax even after the presence was entirely gone.

        And he nearly jumped out of his skin when the phone chirped.

        “Adam Pierson,” he said harshly, glancing at the clock by his bed. Dawn would be approaching soon and he would see it after all; not necessarily a pleasant surprise.

        “Adam? So that’s the name you’re using now,” a silken male baritone said in his ear. “Well. Adam. I have been looking for you. We have unfinished business--long overdue.”

        So familiar and yet not. English not the first language or the fourth or fifth.

        “Who the hell are you?” Methos demanded, recognition hovering just outside the fear and anger.

        “A ghost. A revenant. The past never dies, Adam. Some things were never meant for death. You know that.”

        Anger gave way to terror between one word and the next.

        “Adam.” The voice continued, so calm and soothing. “First man--not quite appropriate for you--second son would be closer. You weren’t cast out, you ran away. But I have the patience of eternity. Don’t miss the sunrise, Kieri.”

        The line went dead and Methos remained frozen, phone to his ear, oblivious to the disconnect tone, the last word closing out all other sound or sense.

        Kieri.

        The word was older than her was. So old no one in this modern age but he would know it and then only from the lips of a man who had lived to see every language rise and fall. A language that had died before the babe Methos ever drew his first breath.

        Kieri--sacrifice.

        The sun was rising. It caught his eye and he turned to see it--hoping to burn all else from his mind.

        The glass exploded, bullet ripping through his shoulder rather than his chest because he was turning. It shattered bone, tore muscle and sent nerves into a frenzy of confusion. His sword fell from fingers too numb to remember what they were for.

        The buzz came--no longer strange but terrifyingly familiar as his mind and past connected the dots. He picked up the blade in his left hand, facing the door--willing the pain away, the wound to heal.

        The other Immortal hovered outside his door, waited and Methos flattened himself against the wall just inside. He ignored the pain and his slick, bloodied grasp on the hilt as he forced his numb fingers to curl under his good hand.

        It was all the time he had to prepare as the door burst open, lock shattered and taking part of the frame with it. A massive figure blocked the light from the hallway and Methos swung upward, felt the steel connect with flesh, slide through bone. The head dropped and so did he, cramming his fist into his mouth to stop himself from screaming in either pain or fear. The body twitched, bulk beyond any normal man’s.

        There was no Quickening--he hadn’t expected one. He managed to drag the body in and close the door, then turned away and was violently ill.

        “Gods...” he murmured as the trembling eased, avoiding looking at the body--knowing it was still moving. He scuttled away, cradling the injured arm and reached for the phone. He pulled it to him as he huddled at the end of his bed, desperately trying to keep the panic away.

        He knew the number by instinct. “M...Marjorie. This is Adam Pierson,” he said, calming somewhat under the dreadfully mundane act of speaking to an answering machine. “I need a ticket to...” His mind scrambled for a location--any location--and his eyes shifted to the computer. “The U.S. Washington State. Seacouver. First available. Change-overs are fine. Call me when you have it--Today. Use...Michael Johnston.” He left his cell phone number then sought the computer, ignoring the blood still trickling down his arm as he began methodically downloading files to diskette and tape and wiping the originals from the hard drive.

        The little known and unadvertised travel agency had a ticket for him that evening. A long route--thirty six hours and four changes. He called Watcher headquarters and put in for an emergency leave.

        Then Adam Pierson disappeared from the face of the earth.

        Stretching stiffly against his kitchen counter, Joe Dawson waited for the coffee-maker to finish, not quite awake despite a bath and the early-morning sun streaming in through the window. His phone range and he reached for it and a cup as the pot sputtered its last drops into the carafe.

        “Morning. Dawson,” he rumbled, pouring out the dark brew.

        “Joe...I need to see you.” The tenor voice was familiar--and not. Familiar enough to recognize but the strain and hesitancy were alien.

        “Meth...Adam?” he prompted, cup forgotten.

        “Yes. No. Michael Johnston. Joe...I don’t have a lot of time.”

        Odd phrasing for the oldest living Immortal.

        “You’re here?” Dawson asked, trying to wake his sleep fogged brain.

        “About an hour ago. Meet me at the RiverWalk Museum. How soon?”

        “Twenty minutes...what is it? What’s wrong?” Joe’s scalp was prickling.

        “Make it thirty. Joe, don’t call MacLeod.” The line went silent.

        Joe stared at the phone then hung it up slowly. He almost reached to dial another number then stopped. The coffee was forgotten. He didn’t need the caffeine to wake him up. Fear had the exact same effect.

       Seacouver’s RiverWalk district was the trendiest of the trendy. Open and packed with cafes, bistros, boutiques and the obligatory historical markers and tourist traps. It was also close to the burgeoning, high-tech business district and the young professionals all started their day here with a cappuccino in one hand and the Wall Street Journal in the other.

        Joe did neither, taking a table outside of the cafe next to the museum. His coffee was un-frothed, un-sweetened and un-flavored. He looked out of place and knew it--ignoring the impersonal glances sliding over him while watching the crowd avidly. His eyes scanned the moving bodies, seeking the familiar slender build and dark hair, clothed to blend in more with the arriving employees of the shops and emporiums rather than the suited men and women.

        A shadow crossed his table and he glanced up and away again from the young professional who hovered beside him, no doubt trying to make a decision between the myriad offerings of the cafe. Long slender fingers touched his shoulder lightly and Joe looked up again to see what the man wanted. Blue tinted designer glasses were pulled away and two too green eyes met his under close cropped blonde hair, exposing a pale face and strong planed features--hair and facial structure not quite a match.

        Then the mouth twitched, a familiar expression.

        “Oh, Christ....” Joe murmured.

        “Sorry. I should have warned you,” Methos said drily.

        Not Methos. Michael.

        “Michael Johnston?”

        Methos inclined his head with a faint smile and sat down, his usual careless and casual posture obscured by the quick, tight moves of a businessman, the illusion perfected with the starched white shirt and tie, slacks, London Fog raincoat part of the uniform. As was the oversized leather briefcase he tucked under his chair. The raincoat was adjusted outside the arm of the chair to disguise a certain stiffness in the fabric. Settled, Methos reached into the brief to pull out a bulky parcel. Bubble lined manila wrapping rustled as he set it on the table in front of Joe.

        “It’s my files. All of them from the computer. Take care of them.”

        “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Joe asked trying to translate his long acquaintance with Adam Pierson into the stranger sitting across from him.

        “No. Don’t ask. And you won’t find me, Joe. Not for awhile...,” Methos said, the rest of the sentence hanging unspoken.

        Maybe not ever. Joe took a good look at his companion, ignoring the changes--the hair and the contact lenses. There was definite signs of strain on the sculpted features, cheeks shadowed and somehow paler against the light hair. Dark circles stained the hollows under the eyes. He’d had no sleep for days then.

        “Michael...” the name sounded so strange.

        “Don’t, Joe,” Methos said almost sharply; almost a plea. “I’ll be in town for a few days--I need to get this identity secured.” A flash of humor lightened the eyes, eased the strain. “It’s been awhile--I’m out of practice. Just take care of the files, Joe. And keep this between us. Not the Watchers and not MacLeod.”

        “What...what about Adam?” Joe asked, anything to keep the familiar stranger close until he could make sense of what was happening.

        Methos held up his wrist, fair skin bare of any tattoo. “He may show up again. I...I don’t know...” He glanced away again, lower lip caught between his teeth for a brief moment before turning back. “Joe...take care,” he said abruptly and rose fluidly, striding away before Joe could react, natty clothing blending in with the rest of the crowd too quickly for Joe to track.

        His coffee was cold but Joe drank it anyway, staring at the package and wishing he had something stronger to drink. He picked up the bundle, feeling the tapes and diskettes sliding inside. He glanced up and blinked. The sun was too bright--burning his eyes--making them water. He rose, heading for his car.

        He pulled out, turning east toward the bar then glanced at the package on the passenger seat and changed direction--heading home.

        The morning rush, such as it was, at DeSalvo’s Dojo and Gym was over and the lunch crowd not yet on their way in. That left the training room open for private lessons--including those offered by the owner to his sometime manager.

        As usual, Richie Ryan was getting the worst of the workout. Not because he hadn’t learned to fight well but because Duncan MacLeod never taught him the same thing twice and Richie always ended up on his butt when MacLeod decided to introduce him to a new fighting style.

        For once though, Richie was glad enough to take the bruises. Months had spun by while his friend, sometimes boss and teacher sulked and brooded over something he wouldn’t talk about. Today, however, MacLeod was in a relatively good mood and there was as much laughter as fanny-whompers going on.

        The younger Immortal had only gotten the barest details of the events of a few months ago in Bordeaux and most of those from Joe Dawson. MacLeod wouldn’t talk about it but what Richie had been able to gather had made his blood run cold then hot when he pieced together Methos’ part in the mess.

        The red-head didn’t hate the smug old-timer, but he didn’t much care for him either. Despite Methos’ aide to MacLeod during the Highlander’s bout with his own darkest demons--there was something about Methos’ self-serving manner that made Richie wary. Maybe because he knew where such apparent selfishness could lead.

        He and Duncan had managed a fairly stable patch after MacLeod nearly took his head and there was a grudging respect for Methos who, according to Joe, had come damn close to losing his own head to MacLeod's evil twin. But the Horseman debacle had put ‘grudging’ into huge capital letters and Richie had a strong desire to kick some ancient butt, given the chance.

        Unfortunately, a lesser ancient was geared to do the same thing and Richie turned his attention back to the complicated dance MacLeod was trying to teach him. He measured paces and thrust slowly to the point of disarm--running the maneuver several times until Duncan took it up to speed.

        Richie ended up swordless and vulnerable.

        What a surprise, he thought, but grinned at Duncan’s satisfied smile and got up to run it again. This time it was the Highlander who got distracted, finishing up not only without his blade but on his ass.

        “Pay attention, Mac” Richie teased, offering a hand up and MacLeod took it with a mocking laugh then tangled his feet in Richie’s and the younger man dropped to the mat as well.

        “Canon law, Rich,” MacLeod said smugly, dark eyes glinting with humor for a moment before he turned his attention to what had distracted him in the first place.

        Richie glanced over his shoulder to see Joe Dawson fidgeting in the doorway. MacLeod patted his shoulder before levering himself to his feet to greet the Watcher turned friend.

        “What’s up, Joe? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” MacLeod asked, offering Richie a hand up.

        Richie had to agree. Joe looked shaken and anxious--not an unfamiliar sight but telling enough to raise some concern.

        “I think I may have, “ Joe said evenly. “Have you spoken to Methos recently?”

        “No,” MacLeod said, voice not quite flat, but close. He wiped sweat from his face with a towel Richie offered. “What? Did he take off again? What did you expect, Joe?”

        Joe hesitated, a little taken aback by MacLeod's tone. He had thought time and distance would ease the tension between the two Immortals, but apparently not. He was half-tempted to walk away and take Methos’ request as spoken. The temperature did not bode well for MacLeod's intervention or assistance. The look on Methos’ face held him rooted to the spot, however, vaguely listening for the faint tap-tapping of death on a gravestone with Methos’ name carved into it.

        “I saw him this morning,” he said. MacLeod was angry and no plea of Joe’s would ease it but if the anger was a mask for the hurt, the pain of betrayal, there was room for other emotions as well.

        “Here? In Seacouver?”

        Curiosity. It was a place to start.

        “Flew in this morning under the name Michael Johnston,” Joe said carefully. Here fishy, fishy, fishy. “New look--blonde, professional. He asked me not to say anything to you.”

        “What a surprise. So you, of course, came immediately to let me know. You can’t patch this one, Joe. If he wants to talk to me, he knows how to get in touch,” the Scot said and turned away--leaving the door wedged open a fraction.

        More bait was needed. “He didn’t come to talk to you and he won’t be here long. He came to give me some computer files.”

        “I thought the Watchers shut that down after Kalas,” Richie said, watching the fencing match with concern.

        “Not the Watcher files. Oh, the Methos Chronicles are there as well but most of it is his personal journals.”

        Bait in the water. Now to see what came to the surface.

        MacLeod shrugged into his sweatshirt without speaking, the handsome face set and unsmiling. Joe met the look and Richie waited--not quite sure what Joe was getting at.

        “His journals,” MacLeod repeated.

        “Everything you ever wanted to know about Methos but were afraid to ask,” Joe said, watching the dark eyes. Doubt clouded the earth brown depths as MacLeod looked down at the towel he was twisting in his hands. He stopped and tossed it into the laundry bin.

        Joe held his breath. MacLeod knew he was being played...again...but sometimes he was willing.

        “All of it?” MacLeod asked.

        “Including an entry made three days ago. He had to know I’d look, Mac. It didn’t matter.”

        “You think someone is hunting him.”

        “Yes. Someone he doesn’t think he can beat and isn’t certain he can hide from.”

        MacLeod murmured an expletive in Gaelic. “All right. Come on, then. I’ll listen...listen only, Joe,...to the rest.” He led the way to the elevator and Joe followed, keeping his face impassive.

        He had him hooked. Now if he could reel the Highlander in and land him.

        Joe took the weight off his prostheses and his fears, sitting on one of the bar stools at MacLeod's kitchen island. He accepted the coffee his host offered even though his stomach was soured. Richie took up an unobtrusive perch on the back of the couch but Joe had no idea what was going on behind the blue eyes. Richie, it seemed, was beginning to learn the value of patience.

        “What happened?” MacLeod asked, leaning across the island, dark gaze intent on the Watcher.

        The details seemed even more unnerving in the telling, for Joe anyway. “I checked with the Paris office. Adam Pierson put in for an emergency leave the day after Methos’ last journal entry. He just moved in, Mac. I had the office check his apartment. It was a mess...door broken, blood on the floor, window shattered and he took very little with him. He left fast, Mac, and no bodies have turned up. But there should be one somewhere with the amount of blood on the floor, the walls--the computer. The computer was wiped clean and the hard drive deliberately trashed. A neighbor said he saw Adam moving in--thought he was ill.”

        “And he looked fine this morning?”

        “Exhausted...edgy, but, yes. If he was hurt it must have healed and I don’t think he could have healed that fast with the amount of blood the Watchers found. Someone heard a shot but it was before dawn and it was quiet afterwards. He paid his rent to the end of the month. He took out somebody, hard, but there was no Quickening that anyone saw.”

        “And he showed up here just give you his files?”

        “I don’t know. If it were just the Methos Chronicles he could have dropped them off or shipped them to the office. If Adam Pierson disappears, someone else will pick up the research--those Chronicles are as much fiction as fact, Mac. But his stuff...? I’ve only scanned a portion of it--five thousand years is a lot of ground to cover in a quick read and the early stuff is sketchy--he’s been working backwards--in segments, like an outline. But it’s all there.” Joe leaned against the counter. “As cagey as he is about his past, Mac, he wouldn’t leave those with me if he thought he’d be back. He could have hidden them and sent me word where to find them if something happened.

        “He’s a survivor, Joe. He’s said it himself. He’ll disappear. For all you know, the journals are as phony as the Chronicles.”

        “Maybe. Maybe not,” Joe said a little harshly and fished a diskette out of his pocket, tossing it in front of MacLeod. “You tell me. That’s the last few entries. Maybe you should read them. I’m going to check the hotels in the area and see if I can get a line on him. He said he needed a few days to secure his identity. But you’d know more about that than I would,” Joe said, easing off the stool.

        “If I hear from him, I’ll call you, Joe,” MacLeod said.

        “I appreciate that, Mac, but I don’t think you will hear from him. Not in this lifetime.” Joe said as a parting shot and took the elevator down.

        MacLeod remained where he was, fingers sliding the diskette across the counter. Richie watched him, recognizing a battle when he saw one.

        “You think Dawson’s right,” He said, taking the chair Joe had vacated.

        “A lot of people would like to take the head of the oldest Immortal, Rich,” MacLeod said, stretching his arms against the counter.

        “What do you owe him, Mac? He nearly got you killed a few months ago.”

        “And himself, Rich--maybe several thousand more. I don’t know what I owe him. Maybe that’s the problem--maybe there is no debt.”

        “Live and let live?”

        “No. Play by the rules. Only sometimes I think Methos got a different instruction sheet to play by.” MacLeod said and stretched, rubbing his face before picking up the diskette. “Did Joe say Methos went blonde?”

        “Yuppie-preppie business type,” Richie said, nodding. He cared nothing for Methos’ problems... well, almost nothing. But he did care about Mac and if the Highlander was going to do some fishing on his own, Richie was willing to help out.

        “I think I have to see this. Care for a little sightseeing, Rich?”

        “Should I bring a camera?”

        “Nope,” MacLeod said. “See if you can get Mick to come in and watch the dojo. I’m going to get cleaned up and then we’ll see what we can find out.”

        “You want me to call Joe?”

        MacLeod shook his head, pulling the clip from his hair. “Not yet. I’ve got some paper handlers I want us to check out first.”

        “Watch out for paper cuts...” Richie mused heading for a shower of his own and wondering why he was looking forward to the hunt.

        MacLeod made a few calls before they left--driving separately to cover the most likely of Seacouver’s underground network for people not wanting to be tracked. There weren’t that many and he had eliminated some for being too far out of the city. The phone calls got him the same information Joe was pursuing but no one matching Methos’ description, blonde or brunette, was currently registered at any of the hotels near the city center either as Michael Johnston of Adam Pierson.

        He was still having some doubts, just enough resentment left in him to want to give Methos his wish and leave him alone--but the diaries bothered him as much as they had bothered Joe. Methos’ obscure past was what had opened the rift between them to begin with and now the obscurity had been blasted away by plain text.

        He hadn’t looked at the diskette by the time he and Richie split up the photo and passport shops that needed checking and didn’t intend to if he could help it. Somehow, the thought of diving into Methos’ mind seemed as much a betrayal as anything the older Immortal had done.

        He pulled the Thunderbird up to a less than safe looking set of buildings, the alley open ended as he got out to stare up the street at the shop he was checking out when he felt the familiar signature Methos gave off.

        He almost missed him despite Joe’s description, not expecting such a complete transformation as the older Immortal scanned the area until his eyes came to rest on MacLeod. It wasn’t the hair or the clothes--although given Methos’ affection for the ‘Great to be Grunge’ look, the turnaround to designer and tailored was pretty impressive. No, the change was telegraphed in the man’s whole manner. He neither slouched not lazed, he looked taller, far more hard-edged than the gentle and harmless looking researcher MacLeod met as Adam Pierson. The gaze he shot at MacLeod was direct, not sly. At least Duncan thought Methos had seen him. It was hard to tell under the dark glasses and the figure turned away almost immediately, walking away in the other direction.

        Duncan followed him down a block and over, until he turned a corner and MacLeod found himself in a short alley, empty, but the buzz was close. He waited and after a moment the familiar lanky form stepped out of a doorway to lean against the stone, watching him.

        Gone was the business man. Methos had his hands in his pockets, destroying the clean lines of his suit, the sunglasses hanging around his neck. He regarded the Highlander with a mix of resignation and amusement.

        “I knew I should have mailed the damn diskettes,” he commented.

        “So why didn’t you?”

        “Because I needed to get out of Paris anyway,” Methos said, glancing up at the sky. He was unwilling to meet the dark eyes, not sure he could stand the less than warm gaze--or blame MacLeod for his reaction. The dark skinned warrior chieftain waited him out.

        “Let it go, MacLeod,” Methos said finally.

        “Who is after you, Methos? Why did you leave Joe your diaries?”

        “No one you need worry about, MacLeod. And I owe Joe that much.”

        “You really aren’t coming back, are you?”

        “Not in his lifetime,” Methos said quietly, pushing off from the wall. “That’s all he needs to know. Or you.”

        The planed face was set, revealing nothing and MacLeod nodded, annoyed. “No explanation.”

        Green eyes fixed MacLeod with a cynical grin. “For Joe? it’s the Game, MacLeod. He knows that as well as anyone.”

        “If you’ve been challenged, why not meet it? You’re not that out of practice any more, Methos,” MacLeod said feeling uneasy. Something was wrong with the conversation--the tone vaguely familiar.

        “Winning a fight isn’t my preference, Highlander. It’s yours.”

        “I forgot. Your answer is to be invisible.”

        “My answer is to survive--any way I have to. As Kronos said, it’s what I do best.”

        Anger burned in MacLeod. “Quoting a butcher. Why am I not surprised?”

        “I have no idea,” Methos said evenly, almost sneering. “Are we done now?”

        “Absolutely,” MacLeod snapped and turned away.

        He got to the end of the alley before he realized Methos had done it to him again. Goaded him. Pushed him away and made it seem like MacLeod's idea. He’d tried the same thing to keep the Highlander out of his entanglements with Kronos--angered him, disgusted him with the idea that Methos had enjoyed being a butcher as much as Kronos. Convinced the younger Immortal that he neither cared nor felt any remorse.

        To protect him from his own boy scout instincts as Methos called it.

        He turned around, anger rising again but this time at himself. The alley was empty. He went down it anyway, felt Methos’ presence ahead of him, in an abandoned retail space, and followed.

        Then felt a second--an oddly flat signature.

        His sword was out as he made his way through the building, dark and empty, opening onto the same street he had parked the Thunderbird on--sunlight glaring through the plate glass.

        He heard steel ring briefly and then fade, following the sound. A percussive sound was followed by a cut off cry of pain and he moved again through the shadows, edging around a wall.

        A buzz, but a familiar one and he stepped around to be met by Methos’ sword, swinging high. He caught it, blocked it and felt Methos stagger, almost fall. He caught him around the waist, grip slickened immediately. Something stiff brushed his arm and Methos almost convulsed at the touch.

        MacLeod said nothing, just pulled him along the wall, toward the door, both of them tense as they heard footsteps closing. MacLeod pulled away, ready to call out the challenger. Methos gripped his arm and held his hand in front of MacLeod's face urgently, extending two fingers. There were two of them then--one Immortal and one mortal. One with a sword and one with a gun or something like one. The Highlander nodded his understanding and kept them moving until they were clear of the wall. He could see the car through the window and pulled his keys out.

        The buzz was closer and MacLeod ran, almost dragging Methos through the door and then shoving him into the car. There was no stopping the sharp groan of pain as Methos fell into the seat, almost passing out as MacLeod started the engine and pulled away.

        The older Immortal recovered, shifting uncomfortably in the seat until he could brace himself between the door and seat, face ashen and a small spot crimson beginning to stain the white shirt.

        “I thought we were done,” he hissed.

        “You’re welcome,” MacLeod said checking the rearview but no one merged from the building as he pulled into traffic. “Where the hell am I going?”

        “Waterfront and Market,” Methos gasped out, fighting for breath and against the undisclosed pain. “Northbank Community.”

        “Pricey,” the Highlander commented checking his companion. Methos was fighting a losing battle. “Are you going to die on me?

        “Very likely. 42....50, Market. Key’s in my pocket,” he managed and then surrendered to whatever injury he’d sustained, slumping back against the seat. Duncan swore as the weight of Methos’ body suddenly prodded the steel tipped bolt through his chest, below the sternum.

        MacLeod drove, pushing the speed limit but not too hard. Trying to explain a dead man in his car with a crossbow quill through his chest to the police was not something he looked forward to doing.

        The community was quiet but the security gates stayed open during the day. MacLeod found the small condo and parked, checking for prying eyes before lifting his passenger out of the car bodily and carrying him inside, using the electronic key to gain admittance.

        Pricey and nice, was his assessment of the open design, loft style condo. He eased the lax body on to the bed, face down, and got a grip on the bolt protruding through the stained rain coat. It came out without hanging up on bone and MacLeod stripped the raincoat off, mouth set at the bloodied shirt. It came off too, towels protecting the linens and mopping up the rest of the blood from the lax muscles and skin.

        First breath was the sharpest, the most painful and MacLeod waited, resting his hand on the bare skin to keep Methos from jerking up ward.

        “Son of a bitch...,” the older immortal swore, letting the pain wash over him, muscles taut against the agony.

        “Easy...relax...” Duncan soothed, knowing from experience that while the instinct was to tense, it made recovery harder.

        His patient tried, relaxing his body but clutching the linens into his fists. MacLeod went into the bathroom and brought back more towels, to clean the stained skin. The wound was healing, closing enough for Methos to breath without the nerve shattering pain and he moved, letting the Highlander help him sit on the edge of the bed.

        “Two of them.” MacLeod commented as Methos leaned over his knees to fight off the dizziness.

        “Yes,” His companion said and volunteered nothing more. “I need a shower. Thanks for the ride, MacLeod. Go home.” He got to his feet shakily.

        Duncan nodded, almost smiling. “Have you eaten?”

        “What?” Methos looked at him, caught off guard. “No.”

        “Good. Neither have I. Have your shower. I’ll order lunch.”

        “MacLeod...”

        The Highlander met the warning glance with one of his own. “Gone too far, Methos. Immortals and mortals working together to take other Immortals’ heads brings up all kinds of nasty memories and I don’t intend to let it happen again. Chinese or Italian?”

        The older man wavered. “Chinese,” he said and headed for the bathroom.

        “Pizza it is,” MacLeod grinned, dialing up a delivery service. He actually placed the order, waiting until he could hear the water running and then called Joe’s Bar. “I’ve found him,” he said when the barkeep picked up from one of his employees. “You were right--hunters. One mortal, one immortal and that’s all I know at this point.”

        “How’s he doing?”

        “He’s being stubborn. There’s more to this but I don’t know if he’s going to tell it or bolt--why don’t you round up Richie and come here,” he suggested, giving the address. “Maybe the three of us can break through five thousand years of attitude.”

        “Right,” Joe said, sounding more cheerful than he had earlier in the day.  “Mac...thanks. I’ll hunt down the boy wonder.”

        MacLeod hung up as the water stopped and Methos emerged, some color back in his face from the hot water. He exchanged his towel for a pair of worn jeans and a clean T-shirt, the puncture wounds mere discs of angry red against the pale skin, then hidden entirely as Methos shrugged into the shirt.

        “Let me guess. You’re not leaving until you get answers,” Methos said regarding his watchdog with some degree of resentment.

        “Something like that,” MacLeod said making himself comfortable on the sofa. “Joe and Richie are on their way over.”

        “Wonderful. Enjoy the condo. It’s paid up through the end of the week.,” Methos said stuffing personal items into his bag.

        “Why don’t you want any help?” MacLeod asked.

        “Because there isn’t any!” Methos snapped and MacLeod sat up, something in the older man’s tone raising the hackles on his neck. It may have been the fatigue that brought the older Immortal’s guard down so absolutely but the expression was one MacLeod had never seen before. He’d seen Methos laughing, amused, angry, afraid, desperate and depressed--all changing within moments of each other.

        But never hopeless.

        The expression was gone in the next moment, locked back behind the restored hazel eyes.

        “MacLeod, there are nastier things in my past than the Horsemen,” he said evenly, almost slowly--explaining things to a small child. “I am trying very hard to keep myself and anyone else I...I...know from getting very dead. The three of you playing nursemaid isn’t any help. It’s part of the Game--sometimes you just have to pick up and start over, somewhere else.”

        “And leave those two to hunt other Immortals?” MacLeod demanded getting to his feet.

        “They won’t.” Methos said wearily, sitting on the edge of the bed.

        “Why not?”

        “Because I’m who Cain wants. Not you, or Ryan or anyone else. Just me. He doesn’t even know what Immortals, our kind of Immortals, are.”

        “Cain is the Immortal?”

        Methos laughed but it was broken--almost a sob. “Of a sort. No. Vash is the one you sensed but he’s not like us either--not anymore.”

        “Explain this to me...” Duncan said sitting down on the bed next to him. “Methos, either they’re Immortal or they’re not--no half measures.”

        “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, MacLeod, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,”” Methos misquoted quietly.

        “Then tell me what I can do.”

        The hazel eyes went distant, body rigid as he looked at the Highland warrior staring at him with a confused mix of anger and compassion.

        “When all else fails--take my head,” Methos said quietly and got to his feet. Too close. Too easy to let MacLeod take his challenge and die in the doing.

        “What? So I can be strong enough to face ...whosit... Vash? Like Kalas?”

        “The two of us combined aren’t powerful enough to bring down Vash and keep him down--not as long as Cain lives. I have two options, Mac. I can hide--which would be my first choice. Or I can die--preferably not at all--but if it has to be, then I’d rather it be at the hands of...a friend.” he said leaning against the wall, the blonde hair making him look younger than Richie. “Cain doesn’t want me dead, Mac. This isn’t vengeance. He wants me very much alive--but alive under his terms is not a pleasant future to contemplate,” Methos said meeting the dark eyes of his friend unflinchingly, giving MacLeod no doubt what he meant.

        Nausea rolled in MacLeod's stomach as he met the calm eyes. The hopelessness was back but also a certain resolute determination. Not masked, not controlled and as painful to see as the hopelessness itself.

        What Cain wanted, to keep an Immortal undying, under less than benevolent conditions, was one of MacLeod's darkest fears. He’d come too close to the same fate himself not to know it--but he kept it tucked away in the deepest reaches of his mind where he didn’t have to pay it much attention.

        “Then if Cain is the driver--let’s take him out,” MacLeod said, not even flinching at the thought of cold blooded murder.

        “We can’t. He can’t die, Mac.”

        “You take the head of an Immortal and he dies.”

        “That’s our Game. Cain doesn’t play by the same rules. Take his head and he’ll get up again--take Vash’s and Cain will raise him up as well. They aren’t like us, MacLeod. Cain never was.” Methos said urgently. “How’s your biblical history?”

        MacLeod never got the chance to answer. The buzz caught both of them.

        “It’s Richie,” MacLeod said but his hands found the katana as Methos picked up his own blade.

        “It’s not,” Methos said recognizing the flat signature. “That’s Vash.” He was backing up, eyes widened and breathing already quickening. “Out, Mac. On the deck and over the rail.”

        MacLeod took a step back as well, not quite sure how he knew, as Methos did, that the signature was somehow different than other Immortals--as if it were missing something.

        Methos had reached the glass door, cursing as he had to fight the burglar bar wedged into the slide-track. The front door shattered--kicked through as if it were made of paper. MacLeod slid into a defensive stance, but he was shaken as he looked up...and up. A huge misshapen head bent down toward him, skull almost brushing the ceiling. Glassy blue eyes regarded him without recognition, almost looking through him before fixing their gaze on Methos and lifting the huge piece of iron that might be called a sword, for lack of a better term--like girder.

        It was nearly as long as MacLeod was tall, thin edge unsharpened and Vash lifted it like it was a paper opener. The huge body was as damaged as the dented skull, arms disproportionate as if he were made up of separate parts--not necessarily his own.

        Glass shattered as Methos gave up on the door and broke the glass instead, clearing an exit. Vash’s half-sized companion entered, carrying not a cross bow this time but a gun, leveling it at Methos’ back. He was dark, pleasant faced, even handsome. He had Methos’ build but not his height--altogether normal until you saw his eyes. They were almost all black with no white--not sane and possibly not human.

        MacLeod shoved the older immortal through and followed, hearing the first bullet break more glass, both of them crossing the large deck to make for the railing. A second shot went off and Methos jerked and stumbled. MacLeod grabbed his arm, pulling him forward. The third shot burned through Methos’ thigh. He hissed and clutched at the rail as MacLeod climbed up, wrenching the slender man up as well.

        The next shot raked MacLeod's ribs and he lost his grip, screaming a wordless protest as he caught Methos’ wrist and pulled at him again, using the momentum to carry them up and forward.

        The massive iron blade came down between them, not to sever, but MacLeod heard the bones in Methos’ arm snap, followed by the sharper crack of wood as the railing broke. Methos met the Highlander’s eyes for one fleeting moment, blood staining his chest again he gripped the rail with one hand and shoved it forward with arm and hip.

        It gave way as MacLeod tried to catch the broken arm, falling towards the water below, half expecting, half hoping, Methos’ head would follow him in his plunge.

        But it didn’t and there was no Quickening, even after MacLeod broke the surface of the water. He looked up to see the shattered railing, but there was no one there.

        He started swimming toward the bank, against the current, pain secondary to the cold in his chest and brain from Methos’ last look and wondered if he had ever given the older Immortal such a look of betrayal.
 
 
 

        “Christ, Rich, one near miss is enough!” Joe shouted from his open window.

        “One of us was in that van, Joe. Get to the address, I’m going to try and follow it,” Richie snapped, gunning the engine and pulling out around the Watcher’s car. Joe’s admonition to be careful unheard.

        Joe pulled out as well, searching for the address and spotting MacLeod's Thunderbird in the driveway. He didn’t even need to get out of the car to see the broken door, shards and splinters of wood littering the otherwise pristine landscaping. The condo was quiet, still, and he entered cautiously, eyes immediately drawn to the fluttering of curtains from the broken sliding glass doors. Beyond that the shattered railing, dark stains on the weathered wood.

        A noise behind him and he turned to find a young man, a teenager, staring at the destruction with wide eyes. The spicy smell of pepperoni and oregano trailed him as he took a cautious step inside. “Must have been a hell of a party, man,” he said and held up the cardboard box. “Twelve-fifty, please.”

        The pizza was cold by the time Joe heard the whine of Richie’s bike approaching. The young Immortal entered like a storm, blue eyes hard and angry--at himself. “I lost him...he was heading north. But I got the license plate--got any friends in the DMV, Joe?”

        “Some,” Joe answered and watched as Richie took in the scene, eyes narrowing as he saw Joe sitting on the edge of the bed, a sword across his lap.

        It wasn’t the katana, it was heavier. Some of Richie’s anger was eased by relief but Joe wasn’t having quite the same reaction. The older man’s face looked tired, grizzled salt and pepper hair seeming grayer.

        “Methos’?” Richie asked, biting at his lip when Joe nodded. “Then where the hell is Mac?”

        “I don’t know. Maybe into the river, both of them. Someone went through the railing. Someone else didn’t,” he added softly and Richie looked down, face tightening at the line of blood across the floor.

        “I’ll take a ride along the river,” Richie said and left.

        It took him only about ten minutes to locate MacLeod, soaking wet and moving stiffly and resolutely back toward the condo. Richie’s sense of relief was almost guiltily overwhelming and inappropriate when he saw the tight, obvious anger that twisted MacLeod's usually expressive face into something almost unapproachable. He was making no effort to hide his sword and his answer to Richie’s query was short and curt as he got on the bike behind his protégé.

        He dried off at the condo, stripping the sodden sweater off and finding an oversized sweatshirt of Methos’ that fit MacLeod's larger frame snugly, relating his side of the story quickly.

        “What do they...this Cain...want with him?” Joe asked stunned by the tale.

        “I don’t know. The last thing Methos asked was about the bible,” MacLeod said, stalking the room like a caged tiger.

        “What is it with him?” Richie asked. “The Four Horseman now Cain and Vash...?”

        “Or Cain and Abel,” Joe said quietly, getting to his feet. “He told you Cain couldn’t die. That this wasn’t for vengeance.”

        “What? Methos is somehow involved in the first murder?” MacLeod snapped. “That’s a little before even his time.”

        “Maybe. Do you know what the mark of Cain is, Mac?”

        “No.”

        “Neither do I--the bible doesn’t say. What if it is Immortality?”

        Richie sat down, trying to take in the theory Joe was fighting for. MacLeod's eyes narrowed as well, ceasing his pacing to stare out the broken window. “Cain, the father of all Immortals? A curse? Then why can’t I sense him? Vash reads like one of us, more or less. But Methos said Cain could raise him up again...”

        “That isn’t the bible. It’s Frankenstein,” Richie said.

        “Or maybe a bit of both,” Joe commented. “Look, if Cain doesn’t want Methos dead then we have time, some time, to track them down. Methos’ journals are our best bet.”

        “It’s a place to start, “MacLeod agreed some of the tension leaving him. “The DMV as well. If the van’s not stolen, then Cain had to have gotten it from somewhere.”

        “Maybe he rented it as Cain Adamson,” Richie said, not trying to be funny, but MacLeod gave a harsh snort of laughter anyway.

        “Let’s keep our fingers crossed it’s that easy,” the Highlander said and took Methos’ sword while Joe packed up the rest of the missing man’s belongings.

        “Mac,” Richie asked his teacher, stopping him in the doorway as Joe loaded the two small bags into his car. “Can you do what Methos asked? If this Cain wants....Christ...I get sick just thinking about it.”

        “Me too, Rich,” MacLeod said quietly. “I don’t know. If I had to, I’d take his head if rather than... leave him to that kind of torture. But I’d rather feed Cain into a meat grinder and see him come back from that,” he said coldly. Richie nodded, feeling chilled as the expression on the strong face reminded him of a frighteningly familiar and much darker version of Duncan MacLeod.

        Methos woke to darkness, bound hand and foot, his first breath sharp and painful, his arm an aching reminder. Damp stone, concrete was under him, his shirt stuck to his back and arms stiffly. He tried to move, the jarring of his healing arm sharply informing him it was not a good idea.

        “I set it. It will heal true,” The baritone voice murmured from the shadows. “I let your friend go. Is he new? New to the game?”

        Methos remained silent, husbanding the fading pain like a shield. Don’t listen. Don’t answer.

        “She’s still there, you know. Under the ice. I check...all the time. She’s waiting for me. For you.” It was a litany, not really directed at his captive, the longing hanging in the gentle voice.

        “It won’t work. She’s dead,” Methos said softly, finding his voice--trying for some sort of reasonable escape.

        “So was I. So were you. So was Vash. If we can come back, so can she.”

        Methos closed his eyes against the raw need in the other man’s voice.

        “You shouldn’t have gone for the Stone,” the voice continued, speaking to hear his own voice. “Did you think I wouldn’t know?

        He’d wondered. Wondered how Cain had tracked him, found him after four thousand years. Serendipitous that the love of a woman had brought them together again. He would have laughed at the irony if it hadn’t been so macabre.

        “You look like her with your hair that color,” the tone changed, darkened--irrationally angry at such a minor detail. “I don’t want that. Nothing about you should remind me of her. you should look like me. My sons should look like me. I want her to see you as you were.” A hand reached out and caught his hair, jerking his head back.. Methos swallowed at the press of steel at his throat, wondering if he could goad Cain into taking his head. “I want to do this now, just to watch. But I’ll wait. I have to find a way to take you home and then we will resurrect her as I did Vash. Life to life, kieri.”

        Methos didn’t even get to draw a breath as the blade moved from his throat to his chest and was buried there.

        Joe rubbed his eyes wearily. He’d been staring at the computer for hours, searching under Cain, Vash with no hits. He’d gone back to the oldest chronological dates to read through all the scanty outlines and found nothing.

        “Take a break, Joe,” MacLeod said, setting the bible he’d been studying down. He had sent Richie back to the dojo while he and Dawson tried to extricate some sense out their too few clues.

        “I’ve searched under everything--including Michael Johnston--nothing. It’s not even outlined. We don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

        “Myths and monsters,” MacLeod said rubbing his temples. His head was pounding from frustration, anxiety and he picked up the bible again. “Couldn’t be Goliath, huh?”

        “With Methos as David...?” Joe’s chuckle was strained. “I don’t think so...I wonder how many giants are in the bible? Frankenstein meets Daniel.”

        MacLeod closed his eyes against the bad humor, recognizing Joe was trying to find an outlet for his own frustration. A giant and a dwarf. Actually Cain had only seemed small in comparison to Vash... Frankenstein was more appropriate than he thought if Cain could truly resurrect the monster.

        “Joe, do a search on giants--or monsters.”

        “Stretching a bit aren’t we?”

        “We’ve got nothing else,” MacLeod said coming up behind him as Joe entered the search, eyebrows rising.

        “Sixteen finds. Huh. First to last?” he asked and MacLeod nodded, bracing his hand on Joe’s chair to lean over his shoulder as the Watcher scanned the entries.. “Giants versus the Mets. Giant spiders in the Amazon. Giant...whoa! Mary Shelley. Frankenstein.” he scanned and then read aloud. “...two weeks with the youngsters, most of it spent in an opium stupor...Mary is too brilliant for this age, too tortured for any other to see so far into the future and fear the monsters mankind creates. It frightened her but she wanted to be frightened and I try never to disappoint a lady. I hadn’t meant to speak of Greenland’s giant but she was so eager...and appreciative. I never saw my name in the credits when the book came out...she may not remember it. Her monster had more intellect than the original....” Joe shook his head. “That’s it.” He scrolled through the rest of the searches with no luck. Then started another search, under Greenland and found one entry.

        “Circa 1072 BCE,” Duncan murmured. “Greenland. ‘There are worse things than dying.’ What’s the rest of that? It’s not Latin or Greek.”

        “No idea, “ Dawson said and the phone rang. The conversation was short. “Thanks, Belinda, I owe you a beer....okay, dinner.” he hung up. “Van was stolen--it’s been found out on I-82, between the docks and the airport.”

        “My turn,” MacLeod said, picking up the phone and dialing. He gave an account number and then requested a list of all transports to Greenland and gave Joe’s fax number.

        “Planning a trip?”

        “Maybe.” MacLeod said, rubbing his mouth thoughtfully. “Or just seeing who might be. Someone as big and...memorable...as Vash can’t slide onto a plane without somebody remembering. I’m just checking out options. What ever we do--I don’t think we’re going to have a lot of time to work out the details.”

        He was wet and cold and naked, shadows and a chemical sting in his eyes, blurring his vision. He recognized the smell and almost burst into laughter, hysterical laughter because he was on the verge of just that, hysteria, panic--his brain ready to shut down as he contemplated being prisoner to a madman with hairdresser illusions. His chest ached as the laughter threatened to spill out. You’d think the pain would become commonplace after having lived through two deaths in as many days--or had he? There was no telling day from night in the shadowy prison. He could hear water close by, the shush-shush of waves and metallic clanking. The sound of water made him thirsty. His mouth was dry--really dry which argued for at least a day. Telling time by the stages of dehydration.

        He was going to lose it.

        He fought back the fear and panic, moving to increase the pain in his chest, forced the ropes to cut into his wrist--pain had its uses.

        “No...No...,” the baritone soothed, stroking his damp head and Methos flinched under the touch. “Here, child,” A cup was held to his lips, water, and he drank, shivering at the cold skin that touched his cheek. “You look better--more like me. Like yourself. As you should.” He was pulled gently to a sitting position, clothing laid in his lap as his hands were untied. Another form moved close in, crouching--massive black shape against the shadows.

        “Vash,” Methos murmured and the monster responded with something that might have been a laugh of delight, or just a grunt of nonsense, but one of the massive hands came up to rub his hair, feel the damp softness and sigh. Methos dressed to escape the chill, aware Cain was behind him, tying his hands again before he helped him step into the dry jeans, ignoring Methos’ reaction when his cold hands brushed bare skin.

        “The mark’s in the blood,” Cain was saying. “We’re all marked, Methos. Haven’t you learned that, yet?”

        “We’re not, Cain. Shiva wasn’t. She wouldn’t have died if she had been,” he said evenly, recognizing Cain’s benevolent mood--for the moment.

        “Nor Vash. But he’s still alive.”

        “Only because you made him that way!” Methos said urgently. “It’s not like that for me. Or her.”

        “She had the Stone! You took it away from her.” The mood had changed again, as Cain caught the neck of his shirt.

        “I didn’t and she didn’t need it. She gave it up, Cain. She didn’t want this anymore--she told you and you wouldn’t listen!” The grip dug into his skin before Cain shoved him to the floor and kicked him into silence. Methos choked as he felt his ribs give way and Vash just watched. Finally Cain stopped, crouching beside him again and panting harshly. “Deceive yourself as you will. We’ve found a plane. I have to take my dead parents home,” Cain murmured, voice softening again. “Vash is no Eve but perhaps Adam was appropriate for you after all.” he rolled Methos onto his back and tied his ankles. “Now, how do I keep you still and silent for eighteen hours?”

        There were two commercial and one cargo flight and one ship making their way to Greenland in the next three days. Joe pulled the passenger lists and the cargo manifests. Being a Watcher had its advantages.

        “Names mean nothing,” MacLeod said scanning the lists.

        “Cargo is not much better. The ship won’t reach port for a month. The plane is carrying electronics, two bodies--older couple from Ammassalik. Car accident. It was in the papers. I checked, Mac. Tourists.”

        “No Quickenings, yet?”

        “Nothing. I don’t know how to feel about that,” Joe said quietly, shifting against the desk he was sitting on. He ached from tension and fatigue. He could live with the discomfort but the not knowing was wearing very thin.

        “Me either.” MacLeod said, with a faint, humorless smile. “I’ll book a couple of flights. I’ll take the one tomorrow. Richie can follow on the next one.” He shrugged at Joe’s look. “It’s all we’ve got, Joe. Cain tracked Methos to Paris and then here. He wants something from him. Richie has cruised the general vicinity where the van was found but you know that area. Warehouses, offices, plants. It could take us weeks to find anything.”

        “Greenland it is, then. This is nuts. We’re hunting for three myths.”

        “Only two, Joe. Methos is very real. I’d like to keep him that way, if possible.”

        “Me too. Good hunting, MacLeod.”

        Duncan grinned and patted his shoulder as he left. Joe sat back down at the computer, staring at it and then brought up an Internet link. “Let’s see what else we can find out about Greenland’s giants and Adam and Eve’s murdering son,” he murmured to himself and sat back to wait...

        MacLeod almost didn’t return the dazzling smile the stewardess gave him--almost missed her entirely as he passed over his ticket, scanning the faces of his fellow passengers. There was no buzz. The woman cleared her throat and he looked back to see her patiently holding out his ticket. He smiled apologetically and then did notice her--Nordic good looks and startlingly blue eyes, but he missed the disappointment in her eyes when his smile was only banally polite.

        Courier papers had gotten the two swords on-board, secured in a cylindrical case and a first-class ticket got them locked under his seat. He secured his carry bag and then made his way to the back of the plane, for once glad to be slowed by settling passengers but saw no one he recognized. The last few passengers for first class came on just before take-off and he was forced to surrender his search.

        The flight was long and boring and he had to change planes in Denmark. His boredom came to an abrupt end as he recognized the dark haired, short figure that boarded, features uncannily resembling Methos and MacLeod made sure Cain didn’t see him.

        They landed in Kulusuk just before dawn, MacLeod lingering back to keep out of Cain’s sight. He wasn’t sure the man would recognize him at all. He had seemed singularly uninterested in the Highlander during their brief meeting. He tried to call the States from the terminal to let Joe and Richie know but he couldn’t get an open line and his quarry was heading for the cargo receiving area.

        Apparently Greenland worried little about terrorists. Security beyond customs was nearly non-existent and the open terminal had few barriers between one section and the next. Cain headed directly to the cargo terminal on disembarking and exchanged words and paperwork with the clerk there. Then sat down to wait. For hours.

        MacLeod waited with him but not so quietly. Cain moved not at all, nor did he speak. His stillness uncanny and unnerving. When he did move it was with such a quickness, MacLeod almost lost him as he headed onto the tarmac.

        The air was frigid, midday already darkening, the days short this close to the arctic circle. Cain passed his manifests to the freight handlers of the cargo plane, watching silently as the two coffins were unloaded and MacLeod felt/heard the vague murmur of two Immortal presences. One was strong and flat. Vash. The other definitely Methos, but weak...alarmingly so. MacLeod spent an idle moment wondering what had happened to the elderly couple from Ammassalik. The handlers loaded the coffins into a waiting truck, ex-military, wooden-sided with a canvas roof and back panel to protect the cargo.

        MacLeod swore. There was no time to rent a car or call Dawson and he ran toward the truck as Cain climbed in to the front, ignoring the calls of the freight handlers. He caught the back, pulling himself inside and almost losing the sword case as he rolled between the two coffins. The truck sped up as it approached the gates so either Cain didn’t know he had picked up a passenger or didn’t care.

        He let his eyes adjust to the dim light, trying desperately to determine which Immortal was in which casket, but they were too close. He shifted, pushing a bit of the back-flap open to give himself more light and opened up the sword case. He was not going to take a chance on disturbing Vash unarmed.

        He felt for the catch on the one to his right and lifted the lid carefully, seeing nothing but white--a heavy shroud. There was no way he could take Vash’s head from this angle but the form was too large to be Methos--he thought. Asking silently for forgiveness should he be wrong, he pressed the tip of the katana against the chest and sank it in. The body curled, convulsed and rose with a strangled cry then fell back, heart pierced, the shroud darkening quickly. When the body was still, MacLeod peeled back the heavy cloth, sighing heavily through his nose when disfigured face and glazed blue eyes stared sightlessly up at him. He used Methos’ sword to prop the lid up and swiveled to check the second. Instead of the white shroud, this one was stained crimson.

        He reached for it, swallowing thickly. The cloth was wet, sodden with blood, the sour-sweet smell almost overwhelming. He pulled the rest of the cloth back and had to stop, suddenly very glad he had not eaten breakfast on the plane. He had to close his eyes for a long moment, throat working to keep down the nausea.

        What part of Methos’ skin was not stained crimson and brown was gray, skin ice cold, dark hair stiff. His arms were bound underneath him and Cain had used MacLeod's trick with Vash, impaling the broad chest with a stainless steel spike. The healing energy danced around it like little blue electric caterpillars, unable to heal the damaged organ fully, only enough to bring Methos right to the edge of life then lose again as the blood continued to drain away. Dry mouthed, the Highlander pulled it free and reached into the sarcophagus. He ignored the liquid pooled underneath the too-light body and lifted Methos out, untying him and cradling the limp form to his chest, wrapping his coat around the icy skin. He closed the casket and settled against it to wait, watching the unchanging white landscape roll by while another kind of cold threatened to overwhelm him.

        Pain could be a demon or a comfort. Demonized as it tore at his brain and body or comforting because the dead don’t feel it.

        Or it could be just pain.

        He tried to curl away from it, make himself smaller--a lesser target--but it held on. As did something else.

        Hands. Warm, large hands rubbing his back and arms through wool and stiff cotton, warming his skin. A familiar burred voice, coaxing him softly.

        “Come on, Methos,” MacLeod encouraged as he felt the body stir, gasp then whimper. Groan making him wince as breath was caught in the over-strained chest. He reached into his flight bag, pulling a flask out, holding it to blue-tinged lips.

        Methos sipped, drank, felt the burn of good Scotch slide down his throat, warming him falsely but he could take the deception as MacLeod continued to chafe his extremities, forcing the healing heart to send blood where it was needed. He was freezing, but he must be getting better. His body was shivering uncontrollably. Always a good sign that death wasn’t quite so attached to one’s hip. He grew cold again as the wool was drawn away then warmed up as MacLeod slipped a heavy sweater over his head. He tried to help, to get his arms through the sleeves but coordination didn’t seem to be a particularly strong character trait at the moment.

        Realization hit him as his skin warmed. “You’re a fool,” he hissed, trying to pull away and MacLeod held him easily, strength outmatching Methos’ even when he was at his best.

        “Probably,” MacLeod agreed. “We’re in Greenland by the way. Outside of Kulusuk. Heading North.”

        “Tunu. The back side,” Methos murmured. “You won’t find where we’re going on any tourist map.” He fought for clarity trying not to concentrate on his most recent memories, knowing his throat was raw, not from the cold but from screaming. “Where’s Vash?” he asked suddenly wary.

        “Sleeping. I can make it more permanent...”

        “You can’t,” Methos said, aware that MacLeod's head was close to his. The engine sound was buffered by the canvas, a droning back ground.

        That was a little much to take and Methos seemed on the edge of hysteria or collapse, worn thin and tired by fear and pain. “What’s the next town? Cars have been passing us.” MacLeod said, shifting underneath Methos and letting him move to the side, the shivering easing.

        “I have no idea. Four thousand years ago there weren’t any towns. We need to get out of here.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, meeting MacLeod's eyes, amazed he could see them. The Highlander’s face was grim, eyes shifting to the other casket which Methos had been studiously avoiding looking at, at all.

        “We can jump and roll but we won’t get far. No cover. Cain doesn’t know we’re here--that I’m here. Are you going to tell me the rest of this nightmare,” the younger immortal asked harshly. “The guy driving--is that Cain? The Cain?”

        “Yes, “Methos whispered, trying to concentrate on MacLeod's questions and not his own memories. “The Cain that killed his brother. Adam’s first son. Marked by God and cursed with life. Immortality so unlike ours it’s a nightmare in itself. You could cut him into a thousand pieces and he’d rise again. And Vash is nearly the same except he lives because Cain does.” He drew his knees up, tucking his feet under MacLeod's coat and wrapping his arms around his legs.

        “What does he want, Methos? He doesn’t want your head--so why chase you across four thousand years and three continents?”

        “Because he thinks my...my blood will revive a woman who has been dead for as long. As his blood revived Vash. He’s not sane, Mac. He wasn’t sane when I first met him--hasn’t been for longer than I’ve been alive.”

        MacLeod checked Vash’s still unmoving body. “This is going to be a long story.” he said, trying to elicit something from Methos besides the dead, flat tone.

        “Not if we don’t get out of here, “ Methos said firmly and moved, hissing in pain as he moved to the tail of the truck to look out. The light hit him, skin white as the snow on the sides of the narrow road.

        “There’s no place to go, Methos. There has to be a town. Easier to escape with other people around.”

        Methos turned and gripped his arms tightly, “MacLeod, for once in your life, listen to the voice of experience,” the older Immortal snapped. “There is no town where he’s taking us and no sanctuary, even among people. We take Vash’s head and jump. We pray to whatever gods you want that Cain doesn’t see us and then we run. Hijack a car, whatever it takes and you go back home before Cain ever sees you. Unless you want your head to replace Vash’s--literally. Cain doesn’t care about you at all--you’re nothing. All he wants is Shiva alive again and he needs me for that. It won’t work but he doesn’t believe it--doesn’t want to know it.”

        “Who is Shiva?”

        “His wife. I killed her. She was one of us--she asked me to take her head because it was the only way she could escape him,” Methos said hollowly, dropping his hands. “Now he believes my blood will bring her back to life. I swear I’ll tell you the whole thing but if you came here to save my ass, this is not the time to have this discussion,” he said earnestly with a trace of anger.

        Anger was better than nothing and MacLeod was having a hard time with the pieces. He nodded. “All right. Vash first--here,” he moved, caught the casket lid and handed Methos his sword his hands reaching for the katana hilt.

        “Nonono!” Methos yelled, realizing MacLeod was going to pull it out. Too late as MacLeod stared at him, confused, then stumbled backward as Vash rose up the moment the blade was free. He reached for MacLeod's throat--healing far faster than any Immortal should be able to--howling in pain and anger as he tore off the shroud, other hand clutching his massive iron sword.. Methos went after the arm holding MacLeod, severing it. The limb dropped and MacLeod with it but Vash kept moving, up and out, bald, scarred head hitting the tarp over head as he swung the massive blade. Methos ducked, countered, aiming above but none to steady on his feet. The rough iron caught him across the abdomen, tearing through cloth, into flesh and with enough force to drive him against the front panel of the truck bed. MacLeod came in behind the monster, steel slicing across the thighs, a move that would have dropped any other man, and Vash did falter, going to his knees but not stopping, as he reached for MacLeod and caught his arm. The Highlander felt the shoulder snap and then he was tossed away as well, consciousness leaving him as the truck slowed and stopped. Vash was sobbing like an injured child and MacLeod slid away into darkness with the sound echoing in his ears.

        “Cain?”

        “Maybe. He headed for the cargo terminal,” he added as the stewardess nodded.

        “Cargo? Richie, those coffins... on the manifest. Can you check? There’s a Watcher in Tasiilaq,” Joe said and Richie had to strain to hear. “I’ll get in touch with him. Where are you going to stay?”

        “I don’t know. I’ll call you. Let me see what I can find out at the cargo terminal. Give me a couple of hours, Joe. I’ll find him. Them,” he promised and hung up.

        “I have a friend in cargo,” the stewardess said. “You think something has happened to your handsome friend?”

        Richie had to grin. For once MacLeod's good looks were more of a blessing than a disadvantage. “I don’t know. I hope not, Bettina. Can I buy you dinner for your help?”

        “Let us see if I can help first,” she said with a smile and took his arm to lead him to the Cargo terminal.

        “The pain will pass, my son. You know it will. You did very well. You’re a good boy, Vash,” Cain said softly, exactly as if talking to a child. All the while he stroked the head where the skull had been crushed in the distant past.

        Duncan tried his bonds again and winced. His shoulder was healing...wrong. He looked around, noting the stone walls, the slitted openings. A huge fire burned in the center of the rough square chamber. There was no electricity but the fire offered enough light to see the icons. A church or temple. Holy Ground. Enough to stop Vash, maybe, but not Cain.

        Or would it? Methos swore Vash was no longer like them and having seen the giant recover, MacLeod was ready to believe it--but to survive a beheading? Methos had tried.

        Methos.

        He found him laying not far away, unmoving and also bound, chest bare and mid-section bandaged to keep his insides inside while he healed.

        “He’ll wake soon,” Cain said and Duncan twisted as the man crouched beside him. “Arise and live again, And Shiva too. I have to be careful though. The ice melt has to be slow.” Duncan followed his gaze to where an irregular shaped block of ice rested on a stone altar near the fire. Water dripped slowly over the ancient stone, the barest shadow of a darker shape trapped within. “A day more,” Cain continued and MacLeod looked at him, separating the near handsome features from the chilling expressionless black eyes gaze. Eyes obsidian dark, marking him as something not quite human. It was impossible to meet those eyes. Instinct and some primal fear forcing the watcher to look away, feeling as if he had been desecrated.

        Cain reached out to touch his hair, not noticing when MacLeod jerked away. “Vash likes your hair,” he said absently, stroking the thick stuff. “But I want his face--he’s my son, you see. But hair...the skin underneath would be all I would need...yes.” the last was thoughtful, a decision made. The voice low, pleasant, save for the words and the eyes, the expression just as insane. “We’ll wait though,” Cain said dropping his hand. “Vash is still in pain.” He rose and went back to soothing his son. “Cain, what are you going to do?” MacLeod asked, battling his fear at the idea of being scalped to provide a monster with hair.

        “Bring Shiva back. I’ve missed her. Methos should have helped then--I asked him to. He was afraid. He said she wanted to die. He lied. She wanted to love me forever and I found a way. The stone would have kept her unharmed--It was meant for her alone. But Methos...” he turned to stare at the still body. “He could have stayed with us. He was another son. As my father had--to replace Abel. If I could replace my brother...I didn’t know then I could. He betrayed me...her...” the voice went soft a foot reaching out to prod the figure. “He’s taking a long time.”

        “Vash nearly cut him in half,” MacLeod snapped, tucking his legs under him and getting to his knees. “It won’t work, Cain,” he said more softly trying to reach through the distance, centuries of confusion and pain. As much as Cain repulsed him, there was enough humanity in the murderer to earn compassion. “We’re not like you. Like Vash.”

        “Aren’t you? You die. You heal. You live. Forever. That’s the curse.”

        “For you. Not for us...for him. It’s different.”

        No.” Cain said and caught Methos by his bound wrists and dragged him next to the altar, dropping him in the puddled water, shoving him onto his back again.

        “How did you meet?” Keep his attention. Keep him talking while he worked to free his wrists, ignoring the stiff shoulder.

        Cain looked at him then away. “Vash found him. He was nearly frozen. He brought him here, to the temple. Vash wanted a friend. Methos stayed to be that friend--a brother. Someone for us to talk to. Someone for Vash to play with. We thought he was happy--then he was gone, said he had to move on. Vash didn’t want him to go--he stopped him.” He looked at his son, a faint smile curving the mouth in fondness. “I’d told him not to kill. He didn’t mean to. It was an accident. Methos fell. Vash cried.”

        “And Methos came back,” Duncan murmured feeling a slight give in the ropes.

        “While we were burning his body. Vash pulled him out. They both took a long time to heal.” he moved back to Vash, pulling a blanket up over the twisted body, checking the arm. “Someone below saw Vash kill Methos. They’d always left us alone--Vash never hurt anyone but they were afraid of him. They hunted him. Killed him. My son. Crushed his pretty face, cut him into pieces and left them for me to find. All but his arm. I brought him back--my blood made the Stone--blood and tears. I made my body the kieri, the sacrifice--the offering. As I had offered the best of my flock to God. The sacrifice he rejected in favor of Abel’s. I gave myself like the ram.” His thumb traced a line from his throat to his groin, across his chest. A knife cut. MacLeod closed his eyes. Cain had gutted himself. Planned the same for Methos. “I lay my offering on my son and asked God to accept it this time. He did, for Vash. A mercy. God learned mercy after he cursed me; Not before.”

        Duncan swallowed uneasily, the man’s tone was shifting from dispassionate interest to anger again. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Methos was stirring again but Cain didn’t notice.

        “I gave him my blood. He healed but he wasn’t...Vash...anymore. He was never very smart but he could talk. Do simple things. A child. When he lived again, Shiva was frightened. I gave him my arm.”

        The Highlander stared at the two muscular arms resting on Vash’s pallet, then at Vash seeing the differences, the similarities. Not Frankenstein’s monster--Frankenstein’s son. Mary Shelley had missed the point entirely.

        “Cut him into a thousand pieces and he’ll rise again.” Methos’ words came back to haunt him. Not hysteria, fact.

        “That scared Shiva more,” Cain was saying.

        “And she tried to leave.”

        “She was just frightened. Vash brought her back. She was his mother...his sister. And she had taken the Stone.”

        The Methuselah Stone. MacLeod almost groaned. Cain’s curse tied up in crystal.

        “I’ll bring you food and water,” Cain said suddenly, his story done.

        “Why, if we’re going to die anyway?”

        Cain look startled. Not the reaction MacLeod had expected. “Die? I can’t kill. Didn’t you know?”

        “No.” MacLeod said confused.

        “Who are you?” Cain asked, coming to squat in front of his prisoner.

        “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Methos is a...friend.”

        “Ah. He said I would kill you? He fears that? I can’t, Duncan MacLeod. My hand killed once. It never will again.”

        “And Vash?”

        “He has killed...by accident. He’s not cruel. There’s no hate in my son. He was spared that.”

        “Never taken a head?”

        “Why would he?”

        “By accident?”

        “I don’t think so...” Cain said and twisted as Methos groaned. “Good. I’ll get the food now.” He rose and vanished into the shadows of the temple.

        Vash was still sleeping. MacLeod searched and found a rough edge of stone, working at the loosening rope. Mind working as he struggled to free himself. Methos was right. Cain had no idea there were differences between them. The curse was the curse--for all of them. And if cursed by God what worse could be done? His shoulder ached and burned by the time he was free. One-handed he got his ankles free and checked on the older Immortal.

        Methos was ashen, skin frigid. He checked the wound found it healing but raw still. MacLeod hauled him to his feet but Methos’ legs were numb, body too weak.

        “Vash!” Cain’s voice cracked with command and the giant woke an rose.

        “Get out, Mac,” Methos hissed, clutching at the altar.

        “I never listen to you,” the Highlander said, searching for a weapon. He pulled away and Vash followed, Cain moving to block Methos.

        “Stubborn Scot,” Methos breathed, using the altar to steady himself--seeing the ice block for the first time, the face and body emerging. It was a mummified corpse head severed from the body, but aligned in place above the shoulders. MacLeod feinted trying to get by the monster, but Vash was faster and recovered, catching MacLeod by the injured arm. Methos swore, hearing the younger Immortal cry out. He grabbed the ice, sliding it to the edge. “Call him off, Cain. If she shatters in to pieces it will take longer to bring her back!”

        “Vash, bring him here,” Cain instructed and Vash obeyed, almost carrying the Scot then dropping him, one massive foot on his chest, the injured arm drawn up and forward. Methos heard the bones snap again, was almost ill at MacLeod's scream.

        “Let him go, Cain,” He spat out. “He can’t help you. He’s not like...us. He’s not cursed.” He ignored MacLeod's protest, meeting the black eyed gaze, trying not to look away.

        “You’ll stay? You won’t run?”

        “I’ll stay until Shiva rises.”

        “Methos!” MacLeod snarled.

        “Shut up, MacLeod.” Methos said sharply. “Let him go, Cain. Give him his sword and send him away.”

        Cain studied the pale face and nodded slowly. “Vash. Leave him. Take care of your brother.”

        MacLeod dropped to the stone with a muffled groan, then another as he wrenched the shoulder back, trying for a better position to let the bones and muscles heal. He heard Methos hiss in pain as Vash caught his arms for Cain to bind, securing him to a pillar next to the altar. He looked up to see the giant reach out to pat Methos’ cheek gently, something akin to a smile on the ravaged face. Methos didn’t flinch, his eyes shifting to meet MacLeod's as Cain handed the katana to Vash. It looked like a butter knife in the huge hands.

        “Walk him down, Vash. Don’t hurt him but make sure he leaves.”

        The giant caught MacLeod's shoulder but the Highlander stopped in front of Methos, startled to find the pain and fear and panic were gone from the hazel eyes. All that was left was weariness.

        “There’s only one head that can fall, MacLeod,” he said quietly and inclined his head toward the door. “Go on.”

        Duncan schooled his features, letting Vash lead him away.

        Vash parked himself at the top of the rough cut road and gave MacLeod his sword, his coat, and watched him walk away. He seemed not to feel the cold. A half mile down and Vash remained, watching. He would stay there until Cain called him back.

        MacLeod looked into the darkness, and saw nothing. A dim flicker of light too far away to measure. He would freeze to death before he reached a town, found help. No way to sneak back--to reach Methos. To take his head.

        On Holy Ground.

        Had Methos known what he was asking? His eyes said he had. Methos’ death was not on Cain’s     agenda. Not a permanent one. He shoved his hands into his coat, flexed his shoulder. It was still not right, but closer.

        He walked until his body was numb. Until he fell, eyes fixed obsessively on the dim lights that were getting no closer. Got to his feet and kept moving.

        The lights were brightening, getting closer and he stopped, wondering if he was imagining it. Chilled to the bone, unable to feel his feet or face. His mind burned with a hum, a touch, and the lights were on top of him, stopping but he kept walking.

        “Mac? Mac!” Hands caught him, pulled him back and he couldn’t fight them. Noise and warmth. Someone pressed a cup to his mouth. Liquid scorched his lips, made his hands tingle and burn. Hands chafed his arms, familiar voice talking to him, pressed another cup to his mouth.

   &nbs