Birthday

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TeddyBear

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THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
MacGeorge

Chapter 1

        Dawn was still in the realm of wishful thinking as MacLeod rose to open the dojo for the early starters. He dragged himself out of bed, pulled his long hair back into a pony tail and dressed quickly in a sweatsuit and soft slippers to get downstairs, unlock the doors and turn up the heat. Two men, bundled against the morning chill, were already standing outside waiting, shifting from foot to foot in cold and impatience. Even on these frigid winter mornings they were religious about their routine and had been regulars at the dojo long before MacLeod had taken it over.
        He took the freight elevator back up to his eclectically furnished loft apartment over the dojo and sleepily brewed himself some coffee before making an inventory of the calls he needed to make. These early morning hours were the only times he could be certain of reaching his Western European contacts in the antique trade. Since Tessa's death and the sale of their store, he had taken on specialized consulting jobs for clients around the world, finding and valuing art and antiquities, bringing together collectors and sellers. It made good use of his specialized knowledge and contacts, his multitude of language skills and his encyclopedic memory.
       Unfortunately, the work had grown almost beyond his capacity to manage by himself and he was beginning to feel the need of a secretary or, perhaps, of deliberately cutting back. Between running the dojo, teaching at the local university and spending time on the phone or in airplanes, the last several months had been a long series of eighteen-hour days, almost seven days a week. Even an immortal needed a break now and then, he thought with a sigh.
       In the meantime, fortunately, the Gathering seemed to have lost momentum, providing a reprieve from being forced to fight for his life every few weeks. As welcome as the hiatus was, habit and experience dictated that he maintain his regular workouts. But as the weeks turned into months, the frantic pace was taking its toll. Lately, he found his concentration slipping, sometimes forgetting which language he was speaking or snapping unnecessarily at his clients or at Richie, who worked in the afternoons in the dojo. He resolved to cut back, maybe carve out some time to go to his cabin on a private island in the woods northeast of the city for some "R&R."
       MacLeod put his notes together, frowning in frustration at the volume of calls he was going to have to try to complete in the next few hours.

       The late morning sun was trying to shine through a thin cloud cover as Richie pulled his motorcycle in behind the dojo, gathered his bag containing a change of clothes and the sword MacLeod had given him, and slammed noisily through the front door. His Immortal Early Warning System (or "IEWS" as he had irreverently named it in his own mind) told him MacLeod wasn't nearby, although when he deposited his stuff in the office he could feel him at a distance, and could see the indicator on the phone showing that the apartment line was in use. He had hardly seen his mentor for weeks except for when Mac gave him his private lessons or taught others in the dojo. The man had been a real bear lately, impatient and demanding, so Richie was glad to be left alone.
       MacLeod had left a list of chores to be done, including calling again about the temperamental heating system, and trying to find a new linen service to provide clean towels for the locker room. The day sped by and Richie enjoyed it. He liked the people who used the dojo, all of them serious but unpretentious about their workouts.
       In mid-afternoon Richie felt a familiar chill of warning as Mac arrived to warm up before a private lesson. He greeted Richie cursorily and took his usual place in the corner of the room as far out of view as possible. Without any real place to hide, most eyes strayed in his direction as he worked through a stretch and warm up routine that revealed a suppleness and strength that would make a professional gymnast envious. Richie, to the contrary, avoided looking. He knew the level of effort Mac put into maintaining peak conditioning. Richie was just beginning to understand just how good Mac was -- how good he had to be in order to stay alive.
       He also knew that Mac expected him to strive for that level of performance and he wasn't sure he had either the talent or the discipline to do it.
       Shelley Martin, the tall, blond athletic martial arts expert who Mac occasionally tutored, arrived and quickly stripped down to a spandex leotard and warm up pants, working through her own stretch routine before changing into her martial arts attire. Male eyes had appreciatively shifted their attention to her well-muscled body and continued to watch throughout the lesson. Shelley was strong, fast and experienced, having won awards in several national martial arts competitions.
       She had searched a long time for a new teacher and had persisted until Mac reluctantly took her on. He was the first teacher she had found in years who could consistently get through her guard, and whose defenses she could not penetrate. They spent the hour working through a single complex defensive move, breaking it down into its separate parts. Mac would call out each component, acting as the attacker, gradually accelerating the pace, then repeating it again and again until Shelley was breathless and both teacher and student were sweat-soaked. Shelley's arms and legs were getting rubbery with fatigue when she unexpectedly dropped her guard, allowing MacLeod's open palmed blow through. Miraculously, he managed to stop the momentum of his attack a fraction of an inch from her jaw.
       Mac's face was a grim mask as he launched into a scathing rebuke, upbraiding her for lack of concentration and stamina. Unfortunately, the verbal attack was in Japanese and its effect was largely lost as Shelley managed to look both chastened and baffled at the same time. All activity in the room had come to a halt in amazement at Mac's tirade. He stopped suddenly and flushed, realizing what he had done.
       "I . . . I'm sorry, Shelley. That was uncalled for," he finally stammered in embarrassment, rubbing his face heavily. "You've worked hard. Let's call it a day." He formally bowed to his student, who returned the bow with an uncertain smile, then he exited quickly to the freight elevator and retreated up to his apartment.
       Richie sat on the bench by Shelley as she toweled off and gathered her things. "He didn't mean it, you know, whatever it was he said," Richie joked. He was glad of the opportunity to talk to her, hoping to find an opening to ask her out.
       "I know," she said with a sigh. "You know, Richie," she turned to look a accusingly at him, "There's something wrong with him lately. He's preoccupied, looks positively worn out. I don't think he has any kind of a personal life. Lord knows I've tried to hint at going out, but he has completely ignored me, and that's really humiliating." She forcibly stuffed her towel and extra shoes into her bag, zipping it up. "I heard about his fiancé dying and all, but doesn't he ever loosen up?"
       Richie frowned in frustration. Now he knew why Shelley hadn't shown any interest in him. It was hard to compete with a guy with MacLeod's brooding good looks and 400 years of experience with women. "Well, he's a little tightly wound, real private. Kind of hard to get to know. You know, Shelley," he offered adventurously, "you and I could go out sometime, hang out. I'm a lot easier to get along with and a lot more fun than MacLeod, trust me."
       Shelley smiled indulgently, "Richie, that's very sweet, but I'm afraid I'm more interested in older men. Well, see you next time," she flashed a brilliant, heartbreaking smile. Richie longingly watched her lovely form as she made her way out the door, speculating on how she would feel if she knew just how much older Duncan MacLeod really was.
       He faced his own lesson with real dread, knowing Mac was already in a foul mood. Maybe he could head off the worst of it with a frontal assault of good humor. Besides, he and Mac hadn't had a real conversation in weeks. He took the elevator up to the loft. Mac was at his desk and, of course, on the phone, so Richie entertained himself by rummaging in the refrigerator, finding a container of leftover carryout Chinese food and polishing it off as he settled into Mac's comfortable leather chair to wait for him to finish his conversation. It was a good ten minutes before MacLeod hung up and turned to his young protege. Richie realized with a small shock that Shelley had been right, Mac looked positively haggard.
       "Can I do something for you, Richie? Besides feed you, that is?" he asked without greeting or preamble.
       "Mac, its just that, well, its been a long time since I've had a chance to ask how you were, had a chat. So, . . . so . . . how are you?" Richie asked lamely. Talking to MacLeod could be a trial sometimes.
       "Right now, I've got to make five more calls before your lesson, so as much as I'd love to chat . ..," Mac gave him a grim, dismissing smile.
       Richie raised his hands in submission. "Hey, I'm gone," he said, rising to leave, "but Mac, you were, uh, kinda hard on Shelley. I hope you go a little easier on me." Richie smiled his most boyish, endearing smile but only got Mac's raised eyebrow in return as Mac stood and deliberately reached for the remains of the Chinese food Richie had left on the counter and dumped them in the garbage.
       Their lesson was as brutal as Richie feared it would be. It seemed virtually impossible to get a hold on Mac, who slipped out of his grasp like smoke, throwing him to the floor again and again. When he did manage to get a hand on him, it felt like he was trying to move a building. Finally, Mac called it quits. As Richie gratefully sank down on a bench to towel off and catch his breath, Mac sat beside him, leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
       "Mac?" Richie asked, noting the exhaustion etched on MacLeod's hard features.
       "Yeah?" Mac responded, opening his eyes and wiping his face with a towel.
       "Haven't you been, well, pushing a little hard recently? I looked at the phone bill this morning, and the overseas calls are starting at 6 am and ending well past midnight every day of the week." Richie pushed on quickly before Mac's frown at his impertinence turned into a rebuke. "You haven't taken a day off, been over to Joe's, done anything for relaxation in, in . . . I don't remember when. And besides, you look like death warmed over."
       Mac chuckled grimly. "It won't kill me."
       "But exhaustion might make you not as fast, not as strong as you need to be at a critical moment, and that could kill you," Richie retorted quietly. The more Richie examined his friend closely, the more he became concerned, and felt guilty that it had taken a relative stranger to make him notice. MacLeod led a difficult, stressful life and carried a load of death and grief that boggled Richie's imagination when he dared let himself think about it. "Come on, Mac, let's go over to Joe's and have a drink and dinner. Give yourself a break."
       Mac closed his eyes again for a moment. He mentally ran through the calls he had planned to make this evening, feeling the weight of obligation pull him down. He had gotten into a cycle of work to avoid thinking about the Gathering, about Tessa, about Anne, about the Dark Quickening. Perhaps he had gone too far. He had a slight tendency, he knew, to engage in obsessive behavior. "Maybe you're right," he finally responded. "I'll go shower and change and, if you're going with me, please do the same," Mac admonished with a smile.

       The two immortals took off their coats as they stepped in from the cold, winter evening into the comfortable warmth of Joe's place. Mac stood for a moment in the darkness of the entrance watching in amusement as Richie bounded forward like an eager puppy into the noisy evening crowd. He realized he had isolated himself for weeks. It felt odd to be out among so many strangers again. Joe Dawson greeted him warmly, pouring a glass of Mac's favorite single malt scotch. Joe came around from behind the bar. He was a big bear of a man with a short, grizzled beard and unruly salt-and-pepper hair, using a cane to maneuver on artificial limbs replacing the ones lost in the jungles of Viet Nam.
       "Well, you've kept yourself pretty busy these past few months," Joe sat, examining Mac closely. The veneer of well-being created by the cashmere jacket and soft cream-colored turtleneck sweater was belied by dark, shadowed eyes, and skin tightly stretched over his hard jaw and cheekbones. "You've been putting in some long days, my friend. Some folks don't appreciate being kept up to the wee hours week after week," Joe admonished gently, referring to himself and other Watchers he assigned to keep tabs on MacLeod's activities.
       "I'll try to remember that," Mac said with a crooked smile. He disliked being the object of Watcher attention but felt powerless to stop it. He was also the only immortal who actually knew his assigned Watcher. Most didn't know the secret society of observers even existed. Given the potential conflicts that would occur if immortals knew their lives were being observed and recorded, even with the Watchers' vow never to interfere, it was probably best that the Watchers' existence be known to as few as possible.
       There had already been at least two major confrontations between Watchers and immortals, both ending in tragedy. The odd friendship that had formed between MacLeod and Dawson defied the conventions of the Watchers, and had been strained to the breaking point more than once as the realities of MacLeod's life as an immortal collided with Watcher policy not to interfere. The ultimate irony was that, with the exception of Joe Dawson, the Watchers themselves didn't realize that hidden among their closed and secretive ranks was Adam Pierson, otherwise known as Methos, the oldest living immortal.
       MacLeod observed Richie prowling the bar for female companionship. He nodded toward his redheaded companion as the hormone-driven youngster made a move on a new waitress. "The immortal you better keep an eye on is Richie. His exploits are probably much more interesting these days than mine."
       The two men chatted amiably about recent events, and listened appreciatively to a young black woman playing some improvisational jazz on the piano. Mac felt his tension ease slightly as he worked on his second scotch. Joe moved off to serve some of his customers, but eventually returned with a plate of sandwiches and a tall glass of ale. "Here, eat. I don't know how you manage to have all the energy you do when you eat so little."
       Mac suddenly realized he was starved and reached eagerly for the food. Joe sat and watched him scarf down the sandwiches. "Seriously, Mac, when are you going to take some time off?" he asked.
       Mac shook his head in amazement. "You know, Joe, what I do with my time is my business." He wiped his mouth, talking around a bite of sandwich. "Just because you guys have some morbid fascination with the details of my existence does not make you my nursemaid!"
       Joe raised his hands in pretend apology for the unwanted advice. "Sorry. You lock yourself away, avoid your friends, exercise like a fiend, work excessive hours. Frankly, it all smacks of some kind of masochistic escapism to me, but then, hey, I'm only closing in on my fifth decade, so what do I know!"
       MacLeod, whose appetite had suddenly disappeared, washed the sandwich down with a long drink of ale. He shook his head and leaned forward, speaking softly. "I've managed my life myself for 400 years, and suddenly you decide I'm in desperate need of mothering? Joe, give it a rest!"
       Dawson met MacLeod's fierce gaze unflinchingly. "Duncan MacLeod, the last three years have been unlike any of the previous 400!" He whispered urgently, stabbing his finger onto the table to emphasize his point. "Nobody could go through what you have and not be unscarred. When I see you working hours a day, seven days a week for months on end, yeah , I get worried. Call it mothering if you like, but if Duncan MacLeod self-destructs, . . . well I think the rest of us will feel the ripple effect for a long time."
       MacLeod's expression was stony as he stood, threw some bills on the table, picked up his coat and started to the door. Joe pushed himself to his feet. "Mac!" he called. MacLeod turned around. "The point is, you have friends who really care about you. You don't have to deal with every problem by yourself."
       "I don't know, Joe, my problems tend to be fatal to friendship," he said so softly Joe had to strain to hear. He smiled gently at his friend and left.
       Joe sat for a moment, then reached for the leftover sandwiches, munching thoughtfully. He worked the bar during the evening intermittently with Mike, the semi-retired Watcher he had taken on as a part-timer. As the night wore down, Richie came over to talk.
       "Any luck?" Joe asked, referring to Richie's attempts to find female companionship for the evening.
       "You know, women these days, they just have no sense of quality," Richie said, shaking his head.
       "I guess not," Joe agreed, washing up the remaining dirty glasses from the bar.
       "I guess Mac was tired," Richie offered, probing for information about their conversation.
       "He was pissed off," Joe said. "I tried to give him advice about slowing down a little."
       "Yeah, he doesn't take advice very well, does he?" Richie said, playing with his beer glass thoughtfully.
       Joe just shook his head, busying himself with cleaning up. "Richie," he said, finally, "You're the only one who talks to him regularly these days. It may be up to you to figure out if or when MacLeod is about to lose it."
       "Whoa!" Richie responded, holding up his hands defensively. "That's a bit much to lay on me, Joe. What the hell do you mean?"
       Joe leaned over the bar and spoke softly, intently. "Richie, don't you realize, the last few years have been a real turning point for him? I know, I know, he's handled war and death his whole life, but this is different. The Gathering, Tessa's death, Darius' death, the Dark Quickening, that business with the Watchers. In the process, he's managed to become one of the most powerful immortals around, but its become a crushing burden and he doesn't know ho w to ask for help, doesn't know how to accept it!" Joe rubbed at some invisible spot on the bar.
       Richie looked at his beer intently for a few minutes. He didn't want to think about this topic, what his friend, his teacher, really was, what his own life might be fated to hold. "I thought you guys didn't interfere."
       "Yeah, well, I'm not the only one who believes that MacLeod is . . . different."
       "You really think it's that bad?" Richie asked.
       "I don't know!" Joe said in frustration. "Who knows what his limits are? They keep being tested, over and over, as though . . ." Joe didn't want to finish the thought. "Someday, if he doesn't learn to bend, he'll break. And the consequences . . . I don't even want to think about it."

       A few days later, Joe answered a late afternoon phone call at the bar. " Joe!" Richie's voice was full of excitement. "I've got an idea. About Mac."
       "Yeah?" Joe prodded dubiously.
       "A party."
       "A party? What do you mean? What kind of party?" Joe asked, even more dubious.
       "A birthday party. Mac will be what, 404 years old? That's this month! When do you think was the last time he had a birthday party? We could invite a few friends. He would see how much people cared about him. It would be a surprise!"
       Joe grunted. A birthday party for a 404 year-old Immortal. It would be a surprise all right. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Richie. Mac doesn't respond well to surprises."
       "Come on, Joe! It'll be great. I can contact Amanda and Connor and Adam. Mac just doesn't realize how many friends he has!" Richie would not be discouraged. Joe had deep misgivings about the proposition, but Richie's enthusiasm was boundless and he was determined to carry through on his idea.

       Mac tried valiantly after his night at Joe's to cut back a little. He managed to close a major transaction and refused to take on anything new, but the search for a rare natsuke figurine by a collector in Germany heated up about then, eating up the extra time. Then, to add to his problems, he started experiencing an odd, anxious sensation that he had learned over the centuries was a premonition of trouble ahead. Whenever he went out of the apartment his perceptions tingled as though he were being watched by hostile eyes, and he renewed his commitment to work out at least two hours a night. The long katas he worked through until his muscles trembled cut into what little sleep time he had. Even though he told himself he could subsist on three to five hours a night for long periods of time, just how long seemed to be a theory he was in the process of testing.

       The slight figure lowered his binoculars and leveraged his small body beneath the lip of the roof to get out of the biting winter wind. Abraham Caldwell had found a convenient viewing spot on the top of an old warehouse a block from MacLeod's building. For the past hundred years he had been working his way gradually around the country, carefully, slowly, methodically identifying immortals, stalking them from a distance, disabling them and taking their heads. He had been driven relentlessly in his obsession, and the burning need, the desire to hunt had risen to a feverish pitch in the last couple of years. Each head he took had led him to another, but the past 130 years seemed all to have built to this particular time and this particular place.

Chapter 2

        It was the fall of 1863, and, at 13 years old, Abraham had joined the Union Army along with all his friends. They had thought it a lark, that they would soon be home with great heroic stories to tell. But the months dragged on and on. The food was scarce and awful, the cold in the winter barely survivable and the heat in the summer unbearable. They were held together only by a combination of pride and fear. War was, after all, what a man was supposed to do, wasn't it? Besides, they shot you if you deserted, and there was no place to go. Certainly not back home.
       Abraham had always been a pretty boy with dark, curly hair and beautiful, soulful blue eyes. He was small for his age and it was a constant, embarrassing struggle to carry and fire the long rifle he had been issued. He had always fantasized about being big and strong, a hero who could single-handedly save the day, so it was especially humiliating when the other soldiers treated him like a pet and tried to keep him out of harm's way. Abe's status and his luck changed, though, and he decided being the company pet wasn't so bad when the Colonel picked him to carry messages around the camp. The Colonel was a big man with a large beard and a quiet voice. The soldiers all looked to him for leadership, and being around him made Abraham feel important, at the center of power. He frequently had to wait in the commander's tent, overhearing conversations about the war, the camp activities or the men. Abraham came to think of the Colonel as the personification of everything he wanted to be, and was thrilled when the man seemed to take comfort in Abe's presence, sometimes stroking his hair in a gentle, almost absentminded gesture. Soon the Colonel even started slipping him special treats, extra rations and blankets. Then, late one night, the Colonel called him to his tent and the touching was of a different kind. It excited him and frightened him, but the colonel said it was their special time, that he mustn't ever speak of it to anyone because they'd be jealous and he'd have to send Abraham away. So Abraham Caldwell learned to keep secrets.
       That summer was a glorious one for Abraham. He was always kept far behind the lines whenever there was a battle, and he felt needed, he felt important, and he felt invulnerable. Then came the day of horror at Gettysburg. The mind-numbing noise from the cannon barrages went on for hours, getting ever closer. Soon, the acrid sting of smoke and gunpowder was making his eyes water, and he could actually hear the screams of the dying. Then without warning, without sound, Abraham felt himself lifted off his feet and thrown onto his back. He looked down and at first all he felt was astonishment at the blossoming red stain on his chest. The Colonel had promised he would not let anything hurt him! As he turned an accusatory look to his protector, cannon fire ripped through their position, sending bodies and parts of bodies flying in every direction. Abraham watched in mute horror as the Colonel's face disappeared in a river of red and his body fell like a stone. As the pain spread across his chest like a crushing weight, Abraham wanted to cry out, but no sound would come. He tried to reach out to the Colonel, but his limbs wouldn't respond, and the roar in his ears gradually faded to silence and the bright sunlight dimmed to black.
       He awoke choking with pain and confusion. He lay amidst dozens of bodies, some of them moving, groaning in agony. He reached to his own chest where the blood was still damp, but the pain was fading. He didn't understand and he was afraid. The gunfire was distant now, but smoke and the smell of gunpowder and death, of loosened bowels and blood, filled his senses. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling, running, direction-less, just to get away, anywhere, but before he got a hundred yards a whole new wave of dizziness and nausea overcame him. He fell to his knees, vomiting and clutching his head as a ghostly figure emerged from the drifting smoke.
       "And what have we here?" the sibilant tenor voice whispered. It was a tall, emaciated man in a long, tattered frock coat, wearing a preacher's collar. His dirty blond hair hung limply to his shoulders, and he carried a bloodstained saber in one hand and a rucksack in the other. "But you're just a boy!" The man loomed over him, pulling Abraham's head back by his hair so he could see the boy's pale, sweaty face. "Oh, and such a pretty one," the man whispered, his foul breath brushing against Abe's cheeks. "I think I'll keep you." He grabbed Abe's arm and yanked him to his feet, pulling him along behind as he wandered among the dead and dying. "We're on a hunt, little man. A battlefield is the best place for people like us, you know. If you're lucky, you come across some newly dead one, and you can catch him just as he rises and," the man whipped his saber through the empty air, "It's so easy!" The man looked down at the youngster, his eyes hard and mean, "Come on, boy, hurry up!" he said, as Abe stumbled in an effort to keep up, "If your regiment finds you they'll shoot you as a deserter, you know."
       Thus began Abraham Caldwell's lessons about immortality. Abe was confused and frightened, sure he had no real choice but to follow his new protector who called himself on "The Preacher". The Preacher kept him fed and clothed, gave him a few coins and trinkets, and whispered to him late at night, holding him, touching him like the Colonel had, telling him what he was, telling him about immortals, about Quickenings.
       The Preacher followed the armies, it didn't matter which side, just so he could be nearby when battles occurred. Abe carried the rucksack which Preacher filled with rings and watches from dead bodies, and which always contained a spare bottle of whisky. At first what they did made him sick, picking over the bodies, the sight of all those ruined, dead faces looking so much like his friends, like himself. But after awhile Abe taught himself to view them as just things, not real, not important. And every once in awhile they would find a newly born immortal. Abraham watched in rapt horror and fascination as Preacher waited until the ignorant, confused soldier rose from his first death, then slashed the man's head from his shoulders. The bizarre storm that followed, what Preacher called the Quickening, was brief and violent, throwing Preacher to the ground, leaving him spent and gasping. But afterwards, Preacher's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he told his young companion there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that felt like the power of the Quickening.
       Finally, months later, Preacher let Abraham take his first head. That first attempt was grotesque. He didn't have the strength to do it in one blow and he chopped and hacked, sickened at the carnage he had caused. Then as bolts of white energy surged through him, giving him his first taste of real power, the rush, the overwhelming assault to his senses was the most wonderful moment in his short life. He could feel things, see things, smell things, know things he hadn't known before, hadn't realized even existed. The world suddenly became a different, more colorful, more tolerable place. He wanted more.
       The long months passed from winter to spring and summer again, and after Preacher had let him take a couple more heads, he began to began to wonder whether he really needed The Preacher to protect him anymore. He pressed Preacher for more information about immortals. Were they all like them? How old would they get? How old was Preacher? Finally, Preacher lost patience one warm afternoon and backhanded Abe a blow that lifted him off his feet and landed him in the tall grass by the side of the road.
       Preacher stalked over to where he lay and leaned over him, grinning evilly. "You want to know about other immortals, boy? You think you can survive without me? You are a sniveling fool! Most immortals use a sword like nothing you've ever seen or imagined. You wouldn't survive 30 seconds with the likes of them! They think what we do is against their precious rules. Well the rules don't work for the likes of you and me, do they, boy? We're not old and big and strong, so we survive the best way we can. And you know what? My power grows, little by little, and someday, I'll be strong enough to beat any of them. Someday I'll even be able to take the head of Duncan MacLeod!" Preacher stood and shook his saber over his head. "I'll cut off his stinking head, I will!" he shouted to the sky.
       Abe hardly spoke to Preacher for days afterward, punishing him with silence and lack of cooperation at night when Preacher wanted what he euphemistically called "comfort." Abe was making a plan, and found his opportunity as they traveled in Virginia near Manassas, and passed an old, shabby, nearly deserted inn. Abe pleaded for the chance to spend a night indoors, promising an evening of delightful cooperation if they could but stay. Preacher relented, and Abe poured several glasses of ale for his protector as they lingered over the luxury of a hot meal before retiring to enjoy the comfort of a real bed. Abe washed himself at the small basin as Preacher watched, drinking his whiskey from a cup for a change. The boy had learned how to please his master and afterward solicitously poured him several more drinks from the bottle. By the time Abe broached the topic of other immortals again Preacher's words were slurring and his movements were slow and clumsy.
       "Please, Preacher," he said, looking pleadingly at him through his long l ashes. "Tell me about the others, the other immortals, about Duncan MacLeod."
       "Oh, lad, they're a fierce lot, they are, the powerful ones. They've been alive for hundreds of years, hundreds. They've traveled all over the world. They can read and write. They have fortunes the like of which you've never seen! And swords? They carry huge weapons that are like magic. They can take a head so fast you don't even know they've been there." Preacher warmed to his tale, wanting to impress and frighten the lad to bind him more strongly to him. "And Duncan MacLeod, well, I almost lost my head to him, I did. I was hunting just like usual and found a little drummer boy. Easy as pissin' I took his head. Didn't think nothin' of it. A few miles on, I felt him. The feelin' rolled over me like thunder, like nothin' I ever felt, and there he was, the Highlander they call him, a dark, avenging angel, after me for killing that boy. 'I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,' he says, looking for all the world like Lucifer himself!" Preacher paused to take a long drink, his hand trembling slightly at the memory.
       "What happened?" Abe asked anxiously.
       "Well, I ran, o'course. Ran like hell. There was fightin' goin' on all around and I lost him in the fracas. But he haunts my dreams to this day. Someday, though, I'll be strong like him and then it'll be the Highlander who runs!" Preacher laughed, picking up the bottle and finishing it off. In minutes, the room vibrated with his snoring, and Abe slipped carefully out of bed and pulled on his clothes, then stood watching The Preacher sleep in drunken unconsciousness for a long time. Moving cautiously, quietly, he took Preacher's saber, and with a motion he had been practicing for over a year, sliced off Preacher's head in a clean blow. The Quickening was wonderful.
       Over the decades Abraham had honed his skills, refined his techniques. He became a master at using his face and his body to manipulate both men and women, always going after the weak, the vulnerable, the young immortals. In the process, he had learned some hard, ugly lessons about how the strong hurt and exploit the weak. He had vowed that he would do whatever was necessary to become strong, that he would never again be vulnerable, that he would be able to hurt others as so many had hurt him. He had gotten more ambitious over the years as his techniques improved, and he never forgot Preacher's story about Duncan MacLeod. He was certain he was finally ready. If he could take MacLeod's head he would have the power he always wanted. He wouldn't have to hide in the shadows anymore. He had watched MacLeod now for weeks, spying at night as the tall, muscular figure danced his martial arts katas. The Highlander was everything he had always wanted to be. With his Quickening, he would be able to move like that, think like that, be respected and feared like that. He sat on the roof, watching, oiling and polishing the black steel crossbow he had had specially made. It was a light, but incredibly powerful weapon, silent, accurate at a considerable distance, enough to be fired while outside the range of an immortal's awareness of his approach. Most of all, its effects were deliberately debilitating, not like a simple gunshot wound. He was waiting for the right moment when MacLeod was alone, isolated, but close enough to bring down with the crossbow, then Abe would strike.

       Richie laid his plans carefully. He was nervous. He had never attempted to do anything like this behind Mac's back. He waited until Mac was downstairs with a student, then snuck up to the loft and hacked into Mac's computer address book. He wrote down contact numbers for Amanda, for Connor MacLeod, and for Adam Pierson. He started to record some others, but decided that he didn't really know those people well enough and, with immortals, you never knew who was hunting whom. When he managed to reach them over the next couple of weeks, they all sounded dubious about Richie's idea, but he appealed to their friendship for Mac, saying he really needed them. That worked every time. As he hung up the phone from Connor MacLeod, his last contact, he wondered at the magnetic pull Duncan seemed to have on everyone. Richie supposed that, over the centuries, Mac had put his life on the line for others so many times that he had somehow managed to overcome the instinctive fighting urge immortals felt in each other's presence. Finally, the party was complete, with Joe agreeing to close the bar for the evening.
       Richie spent that cold December morning giftwrapping a new CD of MacLeod' s favorite Verdi opera and putting up balloons and banners at Joe's. He was so nervous when he reported to work at the dojo, he was certain Mac would realize that something was going on.
       Mac came down for his afternoon lesson as usual, but was preoccupied and distant. He actually cut the lesson with Shelley short with an apology, pleading pressing business elsewhere. As MacLeod retreated upstairs, Shelley stuck her head in the office. "Hey, Richie," she said. "You remember what I said about something being wrong with him? Well, it's getting worse. You're supposed to be his friend. Why don't you do something?"
       Richie came to the door, smiling conspiratorially. "I've got a plan to get him out of his funk, Shelley, don't worry."
       "Well, you better do something soon, Ryan. See you next week." Shelley made her usual sinuous exit and Richie, as usual, watched.
       Worried about his plan, Richie was prompted to visit the loft. Unexpectedly, Mac had the frosted glass portion of the kitchen window up, and was staring out at the street when Richie came off the elevator. "What is it, Richie?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the street below.
       Richie walked to the window to see what interested Mac so much. "Whatcha lookin' at?" he asked.
       "I don't know," Mac replied. "There's something out there. Someone watching. I can feel it." His voice was distant, preoccupied. "I've felt it for awhile now."
       "Uh, Mac, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but, you see, there is this secret society called the Watchers, and, well, they Watch."
       Mac looked at him with an expressively dubious raised eyebrow. "Very funny." He turned from the window and found a bottle of water on the kitchen shelf, opened it and took a long drink. "Now what did you want? I'm busy."
       "Joe called. He says he's been trying to reach you but the line's been busy." Richie was trying hard to be nonchalant. It didn't seem to matter because Mac was hardly aware he was in the room.
       "Yeah, what about?" Mac went back to the window.
       "I don't know. He says its urgent. That he needs to talk to you tonight, and could you come to his place around eight." Richie got the words out in a rush, afraid he would blow it.
       "Okay." Mac just stared out the window.
       That was it? Richie thought to himself. "Okay, well . . . See you later." Richie backed into the elevator. Mac didn't even reply.
       As the elevator clanked down to the dojo, Richie leaned against the back wall, wiping away the sheen of nervous sweat that covered his forehead, then pumped his fist, whispering "Yes!" excitedly to himself.

       Duncan worked on some Internet research for a few hours until his vision began to blur with fatigue. He was glad of the distraction of going to Joe's, whatever the reason. The suspense of the last few days was getting to him. Anything was better than this passive waiting. He took the outside stairs down to the alley to get to his car, surveying the street as he stepped into the cold night air. There was a woman with a dog walking away from him about block away, and a kid in a heavy coat on a skateboard coming towards him in the next block. He stretched his frayed, tired senses as far as he could. His sense of danger was immediate and urgent but he couldn't pinpoint its source. Well, standing there wasn't going to help, he decided. He reached into his pocket for his keys went down the steps to his classic, black Thunderbird convertible parked behind the building.
       Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The kid on the skateboard passed the woman with the dog, who turned the corner and disappeared. As Duncan approached the bottom stair, out of the corner of his eye he observed the kid stop and reach for something in his coat. MacLeod instinctively identified the action as a threat. He reached into his coat for his sword just as something slammed into his chest, throwing him on his back. Mac looked down to see the end of a barbed metal arrow protruding from his right lower ribcage, and blood soaking into the front of his white sweater. He was only peripherally aware of the pain, but his body at first refused to respond when he tried to rise, and he heard himself grunt with effort. As the kid skateboarded to a stop about 100 feet away MacLeod belatedly felt the wave of awareness of another immortal. A short sword appeared in the youngster's hand, and Mac knew in a glance that the eyes in the face of the "kid" were unnaturally old. Mac struggled to his feet, pointedly ignoring the hot pain gathering in his chest, holding onto the railing of the stairs for support, with his dragonhead katana in his right hand.
       "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." he growled.
       "And I am Abraham Caldwell, Highlander. I have come for your head." the voice was sweet, piping, young, but the words dripped with venom.
       Duncan laughed, choking briefly on the blood rising in his throat. "It's not so easy as that, Abraham Caldwell." He gestured provocatively. "You think you can take me down? Come closer, boy."
       Caldwell's eyes flashed in anger. "I've been taking heads for over a hundred years and now I'm ready for yours. You're not so all-powerful Duncan MacLeod! Look at you! You bleed and you can die!" The small figure dashed in with feral quickness, slashing with his smaller blade, but Mac met the attack with a strike that left Caldwell's arm numb. MacLeod was hanging onto the railing with his left hand, and Caldwell attacked that side, meeting MacLeod's long, lethal katana once again. Certain that the arrow would do its work as it had with his other victims, Caldwell struck at MacLeod again and again, but the man stood his ground, fending off every blow as though Caldwell were a mere annoyance. "Damn you, MacLeod. Die!" Caldwell used both hands to put maximum force behind the blow, but as he raised the weapon over his head, MacLeod struck out with his foot, throwing Caldwell to the ground and sending his blade flying. The momentum of the kick combined with his own fast-growing weakness also sent MacLeod to his knees, where he paused for a second, trying to catch his breath. Then he pushed himself clumsily to his feet, grabbing for any handhold he could find, stumbling to his car.
       Caldwell, lay stunned for a moment, then dove for his sword and turned again to attack his prey as MacLeod fumbled with the door of the T-bird. By the time Caldwell reached him and slashed down, all the blade caught was the cloth top of the car. The motor roared and the car's wheels sent gravel flying as it reversed out of the alley. MacLeod swung the car around and Caldwell, screaming in frustration, reached the trunk, pounding on it with his sword. He grabbed onto the bumper briefly, but was shaken loose as the car fishtailed out of the alley and, tires squealing, sped down the street. Caldwell stood slowly, brushing away the gravel caught in his clothes and painfully imbedded in the palms of his hands. His eyes narrowed as he observed the large splashes of blood on the stairs and trailing across the alley, and he headed to his motorcycle parked around the corner.

Chapter 3

        MacLeod drove blindly for a moment, trying to get his breath and his bearings and make some kind of a plan. A couple of miles away, he pulled into a dark street, stopped the car and opened his coat to assess the damage. The arrow was lodged deep in his chest and he could feel the point scrape against a back rib. He was in trouble. He sat for at least ten minutes, letting his remarkable body close off bleeding vessels inside, healing around the arrow. He knew that when he moved the bleeding would start again. The blood loss and pain were already taking their toll, as he had to concentrate to turn the car key, and remember how to get to Joe's.
       The journey to Joe's seemed endless, and he became disoriented twice, turning the wrong direction. Every movement caused more damage, and as he finally turned into Joe's parking lot, he began to shiver as his body went into shock. As he turned off the ignition, he once again felt the chilling wash of sensation signaling the presence of another immortal. Grimly, Mac realized that Caldwell had guessed where he would go. He grasped the hilt of the katana on the seat next to him as the car door was jerked open. Caldwell grabbed the sleeve of his coat with surprising strength and yanked him out of the car as MacLeod yelped in pain. The boy's sword whistled overhead, and MacLeod swung the katana up, barely deflecting the killing blow. Caldwell stepped back and kicked him hard in the ribs. As Mac involuntarily doubled up, straining for air, he realized he was hopelessly vulnerable, and the irony of being taken down by a venal child after all he'd been through struck him as almost funny. He prepared to make a desperate thrust as he saw the boy gleefully raise his weapon for a final strike.

       Richie nervously looked at his watch again. It was 8:30 and Mac hadn't showed yet. He had called the loft a few minutes ago, but gotten no answer. The others were sitting around, talking quietly, looking at their watches, looking at him. What if he didn't show? He would look like an idiot having brought these immortals in from all over the country. The balloons and banners seemed stupid now. The whole idea seemed stupid now. He paced up and down, up and down, looking at his watch.
       "Richie, stop pacing!" Joe finally said. "MacLeod will be here. If he said he would be here, he'll come."
       "All he said was 'okay'." Richie said speculatively. "He didn't say, sure I'll be there' or anything. I should have made sure," Richie berated himself, continuing to pace.
       Then, Richie felt a wave of new awareness. It was Mac, it had to be. Then, unexpectedly, there was another presence. Puzzled, Richie looked around the room to see if someone had left and then returned, but all the immortals were accounted for.
       "Something's wrong," Connor MacLeod spoke softly, reaching for his coat and striding to the door. He was quickly followed by the other immortals, with Joe trailing behind them.

       Caldwell stood over MacLeod, savoring the moment. The great warrior was groveling at his feet. All the Highlander's power and strength would now be his, and it would be Abraham Caldwell's name that immortals would whisper in fear. Then he froze.
       Awareness of another immortal had washed over him, then over him, then over him again as several tall figures stepped into the parking lot, each carrying a shining sword. A cold chill rose from his insides as he turned and stared in shock. He had never felt that much power before, never seen that many immortals gathered in one place before. And they were old, really old. His senses reeled and vertigo sent him staggering back.
       "You strike him down and you die," a soft voice said. The voice carried across the dark parking lot as though it were whispered directly in Caldwell's ear and rang inside his head.
       Connor walked slowly toward the two figures in the darkened parking lot. MacLeod's struggle to breathe could be heard yards away. The boy with the old eyes regained his composure as he stepped defiantly towards Connor. “He's mine!" the boy shouted. "You can't interfere. It's against the rules!"
       "If you had followed the rules, Duncan MacLeod would have taken your head before you raised your sword arm." Connor said evenly. "I say again, if you strike, I will kill you. Back off now, and we will let you leave unharmed. I can't say what Duncan will do later, but for the moment you will be allowed to live."
       As they spoke, Duncan slowly worked himself to his feet, bracing himself against the car. All the others could see was his outline, his long coat, his dark hair loose and blowing around his shoulders, and the katana glinting in the stark light of the streetlamp. The boy looked at MacLeod for a long moment, then turned to the immortals spaced threateningly around the parking lot. “You . . .you said you'd let me leave. That means all of you!" the sweet looking boy with the tousled hair pointed with his sword. At Connor's signal, Amanda, Richie and Methos backed off to give the boy room. Caldwell moved to his motorcycle, clutching his sword spasmodically, trying to watch them all simultaneously. Finally he started the motor with a roar, gunning the machine to spin around, spraying gravel. Stopping at the edge of the road, the boy turned to them, blind rage and hate distorting his angelic features. "My name is Abraham Caldwell. Remember it, because first I'll get him, then I'll come for each of you! You think you're so powerful. Wait til you're all just like him," he pointed to MacLeod slumped against the car. "Then you can watch as I take your heads!" With a roar he was gone.
       Connor stepped quickly toward his clansman, opening Duncan's coat to reveal his blood-soaked sweater. Supporting him under one arm, he steered him inside, but halfway to the door Duncan's legs folded up and Methos and Richie ended up helping carry him in and depositing him on the upholstered bench along the wall.
       Richie stepped back to give the other immortals and Joe room to work. There was something protruding from under the sweater and Richie wasn't sure he wanted to see this. However, there was a certain macabre fascination in the sight of Connor carefully cutting Duncan's blood-soaked sweater away to reveal a six inch barbed steel spike lodged in Mac's ribs. Richie was suddenly sorry he had watched.
       After lying still and breathing shallowly for a moment, Duncan finally spoke, his voice a breathless whisper.
       "Wha . . . what are you doing here?" he asked, looking at the familiar faces gathered around him.
       "Never mind that now, Duncan. We've got to get this thing out of you." Joe said.
       Mac endured their brutal ministrations with grim stoicism. When the arrow was finally out, MacLeod paid the price for all the blood loss and internal damage as the light faded from his eyes and his ragged breathing ceased. There was a long silence in the room until Joe brought out some glasses, pouring a round for everyone.
       Richie stared at the body on the table. "How long?" he asked quietly.
       "There's a lot of damage there," said Methos. "It may take awhile." He was matter-of-fact, trying to convey a sense of normalcy in what was a distinctly abnormal situation.
       "Do you suppose that little twerp is still out there?" Amanda asked no one in particular, just to make conversation.
       "I think we ought to leave him to Mac," Adam said. He casually draped his long, spidery limbs between two chairs. "I've actually read about Abraham Caldwell in the Chronicles. He's led a horrible life. First he was used and, literally, abused by a real sicko immortal who found him during the Civil War. The guy taught him to take heads just as a new immortal awoke after being killed in battle. Caldwell eventually killed the bastard, then moved on, developing his own personal style for finding weak immortals, disabling them, sometimes torturing them for awhile, then taking their heads. I guess he's trying to move up in the world."
       Richie sat quietly at the bar, drinking his beer and contemplating how much pure luck impacts the outcome of each life. What if the first immortal he had encountered had been someone other than Duncan MacLeod? Life would be very, very different.
       It was almost a half hour later when Duncan moved slightly, then gasped suddenly for air, groaned, rolled over on his side and curled into a fetal position.
       Duncan waited patiently for the worst of the pain to pass. His mouth was dry as dust and he was afraid to breathe deeply since it might make him cough and that seemed like a really bad idea at the moment. He pressed his hands to the bench to push himself to a sitting position. His arms vibrated with the effort, and he felt hands reach out to help him.
       Someone put a glass of water in his hand and Amanda helped him hold it while he drank it down. His thirst remained, but at least his mouth was moistened. “I'm okay,” he finally was able to whisper, waiving off further efforts to help. He still desperately wanted to cough, but forced himself instead to stand, clutching the side of a table as the room tilted and spun and his knees wobbled.
       Moment by moment, he was feeling better. The pain was still bad, but it had reduced to manageable levels. The weakness was awful, though, and his discomfort at being the center of attention and having caused all this concern was almost as disconcerting. “Look, guys, I appreciate your concern, but I'm really okay." He let go of the table and raised his arms to prove it. "I'd just like to go home." He looked around for his coat.
       Amanda grabbed both his shoulders and forced him to look at her. "You're being a machismo idiot, Duncan, or you can't think straight right now, or both. Look at yourself!"
       Duncan seemed mildly offended by her remark, but looked down and realized his sweater was hanging in bloody tatters, and his chest was still marked with a blood-smeared massive black bruise. "Well, . . .I know it looks bad, but . . . I am a very fast healer."
       Adam's voice came from behind him. "Not even you heal that fast, MacLeod. Besides, your new-found friend, Mr. Caldwell, is probably lying in wait for you right now."
       Richie came around the table and handed him a large glass of scotch. "Here, Mac. You look like you need this."
       Mac smiled at Richie's solicitous attitude, not realizing it made his grey face look like a death mask. He made his way carefully to a chair and took a small sip of the liquor. It burned fiercely as it hit his still healing insides, and he felt it move into his bloodstream almost instantly. He forced himself to take another drink, taking perverse pleasure in the sensation. The whole evening was something he wanted to forget, and this seemed like the ideal way to do it.
       Joe, got another full glass of water and thrust it at him. "Drink it, MacLeod. I think you're a few quarts low on blood right now. It seems to be all over my floor."
       So he drank that glass as well as the next one that was forced on him, then waived Joe off.
       "Enough, Dawson. Let me be." Duncan said, enjoying the buzz the liquor had already induced. It was helping with the pain, now reduced to a bone-deep ache, and dampened the emotional turmoil he couldn't quite identify and was barely managing to control. Finally, he surveyed the room, for the first time noting the decorations, and taking in the fact that Connor, Adam, Amanda, Richie and Joe were all gathered at what appeared to be a private party.
       "What did I interrupt here?" he asked curiously.
       "You are being dense," Amanda commented. She leaned on the table next to him. "This was for you." she said waving at the decorations.
       "What are you talking about?" Mac asked incredulously.
       "It was a birthday party," Richie said. "At least, it was supposed to be. For you."
       Mac's expression was one of utter astonishment. "You can't be serious," he finally said, smiling vaguely, taking a large gulp from his scotch.
       Everyone started talking at once, and Mac sat in bewildered silence as they brought out elaborately wrapped presents, and Joe produced a cake with "404" written on the top in candles. Duncan opened the presents slowly, smiling and thanking the giver, but his responses were flat and his smile never reached his eyes. He eventually removed his ruined sweater and replaced it with a deep blue silk Armani shirt Amanda had bought him, significantly improving his appearance as the liquor began to bring some color to his face.
       Finally, the gifts were opened and the cake had been served but no one was eating much, particularly Mac, although by then he had downed several glasses of scotch. Conner lurked like a large jungle cat at the edge of the room while Amanda, Joe, Richie and Methos bravely attempted to maintain a steady, friendly banter.
       Mac finally stood, weaving slightly, and groped for his coat. "This has been ... well, this has been a truly unique evening. You all were very . . . thoughtful to have this party. But I'm very tired and I think I better head home."
       Pierson stepped in front of him to block his progress to the door. "I don't think so, Duncan. For one thing, you are in no condition to even drive, much less take on Caldwell if he should appear. For another, Richie went to a lot of trouble for you, Connor stepped in to save your hide outside, and we all worked for almost an hour to take out that bloody arrow, only to watch you die. This has been an ugly night for all of us, MacLeod, and you've acted like this was just some badly timed little tea party."
       "What do you want me to say?" Mac asked. His voice was rough as the emotion he had carefully held in check began to surface. "Thank you? All right." He turned to the group. "Thank you for saving my ass tonight. I'm sorry it was necessary. I'll try not to let it happen again." He turned back to Methos. "Satisfied? . . . Good night." He pushed past Methos toward the door, but the oldest immortal caught and held his arm in an iron grip. "Not good enough, MacLeod."
       Mac angrily yanked his arm from Pierson's grasp, pushing him away.
       "What's going on with you?" Pierson demanded. "Why are you so pissed off? At what? At us? At Caldwell? Or at yourself for getting trapped and hurt, for causing all this commotion?"
       Mac stepped into Pierson's space, eye to eye. "What did I do to deserve you, Methos?" MacLeod demanded softly. "Since the day we met you've insinuated yourself into my life, telling me what to do, criticizing my actions, my beliefs, analyzing my behavior." Mac pushed his finger into the other man's chest. “Just because you're old and have access to the Chronicles does not give you the right to moralize at me like some ancient nursemaid! I managed for 400 years without your counsel, so take your psychoanalytic bullshit and shove it!"
       Adam/Methos smiled benignly. "Ah, I finally made him really mad."
       At that, the long build up of tension and frustration erupted and MacLeod found himself swinging the heel of his right palm into Methos' jaw in what was ordinarily a near-lethal blow. Unfortunately, injury and booze slowed his timing enough to allow Methos to duck, then hit him solidly with a hard right cross, sending Mac flying, sliding across the floor. The jarring fall sent shocks of agony through his barely healed chest and Mac curled over onto his side, coughing and gasping.
       Richie stepped up to put himself between his teacher and Pierson. "What are you trying to do?" he protested. "He can't defend himself right now, you know that!"
       "The perfect moment," Pierson said smugly. "He's tired, weak and drunk and can't fight back." Pierson pulled up a chair, turned it around and straddled his long, lean frame around the back to sit down. "It's high time we had a long chat, and this seems like the ideal time to do it."
       "Someday, I'm gonna kill you, Methos," snarled MacLeod, still clutching his chest.
       "Probably," he replied a little too solemnly.
       The group sat in ominous silence as Richie helped Mac up to a chair where he sat slumped over, eyes closed, waiting for the pain to pass. At last he sighed, conceding momentary defeat. "Okay, Methos, what's your point?" he asked.
       "How many immortal friends, really good friends, do you have? Ones you would put yourself on the line for?" Pierson asked casually.
       "I don't know. I haven't done an inventory lately," Duncan answered, his voice dripping with irony. "Why? Are we having a contest?"
       "I guess you might look at it that way, but I really want you to think about it. A dozen, two dozen?" he persisted.
       "I've been around for awhile, Methos. Maybe it doesn't seem like much in comparison to you, but during that time I've come to know a lot of us. And, yeah, there are a fair number of people who, given the right circumstance, I would go to bat for. So what? Is there something wrong with that? You think I'm too 'chivalrous'? Too soft? Seems to me I've saved your ass more than once," Duncan reminded him.
       "Yes, my friend, you have," Pierson admitted. He turned to Amanda. "Amanda, how many immortals do you really trust with your life? People who would probably risk themselves to defend you?"
       Amanda shifted uncomfortably on the bar stool. "Hey, I'm not on trial here. It's . . . different for a woman. A girl's got to do what is necessary to protect herself." She shrugged expressively. "It's hard to develop real trust."
       "So what does that mean, Amanda? Three? a half dozen?" Adam/Methos offered helpfully.
       "Well, everybody in this room," she said brightly.
       "I wouldn't count on that," Conner said softly from a distant table.
       "Oh, Conner. You can't hold that business in Spain against me. That was over 130 years ago!" Amanda sounded shocked.
       "And you, Conner?" Adam asked simply, figuring Conner would know what the object of the question was.
       "I'm like most of us," Conner said. "We meet others of our kind, but rarely ever really trust them. Duncan, a handful of others, perhaps. But they are very, very rare."
       "MacLeod," Methos said intently, leaning his chin on his arms crossed over the back of the chair, "you have dozens of immortal friends, real friends. Immortals you've helped, who rarely trust anyone, trust you with their lives. I've lived for over 5,000 years and I've never known any one of us who can say the same. Yet here you are, deliberately shutting yourself off, living in miserable solitude, rejecting the very friendship you have done so much to earn. What is it about you, MacLeod? Are you constitutionally incapable of accepting help? Is that it? You have to be Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, the protector, the one everyone depends on, the invulnerable loner? Always giving, never taking? Duncan, I'll tell you a secret. If you never allow a friend to be a friend, to help you when you need it, you imply that they, that we," Methos said gesturing to everyone present, "have no help to give, nothing to offer in return. That's not real friendship, MacLeod. It's a betrayal, an insult to all of us."
       Duncan listened, slumped tiredly in his chair. He closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders around to release tension. "Are you through with the sermon, Methos?" he asked quietly after a long moment of silence.
       Methos stood, putting the chair back underneath the table. "Yes, Highlander. I'm through. For now." He reached out his hand to help Mac up. The two exchanged a long look, then MacLeod took the proffered hand and hauled himself stiffly to his feet.
       He stood looking thoughtfully at the floor, hands propped at his waist, then turned and met the eyes of each of them. For the first time that evening, his face was relaxed and a guilty smile formed on his lips. "Thank you my friends. It's been a long time since I've had a birthday party." He didn't tell them that the last time had been with Tessa. The memory was too painful.
       He went to each of them in turn, whispering a few words to Conner and to Joe. He finally reached Richie, who he gave a hug. "I can't believe you thought of this!" He stepped back, holding him at arm's length. "On second thought, you're the only one that would have. Look, Richie, I've been a real SOB lately. I'm sorry."
       "Hey, big guy," Richie gave Mac a punch in the arm, his usual reaction when he was embarrassed, "I've gotten used to it."
       "As for you," MacLeod turned to Methos in unforgiving irritation, "I still can't figure out how I managed to inherit a 5,000 year old nanny."
       Amanda moved to his side, silently holding out her hand for the keys. "You expect to drive?" he asked dubiously. She stood with her hand out until he relented and transferred the car keys from his pocket to her open hand. He turned back to Methos briefly. "You know, old man, sometimes, . . . just sometimes, . . . you're right."
       Methos smiled smugly. "I know," he replied.
       He turned and let Amanda put her arm protectively around his waist as they slipped out the door.

Chapter 4

        The streets outside the car window were dark and shiny with light, icy rain, and the soft swish of the windshield wipers beat hypnotically during the drive home. The inside of the car was cold, damp and drafty from the slice Caldwell's blade had cut in the top. MacLeod sat silently, huddled in his coat, thinking about the demons that beleaguered him. He had realized tonight that he had been running from something ever since the Dark Quickening. He had gradually pushed everyone away, and battled his self-imposed loneliness by filling every hour, every minute, exhausting himself so he wouldn't have to think about an endless, isolated future. The stark memories of his own recent actions haunted him. He had thought that, with Darius' help, he had grown beyond a need for revenge, for hate, centuries ago. But the soulless, mindless violence of the Dark Quickening, the unforgivable murder of Sean Byrnes, his cold-blooded urge to kill Jack Shapiro, the leader of the Watchers, his attack on Richie, all undermined his trust in his own fundamental nature. If he wouldn't trust himself, then he couldn't allow his friends to trust him either, so he pushed them away. But the loneliness, the isolation only deepened his despair, darkened his outlook, making things worse rather than better. He ached with emotional and physical exhaustion, but his mind persisted in prodding at painful memory and brutal self-analysis.
       He followed Amanda into the dojo, leaning against the back wall of the elevator as it made its slow, noisy way up to the loft. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind, to let himself drift. He felt Amanda open his coat and put her arms around him, leaning her head against his chest. The scent of her filled his nostrils and he folded his arms around her, lowering his face into the soft warm curve of her neck.
       "You smell good," he whispered. The elevator came to a lurching halt.
       "You smell like sweat, blood and whiskey," she murmured, "and you need a shave."
       "Sorry."
       She leaned her head back to look into his eyes. "That's okay. I'm just happy you're still around." She cocked her head speculatively. "You were a hair's breadth away from dying tonight, forever and ever. If we hadn't been there ... " As she reached up to push his long dark hair back from his face, unshed tears shone in her large, elfin eyes. "Promise me, Duncan. Promise me you won't let this beautiful head become detached from this magnificent body."
       He didn't answer. He was too busy looking at her, feeling her. Suddenly he was intensely aroused by the softness of her skin, the smooth feel of the contours of her back, the steady rhythm of her pulse in the veins of her neck. Part of him was astonished that he had the strength or interest, but his body appeared to have gone into automatic drive. Her eyes widened as she felt his hardness press against her, and a small smile reached her lips.
       "Well, well, I've always known that you Scots had stamina, but this is remarkable even for you."
       He didn't want to talk, so he covered her mouth with his, tasting her tongue, her lips. By the time they made it to the bed the floor was littered with swords, coats, shoes, shirt, sweater, bra, skirt, pants. Neither was interested in subtlety. He entered her quickly, both of them gasping in urgent need. They knew each others' bodies intimately, knew what excited. Duncan watched Amanda's face as they moved slowly together in rhythm, waiting, holding back, touching her, tasting her, until the flush of her cheeks, the swelling of her lips and the dilation of her eyes told him she had reached the edge of ecstasy. He moved inside her just enough to hold them there, heat rising from their bodies, sweat drenching them both, until she cried out, then he let himself come, and their bodies shuddered and throbbed in unison release.
       Afterwards, Mac held Amanda close for a moment, tenderly, gratefully kissing her lips and forehead. He rolled onto his back as she snuggled close in the crook of his arm. His eyes quickly closed, and before the sweat from their lovemaking had dried from his chest, his breathing was deep and regular as he slept at last.
       Amanda lay in the semi-darkness, looking at the man who had become such a integral part of her life, her identity. She knew she wasn't a very introspective person, that she was fairly shallow, easily distracted, constantly searching for the next thrill. Over the centuries Duncan was the only man who had ever given her a feeling of safety, of peace, of homecoming. He was everything she wasn't -- loyal, honest, honorable, wise, decent. He was yang to her yin, providing her with a center, a perspective. During those awful weeks when Kalas had threatened to reveal the secret of the immortals to the world if MacLeod did not sacrifice his life, Methos had said that MacLeod was the best of their kind and that preserving his life would be worth the terrible cost of revealing their secret. The problem then, and the problem now, was that MacLeod's sometimes overwrought conscience was the very thing that impelled him to sacrifice himself for others, and was the same thing that might prevent him from killing someone obviously weaker than himself, like Caldwell. It was the chink in his otherwise nearly impregnable armor.
       Amanda eased out of the warm bed, silently gathering and donning her clothes and coat, letting herself out the door and soundlessly finding her way in the dark down the stairs. Above her, MacLeod stirred restlessly as the sense of her presence went out of range, but then quickly sank back into exhausted sleep. As she approached the bottom step outside, she felt the ominous sweep of sensation that signaled the presence of another immortal. She reached inside her coat, comforted by the feel of cold steel in her hand, and moved back into the shadows, listening, watching, waiting. There was only silence, cold and icy rain, until Connor MacLeod stepped out of the darkness of the alley.
       "Well, Amanda," he said in his distinctive soft growl, "I assumed you and Duncan would be otherwise occupied."
       Amanda relaxed, tucking her sword away inside her coat. "He's finally asleep. I thought I'd go . . . hunting."
       "You don't think he could do it either, eh?" Conner asked.
       "I don't know," Amanda replied honestly. "I guess I'm just not prepared for the consequences if he can't. What are you doing here?"
       "Oh, I thought I'd keep an eye out for Mr. Caldwell. My clansman isn't nearly as cold blooded as he should be in these circumstances, and the boy must die."
       "He probably has a place staked out in one of those offices or rooftops," Amanda speculated, pointing to the nearby buildings. "You stay here and keep an eye out while I take a look."
       Conner's raised eyebrow in response to her instructions made her pause. "Second story work is my speciality, Conner," she snapped. Connor MacLeod, known to be even more taciturn than Duncan, crossed his arms and gave her an appraising look, then nodded and stepped back, disappearing completely into the darkness.
       Amanda moved from shadow to shadow in the pre-dawn cold, extending her already preternaturally sensitive sight and hearing. With the ease and practice born of centuries of stealth, she invisibly explored the buildings in easy viewing distance of MacLeod's studio, looking for evidence that a spy had been at work. She quickly located and broke into the permanent Watcher lookout in a shabby office building a half-block away. The room was unoccupied, but the space had a hot plate, a cot and a tripod with a good-quality telescope trained on the dojo windows. She left the space undisturbed, even though its very existence gave her the creeps.
       The night's shadows were quickly changing from black to grey by the time she found him. She was moving up the top stairs in a mostly empty warehouse when she felt his presence. Stepping swiftly to the rooftop door, she slammed through, sword drawn, knowing surprise would not be a factor, and fearing he would have an alternative escape route. Sure enough, her heightened senses caught a flicker of a movement out of the corner of her eye at the edge of the rooftop. She was there in a heartbeat, and caught sight of Caldwell's small form sliding into a lower window from the fire escape. She took a moment to look across the distance to Mac's building, and, as she had hoped, saw Conner's tall figure step out into the alley. They exchanged brief hand signals and Amanda turned and dashed back down the stairs, trusting in Conner to track the boy.
       Connor MacLeod had also surveyed the area around the dojo during the night, and as dawn began to soften the darkness, spotted Caldwell as he slipped down the side of the building. Amanda had flushed him out, he surmised, as her tall, willowy silhouette signaled to him from the rooftop. He moved, catlike, toward the escape route he felt certain the "boy" would use, his long legs covering the ground with breathtaking speed and silence learned during hundreds of years of hunting and being hunted. Sooner than expected, he sensed another immortal, and his katana was in his hand instantaneously, without conscious thought.
       "Connor! It's me, Richie!" he heard a loud whisper behind him. He swirled around, spotting the young immortal Richie Ryan trotting down the sidewalk towards him. He must have also been on watch from a distance. Quickly signaling the noisy youngster to remain silent, he turned again in search of his true quarry. The two of them reached the alley behind the deteriorating warehouse, ducking into a doorway to remain out of sight. Trash had gathered in corners and up against the building and the air hung heavy with a familiar rotting garbage smell. As Connor expected, the rush of warning sensation washed over him as Caldwell appeared, slipping out of a window in the middle of the alley. The boy stopped abruptly as he sensed their presence. He turned in confusion to head the other way, but was stopped by Amanda's appearance. Trapped, he turned in desperation, looking for a way out, turned again as Connor and Richie stepped into sight, then dashed toward Amanda, considering her the lesser of the potential threats.
       Amanda drew her sword and waited implacably as the boy approached.
       "This is against the rules!" the boy shouted, stopping and looking nervously back and forth between the two men at one end of the alley and the woman at the other.
       "That's getting to be a tiresome refrain, Caldwell, especially given that crossbow you're carrying," Amanda said evenly. She had spotted the lethal looking weapon he held tightly under his arm. "Tell you what, you put that thing down and fight me by the rules, and those two," Amanda indicated Connor and Richie, "will stay out of this. Just you and me, Caldwell. After all, I'm only a girl, right?" she teased, swinging her sword lightly at her side. It was light enough now that she could see Caldwell swallow as fear dried his mouth.
       Then they all felt another immortal's approach. Four pairs of eyes swept the alley up and down, focusing on Duncan's broad shouldered silhouette as he stepped into the alley behind Amanda. Caldwell's eyes widened and he stumbled, stepping backwards, stopping as Connor and Richie closed in.
       "Well, well. What have we here?" Duncan said quietly. Amanda's lips tightened defiantly, anticipating his anger at their interference. "Another birthday present?"
       "Uh, Duncan. I . . . we . . . ," she began.
       "You thought I wouldn't do it, that I wouldn't be able to kill him since he's just a boy," Duncan finished for her. His dark eyes, still shadowed with exhaustion, caught and held her own. Amanda didn't reply. Duncan took a long look at the small, innocent-appearing immortal. "You may be right." Duncan looked around at his friends, who had put themselves in jeopardy to protect him from himself. "Bring him," he instructed, turning and walking back towards the dojo in long strides.

       Caldwell had learned how to ignore physical discomfort decades ago, so the bone chilling cold, the thirst and hunger didn't really bother him. He sat on rough wooden pallets stacked in an empty warehouse near the river. MacLeod had brought him here after the other immortals had searched him for weapons, taking away his crossbow and the knives he had hidden in his sleeve and boot. Caldwell's small, light sword was lying in tantalizingly easy reach except for the duct tape binding his hands behind his back. He knew he was going to die. For some reason the thought didn't bother him a lot. He didn't want to suffer, though, and his experience had taught him that the strong liked to make the weak suffer. The anticipation of torture, of extended pain and humiliation, was what dried his mouth and made him tremble. MacLeod had sent the others away and now leaned against a steel beam, watching him.
       "I'm told you became an immortal during the Civil War," he said, as though he were interested in making casual conversation.
       "Just get it over with, MacLeod," Caldwell said softly.
       "It's not that simple," the man sighed. "I don't blame you for what you did. You are a man trapped in a boy's body, and have managed to survive for over 100 years. That's a remarkable feat. You've known little but ugliness and abuse and its no surprise that you broke the rules. The question is what to do now."
       "Why is that a question? Are you trying to figure out how to punish me? What are you, the immortal police?" Caldwell sneered.
       "No," he said, so softly Caldwell could barely hear. "You envy me my strength but one thing I have learned is that with strength, with power, comes choice, and a responsibility to make those choices carefully and with compassion. We can choose not to kill. That's what I have to decide, Abraham Caldwell. And that choice depends on you."
       "That's bullshit!" Caldwell cried. "There Can Be Only One! We don't have any choices except to live or die, kill or be killed!"
       "Wrong, Abraham. Life is much more complicated, more difficult than that. There is good and evil in each of us. It's the choices we make and why we make them, moment to moment, that define who we are. Just because I made a bad choice once doesn't mean I can't change, learn and make a better choice later. The struggle between the light and dark with in takes place constantly, and sometimes the right choice, the difference between good and evil, is almost impossible to see. Right now, I don't know whether it is more evil for me to take the life of someone who has clearly suffered, who has survived as best he can under difficult circumstances, or to let you live, knowing you will possibly continue to murder my own kind, even my own friends." MacLeod moved to kneel in front Caldwell so they were eye to eye. "Because that's what you do, Abraham. You murder."
       "I survive, MacLeod! Look at me! I'll never be strong like you. I'll never hold a job, have a woman, live any kind of normal life. I do what I do because it's the only way."
       "What if it weren't the only way? What if we could find a place for you, a safe haven where you could live in peace? A place where no one would hunt you, no one would abuse you, or take advantage of you? Abraham," MacLeod said desperately, "the rules of the Game are there to prevent exactly what you do. Our lives are terrible enough without turning our eternal combat into brutal executions. The rules are what maintain our veneer of civilization. Without them we are all just murdering thugs." He stood, pacing, his boots ringing loudly in the cavernous room. "I can't let you continue the way you are. The question is, can you change? Do you even want to change?" he asked.
       Caldwell laughed harshly. "Would I like to change? Would I like to be a man? To be strong and handsome, to have a beautiful woman look at me the way that woman looks at you? Of course I would! But I can't. All I've got, all I'll ever have, is a pretty boy's face and body."
       Caldwell paused, dark blue eyes glittering speculatively. His voice changed, becoming sweet and soft. "But I've learned a lot, too, Duncan MacLeod. I've learned ways to give pleasure I bet even you don't know about. If I had a protector, I wouldn't need to do what I do. Let me show you, Duncan," he murmured seductively. "Let me prove to you that I can make you happy, and you won't have to kill me. That's a choice we could both enjoy."
       Mac sighed and shook his head, consciously suppressing the wave of distaste for the traumas that Caldwell had endured to make him what he was. Prejudices like that threatened, along with fatigue, to cloud his thinking. "I'm sorry Abraham. Unfortunately for you, you'd find I'm a flaming heterosexual."
       He leaned again against the cold steel of the beam, sliding down to sit on the floor. "Abraham, what you've been doing hasn't been just protecting yourself. What you do isn't part of the Game. You haven't been hunting by combat, you've been murdering defenseless young immortals just for their Quickening. That has to stop."
       "Then kill me, Duncan MacLeod, because I don't want to stop! The Quickening is the only joy there is for me, the only joy I've ever known." Caldwell met MacLeod's hard stare evenly, defiantly. MacLeod looked with his heart and mind as well as his eyes, trying to take the measure of Caldwell's tortured soul. He didn't want to do this, to be judge, jury and, if necessary, executioner. He found it chilling that the other immortals, his own friends, found such decisions easy. He knew what they had decided, and it would be irresponsible and cowardly to push this choice off onto them. He had to make this decision himself, and for the right reasons, even if he could never be absolutely sure the choice was the correct one.
       Mac rose to his feet stiffly. His katana appeared in his hand and he reached its tip behind Caldwell's back, sliced cleanly through the tape binding the boy's hands, then stepped back to give Abraham room to get to his own sword. Caldwell sat for a moment rubbing his wrists to restore circulation, then reached carefully with his right hand for his sword, shielding the movement of his left as he reached into a hidden pocket sewn into his pants leg.
       Caldwell came up from the floor in a sudden swift move, and the light from the high warehouse windows caught the flash of a narrow blade as it whipped through the air straight at MacLeod's heart. Mac, whose expertise with knives had long ago developed to high art, turned his body slightly, reached out and pulled the blade down out of mid-air. Both figures stood in a moment of breathless silence as Caldwell paled at the now absolute certainty of the outcome of the battle, which was over in seconds.

       Mac stepped out of the warehouse into the mid-morning light, taking a long, shaky breath of the cold, crisp air. He wasn't surprised when Joe Dawson joined him.
       "You okay?" Dawson asked.
       "Right now I feel every day of my 404 years," MacLeod responded, taking a another cleansing breath. "Looks like we might get some snow."
       "Yeah," Joe replied. "It'd be nice to have a white Christmas." Joe looked long and hard at his friend. Weariness was etched deeply into his face, and he seemed sad, but the terrible, almost desperate tension of the last months seemed to have leeched out of him.
       "Let me take care of Caldwell," Joe offered.
       Mac opened his mouth to refuse the offer, then stopped himself as he continued to examine the heavy clouds overhead. "Thank you, Joe," he finally said. He turned to face his Watcher. "Thank you," he said again, then walked slowly to his car as snow began to swirl in the air.

       Joe was closing up the bar on Christmas eve two days later, heading home to spend the evening with Richie and Methos, when a messenger arrived with a small, flat package. He accepted it curiously, finding a beautifully wrapped present underneath the brown cover paper. There was a velum card tucked underneath the ribbon and Joe recognized MacLeod's bold, ornate handwriting learned from monks hundreds of years before. He was surprised by the gift, since MacLeod and Amanda had headed off down the coast the day before to spend a week or so in a luxurious bed and breakfast on the coast south of L.A.

Dear Joe,
    I have long identified myself as "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod" to ground myself to a time, a place, a people, a set of values that were important to me. What I have come to realize lately is that those values are not tied to my birth into a particular Scottish clan, but to a community of people that care about and support each other. And that community does not consist of people whose bones have long since turned to dust, but of the people I care about now. People who, miraculously, care about me. My clan is made up of Amanda and Richie, it's Connor and Anne and Mary and Methos and many others, and it includes my friend, Joe Dawson.
                    Merry Christmas,
                                Duncan

       Joe opened the package to find a wool scarf in the distinctive blue MacLeod tartan. It was lined on one side with matching blue silk, with the initials "ML" embroidered at one end. The fabric of the tartan was soft, old and worn, and in a few places there were traces of faded rust-colored stains. Joe swallowed a lump in his throat as he realized that the scarf was made from Duncan's original colors, the ones worn into so many battles centuries ago, and the stains were from his own spilled blood.
       Joe carefully wound the scarf around his neck and tucked the ends underneath his coat, then checked the room one last time to make sure everything was in order. He turned out the lights and locked the door, thinking about what his Polish grandmother would think of a Dawson being indoctrinated into a Scottish clan. The thought made him smile as he made his way to the car through lightly drifting snow, unconsciously whistling "Scotland the Brave" under his breath.

THE END

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