The child started at movement in its immediate vicinity and stirred to look up at him. What Nathan saw gave him pause. The liquid blue eyes of a girl, not more than four years old, gazed up at him from a tiny, grubby face, cheeks sunken with starvation, but still speaking of beauty to come. That, alone, would not have been enough to make him stop… street urchins were a dime a dozen. What brought him up short was the uncanny knowledge that she was – no, would be – one of his own kind.

       He stood there, rain running through his hair (he despised those ridiculous hats that were the current "height of fashion"), and down the back of his neck, for a full minute staring at the child and doing battle with his conscience (that still existed in spite of four thousand years of effort to quell it). Unfortunately, his conscience won out (again) and he knelt down to take a closer look. 'Hello' he said to the girl. Her eyes widened with shock that he had actually spoken to her. 'My name is Nathan. What's yours?' That seemed as good a place to start as any.

       'I don't have a name. Everyone just calls me the mouse.' a soft, timid voice answered.

       'Well don't you have anywhere to go, little mouse? You're likely to freeze to death out here.'

       'No.' was the answer. The little girl's eyes turned back to look at the cobbles of the street in front of her.

       No further explanation seemed to be forthcoming, so Nathan pressed on. 'Well, why don't you come with me then. I know of an abbey not too far from this very spot. The abbot is a special friend of mine. They will take you in, give you a hot meal, dry clothes, and a place to sleep.'

       At the mention of food, the blue eyes flickered back to him for a brief moment. The child shrugged, defeated. 'I'm too tired.' was her answer, 'I'll just stay here and sleep.'

       Nathan knew that being near starved, the cold would easily kill her by morning. Even without the help of his conscience, he couldn't let the child wake the next morning damned to existing as a four-year-old for the rest of her immortal life. 'If you're too tired to walk, then I'll just carry you. Come on…' He shifted the packages he was carrying and reached down to her.

       Exhausted and near freezing, the girl didn't protest, just wrapped here little arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. 'I know Nathan isn't really your name… but I trust you anyway.' she said softly, giving Nathan a start. How did she know that? He wondered, then gave a mental shrug and began to walk in the direction of the abbey.

       As he carried her down the street, it occurred to him that she weighed no more than a sack of feathers. They made quick time down the winding thoroughfares to the little stone abbey, set in a rather slum-ish neighborhood. The windows were ablaze with light, and a choir of children could be heard singing a hymn somewhere inside.

       Nathan knocked at the door, and was immediately greeted by a small rotund man in a monk's habit, the light shining off his bald head (sort of like a halo). A brilliant smile lit his round face at the sight of his visitor.

       'Nathan! It's so wonderful to see you again. It's been such a long time. The abbot said.

       Nathan felt the child tense in his arms at the sound of a new voice. 'Brother Jacob, it's good to see you as well." He said warmly, and whispered to the girl not to be afraid.

       Brother Jacob ushered them into the entry way (out of the weather) and waited patiently. Nathan rarely came to the abbey without a purpose.

       'Jacob,' Nathan began, 'I need a favor…'

       'You know anything I can provide, I will Nathan. What is it?' the brother responded.

       'Well…' Nathan turned and set the child on a bench next to the door, placing the packages next to her. Then he drew Jacob aside and they spoke quietly for a few minutes.

       Mouse took this opportunity to get her bearings. She looked around the small entry way, with its brown wooden benches on either side of the door. The walls were a golden colored stone, with candles set into little indentations along the walls, giving the whole area a soft, flickering glow. She was so tired, it all looked like a dream.

       After having what appeared to be a very serious discussion, the abbot turned and left the room. The strange man who insisted on calling himself Nathan walked back to the bench and knelt down in front of her.

       'Brother Jacob is going to see that you're taken care of. Now, I have to go. I'm very late.' He said softly. 'Don't be afraid. This is holy ground, and we're always safe on holy ground.'

       The girl cocked her head and looked at him in such a way that Nathan was convinced she could see through him and into his very soul. 'Will I ever see you again?' the soft voice asked.

       'Perhaps, little mouse, perhaps; but not for a very, very long time.' He tweaked the end of her nose and smiled at her, hoping to ease that serious stare that was beginning to unnerve him.

       On a whim, he handed her one of the packages from his pile as he stood and gathered everything up to leave. He reached out and tousled her dirty golden locks. 'Happy Christmas, little mouse.' She just stared at him, clutching the prettily wrapped box. 'Well… open it!'

       She looked at the box, looked at him, then turned her full attention to untying the ribbon and tearing the paper from her present. A single tear rolled down her tiny face as she pulled a cloth doll from its tissue packing. Those huge blue eyes looked back up at him. 'Thank you.' She whispered, 'I'll keep it forever.'

       Nathan smiled. 'You're welcome, little one… Can you keep a secret?' At her solemn nod, he bent down and whispered in her ear. 'My real name is Methos.' Then he kissed the top of her head and was gone.
 

Chapter One

        Joe Dawson was wiping down the bar in preparation for the evening crowd. It was Friday, the busiest night of the week, and he was concerned because he hadn't been able to fill the last bartender's position (he just had to go and quit without notice!). It looked like he would have to cancel his date and tend bar himself. Chloe was not going to be pleased.

       The door opened, and someone came in. Joe greeted the person without looking up, assuming it was MacLeod, since it was his habit to drop in before the bar opened for the evening. "Hey, Mac! How's it goin'?"

       The voice that answered was not that of MacLeod, but the low, sexy voice of a woman. "I'm fine, I suppose, but I take exception to being called 'Mac'."

       Joe looked up quickly to see a pretty woman of about 26 standing in his doorway. She was petite, blonde, and while her small frame might cause one ot think she was a child, she had all the luscious curves that proved she was, in fact, a very grown up, and very beautiful woman. Startled, and a bit flustered, Joe cleared his throat. "I'm sorry ma'am, I was expecting someone else."

       "I apologize for disappointing you." She replied, giving him a slight smile.

       Joe found himself grinning back at her like an idiot. "No, no! Not at all! But, is there something I can do for you? We don't open for another two hours."

       "Actually, I saw an ad in the paper for an experienced bartender. Since the sign outside says 'Joe's', I assume I'm looking for Joe. Is he around?"

       Joe couldn't believe his good fortune. He quickly dried his hands and walked around the end of the bar to shake her hand. "I'm Joe - Joe Dawson. And you are…?"

       "Jasmine DeLaCroix, but everyone calls me 'Jazz'." She responded, returning his shake with a pleasantly firm grip, awarding him with a full blown smile.

       Joe, appropriately dazzled, invited her to have a seat at one of the tables situated in the area in front of the bar. "So, Jazz," he began, "You're interested in tending my bar…" At her nod, he continued. "Tell me about yourself."

       She thought for a minute, and said, "Well, first off, I'm not a professional bartender. I'm an artist. I work purely for the enjoyment of having contact with people outside my studio."

       "But you do have experience in this line of work?" Joe interjected.

       "Oh, yes. I've worked in several pubs across the country. I can make any drink you can think of - and do it well." She smiled again, leaning forward a bit to rest her hands on the table. "As I said, I work because I enjoy it. I don't need the money. I seek the fulfillment of doing the job and doing it well. My hours are flexible, I'm honest, and I'm looking for an honest employer." She met his eyes with an even gaze.

       Joe thought about that for a moment (also thinking that he really needed someone to fill in tonight), and then began firing the standard interview questions at her, all of which she answered as candidly as she had spoken the first time. He took her references and, on an impulse, asked "When can you start?"

       "Whenever you want." Was the reply.

       "Ok… Here's the deal -- I'll take you on a trial basis for three weeks. I'll give you five bucks an hour, plus tips, work every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, 6:00 until close, starting tonight." He watched her closely to see if it would fly.

       She countered quickly. "Ten dollars an hour, tips, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, with every third Friday and fourth Saturday off."

       Joe chuckled – the woman knew what she wanted -- "I can do six-fifty with every third Saturday off…"

       Jazz leaned forward, warming to the game, "Eight-fifty, no less."

       "Seven-fifty is my final offer. Take it or leave it."

       Jazz grinned and reached across the table to shake his hand. "Done."

       "Great! It's 4:00 now. Be back here at 5:30 so I can show you the ropes. We can do all the paperwork then."

       "Thanks, Joe." She replied. "See you at 5:30." Then she collected her purse from the table and left.

       Joe shook his head. All that because he wanted to keep a date. Well, he had a good feeling about her… Maybe it would work out.

       Jazz had been working at the bar for a month when she met Duncan MacLeod.

       She and Joe were getting along famously. Joe was really pleased with her, and so were his customers, he thought wryly. She always know when to be the serious bartender/counselor, or when to really turn on the charm. He swore that some of his newer regulars came in solely to get some of her attention.

       Joe was anxious for Mac to show up. He had just returned from an antique-ing expedition in Bangkok. Joe had talked to him earlier in the day, asking him to come by the bar around 9:00 to say hello. Joe wanted more than a friendly chat, though. He was dying to find out whether or not his suspicions about his new bartender were true.

       He glanced at his watch for the hundredth time that evening. 9:00 – MacLeod should be there any minute. He sat on the bar stool, watching Jazz intently. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door open to admit Duncan MacLeod. To Joe's great disappointment, Jazz never flinched…not even looking away from the patron she was chatting with as she mixed drinks. Maybe he was wrong about her. Maybe she wasn't immortal after all.

       MacLeod walked over to the bar and ordered a whiskey (as usual). He winked at Joe's pretty new bartender, wondering why Joe would hire one of "his kind." She smiled back, handing him his drink and taking the five dollar bill he placed on the bar. Mac said hello to Joe, then followed him to an empty table near the stage. The new band was just finishing a set, so the two men sat for a few minutes, listening in companionable silence.

       When the band finished playing and left the stage, Mac smiled and raised an eyebrow at Joe. "So, I see your taste in bartenders has improved."

       Joe smiled and looked over at the bar. She was still casually talking to the customer, looking totally unconcerned. Damn… he had been so sure! "Yeah… she's a real looker, isn't she?" he half laughed and shook his head, taking a sip of his beer. "Funny, for a while there, I thought you might know her."

       Mac looked over his shoulder at her, then looked at Joe from the corner of his eye, his dark brows drawn together in suspicion. "No… why would you think that?"

       Joe just shrugged, staring into his beer. "No reason." Mac took a last look at the girl, then turned around and leaned toward Joe. "Come on, spill it." He said.

       Joe pressed his lips together, not wanting to look MacLeod in the eye. Finally he looked straight at him and said, "All right, look – is she immortal or not?"

       Duncan thought for a second, then suddenly burst out laughing. "You mean you don't know?" He asked in amazement. "You're a Watcher, Joe. You're supposed to know these things!"

       Joe glared back at Mac's grinning face. "Watchers are only human, Mac. We can't keep track of everyone. It's not like I can tell the way you can."

       "So what makes you think she's immortal then?" Duncan inquired, still chuckling to himself.

       Joe took another sip of his beer and leaned back in his chair, sighing deeply as he did. Even though Duncan was his friend - had become his best friend over the years since they'd actually met - he always felt tiny prickles of guilt when he shared Watcher secrets with the immortal. "It's kind of a long story." He warned.

       Still smiling, Duncan looked around and shrugged. "It's not like I don't have plenty of time." He answered, making a show of settling his long frame into the chair to enjoy what promised to be a juicy story.

       Joe stared into his beer, watching the bubbles rise to the top of the golden liquid. He chose his words carefully. "It's sort of a Watcher legend."

       "Like Methos was?" Duncan interjected.

       "Kind of, but not really. See, we knew Methos existed. There were extensive Chronicles covering thousands of years before he disappeared. It was just a matter of figuring out where he was. This is different."

       "Different how?"

       "We call it the 'Legend of the White Lady.' She drifts in and out of the Chronicles of different immortals. She's been traced back as far as four hundred years, but no Watcher has ever been able to prove she exists. She has no Chronicle of her own. About a hundred and fifty years ago, a researcher by the name of Maurice D'Anjou discovered a similarity in the Chronicles of two different immortals. The Chronicles both described a woman with long, blonde hair and blue eyes. Both immortals died unexpectedly. Their Watchers found their bodies after the fight was over, and never figured out who the killer was."

       "So? Women with blonde hair are a dime a dozen. That doesn't mean anything."

       "True, unless the woman has a brand, shaped like a rose, burned into her shoulder."

       Duncan frowned, waiting to hear the rest of the story.

       Joe took another swig of his beer and continued. "This guy - D'Anjou - got a wild hair one day and decided to search the rest of the Chronicles for entries regarding this mystery woman. It became an obsession with him. One that he took to his grave. He read every piece of history in the archives and assembled a collection of fifty-two excerpts from Chronicles that depicted sightings of this "White Lady" as he began to call her. He did some research into the brand as well, but was never able to prove anything besides the fact that several slave traders throughout history have used the symbol of the rose to mark their 'merchandise'.

       He would talk about it to anyone who would listen, telling the stories over and over again, insisting that she was real, but nobody believed him. They just laughed at him and called her a myth. He died in 1855, but he left the collection behind, stored in the archives. The Watchers keep it there as sort of a joke, to remind us not to get too involved with our work.

       I read some of the excerpts once. The similarities are striking, but nobody ever saw her carry a sword, die, take a head… nothing, and yet she seems to have been alive for at least four hundred years, maybe more. I never put much stock in it until now." Joe paused to take the last sip of his beer and set the empty glass on the table.

       "Why's that?" Duncan prodded with genuine interest.

       "Well, about a week after I hired Jazz, the heater went on the fritz. It was hotter than hell in here, and we were trying to fix it before the bar opened. She was working in a tank top and shorts, and I saw this scar on her right shoulder."

       "Let me guess…" Duncan interjected, "Shaped like a rose, right?"

       "Exactly."

       "So, did you ask her about it?"

       "Yeah… She said it was a rebellion thing from her high school days. She and some her friends got them for kicks."

       "And you don't believe her." Duncan stated.

       Joe shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know. That's why I asked you to come in."

       Duncan nodded his head, absently plucking at his lower lip. "So what do you guys do when there isn't a convenient immortal around to tell you if someone else is or isn't?" He'd always wondered about that. How did they know?

       "Normally, I'd have Research run a background check on her, but I didn't want to in this situation."

       "Why not?"

       "To tell the truth, I think the guys in Research would roll on the floor laughing if I called and told them I thought I'd found the White Lady. No one would ever take me seriously again. Besides, I do just happen to have an immortal conveniently at hand who can tell me. By the way… are you going to tell me or not?"

       "Maybe… Why don't you introduce us first?" He smirked at Joe, enjoying having the upper hand with the man who normally held all of the information.

       Jazz had been watching the two men furtively as they talked. She was mildly concerned about having another immortal so close by, but he seemed to be friendly with Joe, so he couldn't be all that bad. It had taken all of her control not to react when she felt him enter the bar, but she didn't want people to think anything out of the ordinary. She'd had to field too many questions in the past about how she knew certain people were coming before they actually appeared.

       Joe gestured at her to come join them. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost time for her break anyway, so she nodded to one of the waitresses who hurried over to cover for her.

       Seeing that both of their glasses were empty, Jazz drew beers for herself and Joe, and another whiskey for the stranger. Then she walked over to join them. As she sat down, she took in the stranger. Tall, lean, and fit, with dark eyes, strong features, and long, dark hair tied at the back of his neck, he was an undeniably handsome man.

       Joe took his drink and introduced them. "Jasmine DeLaCroix, this is an old friend of mine, Duncan MacLeod."

       "Pleased to meet you, Ms. DeLaCroix" Duncan said, reaching across the table to shake her hand.

       His hand was warm and strong. "Please - call me Jazz." She responded, smiling back. So… a Scot. She thought to herself.

       "Mac runs a dojo not to far from here." Joe said.

       "Aahh… So you're the famous 'Mac' are you?"

       "Yup, that's me." Duncan took a sip of his drink. "So, are you new in town?"

       "Mm-hmm." She replied, "I just opened an art gallery here."

       They continued to make small talk for a few minutes, talking about art, the weather, whatever. She found him to be a delightful man – and a shameless flirt.

       After a while, Jazz glanced at her watch again and got up. "Sorry, break's over, gotta get back to work." She said with a smile. She started to walk back to the bar, then turned around. "Did you say you owned a dojo?"

       "Yes." Duncan replied.

       "Perhaps we could work out together sometime. I'm in need of a good sparring partner."

       Duncan smiled at her. "Anytime. Just give me a call." He took a business card from his pocket and handed it to her.

       "Thanks, I will." She said, then turned and walked away.

       Duncan glanced at his watch, then turned back to Joe, grinning, and said, "Wow! Look at the time! I've gotta go. Amanda's waiting for me at home." He jumped up and put on his coat, enjoying the look of total discomfiture on Joe's face. He considered letting him stew over it, turning to go. Then he decided not to make his friend suffer. "Oh and, Joe?" He looked back over his shoulder and said, "She is."

       Joe's face lit up. "Thanks Mac, I owe you."

       Duncan waved to Jazz as he left, and she smiled in return. Joe leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin on his face. Now he could start making some calls.
 
 

Chapter Two

       The dream was always the same. He was standing in the middle of a primeval forest, fog floating all around him. He looked around, trying to ascertain where he was, but on all sides it was the same. Great trees stretching overhead sheltered lush undergrowth. The forest floor was coated with green moss that felt springy beneath his feet. What sun there was filtered through the trees in single rays, dappling the green foliage with little splashes of gold. All was quiet except for the brook that babbled softly along in front of him.

       Not knowing what else to do, he began to walk, following the stream. He stopped suddenly, sensing the presence of another immortal, and looked around. Then he heard the muffled sound of hoof beats coming toward him. He waited, every muscle tense.

       A few seconds later, a Friesian war horse emerged from the mist. The stallion was huge, black as midnight, with a flowing mane and tail. He picked his way slowly through the forest as if trying not to disturb some sleeping creature. The horse's saddle, bridle, and breast plate were encrusted with silver, yet there was none of the clanking you would expect from metal tack. The person seated on the horse was completely covered by a black cloak that draped over the stallion's rump. A hood was pulled down over the face.

       Every instinct told him to draw his sword, but he didn't. He just stood there watching, feeling as if his feet were rooted to the ground.

       The horse came to a halt, and the cloaked figure turned as if to look at him. Just then, a hand grabbed his arm and a voice, very close to his ear, said, "Excuse me, sir? You need to put your seat back up." Adam jumped, abruptly coming awake at the sound of the flight attendant's voice. "Huh… What?"

       The girl gave him an understanding smile. "We're preparing to land in Seacouver, and you'll need to put your seat back in the upright position."

       "Oh, yeah, right… Sorry." Adam said as he hurried to comply with her request. He was still a little muddled from sleep – and that damned dream.

       It had been haunting him for months. The same forest, the same horse, never getting to see the person's face. He couldn't figure out what it meant, and it was driving him crazy. That was why he'd jumped at the chance to come out and help Joe with his research questions. Maybe the change of scenery would do him some good (or at least get him some sleep).

       As the plane landed, Adam contemplated the case Joe had asked him about. The White Lady, eh? Most of the Watchers thought it was just and old wives' tale. This should afford him some entertainment.

       He got off the plane and went to collect his belongings from the baggage claim, making sure that the file – not to mention his sword – were undisturbed, then he went to pick up his rental car. As he tossed his bag into the trunk, he decided to go over to MacLeod's place first to wash up. Then he'd go see Joe about this mysterious woman.

        Jazz strolled into the dojo at 10:00 am – precisely on time. She stopped just inside the door and looked around, taking in the assortment of workout equipment and free weights along one side of the room, and noticing with interest the collection of weapons hanging on the walls.

       MacLeod was in the center of the room, eyes closed, deeply involved in his kata. She watched his lithe body gracefully perform the complex moves, making it seem like a beautiful dance, rather than the strenuous work she knew it to be. Not wanting to disturb his concentration, she set down her bag and waited patiently.

       He was wearing sweatpants and a loose tank top that emphasized his muscular shoulders. His hair was loose, flowing with his movements. A light sheen of sweat coated his deeply tanned skin. Even as she gazed on him in appreciation, she sized him up. Yes, he was attractive, but he was not one to be trifled with. He would be a formidable adversary. And a loyal friend, a little voice said in the back of her mind.

       He executed the final moves of the kata, then brought his hands together as if in prayer, and bowed. Then he opened his eyes and turned to look at her, smiling in greeting. "Hi. It's good to see you again."

       She returned his smile with one of her own. "It's good to see you tool" She said, reaching down to pick up her bag. At his gesture, she carried it over and set it down on one of the benches along the wall of the dojo. As she bent down to take off her shoes, she said, "I really appreciate you letting me take your time like this."

       Duncan walked over to retrieve his towel from one of the weight benches on the opposite side of the room. "Not at all…" He sat down on the bench, wiping off his face, and watched her. She had come in wearing an oversized sweatshirt, stretch pants, and sneakers; her hair was pulled back in a French braid that hung just below her waist. She pulled off the sweatshirt, leaving only a tight cotton tank top that showed off her generous breasts to perfection and left her tight stomach bare. He noted with amusement the gold ring that winked at him from her navel, thinking that Amanda would like her. Deftly, she wound the braid around the back of her head, securing it with a butterfly clip.

       While she rummaged through her bag, putting her clothes away, Duncan idly wondered about her. He could see the brand on her shoulder, half obscured by the strap of her shirt. If what Joe had told him was true, she was at least as old as he was… maybe older. How was it possible that the Watchers didn't know about her?

       She finished fooling around with the contents of her bag, having found the bottle of water she was looking for, and walked, barefoot, over to the mat in the center of the floor. "Ready?"

       Duncan jumped up, tossing the towel back onto the bench. "Always." He replied, and walked over to the mat, thinking he would go easy on her, just to see what she had.

       After landing on his back for the fifth time, he was beginning to revise his opinion of her skills.

       She paced the length of the mat, huffing in irritation. After he got up, she stopped in front of him, hands on hips, and tilted her head back to look into his face. "Come on, MacLeod. I know you're better than that." She said. 'Quit holding back just because I'm a girl."

       "I'm not…" Duncan stopped, shaking his head. He knew she was right. "Look, I just don't want to hurt you."

       Jazz laughed and walked away from him, shaking her head. She padded over to the wall, looking at the Japanese swords displayed on a rack just above her. "Don't worry about me," she tossed over her shoulder, "I've taken on much worse than you. She reached up and selected the longer of the two swords, then walked back to the mat.

       Duncan eyed her suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

       Jazz slashed the sword through the air experimentally, testing its weight and balance. Pleased with her choice, she looked up at him. "Incentive… I came here for a workout, and I'm going to get it if I have to cut it out of you." With that, she lunged.

       Duncan feinted left, narrowly avoiding the wickedly sharp blade as it hissed past his ear. Acting solely on an instinct borne through centuries of combat, he surged forward, driving his shoulder into her stomach and knocking her off her feet. In a half-crouch, he glanced around, trying to remember where his sword was.

       Damn! He thought, It's upstairs! Grabbing the nearest weapon he could find – a six foot long staff – he faced her.

       Only momentarily stunned, Jazz recovered her feet quickly and advanced on him. They circled each other warily, then she lunged again, but this time he was ready for her, deflecting the blade with his staff.

       She was relentless, almost vicious in her attack, and he met her blow for blow. They fought wildly, using the whole room as their arena. At one point, she thought she had him, landing a hard kick to his midsection, but as he stepped back, he caught her blade with the end of the staff, twisting violently. The sword was wrenched from her grasp and went sailing into the air.

       Jazz reached out to catch it, but at that moment, Duncan planted his foot squarely in the middle of her chest, sending her skidding backwards across the floor. He plucked the sword out of the air just before it hit the floor, and as she got to her knees, brought the blade to her neck.

       Sitting there, breathing like a winded racehorse, with a sword at her throat, she had the gall to smile at him. "I knew you had it in you." She said between breaths.

       "Don't ever do that again." He growled, the deep Scots burr in his voice betraying his anger.

       They both jumped when a feminine voice behind them demanded, "What in God's name is going on here?" Amanda was standing in the doorway, laden with shopping bags. They both looked at her, surprised that they had been too involved in their fight to feel her approach.

       Duncan was the first to recover. "Um… nothing." He said guiltily. "Just a friendly workout." He brought the blade away from Jazz's neck and went to hang in back on the rack. Then he strode over to kiss Amanda on the cheek and take her bags. Amanda didn't even spare him a glance. She was staring at the woman still kneeling on the floor with the queerest expression on her face.

       Duncan looked over at Jazz. She was still breathing heavily -- but then again, so was he – and her hair had come undone, the braid just touching the floor. She, too, had a strange look on her face. One of total shock.

       "Amie?" she said softly, not believing her eyes.

       "Jess?" Amanda said. A second later, her face broke into a dazzling smile.

       Jazz was on her feet in a second, running forward to embrace her friend.

       "It's you." Amanda whispered, touching her cheek. "It's really you." Then they hugged again, clinging to each other, tears running down their faces.

       Duncan was at a loss for words. He just stood there, feeling stupid, with his arms full of shopping bags. He watched in amazement as the two women fawned over each other like kittens.

       "I thought you were dead." Amanda said in amazement.

       Jazz smiled at her fondly. "It's a long story, Sister." She answered.

       "Well, then, why don't you tell me over lunch. I'm dying to know how you got out of that scrape.

       "Ok… just let me take a quick shower and we can go."

       Duncan watched them wander off towards the locker room, arms linked, talking all the while. He caught bits of their conversation as they went. Things like "You cut your hair." and "You grew yours." Floated back to him as they went through the door. He shook his head in wonder, thinking that Joe would love to hear about this. Then, with a sigh, he remembered the packages he was holding. Just like Amanda to leave him holding the bag – literally. He walked into his office to put them down, then hurried to shower himself. He wasn't going to miss this lunch for anything!

       Adam climbed the stairs to MacLeod's apartment. He didn't feel MacLeod's presence, but he knocked anyway, just to be polite. When, as expected, nobody came to the door, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Extracting a credit card, he expertly inserted the card between the door and the frame. The door obligingly popped open. Smiling to himself, he thought his friend really ought to be more careful about bolting his door.

       He walked into the apartment and looked around. It was basically the same as when he had last been here. The walls were mostly bare brick, with the exception of the mural over the bed. The room had a slightly cluttered, lived-in look. Only a practiced eye would notice that most of the "clutter" consisted of priceless antiques.

       He closed the door behind him and went over to drop his bag on the floor by the sofa, then he went to the kitchen and helped himself to a beer. Twisting the cap off and taking a drink, he glanced at his watch. The dial read 9:30 pm. Adam frowned, mentally subtracting for the time difference – 12:30. He unbuckled the band from his wrist and turned the dial back. He was supposed to meet Joe at two, so he had an hour and a half to kill. Good. He thought. Enough time to shower and relax for a while.

       He went over to examine the collection of compact disks next to the stereo, but was disappointed with the selection. "You'd think that in four hundred years, your taste in music would improve." He said out loud, stalking away from the stereo and turning on the television instead. He flipped channels until he found an old movie that he liked, then dropped the remote on the bed and went to retrieve his bag.

       He tossed the bag on the bed and sat down next to it, watching the movie with one eye while he pulled items out of the bag. He paused when his hand touched the file. He pulled it out, flipped through it briefly, then set it aside and continued pawing through the bag in search of his shaving kit.

       When he finally found it, he set it aside; then he pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, drinking his beer and becoming absorbed in the television. Before long, he was asleep.

       Duncan and Amanda sat across the table from Jazz in small Italian restaurant about ten minutes' drive from the dojo. Duncan and Jazz were freshly showered and wearing clean clothes. Duncan's hair had been pulled back, and he was wearing a clean linen shirt, black pants, and cowboy boots. Jazz's hair had been released from its braid and was cascading over her shoulders. She was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. Amanda was her usual elegant self… short, black hair; flawless makeup; a short black leather jacket and a matching mini-skirt.

       Duncan sighed into his drink. The two women had been chattering at each other ever since they left for the restaurant. They talked simultaneously, interrupted one another, finished each others' sentences. He was becoming dizzy trying to follow the conversation. Finally, he just gave up and decided to butt in. "So, how long have you two been friends?"

       The two women looked blankly at him for a second, as if they'd forgotten he was even there, then they looked at each other. Amanda shrugged. "We were friends for about 50 years, I guess, but the last time we saw each other was about 350 years ago."

       Jazz nodded in agreement. "Yes, I think that's about right."

       "So what happened?" He inquired.

       Amanda was the first to respond. "We had been in England for about ten years. Jess had taken a job as governess to the Earl of Waldhelm…"

       "Fascinating." Duncan said. "But, how did you come to think that she was dead?"

       "Well," Jazz began, "Amie, in her infinite wisdom, decided to steal the Countess' favorite diamond necklace. She got caught, and the Earl had her locked in the cellar and ordered her executed. I was trying to help her escape…"
 

       The two women crouched in the bushes, facing each other with their hands joined, hiding as the band of horsemen went by. The green cloaks Jess had stolen helped them blend into the surrounding foliage, making them almost invisible from the road. They waited until the jangling of the men's saddles had faded away, then they broke and ran through the trees.

       A lone soldier, following the rest along the road, saw the sudden movement and shouted an alarm to his cohorts. Within minutes, the horses were crashing through the forest in pursuit.

       Jess ran for all she was worth. Amie was just ahead of her, and the space between them was widening. Jess willed her to run faster, hoping that at least one of them would escape. She could hear the thunder of hooves gaining on them.

       Suddenly, a burning pain slammed through her body, bringing her to her knees. The bolt from a crossbow had penetrated her back, sliding between her ribs and piercing her heart. Her last conscious thought, as the soldiers surrounded her and her world went black, was a prayer to whatever gods there were that Amie would be safe.

       Some time later, she revived with a start. Her entire body ached, and she wished the pounding in her head would cease. Slowly, she opened her eyes. She was tied, face down, across a running horse. So that was where the pounding was coming from. Slowly she turned her head to look around. Her horse was in the center of the group of soldiers that had run her down. They were galloping at break-neck speed back towards the Earl's estate.

       One of the soldiers glanced at her, looking straight into her eyes. He was so surprised to see the dead woman looking back at him that he jerked backwards on the reins, bringing his horse almost to a sitting position. The rest of the soldiers came to a stop while he tried to gain control of his mount. As soon as he was able to calm the beast, another man, apparently their leader, demanded an explanation.

       "She's alive… she's alive!" the soldier chanted over and over, staring at her. His horse danced around, responding to the terror of its rider.

       "Don't be ridiculous, Jake. You know as well as I do that…" The leader glanced over his shoulder at the woman's body and did a double take when he saw blue eyes glaring balefully back at him. "My God." He whispered in awe. "A witch."

       The word "witch" passed back among the men. They had all heard stories about spells and witchcraft, and that just one glance with the "evil eye" could render a man impotent for the rest of his life. Immediately, half of them wanted to dump the woman and run.

       The leader quickly called for silence, regaining their attention. "We'll take the witch back to the castle. No doubt we'll be richly rewarded for catching the thief, and…" he looked into the eyes of each man, one at a time. "We'll have the pleasure of seeing her burn."

       A murmur passed through the men. There hadn't been a witch burned in Waldhelm for 27 years. The idea appealed to their blood thirsty nature. In agreement, they spurred their horses forward toward Waldhelm.

       A scant half hour later, she was dragged into the great hall. The Earl, a tall blonde man who would have been handsome except for the scar that ran from his forehead, down the middle of his face, to his chin, was seated at a long table at one end of the room, surrounded by his "advisors". The advisors were actually a group of other nobles whom the Earl spent the majority of his time drinking and gaming with. All of the household servants, anxious to see what would happen, either found an excuse to be in the room, or were hiding in the shadows eavesdropping.

       Jess stood between two burly guards, chained hand and foot. Her dress was tattered and stained with blood, and her hair, full of leaves and pine needles, had come loose from its knot and was hanging in a shabby tangle down her back. Still, she stood with her head held high and stared levelly at the Earl with all the dignity of a queen. She listened as first one soldier, then another, told his version of how she had been killed by an arrow through the heart and then had "magically" revived on the journey back.

       Throughout the soldiers' testimonies, the Earl, Aaron of Waldhelm, stared at Jess. She had been in his household for 2 years, teaching his brats, and no matter how hard he had tried to charm her, no matter how much he had beaten her, she had flatly refused to come to his bed. He'd see her pay for refusing him, not to mention defying him by letting that bitch steal his wife's jewelry. When the testimonies were finished, he rose and went to stand directly in front of her. "And where is my wife's necklace?" He asked the men, never taking his eyes from her face.

       All of the soldiers looked down and shuffled their feet. Their leader finally worked up enough courage to speak. "We never found it, my lord. We think the witch made it disappear into the air." He smiled, congratulating himself on his quick thinking.

       "You idiot!" He roared, grabbing the man and shaking him. Nose to nose with the filthy man, he snarled into his face. "Amanda took the necklace, not this pathetic excuse for a woman! Get out of here, all of you, and find her!"

       Instantly, the men were falling over each other to leave. They all knew of the Earl's violent temper, and none wanted a taste of it.

       After they had gone, he turned back to Jess, reaching out and roughly caressing her breast. "And as for you, little witch… I give you a choice. Spend the night with me, and I'll let you die quickly."

       Jess stared back at him, every inch of the hatred she felt for him showed in her eyes. "I'd rather be flayed alive."

       He sneered back at her. "Fine. If a crossbow won't kill you, let's see how you fare without your head." He turned to one of her guards. "Lock her in the cellar and post a guard. Then, pass the word around… at dusk, the witch will be tortured, burned at the stake, and beheaded." He smiled maliciously at her, then turned on his heel and left the room.

       "I still don't understand how you're alive." Amanda said around a bite of her salad. "I paid a beggar to go into town and find out what happened. He came back and told me that he had seen you beheaded."

       Jazz gazed down at her plate. The memory of that incident still gave her nightmares.

       Jess sat in the darkness of the cellar, contemplating her situation. Blast her arrogance! If she had slept with the disgusting man, she might not be in this predicament right now. Torture she could handle; Burning she would live through, although she had heard that the recovery was a long process; but to be beheaded at the hands of a mortal! What an ignoble way to die. For the fourth time, she checked the door. The guard was still there. Miserably, she crouched in a corner, resigned to her fate.

       She had no idea how long she sat there. She may have even slept for a few hours. Suddenly, the door opened a crack and a soft voice called her name. "Ella?" she whispered. "What are you doing?"

       "I came to get you out." The girl answered. "I drugged the guard, but we don't have very long. Come on."

       Not needing a second invitation, Jess followed Ella up the stairs to the kitchen. Ella checked quickly, then led Jess through the kitchen and out the door. Jess noticed that there were several maids in the kitchen preparing supper, but they all studiously ignoring her as she went by. Ella quickly handed her a coarse woolen cloak and a basket of eggs. "Go, quickly, before he wakes up and sees that you're gone."

       Jess turned to ask her to come along, sure that the Earl's rage would be quite an ugly sight if he found out what she had done, but the girl had already returned to the kitchen, closing the door behind her. Suddenly mindful of her precarious position, Jess pulled the hood of the cloak around her face, bowed her head, and hurried down the road and through the gates.

       "But… then who was burned?" Duncan asked.

       Jazz didn't speak for a long time. She just stared out the window at the street. When she finally answered him, her voice was very quiet. "The girl who arranged my escape was about my height and weight, with the same coloring. After she got me out of the castle, she substituted herself for me. I didn't find out what she had done until it was too late…" her voice trailed off into nothing, and she sat, still staring out the window, fighting off the tears that always threatened whenever she thought of the sacrifice Ella had made for her.

       All three of them were quiet for a while. They finished their meal without speaking. Jazz merely toyed with the food left on her plate. Duncan finally broke the silence. "What did you do for this girl that made her feel she owed you her life?"

       Jazz just looked at him, and it was Amanda who finally answered. "Aaron Waldhelm was a violent man who often vented his anger on his servants. There were a number of times when Jess willingly took a lashing that was meant for someone else. I imagine this girl probably did owe her life."

       Jazz turned haunted eyes to Amanda. "Nobody deserves to die that way. Nobody." Abruptly, she stood. "I'm sorry, I really need to get back to the gallery. Thank you, Duncan for lunch. Amie, Duncan has my number. Give me a call."

       Jazz kissed Amanda lightly on the cheek, then left the restaurant and hailed a cab.
 

Chapter 3

      He was dreaming again. Same forest, same stream. He trudged along the bank listening to the same silence. As expected, he felt the other immortal coming towards him, but this time, it gripped him so violently that he shot upright, wide awake. Our of reflex, he grabbed the sword that lay on the bed next to him.
       Adam shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. For a second, he couldn't remember why he wasn't in his own bed. But he could still feel the presence of another immortal, and the instinct to defend himself won out over all other thought. As the lift rose to the apartment, he jumped off the bed and raised the sword, prepared to do battle.

        Amanda and Duncan were carrying the shopping bags up in the elevator when they both felt the immortal waiting for them above. "Are you expecting someone?" Amanda inquired.

       "No." was his curt reply. Quickly, he handed the bags he was carrying to her. When the elevator stopped, he threw up the gate with one hand, his sword in the other. He stepped into the room to face the room and stopped abruptly, lowering the sword. "Methos?" he asked, his tone incredulous. His friend was standing on the other side of the room, holding a sword, and looking for all the world like a cornered wolf. Such a defensive stance was extremely out of character for him.

       Adam stared at Duncan blankly for a moment, as if not recognizing him, then he sat down heavily on the foot of the bed. Tossing the sword on the bed behind him, he rested his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands.

       With a practiced movement, Duncan slid his own sword back into the sheath he kept concealed in his overcoat. "What's wrong with you?" he asked.

       Adam ran his hands through his short, dark hair. Yes, what is wrong with me? He thought. I almost attacked one of my closest friends. The best answer he could come up with was "Nothing… just a bad dream."

       "Must have been one hell of a nightmare." Duncan replied, turning to take Amanda's packages from her. She had entered the room behind him and was looking on in interest.

       "I don't want to talk about it." He muttered, glancing at his watch. One forty-five. "Christ! I'm late. Have to take a shower." He said, then grabbed his shaving kit and went into the bathroom.

       Duncan glanced at the bathroom door as it closed behind him. "Sure… make yourself at home." He said sarcastically.

       "Does he always do that?" Amanda asked as she took of her jacket and hung it on the coat rack.

       "Do what?" "Just come in and make himself comfortable whenever he feels like it."

       Duncan sighed. "Usually."

       "You're late." Joe said without looking up.

       "Yeah, I know."

       Joe finished the tune he was working on, then turned his full attention to Adam. He still found it hard to believe that this man was over fifty centuries old. Tall and thin, he looked to be no more than thirty; and more like a wayward grad student than a wise old man. Today, though, he looked exhausted, and more than from nine hours of jet lag. He had dark rings under his eyes and his shoulders sagged. To tell the truth, he looked bone tired. "Man, you look like hell!" Joe said.

       Adam just smiled slightly. "Yeah, well you don't look so bad yourself." He retorted.

       "Anything wrong?" Joe asked as he set the guitar aside and reached for his cane.

       Adam shook his head. "No… just haven't been sleeping well."

       Joe got up slowly, putting the majority of his weight on the cane and positioning his prosthetic legs carefully. Then he walked over to shake Adam's hand in belated greeting. "So what have you got for me?" he asked, his voice belying his eagerness.

       Adam merely gestured for him to follow, and walked up the stairs to one of the larger tables on the second level of the bar. Joe grabbed a couple of long-necks from behind the bar and followed him.

       As they sat down, Adam set two files on the table. One of them was about five inches thick. Old, bound in leather, with the pages yellowing around the edges, Joe recognized it as the infamous "White Lady" file. The other was a fresh, new manila folder containing a few sheets of paper. On the tab was a neatly typed label that read, "DeLaCroix, Jasmine".

       "Ok…" Adam began. "Let's start with the White Lady file." He reached for the larger file. Several pages had been marked with disposable page flags. He flipped it open to the first marker. "I reviewed all of the entries that D'Anjou made, and picked out only the entries that were specific enough to contain this brand that you mentioned. Of the fifty two entries, only eight actually mention the mark."

       Methodically, he flipped to each of the eight markers, reviewing the individual occurrences. In one, she had been seen at the court of King Henry VIII, just after he married Anne Boleyn. She was mentioned only briefly as having conversed with the immortal about whom the chronicle was written. In 1586, she was a student of Paolo Caliari in Italy, shortly after he completed the Church of San Sebastiano in Venice. In the late 1860's she had been a governess on a large plantation in Georgia. The other entries mentioned her briefly, but didn't give any specifics about who she was or how she was involved with the immortal being recorded. They only thing all of the chronicles had in common was that they all mentioned the unusual mark on her person.

       "The thing I find interesting is that two of the eight immortals she encountered in these entries died mysteriously." Adam said.

       "Why's that?" Joe asked, frowning and taking a swig of his beer.

       "Well, these are the only two deaths recorded in this entire file, and both of them were known murderers. These…" he said waving two pages in the air, "are the two entries that prompted Maurice D'Anjou to start the file in the first place."

       "What about all of the other entries?" Joe inquired. Adam shook his head, closing the file and setting it aside. "It's hard to tell. D'Anjou was obsessed with blonde women. Some of the entries just mention one in passing – bar maids, servants, even prostitutes, but there are no identifying marks, no nothing. It could have been her, but it could just as easily been someone else."

       "What have you found out about Jazz?" Joe asked.

       Adam reached for the other file. "Jasmine DeLaCroix…" he said. Opening the folder, he began reeling off facts. "Born January 2, 1969, London England. Citizen of the United States since 1972. Artist, prefers oils to acrylic, the critics love her. Opened her first gallery in Manhattan, 1990. She took the art world by storm. The current average price for a 'Jazz' original is $10,000. She's reclusive, doesn't give interviews, won't talk about her past. That's about it."

       "Any holes in her story?"

       Adam frowned. "No, her files are fairly complete, even medical records. She's either legit, or she is, or knows, a very talented computer hacker."

       "So you don't think this White Lady thing holds water."

       "Well, I'm not so sure." Adam answered. I found a picture of her in an old New York Times . On a hunch, I had a friend of mine run the photograph through all of the major intelligence databases. We got a hit from Interpol."

       "Yeah, what was it?"

       "In the 1940's, there was a female agent in deep cover in Berlin. Her name was Gretchen VonStein. She worked for six months as a tutor in the household of one of Hitler's right hand guys. During that time, she was able to smuggle out several important pieces of information that ultimately contributed to Hitler's downfall."

       "What happened to her?"

       "She was caught, put before a firing squad, and buried in an unmarked grave. After the war, they tried to find her remains, but nothing turned up. As far as they're concerned, her body is still buried somewhere on the outskirts of Berlin." He reached into the file and pulled out a computer generated copy of a very old photograph, handing it to Joe. "The similarities are there, but the picture is so degraded, I can't tell for sure."

       Joe took the printout and looked at it for a long time. The picture was grainy, the clothes were outdated, but something about it… Finally he gave it back. "That's her, I'm sure of it."

       Adam cocked an eyebrow at his friend. "How can you tell?"

       "The way the head is tilted, her stance. That's Jazz, I'm positive."

       "The file says you've assigned some new guy, Herb White, as her Watcher. Is he any good?"

       "Let's hope so." Joe said. "We've missed her presence for at least 300 years. I don't want to lose her now."

       Adam nodded in agreement and gathered up his files. "So when do I get to meet her?"

       "Probably not until Thursday. For now, how 'bout I buy you another beer?"
 

       She had designed the store front herself, and the sight of it always gave her a feeling of inner peace, the same as when she looked at one of her paintings. This was her place… somewhere she belonged.

       Her reverie was broken by the eerie feeling that she was being watched. She looked around quickly, but the street was empty. Chalking it up to paranoia, she turned and walked into the gallery, waving to her assistant as she went upstairs. She walked around her studio, looking at her various projects. Finally she pulled a small, blank canvas out of a box by her workbench. The carefully selected a piece of charcoal from her toolbox and sat down on a stool to begin a new picture. One of a seventeenth century serving girl, about her height and weight, with blonde hair.

       Downstairs, the bell over the door tinkled softly as a man walked into the gallery. He wandered around the room, looking at the paintings on display. He was small in stature, and rather nondescript, His only distinguishing mark a small tattoo on his wrist. He stayed for only a few minutes, then went back outside and walked down the street. Once he reached the corner, he took a small tape recorder out of his pocket and spoke into it quietly.
 

Chapter 4

       Amanda arrived at the gallery at ten o'clock in the morning. It had been a couple of days since they had their chance meeting at MacLeod's, and she had called Jazz the night before to chat. They had talked for an hour before deciding to meet the next morning and go shopping – Amanda's favorite pastime.

       She still couldn't believe Jazz was alive! It had taken her a long time to get over losing her. They had been practically inseparable for close to fifty years. She truly felt like they were sisters.

       As she entered the gallery, she was brought out of her reflections by the knowledge that there was another immortal somewhere in the building. She's here already. She though, and smiled. Jazz had always been punctual.

       Looking around the room, she didn't see her friend, but she did see an attractive woman with long, dark hair sitting at a mahogany desk in the far corner of the room. She appeared to be going over a set of ledgers. Casually, Amanda strolled over to the desk. Out of habit, she cased the room as she went, taking note of the video domes in the ceiling, the lasers set into the walls at different levels, and even speculating that the more valuable pieces were probably hooked up to pressure sensors. Very good. She thought. You still think like me, sister.

       As she stopped in front of the desk, the woman looked up at her, taking in her ultra-chick black pantsuit with faux leopard skin trim on the collar and buttons. When she finished looking Amanda up and down, she asked, "May I help you?"

       Amanda folded her arms and smiled her best cat smile. "I'm here to see Ms. DeLaCroix. She's expecting me."

       "And your name is?" The woman asked, pulling a small appointment book out of her desk drawer and flipping to the day.

       "Amanda."

       The woman made a show of examining the schedule in her book, then looked up and smiled a nasty little smile. "I'm sorry Amanda, but you don't have an appointment."

       "I know that. I talked to her last night. If you could just let her know that I'm here…" The other woman cut her off. "I'm sorry, but Ms. DeLaCroix is in her studio, and I have strict instructions not to disturb her when she's working unless the person has an appointment."

       "But…" Amanda began again.

       "But nothing. You will have to come back later."

       Amanda narrowed her eyes, preparing to give the snotty chit a piece of her mind, when Jazz's voice sounded behind her.

       "It's all right, Lily. I really am expecting her." Jazz said as she walked down the stairs from the second level. To Amanda, she said, "Please forgive my assistant. She's just trying to do her job."

       "Well, I think she's trying a little to hard." Amanda said indignantly.

       Jazz smiled, choosing to ignore that comment. "Amanda, this is Lily Sinclair, my personal assistant, accountant, and all around mother hen. Lily, this is Amanda."

       Lily stood up, smiling, and extended her had. "It's nice to meet you. I'm sorry I was such a frau, but with all the weird stuff that's been going on…"

       Amanda took her hand cautiously, as if she might jump over the desk and bite her. "What kind of weird stuff?"

       "Nothing." Jazz cut in. "You know, Amie, we really should go." She wanted to talk to Amanda, but not while Lily was around. Lily knew only half the story, and she was worried enough already.

       Amanda was following Jazz out the door, anxious to find out what the big secret was, when Lily called out for them to wait. As they turned, she reached down and unlocked another drawer in the desk, taking out a small leather handbag. "You don't want to leave without this, do you?"

       Jazz smiled, hurrying over to get her purse. "Thanks Lily, what would I do without you?"

       Lily grinned back. "Probably forget your head." She replied.

       Jazz looked at her oddly for a second, then smiled and winked at her, turning to leave. When she and Amanda reached the street, she glanced around, surreptitiously trying to see if anyone was out there waiting for them. The street was empty, with the exception of a few cars parked along the side of the road.

       Amanda walked over to MacLeod's convertible, which was parked at the curb in front of Jazz's Porsche. "Come on. I'll drive."

       Jazz climbed into the passenger seat and fastened her seatbelt. As they pulled away, she asked, "Does Duncan know you have his car?" Amanda just laughed.

       A few minutes after they drove away, a man appeared behind the wheel of a sedan parked across the street from the gallery. He had been laying down in the front seat to avoid detection. He pulled a U-turn and slowly went in pursuit of the convertible.

       Adam wandered up the street toward the gallery, casually looking in shop windows as he went. Joe had given him White's first report on this mysterious new immortal, and it mentioned that she owned an art gallery on 8th Street. He was dying to meet her. Though Joe told him she would be at the bar that evening, his inquisitive nature had gotten the better of him, so here he was.

       He could see the marble pillars about three doors down, just as her Watcher had described, but he took his time. A shiny red Porsche was parked out front - her car, according to the report. He didn't want to appear as if he were looking for her. He knew Joe would kill him if he scared her into leaving.

       Finally, he strolled past the last shop, a bakery that was emitting some very tempting smells, and stopped in front of the display window of the gallery. Four paintings were tastefully arranged on a pristine white drop cloth. One of them was a portrait of a young woman sitting amid a garden filled with flowers. The second was a still life, not very interesting. The third was a seascape, waves crashing on an empty beach. They were all very good, but when he looked at the fourth one, he felt as if his heart stopped.

       The fourth painting was of a riderless horse standing at the top of a steep crag that jutted out over the ocean. The horse, a black war horse, was looking out over the waves with its ears pricked forward, as if waiting for something to happen. Though it had no rider, it was wearing a saddle, bridle, and breastplate of tooled silver.

       Adam's mouth dropped open and he stared in disbelief. That was the horse in his dream, from the tips of its tiny ears down to the soles of its heavily feathered hooves. Feeling compelled, he turned and walked into the gallery.

       As he walked through the door, he strained for even the slightest tingle that would tell him another immortal was close by. Nothing. Damn! She's not here. He thought, disappointed. He stopped just inside the door and looked around.

       The entire inside of the gallery was white, giving it a bright, clean appearance. It would have seemed cold and sterile, but the wood crown molding on the walls added a touch of warmth, as did the wood frames and easels in the room. It was a very comfortable, yet elegant atmosphere.

       Most of the art on display was in the form of paintings, but there were a few sculptures strategically placed to add depth to the room. He could see that the work of several different artists was being displayed, but the majority of the paintings and lithographs belonged to Jazz.

       He spied a young woman sitting at a desk in the corner and walked over to speak to her. She looked up from her work and eyed him skeptically. She was very pretty. Long dark hair, elegant features, graceful hands with long, well manicured fingernails. He could see her mind working as she calculated his net worth based on the clothes he was wearing. In an oversized sweater, jeans and sneakers, he didn't imagine he would add up to very much.

       "May I help you?" she asked looking at him as if to say that he couldn't afford to buy even a postcard from the prestigious Jazz Gallery.

       "Actually yes." He said, giving her his most charming smile and pointing to the window. "That painting in the window, the one with the horse…"

       "You mean 'Zeus'?"

       'Yes, that's the one…" Adam said thoughtfully. "I want to buy it."

       The woman looked as if she had never heard anything more absurd. He could tell it was all she could do to keep from laughing in his face. "I'm sorry, sir.' She said, trying to maintain her composure. "I'm not authorized to sell that painting."

       "Well then, I'd like to speak with someone who is."

       "The only person who could sell you that painting is Jazz herself. I can schedule an appointment, but I'll tell you right now that I doubt she'll sell it to you." The woman said.

       "Why not?" "There are a few pieces on display in the gallery that she is personally attached to. 'Zeus' is one of them."

       "I see…"

       "Would you like an appointment anyway?"

       "No, forget it." Adam thanked her and left the gallery. As he walked back the way he had come, he paused and looked at the painting again. "Curioser and curioser." He muttered to himself as he walked away. Now he was more anxious to meet this woman than ever.

       Amanda and Jazz strolled through the mall, browsing through stores. Amanda had purchased several new outfits, but Jazz had bought nothing. As they walked along, Amanda noticed that her friend, who had always been quiet by nature, was even more reserved than usual. Every so often, she would glance around as if she was looking for someone.

       "What's wrong?" she said as Jazz looked behind them for the seventh time.

       "Nothing." Jazz said, and then quickly directed her attention to a dress in one of the store windows. "Come on." She said, grabbing Amanda's arm. "I want to try that one on."

       Amanda allowed herself to be led into the shop, but she wasn't going to be put off a second time. She wanted to know what the hell was going on. She waited until the salesgirl had found the appropriate size and they were alone in the dressing room.

       The room was large and open, with gilt framed mirrors in three of the four corners. The fourth held a large, overstuffed chair, and there was an imitation Victorian couch along one of the walls. Amanda dropped her bags on the floor and flopped down in the chair. She watched Jazz peel off her jeans and prepare to slip into the dress she had chosen. After a moment, she broke the silence. "So, what's going on?"

       Jazz glanced over her shoulder as she stepped into the dress. Initially, she had wanted to tell Amanda everything, but now, she wasn't so sure. Amanda would want to help, to get involved, and that might be deadly for both of them. She decided to take the high road for now. "What makes you think there's something going on?" She asked with all the innocence she could muster.

       "You seem to forget how much time we spent together. It may have been a long time ago, but we're both still the same people, and I can tell something's bugging you."

       "Nothing's bothering me." Jazz snapped.

       "Yeah, right." Amanda snorted. "That's why you've spent more of the day looking behind you than forward. I swear, Jazz. You're acting like someone's out to get you or something!"

       Jazz looked at her strangely, then turned back to the mirror, refusing to answer. From that reaction, Amanda could tell that she'd hit very close to the mark. Slowly she walked over and stood behind her friend, looking over her shoulder and meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Tell me." She pleaded.

       Jazz sighed, her shoulders slumped in defeat. "All right, I'll tell you, but let's get out of here first. I'm sure the salespeople are beginning to wonder why we've been in here so long.'

       Amanda agreed readily, and Jazz quickly changed back into her own clothes. After she paid for the dress, they walked a little further down the mall to a small gourmet coffee shop. The ordered espresso and went to sit at a table in the corner.

       "It's nothing, really…" Jazz began.

       Amanda just looked at her, waiting expectantly.

       Jazz sighed again. "Ok, look. The last few days, someone's been following me."

       "Who is it?" Amanda asked, concerned.

       "I don't know."

       "Well, is it a man or a woman?" "I don't know."

       "What does the person look like?"

       "I don't know. I've never seen them."

       "Well then how do you know you're being followed?" Amanda asked, tapping her fingers on the table in frustration.

       Jazz stared at the table, slowly sipping the strong coffee. How could she possibly explain? She decided to take the direct approach. So what if she thinks I'm nuts. She looked her friend straight in the eye and told her. "I can feel them."

       "You mean an immortal is following you?"

       "No, not that kind of feeling. It's more like just a creepy feeling that someone is there."

       Amanda blinked. "So you think that just because you have a 'creepy feeling' that someone is following you around."

       Jazz nodded.

       "But you haven't seen anyone."

       She nodded again.

       "So you've been distracted the whole time we've been here because you feel like we're being followed."

       Jazz nodded a third time.

       Amanda shook her head and took a sip of espresso. "Jazz, that sounds crazy."

       "I know," she replied, "but it's true. Amanda, I'm not making this up." Her eyes pleaded for understanding.

       "How do you know?" Amanda asked, unconvinced.

       "I don't know how I know, but I do. It's a gift… kind of."

       "A gift?" In all the years they'd been friends, she'd never mentioned this "gift". "What do you mean?"

       Jazz started slowly. She hadn't talked to anyone about this talent of hers for a long time, and she was reluctant to do so now. "Ever since I was a kid, I've known things… things that, by all rights, I shouldn't have known."

       Amanda frowned again, drinking her espresso and listening intently.

       "It doesn't happen very often, but when it does, I know better than to ignore it." "So this has happened to you before?"

       Jazz nodded. "A few times, usually, though, it has to do with other people."

       "What do you mean?"

       Jazz thought for a minute trying to figure out how to explain something she didn't fully understand herself. "When I was twelve, I was living with a family in Bath, James and Mary Sutton. I was really happy there. They were good people, and they took care of me like I was their own.

       "James was going to London on business, and Mary was going to go with him – sort of a second honeymoon. I was to stay with some friends until they returned." She paused as a waiter brought them more coffee.

       After he was gone, Amanda said, "and….?"

       "The day they left, I had this awful feeling. I begged them not to go, trying to explain that something terrible was going to happen. They thought I was just afraid to be left behind, so they tried to reassure me the best they could, and then they left. I never saw them again."

       "What happened?" Amanda asked, genuinely interested.

       "A couple of days after they left, their carriage was found, overturned on the side of the road. Apparently, the horse spooked. When the carriage hit a rut and turned over, they were both killed."

       "Wow." Amanda said softly.

       The two women sat there for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. In her mind, Jazz relived the few days after she found out that the closest people she had to parents were dead. She still blamed herself, believing that she could have done something about it. It was her fault that they had died so young. Shaking it off, she looked at Amanda. "It's happened more than once, Amie, and every time I haven't been able to do anything to help the people who were involved. Now it's happening again, and I can't ignore it."

       'Ok, suppose I believe you." Amanda said, locking her eyes on her friend's face. "Why didn't you tell me about this 'gift' before?"

       "I didn't think it was important for you to know."

       They sat in silence for a few minutes, finishing their coffee. Amanda was the first to speak again.

       "So your assistant is aware of this? That's why she was so rotten to me today?"

       Jazz shook her head. "No, Lily doesn't know. I don't want her any more worried that she already is."

       "Then what are the weird things that have been happening?" she asked, referring to their earlier conversation in the gallrey.

       "Someone's been calling the gallery and asking for me. When she asks his name, he hangs up. A couple of times, I've answered myself. There's just silence on the other end, and then a man starts laughing and hangs up. It's got Lily pretty freaked out." Jazz dropped a dollar on the table, and they got up to leave.

       "So you think this phantom person that's been following you and these telephone calls are related?" Amanda asked as they walked back to the car.

       Jazz shrugged. "Seems that way. The phone calls started a couple of days after I first felt that someone was following me."

       They got into the car and sat for a moment, then Amanda turned slightly to face Jazz. "So does this mean you're psychic or something?" she asked.

       Jazz just laughed and shook her head.

       Amanda dropped Jazz off at the gallery and promised to meet up with her at Joe's later. Jazz had asked her to come in and receive the grand tour, but Amanda begged off, saying she had some errands to run. As she pulled away from the curb, she thought she'd go home and talk to Duncan. She had a sneaking suspicion that she knew who was following her friend, and Duncan was just the man to help her find out the truth.
 

Chapter 5

       Amanda was sitting at the bar at Joe's later that night, talking to Jazz while she worked behind the counter. Watching Jazz flirt with one of the patrons, she thought of the discussion she had with Duncan earlier that day. Apparently, she hadn't had a Watcher assigned to her until a few days ago, after Duncan had confirmed for Joe that she was, indeed, immortal. That would explain why she felt like she was being followed, but it didn't explain the phone calls – unless the guy was some kind of pervert. While she was toying with that idea, she was assailed by the knowledge that another immortal was approaching. She glanced at Jazz, but her friend showed no outward reaction. How does she do that? Amanda thought as she turned her gaze to the door.

       Adam strolled into Joe's and looked around. The place was packed. He caught Amanda's eye and went over to say hello. As he took a seat on the stool next to Amanda, he got his first good look at Jazz.

       She was standing at the opposite end of the bar, talking to a customer while she mixed a martini. Her hair was pulled back in a braid that hung down the center of her back. She was wearing an oversized white shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and tight black jeans. She was a tiny thing, perhaps five foot three or four, but she radiated life. The customer told her a joke, and when he delivered the punch line, she threw back her head and laughed.

       She hadn't looked at him yet, which he found mildly surprising, since he knew that she knew he was there. If it were me, he thought, I'd sure want to know who was invading my space.

       At that moment, Duncan walked into the bar as well. Both Amanda and Adam looked up to see who it was, but Adam noticed that the woman behind the bar did not. She didn't even flinch. Interesting. He thought.

       Duncan walked over to join them, kissing Amanda quickly and waving a greeting to Jazz. She smiled in response and finished serving the customer she was talking to. Then she walked down to where they were sitting, plucking a bottle of Joe's finest single malt whiskey off a shelf as she went. She set a glass in front of Duncan, without asking him what he wanted, and poured him a whiskey.

       "Thanks." He said, grinning, and took a sip.

       She smiled back. "It's the least I can do." She replied.

       Duncan just chuckled as he took another drink.

       Still smiling, Jazz looked at the stranger sitting next to Amanda. He was nice looking, but not necessarily what you would call classically handsome. He had short, dark hair and fair skin. His face was all angles and planes, with a strong chin and a prominent nose that added character to his face, rather than detracting from his looks. His eyes were arresting, silver with flecks of gold and green, framed with long, dark lashes. She could see years of wisdom behind those eyes. He's been around for a long time. She thought. He smiled at her, and suddenly he looked very young. A boys smile and an ancient soul. A single word came to her mind – Devastating.

       Adam held his hand out over the bar and introduced himself. "Hi. Adam Pierson."

       "Jasmine DeLaCroix." She responded, taking his hand. The second their skin made contact, a charge ran up her arm, sparking off little tingles up the back of her neck. In that instant, she knew two things. One, she was fiercely attracted to him, so much so that it was frightening; and two, he was lying about who he was.

       He felt her shiver and she didn't let go of his hand for a moment. Her expression changed, almost imperceptibly, and he suddenly felt as if she could read his mind. He tilted his head slightly and raised an eyebrow at her.

       Jazz could feel heat rising to her face. She knew she was staring, but she couldn't seem to tear herself away from his eyes. Abruptly, she let go of his hand. Desperately trying to cover, she said, "Um… can I get you something to drink?"

       Adam just kept staring at her. "Beer's fine." He replied after a moment. She was blushing furiously. He liked having such an effect on such a beautiful woman.

       They looked at each other for a moment longer, then she turned away and hustled over to the tap. While she watched the beer flow into the glass, she cursed herself for acting like such a fool. When the glass was full, she took a deep breath, walked back to where he was sitting, and set the glass in front of him. "There you go." She said.

       "Thanks." He replied, gazing into her eyes as he took a drink. One of the cocktail waitresses caught her attention, and she walked back down to the other end of the bar to fill the order. He never took his eyes off her slender form as she walked away. Smiling to himself, he wondered why he always seemed to meet the most interesting women at Joe's.

       That thought brought Alexa's face into his mind, and he felt a pang of guilt. She'd been gone less than a year, but he missed her so much it felt like centuries. How could he sit there and flirt with another woman when he still loved her so much? He could feel the pain starting again, that dull aching sense of loss he always felt when he thought about Alexa. To distract himself from his misery, he twisted around on the barstool to face MacLeod. "So, that's the infamous 'White Lady', eh?" He said to no one in particular.

       Duncan shrugged, finishing his drink and reaching between Amanda and Adam to set the empty glass on the bar.

       Amanda frowned at him. "What do you mean, 'White Lady'?" She demanded.

       Adam and Duncan exchanged a look. "You said you told her." Adam accused.

       "Well, not everything." Duncan replied, then to Amanda he said, "It's an old Watcher myth Joe told me about."

       "And…?" Amanda said, folder her arms in front of her.

       Duncan opened his mouth to explain, then closed it again as he saw Jazz coming back to join them. "Nothing." He said, a little guiltily. "I'll tell you later."

       "Did I miss something?" Jazz asked as she refilled Duncan's glass.

       "No." Duncan replied. "Adam and I were just going to talk to Joe. Is he upstairs?"

       "Yeah, I think he's working on the books or something."

       "Ok, thanks."

       Jazz watched Duncan and Adam as they walked up the stairs to the second level, then turned to Amanda. "What was that all about?"

       "What?" "Well, when I walked over here, all of a sudden you guys stopped talking."

       "Oh, that was nothing. Don't worry about it. I want to know what was going on between you and Adam." She replied, deftly changing the subject. Jazz could feel color suffusing her cheeks again. "Nothing, why do you ask?"

       "Oh come on! You two were looking like you could have eaten each other alive. Don't give me this 'Oh it was nothing.' crap!"

       "Ok, so I think he's attractive. Anything wrong with that?" Jazz said, sounding more defensive than she intended to.

       Amanda smiled knowingly. "No. Nothing wrong at all."

       "Amanda knows her?" Joe asked, stunned.

       He had been sitting at a corner table on the second floor. He told Jazz he was going over the account books for the bar, but he had actually spent the evening reading the chronicles Adam had brought with him from Paris. Pierson and MacLeod had come up to join him, and were now sitting at the table with him. MacLeod was pulling pages out of the file and reading them while he nursed his whiskey. Adam was just leaning back in his chair, drinking his beer and staring into space. Both Adam and Joe snapped to attention when MacLeod mentioned, without looking up from the page he was reading, that Jazz and Amanda were old friends.

       "Yeah, they were friends back in the 1600's." He replied, then gave them the abridged version of the story he had heard over lunch a few days ago. "Aren't there any entries from Amanda's chronicles in your file?" He asked.

       Joe shrugged. "I haven't had a chance to read the whole file yet." He turned to Adam for the answer, but Adam wasn't even paying attention any more. He was staring into space again.

       Adam's mind had begun to wander a few words into MacLeod's recount of the story he had heard. He couldn't get his mind off the woman tending bar downstairs. He kept drifting between wanting to ask her hundreds of questions about who she was and where she came from to wanting things that had nothing to do with talking. Most of all, though, he wanted to know about that painting. Suddenly, he noticed that Joe and Duncan were looking at her expectantly. "What?"

       "Have you heard anything we've been talking about in the last half hour?" Joe asked.

       MacLeod answered for him. "I think he's rather taken with your bartender." He grinned mischievously.

       "I am not. And yes, I was listening." God, was he that obvious? "Now, what was the question?"

       "Are there any of Amanda's chronicles in here?" Joe asked a second time, tapping his index finger on the leather cover of the file.

       Adam frowned for a moment, trying to recall. "Yeah, I think so. Let me see." He reached for the file and began flipping through it. After a few minutes, he found what he was looking for. It was an entry from 1641, depicting the same story Duncan had just related to them up to the point where Amanda was separated from her in the forest. At that point, the Watcher had followed Amanda. There was brief mention of Amanda's grief when she found out the girl had been put to death, but nothing else. The scribe had either assumed she was mortal, and thus, unimportant; or he had known she was immortal and assumed that she had her own Watcher. Adam suspected that it was the former, since no references were made to the girl's immortality anywhere in the excerpt. "I'll call Paris in the morning and ask them to go over Amanda's file. Maybe D'Anjou missed something."

       "Yeah, do that would you?" Joe said pensively, running his fingers over the pages of the chronicle. "I just don't get it." He said. "This definitely places her back at least 400 years. I don't understand how we missed her."

       Adam laughed. "C'mon, Joe. You know the Watchers can't track everybody. I'm living proof of that."

       Joe only nodded. "I know, but still…"

       The three men talked about it for a while longer, then their conversation drifted to more mundane topics. Eventually, Amanda got tired of sitting at the bar and came up to join them.

       It was 2:30 a.m. when Jazz appeared at the top of the stairs. The bar was empty, and everyone else had left. It had been a busy night, and she was exhausted. Joe was, again, sitting alone in the corner with his books. When she said goodnight and told him she'd lock up on her way out, he just nodded and waved, absorbed in the page he was reading. He barely heard the door close behind her.

       A few minutes after she left, his cellular phone rang. Not taking his eyes from his reading, he picked up the phone and answered it, thinking it might be Adam. "Dawson." He said into the phone.

       A stranger's voice on the other end said, "I'd like to speak to Jasmine DeLaCroix, please."

       Joe frowned. Nobody knew this number except MacLeod and a handful of Joe's friends. "She's not here. Who is this?" he asked sharply. A second later, he heard a click as the person hung up.

       Jazz lay in bed, wide awake. She turned over and looked at the clock. The glowing red numbers said 3:30 a.m. She had been exhausted when she got home from Joe's, and had crawled into bed almost immediately, but, as it had been for so many nights recently, sleep eluded her.

       She got out of bed and padded down the hall to her studio. She turned on the light and wandered around the cluttered room touching half a dozen unfinished canvases before one finally called to her. Then she went over to her work table, slid a CD into her stereo, and selected a palette and some brushes.

       As the music started to play, she settled onto a stool in front of her chosen project, a lush forest of tall evergreens with a stream winding through the trees, and went to work.

       Adam gratefully fell on the couch in MacLeod's loft. It was late, and his internal clock was still slightly skewed by overseas travel. He fell asleep quickly.

       He was standing in the forest again. It always amazed him how quiet it was. It wasn't deathly silence. It felt different, more like the silence of anticipation that precedes a violent storm. He stood where he was and looked around. Over the last few nights, he had begun to pay more acute attention to his surroundings. If he was going to be stuck here every time he slept, he was determined to find the key to its meaning.

       Overhead, he could see the boughs of the trees, knitting together to form a green canopy that all but blocked out the sun. Every once in a while, small creatures would dart about among the branches, but he heard no sound. He could smell the strong pine scent of the forest all around him.