Cassandra met Duncan’s gaze, ax still raised over Methos’ unprotected neck. The man at her feet was close to collapse, sobs wrenched from the slender body with shudders so violent he looked as he might break apart.

        Duncan’s eyes held hers as he leaned exhaustedly against the railing. He was barely able to stand but his dark eyes blazed with a strange mix of rage and fear and warning.

        He might kill her if she followed through with the strike--he might take her head while she was helpless in the thrall of Methos’ Quickening. She saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice. At this moment in time it no longer mattered what they had been to one another in the past.  Duncan had stood between her and Methos from the beginning, torn between them, loyalties warring. She thought he had come to be her ally--believed and agreed with her that the Horsemen had to be stopped, all of them.

        Kronos’ death had ended the Horsemen but Methos still lived. Was it worth her head?  She was no longer sure. Duncan saw something in the wreck of a man at her feet--some worth, some value. She couldn’t. Not yet.

        The dark head below her was bent, so perfectly positioned. It would be over quickly, the heavy ax the perfect weapon.

        It had been meant to take her head. Methos had stopped Silas. She had no idea why. She glanced up to see Duncan hauling himself to his feet, to make his way to her--stop her. Three times Methos had let her live--twice saved her life.

        She needed time to find out why. She dropped the ax, letting it ring uselessly against Methos’ sword. She turned away, feet clanging on the metal steps as she climbed, then ran. Tears of rage and frustration burned her eyes, her face and her soul--sobs still echoing through the abandoned structure like demons or the ghosts of her long dead people. She ran to escape them, escape Duncan, escape the power Methos still held over her, running until her thoughts went dark and she no longer knew or cared what she was running from.
 

        October settled in over the Pacific Northwest gently, letting summer slide away rather than come to an abrupt end. The days remained warm, nights chilling as soon as the sun set. Clear nights gave way to rainy mornings and starkly beautiful afternoons. But each day the cold seemed to settle a little deeper, the rain fall a little harder and the beautiful afternoons grew shorter.

        Still, the crisp air, scented by turning leaves, filled with the rustle of shedding trees, evoked a desire to delve into the color in the afternoons. To watch the sun fade through the brightly tinted leaves, casting shadows edged with gold and crimson.  Walkers abounded, bundled, faces turned to the dying light as the cold rose- tinted their cheeks.

        Kathryn Pierson nee Miller was glad her cheeks were reddened by cold rather than her own internal pigment patrol, which had a tendency to work over time.  She closed her eyes as she walked, trusting her husband to guide her along the sidewalk and not let her run into any trees or other walkers. There were on the edge of a park separating the outer downtown district of Seacouver from an older residential area. Her arm was linked through his, both of them with their hands thrust deep into coat pockets.  She began humming, the fall air bringing to mind a song she hadn’t heard in ages--or years, rather. Ages took on a whole knew connotation when you were married to the oldest living Immortal. Getting ready to marry him for the second time, she reminded herself.  The formalized ceremony scheduled to be performed in a few weeks.  It all seemed a little unreal still.

        Methos glanced at her sideways, trying to identify the tune--knowing it was familiar. Maddeningly so.  “What is that?”

        She stopped and grinned at him, flipping the short, dark blond braid from under her collar, putting aside her flash of unease. “Guess.”

        “I’ve been trying to...”

        “World’s most depressing song,” she hinted and began humming again, watching the furrow between the hazel eyes with amusement. “Come on, Adam. You have to know this!” She said laughing. “How can you have lived five thousand years and not know the world’s longest song?”

        “I can give you the top ten from Hadrian’s era,” he offered, grinning at her, hand sweeping through his short cropped dark hair. “Sing it.”

        “It’ll give it away! Oh, all right ... ‘The legend lives on, from the Chippewa on down, of the big lake they called Gitchee-Gumi,”  she sang, on key--low alto voice suited to the ballad. “‘Superior it is said, never gives up her dead, till the skies of November turn gloomy...’.”

        “Oh, good Lord! ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.’ It is the world’s longest song,” he said in amused disgust and began singing with her, inventing words as he went. None-too-steady baritone a counterpoint both in voice and laughter. “And the good ship and crew, they all died too..... and sank to the bottom of the big lake. And everybody died ... all still inside and have been there longer than this song can go on.” Kathryn was laughing, her husband grinning as he finished mangling the lyrics.

        “That’s horrible!” She shrieked. “It’s a great song! It was a terrible thing... and Lightfoot tells it so compellingly,” she said trying to maintain some dignity and seriousness.

        “No. ‘Alice’s Restaurant’ is a great song. ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ is a great song. The Wreck is just a sorry excuse for bad epic poetry,”  Methos said, baiting her, watching the indignation wash across her face, heightening the color, the flash in her blues eyes.

        “You probably think ‘American Pie’ is great too. It’s a ridiculous piece of nonsense,” she retorted at his nod. “Well, I can tell I’m going to have to drag out all my old LP’s and expose you to some real music,” she said superiorly. “Joan Baez. Neil Diamond. Barry Manilow....”

        “Stop. Stop! I take it back! ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’ is a classic piece of American musical history...” Methos said in mock terror.

        Kathryn sniffed. “ I’m glad you agree. But I think I should make you listen to ‘Kentucky Woman’ for ever doubting it,” she said  then shrieked as he reached for her sides to tickled her.

        “One good torture deserves another!” He warned as she sprang away, running back toward the house, Methos close on her heels. She stumbled, expecting him to catch her. He didn’t and she turned to see him standing stock still, searching the surrounding area, laughter completely erased from his expression.

        “Adam?” She queried, approaching him. Then felt it as well. The thrum/caress of motion and sound picking picked at her brain. Her hand sought his and he clutched it, stepping in close to her when he saw a figure approaching through the wooded section of the park, to stop at the edge. Kathryn tensed as the man raised a bright steel blade, pointing at the pair of them. Methos pushed her away gently, reaching under the flap of his great coat as the challenger advanced.

        “Bloody hell,” He swore softly.  “I didn’t think they would come this far out of the city. Warn Mac, Kit,” he said, body alert but not tensed, sword held low and ready “Go on.”

        “But what if...?”

        “I don’t want him following us,” he murmured. “Either way, you’re not going to be much use...and Mac will be worse. Go on, sweetheart,” he added, the shift occurring again in the gold-green eyes that met hers. He brushed her fingertips lightly with a kiss.

        “What’s the matter, Methos? Afraid to let your woman watch?” The man said and Methos went unnaturally tense, hazel eyes narrowing further.

        “James Hague.” The man said with a diffident smile, dark eyes darting over to take in Kathryn’s face and figure.  “Now this could be interesting.”

        Kathryn dug her finger’s into her husband’s arm in shock. Hague knew him. Knew who Methos was. Not a guess. The other man had come looking for the world’s oldest Immortal.

        “You seem to be misinformed,” Methos said easily, voice steady.  “Wrong name.  Right battle but wrong name.”

        Hague showed a hesitancy. Dark eyes reassessing his opponent. What he saw was a tall, slender man, body poised but loose, blade held easily in long, graceful hands.  Dark hair cropped short to frame the pale, angled face. The woman beside him was nearly as tall her own sword held competently but obviously willing to defer to the man beside her. Blue eyes watching Hague’s face warily and with some confusion.

        “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Hague said.  “If you’re not him, you’ll do for practice. Her too. So if you’re not Methos, then who are you?”

        “Maybe you should have asked before you made such an ass of yourself,” Methos said, lips turning up ferally and throwing the man off even further as he pushed Kit gently aside.  She stepped away, reading more into the flickering glance toward the house than in his words. “I won’t be late for dinner,” he promised. His persona altered from loving husband to killer in the beat of a heart as he turned his entire attention to his opponent.

        Kathryn dropped his hand, turning to flee the park before she heard the first touch of metal against metal. She ran, sidewalk jarring her spine as she sought the house, the phone. Methos’ concern and her own to warn the Highlander of the coming storm--if she could. When they could. Which wasn’t often. But it was early evening and she was more likely to find Duncan MacLeod at home. They would have to deal with how the stranger got his information later. After. If they survived.

        They had left the door unlocked, the old neighborhood enjoying a certain quietude in a city whose crime rate was climbing every year. Trading a rented condo with a security gate for the cottage in a neighborhood whose chief safeguard was neighbors who actually paid attention to what went on beyond the edges of their property. Without being too inquisitive. Older couples, mostly,  who found the young newlyweds endearingly polite.

        The closest phone was in the front hall and Kathryn reached for it as the front door slammed into the wall, grateful for memory dial, praying the head to fall wouldn’t be her husband’s and hoping she could complete the call before she found out. Two rings. Three. “Come on, Mac, pick up...” she murmured.

        “DeSalvo’s. Richie Ryan.”

        Close enough. “Rich, it’s Kit. Is Duncan around?”

        “Hey! Yeah, he’s right....”

        “Adam’s in a fight... Tell him ... Watch out for him, Richie,” she said, knowing the young Immortal would understand. She hung up without another word, turning to flee back out the door, back to the park, deciding halfway through the hurried explanation that there was no way she could leave the outcome to chance.

        Her heart burned. If he lost....if Methos lost she would not leave his Quickening, his spirit, to a man like Hague. To a hunter.  New to Immortality she might be but she knew what was at stake. Rules or no rules. Hague would not make it out of the park alive.

        But she had made her decision too late, making it to the porch then had to fight to get back inside the door and close it before a neighbor saw her and wondered if young Mrs. Pierson was an epileptic. She sank against the door, felt Methos’ signature rush through her, had one brief flash of elation in knowing he survived before the other, more unpleasant half of the shared Quickening came. She tucked her head against her upraised knees, a sob of pain and fear washing over her, fighting the vision of trees, dusk, her spirit rising to meet the darkening sky, her body spasmed and she moaned then fought for breath as the air around her became a vacuum. The loss almost stealing her consciousness as it, as she, was sucked into a void then came crashing down like a meteor strike into the ocean. All fire, and speed and impact. For one brief instant feeling MacLeod with her, echoing Methos’ pain/her fear/MacLeod’s darkness. Then nothing.

        He pulled himself to his knees, dusk having shifted to darkness and he was just as glad. Less likely to be recognized, or to have been noticed in the dim light. His opponent had been young. Good, but young. The Quickening fast, burning and mercifully short. He still ached. His blood still burned from the influx of Immortal energy, body responding  in a way he’d long since learned to ignore.

        Hague hadn’t been all that good. He had thrown Hague off his stride with confusion about his identity but even so, Hague’s personality filtered through his own like blood poisoning. The man had wanted Kathryn and not necessarily at the end of his sword.

        Distillate anger burned through him as he fought down the other man’s last thoughts. Surprise, anger, lust...the last the hardest to put down when it so closely mirrored Methos own feeling for the strong, fair haired woman he’d married. Lust, yes; but not Hague’s version. He summoned his own feeling for Kathryn to the surface, letting those help ease the savagery Hague’s Quickening had left behind.  It was almost enough, but not quite.

        He groaned softly as he dropped his head and arms down to the ground again, feeling ill. Harder every time to shove down the darker side of himself.  His own less than kindly past surging upward with more and more frequency until he felt overwhelmed by it.

        Fool. He should have let Kathryn take Hague, unable to keep his thoughts from turning dark and savage. She needed the practice. She needed the experience if she was going to be able to survive the Game.

        Surviving. He almost choked on the thought.  He knew more about surviving than Kathryn or Hague could ever possibly imagine.  Bodily survival. To live.

        But it wasn’t enough for Kathryn, he realized, thoughts gentling, finally, as Kathryn’s presence slipped through his anger and his fear.  A shield. Someone bright and worthy  who put survival of spirit above survival of body.  When had he lost that? Too  many centuries ago to recall.  He felt the muscles in his back and neck unknit, waiting for his own sense of self to reassert itself over Hague’s intrusion.

        He got to his feet, glad the copse hid the evidence and less worried about being discovered as he fought his way home. Normalcy returned with each step but he still hurt, pain easing but not the weariness as he reached the door. The door wouldn’t open when he first pressed it and he pushed it harder, feeling the resistance slide away accompanied by a soft whimper. He slipped inside, kneeling beside his semi-conscious bride but not feeling strong enough to move her. Instead he grabbed the phone before sitting beside her, moving her so her head rested on his lap while he leaned against the closed door.

        It took six rings before he re-dialed, sighing when it was caught by the first.

        “Ryan...” was the curt response.

        “It’s Adam. How is he?”

        There was audible relief. “Out cold but ...it was short. How’s Kit?”

        Methos glanced down at his wife, brushing the wheaten hair from her pale cheek and she stirred. “Coming out of it. Call me when he comes to?”

        “I will. Thanks for the heads up...”

        The smile was weary and wry, both coming through on the phone line. “Anytime,” Methos said. “Gotta’ call Joe. Later, Ryan.”

        He hesitated before calling Dawson; needed to tell him what had happened. Only he wasn’t sure how it had happened.

        He dialed, got two rings and almost hung up  but the husky voice answered and Methos couldn’t deny himself the reassurance he found in that throaty sound.  Dawson listened, really listened.

        “He knew you?”

        “Said hello like a relative, Joe,” Methos said. “I have to find out how. It would seem not all leaks were plugged when Jack Shapiro left.”

        “Such a surprise,” Dawson said disgustedly. “I’ll get on it, Adam. Damn. Kersey’s on her way here, isn’t she?”

        “She arrives in a few hours. Why? Oh, Christ...she’s your contact...” Methos groaned softly.

        “Only one I can trust in Paris,” Joe said regretfully.  “Look, let me see what I can find out.  How are you doing? How’re Kit and MacLeod?”

        “Kit is...” Methos paused, tracing the back of his fingers across his wife’s cheek again, expression softening as she sighed softly, reassured by his touch as she fought her way out of her faint.  “Kit’s coming out of it. Ryan said Mac is out cold. He’ll be okay,” he added, trying to force reassurance into his voice when he was anything but sure. Wanting desperately to tell him MacLeod was all right, no damage done. But he wasn’t sure. Couldn’t be sure.  And didn’t have a cure. Other than to avoid challenges which he tried to do-- they all tried to do.

        And it rankled MacLeod but their choices were limited. Other than moving further away.  Which they couldn’t do and keep all the secrets they were trying to hide. For him. For Kathryn.  The odd effects of the shared Quickenings had been building over the past few months. Less so for Kit, more for he and MacLeod. Kit seemed to bear them best--a few minutes of oblivion and then she was back, head aching but otherwise  unharmed.

        Of course,  there wasn’t anyplace for them to turn to try and find a way to avoid the results.  Dared not push the Watcher organization any harder than Joe Dawson and Janice Kersey already  had. All of them wanting to find a cause or cure without revealing why two senior Watchers had such a personal interest in a phenomena attributed on paper to MacLeod and Ryan. Anything more and they would all be in danger of being discovered:  Expose two Immortals who had infiltrated the Watcher organization. Expose Watchers whose credibility was being stretched, despite the real respect their colleagues had for them.  In reality, only Methos had infiltrated-- Kathryn had been recruited legitimately enough, her pre-Immortal status unknown to the Watchers. Still was unknown. Methos as well, and his identity--that of the oldest living Immortal, was jealously guard by the two people in the organization who knew it--Joe Dawson and Janice Kersey.

        Good sense for the Pierson’s, not quite so beneficial to Duncan MacLeod. Proximity made the overflow of the shared Quickenings worse. Two continents and an ocean separated the first incident and MacLeod ended up flat on his back for a thirty minutes.  Being within ten miles of MacLeod had put Methos out of reach for more than two hours.  The combination of distance and the age of the dying Immortal affecting  the strength of the overflow as near as they could tell.  Another reason for Methos and Kathryn to surrender their condo in favor of the quiet neighborhood in the ‘burbs, on the other side of the city. Split between the two men, the  phenomena had been devastating. Triaged between the three of them had managed to keep it just shy of disaster.

        But it wasn’t pleasant. It wasn’t comfortable. And it was becoming increasingly more dangerous. Enough so that Methos was beginning to doubt the rationale of not revealing his identity--that option driven home even more forcefully given the challenge he’d just met. MacLeod played devil’s advocate but protecting Methos’ identity was proving to be as dangerous for the Highlander as risking revelation would be for oldest Immortal himself. Only Kathryn’s protection kept the rationale in place at all and even that was becoming brittle.

        The object of his concern stirred again, eyes fluttering open as full consciousness returned. She was a little glassy eyed and confused but she managed a small smile as she realized whose denim clad thigh she was resting against.  He met her smile with one of his own, some anxiety still haunting the hazel eyes as he touched her cheek again.

        “Joe, do what you can, when you can. Please?” Methos said softly. “I have to go.”

        Dawson acknowledge the request with an apology, making Methos wince against the burdens he was laying on his friend.  But Joe was strong, he realized as he turned the phone off. Stronger than any of them realized.  But strong enough for this mess he’d been drawn in to?  Methos didn’t have an answer.

        “How are you feeling?” He murmured as Kathryn’s eyes opened and stayed that way.

        “Not bad. Who was that?” she asked sitting up and then leaning into her husband as he slid his arm around her.

        “Joe,” he said.  “Bed? Bath? or Coffee?” he asked his wife.

        “All three. In reverse order,” she murmured and he let her rest against him for a moment before moving, getting to his feet and drawing her up with him. “How’s Mac?”

        “Ryan will call.” Methos assured her, kissing her forehead before leading her into the kitchen, settling her into a chair and starting the brewer, shrugging out of his coat because he was overly warm. Kathryn was slumped against the table, eyes open but exhausted, still pale. He didn’t want to risk looking in the mirror himself--not wanting to see if he looked as bad as he felt.

        There was another answer. The Game was dangerous enough without the added burden of knowing you could drag others into the abyss with you every time you managed to survive a challenge. The alternative being that he could face the abyss alone. His brain screamed in protest, his heart shuddering at the prospect of facing another millennia alone. He had thought himself past it--past the need for others of his kind, other humans to provide stimulation, interest. Friendship. Love.

        Until Joe Dawson threw the dark eyed Highland warrior into his life by accident. Until Methos got to meet the man who, until then, had been only an interesting case study within the Chronicles. Until he recognized in MacLeod something he had lost long ago--had thought gone forever.

        He had fought that awakening. Fought it with five thousand plus years of resistance, cynicism, boredom-- anything he could grasp. Survival his only motive--any way, at any cost. It had become a game within the Game. No longer seeking the prize itself, just to see if he could live long enough to see it won. By the time he met MacLeod, he had begun tiring of that game as well. It had been easier to surrender, to offer the Highlander his life and his knowledge and his power at the end of a sword than to have to care again, to consider consequences again.

        MacLeod wouldn’t play his game and he’d been forced to play MacLeod’s--interesting turn of events that had started. Including where they were now. At a point where his desire to stay involved, to have these people in his life, threatened to override his concerns for their well-being by concerning himself with his own.  If he cared about them at all he would leave. Vanish. That would remove the threat to MacLeod. Leave Kathryn the field within the Watchers. Draw attention away by making himself a target.

        Noble. Heroic.  Out of character--the survival instinct battered but not destroyed. But the centuries of instinct he’d developed were being eaten away by the cancer of caring. He didn’t know where the middle ground was anymore and the tightrope wire was unraveling at one end. He was no longer sure he could survive the fall.

        “Adam?” Kathryn’s voice roused him from the dark spiral he was following and he fixed the coffee, the pot having finished its work some minutes ago.  He slid the cup in front of her, taking a seat across from her, fingers curling around hers. “You went away again,”  she commented, not accusing, just marking the moments when he seemed to leave her.

        “Tired. “ he said, sipping his coffee, encouraging her to do the same--caffeine a short term solution. He glanced at the clock, refusing to answer the question in her eyes. “Kersey’s plane gets in an hour. Why don’t you stay?”

        She masked her disappointment. He would tell her when he was ready. “No. I’ll shower. Want to help?” she teased, anything to ease the tight lines of his face. He smiled and shook his head and her expression shifted. Memory returning, making the blue eyes opened wider.  “He knew you.” she said softly. “ He knew who you were.” Her hand reached out to grip his arm. “He was hunting for Methos. How?”

        “I don’t know. Joe’s working on it, Kathryn,” he said.  “We knew it could happen. I knew it had to happen, sooner or later,” he added trying to shrug it off as unimportant.

        Her fingers dug into his arm.  “Don’t shut me out,” she snapped, the blue eyes going hard.

        He stared at her in surprise.  “I...I’m not.”

        “You are. Every time who you are, who you were, comes up you shut me out! Don’t. It’s not fair.  I know who I married. Who I’m marrying....again. Methos,” her expression softened as she shifted her grip to take his hand.  “It doesn’t matter what I call you. You are still Methos, five thousand plus and counting.”

        His fingers tightened on hers convulsively, closing his eyes.  She didn’t know. She couldn’t. He didn’t want her to know Methos.  He fought it, feeling himself slipping backward, preferring the yawning darkness to summoning up his past and throwing it in her face.

        “Oh, please. Don’t do this,” She said softly. “Don’t go away and leave me....”

        I can’t stop it, he said the urge to flee rising hard and fast. Except she could, holding him here with the press of her fingers, with the longing in her voice in her heart.

        “Methos. Love,” she murmured and she was next to him, arms around him. “I can’t understand five thousand years. I’m having problems enough with five months,” she said and he could hear the smile in her voice. He chuckled as well, almost a sob as her hands caught his face, tilting it up and he  opened his eyes to meet the blue ones searching his face.  “I can’t understand it but I can accept it.  All of it if you let me. Let me at least try?”

        Acceptance. One word. More than forgiveness. More than Understanding. A balm he’d demanded from MacLeod once and received, but it hadn’t been easy. It hadn’t happened quickly. And now this woman offered it to him like a gift.

        He nodded, unable to say anything, only able to answer her as her mouth found his, easing the bitterness of history with the sweetness of the present. She tried to pull him with her, to the shower, to the bed, to any- where that would erase the lines from his face, the worry in the gold-green eyes.

        Kathryn frowned a little as he resisted, pulling away, his face still caught in her hands. Some of it had eased. The eyes were brighter, less shadowed as his hands sought her wrists to rub the soft skin gently.  She gained ground by inches, by moments.  She had millennia to catch up to, but it wouldn’t come quickly. She had to learn to accept that too.

        “I’ll wait to hear about Mac. Go on, then,” he encouraged and she nodded, demanding another kiss before heading upstairs.

        Wait for the panic to subside.

        Wait to make sure the Highlander was all right. This time.

        Make sure Kathryn was all right. This time.

        Just...wait.

        Wait until he knew what he was feeling and why.....who he loved and why....

        Wait and see if those two lives would be enough to keep him from sliding into a darkness that had been waiting millennia to reclaim him.
 

dark spiral rounding down....
you can skirt itthis is nothing......
not enough to fill the abyss to bridge it ...
let me walk across...
but I’ve been here before.
so long ago

        Back street entrances inevitably led to mean street establishments and from its looks, the bar she sought was no different, but she had been there before. It was no main street bar with plants and stained glass, instead it was a cavern of a place with a serviceable counter, competent bartenders and ungracious seating, all purchased with an eye toward the true investment the owner had put into the club. A dim interior greeted her as she pulled open the steel door, allowing her eyes to adjust to the variance in light.

        Eyes automatically traveled to the predominant theme of the bar--marked by the raised and ample stage, large enough to contain the ancient but immaculate upright piano as well as the other six set ups for the band. As her vision became more acute she could see the selfsame proprietor working with a technician to adjust and aim the professional lighting instruments hanging some fourteen feet above her head. The technician on a ladder while his captain checked the magical spill of light over the stage in violets and pinks, washes and mixes, softening the stage into something of a more dreamy quality, taking the edges off the amplifiers, microphones, midi’s and mixers waiting to produce magic of their own.

        There were half a dozen people in the bar besides the tech, the tender and the title holder, quietly sipping drinks or nibbling on snacks as they watched the news on the TV over the bar--only on during the day and never at night when the music began. Most were men, a couple discussing something urgent supplying the only other woman and even her attention was drawn to the newcomer. There had not been much conversation going on, so her entrance could not be said to have brought it to a halt, but the effect was the same.  Her presence compelling  enough to distract the captain of the dark ship to turn and view the intruder.

        She met the dark eyed gaze, her expression unchanged when the eyes narrowed and the mouth tightened. Picking up his cane from the edge of the stage, he took the necessary steps to bring him closer, his gait perfectly mocking the hip shifting steps of crossing a deck on rough water. Even his look was that of a sea captain, hard and competent, salt and pepper hair trimmed for ease not style, the beard barely tamed and the gaze that of a man who knew when a storm approached.

        She waited for him to come to her, unmoving as a figurehead forever mired to the prow of a great ship. A proud beauty of wood and paint and infinite patience. She was tall and graceful, slender as a dancer, small dark curls pulled almost straight by the massed amount of her hair, wisps caressing the exotically dusky skin, accenting the gypsy eyes and the almost too full mouth. She wore nothing remarkable, jeans and a silk shirt, a full, soft cloak of Indian design but the effect was both that of wearing the most sophisticated of designer or clothes or nothing at all. Hard to tell which would be more enticing, or dangerous.

        “Cassandra,” Joe Dawson said evenly, inclining his head slightly. “What brings you to these parts?” His question appeared unremarkably civil to anyone who didn’t know him; anyone who did would have recognized the flat tone, an indication of extreme disturbance.

        “I came looking for Duncan. I went by the dojo but he wasn’t there.” Her voice was low, the indistinguishable accent wafting in an out as if she weren’t quite sure where she was--her body and mind and voice occupying different places in time and space.

        “He’s not here either--as you can see,” Joe said, maintaining his gaze unflinchingly even when hers dropped. “Like a drink?”

        She shook her head. “Do you know where he is?” She asked and he could barely hear the compulsion in the euphonious tone, the soft sing-song echo.

        “A friend of his is getting married,” Joe responded, truth spilling out of him but not all of it--catching himself and knowing she prompted those truths without conscious effort.  “I’ll let him know you’re looking for him,”  he countered, letting her know the conversation would go no further. “Any message? Want me to tell him where you’re staying?”

        She regarded him silently, dark eyes shadowed and her mouth curving up in a faint, understanding smile before she shook her head.  “No. I’ll find him,” she murmured and glanced at the stage. “Perhaps I’ll come back later and listen.”

        “I’m sorry, Cassandra, but we’ll be closed tonight. Private party. Wedding reception,” he said. Main- taining the truth and praying she wouldn’t ask whose wedding.

        “Ah, I see. Thank you. It was good to see you again, Joe,” she said and left, conversation in the bar resuming as if the few moments had left them all suspended in time.

        Joe Dawson waited until she was outside the steel door before going to the bar and picking up the phone, pulling one of the red marked napkins serving as a message center close and dialing the number scrawled out beside the note, “A & K, new phn.”

         The sound of the door opening, pulled Janice Kersey’s attention from the veil she was trying to smooth across the bed. “Out, out!” Kersey yelled, as the dark head appeared at the door to grin at his half-dressed bride and her attendant.  Kathryn Pierson nee Miller, returned the smile as her fiancé and husband of three months entered with a bag.

        “Oh, no you don’t!” Kersey said snagging the younger woman’s arm and scooting her toward the bathroom.  “Out, Adam!” She shot over her shoulder. “Right now. “ She took the room in three quick strides, shoving the door closed against the other legal occupant of the room. “You’re not allowed to see the bride before the Wedding!” She sounded fierce but it was difficult to take her seriously with the broad grin stretching across her dark face.

        “We’ve been married for almost three months, Kersey,” Methos argued, equally amused as he fought her for control of the door. “And I helped her pick out the damn dress!” Kathryn scampered out of the bathroom again.

        “I don’t care. This will be a proper Wedding which includes you being kept in the dark until she walks down the aisle...path...whatever!”

        “But I have her shoes...” the oldest living Immortal said reasonably, pushing the door back again as Kathryn darted up to claim a quick kiss, giggling at the uneven tug of war. Kersey pushed her back again, pushing the door firmly, a demanding hand appeared around the opening, fingers snapping. Defeated, Methos surrendered the ivory satin shoes, barely avoiding having his nose broken as Kersey slammed the door, an evil grin on his face.

        “Ouch!” he yelled.

        “What?” Came the muffled response.

        “What happened?” Kathryn asked anxiously .

        “Damn, I think it’s broken....” he said , pressing his hands to his nose.

        “What? Janice, what did you do?”  His loving bride demanded.

        “My nose..” he said, barely able to keep from laughing, a silent count in his head. One...Two...

        “Adam?” The door opened swiftly, Kathryn emerging, blue eyes wide with concern. She barely had time to register the fact he was unhurt before he caught her arms and pulled her very securely against him, claiming a much more thorough kiss than Kersey had allowed.

        “Can’t you wait until after the ceremony?” Kersey asked, leaning against the door frame with a resigned smile on her face as her charge made very certain that all parts of her husband’s face were quite all right.

        “She’s not in her wedding dress, yet, “ Methos pointed out.

        “And she won’t be if you don’t get out of here!” Kersey countered. “MacLeod!” Janice Kersey had a set of lungs the Metropolitan opera would envy and a tone of command rivaled only by Patton.

        Footsteps on the stairs produced the Giver Away Of The Bride. He was already half-dressed in his tux, while the groom was still dressed in ratty jeans and a sweatshirt doing his best to mess up his bride’s hair. MacLeod rolled his eyes, large hand snagging Methos’ elbow to pull him away from his Kathryn, who was not only blushing but looking a little glassy eyed and breathless. Similar hijinks had been going on for most of the day, Kersey and MacLeod playing the reluctant but indulgent parents to the pair for lack of any closer relations.

        “You‘d never know you’d been married sixty-eight times,” MacLeod said dryly.

        “Seventy-one, actually-since this is the second time to Kit,” Methos corrected chuckling at his bride’s rolling eyes, as Kersey pulled her back into the bedroom and firmly closed the door with a warning glance at the groom.  Methos let himself be drawn back toward the guest bedroom, expression on his face hardly that of a man who had walked the aisle so many times before. In fact, MacLeod noted, he’d be hard pressed to believe Methos had lived long enough to take so many wives. There had been times, in the recent past, when the older Immortal’s five-thousand plus years seemed to weigh heavily on the broad shoulders. The last few weeks, however, would have convinced anyone he was no older than he looked.

        “We start in less than an hour,” MacLeod reminded him as Methos surveyed the laid out tuxedo with something less than joy.

        “Whatever happened to the 60’s?” Methos mumbled as he stripped out of his sweatshirt to pick up the formal but mercifully plain shirt. “Jeans, dashiki’s, beads,....Kit would look great in a hand-loomed Kafasa.”

        “And a wreath of flowers in her hair?”  MacLeod asked, slipping into his jacket while the other man dressed. “Where were you in the 60’s?”

        “Haight-Ashbury. Where else?” Methos said, grinning again as the Highlander made a face. They heard the phone ring, then stop. Kersey shouting down the hall.

        “It’s Joe! He wants you, Duncan. Downstairs.” She added imperiously as the door was firmly and loudly shut again.

        “Yes ma’am,” MacLeod chuckled. “Try to behave. Remember, your swords are in the bedroom, with Kersey.”

        Methos stopped and stared at his friend, expression somber, “Gods...” he murmured. “That’s frightening...”

        “What? Kersey with a sword?”

        Methos nodded and shuddered.  “Kersey as an Immortal.”

        MacLeod stared at him slow grin spreading across his face.  “I don’t know. She’s got class...”

        “No, Mac. I was thinking more along the line of having Kersey as a mother in law. Forever.” he said perfectly seriously--for about ten seconds until  MacLeod started laughing, leaving him to take Joe’s call.

        “You’re late,” MacLeod scolded as he picked up the extension in the kitchen.

        “I’ll  be there shortly.” Joe Dawson said but his voice was strained and MacLeod listened more attentively. “I had a visitor you should know about. Cassandra. She was looking for you, Mac.”

        “Chance or...” MacLeod began.

        “She went by the dojo first. She said she’d find you. No message. Wouldn’t tell me where she was staying.”

        “Great,” MacLeod muttered, dropping his voice. “How did she....was she...?”

        “She was cool as a cucumber. I don’t think I let anything slip, but...?”

        “With Cassandra it’s hard to tell. I know.” MacLeod said. “I hate to ask this, but who’s her Watcher?”

        “I’m going to put a call in as soon as I get off the phone.  She didn’t say anything, Mac, but keep your eyes open. Maybe she really is just looking for you.”

        “We can hope.” MacLeod agreed and saw a car pull up. “Gotta’ go, Joseph. Minister’s here. Get here as soon as you can.”

        Joe agreed and MacLeod hung up, rubbing his mouth with his hand before putting his thoughts in order to meet the clergyman.  Cassandra would have to wait for the time being.  He had a bride to give away. He could only hope Cassandra didn’t plan on making Kathryn a widow before the ceremony was finished.

        Methos managed to keep himself focused long enough to finish dressing; only his coat and tie left. The tying of which he had every intention of leaving for Joe Dawson to complete: wasn’t that what best men were for? He’d have asked MacLeod except a glance out the rear window revealed the fact that the stand in for the bride’s father was  working out the last minute details of the ceremony with the minister and Kersey.

        His attention shifted with a grin. If Kersey and Mac were in the back yard with the clergyman, that meant Kathryn was alone...and unchaperoned.

        He had given up trying to analyze what about Kathryn and/or  this particular wedding was causing the hormonal rush he hadn’t experienced since puberty.  Not that he could remember the flushed excitement of being a teenager. Too long ago. Too obscured by time and the darkened miasma of vague memories and half buried nightmares he had studiously avoided dwelling on for five thousand years.

        He had taken Kathryn’s offer to heart, no longer denying the portions of his long history as they resurfaced. He tried not to assign the recent upheavals in his life to anything as trivial as karma. Religion, any religion, was a concept he had some trouble taking seriously. Nevertheless, it seemed some kind of circle was being brought to a close. Or a start.

        No one else had come hunting for the oldest living Immortal. But Joe hadn’t been able to discover how Hague had found him in the first place. It wasn’t necessarily something he wanted to dwell on. No matter that every time he thought he might find a little calm and peace it was shattered; and generally not pleasantly.

         Until now.  He and Kathryn had met under the worst possible circumstances.  Not every woman could be strong enough or crazy enough to marry a man whose first introduction to him had been to watch him take the head of another man.  Or discover that her own life would take the turn it had--turning her into a killer as well.

        And she was. Methos had been the one to teach her how. And why.

        He didn’t see himself in terms of a murderer. Hadn’t even thought about his life like that in who knew how many centuries. But in the eyes of one newly awakened to her own Immortality he had found himself re- examining questions he thought he’d long put to rest. Of course,  there were lots of things he thought he had put to rest. Kathryn hadn’t brought them all to the surface. That task had fallen to another.

        He couldn’t  actually blame MacLeod, but it was tempting. It was very, very tempting.

        The thoughts were too dark and wearing to bear for long and he shoved them away resolutely as he made his way to the bedroom--regardless of the reason, the sudden flush of physical and emotional reaction he got whenever he thought about his bride was too compelling to be denied and too welcome to want to avoid.  Kathryn, still close to her mortality, but having taken that fateful step into the world of the Immortal, still held all the love of life that only the short lived could maintain. And he needed that. Wanted it more than any prize the Game might offer.

        It was as good a reason as any to act like a randy teenager following the rush of a first love, he decided, shoving the introspection down and deep; concentrating instead on a pair of blue eyes and fair skin that blushed for the silliest of reasons.

        They weren’t getting a real honeymoon, so why not start before the wedding? It made no sense, and he knew it, but it didn’t stop the grin from spreading as he opened the bedroom door.  Kathryn saw him in the mirror, sitting at the vanity to finish her make-up. Just a slip, barely dressed, and the blue eyes widening as she turned to face her husband, that lovely pinkish flush spreading at the softened gaze in his gold-green eyes.

        “You better lock the door...” she said softly, getting to her feet with her own anticipatory smile.

        “Great idea,” he murmured and he did so and she slipped into his arms.

        They’d barely gotten started, hardly warmed up when the murmur/feeling brushed over them, close by--not MacLeod. They could both feel him, behind the house.

        A different kind of tension invaded their bodies as Methos pulled away from her, movements quick and resolute. Sword pulled from under the bed and Kathryn slipping into a robe.

        Her spouse was gone before she had it tied, slipping down the stairs as she fought for a fix on the other Immortal, her own blade held with much less anticipation than her husband/teacher had expressed. She made no effort to stop him, to temper his reaction.  He had been trying, really trying to keep his thoughts from turning dark. But the encounter with Hague a few weeks ago had left him edgy, wary.  She adjusted. She fought her revulsion of the violence that was now so integral a part of her life.  She no longer fought him about the necessity of meeting those challenges as they came, trying to anticipate them as he did. But it was hard.  Harder than accepting him for who he was.

         She edged to the top of the stairs in time to see the barest glimpse of Methos’ body slide into the alcove framing the front door as that presence neared.

        The door knob clicked, the door itself slamming open as a foot kicked it in. Kathryn cried out in warning, already running down the stairs as Methos’ blade swung out from his hiding place to challenge the intruder.

        And was assaulted by a cascade of fragrant blossoms and garlands as Richie Ryan yelped and barely avoided the attack by using the box of flowers as a shield.

        The two men stared at each other; Richie’s startled expression quickly slid from wariness to annoyance,  slipping closer to anger. Methos, on the other hand, went slowly from a harsh implacable calm to something far more uncertain. Slow exhalation of air tinged with relief that he hadn’t taken the younger Immortal’s head and something else that he shuttered away quickly as he relaxed.

        “Sorry, Rich,” he said, blade dropping to a non-threatening position.

        “I think you’re taking this pre-wedding jitters thing way too far,” Richie said evenly, caught between laughter and anger as he heard Kathryn start snickering from the stairs.

        MacLeod and Kersey entered, the Highlander having sensed the new arrival as well, anxiety plain on his face as they joined the little standoff. Methos met MacLeod’s dark eyes briefly, both their eyes going to the ready steel. Methos’ eyes narrowed slightly at the expression so quickly closed away on the Scot’s face.

        “Kathryn, get dressed!” Kersey said and the bride scampered up the stairs, laughing still as Kersey turned her attention to the young man still waiting warily by the door. “It’s about time!”  she muttered. “Come on, Richard. Duncan?”

        “I’ll be right there,” he said but Kersey paid him no heed, tugging Ryan along as if there had been nothing amiss. “Are you expecting trouble?” MacLeod asked, trying to keep the question casual as he turned his attention to the older Immortal.

        “Always,” Methos said leaning against the kitchen door, face strangely still. “You got here pretty fast.”

        “Just keeping up with Kersey...”

        “Right. So, Joe is on his way?”

        MacLeod nodded but Methos waited him out. Five thousand years was a long time to learn to read people, and he knew MacLeod better than most.

        “Come on, MacLeod. You have a face that reads better than the Ten Commandments,” Methos said at last. “Which law are you contemplating breaking?”

        MacLeod tried to find some way to slough off the query only to find himself wondering how he would feel if their positions were reversed.  “Cassandra dropped by Joe’s earlier,” MacLeod said hesitantly. “Looking for me.”

        “Interesting. I didn’t realize she was a blues fan,” Methos said, taking the news remarkably calmly. “No reason why she’s in town?”

        MacLeod  shook his head. “She wouldn’t have told Joe, anyway,”  he said, watching the older Immortal carefully. Other than shifting his position against the wall, Methos seemed unperturbed by the news.

        “I’ll find her. After the wedding. Joe told her the club would be closed tonight. I’ll talk to her.” MacLeod promised.

        “And then what?” Methos asked. “See if she’s still after my head? Damn.” The curse was uttered softly, the dark head leaning back against the wall, eyes going hard before they closed. “Do as you like, Mac. It would be nice to know. But I would hate to show up at Joe’s and find her waiting for me in the parking lot,” Methos said. “I won’t give her another chance, Mac.  Not even for you,” he said, gold-green eyes meeting with earth-brown evenly then softening. “But I won’t challenge her either, “ he added, when MacLeod started to protest, recognizing and even understanding the conflict within the Highlander.

        “It may be nothing,” MacLeod said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Joe is trying to track down her Watcher.”

        “Nice of him,” Methos said, shoving off the wall to enter the kitchen. MacLeod followed, none to sure of the older Immortal’s mood.  Methos pulled out a beer, laying his sword on the kitchen table with studied caution. It took MacLeod a moment to realize why the other man was being so quiet.  Methos wasn’t afraid to face Cassandra. He was afraid of what Cassandra might do or say in lieu of a battle.

        What MacLeod, Dawson and Richie knew about Methos could fit in a small book. What Cassandra knew was probably less, but it had the impact of a full page newspaper advertisement--one Methos didn’t particularly want his bride...his wife... or the rest of the world to read. Cassandra was in a perfect position to reveal that Methos was not the myth most Immortals thought him to be and that he had not always been the man he was now. And somebody was talking. Somebody had pointed the way to the trail of the oldest of them . MacLeod had a hard time believing it could be Cassandra. She hated Methos. But it was personal. If she wanted his head, she’d take it herself, not send others to do it for her. Or so MacLeod thought.  Hoped. Prayed.

        But if she was the one who had exposed Methos, MacLeod’s understanding would only go so far. And short of taking her head, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it.

        Methos had opened the beer but not tasted it yet, peeling the label from the bottle carefully.

        “I could go look for her, now,” MacLeod offered.

        “And miss the wedding?” Methos said quietly, not looking up. “No. That would invite all kinds of messy questions.” He didn’t quite sigh, simply shoved the bottle away and rubbed his eyes.

        MacLeod sat  down across from him. “Kit’s going to find out about your past. She wants to know.  Tell her before someone else does..”

        “Like you?” Methos challenged and shook his head in apology at the Highlander’s narrowed glance. “I’m sorry. Unfair. She knows some of it but this....” his voice trailed off as he met the dark eyes of his friend  a little bleakly. “She is still close to her mortality, Mac. That isn’t going to come in a few weeks or a few months. More aware than most of what being Immortal means--but I’m not sure she’d understand the Horsemen. You know me better than she does, Mac, and you don’t understand.”

        It wasn’t an accusation. That breach had been patched, healed, but it wasn’t forgotten. Methos extended his hands, studying the slender length, the calluses that never quite healed. “There is more blood on these hands than I hope you ever have to see, Mac. And very little of it is Immortal.” He watched the Highlander, saw the set of the hard jaw and smiled a little ironically.  “You are willing to try and accept it--for which I am grateful. But even you don’t want to know all of it. And there are parts of my past I would just  as soon no one knew about. Including myself.”

        There was nothing MacLeod could say. No comfort or promise he could offer. He watched the older Immortal. The hazel eyes cleared, taut skin relaxing over the cheeks and nose as the mouth curved into a more convincing grin. “I take it Ryan didn’t take my greeting personally?”

        Joining the obvious effort to reassert a more appropriate mood for the day, MacLeod returned the smile. “Let’s just say he was really glad you didn’t swing first and ask questions later.” He commented and rose as another car pulled up to park in the street in front of the house.  “Your best man’s here.”

        “Good.  I’ll let him mangle this bloody tie..,” Methos said getting to his feet, then pausing as a second car pulled up behind Joe’s. He and MacLeod watched from the kitchen window as two men got out. Both mortal from the lack of subliminal signatures. One was fair-haired, mid-forties, impeccably and handsomely dressed. His companion was some years younger, dark-haired, also stylish but with a darker edge and a flashier approach.

        “Gods....,” Methos said softly, eyes narrowing again. “That’s Cristophe Bentley.”

        “You know him?”

        Methos nodded, biting the corner of his mouth.  “He was Martineau’s Watcher. He’s the one who recruited Kathryn. They were...are friends, I guess. The other one is Jean Francoise Averre--Cris’ significant other. Huh.”

        “How well do you know them?” MacLeod asked as the three men spoke briefly on the sidewalk.

        “Cris? Passingly. Friendly, not friends. He’s a field agent. I’ve met Averre socially--man shows a lot of restraint. He’s devoted to Cris. And tolerant since Cris has a reputation for vaulting the gender preference fence on a regular basis. They’ve been together about five years.”

        “Averre’s not a Watcher?”

        Methos shook his head.  “No. No more than Christine Salzer was. He knows, but his interest is in Cris. Not us.  He’s a translator for the embassy in Paris. Used to be an actor. That’s where Cris met him--at a theatre in Copenhagen,” he said.  “Mac, go tell Kathryn--she’s going to need some warning. I have no idea why Cris is here,” he said softly and moved to the front door, opening it as the men approached. MacLeod took the request with him up the stairs.

        Joe Dawson could give no explanation save a tiny shake of his head and Methos greeted Cris with an equal and unfeigned mix of welcome and surprise. “Cris! Jean Francoise! What drags you out of Paris?”

        “Bonjour, Adam,” Cris said with a wry grin. “We did not mean to intrude, but I am working.  My new assignment came here.  Kersey was here for the wedding and so, I thought I would visit. I do not mean to intrude or invite myself.”

        “No. Not at all. Kathryn will be delighted. Friends are always welcome,” Methos said  ushering them inside.

        “Cris?” Kathryn’s joy was heartfelt and all Kersey’s plans of keeping the wedding dress secret were obliterated as she ran down the steps and flung herself into the older man’s arms, MacLeod hovering on the stairs. “What are you doing here?”

        “Bonjour, ma cherie!” The man said, giving the bride an enthusiastic kiss. “I am, unfortunately, here on business. But I could not fail to visit and give my congratulations to you,  ma petite. Or to you Adam. You were lucky you married her so swiftly or I might have had to challenge you for her hand.”

        “Right...You are an incorrigible flirt,” Kathryn said warmly. “Bonjour, Jean Francoise,” she greeted the younger man with a smile but with less obvious affection. Averre seemed not to notice, or care, returning her smile and catching her hand to kiss the back in a courtly and impersonal manner.

        “We have intruded, but it is good to see you, Kathryn,” he said, deep voice out of character for his aesthetic figure.

        “They showed up at the bar,” Joe said meeting Methos’ glance.

        “We did not think you would mind if we came by to say hello,” Cris said. “But this is perhaps not the best time? Oui?”

        “We don’t mind,” Kathryn said, smiling at Cris. But the blonde Watcher’s gaze was no longer on her but on someone else. Kathryn turned as MacLeod descended the stairs.

        Cristophe Bentley knew him. By reputation if nothing else. Knew who and what he was and had no idea his “petite” and her husband were Immortal as well. She had forgotten. Completely forgotten there were secrets she had to keep. It had been easy to forget surrounded by people who were in on those deceptions.

        How to explain to Cristophe what Duncan MacLeod was doing in her house? He was obviously dressed for the wedding--obviously a bigger part of her life than Immortals were supposed to be in the lives of Watchers. Her eyes went to her own tattoo, the division in her life acutely painful.

        “Cris, you know Duncan MacLeod,” Methos said smoothly, stepping in between the two men, arm slipping around Kathryn’s waist.

        “We’ve never met,” Cris said, obviously stunned as he glanced wordlessly at Joe.

        Dawson shook his head.  “No, the home office doesn’t know. You read the follow-up to Richter’s death?” he said, deliberately bringing the terrifying events of a few weeks ago to the surface again. Cris stared at him for a moment and then his expression softened as he looked back at MacLeod, stepping forward to extend his hand.

        “I did. Merci, Monsieur MacLeod. I had forgotten that without your timely intervention, there would be no wedding today.  I admired Gerald Martineau. I cannot say the same for Erich Richter. Watchers are not supposed to feel such things, but I am grateful that you killed him before he could do lasting harm to Kathryn or Adam.”

        “Unfortunate circumstances,” MacLeod agreed, accepting the firm handshake.

        “Cris, we would rather the home office not know,” Methos said, sounding hesitant.

        “But of course!  Not that you need worry, either of you. It is not as if you are in the field. But we do miss you in Paris, Kathryn. Your replacement has all the charm of wet leather,” Cristophe said, turning the conversation deftly away from the awkwardness.

        “You’ll stay for the wedding? Both of you? And the reception?” Kathryn asked, exchanging a look with her husband. “We have a few friends--new ones from Seacouver, but it would be nice to have a few old ones as well. Please?”

        Cristophe Bentley grinned and caught her up in another hug. “Of course, ma cherie. How can we refuse when asked so prettily. But we are early! What can we do to help?”

        “I’m sure Kersey and Richie could use some help putting up the flowers,” Kathryn said with a giggle. “I’ve been watching them. Come on.” she said taking his hand.

        “But cherie you are in your wedding dress!” Cristophe said.

        “Yea, well, we’re getting married in the back yard. It’s going to get dirty at some point,” she said without concern and led the two men away, biting her lip and shrugging slightly as she glanced once more at Methos.

        “Sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. They already had the address,” Joe said when the unexpected guests and their hostess were gone. “Cristophe has a new assignment....” he began and glanced at Methos who closed his eyes and smiled painfully.

        “Let me guess. Cassandra?” he said. “Why am I not surprised?”

        “Followed her in from Oslo, “Joe said, a little surprised Methos knew the woman was in town. “Checked in with me not a half hour after Cassandra’s visit.”

        “I’m just glad he’s following her and not the other way around,” Methos said.  “Enough about my lovely nemesis. Come on, Joe. You’ve got duties to perform. Mac, you might want to make sure there’s no further spin control needed outside,” Methos said wryly, offering his throat to Dawson to prepare the twist of black fabric.

        “Maybe we just ought to hang you with that thing and be done with it,” MacLeod said and then hurried outside to avoid the baleful glare the older Immortal shot him.

        It was as much a blur as the first, more expedient ceremony had been. Kathryn vaguely recalledKersey and Mac  giving her away, watched Joe Dawson fumble for the ring in his pocket, tuxedo strange and unfamiliar. Heard Adam  repeat his vows softly, the rich voice no more steady than her own and then her attention once more dropped back into focus when his hand took hers to slide a silver band on her finger. The workmanship was exquisite, its age  more than she could comprehend and its significance lost to almost everyone but she and Adam. At her first wedding she had worn her mother’s band, never knowing it might be a gift of love that would literally save her life. It had been damaged and now awaited repairs. Her new band, however, was also a gift of love. A token that Methos had asked her about when  he suggested it.

        Other women had worn the ancient ring. All of them dead now. The most recent had been a woman ten years her junior, relatively, whom Methos had buried less than eighteen months before they first met.  Kathryn wished she had been able to meet Alexa, to thank her. Meet her because herlife and her death had opened the door for the man she now called husband. He had traveled his Immortal path alone for nearly two centuries, buried himself away from people, from life, until he met the dying mortal woman, falling in love with a force that had jarred his detachment to the core.

        He closed his fingers over the ring as he kissed her...both of them getting a little carried away, much to the amusement of the guests who applauded as the blushing pair were presented to the assembly and then made a run for the car amid much throwing of birdseed--all instigated by RichieRyan. Short ceremony. Long life.

        There was no lingering at the house. Richie and Mac would lock up as the guests made theirway back to the familiar environs of the Joe’s Bar. No photographers save the few shots Ryan managed to get. And for once...for a few hours...no swords.

        At least not for the bride and groom. They had two stalwart guardians--three actually--possiblymore should anyone try to disturb or challenge the couple to anything more strenuous than a dance. Kathryn’s train came off as the music started, the small party welcomed to the house of blues with alive set, ample food and, of course, a more than ample bar.

        Kathryn had choice of the first song; a rich, bluesy version of “Stand by Me.”  The guestsyielded the floor to the couple for the length of the song and applauded loudly at the end before something a little more boisterous began and they were separated.  Kathryn to be dazzled breathless by MacLeod and Adam to find out that Janice Kersey’s sixty odd years meant nothing to her ability to jazz it up on a dance floor.

        It was, to all appearances, a perfectly normal wedding reception. Down to the cake becoming somewhat of a marital spat with witnesses. The bar was due to open to the public again at nine, so the couple made sure that gifts were opened and properly appreciated. Some gifts were addressed to both of them, others to one or the other.  Some practical, others outrageously silly including an entire set of edible underwear from the girls in the secretarial pool in Paris--outraged at not having been given the opportunity to give Kathryn a wedding shower. Another a set of four frilly aprons from some of Adam’s research associates for much the same reason.

         Kersey sorted through the torn paper to produce the last; two smaller boxes, both addressed tothe bride and one for Adam. The smaller of the two Kathryn opened first to find her mother’s ring, repaired, polished and set on a gold chain. The giver hung back a bit at the teary expression in the blue eyes but Kathryn didn’t let Ryan get off that easily. He got a sound buss on the mouth and the honor of stringing the necklace around the bride’s neck.

        Methos  eyed the younger Immortal thoughtfully, gratefully. He had known Richie’s intentionwhen he asked for the ring. Had given it willingly when Richie had offered to have it repaired, knowing it was likely for the red head to feel obligated to find some sort of wedding present for the couple--but it would have been false in its giving. He and Richie got along  well enough, but their relationship, such as it was, had more to do with their shared friendship with MacLeod than anything.  And now Kathryn.  Methos begrudged him neither and was equally aware that the younger man begrudged him both.

        Kersey handed him the package as Kathryn opened her last gift. His was from Kersey and Joe,a hard to find translation of Homer’s “Illiad” and “Odyssey” The irony lost on none of them. MacLeod no doubt had a hand in finding the text. He studied it intently after giving his thanks,absently taking the card Kathryn handed him.

        “You’re not supposed to give me presents,” she scolded mildly as she unwrapped the box. Heglanced at the card, noting the “For the Bride” printed on the outside fold. His own name inscribed inside.  But not his signature. And not the way he would sign if he were to give a gift to Kathrynwhere others might see the card.  It was signed “Methos”.

        “It’s beautiful,” Kathryn breathed, lifting out the metal torque, hand hammered, primitive butthe workmanship was exquisite. Ancient.  Methos watched in horrified fascination as she fit the circlet around her neck, turning to him with a smile. Enchanted.

        “It doesn’t really go with your dress,” he managed to say as she kissed him.

        “No. I suppose not, “ she said and removed it reluctantly, missing the moment as her husbandclosed his eyes, willing the yawning abyss behind him to keep its distance. “Adam? Are you all right?” she asked a moment later, he was staring, not at her but at something she couldn’t track.

        “Fine.  Thirsty though. You? Here, let me take that,” he added taking the torque from her hands and closing the box as he got to his feet.

        “I could drink something--non alcoholic, please. I don’t intend to spend this wedding night smashed out of my mind,” she said suggestively, catching his loosened tie and pulling him down to her.  Methos pulled a grin out of nowhere, responding to her kiss as thoroughly as she demanded,before moving away to fetch libations.

        Joe was characteristically tending bar, greeting the groom with a bottle of champagne, questionin the pale gray eyes. The bottle came down slowly, the glass unfilled.  “Why do I think I should reach for something stronger?” he asked at the stony expression on Methos’ face.

        “Kathryn would like something non-alcoholic,” Methos said, voice errantly calm.

        Joe Dawson poured out a glass of soda,  glancing over Methos’ shoulder. “Not just right now. She’s dancing with Cris. What’s wrong?” he asked quietly and caught MacLeod’s eye where he was talking to one of the waitresses. The Highlander nodded and ended his conversation, making his way to the bar.

        “I think I’ve determined why Cassandra is in town, “Methos said quietly. “And it’s not in answer to your not inconsiderable charms, Mac,” he said but the joke fell flat. He opened the box.

        Antiquarian to the core, MacLeod pulled out the piece.  “Bronze? This is old. What is it? Thiswas given to Kit, right?”

        “By an admirer who signed my name to the card,” Methos murmured. “ And it would be about,oh, three thousand years old.  It’s a slave collar, Mac. I gave it to Cassandra.”

        Joe Dawson reached for the MacAllan, needing the strength for himself and not for just the twomen standing silently in front of him, hazel eyes locked with brown.

        “I’ll find her,” MacLeod promised.

        “Oh, I think I’ll find her,” the older Immortal said coldly. “I think this is a rather obviousinvitation.”

        “You don’t know that,” MacLeod said quickly, staring at the metal--it wasn’t Cassandra’s style,was it?  “Let me find her first. Talk to her. You said you wouldn’t challenge her.”

        “I’d say the challenge has been sent,” Methos said leaning against the bar with a casualness thatset Joe’s teeth on edge. MacLeod was tense, the conflict obvious.  Cassandra meant something to him--had for many years. Not just a lover but a teacher.  Methos was neither, but he was a friend.“She didn’t send it to me, MacLeod. She sent it to Kathryn. I’m surprised she didn’t send nstructions on what she’s supposed to do when she wears it.”

        “Cassandra isn’t like that,” MacLeod said, his own tone evening out. “You don’t know why shesent it.”

        “No? Then how is she, Mac? She knew I’d recognize it. It’s a threat, MacLeod. Either I tellKathryn or she will. Some way. Some how.”

        “Then tell her,”  MacLeod said, urgently, softly. The handsome face earnest. “She’s your wife. She loves you. If you can’t get forgiveness or understanding from her, then from who? Tell her and Cassandra can’t use your past against you.”

        “Didn’t we already have this conversation, MacLeod? By the way, Kathryn, now that we’re married, there’s some things you should know about me.” Methos said tersely, quietly, straightening up to grip the edge of the bar with white knuckled hands. “Actually there’s a lot you should knowabout me but right now there’s an Immortal woman stalking us who I killed, raped and enslaved.She’s still a little pissed off, but it was a long time ago.  I’m not such a bad guy now. Can you forgive me? Gods...!”

        “Do you think she’s incapable of understanding who you are?” MacLeod said. “Methos. Talk to her. Let me deal with Cassandra. Please.” The Highlander emphasized his request by gripping the tight shoulder.

        Methos let the hand rest there for a moment before nodding, raising his head to meetMacLeod’s gaze. “All right. But a day, only Mac. I can’t leave Kathryn tonight, but you find Cassandra or I will,” he hissed before shrugging the hand off.  The music set had ended. Methos picked up the glass Joe had set on the bar and went to find his bride, features once more schooledinto a less hostile mien.

        “What’s her game, Mac?” Dawson asked, watching as the oldest Immortal claimed his bride from Cristophe. She took a sip of the drink then surrendered it to the Frenchman. Methos pulled her close, a slower song beginning, dark head bent close to fair hair, his lips against her ear. Her embracegrew almost embarrassingly intimate and Dawson looked away to watch MacLeod fingering the bronze torque.

        “I have no idea. This isn’t like her, Joe,” the Immortal said.  “I know her. She’s passionate and yes, she probably still hates him, but she’s not cruel. She wouldn’t drag an innocent into this.”

        “No? Hate can do funny things to people, Mac. Could she beat him in a full challenge?” Dawsonasked, pouring out the MacAllan.

        MacLeod shook his head. “I don’t thinks so. She’s like him--she’d rather avoid a fight.”

        “But she does have that Voice,” Dawson said softly, remembering that compelling urge to speakthe truth.

        “It didn’t work on Kronos. It’s unlikely it would work on Methos,” MacLeod said darkly.

        “That kind of depends on his state of mind at the time, doesn’t it?” Joe observed quietly. “Mac,I’m not sure you can afford to be in the middle of this one.”

        The cardboard lid covered the torque carefully.  “What would you suggest I do, Joe? Step backand let them kill each other? I owe Cassandra my life,” MacLeod said huskily.

        “And Methos?  I think there’s a life or two there, as well. If not more.” The bartender remindedhim. MacLeod’s expression didn’t change and Dawson sighed. The Highlander was going to have to work this one out himself. Again.

        Isolated time for the bride and groom at their wedding reception seemed an impossibleachievement. They were interrupted a half dozen times during their dance and while Kit met each visitor with a smile and a kiss, she was all too aware that her husband was using the manners of the age to mask something less than genial.

        “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” she murmured and tucked herself closer, facenestled against his throat.

        “Too much excitement,” he murmured soothingly.

        She didn’t alter her position, drawing him closer. “You’d think after five thousand years you’d have learned to lie a little better,”  she murmured and felt him tense. “This is lousy timing, but whatever it is, I have to know. I deserve to know.” she said and lifted her head to meet his gaze without flinching.  “Some one else looking for Methos?”

        She was too perceptive by far.  It was on his lips to tell her, MacLeod’s counsel ringing in his ears. And just as quickly faded under his bride’s direct gaze.  It wasn’t a matter of trusting Kit.  Hecouldn’t trust himself to survive if the revelation drove her away. Partial truth then.

        “Yes. But Joe is watching out. Mac too. Rumors, Kit,” he said and forced the lie. He was farbetter at deception than she thought. He just needed reason enough to make it real. He made himself relax and moved his hands, suggesting something less public, closing the promise with a kiss. “But it’s not now. It’s not immediate and I seem to recall something about a wedding we both attended today, Mrs. Pierson. Methos will be otherwise occupied for the evening,” he murmured into her ear, following the words with a kiss on the soft shell, a nip, his hands tightening around her, drawing their linked fingers between them.

        A touch and her breath caught, no one close by even realizing the bride was being seduced rightin front of them.  Her head dropped under his chin, mouth at his throat as she gave into the hidden caress.

        “I think it’s time we said our goodnights,” Methos grated out against her mouth.  She made a soft sound of acquiescence as he kissed her.  Neither hearing or feeling the lie. Oblivious to the deception.

        But he knew it for what it was, even as he deliberately coaxed her past her questions. Guidingher away.  He cast a look at MacLeod and Dawson over the top of her head. Two guardians. Watchtowers.

        Protectors for all he had ever held dear and barriers against a past that wouldn’t stay where it belonged.  The darkness yawned again, threshold marked by a piece of bronze trash. He closed his eyes and turned back to his bride.  It wasn’t all a lie. Tonight would not be a lie. Not for Kathryn.Not for himself if he could manage it.

        But he needed some help. It took less effort than the lie. Adam Pierson back in full force,charming, wry, arms securely locked around his bride, regretful they couldn’t stay but expecting everyone to understand.

        And they did, waving the couple off as if they would be gone for weeks instead of most likelyback the next day.  Cristophe and Kathryn made lunch plans....all in all a grand party and a graceful departure.  The gifts left behind to be transported back to the house the next day--Kersey hadmagnanimously announced she would be saying at Joe’s for the night...raising eyebrows which was Kersey’s intent--looking smug and satisfied and Joe made no effort to dissuade the impression. Although he knew the real reason was so the couple could have their wedding night alone without Kersey sleeping in the guest bedroom as she had for the last three weeks.

        The party didn’t alter much once the guests of honor had left. Got bigger as the bar opened tothe paying public and the band started in on a set more appropriate for a blues club.  Cristophe and Averre made their excuses minutes later but Cris promised to meet with Joe the next day. Which leftthe secondaries of the wedding party  to gather up the gifts and pack them into Kersey’s rented car.

        Joe found the last of them on the bar. The torque unmoved and untouched. He picked it up,resisting the urge to toss it in the trash and claim it lost.  And then he stared at it again. It had been plain wrapped, he recalled. Not shipped in heavy box and paper as the gifts from Paris had been.Cassandra had not left it during her earlier visit to the bar.

        “Mac?” He called as the Scot and Richie returned for the last load. “You didn’t by any chancenotice any stray immortals around, did you?” he asked.

        The dark eyes narrowed. “No. Why?”

        “This. How the hell did this get here?” Dawson asked handing him the box.

        “It was at the house,” Richie supplied.  “I carried it out with the rest. That’s the necklace thing, right?”

        “You’re sure?” Dawson asked.

        “Yeah. It was right on top of Mac’s present.” Richie seemed certain.

        “Then she knows where they live,” Dawson said. “Or she’s got help...I think maybe I’d bettertalk to Cristophe tonight,” he added heading for the phone.

        “Who is ‘she’?” Richie asked, befuddled by the conversation.

        “An old friend,” MacLeod said distractedly.  “Look, Rich. Can you finish here? Ask Joe to callme on the cell if he finds out anything.”

        “Sure. Where are you going to be?”

        “At Methos and Kit’s...I’ll explain later,” he promised and caught up his coat leaving Richie holding the box  which had suddenly taken on a malevolent appearance.

        Kathryn woke first, not surprised to find her husband still asleep, sprawled across the bed--andher--with an artless grace. He woke up as she slid out from under his arms, but her presence was both familiar and  comforting and she wasn’t surprised when he refused to get up after giving her a more than cursory good morning kiss. His hand caught hers as she moved to the side of the bed.

        “Tell me you’ll be back  in less than five minutes,” he demanded sleepily.

        “Two,” she promised, heading for the bathroom, getting another kiss as he entered while she was leaving.  She reached for her robe only to find him behind her again sliding the fabric off her shoulders before she could tie it.

        “Don’t you want coffee?” She asked innocently, body already flushing under his appreciativegaze.

        “As opposed to some other stimulant?” He murmured and then showed her what a weaksubstitute coffee was for real exhilaration. In the end it was Methos who made the coffee, chuckling as he made his way downstairs when Kathryn claimed if he had so much damn energy he could start the pot and make breakfast so she could recover enough to return his ardor, in kind, thank you verymuch..

        Breakfast consisted of toast and fruit because it was easy; that prepared while he waited for the coffee to finish brewing, gaze moving idly out the window and stopping. MacLeod’s black Thunderbird was parked across the street.

        He made Kathryn wait for her breakfast, glad he’d dressed before coming downstairs despite the fact he had  planned to remain undressed for most of the day--his bride willing, of course. MacLeod’s presence, however, noticeably altered his plans and his mood.

        Nevertheless, he approached the car cautiously, disregarding the familiar buzz as he opened thefront door, the signature that was distinctly the Highlander’s.  The other man saw him coming, getting out of the car and gratefully accepting the coffee Methos offered.

        “Standing guard duty?” he asked mildly, leaning against the vintage car. He had no desire tostir up the conflict of the night before.

        “Something like,” MacLeod admitted, looking resolute and uncomfortable at the same time. “Consider it a different kind of wedding present,” he added, sipping at the coffee.

        Methos nodded, aware his friend had, no doubt, had less sleep than himself and not nearly aspleasant a vigil. Also aware there was more to MacLeod’s sentry duty than the younger man was admitting to. He was patient however. More patient in the morning’s light than the night before.Less willing to see the darker side of life when the day had definitely started with one of its joys.

        “Joe wasn’t able to reach Bentley last night,” MacLeod began hesitantly. “I just thought I’dmake sure you weren’t...disturbed.”

        Methos had to smile at the delicacy of MacLeod’s phrasing.  “Thank you. We both appreciatethe gesture. That’s it?”

        “No,” MacLeod said reluctantly. “The gift...the collar.  It was at the house. Not mailed. Handdelivered. And not by...”

        “Obviously not by Cassandra,” Methos finished. “So she has help. Mortal help.”

        “Someone connected with the Watchers,” MacLeod said nodding. “No one else would have access to your address.”

        “Which means, if Cassandra is using a Watcher, then Adam Pierson could very well beunmasked. Great. Just great,” Methos said, burying his face in his hands for a brief moment before jerking around to slam his hand against the door of the car with enough force to rock it slightly. He turned, facing away from his companion, arms folded across the T-bird’s rag top. “Dammit!” He swore and then rattled off a few more expletives MacLeod ignored, primarily because he didn’t understand them.

        “Which means Kathryn is also in danger of being discovered...,” the  Highlander said after a long silence, staring at the coffee before tossing the remainder on the ground.  “I think you and Kathryn should take a honeymoon, after all,” he suggested lightly, glancing up at the silvery-blue skyoverhead. “It wouldn’t raise too many suspicions. Let Joe and I handle this, Methos. And Kersey.”

        “No. Not Kersey,” Methos said softly, giving the suggestion serious consideration before turningto face his friend again. “If you bring her into this, you’ll have to explain what it is Cassandra wants. And Why.”

        “And Kathryn?”

        “I can’t tell her, Mac,” the older Immortal murmured and MacLeod met the darkened gaze. He’d seen that look before. For a different reason--or maybe not.

        “Because you’re afraid you’ll lose her?” The hopeless expression in the hazel eyes told him whathe needed to know and he reached out to grip the other man’s shoulder briefly. “ I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t realize you had fallen in love. I mean...I know you love her...”

        “I’m not sure I’d realized it until just now,” Methos said carefully, testing the idea. He did carefor Kathryn, loved her but the rest...he knew what it felt like, remembered it. Another legacy fromAlexa. “Well, I hear the Pyrenees are beautiful in the fall. I’m going to need a day or so...”

        “We’ll find her, Methos. I promise. Just let me know where you are.”

        The other man nodded. “I’m going to need courier papers.  I can’t get them through Joe.”

        “Come by the dojo tonight. I’ll have them and the reservations,” MacLeod said and Methos nodded his thanks,  both men glancing up as the door slammed. Kathryn emerged, hastily dressed. The pair schooled their features carefully.

        “Hi, Duncan,” She greeted him as Methos slid an arm around her shoulders.  The greeting waswarm but a little puzzled. “You’re out and about early. Something going on?”

        “Morning Mrs. Pierson,” MacLeod said with a disarming grin.  “Sorry, I’m so early. Came byfor the groom’s tux. Has to be back to the rental by noon.  You didn’t tear it off him or anything did you?” he asked slyly--deliberately so.

        Kathryn’s fair skin blazed red. “I did not! But now that you mention it, could be kind of fun,”she smirked, arms tightening around her husband’s waist, face lifted in invitation. Methos acquiesced, the couple oblivious to their guest for a long moment.  “So, come on in,” she said catching the Highlander’s hand. “He’s making breakfast. Oh, and...do you want to come with us when we meet Cris for lunch? . He’s curious.”

        “Probably not a good idea,” MacLeod said squeezing her hand.  “But why don’t you and Adamcome to dinner tonight? I’ll cook.”

        Kathryn glanced at her husband who nodded.  “It’s a date,” she said with a satisfied grin. “You sure you don’t want breakfast? It’s okay, Duncan. We’re not really newlyweds...” she said and laughed at his raised eyebrow. “We’re not!”

        “You have me completely fooled,” he said and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you about seven then.Try to be on time?” he said and handed Methos the coffee cup. “Or at least call if you’re ....indisposed.” he added just to watch Kathryn blush again.

        They watched him drive off, waving before Methos turned to his bride...his love. “I suppose weneed to get this out of our systems then, if we’re to be on time...” he said, a glint in his eyes as his fingers curled into her waist. Then he made a grab for her, to tickle and she shrieked in laughter,escaping. Neither of them caring if they woke their neighbors. Kathryn forgetting until much later that MacLeod had not picked up the tuxedo.

        There were definite pluses to being a dealer in Antiques. Art and Artifacts held a certain awe forthe paper pushers of the world and MacLeod knew the best in the Northwest. By noon he had papers, bills of sale and plane reservations arranged for Methos and Kathryn. The promptness he required in getting such papers required his presence as well and he spent most of the morningmaking the arrangements before stopping by Joe’s.

        “You look like you haven’t slept,” The barkeep announced, pouring coffee as his visitorapproached the bar.

        “I haven’t. Did you meet with Bentley?”

        Joe nodded. “Cassandra has rented a hotel suite. South shore.” He produced a piece of paper.“Address. But she’s not there. Cris checked last night and this morning. No sign of her. He’s feeling guilty. And hung over I think. He looked worse than you do.”

        “Could he be feeding Cassandra information?” MacLeod asked. Hating the question. This was not the Cassandra he knew. Of course, the Cassandra he knew would never have been tempted to take the head of an unarmed man, he thought darkly. He could not banish the memory of Cassandraholding the heavy ax, standing over Methos like an executioner.

        He understood her hatred. His own feelings for Methos’ involvement in the wanton brutality ofthe Horseman had come close to that emotion.  Once.  And he still didn’t understand how the man he knew now could ever have been such a monster.  The monster existed in all of them, he knew, but Methos had chosen that life, not been driven to it or influenced by something stronger than himself.

        But the break had been made and that had been Methos’ choice as well. He had surrendered theviolence, the power.  MacLeod didn’t know the why of that either. Might never know. Once the break between them had been healed, neither he nor Methos had sought to open the wound again.

        Cassandra, apparently, had not let her wounds heal.

        “I’d hate to think that Cris would do something like that,” Joe was saying and MacLeod turnedhis attention back to his friend. His ally. “What motive could he have?”

        “Cassandra can be very persuasive.”

        Joe made a face. “If you’re thinking along those lines then you are assuming her motives are lessthan benign.”

        MacLeod scowled, not liking Dawson’s blunt opinion or the fact he was no longer as certain about Cassandra’s frame of mind.  Or the lengths she would go to assuage that millennia old hatred. He didn’t want to think of her in those terms--anymore than he wanted to believe Methos capable of the savagery Cassandra had suffered at his hands and at the Horsemen’s.  Neither of those dark wraiths resembled the people they were now...his friends...his family.

        “I’ll put my head together with Jan’s and see what we can come up with.  We’ve been trying toferret out the spy since Richter showed up...we’ll try harder.”

        “You can’t get Kersey involved in this, Joe.”

        “I don’t think I have a choice,” Dawson said evenly, leaning against the bar. “Mac, whoever thisis compromises everything the Watchers stand for and the Immortals as well. Not just Methos. You. Richie.  Do you know how Richter got to Seacouver in less than six hours when his Watcher said he didn’t leave Copenhagen until the morning of the day he arrived?”

        MacLeod had wondered. Richter had been after Methos--determined to kill the man who killedhis lover. As slowly as possible. Richter had been the one to bring Kathryn across. And Joe’s people had kept an eye on him and lost him; the man appearing out of nowhere when he was supposed to be an ocean away.  “How?”

        “Someone impersonated him. Stayed in his hotel room. In plain sight. Kept his business dealingsgoing. There had to be half a dozen couriers in and out of that room all day. He got faxes--we checked the hotel log. He called down every hour on the hour. Called for a cab and checked out. They followed him to the airport.”

        “And they never suspected it wasn’t him?”

        “Nope. Looked like him. Talked like him.  Whoever it was, was a damn good actor. When theplane landed at La Guardia he wasn’t on board.”

        “This is not making me feel better.  Anything else?”

        Dawson hesitated, weighing carefully his friendship with the man in front of him against his loyalty to the organization that made up such a huge part of his life. Or had.  Not as much anymore. It was getting increasingly difficult to know if he stayed with the Watchers to observe Immortals or if he were simply using the organization to benefit the Immortals he knew and admired.  It was dangerously, shaky ground. He’d taken a bullet to remind him of that fact--of that line.

        But he’d walked into the bullet. Not the one that laid him up, but had Jacob Galatti not pre-empted the execution, Dawson would be dead now, abiding by the terms of his oath.  MacLeod had tried to get him out and he had refused.  He took his oath in good faith and Joe Dawson was a man of his word--just as MacLeod was.

        “Not precisely,” he said slowly, aware the dark eyes were on him, waiting.  MacLeod hadlearned not to press--not to demand. Joe would tell him what, in good conscience, he felt comfortable revealing. Tightrope walking.  Sometimes MacLeod thought they would all be better off following Amanda’s circuses.  “There are a few other Immortals in town besides Cassandra. I’ve been getting reports over the last few  days--like they’re being drawn here. And let’s face it, Mac. Seacouver ain’t exactly one of the cultural centers of the world.”

        “After Methos?”

        Dawson shrugged, leaning forward on the bar again to take the weight off his legs briefly. “Whoknows?  I haven’t heard any rampant rumors, and after the last Methos hoax....well, even if Cassandra was spreading the word, most people, most immortals would think it a joke still.”

        “It wouldn’t be Cassandra,” MacLeod said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s not like there’s a bulletin board out there somewhere for Immortals to check in on one another....No. If they’re after Methos, someone else is spreading the word.” He looked at the address. “Besides. She wants Methos forherself. If she wants his head, she isn’t likely to start pointing other Immortals in his direction.”

        “True. All right. I’ll keep trying to find out who on my end has a big mouth and what they’resaying. But there’s about to be a lot more Watcher’s in town as well, Mac.  Either way, he’s going to have a hard time staying anonymous.”

        MacLeod smiled faintly.  “Not if he’s not in town.”

        Dawson nodded but his face remained grim. “Mac, what if you can’t convince her to drop this?If she challenges him, he’ll fight, especially after that stunt with the collar.”

        “I know that. I plan to make sure it never happens,” MacLeod said seriously.  “I gotta’ go. Keep in touch.”

        “You do the same,” Joe admonished, waving him off and hoping MacLeod would be able to seehis plan through.

        Three months of marriage had not made Kathryn an expert on her husband. She wasn’t sure if three centuries could accomplish that task. She was, however, observant enough to know when his attention was being divided.

        They had opted for a walk in the afternoon, the tension of the last few days of wedding preparations needing an outlet. The neighborhood they had picked was old, sidewalks cracked and chipped, repaired a hundred times from the service of so many feet over so many years and Kathrynfound herself studying the cracks and holes as they strolled, the tree filled yards shading them from what had become an unusually warm day.

        Adam’s arm around her waist was firm, hot, but she made no move to dislodge it, despite thesweat building on her skin. She had, as usual, launched into one of her mile a minute discourses, making him laugh as she recounted her favorite parts from the reception. He was listening, not missing a word, but not participating. Nor trying to introduce a new topic when she finally fell silent.

        She shifted her arm across his hip, feeling the bottom edge of the leather sword harness he woreunder the loose, light weight sweater.  Her own blade was equally hidden under a blowzy drape, the extra fabric adding to the warmth but in the three months since they’d met he had never allowed her to leave her blade behind. It was second nature to him. He picked up his sword as other men might pick up a their wallet or keys. Both of which Adam forgot with surprising regularity for someone so systematic.

        Methos not Adam.  She kept them separate in her mind as she had once kept herself split,Kathryn and Kit.  She had finally reconciled the two but she wasn’t sure she could the same with Adam. Intellectually she new they were both the same man, but there was a definable differencebetween the two. Adam was as he appeared: young, romantic, occasionally immature and full of humor. Methos was definitely older, devastatingly charming and elusive.  She had asked Duncan once who she had married, but the Scot had been unwilling to give her an answer. Now she was notso certain even MacLeod knew where Adam ended and Methos began.

        It was easy to summon up the face of her friend and sometimes teacher...Duncan MacLeod hadturned out to be a blessing in an otherwise disturbing and sometimes frightening life change. Steady as Richie was capricious, open as Adam was sometimes enigmatic. She smiled faintly, lookingforward to the dinner invitation.

        Duncan had not picked up the tuxedo.

        The thought came so suddenly, unexpectedly she stopped. Something was wrong. Somethinghad happened so important Duncan arrived at their house just shortly after dawn. Something of such urgency it had drawn Adam out of her arms and bed. A secret they didn’t want her to know or couldn’t trust her to know.

        Their path had led them back to the densely wooded neighborhood park. It was one of those older parks in the young city, thick copses obscuring the edges, hiding the nearest houses from view, lending itself to meandering paths that were permanent; made so by feet and children on bicycles,every new generation adding to the constancy as special hidden places were found and cherished.They had one as well, a small bench that once opened to the bridge over the man-made pond. Over the years it had become a grotto of sorts, bushes left to grow tall and wild, bending over the small enclosure--thorny ileagnus canes keeping people from entering except for one clear gap on the bridge side.

        Her stopping caused Adam to search her face, the half smile he usually wore fading when shewould not lift her blue eyes to meet his.

        “That someone who’s looking for you...” she began when he asked. It took no great deductivepowers. Being hunted was part and parcel of being Immortal. Half her soul hoped he would deny it and come up with some other plausible or implausible explanation--even a lie.

        They had shifted position, standing at the edge of the bridge, his arm no longer at her waist, buthe caught one hand, fingers splaying against hers as she curled her fingers around the long slender digits, eyes fixed on those instead of his face.

        “Yes.”

        “That’s it? Just, ‘yes’?”  She murmured. “Does this person know you...I mean personally... ? Oris it someone looking for a Methos... ?  Someone who saw you by chance in on the street and thought,‘that one.’ Were you planning to tell me any of this or just go off some afternoon and let me find outwhen they were dead...or you were?  Until I felt them dying....or  I felt the little bit of you that diesevery time you take a head...?” Her fingers were tightening over his, squeezing them and he let her,ignoring the mild pain as she pushed out the anxiety and the anger.  “Or was Duncan going to pop in for a ‘visit’ or Richie until it was over and we’d all know together, company to help me clean the vomit off the floor...?” she pressed on, fears and anger rising.

        “Kathryn,” He caught her shoulder with his other hand and shook her as her voice went lower,more breathy. She fell silent and looked up at him, not unaware how her ranting affected him and he had let her do it...patience an aggravating trait. “In five thousand years, I’ve made a lot of enemies.Hell, I’ve made enemies in the last five hundred. Do you want to know all of them.?” His voice was gentle but the gold-green eyes were intent...This was her Adam...once more stepping between she andhis other self, the one she couldn’t comprehend even though she loved him no less. “Yes, someone is looking for me and yes it’s an old feud--telling you doesn’t make it less likely to unfold. I wanted youto have some time...just some to understand what this life is like...your life. Dragging my past into it only makes it harder.”

        He was right.  There was no way she could conceive of fifty centuries in a few weeks--maybe not even a few years. She took a deep breath and released her grip, eyes  moving to his fingers again as she soothed the red and white marks her harsh clasp had caused. “So, is this another Richter? Am I going to have Duncan constantly at my back to make sure I’m not bait again?”

        He pulled away from her, not abruptly--not in annoyance--as he leaned against the bridge rail.His posture reminding her of Paris, of the quiet conversation about Alexa they’d had looki