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PROLOGUE
Her passport named her Kathryn Miller, but as she strolled the Seine’s black edges, she could wish her name to be Lysette, or Claudia or Marie. The river dazzled her eyes in its darkness, moved her mind to paths she could walk, sour smells and fetid breezes erased under the scent of lilacs and hyacinths that existed only in her mind’s memory, summoned without effort to change not the reality of the place, but its atmosphere. Those same breezes stirred the short thick braid, turning gold to moonlit silver, fair skin to ivory and turned the long- legged, Midwestern stride into the subtle steps of a minuet rather than the care worn steps of a woman nearing the end of an idyllic vacation.
She wandered over one of the many cross bridges spanning the river, heading toward her hotel. It was well past midnight and she was tired. Three more days. Only three. Depressing.
A narrow alley offered a short cut to her. It was long and narrow, twisting back behind some shops. There were no back alley doors and except for a stretch just before it curved back onto a main street, it was well lit.
She heard the clanging before she really acknowledged it, cataloging it as a truck or a carriage until it sounded close and was crossed with a sound completely out of character for either explanation.
Some one cried out in pain. It cut off quickly, a gasp of sound followed by a metallic slide and discord. Hovering on the edge of the dark stretch of the alley, her eyes strained for the movement she could barely see. It came as a flash first, the glint of light on steel--enough to focus her attention--to see the two figures moving together and apart. Metal sang against the brick of the alley her eyes adjusting enough to witness a fight--the likes of which she had never seen outside of the cinema.
The combatants' faces were obscured by shadow and movement--the deadly intensity of the duel obscured not at all. Details on the combatants was difficult--shadows and darkness casting false impressions of size and color. One stocky, the other slender--those distinctions made unclear by the long coats both men wore--odd in itself given the warmth of the evening.
It was such an idle thought she drew a breath, rooted to the spot as if she’d walked by a display window and been caught by some soundless movie on a television viewed through plate glass. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the lightning quick dance of thrust and parry, engage and retreat. The stockier man was all force and fury, the second quick and agile, meeting his challenger with grace and a twisting sort of movement reminding her of a gymnast rather than a dancer. But his agility wasn’t enough as he was slammed against the wall-- a hiss and cry of pain escaping him before he threw the other man off. He caught the wound with his free hand only to block again and move away from the wall. His opponent laughed at his weakness, blade arcing into the light to come down toward the injured man’s head ...
She covered her mouth with her hands as the gymnast parried and whirled with no sign of injury, blade dragging across the heavier man’s abdomen, then back and behind, raking both calves. The man dropped and the blade continued in another arc, slender form driving power into the swing, neatly and cleanly taking off his opponent's head.
She couldn’t scream--too shocked to make a sound as the victor staggered back against the alley wall, one hand pressed to his side again, dim light catching the slick of wet darkness on his pale skin. He turned his head toward her. She still could not see his face, only the play of shadows across the pale skin and dark hair. Her heart fluttered in panic as she realized he could see her very well in the back lighting keeping his identity so anonymous. His murder had a spectator.
He made no move toward her, even when she began backing up, a ground mist swelling over the rough, damp pavement. Only it wasn’t a mist as the hairs on her arms stood up. It glowed, moved with a purpose. It originated from the corpse--rising from the headless body like a ghost.
She was way past rational thought The fight or flee responses shut down by too much information, too much strangeness. Her mouth opened in a silent desire to scream as the haze reached out to caress the murderer, a sudden crackle of lightning arcing from body to face with enough force to make the man flinch.
A wind rose and she heard the killer moan, her own moan of fear echoing his as the silver-blue fog took on a whiter intensity--still not enough to reveal his face --and he lifted his sword in both hands, across his chest as if to ward off the encroaching storm. The mist vanished in a flash of unleashed energy, an arc striking him in the chest, driving him against the wall and then to his knees. The lights at the ends of the alley exploded, leaving her in darkness save for the eerie St. Elmo’s fire shimmering along the crouching figure as the lightnings branched and attacked him from all sides. His moan rose to a cry as the storm built and he collapsed under it, falling forward, steel clattering against the cobble as his body convulsed, spasmed and was jerked back like a puppet. For one brief moment he glowed, just enough to give her an impression; not old, strong featured, face contorted in a strange mixture of pain and ecstasy.
The storm died, leaving him weak, shoulders flexing, shuddering under another moan and then a sob of pain, of grief. They built as he rose to his knees, hand to his face, quieting sobs still echoing off the stone as he tucked the sword into his coat and glanced at her once more before staggering off in the opposite direction and disappearing.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Omigod, omigod ....”She couldn’t stop herself, her whole body shaking in response to the violence she’d witnessed, to the other worldly phenomenon. She fought the urge to scream ...backing away, not willing to pass the limp body. Hands caught her and she shrieked, automatically swinging out and connecting.
“Mademoiselle! S’il vous plait!” the man begged, backing away, toward the lighter end of the alley, enough to illuminate fair hair--a man in his forties. “I only wanted to know if you were all right! I heard you cry out "...You are frightened, mais oui?”
Frightened? Terrified. Overwhelmed and none too steady. The police. She needed to call the police. The man was watching her warily, pressing a handkerchief to his bloodied nose. “There’s a man dead ....” She amazed herself. She sounded so calm. “His head ...he doesn’t have one anymore,” she murmured and felt the shock settle. Much better. She couldn’t feel anything, think anything sensible. This was much better than hysteria.
The blonde man took her hands, pulled her against him gently, her fingers resting lightly in his open palm as he led her out of the alley. “Oui, mademoiselle. We will, but tell me what you saw ...premiere. My name is Cristophe Bentley. Come away, petit, and tell me. We will call someone,” he promised and there was light from the street lamps, so she could see him clearly. Nothing like the killer. That felt better too but she couldn’t speak as he led her on, down the street toward the hotel. She fixed her eyes on where her hand rested in his, his other arm around her waist. She focused on his wrist. She could handle one thing at a time right now and the small, circular, blue tattoo he wore inside his wrist was innocuous and required no thought whatsoever. Perfect.
“You’ve been practicing!” MacLeod said approvingly as his former student pulled a move, almost wrenching the Highlander’s sword from his grip.
“You haven’t,” Richie said, a grin on his face as he came at his mentor without breaking his stride, over and under the other man’s arm to hook his arm behind MacLeod’s knee and dump him on the mat. His sword arced and was blocked by his opponent as the larger man got to his feet in one fluid movement to trap the blade, using his larger size to capture the sword arm with his hand and then overbalancing Richie.
“Have too,” MacLeod said with a grin. “Yield or dump?”
“Yield!” Richie said, unable to be angry but got dumped anyway as MacLeod wrenched the sword from his grip. He lay back and shook his head. “You’d think I’d have learned by now,” he bemoaned, but took the hand the older Immortal offered and got to his feet in one smooth lift.
“You have, Rich,” MacLeod said, laughing. “Do it again.”
“Only if when I say yield I get to stay on my feet,” Richie bargained.
“Done!” MacLeod agreed. They ran it again. The counter was shown and on the third try, MacLeod did end up with Richie’s sword at his throat. His was pressed to the younger man’s abdomen but MacLeod called “Yield”. Richie didn’t get the satisfaction of dumping the Scot on the mat--but he was tempted.
The blades were put up, MacLeod inviting his protégé up to the loft for lunch and Richie agreed. He headed for the showers first, though, emerging clean and relaxed and satisfied with the outcome of the spar.
A private code got the elevator down and up again. He slid the grate up, glancing around the open room for his friend. MacLeod was not to be seen but he could hear water running in the bath. He grabbed himself a beer and sat down at the kitchen island to wait, skimming through one of MacLeod’s auction catalogs.
His beer was almost gone and he looked up. He was no expert on MacLeod’s personal habits but the shower was going on extraordinarily long. Uneasy without knowing why, he slid off the stool and headed for the door. “Mac?” He got no response. “Mac? Are you okay?” Louder, his hand reaching for the knob. He pushed the door but something was blocking it. “Mac!” He shoved the door, felt it give enough for him to squirm his chest through the opening.
MacLeod was blocking the door, sprawled on the tiles in a loose-limbed faint. Richie squatted, reaching, found a pulse and managed to push the dead weight away from the door enough so he could get inside the bathroom to find MacLeod still in his workout sweats. The hot water heater long since surrendering its load.
The younger Immortal turned the spray off and wet a towel, shifting to wipe the unconscious man’s face then to place it at the back of his neck, pulling the heavy hair aside. He got a response and released the breath he’d been holding. MacLeod moved slowly, hand to the back of his head, wincing at where he’d hit the tiles before opening his eyes to focus on a pair of very anxious blue ones.
The inevitable queries of identity were exchanged and MacLeod let his young friend pull him up to sit, back pressed to the wall and yet another cold towel pressed to the injury to ease the discomfort while it healed. Richie made none of the obvious queries, the earth-brown eyes clearly showing MacLeod was none too sure what had happened.
“What can I get you?” He asked instead.
MacLeod shook his head and regretted it. “Off the floor,” he murmured and Richie took his arm, braced to catch the larger man if he faltered. MacLeod took a moment to make sure the dizzy, sick feeling would pass and then nodded, tossing the towel in the tub before opening the door. Richie followed him as he headed for the kitchen, drawing a jug of orange juice from the refrigerator and drinking from the container.
“I don’t know what happened,” MacLeod said to the unanswered question gnawing at them both.
“What do you remember?”
MacLeod closed his eyes, thumb and forefinger pressed to both. “It was like an Immortal signature,” he said unsteadily. “I thought it was you. Then ... a jackhammer. Pain ...darkness ... grief ...” his voice caught, that emotion the strongest and hardest to shake off. He turned to the liquor shelf; Jameson’s doled out in a generous amount--for Richie as well. Tossed without regard to the subtlety of the malt. Then a second. “That’s all ....no. A face.” The dark brows pressed together as he fought to capture the image. “A woman ... blonde ... terrified ... she saw it all ...”
“Saw what?” Richie pressed, softly, coaxing the memory.
“A beheading ...a Quickening.”
“Who’s?”
“I have no idea ...,” MacLeod said, face flushing with frustration. “That’s it. It’s fading.”
“Did you know her? Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”
The Highlander thought about it, brows furrowed again. “I don’t know her but, yeah, I’d recognize her again.” He shook his head and reached back into the refrigerator for a plate of cold cuts and bread, setting the foodstuffs in front of Richie. “Make lunch,” he said and reached for the phone, smiling faintly at Richie’s questioning glance. “What’s the use of having a Watcher if you can’t pump him for information?”
Richie got up to fetch the condiments.
PART ONE:
“I HATE MY LIFE!” Janice Kersey moaned as her pager went off for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Kit, I will buy you lunch and love you forever if you will finish copying these updates. I swear I’ll be right back.”
Kathryn Miller, Kit as she was now called due to the four other variations on her name in the office, accepted the papers from her supervisor and reset the massive copier to sort, collate, staple and punch the distribution documents from the field agents. She had gratefully surrendered her given name to Kit in lieu of Katie, or heaven forbid, Kathy. The eldest of the “K” sisters was able to retain her name (although no one of a rank less than section head every called her anything but Mrs. Fields).
Kersey slid across the marble floor to the phone to dial the number, Kathryn watching her with amusement. The older woman was a flurry of activity at the best of times but in the last two weeks she had been a task demon. She worked harder than those under her, however, so no one complained when she drove them to late hours or to distraction. Especially since Kersey was an ace at sliding food into the records room for her staff, all on the organization’s budget. She also had the added benefit, in Kathryn’s mind anyway, of being an American in Paris--giving Kathryn someone she could relate to.
Not that she regretted remaining in the city, despite her rather shocking introduction. It had taken many cups of coffee and no too few shots of vodka for Cristophe to break through the terror filled fog she had stumbled into two months earlier. Immortals with swords taking each other’s heads off on a routine basis for a prize no one understood was a little unnerving. It made no sense but some small part of her welcomed the explanation--would have welcomed any explanation other than the cold-blooded murder of Cristophe’s assignment, Gerald Martineau. She had not learned the identity of the dead man immediately. Cristophe had worked too hard to get her past the shock to add details to the encounter. And then offered a job. That paid. In Paris. And arranged to have the organization cover the costs of the relocation.
She had taken it all very calmly until she got to the Watcher’s Oath, realizing then her dream had a price. She had balked, and Kersey, bless her conniving, manipulating little heart, had brought her the rest of the way across the line from a brutal fantasy to rather detached reality.
And she was detached. She had neither the stomach nor the patience for field work but she could type a blue streak, coax any recalcitrant office machine into working when it would rather be lumpish, and had a flair for persuading the agents to turn their reports in promptly. She had read those when they first came in but so much of the hundreds of reports were so darn boring the unreality of her new job soon wore off and she settled-- with the occasional foray into a fantasy of working for the CIA. Kersey promptly labeled her a miracle and since then her doubts and anxious fears had settled into something more manageable--like worrying about when Paris would be the target of a massive volcanic eruption. Her new life had settled into a pattern as familiar as her old, just with different geography and a couple of new friends.
The reports were taking forever, Kersey obviously being pressed to the extreme limits of both her resources and her patience by whoever had paged her. When her voice got shrill and the expletives started, Kathryn withdrew into the hallway to stare at the mosaics and tilework of the old building housing the archives and dispatch area for the bulk of the European operation. Midweek was always busiest for some reason and the wide corridor was fairly traffic laden. She people watched avidly, knowing only a handful of the personnel who worked the archives by name, but most on sight. Her eye caught someone she didn’t know and she made no effort to hide her appraisal. She and Kersey had made a pact to be as brazen as possible, just to maintain the opinion American’s were, in fact, completely without tact. They weren’t but it was nice to have an intimidating rep.
Her current fascination returned her gaze passingly; younger man, long, slender body dressed in jeans and an oversized sweater, brown hair cropped short--too short, Kathryn decided, when his face was all angles and planes and possessed of a nose she’d only seen in history books and biblical movies. He wasn’t unattractive at all and grew less so as he approached, faint smile on the mobile mouth and the light eyes meeting hers directly, taking the challenge. And then the look changed, the eyes losing some of their glimmer as he took a good look at her.
“I AM GOING TO HAVE YOUR LIVER FOR BREAKFAST!” Janice snarled and hung up the phone with a slam, prompting Kathryn to turn before she ever really realized how the man’s expression had changed. “I hope you don’t have plans tonight,” her boss said waspishly. Kathryn ignored the tone, knowing it wasn’t aimed at her, and shook her head then turned to look for the man again. He was moving quickly down the hall, his back to her but she snagged Janice’s arm and pulled her into the hall.
“Who’s that guy?” She asked. “The one with the backpack?”
Janice stared, eyes narrowed as he turned the corner for the archive stacks and then nodded. “Adam Pierson. Doctor or soon to be, I think. Works the Methos Chronicles. Studies at the University. Total book- head. Why?”
“He’s cute,” Kathryn said.
“He’s a little young for you,” Janice said, raising a single black eyebrow.
“He’s not that young!” The other eyebrow joined its mate. “Is he?”
“From where I stand, he’s practically jail bait.”
“He has to be at least thirty ....I’m not that much--”
Janice threw her hands up. “Hey! You’re as young as you feel, girlfriend! Feel free. He’s not dating that I know of--but I don’t know that much about him. He’s a researcher--no permanent assignment and no regular hours. You and I, however, do work regular hours, and then some. But if you’re really good there’s some reports he’s supposed to get. I usually mail them but since he’s here ....you could deliver them personally ...just to get a closer look.” Her brown eyes were twinkling in her chocolate face.
“Lay it on me, baby ...” Kathryn said accepting the offer with more enthusiasm than she would have thought possible.
After nearly knocking down the third person in a row, “Dr.” Adam Pierson finally slowed his hurried gait to something closer to a walk than a sprint. The woman had shown no signs of recognizing him but he definitely recognized her. This encounter had not been so starkly terrifying for her as the last, apparently, but his heart had almost stopped. Doubly as he recognized something else about her he had missed in the alley two months before--being a little pre-occupied at the time.
At some point the woman was going to be far more deeply involved in the Game than she was now.
He reached the archives and wound his way deep into the stacks at the far end of the huge library, the chronological beginnings of the Chronicles and his favorite hiding place. He dumped his back pack, sorting through the manuscripts and papers on automatic as his brain sorted through a different kind of mess. “Christ and all the fates ...” he murmured settling into the chair and drawing a leather bound script toward him, opening it mindlessly and leaning his head on his hand. He didn’t know if she had gotten a good look at his face. The alley had been dark and none of Cris Bentley’s reports indicated she could identify him or even give a good description. Nor had it said she had been recruited for the Paris office. Identified as an American, he had assumed--incorrectly--the standard recruitment policy would apply and she would work the States. Martineau’s file was closed with no additional information. He had thought his persona in and amongst the Watcher’s secure, as well as his real identity. Wrong on both counts. That young woman was the most deadly threat to the oldest living immortal’s existence since Kalas.
And a budding Immortal to boot. His brain thrashed through a dozen options, including killing her himself and forcing her into the Game, but it seemed woefully unfair and his conscience was shrieking protest. Useless damn emotion--he regretted ever picking it up again. Plus, her “death” would not necessarily secure either of his identities. Compounded over all was the uneasy feeling since Martineau’s death that someone was watching him--someone without a blue tattoo. So far his observer stayed just far enough out of his range for the signature to pass as coincidence--something he didn’t believe in for a moment. But he couldn’t get a fix on it and Paris was notoriously Immortally over-populated in the spring
He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, green-gold eyes narrowed and fixed on the shelf of books directly in front of him. She had not recognized him immediately and it should be possible to avoid her--he very rarely came into headquarters during the day and if he could find out where she worked, avoiding her should be doable. Paris wasn’t a big city, but neither was it a hamlet. Avoidance could took care of his little secret ...for now. And hers, well, everything in its time.
A decision of sorts made, he well and truly buried his attention into what he had come to the archive for-- only slightly distracted by mild anxiety attacks as the afternoon wore on. By dusk, the table was piled high with books, manuscripts and loose papers--his. The shadows had worn long and so he didn’t immediately notice the additional one until her muted presence actually sang through his mind.
“Dr. Pierson?” her voice was low, but not deep--a brook rather than a river.
“Yes?” He responded without looking up, seemingly enthralled by what he was reading.
“Janice Kersey asked me to deliver these updates to you ...”
“Just leave them,” he said curtly, flipping the page and inwardly wincing when he realized he’d reached the end of the tome.
“You have to sign for them,” she pressed.
“Oh, all right,” he murmured and glanced up but didn’t meet her eyes directly as she held the form for him to sign. He did catch a glimmer of blue eyes.
“Aren’t you kind of young to be a doctor?” She queried.
“I’m not ...yet. I’m sorry, was there something else?” he asked trying to make himself sound as distracted as possible.
“Actually ...when I saw you in the hall ...” she hesitated, curiosity and a little strain in her voice. “I wanted to ask you ...”
He closed his eyes. She had recognized him, “Yes,” he prompted softly just as she finished, lifting his head to meet her gaze.
“..out to dinner. My treat. Yes?” She misinterpreted his answer and a grin of absolute delight broke over her face before Methos could recover. “Great! Look I’m off in another hour or so--can you wait that long ...?”
“What? But I don’t ....” he began and she smiled again. The blue eyes were absolutely sparkling and her smile transformed a rather plain face into something just shy of great art. She was tall and no slight demure lass. A midwest farmer’s daughter in build, complete with every innocent joy such a lifestyle could offer.
“Oh! Sorry! Kathryn--Kit--Miller. Records and distribution,” she said, extending her hand. He took it, barely remembering to rise. “Will you be here or ...?”
“I’ll wait right here,” he said resignedly, managing something a little more convincing than a polite smile and still a little stunned. She blushed, eyes dancing as she backed away, not quite skipping but no sedate walk either.
For just a moment he let himself appreciate both the charming rose of her cheeks and her solid, attractive package before he slumped back into his chair and laid his head on his arms. “I have a date ...great. Just great ....” he murmured.
Janice was waiting for her just outside the archive door, eyes bright with anticipation. “Well?”
“Yes. He said yes!” Kit squealed in a whisper. “I can’t believe it! ...Ooooh. You are so bad ...I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
“Don’t get cold feet now, girl,” Janice said with a flash of white teeth. “Come on! Live a little ...he’s good- looking, he’s intelligent ...where are you going?”
“Dinner.” Kit said, face registering delayed shock. “Where? I don’t know anything about him ....what he likes ...what to talk about ....oh, Lord.”
“Kit! Earth to Kit!” Janice snapped, brown eyes twinkling with restrained amusement. “It’s dinner--not wedding plans.”
“Right.” Kit said taking a deep breath, her cheeks flushing again as she grinned. “He said, ‘yes’!”
Janice raised her hand and Kit slapped it. “Darn straight! You go, girl!”
Plan B was firmly in place as Methos gathered up his things, shoving them in to the rucksack in no particular - order but with some care to the frailty of some of the texts. Plan B included being as incredibly dull as he could possibly manage and hoping Kathryn--Kit--would bore quickly.
It wasn’t one of his better plans but he was working under some extraordinary handicaps. He couldn’t afford to insult or antagonize her--thus bringing down a level of observation he didn’t want to invite. Standing her up would no doubt invite further regard as well. He had thought to beg off--using Alexa’s death as an excuse--but he shied away from using his dead love in any manner less than she deserved. Besides he wasn’t sure he could get past his real, if manageable, grief--and he wasn’t willing to share that pain with a stranger.
Dull. I can do dull, he told himself, slinging the bag over his shoulder and heading for the hall. Maybe he’d get really lucky and she would stand him up. Somehow, having seen the light in her eyes, he didn’t hold too much hope for that. Idle hope, in fact, as he heard the click of her heels on the marble and saw her moving toward him.
“Hi!” She said, smiling again as she met him. Her cheeks were pinking again and Methos felt himself starting to smile at the obvious sign of pure feminine excitement. Dull. Be dull, he told himself, but Kit gave him no chance to speak or react as she grabbed his arm and half dragged him toward the doors. “Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t plan this very well,” she began, talking as fast as she was encouraging him to walk. “Dinner was the invitation and we’re going to get it at Le Canard Bleu, but as much as I would like to spend a long evening getting to know you, I cannot leave Janice here to finish all those reports alone and I promised to bring her something back. So is that okay with you? I mean we won’t have to rush or anything but ...”
The chuckle escaped him before he could stop it. “Le Canard Bleu is fine. Really, but Corbeaux’s is closer and they are faster. I don’t want Kersey mad at me.”
“She wouldn’t be ...I mean this was her idea ...Oh, shoot,” she said, the blush deepening. “I mean I wanted to go out ...ask you out ...but I don’t usually ...I mean I never ...” She stopped blue eyes closing as she saw the outright amusement in his. “Just shoot me now.” she mumbled.
Methos was unprepared, surprised and delighted by his soon-to-be dinner companion. Dangerous to his identity but his plans for a dull evening were rapidly disappearing under her natural and completely tactless charms--the impact of which was threatening to send him into peals of laughter. He held back with a glance at her stricken face. She was not what he expected and despite the very real threat she posed, he liked her.
“I would never shoot a lady before dinner--especially not if she’s buying,” he said with a grin linking her arm through his again, walking-- more slowly--toward the door. Kit managed a weak grin and then he did laugh as the blush started over again.
Corbeaux’s was more bar than restaurant, but they had good food, reasonable prices and a wide assortment of imported beers which Kit truly appreciated. “I know I should like wine--this is France! But, give me a good old beer any day. Nothing fancy, just the brew,” she said as they waited for their food to arrive.
“That could be a slogan for a brewery,” he commented with a grin. “So you are Kersey’s wunderkind? I heard about the woman who tamed the office machines. I didn’t realize it was you.” He was working to keep the conversation neutral and so far it had proved none too difficult. Kit’s mind had a tendency to track a dozen directions. She wasn’t scatterbrained, just an organic multi-tasker.
She shrugged. “I’ve always had a knack with machinery. What about you? You don’t seem the type to bury yourself away in a stack of books. I mean this Methos--five thousand years ...? Christ only made it to thirty or so ...” The blush came in again for embarrassment and Methos grinned hugely. This woman blushed at every- thing. “I’m sorry ...I mean you...you’re probably Catholic or ...”
“I’m not,” he said touching her hands as she raised them to her face. He hadn’t meant to but she was so endearingly ...naive ...inexperienced. She had to be in her mid-thirties but every word out of her mouth was frank and open, no disguises, her feelings as easy to read as a menu. They covered a dozen topics, sports, her home in the states, a shared love of books and her fascination with Parisian life. It had been a long time since he’d met anyone so guileless. Alexa had been close but life’s harsh realities had come to soon for her.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Kit said quietly. He looked up sharply, the blue eyes were a little clouded, thin bottom lip caught between her teeth in chagrin and apology. He realized suddenly she was referring to her comment about Christ.
“You didn’t. Not at all. I promise. Religion isn’t that big a deal for me.”
“Then what’s wrong? You looked so ....well, pained?”
Not naive. Intuitive and observant as hell. Anxiety crept back into his brain. “I was thinking ...you remind me of someone. Just a bit.”
“Ex-girlfriend?”
“Wife,” he said shaking himself mentally. It had tripped out of him without warning, something in Kit drawing out things he didn’t plan to reveal. Kit watched him, her gaze never shifting even when the waiter brought food.
“Want to talk about it?” she asked, and her fingers danced over his lightly, not to intrude but to encourage.
No. “Yes ...she died. About eighteen months ago,” he said, staring at his plate. He was on very rocky ground.
“Adam, I’m sorry.” Sincere. Blue eyes clouding with tears.
“Oh, Lord ...don’t start or you’ll have me at it as well,” he said trying to smile. He suddenly wasn’t hungry. Not for food. Kit picked at hers as well. “No. I’m sorry. Look, Kit, I didn’t mean to bring Alexa into this. I’m having a wonderful time, it’s just ...”
“It sneaks up on you. The things you fear ...the ones you lose ....I know.” She said and managed a grin of her own. “I lost my father when I was little ....when my mother died ....part of this was for her ...she always wanted to see Paris. We are a maudlin pair, aren’t we?” she fell silent, eyes searching beyond the windows, slow smile spreading. “I know a cure!”
“Does it taste nasty?” Methos asked, more than willing to change the subject.
“No worse than snails ...,” she said rolling her eyes. She had adamantly refused to partake or purchase escargot as an appetizer. She flagged the waiter, requested boxes and the order she’d placed for Janice. She reached for her wallet, meeting her companion’s grin when he made no effort to offer to pay. “Good.” She murmured as the waiter took her francs. “I’d hate to ruin a perfect evening by arguing outdated chivalric attitudes.”
“Chivalry is not one of my strong points,” he said wryly as they gathered their boxes and left. “What are we doing?”
“A walk along the Seine!” She said with a laugh and tossing her short braid over her shoulder. “I’ve wanted to walk along it with a good-looking man since I got here.” The blush started again and she ducked her head. “Just the two blocks back to the office,” she coaxed dragging him across the street.
Methos balked. His sword was in the car--not something he allowed to happen very often, Kit hustling him out of headquarters too eagerly. The route to the restaurant hadn’t been bad--lots of people, but Kit was leading him to the stairs leading down and the quays here were fairly deserted. “What about Janice?”
“It’s two blocks! Her food won’t even be cold. Come on!”
Methos gave in, catching her arm. It was going to be a faster walk than his date anticipated.
“I love this!” She shouted, voice echoing off the stone as they hit the paved bank.
“A true romantic,”
he said dryly and let her grab his arm. “It’s a nasty, dirty
waterway.”
“Cynic,” She chided, matching her long stride to his. “I don’t care. I’ve walked these paths every night since I got here. I’m still not tired of it. The sound.. the boats ...it’s like walking into a book.”
“You are a romantic.”
“Sometimes. Actually, I’m fairly practical most of the time. I’ve led such a boringlife--then I came here and my whole life changed.” Her tone lost some of its gloss as she glanced upward. “I’m not sure I would have come if I’d known,” she shivered a little and Methos grew suddenly wary. “How did you get into the Watchers, Adam?”
“I was researching some ancient texts ...” he began cautiously. “Found an old Chronicle and kind of accidentally got recruited--volunteered when I found out about the Archive. You?”
“I saw a fight ...a beheading ...a Quickening.” She shuddered and held onto his arm a little tighter. “I thought it was a murder. Cristophe Bentley found me--it was his assignment who died. They haven’t identified the other one.”
Other. Not killer. Not murderer. That was a plus. He pressed no harder.
“Have you seen ...did you ever witness a Quickening?” She asked quietly.
“A few.” Thin ice all around and he picked up his pace. Kit didn’t resist. “I’m not cutout for field work.”
“Me either. I don’t know how Cris does it ...” she fell silent, eye tracing the glimmering water of the river.
He made no effort to distract her with another topic. The stairs were close and a return to the mundane very appealing. Kit grabbed the rail first, releasing his arm. He caught it again suddenly, senses tingling and burning along his mind’s natural alarm system. Another Immortal was close--not imminent but too close to be caught in the shadows of the riverwalk. And his blade in the car ...he glanced up and his breath hissed out as a man appeared to block their path at the top of the stairs. Kit continued up, being unaware of anything amiss. Methos stopped her--the immortal was as aware of Kit’s pre-immortal status as he was--and even more aware of his position in the game.
“Delightful evening for a stroll,” the strange Immortal said genially. His face was well illuminated by the streetlight, older looking, auburn hair immaculately swept to one side. His accent was Germanic, eyes glittering darkly despite the friendly smile on his handsome face. “I am new to the area--perhaps you and your enchanting companion could recommend someplace for dinner?” The comment was made to Methos but his eyes were on Kit--so intensely that she took a step back and down, putting herself beside her companion rather than ahead of him.
“Le Canard Bleu is about three blocks west--excellent cuisine,” Methos said matching his tone to the inquirer’s. He eased himself slightly away from Kit, just enough to free both arms. He was at a definite disadvantage being on the down side of the stairs, but the man made no move toward them-- both hands in plain sight.
“I was thinking, perhaps, something less formal--friendly, a bar with adequate offerings?” he murmured.
“There’s Corbeaux’s,” Kit volunteered. “About two blocks over--we just came from there.”
The dark eyes shifted to Methos, smile deepening. “A neighborhood pub? Charming. My thanks, Fraulein. I will take your advice. If it is good, then perhaps I will see you there sometime? My name is Erich Richter. I am in your debt. Auf weidersein,” he said bowing a little and stepping back to let them pass.
Kit smiled uncertainly and Methos took her arm, keeping himself between the two. He stumbled when a sharp pain jabbed through his thigh, a prick and his hand went automatically to the point of discomfort, the man sweeping back out of the way and heading for the bar. The smile was still in place but the geniality was gone as he dipped his chin once more and looked pointedly at the woman.
“Tripped,” Methos said at Kit’s startled gasp when he grasped her arm to keep from falling. He smiled at her and slid his arm around her waist. She ducked her head a little, returning the gesture as they crossed the street.
“Was he a little intense or was it just me?” Kit asked as they mounted the stairs.
“Out of place--tourists are like that,” Methos said maintaining his expression while his mind sprang in a dozen directions. He could no longer feel Richter in the back of his brain but he sincerely doubted the man had dinner on his mind. He stopped and slung his pack off his shoulder, keeping his left leg out of Kit’s view. He pulled out Janice’s dinner and gave it to her. “I refuse to go see Kersey when she’s hungry,” he said with a grin. “And I do have to go. I had a great time--thanks for dinner.”
“Coward,” she accused with a smirk. “Me too!” She caught her lower lip again, glancing at him with a slanted chin. “I’d like to try it again--”
Methos nodded, smiling honestly as he caught her hand. “Done. My choice, next time, but I have some things to do this week ...but I’ll--”
“If you say you’ll call me, you’ll end up wearing this food ... “ she threatened but her eyes were twinkling.
He chuckled. “No. I was going to say I need to work really hard this week if I’m to any free time by Saturday. Can we make plans tomorrow--at lunch? ” She nodded, the blush creeping in again. “Good. I’ll meet you here about noon? Good night, Kit.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, only to have her turn her head. Their lips brushed and Kit went still, eyes wide. He couldn’t tell if it had been deliberate or not, but he let instinct take over and turned the peck into a light caress on her mouth before pulling away. He stepped back and squeezed her hand, not willing to go any further. She mouthed goodnight and turned togo inside.
He watched her for a moment before turning himself, mouth set and eyes narrowed. His leg had stopped bleeding but the denim was stiff--a reminder of a challenge issued. And that challenge had included Kit--had made Kit part of the stakes. Richter had blooded him--Methos understood that part of the challenge code as no one else would.
He made it to the car quickly, sliding the blade under his light raincoat and dumping the back pack into the front seat before seeking the cafe across the street for some much needed caffeine. It was going to be a long night.
It was well after midnight when Kit and Janice emerged from the building, waving good-bye to the security guard and both looking tired and a little frazzled. They walked together toward Janice’s car and spoke, Kit shaking her head at her friend’s offer of a ride. Janice drove off and Kit headed back toward the riverbank.
Methos stayed to the shadows to follow her, noting that she was moving much slower than she had earlier in the evening, and wincing inwardly when a stretch of light illuminated her face and the slightly dreamy expression- . His ego wasn’t so enormous concerning women he could be certain it was him she was idly romanticizing about, nor was he so modest to deny there was a certain chemistry between them. Under different circumstances he would like getting to know her better for herself, rather than necessity.
He had no idea how far away she lived but the quays would run out soon, forcing her back to street level. He could only hope. Kit may think the Seine romantic but its dark depths hid more secrets than those of the heart--bodies had a tendency to sink. Quickly. He didn’t intend for Kit’s to be one of them.
Where is MacLeod when I need him? he thought, disliking intensely the role of hero he’d suddenly been thrust into--half wishing Richter had challenged him outright. That would have pretty much eliminated the need for subterfuge on Kit’s behalf, but not necessarily solved the double edged problem the woman presented.
He stopped suddenly, the damnable blessing of the murmur/feel of another immortal sniping at the edge of consciousness. He sought it, fought for the direction and found it above. He pressed himself into the shadows of the wall, looking up. Richter appeared at the rail, his gaze downward but his prey ...one of them any way ... was invisible. The man looked ahead, as did Methos. Kit had reached the end of the quay and was on her way up the stairs.
Methos swore silently. Richter was already moving and Methos was about to run out of darkness in which to hide. He edged toward the stairwell as Kit ascended and felt the other presence withdraw. Kit made it to the top and headed north, Methos coming up silently behind her.
From his vantage, he could see her crossing the street to a newly renovated apartment building, stepping into the foyer and disappearing. The presence returned as the older Immortal emerged. Richter had moved back into his range and he found him--seeking Methos from across the street. Eyes locked for a long moment before Richter smiled unpleasantly and turned away, disappearing once more into the Paris night.
Richter was stalking her. Doing it obviously so Methos would know. What the man’s plan was, he could not begin to fathom and not knowing made Kit a very vulnerable target. “I am way too old for this ...” Methos mumbled, glad the night was mild as he found a comfortable hiding place near Kit’s building to wait. And watch. It was going to be a very, very long night
Mild night or not, Methos was stiff and tired when dawn began to creep over the city. He was seeing entirely too many sunrises he decided as he stretched. He had felt an Immortal approach once or twice during the night, only to withdraw again when he detected Methos’ presence. The older Immortal’s only consolation was the hope that Richter had gotten no more sleep than he had.
People were moving through the city as Methos emerged and began walking back toward the office. Daylight had made Kit a less vulnerable target, he hoped, and if he was to meet her for lunch, he would have to get some sleep and cleaned up. Plus, he needed some help. Noble as the idea was, it was impractical to think he could protect Kit and himself, alone, twenty-four hours a day.
The office was silent as he reached his car but no one would have thought it amiss if they had seen him. Adam Pierson had a reputation for remaining in the Archives until the most ungodly hours. An apt term, he thought as he pulled out, heading for his own flat and wearily trying to figure out how to untangle an ungodly mess.
“DeSalvo’s. Duncan MacLeod.”
“You’re up late. Must be tax time,” commented the familiar accented voice at the other end of the line, statement emphasized by the slight time delay between France and the West Coast of the U.S.
“And you’re up early,” MacLeod said, grinning. “I thought this was the millennia for sunsets only?”
“Funny boy,” Methos returned. “What’s your schedule like for the next couple of weeks?” The question was casually asked but MacLeod could recognize both the weariness and concern in his friend’s request.
“Not too bad. Need to duck out of Paris for a bit? You’re welcome here ...you know that,” MacLeod said reassuringly.
Methos chuckled softly. “I thank you for that but, no. I was wondering how you felt about Paris in Spring?”
“I like it much better than Paris in Winter or Summer. Need company or do you have company?”
“Both,” Methos said and gave a terse and scanty explanation of the situation. “I’m not worried about Richter if I can find him before he gets to Kit. I’m going to check and see who the hell he is and why I’m suddenly on his favorites list.”
“Do you think he knows who you are?” MacLeod asked concerned.
“I don’t know. But I can’t hunt him and watch out for Kathryn.”
“What do you need ...bodyguard or hunter?” the Highlander said without hesitation. “I can be on a plane tomorrow.” MacLeod could almost visualize the tension draining out of Methos’ body.
“Bodyguard ...for more reason than Richter. She’s ...not my type.” The guarded comment was fraught with unspoken regret.
“But she thinks you’re hers? You can tell after one date?” MacLeod inquired, trying to inject some humor into the conversation. Methos was silent. “Why? Because she’s pre-immortal?” he prodded.
“No. Because ...she’s got too much life to live yet ...,” came the reply, weary and hinting at some other sorrow.
“You need sleep,” MacLeod said evenly, not wanting to pursue that conversation on the phone. He paused, then, “But you may want me to hunt--Kit may know who I am. Unless you plan on telling her what she is?”
“You know, MacLeod, despite what you may have heard--not every woman in Paris knows who you are,” came the wry response. “And your picture, as far as I know, is not plastered on the walls of the ladies lounge.”
Duncan grinned. “Point taken. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Mac.”
“Keep your head,” MacLeod said earnestly and Methos rang off. Duncan’s smile lasted a few moments longer before he made a couple of phone calls of his own. The first was to his travel agent to book a flight to Paris. The second was more personal and he was glad when the familiar smoky voice answered.
“Joe’s. Joe Dawson at you service.”
As ever, bless his blues ridden heart. “Glad to hear it, Joe. Are you going to be there awhile? .....Good. I’m on my way over--got time to dig up some information about an Immortal? .....Erich Richter.”
Janice had a smirk on her face all morning, watching Kit. The younger woman was all efficiency and briskness but the gentle scorching tongue she generally used when working with agents was all honey and forgiveness. And she had dressed. She dressed well anyway, in simple jumpers and blouses, as much to diminish her size as for comfort, but today she was in a denim skirt and soft, scoop necked sweater, and a pair of lovely if completely impractical, lace up flat sandals. Her hair was braided yet, but the top and tail sported tiny lace bows--thirty-seven going on sixteen. Janice rolled her eyes and made no comment as the competent office administrator turned into a love struck child before her eyes.
Kit was oblivious to the regard of her superior and sometimes superior boss. Noon rolled in and she refused to be delayed, darting out of the office for the front door with a well placed chucking of the last of her reports into the out bin. Hair and purse flying as she skittered across the marble to the front door. Twenty minutes later Janice followed seeking food herself and found Kit sitting on one of the wide balustrades.
Pierson’s going to need a doctor, Janice thought, a quiet rage building at the patiently expectant look on Kit’s face. Prat. “No show?” she asked gently enough and Kit glanced up then at her watch.
“He didn’t call, did he?” Kit asked, her voice as lightly casual as if she asked about the weather. Janice shook her head and Kit nodded. “Oh, well. Busy I expect. Want company?”
“Sure!” Janice responded, dumping enthusiasm into her tone to let Kit know there was no one she would rather have lunch with. It was true, but the balm was barely enough. Halfway across the street, Janice heard a name being called and turned to see the erstwhile cad approaching. Kit turned because her companion did and Janice was witness to a transformation not unlike water into wine.
“I’m sorry ...I’m really, truly, dreadfully sorry,” Adam Pierson said as he approached, quickly. Dark hair tousled by his run to catch up but not out of breath. The hazel eyes sought Kit’s immediately, reaching out to catch one of her hands.
He could have called her an ugly cow and Kit would have still grinned as broadly, then let the expression slide into the shy smile as it did, Janice observed. She could detect no artifice in the young man’s deportment, his regret genuine, but she decided then and there to do a little research of her own into the research fellow.
“Let me make it up to you ...both of you ...my treat. Vienne’s for lunch,” he said, acknowledging Janice for the first time. Kit’s eyes met hers as well, almost a plea but Janice ignored the request. Let Kit be annoyed a little. She had a sudden burning desire to get to know Adam Pierson better.
“Lovely,” she
smiled, inclining her head and took a step, feeling a glint of guilt at
Kit’s disappointment that she would not be
lunching alone with her beau. Pierson seemed nonplused, and drew Kit’s
arm through his as the three of them began walking, Kit in the middle.
He offered no explanation for his tardiness, only the apology and Kit too
enamored to ask. Janice wasn’t enamored but she didn’t press. She
had worked the field--Watching could bring far more than talking, and the
nonchalant charming book had became a far more acute point of interest
than any description of Vienne’s four star menu Pierson had to offer.