Disclaimer: This story is a crossover between Witchblade (owned by Top Cow and Warner Brothers) and Highlander (owned by Rysher and Panzer/Davis). I would like to thank Gregory Widen for introducing us to the Highlander universe, which enabled Panzer/Davis to invent such characters as Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson and Cassandra. None of the characters belongs to me, and no money has been or will ever be earned by me from this endeavor. I have taken some facts from the Watcher CD and have presented them here as canon. Adam Pierson's identity was unveiled as Methos during the Horseman incident. Amy Zoll was assigned as the Methos researcher, and Timothy Wyatt as his field Watcher. I have introduced the name Harold Wyatt (Timothy's father) as Jake McCarty's mentor. This story picks up close to where Circles left off. Several weeks have passed, not much more. As for the individual show's time line, this is pretty much taking place after Highlander: The Series and The Raven ended. As for Witchblade, season one occurred along with the rewind, however the events following differ dramatically from the show's second season and slightly from the show's first season. Methos and Cassandra's joint influence has altered Sara Pezzini's life. This can be considered an alternate universe, since Sara's life after the rewind can evolve in an infinite array of possibilities. I picked one where the Highlander characters helped to shape events. Many thanks to my betas, Shomeret, Cindy Combs, Mihan, and Parda. Without the diligent, tireless, no-rewards, work of these fine people, there would be no story. Comments can be sent to: lwright3@rochester.rr.com Enjoy! Incongruities By Lori Wright Prologue Ian Nottingham pulled off the top of the brightly wrapped box and gazed appreciatively at the lethal prototype gun nestled inside. The ribbons and bows had been placed carefully aside. It was the closest to a birthday gift he had ever received, but it wasn't his birthday. It wasn't a holiday what-so-ever. The decorative box was merely camouflage. Ignoring the twinge of melancholy, Ian methodically assembled the gun and raised the gun's scope to his eye. The lithe form of Detective Sara Pezzini snared his attention. She was talking with her partner, Danny Woo, using a small transmitter and an earpiece. Ian could hear the exchange and gave an ironic smile as he realized that he and the detectives shared the same prey. Moving the scope, he found Jake McCarty sitting on a bench, reading the newspaper, pretending to be a businessman on his lunch break. McCarty was an expert at this sort of subterfuge, Ian mused. This detective also wore an ear-piece, although he only listened, not partaking in the conversation between Sara and Woo. Ian let himself enjoy the momentary thrill of holding the world's most lethal gun, waiting to assassinate the world's biggest arms dealer. He loved to kill. It was one of the few times in his life where he felt he had total control of his environment. The sense of power he felt as he pulled the trigger was unlike anything else in his sheltered life. Kenneth Irons was his master. He was the one with the real control. What Ian felt was merely an illusion, which made him relish these fleeting moments. Suddenly Parsegian appeared within his sights. Wolf was tagging along, like a well-trained puppy. Ian felt a temporary sense of identification with the bodyguard. But all that vanished as the two men bent over. One head superimposed upon the other. Ian pulled the trigger, feeling a shiver of satisfaction, of almost ecstasy, as the gun discharged. It was a perfect moment in his normally monotonous day. The targets crumpled. One bullet--two men dead. Day 1 I Detective Jake McCarty walked alongside his partner, Sara Pezzini, as they made their way inside the front door of Kenneth Irons' mansion. Jake wasn't sure how Pez could look so cool and unaffected. He was a mass of nerves inside. Irons was a multi-millionaire who had a bodyguard with enhanced hearing and eyesight who was able to catch bullets in his bare hands. Jake had actually witnessed Ian Nottingham stop three in rapid succession. It gave Jake chills just to think about it. However, it was the enhanced eyesight that brought the two detectives to Irons' door that day. Two men had been killed yesterday with one bullet from an elevation of several stories. From everything the police and forensics team had researched, it was an impossible shot--for an average human. Nottingham was not average. He had been genetically altered or doped up on secret pharmaceuticals to become a super-soldier in the Black Dragons. With Irons owning his own drug company, which had contracts with the government, Jake knew that anything was possible. "Welcome, detectives," a cultured voice entreated them. It came from a speaker mounted on the wall above their heads. "Follow the hall you are in, and I'll meet you in front of the library door." Jake and Sara exchanged looks and did as they were instructed. Kenneth Irons was waiting for them as they rounded a corner. He was in front of an open door. "Please come in and have a seat." Irons motioned them in with an insincere smile that grated on Jake's nerves. Sara stood glowering as Irons closed the door and went casually over to a chair. Jake stood awkwardly next to his partner. "Sara," Irons cajoled, "you'd be more comfortable--" "Where was Nottingham," Sara interrupted, staying right where she was, "yesterday afternoon between eleven-thirty and noon?" Irons made a production of sitting and crossing his legs, giving her a relaxed smile. "I don't know precisely." Sara followed him to the chair, radiating irritation. "Surely, you keep better track of him than that," she responded, while towering over Irons as he sat demurely in his winged-back chair. He didn't seem to notice her attempt to dominate him. He just looked up at her and replied, "Ian is his own man. I'd be a fool to try and curb his natural tendencies…" Jake didn't hear the rest of what Irons had to say. He was too busy staring at the painting that hung on the wall opposite him. Shock held him immobile. He had to struggle to keep any verbal reaction from escaping. His heart was pounding in excitement and his palms began sweating. It was Darius! In a painting on Irons' wall. Jake made himself take a deep breath and exhale slowly. His eyes were riveted to the scene portrayed in oil. A woman was being burned at the stake on the left side of the painting. Three priests stood watching the spectacle with differing expressions on their faces. One was openly laughing. He clutched a bible in one hand, while the other hand was pointing to the burning woman. His mouth was wide open with his eyes glittering with malicious enjoyment. The second man of God was looking stern and vengeful. He held a large jeweled cross in one hand and seemed to be waving it in front of his body, possibly trying to ward off demons flying from the dying woman. The third priest had tears falling down his face and his eyes spoke eloquently of his sadness. Beneath his priestly robe, a silver- colored sword tip peeked out near his feet. The difference between the three men's facial expressions and the way they were posed was striking. The painting seemed alive with emotions. But what held Jake transfixed wasn't the vividness of the painting; it was the identity of the third priest. Darius. "Jake. Jake!" Sara called. Jake felt himself pulled away from the vivid portrayal of Catholic justice and back to the mere questioning of a modern power-hungry millionaire. "Do you like my painting?" Kenneth Irons asked Jake. "That's Joan of Arc. This was her punishment for daring to defy the leaders of the Catholic Church. Do you know her story?" Irons flashed Sara a mocking smile, before turning back to Jake. "Every kid is taught about her in history class," Jake replied. "She led the French to victory against the English." "That is part of the story. But there is so much more to her personal victories and sufferings." Irons paused, turning to Sara. "Can you add anything of her life?" "We're not here to talk about some dead martyr," Sara corrected. "We need to talk to Nottingham. If you don't cooperate, I'll put out an APB and have him picked up." "Look at it, Sara," Irons entreated. "Don't you find it compelling? Three holy men looking at the murder of a girl. Do you see the incongruity of the men? Two want her dead, each bearing symbols of their devout faith in God. The third, my favorite, wears a sword under his priestly garb, but is visibly upset at her death." Jake just wanted to get out of there before he clued Irons in to his personal interest in Darius. How would the millionaire react to the knowledge that Jake personally knew of the priest who carried the sword? "Why can't you answer my question?" Sara kept up her barrage, acting impatient, but keeping her temper in check. "Are you protecting Nottingham? Did he kill those two men?" A grim smile crossed the older man's face as he replied, "When I see him, I will ask." Sara threw up her arms in defeat. "You do that." She turned to Jake. "Let's go." Jake followed her out of the room, but couldn't resist a final look at Darius. II Sara surreptitiously observed Jake glance at his watch. "I think I'm going to head out now," he said, gathering his things. Sara had noticed that Jake had been acting fidgety most of the afternoon. In fact, it had started after they had returned from seeing Irons. "I've got a few more things to finish here," she told him. "See ya tomorrow." Jake shoved his arms in his coat, then picked up a pile of folders. "Later, Pez." Sara waited until he had left before digging into her own pile of folders and pulling out one from the bottom. The file's contents were a private obsession; one she kept secret, especially from Jake. Whenever she was alone she perused it, adding bits and refreshing her memory, hoping for new insights. The first three sheets were the police report on Bruno Dante's death. In objective detail, they told of a scene where the ground around the body was scorched by what appeared to be a series of electrical discharges. The bloody body was yards away from the head. A sword was still clutched in his right hand, but the blood on the blade did not match Dante's bloodtype. Sara had gone over the details described in the report until she could recite them all from memory. The detectives assigned to the case had not found the perpetrator, and the case remained open. Although she was not responsible for finding the killer, Sara obsessed about it because of her vision of Dante's death. She saw in shadow two men, one of whom she was able to identify as Dante, fighting with swords. In her vision, she could see it was a fight to the death, no quarter given on either side. Despite the deadly action of the combatants, it was the beheading and what followed immediately after that spooked Sara. The sight of the electricity pouring out of Dante's exposed neck and penetrating the man in shadow gave Sara nightmares at night. It repeated over and over in her mind. She couldn't make it stop. A fragile hope existed that if she were able to solve the homicide she would rid herself of the constant reenactment in her dreams. The one fact that kept her silent on the subject was that Jake's friend Adam Pierson wielded his own sword. She could still see him bursting into her apartment, brandishing a sword. Immediately following came the look of shock as he gazed at Cassandra, then the subsequent lowering and disappearance of the weapon. Was Pierson the one? And if he had killed Dante, was Jake protecting him? The question haunted Sara's search. In an effort to find an alternate hypothesis, Sara began investigating other murders that featured beheadings. Much to her surprise, there were several documented cases, all unsolved, in the past twenty years. In fact, her father and Joe Siri had investigated one back in 1985. A man named Victor Kruger had been killed at Silver Stadium. Sara compared all the accounts and found several similarities. In addition to decapitation, all the victims sported ripped clothes and cuts in their flesh indicative of a fight to the death using some kind of blade as a weapon. There was general destruction where the body was found and even remnants of fire that had burned at the time of death. However, there didn't seem to be any connection between the deceased. All walks of life were represented. A wealthy businessman was decapitated in an underground garage. A woman jogging in Central Park in the early morning was found with a nearby tree still blazing. There was a man of Asian descent decapitated in a sleazy motel room. Did electricity also pour out of all those necks to the respective victors? Sara shivered at the thought. A copy of each case's police report was enclosed within her folder. Each night, Sara looked through the reports, found something to check out, but always came up empty-handed. There were no family or friends of the deceased still living in the city. It was as if they had never existed at all. Sara absently twirled the Witchblade around her wrist. So far, the ancient relic had remained quiet. No visions had clouded her mind, and a small part of her was disappointed. Maybe Cassandra would help? Listening to the woman had helped Sara in the past. She had been able to relax and the visions had come. Stuffing all the sheets once more into her folder, Sara grabbed her coat and went home. III Jake tossed his coat and files on the table and immediately went to the phone. The answering machine had recorded six messages. Without even listening to them, he placed an international call to Paris. He needed to talk to Joe Dawson. Jake was baffled as to why Methos had bothered to tell Dawson about his visit to New York, but he was glad, too. Everything he had heard about the oldest Immortal proved him to be a private, skittish man, who never told anyone anything unless it was important to his own survival. Yet, with Dawson, Methos was more forthcoming. Jake believed that there was real friendship between the two men. Smiling at the thought, Jake punched in the numerous digits that connected him to Dawson's office at Le Blues Club. The phone rang. "Hello?" Joe answered the phone. "Mr. Dawson? This is Jake McCarty." "Didn't I tell you before to call me Joe?" chided the older Watcher. "Joe," Jake responded dutifully. "What can I do for you? Calling to check up on our mutual friend?" Jake stiffened. While he was curious to know what Methos was up to, he was not going to ask. Previously, when Dawson had called him, it had been the older Watcher trying to pump information from Jake on what Methos had been up to in New York. Jake had admitted nothing, leaving Dawson grumpy. "I've something very interesting to tell you. I'm not sure the correct channel to go through, but I found this painting." Jake stumbled over the words, not sure how to present his discovery. "A painting of what?" "Darius is in it." "Are you sure?" The excitement came through the telephone wires, loud and clear. "Yup. The picture shows Joan of Arc burning at the stake, and there are three priests watching the spectacle. Darius is one of them. I think the Watchers should try and buy the painting." "Has the owner given you reason to believe it's for sale?" Joe asked. "No. Not really." There was silence for a few moments, and then Dawson asked, "You want me to send someone from the procurement office?" Jake knew what Dawson was asking: should they steal the painting before alerting the owner of their interest? It wasn't done that often, but when it came to priceless relics belonging to or in reference to famous Immortals, it sometimes became necessary to "procure" them using whatever means available. "Security is very tight at Irons' mansion. I don't think stealing is an option. The painting will have to be bought by a reputable dealer, or not at all." Jake didn't think anyone could break in with someone like Ian Nottingham guarding the place. With his enhanced senses, not many could get past him. In fact, just last week, Jake had seen Nottingham jump from a seven-story building, land on his feet, and take off running down the street. The man wasn't human; he was a genetically engineered super-soldier. Jake wasn't willing to send a fellow Watcher up against such a formidable foe. "Let me think about this, Jake, and get back to you." Joe responded and then ended the call. Jake hung up the phone, satisfied that Joe Dawson would handle it. IV Sara sat at her kitchen table with the file open in front of her. The paperwork from each beheading was separated into stacks. As she went through each one, the similarity was obvious, yet the victims had nothing in common. It was unlikely that the murderers were all the same person, so why did they share the same MO? What connected them? There seemed to have been a series of beheadings in the late winter and spring of '85. Iman Fasil had been killed in an underground parking garage under Madison Square Garden. Lt. Frank Moran and Det. Walter Bedsoe had written up the police report. Sara vaguely remembered Moran, but Bedsoe was still around. She should have a talk with him. Sara went back to reading the report and noticed that the two detectives had captured a suspect, but he'd been released because of lack of evidence. Sara wrote down the suspect's name, Russell Nash, in her notes. The report stated his address was on Hudson Street. As she added the address the words began to blur on the page. She rubbed her eyes, feeling the ache in her head and the burning inside her nose. The Witchblade swirled bright red colors and suddenly Sara found herself seeing the events as they unfolded. The words were muffled, but it was apparent that the man in the suit was hunting the man in the trench coat and white sneakers. Swords were pulled and the fight was on. Mists clouded Sara's vision, and then cleared revealing a police station. The man in the trench coat was being questioned. Again Sara couldn't hear the voices, but on a piece of paper the name Russell Nash was written in cursive. The scene abruptly faded, leaving Sara back in her apartment with someone knocking at her door. The pounding was in synchrony with the throbbing inside her head. "Sara?" Cassandra called from the hallway. "Are you okay?" "Coming, Cassandra," Sara yelled back, getting up from the chair to answer the door. "I was just working," Sara told her guest, motioning her inside. Cassandra breezed in. "Were you deep within a vision? I must have knocked for two or three minutes before you acknowledged me." Sara hedged. "Sort of." Cassandra quirked an eyebrow. "Sort of?" Sara looked away, then noticed her files scattered on the table. Quickly she went to gather them up. "I'm sorry to intrude. Maybe I should leave?" Sara felt assailed by guilt. "No, that's okay. I'm just obsessing about Dante's death." Sara rubbed her face, pain still slicing through her head. "It's just that I don't feel I should talk to you about it because Adam Pierson is a friend of yours." Cassandra burst out laughing. "Adam Pierson is no friend of mine. If you found *him* dead tomorrow, I wouldn't mourn his loss." "So, you don't feel the need to protect him?" Sara asked, trying to figure out their real relationship. "Protect him?" Cassandra laughed again. "No, not in a million years." Sara hesitated, then sat down at the table, gazing at the files. "The way that Dante died--you know, by beheading--it bothers me. So, I went and looked up similar deaths, not really expecting to find anything." Sara looked up and met Cassandra's eyes. "But I did. There have been several murder cases with the cause of death listed as beheadings." Sara waited, looking for some kind of reaction from Cassandra, but her face remained blank. "What does this have to do with Adam Pierson?" Cassandra asked, looking puzzled, but Sara could discern the wary tone to it. "Pierson is my main suspect in Dante's death," Sara explained. "I really think he did it, but there have been so many beheadings that have occurred in New York and I just can't believe Pierson is responsible for all of them. He just isn't old enough." Cassandra snorted and covered it up by clearing her throat. "When did all these beheadings occur?" "They seem to happen in clusters. A few in the '80s, and then one in 1990, but they claim to have caught the murderer, but he killed himself before they could arrest him. The next was in 1994 and the latest was in 1999. Maybe it's some kind of club?" Sara mused aloud. "Why do you feel such need to find the killer of someone who wanted you dead? I would think you'd be pleased that the threat to your life is gone." Sara took a deep breath. "It's the manner of *how* he died. Every night I dream about that fight. I see it played over and over. One man is in shadow but the other I can see is Dante. The one I can't see is attacking, taunting, but I can't hear the words. Dante is mad and scared and then his head is chopped off, rolling on the ground. Blood comes out of the neck, and then lightning," Sara shivered, "goes into the man I can't see. Even the added light doesn't help me see the killer." "The Witchblade is telling you that you aren't ready for the truth. Leave it alone, just for now," Cassandra pleaded and then her voice took on a sing-song quality. "Your dreams are not real. You should forget about the fight and the swords. Abandon your…" Sara felt her attention drift. Her mind focused on the words Cassandra was saying, hearing the meaning, studying the meaning--then felt the Witchblade yank her from the stupor. "No!" she cried, fighting the hypnotic effect of her guest's suggestion. "I must continue my investigation." "You will not like what you find," Cassandra warned. "You know who killed Dante, don't you?" Sara accused. "I know that you have a closed mind and are not ready to hear the truth. Continue your quest, but remember there are bigger things in this world than your perception of right and wrong. As a Witchblade wielder, you should realize this, but your mind is refusing to accept what is in front of you." "You *are* protecting Adam Pierson." "He doesn't need my protection. It is for your own peace of mind that I believe you should end this investigation." "It's for my sanity that I must continue it," Sara exclaimed, smashing the table with her fist, sending papers flying. "So be it. I came down to see if you wanted to join me for supper, but it seems you have enough on your plate just now." Cassandra walked to the door and opened it. "If you do discover this truth, I'll help you deal with it," she promised, as she gently closed the door behind her. Sara felt drained. Dropping her head into her folded arms, she waited for strength to return. It had been exhausting arguing with Cassandra, but necessary. She needed to know who killed Dante. V Joe Dawson sat at a table swirling a glass of beer. Patrons often stopped by to say hello, but after a civil exchange of pleasantries they soon left. The subject of Jake McCarty's call never left his mind. After they had hung up, Joe had called Watcher Headquarters and informed them of the find. "Hi, Joe." Joe looked up and found Methos staring down at him. "Hey." "You playing with that or drinking it?" Joe wouldn't put it past the oldest Immortal to take his glass and drink the rest of the warm beer. "Thinking." Joe paused, considering how much to tell him. Methos knew McCarty, although Joe had never figured out exactly what their relationship was. "Jake McCarty called me today." Methos' eyes became alert. "Really. Did he ask about me?" "No. He called to say he found a painting of Darius in someone's private collection." "What kind of painting?" "It's not a portrait," Joe answered. "It shows Joan of Arc burning at the stake and Darius is one of three priests." "Joan of Arc? It must belong to Kenneth Irons." "Yeah, I think he mentioned Irons." "What's the plan?" Methos asked, as he seated himself at Joe's table. "The Watchers are willing to front me as an art dealer for a museum here in France. I'm supposed to buy the thing." "He'll never sell." Methos signaled a waitress who brought over a large mug of beer. "You can try, but he's very rich and money isn't important to him; power is. Joan of Arc represents power and that's his interest in it." "You've met this guy?" "No, his reputation precedes him. Although I bet McCarty has had a few run-ins with him." "Probably how he saw the picture." Methos nodded in agreement. Joe couldn't figure out what else to do. The Watchers wanted that painting, and he had to think of a way to get it. "So, when do you leave for the States?" Methos asked, sipping his beer and peering at Joe over the rim of the glass. "Why?" Joe responded suspiciously. "Thought I'd go with you. Wouldn't mind shooting some more pool with Jake." "You'd stay out of my way when I'm trying to buy the painting?" "I have no interest in meeting up with Kenneth Irons. I intend to stay as far away from him as possible." Joe couldn't think of a good reason for Methos not to go and several reasons why it might be nice having him around. "Okay. I'll let you know when my travel plans and cover become finalized." VI As soon as Joe became busy with club business, Methos made his escape. Despite his casual manner, he was just as excited as Joe about the painting of Darius and Jeannette. He wondered if the woman had her true features, or that of a generic female. The painting did not belong in the hands of Kenneth Irons, but Methos didn't believe Joe had the remotest chance in buying it from him. For the Watchers, stealing was out of the question. However, for two Immortals, it might be possible. The trick would be to have Ian Nottingham out of the mansion while the theft was taking place. His sensitive hearing would throw a monkey wrench in any plan Methos could come up with. The first order of business would be to enlist his partner. Methos knew that Amanda was still in Paris, so she would be most likely at her club, the Sanctuary. As he walked into the loud dance club, he detected the presence of at least one Immortal. He sauntered past the bar, ordering a beer and continued toward where he hoped he would find Amanda. Instead, he found Nick Wolfe, sitting at a table, doing paper work. "Feel pretty safe in a crowded room?" Methos asked, hoping to put the youngster on the defensive. "You intending to pick a fight?" Nick answered back. "Not right now. I want to see Amanda. Is she upstairs?" "Yup." Nick's eyebrows rose suggestively. "Taking a bath." "Think I'll go surprise her." "It's your head," Nick remarked before looking back to his papers. Methos took the back stairs two at a time, and threw open her door. "Honey, I'm home," he called. The bathroom door opened, letting an abundance of steam flow into the hallway. Amanda followed the mist wearing only a towel around her torso, water dripping from her legs. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" she purred. "Get dressed. I've got a proposition for you." "Usually when propositions are made I don't need my clothes," Amanda teased, then waltzed into another room. Methos made himself comfortable on her sofa and waited her return. Ideas ran through his head on the best way to tackle the job. Somehow Nottingham would have to be enticed to leave the mansion to be with Sara on some context or another. Irons could be having dinner with Joe to discuss the sale. A wave of perfume assaulted his nostrils. "I think you over did it a bit." "One must add liberally because it evaporates so quickly," she told him as she slipped into the room. "Whatever," he added, accepting a glass of wine she so kindly offered him. He would have preferred a beer, but Amanda never stocked it in her home. "So what's the proposition?" "I don't want you to tell anyone about this, but I want to steal a painting at a private estate in New York City." Her eyes lit up in expectation. "Is this owner very rich?" "Very. He's known to be a collector of rare art and historical relics." He smiled as she shifted in her seat. The idea appealed to her. "Don't tell me he's got something that used to belong to you?" she teased. "No," Methos admitted. "This will be a new acquisition. All I want is the painting. Anything else can be yours. Are you interested?" "Sounds promising." Amanda twirled a wineglass, taking token sips. "Tell me more," she asked, trying to sound calm, but her eyes told him that he had her hooked. "I want you to fly over as soon as possible and take a look at the set up. I've never been in the house, but I can get information on where the picture is later." "There's a catch in there somewhere. You're making it sound too easy." "It won't be easy," he acknowledged her intuition. "In fact, it might be impossible, but I want that picture and Kenneth Irons won't be willing to sell it." "Kenneth Irons? I think I've heard of him. Vorshlag Industries, right? I think Nick and Bert Myers were investigating them last year. They're doing illegal experiments using human tissue." "Same guy. The experiments have yielded fruit in that they are able to genetically alter humans. Irons has a security expert who has enhanced hearing and sight and who knows what else. His name is Ian Nottingham, and it is imperative that he's not in the house when we break in." Methos paused, then added, "Making sure he's not in the house will be my job." "Let me guess, you've made no other plans and you want me--" "That is your forte, isn't it?" Methos asked, trying to sound innocent. "I've some connections in New York. Give me some time to check into this. I think we should arrive independently and meet up later." "Agreed. I'll be flying over with Joe in a few days." "Joe?" Amanda looked puzzled. "Why is he going?" "The Watchers want the same painting, and he's going to try and buy it. The owner will refuse to sell and I don't think they're capable of stealing it, whereas we will be." For the first time, Amanda lost her animation and became serious. "You're trying to get the painting before the Watchers? What's it of?" "Darius. They want it because Darius is in it." "And you want it because?" "It has Darius in it, of course. I might even give it to the Watchers if we're able to get it out. I haven't decided, yet." "This could be fun," she responded, not exactly sounding sure. "It will at least be a challenge. I know your life's been boring lately. I don't think anyone's come hunting for you in the past few months." "Ha, ha, Methos." His joke brought back her smile, and he felt relieved. He needed her help in order to pull this venture off. Day 2 I Sara waited until after lunch to check out the antique store mentioned in her Dante file. Jake was following a lead, trying to tie Nottingham in on the Wolf/Parsegian double murder. Danny was trying to find a tie-in between Irons and the two dead men. All three detectives were positive Nottingham had done the deed, since as Jake had said, "Only a finite array of people were capable of such a shot." Sara totally believed it. Leaving her two partners thus occupied, Sara left the station and headed for lower Manhattan on Broadway. The traffic was horrendous, and it took all her concentration to keep track of the different motorists surrounding her on the road. At E. Houston Street she turned on her right-hand turn signal. From the intersection it was barely a block to Hudson. She stopped at the traffic light, getting a clear view of the front of Nash's Antiques. It was a typical street front store, with nothing remarkable about the outside. Sara parked her bike, took off her helmet, and headed inside. Somehow the store was not what she had imagined. The image of Gabriel's hole came to mind, but this was nothing like that. It was artfully designed, with shelving units and glass cases showing off expensive knick-knacks. Victorian and Georgian furniture was positioned on one side of the room with elegant lamps and embroidered throw pillows accenting the illusion of history. A large roll-top desk was off to the other side, with a few filing cabinets alongside and a computer with a screen saver showing arcs of lightning. A chill ran up Sara's back remembering the vision of the lightning coming out of Dante's neck. "Can I help you?" An older lady had come up behind Sara as she was looking around. "My name is Detective Pezzini," Sara began. "I'm looking for Russell Nash. Is he here?" "I'm sorry, detective. Russell passed away several years ago. His nephew Connor Nash owns the store now, but he's out of the country on a buying trip. A large English estate went on the market--" "Did you," Sara interrupted, "work here when Russell was still alive?" There was a long pause before she answered, "Yes," hesitantly. "I'm investigating a murder. As I was looking through some old files, I came across Nash's name in connection with a beheading that happened in '85. Do you remember anything about it?" A guarded expression came over the formerly friendly woman. "It was a long time ago. What does it have to do with your investigation?" "It was also a beheading." The woman paled. "I see." "Can you tell me how Mr. Nash died?" Sara asked. "Five years ago, while staying in Marrakech, he was attacked by bandits. They beat him then shot him for the money he carried." The woman looked Sara right in the eyes as she told her the story, yet some instinct was making Sara doubt the truth of it. She temporarily set it aside. "Tell me what you remember of the night Russell Nash was accused of beheading a man in the garage under the Garden?" "Mr. Nash was brought in for questioning and then let go. They didn't have any evidence to keep him. I don't know what his thoughts were; he was not a talkative man. Besides, I'm just a clerk." Sara took out a notepad. "Can you tell me your name?" The woman looked uneasy. "Rachel Ellenstein," she paused and then completed her name, "Moran." Sara wrote down the name, positive that the name should mean something. She went over the facts as she remembered them and then her mind flashed on the arrest sheet. Lt. Frank Moran was one of the detectives who had brought in Nash. Sara arched her eyebrow and gazed at the other woman. "Frank Moran's your husband?" "Yes," she answered, with a slight smile on her face. "He's captain of Homicide over in Precinct Eight." "I'll have to talk to him." Sara flipped her memo pad closed and stuffed it in her pocket. 'Thank you for your time." "That's all?" Mrs. Ellenstein-Moran asked, looking skeptical. "For now. I'd like to come back and ask you a few more question, if I may," Sara returned. "Of course," the clerk replied quickly. Sara left the store, conscious of the other woman's eyes on her as she walked to her bike. Just before she turned the ignition on, a gloved hand grabbed her left arm. Instinct made her swing her right arm around to defend against attack and found that arm too, captured by Ian Nottingham. "Do your partners know where you are?" he asked, releasing both of her arms as she tugged. "I admit I don't understand the reason for your interest in Nash's Antiques." "Have you had dealings with either Russell or Connor Nash?" "Mr. Irons has purchased things from him in the past. Nash's Antiques has a reputation for dealing with only authentic merchandise." "How does he obtain this 'authentic merchandise'?" "I do not ask those questions. It is enough that he can. Similarly, when my master buys from your friend Gabriel Bowman, he doesn't inquire how the goods have been obtained." Gabriel. Why hadn't she thought of him before? Most people involved in the import/ export business of historical merchandise would know of each other, even if one dealt with talismans instead of Tiffany lamps. "Thanks, Nottingham. You've given me an idea." Sara patted him on the arm, revved her engine and took off down the street. II Ian Nottingham entered Vorshlag Industries and went immediately to the executive elevator. The receptionist spared him a glance and then continued talking to the man in front of her. Kenneth Irons was sitting in his office doing absolutely nothing. His fingers were steepled in front of him and his brows were furrowed as Ian entered the room. "What is she doing?" Irons asked, without preamble. "She is still obsessed with finding Dante's killer. Today she made a clandestine visit to Nash's Antiques." "What is the connection to Bruno Dante?" "Unknown. It could be a connection to beheadings. Fifteen years ago, Russell Nash was brought in for questioning in more than one case where the victim had been decapitated with a blade, most likely a sword." "Hmm." Irons sat straighter in his chair. "Did Sara find out anything?" "Only that the current Nash is out of the country. The store clerk's heartbeat corroborated her story. I didn't sense any lying on her part. However, one of the detectives that had brought Nash in is presently married to the clerk. He might have covered up Nash's involvement for his girlfriend." "Interesting theory, Ian. Look into it." Irons didn't say anything further, yet Ian made no move to leave. He waited patiently as his master shuffled some papers, and made a phone call. Finally Irons looked up. "You may leave." Ian nodded in practiced subservience. III Sara plopped herself down at her desk. Discouraged but not giving up, she banged the desk top with a fist before picking up a file that had been recently placed in her inbox. After she had left Nash's Antiques, she had driven over to the other station to see Moran. The captain wasn't there and no one knew when he'd be returning. Sara was offered a seat and a cup of coffee, but no guarantees. As soon as she finished the coffee, she decided to leave, but first left a note for the Homicide captain asking that he contact her. When she arrived back at the station, she went immediately to her desk. After answering several phone calls that were all about other business, Sara was ready to bag it for the day. The trip to Nash's Antiques hadn't yielded anything but more questions. Sara wanted more information on swords and beheadings and why this was happening in her city. Most importantly, why did those who did know, like Cassandra and possibly Jake, protect the activity. The more Sara thought about it, the more she was sure that they both knew for a fact that Adam Pierson had killed Dante. Sara would love about fifteen minutes alone with Pierson in an interrogation room; she’d get him to confess. "Detective Pezzini?" A short squat man of about seventy hesitantly came into the room. "Yes. Can I help you?" "My name is Walter Bedsoe. I used to work here in Homicide, but I'm retired now." Sara knew the name sounded familiar but she couldn't place it. "A friend told me you went to see Frank Moran today." Then it clicked. This guy was the other detective who had brought Nash in for questioning. "Please sit down," Sara urged. "Can I get you some coffee or--" "No, I just came here to talk to you." "Will you give me straight answers?" "As best as I can," he responded. "Describe what happened that night you brought Russell Nash in for questioning." "We got an anonymous tip that there was a sword fight going on an underground garage near Madison Square Garden. My partner and I took the call. When we got there, the place looked like a tornado had swept through. Cars had their windows and tires blown. There were scorch marks on the ceilings and walls." "Was Nash in the garage?" "He came barreling out in his 1950's Porche." Then he added with an absent smile, "Boy that car was a beauty." "And you arrested him then?" Sara prodded. "We had the exits blocked, so unless he wanted to crash into us, he had to stop. We cuffed him, read him his rights and took him in. I'll never forget his eyes; they were wild, like an animal. He looked mean enough to kill anyone." "Did he have a murder weapon on him?" Sara asked, sitting at the edge of her seat. "No. We did, however, find a sword that had the dead man's prints all over it." "And this man--Fasil, wasn't it--was found decapitated?" "Oh yeah. He sure was and there was blood everywhere." "Did you have a chance to look around?" "Not much. Forensics took care of that. I went back to the station with my partner and Nash, where we questioned him." "Do you think Nash did it?" "Definitely, but we had no proof, no motive, only opportunity. We had to let him go. That's when Brenda got involved." "Brenda?" "Yep. Brenda Wyatt was a forensics scientist. Her father was a renowned expert in ancient swords and the one we picked off of Fasil was really old. The next day, Brenda went back to the garage looking for Nash's sword, figuring he stashed it somewhere." "Did she find it?" "No, but she found a place where it had penetrated a concrete beam and was able to get a few slivers of the blade. It was different from Fasil's sword, so she knew definitively that there had been another sword involved. So she began her own investigation of Nash." "Did she find out anything interesting?" "Not there. It was later; we were looking at the deeds to the building that Nash lives in and she compared the signatures to each of the owners for the past hundred years or so and found that they had all been written by the same guy. And the name Russell Nash belonged to a baby who had died just after it had been born, back in 1945. The man we knew as Nash had assumed the baby's identity and Social Security number." "You had him for fraud. Why didn't you arrest him?" "Because we wanted him for murder," he responded. "Then we got another call. This time we had several witnesses. We thought the case was all tied up until every single one of them denied it was Nash. They described some freak-show guy in leather and chains." Sara could feel the Witchblade tingling on her arm. That fact was important. Nash had killed the man in the garage, but someone else was also beheading people. "Were you able to find and arrest the second guy?" "Yes, and no. We found him but he was already dead." "Let me guess, by having his head cut off." "Yup. According to Brenda, who by this time had gotten pretty involved with Nash, the second guy came after her and *she* killed him in self-defense." "You believe her?" "Hell no! I think Nash killed him and Brenda took the rap to save her lover." "Do you think the guy really went after her?" Sara reiterated. "Probably. I guess I believe that part." "And she killed him by cutting off his head. Why didn't she just shoot him? Was she armed with a sword instead of a gun?" "I asked her the same thing. She laughed and joked and said sarcastically that it was the only way he could die. It was her or him." "And Nash? Where was he?" "Had an alibi. My partner questioned the shop keeper who said Nash was with her all night." "Rachel Ellenstein?" Sara asked for clarification. "Yep." "And then Moran went and married this same woman. How convenient," Sara remarked cynically. "We're there any more decapitations?" "Nope. Everything got real quiet after that. I think your father and Siri investigated Victor Kruger, the man Brenda said she killed, but they couldn't find holes in her story so it was dropped. Brenda left the department and married Nash. Frank married Rachel, and I still don't know what really happened." "What do you think I should do now?" Sara asked, curious to see if he would persuade her to stop. "I don't know. Moran found something out and he wouldn't say what it was. People change around Nash and I didn't want it to happen to me. I just didn't want to be Frank's partner anymore." "'Cause you didn't trust him?" "Something like that." "I understand," Sara empathized. "So where is Brenda?" "Actually she died in a car accident in Scotland shortly after she and Nash were married." Bedsoe shook his head sadly. "And Nash got out of the car without a scratch." Sara stiffened in her seat. "You think he killed her?" "I don't know. Evidence points to it, but she really loved him. I hate to think she'd been duped by him." "We're still missing something. Events do make sense if you can find how they all connect." Everything is connected, Sara knew from past experiences. "Is there anything else you can tell me?" "I don't think so. You're investigating another decapitation?" "Yes, and I think they may be connected." The word wouldn't leave her mind. "I'm pretty sure Russell Nash is dead." "Do you have any pictures of him?" "I brought his mug shot and a wedding picture of him and Brenda. She sent it to me and told me not to worry about her, that she was very happy. By the time I got it, she was already dead." "I had a visit with Rachel Ellenstein-Moran. She told me Russell Nash had been shot." "I didn't know how he died, only that he did. Seemed he lived a very violent life." Sara had to agree with that assessment. "Thank you very much for taking the time to see me. I really appreciate it." "No problem. You father was a good man. I still miss him." "You knew my father?" "Yep, and I remember you too--coming in, rushing to give Siri a hug and a picture you had drawn in school. I understand you had a hand in bringing down the White Bulls." Sara accepted the change in conversation, since she had learned everything she could from Bedsoe. "An FBI agent came undercover into the department…," and Sara went on to describe the events. In one respect it was nice to have Jake's cover blown and have him as a real partner instead of a rookie, as she had teased. But the flip side to that was his imminent departure. Nothing had been said, but she knew the FBI didn't leave their agents behind when the case was completed. Jake's days in the department were numbered. Bedsoe left soon after her explanation. Sara began to sift through what she had learned. Picking up the two photographs Bedsoe had left with her, she stared at Nash's face. They showed two entirely different men. One was in black and white, somber, and he did look mean enough to kill without a second thought. Yet the other, the wedding picture, showed a bright smile, a glowing face and wrinkles to show that he knew how to laugh. Sara had to believe Russell Nash loved Brenda Wyatt. Absently she twirled the Witchblade around her wrist, but it was silent. No visions of Russell Nash with the laughing eyes or brandishing a sword. What was she missing? Then she remembered her conversation with Nottingham. She picked up the phone and called Gabriel. "Hey, can you do some checking up for me?" she asked. "On what?" "There's and antique store called Nash's Antiques. Give me anything you can find on either Russell and Connor Nash." "Anything in particular?" "Nope. I want to know what those men had for breakfast ten years ago. What color suit they wore to church on Christmas." "You don't ask for much," Gabriel remarked sarcastically. "I know it's a lot, but a trivial detail might be the key. I don't want you hampered by restrictions." "Sure, I'll get back to you later." Sara hung up the phone and sat back in her chair. She had every confidence that Gabriel would come up with something. Meanwhile she logged onto her computer and ran her own background checks on Connor Nash. He didn't have a New York driver's license, so she tried passports next. Yes, his name was listed as having a British passport. She tried to get a picture but when it came up on the screen it was blurry, as if it had been enlarged and then reduced too many times. The facial features weren't distinct, yet it bore a remarkable resemblance to Russell. Next she began a search in Marrakech and looked for Russell Nash's obituary. She found it. It showed a picture of him and described him as a wonderful father to an adopted baby boy. He donated large sums of money to the local orphanage and helped out personally with the kids' education. Russell Nash was a model citizen. It went on to describe his death and the horror felt by the old woman who had discovered it. Sara sent the article to the printer. As she waited for the paper to come out, she began thinking about Adam Pierson. Did Adam know Russell or Connor Nash? Would he want to kill Connor? Suddenly the image of Pierson bursting through her door with his sword raised flashed in her mind. This time she took a good look at his face and found to her surprise- -fear. Not hate, nor blood-lust, but genuine fear. Then recognition. The sword was lowered and slid into his coat. Curiously, there was no relief, more like resignation. Cassandra had said that she and Pierson were not the best of friends. As her memory replayed the action, Sara realized that Pierson had been ready to defend her, or possibly defend Jake, from whoever had been in her apartment. Dante. They, Jake and Pierson, had believed Dante had been inside trying to kill her and Pierson had been ready to defend her. The Witchblade grew warm on her wrist. Her mind flooded with images of a distant time. A man in shadow with an arm raised holding a sword was quickly followed by the sight of Pierson, dressed as a medieval knight, fighting against another with the same sword. May 23, 1430-morning She was riding her horse with chaos surrounding her. Her troops wanted to retreat, to return safe inside the city walls, but she angrily commanded them, "Be silent! Think only of striking hard at them!" De Morency came up to her. "Jeannette, we will lose this day. Please think of France and return inside the walls. If you are taken, we are all doomed." "God tells me to push on. We cannot lose. Tell the men to fight harder." She jabbed her mount's side, causing him to rush forward into the melee. "Jeannette!" de Morency cried. "Look to your direction." She ignored his advice and rode forward. "See, they are falling back in great disorder." Jeannette led her men forward, toward the bridge. Suddenly the bridge was raised, thus trapping her and her men outside without any protection. That was all the incentive the Burgundians needed. Soon Jeannette found her men surrounded. One of the enemy, a rough archer, pulled her from her horse. His eyes were full of hatred as he man-handled her to the ground. Jeannette feared for her life and looked to the Woman's Glove upon her wrist to help, but it stayed dormant. She used all her might to will it to become a sword so she might thrust it up into this uncouth man, but it wouldn't obey. A knight came up, demanding the archer to give up his prize to his lord. "I am Wandomme, of noble blood. Give me your faith and I will treat you honorably," he requested. Jeannette stood up from the mud gazing around at her army's utter defeat. Of her personal guard, only de Morency was within sight. He held an Englishman at the tip of his sword, but did not run him through, all waiting for her to admit defeat. The Voices came to her, telling her the fight was over. Obedience to God required her to be submissive to the ones that had captured her. With a bowed head, she gave them her faith. ^*^*^*^*^*^ Sara shook off the memories or visions or whatever they were and sprang from her chair, grabbing her folder on her way out the door. Conflicting images ran across her eyes. She thought she was going crazy. Adam Pierson was de Morency. Not in the same way as Nottingham was the reincarnation of Alencon, but Pierson was really de Morency, the same man. The thought totally unnerved her. It just wasn't possible. Without a wasted motion, Sara pulled her helmet on her head and turned on the bike. Revving the engine she pulled out of the parking lot and drove away. As she pulled to a stop outside her apartment building it occurred to her if Pierson was really de Morency, so could Russell be Connor. Bedsoe's words echoed in her mind. " …we were looking at the deeds to the building that Nash lives in and she compared the signatures to each of the owners for the past hundred years or so and found that they had all been written by the same guy." IV Cassandra stretched her legs out in front of her. Her meditation had last over an hour, yet it had done little to relax her. She could feel the Witchblade spinning an intricate web around Sara and those connected to her. The purpose, as of yet, remained unknown. Cassandra worried that it had something to do with Sara finding out about Immortals because of the way she was hunting down Bruno Dante's murderer. Sara was not ready for such information. Grabbing a can of Slim Fast, Cassandra left her apartment and headed toward Gabriel Bowman's dot com store. She didn't understand why she felt drawn to the young man, but he was a delight to be around. Gabriel was intensely interested in history and its impact on the world around him. Not many were able to see the connection, and even fewer cared. Just last week he was trying to fix a pocket watch that had belonged to Winston Churchill. It wasn't because he wanted a timepiece; it was just because Churchill had used it. Gabriel's friend was just coming out the front door when she arrived. "Oooo-it's the witch," he said. "Come to turn me into a toad?" Cassandra smiled wolfishly. "A mere toad? That wouldn't require much work. How about a handsome prince? Now that would be a real test of my powers." "Very funny. Gabriel's inside. I don't know why…" Cassandra ceased to listen to him. He always said the same old thing, anyway. Gabriel was indeed inside the shop, working diligently on the computer. His dark curly hair was in more of a disarray than usual, as if he had threaded his hand through it countless times. Cassandra walked quietly behind him and peered over his shoulder. A gasp escaped as she recognized the face on the screen--Connor MacLeod. Gabriel immediately darkened the screen. "I didn't hear you come in," he replied sounding guilty. "Sara has you investigating Russell Nash?" she accused. "You don't approve?" he asked disparagingly. "Approval has nothing to do with it. Nash would never seriously hurt her--" "Would never hurt her?" he asked with surprise written all over his face. "That sounds like he's still alive. Is he?" Cassandra stopped, not sure whether Connor MacLeod had moved on to another persona. "I'm not sure," she answered honestly. "If you think he's dead, why are you bothering to research him?" "Information," Gabriel responded enthusiastically. "All kinds of circumstantial evidence puts him in the same location as four different decapitations. I hacked into some interesting databases and ran his picture that puts him in several other very strange circumstances. His first wife, Brenda Wyatt, a sword expert, was killed in a car crash in 1987, yet *he* walked away without a scratch." "And what does Nash being lucky have anything to do with the mystery surrounding Dante's death?" Cassandra asked. "It's not the luck I'm looking into, but the mystery encompassing the people. Did you know that one of the detectives that had been investigating Nash is now married to Nash's shopkeeper? Also, Nash's own wife was one of the first ones involved in his questioning because of her expertise in ancient swords. More coincidences?" "No. They probably called her in *because* of her expertise. I don't understand what you hope to learn." Cassandra decided it was time to change the subject. Hopefully Gabriel wouldn't learn anything concrete about Connor. She went over to another chair to sit down and noticed a folder sitting on the shelf. "Witch's Letters," was written in bold across the tab. "What's this?" she asked, opening it up. "This man in Massachusetts sold me a series of letters. A seventeenth-century witch supposedly wrote them to an accomplice. She described in horrifying detail all the tests and tortures she experienced at the hands of her jailers. In her last letter she actually pleads with her friend to send a spell to enchant her guard into letting her go. That's when they executed her." Cassandra flipped the pages to the last letter and absently read the words. However, her mind had flown back much further in time. The Burgundians had just captured Jeanette, and Cassandra had found a way to meet with her one last time. May 23, 1430--night time The night was cold. Cassandra wrapped the cloak tighter around her body trying in vain to ward off the chill. Tents of every size littered the meadow. Raucous celebrating echoed in the night air. The Bastard of Wandomme had taken the Maid prisoner. The supporters of the dual monarchy had won a great victory by this heroic deed. Or so they believed. Cassandra knew differently. The Witchblade had told her that only through Jeannette's martyrdom would the people of France be granted their freedom. Now the poor peasant girl was to begin her long ordeal. The old Immortal wanted so much to be able to protect Jeannette, but that action would nullify everything her name had gained. Cassandra must not interfere. Except to shield the Witchblade. The tent flap flew open and a man stormed out of Jeannett'e canvas prison. The Duke of Burgundy himself, his face red in anger, stalked rigidly away. Cassandra took her chance and slipped into the tent. "My lady," Jeannette gasped and fell to her knees. "You have come to deliver me!" Copious tears ran down her cheeks. "I have been so afraid. The English! The duke means to sell me to the English." Fresh tears flooded her eyes. "Hush, child." Cassandra patted her consolingly on the head. "God will not forsake you. Your life has been devoted to doing His bidding." "Have you come to take me away from here?" "No. I cannot, for your hardest task is yet to come. Please don't lose heart." Cassandra found her own eyes filling with tears. She reached down and took hold of Jeannette's hands and pulled her to her feet. "Courage and a stout heart is what you need to rely on." "I am afraid." The Witchblade's red swirled and glowed in the dark tent. Cassandra put her hand over it. "Jeannette, listen very carefully." Employing the voice, she commanded, "The Witch's glove must cease to be a bracelet. You have seen it change form, now it will become something new." A ring on Jeannette's finger slipped off and into Cassandra's hand. The Witchblade shrank, twisted and made itself almost a copy of that ring and slid onto Jeannette's finger. "*This* is the ring your mother gave you. Never take it off, for it will never return to you." The girl nodded her head in understanding, still enthralled by the voice. "God will deliver you," Cassandra promised, then slid out of the tent, leaving the Maid alone in her incarceration. ^*^*^*^^*^* "Cassandra? You okay?" Gabriel was shaking her. "You're crying," he sounded stunned. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so sensitive about the Salem Witch Trials." "Even a witch cannot save everyone she wishes to." She gently wiped the few tears from her eyes. V Rachel tried Connor's number again. Why wouldn't he answer? Detective Sara Pezzini had her very worried. Rachel was an expert at reading people who were shooting in the dark in their question and those with just the right amount of knowledge and were looking for the missing link. The good detective fell under the latter category. Once more she pushed the numbers corresponding to his personal cell phone. No answer and the phone mail wasn't activated. The longer she tried and failed, the more she worried. Finally, she gave up and called Duncan in Paris. "Rachel, what's happened?" Duncan asked her. "I've been trying to get a hold of Connor but he won't answer his phone. I had a visitor today. A detective," and she went on to describe the details. "She knows something; I could just tell." "What exactly was she looking for?" "I think she wanted me to admit that Connor has beheaded someone and she wants the particulars." "Did any of her questions make it sound like she thinks Connor's in New York right now?" "No. She knows Russell Nash is dead. It's the deed and its consequences that she's interested in. Someone else has been beheaded, and she wants to find the person responsible. Because Connor has been brought in for questioning, she's hoping to find a starting point for her own investigation. I'm pretty used to fielding questions about Connor, but somehow this is different. I know she's planning on coming back. Do you know where Connor is?" "Alex took him on an archeology dig. The phones probably can't reach him." Rachel let out a sigh of relief. "What should I do about Detective Pezzini?" "Do you want me to talk to her?" "Would you, Duncan? I really hate to ask Frank. He finds the concept of immortality difficult enough. Lying to Walter was about all he could handle." "Sure, Rachel. I'll catch the next flight." Rachel hung up the phone, glad that Connor's kinsman was going to take care of it. VI Amanda disembarked at Kennedy and made it through customs with a minimum of fuss. Only her bags were searched. Last time she had almost been strip-searched. One of the custom agents had recognized her face and was positive that she was smuggling something illegal into the US. Luckily, at that time, she was clean. This time, she had some of her best equipment with her. With hips swaying and her handbag flung over her shoulder, Amanda cooed to the baggage handler as he pushed a cart carrying her belongings to a rented car. While her actions might have promised more than a tip, the poor man had to settle for the twenty-dollar bill she teasingly slid into his breast pocket. Starting the rented BMW, Amanda drove out of the lot and headed for the Crowne Hotel on Broadway. It was not her usual style, but on this trip she wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible. That was not to say she didn't require comfort, since she asked for a Jacuzzi room, for the morning-after late night excursions. After checking in, the first order of business was to make contact with those she had worked with before. For the next twenty minutes she made a series of calls, setting up meetings and leaving her name and how to reach her with others. Satisfied that her plans had been set in motion, she called down to room service for some dinner then began drawing water for a nice long soak. Day 3 I Gabriel pounded on Sara's door. He knew she was in there since it was only six-thirty in the morning. "What in the hell do you want?" an irritated, but sleepy voice demanded. "It's me, Gabriel. I've got some news for you." He could hear her stumbling around and then the lock shoved back. Sara threw open the door. "It had better be good," she warned, still in the process of tying her bathrobe. Gabriel confidently walked in, stumbling a bit as he caught sight of her wearing only a thin bathrobe. Sara immediately took the box containing croissants and two large coffees, helping herself to one of them. He blushed a bit at his adolescent behavior. She helped herself to one of the coffees, and he followed her to the table. "What's so important that you couldn't wait?" she began. He quickly forgot his embarrassment as the remembered hurt resurfaced. "You were supposed to call me yesterday and you didn't." Gabriel did his best to keep his own irritation out of his voice. "You asked me to get some information about someone and then when I found something out, you didn't even--" "I'm sorry, Gabriel. I've been trying to do two jobs at once and failing at both." She took a sip of the hot brew. "I did manage to gain some information, and it's really knocked my socks off." Gabriel broke into a croissant and lathered it with butter. "Let me tell you what I found out. It's truly amazing." Gabriel was pleased to see that Sara was finally giving him her attention. He could hardly sit still he was so excited. "Okay," Sara acquiesced, taking a sip of her coffee. "First, Russell Nash married the forensics expert who was investigating him for a beheading back in '85." "Yep, found out about that." "The wife, Brenda Wyatt, died in a car accident where Russell Nash was able to escape without a scratch." Gabriel looked at Sara, but it seemed she already knew this, also. "I've got a picture of Russell, taken during his arrest by someone who had attended the wrestling match." He pulled out the picture, which showed a man getting cuffed. His eyes were wild as he fought the officers with a vengeance. Sara picked up the picture. "He looks like a very dangerous man." "Look at his clothes. He'd definitely been in a fight. There's grease streaks down his shirt and his pants have a slice in one of the legs. I can't believe the cops didn't pick this up." Sara took a closer look. "You're right. I can feel the violence the man was feeling." "The Witchblade telling you that?" "No, the picture is. The photographer is very good. What else do you have?" "There was another series of beheadings a few years later. One of the detectives began investigating Nash, because he believed the man was involved. Nash fled the country and didn't come back, according to the detective. Yet, five years after that, Connor Nash inherits the antique store, also coming from Scotland. I found a picture of him. It's the same guy. Russell didn't die; he faked his death, because he wanted to return to New York." "No, that's not true." Sara told him. She jumped up and grabbed a folder, which she brought back to the table. "I found Russell's obit and there's no doubt he died--a very public death. You can't fake that," she added. Gabriel took the printout and read it through. He had to agree that it looked authentic. "You said you have a picture of Connor Nash?" Sara asked. "Yeah, here. Back in '94 there was some kind of show. The antique store featured work by a Parisian sculptor." "Not their usual line," Sara commented. "Yeah, but they did and the press showed up. Here's a picture taken and I swear the man looks just like Russell." Gabriel handed the picture to Sara. She looked at it closely. "You're right. It does look like the same person. It's the eyes." She kept staring at the picture. "How can Russell have a public death, yet not be dead?" Gabriel didn't know how to answer. "I don't know. And what does all this have to do with the beheadings you're investigating?" Sara's eyes glazed and she stared straight ahead. Gabriel became nervous. "Sara? You okay?" He got up from his chair and went over to her. "Sara," he repeated, shaking her shoulder. "My God, Gabriel!" Her body started to shudder. "It's staring us in the face." "What is?" he asked, concerned. "When I was talking with Bedsoe, one of the detective who had brought in Russell Nash, he told me that Brenda Wyatt joked about--" "Wait a minute. You haven't filled me in on this part. Start at the beginning." Sara quickly informed him about the conversation. "Brenda Wyatt said that she had to decapitate that man because it was the only way he could die. That's it. It's why they go around cutting off heads." "That doesn't make any sense. The obituary said that Russell Nash was dead. They documented it. How can he then *not* be dead?" "I don't know. What if Connor Nash really is Russell? What if he died, but then came back to life?" "That's a big jump." "Yeah and earth shattering. Like the kind Cassandra wouldn't want me to know?" Gabriel remembered the visit he had with Cassandra. "She came to see me yesterday and saw that I was investigating Nash. She didn't like it, but when she spoke of him she used the present tense. When I said Russell was dead, she back-peddled, but she was covering up her own snafu. She thinks Russell Nash is alive." "She recognized his picture?" "Yes." "What if I showed her a picture of Connor and asked her if it was Russell? Think she could tell the difference?" "Don't know." Gabriel considered it. Then he started thinking more about Cassandra. "Didn't she say that she knew Joan of Arc, like she had been alive at the same time?' "But she was kidding, wasn't she?" Gabriel continued his thought. "What if she were telling the truth? What if there's a whole group of people who can't die except by decapitation, wouldn't that mean they would live a very long time?" It all made a strange kind of sense. "This other group of people, I even think they can feel one another. When Jake first brought Adam Pierson over, Pierson burst in my apartment waving a sword. I think he felt Cassandra and thought it was Dante. Cassandra acted weird too, just before Pierson barged in. She jumped from the couch and reached for her sword. It was too fast to have been anything other than instinct driving her." "Go on," Gabriel implored, totally fascinated with the story. "Did they fight?" "No. Once they recognized each other the weapons went away." "That's why Cassandra is qualified to teach *you* how to wield a sword," Gabriel reflected aloud. "She must have to do it all the time. Why else would such an action be so instinctive?" "Before Pierson left, he made sure Cassandra was going to stay with me for protection--my protection. As if Dante wouldn't dare hurt me if he knew she was there." "You mean if Dante could feel her close, he wouldn't attempt anything?" "Yep, that's what I think. Plus, I don't think Cassandra is the only one old enough to have known Joan of Arc; I think Pierson knew her too. I'm having strange dreams and Pierson's in them, except he's called de Morency, and once Cassandra called him de Morency. He's the one who physically taught Joan of Arc how to fight with a sword." "Like what Cassandra is doing with you now?" "Yes. The few times I saw Pierson, he looked at me strangely, like he knows me, but isn't going to say so. Or like he wants to say something, but is holding back." Gabriel began putting more pieces together. "So, someone beheaded Dante because that was the only way he could be stopped. Regular death wasn't gong to cut it, pardon the pun." "Pierson did it, to protect me." "So, we have a subset of the human population that can't die except by having their head cut off. Cassandra and Adam Pierson are two of them," Gabriel tried to sum up what they were saying. "Yes, and so is Russell Nash and so *was* Dante," Sara added. "And they go around fighting each other with swords?" Gabriel asked, not really believing what they were saying. It sounded too far- fetched. "I'm beginning to think these fights happen all the time but somehow are kept secret." Sara began pacing the room. Gabriel watched as she went back and forth obviously as upset at their conjecture as he was. "That must mean there are a lot of these immortal people out there. Kind of scary, you know." Gabriel felt a shiver run down his back. "I bet they're not all good-guys, either." "You're right." She stopped in front of him. "In one of the police reports I read, one witness, a mercenary type, said he pumped something like forty rounds from an automatic rifle into this one guy dressed in leather and chains, and the man with the sword just kept coming. The bullets didn't even slow him down. No one could explain it." "Are you going to tell Cassandra what you found out?" "No. I want to go back and talk with the woman who works at Nash's Antiques. She knows all about this, and I want her to explain it better." Gabriel was quiet, thinking of the ramifications. "Wonder how old Cassandra and Pierson really are? How are they born in the first place? How many are there in all?" Gabriel couldn't stop the flow of questions that bombarded his mind. Sara shrugged her shoulders. "I could ask, but I'm sure she won't tell me." Both were quiet as they digested both the breakfast and the strange information. In Gabriel's life he had seen and heard of bizarre and mysterious things, but people who go around cutting each other's heads off was by far the weirdest. "Has the Witchblade said anything?" "It hasn't exactly spoken, but I've seen visions of sword fights and decapitations. At least it isn't telling me I'm wrong." Gabriel drained his coffee cup. "Guess I better go so you can get ready for work. Let me know if that woman tells you anything new." "Sure thing," Sara agreed. Gabriel left Sara's apartment with dozens of things to think about. He wanted to do some checking on the web and see if anyone else had knowledge of these immortals. II Jake got out of his car and proceeded to walk inside the Precinct Eleven building. Just as he touched the doorknob, he felt a shadow move next to him. "You are looking for me?" Ian Nottingham asked, head slightly bowed, but eyes glaring up at Jake. With a grimace and an uneasy gulp, Jake responded. "Yes, we would like to ask you some questions." Nottingham said nothing, but waited with his intense eyes locked onto Jake. Feeling extremely uncomfortable, Jake asked, "Why don't we go to my desk?" "You share an office with Sara?" He made it sound almost like a statement instead of question. In fact most of the time there seemed to be more than one meaning to his words. "And Danny Woo." Still Nottingham didn't move. "You need to open the door, detective." Feeling foolish, Jake finished pulling the door open, and Nottingham slid inside. Without directions, Nottingham seemed to know exactly where the office was located. Jake couldn't help thinking how dangerous Irons' pet, as Sara called him, could be. Nottingham rivaled some of the deadliest Immortals; at least when *they* were shot, you had a chance to escape. Jake believed that if Nottingham wanted you dead, nothing much could stop him. In short time they entered the little room that served as an office. Nottingham immediately took Sara's seat and sat primly with his hands folded in his lap. Jake wasn't sure what to do. He wanted to listen to his phone messages, but not with a suspect within hearing distance. Jake shuffled some papers on his desk, trying to look busy. "Don't you have questions for me?" Nottingham asked softly. "I'd rather wait for Pez or Danny to come in." "Of course. You *are* the rookie." Jake noted an inflection in the other man's voice that he couldn't define. It was almost accusatory, but with a tinge of irony. What did the other man know? "I am not a rookie, but an FBI agent," Jake countered, yet couldn't keep out a certain tentativeness tone in his voice. No doubt Nottingham heard it loud and clear. Jake felt disgusted with himself. Suddenly Nottingham stood and a smile spread across his face. Jake shivered. "Morning, Jake." Sara walked in. "I brought some…" Her voice trailed off as she noticed the visitor. "What's he doing here?" she asked bluntly, setting the tray of Starbuck's coffee down on Jake's desk. "Mr. Irons said that you wanted to talk to me. You know," Nottingham moved effortlessly next to Sara and grasped her hand, "I am always willing to converse with you." She shook her hand free and walked to the other side of her desk, grabbing a coffee on her way. "Right. But shouldn't we be in an interrogation room? Huh, Jake?" Jake quickly stood, feeling guilty that he hadn't taken Nottingham directly there. Sara gave him an aggravated look then led Nottingham out of the room. The suspect followed Sara like a puppy. Jake grabbed his coffee and quickly went after them. "We want to know," she began as Nottingham took a seat, "where were you between twelve and three the day before yesterday?" Nottingham glanced malevolently at Jake then answered, "Watching you, Sara." Jake stiffened at the strange choice of words. Was there a hidden message in there? Did he know anything about the Watchers? Jake saw what could pass as a tender smile cross Nottingham's face as he looked Sara. "You are such a pleasure to behold." "Cut it out, Nottingham," she scolded, crossly. "Do you know Armand Parsegian? "Doesn't everyone?" "Were you aware you were surveilling the man you were paid to bodyguard?" "I'd be a poor bodyguard if I didn't." Nottingham looked speculatively at Jake, but continued to address Sara. "Have you ever wondered how your partner," he said derisively, "obtained this job over several candidates who were actually qualified?" Jake could feel Sara's eyes dart to him, then focus back on Nottingham. "Yes, he was here undercover. Stop changing the subject. Did you intend to take out both men with one shot?" Nottingham refused to give ground. "Whoever killed Parsegian prevented thousands of murders." "I know saving lives was not your motive." Sara commented. "His assassin should be thanked." Sara interrupted. "Only three or four people in the world are capable of making a shot like that. I think you anticipated a double cross and took matters into you own hand to protect your master. Am I close?" "Not close enough." He made to slide the chair closer to where she was standing. She skirted to the other side of McCarty. Jake posed his own question. "Did Kenneth Irons command you to kill, or was it your idea?" "I do follow orders from my superior, but it's easy when there is only one. How do you manage to keep all your superiors separate?" he asked with a knowing smile. "If you're alluding to the FBI, it is a well known fact that--" "Jake, you don't have to defend yourself to a suspect," Sara reprimanded. "Don't you get confused, Detective McCarty? Whose orders have priority? Are you a detective? An agent? Or something else entirely? Do you even remember who you really are anymore?" Jake rapidly stood, but Sara was there and threw him back in his seat. "Nottingham! Enough of these games! You're free to go, but we'll be keeping our eyes on you." Nottingham stood and walked to the doorway. "If you want to stay close to me, Sara, just ask. We can be inseparable, if you wish." Then he left. Jake noticed that Sara was shaking with anger as much as he was. "How does he do it?" he asked, not totally rhetorical. "We're the police. We should have command of the interrogation, yet from the moment he arrived, it felt like he was one in control." "We let our emotions get the best of us," she answered wryly. "Nottingham has no emotions." III Joe was standing behind the bar talking to another Watcher who was stationed in Rouen. They had just finalized Joe's cover for when he went to New York. Joe was now a curator for a museum in Rouen sent to New York to buy the painting of Joan of Arc as she was burning. He was authorized to spend up to five hundred thousand dollars, with an option for more if the American tycoon proved difficult. Joe hadn't told him that McCarty had warned him that Mr. Kenneth Irons was more than merely difficult. Joe said goodbye and noticed Duncan MacLeod coming into the bar carrying a suitcase. "Going somewhere, Mac?" "Yes. New York City. Rachel just called. She's having problems with an overzealous cop who's investigating Connor and beheadings. I'm flying over to run interference." Joe couldn't believe it. He wasn't sure whether to tell Mac of his plans or not. They didn't really concern the Scot, but on the other hand, Methos was going and it didn't concern him either. "I may have business over there myself." Mac gave him a knowing smile. "I'm sure you do. Bye." Joe laughed to himself. The egomaniac believed that Joe's business had to involve him. Well, maybe it was better that way. He'd hate to see Mac if he knew about the painting of Darius. He'd want it for himself. At least Joe knew that Methos had no interest in it. About ten minutes after the Scot had left, the oldest Immortal came striding in. "Hey, you just missed MacLeod," Joe told Methos as the newcomer took a seat at the bar. Without being asked, Joe filled a glass of beer. "Thanks," Methos responded, taking a chug. "How's he doing?" "For some reason, Rachel is being bothered by some cop investigating beheadings and has tied it in with Connor." Methos sat up straighter on the stool. "Did MacLeod mention the cop's name?" Joe's internal radar kicked on. "Nooo," he answered slowly, considering why this might interest Methos. "Why?" "Just curious. Does he know we're going there, too?" "I mentioned that I might have business in New York, but I never said anything about you." "Good plan." Joe waited for him to expound on his response but nothing else was forthcoming. "So, when do we leave?" Methos asked. "I take it the Watchers have come up with your fake ID and cover for this enterprise." "I'm all set. They even gave me a ticket for a flight tomorrow morning." Methos drained his drink. "I'll pick you up at home around six?" Joe agreed. Methos was being generous. IV Sara waited for her shift to be over before heading directly for Nash's Antiques. She really wanted to question Rachel Ellenstein- Moran again. This time Sara was armed with more knowledge. Parking her cycle outside, she carried her helmet and entered the front door, sending the little bell jingling. "Can I help y--" The woman stopped, a disgruntled expression crossing her face. "You're back." "Hello. I've got some more questions." The proprietor gave a big sigh, but showed Sara to a seat. "I just want you to know," Sara began, trying to reassure the lady, "that in no way am I implicating you in any crime. I just want some information, and I think I've guessed what's going on." Sara watched the woman's face pale. "What do you think you know?" she asked hesitantly. "There are some people out there who are different. That can't die except by decapitation. Some are good, some bad. My captain was a person like this, but he was corrupt. Another man, thinking to help me, fought him with a sword and cut off his head. Then there was lightning that flew out of the dead man's neck and entered the victor's body." "You witnessed this?" Rachel asked, sounding amazed. "Not exactly," Sara hedged, not wanting to confess to visions. "And you know who it was that killed your captain?" "Yes. I'm pretty sure although I don't have a confession." "What is it you want me to say?" "I know there's more. The man who killed Dante had to be at least six hundred years old," Sara calculated how long ago Joan of Arc had lived, "probably more than that." If anything Rachel paled even more. "Is he still in New York?" "No. If he were, I'd be pounding on *his* door trying to get to the bottom of all this. Do you know how many of these people there are?" "Not really." At least the woman hadn't contradicted her theory. It was a good start. This British-sounding woman with very correct manners wouldn't find it easy to really confide in her. "When did you meet Russell Nash or whatever his real name is?" Rachel took a deep breath. "He rescued me in World War II. I was just a little girl wandering around dead bodies looking for my parents." The woman shuddered. "He became my knight in shining armor. Have you ever had one of those?" The question was rhetorical, but Sara answered it any ways. "Yes. Probably the man who killed Dante thought that he was acting as my knight." Sara visualized de Morency as he rode beside her--no, not her--but Joan of Arc. "Can you tell me about the lightning? Is it dangerous to regular mortals, like us?" "It is very dangerous." "What's it called?" Sara looked at Rachel intently, trying to get answers by shear force of will. "Quickening," Rachel responded, reluctantly. Sara could feel the Witchblade's heat radiating into her wrist. "What does this Quickening do to the person it goes into?" "It carries the essence of the dead Immortal. Sometimes during the Quickening, actual memories can assault the one still alive. I've heard it described as both agony and ecstasy. Mostly it's just exhausting." There was something else that the woman wasn't saying, but Sara couldn't figure out what it was or how to ask for it. "I understand you don't want to tell me. But how else can I find out what's going on and not do something stupid? I need you to guide me in this. Please help," Sara pleaded. "I really shouldn't. It's not my secret to divulge. You know too much, and if the wrong person found out you could be tortured and killed. You're not supposed to talk about it openly. Walls have ears, and someone is always listening in." Sara could feel the defeat. "Here's my card. Call Nash. I know Connor and Russell Nash are the same person. Ask permission to talk to me or better yet have *him* talk to me." Rachel smiled gratefully. "Maybe." Sara left feeling dissatisfied, although she had learned two things. They called themselves Immortals, and the lightning was called a Quickening. It wasn't enough. Cassandra was no help, although maybe now, she'd explain her more. Brightening with the idea, Sara headed home, via her favorite Chinese take-out. V Ian Nottingham stood outside Sara's window and watched her pummel the punching bag. It had been such torture being with her at the police station and not being able to really talk. Or touch. While he thoroughly enjoyed the sight of Sara exercising, with her muscles rippling and sweat beading on her arms and face, it was meeting face to face, that Ian treasured the most. Because it was then that she saw him. Someday her eyes would light up in happiness when they met. He hated the distrust she now showed him, the revulsion that her eyes revealed. Someday, he promised himself, Sara would look at him just as Jeanette had looked at Alencon, her fair knight. Turning, he leaped down to the ground, passing the darkened window of the witch who lived below his lady Sara. Cassandra hadn't been home since lunch, when she had left in a cab. Ian had decided not to follow, having Vorshlag business to attend to. VI Duncan MacLeod arrived at Connor's a little before nine. Rachel had cooked dinner and was waiting for him. "I am so glad you're here, Duncan. This woman has me really worried." "But she isn't after Connor?" "She says she isn't, and I believe her. There's someone else and he's older, at least six hundred years old. That's the immortal who killed her captain. I asked Frank about it, and he said to fob her off with half-truths and be done with it. But I think she's too smart for that." Duncan smiled. "Give me the card and I'll go visit her tomorrow." He sipped the excellent vintage Rachel had served with dinner. Connor always stacked the best cellar, no matter which of his houses you were staying at. Day 4 I Joe and Methos had made it to their flight in good time. As soon as the plane took off, Methos pushed his chair back and took a snooze. It was hell waking up so early. Even Joe didn't seem to mind the quiet as he too, had reclined and closed his eyes. No doubt his companion was dreaming of obtaining the painting and the pride that went with the acquisition. Methos had conflicting thoughts on the journey. Amanda had emailed him to say that everything was going according to plan. She had had an Immortal friend locate an old set of blueprints for the mansion from when it was built back in the sixties. Rolf Vrank, head of the security company that had installed the latest system in the house, had unknowingly donated the file to the cause. Amanda assured Methos that she had copied it and returned it without the company knowing that it had gone missing. Now the only thing for Methos to decide was what to do with the picture once they had stolen it. Should he give it to the Watchers or keep it for himself? Part of him hated the thought that the people who had destroyed the worthy priest would be the ones to possess such a treasure. However, they would take the best care of it and keep it hidden from the authorities. Irons wouldn't have any idea how to begin looking for it. Maybe Methos could request that it be kept in Paris so he could go look at it when the mood hit. Paris. Thinking about the city in connection to Jeannette brought to mind another painting. This one also contained Darius, painted by Van Eyck, but it was a much happier scene. This sitting took place just after the Maid's capture and before the administrators of the Catholic Church in England, motivated by jealousy and fear, got their hands on her. The Burgundian court and their learned theologians were still innocent of the crimes they would be blamed for in the centuries to come. Methos remembered his trip to Paris after Jeannette's capture. It hadn't been easy, but the need to see Darius had overwhelmed any other consideration. July, 1430 Methos pretended a limp as he arrived at the Paris gate. His clothes were in tatters and there was dirt streaked down his face. The journey had been long and arduous, and he made sure he looked the part. Most of his time was spent avoiding patrols who were looking for French sympathizers. The concept of dual monarchy was proclaimed to be the will of God and anyone disagreeing with England's rule was immediately incarcerated to be executed en masse. Methos was willing to proclaim anything if only he could find Darius. He was probably the one man in the whole world who might be able to put a stop to the tragedy that would occur if Jeannette went to trial. Darius was respected by both the bishops and the noblemen. The roads were filled with tradesmen and wagons. Methos dodged the Burgundian soldiers, using the multitude as a shield. The smell of baked bread made his stomach growl. He stopped at one of the sellers and purchased a loaf, breaking it and eating it as he walked. One more side street and he came upon the little church that Darius called home. An Immortal presence loomed in front and there was Darius in his robes watching as Methos approached. A welcoming smile filled Darius' face. "Methos! It has been many years. Come in. I've got some fresh beer one of my parishioners brought over last night." Methos felt such gladness at the sight of his friend's face. "Thank you." An hour later, Methos had cleaned up and was enjoying dinner, beer and a game of chess. "Are you in trouble, old friend?" Darius asked, concerned. "No. They believe me to be dead. I was in the service of the Maid." "They killed you?" "Yes. A sword through the back. It was not a dignified way to die, but at least it wasn't across the neck." "You had a lucky escape. You wish to hide here?" "I want your help in stopping the travesty that is about to occur." "How?" "You have influence at the university. Talk to the bishops and theologians. They cannot all condemn her." "It is too late. The king of England is already in discussion with Rome and the duke of Burgundy. They believe she is a witch." "But she is not. She talks to God." Methos had to convince Darius to take on Jeannette's cause. "I believe you. But they will not." "Will you help?" "Yes, Methos. I will travel to the university tomorrow morning. News of her capture has energized the different departments. They are all pouring over old texts to find precedence for heresy trials. I may be able to find a sympathetic ear." "Thank you. Jeannette does not deserve this fate." Darius sighed deeply. "I think it is best that we retire for the night. I will leave early, but you are free to read through my library. I believe I've made some new acquisitions that might interest you." Methos felt his eyes light up. Darius had the finest collection of books of anyone he knew. Passing the time reading was one of Methos' most enjoyable practices. "Thank you." ^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^ Methos woke suddenly, feeling disoriented. The musty smell of the old church was replaced by the flat odor of reconditioned air in the plane. He looked out the window and saw white billowy clouds. Joe, seated next to him, was snoring softly. Too restless now to sleep, Methos pulled out his laptop and plugged it into the internet connection on the seat in front of him. The computer booted up silently, and the first thing he did was check his email. To his surprise there was a letter from his friend at the Vatican. The oldest Immortal stiffened in his seat as he read the message. Somehow, the archivists at the Vatican had found out that the Witchblade now resided upon Sara Pezzini's wrist. Horrified that another young woman would wield such power, they had dispatched an envoy to repossess the ancient relic. They had written proof that it had belonged to them and had been stolen during World War II, and they were prepared to demand its return. Swallowing thickly, Methos realized that he'd have to visit either Cassandra or Sara. It wasn't something he could let Jake McCarty handle. "You okay, Methos?" Joe asked, looking concerned. Methos quickly cleared his screen. "Fine. Just wish we'd hurry up and get there." Joe looked dubious, but refrained from more comments. Methos shut down the computer and began thinking of the best way to inform Sara of this new obstacle. He didn't doubt that there was a way around the situation, but could Sara figure it out on her own? With a sinking feeling he realized that he'd have to tell Cassandra, and let her work out a solution with the wielder. It wasn't his place to interfere. II Jake woke to a pounding on his door. It was Saturday morning, and for once he had a day off. He flung open the door, ready to berate the person on the other side, but stopped, sputtering incoherently as he recognized his mentor, Howard Wyatt, standing there. "Morning, Howard," Jake finally muttered, letting the older man in. Without preamble, the Watcher and FBI deputy director began his verbal assault. "I just found out that Joe Dawson is flying here. Not only that, but my son is also coming, because Methos has decided to accompany Dawson. Did you know about this?" "Noooo," Jake answered hesitantly. "How could you not know when it was your call to Dawson the precipitated the trip?'' Jake kept the dumb look on his face. "Why didn’t you tell *me* about this mysterious Darius painting that Kenneth Irons owns? I could have used the FBI's resources to gain access to the mansion and then confiscated it as stolen merchandise. We would have had more luck getting it my way than with Dawson impersonating a museum curator, or whatever he's planning." "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't think of that. It was my duty to inform the Western Europe contingency about an artifact from their area. I sort of know Dawson and just called him out of reflex. Why didn't they ask you to help instead of working on this cover for Joe?" "I'm disappointed in you, Jake." Jake didn't want to admit that he hadn't given Howard a thought, so he latched onto the other information his mentor had imparted. "Did I hear you say that Methos is arriving here with Dawson?" Jake wanted to make sure he got that part right. "Yes," Howard confirmed. "The Watchers have booked Joe a room in the Waldorf Astoria, needing to uphold the cover of a wealthy art buyer." Would Methos ask to stay with him? Probably not, since he hadn't even notified him of the trip in the first place. Uncomfortable, Jake decided to redirect the conversation. "Are you almost finished cleaning up the White Bulls?" Howard stiffened, then accepted Jake's change in subject. "Yes. The FBI is just tying up a few loose ends." "When will I be reassigned?" Jake wasn't anxious to leave. "I don't have anyone right now for you to Watch. Maybe you should stick around and keep an eye on Cassandra and see what business she has with Sara Pezzini. Melanie has reported that the two women spend an inordinate amount of time together. Do you know anything about this?" "A little. Bruno Dante wanted Pezzini dead because she was trying to tie him into the White Bulls. Cassandra appointed herself as a protector, of sorts, I think." "You didn't orchestrate that, did you?" Howard asked, accusingly. "No, of course not. I wouldn't have the guts to talk to Cassandra , let alone ask her a favor. It was just chance that made her move into the same apartment building." "Good. And chance is going to help, yet again." Jake looked at his mentor with puzzlement. "You'll be able to Watch Cassandra while visiting your partner," he replied. Jake tried not to let the relief show on his face. III Cassandra took a deep breath and slowly let it out, also relaxing her body. The workout had been intense, leaving her both tired and exhilarated. Her calm and peace-of-mind seemed almost drug-induced. A knock at the door brought her back from her inner preoccupation. "Why, Sara, please come in, " Cassandra invited as she recognized her visitor. "I haven't had a chance to make coffee, but--" "We need to talk." Sara strode purposefully into the apartment and proceeded to pace. "I discovered some things yesterday,'" she began. Cassandra felt her peace evaporate to be replaced by dread. It was always frightening when people found out about Immortals. One never knew how they'd react. Obviously the Witchblade wanted Sara to have this knowledge. Could it be some kind of test? "What did you find out?" "How old are you? Your *real* age." "I can't tell you the exact month or year. I don't think they kept records back then, but I'm somewhere over three thousand. Is that what you wanted to hear?" Sara took a step backward, looking shocked at the answer. "Really?" "Yes. Tell me what happened." The request held an involuntary hint of The Voice. "I met with another detective; one who had arrested Russell Nash fifteen years ago. Between the things he told me and pieces that Gabriel and I were able to put together, the only logical conclusion is that there are people around who don't die unless you cut off their heads. Is that why you're so good with a sword--self defense?" "I come from a time when wielding a sword was as common as wearing sun-glasses are today. Everyone had them." "Do all Immortals carry a sword?" Sara persisted. "If they want to survive," Cassandra admitted. "Adam Pierson carries a sword; I saw it. My visions say that he killed Dante." "Yes, Dante was immortal and not a very nice one, either--he wanted you dead. He knew he couldn't afford to go to jail, which was what the end result of your investigation would entail. In such a closed environment someone might discover his secret, and that was something to hide at all costs. In order for him to survive, you had to die, because nothing would make you stop your hunt. He really had no choice." Sara whispered, "One of us had to die." "I'm glad it was him." Cassandra looked directly at Sara. "If Adam hadn't done it, I would have." "Can I see him? Talk to him about it?" "I don't know where he lives. I make it a point to forget he exists." "Why?" Sara asked; the curiosity was evident on her face. "Just because." Cassandra refused to be drawn further. Sara didn't need to know of her history with the oldest of their kind. Yet, even as she thought this, the Witchblade became bright red and a vacant look crossed Sara's face. "I see you in the desert, arguing with other women, carrying a basket of food. You walk into a tent and Adam is sitting, no, reclining on something. He says something which causes you to scurry and bring him--" "Enough!" Cassandra cried out in pain, as her memories gave a picture to Sara's words. Sara blinked. "I'm sorry." Cassandra was silent for a couple of minutes, collecting her composure. "Did you see more?" she asked tentatively. "Explain what a Quickening is?" Sara asked instead. "Who told you that word?" Cassandra asked sharply, still reeling from her emotional roller-coaster. "Rachel. She said that the lightning I've seen is called the Quickening." "It is our essence." Cassandra brought a sharp knife from the kitchen and sliced her arm. "See the blue light as my arm heals? That is my Quickening, my power." Sara kept her eyes on the wound as it healed. Cassandra tried to determine if her young protégé was scared, revolted or anything in between. "I'm still having nightmares," Sara blurted. "I can't make them stop. I hoped by finding out the secret, it would make them go away. The sight of Dante's head falling from his shoulders, the blood spurting and the lightning arcing from his neck into the man in shadow won't leave my mind." "Maybe what you feel is guilt. Or anger that someone else fought the battle for you? Or maybe a mixture of the two. I've been tortured by nightmares for most of my life. I see a band of men come into my village, killing everyone I loved, leaving only me alive. I remember the blood, the vacant eyes, and the screams." Her voice shook. "Discovering outside truths won't make the dreams go away. Only the ones found in your soul eases the pain. I don't think knowing about immortality will stop your mind." The women stared at each other. Cassandra was openly sad, while Sara still looked confused. "Thank you, Cassandra. You've given me something to think about." Sara left the apartment, still appearing lost. The peace the old Immortal had gained before her neighbor's arrival had fled--leaving the old hurt. She slumped to the floor, crossing her legs as she emptied her mind of thought and feeling. The Horsemen disappeared and she found herself floating on a wave of serenity. There was no pain or loss, only the familiar hollowness. The ring of the telephone jarred her out of her hypnotic trance. "Hello?" she spoke, sounding calm. "Cassandra? It's Methos." She dropped the phone as if it had burnt her hand. Fumbling, she picked up the phone again with shaking hands. "What do you want?" she asked, hoping her emotional turmoil wasn't being recognized. "We need to talk. I just flew into Kennedy with Joe Dawson." "Is this about Sara?" "Yes. I would prefer not to say too much on the phone." "Do you remember where we last met?" Cassandra asked, meaning Saint Patrick's Cathedral. "I can be there in about an hour." "Till then," and she disconnected, her hands still shaking. At least she had time to get herself back in control. IV Methos gave the excuse that the Watchers didn't need to know that they were together and he'd find his own way to the hotel. Joe seemed to buy it and the two friends parted company using different cabs outside the airport. Methos fidgeted inside the cab, worrying about meeting up with *her*. Cassandra had sounded funny on the phone, not her usual cold, calm personality. Possibly this Detective Pezzini was giving her teacher a rough time. Methos smiled at the thought. Too soon the cab pulled up to the front door. Methos got out, paying the driver and adding the usual tip. He took the steps two at a time, pausing only to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. A man with shoulder length curly hair turned to him, and with a start Methos recognized him as Lazar. "She must go through a new periculum," he said cryptically. "Because of the time reversal, Sara hasn't freely chosen to wield the Witchblade. This time the stress must come from a different source." "You mean…" But the man had faded in with a new batch of tourists and Methos lost sight of him. The feel of an Immortal made him turn, and he saw Cassandra begin slowly walking up the front stairs. He continued inside and waited beside the first pew. As she drew even with him, they walked together around to the side. Methos picked a row and slid in. Cassandra followed behind, but keeping a bit of space between them. "What do you need to tell me?" she asked. "I received an e-mail from a friend at the Vatican. They know that Sara Pezzini has the Witchblade and they want it back," Methos told her bluntly. "They've sent an envoy and they should get here very soon." "We need to hide her." "Are you so sure that she wouldn't willingly give it back?" Methos suggested, thinking back to Lazar. Cassandra looked at him incredulously. "Give it back?" "I saw Lazar as I arrived." Her eyebrows rose. "Lazar? Why does he always talk to you? I've seen him countless times, but he just nods and disappears." Methos shrugged his shoulders. "All I know is that he told me that Sara will be tested because she doesn't remember going through the Periculum. She needs to confront a higher authority and decide her own path." "The Catholic Church does not have authority over her." Cassandra's eyes glowed with anger. "They took away that privilege when they betrayed her trust and burned her at the stake." "That's not what Lazar meant. They merely represent an obstacle she must overcome. He was emphasizing choice, not rebellion. Sara needs to claim it as her own or give it up. You can't guide her. If she freely accepts her destiny, we can do something about persuading the clergy to go home." He paused, waiting for her to come to terms with what he was saying. "Agreed?" "Yes," she answered, sounding reluctant. "Am I allowed to prepare her for this decision?" "Lazar didn't say." "Good. Do you think the pope's representatives are in New York yet?" "I don't know. My friend didn't say when they were supposed to arrive." Cassandra slid out of the pew and stood in the aisle. "Thank you for coming to me with this. It isn't a good idea for you to contact Sara yourself. She's been having visions about you lately. One features you cutting off the captain's head and the other concerns our, uh, us," she stammered, "together when I was your slave," came out in a rush. "She doesn't think too highly of you." "I best stay clear then. Sara doesn't remember when I was de Morency?" he asked, inadvertently sounding sad. "She did before, but not now. Her preoccupation has been with the discovery of immortality. Goodbye, Methos." She gave him a direct look, seeming to search his face for something, then walked away. Methos sighed heavily, bowing his head. Why was it so exhausting talking with her? He waited about five minutes, then he too left the church. Jeannette was now Cassandra's responsibility. Outside, standing against a light post was his faithful Watcher, the Wyatt kid. Methos flashed him a grin, which caused the mortal to lose his balance and stumble a few steps. Cheered, Methos hailed a cab and directed it to the Waldorf. V Kenneth Irons sat in his chair, with his legs crossed and a comic book propped up on one of his knees. The brightly colored pages depicted death and anguish. It seemed a fitting tribute to a very talented young man. A presence materialized just behind his chair. "Tell me, Ian, can art imitate life too much?" Kenneth turned to look at his pupil. "Imitation implies artifice. Art rather reflects life without the deception." His usually downcast eyes were gazing up at the Joan of Arc painting on the wall. Kenneth followed Ian's eyes to the burning figure then back to the comic book. He turned the page and saw a hangman's rope tied to the ceiling and a dangling body flailing beneath. "And sometimes art reflects death with uncanny accuracy." He paused, reading the words that the author didn't really mean for himself, but were rather an ideal. "Do you remember when I suggested that we find something else to occupy our detective friends?" "Yes, master." "Why not accomplish two feats with one act." He turned the page again and saw himself and Ian caricatured maliciously. "Sly has exceeded his boundaries." Ian looked quickly at the open page where a young man had hung himself. "Understood," he replied then walked silently out of the room. Kenneth rose from his chair and walked toward the fire, tossing the comic book into the flames. "A fitting end for our brilliant nonconformist," he said to himself with a half-smile. VI Cassandra waited patiently for Sara to come home. She tried meditating, hoping the gods would guide her next move. They were silent. An hour later, the Immortal heard the building's front door slam through her half-open window. Cassandra immediately left her apartment and met up with Sara in the stairwell. "What's up?" Sara asked, sounding a bit irritable. "Did you have trouble at work?" "Nottingham killed two people. I know he did it, but I have no proof. It's just frustrating when I know something but can't do a damn thing about it." They arrived at Sara's door. She opened it and shrugged off her coat. Without a backward glance, she went directly to the fridge and took out a bottle of beer, twisted off the cap and took a long swallow. "How was your day?" "Sit down, Sara; we need to discuss something important." Sara stiffened, staring at Cassandra. "Something happen?" "Yes." Sara joined Cassandra and both took a seat on the sofa. "Tell me," Cassandra said, "if someone was to knock on your door and demand the Witchblade from you--could you give it up?" Sara carefully put the beer down on the end table. "What do you mean?" "You have been a reluctant wielder since the moment the Witchblade locked itself around your wrist. Before the time reversal, you went through a test called the Periculum. You have no memory of it now, but you experienced it and freely chose your subsequent path. The Witchblade bonded with you, integrated itself within all the cells of your body. The time reversal has done nothing to alter that fact except, as far as your memory goes, you have not *chosen* your destiny. This you still need to do." Sara wore a frown. "What do you mean?" "Do you really want the power and responsibility that comes with possessing the Witchblade?" "Are you going to take it from me? Have I been slacking off in my training? I can't help it if I have a job to do that--" "It's not me. My opinion doesn't matter. It's an outside source that you must deal with now." "Irons? Has he been pressuring you?" Cassandra laughed. "Kenneth Irons does not have the power to influence me. It is the mortal hierarchy within the Catholic Church you must deal with. After Joan of Arc's execution, Cauchon confiscated the Witchblade as a dangerous and heretical weapon that must never be used again. During World War II, it found a way out of the Vatican and somehow into Kenneth Iron's possession. From him, it passed to you." "They want it back?" "Yes. There is an envoy on its way right now to take it from you, whether you are willing or not." Sara sat looking stunned. "I could just give it back?" "If you want. They believe it belongs to them. We know that it belongs to itself and manipulates fate to serve its own ends." "So, the Witchblade is making these representatives come to me?" "I didn't think of it that way, but maybe you're right. Either way, you have a choice. Give it up or fight to keep it. Neither will be easy." "When will they get here?" Sara asked with a tremulous voice. "Very soon. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow." "How do you know all this?" Cassandra smiled weakly. She was not going to tell Sara about Methos. "I'm a witch. The gods are always speaking to me." Sara raised an eyebrow, but withheld a retort. "That's all I wanted to say. The choice is yours, but if you choose to keep it, I will help you. If you choose to give it up, I will still be here for you." Cassandra stood up and walked to the door. "Just don't take too long to find your answer." Cassandra opened the door and walked through. Just before closing it, she added, "You are an exceptional student. I am very proud of your progress." The door clicked shut. VII Duncan MacLeod paid the taxi driver and made his way to the front door of the building. He held the card Sara Pezzini had given Rachel that included both Sara's work and home addresses. Over the top of the mailboxes a buzzer for each apartment was installed. Duncan rang the one above "Pezzini". "Who is it?" a woman's voice demanded. "My name is Duncan MacLeod. Rachel Ellenstein asked me to visit you." "I'll be right down," she answered. A few moments later a dark-haired woman came bounding to the front door. Her hair was unencumbered by pins and barrettes and flowed everywhere. Her shirt was cut short, leaving a bare midriff. The jeans were tight, but didn't look uncomfortably so. Then she opened the door and Duncan felt his jaw go slack. She was the spitting image of Elizabeth Bronte, an English spy who had worked with both Ingrid Henning and himself during World War Two. This had to be a granddaughter or another close relation. "What was your name again?" the woman asked. "I'm Duncan MacLeod. Rachel asked me to talk you about certain questions you had concerning a case you're working on. Could we go inside? This really isn't a conversation that should be overheard by the general population." "Right. Sure. Follow me. We have to take the stairs. The elevator isn't reliable." Duncan nodded and the two began the climb up. His mind was fixated on the likeness between the two women. He had seen grandparents resemble their grandchildren before, but this was different. They could have been identical twins. When they got to the top flight, Sara led him to the door to her loft. "Come in." It was a nice place. The high ceilings didn't leave one with a case of claustrophobia and the layout left room to move a bit of furniture to give room to exercise. There was a table cluttered with files and loose papers. "When Rachel Ellenstein called you, how far did you have to travel to come see me?" "From Paris," Duncan answered, not sure of the relevance. "That means Mr. Nash must be further away than that. I really wanted to meet him." "Why?" Duncan asked. "Because I know he's cut off heads before, and I want to ask him about it." Duncan stiffened. "What does that--" Duncan paused, feeling the tingle of an Immortal close. He glanced quickly at Sara, but she seemed unaware of his discomfort. He didn't think this was a trap. Suddenly the front door burst open. Duncan barely had time to reach inside his coat before the Immortal entered, brandishing her own sword. He froze, letting his brain assimilate that it was Cassandra who was attacking him. With an upraised blade, she took two steps before recognition hit her also. "Duncan? Is that really you?" She halted her advance, but her sword did not lower. "Cassandra? What are you doing here?" He chanced letting his eyes turn to Sara. "If you knew another one of us, why did you bother Rachel with you questions?" "Rachel sent you here?" Cassandra asked Duncan. "Yes," he answered, flipping his attention back and forth between the two women. "I'm sorry, Duncan. Sara *has* been asking me, and I have refused to give her the answers she wanted." Cassandra placed her sword on the table. "I have recently discovered that she has been researching your kinsman because of the Kurgan, but since," she cleared her throat, "Russell Nash is dead, I didn't consider it a problem." Cassandra smiled. "Although I *am* very happy to see you again." "I take it you’re friends, right?" Sara asked. "Is it rare for Immortals to be friends? You didn't seem as friendly to Adam Pierson." "You know Adam Pierson?" Duncan asked incredulously. "When was he here?" "A few months ago," Sara answered. Duncan thought back to a time when Methos had up and left. "I think it was in November when he started acting strange." Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "Well, strange for him. He even put a date on a check for several months in the future. Joe had to correct him and he was flustered. Adam never gets flustered." "Oh yes. He is always in control." Duncan could hear the bitterness. "But the two of you worked together? That is a true miracle." All of a sudden Sara Pezzini started to sway and Cassandra just caught her before Sara hit the ground. "What is it, child?" she asked. "I see you standing over Pierson with a sword ready to swing. You want him dead so much. I can feel your hatred, your fury. Then *him*, you, Duncan MacLeod, tells her to stop. You want him to live. You keep repeating that." Duncan felt shaken. The woman had the sight. He involuntarily made the sign of the cross. "Yes, Sara." Cassandra responded. "You remember the visions of me as his slave. I hated him for those years of torture and repeated deaths if I did not please him. We talked of nightmares that haunt your soul for long periods of time. It seems that the same man haunts both our dreams." Duncan wanted to intervene, ask questions, but dared not. What had Methos done to the poor girl? Cassandra led Sara over to the couch and the young woman sank into the cushions. "You know him, Mr. MacLeod. Can't you ask him to come see me? When I met him he seemed different from my visions; I need to see him as he really is, not what he pretends in front of me." "Sara," Cassandra told her. "He doesn't *ever* show his real self-- to anyone. Possibly Jeannette was able to meet the man inside; call upon your memories of her." "I, uh, I mean Jeannette, adored him. He was her teacher." "Who's Jeannette?" Duncan asked, thoroughly confused. "Joan of Arc," Cassandra told him, casually. "Me--Adam knew Joan of Arc? He told me he didn't believe in fighting wars, because it never mattered which side won." "He wasn't fighting a war. He was following a legend. His loyalty was to Jeannette, not the French cause." Suddenly the buzzer rang, startling all three. Cassandra went to the window. "It looks like the envoy has arrived," she announced, her words threaded with worry. "Have you made your decision yet?" Cassandra directed to Sara. Sara blinked. "Decision? I can barely think." "Then we should leave. Now!" Cassandra pulled Sara off the couch and led her to the window. Duncan followed behind as the women crawled out and down the fire escape. "My car is parked on the next block. Hurry," Cassandra urged. Duncan, still following, kept turning his head, but whoever the women were running from didn't see them or notice their leave-taking. After they were all in the car, Cassandra immediately drove around the block and headed toward lower Manhattan. "Where are you taking us?" Sara asked. Duncan silently echoed the question. "Nash's Antiques. They won't be able to trace you there, and it will give us time to think." Cassandra took quick glances at Duncan. "Will Connor mind Rachel letting me into his home?" "Not as long as I'm there." "You mean Connor Nash?" Sara asked. "Yes," Duncan responded. "After you get Sara safely ensconced there, what is your next move?" Duncan asked, hoping to get an idea of what was going on. "Sara needs to decide," Cassandra replied cryptically. Duncan looked at Sara. "I need to think. Half of me wants to give it up, to get my life back to normal. But then I'm not sure I can just hand it over to them. I hear Jeanette cry in my mind and I get so mad." "There will always be this dichotomy. One part is dark and the other light, just like the two circles. One part is war and bloodshed, and the other is peace. I believe you are strong enough to keep the two sides balanced. The rest of it is up to you. I can't make the decision for you." Duncan understood nothing. "What is she supposed to give back?" Cassandra pulled up a block away from Nash's Antiques, and turned to Duncan. "Sara possesses a relic that the people in the Vatican want back. It is hers by birthright, but it contains an awesome power. It is the power in one single girl that makes them afraid. We must protect her, Duncan, from their collective will." Duncan nodded and got out of the car, opening the door for Sara and then Cassandra. He escorted them inside the store and up to Connor's apartment. Rachel was sitting at the kitchen table, thumbing through a magazine. Her eyes widened when she saw Cassandra. "Guests, Duncan?" "Rachel, this is Cassandra, a *very* old friend of mine. Sara, you already know." "Connor called while you were gone. They won't be coming back for awhile. Alex found something 'momentous', 'earth-shattering' and needs to stay longer." Duncan laughed. "As long as it's not another sorcerer's tomb. One per century is enough." Sara went over to the couch and sat down, taking little interest in the room or the conversation. She closed her eyes and her hand absently played with her bracelet. As Duncan looked, the red stone began to glow and other colors swirled, changing tones and hues. "Let her be," Cassandra whispered. "This is why I asked for sanctuary--time for her to think." VIII Methos walked up to the front desk and asked if he had any messages. The concierge handed him an envelope. Inside was a scribbled note with the room number. After a quick thank you, accompanied by a five- dollar bill, Methos made his way to the elevators. Joe had been assigned a suite on the sixth floor. With a mental shrug, the Immortal bypassed the elevators and took the stairs. Six floors were nothing. As he exited onto the sixth floor a door opened and a grey-haired, older gentleman was saying goody-bye. With a start, Methos recognized him as Howard Wyatt, father of his personal Watcher and poor McCarty's mentor. He didn't look to be in a good mood. Quickly, Methos backed up and partially closed the door to the stairwell. "You keep me informed. I want to know as soon as you get your hands on the painting." "Relax, Howard. I've been authorized to pay as much as needed to obtain the picture. I doubt, Mr. Irons will refuse to sell." Methos heard Howard Wyatt snort as he abruptly left Joe's door and made his way to the elevator. As soon as the automatic doors slid shut, Methos made his way to the room and knocked. Joe opened them immediately, indicating that he hadn't walked away after Howard Wyatt had left. "That was fast," Methos commented as he pushed his way into the suite. "I saw you skulking in the stairwell." "So, what's he so upset about?" Methos asked as he went to the little fridge. He sighed contentedly when he saw a six-pack of Labatt's Blue. Joe closed the door. "The man's not happy that Jake called me and not him. Couldn't really tell him my thoughts, now could I?" Methos grabbed a bottle and twisted off the cap. "What thoughts would those be?" "That I agreed with him. Why *would* Jake call me instead of his mentor? Howard could have faked some kind of charge and gone in and confiscated the painting." "It wouldn't have worked," Methos told him, removing his shoes and then sprawling on the couch. "There's no way Wyatt could have gotten in without implicating Jake. Believe me, our way is better." Methos allowed himself a secret smile. Joe's way was not going to work, but his would. "You're pretty protective of Jake. Got to be good friends while you were saving the world, didn't you?" Joe fished. "Guess we did." "Funny. Jake doesn't remember saving the world, only a single detective--his partner." "Yeah, well. Never said Jake knew everything." Standing, Methos drained the bottle. "So, which bedroom is mine?" Joe scowled. "I had the bellboy put your stuff in that room." He pointed to the one on the left. Methos laughed. "Sorry I had to stick you with my cases, but I really didn't want to bring them to where I was going. Kind of asking for trouble." "Where did you go?" "Holy ground," Methos answered then headed to his room, where sure enough, his two suitcases were sitting on the bed. Joe ambled to the doorway. "Holy ground? There was an Immortal after you in the airport?" Methos opened one of the cases and started putting his clothes away. "Nope," was all he said. Joe hung around trying to get more information, which Methos refused to answer. Finally he went away. Methos then opened his other suitcase and pulled out the special equipment he had brought for the theft. One bag contained two pocket-sized strobe lights--high intensity. He turned on each one in turn to make sure neither had been broken during the trip. Both were in good working order. Along the side, he had stuffed two dog whistles. He wasn't sure if they would help or not, but they might come in handy. In a separate case, packed between two pairs of jeans, were the two headsets he and Amanda would wear to communicate. Both were top of the line, manufactured for the military, receivers and microphones. Methos knew that if Ian Nottingham was in the mansion, Nottingham would be able to hear anything he and Amanda said over the headset. Misdirection could sometimes be as useful as silence. All the burglary paraphernalia was carefully placed within a backpack and stored in the empty suitcase to be pulled out when needed. He and Amanda had to connect, exchange thoughts and plans. But first he needed a reason for Nottingham to be away from the mansion. IX Howard Wyatt walked briskly out of the Waldorf, still fuming. He couldn't even begin to count the number of things that had him furious. First was the sense of betrayal. It wasn't logical, but then emotions generally weren't. Why had Jake given the news of the painting to Dawson instead of to him? He hadn't even known Jake was acquainted with Dawson, let alone knew him well enough to call him out of the blue with news of that magnitude. Then there was the fact that the Watcher hierarchy had given the assignment of procuring the painting to Dawson instead of asking him. He was in the better position to locate and get his hands on the picture. Lastly it was the sheer gall, the audacity, of Methos staying with Dawson, at the Watchers' expense. At least he hadn't run into the Immortal. Howard exited the elevator and almost collided into his son, Timothy. "Hi, Dad. How'd your meeting go with Dawson?" "Typical. He said he had no idea I was even in New York; figured I'd be in DC, since that is where I live. What about Pierson? Did he fly over separately from Dawson?" The two Watchers walked over to the hotel bar, taking a seat in a far corner, where they could still keep an eye on the front door, yet remain hidden from casual observers. "No," Tim answered. "They flew over together, but somewhere in the airport Methos must have made a phone call, because they parted company at the taxi lane, with Methos taking his taxi to Saint Patrick's Cathedral." "Holy Ground? Did he sense someone at the airport?" "Don't think so. I think he called Cassandra and asked her to meet him there." "Cassandra?" Howard gasped, incredulously. "I thought they hated each other. Didn't Melanie what's-her-name report that Cassandra wanted Methos dead and only MacLeod's interference saved the oldest Immortal's life?" "They must have met since then and patched fences," Tim replied. "Not totally patched or they wouldn't have needed Holy Ground." Howard's mind was going a million miles an hour. What was Methos planning with Cassandra's help? Did the two Immortals plan on stealing the painting and not letting the Watchers have it? "Listen, Timmy. You need to keep a close eye on Pierson. He's up to something and I want to know what it is. Make sure he doesn't get that painting of Darius before Dawson." A waiter came to the table. "Can I get you gentlemen anything?" Howard couldn't think of anything else that he needed to say to his son. "No, thank you. We're just leaving." He stood from the table and they walked back into the foyer. Howard left the hotel while his son found himself someplace to wait. X Gabriel clicked shut down on his computer and went to gather the file he had copied for Sly. His friend the comic-book writer had this cool idea for his next installment and the two intended to hash it out that night. December's issue of Parricide was due to hit the newsstand tomorrow morning, which left him only two weeks to create his next masterpiece. Time was ticking away. Taking a last look around and not seeing anything he had forgotten, Gabriel locked the door to his dot-com hole-in-the-wall store. Feeling a little extravagant, he decided to take a taxi instead of the bus. It let him off in front of Sly's place. He paid the driver and bounded up the stairs, three at a time. The front door was ajar and a Disturbed CD was playing loudly. Gabriel pushed his way in without a thought. The disarray was disregarded as he set the file down on the coffee table. "Hey, Sly?" he called. "Where are you?" The monitor on the computer was in screen-saver mode. Gabriel wiggled the mouse and saw that his friend had been writing some text for the comic book. The cursor was blinking in the middle of a sentence. Beginning to feel prickles of alarm, Gabriel straightened from bending over the computer and went into the kitchen. Food dishes were in the sink soaking, so Sly must have been home at dinnertime. Maybe he was upstairs? Rushing into the hall, he skidded around the corner and began running up the steps. Abruptly his eyes focused on a body swinging above the landing. "No! My God!" Gabriel grabbed his friend by the legs and pushed him upwards, taking the pressure off the neck. Frantically he used his strength and voice to get a response. Realizing the futility of his efforts, Gabriel let the body go and rushed to the phone to call the police. Tears were streaming down his face, unheeded. Within minutes, he could hear sirens. As officers and detectives swarmed inside the small house, Gabriel felt the disappointment that Sara had not come. Why wasn't she here? Of course, she wouldn't have recognized this address, since it belonged to Sly, Gabriel reasoned. After giving his statement and answering a billion questions, the police allowed him to leave. As soon as he hit the street, he pulled out his cell phone and called Sara. There was no answer at her apartment, and the police station said she wasn't in. He left a frantic message, urging her to call him immediately. Wandering the street was never a good idea, but Gabriel felt lost and unsure what to do. He tried going to his favorite bar. As he sat, listening to the hum of voices and the pounding of drums around him, he tried calling Sara's numbers again. As before, no one was home. Day 5 I Ian Nottingham strode briskly into the mansion. The sun was just easing over the eastern horizon, casting reds and oranges over the lawn's green expanses, although Ian failed to notice anything. He was consumed with anxiety, although he remembered to slow his pace as he came even with he dining room. Kenneth Irons was sitting at his massive maple table nibbling on a muffin and sipping his coffee. A newspaper was open and lying close to his plate. Ian came to a quiet halt beside his master and waited to be questioned. "I see you took care of that little problem we discussed. Thank you, Ian." "Sly did not prove difficult," he answered, biting his tongue in an effort not to gush forth with his worries. Kenneth Irons slowly took another sip from his coffee and then turned to face Ian. "How has Sara taken these recent events?" At last! "She doesn't know, sir. At some point in the afternoon she left her apartment quickly, through the window. It was left unlocked, which is not like her. She has not returned, nor do I know where she is." A trace of wounded ego tinged his voice. "Is anyone else looking for her?" "Gabriel Bowman hasn't stopped calling her all night. He's sitting at his little store, drunk, sobbing and repeatedly dialing his phone. Her phone mail at the station is full. McCarty and Woo have both been to her apartment." "And the witch? Where is she?" "She came home late last night and went directly to bed." "Talk to her, Ian. She knows where Sara is." Ian hesitated. He really had no interest in conversing with her. She saw too much that he preferred to remain hidden. "Do it now and report back immediately." Ian bowed his head in subservience and left to complete his assigned task. When he arrived at Cassandra's window, he saw she was awake, and still in her bathrobe. He silently opened the window and entered. "Hello, de Alencon. I've been expecting you," she called. Ian shivered. The witch had been at the sink washing a few dishes and hadn't even paused as he closed the window. "Where is Sara?" he asked, concern evident in his voice. "She's staying with a friend of mine." Cassandra turned now and focused her eyes upon him. "The Vatican knows she has the Witchblade and has come to take it back." Ian stiffened at her words. Memories of the way Jeannette had been treated assaulted his mind, and he could feel her pain and bewilderment. "I decided to hide her for a time, so she can decide how to handle this crisis." "My master would be a better ally." "But everyone knows of her connection to him. Money and position does not always sway the fanatic. How else could the great Duke de Alencon not be able to free Joan from the British. The passing of centuries has done little to dilute this fact. She is better lost to their inquiries." Ian had no choice but to acquiesce to her suggestions, although he'd feel better if he at least knew where Sara was. "I need to inform Mr. Irons." "I'm sure you do," she responded. Ian pulled out his cell phone and immediately called Vorshlag. He informed his master of what the witch had imparted to him. "She does not understand, Ian. When we find Sara, we need to impress upon her our wish to help." "Where shall I start?" "With sleep. Even you require some amount of sleep. I will work on the problem for now." Ian would have preferred to be physically out looking, but his need for sleep took precedence. He returned home and fell into bed, yet his mind was fevered with anxiety. Tossing and turning in sweat- soaked sheets did little to refresh his body. The dreams came one upon another. They wouldn't let him help her. Everywhere he turned a brick wall blocked his quest. Aug, 1430 "Please, your highness, my royal cousin. Let me--" "I have spoken, de Alencon. The English have the Maid tucked away safely in Beaurevoir and there is nothing we can do without damaging our own position. They dare not hurt her, for that would bring the wrath of God down on their backs." "They will hurt her," Jean argued, to no avail. The king would not listen. His royal cousin paid more attention to LaTremoille and de Chartres council. Jean knew that before long the English would charge her with heresy and then nothing in the land could free her. They had to work fast, yet the king wouldn't give his sanction. "You may leave my presence, cousin," the king ordered. Jean bowed in subservience and left the king's chamber. He strode down the hall and then out of the castle. He called to have his horse saddled and rode at a full gallop away from the king's court. Nothing would calm his frustration. All through the countryside the peasants were lamenting the Maid's capture and were afraid that God had turned away from their troubles. In his heart, Jean knew it was the king who had betrayed his people by not coming to Jeannette's aid. ^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^ Ian tossed and turned in his bed, haunted by dreams of his ineptitude and inability to help save the woman from her enemies. II Sara abruptly woke, realizing that she was in a strange bed. The room was filled with antique furnishings. Even the bed was something one would see on Masterpiece Theater. It had ruffles and a canopy. The wallpaper was a composite of huge pink roses and bright green leaves. A few paintings were hung and each looked to have been done by a master. Sara was not an art critic, but even she could tell that they weren't reproductions. Vigorously stretching, Sara relished the feel of the satin sheets and warm wool blankets. Glancing down at her covers, she noticed that both blankets were Scottish tartan plaids. The main color was green but she could see accent colors of red and blue threaded within. The clock read seven, and she listened carefully for any noise to indicate her hosts had risen. Her clothes were still thrown over a chair, where she had placed them the night before. Throwing off the covers, Sara got out of bed and dressed. Slowly easing the door open, she saw Duncan MacLeod, wearing only a pair of sweats, holding a sword, doing a kind of dance in the main living area. Mesmerized by the beautiful sight, Sara leaned against the door jam and watched. She recognized his dance as a kata, since Cassandra had been teaching her how to choreograph one of her own. He was poetry in motion, and Sara felt a twinge of jealousy that hers did not look as elegant. Suddenly he pivoted, coming to a full stop facing her. "Good morning, Sara. Did you sleep well?" "Yes. It was a while before I could fall asleep. Being in a strange place and all, but once asleep, I don't think a fire alarm would have woken me," she laughed humorously. "Would you like some breakfast? Rachel left some bagels and croissants on the table. I intend to go and run, but I wanted to make sure you were awake first." "You jog?" Sara asked, excitedly. "Can I join you? I really could use the exercise." "Aren't you afraid someone would recognize you? I thought Cassandra said you were to remain in doors?" "There's got to be something here that I can disguise myself with?" "Let me check. Grab some orange juice or something." Sara went over to the table and tore a croissant in half and stuffed it into her mouth. Next she went to the fridge and saw the pitcher of OJ and poured herself a glass. A few minutes later, Duncan came out with an old pair of sweats and a hooded sweatshirt. "Will this do? Both belong to Connor, but I'm sure he won't mind if you borrow them. If you tie the hood up, your hair at least won't be visible." "I was wearing my sneaks, so shoes won't be a problem." She picked up a foot and wiggled it, happy that she was really going out. "Let me go change." Ten minutes later, both Sara and Duncan were out on Hudson Street heading towards Houston. The morning was crisp and it felt good to be out. She intercepted a few concerned looks from her running companion, but he didn't give voice to whatever he was thinking. They jogged a few miles, when Duncan pulled up and they both began to walk. "Have you made the decision that Cassandra says you need to make?" Sara smiled inwardly. "Yes. I did quite a bit of soul searching last night and I think I'm ready to tackle the pope's representatives." Duncan started. "You intend to defy the pope?" he asked incredulously. "I do. Are you offended?" "What does this choice you need to make have to do with them?" "They want something I have. I'm not going to give it to them," Sara answered firmly. "Why do they want it?" "It's a source of magical power. And you can't scoff since you are yourself a source of magical power that they wouldn't understand." "True enough. Is that why Cassandra is interested in you, because of this power?" "Yes. She knows all about it and wants to make sure that I find out the truth, not what others think I should know." "Cassandra is not altogether altruistic. I'm sure she has her own motives for what she does." "Don't we all." Sara laughed and began to run again, not wanting to answer any more questions. Duncan gave in and fell into step beside her. They ran past quite a few corners before Duncan took her down a side street and into a small park. There he stopped once more and began a series of stretches. Sara followed suit. "So, what kind of power do you possess that they want back?" he asked, straightening after touching his toes. "It's kind of hard to explain." "It must be a talisman or relic, because if the power was innate, they wouldn't be able to take it from you." "True, but I'm able to augment the power because of my blood." "Do you control the power or does the power control you?" "Good question and one I'm not entirely sure of. Cassandra is helping me to learn to control it, but from what I'm seeing and feeling, the power is sentient, but works through me for justice." Duncan smiled. "Ah, justice. I know a lot about that. Right and wrong and all the shades of gray in between. It's a difficult line to follow." "I know." "Choices can be confusing when either way can hurt someone you care about. Are you strong enough for that?" "I hope so. It's a responsibility that was handed down to me, and I'm now learning to accept it." She gave her companion a quick smile and picked up a run once more. Duncan soon caught up to her. Sara believed this to be true. She was learning how to deal with the responsibility of wielding the Witchblade. Her feet hit the pavement in a regular rhythm. Her heart beat steadily and her breathing came in quick short breaths. As she ran, the hypnotic effect began to make her mind wander. Choices and how they would affect other people often made one choose wrong. How did one know if the choice they made was the correct one? When Joan of Arc had refused to return inside the city walls, she had endangered her whole army and thusly lost the war. But, what if she had capitulated and sought sanctuary? What if she had backed down and told the Inquisitors what they had wanted to hear? The game of what-ifs could continue indefinitely. Sara was looking at these questions hundreds of years after the fact. Joan had to decide at the time. The bracelet's red stone swirled, causing heat to enter her arm. Although her feet kept moving to jogging's instinctive rhythm, her mind placed her back in a cold stone cell. Men in ridiculous-looking robes hovered over her, demanding her acquiescence. Jan, 1431-Rouen Castle Jeannette gazed in fear at the old men in their long robes and imperious hats. They tried taking away her food. They tried everything to make her admit that she was a witch, but since she wasn't, why would she say she was? Her dearest wish would be for them to let her make her confession. If she were a witch, would she want one so desperately? But, they believed it to be a trick. She begged her guards, but they couldn't help her. When the bishop of Beauvais visited her, she begged again for a priest, but he only glared at her and demanded that she submit to his will. Once her brother had been allowed to exchange words with her. She asked about de Alencon, but was told that Charles had sent him elsewhere and he could not disobey his king. When Jeannette asked about de Morency, her brother told her that he was dead. She cried for days after learning that particular fact. Worried about her, one of her guards let a priest come in to console her. The old man walked into her cell and sat down upon the cold floor. "Hush, child. How can we talk if you continue to sob?" Jeannette wiped her eyes and looked at him sadly. "Why does God want me to do this? When I was young, I saw a great future for myself. I would liberate France from the English and give our people hope. Instead, I made bad decisions that cost good men their lives." "It is the nature of war that men are killed. They knew this and entered into your service and that of King Charles willingly. Is there a particular man that you mourn for?" "Yes. De Morency. I was just told he was killed after my capture. All this time he was dead, and I did not say any prayers for him." "I will tell you a secret, but you must promise not to reveal it to anyone." Jeannette looked into the eyes of the priest and noticed his kindness. They shone with goodness and purity. "I promise." "He is not dead. He was able to escape and he came to me. We wait in the city, trying to see you, but also bribing others to bring you decent food and water." "He is alive?" Jeannette asked in amazement. She absently used her thumb and twirled the ring around her finger. God came into her mind and told her that the priest spoke the truth. "Our friend works diligently to make your life easier, but he needs to be careful. If someone should recognize him, he would be in mortal danger." "Tell him to take no chances. If my king is unable to free me, then my good knight would be that much more powerless. He must see to his own welfare. My fate is here, in English hands." She took a deep breath. "But I am so afraid." "Courage. You are a strong woman with a sharp mind. When you go before the judges and counselors, have faith in God. He won't let you down, as your mortal friends have done." Jeannette thought that the priest's words were a balm to her soul. She asked and then received confession. He rose to leave her with a sad face, but she felt more at peace than she had in a long time. This was her fate--her destiny--and she must meet it with the courage the priest believed she had. "Father, what is your name?" She felt remiss in not asking previously. "I am Darius." Then the door shut behind him. ^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^ "Sara? Are you okay?" Sara came to herself noticing that she was face down in the dirt. "What happened?" "You tripped. One minute we were running together and the next you fell flat on your face. Are you okay?" Sara slowly rose, wiping the tiny stones and dirt from her hands. "Yeah, I'm fine. I can't believe I was so clumsy." "I think we should walk back. We're not that far." Sara absently agreed. She let Duncan believe that she was slightly hurt, but the reason she was out of it was more because of the vision. Why did she have it? Was it because of her decision to keep the Witchblade? III Jake was just putting his coat on to leave when the phone rang. He paused, waiting for the answering machine to pick up. "McCarty, if you're there--" Jake grabbed the phone. "Good morning, Howard." "I know you're pretty close to Sara Pezzini, but do you know her friend Gabriel Bowman?" "Yes. Why?" he asked. "You remember Guerinot? He's stationed in London and he monitors Internet usage for Interpol. Well, he's discovered that Bowman has been surfing, looking for information on Immortals and Quickenings. In fact he's hacked into the New York City police department and found information on Connor MacLeod. He's dangerous, Jake. Shut him down." "He actually knew the word 'Quickening'?" Jake asked stunned. "Bowman definitely had key words to type in. Guerinot blocked most of his searches, but he probably got quite a bit on MacLeod." "I'll go talk to him this morning." Howard Wyatt grunted and hung up the phone. Jake continued zipping up his coat and hurried out to his car. The first stop was Gabriel's dot com store. If he wasn't there, Jake would have to look up his home address. In fact, now that Jake thought about it, maybe that's where Sara was. The front door to Talismaniac's was unlocked. Jake knocked, and when no one answered, he pushed it open. Open bottles of liquor littered the computer desk and Gabriel appeared to be passed out one the floor in front of the computer. The mouse was still in his hand. Jake reached down to shake him. "Gabriel? Wake up." One bloodshot eye opened and then closed immediately. The body groaned as it tried to move. "You come," Gabriel clutched his head, "about Sly? Any word about who killed him?" Jake had no idea what Gabriel was talking about. "I don't know anything about this Sly. I'm looking for Sara. She's missing." Gabriel heaved himself to a sitting position. "Missing? I've been doing some research for her." His face lost its color. "I'm gonna be sick." Jake waited patiently while Gabriel rid himself of the after-affects of his drinking binge. "Who's Sly?" he asked when Gabriel came back. "He's my best friend. He writes a comic book called Parricide. Last night when I went over to his house I found him…" His voice cracked. "Someone had hung him in the stairwell. I tried to get a hold of Sara, but couldn't find her." "I haven't been to work since yesterday afternoon. So, you haven't been able to find Sara either?" Jake was getting worried. "You think it had something to do with the research I've been doing for her," Gabriel asked tentatively. "What kind of research?" The face had lost none of its paleness, but now he looked nervous. "She didn't want you to know." "About what?" "Sara is positive that Adam Pierson killed Dante. And she knows that you knew all along that he did." Jake felt shivers run up his back. "She's been researching Pierson?" "No, just Immortals. I think one of *them* kidnapped her to silence her." Jake thought it was highly unlikely that an Immortal would have found out about her investigation. The Watchers, however, did know, but had punted the problem to him. "Have you seen Cassandra?" "So, she's not a witch, but an Immortal? I should have guessed." "If someone was after Sara, Cassandra would have hid her. Thanks, Gabriel. I think I know where to look." Jake turned to leave. "What about Sly?" "I'll look into that if you promise me to stop your research. The wrong people know what you're doing. The next person they send might not be a friend," Jake warned, then left. IV After sleeping for only five hours, Ian found himself down the street from the apartment building where Sara and Cassandra resided. He knew the witch was inside, but everything was quiet. No radios or televisions were on, nor did she place any phone calls. A limousine had driven up five minutes earlier. They had banged on Sara's door, but of course no one answered. He pulled out his cell phone and called his master. "Is she there?" Irons barked into the phone. "No, sir." Ian paused as the limo drove away. "It seems that the Catholic Church is also after the Witchblade." Irons didn't respond immediately. Ian waited, looking up at Cassandra's window. He could hear her breathing, but no other sound. Was she meditating? "Keep looking," Irons commanded, bringing Ian's senses back from their hyper-alert state. "Why don't you try McCarty? Possibly he knows where Cassandra has placed our lovely Sara." "Yes, master." V Kenneth hung up the phone, furious. Sara should have come to him. He could provide better protection that the witch. He had more money and resources which to draw from. The phone rang again, but this time Kenneth let his secretary answer. He didn't want to deal with the mundane. Maybe he should meet with this envoy himself. After all, the relic had first belonged to him. In fact he had a deed of ownership, should the envoy prove difficult. Counterfeit, yes, but he defied anyone to be able to prove it. The buzzer sounded. "Yes?" he answered his secretary. "There's a Mr. Francis Bradley on the phone. He represents some museum in France and wishes to talk to you about buying a painting." Kenneth felt the tingle of interest. A fellow connoisseur of art. "Put him through," he directed. "Mr. Bradley. What can I do for you?" "I am a buyer for the Musee de l'Histoire de France. We understand that you have a large collection of artwork and relics that pertain to French history. We have just received a large endowment from a wealthy comte and his comtesse to enlarge our museum. I was wondering, rather hoping that you might have a few of your pieces up for sale." "Do you a particular piece in mind?" "I would prefer a painting, but could I come and view your collection?" Kenneth paused. His internal alarm was ringing, yet he couldn't figure out how this man could be a threat. Maybe inviting him to view his collection would be a benefit. Then he could appraise this man in his own home. "Yes. I can send a car over for you around three. We can take a tour and then go out for dinner." "Thank you, Mr. Irons. I look forward to our meeting." VI Methos unashamedly listened in to Joe's call to Kenneth Irons. "He seemed pretty civil to me," Joe remarked as he disconnected. "Can I suggest that you go in your wheel chair? It would accentuate your honesty." "What?" Methos laughed at Joe's bafflement. "Irons is only inviting you to his house to take your measure. Appearing frail and honest will work in your favor." He threw up his hands. "Hey, it was only a suggestion. You do want him to trust you enough to sell the painting, don't you?" "Yes," Joe grumbled. "What are you going to do?" "Thought I'd go over and visit MacLeod. You did say Connor is out of town?" "Yeah." "So, why you're off doing your Watcher thing, I'll go over and bother MacLeod. No doubt he's embroiled himself in some kind of trouble and needs my expert help." Joe snorted. "You have my cell phone number. If you find yourself in trouble, just call and MacLeod and I will come and get you." "I will not 'find myself in trouble'," Joe barked, looking affronted. "I'm perfectly able to take care of myself." "Whatever." With that, Methos left, happy that Joe hadn't questioned him in more detail. His first order of business was to contact Amanda. Once he got to the lobby, he pulled out his cell phone and called her. "I'm standing near the front door to the Waldorf," he told her. "Want me to come to you or can you pick me up?" "Be there in 10, sweetie." Mentally giving her fifteen minutes instead, Methos walked over to the ATM and withdrew some money. Most of his cash was in Euros, and the few dollars he had spent on the cab from St Pats. With nothing better to do, he walked outside and waited. The bellboys gave him suspicious looks, but after Amanda drove up and flashed her wicked smile, they relaxed and appeared envious. "Where are we off to?" she asked, moving out into traffic. "Your place. I want to go over the details and see what else we need to do. I want to hit the place tonight." "Why?" "Joe's meeting with Irons, so that should get them out of the mansion by eight. We'll go in then." It didn't take long to reach the Crowne Hotel. Amanda parked, and the two went up to her room. Methos opened his backpack and placed the accoutrements onto the bed. She picked up the strobe light and turned it on. "This reminds me of the sixties with my mini-skirts, leather boots and lots of dancing. How can this be a weapon?" "I'll explain later. Tell me what you've accomplished." "I've got the map to the house." Amanda took out the blueprints and spread them out on the floor. "There are three floors, but the building is sprawled out. There are three main doors. One in front has a long circular drive, and a porch that would rival any southern plantation. There is a side entrance, which is the one most often used." She pointed to each as she described them. "Then there is this back door. It goes into a glass enclosed room with an olympic-sized pool. Then there is an entry into the house from there, although it is cleverly disguised." Methos nodded, getting his bearing on the rest of the layout. "If we go in through the pool room, and then into this large foyer it will take us close to the kitchen and dining areas. From there we can access the rest of the house." "Looks as if the library is on the second and third floors. But what's this room?" "I don't know. It has interesting gas and water lines. It almost resembles a lab, but I've never heard of one in a residence before." Methos remembered Cassandra telling him about Iron's cloning experiments. Maybe having the lab in your home kept it all very secret. "This is good work, Amanda," he praised. "Do you have all the tools we'll need to get in?" "Brought my best. So tell me what you've got." "This is to keep radio-contact. It will be on at all times so if you or I get caught, the other will know and act accordingly. The most important thing is to get that painting out." "What if I see something else that catches my eye?" "I don't care if you help yourself to something extra. Consider it payment for services." Amanda gave him a cat-like grin. "My kind of work. Now tell me about this light." "We might have one serious problem. Ian Nottingham. He's head of security for Kenneth Irons and his body-guard. However, Nottingham's been genetically enhanced. He has super-human hearing and sight and possibly more. Don't wear any perfume, because he might be able to identify you by your scent. However, his sensitive eyesight is vulnerable to flashing lights, especially if they're very bright in a dark room. It will be the only way to disarm him and it can be used only once. If he catches you, stall until I let you know I've made it to the car with the painting, flash him with the light and run like hell. If I get caught, just get the hell out and I'll handle Nottingham." "Leave you holding the bag?" "I can handle it. I would prefer not to have him know I'm there, but if--well, I'll figure out what to do then." "What happens tomorrow?" "I'm taking Joe and getting the hell out of New York. He'll likely get blamed for the theft, so I have to make sure he's out of the way." "Wouldn't it be better for him to stay and deny all knowledge?" "I don't know if he can pull it off. He'll know I took it and he might inadvertently reveal my guilt. Remember, Nottingham can tell if you're lying by your heartbeat." "Jeez, a human lie-detector. What if you and Joe get caught leaving town?" "We won't have the painting and I'll tell them we're sight-seeing. Adam Pierson's never been to New York and I don't think Joe's been here in the past decade or two." Methos was quiet, trying to think if he forgot anything. "We'll meet in front of Fortuneoff's on Fifth Avenue." "So, where are you off to now?" Amanda asked. "MacLeod's at his kinsman's place. I'm going to let him know that I'm taking Joe tomorrow so he won't worry. They didn't travel together, but MacLeod knows he's here." "Duncan's in New York? I might have to console him tomorrow. He might miss you." Methos laughed. "If you can keep him from following us it would be a help." He picked up his coat and sword and went to the door. "See you tonight." He could still hear Amanda's laugh as he got in the elevator. VII Timothy Wyatt could hardly believe his eyes. Methos was meeting with Amanda on the sly. Why was it so important that she stay at a different hotel than him? Amanda was a first-class thief. Tim knew that Methos planned to steal the painting for himself. It was the only logical answer. Well, Tim wasn't going to let the Immortals get away with it. He would dog Methos and when he came out with the painting, he'd take it from him-- from *them*. Amanda must be helping Methos to get in. The question was when? Could it be tonight? Tomorrow night? Tim hoped it was sooner. Going without sleep and food would be difficult enough, without the wait becoming interminable. Suddenly Methos burst out of the Crowne Hotel. The oldest Immortal looked around, spotted him and walked over. "You must be getting cold standing around outside. Want to share a cab? I'm sure we're headed in the same direction," he mockingly commented. Tim could only nod like an idiot, but inside he was fuming. VIII Sara was getting restless. Nothing was getting accomplished by sitting around this very nice, eclectic apartment. She had made up her mind; now she had to deal with the church people. "Why can't you drive me back to my apartment?" she asked Duncan. "Because Cassandra said we should wait for her. I was to keep you safe until she comes for you today." "I don't need a damn bodyguard. I'm a New York City cop. I've learned how to take care of myself ages ago." "But you won't be required to *fight* your way out of this situation. It will require finesse and wit." Sara could almost hear him thinking that she lacked both. Why did he think that she couldn't take care of herself? She'd just have to escape on her own. Duncan's eyes were on her, as if guessing her thoughts. "How about some lunch? I can whip up some crepes with--" "Don't you ever eat regular food? Last night you made that weird concoction with cheese and--and--other stuff." Duncan went into the kitchen and perused the fridge and cupboards. "I see some hamburger. How about spaghetti?" "How about just hamburgers? I don't want a whole plate of pasta for lunch." She knew she was being bitchy, but couldn't help it. It was being confined that made her irritable. His understanding look didn't help matters. While he busied himself in the kitchen, Sara grabbed a magazine from the pile and began flipping through it. Most of the kitchen was hidden from her view, but she could hear him singing some god-awful tune as he worked. "Would you like some wine?" he called to her. "No. A Coke would be better." She set the magazine down and picked up another. This one was full of glossy pictures. The cover showed a large castle. It was a travel book. She opened it back up and actually began reading. The castle was French, built in the 1700s. Way after her time. Sara froze. Way *after* her time? She was not Joan of Arc, no matter what people said. The picture made her remember her vision and the castle dungeon she had been locked in. The priest's face seemed familiar to her. It really shouldn't surprise her. After all, Ian Nottingham represented de Alencon. She could almost make a case that Irons was King Charles, but not quite. Then there was Pierson and de Morency. A door closed, breaking into her thoughts. Voices came from down stairs. Suddenly Duncan appeared in the room holding a sword. "Someone's here. Quick, go into your room and don't let them see you." When she didn't move right away, he grabbed her arm and pulled her up. "Now!" Reluctantly she did as he bade, but she left her door open a crack so she could hear. Her wrist began to grow warm. She looked down and saw the red stone swirling, bringing white and different shades to the top. Her mind flashed quickly on Joan, sparring with her teacher de Morency, and then she saw Adam Pierson as he flew into her apartment, thinking that she was in danger. Her heart was pounding and her breaths came in shallow gasps. She could hear voices now coming from the living room, but her body was frozen in place and all she could do was listen. "What in the hell are you doing here?" Duncan asked. "Had to make myself scarce. You know, Watcher business. Any beer in the fridge?" "No." "That's okay, I brought my own." There was some rustling of a paper bag. "Methos, you can't stay," Duncan spoke quietly, but firmly. Sara recognized the voice. Pierson. Yet, Duncan had called him Methos. Shivers ran down her spine as she said the name silently. "Why not?" Sara could almost picture the puzzlement on Pierson's face. "Are you in the middle of something important?" Sara could hear shoes as they hit the ground. She peeked and saw *him* sprawl on the couch. Duncan was pacing the room. "Would you sit, MacLeod? Relax; you're starting to make me nervous." "This is just not a good time." "Why isn't this a good time? I don't feel another Immortal here? Are you expecting a challenge?" "No. I'm not. I'm just helping someone out." "Why is it that I can't leave you alone for a few days without you risking your neck for--" "I'm not risking my life and if I was, it's mine to risk." Duncan sounded emphatic. "So, why is it mine to bail you out when--" "I've never asked you to bail me out." "MacLeod, you're too important to lose because of your idiotic sense of morality." "I thought it was my idiotic sense of morality that *made* me too important to lose?" "Right, a double edged sword. Don't I know it." Pierson gave an exaggerated sigh. Sara heard a ping against the wall. "Don't flip bottle caps in Connor's house," Duncan scolded. "Why are you really here? In New York? And don't tell me it's to keep an eye on Joe." "Joe's getting old, Mac. Can't you believe I just want to spend time with him?" "You never do anything without a reason." "That's my reason." "Cassandra's in New York." Sara could feel the electricity in the air. Somehow Duncan thought this would be news to Pierson. "I know. I've seen her." Seen her? Sara fumed. Cassandra didn't say anything to her. "What for?" "Had to warn her about something." "Did you meet on Holy Ground?" "I'm not stupid, although I don't think she wants me dead anymore. I guess even I have my uses." Sara felt her hands push the door open and her feet propel her out. There she paused, getting a clear look at Pierson, although he hadn't noticed her yet. Absently she twirled the Witchblade around her wrist. "What did you have to warn her about? Someone hunting her?" Pierson looked at Duncan and laughed. "Now you think I want to save her life?" "You did before. You stopped Silas from killing her and took his head yourself." "That is something I am trying to forget." There was an edge to his voice that made Sara's skin prickle. Despite appearances, she could tell he was a very dangerous man. "You're avoiding the question." Duncan sounded irritated. There was a long pause, then Pierson spoke. "It has something to do with the Catholic Church. You know Cassandra has been a nun a few times." "Catholic Church? Oh, how could I have missed the connection." "What connection?" Pierson asked. His voice echoed his nervousness. "You came to New York because of Joe, yet you went to visit Cassandra? I don't think so. It just so happened that Joe was also coming here because of me." "You?" Pierson laughed. "You certainly have a high opinion of yourself. Did you ever consider that Joe came here for reasons of his own? Watcher business?" There was a pause. "Okay, I'll concede that point. Joe comes to New York for *that* reason. I come because of Rachel. Why are you here? You said something to do with the Catholic Church and then admit you've seen Cassandra." "We've been through this, MacLeod." "You're here because of the woman Cassandra's asked me to hide." "Hide?" Pierson jumped to his feet. "Sara?" He looked around and his eyes collided with hers. "Hello, Adam Pierson. It seems I owe you a debt." Pierson took a deep breath and exhaled, relaxing slowly. "Detective Pezzini. A pleasure to see you again." "So, you do know each other," Duncan commented inanely. Sara ignored him, her focus totally on the man in front of her. The one she had desperately wanted to see again. "I didn't know you were here…," Pierson began. "Or you wouldn't have come," Sara finished for him. "I do get the picture you've been avoiding me. So, you were the one who warned Cassandra about the Church officials coming after me," she accused. "Why couldn't you have told me yourself?" "You're *her* student," he replied. "But I was yours at one point," she reminded him. "You are not Jeannette. You're Sara; don't get confused." Sara laughed. "You know, you're the only one who seems to think that way. Cassandra sometimes forgets and calls me Jeannette and sometimes she calls Nottingham, Alencon. But we're not those people although you *are* de Morency." "I am." "Who is de Morency?" Duncan asked, trying to get back in the conversation. Pierson answered. "I was a knight bound to Joan of Arc." Duncan laughed. "You? Weren't you the one who preached to me about getting involved with lost causes?" "I defended a person, MacLeod. Not an ideal." "That's what Cassandra said." "She did? How perceptive of her." Sara felt the conversation had drifted away from her and focused on Duncan. Why was he attacking Pierson's ideals? "She as a woman was doomed to fail, but her ideals lived on, and it didn't take long for the French to rid themselves of the English. I think you're jealous because the Scots were never able to do so." "So, were you defending the ideal or the woman?" MacLeod continued. "I wanted to be near the woman because she held such ideals." "Because you have so few of your own?" "Touche, Highlander." Pierson, or rather Methos, tipped the beer bottle in an awkward toast. "Listen, guys, as much as I'm enjoying your argument, aren't we missing the point?" Both men looked blankly at her, yet she could see a twinkle in Pierson's eyes that led her to believe that he was participating in the argument for fun. Duncan was not; he was all seriousness. "Yes, Sara, do tell us the point," Pierson asked sarcastically. Then he plopped himself back down on the couch. "I don't need to hide from the pope's representatives. I'm ready to face them." "Are you going to give it back or fight to keep it?" "I don't need to fight. It has chosen me; they can't take it. My time isn't done." Pierson smiled widely. "Brava, my lady. Your will, will be done." Sara shifted uneasily from one to the other. "Methos, huh? I heard him call you Methos. How many names have you had?" she asked trying to shift the conversation away from herself. The two men exchanged looks and Sara almost laughed at their discomfiture. "Too many to count. You remember me as de Morency and Adam Pierson. But if you look further back, you might find me again under another name. If you do, let me know." "Is Methos your real name?" "What do you mean by real? Is it the name my mother gave me? I have no idea; I don't remember a mother. Methos is the earliest name I do remember, so I guess you would call it real. But, aren't all names real in the context in what they're given? Is Sara Pezzini the name your birth mother gave you?" Sara continued undaunted. She refused to let him take charge. "Does Jake know your name is Methos?" "He knows, but would prefer to call me Adam. It's what he's used to." "Who's Jake?" Duncan inquired. "My partner," Sara answered. "And a school chum of his." "School chum?" Duncan parroted. "As in Geneva?" "Bingo!" Sara started to get an idea. It was obvious that the two men were very close friends. From the beginning of the conversation it sounded as if Pierson was actually protective of Duncan. And if Immortals had to fight with a sword, they must have to practice--a lot. Cassandra stressed sparring at every opportunity. "Duncan, before I go and tackle the envoy, can I ask you a favor?" "Sure, lass." Pierson rolled his eyes. "I want to watch the two of you spar with swords. I see visions of battles, but only when the two combatants want to kill each other. I'd like to see a fight between two people who are friends." Duncan laughed. "Well, Methos. Are you up for it? Have you even done anything more strenuous in the last week than walk up a few flights of stairs?" Pierson smiled wickedly. "I generally don't perform for an audience, but I think I can make this one exception. Where does Connor usually go?" "He has a warehouse on the next block." "Shall we?" Pierson entreated. Sara thought the anticipation was almost overwhelming. To actually see two men who were totally proficient in swordplay was beyond her wildest imaginings. Visions of what it was like in the fifteenth century could not compare with seeing the real thing. The weapons they were going to use were not fencing foils with blunted tips, but full-length blades, sharp enough to cut off a man's head. Duncan showed them a shortcut that bypassed Hudson Street, and took them in an alleyway between buildings and then into a large boarded up warehouse. Inside, the walls were dirty and filled with cobwebs, but the floor looked as if it had been swept and kept free of clutter. Sara found a seat on an old crate and the two men began circling each other. Pierson took off his sweater, and tossed it to one side. Suddenly it started. Swords clanged against one another as both men attacked and parried in turn. As they fought she found herself mesmerized by the motion and sound. Duncan and Pierson faded and she saw de Morency sparring with Alencon. Their fight was not as friendly; both wanted to wound the other. Yet, they were not fighting to the death. It was more of a rivalry. Sara interpreted it as a male pissing contest. The pair disintegrated and she saw instead Dante fighting the man in shadow as in her dreams. This time the shadow wasn't incomplete and it began to have more than form. It had jeans and a sweater. The face had features--Pierson's features. Now she clearly saw the two combatants and they were fighting to the death. It was written on both faces. It was the scene that haunted her dreams. The need to kill to survive. "Nice block!" Duncan exclaimed. "Didn't know you could move so fast." Reality intruded. Pierson laughed. "I've never needed to before." Their friendship and mutual respect shone through the darkness of her vision. The man in shadow finally had a face and a name. Swords continued to thrust. Feet and hands were also used as weapons with deadly skill. Yet their faces sported smiles that went from mouth to eyes. They were having fun, which even the casual observer could see. Sweat began to form on the two men, hair became stringy and yet neither sounded winded. At one point she thought she heard a sound and turned, but couldn't see how anyone could have gotten in. It must have been a rodent or two. Several slashes by Pierson ripped Duncan's shirt, yet he didn't stop to look. In return, Duncan stepped forward and sliced down Pierson's forearm. He merely switched his sword from right to his left hand. Duncan began making comments using a Scottish brogue. Then it was over. There didn't seem to be any sign given, but both stopped simultaneously. Duncan was laughing. "I guess you're not in bad shape after all." "Just because you don't see me work out, MacLeod, doesn't mean I don't do it. You shouldn't act so bloody superior, then it wouldn't amuse me so much to bring you down a peg or two." Duncan threw Pierson a towel, which he used to wipe off the blood from his bare chest. There were no cuts or wounds visible. Sara couldn't take her eyes off him as he put his sweater back on over his head. His pants also had blood soaked into the leg, but he didn't seem to notice or care. The two men shook hands. Pierson leaned over to Duncan and whispered something in his ear. "Leaving? Already?" Duncan exclaimed, sounding almost petulant. Pierson said something else quietly. Sara realized he was telling Duncan something he didn't want her to hear, so she jumped up and walked briskly over. "Goodbye, Sara. It was nice seeing you again," Pierson said to her. "Watch over Jake for me. I've grown quite fond of him." "When'll you be back in Paris?" Duncan inquired. "Whenever Joe says." Pierson whipped the towel at Duncan and then shouted into the warehouse, "Tim, I'm leaving now!" He gave Duncan a wry smile. "You know these kids. Can't find a trail unless you leave them breadcrumbs." Then he sauntered out. Sara wanted desperately to follow, but Duncan held her back. "You can never contain Methos. You let him come and go as he wills, or he'll disappear forever." Sara took the warning seriously. IX Ian settled himself on the roof of McCarty's apartment building. He sat with his legs crossed and his back straight. With closed eyes, he let his senses go, as he searched for the detective's distinctive voice. McCarty was on the phone with a woman. The detective didn't use familiar language, so they obviously weren't friends. They sounded more like co-workers. Possibly she worked for that "other" organization that McCarty belonged to--the Watchers. "Cassandra has been acting strange lately," the woman said. "Did you happen to see her with the dark-haired woman who lives above her?" McCarty asked. "You mean Pezzini? Yeah. The younger Highlander came to visit Pezzini yesterday and they talked for a short while. Next thing I saw was a limousine with a bunch of priests pull up to the curb. They were very dignified and a bit uppity, if you know what I mean. I went up and asked them if I could help, but they gave me the cold shoulder. The only thing I did catch was that they were after Sara Pezzini." "Do you know where she is?" "At some point Cassandra must have gone into Pezzini's apartment, maybe to warn her about the priests, because the three of them came out Pezzini's window. Cassandra was leading with Pezzini behind her and MacLeod bringing up the rear." "You mean Sara is with both of them? Think she knows?" "Cassandra must have told her something because they spend all their free time practicing with a sword." "Cassandra is teaching Sara sword-play? My God, has Sara died that I didn't know about?" "Don't think so. I haven't seen a reaction from Cassandra that says she's near. After the three left the apartment, Cassandra drove them all to the elder Highlander's place. Sara is staying there with Duncan, and Cassandra has left." "Listen, thanks a lot for the information." "What's Pezzini to you?" "She's my partner at the police department. I know she's been investigating, you know, things, and I got a little worried that it might have gotten her in trouble." "Only with a bunch of priests. Good luck finding your partner." Ian heard McCarty disconnect. Did McCarty know where this elder Highlander lived? The detective left soon after the phone conversation and headed for his car. Ian had no trouble following McCarty, but to his surprise, McCarty went to Chambers Street and Sara's apartment. However, he rang Cassandra's bell. "Who is it?" she asked. "Cassandra, this is Jake McCarty--Sara's partner. Can I come up?" Ian waited for the detective to get up to Cassandra's apartment and then went back and sat down on the fire escape to listen. "Hello, Detective McCarty. What can I do for you?" "I want to know how Sara is. I'm very worried." "I have her someplace safe." "I know. She's with Duncan." "How did you--oh, I forgot your *connections*. I just didn't think Dawson would tell you private things like that." Ian heard McCarty's heart beat faster. The man was decidedly nervous. "Doesn't matter how--" "Oh, Melanie informed you," she said airily. "You know about Melanie Hinds?" he asked, sounding incredulous. "Not officially." "But she's not the problem here. It's Sara. She's in trouble." Ian could hear the anxiousness in McCarty's voice. "I have it handled, Jake. Sara is not in any trouble that is impossible to get out of. You don't need to worry for her welfare." "Pierson's in town." "I know. We've talked. He's as concerned about her as I am." "What kind of sway does he have with the Catholic Church?" "Absolutely none. Let it rest and don't go and find her. No doubt, Kenneth Irons is as eager to locate her as you. Don't lead Ian Nottingham to her door. That won't solve anything." Ian started swearing to himself. The witch was interfering again and not letting him complete his job. Maybe he needed to force McCarty into escorting him to this Highlander's house. The phone rang. Cassandra picked it up. "Listen, Cass, Sara is going stir-crazy. She says she's made up her mind and knows what to do." "Let me talk to her, Duncan." Ian filed the sound of Duncan's voice away in his mind for later analysis. "Cassandra. They won't be a problem. Tell your friend to let me come home. They can't touch me." Ian felt Sara's voice. His hyper-sense of hearing allowed each timber to resonate within his body. Yes, he whispered to himself. Let her come home. "All right, Sara. If you're sure. Your partner is here with me and is very anxious to talk to you." There was some rustling, and Jake spoke next. "Sara? Are you okay?" "I'm fine Jake. Just been getting to know Duncan and your old school chum a little better." Ian heard Jake gasp then ask, "Adam was over there?" Cassandra's heart stopped momentarily. Ian was surprised to note such a reaction from the witch. Possibly the two weren't friends. This fact might be something they could exploit in the future. "He didn't know I was here," Sara replied. "He came to visit Duncan. I was a surprise." "Did you accuse him of killing Dante?" "Actually the subject never came up. He did tell me to protect you 'cause he's grown quite fond of you. From everything Duncan implied, I take it *Adam* doesn't care about a lot of people." Cassandra ripped the phone out of his hand. "How long did Pierson stay?" "Long enough," Sara answered. "It was in fact rather cathartic. Those nightmares I've been having won't be coming back. I've replaced the sight with something much more enthralling." "Of what?" "Of him sparring with Duncan. It was quite an experience." "We'll talk about this later." Ian heard the tightness in Cassandra's voice. She was definitely upset. "Have Duncan bring you home." Ian got up from the fire escape and climbed up to Sara's apartment. Then he moved into his favorite alcove and waited for his Lady Sara to return. X Joe wheeled himself into the restaurant, just a little ahead of his companion, the rich and infamous Kenneth Irons. The man was a slimy, sleazy ass. The longer Joe knew Irons, the more Joe despised him. Yet, he wanted the painting. All through the tour, Kenneth Irons would give him anecdotes about the individual pieces, yet the man showed no warmth. Joe was careful not to let Irons know exactly what he wanted, but the man was too cagey. As soon as Joe saw the painting, Irons knew. He gave one of his ingratiating smiles and informed Joe that the painting was not for sale, under any circumstance. Keeping up with his persona of wealthy art buyer for the French museum, Joe continued the tour, hoping that maybe there would be another painting of Darius. It seemed that Irons was obsessed with Joan of Arc. What if he could trade? Surely somewhere the Watchers could get their hands on some authentic Joan of Arc relic that Irons might want in exchange. It was something to consider. XI Methos met up with Amanda at the appointed time. She was attired in a tight black leather ensemble, complete with all her tools of the trade. Methos drove to the mansion, noting that the limo was not in the side driveway. He had called Joe and verified that he was on the way to the restaurant with Kenneth Irons. Unfortunately, Nottingham wasn't the driver. Methos had counted on the fact that Irons would have wanted Nottingham with him to monitor Joe during their conversation. However, Sara wasn't at home. Possibly Nottingham was out looking for her. That would certainly work in his favor. Methos pulled the vehicle around the corner near a bunch of trees and turned off the engine. Hidden among the trees was a small power box. Amanda gave Methos a secretive smile and pulled out a decoder. "Irons had a separate solar-charged generator and relay system installed after the house was built. From what my friend Bert tells me, someone from inside Irons' organization installed it, but Bert knew about it as soon as it was ready." Methos nodded as she typed in a few numbers and then listened carefully, changing numbers and order until Methos heard a click. The box swung open and Amanda cut and spliced some wires together. "This will deactivate the cameras, without short-circuiting the system. They'll never see us," she smiled conspiratorially. Next, Amanda pulled out her equipment, and they divvied up what each would need. Methos gave her the strobe, hoping that she wouldn't need it. They put in the ear-pieces and checked the mics. "Can you hear me?" Amanda asked, quietly. "Loud and clear," Methos answered. Before reaching the house, they would need to hop a fence and traverse a small wooded area then cross a wide expanse of lawn. It was still better than parking in the driveway. The two Immortals smiled at each other and began the journey to the house. As Amanda hopped over the fence, Methos turned to see if Timothy Wyatt, his trusty Watcher, was near. The lad was still in his car, gazing at them in blatant dislike. Good. With any luck, he'd still be there when they got back. XII Kenneth Irons was trying to endure. His guest was not refined and seemed to lack breeding. That came as a surprise, since when he called the Musee de l'Histoire de France, they had gushed about Francis Bradley's accomplishments. The only high point to the evening was when Kenneth found out that Bradley could read medieval Gaelic. They talked a bit about Celtic traditions and the man did know quite a bit about that. As the waiter brought a dessert menu, Nottingham slipped in the dining area and headed for the bar. Kenneth excused himself and joined him. "Have you found her?" "Yes. She is home. The man Duncan MacLeod, from Paris, is a friend of Cassandra's." "Interesting. We have two strangers in our midst, both from France." "Two?" "Your Duncan MacLeod and my dinner guest, Francis Bradley." "Coincidence?" "I think not," Kenneth answered with complete conviction. "Do you want me to follow your guest to the hotel and see if MacLeod pays a visit?" "I would like you to go home and sleep. We'll have a busy day tomorrow, but do stop off at the Waldorf and see if you can find anything in Bradley's room first." "Yes, master." Kenneth gave Ian a quick smile and returned to the table. Only one more course to go, before he could conveniently dispose of his dinner guest. The only need was to give Ian time to peruse the hotel room. Then Kenneth could relax in front of the fire with a brandy. XIII Methos followed Amanda down the long corridor. Expensive paintings covered all the walls. Glass enclosed shelves contained all kinds of other pieces of art--jade and ivory figurines, medieval medical tools, Methos recognized them from personal use. He glanced at his companion and could see the drool dripping from her gaped mouth. "Easy, girl. We have a mission first." Her wide eyes turned to him. "I had no idea he was such a collector. I'll have to come back here again." "That's if we get out alive this time." She shrugged her shoulders. "Details," she commented dryly. "I think the library is this way." They turned down one branch and suddenly were walking along on a balcony overlooking a den area, complete with fireplace, large screen TV and multiple cases of books. Directly across from him was *the* painting. Jeannette's tortured eyes were looking at the painter and the three men of God were there wearing differing expressions. One was of course Darius, with his sorrow evident. One was obviously Cauchon. He hated Jeannette. His eyes dripped poison every time he looked at her. The third was La Fontaine. He was afraid of her power and that she might direct it toward the destruction of the Church. How had Darius found himself in such illustrious company during her execution? Methos didn't remember Darius ever talking with either of them. Most of his dealings had been with Nicolas de Houppeville, and to a lesser extent, Jean Lemaitre. "You going to stand there until Irons comes home?" Amanda asked, nudging him back to the present. "I'll get the picture," Methos told her. "I won't need any help. You keep watch and let me know if anyone comes home." "And if I see anything interesting?" "Only if it's easy to get. I don't want any alarms going off." Her eyes widened incredulously. "Moi? I don't set off alarms. I'm much too good for that." Methos rolled his eyes. "You've got five minutes and then meet me back at the pool." She nodded, obviously eager to be off. XIV Ian closed the door to Bradley's hotel room. He glanced around at the huge suite, surprised that the man would require so much room. There were two bedrooms, and much to Ian's surprise both were being used. There was a set of artificial legs sitting across one of the beds. Several suits hung in the closet and the required underwear, socks and t-shirts were in the drawers. The luggage was open and nothing was inside. Nothing seemed out of place. He went into the other bedroom. Very few clothes were in here. A few pair of jeans and sweaters were folded neatly in the drawers. The closet only held a coat. Several empty bottles of beer littered the nightstand. However, inside his case was a passport. Ian eagerly opened it and then stared at it dumbly. The name read Adam Pierson, but the face…, oh, he remembered the face from his dreams. It was de Morency. With shaking fingers, Ian put it back and left the hotel room. He needed to think. Mr. Irons had told him to go home and sleep and that was what he'd do, except for sleeping. He'd never be able to sleep with de Morency's ghost hovering near. XV Amanda walked confidently down the corridor, sliding into alcoves whenever house security came too close. She hadn't decided if she was going to take anything, but maybe just scope the place out first to see if there was anything worth a second trip. She turned down another hallway and found it lined with suits of armor. Much to her surprise they were authentic, not modern reproductions. Dents and bloodstains were still visible on some of the specimens. Some types she recognized. There was a time when she had lived as a camp follower. It wasn't the greatest existence, but it had kept her away from the law in whatever town she had been trying to escape from. No matter where she had lived, there had always been an army. Soldiers didn't care who took care of their lust, when they were far from home. Shaking her head from the now unpalatable memories, she strode on, gazing at the other instruments of war. Maces, axes, swords of all types decorated the walls. Between two suits was a doorway that led into a kind of gym. Exercise mats covered the floor, towels hung on hooks and…Amanda gasped. A beautiful, ivory-handled katana leaned against the wall. It had obviously been used, since it wasn't hung on the walls, or encased in glass. She walked over to it, picked it up and twirled it a few times, mimicking Duncan's practiced movements. It was gorgeous and now it was hers. Her five minutes were probably up, so she turned to leave the room. Stepping into the hallway, she stopped suddenly, faced with a man, with long, slightly curly dark hair. His feet were spread apart, and his arms hung loosely at his side. Their eyes connected, and a rush of feminine appreciation made her eyes glow. He was just as beautiful as-- "Leave my sword," he commanded, breaking into her thoughts. Amanda brought the blade up and pretended to gaze appreciatively at it, yet her eyes never left his. "Where did you get it?" she asked, wanting to hear him speak again. "I took it from a dead Samurai." "You use it often, Ian?" She wanted to know if this was the man Methos feared. He nodded. "You have me at a disadvantage." "Yeah, I do." She twirled the blade, but his eyes remained on her. "But, then in some respects, you have *me* at a disadvantage, too." She made no attempt to get past him. Simple curiosity held her spellbound. Consciously she let her body exude sensuality. "No one told me how beautiful you are. You remind me of a black panther, all sinew and grace." He didn't look discomfited, nor did he puff up like peacock. She walked slowly over to him. Her right hand held the sword firmly, but her left hand reached up to grasp a curl and run the strands between her fingers. "So soft for such a dangerous warrior." "Why are you here?" he demanded, knocking her hand away, then with lightning speed, reaching to take the sword away. But she, aware of his capabilities, had been ready and swerved to avoid his grasping fingers. She decided to answer his question. "One of my passions is snooping. I love going through large estates looking for treasures." "Mr. Irons would have been glad to show you around." "Where's the fun in that? Besides, he might not be willing to show me everything." While her eyes caressed his body, her mind was rapidly calculating how long she had to keep him talking. Methos would be able to hear their conversation, since the mic was on, but he wouldn't be able to talk, because then Ian would know that she wasn't alone. "Leave my sword," he ordered again. "But, I like it. I want to give it as a gift to someone who's very passionate about katanas," she quirked an eyebrow, "and claymores for that matter. You have any of those?" He looked like he had had enough. Amanda could tell by his eyes that he was getting ready to make his move. "I couldn't talk you into a drink by the fire and some more," she paused seductively, "talk?" she asked, while holding his eyes with her own and slipping her left hand into her pocket. His attention was on her face so he never saw her pull out the strobe light. He lunged once more to take the katana. Leaping backward, she kept out of his grasp, swinging the sword to keep him from following her movement. However, with a rapid come-back, he reached out after her swing and clutched the blunt side and held tight. She let go of the sword, causing the hilt to drop toward the floor. At the same time she flicked on the light. As he looked down to retrieve the weapon, his eyes collided with the strobe. Ian froze. His pupils dilated and his body began to shake, as if a seizure had taken hold of him. Not sure how long this would last, she spoke into the mic. "Where are you?" she hissed. "I'm at the car. Get here, now!" Amanda needed no second urging. Picking up the katana, she fled down the hallway, making her way swiftly to the poolroom, out onto the lawn and across the property to where Methos had hidden the vehicle. XVI Methos could now see her as Amanda ran up to the car. He turned the ignition, revving the engine. "Get in," he ordered her. She flung herself into the front seat. Methos pulled out of the hiding place and onto the road. He glanced back to make sure that Tim Wyatt had gotten away. When Methos had first arrived back at the car, Wyatt had been standing there, his hands on his hips like old matron. "Give me the painting. It belongs with the Watchers." Methos kept track of the dialogue between Amanda and Ian Nottingham, while he taunted the young Watcher. "You going to take it from me?" he inquired, curious to see Wyatt's reaction. "Yes," Wyatt boasted. Methos laughed at the Watcher, while listening to Amanda tease Nottingham. Why did she take the damned sword? "Okay, here." He handed Wyatt the painting, realizing that Amanda was playing for time. "But you better leave now. Amanda's been caught and it's only minutes before the cops will be here." Wyatt blinked at the quick capitulation. Then his eyes narrowed. "You're just going to give it to me?" "For now. Amanda's in trouble; I may need to go back for her. It might be better if I don't have the thing in my possession. At least if you take it, I know where and when I can get it back." Although Wyatt looked uncomfortable, he took the painting and rushed away. Methos smiled. Everything was going according to plan. "You have the painting?" Amanda asked, breaking into his thoughts. "I was able to get it," he answered, glancing over to Amanda, who sat there smugly. "What did you take?" He already knew about the weapon, but was curious to see if she took anything else. "A sword." She pulled it out of her coat and caressed it. "Think MacLeod will like it? I'm thinking of giving it to him as a four hundred and tenth birthday present." "He won't see that birthday for another two years." "I can wait." Methos smiled inwardly. Only Amanda could go into a house full of priceless treasures and steal something she intended to give as a gift to someone else. He looked in his rearview mirror. No Wyatt, no cops. So far he was batting a thousand. Amanda stretched. "I could use a good soak. That Ian Nottingham is something else." "You used the strobe light?" "Had to. Worked very well." She laughed. "It was also a lot less messy than a blade or a gun." "Thought it would appeal to your finer self. I'll drop you off at your hotel. I'm leaving with Joe immediately. I don't want the cops to question him." "Afraid he'll give you up," Amanda commented with a chuckle. "No," he retorted, affronted that she'd think something like that. "If they bring him in, they'll have a connection between Joe Dawson and Francis Bradley. Can't have that. It would be better if Bradley just faded away." "I'll see you in Paris, then?" "Maybe in a week," Methos answered, considering his options. XVII Joe wheeled himself from the elevator to his hotel room. His long face reflected both fatigue and disappointment. Irons had refused categorically to part with the painting. Joe had failed and had no idea what to do next. Lifting his tired arm, he unlocked the door and found Methos pacing the room with all their bags packed standing ready by the couch. "What the hell?" Joe exclaimed, wondering what Methos had done now. "We're leaving Joe. I took the liberty of--" "I don't want to leave; I want to go to bed. I've had a hellish evening with a man slimier that any snake I've ever seen." "We don't have time to talk about it now. There's a bellboy on his way--" Methos saw a man in hotel livery walking down the hall toward them. "Joe, I'll explain in the car." Methos ignored Joe's sputtering, and directed the different baggage onto the cart. Then he grabbed Joe's wheel chair and began to push it to the elevator. "I can do it myself." Joe protested, but Methos ignored him. "What about checkout?" "I took care of it," was Methos' surprising answer. Joe knew something bad must have happened to make Methos part with his own money. A black Thunderbird was waiting by the front door. Methos had the luggage stored in the trunk and then gave the hotel people a large tip. Methos folded the wheelchair and stored it in the back seat, next to Joe's artificial legs. "You can put them on later," Joe was told. By this time, Joe had stopped complaining and just went with the flow. Methos on a mission would not be thwarted. Methos took the wheel and drove them away from the hotel. Joe stayed alert, watching to see what was coming next. Would they go to a new hotel? To the airport and a flight back to Paris? No. Instead, Methos drove them out of the city. The big lights disappeared and New York State Thruway signs were prevalent. Once Methos relaxed and found a cruising speed, Joe tried his questions again. "What happened?" "I broke into Irons' estate while you were having dinner with him and stole the painting. I knew--" "You did what?" Joe exploded. "I knew you wouldn't have any luck getting 'the slimy snake' to part with his priceless picture of Joan of Arc, so I did it for you." "Is it in the car?" Joe asked horrified, thinking about getting stopped by state troopers. "No. I gave it to my Watcher, Timothy Wyatt." "Why'd you do that?" "One, get him off my trail so you and I can disappear. If he gets caught, he won't have any idea where we are. Two, he can get it out of the city better than I can. I would prefer not to take stolen merchandise on an international flight." "Did he know he was part of your plan?" Methos smiled slyly. "Doubt it." "So, where are we going?" "I don't know. I thought at first we'd fly to Albany and fly to Paris from there. But, now I'm thinking about Toronto. Crossing the border is relatively easy, and I thought you'd like to see Niagara Falls. I haven't been there in over a hundred years. Might be fun." Joe grumbled to himself. He had been to the tourist trap. The falls were nice, but not in the winter when walking was treacherous. That wasn't even taking into account the ice and cold and wind. He shivered thinking about. "Yeah, might be fun," Joe echoed and then leaned against the door and closed his eyes. He was exhausted. Maybe he'd sleep all the way across the state. XVIII Kenneth walked into his home and called out for Ian. Didn't matter where Ian was located, he could always hear when his master called. Yet, Kenneth made it all the way to his favorite room without Ian's appearance. One of his security guards walked silently up to him. "We've had a breech." Kenneth felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. "Where's Ian Nottingham?" "Don't know, sir. They came in from the back through the pool room." "Professionals?" "Very. Only one thing was taken." "A painting?" "Yes. The one in the library." Kenneth felt the bile rise in his throat. He had been out-maneuvered and then cheated. Dinner had been a ruse to get him out of the house, so Bradley's associates could steal what they couldn't buy. "Nottingham!!" Kenneth screamed, furious that Ian had let it happen. Kenneth waited for Ian to appear, yet he was still absent. He rang for more of his security personnel. "Find Nottingham," he commanded. Going into the library, he poured himself a glass of brandy and sat down in the wing-backed chair and stared at the empty wall, where the painting of the burning Joan of Arc should have been. He swirled the amber liquid around in the snifter, thinking, and planning revenge on the man who had duped him. "Sir?" Kenneth looked up at the man cowering in the doorway. "You find him?" "Yes. He's upstairs, lying on the ground in a seizure. There's a doctor with him now." Kenneth jumped from his chair and went to the medical wing. He was pacing inside the office when Nottingham was wheeled in on a gurney. Kenneth looked dispassionately at his--slave, worker, personal bodyguard--failure. The man lying there was a mess. His eyes were wide open, dilated, and unresponsive. His body was convulsing. "What happened?" "The person who broke in knew about his gifts and was able to capitalize on a weakness caused by these gifts." The doctor handed him a strobe light-- a very powerful light. "This did this to Ian?" Kenneth asked. "Yes. His mind is locked and all he sees is the light flashing on and off. His body is shaking to the same rhythm." Kenneth turned the light on to verify the doctor's words. "Well, treat him the best you can. Let me know if he comes around." The master of the house sauntered back to the library. He couldn't go to the cops, because the painting was stolen to begin with. He had obtained it during World War Two and had no intention of giving it back to the French. Revenge was all he could look forward to. Yet, where would he start? He didn't need to call to know Francis Bradley was gone from the Waldorf. Jake McCarty. This had all started when the young detective saw the painting and was mesmerized by it. What did he see that had instigated such a large operation to obtain it? It couldn't have anything to do with Joan of Arc, because Kenneth had many more relics worth just as much. He would wait for Ian to come back to him and together they would design a plan. For the first time that evening, Kenneth allowed himself a small smile. Day 6 I Timothy Wyatt preened in front of his father and the US coordinator. The painting of Darius was safely in transit to Marseilles, and he was getting the credit for procuring it. Joe Dawson's role was minimal and would soon be forgotten. Unfortunately, McCarty would still be the one cited for having discovered it. There was nothing Tim could do about that. His father was glowing with paternal pride and Tim was basking under the limelight. He had spent an hour driving around the city last night trying to think of a good story to explain how he obtained the picture. In the end, he told his father what was mostly the truth. He intentionally left out his belief that Methos had intended to give it to him the whole time, and most importantly the threat that the oldest Immortal could get it back any time he chose. Hopefully when the time came, Tim would have reached old age and be retired, if not dead. His father had listened incredulously at first, then had accepted the painting with pride. The next action was to get the picture in the hands of a trusted courier and on its way to France to be authenticated and preserved. Its final destination had yet to be decided. The US coordinator was slapping him on the back and trying to refill his glass of brandy. Tim yawned, tired, but he knew he was too wired to sleep. He glanced at the clock and noted the time was six-thirty in the morning. His mind drifted away from the conversation going on around him, and began to consider Dawson in the light of the theft. Would the old Watcher be in some kind of danger? "Dad?" he tried to gain his father's attention. "Since Dawson was trying to buy the picture and now that it's been stolen, do you think Kenneth Irons will have him arrested?" "That painting is a Van Eyck. I sincerely doubt that Irons legitimately owned the painting. My guess is that he stole it himself many years ago. There is no way he'd bring his own theft into the light. No, he won't go after Dawson." "What if Irons uses another means other than the law?" Howard looked with surprise at Tim. "Dawson can take care of himself. After all, Methos is staying with him." Tim digested the information. He knew that Methos was staying with Dawson. His tired brain sifted through the facts and came up with one concrete conclusion. "They're skipping town!" Tim jumped up and ran for his coat. His quarry was getting away. He drove as fast as he could to the Waldorf and when he got inside was informed that Mr. Dawson had checked out late last night. Tim plopped himself down in one of the lobby chairs in defeat. Methos was gone, without a real Watcher tailing him. Dawson was discounted; anything he might report could hardly be relied on. "Are they gone?" Time looked up to see Jake McCarty standing over him. The old rivalry between the two flickered, but Tim was too tired to care. "Yeah, they checked out last night." "Did Joe get the picture?" So, McCarty didn't know what happened. "No, I did." McCarty's eyes widened in disbelief. "You?" "Well, Methos and Amanda stole it and I took it from them as they came out of the house." McCarty gave an appreciative smile. "He is so damned clever," he said with wonder. "What do you mean?" Tim asked sharply. "Methos is very protective of Joe. He knew that Irons would never sell, which meant the only way to get it was to steal it. This of course would put Joe in danger, so he had to have a way to get rid of the painting after he stole it and then get Joe away from New York. I bet he constantly made sure you were following him these past few days, huh?" Tim didn't like to admit that McCarty was correct. "I didn't lose him, if that's what you mean." "He used you to get the painting to the Watchers, and was able to get you off his tail at the same time, so he could make his escape." "Damn!" Tim was furious, but what else could he have done? He wasn't going to let Methos keep the picture; it belonged to the Watchers. "Are you going to return to Paris and wait for him to show up?" "Not much point in sticking around here." "Methos will go back to Paris with Joe when the heat's off." "I'm sure you're right." II Sara woke slowly, luxuriating in the softness of her own bed. While she appreciated the thoughtfulness of her Immortal friends, she was glad to be home. She had managed to avoid any long talks with Cassandra the night before. But today, it would be a different story. Clean and refreshed, Sara made herself some breakfast and then checked her answering machine. There was at least nine from Gabriel, at first sounding upset, then frantic and finally extremely angry. Taking a large sip from her coffee, she called him. "Where have you been?" he asked, sounding belligerent. "Cassandra decided that I needed to be protected from something so she hustled me out of the apartment to a safe house. After I got all the facts, I decided I didn't need saving. What's going on? I couldn't really understand your messages." "My friend was murdered." "Murdered?" This was news to Sara. "How?" she asked. "Someone tied a rope around his neck and hung him in a stairwell." "Who're the detectives on the scene?" "None, but they said it would be assigned today. Take the case, Sara, please." "Yeah, I'm going in today. I'll talk to the captain about it. Why isn't there a detective already?" There was a pause. "They say it's not murder but suicide." "Oh." Sara's mind began racing. "I'm telling you Sly wouldn't kill himself no matter what people are saying. He was one of my best friends. I've known him a long time. He wasn't suicidal." "Listen, Gabriel. I will check into it." "Use the Witchblade. It'll tell you the same thing." "If it talks to me, I promise to listen. Let me get back to you later." She disconnected and looked at her bed with longing. Would anyone notice if she just climbed between the sheets again and forgot the world existed? With a big sigh and a last swallow of her coffee, she got up and headed to work. As Sara sat on her bike, she noticed a shadow coming toward her. "Nottingham. Expected to see you last night." "Why?" "Well," she paused not sure what to say. She'd been gone and just assumed he would have been looking for her. Why was she disappointed that he hadn't even noticed her disappearance? "I figured--" "Someone broke into Mr. Irons estate last night," he interrupted. Her eyes widened. "Did you kill them?" "No. They knew how to defeat me." "You mean there is a way? I didn't know that. How did they do it?" "Don't you want to know what she took?" "She?" "Actually I think there were two, although they were able to disconnect the surveillance system so we don't have anything on tape." "How unfortunate. So, what did they take?" "The other one took a painting of Joan of Arc. The one *your partner* admired so much last time you were over." Sara remembered Methos asking her to watch over Jake because things might get hot. Then her heart stopped beating as she recalled exactly which painting he was talking about. "The one with the three priests looking on as she burned?" "Yes." Her mind flashed back to the day when she and Jake had gone to confront Kenneth Irons. He had seemed riveted by the picture, she remembered that part. Absently twisting the Witchblade on her wrist, she tried to focus on the painting itself. The three priests. She carefully looked at each. "Darius," she said in wonder. The priest with the sword tip showing beneath his robes had been the same one from her vision. The same one who had claimed to be a friend of de Morency's. Pierson had stolen the picture because of Father Darius, not because of Joan of Arc. "Did he take anything else?" "*She* took my sword." Sara raised an eyebrow. "Someone stole a sword? Kinda hard to believe." "I think the man who stole the painting is the same one who killed Captain Dante." Sara's heart stopped beating for a second. Did Nottingham know about Immortals? Had he been listening in on any of her conversations? "Why do you think that?" she asked hesitantly. "A man by the name of Francis Bradley, representing a museum in France, met with Mr. Irons last night to talk about buying that particular picture. I took a look in their hotel room and Bradley was traveling with a man by the name of Adam Pierson." He paused, now looking Sara right in the eyes. "De Morency." She stiffened, swallowing thickly. "You think this man killed Dante and came back a few months later to steal the painting?" "Yes. I do. I realize now that you also know this to be fact." Sara didn't acknowledge the query. "So, this Adam Pierson was with another woman, but it wasn't Cassandra?" "No, not the witch. Why would you ask unless--Cassandra also knows Adam Pierson." Sara watched Nottingham digest this new bit of information. "So, you say that this other woman and Pierson broke into the estate and stole only the painting and a sword. Why the sword?" "She liked it." "What kind was it?" "It was a katana with an ivory hilt. And mine." His possessiveness was apparent. "I notice you don't ask about the painting. Do you know why de Morency wanted it?" "His name is Pierson. I can't imagine why he wanted it." "You are lying to me, Sara. I can always tell." She shrugged her shoulders in pretended nonchalance. "What is so special about the picture?" he asked again. Sara considered telling him the truth. She knew why Pierson wanted it. Somehow Darius was dead--really dead as in he was decapitated. "Pierson probably wanted it for sentimental reasons. Maybe he has memories of Joan of Arc, too." Nottingham's eyes narrowed. "You want me to arrest them?" Sara asked. "I would, but I'm sure they are gone. So is Bradley. They left while I was incapacitated." Sara had to chuckle. It was hard to think of Nottingham as being incapacitated. "Thanks for letting me know." "Why were you gone?" "Cassandra thought I needed protecting. I just had to convince her that I could take care of myself." "Where is Duncan MacLeod?" "You did know I was gone," she accused. "I don't know where he is; why?" "I wish to meet him." "Sorry, can't help you. I'm sure I'll never see him again. Now, I need to get to work. Gabriel needs me to find a killer. His friend was murdered. I don't suppose you know anything about it? That's right, you were incapacitated." Nottingham walked closer to Sara, and reached out and turned on the bike. His arm grazed her shoulder. "I'll talk to you later. After you converse with the envoy from the Vatican. Do you wish me to protect you from them?" "No. I can take care of myself." He nodded and stepped back. Sara revved her bike and when she turned to say goodbye, he was gone. Only the tingling in her shoulder remained. With a determined grunt, she shoved the kickstand up and roared off, leaving rubber on the side road. The precinct was busy. The FBI's presence was finally gone, and things were beginning to settle down. Sara wondered if Jake would be leaving soon. She was getting used to having him as a real partner. "Hey, Pez," Danny greeted her as she walked in. He held out a cup of black coffee and she drank it thankfully. "McCarty around?" she asked. "Not in yet. There's a report I put on your desk about a hanging that happened last night. The officers say it was a suicide, but we can go check it out if you want?" "Yeah. I would. Seems that the dead guy is a friend of Gabriel's. He's convinced that his friend wouldn't have taken the easy way out." She went over and picked up the scanty file. It showed some pictures of the stairs leading up. The living room had piles of papers and the computer monitor was on. The words were illegible. Sara went to look up when her vision clouded and she was in the room from the picture. The words from the monitor became clear, she glanced at them, but then her eyes were riveted on several large posters thumb-tacked to the wall. The man, in caricature, was the spitting image of Kenneth Irons. His silver hair hung diabolically in front of his eyes, and his fist seemed to be ready to strike the world. On his right side was another man, as dark as the other was light. He had on black pants, black shirt, an open black coat, and his eyes were pools of emptiness--Ian Nottingham. Sara felt like she was walking in a comic book. Then she remembered-- that's what Sly did for a living. On the table was a copy of Parricide. Sara walked in her vision over to the magazine and flipped through a few of the pages before a hanging body caught her eyes. It moved as if the male were trying to break free. She dropped the comic and ran up the stairs. The body stilled and its dead eyes bored into hers and then it spoke: "Do I have your attention?" Suddenly Sara was yanked from her vision. "Pez, can I have your attention? Pez, are you okay?" Sara blinked, returning to the present. "Yeah, Danny. I'm fine. I was just thinking." "Your eyes got all weird, kind of glassy." "Guess I was thinking to hard, huh?" She looked back down at the file. "Who finances Parricide?" "What the hell is Parricide?" "Isn't that the comic book that Sly writes for? I'm sure it's in the file here somewhere." She started looking through the thin file, noticing that there was nothing about the comic book inside. "I guess Gabriel told me," she said half to herself. There was a knock at the door. She looked up to find several men wearing expensive black clothes with clerical collars. The leader had to be a bishop, she deduced after noticing his ring. "Can I help you?" she asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. "Are you here to report a murder?" "Murder?" one of them asked, looking puzzled. "Yeah, this is Homicide. That's what we deal with." He looked insulted. "No, we would like to talk to you privately." "Sure," she started to lead them to one of the interrogation rooms, realizing that ironically this time it was she who was to be questioned. "Pez, skipped too many confessions?" Danny whispered as she handed him the file. She smiled in mock humor and then led the Vatican envoy out. "This way," she told them. Deciding against the interrogation room, she instead led them to a conference room. No sense in taking any chances that anyone would listen in or even tape the conversation. That would be bad, very bad. Sara sat primly at the head of the conference table and the other men took seats around the table. "What can I do for you, uh, Fathers?" She purposely sat so that the Witchblade was visible to all. They twitched as they each gazed upon it. Two made the sign of the cross and whispered under their breaths. The bishop spoke first. "We would like to ask for our property back." "I haven't been to church in a long time. Sorry, what property could I possibly have of yours?" "My name is Cardinal Cubiotti and we're from Rome," he announced with an authoritative air. "A cardinal? Really?" Sara tried to look amazed. "Wanting to see me about," she paused deliberately, "property? I still don't understand." "Your bracelet. It is ours." "I thought when you married the church you gave up all worldly goods. How can a piece of jewelry belong to you?" "Don't play games with us, Miss Pezzini. We all know that what you wear is not a piece of jewelry, but a relic. It has belonged to the pope since--" "Since you stole it from Joan of Arc? I've heard and seen most of it. But, pardon me, if you stole it from her, what makes you think it belongs to you now?" "Over six hundred years of possession?" the cardinal responded. "It is a thing of great power and shouldn't be used recklessly." "I agree it shouldn't be used recklessly. However, you are forgetting one point." "What is that?" "It's sentient. It has wishes, demands and a plan. When Joan was captured by the English and tried in that corrupt court of law the Catholic authorities presided over, it was part of its, her, grand plan. The English did exactly what they were supposed to do and that fiasco enabled the French to really come together. But, now, at this time, things are different and it doesn't want to go with you." They all stiffened in their seats. "What do you mean?" "You can't take it from me because it will kill you." "You're threatening us?" "No, simply stating a fact. This *relic* works for women only. I'm sure you know all this. But, did you know that it'll kill when it wants and if any of you touch it, it will burn a hole in your hand? Even if I'm unconscious, it'll do this, because it's alive and always thinking. It doesn't need my mind or body to function." Sara reached down and tried to remove the bracelet from her wrist. It wouldn't budge. "You see. It's stuck." They all stared at her in shock. No doubt they thought that all they had to do was overwhelm her with their collective importance and she'd cave. "Are you refusing?" "No. I'm saying that it belongs to me and that it won't go with you. If you feel confident that it really belongs to you I'm inviting you to take it from me. I will sit here and not move a muscle. I'm just telling you that it won't leave my wrist. It has told me this in no uncertain terms." The Witchblade belonged to her; she believed this totally. They conferred quietly together. When they were done, one man walked over to her. "Are you the sacrificial lamb?" she asked innocently. Her words shook him, but he reached out his hand none-the-same and took hold of the bracelet. It wouldn't move. He twisted and pulled, but nothing happened. Rouen, February, 1431 Jeannette sat as still as possible as d'Estivet yanked up her hand and peered crossly at her ring. "What is this? Were not all articles of jewelry removed from your person before?" Jeannette bowed her head in submission. "This ring is from my mother. I have worn it for many years." "You do not have many days left. Give me that ring!" he demanded. "I cannot take it off. My finger has grown and it had become stuck." "I do not believe you." He grabbed a hold of the ring and tried to slide it off, but it did not budge. His face grew red in anger. "I will make this ring come off," he grunted, pulling even harder. "Please sir, you are hurting me." "Quiet! Guard?" he called out. "Have someone bring in some lye soap. That should loosen it." Her hand had become quite red from his ministrations. They brought the soap and a bucket of water and d'Estivet worked even harder to remove the ring. "This is the work of the devil," he announced. "Any other ring would have slid off but Satan had decreed that this one stay put. Maybe we need to cut off your finger," he suggested maliciously. "No, please. I cannot help it if the ring is too small." Jeannette began to become afraid that the man would cut off her finger if only to make his point. She began to pray to God. "Please make the ring come off, so he won't hurt me," she begged. In the back of her mind, she recalled the woman who had given her a bracelet and then had changed it to a ring, saying that if it ever came off her finger it would be lost to her forever. She didn't know what to do. Suddenly, God spoke and calmed her mind. It was His wish that the ring leave her hand. Reluctantly, she pulled her right hand away from d'Estivet and the ring fell off onto the floor. With a triumphant smile, he reached down to pick it up. The smile fell from his face as soon as he touched it. "Hot! The ring is hot! The Devil is at work in you girl." ^*^*^*^*^*^*^ Suddenly the priest jerked his hand away. "It's hot!" he exclaimed. "It is?" Sara reached down and touched the Witchblade. "I don't feel it." The man walked back to his brothers. "She is right. It will not come off willingly. The Witchblade is feeding off her reluctance to give it to us, so it resists." The cardinal turned to Sara. "You need to want to return it to its proper place, child." "You're probably right. If I truly thought it belonged to you, it might slip from my wrist. But I don't. I think you are still trying to control it as you did in the fifteenth century. I'm not doing anything dangerous with it. I have no intention of taking over the world. I just want to rid this city of as much crime and murderers as I can. Is that wrong?" "You use violence to gain your ends." "Isn't burning a young woman violent? I personally think the Vatican has no right to demand something it took in such an evil way." "We are not responsible. We did not burn Joan of Arc." "No. Personally you didn't. But, you aren't asking for the Witchblade for personal reasons, but because you represent the pope and the leadership of the Catholics. Isn't that right?" The cardinal sat straighter in his seat. "How did you come by this relic?" "I don't really know. I was chasing this assassin and suddenly he was shooting at me. I brought my arm up in reflex to ward off the shot and to my surprise the bullets ricocheted off. I have no idea how it got on my wrist, only that it won't come off." She shrugged her shoulders. "In the beginning, believe me I tried. But as time wore on and it began to communicate with me, I realized that it had blended with my body, making me its own. That's the best way I can explain it. It's my destiny," she told them with utter conviction. The men all looked to the cardinal for direction, but he was still looking at Sara. "God bless your soul, Sara Pezzini, that you know what you are doing. Please don't let it fall into the wrong hands. The fate of this world may depend on it." He gave a sign of the cross and stood. His companions did like-wise. "I think we'll be heading back to Rome now." Sara escorted them out. III Ian stood at the gate watching the Vatican envoy taxi out to the runway. He didn't know how Sara had done it, but they were leaving without the Witchblade and without pressing charges for theft. He was proud of her. Without a second look, he turned and left the airport. He called his master and informed him of the news. "They have gone, and she still wields the blade." "Go to her, Ian. See what changes have taken place in her mind. Is she more sure of herself?" "There has been no Periculum." "There may not be." "Because of the time reversal?" Ian asked. "I believe so. This may have been her test, and she has passed. Tell me, any sign of Bradley and this Pierson?" "No. I have checked and there have been no tickets purchased by them. Your operatives at both Kennedy and La Guardia have reported that they have not been at either airport." "Thank you, Ian. Did you tell Sara bout the thefts?" "Yes." "Did she admit that she knew Pierson?" "Not exactly, but she seemed surprised that the woman accompanying him was not the witch, Cassandra. I believe Adam Pierson has been working with her." "That is interesting and something to investigate. Do you think Pierson knows about the Witchblade?" "I do," Ian admitted. Everything pointed to that fact. While he had the memories of Alencon, Ian believed that Pierson had those of de Morency. "That would make him an enemy." "Yes, master. And formidable since he knew how to use the strobe light to render me unconscious." "Yes, we must not underestimate his determination. Now go see Sara. I want to know how she is doing." "Yes, master." IV Cassandra stirred the beef stew she had been simmering all day. Sara had met with the envoy that morning. What had happened? All day, Cassandra had been waiting to hear. The curiosity was killing her. It wasn't until after five that Sara knocked at the window and stepped in. Cassandra looked directly at her wrist and released the breath she'd hadn't known she was holding as she saw the Witchblade bright with unleashed power. "Hello, Sara." "That smells great. Are you going to invite me for dinner?" Cassandra smiled. "Of course." "Great, I accept. It's been a hellish day and I'm not up to doing anything more strenuous that picking up a bottle of beer and a fork." "No beer, sorry." "I brought my own, don't worry. I left it out on the fire escape." Cassandra couldn't help thinking of Methos and his love of beer. The two had that in common. "Tell me about your visit with Duncan MacLeod. What did you think of him?" "Inquisitive. Wants to know everything so he can help. He was relentless during our jog. But I really enjoyed watching and listening to him interact with Adam Pierson. They really care about each other and it shows in their banter." Cassandra felt a sharp jab of jealousy. She ruthlessly pushed it aside, not wanting to consider those feelings. Sara added, "Nottingham wants to meet him." "Really. That might be interesting to watch." Cassandra felt relief at the change of subject. "Speaking of Pierson, did you know that your friend Adam Pierson broke into Irons' estate last night and stole a painting?" Cassandra stiffened. "No, I didn't. What painting?" "It was of Joan of Arc burning at the stake with three priests standing at the side." "Priests?" "I think one of them was Darius." "Darius? Darius?" she repeated with wonder in her voice. "Was he there, too?" "Yes. From what my visions have told me, Darius was a friend of de Morency's and together they were there at Rouen till the end. Was Darius like you?" "He was. His loss was something none of us could have imagined. Duncan went crazy with grief. Even I, who only knew him a little, was devastated by his death." "Why?" Sara asked. "Because he was truly good. For over fifteen hundred years he had walked the path of peace and yet he was murdered in his own church." She paused, still trying to comprehend that Methos was friends with a man like Darius. "I never knew that they knew each other," Cassandra spoke her amazement, then began to think about how Darius became involved with the situation. "How did Jeannette meet Father Darius?" "He came to her cell in Rouen. He gave me this pep-talk that made me ready to face the trial. Father Darius was my, um, I mean her inspiration. I can still see those eyes, so wise and kind." Cassandra nodded. "I should have realized Darius might have been involved. He had great influence within the university in Paris, and called many of the scholars 'friend.' Yet, he was unable to help Jeannette." Sadness made tears pool in her eyes. "His death was a great loss to so many." "Pierson brought an accomplice with him to Irons' estate." Sara spoke up and looked to be waiting for a reaction. "Amanda," Cassandra spit out, not ready to disappoint her. She despised that Immortal. "Did they take anything else?" "Nottingham said they took his sword." "Did he say what kind it was?" "Katana." Cassandra smiled. "Then that is why it was taken. MacLeod favors katanas; I bet she will give it to Duncan. Both Amanda and Me-- Pierson, think very highly of him. They both love him." Cassandra couldn't suppress the hint of bitterness the crept out in her voice. Unfortunately Sara picked up on it. "Is that a bad thing?" "Amanda is a professional thief. She can steal anything. Although Duncan keeps her honest when they are together. Pierson is, well, you've seen in your visions. I don't like either of them" "Are you jealous that Duncan thinks they are worth liking? Or of the time he spends with them?" "Amanda has never gotten in my way; I just can't see an honest man wanting anything to do with her." "You're always honest?" "No," Cassandra reluctantly admitted. "What are you really jealous of?" "How she can use men and enjoy it at the same time." Cassandra didn't like admitting that to anyone. But she'd much prefer talking about Amanda than Methos. "And Pierson?" Sara asked, as if she knew what Cassandra had been thinking of. "He is different, now. Duncan told me that he had changed. I let him live, because Duncan asked me to, but I fully intended to take his head at the next opportunity." "Why didn't you?" "No opportunity?" Cassandra answered, shying away from the truth. "When he burst into my apartment a few months ago, was that the first time you'd seen him since that incident?" Cassandra walked over to the stew and began stirring it. She didn't want to answer. "Why are you asking me so many questions?" "Because for the first time since we met, I don't feel like I'm out of control and self-absorbed. I can see how much you're hurting. *He* seems to be at the root of it all. You admire Duncan MacLeod. You thought enough of him to ask him to babysit me when I was in trouble. While I was with him, I saw Pierson with him, without him knowing I was there. He wasn't the same man who was in my living room back in November. Yesterday he was relaxed, teasing, acting enigmatic. It was obvious that they share a close friendship. Is that what you're jealous of? You want to be a part of it?" Cassandra asked herself if what Sara said was true. "Me--Adam has let very few people into his life. He's afraid of discovery," "Is that why you won’t say his real name? Because of discovery?" Sara finished for her. "No. It's just easier for me to compartmentalize him when I don't refer to him by the name he used all those years ago. I can still see his face, though, looming over me, saying that he would kill me as often as necessary until I learned that he was my master." "But, he's not your master, and you're not his slave." "No. I'm not. He tried to explain it to me, using some kind of psychology. He said I was in love with him and expected him to protect me. He did nothing to protect me." "Yes, he did. He let you go free. I saw it in my vision. You stabbed that other man and ran off. He knew what you were doing and didn't try and bring you back. He could have." "He let me flee?" "Yes. It looked like it was killing him to do so. He wanted you to stay, but he let you go." Cassandra was quiet, mulling over what Sara had told her. "He *is* different." "I can't see Duncan MacLeod being that close to a monster. He's too noble." "He is at that." Cassandra smiled. "Enough about me. I don't even know how we got onto this subject. Tell me about your meeting with the Vatican envoy." "Not much to tell. We talked. They said they wanted the Witchblade back. I said no; it was mine. They left." "I think there was a lot more to it." Sara smiled. "A bit. Serve up the stew, or are you just going to tease me with the smell?" V Ian sat on the fire escape digesting everything Sara and the witch had been discussing. For the first time in a long while he felt stunned. He couldn't assimilate everything they had said. They confirmed that Adam Pierson was also de Morency and yet he was also someone else who they wouldn't name. He had been a monster. Duncan MacLeod didn't even matter anymore. Even Sara said he was not important. Pierson, however, was. He was a threat to everything. Ian was motionless, hidden in the shadows, as he had been his entire life. Not many knew about him or even cared. Those who noticed usually ended up dead. Except Sara. He let her see bits and pieces, wanting to get close, but afraid to actually do so. Now there was a man who knew his secrets--knew how to disable him. How else would this Amanda know to use a strobe light to get away? Ian had never feared a gun because his reflexes were much too fast. But a strobe light was the kiss of death; it represented a weakness and he wasn't allowed to have a weakness. Yet, he did have one--and it was known to his enemy. Day 8 Epilogue Methos sat in the chair, with his feet propped up on a hassock, admiring the different colors as they were reflected off of Niagara Falls. He had a beer in one hand and the newspaper on his lap. The TV was on in the background, but he paid little attention to it. It was the ice patches, reflecting the laser show's multicolored lights on the rushing water that lulled his mind. March, 1431 Methos sat by the bank of the river watching the small rapids splash against the large boulders and ice chunks lodged in its path. He imagined that the water was Cauchon trying to wear poor Jeannette down, but she was made of stronger stuff. The Inquisitors had never encountered a soul so devout, so sure of its place in the world that they were stymied. Instead of the confession they were hoping to gain, Methos believed they would have to resort to lies. The sound of a rock skipping across the water startled the Immortal. He turned in alarm as he realized that an Immortal presence had snuck up upon him and he hadn't been aware. "She can't be saved," Father Darius said with remorse. "I spoke with Lemaitre. De Houppeville introduced us today." "Didn't we have dinner with de Houppeville two nights ago?" Methos asked. "Yes, Nicolas and I have enjoyed many years of friendly discourse and he plays a fine game of chess." "Who then is Lemaitre?" Darius folded his cloak and sat down on the riverbank beside Methos. "He is to be one of the judges. Cauchon is too bent on her destruction, even if I wished to approach him, but I thought Lemaitre might be willing to listen." "What did he say?" "Nothing incriminating, but he implied that your Jeannette is to be sacrificed on the altar of England's humiliation. They dare not let her go. They dress it in theology and the possibility of heresy, yet it is only politics. There is nothing you can do. It is a tidal wave that will knock down anyone in its path." Methos felt hopeless for the first since her capture. "It is fear that motivates them. If she can prove that God actually listens and talks to her, then where does that leave the Catholic Church? It would make them superfluous." Darius nodded in agreement. "Yes, this fear has made her too many enemies. D'Estivet hates her and would use the cruelest torture available if he could. La Fontaine wants her to submit totally to church law, which would force her to admit that her voices do not supercede their own wishes. Beaupere wants her to concede that these voices are the work of Satan, not God." "Is no one on her side?" "Some, but they do not hold positions of importance." "She is just a young girl who should have her whole life ahead of her." "That is the way with martyrs. In our long lives we have seen many, no?" Yes, Methos had to admit he had seen many martyrs. Maybe it was the Witchblade that had decreed it so. Cleopatra had lived a short life, but long in comparison to Jeannette's. Livia had lived a full and eventful life, so he knew it could be done. However since those times so long ago, he had no idea what influence the Witchblade had on the lives of its wielders. "Let her go and be what fate has planned for her," Darius entreated. "In the centuries to come, these petty clerics will be but nameless accusers, whereas her name will be remembered and maybe revered." "I cannot leave Rouen until it's over." Darius rose and patted Methos on the head. "I know. We will stay and use our influence where it might do her the most good. We may not be able to stop this debacle, but we may be able to ease her suffering along the way. Now where is my--" ^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^ "Where's the damned remote?" Joe's voice echoed in the room. Methos jumped, startled out of his remembrances. "I thought I put it on the vanity." Methos chucked weakly. "It probably fell in the sink." He wasn't in France waiting for Jeannette to be executed. He was in Niagara Falls with Joe Dawson. They had rented a Jacuzzi suite and Joe was in the tub soaking away the pains of a long car ride while Methos enjoyed the relaxation of not having to be on guard. He snuggled deeper into the chair. There was the sound of splashing water before Joe exclaimed, "You're right!" Methos didn't even bother to turn his head as Joe flipped channels till he found something that interested him. Then there was a sigh of contentment. Did it come from the Watcher or him? "You know, Methos," Joe called out. "I wasn't happy when you said we were going to Niagara Falls. But this isn't so bad." Methos lifted his beer in a silent toast. The End