*********


Tuesday

Every time I sleep at night, I can only see in red.
The outside world is black and white,
With only one colour dead.


     "Adam?" A familiar Buzz wakes me up. Groggy, I feel 
for my sword and my gun. Finding an IV tube instead, I 
sit straight up in bed.

     "OW!" I grab my abdomen, which flares up with pain.

     "Hey, take it easy!" Joe says, patting me on the 
shoulder. "It's just Mac," he continues in a quieter 
voice. "He stayed back to park the car. 'Sides, the 
hospital's on holy ground. I made sure."

     "Oh. Right. Of course." The pain fades a bit, 
leaving some room for sensible thought. Struggling for 
dignity for the first time in several hours, I push back 
my greasy hair with a shaking hand that smells not so 
faintly of blood-laced vomit and cat-sick. I am sweaty, 
itchy, and not at all ready for a Challenge. That Buzz 
had damned well *better* be MacLeod.

     Sure enough, Mac soon strides into view. I suddenly 
wish that the Buzz had signalled a strange Immortal. Mac, 
as ever, looks elegant. I bet that he would look elegant 
sitting in a heap of cow pats. Hell, he'd probably look 
elegant if he were the one sitting in this bloody 
hospital bed. I, on the other hand, am sure that I look 
just like any other poison victim wearing an unflattering 
hospital gown in the middle of a public hospital ward--
pasty, grubby, greasy, and dishevelled.

     "Come for a laugh?" I snarl at him.

     "What?" He looks startled. Can't blame him, I 
suppose. I am not feeling sociable today.

     "Nothing," Joe says firmly. They exchange an 
unfriendly look; are they still doing that? Turning away 
from MacLeod, Joe lowers himself into the chair next to 
me and leans forward to pat my hand, the one without the 
IV in it.

     "How do you feel?" he says.

     "Like shit," I reply. This gets a chuckle out of 
him, at least. Nothing like a little honesty to start the 
day. My stomach hurts, my head hurts and I'd really like 
to know where the loo is, because my bladder is *very* 
full.

     "You gave us a scare," Mac says, sitting down on the 
other side of the bed. I hate when people do that to me. 
I cannot keep them both in sight at the same time, now.

     "Can't you both sit on the same side of the bed?" I 
snap, rubbing my belly and hiccoughing, very 
unflattering. "And what were you two worried about? I 
wasn't about to die."

     "Hey! Keep it down, willya?" Joe says, looking 
alarmed.

    "Give it a rest, Joe. I'm tired and I feel like 
microwaved llama dung. Mac, go sit next to Joe or 
something. You are making me nervous."

    With clear reluctance, MacLeod stands up and drags 
his chair over next to Joe. Hmm. I can see their both 
showing up here today was a marriage of convenience.

     "What is it with you two?" I say. "Don't tell me 
that you're still fighting over that bloody idiot Keane?"

     Joe's jaw clenches. He pushed himself to his feet. 
"I think I'm gonna go call Amy and see if she can give me 
a ride home in a little while." He glances sideways at 
Mac. Mac stares stonily ahead.

    "Uh, Joe?" I say, as he pushes himself to his feet. 
Damn. I didn't mean--

     "Relax," he says, patting me on the shoulder. "I'll 
be right back."

     "I'd better go, myself," Mac says, as soon as Joe 
disappears around the corner. Mac looks after Joe, his 
eyes hard and cold. I stare at him. I don't think this 
has anything to do with me, come to think of it.

     "Mac, wait." I reach out to grab his arm as he 
stands up. Startled by the action (how often do I reach 
out to people?), he stops. I try to catch his eye. He 
looks away. "You cannot play these kinds of games with 
Mortals. They do not live long enough. If you leave 
again, he might not be here the next time you come back."

     Mac glares at the wall. "I don't know, Adam. I'll 
have to think about it." 

     I let go. Okay. I have done my bit. I can see where 
pushing it would be useless. "I am just saying--don't 
think about it for too long, or he might not be there 
once you've worked it out. Think how much you would have 
lost if you'd gone off in a rage every time you had a 
spat with Tessa."

     He looks shaken. I do believe I have hit a nerve. 
"It's different for you," he says. What does that mean? 
"I have to go. I'll see you later. Be careful." With 
typical Mac abruptness, he picks up his jacket and 
strides off down the hallway in the opposite direction 
from Joe. I watch him go, rubbing my belly. It hurts. 
Gods, my friends can give me such indigestion.

     Joe returns just as I'm getting back into bed from 
an overdue trip to the little boy's room. How can I be 
more sore than before I hobbled over there with my little 
IV stand? It's supposed to get better, isn't it? I am new 
to this hospital thing, except for the psychiatric 
variety.

     "Did Mac leave?" Joe asks with false casualness.

     "Yeah." And I will just bet that you are not going 
to tell me why, either, are you, Joe? "He had some things 
to do. You get hold of Amy?"

     Joe shakes his head. "I'll try again in a little 
while."

     "I can call you a taxi, if you like," I say 
hesitantly. "I've got some money."

     "Nah, that's fine. It was just getting a little too 
cold in here before. It's fine, now. I'll hang out with 
you for a couple of hours. Unless you want me to take a 
hike, or something." He looks at me hopefully.

     "Today, Joe Dawson, I am your captive audience." Of 
course I want him here. Who else would stay with me? 
"They didn't tell you anything about how long I would be 
stuck in here, did they?"

     "Couple of days, they said." Joe looks unhappy. I 
don't blame him. I don't want to stay here that long, 
either. "They want to do more tests. I don't think it's 
anything you need to worry about." We have got so used to 
talking in code, haven't we? "The ones they took last 
night were better than they expected, but they're worried 
that your cat got sick at the same time. I had a hell of 
a time keeping the cops out of it."

     "You're saying I was poisoned?" I hiccough. How 
embarrassing. I hate hiccoughs.

     "You had some other idea?" He smiles wryly at me.

     I cough and pat my chest. "No. Funnily enough, I 
spent yet another night not thinking. Pain has that 
effect on me. Can you hand me that water glass?" Joe 
grabs the glass, pours me some water from the carafe by 
the bed, then hands it to me. Ooh. Room service. I drink 
some of it. "Thanks." After a few minutes, the hiccoughs 
recede. Bloody nuisance. "So. You are saying that I'm 
stuck here, is that it?"

     "For a couple of days," he says. "Anything I can do 
for you in the meantime?"

     I consider it. "You got a deck of cards?"

     He laughs and pulls a deck out of his jacket pocket. 
"Thought you'd never ask." 

 
*********


     Joe left a few hours ago, claiming that my yawning 
was driving him mad. I fell asleep right after he left 
and didn't wake up until six. There must have been more 
internal damage than I thought because I am knackered. No 
food cravings yet, but once my digestive system gets more 
on track, I will be eating like a racehorse on 
amphetamines. I would like to go for a walk, but I could 
barely stand when I tried it, more tired than before my 
nap. Think I'll wait.

     Joe said he would be back around seven, but has not 
yet returned. He left me the deck of cards. Neither of 
the guys on either side of me want to play. This is a 
hospital; they are sick. They are not interested in 
anything else. One guy has had his family gathered by his 
bedside all day, the curtain pulled competely round his 
bed. The other man ignores all conversational overtures 
and has slept all day. He snores, too. I am dispiritedly 
laying out a game of solitaire when I feel the Buzz.

     Oh, please let that be Mac. Please, please, *please* 
let that be Mac. I recognise the guy immediately as he 
strides into view. Stephen Keane. So much for the power 
of prayer.

     Maybe he is here for someone else. Maybe he will 
just pass on by, not recognise me. I am not at my best 
today; I cannot even get out of bed! He spots me and 
heads directly for me. I start to panic. Damn. Do the new 
security protocols for hospitals include a weapons 
search? I sincerely hope so.

     As he stops next to my bed like some malignant 
vulture, I glare back at him. The effect is ruined by my 
rubbing my belly and burping like some sick old man--
which, come to think of it, I am. 

     "This is holy ground, Keane," I say. "I can stay on 
it indefinitely. Stay the Hell away from me." My heart is 
pounding so hard I can scarcely hear my own words. I feel 
dizzy and even more nauseous than ever. My throat is raw.

    Keane puts up his hands in a peace gesture, looking 
conciliatory. "I know our last meeting was not friendly," 
he insists, "but I'm not--I don't have anything on me. I 
don't want to hurt you." Is the idiot seriously not 
armed? Why do I attract so many puppy dogs? "I'm only 
here to talk."

     "Why?" Why, yes, I am a suspicious old goat.

     He hesitates. "I just...want to get to know you."

     I gape at him. "You want to *what*?" I reach out for 
the IV stand. I do not care how much I would like to 
vomit on his shoes right now. If the son of a bitch comes 
after me, he gets it in the face. I will not go down like 
some sick water buffalo.

     He looks down and actually scuffs the floor, like 
some shy schoolboy! "I want--I mean, I would like for you 
to consider taking me on as your student."

     Oh, he has got to be kidding. It is the wrong 
response, of course, but I can't help it. I laugh. He 
looks hurt.

     "I think you have the wrong person," I say. "I've 
just barely left Duncan MacLeod's tutelage. I'm not going 
to take on someone his age as my student. It would be 
silly."

     Keane snorts. "You're not serious."

     "About which thing?" I say lightly.

     "Any of it! You're no student of Duncan MacLeod. You 
are just as strong a fighter as he is, but you don't 
fight anything like him. And you have a stronger aura 
than any other Immortal I have ever encountered, 
including him! And I once fought a Viking!"

     "Good for you," I say, as he seems very proud of 
this.

     "And the truth is that MacLeod acted as though you 
were an equal, after you left me for dead. He wouldn't 
have done that for a young Immortal."

     "Keane, I hate to break this to you, but you don't 
know anything about either me or Duncan MacLeod."

     He hangs his head. "I'm willing to be a student in 
peace alongside him if he is," he says. "I understand 
that you wouldn't give him up as a student just because 
we are enemies." Who the Hell does this guy think I am, 
some Immortal finishing school? I am nothing of the kind. 
I want nothing to do with this!

     "He's not my student, Keane," I insist. "At least, 
not in the traditional sense. I don't take on students."

     "Why not?" he asks, looking confused.

     "Because I outlive them all, you git!" I blurt out, 
before I can catch myself. If I want him to go away, this 
is exactly the wrong thing. I watch in horror as the 
revelation comes over him. What the Hell is wrong with 
me? I didn't think I was feeling suicidal today. And I 
certainly don't want any of the nurses to hear that. That 
would change my diagnosis of 'accidental' poisoning very 
quickly!

     "You're--you're *him*," he gasps. He doesn't have to 
say the name, but I am almost contrary enough to make 
him.

     "I don't know what you're talking about." I grab the 
kidney basin from the nightstand and spit into it. Who 
cares what he thinks about it? I am not bloody Yoda and 
this guy is giving me indigestion.

     "No. No, of course not," he says hastily. Oh, yeah. 
He has found the Immortal Grail, the Second Prize, and he 
is just stupid enough to want to keep it safe. That is 
all I need, another bloody keeper.

     "Listen, kid," I say quietly, so that I won't get 
myself transferred to the psych ward, "I don't know who 
or what you think you have just found, but I am no saint. 
I am not even a good man. I've done things far worse than 
MacLeod has ever done, and I have done them for longer 
than either you or he have been alive. So, don't get it 
into your head that I am some sort of sage or holy man. I 
am not."

     He shakes his head. "That's not why I'm here."

     "Excuse me?" He is after my head. I thought so! Grab 
that IV stand, Old Man!

     Keane gets that faraway, rapt look that the young 
ones adopt when they are reminiscing. "Do you know what 
MacLeod said when I asked him what had happened to you? 
He said, 'It's Tuesday. He doesn't take heads on 
Tuesdays.' And when I saw you later at his barge, you as 
much as told me to bugger off--with a sword at your 
throat!"

     "I am happy to hear that you were impressed." I have 
no idea why he would be. "What does that have to do with 
you becoming my student?"

     "You know how to live." The answer is so simple, I 
cannot grasp it, at first.

     "I know how to live?" I say blankly. "If you want to 
follow somebody who knows how to live, why don't you go 
find Amanda again? I think she might be free. Take her 
out to a nice restaurant, make some interesting 
conversation, show her a little creative foreplay in bed 
and swear to stay far, far away from Duncan MacLeod and I 
am sure she'd at least consider it." I push down a flash 
of jealous wistfulness at that. Just because I have 
always had a thing for Amanda, doesn't mean that she will 
ever see me as more than a friend and partner in crime.

     He shakes his head. "You're fearless," he explains. 
I laugh. "You are," he insists. "And you're strong. And 
you...you do as you please, not as you think you ought to 
do. I have spent three hundred years chasing a man around 
the world because I felt obligated to hate him. Now that 
I would like to let that go, to do something with my 
life...I don't know how."

     "And you think I could teach you?" I say, 
flabbergasted. 

     "You taught MacLeod," he says. "I know you could 
teach me."

     "Actually, Mac sort of taught himself." He looks 
skeptical. I laugh again. I can't help it, even though it 
makes my stomach hurt. It is not every day that somebody 
insists on favouring me over Duncan MacLeod of the Clan 
MacLeod as a moral standard. "Besides, I really don't 
understand how you came to the conclusion that I have 
some sort of unique joie de vivre."

     "You laughed throughout our entire fight," Keane 
says, as if the answer is obvious. "Admit it, you were 
having fun. It wasn't because you wanted my head all that 
badly. You gave me a chance to walk away. You went in 
there solely because you felt like it that day."

     "No, I challenged you because Amanda woke me up in 
the middle of the night and talked me into getting 
involved, and then MacLeod refused to back off. Sorry." 
Silly boy, I am not that impulsive, even when I'm drunk. 
"It took two cups of coffee to make me 'feel like it' at 
that time of day. Don't mistake the wonders of caffeine 
for some irrepressible love of life." Should I mention my 
little bout with depression and my botched attempt at 
Suicide-by-Immortal last month? No. I think that is far 
more personal information than I am willing to offer to 
Stephen Keane, Mysterious Immortal Methos Groupie.

     "I thought Amanda had something to do with it," 
Keane says. "It explained the spontaneity of your 
appearance quite well, I thought." So much for getting 
him off this track. He is damned and determined to see me 
as some Immortal mayfly wafting through life. Kronos 
would laugh himself sick. In fact, I sincerely hope that 
Kronos does not make an appearance right at this moment. 
My reaction would get me transferred to the hospital 
psych ward. I am already eager to see the back of this 
place, thank you very much. I don't want to sample the 
French selection of restraints and drugs. Being committed 
in the United States was quite enough for one decade.

    "You'll excuse me if I have reservations about going 
anywhere with you off holy ground," I say. "The last time 
we met, you had a sword at my throat, remember? I think 
I'll stay in here for few more days, if it's all the same 
to you."

     He looks distressed. "Please," he says. "At least 
give me a chance."

      I think about it. We are already on holy ground. Is 
it worth it to insist that the next meeting be on it as 
well? Everything that I've seen Keane do so far indicates 
that he is neither a liar nor an oath-breaker (unlike, 
say, yours sincerely). And as he certainly wasn't making 
any effort to impress me before today, I probably did not 
see him at his best.

     "Le Blues Bar," I venture. "You heard of it?" Might 
as well meet him on home territory. If he goes after me, 
Joe is bound to shoot him. Comforting thought.

     "Um...no," Keane admits.

     "If you can find it," I say, "then you'll find me 
there Friday, seven pm--if you really want to talk, that 
is." I do not bother to add that MacLeod will be there, 
as well, or that I might still be stuck in here. I like 
to hedge all of my bets, and if either of them doesn't 
like it, hard luck. MacLeod deserves far worse from Keane 
than sharing a drink with him and if Keane really wants 
to move on, his first step should be being able to sit in 
the same room with Mac.

     "All right," he says. He looks as though I just 
asked him to extract his own large intestine with a pair 
of pliers, but as it feels as though that is what is 
happening to my own digestive system, I am not 
sympathetic. "Is there anything else I can do?"

     I consider the offer while scratching the back of my 
neck with a joker card. "There is something...." If I do 
it, Mac will be pissed and Joe won't be thrilled, either. 
On the other hand, I am bored and something tells me that 
I should. "You know how to play Gin/Rummy?"         

     His face lights up. "Yes! Yes, I do." As he pulls up 
the chair that Mac sat in a few hours earlier, I see that 
I have made the right call. Always go with your gut, I 
say, even when it's giving you Hell.


*********


As soon as Marie, my evening bar manager, came on shift 
at three, I called up the Paris Tourist Office on the 
Champs-elysees.

     "'Allo?" a woman's voice responded pleasantly.

     "Hi, I'm looking for an exhibition, but I don't know 
where it is. I think it's temporary." I didn't bother 
with French. They always recognised my accent and 
switched to English, anyway.

    "What is the subject please?"

     "The South African Truth and Reconciliation 
Commission."

     "One moment, please." A couple of minutes later, she 
came back on the phone with the address. You were right. 
The exhibit was near the Eiffel Tower. The organisers 
were named Pieter Willemse and Annie Lembede. Was Lembede 
your stalker/poisoner? I'd check up on her, though if she 
wasn't famous and she wasn't an Immortal, I wouldn't get 
too far. I wrote down the address, hung up and said 
"Sayonara" to Marie. I didn't have to be back until nine, 
and I wanted to spend an hour or two with you at the 
hospital before I went back to the bar. I thought I might 
as well get this over with first. Funny. I've always 
figured it would be you visiting me in the hospital.

     It was the usual Paris traffic jam out there, but it 
didn't take as long as I thought it might. I parked my 
car on a little side street, right across from the 
gallery, and went in.

     Didn't look too bad, at first; but then, land mines 
never do. I should know. I stepped on one once. There 
were two people inside. One was a white guy in his 
forties; the other, a teenaged black girl. Neither of 
them looked right for your mystery witness. They didn't 
seem to notice me when I came in, so I checked out the 
exhibit. The pictures were pretty wild. People used to 
live like this? You used to live like this? It's one 
thing to know that you used to live in a tent, but to 
have it shoved in my face.... Man, and I thought 'Nam was 
bad. I sure hoped I was doing the right thing this time. 
I am getting a little gun-shy about sticking my nose in 
your business these days, but what else do I do? You're 
in the hospital and for all I know, this Annie Lembede 
woman may have put you there.

     Africa is personal to you; always has been. You're 
real funny about discussing it. Sometimes, you'd go all 
moody and taciturn if Don or I asked you about your trip. 
Other times, a muzzle couldn't shut you up. I think you 
need help to get this out of your system.

     As I neared the back, I found out why the girl and 
the man were ignoring me. They were arguing, very 
quietly, in English. The man sounded angry, and the girl 
sounded scared, but not of him. Their accents sounded 
funny, real hard to follow. Guess they were both South 
African. Seemed the girl's mother had taken off that 
morning and the girl was worried about her. The man (the 
girl called him "Mr. Willemse") was telling her not to 
get too excited about it; "Annie" had bugged out before. 
Christ. Annie Lembede. Just the woman I was looking for, 
only she'd already gone AWOL. Then, the girl started 
talking about you--not by name, but more by her mother's 
reaction, which sounded pretty bad. Annie had recognised 
you, all right.

     For a second, I thought I was gonna throw up. Shit. 
*Shit*. Not just one witness, but two, and one of them 
didn't sound crazy at all. As quietly as I could, I 
started looking around the pictures in my aisle.

     The man said he thought it was maybe possible you'd 
been a victim of the Apartheid thing and Mom had just 
latched onto you. The girl (Mary, I think her name was) 
said she didn't think so; said that her mother had shown 
her a photo of you here in the gallery from '84, and you 
didn't look any older now than in the picture. 

     "He is standing behind the children and his face is 
blurry," she admitted. "I suppose it could be somebody 
else."

     "Standing behind the children". A class photo? I 
edged down the aisle. Not in this one. Not in the other 
one, either. Oh, Hell, there it was on the wall. Three 
rows of children stood and knelt next to the wall of some 
battered old building (probably their school). You stood 
behind them and off to the left, in shadow, standing 
uncomfortably in black pants and a white shirt with a 
tie, arms hanging at your side. The picture was small, 
your hair was slicked back and your face wasn't much more 
than a white oval. It was you, though. I recognised the 
slouch.

     The picture came off the wall real easy. Ya gotta 
love temporary exhibits. I felt kinda guilty about 
stealing it, but I was not gonna leave this little gem 
behind. Friend or no friend, no Watcher would. I slipped 
it into my jacket, just as somebody came busting in. She 
was tall, way too thin, mid-30s. I had a feeling this was 
the lady I was looking for.

     "Mother!' the girl yelped. "Where have you been?" 
She ran off into some African language, lots of gutteral 
stuff. They started shouting at each other. Obviously, a 
quiet conversation with this woman was not on the cards. 
I decided it was my cue to leave. I already had some 
ideas about this lady and none of them were good.

     "Oh! Thank you for coming!" the man called at my 
back and I headed out the door. So much for sneaking out 
unseen. I hurried out to my truck and got in. Nobody 
followed me. Great. I called Amy on my cell phone. This 
lady was gonna bug out again anytime now, I could just 
feel it. I wanted her followed, and Amy can run a lot 
faster than I can.

     I tried not to think about what I was gonna do when 
I tracked down where this woman lived. If she did what I 
thought she'd done, she wouldn't live long enough for you 
to get your hands on her. I'd kill her myself.


*********


     I hurried into the hospital, cursing myself for 
being so late. I couldn't leave my surveillance until Amy 
showed up. As I came into the ward, I saw you sitting up 
in bed (a good sign), playing cards with some guy who had 
his back to me. You looked up at my approach and smiled. 
Then, the other guy turned around. My jaw dropped. Jesus 
Christ Almighty. It was Stephen Keane.

     "Hey, Joe." You sounded genuine. Hell, if I didn't 
know how old you are and how good at acting, I'd believe 
you every time. Does that make me a suspicious old man or 
just cautious?

     "Hi...Adam," I said, feeling you out. You didn't 
look upset so I kept going. "Didn't think you'd have any 
other visitors this time of night. Who's this?"

     "This?" Your grin turned a little nutty. "This is 
Stephen Keane. He showed up for a chat." Keane waved and 
gave me a weak smile. "I invited him over to the bar on 
Friday. You don't mind, do you?"

     Son of a bitch. "I thought you two weren't on such 
good terms," I said. Keane stared at me, looking puzzled. 
Beyond him, out of his sight, you shrugged and smiled 
wryly, as if to say, *Yeah, yeah, Joe. I know. Me, too.*

     "Keane seems to think that I have some things I 
could teach him," you said.

     "You?" I thought it might be better if I didn't 
laugh. "Well, that's a switch."

     Keane looked uneasy. "I should go," he said, 
standing up. "It is getting late and I'm certain that you 
two would like to talk."

     You smiled at him. "Okay. See you on Friday, then." 
Keane edged past me. I watched him leave. When he looked 
back and spotted me staring after him, he jumped. Good. 
Maybe it would keep him honest. He scurried out of the 
ward.

     When I turned back to the bed, you were shaking your 
head and chuckling to yourself. 

     "What?" I said, easing myself down into Keane's 
chair.

     "You're such a watchdog, Dawson," you said. We were 
both keeping our voices down. Maybe I could get you 
switched to a private room. It would make things easier 
for both of us.

     "Right now, you need it." Your flip attitude annoyed 
me, but I wasn't surprised by it. You're not big on 
bodyguards. "What the Hell was he doing here, anyway?"

     "Apparently, he wants to become my student." Your 
mouth twisted a little in pain.

     "Your student?" I leaned forward, putting out a hand 
to--what? Pat you on the back? You waved me off. I hate 
watching strong people in pain. "Does he know who you 
are?"

     "He took a big guess." You grabbed a glass of water 
off your tray, slopping some on the pack of cards I gave 
you, and drank from it. "He was very excited about it." 
You paused, took another sip. "I dunno. You think he 
might be playing it straight?"

     I scratched my head, considering the problem. "Well, 
as far as we can tell, he's spent the past five years 
finding himself. He's in the right mood to be somebody's 
student, I guess. You could have gotten lucky."

    "If you can call it that," you grumbled. "At least 
Mac is in denial about the hero-worship thing. I think 
Keane has been watching the latest Star Wars film too 
much."

     "Could be. But if that means he's no longer a threat 
to you, I'm all for it. We've got another problem."

     You went still. "You found her."

     "Yeah, something like that. Does the name 'Annie 
Lembede' ring a bell?"

     "Not really, to be honest. I've been trying to 
forget all about the whole thing for the past eighteen 
years." You paused, looking strange. "Wait. Oh, yeah. I 
remember her now. Yeah. That was her."

     I nodded. I thought so. "You met her daughter, Mary, 
at the exhibit. Annie spilled the beans to Mary, but I 
don't think Mary's too sure about what's going on, so we 
might be safe with her. It's Annie we need to, um...." 
'Silence', 'terminate' and 'kill' were all words that I 
didn't want to use on a public hospital ward. You nodded, 
looking grim. You knew what I meant. We're both ruthless 
in our own way. Maybe that's why we get along so well.

     "Do you think that will be necessary?" you said. 
Damn, you were so different from Mac. You were actually 
discussing options with me, instead of telling me how you 
were gonna take care of the situation. "That could create 
problems. Maybe I should leave town for awhile."

     "If you leave town, you're not doing it without me."

     You looked amused. "I suppose you could always say 
that you're Watching me." Nobody else in earshot could 
hear that capital W, I hoped.

     "Let's try to find another way first," I said. "What 
is it with you? Why do you always want to walk away? I'd 
think the other way would be easier--quicker, anyway."

     You looked down at your hands, spread out palms up, 
on the blanket. "Yeah, it would be." There was nothing 
special about your tone, but I still let the subject 
drop. I couldn't go there, and you wouldn't. I couldn't 
blame you. I've got similar patches of scorched earth--
more similar than I'd like, maybe, but not the same. 
There are times when I wish it had been someone like you 
who'd saved my ass in 'Nam instead of Cord. Let's face 
it, Cord didn't give a shit about himself, let alone me. 
Doesn't seem fair that he and I share so much charred 
real estate when you and I don't. We're just neighbours.

     "You're saying you want to take a little vacation 
until she goes her merry way?" This solution seemed kind 
of messy to me, to be honest. "What if she doesn't?"

    You rolled your eyes. "She will. What else can she 
do?" You were right, of course, so I let it go.


*********


Wednesday

Spring is here, ah spring is here. 
Life is skittles and life is beer.


     Jerry was polishing glasses in the bar when an older 
guy walked in. He looked like the French version of a 
drug smuggler--greying beard and dark sunglasses. He took 
them off as he ambled up the bar.

     "Bonsoir," he said to Jerry.

     "Hi," Jerry replied, glancing at the man, even as he 
continued to polish glasses. He had a lot of them to do 
before Joe showed up. "No French, sorry." He was still 
working his way through the glossary in the back of his 
Rough Guide to Paris.

     The man smiled. "ca va," he said. "I am looking for 
Adam Pierson. I understand he comes here often."

     "Um...." What to say? Should he mention that the Old 
Bastard was in the hospital? "He's not here right now. 
Can I take a message for him?"

     "Yes, that would be good." The man pulled a pen and 
small pad of paper out of his coat pocket. "I am a friend 
of his, Rene Galbon." He wrote down a message. "He and 
Joe Dawson and I have worked in the same company for 
years. I am sure that Adam will want to hear from me."

     The phone rang. "Hang on," Jerry said, going to 
answer it. "Hello?"

     "'Allo. Is M. Pierson there?"

     "Not right now." What was he supposed to be, Methos' 
goddamned secretary? "Can I take a message?"

     "Oui, merci. It is about his cat."

     "His cat?" Jerry felt his stomach hit bedrock 
somewhere in the wine cellar. Fuck. Oh, *fuck*. If that 
cat died, Methos was gonna go on the warpath. And Jerry 
knew just who would be right in his way if he ever went 
looking for whoever was responsible. It would be like a 
Mack truck running over a Barbie doll.

     "Oui. His cat, Silas. I am afraid that Silas is not 
improving at all. I think that M. Pierson will need to 
consider putting him to sleep."

     "I see. Gee, poor Silas. Can't you do anything?" 
Jerry could sympathise with 'poor Silas' a little too 
well. If that cat died, he was screwed.

     "I do not think so. Is there any way that we can 
contact M. Pierson immediately?"

     "No, I'm afraid not. He's in the hospital." Jerry 
didn't like admitting that, especially in front of 
Pierson's long lost 'friend', but he didn't see any 
reason to tapdance around the truth with the vet.

     "He is in hospital?" The vet sounded uneasy. "Why?"

     "He got sick on Monday night. They think it might 
have been something he ate." Christ, this was getting 
worse and worse. "I can give you his friend, Joe 
Dawson's, cellphone number, if you really need to get in 
touch with him."

     "That is a very good idea. Thank you." The vet now 
sounded completely spooked as Jerry gave him the number 
of the hospital, which Joe had made him memorise, just in 
case. So, the connection was not just in Jerry's paranoid 
imagination. Shit, what if they called the cops? What if 
they told Methos? Getting deported or arrested could be 
the least of Jerry's worries, if Methos found out what 
he'd done. Jerry couldn't believe his bad luck, which was 
getting worse by the minute. Methos was some malign 
presence in his life.

     "I'll pass the message on," he told the vet.

     "Perhaps I may call the hospital?" the vet 
suggested.

     "Sure. That sounds like a great idea, thanks. I'll 
tell Joe, just in case you miss him." And good riddance, 
as far as Jerry was concerned. As he hung up the phone, 
he was surprised to see Methos' old Watcher buddy (at 
least, he assumed that was what the guy meant by being 
"in the same company") still sitting there. "Aren't you 
all set?"

     The guy looked concerned. "Adam's cat is sick?"

     "Yeah. Silas went into the vet's on Monday. Some 
kind of stomach thing."

     "Silas." The guy seemed very interested in that 
name, for some reason. Jerry wondered why, and filed it 
away as something to look up if he lived long enough to 
get a peek at the Watcher database. "I see. And Adam, 
too?"

     Jerry's uneasiness increased, making his own stomach 
clutch up. Who was this guy? "Yeah. He got sick when he 
was here at the bar on Monday night. Some kind of stomach 
flu."

     "I see." The man's eyes were bright. They saw too 
much. "Stomach flu? Wouldn't he be ill for a few days, 
only?"

     "He hasn't really been taking care of himself, 
lately." Jerry didn't see any harm in admitting this. It 
wasn't his problem if Methos came out sounding like the 
wacko he was and lost another friend. It didn't sound as 
if this guy had kept in touch much, anyway.

     "He did that sometimes," the guy mused. "He has had 
some bad times. It upset him, I think. You know that he 
is a widower?"

     "No." Jerry was surprised, not that he gave a shit. 
Wow. Methos had been with a girl recently? Jerry had been 
longing to get into the Watcher files ever since he'd 
found out about them, but Joe wouldn't let him in yet, 
and might not until after Jerry got out of the Watcher 
Academy. Jerry was beginning to think that Adam Pierson 
wouldn't be in the database, even if he looked (he was 
pretty sure that Methos was the Closet Hacker from Hell). 
He also wasn't too sure about the info the Watchers had 
on the Methos legends. The Old Bastard seemed to have 
messed with their heads pretty well, too. Jerry knew how 
that felt. Boy, did he know.

     "How did she die?" he asked, and shuddered. *Gun, 
knife, poison?* he didn't add.

     "Cancer. Very unpleasant. Adam met her in her last 
months, but continued the relationship anyway. I think he 
loved her very much." Jerry found that tough to believe, 
but didn't say so. It might get back to Joe, or worse, to 
the Old Bastard.

     "That's too bad," he said, lying baldfaced, of 
course.

     "Yes, it is. He has lost many friends in the past 
few years." the guy was giving him that look, again--that 
'I know what you did last week' look. Jerry sure hoped it 
wasn't accurate. He hadn't moved all the way from 
Savannah, Georgia to get whacked by the Parisian version 
of the Men in Black. "Our work can be hazardous, 
sometimes." That was the understatement of the 
millennium!

     "That's what I've heard." Jerry began to wonder how 
much this guy knew about his own situation. He hadn't 
thought about that. What if he was in the Watcher 
database, himself? This wasn't nearly as much fun as it 
had seemed when he and his roommate back in Savannah used 
to laugh at that Lone Gunmen spin-off to the X-Files. 
This was real life and Jerry had something of an allergy 
to that concept. If Methos and Joe were 'real life', he'd 
stick to playing Diablo, thank you very much.

     "Maybe you should try the hospital," he suggested. 
The guy nodded and did that Gallic shrug thing that 
always reminded Jerry where he was. Paris had the kind of 
timewarp holes that you were more likely to see in 
Savannah than in Atlanta--not that Atlanta didn't have 
its own weird moments.

     "Perhaps I will," the guy said. "Meanwhile, I will 
leave my card and my message so that Adam will know I 
came." The guy pulled out a business card and wrote 
something down on it before handing it over to Jerry. 
Jerry gritted his teeth. This 'friend' of Methos was 
really getting on his nerves.

     "Yeah, you do that," Jerry muttered as the guy left. 
He glanced down at the card. It just had the guy's name 
and a phone number in print. On the back, Galbon had 
written, "Call me." Typical, mystery Watcher bullshit. 
Jerry remembered when he used to get all excited at the 
idea of alien-made crop circles and black helicopters 
ferrying God-knew-what all over the U.S of A. Now that he 
lived in the thick of a world conspiracy, it all seemed 
radically mundane. Jeez, why couldn't people just come 
out and say what they meant, already? It would save so 
much time.

     The phone rang. Irritated, he yanked it out of the 
cradle. "Le Blues Bar," he said in his most uninviting 
voice. "May I help you?"

     "I am looking for Adam Pierson," a woman said in 
(surprise, surprise) a heavily-accented voice. "Is he 
there?"

    *Of course you are,* Jerry griped to himself. *Why 
would you be looking for anybody else?* "He's at the 
hospital. Is this the vet again?"

     "Which hospital, please?" Jerry gave her the name. 
She hung up on him before he could say anything else. 
Puzzled, he put the phone back down. That had seemed 
strange, even by Joe Dawson establishment standards. 
Maybe she wasn't the vet at all, but some psycho ex-
girlfriend of the Old Bastard, looking for payback. What 
a perfect week for it. Well, fuck it. Jerry wasn't 
Methos' keeper. He was sure the son of a bitch could take 
care of himself. Jerry had other concerns. What to do 
about the mess in the back room, for example. And oh, 
what a mess it was.

     Jerry finished polishing glasses and headed out 
back. He went straight to the cabinet against the back 
wall and examined the floor beneath it. This was where he 
had put the cases of beer that Joe had set aside for 
Methos late last month. Methos hadn't been having a good 
time then, apparently. Hey, at least he still had his 
head, which was more than Jerry could say about his 
friend Mark. Hard to believe Mark had only been dead a 
month.

     There was still one case left; it had a large stain 
on it. That looked pretty bad. Jerry went to the bathroom 
for some paper towels, soaked them, and came back. He 
started wiping down the case. The stuff came off, but 
there was still a big stain in the cardboard. Shit. He 
stood up and opened the cabinet. He knew he shouldn't 
have put the cases right under there, but he'd been in 
such a hurry trying to learn the ropes from Amy and Joe 
that he hadn't bothered to pay much attention to where 
he'd put Methos' precious care packages. It was just his 
luck something had leaked out of the cabinet, but why 
couldn't it have been something non-toxic, or just liable 
to cause a mild stomach ache? Not like the Old Bastard 
would have noticed a little diarrhea. He supposed he was 
lucky it wasn't Pine Sol--that would have knocked the 
poor cat off right away. He really did feel sorry for the 
cat. It wasn't as though he was a serial killer, or 
anything. He didn't get off on making anybody, especially 
animals, suffer. He'd honestly forgotten.

     Inside the cabinet, the bottom shelf was a mess. As 
far as Jerry could tell, it was the drain cleaner that 
had spilled out onto the cases. He'd set the bottle 
upright again, as soon as he found out what had happened, 
but the damage was already done. God, was that the story 
of his life, or what? He took out all of the bottles and 
began wiping down the inside of the cabinet. He was just 
starting to put everything back when he heard the outside 
door slam.

     "Jerry? Where the Hell are you?" Joe's irritation 
carried right out into the storeroom.

     "I'm back here in the storeroom," Jerry called over 
his shoulder. Sweating, he jammed the drain cleaner back 
into the cabinet and stuffed the other bottles in on top 
of it. It didn't look good, but it would just have to do. 
Hopefully, Joe wouldn't think to check the cabinet any 
time soon. Jerry closed the door (he remembered, at the 
last minute, to do it quietly) right as he heard Joe 
passing the bar to come out back. He was hurrying up to 
the curtain by the office, wiping his hands on his pants, 
when Joe pushed back the curtain.

     Joe's eyes narrowed. "Kid, what were you doing back 
here, sleeping on the job?"

     "I had to get something and I had a little trouble 
finding it," Jerry said.

     "I don't like it when my people leave the bar 
unattended, kid," Joe said. "It encourages thieves. Don't 
stay out back here so long when you're on alone."

     Jerry nodded, feeling relieved. The phone out in the 
bar rang. Looking annoyed, Joe started to turn. "I'll get 
it," Jerry offered, grateful for the distraction, and 
hurried out into the bar. He picked up the phone.

     "Hello?" he said.

     "'Allo? May I speak to M. Joseph Dawson, please?" a 
woman's voice said. At least it wasn't for Methos, this 
time.

     "Yeah, sure. Hang on." He put the phone on his 
shoulder to muffle the receiver. "Joe? It's for you." And 
thank God for that. With luck, five minutes from now, Joe 
wouldn't remember catching Jerry out back 'napping'--but 
only if Jerry's luck improved.


*********


     As soon as I took the phone from Jerry, he scurried 
off, looking like I'd just caught him with his hand in 
the till. I knew I'd have to look into that. He's 
inoffensive enough, but I don't like leaving him too long 
unsupervised. With Amy Watching this Annie Lembede bitch, 
though, and Marie out at her other job, I didn't have 
much choice today. I was already late going to pick you 
up at the hospital. But you know...I just don't like that 
terrorised-rabbit look he gets whenever your name gets 
mentioned. People that scared...sometimes they do dumb, 
dangerous things. I don't need to tell you that, or I 
wouldn't if you didn't have your head up your ass these 
days.

     "Hello?" I said.

     "Is this Joseph Dawson?" It was a woman--pleasant 
voice, Middle Eastern accent of some type.

     "Yes. May I ask who's calling?" I can clean it up 
when I have to, you know, especially when I'm talking to 
a lady, and I knew, right off the bat, this was a Lady.

     "My name is Azar Davani. Adam Pierson gave me this 
number? I am his academic advisor."

     "Oh!" Some vague memory surfaced of you telling me 
about this woman. You got assigned to her after you came 
crawling back to the Sorbonne this past spring to beg 
them to let you finish your thesis. From what you said, 
she sounded nice enough, too good for you, I'm sure. 
You'd have found a way to lose her as your advisor if 
she'd been a bitch. "How can I help you, Ms. Davani? I'm 
afraid Adam Pierson isn't here right now. You know he's 
in the hospital, right?"

     "What? No! No, I didn't." She sounded shocked, which 
made me feel a little guilty. I filled her in on the 
details, though I fudged them. You hadn't called her 
recently--of course you hadn't. There was no reason. You 
weren't due to see her for another couple of weeks, and 
we both know why you were playing down your hospital 
stay. The fewer people who knew about it (and I sure as 
Hell hadn't told Gabrieli) the better. If I managed to 
shock her, though, what she told me was ten times worse. 
Some woman had called up her office, looking for contact 
information for you, and the department secretary had 
given her the number to Le Blues Bar. Afterwards, the 
secretary had second thoughts and told your advisor. 
Something about the woman had been off. She'd seemed a 
little "hysterique", the secretary had said. I had a 
damned good idea who the secretary meant. I just had to 
find her before she found you.

     By this time, I was beginning to enjoy Ms. Davani's 
voice, so I made it a little project to get her office 
number (just in case) and to get her to call me "Joe" by 
the end of the conversation. And you know what? I pulled 
it off. Nice lady; sharp, too, picking up second-hand on 
Lembede's fishing expedition. I like that in a woman. And 
don't go getting territorial on me; she's your advisor 
and you're not about to ask her out to dinner any time 
soon. You don't own her, buddy.

     I got off the phone with mixed feelings, to say the 
least. Ms. Davani's nice delivery didn't mask the problem 
that somehow Annie Lembede had figured out your name, and 
that you were at the University of the Sorbonne. I didn't 
know how she'd managed that, but I was gonna find out. 
First, though, I had to find out what she'd done with the 
information.

     "Hey, Jerry," I said, as the kid crept past me with 
a case of Archer's bottles. "Adam get any calls today?"

     Jerry set the case up on the counter, then wiped is 
hands as he seemed to think about it. Uh oh. "Uh, yeah. 
He got a couple. The vet called to say that Silas is real 
sick. Said he might have to be put down. They wanted Adam 
to call back to tell them what he wanted them to do about 
it. Then, this guy came in looking for him--he left his 
card over there." He pointed at the till. I searched 
around it, found a business card and picked it up. Dr. 
Rene Galbon. That name sounded familiar, but I couldn't 
place it. Maybe he was a Watcher. But first things first; 
Jerry was still talking.

     "Yeah, and the vet called back, looking for Adam--
well...I think she was the vet." He paused, looking 
confused. "She sounded kind of funny. I just told her he 
was at the hospital and gave her the number there."

     "What?" I stared at him. "What did she sound like? 
Did she have an accent? A South African accent?"

     Jerry looked confused. Man this kid is dumb. 
"Well...yeah, she had an accent. They've all got accents, 
here. Why?"

     "Never mind." I put the card in my pocket and headed 
for the door. "If anybody else calls, I'm picking up Adam 
at the hospital." I left him there. No customers were in 
and he could take care of himself for a little while. 
This was more important. The last thing I needed in my 
day was Annie Lembede running you down with a car the 
minute you stepped off hospital grounds, or something 
worse. God only knew what she could come up with. She'd 
only had 18 years to think about it.


*********


     Two weeks after Adamson murdered your Eli, Mary let 
you out of the shed behind her bar. The only reason she 
spared you from the mob, she said, was because of the 
baby you carried. That baby's life was more important 
than yours. You hated the child from then onwards.

     You never discovered what happened to Eli's mates. 
When you asked Mary, she slapped you and told you never 
to mention it again. Whether they were dead or merely 
driven away, you knew you would never see them again. 
You'd wept all your tears in that shed--or so you 
thought. Now, you wept again. Eli wasn't a bad boy. He 
didn't deserve that kind of death. He was only a little 
wild and he was good to you, most of the time.

     You knew whom to blame. Just because the witch had 
escaped you into death did not mean that you could not 
take your revenge. You went to the cemetery in the night, 
when no one was watching you. You could not find poor 
Eli's resting place but Adamson's grave was not that 
difficult to find. Some of your fellow students had left 
flowers on it, and little gifts. That only made you hate 
him more. Didn't they know what he was really like?

     You dug up the grave, fear gripping you throughout. 
What if someone discovered you? But you had to know. It 
took you a long time, not because the body was buried so 
deep, but because there was no body. None. In the end, 
you knelt in the hole, scooping up handfuls of dirt with 
your hands, in a sweat of terror. Adamson *was* a witch! 
You had known all along, but could not prove it until 
then. You swore then, weeping in his empty grave, that 
you would find him and destroy him, as he had destroyed 
you.

     After you gave birth, Mary threw you into the street 
and took your baby for her own, even giving it her own 
name. It no longer mattered to you. The child was a girl; 
useless and, born with a club foot, worse than useless to 
you. Without Mary's protection, Jacob and the others 
would no longer tolerate you in the township. You had to 
leave. You drifted to Cape Town, where you sold your body 
on the street to feed yourself. A church group took you 
in and taught you how to read and write properly. You did 
not believe in their message of love and forgiveness, but 
you were willing to say what they wanted to hear for a 
meal and a roof over your head. Anything was better than 
the streets.

     The one thing you never missed over the years was a 
necklacing. You had a sense for when one would happen in 
your neighbourhood and you were always in the front of 
the mob that dragged the witch into the street. It never 
mattered to you what they were accused of--witchcraft, 
murder, rape or collaboration--they were all witches and 
deserved to be burned, needed to be burned. You even 
denounced some of them yourself, helped throw the tires 
over their heads, doused them with kerosene and set it 
alight. For a moment, their death moment, you felt alive. 
Each time, you saw Adamson's face burning and rejoiced. 
But you were never caught--oh, no. 

      Eventually, after Apartheid lifted in 1994, you 
dared to come back to the township, where you found that 
Mary had died in '89 and Jacob in '92. You pestered the 
family that had taken your daughter in for money. They 
gave it to you to make you go away. Only years later, 
when she was a teenager, did Mary seek you out. She has 
proven of some use to you, after all. It was she who 
found Adamson's new name in the book, who noticed when he 
signed it. Your church learning came to some use as well, 
because you could show the people who hired you for the 
exhibit in Paris the right face, just the right level of 
education for a Black woman. Or perhaps they felt sorry 
for you because you are wasting away. You have heard 
rumours about what that means. To think, if you didn't 
have this position in Paris, you would never have found 
Adamson in time. To think that he once flunked you in 
English and now you excel at it. It truly is the will of 
God. 

     Now, you stand across from the hospital where the 
witch is hiding. He is pretending illness, but you know 
that is not possible. You are the one dying, ever since 
he murdered your poor Eli. Poor, poor Eli. He never meant 
any harm, even when he hit you. If only he had never 
challenged the witch in his own lair.... 

     Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, sayeth the 
Bible. You long to impose the traditional punishment upon 
Adamson, but you cannot, not today, here in Paris. A 
knife must do. You have it hidden in your dress. This 
time, his grave will contain a real body, just as Eli's 
does. He will die, if it is the last thing you do.

*********

     I feel much better today. Not quite up to speed, but 
getting there. Nobody wants me to leave the hospital, of 
course, except for me. Even Joe still thinks I should 
stay in. He thinks it's safer. Tough. I have had enough. 
They don't exactly coddle you here, but it is too close 
for my comfort.

     I am all packed and ready to go. Joe brought me 
clean clothes yesterday, bless him. I was losing patience 
with that hospital johnny. Since my usual sleepware is 
boxer shorts, boxer shorts and, um, boxer shorts (and 
maybe a t-shirt), bringing my own pj's from home was not 
an option.

     One of the nurses comes in--to make sure I haven't 
snuck off before time, I will wager. They can tell when 
you don't want to be in here; the counselors in Seacouver 
were like that, too. "You look ready to go home," the 
nurse tells me in French, smiling.

     I smile back. "Oh, yes."

     "How do you feel?" she asks. Everyone keeps asking 
me that. Do I still look that bad?

     "Fine." I shrug. "I want to go home and sleep in my 
own bed."

     "That is understandable. Do you need anything?"

     "Not right now, thank you." I stand up. "I'm going 
to take a walk. My friend, Joe Dawson, is coming to pick 
me up in a few minutes. Could you please ask him to wait 
here for me?"

     "Of course." Like everyone else, she is all 
sympathy. Can I do 'cute' or what? She goes back to her 
rounds, satisfied, it seems, that I am settled until Joe 
arrives. The staff seem to think that I wouldn't abandon 
Joe. In this case, they are right. I leave my pack on the 
bed and wander out onto the ward. What has always 
fascinated me about buildings is how people create new 
topography, simply for the purpose of having a roof over 
their heads. I suppose if you have never lived in a cave, 
you wouldn't notice the irony. Is the concept of the 
labyrinth so ancient that only I remember why it was 
built? Now, that does make me feel old. I push away the 
feeling. Just because the most strenuous thing I'll be 
doing once I get home is taking a nap doesn't mean I have 
to let myself fall into another depression. It would 
annoy Joe. Musn't do that.

     I sneak out of the ward and down one of those 
hospital hallways that always seem deserted. There are 
too many people on a public ward at all hours of the day 
and night. I only want some quiet. It is not until I 
reach the blank end of the hallway that I realise this 
was a mistake, as I hear someone follow me out of the 
ward. I am definitely not up to speed yet if I cannot 
spot a tail. I turn and, just like that, she is there.

     Heaven knows she has aged. Not in a way that other 
Mortals would think excessive, but I notice. I see right 
away that she notices, too--I haven't aged. I may look 
rough, but I don't look as old as I should. She knows.

     "Witch!" she hisses. Cassandra would find this 
amusing.

     "Stay away from me," I snarl. I back away. She 
follows, fumbling in her dress for something. She pulls 
out a knife. When she raises it, the flourescent lighting 
glitters on the blade. It's not long enough to take my 
head easily, by I have no doubt that she will experiment 
until she gets it right, if I let her. And me with no 
weapons--not that using one would be such a good idea in 
here.

     "I will finish it this time," she promises me with 
deadly passion, "one way or another." Of that, I have no 
doubt. This is one Hell of a place for a showdown, not 
the ground that I would pick at all, though she gave me 
no choice. Where is Joe when I could use him?

     "Go to Hell." I retreat. Much as I would love to 
wring her neck, I cannot kill her here. No amount of 
'cute' would get me out of that. I don't dare turn my 
back on her, either; she'd be on me in a second. I glance 
to my left. The door reads, "Fire Exit". Going for the 
wall, I shove against the door and shoulder out into the 
stairwell. I try to slam the door in her face, but it's 
one of those pneumatic doors that close quietly and 
slowly. She comes after me, knocking me back against the 
safety rail and raising the knife. I sucker-punch her in 
the face to get her off me, the force limited because 
she's too close. She staggers back, but doesn't fall or 
drop the knife. When she attacks me again, I sidestep. 
She smacks into the railing and overbalances, flailing at 
the air with the knife. Brilliant. She can drop right 
into the basement, for all I care. But as she goes over, 
she grabs my shirt with her free hand.

     "Hey!" I yell. That is all the protest I have time 
for as we both topple over the railing. She grins up at 
me, in the sickening lurch of gravity turning wrong. My 
last thought, right before I hit the railing on the next 
floor down is that Annie Lembede is in for one Hell of a 
surprise on the other side. I am almost disappointed that 
I won't be there to see it.

*********


South Africa, 1984

     I hate the muzzy return to consciousness after a 
head injury, but at least I have a head. I feel very 
confused, at first. I find myself lying on a cement 
floor, but someone has wrapped me in one blanket and 
placed me on another. There is care, here. It is not a 
shroud. When I open my eyes, I have to close them again 
immediately because of the nausea. I must still be 
healing.

     "How do you feel?" The voice sounds familiar, but I 
cannot quite place it. Shivering, I open my eyes again 
and look to my right, towards the voice. Two people 
crouch near me, a man and a woman. I blink, doing what I 
can to focus on them. It is Jacob the headmaster and Mary 
Sobukwe and, now I see it, I am in Mary's shebeen.

     "What happened?" I ask, since telling them how I 
feel is too complex to explain, at the moment.

     "You died." Jacob's response is startlingly frank.

     "What?" How could he know that? He couldn't be a 
Watcher, could he? I thought I'd lost all trace they had 
of me years ago. This could be bad, I realise muzzily. 
Very bad. The Watchers must think I'm nothing but a 
legend, by now, and I am very happy to let them keep 
thinking that.

     "You died. And now you have come back. But you knew 
that you would, didn't you?" I cannot hear any hostility 
in Jacob's voice, but maybe it is because my ears are 
still ringing from that pipe. "How do you feel?"

     "I don't know what you're talking about." Pretending 
ignorance usually works.

     "You are an Immortal," Jacob explains patiently. 
Then again, there are those times when it does not work. 
"Be easy. No one will hurt you--those young men are dead. 
We saved you from the fire for a reason. We are 
Watchers." He pulls up the left-hand sleeve of his jacket 
and shirt to show me an all-too-familiar circular tattoo. 
And here I thought he always wore that suit because he 
was a conservative old man treading water while his world 
fell to pieces around him. "I saw you talking with my 
assignment in Johannesburg. He is very old; he knows all 
of the old ways, the old signals. But you knew ways that 
even he did not know. I watched you teach him instead of 
challenge him. And then you both walked away. That was 
how I knew."

     I don't trust them, of course. How can I? I am so 
alone, so alone.... Why are they telling me this? "My 
dogs?" I ask quietly, because I have to know.

     "They are fine," Mary says, speaking for the first 
time. Oh, I so hope she is not lying to me; I liked those 
dogs. I know that she has no tattoo, but I suppose even 
Watchers need an irregular force of spies. "They escaped 
those boys and came here. I have them out back. I will 
take care of them for you."

     "You must leave, of course," Jacob says. "We want to 
help you. If we could find you, others of your kind will 
find you also. The Gathering is coming, and you are very 
vulnerable. You need a hiding place."

     That gang kid must have given me a harder crack in 
the head than I thought. I could swear that he is asking 
me to join the Watchers. I could do it, too. Real 
friends, a safe harbour for a short while, a chance to 
rest--what's not to like? But, the last time I joined 
them, I had to sneak in and out like a thief. The body 
count was high. Do I want to go through all that one more 
time?

     On the other hand, my other options are no better. I 
sit up with care, wrap my arms around my knees and smile 
back at them, putting as much charm into it as I can make 
my aching head do.

     "So," I say, "what did you have in mind?"


*********


Paris, Present Day

     "Adam?" I know this voice, but it is not Jacob's or 
Mary's. "Adam, can you hear me? Talk to me, man."

     "Joe." It hurts too much to open my eyes. Haven't I 
already been through this?

     "Yeah, it's me. Just take your time, buddy." He's 
patting my shoulder. I can feel my body, now. This is not 
a good thing, since I can also feel my head. Heal faster, 
dammit! I open my eyes. Joe leans over me. If I 
concentrate, he comes into focus.

     "Ow," I say.

    He looks sympathetic. "How do you feel?"

    "Like shit." Might as well be honest.

     He chuckles at that. "No kidding. Do you remember 
where you are?"

     "I...." I'm in another bloody hospital bed. How did 
that happen? I try to sit up. "That bitch! She tried to 
kill me!" Oh, it is coming back in technicolour, now.

     Joe grabs my shoulders. "Take it easy. You don't 
have to worry about her anymore. She's dead."

     "Thank Heaven for small favours." I settle back, 
still angry, but still hurting, too. I am beginning to 
notice all the other half-healed bruises and contusions 
besides my head. I ache all over and I feel sick. I am 
also covered in blood. That must have been some fall.

     "What happened?" Joe asks, after a moment.

     "I took a walk," I say. It is not like it's a crime. 
"She followed me. I got lost; she came after me. When I 
tried to get away from her by taking the stairs, she 
attacked me with a knife. She grabbed me and we fell over 
the railing."

     He nods. "Yeah, they found the knife. I'm sorry I 
didn't come sooner, but it took me awhile to track her 
down."

     "Okay." I sincerely hope that she is truly dead. 
Otherwise, I will have to take a risk and kill her. I am 
tired of playing a sitting duck. "I'm not in any trouble, 
am I?"

     Joe shakes his head. "The cops don't seem to think 
you're at fault. I explained that she'd been stalking 
you. They got mad that we hadn't reported it, but they 
settled down when I pointed out that we couldn't go to 
them because we didn't really have any proof. You're 
gonna be stuck in here another night for observation, 
though."

     I groan. "Joe," I whine.

     "Hey, you were pushing it already with the poisoning 
thing. No way they're gonna let you out now until they're 
sure your head's still screwed on straight. You landed on 
top of her, so they're saying she must have broken your 
fall, but they're still calling you one lucky son of a 
bitch."

     "Yeah, right. I'm so lucky." Job had better weeks 
than this one. 

     Joe rubs his face. "They found you halfway down the 
stairwell. What the Hell do you expect them to think? 
Besides, another night in here won't kill you."

     "Perfect. So, you just go your merry way and I'm 
stuck in here until tomorrow?" I wish my head would hurry 
up and heal so that it will stop aching.

     "No. I'm gonna sit here until Visiting Hours are 
over and give you a chance to get your head out of your 
ass and back together." Since he's a Watcher, he must 
mean this literally. "Then, I'm gonna go over to the bar 
and do a couple of sets with the band. And tomorrow, 
around noon, I'll come back here, pick you up and bring 
you back home. They said noon was the earliest time 
they'd consider letting you go." His tone is much more 
patient than I deserve.

     "Ah, Joe. I'm sorry." Great, now I feel guilty. I 
thought I had got over that bad habit.

     He pats me on the shoulder. "S'okay. I wanna be 
here. I just don't want you to cut yourself off from 
everybody again."

     "I can't help it," I admit.

     "Yes, you can. It's just that when you're hurting, 
you seem to forget. Hey, by the way, I talked to your 
academic advisor. I told her you were in the hospital."

     I forgot all about her. "Thanks. Was she okay about 
it?"

     "She was pretty concerned...." He looks as though he 
wants to continue, but isn't sure if it is wise.

     "What?" I say.

     "She was the one who warned me Annie Lembede might 
have tracked you here. Lembede called up your 
department's secretary and got the number of the bar out 
of her. Then, that idiot Jerry told her you were here." 
Idiot, my ass. I will bet young Jerry knew exactly what 
he was doing. "What I don't understand is how she found 
out your name and your department. I mean, you weren't 
going by Adam Pierson when she knew you before, were 
you?"

     "No, I changed it after that...ohh." Now, I 
remember. "I think I know how that happened."

     Joe's mouth tightens. "Care to explain that?" Heaven 
only knows what he's thinking.

     I lean my head back against the pillow and close my 
eyes. "When I visited the exhibit, I wrote my name and 
the name of the University in the guestbook."

     "What?" Joe's mouth drops open. "Me--Adam, why?"

     "It was before I knew she was there," I try to 
explain. It doesn't come out well. Either way you look at 
it, it was a stupid move. I am as confused by it as he 
is. "I suppose I wanted to leave a mark. They tried to 
bury me, Joe. I didn't want to let them forget."

     He looks very sad. "Okay. I can see your point. Now, 
at least, we know how she found out." After that, he 
changes the subject. Do I want to see a movie this 
weekend? I go along with it, and we start discussing what 
we'll go see, or rent if I'm still not feeling well. He 
sticks to his word and stays until they kick him out. 
After he leaves, I try to sleep. This doesn't work out 
well, since the nurses wake me every two hours to check 
my orientation and vital signs. When I do sleep, all I 
dream about is tumbling over that railing, over and over 
and over again.

*********

Thursday

But the cat came back the very next day.
The cat came back.
They thought he was a goner.
But the cat came back.
He just wouldn't go away....[meow]


     "Did they say anything about his condition, how he's 
been doing?" I am grumpy from lack of sleep and nervous 
about my cat. And I really do not appreciate the fact 
that Joe won't let me drive. Now that I am (mostly) out 
of danger, I find myself focussing obsessively on Silas.

     "They just said that he was real sick," Joe says, 
keeping his eyes on the road. He is holding something 
back, but I am not sure what it is. I suspect that "real 
sick" is an understatement of Silas' condition. Poor 
Silas. I should have done something about him sooner. I 
am not sure how, but I should have. He deserves better. I 
think I am going to have to have them put him down. Poor, 
poor Silas. "Look, stop gnawing on it. We're almost 
there. You can ask the vet in about five minutes how your 
cat is."

     "Fine." I settle down into my seat, close me eyes 
and try to meditate. Anything to get the sensation of 
falling out of my head. Damn that bitch.


*********


     It's like watching a guy go down for the third time. 
Goddamnit, Old Man, just grab the rope. I glanced over at 
you (you were sleeping or meditating, or something) then 
concentrated on the road. Traffic was Hell. Wouldn't have 
done either of us any good, my getting us smeared all 
over the freeway.

     I pulled into the vet's and parked. You took a 
minute or two to wake up, uncoiling in the seat and 
punching the door open. Your face was blank, almost 
slack. You staggered a little once you got out.

     "You okay?" I said sharply.

     "I'm fine." You waved it off. "Let it be, Joe." You 
sighed, lifting your shoulders and letting them drop. 
"Let's get this over with." Letting it go for now, I 
followed you into the vet's.

     The receptionist turned solicitous at first sight of 
you. You really did look like shit. She called the vet to 
the desk. When he came out, he ushered us right into one 
of the examination rooms.

     "I am sorry," he explained in French. "Silas has 
fought very hard all week, but he is not improving. I 
recommend that you put him to sleep."

     "What will happen if I don't?" you asked, a little 
too calm.

     The vet spread his hands. "He will linger for a few 
days, perhaps a week, but the result will be the same. He 
will die. He should not have lived this long. How much he 
will suffer before the end is up to you."

     You rubbed your face. "I'm sorry I didn't come 
sooner." Ah, shit, Methos. Don't start getting back into 
guilt now.

     "I understand that you were in the hospital, as 
well." The vet seemed sympathetic, always a good sign. 
"There is no reason to blame yourself. You are very 
fortunate that you did not get a larger dose of what 
poisoned your cat. What do you wish to do now?"

     "I would like to see him, please." Your voice was 
soft and toneless.

     "If you like," the vet said, looking at you oddly. 
He led the way into the back and showed us a cage. As you 
stepped through the pneumatic door, you got a funny look, 
as though you'd been through this scene before. Guess you 
had; Silas wasn't your first pet. The whole place stank 
of antiseptic. A whole variety of animals added their 
chirps, barks and meows to the cacophony of vet noises. 
You opened the cage without asking first. Silas lay 
inside. I didn't recognise him. From a robust beast from 
Hell that liked to jump on my lap and dig his claws in to 
give me an impromptu circumcision whenever I was sitting 
watching TV at your house, he'd shrunk to a bedraggled 
scarecrow. He didn't lift his head, but when you pulled 
him out, very gently, he whined in pain. You cradled him 
in your arms, your face as serene as a Madonna's. I could 
hear him purring from several feet away. It sounded 
desperate.

     "I'd like to be alone with him for a few minutes," 
you said. You looked up at me. "You can stay if you like, 
Joe."

     The vet tugged on my arm. "I'll be right back," I 
said. You nodded and settled into a metal, folding chair, 
stroking Silas. The vet led me back to the examination 
room.

     "Is M. Pierson well?" he asked.

     "He's having a rough week," I admitted.

     The vet shook his head. "I am very concerned. M. 
Pierson loves this cat. He has brought him here regularly 
for years. He is much too calm about this."

     "I know," I admitted. "But there ain't a whole lot 
we can do about it right now. He won't let us help; trust 
me, I know. He's kinda funny that way." The vet looked 
spooked. "Don't worry," I told him. "I'll watch him; I've 
been doing it for weeks. A little while longer shouldn't 
be too tough." Yeah, right. "I just have to get him 
through the initial part. It'll be fine."

     My cellphone rang. Christ, what now? I fished it out 
and turned it on. "Yeah, what?" I snapped.

     "Joe? Is this a bad time?" Mac. Great. Could this 
day get any better? I sure hoped not.

     "Yeah, it is, Mac. I'm sorry. I'm kinda in the 
middle of something. Can I call you back?"

     "I wanted to know if you were going to be playing 
tomorrow night." Mac sounded contrite. He's real good at 
that boy scout act, isn't he? "I thought I'd bring Kate 
down to hear you; maybe talk about old times."

     "Sure, sure. Sounds fine. I'll see you then." It 
wasn't until I'd hung up that I remembered about Keane. 
He was coming over to the bar tomorrow night, too. I 
cursed, scaring the vet, and dialed Mac's number. He'd 
turned his phone off. Perfect. Just perfect.

     Okay. One thing at a time. You and the cat. Deal 
with that and get it over with. "We'd better go back and 
see what Adam's thinking of doing next," I told the vet. 
I didn't get into gory detail about what I meant, but as 
we came back through the door, I heard a wishbone snap, 
even over the yaps and squeaks which had died down 
anyway. I knew right away what the sound meant, and you 
know what scared me? I wasn't surprised.


*********


     I cannot lose you a second time. You look worse than 
Kronos, or even Caspian, at the end. They died miserably, 
fighting the whole way, because I didn't have the courage 
to give them the final mercy. I will not fail you. If I 
do have one talent, it is this one. I still remember the 
old slaves from the Horsemen camp--worn out, begging me 
to end their pain. And I always did. It was the one way 
in which they could count on me. It was my one, great 
talent.

     I stretch you out on my lap and grasp your head. You 
stare out into the lab, panting, claws digging into my 
thigh, eyes fixed on some distant vision of escape from 
the agony. With a quick turn of my wrist, I snap your 
neck, wrenching your head around so that your eyes start 
up at me. You convulse and piss on my leg. It doesn't 
last long, never does. After your body slackens, I gently 
turn back your head so that you lie in my lap almost as 
if you were sleeping. My hands are shaking. I am much 
better at this with people.

     Joe comes up beside me. He doesn't say anything, 
only puts a hand on my shoulder. I hope I won't ever have 
to do this for him. "I didn't want him to suffer 
anymore," I say. It was the only gift I had left for you.

     The vet tries to withhold the body, citing health 
regulations. In the end, I don't give him any choice but 
to let me take you home, though Joe's presence keeps the 
confrontation mostly non-violent. Once he accepts defeat, 
the vet does have the grace to give me a box to put you 
in. He is not a bad man, really; he just isn't used to 
dealing with one. We put you in the box and take you out 
to Joe's SUV, where we strap it into the back seat. There 
are so many rituals of death, yet once I knew them all. 
Where will I go from here? I feel so numb, concentrated 
onto a single point--my cat is dead. What do I do now, 
get a housemate? That will go down well with Joe.


*********


     Now, I was really beginning to worry. You'd just 
killed your own cat. We had the body in a box in the 
backseat, and you were as calm as a femme fatale after 
sex. All you needed was a cigarette.

     "I'll stay until you're settled, once we get back," 
I said.

     "With all due respect, Joe, I'd rather be alone for 
the evening." You slouched in your seat, playing with the 
radio controls. You took your time settling on some loud 
Europop number.

     "Well, that is just too bad." I wasn't gonna let you 
drive me away this time with some sarcastic remark. There 
wasn't much you could do about it, either, over and above 
sarcasm. Not today. "We'll rent a movie, order a pizza, 
maybe even get some beer as long as you promise not to 
get too maudlin. We'll toast your cat and tomorrow, we'll 
give him a nice burial someplace." That sounded like a 
plan.

     "I cannot wait." You played it indifferent. I knew 
for a fact that you weren't (it was all you could do not 
to break down at the vet's), but there you were, serene. 
No, not serene--blank. I felt like I was seeing you full-
on the way I've glimpsed you from time to time out of the 
corner of my eye. Just out of earshot. I didn't want to 
think about that, so I tried to think about dealing with 
the body instead. We'd have to put it someplace for the 
night. If we were gonna be having pizza and beer, the 
fridge was a bad idea. I'm not up for eating pizza 
saturated with eau de dead cat, not even for you.  But 
the body would smell if we left it out in the apartment. 
Maybe we could sneak it outside and hide it out behind 
the apartment complex. I glanced over at you. You were 
staring out the window, in your own little land. Prozac 
time. Fat lot of use you were gonna be tonight.

     "You know, with all the shit that's been going on, 
maybe you should consider checking yourself into 
someplace on holy ground for a month or two, get a little 
peace and quiet." I can't tell now if I was seriously 
suggesting this or if I was just trying to get a rise out 
of you, but I was willing to try anything at that point. 
I was pretty much at the end of my rope.

     "I am not going into hospital again," you said. "I 
just got out of one." You didn't look up, as if you 
didn't think my suggestion was worth your time.

     "Goddamnit, Methos, you gotta do something." This, I 
felt sure about. "'Cause you are in one hell of a 
tailspin, the ground is rushing up at you and you are not 
pulling out of it. Maybe it's time to hit the eject 
button, you know?"

     "No." That sounded final as Hell.

     I sighed, totally exasperated. "Look, I'm not gonna 
be around forever. You have got to get your head out of 
your ass, somehow, because you are not okay, and I do not 
see you getting any better without some help."

     "I am not checking into hospital." I couldn't hear 
any compromise in your voice.

     "What are you gonna do, then?"

     "I don't know." You sounded tired beyond tired.

     You sat up so quickly that you banged your elbow on 
your side window. "What?" I said, hitting the brake by 
mistake and making the car behind me blare his horn, pull 
out beside me and blaze past. Screw him. He shouldn't 
have been tailgaiting me. "What is it, Methos?"

     You were looking around, eyes wide. "There's someone 
here." I knew right away you meant another Immortal. We 
were out on the freeway, surrounded by speeding cars, but 
you seemed sure of yourself. How could anybody possibly 
challenge you in this situation? Where could this guy be?

     The woozy cry from the back seat answered my 
question.

     I kept my hands on the wheel and my brakes, and my 
eyes on the road. I glanced at you once. Your eyes were 
as wide as mine felt. "Did you hear that?" I said.

     "Oh, yes. Keep driving. I'll check him out." You 
undid your seatbelt and crawled halfway into the 
backseat. I tried to watch you in the rearview mirror; I 
really had to see this. When you opened the box, I saw 
one dopey, but very much alive, cat. I heard him sneeze, 
then meow. You pulled him into the front seat and onto 
your lap. When I looked over at you, you were stroking 
his fur while he rubbed his face with one paw. Obviously, 
he didn't have a clue what was going on. One minute he 
was in screaming agony, the next everything was fine? 
Made sense he'd be confused. He sat up on your knee, 
blinking, wobbly as a new kitten. In a way, he was a new 
kitten.

     I had a real hard time taking it all in while 
keeping us all on the road. "Shit! He's alive! That cat 
is really alive!"

     "Bravo," you snapped. "Would you mind taking us home 
before you get us all killed?"

     "Okay! Fine!" I have to admit, I was seriously 
unnerved. I mean, if cats could become Immortals, what 
did that mean about the Game? "But what are gonna do with 
him when we get there?"

     "Feed him first, I think. I can feel his ribs. Poor 
moggie. He couldn't have been able to keep anything down 
since Sunday night, at least. After that...I don't know. 
I've never had a cat as a student before." You smiled 
down at him with real affection. Damned if it wasn't the 
first genuinely happy look you'd gotten all week.


********* 


     Joe still seems stunned as he follows me into my 
apartment. I am trying not to think about it, trying to 
just enjoy the unexpected miracle. I am not feeling very 
successful about it. Silas is more awake now and huddles 
in my arms. As soon as I set him on the floor he scampers 
off to hide behind my stereo system. Ah. Now we pay the 
piper.

     Joe stares after him. "What's the matter with him?"

     "He can feel me now. He couldn't before." I was 
afraid of that. I sit down on the couch. The apartment 
still stinks of cat vomit and disinfectant, even though 
Amy apparently cleaned up under the bed last night. I 
will just bet she enjoyed getting that job. "It must be 
overwhelming for him."

     "I guess I can see that. Do you think he'll eat?"

     "I hope so. Maybe if I leave the room...." I look 
down at my jeans, and the big splotch of cat piss on one 
leg. "I need a shower."

     "That sounds good. I'll go get some beer and a 
video." Joe heads for the door. He always says such 
beautiful things. "Get cleaned up. Feed your cat. We'll 
order some pizza if your stomach is up for it."

     I rub my belly. "I'll try, at least. Pizza sounds 
good after hospital food." I am a bit less enthusiastic 
about the beer, and I don't know if that is a good sign 
or a bad one. I watch Joe go out then get up and turn my 
attention to the cat. Oh, Silas. What am I going to do 
with you? I have a feeling that you are not going to want 
to live here anymore.

     I try to coax the cat out from behind the stereo, 
but he hisses and tries to scratch me. Poor kitten. My 
Quickening must be overwhelming to him. After a moment, I 
give up and go make him some food instead. It is the best 
I can do. I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that he 
is still alive. How can an animal be an Immortal? Why 
didn't I notice that before? Come to think of it, there 
was a time when I thought that all Immortals were male. 
And young. It would not be the first time I have seen 
Ecclesiastes proved wrong. I may be observant, but I am 
scarcely omniscient. So much for the Game.

     I should make this as quick and painless as I can. 
It worked a few hours ago, it can work again. I go to the 
outside door and open it a few inches, then approach the 
stereo and crouch down in front of it. "Do what you 
want," I tell Silas, who peers at me through a gap 
between the stereo and the speaker. "I won't hurt you." I 
go take my shower. Halfway through it, I feel his tiny 
Quickening recede.

     When I come back out, Joe has come in and shut the 
door. "Is he gone?" I say.

     "Yeah," Joe says. "I didn't see him go, but he's not 
behind the stereo anymore." To make certain, I look there 
and behind the bed. No, there is no Silas, but I am 
relieved to see the food half-gone. At least he accepted 
that much of a parting gift from me. I didn't want him to 
leave my house hungry.

     "Do you think he'll come back?" Joe asks as we 
settle down on the couch for the movie, which turns out 
to be 'Batman Returns'.

     "No." Though I desperately wish Silas would come 
back, I have had enough ambiguity in my life today. I 
cannot stand anymore. He is gone, and that is that. I 
have to accept it.

     This philosophy works fine until about two am. I 
wake up on the couch (I insisted that Joe take the bed) 
missing my cat. Joe is snoring in bed, flat on his back. 
I sit up, throwing off the covers, pick up my boots, my 
jacket and the Bastard, and slip my keys out of my jeans. 
I wait until I'm out the door before I put on my boots 
and head down into the back garden. The sound of Joe's 
snoring follows me out across the lawn. It is rather 
comforting.

     I start calling the cat, softly so as not wake Joe. 
"Silas. Here, ki-ki-kitty. Silas, come here!" I cannot 
sense him, but that means nothing. Surely, my voice 
carries further to a cat's ears than his little Buzz can 
to me. I wander around, poking at the bushes, wondering 
where the silly bugger could have gone. Surely, cats 
don't have that wide a territory. Maybe I should go out 
onto the street.

     Just as I am passing my window, the snoring stops. 
"Methos!" Joe calls out the window a moment later. "Get 
your ass back in here!"

     I glare up at the window. "I am retrieving my cat."

     Joe's face appears. "Yeah? Is he out there."

     I roll my eyes. "I don't know. I'm trying to find 
him."

     "In other words, no. Get back in here before you get 
yourself arrested."

     "I'll come back in a few minutes. I think he might 
have wandered off a bit further than usual."

     "You mean, he ran away, which you already knew. 
You're not gonna find him wandering around in your boxer 
shorts. You're just gonna get yourself arrested."

     I draw myself up with dignity. "I am wearing a t-
shirt and shoes, and I have my coat. I will not get 
arrested." I sense something. "I'll be right back." I 
head towards the elusive sense, out into the street, 
ignoring Joe's irritated protests. Once out there, the 
Buzz recedes. I follow it down the street until it grows 
stronger, all at once. Not Silas at all, but a human 
being. What am I doing? I stop dead.

     I suck in my breath, but make no other visible 
reaction (I hope) when the Immortal steps out from behind 
a building. He passes under a streetlight. Keane.

     "What the bloody Hell are you doing here?" I hiss. I 
really do not want Joe to hear this conversation.

     "Protecting you." He seems to find this funny, or 
perhaps it is my wardrobe.

     "Do I look like I need protection?" It's difficult 
not to huff, considering the time of night and my attire.

     He looks me up and down. I can almost hear a 
snicker. "Why are you dressed like that?"

     I let my shoulders slump. "Because it is two o'clock 
in the morning and only a few minutes ago, I was asleep."

     "I see. But why are you out here?"

     "My cat ran away. I was looking for him. What's your 
excuse?"

     "I told you; I was protecting you." Now, he is the 
one who sounds huffy. It will do him good.

     "Fat lot of good you were doing me out here." He 
looks crestfallen. How I wish he would stop that. I 
fondle the Bastard, considering. Finding the cat is a 
lost cause at this point; Joe is right about that. But 
what to do about Keane? What do they say? Keep your 
friends close and your enemies closer?

     "How long have you been out here? And how do you 
know where I live?"

     He looks sheepish. "I followed you home on Monday 
morning." Perfect. He was a witness to my disaster of a 
one night stand. Come to think of it, he does look 
haggard.

     "Come with me," I say, backing up. Thankfully, he 
does not argue with me, but trots up to me instead. I do 
not turn around until I have him at left hand. I lead him 
back to the house. Inside, Joe is sitting up on the bed 
struggling with his prostheses.

     "What the Hell is going on now?" he says, summing up 
the situation with his usual pithiness. He spots Keane. 
"Are you out of your mind?"

     I redo introductions with brevity. "Joe, you've met 
Keane; Keane, Joe. Keane, the couch is right there, all 
made up. Joe, move over."

     Keane looks confused. Joe looks incredulous. "You 
have got to be kidding me," he says.

     Hmm. Good point. I turn back to Keane and hold out 
my hand. "All right, hand it over."

    "What?" Definitely confused.

     "You know what. Hand it over, scabbard and all. 
Joe's gonna stick it under his pillow for the night." I 
wait. I figure he'll leave at this point, but Joe is 
right. It is too dangerous otherwise. After a momentary 
hesitation, Keane opens his coat, pulls out his sword and 
hands it to me. It takes me an effort not to show my 
astonishment. This guy is serious! He really wants to be 
my student. I hand the sword to Joe, take off my coat and 
put my own sword under my own pillow. Keane watches all 
of this with bemusement, then warily beds down on the 
couch.

     "Move over, bud," I tell Joe.

     Joe opens his mouth, closes it, shrugs and rolls 
over. I hear his prosthetics clunk on the floor as I turn 
off the light. Maybe this will work out after all. Now, 
if only Silas would come back home....

     Oh, for Heaven's sake. Keane snores worse than Joe.


*********


Friday

I see your hair is burning. Hills are filled with fire.
If they say I never loved you, you know they are a liar.
Driving down your freeway; midnight alleys roam.
Cops and cars, the topless bars.
Never saw a woman so alone.


     I slept pretty well for a guy with a crazy buddy. I 
couldn't believe it when you came back last night with 
Keane in tow. Mac'd have a fit--not that I'll ever tell 
him about it. I've got enough problems of my own with him 
right now. I don't need to get into the middle of yours. 
Keane was polite enough this morning. He got himself up 
when I did, wouldn't take any of my offers of breakfast 
or a shower, accepted his sword by the door at gunpoint 
and left, promising to come by tonight. I didn't stop 
him. He's comatose in some nice hotel room by now, I'll 
bet, but I could swear he was smiling to himself as he 
went out the door. The Wise One had let him sleep on his 
couch. You got some way of defusing your fellow 
Immortals, Old Man.

     You rolled over in bed about an hour later, yawned, 
grumbled under your breath, pulled the pillow over your 
face. Your usual routine. "Keane left?" you said, though 
of course, you knew better than I did.

     "Yeah, about an hour ago." I was sitting at your 
kitchen table, helping myself to microwaved pizza and 
coffee. I like pilfering your coffee supply. Lots of 
flavours and combinations, better than a coffee house.

     You pulled the pillow off your face. "Is he still 
coming to the bar tonight?"

     "Yep." I munched pizza, looking over an old copy of 
Paris Match. Should I tell you about Mac coming? I still 
hadn't been able to get hold of him.

     Rolling off the bed, you pulled on your jacket and 
shuffled over to the table. You flopped down in a chair, 
scratching your chest, then grabbed a piece of pizza from 
my plate. "Any sign of Silas?"

     "Nope." I turned a page. Maybe I should at least 
warn you. "About Keane...." I raised my head. You were 
watching me, pizza held in mid-air. "Mac called me and 
said he was gonna come over to hear me play tonight. I 
think he's trying to make some kind of peace gesture."

     "Oooh." You stared at the microwave behind my 
shoulder. "Bad timing. And you said yes?"

     I shrugged. "Sorry. I forgot. He called me at the 
vet's. I tried to call him right back, but he'd turned 
off his phone."

     "Ah." You yawned again and gazed longingly at my 
coffee. "Joe, maybe we are going about this all the wrong 
way."

     I picked up another piece of pizza. "Oh, yeah? How's 
that?"

     You got up to pour yourself a cup of java. Good 
thing I made enough for three. "We're not their keepers, 
you know. I've already warned Keane and he is determined 
to make peace with Mac."

     "Yeah, but Mac doesn't know that. He thinks Keane is 
still after him. And anyway, Keane is only playing nice 
to get in the door with you."

     You waved that off. "Are you going to tell Mac?" you 
asked. You sipped coffee, grunting in annoyance. Must be 
too hot.

     "Are you kidding?" I laughed. "That would make it 
worse."

     You shrugged. "What's the problem, then?"

     I thought about it. Come to think of it, what was 
the problem? Mac could take care of himself. It wasn't as 
though he's ever wanted to kill Keane, anyway, just avoid 
him.

     "I say we sit back and watch the fur fly." Your grin 
was definitely evil. "I'll wager that after the initial 
hissing and spitting and pissing on strategic bushes, 
they will settle down on opposite sides of your 
establishment and ignore each other."

     Now, I was grinning, too. I liked that word picture. 
"You're a sick man."

     You accepted the back-handed compliment with a 
modest smile and nod. "I try."


**********


     Good thing this was a slow day in the comics shop, 
Al thought. The latest shipment had come in and it was 
pretty wild. "This latest by Gibbon will sell better than 
X-Men this month, I bet," Al told Manny as they unpacked 
the new magazines. "This cover is wonderful."

     "I dunno, man." Manny was a reflex sceptic. "I think 
he peaked with the Babylon issue. Or maybe the Odyssey 
one. This one's kinda--well, he just sounds pissed off 
all the time. Not that it won't sell even faster than any 
of the others." Neither of them paid much attention to 
the big guy in the raincoat who slipped in the door under 
the jangling bells.

     "It is about the sack of Rome in 394 BC. The 
barbarians destroyed most early Roman culture. How should 
he sound?" Al started to get kind of pissed off, himself. 
Manny always had to disagree with whatever you said. Al 
wished he would get off the soapbox, sometimes.

     "Hey, it's a comic book. It's not supposed to be 
deep. The guy sounds like he was there and had an axe to 
grind." Manny flung his arms out, almost whacking the 
customer, who was coming up to the counter. "Oh, sorry, 
man. My bad." He stepped to one side to let the guy past. 
The man looked familiar. He was a regular, bought a lot 
of X-Men, Dark Horse and Vertigo, some DC and 
independents. Liked classic Batman and Cerebus, though 
he'd gone off The Maxx real fast, lately.

     "Thank you." Ducking his head, the guy moved up to 
the counter. He only had one comic today, the issue under 
discussion, as it turned out.

     "C'est bon you are getting that today," Al told him 
as he rang up the sale. "We expect to be sold out by the 
end of the week." 

     "You know, that's all there is, too," Manny said, 
tapping the cover. "They found that artist dead here in 
Paris not too long ago." The customer looked unimpressed. 
"Found him on a construction site, burned to a crisp. Had 
to identify him from his dental records." Egged on by the 
customer's blank look, Al thought, Manny leaned forward 
and lowered his voice. "The funny thing was, they say it 
wasn't the fire that killed him. Somebody cut off his 
head." He drew his finger across his throat. "They say 
the sword that killed him was lying next to him, snapped 
in half. Guess he was lucky they left the head behind, 
huh?" He leaned back, waiting for a reaction. "What do 
you think of that, huh? Like something out of 'Lord of 
the Rings'!" The customer just stood there, not even 
blinking. Looking disappointed, Manny retreated behind 
the counter.

     "How very odd," the customer murmured at last, in a 
tone that Al thought was a little creepy. With some of 
the guys that came here, the less you knew about them, 
the better. The guy stirred, coming out of his daze, and 
looked at Al. "How much do I owe you?" Al told him. The 
customer nodded, paid and walked out.

     "That was kind of strange," Al said, after the 
doorbells stopped jangling.

     Manny wandered over to the shelves to tidy up the 
comics. "What?" he asked, yawning. Real people didn't 
seem to interest him much.

     "That guy who was just in here...well, I mean, look 
at this 'Barbaros' cover. You think he knew Mark Gibbon? 
He looked like the guy on the cover, close enough to be 
the model. Maybe they were friends or something." 
Remembering the customer's face, Al shivered.

     Manny laughed. "Al, you been smoking way too much 
pot. That guy the model for 'Barbaros'? Give me a break!"


*********


      When I got to the bar, I got a surprise. A woman 
was sitting at a table, sipping a lemonade. She looked up 
at me and smiled as I stumped in. She stood up to greet 
me.

     "Hello, you must be Joe. I am Mr. Pierson's academic 
supervisor." Not exactly what I'd thought she'd be like, 
but somehow, I liked her more for that. Short, dark, 
quiet. She looked shy, but I didn't believe it.

     "Oh! Right!" I shook her hand. "I'd offer you 
something, but it looks like Ewan here has already fixed 
you up." Ewan nodded at me and headed out back. Bet he 
couldn't wait to get back to Edinburgh.

     "Yes. I'm sorry if it sounds insulting, but I am not 
supposed to drink alcohol. My religion forbids it." She 
looked mischievous. "Of course, I should not be in a bar 
at all, talking to a strange man. But then, I should not 
be educated, either, so we shall leave it at that." She 
indicated for me to sit. I decided to risk it, even 
though it made me look clumsy.

     "You're here about Adam, I guess," I said.

     She nodded, leaning forward. "Oh, yes. How is he? 
Did that woman appear, after all?"

     "I'm afraid she did." I put up a hand to forestall 
her. "He's okay. She came after him at the hospital, but 
he's okay. She's dead, though."

     "Oh, dear," she said. She seemed remarkably calm 
about it. A cool customer, though the concern about you 
seemed genuine. "How terrible. Is he out of hospital 
now?"

     "Oh, yeah. He's resting at home today." I got an 
inspirational thought. "Say, you know, he's coming in 
tonight. If you come by, then you can see him yourself."

     "Oh, I don't know." Her brows drew down. It looked 
cute on her. "I was going to leave him be, but I am going 
away for three weeks on Monday and I should see him 
before I leave."

     "Well, come see him here. It'll be fine; no 
problem."

     She looked at me from under those brows. I bet she 
knew exactly what I was trying here, but I wasn't sure if 
she minded.

     "Well, perhaps I will try." I could tell she'd like 
to be persuaded. Maybe she likes me. She did kinda look 
amused.

     "What do you specialise in, Ma'am? Adam never told 
me." I wanted to find out more about her before she 
disappeared out the door. It ain't a crime. Not like you 
were gonna fill me in.

     "Ancient near-Eastern Studies," she explained. 
"Northern Asia Minor from 1500 BCE onwards."

     "Ah, so you're right up Adam's alley."

     She nodded. "More or less, though he extends his 
studies further into Asia than I do."

     "Oh, yeah. What's his thesis? He never told me." You 
always got cagey about it whenever I asked you.

     "'The Origins of Dualistic Thought in Old Avestan 
Literature'. Mostly Zoroastrianism, though I believe he 
is still writing a chapter comparing the concept of Death 
as a deity in Iranian and Indian thought." Why, Methos, 
you son of a bitch. I couldn't believe you were actually 
doing your PhD thesis on Ahriman, himself.

     "Really? When did he start that?" I tried to keep my 
voice casual, which was tough, considering how person the 
subject was.

     She frowned. "As you may know, Adam disappeared for 
nearly two years in 1997. When he returned, I had 
replaced his old advisor, who had died. We talked and he 
changed his thesis then. It was originally on the 
transmission of ideas between Asia Minor and the Indian 
subcontinent prior to the invasion of Alexander the 
Great." 

     Hmm, that sounded reasonable enough, all things 
considered. I relaxed. So, Ahriman did hit you out of the 
blue, just like me and Mac. Good. I'm not sure I could 
handle you knowing something like that beforehand and not 
warning me. Not that I believe you did. I used to wonder, 
but not anymore.

     In the end, I talked Azar into coming tonight. Seems 
she's curious about the Blues. I would've picked another 
night, but with her going away for a few weeks, I wasn't 
sure when I'd get another chance. I sure hoped I knew 
what I was doing. Unless a miracle occurred, this was 
gonna be one Hell of a night.

     
*********


     Someone is knocking at my door. Do I answer it? Of 
course not. A key turns in the lock. Must be Joe. I roll 
away from the door as it opens. I hear Joe limp in and 
shut the door carefully. He approaches until I can hear 
him breathing right beside the bed.

    "You gonna drink that all yourself, or are you in a 
mood to share?" he says, over the sound of 'LA Woman'. It 
is not the jibe or accusation that I expected. I roll 
over, making space on the bed for him to sit. He does so, 
wincing.

     "Ohh," he says. "That feels good. I've been standing 
all day."

     "This'll help," I say, handing him the bottle. "You 
want to take 'em off?" I mean the legs.

     He shakes his head. "Maybe later." He takes a large 
swig of gin without quite choking. "Christ, Old Man, this 
stuff is rotgut. Couldn't you get drunk on something a 
little smoother?"

    "You're not supposed to enjoy yourself whenever 
you're doing the sackcloth and ashes routine, Joe. You 
know that." Not that I have been drinking enough to 
achieve any kind of oblivion.

     "Oh." Joe belches sagely. "So that's what this is? 
Penance?"

     "Something like that. Maybe I just feel like being 
miserable." As though I am not miserable enough. "You do 
realise that 'The End' is coming up a song or two after 
this."

     "Yeah." Joe sighs. Ever since he saw 'Apocalypse 
Now', he's really hated that song. "I can handle it. Is 
it the one with or without Morrison's faked orgasm?"

     "Not sure. The long version, I think. And who's 
saying it was faked?"

     "Ah." Joe nods sagely. "Missing Byron, huh?"

     Should I bother to deny it? Oh, why bother? 
"Something like that," I admit.

     "So." Joe asks the next question that I know will 
come. "Was Byron Jim Morrison?"

     I shrug. "Could be, I suppose. We weren't in touch, 
at the time."

     Joe chuckles. "God, you're cagey sometimes."

     "Only when I am very, very miserable. And missing my 
cat."

     "Do you want me to leave?" He asks gently.
     "Strangely enough, no." I look up at him, sitting 
there with his cane beside him and the bottle in his lap. 
He has nearly gone all white now. Soon, in a few decades, 
at best, I will lose him, just as I have lost all the 
others. "Misery loves company, they do say."

     "Now I'm replacing your cat?" Joe smirks.

     I laugh. "Joe, you do not resemble a cat in any way. 
You are a dog person. Didn't you know that?"

     He changes the subject, getting to the heart of his 
visit. "Come on, man. Don't do this to me. You can't 
leave me alone with those guys. You gotta come in 
tonight."

     No, I really cannot do that. He is right about that. 
"I know that. I'll get up in a minute."

    "What's wrong?" he asks as I sit up. "Is it the cat?"

     "Yes...no. Not the cat. Old business. It came back 
and bit me on the ass today. They're selling the last 
issue of 'Barbaros' at the comic book store."

     "Oh." His voice is quiet, but I still hear the 
sympathy. "Christ, I'm sorry, Methos."

     "It's okay. I just...I walked into the comic book 
store and they were talking about it. Talking about him. 
Speculating about his death. It felt strange. It is not 
as though I liked Crixus very much, and I couldn't stand 
Atticus. I didn't expect to grieve for either of them."

     At first, Joe looks speechless. After a moment, he 
says, "You shouldn't have gone out today. Can you handle 
things tonight?"

     "I'll be fine, Joe." I roll over and reach over the 
edge of the bed to pick up one of my boots, then let it 
drop. What an unsatisfying thump. Never mind. I think 
about the expected floor show tonight and I perk up a 
bit. Mac and Keane in one room; now, that should be 
interesting. If only Amanda were here. I can't help it; I 
grin in anticipation. Payback, however slow, is a 
beautiful thing, and those two both owe me. "Yeah, I'll 
be fine. I wouldn't want to miss this night for the 
world."


*********


     Oh, dear. There is a young woman coming to my table. 
At first, I don't have a clue who she is--then, the 
memory slots into place. I went home with her last Sunday 
night.

     "Hel-lo, Sailor." I have to admit, as she sits down 
across from me, that she does have a charming leer. 
"Didn't expect to see you around here. Like the Blues, do 
you?"

     "I'm a regular." Might as well be blunt. I jerk my 
chin towards the stage, where Joe is setting up to play. 
He hasn't spotted her yet. "I know the owner."

     "Oh?" She glances over at Joe with brief interest. 
How did I end up in bed with a girl possessing the 
attention span of a mayfly? I thought my taste in women 
had improved. No. Best not to answer that.

     She pulls her chair around so that her thigh is 
pressing against mine. Don't even think about leaning 
against her, Old Man; behave. When she takes one of my 
hands in her two, though, it is difficult. I let her do 
it--slave to the touch. She strokes the inside of my 
palm. Uh oh. She has such tiny hands; I remember now what 
she did with them. I shiver. Now is not the time.

     "I had a lot of fun the other night," she says. I'll 
bet she did--bedding an older man, then booting him out 
the door come morning, must have given her a great sense 
of power over men. Classic ladette behaviour.

     "Oh," I say. She doesn't have to know how my body is 
responding to her (it certainly is!). Since I'm sober, it 
is my head that is in control. My head is firmly on my 
shoulders this evening and, with two Immortals who hate 
each other about to arrive at any moment, I intend to 
keep it there.

     "I thought we could try a rematch," she says, 
sticking out the tip of her tongue in what she must think 
is an endearing manner. Either she is too bold or too 
young to catch on to my cool tone.

     Joe looks up and sees us. He frowns. I raise my 
eyebrows. His frown deepens. Don't worry, buddy. I can 
get myself out of this one.

     I fold my own fingers around hers before putting her 
hands on the table in front of her. "I think it's best if 
we make last Sunday night a one-time thing," I say. She 
does not like that. She pouts, though there is real anger 
under the outthrust lower lip, not just petulance. I have 
one-upped her. No doubt she wanted the rematch so that 
she could dump me again.

     "I just thought we could have a little fun," she 
huffs.

     "We did, but it has been a hard week for me and I'm 
sure you have to work in the morning. It wouldn't be 
convenient for either of us." That hits home. Now, she 
does look angry. Good. Time to get a learning curve, Old 
Man. You have been around the mulberry bush too many 
times to waste a sober night on a girl like this. You 
cannot be so desperate as to give her another shot at 
booting you out into the rain in le grand matin.

     "Well," she says, "I guess I'll see you around."

     "I guess you will," I say as she gets up and marches 
over to a group of college-age girls at a nearby table. 
The bar is filling up now with regulars. Joe has many of 
those on Fridays. Weekend nights are when he does most of 
his business. The ladies are looking a bit overwhelmed by 
all the Blues enthusiasts. My rejected suitress flops 
down into a chair and an animated conference ensues. Her 
mates lean forward, asking questions of course, which she 
answers with arms folded across her chest and a martyred 
look. The mates keep glancing over at me. I raise my 
glass to them in a salute, which creates a stir and a few 
gasps. It is difficult to tell whether they are enjoying 
her failure or are sympathetic to her being taken 
advantage of by such an old rotter. Maybe it is both. 
She'll get over it. As for me, nobody does it better for 
salvaging dignity out of the mud. Game over. I am content 
to call it a draw.

     I glance over at Joe, who is having a hard time 
biting down on a smile. See, Joe? I can still keep it in 
my pants. And I can do sobriety, too. He shakes his head 
and goes back to setting up. Some of the band have shown 
up by now, to help him out. 

     He comes over to my table. "That was quick," he 
says, easing himself down onto a chair.

     "It seemed best to keep it short for the sake of our 
respective senses of dignity." I don't mention the 
surreptitious breathing exercises I am doing to calm 
myself down. My body doesn't mind that she is trash; it's 
not as though I have always been this particular. I watch 
the group of ladies (I am trying to be generous) leave. I 
wait until they are out the door before I let myself rub 
my stomach. I wouldn't want to show weakness.

     Joe notices, of course. "That still bothering you?" 
he says. I shrug and slouch back in my chair, staring at 
the ceiling. "Yeah, yeah. Okay. I know when to take a 
hint."

     "It's not like it's gonna kill me."

     "So, what? Flu won't kill you, either. That doesn't 
mean you shouldn't take it easy for a week or two."

      "Fine. Point taken." I rub my eyes, then fold my 
arms and lay my head on the table, looking up at Joe. He 
reaches over and pats me on the shoulder.

     "Been a real shitty week for you, huh?" he says, 
smiling ruefully.

      "That is an impressive understatement." Not that 
Joe hasn't had his share of trouble. "I'm sorry you got 
caught up in it all. I don't remember life being quite 
this exciting back when I was working with you and Don."

     "It's been a rough decade, that's for sure," Joe 
admits, letting his hand fall back to his side. "At least 
we're still here."

     "And whose fault is that?" I am thinking of Kronos 
and Silas. I wish my cat had not run away. I feel a Buzz 
and lift my head. Catching my movement, Joe glances at 
the door. His face tightens.

     "Look what the cat dragged in," he mutters.


*********


     Kate watched her husband with bemused concern. 
"Duncan, what is wrong?"

     "Nothing, love. It's fine." Duncan stared at the 
road, palming the steering wheel in visible agitation. 
She had to admit that traffic was heavy. Perhaps that was 
why he wouldn't look at her. "I'm just nervous about 
introducing you to Joe and Adam."

     "I'm sure that we'll all get along." She wasn't sure 
of this at all, but saw no reason to borrow trouble. Joe 
sounded a bit of a grouch, but if she handled him right, 
she felt sure that she would have him eating out of her 
hand in short order. Pierson (she had no doubt that 
'Adam' was not his true name) was almost certainly an 
Immortal, though Duncan was being coy about telling her 
that. He could be a problem, but, with Immortals, there 
was always that one, straightforward solution. It would 
be difficult reconciling it with Duncan afterwards, but 
she could do it. She was good at persuasion.

     "I hope so," Duncan said, not sounding his usual, 
confident self. "They can both be difficult, and Joe and 
I just had a fight a few days ago. Adam will probably be 
nice enough--as long as he doesn't get too sarcastic 
about being in hospital all week."

     "He was in hospital?" It was always good to show 
concern for one's husband's friends, though this did 
imply that Adam was Mortal, after all. "What happened? Is 
he all right?"

     "He's fine--physically, anyway. I don't know about 
his mood, though. He's been distracted. Someone poisoned 
him on Monday. That was how he ended up in hospital."

     "I see." She filed the fact away, in case of needed 
use. Duncan seemed to acquire troublesome friends. She 
would never tell him, but she was rather glad that Connor 
was dead, though not as glad as she was about Kell's 
death. She did not think that Duncan's beloved older 
kinsman would ever have accepted her.

     Duncan's fidgeting increased as they approached the 
bar. By the time they pulled up down the street (there 
being no spaces left, either in front of the bar or 
across from it), she was having difficulty refraining 
from laughing at him.

     "Duncan," she said, laying a hand on his arm as he 
cursed over setting the car alarm system, "stop worrying. 
It will be fine."

     He smiled at her, looking strained. "I know, but--"

     "It will be *fine*, Duncan." She had survived Kell, 
for God's sake. How difficult could they be? As they 
entered the bar, she felt the Buzz of another Immortal. 
Duncan strolled right in ahead of her. It must be 
Pierson. But if Pierson was Immortal, how had he ended up 
in hospital for half the week? Then, she saw him--no, 
them. They were certainly a pair. They were sitting near 
the bar. While everyone else in the place (and it was 
crowded) ignored their entrance, Pierson and Dawson were 
staring right at Duncan and Kate--at her mostly, she 
thought. One of them had raised his head from the table 
and watched them with the alertness of a startled wolf--
an Immortal. That must be Pierson, since she knew that 
Dawson was Mortal. Dawson sat across from Pierson, 
hunched in his chair, a cane leaning against the table. 
His gaze wasn't as intense as Pierson's, but it was 
unfriendly. Come to think of it, Pierson did not look 
welcoming, either. Belatedly, Kate remembered that her 
best hold on Kell had been through sex. Neither of these 
men seemed to fancy her in the least, which was just as 
well. Seducing Duncan's friends would surely backfire.

     This might be harder than she'd thought.


*********