Disclaimers:  In part 1.
Rated: NC-17 for explicit violence and explicit sex, slash and het both.

Sirocco, pt. 10
 

 Albuquerque -- noonish, 4/21

Farrell had originally expected to be the first one at the restaurant.  It hadn't quite worked out that way.

His first surprise of the morning had been the feel of another immortal in the hotel at nine o'clock, followed by a knock on his door.  He'd looked through the spy hole, sword in hand, expecting Lim to have come for his head.  Instead, it was the Spaniard, Navarro, bearing coffee and breakfast for both of them.

On four hours of sleep and too much adrenaline, Farrell had not been as polite as he could have wished.  Rather than take it personally, Var had dished back comments as rude as he'd received, including some very sarcastic observations to the effect that he began to see why Farrell got along so well with Damien and would he simply shut up and drink this?  Relieved of the need to be civil, Farrell had settled for simply letting the food and caffeine kick in.  After Var had helped him clear luggage and bags from the various hotel rooms into their two vehicles, Farrell had felt much better.  And when he'd tried to apologize for his behavior, Var had only laughed and told him that compared to Damien in the mornings, he'd been the soul of courtesy and not to worry about it.

Damn good thing he did come to the hotel; all those bags were never going to fit in my vehicle alone.  Lim had already cleared out his room and Jirina's.  I suppose I'm grateful for that, but I keep wondering when Lim's going to come back to haunt me.  What are we going to do with all their gear?  I can't keep it, but getting rid of it inconspicuously is going to be a nuisance.  Dump some of it at various Salvation Army and Goodwill locations, I suppose?  I certainly don't want it.

Farrell straightened in his chair as he felt an overwhelming cacophony of immortal presences sweep along his skin.  Beside him, Var stood up as a courtesy to the approaching women, and Farrell matched his motion more from reflex than intent.  He was too busy watching the approaching immortals and trying to catch his breath under the sheer press of their mingled power.  He hadn't noticed it as much yesterday when he'd arrived in the middle of Owain's group.  Sitting there with Var, however, it felt like a monsoon opening up overhead when he'd only been expecting a mild drizzle.

The sensation finally eased while people were still saying hellos and sorting out who wanted to sit where.  Farrell recovered his equilibrium in time to hear Xan saying firmly, "Oh, no, Stormy.  We're not abandoning the man to your tender mercies on a first acquaintance.  Farrell, tell her to sit between Damien and Disa if you value your own lunch."

"I'm not all that hungry," Farrell admitted without thinking and, to his surprise, collected disapproving looks and frowns not only from the immortals who'd known him for a while, but from most of the rest as well.

Var spoke up with that languid arrogance that Farrell suspected he mostly used to irritate Aidan.  "It might have something to do with the coffee and pastries I brought him three hours ago, too."

"You were awake before ten, brother?" Mandisa asked, amused.  "I'm amazed.  Or did she have to go to work this morning?"

That calumny drew a disbelieving, offended look from those dark blue eyes.  "When have I ever kissed and told, sister?"

"Frequently," Mandisa returned blandly.  "Here, Stormy, I think I can guard my lunch from you.  It will be a pleasure to try, anyway."

"Never while they're still alive," Var huffed, trying not to smile and barely managing it.

"I'll grant you that, Var.  But she's right; you've been known to pull out a story or two," Damien agreed as he pulled a chair out for Stormy.  He wanted her between him and Disa for slightly different reasons than Var had mentioned, but was grateful to his brother for the suggestion anyway.

After they'd sorted out who was sitting where -- Farrell couldn't decide whether to be flattered or frightened about his position between Damien and Duncan MacLeod -- Aidan glanced around and asked quietly, "Now what?"

"That's going to take all of lunch to sort out, Magistra," Damien interrupted her.  "And I need to do something first."

"No need to announce it, man," Connor commented, flashing a quick, irritating smile at Damien.  "Or did you need directions?"

"Connor, give it a break, huh?"  Damien glared at him, green eyes bright.  "We're not likely to have this much of the family together again until Christmas, so will you just shut up and let me propose to the woman?"  He stopped, clearly replaying what he'd just said, and then sighed and closed his eyes.  "Ah, damn it."

Adam laughed and commented, "That brings back memories.  Edana, why do I remember that Turk in--"

"Adam," Stormy advised him pleasantly, "put a sock in it or I'll do it for you.  Damien Appesard, if you were talking about Mandisa, I'm going to shoot you."

"No, I meant to ask you."

Damien's face was flushing almost the shade of his hair, and Stormy had only a moment to wonder if he could actually match that dark red and decide that she didn't want to see it.  "Well, in that case, yes."

"Isn't he supposed to actually--"  Connor considered the two pairs of vivid green eyes glaring at him from across the table.  Then he thought about Damien's skill with bastard sword and Stormy's accuracy with a rifle.  The older Highlander ostentatiously hesitated before he told them, "Congratulations, both of you.  But if you want me to remember a revised, flowery version of this, I expect an invitation to the wedding."

Duncan punched him on the shoulder, hard, and promised Stormy, "He'll remember Damien down on one knee asking you to marry him.  Won't you, kinsman?"  He glared at Connor, who only grinned at him.  "Consider it part of my wedding present, Stormy."

"Our wedding present," Connor countered, but Farrell suspected he was enjoying all of this immensely.

"Speaking of presents," Adam mentioned lazily, "it's customary to have a ring, Damien, or were you going to see if Aidan or Mandisa had something suitable?"

"I've been carrying it so he wouldn't lose it," Mandisa purred in her low alto.  "Stormy, ignore Adam.  The rest of us do."

"And here I thought I was memorable," Adam commented, sharp eyes dancing with wordless laughter.

"Adam Pierson, don't you even think about a shivaree or I'll do something drastic," Stormy vowed.  Damien caught her hand and she looked down and fell silent, mouth still agape.  Mandisa reached over with one finger and gently tipped the little blonde's jaw closed as she looked at the ring Damien was holding out to her.  "Oh, my," was Stormy's only soft comment, and even that took a few seconds to get out.

"If you don't like it, we'll find something else," Damien told her, suddenly unsure of how well he'd chosen.  "I thought you'd want something that wouldn't attract too much attention when you're working a--"

Var shook his head when Stormy cut off Damien's words with a kiss and said, "I think she likes it."  He leaned around the intertwined pair to look more closely at the ring.  It was a slender, yellow gold snake, made to wrap twice around a finger.  The maker had individually detailed the scale patterning and the mouth; the eyes were emerald chips.

Aidan traded amused looks with Xan and Alex.  "I suppose we'd better order for them."

"And here we were going to discuss serious things," Adam commented as he lounged farther back in his chair.  "Who's going where.  How to dispose of cars.  How not to get those two arrested for public indecency," he added when Stormy ended up on Damien's lap.

Xan chuckled softly, a fond expression on his face.  "They won't get arrested for that.  They may even get lunch free.  Everyone likes a good romance."

From the corner of her eye, Aidan saw the waitress glance at the table, notice the clinch going on and carefully turn away.  "Ah.  The staff here is discreet; it may take a few minutes to order lunch."

Connor said bluntly, "We can fill them in when they come up for air--"

"And back to reality?" Adam inquired sardonically.  "That should take a few days."  The two Scots glanced at each other, then shrugged and smiled.  Adam growled, "Never mind.  Aidan, I assume you're headed back to Seacouver?"

"For now," his student agreed quietly.  "Brothers... is that offer still open?"

Xan glanced at Alex, frowning.  "Which one, Edana?  The house in Greece?"

"Yes."  She arranged both hands on the table, folding them just so, until Adam reached over and wrapped his own hand over them.  He squeezed gently and she looked up, managing a smile.

"Of course," Alex told her as he traded a relieved look with Xan; they'd expected more of an argument from her over the idea of taking a vacation of some sort.  "Going to take Marc with you, I assume?"

Aidan laughed softly.  "At this stage in his training?  Oh, yes.  Thank you both, though.  I just...."

"You need a vacation," Mandisa said firmly.  "Good.  Now I can quit scolding you, Shahar."

Xan chuckled at that.  "Good for you, Disa.  We appreciate the support.  Adam, are you going back to Paris?"

Their teacher raised an eyebrow.  "I was planning on it, yes.  I do own a business there, you remember.  Or are you two getting senile again?"

"You're the one who keeps poisoning his brain with beer," Connor pointed out mildly.

Duncan turned to his teacher and began, "Connor--" but the older Highlander cut him off with a raised eyebrow and an expectant look.

Connor waited until he had Duncan's silence before telling him, "You don't have to move to Manhattan while my hand heals, Duncan.  These reprobates," and he gestured at Alex and Xan, "have convinced me that it's been too long since I've worried about earthquakes.  I'm going to make them regret offering me their hospitality."

Alex gave Xan an amused look, idly raking his hair back and shaking his head.  "You always cut it too short.  Should we be worried, do you think?"

"Why worry?  I was going to put him to work, myself.  I'm sure he remembers how to use a paintbrush."  Xan reached over and smoothed his lover's hair back into place.  "It suits you when it's short.  I suppose you could grow it out again, though."

"And the mustache?" Alex commented, grinning.  "I thought you said it made me look like a pirate?"

"Flirt on your own time," Adam interrupted with a chuckle.  "So, Mac, coming back to Europe with me?"

Duncan braced himself against Methos' probable reaction and told him, "Yes and no."

Methos froze for a moment, stiffening against the chair and losing that easy slouch he'd shaped himself into.  He forced himself to relax again as he drawled, "No to which part, Highlander?  Bored already?"

"That's not what I meant," Duncan told him, ignoring the presence of the waitress who'd finally come over to get their drink orders.  He trusted Connor or Aidan to make sure he got something, but this was the worst possible time to interrupt this discussion -- especially given that Methos had already jumped to the wrong conclusion.

"Then what did you mean?" Methos asked him, switching to Gaelic so that if he lost his temper there'd be fewer witnesses later.  I like Stormy; I refuse to interrupt her happiness with a lover's quarrel with a stubborn, idiotic Celt.

"Idiot."  Duncan growled, unconsciously echoing his lover's opinion.  He deliberately kept the discussion in English, because he suspected that changing to Gaelic would let Methos think he believed this was something they needed to conceal.  "Do you really think I'd break up with you in a restaurant, in front of my kinsman and yours?  Yes, I love you.  That hasn't changed and isn't going to."

The waitress never paused in writing down orders, but Methos could see her cheeks redden as she kept writing.  Hearing Duncan publicly admit that unnerved Methos enough to give the younger immortal time to continue, "But I need to go back to Seacouver, Adam.  I need to check on Rich, and make sure Joe has forgiven Aidan for holding this where he couldn't Watch it."

Duncan could see Methos studying him, hazel eyes still bright from the declaration... but his hand clenched at his side as he waited for the shoe that he could feel coming.  So Duncan reluctantly dropped it.  "Then I'm going to Scotland."

Methos closed his eyes, visibly biting down on his temper and probably half a hundred caustic comments.  Aidan glanced between them, worried, but it was Connor who asked bluntly, "Why, cousin?  You've gone home, what, once in the last--" he glanced back at the waitress who was almost done and finished blandly, "--long while?"

Duncan watched the young woman leave and only when she was safely gone did he say, "Because rumors are flying, Connor."

Methos snarled, "So you're going to play the hero and do what, Duncan MacLeod?  Perform a public fandango so every headhunter knows where to find you?"

"If I have to," Duncan snapped back.  "For a month.  And then I'm going to use every trick I've picked up looking for you, Old Man, and vanish off the face of the earth and let them try to follow me, thinking I'll lead them to Connor."

"I can take care of myself," came the ominously quiet rejoinder from Connor.

"Stay out of this," Methos growled, finally opening his eyes and edging his chair towards Duncan, who refused to back away.  "You can yell at him next, Connor.  I get him first."

"Neither of you is holding this argument in public," Alex said grimly, leaning forward to get their attention.  "Stop.  Now."

"You can stay out of it, too, Alexandrias.  I don't know where you got this tendency to meddle--"

Alex cut over Methos' voice.  "I learned it from you, Didaskalos.  Now shut up and let me patch up what you seem determined to slice up.  Aidan, keep him quiet, I don't care how you do it.  Xan, if Connor opens his mouth, kiss him until he shuts up.  He's next.  And you, Duncan MacLeod, can damned well be quiet until I ask you questions, and then the only thing I want to hear from you is a succinct, concise, complete answer."  The dark-haired Greek glared at the lot of them for a long moment, black eyes snapping with barely leashed anger.

Var considered the confrontation shaping up on the other side of the table and the way Farrell had leaned back and was pretending to be part of the scenery.  From stories over the last few days, he seemed to remember that Farrell was more familiar with Alex and Xan than he was.  So he caught the New Zealander's eye and winked at him before turning to Mandisa and starting a murmured consultation over the menu.  Someone was going to have to order lunch, after all, and Damien and Stormy showed no signs of being any help.  If someone didn't like what he got them, well, they should have quarreled some other time.

Alex meanwhile looked at Duncan.  "You're trying to protect Connor.  Yes or no?"

"And you aren't?"

"Yes or no, Duncan."  Alex leaned forward and purred, "You do not want to push me on this, Duncan MacLeod.  Answer the question."

"Are you threatening me?" Duncan asked him incredulously.

"In all sorts of ways," was the blunt reply.  "Such as stepping out of this and letting you blow up the best relationship I've seen Edana in since, oh, the eleventh century?  And the happiest I've ever seen Semnut.  Do I need any other threats?"

Duncan studied him and slowly realized Alex was utterly serious.  Ever?  He tried to reach along their link and realized Methos was shutting him out as fiercely as he had guarded himself after Bordeaux.  That loss was what shocked him into cooperating with Alex.  "Yes, I'm trying to protect Connor."

"Good, now that we're getting down to basics, this might be salvageable.  Why Scotland?"  Alex never turned to look at Connor, who was leaning forward to say something.  "Xan, I meant it.  Keep him quiet."

The blond Greek wrapped an arm around Connor and murmured sweetly, "If you want a kiss, Connor, you could ask for it the usual way.  But I'm not going to let you talk.  We don't want Alexandrias staying pissed off for a week or so."

Duncan answered sharply, "In Scotland no one will be able to get any information about a MacLeod other than rumors.  A headhunter will have to come and look to find out if it's one of us, or both of us, and then they'll be hunting on my ground."

"Fair enough."  Alex nodded crisply.  "In other words, you're thinking, which is what Adam always claims he wants people to do.  Fine.  Where from there?"

"Somewhere else.  And you don't need to know."

That angry black-eyed gaze made even Duncan freeze in his chair.  "MacLeod, last warning:  don't push this.  I don't insist on knowing where; I do insist on knowing why.  Now.  Explain."

"I... Alex, I don't have an explanation.  It's just what I need to do."  Duncan turned away to meet Methos' eyes, trying to let the other man feel his love and confusion over their link.  At the same time, Duncan wanted to keep the effects of the last few weeks' waiting and wondering to himself rather than burden Methos with them.

Alex looked him over, bright black eyes taking in the slight defensive hunch of the shoulders, the pained confusion in Duncan's dark brown eyes, and the usually competent hands pressed firmly on the table top so that he wouldn't knot them together.  "All right, Duncan," the Greek said quietly.  "You don't have a reason you can shape into words.  I'll accept that.  Are you breaking up with either of them?"

"God, no!"  Duncan sat upright at that, and Connor nodded to him once, the quick, accepting gesture of recognition that he'd given his clansman the first time they met.

"Fair enough, but Aidan and Adam deserved to know that."  Alex turned to Methos and let his voice drop to a low, dangerously level tone as he asked, "Now, then, why don't you explain to me exactly why you don't think your lover's entitled to take the time he needs to hole up and heal?  Make this very, very good, Didaskalos."

Methos saw the waitress approach Var as hesitantly as if she were afraid the conversation at his table could scorch her skin.  Rather than make them any more noticeable, lost cause though that might be, he immediately switched to French to flay his former student.  "Why do you think I need to answer to you?"

"Because, you old hedonist, you don't want to be miserable wondering if you've screwed up so badly that neither of your lovers is talking to you."  Alex let his lips curl up in a savage smile that he'd learned from Methos centuries before, but he answered in French himself.  "Quit fucking around and answer me.  Did it really never occur to you that the man could use a break?  I've only heard the gossip from Gina de Valicourt, and I know he needs a vacation after the last few years.  Grayson, Kalas, and St. Cloud?  Matlin and Kurlow, I seem to remember hearing, too?  And Kanwulf?  And Quince, or did Connor take him?  Gina was never sure.  Come on, Didaskalos, surely you've got an answer by now."

"And a dark quickening in the middle of all the rest," Aidan added, grey eyes dark with sympathy.  "Put that way, it does sound like a dreadful load, Dhonnchaidh."

"Sister, I've got this.  Keep Duncan quiet and comforted," Alex ordered, never taking his attention off Methos.  "As for you, Adam, consider this latest fiasco.  His teacher was kidnapped and tortured at the behest of the enemy of one of his lovers.  That would be a blow no matter when it was received or whatever other bruises it landed atop.  So explain this, Adam.  Why shouldn't Duncan be allowed a break?  And given the way you tend to vanish to lick your own wounds, why shouldn't your lover be allowed the same courtesy?"

"Yes," Methos grated out.  "He's entitled to it, Alex.  Damn it--"

"Say it," Alex purred viciously.  "Or have you said it to him?"  Black eyes pinned Methos back against the wall as the Greek inquired, "You know, those three little words?"

"Yes, I've told him."  Methos returned his glare.  "Not that it's any of your damn business."

"Try again, Didaskalos.  Because I wouldn't have been able to tell from the way you're acting," Alex commented, ignoring his teacher's attempt to divert him, "and I've known you a lot longer than he has."

Methos turned to Duncan, wrapped one hand around his nape to pull him in, and kissed him hard enough to make the waitress blush over her order pad again.  As it was, Duncan's lips were reddened and swollen when Methos pulled away, and both of them were short of breath.  "Yes, I love you."  Methos glared at Alex for a moment before turning back to his lover.  "And not just because this undergrown tyrant is sticking his nose into this."

"And?" Alex nearly purred the word, claws barely hidden under the velvet tones.  "Do go on, Adam, you're doing so well."

"And yes, you can go wherever you want.  We don't live together, I know that."

"Adam."  Alex's voice sliced across him, cold and sharp as his blade.  "Try that again, and get it right this time.  I'm losing my patience with your insistence on destroying something this good."

Methos had already flinched, though, when he felt Duncan's hastily suppressed pain.  "That's not what I... I don't own you, Duncan," he said more gently, picking his words carefully as he abandoned his own temper in the face of the remorse and confusion he could feel pouring off Duncan.  He preferred the Highlander sure of himself and strong, even when it drove him half-crazy; Methos wasn't willing to push him even closer to the edge over a badly timed and phrased declaration.  "You startled me and I lashed out.  I apologize."

"No, I'm the one who's sorry," Duncan told him every bit as softly, leaning closer to Methos as he spoke.  "But I need to do this.  Not just to draw them off Connor.  I just--"

Methos sighed as he allowed himself to catch Duncan's emotions off their link.  Pain and worry surged across it, tangled with guilt and half-suppressed anger and a bone-deep weariness.  Alex is right.  Duncan needs to hole up somewhere and rest.  And he doesn't want company, either.  Afraid we'll notice you can be hurt, Highlander?  You and I are going to talk about this need to be the strong clan chief... but we'll do it when you're stronger.  I don't want you deciding later that you'd have won the argument if you hadn't been exhausted.

"You need to go back to Glenfinnan," Methos conceded, "and you need to put yourself back together after Bordeaux and all the rest of it."  He met his lover literally halfway, wrapping an arm around his waist and leaning in to touch his forehead to Duncan's.  "They're right.  You have been through entirely too much in too short a time.  I can't blame you for needing time to yourself.  But do I have to like it?"

That drew a soft chuckle.  "No, you don't.  I'm sorry, gradhach.  I should have found a better way to tell you."

Alex said pleasantly, "Remember that next time, would you, Duncan?  I don't have the energy to straighten you two out like this very often."  Methos twisted to one side long enough to blow him a raspberry and Alex chuckled.  "Promises, promises.  Save that for him, why don't you?  You were both planning on driving north weren't you?  To get people home?"

Duncan met Methos' eyes, then nodded slowly.  "Yes, we were."

"Good.  You can finish apologizing to each other tonight.  And Adam?  You'd better take a vacation yourself.  Usually you fight with me for quite a while longer before giving in."  Alex stared at his teacher until he was sure the other man had quit this battlefield, too, then glanced at Aidan.  "Sister, let us know if you need someplace to sleep."

"I'll manage something," she said dryly, but the relief on her face belied her calm tone.

"You're not sleeping by yourself," Alex told her firmly.  "Or do I have to start in on you?  I can get Mandisa to help, I'm sure."

"We'll deal with that... wherever we stop tonight," she admitted tiredly.  "Where are we stopping tonight?"

"If we get lunch and hit the road," Xan suggested, "we might be able to hit Las Vegas tonight.  And I'd rather we headed back to Sacramento, truthfully.  The drive back up along the coast might make a better vacation for the rest of you, sister."

Var glanced over.  "Is it safe yet?"

"I think so," Farrell commented quietly.  "Can we lower the shields yet, Alex?"

"It's safe," Xan chuckled.  "Aidan didn't keep him going."

"No, although you and I are going to have a long talk tonight, Connor," Alex told the older Highlander, and some of that same dangerous anger shone from his eyes again.

Xan smiled at him and asked, "Do I need to kiss you to shut you up?"  Alex only laughed and settled back into his chair.  Xan relaxed then and commented, "Ah, good.  So, Farrell, now that the storm has cleared up and we've sorted out where most of this crowd is going -- what about you?"

"We haven't heard from Var and Disa, either," Farrell commented casually and sipped from his tea.  "How soon do you have to head home, Var?"

"Whenever," the blond man replied with a casual shrug.  "You do like salmon, don't you, Xan?  Since that's what we ordered for you."

"Navarro."  Aidan turned away from the soft conversation she'd been having with Connor, caught by a familiar note in her former student's voice.  "How much vacation time did you manage to take on such short notice?"

"Enough," he commented, only to have Mandisa point a finger at him.

"We have had enough evasions for one meal already, brother.  How much time do you have?  Since you have not said?"

"As much as I like," Var answered her calmly.  "I resigned.  And my agent in Caracas has already packed my house by now and put it on the market, so I have no immediate need to head back."  He glanced at Aidan calmly and said, "I do not wish to hear a single word about this, Shahar.  It was time for me to drop that identity and start over again.  And I have not taken a vacation in a few years; this was overdue.  Now, then, what would you like to do, Mandisa?  We haven't traveled together in decades, sister."

"Not since, oh, what was it?  The middle of last century?" Mandisa asked him, amusement rich in her voice.  "You have wanted to do some rock climbing, and I would not mind taking some time to explore this continent myself.  Uncles, we may throw ourselves on your mercies for advice on acquiring a vehicle and some camping gear.  Damien, Stormy, when do you wish us to be back in Charleston to help with the wedding?"

Stormy pulled her attention back from her new engagement ring and tried to glare at Var, but her good mood made the angry look less convincing than usual.  "Navarro Rodriguez, I can't believe you argued about transportation profitability for half an hour when you're out of the industry.  And y'all're welcome to the camping gear we were using up on that mesa, y'all should know that."

"Truth be told, Stormy, I plan on changing fields rather completely," he told her pleasantly.  "It was simply too enjoyable arguing with someone who knew what she was talking about.  However, when Mandisa and I have sorted out what we wish to do, we will undoubtedly consult with you on it.  But thank you for camping equipment."

"Smooth-talkin' rascal," she answered, smiling.  "All right, then.  Do you suppose you two could check with us in a week or two on when I need the help?  I'm gonna have to have a few fights with my mama over when the wedding's gonna be, but I should know by the start of May."

"I believe we can manage that," Var chuckled.  "In that case, perhaps we'll head north with Shahar and the rest and enjoy our new brother for a while before we travel east."

"And now that everyone else is settled," Connor cut in coolly, "what about you, Farrell?"

"I don't know."  The New Zealander carefully arranged his silverware as an excuse to look elsewhere, then went on more slowly, "I've been working as a freelance photographer.  I suppose I should head back to Lausanne and go back to work."

"The hell you are," Damien told him bluntly.  "You're going north with the rest of us, so that you can meet Marc, and then you're coming to Charleston and we're going to hunt those assassins."

"Did I say I was doing that?" Farrell challenged him.

"You didn't say you weren't," the redhead told him.  "And you are coming to my wedding."

"Now that we agree on.  I wouldn't miss it."  He smiled briefly at Stormy.  "Assuming, of course, that your lovely lady agrees."

"You're comin' to the wedding, all right," Stormy replied promptly, leaning forward and grinning at him.  "And when you come to Charleston we can give you the tour.  Maybe drag you out to Fort Sumter."

Aidan glanced over and came to Farrell's rescue; he looked equally taken aback by Damien's insistence and Stormy's cajoling.  "Damien, don't bully him.  Yes, I'd like for Marc to meet you, Farrell, but if you're not up to it right now, then you aren't."

"And you're not going to convince me to do it by telling me not to," Farrell retorted.  "Behave, Phoebe.  Stormy, I'll think about it."

"You've got an entire lunch to tell her no," Damien told him cheerfully.  "And at the end of lunch, I'm going to tell you to come with us.  Because if you don't, I'll get Ish to hunt you down, and you'll still end up in Charleston."

Farrell threw up his hands.  "Oh, great, I'm supposed to argue when I'm sitting between you and this overgrown Scot?"

"You're barely smaller than I am."  Duncan looked him up and down.  "Good luck, though.  Offhand, I'd say Aidan and Damien have made up your mind for you.  Besides, arguing with Stormy seems to be a lost cause."

"We'll see."  The New Zealander sounded resigned to his fate, however.

<><><><><><><><><>

New York City -- evening, 4/21

"Nash Antiques."  Chaim Goldberg sprayed the display case with glass cleaner with his free hand as he spoke, working with a precision of motion surprising in a man so big.

"Which Goldberg is this?" was the sardonic response.  "And did you put my assistant out of work yet?"

"Con--  Russell."  Relief sheeted through Chaim in a rush that left him grinning like a fool.  In addition, he felt almost giddy at the sudden release of tension that he hadn't known had tightened his gut.  Dave had sworn Connor was alive and relatively well, had promised that he had in fact won whatever he'd been up to in the wilds of New Mexico.  But all the Goldbergs held a thoroughly unprofessional regard for both MacLeods; Chaim was no exception in his belief that the Highlanders could win damn near anything that came up.  He'd been worrying nonetheless.  All of which meant that, at the moment, Connor's voice was the most welcome thing he'd heard since Angela Lamanna had said 'yes' back in high school.  "Oh, thank God."

Chaim waved at Rachel, trying to snag her attention away from the register receipts that hadn't added up the first time.  "Are you all right?" he asked with a certain amount of concern.  Dave had been downright evasive in some of his reports and phone calls....

"Well enough.  Chaim, isn't it?"  Connor chuckled, sounding amused by the prosaic question.  "How's Rachel?"

Chaim gave up and walked over to the register, saying, "Yeah, it's me.  I'm about to give Rachel the phone, but she's fine.  Nerves a bit shot, but c'mon, we've all been worried.  You scared the hell out of us, even with Dave letting us know you were okay.  Look, call Grandfather next, willya?"

"Dave, hmm?  But Sol's at home?"

Chaim chuckled at the indirect question as to who had been Watching Connor this time.  "Yeah, Grandfather's home by now, and I guarantee, he'd love to hear from you.  All right, I'm gonna pass the phone to Rachel.  It's good to hear from you, though."  Pleased laughter laced the solidly built Watcher's voice as he said, "Hey, Rachel?  Phone for you."  He was still grinning as he went to the stockroom, determined to take his own sweet time and give Rachel and Connor as much privacy as a Watcher could.  It would also give him a chance to contemplate just how to celebrate the good news with the rest of his family....

<><><><><><><><><>

Central Maryland -- pre-dawn, 4/22

The sky wasn't even grey yet, and the last few stars of night were shining dimly as through the haze of too many cigarettes in some all-night bar.  A breeze drifted across the new growth carrying the sweet smell of dew on morning clover, and Matthew McCormick was grateful again that he'd found a fallow field in which to fight.  He would have hated to destroy part of a farmer's crops in an immortals' duel, although it wouldn't have been the first time in his life he'd done it.  Then too, farmers were up early, but it wasn't likely that one would be investigating a unplanted field at dawn; they were too busy with the cash crops.

Eight centuries had taught Matthew plenty of ways to pass time, so he waited for both his opponent and the dawn patiently.  The apple tree he was leaning against was comfortable, after all, and watching the sun rise was an old pleasure he hoped never to outgrow.  The lifting breeze carried a faint tang of approaching rain which mingled with the body-warmed scent of his leather coat into a smell familiar from decades of such mornings.  He smiled when he found himself humming a war song from the First Crusade, old before he was born, and switched to singing it instead.
 

"Chevalier, mult estes guariz,
"Quant Dieu a vus fait sa clamur
"Des Turs e des Amoraviz,
"Ki li unt fait tels deshonors...."

He only had time to sing a few verses before immortal presence spilled across his senses and he looked across the now visible field to see a very tall Swede approaching.

"Erik Olafson, I assume?" Matthew drawled sardonically, smiling slightly at the idea that some other immortal could just happen to be in the right field at the right time.  He'd heard of it happening in large cities, mind....

"I'm Olaf's son, yes," the Swede answered cautiously.  "Why are you challenging, Southerner?"  Erik Olafson folded his arms across his chest, careful to keep his sword arm on top, and stared at Matthew.  "We've never met."

"For one thing, I don't want to see an immortal in jail for forty years... and you may have gotten bail, but you are going to be put away.  The evidence against you is ironclad."  Matthew straightened, moving away from the apple tree with a trace of regret.  It had been a fragrant and friendly place to pass the time, and he was not looking forward to this.

"How do you know about that?" Erik frowned now, confusion and worry passing swiftly across his face before he could mask them entirely.

"Then, too," and Matthew ignored his question deliberately, "you were stalking a friend of mine.  She's a little busy, and since my boys got you instead of hers, I'm taking the challenge instead of Kyra Phaedras.  Name ring a bell?"

That drew a brief but genuine flash of humor.  "Small good it would do me to deny it.  So you're FBI.  Was that wise?"

"They've no idea about us."  Matthew smiled, quiet satisfaction in his slate green eyes.  "I do my humble best to help it stay that way."

"Including challenging immortals who've fallen too far afoul of the law.  Why not just have me shot while arresting me?  Identity gone -- new game."  Erik shrugged as if the solution should be obvious.

"For one thing, there wasn't time to set it up."

"And for another?" the huge blond queried him, studying the smaller man cautiously.  In his experience, no one in D.C. was ever who or what they said they were.  "And you never gave me a name."

"Matthew of Salisbury," and the tousle-headed immortal dropped a half bow, never quite taking his eyes off his much larger opponent.  "And answer a question for me, if you would.  When did you last talk to Owain Rhys-Tewdor?"

"Why?"  Olafson glanced cautiously around the field, close-cropped ash blond hair gleaming in the early morning sun.

"Because if I like your answers," came the drawled reply, "we might not have to do this."

"That's a good reason, I suppose," Erik commented.  "But I'm curious, Matthew of Salisbury.  What line are you from?"

"Flavius Sulla," Matthew told him.  "Better known these last few centuries as the line of Marcus Constantine.  You?" he asked, seemingly looking around himself.  In actuality, he was watching the other man's reactions from half-closed eyes and drawing on decades of law enforcement experience to gauge the personality of the immortal across from him.  Mostly, though, he was wondering if the man would lie to him or not.

"Why ask that?"  Olafson straightened and put his hands in his coat pockets, but his shoulders had tightened, and his gaze was suspicious now.  "You know I'm Rhys-Tewdor's line or you wouldn't have asked when I last heard from him."

"You might have been one of his allies."

A snort of laughter preceded something that Matthew remembered was a fairly obscene comment in Swedish.  "That one doesn't have allies."

"So when did you last deal with him?"

"Two nights before I was arrested," Erik told him, thick eyebrows drawing down in remembered annoyance.  "Why?"

"He wanted you to go to New Mexico."  Matthew saw shock and rage flare across the much larger man's face and brought his broadsword up out of his coat before the Swede could draw his own blade.  "Not yet.  Or did you decide that fighting me was simpler?"

"You're line of Constantine," Erik growled, voice sliding down to a menacing bass rumble as he pulled his hands back out of his pockets and shifted into a more easily mobile position.  "How do you know about that?"

Matthew smiled at him, and it was the saturnine baring of teeth that had greeted more than one serial killer just before his arrest.  "Sulwen Freyjasdottir -- you might know her as Cynthia Torriani? -- is a friend of mine.  And kidnapping a man and transporting him across state lines is a federal offense."

Olafson drew his sword as he snarled, "So?  It's not like they took his head."

"Did you help Owain hire the hit squad?"

"He'd have found them anyway; I just made sure I got a cut.  Why?"

"Mortals don't belong in the Game."  Matthew stepped back to let his coat slide off first one arm, then the other, shifting his sword from hand to hand as he did.  "So I guess we'll have to do this after all, Erik Olafson."

"Why in hell ask if you intended to fight, Matthew of Salisbury?"  But Erik was shifting forward to balance on the balls of his feet.

"Because," came the regretful answer, "if all you had been doing was spying on Kyra, I could have let you die in public and I'd have dropped this.  But you were involved in kidnapping an immortal, and you brought mortals into the Game.  You've damn near exposed us to professional criminals, and we both know there's no honor among thieves."

Matthew brought his broadsword up into a casual salute.  "So.  There can be only one."

~~~~~

The last rumble of thunder faded away and Matthew forced himself up, groaning.  "I am definitely getting too old for this."  He looked down at the body at his feet and shook his head slowly.  "And you surely to hell were too old for it, Erik Olafson."  With the casual routine of long practice, he set about cleaning up the site and putting the body into a triple-bagged trash sack for carrying.

"I've got to start challenging the smaller ones."  He knew perfectly well he'd fight whoever he had to, though.  The leather jacket went back on and Matthew stood up, hefting the bag over his shoulder with a grunt of effort.  But the morning was too beautiful, his nerves still afire with the recent quickening, and he found himself singing the ancient call to arms again as he walked, taking up where he'd left off.

At his car, Matthew glanced around casually for observers before tossing the bag in the trunk.  The languages and periods varied, but he sang all the way through disposing of the body and heading back to D.C.  He was still wired and bouncing when he called Duncan MacLeod to advise him that one more loose end had been tied off.  And the irony of using energy gained from a criminal to track other criminals kept him smiling all through the afternoon's investigations.

<><><><><><><><><>

New York City -- late morning, 4/23

Kate gave her husband, Nick, a wry look as she picked up the phone.  "Unless you have a better idea at the last minute?"

"Not me," he shrugged.  "I mean, we've tried the not-so-legal ways; Cory tried the less-than-not-so-legal ways; and Kyra tried to be law-abiding.  None of us had any luck.  Are you sure you want to do this, though?"

"Nick... do you want to have a hit team out there that's good enough to take down Connor and has enough information to figure out that there are immortals?"

Laugh lines twisted around his mouth as he frowned, and his dark eyes were somber.  "I know, Kate.  I do know.  But I don't like this."

"Sometimes," his immortal wife told him grimly, "we do things we don't like."

"Yeah, I know that too, hon.  You don't make however many centuries you've got--"

She grinned at his teasing joke.  Kate steadfastly refused to give him even an approximate age, preferring instead to let him guess and enjoy it.

"--without doing some stuff you hate.  But, Kate, they're mortal."

"They're also paid assassins," she pointed out, setting the phone back on the hook.  "At least we're killing them to protect innocents.  And let's face it, Nick, we do have some immortals that are, relatively speaking, innocent.  This is the century that invented death camps, Nick.  I don't want a government to figure this out; organized crime might actually be worse."

He ran his hands through black hair that had already been rumpled that way several times in the last few hours. "Okay.  Arguments for killing them -- they're paid killers."

"Check," Kate agreed in her husky voice, sitting down on the couch.

"They took money to kill Connor and deliver his body to someone else."

"Yes, they did."  She ran fingers through the ends of brown sugar-shaded hair, working out an incipient tangle as she waited.

"They're working without Don Scarlatti's permission?"  Nick saw her disbelieving stare and shrugged.  "Well, as long as we're listing broken laws.  That's a natural law.  Committing crimes in a Mafia city without the Don's approval is like fighting gravity."

"If you had said 'city hall', I might have had to check your temperature," Kate commented.

"And they have enough information to be able to take out other immortals -- if they can figure out immortals exist."

"Take them out or recruit them forcibly," Kate pointed out.  "I don't want to find myself working for a hit team to keep you alive, Nick, but I'd do it."

"While calling one of your friends in to get me out," he argued.

"Almost all of us have mortal connections, Nick; not all of us have immortal friends who'd help out on something like this."  Kate studied him gravely and waited.  The hit team needed to be exterminated, she was certain of that, but she hadn't spent eight years with Nick Sutherland, five of them married, to lose him over this fight.  All he needed was time to argue himself into agreement so that his conscience would be clear that he had thought it out.  Time was one thing Kate could spare.

Nick sighed.  "Reasons not to kill them -- it's illegal."

"We've had to kill people before," his wife pointed out gently.  "Including those idiots who kidnapped Don Caruso's daughter."

"They were shooting at us, but... yeah," he agreed.  "Okay, next reason....  Have you got one?"

"Well, I suppose we could go with 'it's immoral' but, at that point, I run up against what they do for a living."

"There is that.  Okay.  They're professional killers, they're working in Mafia territory, and most important, they helped screw over a good man.  Right.  Call Don Scarlatti."

Kate walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek.  "You know what I love about you?"

"I can argue my way into anything?" Nick asked, smiling slightly despite what they'd just agreed to do.

"You argued your way into my life," she agreed.  "No.  I love the fact that you'll look at all the sides of something and then make the decision you think is right, whether you like it or not.  That takes honesty, Nick, more of it than most people have.  I love it when you do that."

"Only when you like the outcome," he chuckled.  "There was that time...."

"Nick -- no.  We are not discussing that vacation to the Riviera, because we are going one of these days."

"Sure," he assented easily enough.  "As soon as you can convince me that there are reasons to go to a stone beach instead of a sand one.  In the meantime, call Don Scarlatti."

She mock-scowled at him, then waved him to the other phone.  After he'd picked up the receiver, she dialed the number.

"Yes?"  The male voice on the other end of the line gave away nothing in intonation or accent.

"I'm Kate Sutherland; Don Caruso gave me this number.  May I speak to Don Scarlatti, please?  I believe we have a matter of mutual interest to discuss."

For a very long moment, there was no answer.  Then the voice warmed.  "Ms. Sutherland, it is a pleasure to speak to someone who was so helpful to our relative, Ms. Caruso.  We had heard that you resolved that... unpleasantness for her.  May I tell the Don what this is about?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to let him decide who to discuss this with," Kate said carefully.  "No offense."

"None taken," came the immediate reply.  "I could wish some of my boys understood that not everyone should hear everything!  Just a moment please while I see if he can take your call."  The low carrier wave of a phone on hold without such annoyances as Muzak filled both Sutherlands' ears.  Kate glanced at her husband and shrugged; he shrugged back, and gave her a thumbs up, but said nothing.

After a minute or so, a second, older-sounding man said genially, "Ms. Sutherland.  My associate, Don Caruso, said such flattering things about you that I have to admit I took them with a grain of salt.  But a woman who understands discretion on a line this private... well, I might believe a few of those stories.  Now, what is this about some mutual business?"

"Mutual interest, actually," she told him, picking her words very carefully to avoid future legal entanglements.  "There was some... unpleasantness in Greenwich Village a couple weeks ago.  Very... permanent unpleasantness.  On April eighth, near Hudson Street."

On the other end of the phone there was a pause, then Don Scarlatti's voice said thoughtfully, "I don't know anything about a permanent solution on that date, Ms. Sutherland.  It wasn't any of my boys."

"I know," she said quietly.  "But it was very professional, Don Scarlatti.  And it... inconvenienced me.  I would be interested in the names of those workers."

"Professionals?  In Greenwich Village?  Without my permission?"  She could almost see the pressure rising to boil over.  "You were quite right, Ms. Sutherland.  This is definitely a matter of mutual interest.  These workers need to understand the error of their ways, you do realize.  Are you sure you need their names, or shall I let some of my people explain proper working conduct to them?"

Nick raised a quick hand in a 'stop' motion to Kate, who agreed with him with an emphatic nod of her head.  "I thought I'd see about getting a settlement for my inconvenience, Don Scarlatti.  But you have better resources to find their names than I do, and I would hate to make their mistake and take care of a problem in your territory without your knowledge."

"Don Caruso was right, Ms. Sutherland.  You're a very bright lady, and a very serious one.  All right.  I'll get their names, and you'll explain the error of their ways to them.  We have a bargain?"

"I think we do, Don Scarlatti.  Do you need my number?"

"No, I don't think that's necessary.  Give me a couple of days -- call me on Saturday, Ms. Sutherland, I should have the names for you by then.  I think we understand each other.  May I ask if your friends have been... badly inconvenienced?"

"It's something of a family matter, Don Scarlatti, but with your permission, I'll tell them you were kind enough to be concerned about it."  Nick gave her another thumbs up and carefully did not laugh.

"Ah.  No wonder you called about this.  Family is all we have, Ms. Sutherland.  Please give them my regrets that such a thing should have been allowed to happen."

"I'll do that," Kate assured him.  "Thank you for your assistance on this, Don Scarlatti."

"You're quite welcome, Ms. Sutherland.  Something like this should not be allowed.  I prefer that things in New York be orderly."  He said it with no audible trace of irony.

"I agree," she told him.  "I'll call back on Saturday the twenty-fifth, sir.  Thank you for making time to talk to me."

"It's always a pleasure to have someone come to me with something that actually benefits both sides," he commented.  "So often they claim it will, but I find that there just isn't enough in it for me to make it worth my attention.  I will look forward to Saturday for the sound of your voice, Ms. Sutherland.  Please give my regards to Don Caruso if you talk to him."

"Of course."  Kate waited until he'd hung up to put the phone down and then had to try to inhale around a fierce hug from her husband.

"You were great!  Talk about dancing around something," and Nick wiped one hand across his forehead.  "He's...."

"Ruthless," the immortal woman supplied.  "If I hadn't said it was a family obligation, he'd have taken care of it for us."

"Should we have let him?"

"And risk Don Scarlatti finding out about immortals?"  They looked at each other and shook their heads simultaneously.

"So, what do we do until Saturday?"

"We're in New York; we have money; we have time...."  Kate smiled at him.  "I'm sure we'll find something to do."

"Right," he agreed cheerfully.  "But if we're going shopping, I want to go to at least one play."

"Deal."

<><><><><><><><><>

Rich Ryan's journal -- 4/24

I never thought I'd be the one looking for quiet.  I mean, Marc's the one who's been having trouble with crowds.  He's getting better, but still, he spent two years in the middle of nowhere.  Me, I'm the ultimate city rat, right?  Nope.  I bugged out.  My ears are still ringing from all the people talking and arguing and chattering in there!  Marc and Farrell will probably keep talking until this time tomorrow if no one tells them to shut up and get some sleep.

Marc keeps telling me the point of journals is to figure out what you're thinking and make sure you're gonna remember things later that you really need to know.  So I suppose I'd better back up a bit, because there's a lot I want to work out.  Carolyn and Terrence have been here since the twentieth, which amazes me.  I mean, yeah, Terrence is worried about Marc, but sticking Carolyn in the wilderness?  Blew my mind.  Terrence made one trip back in, though, and came back with some more clothes for them and a cooler of beer and wine, which was hilarious.  There he was explaining the fine points of wine to Marc... while Carolyn just grabbed beers for me and her.  I thought she was this snooty romance writer with an attitude.  Wrong again, Rich.  She's just this blunt woman from New Jersey who can act like a snooty author, which makes it even wilder that she's married to Terrence.  He comes across as so suave, but he's crazy about Carolyn, sharp tongue, Jersey accent, and all.

Have to admit, it's been interesting listening to Terrence -- for one thing, he's got some great stories.  But I thought that he was this lightweight, not as much of a flake as Walter Graham, but not one of the serious ones in the group, either.  I know better now.  He's been wheedling details out of Marc so casually that they're halfway through the story before Marc figures out he might not have wanted to discuss it.  And by then it's way too damn late.  The man should have signs on him:  'Can hear everything you don't want to say.  Will convince you to bring it up yourself, too.'

What scares me is that I think he wants to do that to me, too.  I mean, there are things I just don't want to talk about.  Not with Terrence, not with Aidan, not even with Connor.  Sure as hell not with Mac.  I don't even want to write them in here, and this damn journal is almost addictive.  Marc forgot to tell me that.  Anyway I've been kind of dodging Terrence, but he isn't stupid.  Wonder if it's too late to run?  This would sure as hell be the time to do it.  They've got so many people holding family reunions in there that no one would notice.  Lotta plans being made, too.

Right.  Time to back up again.  I'm gonna learn to do this coherently one of these days.  I said that the other day, when I was giving up on this again, and Marc just laughed at the idea.  Terrence said something about consistency being the hobgoblin of little minds, whatever that means, and for me not to worry about it, just write what I need to write.  I still can't get used to this journal idea, though.  Aidan keeps a journal, but she's female.  Y'know, girls get those cutesy bound books when they're young 'cause their parents want them staying indoors instead of out playing with the boys, so that doesn't really boggle me.  Hell, Maria kept one for years.  I used to tease her by grabbing it and pretending to look through it.  She'd scream and yell and beat on me for it, too.  Joe keeps journals, but hell, he's a Watcher, it's his job.  And Adam, well, Adam's a rule to himself.  Besides I got so used to thinking of him as a researcher/grad student geek that I'd be more surprised if he wasn't writing something.  With him, it's the sword work that always seems to come as a surprise.  But every time I pull this out, I start wondering if I need to start dressing all in black like the art students on campus and wandering around with this depressed, serious look on my face, and then I crack up and have to start over on this thing.  You can bet I haven't explained that one to Marc, either!  He'd kill me.

Weird.  Var just came out.  Brought me some coffee and sat out here next to my chair and drank his without saying a word.  Didn't try to look at the screen, either, not that it mattered after the screen saver came up.  When he finished his mug, he stood back up, gripped my shoulder the same way Mac does, and said, "This too shall pass.  Not even they can talk all night, Richard."  Then he walked back inside.  Did he need a break too?  How did he know I was more worried about getting some quiet than working on this?

Anyway.  The invasion, and man, what an invasion.  Navarro and Mandisa are here, and they set up a tent since the cabin was getting a bit full.  Funny.  I don't think they're lovers, they just assume they're going to stay together wherever they go.  It's like they're so close to each other that sex is completely irrelevant.  Is that closer than lovers, or just different?  I may have to talk to Aidan about that, 'cause I'm pretty damn sure she's done both kinds of relationships.

Connor, Xan, and Alex stayed in Sacramento 'cause the uncles needed to get back to their businesses.  There's something I need to know about that whole thing, too, I think.  Not that all three of them are sleeping together.  Come on, I figured that part out before they ever left for New Mexico.  And man, if the guys are that good for Connor, well, I'll forgive Xan for that pass he made at me.  Now that I'm coherent, I don't think he was serious, but when I was so tired, well, I didn't know what he was up to and didn't want to find out, either.  But something about the way Mac mentioned them being down there, and the way Aidan smiled and then kinda... lost focus for a second.  That was weird.  It didn't quite look like she does when she's Seeing things.

Come to think about it, I'm not sure what I think about that, either.  I mean, she's a hundred times my age, literally, and I'm not about to tell a woman who beats me every fucking time we spar that I think she's a few burritos shy of a combination plate, but... seeing the future?  Am I supposed to believe this?  But she takes it seriously, and what blows my mind is that so do Mac and Adam.  Adam, the world's biggest cynic, is listening to something out of a commercial for the Psychic Hotline?  Except... Aidan isn't just serious about it; she doesn't like it, not one damn bit.  Can't blame her, from what little I've seen.  That time after Christmas, I thought she was going to just pass out on us.  She froze cold, and then started to go rigid, hands curling into fists so tight her nails were digging blood out of her palms and the muscles were standing out on her arms while the blood dripped onto her jeans and her eyes were staring at something that wasn't in the room.  And Connor was trying to catch her because it wore off and she fell over.  Aidan, who twists into yoga poses that make me think she's made out of Silly Putty, lost her balance and hit the ground.  She didn't want to get up for a couple minutes afterwards, and the guys were encouraging her to just stay there, too.

That was... what's the word Aidan uses?  Unnerving.  Yeah, that sums it up.  But even when she doesn't think I'm gonna like the answer, Aidan hasn't lied to me yet, that I know of.  Not even when it would have been easier on her.  I don't think she wanted to talk about the fact that she's been tortured or raped, but she did.  So maybe this is real.  But if it is, if she's really seeing the future -- and she sure as hell was right about Marc showing up and needing her -- well, I don't think the books have it right.  I think maybe it sucks to be able to do that.

I wonder.  Alec Hill was sure that reincarnation was real.  Was he right?  Was Jennifer really Genevieve?  Damn, I wish I could ask Darius about it.  Mac said Darius used to have dreams that came true.  That he saw his own death coming.  I don't think I'd want to know that.  The others might disagree with me on this, but maybe it's a good thing no one got Darius' quickening.  I don't know.  Maybe it would be worth trading the dreams for the kind of certainty he had.  He and Kamir had something, that kind of centered calm Mac gets when he's working his katas and they're flowing perfectly.  But Darius and Kamir always had it, like it's something that comes with being a priest, or maybe it's why they were priests, I don't know.

Fuck.  Wandered off again.  Right, Connor and Aidan.  Something weird happened there, but I'll get it from someone sooner or later, right?  Maybe I'll just ask Var the next time he comes out here, or Mandisa if she wanders out.  Maybe Damien.  Not sure I want to ask Mac, because I'm not sure he wants to talk about Connor yet.  That's still a sore subject.

He and Adam are still together, though, and that surprised me.  Relieved me, too, I guess.  Adam and Aidan are good for Mac, they loosen him up a lot and he's as happy as I've seen him since Tessa died.  But Mac's talking about going back to Scotland by himself, and Aidan's taking Marc to Greece -- and man, he was grinning about that -- which leaves Adam going back to Paris by himself.  Shouldn't be any big deal, right?  I mean, he was in France and Mac and Aidan were here in the States -- different parts, but the States -- before the shit hit the fan, right?  It sounds like it's a sore point anyway, like Adam wants to have Mac nearby where he knows he's safe, just... because.  Funny.  Mac always wants to protect everyone else, but he can't see it when someone else wants to protect him for once.  Tess used to yell at him all the time about that.

Protect.  God, there's something really ironic in the idea that Stormy -- that little Southern doll of a woman, and I'd never call her that to her face, she'd slap me so hard my jaw would fall off or find something worse to do to me -- was the one guarding everybody's back at this thing.  And oh, man, I hate to think what Joe is going to say about her holding one of the Watchers at gunpoint while Mandisa frisked the guy for tapes and notes and film, but it is funny.  They always spy on us; I bet they never thought that someone might spy on them.  Poetic justice, Tessa used to call it.  I just think it's perfect.

Me, I'm headed back to Charleston at some point in the near future.  I mean, my bike's at Damien's place after all.  And I want to talk to him and Stormy about maybe they could both use a good sales rep who understands bookkeeping, too.  Got to admit, as much as I like renting from Aidan and studying with her, and spending time with Marc... I want out on my own again.  Out from under Mac's wing and Aidan's, too.  I need to be on my own for awhile, to fuck up with my own mistakes or make it big on my own and get some respect for myself.  I want... I want them to look at me the way they look at Marc.  Like I may be young, but I've got possibilities.  Like I might make it to a century, or two, or might even just get to play with the big boys.  I don't want to 'grow up,' and be this stuffed shirt pain in the ass, but y'know, I don't think I have to.  'Cause Connor hasn't entirely grown up, and he's sure as hell not some 'by the book' asshole, but he's sure as hell an adult, and no one takes him lightly.  I want to get there, too.

Funny thing is, Farrell's the one who set this off, and I only met him tonight.  He's another one like Mac, if you watch him.  All honor and nobility without even thinking about it:  another knight from the Round Table -- until he starts talking to Damien.  Then it's like watching the other Highlander show up.  Same wicked, devious sense of humor Connor has, only less restrained.  And he and Damien really are friends.  They were telling the kind of stories earlier that would make any mother scream and faint.  Aidan just laughed, although she was shaking her head, too.

Apparently, another one of Aidan's students that I haven't met, Damien's best buddy, Ishtvan, got Farrell drunk and talked him into getting arrested in Ankara, sometime back before World War I.  I gotta look up some stuff.  I don't know who the Ottomans were, but even Adam was shaking his head like no one in their right mind should have agreed.  The whole problem was that Damien had shot off his mouth -- well, that wasn't how he put it.  It was exactly how Farrell put it, that's for damn sure.  Ish had a plan to get him out that required an assistant already in the cells -- and both of them paused and then Farrell just kind of grinned, and Damien shook his head.  They both acted like they had changed their minds, that maybe this wasn't something they should tell everybody.  So Aidan told them both that she was going to get the real story one day, they could consider it her Midwinter's present.  Farrell grinned and told her to wait until Midwinter's, then.

This guy trained with Owain?  I guess he was more ruthless than Marc, not that that's really hard.  Marc's pretty sure Chris staked him out as bait for Aidan because Chris didn't know if Marc could kill someone.  I can't think of any other reason that Owain let Farrell live other than the fact that he knew Farrell could and would kill.  I've taken some nasty damn challenges myself, starting with Kristov, but I don't know that I could've done what Farrell did.  I mean, he plays it down, but from the sound of it, he stood out there with his back to our line, not knowing we had someone to make sure both sides played fair, and told his line to go fuck themselves.

I would have bet money I wouldn't like anyone out of Rhys-Tewdor's line, but I do.  Funny.  Even if I hadn't already known Aidan, I'd have liked her just for taking in Marc.  And even if I didn't like Farrell for anything else -- and I think I do like him; he's as crazy as Damien in his own quiet way -- I'd like him for the way he walked in and announced that just because he'd renounced Owain didn't mean he was dumping the other member of that line with enough sense to get the hell out, and which one of us was Marc Scipio, anyway?

Amazing.  It's finally quieting down in there.  I wonder who's sleeping where?  Carolyn and Terrence are keeping the bed in the loft, I know that much.  Marc and I claimed that we'd been here longest, so we got squatter's rights to the other bed, but we'd be nice and let Stormy have it and if she wanted to let Damien get to a mattress, well, that was her business.  So Marc and I have some blankets in front of the fire.  And Farrell just smiled at Aidan and pointed out that since he was definitely a guest, and the way he said that made me wonder how hard a time they had getting him to come up here, that he got one of the couches.  Adam promptly took the other.  What Aidan and Duncan are gonna do is beyond me.  Damn if I want to know, either.  I bet all three of them are curled up together in a heap come morning, though.  Adam'll probably be trying to hog all the blankets, too.

And that's another odd thing.  I mean, I started sleeping next to Marc because it was easier than staggering over in the middle of the night to wake him up from his nightmares and then staggering back to my own bed.  The sheets were usually freezing by the time he'd gone back to sleep, too.  But despite his bad dreams, I'm gonna miss sleeping with him when we go back to Seacouver and he goes to Greece.  Guess I've gotten used to making sure he's all right, even if I'm barely awake when I start rubbing his back and telling him everything's okay and go back to sleep.  It's not sex, I know that much.  I'm not interested in guys in general or him in particular.  Man is that an understatement!  And he'd laugh harder at the idea than I just did.  But... it's nice curling up with someone in the middle of the night.  Weird.  Maybe I just like having a brother.

Time to get some sleep, I think, because I don't know if we're staying here tomorrow or packing, but I think we're all going our separate ways soon and that's cool too.  Owain didn't split us up, after all.  A few thousand miles here and there isn't gonna do it, either.

<><><><><><><><><>

Savannah, Georgia -- 4/27

It was only the broken nose that saved him.  Sometimes, unfortunately, not even that did it, because other than the no-longer straight appendage, the man was strikingly beautiful.  He had the honey and ivory coloring attributed to Alexander the Great's slave, Bagoas, and with the exception of that misaligned nose, the lines of his face had the perfect proportions of a Bach fugue.  Full, dark hair was a brown so deep as to look black until sunlight called up burgundy highlights; even braided into a single thick rope, it swung down his back and made him look thoroughly exotic.

Below the chin, he was even worse.  A dancer's body, all lithe grace and slim, impossibly strong muscle, filled out worn khakis and a threadbare shirt that might have been red in a previous incarnation.  Not even the battered work boots, worn denim jacket thrown over one arm, or the ragged duffel on his shoulder kept the women from turning to look at him.

Then he looked up to some noise only he had heard and the incorrigible mischief dancing in those dark, almond-shaped eyes revealed his other saving grace.

"Pishta!"  Her voice carried across the crowd, and he turned gratefully, shedding over-solicitous traveling companions with absent skill as the tall woman in black leather strode toward him, arms outstretched.

"Katika!  How are you?"  He wrapped his arms around the striking brunette, hugging her exuberantly and spinning her around as he murmured, "Are you ready to get out of here, or do we need to put on a show?"

"My husband's here, Ish, try not to make him shoot you, hmm?" Kate whispered back and untangled herself from his deliberately playful embrace.  More loudly she said, "How have you been?  You must be ravenous, come on, the car's outside."

They walked out of the baggage claim discussing trivialities, and apparently disregarding the stares they were receiving.  Once in the car, though, Nick Sutherland asked sympathetically, "So who did you piss off to get a nose like that?"

Ish shrugged.  "Someone who didn't like taking no for an answer.  It was years ago.  Ishtvan Aziz, and ignore what your wife says, I'm Ish, not Pishta."

Kate chuckled, a low, rich sound, and said, "Sorry, Ish, couldn't resist."

"Try harder next time, 'Katyonka,'" he suggested, but he sounded amused again.  "So where's Damien?"

"We're not hooking you two up any sooner than we have to."  She turned around and asked curiously, "Where have you been, anyway?  No one could find you."

"Damien told me I missed all the fun," Ish griped.  "By the way, are you going to introduce me, or shall I just go around calling 'Oh, husband, Kate's husband'?"

"Nick Sutherland," said the man in question, his attention mostly on the Savannah lunchtime traffic.  "Nice to meet you.  But fun?"

"A chance at that bunch?  Oh, yeah."  Disgust oozed through his voice as Ish complained, "I'd have rather gone after Johannes than those three Moroccan battalions.  That Prussian piece of shit framed me for murder once.  I had to stay out of Northern Europe for years because of him."

"Who died?" Nick asked, startled.  "When was this?"

"Couple centuries ago.  Gustavus III of Sweden."  Ish shrugged.  "It was a good frame, I'll give him that much."  In a complete change of subject, he went on, "That was a while ago, though.  What I want to know is what in the hell Farrell Jameson was doing in the middle of this mess."

"Ask Damien about all of it," Kate answered.  "Apparently Farrell was there--"

"Why was that damned noble idiot at our line war?" Ish interrupted skeptically.

"He was one of Owain's students, Ish."  Kate twisted in the front seat to look back at him.  "You knew that, right?"

"Hell, no," the Thracian said, shocked enough to stare at her.  When he did, the exotic, mysterious stranger façade slid away to reveal more depth of character than his beauty would have led Nick to expect.  "Owain produced a student like him?  Are you crazy?"

"No," Nick drawled thoughtfully, "from what I know about New Zealanders, Ish, I think Rhys-Tewdor just couldn't corrupt him enough."

Kate chuckled, a deep throaty sound of pleasure as she told Ish, "I think Kastagir corrupted him in a different direction later.  Apparently Farrell trained with him for a few years before World War II."

"Son of a bitch," was Ish's only startled comment.  He thought about that for nearly a mile before he finally laughed.  "Yeah, Kastagir would have loved Farrell.  He looks so straight-laced until he cuts loose.  Then he's almost as much fun as I am."  The Thracian grinned, a startlingly charming wickedness in that lovely face.

Kate laughed.  "No one else in the world is quite like you, Ish.  Thank God."

"Yeah, so what do we know about this hit team?"

"You can wait until we catch up with Damien," she countered, a quick, gleeful smile crossing her face as she considered who was waiting for Ish.  He didn't know Damien wasn't the only one they were meeting and she was looking forward to his surprise.  "I'm only going over this once, thanks.  Now, we need to get you some decent clothes, including a bathing suit.  Tell me you have a bank account, Ish."

"And credit cards and even money."  Ish chuckled.  "Shopping, hmm?  Right, I'll make it quick, Kate.  Any idea what image they want?  Who's planning this, anyway?"

"I'm not sure which plan we're going with, Ish, it depends on which units Damien managed to get at the condominium.  And I'm not explaining this more than once.  Forget it.  You know you're going to want to visit a dozen people here in the States, so just plan on getting a flexible wardrobe with a little of everything."  She turned in the seat in time to see the mischievous smile he didn't quite hide quickly enough.

Kate turned back, not bothering to conceal the laughter in her own voice.  "You're not fooling me, Ish.  Your whole family treats 'blending in' as an art form."  She grinned at him in the rear view mirror, brown eyes dancing.  "And I'll just let Damien yell at you if you don't get enough variety.  Now, explain to me what you're doing helping the Polisarios fight the Moroccans--"

"--and how you've managed not to die publicly," Nick Sutherland interrupted his wife.  "You need to teach Kate that one."

"Hey, you killed me that last time," she argued, and they spent the rest of the trip cheerfully blaming each other for all sorts of misadventures while Ish tried to find out exactly what kind of mischief Kate was up to this time.

~~~~~

Ish strode through the door of the condominium already looking for Damien, and wondering whose head his brother had taken in New Mexico that his presence felt this overpowering.  Instead of dark red hair, though, he saw a tall man with brown hair and a short, wiry woman with blue-black hair.  After the sunlight reflected off the sand outside, his eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room just in time for Farrell to wrap both arms around him in a fierce bear hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

He pounded on Farrell's back gleefully and said, "Hey!  Let go, you over-muscled farmer, and let me get a look at you!"  Ish stepped back a pace, hands sliding along Farrell's to catch his forearms.  He took his time appraising his old friend, taking in good clothes, clear eyes, and an amused grin.  "Not bad, Farrell.  Not bad at all."  He stepped back in and hugged him hard.  "Glad you kept your head, buddy."

When Farrell let him go, Ish turned and found Duathor already going up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek.  He hugged her, too, and added admiringly, "I like the hair.  When's the last time you've done it in braids like that, Duathor?"

"Too long," the Egyptian answered, her voice low and sharp as ever as she shook her head to listen to the soft rattle and clatter of dozens of beaded corn rows sliding and falling across each other.  "I spent a very pleasant afternoon getting it done, Ish, and between that and the heat here, I almost feel like I'm home in Egypt again.  How have you been?"

"Fine," the Thracian said with a shrug.  "Fighting soldiers who have modern equipment while using as little tech as I can manage.  It's been interesting."

"You always did like siding with the underdog," she agreed, amused.  Dark eyes regarded him thoughtfully.  "You look well, though.  Kept up with your sword and knife work, I assume?"

"Oh, yeah."  He chuckled, a wicked sound.  "Count on it.  Especially the knife."

"Good."  The slender Egyptian woman wound around him, catlike, and Ish smiled as she said, "Damien's making a grocery run, but he'll be here any minute.  You'll be rooming here with him, Farrell, and Nick.  Kate and I are upstairs and across the hall.  Our targets are directly above this unit, and right across the corridor from Kate and myself.  Now, we have some ideas on how to do this, and we were depending on your help."

"Really?" Ish purred, sliding into a chair and striking an insouciant, provocative pose.

"Very much so," Duathor rumbled, lounging on another chair herself.  "Well, Kate and I, in any case.  None of them seem likely to be susceptible to you, brother, or we'd happily let you help us flirt with them."

Kate and Nick settled onto the couch, and Farrell pulled over one of the bar chairs from the kitchen area.  "So.  Who won the argument?" Kate asked, amused.  "Or were you just going to present Damien with a fait accompli?"

"Would I do that?  Besides, I won easily," the wiry Egyptian woman said contentedly.  "Did no one ever tell you the family motto?"

"For destruction, Damien.  For mischief, Ishtvan.  For death and havoc, Duathor," Ish commented, making it sound like a quote.

"I like that one."  Duathor was smiling, a tiny feline smile.  "No, I was thinking of something much simpler:  'Be thorough.'  Damien gets distracted."

"And you don't," Ishtvan conceded, straightening up.

"No, not really."  Duathor studied the Thracian carefully, seeing the effects of several hours of flights and layovers and customs.  "Brother, we're being intolerably rude.  Do you need to get a shower and food before we plan our tactics?"

"Tease," he answered her without any real heat.  "I'd rather hear the plan first.  Then I can think about it and look for holes in it while I run the hot water out and someone else cooks."

"I'll cook," Farrell said firmly.  "As a thief, Ish, you're a lousy cook."

"Hey, I'm not that bad," Ish argued immediately.

"No, if he cooks French food he's quite good.  The problem is that he prefers Mediterranean," Duathor said dryly.  "In any case, Farrell, the rest of us are competent in a kitchen.  Don't worry about it.  Now, then, gentlemen, lady," and she nodded to Kate, amused, "I want this to be simple and thorough.  We're going to take all of them, simultaneously.  It's going to be quick, it's going to be clean, and there will be no survivors."

She considered Nick's face and was pleasantly surprised that he showed no reservations.  Good.  He's the only one I was worried about.  "Bear in mind:  the assassins are set to check out on the thirtieth.  Now, this is what I had in mind...."

~~~~~

White Beach Condos, Savannah -- 4/29

"It's no problem at all," Duathor purred in the most sultry voice she could manage.  It was more than enough keep the attention of the men who were staying in the condo unit across from hers.  The men whose names just happened to match the names and aliases Don Scarlatti had provided to Kate.

The fine-boned Egyptian woman added just a touch more sway to her saunter and smiled provocatively at Jon, the man who'd been identified as the leader for this team.  "After all, you're checking out tomorrow, and we're going home the day after that.  We can't let you leave without a party."

Kate chimed in, "She's right.  It's almost the end of our vacation, and what's a vacation without a party?"  Her voice added meanings to party that Webster might not have intended, but their targets had no trouble translating her proposition.  The four men in the garage exchanged glances, reading minute changes in each others' faces as they silently debated who wanted to do this and who didn't think he stood a chance of getting lucky with these two.

"What time did you want to start the grill?" asked Lee, the tall blond that Kate suspected of being the second in command for the group.  "Jack and Walt were talking about eating early and then hitting the Osprey's Nest."

"Right at sunset?" Kate suggested, her voice strongly implying that the sunset would make the dinner more romantic.  None of the men bothered to point out that the beach faced the east.

That didn't surprise Kate.  She'd been watching the assassins for two days now and knew Jack and Walt, the remaining members of the hit squad, should be back from swimming any minute.  They usually came in just before sunset to clean up, eat something, and go bar-hopping.  The suggestion of the Osprey's Nest, a popular sports bar in town, told her that she'd been right; her plans should run right on schedule.

"Bar-hopping would be fun," Duathor purred as they climbed the stairs.  She knew perfectly well that the men had allowed the women to go first partly from paranoia and partly to get a glance under Kate's beach cover-up.  At the door, she took her time finding her keys and unlocking the condo unit she and Kate were sharing.  Sure enough, she had to slide a man's hand off her hip when she turned around to retrieve a bag of groceries from Ted, one of the junior members of the team.  "And we certainly have plenty of food for everyone."

Kate smiled as she took the other bag from the other junior member.  "Thanks, Scott.  Now, we need about half an hour to get the food ready, Jon, and sunset's in about forty-five minutes.  Knock on the door in about forty minutes?"

The team leader smiled at her.  "Yeah, sounds good.  We'll try not to get stuck in traffic," he added as they opened the door across the hall.

"You'd hate to miss our steaks," Duathor countered with a husky chuckle.  "Forty minutes it is.  Come on, Kate."  She smiled at the assassins before she walked into the living room of her unit; behind her, she heard Kate immediately close and lock the door, a practice the two of them had passed off  as the habit of single women from a big city.  Then both the women were inside and out of visual range of their targets.

Kate set down her bag and traded an identical exasperated glance with Duathor as they chattered for two minutes while putting up the perishables.  The tell-tale hairs had been in place on the lock or Duathor would have found a way to mention the problem of 'ubiquitous cat hairs;' the red carnations were still on the table, which meant Damien hadn't found any bugs in his daily sweep.  Neither of them felt like taking chances, though, so they continued to gossip just in case the assassins who'd escorted them up could hear tone of voice through the closed door and the length of the rented condo.

When she thought enough time had expired for it to be safe, Kate ostentatiously settled her skirt over her hips and dusted imaginary hand-prints off the back of it.  "Octopi, do you think?" she suggested.  Her mouth twisted into a wry smile as she pulled out two wine glasses and cocked an eyebrow in question.

"No, leeches," the Egyptian woman stated flatly as she nodded her acceptance of the offered drink.  "Their hands don't move once they settle.  They're enough to give men a bad name.  And I would love some wine, Kate.  Take heart; we're almost done.  How's Nick taking all of this?"

"Well enough."  Kate shrugged, but her expression wasn't as confident as her words.  "He doesn't like it, but we've done worse."

"And it would be another matter if you were actually sleeping with them?" Duathor pointed out mildly as she opened the refrigerator door.  "It's only been two days -- they'd have been suspicious if we'd jumped them any more quickly than this, thank Bast.  Pass the beer, and I'll put it in the freezer to cool.  Do you want to make the marinade for the steaks or shall I?"

"Your turn," Kate told her, sounding more cheerful as she finished filling two glasses with the cabernet they'd had out on the counter.  "Your glass is on the bar, Duathor.  And I think the steaks were the part that startled Nick, really."

"What, that we're going to clean up the bodies, get dinner, and then check out ourselves on the first?"  Duathor shrugged and reached for the few spices she had insisted on buying, intent on putting together some kind of seasoning for the meat.  "We have to eat.  And I thought he would be more shocked if I suggested going out for dinner afterwards.  Was I that far off, Kate?"

"No, you were right about that.  Although Nick is tough-minded enough once he's decided on something."  The taller brunette set her own glass down, caught the bar in both hands, and leaned back to stretch out her back.  "Oh, that's better."

Duathor laughed softly as she poured some of her wine into a bowl and began adding spices, measuring by sight and smell.  "Shall we flip now for who gets the shower first when we're done?  Or shall I plan on letting you and Nick have it, since I rather suspect you have some catching up to do?"

"If you'll leave us some hot water, you can have it first," Kate offered graciously as she dropped down to wrap her arms around her ankles, purring as her lower back began to loosen up.  Voice slightly muffled by the inverted position she pointed out, "It would be suspicious if we changed, I know, but I wouldn't mind getting a shower now.  Flirting with them is starting to make me feel filthy."

"I know exactly what you mean," Duathor agreed, looking at her own white and blue swimsuit and shorts set, and then at the burgundy and gold suit and wraparound Kate had been wearing when they both left the beach to shop for the 'going away party.'  The wiry woman set the steaks into the bowl, ran some water to make up the rest of the volume, and pulled out plastic to cover it all.  "It has to be done though, Kate.  Do you think they suspect anything?"

"I think they've fallen for it," Kate told her.  "I get the impression they've scored off quite a few vacationing professional women since they've been down here.  Having us just across the hall seems to strike them as convenient, but not suspicious."

"I agree with you," Duathor said with a nod as she started scrubbing potatoes.  "As for the shower, you're right -- it would look odd if we changed out of bathing suits before going to grill food on the beach."  She paused for a moment, thinking, then asked pleasantly, "Still remember how to do an Istanbul twist?"

"You're not tall enough to do that to them."  However the notion made Kate chuckle as she moved into the kitchen and started pricking holes in the potatoes before wrapping them in aluminum foil.  Duathor was more than strong enough to snap a man's neck with her bare hands; those small hands worked in clay when they weren't wielding a khopesh.  At 5' 2", however, the fine-boned Egyptian woman simply wasn't going to be able to get a good angle on men who were a minimum of eight and ten inches taller than she was.

"I don't have to be.  I only have to lower them to my level," was the purred retort.  "I'm very good at that, Kate.  You get spoiled, being tall."  Duathor tossed her head, enjoying the sound of beads clattering against themselves and sliding along her shoulders.  "I'll have to leave my hair like this when I go home.  I like it."

"It's good to see you in braids again," Kate agreed as she finished the last potato.  "And I'm not spoiled; I'm just lucky."  She chuckled and asked, "So.  Ready to start packing the cooler?"

Duathor smiled at her, the pleased expression of a cat sighting a mouse.  "Thirty minutes yet until we start this, Kate.  Let's give the sun time to slide down a bit farther.  Rummy?"

"Half an hour sounds right.  You're right; we don't need to pack the cooler for another fifteen minutes.  Actually, it might not be a bad idea if we were running a couple of minutes 'late.'  Don't forget to take the beer out of the freezer, though.  But we have time for one hand of gin rummy."  The two women traded identical expectant glances.  "Then we call Nick and the others," Kate went on softly, "and finish this."

~~~~~

It was ridiculously easy in the end.

The two junior assassins were carrying the cooler at the front of the group -- the heavy cooler full of ice and beer, wrapped steaks and potatoes.  Jack and Walt, the two swimmers, each had an arm loaded with towels to sit on or charcoal for the grill on the beach.  Jon, the tall leader of the group, had one arm through Kate's as they walked at the back of the group.  Duathor sauntered along immediately in front of Kate, her hand resting lightly on the crook of Lee's elbow.  The two women suspected he was one of the most dangerous of the lot and wanted him within immediate range when their trap went off.

The stairs had forced all of them to walk in pairs as they headed down from the third floor units, to the second, towards the ground-level garage.  The sun was setting in the west, leaving the south-east facing beach in darkening shadows.  The garage itself was full of shadows; the automatic lights hadn't come up yet for whatever reason.

Those shadows moved as Duathor and Lee entered the garage, enveloping the first four men even as Jon turned his head towards Kate to help her around a car.  He assumed his night vision was better than hers; it was the last assumption of superiority he got to make.  "Watch out for the--"

The leader's words stuck in his throat as Kate let go of his elbow, reaching up as if to adjust a strand of hair out of her mouth.  Instead, having raised the hand to her chin, she swung it backwards, curling into a fist as she went, and crushed his trachea with a single sharp move.  In front of her, Duathor had already brought one knee up and in, collapsing the team second's leg out from underneath him as she tightened her grip on his wrist with one hand and struck at the inside of his elbow with the other.  He dropped bonelessly, unconscious from the nerve attack.  She dropped with him, and a muffled crack a moment later told Kate he'd never rise again.

Kate was too busy herself at that point to pay much attention to what anyone else was doing, although part of her mind registered the soft spitting sounds of her husband firing a silenced pistol.  However, even with his throat crushed and rapidly swelling shut, with shock and death imminent, the assassin was still trying to kill her.  Kate blocked his strikes automatically, slapping his arms back out of her way as she yanked her knee up into his stomach.  Her attack forced air out that he wasn't going to be able to draw back in.

Damien loomed up behind him, a knife in one hand that Kate suspected wasn't his.  The mortal man jerked as Damien struck at his back, a shocked look on his face as his eyes widened with surprise and pain.  The burly redheaded immortal lifted and twisted the mortal's head in one economical motion, and the last assassin dropped to the ground.

Farrell's quiet voice broke the silence, saying, "The cooler didn't spill."

"Good," Duathor answered calmly.  "Put it in the car, Farrell.  Everyone done?"

"Kate and Damien had the last one," Ish answered as he appeared out of the darkness with a body slung over his shoulder.  Nick opened the back of Damien's rented SUV, face set and mouth tight with distaste, but he never flinched from the work or its necessity.  All six of them, five immortals and one mortal, began loading the vehicles.  Picnic gear went onto passenger floorboards, bodies went onto tarps already laid out in the back and were covered first with another tarp, and then with a casual-seeming scatter of CDs, plastic drive-through cups, and other vacation detritus.  The attacks had been carefully planned to leave as little blood as possible, down to Nick underloading the powder for some of his bullets so that they wouldn't leave exit wounds.  For once, luck and the speed of the attack had been with them; there was no blood to clean up, as Damien had left the knife in the leader's kidney rather than risk a stain.

The last cup thrown into the back, five of them scattered into seats.  Farrell reached up with one towel-shielded hand to screw the light bulb for the garage light back into place, then climbed in as well.  Duathor glanced at her watch as they drove out of the parking lot at a normal speed, and nodded to herself, pleased.  Start to finish, it had taken five minutes.  A quick, clean operation.  I'll have to call Aidan after dinner and tell her that this loose end is severed.

<><><><><><><><><>

Seacouver -- early evening, 4/29

"Yeah, Terrence went home a couple days ago," Marc answered Duathor as he sprawled back onto the couch in Aidan's living room.  His teacher moved past him with a load of clean laundry but waved him back to his conversation when he started to stand and help her with it.

"You sure, Aidan?  Okay.  ...  Nah, Duathor, it's cool.  We're kind of doing the last stuff around here.  ...  Yeah, I'm already packed."

Aidan smiled at that, her back to her student as she put the last of her clothes away.  "You've been ready to go for at least a day now," she murmured to herself as she reached for the bag of cedar balls and strewed them liberally through each dresser drawer.

She and Marc had decided to close down both her floor and his.  If Rich had been staying in the house until she got back, as he had last fall when she went to Paris, Aidan would have left her floor open and trusted him to sweep and dust all of it once or twice while she was gone.  He was only staying for a week or two at most, though.  Rich knew who to contact at her bank when he headed out, but at some point he needed to go back to Charleston to retrieve his motorcycle and, possibly, his racing career.

Perhaps.  And perhaps not.  He and Damien were talking quite seriously about salary versus commission.  I think Damien may have acquired a salesman cum bookkeeper.  Aidan shook her head at that, enjoying the feel of barely damp hair pouring over bare arms.  It's so nice to be able to leave my hair down for a while instead of braiding it for challenge.

Rich is changing so quickly.  Eight months ago, I don't think he'd have quit the racing season to go into sales.  Of course, eight months ago, he wouldn't have been so offhand about sharing a bed with another man, either, no matter what the reason.  She opened the wardrobes, scattered more cedar balls in, and closed the doors again, careful not to trap dark hair as she did.

She turned to look over the floor, intending to check for any of the night's tasks left undone.  Instead, Aidan found herself thinking about the day Duncan and Amanda had helped her unpack a crate of odd and lovely mineral specimens she'd collected here and there over the years.  All three of them had spent the day trading stories and bad puns, until Amanda had dragged Duncan off to dinner and dancing and bed.

Rich isn't the only one who's changed.  A year ago I wasn't sleeping with immortals.  A year ago I still thought Methos was dead, and Xan and Alex gone Lady knew where.  A wordless, affectionate pulse stirred in her, and she smiled thinking about it. A year ago, I wasn't bound to Connor.

That thought pushed her up and into motion.  Aidan strode across the wood floor to the kitchen, full skirt flaring and whispering around her calves as she walked.  A few quick motions filled two glasses with iced tea and she brought one glass to Marc before sipping from her own.

"Hey, thanks, Teach.  ...  No, Ish, not you.  I'm not studying with you, bro."  Something Ish said brought a quick, mischievous smile to Marc's face and he asked cheerfully, "Shall I hand her the phone so you can repeat that?  ...  Didn't think so."

Aidan quirked an eyebrow up, head tilted in silent question.  Marc grinned and waved her off, clearly enjoying harassing Ish at long distance.  It will be interesting to see his reaction to Ish's appearance when they eventually meet.

She sat down to study her check list for the trip and found everything done except those last few things to do in the morning before their flight.  Restlessness drove Aidan up to check that the refrigerator was empty.

Marc was still talking to Ish, but now he was frowning at her.  "Half a sec, Ish."  Amber eyes narrowed as he studied Aidan more intently.  "Teach... when's the last time you caught up on your journal?"

"Why?" she asked, willing to turn her attention to his thought process.

"Because," her student said patiently, raking one hand through newly close-cropped hair, "you've had a workout and run today, you haven't had any coffee in at least five hours, and you're still pacing the house like a tiger at the zoo.  I know you've got the stuff for your novel packed, but why don't you pull out your journal?"

Aidan smiled at him.  "You, sir, worry too much."

"Yeah, well, I learned it from three mistresses of the art," Marc said dryly.  "You, Mama, and Grandmama.  Besides, you haven't said I'm wrong, either."

"I'm not sure," she admitted thoughtfully.  "I'm a bit behind, yes."

"Like, oh, three weeks?" Marc asked, head tilted in her own mannerism.  "We've kind of been busy, Teach, you especially."

"You're demolishing Damien's phone bill," Aidan commented idly, finger-combing a tangle out of her hair and wondering if she should pile it on her head and go work her way through tai chi forms until she was calm.

"Teach, you're demolishing my nerves," he countered.  "I suppose I could call Terrence or Disa...."  Marc trailed off, still studying her reactions.

"That," Aidan pointed out calmly, "is blackmail.  Go back to your conversation with Duathor and Ish, Marc.  I'll deal with my mood."

"Uh-huh."  He grinned at her suddenly.  "I have a speed dial and I'm not afraid to use it, y'know."

Aidan chuckled at that.  "All right, oh worrier, I'll go see if I can't put a dent in my journal backlog.  Tell those merry maniacs that I said hello and we'll call in a few weeks."

"Will do."  Marc took his hand off the phone's receiver and said cheerfully, "Right, I'm back.  ...  Nah, just yelling at Aidan.  Is she always like this before trips?"

Aidan mock-glared at him and Marc paused, then looked thoughtful.  "Actually, that's not a bad idea.  ...  No, not you, Ish.  Hold on again, bro."  The young black man checked his watch, then grinned at Aidan.  "Y'know, if I get off the phone in the next ten or fifteen minutes, not only will we save Damien's phone bill from a fate worse than death, but we could catch the first set at Joe's."

"Blues and dancing," she mused, glancing down at her own skirt and top and realizing that she was certainly dressed for it.  "That would be fun."

Marc shrugged.  "So go write in your journal for a few minutes and I'll finish saying good night to everyone.  And yelling at Ish and Damien for not warning me about you and planes."

"Oh, now that's a low blow."  Aidan laughed though and pulled out her current journal.  "Wretch," she called.  "Don't let them rub off on you too much.  We'll still be sparring in Greece, you know."

I haven't done too badly, she admitted to herself, nibbling on the end of a pen and watching her current student chat and laugh with some of her earlier students.  Why is it so hard to let go of the guilt for Connor's hand?  He doesn't blame me, I know, so why am I blaming myself?  I suppose because a year ago, my brother still had both hands.  Honesty compelled her to add, Of course, a year ago, he hadn't seen Xan and Alex since 1819 and was still settling for the occasional one night stand.  And Connor and I were both lonely.

Aidan chuckled softly at that, aware that loneliness was not precisely a problem anymore.  Not when all of her students knew where to find her and all of them were talking to her again.  Not when she had a new student who was going to drive her half-mad, as students with a great deal of potential always did. No, I'm not lonely.

She wasn't quite ready to start sorting everything out, that would take more than the time left before she and Marc went to listen to the house band at Joe's Bar.  She pulled out a piece of stationary, however, and began listing topics she suspected she needed to look at soon:  Connor, Duncan, Magister; Xan and Alex, Farrell, Owain; Rich, the Watchers, Marc; how to track down any of the books from Sean's library, or Darius'  or Adrianna's....

Marc watched her from across the room, only part of his attention on the phone call with Ish until he saw the frown fade from his teacher's face to be replaced by the intent concentration she always gave to writing or planning.  Her pen jumped between three different spots on the desk, which told him that if she was working on her journal, she was also using it to set up some kind of check list or to-do list.

He grinned and relaxed back onto the couch.  So I'm going to be busy while we're in Europe.  Big damn deal.  It'll still be fun.  Marc deliberately settled onto the couch, not particularly worried about whether they made the first set at Joe's or the second, and gave his newest brother his complete attention, laughing softly at the question.

"Yeah, Ish, we're still here," Aidan's student promised cheerfully.  Still here, and still intact, bro.  And we're damn well going to keep it that way.

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~ ~ ~ finis, 6/00 ~ ~ ~

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Storm winds have lashed  people since 3/1/02.  This page posted on 6/24/00.

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