Storm Wrack -- Sirocco Snippets

Right. The following are scenes from Sirocco that, for whatever reason, didn't end up in the story. Sometimes they just didn't advance the plot; sometimes I couldn't make them work. More than you wanted to know about the writing process, I guess. Anyway, here, enjoy. More later, as the posted story catches up to my files.
Usual disclaimer: I'm not making money, some of these aren't my characters, and they're adults, so some of them are getting some. If you don't like implications of het or slash sex, screen down, or hit the back button. Flames will be used for barbecue if you're very lucky.
One scene is rated NC-17 and marked so on the jump point. Last updated 12/4/00.

Back in the hotel room -- 4/20, Xan and Connor. Yeah, I need to finish this. (g) NC-17 implications, all right?

"New Mexico, huh?" Damien repeated, then shrugged massive shoulders without ever losing a stroke of the whetstone along his sword blade. "What the hell. We'll have to leave soon, though. That's a helluva drive from here, but I don't think we want to have nine people checking swords through on the same flight, either."

"About three ten-hour days of driving from the maps I looked at," Xan agreed calmly. "We'll want to leave tomorrow, in other words. However, we're all here, too." He had been writing out a list while Mandisa read over his shoulder, and now he passed the paper to her. "What do you think?"

She glanced over the list of supplies then frowned. "How many people and for how many days?"

"Better than you do, Mandisa," Damien laughed. He held his blade out at arm's length, sighting down the edge to make sure the nick had been properly smoothed. "Not bad," he muttered and went back to work.

"Marc can cook passably well, Aidan says. Something about an Italian mother and killer frittatas," Xan added calmly. "That's why I put extra eggs on there. They'll just have to be careful with them in transit."

Mandisa shrugged. "The list looks workable, then, I would say. I'm not the best gauge; ask Aidan when she returns."

Var read it over her shoulder, then asked politely, "May I?" When she handed him the paper, he added two items and passed it back.

"In case they get desperate." The golden-haired Spaniard shrugged. "You did say he was Italian."

"He came home from three days of worrying and not sleeping to find Connor had been tortured and mutilated. Of course he's not sleeping well," Var pointed out. "He's strong enough to hold together as long as he needs to. If we tell him that he needs to care for Marc...."

From the stairs behind him came the calm question, "Who needs to take care of me, and where, and why?"

"Practice makes perfect," came the answer as the young black man pulled a chair around and sat backwards on it, forearms folded over the top. "And that doesn't quite answer my question. Why do I need protecting, and who are you going to tell?"

"We thought the simplest way to keep young Rich on Holy Ground was to tell him he needed to protect you," Mandisa shrugged. "Truthfully, though, he's from the city and you've spent two years in the mountains. It's in my mind that he'll need more care on Duncan's island than you will."

"Because the truce only applies to Rhys-Tewdor and Ramirez," Damien told him as he sighted down his blade again. "Right, that got it." He began to carefully oil the steel.

"And half the head-hunters in the world come through Seacouver," Marc agreed in that same calm voice. "In other words, it's not safe to leave us here, and not just because of Owain's people. Why Duncan's island?"

"It's close; it's available on short notice; we know where to find you and no one else is likely to." Xan met his eyes and nodded in approval of the careful control his nephew was exerting. "And we can get you there tonight."

"Yeah," Marc nodded quietly. "If you're going to get to New Mexico by Sunday afternoon, you really want to leave tomorrow noon at the latest."

"No, Aidan hasn't been waiting to spring this on you, brother, truly." Mandisa reached over and clasped his forearm. "It's not that you're being left out of plans; you were up with Rich when we started putting necessities into order."

"Like what to do with the youngsters?" His caustic sarcasm didn't seem to disturb them. If anything, Var had to hide a smile and Damien did chuckle. He muttered a few more choice words in Italian, forgetting that most of them spoke several languages, and only remembered it when grins bloomed on several faces.

Xan shook his head, a mischievous smile on that stamped coin profile as he studied the paper in front of him. "We've been wondering if you've been cursing in the corners or if you need to be nominated for sainthood, Marc. If you want to blow up at 'overbearing older immortals' -- nice one, by the way -- this is probably the time to do it."

"Might make you feel better," Xan shrugged. "Come look at this grocery list. Damien and Var say Rich is a passable cook, but adjust this if you need to."

"Oh, he can cook, but my God he makes a mess." Marc shrugged and came to look over the grocery list. "On the other hand, if I let him cook, he'll feel better about the fact that I'm the one who knows what plants not to mess with. So I guess I'll wash dishes. Better put castille soap on here, too; I don't want Duncan getting annoyed with me."

Var glanced at him, eyes narrowing, then said thoughtfully, "Brother, when did you last get out and about?"

"Couple days now, I guess." The young black man shrugged, the tension in his shoulders as expressive as the compressed set of his lips. "Why?"

"Come along. I think the two of us will take care of this list, hmm? It might take a while, too," Var decided. He turned and flashed a quick smile at his sister, asking, "Mandisa, will you tell Shahar, please?"

"What, that you two have run off to enjoy yourselves and leave us with the work?" She chuckled. "Gladly. I wish I'd thought of it first."

Damien glanced up, torn between rest, which he needed, and a chance to burn off nervous energy, which he also needed. "Why do I think you wouldn't believe me if I offered to do the shopping?"

"Because we know you," Xan said firmly, frowning at the muscular redhead. "Marc, Var, we'll see you later this afternoon. As for you, Damien--"

Mandisa shrugged and interrupted him. "Damiano, now that the plotting is settled, stretch out on the couch and sleep." Marc turned away from the coat rack and she waved him on. "Go, brother, get out of here. He's only one stubborn man. I can handle him."

"You and what army?" Damien growled as he stood up. "And you want me to sleep now? With a war on?"

"You did mention to Rich that this was the boring part," the blond Greek pointed out calmly. "So, if we're basically done, it's going to be even less interesting. Especially since I'm going downstairs to check on Alex and Connor. Mandisa, if you can't get him to sleep any other way? Hit him with a large rock. There are plenty around on the shelves."

"I'll use a skillet," she replied before Damien could. "Aidan will forgive me if I dent one of those, but if I broke her mineral specimens she would not be happy."

"I think I'll get some sleep," Damien observed as he took a collection of empty glasses and mugs to the sink. He turned to stake out a couch in the center of the floor, adding, "I don't think I want to get the same choices Rich did."

"Wise move," Xan chuckled as he stood up from the table and went to examine one of Aidan's cabinets for the herbs and massage oil he wanted. "From what I've heard about your young lady, I don't think you want her to catch us flagrante delicto."

Damien flinched, and Mandisa laughed at him. "Go to sleep, brother, or I'll have to hide all the swords and knives before they can get back from the airport."

The burly redhead hastily curled up on the couch and Mandisa pulled a blanket over him before telling Xan, "I'll tend to the phones and anything else that comes up. Go see how Connor and Alexandrias are doing."

She gave him a stern look, made more imposing by the fact that she stood a head taller than he did. "You are probably welcome, Uncle. Now, then, if Duncan wants to check on Connor?"

"If Connor wants company, we'll come upstairs. But this is his last chance to kick walls and scream in relative privacy without worrying about his image."

Xan shook his head, worry lines creasing the corners of his mouth as he turned his attention ahead to dealing with Connor. "No, he won't, Disa. We've been friends for too long and through too much for that to matter." He glanced at her and smiled. "Just keep an eye on things up here, will you? This may take a little while."

She sighed and tried to look resigned as she sprawled into a chair with a book at one hand and a tea mug at the other. "New reading material, hot tea, a chance to sit for a little while before packing boxes of food -- you're right, uncle, however will I stand Damien's snoring?" She traded grins with him before he went down the stairs to the basement, but when she picked up her tea while still holding her book, Mandisa's smile faded. "My poor uncle," she murmured to the stillness, and wasn't sure if she meant the one who had endured the pain or the one who was trying to lance it.

"Quiet!" Joe roared at last, exerting all the volume and command that three years as a Marine and almost forty years as a musician had given his voice. The men and women in the room stopped cold, clearly shocked by the sheer noise of it, but they had, at least, shut up which was what the grey-haired Watcher wanted.

Dave Goldberg grinned at Joe, though, and gave him a cheerful thumbs up and a wink before settling more comfortably in his chair. The man was big, brawny, and cheerful, one of Sol's grandsons who were in the Watchers; he'd Watched two of Connor's abortive encounters with the Kurgan and had no compunctions against following any immortal to any fight. Now he spoke mildly into the new-glass silence, breaking it cleanly instead of letting it shiver to pieces that might shred.

"Mr. Dawson, unless I'm mistaken, as former Northwest Region Coordinator you're the senior Watcher here. Now, since this is also your bar, would you mind running this meeting?" He weighted the last word with enough menace to make it very clear that he was tired of listening to three or four simultaneous and too-loud arguments. A couple of the other Watchers in the room considered the size of his shoulders and arms, and the irritation in his voice, and subsided reluctantly.

"Thanks, Dave. All right, ladies and gentlemen, just for variety, we're gonna try something different. We're gonna look at this calmly. We've got at least fourteen immortals in or near town, most of 'em at DeSalvo's Gym or Aidan Logan's house. Chaim Goldberg is keeping an eye on them right now.

"Roger Brown, FitzAlan's Watcher, is tracking his group, and I just got a report from the Southwest Coordinator that four other immortals have congregated in Albuquerque, New Mexico."

A dark, slender man stood up and waited for Joe to nod to him before asking, "What has that to do with this?"

"Three of them studied with FitzAlan," Joe said bluntly, studying Var's Watcher with carefully concealed curiosity. "The fourth studied with one of FitzAlan's students who's currently headed south, a man named Johannes Engeles."

Johannes' Watcher, a sandy-brown haired man with frown lines etched around his mouth, nodded and said, "Who is it?"

"Will Moran. He came in with Lim Mahn." Joe looked at them, clearly annoyed about something. "I'm gonna be blunt here, folks. We are gonna do this right, if I have to kick all your asses downstairs to make sure of it."

"I'm not the one who associates with his subject," a middle-aged woman pointed out curtly. "I do not care for this comment on professionalism."

"Yeah, well, lady, I wouldn't want to associate with your subject, either. You Watch Bianca de Grazia, don't you?" Joe waited for her stiff nod before continuing, "And I don't give a damn what you think about me. I'm only interested in three things: getting this into the records, keeping all of us alive, and making sure no one in this room helps an immortal die early."

When the room erupted, Dave roared, "SHUT UP ALLA YOUSE!" at the room. Joe found himself shaking his head over the waste of a good voice; Sol's grandson was so tone-deaf he needed a bulldozer to carry a tune. But the bluesman intended to make his point, too, so he waited out the shocked, angry uproar until the last resentful voice had subsided.

Joe glared at them all impartially as he promised, "What I'm sure of, folks, is that mortals helped kill and kidnap Connor MacLeod, folks, and I'll tell you right now -- if any of you are Hunters, you'd better start running. 'Cause if I don't get you, the MacLeods will."

"Too damn real. They killed some good immortals and some Watchers who stuck to their oaths, too."

"No problem," Joe told her coldly. "Robert ? was thrown off a 17^th story balcony by James Horton for trying to back out of the Hunters. If you wanted Immortals killed by 'em, try Irene Galati."

"But the Hunters were started and led by your brother-in-law," she pointed out. "I believe that makes you biased."

"He also shot his brother-in-law," Chaim Goldberg stated flatly, "and a damn good thing, too. James Horton was a son of a bitch, but a smart one. Pardon me, Joe."

Chaim turned and stared at her from furious dark brown eyes. "Horton Watched the Kurgan. I met him back when I first got in. The man was a cold-blooded son of a bitch."

Joe said grimly, "Forget James; he's dead, permanently. He tried to live by the sword, and he got killed by one. That's old news, people. I'm more interested in current news, like the fourteen-plus immortals involved in this, and another four in New Mexico who are probably up to their ears in it... or does someone here believe in that kinda coincidence?" He favored the room with a sarcastic look he'd picked up in his years of association with Methos.

When no one contested his claim, Joe nodded once. "Good. That's one thing we all agree on. Here's another one: We're not gonna have Watchers tripping over each other and telling the immortals we're out here, but we are gonna try and get this for the records."

"Try?" said a very skeptical middle-aged black man who'd been doodling in a notepad.

A slim, tired-looking Arab woman smiled. "You've never tried to keep up with Mandisa, have you? She's very quick."

"Um... Mr. Dawson," the black man said carefully, "intending no disrespect, but you talk to your assignment, right?"

Joe tilted his head and gave the guy an encore of sarcasm, followed by a flourish of irony as he asked, "Now why in hell would I admit something like that to a bunch of Watchers? Been there, done that, got the bullet scar."

Several faces went professionally impassive at that statement, and Chaim chuckled. "Mr. Dawson, you been talkin' to Grandfather again?"

"I wanna make it to your grandfather's age, thanks," Joe snorted. "But without admittin' anything, Mr. Davis, why do you want to know?"

"Would your...." The black man who usually Watched Damien Appesard almost growled as he gave up on finding a polite way of asking his question. "Hell with it. Would MacLeod really kill us for Watching him?"

"Probably not," Joe told him calmly. "But I doubt he'd think twice about having you arrested for stalking. I know damn well that Aidan Logan mugged one of Amanda Darrieux's Watchers in a bar, and scared him so bad he thought she was going to kill him. Do not assume any of them are really safe, folks. Connor vanishing like that has everyone on edge, from what I've seen."

"This Aidan Logan," the Arab woman commented. "I find I am very curious why so many immortals are at her house if she is mortal. Or is she?"

"She's sleeping with Duncan and has a large house with extra beds and extra rooms. I checked her out when I first got suspicious, Ayeisha; she ain't in our database." Joe pursed his lips as he said, as if it surprised him, too. What was going to surprise him was if this worked.

"Marc Scipio and Rich Ryan also live there, don't they?" Damien's Watcher asked thoughtfully.

Chaim interrupted almost casually. "No offense, gentlemen, ladies, but I just got two burning questions: Do we have a clue what's going on? And who's gonna follow 'em, and how?"

"That's three questions," the Italian woman pointed out, but she settled a bit in her chair. "And I must admit, I would rather allow Roger to continue tracking FitzAlan's group. He is much better than I am."

"He had to be," Johannes' Watcher frowned. "Rhys-Tewdor will kill anyone who crosses him. He's worse than Johannes."

"I thought we were discussing FitzAlan?" Ayeisha asked in surprise. "And is there more coffee?"

"You look like you need sleep more than coffee," Chaim told her sympathetically, but he got up and brought the pot over.

Johannes' Watcher, meanwhile, told her, "FitzAlan is his most recent name; the oldest name for him in the records is Rhys-Tewdor. Did no one give you the files? I know Johannes and Mandisa have run against each other before, and he and Damien Appesard hate each other's guts."

"And the rest, I'd assume?" Ayeisha asked dryly. "No, I was assigned to Mandisa when she showed up in Barcelona, and I assure you, there has not been much time to look over files."

Var's Watcher finally caught Joe's eye and stated flatly, "This is a line war, is it not?"

"Yeah, I think so," Joe told him. "Where in hell did you hear about those? I had to dig around to find it."

Montoya shrugged, outwardly placid. "I was assigned to Marcus Constantine for two years when he was a guest lecturer in the University of Columbia. He fought a line war with Steshka of Kiev in 1118 or 1120, depending on which chronicle you read. I hadn't heard the term before, so I looked into it."

"Goddammit, quiet down!" Chaim Goldberg roared, straightening to his full, astonishing height and glaring around the room.

"He's been talking to his immortal," Damien's Watcher retorted stubbornly. "What in hell is wrong with asking what he knows?"

"Minor details like I took a bullet over talkin' to Mac," Joe Dawson growled. "What, you think he's gonna tell me a damn thing about this? Two o' his friends got killed in that disaster."

"Not as many," Joe said flatly. "The Hunters killed some damn good immortals, instead of the evil ones they were supposedly afraid of. Guess the Kurgan was too damn big for 'em."

"The Kurgan was big enough to scare me, Joe," Chaim said flatly. "And I saw him a few times, way too close up and personal."

"Hey, the Kurgan's history. On the other hand, we've got, what, fourteen immortals in town?" Damien's Watcher asked, trying to pull it back on topic. Joe bit back a smart-ass comment inspired by too many hours with Methos, and forcibly reminded himself that Luke Davis was reliable, calm, and had managed to track Damien Appesard through two name changes and that damn disaster at Stormy's house.

A slim, tired-looking Arabic woman glanced up. "Is it fourteen or fifteen? Has anyone checked the record base for this Aidan Logan?"

"First time I got suspicious, Ayeisha. She ain't in there and I ain't seen her take any heads," Joe growled, glad someone other than Luke was asking. Somehow, for no good reason, Davis always seemed to find his last nerve and settled down on it with a lounger and six-pack.

"Well enough," she sighed. "I don't know enough about Mandisa, I don't think. I have no idea why she is staying with this woman; I had just hoped...."

"You've only been assigned to her for two weeks," Carlos Montoya pointed out calmly. He had made a point of finding and getting along with Mandisa's Watcher, expecting that the two of them would be in each other's company for a while. Navarro and Mandisa usually traveled together for a few years when they met up after an absence.

"Look, folks," Joe interrupted. "I'm worried about three things: getting this for the records, not getting any of us killed, and not blowing the collective covers of the Watchers or the Immortals."

Author's note: At this point, I gave up entirely on 3^rd person POV and went to Joe's journal. (g) I believe I mentioned that this story gave me problems here and there?

At Benihana's of Tokyo, Var patiently rearranged Stormy's fingers around the chopsticks again. He couldn't help smiling as she let them cross, again, nearly stabbing Damien's hand where he sat on her other side. "Not exactly, no," Var chuckled.

"Maybe I'd better just use a fork for the salad?" she offered, smiling herself and setting the sticks neatly next to her bowl.

The Spaniard handed her one and shrugged. "I'm sorry, Stormy, I usually do a better job of teaching than this."

"Don't worry about it, Var," she said firmly. "So, explain to me again what it is you do in Caracas and why you haven't gotten out of transportation yet? 'Cause I've never yet seen anyone make much profit in that industry."

"Don't look at me, brother," Damien immediately told him. "I'd be happy to teach you programming, if you like, but I'm not arguing with a woman who checks industry salary standards."

"Outnumber and isolated," Var chuckled from his perch at the far end of the table. "All right, Ms. Storm," and she grinned at his deliberate formality. "Did it ever occur to you...."

On Damien's other side, Duncan and Connor ignored the ongoing argument in favor of the one they were waging. Duncan was cheerfully pointing out all the nutritional benefits of Japanese cooking with the air of a man expecting the next phase of the war to start any minute. "You, Adam Pierson, need all the green and yellow vegetables you can get," Duncan told him firmly. "I've seen your ideas of lunch."

"Your idea of enough grains in your diet," Connor snorted, "is to order another beer. Besides, I've known you longer than he has, you old reprobate. You eat vegetables, last I looked. What happened, you went carnivore again and just couldn't give up alcohol?"

"I'm not going to believe you invented it," Duncan chuckled. "And what's wrong with Japanese food for dinner?"

"This isn't Japanese, Highlander, this is... this is pop culture." His tone made the words the lowest strata of social taboo, even worse than voluntarily watching Ishtar sober. "Come on, Mac, it's--"

"Fun," Connor interrupted him, all too aware of how difficult it was to interrupt the older man when he'd hit full tempo. "The word you forgot was 'fun', Adam. We're on vacation. If you want a traditional meal, try being nice to my kinsman and I'm sure he'll cook you one sometime. He might even perform the tea ceremony for you if you asked him nicely enough." The wicked smile on Connor's face suggested a few ways Methos might ask. Leaving such ideas as an exercise for the listener, though, the older Highlander leaned past Methos to ask, "Sister, did you fall asleep over there?"

"No, just enjoying my tea and the conversations," she smiled. Her glazed cup of hot tea was just about empty in fact, and her salad bowl held nothing except a few shreds of lettuce half-submerged in the ginger/carrot dressing. "Have you been listening to the table behind us?"

She glanced back at him, grey eyes dancing with mischief. "Well, either we're UN envoys up here for the last of the skiing or we're grad students on holiday. They aren't sure which, and every time Mandisa calls Xan and Alex 'uncle' they start trying again to figure out what a Masai is doing related to a Greek. It's been incredibly fun trying to come up with a cover story to top anything they've invented."

Methos snickered. "As soon as we settle the bill, one of us should start, grab a cell phone, and pretend we're all Interpol agents being called back to some urgent case."

Xan looked up from the discussion he'd been having with Mandisa on Aidan's other side. "I want to be an insurance agent on expense account while I track down a stolen Rembrandt."

"You're both dreadful," Aidan chuckled. "I'm thinking, trust me. When I get something, I'll let you know."

Mandisa tapped Xan on the shoulder. "So, uncle, what's wrong with the plains outside Kilimanjaro?"

"Because if you vanish there, you might vanish permanently. They grow the lions large down there," he retorted promptly. "What's wrong with Toronto?"

"Too flat, too many people, and they're too polite. Besides," she pointed out cheerfully, "I stand out up there." She waved a hand at dark skin and the same gesture took in her lanky height where it was folded onto the chair almost at the opposite end of the table/grill from Navarro. Alex, who was at the far end of the table, had just drawn breath to argue when their chef arrived.

"Good evening. I'm Henry, your chef for the evening." Despite his name, the short, solid-looking man who wheeled the cart of food in front of the grill was obviously Asian. Something about the cast of his face made Stormy think he might be Korean. Whatever else he was, Henry was clearly competent. He dealt plates in front of them to start warming, and made a bowl of butter dance between his cleaver and the grill in the process of putting some on the grill to melt. Drizzling oil over another section of the grill and spreading it with a spatula turned into almost as much of a display, and he never lost his air of sangfroid.

Vegetables and shrimp were arranged in front of him to his pleasure before he glanced down at the orders and smiled. "Now, since you have all been so kind as to order the special, the least I can do for such agreeable customers is to ask how you would like your steak cooked?"

Var's request for "Rare, I think," received the same shudder from the chef as Stormy's cheerful reply of "Well done, please."

Henry regarded the little blonde's dubious grip on the chopsticks and shook his head. "Perhaps a fork?" he suggested as he began slicing and dicing shrimp, the knives dancing on the grill surface apparently without his attention.

"Not just yet," she smiled, propping her chin on one fist to watch him. "Thanks, though."

Damien, who'd known her longer than any of the rest of them, turned to study Stormy through suddenly suspicious eyes. Prompted by an instinct he didn't want to name yet, he moved his plate a little farther from her while the cook cheerfully arranged shrimp and played percussion with his spatula, his knife, and a salt shaker. Var, unfortunately, was too busy watching the cook's show to notice.

What caught Var's attention, just after Henry had finished passing around bowls of dipping sauces, was the sight of long chopsticks dipping neatly past his hand to steal one of his shrimp. He stared in disbelief at the sight of Stormy holding her chopsticks up at the very top, adding an impressive ten inches to her reach and showing a disturbing dexterity with the implements... in her left hand, not her right.

She popped the shrimp into the sauce and then her mouth quickly, giving him a deliberately wide-eyed look of innocence which made the Spanish immortal laugh even as Damien raised a protective hand over his own plate.

"Stormy, aren't you the one who was using a fork to eat her salad?" Aidan called down the table.

The little blonde swallowed and then said cheerfully, "Mm-hmm. Always guarantees me more shrimp at the start of the meal." Her chopsticks stabbed under Damien's arm and stole one of his as she spoke, before her lover could even growl. She dipped that one in the other sauce, and ate it just as quickly.

On her left, Var had carefully moved his plate away by now and was trying to glare at her while grinning. "And you were asking me how to use those?"

"One of these years, I'm gonna learn to use 'em right-handed, too," she told him and smacked his chopsticks away as he tried to steal off her plate. "Uh-uh, gentlemen, I grew up in the military. Y'all stay off my plate."

"Give up, Appesard, she's a Southern female. What's yours is hers and what's hers is hers. Did no one ever tell you that?"

"A lot of help you are," the redheaded immortal sighed and went to work making sure he got some of his own food.

The chef, for once more entertained by his guests than they were by him, grinned and settled in to try and top them. It was a matter of professional pride, after all, and if he lost, well, he could always compare himself with the fact that he was in fact sorely outnumbered....

"Last one in is a rotten egg?" Stormy offered cheerfully and watched an entire roomful of centuries-old, eminently responsible immortals empty out like a high school graduating class getting out of the auditorium: clothes flying, jokes flying, and ribald comments everywhere.

I don't believe I'm doing this. I mean, yeah, sure, Aidan keeps a journal, and Marc's been typing at his for an hour now and from the look on his face it's nothing light he's thinking about, either. But damn it, diaries are, are, hell, I don't know, pink books with flower-scented pages inside a leather strap with a lock on it, and you can cut through the strap with a pair of dull scissors. Something an eight year old girl gets for Christmas at some damn orphanage party where it was the only thing somebody could think of for one of the 'Christmas Angel' trees where you give an anonymous gift for 'Child, 8-10, female' and they think they're being nice. I hate it when people try to be 'nice' -- they always seem to fuck it up and do this whole Alistair Sim, 'Night Before Christmas', vanilla pudding crap somehow. I like Sim's Scrooge. He's an old bastard who doesn't pretend to be anything else and at least you know where you stand with him.

But I guess I better try again on this diary thing. Because I think if I say one more word about being on the island and not knowing where the others are and how they're doing, Marc may just take a swing at me. And while I wouldn't exactly mind a fight right now, I've always been lousy at apologizing later, and it really is me who's pushing. How the hell does he stay so calm, though?

It's just... I caught up on my sleep yesterday, and I'm not that big on nature, no matter what Mac's tried to show me. So I'm not real interested in what flowers are blooming, or the fact that it's not absolutely freezing in the morning when we get up -- damn close, but not completely, and Marc thinks this is great weather. Jeez, I can tell he spent too long in the far north. I'm sorry, steam rising off the morning coffee and my feet freezing on the floorboards until we get the fire built back up is just not what I had in mind.

He seems to think that if we don't have to break ice to get water, he's happy. Me, I'm going stir-crazy without cable. Actually, now that I think about it, maybe I should be worrying about Marc. For him, he's been downright short-tempered lately. And he had nasty nightmares last night, bad enough that I finally just pushed him over and climbed in with him 'cause I got tired of walking across the loft and stubbing my foot on that one floorboard every other hour or so.

Get a clue, Rich. The man was killed and kidnapped, stuck in the wild for two damn years with a sadistic bastard who thought training was something you did by beating your student up until he got it right or you broke something. As many nights as I've sat up with him, you'd think I'd catch on faster --

Second note: Be nicer to Marc, he's having a rough enough time already! God, I'm sorry I didn't kill Chris Henslowe myself. The Old Bastard didn't make it take nearly long enough for the nightmares Marc has.

It's kind of funny. He's older than I am, but I'm the one who's been in the Game longer. I've taken heads and he hasn't. But he's the one who survived two years with that bastard Chris, and actually made it through high school and college, and has a degree. I think he misses being an architect. I've seen the sketches he does when he's not studying something Aidan's handed him. He's really, really good. Looks like some of the pencil stuff that Tessa used to show me at the museum. Landscapes, and perspective studies, and designs for really intricate plaster moldings for ceilings. And he'll talk about them, about where he got the idea or why a reputable artist would do it this way and not that... I think he must have been really damn good.

I miss Tess. I wish I could introduce her to Marc and step back and listen. Probably take all of five minutes for me to be completely lost in what they'd be chattering in -- I think 'artist' must be its own language, worse than learning French -- but I wish I could do it. They'd have liked each other. Both of them with those tempers that show up when you're not expecting it, and both of them so damn strong when you don't expect that and so, what's the word, volatile? Yeah, volatile, when nobody expects that either.

Where was I? Hey, he's right. I'm not happier, but I guess I'm calmer, sort of. It really does help to write some of this down. Damn. Now I'll have to learn one of the old languages to keep this in, like the others, I guess. I've seen Marc's diary. I think that's one of the Italian dialects he's using, but I'm not real sure. I know it's not English.

Anyway, Marc. I think I'd better be a lot nicer to him and quit pushing so hard, or maybe just go running this afternoon. Mac's got this route around the island. I think he used it to check on things as much as to work out, but I wouldn't know what I was seeing. Maybe I can get Marc to go along so he can check on things, officially, and let him work off some stress too, unofficially. He's got to be worried, even if he's not really talking about it. I've sparred with him plenty of times now, and he's right -- he's terrible. Well, for one of us, he's terrible. Not that he's not coordinated, just that he's having to learn not to leave himself open and he's having a really bad time with that. He's just not a fighter, not like Mac or me, and Chris made it even worse.

I didn't really grow up on the streets; I just finished growing up there, it seems like. Mac and Tess were great to me, but I felt a million years old before they ever took me in. One of these days I'm gonna figure out how to tell Mac and Connor thanks for that, 'cause they are never going to know how good it felt to finally have someone give me a home. Not this foster home crap where I was a paycheck to somebody, but a home where they yelled at me about not helping with the laundry and when I was going to be back from a date and fussed when I got sick and meant it. Tessa went out and bought me these fruit juice Popsicles when I had the flu 'cause nothing tasted good, and sat there and talked to me while I ate them. They were great.

But Marc had a real family and I think he's enjoying all the people Aidan keeps in touch with. For that matter, he's so used to being the big brother that he grinned like a fiend every time they teased him about being the youngster. And him and Mandisa... oh, those two are so funny together. I mean, come on, they're the same height, and kind of the same build even if they don't look anything like each other in the face. When they call each other brother or sister, yeah, you have no trouble believing it. It's when they call Damien or Var brother that your eye just takes it in and goes 'You have got to be kidding me.' All that long, lanky height and the black skin and then you get Damien who's all muscle and dark tanned skin like Mac's, with all the red hair and that damn temper of his, when they're so calm on the outside. Man that's hilarious watching them together. And Var, who looks like some pale, gold supercilious aristocrat but who harasses Mandisa like they really did grow up together? Oh, right. Like those two are anything but adopted.

I gotta wonder if Marc resents my being here to take any challenges that come up. Not that I'm real worried about it -- I mean, this is Holy Ground, and they'd have to find us first -- but if anybody pushed it, I'd take them on. I like Marc. It's great having another immortal my age around, and having one that the older folks take seriously... well, I'd never tell him this, but I can sort of use him as a role-model for 'How to get respect on demand'. And he's good company.

And I sure as hell didn't spend a month and a half waking him up from nightmares and talking him back into going to sleep without learning a few things about him. Guess he's kinda the brother I never had, even if we're technically like cousins or something. Screw it. He can cope with another brother, right? Although it's funny, it's like sometimes he's the big brother, and knows what to do and how to act, and then sometimes I'm the one who's giving him advice and watching out for him. Do regular brothers and sisters do this?

Wonder if he's as nervous as I am? Probably. If this thing goes south, if we lose too many of the others, I don't know this Jarunsuk. Yeah, Alex and Xan suggested he might help, and Aidan thought it would be a good idea. I mean, she trusts him, but I don't know him from Joe Blow off the streets. Damn if I'm going to hand Marc off to someone I don't trust, but I'm not up to training him either. Guess I'll wait and see what happens, but I'd rather call Kyra, honestly. I sort of know her and she's Aidan's old student, she'd take good care of him. Hey, that's a thought. If he has a passport, if I could get him to Constantine in Paris. He'd do it and I trust that old Roman to take good care of Marc. I'll keep that in mind. I know where the money stashes are.

Isn't that a kick in the pants, too? Me, the thief, the second-story artist that Amanda asked along on a caper, and they trust me enough to tell me where they hid the money. That's almost as scary as the fact that if we don't have to run, it'll all be there when they get back. Six years ago, I'd have never believed any of this. Of course, six years ago, I wouldn't have been worrying over all of them, either.

But damn it, I like them! It's not just Mac and Connor, or Aidan. I like that sly sense of humor Mandisa hides under that deep, slow voice of hers, one of those voices that takes you a good five, six seconds to realize the joke's on you, and she's laughing with you, not at you. And Var seems like such an arrogant son of a bitch until he grins, and then you know he knows how much of a prick he looks like sometimes, and you realize he's doing it some of it on purpose to see what you're like. And Damien... we get through all this and maybe I'll quit racing motorcycles like Marc's grandmother wants and go into business with Damien. That man has the most twisted, complicated, nasty mind I've ever enjoyed watching at work, but he's a lousy salesman. I bet I could triple his business if I learned enough to rep for him, which would pay me a nice salary. I'd have to quit studying with Aidan I guess, but I could spar with Damien and Mandisa if she sticks around. That wouldn't be bad at all.

And then there's Adam's side of the family. This is in English, so I think I'll keep his other name to myself, just in case. Connor keeps telling me that paranoia is just good sense, that when you live as long as we do, there really is someone out to kill you. The last few weeks sure as hell proved that if the rest of my life didn't.

Besides, I mean, I know who Adam is, and Mac and Aidan vouch for it, but it's not like he's this font of wisdom or anything. He's just a guy, like the rest of us. Vicious, tricky, and devious when he has to be, but most of the time he's just mooching beer and watching the pretty girls and enjoying his life as best he can, just like the rest of us. I mean, no doubt in my mind he can be a real bastard -- sometimes you don't have a choice, and I'd bet he knows that better than I do -- but... he's really nice at the strangest damn times.

Joe told me who convinced Mac to get off his high horse and bring me a sword when Culbraith was gonna kill me. This, from the man who knew I was pissed at him for offing Kristin. And he's been friendly in this really offhand way, likes he's trying to make sure there's no hard feelings about Kristin, or his relationship with Mac. I mean, why else would he toss me advice out of nowhere on things like how to hide weapons under your clothes or the best ways to hide in medium and small towns unless he's trying to patch things up? 'Cause I guess I don't understand him at all, and some days I don't like him, either, but he's family to Mac and Joe and Aidan, so that's it -- we're stuck with each other. I think he knows it, too.

Anyway. I have to admit, I'd miss him if he died. Who else is gonna sit around Joe's with me and drink beer and watch the co-eds go by? Yeah, Aidan swings both ways but I just can't see sitting and talking to her about that. And Marc just doesn't have the same cynical edge to some of his jokes. I don't believe this. I'm getting sentimental about Adam. Shit, I'm never gonna be able to show this to anyone.

As for Xan and Alex, well, once I got over being mad at Xan for scaring the hell out of me with that pass -- the man's damned intimidating, reminds me of Connor when he's mad, that same kind of compact, controlled force of personality -- I kind of like them, too. I mean, hell, I've liked Connor ever since the first time he bailed my ass out by telling Duncan to let me run away. And watching him and Duncan spar out at the warehouse, well, that was when I figured out life might not be all dirty deals and watching pieces of my soul slide down gutters into the sewer 'cause it was that or starve.

I mean, Connor's the one who came after me, after Slan was dead. Just showed up next to me at the McDonald's and offered to buy me a real meal instead of fast food crap. I kept thinking he was gonna blackmail me or something, except he looked too damn... amused. Like he did when he and Mac were sparring in the warehouse. He spent a week just showing up and talking to me when I didn't expect it, finally convinced me that I should trust him, he'd found me a better place to live. Coulda knocked me over with a feather when that turned out to be with Mac.

Guess I'd better make plans to live in Manhattan sometime in the next few months. Or maybe we can get Connor to stay with someone else. Maybe come live with Aidan and Marc for a while? Or with Xan and Alex down in Sacramento? I guess that answers that about what I think of them. Anyone who's that good with Connor, and that good for Connor, is gonna get my vote of approval. And they are. From things they were talking about over dinner before we left for the island, apparently he ran into them a couple centuries ago and they traveled together for awhile. I mean, they were trading 'Remember when' stories about New Orleans and the Aleutians, wherever those are (Alaska, I think, but I gotta check). The funniest one was a story about some kind of cheap dive in Helsinki. Alex was claiming that Connor got dead stinking drunk, and all he said was that after that long at sea all three of them stunk. He didn't deny the drunk, though. Man it sounds like they had fun.

Actually, they sound like they still have fun. And they remind me a lot of Marc, which is weird. None of 'em look alike, the two Greeks are a head shorter than he is and a lot more muscular, but they all sort of act like they're big brothers to the world or something. Kind of like the way Aidan ends up older sister to half the world.

Besides. I have to like people who harass Adam that hard and get away with it. I just have to. They don't take anything off of him, and it's hilarious to watch him trying to play Mr. 'Enigmatic, I know best' and see the look they give him. Marc said it's the same look he'd give his brothers when they were doing something stupid and he'd just remember the time they did something like split their pants in public while wearing purple boxers. It's that look that says, 'Look, dumbass, I remember you being a dumbass, take that idiotic red cape off, why don't you?' I love it.

I guess I like all of 'em, even the ones I've just met. I hate this. I hate waiting. And it's gonna be another two days before they fight, and hell if I know when they'll remember to call and tell us who won and who didn't. Fuck. Three more days probably, 'cause I don't want to think about that many quickening-charged immortals in one place. Gonna be one hell of a party and I'm out here in the boonies with no cable, hell, no telephone, and just grateful that Duncan has a generator to recharge the batteries on the computers and run the radio occasionally. We're still using the oil lamps, mostly, and the wood stove. I've come closer to burning dinner more times--

Right. I'm drooling over civilization again. That means it's definitely time to go for a run. Guess I'll go see if Marc's up for this.

"Oh, my achin' back," Stormy groused quietly. She'd have complained more loudly except she was too tired.

"Here," Damien rumbled and rolled her over on the blanket to start rubbing out her back.

"Stop and you're a dead man," she sighed contentedly, drowsily aware that most of the rest of them had sprawled into what little shade there was on the eastern side of the trees. Aidan apparently could afford no such luxury; her voice carried across the lazy heat of the early afternoon, singing in a language the Southern woman couldn't begin to place.

Damien's hands paused on her back as he glanced over at his teacher. "Right now? Working on a stone with a dagger. I hope like hell that's the sandstone sheet Duncan and I moved for her or she's out a good knife."

"You stopped. And I didn't mean precisely, Damien. In general?" Strong hands, killer's hands, as she well knew, rubbed at the knots on Stormy's aching back and she sighed and relaxed into his touch without hesitation.

"That one doesn't want to go," Damien muttered irritably and went on to the next. "Give it a few minutes, Stormy, and maybe Xan or Alex will get it; they're better at this than I am. And in general? She's consecrating this land to one of her deities and making it Holy Ground."

"Exactly like a church," Xan said cheerfully as he moved to her other side. "I heard that, Damien. Which knot... ah, that one." His fingers dug into the knot, traced it down, and he told Stormy, "Damn. Take a deep breath and don't scream." She managed to follow his advice despite the pressure he was putting on the muscle.

"Let it go, Stormy," and the knot eased as she exhaled. "Better. Did we ever tell you one of Edana's older and worse kept secrets?"

Xan chuckled at that. "No, although we really should add that to the list. No, she was a druid in Ireland before she joined the Game."

"A druid. Xan, do keep in mind that the last time I heard that word was in an absolutely trashy Mel Brooks movie." She ignored his laughter to add, "So explain that to me, would you?"

"She's a very old priestess of an even older religion and she's convincing Irish gods to pay attention to a section of New Mexico," Damien said bluntly.

Stormy considered that as her back finally unlocked from carrying rocks to mark out the circular area Aidan was working in. A few minutes later she asked mildly, "Isn't that a little ludicrous?"

"Not as much as you might think." Xan shrugged as he scooted back a few inches to let Damien finish. The redheaded immortal was short-tempered at the best of times. Given the strains of the line war, Xenokrates saw no point in pushing the man by keeping his own hands on Damien's lover.

Damien noticed, suspected the reason, and didn't mention it. Instead he explained, "The Irish settled all over the western U.S., Stormy. And St. Bridget -- one of Aidan's goddesses and the one she's been singing to -- was always one of their favorites."

"Priests consecrate churches all the time," Alex told her. "And they don't have nearly Aidan's experience. It'll work."

"Nope. I just don't know when I'll have another chance to see somethin' like this, so I want to sit up and watch."

He smiled at that and helped the little blonde up. "Yeah, we don't see it often either. She says there's a shorter form, but--"

"Welcome," the gold-haired Greek told her, even as he flopped down onto his belly, chin propped on hands, to watch Aidan too. "Because, yes, it works, and it would even... feel right, I suppose. But the long form feels more convincing to us for one thing."

"Huh. And probably to her, too," Stormy said thoughtfully, wrapping one blond curl around her finger again and again without really noticing it.

"That, too," Xan agreed. "And if I had to lay a guess, I'd add that it's something from her childhood, far back though that was. This is probably as comforting to her as the old Latin masses are to Damien, here."

"Now that makes sense, too." Stormy nodded before she pointed out quietly, "Besides, there's something soothing about it, too. Going through steps you understand, for a result you understand, when nothing else lately has really been expected or anticipated."

Xan's gaze wandered to Connor, sprawled against Alex in the sun, and he smiled faintly. "No. But some of it has almost been worth the price."

Damien glanced over to see what his uncle was discussing and smiled as he used his chin to indicate Var and Mandisa who were idly talking in the shade. Their weapons lay beside them, but that was as far as they'd gotten towards the spar they kept saying they needed. "I'd agree with you, but I don't know if Connor would."

Stormy murmured, "That's a man who understands family, Damien. Might be he would." Deliberately changing the subject she asked, "So what happens after she finishes carving on that rock?"

Damien shrugged. "Damn if I know. Magistra hasn't had to do this often around me."

"It means teacher," Xan answered her. "And it means Damien's fond of her, the same way Aidan uses Gaelic when she's talking to one of the MacLeods, or I use Greek with Alex."

"No." The blunt answer came as her redheaded lover rolled up to a sitting position and wrapped his arms fiercely around her. "I've never had sex with her, Stormy, and probably never will. Aidan trained me. It's not -- between us, at least, it isn't a relationship that could lead to sex. It would feel too damn incestuous for me."

"Oh." She sounded a little relieved, and Damien peered over her shoulder at her. Stormy admitted softly, "I didn't think so, but I didn't want to be feelin' jealous and be wrong, or be too easy about it and still be wrong. Does that make any sense, or have I just lost my mind, runnin' around with you lot?"

Damien smiled at her, then. "Nah, it made sense. I'm sorry, Stormy. I should have told you that a long time ago. I guess I thought you knew."

She glanced over at Xan, who had apparently decided to nap, and snickered suddenly. "Crazy Greek. Quit bein' so damn mannerly, Xan, since you know what she's doin', and explain this to me. Now what?"

Without opening his eyes, Xan answered peevishly, "Try to be polite and get insulted. Thank you so much, Stormy." He cracked open one eye and added, "And once she finishes that carving, which I think Aidan's doing as an excuse to get to sit down for a while after moving rocks, she'll mark out the boundary of the consecration with incense and water, then blood and steel. I think."

"Blood?" Stormy repeated. Her face paled a little, mouth set firmly against words or sudden nausea at the idea.

"Blood," Xan told her gently. "It's a very old custom, you know. Quite a few of the older churches have blood under the foundation stones, donated by the builders to prove their dedication. In this case, well, she wants earth, air, fire, and water for the boundaries. She's a creature of the earth, as we all are, so she may use blood for that, or for the fire she's named after. And the blood makes it more... personal. Edana is calling on old gods in a land that isn't theirs. They need a tie to it, and what better tie than their priestess' blood, Stormy?"

" 'This is my body,' " Damien added quietly, one hand rubbing a circle on her back for comfort. " 'Take, eat. This is my blood.' Remember, Stormy?"

"Yeah, I remember." The tiny woman shuddered, despite the warmth of the afternoon. "God."

"Something like." Xan's voice was grave as he said it. "You have to keep in mind, Stormy: Edana is completely serious about this. She is putting her life on the line in this war, and has called in favors and markers she's hoarded for decades to keep us safe. Do you truly think she'll balk at her own blood and breath to create a sanctuary?"

Xan snorted at that. "I heard some of the phone calls she made. I'm not sure I would have dealt with Bernie to get that visa for Salim, and I've seen him more recently than Edana. He's not as angry with me, either," the Greek added mildly.

Damien glanced over at him. "Why in hell would Salim be pissed off at Magistra?"

"Minor details like he's wanted to bed her since the 1300s and she went to bed with Duncan MacLeod instead?" Xan suggested, clearly amused. "Seems to think that being older and knowing her longer means Edana should have at least told him she was breaking that vow and given him a chance."

Green eyes narrowed and Damien growled, "Did he bother to remember he's married?"

"He got divorced last year," Xan explained. "It was pretty bad, too." He studied Stormy, seeing how the more mundane discussion had given her some color back, and nodded approvingly. "You look better, Stormy. All right now?"

"Yeah, I think so. Okay," and the little blonde squared her shoulders as she took a deep breath. "Better. Incense, water, blood, and steel, Xan?"

"Mmm-hmm, although if she doesn't have incense Edana might use song instead. It's still air, after all," the blond man explained before Stormy had to ask. "But air to water, then blood and steel, for fire and earth. I'm not sure which she'll use for which, honestly. Blood is of the earth, but it carries the fire of life and her name means fire." He ignored Damien's mutter about accuracy to add, "And steel comes from the earth but it's shaped by fire."

"All right. Earth, air, fire, and water," Stormy muttered, almost sing-song, and glared at Xan when he looked surprised. "Oh, come on, Xan, that's like learning the directions, you know? North, south, east, west. Gimme a break."

The Greek chuckled. "Actually, I think I'm going to go take one and sleep on those two," and he jerked his chin at Alex and Connor. The Scot, at least, was awake now and watching Aidan intently. "Are you all right with this, Stormy?"

The Southern woman finally shrugged. "Hellfire, man, I'd probably be askin' the same questions if someone was consecrating a Catholic church. Come to think of it, they use incense and holy water and prayer for that, too, don't they?"

"Yes," Damien agreed. "They do. The only real difference is the blood and steel...."

"And you wouldn't bet on the blood?" Stormy asked, amused now despite herself. "Well, it's a Christian ceremony; blood's probably in it somewhere, if only in the communion cup. And y'all really ought to have swords in your ceremonies, I'd think. Nah, I'm fine with this."

Aidan's song finished off with a completion that Stormy understood even through the language barrier and the diminutive mortal rolled up to her feet in one not-so-smooth motion, grousing softly about strained muscles as she did. But Stormy managed a smile as she brought the Irish woman a cold bottle of water.

Aidan smiled back as she took it, clearly tired and just as clearly content somehow. "Yes, and a longer night."

"This time tomorrow," Stormy offered tentatively, then paused, unsure how to finish it without sounding overly optimistic.

A quick smile quirked at one corner of Stormy's mouth, rueful and understanding all the odd ironies of the situation. "Yeah, well, put it on my tab." The other woman's chuckle was all the answer she'd wanted, though.

Stormy watched everything through her sniper scope, detached as she always was when there was a shot to be made, and all too aware that when this was all over, she needed to have a good old-fashioned bout of hysterics. She was pushing it off steadily for now, but sooner or later it was coming. You knew Damiano was dangerous, woman. He charged a man with a gun in your house, damn near killed two others with his bare hands. Hell, he took my shooting completely in stride.

The ferocity of his fight with Jirina had unnerved her anyway. If Stormy had ever doubted these new friends could and would kill, she knew for certain now that they would. Viciously, sometimes, like Xan and Var, and she had not expected it from them at all. And yet they had been so careful with Connor's injuries, with her lesser stamina and the fact that she wouldn't heal from some of what they would.... Three days cooped up in cars and hotels with all of them, in just about every possible mix and combination, had taught her past any doubting that they were good people at the core. Flawed, temperamental sometimes, occasionally brash, but good people.

The small Southern woman finally shrugged aside her discomfort at the savagery of what she was seeing. Stormy was used to dealing with people and gauging them -- it was what she did professionally after all -- and at a gut level, she trusted the lot of them. So they played nasty. Wasn't any more'n I wanted, after what those bastards did to poor Connor. Doesn't mean they're gonna do it to people who don't have it comin'.

She shivered, though, as she watched the slim, easy-moving Chinese man heft his weapon and stroll into the now blood-splattered fighter's circle. Stormy knew trouble when she saw it, and if she'd encountered him late at night, she'd have crossed the street to get away from him. "Damn it, Alex," she murmured as he straightened from where he'd been kneeling in front of Aidan. "You be careful, sugar. I don't think there's enough SuperGlue in the world to put Xan back together if you get killed."

Connor finally said, "You're Kastagir's student and friend to half my family as far as I can tell. So give up. We're not leaving without you. Grab the other end of the cooler."

That level green gaze left Farrell no choice, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted one. But he stopped when he saw the three immortals waiting for them. From the edge of Holy Ground, Farrell displayed hands full of nothing more menacing than cold bottled water and a cooler. "Is anyone after my head?"

"Hell, no," Damien snorted. "Farrell Jameson, my sister, Mandisa, and my brother, Navarro."

Mandisa said calmly, "Unless you are simply bound and determined to fight us, Farrell, we have no quarrel with you. That was a brave thing you did."

"What, facing Owain?" Farrell snorted as he stepped out of the circle of boulders and trees.

"No," Mandisa commented gently, "refusing to betray yourself." The tall black woman saw Farrell ready himself for some argument, only to fall silent, eyes wide. She half-turned and saw Stormy who was wrapped around Damien's waist, rifle slung from hip to opposite shoulder and nearly as big as the diminutive Southerner. "Ah. That's Stormy. Our referee."

"Right." Farrell shook his head to clear it, and bit back his first several comments about Damien's luck finally changing. Instead he followed Connor over to Aidan and the two Greeks. He passed the six-pack of cold water to Xan, who nodded a thank you.

Connor took a long look at the New Zealander, and shook his head. "We're not going to bite you."

Alex looked over and offered quietly, "Farrell. We knew you were Owain's student before this. Our house is always open."

Knowing hazel eyes looked through him, and Connor shook his head after a moment. "Wonderful. Another one. All right, Jameson, I've been telling my sister this for a week now. My hand isn't your fault, either." He hesitated momentarily, then ordered, "If you're determined to feel guilty, though, we'll put you to work. Help Stormy here with her gear, and you can grab one of the coolers on the second trip."

"I--" Farrell tried to argue and got nowhere. MacLeod caught him by one arm and marched him to where the tiny blonde was hugging both Mandisa and Var.

Vivid green eyes stared at Farrell uncomprehendingly for a moment, then she grinned, a wide, joyous expression under all those gold curls. "You're Farrell Jameson. I'm Sylvana Storm. I am impressed, by the way. I don't think I could have done that."

Stormy nodded as if that made perfect sense, and told him, "Don't go away," before hugging Connor fiercely. "Now, then, Connor, what can I do for you that was so important you cut a hug short?"

"If you let go, I'll stop," had been the only warning. Connor tightened his hand around the pipe of the showerhead and hoped like hell it was sturdier than the rest of hotel looked to be. Then Xan's hands were on him, still static-charged from the quickenings riding through them and slick with soap besides.

More than electricity was building between them as warm, sleek strength poured across Connor's skin. The cleansing began at his raised arms, wrapping soap over fingers, between, soothing trails of not-quite-moisture/not-quite-solid across his palm and along his wrist. Strong, slim fingers probed at sore muscles where his forearm had nearly been broken blocking a blow, dug down to lingering pain and banished it before wrapping around the forearm to smooth more suds toward the elbow.

All too skilled fingertips traced shockingly light, astoundingly perceptible patterns on the highly sensitive skin inside Connor's elbow, then ran lovingly along the exposed lines of triceps.

"Alex?" Connor gasped, trying for coherency under this assault and grateful to manage even two syllables as Xan's right hand moved to knead the base of his skull.

Xenokrates chuckled and purred softly, "Don't worry, Connor, he'll get his turn in a little while. There's only room for two of us under the spray."

That didn't entirely make sense, Connor knew somewhere, but too much of his blood had pooled in his cock, more than was comfortable, truly, and his brain was no longer working.

Farrell stuck himself in the middle of seventeen immortals who might try to kill him and cut himself loose from any protection. I don't know -- I'd've been wanting to piss my pants to have both MacLeods at my back, if I didn't know they wanted me alive. Yeah, he was already friends with some of them: Damien, Aidan, Alex and Xan. But the rest of our folks? Shit. And Farrell knows a lot better than I do who he pissed off on the other side.

"Damn it, I've got a good offer on this place," Peter Webster growled as he drove. "And they can either pay me the rest of the six-month lease immediately or get the hell off the property."

Actually, the tenant was only a week late, but Webster wanted to sell the old farm property and be done with it. The money was good, offered by a developer who had plans for a new sub-division in the area. Given the way the Seattle metropolitan area kept expanding, well, he'd probably pull it off too.

Visions of zeros and dollar signs danced in Webster's head as he parked his car and strode up the steps to the porch of the old farmhouse. Hey, hey, he realized, no cars, no sign of any cars.... Maybe I won't have to go through the trouble of evicting anyone for non-payment. Just change the locks and sell it, since he's in breach of contract already.

He knocked on the door, however, in case Mr. Gordon was actually on the premises. When there was no answer, he paused and knocked again, more forcefully. And if irritation and enthusiasm made it closer to pounding, well, he was the owner after all. When a third attempt still brought no answer, he went around and tried the back door as well, with the same results.

Right. Check inside the house? Or go see if for some reason he's in the old barn? What the hell, I need to check on the roof out there, anyway, he decided, forgetting that if he sold the property it would undoubtedly be torn down for scrap.

A new lock on the barn door required him to go back to his car and pull out the tire iron, but he pried the old hasps out of the door without a second thought and yanked the wooden door open.

Pete Webster prided himself on being a pragmatist, a hard-nosed realist who had little time for such things as museums and historical societies, or period dramas. Shakespeare was a name to him, little more, and history class had been a long time ago, quickly forgotten in favor of the ins and outs of debits, credits, amortized debts, and compounded interest. So it took him several seconds to realize what the odd devices in his barn were. It took even longer to realize just why the barbed wire had been twisted into that form, what the brown streaks along the metal had to be, and why someone might have left a collection of fire irons and wrenches near a small gas stove.

He wanted to throw up, then, and was gasping, nearly hyperventilating to try and prevent it, as he turned sharply on one heel, seeking fresher air outside. He nearly made it. What undid him at the end was the mass of black leather braids dangling from a new brass hook on the inside of one door. The glint of steel shone from the ends, small sleek barbs that were so clean, so obscenely bright in that murky barn, that he lost the contents of his stomach -- outside, blessedly -- in a series of convulsions.

Pete's stomach was still hurting as he punched the three digits on his cell phone and stammered a very incoherent explanation to a bored police dispatcher. She didn't stay bored for long.

The newswoman's trained poise froze for a long instant as she glanced at the sheet handed to her from off-screen. Mike Barrett heard the break in her words and raised his gaze from the bar accounts he was trying to straighten out in time to see her eyes widen. Then she deliberately composed herself and went on.

"This just in, a KSCR exclusive. A cache of torture implements described by our source as 'positively medieval' was found today at a rental property west of Black Diamond. Forensic reports indicate the presence of recent blood both on the tools and in the building, and police canine units indicated that at least one person was killed. Stay tuned for more information on this late-breaking exclusive--"

Mike turned away and picked up his phone, too angry to swear as he dialed his boss and senior Watcher, Joe Dawson. "Joe? I think you'd better turn on KSCR. Enrique's Watcher screwed up...."

[Author's note: this has slowly turned into a Work In Process. Read at your own risk.]

Of all the things Ish taught me, this is the one I was hoping not to need again, Farrell Jameson thought to himself. He grinned then, amused by the parallels -- he'd been breaking another immortal out of prison then, too.

The lock resisted his lockpicks, so damned rusty that he was afraid the wire was going to snap and jam the mechanism. He sighed where he knelt by the door, pulled the picks out, and stuck them into the breast pocket of his shirt. The pack on his back yielded some stiff paper and a tightly tied bag. He opened the bag and set it by his knee before coiling the paper into a funnel and inserting the end into the keyhole. A handful of darkly glittering powder went from bag to funnel, and he carefully blew the stuff into the lock.

He gave the powdered graphite a few seconds to work into the mechanism and then began again with the picks. This time the lock yielded almost immediately and Farrell quickly stowed the gear back in the pack. He closed the door behind him, not completely, but close enough to fool a casual inspection, and moved into the passage again.

Constant noise surrounded him, almost enough to be maddening. From one cell he could hear a man singing tunelessly, a mangling of "La Marseillaise" that the French probably wouldn't claim. Another man was singing "Mademoiselle from Armentières" in a weak tenor, probably trying to drown out his competition in his own ears at least. A few paces down and the sound from the door was a constant whimpering moan that rose and fell, broken only by an occasional panted profanity in German. Farther yet and someone was pounding metal against metal in a monotonous almost-rhythm. And the place reeked -- a subtle must composed of mold and rot underlaid by fainter traces of blood, sweat, and piss.

The stink of prisons everywhere, Farrell identified it, and shivered as he remembered that damned Turkish jail a few years back.... Getting deliberately arrested in the Ottoman Empire was one of the more unpleasant memories of his life, no question. Farrell walked on, disgusted by the conditions even though he'd been mentally bracing himself to do this for the last ten hours. He'd been planning this ever since he'd seen the tall black man dragged through the town square in chains heavy enough to slow even his bulk of muscle. An immortal under guard by the corrupt local officials would have been enough to get his attention even before he noticed the blood stains on the man's clothes and realized that he might well have been seen healing. Farrell Jameson of New Zealand was many things, but he wasn't remorseless enough to leave any of their kind in such straits.

His priority had to be the other immortal so that the prison officials neither found out about immortals nor sold the man to the mambos as one of their experiments gone wandering. But God, if I get my hands on the keys, I'm unlocking every door as I go, he resolved to himself, furious with the squalor, the dimly-lit halls, and the rank scent of too many people housed in such misery.

About the ninth door he felt the buzzing presence of another immortal and Farrell sighed in relief when he heard a surprisingly cheerful voice say, "Some people will do anything to get a head."

To a non-immortal, Farrell knew, that had sounded like something much more innocuous. "Well, if you'd rather continue with the local hospitality, let me know. I though you might prefer mine. And I hate progress; I'm not really interesting in moving a head." He struck a match on the stone wall and held it to the barred grate. "That you?"

Dark skin in the dark of the cell, and flashing white teeth in a grin as mad as Ish or Damien's.... Farrell decided immediately that this one was going to be a glorious pain in the ass, and another 'learning experience.' Oh, well, I was overdue for one.

He grinned himself as the man told him, "Ah, if you're not a local, that's another matter I suppose. Sunda Kastagir. And the facilities here are dreadful; I don't expect hot and cold water, but moving water would be nice. Shall we?"

"Soon as I pick the lock," Farrell commented, already working on it. "Oh, good, this one isn't rusted."
"How often do the guards come through?"

"Damn if I know; you're the one who's been here for a while, you tell me." The tall immortal glanced cautiously down each side of the corridor before going back to work. He'd made it through the second pin and was working on the third when he heard someone walking his way, a staggering, inebriated walk, punctuated by the muttered curses of a truly hungover man. "Lovely," he muttered even as a muted, rasping click told him that the lock was now open.

Brown eyes glanced swiftly around, cataloguing available resources and hazards, and Farrell shrugged mentally and did what he thought best; he closed the flue on the lamp and stepped into the cell, lockpicks and all. He had just pulled the door mostly closed and stepped to one side of it when the man passed by, cursing the lazy sons of bitches who hadn't changed the lamps yet a good three hours into their shift.

Farrell grinned after the guard left despite himself, a swift flash of adrenaline-sparked humor that had to find an outlet somewhere. "I think," he murmured, "that I'd better undo those in the dark, Kastagir."

"That might be best," the large black man chuckled softly. "A pity we didn't hear his voice sooner, or I'd have suggested you knock him on the head a time or two."

"Because he was the one with the keys when they loaded me down with these chains." Kastagir's voice was still amazingly cheerful despite several hours in the filthy darkness and the heavy, outdated irons. He sounded as if he and Fate were personal acquaintances... and prone to playing practical jokes on each other, too.

Farrell snorted laughter despite himself and then hissed in exasperation. "Damn, everything around here is rusted. All right, I'll need you to hold something for me in a minute."

Farrell worked in silence for a minute, setting his supplies out by touch, and listening with part of his attention to the singing which had started back up and for the footsteps which had yet to return. A rustle of motion from directly in front of him caught his attention and he asked absently, "What?"

"Not that I'm objecting, you understand, but why exactly are you here, youngster?"

"Oh, certainly. And you didn't give me a name, after all." Kastagir blinked when the match sizzled and shed its light across the cell, then held it to let Farrell dump more of his precious graphite into the locks on the ankle shackles.

"No, I didn't. Sorry about that. Farrell Jameson of New Zealand." Farrell worked swiftly at the ankle chains, murmuring an absent apology when Kastagir growled something profane-sounding as the shackle fell away.

"Don't worry," the black man rumbled in his best approximation of a quiet tone. "How do you want to handle the ones on my wrists?"

"Carefully," Farrell said more softly. By touch alone he checked for the keyholes and positioned Kastagir's wrists so that he could both shed light on the subject and not spill the graphite. "I'll need you to hold your hands like this for a few minutes."

"That's not a problem." Kastagir took the next match and held it while Farrell went back to work, shaking his head in amusement or surprise. Dark fell again before the New Zealander could decipher his expression, and he shrugged and kept working. Even with the graphite, it took brute force to overcome the rust left in these locks by years of island humidity; they opened at last with a rasping noise that made Farrell want to cover his ears or draw the pistol he'd left hidden outside.

He paused only long enough to gather up his tools and supplies before stepping out into the corridor and motioning Kastagir ahead of him toward the door. When they stepped into a patch of light, though, Farrell got a good look at the remnants of his companion's sleeves and hissed in commiseration. Blood, fresh and dried both, stained the other man's wrists. Farrell frowned. "Damn. How long have they had you?"

"A day and a half," the other immortal shrugged. Long arms stretched, wide and exuberantly, and the other man sighed, "Ah, the little joys, my friend, are everything. Such as being able to spread one's arms."

"I didn't stay properly dead," his new traveling companion chuckled. "They shot me in a back street to take my money and were most upset when I sat up while they were dividing it."

"I bet," Farrell chuckled and eased the door open just far enough to check outside. "The coast seems to be clear. And I think it's time you and I both got off this island. How do you feel about booking passage just about anywhere else?"

"That sounds like a marvelous idea," Kastagir agreed, his teeth a white flash against dark skin as he smiled. "We'll need to stop by a certain grave near town to retrieve the rest of my money, though." Kastagir watched the startled consternation on the tall, white man's face and suppressed his laughter; the boy had rescued him after all. "Be reasonable, Farrell -- the dead don't need all that space, and they've never protested about guarding my money before."

"What happens when you bury it over one of us?" the New Zealander asked, brushing wavy brown hair off his forehead as they walked at a carefully casual pace. Ish had been very insistent that the fastest way to get arrested after a robbery or jail break was to run. Walking, on the other hand, he claimed worked quite well.

"Then the two of us will discuss it," Kastagir told him, shrugging casually as he rolled up his betraying sleeves. "But it hasn't happened yet."

Since this story is arranged by date, you can either go to the individual pages of the story, or you can go to the first entry for a specific date.

Sun	Mon	Tues	Wed	Thurs	Fri	Sat

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12	13	14	15	16	17	18
19	20	21	22	23	24	25
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