Circles

By Lori

This story is a crossover between Witchblade, owned by Top Cow and Warner Brothers and Highlander who is owned by Rysher and Panzer/Davis. I would like to thank Gregory Widen for introducing us to the Highlander universe, which enabled Panzer/Davis to invent such characters as Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson and Cassandra. Ralph Hemecker was the main writer for the television's version of Witchblade, and I have borrowed some great dialogue from the show. None of the characters belongs to me and no money has been or will ever be earned by me from this endeavor.

I have taken some facts from the Watcher CD and have presented them here as canon. The first is that Adam Pierson's identity was unveiled as Methos during the Horseman incident and Amy Zoll was assigned as the Methos researcher and Timothy Wyatt as his field Watcher. I have introduced the name Harold Wyatt (Timothy's father) as Jake McCarty's mentor. Melanie Hinds is listed as Cassandra's Watcher.
This story begins at the great rewind in Witchblade, which is the end of season one and the beginning of season two. This story is my vision of how season two should have proceeded given the intervention by the Highlander characters. Kenneth Irons is alive and well. He did not attempt to take the Witchblade back from Sara, so their fight and his subsequent death did not happen. I have made Jake McCarty a Watcher and Bruno Dante his Immortal assignment.

Circles is but the first story that I am planning in an ongoing saga. Already its sequel is buzzing (pardon the pun) around in my brain anxious to be written.

I would like to thank my numerous betas for helping me make this very long story into something coherent, readable and hopefully enjoyable. Shomeret read it as both a work in progress and a first draft and offered many insightful suggestions. Merrie Gail, my Joan of Arc guru, helped me throughout the writing process with both ideas and subtleties of diction. Tirnanog, who (lucky for me) is an expert in fencing, helped me orchestrate the sword fights and medieval battles. Cindy and Shallan have both read through drafts and came up with some excellent suggestions. Janeen Grohsmeyer is my grammar and canon expert. She pointed out various mistakes that had slipped through the net, especially my misusage of comas. Through her tireless rereads and suggestions I was able to sculpt a story from an obsessive idea that wouldn't leave me alone.


Part 1

Feb 10, 2001

Cassandra sat on the beach gazing blankly out at the rolling waves. Her fingers were buried in the sand, drawing circles through the sifting grains. Around and around, the path the same, so the indentations went deeper and deeper. Her mind was caught in a trance, seeing nothing, hearing nothing--feeling nothing. Yet her hands kept moving. Clouds swirled above her head. The sun's path went from west to east, moving faster and faster. Still the circles went deeper and deeper into the sand.

Nov 12, 2000

I

Consciousness came slowly. The first thing Cassandra noticed was the cool air swirling around her body. Her nose registered the mustiness as her brain struggled to connect the soft feel of the carpet as opposed to the sand that should have been under her fingers. Her eyes opened to mere slits and then more fully as she recognized her flat in London. Glancing down to the rug, she saw deep indentations of circles in the pile along with blood, dotting the path. Raising her hand, she looked closely at fingers and found them also stained with blood, but without any abrasions. Her Immortal healing must have already taken care of the self-inflicted injury.

Still disoriented, she stretched her legs, preparing to stand, but the action caused pain to shoot up her calves. How long had she been sitting, meditating? Conflicting images assaulted her mind. This was her home, in London, and she was working with--the thought vanished, to be replaced with one of a beach. Rhythmic waves upon the shore, circles in the sand… Cassandra blinked. Her mind was recalling two realities.

Surprise made her spring to her feet. Her legs buckled under her as sharp prickles of pain shot up from her toes. Bending and massaging her muscles, trying to get her blood moving again, she reviewed what she knew to be true. This was her flat in London. However, she was supposed to be on a remote Greek island enjoying a well-deserved vacation. How did she get back here?

With the circulation restored to her legs, she walked over to the kitchen table where the day's newspaper was scattered. The date at the top stated that the day was November the twelfth, and the year was two thousand. It just didn't feel right. Her hands flew to her temples as a sharp pain sliced through her head. It wasn't the presence of an Immortal subjugating her to pain, but something else entirely, something foreign, intangible--magical.
Her body slumped onto a chair. She was in London to adjunct-teach a class on Druids and Celtic mysticism, for the Department of Religion at the university. She remembered teaching the class, giving both midterm and final as she had for the past two years, and then denying their request to stay for the next term. After the cold and wet of England, she longed for the sun and heat of the Mediterranean. It *had* happened, but not anymore.

Again the excruciating pain, but this time a vision accompanied it. A metal gauntlet, with a red stone set in the middle, appeared in her consciousness. Next to the red stone ball of metal opened and an eye looked out at her. The Witchblade! Time reversal!

Cassandra glanced at her blood-stained fingertips and the red impressions in her carpet. Interlocking circles--infinity in a second, alternate time lines--intersecting, exchanging, then continuing on. She was aware of the ending and the beginning anew.

There was a new wielder, and she had found herself in so much trouble she had to turn the clocks backward. Usually when the wielder faced her direst moments, the gauntlet separated itself and then waited for a new host. This time, it had allowed her a second chance. Cassandra rose from the table. It was her job to see that this time the wielder did not fail in her quest, whatever that may be. Packing the essentials, she never questioned her direction. The Witchblade told her where it was located--New York City. Once connected to the ancient relic, the bond of servitude lasted a lifetime.


II

Methos found himself pacing the small confines of the Highlander's barge. He couldn't pinpoint the cause for his restlessness, but the hairs were standing on the back of his head. Something was in the wind that made him aware of danger or of something that just wasn't right in the world.
"MacLeod, are you ready yet?" the oldest Immortal complained loudly to his friend who was getting dressed in the bathroom.

MacLeod stuck his head out the door, steam drifting out through the opening. "*You* are fifteen minutes early. I told you I'd be ready by six, and it's not six." The head disappeared.

Methos took another turn around the sofa then into the kitchen where he opened the refrigerator and then closed it in disgust. No beer. He then ambled back past the sofa, past the large bed, and gazed out the porthole. Nothing had changed outside. Cars crossed the bridge, pedestrians walked along the river, and a large airplane flew overhead. Normal. Everything looked normal. Nothing felt normal.

The bathroom door opened and Duncan MacLeod stepped out. His hair was still wet around the edges, but he was immaculately dressed in a pair of coal black pinstripe trousers and a maroon and gray button-down shirt.

Methos looked down at his comfortable jeans and sweater. "We're only going to Le Blues Club, not the damned opera," he said under his breath.
MacLeod looked down at his clothes and then up at Methos. "I'm not dressed up," he retorted. "This is just--"

"Doesn't matter, let's go," Methos interrupted and strode to the front door, knowing that MacLeod followed him.

As soon as they got into Methos' car, MacLeod began the cross-examination. "What's going on with you? When we worked out this morning, everything was fine. Now, not only do you show up early--which you never do--you're irritable, impatient and getting on my nerves. I swear you paced a trail in my carpet."

"Don't exaggerate," Methos rebutted, as he started the car. The drive to the club was done in silence. Neither man spoke, although Methos was aware of MacLeod casting him glances every now and then.

As soon as Methos parked, he jumped out of the car and strode toward the bar. As he came even with the front door, he heard the bang of a loose gutter under the eve of Le Blues Club. Because of a lost bet with Joe, he had fixed the gutter months ago. Once was plenty; he wouldn't do it a second time.

MacLeod came abreast, still looking at him oddly. Methos refused to respond since he didn't even know why he was so uneasy. The two Immortals walked into the club. It was still quiet, too early for the regular customers. Joe wanted them to listen to a sax player who had come through last week looking for a job. The Watcher thought the musician had tremendous talent and wanted to share the find with them.

As Methos sat down, a feeling of déjà vu crept over him. MacLeod sat next to him and a waiter brought over two tankards of ale. Methos counted to ten and, as if on cue, a man came out a door onto the stage and began playing. The bet. What had the bet been about? Methos tried to remember, but the subject eluded him. All thoughts vanished as a wave of Immortal presence swept through him. His body stiffened, but only MacLeod turned to the door.

"Amanda!" MacLeod called out as he rose from his chair.

Methos felt his body relax and turned to greet their friend. Damn, following behind Amanda like a grateful puppy, came Nick Wolfe. The new
Immortal's eyes were wary, but his stride never hesitated.

Joe seemed to materialize at Methos' elbow. "He's going to ask you to be his teacher," the Watcher whispered.

"No. He isn't that stupid. Amanda would be sure to inform him of my evil personality."

"I think it's Amanda's idea."

Methos turned disbelieving eyes on him.

"Want to place a wager?" Joe asked, innocently.

Methos felt the hairs rise on his neck again. "What are we betting on?"

"If Nick asks you, I win and you have to fix my gutter."

"But, I already--" he cut himself off. Had he fixed the damned thing or not? It was definitely loose again. "If he doesn't ask?"

Joe smiled. "What do you want?"

"A free hour surfing the Watcher database."

Joe grimaced, swallowed thickly, then stuck out his hand. "Deal."

Methos felt like the night was moving in slow motion. Every action seemed familiar, except it hadn't happened yet. More drinks were served and Methos found Wolfe seated directly next to him. The oldest Immortal made it a point to become as unapproachable as possible, but no one could call Wolfe a coward. Twice he initiated a conversation, only to be rebuffed by Methos clipped answers.

MacLeod drank the last of the beer and tried to catch the waitress's attention for another. When no one seemed to notice, he stood to get the pitcher himself. Methos, feeling an increase of tension in his body, abruptly rose, yanked the pitcher off the table. "I'll get it," he announced. A puzzled Highlander slowly sunk back into his chair.

Methos stalked to the bar, but he was still able to hear the whispers at the table as MacLeod acknowledged to the rest that "Adam wasn't acting himself." Methos ordered the beer, but couldn't stand still as the bartender filled the pitcher. First he paced to the bowl of peanuts at the other end of the bar, grabbed a handful and then returned to where he had started. He took the newly filled pitcher back to the table, but couldn't seem to make himself sit down. Without an explanation, he went into the men's room.

He stood in the empty bathroom staring at himself in the mirror. Turning on the cold water tap, he reached down to grab a handful of water to splash on his face. His hands were shaking so bad, the water jumped out. He felt claustrophobic, yet he had been in tighter situations than this. With an abrupt pivot, he returned to the open club. It didn't help. Walking swiftly, he returned to the table.

"I have to go," he told them all.

"This is unfair," Joe commented, causing Methos to give the Watcher a quick look, and then Methos remembered the bet.

Methos started to respond, but the need to escape became too strong. He practically ran from the table, only to be stopped by the pretty brunette by the door.

"Excuse me, Mr. Pierson. I overheard you say that you were leaving. You have an eleven hundred euro bar tab and I'd like to see Joe get his money before you disappear."

Methos glanced at her wrist, noticing her tattoo, and sighed with resignation. He pulled out his wallet, but the only thing in his billfold was a blank check. So much for his quick get-a-way. She handed him a pen with a triumphant smile. He scribbled in the date, amount, and his signature, when he felt Joe come up alongside him.

"What the hell?" Joe asked. "It isn't 2001 yet. You getting senile?"

Methos glanced down and saw that he had written February 10, 2001. The hairs stood up on his neck for the third time that day. "What *is* the date?" He couldn't keep the slight tremor out of his voice.

"November the twelfth," Joe responded. "The year is *two thousand*."

He corrected the date on the check, added his initials, and scrammed out the door. Breathing heavily, he opened his car door and slid inside. As he pulled out his keys, an idea began to form in his mind--a possible answer to the craziness that was happening around him. The feelings of déjà vu and the inadvertent writing of a future date on the check could indicate that time had been messed with. He really didn't know of anything that could change time--except the Witchblade. It was the only artifact that he knew of with the power necessary to achieve a feat of such magnitude.
Driving swiftly to his apartment, he poured himself a drink of something a lot stronger than beer, sat down on his sofa, and started thinking. The last he knew of the Witchblade, the Catholic Church had absconded with it and kept it out of harm's way in the Vatican vaults. They certainly didn't want another Joan of Arc loose that might usurp their authority.

But, that had been many centuries ago, he reasoned to himself. A lot could have happened in the intervening years. The Witchblade may have even found a new wielder--one who needed to reverse time. Methos drained his glass and went to pour another.


November 13, 2000

I

Methos hung up the phone, his mind contemplating what he had just learned. Deep within the Vatican hierarchy, Methos had an acquaintance that worked in the archives' section. The priest was not a Watcher, nor an Immortal, but a man Methos had met some fifty years ago through Darius. Father Tetrault was an historian by nature and Darius loved to talk about the past. Methos added his opinion rarely, but then again, it was rarely asked for. They had kept in touch sporadically and lately mostly by email or telephone.

Tetrault had confirmed Methos' suspicions that the Witchblade no longer resided within the Vatican walls. During World War II the Nazis had taken it. No one knew where it had ended up.

Someone pounded on his door. "You in there?"

Methos recognized Joe Dawson's voice. "Coming, Joe."

As soon as the door opened, Joe pushed his way in. "What in the hell happened with you last night?"

Methos buried his uneasy feelings about the Witchblade and answered the Watcher with as much honesty as he dared. "I didn't like the idea of Wolfe stalking me, appraising me as a prospective teacher. I don't care who suggested it; I'm not interested."

"Then why did you agree to the bet?"

"You caught me off guard. I didn't have time--"

Joe snorted. "As if anyone could catch *you* off guard."

"You were trying to box me into something I didn't want to do. Bet or not, I will not be coerced." Methos began pacing.

Joe watched, a calculating expression on his face. "Something else is going on. Mac said that you were just like this before you ever showed up at the club."

Methos exerted his self-control and stopped his feet from moving. He gave Joe a blatantly bored look, but didn't trust himself to speak. Joe saw too much.

"You're spooked." Joe walked over to where Methos was standing, and grasped his arm. "Can I help?" he entreated.

Methos considered the offer. He didn't want the Watchers to know anything about the Witchblade. But this was Joe. "Are you serious about your offer?" An idea began to form in his mind. The Witchblade was in New York City. His instincts screamed this fact to him. What he needed was a contact there.

Joe's eyes narrowed. "Yes," he agreed hesitantly.

"I want to use the data--"

"No. Every time some Immortal comes hunting you I won't be used--"

"I'm not looking for an Immortal, but rather a Watcher."

"Who?" Joe asked suspiciously.

"If I knew who, I wouldn't need you."

"Who does he or she Watch?"

"I don't know and I don't care. I just need a name and address." Methos could see Joe weakening. "It's not for some nefarious reason, in fact, I might be saving the world."

"Five minutes, Methos. That's all."

Methos smiled in triumph.


II

Cassandra opened the door to her new apartment at 50 Chambers Street and walked inside. It was already furnished, and she had paid the landlady to buy a few groceries to get her through a couple of days. The place didn't look like much, certainly not as fine as her London flat, but she had been in a hurry. In fact, she was lucky to get this place at all. Then again, maybe luck had nothing to do with it. The Witchblade wanted her here and had finagled circumstances to fit its needs.

The Witchblade always created its own destiny. Sometimes it needed to travel from one location to another to find its next wielder. More times than Cassandra could count, she had been the courier. The last time she had served the Witchblade was over five hundred years ago. She'd had to travel to Japan where she retrieved the bracelet and brought it to France. Only after she had stepped onto French soil had the gods told her to go to Lorraine, to the village of Domremy and give it to the young girl, Jeannette d'Arc.

Domremy-1425

Cassandra and two companions rode in the small donkey cart through the countryside, distraught at the annihilation the different factions had caused. The dauphin sat in Chinon with his skeleton court, too apathetic and overwhelmed to fight for his country. Whole villages had been burned to the ground. Frenchmen, loyal to the Duke of Burgundy and their English allies ravaged the land, taking whatever plunder they could find. The rest of France had no heart to save themselves. All this Cassandra learned as she traveled to her ultimate destination. The maid of Lorraine had almost reached the correct age.

The sun was beginning to set as they reached the little village of Domremy. Their destination was the church of St. Remy, the center of Christian fellowship in the village. Cassandra, known as Sister Marie Catherine, and her companion Sister Marie Marguerite, decided to travel with the priest for they were both friends with several of the nuns residing in Domremy. Father Hugh had a message from Rome for Messire Guillaume Front, and he acted as if it came from the Pope himself.

The two sisters went immediately to the church when they arrived. There was a nun praying before the altar, who seemed not to hear their arrival. Father Front was entering a confessional. As Cassandra entered the holy place she felt the Witchblade become warm against her skin. Swirls of red swam within the red stone. The new wielder must be near.

Cassandra anointed herself with holy water, knelt briefly and sat on a chair in the front row. Her companion did the same. Both began to pray to the Christian God, but Cassandra also paid homage to other gods and goddesses that she had known in her very long life. Even deep in meditation, Cassandra was aware of the local nun leaving, soon followed by Mary Marguerite. The priest came out of the confessional, followed closely by a young girl of perhaps thirteen years. Cassandra kept to her seat and waited for the priest to also leave. She knew he would, for the Witchblade wanted
her to meet the new wielder in secret.

The girl knelt and began her penance of Hail Marys. With stealth, Cassandra moved from chair to chair closer to the praying girl.

Her eyes popped open. "Are you an angel?"

"No. Just one of God's servants," Cassandra replied. "Why do you ask?"

"There's an aura of white that surrounds you. Your hair is shimmering, and decorated with flowers."

Cassandra had on a typical nun's habit of gray frieze and her head was covered. Glancing down swiftly, she could see the Witchblade blaring in triumph. "I am not an angel, but I do have a message for you from God. He has blessed you, dear girl, by weaving you a great destiny."

"What must I do to prepare for my great destiny?"

How innocent youth is, Cassandra mused. Not once did Jeannette question this destiny, but accepted it already as hers. "For now, nothing. Remember your prayers and be a good girl. God will make his plans clear to you when the time comes."

"He will talk to me?"

"Yes, through one of his favored saints who will visit you. Listen well, learn your part, and you will save France."

Her eyes shone with zeal. "How will I do this?"

"I don't know. Only you will hear the voices. However, there are some things you must do or you'll lose His favor. Piety is most important. Never forsake your duties to the church. Give aid to the less fortunate, for we are all God's creatures. Obey your father and keep busy with your appointed tasks. And lastly, remain a maid. Only as a virgin, will God be able to work through you. Men can be used. Some can be loyal, but only if you are virtuous."

"I understand. For God, I will remain pure."

"As a token of His love, wear this bracelet. It has little value, but has been fashioned by God for you and only you. Never take it off and never show it to anyone." Cassandra removed the Witchblade from her wrist and gently clasped it around the girl, Jeannette d'Arc. "Now pray for guidance and God will answer."

The young girl bent her head and her lips began to move. Cassandra gazed at her with love and apprehension. Would she prove strong enough for the trials ahead? Cassandra the witch began talking in a rhythmic voice. "You will remember nothing. You have been in this church alone, praying to God. Remember what I have told you, but place it in the back of your mind to be called forth when needed. If we meet again, you will not recognize me."

Silently, the Immortal left the church to find darkness outside. Hugging her secret close to her heart, she found her traveling companions. Their stop here in Domremy would be short, only a night or two, and then they would travel further north. Cassandra's only duty now was to wait for the time when she could start the rumors that the Maid of Lorraine had come to deliver France, as predicted by Merlin the great magician.


November 13, 2000

Why did the Witchblade cause so much heartache in its wielders? It jealously hoarded every emotion, removing violently anyone who the wielder cared for too deeply. Cassandra shook her head, trying to rid herself of the memories. Maybe some fresh air would help. Opening a window, she carefully walked out onto the fire escape and noticed a young woman sitting a floor above her. "Hello," Cassandra called up.

The other woman looked down at her. "Hello," she returned.

The shadows hid her upstairs neighbor's features from Cassandra's view. "I just moved in today. I'm Cassandra."

"Sara," came the no-nonsense voice. "Welcome to the building." She stood up and, though Cassandra was sure the other woman was going to come down and talk with her, instead, Sara climbed back through her own window and disappeared.

Disappointed, the Immortal went back inside and picked up a book. Feeling restless, she picked up her sword and began an exercise to loosen her muscles, but it acted like a balm to her troubled mind.

Outside Cassandra's window, on a building across the street, a man dressed in black watched the woman Sara as she pounded a punching bag inside her room. He also observed the woman in the apartment the floor beneath flash her sword in a dance of death. The man in black had no doubt that despite the woman's beauty and grace, she could kill as easily as smile. It was in the way she moved. Intrigued, he called his master to inform him of the latest development. There were no coincidences when it came to the Witchblade.


III

After a quick series of punches, Sara Pezzini let her arms fall to her side as her lungs dragged in enough oxygen to cover for the outburst. Although her body was tired, her emotions were still barely under control. Things were so normal, just three days ago; now nothing was as it seemed. She laughed when she realized that it was a direct quote from--from whom? She remembered someone telling her that.

Now everything was falling apart around her. She saw phantoms dressed in armor from medieval times. A freak in black followed her. Then there was the rich business tycoon that told her the Witchblade belonged to her--that it had *chosen* her. She didn't want it, had even tried to give it back. It wouldn't leave. To compound all the weirdness going on around her, now she was having strange dreams of things that hadn't happened yet. Her feelings of déjà vu were happening more and more frequently, so that most of the time she thought she was going mad. She didn't even trust her instincts anymore.

After several more jabs to the punching bag, she jumped in the shower and began her bedtime routine. Tomorrow was another day; Gallo wouldn't elude her again.

Across the street, high on the rooftop, Ian Nottingham sat and watched his lady Sara leave the bathroom wearing only her underwear and a nightshirt. She had turned off the lights, but with his enhanced eyesight, he saw every move she made. He directed his vision to all points around her building, but found no threats to her person. Satisfied with her safety, he began the trek back home. His master might have further need for him that night; if not, then he too would sleep and maybe dream of the future.


IV

Detective Jake McCarty slid in behind the dumpster. He adjusted his wig; something in the garbage had knocked it askew. It was hell tailing someone without backup, without a partner of any kind, but that was what Watchers did--all of them--all the time. Jake was under cover as a homicide detective in the NYPD. His cover was hiding the fact that his Watcher cover was as an FBI agent. He didn't really belong to the FBI, but his mentor, Harold Wyatt, was deputy director. This worked well for both. Harold was able to put McCarty out on special details, become backup if necessary, but no one would be able to find a link between Jake and the FBI.

His assignment, Bruno Dante, was waiting outside a back door in the alleyway. He paced a bit, obviously anxious for the door to open. Suddenly, Jake heard footsteps behind him. He ducked down further and peeked out from beneath his Indiana Jones hat. The long back tresses from his wig hid his light colored hair, and hopefully anyone walking by would confuse him for a regular homeless person.

The intruder came closer and Jake was able to ID the man as Orlanski, another detective from their precinct. He walked passed Jake's hiding place without noticing him. Dante greeted Orlanski and they conversed quietly for a minute. Jake allowed himself a few quiet breaths. His heart was pounding and it was a major miracle that neither of the two detectives heard him. Then a man in shadow opened a door into the building Jake was propped against. Dante murmured something unintelligible to the man holding the door as both he and Orlanski walked in.

Jake stayed quiet for a few more minutes and then stood, stretching his legs. No lights came on in the upper stories and the fire escape was too high up for him to climb. Damn Dante and his illegal schemes. Not only was he a prominent member of the White Bulls, but he was responsible for taking drugs and money that had never made it to the evidence locker. Jake was stationed in NY for two reasons. The FBI wanted the White Bulls shut down and the Watchers wanted Bruno Dante watched. Jake was in hell. He had lost all respect for the man after only a day on the force. Now his feelings were disintegrating to downright hate.

Jake left the alley and tried to go around the other side of the building. There was a main door, but no lights were visible from where he stood. Going back to the dumpster, he made himself a little bed with some stray rags and boxes, then proceeded to wait it out.

His mind automatically went back to the last time he had tailed Dante just few weeks ago. Jake had been doing recon outside Dante's house when a frantic call came in from Judge D'Angelo. Jake had wired Dante's phone when he first came to New York, since the man was a prime candidate for heading the White Bulls. The FBI thought Dante was the leader and at first, so did Jake.

The judge needed some help. He sounded stoned out of his mind and almost incoherent. Dante made a phone call to Tommy Gallo, asking for a hit and then took off to an address uptown. Jake waited and Watched as Dante went into a high-rise apartment building and came out leading the wobbly judge. Orlanski and another detective went inside and then returned about fifteen minutes later and were greeted by Gallo. Jake left then, following Dante. It wasn't until the next morning when he heard the news about Sara's friend being murdered at the same address. He felt sick to his stomach. That had been his first clue that Judge D'Angelo did not respect the law as his office demanded, but rather perverted it according to his whims.
Jake was brought back to the present when six men left the building he was watching, one of whom was Gallo. They were all joking and hitting each other on the back.

"We have a deal, right?" Gallo asked Dante, his voice carrying easily through the night air.

"I don't care how you do it, as long as she's dead."

"It will be my pleasure. Sara Pezzini has been a thorn in my side for years. It's downright ironic that I first offed her father and now take care of the last Pezzini. Sure there aren't any others in the wings?"

"Positive. Things will run a lot smoother without her sticking her nose into everything. We lost the drug money from our last bust because she got there first and almost hand-delivered it to the locker."

"Think she knows something?" Gallo asked slyly.

"Siri wouldn't dare talk, and if her father had told her anything she would have used it by now."

"It's a pleasure doing business with you, Captain." Gallo tipped his hat and his three thugs went toward a car parked on Avenue D.

Jake contained his rage as Orlansky and Dante headed back on foot. Jake followed them several blocks, keeping a large distance between them. Eventually the two men got into a cab. Jake was too far behind to hear the address, but there wasn't anything more he could do that night. His emotions were coiled tighter than a snake about to strike. He was useless as a silent tracker now.

Ripping off his wig, he stuffed it in his pocket and walked another two blocks and waited for a bus. The city transit took him a few blocks from home and there he went in, showered and collapsed on his couch to think. The bastard was taking a hit out on Jake's partner. Well, she was really partnered with Danny. He was just the rookie tag-along. That was fine considering his cover, but he still considered them both his partners.

Now he just had a third detail dropped on his shoulders: protecting Sara from his assignment. God, he wished some other Immortal would take Dante out. The man was crafty. Jake had been in NY for six months and he still hadn't seen Dante with another Immortal, either as a friend or as a foe.


November 15, 2000

I

Methos had formulated his game plan. The database had listed several Watchers in New York City, but only one was a police officer, Jake McCarty. It took Methos several minutes before he remembered why the name sounded familiar. He recollected the circumstance and then laughed at the irony. McCarty would do everything in his power to keep Methos' presence in New York a secret from Wyatt. He couldn't wait to meet his quarry and befriend him.

Methos sat back in his seat on the Air France jet. All he had to do now was find a way into McCarty's confidence. It had to be good and mustn't take a lot of time to implement. The Witchblade was prodding him forward on this quest. Just last night his dreams had been full of dark images.

A woman had been in a huge room battling first an evil knight and then an old man scarcely able to stand. She had won, but after looking at the carnage, she'd fallen apart. Lazar had been there; Methos had recognized him immediately. Another wielder had also been present and she and Lazar had gently led the woman to use the Blade to turn back time. The previous wielder had explained, "Time is elastic. Fluid. Flexible. Reversible. Use it." The new wielder had complied.

His eyes closed and his mind went back to the last wielder he had served. She hadn't been beautiful, but she had been charismatic. Her whole being radiated with it. The Witchblade augmented it; focusing her power to be used at will--the Witchblade's will.

January 1429-Lorraine

Methos decided to join the duke's court hoping to get a look at this peasant girl from Domremy. Knights and nobles could talk of nothing else. She had demanded that Sir Robert Baudricourt send her to Chinon to see the dauphin. Her arrogance and self-assuredness impressed even the ancient Immortal. Now she was in Lorraine. The party's goal was to get a safe-conduct through to Chinon, but the duke's goal was to get her to treat his diseased body.

"Rumors say that she's the Maid of Lorraine." A squire had come up behind Methos. "What do you think lord de Morency, could she be?"

"The duke must believe it or else he wouldn't agree to see her," Methos responded.

"Or else he just hopes. His body is failing him, and his mortality is making him afraid."

Methos nodded in agreement. More intrigued than ever, he awaited his first sight of the woman who could be either a gift from God or Satan.
It didn't come until later that evening. The women joined the men in an affair of raucous entertainment: jesters and jugglers, a few minstrels and a bard. Methos sat back, a tankard of ale in his hand and his eye on the women. Jeannette was at the center. She looked uncomfortable there and several times whispered to her companion who then shook her head no.

A flickering at her wrist captured his attention. Trying to be inconspicuous, he left the table and meandered over to women's table. As he came close to the girl, she looked up at him, her gaze direct, questioning. His eyes left her face and glanced down at her wrist. A bracelet with a red stone winked at him. Methos started, shocked at seeing the Witchblade upon her delicate wrist. She quickly lowered her sleeve, hiding the bracelet. Their eyes met once more before he hurried off, disappearing into the crowd of men.

Methos now had a better understanding of what was going on. The Witchblade had commanded that Jeannette go to Chinon to see the dauphin and she was powerless to act in any other way. Using his position as a younger son of an obscure baron and his inborn guile, Methos began working on de Metz to let him become a member of the party. Jean de Metz refused. His was a sacred mission and de Morency had a reputation for being anything but serious. Methos decided to bide his time.

The new wielder's party finally left and headed back to Vaucouleurs. Methos followed, but stayed out of sight. He was able to enter the village where he found preparations for the trip to Chinon under way. Positioning himself near the well, he awaited Jeannette's arrival. He wanted to talk to her, to gain her measure.

"France needs a champion, someone to give the soldiers hope." After Methos got Jeanette's undivided attention he added, "The dauphin needs a miracle. Are you that miracle?"

"You think to mock me, sir?" Then her eyes narrowed. "I recognize you from Lorraine."

"That you do, for I was there. Now I am here."

"You followed me?"

"I expect many more will follow you before you are finished and Charles sits upon the throne of France."

"You believe I will succeed?"

"The Woman's Glove will ensure that you do." He pointed to her bracelet.

"You know about this?" Her eyes were both wary and curious.

"I know exactly what it is and how to use it. It is a source of information and protection."

"Can you show me how to use it?" she asked guilelessly.

"I will, if you will trust me."

Unconsciously she rubbed the bracelet, turning it around and around her wrist. "I think I can." Her face brightened with the realization.

"My name is Etienne de Morency," Methos introduced himself. "I am a younger son without title or fortune and free to do with my life as I will. If you agree, I will accompany you to Chinon."

"I agree, sir. I wish you--"

"But de Metz does not. He will prove a problem."

"Then you will go as my squire."

Methos silently laughed at the absurdity of her statement. "Does that make you a knight?"

She nodded. "I am to lead an army against Burgundy and England. That makes me more than a simple knight." The Witchblade brightened, blaring out its presence, then dimmed.


November 15, 2000

"Sir? Excuse me, sir?" Methos blinked as a flight attendant brought his attention back to the present. "Coffee, sir?"

"No, thank you." He smiled at her.

"We'll be at Kennedy in a little more than an hour."

He thanked her for the update. New York City was where the Witchblade resided. At least he had an idea of what the woman looked like. Most wielders of the correct bloodline all had the same features.


II

Cassandra walked across the street, following only her instincts. She had set out that morning with no destination in mind. There was something or someone out there she was supposed to meet, but the identity of the object or person eluded her. After meditating last night, this was the course of action she had decided on. Her connection with the Witchblade was silent, so she let her unconscious mind guide her steps.

Hunger pains drove her to a little deli where she ordered a bagel with cream cheese. Sitting outside the store at a table, eating her breakfast and drinking her coffee, she had time to relax and watch the scenery. A couple of older men were sitting at a table next to her, arguing about a football game. They quoted enough stats to make an accountant proud. A young woman pushing a baby stroller went into the deli and came out a few minutes later with a bag of groceries.

Wiping her mouth after her last bite, Cassandra was preparing to rise when she heard the voice of a young man. It wasn't familiar in the normal sense, but it made her sit back and listen. He was bouncing, waving his arms around, talking to another young man walking beside him. They too, went into the deli and came out with donuts and cans of soda. They sat down and conversed enthusiastically as they ate.

"I'm telling you, Irons had the Longinus Lance stolen," the boy with the dark curly hair whispered to his friend. "I told him that I couldn't get it for him, so he took matters into his own hands."

"I thought you could get anything for anybody?" The friend had straight, stringy hair that looked like it hadn't been washed in a week.

"Not if it's locked up in a museum."

"Why'd he want it? He gonna go out and spear someone with it?"

"I don't know, but there's supposed to be magic in that weapon--"

"Magic as in the Witchblade?"

"Shhh! Don't say that too loud. You don't know who might be listening." He looked around covertly.

The other boy gave a disbelieving snort. "Give me a break, dude. You don't really believe in all that stuff? I know Talismaniac brings in all kinds of weirdoes who *do* believe, but don't tell me you fall for your own crap."

The curly-haired young man gave a secretive smile. "Why take chances? Even if you disregard the magic, the lance is still damn old."

"Why is it special?"

"It supposedly was the weapon that killed Jesus when he was on the cross and preserved his status as the messiah."

"Heavy!"

Cassandra stayed in her seat as the two young men finished eating and then left. Calmly she also rose and began walking inconspicuously behind them.

After several blocks they came to an old building. Inside was a large wooden door that had the inscription "Talismaniac.com". Underneath it were the words, "IDOLS, ICONS, TALISMANS". She knocked and the curly-haired boy answered the door.

"Have you come to buy or sell?" he asked.

"To buy." She crafted a seductive smile on her face, assured of his typical male response.

He opened the door wider and let her in. "What kinds of things are you interested in? If I don't have it, I can get it."

She perused the objects in the room. "Can I take a look?"

"Be my guest. I'm Gabriel Bowman," the young man said, introducing himself.

Cassandra nodded and began to circle the room. She looked on the many shelves, nodding at some authentic artifacts and smiling at some that were too outlandish to be real. "Who would buy this?" she asked, coming upon a broken guitar sitting on the ground. The neck had been severed from the rest of the instrument and the symbolism made her shiver in distaste.

"That guitar is priceless. It belonged to Peter Townsend, and it was the first guitar he smashed on stage when The Who hit the States."

The explanation didn't matter; Cassandra couldn't see anyone wanting a broken guitar. She continued on, past a fourteenth century bust of Caligula and found a large black caldron. She looked inquiringly at her host.

"That pot was used by Shakespeare in his play Macbeth. You remember the three witches, boil, boil, toil and trouble."

"Yes, of course. I do know most of the references to witches." Cassandra walked around the pot and saw a computer tucked in the corner with the other young man peering into the screen. "Hello," she said, bringing him out of his little world.

He glanced up and quickly cleared the screen. "Yeah?"

"Nothing," she replied and then moved on. A few other shelving units were stacked with paperwork and computer printouts. But just adjacent to them was a tiny alcove, and set up within was an altar. Despite herself, Cassandra found her interest piqued. "What's this?"

Gabriel came and stood behind her. "This belonged to Patricia Kennealy. She was a practicing witch. It's said that she married Jim Morrison in front of this very altar."

"You do have a fondness for things related to witch craft."

"No, not craft, just the witches themselves."

Cassandra let a smile fill her face. "I'm a witch. And I believe that every witch should have an altar. I think I'll buy this."

Gabriel's jaw dropped. "A real witch?"

"Yep, with magic powers and everything."

Cassandra heard a snort from the other young man, who then said, "Dude, she's conning you."

"Honest, I've been called a witch for many centuries." Cassandra purposely went overboard in persuasion. "Christian fanatics tried to burn me at the stake, but I used my powerful voice and eluded that fate." Cassandra was enjoying herself, and the best part was that everything she said was true.

"Centuries?" Gabriel asked, skepticism creeping into his voice.

"And a millennia ago, before the Spanish Inquisition, before paganism had been eradicated, I was worshipped as a Druid priestess."

"You're telling us you were alive a thousand years ago? I don't think so." Gabriel sounded so sure of himself.

"Even if you don't believe me, I think I'll buy the altar. It would be a good conversation piece at the very least." She walked over to the table and pulled out her checkbook. "How much do I owe you?"

Gabriel printed up a sales receipt and then asked what address she'd like it shipped to. For some reason he stiffened as she told him. "You been there long?" he asked.

"I just moved in. I was teaching in London and decided I needed a change of scenery."

The two young men still looked skeptical, but with the five-thousand-dollar sale they had just made, neither looked willing to call her a liar.
She left the little dot-com store and went back to her new apartment. She didn't really want the altar, but she thought the right person, or rather the wielder, might find out about her purchase.


III

Sara parked her Buell and headed into Precinct 11. Danny was already at his desk. "Morning, Pez," he muttered between gulps of coffee and studying his computer screen.

"Anything new?" she asked, hanging up her leather coat and helmet.


"There's a meeting in thirty minutes; the whole department is required to attend."

"Know what it's about?"

"Rumor has it that Joe Siri is announcing his retirement and who the replacement captain is going to be."

"Please, anyone but Bruno Dante," Sara pleaded to the ceiling just before pulling out her chair and plopping down. "He hates me and would make my life a living hell."

"Naw," Danny contradicted. "Just purgatory."

Sara began going through the lone file that sat in the middle of her desk. Inside were police reports and pictures taken on the murder of her friend Maria. Every morning Sara perused each photo and reread each word, hoping something might jump out at her. The only information she had discovered was from the damned bracelet. A technicolor vision of Maria stoned out of her mind, fumbling around her apartment; it wasn't enough to find the killer. Frustration made Sara want to punch something, not like she hadn't done enough of that last night.

"Morning, Pez, Danny," Jake called cheerfully as he walked in.

Sara took a good look at his pretty-boy face and suddenly desired to put her fist right smack in the middle of his smile.

"We got a departmental meeting in ten minutes," Danny informed Jake.

"A new case?"

Sara shrugged her shoulders, but Jake was still looking at Danny. Her bad mood hadn't communicated itself to Jake yet.

"Don't think so." Danny got up to refresh his cup of coffee. "I suggest you guys get your fix now; I have a feeling we're all going to need it.

Finally Jake looked over at Sara, but she was too pissed to acknowledge his questioning glance. With a puzzled frown, Jake picked up his mug and followed Danny out to the mega-pot and the line of detectives waiting to fill their own cups.

After everyone had found a place to sit, Joe Siri stood in front of the group and addressed them. Sara sat wedged in between Danny and Orlansky, another detective with whom she never saw eye-to-eye.

"…effective immediately. I've been in this department for thirty-five years, I'm going to miss it." Joe took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "After talking it over with the Commissioner, I am naming Bruno Dante as my successor."

There was clapping and a few whistles. Sara listened with a sinking heart. How could Joe do this to her?

The new Captain Dante stood and joined Joe Siri in the front of the room to say, "We've worked together for many years. You were an inspiration to me when I was a rookie and didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground. It's an honor to be here today."

Sara could hear the insincerity in his voice. Dante hated Siri. Joe had been her father's partner in the old days. It was all a bunch of bullshit meant to entertain the audience. Sara felt a hand on her shoulder pushing her down. She turned and felt the compelling stare Danny directed at her as he pushed her back in her seat. Damn, she didn't even realize she had been ready to stand.

Dante gave a speech, complimenting Joe and the rest of the detectives, and pontificating on how he was going to make theirs the best homicide department in all of New York City. Sara felt like gagging. Why couldn't anyone else see the selfish glance in his eyes and the way he swaggered as he walked back and forth, across the front of the room?

"…Now get to work, men. Go arrest some bad guys."

Sara felt the direct snub, as she was the only woman in the room. It seemed that everyone cheered as they stood. Some went up to shake his hand and congratulate him. As Sara went to leave, she cast a glance up at him, and he was looking straight at her with triumph. Gritting her teeth, she pivoted and walked out of the room.


IV

Jake walked into his apartment exhausted. He couldn't believe Dante was going to be his captain. What a mess, taking orders from a man you not only couldn't respect, but also actively disliked. He hung his coat up and placed his gun in the desk drawer.

The first stop was his phone mail. He was one of the few people who didn't have internet access at home, so many of his Watcher contacts left him messages on the phone. If he actually stayed in New York for any length of time, he'd have to break down and have his computer connected to the world. Only one message had been recorded.

"Jake? It's Stu. You're not gonna believe this, but I was working the airport today, and I swear I saw Adam Pierson coming off an international flight from Paris. I heard he was AWOL for the past four years. You know anything about it? Call me back."

Adam Pierson was in New York? Jake pondered this piece of information with relish. He couldn't wait to call Wyatt who was supposed to be keeping Watch on Pierson, alias Methos. Or was it Methos alias Adam Pierson? Jake laughed ironically himself.

Tim Wyatt and Jake had never seen eye-to-eye. Tim thought Jake was just a "pretty-boy" pretending to be tough, and Jake just couldn't stand Wyatt's, "I'm better than anybody else attitude". Should he call Wyatt?

No. Let the man search. He would have to call Stu back, though and tell him not to mention the Pierson sighting to anyone else. Not many Watchers knew that Pierson was really Methos. The information had leaked out several years ago. It was only because of Jake's connection with Harold Wyatt, his boss/mentor, who also happened to be Tim's father that Jake found out the truth about Methos. Jake had never seen the oldest Immortal in person and he kind of hoped that maybe he'd catch a glimpse while they were in the same city.

Jake picked up the phone and placed his call to Stu. He casually asked if Wyatt had flown in also, but as Stu didn't know Wyatt, he couldn't be sure. Jake hung up gleefully, visualizing his old nemesis searching all over Paris for his elusive assignment.

Still smiling, Jake fixed himself some dinner and then plopped himself down in front of the TV to see the news. At seven, he washed up his dishes, both the plate and the fork, and then went back to his TV, bored. He glanced at the phone.

Should he call Sara? His first priority was to Watch Dante. His second was to get all the information he could on the White Bulls. Sara was the key to his investigations. He knew that the White Bulls were responsible for James Pezzini's death. Dante's former Watcher had verified it. Now, how could Jake spend time with Sara, get to know her without breaking his cover? By pretending an attraction? Hell, he wouldn't have to pretend; it was real enough.

Closing his eyes, screwing up his courage, he pushed the numbers. "Sara? This is Jake. How would you like to shoot some pool?" All his words poured out in a rush. He sounded like a sixteen-year-old asking a girl out on a date. This was pathetic.

"Jake? No, not tonight. Siri retiring has hit me pretty hard. I think I'll stay in and--"

"Mope? Come on, Sara. It would do you good to get out."

"Thanks for calling, Jake. I'll see you tomorrow."

He knew a brush-off when he heard one. "Fine. Tomorrow." The click of Sara's phone echoed in his ear even before he finished saying tomorrow.
Shoving the phone back in his pocket, he grabbed his coat and decided to shoot some pool on his own. Several days ago, he had found a quaint pool hall, nick-named the Booze and Cues by the neighborhood patrons, although the sign on the window said something like Frank's or Sam's. Sara hung out there sometimes, and Jake also found it to be a nice place to go and unwind.

He walked in and found it to be somewhat deserted. A stereotypical bartender was wiping a few tables down and filling the small bowls with pretzels and cheeseballs. Two men in torn jeans and T-shirts were using one of the pool tables, but the other three remained empty.

"Can I get you something?" asked the bartender.

Jake thought for a second and responded, "Yeah, can I have a Sam Adams?"

"Coming right up."

Jake took his beer and went over to one of the unoccupied tables and racked up a set. He heard the door to the bar open while he was concentrating on getting the green striped ball in the corner pocket, so he didn't bother to look up. He missed that ball but sunk the next two. Straightening, he took a swig from his beer. Jake unfortunately looked up at the newcomer standing at the bar and choked, spraying beer over the floor. His eyes widened incredulously.

The bartender handed the man a large mug of draft beer, and the newcomer sauntered over to the pool table. "Rack 'em up," he suggested, as if Jake wasn't staring at him like an idiot.

Jake couldn't believe his eyes. Was this just his imagination? "Looking for a game?" he choked out inanely.

"I take it you know who I am?" There was a slight smirk on the man's face.

Jake laughed, and there was a hint of hysteria in the sound. "Yeah," he answered and then whispered, "Methos."

"But, you can call me Adam Pierson."

"Right. Adam." Jake was regaining his equilibrium and started thinking. Methos was reported to always have a reason for everything he did. That meant the old Immortal needed him, Jake McCarty, for something. Why else would Methos purposefully seek him out? A little nervous, but damned interested, he took another swallow from his beer.

So Methos wanted a game of pool. Jake racked them up. "You break."

Methos chalked his stick and then lined up the white ball. He took his shot and the colored balls bounced all over the table. Not one went into a hole.
Jake smiled nervously and decided his shot. As he was aiming, he happened to notice Methos staring at him. Swallowing thickly, he hit the white ball. The red striped ball missed the corner pocket.

Methos made a big production of circling the table, judging the easiest vector. Making a decision, he bent down and let the stick gently hit the cue ball, sending it into the black ball, which dropped into the side pocket. "Guess this means you win," Methos commented. His voice sounded innocent, but his eyes were laughing.

Jake grabbed his beer and drank deeply. He was nervous. Methos propped his stick against the wall.

"If you didn't want to play pool, why didn't you say so?" Jake asked.

"Thought I'd give you time to collect yourself. Why don't we leave and talk some place with more privacy, like your apartment?"

"Okay," Jake responded hesitantly.

Methos smiled and the two headed out of the bar and walked the ten blocks to Jake's place. After they entered Jake's home, Methos walked around, looking at everything. "I like the poster. 'Surfing champ, 1995,'" he read the caption aloud. "Why'd you quit and become a Watcher?"

"I didn't exactly quit. I was surfing on a day I had no business being out. A hurricane was blowing off shore sending monster waves and I couldn't resist. I took a tumble and just about drowned, but some hulking dude came out and rescued me. He carried me to shore, called the paramedics and then disappeared. I was determined to find this guy to thank him, give him some money as a reward for being a good Samaritan."

"Let me guess: your rescuer was an Immortal and didn't want to be found."

"Got it in one. That was when I was approached by the Watchers, explained the circumstances and told to back off. I stopped looking for the Immortal, but I wanted to know more about what the Watcher had just glossed over. That's how I was recruited."

"Better than witnessing a Quickening. People are usually so spooked, it takes forever for them to accept and be comfortable with it."
Jake's curiosity was getting the better of him. "So, what is it you want? I'm sure you didn't come to New York to learn about me."

"Blunt, aren't you?" Methos stared at him. "I don't know if I can explain it right. Something is going to happen. I'm not sure exactly what, or who it will revolve around. You're both a cop and a Watcher, and I'm hoping you'll allow me to help when the time comes."

"You can't be more specific?"

"Nope."

Jake started to consider what he had said. Methos, the oldest, the most experienced person in the world wanted his help. "What's your plan?"

"First off, I thought I'd move in with you. There's enough room; I can take the couch. I bet it's more comfortable than the one at MacLeod's."

"You want to live here? I don't--"

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. Will you?"

Jake could hear the warning tone in the immortal's voice. "No."

"I did look you up. I needed to find someone in a position to help me. However, I didn't learn much. Tell me about your assignment. Will he interfere in our business?"

Jake wasn't sure how much to say. It could be that Methos was hunting Dante's head and if that were the case, Jake wasn't sure what to do. His Watcher oath forbade him to help Methos, but on the other hand he'd be glad of Dante's death. "Dante is the captain in the police department where I work," Jake explained. "I think as long as you left him alone, he wouldn't bother you."

"Is he a nice guy?"

"To those he likes." Jake took a deep breath and then rushed headlong into an explanation he was sure to regret if anyone found out. "He's corrupt, a profiteer who's out for himself and--and--he wants my partner dead." Jake stumbled over the last part.

"Why?" Methos asked, still sounding interested.

Jake threw himself down on the couch. "I don't know where to begin. In fact, I don't think even Sara knows how much he wants her dead."

"Sara's your partner?"

Jake nodded.

"Start at the beginning." Methos sprawled on a chair opposite Jake. "What's the source of his animosity?"

"Bruno Dante's former Watcher recorded that Dante ordered James Pezzini's death--that's Sara's father. Before he died, James was investigating a corrupt group of police officers who called themselves the White Bulls."

"White Bulls?" Methos remarked with a crooked smile. "How original."

Jake continued. "He hadn't identified the ring-leader, but guessed that it was Dante. Tommy Gallo, a gangster friend of Dante's, killed James in an effort to hush him up. If there had been any evidence, it disappeared with James' death."

"Or was hidden in his possessions."

"Then why hasn't Sara found anything?" Jake asked, venting his frustration.

"She hasn't known where to look," Methos responded, with a thoughtful look on his face. "How does Dante treat your partner at work?"

"He barely tolerates her. They are like oil and water, each rubbing the other the wrong way. I think Sara goes out of her way to antagonize Dante."

"So, he hasn't actually tried to kill her. He just openly hates her. Correct?"

"Yes," Jake began, then corrected himself hastily, "No. Very recently he put a contract out on her life. Dante wants Gallo to kill her, and Gallo said it would be a pleasure."

"The same Gallo who killed her father?"

"Yep." Jake couldn't help the shiver than ran down his back at the implications. "Gallo's a cog in the organized crime network."

"And Dante is part of this? Excellent boss you've got, McCarty," Methos quipped. "Do you think Dante's the head of the White Bulls?"

"No. It's more likely a judge by the name of Carmen D'Angelo. He was captain back when Dante was a rookie detective. Now D'Angelo is a city judge and as corrupt as the rest of them. To make matters worse, we, the department, are investigating the murder of a high-price call girl. This girl, Maria, was a friend of Sara's from her school days. Well, the judge had spent the evening with Maria and they got pretty high on cocaine. D'Angelo thought Maria had overdosed and called Dante to get rid of her. Dante called his good friend Gallo, who killed her. Now Sara is investigating the murder, Dante is obstructing her behind the scenes, and I feel caught in the middle."

"Any other players I should be aware of?"

"Just the FBI."

"Ah yes. I read that Harold Wyatt is your mentor. And I believe I've seen his son hovering around occasionally."

Jake saw what looked to be a sly smile cross Methos' face. He obviously knew the identity of his Watcher. Did the oldest Immortal still have access to the Watcher database?

Methos continued, "And what does the FBI want you to do?"

"Expose the White Bulls," Jake admitted.

"Sounds like a difficult assignment all the way around. Does your partner Sara Pezzini know about you?"

"No!" Jake adamantly denied. "She does not need to know about the Watchers."

"I mean about your connections with the FBI and the White Bulls."

"I don't think she knows anything about the White Bulls. She just believes her father was killed by Gallo." Jake felt defensive with all the questions, as if Methos was trying to find fault with the way he was handling things.

There was a lull in the conversation. Jake didn't know what to add, and the Immortal had his eyes closed. "When did you get in to New York?" Jake asked.

Methos opened one eye. "This afternoon. It feels like two in the morning." He closed it back up again.

"Are you hungry? I can fix you something quick to eat."

"No, thank you." Methos yawned.

"Let me get some sheets and a pillow. By the way, the couch does pull out into a bed."

Methos opened his eyes and grinned. "I know."


V

Jake turned the lights out. Methos shuffled around on the couch trying to find a comfortable position, but sleep wouldn't come. His mind kept reviewing everything the Watcher had told him. He didn't have all the players yet. The White Bulls might be the concluding reason for the time reversal, but not the whole reason. Powers much stronger than a mere Immortal were at work, and he needed to figure out what they were.
His intellect told him that Sara Pezzini was the Wielder; why else would fate bring him to Jake McCarty? Methos closed his eyes, but instead of sleep, he found himself inside a house of sorts. It was empty of furniture, all he saw were white walls. Suddenly people began to emerge out of the walls. Men in FBI uniforms were shooting at him, or rather at something behind him. Turning around, he saw Jake standing next to a dark-haired woman who looked remarkably like Jeannette, and another man who fell to the ground. Though he felt no Immortal presence, he knew that the fallen man was Dante.

The wielder, with her Witchblade prominent on her wrist, bent over the dying man. He couldn't hear what the man said, but the Witchblade showed her a vision--a vision Methos understood. Another party was involved in James Pezzini's death. A man with a head of silver hair commanded the death of Sara's father. Dante merely agreed to handle the hit.

"Kenneth Irons," he heard the wielder mutter.

She jumped up from her crouching position and ran off. Jake McCarty was right behind her. Another man was standing by with a car. Another player. Methos wanted to follow them but his form was stuck in place beside Dante. The FBI agents believed him to be dead and relaxed their guard.
When Dante's immortal healing kicked in, he regained consciousness, overpowered a nearby agent and gunned down another six before gunfire overwhelmed him again. Methos was horrified at the carnage. He knew it would continue until all the agents were dead and Dante was able to escape. Methos was powerless to do anything. He wanted to shout to Jake to get back there, help his co-workers, but this had all happened in the past, or rather the future that hadn't occurred yet. Suddenly Methos' vision clouded, and he knew the reversal had started. The Witchblade began to negate the catastrophe.


VI

Sara sat on her couch, fingering the bracelet. It had not given her a moment of peace since it settled on her wrist. Visions warred with each other for notice. She wanted only to know who had killed Maria, yet women who looked identical to herself, except dressed in ancient costumes, paraded across her mind. Each wanted her to do something she couldn't find it in herself to do--believe what they were telling her.

In a fit of anger, she asked the thing who had killed Maria. It broke from the image of a woman in a knight's suit of armor to Gallo, walking into Maria's apartment, pulling out a gun and shooting her supine body at close range. Gallo's face lit in a satisfied smile as he calmly walked out again. Disgusted, Sara went to pull off the bracelet and fling it across the room, but it wouldn't budge. She twisted and turned it, but nothing worked.

"It's a part of you, Sara," a deep melting voice said from behind her.

Sara jumped up, spinning as she pulled out her gun and aimed it at the intruder. He was dressed all in black. His hair was long and dark, and he sported a well-tended beard. "Who are you?" His dark eyes bored into her. "What do you want?" She paused as an echo of a memory came to her. "I saw you at the museum--."

"Yes. I was there when the Witchblade claimed you. Use it, Sara. Get the justice your friend deserves. Her killer is your father's killer. Find one; you find the other."

"I know who killed Maria. Tommy Gallo."

"Everything is connected." He backed up toward the window. "Use it, Sara." The shadows swallowed him whole.

Sara jumped from her almost catatonic state and rushed to the window, almost forgetting the loaded weapon in her hand. He was gone. There hadn't been time for him to climb down three flights of steps, but she could discern no movement outside. Closing and then locking her window, she turned off the lights.

Gallo was the killer. Now all she needed was proof, something to build a case on.

The phone rang just as she was getting into bed. She went to answer it and noticed the message blinking light. She had forgotten to check when she got home.

"Sara? It's Gabriel Bowman," the caller recorded onto the machine.

Sara picked it up before Gabriel could finish. "Hello?"

"Hi. We met a few days ago. At my--"

"Yes, of course I remember you." Sara paused, feeling that she knew this man better than her memories told her. Shaking her head, she returned her
attention to the person at the other end. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm really sorry to being calling you so late, but I, uh, had a visitor in my shop today, she was really weird."

"All the people that go to your shop are weird."

"Funny," he responded wryly. "This woman looked like someone off the cover of Vogue. She had on expensive clothes and walked like someone who had spent ten years in charm school."

"You're right, that does make her weird."

"She told me that she was a real witch, with magic tricks and she has this velvet voice. She bought an altar and said that every witch should have one."

"What does this have to do with me?" Sara was losing her patience.

"She lives in your building, in fact just one floor down from you. Isn't that a weird coincidence? You have the Witchblade and a real witch just moves in below you?"

Her intruder's voice echoed in Sara's mind. "Everything is connected."

"Thanks, Gabriel." She disconnected the phone and went to her window, looking down. She had met the woman last night; what was her name?
Cassandra. Maybe she ought to pay the witch, uh, lady, a visit?

Leaving her apartment, she locked the door and ran down the stairwell. She came out to the hall and paused before Cassandra's door. Did she really want to do this?

Suddenly the door opened, revealing a statuesque woman, staring at her calmly. She had below shoulder length hair, which fell gracefully on her tan silk blouse. Her slacks were dark brown. A red scarf accented the bland outfit. "I got tired of waiting for you to knock. Come in, Sara." As the woman closed the door, Sara noticed her manicured fingernails. They were painted bright red, exactly matching the scarf.

Sara hesitantly entered the apartment. "How'd you know I was outside? More of your magic powers?" she asked sarcastically.

Cassandra laughed. "No. The walls are pretty thin. I heard you leave your place, run down the stairs and pause outside my door. I didn't have any music on. I was meditating."

Sara looked at her in bewilderment. "Meditating? Like monks and--"

"Druids? We can all control the chaos around us by emptying our minds and letting the gods talk. Too often we are so busy with our everyday lives that we just don't listen to what is happening around us. If you were to stop everything but your heartbeat, what would you hear?"

"I don't have time for that mumbo-jumbo." Sara glanced around noting the altar Gabriel had mentioned. On top was a vase full of daisies. Not exactly what would adorn something devoted to devil worshipping.

"So, why are you here? Because I told your friend that I'm a witch?" She paused then added dramatically, "It's true."

"Are you a good witch or a bad witch?" Sara thought the quip from The Wizard of Oz would throw some humor into the conversation; she wasn't suspecting the come-back.

"Is the Witchblade a good weapon or a bad one?" Cassandra asked and then explained. "When we make value judgements, it is based on a comparison.
What does society believe is good? Things that are considered good now are not the same as say, a few centuries ago. The Witchblade is made for war. The wielder uses it to protect her body from those around her. Is it also used to kill others? Yes. The blade is not bad or good; it is an instrument used in both good and evil. It is the wielder's job to determine its use."

Sara couldn't comprehend where the conversation was going, so latched on the one thing she did understand. "How do you know about the Witchblade?"

"I am sworn to its service. It brought me here when you reversed time."

"Excuse me, reversed time?"

"Haven't your senses been telling you anything? Aren't things happening around you a bit familiar? Doesn't the Witchblade feel like it belongs on your wrist and no one else's?

"Yes, uh no."

"How about feelings of déjà vu? They have been plaguing me. It almost makes me dizzy when I do something that I had done before. I'm sorry, Sara, I'm explaining this badly. Come in and have a seat. Can I get you a drink? White wine? Fruit juice?"

"Do you have any beer?"

Cassandra wrinkled her nose in distaste. "No. I don't have beer."

Sara went further into Cassandra's apartment and sat down on her leather couch. The whole room echoed luxury and comfort. It was more the home of a society mistress than a practicing witch. "Magic spells must be profitable these days."

"So are good investments." Cassandra paused as if weighing her words. "Have you detected differences in this time line? Is your partner dead?"
Sara felt the shock down to the tips of her toes. "Partner? Dead? You mean Danny?"

"I have no name, just a sense. I've had visions of an Asian man who you are close to dying in your arms in a theater. Bullets rain above you and you wield the Witchblade and kill everyone inside, except the man responsible."

"You have visions? Have you been a wielder?"

"Ask it. Look deep within your self and the answer will be there. It can and will tell you all that you need to know."

"You want it back? Is that why you're here? To take the Witchblade back?"

"No, child. I have enough magic in my old bones. You're from the proper bloodline. It is you and no one else who can meld with it and make it a part of you. I can see it already has; you just don't remember it. It has chosen and you have accepted."

"You're saying it's a done deal. I can't get rid of it even if I wanted to?"

"You don't want to," Cassandra said with utter conviction. "Don't worry, it will all become clear to you once you stop fighting it. It is this conflict within you that has prevented you from learning more. You expect answers immediately and life doesn't work that way. "

Sara couldn't take the run-around any longer. "I think I've taken up enough of your time. I'll be going now."

Cassandra nodded regally. "I am here for you."

"Why? Why are you here for me?"

"To try and prevent the catastrophe that made the time reversal imperative."

Sara really didn't believe what this woman was trying to tell her. It was all an act, but what the motive was, Sara hadn't a clue. With a sarcastic, "Thanks for the double-talk," Sara left and went back up to her own loft.

Back in her own surroundings, she went first to the fridge and removed a beer. Sitting on the couch, she drank, trying to forget Cassandra's double-talk. Why was it that anyone who knew about the Witchblade couldn't answer simple questions? Her eyes closed in defeat and she took another swallow. Her body relaxed as the alcohol's effects spread.


Feb 14, 1429-after two days on the road to Chinon

Most of their traveling had been done at night. They slept in sheltered areas, far from the prying eyes of the enemy. This particular evening, de Morency roused her early, telling her that it was time to train.

"Now?" Jeannette asked, thinking that it was an odd request. Why did she need to train?

"Yes. I didn't bother you at first, because you needed to become comfortable with us. But now, you need to learn how to wield a sword."

"I am not a soldier."

"But you want to convince the king to let you lead an army. Every captain needs to be able to defend himself." He paused. "Or herself. This is just the beginning."

Jeannette groaned good-naturedly. She glanced over at the other two knights, who were lying upon the ground, sharpening their swords and knives.
De Metz glanced up at her. "I have no wish to get my hand chopped off teaching you. If de Morency wishes to do so, it is his blood."

Jeannette swallowed thickly. She didn't like the idea of hurting anyone committed to her cause. Turning to de Morency who was standing, holding out a hand for her, she gracefully rose to her feet. "I am ready, sir."

He handed her a light short-sword. "You will use this with which to train. When you become adept, I will give you another, more useful in the killing of Englishmen."

"I do not kill. That is the work of my soldiers."

"But, you may need to defend yourself. For that you need to learn how to wield the sword." He was emphatic.

They worked for an hour. De Morency seemed tireless in his patience. Not once did he scold or make her feel inadequate. It bolstered her confidence
to have this man assured of her competence.

"Enough. You need to rest. Let's go down to the stream where you may wash your face and get a drink." He laughed. "I surely need one, too."

"When I left home, I did not consider that I would need these skills."

"For a woman who has no wishes to kill, you are a quick learner."

"St. Michael taught me the ways of war. I used that knowledge in our lesson. Thank you for taking the time to teach me."

"I plan on teaching you many things on this journey. Sword work is just one."

Jeannette began to get nervous. She was a woman alone with six males. Two were young squires, but the others were virile men. Her saints told her
not to fear them, that they would always respect her wishes, but de Morency's comment elicited apprehension all the same.

"What else do you plan--"

"You need some basic knowledge of warfare. Leading a group of men is not an easy task and you need to learn how to do it so that they respect you."

"My voices will show me how."

"What if God put me in this place for just this reason?"

Jeannette closed her eyes, willing the Voices to come to her. They did. Words without form came clear in her mind: "Trust this man."

She nodded her assent, although still unsure.

"Another thing, the Woman's Glove. The talisman you wear around your wrist is a powerful weapon, and you need to learn how to use and control it,
or it will control you."

"It is but a pretty trinket I received one year for my birthday." She spoke out of reflex.

"It is pretty, but it is much more. It will change shape and become a gauntlet, or a glove with a sword thrusting from its center. Even I do not know all the shapes it can manifest, but you must be prepared for when it does make its presence known."

"When will it do this? Can I will it so?"

"Eventually, when you have mastered it. At this time, you are merely a carrier, not a wielder. You must earn the right."

She felt so confused. Glancing down at the bright red stone in the middle, she talked to it. "Change, pretty thing. Become what my lord knight has said." Nothing happened. "Is it broken?"

De Morency laughed. "No, it isn't broken. It responds to the fear that courses through your body at moments of great anguish or need."

"You mean if I am in danger?"

"You are always in danger. It lurks around the bend of the road, behind the bushes and in the hearts of the men you will meet. It's when the danger becomes a physical threat then the Glove will act."

Jeannette thought about it. She wanted to learn the sword and was happy de Morency was willing to teach. However, the thought that the bracelet might turn into a gauntlet was something that made her uncomfortable. She bowed her head and asked her Voices if the trinket would change shape on her. St. Michael soothed her, telling her that the talisman would defend her, but that no one would see it. The protection came from God and she was to accept it.

All too soon, it was time to tack up the horses and move on. The night didn't drag, because her mind was fully occupied with thinking about the bracelet that de Morency called the Woman's Glove. What a wonderful name. Her Voices spoke to her, giving her comfort.


Nov 14, 2000

Sitting on the fire escape, Ian Nottingham watched Sara. The only thing better was actually talking with her, but he made her nervous. He understood. It had been a strange evening. He had wanted to learn more of the woman living a floor beneath, and Sara had gone to visit, or rather, cross-examine the stranger. It was odd that his master had not known her. Irons had made a study of any human who had had contact with the Witchblade, yet he did not know this one.

Ian had listened to every word the strange woman had told Sara. Much of what she said he agreed with. A catastrophe had occurred. He had tried to kill his lady Sara, which resulted in both his own death and that of his master's. Could this woman truly prevent this? What was her definition of a witch? He listened as Sara woke up from her nap on the couch and prepared for bed. He listened to the sound of linen sliding down her skin, the cotton socks hitting the floor. The silk night shirt over her head and down her body. The sheets as they separated from the bed and covered her in a soft cocoon. Perspiration beaded on his forehead.

His ears were totally open when he heard the sound of a gun being put together. He looked on the roof of the building across the way and saw a sniper. Swearing in compressed fury, he raced to destroy the man who was seeking to kill Sara.


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