Incongruities

By Lori

This story is a crossover between Witchblade (owned by Top Cow and Warner Brothers) and Highlander (owned by Rysher and Panzer/Davis). I would like to thank Gregory Widen for introducing us to the Highlander universe, which enabled Panzer/Davis to invent such characters as Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson and Cassandra. None of the characters belongs to me, and no money has been or will ever be earned by me from this endeavor.

I have taken some facts from the Watcher CD and have presented them here as canon. Adam Pierson's identity was unveiled as Methos during the Horseman incident. Amy Zoll was assigned as the Methos researcher, and Timothy Wyatt as his field Watcher. I have introduced the name Harold Wyatt (Timothy's father) as Jake McCarty's mentor.

This story picks up close to where Circles left off. Several weeks have passed, not much more. As for the individual show's time line, this is pretty much taking place after Highlander: The Series and The Raven ended. As for Witchblade, season one occurred along with the rewind, however the events following differ dramatically from the show's second season and slightly from the show's first season. Methos and Cassandra's joint influence has altered Sara Pezzini's life. This can be considered an alternate universe, since Sara's life after the rewind can evolve in an infinite array of possibilities. I picked one where the Highlander characters helped to shape events.




Prologue

Ian Nottingham pulled off the top of the brightly wrapped box and gazed appreciatively at the lethal prototype gun nestled inside. The ribbons and bows had been placed carefully aside. It was the closest to a birthday gift he had ever received, but it wasn't his birthday. It wasn't a holiday what-so-ever. The decorative box was merely camouflage.

Ignoring the twinge of melancholy, Ian methodically assembled the gun and raised the gun's scope to his eye. The lithe form of Detective Sara Pezzini snared his attention. She was talking with her partner, Danny Woo, using a small transmitter and an earpiece. Ian could hear the exchange and gave an ironic smile as he realized that he and the detectives shared the same prey.

Moving the scope, he found Jake McCarty sitting on a bench, reading the newspaper, pretending to be a businessman on his lunch break. McCarty was an expert at this sort of subterfuge, Ian mused. This detective also wore an ear-piece, although he only listened, not partaking in the conversation between Sara and Woo.

Ian let himself enjoy the momentary thrill of holding the world's most lethal gun, waiting to assassinate the world's biggest arms dealer. He loved to kill. It was one of the few times in his life where he felt he had total control of his environment. The sense of power he felt as he pulled the trigger was unlike anything else in his sheltered life. Kenneth Irons was his master. He was the one with the real control. What Ian felt was merely an illusion, which made him relish these fleeting moments.

Suddenly Parsegian appeared within his sights. Wolf was tagging along, like a well-trained puppy. Ian felt a temporary sense of identification with the bodyguard. But all that vanished as the two men bent over. One head superimposed upon the other. Ian pulled the trigger, feeling a shiver of satisfaction, of almost ecstasy, as the gun discharged. It was a perfect moment in his normally monotonous day. The targets crumpled. One bullet--two men dead.

Day 1

I

Detective Jake McCarty walked alongside his partner, Sara Pezzini, as they made their way inside the front door of Kenneth Irons' mansion. Jake wasn't sure how Pez could look so cool and unaffected. He was a mass of nerves inside. Irons was a multi-millionaire who had a bodyguard with enhanced hearing and eyesight who was able to catch bullets in his bare hands. Jake had actually witnessed Ian Nottingham stop three in rapid succession. It gave Jake chills just to think about it. However, it was the enhanced eyesight that brought the two detectives to Irons' door that day.

Two men had been killed yesterday with one bullet from an elevation of several stories. From everything the police and forensics team had researched, it was an impossible shot--for an average human. Nottingham was not average. He had been genetically altered or doped up on secret pharmaceuticals to become a super-soldier in the Black Dragons. With Irons owning his own drug company, which had contracts with the government, Jake knew that anything was possible.

"Welcome, detectives," a cultured voice entreated them. It came from a speaker mounted on the wall above their heads. "Follow the hall you are in, and I'll meet you in front of the library door."

Jake and Sara exchanged looks and did as they were instructed.

Kenneth Irons was waiting for them as they rounded a corner. He was in front of an open door. "Please come in and have a seat." Irons motioned them in with an insincere smile that grated on Jake's nerves.

Sara stood glowering as Irons closed the door and went casually over to a chair. Jake stood awkwardly next to his partner.

"Sara," Irons cajoled, "you'd be more comfortable--"

"Where was Nottingham," Sara interrupted, staying right where she was, "yesterday afternoon between eleven-thirty and noon?"

Irons made a production of sitting and crossing his legs, giving her a relaxed smile. "I don't know precisely."

Sara followed him to the chair, radiating irritation. "Surely, you keep better track of him than that," she responded, while towering over Irons as he sat demurely in his winged-back chair.

He didn't seem to notice her attempt to dominate him. He just looked up at her and replied, "Ian is his own man. I'd be a fool to try and curb his natural tendencies…"

Jake didn't hear the rest of what Irons had to say. He was too busy staring at the painting that hung on the wall opposite him. Shock held him immobile. He had to struggle to keep any verbal reaction from escaping. His heart was pounding in excitement and his palms began sweating. It was Darius! In a painting on Irons' wall.

Jake made himself take a deep breath and exhale slowly. His eyes were riveted to the scene portrayed in oil. A woman was being burned at the stake on the left side of the painting. Three priests stood watching the spectacle with differing expressions on their faces. One was openly laughing. He clutched a bible in one hand, while the other hand was pointing to the burning woman. His mouth was wide open with his eyes glittering with malicious enjoyment.

The second man of God was looking stern and vengeful. He held a large jeweled cross in one hand and seemed to be waving it in front of his body, possibly trying to ward off demons flying from the dying woman.

The third priest had tears falling down his face and his eyes spoke eloquently of his sadness. Beneath his priestly robe, a silver-colored sword tip peeked out near his feet. The difference between the three men's facial expressions and the way they were posed was striking. The painting seemed alive with emotions.

But what held Jake transfixed wasn't the vividness of the painting; it was the identity of the third priest. Darius.

"Jake. Jake!" Sara called.

Jake felt himself pulled away from the vivid portrayal of Catholic justice and back to the mere questioning of a modern power-hungry millionaire.

"Do you like my painting?" Kenneth Irons asked Jake. "That's Joan of Arc. This was her punishment for daring to defy the leaders of the Catholic Church. Do you know her story?" Irons flashed Sara a mocking smile, before turning back to Jake.

"Every kid is taught about her in history class," Jake replied. "She led the French to victory against the English."

"That is part of the story. But there is so much more to her personal victories and sufferings." Irons paused, turning to Sara. "Can you add anything of her life?"

"We're not here to talk about some dead martyr," Sara corrected. "We need to talk to Nottingham. If you don't cooperate, I'll put out an APB and have him picked up."

"Look at it, Sara," Irons entreated. "Don't you find it compelling? Three holy men looking at the murder of a girl. Do you see the incongruity of the men? Two want her dead, each bearing symbols of their devout faith in God. The third, my favorite, wears a sword under his priestly garb, but is visibly upset at her death."

Jake just wanted to get out of there before he clued Irons in to his personal interest in Darius. How would the millionaire react to the knowledge that Jake personally knew of the priest who carried the sword?

"Why can't you answer my question?" Sara kept up her barrage, acting impatient, but keeping her temper in check. "Are you protecting Nottingham? Did he kill those two men?"

A grim smile crossed the older man's face as he replied, "When I see him, I will ask."

Sara threw up her arms in defeat. "You do that." She turned to Jake. "Let's go."

Jake followed her out of the room, but couldn't resist a final look at Darius.


II

Sara surreptitiously observed Jake glance at his watch.

"I think I'm going to head out now," he said, gathering his things.

Sara had noticed that Jake had been acting fidgety most of the afternoon. In fact, it had started after they had returned from seeing Irons. "I've got a few more things to finish here," she told him. "See ya tomorrow."

Jake shoved his arms in his coat, then picked up a pile of folders. "Later, Pez."

Sara waited until he had left before digging into her own pile of folders and pulling out one from the bottom. The file's contents were a private obsession; one she kept secret, especially from Jake. Whenever she was alone she perused it, adding bits and refreshing her memory, hoping for new insights.

The first three sheets were the police report on Bruno Dante's death. In objective detail, they told of a scene where the ground around the body was scorched by what appeared to be a series of electrical discharges. The bloody body was yards away from the head. A sword was still clutched in his right hand, but the blood on the blade did not match Dante's bloodtype.

Sara had gone over the details described in the report until she could recite them all from memory. The detectives assigned to the case had not found the perpetrator, and the case remained open. Although she was not responsible for finding the killer, Sara obsessed about it because of her vision of Dante's death. She saw in shadow two men, one of whom she was able to identify as Dante, fighting with swords. In her vision, she could see it was a fight to the death, no quarter given on either side. Despite the deadly action of the combatants, it was the beheading and what followed immediately after that spooked Sara. The sight of the electricity pouring out of Dante's exposed neck and penetrating the man in shadow gave Sara nightmares at night. It repeated over and over in her mind. She couldn't make it stop. A fragile hope existed that if she were able to solve the homicide she would rid herself of the constant reenactment in her dreams.

The one fact that kept her silent on the subject was that Jake's friend Adam Pierson wielded his own sword. She could still see him bursting into her apartment, brandishing a sword. Immediately following came the look of shock as he gazed at Cassandra, then the subsequent lowering and disappearance of the weapon. Was Pierson the one? And if he had killed Dante, was Jake protecting him? The question haunted Sara's search.
In an effort to find an alternate hypothesis, Sara began investigating other murders that featured beheadings. Much to her surprise, there were several documented cases, all unsolved, in the past twenty years. In fact, her father and Joe Siri had investigated one back in 1985. A man named Victor Kruger had been killed at Silver Stadium. Sara compared all the accounts and found several similarities. In addition to decapitation, all the victims sported ripped clothes and cuts in their flesh indicative of a fight to the death using some kind of blade as a weapon. There was general destruction where the body was found and even remnants of fire that had burned at the time of death. However, there didn't seem to be any connection between the deceased. All walks of life were represented. A wealthy businessman was decapitated in an underground garage. A woman jogging in Central Park in the early morning was found with a nearby tree still blazing. There was a man of Asian descent decapitated in a sleazy motel room. Did electricity also pour out of all those necks to the respective victors? Sara shivered at the thought.

A copy of each case's police report was enclosed within her folder. Each night, Sara looked through the reports, found something to check out, but always came up empty-handed. There were no family or friends of the deceased still living in the city. It was as if they had never existed at all.
Sara absently twirled the Witchblade around her wrist. So far, the ancient relic had remained quiet. No visions had clouded her mind, and a small part of her was disappointed. Maybe Cassandra would help? Listening to the woman had helped Sara in the past. She had been able to relax and the visions had come.

Stuffing all the sheets once more into her folder, Sara grabbed her coat and went home.


III

Jake tossed his coat and files on the table and immediately went to the phone. The answering machine had recorded six messages. Without even listening to them, he placed an international call to Paris. He needed to talk to Joe Dawson.

Jake was baffled as to why Methos had bothered to tell Dawson about his visit to New York, but he was glad, too. Everything he had heard about the
oldest Immortal proved him to be a private, skittish man, who never told anyone anything unless it was important to his own survival. Yet, with Dawson, Methos was more forthcoming. Jake believed that there was real friendship between the two men.

Smiling at the thought, Jake punched in the numerous digits that connected him to Dawson's office at Le Blues Club. The phone rang.

"Hello?" Joe answered the phone.

"Mr. Dawson? This is Jake McCarty."

"Didn't I tell you before to call me Joe?" chided the older Watcher.

"Joe," Jake responded dutifully.

"What can I do for you? Calling to check up on our mutual friend?"

Jake stiffened. While he was curious to know what Methos was up to, he was not going to ask. Previously, when Dawson had called him, it had been the older Watcher trying to pump information from Jake on what Methos had been up to in New York. Jake had admitted nothing, leaving Dawson grumpy. "I've something very interesting to tell you. I'm not sure the correct channel to go through, but I found this painting." Jake stumbled over the words, not sure how to present his discovery.

"A painting of what?"

"Darius is in it."

"Are you sure?" The excitement came through the telephone wires, loud and clear.

"Yup. The picture shows Joan of Arc burning at the stake, and there are three priests watching the spectacle. Darius is one of them. I think the Watchers should try and buy the painting."

"Has the owner given you reason to believe it's for sale?" Joe asked.

"No. Not really."

There was silence for a few moments, and then Dawson asked, "You want me to send someone from the procurement office?"

Jake knew what Dawson was asking: should they steal the painting before alerting the owner of their interest? It wasn't done that often, but when it came to priceless relics belonging to or in reference to famous Immortals, it sometimes became necessary to "procure" them using whatever means available.

"Security is very tight at Irons' mansion. I don't think stealing is an option. The painting will have to be bought by a reputable dealer, or not at all." Jake didn't think anyone could break in with someone like Ian Nottingham guarding the place. With his enhanced senses, not many could get past him. In fact, just last week, Jake had seen Nottingham jump from a seven-story building, land on his feet, and take off running down the street. The man wasn't human; he was a genetically engineered super-soldier. Jake wasn't willing to send a fellow Watcher up against such a formidable foe.

"Let me think about this, Jake, and get back to you." Joe responded and then ended the call.

Jake hung up the phone, satisfied that Joe Dawson would handle it.

IV

Sara sat at her kitchen table with the file open in front of her. The paperwork from each beheading was separated into stacks. As she went through each one, the similarity was obvious, yet the victims had nothing in common. It was unlikely that the murderers were all the same person, so why did they share the same MO? What connected them?

There seemed to have been a series of beheadings in the late winter and spring of '85. Iman Fasil had been killed in an underground parking garage under Madison Square Garden. Lt. Frank Moran and Det. Walter Bedsoe had written up the police report. Sara vaguely remembered Moran, but Bedsoe was still around. She should have a talk with him.

Sara went back to reading the report and noticed that the two detectives had captured a suspect, but he'd been released because of lack of evidence. Sara wrote down the suspect's name, Russell Nash, in her notes. The report stated his address was on Hudson Street. As she added the address the words began to blur on the page. She rubbed her eyes, feeling the ache in her head and the burning inside her nose. The Witchblade swirled bright red colors and suddenly Sara found herself seeing the events as they unfolded. The words were muffled, but it was apparent that the man in the suit was hunting the man in the trench coat and white sneakers. Swords were pulled and the fight was on.

Mists clouded Sara's vision, and then cleared revealing a police station. The man in the trench coat was being questioned. Again Sara couldn't hear the voices, but on a piece of paper the name Russell Nash was written in cursive.

The scene abruptly faded, leaving Sara back in her apartment with someone knocking at her door. The pounding was in synchrony with the throbbing inside her head.

"Sara?" Cassandra called from the hallway. "Are you okay?"

"Coming, Cassandra," Sara yelled back, getting up from the chair to answer the door. "I was just working," Sara told her guest, motioning her inside.
Cassandra breezed in. "Were you deep within a vision? I must have knocked for two or three minutes before you acknowledged me."

Sara hedged. "Sort of."

Cassandra quirked an eyebrow. "Sort of?"

Sara looked away, then noticed her files scattered on the table. Quickly she went to gather them up.

"I'm sorry to intrude. Maybe I should leave?"

Sara felt assailed by guilt. "No, that's okay. I'm just obsessing about Dante's death." Sara rubbed her face, pain still slicing through her head. "It's just that I don't feel I should talk to you about it because Adam Pierson is a friend of yours."

Cassandra burst out laughing. "Adam Pierson is no friend of mine. If you found *him* dead tomorrow, I wouldn't mourn his loss."

"So, you don't feel the need to protect him?" Sara asked, trying to figure out their real relationship.

"Protect him?" Cassandra laughed again. "No, not in a million years."

Sara hesitated, then sat down at the table, gazing at the files. "The way that Dante died--you know, by beheading--it bothers me. So, I went and looked up similar deaths, not really expecting to find anything." Sara looked up and met Cassandra's eyes. "But I did. There have been several murder cases with the cause of death listed as beheadings."

Sara waited, looking for some kind of reaction from Cassandra, but her face remained blank.

"What does this have to do with Adam Pierson?" Cassandra asked, looking puzzled, but Sara could discern the wary tone to it.

"Pierson is my main suspect in Dante's death," Sara explained. "I really think he did it, but there have been so many beheadings that have occurred in
New York and I just can't believe Pierson is responsible for all of them. He just isn't old enough."

Cassandra snorted and covered it up by clearing her throat. "When did all these beheadings occur?"

"They seem to happen in clusters. A few in the '80s, and then one in 1990, but they claim to have caught the murderer, but he killed himself before they could arrest him. The next was in 1994 and the latest was in 1999. Maybe it's some kind of club?" Sara mused aloud.

"Why do you feel such need to find the killer of someone who wanted you dead? I would think you'd be pleased that the threat to your life is gone."

Sara took a deep breath. "It's the manner of *how* he died. Every night I dream about that fight. I see it played over and over. One man is in shadow but the other I can see is Dante. The one I can't see is attacking, taunting, but I can't hear the words. Dante is mad and scared and then his head is chopped off, rolling on the ground. Blood comes out of the neck, and then lightning," Sara shivered, "goes into the man I can't see. Even the added light doesn't help me see the killer."

"The Witchblade is telling you that you aren't ready for the truth. Leave it alone, just for now," Cassandra pleaded and then her voice took on a sing-song quality. "Your dreams are not real. You should forget about the fight and the swords. Abandon your…"

Sara felt her attention drift. Her mind focused on the words Cassandra was saying, hearing the meaning, studying the meaning--then felt the Witchblade yank her from the stupor. "No!" she cried, fighting the hypnotic effect of her guest's suggestion. "I must continue my investigation."

"You will not like what you find," Cassandra warned.

"You know who killed Dante, don't you?" Sara accused.

"I know that you have a closed mind and are not ready to hear the truth. Continue your quest, but remember there are bigger things in this world than your perception of right and wrong. As a Witchblade wielder, you should realize this, but your mind is refusing to accept what is in front of you."

"You *are* protecting Adam Pierson."

"He doesn't need my protection. It is for your own peace of mind that I believe you should end this investigation."

"It's for my sanity that I must continue it," Sara exclaimed, smashing the table with her fist, sending papers flying.

"So be it. I came down to see if you wanted to join me for supper, but it seems you have enough on your plate just now." Cassandra walked to the door and opened it. "If you do discover this truth, I'll help you deal with it," she promised, as she gently closed the door behind her.

Sara felt drained. Dropping her head into her folded arms, she waited for strength to return. It had been exhausting arguing with Cassandra, but necessary. She needed to know who killed Dante.


V

Joe Dawson sat at a table swirling a glass of beer. Patrons often stopped by to say hello, but after a civil exchange of pleasantries they soon left. The subject of Jake McCarty's call never left his mind. After they had hung up, Joe had called Watcher Headquarters and informed them of the find.

"Hi, Joe."

Joe looked up and found Methos staring down at him. "Hey."

"You playing with that or drinking it?"

Joe wouldn't put it past the oldest Immortal to take his glass and drink the rest of the warm beer. "Thinking." Joe paused, considering how much to tell him. Methos knew McCarty, although Joe had never figured out exactly what their relationship was. "Jake McCarty called me today."

Methos' eyes became alert. "Really. Did he ask about me?"

"No. He called to say he found a painting of Darius in someone's private collection."

"What kind of painting?"

"It's not a portrait," Joe answered. "It shows Joan of Arc burning at the stake and Darius is one of three priests."

"Joan of Arc? It must belong to Kenneth Irons."

"Yeah, I think he mentioned Irons."

"What's the plan?" Methos asked, as he seated himself at Joe's table.

"The Watchers are willing to front me as an art dealer for a museum here in France. I'm supposed to buy the thing."

"He'll never sell." Methos signaled a waitress who brought over a large mug of beer. "You can try, but he's very rich and money isn't important to him; power is. Joan of Arc represents power and that's his interest in it."

"You've met this guy?"

"No, his reputation precedes him. Although I bet McCarty has had a few run-ins with him."

"Probably how he saw the picture."

Methos nodded in agreement. Joe couldn't figure out what else to do. The Watchers wanted that painting, and he had to think of a way to get it.
"So, when do you leave for the States?" Methos asked, sipping his beer and peering at Joe over the rim of the glass.

"Why?" Joe responded suspiciously.

"Thought I'd go with you. Wouldn't mind shooting some more pool with Jake."

"You'd stay out of my way when I'm trying to buy the painting?"

"I have no interest in meeting up with Kenneth Irons. I intend to stay as far away from him as possible."

Joe couldn't think of a good reason for Methos not to go and several reasons why it might be nice having him around. "Okay. I'll let you know when my travel plans and cover become finalized."


VI

As soon as Joe became busy with club business, Methos made his escape. Despite his casual manner, he was just as excited as Joe about the painting of Darius and Jeannette. He wondered if the woman had her true features, or that of a generic female. The painting did not belong in the hands of Kenneth Irons, but Methos didn't believe Joe had the remotest chance in buying it from him. For the Watchers, stealing was out of the question. However, for two Immortals, it might be possible. The trick would be to have Ian Nottingham out of the mansion while the theft was taking place. His sensitive hearing would throw a monkey wrench in any plan Methos could come up with.

The first order of business would be to enlist his partner. Methos knew that Amanda was still in Paris, so she would be most likely at her club, the Sanctuary.

As he walked into the loud dance club, he detected the presence of at least one Immortal. He sauntered past the bar, ordering a beer and continued toward where he hoped he would find Amanda. Instead, he found Nick Wolfe, sitting at a table, doing paper work.

"Feel pretty safe in a crowded room?" Methos asked, hoping to put the youngster on the defensive.

"You intending to pick a fight?" Nick answered back.

"Not right now. I want to see Amanda. Is she upstairs?"

"Yup." Nick's eyebrows rose suggestively. "Taking a bath."

"Think I'll go surprise her."

"It's your head," Nick remarked before looking back to his papers.

Methos took the back stairs two at a time, and threw open her door. "Honey, I'm home," he called.

The bathroom door opened, letting an abundance of steam flow into the hallway. Amanda followed the mist wearing only a towel around her torso, water dripping from her legs. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" she purred.

"Get dressed. I've got a proposition for you."

"Usually when propositions are made I don't need my clothes," Amanda teased, then waltzed into another room.

Methos made himself comfortable on her sofa and waited her return. Ideas ran through his head on the best way to tackle the job. Somehow Nottingham would have to be enticed to leave the mansion to be with Sara on some context or another. Irons could be having dinner with Joe to discuss the sale. A wave of perfume assaulted his nostrils. "I think you over did it a bit."

"One must add liberally because it evaporates so quickly," she told him as she slipped into the room.

"Whatever," he added, accepting a glass of wine she so kindly offered him. He would have preferred a beer, but Amanda never stocked it in her home.

"So what's the proposition?"

"I don't want you to tell anyone about this, but I want to steal a painting at a private estate in New York City."

Her eyes lit up in expectation. "Is this owner very rich?"

"Very. He's known to be a collector of rare art and historical relics." He smiled as she shifted in her seat. The idea appealed to her.

"Don't tell me he's got something that used to belong to you?" she teased.

"No," Methos admitted. "This will be a new acquisition. All I want is the painting. Anything else can be yours. Are you interested?"

"Sounds promising." Amanda twirled a wineglass, taking token sips. "Tell me more," she asked, trying to sound calm, but her eyes told him that he had her hooked.

"I want you to fly over as soon as possible and take a look at the set up. I've never been in the house, but I can get information on where the picture is later."

"There's a catch in there somewhere. You're making it sound too easy."

"It won't be easy," he acknowledged her intuition. "In fact, it might be impossible, but I want that picture and Kenneth Irons won't be willing to sell it."

"Kenneth Irons? I think I've heard of him. Vorshlag Industries, right? I think Nick and Bert Myers were investigating them last year. They're doing illegal experiments using human tissue."

"Same guy. The experiments have yielded fruit in that they are able to genetically alter humans. Irons has a security expert who has enhanced hearing and sight and who knows what else. His name is Ian Nottingham, and it is imperative that he's not in the house when we break in." Methos paused, then added, "Making sure he's not in the house will be my job."

"Let me guess, you've made no other plans and you want me--"

"That is your forte, isn't it?" Methos asked, trying to sound innocent.

"I've some connections in New York. Give me some time to check into this. I think we should arrive independently and meet up later."

"Agreed. I'll be flying over with Joe in a few days."

"Joe?" Amanda looked puzzled. "Why is he going?"

"The Watchers want the same painting, and he's going to try and buy it. The owner will refuse to sell and I don't think they're capable of stealing it, whereas we will be."

For the first time, Amanda lost her animation and became serious. "You're trying to get the painting before the Watchers? What's it of?"

"Darius. They want it because Darius is in it."

"And you want it because?"

"It has Darius in it, of course. I might even give it to the Watchers if we're able to get it out. I haven't decided, yet."

"This could be fun," she responded, not exactly sounding sure.

"It will at least be a challenge. I know your life's been boring lately. I don't think anyone's come hunting for you in the past few months."

"Ha, ha, Methos."

His joke brought back her smile, and he felt relieved. He needed her help in order to pull this venture off.


Day 2

I

Sara waited until after lunch to check out the antique store mentioned in her Dante file. Jake was following a lead, trying to tie Nottingham in on the Wolf/Parsegian double murder. Danny was trying to find a tie-in between Irons and the two dead men. All three detectives were positive Nottingham had done the deed, since as Jake had said, "Only a finite array of people were capable of such a shot." Sara totally believed it.

Leaving her two partners thus occupied, Sara left the station and headed for lower Manhattan on Broadway. The traffic was horrendous, and it took all her concentration to keep track of the different motorists surrounding her on the road. At E. Houston Street she turned on her right-hand turn signal. From the intersection it was barely a block to Hudson. She stopped at the traffic light, getting a clear view of the front of Nash's Antiques. It was a typical street front store, with nothing remarkable about the outside. Sara parked her bike, took off her helmet, and headed inside.

Somehow the store was not what she had imagined. The image of Gabriel's hole came to mind, but this was nothing like that. It was artfully designed, with shelving units and glass cases showing off expensive knick-knacks. Victorian and Georgian furniture was positioned on one side of the room with elegant lamps and embroidered throw pillows accenting the illusion of history.

A large roll-top desk was off to the other side, with a few filing cabinets alongside and a computer with a screen saver showing arcs of lightning. A chill ran up Sara's back remembering the vision of the lightning coming out of Dante's neck.

"Can I help you?" An older lady had come up behind Sara as she was looking around.

"My name is Detective Pezzini," Sara began. "I'm looking for Russell Nash. Is he here?"

"I'm sorry, detective. Russell passed away several years ago. His nephew Connor Nash owns the store now, but he's out of the country on a buying trip. A large English estate went on the market--"

"Did you," Sara interrupted, "work here when Russell was still alive?"

There was a long pause before she answered, "Yes," hesitantly.

"I'm investigating a murder. As I was looking through some old files, I came across Nash's name in connection with a beheading that happened in '85. Do you remember anything about it?"

A guarded expression came over the formerly friendly woman. "It was a long time ago. What does it have to do with your investigation?"

"It was also a beheading."

The woman paled. "I see."

"Can you tell me how Mr. Nash died?" Sara asked.

"Five years ago, while staying in Marrakech, he was attacked by bandits. They beat him then shot him for the money he carried."

The woman looked Sara right in the eyes as she told her the story, yet some instinct was making Sara doubt the truth of it. She temporarily set it aside. "Tell me what you remember of the night Russell Nash was accused of beheading a man in the garage under the Garden?"

"Mr. Nash was brought in for questioning and then let go. They didn't have any evidence to keep him. I don't know what his thoughts were; he was not a talkative man. Besides, I'm just a clerk."

Sara took out a notepad. "Can you tell me your name?"

The woman looked uneasy. "Rachel Ellenstein," she paused and then completed her name, "Moran."

Sara wrote down the name, positive that the name should mean something. She went over the facts as she remembered them and then her mind flashed on the arrest sheet. Lt. Frank Moran was one of the detectives who had brought in Nash. Sara arched her eyebrow and gazed at the other woman. "Frank Moran's your husband?"

"Yes," she answered, with a slight smile on her face. "He's captain of Homicide over in Precinct Eight."

"I'll have to talk to him." Sara flipped her memo pad closed and stuffed it in her pocket. 'Thank you for your time."

"That's all?" Mrs. Ellenstein-Moran asked, looking skeptical.

"For now. I'd like to come back and ask you a few more question, if I may," Sara returned.

"Of course," the clerk replied quickly.

Sara left the store, conscious of the other woman's eyes on her as she walked to her bike. Just before she turned the ignition on, a gloved hand grabbed her left arm. Instinct made her swing her right arm around to defend against attack and found that arm too, captured by Ian Nottingham.

"Do your partners know where you are?" he asked, releasing both of her arms as she tugged. "I admit I don't understand the reason for your interest in Nash's Antiques."

"Have you had dealings with either Russell or Connor Nash?"

"Mr. Irons has purchased things from him in the past. Nash's Antiques has a reputation for dealing with only authentic merchandise."

"How does he obtain this 'authentic merchandise'?"

"I do not ask those questions. It is enough that he can. Similarly, when my master buys from your friend Gabriel Bowman, he doesn't inquire how the goods have been obtained."

Gabriel. Why hadn't she thought of him before? Most people involved in the import/ export business of historical merchandise would know of each other, even if one dealt with talismans instead of Tiffany lamps. "Thanks, Nottingham. You've given me an idea." Sara patted him on the arm, revved her engine and took off down the street.


II

Ian Nottingham entered Vorshlag Industries and went immediately to the executive elevator. The receptionist spared him a glance and then continued talking to the man in front of her.

Kenneth Irons was sitting in his office doing absolutely nothing. His fingers were steepled in front of him and his brows were furrowed as Ian entered the room.

"What is she doing?" Irons asked, without preamble.

"She is still obsessed with finding Dante's killer. Today she made a clandestine visit to Nash's Antiques."

"What is the connection to Bruno Dante?"

"Unknown. It could be a connection to beheadings. Fifteen years ago, Russell Nash was brought in for questioning in more than one case where the victim had been decapitated with a blade, most likely a sword."

"Hmm." Irons sat straighter in his chair. "Did Sara find out anything?"

"Only that the current Nash is out of the country. The store clerk's heartbeat corroborated her story. I didn't sense any lying on her part. However, one of the detectives that had brought Nash in is presently married to the clerk. He might have covered up Nash's involvement for his girlfriend."

"Interesting theory, Ian. Look into it."

Irons didn't say anything further, yet Ian made no move to leave. He waited patiently as his master shuffled some papers, and made a phone call. Finally Irons looked up. "You may leave."

Ian nodded in practiced subservience.


III

Sara plopped herself down at her desk. Discouraged but not giving up, she banged the desk top with a fist before picking up a file that had been recently placed in her inbox. After she had left Nash's Antiques, she had driven over to the other station to see Moran. The captain wasn't there and no one knew when he'd be returning. Sara was offered a seat and a cup of coffee, but no guarantees. As soon as she finished the coffee, she decided to leave, but first left a note for the Homicide captain asking that he contact her.

When she arrived back at the station, she went immediately to her desk. After answering several phone calls that were all about other business, Sara was ready to bag it for the day. The trip to Nash's Antiques hadn't yielded anything but more questions. Sara wanted more information on swords and beheadings and why this was happening in her city. Most importantly, why did those who did know, like Cassandra and possibly Jake, protect the activity. The more Sara thought about it, the more she was sure that they both knew for a fact that Adam Pierson had killed Dante. Sara would love about fifteen minutes alone with Pierson in an interrogation room; she'd get him to confess.

"Detective Pezzini?" A short squat man of about seventy hesitantly came into the room.

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"My name is Walter Bedsoe. I used to work here in Homicide, but I'm retired now."

Sara knew the name sounded familiar but she couldn't place it.

"A friend told me you went to see Frank Moran today."

Then it clicked. This guy was the other detective who had brought Nash in for questioning. "Please sit down," Sara urged. "Can I get you some coffee or--"

"No, I just came here to talk to you."

"Will you give me straight answers?"

"As best as I can," he responded.

"Describe what happened that night you brought Russell Nash in for questioning."

"We got an anonymous tip that there was a sword fight going on an underground garage near Madison Square Garden. My partner and I took the call. When we got there, the place looked like a tornado had swept through. Cars had their windows and tires blown. There were scorch marks on the ceilings and walls."

"Was Nash in the garage?"

"He came barreling out in his 1950's Porche." Then he added with an absent smile, "Boy that car was a beauty."

"And you arrested him then?" Sara prodded.

"We had the exits blocked, so unless he wanted to crash into us, he had to stop. We cuffed him, read him his rights and took him in. I'll never forget his eyes; they were wild, like an animal. He looked mean enough to kill anyone."

"Did he have a murder weapon on him?" Sara asked, sitting at the edge of her seat.

"No. We did, however, find a sword that had the dead man's prints all over it."

"And this man--Fasil, wasn't it--was found decapitated?"

"Oh yeah. He sure was and there was blood everywhere."

"Did you have a chance to look around?"

"Not much. Forensics took care of that. I went back to the station with my partner and Nash, where we questioned him."

"Do you think Nash did it?"

"Definitely, but we had no proof, no motive, only opportunity. We had to let him go. That's when Brenda got involved."

"Brenda?"

"Yep. Brenda Wyatt was a forensics scientist. Her father was a renowned expert in ancient swords and the one we picked off of Fasil was really old. The next day, Brenda went back to the garage looking for Nash's sword, figuring he stashed it somewhere."

"Did she find it?"

"No, but she found a place where it had penetrated a concrete beam and was able to get a few slivers of the blade. It was different from Fasil's sword, so she knew definitively that there had been another sword involved. So she began her own investigation of Nash."

"Did she find out anything interesting?"

"Not there. It was later; we were looking at the deeds to the building that Nash lives in and she compared the signatures to each of the owners for the past hundred years or so and found that they had all been written by the same guy. And the name Russell Nash belonged to a baby who had died just after it had been born, back in 1945. The man we knew as Nash had assumed the baby's identity and Social Security number."

"You had him for fraud. Why didn't you arrest him?"

"Because we wanted him for murder," he responded. "Then we got another call. This time we had several witnesses. We thought the case was all tied up until every single one of them denied it was Nash. They described some freak-show guy in leather and chains."

Sara could feel the Witchblade tingling on her arm. That fact was important. Nash had killed the man in the garage, but someone else was also beheading people. "Were you able to find and arrest the second guy?"

"Yes, and no. We found him but he was already dead."

"Let me guess, by having his head cut off."

"Yup. According to Brenda, who by this time had gotten pretty involved with Nash, the second guy came after her and *she* killed him in self-defense."

"You believe her?"

"Hell no! I think Nash killed him and Brenda took the rap to save her lover."

"Do you think the guy really went after her?" Sara reiterated.

"Probably. I guess I believe that part."

"And she killed him by cutting off his head. Why didn't she just shoot him? Was she armed with a sword instead of a gun?"

"I asked her the same thing. She laughed and joked and said sarcastically that it was the only way he could die. It was her or him."

"And Nash? Where was he?"

"Had an alibi. My partner questioned the shop keeper who said Nash was with her all night."

"Rachel Ellenstein?" Sara asked for clarification.

"Yep."

"And then Moran went and married this same woman. How convenient," Sara remarked cynically. "We're there any more decapitations?"

"Nope. Everything got real quiet after that. I think your father and Siri investigated Victor Kruger, the man Brenda said she killed, but they couldn't find holes in her story so it was dropped. Brenda left the department and married Nash. Frank married Rachel, and I still don't know what really happened."

"What do you think I should do now?" Sara asked, curious to see if he would persuade her to stop.

"I don't know. Moran found something out and he wouldn't say what it was. People change around Nash and I didn't want it to happen to me. I just didn't want to be Frank's partner anymore."

"'Cause you didn't trust him?"

"Something like that."

"I understand," Sara empathized. "So where is Brenda?"

"Actually she died in a car accident in Scotland shortly after she and Nash were married." Bedsoe shook his head sadly. "And Nash got out of the car without a scratch."

Sara stiffened in her seat. "You think he killed her?"

"I don't know. Evidence points to it, but she really loved him. I hate to think she'd been duped by him."

"We're still missing something. Events do make sense if you can find how they all connect." Everything is connected, Sara knew from past experiences. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"I don't think so. You're investigating another decapitation?"

"Yes, and I think they may be connected." The word wouldn't leave her mind.

"I'm pretty sure Russell Nash is dead."

"Do you have any pictures of him?"

"I brought his mug shot and a wedding picture of him and Brenda. She sent it to me and told me not to worry about her, that she was very happy. By the time I got it, she was already dead."

"I had a visit with Rachel Ellenstein-Moran. She told me Russell Nash had been shot."

"I didn't know how he died, only that he did. Seemed he lived a very violent life."

Sara had to agree with that assessment. "Thank you very much for taking the time to see me. I really appreciate it."

"No problem. You father was a good man. I still miss him."

"You knew my father?"

"Yep, and I remember you too--coming in, rushing to give Siri a hug and a picture you had drawn in school. I understand you had a hand in bringing down the White Bulls."

Sara accepted the change in conversation, since she had learned everything she could from Bedsoe. "An FBI agent came undercover into the department…," and Sara went on to describe the events. In one respect it was nice to have Jake's cover blown and have him as a real partner instead of a rookie, as she had teased. But the flip side to that was his imminent departure. Nothing had been said, but she knew the FBI didn't leave their agents behind when the case was completed. Jake's days in the department were numbered.

Bedsoe left soon after her explanation. Sara began to sift through what she had learned. Picking up the two photographs Bedsoe had left with her, she stared at Nash's face. They showed two entirely different men. One was in black and white, somber, and he did look mean enough to kill without a second thought. Yet the other, the wedding picture, showed a bright smile, a glowing face and wrinkles to show that he knew how to laugh. Sara had to believe Russell Nash loved Brenda Wyatt.

Absently she twirled the Witchblade around her wrist, but it was silent. No visions of Russell Nash with the laughing eyes or brandishing a sword. What was she missing?

Then she remembered her conversation with Nottingham. She picked up the phone and called Gabriel. "Hey, can you do some checking up for me?" she asked.

"On what?"

"There's and antique store called Nash's Antiques. Give me anything you can find on either Russell and Connor Nash."

"Anything in particular?"

"Nope. I want to know what those men had for breakfast ten years ago. What color suit they wore to church on Christmas."

"You don't ask for much," Gabriel remarked sarcastically.

"I know it's a lot, but a trivial detail might be the key. I don't want you hampered by restrictions."

"Sure, I'll get back to you later."

Sara hung up the phone and sat back in her chair. She had every confidence that Gabriel would come up with something. Meanwhile she logged onto her computer and ran her own background checks on Connor Nash. He didn't have a New York driver's license, so she tried passports next. Yes, his name was listed as having a British passport. She tried to get a picture but when it came up on the screen it was blurry, as if it had been enlarged and then reduced too many times. The facial features weren't distinct, yet it bore a remarkable resemblance to Russell.

Next she began a search in Marrakech and looked for Russell Nash's obituary. She found it. It showed a picture of him and described him as a wonderful father to an adopted baby boy. He donated large sums of money to the local orphanage and helped out personally with the kids' education. Russell Nash was a model citizen. It went on to describe his death and the horror felt by the old woman who had discovered it. Sara sent the article to the printer.

As she waited for the paper to come out, she began thinking about Adam Pierson. Did Adam know Russell or Connor Nash? Would he want to kill Connor? Suddenly the image of Pierson bursting through her door with his sword raised flashed in her mind.

This time she took a good look at his face and found to her surprise--fear. Not hate, nor blood-lust, but genuine fear. Then recognition. The sword was lowered and slid into his coat. Curiously, there was no relief, more like resignation. Cassandra had said that she and Pierson were not the best of friends.

As her memory replayed the action, Sara realized that Pierson had been ready to defend her, or possibly defend Jake, from whoever had been in her apartment. Dante. They, Jake and Pierson, had believed Dante had been inside trying to kill her and Pierson had been ready to defend her. The Witchblade grew warm on her wrist. Her mind flooded with images of a distant time. A man in shadow with an arm raised holding a sword was quickly followed by the sight of Pierson, dressed as a medieval knight, fighting against another with the same sword.

May 23, 1430-morning

She was riding her horse with chaos surrounding her. Her troops wanted to retreat, to return safe inside the city walls, but she angrily commanded them, "Be silent! Think only of striking hard at them!"

De Morency came up to her. "Jeannette, we will lose this day. Please think of France and return inside the walls. If you are taken, we are all doomed."

"God tells me to push on. We cannot lose. Tell the men to fight harder." She jabbed her mount's side, causing him to rush forward into the melee.

"Jeannette!" de Morency cried. "Look to your direction."

She ignored his advice and rode forward. "See, they are falling back in great disorder." Jeannette led her men forward, toward the bridge.
Suddenly the bridge was raised, thus trapping her and her men outside without any protection. That was all the incentive the Burgundians needed. Soon Jeannette found her men surrounded. One of the enemy, a rough archer, pulled her from her horse. His eyes were full of hatred as he man-handled her to the ground. Jeannette feared for her life and looked to the Woman's Glove upon her wrist to help, but it stayed dormant. She used all her might to will it to become a sword so she might thrust it up into this uncouth man, but it wouldn't obey.

A knight came up, demanding the archer to give up his prize to his lord. "I am Wandomme, of noble blood. Give me your faith and I will treat you honorably," he requested.

Jeannette stood up from the mud gazing around at her army's utter defeat. Of her personal guard, only de Morency was within sight. He held an Englishman at the tip of his sword, but did not run him through, all waiting for her to admit defeat. The Voices came to her, telling her the fight was over. Obedience to God required her to be submissive to the ones that had captured her. With a bowed head, she gave them her faith.

^*^*^*^*^*^

Sara shook off the memories or visions or whatever they were and sprang from her chair, grabbing her folder on her way out the door. Conflicting images ran across her eyes. She thought she was going crazy. Adam Pierson was de Morency. Not in the same way as Nottingham was the reincarnation of Alencon, but Pierson was really de Morency, the same man. The thought totally unnerved her. It just wasn't possible.
Without a wasted motion, Sara pulled her helmet on her head and turned on the bike. Revving the engine she pulled out of the parking lot and drove away. As she pulled to a stop outside her apartment building it occurred to her if Pierson was really de Morency, so could Russell be Connor.
Bedsoe's words echoed in her mind. " …we were looking at the deeds to the building that Nash lives in and she compared the signatures to each of the owners for the past hundred years or so and found that they had all been written by the same guy."


IV

Cassandra stretched her legs out in front of her. Her meditation had last over an hour, yet it had done little to relax her. She could feel the Witchblade spinning an intricate web around Sara and those connected to her. The purpose, as of yet, remained unknown. Cassandra worried that it had something to do with Sara finding out about Immortals because of the way she was hunting down Bruno Dante's murderer. Sara was not ready for such information.

Grabbing a can of Slim Fast, Cassandra left her apartment and headed toward Gabriel Bowman's dot com store. She didn't understand why she felt drawn to the young man, but he was a delight to be around. Gabriel was intensely interested in history and its impact on the world around him. Not many were able to see the connection, and even fewer cared. Just last week he was trying to fix a pocket watch that had belonged to Winston Churchill. It wasn't because he wanted a timepiece; it was just because Churchill had used it.

Gabriel's friend was just coming out the front door when she arrived. "Oooo-it's the witch," he said. "Come to turn me into a toad?"

Cassandra smiled wolfishly. "A mere toad? That wouldn't require much work. How about a handsome prince? Now that would be a real test of my powers."

"Very funny. Gabriel's inside. I don't know why…"

Cassandra ceased to listen to him. He always said the same old thing, anyway. Gabriel was indeed inside the shop, working diligently on the computer. His dark curly hair was in more of a disarray than usual, as if he had threaded his hand through it countless times. Cassandra walked quietly behind him and peered over his shoulder. A gasp escaped as she recognized the face on the screen--Connor MacLeod.

Gabriel immediately darkened the screen. "I didn't hear you come in," he replied sounding guilty.

"Sara has you investigating Russell Nash?" she accused.

"You don't approve?" he asked disparagingly.

"Approval has nothing to do with it. Nash would never seriously hurt her--"

"Would never hurt her?" he asked with surprise written all over his face. "That sounds like he's still alive. Is he?"

Cassandra stopped, not sure whether Connor MacLeod had moved on to another persona. "I'm not sure," she answered honestly. "If you think he's dead, why are you bothering to research him?"

"Information," Gabriel responded enthusiastically. "All kinds of circumstantial evidence puts him in the same location as four different decapitations. I hacked into some interesting databases and ran his picture that puts him in several other very strange circumstances. His first wife, Brenda Wyatt, a sword expert, was killed in a car crash in 1987, yet *he* walked away without a scratch."

"And what does Nash being lucky have anything to do with the mystery surrounding Dante's death?" Cassandra asked.

"It's not the luck I'm looking into, but the mystery encompassing the people. Did you know that one of the detectives that had been investigating Nash is now married to Nash's shopkeeper? Also, Nash's own wife was one of the first ones involved in his questioning because of her expertise in ancient swords. More coincidences?"

"No. They probably called her in *because* of her expertise. I don't understand what you hope to learn." Cassandra decided it was time to change the subject. Hopefully Gabriel wouldn't learn anything concrete about Connor. She went over to another chair to sit down and noticed a folder sitting on the shelf. "Witch's Letters," was written in bold across the tab. "What's this?" she asked, opening it up.

"This man in Massachusetts sold me a series of letters. A seventeenth-century witch supposedly wrote them to an accomplice. She described in horrifying detail all the tests and tortures she experienced at the hands of her jailers. In her last letter she actually pleads with her friend to send a spell to enchant her guard into letting her go. That's when they executed her."

Cassandra flipped the pages to the last letter and absently read the words. However, her mind had flown back much further in time. The Burgundians had just captured Jeanette, and Cassandra had found a way to meet with her one last time.

May 23, 1430--night time

The night was cold. Cassandra wrapped the cloak tighter around her body trying in vain to ward off the chill. Tents of every size littered the meadow. Raucous celebrating echoed in the night air. The Bastard of Wandomme had taken the Maid prisoner. The supporters of the dual monarchy had won a great victory by this heroic deed. Or so they believed.

Cassandra knew differently. The Witchblade had told her that only through Jeannette's martyrdom would the people of France be granted their freedom. Now the poor peasant girl was to begin her long ordeal. The old Immortal wanted so much to be able to protect Jeannette, but that action would nullify everything her name had gained. Cassandra must not interfere.

Except to shield the Witchblade.

The tent flap flew open and a man stormed out of Jeannett'e canvas prison. The Duke of Burgundy himself, his face red in anger, stalked rigidly away. Cassandra took her chance and slipped into the tent.

"My lady," Jeannette gasped and fell to her knees. "You have come to deliver me!" Copious tears ran down her cheeks. "I have been so afraid. The English! The duke means to sell me to the English." Fresh tears flooded her eyes.

"Hush, child." Cassandra patted her consolingly on the head. "God will not forsake you. Your life has been devoted to doing His bidding."
"Have you come to take me away from here?"

"No. I cannot, for your hardest task is yet to come. Please don't lose heart." Cassandra found her own eyes filling with tears. She reached down and took hold of Jeannette's hands and pulled her to her feet. "Courage and a stout heart is what you need to rely on."

"I am afraid."

The Witchblade's red swirled and glowed in the dark tent. Cassandra put her hand over it. "Jeannette, listen very carefully." Employing the voice, she commanded, "The Witch's glove must cease to be a bracelet. You have seen it change form, now it will become something new." A ring on Jeannette's finger slipped off and into Cassandra's hand. The Witchblade shrank, twisted and made itself almost a copy of that ring and slid onto Jeannette's finger. "*This* is the ring your mother gave you. Never take it off, for it will never return to you."

The girl nodded her head in understanding, still enthralled by the voice.

"God will deliver you," Cassandra promised, then slid out of the tent, leaving the Maid alone in her incarceration.

^*^*^*^^*^*

"Cassandra? You okay?" Gabriel was shaking her. "You're crying," he sounded stunned. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so sensitive about the Salem Witch Trials."

"Even a witch cannot save everyone she wishes to." She gently wiped the few tears from her eyes.


V

Rachel tried Connor's number again. Why wouldn't he answer? Detective Sara Pezzini had her very worried. Rachel was an expert at reading people who were shooting in the dark in their question and those with just the right amount of knowledge and were looking for the missing link. The good detective fell under the latter category.

Once more she pushed the numbers corresponding to his personal cell phone. No answer and the phone mail wasn't activated. The longer she tried and failed, the more she worried.

Finally, she gave up and called Duncan in Paris.

"Rachel, what's happened?" Duncan asked her.

"I've been trying to get a hold of Connor but he won't answer his phone. I had a visitor today. A detective," and she went on to describe the details. "She knows something; I could just tell."

"What exactly was she looking for?"

"I think she wanted me to admit that Connor has beheaded someone and she wants the particulars."

"Did any of her questions make it sound like she thinks Connor's in New York right now?"

"No. She knows Russell Nash is dead. It's the deed and its consequences that she's interested in. Someone else has been beheaded, and she wants to find the person responsible. Because Connor has been brought in for questioning, she's hoping to find a starting point for her own investigation. I'm pretty used to fielding questions about Connor, but somehow this is different. I know she's planning on coming back. Do you know where Connor is?"

"Alex took him on an archeology dig. The phones probably can't reach him."

Rachel let out a sigh of relief. "What should I do about Detective Pezzini?"

"Do you want me to talk to her?"

"Would you, Duncan? I really hate to ask Frank. He finds the concept of immortality difficult enough. Lying to Walter was about all he could handle."

"Sure, Rachel. I'll catch the next flight."

Rachel hung up the phone, glad that Connor's kinsman was going to take care of it.


VI

Amanda disembarked at Kennedy and made it through customs with a minimum of fuss. Only her bags were searched. Last time she had almost been strip-searched. One of the custom agents had recognized her face and was positive that she was smuggling something illegal into the US. Luckily, at that time, she was clean. This time, she had some of her best equipment with her.

With hips swaying and her handbag flung over her shoulder, Amanda cooed to the baggage handler as he pushed a cart carrying her belongings to a rented car. While her actions might have promised more than a tip, the poor man had to settle for the twenty-dollar bill she teasingly slid into his breast pocket.

Starting the rented BMW, Amanda drove out of the lot and headed for the Crowne Hotel on Broadway. It was not her usual style, but on this trip she wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible. That was not to say she didn't require comfort, since she asked for a Jacuzzi room, for the morning-after late night excursions.

After checking in, the first order of business was to make contact with those she had worked with before. For the next twenty minutes she made a series of calls, setting up meetings and leaving her name and how to reach her with others. Satisfied that her plans had been set in motion, she called down to room service for some dinner then began drawing water for a nice long soak.


Day 3

I

Gabriel pounded on Sara's door. He knew she was in there since it was only six-thirty in the morning.

"What in the hell do you want?" an irritated, but sleepy voice demanded.

"It's me, Gabriel. I've got some news for you." He could hear her stumbling around and then the lock shoved back.

Sara threw open the door. "It had better be good," she warned, still in the process of tying her bathrobe.

Gabriel confidently walked in, stumbling a bit as he caught sight of her wearing only a thin bathrobe. Sara immediately took the box containing croissants and two large coffees, helping herself to one of them. He blushed a bit at his adolescent behavior. She helped herself to one of the coffees, and he followed her to the table. "What's so important that you couldn't wait?" she began.

He quickly forgot his embarrassment as the remembered hurt resurfaced. "You were supposed to call me yesterday and you didn't." Gabriel did his best to keep his own irritation out of his voice. "You asked me to get some information about someone and then when I found something out, you didn't even--"

"I'm sorry, Gabriel. I've been trying to do two jobs at once and failing at both." She took a sip of the hot brew. "I did manage to gain some information, and it's really knocked my socks off."

Gabriel broke into a croissant and lathered it with butter. "Let me tell you what I found out. It's truly amazing." Gabriel was pleased to see that Sara was finally giving him her attention. He could hardly sit still he was so excited.

"Okay," Sara acquiesced, taking a sip of her coffee.

"First, Russell Nash married the forensics expert who was investigating him for a beheading back in '85."

"Yep, found out about that."

"The wife, Brenda Wyatt, died in a car accident where Russell Nash was able to escape without a scratch." Gabriel looked at Sara, but it seemed she already knew this, also. "I've got a picture of Russell, taken during his arrest by someone who had attended the wrestling match." He pulled out the picture, which showed a man getting cuffed. His eyes were wild as he fought the officers with a vengeance.

Sara picked up the picture. "He looks like a very dangerous man."

"Look at his clothes. He'd definitely been in a fight. There's grease streaks down his shirt and his pants have a slice in one of the legs. I can't believe the cops didn't pick this up."

Sara took a closer look. "You're right. I can feel the violence the man was feeling."

"The Witchblade telling you that?"

"No, the picture is. The photographer is very good. What else do you have?"

"There was another series of beheadings a few years later. One of the detectives began investigating Nash, because he believed the man was involved. Nash fled the country and didn't come back, according to the detective. Yet, five years after that, Connor Nash inherits the antique store, also coming from Scotland. I found a picture of him. It's the same guy. Russell didn't die; he faked his death, because he wanted to return to New York."

"No, that's not true." Sara told him. She jumped up and grabbed a folder, which she brought back to the table. "I found Russell's obit and there's no doubt he died--a very public death. You can't fake that," she added.

Gabriel took the printout and read it through. He had to agree that it looked authentic.

"You said you have a picture of Connor Nash?" Sara asked.

"Yeah, here. Back in '94 there was some kind of show. The antique store featured work by a Parisian sculptor."

"Not their usual line," Sara commented.

"Yeah, but they did and the press showed up. Here's a picture taken and I swear the man looks just like Russell." Gabriel handed the picture to Sara.
She looked at it closely. "You're right. It does look like the same person. It's the eyes." She kept staring at the picture. "How can Russell have a public death, yet not be dead?"

Gabriel didn't know how to answer. "I don't know. And what does all this have to do with the beheadings you're investigating?"

Sara's eyes glazed and she stared straight ahead. Gabriel became nervous. "Sara? You okay?" He got up from his chair and went over to her. "Sara," he repeated, shaking her shoulder.

"My God, Gabriel!" Her body started to shudder. "It's staring us in the face."

"What is?" he asked, concerned.

"When I was talking with Bedsoe, one of the detectives who had brought in Russell Nash, he told me that Brenda Wyatt joked about--"

"Wait a minute. You haven't filled me in on this part. Start at the beginning."

Sara quickly informed him about the conversation. "Brenda Wyatt said that she had to decapitate that man because it was the only way he could die. That's it. It's why they go around cutting off heads."

"That doesn't make any sense. The obituary said that Russell Nash was dead. They documented it. How can he then *not* be dead?"

"I don't know. What if Connor Nash really is Russell? What if he died, but then came back to life?"

"That's a big jump."

"Yeah and earth shattering. Like the kind Cassandra wouldn't want me to know?"

Gabriel remembered the visit he had with Cassandra. "She came to see me yesterday and saw that I was investigating Nash. She didn't like it, but when she spoke of him she used the present tense. When I said Russell was dead, she back-peddled, but she was covering up her own snafu. She thinks Russell Nash is alive."

"She recognized his picture?"

"Yes."

"What if I showed her a picture of Connor and asked her if it was Russell? Think she could tell the difference?"

"Don't know." Gabriel considered it. Then he started thinking more about Cassandra. "Didn't she say that she knew Joan of Arc, like she had been alive at the same time?'

"But she was kidding, wasn't she?"

Gabriel continued his thought. "What if she were telling the truth? What if there's a whole group of people who can't die except by decapitation, wouldn't that mean they would live a very long time?" It all made a strange kind of sense.

"This other group of people, I even think they can feel one another. When Jake first brought Adam Pierson over, Pierson burst in my apartment waving a sword. I think he felt Cassandra and thought it was Dante. Cassandra acted weird too, just before Pierson barged in. She jumped from the couch and reached for her sword. It was too fast to have been anything other than instinct driving her."

"Go on," Gabriel implored, totally fascinated with the story. "Did they fight?"

"No. Once they recognized each other the weapons went away."

"That's why Cassandra is qualified to teach *you* how to wield a sword," Gabriel reflected aloud. "She must have to do it all the time. Why else would such an action be so instinctive?"

"Before Pierson left, he made sure Cassandra was going to stay with me for protection--my protection. As if Dante wouldn't dare hurt me if he knew she was there."

"You mean if Dante could feel her close, he wouldn't attempt anything?"

"Yep, that's what I think. Plus, I don't think Cassandra is the only one old enough to have known Joan of Arc; I think Pierson knew her too. I'm having strange dreams and Pierson's in them, except he's called de Morency, and once Cassandra called him de Morency. He's the one who physically taught Joan of Arc how to fight with a sword."

"Like what Cassandra is doing with you now?"

"Yes. The few times I saw Pierson, he looked at me strangely, like he knows me, but isn't going to say so. Or like he wants to say something, but is holding back."

Gabriel began putting more pieces together. "So, someone beheaded Dante because that was the only way he could be stopped. Regular death wasn't gong to cut it, pardon the pun."

"Pierson did it, to protect me."

"So, we have a subset of the human population that can't die except by having their head cut off. Cassandra and Adam Pierson are two of them," Gabriel tried to sum up what they were saying.

"Yes, and so is Russell Nash and so *was* Dante," Sara added.

"And they go around fighting each other with swords?" Gabriel asked, not really believing what they were saying. It sounded too far-fetched.

"I'm beginning to think these fights happen all the time but somehow are kept secret." Sara began pacing the room. Gabriel watched as she went back and forth obviously as upset at their conjecture as he was.

"That must mean there are a lot of these immortal people out there. Kind of scary, you know." Gabriel felt a shiver run down his back. "I bet they're not all good-guys, either."

"You're right." She stopped in front of him. "In one of the police reports I read, one witness, a mercenary type, said he pumped something like forty rounds from an automatic rifle into this one guy dressed in leather and chains, and the man with the sword just kept coming. The bullets didn't even slow him down. No one could explain it."

"Are you going to tell Cassandra what you found out?"

"No. I want to go back and talk with the woman who works at Nash's Antiques. She knows all about this, and I want her to explain it better."

Gabriel was quiet, thinking of the ramifications. "Wonder how old Cassandra and Pierson really are? How are they born in the first place? How many are there in all?" Gabriel couldn't stop the flow of questions that bombarded his mind.

Sara shrugged her shoulders. "I could ask, but I'm sure she won't tell me."

Both were quiet as they digested both the breakfast and the strange information. In Gabriel's life he had seen and heard of bizarre and mysterious things, but people who go around cutting each other's heads off was by far the weirdest. "Has the Witchblade said anything?"

"It hasn't exactly spoken, but I've seen visions of sword fights and decapitations. At least it isn't telling me I'm wrong."

Gabriel drained his coffee cup. "Guess I better go so you can get ready for work. Let me know if that woman tells you anything new."

"Sure thing," Sara agreed.

Gabriel left Sara's apartment with dozens of things to think about. He wanted to do some checking on the web and see if anyone else had knowledge of these immortals.


II

Jake got out of his car and proceeded to walk inside the Precinct Eleven building. Just as he touched the doorknob, he felt a shadow move next to him.

"You are looking for me?" Ian Nottingham asked, head slightly bowed, but eyes glaring up at Jake.

With a grimace and an uneasy gulp, Jake responded. "Yes, we would like to ask you some questions."

Nottingham said nothing, but waited with his intense eyes locked onto Jake.

Feeling extremely uncomfortable, Jake asked, "Why don't we go to my desk?"

"You share an office with Sara?" He made it sound almost like a statement instead of question. In fact most of the time there seemed to be more than one meaning to his words.

"And Danny Woo."

Still Nottingham didn't move. "You need to open the door, detective."

Feeling foolish, Jake finished pulling the door open, and Nottingham slid inside. Without directions, Nottingham seemed to know exactly where the office was located. Jake couldn't help thinking how dangerous Irons' pet, as Sara called him, could be. Nottingham rivaled some of the deadliest Immortals; at least when *they* were shot, you had a chance to escape. Jake believed that if Nottingham wanted you dead, nothing much could stop him.

In short time they entered the little room that served as an office. Nottingham immediately took Sara's seat and sat primly with his hands folded in his lap. Jake wasn't sure what to do. He wanted to listen to his phone messages, but not with a suspect within hearing distance. Jake shuffled some papers on his desk, trying to look busy.

"Don't you have questions for me?" Nottingham asked softly.

"I'd rather wait for Pez or Danny to come in."

"Of course. You *are* the rookie."

Jake noted an inflection in the other man's voice that he couldn't define. It was almost accusatory, but with a tinge of irony. What did the other man know?

"I am not a rookie, but an FBI agent," Jake countered, yet couldn't keep out a certain tentativeness tone in his voice. No doubt Nottingham heard it loud and clear. Jake felt disgusted with himself.

Suddenly Nottingham stood and a smile spread across his face. Jake shivered.

"Morning, Jake." Sara walked in. "I brought some…" Her voice trailed off as she noticed the visitor. "What's he doing here?" she asked bluntly, setting the tray of Starbuck's coffee down on Jake's desk.

"Mr. Irons said that you wanted to talk to me. You know," Nottingham moved effortlessly next to Sara and grasped her hand, "I am always willing to converse with you."

She shook her hand free and walked to the other side of her desk, grabbing a coffee on her way. "Right. But shouldn't we be in an interrogation room? Huh, Jake?"

Jake quickly stood, feeling guilty that he hadn't taken Nottingham directly there. Sara gave him an aggravated look then led Nottingham out of the room. The suspect followed Sara like a puppy. Jake grabbed his coffee and quickly went after them.

"We want to know," she began as Nottingham took a seat, "where were you between twelve and three the day before yesterday?"

Nottingham glanced malevolently at Jake then answered, "Watching you, Sara."

Jake stiffened at the strange choice of words. Was there a hidden message in there? Did he know anything about the Watchers? Jake saw what could pass as a tender smile cross Nottingham's face as he looked Sara.

"You are such a pleasure to behold."

"Cut it out, Nottingham," she scolded, crossly. "Do you know Armand Parsegian?

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Were you aware you were surveilling the man you were paid to bodyguard?"

"I'd be a poor bodyguard if I didn't." Nottingham looked speculatively at Jake, but continued to address Sara. "Have you ever wondered how your partner," he said derisively, "obtained this job over several candidates who were actually qualified?"

Jake could feel Sara's eyes dart to him, then focus back on Nottingham. "Yes, he was here undercover. Stop changing the subject. Did you intend to take out both men with one shot?"

Nottingham refused to give ground. "Whoever killed Parsegian prevented thousands of murders."

"I know saving lives was not your motive." Sara commented.

"His assassin should be thanked."

Sara interrupted. "Only three or four people in the world are capable of making a shot like that. I think you anticipated a double cross and took matters into you own hand to protect your master. Am I close?"

"Not close enough." He made to slide the chair closer to where she was standing.

She skirted to the other side of McCarty.

Jake posed his own question. "Did Kenneth Irons command you to kill, or was it your idea?"

"I do follow orders from my superior, but it's easy when there is only one. How do you manage to keep all your superiors separate?" he asked with a knowing smile.

"If you're alluding to the FBI, it is a well known fact that--"

"Jake, you don't have to defend yourself to a suspect," Sara reprimanded.

"Don't you get confused, Detective McCarty? Whose orders have priority? Are you a detective? An agent? Or something else entirely? Do you even remember who you really are anymore?"

Jake rapidly stood, but Sara was there and threw him back in his seat. "Nottingham! Enough of these games! You're free to go, but we'll be keeping our eyes on you."

Nottingham stood and walked to the doorway. "If you want to stay close to me, Sara, just ask. We can be inseparable, if you wish." Then he left.

Jake noticed that Sara was shaking with anger as much as he was. "How does he do it?" he asked, not totally rhetorical. "We're the police. We should have command of the interrogation, yet from the moment he arrived, it felt like he was one in control."

"We let our emotions get the best of us," she answered wryly. "Nottingham has no emotions."


III

Joe was standing behind the bar talking to another Watcher who was stationed in Rouen. They had just finalized Joe's cover for when he went to New York. Joe was now a curator for a museum in Rouen sent to New York to buy the painting of Joan of Arc as she was burning. He was authorized to spend up to five hundred thousand dollars, with an option for more if the American tycoon proved difficult. Joe hadn't told him that McCarty had warned him that Mr. Kenneth Irons was more than merely difficult.

Joe said goodbye and noticed Duncan MacLeod coming into the bar carrying a suitcase. "Going somewhere, Mac?"

"Yes. New York City. Rachel just called. She's having problems with an overzealous cop who's investigating Connor and beheadings. I'm flying over to run interference."

Joe couldn't believe it. He wasn't sure whether to tell Mac of his plans or not. They didn't really concern the Scot, but on the other hand, Methos was going and it didn't concern him either. "I may have business over there myself."

Mac gave him a knowing smile. "I'm sure you do. Bye."

Joe laughed to himself. The egomaniac believed that Joe's business had to involve him. Well, maybe it was better that way. He'd hate to see Mac if he knew about the painting of Darius. He'd want it for himself. At least Joe knew that Methos had no interest in it.

About ten minutes after the Scot had left, the oldest Immortal came striding in.

"Hey, you just missed MacLeod," Joe told Methos as the newcomer took a seat at the bar. Without being asked, Joe filled a glass of beer.

"Thanks," Methos responded, taking a chug. "How's he doing?"

"For some reason, Rachel is being bothered by some cop investigating beheadings and has tied it in with Connor."

Methos sat up straighter on the stool. "Did MacLeod mention the cop's name?"

Joe's internal radar kicked on. "Nooo," he answered slowly, considering why this might interest Methos. "Why?"

"Just curious. Does he know we're going there, too?"

"I mentioned that I might have business in New York, but I never said anything about you."

"Good plan."

Joe waited for him to expound on his response but nothing else was forthcoming.

"So, when do we leave?" Methos asked. "I take it the Watchers have come up with your fake ID and cover for this enterprise."

"I'm all set. They even gave me a ticket for a flight tomorrow morning."

Methos drained his drink. "I'll pick you up at home around six?"

Joe agreed. Methos was being generous.


IV

Sara waited for her shift to be over before heading directly for Nash's Antiques. She really wanted to question Rachel Ellenstein-Moran again. This time Sara was armed with more knowledge.

Parking her cycle outside, she carried her helmet and entered the front door, sending the little bell jingling.

"Can I help y--" The woman stopped, a disgruntled expression crossing her face. "You're back."

"Hello. I've got some more questions."

The proprietor gave a big sigh, but showed Sara to a seat.

"I just want you to know," Sara began, trying to reassure the lady, "that in no way am I implicating you in any crime. I just want some information, and I think I've guessed what's going on." Sara watched the woman's face pale.

"What do you think you know?" she asked hesitantly.

"There are some people out there who are different. That can't die except by decapitation. Some are good, some bad. My captain was a person like this, but he was corrupt. Another man, thinking to help me, fought him with a sword and cut off his head. Then there was lightning that flew out of the dead man's neck and entered the victor's body."

"You witnessed this?" Rachel asked, sounding amazed.

"Not exactly," Sara hedged, not wanting to confess to visions.

"And you know who it was that killed your captain?"

"Yes. I'm pretty sure although I don't have a confession."

"What is it you want me to say?"

"I know there's more. The man who killed Dante had to be at least six hundred years old," Sara calculated how long ago Joan of Arc had lived, "probably more than that."

If anything Rachel paled even more. "Is he still in New York?"

"No. If he were, I'd be pounding on *his* door trying to get to the bottom of all this. Do you know how many of these people there are?"

"Not really."

At least the woman hadn't contradicted her theory. It was a good start. This British-sounding woman with very correct manners wouldn't find it easy to really confide in her. "When did you meet Russell Nash or whatever his real name is?"

Rachel took a deep breath. "He rescued me in World War II. I was just a little girl wandering around dead bodies looking for my parents." The woman shuddered. "He became my knight in shining armor. Have you ever had one of those?"

The question was rhetorical, but Sara answered it any ways. "Yes. Probably the man who killed Dante thought that he was acting as my knight." Sara visualized de Morency as he rode beside her--no, not her--but Joan of Arc.

"Can you tell me about the lightning? Is it dangerous to regular mortals, like us?"

"It is very dangerous."

"What's it called?" Sara looked at Rachel intently, trying to get answers by shear force of will.

"Quickening," Rachel responded, reluctantly.

Sara could feel the Witchblade's heat radiating into her wrist. "What does this Quickening do to the person it goes into?"

"It carries the essence of the dead Immortal. Sometimes during the Quickening, actual memories can assault the one still alive. I've heard it described as both agony and ecstasy. Mostly it's just exhausting."

There was something else that the woman wasn't saying, but Sara couldn't figure out what it was or how to ask for it. "I understand you don't want to tell me. But how else can I find out what's going on and not do something stupid? I need you to guide me in this. Please help," Sara pleaded.

"I really shouldn't. It's not my secret to divulge. You know too much, and if the wrong person found out you could be tortured and killed. You're not supposed to talk about it openly. Walls have ears, and someone is always listening in."

Sara could feel the defeat. "Here's my card. Call Nash. I know Connor and Russell Nash are the same person. Ask permission to talk to me or better yet have *him* talk to me."

Rachel smiled gratefully. "Maybe."

Sara left feeling dissatisfied, although she had learned two things. They called themselves Immortals, and the lightning was called a Quickening. It wasn't enough. Cassandra was no help, although maybe now, she'd explain her more. Brightening with the idea, Sara headed home, via her favorite Chinese take-out.


V

Ian Nottingham stood outside Sara's window and watched her pummel the punching bag. It had been such torture being with her at the police station and not being able to really talk. Or touch. While he thoroughly enjoyed the sight of Sara exercising, with her muscles rippling and sweat beading on her arms and face, it was meeting face to face, that Ian treasured the most. Because it was then that she saw him. Someday her eyes would light up in happiness when they met. He hated the distrust she now showed him, the revulsion that her eyes revealed. Someday, he promised himself, Sara would look at him just as Jeanette had looked at Alencon, her fair knight.

Turning, he leaped down to the ground, passing the darkened window of the witch who lived below his lady Sara. Cassandra hadn't been home since lunch, when she had left in a cab. Ian had decided not to follow, having Vorshlag business to attend to.


VI

Duncan MacLeod arrived at Connor's a little before nine. Rachel had cooked dinner and was waiting for him.

"I am so glad you're here, Duncan. This woman has me really worried."

"But she isn't after Connor?"

"She says she isn't, and I believe her. There's someone else and he's older, at least six hundred years old. That's the immortal who killed her captain. I asked Frank about it, and he said to fob her off with half-truths and be done with it. But I think she's too smart for that."

Duncan smiled. "Give me the card and I'll go visit her tomorrow." He sipped the excellent vintage Rachel had served with dinner. Connor always stacked the best cellar, no matter which of his houses you were staying at.




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