Incongruities

By Lori

Day 4

I

Joe and Methos had made it to their flight in good time. As soon as the plane took off, Methos pushed his chair back and took a snooze. It was hell waking up so early. Even Joe didn't seem to mind the quiet as he too, had reclined and closed his eyes. No doubt his companion was dreaming of obtaining the painting and the pride that went with the acquisition. Methos had conflicting thoughts on the journey.

Amanda had emailed him to say that everything was going according to plan. She had had an Immortal friend locate an old set of blueprints for the mansion from when it was built back in the sixties. Rolf Vrank, head of the security company that had installed the latest system in the house, had unknowingly donated the file to the cause. Amanda assured Methos that she had copied it and returned it without the company knowing that it had gone missing.

Now the only thing for Methos to decide was what to do with the picture once they had stolen it. Should he give it to the Watchers or keep it for himself? Part of him hated the thought that the people who had destroyed the worthy priest would be the ones to possess such a treasure. However, they would take the best care of it and keep it hidden from the authorities. Irons wouldn't have any idea how to begin looking for it. Maybe Methos could request that it be kept in Paris so he could go look at it when the mood hit.

Paris. Thinking about the city in connection to Jeannette brought to mind another painting. This one also contained Darius, painted by Van Eyck, but it was a much happier scene. This sitting took place just after the Maid's capture and before the administrators of the Catholic Church in England, motivated by jealousy and fear, got their hands on her. The Burgundian court and their learned theologians were still innocent of the crimes they would be blamed for in the centuries to come.

Methos remembered his trip to Paris after Jeannette's capture. It hadn't been easy, but the need to see Darius had overwhelmed any other consideration.

July, 1430

Methos pretended a limp as he arrived at the Paris gate. His clothes were in tatters and there was dirt streaked down his face. The journey had been long and arduous, and he made sure he looked the part. Most of his time was spent avoiding patrols who were looking for French sympathizers. The concept of dual monarchy was proclaimed to be the will of God and anyone disagreeing with England's rule was immediately incarcerated to be executed en masse.

Methos was willing to proclaim anything if only he could find Darius. He was probably the one man in the whole world who might be able to put a stop to the tragedy that would occur if Jeannette went to trial. Darius was respected by both the bishops and the noblemen.

The roads were filled with tradesmen and wagons. Methos dodged the Burgundian soldiers, using the multitude as a shield. The smell of baked bread made his stomach growl. He stopped at one of the sellers and purchased a loaf, breaking it and eating it as he walked.

One more side street and he came upon the little church that Darius called home. An Immortal presence loomed in front and there was Darius in his robes watching as Methos approached.

A welcoming smile filled Darius' face. "Methos! It has been many years. Come in. I've got some fresh beer one of my parishioners brought over last night."

Methos felt such gladness at the sight of his friend's face. "Thank you."

An hour later, Methos had cleaned up and was enjoying dinner, beer and a game of chess.

"Are you in trouble, old friend?" Darius asked, concerned.

"No. They believe me to be dead. I was in the service of the Maid."

"They killed you?"

"Yes. A sword through the back. It was not a dignified way to die, but at least it wasn't across the neck."

"You had a lucky escape. You wish to hide here?"

"I want your help in stopping the travesty that is about to occur."

"How?"

"You have influence at the university. Talk to the bishops and theologians. They cannot all condemn her."

"It is too late. The king of England is already in discussion with Rome and the duke of Burgundy. They believe she is a witch."

"But she is not. She talks to God." Methos had to convince Darius to take on Jeannette's cause.

"I believe you. But they will not."

"Will you help?"

"Yes, Methos. I will travel to the university tomorrow morning. News of her capture has energized the different departments. They are all pouring over old texts to find precedence for heresy trials. I may be able to find a sympathetic ear."

"Thank you. Jeannette does not deserve this fate."

Darius sighed deeply. "I think it is best that we retire for the night. I will leave early, but you are free to read through my library. I believe I've made some new acquisitions that might interest you."

Methos felt his eyes light up. Darius had the finest collection of books of anyone he knew. Passing the time reading was one of Methos' most enjoyable practices. "Thank you."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Methos woke suddenly, feeling disoriented. The musty smell of the old church was replaced by the flat odor of reconditioned air in the plane. He looked out the window and saw white billowy clouds. Joe, seated next to him, was snoring softly. Too restless now to sleep, Methos pulled out his laptop and plugged it into the internet connection on the seat in front of him. The computer booted up silently, and the first thing he did was check his email. To his surprise there was a letter from his friend at the Vatican.

The oldest Immortal stiffened in his seat as he read the message. Somehow, the archivists at the Vatican had found out that the Witchblade now resided upon Sara Pezzini's wrist. Horrified that another young woman would wield such power, they had dispatched an envoy to repossess the ancient relic. They had written proof that it had belonged to them and had been stolen during World War II, and they were prepared to demand its return.

Swallowing thickly, Methos realized that he'd have to visit either Cassandra or Sara. It wasn't something he could let Jake McCarty handle.

"You okay, Methos?" Joe asked, looking concerned.

Methos quickly cleared his screen. "Fine. Just wish we'd hurry up and get there."

Joe looked dubious, but refrained from more comments. Methos shut down the computer and began thinking of the best way to inform Sara of this new obstacle. He didn't doubt that there was a way around the situation, but could Sara figure it out on her own? With a sinking feeling he realized that he'd have to tell Cassandra, and let her work out a solution with the wielder. It wasn't his place to interfere.


II

Jake woke to a pounding on his door. It was Saturday morning, and for once he had a day off. He flung open the door, ready to berate the person on the other side, but stopped, sputtering incoherently as he recognized his mentor, Howard Wyatt, standing there.

"Morning, Howard," Jake finally muttered, letting the older man in.

Without preamble, the Watcher and FBI deputy director began his verbal assault. "I just found out that Joe Dawson is flying here. Not only that, but my son is also coming, because Methos has decided to accompany Dawson. Did you know about this?"

"Noooo," Jake answered hesitantly.

"How could you not know when it was your call to Dawson the precipitated the trip?''

Jake kept the dumb look on his face.

"Why didn't you tell *me* about this mysterious Darius painting that Kenneth Irons owns? I could have used the FBI's resources to gain access to the mansion and then confiscated it as stolen merchandise. We would have had more luck getting it my way than with Dawson impersonating a museum curator, or whatever he's planning."

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't think of that. It was my duty to inform the Western Europe contingency about an artifact from their area. I sort of know Dawson and just called him out of reflex. Why didn't they ask you to help instead of working on this cover for Joe?"

"I'm disappointed in you, Jake."

Jake didn't want to admit that he hadn't given Howard a thought, so he latched onto the other information his mentor had imparted. "Did I hear you say that Methos is arriving here with Dawson?" Jake wanted to make sure he got that part right.

"Yes," Howard confirmed. "The Watchers have booked Joe a room in the Waldorf Astoria, needing to uphold the cover of a wealthy art buyer."
Would Methos ask to stay with him? Probably not, since he hadn't even notified him of the trip in the first place. Uncomfortable, Jake decided to redirect the conversation. "Are you almost finished cleaning up the White Bulls?"

Howard stiffened, then accepted Jake's change in subject. "Yes. The FBI is just tying up a few loose ends."

"When will I be reassigned?" Jake wasn't anxious to leave.

"I don't have anyone right now for you to Watch. Maybe you should stick around and keep an eye on Cassandra and see what business she has with Sara Pezzini. Melanie has reported that the two women spend an inordinate amount of time together. Do you know anything about this?"

"A little. Bruno Dante wanted Pezzini dead because she was trying to tie him into the White Bulls. Cassandra appointed herself as a protector, of sorts, I think."

"You didn't orchestrate that, did you?" Howard asked, accusingly.

"No, of course not. I wouldn't have the guts to talk to Cassandra , let alone ask her a favor. It was just chance that made her move into the same apartment building."

"Good. And chance is going to help, yet again."

Jake looked at his mentor with puzzlement.

"You'll be able to Watch Cassandra while visiting your partner," he replied.

Jake tried not to let the relief show on his face.


III

Cassandra took a deep breath and slowly let it out, also relaxing her body. The workout had been intense, leaving her both tired and exhilarated. Her calm and peace-of-mind seemed almost drug-induced. A knock at the door brought her back from her inner preoccupation.

"Why, Sara, please come in, " Cassandra invited as she recognized her visitor. "I haven't had a chance to make coffee, but--"

"We need to talk." Sara strode purposefully into the apartment and proceeded to pace. "I discovered some things yesterday,'" she began.

Cassandra felt her peace evaporate to be replaced by dread. It was always frightening when people found out about Immortals. One never knew how they'd react. Obviously the Witchblade wanted Sara to have this knowledge. Could it be some kind of test? "What did you find out?"

"How old are you? Your *real* age."

"I can't tell you the exact month or year. I don't think they kept records back then, but I'm somewhere over three thousand. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Sara took a step backward, looking shocked at the answer. "Really?"

"Yes. Tell me what happened." The request held an involuntary hint of The Voice.

"I met with another detective; one who had arrested Russell Nash fifteen years ago. Between the things he told me and pieces that Gabriel and I were able to put together, the only logical conclusion is that there are people around who don't die unless you cut off their heads. Is that why you're so good with a sword--self defense?"

"I come from a time when wielding a sword was as common as wearing sun-glasses are today. Everyone had them."

"Do all Immortals carry a sword?" Sara persisted.

"If they want to survive," Cassandra admitted.

"Adam Pierson carries a sword; I saw it. My visions say that he killed Dante."

"Yes, Dante was immortal and not a very nice one, either--he wanted you dead. He knew he couldn't afford to go to jail, which was what the end result of your investigation would entail. In such a closed environment someone might discover his secret, and that was something to hide at all costs. In order for him to survive, you had to die, because nothing would make you stop your hunt. He really had no choice."

Sara whispered, "One of us had to die."

"I'm glad it was him." Cassandra looked directly at Sara. "If Adam hadn't done it, I would have."

"Can I see him? Talk to him about it?"

"I don't know where he lives. I make it a point to forget he exists."

"Why?" Sara asked; the curiosity was evident on her face.

"Just because." Cassandra refused to be drawn further. Sara didn't need to know of her history with the oldest of their kind. Yet, even as she thought this, the Witchblade became bright red and a vacant look crossed Sara's face.

"I see you in the desert, arguing with other women, carrying a basket of food. You walk into a tent and Adam is sitting, no, reclining on something. He says something which causes you to scurry and bring him--"

"Enough!" Cassandra cried out in pain, as her memories gave a picture to Sara's words.

Sara blinked. "I'm sorry."

Cassandra was silent for a couple of minutes, collecting her composure. "Did you see more?" she asked tentatively.

"Explain what a Quickening is?" Sara asked instead.

"Who told you that word?" Cassandra asked sharply, still reeling from her emotional roller-coaster.

"Rachel. She said that the lightning I've seen is called the Quickening."

"It is our essence." Cassandra brought a sharp knife from the kitchen and sliced her arm. "See the blue light as my arm heals? That is my Quickening, my power."

Sara kept her eyes on the wound as it healed. Cassandra tried to determine if her young protégé was scared, revolted or anything in between.

"I'm still having nightmares," Sara blurted. "I can't make them stop. I hoped by finding out the secret, it would make them go away. The sight of Dante's head falling from his shoulders, the blood spurting and the lightning arcing from his neck into the man in shadow won't leave my mind."

"Maybe what you feel is guilt. Or anger that someone else fought the battle for you? Or maybe a mixture of the two. I've been tortured by nightmares for most of my life. I see a band of men come into my village, killing everyone I loved, leaving only me alive. I remember the blood, the vacant eyes, and the screams." Her voice shook. "Discovering outside truths won't make the dreams go away. Only the ones found in your soul eases the pain. I don't think knowing about immortality will stop your mind."

The women stared at each other. Cassandra was openly sad, while Sara still looked confused. "Thank you, Cassandra. You've given me something to think about." Sara left the apartment, still appearing lost.

The peace the old Immortal had gained before her neighbor's arrival had fled--leaving the old hurt. She slumped to the floor, crossing her legs as she emptied her mind of thought and feeling. The Horsemen disappeared and she found herself floating on a wave of serenity. There was no pain or loss, only the familiar hollowness.

The ring of the telephone jarred her out of her hypnotic trance. "Hello?" she spoke, sounding calm.

"Cassandra? It's Methos."

She dropped the phone as if it had burnt her hand. Fumbling, she picked up the phone again with shaking hands. "What do you want?" she asked, hoping her emotional turmoil wasn't being recognized.

"We need to talk. I just flew into Kennedy with Joe Dawson."

"Is this about Sara?"

"Yes. I would prefer not to say too much on the phone."

"Do you remember where we last met?" Cassandra asked, meaning Saint Patrick's Cathedral.

"I can be there in about an hour."

"Till then," and she disconnected, her hands still shaking. At least she had time to get herself back in control.


IV

Methos gave the excuse that the Watchers didn't need to know that they were together and he'd find his own way to the hotel. Joe seemed to buy it and the two friends parted company using different cabs outside the airport.

Methos fidgeted inside the cab, worrying about meeting up with *her*. Cassandra had sounded funny on the phone, not her usual cold, calm personality. Possibly this Detective Pezzini was giving her teacher a rough time. Methos smiled at the thought.

Too soon the cab pulled up to the front door. Methos got out, paying the driver and adding the usual tip. He took the steps two at a time, pausing only to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. A man with shoulder length curly hair turned to him, and with a start Methos recognized him as Lazar.

"She must go through a new periculum," he said cryptically. "Because of the time reversal, Sara hasn't freely chosen to wield the Witchblade. This time the stress must come from a different source."

"You mean…" But the man had faded in with a new batch of tourists and Methos lost sight of him.

The feel of an Immortal made him turn, and he saw Cassandra begin slowly walking up the front stairs. He continued inside and waited beside the first pew. As she drew even with him, they walked together around to the side. Methos picked a row and slid in. Cassandra followed behind, but keeping a bit of space between them.

"What do you need to tell me?" she asked.

"I received an e-mail from a friend at the Vatican. They know that Sara Pezzini has the Witchblade and they want it back," Methos told her bluntly. "They've sent an envoy and they should get here very soon."

"We need to hide her."

"Are you so sure that she wouldn't willingly give it back?" Methos suggested, thinking back to Lazar.

Cassandra looked at him incredulously. "Give it back?"

"I saw Lazar as I arrived."

Her eyebrows rose. "Lazar? Why does he always talk to you? I've seen him countless times, but he just nods and disappears."

Methos shrugged his shoulders. "All I know is that he told me that Sara will be tested because she doesn't remember going through the Periculum. She needs to confront a higher authority and decide her own path."

"The Catholic Church does not have authority over her." Cassandra's eyes glowed with anger. "They took away that privilege when they betrayed her trust and burned her at the stake."

"That's not what Lazar meant. They merely represent an obstacle she must overcome. He was emphasizing choice, not rebellion. Sara needs to claim it as her own or give it up. You can't guide her. If she freely accepts her destiny, we can do something about persuading the clergy to go home." He paused, waiting for her to come to terms with what he was saying. "Agreed?"

"Yes," she answered, sounding reluctant. "Am I allowed to prepare her for this decision?"

"Lazar didn't say."

"Good. Do you think the pope's representatives are in New York yet?"

"I don't know. My friend didn't say when they were supposed to arrive."

Cassandra slid out of the pew and stood in the aisle. "Thank you for coming to me with this. It isn't a good idea for you to contact Sara yourself. She's been having visions about you lately. One features you cutting off the captain's head and the other concerns our, uh, us," she stammered, "together when I was your slave," came out in a rush. "She doesn't think too highly of you."

"I best stay clear then. Sara doesn't remember when I was de Morency?" he asked, inadvertently sounding sad.

"She did before, but not now. Her preoccupation has been with the discovery of immortality. Goodbye, Methos." She gave him a direct look, seeming to search his face for something, then walked away.

Methos sighed heavily, bowing his head. Why was it so exhausting talking with her? He waited about five minutes, then he too left the church. Jeannette was now Cassandra's responsibility. Outside, standing against a light post was his faithful Watcher, the Wyatt kid. Methos flashed him a grin, which caused the mortal to lose his balance and stumble a few steps. Cheered, Methos hailed a cab and directed it to the Waldorf.


V

Kenneth Irons sat in his chair, with his legs crossed and a comic book propped up on one of his knees. The brightly colored pages depicted death and anguish. It seemed a fitting tribute to a very talented young man. A presence materialized just behind his chair.

"Tell me, Ian, can art imitate life too much?" Kenneth turned to look at his pupil.

"Imitation implies artifice. Art rather reflects life without the deception." His usually downcast eyes were gazing up at the Joan of Arc painting on the wall.

Kenneth followed Ian's eyes to the burning figure then back to the comic book. He turned the page and saw a hangman's rope tied to the ceiling and a dangling body flailing beneath. "And sometimes art reflects death with uncanny accuracy." He paused, reading the words that the author didn't really mean for himself, but were rather an ideal. "Do you remember when I suggested that we find something else to occupy our detective friends?"

"Yes, master."

"Why not accomplish two feats with one act." He turned the page again and saw himself and Ian caricatured maliciously. "Sly has exceeded his boundaries."

Ian looked quickly at the open page where a young man had hung himself. "Understood," he replied then walked silently out of the room.

Kenneth rose from his chair and walked toward the fire, tossing the comic book into the flames. "A fitting end for our brilliant nonconformist," he said to himself with a half-smile.


VI

Cassandra waited patiently for Sara to come home. She tried meditating, hoping the gods would guide her next move. They were silent.

An hour later, the Immortal heard the building's front door slam through her half-open window. Cassandra immediately left her apartment and met up with Sara in the stairwell.

"What's up?" Sara asked, sounding a bit irritable.

"Did you have trouble at work?"

"Nottingham killed two people. I know he did it, but I have no proof. It's just frustrating when I know something but can't do a damn thing about it." They arrived at Sara's door. She opened it and shrugged off her coat. Without a backward glance, she went directly to the fridge and took out a bottle of beer, twisted off the cap and took a long swallow. "How was your day?"

"Sit down, Sara; we need to discuss something important."

Sara stiffened, staring at Cassandra. "Something happen?"

"Yes." Sara joined Cassandra and both took a seat on the sofa. "Tell me," Cassandra said, "if someone was to knock on your door and demand the Witchblade from you--could you give it up?"

Sara carefully put the beer down on the end table. "What do you mean?"

"You have been a reluctant wielder since the moment the Witchblade locked itself around your wrist. Before the time reversal, you went through a test called the Periculum. You have no memory of it now, but you experienced it and freely chose your subsequent path. The Witchblade bonded with you, integrated itself within all the cells of your body. The time reversal has done nothing to alter that fact except, as far as your memory goes, you have not *chosen* your destiny. This you still need to do."

Sara wore a frown. "What do you mean?"

"Do you really want the power and responsibility that comes with possessing the Witchblade?"

"Are you going to take it from me? Have I been slacking off in my training? I can't help it if I have a job to do that--"

"It's not me. My opinion doesn't matter. It's an outside source that you must deal with now."

"Irons? Has he been pressuring you?"

Cassandra laughed. "Kenneth Irons does not have the power to influence me. It is the mortal hierarchy within the Catholic Church you must deal with. After Joan of Arc's execution, Cauchon confiscated the Witchblade as a dangerous and heretical weapon that must never be used again. During World War II, it found a way out of the Vatican and somehow into Kenneth Iron's possession. From him, it passed to you."

"They want it back?"

"Yes. There is an envoy on its way right now to take it from you, whether you are willing or not."

Sara sat looking stunned. "I could just give it back?"

"If you want. They believe it belongs to them. We know that it belongs to itself and manipulates fate to serve its own ends."

"So, the Witchblade is making these representatives come to me?"

"I didn't think of it that way, but maybe you're right. Either way, you have a choice. Give it up or fight to keep it. Neither will be easy."

"When will they get here?" Sara asked with a tremulous voice.

"Very soon. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow."

"How do you know all this?"

Cassandra smiled weakly. She was not going to tell Sara about Methos. "I'm a witch. The gods are always speaking to me."

Sara raised an eyebrow, but withheld a retort.

"That's all I wanted to say. The choice is yours, but if you choose to keep it, I will help you. If you choose to give it up, I will still be here for you." Cassandra stood up and walked to the door. "Just don't take too long to find your answer." Cassandra opened the door and walked through. Just before closing it, she added, "You are an exceptional student. I am very proud of your progress." The door clicked shut.


VII

Duncan MacLeod paid the taxi driver and made his way to the front door of the building. He held the card Sara Pezzini had given Rachel that included both Sara's work and home addresses. Over the top of the mailboxes a buzzer for each apartment was installed. Duncan rang the one above "Pezzini".

"Who is it?" a woman's voice demanded.

"My name is Duncan MacLeod. Rachel Ellenstein asked me to visit you."

"I'll be right down," she answered.

A few moments later a dark-haired woman came bounding to the front door. Her hair was unencumbered by pins and barrettes and flowed everywhere. Her shirt was cut short, leaving a bare midriff. The jeans were tight, but didn't look uncomfortably so. Then she opened the door and Duncan felt his jaw go slack. She was the spitting image of Elizabeth Bronte, an English spy who had worked with both Ingrid Henning and himself during World War Two. This had to be a granddaughter or another close relation.

"What was your name again?" the woman asked.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod. Rachel asked me to talk you about certain questions you had concerning a case you're working on. Could we go inside? This really isn't a conversation that should be overheard by the general population."

"Right. Sure. Follow me. We have to take the stairs. The elevator isn't reliable."

Duncan nodded and the two began the climb up. His mind was fixated on the likeness between the two women. He had seen grandparents resemble their grandchildren before, but this was different. They could have been identical twins. When they got to the top flight, Sara led him to the door to her loft. "Come in."

It was a nice place. The high ceilings didn't leave one with a case of claustrophobia and the layout left room to move a bit of furniture to give room to exercise. There was a table cluttered with files and loose papers.

"When Rachel Ellenstein called you, how far did you have to travel to come see me?"

"From Paris," Duncan answered, not sure of the relevance.

"That means Mr. Nash must be further away than that. I really wanted to meet him."

"Why?" Duncan asked.

"Because I know he's cut off heads before, and I want to ask him about it."

Duncan stiffened. "What does that--" Duncan paused, feeling the tingle of an Immortal close. He glanced quickly at Sara, but she seemed unaware of his discomfort. He didn't think this was a trap.

Suddenly the front door burst open. Duncan barely had time to reach inside his coat before the Immortal entered, brandishing her own sword. He froze, letting his brain assimilate that it was Cassandra who was attacking him.

With an upraised blade, she took two steps before recognition hit her also. "Duncan? Is that really you?" She halted her advance, but her sword did not lower.

"Cassandra? What are you doing here?" He chanced letting his eyes turn to Sara. "If you knew another one of us, why did you bother Rachel with you questions?"

"Rachel sent you here?" Cassandra asked Duncan.

"Yes," he answered, flipping his attention back and forth between the two women.

"I'm sorry, Duncan. Sara *has* been asking me, and I have refused to give her the answers she wanted." Cassandra placed her sword on the table. "I have recently discovered that she has been researching your kinsman because of the Kurgan, but since," she cleared her throat, "Russell Nash is dead, I didn't consider it a problem." Cassandra smiled. "Although I *am* very happy to see you again."

"I take it you're friends, right?" Sara asked. "Is it rare for Immortals to be friends? You didn't seem as friendly to Adam Pierson."

"You know Adam Pierson?" Duncan asked incredulously. "When was he here?"

"A few months ago," Sara answered.

Duncan thought back to a time when Methos had up and left. "I think it was in November when he started acting strange."

Cassandra raised an eyebrow.

"Well, strange for him. He even put a date on a check for several months in the future. Joe had to correct him and he was flustered. Adam never gets flustered."

"Oh yes. He is always in control."

Duncan could hear the bitterness. "But the two of you worked together? That is a true miracle."

All of a sudden Sara Pezzini started to sway and Cassandra just caught her before Sara hit the ground. "What is it, child?" she asked.

"I see you standing over Pierson with a sword ready to swing. You want him dead so much. I can feel your hatred, your fury. Then *him*, you, Duncan MacLeod, tells her to stop. You want him to live. You keep repeating that."

Duncan felt shaken. The woman had the sight. He involuntarily made the sign of the cross.

"Yes, Sara." Cassandra responded. "You remember the visions of me as his slave. I hated him for those years of torture and repeated deaths if I did not please him. We talked of nightmares that haunt your soul for long periods of time. It seems that the same man haunts both our dreams."

Duncan wanted to intervene, ask questions, but dared not. What had Methos done to the poor girl? Cassandra led Sara over to the couch and the young woman sank into the cushions.

"You know him, Mr. MacLeod. Can't you ask him to come see me? When I met him he seemed different from my visions; I need to see him as he really is, not what he pretends in front of me."

"Sara," Cassandra told her. "He doesn't *ever* show his real self--to anyone. Possibly Jeannette was able to meet the man inside; call upon your memories of her."

"I, uh, I mean Jeannette, adored him. He was her teacher."

"Who's Jeannette?" Duncan asked, thoroughly confused.

"Joan of Arc," Cassandra told him, casually.

"Me--Adam knew Joan of Arc? He told me he didn't believe in fighting wars, because it never mattered which side won."

"He wasn't fighting a war. He was following a legend. His loyalty was to Jeannette, not the French cause."

Suddenly the buzzer rang, startling all three. Cassandra went to the window. "It looks like the envoy has arrived," she announced, her words threaded with worry. "Have you made your decision yet?" Cassandra directed to Sara.

Sara blinked. "Decision? I can barely think."

"Then we should leave. Now!" Cassandra pulled Sara off the couch and led her to the window. Duncan followed behind as the women crawled out and down the fire escape.

"My car is parked on the next block. Hurry," Cassandra urged.

Duncan, still following, kept turning his head, but whoever the women were running from didn't see them or notice their leave-taking.

After they were all in the car, Cassandra immediately drove around the block and headed toward lower Manhattan.

"Where are you taking us?" Sara asked.

Duncan silently echoed the question.

"Nash's Antiques. They won't be able to trace you there, and it will give us time to think." Cassandra took quick glances at Duncan. "Will Connor mind Rachel letting me into his home?"

"Not as long as I'm there."

"You mean Connor Nash?" Sara asked.

"Yes," Duncan responded. "After you get Sara safely ensconced there, what is your next move?" Duncan asked, hoping to get an idea of what was going on.

"Sara needs to decide," Cassandra replied cryptically.

Duncan looked at Sara.

"I need to think. Half of me wants to give it up, to get my life back to normal. But then I'm not sure I can just hand it over to them. I hear Jeanette cry in my mind and I get so mad."

"There will always be this dichotomy. One part is dark and the other light, just like the two circles. One part is war and bloodshed, and the other is peace. I believe you are strong enough to keep the two sides balanced. The rest of it is up to you. I can't make the decision for you."

Duncan understood nothing. "What is she supposed to give back?"

Cassandra pulled up a block away from Nash's Antiques, and turned to Duncan. "Sara possesses a relic that the people in the Vatican want back. It is hers by birthright, but it contains an awesome power. It is the power in one single girl that makes them afraid. We must protect her, Duncan, from their collective will."

Duncan nodded and got out of the car, opening the door for Sara and then Cassandra. He escorted them inside the store and up to Connor's apartment. Rachel was sitting at the kitchen table, thumbing through a magazine. Her eyes widened when she saw Cassandra.

"Guests, Duncan?"

"Rachel, this is Cassandra, a *very* old friend of mine. Sara, you already know."

"Connor called while you were gone. They won't be coming back for awhile. Alex found something 'momentous', 'earth-shattering' and needs to stay longer."

Duncan laughed. "As long as it's not another sorcerer's tomb. One per century is enough."

Sara went over to the couch and sat down, taking little interest in the room or the conversation. She closed her eyes and her hand absently played with her bracelet. As Duncan looked, the red stone began to glow and other colors swirled, changing tones and hues.

"Let her be," Cassandra whispered. "This is why I asked for sanctuary--time for her to think."


VIII

Methos walked up to the front desk and asked if he had any messages. The concierge handed him an envelope. Inside was a scribbled note with the room number. After a quick thank you, accompanied by a five-dollar bill, Methos made his way to the elevators. Joe had been assigned a suite on the sixth floor. With a mental shrug, the Immortal bypassed the elevators and took the stairs. Six floors were nothing.

As he exited onto the sixth floor a door opened and a grey-haired, older gentleman was saying goody-bye. With a start, Methos recognized him as Howard Wyatt, father of his personal Watcher and poor McCarty's mentor. He didn't look to be in a good mood. Quickly, Methos backed up and partially closed the door to the stairwell.

"You keep me informed. I want to know as soon as you get your hands on the painting."

"Relax, Howard. I've been authorized to pay as much as needed to obtain the picture. I doubt, Mr. Irons will refuse to sell."

Methos heard Howard Wyatt snort as he abruptly left Joe's door and made his way to the elevator. As soon as the automatic doors slid shut, Methos made his way to the room and knocked.

Joe opened them immediately, indicating that he hadn't walked away after Howard Wyatt had left.

"That was fast," Methos commented as he pushed his way into the suite.

"I saw you skulking in the stairwell."

"So, what's he so upset about?" Methos asked as he went to the little fridge. He sighed contentedly when he saw a six-pack of Labatt's Blue.
Joe closed the door. "The man's not happy that Jake called me and not him. Couldn't really tell him my thoughts, now could I?"

Methos grabbed a bottle and twisted off the cap. "What thoughts would those be?"

"That I agreed with him. Why *would* Jake call me instead of his mentor? Howard could have faked some kind of charge and gone in and confiscated the painting."

"It wouldn't have worked," Methos told him, removing his shoes and then sprawling on the couch. "There's no way Wyatt could have gotten in without implicating Jake. Believe me, our way is better." Methos allowed himself a secret smile. Joe's way was not going to work, but his would.

"You're pretty protective of Jake. Got to be good friends while you were saving the world, didn't you?" Joe fished.

"Guess we did."

"Funny. Jake doesn't remember saving the world, only a single detective--his partner."

"Yeah, well. Never said Jake knew everything." Standing, Methos drained the bottle. "So, which bedroom is mine?"

Joe scowled. "I had the bellboy put your stuff in that room." He pointed to the one on the left.

Methos laughed. "Sorry I had to stick you with my cases, but I really didn't want to bring them to where I was going. Kind of asking for trouble."

"Where did you go?"

"Holy ground," Methos answered then headed to his room, where sure enough, his two suitcases were sitting on the bed.

Joe ambled to the doorway. "Holy ground? There was an Immortal after you in the airport?"

Methos opened one of the cases and started putting his clothes away. "Nope," was all he said.

Joe hung around trying to get more information, which Methos refused to answer. Finally he went away. Methos then opened his other suitcase and pulled out the special equipment he had brought for the theft. One bag contained two pocket-sized strobe lights--high intensity. He turned on each one in turn to make sure neither had been broken during the trip. Both were in good working order.

Along the side, he had stuffed two dog whistles. He wasn't sure if they would help or not, but they might come in handy. In a separate case, packed between two pairs of jeans, were the two headsets he and Amanda would wear to communicate. Both were top of the line, manufactured for the military, receivers and microphones. Methos knew that if Ian Nottingham was in the mansion, Nottingham would be able to hear anything he and Amanda said over the headset. Misdirection could sometimes be as useful as silence.

All the burglary paraphernalia was carefully placed within a backpack and stored in the empty suitcase to be pulled out when needed. He and Amanda had to connect, exchange thoughts and plans. But first he needed a reason for Nottingham to be away from the mansion.


IX

Howard Wyatt walked briskly out of the Waldorf, still fuming. He couldn't even begin to count the number of things that had him furious. First was the sense of betrayal. It wasn't logical, but then emotions generally weren't. Why had Jake given the news of the painting to Dawson instead of to him? He hadn't even known Jake was acquainted with Dawson, let alone knew him well enough to call him out of the blue with news of that magnitude. Then there was the fact that the Watcher hierarchy had given the assignment of procuring the painting to Dawson instead of asking him. He was in the better position to locate and get his hands on the picture. Lastly it was the sheer gall, the audacity, of Methos staying with Dawson, at the Watchers' expense. At least he hadn't run into the Immortal. Howard exited the elevator and almost collided into his son, Timothy.

"Hi, Dad. How'd your meeting go with Dawson?"

"Typical. He said he had no idea I was even in New York; figured I'd be in DC, since that is where I live. What about Pierson? Did he fly over separately from Dawson?"

The two Watchers walked over to the hotel bar, taking a seat in a far corner, where they could still keep an eye on the front door, yet remain hidden from casual observers. "No," Tim answered. "They flew over together, but somewhere in the airport Methos must have made a phone call, because they parted company at the taxi lane, with Methos taking his taxi to Saint Patrick's Cathedral."

"Holy Ground? Did he sense someone at the airport?"

"Don't think so. I think he called Cassandra and asked her to meet him there."

"Cassandra?" Howard gasped, incredulously. "I thought they hated each other. Didn't Melanie what's-her-name report that Cassandra wanted Methos dead and only MacLeod's interference saved the oldest Immortal's life?"

"They must have met since then and patched fences," Tim replied.

"Not totally patched or they wouldn't have needed Holy Ground." Howard's mind was going a million miles an hour. What was Methos planning with Cassandra's help? Did the two Immortals plan on stealing the painting and not letting the Watchers have it?

"Listen, Timmy. You need to keep a close eye on Pierson. He's up to something and I want to know what it is. Make sure he doesn't get that painting of Darius before Dawson."

A waiter came to the table. "Can I get you gentlemen anything?"

Howard couldn't think of anything else that he needed to say to his son. "No, thank you. We're just leaving." He stood from the table and they walked back into the foyer. Howard left the hotel while his son found himself someplace to wait.


X

Gabriel clicked shut down on his computer and went to gather the file he had copied for Sly. His friend the comic-book writer had this cool idea for his next installment and the two intended to hash it out that night. December's issue of Parricide was due to hit the newsstand tomorrow morning, which left him only two weeks to create his next masterpiece. Time was ticking away.

Taking a last look around and not seeing anything he had forgotten, Gabriel locked the door to his dot-com hole-in-the-wall store. Feeling a little extravagant, he decided to take a taxi instead of the bus. It let him off in front of Sly's place. He paid the driver and bounded up the stairs, three at a time. The front door was ajar and a Disturbed CD was playing loudly. Gabriel pushed his way in without a thought. The disarray was disregarded as he set the file down on the coffee table.

"Hey, Sly?" he called. "Where are you?" The monitor on the computer was in screen-saver mode. Gabriel wiggled the mouse and saw that his friend had been writing some text for the comic book. The cursor was blinking in the middle of a sentence.

Beginning to feel prickles of alarm, Gabriel straightened from bending over the computer and went into the kitchen. Food dishes were in the sink soaking, so Sly must have been home at dinnertime. Maybe he was upstairs? Rushing into the hall, he skidded around the corner and began running up the steps. Abruptly his eyes focused on a body swinging above the landing.

"No! My God!" Gabriel grabbed his friend by the legs and pushed him upwards, taking the pressure off the neck. Frantically he used his strength and voice to get a response. Realizing the futility of his efforts, Gabriel let the body go and rushed to the phone to call the police. Tears were streaming down his face, unheeded.

Within minutes, he could hear sirens. As officers and detectives swarmed inside the small house, Gabriel felt the disappointment that Sara had not come. Why wasn't she here? Of course, she wouldn't have recognized this address, since it belonged to Sly, Gabriel reasoned.

After giving his statement and answering a billion questions, the police allowed him to leave. As soon as he hit the street, he pulled out his cell phone and called Sara. There was no answer at her apartment, and the police station said she wasn't in. He left a frantic message, urging her to call him immediately. Wandering the street was never a good idea, but Gabriel felt lost and unsure what to do. He tried going to his favorite bar. As he sat, listening to the hum of voices and the pounding of drums around him, he tried calling Sara's numbers again. As before, no one was home.


Day 5

I

Ian Nottingham strode briskly into the mansion. The sun was just easing over the eastern horizon, casting reds and oranges over the lawn's green expanses, although Ian failed to notice anything. He was consumed with anxiety, although he remembered to slow his pace as he came even with he dining room.

Kenneth Irons was sitting at his massive maple table nibbling on a muffin and sipping his coffee. A newspaper was open and lying close to his plate. Ian came to a quiet halt beside his master and waited to be questioned.

"I see you took care of that little problem we discussed. Thank you, Ian."

"Sly did not prove difficult," he answered, biting his tongue in an effort not to gush forth with his worries.

Kenneth Irons slowly took another sip from his coffee and then turned to face Ian. "How has Sara taken these recent events?"

At last! "She doesn't know, sir. At some point in the afternoon she left her apartment quickly, through the window. It was left unlocked, which is not like her. She has not returned, nor do I know where she is." A trace of wounded ego tinged his voice.

"Is anyone else looking for her?"

"Gabriel Bowman hasn't stopped calling her all night. He's sitting at his little store, drunk, sobbing and repeatedly dialing his phone. Her phone mail at the station is full. McCarty and Woo have both been to her apartment."

"And the witch? Where is she?"

"She came home late last night and went directly to bed."

"Talk to her, Ian. She knows where Sara is."

Ian hesitated. He really had no interest in conversing with her. She saw too much that he preferred to remain hidden.

"Do it now and report back immediately."

Ian bowed his head in subservience and left to complete his assigned task.

When he arrived at Cassandra's window, he saw she was awake, and still in her bathrobe. He silently opened the window and entered.

"Hello, de Alencon. I've been expecting you," she called.

Ian shivered. The witch had been at the sink washing a few dishes and hadn't even paused as he closed the window. "Where is Sara?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.

"She's staying with a friend of mine." Cassandra turned now and focused her eyes upon him. "The Vatican knows she has the Witchblade and has come to take it back."

Ian stiffened at her words. Memories of the way Jeannette had been treated assaulted his mind, and he could feel her pain and bewilderment.

"I decided to hide her for a time, so she can decide how to handle this crisis."

"My master would be a better ally."

"But everyone knows of her connection to him. Money and position does not always sway the fanatic. How else could the great Duke de Alencon not be able to free Joan from the British. The passing of centuries has done little to dilute this fact. She is better lost to their inquiries."

Ian had no choice but to acquiesce to her suggestions, although he'd feel better if he at least knew where Sara was. "I need to inform Mr. Irons."

"I'm sure you do," she responded.

Ian pulled out his cell phone and immediately called Vorshlag. He informed his master of what the witch had imparted to him.

"She does not understand, Ian. When we find Sara, we need to impress upon her our wish to help."

"Where shall I start?"

"With sleep. Even you require some amount of sleep. I will work on the problem for now."

Ian would have preferred to be physically out looking, but his need for sleep took precedence. He returned home and fell into bed, yet his mind was fevered with anxiety. Tossing and turning in sweat-soaked sheets did little to refresh his body. The dreams came one upon another. They wouldn't let him help her. Everywhere he turned a brick wall blocked his quest.

Aug, 1430

"Please, your highness, my royal cousin. Let me--"

"I have spoken, de Alencon. The English have the Maid tucked away safely in Beaurevoir and there is nothing we can do without damaging our own position. They dare not hurt her, for that would bring the wrath of God down on their backs."

"They will hurt her," Jean argued, to no avail. The king would not listen. His royal cousin paid more attention to LaTremoille and de Chartres council. Jean knew that before long the English would charge her with heresy and then nothing in the land could free her. They had to work fast, yet the king wouldn't give his sanction.

"You may leave my presence, cousin," the king ordered.

Jean bowed in subservience and left the king's chamber. He strode down the hall and then out of the castle. He called to have his horse saddled and rode at a full gallop away from the king's court. Nothing would calm his frustration. All through the countryside the peasants were lamenting the Maid's capture and were afraid that God had turned away from their troubles. In his heart, Jean knew it was the king who had betrayed his people by not coming to Jeannette's aid.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Ian tossed and turned in his bed, haunted by dreams of his ineptitude and inability to help save the woman from her enemies.


II

Sara abruptly woke, realizing that she was in a strange bed. The room was filled with antique furnishings. Even the bed was something one would see on Masterpiece Theater. It had ruffles and a canopy. The wallpaper was a composite of huge pink roses and bright green leaves. A few paintings were hung and each looked to have been done by a master. Sara was not an art critic, but even she could tell that they weren't reproductions.

Vigorously stretching, Sara relished the feel of the satin sheets and warm wool blankets. Glancing down at her covers, she noticed that both blankets were Scottish tartan plaids. The main color was green but she could see accent colors of red and blue threaded within. The clock read seven, and she listened carefully for any noise to indicate her hosts had risen.

Her clothes were still thrown over a chair, where she had placed them the night before. Throwing off the covers, Sara got out of bed and dressed.
Slowly easing the door open, she saw Duncan MacLeod, wearing only a pair of sweats, holding a sword, doing a kind of dance in the main living area. Mesmerized by the beautiful sight, Sara leaned against the door jam and watched. She recognized his dance as a kata, since Cassandra had been teaching her how to choreograph one of her own. He was poetry in motion, and Sara felt a twinge of jealousy that hers did not look as elegant.

Suddenly he pivoted, coming to a full stop facing her. "Good morning, Sara. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. It was a while before I could fall asleep. Being in a strange place and all, but once asleep, I don't think a fire alarm would have woken me," she laughed humorously.

"Would you like some breakfast? Rachel left some bagels and croissants on the table. I intend to go and run, but I wanted to make sure you were awake first."

"You jog?" Sara asked, excitedly. "Can I join you? I really could use the exercise."

"Aren't you afraid someone would recognize you? I thought Cassandra said you were to remain in doors?"

"There's got to be something here that I can disguise myself with?"

"Let me check. Grab some orange juice or something."

Sara went over to the table and tore a croissant in half and stuffed it into her mouth. Next she went to the fridge and saw the pitcher of OJ and poured herself a glass. A few minutes later, Duncan came out with an old pair of sweats and a hooded sweatshirt. "Will this do? Both belong to Connor, but I'm sure he won't mind if you borrow them. If you tie the hood up, your hair at least won't be visible."

"I was wearing my sneaks, so shoes won't be a problem." She picked up a foot and wiggled it, happy that she was really going out. "Let me go change."
Ten minutes later, both Sara and Duncan were out on Hudson Street heading towards Houston. The morning was crisp and it felt good to be out. She intercepted a few concerned looks from her running companion, but he didn't give voice to whatever he was thinking. They jogged a few miles, when Duncan pulled up and they both began to walk.

"Have you made the decision that Cassandra says you need to make?"

Sara smiled inwardly. "Yes. I did quite a bit of soul searching last night and I think I'm ready to tackle the pope's representatives."

Duncan started. "You intend to defy the pope?" he asked incredulously.

"I do. Are you offended?"

"What does this choice you need to make have to do with them?"

"They want something I have. I'm not going to give it to them," Sara answered firmly.

"Why do they want it?"

"It's a source of magical power. And you can't scoff since you are yourself a source of magical power that they wouldn't understand."

"True enough. Is that why Cassandra is interested in you, because of this power?"

"Yes. She knows all about it and wants to make sure that I find out the truth, not what others think I should know."

"Cassandra is not altogether altruistic. I'm sure she has her own motives for what she does."

"Don't we all." Sara laughed and began to run again, not wanting to answer any more questions. Duncan gave in and fell into step beside her.

They ran past quite a few corners before Duncan took her down a side street and into a small park. There he stopped once more and began a series of stretches. Sara followed suit.

"So, what kind of power do you possess that they want back?" he asked, straightening after touching his toes.

"It's kind of hard to explain."

"It must be a talisman or relic, because if the power was innate, they wouldn't be able to take it from you."

"True, but I'm able to augment the power because of my blood."

"Do you control the power or does the power control you?"

"Good question and one I'm not entirely sure of. Cassandra is helping me to learn to control it, but from what I'm seeing and feeling, the power is sentient, but works through me for justice."

Duncan smiled. "Ah, justice. I know a lot about that. Right and wrong and all the shades of gray in between. It's a difficult line to follow."

"I know."

"Choices can be confusing when either way can hurt someone you care about. Are you strong enough for that?"

"I hope so. It's a responsibility that was handed down to me, and I'm now learning to accept it." She gave her companion a quick smile and picked up a run once more. Duncan soon caught up to her.

Sara believed this to be true. She was learning how to deal with the responsibility of wielding the Witchblade. Her feet hit the pavement in a regular rhythm. Her heart beat steadily and her breathing came in quick short breaths. As she ran, the hypnotic effect began to make her mind wander. Choices and how they would affect other people often made one choose wrong. How did one know if the choice they made was the correct one?
When Joan of Arc had refused to return inside the city walls, she had endangered her whole army and thusly lost the war. But, what if she had capitulated and sought sanctuary? What if she had backed down and told the Inquisitors what they had wanted to hear? The game of what-ifs could continue indefinitely. Sara was looking at these questions hundreds of years after the fact. Joan had to decide at the time.

The bracelet's red stone swirled, causing heat to enter her arm. Although her feet kept moving to jogging's instinctive rhythm, her mind placed her back in a cold stone cell. Men in ridiculous-looking robes hovered over her, demanding her acquiescence.


Jan, 1431-Rouen Castle

Jeannette gazed in fear at the old men in their long robes and imperious hats. They tried taking away her food. They tried everything to make her admit that she was a witch, but since she wasn't, why would she say she was?

Her dearest wish would be for them to let her make her confession. If she were a witch, would she want one so desperately? But, they believed it to be a trick. She begged her guards, but they couldn't help her. When the bishop of Beauvais visited her, she begged again for a priest, but he only glared at her and demanded that she submit to his will.

Once her brother had been allowed to exchange words with her. She asked about de Alencon, but was told that Charles had sent him elsewhere and he could not disobey his king. When Jeannette asked about de Morency, her brother told her that he was dead. She cried for days after learning that particular fact.

Worried about her, one of her guards let a priest come in to console her. The old man walked into her cell and sat down upon the cold floor.

"Hush, child. How can we talk if you continue to sob?"

Jeannette wiped her eyes and looked at him sadly. "Why does God want me to do this? When I was young, I saw a great future for myself. I would liberate France from the English and give our people hope. Instead, I made bad decisions that cost good men their lives."

"It is the nature of war that men are killed. They knew this and entered into your service and that of King Charles willingly. Is there a particular man that you mourn for?"

"Yes. De Morency. I was just told he was killed after my capture. All this time he was dead, and I did not say any prayers for him."

"I will tell you a secret, but you must promise not to reveal it to anyone."

Jeannette looked into the eyes of the priest and noticed his kindness. They shone with goodness and purity. "I promise."

"He is not dead. He was able to escape and he came to me. We wait in the city, trying to see you, but also bribing others to bring you decent food and water."

"He is alive?" Jeannette asked in amazement. She absently used her thumb and twirled the ring around her finger. God came into her mind and told her that the priest spoke the truth.

"Our friend works diligently to make your life easier, but he needs to be careful. If someone should recognize him, he would be in mortal danger."
"Tell him to take no chances. If my king is unable to free me, then my good knight would be that much more powerless. He must see to his own welfare. My fate is here, in English hands." She took a deep breath. "But I am so afraid."

"Courage. You are a strong woman with a sharp mind. When you go before the judges and counselors, have faith in God. He won't let you down, as your mortal friends have done."

Jeannette thought that the priest's words were a balm to her soul. She asked and then received confession. He rose to leave her with a sad face, but she felt more at peace than she had in a long time. This was her fate--her destiny--and she must meet it with the courage the priest believed she had.

"Father, what is your name?" She felt remiss in not asking previously.

"I am Darius." Then the door shut behind him.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

"Sara? Are you okay?"

Sara came to herself noticing that she was face down in the dirt. "What happened?"

"You tripped. One minute we were running together and the next you fell flat on your face. Are you okay?"

Sara slowly rose, wiping the tiny stones and dirt from her hands. "Yeah, I'm fine. I can't believe I was so clumsy."

"I think we should walk back. We're not that far."

Sara absently agreed. She let Duncan believe that she was slightly hurt, but the reason she was out of it was more because of the vision. Why did she have it? Was it because of her decision to keep the Witchblade?


III

Jake was just putting his coat on to leave when the phone rang. He paused, waiting for the answering machine to pick up.

"McCarty, if you're there--"

Jake grabbed the phone. "Good morning, Howard."

"I know you're pretty close to Sara Pezzini, but do you know her friend Gabriel Bowman?"

"Yes. Why?" he asked.

"You remember Guerinot? He's stationed in London and he monitors Internet usage for Interpol. Well, he's discovered that Bowman has been surfing, looking for information on Immortals and Quickenings. In fact he's hacked into the New York City police department and found information on Connor MacLeod. He's dangerous, Jake. Shut him down."

"He actually knew the word 'Quickening'?" Jake asked stunned.

"Bowman definitely had key words to type in. Guerinot blocked most of his searches, but he probably got quite a bit on MacLeod."

"I'll go talk to him this morning."

Howard Wyatt grunted and hung up the phone.

Jake continued zipping up his coat and hurried out to his car. The first stop was Gabriel's dot com store. If he wasn't there, Jake would have to look up his home address. In fact, now that Jake thought about it, maybe that's where Sara was.

The front door to Talismaniac's was unlocked. Jake knocked, and when no one answered, he pushed it open. Open bottles of liquor littered the computer desk and Gabriel appeared to be passed out one the floor in front of the computer. The mouse was still in his hand.

Jake reached down to shake him. "Gabriel? Wake up."

One bloodshot eye opened and then closed immediately. The body groaned as it tried to move. "You come," Gabriel clutched his head, "about Sly? Any word about who killed him?"

Jake had no idea what Gabriel was talking about. "I don't know anything about this Sly. I'm looking for Sara. She's missing."

Gabriel heaved himself to a sitting position. "Missing? I've been doing some research for her." His face lost its color. "I'm gonna be sick."

Jake waited patiently while Gabriel rid himself of the after-affects of his drinking binge. "Who's Sly?" he asked when Gabriel came back.

"He's my best friend. He writes a comic book called Parricide. Last night when I went over to his house I found him…" His voice cracked. "Someone had hung him in the stairwell. I tried to get a hold of Sara, but couldn't find her."

"I haven't been to work since yesterday afternoon. So, you haven't been able to find Sara either?" Jake was getting worried.

"You think it had something to do with the research I've been doing for her," Gabriel asked tentatively.

"What kind of research?"

The face had lost none of its paleness, but now he looked nervous. "She didn't want you to know."

"About what?"

"Sara is positive that Adam Pierson killed Dante. And she knows that you knew all along that he did."

Jake felt shivers run up his back. "She's been researching Pierson?"

"No, just Immortals. I think one of *them* kidnapped her to silence her."

Jake thought it was highly unlikely that an Immortal would have found out about her investigation. The Watchers, however, did know, but had punted the problem to him. "Have you seen Cassandra?"

"So, she's not a witch, but an Immortal? I should have guessed."

"If someone was after Sara, Cassandra would have hid her. Thanks, Gabriel. I think I know where to look." Jake turned to leave.

"What about Sly?"

"I'll look into that if you promise me to stop your research. The wrong people know what you're doing. The next person they send might not be a friend," Jake warned, then left.


IV

After sleeping for only five hours, Ian found himself down the street from the apartment building where Sara and Cassandra resided. He knew the witch was inside, but everything was quiet. No radios or televisions were on, nor did she place any phone calls. A limousine had driven up five minutes earlier. They had banged on Sara's door, but of course no one answered.

He pulled out his cell phone and called his master.

"Is she there?" Irons barked into the phone.

"No, sir." Ian paused as the limo drove away. "It seems that the Catholic Church is also after the Witchblade."

Irons didn't respond immediately. Ian waited, looking up at Cassandra's window. He could hear her breathing, but no other sound. Was she meditating?

"Keep looking," Irons commanded, bringing Ian's senses back from their hyper-alert state. "Why don't you try McCarty? Possibly he knows where Cassandra has placed our lovely Sara."

"Yes, master."


V

Kenneth hung up the phone, furious. Sara should have come to him. He could provide better protection that the witch. He had more money and resources which to draw from.

The phone rang again, but this time Kenneth let his secretary answer. He didn't want to deal with the mundane. Maybe he should meet with this envoy himself. After all, the relic had first belonged to him. In fact he had a deed of ownership, should the envoy prove difficult. Counterfeit, yes, but he defied anyone to be able to prove it.

The buzzer sounded. "Yes?" he answered his secretary.

"There's a Mr. Francis Bradley on the phone. He represents some museum in France and wishes to talk to you about buying a painting."

Kenneth felt the tingle of interest. A fellow connoisseur of art. "Put him through," he directed. "Mr. Bradley. What can I do for you?"

"I am a buyer for the Musee de l'Histoire de France. We understand that you have a large collection of artwork and relics that pertain to French history. We have just received a large endowment from a wealthy comte and his comtesse to enlarge our museum. I was wondering, rather hoping that you might have a few of your pieces up for sale."

"Do you a particular piece in mind?"

"I would prefer a painting, but could I come and view your collection?"

Kenneth paused. His internal alarm was ringing, yet he couldn't figure out how this man could be a threat. Maybe inviting him to view his collection would be a benefit. Then he could appraise this man in his own home. "Yes. I can send a car over for you around three. We can take a tour and then go out for dinner."

"Thank you, Mr. Irons. I look forward to our meeting."


VI

Methos unashamedly listened in to Joe's call to Kenneth Irons.

"He seemed pretty civil to me," Joe remarked as he disconnected.

"Can I suggest that you go in your wheel chair? It would accentuate your honesty."

"What?"

Methos laughed at Joe's bafflement. "Irons is only inviting you to his house to take your measure. Appearing frail and honest will work in your favor." He threw up his hands. "Hey, it was only a suggestion. You do want him to trust you enough to sell the painting, don't you?"

"Yes," Joe grumbled. "What are you going to do?"

"Thought I'd go over and visit MacLeod. You did say Connor is out of town?"

"Yeah."

"So, why you're off doing your Watcher thing, I'll go over and bother MacLeod. No doubt he's embroiled himself in some kind of trouble and needs my expert help."

Joe snorted.

"You have my cell phone number. If you find yourself in trouble, just call and MacLeod and I will come and get you."

"I will not 'find myself in trouble'," Joe barked, looking affronted. "I'm perfectly able to take care of myself."

"Whatever."

With that, Methos left, happy that Joe hadn't questioned him in more detail. His first order of business was to contact Amanda. Once he got to the lobby, he pulled out his cell phone and called her.

"I'm standing near the front door to the Waldorf," he told her. "Want me to come to you or can you pick me up?"

"Be there in 10, sweetie."

Mentally giving her fifteen minutes instead, Methos walked over to the ATM and withdrew some money. Most of his cash was in Euros, and the few dollars he had spent on the cab from St Pats. With nothing better to do, he walked outside and waited. The bellboys gave him suspicious looks, but after Amanda drove up and flashed her wicked smile, they relaxed and appeared envious.

"Where are we off to?" she asked, moving out into traffic.

"Your place. I want to go over the details and see what else we need to do. I want to hit the place tonight."

"Why?"

"Joe's meeting with Irons, so that should get them out of the mansion by eight. We'll go in then."

It didn't take long to reach the Crowne Hotel. Amanda parked, and the two went up to her room. Methos opened his backpack and placed the accoutrements onto the bed.

She picked up the strobe light and turned it on. "This reminds me of the sixties with my mini-skirts, leather boots and lots of dancing. How can this be a weapon?"

"I'll explain later. Tell me what you've accomplished."

"I've got the map to the house." Amanda took out the blueprints and spread them out on the floor. "There are three floors, but the building is sprawled out. There are three main doors. One in front has a long circular drive, and a porch that would rival any southern plantation. There is a side entrance, which is the one most often used." She pointed to each as she described them. "Then there is this back door. It goes into a glass enclosed room with an olympic-sized pool. Then there is an entry into the house from there, although it is cleverly disguised."

Methos nodded, getting his bearing on the rest of the layout.

"If we go in through the pool room, and then into this large foyer it will take us close to the kitchen and dining areas. From there we can access the rest of the house."

"Looks as if the library is on the second and third floors. But what's this room?"

"I don't know. It has interesting gas and water lines. It almost resembles a lab, but I've never heard of one in a residence before."

Methos remembered Cassandra telling him about Iron's cloning experiments. Maybe having the lab in your home kept it all very secret. "This is good work, Amanda," he praised. "Do you have all the tools we'll need to get in?"

"Brought my best. So tell me what you've got."

"This is to keep radio-contact. It will be on at all times so if you or I get caught, the other will know and act accordingly. The most important thing is to get that painting out."

"What if I see something else that catches my eye?"

"I don't care if you help yourself to something extra. Consider it payment for services."

Amanda gave him a cat-like grin. "My kind of work. Now tell me about this light."

"We might have one serious problem. Ian Nottingham. He's head of security for Kenneth Irons and his body-guard. However, Nottingham's been genetically enhanced. He has super-human hearing and sight and possibly more. Don't wear any perfume, because he might be able to identify you by your scent. However, his sensitive eyesight is vulnerable to flashing lights, especially if they're very bright in a dark room. It will be the only way to disarm him and it can be used only once. If he catches you, stall until I let you know I've made it to the car with the painting, flash him with the light and run like hell. If I get caught, just get the hell out and I'll handle Nottingham."

"Leave you holding the bag?"

"I can handle it. I would prefer not to have him know I'm there, but if--well, I'll figure out what to do then."

"What happens tomorrow?"

"I'm taking Joe and getting the hell out of New York. He'll likely get blamed for the theft, so I have to make sure he's out of the way."

"Wouldn't it be better for him to stay and deny all knowledge?"

"I don't know if he can pull it off. He'll know I took it and he might inadvertently reveal my guilt. Remember, Nottingham can tell if you're lying by your heartbeat."

"Jeez, a human lie-detector. What if you and Joe get caught leaving town?"

"We won't have the painting and I'll tell them we're sight-seeing. Adam Pierson's never been to New York and I don't think Joe's been here in the past decade or two."

Methos was quiet, trying to think if he forgot anything. "We'll meet in front of Fortuneoff's on Fifth Avenue."

"So, where are you off to now?" Amanda asked.

"MacLeod's at his kinsman's place. I'm going to let him know that I'm taking Joe tomorrow so he won't worry. They didn't travel together, but MacLeod knows he's here."

"Duncan's in New York? I might have to console him tomorrow. He might miss you."

Methos laughed. "If you can keep him from following us it would be a help." He picked up his coat and sword and went to the door. "See you tonight."
He could still hear Amanda's laugh as he got in the elevator.


VII

Timothy Wyatt could hardly believe his eyes. Methos was meeting with Amanda on the sly. Why was it so important that she stay at a different hotel than him? Amanda was a first-class thief. Tim knew that Methos planned to steal the painting for himself. It was the only logical answer. Well, Tim wasn't going to let the Immortals get away with it. He would dog Methos and when he came out with the painting, he'd take it from him-- from *them*. Amanda must be helping Methos to get in.

The question was when? Could it be tonight? Tomorrow night? Tim hoped it was sooner. Going without sleep and food would be difficult enough, without the wait becoming interminable.

Suddenly Methos burst out of the Crowne Hotel. The oldest Immortal looked around, spotted him and walked over. "You must be getting cold standing around outside. Want to share a cab? I'm sure we're headed in the same direction," he mockingly commented.

Tim could only nod like an idiot, but inside he was fuming.


VIII

Sara was getting restless. Nothing was getting accomplished by sitting around this very nice, eclectic apartment. She had made up her mind; now she had to deal with the church people.

"Why can't you drive me back to my apartment?" she asked Duncan.

"Because Cassandra said we should wait for her. I was to keep you safe until she comes for you today."

"I don't need a damn bodyguard. I'm a New York City cop. I've learned how to take care of myself ages ago."

"But you won't be required to *fight* your way out of this situation. It will require finesse and wit."

Sara could almost hear him thinking that she lacked both. Why did he think that she couldn't take care of herself? She'd just have to escape on her own. Duncan's eyes were on her, as if guessing her thoughts.

"How about some lunch? I can whip up some crepes with--"

"Don't you ever eat regular food? Last night you made that weird concoction with cheese and--and--other stuff."

Duncan went into the kitchen and perused the fridge and cupboards. "I see some hamburger. How about spaghetti?"

"How about just hamburgers? I don't want a whole plate of pasta for lunch." She knew she was being bitchy, but couldn't help it. It was being confined that made her irritable. His understanding look didn't help matters.

While he busied himself in the kitchen, Sara grabbed a magazine from the pile and began flipping through it. Most of the kitchen was hidden from her view, but she could hear him singing some god-awful tune as he worked.

"Would you like some wine?" he called to her.

"No. A Coke would be better."

She set the magazine down and picked up another. This one was full of glossy pictures. The cover showed a large castle. It was a travel book. She opened it back up and actually began reading. The castle was French, built in the 1700s. Way after her time. Sara froze. Way *after* her time? She was not Joan of Arc, no matter what people said.

The picture made her remember her vision and the castle dungeon she had been locked in. The priest's face seemed familiar to her. It really shouldn't surprise her. After all, Ian Nottingham represented de Alencon. She could almost make a case that Irons was King Charles, but not quite. Then there was Pierson and de Morency.

A door closed, breaking into her thoughts. Voices came from down stairs. Suddenly Duncan appeared in the room holding a sword. "Someone's here. Quick, go into your room and don't let them see you."

When she didn't move right away, he grabbed her arm and pulled her up. "Now!"

Reluctantly she did as he bade, but she left her door open a crack so she could hear. Her wrist began to grow warm. She looked down and saw the red stone swirling, bringing white and different shades to the top. Her mind flashed quickly on Joan, sparring with her teacher de Morency, and then she saw Adam Pierson as he flew into her apartment, thinking that she was in danger. Her heart was pounding and her breaths came in shallow gasps. She could hear voices now coming from the living room, but her body was frozen in place and all she could do was listen.

"What in the hell are you doing here?" Duncan asked.

"Had to make myself scarce. You know, Watcher business. Any beer in the fridge?"

"No."

"That's okay, I brought my own."

There was some rustling of a paper bag.

"Methos, you can't stay," Duncan spoke quietly, but firmly.

Sara recognized the voice. Pierson. Yet, Duncan had called him Methos. Shivers ran down her spine as she said the name silently.

"Why not?" Sara could almost picture the puzzlement on Pierson's face. "Are you in the middle of something important?"

Sara could hear shoes as they hit the ground. She peeked and saw *him* sprawl on the couch. Duncan was pacing the room.

"Would you sit, MacLeod? Relax; you're starting to make me nervous."

"This is just not a good time."

"Why isn't this a good time? I don't feel another Immortal here? Are you expecting a challenge?"

"No. I'm not. I'm just helping someone out."

"Why is it that I can't leave you alone for a few days without you risking your neck for--"

"I'm not risking my life and if I was, it's mine to risk." Duncan sounded emphatic.

"So, why is it mine to bail you out when--"

"I've never asked you to bail me out."

"MacLeod, you're too important to lose because of your idiotic sense of morality."

"I thought it was my idiotic sense of morality that *made* me too important to lose?"

"Right, a double edged sword. Don't I know it." Pierson gave an exaggerated sigh.

Sara heard a ping against the wall.

"Don't flip bottle caps in Connor's house," Duncan scolded. "Why are you really here? In New York? And don't tell me it's to keep an eye on Joe."

"Joe's getting old, Mac. Can't you believe I just want to spend time with him?"

"You never do anything without a reason."

"That's my reason."

"Cassandra's in New York."

Sara could feel the electricity in the air. Somehow Duncan thought this would be news to Pierson.

"I know. I've seen her."

Seen her? Sara fumed. Cassandra didn't say anything to her.

"What for?"

"Had to warn her about something."

"Did you meet on Holy Ground?"

"I'm not stupid, although I don't think she wants me dead anymore. I guess even I have my uses."

Sara felt her hands push the door open and her feet propel her out. There she paused, getting a clear look at Pierson, although he hadn't noticed her yet. Absently she twirled the Witchblade around her wrist.

"What did you have to warn her about? Someone hunting her?"

Pierson looked at Duncan and laughed. "Now you think I want to save her life?"

"You did before. You stopped Silas from killing her and took his head yourself."

"That is something I am trying to forget." There was an edge to his voice that made Sara's skin prickle. Despite appearances, she could tell he was a very dangerous man.

"You're avoiding the question." Duncan sounded irritated.

There was a long pause, then Pierson spoke. "It has something to do with the Catholic Church. You know Cassandra has been a nun a few times."

"Catholic Church? Oh, how could I have missed the connection."

"What connection?" Pierson asked. His voice echoed his nervousness.

"You came to New York because of Joe, yet you went to visit Cassandra? I don't think so. It just so happened that Joe was also coming here because of me."

"You?" Pierson laughed. "You certainly have a high opinion of yourself. Did you ever consider that Joe came here for reasons of his own? Watcher business?"

There was a pause. "Okay, I'll concede that point. Joe comes to New York for *that* reason. I come because of Rachel. Why are you here? You said something to do with the Catholic Church and then admit you've seen Cassandra."

"We've been through this, MacLeod."

"You're here because of the woman Cassandra's asked me to hide."

"Hide?" Pierson jumped to his feet. "Sara?" He looked around and his eyes collided with hers.

"Hello, Adam Pierson. It seems I owe you a debt."

Pierson took a deep breath and exhaled, relaxing slowly. "Detective Pezzini. A pleasure to see you again."

"So, you do know each other," Duncan commented inanely. Sara ignored him, her focus totally on the man in front of her. The one she had desperately wanted to see again.

"I didn't know you were here…," Pierson began.

"Or you wouldn't have come," Sara finished for him. "I do get the picture you've been avoiding me. So, you were the one who warned Cassandra about the Church officials coming after me," she accused. "Why couldn't you have told me yourself?"

"You're *her* student," he replied.

"But I was yours at one point," she reminded him.

"You are not Jeannette. You're Sara; don't get confused."

Sara laughed. "You know, you're the only one who seems to think that way. Cassandra sometimes forgets and calls me Jeannette and sometimes she calls Nottingham, Alencon. But we're not those people although you *are* de Morency."

"I am."

"Who is de Morency?" Duncan asked, trying to get back in the conversation.

Pierson answered. "I was a knight bound to Joan of Arc."

Duncan laughed. "You? Weren't you the one who preached to me about getting involved with lost causes?"

"I defended a person, MacLeod. Not an ideal."

"That's what Cassandra said."

"She did? How perceptive of her."

Sara felt the conversation had drifted away from her and focused on Duncan. Why was he attacking Pierson's ideals?

"She as a woman was doomed to fail, but her ideals lived on, and it didn't take long for the French to rid themselves of the English. I think you're jealous because the Scots were never able to do so."

"So, were you defending the ideal or the woman?" MacLeod continued.

"I wanted to be near the woman because she held such ideals."

"Because you have so few of your own?"

"Touche, Highlander." Pierson, or rather Methos, tipped the beer bottle in an awkward toast.

"Listen, guys, as much as I'm enjoying your argument, aren't we missing the point?"

Both men looked blankly at her, yet she could see a twinkle in Pierson's eyes that led her to believe that he was participating in the argument for fun. Duncan was not; he was all seriousness.

"Yes, Sara, do tell us the point," Pierson asked sarcastically. Then he plopped himself back down on the couch.

"I don't need to hide from the pope's representatives. I'm ready to face them."

"Are you going to give it back or fight to keep it?"

"I don't need to fight. It has chosen me; they can't take it. My time isn't done."

Pierson smiled widely. "Brava, my lady. Your will, will be done."

Sara shifted uneasily from one to the other. "Methos, huh? I heard him call you Methos. How many names have you had?" she asked trying to shift the conversation away from herself.

The two men exchanged looks and Sara almost laughed at their discomfiture.

"Too many to count. You remember me as de Morency and Adam Pierson. But if you look further back, you might find me again under another name. If you do, let me know."

"Is Methos your real name?"

"What do you mean by real? Is it the name my mother gave me? I have no idea; I don't remember a mother. Methos is the earliest name I do remember, so I guess you would call it real. But, aren't all names real in the context in what they're given? Is Sara Pezzini the name your birth mother gave you?"

Sara continued undaunted. She refused to let him take charge. "Does Jake know your name is Methos?"

"He knows, but would prefer to call me Adam. It's what he's used to."

"Who's Jake?" Duncan inquired.

"My partner," Sara answered. "And a school chum of his."

"School chum?" Duncan parroted. "As in Geneva?"

"Bingo!"

Sara started to get an idea. It was obvious that the two men were very close friends. From the beginning of the conversation it sounded as if Pierson was actually protective of Duncan. And if Immortals had to fight with a sword, they must have to practice--a lot. Cassandra stressed sparring at every opportunity. "Duncan, before I go and tackle the envoy, can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure, lass."

Pierson rolled his eyes.

"I want to watch the two of you spar with swords. I see visions of battles, but only when the two combatants want to kill each other. I'd like to see a fight between two people who are friends."

Duncan laughed. "Well, Methos. Are you up for it? Have you even done anything more strenuous in the last week than walk up a few flights of stairs?"
Pierson smiled wickedly. "I generally don't perform for an audience, but I think I can make this one exception. Where does Connor usually go?"

"He has a warehouse on the next block."

"Shall we?" Pierson entreated.

Sara thought the anticipation was almost overwhelming. To actually see two men who were totally proficient in swordplay was beyond her wildest imaginings. Visions of what it was like in the fifteenth century could not compare with seeing the real thing. The weapons they were going to use were not fencing foils with blunted tips, but full-length blades, sharp enough to cut off a man's head.

Duncan showed them a shortcut that bypassed Hudson Street, and took them in an alleyway between buildings and then into a large boarded up warehouse. Inside, the walls were dirty and filled with cobwebs, but the floor looked as if it had been swept and kept free of clutter.

Sara found a seat on an old crate and the two men began circling each other. Pierson took off his sweater, and tossed it to one side. Suddenly it started. Swords clanged against one another as both men attacked and parried in turn. As they fought she found herself mesmerized by the motion and sound.
Duncan and Pierson faded and she saw de Morency sparring with Alencon. Their fight was not as friendly; both wanted to wound the other. Yet, they were not fighting to the death. It was more of a rivalry. Sara interpreted it as a male pissing contest. The pair disintegrated and she saw instead Dante fighting the man in shadow as in her dreams. This time the shadow wasn't incomplete and it began to have more than form. It had jeans and a sweater. The face had features--Pierson's features. Now she clearly saw the two combatants and they were fighting to the death. It was written on both faces. It was the scene that haunted her dreams. The need to kill to survive.

"Nice block!" Duncan exclaimed. "Didn't know you could move so fast."

Reality intruded.

Pierson laughed. "I've never needed to before."

Their friendship and mutual respect shone through the darkness of her vision. The man in shadow finally had a face and a name. Swords continued to thrust. Feet and hands were also used as weapons with deadly skill. Yet their faces sported smiles that went from mouth to eyes. They were having fun, which even the casual observer could see.

Sweat began to form on the two men, hair became stringy and yet neither sounded winded. At one point she thought she heard a sound and turned, but couldn't see how anyone could have gotten in. It must have been a rodent or two.

Several slashes by Pierson ripped Duncan's shirt, yet he didn't stop to look. In return, Duncan stepped forward and sliced down Pierson's forearm. He merely switched his sword from right to his left hand. Duncan began making comments using a Scottish brogue.

Then it was over. There didn't seem to be any sign given, but both stopped simultaneously. Duncan was laughing. "I guess you're not in bad shape after all."

"Just because you don't see me work out, MacLeod, doesn't mean I don't do it. You shouldn't act so bloody superior, then it wouldn't amuse me so much to bring you down a peg or two."

Duncan threw Pierson a towel, which he used to wipe off the blood from his bare chest. There were no cuts or wounds visible. Sara couldn't take her eyes off him as he put his sweater back on over his head. His pants also had blood soaked into the leg, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

The two men shook hands. Pierson leaned over to Duncan and whispered something in his ear.

"Leaving? Already?" Duncan exclaimed, sounding almost petulant.

Pierson said something else quietly. Sara realized he was telling Duncan something he didn't want her to hear, so she jumped up and walked briskly over.

"Goodbye, Sara. It was nice seeing you again," Pierson said to her. "Watch over Jake for me. I've grown quite fond of him."

"When'll you be back in Paris?" Duncan inquired.

"Whenever Joe says." Pierson whipped the towel at Duncan and then shouted into the warehouse, "Tim, I'm leaving now!" He gave Duncan a wry smile.

"You know these kids. Can't find a trail unless you leave them breadcrumbs." Then he sauntered out.

Sara wanted desperately to follow, but Duncan held her back. "You can never contain Methos. You let him come and go as he wills, or he'll disappear forever."

Sara took the warning seriously.


IX

Ian settled himself on the roof of McCarty's apartment building. He sat with his legs crossed and his back straight. With closed eyes, he let his senses go, as he searched for the detective's distinctive voice. McCarty was on the phone with a woman. The detective didn't use familiar language, so they obviously weren't friends. They sounded more like co-workers. Possibly she worked for that "other" organization that McCarty belonged to--the Watchers.

"Cassandra has been acting strange lately," the woman said.

"Did you happen to see her with the dark-haired woman who lives above her?" McCarty asked.

"You mean Pezzini? Yeah. The younger Highlander came to visit Pezzini yesterday and they talked for a short while. Next thing I saw was a limousine with a bunch of priests pull up to the curb. They were very dignified and a bit uppity, if you know what I mean. I went up and asked them if I could help, but they gave me the cold shoulder. The only thing I did catch was that they were after Sara Pezzini."

"Do you know where she is?"

"At some point Cassandra must have gone into Pezzini's apartment, maybe to warn her about the priests, because the three of them came out Pezzini's window. Cassandra was leading with Pezzini behind her and MacLeod bringing up the rear."

"You mean Sara is with both of them? Think she knows?"

"Cassandra must have told her something because they spend all their free time practicing with a sword."

"Cassandra is teaching Sara sword-play? My God, has Sara died that I didn't know about?"

"Don't think so. I haven't seen a reaction from Cassandra that says she's near. After the three left the apartment, Cassandra drove them all to the elder Highlander's place. Sara is staying there with Duncan, and Cassandra has left."

"Listen, thanks a lot for the information."

"What's Pezzini to you?"

"She's my partner at the police department. I know she's been investigating, you know, things, and I got a little worried that it might have gotten her in trouble."

"Only with a bunch of priests. Good luck finding your partner."

Ian heard McCarty disconnect. Did McCarty know where this elder Highlander lived? The detective left soon after the phone conversation and headed for his car. Ian had no trouble following McCarty, but to his surprise, McCarty went to Chambers Street and Sara's apartment. However, he rang Cassandra's bell.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Cassandra, this is Jake McCarty--Sara's partner. Can I come up?"

Ian waited for the detective to get up to Cassandra's apartment and then went back and sat down on the fire escape to listen.

"Hello, Detective McCarty. What can I do for you?"

"I want to know how Sara is. I'm very worried."

"I have her someplace safe."

"I know. She's with Duncan."

"How did you--oh, I forgot your *connections*. I just didn't think Dawson would tell you private things like that."

Ian heard McCarty's heart beat faster. The man was decidedly nervous.

"Doesn't matter how--"

"Oh, Melanie informed you," she said airily.

"You know about Melanie Hinds?" he asked, sounding incredulous.

"Not officially."

"But she's not the problem here. It's Sara. She's in trouble."

Ian could hear the anxiousness in McCarty's voice.

"I have it handled, Jake. Sara is not in any trouble that is impossible to get out of. You don't need to worry for her welfare."

"Pierson's in town."

"I know. We've talked. He's as concerned about her as I am."

"What kind of sway does he have with the Catholic Church?"

"Absolutely none. Let it rest and don't go and find her. No doubt, Kenneth Irons is as eager to locate her as you. Don't lead Ian Nottingham to her door. That won't solve anything."

Ian started swearing to himself. The witch was interfering again and not letting him complete his job. Maybe he needed to force McCarty into escorting him to this Highlander's house.

The phone rang. Cassandra picked it up.

"Listen, Cass, Sara is going stir-crazy. She says she's made up her mind and knows what to do."

"Let me talk to her, Duncan."

Ian filed the sound of Duncan's voice away in his mind for later analysis.

"Cassandra. They won't be a problem. Tell your friend to let me come home. They can't touch me."

Ian felt Sara's voice. His hyper-sense of hearing allowed each timber to resonate within his body. Yes, he whispered to himself. Let her come home.

"All right, Sara. If you're sure. Your partner is here with me and is very anxious to talk to you."

There was some rustling, and Jake spoke next. "Sara? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine Jake. Just been getting to know Duncan and your old school chum a little better."

Ian heard Jake gasp then ask, "Adam was over there?"

Cassandra's heart stopped momentarily. Ian was surprised to note such a reaction from the witch. Possibly the two weren't friends. This fact might be something they could exploit in the future.

"He didn't know I was here," Sara replied. "He came to visit Duncan. I was a surprise."

"Did you accuse him of killing Dante?"

"Actually the subject never came up. He did tell me to protect you 'cause he's grown quite fond of you. From everything Duncan implied, I take it *Adam* doesn't care about a lot of people."

Cassandra ripped the phone out of his hand. "How long did Pierson stay?"

"Long enough," Sara answered. "It was in fact rather cathartic. Those nightmares I've been having won't be coming back. I've replaced the sight with something much more enthralling."

"Of what?"

"Of him sparring with Duncan. It was quite an experience."

"We'll talk about this later." Ian heard the tightness in Cassandra's voice. She was definitely upset. "Have Duncan bring you home."

Ian got up from the fire escape and climbed up to Sara's apartment. Then he moved into his favorite alcove and waited for his Lady Sara to return.


X

Joe wheeled himself into the restaurant, just a little ahead of his companion, the rich and infamous Kenneth Irons. The man was a slimy, sleazy ass. The longer Joe knew Irons, the more Joe despised him.

Yet, he wanted the painting. All through the tour, Kenneth Irons would give him anecdotes about the individual pieces, yet the man showed no warmth. Joe was careful not to let Irons know exactly what he wanted, but the man was too cagey. As soon as Joe saw the painting, Irons knew. He gave one of his ingratiating smiles and informed Joe that the painting was not for sale, under any circumstance.

Keeping up with his persona of wealthy art buyer for the French museum, Joe continued the tour, hoping that maybe there would be another painting of Darius. It seemed that Irons was obsessed with Joan of Arc. What if he could trade? Surely somewhere the Watchers could get their hands on some authentic Joan of Arc relic that Irons might want in exchange. It was something to consider.


XI

Methos met up with Amanda at the appointed time. She was attired in a tight black leather ensemble, complete with all her tools of the trade. Methos drove to the mansion, noting that the limo was not in the side driveway. He had called Joe and verified that he was on the way to the restaurant with Kenneth Irons. Unfortunately, Nottingham wasn't the driver. Methos had counted on the fact that Irons would have wanted Nottingham with him to monitor Joe during their conversation. However, Sara wasn't at home. Possibly Nottingham was out looking for her. That would certainly work in his favor.

Methos pulled the vehicle around the corner near a bunch of trees and turned off the engine. Hidden among the trees was a small power box. Amanda gave Methos a secretive smile and pulled out a decoder.

"Irons had a separate solar-charged generator and relay system installed after the house was built. From what my friend Bert tells me, someone from inside Irons' organization installed it, but Bert knew about it as soon as it was ready."

Methos nodded as she typed in a few numbers and then listened carefully, changing numbers and order until Methos heard a click. The box swung open and Amanda cut and spliced some wires together.

"This will deactivate the cameras, without short-circuiting the system. They'll never see us," she smiled conspiratorially.

Next, Amanda pulled out her equipment, and they divvied up what each would need. Methos gave her the strobe, hoping that she wouldn't need it. They put in the ear-pieces and checked the mics.

"Can you hear me?" Amanda asked, quietly.

"Loud and clear," Methos answered.

Before reaching the house, they would need to hop a fence and traverse a small wooded area then cross a wide expanse of lawn. It was still better than parking in the driveway.

The two Immortals smiled at each other and began the journey to the house. As Amanda hopped over the fence, Methos turned to see if Timothy Wyatt, his trusty Watcher, was near. The lad was still in his car, gazing at them in blatant dislike. Good. With any luck, he'd still be there when they got back.


XII

Kenneth Irons was trying to endure. His guest was not refined and seemed to lack breeding. That came as a surprise, since when he called the Musee de l'Histoire de France, they had gushed about Francis Bradley's accomplishments. The only high point to the evening was when Kenneth found out that Bradley could read medieval Gaelic. They talked a bit about Celtic traditions and the man did know quite a bit about that.

As the waiter brought a dessert menu, Nottingham slipped in the dining area and headed for the bar. Kenneth excused himself and joined him.

"Have you found her?"

"Yes. She is home. The man Duncan MacLeod, from Paris, is a friend of Cassandra's."

"Interesting. We have two strangers in our midst, both from France."

"Two?"

"Your Duncan MacLeod and my dinner guest, Francis Bradley."

"Coincidence?"

"I think not," Kenneth answered with complete conviction.

"Do you want me to follow your guest to the hotel and see if MacLeod pays a visit?"

"I would like you to go home and sleep. We'll have a busy day tomorrow, but do stop off at the Waldorf and see if you can find anything in Bradley's room first."

"Yes, master."

Kenneth gave Ian a quick smile and returned to the table. Only one more course to go, before he could conveniently dispose of his dinner guest. The only need was to give Ian time to peruse the hotel room. Then Kenneth could relax in front of the fire with a brandy.


XIII

Methos followed Amanda down the long corridor. Expensive paintings covered all the walls. Glass enclosed shelves contained all kinds of other pieces of art--jade and ivory figurines, medieval medical tools, Methos recognized them from personal use. He glanced at his companion and could see the drool dripping from her gaped mouth.

"Easy, girl. We have a mission first."

Her wide eyes turned to him. "I had no idea he was such a collector. I'll have to come back here again."

"That's if we get out alive this time."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Details," she commented dryly. "I think the library is this way."

They turned down one branch and suddenly were walking along on a balcony overlooking a den area, complete with fireplace, large screen TV and multiple cases of books. Directly across from him was *the* painting. Jeannette's tortured eyes were looking at the painter and the three men of God were there wearing differing expressions. One was of course Darius, with his sorrow evident. One was obviously Cauchon. He hated Jeannette. His eyes dripped poison every time he looked at her. The third was La Fontaine. He was afraid of her power and that she might direct it toward the destruction of the Church. How had Darius found himself in such illustrious company during her execution? Methos didn't remember Darius ever talking with either of them. Most of his dealings had been with Nicolas de Houppeville, and to a lesser extent, Jean Lemaitre.

"You going to stand there until Irons comes home?" Amanda asked, nudging him back to the present.

"I'll get the picture," Methos told her. "I won't need any help. You keep watch and let me know if anyone comes home."

"And if I see anything interesting?"

"Only if it's easy to get. I don't want any alarms going off."

Her eyes widened incredulously. "Moi? I don't set off alarms. I'm much too good for that."

Methos rolled his eyes. "You've got five minutes and then meet me back at the pool."

She nodded, obviously eager to be off.


XIV

Ian closed the door to Bradley's hotel room. He glanced around at the huge suite, surprised that the man would require so much room. There were two bedrooms, and much to Ian's surprise both were being used. There was a set of artificial legs sitting across one of the beds. Several suits hung in the closet and the required underwear, socks and t-shirts were in the drawers. The luggage was open and nothing was inside. Nothing seemed out of place.
He went into the other bedroom. Very few clothes were in here. A few pair of jeans and sweaters were folded neatly in the drawers. The closet only held a coat. Several empty bottles of beer littered the nightstand. However, inside his case was a passport. Ian eagerly opened it and then stared at it dumbly. The name read Adam Pierson, but the face…, oh, he remembered the face from his dreams. It was de Morency. With shaking fingers, Ian put it back and left the hotel room. He needed to think. Mr. Irons had told him to go home and sleep and that was what he'd do, except for sleeping. He'd never be able to sleep with de Morency's ghost hovering near.


XV

Amanda walked confidently down the corridor, sliding into alcoves whenever house security came too close. She hadn't decided if she was going to take anything, but maybe just scope the place out first to see if there was anything worth a second trip.

She turned down another hallway and found it lined with suits of armor. Much to her surprise they were authentic, not modern reproductions. Dents and bloodstains were still visible on some of the specimens. Some types she recognized. There was a time when she had lived as a camp follower. It wasn't the greatest existence, but it had kept her away from the law in whatever town she had been trying to escape from. No matter where she had lived, there had always been an army. Soldiers didn't care who took care of their lust, when they were far from home.

Shaking her head from the now unpalatable memories, she strode on, gazing at the other instruments of war. Maces, axes, swords of all types decorated the walls. Between two suits was a doorway that led into a kind of gym. Exercise mats covered the floor, towels hung on hooks and…Amanda gasped. A beautiful, ivory-handled katana leaned against the wall. It had obviously been used, since it wasn't hung on the walls, or encased in glass. She walked over to it, picked it up and twirled it a few times, mimicking Duncan's practiced movements. It was gorgeous and now it was hers.

Her five minutes were probably up, so she turned to leave the room. Stepping into the hallway, she stopped suddenly, faced with a man, with long, slightly curly dark hair. His feet were spread apart, and his arms hung loosely at his side. Their eyes connected, and a rush of feminine appreciation made her eyes glow. He was just as beautiful as--

"Leave my sword," he commanded, breaking into her thoughts.

Amanda brought the blade up and pretended to gaze appreciatively at it, yet her eyes never left his. "Where did you get it?" she asked, wanting to hear him speak again.

"I took it from a dead Samurai."

"You use it often, Ian?" She wanted to know if this was the man Methos feared.

He nodded. "You have me at a disadvantage."

"Yeah, I do." She twirled the blade, but his eyes remained on her. "But, then in some respects, you have *me* at a disadvantage, too." She made no attempt to get past him. Simple curiosity held her spellbound. Consciously she let her body exude sensuality. "No one told me how beautiful you are. You remind me of a black panther, all sinew and grace."

He didn't look discomfited, nor did he puff up like peacock. She walked slowly over to him. Her right hand held the sword firmly, but her left hand reached up to grasp a curl and run the strands between her fingers. "So soft for such a dangerous warrior."

"Why are you here?" he demanded, knocking her hand away, then with lightning speed, reaching to take the sword away. But she, aware of his capabilities, had been ready and swerved to avoid his grasping fingers.

She decided to answer his question. "One of my passions is snooping. I love going through large estates looking for treasures."

"Mr. Irons would have been glad to show you around."

"Where's the fun in that? Besides, he might not be willing to show me everything."

While her eyes caressed his body, her mind was rapidly calculating how long she had to keep him talking. Methos would be able to hear their conversation, since the mic was on, but he wouldn't be able to talk, because then Ian would know that she wasn't alone.

"Leave my sword," he ordered again.

"But, I like it. I want to give it as a gift to someone who's very passionate about katanas," she quirked an eyebrow, "and claymores for that matter. You have any of those?"

He looked like he had had enough. Amanda could tell by his eyes that he was getting ready to make his move. "I couldn't talk you into a drink by the fire and some more," she paused seductively, "talk?" she asked, while holding his eyes with her own and slipping her left hand into her pocket.
His attention was on her face so he never saw her pull out the strobe light. He lunged once more to take the katana. Leaping backward, she kept out of his grasp, swinging the sword to keep him from following her movement. However, with a rapid come-back, he reached out after her swing and clutched the blunt side and held tight. She let go of the sword, causing the hilt to drop toward the floor. At the same time she flicked on the light. As he looked down to retrieve the weapon, his eyes collided with the strobe. Ian froze. His pupils dilated and his body began to shake, as if a seizure had taken hold of him. Not sure how long this would last, she spoke into the mic. "Where are you?" she hissed.

"I'm at the car. Get here, now!"

Amanda needed no second urging. Picking up the katana, she fled down the hallway, making her way swiftly to the poolroom, out onto the lawn and across the property to where Methos had hidden the vehicle.


XVI

Methos could now see her as Amanda ran up to the car. He turned the ignition, revving the engine.

"Get in," he ordered her.

She flung herself into the front seat.

Methos pulled out of the hiding place and onto the road. He glanced back to make sure that Tim Wyatt had gotten away. When Methos had first arrived back at the car, Wyatt had been standing there, his hands on his hips like old matron.

"Give me the painting. It belongs with the Watchers."

Methos kept track of the dialogue between Amanda and Ian Nottingham, while he taunted the young Watcher. "You going to take it from me?" he inquired, curious to see Wyatt's reaction.

"Yes," Wyatt boasted.

Methos laughed at the Watcher, while listening to Amanda tease Nottingham. Why did she take the damned sword? "Okay, here." He handed Wyatt the painting, realizing that Amanda was playing for time. "But you better leave now. Amanda's been caught and it's only minutes before the cops will be here."

Wyatt blinked at the quick capitulation. Then his eyes narrowed. "You're just going to give it to me?"

"For now. Amanda's in trouble; I may need to go back for her. It might be better if I don't have the thing in my possession. At least if you take it, I know where and when I can get it back."

Although Wyatt looked uncomfortable, he took the painting and rushed away. Methos smiled. Everything was going according to plan.

"You have the painting?" Amanda asked, breaking into his thoughts.

"I was able to get it," he answered, glancing over to Amanda, who sat there smugly. "What did you take?" He already knew about the weapon, but was curious to see if she took anything else.

"A sword." She pulled it out of her coat and caressed it. "Think MacLeod will like it? I'm thinking of giving it to him as a four hundred and tenth birthday present."

"He won't see that birthday for another two years."

"I can wait."

Methos smiled inwardly. Only Amanda could go into a house full of priceless treasures and steal something she intended to give as a gift to someone else. He looked in his rearview mirror. No Wyatt, no cops. So far he was batting a thousand.

Amanda stretched. "I could use a good soak. That Ian Nottingham is something else."

"You used the strobe light?"

"Had to. Worked very well." She laughed. "It was also a lot less messy than a blade or a gun."

"Thought it would appeal to your finer self. I'll drop you off at your hotel. I'm leaving with Joe immediately. I don't want the cops to question him."

"Afraid he'll give you up," Amanda commented with a chuckle.

"No," he retorted, affronted that she'd think something like that. "If they bring him in, they'll have a connection between Joe Dawson and Francis Bradley. Can't have that. It would be better if Bradley just faded away."

"I'll see you in Paris, then?"

"Maybe in a week," Methos answered, considering his options.


XVII

Joe wheeled himself from the elevator to his hotel room. His long face reflected both fatigue and disappointment. Irons had refused categorically to part with the painting. Joe had failed and had no idea what to do next.

Lifting his tired arm, he unlocked the door and found Methos pacing the room with all their bags packed standing ready by the couch. "What the hell?" Joe exclaimed, wondering what Methos had done now.

"We're leaving Joe. I took the liberty of--"

"I don't want to leave; I want to go to bed. I've had a hellish evening with a man slimier that any snake I've ever seen."


"We don't have time to talk about it now. There's a bellboy on his way--" Methos saw a man in hotel livery walking down the hall toward them. "Joe, I'll explain in the car."

Methos ignored Joe's sputtering, and directed the different baggage onto the cart. Then he grabbed Joe's wheel chair and began to push it to the elevator.

"I can do it myself." Joe protested, but Methos ignored him. "What about checkout?"

"I took care of it," was Methos' surprising answer. Joe knew something bad must have happened to make Methos part with his own money.

A black Thunderbird was waiting by the front door. Methos had the luggage stored in the trunk and then gave the hotel people a large tip. Methos folded the wheelchair and stored it in the back seat, next to Joe's artificial legs. "You can put them on later," Joe was told. By this time, Joe had stopped complaining and just went with the flow. Methos on a mission would not be thwarted.

Methos took the wheel and drove them away from the hotel. Joe stayed alert, watching to see what was coming next. Would they go to a new hotel? To the airport and a flight back to Paris?

No. Instead, Methos drove them out of the city. The big lights disappeared and New York State Thruway signs were prevalent. Once Methos relaxed and found a cruising speed, Joe tried his questions again. "What happened?"

"I broke into Irons' estate while you were having dinner with him and stole the painting. I knew--"

"You did what?" Joe exploded.

"I knew you wouldn't have any luck getting 'the slimy snake' to part with his priceless picture of Joan of Arc, so I did it for you."

"Is it in the car?" Joe asked horrified, thinking about getting stopped by state troopers.

"No. I gave it to my Watcher, Timothy Wyatt."

"Why'd you do that?"

"One, get him off my trail so you and I can disappear. If he gets caught, he won't have any idea where we are. Two, he can get it out of the city better than I can. I would prefer not to take stolen merchandise on an international flight."

"Did he know he was part of your plan?"

Methos smiled slyly. "Doubt it."

"So, where are we going?"

"I don't know. I thought at first we'd fly to Albany and fly to Paris from there. But, now I'm thinking about Toronto. Crossing the border is relatively easy, and I thought you'd like to see Niagara Falls. I haven't been there in over a hundred years. Might be fun."

Joe grumbled to himself. He had been to the tourist trap. The falls were nice, but not in the winter when walking was treacherous. That wasn't even taking into account the ice and cold and wind. He shivered thinking about. "Yeah, might be fun," Joe echoed and then leaned against the door and closed his eyes. He was exhausted. Maybe he'd sleep all the way across the state.


XVIII

Kenneth walked into his home and called out for Ian. Didn't matter where Ian was located, he could always hear when his master called. Yet, Kenneth made it all the way to his favorite room without Ian's appearance.

One of his security guards walked silently up to him. "We've had a breech."

Kenneth felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. "Where's Ian Nottingham?"

"Don't know, sir. They came in from the back through the pool room."

"Professionals?"

"Very. Only one thing was taken."

"A painting?"

"Yes. The one in the library."

Kenneth felt the bile rise in his throat. He had been out-maneuvered and then cheated. Dinner had been a ruse to get him out of the house, so Bradley's associates could steal what they couldn't buy. "Nottingham!!" Kenneth screamed, furious that Ian had let it happen.

Kenneth waited for Ian to appear, yet he was still absent. He rang for more of his security personnel. "Find Nottingham," he commanded.

Going into the library, he poured himself a glass of brandy and sat down in the wing-backed chair and stared at the empty wall, where the painting of the burning Joan of Arc should have been. He swirled the amber liquid around in the snifter, thinking, and planning revenge on the man who had duped him.

"Sir?"

Kenneth looked up at the man cowering in the doorway. "You find him?"

"Yes. He's upstairs, lying on the ground in a seizure. There's a doctor with him now."

Kenneth jumped from his chair and went to the medical wing. He was pacing inside the office when Nottingham was wheeled in on a gurney. Kenneth looked dispassionately at his--slave, worker, personal bodyguard--failure. The man lying there was a mess. His eyes were wide open, dilated, and unresponsive. His body was convulsing. "What happened?"

"The person who broke in knew about his gifts and was able to capitalize on a weakness caused by these gifts."

The doctor handed him a strobe light-- a very powerful light. "This did this to Ian?" Kenneth asked.

"Yes. His mind is locked and all he sees is the light flashing on and off. His body is shaking to the same rhythm."

Kenneth turned the light on to verify the doctor's words. "Well, treat him the best you can. Let me know if he comes around."

The master of the house sauntered back to the library. He couldn't go to the cops, because the painting was stolen to begin with. He had obtained it during World War Two and had no intention of giving it back to the French. Revenge was all he could look forward to. Yet, where would he start? He didn't need to call to know Francis Bradley was gone from the Waldorf.

Jake McCarty. This had all started when the young detective saw the painting and was mesmerized by it. What did he see that had instigated such a large operation to obtain it? It couldn't have anything to do with Joan of Arc, because Kenneth had many more relics worth just as much. He would wait for Ian to come back to him and together they would design a plan. For the first time that evening, Kenneth allowed himself a small smile.



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