Incongruities

By Lori

Day 6

I

Timothy Wyatt preened in front of his father and the US coordinator. The painting of Darius was safely in transit to Marseilles, and he was getting the credit for procuring it. Joe Dawson's role was minimal and would soon be forgotten. Unfortunately, McCarty would still be the one cited for having discovered it. There was nothing Tim could do about that. His father was glowing with paternal pride and Tim was basking under the limelight.

He had spent an hour driving around the city last night trying to think of a good story to explain how he obtained the picture. In the end, he told his father what was mostly the truth. He intentionally left out his belief that Methos had intended to give it to him the whole time, and most importantly the threat that the oldest Immortal could get it back any time he chose. Hopefully when the time came, Tim would have reached old age and be retired, if not dead.

His father had listened incredulously at first, then had accepted the painting with pride. The next action was to get the picture in the hands of a trusted courier and on its way to France to be authenticated and preserved. Its final destination had yet to be decided.

The US coordinator was slapping him on the back and trying to refill his glass of brandy. Tim yawned, tired, but he knew he was too wired to sleep. He glanced at the clock and noted the time was six-thirty in the morning. His mind drifted away from the conversation going on around him, and began to consider Dawson in the light of the theft. Would the old Watcher be in some kind of danger?

"Dad?" he tried to gain his father's attention. "Since Dawson was trying to buy the picture and now that it's been stolen, do you think Kenneth Irons will have him arrested?"

"That painting is a Van Eyck. I sincerely doubt that Irons legitimately owned the painting. My guess is that he stole it himself many years ago. There is no way he'd bring his own theft into the light. No, he won't go after Dawson."

"What if Irons uses another means other than the law?"

Howard looked with surprise at Tim. "Dawson can take care of himself. After all, Methos is staying with him."

Tim digested the information. He knew that Methos was staying with Dawson. His tired brain sifted through the facts and came up with one concrete conclusion. "They're skipping town!" Tim jumped up and ran for his coat. His quarry was getting away.

He drove as fast as he could to the Waldorf and when he got inside was informed that Mr. Dawson had checked out late last night. Tim plopped himself down in one of the lobby chairs in defeat. Methos was gone, without a real Watcher tailing him. Dawson was discounted; anything he might report could hardly be relied on.

"Are they gone?"

Time looked up to see Jake McCarty standing over him. The old rivalry between the two flickered, but Tim was too tired to care. "Yeah, they checked out last night."

"Did Joe get the picture?"

So, McCarty didn't know what happened. "No, I did."

McCarty's eyes widened in disbelief. "You?"

"Well, Methos and Amanda stole it and I took it from them as they came out of the house."

McCarty gave an appreciative smile. "He is so damned clever," he said with wonder.

"What do you mean?" Tim asked sharply.

"Methos is very protective of Joe. He knew that Irons would never sell, which meant the only way to get it was to steal it. This of course would put Joe in danger, so he had to have a way to get rid of the painting after he stole it and then get Joe away from New York. I bet he constantly made sure you were following him these past few days, huh?"

Tim didn't like to admit that McCarty was correct. "I didn't lose him, if that's what you mean."

"He used you to get the painting to the Watchers, and was able to get you off his tail at the same time, so he could make his escape."

"Damn!" Tim was furious, but what else could he have done? He wasn't going to let Methos keep the picture; it belonged to the Watchers.

"Are you going to return to Paris and wait for him to show up?"

"Not much point in sticking around here."

"Methos will go back to Paris with Joe when the heat's off."

"I'm sure you're right."


II

Sara woke slowly, luxuriating in the softness of her own bed. While she appreciated the thoughtfulness of her Immortal friends, she was glad to be home. She had managed to avoid any long talks with Cassandra the night before. But today, it would be a different story.

Clean and refreshed, Sara made herself some breakfast and then checked her answering machine. There was at least nine from Gabriel, at first sounding upset, then frantic and finally extremely angry. Taking a large sip from her coffee, she called him.

"Where have you been?" he asked, sounding belligerent.

"Cassandra decided that I needed to be protected from something so she hustled me out of the apartment to a safe house. After I got all the facts, I decided I didn't need saving. What's going on? I couldn't really understand your messages."

"My friend was murdered."

"Murdered?" This was news to Sara. "How?" she asked.

"Someone tied a rope around his neck and hung him in a stairwell."

"Who're the detectives on the scene?"

"None, but they said it would be assigned today. Take the case, Sara, please."

"Yeah, I'm going in today. I'll talk to the captain about it. Why isn't there a detective already?"

There was a pause. "They say it's not murder but suicide."

"Oh." Sara's mind began racing.

"I'm telling you Sly wouldn't kill himself no matter what people are saying. He was one of my best friends. I've known him a long time. He wasn't suicidal."

"Listen, Gabriel. I will check into it."

"Use the Witchblade. It'll tell you the same thing."

"If it talks to me, I promise to listen. Let me get back to you later."

She disconnected and looked at her bed with longing. Would anyone notice if she just climbed between the sheets again and forgot the world existed? With a big sigh and a last swallow of her coffee, she got up and headed to work.

As Sara sat on her bike, she noticed a shadow coming toward her.

"Nottingham. Expected to see you last night."

"Why?"

"Well," she paused not sure what to say. She'd been gone and just assumed he would have been looking for her. Why was she disappointed that he hadn't even noticed her disappearance? "I figured--"

"Someone broke into Mr. Irons estate last night," he interrupted.

Her eyes widened. "Did you kill them?"

"No. They knew how to defeat me."

"You mean there is a way? I didn't know that. How did they do it?"

"Don't you want to know what she took?"

"She?"

"Actually I think there were two, although they were able to disconnect the surveillance system so we don't have anything on tape."

"How unfortunate. So, what did they take?"

"The other one took a painting of Joan of Arc. The one *your partner* admired so much last time you were over."

Sara remembered Methos asking her to watch over Jake because things might get hot. Then her heart stopped beating as she recalled exactly which painting he was talking about. "The one with the three priests looking on as she burned?"

"Yes."

Her mind flashed back to the day when she and Jake had gone to confront Kenneth Irons. He had seemed riveted by the picture, she remembered that part. Absently twisting the Witchblade on her wrist, she tried to focus on the painting itself. The three priests. She carefully looked at each. "Darius," she said in wonder. The priest with the sword tip showing beneath his robes had been the same one from her vision. The same one who had claimed to be a friend of de Morency's. Pierson had stolen the picture because of Father Darius, not because of Joan of Arc. "Did he take anything else?"

"*She* took my sword."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "Someone stole a sword? Kinda hard to believe."

"I think the man who stole the painting is the same one who killed Captain Dante."

Sara's heart stopped beating for a second. Did Nottingham know about Immortals? Had he been listening in on any of her conversations? "Why do you think that?" she asked hesitantly.

"A man by the name of Francis Bradley, representing a museum in France, met with Mr. Irons last night to talk about buying that particular picture. I took a look in their hotel room and Bradley was traveling with a man by the name of Adam Pierson." He paused, now looking Sara right in the eyes. "De Morency."

She stiffened, swallowing thickly. "You think this man killed Dante and came back a few months later to steal the painting?"

"Yes. I do. I realize now that you also know this to be fact."

Sara didn't acknowledge the query. "So, this Adam Pierson was with another woman, but it wasn't Cassandra?"

"No, not the witch. Why would you ask unless--Cassandra also knows Adam Pierson."

Sara watched Nottingham digest this new bit of information. "So, you say that this other woman and Pierson broke into the estate and stole only the painting and a sword. Why the sword?"

"She liked it."

"What kind was it?"

"It was a katana with an ivory hilt. And mine." His possessiveness was apparent. "I notice you don't ask about the painting. Do you know why de Morency wanted it?"

"His name is Pierson. I can't imagine why he wanted it."

"You are lying to me, Sara. I can always tell."

She shrugged her shoulders in pretended nonchalance.

"What is so special about the picture?" he asked again.

Sara considered telling him the truth. She knew why Pierson wanted it. Somehow Darius was dead--really dead as in he was decapitated.

"Pierson probably wanted it for sentimental reasons. Maybe he has memories of Joan of Arc, too."

Nottingham's eyes narrowed.

"You want me to arrest them?" Sara asked.

"I would, but I'm sure they are gone. So is Bradley. They left while I was incapacitated."

Sara had to chuckle. It was hard to think of Nottingham as being incapacitated. "Thanks for letting me know."

"Why were you gone?"

"Cassandra thought I needed protecting. I just had to convince her that I could take care of myself."

"Where is Duncan MacLeod?"

"You did know I was gone," she accused. "I don't know where he is; why?"

"I wish to meet him."

"Sorry, can't help you. I'm sure I'll never see him again. Now, I need to get to work. Gabriel needs me to find a killer. His friend was murdered. I don't suppose you know anything about it? That's right, you were incapacitated."

Nottingham walked closer to Sara, and reached out and turned on the bike. His arm grazed her shoulder. "I'll talk to you later. After you converse with the envoy from the Vatican. Do you wish me to protect you from them?"

"No. I can take care of myself."

He nodded and stepped back. Sara revved her bike and when she turned to say goodbye, he was gone. Only the tingling in her shoulder remained.
With a determined grunt, she shoved the kickstand up and roared off, leaving rubber on the side road.

The precinct was busy. The FBI's presence was finally gone, and things were beginning to settle down. Sara wondered if Jake would be leaving soon. She was getting used to having him as a real partner.

"Hey, Pez," Danny greeted her as she walked in. He held out a cup of black coffee and she drank it thankfully.

"McCarty around?" she asked.

"Not in yet. There's a report I put on your desk about a hanging that happened last night. The officers say it was a suicide, but we can go check it out if you want?"

"Yeah. I would. Seems that the dead guy is a friend of Gabriel's. He's convinced that his friend wouldn't have taken the easy way out." She went over and picked up the scanty file. It showed some pictures of the stairs leading up. The living room had piles of papers and the computer monitor was on. The words were illegible. Sara went to look up when her vision clouded and she was in the room from the picture.

The words from the monitor became clear, she glanced at them, but then her eyes were riveted on several large posters thumb-tacked to the wall. The man, in caricature, was the spitting image of Kenneth Irons. His silver hair hung diabolically in front of his eyes, and his fist seemed to be ready to strike the world. On his right side was another man, as dark as the other was light. He had on black pants, black shirt, an open black coat, and his eyes were pools of emptiness--Ian Nottingham. Sara felt like she was walking in a comic book. Then she remembered-- that's what Sly did for a living. On the table was a copy of Parricide.

Sara walked in her vision over to the magazine and flipped through a few of the pages before a hanging body caught her eyes. It moved as if the male were trying to break free. She dropped the comic and ran up the stairs. The body stilled and its dead eyes bored into hers and then it spoke: "Do I have your attention?"

Suddenly Sara was yanked from her vision.

"Pez, can I have your attention? Pez, are you okay?"

Sara blinked, returning to the present. "Yeah, Danny. I'm fine. I was just thinking."

"Your eyes got all weird, kind of glassy."

"Guess I was thinking to hard, huh?" She looked back down at the file. "Who finances Parricide?"

"What the hell is Parricide?"

"Isn't that the comic book that Sly writes for? I'm sure it's in the file here somewhere." She started looking through the thin file, noticing that there was nothing about the comic book inside. "I guess Gabriel told me," she said half to herself.

There was a knock at the door. She looked up to find several men wearing expensive black clothes with clerical collars. The leader had to be a bishop, she deduced after noticing his ring. "Can I help you?" she asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. "Are you here to report a murder?"

"Murder?" one of them asked, looking puzzled.

"Yeah, this is Homicide. That's what we deal with."

He looked insulted. "No, we would like to talk to you privately."

"Sure," she started to lead them to one of the interrogation rooms, realizing that ironically this time it was she who was to be questioned.

"Pez, skipped too many confessions?" Danny whispered as she handed him the file.

She smiled in mock humor and then led the Vatican envoy out. "This way," she told them. Deciding against the interrogation room, she instead led them to a conference room. No sense in taking any chances that anyone would listen in or even tape the conversation. That would be bad, very bad.
Sara sat primly at the head of the conference table and the other men took seats around the table. "What can I do for you, uh, Fathers?" She purposely sat so that the Witchblade was visible to all.

They twitched as they each gazed upon it. Two made the sign of the cross and whispered under their breaths. The bishop spoke first. "We would like to ask for our property back."

"I haven't been to church in a long time. Sorry, what property could I possibly have of yours?"

"My name is Cardinal Cubiotti and we're from Rome," he announced with an authoritative air.

"A cardinal? Really?" Sara tried to look amazed. "Wanting to see me about," she paused deliberately, "property? I still don't understand."

"Your bracelet. It is ours."

"I thought when you married the church you gave up all worldly goods. How can a piece of jewelry belong to you?"

"Don't play games with us, Miss Pezzini. We all know that what you wear is not a piece of jewelry, but a relic. It has belonged to the pope since--"

"Since you stole it from Joan of Arc? I've heard and seen most of it. But, pardon me, if you stole it from her, what makes you think it belongs to you now?"

"Over six hundred years of possession?" the cardinal responded. "It is a thing of great power and shouldn't be used recklessly."

"I agree it shouldn't be used recklessly. However, you are forgetting one point."

"What is that?"

"It's sentient. It has wishes, demands and a plan. When Joan was captured by the English and tried in that corrupt court of law the Catholic authorities presided over, it was part of its, her, grand plan. The English did exactly what they were supposed to do and that fiasco enabled the French to really come together. But, now, at this time, things are different and it doesn't want to go with you."

They all stiffened in their seats. "What do you mean?"

"You can't take it from me because it will kill you."

"You're threatening us?"

"No, simply stating a fact. This *relic* works for women only. I'm sure you know all this. But, did you know that it'll kill when it wants and if any of you touch it, it will burn a hole in your hand? Even if I'm unconscious, it'll do this, because it's alive and always thinking. It doesn't need my mind or body to function." Sara reached down and tried to remove the bracelet from her wrist. It wouldn't budge. "You see. It's stuck."

They all stared at her in shock. No doubt they thought that all they had to do was overwhelm her with their collective importance and she'd cave.

"Are you refusing?"

"No. I'm saying that it belongs to me and that it won't go with you. If you feel confident that it really belongs to you I'm inviting you to take it from me. I will sit here and not move a muscle. I'm just telling you that it won't leave my wrist. It has told me this in no uncertain terms." The Witchblade belonged to her; she believed this totally.

They conferred quietly together. When they were done, one man walked over to her.

"Are you the sacrificial lamb?" she asked innocently.

Her words shook him, but he reached out his hand none-the-same and took hold of the bracelet. It wouldn't move. He twisted and pulled, but nothing happened.


Rouen, February, 1431

Jeannette sat as still as possible as d'Estivet yanked up her hand and peered crossly at her ring.

"What is this? Were not all articles of jewelry removed from your person before?"

Jeannette bowed her head in submission. "This ring is from my mother. I have worn it for many years."

"You do not have many days left. Give me that ring!" he demanded.

"I cannot take it off. My finger has grown and it had become stuck."

"I do not believe you." He grabbed a hold of the ring and tried to slide it off, but it did not budge. His face grew red in anger. "I will make this ring come
off," he grunted, pulling even harder.

"Please sir, you are hurting me."

"Quiet! Guard?" he called out. "Have someone bring in some lye soap. That should loosen it."

Her hand had become quite red from his ministrations.

They brought the soap and a bucket of water and d'Estivet worked even harder to remove the ring. "This is the work of the devil," he announced. "Any other ring would have slid off but Satan had decreed that this one stay put. Maybe we need to cut off your finger," he suggested maliciously.

"No, please. I cannot help it if the ring is too small." Jeannette began to become afraid that the man would cut off her finger if only to make his point. She began to pray to God. "Please make the ring come off, so he won't hurt me," she begged. In the back of her mind, she recalled the woman who had given her a bracelet and then had changed it to a ring, saying that if it ever came off her finger it would be lost to her forever. She didn't know what to do.

Suddenly, God spoke and calmed her mind. It was His wish that the ring leave her hand. Reluctantly, she pulled her right hand away from d'Estivet and the ring fell off onto the floor. With a triumphant smile, he reached down to pick it up. The smile fell from his face as soon as he touched it. "Hot! The ring is hot! The Devil is at work in you girl."

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

Suddenly the priest jerked his hand away. "It's hot!" he exclaimed.

"It is?" Sara reached down and touched the Witchblade. "I don't feel it."

The man walked back to his brothers. "She is right. It will not come off willingly. The Witchblade is feeding off her reluctance to give it to us, so it resists."

The cardinal turned to Sara. "You need to want to return it to its proper place, child."

"You're probably right. If I truly thought it belonged to you, it might slip from my wrist. But I don't. I think you are still trying to control it as you did in the fifteenth century. I'm not doing anything dangerous with it. I have no intention of taking over the world. I just want to rid this city of as much
crime and murderers as I can. Is that wrong?"

"You use violence to gain your ends."

"Isn't burning a young woman violent? I personally think the Vatican has no right to demand something it took in such an evil way."

"We are not responsible. We did not burn Joan of Arc."

"No. Personally you didn't. But, you aren't asking for the Witchblade for personal reasons, but because you represent the pope and the leadership of the Catholics. Isn't that right?"

The cardinal sat straighter in his seat. "How did you come by this relic?"

"I don't really know. I was chasing this assassin and suddenly he was shooting at me. I brought my arm up in reflex to ward off the shot and to my surprise the bullets ricocheted off. I have no idea how it got on my wrist, only that it won't come off." She shrugged her shoulders. "In the beginning, believe me I tried. But as time wore on and it began to communicate with me, I realized that it had blended with my body, making me its own. That's the best way I can explain it. It's my destiny," she told them with utter conviction.

The men all looked to the cardinal for direction, but he was still looking at Sara. "God bless your soul, Sara Pezzini, that you know what you are doing. Please don't let it fall into the wrong hands. The fate of this world may depend on it." He gave a sign of the cross and stood. His companions did like-wise. "I think we'll be heading back to Rome now."

Sara escorted them out.


III

Ian stood at the gate watching the Vatican envoy taxi out to the runway. He didn't know how Sara had done it, but they were leaving without the Witchblade and without pressing charges for theft. He was proud of her. Without a second look, he turned and left the airport. He called his master and informed him of the news.

"They have gone, and she still wields the blade."

"Go to her, Ian. See what changes have taken place in her mind. Is she more sure of herself?"

"There has been no Periculum."

"There may not be."

"Because of the time reversal?" Ian asked.

"I believe so. This may have been her test, and she has passed. Tell me, any sign of Bradley and this Pierson?"

"No. I have checked and there have been no tickets purchased by them. Your operatives at both Kennedy and La Guardia have reported that they have not been at either airport."

"Thank you, Ian. Did you tell Sara bout the thefts?"

"Yes."

"Did she admit that she knew Pierson?"

"Not exactly, but she seemed surprised that the woman accompanying him was not the witch, Cassandra. I believe Adam Pierson has been working with her."

"That is interesting and something to investigate. Do you think Pierson knows about the Witchblade?"

"I do," Ian admitted. Everything pointed to that fact. While he had the memories of Alencon, Ian believed that Pierson had those of de Morency.

"That would make him an enemy."

"Yes, master. And formidable since he knew how to use the strobe light to render me unconscious."

"Yes, we must not underestimate his determination. Now go see Sara. I want to know how she is doing."

"Yes, master."


IV

Cassandra stirred the beef stew she had been simmering all day. Sara had met with the envoy that morning. What had happened? All day, Cassandra had been waiting to hear. The curiosity was killing her.

It wasn't until after five that Sara knocked at the window and stepped in. Cassandra looked directly at her wrist and released the breath she'd hadn't known she was holding as she saw the Witchblade bright with unleashed power.

"Hello, Sara."

"That smells great. Are you going to invite me for dinner?"

Cassandra smiled. "Of course."

"Great, I accept. It's been a hellish day and I'm not up to doing anything more strenuous that picking up a bottle of beer and a fork."

"No beer, sorry."

"I brought my own, don't worry. I left it out on the fire escape."

Cassandra couldn't help thinking of Methos and his love of beer. The two had that in common. "Tell me about your visit with Duncan MacLeod. What did you think of him?"

"Inquisitive. Wants to know everything so he can help. He was relentless during our jog. But I really enjoyed watching and listening to him interact with Adam Pierson. They really care about each other and it shows in their banter."

Cassandra felt a sharp jab of jealousy. She ruthlessly pushed it aside, not wanting to consider those feelings.

Sara added, "Nottingham wants to meet him."

"Really. That might be interesting to watch." Cassandra felt relief at the change of subject.

"Speaking of Pierson, did you know that your friend Adam Pierson broke into Irons' estate last night and stole a painting?"

Cassandra stiffened. "No, I didn't. What painting?"

"It was of Joan of Arc burning at the stake with three priests standing at the side."

"Priests?"

"I think one of them was Darius."

"Darius? Darius?" she repeated with wonder in her voice. "Was he there, too?"

"Yes. From what my visions have told me, Darius was a friend of de Morency's and together they were there at Rouen till the end. Was Darius like you?"

"He was. His loss was something none of us could have imagined. Duncan went crazy with grief. Even I, who only knew him a little, was devastated by his death."

"Why?" Sara asked.

"Because he was truly good. For over fifteen hundred years he had walked the path of peace and yet he was murdered in his own church." She paused,
still trying to comprehend that Methos was friends with a man like Darius. "I never knew that they knew each other," Cassandra spoke her amazement, then began to think about how Darius became involved with the situation. "How did Jeannette meet Father Darius?"

"He came to her cell in Rouen. He gave me this pep-talk that made me ready to face the trial. Father Darius was my, um, I mean her inspiration. I can still see those eyes, so wise and kind."

Cassandra nodded. "I should have realized Darius might have been involved. He had great influence within the university in Paris, and called many of the scholars 'friend.' Yet, he was unable to help Jeannette." Sadness made tears pool in her eyes. "His death was a great loss to so many."

"Pierson brought an accomplice with him to Irons' estate." Sara spoke up and looked to be waiting for a reaction.

"Amanda," Cassandra spit out, not ready to disappoint her. She despised that Immortal. "Did they take anything else?"

"Nottingham said they took his sword."

"Did he say what kind it was?"

"Katana."

Cassandra smiled. "Then that is why it was taken. MacLeod favors katanas; I bet she will give it to Duncan. Both Amanda and Me--Pierson, think very highly of him. They both love him." Cassandra couldn't suppress the hint of bitterness the crept out in her voice.

Unfortunately Sara picked up on it. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Amanda is a professional thief. She can steal anything. Although Duncan keeps her honest when they are together. Pierson is, well, you've seen in your visions. I don't like either of them"

"Are you jealous that Duncan thinks they are worth liking? Or of the time he spends with them?"

"Amanda has never gotten in my way; I just can't see an honest man wanting anything to do with her."

"You're always honest?"

"No," Cassandra reluctantly admitted.

"What are you really jealous of?"

"How she can use men and enjoy it at the same time." Cassandra didn't like admitting that to anyone. But she'd much prefer talking about Amanda than Methos.

"And Pierson?" Sara asked, as if she knew what Cassandra had been thinking of.

"He is different, now. Duncan told me that he had changed. I let him live, because Duncan asked me to, but I fully intended to take his head at the next opportunity."

"Why didn't you?"

"No opportunity?" Cassandra answered, shying away from the truth.

"When he burst into my apartment a few months ago, was that the first time you'd seen him since that incident?"

Cassandra walked over to the stew and began stirring it. She didn't want to answer. "Why are you asking me so many questions?"

"Because for the first time since we met, I don't feel like I'm out of control and self-absorbed. I can see how much you're hurting. *He* seems to be at the root of it all. You admire Duncan MacLeod. You thought enough of him to ask him to babysit me when I was in trouble. While I was with him, I saw Pierson with him, without him knowing I was there. He wasn't the same man who was in my living room back in November. Yesterday he was relaxed, teasing, acting enigmatic. It was obvious that they share a close friendship. Is that what you're jealous of? You want to be a part of it?"

Cassandra asked herself if what Sara said was true. "Me--Adam has let very few people into his life. He's afraid of discovery,"

"Is that why you won't say his real name? Because of discovery?" Sara finished for her.

"No. It's just easier for me to compartmentalize him when I don't refer to him by the name he used all those years ago. I can still see his face, though, looming over me, saying that he would kill me as often as necessary until I learned that he was my master."

"But, he's not your master, and you're not his slave."

"No. I'm not. He tried to explain it to me, using some kind of psychology. He said I was in love with him and expected him to protect me. He did nothing to protect me."

"Yes, he did. He let you go free. I saw it in my vision. You stabbed that other man and ran off. He knew what you were doing and didn't try and bring you back. He could have."

"He let me flee?"

"Yes. It looked like it was killing him to do so. He wanted you to stay, but he let you go."

Cassandra was quiet, mulling over what Sara had told her. "He *is* different."

"I can't see Duncan MacLeod being that close to a monster. He's too noble."

"He is at that." Cassandra smiled. "Enough about me. I don't even know how we got onto this subject. Tell me about your meeting with the Vatican envoy."

"Not much to tell. We talked. They said they wanted the Witchblade back. I said no; it was mine. They left."

"I think there was a lot more to it."

Sara smiled. "A bit. Serve up the stew, or are you just going to tease me with the smell?"


V

Ian sat on the fire escape digesting everything Sara and the witch had been discussing. For the first time in a long while he felt stunned. He couldn't assimilate everything they had said. They confirmed that Adam Pierson was also de Morency and yet he was also someone else who they wouldn't name. He had been a monster. Duncan MacLeod didn't even matter anymore. Even Sara said he was not important. Pierson, however, was. He was a threat to everything.

Ian was motionless, hidden in the shadows, as he had been his entire life. Not many knew about him or even cared. Those who noticed usually ended up dead. Except Sara. He let her see bits and pieces, wanting to get close, but afraid to actually do so.

Now there was a man who knew his secrets--knew how to disable him. How else would this Amanda know to use a strobe light to get away? Ian had never feared a gun because his reflexes were much too fast. But a strobe light was the kiss of death; it represented a weakness and he wasn't allowed to have a weakness. Yet, he did have one--and it was known to his enemy.


Day 8

Epilogue

Methos sat in the chair, with his feet propped up on a hassock, admiring the different colors as they were reflected off of Niagara Falls. He had a beer in one hand and the newspaper on his lap. The TV was on in the background, but he paid little attention to it. It was the ice patches, reflecting the laser show's multicolored lights on the rushing water that lulled his mind.

March, 1431

Methos sat by the bank of the river watching the small rapids splash against the large boulders and ice chunks lodged in its path. He imagined that the water was Cauchon trying to wear poor Jeannette down, but she was made of stronger stuff. The Inquisitors had never encountered a soul so devout, so sure of its place in the world that they were stymied. Instead of the confession they were hoping to gain, Methos believed they would have to resort to lies.

The sound of a rock skipping across the water startled the Immortal. He turned in alarm as he realized that an Immortal presence had snuck up upon him and he hadn't been aware.

"She can't be saved," Father Darius said with remorse. "I spoke with Lemaitre. De Houppeville introduced us today."

"Didn't we have dinner with de Houppeville two nights ago?" Methos asked.

"Yes, Nicolas and I have enjoyed many years of friendly discourse and he plays a fine game of chess."

"Who then is Lemaitre?"

Darius folded his cloak and sat down on the riverbank beside Methos. "He is to be one of the judges. Cauchon is too bent on her destruction, even if I wished to approach him, but I thought Lemaitre might be willing to listen."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing incriminating, but he implied that your Jeannette is to be sacrificed on the altar of England's humiliation. They dare not let her go. They dress it in theology and the possibility of heresy, yet it is only politics. There is nothing you can do. It is a tidal wave that will knock down anyone in its path."

Methos felt hopeless for the first since her capture. "It is fear that motivates them. If she can prove that God actually listens and talks to her, then where does that leave the Catholic Church? It would make them superfluous."

Darius nodded in agreement. "Yes, this fear has made her too many enemies. D'Estivet hates her and would use the cruelest torture available if he could. La Fontaine wants her to submit totally to church law, which would force her to admit that her voices do not supercede their own wishes. Beaupere wants her to concede that these voices are the work of Satan, not God."

"Is no one on her side?"

"Some, but they do not hold positions of importance."

"She is just a young girl who should have her whole life ahead of her."

"That is the way with martyrs. In our long lives we have seen many, no?"

Yes, Methos had to admit he had seen many martyrs. Maybe it was the Witchblade that had decreed it so. Cleopatra had lived a short life, but long in comparison to Jeannette's. Livia had lived a full and eventful life, so he knew it could be done. However since those times so long ago, he had no idea what influence the Witchblade had on the lives of its wielders.

"Let her go and be what fate has planned for her," Darius entreated. "In the centuries to come, these petty clerics will be but nameless accusers, whereas her name will be remembered and maybe revered."

"I cannot leave Rouen until it's over."

Darius rose and patted Methos on the head. "I know. We will stay and use our influence where it might do her the most good. We may not be able to stop this debacle, but we may be able to ease her suffering along the way. Now where is my--"

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

"Where's the damned remote?" Joe's voice echoed in the room.

Methos jumped, startled out of his remembrances.

"I thought I put it on the vanity."

Methos chucked weakly. "It probably fell in the sink." He wasn't in France waiting for Jeannette to be executed. He was in Niagara Falls with Joe Dawson. They had rented a Jacuzzi suite and Joe was in the tub soaking away the pains of a long car ride while Methos enjoyed the relaxation of not having to be on guard. He snuggled deeper into the chair.

There was the sound of splashing water before Joe exclaimed, "You're right!"

Methos didn't even bother to turn his head as Joe flipped channels till he found something that interested him. Then there was a sigh of contentment. Did it come from the Watcher or him?

"You know, Methos," Joe called out. "I wasn't happy when you said we were going to Niagara Falls. But this isn't so bad."

Methos lifted his beer in a silent toast.



~Fin~

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