Between the Shadows
A Vampire Chronicles/Highlander Spec, sequel to Deadly Allies
by Theresa Isilwath

	It was warm in New Orleans, a welcome reprieve from 
the bitter cold of Seacouver's winters.  Even in November, 
the moist heat still clung to the still-green leaves and 
damp, brick buildings.  Methos was enjoying the holiday 
immensely, losing himself in the vast plethora of sights and 
sounds.  By day he wandered the French Quarter and Garden 
District, ferreting out old bookstores and antique shoppes.  
By night he walked fearless by Louis' side, chuckling at the 
antics of Lestat, and wondering when Duncan was going to 
give up the goat and finally join them in the Crescent City.  
New Orleans was too beautiful to explore alone, especially 
now that he had someone to share beauty with.  He glanced 
fondly at his black-haired companion, before letting his 
eyes rest upon a sculpture in a shop window on the Rue 
Royale.  
	"That is a beautiful piece," Louis commented, eyeing 
the delicately carved male torso.  "Reminds me of 
Michaelangelo's work."
	Methos merely smiled and nodded, then continued down 
the street.
	"Did you know him?" Louis asked suddenly as they 
walked easily together.
	"Who?"
	"Michaelangelo."
	"Yes.  I knew them all.  Donatello, Raphael, DaVinci.  
Italy was the place to be in those days."
	Louis smiled, his eyes bright.  "What an honor to have 
witnessed such genius up close."
	Methos shrugged.  "They were men, like any men who 
came before or after them.  Yes, they were talented.  Yes, 
they were visionaries, and brilliant.  But they had their 
faults and their shortcomings.  They were just guys like 
me."
	The vampire chuckled, shaking his head slightly.  "You 
always try to tell me that, but I don't believe you.  You 
are extraordinary, regardless of whether or not you are 
aware of your own charms.  Isn't that what you told me?"
	"Told you what?"
	"That I was oblivious to my own charms."
	The Immortal laughed softly.  "You have an excellent 
memory."
	Louis was about to speak more when he saw Methos 
stiffen and look warily around.
	"What is it?"
	"One of us," the Old Man whispered, his eyes darting 
back and forth.
	"Another Immortal?"
	"Yes.  I can feel him."
	"Do you know of any of your kind in this area?"
	"No."
	"Could it be your Scot?"
	Methos shook his head.  "No.  Duncan wasn't due back 
from Paris until tomorrow."
	"Perhaps he meant to surprise you."
	Methos disagreed and took Louis' hand, tugging him 
quickly down the street.
	"No.  He knows better.  I'm very edgy, especially 
since Kronos.  Come on, this way."
	They moved swiftly, Methos trying very hard not to 
show his fear.  Damn, why did the Game always catch up to 
him?  He'd managed to stay out of it for 200 years, then the 
Highlander fell into his life, and he'd been hunted ever 
since.  He hated it.
	The feeling of Presence faded and he relaxed, slowing 
his pace.  Louis looked askance at him.
	"Safe now?"
	The five thousand year old Immortal nodded.  "Yeah.  I 
don't feel him anymore."
	"Good."
	No sooner were the words spoken when Methos felt the 
Presence again.
	"Damn."
	"Feel him again?"
	"Yeah.  Come onƒ"
	He took Louis' hand again and moved to go another way 
when a figure stepped into his path.  It was a woman, tall 
and thin, with disheveled brown hair.
	"Not so fast, Methos," came the angry voice.
	Methos sighed, recognizing the Immortal.  "Go away, 
Cassandra."
	"No.  You will fight me, and this time MacLeod will 
not be here to beg for your life," the witch said coldly as 
she drew her sword.
	"I will not fight you, Cassandra."
	"Draw your sword!"
	"No."
	"Do it!"
	Louis placed himself between Methos and the woman.  
"He said no."
	"This is not your fight.  You cannot interfere," she 
warned.
	"I care nothing for your Games.  I do, however, care a 
great deal about my friend."
	Cassandra laughed bitterly.  "He's not your friend.  
He's no one's friend.  He's a murdering bastard."
	Louis bared his fangs.  "Then he and I are two of a 
kind."
	The woman gasped in shock, but then her face hardened.  
"I have challenged you, Methos.  You have to fight me."
	"He has to do nothing of the sort," Louis spoke again.
	"You followed me here, didn't you," Methos accused.
	"I've been waiting for you and MacLeod to be away from 
each other for the past two years."
	"Then you know how close MacLeod and I have become.  
You know what killing me will do to him," Methos countered.
	Cassandra snarled.  "Duncan MacLeod will sleep with 
anyone.  And killing you will free him from your lies and 
manipulations."
	Methos blanched at the words, taking a step back, and 
Cassandra advanced, but Louis still stood in her way.
	"Get out of my way."
	"Absolutely not.  In fact, I've had enough of this," 
the vampire informed.
	Before Cassandra could draw another breath, she found 
herself disarmed, and an iron hand clenched around her neck 
as she was lifted and held off the ground.
	"Louis, please," she heard Methos say pleadingly.
	"Now.  I am going to let you live.  In spite of the 
fact that you have interrupted our evening, and threatened 
and insulted my companion.  I do this solely because he 
wishes it.  I am going to release you.  You will pick up 
your weapon and you will leave this city before dawn.  Do 
you understand?" Louis said calmly, his voice edged with 
menace.
	Cassandra nodded, her eyes wide, and Louis set her 
down gently, removing his hand.
	"Now, go away."
	The witch cast a glare that was pure hatred at Methos, 
and snatched up her sword.  Then she stormed off, 
disappearing around a corner as Louis turned back to Methos.
	"Are you all right?" the vampire asked gently, noting 
Methos' pale cheeks and haunted eyes.
	Methos nodded. "Yeah, but I wanna go back to the flat.  
I'mƒ tired."
	"You shouldn't let her ruin our evening."
	Methos sighed and brightened.  "Yeah, you're right.  
I'm sorry.  We were supposed to meet Lestat at Pat O'Briens 
anyway."
	Louis put his arm around his friend's shoulder.  "You 
and your Hurricanesƒ"
	They shared a laugh, then both of them saw and felt 
the Quickening.
	Cassandra was fuming as she turned the corner, cursing 
in several different languages, and walked head on into a 
tall, blond man with feral eyes.
	"Hey, watch where you're going!" she seethed.
	"Ah, no, ma petite.  It is you who should watch where 
you are going," the man answered in a slightly French 
accented voice.
	"And why should I?"
	"Because you always have to be worried about running 
into things like me."
	The man pulled back his lips and bared his fangs, 
making Cassandra's blood turn cold.
	"What do you want?" she stammered.
	"To kill you."
	"Why?"
	"Because you are a threat to my friend.  Both you and 
I know you have no intention of leaving New Orleans.  You 
intend to wait until after sunrise, then attack Methos when 
he is unprotected."
	Cassandra huffed.  "He doesn't need protection."
	"Regardless of whether or not he needs it, he is under 
mine."
	"If you kill me, you will be breaking the Rules."
	Lestat smiled.  "Breaking the Rules, ma cherie, is 
what I do best."
	And with that he ripped her head from her shoulders in 
less than a heartbeat.  Louis and Methos came running when 
the Quickening began.
	"Lestat!  What have you done!" Louis cried.
	Methos saw the body and gasped, then the Quickening 
hit him square in the chest and he screamed.  The lightning 
cracked all around him, blowing up the street lamps and the 
lights of the store fronts, and the glass in the shop 
windows shattered, setting off numerous alarms.  He fell to 
his knees as the force ebbed, and found himself swept into 
Louis' embrace and carried swiftly off.  
When he could feel again, he discovered that he was draped 
across the settee in the Rue Royale living room, the last 
vestiges of the Quickening fading from his body.  He groaned 
and Louis was beside him instantly, offering him a drink.  
	"Why?" he croaked when he was able.
	"She was going to kill you," Lestat explained coldly.
	"I didn't want her dead," the Immortal bemoaned.
	Lestat sat down on the settee and held Methos' hand 
tenderly.  "Cher, I feared for your safety.  I know you were 
fond of the woman, but she bore you nothing but hatred."
	"She had good cause to hate me."
	"She wanted you dead."
	Methos swallowed the last of the brandy Louis had 
given him.  "There are days when I want myself dead."
	Now Louis' hand clasped his tightly.  "Don't say that.  
I would miss you terribly.  We both would."
	The Immortal sighed wearily.  "I should call MacLeod 
and tell him, before Cassandra's Watcher calls Joe and Joe 
tells him.  He is going to be furious, but he will be more 
furious if he doesn't hear it right from me."
	"Use the phone in David's room.  It affords more 
privacy," Louis offered gently.
	"Yeah, thanks," Methos answered glumly, rising to his 
feet.
	The two vampires watched him walk out, then Louis 
turned to Lestat, trying hard not to be angry.
	"I know why you did it, but still, I wish you had 
not," the black-haired vampire whispered.
	"I had no choice, Louis."
	"I know."
	"So what do we do now?"
	"We wait and see what his Scot says, then go from 
there."
	His hands were trembling as he dialed the number, 
afraid to tell Duncan about the witch.  He wasn't sure the 
Highlander would even be in his barge, and was half afraid 
that he would.  It had been a month since they had seen each 
other, a mutual decision to give each other some space.  
Things had gotten too comfortable, too predictable, Richie 
made an offhand comment about Duncan and he setting up 
house-keeping.  Duncan had spooked and ran to Paris under 
the pretense of some lame excuse that Methos had already 
forgotten.  He hadn't followed.  Instead, he'd packed a few 
things and come to New Orleans.  
	Although he enjoyed the company of Joe and loved the 
mortal dearly, Joe could not give Methos the comforting he 
needed.  It wasn't that Joe was straight; no, Methos 
suspected that the Old Man had some experience with both 
sexes.  It was that the mortal was reluctant to come between 
two friends, and also because Joe thought himself 
inadequate, and Methos, being the needful one, did not have 
the patience to convince Joe otherwise.  Maybe someday, but 
not now.  So he had run to his friends, to the arms of Louis 
and Lestat, with whom he could share anything.  Immortals 
who weren't after his head, ones that understood his dark 
side and accepted it without question.  Louis was always 
there to listen, and Lestat could always make him laugh no 
matter how bad he was feeling.  Their unconditional love was 
a salve on his wounds, and he was glad he had come.
	The phone on the other end rang and a woman answered.
	"Hello?"
	She sounded breathless, half laughing.  Methos heard 
Duncan's deep chuckle in the background and a lump formed in 
his throat.
	"Um... is Duncan there?"
	"Who wants to know?"
	Her haughty tone grated on his nerves.  "Tell him Adam 
is calling from New Orleans and needs to talk to him," he 
said firmly.	
	He heard her give the message and Duncan's abrupt 
silence, then the voice of the Highlander came along the 
wire.
	"Adam?"
	"Duncan."
	The background noise diminished, MacLeod must have 
moved to the bathroom, or some other secluded space: not too 
many to choose from on the boat.
	"Methos... I..."
	He sounded guilty.  The old Immortal sighed.
	"It's all right MacLeod.  We don't own each other, 
remember?  Besides, I am here with Lestat and Louis, and we 
aren't exactly being chaste."
	"That's different," Duncan answered gruffly.
	"For you, maybe, but not for me."
	"Yeah, whatever."
	"Does this mean you won't be returning from Paris 
later today?"
	"No.  I was still planning on leaving."
	"One last minute fling, eh?"
	"Something like that."
	They were quiet for a moment, then Duncan spoke.
	"So, why are you calling me at this hour of the 
morning?"
	Methos swallowed hard and prepared himself.
	"I have some bad news."
	"Oh?  Lestat mortally embarrass you in public again?"
	"Cassandra's dead."
	Silence.  "What?"
	"Cassandra is dead.  Lestat killed her."
	"When?"
	"Tonight."
	"Why?"
	"She challenged me."
	"And you let him interfere!!??"
	"No, MacLeod, I didn't.  Louis and I were walking 
away, and the next thing we knew Lestat had ripped her head 
off.  We didn't even know he was there."
	"Couldn't you have stopped him?"
	"No."
	"Why not?"
	"You know better than to ask me that.  You know how 
Lestat is when he sets his mind on something."	
	"He broke the rules!" Duncan shouted angrily.
	"Yes, he did, and if I could have stopped him, I would 
have, but I couldn't and now she is dead.  I can't change 
that, MacLeod."
	"What was she doing in New Orleans anyway??"
	"Stalking me."
	That got the Highlander, and Methos heard his sharp 
intake of breath.  "What?"
	"She told me she'd been waiting for us to be away from 
each other so she could kill me without you around.  I guess 
she thought you couldn't take it."
	"Does everyone think we're lovers!?" Duncan shrieked, 
then realized immediately how his words had sounded.
	The lump in Methos' throat turned cold.  "Well, if it 
is any consolation, Cassandra just thought I was 
manipulating you, holding you under my spell.  Which I 
suppose is true since you ran straight into the arms of a 
woman as soon as you left me.  Did she nurse your wounded 
pride?"
	MacLeod tried desperately to backpedal, cursing his 
own stupidity.
	"Methos... I dinna mean that the way it sounded..."
	Methos cut him off, the hurt making his eyes sting.  
"Oh, it was exactly what you meant.  The great clan leader 
lowered himself to sleep with a member of his own sex, then 
panicked when he discovered that someone else might have 
caught on.  God forbid someone know you liked it."
	"Methos..." MacLeod tried again, but it was hopeless, 
he could hear the rage just under the surface of Methos' 
tight voice.
	"Was I just a cheap fuck to you, MacLeod?  A 
convenient lay who was available, and who could be bought 
for the price of a six pack?  Well, you are free and I won't 
be your whore anymore.  So much for friendship and friends 
worth dying for."
	As he slammed the phone down he heard Duncan trying to 
speak.  He didn't care.  He didn't want to hear anything the 
Highlander had to say.  He slumped to the bed, rubbing his 
temples, and the emptiness was a hole in his soul, bringing 
back so many memories of times long, and best, forgotten.  
He didn't even hear Louis come in, all of a sudden the 
vampire was just there, easing beside him to sit on the bed 
and putting his strong arms around him.  He yielded, and 
melted into Louis' embrace.
	MacLeod exited the bathroom, turning off the dead 
phone, and sighed, trying to still his own shaking.  Amanda 
came up behind him and put her arms around his shoulders.
	"I take it, it didn't go well?"
	"No," the Scot choked.
	"Damnit.  I shouldn't have disguised my voice.  I 
should have told him it was me."
	"I don't think it would have helped.  It wasn't about 
you.  It was about me."
	Amanda rested her chin on his shoulder, stretching up 
on her tip-toes to do so.  "What happened?"
	"I said all the wrong things.  I hurt him.  Badly."
	"Still can't get over the fact that you're in love 
with a man, eh MacLeod?"
	"I am not in love with him!" Duncan snapped 
defensively, jerking away.
	Amanda shrugged.  "Whatever you say."
	He glared at her.  "What is that supposed to mean?"
	She looked innocent and went to pour herself another 
glass of wine.  "Oh, nothing.  Wine?"
	"No, thank you."
	She sipped the red liquid, looking up at him over the 
rim of the glass.  He scowled and turned away.
	"What was that for?" she queried lightly.
	"I know that look."
	"What look?"
	"The look you give me when you think I am being 
childish."
	She sauntered over to him and brushed her hand along 
his back.  "And, are you being childish?"
	"No," he barked.
	"Are you sure?"
	He gave her another glare.  "Why?  Do you think I'm 
being childish?"
	Her wry grin faded and she looked thoughtful.  "No.  I 
think you are just showing your age."
	"What?"
	Amanda sat down on the edge of the bed and crossed her 
legs.  "You're young.  There are a lot of lessons you 
haven't learned yet.  Oh, you think you've learned them, but 
you really haven't.  Today is a prime example."
	"Since when did you become all wise and knowing?"
	"I'm not.  I'm just a good 600 years older than you 
are, and I've learned a few things in that time."
	"Oh yeah, like what?"
	She frowned and grew serious.  "Like you don't toss 
away good friends because of some stupid moral belief, and 
love should be accepted no matter what form it comes in."
	Duncan paced angrily.  "We are not talking about love, 
Amanda.  We're talking about lust and sex.  That is all it 
was."
	"Was it?  Have you asked Methos what he thought it 
was?"
	The look on the Highlander's face told her that he 
hadn't.
	"It's obvious from his reaction tonight that you two 
don't feel the same about the subject."
	Duncan looked at his feet.  "He accused me of using 
him as a cheap lay.  Said he wouldn't be my whore any more."
	That shocked her.  "Oh my.  What on earth did you say 
to him that prompted that?"
	"He was calling to tell me Lestat killed Cassandra."
	"Lestat did what?"
	"He killed Cassandra.  She went after Methos and he 
killed her."
	Amanda's face looked pensive for a moment, then 
cleared as she tossed her head and smiled.
	"Well, good riddance to bad rubbish and bad hair.  I 
never did like her."
	"Lestat broke the rules!" the Highlander blurted.
	Amanda gave him a patient look.  "What makes you think 
Lestat gives a damn about the rules, MacLeod?"
	"But Methos should care about them!"
	"After 5000 years of the Game, I doubt he gives a damn 
about them either."  She sighed.  "But that isn't the point.  
What did you say to him that made him say he wouldn't be 
your whore and hang up on you?"
	MacLeod looked guilty.  "He told me Cassandra had been 
stalking him, waiting for when I wouldn't be with him so she 
could kill him without me there, that he thought she felt I 
wouldn't be able to take it.  And I snapped out that 
everyone thought Methos and I were lovers."
	Amanda clapped.  "Bravo.  Did you take charm lessons 
or just ones in tact?"
	"It's not funny."
	"No, it's not."
	MacLeod paced even harder, waving his hands as he 
spoke.  "I didn't mean for it to sound the way it did.  It 
just popped out."
	"Of course you didn't.  We never mean to hurt our 
friends, Duncan, but in this case I think you've opened a 
very old wound.  What do you know about Methos' past?"
	The Highlander shrugged.  "About as much as you do."
	"Do you think there was a time in his life when he was 
someone's whore?  Remember, he's a survivor.  Do you think 
he sold his body to save his head?"
	Duncan paused, his eyes dilating with fear.  "It's 
possible," he admitted, growing cold at the implications.
	"And if that were the case, and he loved you and gave 
himself to you, only to find out that you thought it was 
just sex, how do you think it would make him feel?"
	She was guiding him gently, trying to make him think 
about things, helping him make the discoveries on his own.  
Rebecca had taught her how to do that.  She didn't do it 
often, but when she did, she was extraordinarily good at it.
	"It would make him feel like a cheap whore," MacLeod 
breathed softly.
	"Exactly."
	The Scot looked crushed.  "Oh, Amanda, what do I do?"
	"I'd call him for one.  Beg for forgiveness for 
seconds."
	"I'll do better than that.  I'll beg in person."
	The Highlander picked up the phone and dialed a 24-
hour travel service, ordering a first class ticket to the 
States and then to New Orleans, exchanging the one he had 
previously booked to Seacouver.  When he was finished with 
the travel agent, he called Lestat's townhouse.  It rang 
several times then the answering machine picked up.
	"Hello.  You've reached Sebastian Memloth.  Jean-Louis 
and I are out gallivanting.  Leave a message and we'll get 
back to you when we feel like it," came Lestat's recorded 
voice.
	"Um, hi, Lestat.  It's Duncan...  Tell Methos that I'm 
coming to see him.  I'll be there tomorrow.  My flight lands 
at ten.  And tell him... I'm sorry.  I'll see you tomorrow 
night.  Bye."
	Amanda gave him an approving smile as he hung up the 
phone.  "I daresay you are learning, MacLeod."
	"I'm only learning that I don't know as much as I 
thought I did."
	She stood and wrapped her arms around his neck.  "That 
is the perfect place to start."
	"I'm glad I meet with your approval."
	She grinned and leaned to kiss him.  "You always have.  
And later, I'll even help you pack."
	Methos was still hugging Louis when Lestat entered the 
room.
	"Oh, what has that bull-headed Scot done now?"
	The Immortal lifted his head from Louis' shoulder, and 
looked at the blond vampire.  Lestat took a moment to read 
his thoughts and began cursing in French.
	"Damn him!  I'll 'cheap whore' him into the next 
century!"
	"Duncan called you a cheap whore?" Louis blurted in 
surprise, looking at Methos.
	Methos shook his head.  "No.  But he treated me like 
one."
	Louis cupped his friend's face.  "But Duncan loves 
you.  You must know that."
	"No.  I was just an easy lay, a diversion until he 
found a suitable woman."
	"Oh, I cannot believe that."
	"I can," Lestat interrupted.
	"Lestat, you're not helping," Louis scolded.
	"Well, it's true.  Look at it, Louis.  Someone makes 
an offhand comment about Duncan and Methos being lovers and 
the next day, Duncan runs away to Paris.  What does that 
tell you?"
	"That the Highlander loves Methos, but he's afraid to 
admit it."
	Methos disagreed.  "If that is so, why does he try so 
hard to make me think he doesn't?  He was with a woman 
tonight, she answered the phone."
	"What does that matter?  You are here with us and not 
abstinent," Louis pointed out.
	"MacLeod doesn't see it as being the same thing.  
Besides, he knows what close, good friends we are."
	"If you ask me, he's full of it and always has been," 
Lestat commented.
	"We're not asking you," Louis shot back.  "Why don't 
you make yourself useful and go mix up a Hurricane for him.  
It will make him feel better."
	"No... no alcohol."
	"What?  Methos refusing alcohol??  Something must 
really be wrong," Lestat scoffed.
	"Lestat..." Louis began.
	"No, it's all right, Louis," Methos said softly.  "I 
need his wit.  It keeps me from falling completely apart."
	Lestat grinned.  "See, at least he appreciates my 
charm."  
Silence settled upon them and Lestat's countenance fell, 
then he moved slowly to sit next to the Immortal, his face 
soft and compassionate.  "I know what it is like to be 
rejected, cher.  I'm so sorry."
	Methos turned in Louis' arms and reached out to 
Lestat, and Lestat leaned forward, hugging both of them, 
pressing the five thousand year Old Man between himself and 
his lover.
	"It will be all right," Louis assured.
	"I know.  This sort of thing has happened to me 
before, centuries ago.  I survived then, and I'll survive 
now.  I just... need time."
	"Time we have, my friend," Louis whispered.  "Time we 
have."
	After several quiet moments, Methos felt Lestat's lips 
upon his throat and trembled, trying to pull away.
	"Hush, cher.  You need this.  You need to know you're 
loved," Lestat soothed, his voice low and silky.
	"But I can't choose..." the Immortal protested, even 
as his body began to react to the vampire's little love 
nips.
	"Who says you have to choose?" came Louis' amused 
voice as Lestat pushed him back into the black-haired 
vampire's arms.
	Methos cracked his eyes open to look up at Louis, and 
saw him staring down at him with a tender smile and passion 
in his eyes.
	"Both of you?" he managed.
	"Both of us," Louis confirmed and bent down to kiss 
him on the lips as Lestat began to expertly unbutton his 
shirt.
	Methos groaned, his legs stretching out as Lestat 
stripped him.  No matter how many times he did this, it 
never lost its luster: the pleasure was still as intense, 
the melding was still as complete as it had been four 
thousand years ago, only now he loved these two, which made 
it all the more wonderful.  Lestat was an expert in 
seduction as was Louis, both sensualists to the very core, 
capable of wringing the most pleasure out of each well-
placed touch.
	Cool hands caressed his body as he was lifted and 
draped across the bed, Louis behind him, acting as his 
pillow and Lestat alongside him, his hard fingers feeling 
the muscles of his thighs and calves.  Lips covered his 
again and he breathed heavily into the cool mouth, reaching 
to grasp the head over his and winding his fingers into 
Louis' ebony mane.
	"Ahh, I think we need to make ourselves more 
comfortable, n'est pas?" Lestat said.
	"Comfortable?" Methos gasped.  "I'm in Nirvana."
	Louis chuckled.  "I think he meant us, not you, ami."
	"Whatever..."
	Through a haze of delight, he watched as Lestat slid 
out of his shirt, baring his unnaturally white, smooth skin, 
and smiled as the blonde pulled him forward into an embrace 
so Louis could remove his shirt and sweater as well.  While 
Louis disrobed, Lestat stroked and nibbled at Methos' body, 
making the Immortal shudder and moan. 
	Louis took him against his chest again, letting the 
heat of Methos' back rest upon his cold skin.  That was when 
Methos realized that he was the only one fully naked, the 
vampires had left their trousers on.  The situation struck 
him as unfair, even if nudity was not necessary for vampires 
to complete their lovemaking.
	"Oh no," he said, groping at Lestat's waistband.  "I 
want to see all of you.  If I'm naked, so will you."
	"Why?  You want to see the whole reanimated corpse?" 
Louis mused.
	"Don't talk that way.  It will ruin the mood," Lestat 
chided, allowing Methos to unfasten his jeans for him.
	"Believe me, Lestat," Methos panted, unzipping the 
jeans.  "Nothing can ruin this mood."  
	"In spite of my lover the wet blanket?"
	Methos lifted up and kissed Lestat, tugging the denim 
off with hasty, jerky movements.  Lestat extended a leg and 
the material fell to the floor, revealing the vampire in all 
his preternatural splendor.  Methos watched him as he slid 
onto the bed, moving like a panther, his blue eyes blazing 
with predatory want.  The very look of him made Methos 
shiver and his insides twist in response.
	"You are so beautifulƒ" he breathed.
	"Thank you, but you haven't seen beauty until you've 
seen mon Louis.  He is living art."
	Methos turned around and faced the black-haired 
vampire.  Louis was sitting, knees up, on the bed, watching 
him, his eyes glittering like two emeralds in firelight.  
Licking his lips, Methos crawled between Louis' legs and 
began to unfasten Louis' trousers.  He heard and felt Louis' 
sharp intake of breath, watched the pupils dilate and flare 
as his fingers touched the cool flesh.  Methos grinned 
wickedly and lowered his mouth to close upon one pale 
nipple.  
	Louis convulsed, gasping and dug his fingers into the 
Immortal's hair as he felt the moist heat on his sensitive 
skin; hot, so hot and wonderful.  He didn't even notice when 
his pants were removed, so absorbed was he in the delicious 
hot sucking upon his breast.  He groaned, clutching the body 
to him, scenting the blood, licking the tender skin behind 
Methos' ear.  He heard Methos let out a little mew and push 
against him, eager, asking, and gave in.  His fangs ripped 
through the flesh, sinking into the jugular, and the blood 
poured into his mouth, sweet and thick.  Teeth closed upon 
his breast, biting down as Methos butted upwards, moaning in 
delight.
	Lestat's hands caressed his back, scraping along his 
skin and sending shivers of pleasure throughout his body as 
Louis' bite suffused him with ecstasy.  He felt the blond 
vampire leaning over him, covering his back, and if they had 
both been capable of mortal sex, he would have expected 
Lestat to mount him doggie-style.  The very thought thrilled 
him and he writhed underneath Lestat, gasping.  He heard 
Lestat's deep throated chuckle.
	"Such passion..." the vampire whispered in his ear.  
"Such abandon.  You are a prize, a precious jewel."
	Gently, but insistently, Lestat pulled Methos away 
from Louis.  Louis' grip on his throat loosened, and they 
both gave cries of protest which were soothed by the 
stronger vampire.
	"Hush.  I would have you as well, cher," Lestat 
explained, turning Methos over, then letting him rest once 
again in Louis' arms.
	Louis grabbed him immediately and refastened his mouth 
upon his neck, resuming the pleasure of the bite.
	"Oh Gods..." Methos choked, gripping Louis' thighs in 
his trembling hands.
	"Mmmm, I like that title.  Am I a god, Methos?" the 
blond cooed, nibbling at the Immortal's breasts then heading 
lower.
	"You are whatever you want to be..."
	"But what will you call me?"
	"I'll call you whatever you want just so long as you 
don't stop!"
	"Stop?  My dear ami, I haven't even started."
	The vampire began a full scale assault on Methos' 
senses, leaving him crying, sobbing with pleasure.  His 
hands reached out to claw at the blond locks, his voice 
incoherent with sounds of ecstasy, and then Lestat dove for 
what was his goal all along and sunk his teeth into the vein 
running along the inside of the Immortal's thigh.
	Methos screamed, his legs coming up to wrap around 
Lestat's head, bucking as both vampires took their fill of 
him.  He couldn't see anymore, or hear, everything was waves 
of pleasure, his mind swimming, drowning, spinning.  He 
didn't even feel his own death coming; all that breached his 
awareness was the power rising from his loins, and the rush 
of desire and overwhelming love coming from the two 
vampires.  He thrust upward, pushing hard against his lovers 
and let go, his mouth open in a silent cry as the pleasure 
engulfed him just as the world went black. 
	When he returned to life he found himself sprawled on 
the bed with two unconscious vampires next to him.  The 
marks on Louis' neck suggested that they had continued on 
each other after he had died, and both were happily asleep 
with smiles on their faces.  He grinned and slipped out of 
bed, not bothering to dress because the New Orleans night 
was so warm, and headed into the kitchen to get something to 
drink.  He was sitting in the living room, sipping a beer 
when Louis entered.
	The vampire smiled at him, also still completely nude, 
which served to stir the embers of desire once again, and he 
smiled back as Louis kissed his forehead and sat next to 
him.
	"How are you feeling, love?" Louis asked.
	Methos snuggled up, sighing contentedly.  "Wonderful.  
Sated.  Happy."
	"Sated?  Surely not you," Louis kidded, brushing his 
fingers through the Immortal's hair.  "Or did having the 
both of us at once finally wear you out?"
	Methos chuckled.  "Never.  It'll just increase my 
recovery time a bit."
	Louis laughed softly and held the Immortal close.  "I 
have loved having you here."
	"You make it sound like I'm leaving."
	"That is up to you.  Duncan will be here tomorrow.  Do 
you want to see him?"
	"Duncan?  Coming here?  When did this happen?" Methos 
blurted, his heart pounding.
	"He left a message.  We must have been... busy when he 
called."
	"Busy, yes.  I like your definition of busy."
	"Well, you must admit that it is a very pleasant way 
of passing the time."
	"Mmm hmm, and I've got the bite marks to prove it."
	Louis looked at his neck.  "Hmm, I don't see any..."
	"They must have healed.  You'll have to make more."
	The vampire's deep laughter filled the room, and he 
found himself hugged vigorously.
	"I love you, Methos.  You always make me laugh."
	"And here I thought I was doing a very good job of 
being perfectly serious."
	"Serious?" Lestat's voice boomed as he came into the 
room, dressed in nothing but a smile.  "You are never 
serious.  You're too much like me."
	Methos cocked his head and looked coy.  "Oh, I can be 
serious when given the... proper incentives."
	Lestat understood the innuendo and slid next to the 
Immortal on the couch.
	"Oh, and what would proper incentive be?"
	Methos ran his hands a long Lestat's chest. "Oh, you 
know what bribes I am susceptible to."
	Lestat made a noise that sounded like a deep-throated 
purr and leaned forward, smiling knowingly.  He was avidly 
exploring the inside of Methos' mouth when the phone rang.
	"Let the machine get it..." he breathed to Louis, 
trying to encourage him to join in.
	Louis whispered an acknowledgment and nibbled at 
Methos' ear.  Methos sighed in pleasure and contentment.
	"Lestat!  Lestat, I know you're home.  Pick up the 
phone," came a commanding voice.
	"Oh damn, that's Marius," Lestat growled, pulling 
away.
	"And he sounds angry.  What did you do, Lestat?" Louis 
accused.
	"I didn't do anything!  I've been good for the better 
part of a year, thank you," the blond vampire shot back, 
storming over to the phone to pick it up.  "Lestat here, and 
this better be good."
	"Lestat!"
	"Yes, Marius?"
	"Is the 5,000 year old Immortal with you still?"
	Lestat's eyes narrowed.  "Yes..."
	"Good, we'll be there in two hours."
	"We?  Who's we? And why are you coming here?"
	"I'll explain everything when we get there.  I have to 
go.  We'll see you soon."
	With that the 2,000 year old vampire hung up, leaving 
Lestat staring quizzically at the phone.
	"What is it Lestat?  Why is Marius coming here, and 
who is he bringing with him?" Louis questioned.
	"I don't know, but he specifically asked if Methos was 
still with us."
	"What?" Methos asked, suddenly concerned.
	"Don't worry Methos, you aren't in any danger."
	"Don't worry?  He could be bringing another Immortal 
here to take my head!"
	"I doubt that," Louis assured.  "Marius is an 
upstanding gentleman.  He would never do such a thing."
	"Who is this guy anyway?" the five thousand year Old 
Man demanded.
	"Marius is two thousand years old.  He is one of the 
wisest vampires I know..."
	"Can you detect the hero worship?" Lestat commented.
	"Lestat..." Louis scolded.
	"Louis.  But no, cher, Marius would not put you in 
danger.  If anything, he sounded worried."
	That upset Methos even more.  "Maybe he has found out 
that someone is coming for me."  He stood and went for the 
bedroom.  "I have to get dressed.  Get my sword..."
	"Methos, love, please, there is no need to be 
frightened," Louis comforted, grabbing him and hugging him.  
"You know we will protect you."
	Methos pulled away, still agitated.
	"You cannot fight my battles.  You cannot be with me 
all the time, Louis, and I cannot cower behind you forever.  
Yes, it is true that I avoid a fight whenever I can, but 
when I am cornered, I can and will fight."
	"We don't know if you're cornered yet, Methos," Lestat 
said.
	"Still, until we know what is going on, I'll keep my 
sword nearby."
	The Immortal walked out of the room.  Lestat looked at 
Louis and shrugged.
	"I suppose we'd better get dressed."
	Two hours to the minute later, Marius arrived, and 
with him was Khayman.  Methos recognized the ancient vampire 
with his black hair and eyes, and short, Egyptian body, but 
he had never seen the blue-eyed vampire who was with him.  
Khayman came to him immediately, hands outstretched to take 
his own happily.
	"You.  It is you.  I remember you in Thebes so long 
ago."
	Methos smiled at the vampire's innocent joy.  "I see 
we are both still here."
	Khayman nodded, the smile never leaving his face. 
"Here?  Oh yes.  I am myself for the moment.  Perhaps 
tomorrow, I won't be."
	Before Methos had a chance to question the cryptic 
statement, Marius interrupted them.
	"What do you know of vampire Immortals?  Has such a 
thing ever happened in your lifetime?"
	Methos looked askance at Khayman who shrugged 
sheepishly.  "If I knew of such an occurrence, I have 
forgotten.  It was hoped you would remember."
	The Immortal blinked in shock.  "Well, I do think I 
would tend to remember that sort of thing."
	Khayman grinned.  "I knew you would.  You were never 
like me, never set in your ways."
	Methos pulled his hands from Khayman's gently and 
turned to Marius.  "What is this all about."
	"I received a cry for help..."
	"What?  I didn't hear any cry for help..." Lestat 
argued.
	"You wouldn't have.  The one who sent it was weak.  I 
only heard it because I happened to be nearby.  A vampire, 
one not known to us, created a fledgling.  But something 
went horribly wrong..."
	"A revenant?" Louis asked, his eyes wide.
	"No.  The fledgling still has his mind, but he is in 
torment."
	"What does this have to do with me?" Methos 
questioned.
	"The fledgling was one of you."
	"An Immortal?  No, that is impossible.  The blood 
would not have taken hold."
	"He had not experienced his first death yet," Marius 
clarified.
	Methos' eyes opened wide.  "Oh..."
	"I heard the cry and answered.  The creature is 
pitiful and his maker is devastated."
	"What's wrong with him?" Louis inquired.
	"He is trapped between Immortality and vampirism.  He 
can withstand the dawn but the light burns him.  He craves 
blood, but too much sickens him, the same goes for food and 
drink.  He has the vampire senses, but only a fraction of 
the strength."
	"In other words he is living in a Hell worse than 
ours," Louis sighed.
	Marius nodded gravely.  "I contacted Maharet 
immediately to see if she had any knowledge of this, she 
referred me to Khayman because Khayman knew of Immortals.  
Khayman remembered Immortals, and also remembered that 
Armand had told him that you and Lestat had befriended two 
of them.  We called Armand and Armand told us that one was 
here with you and Lestat."
	"So you came to see if I knew what to do?" Methos 
drolled.
	"Do you?" Marius asked hopefully.
	"Yes.  I can take his head.  He'll be dead, but he'll 
be free."
	Marius frowned.  "I don't think that is the kind of 
solution Malek was looking for.  He loves Greg."
	"If he truly loves him, then he will accept the fact 
that Greg may have to die."
	"He would rather his fledgling live, my friend," 
Khayman explained.
	"I'm sure he would, but that may not be possible."
	"I take it you have never heard of this occurring 
before," Marius stated.
	"No."
	"Perhaps if you met him, saw him..."
	"You want me to go there?  What if he decides he likes 
being this... this hybrid and uses his superior strength and 
speed to take my head?"
	"He has only a fraction of the vampire strength and 
speed," Marius informed.
	"A 'fraction' is still a helluva lot faster and 
stronger than me.  Oh no no no.  I like my head right where 
it is."
	"But we would be there to protect you.  We would be 
faster and stronger," Marius argued.
	"During the night.  What about during the day?  You 
said he can withstand the dawn."
	"We could entomb him with his maker during the 
daylight hours," the two thousand year old vampire 
suggested.
	Methos scowled.  "Oh how humane!  You don't want me to 
kill him, yet you'll lock him up in a crypt with a dead 
body.  Where did you get your psychiatrist's degree?  Any 
more brilliant ideas?"
	He looked expectantly at all of them.  "Well?  I'm 
waiting."
	"We can't leave him in the state he is in," Marius 
stated.
	"Then kill him and be done with it," Methos seethed.
	"Methos... perhaps if you met this fledgling, maybe 
you could figure out an alternative..." Louis began.
	Methos whirled and faced Louis, his eyes wide with 
disbelief.  "You _want_ me to endanger myself?!"
	Louis looked down at his hands.  "I know the hell my 
life is.  I cannot imagine having to live a half-life 
somewhere in-between my world and yours.  I would not wish 
such a fate on my worst enemy.  Perhaps killing him would be 
the greatest mercy, but none of us can know that until one 
of you meet him."
	Lestat, always willing to play devil's advocate, piped 
in cheerfully, "Your bull-headed Scot would do it.  Such a 
charity case is right up his alley, don't you think?"
	Now Methos glared at Lestat.  "You leave MacLeod out 
of this!"
	"You know of another Immortal who might help us, 
Lestat?" Marius questioned.
	"Yes, he'll be here tomorrow night.  A bonnified 
warrior-chieftain with a taste for those in distress."
	"Lestat..." Methos growled.
	"Besides, if he thinks his erstwhile lover Methos here 
is in danger, he'll be that much more amicable to a 
reconciliation," Lestat replied, loving every moment of 
Methos' fury.
	"Then perhaps we should wait and ask him for his 
advice," Marius smoothed, a twinkle in his eye.  He had 
already caught on to Lestat's game.
	"No!" Methos insisted.  "You will leave the Highlander 
alone."
	"And if I don't?" Lestat shot back with a feral grin.
	"I'll disappear from your life forever."
	"I'll just find you."
	Methos had no reply, merely fumed in silent rage, his 
whole body shaking.  His expression made Lestat begin to 
laugh which made the Immortal even angrier.
	"Oh come on, Methos!" Lestat chided, wrapping an arm 
around his friend's shoulders.  "You know we would never let 
you or MacLeod come to any harm.  Not because I give a damn 
about the Scot, but because I adore you."
	Methos frowned but calmed somewhat.  "All right."
	"All right what?" Louis asked.
	"All right, I'll see what can be done.  _But_ only for 
one night and only with at least two of you present.  And 
only if you leave MacLeod out of this."
	"Well, we can definitely promise the first two, but 
the leaving MacLeod out of it will be hard.  He's still 
coming here tomorrow night, and he'll be very unhappy to 
find you missing."
	"Tell him I went off in search of enlightenment and 
yak butter."
	"Yak butter?" Lestat repeated with a mischievous glint 
in his eye.
	Methos blushed.  "Ahh, inside joke.  Just tell him I'm 
gone, but I'll be back and to wait for me here.  Okay?"
	"Okay."
	"Excellent, now that that's settled, I will make the 
necessary arrangements and tell Malek we will be there 
tomorrow night," Marius stated.  "Who all of you is going?"
	"I will stay here with Lestat," Louis replied.
	"Then it will just be the three of us, myself, Khayman 
and Methos."
	Methos nodded, "And I want to be back in New Orleans 
within 48 hours.  By the way, where are we going?"
	"Arizona."
	Methos grimaced.  Arizona.  Dry, hot, and dusty.  Why 
couldn't they be going to Miami Beach?
	"All right.  Let me get my things..."
Arizona, the desert.  Just inside the Navajo Indian 
Reservation
	The night was of the dark moonless variety, the 
starlight over the desert casting a mystical gleam across 
all it fell upon.  The only sound was the wind whispering 
across the rocks and brush.  It was too quiet, as if the 
desert was holding its breath, waiting for something to 
happen.  A lone owl sat looking over the plateau, tirelessly 
scanning the edges of the brush, listening intently for the 
telltale squeaks of the small creatures of the night.  From 
the top of the nearby hill, rocks clattered down to the 
desert floor, startling the owl, and sensing something 
otherworldly, it flew off for quieter hunting grounds.
	As the owl flew off, two figures slid down the side of 
the hill.  The smaller tried to hold the other upright, and 
moved with an unnatural grace down the steep incline.  As 
they reached the bottom, the larger of the two fell to the 
ground with a muffled cry of pain as the broken stump of his 
right arm struck a rock.
	Teriyal stopped to rest for a moment before helping 
her companion to his feet.  She vainly tried to dust her 
clothing of the dirt from their descent and the past days of 
being on the run.  She looked down at her companion as he 
slowly pulled himself to a sitting position, and she thought 
back to how much her life had changed recently.   Not two 
years ago she had been just another archeology student 
digging about in abandoned desert ruins for her masters' 
thesis on ancient Indian cultures of the southwest, and 
nowƒand now, she thought as her face turned to a mask of 
anger, here she was running along with the one who created 
her: fleeing for their very lives.
	Looking down at her creator, she couldn't help but 
notice how different he was from the night they first met. 
The strong figure was now wracked with pain from his damaged 
arm and throat.  The once full muscles now limp and nearly 
devoid of the life that once empowered them.  
	'If we had not heard the explosive traps being placed 
at the mine entrance, and if Andran hadn't set them off 
while trying to disarm them, he wouldn't even look this 
good,' she thought to herself.  'They would have found us 
for sure and dragged us into the sunlight once morning 
came.'  Perhaps getting sealed inside the cave when the 
expolsives went off had been a blessing in disguise.  If the 
humans had not been hasty and tried to blow them up instead, 
they wouldn't be here at all.
 Pulling a compass from her battered jacket, she peered at 
it for a moment then spoke softy, "Get up Andran, we have to 
keep moving.  And we need to find food, shelter and hide our 
tracks from those bastards before they or the dawn find us 
here in the open." 
	As she reached down to help him, he looked up at her 
with an expression of pain and of depression.  He croaked 
his agreement, and managed to stand with minimal help.  He 
knew that after he fed, his throat and other wounds will 
heal much faster.  If they could survive that long.
	"Are you all right?" she asked, showing some small 
measure of tenderness.
	"I'll live," he answered hoarsely, getting his 
balance.
	"Not if we can't get out of here."
	"We will.  There's a town not far from here.  That is 
where we are going.  We will make it there by dawn."
	"Are you certain he is there?"
	Andran nodded.  "Yes, and he is in terrible pain.  We 
have to go.  We have to get to him before..."
	"Before what?
	"Before others find him," he replied, reaching for her 
arm.
	She offered it in support as he gritted his jaw and 
moved to continue their journey.
	Five days ago they had been in Denver.  Then Andran 
said they had to leave, that another of 'their kind' had 
been created, and they had to find him.  He didn't give her 
much more explanation than that as he piled her into the 
car, and they drove off.  Things were fine until their car 
broke down in the godforsaken town of Towaoc, just inside 
the Ute Mountain Indian Reservation.  She had always loved 
the Indians, but now she hated them.  Their late night 
search for assistance with the car had led them to an elder 
with the Sight.  He pegged them for what they really were, 
and set the rest of the tribe upon them. 
	Forced to flee on foot into the desert, they had 
sought shelter in an abandoned mine.  Their pursuers found 
them and set to blow up the passage.  Andran tried to disarm 
the bombs, and detonated them instead.  The explosion had 
sealed them in for the better part of a full day, but they 
were finally able to dig themselves out at night.  Somehow 
the Indians knew they had escaped however, and had not been 
more than two hours behind them as they fled, Andran still 
leading them to their original destination.  Now she was 
certain the Ute had enlisted the help of the Hopi and Navajo 
in the area.  Things were getting more and more dangerous 
with each passing moment.
	"Yes, I know," Andran said, reading her thoughts as he 
so often did.
	"So, I say we leave this trail and head for Phoenix.  
We can lose them in the cities!"
	Her maker shook his head.  "No.  We must get to Tuba 
City.  He is there and he needs us."
	Now her anger reached the surface.  She had been 
ripped from hearth and home, hunted, and nearly killed for 
an unknown individual she cared nothing for.
	"I do not care!  So what if there is another of us? 
You have always told me that there are plenty of vampires in 
the world.  Why should we bother with this one?"
	He glared at her and she shivered.  "Because he is not 
just another vampire.  He is like us!  Teriyal, you have 
never seen a true vampire.  If you did, you would know we 
are nothing like them."
	"What do you mean?  We are vampires, we feed on 
blood..."
	"Yes, we do, but we are hybrids, created from a mixing 
of two Immortal bloods.  We were never human, Teriyal, you 
and I.  And neither was Baxsil.  We all had the tainted 
blood when we were born to this new life, but we are neither 
one or the other.  We are a mix of both.  But this new one 
was made by a true vampire, and he is neither like us nor 
like them.  He needs our help, Teriyal," he explained as 
gently as he could.
	She sobered, her eyes widening a bit at this new 
revelation.  "Why did you never tell me this before."
	His eyes darkened and he walked forward.  "It was 
never important before.  I kept you away from the true 
vampires and the mortals with the tainted blood.  Besides, 
after Baxsil died, I did not know if you would believe me."
	"But..."
	He cut her off.  "Come on.  There is no time for this.  
We have to get out of here."
	She stopped him, showing her stubborn streak again.  
"When we are safe, you will tell me all of it."
	"When we are safe, our entire world may have shattered 
around us," came his cryptic reply. 
	"Where exactly are we going?" Methos asked, lounging 
on the leather cushion of the jet's seat.
	"We will be landing at Grand Canyon National Airport 
and taking a car from there.  Malek is in Tuba City, about 
60 miles away from there," Marius answered.
	Tuba City, Methos thought to himself.  That couldn't 
be for real, could it?  Did John Phillip Sousa sleep there 
or something?  Gods, had to give these Americans credit for 
their lack of imagination.  Now the Byzantines, _they_ knew 
how to name cities.  Or the Italians.  Firenze, Venice, 
Roma... Names that spoke of richness and hidden wonders.  
What did the Americans have?  Tuba City.  Gods spare him.
	"Okay.  And this vampire is Malek, and his newest 
creation is Greg."
	"Yes," Marius replied.
	"How old is this Malek guy?"
	"Only four hundred.  He's Peruvian," the ancient Roman 
said.
	"Peru.  I think I've been to Peru," Khayman commented 
absently.
	Methos cast the 6,000 year old vampire a wary glance. 
The past 4,000 years had worn on the Egyptian, it was 
amazing he'd survived for this long.
	"We go underground when we no longer can stand living, 
and rise later if we have the desire and strength," Marius 
explained, reading his thoughts.  "And we do not have others 
of our kind actively hunting for our heads."
	"Might make life more interesting..." Khayman added 
wistfully.
	Methos took a beer from the bar and opened it, taking 
a swig.  "After 5,000 years of it, it gets old, believe me."
	"After 5,000 years, anything gets old," the ancient 
vampire corrected.
	Methos shrugged.  "True.  Though one or two things 
still feel the same."
	Khayman smiled.  "Intimacy and love."
	"Friendship and love," Methos corrected.  "I can get 
intimacy anywhere if I am willing to pay for it."
	"I stand corrected," the Egyptian said, and patted the 
seat next to him.  "Come.  Come and sit by me, and tell me 
of your travels since we met in Thebes that night."
	Four thousand years worth?  Methos blinked at him.  
	"There is so much I have forgotten, my old friend," 
Khayman said, touching one white hand to his forehead.  "So 
much I have blocked out or given to lost time.  The weight 
of the years..."
	Ah yes.  The vampires had the luxury of forgetting who 
they were.  No one would come take their head in an 
unsuspecting moment.  They could forget everything and 
become someone else if they wanted.  Briefly he wondered if 
vampires could have multiple personalities.
	"Sometimes I think so," Khayman whispered, making him 
jolt.
	He would never get used to this mind reading thing.
	"But come.  I have forgotten what the gardens in 
Babylon looked like, and all the wonders I have seen.  Show 
them to me through your eyes so that I may see them again."
	With a shrug and another sip of his beer, he sauntered 
over and plopped himself down on the leather seat.  Closing 
his eyes, he let his mind slip back in time, trying to 
remember the events that happened after their meeting in 
Thebes.  He knew he wouldn't have to say anything to either 
vampire; they would see his thoughts and witness his 
memories as if they had been there.  There were certainly 
high points to telepathy; it sure made for easier 
storytelling.
	He took them back.  Back to Thebes and Babylon, and 
then on to his time with Kronos as a Horseman.  As he 
expected, neither Khayman nor Marius had anything to say 
about his stint as a bloodthirsty killer, and he moved 
through the 1000+ years he spent with the Horsemen quickly.  
There wasn't much to tell about that time: there was little 
knowledge or beauty in it.  Then he took them to Persia 
under rule of the last emperor, when the Horsemen were 
captured and stoned.  He had revived first in the unmarked, 
communal grave, and taken the opportunity to dig himself out 
and get away from the life he had long since grown weary of.  
	He went north to Greece, became a scholar under 
Socrates, then East into the Orient to follow the teachings 
of Mencius.  He returned to Rome after the Empire conquered 
Greece, and stayed as a soldier under the rule of Caesar 
where he was sent into Egypt to serve under Cleopatra.  He 
left on his own after the deaths of the Queen, Caesar and 
Marc Antony, and went East again for a few decades, 
returning to Rome during the rule of Caligula, where he 
stayed until the end of the first century AD.  
	After he left Rome, he became a wanderer for the next 
several centuries, learning and exploring.  He showed them 
the horrendous trip to Iceland with the monks in the late 
700's, and then his peaceful years in China during the Ming 
Dynasty.  He left China in the 1400's and returned to Europe 
where he stayed through the Renaissance.  He traveled to the 
New World in the 1880's, knowing the 'white man' would 
destroy much of the existing cultures, and wanting to see it 
before that happened.  In the early 1900's he found himself 
riding with Butch and Sundance through the Wild West, a pale 
comparison to his Horseman days, but an interesting 
diversion from a scholar's life, and he stayed in the 
Americas until he took one of the first Pan Am Airways 
flights to London in 1939.  
	His most recent memories were the most intense: 
joining the Watchers, meeting Joe Dawson and Don Saltzer, 
loving Don, Don's murder, meeting MacLeod, the formation of 
their friendship, the love and death of Alexa, Jakob 
Galatti, Jack Shapiro, Amanda... the return of Kronos, the 
reunion of the Four Horsemen, and his killing of Silas.  
Then the kidnap of Louis, and the events that led to his 
strong friendship with the vampire and his lover.  And over 
a year later in Paris, after he and MacLeod had quarreled 
and parted, when the Immortal Keane came after Duncan's 
head, he had tried to protect his friend and estranged lover 
from the man seeking revenge, but was rebuked.  Then Duncan 
killed Byron, and the rift widened between him and the 
Highlander.  Finally, after months of angst and grief, they 
had reconciled last year , and tentatively renewed their 
relationship... until Duncan ran off to Paris, and he had 
gone to seek comfort from Lestat and Louis.
	He felt more than saw Khayman's sad smile as the 
memories slowed and finally ceased, and opened his eyes to 
see the old vampire looking fondly at him.  One hard, white 
hand reached out and touched his forehead tenderly, brushing 
a stray tendril of hair from his face.
	"What?" he finally asked, unable to withstand the 
benevolent look any longer.
	"I know why Louis loves you so, and why Lestat adores 
you.  You are the perfect match for them: enough darkness to 
feed Lestat's dark soul, and enough light to make Louis feel 
redeemed.  I am glad that you have found each other."
	Methos shrugged.  "You make it sound like we're 
getting married."
	"In a way, you already have.  They will follow you to 
the end of time, my friend.  You will never lack for a 
champion.  And in the end, it may be their friendship with 
you that keeps them both alive."
	Methos gave him another curious look, but said 
nothing, his mind working on what the ancient vampire had 
said.  It reminded him of something Louis had once 
mentioned, that the vampires were unable to adapt to the 
changing ages, that they needed to find someone who 
reflected each age in order to understand it.  He had never 
had that problem.  In 5,000 years, he had learned how to 
assimilate, and adapt to each new culture, new school of 
thought, new civilization.  He had become a chameleon of 
sorts, blending in and becoming one with each age he had 
lived in.  He wondered if Khayman was referring to that 
particular talent, that as long as he was able to adapt, 
then he could help Louis and Lestat adapt as well.  It gave 
him a small thrill of pleasure to realize that, to know they 
would always need him as he would always need them.  He 
looked up at Khayman's black eyes, and knew that was exactly 
what the ancient one was thinking, and he smiled.
	"I'll take good care of them," he assured.
	"And they of you."
	At that Methos grinned.  "They already do."
	Khayman returned the smile and nodded.  "I know."
	"We'll be there soon," Marius interrupted.
	"Great," the Immortal said, getting up to stretch his 
legs.
	"And the dawn is coming," Khayman reminded.
	"I've made arrangements for us to spend the day at an 
Inn just outside the park," the Roman replied.
	"And does this Malek know we are coming?" Methos 
asked.
	"He is expecting us this evening," Marius informed.
	"Okay.  Maybe I'll hike the canyon while the two of 
you get your beauty sleep."
	"Just so long as you are back by nightfall."
	"Don't worry.  I have no intention of disappearing on 
you two.  I know what a futile and stupid act that would 
be."
	Khayman's answer was a feral grin.  "And a waste of 
time.  Especially if you want to get back to your lover 
tomorrow."
	Methos thought a moment about Duncan, then returned 
the feral smile.  "I'm mad at him.  Let him stew."
	At that, Khayman laughed.
	They remained relatively quiet for the remaining half 
hour of flight, although Methos allowed Khayman to mentally 
pick his brain for any sundry details he wanted from the 
past 4,000 years.  He remembered that the ancient vampire 
was a good millennium older than himself, and that afforded 
him some small measure of respect from the Immortal.  Even 
more so because Khayman remembered who he was, and where he 
came from: things Methos himself had long since forgotten.  
He remembered hazy details, a scent, a word, a touch, 
sometimes part of a face or conversation, but it was another 
life for him- long gone and best laid to rest.  He didn't 
mind forgetting the past, he never learned from his mistakes 
anyway.  It bothered him that MacLeod wanted, and expected, 
him to be some kind of all-knowing guru because he'd lived 
for so long, but the truth was he wasn't, and probably never 
would be.  Why did younglings automatically assume that age 
brought wisdom?
	*Because they think you've seen more than they have,* 
came Khayman's soft mind voice.  *But don't fret.  Not all 
of us are meant to be teachers.  Take Marius, for instance; 
he takes the Wise Man role because it suits him.  Me, I take 
the fool because it suits me.*
	*And what do I take?* he answered wryly, his mouth 
turning up into a small smile.
	*You?  You are the changeling.  You are whatever 
someone else needs you to be at any given moment.  Your 
faces are many and varied.* 
	Methos frowned.  He knew what Khayman said was not 
meant to be an insult, yet somehow it grated on him.  The 
old vampire seemed to realize this and leaned over to kiss 
his cheek lightly.  
	"I'm sorry."
	"Don't be.  It's just me."
	"I'm still sorry."
	Methos patted Khayman's hand in a wordless assurance 
that everything was all right, and settled in to wait for 
the plane to land.
	A car was waiting to take them to the Inn, and Marius 
checked them into their suites while Methos perused around 
the lobby, his knapsack slung haphazardly over his shoulder.  
Like his child Armand, Marius had very expensive and 
impeccable taste: a true Roman, and like Armand, he was also 
sickeningly rich.  But money seemed a necessity; it bought 
the discretion and privacy a vampire so desperately needed.  
And all the amenities and modern conveniences money could 
buy certainly didn't hurt either.
	Khayman came to get him as he was examining a piece of 
bronze art, and a few minutes later he was settling into his 
room.  He kissed the ancient vampire good morning, and 
watched him slip off with Marius, before stripping off his 
clothes and taking a shower.  He thought briefly of taking a 
nap, but he really wasn't tired.  Besides if he got sleepy, 
he could just curl up in the canyon somewhere and grab a few 
'z's if needed.  At his age, he'd slept in just about every 
condition, and while he definitely preferred some better 
than others, he'd manage if he had to.  
	Clean, dressed, and shaven, he headed to the front 
desk to pick up the keys to his rental car and the box lunch 
he'd ordered to take with him.  The drive to the actual 
canyon was about a half hour, and he parked at the northern-
most tip of the canyon, then he hoisted his knapsack with 
his supplies and lunch over his shoulder, and headed out to 
hike down.  There was something therapeutic in hiking so 
early in the morning.  Almost no one was around, and it gave 
him a sense of complete isolation, however false that might 
be.  It also gave him time to think about what Khayman had 
said to him, and why it had bothered him so much.  
	Khayman had been right, he was a changeling, but that 
had never seemed to bother him before.  The past was the 
past and best left there, the future and living through the 
next day were all that ever mattered to him.  But somehow 
that was slowly beginning to not be enough anymore.  Maybe 
it was Duncan, or his years as a Watcher, or Louis and 
Lestat, or maybe he was just entering a new stage in his 
life, but he was starting to wonder who he really was.  
After fifty centuries of life, he still had no answers and 
no idea who or what he was supposed to be.  The years had 
brought so much change and nothing was the same, but had the 
centuries swallowed up his identity as well?  Could he 
remember who Methos was?  Could he be that man again?  Did 
he want to?
	Mid-morning found him at the bottom of the canyon.  
The hike down was easy.  It would be going up that would be 
hard; maybe he would hitch a ride up on a donkey if he was 
pressed for time.  But he was a lot fitter than MacLeod gave 
him credit for, and somehow the mile-high climb didn't seem 
all that intimidating.  Hell, he'd climbed a lot worse.  Try 
Tibet in winter.  He shuddered at the memory, and continued 
his lazy walk along the riverbank.  There weren't any white-
water rafters today, so he was left to himself to sit lotus-
style on a large boulder and contemplate why he was here, 
and what he was going to do.  He closed his eyes and 
centered, feeling the earth's pull on his body and soul, and 
drew the deep guttural sounds from his throat, chanting 
softly and cleansing his spirit.  The haziness of time 
parted as he reached back, grasping for memory, for clarity.  
Who had he been?  And why was it now so important to him?  
	It had been cold.  So cold.  The snows never stopped 
and the food ran out.  He remembered people starving.  Was 
this his family?  The tribe who had raised him?  The memory 
faltered.  There was some unspeakable pain there, pain his 
own mind would not let him remember.  He could see ice on 
his bare feet... and was that rope and blood?  Then he was 
walking, and walking and walking, never looking back.  A 
face flashed before him, he thought it was the Goddess, for 
they worshipped Her in those days, and he'd followed.  
	Cold was replaced by heat and shifting sands.  How 
many years had it taken him to make the journey?  He had 
left the frozen lands for the sun-scorched desert.  But why 
had he made the trip at all?  Again, great pain threatened 
to claw itself to the surface and his own soul beat it back.  
You are not meant to remember.  The memory brings nothing 
but madness.  But I want to remember!  I want to *know*!  
What happened to me?  Who am I?!  He pushed against the 
defenses his mind had set, railing against them.  Let me in, 
damnit!  I'm 5,000 years old!  I've lived through 
everything!  I've been a slave!  I've been a God!  A heretic 
and a saint!  A peasant and a king!  A killer and a healer!  
There is nothing I have not done, there is nothing I have 
not been!  Now show me who I am!!  But his mind fought, and 
a voice said, No.  It is not time.  You are not ready.  
	Fury raged in him and he let out a mental howl, 
tearing at the barriers which separated him from what he 
wanted, but to no avail.  Finally, exhausted and defeated, 
he stilled his soul and tried to find peace.  He was 
shaking, he could feel his muscles trembling from his 
efforts, taste the salt of his sweat and tears.  Slowly he 
opened his eyes and looked at the sheer walls of the canyon.  
The sun was high, beating down upon him in waves of heat, 
and he became aware of his sunburned skin.  The pain was 
uncomfortable, but not unbearable.  Already it was healing, 
starting to peel, and he watched, transfixed as the layer 
sloughed away to reveal new flesh beneath.  Like a snake 
shedding its skin, he thought absently.  
	He looked at his long hands, turning them over and 
over.  The things these hands have done... No, don't go 
there, don't even think about going there.  You did what you 
did, no changing it.  Move on, let it go, it's dead and 
gone.  But is it?  You were a killer once, Methos; wouldn't 
you like to be a killer again?  Kronos' voice.  Don't fight 
it, feel it.  It's so easy to be bad, to be evil.  Everyone 
leaves you alone and you don't have to answer for anything.  
Evil is the simplest form of living: take what you want, do 
what you want, say what you want, no codes, no rules, no 
morals.  Simplicity itself.  No friends.  No love.  No 
comfort.  Fear in the eyes of your partner when you mate.  
Screams of the dying coming back to haunt you at night.  
	He closed his eyes again and curled his fingers into a 
tight fist, nearly cutting himself with his nails.  Where 
was Louis when he needed him?  Or Duncan?  Duncan is on a 
plane to New Orleans, he reminded himself.  He'll be there 
waiting for you when you get back, and he'll take you in his 
arms and...  And what?  Make it all go away?  No.  Just make 
it bearable for a while.  No matter how gracious and loving 
Louis and Lestat were, they could not match the sublime 
peace and safety he found in the Scotsman's arms.  As long 
as he had Duncan's love, he knew he was not worthless, that 
he did not have to hate himself quite so much, that there 
was still good in him after all.  Duncan was his shield 
against the nightmares, his knight in shining armor riding 
in to slay the dragons and defeat the demons.  Against his 
own best judgment, and in spite of his anger at MacLeod's 
behavior, he loved the Highlander utterly, and he could not 
wait to see him.  It would take all his willpower not to 
throw himself into MacLeod's arms when they saw each other 
again.
	MacLeod loves me.  He said it to himself like a 
mantra.  And Louis says you will never again become the 
monster you were.  Then it didn't matter what he had been in 
his past, or why he couldn't remember it.  All that mattered 
was that he was alive, and that he was worthy of love, 
especially the love of Duncan MacLeod: the world's oldest 
boy scout.  
	The thought of Duncan in Eagle Scout dress with merit 
badges plastered all over his uniform, brought an almost 
irrational fit of laughter to him, and he was doubly glad he 
was alone.  He laughed so hard that he fell off the boulder 
and landed with a thud on the rocky ground.  He winced at 
the impact, but it felt good to laugh.  Laughter banished 
the darkness.  He laughed until he thought he'd hurt 
himself, then lay, breathing hard, one hand clutching his 
side as the last of the giggles faded.  When he quieted, he 
smiled up at the burning sun and sighed, his soul at peace.
	I am Methos.  I am five thousand years old.  I have no 
homeland.  I have no people.  I have no family.  But I have 
friends who love me.  It is enough.
	Picking himself up from the earth, he heard his 
stomach growl loudly, and reached for his box lunch.  He 
consumed the sandwich and crackers and bits of fruit, 
mentally filing a note away to compliment the Inn staff, 
then headed to hike back up the cliffs.
	The flight to New York was long and arduous, even in 
First Class; and he spent most of the trip pacing up and 
down the aisle, causing the flight attendants grief.  In 
truth, he couldn't sit still.  He was too edgy, too nervous.  
Methos was hurt and angry.  What words could a four hundred 
year old idiot use to comfort a five millennia-Old Man?  
What could he say?  I'm sorry I've been such a shit, Methos.  
Please forgive me?  Take me back, I love you?  Even worse, 
what would he say to Lestat, since he was certain the 
vampire's ire would equal the Old Man's.
	He had an hour and a half between flights, so he 
grabbed breakfast at one of the food vendors in the terminal 
and read the newspaper on his way to the gate.  At least the 
news kept him from pacing like a caged animal until they 
announced his flight.  He tried to sleep on the plane, but 
had no luck there.  All he got was a stiff neck and rumpled 
clothes from his tossing.  No, he wasn't going to get a wink 
of sleep until he and Methos were together again, and he 
knew it.  
	"Coffee, sir?" the flight attendant asked pleasantly.
	He nodded, although he really wanted a stiff drink.  
He also wanted to call Joe in Seacouver, but it was way too 
early: the mortal would surely still be asleep.  So he 
contented himself with sipping his coffee, and nibbling on 
the peanuts the woman handed him.  They were too salty.  He 
ended up crushing them into powder with his fingers, 
ignoring the questioning stare of the man seated across the 
aisle from him.  The physical activity was mindless enough 
to allow him to think about his current situation, and what 
he was going to do about it.  He planned to check into his 
hotel, then head over to Lestat and Louis' town home on the 
Rue Royale, and maybe talk to Methos if the Old Man was a) 
conscious and b) willing to let him in.  He wasn't taking 
any bets on either option.  
	He sighed heavily, cursing his own stupidity for 
getting himself in this situation in the first place, and 
tried to put his thoughts in order.  Amanda had made him 
realize that he had a lot to make up for, and he needed a 
plan of action.  One always needed a plan of action when 
dealing with the world's oldest Immortal.  And several back 
up plans as well.  He decided to take the direct route if 
Methos allowed him in the flat.  But what if the Old Man 
didn't answer the door?  Then he'd just wait until after 
sundown, and catch him then.  Surely Louis and Lestat knew 
he was coming.  
	It was pleasantly warm in New Orleans when he landed, 
and he enjoyed the ride from the airport to his hotel in the 
French Quarter.  The clerk at the reception desk confirmed 
his reservation and checked him in, then paused when she 
reached for the room key.
	"Is there a problem?" Duncan questioned.
	"Not at all, Mr. MacLeod.  I just have a message and 
an envelope for you."
	"For me?"
	"Yes, sir," she confirmed as she gave him the room 
key, a note and a small white envelope.  The envelope was a 
tad heavy as he accepted it.
	"Thank you."
	He turned and walked through the lobby to the 
elevator, fingering the envelope as the bell man wheeled his 
luggage into the car and pressed the button for his floor.
	"Here on vacation, sir?" the bell man asked 
pleasantly.
	"You might say that.  Visiting friends."
	"Ah, well, I hope you have a good time," the man said 
as they headed down the hall to MacLeod's impeccable suite.
	The Bourbon Orleans was such a nice hotel.  MacLeod 
tipped the man generously, then set to opening the note and 
the envelope.  He recognized Lestat's handwriting 
immediately.
	
	Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod-
		Formal enough for you?  I do 
	hope so.  Greetings and salutations!  I trust 
	I need no introduction.  You know who this is,
	 n'est pas?  In the envelope you will find  a 
	key to the carriage door to our flat.  This 
	will by no means  gain you access to the flat,
	 but it will get you off the  streets, which 
	Ithink will benefit all of society.  Once 
	inside the  gate, there will be a little 
	keypad.  I have set the code to be  your poor,
	ill-used lover's name.  However, this code will
	 only  be valid until half past eleven today, 
	so be quick if you want  to get in. When you 
	get in, you'll find further instructions as 
	to where to go and what to do.
					A bientot!
						L
	Duncan ignored the thinly veiled insults: he had come 
to expect them from Lestat, and placed the little key in his 
pocket.  Looking at his watch, he saw that he had half an 
hour to get to the Rue Royale flat, so he took a moment to 
fix his hair and make himself presentable, then headed out 
again.  The key and code worked just as Lestat said they 
would, and he was standing in the silent living room of the 
flat within twenty minutes.  He knew the two vampires were 
somewhere inside the house, but he wasn't about to go 
looking for them.  There was also no sign of Methos.  
Instead he found another note, written once again in 
Lestat's hand, sitting prettily next to a box containing a 
dozen red roses, an assortment of liquored candies, and 
another envelope, this one a bit larger.
	Salutations again, Scotsman!  Glad to see
	 you made it in time.   Look what we have here.
 	 Flowers, chocolates and a surprise,  all the
 	things one needs when begging for forgiveness...
 	except  for one thing: the beggee.  That's right,
 	Kilt-boy.   Methos isn't  here.  Surprise!!  Did
	 he run off when he heard you  were coming? 
	Unfortunately, no, although I did try to convince
 	him  to head  off to parts unknown, and forget
 	all about you.  But he listens  to me  about as
	 well as I listen to him.  No, my bull-headed 
	Scot, your lover-whom-you-do-not-deserve is off 
	helping the  illustrious Marius with a problem.  
	Hint: Immortals, vampires  and  big sharp things.
	  You figure it out. If you should choose  to go 
	haring off to the rescue, I have provided you with
	 a charter jet. Like the code, this also has a time
	 limit.   Get to the  airfield by one with the 
	contents of the  envelope.  Look for Arthur Hansen,
	 owner and proprietor  of Hansen Charters.
  	 
					A bientot!
						L
	PS: Don't forget the flowers and 
        chocolates when you go running out the door. 
 
	PPS: Methos does not know you are coming, 
        but be sure to tell him that I sent you.  
        His fury will be delicious.
	MacLeod threw down the note, and ripped open the 
envelope to find a contract and directions to the airfield.  
Growling at the time, he hurried back to the Bourbon 
Orleans.  He had less than two hours to get his things in 
order, call a cab and get to the airfield.  Damn the 
vampire!  If Lestat were awake, he'd be laughing.  He made 
it though, with ten minutes to spare.  Arthur Hansen was 
waiting for him, little Cessna ready to go, and greeted him 
as he ran up.
	"Duncan MacLeod," he said, taking the pilot's hand.
	"Arthur Hansen.  Headed off to Arizona today?"
	Ducnan's eyebrows raised slightly.  Arizona?  What the 
hell was Methos doing in Arizona?
	"Uh, yeah, I guess so."
	"Well, climb aboard and let's go."
	The Highlander nodded uncomfortably and stepped onto 
the plane, taking a seat as Arthur took his place at the 
controls.
	"You must be in an awful hurry.  I normally don't take 
jobs like this, but when you offered me twenty grand to do 
it, I couldn't resist.  What's the big rush anyway?"
	"I... uh... have some pressing business that needs to 
be taken care of right away," he answered, fumbling for 
words.  Twenty thousand dollars!!  Lestat had paid this man 
twenty thousand dollars to fly from New Orleans to Arizona!  
What the hell was going on??
	"At Grand Canyon National Park?  What, you got a hot 
date with a mule?" the pilot kidded as they taxied down the 
runway.
	"Something like that."
	Arthur chuckled.  "I hope she's worth it."
	Duncan couldn't help but smile in spite of his 
confusion and worry.  He didn't think Methos was in all that 
much danger, considering Lestat's flippant way of handling 
things, but at the same time, where other Immortals were 
involved, he always got nervous.  Besides, he was intensely 
curious as to what was going on.  Why was Methos in Arizona?  
What Immortals were involved, and why would the Old Man be 
helping where a strange Immortal was concerned?  Methos 
usually avoided those types of things like the plague.  This 
Marius must be very persuasive.  That made him worry even 
more.  What had Methos allowed himself be to talked into, 
and why was Lestat saying that Methos would be very angry to 
see him?  Did the Old Man not want Duncan involved?  He 
groaned.  He hoped it wasn't another of the Immortals from 
Methos' past.  So far, he had a very poor record with his 
lover's former acquaintances.  Would their relationship 
survive if he was forced to kill another of Methos' friends?  
He found himself suddenly very apprehensive and impatient to 
get to where they were going.
	"About what time will we be getting to the park?" he 
asked.
	"We should be landing by 2 Mountain Time," came the 
reply.
	"Okay, great."
	"Want some coffee?  Help yourself to what's in the 
cabinet."
	"No thanks, but I think I am going to try to get some 
rest."
	The pilot nodded.  "Okay.  Should be a smooth ride.  
Traffic control hasn't reported any serious turbulence along 
our route."
	"Okay."
	The Highlander closed his eyes and tried to relax.  In 
two hours he'd see Methos and all of this would be 
explained.  He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, but he 
might be able to meditate a bit just to calm his nerves.  He 
thought of the flowers and candies he had stuffed in his 
pack, and hoped they would survive the flight intact.  Even 
more so, he hoped that they would be received well.
	A limousine was waiting for him when he exited the 
small plane.  Damn, Lestat had really pulled out all the 
stops.  The vampire must have had great fun planning all of 
this.  As expected, feeling rather like a lamb being led to 
slaughter, he got into the car and allowed the driver to 
take him to their appointed destination, which turned out to 
be a very nice little Inn.  He wasn't surprised to find a 
room already registered in his name, and a key waiting for 
him at the front desk.
	"Excuse me, do you have anyone by the name of Adam 
Pierson registered here?" he asked innocently.  "I was 
supposed to meet him for lunch, but my plane got delayed."
	The receptionist looked up the name in the computer.  
"Yes, Sir.  Room 119.  Would you like me to ring his room?"
	Duncan's heart leaped.  "Yes, please."
	The clerk picked up the phone and dialed a number.  
Then she waited several moments before shaking her head and 
putting the receiver down.
	"He's not in his room."  She looked back to the 
screen.  "He's still checked in, but he rented a vehicle 
early this morning.  Would you like to leave a message for 
him when he gets back?"
	Duncan smiled.  If he knew Methos, the Old Man had 
headed for the canyon.  "Ah, no.  I have a pretty good idea 
where to find him.  Are there any shuttles out to the 
Canyon?"
	"Yes, sir, one leaves every hour.  If you hurry, you 
can catch the next one."
	"Thank you very much for your help."
	"You're welcome," she said as she watched him dash off 
for the shuttle.
	
	Methos was just about to the top of the canyon when he 
felt the Presence of another of his kind.  Cursing, he 
reached for his sword, in no mood for a challenge, let alone 
one on a small path on the side of a cliff, and waited for 
his opponent to show himself.  A moment later the tall, 
heavy set build of the Highlander came into view.  He was 
briefly surprised, but then realized that he shouldn't have 
been.  He should have known Lestat would not keep his word.
	"I'm going to kill him.  I'm going to find a way to 
kill that bastard, and I'm going to do it," he seethed as 
MacLeod approached.
	The Scot smiled, radiant in the afternoon sunlight, 
and Methos thought his heart might stop right there.  Don't 
turn into mush, Old Man, have some self-respect, he 
admonished himself.  But it was so good to see him.  He 
wanted nothing more than to lose himself in MacLeod's strong 
arms.
	"Don't blame him.  It is obvious that he is worried 
about you, or he wouldn't have taken such pains to get me 
here."
	Methos snorted.  "He just knew I didn't want you 
involved and decided to rattle my chain."
	MacLeod was close enough to touch now, but he kept his 
hands consciously at his sides, actively resisting the urge 
to touch him.  Then the Highlander's powerful fingers were 
gripping his shoulders tightly, and he was being drawn into 
a warm embrace.
	"I'm glad you're safe.  I was worried," the deep voice 
whispered in his ear.
	"I'm fine.  Stop being such a boy scout."
	Duncan pulled back, a small smile on his lips.  "Is 
this how it's going to be, eh?  Sparring with words?"
	"I'm too thirsty to spar with words, MacLeod.  I just 
climbed up a mile high cliff.  I want a beer."
	The Scotsman laughed and put his arm around his 
lover's shoulders.  "I think we can manage that."
	"Good," the Old Man answered with an air of finality, 
and started to continue up the path, but Duncan stopped him.
	"We have a lot of things we need to talk about, 
Methos."
	There was pain, but also determination in the dark, 
brown eyes, and Methos dropped the bravado for a brief 
moment, lowering his eyes.
	"I know," he whispered.
	The arm around his shoulders tightened, and he looked 
up to see the Highlander bending his head down for a kiss.  
His heart rate skyrocketed as he watched in eerie slow 
motion the soft lips coming down towards his, smelled the 
scent of the Scot's breath, felt his heat.  He gasped 
slightly, shivering, his mind reeling as the hot mouth 
touched his.  He parted his lips and felt the butterfly kiss 
caress his moist skin.  He sighed, not realizing that he had 
been holding his breath until that moment, and closed his 
eyes.
	The kiss was infinitely tender, and full of unspoken 
promises.  Duncan moaned softly as they pulled back, 
reveling in the familiar, long-missed taste and feel of his 
lover.  They smiled gently at each other, one or both of 
them trembling from the intensity of the feelings between 
them.  He wanted to lose himself in those ancient, hazel 
eyes, bury his mind, body and soul in the sweet feel of 
Methos' presence.  How could he have run off like that?  How 
could he have been so heartless and cruel?  Amanda's voice 
in his head reminded him of what she had told him, that he 
was young and showing his age.  How could he have thought 
for even a moment that this wasn't meant to be?  Standing 
there, Methos looking up at him, warmth and scent and taste, 
it felt so _right_, so _good._  He almost started to cry, 
but Methos tugged at him.
	"I really need that drink, Mac," he said lightly, his 
eyes sparkling.
	"How about we go back to the Inn and order room 
service?"
	"That sounds like a wonderful idea."
	"Good.  Let's go."
	Two hours later twilight found them lounging on the 
bed of Methos' room, six pack and appetizers shared, the 
warm afterglow of their reunion still fresh on their minds.  
Methos lay on his stomach, arms crossed under his chin, 
deep-throated purrs rumbling from his mouth as Duncan's 
expert hands massaged all the sore muscles on his back.  
There was something incredibly erotic about lying there, 
naked on top of the sheets, air still heavy with the scent 
of lovemaking as the strong fingers caressed his pale flesh, 
and he sighed deeply, enjoying every well placed touch.
	"Am I forgiven?" the Highlander asked, kissing him on 
the shoulder.
	He gave a low growl.  "I haven't decided."
	"What can I do to gain your favor again?"
	"Well, you can keep up what you're doing for starters.  
In the meantime, I'm sure I'll think up a suitable penance 
for you."
	Methos didn't see the Highlander's wicked grin as he 
reached for his pack, but he did feel the shift in his 
lover's weight.
	"What are you up to MacLeod?"
	"You'll see," came the cryptic answer.  "Just close 
your eyes."
	"Why?"
	"Because I have a surprise for you."
	"A surprise?  Duncan, I'm 5,000 years old.  Very 
little surprises me."
	"Well then humor me and act surprised."
	"Anything you say darling, you know I'm an act-or," he 
drawled and did as asked, closing his eyes.
	He heard the younger man rummaging in a bag, then felt 
Duncan's weight on him again.  A moment later, something was 
being pressed against his lips.
	"Open wide."
	He let out a little snort of protest, until the 
chocolate melted on his hot skin and he tasted the 
sweetness.  Flicking out his tongue, he lapped at the candy, 
then drew the whole piece into his mouth.  The outer shell 
melted away and a gush of Grand Mariner flooded his taste 
buds.
	"Mmmmmmmmm," he groaned, swallowing.
	"How was that?"
	"Got any more?"
	"I've got a whole box."
	"Hmm, it's a start."
	Then he felt something silky soft gliding over his 
naked skin, traveling up his spine, over his shoulder, and 
around the edge of his ear to his neck.  His sensitive nose 
picked up the scent of roses, and he cracked an eye open to 
see a single long-stemmed rose resting lightly against his 
throat.
	"Roses, MacLeod?"
	"I love roses.  I want to make love to you on a bed of 
roses.  I want to sprinkle the petals in your hair.  I want 
the smell of our lovemaking to mingle with the scent of the 
flowersƒ"
	"Give it a rest, MacLeod."
	The Highlander then swatted him across the rump with 
the flower.
	"Hey!  Mind the thorns, Highlander.  You could snag a 
very sensitive spotƒ or two."
	"Aye, and I'd be needin' ta give ye a sound spanking 
for ruinin' the mood."
	"Ruining the mood?  Highlander, I'm *saving* it."  He 
rolled over and faced his lover.  "Flowers and romance 
worked well in the Renaissance, but it's the 90's MacLeod.  
Tell me what you want in plain English without all the 
embellishments.  Besides, you don't need to seduce me, I'm 
already yours."
	The last sentence was spoken softly, sensually, and 
accompanied with a tender caress to Duncan's thigh.
	"Maybe I just like practicing the art of 
conversation."
	Methos gave him a wry grin, his eyes sparkling as his 
hands slid over the Scots, chest.
	"Then tell me what you really want, MacLeod," he 
smoothed huskily, letting his passion rise.  "Tell me you 
want to fuck me.  Tell me you want to feel my body 
underneath yours, writhing as you thrust your cock into me.  
That you want to hear my cries and smell my sweat, and watch 
as I close my eyes and shudder uncontrollably.  Tell me you 
want to see my face as I come, feel my ass clench around 
your cock as you come too.  That you want to hear me scream 
your name as we break the headboard with our passions..."
	He didn't get any further with his speech.  Instead he 
found himself bodily thrown to the bed, hard weight of the 
Highlander atop him, and his lips seized in a brutal kiss.  
He began to giggle, and gasped for breath when Duncan 
finally released him.
	"How's that for the art of conversation?" he 
snickered.
	"Oh, aye, you are a master..." the younger man 
breathed right before kissing him again.
	There were no more words as they gave themselves to 
each other.  Their earlier lovemaking had done nothing to 
ease the need they had to touch, taste, smell, feel each 
other.  If anything, the previous passions had only 
intensified the need for *more*, yes, please, more.  Touch 
me, kiss me, take me, love me.  Yes, yes, yes!  Hands were 
everywhere, slick with sweat, mouths hot and demanding.  The 
very feel of flesh on flesh was dizzying as they tossed the 
bedclothes to the floor.
	"Duncan!  Now!" Methos cried, arching, begging, 
needing, wanting.
	He found himself dragged beneath the Highlander, legs 
pushed up over the broad shoulders, fingers testing his 
readiness as he sobbed.
	"Duncan, please!"
	He was still loose from before, not needing more than 
a little additional lubrication, and he curled his spine 
upward to accept his lover as Duncan mounted him forcefully.  
They both cried out as they joined, clawing at each other as 
the primal need took over, wanting everything at once and 
not willing to wait.  There was nothing gentle about this: 
it was fucking pure and simple, and they both loved it.  
	The bed shook violently under the pressure of their 
straining bodies, the headboard slamming against the wall in 
time with Duncan's powerful thrusts.  Methos threw his head 
back and howled as he came, triggering the Highlander's 
orgasm as he did so.  He heard Duncan's guttural cry, and 
felt him release himself deep inside him.  He looked into 
MacLeod's eyes and saw his reflection in the dilated pupils: 
sweaty, flushed, his mouth open in pleasure, and smiled.
	"I love you, Duncan."
	The Highlander met his gaze, letting their bodies come 
to rest in one sweat-slicked heap on the bed.  He disengaged 
himself and lay beside his lover as his large hands smoothed 
back the short, damp hair from Methos' face, and returned 
the smile.  Then his smile faded and tears filled his eyes, 
and he drew his lover close, kissing him with such 
tenderness that Methos thought he would drown in the 
sweetness of it.
	"Forgive me, Methos.  I am so sorry."
	"I forgive you, Highlander."
	"I've been so cruel to you."
	"It's all right, Duncan.  All past now," he soothed, 
looking at his lover.
	"No, it's not, and we will talk about it."
	"But not now."
	"No.  There are other matters which need our 
attention."
	"Yes."
	They paused, still catching their breath, still 
staring into each other's eyes, both vulnerable and a little 
frightened.
	"I love you, Methos.  I always have."
	Now tears threatened to well in the ancient one's 
eyes, and a lump formed in his throat as he nodded.
	"I know."
	"Well, I see that the Brat Prince has once again kept 
his word," came Khayman's half-amused voice.
	Both Immortals turned their heads to see the vampire 
standing by the entrance to the room.  At least the door was 
closed.
	"I forgive him," Methos said.
	"Shall Marius and I give the two of you more time 
alone?"
	The oldest Immortal gave a precursory glance to his 
lover then shook his head.  "No.  We've finished..."
	"For now," the Highlander added softly, a wicked grin 
on his face.
	Methos snickered but pushed away, rising from the 
rumpled bed.
	"We'll join you in the lobby in twenty minutes, 
Khayman," he said, stretching, not the least bit self-
conscious.
	"Very well.  We will meet you there."
	With that, the ancient vampire disappeared, and Methos 
headed for the bathroom.
	"Shower?" he asked hopefully, casting a come-hither 
glance at the other man on the bed.
	Duncan's lips turned up into a happy smile as he got 
up from the bed, and joined his lover for a shower.  Twenty 
minutes later to the second, the two Immortals arrived in 
the lobby, clean, dressed and packed.
	"I do not believe we have been properly introduced," 
Marius greeted, extending an hand to Duncan.  "I am Marius, 
and this is Khayman."
	"Duncan MacLeod."
	"Welcome, Duncan.  Lestat was supposed to make sure 
you stayed out of this, but I see his track record for 
keeping his word is still good."
	"I don't blame him," Methos answered, smiling at 
Duncan.  "Even if he is a boy scout, I am glad he is here."
	"Methos has apprised you of the situation?" the Roman 
vampire asked.
	"Somewhat," the Highlander replied.
	"Then let us go.  Malek is waiting."
	They hitched a ride with a trucker down Interstate 
160, thankful to have lost their hunters for the moment.  
When they were certain that there would be no witnesses, 
they killed the driver and took the cab, leaving the trailer 
abandoned by the roadside.
	"What do you want me to do?" Teriyal asked, for once 
deferring leadership to her maker.
	"Nothing," Andran answered coldly.  "You let me handle 
this."
	There was something in his voice, something just on 
the edge of fear, the kind of courage that comes from being 
too afraid to care any more.  All his wounds had healed, but 
his eyes were fierce and haunted.  It made her frightened.
	"Why must we get to him so quickly?" she pressed.
	"Because if our kind is discovered, we all may be 
destroyed."
	"Why?"
	"Because we are abominations to them; hybrids.  We 
guard our own very carefully Teriyal.  Our very dual natures 
make that a necessity.  Baxsil told me about all this the 
last time another one of us was made.  Until then, he kept 
it from me, just as I kept it from you."
	"Why?"
	"For your own protection.  The less you know about the 
truth of things, the better."
	"But why?  Why are we in danger?  Why are we 
abominations?"
	"Because we are neither true vampire nor true 
Immortal.  We possess qualities of both.  If vampires knew 
of us, they would kill us because we can move about in 
daylight.  If Immortals knew about us, they would kill us 
because we are outside of the Game and its Rules."
	"Game?  Rules?"
	"Yes.  Immortals kill each other.  It is a Game that 
will end when there is only one of them left.  When two 
Immortals meet, they challenge each other to the death.  The 
fight ends when one cuts off the other's head."
	Teriyal gasped.  "You're joking!"
	"I wish I was."
	"Why do they fight?  Why do they not band together 
like we do?"
	"Because it is said that the last Immortal left alive 
will win a Prize."	
	"What kind of Prize?"
	Andran shook his head.  "I don't know.  And from what 
Baxsil told me, they don't either."
	"Why fight for a Prize that you do not even know is 
worth fighting for?  They will destroy their entire race for 
this unknown reward!"
	He gave her a measuring glance.  He'd always admired 
her quick mind, but in this case she was faster than he 
thought she would be.
	"I do not claim to understand it."
	"What will we do when we find this new one?"
	"We may have to kill him and the one who made him."
	"What!" she shrieked.
	"But I am hoping it will not come to that.  We shall 
see when we get there."
	Teriyal grew silent, staring out at the desert night, 
her mind in turmoil.  She was beginning to understand why 
Andran was so upset and frightened.  Entire world shattered 
around them indeed.
	Malek turned out to be a rather likable fellow, blood-
thirsty killer put aside.  He was small and looked much like 
a young Aztec.  Methos actually liked the guy, and could not 
help but feel a twinge of pity for his predicament.  They 
had arrived about two hours after full dark in this obscure 
town, and Methos didn't know what frightened him more, the 
fact that he was in Tuba City, or the fact that the place 
was actually a budding metropolis.  The complex where they 
were going had been a simple concrete structure with 
exterior stairways and stone halls.  Your typical low-income 
housing project.  Malek had met them at the door of his 
small apartment, dark eyes haunted and fearful.
	"Where is he?" Marius had asked gently.
	"In the bedroom.  You've brought the one you hoped 
could help?"
	"Yes," the Roman had replied and introduced Methos.
	The Peruvian vampire kissed Methos' hand in gratitude 
and led him to the bedroom.
	"We were traveling together, Greg and I," Malek had 
explained.  "He fell in the Canyon and hurt himself badly.  
The only way I could save him was to..."
	"Give him your blood.  You didn't know he was one of 
us," Methos had noted.
	"No!  I had no idea.  If I had..."
	Methos had put his hand on the young vampire's arm and 
soothed him.  "It is all right.  You could not have known.  
Only one of us would have been able to recognize him."
	Malek had opened the door to the bedroom, and Methos 
had heard the thin scream  from the newly-made vampire.  
That was where he stood now, looking into the dark room, 
eyes searching for the crouched, sobbing figure huddled 
against the wall.  He could only barely feel the Buzz of 
another Immortal coming from the body.  Very interesting.  
If this one challenged, his opponent wouldn't feel him until 
it was too late.
	"Go away!!!  Get away!!!  You're hurting me!!" the 
figure cried, gripping its head.
	Methos turned to Malek.  "I must speak with him."
	Duncan came up behind the young vampire, his eyes 
wide.
	"What are you going to do?" he whispered harshly.
	His words earned him an angry glare from his lover.  
"I need to find out how much of him is Us and how much is 
Them."
	Without another word, he stepped into the room and 
approached the shivering form.
	"Greg," he spoke gently.
	"Go away..."
	"I can't.  I have to talk to you."
	"This is Methos, beloved.  He can help you," Malek 
said hopefully.
	"I will try to help you.  I am an Immortal.  You are 
one too, or would have been if Malek hadn't given you his 
blood."
	"What is happening to me?!"
	Methos soothed him gently.  "Hush.  The pain and 
feeling you are experiencing is the feel of one of my kind.  
It is a warning, so we know when others are nearby."	
	"Make it go away!"
	"I can't.  It's part of what you are now."
	"Oh my god..." Greg sobbed.
	"Has he eaten anything?  Taken any blood?" Methos 
asked Malek.
	"Only the tiniest of sips, the smallest of bites.  
Everything sickens him.  But the thirst burns hot.  He is in 
agony."
	The ancient Immortal gave a nod then returned his 
attention to Greg.  He ignored Duncan's gasp as he pulled a 
dagger from his coat and sliced his own wrist.
	"Drink," he ordered the fledgling, offering him the 
blood.
	"I can't.  It makes me sick..." Greg choked even as 
his eyes took on a feral gleam at the scent of blood.
	"Drink.  If I am right, you should be able to take 
it."
	Greg did not need to be told again.  He seized the 
bloodied skin and sank his fangs into the flesh.  Methos 
gasped in pain.  This bite was nothing like the vampire 
kiss.  This was raw need and it hurt.  He bore the pain for 
as long as he could, then yanked his wrist away.
	"Enough!"
	Greg let out a screech and lunged for him, but his 
maker was there, restraining him and telling him to calm 
down.
	"He didn't get sick," Duncan noted.
	"I didn't think he would.  He can drink 'our' blood, 
Duncan.  It's mortal blood that makes him ill."
	"So he will feed on us??"
	"Not if he wants to live very long."
	"Moreƒ I need more," Greg whimpered.
	"Not yet, Greg.  I will give you more, but not right 
away.  First I need to ask you some questions."
	"Anything!  Just give me more!"
	"He sounds like a crack addict," Duncan muttered.
	"In a way, he is," Methos replied.  "Now Greg, tell 
me, when did you feel my Presence?  When did you get the 
headache?"
	"About ten minutes before you walked in the door."
	Methos frowned.  That meant that Greg had felt him 
coming from much further away than Immortals normally were 
able.  This was not good.  He looked up at Duncan, his eyes 
sad.  It was almost as if the Highlander could read his 
mind, and he saw the Scot shake his head in disagreement.  
He sighed.  He knew that if he had to kill this one, having 
Duncan here would be a problem.
	"Greg, aside from my blood, have you been able to keep 
anything down?"
	"Applesauce, but only two or three spoonfuls."
	"Applesauce?  Beloved, whereƒ" Malek blurted.
	"I was starving.  I covered myself up and went out 
after you went to sleep this morning.  The minit-mart down 
the street sold some applesauce."
	"So you can go outside in the daylight," MacLeod said.
	"Yes, but the light hurts.  I can't let it touch my 
skin."
	"And you don't fight the Sleep?"
	Greg shook his head.  "No.  I'm not affected."
	Strike three.  Drinks Immortal blood.  Feels Immortals 
from far away, but others can barely feel him unless he's 
right in front of them.  Can go out in the daylight.  He was 
the perfect Immortal killing machine.  He had to die.  Again 
it was as if the Highlander could read his mind, and he 
found his arm gripped tightly in the strong hand.
	"Methos, I need to talk to you.  Outside.  Now."
	"Please excuse us, gentlemen," he said as he was 
practically dragged out of the room.
	Night was just falling as they approached the city, 
the shadows growing from everywhere and stretching out as if 
to consume everything.  Teriyal thought this matched their 
situation exactly: forces she couldn't understand popping up 
everywhere, waiting to swallow her and all she knew, and not 
leave any trace that she ever existed.  Shifting in her 
seat, she let out a little gasp of pain.  They had been 
driving most of the day, and been exposed to enough sunlight 
to make them feel as if they had been sunburned very badly.  
Though unlike the sunburns when they were mortal, this 
sunburn left no tell-tale red skin in its wake, just the 
searing pain when brushed against as a reminder it was 
there.  She could hardly wait till nightfall when would it 
heal.
	She turned to watch her companion, and wondered again 
where he learned to drive a tractor-trailer.  Though she 
realized that, with all she had learned recently, there was 
a *lot* she didn't know about Andran's past.
	Finally, as Andran pulled the truck over and stopped 
behind an empty lot, she asked him, "Are we close?"
	"No, we have nearly a third of the city to cover.  
However since we do not want this truck traced to anywhere 
near our destination, we should walk from here," he replied 
as he shut the engine down and removed the keys.   
	They climbed down out of the truck and looked around.  
Andran gave a short nod, as if he liked what he saw.
	"See if you can find any scrap wood over in that lot.  
We need to destroy the truck to avoid leaving any 
fingerprints or other traces that might lead someone to us," 
he said.
	Teriyal was confused and shocked. "What about the 
trailer??  If you are so worried about fingerprints, why 
didn't we destroy the trailer as well?"
	Walking over to her, he placed his hands on her 
shoulders to calm and comfort her.  He knew this was all 
very frightening for her and he wished he had more time to 
explain things, but he didn't have that luxury.
"If you remember, you dug the grave to hide the body of the 
driver.  I released the trailer wearing a pair of gloves 
that I found behind the seat.  I also removed all license 
plates and other ID from the trailer.  There were no 
fingerprints or other traces of either of us on the trailer, 
and by the time they find the driver, if they ever do, there 
will be no traces of us there either.  Now please find some 
scrap wood," he explained slowly and gently.
	She shook her head.
 "Why can't we just open the gas tank, and light a rag in 
it?"
	"Because we want to make it look like someone had set 
a campfire near the truck, and it got out of control in the 
weeds nearby and reached the gas tanks.  That way it looks 
more like an accident.   If we just light a rag in the gas 
tank, someone will suspect foul play.   Then they may search 
for the driver much more thoroughly, and find him while we 
are still in the area."  As he finished, he started to 
scrape back some of the grass nearby for the fire to make it 
look like a campsite.
	As she walked away, she thought of something else and 
turned to ask him, "Why do you act like you have done this 
before?"
	He stopped and looked at her with a sad wistful look 
on his face, and after a moment answered, "I haven't, but I 
remember what Baxsil described of the lengths that must 
always be taken when confronting another of our own if they 
are made like this.  None of the races would accept us, not 
the humans, the vampires, or the Immortals.  All would use 
every possible way to track us down and destroy us if we 
left evidence of our passing.  So we must make all attempts 
to cover our tracks.  You saw how quickly those hunters 
started tracking us, that is nothing of the speed we would 
be hunted if others decided we should be destroyed.  Now 
please get the wood." 
	Turning back to her task at hand, she said nothing.  
There was nothing to say.  If they didn't protect 
themselves, no one else would.
	After gathering the wood, they started the fire with 
the help of some oily rags from the truck. Then they laid 
some blankets between the fire and the truck to make it look 
like someone had used the truck as a heat reflector.  
Lastly, they stacked the extra wood and more oily rags in a 
pile near to the gas tank, and Andran took special care in 
positioning the wood to make it fall against the gas tank 
after it began to burn.  When all was ready, and the fire 
was burning for almost half an hour, Andran took a small 
stick and flipped some hot coals onto the blanket.  From 
there, the fire spread to the wood pile, and headed for the 
truck. 
	As they waited for the wood pile to start burning, the 
cool blanket of night settled around them, and their ravaged 
skin finally started on the healing process.  Teriyal just 
sat there staring into the campfire, wishing it was already 
over.
	After several moments of making sure everything would 
go as planned in their absence, Andran touched Teriyal's 
hand, getting her attention.  She looked up at him with 
glazed eyes and he felt a coldness in his breast.
	"It's time to go.  Come, it's this way." 
	He didn't give her time to react as he started walking 
toward the center of the city.  Standing and taking one last 
look around her, she hurried to follow him, and they walked 
slowly away for several blocks.  Finally the calm night was 
shattered by the explosion of the truck's gas tanks, and 
when they heard the coming sirens, they ran swiftly for 
several blocks more to put as much distance as possible from 
the scene.  Stopping now and then to consult a map he had 
taken from the truck, they slowly wove their way toward 
their destination, eventually nearing a section of low 
income housing.  As they neared the outskirts, both felt a 
strong pain in their heads.  Teriyal recognized it as a much 
stronger form of the recognition buzz she felt when Andran 
approached her, but that was like comparing the pain of a 
paper cut to slamming your  finger in a car door.  She 
stumbled for a step and Andran caught her arm.  She looked 
at him, and saw a look of fear in his eyes. 
	"What is this?" she asked, her own fear rising.
	He took her arm and steadied her, trying to calm her 
down while handling his own fright.
	"That is the sign that there are true Immortals near.  
With the strength of the buzz, you can tell their strength.  
For it to be this strong, the Immortal must be very old and 
powerful," he said, his voice breaking.  "We may already be 
too late.  Try to ignore it if you can.  Come on, we have to 
go.  Remember what I told you of them.  They can only be 
killed if they lose their heads.  I don't know what we will 
find there, just be careful and let me handle it.  We may be 
able to get out of this without a bloodbath yet." 
	When he had her nod of assent, he turned and ran 
towards a building near the end of the street.  She worked 
to catch up to him as he accelerated to their maximum speed, 
and they dashed down the darkened street.
	"Methos, you can't do this.  I won't let you," Duncan 
hissed once they were out of the apartment, and away from 
the vampires.
	"What do you know of what I plan to do?" he snarled 
back.
	"I know that look in your eyes.  It's the look you get 
every time you think your survival is threatened.  You are 
not going to kill that poor man unless there is no other 
alternative."
	"First things first, what is in that room is not a 
man.  Secondly, he is a threat to us all.  MacLeod, he has 
to die!"
	"Why?  He knows nothing of the Game!  He won't be 
after our heads."
	"But he will crave our blood and he will kill us to 
get it.  And sooner or later, he'll discover Quickenings, 
and what if he decides he likes them?  What then?"
	"Then we deal with that when and *if* it happens."
	"Just like you were going to kill Kristin when and 
*if* she went after your head again."
	Now it was Duncan's turn to frown.  "This is 
different."
	"Is it?  How?  You don't wait for problems to come up 
and bite you on the ass, MacLeod, you get rid of them before 
they try to get rid of you."
	"And is that all you've learned about solving problems 
in five thousand years?"
	"I'm still alive aren't I?  I told you, Duncan, I 
haven't lived 50 centuries by caring about anyone but 
myself."
	Duncan's nostrils flared.  "Oh does that mean you 
don't care about me then?  did you just tell me you loved me 
because I'm a good lay?"
	The accusation struck Methos like a slap in the face, 
and Duncan immediately saw the walls go up in the hazel 
eyes, nearly felt the withdrawal.
	"Methos, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean that," he hurried, 
silently cursing himself.
	"Yes, you did," the older man whispered.
	MacLeod was surprised.  The Old Man wasn't angry, just 
sad, and that cut deeper than any fury ever could.  He 
reached out and grabbed Methos' shoulders, shaking him 
lightly.
	"No, I didn't.  I'm sorry."
	"Go away, Highlander.  I can't deal with you now.  I 
will do what I must."
	"You canno' kill him!"
	"I will do what I have to!  Killing him is the only 
solution I can think of.  I am out of my league here!  I 
have never seen this before!"
	Duncan still disagreed.  "No.  There has to be another 
way."
	"If there is, I don't know what it is."
	The Scot tried to calm down, to curb his temper.  
"Then we will work through it together.  Methos, I won't let 
him hurt you."
	"Would you be able to?  Could you match his speed and 
strength?"
	"Marius said he doesn't have the speed and strength of 
the vampires."
	"He has a _fraction_ of the speed and strength, which 
is much more than you or I.  Duncan, can't you see?  To let 
him live is to seal our own fates."
	"I canno' believe that."
	"Is there anything we can do to help?" Marius' voice 
spoke from beside them.
	Both Immortals jerked in surprise, and looked to see 
the vampire standing just outside the apartment door.
	"We are having a disagreement," MacLeod replied.
	"Methos believes Greg should be killed and you do 
not," the vampire said calmly.
	"That is the gist of it," Methos confirmed.
	Marius bowed his head, then nodded once.  "I will tell 
Malek."
	"No, wait!" MacLeod called.  "Methos and I, we are 
still arguing this.  Don't say anything just yet.  We may 
yet figure out a way to let him live."
	"Very well.  I am sure you will both do your best."
	With a final nod, Marius went back into the apartment 
and closed the door.  When they were alone again, Duncan 
returned his attention to his lover and cupped his face in 
one hand.
	"Methos..."
	"I don't want to die, Highlander."
	"I don't want you to die either, and I don't want to 
die myself, but there has to be another way."
	"I can't see it."
	"Maybe... Maybe if we gave him more of our blood, we 
could change him back."
	"No.  No, I doubt that would work..."
	"Or maybe if he fed from Marius or Khayman..."
	"You're grasping at straws, Highlander!"
	MacLeod would have answered if they had not been hit 
with Presence at that very moment.  Methos gasped sharply 
and uttered something in a choked voice.
	"Too late."
	They had only seconds' warning before they were both 
hit.  A blur came at them from the concrete stairs, and they 
were thrown halfway down the hall.  They landed with heavy 
thuds, and Methos rolled, reaching inside his coat for his 
sword.  He knew he wouldn't be able to see his opponent, so 
he relied on five thousand years' worth of survival skills 
to guide his thrust.  He pivoted, rising up to his knees, 
swinging the blade wide to his left and jabbing upwards.  He 
felt the metal connect, slice through flesh, heard the 
strangled gasp of surprise.  He raised his eyes to see his 
blade buried deep into the abdomen of a woman, her amber 
eyes blazing at him in shock and rage.  He wanted to finish 
her, but he had no time: MacLeod was in trouble.  Pulling 
his sword from the woman, he turned to find the Highlander 
smashed against the wall of the building, his face running 
with blood from multiple scratches, a gaping wound in his 
throat.  His attacker was male, brown hair, pale skin, but 
not pale enough.  Another hybrid.  He cursed, snarling, 
advancing, but his rescue attempt was not needed.  The black 
hair of the ancient one appeared, and the hybrid was ripped 
from MacLeod as Khayman threw him backwards.  Methos ran to 
the Scot as his body slid down the wall, his blood gushing 
out of him in floods, and knelt beside him.
	"Duncan..." Methos sobbed, terrified that the wound to 
his lover's throat would not heal, but was gladdened when he 
saw the familiar blue lightning cracks that signified 
healing.  
	He nearly wept with relief as MacLeod looked up at 
him.  His lips, frothed with blood, mouthed his name, then 
his eyes opened wide in warning.
	Methos had no time to react as his sword was ripped 
from his grip and pressed against his bare neck.
	"Kill him and I cut off his head!" his attacker 
threatened.
	It was the woman, the one he hadn't finished.  Damn!  
He'd let his concern for the Highlander keep him from 
killing her.  Khayman and Marius had the male hybrid in 
their grasp as he struggled, but they did not move to harm 
him.
	"Let him go!" she ordered.
	"No, she'll just kill me anyway," Methos yelled, 
trying to twist his way out of her iron grip.  She was 
preternaturally strong.  Damn, another hybrid.  "At least 
you'll be able to get answers out of him!"
	"If you harm him, your companion is dead," Khayman 
warned.
	They were at a stand-off.  The female had him, the 
vampires had her partner, and MacLeod was slowly dying in 
the hall.  Blood was everywhere, mingled with the smell of 
sweat and fear.  His captor was trembling violently, the 
vibration causing the blade to wobble against his neck.  She 
was terrified.
	"It would appear we are all out of options," he 
managed.
	"Shut up!" she commanded, yanking his hair.
	Just then, Malek came out of the apartment.
	"What is going on?" he gasped when he saw the carnage 
and the stand-off.
	"The next time someone moves, I'm killing him!" the 
female shrieked, her voice breaking in panic.
	"I don't think so, ma cherie," came a soft, but deadly 
voice.
	Abruptly the blade was wrenched from his neck and his 
assailant pulled away.  He turned his head to see Lestat, 
broadsword in one hand, and the female, kicking and 
snarling, in the other.  Louis was right behind him.  Lestat 
gave them all a half-amused, mischievous smile.
	"You didn't think I was going to stay in New Orleans 
and let you handle this all by yourselves, did you?"
	It was amazing the affect two extremely powerful 
vampires could have on a panic attack.  Not ten minutes 
after the fight in the hall, they were all back in the 
apartment, sitting in the small living room.  Duncan was 
dead on the larger of the two couches with Methos sitting 
protectively next to him, and their two new 'guests' were 
very subdued on the other sofa.  But that was probably due 
to the tight mental bonds Lestat had on them.
	"All right truth or dare time," the blond vampire 
sneered.  "Who are you and why did you attack my friends?"
	"It wasn't supposed to be that way," the male spoke 
softly.  "My companion panicked and acted too soon."
	"That doesn't explain why you attacked Duncan," Methos 
pointed-out, looking at the corpse sprawled across the 
couch.  The Highlander would revive soon.
	"By then, he had attacked me.  He was going for his 
sword.  I had no choice."
	Methos nodded.  "Fair enough.  But that still doesn't 
answer Lestat's first question.  Who are you?"
	"I am Andran.  My companion and daughter is Teriyal."
	"All right Teriyal, why did you attack Methos?" Marius 
questioned.
	"Forgive her.  She is young and she was afraid," 
Andran answered for her.
	"Teriyal, why were you afraid?" Marius asked gently.
	"Your kind will kill us.  We had to protect 
ourselves," she replied dully.
	"Why would we kill you?" Khayman inquired, cocking his 
head.
	"Why would we even waste our time?" Lestat added 
contemptibly.
	Teriyal cast a frightened glance at her maker, begging 
him to help her.  "Because we are neither vampire nor 
Immortal.  We are different."
	"That has been established.  Why are you here?" Methos 
broke-in.
	"Another has been made," Andran said.
	A shocked murmur rippled through the group.
	"You knew when I made Greg?" Malek breathed, awed.
	"We have a mind link, much like the vampires do.  When 
a new one of us is made, we can feel it and track it.  I am 
old enough, and my maker taught me how to listen for the 
feel of a new one, and how to respond."
	"Which is?" Methos prompted.
	"If the new one cannot be stabilized into one of us, 
we kill the new one and the vampire who made it."
	"Why?" Malek asked.
	"Because as he is now, he is in torment, trapped 
between the two worlds.  He will never heal from it, and he 
will draw undue attention to our kind."
	"Can you help him?" Malek questioned.
	"I don't know," Andran answered honestly.
	"I will bring him out," the Peruvian vampire said, and 
went to the bedroom.
	There was a tense silence as the two hybrids were 
scrutinized by the others in the room.  It was broken by 
Duncan's gasp and sudden return to life.  His brown eyes 
flew open, and he gulped in air while Methos leaned over 
him, whispering words of solace and comfort.  They watched 
the tender display as Methos assisted the Scot in sitting up 
and gave him a brief account of what had occured while he 
was out.
	"How long has your kind existed?" Marius questioned 
finally.
	"I do not know.  I am seven hundred.  My maker was 
fifteen-hundred when he was killed," Andran replied.
	"Killed?" Methos broke-in.
	Andran gave him a wary look.  This one didn't miss 
much.
	"Yes.  He was killed by a vampire after we killed his 
fledgling.  I took his Quickening."
	"And the vampire who killed him?" Methos pressed.
	"I killed him after the sun rose."
	"You lied to me!" Teriyal cried suddenly.  "You said 
you'd never done this before!"
	"I was trying to protect you.  I didn't want you to 
know what had happened to Baxsil.  Besides, you were near to 
panic already.  Look where your fear brought us!  They could 
have finished us both!"
	The female hybrid looked cowed and contrite, and she 
glanced away.
	"We would not have harmed you," Khayman informed.  
"All you had to do was announce yourselves, and you would 
have been welcomed."
	"Even if we had to kill the child?"
	There was no answer, and Methos took advantage of the 
silence.
	"How did your kind come into existence?"
	"It is believed that a vampire made a fledgling of a 
pre-Immortal.  His blood was strong enough to overcome the 
Immortality, but not enough to make him a full vampire.  
Thus the first of our kind was made.  He fed on the blood of 
Immortals and pre-Immortals, and the more blood he drank, 
the more he stabilized, until he could control both sides of 
his nature rather well," Andran explained.  "After his maker 
was killed by another vampire, he made a child out of 
another pre-Immortal because he could feel the Potential in 
her.  This child was more stable, and could withstand the 
sun more.  She could also drink mortal blood.  With each 
generation of us, made by one of us, we become more and more 
stable, more a true hybrid than an abomination. We can eat, 
have sex, and withstand the sunlight, yet we crave and drink 
blood, and kill."
	"And do you enter the Game?" Duncan asked, speaking 
for the first time since he revived.
	"Until Baxsil told me of Immortals and the Game a year 
ago, I knew nothing of your kind or your battles.  Our true 
natures are kept secret from even our own progeny.  Until a 
few days ago, Teriyal believed herself a true vampire.  By 
keeping these secrets, we reduce the chances of our being 
discovered."
	"So what will you do now?  You have been discovered," 
the oldest Immortal asked.	
	Andran looked nervous.  "I do not know."
	"You said you took your maker's Quickening.  How did 
that happen?" Methos continued.
	"The vampire severed Baxsil's head.  Since I was the 
only Immortal hybrid there, his Quickening went to me."
	"And is it anything like our Quickenings?" Duncan 
questioned.
	"I don't know.  I've never seen the Quickening of a 
true Immortal."
	"Oh you'd know one if you saw one.  There's a big 
light show.  Things blowing up, glass shattering, lightning 
bolts.  It's a pyromaniac's wet dream," Lestat broke-in.
	Andran blinked in confusion.  "No, it is nothing like 
that.  A mist comes from the body and swirls around the 
receiver until it is absorbed.  There are small shocks of 
lightning, but nothing on the scale you are describing."
	"Then I doubt your kind would even be able to absorb 
our Quickenings.  One might very well kill you," Methos 
mused.  He didn't let on that the idea relieved him greatly.
	Andran only nodded in answer, then his eyes opened 
wide in surprise as Malek led Greg into the room.  The 
fledgling was whimpering softly, hands on his head, and 
Methos could only imagine the Buzz Greg was feeling from two 
true Immortals and two hybrids.  Looking at Andran, he saw 
the hybrid's mouth draw into a thin line.
	"I am sorry it took us so long," Malek apologized.  
"He did not want to come out."
	"I don't blame him," Methos commented.
	"There is nothing I can do for him," Andran said.  "I 
can see that from here.  He is too far over the edge.  Your 
blood was strong enough to overcome the Immortality, but not 
enough to make him stable."
	"He is like the first one then.  He will have to feed 
on Immortals and pre-immortals," Louis noted, speaking for 
the first time.  He had been listening quietly throughout 
the conversation, absorbing all that was said.
	"Yes," Andran confirmed.
	"You said Malek's blood was not strong enough.  Do you 
mean that stronger vampire blood would affect the outcome?" 
Marius questioned.
	"The stronger the blood, the more vampire the 
fledgling.  Very strong blood would create a true vampire," 
the hybrid replied.
	"So, could Greg be remade?  With stronger blood?" 
Louis asked.
	Andran looked at all of them, blinking.  "It is 
possible, yes.  But I have never heard of such a thing being 
attempted."
	Eyes turned to the two prime candidates, and Lestat 
and Khayman glanced at each other.
	"Do we want to do this?" Lestat asked, his eyebrow 
raised.
	"Do we have a choice?" the old vampire answered.
	They looked at Malek and Greg.  The fledgling was 
trembling violently, tears that were a strange mixture of 
blood and water rolled down his cheeks.  He was gaunt in the 
artificial light, his cheeks sunken and flushed.  He looked 
like someone who had been ill with fever for a long time.  
Malek met their gaze, pleading silently, asking for their 
help.  Finally, the ancient Egyptian sighed.
	"I have not made a fledgling in two thousand years.  
You, Lestat, on the other hand, have been very prolific.  
That makes my blood the stronger.  I will do it." 
	"Are you certain, Khayman?" Marius cautioned.
	The ancient vampire smiled softly and nodded.  "Yes, I 
am sure.  It is not often that I get the chance to do 
something right and good."  Then he turned to Greg and Malek 
with open arms.  "I offer my blood if it is what you want."
	"Thank you," Malek breathed.
	Greg looked at him with stricken, bloodshot eyes.  "I 
can't live this way, and I don't want to die."
	"Then let us go and see what can be done."
	With a nod of acceptance, the three disappeared into 
the bedroom, leaving the others in suspenseful silence.  No 
one spoke, and it seemed that they were even afraid to 
breathe as time crawled on.  Then they heard an agonized 
scream from behind the closed door, and they all jumped.  
The scream was followed by several more cries that had them 
all on the edge of their seats, staring at the bedroom door, 
until the cries died and there was silence once again.  
Finally, the door opened slowly and Khayman stepped out.  He 
looked worn, haggard, and his shirt was in shreds, but his 
eyes were clear.
	"What..." Marius began.
	"He will live.  It was hard, the Immortal blood fights 
the Change, but mine was the victor.  He is one of us now."
	"Completely?" Methos asked, a strange tone in his 
voice.
	The Egyptian nodded.  "Yes.  He is a true vampire."
	Duncan saw the lights go on behind his lover's eyes, 
and knew that Old Man was digesting the information for 
future use.  The thought made him very uncomfortable and he 
shifted in his seat on the couch.  Methos felt him move and 
turned to look at him.  For a brief moment there was abject 
joy in the hazel eyes, but then it was gone, replaced by 
tender love and a tiny smile.  That made the Highlander even 
more uncomfortable.  He knew Methos too well.  He also knew 
that he would never be able to get Methos to tell him what 
he'd just been thinking.  Instead, he reached a dark hand 
over to rest a top Methos' and squeezed.  Warmth entered the 
green-brown eyes and the smile broadened, but he said 
nothing.
	Malek came out of the bedroom and closed the door 
behind him.
	"How is he?" Marius asked.
	"He is sleeping.  When he wakes I will take him to 
feed," the Peruvian vampire informed with a happy and 
relieved look on his face.  "Thank you.  Thank you for 
everything you have done for us."
	"We are glad we were able to help," Duncan replied.
	Malek smiled.  "Yes.  As am I."
	Marius looked at Khayman, who was closing his eyes in 
weariness.  "I think perhaps it is time for us to leave.  
You need to take care of your child, and I must see to 
Khayman."
	"Yes.  He gave Greg all that he had.  I owe him a 
great debt."
	"We will stay in the area another few days until you 
are certain that all is well."
	"Thank you."
	"Well, now that all the excitement is over, can we go 
home?" Lestat asked suddenly, changing the entire mood in 
the room with his statement.
	"What are you going to do with us?" Teriyal questioned 
nervously.
	Lestat gave her an amused look.  "You?  You can go.  
As they say in the detective movies, nothing to see here.  
Nothing to see.  Go home.  We are."
	"Butƒ'
	"But what?" Lestat pressed.
	"But you know of our existenceƒ"
	"So?  I know of a lot of things I'm not supposed to.  
I won't lose any sleep knowing you're out there."
	"I think what Lestat is trying to say is that we have 
no desire to come after you nor do we care if you exist.  
You're no real threat to us," Marius explained.
	"And since you can't absorb a Quickening, you're no 
threat to us either," Duncan added.
	Andran and Teriyal looked at each other, 
flabbergasted.  
	"So you're just going to let us go?" Teriyal pressed.
	"Yes," Lestat confirmed.  "Go on.  Have a nice life.  
Don't make a habit of attacking Immortals in hallways.  Keep 
away from sharp, pointy things.  If you're ever in New 
Orleans, don't look us up."
	At that Methos suppressed a giggle, but the humor 
seemed lost on the hybrids.  They looked at Lestat in wide-
eyed fear until the blond vampire laughed.
	"Well, it's only ten.  That leaves us eight hours to 
get back to New Orleans by dawn," Lestat went on, looking at 
his Rolex.  "I think we can manage that."
	"Take my jet.  Just send the pilot back by tomorrow 
night," Marius offered.  "I'll make the arrangements."
	"Wonderful!  You are so generous, Marius," he 
enthused, then looked at Methos and Duncan.  "Coming?" 
	"Errƒ" Duncan began, but Methos cut him off.
	"Of course.  I'll just need to get my bag from the 
car."
	MacLeod gave Methos an angry glance, and it was 
returned.
	"I don't know about you, Highlander, but I was 
enjoying my holiday.  Please feel free to return to your 
female companion in Paris if you do not want to join me," 
the Old Man said in a calm voice, silently telling Duncan 
that his earlier comments in the hall had not been 
forgotten, and shocking the Scot with their sudden, 
unprevoked resurgence. 
	MacLeod nearly wilted under the cold gaze, and he 
lowered his eyes.  "No, I'll go with you."
	Methos gave a short nod as Marius picked up the phone 
to call his pilot.
	"We will stay in the area for a few days as well," 
Andran stated.  "Just in case the transition is not 
complete."
	"Oh, it's complete," Malek replied.  "But stay if you 
wish.  You are welcome here.  Although I think that Greg and 
I will be continuing our journey before long."
	"Well, let's go," Lestat said impatiently, tapping his 
foot.
	MacLeod noticed that the blond vampire was getting 
fidgety, and casting nervous glances at Methos.  The look in 
the blue eyes was unnerving, and the Scot quickly realized 
that the vampire and the ancient Immortal were having a 
silent conversation.  
	"All is ready.  I've even called a taxi," Marius 
announced.
	"Thank you, Marius," Louis answered.  "You must come 
to New Orleans sometime, particularly when David is home.  I 
know he would be very happy to see you."
	The Roman vampire gave him a warm look and nodded.  "I 
shall.  Perhaps in the spring."
	"David should be back from India in May."
	"Then maybe I will visit in May."
	They left the apartment a half hour later.  The two 
Immortals went with Lestat and Louis out to the airport, 
while Andran and Teriyal went with Marius and Khayman to a 
nearby hotel.  In the car to the airfield, they were very 
quiet, and it was obvious to MacLeod that the conversation 
between Methos and Lestat was still on-going.  His 
suspicions were confirmed when Louis abruptly shook his head 
and snorted.
	"No."
	"You stay out of this!" Lestat hissed at Louis.
	"What?" Duncan asked.
	"Nothing you need to be concerned with, Highlander," 
Methos replied.  
His voice was cool.  A little too cool.  It made all of 
Duncan's warning bells go off.  The Old Man was up to 
something, he was sure of it, and he was enlisting Lestat in 
his plans: a deadly combination in his book.
"Like bloody Hell it isn't," the Scot retorted.
	It looked like Louis was going to speak when his green 
eyes widened, and he stared at Methos in shock.  A moment 
later MacLeod saw him demure to the ancient one and look 
away.
	"As you wish," he murmured, but he looked heartbroken.
	"What?  What is going on?" Duncan persisted.
	"As I said, Highlander, it does not concern you," 
Methos repeated.
	Duncan flashed him a furious look.  "I know you 
better."
	"Then you know I'm not going to tell you no matter how 
much you beg."
	"Oh aye.  I know," the Scot snapped back, and crossed 
his arms angrily.
	He brooded in silence until they arrived at the 
airport, and sulked all the way back to New Orleans, and 
during the limo ride to the French Quarter.  The others 
ignored him, although he knew Louis wanted to talk, but 
remained silent because of whatever Methos had said to him.  
The black-haired vampire wasn't happy, of that Duncan was 
certain, but he also knew that in a choice between him and 
the Old Man, Louis would side with Methos every time.  That 
grated on him and made him even angrier, which only made 
Lestat laugh because he could hear every thought in the 
Scot's head, and was amused to no end.
	"Jealousy does not become you," the blonde snickered, 
and sat back in his seat, chuckling.
	"I am not jealous," MacLeod argued.
	"Yes you are."
	"Lets not have this conversation," Methos snipped.
	"If not this one, then what?  Are you gonna tell me 
what you're up to?"
	"No."
	He was about to go back to brooding when he realized 
that Methos was intentionally trying to make him angry.
	"You're pushing me away!"
	"I am not," the Old Man denied, but his eyes flashed 
with sudden anxiety.
	"Yes, you are!"
	"MacLeod, what makes you think that?"
	"You're pushing all my buttons."
	"They're so easy to push, there are so many of them."
	The limousine arrived at the Rue Royale address and 
they got out.  Lestat and Louis gave them amused looks as 
Lestat took hold of his fledgling, flew upwards to the 
second floor balcony, and went into the flat, leaving the 
two Immortals alone on the quiet street.  Methos headed for 
the carriage gate and MacLeod followed, practically on his 
heels, hounding him.  The very posture and stance of the 
ancient Immortal told him that he had pegged Methos right.  
The only problem was that Methos hated to be found out and 
would quickly devise another, more devious plan.
	"Why are you doing this?" he demanded, grabbing 
Methos' arm and preventing him from going through the gate.
	"Doing what?" Methos answered innocently, shrugging 
off the Highlander's grip.
	"Pushing me away."
	"I already told you, I'm not pushing you away."
	"I don't believe you."
	"Oh, so now you are calling me a liar."
	"I didn't say that," the Scot huffed, getting 
flustered and playing even more into Methos' hands.
	"Oh didn't you?"
	"No, I didn't."
	"Could've fooled me."
	"Stop putting words in my mouth!" Duncan yelled.
	"Better that, than my putting anything else in it," 
the Old Man retorted, putting more distance between them.
	"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
	"It means that I hope you still have a room rented at 
a hotel."
	The words were like physical blow, and MacLeod grew 
cold and silent.  Methos stared him down, his expression 
unchanging.
	"Fine," Duncan said curtly.
	"Fine," Methos answered, nodding.
	MacLeod returned the nod.  "Fine."
	With that, he turned and walked stiffly away.  It 
wasn't until he was back at the Bourbon Orleans, standing in 
his hotel room, that he realized that he had just given the 
Old Man exactly what he had wanted.
	He wasn't exactly sure what awakened him.  He was 
suddenly just wide awake and staring at the ceiling.  It 
took him a moment to remember where he was, and what he was 
doing in a hotel room in New Orleans.  As he regained 
consciousness, he became aware that he wasn't alone.  It 
wasn't the distinctive Presence of another of his kind, more 
like a subtle alarm going off in his head, telling him to 
wake up. The clock read five am, just an hour or so before 
dawn.  He rolled over and looked around the darkened room, 
then his eyes fell upon a silent figure standing with one 
shoulder against the wall.
	"What do you want, Lestat?" he growled, sitting up.
	"He loves you, you know.  Loves you with every fiber 
of his being," the vampire answered very softly.  "I don't 
know why.  You certainly don't deserve such devotion."
	"Maybe he just prefers his lovers alive."
	Lestat snorted and pushed off the wall, sauntering 
closer to the bed.  "Please, spare me the petty insults.  I 
don't have much time."
	"Good.  Then you know where the door is or the window 
if you prefer."
	In heartbeats he found himself slammed against the 
headboard, iron grip around his throat, and the vampire's 
fanged grin only fingersbreadths from his face.
	"Look, you overgrown son of a she-ape, I care very 
little for your poor attempts at humor, and  I am seconds 
from severing your swelled head from your shoulders.  I only 
let you live because Methos loves you.  Why he loves you, I 
cannot fathom. You are an irritating, judgmental, 
egotistical bore, but he loves you nonetheless.  However, I 
am warning you, hurt him again and you will have me to deal 
with."
	He would have replied if Lestat hadn't been crushing 
his windpipe, instead only a gurgling croak came out of his 
mouth.
	"In time you will come to understand the decision he 
has made, and the sacrifices he is willing to make for you.  
I can hope that you will appreciate it when the time comes, 
but I seriously doubt it.  The choice he made tonight 
humbles even myself, but I know upon one such as you, it 
will be wasted.  You are not worthy of such a gift, and I 
would kill you now if I thought he would forgive me."
	Abruptly he was released, and the vampire reappeared 
in front of the hotel room door.  He gasped for breath, 
holding his bruised throat, coughing.
	"He wants you meet him at Arnauds' for lunch at one.  
Be there," he informed coldly and vanished.
	After his unwelcome visitor left, Duncan was unable to 
sleep.  He could still feel the cold hand upon his skin, the 
smooth texture of the vampire's flesh, but it wasn't 
Lestat's touch which chilled him, it was his words.  The 
Highlander knew enough about Lestat to know such bravado and 
threats were often meant to hide pain.  Methos had done 
something tonight, something that affected all of them, and 
he could only imagine what the Old Man could have done to 
upset the vampire so.
	MacLeod had never understood the fierce love Lestat 
held for Methos.  It was strong and possessive, almost 
white-hot in its intensity; and yet Methos accepted it, 
accepted it willingly and lovingly, returning again and 
again to the vampire's arms.  Over the past two years, every 
time he and the Old Man had quarreled enough to separate 
them, Methos had always run to Louis and Lestat.  He could 
call them to him with a single thought, and they would drop 
whatever they were doing and come to his aid.  There were 
never any questions asked or pleas for him to permanently 
leave his Highland lover, only dour and angry glares for the 
one who had hurt him.  MacLeod always hated Louis' 
disapproving frown, or Lestat's furious snarl.  Even more he 
hated the jealous rage that burned inside him every time he 
saw one of them kiss Methos, or heard him laugh at something 
Lestat said, or watched the subtle play of touch and sound 
as they teased and comforted each other.  Seeing his lover 
with the two vampires always made a lump form in his throat, 
and the fact that Methos knew it, and played them off each 
other, only made it worse.
	He got out of bed and pulled on some sweats for 
running, and soon found himself jogging through the French 
Quarter, down past St. Louis Cathedral, across Jackson 
Square, to the riverside.  Cafe DuMonde was open, serving 
coffee and beignets, as always, and he stopped for a glass 
of juice before heading onto the MoonWalk.  The riverside 
was bustling with pre-dawn activity.  Crews were cleaning 
and outfitting the riverboats for the day's fare, delivery 
trucks were unloading supplies for the French Market, street 
cleaners worked to tidy up the previous day's trash.  All 
around him were sounds of the city awakening, and he sat on 
the wooden walk and listened. 
	After an hour or so of quiet semi-meditation on the 
MoonWalk, he got up and continued his jog.  He went into the 
Garden District, swept past Anne Rice' famous First Street 
home, and stopped just outside the Lafayette Cemetery.  
Looking at the crumbling graves, he was saddened and shocked 
to find so many tiny tombstones- ones that signified infants 
that had died.  Such sights always brought the fragility of 
mortality to the forefront of his mind, and he found himself 
thinking of Joe.  Joe would die soon.  Maybe not in the next 
two decades, but certainly sometime.  They always did, and 
there never seemed to be enough time.  He grasped at their 
brief lives desperately, like trying to hold onto sand, but 
they always slipped through the cracks between his fingers 
and blew away.  He thought should call Joe and completely 
mend their friendship.  Things had been tense since Byron 
had been killed; too many upheavals too soon for their 
fragile and strained friendship, and he knew he had a lot to 
make up for.  Nodding to himself in decision, he promised to 
call Dawson when he thought the mortal would be awake.
	MacLeod walked slowly back to the French Quarter.  It 
was only just nine, and he had plenty of time to shower and 
get ready for lunch.  He washed slowly and chose an outfit 
he knew Methos liked: green silk shirt with soft tan 
trousers and comfortable shoes.  Already it was warming up, 
the balmy climate of New Orleans beckoning to him with 
verdant, moist fingertips, and he stepped back onto the 
French Quarter streets at near to ten.  With three hours to 
kill until his lunch appointment with Methos, he wandered 
aimlessly through the Quarter, meandering up and down 
Bourbon Street and across to Charters.  He walked to Canal, 
then back into the Quarter, his nerves rising as the time 
grew nearer and nearer.  Finally, at about a quarter past 
noon, he found himself standing outside the Rue Royale town 
home, looking up at the closed balcony doors.  As he 
watched, the sheer curtains on the door moved, and a face 
peered down at him from behind the glass.  He recognized the 
familiar features and short cropped hair, and held his 
breath.  Then the face vanished, and he sighed, dropping his 
gaze to his feet, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.  
He was about to continue on his way when the Presence hit 
him hard, and he turned to see Methos closing the rear 
entrance.  He walked the few steps to the carriage gate, and 
waited for the Old Man to open it and step out.  He couldn't 
read the expression on the ancient Immortal's face, and he 
was afraid to begin the conversation, so he merely waited 
until Methos spoke.
	"You're early."
	"Yeah," he answered, watching a mule drawn carriage 
clop by.
	"You hungry?"
	He nodded. 
	"Let's go then."
	"Okay."
	The Scot let Methos lead the way, silently telling the 
Old Man that he was in charge of this meeting.  The older 
Immortal chose to take a step and wait until the Highlander 
came up next to him, signaling that he wanted MacLeod to 
walk alongside him.  So much of their relationship was 
movement and signal, entire conversations being held without 
a single word.  Methos' body language was telling him that 
the Old Man was as uncertain as he was, and that comforted 
him somewhat.  It meant that neither of them really knew 
what the other was thinking, and neither was fully in 
control.
	"Did you sleep well?" Methos asked suddenly as they 
walked.
	"Fine."
	"That's good."
	"Fine until a blond son-of-a-bitch woke me up at five 
o'clock in the morning."
	He saw Methos wince.  "I'm sorry about that.  I can't 
control him.  You know I can't," the Old Man replied half-
apologetically
	"I know," he answered, looking up at the fern laden 
balconies along the street.  "He threatened my life."
	"Don't pay him any mind.  He won't harm a hair on your 
head.  He's all bravado and huff-n-puff."
	"I'm not so sure.  He was really upset about 
something. Said I didn't deserve your gift."
	Methos paused.  "What else did he say?" he questioned 
carefully, obviously fishing for more information.
	"That your choice humbled him, and that he thought I 
wouldn't appreciate it." 
	Methos nodded and looked away.
	"What did you say to him, Methos?" he asked gently.
	The Old Man's body language changed to more guarded 
and wary, and MacLeod hastened to calm the waters.
	"I'm not going to pry, Methos.  I just want to 
understand.  What did you decide last night that made Lestat 
so upset?"
	Methos shook his head.  "I can't tell you Highlander."
	"Why?"
	The older Immortal gave him a look that spoke volumes.
	"Because I'd stop you," he stated, answering his own 
question.
	The swirls of color in the Old Man's eyes confirmed 
his suspicions.
	"Oh sweet Jesus, Methos..." he breathed, falling into 
his Scottish burr.
	The Old Man raised a hand to stop him before he 
started.  "Don't, Highlander.  With luck it will be 
centuries before you find out what Lestat and I decided last 
night.  In the meantime, lets forget about it.  We have 
other things that we need to discuss."
	"Like what?"
	"Like whether or not I intend to forgive you, and what 
I'll expect you to do to make it up to me," he replied with 
a twinkle in his eyes.
	Duncan couldn't help but smile at the mischief dancing 
behind the teasing grin.
	"Och!  Ye are changing the subject on me."
	"Yes, and I'm very good at that."
	"Oh, aye, that ye are."
	Methos slipped an arm around the Scotsman's side, 
suddenly warm and friendly.  "Besides, I'm hungry.  The 
first thing I am going to do is let you buy me lunch."
	"And afterwards?" he asked hopefully, resuming their 
leisurely walk up the street.
	"Afterwards, let's take the St. Charles' Avenue Street 
Car out to Tulane University to see their stained glass 
windows."
	MacLeod covered the long, slender hand with his broad 
one.  "How about we just go back to my hotel room and order 
in?"
	Methos chuckled.  "Oh no no no no no.  I know you too 
well.  I'd end up naked, flat on my back, with you pumping 
into me.  And as tempting as that might sound, I have no 
intention of letting you seduce me until we've reached some 
understanding on a few things."
	Now it was Duncan's turn to snicker and he even 
blushed a little bit.  "Seduce you?  Who was the one all 
over me at a certain Inn in Arizona?"
	The Old Man gave him a knowing grin.  "Precisely.  Do 
you think if you got me alone with you in a private place, 
that I'd be able to resist you?  Hell, even a semi-private 
place... or a partially public place..."
	"I get the picture, Methos," the Highlander 
interrupted in a strained voice.
	"Why?  Does the thought of fucking me in public bother 
you?"
	"No, the thought of sporting a raging hard-on for the 
next several hours does."
	"Yes, but you must admit, it makes you much more 
amicable to negotiations," the older Immortal giggled, and 
seized the opportunity to fondle the Highlander's groin, 
making him jump
	"Methos!"
	"Yes?" he replied, blinking innocently.
	"I don't believe you," Duncan growled.
	His answer was a laugh.  "Lighten up, Boy scout.  That 
was nothing.  In ancient Greece it wasn't uncommon for ..."
	"Yeah yeah, when you were young...  Don't tell me.  
They made you hike up mountains in the snow, fifteen miles, 
uphill, both ways!  Blah blah blah."
	"Fine.  You don't want me to share my vast knowledge 
and expertise with you, that's your loss."
	The Scot grabbed the still wandering hand and gripped 
the slender wrist.  "The only expertise I want you to share 
with me isn't legal in public anymore."
	Methos laughed again.  "Yes, but we can push the 
envelope a little, can't we?"
	"Not if you intend on making me sleep alone again 
tonight."
	The humor was abruptly gone and Methos looked 
contrite.  "I'm sorry about that.  I needed you away from 
me."
	"So you could talk to Lestat."  It was a statement, 
not a question.
	"Yes."
	"So you were pushing me away."
	"Yes," Methos confirmed.
	"I knew it!  I just knew it.  You were putting up the 
bravado just to get me to leave you alone with Lestat."
	"Something like that."
	"Why, Methos?"
	"You already know why.  I couldn't have you there, 
MacLeod." 
	Duncan didn't reply.  To continue the conversation in 
that vein would only serve to increase the tensions already 
between them.  Instead he turned his attention to the French 
Quarter and where they were going.  They paused again, and 
he looked at the plain front of the Preservation House on 
St. Peter Street. 
	"You know what Lestat said to me this morning?" he 
mused thoughtfully.
	"What did he say?"
	"He said, 'He loves you, y'know.  Loves you with every 
fiber of his being.'  Do you love me, Methos?"
	Brown eyes met hazel ones and held, and he watched the 
pronounced Adam's Apple on the Old Man's throat move as he 
swallowed, a bead of sweat clinging to the pale flesh in the 
humid heat.
	"Yes, I love you, Highlander," came the soft whisper.
	He smiled softly, and ventured a tender caress on the 
older Immortal's cheek.  "And I love you.  The rest will 
work itself out in time."
	Methos gasped in surprise at Duncan's tender, loving 
words, and returned the smile.
	"Come on.  Let's go eat," the Scot said, patting his 
lover on the back.  "I'm starved and I know you're just 
aching for a beer."
	Three hours later, after they had eaten and taken the 
street car out to the university, they were walking along 
the massive levee that kept the Mississippi from swallowing 
New Orleans whole.  The conversation was light and pleasant, 
like the weather, and jokes were traded back and forth as 
they traveled in easy companionship.  Duncan was happy to 
have it so, until he realized that they were using the 
familiar banter to avoid discussing any serious issues.
	"I've got an idea!" Methos suddenly said.  "Let's take 
the ferry across to Algiers and go to the Mardi Gras museum 
to see what this year's themes are.  Lestat already invited 
m..us to the festivities."
	The slip of Methos' tongue did not go unnoticed, but 
MacLeod didn't call him on it.
	"How about we do that tomorrow?"
	"Okay.  What would you like to do now?"
	"Well, I know one thing I don't want to do," the Scot 
admitted.
	Methos came close, eyes showing his interest.  He 
could be very attentive when he chose to be.
	"What's that?"
	He gave his lover a measured look as he chose his 
words carefully.  "I don't want to sleep alone tonight.  
Let's talk, Methos."
	Methos' mood shifted and he lowered his eyes.  "Not 
here," he replied.
	"Okay.  Where then?"
	"Let's get a cab and go up the River Road."
	The Scot raised an eyebrow but did not protest.  "All 
right.  Lead the way."
	They left the levee and went into the closest 
neighborhood to call a taxi.  Duncan didn't recognize the 
address Methos gave the driver, but he didn't question it, 
and a half hour later they were being dropped off outside 
what looked to be an overgrown field.  Methos paid the 
driver then began walking into the tall grass.  MacLeod 
followed, taking in his surroundings.  At a glance the 
property didn't look like much, but on a second pass, it was 
obvious that it had once been used for something.  The tall 
grass was flanked by a line of trees, side by side about 
fifteen feet apart, and Duncan recognized it as a lined 
driveway, although no one had used it as a driveway for 
quite some time.  Decades at least.  
	At the end of the drive were the remains of a large 
house.  Only a wall or two stood as evidence of anyone once 
living there, and crumbled debris gave testimony to a long 
period of neglect.  Near what was left of the dwelling was a 
vine covered alcove.  It may have once been a stone gazebo 
or shrine, but now the roof had caved in and the pillars 
were broken.  Large blocks of hewn marble littered the 
floor, and MacLeod's eyes followed the trail of rubble to 
what was left of a Christ figure and crucifix.  The building 
had been an oratory.
	"Where are we, Methos?" he asked, his voice sounding 
hollow against the stone.
	"Pointe du Lac.  Louis' plantation, or rather, what's 
left of it."
	"The one he burned down?"
	The Old Man fingered a relief on one of the remaining 
walls.  "Yes.  Louis hates the place, but he can't bring 
himself to sell it.  Self imposed penance I guess.  His 
brother committed suicide not fifty yards from here.  Threw 
himself off the stairs.  Louis always thought it was his 
fault, and as Lestat likes to say, How he loves his precious 
guilt."  The last was spoken in a fairly accurate imitation 
of the vampire's French accent.
	"Why have you brought me here?"
	Methos turned to face him.  "It's private, and if we 
end up killing each other, there's not much for a Quickening 
to destroy."
	Duncan frowned.  "I'll noh hurt you, Methos."
	The world's oldest Immortal gave him a quirky smile.  
"Who said anything about you hurting me??  I was talking 
about what I would do if you're too stubborn."
	"I hope you mean that as a joke."
	Methos shrugged.  "That depends on how stubborn you 
are."
	He sank down to the stone floor, curling his legs up, 
and looked at the crumbling building.
	"Ever read Shelley's Ozymandius, MacLeod?"
	"I met a traveler from an antique land, who said, 'Two 
vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert.'  
Yeah, I know it."
	"Nothing beside remains.  Round the decay of that 
colossal wreck, boundless and bare the lone and level sands 
stretch far away," he recited.  "Did you know that I was the 
traveler Shelley spoke of?"
	He saw the Highlander wince.  "No, I didn't.  Did you 
spend a lot of time with him, Doc?"
	Methos' eyes flashed anger.  "Only one person in this 
world had license to call me that and he's dead, Highlander.  
You killed him."
	MacLeod sat down across the oratory from the Old Man, 
putting the maximum amount of distance between them possible 
without him actually leaving the structure.
	"Is this going to be about Byron, Methos?  I thought 
we had settled that."
	"No, you settled it.  You never asked me if *I* 
thought it was settled.  Byron was more than my friend.  He 
was my lover and student as well.  But, in answer to your 
question, MacLeod, no this is not going to be about Byron.  
It's going to be about you and me."
	They stared at each other, all the previous comfort 
and ease gone.
	"Fine," Duncan agreed.
	"Who was the woman at the barge?"
	"Amanda."
	That shocked Methos and his eyes flared wide.  "What 
was Amanda doing in Paris?  I thought she went to Monte 
Carlo."
	"She lost all her money and came back early."
	Methos had to snicker.  "Typical."
	Duncan echoed the smile.  "Yeah."  The smile faded and 
he spoke again, "She wanted me to tell you she's not upset 
about Cassandra."
	"She knew Cassandra?"
  	"They met shortly after the problem with Kantos.  
Apparently, Amanda makes it a point to know all the female 
Immortals I sleep with."
	"Really?  I never pegged her as the jealous type."
	"She's not.  She just likes to know who might be 
coming after my head if I jilt them."
	Methos was thoughtful for a moment.  "I suppose that 
has its own logic... somewhere.  But then Amanda always 
surprises me.  Do you know she wrote Lestat asking him if 
he'd help her steal some jewels?  He was flattered and 
amused.  He laughed for hours.  Then he offered to get her 
the Crown Jewels from the Queen," he said with a giggle.
	The Highlander was not laughing.  "Damn that woman.  I 
let her come along twice when we meet them, and she's 
already trying to get them to help her with her schemes.  
She promised me she would go straight."
	"Ah, let her have her fun.  She and Lestat are well 
met."
	"Yeah, and if the Hope Diamond suddenly goes missing, 
I'll know who to look for."	
	They fell into silence for a moment, then the Old Man 
gave MacLeod a furtive look.  	"Are you upset about 
Cassandra?"
	"Yes, but not at you.  I'm mad at Lestat for getting 
involved."
	"He'll always get involved, MacLeod."
	The Scot sighed wearily.  "I know."
	"Why didn't Amanda tell me it was her?  I was too 
upset to recognize her voice," Methos asked suddenly.
	"I dunno.  You know her, Methos.  She gets in these 
moods.  Plays games."
	"Oh yes, Amanda's games.  I am very familiar with 
them."
	"Don't knock her, Methos.  She was the reason I came 
to New Orleans in the first place."
	"Oh?"
	"Yeah.  She kinda pointed out that some of my words 
and behavior were... inappropriate."
	Methos snorted.  "That's an understatement."
	"Hey, you've pulled some things on me that haven't 
been so considerate.  Last night, case in point."
	"That's true."
	"You play me like a bass fiddle, you know that, 
Methos.  Sometimes I dunno if I'm your lover or your 
marionette."
	Methos looked hurt.  "I'd never do anything that 
wasn't for your own good, Highlander."
	"I know that, Methos, but there are times when I wish 
you would explain what is going on instead of trying to 
manipulate me into doing what you want me to do."
	A small smile came to the pale lips.  "What would be 
the fun in that?"
	MacLeod smiled back briefly.  "I do hate ruining your 
fun, but still, I don't appreciate being manipulated.  
Besides, don't we have enough fun together as it is?"
	"Depends on your definition of fun."  He sighed, then 
continued, "But nowadays, Highlander, I try not to have 
plans or schemes.  I've done plenty of that in my lifetime.  
Now I just want peace."
	"So does that mean you'll tell me what you and Lestat 
are up to?" the Highlander prodded.
	"No.  And we aren't up to anything, Duncan.  I just 
made Lestat promise me something."
	"Must have been a big promise."
	"It is."
	"How do you know he'll keep it?  He's not very 
reliable in that department."
	"He'll keep this one.  I've made sure of that," Methos 
answered, his face turning serious and wistful.
	"How?" the Scot prompted.
	"I've called upon the one thing he can't deny."
	"What's that?"
	"His love for me.  He'll keep the promise because he 
loves me."
	Duncan shook his head.  "You really called out all the 
stops."
	The Old Man shrugged, condensing himself even closer 
together.  "I had to.  He wouldn't have agreed otherwise."
	"Why go to all that trouble?"
	Methos was quiet for a long time, his eyes distant and 
a little sad, and for a moment Duncan thought he'd opened 
more wounds without meaning to.  He looked so small, sitting 
there in the gloom, shadows from the fading light filtering 
down through the holes in the roof.  He had his thin hands 
wrapped around his knees, his long legs curled up to his 
chest as if holding himself together.  Then he lifted his 
head, his distinctive profile silhouetted by the dying sun, 
his short hair ruffled by a faint breeze that blew through 
the cracked pillars.
	"I am Ozymandius," he whispered almost inaudibly.  "I 
am the fallen statue sinking into the sand.  The desert will 
come and swallow me whole."
	"What?" the Highlander asked, then realized that 
Methos wasn't speaking to him anymore.  He was staring off 
into space, no longer seeing the world beyond his eyes.
	"I am memory and stillness.  I am lonely in my old 
age."
	Frightened by this sudden shift in the ancient 
Immortal's mood, MacLeod ventured closer, creeping on hands 
and crouched legs to cover the distance between them.  He 
kept moving until he was right in front of Methos, able to 
clearly see the damp eyelashes framing his glazed eyes.
	"Methos?  Methos, you're scaring me."
	He'd seen the Old Man do this before, when the weight 
of his years became too heavy for him to bear.  He'd slip 
into himself for long periods of time, muttering in 
languages MacLeod could only dream of understanding.   They 
would hit suddenly, without warning, and pass just as 
quickly.  During these trips inside his mind, Methos neither 
heard nor saw anything outside his own private world, and 
sometimes not even physical shaking could bring him out.  
Methos always said he wouldn't be able to go so deeply into 
his memories if he did not feel completely safe.  He meant 
it as a compliment of how secure he felt in the Highlander's 
presence, but Duncan had never seen it as much of one.  
Watching Methos during these periods of temporary catatonia 
always made him go cold inside, not only because he often 
could not understand the Old Man, but because he was afraid 
he was seeing himself in five thousand years.  
The only good thing about these spells was that Methos was 
completely without masks or bravado before, and for about 
ten minutes after, he came out of them.  During that brief 
period, Duncan could ask him anything and be guaranteed an 
honest and straightforward answer.  He'd told Joe about them 
once, and the mortal had looked disapprovingly at him, 
demanding to know if he took advantage of Methos' vulnerable 
state.  He hadn't really answered completely honestly.  The 
truth was, he didn't see anything wrong with capitalizing on 
the situation when Methos manipulated him so much.  Not that 
he did it every time, but he'd managed to get some very 
insightful answers out of the Old Man when he chose.  The 
only drawback was that Methos often didn't remember what he 
had said.  That and the fact that if he pushed too hard for 
answers Methos didn't want to give, he could bring a 
premature ending to the dream-like state.  He often wondered 
if he could prolong the time period by soft touch and loving 
words, but he'd always been afraid to try.  If Methos caught 
on that he was trying to foster the defenselessness, he 
would probably never trust MacLeod again.
	"Methos," he called a second time.
	This time the ancient Immortal looked at him, seeing 
him, and the angular face softened with love, and a single 
tear rolled down the smooth cheek.
	"You asked me why I went through all the trouble with 
Lestat?" he murmured absently.
	"Yes.  Yes, I did."
	"Because I love you so much I'd do anything for you, 
Highlander.  I'd even die for you.  But I'd much rather 
live.  Live until the end, when in order for me to live, you 
must die, or for you to live, I must die.  But I don't want 
to think about that right now."
	The simple statement of devotion struck a chord so 
deep inside him that he felt it vibrate throughout his very 
soul.  Methos was right.  In the end there could be only 
one.  That meant that one of them would have to die.  What 
were the petty arguments worth when neither of them knew if 
they would survive the next Challenge, or if they would have 
to face each other at the Gathering?  How much time did they 
have left to live and love and share with each other, and 
would they waste it fighting pointless battles of will?  
Suddenly all that had gone before seemed so inconsequential, 
insignificant in the bigger picture of the ruthlessness of 
The Game and its inevitable outcome.  The anger and 
bitterness he had been harboring against the Old Man and his 
actions, blew away with the wind and died with the setting 
sun.  He reached out, feeling the burning of tears in his 
eyes as he drew the slender body into a tight embrace.  
	"I don't want to think about that either," he choked 
into the soft hair.
	Strong fingers gripped his shirt, and he pulled Methos 
closer.
	"I love you, Duncan."
	"I love you too, Methos," he answered, wishing for the 
cynical mask to slide into place again because he could not 
bear this honesty, and he did not want to face it.
	A few moments later he felt the shift in Methos' body, 
and knew that the Old Man had returned to his usual state.  
He gave a small sigh of relief and loosened his grip, 
looking into the hazel eyes.
	"Oh my," Methos said, seeing Duncan's tears.  "What 
were we talking about?"
	"Ozymandius."
	"I zoned out again, didn't I?"
	"Yeah."
	"What did I say?"
	He shook his head.  "Nothing important."
	"You're a terrible liar."
	"I know."
	"You're not going to tell me what I said that made you 
cry?"
	"No."
	Methos gently wiped away the wetness from his lover's 
cheek.  "Well, I suppose we both have our secrets."
	"Yeah."
	The green-gold eyes met his, suddenly worried and 
pleading.  "Sad or happy tears?"
	"Both."
	"I seeƒ"
	"Methos, I donna want t' talk anymore.  I jes' wan ta 
hold ye an' ne'er let ye go," MacLeod choked, his voice 
thick with his accent and unshed tears.
	His answer was a deep throated chuckle.  "I think I 
can let you do that.  For the next ten minutes at least."
	"How about the next ten years?"
	"That's up for negotiation."
	"Can we begin the deliberations right now?"
	"Absolutely."
	"Good," MacLeod replied, and kissed him full on the 
mouth.
	Their lovemaking had been slow and gentle, one of the 
high points of having only saliva and semen for lubrication.  
Things had to be done carefully, patiently, to make sure 
pleasure outweighed pain, and Duncan was 
uncharacteristically tender, treating Methos gingerly, 
almost shyly, until the Old Man begged him to stop being so 
timid.  Yet Methos took the same loving care when they 
switched positions, Duncan allowing himself to be entered.  
It was an affirmation, a reclamation they shared with each 
other, and they prolonged each caress, each kiss, each 
stroke until they were one mind, body and soul.  When they 
were finally spent, they settled down on the stone, now warm 
from their bodies and snuggled close.  Night had fallen 
around them, dark and humid, and the stars shone faintly 
through the thin haze.  
	They had done more than make love.  They'd talked as 
well, between kisses and whispered endearments.  Not 
everything was resolved, but more than things had been in a 
long time, and Methos was oddly content.  Lying there with 
his head pillowed on MacLeod's chest, he felt more at peace 
than he had in years, the sweet thrum of Duncan's heart 
echoing in his ear.  He didn't know how long this truce 
would last: an hour, a day, maybe even a year or two years 
or five years or a decade, but he didn't care.  He'd accept 
every moment and be grateful for it.
	*Beaten him into submission, I see,* came the familiar 
voice snaking into his mind.
	He turned his head to see Lestat sitting on the broken 
Christ figure.  What an image, but he knew the vampire was 
doing it just for the shock value.  He smiled.
	"Not quite," he murmured softly, knowing Lestat would 
hear him.
	"All is well then?"
	He nodded.  "Yes."
	Lestat sighed.  "Well, I suppose you are suited to 
each other, like me and mon Louis."
	Methos chuckled.  "Not always, but sometimes."
	That elicited a grin from the blond, and he hopped 
down from the statue, moving to sit on the remains of a 
bench.  "Like me and mon Louis."
	"True."
	"Methos, about the promise I made last night..." the 
vampire began nervously.
	"Yes?"
	"Are you sure it's what you want?"
	The ancient Immortal smiled at Lestat's uncertainty.  
"Yes.  More so than I've ever been."
	"I don't keep many of my promises, you know..."
	"But you'll keep that one.  You're always there when I 
need you," Methos interrupted.
	Lestat looked away, his eyes rimmed with blood tears.  
"I hope you will not need me for a long time."
	"So do I."
	The vampire cast a glance at the sleeping Highlander.  
"He won't understand."
	"I know."
	"He'll be furious."
	"Yes, he will."
	"And yet you are willing to risk his rejection."
	"Yes.  Wouldn't you do the same for Louis if left with 
the same choice?"
	Lestat considered his words.  "Yes.  I suppose I 
would."
	"Now you understand."
	"You love him that much, mon cher?"
	"Yes."
	He let out a weary sigh.  "Then I suppose I cannot 
keep you from your destiny."
	"No.  Unfortunately you can't, though I wish you 
could."
	"I do love you, Methos."
	"I know, and that is why I asked you to make the 
promise, because I knew you would love me enough to do it."
	"It wasn't like you had much choice.  It was either me 
or Khayman, and there's no telling if he'll even remember 
his own name when the time comes."
	Methos giggled.  "How very true.  Still, I wanted it 
to be you who did it."
	"I know."
	They were quiet for a moment, letting their feelings 
settle as Duncan snored softly.
	"Well, it looks like you have things well in hand 
here," Lestat mused with a small smile.
	"Yes.  We'll be back at the flat sometime tonight."
	"We won't be there."
	"Why not?"
	"Louis and I are heading back to Arizona.  Apparently, 
our new friends the half-vampires are also half-wits," the 
vampire answered irritably.  "They were being followed by 
mortal hunters.  Blew up Malek's apartment.  Thankfully 
neither he nor Greg were in it at the time."
	"What?!  Oh, brilliant.  Is everyone all right?"
	"What??  What's going on?   Where's the trouble?  
Methos, are you okay?!" MacLeod blurted, coming fully awake 
at Methos' outburst, groping instinctively for his sword.
	"Keep your shorts on, Highlander, he's fine," Lestat 
snapped.  "Oh, wait, you're not wearing any shorts.  In 
fact, you're not wearing anything at all.  Hmm... nice..."
	"That's enough, Lestat!" the Scot yelled, grabbing his 
trousers and yanking them on.
	Methos was a giggling heap next to him, and the 
Highlander gave him an angry glare.
	"You're not helping!"
	His only answer was more chortles from his lover.
	"What's going on?" he demanded again.
	"You should be happy.  Louis and I are leaving," 
Lestat answered.
	"It seems that the hybrids were followed by some 
mortal hunters.  They blew up Malek's apartment sometime 
after we left," Methos clarified, ceasing his giggles.
	"Was anyone hurt?"
	"No, just shaken up a bit," Lestat replied.  "Anyway, 
Marius called and asked for help in tracking down all of 
them, so Louis and I are going to assist.  Actually, I'll be 
assisting, and Louis will be making sure I don't get too... 
how do you say... overzealous?"
	Lestat gave them a feral grin which was answered with 
a knowing smile from Methos. 
	"I see," the oldest Immortal said.
	"When will you be back?" Duncan questioned.
	"Oh, a couple of nights, I think."
	"Well, I don't think we'd want to leave New Orleans 
without saying good-bye."	
	"We're leaving, Highlander?" Methos broke-in, eyebrow 
raised.
	The Scot blushed.  "Yeah.  I was thinking we'd go back 
to Seacouver in a few days.  I want to see Joe.  He and I... 
we need to talk.  I kinda wanted you there."
	Understanding filled the hazel eyes as well as 
approval.  The Boy Scout was starting to grow up.  A little.
	"That sounds fine."
	Duncan looked relieved, and Lestat took the brief 
silence to stand.
	"I will leave the two of you alone now," he said in an 
uncharacteristic move of common sense.  "Louis and I will be 
back soon, then we can bid you good-bye for a time."
	"We'll be here," Methos answered, smiling.  Lestat 
really could be perfect when he wanted to be, but then if he 
was perfect all the time, things wouldn't be nearly so much 
fun.  *Thank you,* he sent to the vampire.
	*Anything for you, cher,* Lestat answered.
	*I love you.*
	*I know.*
	He gave them a final, sweet smile and disappeared.
	"I hate when he does that," MacLeod admitted.
	"You're just not used to it," the Old Man reassured, 
getting up to put his clothes on and ignoring the Scot's 
whine of disappointment.  "I'm tired of lying on cold stone, 
Highlander.  Besides, I don't know about you, but I could go 
for some dinner."
	He was caught in a happy and loving embrace, strong 
arms loosely wrapped around his slender waist.
	"Dinner is good, but what's for dessert?"
	"Hmm, Hurricanes at Pat O'Briens?" he suggested with a 
grin.
	"I'd much rather have chocolate covered Old Man," 
MacLeod snuffled into the juncture of Methos' shoulder and 
neck, nipping playfully.
	The old Immortal shivered, stifling a groan, but he 
mustered the willpower to gently push the Highlander away.
	"What's wrong?"
	"What am I to you, Highlander?" he asked seriously.
	Duncan blinked at him, confused.  "You're my friend."
	"Is that all I am to you?"
	"Sweet Jesus, no, Methos," he answered vehemently.  
"You're my partner, my companion, someone I trust and depend 
onƒ"
	"Your lover?"
	The Scot paused, his eyes growing guilty, then he 
finally spoke in a low voice, "Yes.  You are my lover."
	Methos gave him a genuine smile, one that was 
reflected in his hazel eyes.  "You don't know how long I 
have waited for you to admit that."
	"Two years?"
	"Something like that."
	"I'm sorry.  I know I can be... difficult..."
	"Yes, but I wouldn't want you any other way," the Old 
Man replied, kissing him sweetly.
	"Forgive me for making you feel like..."
	"Don't say it.  There's no need."
	Duncan shook his head.  "Yes, there is.  Amanda made 
me realize that maybe sometime someone really did use you as 
whore, and my actions were more than insensitive, they 
were... hurtful."
	He saw the pain flash briefly in the green-gold eyes, 
and knew Amanda had been right.
	"Someone did, didn't they."
	Methos sighed.  "Yes.  But it was a long time ago, in 
another era, in another life.  It doesn't matter now."
	The Highlander reached for him and took his arms.  
"Yes, it does.  I don't ever want to make you feel anything 
other than loved and wanted, and I know I haven't always 
made sure you felt that way.  I'm sorry.  I promise to do 
better from now on."
	The gratitude in the Old Man's eyes was bonafide.  
"Thank you.  It means a lot to hear you say that.  I know 
you'll keep your word."
	"Aye, that I will," the Scot said with a teasing grin.
	"And you know I'll hold you to it.  You haven't been 
very... attentive to my needs these last few months."
	A knowing twinkle crept into MacLeod's eyes, and he 
groped Methos playfully.  "Well then, I guess I have a lot 
of making up to do."
	Methos snickered, but took the Highlander's hands and 
held them firmly, looking into the brown eyes.
	"We've been intimate a lot lately, Duncan.  Not that I 
don't love it, but sometimes I'm afraid that we are 
forgetting that we can do other things together too," he 
explained carefully.  "Let's be friends for a while.  Let's 
go back to New Orleans, have dinner, take in some good music 
and some good booze, maybe dance a bit, and then be lovers 
when we get back to the Rue Royale.  How does that sound?"
	Instead of the hurt rejection he thought he might get 
from such a request, he received a tender smile and a 
friendly hug.
	"All right.  Just one problem."
	"What's that?"
	"How do we get back to New Orleans?"
	Methos gasped in mock amazement.  "You mean the Boy 
Scout doesn't have his cell-phone with him??  Oh my, I guess 
we're walking."
	Duncan scowled.  "Of course I have my cell-phone."
	The Old Man snickered.  "Well then, call us a cab!"
Epilogue- Seacouver, one week later
	It was late, very near to closing time, and Joe was 
tending to the last few patrons and getting ready to lock 
up.  The band that had played tonight had been good, and the 
bass player had reminded him of Mike.  He shook his head in 
sorrow for wasted talent, both Mike's and Byron's, and he 
still could not bring himself to understand why Mac felt it 
so necessary to kill the poet.  It seemed to him that Mac 
was either really trying to hurt Methos, or trying to get 
rid of a potential rival.  Surely Mac wasn't so blind that 
he was oblivious to what the two Immortals had been to each 
other.  It would have been like someone coming along and 
killing Amanda.  But the Highlander hadn't seen it that way, 
and saw fit to Challenge and defeat Byron.  Methos had seen 
most of it, he'd come to Joe after it was over, eyes red 
with tears, and Joe had held him.  If he could have found a 
way to kill the bull-headed Scot that night, he would have.  
Duncan took a perverse pleasure in hurting his estranged 
lover, and it always hurt Joe terribly to see Methos suffer.  
Their friendship had been strained ever since.
	Methos hadn't come to him after the last fight.  Joe 
found out about it from MacLeod when Mac called to ask if 
he'd seen the Methos.  In a way he was kind of upset that 
Methos hadn't said good-bye or even called, but he was glad 
the Old Man was safe with Lestat.  Lestat would never let 
anyone harm Methos, the episode with Cassandra being a prime 
example.  MacLeod might miss her, but he doubted he or 
Methos would lose any sleep over it.
	The bar rag was soaked through with spilled beer so he 
moved to rinse it out in the sink.  When he turned around, 
he was shocked to see not only Methos, but MacLeod as well, 
standing by the side of the bar, right next to the little 
passage that lead behind the counter.
	"Hi, Joe," the Old Man whispered, and took him into a 
tight embrace.
	"Geeze, what a welcome," the mortal blurted when he 
was released.   "To what do I owe this honor?"
	Methos gave a little shake of his head and smiled.  
Then he gently gave him a tiny push towards the Highlander.
	"Dawson," MacLeod said softly, making tentative eye 
contact.
	"Mac."
	"Iƒ ummƒ"
	"I missed you too, Mac."
	Relief spread over the Scot's face, making Joe feel 
only a little less like a damn fool for being so easy.  Then 
MacLeod was hugging him, carefully at first, then more 
rigorously, and it didn't matter.  He was victim to the same 
blind spot when it came to the Highlander, like with Lestat, 
no one could ever stay mad at him for long.  Forgiving the 
bull-headed Boy Scout for his transgressions seemed to be a 
normal state of affairs for both he and Methos.  
Why do we love this guy so much? he asked himself.  But he 
knew.  MacLeod represented the good and noble things in all 
of them, even if he did get too caught up in the letter of 
the Code sometimes.  He was how many of them wanted to be: 
proud, honest, chivalrous to a fault, and irresistible.  How 
could anyone not love him?  He was the burning flame to 
which all the moths were drawnƒ to their deaths.  He almost 
shuddered at the mental image.  Both he and Methos had been 
burned quite a bit in the past three years.  So why did they 
keep coming back, practically begging for more?  Because 
we're gluttons for punishment, that's why.
	"It's good to see you, Joe," MacLeod said, pulling 
back.
	"Feeling's mutual, Mac.  How've you been?"
	The Scot shrugged.  "Been better, been worse.  Things 
are improving slowly."
	Joe did not miss the meaningful glance Duncan gave to 
Methos.
	"Working things out, I see," he commented.
	Methos grinned.  "Somewhat.  He still needs dropped on 
his head a few more times, but the cracks in his skull are 
starting to let in some common sense."
	MacLeod looked sheepish.  "I know I am hard-headed, 
but it's sinking in."
	"Finally," Methos added with a knowing smile, then 
faced the mortal.  "We've come to invite you to dinner."
	"Dinner?  Ah, nah guys, I already ate.  Besides, it's 
nearly two in the morning.  I should be getting home.  
Thanks though.  Can I take a rain check?"
	"Of course, Joe.  How's tomorrow?" Duncan answered.
	"Tomorrow I can do."
	"Great.  I'll have M..Adam here make his famous sea 
anemones."
	"Absolutely not," Methos snorted back half-
indignantly.
	"All right, all right, I'll make tortellini and 
chicken."
	"That's better.  And if you're good, I'll make a 
strawberry soup for dessert."
	"Sounds like a sit-down occasion.  Should I wear a 
tie?" Joe questioned jokingly.
	"Well, you could come in a white sheet, and we'll make 
it a toga party," Methos replied, then looked at MacLeod who 
was glaring at him.  "All right, all right.  No togas.  And 
no ties are needed, Joe.  Just bring yourself and a bottle 
of wine."
	"Me and wine.  I can do that.  What time?"
	"The usual time, 6:30," Duncan answered.
	"I'll tell Mike to cover for me while I'm out."
	"Great.  We'll see you around, Joe," MacLeod said and 
moved to leave.
	"Eh.. Macƒ" Methos began, then looked at Joe.  "Can I 
bum a ride home off you?"
	Joe shrugged.  "If you don't mind helping me with 
locking up."
	"Not at all."
	"Then, sure.  I'll give you a ride home."
	"I'll be home later, Mac. Okay?"
	MacLeod looked utterly dumfounded and it seemed that 
he would argue, then Methos gave him a very meaningful look, 
and he was sharp enough to take the hint.
	"Okay.  See you later."
	The mortal and Immortal watched as MacLeod walked out.
	"All right, what was that all about?" Joe demanded.
	Methos didn't answer at first.  He came around behind 
the bar, and began putting away the cleaned glassware.
	"What gives, Adam?"
	"I just wanted some time to speak with you alone, 
that's all."
	"Why?"
	The Immortal shrugged, and switched from glassware to 
utensils.  "I wanted to apologize for leaving so abruptly.  
Duncan told me you wereƒ upset."
	"Not really upset, justƒ disappointed."
	Methos put down the handful of spoons he was holding, 
and gripped Joe's shoulders.
	"You know I would never do anything to hurt you."
	"I know.  I justƒ I didn't even know when you'd gone, 
or whereƒ"
	"I know.  That was inconsiderate of me.  I'm sorry."
	Joe brushed it off.  "It's okay."
	"No, it's not.  There are few people in this world 
that I count as my friends, and I try to do right by them.  
In this case, I was upset and I didn't think before I left."
	"Yeah, well, you're forgetting that I know how Mac can 
be.  No apologies necessary." 
	They shared a few moments of easy silence as Joe 
tallied up the day's receipts, and logged them in the 
register.
	"Place isn't doing too bad," he commented.  "Jimmy's 
band packed the place tonight."
	"I'm glad."
	"Yeah.  It's good to be solvent."
	Methos shrugged.  "I've been a prince and a pauper.  
Each has its own perks."
	"A prince?  When?"
	"A long time ago.  A very long time ago.  I'll tell 
you about it, someday, but not tonight."
	"Okay, whenever."
	Joe went back to tallying the receipts, not realizing 
that Methos was coming up behind him.  He started when the 
strong arms wrapped around his waist, and a chin rested on 
his shoulder.
	"Adam?"
	Soft lips kissed his ear, sending shivers down his 
spine.
	"I know you would have preferred I come to you instead 
of going to New Orleans."
	The mortal sighed heavily.  "What would you have 
wanted with an old man like me?  Besides all the experience 
I have is thirty years out of date."
	One hand rubbed his abdomen.  "Some things are 
universal, Joe.  Things are basically the same, only now we 
have K-Y instead of lamp oil," Methos teased.
	Joe laughed nervously. "You're awful."
	The laugh was returned.  "I know."
	"So what's this all about, hm?"
	"It's about me trying to tell you I love you, and that 
I am sorry I treated you poorly."
	"Apology accepted."
	"Good," Methos answered and nipped Joe's ear.
	"Ow!  Hey!  What did you do that for?  Want my blood 
or something?"
	"Hmmm, now that's an idea.  Maybe I'm not really 
Immortal anymore.  Maybe I've become a vampire so I can 
cheat the Game."
	Joe craned his head, and stared wide-eyed at the Old 
Man.  "You're joking, right?"
	Methos slid his arms from around his friend, and felt 
inside his mouth.  "Hmm, no, no fangs.  I guess I am joking.  
Though I have become rather nocturnal these last few weeks," 
he replied, flashing a huge grin so Joe could see almost all 
his teeth.
	"Yeah.  Well, don't scare me like that, okay?"
	The Immortal smiled tenderly and ventured a kiss on 
Joe's cheek.  "Not if I don't have to, Joe," he assured, 
then continued.  "Tell you what.  Why don't you come over 
early tomorrow.  Or better yet, come home with me and spend 
the night.  I know for a fact that Duncan is feeling pretty 
sorry about how he treated you.  We can use that to our 
advantage."	
	Joe snickered and shook his head.  "You are one 
manipulating SOB."
	"I know, but I'm good at it.  What do you say?"
	"No way."
	"Oh, come on, Joe.  Live a little.  Come up for a 
drink.  If Duncan isn't groveling for forgiveness at your 
feet before you leave, I'll pay my bar tab."
	"You serious?" Joe asked, amazed.
	"Absolutely."
	"Hell, I could buy a new keyboard with what you owe!"
	"Yes, but you have to win first."
	"If he's not groveling by dawn, you pay up.  Deal?"
	"Deal."
	Joe chuckled and locked the receipts in the safe.  
"Oh, I can see it now.  A brand new Fender-Rhodes, maybe a 
new amplifierƒ"
	"Hey, hey.  Don't count your chickens before they're 
hatched.  I happen to know that Duncan is _very_ sorry," 
Methos informed as they began to walk out the door.
	"How sorry?"
	"As sorry as I tell him to be."
	"That's cheating, Methos."
	"Yes, but I'm good at that too.  Besides, I'd get a 
certain amount of personal satisfaction in seeing him beg 
for your pardon."
	"But then I wouldn't get my new keyboard," Joe 
bemoaned, shutting the bar door and making sure it was 
secure.
	"Not necessarily.  That depends on how guilty he's 
feeling."
	Joe gave him an amused look.  "You're horrible, you 
now that."
	"I know.  But you love me anyway.  And you love Duncan 
too.  So why don't you just come up to the loft with me and 
we'll see what happens?"
	"I'll think about it."
	They arrived at the car and Methos got in the 
passenger seat.  He didn't push and remained quiet as Joe 
drove the short distance to the loft, and parked beside it.
	"Well?"
	The mortal gave him an incredulous look.  "I'd better 
not regret this."
	Methos grinned.  "I'll make it worth your while."
	"Okay, but I want at least a new amp out of this."
	"Believe me, Joe, by the time we're finished with him, 
he'll get you anything you want."
	Joe sighed and turned off the car.
	"All right.  But if he asks me, I'm going to say this 
was all your idea."
	"I'll take full responsibility."
	"You?  Take responsibility?  That'll be the day," the 
mortal jibed as they got out of the car.
	"Hey, stranger things have happened.  Me falling in 
love with Duncan MacLeod for one."
	"Oh that's easy.  Everyone either loves him or hates 
him.  No in-between."
	"True.  But he loves me.  And he even apologized for 
killing Byron," Methos said, holding the dojo door open for 
Joe, then leading the way to the elevator.
	"Maybe there's hope for the world after all."
	"No, just hope for us.  That's all any of us can wish 
for in this life, Joe. The rest is out of our hands."
	"I guess you're right."
	Methos smiled and motioned to the elevator.
	"Shall we?"
	"Yeah.  Let's go."
	"I love it when you take control, Joe."
	"Don't start."
	"Don't start?  As Lestat would say, cher, I haven't 
even begun!"
	"I am going to regret this, aren't I?"
	"No, Joe.  No regrets.  Only the taking of an 
opportunity.  Would you let it pass you by?"
	The mortal was silent, pensive for a moment, then he 
shook his head.
	"No."
	"All right, then, let's go."
	"Are you sure about this?"
	Methos gave his friend a winning smile.  "Of course."
	Then he ushered Joe into the elevator, and held his 
hand as they went up.
	
Finis