Happy Holidays, dswdiane!

[amand_r]

Title: Refraction (1/2)
Author: Paperback Wriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiter! aka mackiedockie
Written for: dswdiane
Characters: Duncan, Methos, Amanda, Ceirdwyn, Joe, mention of Rebecca and Ramirez, OC
Pairings: D/M, other relationships intimated
Rating: (R+)
Warnings: Content includes a scene of somewhat explicit slash and intimations of femslash and polyamory as well as a touch of magical unrealism. It is Highlander, and there is combat and associated violence. Pagan elements unapologetically abound.
Author's Notes: I am hesitant to list all pairings to preserve some small illusion of suspense. I wish to profusely thank my long-suffering beta royale, who has worked above and beyond on this monster. All, and I do mean all, errors, gaffs, mistakes and fubars contained herein are mine.



Refraction

-1-

The woodland was calm, the fall-frosted trees whispering and expectant as Ceirdwyn ascended the ancient paths that wound around the tor to the heart of the grove. Her burden bumped and pawed at the sides of the soft bag she carried, warm and wriggling. She murmured reassuring words in a language recognized only by the grey standing stones nearly buried in the forest's sheddings through the centuries.

The flat stone near the circle's center was nearly obscured by drifting autumn leaves, but they were easily brushed away--the site had been well tended, in the years before Rebecca's death. Rebecca had belonged to many tribes in her long, long years, and her time with the Vocontii had put her at odds with Ceirdwyn's own Iceni as the Romans turned Celt against Celt, but war had piled upon war over the years, and the hatreds formed in youth faded even from Immortal memories.

Rebecca had become a respected equal, and even a shield friend, after Immortal fashion. They floated in and out of each others' lives over the centuries, celebrating over victories, comforting during defeats, warming each other against the winds of time, within and without. She had been close enough to Ceirdwyn's heart for her to feel the tug of Andarte's stones as they belled in sorrow with her Quickening. The willows still wept for her death in the nearby ruins of Rebecca's keep.

Now Ceirdwyn visited her beloved grove in Rebecca's stead, and whisked the ancient stone clean, to soak in the sun's rays and the moon's beams before the winter fell, against the day of the suns return. Gently she lay her burden upon the icy granite and loosened the ties, sliding the bag away. The hare she had snared in the dried remains of the lavender fields near Rebecca's Wood froze with fear under her stern gaze.

Slowly, Ceirdwyn drew a triangular dagger, and raised her arms to the skies. And waited. And waited some more. Finally she winked one eye at the hare and reminded it, sotto voce, "This is the part where you run away in an auspicious direction, and sow confusion among our enemies--now, shoo!"

Obediently, and with great speed, the hare obeyed, picking the most auspicious direction that lead him the farthest away from the clearly dangerous woman with the very sharp knife.

"Good choice," Ceirdwyn approved, before she invoked the words of her own first mentor, Boudicca. "I thank you, Andarte, and call out to you as one woman to another...I implore and pray to you for victory and to maintain life and freedom against arrogant, unjust, insatiable and profane men..."

When the invocation was finished, Ceirdwyn tended the outer circle, clearing dead fall and underbrush from the remaining stones, greeting each enduring edifice as an old friend or respected elder. Some of the oldest stones were placed long before her own familiar dendrolatrous beliefs evolved; they deserved respect as well, though she did not love them. A chosen few she avoided--not all ancient powers welcomed a woman's touch, even a woman warrior. Just so--Andarte only tolerated the most observant filidh and seers among the male mages, and woe betide those who sported their swords carelessly in her precincts.

An odd, eerily familiar snatch of song threaded through the glade as she inspected the oaks, raising her hackles. It had been centuries since she had heard this song from a living throat. She moved to the crest of the hill where it overlooked the River Sequana as it curled around the ruins of Rebecca's keep. She scanned the still standing chapel and inner bailey that Rebecca had been using as a retreat in recent years. Tanks and planes had smashed the outer keep's walls in the last century's invasions, but the core living quarters remained, bereft, now, since Rebecca's loss.

There was no movement on the grounds but for the fleet footed hare, speeding back to his burrow in the lavender field. The River Sequana (so few now remembered Sequana as the god who guarded the source of the Seine), had doubled as both moat and port for trading goods in better days when the Keep had thrived with a fully attendant abbey. Reeds grew wild on the bank where trade boats once jostled and bumped, vying to land and hawk their wares in the Sunday fairs. Now, a single old fisherman floated in a dory anchored against the current. The dory was Rebecca's too, Ceirdwyn realized, taken from her mooring at the pier.

The fisherman gazed intently into the water, slowly paying out a thick line, far too heavy for any native trout. And he was singing a song no fashionably modern French trout should recognize. Ceirdwyn frowned, parsing the phrases she could make out. Some of the singer's words were creatively but direly mispronounced, yet the notes carried over the slow moving water with eldritch clarity on the autumn breeze.

"Whoa...gotcha..." she heard the fisherman remark as the boat suddenly rocked over a rush of released bubbles, and dipped in an unseen current. "Damn, the kid was right. It worked." He grasped the gunwales until the boat steadied, then dropped a small buoy marker over the side. With a sudden rush of anger, Ceirdwyn realized the man was angling for something far more rare and dangerous than the native fish. The water's disturbance revealed the charged focus of a potent elemental power.

Ceirdwyn checked her weapons, and her back trail, and eased down the hill toward the river, careful to maintain her cover. She was not happy with the idea of a stranger hunting artifacts on the borders of Rebecca's retreat, and even less so with an unlearned intruder using ancient lays near Andarte's place of power. Nouveau Druids offended her sense of propriety--they so often had no idea of the meanings of the rituals they aped or the tools they misused.

The distant drone downriver of a powerboat interrupted both stalker and prey. This was insupportable--Rebecca's stretch of river sanctuary was off-limits to powered craft. Ceirdwyn's quarry looked no more happy than she felt about the intrusion, frowning through his beard, clearly unhappy to be disturbed at his dubious task. He quickly hauled his small anchor and rowed upstream, away from his marker buoy, aiming toward the limited cover of the aging pier.

He didn't make it. A sleek, overbuilt powerboat rounded the bend and cut straight toward the dory, making no effort to give way. One large man pointed, clearly aware of the dory in their path. The pilot, Ceirdwyn realized with detached anger, was increasing his speed, not slowing down.

With ugly precision the boat's reinforced bow cut the dory in half, launching the unlucky singer into the winter chilled waters, still clutching an oar. The boat's pilot cut the motor and turned back amongst the flotsam, while his hulking co-pilot poked a gaff toward the man barely staying afloat in the water.

"Dawson! We know what you've got, and we know what you're after," the pilot called out. "Give it to us, and we'll pull you out before you freeze to death."

"Maybe when hell freezes over," his victim snarled. The man called Dawson still had enough fight left to swing his oar at the powerboat, smashing the fingers of the man with the gaff, making him howl and drop it in the water. Swearing at his partner's clumsiness, the pilot tried to aim a small, ugly gun over the side of the bobbing boat. Ceirdwyn grinned, and impulsively chose sides. She had always been partial to the sons of the totems of Daw and Raven, even if this one did have a heathen accent and thieving ways.

Trusting that the pilot was concentrating on his moving target, she broke cover, ran lightly along the path and used the pier to launch herself at the stern of the marauding watercraft. She drew her sword in mid leap, letting loose an Iceni war cry that hadn't been heard since the last Viking invasion. The unexpected ululation and the crashing addition of Ceirdwyn's weight rocked boat, disrupting his aim as he fired. Still, from over the side she heard a pained oath and faint struggling splash from the man in the water. Angered she might have arrived a step too late, she lunged, scoring his forearm deeply as the gun came around. His arm dropped straight down, a forearm muscle slashed, but he still gripped the gun.

"I think you got him, Leif! He went under. I'll get her..." the overly muscled man by the rail promised bravely, if misguidedly, especially given his injured hand. She had left herself open to his attack deliberately, and when he reached for her, she reached back, squeezing his injured hand enthusiastically. She winced against his high-pitched cry for help, and encouraged his momentum forward, leading him over her hip and headfirst into the metal housing of the Mercury outboard. She tapped him on the temple for good measure with the hilt of her sword to save her ears further assault.

She turned back to the pilot, Leif, as he vainly fumbled to tie off the hole in his arm with a handkerchief. His greying blond hair caught the watery winter sunlight, and his arctic eyes again stirred bloody memories of northern raiders. "Put down the gun, and help that man aboard, or I'll find a more inconvenient target for my blade," she warned, deliberately dropping the point of her sword to hover over a significantly more sensitive body part. "Then you and your man go over the side to join him."

"They just don't make minions like they used to, do they? No initiative, pitiful work ethic, tiny pain threshold," he shared with her in annoyance. "You can toss him right now, as far as I'm concerned." Then, with a great deal of initiative, and no hint of pain, he hauled his dangling forearm up by the twisted tourniquet, and shot her point blank below the breastbone. The impact pushed her staggering to the stern, and before she could recover, her new-made enemy turned and gunned the motor, toppling her off the beam into the frigid waters of the Sequana.

-2-

"Stop playing with that thing, or you'll get us arrested for indecent exposure," Methos complained as he steered his car into the cramped car park below his apartment. There was barely room to offload their luggage and groceries to restock the empty larder.

"In Paris?" MacLeod scoffed. "For bad fashion, maybe. Not art. This one should be displayed naked."

"It's a sword, MacLeod, not an etching." Methodically Methos stripped off their luggage tags--Toledo, Lisbon, Andorra.

"It's a Ramirez, Methos, smithed by his own hands and formed and fired in the finest forge in Toledo. It cries for attention, and appreciation."

"It cries for cleaning and sharpening, MacLeod. Otherwise it's just a glorified letter opener. And I still say there's something wrong with the balance." Mindful of the stairs to his apartment, Methos started loading MacLeod with the luggage, hanging the groceries over his elbows as well, while he followed with the trophy sword, hunched in his trench coat against the December wind.

"Be careful with it," MacLeod warned. "It will prove it's mettle, you'll see. It's a Ramirez!"

"Sentimentalist."

"Philistine."

"On occasion. Dagon had barley beer down," Methos agreed vaguely. "We should have taken Joe along to Toledo. He knows how to take you down a peg when you get giddy over souvenirs."

"He learned that from you. You're a bad influence on him. Besides, he said he was busy, and that kind of travel is getting hard on him."

"Don't you let him hear you say that. He'll end up tailing you over the salt road to Timbuktu, just to prove you wrong. Still, I think he was avoiding me even before we left. I mean, 'Gone Fishing?' What kind of excuse is that?"

"Is that a trick question?" MacLeod, who had grown up snaring salmon, asked with a furrowed brow.

"He's from Chicago, not Speyside. They don't eat the trout there and survive to his age."

"Maybe it's tax season."

"This is France. It's always tax season."

"Bar tab?"

"Paid it before we left."

"Then he's probably still recovering from the shock," MacLeod needled as he stumped to the top of the stairs, cheerfully juggling their belongings on the landing.

"Hah. Next month is your turn. The champagne's on you on New Year's Eve. And none of those cheap imitations. I want Domaine de la Fere." Methos unlocked the door and carefully checked the apartment before ushering him in and hanging up his duster and sword.

"I'll clean out my Swiss bank account." MacLeod carefully wiped off his boots before entering and delivered the groceries to the kitchen counter, the luggage to the bedroom. "You said Joe wasn't at the bar when you called from the airport?"

"I wanted to let him know we got back early. It looks better on his performance reviews when he stays ahead of the curve on your reports."

MacLeod smile took on an edge at the mention of the organization. "He could always retire."

"On what? Band gigs don't even keep him in guitar picks and coasters."

MacLeod glanced over, just to be sure Methos was joking. "He just has to give the word--we'll buy him a guitar pick factory," he vowed with abandon.

"What do you mean, we?" Methos disavowed just as quickly. "There's more money in coasters, anyway. Haven't you noticed there are more drinkers than dyspeptic dance-hall crooners?"

"I'm telling Joe you said that." Grinning, MacLeod took charge of the new sword, blowing off an invisible speck of dust and placing it on the mantel, before standing back to survey it proudly. "You're a beauty."

Methos pointedly ignored the sword, preferring to study the more esthetically pleasing parts of MacLeod's body when he returned to the kitchen. His attention divided, he stabbed at his cell phone one last time. "Amanda! What did you do with Joe while we were gone? Call me!" Methos clicked his phone closed and shoved it deep into his pocket, nettled. "She never calls, he never writes..." he muttered.

"You just miss him because he doesn't critique your yarning," MacLeod called out from behind the refrigerator door, as he put away the fresh provisions. "Or is it Amanda you miss? Counting the Pyrenees, we were only gone a few days. How much trouble can they have gotten into in under a week?"

"You're kidding, right? We're talking Joe, here. Going Christmas shopping with Amanda. A true sign the apocalypse is upon us. I should know."

"You should know," MacLeod agreed solemnly.

"Being cheeky will cost you a beer. Where's the Artois?" Methos asked.

"Behind the cabbage."

"Silly place for it," Methos complained, then jumped as MacLeod cheekily tweaked him in a strategically sensitive spot as he bent over to search the cooler. As Methos whirled around, MacLeod backed away, blinking as innocently as a Highland sheep. "You worry too much about Joe. He's survived Amanda's wiles for years. He may be the only man to resist her charms and live to tell the tale."

"Besides me?" Methos returned swiftly, only to groan as MacLeod grinned knowingly.

"That's not the way I heard it. Amanda was miffed last week after you spilled the beans to Joe about the Bishop, the actress and the amateur pearl diver. She spilled back."

"She told you about the trip to the Virgin Islands? I can explain that..."

"The way Amanda told it, there was nothing virginal about it," MacLeod said with mock sadness. "Warm beach, full moon, cold rum, hot limbo music, you didn't have a chance."

"That will teach you to go celibate on me." Methos closed his eyes, and enjoyed a moment of perfect recall. "When you dance for me on a moonlit beach with your toes curling in the foamy waves, I promise to let you have your way with me, too, MacLeod."

"Alas, my poor attempts to seduce you with flamenco in Toledo seem to have left you aloof and parched for her company."

"There were a hundred other people in that bar, MacLeod! Speaking of being arrested in flagrante flamenco."

"There's only the two of us now." With deliberate flair, MacLeod's narrow hips twitched to the left, then slid to the right, snapping forward, taunting. The hard heels of his boots cracked against the tile floor, hammering out a tale of hungry desire.

Leaving the refrigerator door hanging open, Methos stalked toward MacLeod, beer forgone, if not forgotten. His own boot heels clicked with sharp precision, clear and threatening. His hands closed about MacLeod's wrists, fingers barely brushing the skin over his pulse. Slowly, he raised MacLeod's arms over his head. He caught his breath as MacLeod slowly dipped his lips to his neck, running his hot tongue just under his jaw in sultry defiance.

"There's nothing virginal about you, either," Methos breathed into his ear, feeling their hips close, hard need dueling through soft denim. With a swift shift of weight and tug of arm, he had MacLeod bent backwards over the long kitchen bar, arms still overhead in false surrender. Gently, now, gently he moved against him, daring MacLeod to regain control. "It's time I taught you to respect your elders."

"Never trust anyone over thirty five hundred..."

"See? You're learning already."

MacLeod deliberately drew the toe of his boot up, pressing and caressing the inseam of Methos' jeans. "Let's skip to chapter two."

"I think you need some remedial work," Methos chided, controlling the disrespectful and highly distracting boot by sliding between MacLeod's legs, edging forward until he lightly brushed the bulge beneath his button fly.

MacLeod arched, and Methos eased back, denying him the full contact he desired. "Not yet, you trollop." He tasted the hollow of his neck. "Tart." Explored the lobe of his ear. "Tease." Nudged his knees farther apart, finally leaning over to nip open the buttons of his silky shirt. Gently he eased his hands inside the folds of material to stroke MacLeod from his tight shoulders to twitching flanks, smoothing the knotting muscles beneath the skin.

"You've been flaunting yourself since we left Spain. If I'd known tracking down one of Ramirez's Toledo blades made you this horny, I'd have left you clues to his armory years ago."

"There's an armory?" Pretending to be derailed by the vision of a medieval hall lined with gleaming Toledo steel, MacLeod drew his arms down and half sat up, thwarting the subtle pattern that Methos was drawing from his neck to his nethers.

"Ah, ah! Pay attention. You're a terrible student, MacLeod."

"You keep going over the same material," MacLeod pointed out helpfully.

"It's excellent material." Methos made him pay for the disrespectful remark with a quick, promising nip to the sensitive edge of his right pectoral. "Pity that won't leave a mark," Methos said with his best pitiless smile, and he bent to rake and ravage the Highlander's torso with torturously gentle licks and lashings from his tongue.

Methos began to move his hips to a long, sliding rhythm, up MacLeod's trapped cock and slowly down, rubbing his own length hard and fast against a straining quad, or an inner thigh, treating himself while teasing MacLeod unmercifully.

Methos savored each tiny breaking point of pleasure he induced in MacLeod, until his willing victim gathered and snapped, and twisted up from the counter with a swift and stunning reversal, pinning him to the cold kitchen floor. Tumbling and tangling, their legs battled for leverage and locked to grind their clothing-trapped bodies impossibly closer, until finally they came, laughing and swearing and gasping for air.

"Race you to the shower," Methos craftily dared MacLeod, who lay across his chest, limp as a sleeping cat, and heavy as a Bengal tiger.

"You first," MacLeod offered generously, barely even moving his lips.

"What if Joe walks in?" Methos speculated, pulling the Watcher card.

"He's gone fishing."

"Or gone shopping."

"If he's been shopping with Amanda, he's seen more terrifying sights than the two of us glued together on the kitchen floor," MacLeod reminded him sleepily.

"Good point," Methos gave up in the face of superior logic and strategy, resigned to a short and happy stint as MacLeod's mattress. He'd had worse careers in his checkered past. Much worse.

-3-

Amanda blew through her door and caught up her phone just as it stopped humming on the side table. It would have been rude to bring a phone to the manicurist, after all, somewhat like bringing an alarm clock to church or a boom box to the library. At least she thought it was--mores changed so quickly nowadays, faster than the new toys came out.

Amanda stared at the voice mail notices on her phone, scrolling down the screen with a long red fingernail. Pearl garnet, to be exact. It matched the earrings she had picked up in Luxembourg on that little job for Fitz during the war. Which war she didn't bother recalling--they all tended to run together after the first century or so. "Methos, probably an annoying reminder about the solstice tomorrow, as if I'd forget, Lucy, the accountant will take care of that one, Bert, I don't think so, darling, Methos again. But no Joe. That's not like Joe, to leave a lady waiting," she murmured, frowning.

She studied the final entry, a number she didn't recognize. If it was another automatic dial phone spam, she was going to get her second story gear out of storage and raid a few corporate headquarters, promise or no promise to MacLeod. With creative vengeances firmly in mind, she tapped the final message.

"Hello? Is this Amanda? Of course not, it's voice mail. Listen, don't erase me, I really, really need to talk to you. It's about, um, that thing that you asked, um, a mutual guy we know to look into, uh, okay, it's Joe, right? I can't talk now, it's not safe, and I'm in trouble. And I think I might have got Joe in trouble, too, accidentally, really! But he doesn't know that they had all this surveillance that I didn't know about, and they saw all this stuff and heard all this stuff, and now I think they're after me. And him, too. But I can't talk now. Um. Yeah. And I can't like, call his guy, either, you know, the big guy, that Joe er...you know. Because he's out of town, which everyone knows, with that other guy, the weird dangerous dude, that I so don't want to meet, so don't tell him I said that! I heard what happened to Stern. That was gnarly. Can you meet me, like, by the bridge, you know the one, where the car blew up and the Watchers all got shot and Joe was blamed for it even though he wasn't even in the country, you know that bridge? Because I think I know how to get Rebecca's crystals back, and Joe's out trying it out, and now it turns out someone who shouldn't know does know and they're going after them too, and that's bad, you know? So, if you can please, please, meet me at the bridge, I'll bring all the stuff, I'm going there right now, I'll call you from the bridge, see you, bye. Oh. Yeah. My name's Skip."

"Of course it is, Skippy," Amanda crooned dangerously. Halfway through the message she was already donning her hunting outfit, with extra ankle holster and throwing knives. "Kids these days. Whatever happened to 'Joey's fallen down the well, come help?' "

-4-

Before MacLeod could commence snoring, the vibration of Methos' cell phone in his pocket roused them both.

"You keep it there? On vibrate?" MacLeod inquired, a bit scandalized. "I'm amazed you don't dial yourself."

"Constantly. What do you think I borrow your phone for?" Methos returned, as he tried to dig it out. "I'm amazed it's still ticking, after the abuse you gave it."

"Ticking, or tickling?" MacLeod's expression of innocence was seriously undercut by the wicked enthusiasm with which he assisted Methos to extract the phone.

Methos retrieved the device and curled up and wrapped his arms around his knees to prevent MacLeod from 'helping' further. "Allo?" He listened for a short time, then shot to his feet. "Vite. Tell me when and where." He motioned for MacLeod to get up and find them both a change of clothes, and switched to Dutch for the rest of his conversation, until MacLeod wandered back in with . "Who? All right. Stay in touch. My thanks, Madame. You are a jewel beyond price."

MacLeod blatantly eavesdropped, but his Dutch was rusty and Methos' questions had been short and carefully worded. "Who was that?"

Methos folded up the phone, and frowned, mechanically taking the clean pair of jeans that MacLeod handed him. "My favorite librarian. Eugenie. She's a good friend of Joe's, too. I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't an item, back in the day, before she married respectably."

"Joe's not respectable?"

"We are talking about the same man, right? The guy with a pesky hobby of shooting you in the back? Itinerant musician and voyeur? The monk without portfolio?"

"And you two sharing unsafe librarians. Joe has been hiding some of his best vices from me. He wasn't with you in the Caribbean, too, was he?"

"Amanda wishes. Hell, I wish. But he caught your celibacy like some sort of horrible virus." Methos shuddered, and snatched the warmer of the two sweaters MacLeod proffered. "Besides, the last real vacation Joe took, the Grateful Dead were still touring Egypt." Which made Joe's current scarcity even more out of character.

"What's wrong?" MacLeod asked, picking up on Methos' sense of urgency. "Who was that?"

"Eugenie Mohrman heads the European Archive. She catalogs everything Immortal, from chronicles to swords to legacies. You remember Daniel Geiger? The man who would be Immortal? They found one of Rebecca's crystals on his body when it washed up, years ago, and it went back into Eugenie's vault. Except that somehow, this week, the crystal has gone missing. Luther's chronicles pertaining to the stone have been tampered with, too, as well as some key papers of Rebecca's."

"And the Watcher's head archivist called you?" There was a definite note of skepticism in MacLeod's voice. "I didn't know the Watchers sent out overdue notices to lapsed researchers."

"She knows my...interest...in those particular entries. And she's worried."

"Were you the last one to check them out?" MacLeod asked softly, in respect for Alexa.

"No, not me. They've been locked up since Regional Coordinator Stern got himself killed trying to nab all the pieces. Such a loss," Methos added with arid insincerity.

"Not to mention the doubly devious Daniel Geiger," MacLeod muttered darkly. "So who looked at the crystal last?"

"Joe. Joe did. Eugenie let him into the vault just three days ago. And now she says he's missing, too."

MacLeod tossed Methos his coat and sword, and buttoned up his shirt before donning his own duster. "We need to find Amanda. It sounds like she took Joe on one hell of a shopping spree."

-5-

Ceirdwyn roused from the Otherworld with a great inhalation of air, which rather surprised her. She should have been swallowing cloudy water from the stirred up bottom muck in the shallows of the icy river. Instead, she was lying on relatively comfortable, if equally cold, shore muck from the weedy bank under the pier. Each revival had it's own unique discomforts, but she would take breathing air over water any day, no matter what Ramirez raved.

The mad peacock would have breathed ammonia if he could have convinced a space traveler to take him to Venus, just to see the sights. He was strange, that way. It saddened her that he didn't get the chance.

A dried cattail reed snapped, bringing her fully into the present. She was being watched. Her skin prickled as she carefully drew the dagger from the sheath hidden above her ankle. Rolling to a position of attack, Ceirdwyn nearly skewered a silvering old warrior who was elbowing his upper body toward her through the reeds. He had leaned perilously close, no doubt in hopes of looting the dead. She had done the same, often enough, in more pragmatic times.

"Dammit, lady, be careful with that thing." He held up his corded right arm, clearly still hale enough to wield a heavy sword, but his hand was empty, weaponless. His other arm stayed wrapped tightly around his torso, and she could hear his teeth clicking against the cold.

"I amcareful with this thing. It's generally considered poor tactics to lead with your throat," Ceirdwyn noted as she studied her captive. Soaking wet and covered in mud to the ears, he seemed more annoyed than afraid. "It isn't wise to surprise a person who has just been shot at. They're liable to be cranky."

"Tell me about it," he conceded with a sideways grin that bespoke experience in the matter. "But I'm not the one who shot you," he pointed out.

"Shot at me. I'm not injured," she prevaricated. "The water just shocked me for a moment."

"Of course, the bullet hole in your shirt is just a new fad." he said, blithely shrugging off her transparent excuse for not being dead. "Shot, shot at, just semantics. I owe you thanks, by the way. I thought I was a goner, until you came out of nowhere."

"I wasn't 'nowhere.' I was inspecting the estate. An estate where you are trespassing, by the way, and burgling a boat."

"I never burgle! Trespassing...eh," he made a rocking motion with his hand." A friend gave me the key. Somewheres." He patted a soggy pocket. "If it isn't at the bottom of the river with my Glock. And my cell phone," he added despondently. "You wouldn't have one on you?"

Ceirdwyn shook her head. She didn't carry one on holy ground. The magicks were incompatible, and they angered the air.

"Oh, incidentally, the name is Joe," he added, holding out his right hand with misplaced optimism.

"Ceirdwyn," she allowed, though her knife didn't waver. Being shot at excited her issues about trusting strangers. "Do you always go fishing with an automatic weapon?" she asked acidly.

"I do when the fish are six feet tall and carry sharp swords. I kind of prefer being the one bringing the gun to a knife fight, all else being equal," Joe said, laughing at a private joke. "These guys weren't on the agenda, though, and I just wasn't expecting them to ram first and ask questions later. Shooting and rowing are kind of mutually exclusive operations."

"They carry swords as well?" Ceirdwyn asked sharply.

"Well, you were, and you dropped it in the boat," he observed dryly.

"And what would they even want with a sword?"

Her captive dropped all sign of pretense. "All the better to kill you with, my dear. And believe me, they know how. They're fanatics, who consider Immortals an abomination of the natural order of life. Once Immortals are eliminated, human manifest destiny is restored. In other words, they're batshit crazy."

"And you're not?" Ceirdwyn remarked, remembering the peculiar sight of him leaning over the river, singing.

"The jury's still out on that," Joe admitted.

"Who are you to them? What were you looking for in the river? When did you find out about Immortals? And why aren't you dying of hypothermia?"

He cavalierly ignored the first three questions and answered the fourth. "Freezing to death? Still an option," he admitted with a chattering grin. He flashed open his tattered windbreaker, revealing a wetsuit, before wrapping his arm tightly against himself again. "It's just taking a little longer than Leif figured. But you can get away before he comes back to search the river for bodies. Confusion to our enemies!" he laughed, and Ceirdwyn realized the hypothermia was probably more advanced than she had first thought.

"It seems to me that batshit is catching." Ceirdwyn sighed, and put away her knife. So far, her miscreant seemed mostly harmless, and even somewhat helpful. The quick look beneath his coat had also revealed splinters of what might have been the dory's freeboard embedded in the neoprene along his ribs. That had to hurt, or it would after he thawed out. She studied the drag marks leading down to the shore, and the mud covering his body, clicked her tongue at the sight of his his lower legs still trailing back, obscured under the murky water. "You pulled me out, and pushed me up onto the bank," she realized, reshuffling her assumptions.

Joe shrugged. "It seemed the least I could do. But you'd better get going, now. I know a little something about this guy, Leif, and he will be back. He may bring a lot of friends, too, now that he knows an Immortal is here."

"I'm not going anywhere without you. I have far too many questions. Still, we can put them aside until we find a hot fire and a warm brandy. Now, up you go, let's get you out of that water and onto your feet..." She found her own footing and caught him by the collar, ignoring his strikingly lurid protests, until she realized that his extremities did not trail into the river at all.

"Where are your legs?" she found herself shouting, unreasonably angered at the thought of losing even an unschooled bard, right after she had found him. But there was no sign of blood loss, or broken bone.

"Up on the pier," he pointed beyond her, to a large, misshapen duffel, adding in a much put upon tone, "I didn't want to get them wet. The dory leaked."

"You are crazy," Ceirdwyn repeated, this time failing to keep the admiration out of her voice.

"Flattery will get you nowhere. Now hand me my legs, and the brandy will be on me."

-6-

"So. You have a personal librarian?" MacLeod asked as he drove through the narrow streets, intrigued. "I should look into the possibilities."

"What, and demote Joe? What do you think he does all night, locked in his office? Update his Facebook page?"

MacLeod grinned. "Nope. I do that for him."

Methos automatically checked the rainy streets for surveillance as they left the Paris traffic behind them. "You do like to live dangerously, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan Reckless Endangerment. If Joe ever catches on you've been impersonating him online..."

"Not impersonating. Chronicling. A little quid pro quo. Besides, somebody needs to get his online act together--you should see the nonsense someone is putting up about him on MySpace."

"Amateur," Methos huffed, shifting in his seat. "I'll have you know his gigs have doubled since those bootlegs of him at Le Jazz Hot were posted."

"What happens when he reads the profile? 'Single, but searching?' And how about 'Too Romantic to Marry?' " MacLeod's hands left the wheel to put in air quotes. "He's going to have a fit when he figures it out."

"No one takes those seriously. And I won't stab you if you won't tell on me," Methos offered reasonably.

MacLeod considered. "Sounds like a deal. Joe will shoot us both, anyway, when he finds out. Might as well keep the dry cleaning to a minimum."

"I'm going to try the bar again," Methos said, restlessly dialing again. "Hi. Yeah, I'm looking for Joe. Well, I did call earlier, but..." Methos frowned. "There's no need to be rude about it." And he snapped the phone shut.

"What did he say?"

"I believe the precise words were, 'What part of 'Gone Fishing' don't you understand?' "

"Turn up here--the closest parking is on the right."

MacLeod turned right, but didn't bother with legalities and simply double-parked in front of Amanda's door. They both tensed, in turns relieved and annoyed to detect an Immortal signature. They glanced at each other before ascending the walkway together, their senses heightened against ambush. Therefore, they weren't completely taken unawares when the door burst open and Amanda swept out in full battle regalia. Catching them both by the elbow, she steered them sternly to the street.

"Back in the car, boys. We have a job to do."

MacLeod bowed Amanda into the back seat, and she accepted his hand with a regal nod. Still, after climbing in, MacLeod locked the childproofed rear doors to make sure she found no other pressing engagements. He and Methos turned to face Amanda, and asked as one, "Where is Joe?"

Amanda leaned back and cocked her head. "That was very peculiar. It sounded as if you two think I should know. But I haven't seen him since just after you two went haring off looking for that forged pigsticker Ramirez fobbed off on the Archbishop of Aragon to get the Inquisition off his back."

"He did not!" MacLeod instinctively defended his teacher's teacher. "Ramirez was a master craftsman!"

"Ramirez was crafty, all right," Amanda admitted with a knowing smile. "And he built that sword to fail, no matter who the Archbishop hired to handle it--the Archbishop was partial to using accomplished assassins when he couldn't bring the Inquisition to bear. Ramirez hated him, and made it his game to foil him at every turn. Every assassin who used it met with ill luck in duels."

There was a tinny beep, as cars stacked up behind them on the narrow street. MacLeod pulled out, glaring at Amanda through the rear-view mirror. "What does this have to do with Joe?"

"I'm getting to that. Go north and east. We need to get to the Sequana Bridge."

"Where the crystals were lost," Methos observed quietly, as if that made all the sense in the world.

"Is Joe there?" MacLeod asked with exaggerated patience.

Her worry unmasked, Amanda replied, "I hope not."

"Why?" Methos didn't bother with a patient veneer.

"I think it's a trap. Just like the last time. Listen. You need to hear this." Amanda withdrew her phone and gently tapped the screen, replaying the message from the unlucky Skip. Ignoring the stunned silence that followed, she blithely carried on with her tale.

"So after you two left for sunny Spain, Joe and I got together to commiserate about being left behind in the rain in Paris. I was telling Joe about the sword, and how Ramirez sabotaged it to handicap the Archbishops agents...oh, and by the way, MacLeod, it's not a good idea to use it for a kata. The wily old fraud hid pockets of mercury in the tang, handle and offset in the blade--it will, quite literally, turn on you."

"I appreciate the warning," MacLeod said, his enthusiasm for all things Toledo considerably dampened. "Watch out for it, by the way, I threw it in the trunk with a couple of extra live blades. I didn't want to leave it untended in the apartment."

"Still not hearing the connection, Amanda," Methos said with careful politeness.

Amanda wisely decided to revise her tale for speed. "It's like I was telling Joe that night. The last time I saw Ramirez, he was talking with Rebecca about the crystals. She was teasing him about the Archbishop's sword, and whether or not all his gifts were flawed.

"Leaving out the obvious ribald exchange that followed, he eventually took her inquiry quite seriously. He took her pendant, and held it up, and he sang this old lay, like the jongleurs play when the marks are sad and in their cups. It was like two suns rose, the room lit so brightly! And he asked, "Are the flaws in the gifts, or in ourselves?"

There was a long silence, broken only by the whoosh of traffic as MacLeod passed car after car. "And then what?" he finally asked.

"Well, then we went to bed, of course."

"All of you?"

"Where were you in the fifteenth century? Clearly not in a clammy castle in France in the dead of winter. Of course, together."

"And then you told Joe everything you knew about the crystals?"

"Well, it's not like either of you would give him the whole story. And we were sad. And in our cups. So I taught him what I remembered of the old lay."

"And let me guess, your chip of crystal lit up like a Christmas tree."

"Well, no, since I wasn't wearing it," Amanda snapped. "And remember, most of Ramirez's magic came down to charlatan's tricks. It was a song. Only a song. Nothing magical about it. I think they still sing snatches of it in bars."

"When people are sad, and in their cups," Methos whispered, his attention straying very far away.

"The Methuselah stone wasn't magic, Methos," Amanda said gently. "It wasn't even Methuselah's, the old fart, if you can believe Ramirez. The crystal was wonderful, it was beautiful, and it was strange, but it didn't save Daniel Geiger from being shot down like the dog he was, even though he was holding it right there in his hand and believed in it with all his might."

"Then why would Joe steal the fragment left in the Watcher vault?" MacLeod asked.

"He what?" Amanda, astonished, stared at them both in disbelief. "Why in the names of all the saints the church made us both memorize, would he do something as foolish as that?" Then her professional pride kicked in. "Without my help?"

"For the best reason in the world," Methos straightened, and came back to the present. "You were both sad, and in your cups. And Joe wanted to cheer you up."

Amanda sighed. "It would have been easier to go to bed together. That would have cheered me no end."

"MacLeod, you and your monastic retreats have a lot to answer for," Methos growled.

"Amen," Amanda agreed.

-7-

Ceirdwyn fetched the duffel from the pier, surprised at the heft. The swing weight must be nearly twenty pounds. She worried about their mobility--the footing away from the main paths to the castle was uneven at best, and rocky and clogged with undergrowth in the woods beyond. Rebecca prized this retreat for it's distance from civilization, not it's convenience, and she didn't believe in taming and manicuring nature. "Your car is close?" she asked calmly, scouting upriver for more intruders.

"Back at the gate," he said unhappily. "Hell of a hike, for me, anyway, and no cover, dead end road. If Leif did his homework, they already found it."

Leif had struck her as a man who did his homework. "My Jaguar is too far, at the edge of the preserve. I was in a mood for a walk."

"You drive a Jag? Nice..." his voice faded, and she worried his attention was wandering, until he added, "...you hear that? The speedboat, only this time it's in low gear. He's pacing his reinforcements. They're probably sweeping the bank. You gotta move."

"We have to move," she reminded him. She was brooking no argument on that point. Crossing the river was not an option, in Joe's condition, and downstream the lavender field stretched nearly a hectare, devoid of cover, before the ancient, untracked wood blocked their way. "You see that line of willows, leading toward the keep? They mark an old ditch. We can follow it without being seen."

"An old diversion for a moat?" Joe asked, curious despite the circumstances.

"The old sewer."

"I had to ask."

A distant burbling rumble did trouble her ears, now that she realized the source. "Polluters," she spit.

"Probably gas guzzlers, too," Joe added, snarling as he still fumbled to untangle his wet clothes and cram the sockets on over the damp neoprene. "It would be faster to gorilla walk."

"It would be faster to carry you," Ceirdwyn said shortly. It was a command, not a suggestion.

"The hell," her companion protested, but his numbed fingers couldn't hold on as she reloaded the duffel. "Dammit."

"Save your anger for the enemy." She survived his glare, singed but unshaken. The technique for carrying a fallen comrade returned to her all to easily, and with a grunt she hauled him over her shoulder, wincing at the hissing sibilant oaths that no doubt bode some dire revenge in the future. "Hush. If you cooperate, I'll come back for your feet." She kicked the duffel under the pier into some deep weeds, out of plain sight.

A grim, surly truce descended, and she stumped her way to cover and half way to the keep before the first squad of hunters appeared at the treeline and they had to go to their bellies in the frozen ditch. His face had paled to a few shades nearer snow, and belatedly she remembered the broken splinters in his side. Still, there was no choice. They would have been picked off like tame pigeons sitting in the open.

She eeled around, intent on sliding down the ditch and making a run for the duffel, but a firm hand on her shoulder stopped her. "I promised," she said as firmly as she could while still keeping her voice to a whisper.

"Later. When it's over," he whispered back. "If you get unlucky and they see you, we're pinned to the wall. But right now, we keep our heads down, they have to waste time searching where we aren't."

"You've done this before. I took you for a warrior from the start."

"Long, long ago, in a land far, far away. But we never forget, do we?" he grinned.

"No. We never forget."

"Okay. Now that we've got that straight, last one to the castle has to buy the next round," and without another word, he dug into the ditch rubble and root, making more than fair progress on arm, elbow and stump, easing over or around dry sticks that might snap, and leaving little trace for her to erase. He had, indeed, done this before.

Soon they were signalling comfortably with their hands, chancing glances to keep track of the men behind them, who had made the pier and were milling. Ceirdwyn made out a half a dozen footmen, as well as the same two in the boat. The hulking one had a visible wrapping around his hand, and held it to his chest. "A fine blow, Joe. I think you broke it in many places," she complimented.

"Leif isn't looking too happy, either."

"I should have skewered his liver," she complained, unhappy with her aim. "I need to practice more on watercraft."

"Damn, they found my legs," Joe swore. One man was dumping them out of the bag, and laughter carried over the hard frozen ground.

"Keep going, Joe. We'll get them. Later." They were running out of time, and still a hundred meters to go. If the search party continued downstream, they would make the line of willows far sooner.

After the next quick survey, Joe frowned and waved her forward, pointing. "What the hell?" he breathed in her ear.

She chanced a look, and froze, then dropped to the bottom of the ditch, grinning as the pack of hunters broke into a run, crashing through the willows to the other side without even one looking in their direction. Joe shook his head, confused. "They're overrunning the ditch. Heading into that field. What's going on?" Even the boat gunned it's motor, bypassing their position.

"Confusion to our enemies." Still laughing quietly, she pushed him forward. They'd make the castle now. Andarte had smiled upon them, and granted them precious time.

"They're chasing a wild hare."

-8-

To MacLeod's growing horror, Methos took over Amanda's phone and replayed the message over, and over, and over, again.

"Interesting. It's like English, only nearly devoid of any truly meaningful verbs or nouns. You know?" He tapped the phone again, fascinated. "I think we may be listening to the invention of an entirely new form of communication."

MacLeod snatched the phone and held it out the window over the asphalt. "Enough. As pilot of this car, I refuse to listen again. Angles and Saxons are spinning in their graves all over Europe. Even a patriotic Scot like me wouldn't torture them, like, further."

"I don't think you quite have it down, darling. Start slowly, with an 'as if' or two," Amanda piped in from the back seat. She reached out the window and neatly plucked the phone to safety. "Careful with that. It's this century's little black book."

"I'll let Joe know, he could use some new material," Methos perked up.

"Don't you dare. I don't want to scare him. He's still at the top of the list of 'The Ones Who Got Away...So Far."

"Where am I?" Methos made playful grab.

"Careful, or I'll put you under "Parties Like It's 1999...BCE."

"Ow, MacLeod! Amanda's being mean."

"Behave, you two. Don't make me stop this car and throw you both in the trunk to duke it out."

"I love it when he's forceful, don't you?" Amanda winked at Methos.

"It's one of his best selling points. Why, on the Carthaginian market, I could probably get twenty goats and a water buffalo for him, easy."

"Only one?" MacLeod asked, crestfallen. But then his face grew serious, and he slowed the car as they approached the exit second nearest the bridge. "Inventory time. So far, we really don't have much more to go on than a worried librarian, a panicky geek, and a couple of tall bar tales. We don't have anything solid telling us Joe's doing anything but doing some Christmas trimming and taking some long deserved time off. On the other hand, behind all the wisecracks, the three of us are so jumpy that we're talking about everything but the possibility that we might be looking at another war with the Watchers."

"I'll show him trimming, if he's having us on," Methos growled, but his heart wasn't in it. "Inventory it is. What's our arsenal? Besides the usual?" Volunteering his own automatic with three clips first, he counted a vintage Beretta that MacLeod kept in a well-hidden compartment in the door. Amanda brought three hideouts to the party as well.

"Doesn't that confuse the clientele?" Methos observed as she slipped one particular one back, ducking as she punched him over the seat.

"Too bad we used up all the C4 on the last trip to the bridge."

"Rebecca ran guns for the Resistance...the old Abbey cellars are only about twenty miles upstream from here," Amanda suggested thoughtfully.

"Let's make that a rendezvous if we get outgunned and separated," MacLeod decided. "I'm surprised that the Watchers didn't try and buy her place for one of their headquarters."

"They tried," Amanda offered with a vulpine smile. "I made sure it wasn't for sale." The chime of her phone brought them up. Setting it to speaker, Amanda cheerily answered. "Allo, cherie?"

"Uh." There was a long silence. "Hello?"

"Yes?" Amanda dragged out the silence with a bit of evil glee. "Who is this?"

"Unh. It's, that is, my name's Skip." Another long, nervous silence.

"Skip! I've been very much looking forward to meeting you," Amanda purred. "Are you alone, Skip?"

"What? Alone?" Now the agitated tone bleeding through the phone sounded considerably more than just nerves. She frowned, glancing at MacLeod.

"It sounds as if he's wants to tell us something, and can't quite follow through," he barely whispered.

"Tell me what you want most of all, Skip," Amanda kept the alluring tone, for the benefit of listeners, flaunting her own considerably wicked reputation.

"I, uh...wanted to show you...no...really...there's..." the three Immortals could hear a subtle change in Skip's voice, as if he had made a decision, and only needed to talk himself into it. Suddenly, a thud and a curse muddied the background, and Skip was shouting. "Trap! Save Joe! He's at Rebec..." and then there was a pistol blast, and the phone went dead.

"He followed through," Methos momentarily shut his eyes.

Eyes bright with near tears, Amanda agreed, "Magnificently."

-9-

Cold as Highland granite, MacLeod turned to Methos, a chieftain at war. "We can approach the Abbey from over the tor--the trees reach the bailey." He put the car in gear, and pinned the accelerator.

"What about the bridge?" Amanda asked.

Methos nodded slowly. "You can let me off just past the bridge exit. It's only a few hundred yards from there as the crow flies. We shouldn't leave enemies at our backs."

"No. Our young Skip called me. He's my responsibility," Amanda said coldly.

"We'll be stretched thin as it is, and the enemy is already thinking you're coming to the castle," MacLeod objected. "There's no cavalry to come over the hill if we don't get through."

"Exactly! They think I'm coming. Alone. They don't know you're in town. If I hit the bridge, they'll relax their guard at the castle. You'll have better odds."

"And with the bridge contingent thinking she's going to Rebecca's, they'll be easier to surprise." Methos' voice softened. "Amanda's right, MacLeod. We need her to lead the diversion."

The window of opportunity was terrifyingly narrow, but doable, and the turnoff was coming up fast. MacLeod slammed on the brakes. "You live, Amanda. Promise."

"Always, Duncan," she brushed her lips over his cheek as she left the car.

"I'll keep your cell phone safe for you," Methos offered brightly.

"In your dreams, Methos!" her reply floated back as she catfooted into the shadowed wood.

-10-

There were only a few yards to go. The ditch lead to the old moat and the gate to the bailey, and then to the inner sanctums of Rebecca's retreat. But her companion was suffering. The frozen rocks burned even her Immortal hands--his whitened and bled, though he bore it without complaint.

"Too slow..."

His words, not hers, but he was right. They were moving too slowly. The boat was circling, picking up two of their footmen, and speeding back. No, speeding past. "It's going back upriver. Why?"

"Outta hot chocolate?" Joe rested, trying in vain to warm his hands against his body. He'd stopped shivering. That was bad. "I think it's getting warmer." That was very bad.

"Let's go, Joe, and I'll make you a cocoa with schnapps."

"Promises, promises. Buy the gals a drink and they end up breaking your heart." He hauled in a deep breath, marshalling energy where there was none for one last push. "Let's get outta here before I tell you the history of my love life. Oh, wait. Done."

Ceirdwyn moved up even with him and draped his arm over her back. "We're not done yet. Moving on, Joe. Moving on."

There was a shout. And a shot. A bullet zinged away in ricochet, pocking a fifteen hundred year old arch. The bailey gate. Breaking cover, hauling Joe by the neoprene collar, Ceirdwyn tumbled through and rolled Joe out of the line of fire. She crashed the door closed and leaned against it, hearing bullets ping and shouts grow closer. Vainly, she cast about for the bar to the gate. There was no way to keep them out. She steadied herself on the ancient gatepost and called on Andarte.

"You looking for this?" Joe interrupted her with a pained expression, as he rolled off a long age-blackened timber--the gate bar.

Promising Andarte her due sacrifice, she dropped the bar in the irons just as a thud sounded. The gate barely vibrated, still sound and strong.

"What were you going to do?" Joe asked. "Without the bar, I mean?"

"When they got to the door, I would have held it for two blows, and let them through on the third, taken them down in the confusion, and armed myself with their weapons."

"Works for me."

They had a respite. "It will take them time to force the keep. I count nine, unless the boat brings back more."

"Le Hibou Nuit."

"What?"

"Le Hibou Nuit. The name of the boat. The Night Owl. In case you want to look up the owner someday."

"Owl is a bad omen for you Ravens."

"Ravens?"

"Ravens, Crows, Daws, your namesake. You should beware the owl."

"I'll write that down," he promised, though she doubted he really understood her. Though his eyes were still bright, he'd stopped moving. The cold was slowly stealing him away.

On to Part Two