Chapter One

"I can't do it, Joe."

Richie Ryan, body swaying, eyes bleary and speech slurred, took Joe Dawson by the shoulders and leaned close in a valiant effort to make himself heard over the sound of the band.

Joe steadied the young Immortal, studying the desperate earnestness of Richie's expression and trying not to be overpowered by the smell of beer that permeated the two inches of atmosphere between them. "Take it easy, Rich."

"I can't...keep up with him. He's a machine, man. He's not...he's not human."

Joe shook his head resignedly. He should have known better than to send a boy to do a man's job. "I know, Rich, I know. You did your best. Go home and sleep it off. I'll take over for a while."

"You don't know, man. I've never...seen anything like it. How does he...how does he do it? I mean, he just keeps going and going..." Richie swallowed convulsively. "I think I'm going to ralph."

Joe stepped back hastily, and Richie made a wild dash toward the men's room, slowed only by the necessity of shouldering through the crowd that filled Maurice's bar. Joe sighed as the young man disappeared, then turned toward the abandoned figure sitting at a table in the corner, slouched over a half-empty glass of beer.

In the two weeks since Byron's death, Methos had spent most of his days and nights at that table, putting away more alcohol than Joe had ever seen anyone consume and live. He came in when the doors opened, sat there until closing, went home, and was back at opening next day. As far as Joe could determine, he did nothing else.

Joe sighed and moved to the bar. He was going to need some fortitude of the distilled variety for this conversation. Maurice met him carrying a bottle of his best Scotch and a glass. "A double, yes?"

"You're psychic, Maurice. A double, yes."

Maurice cast a surreptitious glance in Methos' direction. "You must stop him, Joe. He will kill himself."

Joe laughed shortly. "If he doesn't kill us first. Richie'll be out of action for a few days, if I'm any judge. I'm running out of babysitters."

Joe had been hard-pressed, between himself, Richie and Amanda, to keep an eye on Methos-and on Duncan MacLeod.

Joe sipped his whiskey, his mind running over the events, or rather the shocks, of the past few months. He had thought, until recently, that he was dealing with them well. He laughed softly into his booze. Bullshit. He hadn't even begun to deal with them. They had come so thick and fast that he was only now beginning to acknowledge them, let alone understand their impact.

First, Adam Pierson was not Adam Pierson, Watcher researcher, perpetual grad student and beer guzzler. He was Methos, world's oldest living Immortal-and beer guzzler. Okay, fine. No problem. Hey, Joe had known Adam for years and had never had a clue that he was Immortal, let alone the one Immortal that the entire world-wide Watcher network had been trying to locate for centuries. But live and learn, right?

And then all of a sudden Methos was not Methos, world's oldest living Immortal and beer guzzler. He was Death of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, a murderer and a rapist who had terrorized tens of thousands over the course of a millennium. Well, sure, no problem! Joe Dawson could handle anything. He'd been around. He'd been through the hell of 'Nam, seen things even Death of the Horsemen might appreciate, left his legs there as payment for the privilege, and come home sane.

And now...now Duncan MacLeod was not Duncan MacLeod, courageous, noble-hearted defender of the defenseless and treasured friend; he was...Duncan MacLeod. A self-righteous, narrow-minded, judgmental bastard with a tendency to behead first and ask questions later, if ever. A man who banished from his life any of the guilty whom he could not bring himself to kill. No problem! Joe Dawson could handle it. He was tougher than he looked, and he looked pretty damn tough.

Joe took another swallow of whiskey. Served him right for putting both of them on a pedestal. What did he expect? He found himself grinning unexpectedly as his thoughts triggered a memory.

Come on, Joe, what did you expect? Einstein? Freud? Buddha? I'm sorry, Joe, I'm just a guy...

Yeah, well, that could be debated, but there was a good point in there somewhere. Immortals were neither angels nor demons. In some ways, they were more intensely human than the mortals they pretended to be. The potential for eternal life coupled with the daily-no, hourly possibility of sudden death could make any man feel more vulnerable than he'd like to be. It could make him try to eliminate, or at least deal with, that vulnerability in ways that no one outside of his shoes could comprehend.

Joe looked over his shoulder at the figure sitting alone in the corner, his prominent nose now hidden in his glass of beer. Methos drained the glass and lowered it to the table, staring into space with the same listless, blank expression that had been worrying Joe for the past two weeks. It was as if Byron's death at MacLeod's hands had torn away every defense Methos had built against that terrible vulnerability.

Joe didn't fully understand why. Methos must have lost more friends and lovers, Immortal and mortal, than he could remember. But somehow this was different, and the difference might just get Methos killed. Sitting here like this in a public place, day after day, drunk...in Paris, a city that drew Immortals like bug-zappers drew bugs. Immortals that hunted for sport. Methos knew that better than anyone. Was he deliberately making himself a target?

And something was up with that damned Scot, as well. Ever since the night he'd killed Byron, he had holed himself up on the barge and had nothing to say to anyone. According to Amanda, he was suffering from nightmares so violent that he woke up screaming-not once, but several times during the night. He, too, was drinking heavily and not eating. When Amanda had tried to get him to talk, MacLeod had actually thrown her out.

Joe glanced at his watch. Amanda was probably checking up on MacLeod right now. Hopefully he wouldn't pitch her into the Seine. He sighed heavily, almost wishing that neither of these two men had ever come into his life. Almost.

Joe took a prolonged belt of his Scotch and, with a nod to Maurice, made his way across the room to stand beside Methos' table. "So ... how are we doing?"

Methos started, brought to sudden awareness, and glanced up in confusion. Joe's alarm grew at the sight. Being oblivious to his surroundings wasn't a luxury Methos had ever, to Joe's knowledge, permitted himself, drunk or sober. Methos quickly scanned the crowded bar, then glared up at Joe, mustering as much acid as his intoxication permitted.

"We? We are doing just fine, thank you."

"Great!" With an effort, Joe beamed as if he had just heard the best news of his life. "Glad to hear it. Mind if I join you?"

Methos seemed to struggle against a smile for all of two seconds, then relented and waved his friend to a chair. Joe settled himself, setting his glass on the table before him, and momentarily turned his attention to the band. Maurice bustled by with a meaningful look in Joe's direction.

"So what happened to Richie?" asked Methos, with slightly overplayed innocence.

Joe eyed him reproachfully. "I imagine he's still hugging the bowl. You could have stopped him, you know. The kid doesn't have your...capacity."

Methos shrugged. "He said he wanted to keep me company."

"How many did he have?"

"Dunno." Methos' gaze drifted away for a moment, and his long fingers drummed against his empty glass. He caught Maurice's eye as the man rushed by and lifted the glass with a pleading expression. Maurice scowled and headed toward the bar.

"What do you think of the new band?" asked Joe conversationally, turning toward his friend as his Watcher's eye took in every detail of Methos' disheveled appearance.

Methos shrugged. "Not bad. You're better."

"Goes without saying," said Joe easily, his concern mounting at Methos' pallor and the dark circles under his eyes. His clothing was starting to hang on him even more loosely than usual.

Maurice appeared at Joe's elbow, filling Joe's empty glass and glaring at Methos long enough to make the absence of another beer painfully obvious. Joe groaned inwardly. Obviously Maurice had decided to take matters into his own hands.

Methos glanced up at the man inquiringly. "Out of beer, are we, Maurice?"

"Yes," returned Maurice fiercely. "I am out of beer. In the past two weeks, you have drunk it all. You are a cask, monsieur, a barrel, a vat. You are a menace to every honest bartender in Paris."

Methos nodded pleasantly, and Joe grinned in spite of himself. "Right. I'll have a beer."

Maurice gaped, momentarily nonplussed, then resumed his lecture with renewed vigor. "All day, all night! You will kill yourself drinking like this, monsieur. Your friend Joe, he will have to bury you, yes? Think of him! You will break his heart." Maurice laid his hand on his chest melodramatically.

"Don't overdo it, Maurice," said Joe drily. "Ham and whiskey don't mix."

Methos snorted. "You have no eye for dramatic talent, Joe. I thought it was brilliant. I'm moved. Have you written an inscription for my tombstone yet?"

Joe snorted. "Yeah. But they want to charge me extra for carving 'smart-ass.'"

"Yeah, well, you get what you pay for," said Methos nonchalantly. He glanced up at Maurice, who had been listening to their exchange with uncomprehending exasperation in his face. "Oh, hi, Maurice. I'll have a beer."

"No!" shouted Maurice, drawing startled stares from the customers close enough to hear them over the crowd and the band. "You will have no more beer in my house!"

Methos shrugged. "All right. Bring me a bottle of what he's having, then." He gestured at Joe's whiskey.

Maurice groaned, and Joe laughed resignedly. "It's okay, Maurice. Just bring the man his beer."

Maurice cast one despairing look at Methos and disappeared into the crowd.

Joe cocked an eyebrow at Methos, shaking his head. "I don't know, pal. Things must be pretty bad when Maurice won't sell his booze."

"Your point being?"

"My point being that you've spent the last two weeks drunk, and you look like hell. When was the last time you took a shower?"

"Do I offend?"

"Don't you always? When was the last time you ate?"

"You'll be a beautiful little mother someday, Joe."

"Hey, pal, I'm think I'm pretty damn beautiful now. You think it's easy sitting this close to you?"

Methos straightened himself in his chair, his hazy gaze sharpening. "Haven't you had enough of this?"

"Enough of what?"

Maurice appeared again, set a beer on the table with unnecessary force, and stalked off. Methos instantly curled his fingers around the glass. "This babysitting routine."

Joe grinned. "Do I offend?"

"You're nursemaiding me!" snapped Methos. "It isn't necessary. Do you think I've lived this long without having learned how to deal with losing friends?"

"I'm sure you did learn it," said Joe pleasantly, refusing to be goaded. "I learned how to disassemble and reassemble an M-16 once. God help me if I had to do it now. It's amazing what you can forget if you don't use it for a while."

"God, Joe," sighed Methos. "I really hate it when you get metaphorical."

Joe hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward. "Look, Adam, I've tried to keep my mouth shut-"

"And this has obviously been quite a strain."

Joe bit back an angry retort and drew a breath. He was getting aggravated, which of course was precisely what Methos wanted. He wasn't going to fall for the master manipulator's games this time. "How long is this going to go on? You've been sitting here stoned out of your mind for two weeks. Are you trying to get yourself killed? I mean, if that's all it is, let me know. I'll make up a sign for you to wear. You know, 'Take me, I'm yours.'"

Methos laughed bitterly. "Don't bother, Joe. I'm saving myself for someone."

Joe swore under his breath, understanding the allusion all too well. "MacLeod is not going to challenge you. He doesn't want to kill you."

"I know he doesn't," said Methos in an even tone. "But he has to. He's run out of substitutes."

"Geez, pal, you were right," growled Joe. "You're not Freud."

Methos snorted dismissively.

"MacLeod doesn't want to kill you. You want him to. You're guilting yourself over Byron."

Methos hoisted his glass with a crooked smile and a shrug. "Hey, I'll buy that. Guilt is as good an excuse as any."

"So since when do you do guilt?" demanded Joe, unnerved by the admission. "I thought that was MacLeod's act."

Methos toyed with his mug and said nothing.

Joe ignored the intricate and ghastly implications of his friend's silence and focused on the problem at hand. "So you're just going to sit here until some sword-slinger challenges you, huh? And then what? You let him take you, I suppose. That's just great. Another triumph for Duncan MacLeod's unerring sense of justice." Joe didn't bother to keep the bitterness from his tone.

"You don't think I deserve to die, Joe?" Methos' voice was barely above a whisper.

Something in Joe snapped at those words. "I don't make those calls! Who's to say I don't deserve to die? You think I've never crossed the line? Well, I have. And don't think that because I didn't call myself Death that I didn't dish it out-"

Methos reached out and laid a hand on Joe's arm, astonishment and concern in his face. "Joe-"

"Damn you both!" hissed Joe, then stopped to breathe, to control his anger and fear, to lower his voice. Enough. No, too much. "You listen to me. I don't know about justice, or about who deserves what. All I know is that you're trying to kill yourself and I've lost too damn many friends already-"

Joe lost his voice. He suddenly realized that he had no idea where those last few words had come from, but he suspected that they must have been on his mind for a long time. His vision blurred, and he drew a hand over his eyes, cursing himself thoroughly. This was not the way this conversation was supposed to have gone. He was supposed to be in control; you can't help a man who's lost it by losing it yourself. But the thought that Methos was actually sitting here waiting for a man who was once his closest friend to come along and kill him was not something he had expected to hear, not something he could stand to hear.

Joe steadied his breathing. Too little sleep, too much whiskey, too much Watching, too much...

"Joe, I don't want to die," whispered Methos, his hand tightening on Joe's arm, breath uneven and hazel eyes unusually bright. "Take it easy. Let's get out of here, okay?"

Joe tried to smile, to laugh, but failed. "Yeah, sure. Where?"

Methos rose with amazing steadiness and helped Joe to his feet. "My place. Come on, I'll make us both some coffee."

"Your coffee?" grumbled Joe, impatiently wiping the last traces of dampness from his face. "Oh, you do want to die, pal. And you want to take me with you."

Joe was rewarded by Methos' slow grin as the ancient Immortal shrugged himself into his coat. "My coffee, like death, is an acquired taste."

Joe felt himself starting to breathe normally again. At least Methos was acting a little more like himself, although Joe couldn't imagine what had brought it about. He could only hope it would last. He hastily signaled to Maurice and threw some money on the bar. Maurice clasped his hands as if in thanksgiving and gazed heavenward.

Methos shook his head with a pained expression. "I may have been wrong about his acting. Let's go."

Methos followed Joe through the crowd and out the front door. The cool night air washed over them both. It was a pleasant evening, and the street was crowded with people coming in and out of the bars and clubs. Music hung and echoed in the air outside of open doors.

"I'll get us a cab," said Methos, stepping to the curb. "You look done in."

"Long day," agreed Joe, not wanting to let him know just how long it had been and why.

"Mind if I share it?"

Joe looked around to see Richie, looking like something the cat dragged in after the bus had run over it. He was white to the gills.

"Geez, Rich," said Joe lightly, torn between concern and laughter. "You, uh, don't look too good."

"No kidding," growled Richie.

"You look bloody awful," agreed Methos with a sort of nails-on-the-chalkboard cheerfulness.

"I feel bloody awful, Adam," snapped Richie, glaring. "It's a bloody set, okay? Can we get the bloody cab now, so I can go home and bloody throw up again?"

"Sure, Rich. Anything for a friend."

Richie's eyes narrowed dangerously and Methos turned toward the curb, one side of his mouth twitching.

Joe put an arm around Richie, laughing. "Relax, Rich. We'll drop you off at your place in a few minutes and you can barf to your heart's content."

"You're all heart, Joe. The next time you need a babysitter, just forget I exist, okay? You probably won't be far wrong." Richie took a deep breath through his mouth and exhaled, holding his stomach.

Snickering softly, Methos raised his arm to signal an approaching cab. A sound of squealing tires cut through the relative quiet as a black sedan barreled around the corner at high speed, cutting off the cab and nearly hitting another car in the process. The cab driver slammed on the brakes, blaring his horn, and the sedan swerved toward the curb, coming straight at Methos. Joe let out an inarticulate shout, and Methos leapt back, tripped and fell onto the pavement as the car jumped the curb and came to a screeching halt not two feet away from him. Joe gasped for breath. It was a miracle no one, including Methos, had been run over by the damn thing. A small group of people gathered around, staring at the car and talking excitedly.

Richie was at Methos' side before the car had stopped rocking. "Jesus, Adam, are you okay?"

"Ask me after I strangle him," gasped Methos furiously, scrambling to his feet.

"Easy," said Joe quickly, laying a hand on his shoulder.

A young man in his early twenties with blond hair and wild blue eyes vaulted out of the driver's seat and gestured wildly at Joe. "Dawson! Get in the car! Now!"

"Get in the car?" repeated Joe in amazement, recognizing Étienne Dupré, Jack Shapiro's assistant. "Are you crazy? What the hell do you think you're doing, Étienne? You could have killed some-"

"Get in the car!" screeched Étienne, obviously in a panic.

Joe stared at the boy, wondering what Shapiro was up to now. The reorganization of the Watchers after Jacob Galati's death had left the man virtually powerless, a research group head in Istanbul. Most of those who would have followed him in his war on Immortals were either reassigned where they could do no harm or expelled from the organization altogether. Joe hadn't seen or spoken to Shapiro since the day that MacLeod had spared his life, but he knew full well that the man's new duties did not include anything even remotely urgent in nature. What could Shapiro have told Étienne to put him in this state?

"What's going on, Étienne? What are you doing here? Is Shapiro in Paris?"

"There's no time for this! Get in the car now!"

Methos strode around the car to Étienne's side, and Joe followed as quickly as he could, fearing that the combination of beer and temper might get the better of his friend. He was relieved when Methos did not touch the boy, but leaned forward to speak in a cold, even tone.

"Joe is not going anywhere with you. The last time he accepted an invitation from your boss, he wound up with a gun to the back of his head."

If Étienne recognized Adam Pierson, or thought it odd that a complete stranger was privy to that knowledge, he didn't show it. "He has to come! It's an emergency!"

"Étienne, I am officially on leave," said Joe in as quiet a voice as he could manage. He was painfully aware of the crowd on the sidewalk, and wondered how long it would be before the police showed up. "Tell Jack to take his emergency and shove it where his head is. Come on, Adam."

"You're Pierson?" blurted the boy. "You have to come, too!"

"I am going to say this once," said Methos, eyes glinting. "I am retired. Joe is on leave. Neither of us is going with you. Neither of us has any interest whatsoever in anything Jack Shapiro has to say. Got it? Now I suggest you run along before one of these upstanding citizens calls the police."

"I'd be glad to," offered Richie drily.

Methos turned, took Joe by the arm and led him away from Étienne, but the young man followed them down the street, leaving the crowd of gapers behind. Richie tagged along behind them doggedly, and Étienne seemed too hysterical to care.

"You don't understand. He's alive! We found Johann Zwirner dead in the street outside our door!"

Joe stopped, shocked, and turned to look at Étienne. Joe knew Zwirner. A good man, a good historian...and the man European Headquarters depended on to keep an eye on Shapiro. He felt Methos' grip tighten on his arm. "Zwirner's dead? How? Who found him?"

Étienne's face convulsed as if he were going to be sick. "I did. I couldn't tell what killed him. He was in-in pieces."

Joe closed his eyes. "Pieces?"

"What do the police say?" asked Methos casually.

"They don't say anything. They don't know what we know! We found the missing Chronicle with the body. He had put the book in Johann's hand. It was lying on the doorstep. Just the hand, holding the book." The boy laughed wildly. "The rest of the pieces were lined up in a row...in the gutter..."

Richie put his hand to his mouth and moved quickly away.

"Whose Chronicle was it?" demanded Methos, his voice suddenly harsh.

Étienne stared at him in amazement. "Lucius! Lucius Germanicus. Gabriel's lost Chronicle. What the hell do you think I've been telling you?"

"God..." breathed Methos, visibly blanching. He dropped Joe's arm and turned away as if he had been struck.

Joe almost laughed in surprise. Lucius Germanicus? The Watcher's bogeyman? Good God. Shapiro must be really desperate to dredge up that old tale. His anger didn't find him until he realized that Jack Shapiro was obviously willing to use the death of Johann Zwirner for his own ends; that he'd gladly exploit one tragedy to orchestrate an even larger one.

Joe didn't spare Methos more than a glance. "Lucius Germanicus is dead, Étienne. He died over nine hundred years ago. What the hell does Shapiro think he's trying to pull? Did he really think I'd fall for this? You tell that son of a bitch that I'm not buying any ghost stories. And if he tries to use that monster to start his precious little war, he'll get more of it than he bargained for. You got that?"

"It's the truth!" cried Étienne in desperation. "I saw Zwirner, I saw the Chronicle! Only Lucius could-"

"He's lied to you, Étienne. He's using you to start this whole miserable business over again. Go back to Istanbul. And take your boss with you."

Joe turned toward Methos, who was leaning with both hands against the roof of a parked car. The sound of Richie's dry heaves echoed dully from behind the vehicle. Joe sighed, exhaustion registering in every muscle, and listened to the spasmodic retching provide a bizarre counterpoint to Étienne's retreating footsteps. "Well. Are we having fun yet?"

There was no response.

"Adam?"

Silence.

Alarmed, Joe came to stand close beside his friend. Methos' eyes were closed, his face strained and white. Joe very carefully laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Adam?"

Methos' eyes opened and he straightened, turning to Joe. He stared at him expressionlessly, wordlessly, and Joe felt his stomach drop.

"Oh," said Joe softly. "So...how much trouble are we in?"