Duncan sat at his desk in the dojo office, scowling at the estimate in front of him. Although he understood the power of inflation, it still seemed excessive that a new water heater would cost him approximately what he would have paid for a house in Seacouver just a hundred years earlier.

"Well, you gotta take into account the pipes we've got to replace," the plumber said nervously. "And the labor. I'm telling you, the old one's going to keep breaking and breaking."

"Let me think about it," Duncan said. "I'll call you."

"Okay," the man said. "But this is the last house call you're going to get on a Sunday."

The plumber left. Duncan gazed out at the dozen or so customers working out on the weight machines. Young professionals with stylish clothes and snooty attitudes went to downtown gyms stuffed full of fancy equipment. The dojo attracted a rougher crowd who paid by the month and wanted nothing to do with loud music, step aerobics classes or Spandex for men. Duncan knew some of the men bench-pressing were local thugs. Two others by the free weights worked as longshoremen. A few firemen from the local station provided moral balance, as did the off-duty cop hitting the punching bags. DeSalvo's was a long way from being fiscally solvent but given a year or so, the accounts might start edging more into the black.

He wondered if he'd be around to see it happen.

The crowd cleared out after noon. Duncan went to check on a reported problem with the pulley on the triceps machine. He greased the mechanism and pulled the cord on fifty pounds of weight. Up down. Up down. He could replace the weights with a nice sharp blade and have himself a guillotine.

A preternatural buzz made him turn around.

"I got lonely all by myself," Richie said from the doorway. His expression was carefully neutral. "Thought maybe you'd like to throw me around the mat or something."

Duncan wondered how much he'd seen. "Where's Connor?"

"With Brenda. She's got a few spare hours this afternoon."

"I take it last night's dinner went well?"

Richie smiled as he dropped his bag on the nearest bench. "From what I gathered, they skipped the dinner part and went straight to the bowling part."

"Bowling? He took her bowling?"

"They came back to Connor's place around ten o'clock with their score sheets from the Bowl-A-Rama. He got one-fifty, she did a one-sixty-five. He showed her around, and took her back to the hotel, and that was it."

Duncan wondered if Connor had spent the night with her, but he didn't want to use Richie as his personal spy. He didn't think Connor and Brenda getting involved again would be good for either of them. Not while Brenda refused to fight, certainly, and not while Connor still harbored doubts and guilt over what had happened after the Kurgan's death.

Richie picked up a ten-pound dumbbell and did a few biceps curls. "Today they're going to the museum to see that traveling sword exhibit - Kirkbush?"

"Keinbusch," Duncan corrected.

"Go figure that someone who loves swords like she does ends up as an Immortal who won't even fight."

"And what do you think of that?"

"That she won't fight?" Richie shrugged. "I think it's a nice trick if you can pull it off."

"Very few people can," Duncan said.

"I thought you might say that."

They set up a mat in the middle of the floor. During the Annie Devlin affair, Duncan had taken Richie down a dozen times to prove how unready he was for fighting. Or to punish him. One of the two. Richie had learned a little since then, and Duncan found it difficult to pin his former student down or flip him over his shoulder.

"Come on, come on," Richie prodded. "Getting too old for this?"

Although his heart really wasn't in it, Duncan focused more on the task at hand.

"Okay, uncle, you win," Richie groaned, as Duncan pinned him to the mat.

"Not so tough now, are you?" Duncan sat back. His shirt was soaked, but he felt better than he had just a few minutes earlier. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done a kata - yesterday? The day before? He shouldn't let himself lapse like that.

"You want to go for a nice long run?" Richie asked. "Twelve miles, to the zoo and back?"

"I can't. Charlie's got the day off and we don't close until three. You go ahead."

"Mac, you see any customers? Put the 'Closed' sign on the door and we'll be back before anyone notices."

"You go ahead, I'm fine."

"No, I'll just wait." Richie leaned back on the mat and asked, "Can I ask you something?"

"Can I stop you?"

"What happens when a Quickening goes wrong?"

A Quickening going wrong? What had Brenda told him? Duncan felt a flash of anger at the woman. She should have let Connor tell the story, if and when the time came. Connor's nervous breakdown had been an aberration, a one-in-a-million occurrence. It had nothing to do with his current state of mental health, his qualifications as Richie's teacher or the fact Duncan trusted him above all other men.

"They usually don't go wrong, Richie."

"But what happens if they do? You told Tessa once that in a Quickening, you sometimes get the other guy's memories or skills, but sometimes you don't get anything at all."

"I did?"

Richie nodded. "I was eavesdropping."

Duncan stood up and reached for a bottle of water. "You shouldn't eavesdrop."

"Mac, stop avoiding the question. What does a wrong Quickening do to you? You flip out or something?"

Duncan thought fast. "No one's really sure. Kill a woman, and you might end up with a yearning to go shopping. Kill a man fond of cigars, and you might find yourself lighting up one of Havana's finest. Kill a ballet dancer, and you might wind up doing pirouettes down the street - "

"Mac, you're messing with me."

"Maybe." Duncan shrugged. "Maybe not. Come on, let's go running."

"You said we had to wait until three."

"I changed my mind."

They went out into the brisk afternoon. Seacouver wasn't as runner-friendly as Paris, which at least offered the riverbanks and any number of enormous parks. Richie and Duncan had to dodge construction sites, wayward traffic and dozens of potholes to reach the zoo, which sat on a hill overlooking the bay. They walked around the fence line, breathing in the salty air, listening to the occasional roar of a caged lion or cry of a chained elephant. Clouds had gathered in the western sky, although above them all remained blue. The water was choppy and full of whitecaps.

"Mac, I've got another question for you."

"I'm not surprised."

"It's about Immortals getting sick. We can, right? Colds, flu, stuff like that?"

"We can, but it's rare. You get better very quickly."

"What about mental illness? Going schizo or paranoid, depression, that stuff?"

Back to Connor, then. Duncan wished Brenda hadn't been so damned indiscreet. The chances of Richie being overwhelmed so completely by a Quickening were minuscule at best, and not worth worrying about before he'd even taken his first head. Going around fearing the consequences of a Quickening would only make it harder to lift a sword in battle.

"Yes," he said reluctantly. "It happens."

"Because of chemical imbalances in the brain, right? Neurotransmitters, serotonin, nor-epin-something?"

"Richie, what do you possibly know about brain chemistry?"

Richie frowned. "Angie knows. She's taking a psych class. Just tell me, am I right or wrong?"

"I think you're right," Duncan said. He wished they weren't having this conversation behind Connor's back. "But no one can say for sure how it works with Immortals. There are no scientific studies, after all. Why are you asking?"

"Because I think you're depressed."

Duncan stared at him for a full moment. Oh, the wretchedness of being amateurishly diagnosed by a nineteen-year-old and his junior college girlfriend. This was where four hundred years of life and learning had left him. He wanted to feel angry, but all he felt was a curious sense of humble relief that Richie cared enough to bring up the topic.

"I'm not depressed."

"You don't go out, you sit at home, you're losing weight - "

Duncan looked at his pants. Was he losing weight?

" - your cooking has gone downhill, and you don't seem to care about anything anymore."

"My cooking has not gone downhill," he said defensively. "I just haven't been able to get to the grocery store much."

Richie cocked an eyebrow at him.

Duncan sat on the nearest bench and rubbed his face with both hands. "Richie, I'm grieving. You can't expect me to just forget about Tessa and move on."

"Forget about her, no. Move on, yes. Not today. Not tomorrow. But eventually. Mac, you're the one who told me that."

"I told you that?"

"After Gary died."

"Maybe I did tell you that," Duncan said. "But saying it is easier than living it."

"I know." Richie's blue eyes held nothing but compassion. "You told me that part, too. You also said that practicing helps."

Duncan took a deep breath. "Okay, tough guy. I get the message. But believe me, I'm not clinically depressed. I don't even know if Immortals can become clinically depressed. I just need more time."

"Okay," Richie said. "You've got time. But if it is the chemistry thing, you've got to let someone else help, okay?"

"I'll think about it," Duncan said.

"Good," Richie said. "I'll race you back. Loser buys dinner."

***

Scott hadn't been very understanding about the bowling. "Why that?" he'd asked as they lolled in bed Sunday morning. Brenda hadn't been able to give him a very good answer.

"Because it was something to do," she said, toying with the hairs on his chest. "Connor's just like that. 'Let's walk barefoot through the park. Let's eat dinner on the roof. Let's go bowling.' He must have remembered my trophies."

"What trophies?" Scott asked.

"I was on my high school bowling team. We won the championship three years in a row. I've told you that."

He looked puzzled. Brenda was sure she'd told him. The trophies were long gone, victims of her years of moving around trying to escape the Game. She'd shed herself of anything that didn't fit into two suitcases and a carry-on bag. Only her precious library remained, in her stepmother's basement in Albany. She wondered if she'd ever have the chance to unpack those boxes and establish a home again.

"What time is he coming over?" Scott asked.

"Noon."

"And you're going to get that closure thing today, right?"

"Right," Brenda said, with more confidence than she felt.

"Noon." Scott squinted at the clock. "We've got plenty of time."

He gathered her up in his arms and began kissing her. Delicate kisses for such a large man. So gentle, despite his size and strength. He made her feel sensuous and desirable and loved.

But he couldn't match her memories of nights with Connor MacLeod.

***

Connor picked Brenda up at noon and took her to museum. They fought the Sunday afternoon crowds to view the Keinbusch exhibit, which included four ancient blades from the Armoury of Alexandria. Watching Brenda's expression as she studied the weapons, Connor felt reminded of his own mixed emotions toward Scotland. He loved his country for all that it had meant to him in the past, but often found its current state - the high unemployment, the heroin problems, the decaying industrial centers - somewhat depressing. Brenda had loved swords for most of her life, but now they were inexorably linked with Immortals, Quickenings and bloodshed.

They had coffee in the small cafe near the gift shop, and when the museum closed they took a walk through the adjacent park.

"I'm sorry I never contacted you," Connor admitted.

"Why didn't you?"

"You were always moving around - I could never find out where you were."

"I didn't really have a choice," Brenda said. He didn't contradict her.

"And I was embarrassed," Connor added. His cheeks grew warm. "I wasn't sure what you thought of me."

She slipped her hand into his. The flesh of her palm was smooth and uncalloused, her fingers delicate but strong. She was not incapable of wielding a sword, Connor knew. She would never be a match for the best among them. But with the proper training and attitude, she would probably be able to survive against sloppy or inexperienced fighters, or at least buy herself time.

"I thought of you as I always did, Connor - a strong, amazing, lonely man," she said.

"You forgot 'crazy.'"

"You took a Quickening that overwhelmed you. It could happen to anyone."

"It didn't happen to anyone," he said. "It happened to me."

They stopped at the top of a small wooden footbridge. A teenager sailed by them on skates, followed by a woman walking her German shepherd. The sun had started to slip behind dark clouds, and gusts of wind from the south whipped at the edges of Brenda's coat.

"Brenda, there's something I want to tell you," he said, wondering how to work the word 'love' into his next few sentences. He knew her vow to flee, not fight. He remembered his promise to stay in Seacouver and train Richie. But somehow there had to be a way to resolve those two conditions, to find a way to make their relationship work again.

"There's something I want to tell you, too," she said, and touched his face with the palm of her hand. "I'm engaged."

"Engaged?" He laughed in disbelief and saw her cheeks redden.

"It's not a joke," Brenda said, taking a step back.

"Engaged," he repeated. "To whom?"

"His name is Scott MacKenzie. He's a retired Marine."

"A retired Marine." Connor told himself to stop echoing her words like a parrot. "One of us?"

"No. I could never marry one of us."

Connor put his hands on the bridge rails and looked at the thin stream rushing below. "Does he know what he's getting into?"

"Yes," Brenda said. "He says he'll protect me."

"So you're using him as a shield and nothing more."

"That's not true! I love him very much. He's supportive and caring and kind - "

"Why did you come?" Connor asked. "Why are you here? You're getting married. You want a wedding present? Tips for the honeymoon?"

Brenda's eyes glittered. "Why are you being so cruel about it? I came to see how you were. To say I'm sorry for not being able to help you more when you really needed it."

"I didn't need your help," Connor said coldly. "I didn't need anyone's. I still don't."

"That's not true and you know it."

Connor walked away. At the foot of the bridge he turned briefly and said, "I hope he makes you happy. I hope you have a long and successful marriage. I hope he's not ten minutes late picking you up one night and finds your body on the ground, still warm. I hope you don't come home one day and find one of your enemies has cut him into pieces just for the fun of it."

"You're a son of a bitch, Connor MacLeod!" she yelled after him.

"So I hear," Connor said softly, and left her there in the darkening park.

***

Richie was bench-pressing two hundred pounds to the melodic strains of 'Nirvana' when he felt Connor's return. He hit the volume on the remote control - Connor hated most modern rock music, especially anything Richie liked - and watched as the older Highlander strode in wearing a grim expression.

"How did it go?" Richie asked.

"Don't ask!" Connor growled, and stormed up the stairs to his apartment.

That didn't sound good. Richie debated the wisdom of following his teacher but decided, as several loud objects banged against the ceiling, that Connor would probably appreciate being left alone to work through what Tessa would have called his 'little snit.' All Scotsmen were prone to them, she'd once declared. Little snits and an inexplicable preference for whisky, which she herself thought tasted more or less like turpentine.

Richie went back to lifting weights and Kurt Cobain's cheerful ruminations on life and love. After an hour, he went and knocked on Connor's door.

"Go away," Connor said.

"Just checking," Richie said. "You want to talk about it?"

"No," Connor said.

Richie went and showered. He called Duncan but got only the answering machine. Richie started watching television, but it occurred to him that perhaps Brenda was available for a few questions and answers. Say, for instance, about Quickenings gone wrong. He might be able to find out why Connor was upset, too, and help smooth things over.

He called her room but got only a busy signal. Still, at least she was in. Richie drove his motorbike over. He'd never been to the Park Central. Some wedding or function was going on in the main ballroom, and he felt a little shabby passing women in gown and men in tuxedos. The view from the elevator was kind of cool, though, and he rode up and down and up again before getting off on the top floor.

"Eight, ten, twelve . . . " Richie followed the blue carpeting and gilded arrows. He felt Brenda's buzz and knocked on her door. No answer. He knocked again, and the door to the adjacent room opened. A big guy with a buzz cut looked him over.

"You lost?" the stranger asked curtly.

"I'm looking for Brenda Wyatt," Richie said.

The big guy grabbed him, slammed him up against the wall, dragged him inside and dumped him on the carpet. Caught completely off guard, dazed by the blow, Richie started to fight back too late. The mortal pinned him to the carpet, wrenched his arms behind his back and frisked him for his sword."What do you think you're going to do with that, huh?" the stranger demanded.

"Scott, no!" Brenda ordered, emerging from the bathroom. "He's a friend!"

The pressure eased, but Scott didn't immediately release Richie. "You sure?"

"Let me go, asshole," Richie said. The man backed off. Richie sat up rubbing his right shoulder and gave up them both a glare. "Who the hell is this?"

"My fiancee," Brenda said. She dropped to a crouch and touched the side of his head. "I'm sorry, Richie, I didn't know who it was coming for me. Scott only knows what Connor looks like."

"It must be nice to have your own personal attack dog," Richie said, and batted her hand away.

"Don't be rude," Scott said. "Mistakes happen. I'm sorry."

"You're not the only one, pal."

"Scott, why don't you get him some ice?" Brenda asked.

He didn't need ice, but he was glad to see the man leave. Richie pulled himself up and sat in a chair. "Fiancee? Is that why Connor came home ballistic?"

"Ballistic?" Brenda asked.

"Big-time ballistic."

She sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. "I told him I was getting married. That I'd come only to get some closure after what happened between us."

"What exactly did happen between you?" Richie asked.

"It's not for me to say."

A connection forged itself in Richie's brain. "Does it have to do with a Quickening gone wrong? Because everyone's dropping hints, but no one wants to give me a straight answer about what that means."

Scott returned with the ice. The bump on Richie's head had already healed, but he dumped it into a glass and accepted Brenda's offer of a soda from the room's mini-bar. "Scott," she said, "Richie and I need to talk. Could you wait in my room?"

"Yeah. Sure. If that's what you want."

After the door between the rooms closed, Richie said, "Tell me. I think I have a right to know."

"That's debatable," Brenda said frankly, moving to the windows. Rain had started to fall, a heavy drizzle that streaked the glass and blurred the lights of Seacouver. "But I'll tell you anyway."

***

The damn pilot light had gone out in the stove again. Duncan opened the broiler, extended his arm and lit the gas jet. He turned the knob to three-fifty, waited a moment, then opened the oven door to sniff for gas. He heard the dojo elevator start up and felt someone's arrival, but relaxed when he heard Richie's voice rise up the shaft.

"Mac! It's just me!"

"Over here," Duncan said, sticking his head into the oven again as the grated door slid open.

"Jesus!" Richie exclaimed. "What the hell are you doing?"

Duncan sat back on his haunches and indicated the pan sitting on the counter. "Making a cake. What does it look like I'm doing?"

Richie shook his head, unable to speak, with who knew what ideas or images in his head. His damp curls shot out in all directions, his jacket and jeans were soaked, and he was shivering from the cold.

"What's the matter?" Duncan rose, his heart clenching with a cold and clammy fear. Surely if there'd been a Quickening nearby, he would have noticed -

"Is it true?" Richie said. "You take the wrong head and - wham! You're a psycho? Is that what you didn't want to tell me?"

"Not exactly that," Duncan replied, feeling a rush of relief, bewilderment and dread. "Why don't you sit down? I'll get you something to drink."

Richie sat obediently on the sofa, his arms folded and his gaze unfocused, while Duncan poured two cups of tea laced with whiskey. While in the kitchen, he couldn't resist the urge to peek out the window and check the status of Connor's windows. All intact. Duncan gave Richie his cup and then threw the sofa blanket over his shoulders.

"Tell me what happened."

"Brenda told me everything," Richie said. "The Kurgan, Scotland, Connor flipping out, you flying over there - "

Duncan sighed. "Well, that's the condensed version."

"You didn't tell me any of us might go nuts!" Richie knocked the blanket off in order to pace to the counter, back to the television, around the coffee table, over to the windows. "I asked you specifically about Quickenings, Mac, and you never mentioned that part. What is it, written somewhere in the Immortal handbook? Chapter Four? Heads you shouldn't take?"

"Sit down," Duncan said.

"No."

"Sit," Duncan insisted. "I can't concentrate if you're bouncing around like a ball in a pinball machine."

Richie sat, hunched with the blanket back over his shoulders.

"What happened to Connor happens very infrequently, Richie. I'd heard of it, but in almost four hundred years never seen it. The Kurgan's memories, his hatred and fears - all the Quickenings he'd taken over the centuries, Immortals he'd tortured and killed - it was too much for him to handle all at once."

"You mean that it fried his brain."

"If you want to be crude about it," Duncan said. He didn't tell Richie that the Kurgan had raped Connor's wife Heather, a secret she kept until her death nearly fifty years later. Reliving that through the Kurgan's eyes had been as horrific as if Connor had raped her himself.

"So what happened? How did you get him back to normal?"

"I took him to a friend who's a psychologist. It took time, and patience, but Connor had help and people who loved him. It's not going to happen to you, Richie."

"You don't know," Richie said. "You can't predict what's going to happen. One day I'll take the wrong head and turn into a nutcase and you'll have to take my head - "

"It's not going to happen," Duncan promised. He moved to sit on the sofa beside Richie and rubbed his shoulders. "You can't be afraid of it. Remember what Tessa said about worrying?"

Richie looked blank for a moment. Then he almost smiled. "She meant to say, 'Worry is a fast getaway on a wooden horse.' But she kept saying, 'Worry is a fast horse on a wooden runway.'"

"English," Duncan observed, "is not always easy for the French."

Richie snickered.

"Better now?" Duncan asked after several minutes of silence.

"A little," Richie said.

"Where's Connor?"

"I don't know. I guess he's at home."

"Why don't we go over and make sure he's okay?"

On the way down the elevator, Richie asked, "You think that's why she doesn't fight? Afraid of losing her mind?"

"Maybe." Duncan had never thought of Brenda's attitude in that way. Perhaps she did fear drowning in the influx of memories, sensations and psychic energy that a Quickening brought. Once or twice he'd feared drowning himself. He didn't intend to tell Richie that, not when the young Immortal was already so skittish on the idea.

They walked to Connor's building and found him sitting alone in his apartment, contemplating the unopened bottle of Glenmorangie on the coffee table in front of him. The only light came from the street lamps outside, their yellow glow reflected dimly on the glass and metal surfaces of Connor's post-modern furniture.

"There you are," Connor grumbled. "I thought I was going to have to get drunk on my own."

Relieved at his kinsman's calm, Duncan sat down. "I heard what happened. I'm sorry."

"Scott MacKenzie," Connor said with distaste. "I probably knew his great-grandfather. Isn't that funny?"

"Not really," Duncan said.

Richie hovered in the doorway, hesitant and sheepish.

Connor lifted his gaze to his student. "Are you just going to stand there?"

"You want me to go work out?" Richie asked, perplexed.

"I want you to sit down," Connor said.

"When did I become a puppy? Sit, Richie, sit." With that perfunctory complaint, Richie took the far end of the leather sofa and propped his feet up. A glower from Connor made him drop them again.

"You going to open that bottle or just stare at it?" Duncan asked.

"The first night I met her face-to-face, I was drinking this," Connor said. "Haven't drunk it since."

"That's very romantic," Richie said.

Duncan shot him a warning look.

"It is," Richie insisted.

Connor opened the bottle and they drank in silence for a few minutes. Connor kept his gaze on the silver sconces set by the door, a housewarming gift from Duncan. Duncan let the taste of the Glenmorangie carry him back to the Highlands, to a time when life had seemed simple and straightforward. A train rattled by outside, tons of metal and supplies headed for parts unknown. The rain picked up.

"Brenda told Richie," Duncan finally said.

Connor didn't look surprised. "It was bound to come out sooner or later."

"I asked her," Richie said. "I wanted to know."

"Better to know than experience it." Connor drained his glass. "Any questions?"

Richie shook his head.

"Of course you do," Connor said. "Ask away. Now's the time."

Duncan couldn't decide whether Connor was in the mood for conversation or simply stoking some inner turmoil by pushing the issue. He didn't look at Richie, determined to let the teenager decide on his own. Connor was, after all, Richie's teacher now. If they couldn't communicate with each other, Richie wouldn't learn very much.

"Did you know right away?" Richie asked. "When you took his head, did you know right away something was wrong?"

Connor shook his head. "No. I thought I'd won the Prize and that the Game was finally over. No more killing. No more death. So I took Brenda to Scotland and waited for everything to get better. But it never did. It just got worse."

The street lamps outside flickered and went out. The apartment was very dark now, and a little cold. Duncan thought about getting up to adjust the thermostat, but instead he leaned back against the thick cushions and closed his eyes as Connor continued to speak.

"The thing about being crazy is that you don't know it," Connor said. "You think the world's at fault. You think your girlfriend is being unreasonable when she asks questions you can't answer. You think the voices in your head are the thoughts of great philosophers and scientists. Once in a while you have a clear, frightening realization - you understand you're in deep trouble, that you're drowning in your own madness - but a moment later you're trying to bend spoons with your mind, because bending spoons will somehow bring about world peace."

"All because you took the Kurgan's Quickening," Richie said. "That's kind of freaky. How do I keep it from happening the first time I fight a guy?"

"The chances are minuscule," Duncan said, trying to be reassuring, but Connor's words were anything but soothing.

"You can't keep it from happening," Connor said bluntly. "You don't know what exactly a new Quickening will bring. But unless you hide out on Holy Ground, or find someone to protect you twenty four hours a day, it's a chance you have to take."

A hard truth, Duncan decided. Yet nothing less than the truth. He opened his eyes and looked at Richie, who seemed to have finally run out of questions. A second later, though, the teenager had found a new one.

"I know how to bend spoons with my mind," he said. "I read about it in a book. Want to see?"

Duncan grimaced and reached for the bottle.

"Maybe later," Connor said, and they drank the rest of the Glenmorangie in companionable silence.

***

Early Tuesday morning, Connor went to the Park Central. Brenda had refused all of his telephone calls, but he wouldn't let her leave Seacouver without at least trying one more time. The minute he stepped into the lobby he sensed her. Brenda, on a pay phone in a small alcove, turned and met his gaze. She hung up a few seconds later.

He went to her.

"This isn't the place to talk, Connor," she said. She had dressed for travel in brown slacks and a beige sweater. Makeup did a poor job of camouflaging the circles under her eyes.

"I just want to apologize," he said.

"For what?"

"For presuming too much. For not keeping my mouth shut. You deserve happiness, Brenda."

"Don't we all?" Brenda looked over at the front counter. A tall, muscled man in a dark windbreaker stood settling a bill. "I love him, Connor. That he can protect me - that he wants to protect me - isn't something I asked for, but it's not something I'm going to turn away."

"What happens if you outlive him?" Connor asked. "Or if you get him killed?"

Brenda folded her arms and said, "I didn't ask for any of this."

"None of us do," he said. "Do you remember Duncan?"

She nodded.

"He loved a mortal woman for thirteen years," Connor said. "He thought he could protect her from the Game. And he did a good job of it until she was used against him once too often. She died two months ago."

A bellboy pushed a cart full of luggage between them. The man from the counter approached and scrutinized Connor. "Everything okay here?" he asked.

"Connor MacLeod, Scott MacKenzie," Brenda said unhappily.

They didn't shake hands.

"We have to catch a plane," Brenda said, taking Scott's hand and moving close to him. "Tell Duncan I'm sorry for his loss. And I'm sorry about yesterday, too. I didn't mean to come here and stir up old memories. I just wanted to see how you were."

"I'm fine," Connor said. "Good luck to both of you."

"Come on," Scott said to Brenda, and they walked out of the hotel to the long line of yellow cabs waiting outside. Scott kept his arm wrapped around her all the way, a gesture of protection or possessiveness.

Connor wondered just how long Scott would be able to protect her.

Or what she'd do when he was gone and needed someone else.

The answer, he decided, was none of his business.

***

Epilogue

Two years later

Richie stood at the dojo windows, deeply unsettled. He'd been trying to distract himself with katas and sword practice, but he could exercise until his muscles wore down to bone and still not be at ease. Joe had phoned to say that not only had Duncan taken Coltec's Quickening, but he'd come to the bar acting violent and abusive. Now he was out there somewhere, in the cold darkness, with Connor trying to find him. Each of them feared the very worst had happened to the younger Highlander.

A Dark Quickening.

Not the kind of overload that had fried Connor's brain ten years earlier. This one was evil incarnate, a poisonous maelstrom of hatred that destroyed all in its path.

Damn it, they had warned Duncan not to confront Coltec head-on. Together they would find some other way to purge him of the evil inside. But Duncan had gone to fight him anyway, and Richie feared his penchant for wanting to do the right thing had led them all into very dangerous territory.

He had just launched into another sword kata when a full-fledged warning buzz ran down his spine. Duncan appeared in the doorway, his face impassive, his clothes singed from the Quickening.

Richie felt no immediate sense of relief.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Quickenings could, in fact, leave an Immortal feeling disoriented or anxious. Richie had learned that first-hand. Sometimes they left behind sexual or violent urges, which might explain the rude behavior at the bar. He looked for signs in Duncan's expression that Coltec's Quickening had done more damage than that. For proof that his beloved friend and mentor was, in fact, insane.

"I was worried about you," Richie said.

"You were?"

Was that mocking in Duncan's tone? Or just fatigued curiosity?

"Well, you found Coltec."

"Yeah," Duncan said, coming closer. "I found him."

The air in the dojo shifted somehow, becoming heavier, bitter-smelling. Duncan's expression hadn't changed. He didn't look at all like he regretted killing the man who'd once been a close friend. Richie's mouth went dry, as if he hadn't drunk anything in days.

He said, "I know how much you liked the guy. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?"

Duncan was definitely mocking him now. Richie remembered that tone of voice all too clearly from the Kenny debacle, when Duncan had lashed out at him for daring to doubt the motives or wiles of the 'boy' who'd actually been a cold-blooded killer with hundreds of heads notched in his belt. But Connor had seen through Kenny's act. Connor had taken the little bastard's head.

Stall for time, Richie told himself.

"Yeah, well, you had to do what you had to do, but I know how much you hated it."

"Hated it?" Duncan echoed. His mouth turned up as in a parody of a smile, then quickly fell again. He opened his coat and took hold of his katana, which still had flecks of Coltec's blood and flesh on it. Richie knew what was coming, but found it impossible to back away.

"You're wrong," he said.

The Highlander lashed out with the blade, scoring a deep slice across Richie's chest.

"I loved it," Duncan said.

Richie reached behind him, into his waistband, pulled out a small concealed gun, and shot Duncan twice in the chest. There was a time when he would have considered using a gun to be against the rules of the Game, a chickenshit way to face one's enemy. But he had no illusions that he could best his mentor, and surviving to get Duncan better was all that counted.

Duncan staggered backward, the katana useless at his side. His brown eyes widened in shock and betrayal. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out except for a long, dying wheeze. He went to his knees. Went to the floor. With a great shudder he fell still, and Richie's knees shook with the realization he'd killed him.

He tied Duncan up before he could revive.

Called Connor and Joe on their cell phones and begged them to hurry to the dojo.

And finally sat beside Duncan's corpse, slid a towel beneath his head as a pillow and murmured, "We'll find a way to cure you, Mac. I promise."

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