Prologue
There are some mornings when one knows one is having a bad day. Mornings, for example, when it starts even before one's eyes are opened-the foreboding. Case in point-this morning. Methos knew she wasn't there. Because if she were, she'd be awake, making her usual attention-getting racket. He had every reason to believe that meant she left, and the letter on the bedside table confirmed it.
Except for the fact that she wasn't thoroughly sane, he could almost be fine with her having left. But she wasn't, actually, thoroughly sane, and even when in her right mind, she was a proven danger to herself and other people. That being the case and her most likely next stop being Seacouver, he considered it only fair to warn MacLeod that she'd be on her way.
He never felt sure that she wasn't going to make a run for the man's head, after all, and if she were ever likely to do it, given her change of tastes…
Of course, he didn't mention that during the phone conversation. He simply made it clear that she'd been more…restless lately. That there had been some fights that didn't add up. And that she had recently taken a massive Quickening. He figured MacLeod would be bright enough to put it together and show the good sense to steer clear.
The note she had left didn't make sense though.
"Nothing ever ends with me, and I never leave anything alone. Since there isn't any way for me to fix things from here-I'll have to do what I always do-get moving. You've been great, but I think I'm wrecking your life. You'll probably figure out where to find me if you had to-you don't have to. There are enough people looking for me as it is."
Paranoid delusions. Fantastic. Nightmares, sleepwalking, pyromania, and then, once she realized that bad things happened when she slept, insomnia. And now, thanks to not sleeping-paranoia.
He decided to take a mind-clearing walk to figure out what his next step should be. Philadelphia-well, she was generally regarded as dead in Philadelphia. Or if not, she would quickly become dead-scratch that. She could try to disappear in some place she had never been-but he knew full well she was too sloppy to do it effectively.
And then he realized he was being followed. Broad daylight. An Immortal. Someone not even pretending not to be following him. An amateur. Didn't the fellow realize that range wasn't the same for everyone? Eye contact was established. "Lovely. I have an admirer," Methos muttered under his breath, seeing that the other's face lit up. He didn't entirely feel like a challenge, and he certainly had enough on his mind, but then again…
He was being approached. He looked around, wondering exactly where they were going to take this piece of business.
"Imagine my luck. Methos," the other Immortal said with a smirk. "I get you alone, without the old lady in sight."
"Old lady?" Methos asked, feeling hairs rising on the back of his neck as a possibility dawned on him. The son of a bitch knew his name. No one was supposed to know…and anyone who did know was either safe or dead. And the "old lady"?
"You know," the youngster said, "and now, you know that I know."
"And just what is it that you know that I know, since I don't know?"
"Your girlfriend. The oldest one."
Where do rumors like this get started? Genevieve was not his girlfriend. And she wasn't even thirty. He was about to contradict what the man was saying, but then, he realized it would be a complete waste of breath.
"Lucky you. Where?"
"Alleyway. Although…it's just as well."
"Disappointed?"
"She's worth more points."
"Ah. The Gauntlet?"
"Heard of it?"
Methos gave him a hard look. Every few decades, a group of dimwits decide to make a wager over vintage Quickenings. And what name usually comes to the top of the lottery? It was a running joke. A point per century, but a million for Methos, since he doesn't exist. He wasn't enjoying being the punchline, right now. He didn't feel the need to tell the man he'd participated in it once. The man looked away.
"Don't be disappointed. Number two tries harder."
The pleasant thought came to him, however, during the Quickening. Perhaps she isn't paranoid, after all.
*****
Dreaming about Methos was not something Cassandra particularly enjoyed. It happened. It was usually a nightmare-he had given her at least a lifetime's worth of nightmares that she could have on instant replay, forever. The worst ones, though, were the ones where he was being kind. The kindness never lasted. But lately, she was dreaming of him, running and afraid, and she wondered what it meant. And then, the very puzzling thing-dreaming of that "friend" of Duncan's-the strange girl who felt sorry for Kronos. And she started to recognize the signs-not ordinary dreams.
Her suspicions were answered when the callers came-the Gauntlet. She had heard rumors that a little game was occasionally run within the Game, but she had never been a target of it before. And with nothing else to go on but a feeling, she decided there was someone she wanted to see.
Genevieve.