Digitabulum Magae, Part III

by MacGeorge

A Highlander/Witchblade Crossover

For ratings, acknowledgements and disclaimers, see previously posted Part 0.

Digitabulum Magae, Part III
by MacGeorge

"The Museum of Radio and Television?" MacLeod fingered the slick little brochure unbelievingly. This was some kind of joke Methos was playing, some way of having Mac on and making him look foolish. It was a knack the old Immortal had, and Methos took a special pride in exercising at odd moments. "This is what you want to do this morning?"

"It's really interesting!" Methos exclaimed with remarkably realistic enthusiasm. "They have this library where you can check out tapes from old television and radio shows, and they set you up in these booths to watch them. The Milton Berle Show, Howdy Doody, The Mickey Mouse Club. Wonderful shows you can't see anywhere else."

Mickey Mouse Club? Mac mouthed to himself. "It's finally happened," he murmured. "You've lost your mind."

"This is great stuff, Mac, a visual record of the humor, lifestyles, language and society of a unique moment in time, sort of like one of those stereopticons, with sound. Most of the performances were live and unedited. You know what it would be like if I could go back and actually see some of the world as I knew it?" he added softly, with a look of sad longing on his face, but which was quickly disguised with a smirk. "And if I get there right when they open, I'll have time to get through all the episodes of the original Lone Ranger."

"But it's a beautiful day, Methos. We could go for a run in Central Park, then I thought we'd have a nice lunch at Tavern on the Green, then take in whatever new exhibits there were at MOMA."

"Sorry. Sounds lovely, though. Have a nice time, Keemosabe," Methos called as he disappeared out the door, leaving MacLeod standing in the middle of their suite, wondering if the muted shout of "Hi Ho, Silver, Awaaaay!" drifting in from the hallway was just a product of his own vivid imagination.

~~~~~~~

It seemed like a quarter of New York City was in Central Park this morning. Mac would normally have been out jogging at dawn, but he had deliberately waited for Methos to wake up in the hope that they would go running together. Now he constantly had to slow down or swerve to get around slower runners, and had endured two whistles from women, and even a quick slap on his ass from a passing guy on roller blades.

He was about ready to give up and call it quits when a runner joined him, just pacing him at his right shoulder. He looked over and Ian Nottingham nodded. With a smile, Mac relaxed a little and stretched his stride. It was always comforting to have someone running with him, reducing the already unlikely possibility of some pesky Immortal looking to challenge him when he didn't have his sword handy. Nottingham easily matched him stride for stride, and they gradually picked up the pace. They had reached the south end of the Park, and Mac broke into a sprint. He suspected his companion was even more of a runner than he, since he certainly had a long, lean body, similar to Methos', and sure enough, Nottingham pulled ahead by at least two strides by the time they reached the 59th Street Exit.

Mac grinned at him, and was gratified to see a shy smile on the man's normally grim face. They slowed and walked, turning to head back uptown, cooling down and catching their breaths. "You are having me followed," Mac said finally, stating the obvious.

Ian's eyes moved quickly to Mac's and away again. "I'm sorry, Sensei," he murmured. "But it was important that I speak to you."

Mac chuckled, shaking his head. "It isn't the first time it's happened. I'm sorry I ran out on you last night."

"It was.awkward," Ian admitted. "Perhaps it is better that we meet like this, away from other influences."

Mac nodded, then stopped to buy them each a bottle of water from a sidewalk vendor. "I am flattered you want me as a teacher, Ian, but I'm truly not taking on any students now."

Ian walked along in silence, drinking from his water bottle, his eyes constantly on the move, watching the passing pedestrian and vehicle traffic. "But Mr. Irons requires that I have a teacher, and you are the only one who knows what I want to learn."

"And exactly what is that?" Mac asked. "From what I saw, you're already a world class swordsman."

Ian stopped, so Mac stopped, moving close to hear Ian's almost whispered words.

"It isn't just your skills, although I've never seen." Ian shrugged, evidently at a loss, but then he continued. "You seem so.at ease. With yourself, with what you are, with people. How can that be, knowing what you know? Knowing how evil people can be, how easy it is for warriors like us to make a fatal miscalculation that costs an innocent life. For that matter, is anyone innocent? Is any life worth saving?" Ian grew more distressed and more intense as he spoke, until Mac put a hand on Ian's shoulder to calm him.

"All life is worth saving," Mac said softly, leaning in so that their foreheads were almost touching. "That is the most important lesson anyone has to teach or to learn." He sighed in frustration, looking around at the crowd of morning commuters bustling along the sidewalk. This was no place to have this conversation, and Ian was as tense as a live wire, so full of conflicting desires and needs and undirected excess energy, he seemed about to fly apart.

"Come, show me where you usually work out," he smiled at the young man, trying to smooth some of those hostile edges so they could actually talk about something important.

"No!" Ian snapped, but then blinked a few times, and took a deep breath. "No," he said again more gently. "Irons has monitors there to watch me while I'm working out, but I have a more private place I go sometimes." Mac nodded, and followed Ian to the curb to catch a cab.

It was a loft in the Village, formerly a factory of some kind, but Ian had cleared the space and put in beautiful wooden floors. The big widows on two sides made the room bright with the morning sunshine, and the two men were silent as they removed their shoes. Both were dressed in shorts and teeshirts, both already warm and loose from their run. Wordlessly, they went to the middle of the floor and bowed to each other, Mac with a small smile, but Ian looking deadly serious.

After an hour or so, Mac felt bruised and battered, but elated. Very few times in the last century or so had he actually had a serious challenge when it came to straight one-on-one, hand-to-hand combat, and it had been at least that long since that challenge had come from a mortal. Ian's reflexes were astonishingly fast, his strength and endurance a clear tribute to intense, long-term dedication to being the absolute best. And there was something else, too, some natural - or perhaps unnatural - gift of mind and body that elevated his skills to art form.

They had exchanged blows, defensively and offensively, stopping occasionally for one man to demonstrate to the other some particularly intricate move, and Ian finally began to relax, his whole being concentrated on what they were doing. When he managed to do a quick sweep of a leg that for the first time truly caught Mac off guard and flipped him hard onto his back, Ian actually grinned at him as he reached down to help Mac up off the floor.

"Nicely done!" Mac smiled, rubbing a hip that had taken the brunt of the fall.

"Are you all right?" Ian asked, instantly solicitous.

"I'll live," he laughed, slapping Ian on the shoulder in reassurance.

They sought a bench, both men sitting heavily, soaked with the sweat of a hard workout. They leaned back their heads for a moment in silence, catching their breaths and cooling down. Mac looked over at Ian and for the first time, the man's hard, lean face seemed at peace, relaxed, and a small smile even graced his lips.

"You know, Ian, you don't really need a teacher," he finally said softly. Ian rolled his head over to one side to look at him.

"But I want one," Ian replied. "I want you," and he reached a hand across, touching Mac's face.

Mac caught the hand in his own, stopping the progress of Ian's fingers towards his lips. "No, Ian."

Ian yanked his hand back, and ducked his head. "I'm sorry. I've displeased you. Forgive me, Sensei." Ian slipped to his knees, bowing his head.

Mac reached out, squeezing Ian's shoulder in reassurance. "Not at all."

"No!" Ian seemed increasingly distressed. "I forgot myself. Not everyone is like.not everyone.." he stumbled over his words, pushing himself to his feet and walking away, shaking his head. "I'm such a fool! How could anyone like you.?"

"How could anyone like me.what?" Mac asked gently, rising to stand behind Ian's trembling figure.

Ian shook his head. "I deluded myself that we were alike," he sighed, casting his eyes to the ceiling. "I saw you and felt you and watched you and.wanted you. Wanted to be like you. Strong and sure and caring. Knowing what to do. Who to trust. But.."

"But what?" Mac asked, tugging at Ian's shoulder until he turned, although Ian refused to meet his eyes.

"Nothing!" Ian snapped, whirled and strode quickly out of the room. Mac followed only a few steps behind, but by the time he made it to the hallway, the man had disappeared.

~~~~~~~

The squad room filled slowly with the day watch as sleepy-eyed detectives wandered in nursing styrofoam cups filled with hot, strong coffee. Sara studiously ignored her fellow officers, reading through the previous shift's dailies and making notes about the cases that needed follow-up work that day. At last Jake strolled in, his blond hair in its usual studied disarray. He looked over at her as he slumped into his chair and raised an eyebrow.

"You look like hell, and here I thought you made an early night of it," he observed.

"Yeah, well, I'm not a morning person. I've got some follow-up interviews to do on that pimp murder case. I can do those while you check out those other leads we were talking about."

"Leads? What leads?"

"You know, the ones we were talking about last night?" Sara raised a meaningful eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah. Those leads," Jake's mouth twisted, and he pulled his notebook out of his shirt pocket. "I'll get right on it."

Sara gathered up her leather jacket, checked the pocket to make sure Irons' jewelry was still where she had put it that morning, and headed out the door.

"Uh, Pezzini?" Jake called. "Where you headed?"

"Like I said, I've got some interviews to do. Thought I'd head over to talk to some of the girls the pimp was running. They might be a little more talkative in their own 'hood."

"And you're not going to see Irons again without telling me, right?"

"Would I do that, Jake?" Sara answered with a smile, winked at her partner, and headed out the door.

Traffic was bad, but Sara's motorcycle wound her through the worst of it, and she knew a number of back alleys and cross streets that skirted the major tie-ups. Still, it was late morning by the time she strode into the expansive lobby of the Vorschlag Industries building, her boot heels echoing in the cavernous marble-and-steel space. She shivered slightly. The place always seemed cold, the air over-processed, the shadows oddly menacing. She felt in her pocket one more time, just to make sure the necklace and earrings were still there. Maybe she could just drop them off with a receptionist somewhere, and not actually have to talk to Irons, although that would be rude. Not that Sara was particularly averse to being rude to Kenneth Irons.

The security personnel at the front desk eyed her coldly and refused to take anything she wanted to leave for Mr. Irons, insisting she had to go up to his offices. As she headed for the elevator, she wondered if Irons had left specific instructions that she always come to his office or quarters just so he would have every opportunity to manipulate her, and thus the Witchblade.

She strode toward the elevators in the nearly empty lobby, but something made her slow her steps - perhaps the blade twitched on her arm, perhaps her own instincts were guiding her. Low voices speaking in intense tones could be heard in an access hallway near the elevators and her snooping instincts took over. She moved close to the entrance, straining to hear. In only a heartbeat the Witchblade added to the effort, and she closed her eyes, clearly 'seeing' in her mind's eye what was going on around the corner.

"I just wanted to know why you ran away." It was Duncan MacLeod, wearing a soft white sweater and slacks, looking like he had rushed to dress, his hair still tousled and damp from a shower. "Or why you thought I would be offended. Is it Irons? Did he do something to you that.?"

"You shouldn't have come here!" Ian snapped. He was shrouded in his usual dark coat and pants, with a black knit cap pulled down over his hair. He held himself tightly, staring at the floor and backed to the wall, away from MacLeod. But MacLeod was not intimidated by Ian's obvious distress.

"Why is that? Because Irons might see me? You said he watches you work out. Why is that, Ian? And why would it bother you that he might see us spar? Look at me, damn it!"

Nottingham raised his eyes at last, but his face was set and hard. "I made a mistake," he said softly. "I let myself believe we were alike in some way, but we're not. I don't want you pulled into Irons' orbit. It's a very dangerous place to be, and I'm a very dangerous man to know."

Oddly, that ominous declaration only made MacLeod chuckle. "No doubt, Ian. But as you might have noticed, I am pretty good at taking care of myself. If Irons is somehow forcing you to do things against your will, then I want to help you." MacLeod reached out and put his hand on Nottingham's shoulder, prying him away from the wall and leaning in close to make his point. "You wanted me to be your teacher, Ian," he continued softly. "But I don't think you need lessons in how to defend yourself or how to kill. I think you need lessons in how to live."

Sara held her breath when Ian leaned forward into MacLeod's body, laying his forehead onto the man's shoulder for just a breath or two, then pulled away. "You may be right," he answered. "But it's just too dangerous to try." He reached out and clasped MacLeod's forearm, and MacLeod returned the gesture, except he used both hands. "Stay away, Duncan MacLeod," Ian ordered harshly. "Stay alive." He started to pull away, but MacLeod refused to let go, pulling him back in close.

"You'd be surprised at how hard I am to get rid of, Ian Nottingham. Or to kill, even by a predator like Kenneth Irons. You don't need to protect me, and if you ever need to talk, call me." MacLeod pulled a card out of his pocket and slipped it into Ian's hand.

Sara slipped away further down the hall, backing into a dark shadow. MacLeod strode by her hiding place, headed towards the lobby, but her heart almost stopped when he slowed slightly, then almost turned to look back in her direction. A small smile twitched on his lips and he shook his head a little, then walked briskly away.

~~~~~~~

"Sara?" She jerked in surprise, almost slamming into the wall. Ian was only three feet away.

"I, uh."

Nottingham cocked his head. "Were you eavesdropping on me?" The idea seemed to amuse him.

"I heard your voice, but I just got here in time to see MacLeod leave," she tried to say casually. "I came by to drop off the jewelry." She stuck her hand in her jacket pocket, coming up with the necklace and earrings and shoving them into Nottingham's hand. "Thank Irons for me, would you?" She turned to leave.

"You can't hide from me, Sara," Nottingham called after her. "We are part of one another."

Sara paused, but then walked away. It wasn't the first time Nottingham had alluded to some special connection between them, and she couldn't deny that it felt like the truth. But now she had something just as intriguing to think about. Duncan MacLeod was proving to be a most interesting man. Not at all like the oozing malevolence of Irons, or the dark, mysteriously protective presence of Nottingham, but there was.something there. A force to be reckoned with, to be sure.

~~~~~~~

"There you are!" Jake said as she walked into the squad room late in the day. "Where the hell have you been all day?"

"I told you. I went to do some interviews," she answered vaguely. "You find out anything?"

Jake jerked his head towards one of the conference rooms and Sara followed him in and closed the door.

"Well?"

Jake sat at the table and pulled out his notebook. "There was more to this assignment than I figured. I ended up talking to a guy I know at Interpol about this MacLeod guy."

"Interpol? He has a record?" Sara sat, more dismayed than she should have been to find that the attractive Mr. MacLeod had a dubious past.

"No, but he has everything but."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Jake sat back, thumbing through the contents of a brown file folder. "If I didn't know you better, I'd suspect you were just trying to get a line on a potential hot date," he grinned at her, waving what was apparently a passport photo at his partner. "Handsome, rich, single, debonair, world traveler.."

Sara clenched her fist, digging nails into her palm to keep from blushing. "Yeah, right. Get on with it, McCartey.

Jake smirked but turned back to his file. "At a guess, I'd say your Mr. MacLeod is some kind of agent, or maybe even a hired gun of some sort, although he's got a hell of a good cover." He continued when Sara just cocked an eyebrow at him in irritation for being vague. "He's got zero proof of background information before about the age of 20, allegedly born in Scotland with parents who died in a car crash when he was young, raised by an American aunt who is also
conveniently dead, but all the records were burned in a fire, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera."

Sara frowned. "Typical constructed identity," she acknowledged. "But what's his connection with Interpol?"

"They've interviewed him a number of times in connection with some real bad asses, every single one of whom subsequently died or mysteriously disappeared after being connected to MacLeod in some way."

"Wait a minute. He shows up on the scene, and the bad guys just disappear? Every time?" Sara sat back as Jake nodded. "Whoa. Sounds like a one-man clean-up crew. Any notion of who is funding him?"

"Nope. He is independently wealthy, left a large estate by an uncle. You asked about martial arts, but there are no specifics of training, and no record of any martial arts competitions he ever entered, although he evidently ran a dojo in Northwest Washington state for a few years after he closed up an antique shop he ran with an artist, a woman killed a few years ago in a street mugging. He is, however, considered a world class expert in antique weapons, tapestries, oriental art," Jake waved his hand. "You name it. His "uncle" - also named Duncan MacLeod, by the way - was also well established in that field."

"Wait a minute. How could his identity be constructed if he was left a fortune by an elderly relative? That doesn't make any sense."

"No, it doesn't. But the elderly relative has a few interesting skeletons in his own closet." Jake opened a second file he had brought in and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it over. "I got this from a guy I know at the CIA."

Sara picked it up and studied it. It was a fax of a photograph. It looked like the interior of a bar, and from the clothes and hairstyles, it looked to be from the 1940's. There were couples dancing, and several people sitting at tables, drinking large steins of beer. "So?" she looked over at Jake, wondering what she was supposed to be seeing.

"It's a British surveillance photo from World War II. A bar in Berlin. Look at the couples dancing."

Sara put the photo down on the table and leaned close, studying the small figures closely, and sucked in a sharp breath. He had a small mustache, but otherwise it was the same man, the same broad shoulders, same nose and mouth, deep, dark eyes and warm smile. But what Jake obviously hadn't noticed, or couldn't tell from the blurred half-profile that was visible, was that the fraulein with whom he was dancing so intimately looked very much like Elizabeth Bronte - and therefore looked very much like Sara Pezzini.

Sara swallowed to relieve the sudden dryness in her throat. "Wow. Hell of a resemblance," she said, her voice betraying her a little before she stopped to clear it. "I guess that proves it's not a constructed identity. That must be his uncle. No question but that these two men are related.

Probably the nephew went into the family business - espionage." She smiled, trying to make coherent sentences while her brain spun in several different directions at once. MacLeod had called her "Beth" and looked at her as though he had seen a ghost. But that was impossible. This picture was taken almost 60 years ago, and MacLeod hadn't even been born then.

"Sara?"

Her attention snapped back to the present, and Jake had leaned forward and was looking at her strangely.

"Anything wrong?"

"No! Nothing. This is fascinating, Jake. How did you get all this stuff?"

Jake smiled smugly. "I have a few friends in low places. Now the other guy you asked me about is almost as interesting, if not quite as mysterious." He read from his notes. "Adam Benjamin Pierson, age 36, born in Wales, graduated from Oxford with a double degree in history and linguistics, then did graduate studies at the Sorbonne under a grant from an historical research society based in France. Specialist in ancient languages and cultures, recently finished his doctorate and has made a bit of a stir in academic circles with some radical interpretations of ancient texts. Oddly," Jake looked up from his notes, "Pierson also inherited a large estate from his uncle, who was also an expert in the field of ancient cultures, an archeologist who spent a lot of time in the Middle East in the early part of the century."

Sara was hardly listening, still staring at the picture she clutched in her hand. "Oh? I guess everybody's got a rich uncle but me."

"And his childhood history is also a little vague, although a bit more specific than MacLeod's. I talked to a Mrs. Ingram who takes care of Pierson's house outside of London, and she said she had raised him from a "wee lad" as she called him, although all his school and birth records were.."

".destroyed in a fire," Sara finished for him wryly.

"Yeah," Jake acknowledged, snapping his notebook closed. "Must have a lot of fires in England. That's it on your two mysterious gentlemen. What's next?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"I mean I'll handle it from here," Sara rose.

"Sara, wait just a damn minute," Jake followed her as she left the room and headed to her desk to grab her jacket and helmet. "You can't just lay this kind of thing on me and not fill me in on what the hell is going on."

"It was just curiosity, McCartey," Sara insisted. "I met these two guys and wanted to know more about them. I have no reason to think they are in town for any reason other than to go to an exhibit at the museum." She pulled on her jacket and headed for the door, but Jake was dogged in his pursuit and darted in front of her, blocking her path.

"What if MacLeod is here to deal with some bad ass, the way he did in Europe," Jake insisted. "Maybe that bad ass is Irons," he went on. "Or maybe it's somebody we don't even know about yet. I think we should keep an eye on him, Pezzini."

"Read. My. Lips. We have no substantive evidence to suspect the man of anything," Sara insisted. "You're grasping at straws, McCartey. Maybe you were right, I was just looking for a hot date."

"No," Jake said softly. "I may not be the brightest bulb in the pack, but I'm not stupid, Sara. You don't ask questions casually, and this information is too bizarre not to follow up on it. Don't do this alone, God damn it. MacLeod is clearly a dangerous man!"

Sara sighed, leaned up against the wall and closed her eyes. Rookies. "Jake," she said, holding on to her temper by the barest thread, "You don't know that the man is dangerous, and we do have a few other cases to concern ourselves with. Real cases, with real dead bodies and real crimes. Not an unknown crime we think might be committed sometime in the future by someone who so far has only committed the sin of attending a boring museum exhibit!" She ran out of breath and temper as she finished, pushed herself off from the wall and left the building, hoping that McCartey would listen to the voice of reason and keep his nose out of this one.

Ha. That was a laugh. The voice of reason? She was ass-deep in her own intuitive quagmire, wondering about MacLeod and Pierson and Nottingham and Irons, eavesdropping, using department resources to get confidential information about private citizens who were involved in no known criminal activity.

But her head was still swimming with the implications of that photo, which she had surreptitiously taken, folded and stuck in her jacket pocket.

~~~~~~~

"Let me get this straight," Methos said patiently in that soft, reasonable tone that was inevitably a precursor to deadly sarcasm. "You went jogging with Nottingham this morning, following him to some deserted loft in the Village to spar with him, then when he made a pass at you, which you declined - the first and only sensible thing you've done since we've gotten to New York, I might add - you follow him to Vorschlag and confront him about it? And you thought I had lost my marbles because I wanted to spend a few hours watching Tonto and the Long Ranger? Why don't you just parade around the streets of New York with a sign on your chest: "Someone Please Make My Life Too Fucking Complicated to Fathom!"" His voice had gradually risen in volume until he was shouting.

Mac had to smile as he handed his friend a glass of scotch and sat in a chair across from the couch where Methos had spread out, both arms stretched across the back like great wings. "Well, when you put it that way.."

"How the hell else am I supposed to put it? I thought you made the startling confession last night that I was right about Irons and Nottingham, that they are involved with the Witchblade and that it was bad news to have any association with them."

"Methos," Mac sighed, trying to put his feelings in to words that would make the man understand he couldn't just walk away from Nottingham. "The boy is seriously troubled, and I suspect that Irons is using Ian's incredible gifts in ways that Ian doesn't like. But somehow Ian has convinced himself that he can't make such decisions for himself. He was horrified when I turned him down, took it as a very personal rejection. Makes me wonder just what kind of manipulations Irons uses."

Methos laughed. "Doesn't make me wonder at all. Irons came on to me when we were in the library during his visit, and then seemed amused when Nottingham got perturbed by it."

"Really?" Mac was surprised. "You didn't mention it."

Methos shrugged. "It was a testing-the-waters kind of moment that got interrupted when Ian dashed out, only to find you doing your exercise gig in the ballroom."

Mac frowned, staring into his glass. "I assume you weren't planning to pursue his overtures?" and immediately wished he could take the priggish sounding words back. He quickly added, "I suspect Irons has used intimidation and sex to make Ian believe that he 'belongs' to him."

"Ah, and your nurturing instincts just get all tingly when you see that kind of thing, don't they?" Methos smiled at him, ignoring Mac's rather presumptive question. Mac would have been insulted at Methos' words except that his tone was tinged with affection as well as humor. Then Methos got serious, leaning forward to make his point. "Except that this is no troubled street kid, MacLeod. This man is an experienced killer, a deadly weapon Irons has probably been honing for decades to do exactly as he is told. This is no sweet lost puppy to take home and turn into a pet. This one has very, very sharp teeth and long claws and is already on someone else's leash."

"That's just it, Methos. I think he wants to break away from his master whether I interfere or not. That's one reason he was so desperate for me to be his teacher. But if he goes against Irons believing that he has no value apart from whatever praise or sex or whatever else Irons provides, he truly will become a vicious, uncontrollable animal."

"So what are you going to do?" Methos asked.

"I honestly don't know," Mac replied. "But I don't think I can just abandon him."

Methos rolled his eyes. "Nanny MacLeod strikes again."

"You should talk," Mac replied with his own smirk. "You've been hovering over me for years now, always ready to pull my nuts out of the fire. Maybe I should get you a little uniform with an apron. We could have your name sewn over the pocket."

Methos coughed as he took a sip of scotch, his face turning a little red as he breathed in some of the potent liquor. "I'm hardly your nanny, MacLeod. Don't go all sentimental on me over a few moments of inexplicable weakness."

Mac smiled into his glass. It felt good to catch Methos unprepared with a witty response. "Nonetheless," he said softly. "It did not go unnoticed or unappreciated."

There was a long moment while both men sipped their drinks in silence. Finally, Mac got up and reached for Methos' glass to get him a refill, but Methos kept it clutched in both hands, his eyes focused on his lap. "Mac," he said softly. "I know I wasn't there for you after Richie died, and.and I wish I had tried to stop Connor from going to Sanctuary. He talked about you, you know. I think if I had realized just how fiercely you would have fought for him and with him, I would have tried to convince him to talk to you first."

Mac knelt down so he could see up into Methos' face. It was a rare glimpse past the sardonic mask the man usually wore. "We all have things we wish we had.or hadn't.done," Mac said, both their voices falling to a near whisper. "Let it go."

Methos looked up, and reached out with a hand, touching the side of Mac's face with a sad smile. "I will. I hope you can let go, too. You carry your grief too close, my friend."

Mac covered Methos' hand with his own. "Time is on our side. And hope that we will do better next time."

Methos smile warmed. "That's my boy," he chuckled, pulling his hand away and using it to give Mac his glass. "Mr. Optimism."

~~~~~~~

Jake McCartey wasn't the only cop in New York with inside contacts. On her way to her motorcycle Sara Pezzini called a hotel reservation supervisor she had worked with on a past case, and asked her to check around to find a booking in the name of Duncan MacLeod or Adam Pierson, starting with the fanciest hotels first.

She got a hit almost immediately - at the Sherry Netherlands, no less. Rich uncles, indeed, Sara thought as she kicked the motorcycle into gear, heading towards mid-town. It was almost dark by the time she parked the bike and got to the front of the hotel, and she was still uncertain exactly what she planned to do. Confront him? There was a part of her that really wanted to just ask the man straight out who the hell he was and how his look-alike uncle managed to be photographed with Sara's look-alike predecessor and probable ancestor, Elizabeth Bronte.

Fortunately, she knew herself well enough to recognize pure lust when she felt it, and even though the Witchblade twitched constantly, adding strongly to the urge to visit the man in his hotel room, her more rational cop instincts told her to lay low, watch, and gather more information before she got into a situation she couldn't control.

She found a couch in the lobby, slightly out of the way, and she took up station there, waiting. After about a half hour of watching elegant, well-dressed guests and snooty help parade through the lobby, a middle-aged man in a dark suit approached her, his hands held clasped behind his back. He had a small gold label on his pocket designating him as the Hotel Manager.

"May I help you, madam?" he asked with a not particularly friendly smile.

"Just waiting for someone," Sara answered, controlling an adolescent desire to stick her tongue out at him.

"One of our guests?" he inquired.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Sara snapped. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her badge. "I'm on duty and would appreciate it if you would get the hell out of my line of sight."

The man stiffened, one eyebrow rising in disdain. "Madam, it is usual for the authorities to work with hotel management in such matters. For a young woman dressed in black leather to.to lounge in our lobby for a considerable period of time is hardly discreet."

Sara rose to her feet. She was tired, she was confused by this whole mess and had no time or patience for self-important hotel managers. "Listen, asshole," she whispered. "What I wear and where I lounge is none of your fucking concern. And the only person who is being indiscreet here is you, since you've now drawn every eye in the room."

Indeed, several pairs of eyes were glancing in their direction, some of whom Sara had begun to suspect were neither hotel guests, nor staff, but she hadn't been able to settle on their possible identities. As the hotel manager beat a quick and huffy retreat, she sat back down, almost catching the eye of a mousy little man who had been reading a paper in another rather dark corner.

And then there was the Indian. Wearing the turban of a Sikh, the tall, elegant man had been on a house phone over by the wall now for over a half hour. He wore a long raincoat, which seemed odd since the weather was mild, and he, too, kept his eyes on the elevators. He wasn't however, particularly interested in Sara's altercation with the manager, and Sara was still contemplating what he might be doing there when the elevator door opened, and two men stepped out, drawing virtually every eye in the lobby.

MacLeod and Pierson were also wearing long coats, each with a hand inside as though reaching for something. They stepped out of the elevator and fanned out, each to one side, their eyes scanning the room. Sara had been in enough tight situations, confronted with enough threats and had enough training to easily recognize battle stances. Her heart sped and she backed into a shadow, her eyes also searching the room for a threat.

The Indian man hung up the house phone and strolled over towards the elevators. MacLeod stepped up, physically confronting the man while Pierson slipped almost casually around to where he was behind the stranger. Sara looked at the Witchblade, urging it to life, but its red stone was already shifting colors, not changing into a defensive gauntlet, but doing what it had done so many times. Sara froze, holding her breath as from all the way across a 40-foot lobby, she could see and hear what was going on as though she were only inches away.

"My, you are determined, aren't you, following me all the way from England just to commit suicide," MacLeod greeted the dark-skinned man grimly.

"And you are a coward, to run away from an honorable challenge," the man said.

"Fool!" MacLeod whispered harshly. "There is no honor in this, no matter who wins or loses."

"You are wrong, MacLeod. There can be only one. It is the rule we live by. And die by," the man insisted. "Now tell me when and where."

MacLeod closed his eyes, shaking his head, turning to Pierson as though imploring him to intervene, but Pierson's face was closed and unreadable. "We're in the middle of New York City, for Christ's sake! I don't want to do this, and you have no reason to.."

"I do not need a reason, MacLeod," the man insisted. "Central Park, then, 2 a.m. by the pond. It should be over before we draw any curious onlookers," he added arrogantly. He looked around to Pierson. "And I assume you will come alone? Rumors are you abide by the rules, but rumors have been known to be wrong."

"No one will interfere," MacLeod snapped.

The man gave a curt nod, cast a hostile glance towards Pierson, and was out of the lobby in only a few long strides.

Apparently, Sara was going to lose two nights of sleep in a row over Duncan MacLeod. She watched as Pierson gave MacLeod a long, disgusted look, and the two men left and were climbing into a cab before Sara had made it all the way across the lobby. She sighed in frustration, scanning the area once again, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the man who had been reading the newspaper. He was now standing near the door, watching Pierson and MacLeod leave, speaking quietly into a tape recorder.

~~~~~~~

Their dinner had been strained and nearly silent. MacLeod pushed the excellent pasta dish around on his plate, his mind obviously elsewhere, and Methos didn't try to force any false gaiety into the conversation. Even with a battle looming, though, MacLeod insisted they go ahead and go to the theatre. After all, "People kill for tickets to "The Producers,"" he had said in a rather macabre attempt at humor.

And Methos decided not to mention the presence of Sara Pezzini in the lobby of the hotel. Mac had enough on his mind without worrying about the wielder. She had been too far away to hear their conversation, but Methos figured he couldn't entirely trust that she hadn't gleaned more information than that of a casual, distant observer. MacLeod had admonished Methos to stay away from the site of the fight, but Methos just smiled and nodded without making a specific promise other than that he wouldn't interfere.

Then, in the middle of dinner, Methos' cell phone rang.

"You know, polite people turn off their cell phones when they're out having a nice dinner," Mac groused.

"You make it sound like we're on a date," Methos teased as he opened and answered the phone.

"Are you with MacLeod?" Joe Dawson's gravelly voice asked.

"Yes," Methos answered.

"I need to talk to him, and he's turned his phone off," MacLeod's Watcher insisted.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Methos suggested, smiling and shrugging at MacLeod to give him the impression the call was unimportant and mildly annoying.

"Because I need to talk to Mac. Now give him the phone!"

"I don't think I can do that," Methos replied evenly.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Just tell me, and I'll handle the problem," Methos said quietly.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Methos just waited in silence.

"Shit. All right. Just tell Mac that a New York cop by the name of Sara Pezzini was in the lobby today when Rahvi Singh made his challenge. Tell him this woman is dangerous, clever and has abilities that he should be very wary of."

Methos let a few seconds of silence go by while he thought about that bit of information - not about Sara Pezzini, which he already knew, but that Joe knew she was someone special.

"I'll deal with it," he finally answered.

"You know about her, don't you?" Joe asked, then chuckled. "Of course, you know. I hope you know what you're doing, buddy," he sighed.

"Don't I always?"

That elicited a bark of laughter, and Methos severed the connection.

"Who was that?"

"Mrs. Ingram. The plumbing in the upstairs bath has sprung a leak, and the expenses exceed her authority. I'll have to call tomorrow to deal with the repairs."

MacLeod made a point of looking at his watch. Since England was six hours ahead of New York, it would make it just after 2 a.m. at Methos' country estate, an unlikely time for a phone call about plumbing repairs. But Mac said nothing, letting the obvious lie slide. Clearly his mind was on other things.

~~~~~~~

Irons heard the door open, and quickly blanked his computer screen. It would not do to have Ian know that his 'secret place' was not a secret at all. "Well?" he asked.

Ian came to a parade rest position in front of his employer. "Pezzini went to MacLeod's hotel, and came out immediately after MacLeod and Pierson caught a cab, but was unable to follow them, then she went home."

"And did Sara speak to MacLeod?" Irons asked.

"I infer that she did not, that she just had him under surveillance, since she was careful not to emerge when they might have seen her."

"So, our Sara also thinks that MacLeod is someone of interest. No doubt she, too, has studied his fascinating, but enigmatic history. And it is fascinating, isn't it?" Irons asked softly.

"Obviously, it presents many unanswered questions," Ian answered carefully. "And we don't know what his relationship is with Pierson."

Irons rose and crossed to look out his window at the New York City skyline, now at that interesting border between day and evening, when the sky seems a heavy, almost tangible thing. "But you will get those answers when he becomes your teacher, will you not?" he asked.

"He does not wish to take any students at this time," Ian answered.

Irons turned with an indulgent smile. "Ah, but you are a persuasive man, Ian. I expect you to overcome his objections."

Ian's chin moved closer to his chest and Irons could discern the minute increase in tension across those broad shoulders. "I have already tried, master," he insisted softly. "I will look elsewhere for a teacher."

"No, you will not," Irons said coldly. "I am interested in MacLeod, and you will see to it that he becomes your teacher." Irons turned, advancing slowly. "I expect you to use any means necessary to achieve that end."

Ian opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it, and Irons could have sworn there was a touch of high color in those hard cheekbones, underneath the dark beard. But Ian just ducked his head in acknowledgment of his instructions, turned and soundlessly left the room.

Irons couldn't help the smile that stretched his lips as he went back to his monitor to replay that charming moment captured in Nottingham's 'secret' gym, when MacLeod rejected Ian's tentative advance. MacLeod would become Ian's teacher, and in that process reveal his secrets. Then he could either be exploited, or if he became any serious threat, simply removed. It wouldn't do to have any long-term competition either for Ian's or the Witchblade's attention.


~~~~~

To Be Continued....
in Part 4