There was a time
I was everything and nothing all at once
When you found me
I was feeling like a cloud across the sun
–Elton John, “The Way You Look Tonight”

“Which of you fathers, if your son asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead?”
–Luke 11:11

Gerardo’s Mexican Cantina
Just outside Seacouver

They carded him. The stupid bastards carded him.

Of course, he shouldn’t have been surprised, since his physical age was permanently halted at nineteen. Still, the fact grated on him, and he’d been a little brusque with the bartenders once they’d satisfied themselves with his driver’s license and asked him what he wanted to drink. He didn’t even remember what he’d ordered now, except that it was the strongest thing on the menu.

With a rueful laugh at that, he threw his head back and drained the last gulp of the concoction. Funny…back in his juvenile delinquent days, drinking–especially hard liquor–had been a thrill, each scorching mouthful a naughty pleasure. Now he wondered if maybe the sole appeal of the thing had been its illegality; since turning twenty-one he had suddenly found the taste of strong alcohol mildly revolting, especially stuff like this that had to be close to a hundred proof. But if he could only drink enough to make himself forget, it might be worth the vile taste in his mouth.

The memory still hung there though, as vivid as anything that had happened to him since a mugger’s bullet introduced him prematurely to Immortality. Now, under the haze of alcohol, it actually seemed more real than when it had been happening.

Mac had tried to kill him. Mac, with that evil glint in his eye that had made Richie turn cold in terror, had held the katana to his student’s throat, and would have struck if Joe hadn’t shot him.

“Is it because there can be only one? Is that it?”

“That’s as good a reason as any.”

He shivered and gestured for the bartender to pour him another glass.

He didn’t even remember leaving the Dojo, only hazy images of his betrayer lying there on the floor, the death-wound that Joe had inflicted on Mac slowly closing, with the Watcher begging the shaken younger Immortal to flee. So, he’d fled, carrying nothing with him but his rapier and the dreadful, numbing pain.

Damn the Highlander. Damn him for turning his world upside down just as he’d begun to accept it as stable. Damn him to eternal hell for twisting the hard-earned trust the two of them had built into a razor-sharp weapon to hold against his protégé’s throat.

A familiar but newly harsh sensation swept through Richie’s mind, tensing every one of the six hundred three muscles in his body and setting every nerve on edge. Never again, he swore silently. Never again would he trust another of his kind. Kill or be killed, that was the watchword of Immortality, and he’d never believed in it more fervently than at that moment.

She was watching him from across the bar, a beautiful woman a little reminiscent of Annie Devlin, who had almost been his first Immortal kill. He had spared the Irishwoman’s life, unable to take it from her because he could see the reckless pain behind her challenge, and knew it didn’t deserve such a consequence. She’d been lucky–he’d never err on the side of mercy again.

But there was something different about the woman who regarded him now. Her hair was a darker red, and there was a shape to her features that marked them as distinctly non-Gaelic. She was old, that he could tell just by looking at her even though she appeared to be in her twenties. She had that same wise air that surrounded all the Immortals he knew who had survived more than a few centuries…except for maybe Amanda.

Ire rising in him, Richie dropped his last twenty on the bar, picked up his helmet, and stalked out, brushing roughly past the woman as he left. He made no effort to impress her, didn’t bother to worry whether he would inspire a challenge. He wanted her to challenge him.

Gerardo watched the young man stagger out, breathing a deep sigh. “Dios, I don’t wanna see where that one sleeps tonight! Está muy borracho!”

The redhead nodded, rubbing her shoulder thoughtfully where he had pushed past her. Her eyes followed the angry departing figure. “Don’t worry, Jerry,” she reassured the bartender in a soft voice. “I’ll take care of him.”

******

By the time Richie reached his bike, the sensation had faded, letting him know she hadn’t followed him. Or, at least, if she had, she was keeping her distance.

Now even angrier, he lifted the helmet from the handlebars and stared at it for a moment before heaving it drunkenly into the little cadre of trashcans behind the bar. It hit them with a loud crash, spilling two cans over in opposite directions like magnets with matching charges. He threw one leg over the seat, gunned the ignition, and rumbled off too fast in the direction of the freeway.

Unfortunately, he forgot to turn onto the road, instead cutting a zigzag line through the gravel on the other side. A little creative steering brought him back onto the pavement, but his direction remained unsteady and his bike uncomfortably close to the edge.

He lifted his head a moment later just in time to see himself careening towards a large tree that seemed to be the only piece of vegetation anywhere near the road. Swearing, he swerved the bike mightily to the right.

The motorcycle followed his last-minute command. His body didn’t.

Instead, he felt inertia tear his hands from the handlebars as he continued on course straight into the tree with the same momentum as the motorcycle now skidding in the opposite direction. The actual impact was anticlimactic.

The last thing he was aware of before he slipped into the all-too-familiar darkness was the faint buzz of an approaching Immortal. His last thought was that this time, he might not wake.

******

later…

That now familiar sensation called her out of her memories with the awareness that her young charge was coming back to life. The song she had been humming died in her throat and she turned back to the bed, just as the body on it jerked awake.

The younger Immortal’s eyes snapped open as awareness rushed over him. Instantly cognizant of his vulnerability, he sat up, only to find a small but insistent hand clamping down on his shoulder.

“Whoa, slow down, George,” she scolded with laughter in her voice. “It’s not a race.”

With a hoarse cry he pulled that shoulder away, pivoting towards her in the process. She smiled warmly and let her arm drop, not at all offended by his edginess.

Well, duh, she wasn’t offended, Richie thought as he recognized the other Immortal from the bar. He groped at the sheets beside him, his searching hands confirming what he’d already suspected–he was unarmed. He had every right to be edgy, since he was totally at her mercy.

A sad but knowing smile traced his keeper’s face. “It’s on the trunk at the foot of the bed. I knew you’d want it within reach, but I didn’t want you rolling over and impaling yourself on it when you woke up. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of white sheets?”

A little dumbfounded, Richie scrambled to the end of the bed and found his rapier resting on an old but well-preserved steamer trunk. Wrapping his fingers around the hilt, he raised it before him, keeping the blade between himself and the other Immortal.

“You’re blessed you didn’t break it on that little flight,” she continued calmly.

He grimaced, the accident flashing into his mind. God, how could he have been so stupid? And his bike–

“My bike!”

She gestured behind her. “Outside.”

“Is it–?”

“It could use a few repairs, but it actually fared better than you did, George.” She smirked. “Too bad *it* isn’t Immortal.”

Richie smiled, but only for a moment. Vivid, grim memories of Duncan’s betrayal still hung like curtains across his mind and when he turned his blue eyes back to his rescuer, they were indigo with distrust and suspicion. “Why are you doing this?”

She sighed and crossed the room to a large window hung with thick plush curtains, thrusting them open with a sharp motion. “I realize how upset you were when you left…I saw it in your eyes…but you still shouldn’t have been quite so careless. Playing ‘Hug-a-Tree’ within sight and hearing range of a busy bar…it’s not exactly the best way to keep your Immortality a secret.” Turning back to face him, she crossed her arms and regarded him with curious sympathy. “If I hadn’t offered to ‘drive you to the hospital myself,’ you probably would have woken up in the back of an ambulance.”

Richie inclined his head in reluctant acknowledgment. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure, George.”

“What–? My name’s not George, why do you keep calling me that?”

She smirked again. “Haven’t you seen ‘George of the Jungle’?”

He blinked.

“‘Watch out for that tree?'”

The younger Immortal proceeded to turn a shade of scarlet that Miss O’Hara would have been proud to claim as her namesake. His grip on the blade wilted a little. “Oh.”

His rescuer chuckled softly. “Of course, if I had something else to call you…”

“Richie,” he offered after a moment of silent debate. “My name’s Richie Ryan.”

She stuck out a hand, which he warily accepted. “Chaya bat Avraham, although I go by Chaya Abrams. It takes less explaining.”

“Chaya?”

“It’s Hebrew. It means ‘life.'”

“What about the other part?”

“‘Daughter of Abraham.'”

“Whoa! The Abraham?”

“No, though I am a ‘Jew’, as they call us now. Avraham ben Tarah had two sons, Ismail and Yitzhak, and no daughters, not even by adoption. The man I called my father was named after the Patriarch.”

“Oh. So how old *are* you?”

Chaya shook her head with a little smile. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to ask a woman her age?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay–I’m actually rather pleased that you’re perceptive enough to ask. Most male Immortals tend to assume that because I’m a woman, I can’t have survived very long.”

Richie nodded. “So, now that you’ve rescued me from my own stupidity, now what?”

“Well, I’d suggest you stay here for a few days. At least long enough not to raise suspicions if any witnesses see you walking around without a scratch on you.”

He shook his head, his own suspicions rising again and his voice turning bitter. “It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving town anyway.”

The older Immortal studied him, recognizing the hurt of betrayal in his voice. “What happened?” she asked softly. “Why were you trying your damnedest in that bar to get me to fight you?”

The young Immortal pinned his lower lip between his teeth. “I…”

Reading his reluctance, Chaya let the subject drop with a silent nod and circled around the bed to the door. Maybe later, if and when she won his trust.

“It’s getting late, so you’re welcome to sleep here if you want. If you’re leaving town like this, with only the clothes on your back…” she smiled sadly at him. “I don’t imagine you have anywhere else to stay.”

Richie shook his head. “No…I guess I don’t.”

“I know you don’t trust me right now…you don’t have any reason to yet…but you will be safe here tonight.”

He noticed with a touch of curiosity that she didn’t make the statement a promise. Oddly enough, that made him trust it a bit more. Promises were too often broken.

He nodded again. “Thank you.”

******

The next morning

I must be dreaming, Richie decided when he awoke to a decidedly alluring aroma. He rolled over in the bed Chaya had loaned him, feeling for his rapier. He was relieved to find it still where he had sheathed it between the mattress and the headboard.

Satisfied that she had kept her word, even though she’d never given it, he sat up, grimacing at the thought of putting back on his bloody shirt from the night before. A glance at the chair beside the bed, however, revealed a brand new green flannel shirt sitting neatly folded on top of a pair of brand new jeans. The ruined clothes he had discarded last night had vanished, except for the boxers, which he had worn to bed. He ran a thumb under the waistband of those, grateful that they were black and thus didn’t show the bloodstains.

A still sleepy little part of his mind marveled that he was not more suspicious of the clothes, but more of him rejected the idea of facing his hostess with nothing but boxers and his sword. So, he slipped into the jeans and pulled the shirt over his head, fastening the last few buttons with one hand as he wandered out of the guest room where he had been staying and, like a coon hound, followed the trail of the scent until he discovered her kitchen.

The house–he had quickly surmised during his journey that it was a house, not an apartment–was well-furnished, but modest enough that it would not look terribly inappropriate for a woman of twenty-four, which was about the age Chaya appeared. He wondered what sort of occupation she kept to explain her standard of living, or whether she just attributed it all to an well-invested inheritance from a dead relative.

That train of thought didn’t last long, though, once he spotted the source of the scent he’d been tracking in a flat cardboard box on the kitchen table. Crossing the room to it, he set his sword on the table and had one hand on the lid when the buzz alerted him to the return of his hostess. He snatched his hand back just as she entered the room with an extra chair.

Chaya laughed. “Go ahead, don’t let it get cold.”

He grinned, forgetting to be leery of her for a moment. “I thought I was going crazy when I woke up smelling pepperoni pizza.”

She returned the grin. “It’s been my experience that the traditional breakfast foods of the past few centuries are not necessarily the best ones. I took a chance you’d agree with me.”

“About this century, yeah. I don’t know much about any others, except what Ma–” His smile instantly faded. “What some other Immortals have told me about them.”

The redhead grimaced at his change in mood. “I was right, then. You’re young.”

He sighed. “Twenty-three. Is it that obvious?”

“Not to everyone. I’ve just had a lot of experience with every age. And actually…” She smiled. “I’ve met sixty-year olds who were less mature than you, so I wasn’t entirely on the mark.”

Her guest looked startled for a moment, then diverted his attention back to the pizza. “Isn’t this against your religion or something?” he indicated the toppings.

Chaya smiled and seated herself at the table in the chair she’d brought in, reaching for a piece herself. “Technically, yes. I keep Kosher most of the time, but Y’shua commanded Kefa once in a vision to eat anything set before him at a Gentile’s table, and Sha’ul later wrote that Followers of the Way were not bound to any traditions that might cause a fellow to stumble. So I eat like a Goy when I’m with one.”

“When in Rome, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Just one question–”

“What?”

“Actually, make that several questions. Who’s Yashewa, who’s Kayfa, who’s Shahool and who are the Followers of the Way?”

“Y’shua, Kefa, and Sha’ul,” she corrected with a merry laugh. “You’re probably more familiar with the names Jesus, Peter, and Paul. Anglicized from the Latin versions of the Greek versions of the Hebrew names. Followers of the Way…well, we were most closely tied to what you would call Christians today, although many of the people who have called themselves that over the centuries don’t know or care a thing about what Y’shua actually taught.”

“Wait a second–I thought you were Jewish.”

“I still am, George,” she teased him.

“But didn’t you just say you were a Christian?”

“Most of the first ‘Christians’ were Jewish, Richie. Sha’ul was actually considered a bit of a renegade by some because he dared to take the message to Gentiles. Y’shua was our Rabbi, our Messiah–what right did they have to him?”

“You sound like you were there.”

She nodded. “I was. And I can tell you with absolute certainty that Y’shua was not one of us. I saw him die, and I saw him after his Resurrection. He wasn’t an Immortal. He was…and is…exactly who he said he was, the Messiah the Prophets foretold.”

Collecting his jaw from where it had landed after her calm statement that she had been around two thousand years ago to meet the founder of one of the world’s most prominent religions, Richie exercised it with effort to chew thoughtfully on his second piece of pizza. The first piece had disappeared sometime earlier in the conversation.

“You know,” he finally managed after swallowing a bite. “I think you’re the oldest Immortal I’ve ever met.”

Chaya grinned wryly. “Thanks.”

“Aw, sheesh. I’m not doing very well with this age thing, am I?”

“I’ll chalk it up to stress and forgive you for now,” she bantered back.

After a moment though, as they continued to eat in silence, the merriness faded from her eyes and was replaced by a pensiveness that made him nervous.

“Richie…” she asked hesitantly. “Do you know someone who fights with a katana? A fancy one with an ivory hilt?”

The younger Immortal choked, feeling the cold blade of the weapon she had just described once again at his throat. “How do you know that?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“It’s someone you’ve fought,” she continued. “Twice. Once, he backed down and let you live, and once, someone interfered. A mortal.”

He stood, his chair falling to the floor with a loud clatter. “How the hell do you know about that??” he demanded again, aiming the blade of the rapier at her as all his fears came back in a rush.

Seeming unconcerned by his threatening posture, Chaya bent down to set the chair back on its feet, giving him for a moment a jarringly clear opportunity to take her head. Richie just stared, bewildered, as the moment passed.

Then she stood too, holding up a hand to calm him and raising eyes to his that knew very well what she had just done. “I dreamt it, last night. I saw your sword attacked by the same katana…twice. The first time, it pulled away. The second time…it was blocked by a cane.”

His face white, Richie sank back into his seat and stared at the pizza.

“I have the gift of prophecy,” she explained softly. “Like Dani’el or Yosef. Sometimes I dream, and sometimes Adonai gives me the interpretation for someone else’s. I’ve had this dream before, but not until last night did I recognize the sword as yours.”

After several moments more of silence, Richie finally forced out “He was my teacher.”

Chaya looked sick. “Your teacher? Your teacher tried to take your head? Twice??”

The young man nodded miserably. “The first time…some psychic ‘friend’ of his was giving him nightmares, hallucinations. He was basically sleepwalking, and when I shouted at him what he was doing he woke up and backed off. And he made me promise if it ever happened again, to do whatever I had to in order to survive. I told him I could never kill him.” His eyes darkened almost to black with pain and anger and hate as his hands tightened into fists. “Now I could.”

His hostess watched him, still a little numb. So then why was it my sword I saw deflect his blow the third time? “The cane I saw?”

“It belongs to a mortal friend of mine, who saved my life by shooting…my teacher. He walks with a cane because he lost both of his legs in Vietnam.”

She left the silence between them, allowing it to slip in and provide its own mute comfort before reaching in with a quiet voice to give a bit of her own.

“Oy, Richie, I’m sorry.”