So now you’re back from outer space
I just walked in to find you here
With that sad look upon your face
I should have changed that stupid lock
I should have made you leave your key
If I’d known for just one minute
You’d be back to bother me
–Gloria Gaynor, “I Will Survive”

“Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me?”
–Matthew 18:21

DeSalvo’s Dojo

Duncan MacLeod could be a real pain in the ass sometimes, Joe Dawson concluded with a sigh. All he’d done was walk into the dojo and Mac had curtly asked him to leave. Doesn’t he ever get over anything? I admitted I was wrong, why can’t he?

“I’m an Immortal, you’re a Watcher,” the Scot argued. “We can’t cross that line. How many times do we have to be taught that?”

Sheesh, he sounds like he’s trying to break up with me or something.

“Look, I hear stuff. And sometimes I just can’t ignore it.” Even though MacLeod was doing a pretty good job of ignoring him, having gone back to his workout. The Watcher took a deep breath before proceeding. “It’s Richie.”

Duncan stopped cold and turned to look at him.

Well, it’s nice to know you still give a damn about some of your friends.

“We thought he was going to be okay. He’d been taken in by a woman named Chaya Abrams who owns a Mediterranean restaurant on the edge of town. He even had a job and seemed to be keeping a fairly even keel…until yesterday. He showed up at a bar called Delila’s in a really foul mood and picked a fight with another Immortal–”

“That’s nice,” MacLeod interrupted, his voice even.

“An Immortal named Carter Wellan,” Joe persisted, biting back the temptation to snap at the other man’s deliberate coldness. “Squire to one Haresh Clay.”

Duncan stopped again.

“I see you recognize the name.”

“Yes,” Mac murmured.

Joe nodded. “Well, Richie won, which wouldn’t be a problem except Clay’s looking for him. He doesn’t know who killed Wellan yet, but knowing him, it won’t take long to find out.”

The Immortal turned deliberately away. “Richie can take care of himself,” he said softly.

The Watcher sighed. “There’s more. The woman he’s staying with…we think she may be an Immortal.”

MacLeod turned back to the Watcher, surprise and amusement painted on his features. “You think? You don’t know?”

Joe looked annoyed. “We do lose track on occasion, MacLeod. Especially with the older ones. How do you think Methos managed to elude us long enough to pull that little stunt of his?”

“So, you think she’s an old one.”

The mortal nodded. “Every now and then, the name Chaya pops up in the Watcher records. The first time was in conjunction with the fall of Jerusalem in 586 BC. The record speaks of a female Immortal named Chaya who dressed herself as a man and fought with the men of Israel against the Babylonians, killing one of their best known generals and taking his sword as a trophy. But the city was taken, and Chaya went to the court of Nebuchadnezzar as a concubine. She vanished about the time of the Persian conquest of Babylon, presumed dead.”

“That’s very interesting, Joe.”

“Damnit, Mac, listen to me! During the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent, the name appears again…” he took a deep breath. “In conjunction with Haresh Clay.”

The Immortal stopped cold, his tan complexion doing its best to turn pale.

Knowing he’d gotten the other man’s attention, Joe continued. “Apparently he tricked her into coming with him to the Ottoman court, no one’s quite sure how. But he tried to sell her to Suleiman as a concubine, and she killed ten of the guards assigned to her before the Sultan finally promised to set her free and give her an escort back to Jerusalem. Clay was so impressed with her will to survive that he and Wellan accompanied her and they traveled together for fifteen years–God only knows why, after what he did to her. After that, she disappeared again.”

Duncan didn’t say anything.

“He’s gonna get himself killed, MacLeod, you gotta talk to him!”

“That’s not really your business, is it, Joe?”

“Maybe not, but it sure as hell is yours! Especially after what happened.”

The Immortal didn’t answer, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

Joe’s face darkened. “Fine. You don’t owe anybody anything, not me, not Richie. We can just go to hell!” Without waiting for the apology he knew wouldn’t come, he turned and left.

******

Outside Chaya’s house
Later that day

The roar of the engine growled to a peak and faded again several times, each time gunning a little louder and dying a little more. Bare hands tightened and relaxed their grip on the handlebars and dancing blue eyes rested watchfully on the door of the house outside of which the motorbike was parked. After a few minutes, the door opened and a red-haired woman with brown eyes stepped onto the porch.

“What’s got you in such a good mood today?” she teased.

“I got paid.” Richie grinned and revved the engine again, his smile broadening when she laughed. “Want a ride?” he called to her over the dying roar.

Chaya shook her head with amusement as she approached the bike. “Haven’t you ever read the decapitation statistics on these things?”

“I like to live on the edge.” The younger Immortal wagged his eyebrows at her. “Give it a try, just this once?”

Still she hesitated.

“Come on,” Richie coaxed. “It’s not like they had these when you were young and brash.”

“No, the closest thing we had was a runaway horse,” she retorted, still smiling.

“So..?”

******

Her analogy of a runaway horse wasn’t far off, Chaya reflected with a smile, relacing her fingers around Richie’s waist. Only not even the fleetest stallion could match the pace of this steel steed. Round rubber-shoed hooves drummed a rapid, thrumming rhythm as they split the wind down the length of the highway like a blade through flesh.

Part of her couldn’t help but wistfully wonder why she’d never braved this particular venture earlier, before helmet laws had gone into effect. She missed the wind in her face, in her hair, even though it rippled through the curls that hung over her shoulders. The young man in front of her turned his head for just a moment, seeming to ask a question with eyes she could barely see through the face shield of the helmet. In answer, she tightened her arms around him for a moment that was part concession, part reassurance.

She had a sudden image of racing through the narrow sandstone canyon that had once been the city of Petra, astride a dark bay Arabian mare. It was a picture that had teased her before, half memory and half dream, making her ache so much for her homeland that she sometimes wondered why she stayed away. Only this time, there was another horse running beside her…with Richie Ryan on his back.

Chaya shivered, trying to push the implications of that out of her mind. It had been a long time since she’d dreamed of taking someone with her to visit her homeland. She was getting much too attached to this young man.

That thought was still troubling her when Richie pulled the bike up in front of her house again several minutes later. It was quickly driven from her mind though by the warning sensation of another Immortal.

The young man in front of her killed the engine quickly, removing his helmet and drawing his sword almost in one motion. She dismounted as well, bringing out her own blade and looking around with wary eyes.

A man with long black hair appeared from around the corner and she saw the younger Immortal stiffen, raising his sword so that it was aimed in a deadly line straight at the older man.

“You looking for me? Okay, here I am.”

The other man had the audacity to look injured by Richie’s anger. His voice, when he spoke, was tired and placating. “I came here to tell you I’m still your friend.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“Put that away, I’m not going to fight you,” the darker man insisted.

“Yeah, right!”

This is him, Chaya realized, a cold, numbing anger slowly creeping into her own mind with the recognition. This is Richie’s teacher, the one who tried to kill him.

“I tried looking for you. I tried calling you from Paris. But I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I wasn’t around. I had some things to take care of,” Richie snapped, his voice still raw with bitterness and hurt.

“Yeah, I heard about Wellan.”

Chaya took a step forward, eyes flashing at the condescension in the dark-haired man’s tone.

“You know,” Richie continued. “I used to stay up at night wondering, thinking, that there must be some special thing I’m supposed to do with my life because I’m Immortal. And I had this illusion that because you were my teacher, that you would show me what it was. And you did. I got it now. There can be only one. Thanks, Teach.”

“So what are you doing here with her, then?” MacLeod retorted, nodding in the older Immortal’s direction.

His face turning to stone, Richie placed himself between his one-time teacher and his new friend. “Don’t even think about it, Mac.”

‘Mac’ relented, his expression revealing that he knew he’d said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, Richie. I didn’t mean–”

“You don’t mean a lot of things,” the younger man interrupted curtly. “But you still do them. Well, let me tell you something, *MacLeod.* I’ve been practicing. Next time you pull a sword on me, it won’t be so easy.”

“Richie!”

Ignoring the other man’s protests, Richie turned and stormed up the stairs into the house, letting the door slam violently behind him.

So, this is the Highlander, Chaya thought to herself, her eyes sweeping mercilessly over the figure standing before her staring in pathetic helplessness at the door his disillusioned protege had disappeared through. She was not impressed.

“I suggest you get off my property,” she told him in a cold voice.

MacLeod glared at her. “Does he know? Did you tell him you’re pals with a man who’s after his head?”

“Richie knows everything there is to know about my past association with Haresh. Including the fact that we were never ‘pals.’ And considering your own history with that young man in there, you’re in no position to be giving him advice about his choice of friends. Now, please get off my property now, unless you want to leave it without *your* head.”

“Are you threatening me?” The question’s tone bordered on derisive.

“No. I’m making a statement of fact. I don’t care how good your intentions are, Highlander, or how possessed you were when you tried to kill your own student. If Richie dies at your hand, you and I and a hell of a lot of other people are going to regret it for the rest of our lives. And if killing you is the only way I can prevent that, I’ll do it.”

“I’m not going to do that again!” he protested.

Chaya’s eyes met his with a certainty that made him shiver. “Yes you will. And I’ll stop you, one way or another.”

Leaving him dumbfounded, she turned away into the house.

“Sorry about that,” Richie apologized as she entered the front room.

“About what?”

“Leaving you alone out there with him.”

Chaya laughed. “Richie, I can take care of myself, you know. I’ve been doing it for almost three thousand years.”

“I know…and I wasn’t worried about that. It’s just…Duncan’s…well…”

“Duncan MacLeod has an overblown opinion of his own importance.”

The young man laughed. “That pretty much sums him up, yeah.”

******

The next morning…

Richie was in the middle of a bite of Froot Loops when his mind was assaulted by the presence of another Immortal. His first thought was that Chaya had come back for something she’d forgotten, but that idea was soon broken by the sound of the glass in the front door shattering.

“Oh, shit…” His sword was sitting on his bed in the guest room. Well, so much for going to work today. And so much for Chaya helping me learn what I need to know!

Bolting from the table, he raced for the stairs, just as a dark man with a shaved head and death in his eyes burst into the kitchen. Taking only enough time to register that this was probably Haresh Clay, he bounded up the stairs and into the bedroom, eyes searching for the rapier Mac had given him after his first fight.

Damn, where is it??

A glint of gold on the trunk caught his eye, and he lunged for the hilt just as the enraged man splintered the closed door of the room. Richie thrust the sword up in front of him, but Clay struck with such force that the blade snapped in half.

Without thinking, Richie took the only way out he knew. He hurled himself through the guest room window and rolled down the roof, falling to the ground and then picking himself up to jump on his motorcycle and roar away.

Now what? he thought miserably as the bike growled down the narrow street. His heart rate and breathing were still being powered by the adrenaline coursing through him like a Quickening. A Quickening he’d almost given the other man…

The young Immortal shivered. He had to find a sword, but how?

Chaya…

No. His idiocy in challenging Wellan had already caused enough trouble for her. He looked back, wincing at the thought of the destruction he and Clay had wreaked on the house. He wouldn’t lead him to the Manna and Quail too.

So, what do I do, then? It’s not like I have the cash on me for a decent sword, and I’m sure not gonna go begging to MacLeod!

An idea struck him and he turned the bike in a familiar direction. Hopefully, he had one friend who might be willing to save his life again.

******

Joe’s

The Watcher looked up, letting out a deep sigh as he recognized the form of the young man who had just walked in. He should have expected him, after the phone call he’d just received…

“Hey, Richie,” he called out to the Immortal, trying to sound cheerful.

Richie crossed to the bar, a forced smile on his own face.

“Can I get you a nice stiff drink?”

The younger man nodded. “Why don’t you go ahead and make it a double?”

Joe nodded and turned around to collect two double shots and a bottle, pouring one for each of them. Richie downed the drink quickly and set the glass back down.

“Another?”

The older man shook his head so the young Immortal poured just the one for himself. The second drink went down almost as quickly and Joe leaned on the counter, studying him with a watchful, knowing eye.

After a long, almost uncomfortable silence, Richie finally spoke. “I lost my sword.”

“Broke it,” the Watcher corrected him.

The young Immortal grimaced. “You guys know too much.”

Joe sighed. “So I’ve been told.”

“Look…I was wondering if I…if I could borrow a couple of grand to buy a new one.”

The other man closed his eyes, fighting the urge to turn away. Oh, God… “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Joe, you know me. You know I’m good for it.”

“It’s not the money. I just…I just can’t.”

“This is me! It’s Richie!”

“And I’m a Watcher. And I swore an oath not to get involved.”

“You saved my life. You shot MacLeod. That’s not getting involved?”

Joe shook his head. “It was a mistake.”

The hurt look on the young man’s face made him regret the words the moment he spoke them. “Saving my life was a mistake?” Richie asked incredulously.

“That’s not what I meant. It was…it was just a gut reaction. I didn’t think.” Uncomfortable, he tried to change the subject. “What about your friend, Chaya?”

The Immortal stared morosely at his glass for a minute. “Yeah…maybe.”

“Richie.”

The younger man looked up, his eyes still wounded.

“As a friend, I wish I could help you. But as a Watcher…I just can’t.”

Richie stood, glaring at his friend. “That’s convenient.”

He slapped a bill down on the counter for the drink and left.

Swearing silently, Joe picked up the money and stared at it. Is it worth it, Joe? he asked himself grimly. Is your Watcher oath really worth watching your friend get killed? He stared in the direction the young Immortal had gone. Richie is your friend, remember?

Yeah, he remembered. Even though he didn’t know if the kid would ever believe that again.

Just great, Joe. Put your name on the list of people who’ve let him down. So you can’t be a Watcher and be their friend? Which one’s more important?

The Watcher pulled back his sleeve and stared at the mark on his wrist, an idea beginning to bloom in his mind. Which indeed?

******

Masterworks of the Forge exhibit
Seacouver City Art Museum
That night

Some skills you never forget, Richie thought ruefully as the lock clicked into place and the door opened. A part of him inside was cringing at the act; it was as if he’d reverted to the wise-ass seventeen-year-old hoodlum, a persona he’d gladly given up under Mac and Tessa’s care. But desperate times…

He stepped into the museum, his eyes sweeping over the smorgasbord of weapons laid out before him. I’ll bring it back, he scolded his over-talkative conscience. As soon as I can afford to get my own, I’ll return this one. I promise.

Said conscience didn’t seem to believe him.

Forcing his mind to the matter of self-preservation, he turned again to survey his choices, finally deciding on a medieval-looking blade set Excalibur-like in a plastic rock in a case against the wall. He reached for the pick again.

Before he could bring it to the lock on the cabinet though, he froze, his Immortal sixth sense going off like an alarm. Panic seized him and he drove one elbow through the glass of the case, triggering a real alarm that sang out like a cat as he struggled to pull the stubborn blade from its display.

Clay stepped into the room, an evil smile burning in his eyes. “I knew you’d come here sooner or later.”

His entire insides turning to ice, Richie turned to face his pursuer with enforced bravado. “Hey, I’m unarmed,” he argued weakly. “Where’s the honor in that?”

The darker man scowled at him. “I didn’t come for your honor, boy. I came for your head.”

“Look, I’m sorry about your friend,” the younger Immortal apologized.

“You didn’t even know Carter Wellan.”

“No,” Richie admitted, backing away. “I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough. I don’t care who Sameh thinks you are, I’m not leaving here without your head!”

The younger Immortal blinked in surprise, recognizing the Arabic word as the name Chaya told him Clay had bestowed upon her–forgiver. “What do you mean? Who does she think I am?”

Clay took advantage of the young man’s surprise to attack, but Richie’s reflexes were still fast and he leapt out of the way repeatedly, jumping behind cases and knocking over displays whenever he could.

Then, he heard the approaching wail of police sirens and saw an escape. When the cars pulled up before the store, he dashed out the way he had come, right into the waiting arms of the cops.

******

The next morning

“This fight is mine.” The Scot insisted.

Richie rolled his eyes. As relieved as he was that MacLeod had showed up to post his bail, he really didn’t need this. Even if the story he’d just been told did explain a little bit of his former-mentor’s vendetta against Clay. “Mac, forget it. The days of you protecting me are long gone.”

“Hey, this isn’t about me protecting you. I have to finish this.”

“Then you’d better find him before I do,” the younger man informed him.

The Highlander turned back to the Thunderbird, his face clearly reflecting his displeasure, but also resignation. “Look, if you face him, you’ll be needing one of these.”

He lifted a sword out of the back seat, a long silvery blade with a hilt wrapped in black leather. “It belonged to Graham Ashe.”

The younger man shook his head stubbornly. “I can take care of myself.” Yeah, right. What are you gonna do now? Keep running? Go begging to Chaya? Or maybe go back to the scene of the crime and get caught again trying to steal another sword?

The older man sighed. “Yeah, I know you can.” He dropped his eyes, once again extending the hand with the sword in it to his former student. “Just take it. Please.”

After another moment of hesitation, he reached out and took the sword. “Thanks.”

With a relieved smile, MacLeod clambered into the car.

“So, I guess I owe you one,” Richie stated a little uneasily.

Duncan shook his head, a contrite frown on his face. “No, I owe you one.”