Rachel sat down at the bar of Omar's Bar and Grill, a small, out-of-the-way jazz club. She'd passed by it quite a few times, and when Duncan had asked her about places where Joe might find a gig in the city, she'd decided to stop in and see if it might suit the purposes of her uncle's friend. It was clean, at least, and had a nice atmosphere. The grizzled bartender gave her a broad smile. "What can I get you, ma'am?"

Rachel's eyes wandered to the back wall, and she started at the sign declaring the proprietor's name. "Omar York?"

The bartender tipped an imaginary hat. "That would be me."

A smile spread across Rachel's face. "Don't suppose you remember me." At Omar's puzzled look, she smiled wider and continued, "Or, I should say, the little Dutch girl who used to boss you around when you were four or so."

Omar's smile was as broad as Rachel's as he rounded the bar to give her a bear hug. "Rachel Ellenstein, as I live and breathe." He gave her a stern look. "You bossing me around didn't stop when I was four. More like fourteen."

"You needed someone to keep you in line," she teased.

"That I did. Still do." He slapped his hand down on the bar. "Drinks on me. We've got a lot of catching up to do, missy."

The murder scene had been brutal. Head on one side of the room, body on the other, clean separation. Other than the blood, of course. The body had been singed, too. What caused burns like that?

Detective John Amsterdam shook his head. Did it matter? They had nothing. Guy was a John Doe, no identification, found in an abandoned warehouse. Reported anonymously. No witnesses, no leads. Eva was going through the missing persons database at the precinct; John was at home, dabbling on the computer, putting together an artist's sketch from snapshots of the head so they could give the media something to plaster on every TV screen in the city.

The upside of being four hundred years old was having had plenty of time to learn how to draw. And woodwork, and take photographs, and sculpt. And learn all the new fancy equipment that made these tasks even easier. Photoshop was nice, but sometimes, the old ways worked best. John pulled up all the crime scene photos of the head onto the screen, and retrieved an art pencil and sketchbook from a drawer. He could scan the sketch into the computer when he was done; drawing it by hand would provide some thinking time.

John stared at the screen, the gaze of the victim staring back at him, underlined by the precisely sliced flesh. Something tickled in his memory, something about beheadings...why was it so hard to recall? Sure, he had a lot more memories than your average person, but it wasn't like he could get senile and forget...

"You know what I need, Thirty-Six?" he asked, stirring his pencil in the air. Thirty-Six obligingly tilted his head and gave his best attentive-doggy face. "I need to find Rupert Wallingford."

"Now that's a coincidence."

John jumped at the voice. "You really have to stop sneaking up on me, Omar." Regaining his composure, he asked, "What's a coincidence?"

"You needing to find Rupert Wallingford." Omar took a seat next to Thirty-Six and scratched the dog's head. "Rachel Ellenstein wandered into the bar tonight. What do you need her old man for? Ain't he dead by now?"

John glanced up. He hadn't revealed Wallingford's secrets to his son. "Something he told me back then might help me with a case now. If he's not around now, maybe she can help me."

"She co-owns an antique shop down on Hudson street." Omar dug a card from his pocket and handed it to John. "But what happens when she recognizes you?"

John looked at the card: Ellenstein-Macleod Antiques. So the other immortal was still alive, and had even gone back to his real name. "I think she'll be able to handle the truth."

"I hope so," Omar chastised him. "Because if you kill my old friend by giving her a heart attack, now that I've finally reconnected with her, I'll be pretty damned angry."

"What'll you do, kill me?" John taunted. With a chagrined smile, Omar shook his head. "Talking to her won't do her any damage, I promise." John stood and collected his coat. "I helped Wallingford finalize his adoption of that little girl way back when to give her a better life. You know I wouldn't do anything to hurt her."

1946, John York's law office, Chrysler building

Maggie opened the door quietly, stepping around it in her delightfully prim fashion. "Mr. York, your eleven o'clock, Mr. Wallingford, is here to see you," she said.

The person currently known as John York gave a long last look at his son's portrait before closing the desk drawer on it. "Thank you, Maggie. Show him in." John stood, smoothed out his jacket and tie, and stepped around the desk.

After a moment the door opened again, and a thin man with brown hair entered his office, blue eyes darting to scan the place. John thrust out his hand. "John York. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wallingford."

"Yes, a pleasure." Wallingford accepted his handshake, then took a seat in front of the desk. "Have you had a chance to look over the adoption papers?"

John returned to his seat. "I have -- it all arrived from Jacobson two days ago. It's a shame he can't be here to finish up; he's a fine attorney." John shuffled a few of the papers. "Everything looks to be in order. There's just one matter here...normally your new daughter would be taking your last name, Mr. Wallingford, but I see there's a question about keeping her birth name?"

The man nodded. "I've gone back and forth for a while. I'd like her to have some link to her heritage, since she's old enough to remember, but I have some concerns..."

As Wallingford spoke, John's gazed strayed to the name: Ellenstein. "Because she's Jewish."

Wallingford glanced at John and sighed. "Yes."

Pursing his lips, John weighed his options, then opened the drawer and offered the portrait of his child -- Omar, not nearly the shade of John's dark-skinned angel Lily, but certainly Black -- to the man on the other side of the desk. "That's my son, Mr. Wallingford. You could say I know a bit about bigotry myself."

Wallingford took the portrait in his hands and smiled. "He's handsome." He nodded thoughtfully. "But I know that some people wouldn't think so."

"You do what you can to protect them, of course, but there's only so much you can do. Your daughter's a war orphan, yes? Then the question to ask is, is she strong enough to handle it? I would think she's seen a lot worse than what some schoolkids and their parents will do to her here. Of course, that's up to you. A different name would go over easier."

Wallingford nodded. "She's strong and smart. I only want to do what's best for her, to ease her transition. She's in school under my name now, but..."

"If that's how she's known, you may want to leave it, then. She can always reclaim her name later, when she's ready." John smiled. "I'd be glad to help with that."

Wallingford returned the smile, a twinkle in his eye. "For a fee, of course."

"Of course." He held back a laugh, and the grin made his cheeks hurt. "School isn't in session. May I ask where she is?"

"At the ice rink in Central Park," Wallingford gestured toward the window, "with a friend of mine. I'll be joining them when I'm through here."

"Ah, Central Park. What an amazing place. Who would have thought they could turn that ugly mess of swamp and rock into a park so magnificent? Although the poor farmers they tossed off that land weren't too happy about it. Grumbled a lot, but there wasn't much they could do about it. Not as if the people in charge cared -- the park was the important thing, not people..."

Wallingford gave a brief, uneasy laugh. "You make it sound like you know it first-hand."

John's eyes twinkled. "Maybe I do." Wallingford laughed again, but his eyes stayed on John, the look doubtful, questioning. John tilted his head. "I think you almost believe me."

Wallingford shrugged, his eyes the only element belying his otherwise nonchalant body language. "I've seen stranger."

John matched the direct gaze of the other man for a few moments, then took a calculated risk. "Perhaps you were there too."

In the space of a heartbeat, the expression on the other man's face shifted into something wary and hard; his body tensed, and while the smile stayed, there was no mirth in it. "Maybe I was."

Leaning back, John rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers. "You can see that I'm fairly direct, Mr. Wallingford." He spread his hands out. "I tell the truth, or at least bits of it, a lot of the time. I get away with it, because most people don't believe me when I say that I am over three hundred years old." John saw the man flinch, tension growing, and he took a deep breath to keep himself from doing the same. "I suspect you believe me, honestly, and I think that's because you are as well."

Wallingford narrowed his eyes, judging. Finally he nodded and responded quietly. "Four hundred and twenty-eight." He shook his head. "But you are not the same as me."

Sensing Wallingford no longer saw him as a threat, John leaned forward again. "How do you know that?"

"Because we -- my kind -- we can sense each other. I can't sense you. You're not part of our Game."

"Game?"

His unease growing, Wallingford glanced toward the door.

"You can just say it, Mr. Wallingford. Even if that door opens, there is no one who will be surprised to overhear anything about people living forever...or close to it, anyway."

"But your secretary..."

"She's my daughter." Wallingford's eyebrows raised toward his hairline. John shrugged. "The only person left in my life who knows the truth and believes it. She has to, she's seen it first hand, as my own flesh and blood."

"Another difference between you and my kind," Wallingford said. "We can't have children."

"So that explains..." John leafed through the papers on his desk. "Rachel." Wallingford nodded. "Seems a bit odd to be taking in a child from so far away..."

"I rescued her." Wallingford took a deep breath. "My intent wasn't to keep her, but..."

"She grew on you." John gave an easy smile. "It's an amazing thing, raising children. You'll love it."

"I'm a little concerned..."

"About being alone in this? I noticed there was no mention of a mother in the paperwork." Holding his breath, John tried to make the gnawing in his heart go away. They say some die of heartache, but John knew he wouldn't. Couldn't. Sometimes he wished he could. "My wife fell ill and passed away last year, so Omar and I are on our own as well. Being the sole parent isn't easy, but it's doable." He sighed. "Unfortunately, I know that from previous experience as well." Straightening himself up, John shuffled through the paperwork again. "And it looks as if you have good enough credentials to handle it -- sufficient money behind you, and the opportunity to be there for her when she gets home from school."

Wallingford snorted. "And what do I tell her when she starts to notice that I'm not getting any older?"

"The truth, perhaps?" John gestured toward the door. "Maggie was surprisingly resilient. I'm sure Rachel will be too, if she managed to survive long enough to be rescued from...." He flpped through the pages. "Did it say here somewhere...?"

"Holland."

John froze. He was having a hard time drawing air, as if he'd been punched in the gut. "She's Dutch?" he whispered. Wallingford was giving him a concerned look; John simply shook his head. Breathe in, breathe out. "So am I," he explained. "Or I was, a long time ago."

"You always will be," Wallingford replied. "Much as I will always be a Scot."

John chuckled. "You're a Scot? With a name like Wallingford?"

You take your identities where you can get them." The man extended a hand. "Connor Macleod, by birth."

John accepted the handshake. "Johann van der Zee," he replied, flourishing the name. "I've tried to keep some form of John -- Johann -- all my life. I'm a little more attached to the place I died, now, obviously, even though it's lost its Dutch name."

"New Amsterdam." Connor nodded.

"Yes." John sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. "That name's on my list of possibilities, too, eventually." He cleared his throat. "There are certain situations when having very particular handwriting skills is very useful. If you ever need a new birth certificate..."

Connor chuckled. "I'll know where to go. For a fee, I'm sure."

"Yes. A reasonable fee, of course. Fellow immortal and all that." John steepled his fingers again, tapping them to his lips. "So...Game, you said?"

"You really want to know?"

"Honestly, I've never met anyone else who is immortal, so I'm completely baffled and extremely curious. Tell me your secrets, Scotsman."

Making a nod of acquiescence, Connor began. "We are born normal, or so we think. Foundlings, every one of us. Then we are killed for the first time, and revive." He drew in a deep breath and expelled it noisily. "And we spend the rest of our lives carrying swords and cutting each other's heads off, or at least so the 'rules' say. No one really knows why, or where the rules came from, but they're there."

John tried to bring his jaw closed, but it insisted on hanging open in a dimwitted fashion. "That's...uh..."

"Yeah."

"Yeah." John shook his head. "So the sensing one another, that's..."

"Fair warning, I suppose." Connor shrugged. "We take on students, and we do make friends among us, so it's not as brutal as it seems, but...well, yes, it is as brutal as it seems. But there are other things to temper it."

John gave a thoughtful look. "I would think you would have to, since in spite of your immortality, you face death constantly."

Connor nodded, gazed at the other man. "So what's your story?"

"Stabbed, then saved by Indians. It's a spell. I won't die until I meet The One and our souls are joined."

Connor smirked. "I think I prefer your kind of immortality," he remarked dryly.

John shrugged. "After three hundred years, it gets a little tedious."

"At our age, you could say that about a lot of things." Connor offered a smile, and John returned it. "So everything looks good?" Connor asked, gesturing toward the papers on the desk. "It's been a long road, the past few years. It will be nice to have this done and over with."

"From all accounts, it should be smooth sailing. I'll have Maggie make the final adjustments regarding the name this afternoon, you can sign the papers, and we'll submit everything in the next day or two."

"Good." Connor straighted up as if to rise from the chair, then paused. "Why don't you come by the house tonight for dinner? Bring Omar. And Maggie, for that matter. If you're free, of course."

John's face lit up with a smile. "That would be wonderful. A celebration, of sorts? Having all of this over with." Connor nodded, and John added, "And seeing what it's like to have a daughter look older than her father, and how they relate."

Color rose in Connor's cheeks. "That too."

"I've been a lot of things, but role model has not been my modus operandi. I'm happy to have a chance at this new task."

The present

John sat in a car parked across the street from Ellenstein-Macleod Antiques, watching an older woman bustle around the shop. The first time he'd met Rachel, he'd squatted down to her level and greeted the ten-year-old in her native tongue. Well, he'd thought it had been. She'd looked him squarely in the eye and told him in much more modern Dutch that he talked funny. He'd laughed then, and the memory made him smile even now. In spite of their six-year age difference, she and Omar had bonded, and she had dragged him around like a little brother -- even well into his teenage years.

Her relationship with Connor was probably much the same as Omar's was with John. She had been old enough to have noticed the lack of aging in John back then, but if she had, she had never remarked on it -- not even after Connor had told her his own secret. Hopefully she would not have that heart attack that Omar had warned him about. With a sigh he slid out of the car and crossed the street.

The bell on the shop door tinkled as he stepped through. He jerked to a halt as he nearly bumped into Rachel. "I'm sorry," she said, "we were just about to close..." Rachel looked at him for a long moment, then blinked rapidly and took a step back. Not a heart attack. Fainting spell, maybe... "Mr. York?"

John cracked a smile and nodded. "I'm glad you remember me, Rachel."

She returned his smile. "How could I forget?" Tentatively she took a step forward, and he embraced her. "It's good to see you're looking well, Mr. York," she said.

"Master of the understatement," he teased. "But it's Mr. Amsterdam these days. Is your father around?"

The antiquated lift on the right-hand side of the room whirred softly, and Rachel nodded toward it. "He'll be down in a moment."

The lift reached the ground floor and the man inside slide the creaky gate open. Connor's clothes may have changed -- jeans and a button-down shirt replacing the three-piece suit -- but his face hadn't. A delighted smile spread across that face now. "John! This is a pleasant surprise."

John's smile was faint, but he took Connor's offered handshake. "I wish it were a social call, Connor. Unfortunately, Homicide Detective John Amsterdam has business to attend to."

Connor's smile faded. "With me?"

John glanced at Rachel. "I thought you might know a little something about beheadings."

Rachel and Connor held an entire conversation in just a few silent moments of looking at each other. Some things never changed.

Connor finally gave him a nod. "Come on upstairs."

The loft apartment was nice. Not as homey as the house Connor and Rachel had shared half a century ago, but it suited the less-than-social Macleod. John only made a cursory glance out the windows -- he never had liked heights -- before making himself comfortable on the sofa.

"Can I get you a drink?" Connor offered.

"Water would be fine, thanks."

Connor did a double-take, then continued to the bar. "So you finally stopped drinking."

"Nineteen sixty-five. Finally decided I'd spent enough of my life pickled inside a whiskey bottle." John shifted in his seat and rubbed his nose. "Part of the twelve steps is to make amends with those you hurt. By the time I got around to it, you'd moved and changed names, and Omar had lost touch with Rachel. If it's not too late, I'd like to offer an apology."

Connor handed him a glass and took a seat, waving off the apology. "You never hurt us, John. We were worried about you, but we knew there wasn't much we could do."

"Except be there for Omar. You and Rachel gave him people to turn to when he needed it most, and that's appreciated. But it was more than you should have had to do, and for that I'm sorry." John looked into the glass, pursing his lips. "I really wish we hadn't lost touch. I could have used some immortal company." He shook his head ruefully. "Maybe if I had thought of looking up Rachel, rather than tracking you, I would have had that company. I guess I thought if you'd changed your name, maybe she had as well."

"Maybe if you'd perused the homicide files on beheadings, you would have found my photo and my name," Connor said pointedly.

John sighed. "That hadn't occurred to me either, until this case came up and sparked memories of Rupert Wallingford. I have to admit, I wasn't too happy with what I saw about Russell Nash in the files."

Connor shrugged. "I told you a long time ago, it's what we do. But if it makes you feel any better, I didn't commit all of the murders that happened then. I'm not the only one out there in this Game."

"I have to admit, I'm still struggling with the whole concept."

"Just ask it, John, I know you want to." Connor sighed as John shook his head. "This murder was recent, right? Past twenty-four, forty-eight hours? You want to know if it was me, don’t you?"

John ran his finger around the rim of the cup. "I want to know, and yet, I don't."

"Because if it was me, you'd have trouble turning me in?" Connor smirked. "I don't have much of an alibi, being here alone -- maybe phone records, maybe Internet activity records. But I'm guessing you don't have any more evidence than they had on Russell Nash all those years ago."

John grimaced. "We don't have squat, frankly. But I believe you, because you know we don't have the evidence, and you really don't have a reason to lie to me, even if I am a cop these days."

"What will you do if you catch this person, John? Put them in jail? See how long it takes before they realize the man -- or woman -- they've slapped in jail for life isn't aging? Before people like me are exposed as monsters, experimented on, driven away from society, forced to be even more hidden than we are now?"

John knew he had hit a nerve for Connor to say so much and be so forthright. Honestly, John hadn't thought much about the consequences in the few hours since he'd made the connection to this other brand of immortality. "I..." John took a deep breath and shrugged. "I don't know. I just know it's my job to catch them."

"Because you have to solve the puzzle." Connor shook his head. "Let this one go, John. You're at a dead-end as far as evidence goes, and it's a no-win situation even if you do catch them." John wouldn't look him in the eye, and Connor let out a frustrated grunt as he leaned forward. "Listen to me, John. My kind, we take care of our own. The ones who start slaying away, who get power-hungry for this Prize we're after -- the good guys try to take those ones down. So if this one's bad, we'll get him. If he's just one of the good guys who got sloppy cleaning up after himself" -- John gave him an odd look, and Connor tried to hide a smile -- "then in the long run, it's harmless. I know that sounds brutal, John. It is. But under the circumstances, it's not the same as mortal murder. Some of us value life, even as we're forced to take it from others."

"But if I have a lead in the case, I have to follow it."

"You don't have one."

"I have you."

Connor shook his head. "Going to bring me in for questioning? On what charges? How are you going to explain how you found me, why I would know anything in this case? I'm not Russell Nash anymore. He'd be an older man by now, anyway, in their eyes. By all rights, I can plead innocent, even if I'm not, exactly."

"But you know..."

"I know nothing, John." Connor's eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a hard line. "I don't know who did this, and I don't have any easy way of finding out. It wasn't me, and that's all the information I have for you. You only came here hoping you'd get lucky, that it was the devil you know, rather than one you don't. Well, it's not." He gestured toward the door. "Good evening, detective."

Resigned, John stood up. If there was anything he knew about Connor Macleod, it's that once Connor put his mind to something, he was impassable as a fortress wall. "Good night, Mr. Macleod. Sorry to have troubled you." Not looking back, John left the apartment and made his way to the street, only stopping for a quick goodbye to Rachel.

Hunching behind a steering wheel was not John Amsterdam's style -- not normally, anyway. Figuring that Connor had seen his car from the loft window the night of his first visit, John had borrowed Omar's old contraption for this unofficial stake-out. Also assuming that Connor would suspect he was being followed, John was doing his best not to be seen -- even if meant slouching and trying to fit the lower half of his six-foot-plus body down by the pedals. While not comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, John was hoping he was hidden well enough, even if the baseball cap didn't quite go with his suit.

After three days, his body was actually getting used to this. He was contemplating how permanent the groove in his buttocks caused by the seat frame would be when he saw Connor stride across the alley to his garage, and scant minutes later the old Porsche sped out. John shook his head as he straightened himself up and started the cranky car's motor. He vaguely -- through memories hazed by alcohol -- recalled Connor buying the car; it must have cost a fortune to keep it running. At least it would be unique, something easier to spot on the roads. Keeping up in Omar's jalopy would be the problem.

John's luck held as Connor mostly kept to the posted speeds, and John arrived at the series of abandoned warehouses shortly after Connor did, parking in a darkened area to avoid being spotted. He stayed in the car -- slouched once again -- watching as Connor walked along the front of the center building, eyes roving the area. With a last glance around, Connor ducked into a doorway on the right side of the building. Making sure in turn that he wasn't being watched, John followed.

John entered the building and kept low, hiding behind barrels, crates and machinery from the former metalworking shop. He had a hand on his gun, but he had no idea how effective it would be, as he didn't exactly know how Connor's kind of immortality worked. Would a bullet even faze them? Knock them out of commission for a few moments, a few minutes, an hour? Not like they could kill John, either...not that he knew of, anyway. He didn't really want to test his great-grandson's theory that getting his head chopped off would kill him. He also didn't want Connor -- the only person he knew who was actually older than he was -- to have his head chopped off, either.

Suddenly a hand covered his mouth and jerked him off balance. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Connor growled in his ear.

John shook off the hand. "My job," he whispered back. "How the hell did you sneak up on me?"

Connor smiled. "I've been evading authorities since before you were born, boy." His smile faded and he shook his head. "You can't interfere," he said fiercely. "No one can interfere with a challenge. It's part of the Rules. Go home, John."

John frowned. "I can't, Connor. You win, then fine, I'll leave it alone. He wins, he's mine. He has an 'accident' here, so no one knows he's doesn't grow old. But he's done."

"A Quickening is neither quiet nor calm. It attracts attention. It's not so easy to take a head, either."

John looked his old friend straight in the eye. "If I watch you die, I think I'd find it in me."

A sly smile spread across Connor's face. "You have more balls than I thought." Footsteps echoed in the building, and Connor glanced around, trying to pinpoint his adversary's location. "Stay out of sight. And remember..."

"No interfering." John scowled, then muttered, "Stupid rule."

"It's there for a reason." Connor held up a finger in final warning, then drew his sword and climbed over a large wooden crate to emerge into the space in the center of the room.

The first attack was swift, but Connor was ready. Unlike Hollywood or the stage, there was no warning, no banter between strikes. For John, it was like watching a dance he used to know, but for which his skill and knowledge had grown rusty with disuse. He hadn't picked up a sword in years, but seeing this gave him the temptation to badger Connor into teaching him again -- assuming Connor lived. Assuming he lived, too. John's hand hovered over the butt of his gun for a few moments before he pulled the weapon from its holster. If things went wrong, he wanted to be ready.

Wrong seemed a likely possibility. The other man was taller and broader of shoulder, and he pressed his advantage strike after strike. He was brutal and ruthless, and that was something Connor was obviously not as prepared for. The last hit was solid enough to knock Connor off his feet, and John swore he heard the crunch of fracturing bones as Connor threw out an arm to break his fall.

Connor was down, and while not out, he was at a distinct disadvantage. Rules or no, John had to do something to give his friend a chance. Spotting a shelf loaded with sheet metal above him on the wall, John smiled. Noise would provide a nice distraction. From his hiding place, John squeezed off a shot. The bullet rattled the shelf, sending the uppermost few sheets soaring down like kamikaze birds. The man jerked around, instinctively covering his head with his arm, then glared in the direction the shot came from.

"No fair, Macleod," he yelled. "No one can interfer."

"I didn't ask him to," Connor growled, casting a dagger-sharp glare in John's direction as he pushed himself up from the floor. The combatants went at it again, and John watched in horrified fascination. The speed of the healing was incredible, but so was the lightning-quickness of the strikes. Even an inexperienced swordsman would be able to tell that both men had done this many times before. Each had won before, too, John suddenly realized -- and tonight, one would not. He shuddered.

John realized his earlier description of Connor's opponent had fallen short. He had forgotten longer reach -- and was reminded as the man batted Connor's sword away and shoved his own through Connor's chest. Connor's face twisted in an expression of agonized pain. John cringed; reflexively he reached up and rubbed at the scars covered by his shirt, the mark of his own first death.

The man grinned, pulling the sword from Connor's chest with excruciating slowness. Connor dropped to the floor, chest heaving a few times as he tried to draw air before he finally succumbed to the pain and lack of oxygen. This was a wound Connor would not recover from in time to save himself.

The anger within John began to boil over. Immortal or not, Rules or not, this man was a monster, and it was John's job as a homicide detective to stop monsters like this before they struck again. He stood and pointed his gun at the man, hands steady.

"Stop right there!"

Startled, the man looked up at John, then let his gaze drift back and forth between John and Connor as if trying to decide which one to finish off first. He finally tossed his sword aside, rubbed his hands together gleefully, and took a step toward John.

"Stop right now. I won't warn you again."

The man just grinned and took another step; as an immortal, of course he wasn't afraid of a gun.

Normally, nerves in a situation keep people from being able to shoot accurately, as did lack of practice. John had been using firearms for over three hundred years, and he practiced with this one with solemn regularity. Defense was a powerful tool. As far as a case of nerves, well, he couldn't die, and that usually kept him from yielding to the emotion. Even in facing another immortal, he found that he wasn't worried for himself, only for Connor. He took aim very carefully and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet only grazed the man's neck; he laughed and continued forward. He was enjoying this, John realized; the man wanted to torment him, to frighten him, for as long as possible before killing him.

Recovering from the recoil of his gun and the mental shock of a missed shot, John took aim again. Going for a smaller target instead of a body shot was generally a bad idea, but if the neck was this guy's Achilles' heel, that's where John wanted to hit. He fired, and this time the bullet tore a hole right above the Adam's apple. Shocked, his target stopped cold. John repeated his shot twice more, managing to widen the hole before the guy stumbled and fell. Not moving, but not quite dead, not immortally wounded -- not yet. Connor's weapon had been knocked away, and this guy had tossed his too far aside; John wanted this done, and now. He grabbed a piece of the fallen sheet metal; its edges sliced into his fingers. It would do. Connor was rousing now, and would probably prefer to do this himself, but John wanted the satisfaction. He wrapped his hands in the end of his overcoat, carried the sheet over to the prone man, and pushed it down on the guy's neck.

Done.

He had stepped back from the body when wind began to whip through the building. Where was it coming from?

Connor had stumbled to his feet, then sank down to his knees. He stared straight at John. "Get back," he ordered.

John drew his eyebrows together. "Why?"

"Just get back!" Connor shouted, his voice competing with the growing howl of the wind.

The first lightning bolt skittering across the room was all it took, and immortal or not, John scurried behind some sturdy barrels and watched the new lightshow from between them. Connor had mentioned a storm-like reaction in this so-called Quickening, but John had thought it was figurative, not a real storm. Nothing in his 400 years had prepared him for this.

Lightning danced between Connor and the headless body, between Connor and pieces of sheet metal, between Connor and just about everything in the room. Overhead lights flickered and popped, and windows blew out. Connor himself, still on his knees, swayed from the momentum of the elements that buffeted him. The wind whipped through, shredding the anguished cry that arose from Connor's throat. Some might have called it an inhuman sound, when in reality it was all too human: pained, angry,triumphant and mournful all at once. It ripped through John's heart as much as the wind tried to rip through his body.

The storm subsided as quickly as it had begun, leaving Connor in an exhausted heap on the floor. It attracts attention, Connor had said. Rachel had obviously gotten her mastery of the understatement from her father. Cautiously John approached his friend. "Connor?"

"Mmph." Connor rolled over, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"Come on. Let's get you out of here." John helped his friend to his feet. How long had they known each other, way back then? A decade? More than that, really, but at least that long before John had crawled into a bottle and refused to come out. Connor had always seemed a little paranoid to John, too reticent to even playfully joke about being immortal. John had always said who cares, no one believes us anyway. After seeing this fight, this Quickening, the paranoia made sense -- Connor didn't want people like this to have an easy way to find him. John had the urge to apologize to Connor for ever taunting him about his reticence.

Connor was recovering quickly as they walked to the door, but he still leaned heavily against John. "You shouldn't have done that," Connor said, nodding back toward the body. He was too tired to manage an angry voice, but there was no doubt in John's mind that his friend was pissed as all hell.

"I couldn't stand by and do nothing."

Connor shook his head slowly. "The Game has its Rules. I spend every day of my life knowing that one day it might end. Every day, I'm prepared to die."

"You may not like it, but there is never going to come a day when I'm prepared to watch a friend die." A smirk spread across John's face. "And I'm not always going to be around to save your rear end, so keep it out of trouble, all right?"

In spite of himself, Connor chuckled. "I'll try to do a better job next time."

Wailing notes of blues guitar echoed through Omar's Bar and Grill. For once, the crowd was quiet, everyone listening to this talented man play. John was late; homicide wasn't the place to work if you wanted to keep plans. He usually didn't have people with whom he'd made plans, though, so he'd made sure he wasn't too late.

Waving to Omar and a few other acquaintances as he silently made his way through the crowd, John finally arrived at the appointed table. He shook Connor's hand and kissed Rachel's, and gave a nod across the table to the man he didn't know, who he surmised must be Duncan. He was another immortal, Connor's kinsman, and another man older than John -- although not by much. The man playing the blues guitar was Joe, a mortal who knew about immortals -- of Duncan and Connor's kind, at least. John sat back in his chair, arms folded loosely across his chest. What odd company for him to be keeping: people who remembered things that he did, who lived whole and different lives as he did. Not exactly the same; he didn't have to worry about someone cutting his head off, and they didn't have the ennui that came with having nothing being a threat to your life. But close enough, and closer than he'd ever thought he'd see, at least before he'd met Connor.

When the set ended, introductions were made, and they talked about normal, everyday things until the customers drifted away and Omar locked the doors.

"So you're telling me he's not the only one?" Omar asked, pointing at his father, after Joe explained the immortality he was familiar with and the role of the Watchers.

" 'Fraid not," Joe said. "Although he's not one of the ones we'd keep track of."

Omar threw an arm around Rachel. "I'm just glad I'm not the only one with a dad I'd like to smack upside the head now and then."

"Not fair," John scolded. "And don't think I'm not capable of putting you over my knee just like I did when you were little."

Omar snorted. "I'd like to see you try."

With a teasing smile, John started to get up from his chair, but Connor laid a hand on his arm. "No beating up the bartender."

"Or my employer for the evening," Joe added. "I'd like to maintain a good relationship here, thank you."

Duncan cast a glance at his friend over his whiskey glass. "Going to recruit him, Joe?"

Joe shrugged. "It's up to him."

Connor pointed a thumb at John. "He'd made a better Watcher -- wouldn't age out."

John snorted. "No thanks. If I never have to witness that again in my lifetime, I will be happy."

"Aw, so you're not going to follow me around anymore?" Connor sighed dramatically, but he was barely suppressing a smile. "I'm so disappointed."

John shoved him playfully. "You are still an ass."

"Here, here," Duncan added with a grin, raising his glass.

"And yet you both still hang around me. Why is that?"

Rachel attempted an innocent whistle as she pointed to herself. "I don't think it's you they want to be around. There's a gentler, kinder member of the clan to visit."

Duncan slid his arm around Rachel's shoulders. "There's a reason why you're my favorite niece."

"I'm your only niece," she said reproachfully.

"Just makes it even easier to select you, my dear." With a sigh, he rose. "This may be the city that never sleeps, but I think we should all try to get some. So we're agreed then, dinner, tomorrow night, at his place?" He gestured to Connor.

"Absolutely," Omar agreed, smiling at Rachel. "We've still got some catching up to do."

Connor's expression turned serious as he faced John. "You'll be there?"

John clapped his old friend on the back. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."