My name is Steven Lucan. I'm a private investigator, and at 42, my life was over. I lived alone in a cheap apartment with leaky pipes, I avoided the incessant calls of bill collectors, and everyday I buried myself in someone else's lies and revenge. Washed up. Face down in the mud. The guy who does everyone's dirty work -- for a price. That's me.

I got into this sleezy business for the glory. You know, like the old Humphrey Bogart movies with sexy women, booze, tobacco and secret deals in musty barrooms. Those P.I.s always caught the bad guy and got the girl. But not me.

Instead, I got an ex-wife who demanded child support payments every month for a teenage daughter who hates me. For clients I got jilted spouses who wanted to clean up in the divorce settlement, so they paid me to find proof that their husbands and wives were having affairs. I kept waiting for that Bogart case that would propel me into a real adventure, but it never came.

A guy did shoot at me once. He was some pissed off husband who caught me photographing him and a prostitute through a motel window. But when the bullets flew, I ducked and ran. Then I drowned my cowardice in a bottle of Jack Daniels, and I have yet to come up for air.

A bit of a cliche? Maybe. But the fact remained that I hated my life. I hated stalking people for money, but I didn't know how to do anything else. Like I said, I might have been breathing, but I was already dead.

Until she walked into my life.

This woman was perfect. She looked like she had stepped out of the pages of a five-and-dime novel. Beautiful and graceful, yet she glided into my office with an unerring sense of danger. She smiled, and the world crumbled. I had waited all my life to meet this amazing creature.

She lifted her dark glasses and slid into the chair in front of my desk, white teeth flashing behind blood-red lips.

"Mr. Lucan, I presume?" Her voice chimed like music.

"That's me," I answered, slightly hoarse. "How can I help you, Miss ..."

"Montrose. Amanda Montrose. We spoke on the phone this morning."

I blinked. "Oh, right. Of course." I fumblingly straightened a mess of papers on my desk. "What is it I can do for you, Miss Montrose?"

"Call me Amanda, please."

"All right," I breathed. "Amanda."

I knew private investigators were supposed to keep their cool in all situations, when looking down the barrel of a gun or facing a beautiful body. But I couldn't stop my heart from thumping or the sweat from beading on my forehead. Amanda must have radiated heat like a small star because the temperature in my office had skyrocketed when she had walked in the room.

Her brows furrowed. "Are you all right? You look a little flushed."

"Fine," I blustered and poured myself a glass of whisky. Remembering my manners, I asked, "Would you like some?"

She wrinkled her nose. "No thanks. I never touch the stuff. Now, if you had a good wine around ..."

"Nah, I don't drink wine."

"That's fine, darling," she said.

Wine. That bubbly stuff doesn't exactly fit the image of a hardened private investigator. I downed my drink in one gulp. "So, um, Amanda, what can I do for you?"

At those words, she became all business. She leaned forward intently, unaware that she was offering me a teasing glance of what lay hidden just beyond her scooping neckline. I swallowed hard.

"I need you to help me find something that was stolen from me," she said.

With some effort, I lifted my eyes to her face. "What was it?"

She hesitated before answering carefully. "A necklace. A very expensive necklace."

"I see," I said.

"But the problem is that the necklace doesn't technically belong to me," she continued. "I promised to get it for an acquaintence of mine, and now that acquaintence has given me until tomorrow night to get the necklace back."

"And if you don't?"

"He'll kill me."

I gulped hard. "Killed, as in dead?"

She pursed her lips and nodded. "So now you see that I really need your help. It's a delicate situation because if I track the thief and he finds out, he'll vanish with the necklace. You track him, and it won't phase him. I'll deal with getting the necklace back. All you need to do is find the thief."

"But why me?" I choked out.

She shrugged. "I was told me that you were good." Her bright eyes bore into me. "So, will you help me? I'll pay whatever it takes."

"It's five hundred dollars a day plus expenses." Actually, my rate is normally quite a bit lower, but if I was going to put myself in the middle of death threats and thieves, I figured I deserved more.

"That's fine." She barely batted an eye as she pulled cash from her purse and laid the money on the counter. "There's half. I'll pay you the rest when the job is done. Just remember I must have that necklace by tomorrow night."

"OK, then," I said, steeling my nerves. "Can you give me any information about this thief?"

Amanda had known a surprising amount about the target. Too much. The thought crossed my mind that she and this thief might be playing me, but they'd have to reason to con a broke P.I. So accepted her story that their feud was a long-standing one.

She'd given me the target's name and description: Harold Miller with a few aliases, 5-foot-8, athletic, brown hair and a scar on his chin. With some well-placed bribes and some computer know-how, I determined that he hadn't left town by airplane, train or rented car. So, he was still here. All I had to do was find him.

He turned up at the Ritz Hotel in downtown. At least the guy had good taste. After staking out the lobby for most of the afternoon, I spotted him at the concierge desk, a dark briefcase in his hand. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Amanda's number.

"Hello?" she answered.

"Amanda, it's Steven. I found him."

"That was quick." She sounded surprised. "Where is he?"

"The Ritz Hotel on Main Street. He looks like he's getting ready to leave, though." I paused. "And there's someone else here, too."

"Who?"

"I don't know. Someone who's watching this guy. She's been sitting in the lobby long than I have, but she's obviously got the same target. Is there something you're not telling me?"

She hesititated before answering. "I've told you everything I can. I wouldn't worry about it. Just follow Harold and let me know where he goes."

I shrugged. "You're the boss."

I hung up and tucked the phone back into my coat pocket. Amanda said leave this other investigator alone, if that's what the woman was. But it makes me nervous when an unknown quantity enters into a case, like an itch that I can't quite scratch. I decided to ignore Amanda's advice and find out more about this mystery woman.

I sat down next to her on a couch, and she didn't move. She was pretending to read a newspaper, her face half-hidden behind short brown hair, but I knew better. I could spot a spy a mile away.

"So," I said casually, "why are you watching him?"

She looked at me sharply with icy blue eyes. "What?"

"That guy, Harold Miller." I nodded toward him, where he was having a spirited discussion with the concierge. "Why are you watching him?"

She looked back to her newspaper. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on," I coaxed. "It's obvious. So what's your deal. Did someone hire you or are you doing this for personal reasons. You're not going to ... kill him, are you?"

At that, she laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. "If you know what's good for you, you'll stay out of my way. And you'll stay far away from Harold Miller, Logan King and Amanda Montrose, too."

I blinked. "Who's Logan King? And how do you know about Amanda?"

She smiled coldly as she stood, neating folding her newspaper. "Like you said, I watch him."

With that she walked away. Only then did I notice that Harold had vanished from the lobby. I muttered a few choice curses and ran outside, only to see the target get into the back seat of a taxi. I had no time to retrieve my car, so I also hailed a taxi.

"Follow that car," I said to the driver, and we were off.

It bothered me more than a little that this mystery woman seemed to know so much. More than me, obviously, and yet I knew nothing of her. Not even her name. And who was this Logan King she had spoken of? I had a feeling I had stumbled into something bigger than I had planned on.

My taxi raced down the highway, close behind Harold's. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Amanda.

"We're on the move," I said.

"Where to?" Amanda asked. "I'm on my way now."

I fed her directions as we exited off the highway and began weaving through dirty city streets. Finally, we ended our trip near a dark overpass on the bad side of town. I ordered the cabbie to stop out of sight, and I crept from the taxi and toward the overpass.

"I'm almost there." Amanda's voice crackled through the phone. "Get out of there now. It's too dangerous for you."

Her words slid past me without meaning, and tucked the phone into my coat pocket. I was too intrigued to walk away now. Some old saying about cats and curiosity crossed my mind, but I ignored it and continued forward.

I could see the taxi's yellow finish easily below the overpass, but now I was also making out a dark car. Expensive, from the looks of it. Three giant men in black coats stepped from the car, and then came out the man who could only be the boss. He looked like the stereotypical bad guy, with slicked-back hair and a cigar in his hand.

"Do you have it?" the Boss asked Harold, who had cowered forward.

"Of course I do." Harold's voice wavered in obvious fear. "I told you I could get it away from the tramp."

"So you did."

Just then, I felt a hand fall on my shoulder, and I bit my tongue to keep from yelling. I twisted around, only to meet a pair of angry but beautiful eyes.

"I told you to get out of here!" Amanda whispered harshly. "What part of that didn't you understand."

I had to think of an excuse fast. "I, um, wanted to keep an eye on them, just in case they left before you got here."

She smirked. "Don't make a career out of lying, darling. You're not very good at it."

I suddenly felt very offended. "But --"

"Shhh." She cut me off and pointed toward the overpass. Harold had pulled something from his briefcase that glittered like a thousand tiny stars. He handed it to the Boss in exchange for another briefcase, probably full of money.

"That's my necklace," Amanda hissed. Then she did something that shot the whole situation from incredible into impossible: She pulled out a sword from under her coat. "Stay here."

Before I could think of something coherent to answer, she was quickly striding toward the overpass, sword held casually in one gloved hand. I blinked to clear my vision because I obviously couldn't be seeing this. But when I looked again, nothing had changed. What had I stumbled onto?

"I believe that necklace is mine," Amanda said firmly as she reached the cars.

"Ah, Amanda," the Boss said smugly. "So good of you to join us. I was beginning to think you weren't going to make it."

"What the hell is going on here, Logan?" she demanded. "The deal for the necklace was between you and me, not you and this ... snake."

Logan! So that's who the mystery woman in the hotel had been talking about. I could understand her warning well because I wouldn't touch this mob boss with a 30-foot pole.

"My deal," Logan said, "was for the necklace, whoever could deliver. I don't mind working with Harold. He demands a much lower fee."

Amanda sounded offended. "I am three times the thief Harold is."

"Hey!" Harold said.

Logan raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Now that's unfair. He stole the merchandise right out from under your nose." He held up the necklace, where it sparkled in the faint light. "I'd say that you're losing your touch, Amanda."

She raised her sword. "I can still take your head."

"I much as I would enjoy killing you, I can't be bothered at the moment. I have a board meeting in half an hour. You know how it is." Logan slid into the back seat of his car. "But maybe you can take up the issue with Harold, here. He's the one who lost you the commission, after all."

With that, the three giant men stepped back into the car, and it backed away from the overpass. Logan and the necklace had gone, and all I could do was watch in stunned silence. Then, the situation became even more bizarre as Harold pulled out a sword and started circling with Amanda.

"I really don't want to fight you," Harold said waveringly. "We're both professional thieves. It's part of the job, you know."

"Shut up and fight me," Amanda spat.

It didn't matter how many times I pinched myself, I never woke up. The bombshell who had come into my office the previous morning with her damsel- in-distress act was now doing her best to slice open some poor guy. Not only that, but the poor guy was managing to stop her. I couldn't remember ever flying over the rainbow, but I sure wasn't in Kansas anymore.

After several minutes of fighting, Amanda stuck her sword through Harold like a skewer, and then, as my jaw dropped to the ground, she chopped off his head. The fireworks that came after, well, let's just say that the Fourth of July had nothing on this display. After it was over, Amanda dropped to her knees. I wanted to run. I wanted to stay. Hell, I just wanted to return to the real world.

Then I felt another cold hand on my shoulder, and this time I did yelp. I came around swinging my fists and almost knocked out the woman behind me. She danced out of reach at the last minute and scowled.

"A little jumpy aren't you?" It was the mystery woman from the hotel. After all I'd just seen, I wasn't even surprised.

"Are you kidding?" I sputtered. "She just killed some guy, and then he exploded into some sort of light show, and --"

"You have questions," the woman broke in. "I have answers."

That stopped me short. I just stared at her with a dumb expression. She reached out a hand, which I took, and she pulled me to my feet.

"My name is Amy, and I'm a Watcher."

I blinked. "A what?"

"Let's go someplace a little more comfortable, and we'll talk."

She led me back to her car, and we drove across town to a small building with the name "Joe's" out front in neon lights. Had my mind been processing the world correctly, I might been excited at the thought of being led to a tavern by a beatiful woman. But I couldn't get the scene at the overpass out my head. She had promised answers, and I sure needed them.

We walked into the dark interior. Behind the bar stood a graying man with a friendly smile. He laughed delightedly and walked awkardly toward us to give the woman a bear hug.

"Amy!" His voice was a little raspy. "Good to see you. So, what brings you to my side of town."

She shrugged. "Good to see you, too, Joe. I just wish it could be better news. Amanda killed Harold about half an hour ago."

Joe's face fell. "I'd like to say I'm sorry that you lost your immortal, but ..."

"I know. You're happy Amanda is alive." She then pointed behind her at me. "And this confused private investigator somehow got tangled up in the whole thing."

"He saw the Quickening?"

"Yep. And he has questions."

"I'm not surprised."

Joe then led me to a booth, poured me a shot of whiskey ("It's on the house, buddy") and started to talk. If he'd told me these things an hour ago, I would have laughed in his face. Now, he was opening up a new world to me. Immortals, sword fights to the death, Quickenings and the Game. Mostly, he talked about the Watchers and how he and Amy fit into the whole scheme. It was scary and amazing, all at the same time.

"So," Joe said as he finished up, "what to you think?"

"I, um ..." I paused. "I don't think I'm thinking at all right now."

"Understandable." Joe nodded. "It's that way for all of us when we first find out."

"Us?"

"The Watchers."

I chuckled at that. "I'm not a Watcher."

"Do you want to be?" Joe shot back.

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. This was insane. People living forever. It was crazy. And yet ...

"Look," Amy said. "Now that you know, nothing is ever going to be the same. You can't go back."

I shook my head and poured another shot. "I don't know. It seems pretty weird."

Joe and Amy exchanged knowing looks, and then Joe turned back to me. "You're a private investigator, right? This would be right up your ally."

"It's a lot to ask of me right now." I couldn't look at him. I fingered the label of the whiskey bottle instead. Good brand. Joe had good taste.

"Yeah, it's a lot. But ask yourself what you have right now." Joe leaned forward. "You chase people around all the time, hide in the shadows. And what have you got at the end of the day?"

I shrugged and sighed.

"A bottle of whisky and a new set of lies," Joe finished.

I looked at him sharply. "What do you know about my life?"

"I used to be you, buddy. The Watchers are the best thing that ever happened to me. They gave me a purpose. They showed me why I was put on this planet. Give it a chance."

Give it a chance. Change my whole life in one afternoon. But ... what did I really have to live for, anyway? Not a damn thing. My pathetic existence couldn't get any worse, but maybe -- just maybe -- it could get better.

"All right," I whispered.

So that's how I joined the Watchers. I sure got my Bogart case, but it was only the first. I've traveled all over the world and have seen things that most people could never even imagine. All because a bombshell blonde stumbled onto my office one day instead of some other P.I.'s.

I could have said "no" that day at Joe's, but then I'd still be dead. Sitting in my tiny, dirty office, dealing with an ex-wife who hates my guts and spouses who are out for revenge. But I made the right choice.

My name is Steven Lucan. I'm a Watcher and darn proud of it. At 42, my life was just beginning.

The end