August 29. Sunday.

Looking back on it, Rickie would admit she had only herself to blame for it all. It had been her, after all, who'd asked they stay in London for the time being. It had been her who'd begged off the nice train trip out to the country Xena had planned for them.

And it had been her who had snuck out of the room that morning, right under the nose of the exhausted, dozing warrior. 

Rickie of course felt somewhat ashamed at this last bit. But then, Xena had been slowly, systematically driving her out of her goddamn mind. Rickie hadn't meant that she wished to stay in their hotel room the whole time, and she certainly hadn't wished Xena to act alternately as handservant and the bitch warden of Alcatraz. When they weren't dining in the hotel's small restaurant or their room, they were cuddling upstairs in their suite, or using up the hotel's hot water for showers or lingering baths, or vegging out watching what passed for television entertainment, or contributing to the overall levels of noise pollution and staining the bedsheets something fierce. At least Rickie was, Xena skillfully deflecting all efforts at reciprocity.

The rare moments when they weren't so occupied, Rickie would find Xena staring out the window, hands clenching and unclenching in a familiar gesture of frustrated tension. Rickie herself missed whatever it was she was seeing out there. Pedestrians, tourists, bobbies, business men and women, vendors, cars, trucks, the occasional pair on roller-blades, all crowding the sidewalk and the street day and night. She'd catch Xena there late at night, in those dark moments before the dawn, or in the bright light of noon. When she'd join the dark woman at the window, she could see nothing looking the least out of the ordinary.

But then, she wasn't a detective, was she? A small fact Xena didn't mind reminding her of when she pointed out how there was simply nothing out there. Xena always delivered the pseudo-rebuke with a grin and a kiss and no sting behind it.

Nevertheless, over forty-eight hours of nonstop mothering and not-so-covert surveillance (she caught Xena watching her with every bit as much intensity, only much more often) can wear on anyone's nerves. Especially if the subject under surveillance isn't even allowed out of the room to get some ice from down the hall. It didn't help that, after the same period of time, the four walls of the suite were getting real familiar, or that British television had about as much novelty to it as the average patch of grass.

At least they got plenty of exercise. Even after a year together, Rickie found she'd had only a glimmer of Xena's inventiveness when it came to love-play. And hadn't it been Heinlein who said you could get all the exercise you'd ever need in bed? In that case, I'm gonna live to be a hundred. Rickie would think with a smirk.

The decision to slip away came subtly, the plan forming over the course her two day's captivity. She'd unconsciously noticed how Xena hardly seemed to sleep, merely eat and pace and not let her out of sight for more than a few seconds, going so far as to lounge by the damn bathroom door whenever she needed to use the facilities. It left Rickie wondering what was going on in that two thousand year old skull she so loved, though she decided to mull over it later. Right then, Rickie recognized it as the opening she would need.

She'd reached the limits of her endurance of all this by Sunday morning, and desperately needed a few moments to herself, if only so she could breath fresh air. Her subtle, and not-so-subtle hints to this affect went unnoticed. Admittedly, Xena wasn't in much better shape, her eyes blinking rapid-fire by then and her movements hyper-precise and controlled. The poor woman was obviously on her last legs, and Rickie decided it was time to make her break for an uninterrupted afternoon of freedom.

Not that she wasn't above having some…fun…in the process.

"Xena, will you sit down!" Rickie exclaimed, throwing her arms up for effect and sounding as exasperated as possible. The warrior had been pacing again, glancing out the window ever few paces and generally looking dead on her feet, held upright only by a fierce will. Rickie seized a forearm as she passed and pulled with all her might, surprising them both with how easily she toppled the taller woman. "Omph!" was the only comment either could manage right then, particularly when Xena's elbow found its way into her gut.

"Well, that worked," Rickie grumbled as they tried to disentangle themselves. Rickie made sure, however, that she ended up firmly astride Xena's well-muscled if exhausted torso, pinning her arms with both knees and hands. She leaned down carefully, conscious of the fire smoldering in those beautiful eyes.

"You are in such trouble, Dreamer," the warrior growled up at her.

"And you," Rickie replied as imperiously as her position permitted, "need to relax a little." She closed the rest of the distance and held Xena in a breath-stealing lip-lock. The warrior resisted for perhaps a heartbeat, then let herself be crushed by it, closing her eyes and sinking deep into the taste of her lover.

Without breaking contact, Rickie wiggled her way down Xena's form, keeping a firm grip on her wrists. She soon lay full astride her, softening her kisses but not her grip. Xena actually whimpered when she drew away, leading Rickie to quickly rethink her plans. Obviously the warrior had been far closer to that razor's edge than she'd previously thought. Gods knew they'd both been jumping through emotional hoops the past several days, from the gallery reception to the attack in the alley to that fucking car. Obviously Xena was more affected than she'd realized. Not, perhaps, the optimum moment for her to go running off. She'd have to see how the rest of this little escapade went.

"Keep yer damn hands to yerself," the blonde growled out as she let go of those massive wrists. Xena twitched a little, but quickly settled back, content to let her have control. Rickie knew she'd have to move quickly, before Xena thought better of it.

So she did.

Shirt and jeans were quickly opened and pushed out of the way, granting her fingers and mouth easy access. Xena couldn't stop the tremors running through her under those practiced digits found her every weak point, sensitizing her skin to the point of pain. Yet she kept her hands well away, unwilling to risk ending this delicious torture too soon. Even when Rickie's tongue found that one little spot as it invariably did, then one that never failed to shoot her right to the brink and leave her teetering, even then she locked her muscles and kept herself from reaching down as her tingling fingers so begged her to.

Rather, she lay there, all rational thought drowned out by her lover's skillful manipulations. Her lower half moved in rhythm to the tongue, teeth, and deft fingers stroking and caressing her. She bit down on her lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood, as her pelvic muscle clenched in an effort to draw in still more of the four fingers now working within her. Her legs straightened and locked stiff, dead weight upon the slender blonde's shoulders.

Something in unintelligible Greek issued from the dark woman as she let loose, though Rickie was sure the names of several gods were praised…or, knowing Xena, cursed and spat upon. It sounded rude, whatever it was she said. Some distant memory, more dream than substance, told her Xena would often resort to questioning the parentage and grace of certain deities at the heights of their passion. It was her personal challenge, her curse, her retribution against them.

Rickie really wished she know what it all meant.

Memo to self: take courses in Helenic Greek next year. Rickie mentally scribbled as she tongued Xena mercilessly.

The warrior was soon shuddering at the precipice of her first orgasm, at which point her hands refused to remain uninvolved, soon finding themselves raking through thick strands of soft gold. Breathing was nearly impossible, never mind coherent speech. Xena urged her tormentor on with primoid grunts and roving hands, the former becoming a wail of loss when the latter were caught in slightly sticky hands and pulled away, her bacchae's tongue pulling away as well.

Through the haze in her mind, Xena clearly heard the quiet rebuke of "Now, what did I tell you about those hands? Hmm?" The warrior whimpered, nearly crazed and utterly disorientated. Were she even slightly clearer of thought, she'd have reached out and dragged her bacchae underneath her, ensuring she finished what she started. As it was, Xena could not clearly remember her own name, never mind how to undertake so complicated an action as jumping up and tackling a five-foot-seven-inch young woman.

So she lay there, trying to process the multitude of sensations and urges running through her. Her thoughts cleared sufficiently to conclude there was something wrong with having both wrists tied with pillow cases, the ends of which were secured to the headboard of the bed, though for the life of her she couldn't quite figure out why it felt so. The voice above her must have had something to do with it, particularly when it said "There, that's better.".

This line of thought was completely derailed with the return of Rickie's tongue to her core, her finely-trimmed nails raising a trail of goose-bumps along her thighs and hips, which shook with unreleased tension and heat. Xena felt her guts twist and pull into a tightly-coiled spring, pulling harder and tighter with each swipe of that tongue and scratch of nails against skin.

Sweat was leaking through every pore, from crown to toe. Her hips were now fully off the bed, back arched painfully tense. More unintelligible Greek curses issued from her, sounding even ruder (if that were possible) than before. Rickie grinned at this, secretly impressed she had managed to so thoroughly dismantle the warrior's stoic facade. The sounds of the pillowcases beginning to loosen and tear quickly brought her back to the task at hand.

Rickie gauged the level of her lover's arousal against both the warrior's sagging strength and the growing cramp in her own neck, judging the first would likely overwhelm the second and, she hoped, not exacerbate the third too much further. This in mind, she committed a final assault against her captor's weak spot, diving in and bringing matters to a (literally) mind-blowing climax.

Xena was so completely robbed of breath she couldn't even sob, never mind scream, her entire being centered upon and draining out into the lips pressed into her. She consequently didn't hear the cloth encircling her wrists give a final rip as her nails and thrashing reduced both restraints to rags, tearing her hands free though they immediately gripped the headboard while the rest of her thrust outwards as if trying to fit its entire length between those perfect lips.

Long as it had taken her to reach that plateau where angels and demons wept in jealousy, long as she lingered there, suspended between everything and nothing, her fall into a reluctant if restful oblivion was quicker still. She was gone in an eyeblink, every inch of her relaxed and loose, even the shade of grin on her lips, unconscious.

"Whoa," Rickie muttered, stumbling slightly as she stood up, needing to lean against the bureau to regain her balance. "This is a first." Usually it was her getting knocked out by their love-making, generally the night before some killer exam or just after a term paper was written. She felt quite pleased with herself, going so far as to striking a 'beefcake' pose for a moment, before retreating to the WC. She had no idea how long Xena would be out, so she settled for a quick face-splash of cold water and gargle of Scope…after making sure to lick away as much of her warrior's essence as her tongue could reach, of course.

She grabbed her wallet, Passport, folder of traveler cheques, key-card, and the Streetwise map she’d wisely purchased before they’d left Portland. Stuffing them all in the appropriate pockets of her jeans and beloved leather jacket, she paused only long enough to write a simple message on the memo pad by the bedside clock. Placing the folded note in plain sight, Rickie gave her reclining lover a long, lingering look, debating hard whether to follow through with this.

Xena presented a most tempting sight, reminding her of a painting somewhere, some beautiful rendition of the female form from the Renaissance with an unpronounceable title in Italian. Tempting as she looked, there was a city out there she'd had no chance to explore yet. And it was Sunday, already! They'd be gone in two days, for god's sake.

Hard a debate as it was, it was over in only seconds, the click of the suite's door closing and locking behind her ending it.

She was in the lobby before she fully realized what she'd just done, feeling at once giddy and apprehensive. She gave a message to the nice young manager behind the front desk, who nodded and dutifully wrote it down, and was out the door and into the pre-noon sunlight. She smiled widely into the fresh air, slipping on her mirrorshades and quickly crossing the street, ready to loose herself in the beckoning city.

"Oh, fuck me!" A cup of coffee, with generous amounts of creamer and sugar, did not make the best fertilizer for either trees or grass. Enzo Del Turo however was too much in shock at the sight across the street to care about his unintentional littering of the park, the cup slipping from momentarily nerveless fingers. He watched, aghast, as the small blonde hurried across Kensington Street and entered the park grounds, ambling along paved walk of the Ring, then turning onto Serpentine Road, soon disappearing into the Sunday morning crowds.

She was out of sight for the whole of a minute before he remembered his purpose for being there. Cursing himself blue, he quickly pulled his cell phone out and hit the speed-dial. The cellular services were likely making a killing off this, he thought as he waited, impatient, for the connection to be made.

When it was, he took a deep breath and said "Its Enzo…"

"Hi-ya, Unca," a too-cheery voice answered.

Ah, shite! Enzo took another deep breath, then continued in a calmer tone. "Hullo, Sunnglebug. Your da home?"

"Yah." The girl's voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. "He's been drinkin' coffee today!"

""Could you put him on, please? Its important."

"Okay!" Enzo flinched at the sound of the receiver being dropped carelessly to the floor and the shouted declaration of "DA? UNCA ENZO WANTS YA! SEEZ ITS IM-POR-TAN!"

Enzo flinched again as Jonothan O'Donhugh growled into his ear. "Please tell me this is important!"

Closing his eyes, he said "I just watched the girl exit the hotel and head into the park, alone." The sound of a hurricane's worth of air being breathed in, held, then slowly exhaled was the only immediate response. This was repeated before Enzo dared ask "Jono? You there?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm still here. Bloody hell." The last was spat with a cobra's hiss. "So much for eternal love, eh?"

"You want me to follow her?"

Silence reigned for a moment, broken by another hissed curse. "She's going to bloody kill her. No, you stay with the warrior. I want to know if any of Devon's boys make another play for her."

"What if they move for the girl?"

"Leave that to me."

Enzo felt an immediate stab of anxiety at those words. His cousin was not one to leave much to chance, and he found himself wondering to what degree exactly events thus far unfolded purely on their own, how much further they followed some design he himself was not privy to.

He could only stand there, watching the late-morning crowds gather to hear the hawkers and Sunday speeches, eyes searching for any sign of reddish-blonde hair. "Oh, to hell with this!' Enzo snarled after a moment, starting off after the small blonde.

He consequently missed the limousine that cruised across the street directly before him. The passenger's window lowering an inch and revealing dark, intense eyes which stared first at him, then wandered towards the crowd, narrowing dangerously as they did.

The limo sped up and went on its way as Enzo looked back to the hotel one last time, his eyes once more fixed on the third-story window. He could simply imagine the window breaking under the assault of thrown furniture and an Immortal's rage, both sure to come, and soon.

He stepped up his pace into the crowds, and was soon lost.

Rickie Gardner fancied herself the cosmopolitan sort, having seen more than her share of the world since running away from that white picket fence of a hellhole she’d grown up in South Dakota. True, she’d traveled even more with Xena in the past year, and had more than a few eye-popping experiences of her own as a result. Despite all this, she felt completely out of place amid the crowds gathered along the Serpentine and thickening as she walked Park Lane and rounded Speaker’s Corner.

It was a rather long walk, and the sheer number of people made maneuvering a bit difficult. Kids had their model sailboats out on the pond, some having impromptu races between them, consequently making moving obstacles to be dodged carefully. There were plenty of elderly as well, slow moving but mostly keeping to the fringes. Knots of family and friends ambled along together or apart, enjoying the scenery of the park, both natural and human. The wide green was so expansive to Rickie's eye as to leave her humbled and dizzy. She grinned and kept walking, promising herself she'd get Xena out there before they left.

Sundays in Hyde Park are special, as the righteous and vocal come out in force to the northeast tip of the park (dubbed Speaker’s Corner), climb atop milk crates and lambaste any and all who might stop and listen. The majority simply recited their favorite passages from Revelation or Daniel, warning of rains of brimstone and fire, and promising the kingdom of heaven for the Saved, capital "S" that is. A few railed against "black-arsed foreign trash clogging the streets" and the evils of the "Labour-Socialist traitors" in power. Rickie caught sight of a few skinheads listening to these diatribes with rapt looks and bright eyes, hearing everything they wanted to and eating it up with a spoon.

By and large, however, the crowds were more amused than anything, most lingering for only a moment or two before moving on to either the food vendors or to grab one of the folding chairs from nearby piles and setting it out on the greens. The British government, whatever party was in power, always made sure the Queen's subjects were provided their little conveniences for a peaceful afternoon in the park.

The morning was nearly done, and so the speakers were starting to drift away. Rickie wandered past a bespectacled woman holding aloft crude cross looking as tall as herself and flanked by four grim-looking young men. The woman was calmly declaring the coming of Jesus and the fall of the Devil, one or two of her shrinking audience calling out "Jay-sus!" in tandem with the woman. Rickie watched for a moment, wondering where the woman kept her muscles, that cross of her's looking like no small weight. Giving a small shake of her head, she moved on, heading back west along the gravel causeway. The voices of the speakers soon faded, replaced by the occasional babble of passers by or children giggling at play. The odd pair of roller-bladers zipped past in the near distance, keeping to the paved walkways further in.

Rickie felt a welcome peace settle over her as she walked, the green of the lawns and the scattered trees giving rise of memories both ethereal and tangible. The previous Christmas spent in their cabin upstate…a small camp nestled deep in a forest near the seashore…

…Fishing in the Sound at dawn…an eel, then a fish, then another fish slapping her in the face, all thrown by someone who liked what she was doing entirely too much…

…Xena teaching her to drive the Mustang outside the city…a certain buttergold mare nearly tossing her off during her first riding lesson…

Scene after scene played across her mind, both familiar and strange. Such memories were distracting, however, and before she knew it Rickie found herself nearly at the opposite end of the park, looking down the Broad Walk near the Round Pond, Kensington Gardens just ahead of her. This left her in a bit of conundrum. Did she head south, back to the hotel and a likely argument with her certain-to-be irate warrior, or keep exploring the area?

She caught sight of the artist's booths along the Bayswater Road, grinning as she did.

No contest.

Rickie walked the length of the booths, twice, before wondering she should break down and buy something. There were some airbrush works that looked good, painting shadowy scenes of a harem or of dolphins swimming in the depths. There were also very well done oils, mostly landscapes but with definite feeling behind them. One booth even had a sizable collection of pub signs, with names running from "The Elegant Pig" to "The Blunt Nail" to "The Ink Well", each with a colorful scene illustrating the title.

One of these signs caught her eye and held tight. "The Sword and Pen", written in looping calligraphy script, beneath which was a simple sword crossing an old-fashioned quill, their shafts literally wrapped around each other several times and forming a narrow "X". The two, rightly, should have seemed at odds, but instead looked almost like they were embracing each other, the very notion of which brought tears to her eyes. There was no reason such a thing should affect her so, yet before she knew it, Rickie was handing over a small handful of different colored pound notes and accepting the sign wrapped in brown paper.

Clutching her purchase, Rickie felt a mild headache coming on, not to mention her stomach lodging protest at being neglected. With a slightly distressed sigh, Rickie made her way back along Bayswater, crossing at the nearby intersection at Lancaster (careful to look left, then right, then left again at the large arrows stenciled on the pavement directed) and setting off to find the nearest pub. Damn things should have been thick as Starbucks back home, right?

So intent was she on this new mission of her's, Rickie completely missed the scene unfolding directly across the street from her, a tall man in leather trenchcoat speaking urgently with a couple of constables he'd waved over, showing them a small passport photo. Whatever was said between them sent the man moving quickly down the street…in the opposite direction from herself.

Nor did she have the least sense of the eyes raking over her some distance ahead. Why should she, when those eyes were hidden by the tinted windows of an approaching limousine, the car passing by without even a moments pause? Those same eyes didn't leave her, even as it drifted slowly around the corner onto Queensway Road.

Rickie knew nothing of these things, having eyes and thoughts for searching out sustenance alone.

Morning/Afternoon.(Xena)

The South Hyde Hotel, while small and obscure amid the five-star establishments of the area, retained a professional staff who kept to a precise schedule. Among its regulars, it was said there was more chance of the Compagnie International des Wagons-Lits - the Orient Express - being flagged down (such an earth-shaking event supposedly having happened only once in that line's long history; and even then, the Conductor acquiesced only because he was a staunch Catholic and Pope Leo XXIII found it necessary to personally speak to one of the passengers) than for the housekeeping staff of the South Hyde to miss so much as a speck of dust. Beginning at eleven every morning, the maids would quickly and systematically clean and re-dress the nine suites of the hotel, spending no more than twenty minutes on each. It was a source of singular pride for all concerned.

The afternoon of August 29^th, 1999 would be a day long remembered by the hotel's staff, the housekeepers giving the three suites on the third floor a complete miss for that day. No blemish would mark their records, however, as the day manager himself wisely putting their lives above that of tradition and ordered them not to risk disturbing the singular guest on that floor.

There were excellent reasons for this, said guest having made all sorts of racket since 11:24 that morning. Between her screeching like an army of Banshees from the old country, followed by her equally loud declarations of "I will FUCKING kill her!", with the sound of overturned furniture and heavy objects impacting with the walls coming in perfect counterpoint, the guest in suite 6B was making her desire for privacy very clear.

Fortunately for the management, none of this could be heard on the lower floors. Indeed, the only reason any of the staff even knew of this particular guest's not-so-little tantrum was because the Weekend Manager himself, one George Pine, chose to personally check in on these very important visitors of theirs. His hand had been raised to start knocking, his salutations rehearsed to perfection in his head, right when the howling began. A veteran of the Troubles in neighboring Northern Ireland and certain covert actions never to be known by the wider public, George Pine immediately knew the only thing separating him from his eternal reward was a well constructed door of Canadian oak. He immediately backed away and sought out the maids, warning them away from the third floor.

A few of the maids braved both their superior's edict and their natural fears, approaching the forbidden door with understandable trepidation. They tried to keep their steps quiet as possible, their nerve nearly giving out at the guest's scream of "I'm going to goddamn hogtie her! I'll bury her in the fucking basement and…and…ARGH!"

The trio had only just reached the door when, as one, they thought better of the expedition and were prepared to sprint fast as their chubby legs could carry them in the opposite direction. All three squeaked like the three proverbial sight-impaired mice when the forbidden door suddenly swung open with far more force than its hinges should have rightly withstood. These were religious women, one and all, and so expected to see some bat-winged devil emerge, breathing fire and striking them dead with its eyes alone.

They froze like a trio of does caught in approaching headlights, equally dazzled, but by the lack of fire and blinding rage. In marked contrast to the vehemence of her screaming curses, the woman who stood before them wore only the unconcealed fear and half-blind panic. She looked no less formidable in her boots, black jeans and hunting jacket, but her eyes spoke of delicate control teetering over a well of despair, a wall erecting itself at the sight of her uninvited audience's presence.

Xena Amphipoulis pushed past the maids and made a beeline for the elevator. The three women stood there, shell-shocked for several beats, before their well-practiced professionalism took over and they moved into the abandoned room. No words passed between them as they navigated the wreckage of bedsheets, luggage, clothes, dishware, toiletries, and other sundry items. Each setting themselves to the task at hand, none even trying to examine what might have caused such destruction.

One of these dedicated housekeeping professionals found a small note amongst the wreckage, nearly lost among twisted bedsheets and mis-matched clothing. It might have been recognized as a clue, had she chosen to examine it closer. Rather she simply tossed it into the small trash bin they’d salvaged from the WC. It would have made little sense to them, this simple piece of hotel notepad, with a few scribbled lines of writing:

Ironically, those very words left the addressee of the note utterly incapable of either remaining still or the least bit calm. She gamely suffered through a too-long elevator ride down to the ground floor, her fists all the while, clenching and unclenching into tight hammerheads, simply aching to pound themselves numb on the walls…or the useless staff…or whatever unfortunate creature might cross her path. She knew it was an irrational, pointless urge for bloodletting, born of a confusion of directionless anger and helpless rage directed everywhere save at a tangible target.

The desk manager nearly became such a target, speaking out as she stalked by. He was saved from a messy end only by virtue of his hastily spoken words. "Miss Amphipoulis? Miss Gardner left a message for you."

Xena took a single, desperately controlled breath, then turned and moved, rather stiffly, closer to the desk. "A message?" she growled, trying hard to keep from throttling the poor fool.

"Er, yes. Its right…ah, here it is." He was young, blonde, and wore glasses which tended creep down his nose, all of which combined to make him the sort of over-eager twit who could only grind on her nerves further. Xena rallied her frayed control and reigned in her temper sufficiently to take the folded note from his manicured grip.

She read the message with a clenched jaw, catching her tongue between her molars and biting down hard enough to keep herself from laughing.

Xena heard her voice muttering on its own accord. "You are in such trouble, Dreamer! I swear I'm gonna…!" She was furious once more, this time only slightly more with herself, at how predictable she'd allowed herself to become, than with the object of her earlier rage. A mental deluge of expletives aimed equally at herself and her absent bacchae. Blasted, stubborn, stupid, feather-brained, addle-assed…

This persisted for some time, her vocabulary in this respect quite wide from its millennia of experience. She navigated across the street and into the park almost entirely on instinct, her thoughts taken up by conjuring up the most obscure references that cast doubt upon the parentage of the gods themselves. Quick as she walked, however, it well past noon by the time she reached Speaker's Corner, both speakers and audiences having largely dispersed some time earlier.

Unsurprisingly, there was no sign of the missing Rickie. A thought occurred to her as she unknowingly traced Rickie's path towards the Gardens, and she quickly turned and headed in the opposite direction, sharp eyes searching out the nearest telephone box. Finding one near one of the entrances connecting Park Lane to park’s border, one of those bulky affairs painted a tasteless cherry red that were among the more visible hold-overs from the 1960s, Xena pushed her way into it past a mangy-dressed youth with a dozen ear-rings and shaved head. She ignored his rude gestures and dialed the number, speaking quickly into the receiver so the shaking in her voice would have at least some cover.

She slammed the receiver back onto its cradle less than a minute later, disgust clearly writ across her face. "Well, that was fucking pointless!" she muttered aloud, the venom in the words enough to dissuade the trio of ratty football hoods, who'd been trailing her along the Serpentine and had marked her for a quick mugging, from approaching her further.

Xena knew they were there, and cared not one whit. She instead marshaling all her energies on finding her lost bacchae and getting her safely home…after lesson-reinforcing spanking, of course.

After a moment's contemplation, she headed back into the park, remembering there were several restaurants along the Serpentine. Knowing her bacchae as she did, the girl was absolutely, positively certain to be at one of them, right?

Xena set off, her course and purpose clear, completely missing how a harried-looking man in leather trenchcoat darted about the lane behind her.

Dial tone.

An answering machine's recorded message.

"Hullo. Yui've reached the office of Gwen Camlaan. Please leave your name and brief message, and I'll return yuir call as soon as possible, if not sooner."

Beep.

Voice obscured by static. "Gwen…its Xe…eet you…house…Essex…shite!…"

Connection cut. Dial tone.

The rest of Xena’s morning went from one of anxiety to one of escalating/alternating terror and rage. She’d jogged between the restaurants, annoyed the waiters with quick, urgent descriptions of Rickie, only to be turned away disappointed. She actually come close to physical violence a few times, the coolly polite and indifferent attitudes she encountered grating her already raw nerves to the breaking point; if she couldn't hit the visions that so disquieted her sleep (part of her outburst at awaking was thanks to Jeanne's voice cackling in her ear again), she could damn well repay these idiot's 'manners'.

She'd nevertheless restrained herself, but only with significant effort and remembering at the last instant the entire point of this exercise; the logical part of her managing to reason out how she'd be unable to find Rickie if locked away on the Isle of White. For all she knew, the warrants Scotland Yard had sworn out in '68 and '70 were still valid, and yet another round with the good Inspector Hopper couldn't help her comparative invisibility any.

So she'd gritted her teeth, thanked those she talked to, and moved throughout the park with fists clenched and shoulders hunched against a nonexistent wind. All the while her mind raced, alternately between watching everything and everyone moving about her and her many nightmares, both sleeping and waking. Ultimately, this all merged into a single mind-numbing mosaic that threatened to send her over the edge into total despair.

At some point in her wanderings, Xena found herself half-slumped over the short bridge over the Serpentine, staring down at her distorted reflection. Children's sailboats bobbed and raced within the man-made lake, making waves and distorting her reflection further. All the same there was something actually soothing about the sight, the flow of the waves at once chaotic and rhythmic, which if not entirely calming the warrior's otherwise troubled mind, at least giving her thoughts some semblance of order.

She realized she was doing Rickie something of an injustice. The girl had, after all, survived on the rough streets of Portland, alone, for nearly three years. And, appearances to the contrary, she was more than capable of handling herself physically; she'd proven as much in Munich. Surely she had enough sense of self-preservation to keep her wits about her in crowds, and certainly not to go jumping into cars with perfect strangers. The thought gave her pause for just a moment, uncertain where it came from and unsettled by the implication, only to brush it aside as she pushed herself upright off the bridge's railing.

Rickie said she'd be back, evidentially expecting Xena to be waiting for her when she returned. And given her reaction to finding Xena missing on Wednesday morning, to say nothing of the emotional stress they'd both been under the past several days, it was probably in her best interests not to let her bacchae be disappointed, ever.

Resolute as she was in this, Xena felt herself suddenly tense, the hairs on her neck standing at attention in telltale warning. Centuries of instinct and still more of practice had sharpened her very nerves to being aware of even the most passing interest upon her. Going by the reactions those same instincts now invoked, from the chill settling across her skin to her breath shortening to her heart racing for a moment before calming again, she was not under immediate threat, but nor was she entirely safe. A lifetime of war, both individually and against whole nations, taught one "safety" is a very, very relative term.

Xena stuck both hands into her jacket pockets, eyes gazing about more calmly now, long legs carrying her across the bridge and Serpentine Road, soon delivering her unto the flat expanse of the park's green. At first brush, she might have been one of artist or latter-day bohemians who frequented the park during the day, as marked by her odd choices of clothing and dreamy gait. As she walked, she would tilt her head back to gaze skyward from time to time, not looking the least bit hurried or concerned with the world about her. 

The exact opposite, in fact, was the case. Her hearing caught every brush of grass against her boots, every snicker and catcall children passed between them in the distance…and every soft footfall mirroring her own. She reached out with other, less defined senses and simply felt the presence trailing behind her. Xena knew she'd likely need whatever this clown could tell her before she could indulge in any fun, resisting the urge to turn and tear him/her/whatever limb from limb.

Rather she continued along the well-trod path ahead of them, keeping a careful ear on the figure behind her, and all the while generally letting the calm of the field and sky settle over her. The sort of calm always preceding the storm.

Xena let the tempest build within her, though slowly; each step forward adding another puff of dark cloud to her mind, every rustle of grass underfoot a clap of thunder embarrassing Zeus' handiwork. It became an almost unbearable tension within her, worse then the few times Rickie had gotten the better of her in bed and dangled her on the orgasmic precipice for hours on end. Now, like then, she was patient, knowing release and satisfaction would be her's soon enough.

Eventually, whether a minute or an hour later after wandering deep into the green, Xena chose her moment. Only a few bystanders, and none anywhere near close enough to hear what was sure to come. She paused, even as the footsteps continued on behind her, something about their rapidly closing on her striking her odd. Despite this, the warrior kept her relaxed pose to the last possible moment, letting all the tension and rage well up within her into a single, solid mass, poised to fire in a single devastating volley.

The moment came, Xena spinning and arms coming up, her expression twisting to one pure hate and lips drawn back, ready to unleash it all in a snarl befitting the most enraged and ravenous predator…only for her arms to fall back to her sides…and her face unclench into a look of utter disbelief…all occurring beyond her ability to force them otherwise…

No assassin stood behind her, nor any mechanism of death waiting to greet her…unless one counted the soulful, intelligent eyes of an adult Irish Wolfhound as lethal weapons.

The dog had itself paused in its approach of her when she'd spun in confrontation, resuming its casual toddling over to her and sticking its long muzzle at her hand, still clenched as it was a tight fist. A few seconds of sniffing the limb, followed by a few more of licking the hand in gesture of blatant affection, the Wolfhound backed up a step and promptly launched itself upwards at her, hooking its forepaws over her shoulders and all but shoving its large muzzle at her face. Xena was promptly treated to a close examination by the Wolfhound's tongue, which painted her face and neck with great enthusiasm.

Xena, however, was quick to regain her balance, both spatially and mentally. "Okay, okay. Down, you. I said down!" The Wolfhound did as bade, sitting back on its haunches and cocking its massive head to one side, giving the warrior the equivalent of big doggie grin. Xena gave the animal a suspicious look and asked "Have you been following me for the past two miles?"

An enthusiastic bark was her answer, followed by an even wider grin.

Xena simply shook her head. "I must be getting old," she muttered as she knelt before the dog. "So what're you doing out here, all on your lonesome? Hmm?" Reaching out, slowly and carefully so not to startle the large animal, Xena stroked the dog's chin and around its neck. She quickly found its collar, slightly relieved to feel the tags which indicating this miniature elephant was not in fact a stray. Repositioning herself to get a better look at the tags, Xena as stymied by the Wolfhound deciding to nuzzle her face some more, sticking its large nose under her chin and nearly knocking Xena completely over.

"Cool it, you," she growled, managing to keep her balance but loosing her grip on the tags. Trying again, only to have the Wolfhound repeated the process, dislodging her from her search once again and this time actually knocking her flat.

"Y'know," Xena growled, pushing herself upright and standing. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to keep me from finding out stuff here." The dog simply continued looking at her, eyes sparkling with the canine equivalent of delight. "Nothing to say for yourself, huh? Okay, I'm gonna try one more time, so don't even think about getting in my way here, got it? I'm not in the mood." The Wolfhound kept a close eye on her as she knelt down and reached for the tags once more.

Her fingertips only just brushed against the dogtags when a whisper of a wistle sang out across the field. The Wolfhound's ears immediately perked up, head cocking towards the sound. The whistle sounded out again and, before Xena even realized she'd heard it, the dog knocked her flat as it took off across the field. The warrior landed without much dignity on her rump, snarling as she did, though there was laughter there as well.

"Oh, verrrry funny, you…" She stood and brushed herself down, looking for which way the dog had run. Oddly, there was no sign of it, anywhere. Were it not for her face still being damp from gods knew how many doggy kisses, she might have thought the dog was nothing more than a mirage.

Something about the entire episode left her unsettled. Questions without answers rose in her mind. Why would the dog choose to follow her of all people? Why wouldn't it let her look at its tags? Did it get separated from its owners? Would it bite small children? Who in their right mind even owns a Wolfhound in the city these days? The breed was entirely too large for city life as it was, Wolfhounds needing lots of open space to roam around in to stay healthy.

Shaking her head free of such pointless meanderings, Xena set back off the way she'd come. If she were lucky, she'd make it back to the hotel before Rickie, and be spared another of her baachae's stinging tirades.

Sighing, mentally bracing herself for the inevitable confrontation, Xena stuck her hands back into pockets and walked away, the splendor of the grass and sky overhead going unnoticed.

Morgan the Wolfhound happily bound back into the waiting arms of her mistress, careful not to knock the smaller woman over and eagerly painter her dark face with enthusiastic kisses. "Were you a good girl there, love?" she was asked, Morgan barking happily and squirming deep into the arms hugging her.

The dog came of a long and noble line of her breed, one long associated with noble houses since her ancestor had been moved from Scotland to London in the late 1880s by a distant cousin to the Queen and her secretary. Generations of careful breeding had not diminished the intelligence or energy of the line any, as exemplified by her cheerful barking answers to each question her mistress posed. Morgan liked talking with her mistress, though she preferred the games the little mistress played with her and her pups back in the countryside. The city was so very confining for her energetic nature, even with the little mistress nearby.

This noisy frenzy of canine affection was all but ignored by Enzo Del Turo, who stood nearby and kept the retreating form of the warrior in sight through the telescopic lens of his camera. He'd snapped off a few pictures of the dog tormenting the warrior, knowing that his niece would enjoy the sight. Without so much as a glance at the dog and its mistress, he began walking down Park Lane, pacing himself so the warrior would reach Kensington first.

Behind him, Morgan had toddled off with her mistress, amiably looking for more victims to have scratch her nose or ears.

By the time he'd reached his usual spot, having dismantled the camera en-route and stashed the pieces away into various pockets, Enzo was immediately treated to yet another heart-stopping sight as he took up position. He'd stood there for no more than half-minute when Xena Amphioulis came charging back out the front door, clutching a slip of paper and waving like a madwoman into the eastbound traffic. He read her body language as clearly as ever; this was a woman hovering on the edge of hysteria.

Her efforts were quickly rewarded, several taxis nearly colliding in an effort to pick her up. She was soon safely ensconced in the taxi fortunate enough to reach her, the hearselike vehicle speeding away down Kensington and out of sight.

Enzo watched all this from a distance, feeling ill and dizzy from the sight, his stomach rebelling against the thought of more chasing about to seemingly no purpose. By some nod of the Fates, the paper she'd been clutching like a life-line had somehow slipped her grasp as she'd been waving for the taxis, the wind and currents generated by passing cars carrying it to land directly at his feet. More out of perverse curiosity than any real interest (it had been a very long week, and he'd long lost track of why he was engaged in this exercise), Enzo bent down and unfolded that paper.

After staring at it for a moment or two, he fished out his cell phone and hit the autodial. "Its Enzo. Is…?" He listened, brow crinkling in concern. "Well where the hell is he? Look, leave him a message. Tell him our favorite ladies have gone off to Essex. I'm catching the next train out of Liverpool Station, whether he likes it not!" He stabbed the 'power' button and moved to the curb to hail his own taxi, unconsciously stowing the note into his pocket.

The neat, handwritten note which had said:

He was long gone when, barely half an hour later, a familiar limousine came to a halt before the South Hyde Hotel, its sole, blonde haired passenger disembarking and quickly entering the hotel.

The chime of an answering machine.

"Hullo? Xena? You there yet? Its Gwen. Lissen, I'm caught up here on the freeway with a flat. I'll be at the house by this evening. Love to Rickie. Cheers."

Click.

Afternoon.(Rickie)

It had been commented, on more than one occasion and by more than one observer, how there were few things more ravenous and insatiable as Rickie's appetite for food. Ironically, this short list consisted solely of black holes in deep space, Rickie's appetite for certain activities generally confined to the bedroom (though more often than not undertaken on any reasonably flat surface whenever the opportunity presented itself), and her intense curiosity of the world at large. It was the latter which was now in full force, carrying the young woman from the Marble Arch at the busy corner of Bayswater and Oxford Street along to the automotive chaos of Oxford Circus.

Her hunger was temporarily forgotten as she merged with the cosmopolitan crowds of London. The sight of dusky-skinned Indians, the men with their colored turbans and the women in their saris, side-by-side with heavily robed Muslim women pushing strollers left her momentarily disorientated, awash once more in sights of another life. The blaring music from the Blaster of a nearby trio of spiky-haired punks shook her out of it before clear pictures could form or be recalled. There were the requisite Oriental tourists ambling about, their cameras out of their bags and at the ready, and the famous double-decker buses contributing to the gridlock in both directions. It all left her wishing she'd had the foresight to have snagged one of the disposables they'd brought with them before running off.

Rickie was not so preoccupied with the mix of faces and clothes and colors that she forgot her promises to Xena. While she'd been resolute to limit her wandering to the park, the mix of colors and people just beyond its borders beckoned something deep within. She'd not been entirely absent-minded about, and true to her word she looked both ways, several times, before crossing a single intersection, always hurrying across and reaching the other side in under five strides. A feat, given her short stature. She thought it unlikely, if not impossible, that anyone could track her in these crowds. She’d also taken the basic precautions against pick-pockets, secreting her Passport, cheques, and wallet into pockets in her leather jacket, each zipped or closed tight. The late summer day was warm, but overcast and windy enough that the heavy jacket didn’t prove too much.

Still, Rickie was glad she’d chosen to forgo a shirt or the like underneath, wearing only a close-fitting tank-top of dark green that made nice with both her hair and the jacket. She still clutched the pub sign, though her eyes roamed everywhere and over everything, trying to cache every nuance and detail in sight and wishing all the while she'd thought to bring a camera.

From a distance she looked like the stereotypical innocent abroad, with her bright and darting eyes and slow gait. Closer up, with her Dockers, well-worn jeans, and natural confidence in her stride she was every inch the modern nomad, merging easily with the crowds moving to and fro along Regency. By rights, she was all but invisible among the masses.

Which made the fact no less than three pairs of eyes were on her at any given time during her trek towards Piccadily all the more remarkable. That each were completely unaware of the others was the sort of cosmic irony only the gods might find humor in.

Unknowing as she was, Rickie continued along towards Piccadilly. No doubt she would have found it hilarious that even as she contemplated wasting money on a blatantly over-priced disposable Kodak from street vendor, a curly-haired youngster across the street was snapping pictures off of her every ten feet or so with a state-of-the-art Nokoia. He wasn't so conspicuous about it that he drew attention by this; between the camera bag slung on his shoulder and the way he seemed to take a shot at everything that moved, he might as well have been just another photography enthusiast historical cities like London often find themselves awash with.

Admittedly few, if any, such enthusiasts would find a wandering Yank tourist even remotely interesting enough to snap off two shots of, never mind no less than thirty-nine in half as many minutes. But then, even fewer would have the circular tattoo of the Watcher Society on the inside of their left wrist.

The youngster knew he was technically in violation of a recent edict, handed down from on high, concerning a certain Greek immortal. "No Watcher is to undertake any surveillance, direct or indirect, of Xena Amphipoulis or to make any move to approaching her or those near her." It was a rather frustrating restriction to be put under, made all the moreso given the stories circulating about how she’d nearly killed two Watchers while in Germany last year. Frustrating, because it was so damn practical and absolutely couldn’t be argued with. He’d recognized Rickie almost immediately, and was careful to follow her only indirectly, watching for the least sign of her lover. If he was lucky, he’d manage to get a shot of Xena Amphipoulis herself before having to hop it.

That his already elevated frustration literally skyrocketed was perfectly understandable when the girl all but disappeared from sight several minutes later. He'd looked about, keeping a careful eye out for her, only to come away empty handed. Developments like this were less than welcome, and he was not looking at all forward to the phone call he'd have to make now.

A second pair of eyes belonged to a young woman, rather close to Rickie's own age, her mousy hair pulled back into a severe ponytail and face scrubbed clean of any make-up. She was dressed casually and her arms filled with shopping bags from her afternoon's excursion. Her name was Alicia Dunbarr, an employee at one of the underground clubs in Soho, and had quickly convinced herself she could not have just seen one of her employers wandering along Regents Street dressed like a complete commoner. Her interest consequently was cursory at best, and she hurried on her way, occasionally looking back for the any glimpse that might confirm this certainty of her's, each time without success.

The third set of eyes widened in a combination of surprise and momentary panic. The face behind them was a distinguished one, if a tad darting and arrogant in expression, with a thin mane of dark hair swept back from his straight forehead which made his whole face seemed sharper and narrower. The man had just exited his offices, having collected some paperwork he'd left behind, and was attempting to hail a taxi when he'd caught sight of Rickie ambling past on the opposite side of the street.

Panic gripped him for the whole of perhaps a minute, shaking him ever so slightly as he scanned the crowds for any sign of a taller figure with raven hair and piercing blue eyes. Seeing none, his lips pressed into a thin line of anger, equally with himself as with his nominal allies. If there was one thing Alexander Devon, Solicitor and conspirator par excellence, prided himself on, it was his unflappable nature. He prided himself equally on his ability to out-maneuver his opponents, knowing them and their movements well enough to beat them to any punch…and damned if he'd be caught off-guard by these two!

His fury sufficiently stoked, Devon turned and stalked back up to his offices, mentally composing diatribes that would shake even the Devil's confidence, never mind those of a cheap hood the likes of Matthew Price.

Rickie, as already noted, was completely innocent to the flurry of activity her presence caused, busy as she was absorbing all she could of the sights and noises of London. One sound in particular seemed to stand out: the constant beeping of car horns. To Rickie’s mind, it was almost poetic justice: the Brits gave the Americas language and culture, and in return got McDonalds (she’d passed five so far) and gridlock. Perfect justice as far as she was concerned.

Not surprisingly, the beeping actually seemed to get worse as she approached Piccadilly Circus, as did the sheer number of cars and trucks. Noisy and irritating as it was, she was nevertheless brought up short from the corner of the Circus by a particularly persistent horn blaring at her back. Uncertain whether she was simply letting the excitement and sounds get to her, Rickie turned around, fully expecting to see some truck (What did they call them over here? Lorries?) trying to bully its way past a few undersized Vee-Double-Yous.

She certainly wasn't expecting a sharp-looking limousine shadowing her, its horn sounding off at rapid intervals and its driver clearly waving towards her. She didn't recognize either, and was preparing to take her chances trying to sprint across Piccadilly Street when a vaguely familiar voice stopped her. "Miss Gardiner?"

Rickie somewhat reluctantly turned back, surprised to see Manfred Emanuel Armistead's dark face staring at her out of the limo's window. His expressive eyes caught her full on, all but begging her to spare him a minute. She considered refusing, the sudden urge to see and hold her warrior gripping her once more, but only for a moment. Feeling bold, she stood her ground and waited to see what he would do next.

The limo coasted to halt nearby, so Armistead could speak without having to shout, or so the driver evidentially presumed. Car horns galore registered their own drivers protests at having to swerve around the idling car, forcing the banker to raise his voice anyway. He came straight to the point, declaring "I have some information for you and your Miss Amphipoulis."

"Yeah?" she called back, not willing to make it easy for him.

"Concerning your, or rather her lost property."

Rickie was moving before she fully realized it, eyes blinking in near disbelief of what her ears had heard, climbing into the limo and letting herself be sped off without a word of protest. She had eyes for Armistead alone, who met her hard stare head on. He was wearing a suit of dark blue, with a gray shirt and immaculately knotted necktie of black silk, and so seemed to partially disappear into the dark leathered interior. The reality of her situation quickly dawned on her, and Rickie soon was mentally kicking herself for letting herself be so easily led into what could only be a trap. She was amazed at how calm her voice was as she growled "I hope you realize that if anything, anything should happen to me, Xena will hunt you down like a dog."

Armistead seemed completely nonplussed. He even grinned a little, flashing his bright teeth and saying "I expect as much, Miss Gardener. But you may rest assured I have no such intentions towards you or your Miss Amphipoulis." Rickie, in defiance of all reason, found herself reassured by this. Wasn't that what the bad guys always said, right before they had their cronies put a bullet in your brain?

She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting the driver to be leaning around with a gun. All that met her was a partition of dark glass, her reflection giving her a look somewhere between was.resignation and mild panic.

Rickie looked back to Armistead, hoping she'd managed to school her expression one back to calm indifference. At least her voice came out calm as she asked "So where are we going, anyway?"

"My club along the Embankment. I thought we should have a bit of privacy in our discussions. The food is not all that bad either." Rickie's stomach made its agreement with the sentiment known, quite loudly. Armistead flashed another quick grin before turning to a number of well-stuffed flimsies on the seat beside him. Rickie herself settled back and tried to relax, occupying her mind with trying to recall just where the Embankment was according to the maps she'd glanced at. Wasn't it a garden or something near the Thames?

She was still trying to puzzle this out when the limo came to a stop only minutes later. Armistead exited first and gallantly held the door open for her, earning a polite "Thank you" for the effort. Rickie took a few seconds to examine their surroundings. To their right, facing the mighty Thames was the expanse of flat green composing of the Victoria Embankment Gardens, while to the left was a row of stately looking mansions and townhouses. Armistead directed her towards one of the oldest-looking buildings, a three-story Victorian mansion surrounded by a wrought-iron fence with low gate. Not knowing what else to do, Rickie followed in his wake, again oddly comforted by his presence.

The doorman, the archtypical scarecrow of a man clad in last centuries' finery, greeted them without cracking his sour non-expression in the least. If he was coureous to Armistead, he was downright icy towards Rickie, whether because of her less-than-formal dress, her gender, or just because she'd deemed to disturb his little world was impossible to tell. "May I take your jacket, miss?" the doorman asked, manners impeccable.

"No, you may not." Armistead replied as he moved past, Rickie smartly tailing behind, though she couldn't keep from jumping at the door shutting behind them with a resounding THUD.

Outside, further down Savoy Street, Jonothan O'Donhugh watched the door close. His eyes blazed, though this didn't reach the rest of his carefully schooled non-expression. He waited only a moment more, satisfied neither were exiting the building, then turned on his heel and stalked off.

Rickie sat in the ornate dinning room, pretending to study the menu set before her and trying hard not to look all around like the rank tourist she looked like. Armistead did likewise, giving the occasional withering glare to any of the staff or their fellow diners he caught giving the merest hint of disapproval towards them. This happened far more often than either realized, though Rickie was too engrossed in finding something on the menu that she could simply pronounce, never mind possibly stomach, while Armistead silently debated which vintage of Masquel to order.

The Marlow Club wasn’t among the oldest or most exclusive in London. Founded amid the ruins of postwar London in 1946, the club was initially little more than a watering hole (in the most ironic sense of the phrase, the basement constantly flooding with foul water and gods knew what else from sewer overflows) for officers and senior enlisted in the Royal Army. Its patrons slowly rebuilt first the building, then built its reputation through its offerings of the finest liquors the black market could procure. Titled families, their fortunes lost to the Blitz other depravations of the war, soon found their way through its doors, giving the place much-sought respectability. By the late ‘70s, on the eve of Thatcher’s reign, the Club’s membership contained many of the cream of the city’s financial and commercial crop, with all the attendant snobbery such personalities bring with them.

The sort who took a poor view of intruders treading as freely within their hallowed halls as Rickie was right then.

For her part, Rickie eventually settled on a steak sandwich, the promise of well spiced chips clinching the deal it as much as Armistead's suggestion, while her host ordered some pasta dish with a tongue-twister of a name. She forewent the offer of a fine (and rare) vintage of Merlot and ordered ginger ale, much to the masked horror of the waiter. Armistead smirked at this, and settled back to wait of their food.

The order came quickly enough, Rickie restraining herself rather admirable during the wait…and not leaping over the table and choking the answers she wanted out of her host. Armistead seemed to sense this, apparently more amused than anything despite his not saying a word. Rickie took a bite of her sandwich, while Armistead expertly twirled his sauce-covered noodles with folk and spoon, the former's eyes not leaving the latter for an instant.

Another bite and more noodles later, Armistead took a long sip of his wine and with great politeness said "Why don't you simply ask me what it is that is on your mind, Miss Gardener."

Rickie, who was fighting a pitched battle with herself against actually liking this individual, gave him a glaring look and said "Okay. You said you had information about the Chakrum. Let's have it." It wasn't a question, and she'd put as much of an edge to her voice as she could manage.

Armistead gave a nod to himself, looking momentarily into the distance, as though debating his next words. He said "I’ve come across a rather interesting fact concerning the artifact." At Rickie’s unimpressed silence, he continued. "It seems a number of licenses and certificates were prepared the day following the auction for an object fitting the description of the Chakrum to a "T", with each piece of paper naming one Xena G. Amphipoulis as the item’s owner." Armistead leaned forward slightly, not terribly intimidating but not all that friendly either. "You can understand how such things might pique one's…interest?"

"And that of the police?" Rickie said, matching his pseudo-glare and tone perfectly.

Armistead's grin was infuriating as his reply. "Only if one felt it proved necessary to bring them into it, I'm sure."

"Oh, of course, only if one felt so." Rickie heard the unfamiliar sharpness to her voice now, one that reminded her uncomfortably of her so-called mother whenever her 'nasty bitch' persona would rear its ugly head. She would take the same tone with Rickie or the senior Gardner whenever either of them would dare contradict her on the smallest item, be it three cents missing from her change purse to whether rain was coming or not.

The arrival of the waiter, who'd come over ostensibly to refill their water glasses, in reality prompted to do so by the quiet complaints of several of the restaurant's other patrons, led to a cease-fire between them. Verbal hostilities ceased by mutual though unspoken agreement and the combatants returning to their respective meals. The silence between them continued, even when the waiter was long gone and the rest of the patrons found new subjects to interest them.

Rickie quickly finished her sandwich but lingered over the thick-cut wedges of fried potatoes, enjoying the flavor and idly wondering how they got to be called 'chips'. This was hardly the only thought running through her mind at that moment, of course, several of them bumping into each other and making quite a bit of racket up there; not that she was about to let her nominal host get any hint of her mental discomfort.

Armistead was evidentially as uncomfortable with letting the silence stretch too long between them. He quickly downed the remainder of his pasta and cleared his throat. Rickie answered with an upraised pair of eyebrows and a look of boredom. She had no idea why Armistead, who out-massed her by a good two hundred pounds, none of it idle bulk either, suddenly seemed so uncomfortable, but damned if she was going to waste the opportunity.

In fact, Armistead was anything but discomforted, at least in any way that involved the small blonde across from him. This move had been wholly spontaneous, as opposed to the carefully planned sort he preferred. News had come to him of the girl's accident in Bayswater three days ago, but entirely by second-hand and without so much as a whisper from his siblings. Even the normally voluble Marie, his co-conspirator in surprising their unflappable elder sibling, heard only the most passing rumor of it.

Then came news that it had been no accident, and still he was kept in the dark by those who should have known better. It prompted him to take action the instant he'd seen the girl wandering the streets like a bloody tourist, getting her off the street and away from the crowds. He really didn't have any idea what he could say of offer that might keep the girl close by and out of immediate danger. He was not a man who flustered easily, and so wasn't well practiced in improvisation, uncomfortable when forced to do so. He knew it showed, which only flustered him more.

Whatever he might have attempted was rendered moot by the arrival of a third voice, one he knew and disliked on every conceivable level, professional to personal. "Forgive me, Emmanuel, but may I join you for a moment?" Armistead pursed his lips and nodded, unable to think of a decent reason against it. Alexander Devon slipped into the chair placed for him by their ever-attentive waiter, his suit and tie as immaculate as ever and a thin smile on his lips. Armistead refused to dignify his presence by so much as meeting his eyes, never mind acknowledge him in greeting.

Devon turned this smile upon Rickie after a moment, not so politely raking his pale gray eyes over her and purring "And you are…?"

"Miss Gardner, of the United States." Armistead rumbled in a low tone, the sort reminding one of an earthquake or the moments before an volcano's eruption.

Eyes still on Rickie, Devon murmured "Please forgive the intrusion, Miss-Gardner-of-the-United-States. I'm afraid I have some urgent business with Emmanuel here." He turned over to Armistead, who's eyes were still fixed upon his empty plate. "Very urgent business," he added for emphasis, his intensity deflating slightly when met with Armistead's own dark eyes, now dangerous and direct.

"So important it cannot wait until tomorrow?" The blistering tone within the question was enough to peel flesh from bone, though Devon stood his ground, albeit poorly.

"Would I bother you with trifles?" the solicitor asked, a hurt look covering his moment of panic.

"Yes, you would." Armistead took mercy on his long time irritation and looked back to Rickie. "Do forgive this, Miss Gardner. I feel I should hear what Mr. Devon here has to say. My driver will see you back to your hotel."

Rickie however refused to be dismissed so easily. "About the matter we were discussing, Mr. Armistead…?" An upraised hand stopped her.

"I and Ms. de Anan are satisfied on that score. You will hear no more of it from ourselves or the gallery." This, needless to say, left Rickie rather confused and uncertain. She didn't really want to leave things this way, not when there were still umpteen number of questions to be answered. Problem was, she couldn't think of a single one that sounded even halfway coherent, and she really didn't like the vibes that were being exchanged between these two. Never mind the fact she was several hours overdue back at the hotel, part of her cringing at the thought of what Xena must have been going through throughout the morning. This was balanced by a sense of mildly twisted satisfaction that at least now her warrior was getting a taste of the same terror she had been put through a few days back.

The look Armistead flashed her way, judiciously sent when Mister 'Smarmy' Devon was busy fiddling with his briefcase, convinced her some conversations were better saved for another day. A sentiment she couldn't really argue. She quickly rose and snagged her jacket from the back of the chair where she'd draped it; she'd done it as much for the shock value as for practicality, her green tank-top showing off her abs quite nicely, thank you very much. She was hardly opposed to adding some color to the place or generating a bit of extra conversation, and if it unsettled the delicate nerves of the locals, well, that suited her just fine, too.

She gave her host a final look, one clearly saying "This ain’t over!", before turning on her booted heel and marching away, head high and back straight.

She knew Armistead’s eyes were not the only ones on her as she left.

True to his word, Armistead’s limo was waiting for her at the entrance. The doorman, stiff and formal as ever, was clearly relieved by her departure even as his eyebrows raised a hair as she climbed back into the luxury car as casually is if she owned it. Rickie didn’t look back, save when she caught a bit of movement out of the corner of her eye as they pulled away. There was figure watching from across the small park opposite the club, solitary and still. Rickie squinted hard, trying to discern any details of him (she was sure of the gender if nothing else), seeing only dark hair and gray clothes. They were too far away for her to see more, even though she was sure there was more.

Then, he was gone, as if dispelled with just the blinking of her eye. Rickie felt a bit unsettled by this and sank back into the padded leather of the seat, its soft warmth not fully reaching her bones. She shuddered as an unexpected chill hit her, then relaxed as they merged with the anonymous traffic of the street.

The ride took a bit, thanks to jaywalkers and a few accidents that had slowed traffic around the familiar sight of the Marble Arch and further along Bayswater Street. The driver handled these obstacles with practiced ease, maneuvering the large car smoothly and bringing her to Kensington without a scratch.. Rickie thanked him as she got out, which he acknowledged with a short tilt of his capped head, watching through the rearview mirror.

Rickie waited a few beats after exiting, the hairs on her neck raising nervously. Checking her watch, which read barely quarter after three, she covertly looked this way and that for anything or anyone out of the ordinary. This quickly proved a fruitless task as everything looked odd and out of place to her, the cosmopolitan streets of Portland positively monochromatic compared to those of London.

Realizing how exposed she was just standing there, and how desperately she needed to see Xena right then, Rickie hurried up the short flight of steps and into the hotel. She gave the desk manager, a serious-looking young woman with her sandy hair in a bun, a polite if distracted nod as she quickly headed to the elevators, and so completely missed the odd look the woman gave her. Her predecessor’s shift had only just ended, doing so with his shaking account of giving their VIP guest (the one, he’d emphasized, who’d nearly torn suite 3B apart with her bare hands) a telephoned message from one ‘Miss Rickie Gardner’ that had sent the woman into yet another fit of screaming and tearing all about.

Rickie knew nothing of these things, of course, and so was more than a little disappointed at finding their room completely empty and perfectly prepared. She’d expected Xena to do at least a little damage to the place. Even their suitcases were neatly arranged as ever, and all evidence of their forty-eight hour hedonistic binge had been cleared completely away.

Settling on the bed, she thought for a moment about calling the front desk to see if Xena left a message, then decided against it, knowing too well Xena likely simply went tearing off into the streets without the least thought. She wasn’t sure whether to annoyed or simply irritated with such behavior, knowing equally well it stemmed from her love’s desire to protect her from all bad things in the world. It, quite frankly, drove her completely and utterly nuts, more on the principle of the thing than because she necessarily resented the thought behind it.

Then again…

Propping herself back onto the pillows, Rickie brandished the remote for the TV and searched for something to help her pass the time until Xena's return. Nothing save the regular BBC fare, which did not help her temper in the least.

"Xena," she said to the empty room. "If you end up in another damn dungeon, I swear I'm going to kill you myself!"

Xena prowled through Liverpool rail station as caged panther might, shoulders hunched and head tossed from side to side. There was a wildness in her eyes, barely restrained, that lent further to the aura of danger swirling about her. She’d been there for the better part of afternoon, stalking between eateries and stores and trying desperately to rid herself of the sick feeling in her gut she was being led astray. 

She’d been unable to catch the 4 o’clock local to Harwich, which would have delivered her within walking distance of their house outside of Colchester. This had left her with either waiting until the 7:30 regular was ready to leave, or taking an indirect route that would had given her the scenic tour of Oxford, then Birmingham, then left her somewhere in at least the vicinity of the town sometime after midnight. Despite the wait, Xena decided a direct line was preferable to spending hours on end as a prisoner of Britrail.

Xena was certain her reasoning was sound as to Rickie's location. Granted the note had not specified the Essex house, and she had properties in Scotland and that small fishing cabin just off the Irish coast that could have qualified as a 'country house'. She could not however recall ever mentioning them to Rickie, who’d shown on the most minimal interest in learning about her many, many resources. Even when Xena had told her she’d just become her sole beneficiary of her will, Rickie had given her a very steady look and a blistering warning: "Just make sure it doesn’t come to that, got it?" They hadn’t spoken about such matters since.

And so she was left to wander all about the causeways of the station and fight the knot of anxiety that was constantly tightening in her stomach. There was no way she could stand to sit still long enough to eat, drink or read a blessed thing. The mere thought of food made the stomach knot tighten dangerously, and she was sure any words she could try to read would twist themselves around and echo the one's Jeanne constantly whispered to her, night after night.

Jeanne was soon joined in this refrain by a girl's voice, one she'd forever love and come to dread over the centuries, bringing with it all the shame of her greatest sin.

It was all she could do not to throw up right there, in full view of several of London's finest. She managed to slow her heaving breath and walk with a semi-calm façade to the nearest WC, suddenly needing to visit the toilet rather badly.

The façade nearly cracked several times, the merest hint of blonde hair anywhere in sight, whether topping a male or female head, leaving her nauseous. The smallest hint of a familiar accent would be like the half-inch bit of an electric drill being driven into his ear-drum, the pain of it equaling the pounding headache her heartbeat was shaking her with.

Xena half-dashed, half-stumbled to the nearest empty stall and bent over it, though her only offering to the porcelain altar were harsh tears her tension left her awash with. She added dry, painful heaves for good measure, though these didn't last nearly as long as the tears. It hurt too much to move, while staying still proved almost unbearable.

She compromised with rocking back and forth in the stall for awhile, struggling to keep mental traction against the fears bubbling beneath her thoughts.

Some two hours later, first boarding was called for the 7:30 local to Harwich. Xena was the first one aboard, her impatience completely hidden behind an inflexible mask of calm.

Dial tone.

Tone.

Tone.

Tone.

"I don't…"

"Gardner isn't in Essex, Enzo. She's still here."

Silence.

Disbelief. "But…there was a note…oh, gods…"

"I doubt heavily they have anything to do with it."

"Oh…gods!"

"Don't beat yourself up too much, little brother. I'd have believed it myself."

"So why don't you?"

"Because I just saw Manfred take her to lunch."

Silence.

"Shouldn't I…"

"Absolutely not. The bard is the key here."

"You could've just told me this. Saved me a few headaches."

"Where's the fun that, eh?" Voices in the background. Dog barking. "Janie's back. Meet me at the Fat Pig in two hours."

Connection cut.

Evening/Night.(Rickie)

Rickie growled and turned off the TV, seriously considering for a moment the urge to simply throw the remote at the idiot box, the only retribution she could think of for its crime of showing only the cardboard entertainment the BBC broadcast. This was in defiance of her edict she be entertained while awaiting the return of her errant warrior, and so this rebellious servant of her's deserved not the least pity or mercy.

Instead of enacting such terrible vengeance upon the hapless box of glass and wires, she flopped unto her back and blew an noisy exhale through her mouth. The ceiling proved no more entertaining than the rerun of "Eastenders" she'd just switched off, so she was soon back on her feet and began pacing. The room wasn't that large to begin with, which made her circuits rather tight and all the more tense.

If anything, this actually fed the nervous energy stretching her calf and hip muscles taunt, giving a spring to her steps which were anything but jovial. "Damn it, Xena!" she heard herself mutter, over and over. "Damn it, woman, where are you? So help me, if you landed in jail somewhere…or a dungeon…grrr…I swear…when you get back, I'm gonna hogtie to the bed…see if you can heal having your legs broken with a lead pipe…goddamn warrior…always running off…"

And so on and so forth, another curse accompanying each change in direction. Her conscience would occasionally prick at her for some of the more vehement curses, pointing out it had been her who had snuck out first, thereby effectively exonerating Xena of being completely in the wrong here. Rickie, ever the judicious tyrant when it came to such annoying facts, declared the facts irrelevant and the evidence as inadmissible and continued on with her cursing without so much as a pause for breath.

A thought occurred to her at one point; surely Xena couldn't have been so irresponsible as to go running off without leaving a note as to where she was planning on looking, could she? Ignoring that same prickly conscience that muttered something about "the pot calling the kettle black", Rickie picked up the courtesy phone and hit "0" for the front desk.

The polite tones that answered were akin to a half-inch drill bit being shoved into her ear. "South Hyde Hotel, front desk. How may I direct your call."

"This is Rickie Gardner in room 3B…"

"Yes, Miss Gardner?"

"Did Xena leave any messages when she left this morning?"

"Who, ma'am?"

Rickie closed her eyes and willed her voice to remain calm. "Xena G. Amphipoulis. The room's other occupant. The one who's name is on the registry." She was amazed how calm her words were, considering she was screaming incoherently in her mind.

"I'll check. Just a moment, please." With that, Rickie was treated to a minute of muzak, which had all the soothing qualities of broken glass writing on a chalkboard. She endured all this without complaint and with great equanimity.

This didn't slip in the slightest when the manager came back. "Miss Gardner? I'm sorry, but there's been no message from Miss Amphipoulis since she received…"

"Thanks." Rickie all but slammed the receiver back unto its cradle and began recounting every combination of four letter expletives and descriptives she could think of, each applied to a certain dark-haired Immortal who was conspicuous in her absence. Rickie's perspicacity, volumous and colorful as it was, was eventually exhausted, which left the young woman with a mildly sore throat and a bellyful of tense energy. Said belly registered its discomfort by growling and churning a little. Even incised as she was, growing moreso with each passing minute without her warrior, Rickie wasn't so absent as to ignore her body's needs. It was just past six, which meant it was nearly dinner time. Or was that "tea time" around here?

Rickie recalled seeing a few old fashioned pubs along this block. The memorable end of Wednesday’s dinner that afternoon’s lunch notwithstanding, she’d had precious little experience with real British food. Granted everything she'd heard and read reported pub food was about as bland and unimaginative as a McDonald’s Value Meal, but darned if she wouldn’t at least see the inside of a real English pub before they flew out.

If nothing else, it might help make sense of the pseudo-dreams she tended to have after writing a lengthy piece of prose, one’s where she found herself standing or sitting a table in the middle of a rustic inn and babbling away in what must have been Greek, her audience positively rapt in attention…not understanding word one of what she was supposed to be saying. It was unnerving in the extreme; not simply being at the center of such attention, but having it feel so right when her every street-sharpened instinct practically screamed for her to run and hide.

Maybe, she reflected as she retrieved her leather jacket from the floor, that it was just a case of her transferring a natural sense of inferiority and insecurity where Xena was concerned. Was the warrior responding to her when they made love, or to the memory of a certain lookalike bard who happened to be very dead? Was she seeing Gabrielle when she said "I love you"? Was she…

Rickie stopped herself there. "Man," she said aloud. "Last time I take a psych course before break." With this vow, she exited both the room and hotel in a controlled sprint, pausing only to hand off a quick note to the desk manager, the name Xena Amphipoulis clearly written on it. She again missed the young woman's semi-comical reaction to her presence, holding the folded slip of paper nearly at arm's length and looking at it as though it was about to explode.

Once on the sidewalk, Rickie looked both ways, several times. Not so much for the traffic, which she kept well away from, but to see what was nearby and what struck her fancy. The Royal Albert Hall was to her left, Piccadilly far to the right. The colorful mix of pedestrians had thickened as the evening darkened and the first streetlights lit up. This gave her a moment or two of concern, thinking of all the crazy spy movies she'd practically forced Xena to sit through, the ones where the assassins got their targets by sticking them with umbrella points filled with poison. There were a lot of umbrellas in display, the heavy clouds gathering overhead threatening rain.

Rickie went to the right, keeping close to the townhouses and mindful of the lengthening shadows. She'd walked only a single block when she came to the heavy wooden doors and stained glass windows of the quintessential pub, the sounds of drink and argument filtering out from within. Suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable, Rickie hastily pushed open the doors and entered, mindless of the crush of bodies suddenly exiting and the noise of "Arsenal" over "United".

She stood there, letting her eyes adjust quickly to the subdued lighting and babble within. There was a row of tight booths near the windows and along the walls of deep mahogany, with small round tables and straightbacked chairs dotting the rest of the floorspace. The ceiling seemed unusually low, giving the place a slightly claustrophobic feel despite the inviting glow of the lamps and ceiling lights, not to mention the occasional 'blip' and 'bloop' coming from the fruit game machine in the corner nearby.

There were remarkably few customers there, despite the early evening hour. The majority of the pubgoers had just departed, turned out and barred by the stern-faced woman behind the bar. Her grayed hair hanging free and hooked nose reminded Rickie of the few social workers she'd encountered after reaching Portland, sans the condescending kindness they'd treated her with.

The woman quickly spied her and waved her over. Rickie, not knowing what else to do, quickly walked over to the bar, trying hard to conceal her nervousness. The gray-haired woman barked the instant she was within earshot "Whatcha won'?"

Rickie, to her credit, didn’t flinch at the sharp tone (she would later learn the barkeeper, Maude Taylor by name and proprietor of the pub, was actually among the kindest and most decent of souls who simply had little tolerance for local Football supporters) and instead met the woman’s glare head on. "You got Miller Light here?"

The barkeeper smirked and looked her up and down. "Yank, huh?"

"Yup." Rickie gave her a sweet smile and batted her eyes innocently. "'An proud of it."

"Figured." She drew a half-pint of some dark, thick liquid that definitely was not a light brew. She held the glass back and gave Rickie another look. "You o' age, missy?"

"I'm legal. Wanna see my passport?" Truth be told, she didn't have the foggiest notion what the legal drinking age was in the U.K., and her twentieth birthday had been just six short months ago. Sure, the daunting physical routines Xena ran her through had added a fair bit of extra padding to her, but surely she didn't look that much older.

The barkeeper just shrugged and handed the glass over, quickly returning to her other business so she wouldn't break out laughing at the face Rickie made upon her first sip. The young blonde managed to swallow the half-mouthful of Albreicht Bitter with some effort, her taste buds in open revolt against the utterly alien flavor flooding them. She coughed several times once it was down and working its not-so-gentle magic on her stomach, blinking several times to clear away the tears the exertion brought on.

"Uh, ohhhh boy…" was all she could manage, bowing her head until her vision cleared. Looking back up, she found the barkeep eyeing her with undisguised amusement.

"Strong stuff, eh?" the older woman asked needlessly.

"Strong…stuff…" Rickie agreed, somewhat breathless, then perked up and asked "Hey? You do any kind of dinner here?"

Enzo was late in arriving at the appointed place, needlessly watching the warrior pace the length and breadth of Liverpool station for the better part of two hours before departing. He'd actually been more attentive of the many faces and figures in the background, watching for any sign the warrior was the subject of scrutiny beyond his own.

He departed well satisfied on that score, having counted no less than five sets of eyes observing her closely. Three had been strictly amorous, appraising the dark woman with the sort of glazed expression signaling fantasy having overlaid reality. He found it humorous himself, having gone through that phase himself at first seeing surveillance footage on her nearly a year ago. Pair of eyes number four was a plain clothes from the MPF, who was content enough just to watch her prowl. Doubtlessly the energetic Sargent Mallory had distributed the warrior’s description throughout the force, along with an "observe and report" directive. At least the lad was intelligent enough to have them keep their distance. Gods knew how deep the bodies would be piled before the end of this.

It was pair number five, which watched her without either amorous or professional intent and had been the hardest for him to spot, that led Enzo to breath a sigh of relief and allowed him to leave his covert post. He'd never set eyes on the man before, but knew instantly who he answered to. This certainty in turn freed him from worrying too much about the warrior's immediate safety, the opposition's childish plans in their need for subterfuge. They would watch and wait until she was out in the country before trying anything, when they were deep into the warrior's territory and the advantage was her's.

Still, a nagging doubt remained in the back of his thoughts, one encouraged by the warrior not having shown the slightest sign of noticing himself or any of the others who watched her with such singular focus. Even the trio of lechers, diverse as they were, didn't get so much as a rise out of her. This led to one of two conclusions: that either she was fully aware of all eyes upon her and was putting up an Oscar star-quality act of being unaware, or she was so distracted and wound-up nothing short of being shot in the head would get through to her.

For his own peace of mind, Enzo presumed it was the latter and made his exit from the station. He flagged down a taxi, giving the sky and worried glance as he walked. It was sure to storm soon, the air too heavy and breezy for anything else.

The taxi ride itself took a bit longer than he’d anticipated, thanks the archtypical Sunday drivers racing into or out of the city and the odd bicycle enthusiast. The Fat Pig was among the dozen-odd pubs scattered throughout the Knightsbridge area, just south of Hyde Park. Why his brother had chosen such a place to met was nearly beyond him, seeing as it was in the general vicinity of a certain hotel. To say nothing of the fact little Janie, militant health food advocate and ‘30s-sytle Prohibitionist, would never let him hear the end of it if she were to find out.

Upon arrival he handed the driver a twenty pound note, which barely covered the fare, and all but leapt out. The driver, a short man with a Cockney accent and curly hair, threw an ineffectual glare at his retreating back before driving off.

The Fat Pig was one of the more atmospheric pubs he knew of, with soft lighting and decent cooking. The proprietor wasn't the sort to tolerate the rows and fistfights Sunday footballers brought with them any more than she'd let high-class dope dealers ply their trade within the establishment's walls. Never mind they served some of the best stout east of the Irish Sea, which he supposed explained his elder sibling's choice.

Walking in, Enzo noted the sparse crowd with some small relief. The last thing he needed was for them to have to watch their backs or their voices, lest they be overhead. He spied his brother in one of the furthest booths over, one giving them a fairly unimpeded view of the rest of the pub. There were a couple empty booths further back, near the short hallway leading to the WCs, but he paid these little mind.

The look his brother affixed on him as he approached was more than enough to occupy his thoughts. Enzo calmly (if reluctantly) slid into the bench opposite him, not surprised to find a pint of light amber waiting for him. The pint of stout facing it was already half-drained, the foam coating its sides fighting gravity tooth and nail in its slow descent to the liquid below.

Enzo Del Turo was quite uninterested in such minute details, even as he stared holes into them sitting there, having his own battle against an implacable universal force to deal with.

Jonothan O'Donhugh was sitting back against the high back of the bench, the top button of his black shirt was undone and his eyes glittered. Despite the firm line his lips were pressed into, his entire form seemed utterly relaxed and at ease, a posture utterly at odds with the whipcord-tense energy his eldest brother normally emanated. It was as unnerving a sight as any Enzo could envision.

O'Donhugh took a sip of his stout before speaking, saying "I hope you didn't tip the driver too much."

Enzo managed a tired snicker to this, sipping his amber and letting his elder set the pace of conversation.

"I told you to stay put, not go running after the damn bard the instant she bolts." There was just the mildest hint of reproach in the older man's voice. "You have any idea how big a hole that put in our surveillance of Amphipoulis herself?"

"I'll wager not a terribly huge one, knowing you as I do."  Enzo bravely met O'Donhugh's gaze head on now. "In fact I caught at least three of your irregulars circling the damn park after I lost the bard, which means there must have been three times as many there. The bard and Amphipoulis were never out of your sight, were they?"

O'Donhugh gave a small shake of his head, frowning. "Doesn't matter. I specifically told you…"

"You are my brother, Jono, not my damn master. I made a judgment, end of story." Enzo sat back, fixing his brother with a direct glare speaking closure on the subject, only to be surprised by the latter breaking into a rare smile and tossing his hands upwards.

"At last!" O'Donhugh exclaimed quietly. "After twenty years, he finally gets it!"

Caught short, Enzo lean forward and hissed "Wait! You wanted me to follow her?"

"Not really, but I've been hoping you'd finally start bucking my judgment and act on your own." He sobered quickly, though the smile only cooled to an obvious grin. "I expect you and the rest to follow your own judgment, always. I may be the elder of this Clan, but it doesn't mean I'm bloody omniscient."

"Like Manfred does? Or Myriam? I hear he nearly lost us the Chakrum last year. And our baby sister…"

O'Donhugh stopped this recitation before it could go further. "Manny is always out to impress me. You know that. The same with Myriam. I keep them distant from this business because Manfred is practically ten percent of the northern hemisphere's economy all on his own, so I don't want him getting mixed up in shady dealings like ours. And Myriam is simply too young and impetuous, not to mention too prescient to keep still if some evil is in the air."

"Oh? And young Victoria isn't as young?"

"She's twenty, she's got contacts that are useful, and she knows artists enough to make cover at the gallery. So no, she isn't too young." O'Donhugh took another long sip of his bitter. "Myriam, by contrast, has all the social grace of a irate pygmy hedgehog. I'd rather not let her be put into a position where she can't cover herself quickly enough."

Enzo simply grunted and studied his amber, conceding all points to his elder. After a moment he said "I presume you wanted me here for reasons other than bitching me out, yes?"

"Indeed." O'Donhugh reached into his jacket and pulled out a postcard. "Turns out our friend was squatting in an apartment near the Embankment. I tossed it over this morning, and look what turned up." He handed the card across the table, Enzo's eyes widening in mild surprise, recognizing the image.

"Well…" Enzo spoke after a moment. "I knew he had exotic interests. But this…"

O'Donhugh snorted with derision. "Oh, please. Don't flatter him. He's too much a lightweight to try anything so strenuous." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Unlike some I could mention."

Enzo managed not to blush under the scrutiny. "Look who's talking. Still, I'm surprised a high-profile boyo like Michael Giovanni would risk his standing even keeping something like this."

"There's more."

"You're joking?"

"Damn fool listed out a number of clubs in Soho on a pad. I scratched it up off the sheet underneath."

"Christ, you'd think the don's would train their boy's better."

"Count our blessings, Enzo." O'Donhugh politely reminded him. "If he weren't such a bloody schmuck, we'd have to tear the whole east end apart to find him. At least we know where he'll be tonight."

"What, you don't think he'd show here, do you?" Enzo waved the card in disbelief. The establishment it had been produced for was among the highest-class in its field and of some international repute, though of far lower profile than its cousins The Castle and The Leather Garden in Germany and the States respectively. Like those fine venues, it catered to some of the most subversive tastes, though falling short of the truly perverse and twisted. It also enforced a strict code of dress and conduct among its patrons, neither of which were likely to sit well with the individual in question.

"Hardly. Its closed tonight. As are pretty much every other one on the list…except one."

"Oh?"

"The Velvet Chamber."

Silence reigned between them for several counts, utter disbelief on Enzo's part, patience on O'Donhugh's part. The Chamber was a popular venue as well, though one frequented more by the playfully curious as opposed to the serious and controlled. It was owned by someone both men knew, one of them quite intimately.

"Tell me you aren't thinking what I know you're thinking! Please tell me that!" Enzo's voice was nearly strangled, an further gasp escaped him at his brother's calm smile. "Oh, gods. I knew it, you're a bloody suicidal lunatic."

The older man laughed. "Oh, calm down."

"You bloody calm down, you fucking lunatic." His voice raised a pitch. "If you-know-who catches either of us there, she'll bloody cripple us with her bare hands…"

"I said calm down." The flat, utterly calm tone cut through the younger man's rising panic. "To begin with, 'you-know-who' would cripple only me, as I am the only who was barred from there. And second, 'you-know-who' is out of town, preparing for the new term."

"You realize once when we've made our little visit…"

"That is my concern." A snort was Enzo’s only response. "I can handle it."

"Riot. Just like your marriage to..." The air between them became tense as Enzo realized how far he’d just stepped over the line with such a comment. "Sorry," he muttered, studiously staring into his amber and wondering how long it would take his hair to burst into flames from his brother’s fiery glare.  

To his surprise, and further unease, O’Donhugh merely gave a tired chuckle to this. "Can’t a poor bugger make at least one mistake in his lifetime?"

Enzo blinked, then shook his head, continually surprised by his elder's shifting moods. "I'll never understand why you divorced her in the first place." He shook his head once more, quietly wondering if he would ever divine precisely how his eldest sibling's mind worked. "I don't like leaving Amphipoulis to run a fool's errand up to Essex. You know the Horton's rogues are sure to have people waiting for her."

"Maybe," O'Donhugh conceded. "But she won't be alone up there, will she?"

"You know something, don't you?" He resisted the urge to laugh, drowning it in a long drink of his beer.

"Quite a lot, actually. Including certain faux phone calls were placed to certain faux archaeologists."

It took Enzo a moment or two to catch up with this, the implications coming quickly and giving him a chuckle. "We're taking a risk here, Jono. The rest aren't going to like being kept out of the loop for so long."

"I prefer that risk to risking the warrior's neck tipping off the opposition if we were all involved. You know how heavy-handed Manfred can get."

"Nhh." Enzo swallowed the rest of his beer and asked "So what's our move, chum? Wait for Mikey-boy t'show his face at the Velvet?" A discrete buzzing emanated from O'Donhugh's coat. Reaching into it, he extracted a small pager, its florescent LCD display bathing his tight features in a cool green glow.

"He just did," O'Donhugh reported, returning the pager to its inner pocket and sliding out of the booth. "We'll take my car out back." Enzo offered no argument as he followed, but only because he concentrated so intently upon keeping his steps steady, and wishing equally intensely he that hadn't drunk his entire pint so quickly. Damn stuff was poison to his nerves.

As they made their exit, neither man noticed the small figure all but cowering in the booth directly behind theirs. Emerald eyes, wide as saucers, watched them them leave, ears still ringing. With her shinning blonde hair and suddenly pale skin, she stood out like a ghost in the booth's shadows, yet incredibly went unnoticed by those who had been discussing her with such intensity only minutes ago.

Rickie fought hard to keep her breathing quiet, wanting to gulp hard and loud, alternately terrified and enraged. It took her several minutes to get control over herself, by which time her own legs were as unsteady as her stomach, and she was very unsure how long she could keep what little of her kidney pie and chips she'd managed to eat down.

The food was forgotten, her thoughts going in competing directions and wiping away all other concerns. She stood on shaky legs and moved to the pay phone near the front doors. She pushed a few coins into it and dialed the hotel's number, only to receive a busy signal. Fighting her renewed shaking, Rickie pushed her way through the doors and half-stumbled back unto the street, bending over with hands on knees and taking deep breaths.

She stood again, taking a final deep, cleansing breath, calming herself and forcing herself to think past her fears. She recognized one of the voices, vaguely, and the other not at all. Nor did all their words make sense to her, but some things were abundantly clear.

She might not know where Xena was right then, but she knew where they would be.

Quickly flagging down a taxi, Rickie climbed in without hesitation and asked the driver a single question. "Ever hear of a club called 'The Velvet Chamber'?" A look of disgust was the only answer she immediately received.

The taxi driver proved anything but chatty as he drove her up Piccadilly Street and into Soho. He would look back at her every now and then via the rearview mirror, as if to confirm she hadn't disintegrated into the ether. Each time she would catch his eyes squinting in a silent sneer. It was rather puzzling for Rickie, who had long believed cabbies universally suffered from some rare condition that gave them all verbal diarrhea.

Great image there, Dreamer. Very poetic. she mentally chastised herself, and concentrated on searching out some landmark or another so she could tell where the taxi was going. They quickly passed Piccadilly Circus, neon billboards alight on all sides and cars speeding hither and yon. Speeding deftly through the circus, the taxi turned off into the darker side streets of Soho, where there she could find nothing to distinguish one street from another. Rickie soon lost track of the progress, the box-like auto zigzagging deep into the night.

Eventually the tax came to a stop, one abrupt enough that Rickie had to grab hold of the leather tong hanging near the door to keep herself in her seat. "That's twenty-five," the driver growled in a deep Midlands accent.

Rickie got out and walked to his window, which he rolled down. She pulled two twenty pound notes from her pocket and asked "Which way is it?"

The driver snatched the notes and nodded in no particular direction. "Straight downna street ther'," he snarled as he pulled away, tires squealing, leaving Rickie alone in the proverbial dark alley.

Now, Rickie was hardly a stranger to such circumstances, and the streets of Portland were a good deal uglier in appearance than these. Appearances, she’d learned, were no guarantee of safety, and so kept her wits about her as she began searching for her elusive objective. Fortunately, her jacket and jeans blended in well with the evening shadows, and the sounds of traffic were far enough away that she could listen for anything out of the ordinary without undue strain.

As it was, the narrow streets and alleyways were uniformly silent and still, which only unnerved Rickie further. The words of the conversation that had brought her here played out in her mind again and again, their meaning finding new permutations with each silent repetition. She didn’t ruminate so intently that she utterly forgot where she stood and what she was about; nevertheless, if it hadn’t been for a startled alley cat, she might well have missed her objective.

Said cat had, ironically enough, been startled from his hiding place by her appearance, and had dashed out and down the street. This flash of movement had caught Rickie’s attention and caused her to look in that direction in surprise. The cat was quickly out of sight, in its place something Rickie found far more interesting.

Down the street, which ended in a T junction, a long limousine coasted to a halt before a plain-looking metalic door. Out of it stepped an tall, slender woman with platinum hair and wearing a corset and cape of some shiny material. In her hand was a thin chain, which she tugged after a moment, a very muscular though meek looking man emerging from the car immediately after. His upper body was encased in a tank-top made of the same material as the woman's outfit and a dark band encircled his neck, to which the opposite end of the chain was attached. The limo pulled away, revealing the man wore only a leather g-string and nothing else. The woman knocked on the door and an eye-slit appeared. Rickie could hear their voices as she crept closer, something about references but nothing clear. The door slid open smoothly and the two entered.

Rickie remained where she was, hidden just beyond the low streetlights, debating whether she was in the right place or not, and whether she should risk finding out or not. The debate was still fiercely raging within her when the answer presented itself, in the form of the Goatee and the Gray Man, as she'd come to think of them.

They came walking down the street from the direction of the limo's departure, calm as you please. No words passed between them as they approached the door, the Goatee keeping careful watch all about them while Gray Man quickly slid up before the door and gave it a sharp rap, then stood off to the side.

The eye-slit opened and Rickie heard a voice snarl out "What'ya want?"

The Gray Man stepped back in front of the slit and said "To get in." Even from her distant view, Rickie could see the doorman's eyes widen to where they nearly popped out of their sockets, only to narrow quickly.

"Yer barred!" the voice snarled again as the slit shut with a final-sounding click. Rickie heard a chuckle from the pair and the Gray Man rapped on the door and spoke again, this time with a perfectly chilling tone of command.

"Ian, open this door at once, or I will punch through it and drag you out by your private hairs!" Rickie couldn't help but wince at the imagery, immediately believing the force behind the threat. So too, it seemed, did the doorman, who cracked open the door enough for him to peek his blonde-crowned head around.

"Look, sir…" he began, only to be cut off by the Gray Man's voice, still chilling and in command.

"Where do you want it?"

The door opened further, and the short doorman stepped into view, clad only in a pair of leather trunks and a spiked collar about his neck. He raised his hands in supplication, his voice nearly pleading. "The Mistress will have my fucking balls fer…"

"Where?" the Gray Man barked, his voice echoing off the empty street. Ian, gatekeeper to the Velvet Chamber, appeared to resign himself to his fate and pointed to his right eye. The Gray Man took step closer and nodded just over Ian's shoulder. He said in greeting "Hullo, Hank.", this causing Ian to turn. Rickie blinked, and the next thing she knew the small doorman was all but thrown back into the entryway, the Gray Man's arms slipping underneath his and the Goatee, who to this point had been standing motionless, hurrying after them and shutting the door behind him. She never saw the punch, or kick, or whatever the Gray Man had used, though the dull impact of bone on bone could be heard…and felt.

The entire process had taken less than a minute, leaving only a silent street and somewhat shocked young writer in its wake.

Although frozen by the speed and ferocity of what she'd seen, Rickie was far from idle, at least mentally. Her mind drifted back, first to the conversation overhead in the pub, then to another place, nearly a year in the past.

"Jonothan O'Donhugh, huh? Prophecy, huh?" Rickie's sneered, fire lighting in his green eyes at the memories and the connections between them. "Let's see if you can predict this, buddy."

That said, she left the shadows and marched across the street (remembering to look both ways) and pounded hard on the door. She didn't so much as flinch when the eye-slit opened and the muffled voice within made its usual demand. "Whatcha want?"

"To get inside," Rickie declared, no hesitation in her voice and standing directly before the eyes.

Eyes which widened slightly at the sight of her, equal parts shock and confusion. They studied her with an intensity she found disconcerting, searching her face for…something. What it might be, she had no idea. Whether he found it or not, she could not tell, the doorman's next question catching her slightly off-guard.

"Who's yer reference?"

Rickie had to take a second before responding. "Er…Jonothan O'Donhugh."

Again the eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed tightly as the slit closed once more. Rickie could only stand there, at once fearful and furious that she'd seemingly blown her one chance at getting inside. She then jumped half out of her skin as the door swung open, revealing the short man, his dirty blonde hair tangled and doing nothing to conceal the large shiner covering his right eye. "Git in here!" he hissed, yanking her inside and slamming the door behind her. "Christ, girl," he cursed her. "You wanna advertise yerself out there?"

Rickie was somewhat surprised to find she stood an inch or two taller than the doorman, who nevertheless outweighed her by what must have been a good hundred and fifty pounds, all of it muscle. He appeared nervous, yes, but more for her than himself. "The Master's gone to the private chambers upstairs. Don't talk to nobody, don't stop fer anything, gotcha? Half the crowd tonight wants t'take trophies."

With these less than helpful words, the small man propelled her towards a hallway of inky darkness. Rickie walked through it, into the din of industrial music that shook the solid floor underfoot, the distant murmur of voices buzzing just beneath the music. She soon came to a heavy curtain covering the threshold.

Rickie took a last, nervous look back over her shoulder, back to the entrance and the short man there. She then parted the curtain and stepped into spacious room beyond, wincing as the music hit her full force, its power hammering into her right down to her molars and clear through to her toes. This was nothing compared to the shock at the sight of the patrons themselves, and the activities they were so enthusiastically engaged in.

The pair she’d first spotted heading into the club should have been her clue, and perhaps she’d unconsciously expected it all along, given the name and the location. But to actually see…this…

Despite it being the Christian day of rest, the large dance floor sunken into the floor was packed to bursting with people of nearly every age and description, their gyrating and moving to perfect beat with the crashing music. The lighting was at once dark and bright, casting shades of icy blue and winter green and strobing red across them all, each reflecting off the PVC or polished leather that seemed to be the sole dress code. This in itself was hardly shocking, as she’d been in far rowdy dance scenes in the months and years leading up to her warrior finding her.

Yet, even the wild-and-free lifestyle she’d run before she’d met Xena did little to prepare her for the sights playing out on the raised platforms and alcoves surrounding the dance floor. Men and women strapped to X-frames and Y-frames, all in various stages of undress and being made sport of by others wielding everything from bull-whips to riding crops to multi-lash thingies to dildos to instruments whose purpose she could only guess at. Far from being distress by all this, those suffering on the frames wore huge grins and seemed to be encouraging their tormentors. Rather loudly in some cases.

Rickie watched several scenes play out, mostly out of a perverse fascination. She was hardly so sheltered that she was totally innocent of such activities; a few of her fellow dealers had reportedly sold blow solely so they could have a session like these. And while she and Xena had taken to experimenting occasionally, Rickie herself had never understood the attraction to having one's tail deliberately paddled red and in full view of the public.

Thinking of her warrior reminded Rickie of why she was there in the first place. She also recalled the doorman's advice, and so made for the iron stairwell that rose upwards towards the back, reaching a balcony with several doors. She spied two figures making their way upwards, both men and neither appearing dressed for the party below.

As she weaved in and among the patrons, Rickie became aware that several were pausing in their activities and looking directly at her with a mixture of expressions, these running the gamut of shock, surprise, envy, admiration, disguised and not so disguised lust. All this made absolutely no sense to her whatsoever and was otherwise ignored…at least until someone made a grab for her, that is.

The arms that attempted it belonged to a slender-looking man wearing a dog's leash and a leather harness who was kneeling at his Mistress's feet and panting like a happy puppy. Rickie quickly dodged out of their way and was about to say something indelicate when the man's companion, a patrician-looking woman with tightly braided gray hair and wearing a satin corset and stockings set, stood and viciously backhanded him across the face.

"You pathetic animal!" she nearly screamed, voice as cold as the Gray Man's outside. "You deserve to be skinned." The woman looked over at Rickie, her tone suddenly humble and beseeching as if she were begging for her life. "I do apologize for my pet here. I'm afraid he's still in training, you understand, yes? I'd happily loan him to you for the evening, if you wish. He could probably do with a good thrashing or two."

Rickie backed up a step, waving off the offered cat-o-nine tails in the woman's hand. "Er, no. Really. No harm done. Promise."

"Oh." She actually sounded relieved by this. "Well, I promise he'll be suitably punished for this little transgression. Severely, I promise. You will tell the Head Mistress I disciplined him, yes? That it won't happen twice, I swear." As if to demonstrate her sincerity, she promptly turned back on her 'pet' and brought the flogger down on his bare back without the least delicacy. The man began whining like the beaten dog he played as his Mistress continued cursing him as a "dumb animal".

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Rickie muttered as she backed away, tearing her eyes from this little melodrama and continued towards the stairs. No-one else made a move towards her nor to interfere with her progress, though the looks only increased in number and left her wondering what she was missing.

She was soon at the stairway, ascending them carefully and watchful for the two men. She saw no sign of them, even after reaching the balcony, which was a continuous walkway throughout the concourse.

Rickie walked along for a few steps, occasionally looking behind her for good measure. Just as well she did, as the pair suddenly emerged from a doorway further down. Neither looked in her direction, appearing to be in deep conversation between themselves. Rickie froze where she was, praying the subdued lighting hid her well enough, and watched as they disappeared amid the billowing curtains that hung from the ceiling between the doors.

She counted to thirty, then strode over to where they had gone as casually as possible, and slipped through after them. The folds caught and entangled her for a few heartbeats, though this was quickly resolved and allowed her free access to the short hallway beyond. A single ceiling light illuminated the passageway, showing only four doors to either side, and reminding her uncomfortably of Jeanne’s cellar. She poked her head out just in time to see the two pause before one of the doors there, the Goatee pushing the door open and allowing the Gray Man to enter first. Steeling herself, Rickie moved forward, keeping close to the veiled wall and ready to bolt in either direction should the situation warrant.

The fact she pressed so closely to the wall, and kept her eyes firmly fixed on the doorway further down, resulted in her falling in a less than dignified fashion through the threshold immediately before it. She hadn’t noticed the door to it had been left wide open, and bit her tongue to keep from cursing it, herself, and the universe at large aloud.

Rickie quickly got back to her feet and looked around, as ready to fight as to flee. Only a silent room, the four walls swathed in dark tones of velvet and satin and its sole occupant a comfortable-looking sofa facing the wall to her left, was there to greet her. The entire ambiance of the room was a relaxed one, one Rickie couldn't resist. She'd been too tense for too long, and the wide sofa (looking more like a gigantic futon than anything else) looked way too tempting. Still, she resisted sitting even for a moment, instead wandering over to it and letting her eyes glide upwards, towards the wall it faced. The sight there left her frozen once more, her mouth going dry and eyes widening painfully.

Before her a window that took up at least two-thirds of the wall, beyond the glass was a room not unlike the she was in, albeit one more brightly lit and having several people in it. At first glance it seemed to be only a man and a woman. The former was stark naked, with his hands cuffed and stretched over his head and a metallic pole spreading his ankles wide, while the former shuffled back and forth behind him, clad in a dark red lace bustier with matching stockings and garter belt, which matched her mahogany hair perfectly. She wielded a thin riding crop, alternatively tapping and striking almost random areas of his back and legs with it, the man shuddering and jumping with its strike.

He was, Rickie had to admit, very good looking and, well, pretty damn impressively built, if a tiny bit paunchy around the middle. He had tape over his eyes, and his long brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. His Mistress was equally beautiful, though she was an inch or two shorter, and actually seemed a bit bored with the whole thing. She couldn't see what she was getting out of this, apart from maybe a bit of professional satisfaction.

A flicker of movement at the back of the room caught her eye, two figures materializing out of the curtains and shadows. Two men, one wearing a gray double-breasted suit and black shirt, the other in a leather trench coat and possessing a trim goatee. They stepped forward as one, approaching the woman casually. Rickie tore her eyes away and began searching the window's frame. Places like this had microphones, didn't they, so the friggin' voyeurs could hear what was going on?

Finding none, she was reduced to watching what unfolded in the next room, at once repulsed and fascinated. The Gray Man circled the bound man like a predator, moving in close occasionally, but for the most part keeping his distance. There was a palpable aura around him, barely leashed rage and outright menace that reminded her of Xena in her darkest moments. Clearly the Ponytail felt it, as he seemed to cringe away, when he wasn't unsuccessfully trying to free himself, that is.

Thing got very physical very quickly, though unpredictably so. While words exchanged between them, the Grey Man battered away using everything from bare hands to his feet to nearly strangling him with the flogger to doing something (Rickie could not tell what) that had the Ponytail screaming loud enough she could almost hear him through the glass.

Either the Gray Man wasn't getting what he was after, or he was enjoying himself too much, as even this didn't stop him. Judging by the growing agitation in his actions, she figured it was the latter, and began searching for a speaker once more, again to avail.

She slapped the mirror's frame in frustration, the metal vibrating under her palm.

She felt herself go pale, and looked back to the window, her folly confirmed.

O'Donhugh resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the sight greeting them. He recognized the woman as one of the House Mistresses, a half-French firebrand from Cardiff named Renee. She was a new hire of the Club, having come in just before his latest falling out with the ownership. He'd even had occasion to speak with her once or twice, but couldn't really recall what about.

The client she was in making sport of was a much more familiar presence. Tattoos spotted his back and shoulders, their designs a mix of Oriental and European artistry and as much a trademark as any business card. Renee the Mistress, outfitted in her favorite of red bustier and stockings, was working his back and legs over with a crop. A flogger and well-endowed strap-on was set out on the small table nearby, a couple simple iron chairs (without seat pads) beside it. The room was otherwise empty, excluding their reflections in the wall mirror the client faced.

The two were engaged in a fairly basic game of counting crop strokes, with the client whimpering joyously with each strike no matter how gentle or severe. O'Donhugh judged they had been at it for some time, judging by the numbers and the size of his erection bobbing in front of him. Renee had developed a reputation of taking her time with her clients, driving them to near frenzy over the course of several hours. A light tap on his thigh and he yelped "Twenty", followed by "Twenty-one" a few seconds later with another light tap on his right cheek. "Twenty two" came over minute later a harsh strike on his shoulder, dead center on the Viking battle-ax there. "Twenty-four", "Twenty-five", and "Twenty-six" followed in rapid succession, a series of increasingly harsh strikes down his spine.

Catching sight of the Mistress's expression in the mirror, O'Donhugh could see the carefully concealed boredom there. He gave a quick nod to Enzo and the moved forward silently. He nearly laughed at seeing for the first time the tape over the client's eyes, mentally changing his plans slightly as they advanced.

Motioning with one had towards the Mistress, O'Donhugh himself veered over to the table, snatching up one of the chairs and walking to stand directly in front of the client, while Enzo came up directly behind her. He caught her hand as she drew back to deliver yet another blow, spinning her around and promptly pressing his lips to her's. Renee, so surprised, resisted for the whole of two seconds before melting into his arms, wrapping her own about him and moaning quietly into his lips.

"Mistress?" the client called out, almost piteously. Renee broke the kiss and looked back towards them, seeing O'Donhugh for the first time. Her mouth fell open, whatever she might have been about to say dying a quick death. O'Donhugh nodded, dismissing them both. Enzo gently led Renee, her eyes respectfully cast downwards now, noiselessly out of the room, leaving them utterly alone.

"Mistress?" the bound man called out again, oddly sounding less desperate and simply more curious now. "Are you there?" O'Donhugh decided to let the silence stretch a bit long. He rested one foot on the chair’s seat while keeping his breathing controlled and not moving so much as a muscle, counting to thirty in his head.

At thirty, he reached out and savagely tore the tape from the man's eyes, taking with it much of his thick eyebrows and several eyelashes. He let loose a squeal of surprise and blinked several times, trying to clear the spots from his sight. "You bitch!" he cursed, voice almost shrill. "What the fuck was…"

His vision cleared, words cutting short as he clearly saw for the first time who stood before him. A whispered exclamation of "Oh, shit!" was his only acknowledgement of his family's nemesis.

O'Donhugh said "Hullo, Michael." He glanced downwards and deadpanned "Is that meant to impress me?"

Michael Alonzo Rudelphi Giovanni, eldest son and heir apparent to the Giovanni Family Organization, pressed his lips tightly against the dig and declined comment. Undaunted, O'Donhugh let his eyes wander clinically across the Italian's well-toned body, with all the interest of a customer examining a fishmonger's wares. A customer allergic to seafood, that is, going by the look of distaste he wore.

"Want to tell me what you're doing here, Michael lad?" O'Donhugh began walking as he spoke, circling the bound man slowly, his voice and words deliberate. "You know the terms of the Peace between our families. You know you are not allowed into my territory. And you know you aren't allowed to ply your juvenile antics as trade here."

"You have th' balls to risk war with me and mine?" Giovanni spat. O'Donhugh smiled his small, maddening smile in reply.

"Does your father know where you are? What you play with when he's not looking?" He stood directly before the Italian once more, eyes almost dancing. "Imagine the headlines, were you to be found in your current state in a back alley up the block, doped out of your tree and with a plug up your arse. The shame alone might be enough t'do your old man in."

Michael pulled at his restraints without success. "You leave him out of this!"

O'Donhugh was utterly unfazed by this display, and seemed more than willing to involve the previous generation in their discussion. "Just imagine his face, Michael. Very religious, your father, especially when it comes to the bed. No sex before marriage, no patting little boys or girls, no talk of divorce. I hear he's so staunch a Catholic, the Vatican had to detail a deaf-mute to hear his weekly confessions, lest they be tempted to break the sanctity of the confessional. What a laugh." He leaned closer, careful that there was no actual contact between them. "But that's neither here nor there, is it?" Michael snarled and glared, helpless against O'Donhugh's merriment, hating him for it.

"What concerns us here," he declared grandly. "What's at issue, that is, is your little jaunt last Thursday evening around Westbourne, near Newton."

Michael laughed at this, saying "You're dreaming, O'Donhugh. I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

O'Donhugh pinned the younger man with his eyes, which were now cold as stone. To emphasize his intentions, the heel of his right hand sailed out and slammed into Giovanni's scrotum, eliciting a yelp of pain and a futile effort at trying to close his legs around the injury. "I'm not in the mood for dragging it out of you, Michael. I want the name of whoever bossed that hit, simple as that."

"Heh, that all, huh?" Michael exhaled between deep, controlled breaths.

"That's all. I can overlook most anything, even you coming here, to this place." O'Donhugh's tone suggested otherwise, and Michael felt a small trickle of fear at the implication. It hadn't exactly been Hobscom's Choice which had brought him to this particular club. He knew who owner was, and just who she'd once made marriage with. Never in a thousand years did he think O'Donhugh would defy the edicts placed against him by the woman.

Then again, he'd never thought he'd get caught in quite this position either. It would have been hilarious, were it not for the bloody murder he sensed boiling beneath those slate eyes before him. His groin exploded again, tears shamefully coming to his eyes as his manhood was bent upwards, nearly to a forty-five degree angle. He bent down as far as his position allowed, which was not all that far, his shoulders as strained as poor 'Little Michael' was.

O'Donhugh took mercy on him, released his grip and stepped away. There was no contempt in his voice as he said "Lightweight." He lashed out with his foot, slamming into first his abdomen, then in the forehead. Neither strike was severe enough to break the skin or even bruise, but both caught little nerve clusters that guaranteed the boy would have a combination stomach- and head-ache for the rest of the night and well into tomorrow. It was his satisfaction for the mafia prince's intrusion on ground he practically considered sacred.

"Bastard," Michael spat out as his tormentor circled around behind them. "You can't…do this…"

The next thing he knew, the chords of his Mistress's flogger (which he'd been rather looking forward to her using on him) were being wrapped about his throat, cutting off his breath and leaving him lightheaded. Even so, he clearly heard O'Donhugh's voice hissing into his ear.

"Get this through your head, Michael: this is an interrogation, not one of your fucking lightweight scenes! There are no safe words here, and I have no problem taking this all the way. Do we understand each other?" He pulled the leather strands tight for another moment, then let them fall away, leaving the younger man gasping and retching.

O'Donhugh backed away once more, calmly asking "Who bossed the hit, Michael? Give me the name, and you walk away clean."

"H…ha…" Michael coughed, catching his breath. "You'd let me walk away, breaking the Peace between us…"

"The Peace was more for your family's protection than anything else. I'm not particularly worried there. And yes, you will walk away…and keep walking until you hit Sicily…one way or the other."

"You'd spill my blood…risk retribution…?"

"As I said, your family isn't a concern."

"I wasn't talking about them."

A tired sigh was his answer. "You seriously think you're safe here? Because of who the Head Mistress here is? Keep in mind who she was married to, once upon a time."

The mafia prince flashed a knowing smile over his shoulder, bold before the darker man's blank expression. "I heard she divorced you…just so she could go cradle-robbing at that school of her's. That true?"

To his dying day, O'Donhugh would never be able to clearly relate exactly what he did at hearing those words. The next thing he knew, he was across the room and his fingers were aching, as though he'd just jammed them into a brick wall. The air was filled with Giovanni's wailing, not unlike a dozen male cats being castrated, sans any anesthesia. The younger man was jerking spastically in his bonds, as though he were being electrocuted.

"Don't…ever…mention…them…again!" O'Donhugh snarled, not caring if he was heard or not. He said nothing more, standing there patiently, waiting for Giovanni to get control of himself before continuing. It proved a surprisingly short wait. "I’m running out of patience here, Michael. Start talking."

"Fuck you," he gasped, wanting instead to cry like a newborn. If it had been his red-headed bitch of a Mistress doing this, he’d have been screaming the safe word by now; he’d be damned before he gave O’Donhugh the satisfaction of cracking. He’d squeezed his eyes shut against the raw pain shooting through him from toes to crown, and so only heard the snap of latex nearby. What came next, however, caused him to break out in a cold sweat.

"Ever been fisted before, Michael? Without lubricant?" O’Donhugh asked conversationally. "I warn you, my technique isn’t nearly as delicate as it should be. Not much practice, you understand." He stepped closer, Michael still refusing to open his eyes. "You will end up needing surgery afterwards…provided I don’t end up rupturing the colon beyond repair, that is." His tone became thoughtful. "Wonder if there are transplants for things like that. Ah, well."

The combination of imagery, O’Donhugh’s presence, and the fact his every nerve was in fairly screeching agony did it. "Alright! Don’t…don’t touch me…there…I…ah can’t…"

"The name, Michael." O’Donhugh demanded quietly once more.

"Price." Michael felt his bowels nearly loosen and release at the name. "Price ordered it…it was a favor to him…some bitch he wanted hurt…"

"Thought as much," was O’Donhugh’s reply, sniffed dismissively as he pulled off the glove and tossed it away.

Michael’s eyes snapped open and fixed the older man’s back with an ineffectual glare. "You…you knew?"

"We suspected. I just wanted confirmation."

"Bastard!"

"That too." He wasn’t sure what he heard as he spoke, something like the chime of gong, only low and distant. Keeping a firm control on his expression, keeping his every move as casual as before, O’Donhugh let his eyes wander here and there throughout the room, settling on the mirror Giovanni glared at him through. An ugly suspicion formed in his mind, one that led him, almost unconsciously, back towards it. Even as he kicked himself for overlooking so obvious a danger, Jonothan O’Donhugh refused to give free reign to the dark energy welling within him. He controlled his voice as he walked back to Michael’s side and asked "You didn't bring any of your bully-boys, now did you?"

"If I did, you'd be dead!" Michael snapped, spitting with rage.

"No," O'Donhugh corrected gently, leaning one arm on the chair he'd originally brought over. "They would be dead, and you'd have more explaining to do…"

Without warning, O'Donhugh hefted the chair with one hand and swung it with considerable might into the mirrored glass, shattering it with a ear-stinging 'crash'. Through the brief rain of glass and silver fragments, he could vaguely make out a darting figure in the dimness just beyond the mirror's threshold. The figure was gone by the time he could step through, the open door leading to the hall outside telling him all he needed.

Muttering a curse in Gaelic, O'Donhugh ran back to the room's entrance, stabbing Giovanni in the temple with a stiffened pointer finger and saying "Take a nap." as he passed by.

Outside the room, O'Donhugh nearly collided with both Enzo and Mistress Renee (both of whom were looking rather flushed) as he exited. Without breaking stride, he yelled over his shoulder "We've got a runner! Get 'round to the front and block 'im!" He was gone before the words even fully registered. Enzo paused a moment to retrieve his trenchcoat and a final kiss from Renee before setting off himself.

Mistress Renee herself had to spend several additional minutes getting her breathing under control and straightening up her appearance before re-entering the room where her original client was. She nearly laughed aloud at the sight of him, hanging there unconscious, all of him utterly limp and spent. A quick search amid the wreckage found her crop, which she tapped in one hand with a thoughtful look.

Rickie felt more than heard or saw her pursuers. She had already begun sneaking out of the viewing room when the Gray Man had lifted the chair and brought it down on the glass wall between them, breaking into an all-out run at the sound of it shattering beneath his assault.

She didn't dare turn around to see if he or the Goatee was following, knowing she'd freeze like a doe caught in a car's headlights if she saw either of them.

Instead, the young blonde fairly bounded down the stairwell, pushing her way past the few patrons who were attempting to ascend them. Their shouted words, whatever they might have been, were lost to the pounding music and additional babble of voices of the main concourse. Rickie couldn't have cared less, having eyes for the curtained entryway alone.

Even so, the sound of something crashing behind her caused her to pause and look back. It was the Gray Man, standing atop one of the booth tables near the stairwell's base. The patrons who had been sitting there scrambling to get away, faces showing both fright and awe their costumes shining with the spilled and splattered contents of their drinks. It immediately hit Rickie what had happened, and she found herself in awe herself.

He'd jumped.

He'd jumped from the balcony to the floor, over forty feet below. He'd jumped and landed on both feet on the table, which was a good several feet away from the wall. He'd jumped and landed and hadn't broken single damn bone in the process, if the way he leapt to the floor and began tearing through the crowds was any indication.

It was an impressive feat, and for a crazed half-second Rickie was sorry she'd missed it. Seeing him barreling in her direction, she was suddenly sorrier she'd even looked back, panic threatening to hold her frozen right there. Instead freezing, however, Rickie began ducking and weaving through the other patrons and dancers with all the skill of a veteran of the NFL, NBA, or "No Man's Land" during the Battle of St. Michel.

She doubted the Gray Man could have seen her, given the crazy mix of bodies and dancing going on around them. Even so, he seemed to be heading in her general direction, which was reason enough for her to veer rather sharply off to the side and towards a side-door she spotted with a glowing EXIT sign over it. It wasn't actually an exit, but instead another short hallway like the one upstairs.

Against all sense, Rickie paused once more and risked a glance back around the threshold's corner. She caught sight of the Gray Man and the Goatee meeting up, exchanging words and gestures she could hear or understand. They quickly broke apart, with the Goatee sprinting off towards the main entrance…the Gray Man heading right towards her!

Rickie all but threw herself through the heavy door at the end of the hall, which opened with a loud 'clunk' and rebounded off the brick wall behind it. She found herself in a blind alley with claustrophobically narrow walls all around, between which she began running for her life without the least thought or hesitation. The night clouds had opened up with a light sprinkling of rain overhead, and her Doc Martins splashed through small puddles that had formed underneath.

She didn't look back, even when she heard the door open and shut again, and especially when she was sure she heard footsteps not so far behind her. If anything, she found herself running so much harder, it almost felt as though her legs were trying to disengage themselves from her hips.

Rickie found herself out of the alley only seconds later and back on the street she'd originally entered from, albeit about a block or two down from the doorway. She knew where she was because just a few moments later the Goatee burst out of the front door, with Ian the doorman shouting and shaking a fist in his direction. He looked around distractedly for several seconds, which gave Rickie the precious time she needed to find cover behind a foul-smelling trash bin in an alcove a few feet away. She wrinkled her nose at the smell, but was entirely too terrified to move, chilled literally to the bone.

The one advantage to her new position was it allowed her to hear what two men were saying. Or, more accurately, shouting.

"Enzo?" called the voice emerging from the alley nearby. It was the Gray Man.

"Yah?" the Goatee rejoined from the street.

"Talk to me! I've got nothing down here!"

"Say what?"

"Talk to me! Where are they?"

"Not here."

"I've got nothing. Talk to me, dammit!"

"Where?"

"I've got nothing, dammit. What've you got? C'mon, talk to me!"

They went quiet and the footsteps died down for a minute or two. Then they started up again, more frantic this time.

"Oh, Christ!" the Gray Man muttered aloud.

The Goatee was somewhat less restrained. "You've got to be kidding me…you've got to be KIDDING me!"

"Gods dammit. She's gone."

"Oh, that's lovely." A sigh. "How much d'you think they saw?"

"I dunno. None of it. All of it. Who knows."

"Your taking this very calmly, y'know."

"One of us has to." A snort was the Goatee's only answer to this. "Let's get out of here before you-know-who shows up."

There was a smile in the Goatee's voice as he said "I thought you said you could handle her?"

The Gray Man's own response was more resigned and tired. "I say a lot of things. C'mon. Let's go sit down friend Price for a chat."

Rickie continued to sit there, behind a smelly dumpster, for what could have been minutes or hours as she listened to their footsteps echo off into the night. She waited for the echoes to fade off…waited for her heart to calm to a steady beat that didn't threaten to shake her rib cage apart…

Waited for her legs to unfreeze so she could stand and walk away…

It proved a long wait.

The 7:30 to Harwich left without incident, carrying with it commuters bound for the Hook Von Holland ferry and one still-agitated warrior. The tension she radiated had been picked up by her fellow commuters, several of whom found other seats which gave them space from the frightening woman with wild black hair. Many other's weren't so lucky, the car a bit too crowded to allow for much extra room.

Not that Xena was as about to explode or start knocking heads or disemboweling gawkers. It was irritating for her, granted, but hardly on the order that she might give vent to the accumulated tensions and terrors of the past seventy-two hours. She was saving that for a certain young blonde who, once she caught up with her, would be unable to sit comfortably through the airplane trip home. That was provided she didn't simply break certain delicate joints and handcuff her to the nearest solid object.

Xena set her jaw against the sick feeling that had settled in her gut some time back. When and where it had come in she wasn't sure, but it twisted there and made her afraid as she'd rarely known. In it, the sickening possibility she might be running a fool's errand, racing not to her precious Dreamer, but away from her and leaving her unprotected in a foreign city.

The idea alone was nearly enough to make her loose what little she'd eaten, between the images this conjured and Jeanne's voice whispering in her ear.

Having a dead woman’s voice echoing in one’s ear was disconcerting enough, leaving Xena to wonder if she weren’t in fact loosing her mind. What made it worse, she heard herself muttering aloud in reply "Rickie is not my whore, Jeanne." A few of the other passengers gave her odd looks and shifted uncomfortably at her dark expression, but none were brave enough to offer open comment.

Xena herself was entirely too preoccupied to notice or care. In an effort to keep those phantom voices at bay, she concentrated instead upon her destination, letting still older questions raise themselves and give her a most distracting headache. The pounding in her temples and the sudden pressure squeezing her eyeballs proved a more than adequate defense against the child’s voice, with its repeated accusation.

Xena didn’t even try responding to this, mentally or audibly, the intervening centuries having given her no answer. Instead she drowned out the voice with other, more pointless worries. Among them what exactly she'd been thinking buying a sizable house in Essex county, a house she never spent more than a few days at in the past forty-odd years. It wasn't as if she used it for more than a bit of storage space, and the whole of England, with the village of Colchester in particular, having too many bad memories for her to stand spending any length of time there. It had been trial enough being around all those five years during the '60s and early '70s, that whole incident made manageable only because she could still retreat to the estate in Wales.

Now, however, she was having serious doubts about keeping any property anywhere in the world. Emil's revelations about this society he belonged to actually unnerved her more than she would ever admit. How much did they know? she often wondered to herself. Was that person across the street one of them? Did they have minicam's and bugs hidden in the warehouse? Was Rickie safe at the campus?

The recent spat of attacks on them (words to the contrary, Xena knew her attacker Wednesday morning had been looking her specifically) only served to argue the point further. She'd flirted more than once with the idea of her and Rickie disappearing once and for all, maybe back to the Amazon, or into the Himalayas, or some sheep farm in New Zealand or Australia. She'd even gone so far as to have new passports drawn up, but never mentioned it to her Dreamer, who seemed perfectly content with their life under Emil's seemingly not-so-intense scrutiny. Xena never quite had the heart to go forward with her preparations, and so let the matter more or less lie.

However, if she found just one hair out of place on her bacchae's head…

Xena continued to sit there, stewing quietly and trying hard not to think about such things. When this didn't work, she indulged in a bit of fantasy, contemplating what bloody retribution she might wreck if it came to that. This eased her headache a bit. She tried, with much greater success this time, not to think about what this said of her state of mind.

This struck her rather funny, though the hilarity didn't quite penetrate past the mask she'd made of her set features.

Further back in the car, behind where the warrior sat, a cell phone rang. Partially out of consideration of the other passengers, the owner stood and eased his way out into the isle and out the door, pulling out the phone only once he was inside the car’s WC. There was little to distinguish him from the rest of the Sunday commuters, with his casual clothes and glasses.

His shirt and jacket were a size larger than he might normally wear. The sleeves therefore did an excellent job of hiding the faded patch of scar tissue on the inside of his right wrist, revealed only as he raised the phone to his ear.

His message was simple, though he kept his voice low.

"She's on her way in. We should arrive sometime after nightfall." He listened to question, pointlessly shaking his head. "No, she’s completely alone."

He closed the phone and sat down on the toilet. He hadn’t gone in there just to answer his phone, after all.

The train arrived in Colchester on time and without incident. Xena and a few others were quick to disembark, the man with cell phone and glasses among them.  He gave only a casual glance her way before setting off to a waiting car in the lot outside. Xena, of course, was too distracted fruitlessly searching out a cab to even notice. Colchester, a sizable community of over 140,000, of course retained a sizable taxi service, several of which were normally parked directly outside all three of the town's rail stations. Xena had arrived at the appropriately named Town Station, located on the southeast end of the town, only to find the last visible cab pulling away from the curb just outside.

"Wonderful timing," she muttered, mentally recalling the layout of the city and the surrounding area. Her house was to the northwest, well outside of the city proper but within full view of Colchester Castle, which dominated the skyline. She could certainly try and huff it on foot, but it would likely be well past midnight before she got there, and some deep intuition told her time was of the essence.

Not content to simply stand on the platform, praying the god of taxis would see how pissed off she was and act accordingly, Xena immediately set off down the darkened streets, hands deep in pockets and eyes and ears attentive for any sign of an approaching cab. There was little enough traffic running at that evening hour, people having retired to tea time and the Sunday reruns of "Doctor Who" or whatever BBC2 was playing that night.

The few taxis that passed her by were already engaged, and the sky overhead was looking increasingly threatening. Neither of these helped her maintain a calm disposition any, her placid façade suggesting otherwise. Xena was too well practiced in concealing such things.

By the time she was making her way due north on High Street, Xena was, oddly, more relaxed than before. Oh, she still had every intention of twisting Rickie into pretzel once she got her hands on her, but the walk had worked off a good bit of the nervous energy that had been driving her half out of her mind, so she was better able to attend to the world around her. The impatience was not so easily banished, however, and every sense was stretched to their limit to find her a quicker conveyance to her objective.

A taxi was eventually found, just as she was reaching the bridge over the Colne River. She swiftly flagged it down, by that point ready to jump in front of it or any other vehicle that passed her by. She actually stepped half off the curb, just to underline her need for it, and was smugly satisfied to hear the driver step hard on his breaks.

Xena climbed into the idling cab with a exaggerated calm and ease. Settling herself, she told the driver the address. He met her eyes in the rearview mirror, about to tell her it was far outside his route, only to stop as he was caught by the fury contained in her eyes. He immediately thought better of it and pulled away from the curb.

Neither noticed a second pair of headlights light up behind them, nor hear the rev of the engine behind it kick to life.

The trip was mercifully short, evening traffic having all but evaporated under the threat of rain. As they pulled up to the turn off to the house, Xena leaned forward to hand the driver a hundred pound note. The not-so-subtle bribe softening his shaking somewhat, and he could barely contain the long breath of relief that slipped out as the tall brunette got out and disappeared up the country lane. He'd been a driver for nearly fifteen years, his fares ranging from the mundane to the noisy, but never to the utterly terrifying. He swore a solemn vow to himself never to speak of this one; he doubted his brother cabbies would have believed it anyway.

The cab pulled away a second or so later, the night swallowing it whole. The second pair of headlights drifted up the street a minute or so later, slowing as it passed the turn-off, pausing just long enough to catch fleeting sight of the figure moving up it. The car continued on its way, seemingly without any further interest…provided one discounted the mobile phone its driver raised to their ear, and the simple message spoken into it:

"She’s coming up."

Dark as it was, the unpaved lane was not so difficult a path that Xena was slowed by it. She was actually making good time, given she was also keeping an attentive ear out for the any sign of trouble. With her attention so intently divided, it was no surprise what came next all but bowled her off her feet, as much literally as figuratively.

The Quickening hit her like a lightning strike, its natural fire exacerbated by both the tension knotting her shoulders and her near-complete distraction from everything save reaching the house. Xena was consequently unprepared for its singular intensity as all the warning signs slid through her, the cold phantom wind rushing in her ears and down her spine, all leaving her shaken yet hyper-aware. She drew several deep breaths, mentally scrambling to find her center once more. Fresh fear beat in her now, and she cursed herself a fool for racing out there unarmed.

Well, she smiled slyly for a moment, a reassuring weight on her back remembered. Not entirely unarmed.

Still the very fact she encountered such a Quickening, and from such a distance, gave her obvious pause. It was a sign of a…powerful presence…in the area. There weren't many Immortals, old ones at any rate, with such presence around anymore. It meant a survivor of dozens and dozens of duels, a being who must have been fairly crackling with the contained power of the centuries.

Rather than slowing her steps as caution might dictate, particularly in the face of this latest realization, Xena broke into an all-out dash across the wide grounds separating the house from the road. Her boots nearly became tangled several times in the thick grass underfoot, causing Xena to curse herself again, this time at her laxness in attending to her properties…and how she'd forgotten the last groundskeeper she'd hired for this particular house had died over a year and a half ago.

She would have kicked herself, literally, if she had not been so busy trying to keep her footing right then, even when she reached the gravel path leading to the front door. Plenty of time for that later. Right then, mere paces from the house, Xena found her steps ground to a halt and her eyes gaze upon the large structure before her.

The house loomed large in the late summer moonlight, elegant if somewhat careworn in its structure, casting long shadows as she approached. Xena again wondered quietly what she had been thinking in buying it. And the same, sad reason hit her square in the nose: she had, quite simply, not been thinking at the time. The Profumo Scandal had been in high gear, with allegations of Soviet spies in bed (literally) with the Ministry of Defense and prostitution rings being run out of Parliamentary offices, and Xena had been busy chasing around after a fellow immortal to really care. London had become nearly as paranoid as the States during McCarthy’s reign and she’d needed an escape.

In a moment of utter madness, she’d gone east instead of west, into Essex rather than Wales, happening upon the large estate by chance and buying for some outrageous sum when she found the ancient marker stones surrounding the property. The house rested on ceremonial grounds of an order that pre-dated the Druids, or so her initial research suggested. She later learned the marker vstones were fakes, creations of the spiritualism craze of the 1880s and 1890s, and the ground was no holier than the average city block of downtown Glasgow.

Nevertheless, she had made the purchase with almost no thought…and abandon it with a similar lack only a short time later, when memories of the green countryside began to bedevil her. There had been nights when she would wake suddenly, certain she heard the thunder of war-horse's hooves on the plains outside, the almost musical crash of metal upon metal upon flesh and bone accompanying it.

To be fair, she'd made a go of living there, enduring the restless nights and memories suddenly too real to be just memories, but ultimately threw the towel in after only a month. Groundskeepers were easy enough to find and pay off in a region like this, and she'd thought almost nothing of this place since then. All nine levels of Tartarus broke loose upon her return to London, giving her reasons aplenty to be distracted, these distractions stretching across the decades in one form or another and causing her to forget all manner of things.

But now, standing before this three story, twenty-two room, run-down structure she owned, Xena wondered if it had been only distraction that had kept her from making peace with her demons here. She was honest enough to know the limits of her courage, as amply demonstrated by her interaction with the Covington and Pappas families. When was the last time she'd let herself even think of Helena or Harry or any of their numerous children? Having Rickie quiz her on them had been bad enough, her bacchae having no idea how deeply her cowardice and shame ran when it came to family.

These thoughts pulled her from the reverie she'd fallen into, making her grit her teeth and recall the original purpose of this little outing. For all she knew, her bacchae could be breathing her last inside while she stood there woolgathering! That thought alone was nearly enough to undo what little control she had left.

Finding the front door cracked open did not exactly help her state of mind, either.

She wracked her brain for details of the house, trying to remember which of the structure's many entry points afforded the greatest amount of concealment. As she circled the house, pressing close to the shadows, Xena took stock of how well her property had fared for her neglect. The windows were uniformly dirty and the walls all needed several coats of stain and paint, but it otherwise looked intact and stable. The grass had grown wild and now reached well above the stone foundations, making it difficult to move with her usual deliberateness and stealth.

Xena was a naturally patient individual, usually able to ignore most every distraction and focus completely on the task at hand, no matter how insurmountable the opposition seemed. However long it might take, she would find a way to achieve her objectives, come hell or high water.

Then again, she normally didn't have waking nightmares of her bacchae lying inside dark country houses…bleeding…scarred…mutilated…

No surprise then that by the time she'd reached the front door again, the last grains of her patience had run out and she had decided on a singular point and method of entry. Xena simply marched up to the front door…and kicked it completely off its hinges. She paused only a for a moment to take a deep breath and resumed her march into the darkness beyond the threshold.

Despite the fact they detected the infrared end of the spectrum, night vision goggles actually presented the world in shades of whites and green. The sight they played out for those hidden just behind a small but distant hill across the field was easy enough to see and held no surprises: a lone figure trudging across the open field towards the house, circling it, then entering through the front door. Simple and direct.

Not unlike their team leader's report to the higher-ups. "She's in."

The answer was swift in coming and equally succinct. "Wait an hour. If she hasn't come out, move in. You get opportunity for a clean shot by scope, take it."

"Roger." The lead was an ex-Para, answering solely to the name of "Major", recruited (so the legend went) by Joe Dawson himself for the Society, then for the kill teams by Horton. He'd been on every major op Horton had run nearly from day one, from the Darius sanction to Horton's last op, latter costing their chief his life and most of them their employment with the Society. But the Major had learned his lessons well from all this. Everything was precision planning with him, rigorous training included, which explained his presence. They may not have been trying to sanction a certain bastard Scot, but the target was close enough to make it worthwhile.

He communicated the rest of the team by hand signals, and they felt the first thrill of the coming action in their otherwise stony hearts. None of them showed it, of course. Patience as well as combat skills had been drilled into them. An hour wasn't that long, after all. They could wait.

To her surprise, Xena found herself alone in the dusty silence of the foyer. No powerful figure waiting for her, no sudden attack to be dodged, nothing more threatening than the small fog of dust bunnies the collapsing door had given rise to.

To be on the safe side, she reached into the back of her coat and pulled out the Chakrum, its polished edge glinting impossibly in the darkness, before going further.

The house was an aged Victorian, its construction begun in the latter quarter of the last century and intended to serve as the retreat of a elderly peer, who died before its completion. His widow had the construction completed, intending to use it for herself. But, because she was an adventurer like Xena herself, the widow let the place fall into neglect and some disrepair, never going there until she and her lover retired to it shortly after the end of World War II. They reportedly died there, their bones hidden somewhere in the house. Oddly, no stories of ghostly figures or strange occurrences followed from this, even though the house remained unsold until her finding it in ‘63.

Skeptical as she was on that score, Xena had always walked carefully within the house, mindful that spirits tended to linger longer than the flesh. Such mindfulness was absent in her stride right then, which was swift and anything but thoughtful. She in fact literally tore through the ground floor, darting into and out of rooms and closets and hallways, silently bemoaning the creaking floorboards underneath and the lack of available light. Some distant part of her was screaming bloody murder about how idiotic she was behaving, racing about without the least care like this, a perfect target for ambush, et cetera, et cetera.

Xena, however, had eyes and mind for just one objective: finding her Dreamer. Whether she was alive or…not…didn't enter into it.

Finding nothing on the ground floor, Xena made her way to the grand staircase which curved upwards from the foyer, taking the stairs two or three at a time. Fast as she ascended, however, she was still fasting tumbling back down, the foot that literally materialized out of the darkness ahead of her and connected solidly with her jaw ensuring her fall.

Upon landing back on the floor below, Xena sprung to her feet and held the Chakrum ready. Her head was ringing like mad and it felt like her shoulder was ready to slip out of its socket. She nonetheless was ready for whatever follow-up attack might come.

None did. She was left standing there, swaying ever so slightly, eyes sharply focused and head aching from the fall. A chuckle of laughter floated down from above, sexless and little more than an echo. It set her blood on fire, more from the shame of deserving to be taken so easily than the adrenaline rush this challenge brought her.

Properly chastised, she proceeded to climb the stairs once again, far slower this time and with the Chakrum up and ready once more. Screaming tension wrapping about her mind, urging her to race once more, a too fertile imagination concocting all manner of horrors that might have befallen her Dreamer by then. Xena heard it, and paid no heed.

She didn’t dare.

Instead, her legs carried her smoothly up the stairs to the main landing, where she stood for several seconds, eyes closed and senses reaching for the smallest disturbance in the air. There was nothing there. No scent, no audible shift of cloth against skin, not even the faintest disturbance to the dusty air. For a moment, Xena had to wonder if she hadn’t just imagined getting kicked down the staircase. Her still-throbbing jaw told her otherwise.

As if to reinforce the point, another chuckle drifted through air, faint and directionless.

"Spirit, my ass." Xena had muttered it more for the benefit of her unseen assailant than herself. One foot in front of the other, she began down the hallway.

Her search quickly took on an almost surrealistic feel, the strong moonlight rendered indistinct and muted by the dirty curtains over the windows, leaving those rooms at once darkened and illuminated. Other rooms, ones without windows and deeper within the house, were completely shrouded in inky darkness. It was almost claustrophobic, the way the walls appeared to shift and bend with the shafts of blue and dusty silver, all of which processed in Xena's mind through a distance. The fine details, from the cobwebs choking the corners to the chipping paint and wallpaper right down to the threadbare carpeting, were all processed unconsciously. The rest concentrated on preparing for the inevitable.

At least what she considered to be inevitable. The laughter, the blow to her jaw, both had been obvious challenges. It only made sense that an attack, whether directly ahead or (more likely) from ambush would follow, right?

Inevitable.

She neither saw it, heard it, barely even sensed it, at least consciously. One moment she was stalking through the halls, pausing every so often at the threshold of some door or other, the next the Chakrum was coming up almost of its own volition and sparks were lighting the darkness between her and the blade that had been arching down at her seemingly unguarded back. She left slightly unbalanced by the force of the strike, the Chakrum again swinging up and cutting cloth, but missing the flesh behind it.

Xena spun to face the attacker fully, with knees bent and in a crouching stance, prefect for dodging or pressing forward. She was caught off-guard once more by the distracting sparkle of the sword in the shadows, its clear metal catching and reflecting the scraps of moonlight nearby into a veritable rainbow of flashes and fireworks. This miniature explosion of light caused the warrior to see nothing but stars for several heartbeats, allowing the attacker opportunity to strike once more, the blade once more cutting the air with deadly precision. The only result was more sparks dancing between the Charkrum and the sword.

Strike after strike, parry after parry, this was all either knew as they danced between the hallway, through room after room, and across the landing by the stairs. Xena quickly recognized the moves brought against her, countering them with ease but fared no better against her opponent's defenses. It was at once exhilarating and frustrating, both in the extreme. All the moreso as her opponent seemed to be retreating back to the main landing. Xena was nearly convinced she'd gained the upper hand at this, until she noted how her assailant seemed to be skipping and prancing across the floor like a little girl.

Still, she actually found herself laughing a few times at the back-and-forth play of this dueling dance. The few strikes that came close enough to be felt were all the reminder Xena needed that this was anything but a simple game; a fact belayed somewhat by the fact her opponent caught an attack of the giggles after the warrior tried a deep slash to her mid-section, only connect with empty air and spin like a top for several turns.  

Landing firmly on her butt, Xena would have sworn she'd reached far enough she ought to have hit something. But then again, this one had a tendency of tossing the standard laws of physics out the window. This was almost her last thought, the blade coming down like an executioner's ax and missing her only because she'd rolled herself into a backwards somersault at the last moment.

"Day-dreaming in the middle of a fight?" the still-shadowed shape before her drawled in a Welsh accent. ""Would you be trying to make a widow of fair Rickie, then?"

It wasn't the mention of her bacchae that caused Xena to launch herself directly at her opponent, throwing all caution to the wind and growling like a lioness pouncing upon her cub's dinner. It really wasn't that…at least it wasn't the main reason for it…or so Xena told herself. Little lies like were necessary for a body to get on with the business of living, normally doing no more harm than a bit of self-delusion.

This particular time, however, it resulted in a very loud "Umph!" and what sounded like a few ribs fracturing as the two of them went rolling down the staircase once again. There were bruises galore for the both of them, as well as a fair amount of dizziness and the odd groan or two. Xena, who had gone through this tumble once before, was up on her feet first and ready to let the Chakrum fly. The next thing she knew, her were legs completely swept out from under her, landing her hard on her right shoulder and causing her temple to connect sharply with the uncarpeted floor. The Chakrum nearly rolled from her grasp, her grasp on it instinctively tightening and almost slicing her palm open on its razor-fine edge.

She saw her opponent slowly climbing back to their feet, feeling herself do the same in response. She tried to bring the Chakrum back up, but for some reason her arm was slow in obeying her wishes. Just as well really, as she wasn't sure which of the three or four figures swirling before her was the real one.

She was saved having to guess by all four raising their arms and declaring "King's X! Mea culpa! I surrender! You've mussed up my hair and…oh, look at this…I've got a run in my bloody stocking!" 

To her shock, Xena heard her voice slur "I'll…give ya…such a…a haircut…iffen…you'll…all stop moving…!" She made a half-hearted slash with the Chakrum, dispelling most of the images. Shaking her head to clear away the rest of the dots swirling before her eyes, Xena squinted and tensed once more as the figure, now clearly recognizable, stood and picked up the medieval bastard sword near her. The attacker saw this, putting a balled fist on one hip while leaning on the sword as though it were a cane with the other.

"Give it a wee rest, now would you? I've not the inclination for another tumble across the floor with the like of you." said Gwen Camlann, and rather testily at that.

Xena gave her a scathing stare, lasting for the whole of ten seconds before she broke into a semi-relived grin and lowered the Chakrum and returned it to its hiding place at her back. The grin was returned, though with more warmth than she expected and with an accompanying hug she found herself suddenly enwrapped within. Surprise and fatigue kept Xena from immediately responding, though her arms were soon up of their own accord and embracing the blonde woman to her.

"Good to see you there, Xena." Gwen murmured warmly.

"Same here, yer Highness." This caused Gwen to tense ever so slightly. It was the only acknowledgement she gives of the pain fourteen plus centuries have only barely managed to dim. She covered it by nodding towards the sword and adding "Good way to go loosing your head there, Gwen."

They drew away, the smiles between them cool but genuine. Whatever old business or memories there were between them, neither let it arise right then. Instead, Gwen retrieved the sword from the floor and hefted it, saying "Oh, poo. You know a lady never looses her head in a fight. Nice blade, by the way, though you could have done a better job at hiding it here."

"Oh?" Xena smiled and crooked and eyebrow. "And how was I to know you’d be showing up at a house I never use?"

"Ah. I had wondered why the why the place look so run down." She made a grandly sweeping wave across the obviously unkept walls and ceiling. With a mild and melodramatic tone, a hand demurely placed on her bosom, the blonde Immortal added "One really ought take better care of one's property, shouldn't one? Never know when the tax man will come a'calling."

"This from the owner of Brackenbur Castle."

Ignoring the empty jibe, Gwen gave Xena another imperious look and continued her original thought. "Well, one should have a retirement spot picked out, eh?. Unless…you haven't sold off that wee beach house in the Med, did you? I'm still in the market for it, you know." Her expression hardened slightly. "And you invited me here last month, remember?"

Xena rolled her eyes and wondered not for the first time what it was with her friend and the seashore. "I wondered when you'd ask about that one. And no, I haven't sold it."

"Pity. I was looking for a place with a bit of privacy." The blonde woman looked her old friend and near-contemporary over, noting with some concern the wrinkles of stress on her brow and the stony set to her shoulders.

Xena likewise looked her unexpected houseguest over, even as she hunted about for the light switch, amazed to find the electricity hadn't been cut off as she flipped it and was momentarily blinded by the light coming from the scattered lamps around the room. "Oww." Gwen declared almost melodramatically, shielding her eyes in a pose worthy of Stanaslavski.

She was dressed in a short summer frock colored a soft blue, the tone complementing her eyes perfectly, with ivory stockings and medium heels encasing her legs. Her blonde hair had been grown long and woven it into a single tight braid that hung down her back and moved in tandem with every shift of her hips. She still retained a trim form, lean and strong, despite what must have been at least five centuries of the proverbial wild life. The frock fit her perfectly, and was just practical enough to allow her to duel in.

This was one standard every Immortal held close, an eye towards being ready to battle for one's life at literally the drop of a hat. Xena had no doubt the former monarch before, who by all accounts was alternately a drunken slut and the most refined of ladies, with manners and charm to burn in either incarnation, was ready spring into action once more.

She had to wonder precisely what drove her friend on so, where she got this lust for life so strong she could weather the passage of time. Xena could understand such drives, at least to a point, feeling them herself and knowing how exhaustion could easily set in after a time. It had finally caught up with her two centuries ago, driving her into the jungle for five full generations, until a demented fever-dream.

But Gwen Camlann was virtually a law unto herself. Her drive never weakened, never faltered. Probably scared the spit out of most of those who came looking for her head. What they'd forgotten, what Xena could never forget, was this deceptively fragile looking creature was the embodiment of a full millennia and a half of rites and wisdom, and that added up to a very formidable individual. Small wonder she had not caught so much as a sniff of her upstairs, pobably with her standing in plain sight, to boot.

Said individual now lounged in front of her, the sole fact she was fully clothed being the only thing that made her decadent posing even half-way decent. "So," Gwen drawled. "Where are you hiding the ever-lucious Rickie, eh? I've been wanting to speak with her about that story of hers." She grinned wickedly. "Especially the…romantic bits."

At this, Xena's grin fell into a dark frown. "What? She isn't here?"

Not catching the thunderous undertones in the question, Gwen grinned like a cat and let her head lolly back unto the sofa, saying in an airy tone "Afraid not. And here I've been, for nearly two whole hours, just fantasizing…" Letting her words trail off suggestively, she looked up, expecting the usual mix of patience and annoyance to her jesting overtures. Instead she found a stare that nearly froze the air between them, and a jaw set so tightly beneath those eyes boring into her it was a wonder the teeth didn't shatter under the pressure.

"You really weren't expecting me here tonight, were you?"

"No."

"But you thought young Rickie was here."

"Yes."

"I got a call this morning…"

From between clenched teeth, Xena nearly spat "Gwen, I haven't called anyone in the past two days!"

The silence between them was intense with words and realizations going unspoken. It would have been a waste of air, but Gwen couldn’t really resist speaking it anyway. "We’ve been taken for a ride, haven’t we?" she asked pointlessly as she stood. This put her between Xena and the nearest window.

The aged wiring of the house chose that moment to give out, the brief display of pyrotechnics issuing from the basement’s fusebox being witnessed only by the few hardy field mice who had made their home there. This plunged the house once more into darkness, much to the consternation of those upstairs.

"Oh, bug…" Gwen began to say, only to suddenly find herself almost flying across the room, her arm aching like mad at nearly being yanked from its socket by Xena. She managed to twist herself about so she hit the wall with her good shoulder. The momentum was strong enough to rebound her off the wall and land her flat on her back, coincidentally landing her behind a covered love seat.

All she could hear through all this was the roar and crash of artificial thunder that demolished the wall she had been standing before. She caught sight of Xena making a break for the foyer, three very large entrance wounds appearing in her back propelling out the door and out of sight. Fighting tears and the urge to run to her friend, Gwen curled into a fetal ball and clapped both hands over her ears, desperately trying to keep out the noise of wood and glass shattering beneath a hail of high-velocity explosive rounds.

When the attack finally stopped, Gwen was barely aware of it, so bad was the ringing in her ears. Only the fact that it was no longer raining chips of glass and mildew-covered splinters alerted her that the air was once more still. Raising her head over the now-mostly demolished loveseat, she saw several thin red laser lights tracing through the air, all extinguishing in unison a few seconds later. She had seen enough of war to know what this meant, and quickly began crawling as quickly as she could to the door, scowling her displeasure at the damage this was doing to her frock and wincing as the glass littering the floor cut into her palms and knees.

"Xena?" she hissed upon reaching her prone friend, now lying in an ever widening pool of her blood. Gwen groped about her neck, feeling past twisted bone in futile search for a pulse. Finding none, the blonde Immortal grit her teeth tightly and felt into her now-tattered jacket, her slim fingers closing around the Chakrum just as her hearing cleared enough to catch the footfalls fast approaching outside.

She tugged at that ancient weapon, only to find it snagged on something within the jacket's weave. Looking back towards the pockmarked wall behind them, eyes narrowed, she tried pulling again with still less success.

The footfalls outside were relentless, approaching far faster than she'd first thought. With a last glance down at Xena, Gwen gave a small snarl of "Oh, to hell with this!" and let go of the Chakrum, running into the darkest of the house's shadows.

She was long gone when the front door was kicked in.

The team had come ready for ambush or direct assault, every member in tactical gear, with three of them accomplished snipers armed with 12.7x99mm Hecate II rifles. They preferred the French made rifle to its American Browning .50 caliber counterpart for its lighter weight and greater long-range precision, even with the extended silencers affixed to their barrels. Both these attributes were used to good effect that night, the former allowing them to quickly reposition themselves to create an effective field of fire while the latter let them each get their licks in on the target without fail.

The Major had watched it all through field glasses, noting with no small satisfaction how the target had been felled so easily. He counted at least two, possibly three solid hits on her, seeing her fall after the first few seconds. The snipers, per orders, didn't let up and emptied their magazines, reloading and emptying them again. Only the first ten shots had been solid head penetration rounds, the rest being hollow points and explosives. They knew there had been someone in there with her, having seen the blonde woman in blue dress and heels enter the after parking her Carmen Ghia in the attached garage, all less than an hour before the target's arrival. They evidentially knew each other, going by their silhouette's dancing in the main room after they'd moronically turned the lights on. The Major had read the lights cutting out as a sign they knew they'd been tumbled, and had signaled opening fire.

The extra rounds of fire reduced their cover, as had been the original intention, and, God willing, taken them out in the process. Nothing, not even another Immortal, could have survived, and he certainly had not recognized the second woman from any of his briefings or past ops. If he felt any guilt by this, he did not feel the least tickle of it.

Once the snipers had all spent their second clip, he signaled the rest of the action team, numbering five strong and all armed with silenced Hecker & Koch MP5s, all of whom sprung to their feet and took off across the grounds towards the house. The Major himself stayed behind with the snipers, who were busy gathering up their cartridges and removing what traces were left of the team's presence.

The Society, Dawson and his pet Highlander in particular, had not even the merest inkling of how wide the kill teams the late James Horton had organized operated.  And these men were the most experienced of those left, veterans of covert ops across the globe, and so were well practiced at their work.

Satisfied with their work, the Major signed the three to accompany him to the house. Shouldering their rifles and drawing automatics (also silenced), they followed him like an honor guard. Though they all were sure of what was awaiting them, but had learned the hard way not to declare victory until the opposition's corpses were all cold. The Major himself carried another MP5, the weapon a favorite of law enforcement and military alike for its versatility and the reliability.

He liked it because it switched so easily to full automatic and had good cycling. Little things like that made for good body counts.

Their approach to the house was almost leisurely compared to the rest of their cohort. Why should they hurry? The Prime team, as they had been designated, had a simple enough brief: make sure Amphipoulis was dead, and remained so until their, designated Red team, arrival there. True, he'd seen her fall with a good couple hits to her. But falling was no guarantee where these creatures were concerned. Another little lesson he'd learned, as testified by his prosthetic right hand and missing eye.

The relaxed appearance to their pace disappeared completely as the drew closer to the house, the snipers hurrying ahead and taking up positions around the side door they planned to enter through. One eased the door open and quickly disappeared through it, all while covered by the other two, who followed close behind. The Major paused to take a breath and get his momentarily rampaging emotions back under control before joining them. Closing in for the kill, even an easy one like this, never failed to set his blood on fire. It was the only time he actually felt anything on an op, and so always had to hold back for a moment to wrestle it back down.

The fact it was a woman did not bother him, as he had long ago stopped feeling most anything when it came to the actual wetwork. It was more the anticipation than anything else.

Mind once again placid, the Major followed his men in, sharp ears attentive through the tight weave of his headmask for the discharge yet more rounds. The air was silent however, save for the soft impact of their boots on the floors and carpet. The undisturbed air set off alarm bells rang out in his head as they moved through the disused kitchen and empty hallways to the foyer. Glances, some bordering on the nervous, passed between the others, their movements becoming even looser as they moved deeper into the house.

When they reached the foyer, the tension that had built between them dissipated somewhat at the sight of one of Prime standing over Amphipoulis's still form. His head was bowed low and he cradled his MP5 in a loose grip. The guard looked surprisingly relaxed.

The Major took a quick look over the prone figure at their feet, noting the placement of the three entrance wounds with no small amount of satisfaction, and turned to the guard, who had remained utterly still since their arrival. Even his eyes had remained wide open, not blinking once despite the dust in the air. A terrible suspicion took root in the Major's mind. He let his weapon dangle by its shoulder-strap and extended a single finger, poking the guard hard in the shoulder.

The guard collapsed like a tree felled by lumberjack's ax. His head and back rolled about at a bizarre angle, as though his entire spine had no more consistency than jelly. His impact with the floor was consequently far quieter than it might have been.

It might as well have been a thunderbolt from the gods themselves.

All four of them trained their weapons on the body at their feet, fingers on the triggers and ready to let loose another barrage. The Major almost screamed through his eyes, ordering by quick gestures the one nearest the stairs go searching the second floor, then nodding off the other two to search out the rest of the floor. Yes, it was natural to think Amphipoulis had pulled a fast one on them, but the Major wasn't entirely convinced of it was anything so simple.

This was proven when the one he'd sent upstairs came tumbling back down, a dark stain growing from his chest. He squinted hard into the dimness at the top of the stairs, seeing a half-formed figure there and immediately bringing his MP5 to bear. He fired a quick burst, no more than a dozen rounds, but to no effect save to cause the figure to completely vanish from sight and bring the remaining pair of his men running back. They skidded to a halt just as their fellow completed his fall, coming to rest at their very feet.

The Major gave them a reproving glance, taking his eyes off the stairs for barely a second, and waved the barrel of his gun towards the stairs once more. All three trained their sights there, the snipers carefully stepping around its base to afford themselves maximum coverage. The Major remained where he was, as ready to drop his aim upon Amphipoulis as at their unknown assailant. He let himself wonder for a moment what manner of creature they faced, not entirely certain he even wanted to know.

Small irony then that, just as decided this as a negative, a flash of silver caught his eye to the left. This was the very direction his men had just come from. Before he was fully conscious of this small fact, both crumpled before his very eyes, that same flash arching through the darkness and slicing through their torsos with lethal precision. The Major's reaction was equally unconscious, the MP5 dropping slightly and the trigger depressed to spew out its entire magazine, tracking the will-o-wisp of light perfectly. It did not concern him that several of these rounds tore through his own men. He knew them to either be already dead or dying, and so considered their incidental catching a few rounds a mercy, cutting their suffering short.

All that mattered was how this caused the shadowy figure behind it to be unbalanced and thrown to the floor, all the with an encouraging "Gagh!" to it.

Stepping quickly over Amphipoulis, the Major closed on the attacker, recognizing her as the blonde woman in a summer frock. Her clothes were already matted with blood, not her's alone, he'd wager. She was still alive and conscious, dragging herself down the hall towards the kitchen even though she was bleeding heavily from her side and right thigh. She seemed to be moving rather well despite her wounds, which, going by the thick trail of dark blood she was leaving in her wake, must have been severe. He raised his weapon once more, intent on finishing this…only to have it issue a loud CLICK-CLACK.

He looked at the gun incredulously and tried again, with the same result. The obvious quickly dawned on him: he had spent the entire magazine, simple and ridiculous as that. It almost caused him to laugh aloud. The woman was less restrained, evidentially having heard this and rattling out an exhausted chuckle.

For himself, the Major let the submachine gun fall from his hand, drawing his automatic from its shoulder holster and drawing a clean bead on the crawling woman. His target had by this time pulled herself into a sitting position against the nearby wall, apparently having exhausted herself getting as far as she had.

The Major was soon standing directly over her, beyond the reach of her sword but close enough to afford him clear sight of her. Her breathing had become increasingly labored and her entire lower half seemed to be little more than a single darkening stain. Crouching there, she looked frail and weak, hardly capable of lifting the blade she clung to. His lips curled into a sneer of disgust, as much with his men as with her. It was one thing to fall in battle against an obviously superior enemy. But to be defeated by something so obviously weak as this honey-haired bitch…

He took very careful, very deliberate aim, lining the sights up between her eyes. Amazingly, the woman looked directly into his eyes and, utterly calm, asked "An…any (cough) final…(cough) final requests?"

The Major squinted in surprise, but otherwise concealed his surprise at the question. His thumbing back the hammer was all the answer needed. "Guess not," she muttered pointlessly, body wracked by a coughing fit that drew up a fair amount of blood. "P…pity," she added as she slumped back against the wall.

The air was suddenly abuzz with what sounded like a dozen gigantic mosquitoes with murder on their collective minds. The Major quickly spun back towards Amphipoulis, immediately catching sight of the disk-like object spinning towards him. He instinctively brought up his left arm to block it, only to watch, as if in slow motion, as it sliced completely through his forearm and continue unimpeded towards his head.

He felt nothing, save utter shock, as the razor's edge cut through his neck, cleaving his head from his shoulders and sending him into final darkness.

Xena had awakened to the rattle of machine gun fire, distant memories of fever dreams that were not dreams replaying themselves in her ears. They were barely-formed things, vague sensations and little more. These were nevertheless enough to make her forget the crushing ache of her chest and back, enough to make her force herself first to all fours, then fully upright. She stayed there for a moment, swaying unsteadily on her knees as she mentally fought her way through the haze that had settled over her mind. Her vision cleared enough to perceive the three bodies near her, all dark-clad and quite obviously dead.

Movement drew her eye a short distance away. Squinting through the amorphous shapes clouding her sight, Xena saw another pair of figures, one towering over the other and pointing something dangerous looking at them. The standing one was clothed in dark military fatigues like the other bodies, while the one it stood over was golden haired and huddled into a corner.

"Gabrielle?" she mouthed, disorientated as both past and half-memory intermingled. She had no clear idea where she was or what was happening, the sight nonetheless speaking to her deepest instincts. The same instincts that directed her hand to reach for and draw the Chakrum from her jacket. She threw it with all the force she could muster, aiming at the standing figure through her arm was anything but steady. This left her unbalanced and soon flat on her stomach again. Were she simply able to tell up from down, Xena might well have laughed at her momentary plight…provided, that is, she could have drawn sufficient breath for it, which was doubtful.

Still, she once again forced herself upright and climbed to her feet, her strength returning quickly. The soldier lay on the floor, dead. The Chakrum, which had buried itself in the wall a short ways down the hall, had quite literally cut him down.

As she approached, Xena noted with a fairly clinical eye how the Chakrum had both beheaded and (again quite literally) disarmed him. Not a bad toss, for the just-resurrected, she decided, kneeling down to examine his intended victim closer. She'd sufficiently recovered by then to recognize her old friend.

"Gwen? You still here?" she called gently. A harsh cough that flecked her with blood and saliva was her answer. Satisfied by this reaction, Xena leaned closer, squinting in the half-light to examine the damage done her. She shook her head and muttered a quiet "Oh, hell."

"Buh…bad?" Gwen whispered, her eyes alternately drifting shut and snapping open.

"You're dead," Xena deadpanned, bringing another laugh from the dying Immortal, one sounding more like a croak belonging to an elder bull-frog.

Gwen gasped hard as she tried to speak, her words slurring. "Oh…oh fuck…this…this was my…fave…favorite frock…bastards!" Xena pressed her hand down on the wound in her side, trying without success to staunch the bleeding, only to have her wrist grasped with remarkable strength by Gwen's slender fingers.

Looking up, Xena found herself pinned by the woman's direct, almost desperate stare. "Don…don't bother…" she hissed.

"Gwen…" Xena attempted to protest, only to be silenced once more by the once-Queen voice.

"I'll be fine." Her increasingly heavy breathing seemed to belay the immediate truth of her words. Still, Xena made no further protest. "You thought…Rickie…was here…?" Xena nodded shortly, her mind finally clear enough to grasp the situation at hand.

She gave Gwen's shoulders a deathgrip and hissed "Are you sure she isn't here?" Gwen could only shake her head weakly, her consciousness fading fast.

With the last of it, she groped towards a pocket at her hip. Seeing this, Xena followed her lead, finding it and securing the small keyring hidden there. Gwen fairly spat "Gar…garage…!" A final breath rattled from her throat, and she was stilll.

Xena knealt there for a moment and cradled her friend to her, placing a brief kiss of thanks on her golden grown before standing. She quickly retrieved the Chakrum for the wall, almost doing the same with the sword and automatic near her feet, thinking better of it a moment later, her feet carrying her to the garage on automatic. There was no way she could easily conceal the sword, and the British authorities were still notoriously paranoid about fires, and she simply could not afford the smallest delay getting back to London.

And Rickie.

A few minutes later, a late model Carem Ghia came out of the long path and headed south, back to Colchester. From there, it would be easy enough to reach the A12, and a straight shot clear back to London.

The driver, intent on she was reaching her intended destination, failed to notice the car parked just beyond from the turn-off. This was understandable, as it was painted a dark brown and its lights were extinguished. There was therefore nothing to call attention to how the driver put a cell phone to their ear and dialed a number, careful to speak quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping youngster and massive dog in the back seat.

The teakettle had just begun whistling when the phone on the table began ringing. It was Enzo who picked it up, O'Donhugh busy pouring the tea for them. They'd returned to the small flat O'Donhugh retained in Soho after leaving the Velvet Chamber, expecting this particular call and wanting to receive it in as secure surroundings as possible.

Enzo listened, grunting once and folding the phone closed. "Amphipoulis just left her house. She was driving Camlann's car," he reported.

"Any sign of the kill team up there?"

"None. But there was gunfire a short bit ago."

O'Donhugh snorted. "Surprise, surprise."

The phone rang again, Enzo answering it immediately. He flinched hard and held it away from his ear as the voice on the other end issued a series of expletives loud enough to be heard even across the room. "It's for you," he said, handing the small phone over.

"Hullo, dear," O'Donhugh said almost cheerily, only to flinch himself and hold the phone away. "Yes, dear," he tried again after a minute, only to wince and hold it away again. If anything, the screaming on the other end seemed to get louder. O'Donhugh spoke soothingly over it. "Yes, dear, brunch would be wonderful. Yes. Yes, I am a no good…yes. No, dear. That's physiologically impossible. Yes. See you in a few hours. Fine. Ta." He folded it closed and tossed it unto the nearby sofa. "Gods, what a cast-iron bitch," he muttered.

Enzo, wisely, said nothing to this. Instead, he retrieved his trenchcoat from the back of his chair, took a sip of his tea, and excused himself saying "I'm going to go meet with Boothe. See if he's dug up anything." O'Donhugh nodded absently as he made his escape, wishing for a moment that he could join him.

Outside, Big Ben chimed the midnight hour.

Continued - Part 7

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