Despite the fact she had been driving since midnight, it took Xena until well past dawn to make it back to London. The early morning commuters who jammed the A12 from five to nine notwithstanding, Xena found herself sadly out of practice navigating the roads and byways of Essex county, nearly reaching the shoreline of the North Sea before righting her direction and heading west rather than east. She had only herself to blame for this. Her mind was so far away from the here and now. It was a wonder she hadn't wrapped the high-powered sports car around a tree or an on-coming vehicle.

The were precious few of either, so she was saved that embarrassment. Wrong turns and curses abounded, with most of the latter directed towards herself. This all only served to put Xena in an even worse temper.

At least, however, British motorists were not as pushy as their American counterparts. Not for them the mindless honking of horns and blindly aggressive competition for headway. Such measures were unlikely to see much use on these roads in any case. The British were among the few species of motorists to have mastered the use of passive aggression when it came to navigating the road.

Paradoxically, as nerve-wracking and irritating as these delays were, they also had a calming effect upon the warrior. The monotony of the traffic jam, the idling vibrations of the car itself, and the enforced stillness that both brought gave a measure of peace to Xena's racing mind. She was worn nearly to the breaking point. The last of her energy spent upon keeping her eyes open and focused on the cars and blacktop ahead of her, which helped hold this change in demeanor.

Even exhausted as she was, Xena was honest enough with herself to face the blindingly obvious: she had been behaving like a prize idiot for the past three days. That was all there was to it.

She had overreacted, almost from the moment they had left the gallery showing last week. She had been ready to run off and nearly gotten herself strangled in that alley, then she had come close to putting some nice EMTs into traction when they had tried to treat Rickie Wednesday night.

Then there was her all but sitting on her Dreamer for two days straight. She ignored signs that (upon reflection) were no more subtle than a sledgehammer to the head that Rickie wanted and needed breathing space. Nearly three days without sleep had only clouded her thinking further. It was a small miracle she had come out of the past several hours with nothing worse than a wounded friend who was likely up and moving by now, a shot-up house she should have sold off long ago, and a bloody and tattered shirt.

It was amazing how getting caught a traffic jam can be so calming to one's jangled nerves.

The questions now facing the warrior was what exactly was she to do about all this? How in the name of Hades could she put things right? 

Finding Rickie before anything else happened would be a start. Getting them both on the next plane out of the U.K., even if it meant hiring out the damn Concorde just for the two of them! Xena chuckled at this thought, though more at the realization at how she was once again overreacting than the image it invoked.

"Oh, gods," she muttered as towering skyline of London grew close. "Do I ever need a nap."

Maneuvering in the city itself proved less a chore than the countryside had proven. Face it, warrior. You’ve been civilized. Argo must be laughing herself hoarse. The Carmen Ghia handled like a dream, gracefully weaving between cars and lorries alike. The engine beneath the hood purring at a constant pitch even when she accelerated sharply. Mercurial as Gwenn might have been in some respects, she was nothing if not fastidious when it came to her many modes of transport, whether it be car, plane, train, or luxury cruise liner. She bought only classic autos, whose chassis she then stuffed with top-of-the-line engine parts and electronics. She owned a small fleet of Lear jets, private rail cars, and standing reservations on damn near every cruise line you could name.

You can take the lady off the throne, but you can’t take the monarch out of the lady. Xena winced at these thoughts. Gods. That’s got to be the worst rhyme ever. Hell, it doesn’t even rhyme properly.

With her thoughts momentarily distracted, Xena completely missed the dark car which pulled out of an alleyway as she passed through Soho. It began tailing her at a discreet distance, well camouflaged to do so, with taxi tags pasted to its windows and a lamp lit on its roof. There was nothing to distinguish it from the dozens of other newer model cabs which were slowly pushing the old hearse-like ones out of circulation. So careful was the driver in shadowing the smaller car that one would have been completely fooled into thinking its route completely coincidental to its quarry.

Xena, who remained ignorant of this development thanks to her fatigued state, concentrated solely upon returning to her room at the South Hyde. She had to think up some way of finding Rickie. She became more watchful and aware of her surroundings as she approached the hotel. This caution was prompted from a two-fold source: first, the small fact her shirt and jacket were little more than bloody rags hanging from her shoulders, which she realized left her a rather suspicious sight. Second, the now-inescapable conclusion that she (and likely Rickie as well) were in the cross-hairs of person or persons unknown.

She sighed and muttered "Inevitable." Her list of enemies was every bit as long today as it had been when she’d first picked up the sword. Perhaps even longer, thanks to the global economy and microchip revolution. Gods alone knew how many toes she’d stepped on since getting her p.i. license back in ’81, especially in the past five years since setting up shop in Portland. If she were lucky, it was only the Maticci or Giovanni organization flexing their muscles. They’d be the type to go recruiting local muscle and arming them to the teeth. Marty Hawkins and the team she’d just left were certainly within their style.

If not…Xena didn’t really want to think about that possibility.

Not thinking about such things, the warrior carefully parked her borrowed car in one of the spaces behind the hotel. She killed the engine and quickly exited the car, keeping as close to the lingering shadows as possible. She was suddenly very conscious of the bloody damage of her clothes and the awkward questions such things were certain to raise.

Xena breathed a very deep breath of relief at finding her key-card was still in her breast pocket. It appeared to be intact and undamaged. Pressing the card against the unlabeled metal plate beside the door, the warrior let go of a second breath as the audible click of the internal lock could be heard. Xena quickly pulled the door open and entered, barely waiting for it to click shut behind her before making for the stairs inside.

She judged (correctly, it turned out) the stairway would be unused at that time of the morning. The quiet passage gave her the best route of getting in unseen. Taking the steps two and three at a time, Xena was back on the third floor in virtually no time flat. She unlocked her room and entered, all hoping against hope her bacchae would be there waiting for her.

The room was as empty as when she'd left it, only a half-day ago.

Snarling, Xena immediately set about to do multiple tasks all at once. She stripped off her tattered and stained clothes, donned fresh ones she pulled from her suitcase, while carefully inspecting sword and the rest of their of their possessions to see if anything had been disturbed. She nearly tore the room apart once more for any clue, however infinitesimal, of Rickie's whereabouts.

By the time this whirlwind of activity spent itself, Xena was once again standing amid tossed up bedding and knocked-over furniture, and none the wiser for it all. No note, no clue…not even a pair of panties or ear-rings out of place. Pulling the Chakrum from the ruined cloth of her old jacket, she held it close to her eye, finding some small measure of peace by the way the morning light filtering in reflected off the curve of its razor edge.

This was life as she preferred it: simple, direct, sharp and sure. The weapon knew nothing of why it was thrown or what its target might be. Its purpose was simple, uncomplicated by such things as sentiment, fear…or love. Unbothered by phantom voices that screamed in its ear.

"She's not dead yet," Xena hissed. Her arm instinctively drew back and nearly let the weapon fly as the phone rang. She managed to stop herself, only barely, and didn't fully drop her arm as she picked up the receiver. The warrior answered with a terse "Yes?"

"Ah, Miss Amphipoulis? This is the front desk."

"Yesssss?" Xena hissed.

"There's a message for you here…"

Xena's ears perked up immediately. "From Rickie?"

"Excuse me?"

"Miss Gardner."

"Ah. No. I'm sorry, but no. Its from a Lady Blaylock."

"Lady…?" Xena was suitably embarrassed at having to think to recognize the name, even if it only took a few seconds. "Read it, please."

The speaker quietly cleared his throat and said "It says, quote, 'Xena, she's over here.' Unquote."

It was if her legs were knocked completely out from under her. The frightful tension that had been so knotted her muscles draining away, leaving her weak and dizzy for several seconds. "Oh, thank gods…" she muttered aloud.

"Ms. Amphipoulis?"

"Nothing. I need an outside line." When there was only silence as a reply, she added a sharp "Quickly!"

The manager huffed quietly and said "I'll have it set up immediately." The line went dead and Xena reset the receiver. Her mind raced to remember Cora's home number.

The phone didn't finish its first ring when the impatient, worried warrior seized the receiver once more and began punching in numbers, her foot tapping impatiently as the dial tone grated her eardrum.

Only through a supreme effort of will did she keep from tearing the phone from the wall to hurl it out the window when her only answer was a busy signal. Xena forced a deep breath, then another, then another, managing to replace the offending object back on its cradle before letting loose a sincere and resounding "DAMN!" that by rights should have shattered every pane of glass in sight. She followed this up with a series of slightly quieter curses in a collection of dialects a dead as the velaciraptors and the Neanderthal.

This storm died away fairly quickly, Xena finding her hands operating on their own, stowing the chakrum away into her leather jacket and checking she had her wallet and passport and the rest, while she cursed out the many generations of technicians and visionaries involved in the phone industry. She needed a target for her wrath and, dammit, the telephone simply wasn't cooperating right then.

"Okay, warrior," she said to herself. "Breathe." Xena proceeded to do exactly that, taking deep, calming breaths that, if they didn't totally clear her mind, helped her focus once more on certain key facts.

Cora had left a note, indicating Rickie was at her house. Therefore, she, Xena, needed to get herself over to the Blaylock house with all deliberate speed. End of story.

She was out the door and down the stairway once again, purpose set and eyes ablaze.

Bad news travels fast, or so the cliché goes. In reality it travels no faster than any other news, its speed merely being a relative measure how well maintained a particular line of communication proves.

The conduits of communication between Alexander Marcus Devon and his many cohorts were very well maintained. The echoes of the attempt on the Destroyer's so-called life in Colchester had not entirely died away, nor had the first spark fired up in Camlann's car as she fled the scene, before messages reporting this turn of events had begun making their way to Devon, who received them with a calm, almost disinterested equanimity.

He hadn't seriously expected the late Major to succeed in his little venture, and it had likely been a mistake manipulating events so Camlann was present there as well. Poor bastards hadn't stood a chance. Devon knew, intellectually, he should have felt guilty at sending men - good, hard-working men - to their deaths. A career before the bench and a lifetime of secrets and intrigues, both mundane and exotic, had fortunately bled him dry of that particular sentiment. His one regret, if it could even be called that, was the waste of his limited manpower involved. Price deciding to go and disappear since the previous night had certainly not helped matters.

Still it hadn't been a total shambles. It had been the Destroyer alone who had been spotted leaving the estate, and in Camlann's car no less. Devon held the small hope that perhaps, just perhaps, that idiot Marine and his band had managed to remove at least one of them. The news got slightly better from there. The Destroyer's route back to London proved anything but direct. Either she was an utterly incompetent driver or her state of mind was something less than clear. He judged the latter the most likely, which made for all sorts of possibilities.

These thoughts ran through his mind even as he received the latest update via telephone. "What about the girl with her?" he asked. "Any sign of her?" The answer was in the negative. Devon was not concerned by this, certain she was unlikely to have seen anything of worth or concern. It wasn't as if she were likely to remember his name, even after his foolish confrontation with Armistead at the club. Lord, but that kaifir was every bit a thorn in his side as the Destroyer and her ilk. The annoyance made worse by the fact he couldn't simply kill Armistead as he could the rest; too much money and influence with that one. To say nothing of his more significant resources of information and favors.

They'd sparred repeatedly over the years, the Armistead Foundation and Silas and Devon. Their clashing in court and the boardroom were becoming almost legendary. Expert witnesses suddenly developing amnesia, important documents being mis-numbered and sent to the incinerator, venues being changed without counsel being informed, and so on. At least he could respect his adversary then, even he was just a kaifir, not hiding his motives or who he really was like the Destroyer and the Highlander and the rest.

This brought his thoughts full circle, a clarity to them rarely felt in recent days. He needed to keep her as off-balance as possible until the remainder of his men could be organized. Picking up the phone, he dialed a familiar number and spoke directly the moment it was picked up. "Its Devon. Do a drive-by with the bitch." He paused for a moment. "Take up position outside her hotel and wait for your chance. Don't worry about collateral or property damage.

"Just make sure you take her down."

With that, he replaced the receiver and leaned back into his chair, a smile on his thin lips. Outside, the gray light of dawn began lighting the sky.

Xena had debated only for a moment as to whether or not to take the Carmen Ghia. Tempting as it was to race through the streets to Grovesnor, she knew she was in no state of mind to be driving right then. The temptation to simply barrel through any uncooperative traffic signals and/or patrol cops was entirely too great for what little sense of restraint she possessed.

No, better she let someone else do the driving right then. Better the trip take longer than never be completed, right? Less chance of her ending up before the Old Bailey and getting sentenced to a ten year stretch that way.

She also debated even more briefly whether to call ahead, ultimately deciding against this as well. In her present state of mind she was in even less condition to try speaking to Rickie. Her thoughts were calm and completely focused with all the fury of unharnessed hysteria churning just beneath the surface. Screaming at one's heart and soul, however justified, was hardly a way to ensure she didn't go disappearing again.

Xena gave a curt nod to the desk manager, who pointedly did not look her way, and breezed through the lobby and out onto the street. She all but skipped off the curb without the least fear or caution and into the path of a cab cruising down the street. The drive hit the brakes perhaps harder than necessary, producing a teeth-scratching squeal as the tires left a trail of black behind them. Xena simply strolled to the passenger's door and got in, grinning a little at the furious look the cloth-capped cabbie gave her.

"Grovesnor Square," she ordered, still grinning as she handed over a hundred pound note. This lightened the cabbie's mood a little, though he continued to give her an ugly look as he lit his roof-lamp and continued up Kensington.

They hadn't moved more than a hundred feet when he was again forced to hit his brakes, an unmarked police car, blue and red lights flashing bright, having raced up around the cab and come to a dead stop right ahead of it. "Wut the…?" the driver slurred, a sentiment silently echoed by Xena. She tensed momentarily as a slender, intense form approached, only to relax a moment later when she recognized him.

Sargent Mallory, London Metropolitan Police Force, approached the taxi with hands and i.d. in plain sight. He walked over to the back window, through which Xena watched him with hooded eyes. He stopped a few steps away and called out "Can we talk, maham?"

Xena made him wait for perhaps the whole of a half-minute before telling the driver "Keep the change," and popping the door open. She climbed out of the vehicle, bringing herself to her full height before deeming to look his way. Mallory stood his ground beneath her icy stare for a moment before gesturing towards his car and leading the way without another word between them. The warrior followed after a second or two, eyes never leaving him.

Neither consequently saw a smaller cab, similar to the one that had followed Xena into the city, pause as it rounded the corner down the block from them. There was the glint of something metallic in the hands of the single passenger, who sat uncharacteristically beside the driver as opposed to in back. The eyes of both driver and passenger were firmly fixed upon the back of the retreating woman, their vehicle making a lazy turn to follow as their prey left the curb.

"I'm heading to Grovesnor," Xena informed the policeman, her tone brooking no argument.

Mallory simply shrugged and said "Fine." They let the silence stretch between them for a few blocks before the warrior broke it. They were near Charing Cross by then, heading east rather than northwest. Mallory had chosen a deliberately round-about way of getting to Grovesnor, evidentially hoping to get his guest talking. Xena had intuited the policeman's motives and deciding to humor him.

"You said we needed to talk?"

Mallory shrugged again and began speaking, sounding almost disinterested all the while. "I've a mate from the Academy in the Colchester PD. Says they got a call earlier this morning about a lot of gunfire and property damage at an old house north of the city. No bodies. They did find a bunch of shell casings all over the place. All military issue no less, and enough to make you think they'd been filming bloody "Saving Private Ryan" up there."

"And this concerns me how, Sargent?"

"I'd think you'd be rather concerned when someone starts shooting up your property, Miss Amphipoulis." Mallroy met her eyes with a deep frown for a moment before turning back to the road. "I've also checked Yard records," he went on. "Two warrants sworn out on your name back in the late sixties. Fingerprints match yours perfectly. Height, weight, description, all match you to a tee."

"I presume," Xena put in dryly, "you then checked with the US State Department concerning my passport?" To which Mallory nodded. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed several folded up sheets of paper.

"I did that two days ago. Curious thing I found is how its listed as having been issued back in 1949."

Xena unfolded the sheets, knowing what she would see. The rehearsed lie still came easily to her tongue. "Funny. I though I got it back in '89."

"S'funny, isn't that. I figured it was typo, too, 'till I saw the photo put to it." He gave her another brief but meaningful stare. "Clever thing, wearing glasses and pullin' your hair back into a bun. Almost had me fooled." Xena said nothing as she carefully examined the facsimiles before her, copies of her passport application and photo, the latter slightly blurred at having been enlarged several times over. Even so, there was little doubt who it was. The third and final page was a list of visas and dates. The list spanned fifity years and perhaps twice as many countries.

They passed Trafalgar Square, the pigeons scattered as a flock with their passage, before Xena could formulate a decent response. "I suppose you figure the person in here," she said, shaking the pages for emphasis, "and myself are one in the same?"

"To be honest, I don't know what to think." Mallory nearly spat out the admission. "I've got a lot of bloody weird shite swirling around you, and not a lick of it makes any sense. What I do know for certain is somebody is pressuring my boss t'drop this whole thing in shredder. Which means he's putting the squeeze on me t'drop it as well."

"That might not be such a bad idea, Sargent," Xena suggested quietly.

"Maybe so, maybe no. But I'd like t'think I could get at least some answers so I can sleep at night."

"Be careful what you wish for, Sargent." Neither had seen the small cab come around them, barely noticing it even when it took up a constant position just ahead of them to the right. They were heading south by then, along Waterloo Bridge, the sun now just over the eastern horizon and fog underneath them. There was little traffic along the bridge right then. Several cars and a small lorry carrying gas cylinders, nothing more.

What came next happened too fast to react to, almost too fast to even be seen. Neither Xena, nor Mallory, nor anyone present had the chance to so much as blink before it began…and ended.

The windshield seemed to explode at the sound of hundred firecrackers going off somewhere ahead of them. Both Mallory and Xena tried to duck, instinctively recognizing the sound for what it was. Xena felt the fiery stab as several rounds penetrated her shoulder and chest, darkening her clothes once more. Something warm and wet splashed on the side of her face, but she had no time to wipe it away as the entire car suddenly began swerving to and fro. Whatever curses she might have thrown at Mallory died in her throat as the entire car went into a brief spin, halting only when it mounted the curb and nearly impacted with the stone railing.

Xena waiting for her internal organs to settle back into place before so much as raising her head. She looked up, ready to curse out her chauffeur, only to have the words die a second death at the sight awaiting her.

Everything from his shoulders on up had ceased to be anything even vaguely recognizable as human. Glass and bullets had so riddled and ripped his face and flesh apart as to make him look like no more than a malformed lump of clay, albeit one still leaking red fluid and other, equally colorful things.

"Bastards," the warrior swore aloud, pushing her door open and practically leaping out. She'd had to use her feet to get the door open, her right arm useless and the left nearly numb from the pain. Another burst of gunfire tore into the chassis near her. Adrenaline and rage surged through her veins, giving her strength enough to stand and dodge around the car, putting it between her and the (still unseen) gunman.

The next burst missed her only by hairs, the chassis providing almost no barrier to her attackers. Xena mentally ticked off her options, immediately acting on the only realistic one immediately coming to mind. She turned and broke into a lurching run for the bridge's railing. More gunfire followed her, fire lancing her back and legs. This only served to propel her over the side of the bridge. She'd hoped to make at least a semi-coordinated dive into the Thames, but given her wounds the best she managed to fall like a rag-doll, hitting the water head-first at bad angle which broke her neck upon impact.

The last thing Xena felt was her body being swallowed by the cold darkness of the river, even as consciousness submerged in temporary death. She resisted neither, both offering momentary safety. Her last thought before being fully consumed was almost comic. Hope Cora doesn't mind the smell.

And she was gone.

O'Donhugh had watched the short drama unfold on the nearby bridge from his place along the Embankment, the small binoculars giving him each moment in intimate detail. Only when the dark figure fell into the river and slid beneath the waves did he turn away, stowing the binoculars back into his pocket with a sigh and a snarl on his lips.

The sound of police and ambulance sirens were soon heard approaching, pedestrians and onlookers stopping to gawk. The gunmen had already made their escape. The evidence of their handiwork was more than enough for the authorities to deal with. TV crews arrived a short while later, the commentators quick to decry the violence while the cameras missed none of the detail.

Jonothan O'Donhugh had eyes only for the river. He visually searched for the least sign of a body that he knew was likely miles away by then. With a glance at his watch, he ambled away from the circus developing behind him. Enzo would be delivering Dawson soon and O'Donhugh was intent upon reaching Cleopatra's Needle first.

"Nothing's easy," was his only comment, delivered quietly to the wind with a resigned sigh.

Xena 'died' twice more before managing to pull herself from the reeking, poisoned waters of the river. The first time she'd awakened, she found her feet had become entangled some piece of junk which littered the sandy floor beneath the waves. She'd drowned in minutes, barely succeeding in freeing herself before the water claimed her once more. The second time she had nearly reached the surface when the current caught her unawares, slamming her head-first into something too solid to be mere junk.

Awakening a third time, Xena managed to break the surface and climb to shore, which proved far less a chore than she expected. Looking about she saw comparatively few buildings and no bridges or traffic overhead. She judged she must have been several miles down-river of where she'd originally fallen in. There was a high concrete wall before her, the shoreline beneath it nothing but shale rock and the odd bit of refuge.

The warrior didn't try to stand immediately, but instead remained hunched over, supporting herself on hands and knees, coughing and retching and spitting every last trace of the oily water out of herself. It was a laborious, painful process, bringing tears to the eyes, though more from the stink of the evacuated liquid (no way was this simple water) than actual distress caused by the effort. When this was done, it was all she could do lower herself carefully to the rocky shore and rest there, not caring how the sharp-edged shale scratched her cheek and palms.

After a few minute or hours of rest, the warrior pulled herself up to stand upon shaky legs. Leaning against the concrete breakwall, Xena reflected aloud "Gods, what a mess." She spat out the last trace of the polluted water and stumbled off to find a stairway or hill or any convenient way to get back to the first road leading back into London. If needed, she was willing and ready to walk the full distance back, which going by the way no-one so much as slowed as they approached her she would have to do.

Xena sighed and ordered her legs to move, the command accepted and followed, however reluctantly.

Her watch, a waterproof chronograph Rickie had bought her some months back, read the hour as barely quarter of noon. She was too far off to hear Big Ben chime the hour a short while later.

The rain lasted less than an hour, quickly becoming little more than heavy mist and ultimately forming into a sticky fog. The air did not noticeably cool with this change. The entire atmosphere of the alleyway, particularly around Rickie's hiding place, soon became thick and heavy. The stench of garbage was especially rank, enough to make one's eyes water.

Rickie's eyes, however, were closed tight. Despite the omnipresent stench and the near-claustrophobia both her hiding place and the past couple hours had induced, Rickie actually dozed off, her body and mind equally exhausted and pained beyond endurance. She'd done so not long after the departure of the Goatee and the Gray Man, Big Ben sounding off eleven o'clock in counterpoint to their retreating footsteps.

Despite her fetal position and the hard surface of the wall and ground, Rickie actually slept deeply and untroubled, having reached that point of exhaustion where not even dreams might intrude. She didn't so much as stir, as limousine after limousine pulled up to the club door. Not a whisper, as nervous patrons and staff alike abandoned their nighttime play. Even the arrival of a small alleycat, barely more than a kitten, with its fur a wet and unkempt mess, failed to disturb her. It sniffed and nipped a little at her bootlaces before clamoring up into her lap. There it curled itself into an equally tight ball and was soon fast asleep.

Rickie would never be sure what jolted her awake, whether it was some dream which intruded or the distant rendition of "Westminster Chimes". Or perhaps it was because something very wet and cold had settle unto her lap and had soaked clean through to her panties. Regardless, Big Ben sounded off three as Rickie leapt up, nearly ramming her head into the low brick ceiling of the alcove. She avoided knocking herself unconscious because the cold-wet thing in her lap let out a distracting "Yeow?" that caused her to flatten against the wall instead.

She found herself the recipient of a stare of furious indignation, which would have been far more devastating if the one doing the staring weighed at least five pounds and wasn't so small as to fit into the palm of one hand. The kitten flicked its tiny nose at her and settled back on its haunches. Rickie let out a slow breath in reply, which the kitten evidentially didn't think was much of an apology for having been dislodged from its comfortable resting place. It promptly stalked back towards her and made a bold attempt to regain its perch on her lap, its lack of mature claws causing it to paw rather ineffectually at her denim-clad thigh.

It took Rickie several deep breathes before she got her breathing under control. The effort left her shaken and rather a bit lightheaded. Understandable, as she'd been close to hyperventilating. The kitten's intense antics soon broke through her distraction, causing a tension-releasing chuckle as she picked up the small animal and held it close, its squirming in her cupped palms and its still-damp fur making it difficult to hold onto.

Eventually its squirming and clawing subsided, its delicate-looking frame relaxing against her. Once she was sure the kitten had drifted off again, she oh so carefully maneuvered it into the interior pocket of her jacket, oh so carefully depositing the small bundle of fur and legs into it. She couldn't help the giggle that came as the small animal wiggled again for a moment, adapting to its new surroundings and soon settled.

Pushing past the reeking dumpster and stepping carefully out onto the street, Rickie pondered her next move for a moment, almost relishing the sensation of pins and needles that ran through her legs and sides. The pain of renewed circulation cleared all stray thoughts quickly and efficiently, letting her focus on her situation. When she wasn't wincing and flinching with every slight flex of every muscle residing below the navel, that is.

She was, quite simply, faced with a puzzle, one whose component pieces assembled to make an utterly incomprehensible picture. All sorts of strange possibilities presented themselves. The strange events that had plagued them almost since landing the previous week adding themselves, quite unbidden, to the mix did not help. If anything, such inclusions left Rickie nearly dizzy with the mad scenarios they spun into. She knew if she was not careful she would soon be seeing menacing figures at every corner and soon be jumping at shadows. Not an ideal state to be in should the weasels start closing in, as Hunter S. Thompson would say.

Then again, what the hell did Thompson know about anything? It was not like she was twisted on drugs these days, nor was she planning on skipping out on an obscene room service bill…or was she? At this point, with her thoughts going in a dozen different directions, Rickie was not quite sure exactly what she was thinking anymore.

The air was still a humid if slightly chilly blanket on her shoulders right then. This caused her breath to shorten slightly, the decrease in oxygen coming to her brain coupled with the surreal quality the fog leant to her surroundings leaving her even jumpier than before.

Rickie more or less forced herself on all the same, letting instinct guide her back to what she hoped was a main street. She remained wary of the shadows and alleyways as she walked, trying to make as little noise as possible. Thanks, unfortunately to the rain and pitted streets, there were gods knew how many puddles all around and she could not really avoid stepping in one at almost regular intervals, the resulting echoes off the surrounding walls absurdly loud and unpleasant. Gritting her teeth, Rickie gamely pressed on.

A pair of headlights suddenly blazed to life behind her, the sound of an engine coming to life accompanying them, both catching Rickie short and freezing her in mid-step. It was all she could do to raise her hand to try shielding her eyes against the glare. She had no idea who might be behind the wheel or what kind of vehicle it was, this uncertainty all but turning her joints to stone.

The vehicle had not traveled even ten feet when she finally shook off her paralysis and broke into a brisk trot down the foggy street in the opposite direction from the lights. An engine revved loudly behind her, though the vehicle itself did not noticeably speed up or make any move to overtake her. Rickie might have found this more worrying had she given even a moment's thought to it. As it was, she simply bit her lower lip hard and concentrated entirely upon finding a convenient doorway or alley or even open manhole, anything she might hide in and get away from those damn headlights.

After only a few minutes, the engine revved again and Rickie could hear the tires roll across the pavement at a faster clip. She could have sworn she heard industrial rock crashing somewhere just beyond those lights, along with the hoots of male voices. This left her colder than her still-damp jeans and the fog combined, memories of her roughest days on the streets (moments she'd not yet summoned the courage to admit to herself, never mind Xena) suddenly superimposed upon the present. Her pace quickened, the lights dogging her and drifting to match her every move.

When the engine of this car, or van, or whatthehellever it was, roared a third time, Rickie knew she perhaps only a heartbeat or two before the passengers became too bored with this game to bother further with it. She was now in a full-tilt run, her breath coming hard and burning her throat. The vehicle drifted back for a moment, the call of its engine going from a growl to a high-cylinder purr, its back tires screeching against the pavement, Rickie almost able to imagine the smoke rising from them.

She could barely see three steps ahead of her, but raced unerringly towards the narrow alley just ahead. The vehicle, its headlights now on full power and almost blinding for it, bore down on her with suicidal speed. Rickie hardly heard its approach, mind blank save for crossing the remaining distance between her and that frighteningly narrow threshold.

One moment she was running, the next she was fitting herself between two brick walls with all the grace and confidence of an Olympic contender. This did not stop her from squeaking out a cry of fear as the side of the car dragged itself across the otherwise unadorned wall in short shower of sparks and to the tune of grinding metal. She still could not have said what make or model it was, having closed her eyes the instant she'd reached the alley. The humming crash and boom of rock music momentarily filled her ears, with it the grating of wild laughter and words she could not quite catch, their meaning all to familiar. Both these quickly faded along with the engine noise down the street; soon joining the rest of the echoes of traffic somewhere nearby.

Taking several deep breaths, Rickie counted to a hundred before easing herself out from between the walls. She experienced a mild sense of vertigo coming down from the adrenal rush. This only gave further speed to her already racing thoughts. Could she go back to the hotel, risking another encounter with…whoever? Should she find the police? Where was Xena? Did she know what was happening? Who was driving that damn car? Did they know anything worth knowing?

To center herself, she peeked down into the interior pocket of her jacket. "You okay in there?" she asked her passenger in a slightly shaken voice. The kitten merely opened a single eye for a moment, then shifted around again and settled once more. Rickie grinned. "Well," she sighed. "Aren't you the perfect guest. Hedonist."

Inspiration strikes at the oddest moments. Standing there, cold and sweating, watching a tiny kitten nap in her pocket, Rickie knew exactly she needed to go. Looking back down the street, she spied the glow of a few telltale streetlights. So heartened, Rickie set off in that direction, eyes watchful for the first sign of that most glorious method of transport.

"Taxi!"

The box-like chassis of the taxi slowed to where the small blonde woman was waving her arms, the woman quickly climbed into it and the taxi was once again on its way. It was quickly consumed whole by the fog and night.

Further down the street, the large frame of Manfred Emmanuel Armistead stepped out around the corner one of the nearby buildings. He watched the taxi departed with hooded eyes, no expression to his face, giving no clue to either his thoughts. His only action was to flip the collar of his overcoat up against the weather.

He, too, soon melted back into the night, with only the whisper of his footsteps to mark his passage.  

It was not that long a drive from Soho to Grovesnor, where the Blaylock family's ancestral seat was situated. The massive structure of the American Embassy, notable for the massive golden eagle perched atop its roof, was within sight and fairly dominating the Square. Rickie couldn't have really cared less, centered as she was upon reaching a particular address.

There are relatively few stately old Victorians left to be found in London, and the Blaylock estate had one of the best kept. She may have only married only into the family, but Cora was attentive to its history all the same, and was determined to keep it intact. Rickie, strangely, felt no elation or anxiety as the taxi approached, despite the ungodly hour. The fact Cora also kept a small couple of apartments nearby, which she tended to stay at more often than not, did not engender even the smallest glimmer of worry in her breast.

In point of fact, she really was not sure she was even capable of feeling anything anymore. She doled out the demanded fare with an equal amount of ambivalence, getting out of the miniature hearse with creaking muscles and strolling up the front door with hands pushed deep into jacket pockets. As an afterthought she patted the side where the kitten was napping, just to reassure herself of its existence. Right then, that small, curled up mass of fur and bone was the one solid piece of reality in her life.

This ambivalence disappeared the moment she reached the top step and raised her fist to the heavy door. She didn't so much knock as ram various sections of her hand, quickly going from the knuckles to the heel of the palm to the flat of her palm, into the wood and biting her lip so hard against the urge to begin screaming. Where this came from she had no idea, nor did she honestly care.

Rickie practically fell through the door the moment the elderly peer opened it. This was more than simple exhaustion having overtaken her, any more than it was pure affection that caused her to cling like a remora to a shark's flank as Cora's arms wrapped about her.

It finally came crashing down upon her, everything from that overheard conversation in the pub on. The sights of the club, the chase, that crazy car nearly ran her down…was it only half an hour ago? The past several days only added to the flood, from the police waking her on Wednesday morning to that car clipping her that same day to Xena's mothering and subsequent disappearance. How she managed to stay upright against it all was beyond her. Rickie could only bury her face in Cora's shoulder, making noises that might have been loud sobs or quiet screams.

Cora was not without strength of her own, managing to keep hold of her she maneuvered them both to a sofa in the sitting room, sitting them both there and making what comforting sounds she could think of. It had been a very long time since she had been called upon to play the maternal role in any capacity. Still, the old habits resurfaced, and Rickie soon calmed to simply sniffling and a few minor tremors.  

"S…sorry about that," Rickie muttered lamely when she finally got herself back under control. "I…ah, its been a rough day."

"And night, I imagine," Cora smiled wryly.

Rickie own face remained solemn. "Worse than you can imagine." Cora said nothing as she focused on the floor at their feet, loosing herself a bit in the complex swirls and patterns of the Persian carpeting. "I…there was a car…and a couple of guys…at a club…and this one guy was beating this other guy…and…and now…then they chased me out into this alley behind the club…I nearly get hit by a car…I dunno what's going on…"

Her rambling caused Cora to draw away a bit, but not fully relinquish her hold on the younger woman. "Is Xena…?" She stopped when Rickie shook her head hard at hearing the name.

"I have no idea where she is or what's happened to her. No fucking idea…what's…what's happening anymore…" Her shoulders started trembling again, more violently than before, and her eyes began tearing up as he head bowed low.

Hoping to stave off the onset of hysteria in the younger woman, Cora drew her close once more, murmuring all the while "You're safe, I promise. You're safe here, Rickie. Shhhh, you're safe." Physically awkward as this was for them both, Rickie being an inch taller and several pounds heavier, her words seemed to make it through the girl's preoccupation.

"Sss…sorry…" she tried apologizing again, only to be shushed by the silver-haired peer once more.

"Never mind that, love." Cora crooned as she dried Rickie's tears. "You just need a spell of rest, s'all. C'mon. Upstairs with you." Letting go of Rickie, Cora stood and extended her hand. Somewhat dazed by the emotions that had been coursing through her over the past several hours, Rickie took the offered hand without comment. Cora led her up the grand staircase to the one of the many, many rooms (at least it seemed like a lot of rooms, though it might as well have been two or three to Rickie's overtired eyes).

She was too far-gone to really care where she was being led right then, any more than she cared how she was divested of her jacket and boots. Her world had shrunk to the encroaching darkness over her vision and the cloud-like mass she sank into. Exhaustion shuttled her away without the least resistance.

Cora smiled benignly, as the youngster's breathing became regular and deep, signifying her sleeping peacefully. She draped the leather jacket over a nearby chair, then set the Docs at its foot. She was about to go she saw the jacket was…jumping. A small lump seemed to develop under its dark material, a lump which slowly moved from its center, through a sleeve that hung limply over the seat of the chair, and ultimately fell head-over-tail out of the cuff, audibly huffing with the effort all the while.

It was revealed to be a tiny and ragged-looking kitten, who looked up at her with drowsy and confused pebble eyes. "Well, hullo there," Cora whispered to the animal. The kitten's only response was to promptly collapse on the stuffed cushion of the seat and shut its eyes, stretching itself out into a position that would cause most chiropractors to fait dead away in shock.

Cora grinned in spite of herself, and left the room, making sure the door remained partially open. No sense in frightening the girl worse than she obviously already was. The peer retired to her own room and picked up the phone at her bedside. She needed information, and knew damn well where to start.

At first and even second brush, there was nothing to call attention to the man as he made his way through the early-morning crowds of Heathrow. Middling height, stocky build that was (barely) more muscle than fat, with a cropped gray hair and neatly trimmed beard, his eyes as tired as his clothes looked. He'd only just flown in, via special charter, from Paris and looking every inch the rumpled and worn traveler. His gait was a tad uneven but steady and sure. Nor was there a trace of pain in his athletic if well-lined features in spite of the way he tended to lean heavily on his cane with each step.

One might never guess both his legs were prostheses. Joe Dawson was not the sort to let such small disabilities keep him from his appointed duties as de facto and de jurius head of the Watchers. Ever since his own nominal assignment, a certain 400 year-old Highlander who likely knew more about the Society than most of its own operatives, had dropped completely from sight Dawson had kept himself busy playing oversight on various fringe elements of the Society's membership. Not everyone had been pleased with how visible the Society had become in recent years, between Horton's rampages and various Immortals becoming aware of their very existence, and more than a few the latter using them either as pawns…or target practice. There were those who had struck out on their own, the damn fools risking what little cover the Society as a whole had left chasing petty vendettas.

God alone knew what might happen if a Quickening were ever caught on tape and was broadcast over "America's Funniest Home Videos"!

Which was why he was now in London. As part of his oversight, Dawson had developed quite the intelligence network, and so knew when one of these rogues so much as got a parking ticket, never mind took up residence in the morgue. Bad enough when one turned up dead. Bad enough when they did it in the middle of major city, looking like rejects from some cheap slasher picture.

But nine of them, in paramilitary gear, found in a house suspected belonging to a Greek Immortal? It was PR nightmares like that that would have given brain bubbles to even the Clinton spin-doctors. The one saving grace was that, to a one, all nine were so goddamn shady and up to their necks in illegal shit the local PD would probably do his work for him. With luck they would close the case without looking too deeply into the whys and wherefores.

Right.

Sure.

And maybe pigs would suddenly learn to fly. Without having to grow wings first.

"Mr. Dawson?" The soft, respectful voice shook Dawson from his preoccupation. "I've been sent to collect you." Dawson nodded tiredly and followed the newcomer's lead for a few steps before looking up. He did not recognize the young man before him, but neither did this immediately worry him. He would never claim to know every Watcher, and he kept knowledge of his own movements so carefully circumscribed to only a very select few. Besides, he was still fairly well liked among the rank-and-file of the Society, so a junior member volunteering to play chauffeur was not beyond conception…even if they did dress a tad conspicuously. Dawson noted with some dismay the kid, with his goatee and leather trenchcoat, looked like a reject from that "Nikita" series on cable.

The car his guide led him to wasn't much better, the Jaguar's sleek and stylish form eye-catching to say the least. And definitely not standard issue for field work. This raised the first niggling doubts in Dawson's mind; vague ones admittedly, but there all the same. True, there were Watchers who had their share of wealth and resources, and who were less discrete about it. But this?

His chauffeur made no move to help him into the car, instead waiting patiently for Dawson to fold himself into the passenger seat before turning firing the ignition. "When did you receive the call about this?" he asked, eyes locked ahead.

"Two a.m. this morning," Dawson gruffed, struggling a bit to fasten his seatbelt.

"Hmm." The driver said nothing further as they merged with the early morning commuters heading into the city.

Dawson found those little doubts in the back of his mind quickly blossoming into full-blown questions and a tiny bit of anxiety upon realizing the direction they were traveling in. Rather than taking them unto the A12 that would give them a fairly straight shot directly to Colchester, the driver was weaving them through the south end of London, keeping close to the Thames. Dawson found himself surprisingly calm in all this, his one regret being he had left his Walther back in Paris; smuggling it in, even via diplomatic pouch, would have been more trouble than it was worth. At least that was the conclusion he'd reached racing to the private airfield outside the city where a Lear was waiting in a state of constant readiness.

Now, even though he sensed his life was in no more danger than if he'd stayed in bed that morning, he would have liked the small sense of security being armed would have given him.

"You…aren't part of the Watchers, are you?" was his one inquiry to the driver, who had remained silent since they'd entered the city.

"No, sir."

"Nhh," Dawson grunted, more from a small cramp that developed in his hip than out of any nervousness from the driver's admission. "Where are we goin', anyway?"

"Cleopatra's Needle." After a beat he added "Sir."

"May I know why?"

"To meet someone." Another beat. "Sir."

"Ah." Dawson drawled, as if this explained all, his tone making it clear it explained nothing.

Taking the hint, the Goatee elaborated "Someone who can explain matters." He paused and added "Sir," once more.

"You keep calling me 'sir', kid," Dawson remarked mildly as they pulled along the Embankment. "And I'll have to hit you."

"That would be most inadvisable, Mr. Dawson." This time the driver did look at him, the studied indifference in his eyes deterring even the most joking threat Dawson might have thought up. Only a moment later the car coasted to halt near the Needle. "We're here," the driver said in a dismissive tone.

Dawson was only too happy to oblige, climbing out with surprising agility given his legs and cane. The Jaguar pulled away, leaving him there seemingly alone with the towering obelisk behind him. Not knowing who he might be looking for, Dawson made a slow circle where he stood, taking in every face he could see. Again, no-one he recognized nor anyone expressing the least interest in him.

Turning back to the Needle, Dawson was slightly startled (though he made sure not to let it show) to find a man standing less than six feet from him. This newcomer wore a gray double-breasted suit and a black shirt buttoned to the neck, and stared directly into his eyes with two chips of slate stone. "Joe Dawson?" he asked, making no move.

"Yeah?" the Vietnam veteran growled with as much strength as he could muster under those cold eyes. It might have been enough to cower most anyone else, but had no more affect on the man than a summer's breeze against a mountain. Hell, everything about this man's stock-still stance warned of more danger than his hairiest moments in the jungle.

The man nodded towards the Needle and began walking around its base. Dawson followed, unsure of what to expect. He found the man leaning against the railing, staring out across the mist covered dark waters of the river, the morning wind pulling at his close-cropped hair. He himself said nothing, simply stood there patiently.

The gray suit turned slightly and said "I have a meeting outside of the city in a few hours, Dawson, so pardon me if I'm brief about this." There was a tired edge to his voice. Dawson shrugged, willing to let him set the speed of the conversation.

"We know why you are here," the man declared with all the enthusiasm of a funeral dirge. At Dawson's continued silence, he sighed and continued. "Nine former members of your little social society who turned up dead in Essex. All nine of whom looking like they lost a quarrel with a bloody chainsaw? Not to mention a former para, found dead in an alleyway in Kennsington late last week of a cerebral hemorrhage."

"You have something to do with that?" Dawson growled, this time through clenched teeth and with significantly more strength than before.

"You wish." The man grinned tiredly and shook his head. He took an envelope out of his jacket's inner pocket and held it out. Dawson took it and upended its contents into his hand. It was a handful of photos, ranging in size from passport to 4x6 and all depicting a variety of men and women Dawson recognized. Some showed groups of faces, others only two. There was one face common to ever snapshot: a man, slightly shorter than average, wearing a buff colored trenchcoat, with thinning hair and burning eyes. Dawson knew this face as well, feeling the knowledge like a tangible kick to his stomach.

"James," he murmured, not having spoken his brother-in-law's name in years.

"The man is dead, but his legacy lives on."

His temples pounding, Dawson gripped the photos so tightly they were nearly crushed. He closed his eyes for a moment, putting the suit's words to the pictures, wanting to groan at the all too painful conclusion reached. When he opened them, their was a fire to them that did equal justice to the heart of the sun itself. "Who the fuck are you, anyway?" he demanded.

The gray suit merely shrugged and kept looking out at the river. "Somebody who wants to keep you and the rest of the Society alive, Dawson."

"Excuse me?"

He produced a hand-held tape recorder from his other inner pocket and hit the "Play" button. Two voices, his own and another, could be heard through a light sheen of static. The gray suit spoke first.

The man snapped off the tape and returned the recorder to his pocket. "Recognize the voice?"

Dawson answered with a curt nod. "Alex Devon. One of our…of the Society's key figures once upon a time."

"And a very good friend of your late brother-in-law. Need I say more?"

Dawson could only shake his head again, more confused than ever. "Who are you?"

"Like you, a watcher of Immortals. One Immortal in particular."

"'The Destroyer of Nations'? Don't tell me you actually believe all that shit. Its all just rumor. Hell, the Covington family's spent most of this century looking for proof of her, and they've found fuck all."

The man graced him with a look nearing pity. "You heard the same thing I did here, Dawson. She's real, older than you and yours ever suspected. And she's here in London as we speak." He sighed and returned his gaze to the river. "Worse, she knows about you Watchers. Has since last year."

"Yeah? How's that?"

"Office Emil Holt, Portland Police Department. Need I say more?"

Now it was Dawson's turn to look away. He leaned heavily upon his cane and sighed "Okay, so our man couldn't keep his cover. Doesn't mean she's going to learn any more from him than that."

"Anything happens to her bard, and that's all she'll ever need to start her own little war on you. She has ways of making people talk. Ways that'd give even the Inquisition, the Gestapo and the Khamer Rouges nightmares."

Dawson scowled and glared over at the man. "You tryin' to scare me?"

"You should be scared, Dawson," was the reply. "Its your people who are doing this, disturbing their peace, taking potshots her and the bard. They so much as scratch the girl an' I guarantee there's nothing on this planet to hold the warrior back." The bleakness in his eyes convinced the older man of the threat.

"So…what do you I suggest I do about this?"

The man shook his head, his voice almost sad. "Its too late for the rogues. She will be on to them before they even know it. Best you leave, go back to Paris. Bury all links between the Society and them before she's done here. Devon, Sammy Price, all their heavies, the whole bloody lot have to disappear from your networks. This is going to get messy enough without giving her additional targets, eh?"

"You expect me to just up and leave and…"

"I expect to you to have at least a modicum of self-preservation." The man turned and began walking back to the street, just as the Jaguar pulled up to the curb. Dawson followed for a few steps and called out to him.

"Hey? Who are you people, anyway?"

The man paused and turned back for just a moment. "Pray you never have to find out, Dawson." With that, he entered the car and was sped away into the last of the morning fog. Joe Dawson stood there for several minutes afterwards, alternately looking down the street and at the now-wrinkled photos he clutched in one hand, the entire conversation replaying itself in his mind over and over. He leaned against the base of the Needle for support, too distracted to keep his own balance.

Eventually, he straightened up and, stowing the pictures into his jacket pocket, waved an arm out towards an approaching taxi.

Unnoticed across the street, a short woman with dark russet hair watched the old man with a cane enter the taxi. She remained for only a moment more before turning away as the cab continued its journey.

A short distance away, a Saab sports car sat waiting, its engine idling quietly. She entered through the passenger's side. Once in, Marie de Anan shared a unsettled look with Manfred Armistead, whose heavy frame nearly filled the whole drivers side. Without a word between them, Armistead put the car in gear and took them deeper into the city.

Much to Cora's relief, Rickie didn't wake up screaming or dashing downstairs or anything the least bit hysterical. Not that she would have blamed her in the least. She herself had had no luck getting much information from the series of phone calls she had made earlier that morning, leaving her frustrated and overtired. She'd had no luck chasing down Enzo and his elder handler, both of whom she suspected were more involved in these affairs than they let on. A few hours of sleep were all she could really stand, even tired as she was, causing her to rise just after eight and putter about her office and rest of the ground floor, an otherwise meaningless flurry of activity she normally despised.

Cora used the activity - ranging from wiping down the chrome counters in the kitchen for the umpteenth time to rearranging the extensive spice racks to composing a dozen versions of the same letter to herself aloud - to burn off the tension-spawned energy while she pondered her limited options. Contacting the police was not an option simply on practical grounds. She giggled at just the thought of trying to explain the situation.

She could go to her shadier contacts, have them sniff out what local villains might be expressing an interest in tall, dark-haired American antiques dealers with Greek names. This had actually been first instinct after she had settled Rickie down, but had held off, wanting a clearer picture from the girl before making any such calls. No doubt this had all had something to do with the tag numbers young Enzo had oh so politely asked her to inquire into last week.

If so, a call to dear Francine at the Veterans Association was definitely in order. Perhaps even have a few…accidents…of their own be arranged.

Fortunately for her peace of mind, she pondered such things silently, and not so intently that she did not catch the footsteps coming towards the kitchen. Cora put a smile to her expression and poured two cups of tea. "Feeling better there, love?"

Rickie nodded, not entirely convincingly, and leaned against the breakfast island. Her eyes were still heavy-lidded and bleary from sleep. "A little," she shrugged as she accepted the cup, foolishly taking a sip of it before thinking how hot the liquid might have been. Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and her cheeks expanded like a proverbial frog's. Still, she gamely swallowed the tea and immediately let go of a steaming breath. "Oh…ah…oh shit!" was the only comment Rickie could manage.

Cora looked into her own cup, utterly serious, saying "Hmm, more like piss if you ask me. Shite is so much more…solid." Rickie looked at her, ready to apologize for her profanity when she was treated to the full force of Cora's benificent smile. "Sorry about that, love. Should have warned you a bring it to a full boil."

"Uh, s'okay. I should've looked first, shouldn't I?"

Cora nodded. "Good policy." Her eyes narrowed slightly, watching her young guest more critically now. "Are you alright? Really?"

Rickie thought for a moment, staring down into her cup. "I'm…" she tried, only to shudder and have to start again. "I'm better than I was last night. I mean, I'm not gonna go bouncing off the walls or anything extreme. But…ah, geez…I must've scared the beejees out of you this morning."

"Well," Cora said thoughtfully, "I'm not often called upon to entertain panic-stricken young Americans at quarter-past four in the morning, true. But then, I have been touched by a bit of insomnia lately. Just as well, I suppose."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, if I weren't, you would have had to literally kick the door in just to get my attention." Seeing the truth in her eyes, Rickie looked once more into her tea.

"And here I thought Xena was a sound sleeper."

"Speaking of whom…?" Cora let her voice trail off suggestively, not wanting to press too hard but offering a clear opening all the same. She was quite unprepared for Rickie standing so quickly, looking nearly hysterical, that she lost her grip on the cup and saucer, both of which tumbled to the floor and shattered.

"Oh, shit! Xena! I…oh, shit…I gotta call the hotel!" She was out of the kitchen before Cora even had time to blink, heedless of the pieces of broken crockery on the floor the nearly cut into socks. Cora took a breath and forced herself to remain calm. She set her own cup aside and followed her now-frantic guest to the sitting room, who was punching numbers into her desk phone, her finger shaking so badly she had to try four times before getting the correct number dialed.

"Rickie…" Cora gently tried to intervene, only to rudely waved off by Rickie.

"Yeah, front desk? I need to reach Xena Amphipoulis in room 3B…this is Rickie Gard…what? What note?" Two golden-red eye brows furrowed in confusion and rage. "Bullshit," she snarled. "I didn't leave any goddamn note for her…yeah, you do that!" Cora winced as the blonde slammed the phone back onto its cradle. Rickie hung over the desk, shoulders shaking with the effort to contain the hysteria that threatened, eyes staring blankly on the various papers and correspondence there.

"Damn it," she snarled to herself, mind evidently racing faster than words. "Where…who… police!" She snatched the receiver up again and punched in 911, only to have a mechanical voice inform her a few moments later the number was "not recognized". This led to another cursing bout as the small blonde started darting around the room, uncertain what to do next.

"Rickie!" Cora called out sharply, catching the girl as she nearly ran past, heading towards the front door. This shook Rickie out of her panic, at least momentarily. Cora was quick to capitalize on her attention. "Rickie," she repeated more calmly. "I already called both the hotel and the police after you were asleep." 'Among others,' she nearly added. "There is nothing to be done by racing about like a bumblebee with its antennae in a knot, is there?"

Rickie, whose sleep had been anything but restful, was slow in making either the connection between the absurd picture this drew and her own actions, the latter seeming perfectly logical and measured in comparison of the catastrophe facing her. A few more moments thought about it led her to realize she had been a bit frantic. Okay, a lot frantic. But she had good reason, didn't she? Xena was still missing. That thought alone nearly sent her running again, but Cora kept a comforting grip on her shoulders and maintained eye-contact.

She spoke, her voice at once stern and soothing. "Look, Rickie, love. We need to keep our heads clear and think before we do anything, all right? You hear me?"

Rickie nodded, finally calm enough to actually think past her fear. Act, don't react. popped into her head for some reason. She decided it was good advice and let her shoulders relax under the older woman's grip. "Sorry," she breathed. "Guess I got a little spastic there."

"Its alright." Cora smiled as she let go of the girl, only to wrinkle her nose a moment later. "Err, Rickie? Where ever did you spend the night?"

"Uh, would you believe a back alley in Soho?" Rickie hoped she would not have to relate all of the previous night's lunacy. She was still trying to make sense of it herself.

"Oh, lord. No wonder you smell like an open dumpster." Before Rickie could even open her mouth to protest Cora ordered "Go take a shower and I'll dig up something for you to wear." The peer turned away and headed towards the stairs in the next room, muttering to herself "Now where did I put those clothes of Victoria's?"

This left Rickie standing there, somewhat befuddled and momentarily lost. She raised one arm slightly and sniffed, her own nose quickly wrinkling. "Ugh. I thought I was sleeping behind a dumpster, not in the fucking thing." A shower suddenly seemed like a very good idea, and the small blonde set off in search of it.

"Well," Enzo declared, pulling his door shut behind him. "That was a perfect cock-up." He fired up the engine of the Jaguar and pulled away from the curb across from the Blaylock house. Grovesnor Square quickly gave way to the busy afternoon streets. O'Donhugh said nothing to this nor gave any direction on where to go next. He merely settling into the passenger's seat and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Enzo glanced over and asked "Why d'you think the bard ran?"

The older man still said nothing, answering with a one-shoulder shrug. Undeterred, Enzo pressed "Think it was her at the club last night?"

O'Donhugh's answer was more a grunt than actual speech. "Would not surprise me right now."

"You're not being very helpful here. What are we supposed t'do next, eh? Drive about and hope we get lucky?"

"We find a decent place to get lunch. Then we have to go see our friend Hopper at the Yard."

"Why's that?"

"Because I'm hungry. I didn't go up north to enjoy the food, you know." O'Donhugh let himself grin slightly at his joke. The humor was not shared, however.

Enzo spoke with deliberate patience one uses with an obstinate or mischievous children. "I mean, why do we have to go and see the Inspector? Something happen I don't know about?" He tried not to sound hurt at the prospect, experience having shown his elder relation played the game of intrigue and misinformation better than the Kay-Gee-Used-to-Bee, minus the malicious intent those dedicated professionals often operated with. Jonothan O'Donhugh was nothing if not protective of his family, and made no apologies for keeping secrets if he judged them better off not knowing. That he'd involved Enzo in this said much of his trust in him. Enough that the younger man could forgive at least a few missing pieces of information.

"You could say that." The silence which followed this simple statement stretched out until Enzo gave up hoping for elaboration. He pulled into the parking space beside a pub he favored with the imaginative name of 'The Thin Man'. He followed O'Donhugh out of the car and towards the front door without trying to press further.

Right before entering, O'Donhugh half-turned and said "There was another attempt on the warrior this morning on Waterloo Bridge. She got hit a few times and fell into the river."

Enzo was nearly hit in the face by the door as it swung shut, the words hitting him like a physical force and freezing him still. Quickly shaking off this paralysis he pushed the door open and sought out O'Donhugh in the crowded interior. Spying him sitting casual as you please in a booth and intently perusing a menu, Enzo pushed his way over and took the seat opposite him. He leaned forward and hissed "And this sends us to the Yard why?"

Without looking up, O'Donhugh said "Because Sargent Mallory was with her at the time. I'm afraid he didn't make it."

Again Enzo felt as though he'd been struck. He could only sit back with a stunned expression as the waitress came over to them and asked "Orders, gentlemen?"

Xena had walked for nearly two solid hours before catching sight of a taxi. Even then, it took a good bit of frantic waving, fast talking, and a hundred pound note changing hands before the driver deemed to take her into the city.

She had to admit she was certainly a scruffy sight. The dirt of both the river and road having dried to a thin crust over her skin and clothes, giving her olive complexion a darker hue and making freshly laundered shirt and jeans look unfit for even the poorest hobo. Her hair was a mass of stringy tangles that she'd had no time to comb out. To top it off, her bloodshot eyes and haggard expression, combined with the rest of her appearance, suggested something other than simple exhaustion.

Had she been able, Xena might well have laughed at the odd look she was being given via the rear-view mirror. It was something alternating between suspicion and pity, and half the time he looked ready to say something. Perhaps he had. Weak in body and mind as she was a cannon could have fired off next to her and Xena would not have taken any notice.

Still she kept attentive of her surroundings. So many attacks over so many days quickly awoke old habits. Xena visually tore apart every bit of cover the cab passed. Her constant, darting eyes and visible tension did not go unnoticed by the driver. Being a practical man who wished to see his family again, he said nothing and just concentrated upon delivering his passenger to the requested destination.

They were soon upon Grovesnor Square. Construction and the odd auto accident had forced them to detour about and come from the east side of the square. By this time Xena's posture was every bit as restless as her eyes.  She practically exploded out of the cab the moment it stopped across from the Blaylock house. The driver was relieved by this and quick to be on his way. He resisted the urge to so much as glance back at the sounds of car horns and tire squealing. A hundred pounds buys one only so much courage, after all.

Xena charged without fear across the street, utterly deaf to the distress that this caused the afternoon motorists. She crossed with long, ground-eating strides that brought her to the mansion's front door in mere seconds. Said door swung open after only a couple short raps against it.

Just as well; by that point the exhausted warrior was prepared to tear the offending barrior off its hinges if need be to gain entrance.

Xena barely heard Cora Blaylock's cautious greeting. Instead she pushed past the frail-looking dowager and began calling out "Rickie? Where are you? Rickie?!" The appeal was repeated several times as she charged up the stairs and throughout the second floor. No door was left unopened or unmolested in this frantic search. Those that were locked were pounded upon and shouted through. All to no effect. Xena stopped short of kicking them in, however. She mentally filed away the location of each for future consideration.

It eventually sank in that she was accomplishing nothing by all this running about. With a heavy sigh, the warrior returned to the main floor. Her stance was one ready to keel completely over… or tear everything in sight apart with their bare hands. A fact which was not lost on Cora. The peer wisely stayed in the kitchen and out of the way. She'd finished her first cup of tea and was pouring a second when Xena stalked into the kitchen.

The two only stared at one another for a time.

It was the peer who broke the silence first. "You look like something the cat drudged from the river," she observed mildly.

"Where is she?" Xena growled in reply.

Cora took a measured sip of her tea before answering. "She…ran off about an hour ago."

Xena blinked several times, certain she had misheard her friend. "She what?"

Again Cora let the silence stretch a few moments. If she hoped this would cool the warrior's tension even a fraction she was bound for disappointment. Xena's nostrils flared as she said "Rickie bolted out a window an hour ago."

Drawing each syllable out, Xena asked "Why would she do that?"

"I haven't the faintest notion."

To anyone else it would have sounded and looked like the complete truth. But Xena's well-honed senses caught the signs: the millisecond flinch of the old woman's eyes and the way her shoulders hunched just a hair as she spoke. Her heart went cold at the realization her friend was lying through her perfect dentures. A blow to the head with a sledgehammer would not have been even a tenth less painful than this.

Somehow she kept as non-threatening a stance as possible. No easy feat given her fingers were positively tingling to literally squeeze the truth out of the woman before her. Xena wrestled that dark energy into partial submission and forced her voice to work. "You have no idea?" It was positively eerie how calm her strangled words sounded when her entire consciousness was drowning in incoherent screaming.

Cora shook her head. "None. I admit I made a few calls just prior, but…" Her explanation was cut short by Xena nearly leaping forward, vocally if not physically.

"To who?" the warrior demanded.

"Excuse me?"

"Calls to who?" Again, every syllable was emphasized through nearly clenched teeth, convincing Cora not to argue.

"I called a few markers in for information. Rickie came stumbling in here at three this morning, you know. Poor dear was babbling about assassins in the shadows and how you'd abandoned her."

"Oh, for Ares' sake! You can't believe I…"

"Of course not. But I needed to be sure, didn't I? Plus whether you had turned up dead somewhere, right? What do you take me for, woman? I'm not totally senile."

Despite herself, Xena grinned and murmured "Heaven's no." Then her suspicions returned full force. "Who did you call, anyway? More of your artist friends?"

"Not…exactly." At a single eyebrow rising the peer continued. "I never told you this, but I'm the charter member of a knitting circle of sorts." The other eyebrow joined the first. "We are war widows, all of us, and spend our free time looking into all sorts of things. Who's going to stop someone's dottering old gran from going where she wants, eh?" Cora gave Xena grin as if trying to reinforce the image. The one she got in reply was clearly forced.

"Anyway," she continued. "We are generally well informed as anyone about what's happening in this city. Even the police come to us from time to time."

"Regular Baker Street Irregulars, huh?"

"More like 'Hell's Grannies'."

"Oh?"

"Many of us came of age during the '50s, remember. Some of us were quite the hellions."  

"Really? And one of these…friends…of yours sent Rickie running?"

"Nhh, not really. None of them turned out to know anything."

"So you called someone else?"

"Yes." Cora fell silent, apparently reluctant to say more. Xena by contrast was anxious for more details.

Her voice was every bit as stony as her expression. "I’m waiting, Cora."  

A pregnant pause followed. "There’s a bloke I know," the peer admitted quietly. "He’s well connected in places I’ve never heard of. And yes, I called him when my own people couldn’t tell me anything."

"And he’s the reason Rickie ran?"

"Apparently."

"Why?"

"I swear I don’t know."

Xena didn’t seem to hear. She shook her head as she stood and moved, slowly, towards her old friend. "Why, Cora?"

"I said I don’t know."

"Why?!" Xena screamed, sweeping her arm across the countertop and throwing everything that wasn’t nailed down into the air. Cora cringed slightly as the crockery shattered on the floor and the din echoed off the pristine walls. The two could only glare at each other for several minutes as Xena’s chest continued to heave with undisguised rage.

"I. Don’t. Know." Each word was slow and emphasized.

Xena ultimately managed to wrestle control of her breathing. It did, however, take nearly a full minute. This allowed her to see the world in something other than shades of red, which in turn allowed her to express herself in ways that did not involve tearing her old friend apart limb from limb.

Keeping both palms flat on the island counter between them, Xena asked "Who was this 'bloke' you called? Ex-military? A spook from the Circus?"

Cora almost smiled at Xena's off-hand use of one of the aliases MI-6 lived under. "No and no. Rickie asked pretty much the same thing."

"Cora," Xena growled once more. Her body had gone utterly still. The calm before the storm.

The dowager sighed ever so quietly and said, just as quietly, "His name is Jonothan O'Donhugh."

Xena had just a moment to squint in thought before the memories hit like machine gun fire.

"Tall guy, right?" Xena asked, eyes to the distance. "Wears a gray suit without a tie? Blue-gray eyes?"

Cora nodded. "That sounds like him."

"He was at the Gallery last week."

"That does not surprise me. He's one of the owners."

"I thought the chain didn't have owners as such."

"Well, major investor might be more accurate." This set Xena thinking once more times and faces distant and recent.

"Speaking of which," the warrior murmurred thoughtfully, "you mentioned a guy named 'Armistead' at dinner last Wednesday, remember?"

"Did I?" Cora hedged. She thought furiously how to derail the subject. It was too late for such evasions, however, as Xena's very clear eyes and direct stare told her.

"Armistead with an 'eh-aye', not a double 'e' like you suggested."

Cora said nothing.

"I met him at the Gallery as well. He seemed rather…friendly…with the manager. Friendly in a brother-sister sort of way, that is."

"I'd heard they shared a distant cousin," the peer offered weakly.

"They were both at the auction last year."

Now Cora shook her head, confused. Xena, however, did not feel like offering clues as to her thinking. She was content make these small observations for the moment. "Does you friend O'Donhugh share the same cousin as those two?"

"He's hardly that close a friend, Xena. It wouldn't surprise if he did, however. He comes from very old stock. Cork county, I think."

"'Armistead' is hardly an Irish name."

"Would you believe a prolific family?"

Xena grinned. There was no humor to the expression Cora could see. "You'd be surprised at what I could believe." The warrior's brows tightened slightly. "He doesn't own a dog, does he?"

"Not that he's ever said, no. I believe his little girl is allergic to them."

"Oh?" Xena found herself surprised by this. "He's married?"

Cora shook her head. "A widower. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," Xena shook her head, waving away thoughts of the overly-friendly wolfhound in Hyde Park the previous day. "Soooooo," she drawled. "No idea whatsoever why Rickie would take off and do an imitation of Richard Kimble at the sight of your friend?"

"Who?"

"'The Fugitive', Cora."

"Ah. Never saw the movie myself. And no, I haven't the foggiest idea, as I've already told you…"

Xena cut in, her tone sharp. "Was there someone with him?"

"Just his driver. Also his adopted cousin it seems."

"Maybe it was the driver. What's his name?"

"Enzo del Turo." Xena rubbed her chin for a moment, thinking. The name also rang a distant echo of a bell. From where or when escaped her, however. After several moments of this, the warrior looked over at her friend, wondering if she could ever again think of her as such.

"I want to meet with them."

"Who?"

"O'Donhugh and del Turo." Tone and eyes made it clear there was no negotiation or argument to be had on this.

Cora could only sigh and say "I'll see what I can do. They can be hard to reach sometimes."

"Tonight, Cora. Don't even think of calling for any other reason."

"Xena…" Cora attempted to plead. But the warrior had already turned and stalked away. The silver haired woman could only knock a few shards of china to the already littered floor and mutter "Wonderful."

Outside, Xena brushed the few tears the sting of betrayal, whether real or perceived, brought to her eyes. "Taxi," she barked into the afternoon air. When one did stop for her, she had to think for a moment before deciding upon her next destination.

"New Scotland Yard."

Continued

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